Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)

Maugan Ra · Dec 5, 2019

Of Wolves and Witches
A Warhammer Fantasy Quest

You are Erika Kurtsdottir, licensed Journeywoman of the Imperial Colleges of Magic, and at right about now you can confidently say that you hate everything. You hate the peasants you hate the nobility you hate the slowly flowing river and the buzzing carrion flies and every stick, stone and unwashed peasant in this entire wretched shit-pile of a village and…

Your father - your real father, not the useless sack of meat that sired you - liked to tease you about your temper. He'd do these needlessly dramatic double-takes whenever you scowled at him, pretend to cower in a corner any time you raised your voice… the memories you have of him are one of the few sources of comfort in a world that seems bound and determined to incur your wrath at every possible opportunity.

If it was just the filthy looks and frightened whispers, you wouldn't care nearly so much. Such things are merely to be expected when one is a wizard in a land where they still sometimes burn old women at the stake for being slightly too good at herblore, and unpleasant as such a reality is it is one that you have long since come to terms with. Unfortunately, such lingering prejudice is but the delicate tip of the rancid pile of canine vomit that is your day so far.

You didn't sleep well last night, sentenced by the innkeep to the tiniest, most flea infested domicile in his pitiful excuse for a shack. You woke to find your horse stolen in the night, the local constable too drunk and prejudiced to give a single thought to finding it. You broke your fast on over-salted meat, spent two hours emptying your bowels of the filth the locals fed you the day before, then took the rest of the morning to walk to this backwater fishing village that only appears on one map out of every five.

So now you smell of fish, your arse is alternately on fire and full of splinters, your robes are splattered with mud and to cap it all off your employer is late. You've spent the last hour sitting on this abandoned little jetty sticking out into the Verfelfluss and trying not to solve all your problems with gratuitous murder, and your patience is really starting to wear thin. Ulric would probably forgive you for taking out your frustrations on anything nearby, given the circumstances, but that's not the point.

With the desolate sigh of a woman kept from catharsis solely by a fraying sense of basic moral decency, you check your equipment over for the third time. You are quite sure you already have everything, but it works to pass the time, and your reputation is not so shiny as to survive just walking off a job after merely an hour's wait. Besides, you took payment in advance.

"Let's see… robes check, fancy waterproof cloak check, ominous looking staff that tells literally everyone what I am check," you mutter to yourself, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of the pier as you touch each item in turn. A wizard is entitled to wear whatever the fuck they want, in theory, but magic is easier to work if you garb yourself in line with the proclivities of your chosen Wind and besides… there are matters of style to consider.

"Coin pouch check, please-don't-burn-me-alive letter check, sharpened pigsticker check…"

You don't even like swords. If you had your way you'd be swinging a properly weighted battle axe around, but your last one broke against the scaly hide of some thrice-damned chaos beast and no one this far south has the slightest idea of how to make a decent fucking replacement. You still remember the idiot who tried to pawn you off with a woodsman's tool touched up with a bit of polish, and the fact that he will remember you in turn until ravens alight is some cold comfort in the face of such staggering ignorance and contempt.

"...and then last but most certainly least, my commission," you snort, unfolding the piece of paper to look over the scattered words scribbled in elegant hand one last time. You have no idea who the hell 'Rutger Reuter' is, but apparently he's in rather urgent need of an expert in the arcane and willing to approach the Imperial Colleges of Magic to acquire one. Unfortunately for him, the payment offered was modest at best and the details provided somewhat sketchy - something about strange omens surrounding an ongoing building project - and none of the actual Magisters were willing to take him up on the offer of employment.

That's where you come in, if 'come in' is understood to mean 'cooling your heels on a rickety little pier in the arse end of nowhere and trying not to choke to death on the smell of fish and bogwater'. You recently passed your apprenticeship examines and graduated to become a Journeywoman, which means you are now in that wonderful period of being able to accept commissions and lacking the skills and experience to tackle anything really interesting. One day you'll submit your thesis and call yourself a Magister and won't have to deal with this kind of bullshit anymore, but one day is not today. Today, you have debts to pay and obligations to uphold, so grunt work it is.

Sighing once again, you lift your gaze from the letter to scan the river once again, idly studying the bare handful of rickety barges in turn... and pause. You look back down at the commission, just to make sure. Yes, there you are, scribbled in as a hasty addition near the very end - rendezvous with the river barge Trandafir, where your employer will meet you. And, yes, now that you look closer it appears that one of the barges currently sluggishly drifting up towards your dock does, indeed, bear just that name emblazoned on its painted hull. Which means that your day has just gone from bad to worse.

"For fuck's sake," you grunt, picking yourself up off the crate and brushing a handful of woodlice from the hem of your robe, "this has to be some kind of test."

In a land where everyone goes everywhere by river and hundreds of barges ply the major tributaries every single day, the Trandafir manages to stand out in all the worst ways. The timber is aged, the paint is peeling, the rail is worn and half-ruined by maggots, and to cap it all off the crew appears to be entirely comprised of thrice-damned Strigany.

For a moment, you contemplate just… going home, turning around and leaving the mysterious Rutger to his business. It's not that you hate the Stirgany, particularly, but half your life has been spent trying to convince people that you're not actually a witch so they don't have you burned at the stake and keeping kind of company is directly counter to that most noble of goals, so...

The wind blows, sharp knives of bitter cold biting deep into your flank and face, and with a scowl you turn your head.

"All right, all right," you growl, resisting the urge to spit into the once-gentle breeze, "I'll stay. But it's not out of courage, all right, and it's not because leaving would be cowardice either."

The wind gives no reply. Not that you expected it to, the gods not being in the habit of speaking to witches, but still. A little acknowledgement would be nice. So you roll your eyes and hold your ground and take a moment to hide your purse deeper within the folds of your robes, and inch by inch the nomad-barge draws closer.

It is some consolation that the crew appear just as unhappy to see you as you are to see them.

Article:

What do they see, that discomforts them so?

[ ] An Alchemist of the Gold Order. She wears robes spun from cloth-of-gold and armour of lustrous shine, and from her belt hang tools of science and transformation. She is short and stocky, with a blacksmith's build and an artist's eye, and at her command base matter breaks and recombines in ways no mortal smith could hope to mimic. Power is her birthright, and genius her possession.

[ ] With Leaden Step. Her pace is steady, for her flesh is heavy and her bones denser than those of other women, and behind her movements is the promise of inhuman might.

[ ] With Brazen Skin. Tendrils of metal creep up her arms, forming patterns under the skin. They start at her hands, and spread further every year. Before long, she will be statuesque in truth.

[ ] With Hair of Gold. No mere saying this, but literal truth; strands of slender gold have replaced her hair, and hold their shape despite the wind.

[ ] An Astromancer of the Celestial Order. Garbed in blue and purple, bearing the sign of the Comet Ascendent stitched into her robes, she stands haughty and proud amid this wretched place. And why should she not? What but pride is reasonable, when one can peer into the tangled web of the future and see the flow of fate and doom, when one can walk among the clouds and call down stars to crash upon the earth in fury?

[ ] With Ethereal Grace. She hardly seems to touch the earth as she moves, exerting only a fraction of the weight she surely should on any surface.

[ ] With a Mantle of Wind. Small breezes surround her at all times, fluttering at her robes and stirring at parchment, even when sealed in a building.

[ ] Without Scent or Sound. She smells of a cool mountain breeze on the foulest battlefield and steps with utter silence, as though only halfway real.

[ ] A Hierophant of the Light Order. Swathed in pale robes and wearing silver jewellery, she seems almost ethereal in her shape and movements. Only her eyes are true, cold and hard as permafrost, endlessly judgemental of all that comes before her. Her staff is wrought in the shape of a serpent, and her words betray a clear and incisive mind, ever hunting for lies and iniquity.

[ ] Without a Shadow. No matter how bright the surroundings, her steps remain free of the darkness that dogs the steps of all other men.

[ ] Garbed in Light. In the darkest of environs she can still be seen, for her skin and robes alike radiate a soft glow of palest light.

[ ] With Snow-White Skin. One might doubt that she has ever been touched by the sun's own rays, for her skin is so pale and unmarked as to verge on the translucent.

[ ] A Pyromancer of the Bright Order. Tall and slender, whipcord thin and strangely elegant, she wears her robes of red and black like the uniform they are. Fire is her magic, passion and destruction brought together in elemental symphony, and from her belt hang the keys that unlock the gates of mystery. She is smiling, despite the hour, and her confidence is a thing of fearful beauty to behold.

