Hunter’s first look at the burgeoning village was a little off-putting. From the outside, the Outpost looked austere, but that was because the black palisade blocked much of the settlement from view. The inside was an assault on his senses.

Tieflings of various hues walked around the village. Hunter noticed that the majority of them were several shades of blue and purple. He wondered if that was an indication of their hierarchy. Most of the demons he saw outside of the Outpost were cherry red or maroon, and greed-aspected spells were almost entirely green. If so, his human appearance would be noticeable. Hard to blend in when Hunter looked completely different from everyone else. The young warrior did wonder what everyone saw when they looked upon his face. Hunter had no idea what appearance the damaged visage decided to display to the world. John hadn’t said anything to give Hunter an indication, and it would bring up more questions than Hunter cared to answer if he asked directly.

Every single one wore shining golden armor. They preferred plate over the leather and chainmail that Hunter selected. Hunter didn’t think they chose it out of practical necessity. It was more likely the demonic residents liked how shiny plate was. They used weapons of all kinds, but he saw few bows.

So, I’m not the only one who can’t shoot for shit. 

Still, there was an unfamiliarity about the tieflings handled their weapons. Some held them like they were foreign objects, while others kept knocking their knees on their scabbards. Overall, Hunter had the sense he was far more practiced with his weapon than they were. Hunter figured they hadn’t used them long enough to develop a mastery passive. The warrior realized that having a fully-fledged combat style was a massive boon in comparison to the tieflings. Not only could he wield his sword confidently, but his style would apply to any weapon he picked up. Even if he was stupid enough to get up close and personal to punch things. He had no desire to be a pugilist. Hunter was a glass cannon, and he knew it. He would leave the punching to the brutes and masochists.

The residents of the Outpost weren’t even the most jarring experience. A heavy scent was on the wind, and his enhanced senses recoiled from the cloying odor. It smelled like every house in the village was burning some kind of incense. Its presence made the air stuffy and distasteful. It matched the buildings themselves.

Each house had been worked on by a version of Midas Touch. They weren’t completely transformed, but Hunter could see the tell-tale golden hue creeping through every structure. Hunter had seen the gradual changes that Flames of Avarice wrought on the forge back in the Sanctuary, but this was on another level. The domiciles were becoming gaudy glamping versions of themselves. It was a garish, opulent display that fit the personality of the greedy demons perfectly.

Lining the beaten paths, there were tall golden braziers that were filled with emerald fire. It cast emerald reflections on the slowly transforming buildings and gave the ash-colored snow a disturbing hue. The light clashed with the red glow of the sun and made everything look like a shit brown. The entire effect was a criminal assault on the senses, but the tieflings seemed happy with their surroundings. If Hunter had already known, he would have realized by looking at the Outpost that greed made people insane.

John expertly guided Hunter through the press and made his way toward the center of the village. Feeling somewhat vulnerable, Hunter pulled his hood over his head to disguise his features. He hadn’t noticed anyone overtly looking at him, but his anxiety was bubbling up to the surface as he felt like something other. Logically, Hunter knew it was just a stupid feeling. He wasn’t unique, and there wasn’t anyone paying attention to him. He still felt like an imposter in his own skin.

Soon, John stopped in front of a wholly transformed cabin. It no longer resembled a wooden structure. Instead, Midas Touch has transformed it into a multi-story gleaming metal building. There were small engravings covering the entire surface, and it was almost painful to look at. John knocked on the platinum door, and a muted “enter” was his response.

John carefully opened the door, and Hunter silently followed him. The interior was completely different than Hunter had expected. The floors were black wooden planks, untouched by Midas Touch. Or maybe not; Hunter wasn’t sure what the skill would do for a residence like this.

The interior was devoid of furniture except for a large wooden table that was covered in beige scrolls. Pinned to the walls, Hunter noticed a number of maps taking residence. They were intricately detailed sketches of Snodgrass Mountain and the surrounding territory. Some had scrawled icons that looked like troop placements and logistics lines. At least, that’s what Hunter assumed. He really couldn’t be sure. Besides the table, the only thing of note was the large staircase in the back of the room that led to the living quarters above.

John and Hunter weren’t the only occupants in the room. Three other people were gathered around the table, and the young warrior recognized two of them immediately. Joining the dark side had done wonders for his grandparents.

Hank peered at the parchment over the table like the devil himself. His cherry-red skin was taut and vibrant. He looked like he had was in his thirties instead of his actual age. His broad shoulders carried his new musculature well. He looked like he was in perfect health. His short black hair was slicked backward, and his customary beard was clean and well-groomed. Three small horns sprouted from his brow like a miniature crown. His strong cheekbones surrounded eyes that gleamed with emerald light.

Hunter’s grandmother was no less stunning than his grandfather. Her flesh was a darker hue than her husband’s, but the physical changes were even more dramatic. Instead of an elegant, if aged, woman, she looked like a buxom seductress. With wide hips and large breasts that strained against the fabric of her tunic, Hunter had a harder time recognizing Blair than Hank. If it weren’t for her perfectly sculpted features, much like his mother, Hunter would have been convinced his grandfather had left his wife for a much younger woman. She had medium-length horns that curled around her head like a graceful tiara. Her lustrous black hair fell past her shoulders like an inky waterfall. 

They both looked up at the intrusion with confused faces that quickly morphed into anger.

“What the fuck do you want, John? I thought you were dead.”

“Would’ve saved us some trouble,” Blair hissed.

John shifted his weight from foot to foot, clearly expecting a different response. He looked at Hunter and scowled, realized that the teenager had hidden his features on the brief walk over. John reached over to snatch the edge of Hunter’s hood and throw it back. Hunter resisted the urge to draw his sword and lop off the man’s offending hand. Instead, Hunter sheepishly smiled.

“Hey, Grandpa Hank. Hey, Grandma Blair.”