The air in the cave, once a static element, now had a current. It flowed from the forge, a river of heat and purpose, and eddied around the central, golden light of Samuel's faith. It was the atmosphere of a workshop, of a nascent factory floor, and the five of us were its engine. The decision to leave felt like deliberately stepping out of a finely-tuned machine.
Preparations were a quiet, efficient affair. We were past the point of needing grand pronouncements. A shared understanding, a web of trust both earned and manufactured, now bound us. I gathered Leo and Maria by the warm glow of the forge, the rhythmic clang… clang… clang of Leo's hammer falling silent for the first time in hours.
"Two days," I stated, my voice low but carrying over the crackle of the coals. "That's our maximum operational range. Elara and I will be back before the sun sets on the second day. Not a moment later."
Leo wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with a sooty forearm, leaving a dark streak across his face. He looked from me to Elara, who was methodically checking the straps on a new leather pack Maria had fashioned for her. His gaze wasn't fearful, but focused. He was a man receiving a work order, not a soldier being abandoned.
"The forge won't go cold," he promised, his voice a low rumble. He gestured with his hammer towards a small but growing pile of freshly smelted iron ingots. They lay like dark, heavy loaves of bread, still radiating a faint warmth. "My priority is the spearheads. A proper, leaf-bladed design. Something that can punch through hide and bone. After that, a short sword. Something for you, maybe." He looked at the crude goblin cleaver still tucked in my belt. "It's an embarrassment."
I nodded, appreciating the directness. "Good. Maria?"
She stood closer to Leo than necessary, her presence a quiet support for his booming confidence. The timid woman who had flinched at every shadow was gone. In her place was a calm, focused artisan who had found her purpose in the grain of wood and the texture of hide.
"The Lurker hide is curing well," she reported, her voice soft but clear. "The first batch of leather is strong, but stiff. I need to work it. I can make hardened leather chest pieces. Not as good as metal, but better than nothing. And I'll have the woodworking bench built by the time you return. I can start on proper axe hafts and spear shafts."
They stood there, a unit. Leo, the fiery heart of production; Maria, the steady hand of refinement. Their proximity was a constant, a subtle shift in the group's geometry that had happened so gradually it felt entirely natural. He would bring her a piece of hot metal to quench, and his hand would linger near hers for a fraction of a second too long. She would bring him a strip of leather to test for a handle wrap, and the look they shared held a warmth that had nothing to do with the forge. They were building more than just weapons.
Samuel, who had approached to listen, smiled. It was a serene, knowing expression, the look of a priest watching a sacrament unfold. He saw the rightness in it, the natural, hopeful pairing of two souls in a world that had tried to tear everything apart.
My own mind, ever the analyst, couldn't help but confirm the observation with cold, hard data. I focused on them, and the System, as always, obliged.
[Analysis Skill Activated: Social Dynamics]
[Target Group: Leo Vance, Maria Reyes]
[Status: Pair Bond Formation (Initial Stage)]
[Emotional Resonance: High (Mutual Affection, Trust, Shared Purpose)]
[Probability of Long-Term Success: 78%]
[Confidence: 92%]
A 78% chance. Better odds than I would have given myself for surviving the first day. I dismissed the notification with a mental flick. This was a development I wholeheartedly approved of. A happy, cohesive workforce was a productive workforce.
Before we could disperse, Samuel raised a hand. "Before you depart," he said, his voice taking on a familiar, resonant quality. "Let us have a moment."
No one questioned it. It had become a ritual. Leo banked the coals in his forge. Maria set down her scraping tool. Elara, already packed and ready by the entrance, turned back, her impatience momentarily set aside. I felt the shift in the air as Samuel closed his eyes.
He didn't speak loudly. He didn't preach. He simply began to pray, his voice a low, melodic murmur. The words were for his Goddess, Lathander, but the effect was for us. It wasn't about converting us; it was about connecting us. The golden light of his Consecrate Ground seemed to brighten, to warm, and a feeling of profound peace settled over the cave. It was like sinking into a warm bath, the tension and anxieties of our existence simply dissolving. The constant, low-level hum of fear that had been my companion since arriving in this world went silent.
