Adik Tribal Hall
At the pinnacle of the grand Adik Tribal Hall, Chief Arar surveyed the assembly. Below him sat eight Beastman chiefs, each exuding a regal air despite their recent turmoil. They were the leaders of tribes driven from their homes by the fearsome Silver Mane Tribe, now seeking refuge among the Adik.
With a curious glint in his eye, Arar addressed them, "What brings you esteemed chiefs to my hall today?"
"Master Chief Arar," an old Beastman chief began, his voice steady yet laced with urgency, "we are grateful for your hospitality. But we come with a pressing matter."
"Please, we implore you to lend your strength to our tribes!" another chief interjected, his tone both respectful and desperate.
"Our survival is at stake!" a chorus of anxious voices erupted, the weight of their plight palpable in the air.
"Silence!" Arar raised a hand, commanding respect. The room fell quiet; the chiefs knew the Adik Tribe's strength dwarfed their own. Rumors of Arar's legendary prowess as an eighth-level warrior added to their apprehension.
"Why should I intervene for you?" Arar questioned, a bemused smile touching his lips. "The Silver Mane Tribe seems subdued now. You could remain within our borders without fear."
"Surely, they wouldn't dare attack us!" Artom, Arar's son, chimed in, confidence brimming in his voice. "With the Adik Tribe standing strong, we can withstand any threat from the Silver Mane."
"Master Chief Arar, Master Chief Artom, your words bring solace," the old chief said, though his brow furrowed in worry. "Yet, the crisis we face is not from without, but within."
"Within?" Artom echoed, bewildered. "But I thought all tribes were safe now. What do you mean by an internal crisis?"
The old chief sighed heavily. "The famine has worsened. We barely scraped by before, and the Silver Mane's aggression forced us from our lands. Now, even in refuge, our supplies dwindle dangerously low."
"Famine?" Artom felt a chill of realization. "With so many tribes relying on us, we face a dire situation. The Silver Mane Tribe cares little for the lives of ordinary Beastmen, launching wars that leave us all struggling."
"I sympathize," Arar replied, his expression grave. "Even the Adik Tribe is grappling with food shortages."
The eight chiefs exchanged uncertain glances, but they nodded. It was all they could do, after all. Their fate was now in the hands of Arar and his tribe.
"Then we will take our leave," the old Beastman said, rising to his feet. The other chiefs followed his lead, bowing once more to Arar before turning to depart.
Arar smiled warmly. "Go well, chiefs. We will be in touch soon."
As they exited the grand hall, Artom and Arar shared a quiet smile, a father and son bound by the weight of leadership, yet confident they could find a way through this crisis.
---
Two days later, chaos erupted in the quiet residence of Chief Arar.
"Hurry! Fetch the pharmacist and the priest: now!" Arar's voice was filled with urgency, echoing out into the night as he supported a figure cloaked in black, their face obscured by a devil-like mask. Blood soaked through the mysterious figure's clothes, and Arar's grip tightened, trying to steady them.
If one looked closer, they'd see the trail of blood that had followed them into the room, dripping steadily from the masked figure's wounds.
"No... no need..." the masked figure rasped, their voice weak and broken. "I... am fine... just... cough, cough!" Blood spilled from the corners of the mask, staining the already drenched fabric.
"Quiet, don't speak!" Arar snapped, though his tone was filled with concern. He lowered the masked figure gently onto a nearby couch, his eyes scanning the wounds that marked the mysterious person's body.
Moments later, the door burst open, and the tribe's elderly priest and the pharmacist rushed in, followed closely by Artom, whose eyes widened at the sight before him.
"What happened?" Artom demanded, his voice trembling as he stared at the masked figure, unsure whether this stranger was friend or foe.
Arar, focused on the figure's injuries, didn't answer right away. "We don't have time for questions," he said, his tone clipped. "Help him first. We need to keep him alive."
The room became a flurry of activity as the priest began chanting softly, laying hands on the masked figure's chest, while the pharmacist prepared herbs and bandages, all the while Artom stood frozen, unsure of what danger or secret had just walked through their door.