The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

XIX - The Burden of Conscience

You sleep poorly that night, your dreams haunted by visions of running through a collapsing world while the moon smiles at your suffering. The third time that you jolt awake unbidden you decide to just give up on slumber as an obviously lost cause, instead rising from your bed and using the extra time to wash thoroughly and dress well before the others. It helps, you think, to have something so reassuringly mundane to focus on, and the vaguely intimidated look in the servants eyes when they bring up your morning meal and find you so perfectly composed is a petty kind of pleasure.

"I mean to call upon Guildmaster Magirius this morning," you say to your comrades over a steaming cup of boiled water, watching as they break their fast with a ravenous fervour. Max and Spätin elected to stay with you in the Journey's End, while Elvyra has arrangements of her own she did not care to abandon. "Max, you will accompany me in case there is more resistance to my appeal than hoped for. Spätin, I need you to keep an eye on Elvyra; she is to sell the last of her excess stock at the festival and then call upon the Shallyans, there to provide what aid she can to our fallen comrades before returning here by noon."

"Busy day," Spätin muses, chewing her way through a small dish of chicken eggs prepared in some local fashion you are unfamiliar with, "What of lunch? Dear Terrell did promise to take me out somewhere nice…"

You sigh, suppressing a brief flash of annoyance. You might have set aside all hope of undeserved intimacy in the wake of taking up your calling, but you cannot expect others to be so dedicated in their pursuits, no matter how personally inconvenient it may be. "Then have your lunch after aiding the alchemist, and return swiftly thereafter."

Spätin nods, and you are not blind to the brief flash of surprise or muted gratitude in her hazel eyes. You would have every legal and perhaps even pragmatic reason to clamp down on her movements after she surrendered, but instead you are letting her roam free to set her affairs in order. It is a demonstration of great trust, and one you are hoping will compel her sense of honour to repay in kind.

"I've seen sailors fresh from six months at sea less focused on scratching the itch than you," Max chuckles roughly, making an indistinct yet undeniably lewd gesture with one hand while shovelling food into his mouth with the other, "Must be real uncomfortable in those pants of yours, huh."

"Perhaps I merely wish to savour my final experience with a gentleman before condemning myself to your company," Spätin says archly, rolling her eyes at the pantomime display, "Shocking as it may seem, Max, some of us can think with what lies between our ears, not merely our legs."

You close your eyes and pray silently to whatever god is listening for patience, or failing that for a meteor to fall and rid you of head and headache both. Then, since the gods help those who help themselves, you open your eyes again and press on.

"After I have spoken with the Guildmaster, I intend to seek out Father Sigiwalt for advice on which members of the city guard can be trusted," you explain, "With Magirius' testimony in hand, we will be able to seize such material evidence as necessary to justify placing the ringleaders in custody. With any fortune, this whole affair may be wrapped up swiftly and with a minimum of fuss."

You suspect Ludo Edel will not be pleased to see you going even that far, but he will understand the necessity of action once the guildmaster is in hand. Even the most conservative of minds will understand the need to act before the commencement of a grand ritual of uncertain purpose, even if they do not credit the hand of the great enemy behind it. So you hope, in any case.

"Right, right, but what if I happen to meet some sweet young thing en route," Max says gamely, "And she's offering to take me out for a nice time somewhere with a little privacy…"

Not for the first time, you consider shooting everyone in this room. A shame you only have two pistols.

-/-

The headquarters of Bögenhafen's merchants guild is, in a word, tacky. There is a point at which ostentatious wealth crosses even the most generous of lines, and with its gold-inlay floors and marble desks encrusted with coins and comets the guildhouse clearly passed it long ago and kept going regardless. The major merchant families of Bögenhafen don't even use this place for their business, preferring their own properties elsewhere in the town; no, this is for the aspirational kind of merchant, the one who pays through the nose for an office on the ground floor and surrounds himself with signs of the extravagant wealth he needs to impress his supposed status upon all who come and go. Even the staff here have the feel of ludicrous expense, parading around in professionally tailored uniforms that likely cost more than any of the people wearing them make in their yearly salary.

