Hour of the Wolf (WHF)

[X] The Elector-Count

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The forest stretches out as far as the eye can see as you rise on invisible wings, trees both venerable ancients and supple valets rendered minuscule by your height and shrinking with every passing moment, the sea of skeletal branches and clawed limbs below you forming grasping hands reaching up as if to cast you down. Lit by the sun fixed in the sky, the forest is dreamlike as you continue your ascent; no fear from your sudden predicament percolates through your breast despite the impossibility of the events. Silently, wordlessly, the logic of a dream compelling and soothing you in equal measure, you rise higher and higher until the forest below becomes a painted floor, all detail lost to the grandeur of your altitude.

Calmly, you look down, and the ground beneath your feet turns transparent as your eyes settle upon it, your gaze penetrating wood and loam and soil and stone; through the buried graveyards of vanished species, down through the hellish glow of some substance you have no name for, and then on again. Still staring downwards, you look up through stone and mud, through oceans whose surfaces churn with grey peaked waves and lands adorned with inverted beasts that waddle and croak and roar, and creatures that walk as men do but resemble lizards; through the star-pierced mantle of night and into the endless dark. Dizzyingly far below, floating languidly, constellations you've never seen before shine on men and elves and dwarves and other beings, a glance revealing the dome of the sky shading from peerless blue to sable-black as if it were all just a painted sphere. Unhurried, you look for Mannslieb and find it by its familiar face, the celestial body backlit by the milky glow of the great band encircling the mortal world.

Turning away from the sight—acceptance of the impossible flowing through you—you look to the west at the behest of some unvoiced thought, over screeching beastmen, fractious goblins, and shadows that, even as you are, you cannot and will not peer into. Dimly, a tug comes from over the greatly extended horizon, and all at once, you begin to move through the sky, the ground slipping past beneath your feet as if you are nothing more than a passenger in your own body. Despite this, no panic blossoms in your heart, an imperturbable stoicism holding fast your heart.

On and on, you soar, some unseen hand guiding your motion through the air until the forest below thins to reveal snowy ground that, in turn, gives way to fenced-in fields and walled villages. Without warning, a road appears ahead of you, the dark line cutting a path through the pale expanse of snow from horizon to horizon, backstopped by the rising Silver Hills; some hidden insight telling you Salzenmund lay mere leagues away. Suddenly, your flight shifts south, and the rolling peaks retreat below the dark line of the horizon once more, all knowledge of Salzenmund vanishing from your mind along with them. Turning to face your fate, the land beneath you blurring from your speed, you feel a muted sense of wonder burst to life in your heart as the horizon line thickens and swells in a matter of moments, a vast plateau leaping up from the mortal earth and rising to meet the sky.

Fauschlag, some nascent knowledge whispers as you hurtle towards it. First Strike. Ulricsberg. Middenheim.

Crowned by leaping towers and bedecked with clinging spires, dark specks swarming all over it, the truncated mountain rushes closer and looms larger with every passing moment, your approach a headlong plunge towards the steep-sided walls of a flag-topped tower. As the sparrow does to the farmer's fields, you all but dive towards it, a thrill of fear traipsing up your spine as the specks resolve first into dots and then into people, the bustling, swarming populace of the City of the White Wolf carrying about their lives as you descend towards them faster than an arrow. Helplessly, some strange force keeping you from looking away, you can only watch as the building grows ever nearer and nearer and nearer and-

There's a flash of black and a brief impression of resistance as you plunge through the building's bricks unimpeded, an instinctual blink clearing your vision and revealing you to be standing at the centre of a well-appointed room; dark timbers surrounding you and a fire crackling merrily in an impressively carved fireplace, the yellow-black hide of some spotted beast hanging from the wall below a pair of crossed handguns, and countless paintings hanging from the wall. Another blink reveals that you are not alone; two men seated in oaken armchairs and steadfastly ignoring you, one reclined and the other fidgeting in place.

No, you think through your dreaming stupor. They aren't ignoring you; they cannot perceive you.


Free to examine them up close, you immediately mark the fidgeter as not belonging to these well-to-do surroundings; the man's clothes, though better than any you can afford, well-worn and besmirched by the signs of amateurish repair, their practical cut out of place in the building's rich interior. Likewise, you note the signs of life harder than any mere merchant would experience, the callouses on the man's palms and fingers and his wiry figure speaking of days spent doing manual labour. Young, brown-eyed, and dark-haired, the impression is only helped by the furtive glances the fidgeter gives the room's contents, a hunger burning behind his eyes as if fighting the urge to grab what he can and run.

Meanwhile, seated in stark contrast, the other man is exactly what you would picture if ever you were asked to describe a merchant prince, his healthy figure filling up the handsome chair and hard grey-blue eyes flashing beneath a steel grey beard. Wearing a burgundy doublet adorned with golden buttons and white pants so bright they seem to shine—a black velvet cloak and hat hanging from a coat rack in the room's corner—the larger man exudes wealth and confidence, his stillness disconcerting next to his partner's constant motion. As you watch, he gestures vigorously and, without a sound, a smartly dressed manservant appears beside him as if from nowhere to deposit an ivory pipe into his hand—the servant's face turning to the light and revealing a fine-boned man whose blonde hair shines like gold and whose blue eyes seem to glow with an inner light.

Taking a draw as the manservant withdraws—the pipe's grey smoke twisting sinuously in the air and the haze deepening—the large man speaks, his voice as large as his figure.

"Speak, man, and speak quickly." He says thunderously, his accent well-mannered and distinctly Nordlandish, a pall of smoke spilling from his lips.

"All is proceeding as you have commanded," the indistinct figure opposite replies a shade too quickly, his local accent strained by his nasal voice.

"Oh?" the subject of his deference responds, a quiver sweeping through the man at his arch tone.

"...M-mostly, I mean, sir. There is a man in the watch—higher up than we can afford—he has begun to ask questions."

"I see," the merchant says as he takes another puff, a curlicue of smoke winding its way over to the other man; the acrid tobacco smoke assaulting your sense of smell with stinging pain.

"Kill him."

Shuddering in place—from shock or to avoid coughing, you cannot tell—the wirey man manages to gasp out. "Kill?"

