The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

XVII - Setting the Board

A templar's training covers many diverse disciplines, and what to do when you suspect someone might try to silence you and your allies is among them. The first step is to find new lodging; a fortified redoubt would be ideal, but failing that a public inn in a prosperous part of town is generally a good fallback option. Hired assassins will avoid fights they are not being paid for, while murderous fanatics often find operating in well-lit and properly secured areas of town more trouble than it is worth. Neither will be held off forever by such paltry measures, but if they opt to try a roadside ambush or bait you into a trap instead, that still works out in your favour.

Finding such an inn is challenging, especially given the glut of custom from the Schaffenfest, but after a few enquiries you find a room at the Journey's End Inn that has just been vacated. The innkeep charges a gold crown to keep the room free for your use until the end of the festival, an excessively high fee by any measure, but one you are willing to pay in exchange for promises to keep the staff out under pain of death until you've departed.

Josef is less receptive to the news that you'll be moving to new accommodation, and especially objects to your request that he move the barge elsewhere and give up on the rest of the festival, but you are insistent. It was already a mistake to return to the Berebeli for that first night, and now there is someone or something out to silence your contacts and perhaps even strike at you directly, and you cannot in good conscience risk Josef and his staff in such circumstances. The old man grumbles mightily about it, but ultimately it is the potential risk to Gilda and Wolmer's baby that sways him, and he agrees to take the barge on a quick run to a nearby settlement for a few days instead of hanging around in Bögenhafen indefinitely.

"You know," Max says thoughtfully as you watch the barge pull away from the wharf and head out onto the river, "I figured the old man was just an old contact or something, but you really care about him, don't you?"

"Josef is one of my oldest friends, and in my youth was something of a mentor," you say honestly, turning to face him, "Why, is it so unbelievable that I could have such things?"

"Kind of?" The legbreaker shrugs, holding up his hands in mock surrender, "Not saying anything strong, like, but you're still a witch hunter. Didn't think folk like you had much use for friends and shit. All grim faces and steel souls and such."

"A templar is blessed if he possesses an iron will and steely demeanour, for both will serve him well," you allow, turning your back on the river and setting off into town, "Yet if that becomes the whole of him, he ceases to be a champion of the people and soon becomes just another monster to frighten one's children. I aspire to more than mere iron-handed butchery. Now come - our work is not yet done."

-/-

Bögenhafen's Temple of Shallya hardly seems deserving of the term. There are no pews, no altars, no great works of devotional art or archives of sacred writings, only a small central office and then a pair of oversized wings filled with infirmaries and almshouses for the homeless and terminally ill. You're given to understand that Mother Rubenstein holds her religious services in the courtyard, and during times of inclement weather schedules more than average to give the faithful a chance to prove their devotion. It seems a strange way to run a faith to you, but the people of Bögenhafen seem to approve, so you suppose the revered mother knows what she is about.

You find Adhema in the infirmary, midway through getting the bandages around her leg changed. The wound is inflamed and clearly infected, leaking yellow-green pus that the volunteer assisting her wipes away with a grimace, and the infection has set in deeply enough that the merchant's skin is flushed and beaded with sweat. Still, she seems to recognise you when you stop by her bed, which is perhaps more than can be said for some patients here.

"Hey there, Templar," the merchant rasps out, lifting a hand in a limp wave. "You know, Ma always said all those dreams of adventure would be the death of me. Guess she was right."

"You did Sigmar's work yesterday," you say firmly, a faint worm of doubt gnawing at your inside, "Now your duty is to live, and in time recover. I have need of your testimony in court, and Sigmar needs brave souls like you to make his empire great."

"Ha. Well, I'd hate to disappoint," the young woman manages, closing her eyes as the attendant finishes tying the fresh bandage in place, "I'll… see what I can do."

Ozzy Banbury, when you find him, conspires to somehow look even worse than his companion. The Shallyans have moved him to a private bed at the far corner of the infirmary, and there is a heavy wooden bucket next to his bed filled with something you really don't want to look at too closely.

