Hour of the Wolf (WHF)

As this has a 50/50 split on two mutually incompatible options, I think I'll flip a coin to see what you do once I get to writing.

[X] Try to Convince Ernst to Stay and Help
- [x] A difficulty 4 Fascinate test. [Difficulty 4, Dice Pool: Charm+Fascinate+Mission].
OR
[X] Let Ernst and His Men Go


[X] Try and Calm Things Down.
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/hour-of-the-wolf-whf.138314/page-7#post-34193546

---

"Can you leave these people?"

The soft-spoken words pour from you quite unaccountably, each syllable hanging heavy in the air despite the burble of drunken cheer around you, some insubstantial and intangible shell forming as you speak them. Ernst—his face hard—leans in despite himself, your half-whisper trapping him as efficiently as any spider's web.

"I've seen the beastmen," you continue without pause, something hot and sharp piercing the corners of your eyes, a prickling heat running down your cheeks. "I've seen what bray herds do to people, and I know you've seen it, too. We can't let that happen—I can't let that happen—here. Not to these people. Not again."

"If you know what they do, lad," the woodsman hisses back. "Then you know why my boys and I can't stay. There were thirty of us at that camp. Thirty men, hale and hearty, half of us veterans, and all of us with axes to hand. You say we should fight?"

A bitter grin splits the man's countenance as you nod automatically,

"Well, we did," Ernst replies hotly. "Aye, we did, and almost all died for it. It took everything I had, everything my men had, and I got four others out of that mess. Five out of thirty, if you include me."

He snorts loudly, a sidelong glance from a nearby patron dismissed with a casual handwave. "It was luck that got us out of there. Luck or providence, boy, and I'm not about to waste our good fortune by dying like a pig in a pen. So aye, my men and I will leave before the beastmen come. I owe them the chance to live another day. I owe them that much."

The two of you fall silent at that, long draws of ale substituting for whatever words either one of you wishes to speak. In that dearth of argument, a traitor part of you pipes up.

He's right, it says. The beasts will climb that wall, pour through those gates, and kill everyone and everything they find. There is no shame in leaving, gathering what you can and who you can and fleeing before the storm.

It's a small voice, quieter than the pulse of blood in your veins and softer than a sigh, but it's there.

Who would fault you? It asks languidly, seductively. Your people have suffered so much—you have suffered so much. Who would fault you if you took this lifeline and fled with them?

I would, you think before crushing it ruthlessly.

Taking a breath, you push down the heat slowly growing within you and rub a tear from the corner of your eye with your thumb, the prickling heat only intensifying as you lock eyes with the aged man.

"I understand."

Ernst blinks, poleaxed; a sudden roar of laughter from out of sight sundering your quiet conversation and lending it a surreal air. Watching him unblinkingly, you almost swear you can see the woodsman's mind work to puzzle out your sudden change of tone, his brow furrowing into an uneven frown.

"You do?"

You nod. "I do. Better than most, too, I reckon. A part of me wishes to do the same; feels that I must do the same."

The woodsman opens his mouth, about to speak, only to halt as you raise a hand.

"Please," you ask softly, the woodsman obliging you and waiting as you down the last of your drink, the dark fluid burning as it pours down your throat.

"I understand," you repeat. "But leaving will not save your men's lives."

He snorts, a loud scraping piercing the din as he makes to rise from his seat. "I'm done here," he says with a dismissive shake.

Leaping forward, you snatch his wrist and hold it tight, your empty cup, struck by your elbow, spinning off and clattering to the ground somewhere out of sight. Twitching as if hissed at by a serpent, the elder man freezes and glares back at you, a fire roaring to life deep behind his eyes and scorching you.

"Listen, man," you beg, still seated. "Please, just listen."

Despite yourself, the cry sounds desperate, perhaps too desperate, and you wonder if you have misjudged the man as he stares at you with a furious air. But something in your tone must ring true in his ears, for as swiftly as Ernst's anger arose, it melts away, and he sighs as he retakes his seat.

"What?"

It's rough and curt, but it's all you need.

"Let us say you leave. You and your men. You gather your things, you meet with the dwarves, and you exit the palisade and make for..."

"Nordern," Ernst mutters as he catches your tone.

"And you make for Norden." You reply with a nod. "Who's to say you'll even make it?"

