Build the Dungeon

He had seventeen points of fame remaining, but rather than spend them recklessly, he chose to pause. Better to understand his new ‘dungeon’ first. In reality, it still looked like the same miserable crevice in the mountainside it had always been.

Surely there had to be more to it than this? He stuck his head out of the uneven entrance, carefully surveying the forest beyond. Nothing had changed. Perhaps he was missing something. He hadn’t seen any construction options in the Fame menu, and his resources were still gone. When in doubt… he tapped the hard rock protruding near the cracked entrance.

Building location detected

Remodel Imporne_Orc_Cave_65.2_Location_1 into Grashok’s Dungeon Entranceway for 10 Stone, 2 Ore (Any)?

Warning! This is the required first step to unlock many features of the Keeps and Settlements 1.0.0.0.0.2 update!

Error: Insufficient Resources

Hope flared—then collapsed in an instant.

Grashok growled, a deep, guttural sound rising in his throat. “What’s the point of a ‘dungeon’ if I can’t even change anything?!”

His fist clenched, ready to strike the rock in fury, but he stopped himself. He had come too far. He wouldn’t let a lack of stone and ore defeat him—not now, not when he had finally glimpsed hope in this wretched existence. His newfound fame and the strange abilities it unlocked meant he was no longer just a nameless creature waiting to be slaughtered. He had a purpose.

And for that purpose to mean something, he needed resources. Which meant another trip outside.

He looked at the dull grey stone around him and then at the tiny crevice that served as his doorway. The thought of it transforming into a real dungeon entrance—something solid, fearsome—sent a spark of determination through him. He wasn’t going to sit here and rot in this forgotten hole.

“Up the mountain for stone and ore,” he muttered, fastening the dark leather armour he had taken from the fallen Adventurer. As he pulled it into place, the material shifted subtly, reshaping to fit his frame. Where it clung to the delicious curves on the Elf, it now emphasised his broad shoulders and lean strength, lending him a sharper, more intimidating silhouette. It wasn’t invincibility, but it was protection—and it made him feel less like prey.

He knew the mountain was treacherous, but it was also rich in resources. He had seen the rocky outcrops, the mineral veins that the Adventurers regularly stripped for their own gain. Now, it was his turn.

With a quick glance back at the unchanged cave, he eased his head out of the entrance, carefully surveying the forest. Nothing moved. No goblin patrols, no kobold scouts, no signs of life at all. The silence was unsettling, as though the land itself was holding its breath after the slaughter. Safe—for now. But danger was never far; adventurers could appear at any moment, hungry for loot and experience.

His eyes darted from the trees in the distance to the rocky path that led further up the mountain. The wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth, laced with the faint tang of smoke and blood from the goblin village. He shuddered. He couldn’t risk another encounter like that.

Gathering his courage, Grashok slipped out of the cave and began his ascent. At first the trail wound through heather‑strewn slopes, the ground soft beneath his boots and dotted with low shrubs that whispered in the wind. The highlands rolled gently upwards, their muted greens and purples masking the danger that lay ahead. But as he climbed, the vegetation thinned, giving way to bare stone and jagged ridges. The air grew sharper, colder, and the comforting softness of the heather was replaced by unforgiving rock.

His heartbeat quickened as the terrain grew unstable. Each step had to be placed with care; loose stones slid beneath his feet, threatening to send him tumbling.

He paused when the faint sound of running water reached his ears. Following it, he found a narrow stream cutting through the rocks, its surface glinting in the pale mountain light. Kneeling, he dipped his battered hide flask into the current. The leather creaked as it filled, cool water swirling inside. He corked it tightly, splashing a little over his face before tucking the flask back at his side. The chill refreshed him, though it did little to ease the tension in his chest.

He hunched low, ragged boots scraping against the rock. He hated the sound—a grating noise that seemed to echo through the mountainside, announcing his presence to anything nearby. Still, he pressed on. The climb was steep, but he found a narrow ledge tucked away from the main paths, hopefully hidden from wandering Adventurers or prowling creatures.

Relief flickered as he reached the rocky expanse. At least he had found what he needed. But the same problem remained—his meagre skills and lack of proper tools would make the task agonisingly slow. Still, he had no choice. If the cave was ever to become more than a damp hole in the rock, he needed stone and ore.

He wiped his brow with a shaky hand, eyes scanning the jagged terrain. No movement. Good. Yet the longer he lingered, the more likely it was that something—or someone—would stumble upon him.

He crouched near a larger outcropping of rock, his fingers brushing over the rough surface.

A pop‑up flickered in his vision:

Harvesting Stone (Skill Penalty, Tool Penalty, Dexterity Penalty)

Gathering Rate: 0.5 units/minute

“Ugh, I know,” he muttered, frustrated by the familiar penalties. His movements were clumsy, his hands not suited to this kind of work, and his short sword was a poor tool for the task—dull, chipped, barely able to bite into the stone. But slowly, painfully slowly, he chipped away, prising out small fragments.

Stone x 1 (Common)

Stone x 1 (Common)

Stone x 1 (Common)

Ore x 1 (Rare)

Grashok’s eyes widened as the word Ore flashed across his vision. He paused, staring at the faint glitter of metallic dust in the rock. Ore was rare, and the fact he’d found some—however small—was almost a miracle. A spark of excitement bubbled up inside him, cutting briefly through the fear.

Stone x 2 (Common)

Ore x 1 (Rare)

Another glimmer of ore appeared as he worked. His heart raced now, but not from joy. It was fear—fear of being exposed too long. The longer he lingered, the greater the risk. Adventurers would be roaming by now, their bloodlust sharpened by the hunt. He had no illusions about what would happen if they found him here, alone, armed only with a chipped sword and laughable skills.