In that quiet, it felt as if another voice was present, speaking not in words, but in pure feeling, a vast and ancient consciousness brushing against our own through the conduit of Samuel. It spoke of resilience, of the beauty of a new dawn, of the strength found in community. It was a powerful, intoxicating sensation, a direct mainline of hope. We were all held rapt, not by a sermon, but by a genuine manifestation of the divine.
When he finished, the feeling lingered. The air was clear, our minds sharp. I looked at the faces of my team. They were focused, calm, and united. A church, I thought. A proper chapel dedicated to the Morninglord. It wasn't just a spiritual matter; it was a strategic one. The morale bonus alone was a resource more valuable than iron. It would be a high priority, once we had the points.
My gaze lingered on my companions. The trust they placed in me was a tangible thing. I felt the familiar, subtle itch of my Subtle Influence skill, the temptation to… reinforce things. To plant a suggestion of diligence in Leo, of unwavering focus in Samuel while we were gone. It would be so easy. A gentle nudge to ensure the engine of our settlement ran smoothly in my absence.
But I dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. It was unnecessary. The tool was too crude for this. What I had here was real, a genuine cohesion forged in shared work and mutual respect. Using Subtle Influence on them now would be like using a sledgehammer to set a gemstone. A waste of a powerful resource, and an insult to the delicate structure we had already built. That skill, that power, was for the outside world. It was for the unknown variables we were about to encounter. It was for the recruits.
"We're ready," Elara said, her voice pulling me from my thoughts. She hefted her pack, the movement fluid and practiced.
I shouldered my own, the weight of the smoked meat, the waterskins, and the coiled rope a familiar burden. I took one last look around the cave. The forge glowed with promise. The tanner's rack stood ready. Samuel's light was a beacon of hope. It was home. The first true home I'd had in this world. And we were leaving it.
"Hold the fort," I said to the room at large. It was an absurdly casual phrase for the situation, a relic of a world that no longer existed. But they understood.
Leo gave a sharp nod, already turning back to his forge. Maria offered a small, brave smile. Samuel bowed his head in blessing.
Then it was just Elara and me, standing at the threshold. We stepped out of the warm, golden light of the sanctuary and into the cool, indifferent green of the forest. The familiar sounds of the wilderness washed over us—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the hum of insects. The air was cooler out here, tinged with the scent of damp earth and wild, untamed things. We were leaving the safety of the nest.
"Upstream," Elara said, her voice low, all business. "The further we get from our scent trail, the better."You have to be realistic about these things. And the reality was, the world stank.
It wasn't a grand, philosophical stink. It was a literal, nostril-filling, gag-inducing stench. It was the smell of mud that had been churned and re-churned by things living and dying in it for centuries. It was the smell of damp, rotting leaves that released a puff of funereal spice with every footstep. It was the smell of my own sweat, a constant, sour companion that clung to the filthy goblin hide I wore like a second skin. Back in my old life, the biggest olfactory assault I'd faced was a fellow student microwaving fish in the dorm kitchen. Now, my entire existence was a symphony of decay, and I was just another instrument in the orchestra.
Say one thing for Elara, say she didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she had the good grace not to mention it. She moved ahead of me, a phantom in mismatched leather and a grim one at that. She didn't walk through the forest so much as flow through it, her feet finding silent purchase on moss and stone where I found only sucking mud and treacherous roots. I, by contrast, moved with all the grace of a wardrobe being thrown down a well. Every snapped twig, every squelch of mud, every muttered curse under my breath was a testament to my complete and utter lack of physical competence. The Scholar's mind at work, indeed.