Still, no matter what you think about the guild and its taste in decorations, right now it pays to be discreet. You leave your weapons and armour with Max, doff the broad-brimmed hat, and enter the guild at a brisk pace with only a friendly nod to those who cross your path. Everyone who sees you en route to the guildmaster's office - itself immediately obvious due to size and elevated position - assumes you have business with someone else already here, and so nobody even questions it until you are knocking on the door and letting yourself in. Magirius is already inside despite the early hour, slumped behind his desk with a half empty glass of wine and his fine clothes already in disarray.

"I believe I was quite clear," he says slowly as you enter, enunciating every word with painful precision, "that I was not to be… oh."

You cross the room without a word, glad to see that he recognises your face and what your arrival in such circumstances likely means. It saves a lot of time when you don't have to explain yourself, and one never suffers from setting the stage accordingly. Only when you are standing directly in front of him, looming over his desk, do you speak.

"Who are they planning to sacrifice, Frederich?" you ask, and the guildmaster's eyes go wide.

"How did you…" he starts, before his jaw snaps shut and a look of chagrin comes over his features. Then, a moment later, he sighs and slumps further in his chair. "Well. No point in denying it now, is there? I just… it wasn't supposed to be like this. Nobody was supposed to get hurt."

He sounds defeated, and more than that he sounds remorseful. You feel a brief flicker of satisfaction at seeing your guess confirmed, for there was never any guarantee that Magirius was the wavering soul that Spätin overheard, but you know better than to let it show on your face. For this, only the most stern and implacable of moods will do. "Start at the beginning."

"It was Franz's idea, Franz Steinhäger," the guildmaster says tiredly, too dispirited to do anything except comply with your command, "Not that I can claim to be uninvolved, nor any of us really, but he was the initiator. He went on a business trip to Altdorf, about three years ago now, and came back with an ally and a plan to change our fortunes forever."

"This ally," you lean in slightly, "Tell me about him."

"Hm? Oh, Franz calls him Gideon, a young man with some real potential, gave him a job as his personal assistant. None of the rest of us really know that much about him, but he's the one who really knows how all the magic works," Magirius shakes his head, chuckling briefly at his own foolishness. "We all knew he wasn't a real wizard, I think, not from the Colleges, but it was easier not to ask. Easier to assume that he'd just stolen a legitimate ritual from them that we could use for our own advantage."

You nod sternly, filing that thought away. The ability of a man to embrace delusion in the name of his own comfort is a very human one, and so too is it among the most powerful foes your order has ever faced. There is a vast sea of grey that lies between the mundanity of one's everyday life and acts of undeniable witchcraft, and it is all too often easier to simply pretend not to notice when something beneficial begins to approach the far end of that comforting expanse.

"The ritual," you say, not moving from your spot, still looming over the guildmaster at his desk, "how was it meant to work?"

"I don't understand the technical details, but as Gideon explained it, the purpose is to twist the lines of fate and desire that lead to Bögenhafen, to ensure that all one desired can be found here, and all one brought would find those that wanted it," Magirius explains, shaking his head. "You must understand, to a merchant's mind such a thing makes clear, almost intuitive sense - so much of commerce rests on predicting supply and demand, so to know for certain that any good you shipped here would find a willing buyer? Even a mediocre salesman could profit handsomely from such guaranteed fortune."

For a moment you are tempted to lambast the blind greed of these fools, that they did not seek to question why such a gift could exist unused by those who knew more than they… but then, you suppose to a merchant that too makes sense. Of course any land that chose to benefit from such magic would hide the source of their new fortune, so as to preserve the comparative advantage they now enjoyed. Indeed, to a particularly suspicious mind the mere existence of a prosperous trade hub could be taken as evidence of such magic at play, especially if it endured fits of ill fortune that might have ended the prosperity of another town.

