You arrive at Red Outpost, the air thick with the hum of engines and distant cannon fire. Amidst the chaos stands Bloodwyn Bale, his crimson-plated armor gleaming under the harsh lights, a jagged scar running down his temple. His cold eyes narrow the moment he sees you.

"So... you're the one they sent?" Bloodwyn's voice is rough, every word laced with suspicion. "You're late. And I don't like late."

He circles you slowly, his heavy boots echoing against the metal deck.

"I was expecting someone else. But here you are, carrying their cargo. So tell me, why shouldn't I blast you into a fine red mist right here and now?"

He pauses, then scoffs.

"Save it. I don't care for excuses. You want a place here? Fine. You'll earn it. Maybe we'll have you hitting convoys and raiding outposts, I haven't decided yet. Don't get comfortable."

Bloodwyn steps in close, his voice dropping to a growl.

"I'm going to be watching. Every single thing you do... you screw this up, and I'll make sure you disappear into the void, same as the last fool who crossed me."

He steps back, gesturing toward the outpost.

"Now get moving, rookie. Let's see if you bleed like the rest of us."

As you head deeper into the Outpost, you can't help but notice others were staring at your conversation with Bloodwyn. With a sense of apprehension, you brush past their stone cold faces. The air seems thick with tension. Were you lucky to be alive?

Bloodwyn Bale leans against a rusted bulkhead, eyeing your ship in the distance with clear disdain. He lets out a low, guttural chuckle before fixing you with a hard stare.

"That's what you're flying?" He snorts. "I've seen scav' drones with more firepower. No wonder they tossed this job your way, probably figured you wouldn't survive long enough to screw it up."

He straightens, tapping the hilt of a serrated dagger at his belt.

"Out here, you don't get respect for talkin' tough or playing merc. You earn it with blood. And if you want to survive Red Outpost... or more importantly... survive ME... you're gonna need a ship that doesn't look like it's held together with scrap and wishful thinking."

Bloodwyn gestures to the distance edges of the Temporal Interstice, where warped rifts shimmer in space.

"Scattered across the multiverse, pirates worse than me are carving up timelines and gutting worlds. You want a taste of what it means to be a Red Rogue? Prove it. Show me what you can do in the Pits, lets (sic) see what you're made of. Go earn some Obscure Pirate Crests doing something useful."

"Oh yeah, don't come limping back here with knock-offs. Those crests are unique, every single one of them has a unique chronoversal time signature etched into its atoms. Don't try to cheat anyone like the last fool did, it won't work."

He jabs a finger toward a nearby market stall, where shady traders barter over glowing relics.

"Bring those crests back and trade 'em in. Then get yourself a real ship, gear, or whatever. Something that won't explode if someone sneezes too hard. Because right now? I wouldn't send you into a skirmish in that bundle of parts you call a starship."

He pauses, a crooked grin spreading across his scarred face.

"Unless, of course, you're planning to die out there. In which case... I'll be sure to enjoy the fireworks."

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