The sun hadn't yet crested the eastern peaks, but my Grotto was already awake.
Two weeks. It felt like a lifetime.
The name had stuck. What had begun as my simple descriptor for our fortified cave system had become the official designation for the burgeoning settlement that now spilled from its mouth. The Grotto was no longer just a sanctuary; it was a living thing, breathing in the chill morning air and exhaling the smoke of our industry.
From the wooden balcony of my small, functional hut—a structure the System designated as the 'Leader's Quarters'—I watched my world come to life. Below me, the raw, untamed valley we had claimed was slowly, painstakingly being brought to heel. The crude path from the cave had been widened and reinforced with gravel and logs, a proper road that snaked down to the valley floor. To the left, a sprawling section of forest had been clear-cut. The stumps were still fresh, but in their place were the beginnings of a dozen smaller huts, a communal longhouse, and the skeletal framework of a high palisade wall.
The sound was what struck me most. It was a symphony of survival. The rhythmic, metallic clang… clang… clang from the direction of the forge was its heartbeat. That was Leo, already at his anvil, the orange glow of his forge a defiant star against the pre-dawn gloom. The percussive thump-thump-thump of heavy mallets striking wood was Maria's domain; her small but growing team of woodworkers were shaping logs for the new wall, their movements efficient and practiced.
Further out, where the valley floor flattened, lay our most ambitious project: the fields. The dark, rich soil had been turned over in neat, rectangular plots. A small, disciplined group of workers—a mix of the human survivors I'd rescued and the more docile goblin captives—were already out there, their bent backs silhouetted against the grey light. They moved with a purpose they hadn't possessed two weeks ago, their hands, once idle or chained, now working the earth. Watching over them from a small rise was a single, statuesque figure: a Hobgoblin of the Gutter-Guard, spear held at a relaxed but ready angle, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. Security. Order.
This was the physical manifestation of 2496 Settlement Points. It was the result of a hundred small decisions, a thousand hours of labor, and a river of sweat and will. It was home.
A small hand tugged at my tunic. "Kale hungry."
I looked down. Lia stared up at me, her large eyes still clouded with sleep. I had given her a proper haircut, and Maria had stitched together a simple tunic for her from cured deer hide. She was still tiny, still fragile, but the gaunt, haunted look was gone, replaced by the simple, demanding presence of a child. I had formally adopted her through the Settlement System, creating a custom 'Ward of the Settlement' contract that bound me to her protection. It was the easiest, most certain decision I had made since arriving in Norrath.
"I know, sprout," I said, my voice softer than I used for anyone else. I effortlessly scooped her up and settled her on my hip. "Let's go see what's for breakfast. I think I smell porridge."
I carried her out of the hut and into the bustle of the main cave entrance. The area had been transformed. The mouth of the cave was now the main thoroughfare of a small, vertical town. Walkways and stairs carved from wood and stone connected the various levels. The consecrated ground of the main cavern, still glowing with a soft, golden light from Samuel's faith, served as the town square, a place of absolute safety.
Samuel was there now, his back straight, his voice calm and clear as he led a small group in a morning prayer to Lathander. I noted with a grim satisfaction that several of the Gutter-Guard Hobgoblins stood at the edge of the gathering, not participating, but listening with a quiet, intense curiosity. My manufactured religion was taking on a life of its own.
I nodded to Samuel as I passed, receiving a warm smile in return. The Cleric had become the soul of our community, the unwavering moral compass that balanced my own cold pragmatism.
The communal mess hall was a new addition, a wide ledge just outside the main cave, sheltered by a sturdy wooden roof. The smell of cooking food—oat porridge, roasted boar, and some kind of fried mushroom—filled the air. The long tables were crowded with the strange, patchwork family I had assembled. Human survivors, their faces now filled with purpose instead of terror, sat across from goblins who were slowly learning that a shared meal was better than a stolen one. The Gutter-Guard, by silent agreement, took up a table of their own, their movements disciplined, their iron-tipped spears leaning against the wall behind them. They were a caste apart—the protectors, the warriors—and they carried themselves with the quiet pride of their station.
I got a bowl of porridge for myself and a smaller one for Lia, finding a spot at the end of a table. I ate slowly, my eyes scanning the crowd, my mind a constant whirlwind of calculations. The palisade is 40% complete. At this rate, another week, maybe nine days. Food stores are stable, but the new fields won't yield for at least a month. We need more hunters. The iron ore vein is rich, but Leo needs more charcoal, which means Maria needs more woodcutters, which means we need more guards to protect them in the forest.
It was an endless, complex equation of resources, labor, and security. My Scholar class had never felt more appropriate. This wasn't a battle of swords and spells; it was a war of logistics, and I was its commanding general.