"And the Ordo?" you ask instead, focusing on the practical details, "You were sincere when you claimed no magic was being wrought by its meetings. Were the others fooling you?"

"No, no… well, not about this, at any rate," Magirius shakes his head again, more firmly this time. "The ritualism of our meetings served all the purposes I explained to you… but it also encouraged people not to be surprised by our preparations for the singular work of magic we had planned. When the work was complete, we of the inner circle would stand to benefit above all others, for we alone would know to prepare for our coming fortune and could advise our juniors in the lower ranks accordingly."

Hm. If he is telling the truth, and given his evident feelings of doubt and defeat you think it more likely than not, then that creates an interesting wrinkle in this case. Centuries of legal wrangling by the Colleges and their various clients have established that merely benefitting from the working of magic is perfectly legal, and thanks to the Van Hel debacle even obvious works of darkest sorcery do not void that protection. If you wish to prosecute the members of the Ordo Septenarius, you will need to establish that they knowingly intended to perform forbidden magic, themselves, in violation of the Articles and all associated law.

"I assume Franz Steinhäger is the leading magister of whom you spoke," you say instead, taking a piece of parchment from Magirius' desk and claiming his quill for your own, "Which means that there are six other members of the Inner Circle besides yourself. Give me their names."

Magirius hesitates at that. "I… understand you must do your work, Lord Bruner, but… we truly did not intend for anyone to get harmed…"

He is wavering, but not yet committed. You have seen men like this before, tormented by conscience but unwilling to face the full consequences of the law, still seeking some neat solution that will allow them a path out of the grave they have dug. Perhaps, if you were a hardened zealot, you would browbeat and threaten this man until he gave you what you need, but at times like this you find the velvet glove every bit as useful.

"Cooperate, Master Magirius, and it is yet possible that nobody will be," you say in a steady tone, your voice a beacon of reassurance and certainty to a man in desperate need of both, "There will be a price to pay, but as prosecutor I have wide discretion on what charges to press and what penalties to seek. For most, financial and political penalties may yet be appropriate - only Steinhäger and Gideon, the two who orchestrated this knowing the lives it would cost, need suffer the full weight of the law."

Markus tests charm! Difficulty is easy (+40) due to Magirius' desperation, so skill is 91. Roll is 80, success.

He doesn't believe you, not entirely, but now that same trick of human psychology works in your favour; in his uncertainty, Magirius chooses not to question what seems to be his good fortune. He gives you the names of his conspirators, and at a slight bit of prompting, signs the written copy you set before him and affixes his personal seal as well. Now you have his testimony, signed and sealed, that the members of the Ordo Septenarius' inner circle planned to perform an act of ritual magic in knowing violation of the law.

You don't need to honour your implied promise, not by any law, but you are not the kind of bastard to offer salvation with one hand and then stab the man who seeks to take it. Neither, though, are you required to leave these people with anything more than their lives and the shirts upon their backs, once the courts are through with them. In the eyes of many of their fellow merchants, such a penalty might well strike more terror than a burning in the public square.

"You did not name Johannes Teugen," you observe as you tuck the paper away in your jerkin, "nor Heinrich Steinhäger. Are they uninvolved?"

"Franz detests them both," Magirius says with a sigh, shaking his head, "Teugen, for being more successful, and his younger brother for daring to question his ability to lead the family. He would not consent to any plan that might benefit either man."

There is, you think, something quietly reassuring about that sort of petty spite. It is always nice to be reminded that the villains you are dealing with are human. The real question is whether or not this 'Gideon' is anything of the kind, but you can hardly ask Magirius that. He would hardly have baulked at human sacrifice while tolerating the active involvement of a daemon.