You speak the words with a terrible finality, Ernst stiffening as if transmuted to stone and a vein in his jaw twitching a rapid staccato. So still is the woodsman that he does not respond when an incautious drunkard stumbles past and elbows his shoulder, the drunkard's belched apology flowing around him unperturbed. Encouraged, you seize the moment and lean close.

"I heard drums in the woods when I was running here. Deep drums. Fell drums. They were calling others to themselves, weren't they? And the others will answer, won't they? They'll come from every thicket, every copse, and every direction."

"You know as well as I that beastmen are faster than any man and smarter than most like to think. If you go down that road, if you head north, even as a group, they'll have you before you're halfway to the next town."

You pause and spread your hands wide. "Tell me it isn't true."

It's a question that isn't a question. None were. You knew the answers already, or else you would not have asked them.

You see it then. The mind behind the man. A veteran of the Graf's service, he understands the beastmen just as well as you do—better even. Watching, you see his mind work through your words, phantom expressions flashing across his face in rapid succession as he strives to form a counterargument, and then he gives a growl and slumps in his seat.

"Fine," he says after a lengthy pause. "I'll stay. I'll ask my boys to stay, too, but I can't force them. I won't force them."

For a long moment, neither one of you says anything. Then, Ernst sighs again, and a strange light crosses his face. Watching him from across the table, the quiet dwells and dwells and dwe-

A scream pierces the air.

---

You give Ernst just long enough to release your shoulder before you step towards the thumb-faced merchant, your newfound ally lending you a solitary "careful" before stepping away and leaving you to a conflict of your own making. Ahead, the merchant doesn't notice your approach, the man's almost frantic yelling washing over the gathering crowd as he harangues the little girl, a flame stirring in your heart that you tamp down lest you explode. Though not market day, the square is already heaving fit to bursting, craning necks and hard-set faces visible everywhere you look, unguarded looks revealing a hunger for violence lurking behind far too many eyes.

"Stealing!" The merchant cries again, flushing pink as he sends his steaming breath into the air. "We gave you shelter, and you steal?"

Half wondering what you'll say, someone somewhere in the gathering mass notices you at last, and its background chatter is suddenly replaced by a whisper that whips from one side of the half-moon gathering to the other. Electric and sharp, this new tension feels worse than the old; higher strung, more liable to snap. Busy harassing a child, his face pink and a slight foam gathering on his lips, the merchant-bully continues his diatribe for several heartbeats before the change in atmosphere catches his attention, the man looking up and sneering as he spots you.

"What?" He snaps, steam escaping his mouth as he lends you a razor-sharp glare, the kid held fast in his hands and hovering a good few inches above the ground.

Jerking to a halt, you snap your hands up, palms out, and spread them wide.


"Peace, friend," you say coolly as you can manage, a brutal effort required to keep from looking at the girl as she squirms in place. "Peace. I just want to-"

"Fuck off," he spits.

A slap in the face would have smarted less, a whole-body twitch running through you as you register the remark.

An instant later, a swell of rage erupts in your breast, your stomach twisting as something boiling hot bubbles within and banishes the morning chill. Behind you, you feel more than hear the crowd react, some sixth sense allowing you to picture the wave that runs through it as shock transmutes into amusement and anger in equal measure. Uninvited, nervous laughter ripples into the air.

Prick, you think as you clench your jaw tight, the merchant's contorted face puce, punchable, quivering with rage. Barely thinking, a litany of similar insults rolls through your mind as you breathe deeply, each one accompanied by a desire to punch his Ulric-damned head in.

Lurking in the shadows of your soul, your wolf self stirs at the insult, a soft growl growing at the back of your throat before ending with a splutter as you cough to cover it.

"Peace," you repeat forcibly, projecting your voice to reach the crowd outside and the beast within, their febrile moods worsening with every moment. "Peace."

"This isn't any of your business, stranger," the stall owner hisses between clenched teeth, spittle landing at your feet as he straightens up and attempts to stare you down.

Only reaching your eye level, the impact he no doubt intended fails to materialise as you look back impassively. However, the squeal from the girl as she's dragged along with him serves in its place, the would-be thief dangling in the air by one arm and her face a mask of terror.

Ignoring her fright with casual indifference—his voice hoarse from shouting and his chest heaving as he downs lungfuls of air—the man continues. "Why don't you fuck off back to the Lamb while we sort this little thief out ourselves."

We? You almost ask before you stop yourself, your mouth half-open to voice the question before you close it with a click. It would be a mistake to voice the question, a grimmer part of you thinks.