"I did not stutter, did I?"

"B-b-but we cannot," the brown-haired man sputters, his hands spasming in his lap like two spiders fighting. "The low kings- the watch will- the Graf find out. It will risk your cargo."

Pausing to take another puff from his ivory pipe, the finely carved figures of men, women, and beasts dancing as smoke throbs through the air, the burgundy-clan merchant lets out a long sigh and sinks further into his chair.

Watching from beneath his beard, his eyes unreadable as they track over his counterpart's face, the merchant's voice drops to a low rumble. "You think me brutal, do you not?"

Wordlessly, the wealthy man's counterpart stares, his eyes bulging and Adam's apple bobbing furiously.

"Well, I am," he concedes lightly before the other can reply, a hard smile crossing his face. "To my enemies, I am the image of a chaos-spawned devil. However, to my friends—friends such as yourself—I am as just as Verena, as generous as Rhya, and as unyielding as Ulric. Mastering this dichotomy is how I came to afford-"

He gestures to his surroundings, the pipe in his long-fingered hand carving a trail in the air.

"All that you see around you, starting from where I did. In this business, one needs to master both sides of oneself to succeed."

Finding himself on steadier ground, his partner swallows loudly and speaks again. "This, ahh, business?"

"The business of making crowns, man!" The merchant replies with a huff, a sharp gesture spilling ashes in the lap of his ire's target. "No one, not the lowest criminal or the highest noble, will get in the way of making money without answering for it, my good man."

"Besides," he adds a moment later. "My little songbirds tell me we needn't worry about the count's eye much longer if things continue."

"We don't?"

"No. It seems Bertholdt and his whelp have other matters on their minds than the fate of a single watchman—no matter how high he may be. I know not what distracts them, but it is a blessing from Haendryk nonetheless."

"And the low kings?"

"Are of no concern to you."

Dismissed by the man's words, you once again begin to move, the fog of dreams settling over you as you rise on invisible wings. Mere moments later, you drift through the ceiling and leave the pair behind, the harsh stink of tobacco holding in your nose for a heartbeat. Unlike before, you do not suddenly appear at your destination. Instead, you float up, unhurried, through floor after floor and building after building, vignettes of city life crossing your vision as you ascend Middenheim's quite literally stratified society. Here, filthy children play in the cobbled streets; there, washerwomen scour stains from dirtied clothes; elsewhere, boisterous merchants hawk goods out of shop windows, each one a glimpse of another life as you pass by invisible.

Drifting through the streets, you blink as the figures around you accelerate in their motions, men, women, and children blurring into phantoms as they rush through the streets. A heartbeat later, they vanish from your sight altogether, and the quality of the light dappling the still streets starts to change. Looking skyward, you watch in wonder as the sun leaps from horizon to horizon, the cycle of day and night flashing by even as the nights grow longer before your eyes. As quickly as they began, the flip-flopping days come to a lurching halt, people snapping back into focus as you drift over the streets, snowbanks piled high on the cobbles, and mid-winter sunlight pouring down from above.`

Unresisting, you continue your dreamlike flight almost lazily, the lives and buildings you glimpse growing richer as you venture towards what can only be the Graf's palace. Unhurriedly, you float through the court's grand walls without resistance, the arcane sigils hidden beneath their surfaces—invisible to others but visible to you—remaining cold as you float by bored soldiers, harried staff, and exquisite statues. As you approach what you somehow know to be the heart of the palace, you notice that the faces of the workers unwittingly rushing past you gradually turn drawn and pale, a subtle but electric tension filling the air and raising gooseflesh. Your glacial thoughts lingering on the passing staff, it takes you several moments to notice the gilded doors that loom ahead of you and the steely-eyed men guarding them, their black lacquered armour gleaming darkly and the wolves draped over their shoulders snarling silently.

White Wolves.

The thought strikes like a drop of meltwater on the tongue, a crystal-cold clarity emerging from within your fogged mind and weakening the cloud's hold. Shaking your head as if to clear water from your ears, you almost miss it when you pass between the armoured knights and through the doors into darkness. As your eyes adjust, you realise you're floating in a bedroom large enough to fit your old cabin three times over with room to spare despite the blanket-covered furniture scattered about the place. Illuminated by a solitary candle placed on the dresser and dominated by a shadow-clad bed, the apartment's air feels foreboding and unwelcoming; no hint of the sunlight outside is allowed to penetrate the room's heavy curtains.

Before you can wonder what you're doing here, a quiet whimper pierces the still air and the shadows on the bed stir. A moment later, quite literally, you find yourself standing beside the bed, the shadows resolving into a supine woman, her swollen belly visible beneath sheets and her face pinched tight. Unbidden, a shade of shame creeps through your mind despite your fogged mind as you look down at the sleeping woman, the wrongness of your unwilling voyeurism needling your soul. Silently urging your legs to carry you elsewhere, you moue through the much-reduced fog as you remain resolutely still, a subsequent attempt to turn away leading to similar results.

Then, just as you start to consider screwing your eyes shut, another moan splits the air, and compassion compels you to look; your eyes settling on the splotched face of a woman in pain. Pushing past your discomfort with some difficulty, you lean over the richly dyed blue and red sheets and peer through the dark toward the unknown woman, the Rience-trained part of your mind taking careful note of every drop of sweat that prickles her brow, every dark spot of blood beneath her nostrils, and every leaping heartbeat visible in the jolt of the vein on her temple.


With a lurching heart, you realise you've never seen these symptoms in this combination before. You have, however, heard of them.

Though by no means well versed in women's secrets—their hardwon scraps of knowledge jealously guarded—your medicinal herb garden granted you a unique relationship with Roslas' midwives and wise old women. Needing a variety of plants for their own medicines, knowledge of things ordinarily left unspoken had passed between both parties during chatter both idle and vital alike.

Named Hard Pulse by the black-clad women who swooped and tittered around Roslas like crows, it is a vicious beast that afflicts the heavily pregnant with all manner of ailments; nosebleeds, facial flushing, headaches, and weakness were some of its kinder symptoms. Many months pregnant, this woman—whoever she was and whatever she meant to the Graf—was struggling in its grasp. Watching her toss in bed as dispassionately as you can, your shame vanishing beneath the weight of your duty, you note with some irritation the weals running up and down the woman's arms, the familiar sign of bloodletting rankling somewhat.

