Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest

[*] Plan Grabbing the necessary
-[*] Self-Improvement: Things have been going well so far, but the skills of a Journeyman Grey Mage can only go so far.
--[*] Combat Training: You're virtually surrounded by armed warriors of various sorts. See if you can convince one to teach you (choose who).
---[*] The Greatswords guarding the castle

-[*] As Per Orders: Perform your current assignment.
--[*] It'd be best all around if von Stolpe just quietly disappeared one night. Attempt to abduct him by stealth.
---[*] Ranald's Blessing on the abduction
--[*] You've also been asked to grab von Stolpe's heir. Ask him nicely, but don't take no for an answer.

-[*] Playing at General: Using and abusing the authority to order troops
--[*] Have some riders on standby to help restrain and escort the von Stolpes' home reduces the risk of an accident or escape along the way

-[*] Backtracking and Side Operations:
--[*] Before you head off to pester von Stolpe, Van Hal has invited you to come along to the Mound. While probably dangerous, it is an excellent chance to make a good impression, and gives you the opportunity to see what is found before a few dozen soldiers tramp through it.

-[*] Home Comforts: Your Palace-Shrine is bursting with potential. And also mud.
--[*] Good Neighbours: The previous owner of the 'shack' is the Innkeeper for the den of iniquity you share a wall with. Recruiting her would give you an information pipeline and an early warning system.
--[*] Castle Doctrine: You don't want just anyone wandering in. Set up locks and fortify the entrances.
-[*] Ask for a regular discretionary budget (moderate difficulty, success will be more expected of you)

---

Last time you came face to face with something that wanted to feed on your tender flesh, you defeated it by wrapping yourself in magical armour and letting it paw impotently at you while you stabbed it in the face. You've got a feeling that anything you may encounter in the ancient barrows would be more forceful than a long-starved corpse walled up in a bedroom, so it's time to learn variants of combat that aren't 'let them try to eat me' or 'wave a knife in their general direction and hope for the best'.

There's quite a few candidates for who you could learn from. Van Hal himself favours the rifle and halberd, Wilhelmina goes nowhere without at least four pistols, Brother Kasmir, of course, wields the hammer that is the signature of Sigmarite Warrior-Priests, and Anton probably learned some sort of swordplay growing up. But if you're going to learn the art of war, you eventually decide, it should be from a full-time warrior. So you change in your now mostly-unused guest room, leaving your robe and hat there in favour of a tunic and breeches, your hair tied up in a bun instead of flowing freely as you prefer. Now prepared, you make your way to the barracks protruding into the courtyard of Eagle Castle, where the clatter of wood on wood signifies that the Greatswords are battering each other with their wooden practice swords. Though when you stride into the middle of them and ask to be taught to wield a sword as they do, they all stop what they're doing and turn to watch.

The silence drags on just long enough for you to start getting angry, then one of them - an older man with a neat, grey beard and a missing ear - steps forward and holds out his practice sword to you. "Take this, then, and swing it at the dummy."

You reach out and take the sword, and the moment he lets go of it the point drops down and buries itself in the dirt before you can get control of the weight. It takes a fair bit of effort just to lift it until it's pointing upright, and then you don't so much swing it as let it fall in the direction of the dummy, and it bounces off the wooden bucket serving as a helmet with a clack.

"Again," he says. And you lift it once more, and this time try to accelerate the fall, causing a slightly louder clack to sound around the courtyard.

"Again," he says once more, and you turn to look at him, your eyes narrowed.

"For how long," you ask, already starting to breathe hard.

"Until you feel like your arms are going to fall off, and then even longer," he replies. You suspect that he's trying to mock you, but none of the other Greatswords seem to be amused. They're just watching you, seeing how you react. So instead of responding to words, you lift the massive wooden sword again and batter the dummy around the head with it. And again. And again.

And again.

