Ashring slled like smoke, moss, and very nervous goblins.
Which ant things were either about to get better, or way, way stupider.
So, basically, Tuesday.
I stood at the north gate, claws flexing, tail twitching, heart doing weird gymnastics sowhere around my throat. Behind stood my so-called negotiation team: Splitjaw, radiating "fight " energy. Hoarder, solid and calm like always. Bitterstack, visibly restraining herself from throwing the nearest rock. And Quicktongue — our newest asset.
A kobold barely taller than my ribs, with oversized ears, bright darting eyes, and a system tag that made want to laugh and cry at the sa ti.
[Class: Diplomat (Apprentice)].
Because apparently, surviving Gorak and founding a village wasn't enough. Now we needed politicians too.
The goblins approached cautiously. Varka — their leader, wiry and scarred, sharp eyes sweeping everything — walked at the front, flanked by a half-dozen scrappy survivors.
Leather armor, crooked weapons, attitude.
I could respect that. Sort of.
Quicktongue stepped forward, flashing a wide, nervous grin full of too many teeth.
"Greetings, respected travelers," she chirped, voice weirdly formal. "Ashring offers hospitality and negotiations under the sovereign fla."
I stared at her. Splitjaw stared at her. Bitterstack muttered sothing that sounded suspiciously like "bootlicker."
But Varka tilted her head, considering. And after a tense heartbeat, the goblin leader barked sothing short and sharp.
Quicktongue translated without missing a beat.
"She says she respects those who survive the mountain's teeth."
That... sounded positive? Maybe?
I stepped up before Bitterstack could ruin everything with her face.
"Ashring survived Gorak," I said flatly. "We survived his beasts. His fire. His hunger."
A ripple went through the goblin ranks. Respect. Real, wary respect.
Varka bared her teeth in a sharp grin and spat sideways — a goblin gesture of non-hostility, according to Quicktongue's frantic hand signals.
Progress.
The negotiation itself was exactly as weird and stressful as you'd expect when you throw kobolds and goblins into a room and ask them to be civilized.
There were argunts about trade routes. There were debates over the proper number of mossbombs exchanged for dried mushrooms. There was Bitterstack nearly upending the whole thing by calling them "twig-snappers," which Quicktongue sohow spun into a complint about goblin agility.
I don't know how. Magic, probably. Diplomat magic.
By the end of it, though, sohow, impossibly, we had an agreent.
Ashring would trade repaired weapons, basic tools, and maybe even mana-weaving scraps. The goblins would offer scavenged mana stones, fungus-food, and raw dungeon materials we couldn't easily gather ourselves.
Non-aggression pact signed. Basic trade routes sketched. No blood spilled.
A miracle. Or a trap. Either way, it was better than adding another smoking crater to the landscape.
System pinged, almost smug:
[Diplomatic Pact Established: Lesser Goblin Clans] [Trade Routes Pending Activation] [Settlent Influence Increased: 5% Political Standing (Dungeon Tier Minor)] [Note: Future Alliances Possible]
I let myself breathe for the first ti in what felt like hours.
Ashring was moving forward.
One awkward, stubborn, ridiculous step at a ti.
Diplomacy wasn't supposed to be this exhausting.
You're supposed to sit in a fancy chair, sip sothing expensive, make vague threats, and nod aningfully. Not squat in the dirt while goblins argue about whether a half-broken mana shard counts as full paynt for three crates of dried mushrooms.
Still, it was working.
Sohow.
Mostly because Quicktongue worked like a tiny miracle, translating our barely-disguised threats into polite invitations and their barely-concealed insults into complints about Ashring's strength.
Honestly, she deserved a dal. Or at least an extra food ration.
Varka, the goblin leader, waved us forward after the trade deal finished.
"See camp," Quicktongue translated.
An invitation. Or bait.
But either way, refusing would look weak.
So off we went.
The goblin camp was... Well.
"Charming" was not the word.
"Terrifying" wasn't quite right either.
Pits. Everywhere.
Tiny goblin kids darting between tents, setting up more pit traps with gleeful cackling. Crude bone totems marking territory lines. Fungus farms sprouting between mossy rocks, tended by goblins who hissed at anyone getting too close. Cooking fires belching black smoke as sothing unidentifiable roasted on skewers.
I kept my hands well away from my pockets. Splitjaw glared at every goblin within breathing distance. Quicktongue smiled so hard I was genuinely worried her face would crack.
Varka led us to the biggest tent — really just a tarp thrown over several collapsed mushrooms — and gestured proudly.
Inside were stockpiles of scavenged dungeon materials: Mana shards. Old weapon fragnts. Broken runestones. Weird fungal brews fernting in cracked pots.
Ashring could use every single piece of it.
If we were careful. If we didn't step into a pitfall trap first.
System pinged softly:
[Settlent Resource Potential Expanded: Goblin Trade Hub Unlocked] [Strategic Alliance Possibility: Pending Stability Over Next 30 Days]
aning: - Don't betray them. - Don't insult them. - Don't accidentally buy a cursed moss rat.
Got it.
When we finally stumbled back into Ashring a few hours later, slling like smoke, moss, and dubious stew, I realized sothing odd.
The kobolds were already trading with goblin kids at the gate.
Not formal deals. Just junk.
A mossbomb here for a weird bone charm there. A cracked mana shard for a handful of fungal bread.
Bitterstack was screaming about "price controls" and "market sabotage" sowhere in the background. Splitjaw looked ready to explode. Quicktongue was taking notes like her life depended on it.
I should have been annoyed. Or worried. Or sothing.
But instead, I just laughed.
Short. Harsh. Real.
Ashring wasn't surviving anymore.
Ashring was changing.
Evolving.
System chid one last ti:
[Warning: Adventurer Guild Dungeon Clearance Operation Approaching] [Estimated Arrival: 19 Days]
I froze, halfway through wiping mud off my boots.
Nineteen days.
Nineteen days until the humans ca marching down here with swords, spells, and a complete lack of respect for anyone else's construction projects.
I stared at the busy, chaotic streets of Ashring. The trading stalls. The laughing kobold kids. The half-built stone towers rising against the twilight.
Nineteen days.
"No pressure," I muttered, rubbing my face. "Just building a kingdom from rubble. With goblin economics. And a ticking death clock."
Ashring would stand.
Because it had to.
Because there wasn't any other choice anymore.
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