"Oh, it's you," the halfling groans as you approach, his face pale and blotchy as autumn clouds, "Piss off, longshanks. Leave me in peace."

"Mind your words, Master Banbury," you say sternly, stopping a good few paces away, "You yet have a duty to perform."

"Oh, what're you going to do, Templar, kill me twice?" the halfling lets out a breathy little chuckle, "Piss off already. Gods, I was a fool to listen to you…"

He convulses, then, grabbing for the bucket with the desperation of a drowning man, and rather than stick around to observe the process you elect to beat a dignified retreat.


Mother Rubenstein is busy attending to other patients when you find her, but you are content to wait and eventually she is able to make some time for you. Unfortunately, her grim expression tells you what to expect before she even opens her mouth.

"Your companions both suffered open wounds in some of the least sanitary conditions I can imagine" she says, pursing her lips in distaste, "The human may pull through, or she may not. The halfling is almost certainly going to die. We can make them comfortable, but we lack the specialised resources here to effectively treat them."

"...I see," you say gravely, "Is there no method available? I was given to understand that your infirmary received considerable donations from the worthy of this town, the Ordo Septenarius among them."

"Oh, aye, we receive donations," the Shallyan says caustically, "Enough to be seen as doing their part, not enough to risk harming the numbers in their precious ledgers. If they cared as much as they claim, then the poor districts would not have open-air sewage pits near their wells, nor the poorhouses only unsold bread. And that useless wastrel Edel might as well be sucking merchant cock before the altar each day for all the good he does."

"That is… uncommonly vitriolic, for one of your profession," you say as diplomatically as you can.

"Bah. Get those silver-tongued sisters out here to do my job, and we'd see how long their good mood lasts," Rubenstein snorts, shaking her head, "Now, away with you. I have work to do, and so do you."

-/-

There's no bridge across the river Bögen, only a single ferry run by a cantankerous old man that everyone else in town is apparently content to put up with. Those on guild business get free passage, while outsiders like you need to pay a shilling per trip, and since you already sent away your only other form of river transport you just have to grit your teeth and pay up.

The north side of the river holds Bögenhafen's poorest district, densely packed with crumbling residences and the few businesses that the people here can afford. The locals are as filthy and run down as their settlement, and they glare suspiciously at you as you pass, or perhaps more accurately at the finely tailored clothes that mark you out as richer than anyone else present.

"This is a bad place, boss," Max mutters in a low voice as you make your way through the tightly packed streets, one hand on the hilt of his sword, "We stay here too long and someone'll jump us for the leather in our boots."

"We won't be here for more than an hour," you reply tersely, keeping your own hands ready to draw as needed, "I just need to speak with the priest."

Nobody present is going to tell you a damn thing, you can tell, but fortunately finding Father Sigiwalt turns out to be fairly straightforward. You simply head for the densest concentration of people and the loudest set of voices, and there in a muddy square that might have once been a small field you find two teams of a dozen men brawling over a battered leather ball. You'd be tempted to call the watch, but for the way that the brawl has attracted an audience of close to a hundred men and women, all of whom are roaring encouragement and swearing oaths at the people fighting over the ball. This is, it seems, some form of organised sporting event, and a few moments of observation finds Father Sigiwalt in the middle of the crowd roaring loud enough for three men. Someone taps the priest on the shoulder as you approach, and when he looks over at you his withered face curls back in a sneer.

"Well, how about that," he scoffs, shaking his head and folding his arms as others nearby turn to look in turn, "What's wrong, lapdog? Ludo's table scraps not to your liking?"

You draw up short at that, grimacing at the blatant disrespect showed, but you expected something of the kind and are determined not to let pride compromise your duty. "I am not your enemy, Father Sigiwalt, and whatever your dispute is with the High Priest I neither have nor want any part in it. I merely wish to do my duty."

