Schematic: Hardened Gates

Schematic: Hardened Gates is a rolled parchment sealed in dark wax, its edges nicked from hard travel and the ink still damp where a hurried scribe pressed the quill. The surface bears a meticulous engraving: a stout gate braced with iron crossbars, flanked by runic sigils that seem to shimmer when caught by torchlight. The parchment feels cool to the touch, a whisper of oil and resin clinging to the fibers, as if it remembers the heat of forge fires and the tremor of siege lines. A faded stamp of the Gatewrights’ guild rests in the corner, though much of the margin is worn away by rain, boots, and fleets of caravan wheels. Lore keeps this blueprint alive—tales insist the design was born in the aftermath of a fortress breach, when every hinge feared a sudden motive force. The hardened gates described here were not mere weapons but promises: a way to seal a breach, to buy a moment, to turn a stubborn hillside into a last redoubt. In the field, the schematic unlocks a recipe for a gate that is more than timber and iron. Once learned, the plan allows a crafter to forge a deployable barrier that can anchor a line of defense in the open world as surely as a trench secures a trench camp. It’s not simply a bulky obstacle; it’s a tool for shaping a battlefield. The gate’s frame is tempered steel, its wood—slats thick with resin and pitch—fed by hinges that resist the sudden shear of a battering ram. When placed, the gate locks into position with a decisive rasp, a barrier that slows stampedes of invaders and buys defenders precious breaths to rally. In quieter hands, it becomes a symbol as much as a tool—a reminder that even a single gate can turn a contested outpost into a stubborn outpost, a stubborn outpost into a stubborn story. The usefulness of the Hardened Gates stretches beyond the immediate fight. In patrols and frontier skirmishes, they allow camps to be fortified quickly, doors sealed behind a short skirmish so rest can be taken without surrender. Sieges, whether in the wilds or in city outskirts, hinge on the judgment to deploy a gate at the right throat of the path, to channel pressure where it’s most manageable. It’s a kind of quiet engineering that asks no grand gesture—just a steadfast hinge and the patience to see it through. People who carry the blueprint know that every deployment is a narrative thread: a quiet counter-attack after a breach, a defensive maneuver that turns a potential rout into a cautious, deliberate stand. Market chatter colors the tale as well. Traders at the Saddlebag Exchange speak in low tones about supply and demand, the ebb and flow of blueprints and components as if the gates themselves were a seasonal commodity. A well-turnished schematic travels along caravans, especially during bumper harvests of ore and timber; price whispers drift between stalls, shifting with world events, with scarcity, or with rumors of a new route through the foothills. If you’re patient, you’ll glimpse a bargain: a few silver to a handful of gold, depending on how much stock and how quickly the buyer can move. And when the buyer returns to the field, the gates rise not just as metal and timber, but as a story carried forward—an emblem of resilience forged in wood, iron, and shared memory.