Marque Caravan Story

The road to Eastward winds through scattered patches of recovering fields and battered woodland. Dust rises as a train of bright-painted wagons rolls forward, drawn by sturdy oxen and guarded by merchants who smile too readily.
Children from the Moving Mountain Clan, ever curious, gather near the perimeter. Laughter bubbles from the smallest ones as candy, wrapped in colorful papers, is handed down by eager traders.
Grain sacks are unrolled onto the ground without ceremony. Barrels of salted meat, bundles of simple tools, bolts of cloth—all offered freely, the merchants insisting no payment is needed.
At the edge of the encampment, Alcaster the Sentinel watches in silence. His broad frame, marked with the tattoos of endurance and unity, stands like a living monument beneath the clouded sky.
Alcaster: "Remember, little ones, gifts weigh heavier than they seem."
The merchants continue their cheerful distribution, their wagons steadily emptying, their smiles unwavering. The clan watches, some wary, some tempted, as the road ahead grows more tangled with unseen threads.