Still, the resources trickled in. Slowly, but steadily. Minutes stretched into an hour, and the notifications continued:

Stone x 1 (Common)

Stone x 1 (Common)

Ore x 1 (Rare)

Grashok risked a glance over his shoulder, scanning the path that wound down the mountain. Nothing moved—but that didn’t mean he was safe. Adventurers, kobolds, worse things could be hiding just out of sight. He bit his lip, torn between gathering more and the need to retreat.

Stone x 2 (Common)

Ore x 1 (Rare)

“That’s enough,” he whispered, his hand trembling as he pocketed the last piece of ore. He was terrified to stay any longer. Even if it wasn’t as much as he’d hoped, it was enough to begin remodelling his dungeon. He could always return later—if he survived long enough.

Just as he was about to move, he heard it—the clank of metal and loud, echoing voices. His body froze, eyes wide as he scanned the horizon. Far below, on the forest’s edge, a party of Adventurers moved along the trail. Their laughter was unmistakable, their movements careless.

Quickly, Grashok pressed himself against the rock, trying to make his frame as small as possible. His heart hammered as he watched them. They didn’t seem to be heading his way—thankfully—but their presence was enough to remind him just how vulnerable he was out here.

He needed to move. Now.

His inventory showed a respectable haul of stone and, more importantly, just enough ore to trigger the remodelling. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the journey back. The mountain had been kind to him this time, but luck could vanish in an instant. He would have to make a detour—the Adventurers had crossed his planned route, and he couldn’t risk running into them.

Tucking the battered short sword back into his belt, Grashok began the descent. Each step was cautious, deliberate. His ears strained for any sound—the rustle of leaves, the scrape of metal against rock, the telltale laughter of Adventurers. But the only sounds were the wind through the trees below and the distant screech of a bird overhead.

He knew kobolds lived in these mountains. Their presence was marked by the subtle signs of their settlements—small valleys hidden in the rock, guarded by bound and sharpened sticks at the entrance. Their dwellings were little more than mounds of earth or tiny holes dug into the mountainside, easily overlooked if one didn’t know what to watch for. They weren’t allies, but they weren’t enemies either—not yet, at least. Still, it was better to avoid them. Kobolds swarmed in packs, and while they might not hunt him directly, if they decided he was worth the trouble, they could overwhelm him in seconds. Luckily, he hadn’t encountered any today, but the tension of being near their territory made his skin crawl.

He moved quickly but quietly, sticking to the shadows and skirting along the edges of the trail. Every so often, he would freeze, listening for any sound of approaching footsteps or voices. His heart pounded in his chest, his fear of being caught almost suffocating. But luck remained on his side—no Adventurers, no Kobolds, nothing, and before long he was disappearing under the forest canopy.

Heading this way meant skirting dangerously close to another Goblin village. Not the one he had seen torn apart earlier, but a different settlement further down the mountain. Normally, the goblins wouldn’t pay him any mind—they were neutral to him. Yet after witnessing how Adventurers had butchered their kin, he knew desperation could make them dangerous, and he had no desire to face that kind of threat.

Carefully, he descended, staying low and sticking to the shadows. The village came into view—a small cluster of crude huts made from wood, mud, and bone. Normally, goblin families would be bustling about, tending fires and crops, but today… today was different.

The goblin village was in disarray, with debris scattered everywhere. The huts, once crudely sturdy, now had broken doors and shattered windows. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat. The goblins themselves, usually a lively and rowdy bunch, were slumped against the walls of their huts or lying on the ground, exhausted.

Some of them were nursing injuries - a goblin with a crude bandage wrapped around its head, another with a badly bruised eye. They looked like they had been through a war, and in a way, they had. The Adventurers' raids had taken a toll on the goblin village, leaving them battered, bruised, and weary.

As Grashok watched from the shadows, a group of goblins stumbled into the village, carrying crude spears and looking like they were on their last legs. They collapsed onto the ground, exhausted, while their Chieftess looked upon them with a mixture of concern and despair. They were in no state to defend themselves against another attack—whether it had come from Adventurers or some other threat.

He looked at the Chieftess from the undergrowth, she was a stunningly beautiful and intelligent looking goblin despite her own evident exhaustion, etched on her face in dark circles and deep lines, and for a second he was tempted to emerge from his hiding to offer to help them, lured by her attractiveness and evident desperation. But the idea was fleeting, fragile, and he pushed it aside. Right now, he was nothing more than a lone Hobgoblin clinging to scraps of hope. To reveal himself now would mean death, and the fragile future he had begun to build would vanish in an instant. With a grim shake of his head, he slipped back into the forest and carried on his way.

He carried on, and by the time Grashok reached his cave the sky had darkened. He slipped inside, shaking with exhaustion and fear. Safe—for now—but he knew fortune had favoured him this time.

He opened his inventory, his hands trembling slightly as he scrolled through the items. There they were—the stone and ore, enough to remodel the cave. A grin tugged at his lips, rare and unfamiliar. This was it. The first step.

He tapped the rock near the entrance once more.

Building location detected

Remodel Imporne_Orc_Cave_65.2_Location_1 into Grashok’s Dungeon Entranceway for 10 Stone, 2 Ore (Any)?

Success: Resources Sufficient. Proceed?

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

As soon as he confirmed, the resources vanished from his inventory, and a new message appeared:

Dungeon Entranceway Remodelling… Progress: 0%.

Time Remaining: 1 hour.

He slumped against the wall, his body finally relaxing after the nerve‑wracking expedition. He had the stone, he had the ore, and now—for the first time—the cave was his to claim. It wasn’t power, not yet, but it was the beginning of a path that might one day lead to it. No longer just another nameless creature waiting to be slaughtered, he had taken the smallest of steps towards shaping a future of his own.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the embers of hope that had been smouldering inside him sparked truly into life.