Almost the right idea, you think, examining the wounds. But excessive. The body has already expelled excess blood and brought the humours into balance. What this woman needs is rest and relief from pain, not this ill-thought-out re-destabilisation.

Pausing your examination, you trawl through your memories of the scant times you'd seen this same illness before nodding. Valerian and Graveroot, you think with some hesitancy. In her state, the latter herb must be prepared as a draught and heavily thinned with water to avoid harming the babe growing within her. Still, it would grant her much-needed respite.

"Phlebotomists," you mutter scornfully.

The woman's eyes snap open.

Bloodshot and raw, the grey-blue pools bore into you with a fury, and you jump backwards almost instinctively. Raising your hands as if to ward off a blow, an apology already on your lips, you freeze as you realise that it's not you that she's looking at.

"Boris," she says in a ragged whisper, her voice almost spent.

She wets her chapped lips and tries again. "Boris."

Shocked at her awakening, unsure if she can see you, you do nothing as something stirs beneath a nearby pile of blankets, a yawning boy—no, you correct yourself as you peer at him, a man—appearing in a riot of orange hair. For an instant, the man's face, Boris's face, remains smooth and unmarked, his handsome visage full of youthful vigour and two warm brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. Then he catches sight of the woman, and pain writes itself into his expression, a burst of motion bringing him kneeling to her side, his feet bare despite his other finery and silent on the polished stone floor.

Gingerly, Boris presses his lips against her sweat-slicked brow. This time, you look away. Some things should be private.

"Maria," you hear him whisper as he clasps a wasted hand in a meaty paw, his voice soft as summer rains. "Maria, my love."

Ashamed of witnessing this moment, it brings no small relief when you feel the fog of dreams cloak upon your mind—its removal seemingly no longer required—and the ground beneath your feet drifts away. In mere moments, you ascend through the bedroom's ceiling and the room beyond that before punching into the air above the palace, sprawling many-levelled Middenheim stretching out before you and surrounded by a ring of clear land flanked by primaeval woods; the mighty roads through the dark forests rendered into thin lines by the twin vipers of distance and scale. Waiting patiently, you find yourself rewarded when the quality of the light shifts and the now-familiar turning of the sun resumes, the blazing spit of fire becoming a lightning-like line etched into the sky. However, this time, Soll's chariot does not stop after a few moments, the strange passage of days instead stretching on as it continues its maddeningly swift journey through the sky.

Watching, you see for the first time in your life as the field of snow stretching over the land swells and contracts as snow falls, melts, and falls again; the image of a great and terrible ice beast breathing in and out popping into your mind. Almost imperceptibly, the gradual rise and fall take on a new dimension as progressively shorter melts follow each building up, the days slowly but surely growing longer until it is early spring. As soon as the thought springs to mind, black dots suddenly swarm down the rods and head for the city, first small dribbles, then whole floods arriving at its gates, your mind slowly ticking over as you struggle to interpret the strange sights assailing you.

Now what? You ask yourself as the vast majority of dots congregate at the base of Middenheim's sprawling bridges, the arc of light above you dimming until the Soll stands unopposed.

On cue, a roar rolls up from nowhere. Looking up from the swarming dots, their motion still inscrutable, you frown despite the soft gauze covering your mind as a black mass appears at the edges of the ancient woods and spills into the plain like blood from a wound. Ever onwards, the sweeping tide comes, its numbers without end and its members so densely packed that not a blade of grass is visible beneath their feet. As it approaches, the thunder accompanying the army shifts in volume and intensity, the wall of noise assailing your ears remorselessly even as its elements become as distinct as instruments, your heart freezing as you finally recognise the sounds.

The clatter of weapons clutched in claws.

The thunder of hooves on stone.

The howl of blood-drunk beastmen.


You awake with a start, a rain of half-remembered horrors and fleeting visions falling from your eyes as you force your eyelids apart. In fits and starts, consciousness returns, a soot-stained roof resolving before you and revealing your supine posture, your healer's bag lying beside you and fatigue still permeating your mind despite your rest. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dark, sensation returns in the form of a pleasant warmth suffusing your limbs, your unhurried thoughts interrogating the scraps of dream you retain while your wolf lies quiescent.

Why did I dream of those things? You wonder glacially, maintaining your stolid vigil. As memories of beastmen and merchants fill your mind, you frown. What did I dream of?

Unsurprisingly, the world does not answer your questions. Instead, the sound of early morning life rises to greet your ears, the soft babble of passing voices mixing with the thunk of someone chopping wood and mournful dove cries. Still half asleep, you speak before you can stop yourself. "Roslas."

"Ehh, what's that?"

The woman's voice pierces the quiet sharp as a gunshot, her age-wearied tone sending a jolt of surprise through your body and kicking your mind into alertness. Startled by the unseen speaker, you make to prop yourself up only for the dull warmth pervading your body to turn to claws of steel and curl through your muscles, the involuntary gasp that escapes your lips more a horse's nicker than a wounded man's cry. Seemingly no stranger to such things, the voice rings out again.

"Wait!" It commands unnecessarily, your brief foray seeing you crash back down atop the straw bedding.

Floorboards begin to creak as the speaker approaches, a turn of your head revealing a bony old woman standing only a few feet away; her timeworn face narrow and her flinty eyes hard.

Gods save me, you think as recognition sparks, the familiar figure clutching her shapeless shawl tight as she stomps closer.

"Well, s'not bloody likely, is it?" She replies behind a curtain of stringy hair, her gruff words and thick accent sending a grimace across your face as you realise you must have spoken aloud.

Unphased, she continues. "If the gods'll save anyone, I doubt it's gonna be a wastrel like yerself, don't ye think?"

You needn't bother answering her question. Accidentally doing so was a beginner's mistake, and the ancient woman—old enough that no one still alive could recall her last name—had already delivered enough tongue-lashing to last you a lifetime. Not wishing to ensure another, you do your best to nod before glancing down to see your clothes—though torn and pierced—were still there.

"Irma."