After a while the Greatswords went back to their training, but the man who instructed you just stands there, watching, as sweat starts to pour down you and soak into your clothing, your arms shaking with fatigue. A time or two exhaustion causes you to stumble over your own feet, but you pick yourself up and throw yourself back into your fight against the dummy. What feels like a lifetime passes, and you want nothing more than to collapse onto the dirt and gasp for breath, but you can still feel the judging eyes of your overseer on your back, so you just keep pushing yourself to swing once more, then once more again.

"Enough," someone says, and it takes you a moment to parse the instruction. You turn and look dully at the man, and he nods to you. "Be back here tomorrow morning."

Somehow, you manage to find it in you to stagger back to your room before you collapse.

---

For the next week, every waking moment is spent swinging your sword at the man who'd stepped forward that first day, and having him bat aside your swings every time. But the margin shrinks every day, until he actually starts using footwork to avoid your strikes instead of standing there immobile. In the middle of each day, you follow the Greatswords back into the barracks and join them for lunch, fresh bread and hearty shanks of meat and stew so thick the spoon stands up in it. At the side of your teacher, your presence is accepted, and the topic at each meal is the same: combat. For all of living memory, you gather from their anecdotes, these Greatswords had been effectively banished from Wurtbad, stationed out of Naubonum and ordered to send constant raids into the depth of 'Eastern Stirland'. And they obeyed, taking heavy casualties in the process but honing the survivors into veterans of a hundred skirmishes against everything Sylvania could throw at them.

And then the last of the Haupt-Anderssens had died, and the Greatswords had been recalled to Altdorf, had their ranks refilled, and had been assigned to their new Elector Count: Abelhelm Van Hal. And they couldn't be happier.

And then lunch ends, and it's back into the training yard. Your teacher starts fighting back, tapping and prodding you just hard enough to bruise, and though it hurts the main effect is on your temper. You swear that you're going to land a blow on him, whatever it takes, and finally you think you see an opening and lunge forward, shouting as you deliver an overhand swing, only to realize far too late that you overshot hugely as your fist impacts with his head, crushing your knuckles between it and the hilt of your sword. The crack you send through the courtyard is very different to the usual wood-on-wood.

For a horrifying second you think it was his head that you cracked, then agony shoots through your hand.

"Ow," he says mildly, rubbing his brow. You hop up and down in pain, shouting profanities in Lingua Praestantia, the language of magic, causing eddies to form in the ambient magic in the courtyard. You bite back a scream as the man gently but firmly grasps your hand, probing at the knuckles with a calloused finger. "Next time, think before you swing," he comments. "Go see Brother Heinz. It won't be the first training accident he's patched up."

---

When you get to the chapel, the Chaplain is engaged in murmured conversation with one of the kitchen assistants, so you wait as patiently as you can with agony throbbing through your fingers. Finally he says a benediction over her head, then looks over to you, his eyebrows raising. "Journeywoman," he greets you neutrally. "Here to give thanks to Sigmar?"

"Not as such," you respond, holding up your hand, which is noticeably red and swollen. He moves forward and grasps your hand, causing another wave of pain to wash through you, and examines it carefully.

"Training?" he asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"With the Greatswords," you shoot back, annoyed both at the pain and his disbelief.

He looks a moment longer, then nods. "Good. By its very nature, magic cannot be trusted. If you will not put your faith in Sigmar, put it in steel." You narrow your eyes, annoyed that he'd have the audacity to lecture you on a topic you know better than he ever will, but then he begins to murmur a prayer to the founder of the Empire and you can feel power flow out of his hand and into yours, your knuckles audibly grinding as they slide back into place. He nods to himself. "There will be stiffness and pain for several weeks. Sigmar be with you."

You flex your hand and mutter thanks as you leave the Chapel.

---

"What's your name, anyway?" Your teacher raises an eyebrow as he deflects your latest blow. "We've been training together for almost a fortnight and it just occurred to me that you never told me your name."

