The carriage wheels creaked to a halt as Gregarious finally reached his destination, dust settling around the unremarkable vehicle. He wiped his brow, surveying his handiwork - the plain wooden carriage with its chipped paint and frayed harnesses looked every bit the property of a struggling merchant. Perfect. No highwayman would suspect its reinforced axles or the steel plates hidden beneath those worn floorboards.
Gregarious wasn't certain what cargo required such precautions, only that it served Kastran's grand design. The payment had been substantial enough to silence his questions... mostly. His fingers drummed against the driver's bench as he took in the forbidden landscape.
The Minrow-Rovkre border mountains rose like jagged teeth against the twilight sky, their slopes shimmering with the unnatural mist that had kept outsiders at bay for many years. Elven guards normally patrolled these passes with arrowheads glinting in the sun, yet today the ridges stood eerily vacant. Whatever deal Kastran had struck with the elves, it had cleared Gregarious' path at precisely the right moment.
"Hey, you! Boy!"
The voice shattered his reverie. A horned figure emerged from the treeline, his skin marked with ritual scars. The man's otherwise ordinary appearance - save for the twin short horns above his forehead - contrasted sharply with his polished greaves and the well-oiled sword at his hip. No mere mercenary, this one.
"You're the mule Kastran hired to move the piece?" the demonoid barked.
Gregarious dismounted with practiced ease, his face barely visible under his ravel-worn hood. Though their kind often faced prejudice elsewhere, here their shared heritage meant only professional assessment passed between them.
"Gregarious, at your service," he said with a slight bow. "Though I'd appreciate knowing what exactly I'm risking my neck to transport."
The soldier snorted, his otherwise human features twisting in amusement. "That's for the Commander to reveal. They'll be out soon - been within that hole for two days now."
Following the demonoid's gesture, Gregarious spotted what he'd missed before - between two gnarled oaks stood a cave entrance barely tall enough for a man to enter crouched. Yet the dozen armed guards forming a perimeter suggested this was no ordinary hollow.
"An ancient dungeon," the soldier explained, pride coloring his voice. "Lost and untouched. Hidden in plain sight all these years. We, being the only ones with the exact location, of course." He ran a hand along one smooth horn. "Who'd suspect greatness lurking in a rabbit's burrow?"
The sun had dipped below the mid-day point when Gregarious finally settled beneath a gnarled oak, his muscles aching from hours of tending the horses. He exhaled deeply, the crisp alpine air filling his lungs as he leaned against the rough bark. Just before closing his eyes, he cast one last glance toward the makeshift camp surrounding the cave entrance.
The clearing held a single crackling firepit encircled by seven weathered tents - their canvas flapping gently in the evening breeze. Around them moved the guards he'd counted earlier: seven demonoids with their telltale horns glinting in the sun, two hulking orcs sharpening their axes, a lacertian scout perched watchfully in the branches above, and a lithe Grimalkin female whose ears twitched at every evening sound.
All were now gathering around the fire, their usual patrol patterns abandoned.
Then movement at the cave mouth caught his attention. Figures emerged - twenty at least - stumbling into the sun like men surfacing from drowning. Their clothes hung in tatters, skin streaked with grime and something darker that might have been blood. Each moved with the leaden steps of the utterly spent.
All except one.
The man at the center of the group stood straight-backed, his polished boots crushing the delicate flowers underfoot without notice. In his grip stood a spear that seemed to drink in the sunlight - its haft inlaid with swirling gold patterns that hurt the eyes to follow. Even before seeing his face, Gregarious knew. The way the others unconsciously made space around him, the way the guards immediately straightened - this could only be Kastran.
Gregarious scrambled to his feet, brushing oak leaves from his trousers as he hurried forward. "Hello! You must be the hero Kastran!" His voice came out louder than intended, bouncing off the mountain walls. "I'm Gregarious, your transporter!"
The hero turned slowly. Up close, his eyes held the flat sheen of river stones - no warmth, no recognition. "Ah. Hello." He extended the spear toward Gregarious without ceremony. "Here."
Gregarious blinked at the weapon, then at the exhausted expedition members now collapsing onto bedrolls. "Um, is there anything else?" He gestured eagerly toward his carriage. "Perhaps gold or treasure? I brought the largest carriage I own, ready to haul whatever—"
Kastran was already walking away, his attention fixed on the Grimalkin scout approaching with a map. The spear in Gregarious' hands thrummed faintly, as if something slept within its gleaming metal. Around him, no one met his eyes.
"No. Just this." Kastran's voice carried the weight of command. "Hurry - you mustn't falter. Time is of the essence. Soon this border will swarm with elves." His hand clamped on Gregarious' shoulder with painful intensity. "Don't mistake this for ordinary steel. Protect that spear with your life. I'll provide twenty men as escort."
The weapon passed into Gregarious' waiting hands - and nearly tore his arms from their sockets. The spear's unnatural density defied its slender appearance; his muscles trembled as he failed to lift it properly from the ground.
"Will do, great hero... Kastran," Gregarious gasped, face flushing with effort.
"Remember - it must be delivered five days before the Blood Festival." Kastran's eyes bored into him. "Until then, keep it hidden away. Somewhere secure."
"Understood!"
With the escorts' help, they wrapped the relic in thick linens and heaved it into the carriage. The entire exchange took less than three minutes. Gregarious had hoped to spend the night, perhaps share stories with the legendary hero over campfire ale. Instead, he found himself snapping the reins the moment the escort mounted up, the carriage lurching forward into the gathering dark.
Behind them, voices carried through the twilight:
"That was a nightmare." A demonoid guard slumped by the fire, his armor dented in impossible patterns.
"You lot drew the short straw," replied a comrade. "Out here? Quiet as a grave these two days. What did you see down there?"