"The ritual is to be held tonight at midnight, when the Schaffenfest comes to a close," Magirius offers, sitting up straighter now in his chair, his resolve strengthened by the decision he has made, "I do not yet know the location, but Franz has claimed he will send word once it is prepared. When I know, I will send word to you. And then, well…"

"Then we shall do as we must, Master Magirius," you say, sternly reassuring in a way that briefly and uncomfortably reminds you of your own father, "You are doing the right thing. Do not allow yourself to lose sight of that truth."

With that final platitude delivered, and spending a moment or two just to be sure nobody was listening at the keyhole or otherwise spying on the meeting, you bid the guildmaster farewell and make your way back outside. Max awaits you on the far side of the courtyard, your armour and weapons piled neatly by his feet.

"Take it you got what you needed?" he asks, chuckling to himself as you don your armour once more.

"I did," you nod, grimly satisfied, "I trust all was quiet here, or at least amusing?"

"Oh yeah. Funniest fucking thing - the merchants have got halflings working for them, right, and I saw one of them walking around with a writing table strapped to his head. Apparently their job is to be nearby whenever some fancy coinpurse wants to sign a missive at short notice," Max explains, shaking his head.

"And… such treatment of the halflings amuses you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow as you strap your pistols back across your chest. You cannot claim to have any friends from among the mootfolk yourself, but that is no cause to mock them.

"Oh, it's not them I'm laughing at," Max grins viciously, "It's the stupid bastards giving them a front row seat to all their finest deals and every motive to miss in the ale. Some cunning little bastard is going to steal the shirt off the merchant's fancy backs, and they are going to hear me laughing in Middenheim."

You've no idea if such a route to vengeance and riches truly exists, but then you suppose Max has you at a disadvantage in matters of spiteful profit. Since it hardly concerns you in any case, you choose not to respond, simply leaving the town centre behind and heading back north. You have a list of the inner circle and soon you will have the opportunity to catch them red handed performing forbidden magic; all you need now is enough muscle to be sure of the arrest, and for that your best bet is contacting Father Sigiwalt for his perspective on which of the town guards can be trusted. High Priest Edel will need to be informed of your intentions as well, of course, but in matters such as this it is better to have all the pieces set up before you commit to the game, lest your observers seek to quibble over the details.

Something prickles at your awareness as you and Max reach the waterfront, and without a moment's pause you turn on your heel and draw the pistol from your belt. Sure enough, the pair of stevedores following you freeze at the sight of the readied weapon, the heavy boat hooks in their hands hanging awkwardly as they try to decide how to respond.

"You lads really don't want to roll these dice," you say in your firmest voice, "Walk away, right now."

"Ah, fuck," Max mutters from behind you, and when you chance a look back over your shoulder you have to strangle the urge to add a curse of your own. More of the stevedores have emerged from nearby warehouses and alleyways, eight or nine of them in all, each brandishing heavy hooks or weighted clubs as they fan out slowly to surround you. One of them, clearly the leader, is the same man who delivered the threat to you on the far side of the river yesterday.

"Walking away ain't really an option," he drawls, stiffening the resolve of his underlings even as he joins the slowly tightening circle and onlookers hurry to clear the area, "You were warned, and we know who our friends are. Get 'em, lads."

Despite the command, nobody is keen to be the first to charge. You stand back to back with Max, drawing your second pistol as he readies his blade, and consider the slowly closing noose of brawny men and rangy women that mean to end your investigation here and now.

"So," Max says casually, his laconic ease barely covering the core of tension in his voice, "What do you reckon? The mouthy one first?"

"As good a choice as any," you murmur, and as the nearest of the dockhands finds his courage and begins to charge, you throw yourself into motion.

This is the fundamental principle of an ambush: one side sets the terms, and the other side dies. You have no interest in fulfilling the latter role, and so as the stevedores close in from all directions with weapons ready, you turn towards the lanky form of their leader and you charge. The pistols in your hand roar one after the other, shockingly loud even against the bustling backdrop of the waterfront, and the enemy staggers beneath the twin hammer blows of impact. Max does not wait to see if that is enough before finishing the job with a running slash across the throat, and in the span of an instant you have punched through the closing cordon and won yourself a moment's reprieve.