We'd been walking for hours, following the river upstream into territory that felt older, darker, and distinctly less welcoming. The trees here were bigger, their branches weaving a thick canopy that strangled the sunlight, leaving the forest floor in a perpetual state of gloomy twilight. The air was heavy, still, and watchful. It was the kind of place that made the hairs on your arms stand up, the kind of place where you felt like you were being observed by things you couldn't see.
My job on this little expedition was simple. I was the pack mule, carrying the bulk of our supplies. I was the walking, talking encyclopedia, ready to spew out data on any weird plant or animal that crossed our path. And I was the emergency button, a squishy, easily-bruised scholar with a couple of nasty mind-tricks up his sleeve in case things went sideways. Elara's job was… well, everything else. She was the navigator, the hunter, the warrior, the eyes, the ears, and the sharp, pointy stick that kept the world at bay. It was a fair division of labor, I supposed.
She stopped so suddenly I almost walked right into her. I managed to halt my clumsy advance just in time, my feet sinking into a particularly foul-smelling patch of mud. She didn't turn. She was a statue, her head cocked, her gaze fixed on a patch of ground ahead.
"What is it?" I whispered, my voice a dry rasp.
She didn't answer for a moment. She simply raised a hand, a silent command for me to stay put and, presumably, to shut my mouth. She crept forward, her movements impossibly silent, and knelt beside a cluster of ferns. I squinted, trying to see what she saw. To me, it was just mud. Brown, wet, and entirely uninteresting. To her, it was a newspaper, and she was reading the morning headlines.
After a long, tense minute, she came back, her face a grim, unreadable mask.
"Goblins," she said, her voice a low murmur that was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the woods. "A patrol. Five of them. Passed this way maybe an hour ago."
"Five?" The number sent a cold spike of anxiety through my gut. We'd handled two, just barely. Five was a different proposition entirely. Five was a war party.
"They're not moving fast," she continued, her eyes scanning the path ahead. "And they're heavy. Dragging something. Or someone."
Fuck. The word formed in my mind, stark and ugly. This wasn't a hunt. This was a slave train.
"We follow," I said, the decision made before the thought had even fully formed. This was why we were out here. To find people. The fact that they were currently in the possession of a pack of vicious, green-skinned monsters was just a complicating factor.
Elara gave me a look. It wasn't a look of disagreement. It was a look of cold, hard pragmatism. "You sure about that, boss? Five of them. And we don't know what else is with them."
"We're not fighting them," I clarified, shifting the weight of the pack on my shoulders. "Not yet. We're doing what we came out here to do. We're observing. We're gathering intelligence. We find out where they're going, what they're doing. Then we make a plan."
She considered that for a moment, then gave a single, sharp nod. "Your call. But you keep up. And you stay quiet. If I have to tell you to stop stepping on dry leaves again, I'm going to gag you with my sock."
I didn't doubt her for a second.
The stalk was a miserable, nerve-shredding experience. We moved like ghosts on the edge of their perception, a hundred yards back, sticking to the thickest parts of the undergrowth. Elara led the way, a silent wraith. I followed, trying to mimic her every move, placing my feet in her exact footprints, my every muscle screaming with the effort of moving with a stealth I did not naturally possess. My heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. Every bird call, every rustle of a squirrel in the canopy, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my system.
We communicated through our new, weird mental link. It was clumsy, but effective. A sudden feeling of sharp, insistent pressure from her meant stop, now. A wave of directed focus meant look, over there. I, in turn, could project a simple query, a feeling of what is it?, which she would answer with a mental shrug of nothing or a sharp spike of danger. It was the strangest conversation I'd ever had.
After what felt like an eternity of this agonizing, silent crawl, we smelled it. Woodsmoke. And something else. The foul, greasy stench of unwashed bodies, of filth and rot. The smell of a goblin camp.
Elara guided us to a rocky outcrop choked with thorny vines, a natural vantage point that overlooked a small, dismal clearing. We crawled on our bellies the last few feet, peering through a gap in the rocks.