"Creatures from no natural hell," the first spat. "We survived by the Blood Mother's whim alone."
Gregarious strained to listen over the carriage wheels, the escorts' horses keeping close formation. The mention of one hundred dead men sent ice through his veins. What made this spear worth such slaughter?
"Worst part?" the guard continued. "We'd all be rotting down there if not for Kastran and his inner circle. And the damned dungeon goes deeper still - we barely scratched its surface. Let some other fools brave those depths."
"May the Blood Mother guide the fallen," another murmured, making a ritual gesture.
The carriage jolted along the crumbling mountain road, its wheels grinding against stone worn smooth by centuries of forgotten travelers. Moonlight painted the peaks in liquid silver, so bright Gregarious could see his breath fogging in the cold air as they navigated treacherous switchbacks. The escort rode tight formation around him, their horses' hooves kicking up sparks when they struck exposed flint in the rock.
They descended into valleys where the mist clung like a living thing. Tendrils of fog curled around the carriage axles, so thick at times that Gregarious could barely see the demonoid rider three feet to his left. Strange echoes bounced between the canyon walls - what might have been owl calls, or something less natural. The escort's hands never strayed far from their weapons.
When the road cut through ancient woods, the canopy swallowed all moonlight. Things rustled in the blackness between gnarled oaks - skittering claws on bark, the occasional snap of a twig too heavy for any forest creature. Gregarious found himself holding his breath as they passed, the linen-wrapped spear seeming to grow heavier behind him with each unnatural sound.
His fingers ached from gripping the reins too tight. Every few minutes, his eyes darted back to check the cargo, half-expecting to see the wrappings squirming. Todo escort's silence weighed heavier than the spear - no jokes, no complaints, just twenty pairs of eyes scanning the darkness for threats even their veteran instincts couldn't name.
Then the trees gave way abruptly, they had reached their destination, the city of Abhorret.
"Home sweet home," Gregarious thought as the morning sun glinted off Abhorrent's iron-banded gates.
After weeks of treacherous travel, the sight of those familiar towering spires filled him with relief. The escort leader, a grizzled demonoid with a missing horn tip, clapped him on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
"Well, boy, it appears we've made it in one piece," the demonoid chuckled, his breath smelling faintly of sulfur. "Once inside, speak with Igor Burd down in the Halls of The Desolit. He'll pay you half upfront—the rest comes on delivery day. Consider joining the Crest Order when this is done. We don't bite. Haha!" His laugh echoed off the gate walls as the escort dispersed into the bustling streets.
"Oww… yeah, count on it! See you around!" Gregarious rubbed his sore shoulder, watching the warriors disappear into the morning crowd before approaching the gates.
Stepping into Abhorrent was like slipping into a second skin. The city thrummed with life—merchants hawked spiced meats, blacksmiths' hammers rang against steel, and the scent of smoldering brimstone hung in the air. As a demonoid, Gregarious swelled with pride at the sight. Though their race was small in stature, they had built something magnificent here—a city of winding cobbled streets and tiered stone buildings carved with intricate runes.
The Halls of The Desolit loomed ahead, its obsidian doors etched with the crest of their people. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ink, parchment, and the metallic tang of blood-oath seals. A clerk directed him to a back chamber where Igor Burd waited—a wiry demonoid with spectacles perched on his nose, flipping through a ledger.
"Gregarious Illmuth, you say?" Burd adjusted his glasses, scanning the page. "Ah, yes. Here's half, as agreed." He slid a clinking pouch across the table without looking up. "Thank you for your service to the hero Kastran. You may see yourself out."
"Thank you, Mr. Burd. I'll return five days before the Blood Festival," Gregarious said, securing the pouch to his belt.
"Correct. May the Blood Mother guide you, young one." Burd's tone was dismissive, already moving to the next task.
Stepping back into the sunlight, Gregarious ducked into an alley and poured the coins into his palm. "Ninety-nine… and one hundred. A year's worth of missions in one haul," he whispered, grinning. And this was only half. The weight of the coins was intoxicating—enough to buy a proper home, maybe even commission armor from the forge districts.
But first, he needed to secure the spear. Kastran's warning echoed in his mind. Protect it with your life.
"Fresh human blood! Just tapped this morning!" a raspy-voiced vendor called out from his market stall. Gregarious' ears perked up at the announcement. He pushed through the crowd toward the stand, where rows of glass bottles filled with crimson liquid glinted in the sunlight.
"Now that's what I call a treat!" Gregarious said, licking his lips. "Where'd this batch come from?"
The vendor, an older demonoid with one broken horn, leaned in conspiratorially. "Not the usual prison stock. These were trespassers - caught just beyond the eastern ditches."
"Trespassers?" Gregarious' eyes widened.
"How old were they?"
"Young adults, I'd say. Early twenties. Healthy specimens." The vendor patted one of the bottles proudly.
Gregarious rubbed his hands together. "I'll take sixteen ounces. What's the damage?"
"Twenty silver."
"Twenty?!" Gregarious nearly choked. "That's double the normal price!"
The vendor shrugged. "Premium product, premium price. This isn't some drained convict's leftovers."
Gregarious scratched his chin, considering. "Throw in a couple of ears and you've got a deal."
"I can do that," the vendor said after a pause. "But they'll be standard quality - none of those tender noble-born ears."
"Fair enough." Gregarious counted out twenty silver coins from his pouch. As the vendor packaged his purchase, he explained, "Human goods don't come cheap here. Most folks save this stuff for special occasions."
"Today feels special enough to me," Gregarious said with a grin, tucking his purchases into his satchel. The rich, coppery scent of the blood made his mouth water. He couldn't wait to enjoy his rare treat.