Chương 36: Chapter 35 - Misfit Toys

"A Title Hunter bleeds in the dark corners of the world to mine the currency that drives the grind of progress. Once a path is mapped, the wealthy simply walk it, buying the glory that the Hunter paid for in scars." - From A Hunter's Lament, by famed Title Hunter Grax Thistledown. MASON My final week in Carriston had vanished in a haze of potion brewing and contract killing as I waited for the shield to be complete and the caravan to be ready for departure.

My days I spent hunting the rocky slopes for materials and cores, gaining another two levels and nearly capping my Intelligence attribute. My nights I dedicated to turning those materials into profit. Now, with my preparations complete and my affairs in Carriston settled, I stood once again before the heat-blasted doors of Ironhand Forgeworks excited to see the fruits of our labor. The clang of hammer on steel rang out like a church bell calling the faithful to prayer.

Frida stood at the main anvil, her powerful back to me as she worked a glowing billet of steel. She moved with a dancer's grace and a brawler's power, each strike precise and devastating. There was an undeniable magnetism in seeing a master at work. The firelight played across her bare, muscular arms, highlighting the intricate map of scars and soot that told the story of her life. She paused, wiping sweat from her brow with a forearm.

"You were supposed to be here half an hour ago," she said, plunging the steel into a trough of oil with a violent hiss.

"I was beginning to think you'd run off and forgotten our arrangement."

"And leave our beautiful work behind?" I pushed off the beam, walking toward her.

"I wouldn't dream of it." She snorted, tossing her heavy hammer onto a rack with a clatter.

"Flattery won't get you a discount, Caden." She walked past me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She pulled an oil-cloth bundle from a shelf and laid it on a workbench between us.

"The shield," she announced, unwrapping it. The housing was compact, a sleek rectangular box of blackened steel that would mount seamlessly onto my prosthetic's forearm. The dwarven runes etched along its spine glowed with a latent power. She triggered the release catch. With a sharp snap, the segmented plates fanned out, locking nearly instantly into a solid heater-shaped barrier. It was elegant, immediate, and exactly what I had envisioned.

"You've outdone yourself, Frida." I inspected the retraction mechanism. It operated smoothly, the counter-weights resetting the tension with a rewarding click. She pulled a second item from the shelf, a longsword in a plain leather scabbard, drawing it partway to reveal a blade of folded steel that shimmered with a pattern like flowing water.

"Hand-and-a-half grip, weighted for a single-handed swing but with enough heft to bite deep. It's not flashy, but it'll hold an edge through anything short of dragon scale." I took the sword, testing the balance; it felt alive in my hand.

"Perfect," I said with sincere reverence. < ITEM INSPECTED: Ironhand Folded Steel Longsword > < Rank: Uncommon (Masterwork) > < Type: One-Handed Sword > < Damage: 18-24 (Slashing) > < Durability: 95/95 > < Properties: [Balanced Hilt]: Reduces Stamina cost for non-Skill attacks by 25%. [Razor Edge]: +15% chance to inflict [Bleeding] status effect on unarmored targets. Description: A finely crafted blade forged from folded high-carbon steel.

The balance is exquisite, allowing for fluid transitions between guard and strike. While lacking enchantments, the quality of the metal makes it superior to standard guild-issue weaponry. >"Try not to break it," she said, her voice dropping a register, the teasing edge softening.

"Or get yourself killed. Bad for my reputation."

"I'll do my best." I sheathed the blade, equipping it to my belt where it hung with a reassuring weight.

"Though I suspect the mountains have their own plans." She searched my face, looking for a crack in the armor and found none. She sighed, shaking her head.

"If you're really going to walk into the lion's den, you're not going alone." She turned and shouted over the roar of the forge.

"Doran! Get out here!" A side door banged open and a dwarf stepped into the main workshop. He was younger than Frida, maybe twenty, though he shared her wild red hair. He was beardless, a very unusual trait in a dwarf, a race that grew their beards as a matter of pride. He wore polished plate armor that gleamed in the firelight and carried a massive tower shield on his back that looked like it had been ripped from a fortress wall. He had a bright, open face and eyes that sparkled with a restless energy.

"Finally!" He boomed, his voice a cheerful baritone. He strode over to us, clapping a hand on Frida's shoulder that would have buckled a lesser woman.

"I was starting to think you were just inventing this mysterious genius to get me out of chores."

"Doran, this is Caden," Frida said, rolling her eyes but leaning into him jokingly.

"Caden, my brother. The headache of the family."

"The charm of the family," Doran corrected, grinning at me. He offered a hand, his grip firm.