"Kazimir."

You grunt. "Kasled."

Rolling her eyes, Irma waves a wizened hand through the air. "Whatever."

Making to rise as she tromps closer—her heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor—you freeze as Irma plants a hand on your shoulder and pushes down. Still exhausted despite the cradle of unconsciousness, your limbs still shaking, you find yourself unable to resist the pressure exerted by Varrel's herbalist, the strength of one bony arm sufficient to press you against the mat roughly.

"Sit down, child," she commands in a rasp. "And stop moving, lest I give ye something to complain about. The state ye were in, it's a wonder ye awoke at all."

Ignoring her words, you return your gaze to the ceiling and grunt again. "I'm in Varrel."

"Yes, boy," she replies as she kneels beside you, her tone arch. "And I'm a herbalist. Ye've met me before. Try to keep up, will ye?"

Pausing only to gesture sharply, she speaks again. "Palm."

Sparing the woman's outstretched hand a sidelong glance, you allow her to grab your arm and raise it towards a flickering candle without protest, heat prickling your skin as she examines the broad limb for Shallya-knows-what. Ignoring the urge to snap at her for her terrible manner, you allow her to peer at your palm with beady eyes and wait without patience as they flick from side to side.

Why could this town not have a proper healer? You ask yourself as Irma mouths something under her breath, the woman biting her inner lip and glaring at your palm.

The closest thing Varrel has to someone like yourself, the old crone's methods were strange and set your nerves on edge as few other things did. In any other town, you thought, she'd be one of those doddering old codgers who lurk on the outskirts of town and mutter under their breath about spoiled milk while giving passersby the evil eye. In Varrel, however, her bitter remedies, foetid unguents, and sharp tongue had kept generation after generation of Nordlanders alive despite the dangers of living so close to the Forest of Shadows; her personality a torment they were willing to inflict upon their neighbours in exchange. As Roslas' only healer, you'd often been forced to interact with her during your occasional visits and thus been the target of her ire many times.

"Ye'll live," she says after what feels like an age, something uncomfortably close to disappointment poisoning her tone as she stands with an ease that belies her age.

"Though," Irma adds, plucking a coarse black hair from her sleeve, "ye should spend less time with dogs. You'll get fleas."

Within you, your wolf perks up, its hackles slowly rising as it stares through your eyes.

She doesn't know; you comfort it, not hiding your long-suffering tone. Rest now. There will soon be need enough for your teeth and claws.

Cooing as it returns to dormancy, you swallow thickly. "What happened?"

She shrugs. "How should I know? Ye're the one who nearly up and died."

"Now get up," she adds before you can reply. "You're taking up half my floor, and I don't want to waste it on rakes like ye."

Refraining from answering back, you obey, a huff escaping you as you gingerly rise to your feet, vertigo assailing you for an instant before fading away as you steady yourself against the rough timbers of the cabin wall. Shutting your eyes and pressing your thumb and forefinger against the bridge of your nose, you suck down a lungful of air to steady yourself before a coughing fit bursts through your chest as you catch a whiff of something pungent and malodorous. Covering your cough, you look up to see Irma standing by a cauldron in the centre of the single-room cabin, the black steel pot squatting over a stone-enclosed fire and white steam pouring from its bubbling contents. Illuminated by the crackling flames and what little muted sunlight makes it into the cabin's interior through gaps in its walls, the cantankerous woman looks positively malevolent.

Ever tactful, you decline to comment and instead peer into the cauldron.


"A healing unguent?" You ask as Irma stirs the yellow paste with surprising vigour, the beeswax base spitting and frothing as she beats a half-dozen different herbs into the mass with a wooden spoon and mutters under her breath.

And a powerful one, too, you add silently as another inhale brings tears to your eyes, the woman unbothered by the stench though she stands amidst the steam.

"Aye," she says flatly. "Good nose. We've a mighty need ever since yer lot arrived the other night."

At her words, the last of sleep's shroud drops away, memories of your desperate chase and the subsequent battle in the woodcutter's camp arising to replace it in your thoughts. A heartbeat later, you find yourself swaying on your feet, Irma peering at you suspiciously.

"Ye ain't gonna fall again, are ye?"

She pauses her frantic stirring to add a pinch of dark powder from a pouch tied to her belt, the substance streaming from her fingers and staining the bubbling wax a deep red.

"If ye do, I ain't gonna catch ye."

Forcing yourself to stop, you pump your head up and down, the gallinaceous motion the closest you can get to a nod.

"Good," she replies as she returns to the cauldron. "Now, if yer not going to fall, ye'd best make yerself useful and grab the Gesundheit."

Flicking her eyes to the wall beside you, you follow her gaze and let out an interested hum in spite of yourself. Hanging from wooden bolts crudely sunk into the timbers sat a host of herbs, dried and fresh alike, whole seasons visible in the spread of green leaves and parched flowers.


"Where are the others from Roslas?" You ask as you pluck the dried herbs from the wall; a single glance is all you need to tell their suitability. "And How did I get here? And when?"

"Woodsmen found ye freezing outside the walls last night," Irma states as she takes the proffered plant matter and examines it, a half-hearted 'least he knows his herbs' rising above the boil before she tosses the pale leaves into the mix.

"They'd been attacked by beastmen," she continues, her voice resuming its normal stridency. "Belike the same ones that attacked yer town—and escaped when they started fighting among themselves. They're over at the tavern; ye should thank them."

"And the others?" You repeat insistently. "Where are they?"

"They're at the church. Ye know where that is at least, yeah?

You nod mechanically, your thoughts already turning towards the last remnants of your home.

Irma shrugs as she taps her wooden spoon on the cauldron's rim to clean it, a loud thunk ringing out with every strike.

"There's a few of them that're injured; cuts, bruises, broken bones." Another wave. "S'why I'm making this. Yer girl's leading them, she'll know."

You freeze stock still. My girl?

Something of your thoughts must have shown on your face as old Irma shrugs.

"The girl leading the others," She repeats by way of explanation. "She said ye'd get here soon enough. I figured she was yers, and ye'd gone and died, driving the poor girl to madness with grief."

Irma sniffs. "Sounds like ye."