[ ] With Burning Eyes. Behind her pupils dance tiny embers, and in her sclera is reflected the light of a bonfire that does not exist.

[ ] With Shining Veins. Her blood burns with magic, leaving muted patterns of glowing light painted across her body that pulse faintly with every heartbeat.

[ ] With Smouldering Hair. Her hair is a shade of red so vibrant as to be inhuman, and the end of each strand chars and blackens and sheds embers into the night air.

Your staff raps against the gangplank as you ascend, stepping onto the weather-worn barge with commission crinkled in one tightly clenched fist. Half a dozen Strigany watch you warily, scattered between piles of crates and loosely heaped piles of building supplies, their ears glittering with twists of gold and their necks hidden from view by brightly coloured scarves. Men and women alike make up the crew, all fit and well muscled in the way of those who make their living on the move, and all save one views you like they might a particular venomous breed of snake.

The last, an old woman, gives you a brief glance and nothing more. She holds a long string of beads tightly in her withered hands, and even with the barge docked and immobile seems intent on murmuring what you assume must be some kind of prayer to… whoever it is that Strigany pray to. You never thought to ask.

"I'm looking for Rutger Reuter," you say, brandishing the commission as though it might ward off the hostile and wary looks. Some part of you hopes that he might not be here, that the commission is fraudulent and you have an excuse to turn around and leave, but alas the gods are not so kind. One of the Strigany turns to knock on the door of the barge's small central cabin, and a moment later a young man sticks his head out to see what the fuss is.

"Yes, Reiko, what is it?" He says, evidently addressing the Stigany - Reiko, you suppose, and make a note of his name - before turning to follow the man's gaze over to you, "Aha! You must be the Magister I sent for!"

"Journeywoman, actually," you respond, but Rutger does not seem dispirited at being corrected. If anything he somehow manages to look even more enthusiastic, emerging from the cabin with so much visible enthusiasm that you're almost surprised he doesn't throw himself overboard by mistake.

"Even better!" he proclaims, smiling widely as if to prove he still has all his teeth, "That means you're looking to prove yourself to your guild, which means you're exactly the sort of proactive go-getter I want for a job like this! Rutger Reuter, of the Reuter family, at your service!"

He extends a hand out towards you, still smiling, and you find yourself shaking it on reflex even as you study the man it happens to be attached to. He's tall, with a relatively slight build, with bright hazel eyes and a pageboy bowl of soft blond hair. You think he probably counts as handsome as well, going by what you've heard other women list as desirable qualities in that regard, but personally he really just comes across as a slightly daft and excessively friendly puppy. You almost want to adopt him.

"Erika Kurtsdottir," you say suddenly, having suddenly noticed how long the exceptionally vigorous handshake has been going on, "of… well, anyway. You mind telling me why exactly you need the assistance of the Colleges? The commission was pretty vague."

"Oh, nothing serious, nothing serious at all," Rutger says brightly, waving his hand at the river as though he might shoo such questions away, "just a few omens, the odd bad dream around the building site, that sort of thing. It's nothing, I'm sure of it, but unfortunately my word alone isn't always enough to convince our investors."

Ah, one of those. You've heard tales from your colleagues about work like this before, where the main expectation placed upon a wizard is to stand around and proclaim a given task safe and/or accursed as the client demands. It's fairly straightforward, easy money in most cases, and so long as you don't actually outright lie it's even within the bounds of both the law and the Articles of Magic.

You hate it already.

"Anyway, I have some last minute work to do, boring paperwork stuff, you know how it is," Rutger proclaims enthusiastically, "So I'll leave you to get on with it, shall I? We'll be at the construction site within an hour or two, I think."

With that he spins on one heel and, before you can even properly process the rapid-fire nature of his speech, disappears back inside the cabin. Leaving you alone on the deck, surrounded by suspicious and hostile members of one of the Empire's few minority groups less well liked than you.

How wonderful.

Article:

What do you do now?

[ ] Follow Rutger. Yes he's cheerful and enthusiastic and maybe a bit of an idiot, but you're not letting him blow you off that easily. Follow him into that cabin and get him to tell you exactly what it is that he's paying you to do here.

[ ] Speak to Reiko. The Stigany seems like a figure of some authority among the crew, judging by the way that the rest look at him, which means he's probably your best option for getting some information on how this is all going to work. And maybe you can convince the band to stop staring at you like you're half a heartbeat from turning them into frogs.

[ ] Approach the old woman. She seems to be praying, or intoning a blessing or something, and you're curious. You've heard rumours and dark legends about Strigany religious practices, and as a wizard you have a legal duty to poke things that catch your interest. It says so on your license.

[ ] Look Busy. Walk around the ship muttering to yourself in arcane tongues, so that no one thinks to bother you. You don't like talking to people, and isolation will give you time to properly assess the vessel and crew for any sign of… problems.

Maugan Ra · Dec 5, 2019

Name: Erika Kurtsdottir
Class: Academic - a literate woman who uses her education to make a living.
Career: Magister (Wizard L3)

Appearance: A tall, well built woman with whipcord muscles and an elegant poise. Her hair is a vivid red colour, darkening to a charred black at the tips, and her eyes are glass orbs filled with roiling flames.

Characteristics

Characteristic	Base Score	Advances	Total	Explanation
Weapon Skill	34	+20	54	Your skill at hand-to-hand combat, both offensive and defensive.
Ballistic Skill	27			Your skill at ranged combat and hitting your target.
Strength	41	+5	46	Raw physical might.
Toughness	44			Physical hardiness, resilience and stamina.
Initiative	28	+5	33	Speed of thought and reaction, especially under pressure.
Agility	35	+5	40	Physical coordination and natural athleticism.
Dexterity	35			Ability to perform delicate tasks that require a high degree of precision.
Intelligence	39	+15	54	Powers of thought, analysis and understanding.
Willpower	43	+20	63	Strength of mind and ability to persevere in face of setback.
Fellowship	32	+5	37	Your ability to get on with people and pass as pleasant or acceptable.

Wounds: Strength bonus (4) + 2x Toughness Bonus (4x2=8) + Willpower bonus (6)= 4 + (4x2) + 6 = 18

Fate: 3
Fortune: 3
Doom: The Wolf wins every fight but the last, and in that fight, she dies.

These two stats govern how lucky and blessed Erika is. A fate point may be spent to guarantee her survival when such would normally seem impossible, as her destiny conspires to protect her. Fortune points, meanwhile, permit Erika to reroll a failed test; she gains a number of fortune each day equal to her Fate score. Her Doom, meanwhile, is the prophecy bestowed upon her by the Priests of Morr at her coming of age ceremony.

There is only way to increase Erika's Fate score: embrace her Doom. Play your part in destiny's grand design, and be rewarded in kind. This does not have to be her own Doom; supporting others in achieving their fated ends is equally appropriate.

Resilience: 4
Resolve: 4
Motivation: Pious Child of Ulric

Where fate and fortune represent external blessings, Resilience and Resolve are based on Erika's personal force of will and spirit. Resolve points may be spent to shake off conditions such as sickened or frightened, powering through injury and mental distress with sheer grit. Spending Resilience, meanwhile, allows her to utterly reject the influence of the dark gods or guarantee success on a particular roll. Every time Erika acts in line with her Motivation, she can regain a point of Resolve, up to a maximum of her Resilience.

Gaining new points of Resilience requires some grand and impressive accomplishment in pursuit of Erika's motivation; undertaking a pilgrimage to pray before the White Flame, for example, or vanquishing some mighty threat to the Cult of Ulric.