He smiles and baps you on the head with his sword. "I thought it was your job to know things like that," he replies mildly, and then smiles at the scowl you shoot him. "Sir Markus von Pfaffbach, Champion of Stirland."

Oh.

[DO THE GREATSWORDS GIVE IT THEIR ALL?: Roll, Diplomacy, 94+9=103. Your adopted family grows.]
[HOW WELL DO YOU TAKE TO THE GREATSWORD? Roll, Martial, 85+7=92. Swords are fun!]
[HOW WELL DO THE LESSONS GO?: Roll, Martial, 18+7=25. Ow.]
[HEALING ROLL: Breakpoints 20/60, Piety, 42+??=50-60?. No long-term damage, but minus to combat rolls at the Barrow.]

---

"Oh?" Van Hal says distractedly, doing something finicky and complicated with his rifle, apparently unbothered by the swaying gait of his horse. "While you've been doing a great job, my impression is that you've been mostly 'spy' and not much 'master'. What do you need a regular budget for?"

"For changing that," you reply easily. "My priority so far has been finding these documents, but with that hopefully drawing to a close-" you cross your fingers and hope Ranald doesn't take that as an invitation to prove you wrong, "-I'll need to be drawing in information from many more sources. Things like watching the Stirlandian League, keeping tabs of Leicheberg in von Stolpe's absence, watching the whole Flensburg business," you and Van Hal wince in unison at the mention, "and, of course, watching 'Eastern Stirland' - all of these will require many more sets of eyes and ears than merely my own. I can only be in one place at once."

"That does make sense," he muses, grunting in satisfaction as something in the mechanism of his rifle goes click. "I'll have a word with Wilhelmina when we get back."

Smothering a grin, you thank him politely. And then conversation grinds to a halt, as one of the scouts riding ahead calls back that the Mound has been sighted.

[CONVINCING VAN HAL YOU NEED A BUDGET: Roll, Intrigue, 88+12=100. Won him over completely.]
[EXPENSES VS PAYROLL: Roll, 39. Slightly leaning towards discretionary income.]

One Elector Count, Orc Hewer gleaming in his grip. One Warrior Priest in plated armour, his faith as solid as the hammer in his hands. One Priest of Morr, pale and nervous, but resolute. Fifty Greatswords, the greatest warriors Stirland has to offer honed in battle against the undead. Three hundred crossbowmen, encircling the Mound and ready to riddle anything that moves with bolts.

And one Shadow Mage, thoroughly out of her depth.

You stand at Van Hal's side, your knuckles white around the grip of the flamberge Markus gifted you, ignoring the stabs of pain from your still-healing bones. Ulgu twists playfully in your grip from where you had folded it into the steel and the morning mist swirls around you protectively, ready to respond to your slightest thought. And the Mound just sits there, looking for all the world like a regular hill in the middle of a clearing.

Unless you can see the Winds of Magic, that is. To you, the dull purple of Death Magic defies gravity to pool around the Mound, seeping into the earth. Whether something in there is absorbing Shyish or the site is just a natural sink of the magic of death, you can't tell, but neither is a particularly attractive option.

"Well?" Van Hal asks softly, his eyes locked on the entrance to the Mound.

You swallow. "Shyish is thick here, but I can't see any necromantic energies. Not from the outside, anyway."

"The dead are probably still present, then," Van Hal notes.

"They could be undisturbed," the Morrite says, barely speaking above a whisper.

"If they are, you can say the Rites over them and send them to their rest," Brother Kasmir states, looking up from the prayer he was saying over his hammer. "But if nothing else, this site of treason against the Empire - I doubt even those that predate the coming of Sigmar could sleep through that."

"We'll see soon enough," Van Hal states, a note of excitement entering his voice. "Markus!"

"Your Grace?" he asks, stepping forward from the ranks of the Greatswords. Though standing at attention, he does give you a hint of a smile as you look over at him.

