The caravan moved out from Marsh Town just as the morning mist curled like ghostly fingers through the alleys, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoing against the damp cobblestones. The scent of the swamp lingered in the air—wet ground, rotting vegetation, and distant brine from the delta beyond—but it did not slow them. Borgrim Blackmane led the company, his Rhazak warhorse a towering shadow among lesser steeds, its iron-clad hooves striking sparks from the uneven road.
Behind him, the dwarves rode in tight formation, their instincts forged through centuries of warfare. Khaltar's Silver Axe crew followed, their lighter horses swift and agile, built for speed rather than endurance. The Twins, Rurik and Grumli, controlled the supply cart, their sturdy wagon reinforced with dwarven steel and drawn by two massive draft horses bred for the long haul.
Their path wound northward, away from the swamp-laden south, where the land slowly began to rise into the rolling plains of the Green Expanse. For two days, they rode through the grassy sea, where the wind howled across the open fields, bending the golden stalks like waves under a storm. The journey was merciless—without the cover of forests, they were exposed to the sky, to the unrelenting sun during the day and the bone-chilling winds of the night.
On the third day, they reached the Keldric Stones, an ancient formation of towering monoliths, each carved with runes older than any empire standing today. Legends spoke of forgotten gods and the blood price once paid here, and even the most hardened among them felt the weight of unseen eyes.
By the fourth day, the plains gave way to rougher terrain, where the earth rose in jagged hills, littered with the remnants of long-forgotten battlefields—broken swords buried in the dirt, shattered helms peeking from the grass, rusted shields leaning against crumbling cairns. Here, the wind carried the whispers of the dead, voices lost in time.
Then came the Haragor Cliffs, a merciless ascent of black stone and sheer drops, where the road narrowed to a single treacherous pass. One misstep, one wrong movement, and a rider would plunge into the abyss below. The Rhazak warhorses did not falter, but the lesser mounts neighed and trembled, their hooves scraping against the slick, treacherous rock.
Storm clouds gathered on the fifth day, blotting out the sun as they entered the Stormfang Ravine, where the sky cracked with lightning and the winds howled through the chasms like screaming wraiths. Rain pounded against their armor, turning the path into a river of mud and loose stones. A lesser company would have turned back, but they pressed on, heads bowed against the fury of the storm, faces set like stone.
Finally, after six days of relentless travel, the road began to descend, and in the distance, nestled between the fanged peaks of the Ashen Mountains, they saw their destination—Drakescar.
A city of iron and fire, where smokestacks belched black fumes into the sky and the anvils rang ceaselessly in the forges. Built upon the skeleton of an ancient dragon's corpse, the town was half fortress, half battleground, a place where mercenaries, traders, and warlords gathered, their ambitions sharpening like blades upon the grindstone of fate.
As the caravan passed through the great iron gates of Drakescar, the very air changed, thickening with the scent of molten metal, forge smoke, and oil. The sound was deafening—hammers striking anvils in a relentless rhythm, steel grinding against stone, the crackling of flames from the countless forges lining the streets. This was no mere town; Drakescar was a living, breathing machine of war, a place where weapons were born and blood was destined to spill.
Unlike the sprawling market hubs of Marsh Town, Drakescar was a fortified labyrinth built into the bones of the land itself. The city's foundation was carved from black volcanic stone, its streets winding through deep ravines and into the hollowed-out ribs of an ancient dragon's skeleton—a beast so massive that its remains now served as the pillars and archways of the settlement.
The Black Iron District stood at the city's heart, a sprawling expanse of forges, smelters, and armorers' guilds, where blacksmiths worked ceaselessly under the glow of molten metal. Here, dwarves, humans, and even a few orcs toiled side by side, hammering out swords, axes, armor, and engines of war. Massive iron golems stood in place, powered by arcane runes, their bodies covered in soot as they hauled raw ore from the mines beneath the city.
The Vein Markets lined the main thoroughfare, where merchants traded in rare metals, enchanted gemstones, and exotic pelts from the northern wilds. Unlike other trade cities, where silks and spices held value, here it was steel, firepowder, and mercenary contracts that drove commerce. Battle-worn warriors haggled over the price of enchanted blades, while bounty hunters pinned wanted posters to stone pillars, their eyes searching for their next target.
As the caravan moved deeper into the city, they passed through the Glory Walk, a wide avenue leading towards the Hall of Blades, where the greatest champions of Drakescar were immortalized in stone. Statues of legendary warriors, clad in full plate or wielding massive war-axes, lined the road, their names etched into the steel plaques at their feet. Some were mercenaries who had won entire wars, others were fallen warlords whose legacies still loomed over history.
Above, massive chains stretched across the rooftops, suspending bridges that connected the upper levels of the city. Airships hovered like predatory birds, unloading supplies from faraway lands. On the higher terraces, training yards resounded with the clash of steel, where mercenary companies drilled relentlessly, their banners fluttering in the ashen wind.