Corruption Points: 3
Corruption Threshold: 10

Skills

Skill Name	Characteristic	Advances	Total	Bonus SL	Description
Animal Care	Int	+3	57	n/a	Erika's ability to tend and care for animals of all descriptions
Art	Dex	-	35	n/a	The creation of pretty things that people pay you for.
Athletics	Ag	-	40	n/a	Running, jumping and moving with grace in distinctly ungraceful circumstances
Bribery	Fel	-	37	n/a	Good old fashioned corruption
Channelling	WP	+25	88	3	Stoke and guide the ambient winds of magic to fuel the most powerful spells.
Charm	Fel	+15	52	n/a	How to make friends and influence people
Charm Animal	Fel	-	37	1	Hey there friend, please don't bite my face off
Climb	Str	-	46	n/a	Getting over vertical or otherwise uncooperative surfaces
Consume Alcohol	T	-	44	n/a	How to drink without getting drunk. Well, not too drunk.
Cool	WP	+10	73	n/a	Resisting fear, stress and intimidation
Dodge	Ag	+15	55	n/a	The noble art of not getting hit by something painful
Drive	Ag	-	40	n/a	Controlling carts, coaches and whatever the engineers made this week
Endurance	T	+10	54	n/a	Endure physical hardship, affliction and injury. Benefits healing.
Entertain	Fel	-	37	n/a	How to delight crowds and probably convince them to give you money.
Gamble	Int	-	54	n/a	How to play games of chance and skill with only the expected level of dishonesty.
Gossip	Fel	-	32	n/a	Tracking down useful pieces of information and/or creating rumours.
Haggle	Fel	-	32	n/a	Give me more money, Ulric curse you.
Intimidate	WP	+5	68	1	Scaring people into doing what you want
Intuition	I	+15	48	2	Reading people's moods, attitudes and honesty.
Language (Bretonnian)	Int	+5	59	n/a	How to speak to those weird chivalrous people to the south-west of the Empire
Language (Magick)	Int	+25	79	2	Mastery of the Lingua Praestantia, the artificial language used for casting or dispelling magic.
Language (Tilean)	Int	+5	59	n/a	Making yourself understood amid the bitter politics and fierce rivalries of the Tilean Princedoms and City-States.
Language (Wastelander)	Int	+5	59	n/a	Communicate with the sons and daughters of Marienburg, and others who learned it as a trade-tongue.
Leadership	Fel	-	37	n/a	How to give orders and organise others
Lore (Magic)	Int	+20	74	n/a	Formal schooling in the arcane and all associated topics, provided by the Colleges
Melee (Basic)	WS	+20	74	n/a	How to use swords, axes and shields
Melee (Polearm)	WS	+5	59	n/a	How to use spears, halberds or the traditional wizard's staff in combat.
Navigation	Int	-	54	n/a	Getting lost is bad. Not getting lost is good.
Outdoor Survival	Int	-	54	n/a	Dying of hunger and/or exposure is also bad.
Perception	I	+20	53	n/a	How likely you are to spot interesting or dangerous details in your environment when not actively looking.
Ranged (Bow)	BS	+3	30	n/a	The ability to hurt people at a distance.
Ride	Ag	-	40	n/a	How to stay on a horse or other animal-ish steed.
Stealth	Ag	-	40	n/a	Its not cowardice, only prudence.

Your skills represent your training and experience in specific fields, building on the raw potential represented by your characteristics. Skills are tested by rolling d100 and aiming to get under the Total result, typically heavily modified by difficulty and circumstance.

Talents
Talents represent tricks, knacks and specific feats you have learned to perform, rather than the more general skills. Some, however, have an associated skill listed at the end of their entry. When you pass a test associated with that skill, you gain automatic levels of success equal to the number of times you have purchased the associated talents.

Aethyric Attunement x3 - Erika's training and experience makes her better at manipulating the ambient magical energy of the world. She does not suffer a miscast if she rolls doubles on a successful Channelling test. (Channelling)

Animal Affinity - Wild animals have always felt comfortable in Erika's presence, and often follow her lead even without specific training or command. Wild animals default to being friendly, unless injured or protecting their young. (Charm Animal)

Arcane Magic - Having graduated to become a Journeywoman, Erika can now memorise formal Colour Magic spells so as to be able to cast them without access to her grimoire.

Bookish - At home in a library, Erika can reverse the dice roll on a research test if doing so would allow her to succeed. (Lore tests to do research)

Cool-Headed - Even as a child she was hard to rattle, and as a result Erika gains a +5 inherent bonus to her willpower.

Doomed - When she was ten years old, the local priest of Morr consulted the omens about Erika's future.

Etiquette (Criminals) - Erika knows how to blend in among disreputable and lawless types, both in clothing and behaviour. (Charm and Gossip when targeting criminals)

Instinctive Dictation x2 - A growing mastery of the winds of magic protects Erika from a miscast on a successful roll (Language (Magick))

Magical Sense - Erika can make a routine (+20) intuition check to know if someone she can perceive is capable of wielding the winds of magic. The more SL, the greater the detail. (Intuition)

Menacing - Erika can quell a person with the most innocuous glare, gaining +1 SL to all successful intimidate checks (Intimidate)

Petty Magic - Erika knows a number of tricks and cantrips officially considered too minor to be worth formally educating the wizards of the Empire in. She can learn more, if she so chooses.

Read/Write - Wizards are among the relative minority of the Empire's citizens who are actually fully literate. Erika can read and write all of the languages that she knows.

Relentless - So long as she has at least one advantage, Erika may disengage from enemies without making herself vulnerable to attack, retaining a point of advantage when she does (Dodge tests to disengage)

Savvy - Erika has always had a sharp mind. Her base intelligence increases by five.

Second Sight - It was being born with this gift that led Erika down the path of becoming a Wizard, as she can perceive the Winds of Magic (Any skill involved with perceiving the winds)

Sixth Sense - Attuned to the Winds, Erika can sense danger coming before it directly manifests. (Intuition)

Suave - It took some time, but Erika is finally figuring out this interpersonal stuff. Her base fellowship increases by five.

Very Strong - Erika has brute strength in plentiful supply, to back up her incisive mind. She gains a +5 inherent bonus to her strength.

Very Tough - Erika is a natural survivor, and tends to bounce back from sickness and injury with remarkable speed. She gains a +5 inherent bonus to her toughness.

Equipment
3 Gold Crowns
1 Silver Shillings

(Twelve pennies to the shilling, twenty shillings to the crown)

Swampstrider Boots - Made from basilisk hide, these enchanted boots lend Erika some of that beast's endurance and certainty. Running does not tire her, and she ignores ground-based impediments to movement; a wall could bar her path, but a scree slope will remain solid beneath her feet.

Dwarf-Made Axe (Damage +7, Durable)
Staff (Damage +7, long reach, +10 defensive bonus, chance to stun foes)

Clothing - The elaborate red and black robes of her Order.
Dagger (Damage +5)
Grimoire
Pouch
Sling bag

Writing Kit
4 sheets of unmarked parchment

Fine Clothes: Linen shirt, a black velvet doublet with white collar and crimson sleeves all slashed, with silver thread edging the slashes. To go with that hose of fine burnt orange wool and two pairs of chamois gloves, one left in the natural color and another of indigo. Top that off with a an upturned slashed beret in marigold yellow. (6 shillings)

Noble's Clothing: Maroon padded shirt, slashed red silk coat with ribbonned slashed sleeves (orange-yellow lining for where we see it through the slashed parts) all of it embroidered with magic stuff (if possible see if we can get silk woven so it changes color depending on where we see it so it looks ablaze when we move), black and red silk sash, black and red slashed trousers, fabulous puffy red hat (or about, see how it goes with our hair, could go with a darker color as long as the feathers are flashy enough) with warmly colored feathers

Warm Coat: Allows Erika to travel in cold environments without risk of taking damage from exposure.

Jewellery: Gold amulet with a ruby, bracelets of the same, Aqshy themed brooch with a ruby in the round part (for our sash or to hold our coat closed) (5 crowns worth)

Digestive Tonic, 2 doses

Faxtoryll, 2 poultices

Healing Draught, 3 doses

Maugan Ra · Dec 5, 2019

Spells

Cantrips
These petty magics are not, strictly speaking, licensed products of spellcraft taught officially by the Colleges. In practice every wizard knows at least a few, many having entered the path of the wizard after being caught practising them. They require a Language (Magick) test to cast, typically at a bonus for ease of use.

Animal Friend - By manipulating the mind of a bestial creature her size or smaller, Erika convinces it to see her as a friend and ally. This lasts for an hour, or longer with better treatment.

Bearings - By sensing the ambient flow of the Winds of Magic, Erika can determine which direction is north, even underground.

Flickering Wasp - A shimmering insect of living fire races out to sting Erika's foes. No match for outright battle spells, but effective all the same.

Living Oven - Radiating heat, Erika keeps herself perpetually warm and dry even in the foulest weather.

Marsh Lights - Splitting off pieces of flame, Erika creates up to (intelligence bonus) floating lights of various colours that she controls.

A Palm, a Pyre - Erika fills her hand with magical flames. They will not burn her, but otherwise act as fire naturally would.