"So you're the one who designed the arm? Frida couldn't shut up about the joint articulation for a week." Frida looked away, embarrassed.

"It was three days at most." She said, playing into the bit.

"I have my moments." I liked him immediately, he had an earnestness that was rare from what I'd seen so far of this world.

"Doran is heading home to Kaz-Varr," Frida explained, her tone shifting to one of sisterly authority.

"Our parents are getting older, and he's overdue for a visit. He'll be traveling with the caravan."

"I don't need a babysitter, Frida," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"And I don't need a liability on my conscience," she shot back.

"Doran is a Stoneguard, he knows the passes better than you know your own name. He'll make sure you get to the gates in one piece."

"Plus," Doran added with a wink, "I hear you brew a stamina potion that can make a man perform for two days straight. Figure having a supplier on the road is just good tactical sense." His emphasis on the word "perform" got an eye roll from his sister and she gave him a playfully disapproving shake of her head, Doran in turn just smiled like an idiot.

"Fine," I said finally, conceding the point.

"But I'm not paying for his ale." Doran laughed, an earsplitting sound that shook the soot from the rafters.

"Deal!" Frida walked us to the door, the heat of the forge fading into the cool morning. She stopped, her hand lingering on my arm for a second longer than necessary.

"Watch his back, Caden," she said softly, her eyes serious.

"He's got a good heart, but he thinks everyone else does too."

"I will," I promised. She nodded, stepping back, the mask of the master smith sliding back into place.

"Go on then, before I change my mind and chain you both to an anvil." We walked away, the north stretching out before us. Doran chattered happily about the road ahead, about the grandeur of Kaz-Varr, about the girls he'd left behind in Carriston. I listened, offering the occasional nod and chuckle, my mind already turning to the challenges ahead. I had my gear, I had my writ, and now I had a companion who was as much a complication as he was an asset. +++ The North Gate Staging Area was a muddle of industry.

Steam vented from brass pipes, chains rattled, and the shouts of loaders competed with the mechanical thumping of the transports.

"Impressive, isn't it?!" Doran shouted over the noise, grinning as he watched my reaction.

"It certainly is," I admitted. I had expected wagons, oxen or the Calderan equivalent known as tarators, heavy beasts bred for the mountains. Instead, I was looking at a fleet of what appeared to be iron centipedes. The skiffs were huge, boxy transports forged of blackened iron and reinforced oak. Instead of wheels, which would have shattered on the treacherous scree of the Dragon's Tooth, each skiff rested on six articulated metal legs.

They were powered by a glowing crystal matrix at the front where a driver sat in a raised cockpit manipulating a series of levers. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Carriages are for flatlanders," Doran explained, slapping the hull of a nearby skiff.

"These beauties can step over a boulder the size of a house, lock onto a sheer cliff face in a gale, and crouch down to become a bunker if the wyverns start diving. Gnomish design, dwarven steel. The only way to travel." It appeared to be a slight exaggeration, unless it was a very small house, but I took in the engineering of the arms and hydraulics with an appraising eye, a few new ideas sparking in the back of my mind.

We made our way to the check-in desk, manned by a dwarf with a beard so white it looked like fresh snow and a scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw. This was Tarmis Gorm, the caravan master. The nameplate on his desk said so at any rate. He looked at my writ, then at Doran, then spat on the ground.

"Another dungeon tourist," he huffed.

"And a human at that. Keep your head down, boy, and stay inside the Tether. If you wander off and get eaten, I'm not stopping the convoy to pick your teeth out of monster scat."

"Understood," I said.

"And you," Gorm growled at Doran.

"Don't think because your daddy is on the High Council that you get special treatment, you're not Stoneguard on this one, you pull your weight like everyone else." The High Council? I couldn't help but wonder what could have pushed Frida and Doran to take up shop in a border town. There was certainly a story behind that.

"Understood, Tarmin, no fun will be had," Doran said with a mock salute, which earned a scowl and another spit on the floor from the grizzly caravan captain. We were assigned to the rear flank, protecting the smaller privately chartered skiffs. As we stowed our gear I took stock of our traveling companions. There were about forty of us in total, including a dozen Clan Ironhand Stoneguards in heavy plate looking bored and dangerous.

A handful of merchants nervously checked their manifests while a few low-rank mercenaries like myself chatted amongst themselves. Kaz-Varr was a major hub of commerce in the north but it was heavily restricted to outsiders. Unless you had good reason to be there, or were a dwarf or gnome, not exactly a common destination, but that had changed with the opening of the dungeon. Our caravan was the last of the season, most of the adventuring hopefuls already in the city by now.

