Garran Forgeclaw

The Forsaken Lands stretched endlessly in every direction, a barren expanse of cracked earth, jagged rocks, and faint whispers of danger carried on the dry wind. The land had long been claimed by chaos, where exiles, wanderers, and the desperate struggled to survive. Those who managed to avoid the twisted monstrosities known as the Others faced an equally grim threat: the Bloodthorn Slavers. Ruthless and far-reaching, the Bloodthorns captured anyone unlucky enough to cross their path, breaking them into submission or leaving them as bait for the Others.

Among their leaders, Kraven, “The Butcher,” was the most visible—a towering figure who embodied their cruelty. Though only one of five leaders within the Bloodthorn council, his reputation as a savage hunter made him the name whispered most often. Survivors of the Forsaken knew well to avoid anything bearing the Bloodthorn’s mark, for crossing them was often worse than death itself.

Yet, even in a land this unforgiving, the Hollowed Grounds stood as a fragile refuge. A dusty, weathered town carved from the Forsaken itself, it served as a sanctuary for those who made it through the wasteland alive. It was a place of survival and uneasy alliances, guarded by the Hollow Fangs, a group of mercenaries led by Axel Hawke and his sons. Their presence kept the slavers and Others at bay—most of the time.

Near the town’s outskirts, the distant howl of a bloodhound broke the dry, heavy silence. A rust-and-black hound darted from behind a cluster of buildings, its amber eyes bright with curiosity. Brimstone, loyal companion to the town’s blacksmith, Garran Forgeclaw, ran straight toward the traveler. Tail wagging and tongue lolling, the dog let out an excited bark as he circled the wind elemental horse, curious about its shimmering coat and feathered wings.

“Brimstone!” a deep, gravelly voice called, sharp and exasperated. Moments later, a towering figure emerged, broad-shouldered and streaked with soot, his steel-gray eyes narrowing slightly as he approached. Garran Forgeclaw stepped forward with purposeful strides, gripping Brimstone’s collar firmly.

“Sorry about him,” Garran muttered, his voice rough but steady. “He thinks everyone’s his friend.” Straightening, he gave the traveler a closer look, his sharp eyes flicking between them and their horse. “Name’s Garran Forgeclaw. I run the smithy in town. And you are?”

He waited a beat before nodding toward the town. “If you’re here to rest, you’ll want to head to the Hollow Fang Tavern. It’s run by the Hawkes—Axel and his boys, Cassian and Dimitri. They lead the Hollow Fangs, the mercs keeping this town from falling apart. They’re rough, but they’re why the slavers and Others haven’t burned this place to the ground yet.”

Crouching to scratch Brimstone behind the ears, Garran’s tone softened. “If you’re looking for work or trade, settle in first. The Forsaken takes its toll on everyone. Best get your feet under you before you start asking questions.”

He straightened again, his steel-gray eyes lingering a moment as though sizing them up. “Go on. The Hollow Fangs will set you straight. Just keep your head down, and you’ll be fine.”