Arcane Spells
These are spells drawn from the Lore of Fire Magic, as taught to Erika by her master at the College. She has memorised these spells and requires no external tools to invoke them. They require a Language (Magick) test to cast, which must achieve a number of levels of success equal to the listed CN. Alternately, a Channelling test can be made to gather the necessary energy as an extended test.

Aqshy's Rebuke - By heating a metal weapon or other item held by a foe, Erika may force them to choose between disarming themselves or suffering painful burns. CN 1.

Cauterise - Searing her own flesh with magical flame, Erika stops any blood loss and regains d10 wounds from an infusion of magical vigour. CN 4.

Cuirass of Living Flame - Shrouding herself in fire that flows like water, Erika forges herself a crude but effective suit of armour. CN 2.

Dragonsong - Concentrating the essence of fire in her throat and lungs, Erika breathes flame over everything in a cone twenty yards long, bypassing their armour. CN 6.

Emberstride - Transforming her body into living flame, Erika becomes capable of discorporating and reforming a dozen yards or so away, effectively teleporting. CN 5

Fireblast - Forming a sphere of living flame in her hands, Erika flings it at her target, where it then detonates to strike all foes within several yards. CN 4.

Flaming Sword of Rhuin - Focusing the destructive energy of aqshy on an existing weapon, Erika imbues it with vastly improved striking power. CN 8.

Shimmering Mantle. Heating the air in selective pockets, Erika surrounds herself with a turbulent pocket of wind and visual distortions, inflicting a -20 penalty on tests taken by foes within a yard or so. CN 4.

Grimoire
Erika also possesses notes and instructions on how to invoke a number of other spells, which she can currently only do with access to her grimoire. What spells these are will be the subject of future votes; taking time to study them will allow Erika to memorise them as she has the spells above.

Maugan Ra · Dec 6, 2019

For one brief moment, you consider approaching one of the Strigany. You're not the most eloquent of sorts, but surely it would be possible to convince them to stop staring at you like some kind of poisonous snake? Then you remember how well such efforts went every other time you ever made the attempt and give the idea up as a lost cause. Instead you stride forwards, following in Rutger's wake as he disappears back into the small cabin on the barge's deck. The crew seem happy enough to stay out of your way, which is probably the best you can hope for out of this whole mess, and you have questions yet unanswered.

"Ah… is there something I can help you with, Miss Kurtsdottir?" The young merchant says, looking up as you step through the door. You managed to catch him before he could do anything more than sit down at a tiny little desk and pull a thick leather-bound ledger towards him, and the look on his soft face is almost comical in its surprise.

"Yeah, I think we need to clear up a few misunderstandings," you say flatly, shutting the door behind you and propping your staff up against the wall. Rutger swallows faintly at the look on your face, and you can see his soft hazel eyes drift almost unwillingly towards your hair. No one outside the Bright College has locks so brilliantly red in hue as you, and the way each strand curls and blackens near the end is something that tends to discomfort even the most steadfast soul. "See, I'm not some two-penny stevedore you picked up at the Reiksport. I'm a licensed practitioner of the arcane from the Imperial Colleges of Magic. So when I ask you what it is you want to commission me for, I expect a better answer than you would give your distant investors."

For a moment Rutger bristles, seemingly offended at being called so bluntly to heel, but then he settles down and takes in your appearance once more. The red and black robes of the Bright Order are distinctive, and perhaps the most likely to be seen upon the battlefield; likely he has heard stories of the pyromancers and their powerful destructive might… and perhaps even of their hair-trigger tempers and tendency to respond with flame when sufficiently irritated by fast-talking merchant scions.

Not that you're threatening him, of course. You just stand there, very obviously a wizard, and let him draw his own conclusions.

"I… I see, yes, that is, uh…" he stammers for a few moments, until you raise one scarlet eyebrow in silent prompting, "Well, the truth of the matter is that the actual construction is fairly straightforward. We're building a mill, you see, a water mill, using the Verfelfluss to power it. Boring stuff for someone of your profession I'm sure, but it will provide a great many jobs and be a considerable boon to the nearby town of Grausse, so…"

You study him, silently, and shift your gaze to the rest of the cabin while you wait for information that actually matters in any way to your commission. The walls are hung with intricate brocades and beautifully decorated maps, which confirms your suspicions that Rutger doesn't actually own this barge. It probably belongs to the Strigany. You wonder how willing they were to give up the only actual cabin to an outsider… and how much they charged him for it.

"Anyway, my family, the Reuter family that is, we were in need of partners for this endeavour, so we enlisted the aid of the Stiegler family… have you heard… no, I see not," Rutger continues his explanations, rubbing his hands together nervously as you wait, "Well, they're a very reputable family, and their representative here, Johanna, is an absolute marvel. She's an amazing manager, knows a lot about the area, real eye for details but she, ah… well we've had our disagreements, you know how it is…"

"And you want me on side in case they escalate?" you ask dryly, folding your arms across your chest. It makes sense, you think. You are a trained duellist and warrior, virtually everyone who graduates from the Bright College is, so it was only expected that you would get commissions of this kind eventually. Being a bodyguard isn't a bad line of work, either, especially when you can make the rather dire reputation of your profession work in your favour for once.

"No, no, not at… well, yes, actually, but that's only part of it," Rutger explains hurriedly, "While there are of course certain advantages to having someone trustworthy and capable and, well, working for me around, I approached the Colleges specifically because of your arcane expertise. Most of the labour force for this project are Strigany, except for the foreman - Thulgrim Nadrisson…"

Oh, joy, a Dwarf. You hate working with Dwarves. They always seem to find some excuse to complain about how inherently fickle and unreliable magic is, and the fact that the Lingua Praestantia is derived from Elfish really doesn't help.

"Now, the Stigany are a wonderful people, very hard working, I won't hear a word against them," the merchant scion continues in a firmer voice, "But they're also rather superstitious, and they're refusing to do some of the work that needs to be done. A handful of old standing stones need to be moved, and they've gone and convinced themselves that the things are cursed. Complete nonsense, Johanna is a local and she never mentioned any kind of curse, but I thought… well, if you could take a look at them just in case?"

You tilt your head, considering the argument for a moment. Old standing stones are honestly fairly common in the less populated parts of the Empire; generally a legacy of the old pre-Imperial tribes and their worship of the old gods of nature. So long as this idiot hasn't gone and started interfering with Elven waystones, then there shouldn't be much of a problem there.

"See, was that so hard?" You say with a pleasant little smile, ignoring the sour look in Rutger's eyes as you pick your staff back up again, "Pleasure doing business with you, Master Reuter."

You step back out onto the deck, take a breath of fresh air and are promptly rewarded with the olfactory sensation of being smacked in the face by a half-rotten fish. It appears that the barge has gotten back underway while you were having your little chat, and is now slowly rounding a bend near what appears to be a vast array of fetid marshland. How… absolutely delightful.

You are just trying to decide how best to occupy yourself next when the elderly Strigany woman at the prow lets out a cawing shriek, leaping to her feet and lifting her arms to the sky.

"Praise be the ancestors!" She screams, the beads strung from her hands and neck clicking loudly with her frantic shuffling movements, "Praise and veneration, for they have delivered us from the perils of the water and the hunger of the Beast!"

You frown, glaring first at the old woman as she dances and shakes, then at the nearby Strigany in hopes of an explanation. Most of them give their elderly relative nothing more than a brief glance and a helpless shrug, which is deeply unhelpful but perhaps to be expected. With a sigh, you stride across the deck towards her.

"Ah, my husband, thank you for your guidance," the old woman says, cataract-clouded eyes staring at the overcast skies, "I miss you every day, but the Beast cannot harm us so long as you watch over us… praise be, praise be…"

"What in Ulric's name are you blathering on about, woman?" You demand, crossing the remaining distance and ignoring the faint sounds of alarm from the Strigany at your back. You thought the woman was just old and faithful, but if she's something more than that…

You are, it seems, to be denied an answer, for the gods take her ravings as poorly as you. There is an almighty crash, the sound of splintering wood, and the world goes sideways as the Trandafir flounders on what you can only assume to be some hidden rocks. Ropes snap and strain, crewmen curse and stumble, you slam into the side of a nearby crate with a pained grunt… and the old woman, already unsteady on her feet from age, topples clear over the side of the ship with a fearful shriek and the splash of freezing water.

Growling a curse, you force yourself back upright and hurry over to the port-side rail. The old woman is still alive, it seems, for it takes you barely a moment to see her thrashing wildly amid the foaming waters. The river isn't too deep here, you think, but based on her panicked shouts and windmilling arms the old lady never learned how to swim.

