Turn 3 of 13

Ask Ordwin what he knows about the Third Warren

You let the bent spoon hang loose at your side, showing empty palms to the stranger with the bow. The gesture feels ridiculous—what threat could you possibly pose with Charisma 1 and arms like wet breadsticks—but Ordwin's eyes track the movement with professional assessment, noting how you position yourself between him and the carved marker with its smug initial R.

"The Third Warren," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "The goblin ran from it. The marker leads to it. And you're standing here watching who crosses."

Ordwin's beard twitches, not quite a smile.

"Goblins fear it because they made it. Dug too deep, found something hungry, lost three clans before they sealed the upper tunnels." He thumbs the bowstring, a nervous habit.

"They think humans don't know. They think humans smart enough to stay away."

"And R?" You nod toward the marker, and something shifts in Ordwin's face—recognition, quickly buried.

"The letter. It's goblin clan-sign, not human script. Means 'refuge' in their tongue, or 'remnant.' But you saw it and thought of someone else."

The silence stretches. A bird calls overhead, ordinary and distant, and Ordwin seems to remember himself.

"I've seen Allocation sabotage before," he says finally, not answering your question. "Usually kills them quick. Starvation. Misadventure. The numbers don't forgive." He studies your glowing red status with something between pity and unease.

"You're still walking. That shouldn't be possible with Luck zero."

"I have excellent Spite," you tell him, and for the first time, it sounds like a threat.