Unfortunately, a moment is all you get, as before the boss' corpse can even hit the ground the nearest stevedores are swarming you like bees, the hooks and clubs scything in from all directions. You fend off one blow and then three more in quick succession, twisting and turning to keep your heavily armoured arms between the weapons and your vulnerable flesh and grunting as each thuds home, but you are not the only target here and Max lacks your professional's training. You don't see what happens, at first, but the ragged edge of his scream cuts through the air like a knife, and when you glance across you see him falling to one knee, his back laid open to the bone by a stevedore's hook.

"Fuck," you spit, all eloquence lost as you dive across the mere paces that separate you and snatch up the sword falling from your ally's suddenly limp hand, "Come on, you bastards, and I'll send you all to Morr myself!"


For the briefest of moments your would-be killers hesitate, the sight of their leader's corpse and a templar in full fury enough to induce a stirring of doubt, and in that moment you draw your silvered sword in your other hand and lunge. Two of them are within reach, and before the first can recognise his peril you smash aside his arm with one blade and unzip his gut with the other. He falls, a wet gurgle of incomprehension his only eulogy, and when the second darts in to deliver a glancing blow to your thigh you grunt and decapitate him in reply.


Three men dead now, one by pistol and two by blade, a third of your attackers slain in exchange for a single glancing blow. Max lies moaning on the ground behind you, maybe dying, maybe crippled, but these common men and women do not see him. They see only you, the Templar of Sigmar, with bloodied swords held ready and the light of judgement in your eyes. They see you, and they know fear.

You take a step towards them, and half the remaining assassins break and flee in a single instant, running for the imagined safety of the wharfs and piers. Of the three that remain, one takes a faltering step back and trips over a loose coil of rope on the ground, screaming first in shock and then in pain as your sword flicks out to carve a bloody line across her outstretched arm. The others advance, closing in on you from the right and from the left, and for a moment it is all you can do to keep your life in the face of their frenzied assault.

You grunt as a club smashes your sword down out of its guard, the sheer force of the blow enough to make your arm ache even through the parry. You snarl as a boat hook bites into your shoulder and pulls away most of your leather sleeve as it withdraws. Near misses both, but today that is all you need, and as you fend off the murderous assault the sound of furious shouting and shrill whistling fills the air and you smile.


Summoned by the sound of your gunfire, a patrol group of the Bögenhafen town watch is charging along the waterfront, fully armed soldiers forcing their way through the milling crowds with barked orders and bludgeoning fists, and the sight of reinforcements is too much for the remaining assailants to stomach. They break and flee, sprinting away as fast as their legs can take them, and with a slow sigh you lower your blades and allow them to run.

"Still alive, Max?" you ask, stepping back away from the corpses and sheathing the weapons before anyone in the arriving force can leap to the wrong and also very painful conclusion.

"Fuck you, you poncy git," Max groans, dragging himself up onto one knee before giving it up as a bad idea, "Oh sweet Shallya this hurts…"

"Dead men don't swear at people," you say, shaking your head and stepping away to greet the arriving guards, "so I reckon you'll be fine."

-/-

"His back's completely fucked," Elvyra Kleinestun says bluntly, stepping back from the bed and shaking her head like a disapproving old mother hen, "Whatever hit him tore through three or four muscles at least. Until they heal, he'll scream like a baby whenever he tries to move."

Laid out on the bed, his jacket and shirt carefully pulled away to expose the bleeding ruin of his back, Max groans in pain and something very much like despair. "Don't say that, you old bat… come on, there must be some kind of potion or…"

"Shut your trap, you blithering idiot, and be glad none of them got properly severed," Elvyra clucks her tongue, "I can give you something for the pain, but you're on bedrest for at least the next month, assuming you ever want to move again."