Of the other passengers, two primarily caught my eye as being rather odd. The first was a gnome, frantically arguing with a loader near the center of our skiff where cargo was stored. He was dressed in a leather apron stained with oil and alchemical burns, his goggles pushed up into a wild shock of yellow hair.

"Careful! Careful!" He squeaked, his hands fluttering nervously as the loader strapped down a heavy, reinforced crate.

"That calibration matrix is sensitive! If you warp the housing, the whole thing becomes a very expensive paperweight!"

"It's strapped, master gnome," the loader sighed, clearly tired of the conversation.

"It ain't going nowhere."

"It better not," the gnome muttered, pulling a complex device from his pocket and checking the readings. He looked terrified, his eyes darting around the staging area as if expecting an assassin to jump out from behind a barrel.

"That's Fin," Doran noted, following my gaze.

"Tinker. Nervous fellow. Never had cause to trade words with him but he makes this trip often. He has a shop in the city, keeps to himself mostly and pays well for extra security." That explained why there were so many guards. His nervous energy made me uneasy, but then I'd had limited enough experience with gnomes that it may have simply been their nature. The second figure was harder to spot, she was leaning against a stack of crates near the perimeter sharpening a long, curved dagger.

An elf, lean and intimidating, dressed in worn leathers that seemed to shift color slightly in the changing light. A magnificent longbow rested within easy reach. Elves were rare enough outside the Heldric Forest, but to find one heading to the dwarven capital was a real oddity even with a dungeon opening. She wasn't watching the cargo, she was watching the people, her green eyes sweeping the yard. When she landed on me she stopped. She took in the prosthetic arm, the sword, my F-rank guild pin.

She held my gaze for a second too long before returning to her knife.

"And that," Doran whispered, leaning in, "is Liarra. Title hunter. Don't play dice with her, she cheats." A title hunter, I'd read about them but had yet to encounter one in Carriston. It was said that they were maniacs who travelled the world seeking new Achievements, trying to learn the unlock conditions for rare Titles they could sell to guilds and nobles.

The common belief was that they were mostly just psychotic adrenaline junkies looking for an excuse to set themselves on fire and jump into a volcano, but Liarra certainly didn't look crazy. Dangerous? Definitely.

"Noted," I said. A horn blasted, echoing off the valley walls.

"Mount up!" Gorm roared.

"Tether is active! We move!" I felt it a moment later, a subtle hum in the back of my mind. A general group System buff, the first I'd experienced. SYSTEM EFFECT: [Convoy's Shield] Description: You are tethered to the Ironhand Caravan. +10% Physical Defense while within 50 meters of a skiff. Leaving the radius will result in the [Straggler] debuff alerting nearby monsters to your presence. I boarded my designated skiff and it lurched to life.

With a collective whoosh of hydraulics and the grinding of gears, the metal legs extended. The huge transports rose six feet into the air. Then, with a stagger that threw me against the railing, they began to move. The movement was jarring at first, a swaying, staccato gait that felt like riding a drunk camel, but as the convoy picked up speed it smoothed out into a rolling cadence.

We marched out of the North Gate leaving the smog of Carriston behind to begin the long climb toward the snow-capped peaks that loomed like jagged teeth against the sky. +++ The transition from the foothills to the mountains was abrupt. By late afternoon the temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the road had turned into a switchback trail carved into the rock. The skiffs handled it well, their long legs finding purchase where wheels would have slipped.

They stepped over crevices nimbly and navigated sharp turns with surprising agility. We made camp in a sheltered box canyon as the sun dipped below the peaks, splashing the snow in beautiful shades of violet and orange. Having spent most of my life in New York City, I was no stranger to snow, but I'd never seen mountains like this, their majestic peaks towering to dizzying heights. Looking at them was peaceful, like I was a part of some ancient process stretching back to the beginning of time.

The skiffs circled up, their legs locking into a defensive crouch. Heavy canvas awnings deployed from their sides to create a windbreak in the shape of a mobile fortress. The caravan guards were efficient in their work as they secured the perimeter and set up stations for the night's watch. The Ironclan passengers, with their upgraded privileges, disappeared into the warm interiors of the skiffs. The mercenaries and guards not on watch claimed the space under the awnings.

The rest of us were left to the open ground in the center of the circle. Doran amiably took up position nearby, foregoing his clan privileges to keep an eye on me - or maybe he just liked me. I set up my simple tent quickly, my new arm now feeling like a natural extension. I'd practiced enough that the runes activated almost automatically, the improving control giving me back an aspect of my life I had sorely missed.

I was grateful for it as I set up my bunk, the task now trivial compared to my one-handed struggles in the wild. Doran dumped his bedroll next to mine with a happy sigh.

