The thirty Alchemists moved in perfect unison, taking out masks that shimmered faintly.
The masks were made from tanned magical beast hide, their surfaces engraved with intricate runes. Set into their distinctive beaks were crystal cores capable of purifying deadly poisons and concentrating mental power. They were not merely protective gear, but magical catalysts that greatly improved casting efficiency.
By comparison, Veylin's equipment was much simpler. He pulled a basic leather mask with only a filtering function from the bag beside his saddle and strapped it over his face.
[Everyone, put on your gas masks. No one takes them off without my order.]
The order spread through the network.
Although the knights did not understand why, their lord's grave expression prompted them to rummage through their supply packs and put on identical basic masks.
Even the warhorses' nostrils were covered with specially prepared wet cloths soaked in medicine.
[Sarah, notify Barton.]
Veylin adjusted the straps, making sure the seal was secure.
The command went out.
A beam of mental energy pierced the clouds and was intercepted by a Queen Insect hovering ten thousand meters up in the stratosphere, maintaining silent camouflage.
Relayed from one Queen Insect to another, the signal crossed dozens of kilometers and reached deep into the sprawling western mountains.
The complex terrain there lay outside the Imperial Faction troops' patrol coverage, and the Stuka Squadron had long since chosen it as their hiding place.
A bitter wind swept the mountaintop.
Barton was crouching behind a sheltered rock, tending a field cooking pot. He held half a loaf of white bread in one hand and a long-handled spoon in the other, carefully scooping golden-fried potato chunks from the pot to feed the Great Skua beside him.
"Eat up. Get some fat in you so you've got the strength