A day later, seven Goatfolk traders trudged through the forest. Their heavy bags weighed them down, digging into their woolly shoulders. Climbing the hills to the mountain foot was tough work, each step took a strain on their powerful legs. Griz, the leader, a stocky Goatfolk with a sharp glint in his eye, wiped sweat from his brow. His coat, usually neat and well-kept, was matted with dust and pine needles.
"Is this it?" one of his companions wheezed, his breath ragged, his gaze sweeping over the dense, uninviting treeline. The idea of a market here, in such a remote, wild place, seemed absurd.
"Looks like it," Griz grunted, pointing a hoof. Ahead, a huge stone sign stood tall, almost unnaturally so. It was artistically carved, clear as day as it said: "Welcome to Necro Market." The words seemed to hang in the air, a bizarre invitation in the heart of the wilderness.