Ignoring the querulous woman, you try to think of who she could be talking about. Truth be told, despite your history, you can't think of a single woman who might have harboured feelings for you before the Brayherd came. After it attacked—

You shudder and drive the thoughts out.

"There's no girl," you say with iron finality.

"Still, ye should go..." Irma trails off.

"There's no girl," you repeat, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your tone.

The herbalist shakes her head and resumes stirring, an awkward silence descending over the both of you, its veil underscored by the scrape of her spoon and the crackle of flame. As the seconds pass by painfully slowly, Irma finally breaks the silence by clearing her throat with a wet rattle.

"If yer gonna stand there like a lummox, I'm gonna start charging ye rent, boy."

"That is," she adds, "if ye got the coin for it."

'Coin?' You mouth before understanding blossoms, your hands clutching for your belt only to meet empty air; what wealth you had somewhere back in Roslas' ruins.

Ahh.

"How, uh," You falter as you try to find the words. "How much do I owe you? For the room and salves, I mean."

The woman's eyes, alight with some queer thought, search your face before vanishing as she shakes her head. "No salves or potions. Ye were exhausted, not injured. Ye needed to rest somewhere warm and without others fussing over ye. Pass me a few coins, and that'll settle debts."

You spread your hands wide and lend the herbalist an awkward smile. "I may have something in my bag. It won't be mu-"

"Ye don't."

Fighting the urge to lend Irma a leery look, you sigh and begin to speak, only for the withered woman to interrupt you with a gesture.

"Kasled," she says plainly. "Just take yer bag and get gone."

Article:

[] Meet with the Woodsmen.
You saved them, and it seems they saved you. Dutiful to a fault, it is only fair that you should visit to thank them and maybe talk about the beastmen.

[] Meet with the Refugees.
Perhaps Roslas' only other survivors, the only thoughts running through your mind are to meet with them and find out who lived, who died, and who this girl is that Irma keeps talking about.

Mud squelches underfoot as you exit Irma's cabin, your new shirt—lent by the woman in an unusual display of generosity—itching against your skin as the wind blows a mournful note across the piercingly blue sky. Scrunching your face against the chill, you fight the urge to blow air onto your freezing fingers and instead turn to your surroundings, the strand of logs standing to your left catching your attention immediately. A bit too much like the palisade surrounding the woodcutter's settlement for your liking, Varrel's dark wooden guardian bears down on you with an oppressive air, memories of the town's layout catching in your mind and firmly placing you among its ungainly sprawl. Twisting in place, you find the rest of Varrel greeting you warily, familiar houses huddling together as if for warmth and piling upon each other one after another in their efforts to reach the sky, their timbers grey with age and corners smoothed by time.

Lying at the border of the Forest of Shadows and the coast, the air in Varrel is thick with the smell of human lives: smoke, bread, and other things forming a not altogether unwelcome melange, a gentle breeze from the south bringing the faintest hint of pine to your nose. Larger than Roslas, though not by much, Varrel's main thoroughfare is a bare path churned to mush by the passage of many feet and runs perhaps fifty meters straight north before terminating at the other end of the palisade. Halfway down the track and cutting between the haphazard sprawl, a thin stream of swift-flowing water bisects the settlement, a flicker of motion catching your eye just in time to see a woman dressed in the Nordland style lean out her window to drop a bucket into the cold waters. Grimacing as she reels it in with a rope, you instinctively look to the houses upstream and their windows overlooking the water.

Shaking your head as the woman and her bucket disappear behind the windowsill, you look instead for Varrel's main landmark and find it almost instantly. Peeking over the slate tiles of the houses, the church's crooked tower stands like a school marm amidst children, its single large bell hanging limply and a hammer-shaped weather vane standing proud against the morning light. Not for the first time, you feel irritation at the sight of the ugly thing. Unlike Varrel's other structures, the church is solidly built with masoned stone, its grey and white walls standing in stark contrast to what is otherwise a frontier town by your reckoning, the difference marking it for all the world to see as a Nordland village.

"Sigmarites," you mutter under your breath before catching yourself.

Ulric was Sigmar's god, too, you chide, fragments of similar utterances echoing in your ears. And the others have ended up here. They can't be all that bad.

About to set off for the church—thoughts of what you'll say to the other survivors already flashing through your mind—you heft your doctor's bag and take a step before freezing as your gaze slips to the edge of the empty market square and the tavern that touches it. For what feels an age but could only be a few moments, you hang in that suspended state as two thoughts race against one another, one seeking to rush towards the church and the other arguing that you should thank the woodcutters for saving you. Then, as quickly as it came, one thought squirms its way to victory, and your desire to greet your comrades is put away as you set off for the distant tavern.

Venturing down the sodden pathway, you brush off the few sidelong looks sent your way and cast your gaze about as the village stirs to life, the quiet winter's morning swiftly replaced by a growing din as the streets fill out and hawkers prepare their stalls. Here and there, you spot people working through their windows or carrying loads, mostly firewood, about the town, a surprising number of familiar faces looking up from their labours to greet you brusquely before continuing their day.


The first time it happens, you wonder if your remedy for packer's pox had failed the man and left him scratching his way through autumn, rudeness his sole recourse and a hasty but unfocused apology yours. The second time, you give an equally quick 'hello' and leave wondering if the woman is merely a grouch. The third time, however, unease begins to mount as you beg off, instinct causing you to hunch your shoulders and slow your pace as you cross the stream's cold waters.

That something is off is abundantly clear, though what may be its cause, you find you cannot say.

Driving the feeling away with great effort, you arrive at the foot of Varrel's sole tavern and find yourself smiling for the first time in what feels like a lifetime; the building, painted tallow-yellow in places, low and crooked and familiar. From the outside, its origins as a stable are clear, the structure three times the size of its neighbours and what had once been stalls enclosed by walls. With a ground floor made of stone and a second floor made of wood, the structure has a solid air, as if it had always been and always would. Grinning as you make for the door, you drink in the sight with an almost childish relish before you spot the sign.

The Slaughtered Lamb reads the sign's curling letters; the shield-shaped marker complete with the image of a white lamb kneeling on a black field, both eyes closed and a crimson line running across its throat.