"Take up position near the entrance. Depending what we find in there, we might be calling you in to support us in combat or drawing an enemy out into the crossfire. Be ready for either contingency."

"Yes, your Grace."

A smile on his lips, Van Hal leads the way into the darkness, and you take a deep breath and follow.

---

Within a handful of paces, the sunlight is gone and the only light is from the torches carried by Kasmir and the Morrite. They seem to barely cast any light at all, and what there is only serves to deepen the darkness instead of illuminating it. Everywhere you look, the sickly purple of Shyish shrinks from the light, flowing around the edges of the wall to pool once more in your wake. It seems to stain everything purple - the walls, the air, even the tunnel ahead of you looks almost spiderwebbed with-

The cry comes to your throat a moment too late, as Van Hal steps into a web of Shyish criss-crossing the passage, and unseen to anybody but you, it snaps into a thousand pieces and sends a pulse of deathly energy to somewhere.

"Stop," you cry, too late, far too late. "You just triggered..." You pause, recognition flashing through you. "A magical alarm. Lesser magic, formed of Shyish. Whoever cast it now knows that we crossed it."

The four of you stand frozen, your ears straining for any sound, every crackle of the flames of the torches sounding deafening in your ears. You stand there for what felt like hours, but must have been only minutes.

"How old could it have been," Van Hal asks, breaking the silence.

You see what he could be asking straight away. "Here? It was formed of Shyish and the air here is thick with it. If untriggered, it could last forever."

He relaxes a little. "From the original builders?"

"It's possible."

He thinks for a moment. "Alright. Be on guard, but we advance."

---

When you finally emerge into the main chamber, the sight takes your breath away. Sitting on a throne in the center is the skeleton of what must have once been a mighty warlord, covered in crude armour and a helm sitting in his lap, his jaw hanging open as empty sockets stared eternally at nothing. All around him lay skeletons of either his dispatched enemies or his loyal warriors, lying in haphazard piles. Each wall was lined with swords, axes, maces and spears, all so ravaged by time that those nearest to the entrance started to flake away into nothing as the air moved for the first time in what must have been millennia.

But it can't have been the first time, because piled in front of the throne like a bizarre offering was a truly astounding amount of ledgers.

The four of you advance carefully, ready at any second to response to the slightest stirring of the skeletons in the chamber. But none move. The Morrite approaches the closest cautiously and leans over to touch it, whispering something under his breath. Then he relaxes. "They are dead," he says. "Truly dead."

"Anticlimactic," Van Hal notes, sounding almost disappointed. "But it looks like we've found what we were looking for."

---

You feel uneasy. You're not sure why, everything seemed to be going perfectly well. Three cartloads of tomes had set off for Wurtbad and the Mound was emptied of corpses, most of which had received the Rites of Morr and were awaiting their turn on the pyre that was being built. Everything was going fine. But sudden disquiet had washed over you like a wave, so strong you felt almost queasy.

Wait.

You did feel queasy.

You look around wildly, finally noticing the quivering of the Winds, but you can't see anything that could be causing it. But you trust your instincts, and shout a warning. "To arms," you cry, as the crossbowmen stare at you in confusion and the Greatswords draw their arms, looking around wildly. Van Hal and Brother Kasmir look up from their conversation, their hands flying to the hilts of their weapons. "Something's coming!"

There's a moment of silence just long enough for you to wonder if you were mistaken, then you spot it - a sickening beam of spiralling brown and purple shooting through the trees and into the Mound, and in a moment of unspeakable horror you feel Dhar pulse through your soul as it radiates out.

Those who can't see the Winds of Magic know something terrible has happen when the Morrite screams in horror. The corpse he had been tending to had struck out with claws wreathed in ethereal fire, plunging into his stomach, gripping, and pulling. Near him, all lined up where they had been placed in rows to await his blessing, the dead pulled themselves to their feet, green lights burning in their eye sockets as they look around and then throw themselves at the nearest targets. Only a handful of them remained down, as Morr refused to surrender whatever grip he now held on their souls.