Ringing the square, the faces on display range from angry to appalled, and there's no telling how they'd fall if forced to pick a side. While part of you hopes that they'll back peace and sanity, another part suspects that most—the drunks especially—would back the merchant. Truthfully, you were ill-inclined to find out.

Realising that your calls for calm have failed, you spare the kid what you hope passes for a comforting look before returning your gaze to the merchant holding her above the ground.

"I only want to end this peacefully: to pay for what she stole, my good man."

It pains you to say the words. You wouldn't piss on this merchant prick if he was aflame, and the thought of paying him for being a bastard makes your stomach knot.

However, as simple as they are, they find purchase: the promise of payment striking a vulnerable spot in the stall owner's armour of contempt and shattering the edifice as surely as a club shatters bone. All at once, interest flickers across the man's face and before you can react, it blossoms into full-fledged greed, the girl letting out a surprised squawk as she's unceremoniously lowered to the ground.

"Aye," you grind out as you keep one eye on the hand still clamped around the child's wrist, the urge to wrench it free almost overwhelming. "I'll cover the cost of what she took."

Wiping the spittle away with the back of his hand, a gold ring gleaming in the sunlight, the merchant stares you down as something resembling a thought works from one end of his mind to the other. His lips parting like overstuffed sausages, he finally speaks.

"That'll be a penny," he grunts.

Laughter squeaks out before you can stop it, the sheer gall of the man bemusing in its audacity. Others seem to feel the same, the child screwing up her face as she glares up at the man and a loud 'bah' whipping out from the crowd backing you.

By any measure, a penny for a keeping apple is a crime on par with banditry. The Lamb's ale was a penny and a half last you checked, and a meal would have set you back three at most. Almost against your wishes, you glance at the stall behind him and the buckets of winter crops it carries, a handwritten sign listing apples at a half penny per pound. Rapidly spinning through the list of things you could buy for a penny in your mind—an entire chicken, two dozen eggs, a night in a common room, a serviceable tunic—you keep your expression level as spitting anger roils in your chest.

Then again, a wiser you cautious, he could have said a hundredth of a penny, and we still wouldn't be able to pay it.

Reminded of your poverty, you let go of a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding and force out a low sigh, a measure of calm returning to your spirit.

"I can't pay that much," you confess, the merchant's eyebrows immediately leaping up towards his nonexistent hairline as his countenance takes on an ugly air.

And, you think bitterly, I'd rather not pay you at all.

Hastily, you reach for the bag slung over your shoulder and add, "But I do have this."


Lightning quick, you withdraw one of your two remaining bottles from the depths of the bag, blood-red speckles scintillating in all directions as the burgundy glass catches the morning sun. At once, a gasp emerges from the crowd, and a familiar barking laugh follows close on its heels. An instant later, someone shouts 'Hit him!', but a scornful curse and a joke from Ernst—funnier, you think, if you're not of sound mind—tells you none were willing to try it. Not with so many eyes watching, at least.

Keeping your eyes on the merchant's thumb-shaped head, you feel a slight smirk tug at the corners of your mouth as a covetous look sneaks past whatever guard he has erected. In truth, it hurts to consider parting with such a fine piece for an Ulric-damned apple of all things, but one look at the girl is all you need to brush it aside, her quiet sobbing ringing through the air and sending a burr through your heart.

"This is Tilean made," you comment as you raise the bottle so that he can get a better look, shards of red light splashing across him like blood. "See how clear the glass is? How few bubbles there are?"

Of Tilean make, as you say, the glass is not as fine as that produced by the Dwarves or Elves but finer by far than any made by human hand in Sigmar's Empire. Cheaper than its Elven or Dwarven equivalent due to its lesser artistry, Tilean glass nonetheless commands a princely price throughout the world, and you don't doubt that the one bottle alone costs more than the sum of the man's stall.

The trader grunts, his face impassive. Despite this, his eyes sparkle brightly in the bottle's refracted aura, some phantom hunger poking at the back of your mind. Unable to tell if he's buying any of what you're saying, you decide to press on, drawing on your eclectic knowledge pool to sell it better.

"It was made by one of Miragliano's masters and brought north by my own after his service with the Prince ended. He used it to store tinctures and other such substances before passing it on to me when I took up his charge."

You have no idea if much of what you said is true, but the words slip out easily enough, and some are even close to the truth.