Not too long ago, the sign had promised warm rooms, good food, and a fun night. Now though, as you stare at it, memories of the beastmen attack rush to the forefront of your mind, thoughts of smoke, fire, and blood striking an almost physical blow. You shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

"No," you growl under your breath as your heart begins to race, the faintest stirrings of the wolf within you driving you to clench your fists painfully tight.

"No," you repeat as your heartbeat thunders in your ears, the sound of rushing blood almost hypnotic.

Forcing yourself to breathe, you wrench your gaze away from the sign and focus instead on the door, the haze of memories draining away as you pour over the knotted wood and black iron handle. Gradually, degree by painful degree, you feel your heart slow, the pounding beat lessening until it fades away entirely. Sighing as the wolf ceases its sleepless stirrings, you relax your fists, square your shoulders, and push your way into the tavern.

Noise is the first thing that hits you, swiftly followed by a welcome heat, the crackle of an unseen fire, and the rich smell of roasting meats and bready ale accompanied by a thin undercurrent of stale sweat and pipeweed. Packed more than you've ever seen it, and you've seen it on every possible occasion, the Lamb's interior seems full to bursting; every table occupied twice over, and no stool lying unclaimed. Shocked into a stupor by the sudden change, you barely react when the sound of clattering dice is followed by a happy roar, nor when the door slams shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Woodsmen, a part of your mind prods gently, the thought melting through your confusion enough for you to get out of the way when a man comes stumbling past, his retching cut short as the door swings shut behind him.

It's a bit early for that, isn't it? You think rhetorically. A few hours after sunrise, and already legless.

Jerking your head as if to dislodge a fly, you take up a position by the wall and let your gaze wander over the patrons as you hunt for your saviours. Most are clearly locals judging by their Nordish features, but others come from further afield, their well-made clothes marking them as outsiders. Scanning their faces just long enough to tell that they aren't the ones you're looking for, you move on past the old timers sitting at the bar and the would-be comics performing bad skits on what the landlord generously dubs a stage but what everyone else calls a handful of upturned crates until you settles on a grizzled face staring right back at you. Seated alongside a handful of men—the figures hunched over and whispering among themselves—the man you saw working the escape hatch at the woodcutters' outpost raises a tankard of ale and motions for you to approach; his face impassive despite the welcome gesture, still wearing the same clothes he wore the night before, and a shadow of salt and pepper hair coating his chin and neck.

Eager to be done with it, you approach as quickly as you can in a room so packed with drunkards, a handful of drinks spilt on you and a near braining by an overburdened serving girl all you have to endure on your way. Arriving more or less intact, you open your mouth to greet the man, only for the words to flee as you catch sight of his companions. Humbly dressed and guzzling down ale by the tankard to no ill effect, four dwarves sit opposite the grizzled woodsman, the squat figures murmuring among themselves in their own tongue as they send queer looks in all directions from beneath their bushy beards.


Short and wide with craggy faces, chestnut beards reaching down to their chests, and darkly glittering eyes, they're almost as out of place as you are in Varrel, perhaps more so considering you live- lived a day's journey away. Born and raised in Roslas, a village without much contact with the outside world beyond trading and guarding, you find yourself unable to do anything but watch the four half-men as they drink.

However, as the thought strikes you that you're staring, one of the dwarves—their leader, you suppose—looks up and grunts in perfect Reikspiel. "Either say something or leave, Umgi. We've business to discuss with-" he gestures at the woodsman, "and we're in no mood to be gawked at."

Umgi. The word is strange; treacle thick but half as sweet. You think it dwarf tongue but have no idea if it is. For the second time in as many minutes, you regret your lack of worldliness.

"That is," the dwarf continues in his resonant baritone, his craggy face creasing. "Unless you're willing to pay for the privilege."

Shocked from your stupor by his gruff remark, a reflexive apology stumbles out of your mouth as you desperately try to dig yourself out of the hole you put yourself in.

"Wazzok," the dwarf says under his breath as your apology sputters to an inglorious halt, the nonsense word eliciting a swiftly hidden grin from the woodsman as the dwarf returns his attention to his comrades and starts rumbling in guttural but rapid-fire dwarfish.

Somehow, you can't help but think you were just insulted.

"Sorry," you repeat to the woodsman sheepishly.

Responding with barked laughter, the man leans back in his seat and gestures for you to sit, waiting until you do before speaking. "Pay Stomnorson no mind, boy. His mood is always black until he's five mugs deep."

Oblivious to the comment, the dwarven leader downs his tankard in one mighty pull before belching loud enough for you to feel it in your bones. Throwing his head back, the dwarf roars 'More!' in Reikspiel before returning to his chatter—a serving girl, Herlinde, you think, shouting something unintelligible right back at him as she races past.

Turning to the dwarves, the woodsman catches their leader's attention with a gesture. "Grodim," the older man says. "We accept. We'll be ready by noon."

To your surprise, Ernst's accent is Middenlandish rather than the singsong you'd expect from a town so deep in Nordland, his words clipped and precise and his tone curt. A far cry from your mongrel mix.

Nodding sharply at the man's inscrutable comment, the dwarf gives you a fishy look before leaping from his stool and crashing to the ground with a thunderous boom, his companions, still chattering in their dwarven tongue, downing their drinks and following close behind. Bellowing curses and elbowing men out of the way, it takes the quartet moments to vanish into the press, their path towards the bar marked by pained yelping and the crash of bodies.

"Ernst," the woodsman says once Stomnorson's curses die away, the leather-faced man clasping your hand in a calloused paw and pumping it up and down. "What brings you here?"

"Kasled."

Glancing at the man, you feel a faint flicker of appreciation swirl in your breast as your eyes catch on the wolf's head medallion poking out beneath his shirt collar. A fellow Ulrican, then. Thank the gods.

"I mean to thank you," you tell him as you retrieve your hand. "You and your men. Irma told me what you did, how you found me outside the walls."

The woodsman shrugs and takes a slug of his drink, the brew disappearing down his gullet without difficulty.

"You were close," he says as he drops his stein to the table with a solid thunk. "A few dozen yards at most. In truth, we thought you dead and planned to leave you there, and then you muttered something. It was a good thing you did, too. Covered in that much blood, we thought you'd perished."

