The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

XXV - Downtime

When you were a young man, not even a score of years beneath your narrow belt, you found in your heart a fondness for what the more elitist of your peers would refer to as 'slumming it'. Walking among the lower classes as one of them, tasting the pleasures of a less regimented life and escaping the confines of your own for a few fleeting moments, brought with them a sense of connection and adventure that little else has ever matched. You never truly wished to shun your heritage as some others would, always content to return from your jaunts and take up your rightful place among the elect, but neither do you deny the pleasure or the wisdom that your experiences granted. They are part of who you are now, as sure a foundation as the stones beneath your feet.

It feels almost perverse to return to such childish pastimes now, thoroughly unfitting for the man you have become, but then perhaps anything would. Your life is less of a spectrum than that of other men - you were a child for a time, and then you became a templar, and the transition between the two was as sharp and irrevocable as the blade that parts the flesh. General Wälder has forbidden you the templar's calling for a time, caring for the man beneath the mask with the same meticulous care that a soldier shows for their blade, and if you cannot be a templar then what else do you have?

You stay in Altdorf for your enforced convalescence, collecting your wages from the temple and purchasing a small set of rooms down near the riverfront, where the songs of drunken sailors and the stench of stagnant water fill the air at all hours of the day. Work is easy enough to find, even setting aside your education and acting in ways that hide your breeding, for you are broad shouldered and strong, and your face lends itself well to a menacing air. There is always a need for men like you, and soon enough you find yourself falling in with the stevedores, who load the ships and rule the riverfront with the same lengthy hooks. The work is hard on the body and often long enough to fill your mind with idle thoughts, but there is precious little of the fear and danger that have filled your more recent years.

At first it feels wrong, especially when you find yourself enjoying the work and the company that it brings with it. How can any god-fearing man shun his obligations in favour of such mindless ease? Yet you have been ordered to do just that, and you understand the concerns that drive Wälder to demand it, and so you push past the initial reluctance and apply yourself as best you can, and soon enough you see the benefits. It is pleasant, and almost shockingly easy, to simply sink into the comfortable embrace of the daily routine; to rise with the dawn and greet the day with no greater plans, to labour alongside your peers at the directions of your managers, to go drinking with them in the evening and meander home at night, and then rise again to do it all over again the very next day. No greater plans, no overarching ambitions, just a slow and gradual process to reconnecting with your roots. Part of you always railed at the slothful indolence of the common folk, the wilful blindness with which they seemed the regard the horrors that you knew were abroad in the world, but having experienced the life they live for even a matter of weeks… yes, you can understand. It is pleasant to live like this, to set aside your cares and your ambitions, and if one knows no better can you truly blame them for seeking it out?

It doesn't last, of course. Peace never truly does. In your case, reality finds you one warm summer night in the depths of a riverside tavern, surrounded by your fellow stevedores. The night is still young, the mood still that strange mix of tired and jubilant which always overtakes labourers after a tiring but tolerable day, and with your back to the wall you find it easy to listen through the window to the agitator in the street outside. He's been going on for some time now, enough that you're actually slightly impressed at his stamina, ranting without cease about some noblewoman down near Nuln who had a rival murdered at a party and escaped all consequence by having the charges dropped. What righteousness is there in a law so easily escaped and inconsistently applied, the agitator demands, and in truth you find it difficult to provide a compelling answer.

"Ey, Markus," Joachim, a wiry fellow who resembles nothing so much as a stick figure with great hams stapled on in place of arms, grabs your attention with a quick rap of calloused knuckles against the table, "You not really list'n to that guy, are you?"

"Guess I am," you reply, shrugging easily. "He's talking… well, he's not wrong. Just wanting to see if he's got some answers to go with the rumbling."

"Dangerous thing, you know," Joachim shakes his head sternly, frowning like an old wise priest might at the temple, "If he ain't giving you answers, means he's just stirring up trouble. Probably got a fish on his skin."

"Really? Never was my favourite food," you grunt, making a show of turning away from the window and back towards the others. The Fish are one of Altdorf's biggest gangs, and have a reputation for supporting and affiliating with the more radical and revolutionary of the myriad political sects. As a stevedore, you're expected to side more with the Hooks, who grew out of your profession and pride themselves as law-abiding pillars of the community (and deserving of appropriate respect and compensation).

Still, you can't help but notice that Joachim didn't say the man was wrong. Nobody is, in fact - from those listening raptly to the ones just trying to go about their day, nobody seems to regard the notion that a noble could murder someone with impunity as in any way implausible or exceptional. They just don't think that ranting about it in the street is going to change anything, or if it does that it would be worth the risk of speaking out. The rule of law and the bonds of the community are at the very heart of Sigmar's teachings - could they truly have grown so weak and rotten in the empire without you noticing? And if that is truly the case, what are you going to do about it?

Your ruminations are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a newcomer at your table, a barrel-chested fellow whose shadow falls across the entire group all at once. There's something about his bearing that reminds you of a sausage, one of the cheap ones sold by the enterprising on the corner of any busy Altdorf streets; too much meat and gristle packed tight into a too tight package of waxy skin, all of it threatening to burst out at the lightest touch. You almost don't notice the neatly pressed uniform that marks him out as the servant of some noble or overly pretentious merchant.

