Begon beckoned with a hint of urgency, then posed his question, "You called me here, what more do you seek?"
With a dismissive wave, Logan replied, "Ease your mind, abd come sit." He sprawled back into his chair with a carefree slouch.
Across from him, Begon positioned himself, eyes fixed on Logan.
"Recall the plan concerning the beastmen thieves I mentioned earlier?" Logan probed, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Begon nodded slowly, his face clouded with concern. He harbored deep reservations about the plan. Not only did it pose a grave risk to their tribe, the Silver Mane, but it also endangered the thieves themselves. The idea of these beastmen, masquerading as mere thieves yet pivotal to the tribe's covert operations, weighed heavily on him.
Logan leaned forward, his voice lowering. "They depart at dawn, and I shall lead them myself." Unaware of Begon's internal turmoil, he felt compelled to justify his decision, given his role as the tribe's chief and his prominence within the tribe.
Begon's surprise was palpable, and his objection immediate. "But you're the chief! How can you justify such a risk?"
"Don't you see? The wasteland grows ever more tumultuous, teeming with cutthroat bandits and would-be legends among their ranks," Logan explained, his tone laced with frustration.
Begon stood abruptly, his voice rising in alarm. "It's a perilous gambit, Logan! Facing a sizable band of thieves could spell disaster. Your duty as chief isn't to court danger!"
At that moment, the room thickened with tension as Begon, in his role as the elder, rebuked his nephew. His words echoed a mix of fear and familial duty, hoping to sway Logan from his perilous path. He had the seasoned insight of a former mercenary, well aware that the band of beastmen thieves under Logan was hardly a strong force it might seem.
In the world of mercenaries, fierce rivalry breeds a certain level of respect and adherence to unwritten rules.
Conversely, the landscape among thieves was treacherous, fraught with internal conflicts and constant suppression by mercenary bands.
"Even if Logan' gang comprised two thousand beastmen, they might scrape by," he thought. "But with merely fifty? It's practically a death sentence."
"And you know, I can't be swayed from this decision," he added, half in jest.
"So, the tribe will need to persevere for the next month," Logan concluded, sensing the weight of his own words.
Begon opened his mouth to object, feeling the risks still loomed large, but the resolute look in Logan's eyes made him pause. Was there any point in voicing his concerns if Logan's mind was already made up?
Feeling somewhat marginalized, Begon exited the council hall, his spirit dampened by the exchange.
Inside, Logan stood and watched his uncle's departure, a knowing smile crossing his face. Initially, he had toyed with the idea of supporting a band of beastmen thieves, but a recent review of the marketplace technology illuminated a safer, more lucrative path.
"Why bother with the dangers of a thieves' group when selling a few key technologies could easily tide us over this food shortage?" he mused silently.
At that moment, Logan felt a surge of relief. His uncle was right; dabbling with a thieves' group was perilous and unnecessary. Stability and strength must come first, ensuring the tribe could withstand future crises without resorting to such drastic measures.
At the cavalry training grounds of the military camp, Crowe, Bagan, Cardia, and Tyton huddled around several carts arrayed before them.
"Is this the hunting gear the chief promised to equip the Second Cavalry Brigade with?" Cardia asked, her curiosity peaking as she hoisted a one-meter-long wooden pole. It was strong in the middle, tapered at the ends, and tipped with a sharp metal head.
"That's correct," affirmed an elderly beastman, his frame stooped and sinewy, his claws resembling the gnarled branches of a tree, and his nearly toothless mouth attesting to his advanced age, surely nearing seventy.
This seasoned figure was none other than Bastos, the proprietor of the Silver Mane Tribe's forging workshop and a skilled intermediate blacksmith.
"What do they call this?" Tyton inquired, his eyes wide with fascination as he examined the novel item for the first time, deducing it must be some form of weapon.
Just as Bastos opened his mouth to educate the young warrior, a clarion voice resonated around them, preempting the old smith: "That, gentlemen, is known as a javelin, a novel addition to our armaments!"