You don't recall speaking in those fleeting moments before unconsciousness took you. In fact, you don't remember anything but the dream—its images seared into your mind despite its perplexing course.

Seeing your expression but seemingly mistaking its cause, Ernst nods. "Aye. I feared some beastman had spilt your guts."


"It wasn't my blood."

It's perhaps the smoothest lie of your life, the pitch-perfect words spilling forth as you duck your head so he can't see your panicked expression. Silently gibbering in fear, the same part of you that struggles to accept your sudden coup simultaneously expects the man to see through it, your heart jumping in your throat as you fight to keep from betraying yourself.

"Beastmen?" He asks, his brow knotted.

If Ernst can tell your explanation was anything but the truth, he gives no indication.

You pump your head up and down in a fitful nod, a grin splitting Ernst's face at the sight.

It wasn't, you thought, entirely untrue. It was beast blood that drenched you. It's just that it wasn't all beastman blood.

"Then praise be to Ulric!" Ernst says with every sign of sincerity. "Truly, he must have smiled on you to be so fortunate."

"To good fortune and dead beasts!" The older man continues as he raises his cup, stopping as he glances down at the table.

"Ah," he sighs, "but we can't have a toast when only one of us has a drink."

Before you can react, the woodsman flags down Herlinde, the blonde girl thrusting a mug into your hand with a winning smile as a coin from Ernst disappears into the leather pouch hanging at her hip.

"Busy," you say as her welcome figure vanishes into the press. Not for the first time, you're grateful you had the presence of mind not to try and charm the landlord's daughter.

"Aye, that it is, lad," he answers, barking another laugh. "I had to elbow half the farmers out of the way to get a table."

"Now," he continues, his tone brightening as he raises his mug towards you. "To good fortune and dead beasts!"

"To good fortune and dead beasts," you echo halfheartedly, the both of you pausing to drink and the ale hitting your tongue bready but half as bitter as it should be.

The bastard still waters down his drinks, you think as you send a sharp look towards the bar, the Lamb's landlord hidden from sight by a wall of bodies.

As your tankards hit the table, a companionable silence settles over you, happy shouts and laughter from the rest of the tavern's patrons signalling another unheard jest. It feels... good to be part of a crowd again, the sight and sound and smell of so many people a welcome balm from the forest's darkness and the horrors it conceals. As the seconds slowly march on and the silence lengthens, another sip buys enough time to think what to say next.

"Why is it so busy?"

The words escape you almost of their own accord, the sound breaking the silence as profoundly as an axe tearing through wood. Seeing Ernst's quizzical expression, you shrug.

"I've visited the Lamb many times over many seasons. Never seen it as busy as it is now."

To your surprise, the woodsman's smile fades to a moue.

"A herd," he growls, a flicker of pain crossing his face before vanishing as he swallows thickly. "The motherless curs are in the woods, so the Burgermeister's ordered the gates shut today. Half everyone has come in for a brew."

Hunching his shoulders, the man leans over the table and drops his voice until it's pitched a fraction louder than the babble of voices around you, your ears straining as you attempt to hear him.

"They attacked our logging camp last night," he murmurs. "Forty, maybe fifty beastmen strong, plus minotaurs. Led by a wargor, they were."

You blink at the strange word. Wargor. You know of gors, ungors, and minotaurs, but you've never heard anyone refer to a beast as a wargor.

"A leader," Ernest explains, seeing your confusion. "Like an officer. Bigger, meaner, and smarter than the rest."

He smiles weakly. "I wasn't always a logger, boy. You learn a thing or two in the Graf's service."

Nodding at the explanation, you drive on despite already knowing the answer. "So what happened? How did you escape?"

Ernst shakes his head and shrugs. "We got lucky. We were getting ready to settle for the night when one of the sentries raised the alarm. The fuckers got him after, but the warning got us to an escape hatch before they broke through the gate."

"Good old Ulwig," Ernst sighs. "He could be a prick, but he came through in the end. We owe you, Morr keep you."

Stopping, Ernst raises his mug in a toast to Ulwig, the man tipping his head back and downing what's left of his drink in a single pull.

"We?" You prompt.

The grizzled man sucks his teeth. "Myself and eight of the lads. They held the bastards off while I opened the hatch. Five of us got out..."

Ernst's explanation trails off as he looks away, his eyes focusing on something only he can see. Unsure of what to say, you choose to say nothing, the interlude growing painful as neither of you speak. Then, as the silence becomes near unbearable, the man shakes his head as if dismissing a smell and looks back at you.

"Five of us got away," he repeats with a grimace.

"I'm sorry." The words are sincere. You saw what happened to the ones who didn't, and you wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy.

He makes a wordless noise and shakes his head. "Not your fault, lad. And hells, we almost didn't get away. The only reason we did was that something attacked the beastmen and distracted them. Whatever it was drew most of them away and bought us time to get out."

Carefully sculpting your face into one of curiosity as you hear Ernst speak of your intervention, you lean in and pray you can sell the lie.

"What was it?"

Once again, Ernst doesn't appear to sense anything amiss; the man gesturing at nothing as he answers.

"None of us really saw it," he murmurs quietly, his eyes hardening as he remembers. "It was big. Bigger than the wargor. And roared like a daemon."

The woodsman chuckles, the sound as harsh and grim as the look in his eyes. "Never seen anything like it. Never heard anything like it. It tore one of the ungors in half as easily as if it was bread and then took off with the herd chasing after it."

"In all my years serving the Graf, I've never seen anything like it," the man repeats.

"It seems fortune favoured you," you reply cooly, some indefinable looking sparking in Ernst's gaze and then vanishing as wry agreement replaces it.

"Aye," he admits with a sigh. "That it did."

"To good fortune," you say as you raise your cup towards him, the salute acknowledged with a tilt of the head.

"Hopefully, it holds," the woodcutter adds gruffly.

Lowering his voice yet further, the man leans in close.

"We're leaving later this morning," he says almost inaudibly. "Us woodsmen, Stomnorson and his boys, and some others; we're going to get out of here before the beastmen attack and go north. That's what we were talking about earlier. That's why the others aren't here: They're gathering supplies."