Stood near the door, you fold your arms and grind your teeth together. Your own injuries are mostly superficial, though the torn arm of your leather coat will create a weak point until you can get it repaired or replaced, but you know enough anatomy to understand Elvyra's concern. It isn't a matter of willpower or endurance on Max's behalf; back injuries like this will make it physically impossible for him to move with enough agility to be worth anything in a fight, even if you could somehow account for the agony such efforts would put him through.

"Gods damn me for a fool," Max groans, letting his head fall onto the pillow and biting back what sounds like a sob, "Every time, every fucking time I get my life together…"

"Oh boo hoo," Spätin says in a caustic tone from her position by the wall, "You going to fall to pieces because you took one bad hit? Man up, you little bitch."

"Spätin, enough," you say sharply, stepping forwards, "Max, listen to the doctor and rest. Elvyra, do what you can for him. And, before I forget - the others, in the hospice?"

"They'll live," the alchemist sniffs, "They won't enjoy it, but another day or so will purge the last of the infection from their system, with a little help from my own remedies. They'll be up and about again after that."

You nod stiffly, pleased and frustrated at the same time. That your comrades who stood against the daemon will live is reassuring, but that they will not be ready in time to interrupt this ritual tonight leaves you dangerously short handed. Reaching Father Sigiwalt in the north part of the town right now is a dangerous prospect, especially since you have no guarantee that your enemies cannot stir up yet more armed ambushers to make life difficult for you, but you have few other options unless you wish to appeal to Edel and Teugen and lose what control you yet have over this investigation.

"You two, remain here for now," you say at last, turning towards the door, "Spätin, come with me."

The witch grumbles a bit at that, but thankfully does not object outright. She is displeased by this whole affair, especially since it seems bound to ruin her desired leisure time before the final night draws in, but she understands the necessity of her presence even so. With Max down and your other allies an uncertain distance away, you cannot afford to let the duellist leave your side.

The common room of the Journey's End Inn is filled to bursting, even now in the early afternoon, and the air is thick with the sound of rumour and speculation. Plenty saw you arrive earlier with an injured comrade in your arms, and more have heard of the attack down by the waterfront, but so far you've been discreet enough in your investigation that nobody knows quite what you're doing here or who might be seeking to stop you. Nor is anyone courageous enough to ask, not even the innkeep who eyes you nervously as you approach the bar.

"I need one of your staff to deliver a message for me, to Father Sigiwalt of the Chapel of Blessed Sigmar," you say tersely, "A written missive, which they are to see into the priest's hands and none other."

"And another," Spätin chimes in from behind you, ignoring your baleful look, "to journeyman Terrell, who will be waiting outside the Silver Platter. I need to reschedule our meal."

"Aye, milord, we can do that. There's some of the local boys that run messages for us, I can vouch for them," the innkeep nods soberly, his mutton chops quivering slightly with the motion, "Oh, on that note, one of them dropped off a message for you just a few minutes ago. Left just as quickly, didn't even wait for a tip."

Frowning, you take the small missive he hands you, opening it and scanning the contents within. As you expected, the paper bears the stamp of the merchant's guild on the upper corner, clearly written in haste on whatever was to hand.

Article:

My friend

I need to see you urgently. My house lies on the Adel Ring. Come with haste.

M

-/-

Whatever wealth and privilege that being the Guildmaster of the merchants of Bögenhafen provides, it is clearly not enough to elevate Magirius to one of the absurdly luxurious mansions you witnessed during your last visit to this district. Instead, the locals direct you to a small but elegant townhouse near the very end of the ring, where a neatly organised garden seems doomed to fall far short of the splendour of the nearby public park.

"So, what do we do if this priest of yours can't get the goods?" Spätin asks, hanging back as you knock on the door, "Because I don't rate your chances of finding some honest lawmen in a town like this all that high."

"If I have to, I'll find a festival crowd and whip up a lynch mob," you say darkly, in no mood for her needling questions now, "It will be ugly and the High Priest will be very upset, but better that than human sacrifice and forbidden magic go unopposed."