The Greatswords were scattered throughout the clearing, occupied as they were with hauling books and bodies. They had barely a handful of seconds to ready themselves for combat. But though some fell as skeletal claws tore through steel, many had time enough to defend themselves and everywhere you look skeletal claws clashed against steel as the Greatswords held back their attackers. Moments later the first of the crossbows are fired as the crossbowmen recover from the shock and start readying their weapons, and skeletons screech as bolts fly through their ribcages, disrupting the lattice of tainted magic holding their cursed forms together. For a moment the sudden battle is locked in equilibrium, the swords and bolts holding the skeletons at bay from their terrible assault.

But then you, Van Hal, and Brother Kasmir strike the undead like the fist of a vengeful God.

Your body reacting with instincts you've only begun to develop, you swing with all your might past the claws of the skeletons and into what little body they have. The Ulgu still contained within your blade parts the Dhar like a knife through flesh, and the skeletons are struck to the ground as the fell magics animating them are disrupted, evaporating into the air. To your left, Brother Kasmir's hammer does an equally laudable job of shattering the skeletons themselves, sending fragments of bone flying through the air like shrapnel with every strike. And on your right Van Hal's Runefang flashes, the ancient Dwarven magic contained within snuffing out the necromantic energies like a tidal wave snuffs out a candle. In your wake skeletons lie scattered on the ground, and the Greatswords freed up follow in your path, striking down the skeletons you miss.

In a handful of glorious minutes, each and every skeleton is struck down and you drive the tainted magic from the clearing. Silence suddenly descends as the skull of the last is crushed underfoot, and everyone present looks to one another with manic grins on their faces.

"STIRLAND!" cries Van Hal, and every voice - including your own - joins him.

[MAGE SIGHT: Breakpoints 30/70, Learning, 44+13=57. Death looms.]
[HOW BAD IS IT: Roll, 16. Death looms.]
[TRIPWIRE: Req 40, Learning, 19+13=32. Death pounces.]
[IDENTIFY IT: Req 40, Learning, 70+13=83.]
[INCOMING: Breakpoint 40/60, Learning, 35+13=48. You saw what direction it came in.]
[MORRITE REACTION: Req 50, Martial, 31+12=43. Brutal.]
[HOW SUCCESSFUL WERE HIS RITES? Roll, 12+16=28. Um.]
[GREATSWORDS: Req 40, 27+15=42.]
[CROSSBOWMEN: Req 60, 72+8=80.]
[VAN HAL: Req 40, 89+18=107.]
[BROTHER KASMIR: Req 40, 92+14=106.]
[YOU: Req 40, Martial, 87+7-10=84.]

---

"Why did it take so long?" Van Hal asks later, his Runefang still in hand as he watches the last of the corpses thrown onto a bonfire. "We stepped foot in that Mound over an hour before anything happened. If all of those things leapt up as we entered the central chamber they could have overwhelmed us. Why wait?"

You stared at the clearing, brooding over that very same question. The evidence of its passing is long gone, but you can still remember the direction the beam of corrupted magic came from. "Do you have a compass?"

He looks at you askance at that, but produces one from a pouch and hands it to you, and you draw a mental line from where the beam emerged from the trees and the centre of the mound, where it struck. "East-south-east," you mutter. "Delay of just over an hour... propagation speed of magic through air, about 750 miles per hour. That's... about 900 miles. 450 each way. 450 miles east-south-east of Wurtbad..."

You don't have to consult a map to know what that's pointing at, and from the alarmed look Van Hal is giving you, he doesn't either.

Drakenhof.

[WHY?: Req 40, Learning, 40+13=53]

---

After your first real taste of combat, everything seems blurred, almost unreal. Your trip back to Wurtbad seems to pass in moments, and next thing you know you have your written authorisation from Van Hal and you're once more conjuring a horse to take you to Leicheburg. You emerge from the muted funk somewhere in the Moot, as you arrive at the inn you patronized last time you were in the neighbourhood, and are halfway through dinner before you notice that you aren't a throbbing mass of pain from the waist down.