If a master had any hand in its creation, you suspect it was used only to slap the head of the man who made the bottle. Such things are the way of the world in your experience.

"Well," the trader drawls as, in the corner of your eye, you spy parts of the crowd retreating into the Slaughtered Lamb. "It looks like glass, alright."

You cannot possibly be serious, you think with no small irritation at the man's prevarication. What else could it possibly be?!

Wordlessly, your best attempt at a calming smile plastered on and barely holding, you step forward as non-threateningly as possible and deposit the bottle into his hand. Taking it from you with a grating sound of satisfaction, you glance down at the girl as the man examines it and spare—Fresin? Froihilt?—whatever her name, a reassuring look. Staring up at you through red-rimmed eyes, her cheeks stained with snot and tears, it takes only a moment for her to recognise you, an electrifying light entering her as she gives you a nervous smile.

A rattling cough grabs your attention, and your easy grin fades as you return to the trader.


"It'll do," he concedes, his tongue sliding over the phrase as if you hadn't caught him in the middle of a rant against a child.

You fight to keep your eyes from rolling. It'll do. Yeah, right. Prick.

Opening your mouth to ask him to release the kid, you're cut short as he lowers the bottle onto his table and raises a hand. "But..."

You feel a twitch start in your jaw as the trader's gaze flickers over your shoulder to the crowd filtering back into the inn, the tick-tick-tick of the spasm mirroring the thud of your heartbeat. Despite yourself, your expression collapses into a tight moue as you cock your head askew. Something of it seems to reach the man, for he stops mid-sentence and furrows his brow as he stares at you.

"Nothing," he adds as he casts his eyes to the ground. "Here," he adds. "Take the b- take her."

Quick as you like, the man all but shoves the girl into your hands, the child stumbling forward half a step before you catch her on instinct, tiny arms wrapping around your leg tight as steel bands as she buried her head against you. You glance up just in time to see the sneer vanish from his face, a smoothly even cast replacing it.

You cannot overstate how much you want to punch the son of a bitch.

"It was a pleasure," you lie as you offer the nameless trader a hand, a grip firmer than you expected meeting your own.

Politely smiling as you shake on the ruinous deal, you derive no small amount of pleasure as you squeeze just a little too tightly, a wince flashing into being before vanishing as you release it. Thanking the trader as best you can when all you really want to do is tell him exactly how you feel, you instead place a hand on the girl's shoulder and slowly guide her aside, a look to the inn showing you Ernst standing outside the door; the elder woodsman giving you a nod before retreating inside.

She's fine; a quick check reveals to you once you're far enough from the trader to feel comfortable doing so. Carefully positioning the kid so her back is to the man and equally carefully keeping from cursing within earshot of both of them, you give her a quick once-over while gently praising her bravery. Aside from the tears and snot, she seems no worse for wear, and your experience tells you that she'll have no lasting impact beyond a sore arm and a fairly earned fear of the man.

"You were very brave," you tell her again under the cover of a nearby awning, her sniffles long since faded and her arms unwound from your leg.

Damn it all, you still can't remember her name.

Lending her the same smile you use to comfort the injured—a smile Rience once described as fatuous, whatever that means—you drop to a knee, a sudden chill penetrating the cloth of your pants as you kneel in the mud, before gently asking where her parents are.

For a long moment, she says nothing. Then, hesitantly, she speaks.

"Ma's at the church," she replies as she bores holes in the ground. "Da's... Da's"

Her voice wavers weakly, and the hitch at the end tells you all you need to know about Ruprick's fate. Cursing the beastmen once more, you say nothing about it and continue.

"Does your mother know where you are? What happened?"

She shakes her head, still looking at the ground, but remains silent. No expert on children—that is women's work, even in Roslas—you can only guess what she's thinking.

Fear or guilt, you think softly. Poor thing.

A heartbeat passes, then another, then another. Sitting in silence, the sounds of village life growing louder and louder with every passing moment, you wait for the girl to speak again.

"I was playing with some of the village boys," she explains finally, her tiny hands wringing as she pouts and a childish stutter putting a hitch in every other word. "I was bored, and they were nice, but their ma told me to-to-"

Her face screws up, and she spits out a curse no child should have to hear.

Blinking slowly, you force down the sudden surge of anger that follows it and speak again.

"And then?"

The child shrugs, the motion a whole-body affair. "I was hungry."