"Looking for Markus," the ruddy-faced stranger growls, studying your group with a pair of beady black eyes, and enough of your fellows react in just the right way that his gaze soon lands on you. "Need you to come with me, sir."

"Really? Shame, that," you say easily, raising your flagon in demonstration, "Because I'm not planning to go anywhere for a while yet."

"Best you be moving on, bud," Heinz chuckles, though there's an edge to his normally jovial tones as he looks up at the stranger, as there always is when a stranger comes calling for a friend by name, "Old Markus here likes to savour his drink, so he does. He'll be an hour yet I reckon before he's even finished with that first mug."

"Wasn't really a question," the stranger grunts, still looking at you and ignoring all others. There's something vaguely contemptuous in his eyes, but also a note of confusion, as though he was expecting something else and has been disappointed by the reality. "It's a family matter."

You pause at that, then set the flagon down on the table. The man isn't wearing the livery of your family, but you suppose this isn't exactly a terribly salubrious sort of establishment; he may well have been instructed to remove anything that would bring the von Bruner name into further disrepute before entering. "Well, then I'm definitely not going."

The walking sausage sighs at that, and without a further word of argument reaches out and grabs you by the shoulder. He clearly wants to drag you to your feet and then out the door to meet whichever one of your overly fussy relatives it is who sent him in here, and so he is just starting to smile when you rise at his bidding and slam your flagon of ale into his chin. The blow is sends him spinning back and around with an almost balletic grace to crash headfirst through the surface of the next table over, and at the loud and distinctive sound all other conversation in the tavern grinds to a sudden halt.

"Like I said," you say into the quiet air, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

For a moment it looks like the messenger is going to rise to his feet and continue the dispute, but then he finds someone's foot pressing down on his back as one of the men at the next table stands up and turns to face you. He's a big looking fellow, with the scars and wind-weathered skin of a professional soldier or mercenary, and the front of his doublet is currently dripping with freshly spilled ale.

"You spilled my drink," he says with a kind of fragile calm, glaring at you as his comrades rise to their feet in turn, "Apologise."

Behind you, you feel more than hear the rest of the stevedores getting up as well, and in the background the barkeep groans and starts making hasty gestures at his staff. You could still defuse the situation, you know - play off the incident with an apology, maybe buy the aggrieved man a new drink to make up for it.

"My mistake," you say, rolling your shoulders and setting your stance, "Only, I figured a dog would be happier licking his drink up off the floor."

The mercenary is silent for a moment, blinking in shock at your audacity, and that buys time for the stevedores to break into laughter and begin making little barking noises. Then, when comprehension comes and the other man lunges for you with a roar, it is the simplest thing in the world to slam a fist into his gut and send him down to join the messenger. Another mercenary lunges forward with his fists held high, Joachim intercepts him with a flying shoulder tackle, and just like that the brawl is on.

It doesn't last long, the tavern's bouncers see to that, but even a minute or so of joyous violence is enough to sate your appetite and work some of the lingering unpleasantness out of your mood. You make no real protest when the staff bundle you and the others out of the door, just laughing as you mark off another tavern that you probably can't go to after work for at least a week or so, and with all manner of back-slapping and boasting you and the other stevedores band together and begin making your way down the streets to a more welcoming establishment. You'll probably have a bruise or two come the morning, but that is a small price to pay for a fair bit of fun, and in the back of your mind you make plans to look into one of those fighting pits that Heinrich mentioned the last time you got into a proper dockside brawl with one of the teams from across the river.

Then you notice the horse-drawn carriage rolling slowly down the street after your little group and such thoughts flee with all dreams of a relaxing evening.

"Just remembered something I need to take care of back at the market," you say cheerfully to the others, shrugging off their hands and shaking your head at their drunken entreaties, "Go on, I'll catch up in a few minutes."

You think Joachim sees through your little deception, but despite eyeing you warily for a moment or two he chooses not to make a point of it, and soon enough you are wandering down the evening streets of Altdorf alone. You wait for a minute or two, just to make sure nobody else is about to approach, then draw to a halt and wait for the carriage to roll up alongside you. Sure enough, it stops in just the right place to hide you from the rest of the street, and with a soft click the door swings open.

"My, my," a familiar voice says, laden with exasperated fondness, "They told me you had changed, but I truly did not believe it. You truly have fallen on hard times, brother."

"...Maria," you say curtly, turning to face the carriage and trying not to acknowledge the sudden skip in your heartbeat. Your younger sister has, it seems, become the woman she was always destined to be - tall and graceful, her skin as smooth and pale as marble, her hair a waterfall of raven black. It is only the mischievous glimmer in her pale grey eyes that recalls the hellion you were raised beside. "What brings you to Altdorf?"

"You, obviously," your sister scoffs, looking you over from head to toe and in teasing disdain, "Though it seems I might have saved myself the trouble and grabbed the nearest thug off the street. What did you do to the man I sent in to get you?"