The next morning as you set off, you pay attention to what's going on. The horse underneath you is as solid as ever, but the magic that sustains it, instead of conforming directly to the shape of a horse, is enshrouding your lower form the way your shadow armour does. You're not so much riding a horse as you are wearing a horse from the waist down.

...it's actually kind of disturbing when you put it like that. But you can't deny the effectiveness. You barely feel the horse's gait beneath you as it eats up the miles, effortlessly sustaining for hours a pace that would exhaust a regular horse in minutes. By afternoon of the second day, you have arrived at your destination - not quite Leicheburg, not yet. Instead, you stand at Swartzhafen - specifically, the barracks just inside the southern gate.

Your letter of authority gets you a meeting with the Major in charge of the local forces, and you're able to get him to confirm his allegiances - to the Emperor, to the Elector Count of Stirland, and to the Count of Leicheburg in that order. He gets enough of the gist of what you're hinting at that he doesn't ask for more, instead hand-picking a team of light cavalry and roadwardens for you with the assurance that they share his loyalties. Then he wishes you good luck, smiles, and winks.

You're so convinced that you don't even remove his memories of you with Mindhole. Instead, you note his name and position and tell him you might be in touch with such a patriot in the future. And just like that, you've recruited your first informant.

[ONCE MORE TO LEICHEBURG: Roll, Martial, 99+7=106. Riding trait acquired.]
[ENLISTING AID: Req 50, Diplomacy, 88+9=97. Everyone loves Mathilde.]

You're thoroughly disgruntled that it took you all day to get the mere fifty miles down the road to Leicheburg. You spend every minute fighting down the urge to urge your steed into a gallop and leave the riders you've recruited in your wake. But you swallow the feeling down time and time again, and by evening you've finally arrived and ready to act.

As you reach the Leicheburg Castle again, you circle it warily, trying to find an unguarded approach. To your disgust, there are none. Every door and gate is watched over by alert guards, even the washerwoman's entrance that leads down to the the Black Run River. Even the shift changes overlap.

But as you watch the side entrance, you note that while the guards certainly are alert to anyone that would approach them, they barely give the washerwomen a second glance as they carry clothing back and forth. So you approach one on her own down by the river and offer her a year's wage to hand over her clothes and the basket of washing and go find another job, and she's so happy to accept she practically skips away in her shift. You quickly change into the woman's drab and scratchy frock and try to figure out a way to smuggle your flamberge in before reluctantly stashing it under a bush with your cloak.

Sure enough, the guard barely glances at you as you walk straight past him and into the castle. Navigating was trickier, before you stumbled across a winning strategy:

"The Count's chambers are that way, right?"

"No, it's down- wait, who are you?"

Mindhole

"The Count's chambers are that way, right?"

"Yes, they are."

"Thank you."

Mindhole

In this way you make your approach, getting closer with every discombobulated servant you leave in your wake. You even encounter someone carrying a dish who, when you ask about the quarters, asks you to take the Count's evening snack to him. You take a peek under the cover and find some sort of tiny roasted bird. No accounting for taste, you suppose.

When you finally get to the quarters, the guard on the door sees only the tray of food before unlocking it and letting you in. The Count, too, barely looks up from his desk, not even acknowledging you before looking back to the papers on his desk. You walk up to him, place the plate down, and summon up Ulgu to you, drawing energy from the flickering of the lamps. Then you project it out the window as forcefully as you can, and in the distance a shriek of terrifying beauty sounds.

"By Sigmar, is that a griffon?!" you ask, feigned wonder in your voice, and the Count's head snaps around to the window. Unable to see anything - because there's nothing to see, of course - he jumps up, strides to the balcony door, throws it open and steps out.