"Home sweet home." He unbuckling his gargantuan shield, dropping it with a thud that shook the ground.

"You hungry? I think Gorm's cook is boiling some kind of root stew. Tastes like dirt, but it's hot."

"I'll pass." I pulled a portable brazier from my inventory, another custom job I'd fiddled together, my crafting skills growing slowly but surely.

"I prefer to know what I'm eating." I placed a hand on the metal plate and channeled a thin stream of mana. The metal glowed a dull red. I set a small cauldron on top, filled it with water from my pouch, and began to chop the vegetables and cured meat I'd bought in town. I worked with the precise, economical movements of the alchemy lab, adding a pinch of crushed sun-dried herbs to top it off.

The aroma - savory, rich, and complex - wafted through the cold air, overwhelming the sweaty smells of travel and turning every head in the area.

"That," Doran said, sniffing the air loudly, "is not dirt."

"Venison and mountain sage." I stirred the pot another quarter rotation, making note of the balanced mix of ingredients.

"With a dash of wild garlic." I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The gnome, Fin, had emerged from his own tent drawn by the smell. He hovered at the edge of the firelight clutching a tin plate and looking like a starving child.

"There's plenty," I said, not looking up. Fin jumped, then scurried forward.

"I-I couldn't impose. I have rations."

"Rations are for emergencies." I ladled a generous portion into a wooden bowl and handed it to him.

"This is dinner." He took it with unsteady hands.

"Thank you. Thank you kindly. Fin. Fendrel Cogsworth. Artificer."

"Caden. F-Rank adventurer, class undeclared."

"And Doran," the dwarf added, holding out his own bowl with a hopeful grin. I filled it.

"You have unusually fine mana control," a cool voice said from the shadows. Liarra stepped into the light, her boots making no sound even on loose gravel. She looked at the glowing brazier, then at me.

"Most mages need a focus or a chant to sustain a heat source that consistent." I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral and channeling [Prolific Liar].

"I had a teacher who believed in the fundamentals, said if you can't boil water without a crutch you have no business calling down lightning."

"A wise teacher," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"Though efficient heating is rarely the first priority for a battle mage."

"I'm not a battle mage. Alchemist by trade, only in the Adventurer's Guild for the perks." It was at least partially true.

"Temperature control is the difference between a healing potion and a vial of poison." She was clearly skeptical but not going to push it.

"Smells good," she admitted finally, holding out a bowl.

"First one's free." She took a bite, her eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise.

"This is actually edible." We ate in relative silence, the fire crackling softly. It was a strange, disparate group, a noble dwarf, a nervous gnome, a suspicious elf, and a lying half-exaltian, huddled against the cold in the shadow of the mountains.

"So," Doran said, wiping his bowl clean with a piece of bread.

"What brings a title hunter to the Dragon's Tooth? Hunting a wyvern?" Liarra swirled the last of her stew and shrugged.

"Fresh dungeons always bring fresh Titles." She said as if the answer was obvious. Elves were long-lived, Liarra could be a hundred years old for all I knew - my [Tactical Analysis] revealed she was Level 24, but not much else. Level 24 ascension was particularly demanding, being the last before the major power boost of the Silver-evolution skill unlocks and Tier-2 attribute break.

"Dungeons," Doran grunted.

"Profitable but irritating." Fin flinched at the mention of the dungeon, his spoon clattering against his bowl.

"Terrible," he squeaked.

"Unstable. Gas pockets. Monsters." I watched him from behind my cup. His fear was real enough, but his manner was strange even for a gnome. Judging by the way Liarra was watching him, she saw it too.

"And you, Caden?" Liarra asked, turning her eyes back to me.

"What brings an alchemist so far from his laboratory?"

"Ingredients." I tapped the side of my prosthetic.

"And upgrades. I hear the smiths in Kaz-Varr can do things with metal that make this look like a toy."

"I'll let you keep your head by not telling Frida you said that," Doran beamed, "but you're not wrong. My cousin runs a forge that could shoe a dragon, he's the best in the city. I'd be happy to make the introduction." I nodded appreciatively and took another bite of the delicious meal that my brain decided to spoil with the conjured image of the last time I'd eaten stew this tasty, a smiling man sitting at a table with his wife.

The conversation drifted to safer topics - road conditions, weather, the quality of the ale. But the tension remained, a subtle undercurrent beneath the camaraderie. As the moons rose, casting deep shadows across the camp, I cleaned the cauldron and packed away the brazier.

"Get some sleep," Doran said.

"We hit the snow line tomorrow."