Markus makes a Hard (-20) Charm test. Skill is 31, roll is 29, narrow success!

Sigiwalt grimaces at that, but after a moment or two relents, beckoning you to follow him as he steps away from the crowd and off to one side. There's only the barest illusion of privacy here, but at least the roar of the sporting event means you are unlikely to be easily overhead. "Very well, templar. I take it you've heard the official version?"

"I have," you nod, "and I have arranged for a formal inquiry and trial to be held in five days."

"Hah! A formal inquiry, very good," Sigiwalt shakes his head, all but radiating amused contempt, "You know they'll cover for each other, right? Even those that aren't in the Ordo are friends and business partners with the ones that are. They'll strangle your trial in the crib before it gets anywhere near a verdict."

"They will try," you say simply, "I know of a meeting tonight that I mean to observe. What I need is witnesses and testimony to anything else they have been doing. If the evidence is there, I can make the charges stick regardless of their supposed allies."

"Justice would be a glorious thing to see," Sigiwalt chuckles, shaking his bald head, "Alright, templar, we'll try it your way. I can find staff and servants that have stories to tell, about what they've seen or the colleagues that have gone missing since. Some of them will do it just for the rare pleasure of seeing the inside of a courtroom."

"I will make their efforts worth it," you promise, nodding sharply, "But watch yourself, priest. At least one man who I meant to call as witness has suffered a fatal accident already. I would hate for you to join him."

"Hah! Don't worry yourself, milord," Sigiwalt grins, cracking his neck, "Any cutthroats come looking for ol' Sig, they'll find I've a few friends of my own."

You spend a minute or two discussing the details of what kind of evidence you need, then shake hands and part ways once more. On your way back to the river, you find yourself reflecting at length on Sigiwalt's manner, and what it must mean to preach the word of Sigmar to such poor and downtrodden people. Does he counsel them to find their place in the grand scheme of things, you wonder, or is he one of those torch-bearing fanatics stepping up the very limits of the law in their rhetoric and deeds?

"Eyes up," Max snaps suddenly, stopping and drawing his sword, "We've got company."

You've reached the waterfront by now, the sluggish waters of the Bögen barring all onward passage, and from the narrow streets and decaying houses nine heavyset men and women have emerged to form a loose ring between you and the rest of the town. They wear the rough, practical garb of dockworkers and stevedores, and every last one of them has an ugly look in their eyes and something heavy and dangerous clutched in their hands.

"Afternoon, milord," one of them says, a lanky fellow with the pockmarked scars of some old infection across his face and neck, "got a message for you, we do."

"Do you now," you say quietly, leaving your weapons sheathed as you look slowly from one thug to the next. You've a keen nose for trouble by now, and something tells you that violence isn't what these people have in mind, at least not just yet. "Well, let's hear it."

"Bögenhafen's not safe for the likes of you," the stevedore says with an unpleasant grin, "Might be best if you left town, sooner rather than later. I hear Altdorf's nice this time of year."

"You are brave men, to threaten a Templar so," you say, still calm, still focused as you memorise one face after another, "or perhaps you are simply fools."

"Threats? Oh no milord, perish the thought," the thug chuckles, shaking his head, "We're just civic minded folks, passing on a friendly bit of advice. You take care now."

With that final mockery of courtesy, the band of dockworkers turns and disperses back into the slum, disappearing from view almost immediately. You watch them go, then shake your head and sigh. As if being stalked by demonologists isn't enough, now you must contend with two-a-penny thugs as well.

-/-

Markus makes a challenging Gossip test, skill is 51, roll is 40, pass.

Finding two souls in a bustling market town of any size would always be challenging, let alone a town like Bögenhafen at the height of its annual festival, but you persevere. You have their names, descriptions and occupations, and perhaps more relevantly you have the advantage that most people want to keep you happy and also far away from them. With these tools in hand, you set about tracking down the other two adventurers who faced the daemon in the sewers with you.