"You haven't eaten?" You say, frowning as a creeping unease wanders up your spine.

The others arrived before you. By hours at least, if not a day. There should have been time aplenty to feed the girl, so why didn't they?

"Not me or ma or anyone," she replies emphatically, the admission finally causing her to look you in the eye. "No one has. I was hungry, and he has so much. He wouldn't miss an apple or nothing."

The last part comes out as a roaring torrent, the whole thing descending into a pile-up of words on words on words, tears suddenly sprouting beneath clenched eyelids. In an instant, panic blossoms as the child begins to sob, tears once again flowing freely down her face. Feeling woefully unprepared to deal with a crying youth, you do the first thing that pops into your head and hug her tightly to your chest, hoping against hope that she doesn't spy the look on your face.

"Come on, kid," you say after a good minute or two as her sobs slowly die away, the girl peeling herself from your shoulder with some reluctance. "Why don't we go and find your ma, huh? I'm sure she's been very worried about you, don't you think?"

Sniffing loudly, the girl nods and brushes away a tear. Giving her a smile, you take her hand and rise to your feet.

"C'mon," you half mutter as you shoot a covert glare towards the stall owner. "Let's get you back to your ma, why don't we?"


Nodding vigorously, oblivious to the final venomous look you send to the equally unaware merchant's back, the girl begins pulling you towards the distant church spire, all her tears forgotten as she starts humming some wordless tune.

---

Presently, you arrive at the foot of Varrel's lone church, its crooked tower a finger bent by age and its surrounds ringing with the sounds of village life. Blocky and tall, with a single stained glass window featuring an image of the twin-tailed comet above Sigmar's hammer set over its wide oaken doors, the temple doesn't so much stand before you as it does loom over you; its bulk like a weight in your mind, drawing your eyes in and up as if in worship. Shaped a bit like a coffin, though you would never make the mistake of saying so to a Sigmarite, it's as fine a church as any you've seen.

Wryly, a part of you adds: Though, I've only seen this one.

Clear of frost and other moisture despite the wet chill hanging in the air, its slate-grey walls seem comfortingly resolute as you trace over their smooth surfaces; the thick blocks of stone crafted, no doubt, with great concern by whichever nameless masons had taken up the zealous task in praise of their man-god.

This close to the promise of survivors, you can feel your heart pounding a rapid tattoo in your chest; its drumbeat is almost too much to bear, a muted heat rising from your wolf spirit at the constant thud-thud-thud.

It seems stupid to be so affected by proximity when your experience with the merchant had proven comparatively sedate.

Didn't Ernst say the dwarves had done some work here? You wonder as the girl—Frigga, as you had found out during your short journey here—goes barreling through its oaken doors with a shriek of laughter, your eyes catching on the black-iron weathervane as it swings limply in the wind.

It was the only stone structure in the village, so they surely did, right?

About to follow the girl inside, some slight inconsistency in the spire's stonework suddenly catches your eye, a strangely invisible out-of-placeness grabbing your attention as finely as a hook does a fish. Letting out an almost unconscious hum, you pause to examine the stone.

Though you had never met a dwarf before today, stories of their accomplishments had made their way to Roslas and made them seem almost magical; tales of vast mountain fortresses, endless underground cities, and cavernous treasure vaults constantly traded by drunkards and storytellers for another drink or bread crust. To hear them tell it, dwarves could turn a pile of rough stones into a castle by midday or a few shards of flint into a kiln by evening and would do it all with a drink in their hand and a song in their hearts—though your recent meeting had something to disabuse you of the notion.

Thus famed, you half expected Stomnorson and his lads to have turned Sigmar's house into a mighty bastion crowned with all the shit a fortress is supposed to have if they had indeed worked on it: no beastman horde able to penetrate its stony fastness. However, now that you're looking at it, the church seems little different from how it did the last time you were in Varrel: the tower just as crooked, the stone just as grey, and its brooding stolidness as imposing as ever.

"Never mind," you tell yourself as your eyes skate away, the spire dropping from your thoughts as you refocus on the doors.

Letting out a long, low sigh, you make to take a step, only to find yourself unable; a formless fear spilling into you as a multitude of questions burst into your mind, your frantic heartbeat only accelerating.

How many still live? How did they escape the beastmen? How did the wretches defeat so many Children? Did anyone else escape? What of those captur-

Merde! A ghostly memory shouts from beyond the grave, Rience's spidery voice severing your train of thought neat as you like. Shit or get off the pot!