His cry of terror as you push him over the edge is drowned out by a second illusory cry, which is cut short as the Count lands right in the middle of the full gong farmer's cart that you had the riders park right underneath the balcony.

You make your way back out of the castle again, casually removing the door guard's memories of you as you do so.

[CONSIDERING APPROACH - STEALTH: Roll, Intrigue, 10+12=22. Nope.]
[CONSIDERING APPROACH - DISGUISE: Roll, Intrigue, 63+12=75. That could work.]
[GETTING IN: Req 30, Intrigue, 45+12=57. Smooth as butter.]
[GETTING AROUND: Req 40, Intrigue, 99+12=111. No tracks and a perfect excuse to enter.]
[EXIT STRATEGY: Roll, Intrigue, 87+12=99. Very cunning plan.]
[EXECUTION OF EXIT STRATEGY: Breakpoints 50/80, Intrigue, 68+12=80, RANALD'S GIFT ACTIVATES, +20=100! Literally no traces.]
[LANDING: Roll, 78. Soft landing.]

---

Maksim von Stolpe is a great deal easier.

"Did you hear about the party at Wurtbad last year?"

"I heard wonderful things about it! It's just a shame that I wasn't able to attend."

"My good friend Anton said it was a shame too, and he's extended you an invitation to another party this year. Very exclusive, very few people have heard about it. But it will be soon, so you'll have to leave straight away."

You're more than happy to loan him some bodyguards to get there. No need for him to alert his own staff.

[INVITE BY SUBTERFUGE: Req 50, Diplomacy, 47+9=56. Cordially invited.]

The return trip is long and dull, but straightforward. Judicious application of bribes and Mindhole keep anyone from paying too much attention to the prisoner being transported along the road to Wurtbad.

---

When you get back to Wurtbad, you deliver the two von Stolpes to the Castle - one to the dungeons, one to a guest room - and set off to enjoy some well-earned time off, albeit with regular trips back to the castle to brush up on your greatsword training. You've acquired a truly stupendous base of operations, and you'll be damned if anyone's going to take it from you, so you're going to do your best to make sure that nobody's going to get in and, if anyone tries, you're going to know about it.

The Innkeeper is utterly delighted to accept your offer of friendship. The benefits to her are obvious: complete immunity from liquor excises and a friend with a great deal of power to back her up should any members of the local underworld try to demand protection money. In exchange, she has even more reason to keep you feeling secure in your new dwellings, promising to pass on any information she hears as well as letting you know immediately if anyone seems to be sniffing around. But the initiative she shows in going above and beyond to secure the alliance that dropped into her lap is impressive.

You're securing the door of the shack, reinforcing the hinges and placing a high-quality lock imported from Nuln on it, when she approaches you with a suggestion. She knows most of the neighbours that back onto the alley that your Palace-Shrine is built under, and has approached them all about whether they'd be willing to sacrifice their back doors - for a reasonable price, of course. And each of them agreed. All you had to do was distribute a bit of gold and nobody would object to you boarding up every single door that fronts onto the alley - hell, they'd help do it.

So weeks pass in a blur of hammering as door after door is nailed shut, and to top it off you enlist the help of your former neighbours in bricking shut the mouth of the alley and installing a door. At the end of a couple of months, one building appears to connect directly to the next where the mouth of an alleyway used to be, and only by opening the door would one notice that on the other side is not a building, but a sealed-off alleyway, accessible only by that door or the back door of the inn. And you possess the only keys for both.

With the alley sealed off to all human traffic but yourself, there seems to be more cats than ever hanging about. You say a prayer of thanks to Ranald for your wonderful hidden home as you scratch one behind the ears.

[Befriending the Innkeeper: Roll, 44. No additional effects.]
[Barricades: Roll, 84. Entire alleyway secured.]

---

Van Hal, you're sure, is never going to stop wearing his Witch Hunter's leathers now.