"He's fine," you say shortly, and even Maria's raised eyebrow of surprise is not enough to elicit further commentary. On some level you know it is improper to be so curt with her, for she deserves better than this from her elder brother despite all that lies between you, but you can't help it. You have been enjoying your rest, and your sister reappearing after so many years can only mean it is about to come to an end. "What do you want?"

"I want you to come home," Maria says, catching sight of your expression and rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh, "Not like that, you sentimental berk. I need you to come back with me and help to settle our father's ghost."

The world tilts beneath your feet. "What?"

"Get in and I will explain," Maria says primly, and what else can you do but comply? The interior of the coach is far more comfortable and well appointed than the hired versions you have become used to, and where you might normally expect fellow travellers here there are only a pair of handmaids. You assume that is their purpose, anyway, having never particularly concerned yourself with the staffing requirements of the fairer sex. They slide away as you enter, leaving you all the room you need to take a seat on the bench opposite your sister. "Thank you. That said, there is less to explain than I might like. Ever since… Well, ever since that day, the family estate has been haunted. Strange noises, sourceless voices, a sense of dread… truly, melodrama worthy of that hack Detlef Sierk."

You nod shallowly, hardly paying attention to the details. That the dead can rest uneasily in their graves is a simple matter of fact, but all your training and all your faith tells you that it should not be happening here. Your father did not die well, you cannot even begin to pretend at that, but at the very least he should have died pure. The pyre ought to have seared any lingering taint from his immortal soul, else why even employ it, but if his spirit remains despite that then…

"What of the priests?" you say, forcing yourself to set aside your fears for now, to be the man your sister needs you to be. The carriage is back in motion, you notice, but you don't have the time to care about that now. "Surely they should have been called."

"Rikard will not hear of it," Maria thins her lips in disapproval, "With father dead and you disinherited, he is head of the family and maintains authority over the estate. Mother moved back in with uncle less than a month later, and one might think my words written without ink for all the attention she pays them when we correspond."

You nod shallowly, hardly needing to ask for the obvious. The last time priests visited your family home, they burned your father and took you back to the temple with them. You can well believe that Rikard would reject any notion of allowing more across the threshold out of hand, for all that the priests of Morr and Sigmar are clearly distinct in their nature and demeanour. "And… does Rikard know you came to me?"

"Obviously not," Maria sniffs, "He would have a fit at the mere idea. I thought him unnecessarily childish in the matter, but I must say I am beginning to suspect he might be right. I had assumed you took up a priestly vocation of some sort, for whatever reason you cared to concoct, and instead I found my elder brother nothing more than a drunken thug sitting in a dockside tavern. Really, Markus, even without your inheritance one might have assumed you retained a little pride."

"I am a Templar of the Order of the Silver Hammer," you say sharply, bristling as a hedgehog might when confronted by a hornet's sting, "You simply found me on leave from official duties for a time."

"Ah, yes, I have heard such excuses before," Maria scoffs, "Tell me, what embarrassment did you bring down on your superior's head to be shuffled out the public eye with such alacrity? Get caught bedding one of the choir boys, perhaps?"

"I saved Bögenhafen from a malign plot," you say through gritted teeth, resisting the urge towards rueful affection at such nostalgic commentary, "and spilled my blood banishing the daemons that wove it. I am recuperating."

Maria stares at you for a long moment, then allows herself a smile. "Well. After all of that, a simple exorcism ought to be no trouble at all."

"I… you…simple?" You sigh, shaking your head and sitting back on the bench, "Oh, I give up. Have the driver pass by Frederickstrasse so that I might collect my equipment. If I am to be dragged into this, I shall do it well armed and in proper attire."

"Of course," Maria says with a pleasant smile, "We'd hate for anyone else to think you had become a drunken thug."

You don't know why you missed her, really.

Article:

Markus is returning home for the first time since he was a teenager. It is, however, a long ride back to Ubersreik. Choose one topic that he will ask Maria about on the way.

[ ] Rikard
Your little brother is now head of the family. How else has life changed for him since you parted ways? Does he still hate you?

[ ] Maria
Your little sister has clearly grown up, but what else has happened in your absence? Has she studied, taken up a hobby, found a husband?

[ ] Ubersreik
You've heard little of your hometown since Karl Franz sent in the army and removed the Jungfreuds from power. How is the city these days? Does Maria have any insight into why the Emperor might have acted as he did?

-/-

In addition, choose one of the following topics that Maria opts to quiz you about, and quite insistently at that.

[ ] Your Marriage Prospects
Specifically, your lack thereof. Maria finds it shameful that you have yet to wed or even start making plans towards that end, and sees no harm in interrogating you at length on your failure and the ways that she might help you rectify it.

[ ] Your Career
It is not enough to simply 'be a templar'. Your sister demands that you know where you are going, the allies that are going to help you get there, and the perks that await when you do.

[ ] Your Work
Maria has heard many stories of the templars, and regards you as a fine source of guidance in sifting truth from fiction. She is uncomfortably blase about the prospect, as if it were mere entertainment.