A shadow fell over me. I looked up to see Elara, a steaming mug in one hand, her Orcish Greataxe strapped to her back. She wore the full suit of black Lurker-hide armor we had crafted, its dark scales seeming to drink the morning light. Her title, 'Captain of the Guard,' floated above her head in a soft, golden script only I could see.
"You're brooding," she stated, not asking. She sat down opposite me, her movements economical and precise. There was a new authority to her, a weight she had grown into. Her command over the settlement's military forces was absolute, a fact codified by the custom contract I had written for her.
"I'm planning," I corrected, spooning a bit of porridge into Lia's waiting mouth.
"Same thing," Elara grunted. She took a sip from her mug. "Gnar's unit is ready. Their phalanx drill is perfect. They can hold a shield wall against a charging Gristle-Boar now. I saw it yesterday."
"Good," I said. "That's good. How are their patrols?"
"Efficient. They sweep the perimeter twice a day. No sign of any major predators getting too close. No sign of other people, either." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. "Which brings me to my next point. We're getting comfortable, Kale. Fat and happy. It's dangerous."
I knew she was right. The two weeks of peace and productivity had been a blessing, a desperately needed reprieve. But it had also dulled the razor's edge of our survival instinct. The terror of the first week had been replaced by the routine of daily labor.
"I haven't forgotten," I said quietly. "Tier 2. The outpost."
The grand strategy. It was the thought that consumed my waking moments and haunted my dreams. To truly secure our future, we couldn't just hide in our valley. We needed to expand. The System itself demanded it. To advance our civilization to the next tier, we needed to found a second, fully-supplied settlement. An outpost. And the System had a specific contract locked behind that tier: Noble. A Frontier Baron or Baroness, appointed to govern a new territory in the Leader's name.
My eyes met Elara's. She knew the plan. She was the plan. I would build a fortress here, in the Grotto. And then I would give her an army and send her out to conquer a piece of this world for us. She would be my Baroness.
"We don't have the numbers," she said, her voice flat and practical. "Not yet. We split our forces now, we're weak in two places instead of strong in one."
"I know." I ran a hand through my hair, the familiar gesture of a stressed academic that felt utterly out of place on a man discussing the founding of a new barony. "We need more people. Skilled people, if possible. But any able body will do. We're at forty-seven souls right now, counting everyone. The System says the minimum for Tier 2 is twenty, but that's a bare minimum. To garrison two locations? We need closer to a hundred."
"And where are you going to get another fifty people?" Elara challenged. "We haven't seen a single new transfer since we found Samuel's group."
It was the question that had no answer. The initial flood of humanity seemed to have been a one-time event. We had been lucky to find the survivors in the goblin camp, but that was a finite source. We were an island of civilization in a vast, hostile wilderness.
"I don't know," I admitted, and the honesty of it felt like a lead weight in my gut. "But we have to be ready. We keep building. We keep training. We stockpile resources. When the opportunity comes—"
I was cut off by a sudden shadow that swept over the mess hall, vast and unnaturally swift. A collective gasp went through the crowd. The workers in the fields below looked up, pointing.
I was already on my feet, Lia clutched protectively to my chest. Elara had her axe in her hand, her body coiled like a spring. The Gutter-Guard had risen as one, their shields up, their spears angled towards the sky.
A massive black bird was circling overhead, its wingspan easily fifteen feet. It rode the air currents with an ancient, predatory grace, its form blotting out the rising sun. Then, it folded its wings and dropped from the sky like a black stone.
It did not land among the crowd. It landed directly on the railing of the balcony of my hut, its talons clicking loudly on the wood. It was Corvus.
The ancient raven turned its head, its eyes like chips of obsidian. They ignored the gawking crowd, ignored the armed Hobgoblins, and fixed directly on me. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind and the crackling of the cookfires.
Then, the raven spoke, its voice a dry, gravelly rasp that scraped the air, a sound like stones grinding together in a forgotten tomb.
"Scholar."
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. Corvus only sought me out for one reason.
"What is it?" I called out, my voice carrying in the sudden silence.
Corvus ruffled his massive feathers, a gesture of profound cynicism. "Fledglings," the raven croaked, the word dripping with disdain. "A new batch. Stumbled out of the Greywoods, a day's march north of here. Half-dead, witless, and stinking of fear."
A murmur went through the assembled settlers. New arrivals. The words spread like wildfire.
My mind went into overdrive, the logistical equation in my head shattering and re-forming in an instant. Opportunity and danger, arriving on black wings.
"How many?" I asked, my voice steady despite the sudden racing of my heart.
Corvus's obsidian eyes seemed to gleam with a dark, knowing amusement.
"Three of them, Scholar. Fresh from your old world."