Chapter 17: Fort Under Threat
John Stark's boots scraped against the damp stone of the fort's courtyard, the air thick with the sour tang of old woodsmoke and sweat-soaked leather, the walls towering like silent giants under a sky heavy with clouds, their edges bruised with the threat of rain. The Please Kill Me System thrummed in his skull, a wary pulse that prickled his skin like static, a secret he buried as he dismounted, his horse snorting, its breath steaming in the chill, the reins slick in his scarred hands. The fort buzzed with urgency—men hauling timber, their hammers ringing against iron nails, their shouts sharp and jagged, cutting through the flickering torchlight that cast long, dancing shadows. His thumb rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic as he faced the captain's gaze, the man's presence a heavy weight that pressed against his chest, his heart thudding with the calculation of survival odds. "New guy, new scrutiny. What's the bet he asks about the scars?"
Cenric, the fort's captain, stood by a weathered wall, his grizzled face etched with lines of duty, his eyes like wet slate, sharp and unyielding as they locked onto John's scars—the faint, jagged marks of too many deaths, too many impossible returns. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows across his blocky frame, his spear leaning against the wall, its tip glinting with a quiet menace.
"Éowyn speaks of your courage, outsider," Cenric said, his voice a low rumble, like stones grinding together. "But those scars—wild beasts or something harder? You look like a man who's paid a heavy price."
"He's fishing for the truth. Deflect, Stark. Keep it vague." John squared his shoulders, his jaw flexing, his thumb rubbing his neck as he met the captain's gaze, masking the system's hum with a weary grin.
"The wild's a cruel teacher, Captain," he said, his voice rough but steady, a lie of grit over the system's resilience. "I've learned to keep standing, no matter the cost."
[Charisma: +0.5. Don't spook the captain. His warg reports hint at Saruman.]
"This guy's tougher than my old high school coach screaming about missed drills," he muttered under his breath, the anachronistic humor a private shield, his thumb rubbing his neck as Cenric stepped back, a flicker of respect softening his hard gaze.
"A good lesson," Cenric said, his tone grudging but warmer, a nod punctuating his words. "My reports say wargs move with cunning, not like wild beasts. Cunning from Isengard, I'd wager."
John's heart quickened, the mention of Saruman a cold spike in his chest, the system's warning echoing in his mind like a glitchy alarm. He moved toward a stack of lumber, his boots scuffing the damp stone, the air heavy with the scent of pine and iron, the walls bearing the scars of past battles—gouges in the stone, faded bloodstains like whispers of old violence, a silent tale of defiance. He hauled a beam, its weight biting into his shoulders, his muscles straining, sweat sharp and salty as it dripped onto the earth, his thumb rubbing his neck as he worked, masking the system's hum as exhaustion.
From Cenric's perspective, the outsider was a mystery—scarred, weary, yet moving with a strength that defied his lean frame, hauling timber that should've taken two men, his movements precise, almost unnatural. The hammers rang out, a relentless rhythm that echoed in Cenric's chest, the fort's grim energy a pulse of urgency that drove every man forward. John slotted the beam into place, reinforcing a sagging wall, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back, the air thick with the dust of sawed wood. Cenric watched, his spear steady in his hand, his respect growing despite his caution, his mind turning over the stranger's impossible stamina.
"You've got a blacksmith's muscle, Stark," Cenric said, his voice gruff, a faint nod accompanying his words. "Not many work like that."
"He thinks it's natural. Good. Let's keep it that way." John wiped his face with his forearm, the sweat stinging his eyes, and forced a grin, his thumb rubbing his neck as he caught his breath, his body screaming with the effort.
"Just don't ask me to assemble IKEA furniture," he said, the modern jest slipping out, earning tired chuckles from the workers nearby, their faces streaked with dirt and exhaustion, their laughter a brief spark in the gloom. "This is worse, trust me."
[Strength: +1. Work hard, hero. Fort's defenses foreshadow warg attack.]
Cenric's gaze lingered, his respect solidified by John's labor, the wall now stronger, a testament to the outsider's worth, the fort braced for the coming storm. The air grew heavier, a distant warg howl cutting through the night like a blade, chilling the men as they worked. John stood on the rampart with Cenric, the cool stone biting into his palms, his Stamina a dull burn in his muscles, the system's HUD flaring in his mind, a translucent grid overlaying the plains below, pinpointing kill zones and weak points near the southeast corner by the stream, where the ground softened into mud.
[Quest: Defend Fort. Reward: +2 random stat. Beast surge hint ties to Saruman.]
"Fort general? Don't trip over your own plans, you snarky bastard," he thought, hiding his frown, his thumb rubbing his neck as he ran his hand along the rough stone, pretending to study the wall's grain.
"Captain," he said, his voice low, intense, "they'll hit the gate, but the southeast corner—by the stream—is their best shot. The ground's soft there. Archers need to focus on it when the attack comes."
"Why that corner?" Cenric asked, his eyes narrowing, skepticism creeping back like a shadow.
"Because the system's got a damn map, you stubborn old goat." John shrugged, his system-driven insight masked as instinct, his thumb rubbing his neck as he leaned against the wall. "Just a hunch. It's where they'd get the most speed."
Cenric studied him, then nodded, a sharp, decisive motion, his belief grudging but firm, his hand tightening on his spear. The planning was done, the fort braced for war, but the warg howls grew louder, a chilling chorus that wrapped around the walls like a noose. John's chest tightened, the weight of his secret heavier than the stone beneath him, the system's hum a relentless companion as he braced for the battle ahead.
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