Worse still, it seems her thrashing has drawn some unwelcome attention. You can see the long, sinuous form of some kind of predatory beast moving through the water towards her… a Stir-Pike, unless you are mistaken. This one seems to be a youngling, only ten foot from nose to tail, but that is still quite enough to swallow an old lady whole.

Damnation.

Article:

What do you do?

[ ] Repel the Stirpike. It's big, angry and very hungry, but you are a wizard. A blast of fire should force the beast to retreat. Just hope the old lady doesn't drown in the meantime…

[ ] Save the old woman. The shore isn't that far away, and you're a strong swimmer. Focus on saving her life, and trust that the pig-sticker you bought from that merchant can also see off an overgrown trout if it tries its luck.

Maugan Ra · Dec 7, 2019

She can't swim. How the hells this woman managed to make it to her dotage while living on a river boat and never learning to swim defies comprehension, but it is the case and now she is going to die. Maybe she will drown, maybe the ten-foot long hybrid between reptile and fish will eat her alive, either way she's going to die unless you do something to stop it, and as much of a bitch as people say you can be at times there are still limits to what you will allow.

Stifling a curse, you unsling your bag and dump it by the nearest stack of boxes, setting your staff down by its side. There's no sense in letting your grimoire be ruined by river water, after all, and you have enough problems on your plate without adding a vengeful master wizard to the mix. Then, not allowing yourself the time to think this through and doubt your own convictions, you take a deep breath and launch yourself over the side.

Easy (+20) Endurance Test, TN 64. Roll 85. Fail, -2 SL. Stunned x1.

As mentioned, this quest will run on a stripped-down version of the 4th edition WHFRP rules. The basic mechanic is a d100 dice system, where Erika wants to roll under a given target number (TN). In this case the TN is set to her endurance skill, which is based on her toughness. The base TN is therefore 44, with a +20 modifier for being fairly easy.

Unfortunately, Erika rolls 85, and therefore fails. For some tests it is important to know how badly the roll failed or succeeded by; this is calculated by deducting the 10s unit of the result from the 10s unit of the TN, with the result being the Success Level (SL). Erika, having failed by 2 SL, is afflicted by a Stunned Condition, and cannot take any actions until she recovers herself.

You hit the water, and are abruptly reminded of the last time someone punched you in the face. The cold drives the breath from your lungs and sends your senses reeling, robbing you of sight and sound and touch in an explosion of icy pain. You spin, bubbles streaming past your squinting eyes, and realise that you can't feel your limbs. They should be moving, thrashing at the river and seeking the bottom that surely cannot be too far below your feet, but you don't know if they are. There is a faint sensation of pressure, an endless tugging as the current pulls at your robes, and you lack the sense to understand it.

You sink, the cold flowing water wrapping icy hands around your throat, choking the life from you with every beat of your thundering heart.

Average (+0) Endurance Test, TN 44. Roll 53. Fail, -1 SL. One wound taken from drowning. Resolve point spent, Stunned Condition removed.

Something scrapes against your face. A rock, the riverbed, the side of the barge, it doesn't matter. What matters is the sharp bolt of pain that the impact hammers into your mind, and the fevered desperation with which you grasp it tight. Shock, you're going into shock, the water was so much colder than you were expecting but it's fine. This is manageable, just hold to the pain, regain your focus, find the surface - there, a gleam of sunlight on water - and swim…

You break back out into the open air and take the sweetest breath of your life, then immediately begin powering your arms and legs in the calm, rhythmic motions that your father taught you. You can't really feel them as anything more than a vague sense of movement, but that's a problem for the Erika of five minutes from now. The Erika of this instant needs to keep her head above the water and find the old woman she dived in to protect, so where… ah, there. Still thrashing violently, good news, it means she isn't dead yet. You can't see the Stir-Pike, so maybe you got lucky and the sudden addition of another flailing mammal startled the thing out of its hunting lunge. Well, more likely it's trying to decide which of you to eat first, but one problem at a time.

Whether through luck or design it seems the old woman has managed to wind up closer to the bank that when she initially fell in, and as you approach you feel your feet smacking against the river bed. The spike of triumph you feel from that small victory is immediately quashed when one of the crone's flailing arms catches you clear across the jaw.

"For fuck's sake, crone, I am trying to help you!" You snarl, hooking one arm around her waist and hauling her back above the water as best you can, "We're near the shore, so put your feet down!"

You turn your face away before she can put your eye out with one of those ridiculous rings of hers, and as a result get a good look at the other danger of this waterway. The dark brown scales along the stirpike's flank blend in horrifyingly well with the surrounding water, but there's no disguise something moving that fast against the current, and with a muffled curse you pull your sword free of its sheath.

Opposed Melee (Basic) test. Erika rolls against TN 54, scores 28, success, 3 SL.
Stirpike TN 55, scores 78, fail, -2SL.
Net +5 SL to Erika, damage is 12 - 5 = 7 wounds taken by Stirpike. +1 advantage Erika.

Melee combat is an opposed test between you and your opponent. Both combatants roll against their weapon skill (Erika has a score of 54 when using a basic weapon, which is pretty high; for comparison the average orc warrior has 35. The Stirpike has a score of 55 to represent how hard it is to fight a giant carnivorous fish-snake while submerged up to your armpit in freezing river water). The one who scores the most SLs wins the exchange. Note that this means you can fail to beat your TN and still hurt the enemy so long as they fail even worse than you do.

The winner of the opposed test inflicts damage on the opponent, depending on their weapon. Erika's sword deals +7 damage, which is added to her net success levels for a total of 12 damage. The Stirpike then reduces this damage by its toughness bonus of 5 (Erika has a toughness bonus of four), meaning it takes seven wounds. Note that being reduced to zero wounds does not instantly kill you in this system, but rather starts inflicting critical damage like broken bones and blood loss.

Damage can also be reduced by armour, which effectively boosts the toughness bonus of the wearer. Leather armour reduces the damage by one, full plate by three, and the scaled hide of a dragon by five. Unfortunately, Erika finds that wearing armour interferes with her spells (leather armour being rich in Ghur and metal infused with Chamon, and so must rely on magically conjured flame to protect herself. Or just not getting hit.

Your fingers are numb, your reflexes slowed by the cold, and there's no way you can employ any of the sweeping blows you would normally rely on while up to your armpits in freezing river water. The best you can do is extend your blade out in front of you, grit your teeth and brace. Ulric smiles upon you, and the beast is too dumb or hungry to realise the threat that such a gestures represents; it slams directly into your outstretched blade, and though the impact nearly tears the weapon from your grasp it is still enough to open a bleeding wound all the way down the riverbeast's flank.

"Oh ancestors… oh ancestors protect me…" the old crone babbles madly, kicking her feet fitfully beneath the water and almost taking your leg out from under you. You growl, watching as the Pike swims away in pain, and grip her as tightly as you dare.

"Talk to me, not your heathen ghosts," you snarl, bodily dragging the woman back through the water and trying not to stumble on the uneven ground beneath your feet, "Can you stand? Can you feel your legs?"

You can hear shouting in the distance, sounds of panic from the direction of the barge as the rest of the Strigany finally figure out what is going on, but you don't have time to spare for them. You have to get this useless decrepit wreck of a woman to the shore, and if that means physically carrying her then so be it.

Opposed Melee (Basic) test. Erika rolls against TN 64, scores 89, fail. -2 SL.
Stirpike TN 55, rolls 25, success. +3 SL.
Net +5 to Stirpike, damage is 10-4 = 6 wounds. Erika has 8 remaining.

You'll notice that Erika was rolling against 64 for this round, rather than her weapon skill of 54. This is because she won the last round, and therefore had a point of Advantage. Points can generally be accumulated by circumstance and tactics, and apply to enemies as much as you. Every point grants a cumulative +10 modifier on all associated tests, but are lost the moment an enemy manages to strike you with an attack.

As a side note: Bright Wizards gain a point of advantage on spellcasting rolls for every open flame nearby when they attempt to use their magic, even if those flames were started by previous uses of fire magic. Which is to say that the more things you set on fire, the easier it becomes to set the next thing on fire as well.

Please burn responsibly.

You see the displaced ripple of water half a second too late. The Stirpike slams into you, its sheer bulk more effective than any mortal weapon, and you feel your flesh bruise like ripened fruit all down your right side. Worse, the impact knocks you clear off your feet, and you have no time to take a breath before you are forcefully submerged once again.

