The Harvest

The dust of the Chalk Hills clung to their cloaks as the vanguard crawled on their bellies toward the precipice. The ancient, skeletal white canyons and deep excavations of the historical limestone quarries stretched out below them.

Reis and Morohtar reached the jagged lip of the ridge first, peering over the edge into the vast, excavated basin. Their eyes scanned the scene. What they saw was not a simple mercenary camp, but an industrial extraction.

Erected directly over a massive pit dug deep into the white limestone floor was a towering, mechanical apparatus, four legs spanning over the chasm. The machine was a terrifying marriage of raw engineering and dark arcane science. From the depths of the pit, violent streaks of the Amber Mana crackled upward with a brilliant, volatile orange luminescence.

The machine acted as a massive collector, drawing the destructive, energy wave deep from the planet. The churning orange energy was mechanically channelled and transmitted into an array of six refined, milky-white quartz crystal tubes. Each tube was roughly a foot long and six inches in diameter, glowing intensely as it absorbed the raw, unmaking radiation.

Standing at the base of the machine, meticulously overseeing the harvesting operation, were four mages clad in the dark green dragonhide armour. Beside them on the dusty floor sat a heavy wooden chest, its lid open to reveal a plush velvet interior cut exactly to fit six cylinders - a bespoke transit case waiting to be filled with the glowing amber payloads.

Morohtar’s silver eyes narrowed, his elven vision effortlessly cutting through the hazy air of the quarry to map the tactical grid.

"Perimeter is relaxed," the dark elf murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely disturbed the chalk dust. "They are sitting at the heart of their own operation. They do not expect a blade from behind."

Morohtar pointed a slender finger toward a hastily erected timber watchtower flanking the pit.

"Four crossbowmen on the raised platform. Armour is heavy green scale."

Reis shifted his iron-clad frame against the shale, his tactical mind instantly dissecting the camp’s layout.

"And the infantry?" the Field Marshal rumbled quietly.

"Roughly two dozen in total," Morohtar replied, tracking the movement below.

"Six are actively maintaining a guard perimeter around the mages and the harvesting machine. The rest are completely lax - lounging at the mess and barrack tents near the eastern wall."

The Field Marshal looked back at his party. Shierra was crouched low, her deadwood staff securely in hand, the dormant Antithesis Orb waiting silently for the fire. Dashiel had his brass goggles pulled down, his stubby fingers twitching over the pressure valves of his atomized petroleum flamethrower. Lady Hannah knelt beside them, her sharp, calculating hazel eyes mapping the geometry of the machine below.

The camp was held by a band oof disgraced military officers and brutal deserters, but their guard was light, entirely unaware that the vanguard had arrived. Reis rested his hand on the dark steel pommel of his sword, the iron discipline of a commander taking absolute hold.

"The guard is light, and their forces are split," Reis commanded softly, his eyes fixed on the four mages harvesting the orange flame.

“This is what we are going to do..” he began.