A year had passed since Azrath, Potabeau, and loads of obsidian had risen in the ruins of Hallowhaven. The land was scorched, abandoned, and yet full of untapped potential. While the smoldering remains of the great city loomed in the background, Azrath had focused on his work—building his obsidian stronghold using the power of necromancy and lava. He was driven, obsessed with shaping something grand from the ashes of the city. But the quiet of the ruins also gave rise to something else, a peculiar energy—the strange, irrepressible drive of Potabeau.

  Potabeau, of course, had little interest in building a towering fortress made of molten rock. To him, the skeletal remains of Hallowhaven’s former grandeur were nothing more than the backdrop to his mischievous plans. While Azrath toiled away, studying necromantic rituals, controlling the flow of lava, and crafting obsidian walls, Potabeau did what he did best—he entertained himself.

  His first move had been to gather the few surviving townsfolk from neighboring regions. He had heard whispers of people wanting to flee their struggling villages, and so he offered them a grand promise: "Come and build something better. And I’ll throw in a feast and perhaps some dice games for good measure."

  So, with little more than charm and a bag of tricks, Potabeau had coaxed a small handful of curious souls to set up camp near Azrath's worksite. Before long, a rudimentary village had sprung up on the opposite side of the lava-laden ravine, made of wood, stone, and a bit of Potabeau’s uniquely amusing *construction techniques*. By the end of the first month, the town had earned its name—Grin Hollow—for the ever-present mischief and laughter that echoed from its center. Potabeau’s brand of humor was as infectious as it was unpredictable.

  Every day was an adventure, it seemed. Potabeau had gotten into the habit of arranging impromptu performances—sword juggling with the local blacksmith, circus acts with wandering performers, and the occasional "What’s the Matter with Your House?!" game, in which locals would take bets on which of the town's buildings would collapse first under Potabeau’s unorthodox renovations. Of course, they usually didn’t collapse—but there was always that hint of drama when they swayed slightly in the wind.

  “Azrath, you have to come see this!” Potabeau would shout over the hum of Azrath’s incantations as the necromancer crafted another wall of obsidian. “You’re going to love it. I promise!”

  Azrath would glance up, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then a small smile would crack. More often than not, Potabeau’s antics pulled him from his studies. Although over the course of the year, Azrath had made significant progress, not only with the obsidian stronghold but in his understanding of lava necromancy. But despite his focus, there was something unavoidably infectious about the raucous laughter and unpredictable energy from the town Potabeau had built.

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  Grin Hollow was a peculiar place. It wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis—more a chaotic refuge for the bored, the lost, and the eccentric. While Azrath's obsidian walls grew ever-taller in the background, Potabeau's town had blossomed into a place filled with curiosity, activity, and constant motion. Though it was still small, the market square in Grin Hollow was always alive with the chatter of vendors trying to peddle oddities or with children running in circles, dodging one of Potabeau’s traps set for his own amusement.

  Despite the town’s carefree chaos, however, there was something deeper at play. The inheritance. The one thing that tied their future to this strange new life.

  ---

  One fateful day, as the cool winds of late autumn swept through the ravine, Potabeau decided to present Azrath with a document—an old parchment he'd found in a dusty chest near the back of their shared hut. The parchment had a familiar wax seal, one Azrath knew all too well.

  Azrath took the parchment with an eyebrow raised. “What’s this? Another one of your jokes?”

  Potabeau shook his head, grinning. “No joke this time. I swear. Read it.”

  Azrath broke the seal, unfurling the document. His eyes scanned the words quickly, and his expression grew more serious with each sentence. It was a will, and it was from none other than his late father, the necromancer who had raised him—who had left them both something more than just power and knowledge.

  “This is... unexpected,” Azrath muttered.

  “What does it say?” Potabeau asked with a somewhat somber demeanor.

  Azrath sat down on a stone, his mind racing. “It says... my father left us an inheritance. Not just wealth, though that’s part of it. He wanted us to have control of Hallowhaven’s lands and the surrounding area. A home, Potabeau—he left us this.”

  Potabeau’s grin grew wider. “A home! You mean we have a legitimate claim to the place now?”

  Azrath nodded, his mind still spinning with the implications. His father had always been distant, enigmatic. He’d taught Azrath a great deal about necromancy, but never truly explained his motives. But now, with his passing, Azrath understood that the inheritance wasn’t just gold and property—it was a legacy. A legacy of power, of potential. And it was now in his hands.

  “We don’t just have *land*, Potabeau,” Azrath continued, “We have the means to build something... something far beyond what we could have imagined. If I can build this stronghold, use the power of the earth, we could have more than a town. We could create a kingdom—a realm of our own.”

  Potabeau sat down beside him, still grinning. “Well, then, what are we waiting for? You’ve got the lava, I’ve got the town. I mean, really, what could possibly go wrong?”

  Azrath looked at Potabeau, his thoughts momentarily distracted by the unpredictability of his friend’s enthusiasm. But in that moment, something clicked. With Potabeau’s ‘mischief’ and his own ‘purpose‘, they were indeed in a position to reshape everything.

  Over the next few months, things began to shift even further. Azrath’s obsidian stronghold took on a darker, more formidable shape, as he experimented with new and more advanced uses of lava necromancy. Potabeau’s town grew in unexpected ways—more buildings, more markets, and a peculiar blend of eccentric shops, a bustling tavern and whimsical attractions. The town’s population swelled as curious travelers and wandering souls found themselves drawn to the place.

  Azrath and Potabeau had begun the process of rebuilding not just a city, but an empire—built on necromancy, laughter, and now the legacy of this unexpected inheritance.

  And in the quiet, between the chants of Azrath’s dark rituals and the bursts of laughter from Potabeau’s antics, a new kingdom took root on the scorched land of Hallowhaven—a place where death and life, power and mischief, would coexist in ways no one had ever imagined.