You freeze as if turned to stone, your mug halfway to your mouth and holding steady as your mind struggles to work out what he's getting at.

"You're welcome to come, too," He adds. "The old bat says you're a healer; we could use that during winter. Hell, anyone could. Wouldn't even have to pay the dwarves; me and the boys can cover that."

Thawing slowly, you force your lips to part. "What makes you think they'll attack here? Why leave?"

"Look around," he says as he gestures at the nearest table. "Everyone here knows Varrel's the herd's next target. I told them as soon as we made it here. It's why everyone here's drinking, and the rest are running about outside."

Frowning at his description, you do as he suggests, twisting in your seat to look at every face in the crowded bar, laughter, shouting, and the babbling of conversation assailing you at every turn.


Aside from the strangeness of the tavern being so full in the early morning, you can't see what he means. Then again, you've never been accused of being overly sensitive to others' feelings.

"And you've seen the wall," the woodsman adds, not noticing your lack of understanding. "We had one like it at the camp, and the curs got through before we had time to arm ourselves. It'll be the same here, mark my words."

"I can't leave," you say, fighting to keep your inflamed soul from your voice. "There are people here I need to see: refugees from Roslas, my home. The beastmen attacked it, and the survivors fled here. I'm not going to leave without them."

You pause and then add. "Besides, didn't you say the Burgermeister ordered the gates shut?"

"Stomnorson knows a man who'll open a way for him," Ernst replies. "He and his masons want to move on before spring; say they've been hired by some baron in Dietershafen. We can take you all the way there if you want."

You shake your head. "I can't leave. Not without the others, and I doubt they're in any condition to try to escape to another settlement."

You moue.

"However..."

Article:

The woodsman Ernst—a veteran soldier—and his men plan to leave Varrel at the first opportunity alongside a group of dwarf stonemasons. How do you want to proceed?

[] Try to Convince Ernst to Stay and Help
- [] A difficulty 4 Fascinate test. [Difficulty 4, Dice Pool: Charm+Fascinate+Mission].
- [] Write In (whatever you're arguing needs to be reasonably convincing).
Ernst is a veteran soldier, and his men have already faced the beastmen once before. If the beastmen attack Varrel, the town will need every hand working in its defence to survive.

[] Let Ernst and His Men Go
Ernst and his men can leave if they wish. You've passed on your appreciation for their aid already, and you cannot demand someone put their life at risk.

Ernst sighs as you say your piece, a strange light crossing his face as he makes every appearance of considering it. Watching him from across the table, the quiet dwells and dwells and dwe-

A scream pierces the air, the sound shrill and high and cutting to the quick. As if someone had cast a spell upon the tavern, the crowd falls silent; confused murmurs and probing questions slowly rise to replace the sounds of merriment. Having lept to your feet the moment the scream registered, you barely notice the lull.

They can't have reached here yet? A voice babbles within you as your wolf spirit stirs. Not yet. Not now.

Images of Roslas flicking through your head, a dozen curses flying for your lips as you elbow through the mass of people, your heart pounding and adrenaline signing in your veins.

Another scream rings out as you slam out the door, a gaggle of curious tavern-goers spilling out behind you as you slide to a halt in the muddy street. You spot the cause of the commotion among the market square's stalls but instantly. A girl, no more than twelve years old with silver-gold hair, shrieks as a man—tall as you but twice as wide—holds her several inches off the ground by one arm, a half-eaten apple at her feet. Behind the man, standing conspicuously unattended, a market stall lies waiting; similar apples sitting in bushels on its tables and telling you all you need to know.

"Thief!" The man shouts as passers-by stop and stare, his drooping moustache quivering and his thumb-like head flushing pink with rage.

Anger wells up within you as the girl screams again, a growl emerging from deep within your chest while some faint sense of recognition tickles your mind. Whether the noise comes for you or your wolf, you cannot tell, nor do you particularly care. A moment later, you blink as Ernst appears by your side, the grey-haired woodsman grimacing as he sees what you do.

"Poor girl."

Rooted to the ground, you can only nod mechanically.

Thin and reedy, her face red from the cold and tears tracking down her cheeks, the girl screams again as the man starts a tirade.

"How will you pay for that apple, girl?" He roars. "How? You come here with nothing, you bring mutants to our door, and then you repay us by stealing? Vermin, the whole lot of you! We should have locked the doors when you came begging for shelter!"

Those words are all your mind needs to place the girl, the ember of recognition bursting into a fire. Frigga, you think her name is. Or Frida, maybe. Eleven summers old and born to Ruprick and Jannissa in Roslas. A refugee.

The anger within you, already a roaring fire, only grows hotter with the recognition, the mud squelching beneath your boots as you step forward. Immediately, however, a soft pressure lands on your shoulder, and you twist to see Ernst's hand there holding you back.

"Look around," the woodsman says under his breath, the words soft enough that only you can hear.

Biting back a waspish response, you do as the man suggests and snarl as you spot what he means. Fanning out behind you, the Slaughtered Lamb's guests wear a variety of expressions as they gaze upon the tableau; most appearing disgusted by the scene, others seeming angered, and yet more—the more inebriated, especially—deriving some enjoyment from the man's rant. Almost stone-cold sober, you don't need to be a genius to read their intentions.

It's a powder keg. The pricks are spoiling for a brawl.

The bitter thought is unwelcome but comes nonetheless.

What the fuck am I going to do? You think as you stare at the crying girl, anger pulsing with every beat of your heart.

Article:

A local fruit seller is screaming at a terrified child who stole an apple from his stall. Simultaneously, a crowd is gathering whose opinions of the scene seem mixed. What are you going to do?

[] Try and Calm Things Down.
As appealing as his behaviour is, the bald shopkeeper nonetheless seems to be sharing some feelings with others in the crowd. While it may be difficult, talking him down may help avoid a public brawl.

[] Try and Barter For What The Girl Stole.
While you might not have any money, you have valuable skills and valuable items in the form of two glass bottles. As painful as it may be, bartering with those may be necessary.

[] Confront the man.
What kind of man harasses a little girl? Even a thief? In your experience, only cowards who fold at the first sign of pressure.