The dry wind sliced through the air as Lord Mortis stood atop the heliport, gazing down at the desolate landscape below. His metal mask, adorned with a cruel smile, reflected the fiery light of the day, and his black hood concealed his sinister features. Small chains clinked softly against his dark clothing, betraying his presence to any who dared venture too close.

"Patience, Calach," he murmured, placing a bony hand on his apprentice's shoulder.

The young man remained silent, the expensive fabric of his attire marking him as someone significant among Lord Mortis' followers. Around them, several armored guards stood watch, their Mid-Tech weapons glinting in the scorching light.

They were in one of the small mountains near Mostauk, where Lord Mortis had his personal properties, besides important items. It was also where his students were, men and women from all the places. Everyone who had some sort of psychic power or connection with mental manipulations could find a home there.

Their eyes were glued to a figure in the sky approaching them. The distant hum of an engine grew louder, drawing their attention skyward. A massive hovercopter, with its gravity manipulators defying the laws of nature, flew effortlessly through the air. A relic of a long-forgotten age, the vehicle was a testament to the technological prowess of the past.

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"Ah, there it is," Lord Mortis said, his voice dripping with malice. "The old general always did have a taste for the finer things. Let's hope he is in a good mood."

As the hovercopter approached and landed, the guards took positions. Although Lord Mortis and General Striker had several pacts, trust was something that died several years ago. Lord Mortis knew that he wouldn't do anything stupid, since he usually gifted him different kinds of old items, like bullets, gasoline, or even strange dolls.

After the landing, two imposing figures emerged. Ragnar, tall and blonde with an intricate beard, strode forth confidently, followed by Nygon, smaller but no less fearsome, his wide frame and perpetual grin giving him a menacing air. Lord Mortis scoffed as they approached.

"Stormcaller and Skullsplitter," he remarked to Calach, disdain evident in his tone. "Such ridiculous names for such deadly men."

"Indeed, my lord," Calach replied, eyeing the pair warily.

Finally, General Striker emerged from the hovercopter. His once powerful frame was now that of an old man with a grey beard and tired eyes. Yet, he still carried himself like a warrior, his massive armor comparable to that of the Dust Knights. With confident strides, he advanced towards Lord Mortis, his boots crunching on the gravel beneath him.

"Lord Mortis," he greeted in a deep voice, offering a formal and martial salute.

"General Striker," Lord Mortis replied, returning the gesture. "I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Cut the pleasantries," Striker growled. "I didn't come all this way just to waste my time. I hope the gifts you promised are worth it, as well as the deal you wish to make." He cast a critical eye over the gathered minions. "Why didn't you simply send someone with the message and the gifts?"

"Ah, General, there are some things that must be seen in person," Lord Mortis said smoothly. "Please, follow me."