Crass as only the old master could be during his colic days, the unexpected memory triggers a violent laugh, a harsh bark bursting free of you before you can stop yourself. Shocked from your self-induced paralysis by the ghost of a long-dead man commenting on matters equally lost to time, you shake your head in disbelief and start again for the door, your hands resting against the rough timbers for a moment before, with a grunt, you push them open.

It's dark inside the temple. Dark and quiet. Despite the bright sunlight outside, the interior of Varrel's house of worship is lit only by a handful of flickering candles; the stained glass window is listless and dull. Blinking as your eyes adjust to the almost stygian black, a whispering murmur sweeps the hall as if a breeze has followed you before your vision finally returns and you catch your first glimpse of Roslas' survivors. Dotting the church's shadowy interior in small groups or lying supine on straw-filled bedding—the temple's pews pushed aside to make room—a little over a score of people sit staring at you from across the church, wavering candlelight lending them a sallow cast even as their eyes glitter. Few of the survivors are uninjured; bruises, scratches, and cuts are the lightest injuries on display, while others bear signs of worse injuries beneath bloodied bandages and stained clothes.

"It's Kasled," Frigga says as she clutches her mother's waist, the girl's words echoing off the hard stone walls.

For a moment, a heavy silence hangs over the hall. And then someone speaks. "Aye, it is!"

"A survivor!" Another survivor whispers as a few people rise unsteadily to their feet.

"Thank the gods."

"Thank Ulric!"

Frozen in place, the words wash over you like water over river stones as Roslas' more able survivors surround you, men and women alike grabbing your arms and patting your shoulders as if afraid you are but a waking dream. Staring into familiar faces turned strange by exhaustion and injury, hot tears spring into your eyes as you recognise who is and isn't there: brothers missing sisters, husbands missing wives, children missing parents, and parents missing children. From a town of nearly two hundred, you count only twenty or so survivors, none of them Children. The realisation sends pure agony stabbing into your heart, the misery you feel impossible to describe with mere words.

Uncaring of the filth clinging to their clothes, ugly sobs wracking your body, you grab those around you in a tight embrace and hold them close: any hostilities you may have once had now forgotten. Rising from its fitful slumber, the wolf within you lets out a howl as your pained sobs turn into laughter at the shared relief of having found one another again, your voice cracking as others around you begin laughing, too.

Then, a voice booms. "Kasled?"

An instant later, another face appears before you, the crowd around you gently but firmly pushed aside by a man whose rather large head is attached to an equally large body, the chain beneath his ruddy-red beard bearing a silver hammer that seems to shine with its own light against his wood-brown robes.

"Horst?" You all but laugh as Varrel's lone priest grabs your arms tightly, the man baring horselike teeth in a delighted grin as he looks down at you.

"Kasled!" He cries so loud your ears are left ringing. "It is you! By Sigmar, it is good to see you again!"

Turning to the others, the rotund priest waves an arm and calls out with a preacher's voice. "Give him room, give him room! The man has just awoken; he needs space!"

Not waiting for the others to obey him, the man half guides and half pulls you from your fellow survivors, a quiet yelp escaping you as you're dragged into a corner.

"By Sigmar, it is good to see you again, boy," Father Horst Elwes repeats once you finish recovering from his initial verbal assault, his voice lowered to a merely loud register. Behind him, perhaps sensing his desire for privacy, you see the others turn away and begin chattering loudly, the once all-pervading gloom seemingly lightened by your presence.

"I will confess I did not expect to see you up and about so soon, man. Irma, the old crone, said you would need a day's rest at least, yet here you are already rescuing lost maidens from their mother's wrath. The gods must truly be with you."

A devout follower of the man-god Sigmar—and an outsider, besides—Horst knows nothing of your existence as one of Ulric's Children and would be as likely to take exception to it as he would accept it if he did. Nonetheless, the man's relentless onslaught is as good a balm for the soul as any other you've encountered, and you find yourself grinning as you reply.

"Aye, it's true; by all accounts, I was exhausted when I came to lay outside your walls. I fear that only luck and the blessing of Ulric are keeping me on my feet now. A single push and-"

You mime falling over.

Throwing his head back, the man lets out a laugh that threatens to pop your ears and embraces you, lifting you off the floor for a moment before he relents, and you come crashing down. For a long moment, the temple to the man-god is silent, and then the red-headed giant jerks his head towards the back of the church.