He sits brooding at the head of the table, sorting through paper handed to him without registering any of it. Worried glances go back and forth among the councillors as they pick up on his mood. You share a look with Brother Kasmir, each of you suspecting the source of Van Hal's brooding.

You're soon proven wrong.

Rushing in where saints fear to tread, Professor de Verezzo comes to his feet. "With the injection of capital generously provided by Frau Hochschild, recruitment has accelerated to the point that I expect the Army of Stirland will be at full strength by the end of the year," he drones, looking pleased with himself.

"That is good news," Van Hal says neutrally. Then he draws a pistol and shoots Professor de Verezzo through the forehead.

Everyone sits stock-still as Van Hal places the pistol on the table in front of him, the ringing in your ears eventually fading into the horrified silence you all share. Your mind whirrs, trying to make sense of this. The guards must have been forewarned, you realize, or otherwise they'd be rushing in here. Was this your doing? Was this because you tipped Van Hal off about the Professor's previous crimes? You realize you haven't seen Van Hal around much since you returned from Leicheburg. Was that what he was doing? Seeking evidence to justify this execution?

"I am a man of the world," he eventually says, a touch of sorrow in his voice. "I accept that recompense comes in many forms. I know that no man but Sigmar is perfect. I understand that each of you have loyalties to yourself, to your families, to your gods.

"But if any of you deliberately sabotage the defence of Stirland for your own personal gain, you can expect the same."

He stands, leaving the smoking pistol on the table. "We'll reconvene in the Great Hall in an hour. Brother Kasmir, please see to the remains of this traitor."

---

SKILL ACQUIRED: Fitness (Basic)
SKILL ACQUIRED: Greatsword (Basic)
TRAIT ACQUIRED: Shadowrider
TRAIT ACQUIRED: Blooded
DISCRETIONARY BUDGET ACQUIRED: 150 gold/turn, beginning this turn.
PAYROLL ACQUIRED: Informants and Agents do not require discretionary budget to hire.
RELATIONSHIP IMPROVED: Abelhelm Van Hal.
RELATIONSHIP IMPROVED: Brother Kasmir.
RELATIONSHIP ACQUIRED: Sir Markus von Pfaffbach, Champion of Stirland.
INFORMANT ACQUIRED: Commander of Swartzhafen.
INFORMANT ACQUIRED: Innkeeper next door to your Palace-Shrine.

Discretionary Income: +150g
Embezzlement: -75g
Leicheburg trip: -10g
Return trip: -20g
Leicheburg bribery: -10g
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Net: +45g

Personal Income: +50g
Embezzlement: +75g
Tithe: -5g
Student Loans: -35g
Palace-Shrine reinforcements: -20g
'Buying up' the alley: -40g
---
Net: +25g


Explanation for skills: Basic, Intermediate, Advanced, then they turn into a trait. Crits jump you up the ranking quickly and can give you superior versions of the traits. Using specialized equipment without a skill will cause a malus.

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You have a report to give. Hopefully it goes better than the Professor's.

[] Write in your report
[] Write in a one-on-one report (optional)

Suggest possible orders for the next turn (new ones up top, old ones below):

[] Drakenhof. You almost hesitate to suggest it, but... surely this must be investigated.

[] The disappearance of your predecessor is very concerning, especially since he's actively trying to sabotage the hunt for him. He must be found, and I've got a lead: Julbach.
[] The Stirlandian League is a cancer eating at Stirland's economy, and it must be destroyed.
[] The Stirlandian League is a gold mine of information, and it must be yours.
[] There is a risk of enemy agents infiltrating the castle staff - they must be watched.
[] The castle staff can be a great source of information and first line of defence - they should report to you.
[] Seriously what is up with the East Wing.
[] I've got the budget for a proper network of informants, now it just needs building.
[] If I had proper facilities, I could do better work. Please fund me renovating my secret underground palace.
[] Other (write in)