The sun had passed its peak, casting warm golden rays that filtered through the thick canopy of the Jura Forest. The deeper Varvatos and Veldora ventured, the quieter the forest became—not with peace, but with watchful stillness. The trees grew taller here, their branches forming a shadowy veil that whispered of ancient power. The air was heavier, as though infused with long-held tension and the presence of something sacred.
They walked side by side, no words needed as they tread deeper into what Veldora had called "the old border." A part of the forest few dared enter without permission.
After a while, Veldora spoke softly, as though mindful of the silence, "We're close. The Ogres guard their land with fierce loyalty. Don't expect a warm welcome—not at first."
Varvatos nodded. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
Up ahead, the natural path narrowed, funnelling between two enormous trees with roots that twisted like great serpents through the earth. Standing beneath the arch formed by those roots were two sentinels—massive figures with crimson skin, muscular builds, and curved horns sprouting from their foreheads. Both gripped spears etched with tribal markings, eyes narrowing the moment they saw the two approaching figures.
"Halt," one of them said sharply, stepping forward with heavy, deliberate strides. "This land is sacred. Outsiders are not welcome here. Turn back, or face our blades."
Varvatos stopped, calm as ever, eyes locking onto the guard without flinching. "I'm here to speak to your people. I mean no harm. We seek a conversation."
The other guard sneered. "Words are wind. You think peace talks come without risk in these lands?"
Then Veldora chuckled lightly. "Still as jumpy as ever, the Ogres," he murmured.
And then, with the subtlest shift in mood, Veldora let a sliver of his aura slip into the air—just enough to disturb the birds nesting in nearby trees, just enough to send a gust of magical pressure swirling like a sudden storm.
The two Ogres instantly froze. One dropped to his knee, eyes wide in disbelief. The other staggered back, spear shaking in his hand. Their voices were faint, almost whispered:
"Th-that aura…!"
"The Storm Dragon…!"
Veldora crossed his arms and raised his chin slightly. "Now you remember me."
From deeper in the forest, the sudden flare of divine energy had drawn attention. It didn't take long before movement stirred throughout the trees—shadows emerging from behind huts and wooden towers. One by one, the Ogres of the village stepped out of their homes and hiding places, their faces a mixture of awe and terror. Dozens of them—men, women, even the youngest of warriors—all gathered silently in the clearing, their heads lowered, some kneeling in reverence.
"Veldora-sama…" one elder murmured, "It is truly you…"
Varvatos stood calmly at his friend's side, observing the reaction with quiet interest. "They revere you like a god."
Veldora offered a rare smile, pride flickering in his golden eyes. "I've protected this forest for centuries. These Ogres—strong as they are—know I am its guardian."
Then, a new presence emerged from the crowd. He moved with dignity, his steps steady and deliberate. An older Ogre, his crimson skin marked by faded battle scars, and his long grey hair tied in a neat, traditional topknot. He wore layered robes with an aura of wisdom and command, and his eyes—calm, intelligent, and sharp—immediately scanned Varvatos and Veldora.
"Storm Dragon Veldora," the village chief spoke in a deep, respectful voice. "It has been many years since your presence blessed this forest. I see now why the winds shifted. The forest itself knew you had returned."
Veldora gave a small nod. "It's good to see the Ogres still thriving, Elder. I come not as a god, but as a friend."
The chief turned to Varvatos, his gaze assessing. "And this man?"
Varvatos stepped forward with a respectful inclination of his head. "Varvatos. I have come to build a kingdom in this forest—a home for monsters, intelligent or not. I seek allies… not vassals. I was told the Ogres are noble warriors, and I believe strong bonds begin with honest conversation."
The chief's eyes gleamed with interest. "You speak with purpose, young one. Few address us with such honor, and fewer still walk beside a dragon without fear. Come. You and the Storm Dragon are welcome in my home. We shall speak further."
As the Ogres parted to make way, whispers spread like wildfire through the crowd. Many still looked to Veldora with reverent awe, while others eyed Varvatos curiously—this man who dared walk beside their guardian, whose presence seemed to pull at the threads of fate itself.
And so, guided by the village chief, Varvatos and Veldora entered the Ogre settlement.
The Ogre settlement nestled within a natural basin, its perimeter guarded by tall wooden spikes reinforced with stone and enchanted markings. Ancient trees towered around the village like quiet sentinels, their trunks wide enough to hollow out and live inside. Within the village, simple yet sturdy homes lined the central path, crafted from thick logs and woven with animal hides. Smoke rose lazily from fire pits, and the faint scent of roasted root vegetables and herbs filled the air.
Varvatos and Veldora were guided to a large communal hall built into the hollow of an immense ancient tree. The inside was dim but warm, lit by amber-hued crystal lamps and a central hearth where fire crackled and cast long shadows on the wooden walls.
Several elder Ogres, each bearing the marks of age and experience, sat in a half-circle around the hearth. The village chief motioned for the two guests to sit on mats of thick fur across from them. Veldora seated himself with practiced ease, but Varvatos remained standing a moment longer, examining the solemn expressions of the elders.
The Ogres murmured slightly, but the chief raised his hand, silencing them.
At that, the eyes of the Ogres flicked toward Veldora, whose presence remained steady—silent, but unmistakably powerful.
"I have begun the foundation of a kingdom in the Jura Forest," Varvatos continued. "A nation for all intelligent monsters. One where we can rise together—free of the chains of human scorn or meaningless tribal feuds."
The chief studied him, still silent.
"I do not ask for blind servitude. I ask for unity. For strength. I need warriors… not just to fight, but to guide. To train others, and to help create something worthy of lasting. I've seen your people. I know your strength and discipline. What I offer is not just a place in my kingdom—but a partnership. One where your pride, culture, and strength are not lost… but elevated."
The murmurs returned, stronger this time. One of the younger warriors stepped forward, his expression guarded.
"And why should we fight for you?" he asked. "You bring promises… but we Ogres do not serve lightly."
Varvatos looked him in the eye. "Because I do not seek subjects. I seek comrades."
The elder chief finally stood, his presence commanding.
"Your words… are noble. And they carry purpose. But we Ogres are bound by tradition. Our strength defines us, and our leaders must be strong—not just in power, but in resolve."
He turned slightly, addressing his people. "We shall discuss this as a tribe."
With that, the gathering disbanded. Varvatos and Veldora were led to a peaceful grove nearby to rest. As they sipped warm tea beside a crystal-clear spring, Veldora broke the silence with a chuckle.
"You handled that well," he said. "Not too cocky, but bold enough to catch their interest."
Varvatos smirked. "Let's see if boldness is enough."
—
Later that evening, under a sky dusted with stars, the two were summoned back to the village square. Torches lined the gathering space, flickering with amber light. Every Ogre in the settlement had gathered—stoic and expectant.
The chief stood tall once again. "We have made our decision."
Varvatos stepped forward.
"We are willing to consider your offer," the chief said slowly, "but not with mere words. Strength is our truth."
He raised a hand, gesturing to the center of the courtyard. "You say you are worthy to lead warriors. Then prove it. You will face one of our strongest fighters in single combat. No bloodshed. No death. A trial of strength… and spirit."
The Ogres nodded in unison, their respect for the tradition evident.
Veldora grinned, arms crossed. "Well, well. Looks like it's your time to shine, Varvatos."
The man stepped into the courtyard without hesitation, his eyes glowing faintly beneath the torchlight.
"I accept," Varvatos said firmly, cloak trailing behind him. "Let's see what Ogre pride really means."