"Come," Horst says with a hint of steel beneath his usual gregariousness. "We have matters to discuss. If you feel up to it."

Wordlessly, your features shaped into a mask of curiosity, you nod, and together, you make for the temple's vestry.

"It gladdens me to learn that you survived, Kasled," Father Horst says once the both of you stand within the vestry, his tone as serious as you've ever heard it. "It does my heart good to know that others survived than those few the gods guided to our door yesterday."

"Gods willing, there are others. To know only a score survived besides myself..."

You trail off and look about the room.

In all your time knowing Father Horst—which, admittedly, has only been a few years—you've had neither cause nor interest to see the vestry for yourself until now, the thought of doing so not once crossing your mind during your periodic visits to Varrel. Now that you're standing in it, however, you can't help but feel disappointment in the space; something about it not agreeing with the image that appeared in your head when Horst invited you there to speak. Cramped compared to the outer temple's soaring heights and lit only by an oil lamp, the door to the church proper behind you, it doesn't take long to drink in the vestry's sights, the small private room boasting a wooden wardrobe, a table, and a single chair; nothing special or sacred leaping out at you.

The giant nods. "'Tis terrible what happened to you and yours. We can but have faith that our hands will be guided in delivering righteous fury upon the dark kin that visited such torment upon Roslas."

Mechanically, you nod. More than anything, you wish to be that vengeance. To deliver a just death to the monsters who burned your home to the ground and shed innocent blood across its soil.

Feeling a familiar rage birthing within your heart, you push the thoughts aside as best you can and return your gaze to Horst's imposing form.

"I appreciate your words, father. It is a feeling I share. But tell me, what do you wish to discuss that cannot be said before the others?"

Horst grimaces as you speak, the expression ill-suiting his usual cheery self and causing you to falter to a stop.

"It is about the others," he says by way of explanation, the large man offering you a seat that you refuse with a shake of the head. "Or, at least, about the timing of their arrival. Though it may burden you more than you wish, I feel it only right that you know. "

You say nothing, instead gesturing for him to continue. Inclining his head, the priest of Sigmar does so.

"I'm not sure how long you were wandering the streets before returning Frigga here, but you may have noticed a certain," he pauses for a moment, then seems to find the word he was looking for. "Wariness from people here, yes?"

You nod slowly. It had been strange when people you'd treated only a few months ago acted hostile towards you, and the stall owner's actions in the market square had been extreme, even for an aggrieved merchant.

""'Tis unfortunate, but your arrival here—all of you—has been poorly timed. Varrel's people are generous souls in generous times, but I fear the recent hardships have turned them sour towards outsiders."

"Hardships?"

You don't mean your reaction to sound incredulous, but it does nonetheless. Seeing the look Horst gives you in response, you duck your head and apologise; raised hands and a half-smile the best you can manage considering the circumstances.

"Aye, hardships," he repeats evenly. "But a month ago, vermin made their way into the storehouse and ruined much of the winter grain. A few weeks later, hunting parties sent to bolster the larders went missing in the woods to the east. From beastmen or greenskins, I know not."

Ulric's balls, you mutter silently.

Seeing your expression, the giant of a man sighs, the sound akin to a blustering gale.

"There is enough left to feed the town if we ration it..."

"But twenty extra mouths is too many, or the villagers think."

The priest nods.

You, naturally, curse.

If Varrel's food stocks are so low that even a small group of people could push the town toward starvation, then it provides as little safety for your people as Roslas' ruins. Less, in fact. The beastmen have already put Roslas to the torch, but Varrel yet stands. Worse, as rations tighten and bellies shrink from want, the town's residents will undoubtedly grow hostile towards Roslas' erstwhile inhabitants. The present hostility, as unpleasant as it is, is a drop in the bucket compared to what could come next.

"There's more," Horst adds, his tone regretful.

You hazard a guess. "The beastmen raiders?"

Horst's face brightens at your question, one hand rising to stroke his beard as he sits in the room's sole chair.

"The beastmen raiders," he confirms. "I take it you've spoken to the woodcutters who found you?"

You make an agreeable sound. "Aye, I heard about it from Ernst—their leader."

From a certain point of view, it's the truth. You did hear Ernst talk about the attack on the woodcutters' camp; you also happened to be there during its dying stages and helped some of them escape the monsters intent on tormenting them.