The camp was a pathetic, squalid affair. A collection of crude, ramshackle huts made of mud, sticks, and what looked suspiciously like dried animal dung. A single, smoky fire pit sat in the center, around which a dozen or so goblins were lounging, scratching themselves, and snarling at each other over scraps of roasted meat. They were a portrait of brutish misery.
Then we saw the patrol we'd been following. They were dragging their prize into the center of the clearing. It wasn't one person. It was three. Three humans, their hands bound, their clothes torn to rags. They were covered in dirt and dried blood, their faces masks of exhausted, hopeless terror.
My analysis skill flared to life, feeding me the grim data. Two men, one woman. All Level 1. No vocations apartent, which meant they were fresh transfers, probably snatched within hours of their arrival. They were scared, they were wounded, and they were utterly, hopelessly doomed.
Two of the goblins, bigger and uglier than the rest, swaggered over. One of them, presumably the chieftain, had a necklace of what looked like human ears and a crude iron crown jammed on his lumpy head. He kicked one of the male captives in the ribs, sending him sprawling with a pained grunt.
The chieftain let out a string of guttural, barking words. My Scholar ability, a curse as much as a gift, translated the filth directly into my brain.
"This is it?" the Chieftain snarled, prodding the man with his grubby foot. "Scrawny. Barely any meat on them."
The leader of the patrol cackled, a wet, phlegmy sound. "We feed them. Just a little. Slop. Keep them alive. Fatten them up. Good meat for the winter feast."
My blood ran cold. Livestock. They weren't slaves. They were being kept as livestock. To be fattened up and slaughtered. The sheer, pragmatic barbarity of it was staggering.
The Chieftain seemed to consider this, then grunted in what I took to be approval. He then turned his gaze to the female captive. She was young, maybe nineteen, and she was trembling, trying to make herself as small as possible. The Chieftain grinned, a horrifying sight that revealed rows of needle-sharp, yellowed teeth.
He pointed at her. "That one. The female. She's not for the pot."
"No, boss," the patrol leader agreed, his own grin just as vile. "She's for the pit. For you. For breeding. Need more runts for the tribe. Stronger ones, maybe. Half-breeds."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. A wave of nausea so profound it almost made me vomit washed over me. It wasn't just the horror of the words. It was the casual, off-hand way they were spoken. The way they discussed rape and cannibalism with the same bored tone one might use to discuss the weather. This wasn't an act of rage or passion. It was just… their policy. Their solution to resource management and procreation.
Beside me, I heard Elara let out a low, venomous hiss, a sound like a blade being slowly drawn from a sheath. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her dagger. The cold pragmatist was gone, replaced by a woman staring at an absolute, unforgivable evil.
The goblins dragged the two men to a crude wooden cage, threw them inside, and tossed in a bucket of what looked like grey, watery mush. They then untied the woman and, despite her terrified struggles, dragged her towards the largest, filthiest hut at the edge of the clearing—the Chieftain's personal sty.
I lay there on the cold rock, the stench of the goblin camp filling my lungs, the guttural sounds of their language echoing in my ears. The Scholar's mind was silent. The part of me that calculated odds, that managed resources, that formulated plans, had shut down completely. All that was left was the man. The human being who had just witnessed a level of depravity he hadn't known was possible.
We had come out here to find recruits. To find assets. To find more hands to build our little sanctuary.
Instead, we had found a reason for war.
The weight of my title, Leader, settled on my shoulders, no longer a complex system of menus and contracts, but a simple, terrible burden. The choice was mine. We could turn back. We could retreat to the safety of our cave, to our forge and our consecrated ground, and pretend we hadn't seen this. We could be realistic about these things. We were two people against a tribe of at least fifteen goblins. The odds were shit. An intervention was suicide.
Or we could act.
I looked at the cage holding the two men. I looked at the dark, foul hut where the woman had been taken. And I knew, with a certainty that had nothing to do with logic or strategy, that there was no choice at all. Not really.
Fuck being realistic.