You inhale, shock forcing your lungs to work against your will, and then cough violently as the icy water scours the inside of your nose and throat. You can't see anything, can't feel anything save for the hot ache in your side, but you know you have to get up. If you're still underwater when the pike comes back you're dead, but you can't tell which way is up, and…

A wrinkled old hand seizes you by the front of your robes, and a moment later you break the surface of the water again, the tips of your hair hissing faintly as they burn themselves dry. The old woman smacks you on the back, having somehow managed to keep her feet even when you were thrown from yours, and through the pounding of blood in your ears you can just about hear her speaking.

"Come on child, get up, get up," she urges, as though you are the one who got the pair of you into this trouble, "Don't make Mother Vadoma do all the work now, we need to… LOOK OUT!"

Opposed Melee (Basic) test. Erika TN 54, rolls 98, fail. Fortune point spent for reroll, 37, pass. +2 SL.
Stirpike TN 65, rolls 72, fail. -1 SL.
Net +3 to Erika, damage is 10-5 = 5 wounds taken by Stirpike.

You spin, instinct rather than skill guiding your blade, and for one horrifying moment are greeted by the sight of the pike's open maw as it lunges out of the water at your face. In that one frozen moment you count at least two dozen thin translucent teeth and rather more pieces of waterlogged carrion than you ever wanted to see, and then your blow catches the thing on one side of its jaw and tears off a ragged strip of flesh from lip to gill. The pike falls back into the water, thrashing in pain, and you take advantage of the brief reprieve to turn and hurry your way over towards the shore.

Apparently, two wounds are enough to convince even this hungry river beast to leave you in peace, and you are not troubled further as you wade through the last handful of metres separating you from the shore, the old woman at your back. Only then, with your feet on solid ground once more, do you let shock and fatigue catch up and slump over into a gently shivering pile. Your robes are ruined already, so it's not like a bit of mud matters all that much.

"There, there, child," the old woman - Vadoma, you suppose - pats you gently on the back, "You did good! Very good, in fact. I'm proud of you."

" I'm not your child," you mutter, pushing yourself back up into a kneeling position and clumsy sliding the sword back into its sheath, "My name is Erika."

"Well, Erika, it's nice to meet you. I'm Mother Vadoma," the crone says, baring yellow teeth at you in a cheerful grin, her earlier panic seemingly forgotten, "and you know, it's not every young woman that would risk her life diving in after a silly old bat like me. Ah, yes, I don't think we need to fear any kind of Beast with you around."

You blink, reaching up to wring the water from your hair. "Beast? What beast? I mean I guess you could call that fish a beast, it nearly ate the both of us, but…"

"Ach, don't worry about it, dearie," Vadoma flaps her hand in a dismissive gesture, settling her bum down on the sodden grass and mud, "Just an old woman's harmless superstition. Now, where's that grandson of mine… ah, there he is!"

You follow her gaze, and sure enough the male Strigany from earlier - Reiko, that was it - is running over, booted feet slipping and sliding on the muddy bank. He seems to have lost his shirt somehow, and you're sure if men did anything for you the sight of his well-toned muscles would be intriguing, but as it is the floppy mustache mostly just makes him look like a vaguely constipated walrus.

"Mother Vadoma!" He says, sinking to his knees at the old woman's side before launching into a rapid-fire barrage of words in some language you don't understand. You suppose it's probably whatever the Strigany speak among themselves when there are no outsiders to hear, but you don't need to know the words to understand the evident concern in his voice as he checks the old woman over.

"I'm fine, Reiko, just fine," Vadoma grubbles, swatting away his hesitant hands, "Young Erika here saw to that. Give me some fresh clothes and a hot meal and I'll be steady as the mountains. How are the others?"

"They… well, Chella broke her arm," Reiko says, his sigh of relief making the moustache flutter dramatically across his face, "and Romano won't say anything but he probably cracked a rib or two. Everyone else is fine… the barge is done for, though."

Frowning, you look over his shoulder, and sure enough the brightly painted river barge is slowly listing further over with every passing moment. A long chain of Strigany are rapidly unloading what cargo and personal possessions they can, and… hmm. You can't see your satchel anywhere near where you left it, so hopefully someone already grabbed it and was smart enough not to try reading anything held inside while the boat sank around them.

"We'd better go over and join them, then," you say with a sigh, forcing yourself back to your feet, grunting as your bruised flank pulses in agony with the motion. Reiko nods and opts to help his grandmother up instead, which even you can't find it in yourself to blame him for, and together the three of you limp your way back over to rejoin the rest of this sorry little band.

You find Rutger standing at the edge of the river bank, chewing his lip as he surveys the sinking barge and the rapidly accumulating pile of salvage on the shore. You can see at least two of the Strigany sitting on boxes and being tended to by their companions, while several others ignore splinters or faint limps as they scurry to recover as much of their worldly possessions as possible. No need for any of them to worry about the paychest, though - Rutger has that sitting on the ground by his feet, safely secured with a pair of heavy padlocks.

"By Sigmar's Grace!" The merchant son exclaims as you draw close, smiling cheerfully at you, "That could have been a lot worse, don't you think?"

You raise one eyebrow, rubbing your side gently and trying not to wince too visibly as the tender flesh throbs with pain. "Seems pretty bad to me."

"Now, now, I know it looks bad," Rutger shakes his head, gesturing vaguely at the grounded barge, "But I don't think it's nearly as much of a serious setback as you might assume. We can't be more than a mile or two from the camp by now, so all we need to do is send someone to fetch Thulgrim. He'll have the old girl patched up in an hour or so, good as new!"

There is a distant shrieking of wood, and what little internal structure the barge had left gives way entirely. You and Rutger watch in silence as the hull splinters and the deck collapses into fragments, until at last there is nothing left but a collection of brightly painted driftwood, already floating away on the current.

You turn back to look at Rutger, and this time you raise both eyebrows.

"...yes, well, you know what they say," the merchant forces out at last, the muscles in his jaw twitching from the effort of maintaining his smile, "Ranald gives with one hand, takes with the other. I'm sure there are better fortunes just around the corner. We just have to… well, first we have to get back to camp. I know it's not in your contract, but if you wouldn't mind helping to carry some of the equipment? I'll pay you a crown as bonus."

At that, you blink. A gold crown, for maybe a couple of hours manual labour? That's more than the average labourer would see in a month. You dearly hope this is just Rutger's way of trying to bribe you for something, because it says very bad things about his financial sense if it's just what he considers reasonable. Still, you'll never say no to more money, and with a shrug you turn and make your way back over towards the milling crowd.

The fact that you saved the old woman appears to have gotten around already, because everyone who sees you approach nods and lifts a hand in greeting instead of flinching back in fear. One of them even goes so far as to approach you.

"Ah, don't take this the wrong way, lady," he says, apparently trying not to blush as he stares at you, "but you'll want to get out of those clothes."

You blink, then look down. Oh, right. Diving in a river gets your robes wet, and wet robes cling to people. They are also an excellent way to fall horribly ill, but that again is a problem for future Erika. Either way, though, it's a legitimate concern, and just because the boy doesn't know about your abilities is no reason to snap at him. Instead you focus your will and call on the tiniest, meanest flicker of the Winds of Magic.

Of all the Winds, Aqshy is the most eager to respond to a spellcaster's will, to the point where a large section of your training was devoted to the mental discipline necessary to stop a stray thought from calling it into action. You don't even have to really shape it for this little trick to work, just hold it close and let the natural heat and energy it radiates do what you want, which is to dry your clothes and hair and skin in the space of about twenty seconds rather than the four or five hours it might otherwise take.

The billowing cloud of steam is a nice bonus.

To your surprise, the Strigany don't flinch away in fear at the sight of magical power openly wielded. Even the most cosmopolitan son of Altdorf will have a fixed quality to his smile at the sight of spellcasting in the streets, but these landless vagabonds merely gossip and point excitedly. You… aren't entirely sure how to feel about that, so it is something of a relief when one of the women comes forwards with your staff and satchel in hand.

"Ah… these are yours, I think," she says, offering them to you with a slight bow, "Your name was Erika, right?"

"Yes, thank you," you say absently, taking them from her and slinging the satchel back over your shoulder and trying not to pay too much attention to the single strand of glossy black hair that sticks out from under her sunset-patterned head scarf. "And yes, it is… I don't think we've been introduced?"

