Azrath stood inside a cave overlooking a molten river of lava below, his dark cloak fluttering in the heat waves. His hands were outstretched, glowing with an eerie green energy that swirled and crackled as he concentrated. Beside him, Potabeau stretched like a lizard atop a boulder, an expression of skeptical amusement on his face.

  "You know," Potabeau said, biting into a charred stick of roasted meat he'd bought on the way, "almost anybody could just... mine obsidian. Not needing, thus, to summon the forces of death to convince lava to give it up willingly."

  Azrath ignored him, beads of sweat rolling down his face as he muttered incantations. The lava shifted unnaturally, a swirl of red and orange suddenly hardening into glistening black obsidian in the shape of a jagged, crude blade.

  "Ha!" Azrath declared triumphantly, wiping his brow. He levitated the obsidian blade up for inspection. "I told you it would work!"

  Potabeau gave a slow, mocking clap. "Congratulations, Azrath. You’ve discovered how to turn molten death into...sharp pointy death. A groundbreaking achievement in the world of practical hobbies."

  Azrath scowled, turning the blade in his hand. "This isn’t just any obsidian, you dolt. It’s infused with necromantic energy. It’s sharper, stronger, and has the power to—"

  "Break the heart of whoever looks at it, because it’s so ugly?" Potabeau interrupted, a grin spreading across his face.

  Azrath held the blade up defensively. "I’d like to see you try crafting something out of lava. It’s not exactly easy, you know!"

  "Oh, no thanks," Potabeau said with exaggerated nonchalance. "I’ll stick to crafts that don’t involve my eyebrows being incinerated. Also, why a sword? Are we starting an armory now?"

  "Because," Azrath replied irritably, "it’s practical. If you ever get attacked, you’ll be glad I made this."

  Potabeau raised an eyebrow. "Attacked by what, exactly? A really angry volcano spirit? Oh wait, I forgot—that’d probably be your summon too."

  Azrath opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, the ground trembled slightly. The lava shifted ominously, and a deep rumbling echoed throughout the cavern.

  Potabeau’s grin widened. "See? What did I tell you? You summon one creepy sword, and suddenly you want to summon a pantheon of lava gods. Nice going, genius."

  Azrath clutched the blade tightly, glaring at the lava hundreds of feet below as it began to bubble more violently. "You know what? Maybe you’re right. YET THESE ARE NOT MINE!”"

  "Gladly wrong, gladly wrong…." Potabeau said cheerfully, standing up and watching a large fireball whizz past. "...Time to go, I suppose."

  ---

  The road was long, winding through the forests and hills that bordered Eldergrove. Potabeau, ever the optimistic wanderer, had been chatting nonstop when a dusty figure appeared on the horizon, a lone merchant cart creaking under the weight of its goods. The figure, draped in a weathered cloak, approached slowly, his horse plodding along with a tired but steady gait.

  “Ah, here we go,” Potabeau muttered with a grin, nudging Azrath, who had been absorbed in his thoughts about the elder’s cryptic advice on necromancy and lava. “A traveler! Let’s see what kind of exotic goods he has. Maybe a map of forgotten realms, a cursed artifact, or—oh, I don't know—at least news from the outside world?”

  Azrath sighed, shifting his weight on the stone wall where they had been sitting, gazing out toward the horizon. “We don't need a cursed artifact, Potabeau. We need answers. I’m more interested in learning how to use necromancy with lava. The elder spoke of great potential—if I could use it to build with obsidian, imagine what I could build.”

  Potabeau flashed him a grin. “Right, right. But if this guy's bringing something interesting, I’m all ears. You can keep your lava experiments for later.”

  Before Azrath could protest further, the merchant’s cart creaked to a halt in front of them. The man was tall, with graying hair and a weathered face that bore the marks of too many roads traveled. He gave them a nod, before looking down at the pair with a cautious eye.

  “Good day,” the merchant said with a gravelly voice. “I see you’re travelers, like myself. Though I must warn you, the news I bring is less than...pleasant.”

  Potabeau’s ears perked up, and with an exaggerated flourish, he jumped to his feet, pulling a lute from his back. “News, you say? Bad news? Well, I must admit, bad news is always my favorite kind. Go on, my good merchant, do tell us what *sorrows* have befallen the land!”

  The merchant gave Potabeau an unimpressed look, then slowly shook his head, pulling an old, fraying parchment from his pack. “Hallowhaven. It has fallen.”