"Well, they're almost certainly going to attack Varrel soon and in number. Belike tomorrow night if the gods are with us."

Truthfully, you can't say you're surprised. Ernst was adamant that the beastmen would attack Varrel, and the people racing about its muddy streets appeared likewise convinced. Moreover, it is in the beast kin's nature to attack strongholds of civilisation such as Varrel; something in their dark hearts drives them to destroy everything good in the world as surely as the sun sets. The timing, however, gives you pause.

"So soon?"

The priest nods. "'Tis what the others are saying: the Burgermeister, the head of the militia, those of import, I mean. They have assembled a council of war in the town hall."

"Good," you reply, only to frown as you catch the look on Horst's face. "What?"

The priest shrugs slowly, a mountain seeming to shift as he does so.

"They are distracted," he answers after an uncomfortably long pause. "Most wish to fight the beastmen behind the walls; others wish to flee north in search of the Baron's armies."

"They'll die if they do that!"

Horst shrugs again and folds his arms over his broad chest. "Aye, belike they will, but they don't know that, and they are afeared that what happened to Roslas will happen here."

"Idiots," you hiss, your fist clenching tight and your nails digging into the soft flesh of your palm so hard that you feel blood beading beneath them. "We need to convince them to stay and fight. The more of us there are, the better the chances we'll all survive. Anyone who tries to leave will die on the road out; I've already had to convince Ernst of that."

The Sigmarite nods, the silver hammer hanging from the chain around his neck shining gold in the oil light. "I thought you might see things clearly."

Equanimously, he continues. "There will be another meeting soon—a few hours before noon. Rest while you can; I'll get the both of you when it begins."

Halfway to agreeing, the hypnotic power of Horst's words such that you can do almost nothing but agree, you halt mid-motion as your mind finally catches up to what your ears hear.

"The both of us?" You prod gently, confusion marring your features.

"The both of us," A woman's voice confirms from close behind you, a sudden twist leaving you face to face with the last person you ever thought you'd be happy to see.

"Eleanor?"

The huntswoman steps into the wavering candlelight with a soft step, an almost subliminal glint of red flashing from her dark eyes as they catch the light. With her gaze locked on you, Eleanor smiles broadly, the long, knotted scar that runs from her brow to her lips twisting as she does.

"Hello, Kasled," the olive-skinned woman plainly states. "I dreamed you would be here."

Article:

After discovering that the only fellow Child of Ulric confirmed to have survived the attack thus far is the huntswoman Eleanor, Kasled reflects on his past with her. Why did Kasled feel uncomfortable around Eleanor?

[] Her eyes.
Even for a Child of Ulric, her eyes are queer. Worrisome, even. Behind closed doors, some in Roslas gossiped of a dark heritage, and the whispers have stained Kasled's memory ever since.

[] Her origin.
Unlike most of Roslas' inhabitants, Eleanor was not a child of Roslas who grew into her abilities, nor did she arrive as a fully grown adult well versed in her gift. Instead, fifteen years ago, she wandered into town as a half-feral child covered in blood, a memory that Kasled has never forgotten.

[] Her Scar.
Like most Children of Ulric, Eleanor displays a prodigious talent for healing from grievous injuries. However, despite this, she still bears an ugly scar from childhood: Something that speaks of an ill-fortuned past and an ill-favoured future, the knowledge colouring every interaction she and Kasled have ever had.

[] Her words.
Eleanor is strange and says strange things; the barest conversation oft leads her to speak of all manner of creatures and places which the human eye has surely never seen. Off-putting, to say the least, Kasled learned to avoid such conversations.

Article:

Advised to rest until the promised meeting, Kasled instead…

[] Ignores the advice and provides aid to the sick and injured.
As a healer, you are duty-bound to aid and comfort those in need, even if it means temporarily forgoing your own well-being.

[] Speaks privately with Eleanor about the other Children of Ulric
A Child of Ulric herself and a keen woodswoman to boot, Eleanor is as like as not to know the fate of the other Children and the people under their care.

[] Speaks with the refugees and learns how they escaped the beastmen
Friends, rivals, and everything in between, you have much to tell the other survivors and much to hear from them, including how they escaped what seemed an apocalyptic fate.

[] Does as Horst suggests and rests.
As aggravating as it may be to sit still with so many things to do and people to speak with, Horst's suggestion to rest and recover is one clearly founded in wisdom and concern for your well-being.

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