"Oh, no, we haven't, it's fine I… well, I'm Kezia," the woman says, and you think she might actually be blushing slightly. Which is a problem, because it really just highlights how pretty her heart-shaped face is and you are quite certain she has relatives around here somewhere. "I'm the clan's healer… well, apprentice healer, really, but… anyway. It was very brave, what you did, jumping after Mother Vadoma like that. Are you OK?"

"Nothing a good night's rest won't fix," you say bravely, because you're an idiot, "Anyway, we should probably get moving. Do you need any help with, uh, carrying supplies or whatever?"

"Oh! Well, yes, actually, if you don't mind," Kezia says happily, taking you by the arm and leading you rapidly across the gathered stockpile, "It's nothing too heavy, but herbs and bottles can get quite bulky, so I could use another pair of hands…"

Article:

Well, you have some walking to do. At least the company's pleasant enough. What do you talk about on the way?

[ ] Grausse. You know virtually nothing about the local area, but the Strigany have probably spent some time here. What does Kezia think it's like? Is there anywhere she'd like to go? You know. Together.

[ ] Rutger. You've known the man for less than an hour, but presumably Kezia can tell you more about him, his partners and this project. Also maybe whether or not she finds him attractive. No? Good. No reason, just… good.

[ ] Kezia. You know very little about what it's actually like, being one of the Strigany, but they produce people like Kezia so they can't be all bad. Also they didn't freak out at the sight of magic and that's either a really good sign or a really bad one. You're hoping good. For… various reasons.

[ ] Write in. Expressions of interest in the pretty herbalist not required, still probably inevitable.

Maugan Ra · Dec 8, 2019

And so you set off, leaving the shattered wreck of the Trandafir far behind. The Strigany form up into something approaching an organised convoy, the healthy hauling crates or sacks full of recovered supplies while the injured walk or are carried along in their wake. All of them glare sullenly at Rutger Reuter, who seems as oblivious to the bad mood as he is to anything else that might interfere with his outlook of relentless optimism.

"Come on, come on, can't be more than an hour of walking, I expect!" He says cheerfully, leading the way along the marshy river bank as though at the head of some ceremonial parade back at the capital, "Nothing for doughty folks like you, I'm sure!"

Personally, you think you make a much better choice of companion for the journey, and it seems Kezia agrees. The two of you adopt a position roughly midway along the improvised caravan, and soon fall into animated conversation.

"What's it like, always being on the move?" You ask, adjusting your grip on the crate of dried herbs that the young woman gave you earlier, already mourning the effort it's going to take you to get the mud out of your robes, "I've met a few wanderers, but they always seem to prefer having somewhere to go back to."

"It's nice, actually," Kezia replies with a smile. She has a very nice smile. "Always new things to see, new people to meet, and I don't have to leave my family behind to do it. It really helps to give you some… perspective, I think. I couldn't bear living in a single village for my whole life. I'd go completely mad."

Personally you think it depends on the location. You're a Nordland girl yourself, from up where the air is chill and the pines dark, so you can't see much appeal in this endless expanse of sodden mud and shivering rushes, but there are other places in the Empire that are really quite lovely.

"I don't know, I've heard people praising the concept," you say dryly, a faint grimace crossing your face as the mud sucks at your boot, "mostly nobles who'd really like the peasants to just stay where they are and stop bothering them, granted, but it still counts."

"Urgh, nobles. Definitely don't miss the thought of having some of those around," Kezia wrinkles her nose in disgust, which really just draws your attention to her cheeks and her lovely dark eyes, "But what about you? What's it like, being a wizard?"

You consider your answer for a moment. How are you meant to sum up the total of your life in a single line or two? Well, no, that's not possible, and it's not really what she's asking for either. She already told you what it's like being one of the Strigany, so offer her something in kind.

"Lonely," you say at last, making sure not to sound too wistful or depressing, "We're not required to be apart, usually, but… I can see things, do things that no one else can. Outside of the College, no one I meet really understands what it's like, and with the best will in the world that creates some distance."

You might have failed in sounding upbeat about that, because Kezia switches her own burden around and then uses her free arm to give you a brief hug. It's rather nice, for all its brevity. Her hair smells of flowers.

"I've heard stories about your Colleges," she says with a delighted smile, letting go of your waist far too soon, "is it true that they can fly, and carry you across the Empire?"

You're fairly sure you have some other listeners by this point. None of the shuffling, panting Strigany around you are obviously eavesdropping, but you're an outsider and the conversation has moved onto flying castles so someone is probably paying attention. You'd be a little insulted if they weren't.

"Hah! No," you snort, "though maybe if they gave the Patriarch the funding he wants that will change. For now, though, the Bright College stays in Altdorf."

You didn't expect to get away with such a minimal level of detail, and sure enough the next twenty minutes or so are spent answering Kezia's increasingly eager questions as she grills you relentlessly on every aspect of College life. You tell her about the great brass doors, the thick stone walls, about the open fires in every room and dormitory and the ways you learned to work with them. At her prodding you even recite some of the old mantras that apprentices were forced to use in order to focus their will and learn and appropriate discipline.

You attempt to demonstrate some of the martial exercises as well, but they were not made to be performed with a box of herbs in hand and the whole display ends up looking rather tragically comical.

"It sounds very strict," Kezia says sympathetically, kindly not laughing at your absurd attempts to demonstrate a one-handed sword maneuver, "do they train all wizards to be soldiers, then?"

"Well, the other Orders do things differently, but the Bright College? Yeah, more or less. They have to," you explain with a shrug, "Fire is the easiest magic to call up, but that makes it dangerous. You need to learn discipline if you want to use it, and since we're bound by law to assist the Empire in battle if needed, combat training hits two birds with one stone."

Such discipline doesn't work for everyone, but you can't find it in yourself to regret that. The other Colleges maintain perpetual apprentices as aides and assistants to more senior graduates, with the aim of making a place for everyone regardless of their level of talent, but a pyromancer cannot afford to slack off like that. In the Bright Order, you graduate or you die. Not that you intend to tell Kezia that. It might give her the wrong impression.

"What about the Strigany?" you say instead, "It's a dangerous world, especially for people who can't hide behind thick walls if they need to. Surely you have soldiers of your own?"

"Not since Mourkain fell," Kezia shakes her head, "We have some fighters, for self-defence, but mostly we stay on the move and avoid the worst places as best we can. I wouldn't be any good at fighting, anyway - I never liked hurting people. Leave me to my herbs and poultices, I think."

You nod agreeably. Combat isn't for everyone, and truth be told you think the world is better that way. What's a battle-scarred heroine to do without beautiful maidens to rescue? Not that you want Kezia to be in danger, exactly, but if she was and you saved her from it maybe she'd be grateful and…

"Not much of a herbalist myself," you say hurriedly, abandoning that line of thought before anyone notices the look in your eyes, "always left that sort of thing for the Jade College… maybe the Amber as well. What sort of things can you do?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," Kezia says eagerly, "There's herbs to dull pain, herbs to fight infection, to strengthen the constitution and treat disease… you have to know how to prepare them, of course, just shoving them in your mouth will make you sick at best, but I pick stuff up really quickly. Just as well, too, since it's not like we can go to a Doktor if someone gets sick…"

"No one sees a doctor unless their blood is blue as the sky," you say with a laugh, before pausing, "surely the Shallyans will look after you, even so?"

"Sometimes, yes," Kezia shrugs, "after they've taken care of anyone more local, anyway. And if the guard let us into town in the first place. Your gods are good to you, but they're not our gods. I don't think they ever will be."

You think of the thud of axe cutting through rope, a wolf's howl of outrage quieting the clamour of the mob. "I… can't imagine what that's like."

"It's not so bad. Like I said, my people are family, and family looks out for family," Kezia says softly, her gaze drifting across the ragged band of Strigany all around you, their livelihoods carried on their backs, "it's why we worship our ancestors. They look out for us when no one else will."

Well. You have… absolutely no idea how to respond to that, and smart enough to know that you'll botch any effort at offering comfort. Instead you choose to focus on studying the surrounding terrain, which might have been a mistake because now that you're not distracted by a pretty herbalist you can see that this entire place is utterly fucking miserable.

You can't be more than a dozen metres from the river itself, but sometime during your journey a thick fog has rolled in off the water, and now there's nothing to see in any direction save an endless blanket of stifling grey. The croak of amphibians and the dull squelch of boots in the mire replace all conversation, and despite your earlier use of Aqshy the damp cold sets your bones to aching. All thought of resuming conversation fades, drowned by the endless haze, and the rest of the journey is spent plodding along in uncomfortable silence.