  Azrath stiffened. Hallowhaven was the neighboring city, a once-thriving hub of trade and learning. “What do you mean, ‘fallen’?” he demanded, standing up quickly. “What happened?”

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  The merchant sighed deeply, rubbing his hand over his face. “Orcs, they say. A massive horde. The walls were breached in a night, and the people... gone. All gone. The city is in ruins now. No survivors, or at least noone stayed....barely even a trace of the old market square. It was... a slaughter.”

  Azrath’s thoughts raced. Hallowhaven was a place of knowledge and community, and the fact that it had fallen so quickly and thoroughly disturbed him deeply. He’d spent years there poring over tomes of necromantic knowledge at the homes of his fathers's friends, occasionally journeying there for information or research. Now, it was reduced to rubble.

  “This is... terrible,” Azrath muttered. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Two weeks,” the merchant replied, his voice somber. “The fires still burn in the city center, the black smoke rising like a permanent cloud over the ruins.”

  Potabeau, clearly uninterested in the merchant’s grim tale, had instead wandered toward the cart and was rummaging through its contents, muttering to himself. “Well, it’s a shame about Hallowhaven, truly. But hey, look at this! A magnificent set of dice—each one carved from bone!” He turned to Azrath with a smirk. “Want to buy a set? I have a feeling you’ll be able to use them during our next adventure.”

  Azrath ignored him, lost in thought. "We could go there," Azrath said quietly, more to himself than to Potabeau. "We could occupy the ruins. There’s nothing left. We could start anew. Build something better from the ashes."

  Potabeau’s attention shifted to Azrath’s serious tone. “A new beginning, huh? Now you’re speaking my language!” He looked back at the merchant. “Is the city totally... ruined?”

  The merchant nodded grimly. “It’s a shell. The orcs left little standing. But the location... well, it’s strategic. If someone were to occupy it, they could rebuild, control the region. If that’s your aim, now’s the time.”

  Azrath considered the possibility. The idea of seizing Hallowhaven’s ruins, starting over, and maybe even learning more about necromantic power in the area: it was tempting. He was still young, but if he could learn how to use necromancy to manipulate the very land itself—deep wells of swirling magma—he could construct something far grander than anything he had ever imagined. Obsidian towers, fortresses, anything.

  Turning to Potabeau, Azrath spoke with renewed determination. “We’ll go to Hallowhaven. But first, there’s something I need to assemble.”

  Potabeau raised an eyebrow. “Necromancy and lava at ye Olde lil village? Oh, this should be good.”

  Without waiting for a response, Azrath motioned to the merchant, who immediately began to unload a few bundles of supplies from his cart. “We will need to gather everything and encamp. There’s a place near the ruins where lava flows beneath the earth’s surface. It’s the perfect spot to try this out.”

  ---

  The journey to Hallowhaven was uneventful, save for the occasional glance from Potabeau, who seemed far more preoccupied calculating the potential for mischief than the actual task at hand. By the time they arrived, the remnants were as the merchant had described: smoldering ruins, half-collapsed walls, charred remains of buildings that once served as homes and stores. Ash floated in the air like snow, and the smell of burnt wood and earth hung heavily in the air.

  Azrath surveyed the devastation with a somber expression but quickly moved forward. He had already found the location he sought—a series of jagged cliffs where the ground split open in irregular cracks, and magma could be seen bubbling far below the surface.

  “Alright, Potabeau,” Azrath said, his tone full of anticipation. “This is where we’ll test it. Let’s see if necromancy can easily shape the volatililty of lava. Our future depends on it.”

  Potabeau gave him a skeptical look but shrugged. “Sure, why not? I mean, we’re probably going to end up with a giant molten disaster, but hey, if it works...that’ll be some damn crazy magic.”

  Azrath opened his grimoire and began reciting the incantations, his hands raised as he focused his energy on the magma below. The air crackled with dark power as he reached deep into the earth, channeling the flow of necromantic energy into the molten rock. His voice became a low murmur, and the ground trembled as the lava seemed to respond. It bubbled up, as though alive, twisting and turning as it shifted shape under his control.

  At first, it seemed like nothing would happen. The lava continued to churn, its molten surface a swirling mass of heat and light. But then, slowly, the stone at the top began to solidify, black obsidian forming in intricate patterns, crawling in webs and networks from the effervescent mass below. Hardening in response to Azrath’s will.