Friedrich Audobahn has, it seems, already left town. According to the witnesses you spoke with, the road warden all but bullied his way onto a caravan heading south earlier this morning, casting increasingly furtive looks back over his shoulder during the negotiations. Most assume that he crossed some local gangster or slept with the spouse of someone prominent and vengeful, but you have your own suspicions and can only offer a prayer to Sigmar for his safety.

Fortunately, your other compatriot is still in town. You find Spätin in the festival grounds, emerging with a look of bemused frustration from a tent advertising the services of 'Mystic Margret', and when the duelist sees you approaching her expression goes through several strange contortions before ultimately settling on rueful humour.

"You two again?" she says, chuckling and shaking her head, "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Could ask you the same, lass," Max says with a lecherous smile, "Thought you'd be in bed with that apprentice with the sculpted arms by now. Don't tell me he's that much of a quick shot…"

"Pig," Spätin snorts, shaking her head. She doesn't seem offended, though, which given the rapier she wears at her narrow waist is likely a good thing. Max is a fine legbreaker, but you doubt he'd enjoy anything approaching a proper duel. "We've arranged a private dinner, if you must know, and I'm looking forward to it."

"Oho, not bad, not bad," Max chuckles, rubbing his hands together, "That why you went to see the mystic, then? Want some advice on whether this is the one?"

"Hah! Even if I did, this one's a fraud," Spätin scoffs, "Real good at reading people, not a drop of magic in her."

"How could you tell?" you say, speaking up for the first time, and Spätin freezes for a moment as if she'd entirely forgot you were there.

"Well, stands to reason, don't it?" she says with a slightly strained laugh, rubbing the back of her head with one hand. She wears her hair short, you notice, and from the crude cut likely does it herself with a dagger and a handheld mirror. "If she were a real witch, she wouldn't exactly be advertising now, would she? Not with folks like you around, all tall and dark and menacing."

Markus tests Intuition, skill is 47, roll is 42, bare pass. Spätin scores a bare pass as well, but has a lower skill. Markus wins the tie.

In the span between one heartbeat and the next, the pieces come together. Spätin's confidence in her judgement, her interest in the fortune teller and the golden apprentice, the sense of foreboding she felt when you approached the temple in the sewers. There's nothing decisive there, no irrefutable evidence, but the picture they paint is enough for your gut and you've learned to listen when your instincts speak.

"You know," you say carefully, "Rumours aside, we don't burn everyone who might be a witch. If she were an… unsanctioned spellcaster, then I'd take her to the Colleges in Altdorf. I wouldn't harm her."

Spätin pauses at that, her dark eyes narrowing. Then, very casually, her hand drops to the hilt of her rapier. "Well, I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear that. If it mattered. Thing is, though, maybe she doesn't want to go."

Max opens his mouth, then pauses as he picks up on the sudden tension in the air, looking warily from you to Spätin and back again. "Uh… boss, you want to…"

"Why not?" you say quietly, studying this young woman who stands before you, this possible redemption for your father's failure, "Hypothetically speaking."

"I don't know what that means, but if we're talking maybes, well, there's all sorts of reasons," Spätin drawls, rocking slightly on her heels as if preparing to lunge or flee, "Maybe she just doesn't feel like it's a good deal. You know, signing away your life like that, agreeing to join the army and such, and all for some bastards who hate you. Could be loads of reasons, you know?"

The duelist - the witch - watches you carefully, and you watch her in turn. This is your chance, your one window of opportunity. You cannot, will not, forsake it.

Article:

What do you say, to persuade Spätin to admit what she is and join the colleges? There will be a charm test involved in this, but better arguments (according to Spätin's own judgement) will give bonuses or perhaps even automatic success.

[ ] Write in

MORATORIUM IS IN EFFECT.

Due to an earlier vote, Markus considers the prospect of bringing an apprentice to the colleges to play some role in redeeming himself for his father's death. He desperately wants to succeed here. Vote accordingly.