The morning sun streamed through the war room's tall windows, casting sharp beams across the table where Morrath, Durak, Klara, and Kaela had gathered. Maps, scrolls, and notes lay scattered before them, evidence of restless nights spent strategizing. Morrath leaned over the table, his crimson eyes focused, his tone firm.
"We need supplies, men, and alliances," Morrath began, his voice cutting through the quiet. "The Dominion won't wait for us to be ready."
Durak cleared his throat, his posture straight. "Then we go west—to the Tyrras Confederacy. They're merchants first and foremost. If anyone will barter or forge an alliance, it's them."
Morrath considered this, his gaze shifting to the map. "A sound idea," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "Durak, I want you to represent the Bastion as our ambassador. Can you handle this?"
Durak nodded sharply, his determination evident. "I won't fail you."
Morrath opened a small, enchanted pouch and handed it to him. "This Bag of Holding contains a thousand beast cores. Sell them, trade them, do whatever it takes to make the Confederacy see our value."
Klara leaned against the table, her twin blades resting at her sides. "If we're looking for numbers, I've got contacts in the western wilds. Free mercenaries. Rough types, but they know how to fight."
Morrath raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll join us?"
"They don't fight for ideals," Klara said with a smirk. "But for the right price, they'll fight for anyone. Peak Tier Mana Crystals will get their attention. Money talks."
"You hand me a pouch of those, and they'll be cutting each other in half just to listen."
Morrath opened the bag again, ready to hand her some beast cores, but she waved him off. "Cores are useful for mages and alchemists, but mercenaries want crystals. Power means survival, and that's the only currency they care about."
Morrath grinned faintly. "Fair enough. You'll have your crystals."
He stepped to a wall and motioned for Durak to follow. With a press of his hand, a hidden panel slid open, revealing a set of sleek black armor and a crimson cloak embroidered with the Bastion's sigil in gold. "Ditch your Dominion armor," Morrath said. "It makes you a target. This is your uniform now."
As Durak donned the armor and clasped the cloak, Morrath turned to the group. "You both have your missions. Don't fail me."
Durak and Klara bowed, their expressions resolute. Kaela watched them leave, her staff glowing faintly. "You trust them," she said softly.
Morrath's crimson eyes narrowed. "They'll succeed. They have to."
…The western roads were unkind, winding through barren hills and dense forests filled with dangers both natural and man-made. Durak adjusted the crimson cloak draped over his black armor, keeping his hand close to the hilt of his sword. The weight of the Bag of Holding at his side was a constant reminder of his mission.
By midday, he reached a small trading post. Merchants bartered loudly, their wares spilling over rickety carts. Durak approached cautiously, his eyes scanning for threats. A scruffy trader waved him over, his teeth yellowed and his demeanor sharp.
"Fine wares, my lord," the trader said, eyeing Durak's armor with interest. "But travelers like you are rare on these roads. You'll want protection."
Durak smirked faintly, his tone dry. "I am the protection."
As he moved to leave, the air grew tense. From the shadows of the trading post, a group of armed bandits emerged, their leader stepping forward with a crooked grin. "A pretty cloak like that must mean a heavy purse," the man sneered.
Durak drew his sword in one swift motion. "You are correct, however it is a bit too heavy for the likes of you I'm afraid!."
The fight was brief but brutal. The first bandit lunged at Durak with a rusted blade, but his movements were sloppy and predictable. With a swift parry, Durak stepped inside the man's guard and drove his sword through his chest, the clang of steel against bone echoing in the tense air. Another attacker came from his right, wielding a heavy mace.
Durak spun on his heel, his crimson cloak flaring as he sidestepped the blow and brought his blade across the bandit's exposed neck in a clean arc.
Blood splattered the dirt, and the remaining bandits hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. Their leader snarled, raising his axe high as he barked, "Don't just stand there! Take him down!"
Two bandits charged together, their weapons swinging wildly. Durak's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward with purpose. He caught one blade with his own, pushing the attacker off balance, and delivered a swift boot to his chest, sending him flying backwards flat onto his back. The second bandit's dagger whistled toward his side, but Durak caught the man's wrist and twisted, forcing the blade to drop before delivering a devastating elbow to his temple.
The leader gritted his teeth, his confidence faltering as Durak advanced. With desperation, he swung his axe in a wide arc, but Durak ducked low and surged forward, driving his sword into the man's shoulder. The bandit let out a guttural cry, dropping his weapon and stumbling back. Blood streaming from his wound, he fled into the woods without looking back, clutching his injury.
The clearing fell silent except for the ragged breaths of the surviving merchants. Durak stood tall, his black armor gleaming faintly in the midday light. With a slow, deliberate motion, he wiped his blade clean on the cloak of a fallen bandit and sheathed it with a metallic hiss.
The merchants stared at him, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. One finally managed to speak, his voice shaky. "Who... who are you?"
Durak's crimson cloak billowed slightly as he turned to face them, his voice cold and steady. "Spread the word," he said, his piercing gaze sweeping over the group. "The Bastion is rising."
That evening, as he camped by a quiet stream, Durak unfolded the map of Tyrras Confederacy's trade routes. Tyrholm loomed far ahead, but a faint smile crossed his face. The journey had begun, and the Bastion's name was already being whispered in the wind.
…The western wilds were as treacherous as Klara remembered, their lawlessness both a danger and an opportunity. Her blades rested at her hips as she moved through a dense thicket, her sharp eyes scanning the underbrush. The mercenaries she sought were close, their campfire smoke trailing faintly in the distance.
As she entered the clearing, a dozen men and women turned toward her, weapons drawn. Their leader, a scarred woman with a massive axe, stepped forward. "Klara," the woman said, her voice wary. "You've got guts showing up here."
"I've got an offer," Klara replied, her smirk unwavering. "A better deal than whatever scraps you're chasing now."
The leader barked a laugh, crossing her arms. "And what makes you think we'd work for you?"
Klara reached into her pouch, pulling out a single Peak Tier Mana Crystal. Its glow bathed the clearing in pale light, and the mercenaries' eyes widened. "Because I can pay," Klara said, her tone calm but commanding. "And the Bastion offers more than just crystals. Power and survival come with it."
The mercenaries murmured among themselves, their skepticism fading. The leader's gaze lingered on the crystal before she nodded slowly. "You've got our attention. Speak."
Klara spent the night around their fire, explaining the Bastion's goals and the rewards they could earn. By dawn, she had secured a tentative alliance, the mercenaries swayed by both her charisma and the promise of mana crystals.
As she watched the sun rise over the wilds, Klara's smirk returned. "One step closer," she muttered. "This is just the beginning."