Yet Drakescar was not just a city of smiths and warriors—it was a fortress. The outer walls were not stone but fused iron, reinforced by runic magic. Ballistae and siege weapons lined the battlements, manned by soldiers who bore the insignia of the Black Fangs, a notorious warband known for their brutal efficiency.
Beyond the markets and the forges, the path to Blacktide Port lay ahead. The roadway descended steeply, winding through shadowed tunnels carved into the cliffs, where the scent of salt and tar replaced the acrid bite of forge smoke. As they neared the harbor, the air grew thick with the calls of dockworkers and the creaking of ships swaying in the tide.
The Blacktide Port was unlike any other—a sanctuary for pirates, mercenaries, and sailors hardened by war. Ships of all designs lined the docks, from sleek corsairs armed with ballistae to massive ironclad warships, their hulls reinforced with Drakescar steel. Crimson lanterns hung from the masts, casting eerie reflections across the black waters, while smugglers exchanged coin for contraband beneath the shadows of the piers.
As the last of the horses were stabled and the carts secured, the company strode onto the docks of Blacktide Port, a place where the scent of brine and smoke mingled in the cold sea air. Here, the restless tide whispered against barnacle-crusted piers, and the wind carried the cries of gulls circling high above the endless sprawl of ships, sails, and salt-stained banners.
This was no ordinary harbor. Blacktide was a city in its own right—a tempest of trade and treachery, where merchants and mercenaries, pirates and privateers, all came seeking fortune or fleeing fate. Dockworkers bellowed orders, their sweat mixing with the sea mist as they hauled barrels of provisions onto waiting decks. Shipwrights hammered iron nails into wooden hulls, sealing the fate of vessels destined for distant shores. The constant clang of steel on steel rang out, as armed men trained under the watchful eyes of their captains, preparing for battles yet to come.
The dwarves and their companions moved through the throng, eyes scanning the towering masts and iron-riveted hulls that rocked gently in their moorings. Their quest was simple, yet perilous—to find a ship that could brave the treacherous seas of Sol-Mayora, a ship whose captain feared neither storm nor steel. One by one, the vessels revealed their nature.
First, a beast of a warship loomed ahead, its black iron plating gleaming beneath the overcast sky. It was built for slaughter, with twelve broadside cannons protruding like the fangs of a great leviathan. The prows bore jagged reinforcements, meant to ram and sunder enemy hulls. Runes of battle and blood-iron were etched into its sides, whispering of wars fought on waters long forgotten.
The crew—scarred men clad in battered armor—moved like warriors preparing for siege, their hands resting upon hilts and powder flasks, ever wary of unseen threats. A ship of iron, death, and ruin. But iron was heavy, and the weight of war slowed even the deadliest predator. They moved on.
Next, sleek and sharp as a hunter's dagger, the Stormrider seemed less ship and more shadow, its black sails rippling like a living thing against the salty wind. The hull, forged from obsidianwood, gleamed with an unnatural luster, rumored to be impervious to flame and rot. It was built for speed, for vanishing into the mists as if the sea itself swallowed it whole.
It promised escape—a ghost upon the waves, untouchable and swift. But speed was not enough. When the time came for battle, a ship built to flee would be of no use to those who sought to stand and fight. And so, they pressed forward.
Then, there was a ship that bled. Or at least, it seemed so. The dark crimson of its hull was painted in streaks of red, giving the eerie illusion of fresh wounds upon its wooden flesh. Spiked railings and jagged blades lined the sides, ready to impale those who dared to board uninvited. The figurehead was a snarling beast, mouth open in an eternal roar of defiance.
The crew upon its deck were a wretched assembly of cutthroats, deserters, and men who carried the stink of betrayal. They moved with a predator's ease, watching all who passed as if weighing their worth in coin and carnage. A ship of killers. A ship of those who had nothing to lose, and everything to take. But trust was a currency they could not afford to spend lightly. The company turned away.
Then, at last, they found it—a ship built for the storm, yet tempered for battle. The Sea Drake stood proud amidst the chaos of the docks, its hull lined with bands of reinforced steel, yet still light enough to dance upon the waves. Ballistae were mounted along its sides, their rotating bases allowing for deadly precision in battle. The figurehead, carved from a single piece of ancient driftwood, depicted a serpent coiling around the bow, its gemstone eyes shimmering in the dim light.
It was neither too slow nor too fragile, neither too reckless nor too fearful. It was a ship for warriors, for men and women who knew both the call of war and the whisper of the sea. A ship that would not flee from danger, nor sink beneath its weight. This was the one.
With heavy purses of gold exchanged and the last preparations made, the dwarves and their companions stepped aboard the Sea Drake, feeling the deck shift beneath their feet as if the very heartbeat of the ocean now guided them forward.