Chapter 39: First Visitors

Chapter 39: First Visitors A day later, seven Goatfolk traders trudged through the forest. Their heavy bags weighed them down, digging into their woolly shoulders. Climbing the hills to the mountain foot was tough work, each step took a strain on their powerful legs. Griz, the leader, a stocky Goatfolk with a sharp glint in his eye, wiped sweat from his brow. His coat, usually neat and well-kept, was matted with dust and pine needles. "Is this it?" one of his companions wheezed, his breath ragged, his gaze sweeping over the dense, uninviting treeline. The idea of a market here, in such a remote, wild place, seemed absurd. "Looks like it," Griz grunted, pointing a hoof. Ahead, a huge stone sign stood tall, almost unnaturally so. It was artistically carved, clear as day as it said: "Welcome to Necro Market." The words seemed to hang in the air, a bizarre invitation in the heart of the wilderness. "Who lives in these old dungeons anyway?" another Goatfolk scoffed, a smirk on his face. "Necro Market, Skeletons?" he chuckled, nudging his friend. A dry, dismissive laugh rippled through the group. "It would be real crazy if it was indeed undead." They had no idea what was really waiting, their minds still clinging to the old tales of desolate, monster-filled crypts. They kept walking, their hooves sinking slightly into the soft earth. Then, the path changed. The rough forest floor became a smooth dirt road, packed down and surprisingly even. Their eyes widened. The tree trunks along the path, even the old, gnarled ones that had stood for centuries, were carved with amazing art. Tiny, perfect details twisted into the wood – swirling vines, miniature beasts, geometric patterns – turning the forest into an outdoor gallery. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, highlighting the intricate craftsmanship. "Wow... this is awesome," one whispered, his voice hushed with genuine awe. He ran a hoof along a carved trunk, feeling the smooth lines. "Even a good Ursarok woodcarver would struggle with these tiny details. They’re known for their skill, but this... this is another level." "So it’s true a Knight Commander bought those figurines?" another Goatfolk whispered, a greedy smile spreading across his snout. The rumors from Stonehorn Crossing had been wild, almost unbelievable. "We’d make at least 100 silvers a piece if we sold those rumoured figurines," a third chimed in, already doing math in his head, his ears twitching with excitement. "Stop being stupid, Borin," Griz snapped, his voice sharper, his own mind already calculating on a grander scale. "100 silvers is too low. Listen: if we buy, say, I don’t know." he counted on his fingers, each digit representing a hundred, "a thousand of them, we can sell them straight to Ursarok villages. Hell, we could even sell them in Hearthglen for 1 gold each. Those bearfolk really want things like these. Their passion for art is unmatched. We might get 10 royal golds in total, easily." Borin, a younger Goatfolk with a nervous twitch in his ear, shifted his weight, his optimism tempered by caution. "Do you think they’ll actually sell us a thousand? Even if they can make that many, would they let us saturate the market? If I were selling, I wouldn’t churn out that much; the price would drop, hurting the value for everyone." He worried about market saturation, a common pitfall for new, high-demand products. "Of course not. We’re Ramari," Griz said, puffing out his chest, his voice laced with the pride of his trading clan. "If they can really make a thousand, we can control the price. We’ll make an exclusive deal with the woodcarvers with 200 silver per piece. They’re just woodcarvers, smiths, artisans; they’re not real traders. They won’t understand market dynamics like we do. There’s a reason why our race has the highest control of the region’s trade routes: we think differently, we see the long game." He looked around, confident, already picturing the wealth flowing into Ramari coffers. "No," Borin mumbled, staring ahead, his gut twisting with an inexplicable unease. "My gut just says it won’t be that easy. Something about this place feels... off." He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the perfection of the path, the silent artistry of the trees, it all felt too deliberate, too controlled for a forgotten dungeon. "What do you mean?" Griz asked, frowning, his focus still on the potential profits. Borin just pointed. They were at the mountain’s base. The dungeon entrance, once hidden and rugged, was now stunning. A calm fountain bubbled in a neat garden, its water sparkling in the sunlight, surrounded by an elegant iron fence. Roses, vibrant and lush, bloomed in neat rows, their scent a sweet counterpoint to the lingering forest air. A huge, fancy metal gate, dark and shiny, stood at the dungeon’s main entrance, its intricate work hinting at master craftsmanship. On each side, two undead guards, in heavy, polished armor with big shields and spears, stood perfectly still. Their red plumes swayed gently in the subtle breeze. They looked strong and disciplined, like statues brought to life, their empty eye sockets fixed on the approaching Goatfolk. The Goatfolk froze, their jaws dropping. Their earlier laughter died in their throats. "This is crazy," one whispered, his voice barely a breath. "This place looks like a noble’s house. This is a market?" The sheer opulence was jarring, completely at odds with their expectations of a dungeon. "And an undead runs it, or works here," another added, his voice shaky, his fur bristling with primal fear. "You think the undead will attack us? They’re just standing there, unmoving." "Idiot," a third Goatfolk slapped him lightly on the arm, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. "If they did, those kobolds would be dead. Undead will literally kill everyone, indiscriminately. Look," he pointed at Orkesh and Mina, who stood beyond the gate, looking calm and well-dressed in their new, professional suits. Their presence, alive and seemingly unharmed, was the only thing holding back outright panic. "Oh... right. So maybe the owner is a necromancer then? Someone who controls them?" he wondered aloud, trying to find a logical explanation. "Maybe," another replied, a shiver running down his spine. "There’s no other reason the undead haven’t attacked us yet. This is... unsettling." The silence of the guards, their unblinking stare, was more unnerving than any growl or snarl. As they got closer, the armored guards moved quietly. The massive iron gates swung open without a sound, revealing more wonders within. The Goatfolk gasped again. As they walked closer, it was even more amazing. Flowers bloomed in stone pots, their colors vibrant in the sunlight, defying the very nature of a dungeon. A fountain gently gurgled in the middle courtyard, its clear water reflecting the light. Fancy stone benches, smooth and inviting, curved around the fountain, which itself was intricately carved. Carved stone pillars stood on the edges of the fence, etched with swirling patterns. Even the mountain walls themselves were adorned with sweeping carvings that proudly read, "Welcome to Necro Market." Undead gardeners, with surprisingly gentle bony fingers, tended to the lush green plants, their movements precise and deliberate. "Are we actually in a noble’s house?" Borin whispered, completely lost, his eyes wide with wonder. He rubbed his eyes, as if to clear a dream, unable to reconcile the grandeur with the concept of a dungeon. The Dungeon Manager stepped forward, between Orkesh and Mina, to greet them. He was the tall, thin undead in the sharp dark suit, his posture radiating an aura of quiet authority. His wooden mask, carved with a serene, welcoming look, made his undead presence less scary, almost inviting, though the empty eye sockets still held a chilling depth. Orkesh and Mina, looking professional in their new suits, stood a bit behind him, a quiet, united team. They looked like they belonged, their earlier fear replaced by a calm confidence that spoke professionalism. "Welcome to Necro Market," the Dungeon Manager said. His voice was smooth and clear, sounding calm and powerful. It wasn’t a human voice, but it was perfectly understandable, articulate, and utterly devoid of any malice. The Goatfolk just stared, their earlier bravado completely gone, replaced by a profound, speechless astonishment.