  “Wait—hold on a second,” Potabeau said, leaning closer, his eyes wide with surprise. “Is that...you?”

  Azrath nodded, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of controlling such volatile magic. “It is. I’m shaping it. Obsidian—dark, strong, and durable. If I can focus hard enough on the channelling of necromentic energy I can control the lava, I can create the foundations of anything.”

  Potabeau’s grin returned, broader than before. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’re going to build a castle... out of the corpses of lava. This just keeps getting better and better.”

  Azrath’s focus remained on the lava, slowly but surely shaping it into walls, spires, and foundations. The obsidian shimmered in the sunlight, solidifying with each wave of Azrath’s hand. Soon, he would have a fortress built from the very heart of the earth—one that could withstand the strongest of sieges.

  “Not bad, Azrath,” Potabeau remarked. “Not bad at all.”

  But as Azrath worked, his mind already drifted toward what might come next. With the power to shape the land itself, the possibilities were endless.

  In the heart of Hallowhaven’s ruins, amidst the smoldering remnants of what was lost, Azrath the Necromancer began the first step of what would become a great, dark empire—crafted from the obsidian and magma that lay beneath the earth’s surface.

  Azrath stood at the base of his slowly forming stronghold, a jagged tower of shimmering obsidian rising from the scorched ground. The necromantic runes he’d painstakingly etched into the black stone pulsed faintly with green light, casting eerie shadows. Around him, skeletons moved mechanically, hauling chunks of cooled obsidian and stacking them into bastions. It was shaping up to be his masterpiece.

  "Behold!" Azrath declared dramatically, raising his arms as though addressing an invisible audience. "The future seat of my power! A throne of arcane mastery and dread! I shall call it as it has been called... *Hallowhaven*."

  Potabeau, sitting and spectating the nearby construction on a pile of rubble, looked up from mindlessly sharpening a stick. His face was lit with that familiar smirk that Azrath had come to expect whenever he spoke.

  "Hallowhaven?" Potabeau echoed, tilting his head. "Sounds like a quaint village where kindly ghosts bake pies and host tea parties. Are you sure you're building a necromancer's fortress and not a haunted bed-and-breakfast?"

  Azrath rolled his eyes. "It’s a name that exudes history and power. *Hallowhaven* has always struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it."

  Potabeau snorted. "Yeah, fear that they might get invited to a séance mixed with a potluck. Seriously, Az, if you're going for ominous, you might want to rethink the branding. How about ‘Gravepeak’? Or ‘Shadowspire’? Ooh, wait, I’ve got it—‘Murderspire the Oily Furnace of—ah—bronze—ah—-murder...’"

  Azrath gave him a withering look. "It’s *Hallowhaven.* And you know what? I don’t need your input on this."

  "But you’re getting it anyway," Potabeau replied, hopping off his perch and strolling over to inspect the growing tower. He gave one of the glowing runes a light tap, then winced and shook his hand when it zapped him. "See? Even your fortress doesn’t like the name. Face it, Az, no one’s going to take you seriously as a dark overlord if they think your lair is the headquarters for ghostly knitting clubs."

  Azrath huffed and turned back to directing the skeleton crew. "Fine, Mr. Critic. What would you name it, then?"

  Potabeau grinned, folding his arms as he leaned against the half-built wall. "How about... Grin Hollow?"

  "Grin Hollow?" Azrath repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That doesn’t sound intimidating at all."

  "No less than yours!" Potabeau said, somewhat taken aback. "It’s ironic. No one would expect a place with such a cheerful name to be a necromancer’s fortress. It’ll confuse your enemies and make them let their guard down. Then—bam! Skeleton ambush."

  Azrath paused, considering the idea despite himself. "...Grin Hollow. It does have a certain... charm."

  "See? Now you’re getting it." Potabeau clapped him on the shoulder. "You focus on building your spooky tower, and I’ll handle the naming and the branding. I’m thinking banners with smiling skulls. Maybe a slogan—‘Grin Hollow: Leave Your Frown Behind.’"

  Azrath sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "Why do I let you hang around again?"

  "Because I keep things interesting," Potabeau said, striding off to sit back on his rubble pile. "And because deep down, you know I’m right."

  Azrath muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. As ridiculous as Potabeau’s suggestion sounded, there was something oddly fitting about it. Grin Hollow it was.