Avalon, to Martin Folswirth, was a sweeping mountain range thrust up as a boundary to Dry Desert, running infinitely to the north and southwest, a barren, stony wall where only tumbleweed and sandgrass lived. A single dark vale at the southeast corner it's only entry point, the range there bent sharply in two, giving the impression of a great castle in the desert. And as he watched this vale from his spyglass one late fall afternoon, Martin thought to himself how appropriate indeed it was that the badlanders chose to call this mountain range just that: "The Castle".
But on the other hand, thought Martin, such a designation might not be totally appropriate after all; for a Castle was meant to protect its inhabitants and Avalon's dark purpose was something else altogether. Indeed, from everything he had ever seen on television, the "citizens" (if, indeed, they could be fairly called that) of Avalon led lives of captive conformity, enslaved to the dark powers which ruled over them like some perpetual machine. Responding unfeelingly to every flaw in society, every predictable behavioural glitch of its flock, indeed torturing out the very deviance from the deviant, Avalon was more like a prison than a castle. A prison which, nevertheless, was of vital importance to the badlanders.
For through that same southeast corner, or the Gateway as it was normally called, came goods, medicines, and technology that those living on the outside needed in order to survive, or at least in order to keep their current standard of living. The prisoners of Avalon might not have been envied by those living on the outside, but their productivity and organizational efficiency was unmatched. And thus, from that dark cave, up the lonely dirt road that stretched down into it, came caravans of goods, hauled up by orcish brutes who had been bred to benign indifference for the task at hand, and other menial chores that the Powers might conceive for them. And Martin's family, for however many generations had passed since the inception of the Corner Outpost, would go down, meet with them, and bring back the neccesary goods in exchange for precious mineral ores.
At 15, Martin himself could not be expected to bear such a heavy responsibility as trading with these caravans, and so until he reached maturity his job was lookout. As such, he spent a lot of time simply watching the Gateway, even when he was not on duty, learning it's every outcropping, pitfall, rock and face by heart. And although nearly every exchange was the same: his father and a few other men would go down with their crude wagons, meet with the caravan leaders (always veiled in dark cloaks and much smaller in stature[, but also more sinister, than the orcish thralls who actually carried the goods]), and after a brief exchange of words between the two parties, exchange cartons. Twice a week, Martin, along with three other lookouts positioned in different locations among the foothills of Corner Outpost, would be privy to nearly the exact same scene. There were time-codes, signals that he was to watch for in case of a threatening situation. If his father (or the other men) for instance, unloaded their carton with it's eagle facing west, it would mean they had spotted an ambush somewhere in the rocky crags. Though such a situation was hypothetical, the outpost's guards could then be dispatched quietly to (hopefully) ward off such a threat. But among the few dozen different signals and codes (most of which would be used to communicate the nature and/or known location of any dangers), by far the most unnerving job which Martin had was to keep time.
Time was the achilles heel of any exchange; if the caravan was late, or the negotiation took longer than was usual, it could mean that the situation had escalated to the point where signals could not anymore be safely communicated. And as first son of the primary trader of Corner Outpost, it was Martin's call to make if he thought a trade was going bad. He knew all the normal actions, he had talked endlessly with his father about the dynamics of a trade; sometimes things would just take a little longer, or the caravan might be late (though they rarely, if ever, had been) for legitimate reasons. It was Martin's job to try and determine how real the threat was. For the time being, bearing this responsibility would enable him to eventually become a full class trader, having had all of the subtle interactions involved with such a tense counterpoint unshakably etched into him. This was how it had been for generations. And for generations, trades had gone ahead flawlessly-- sure there had been a few tense moments, uncertain calls made, and once many years before Martin was old enough to be a lookout they had almost deployed the troop guard to dispatch the entire caravan itself (or die trying)-- but in the end, the uncomprimising discipline and rigour with which the Outpost carried out its operations meant that in the end their reliability was never questioned. When the time came for the Central Badlands Government to renew their contract, there were never any questions or haggling over conditions.
And so Martin, crouched on his belly, peering through the long copper cylinder towards the dark crevasse, was ready for anything. But readiness is easily undone by unpredictability, and what Martin saw that day, what took only a few short minutes to completely play out was the worst possible unfolding of events; indeed, things went badly beyond what he or anyone else at the Outpost had ever dreamed of.