Spätin has no chance to reply to that as the door to the townhouse opens and a neatly dressed gentleman in an almost stereotypical butler's outfit peers out at you. "Yes? Oh, you must be the templar. Master Magirius told me to expect you. Please, come in - the master is in his office on the first floor."

Nodding briskly to the servant, you step past him and into the house. Magirius is a bachelor, it seems, and while his servant clearly tries to keep his residence in good shape, there is still an air of benign neglect about the whole place that makes you wonder how much time the guildmaster actually spends in his own home. Still, you are not here to critique such things, and so you climb the narrow staircase and enter the small library and office that waits for you at the top.

Sprawled across the heavy wooden desk, Frederich Magarius lies dead, his throat sliced neatly open with a chirurgeon's expertise and his fine vestments soaked in blood.

"Sigmar be with me," you mutter, drawing your silvered sword and turning back towards the staircase. There, standing on the bottom step, the elderly butler smiles at you with genial amusement.

"You really should have listened," he says, serene and unbothered even as Spätin draws her rapier and rams it through his heart, barely even twitching with the impact, "But I suppose it hardly matters now. The dam is built and the flood waters are rising. Flee to higher ground, or stay behind and drown. Isn't free will a marvellous thing?"

Then, before your very eyes, the thing wearing the face of a kindly old man dissolves into purple fire and boils away to nothing. Spätin steps back next to you, her eyes hunting wildly for a target and her sword held ready, but as one heartbeat after another passes you realise that the creature has elected to take its leave. Keeping your sword held ready just in case, you step back into the office and approach the guildmaster's corpse.

Magirius' face bears a strange look of surprise and desperation, and when you tip his body back into an upright position you see that the blood is still wet and the body still warm. He was clearly slain mere minutes ago, given no chance to escape or even understand what had happened, but more interesting than that is the scrawled series of letters and numbers marked in blood across his desk.

WHSE 13

"W…H… Warehouse?" you murmur, reaching out to close the dead man's eyes, "Warehouse thirteen. I see. Thank you, Magirius. May Sigmar show mercy and Morr welcome you into his garden."

"We've got a problem," Spätin growls, peering out the small window at the street beyond, "Fucker summoned reinforcements."

For a moment you feel an icy pit forming in your stomach, but when you join the duelist by the window the half-expected horde of daemons is nowhere to be seen. Instead there is only a full squad of town watch running towards the house, breastplates gleaming and a richly attired officer in the lead.

"But why would he…" you murmur, briefly surprised, and Spätin shoots you an incredulous look.

"He's framing you, idiot," she bites out, shaking her head in disgust, "Guildmaster's dead, and there's nobody here but a mad dog of a Templar to blame for it. Half the guys in the watch probably owe their careers to merchant patrons, you think they'll blink at making you disappear?"

You suspect they will, for you are a templar and a noble and Spätin has yet to fully understand how much leeway that can buy, but then the Ordo don't need you dead in order to achieve their goals. They just need you tied up in trying to assert your innocence and sidestep a formal trial for long enough to conduct this ritual, and if they are willing to go this far to see it done, you can only assume the truth of it is far less benign than poor Magirius believed.

If you run now, you can likely make it out the back door and escape over the wall before the watch arrive, but… will adding the appearance of guilt to your name really make things any better? Either way, you need to make a decision, now.

Article:

How do you wish to proceed?

[ ] Confront the Watch
You will seek to use your authority, your evidence and your sheer force of will to prevent the watch from imprisoning you (or worse). Perhaps you can even turn it back on the daemon and its mortal dupes, and so gain new allies for the fight to come.

[ ] Flee the Scene
You will escape out the back door now, and return to your original plan of contacting Father Sigiwalt and other, more reliable souls for aid in what is to come. Hopefully you can smooth this all out later, but you cannot afford to waste time now.