A day had passed since the surprise bandit raid, and Garrok Halforcen found solace in the rhythm of his forge. The morning sun bathed the town in a soft golden glow, the clamor of repairs and rebuilding filling the air as caravanners patched wagons, sharpened blades, and replaced broken stocks. The faint smell of burned powder and blood still lingered beneath the cleaner scent of pine smoke and iron.

  Garrok stood before his wagon, hammer in hand, shaping metal with steady blows. Beside him, Nyx and Fang lay at ease but watchful, their sharp eyes tracking every passerby. Their massive frames alone discouraged trouble.

  Curiosity, however, was harder to silence.

  Gnomes and goblins hovered nearby, feigning errands while sneaking glances at the long-guns displayed at Garrok's workbench. Dwarves, arms crossed and brows furrowed, watched him work with grudging respect, noting his unique lock mechanisms and modified barrels. Humans and elves eyed him like a mercenary worth hiring—or perhaps fearing. The Beastkin observed from a distance, their ears perked, wondering if this gun-wielding half-orc could be persuaded to swear to a clan.

  The orcs, for their part, kept their distance—but their eyes burned with suspicion and something darker beneath.

  Among the crowd stood a figure bouncing lightly on her heels—a redheaded gnome girl, eyes bright with curiosity and a barely contained nervous energy. She was tall for a gnome, standing just over 1.2 meters, with shoulder-length waves of fiery red hair and a pair of goggles resting on her forehead. Her skin was pale, freckled, her emerald eyes practically glowing with anticipation.

  Tinker Gearlocke—"Tink" to anyone who asked—wore light green trousers weighed down by pouches, a yellow sleeveless tunic beneath a tool-stuffed vest, and bracelets lined with tiny bells that chimed softly with every motion. Strapped to her back was an odd crossbow, its limbs replaced by grooved metal wheels and coil springs along the foregrip—a device of her own invention.

  Tink had watched the fight from a second-story window of the Caravanserai, SPAL (Spring Powered Arrow Launching) crossbow in hand. She’d seen the bandits fall to Garrok's thunderous long-gun, seen him reload faster than any dwarf she'd ever met. She'd watched the wolves tear into the raiders, the grenade burst sending horses and men alike into disarray.

  She had to know more.

  Clutching her courage like a lifeline, Tink approached—but the wolves rose at her first step, ears pricking, eyes locked on her. She froze mid-stride, holding up both hands, empty palms forward.

  "Good doggies… good doggies," she crooned nervously. "Please don’t eat me."

  Nyx tilted her head. Fang yawned.

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  They stayed still.

  Carefully, Tink edged closer until she stood just outside the invisible boundary of safety. She cleared her throat and called up to the half-orc, "Hello there! I’m Tinker Gearlocke—but just call me Tink!"

  Garrok didn’t look up. Focused on his work, he dipped a glowing piece of iron into the water trough, steam hissing into the air.

  Undeterred, Tink pushed on, her words tumbling out faster the more she spoke. "I saw you fight the other day! You were amazing! How did you shoot so fast? Your long-gun—it's incredible! I've never seen a reload like that—what’s the priming system? Is it modified from a dwarven lockplate or—?"

  Her questions kept coming, bouncing between excitement and technical fascination until she finally noticed he still hadn’t responded. Shoulders slumping, she sighed. "Right. Busy. Sorry. I'll… I’ll just—"

  "I'm busy," Garrok interrupted, his voice gruff but not unkind. "We can talk after I finish."

  Tink blinked, surprised. She’d expected a flat-out dismissal. Instead, his voice softened slightly as he added, "You can watch. But stay quiet."

  Hope flickered back into her eyes. She nodded, scrambling to find a seat on a nearby crate, the bells on her bracelets jingling faintly.

  For the next several minutes, Tink sat in rapt silence, watching every hammer stroke, every adjustment of the barrel clamps, every careful cleaning of the flash guard and priming vent. The forge glowed orange, the rhythmic beat of iron on iron echoing like a slow heartbeat through the square.

  Garrok worked with the ease of long habit, yet each motion was deliberate, precise. His hands bore the scars of years at the anvil and the marks of black powder burns. The dire wolves remained at ease, eyes half-lidded but alert.

  At last, Garrok wiped the sweat from his brow, set down his tools, and gave her a nod. "You’ve got patience. I’ll give you that."

  Tink’s face brightened like dawn breaking. She straightened, bells jingling, and leaned forward eagerly. "You could finish faster if I helped you!"

  Garrok gave her a slow, appraising glance. After a moment, he reached into a bag and pulled out a paper cartridge. "Can you make this?"

  Tink’s eyes widened. She’d seen him use them—but had no idea how they were made. Still, she puffed out her chest and nodded. "If you show me how, I can make them for you."

  Without a word, Garrok led her to a nearby workbench. He handed her a powder horn, a bag of shot, and a wooden peg. With practiced hands, he demonstrated—shaping the paper, folding one end, pouring the powder, adding the shot, sealing the top.

  "Your turn," he grunted, sliding the materials toward her.

  For the next hour, Tink worked under his watchful eye, folding, measuring, filling. Garrok corrected her grip once, nudged the powder level another time—but said nothing else. By the tenth cartridge, she was matching his pace.

  When they finished, Tink beamed. "So… about that drink? Caravanserai’s still open. My treat!"

  Garrok's expression softened—just a little. The hard lines of his face eased, the edge of his mouth quirking in the closest thing to a smile she’d seen.

  "Sure," he said. "But first, help me pack the forge and get the wolves. They’ll behave if you don’t show fear."

  Tink nodded eagerly, already reaching for tools and straps. Together, they secured the forge, the wolves trailing after them as they worked.

  Side by side, they walked toward the bustling Caravanserai. The only sounds between them were the soft jingle of Tink’s bracelets, the clink of Garrok’s gear, and the quiet crunch of their boots on the dirt road.

  Neither of them knew it yet, but that morning marked the beginning of something more than simple curiosity—a partnership forged in fire and powder, destined to shape both their fates.