Eventually, just around when you were beginning to wonder if Rutger had gotten you all completely lost, you reach your destination. Here the river joins its source, a massive lake of steel-grey water, and the sodden marsh gives way to a relatively stable outcropping of stone and thinly spread dirt. Clusters of spindly shrubs dot the landscape, and the gloom of the coming evening paints washes all colour from the world.

"Ah, here we are at last!" Rutger sighs, running one hand through mist-damp hair as he turns back to look for you, "Miss Kurtsdottir, if you would come with me?"

You nod apologetically to Kezia, who sets butterflies loose in your stomach with a smile as she takes the extra crate of herbs from your arms, and make your way up the column to join Rutger. Now that you look, you can see that the spit of land up ahead is not unoccupied; a cluster of the distinctive half-tube wagons that carry the Strigany around are parked in a cluster near the coast, while a pair of tents in bright colours have been set up on either side. Wooden boards provide walkways across the soggy ground, while piles of stone and brick are strewn haphazardly across the entire area.

You're no engineer, but you really doubt this is how a construction site is meant to be laid out. You can even spot several areas where the foundation ditches have collapsed inwards or become horribly waterlogged.

"I must apologise, Miss Kurtsdottir, but I am feeling quite exhausted," Rutger mutters, leading you further into the camp, "I'll hand you over to Thulgrim and he can take you to Johanna, I think. They'll fill you in on what needs to be done here."

You consider pointing out that he apparently hired you to protect his interests here, but considering how much energy appears to have gone out of the puppy-faced young man you doubt it will achieve much. Instead you simply nod and follow silently as he leads you across the construction site towards an elevated wooden platform. Standing there, a billowing pipe clenched between blocky teeth and arms folded beneath a thick black beard, is a dwarf.

"Thulgrim!" Rutger calls out, raising one hand in some limp imitation of a wave, "I say, Thulgrim!"

The Dwarf turns to face you, and you're fairly sure you catch a glint of hostility in his eyes before he masters himself. It's probably the wizard robes. Then he hops down from the platform and waddles over to you, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke from between his teeth that leaves Rutger spluttering. "Back so soon, manling?"

"I… yes there was…" Rutger coughs, waving one hand in front of his face to clear away the pipe smoke, "something of a mishap… on the river. We'll need to compensate Master Reiko for the loss of his boat, I'm afraid."

Thulgrim just grunts, apparently unconcerned. Then he shifts his beady black eyes to study you. "Who's the mage?"

"Erika Kurtsdottir," you say flatly, before Rutger can take enough of a breath to start showing you off, "Here on commission. Heard you have some cursed stones that need taking a look at."

Thulgrim just grunts, extending one hand towards Rutger, and gods his hands are filthy. You'd expect a labourer to have calluses and a bit of dust but it looks like he spent all day crawling through the marsh. For his part, the merchant just hands over the chest containing the money, nods his floppy head, then turns and wanders off in search of his bed.

"Come on then, mageling, we'd best go see Stiegler," the dwarf says, pausing only to burp up another lungful of smoke before he turns and begins striding off, "though what good your twisty elf-magic will do for a project like this is beyond me."

"I don't tell you how to do your job, dwarf, so don't tell me how to do mine," you say waspishly, struggling to control your irritation, "though given the state of this place maybe I should."

"If I had a proper work-throng of Dawi to direct, this construction would be solid as the mountains," Thulgrim growls, clamping his pipe back between his teeth as he goes, "but instead I've got two bickering merchants and a collection of shiftless manlings. If you think you can do better, go right ahead."

Well. You're not entirely sure what you should say to that, so you do what your father always told you and say nothing at all. Together, the two of you stump your way across the construction site towards one of the big tents… or, no, to the wagon next to it, it appears. Interesting. As you approach, you see a rough-looking man in a mud-stained tunic emerge from the far side and head off into the swamps, but he doesn't stick around and Thulgrim seems content to ignore him in favour of stumping his way up the small flight of steps and hammering on the door.

There is a muffled curse from somewhere inside, and then the door is yanked open with a frankly unnecessary degree of force. The woman responsible seems like she could fairly have been classed as a great beauty if she had managed to get any kind of sleep in the last month or so, but now her tangled mop of blond hair and bloodshot eyes just look kind of pitiable.

"I was… hoping... to get some sleep," Johanna Stiegler hisses, her unblinking glare uncommonly akin to a snake roused from the depths of its lair, "whatever it is, can it not wait until the morn?"

"Boat came a cropper," Thulgrim grunts, pushing past her to dump the coin box on the ground of the wagon with a dull thump, "Rutger wants the Strigany paid for it. Oh, he also hired the wizard."

For a moment, Stiegler's expression contorts into a mask of near bestial rage, before smoothing out as she pinches the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand. "Of course he did. As if my esteemed partner hadn't already provided ample evidence of his profligacy and incompetence… I suppose he offered to pay you handsomely, too?"

"Standard rates," you nod, choosing to make no mention of the promised crown for the physical labour to someone so clearly on the verge of snapping outright.

"Which, of course, are far from cheap," Stiegler sighs, before turning back to Thulgrim, "Dwarf, I have an entire campsite rammed full of supposed assets that have completely failed to profit me. Tell the Stirgany he'll get his compensation when the mill is up and running and not an instant sooner."

Thulgrim shrugs and shoulders his way back out of the caravan, almost knocking the merchant over as he goes. You can almost see the calculations flickering through Stiegler's mind, as she weighs up the satisfaction of calling the Dwarf to task with the frustration that getting any kind of result will likely to take, before she just sighs again. Then she beckons you inside.

"Come along then, Miss Kurtsdottir. Let's talk. Briefly, if you would - I do want to get some sleep tonight."

Nodding, you step into the caravan behind her. It's likely too dark already to conduct a proper inspection tonight, so you'll keep it brief, but there are still a couple of things you want this woman to clarify with you first.

Article:

Choose two of the following to discuss with Johanna Stiegler before she kicks you out and tries to get some sleep. The two with the most votes by line will be covered in the next update.

[ ] The Standing Stones. Reuter said the Strigany think the things are cursed, and that Stiegler is a local. What can she tell you about them?

[ ] The Strigany. They don't look like trained builders, and there's no sign of other labour around. Why hire them in particular? Any issues there?

[ ] Rutger Reuter. She clearly doesn't like him, but he seemed to regard her highly. What's the story there? Is it likely to cause you any problems?

[ ] Thulgrim Nadrisson. The Dwarf was… not what you were expecting. He certainly doesn't seem to respect anyone else involved here, yet he's still overseeing the construction. What's the deal there?

[ ] The Beast. Mother Vadoma kept talking about some kind of Beast. Is there anything to that, as far as Stiegler knows?

Maugan Ra · Dec 10, 2019

A single glance at the interior of the caravan tells you how long Stiegler has been working on this site, and gives you a fair insight into just how unpleasant she has found the whole business. A thin curtain hides the more personal spaces further in, but the increasingly disorganised piles of paperwork and cutlery jammed into every available nook and cranny speak to a woman slowly losing control of her situation, an impression not helped by the red-raw patches around her eyes or the stiffness in her limbs as she sits down on the far side of a fold out desk.

Not that you're doing too much better on that last part yourself, granted. The battle rush from the Stirpike has well and truly worn off by now, and without walking and conversation to take your mind off it you can feel the dull ache of fresh bruises all the way from your waist to your shoulder. That's probably going to feel deeply unpleasant for at least a couple of days.

"So," the merchant opens, reaching for a small flask of some southern brandy as she talks, "I don't work with wizards, normally, and I'm not sure why Reuter hired you, but since he seems to have wandered off… what do you need?"

You glance at the brandy, but either she doesn't take your implied meaning or she's feeling petty enough not to share. Fine by you either way, you weren't planning to drag this out all that long anyway.

"It's a fairly simple commission," you say, identifying a part of the wagon's wall that will bear you leaning against it without displacing a stack of books or other sundry pieces of clutter, "apparently the workers are getting superstitious, so your partner hired me to see if there was anything actually worth worrying over. I'm told there's some standing stones?"

Stiegler rolls her eyes and downs most of the flask in a single contemptuous motion.

"Urgh… those things?" She coughs, thumping herself on the chest, "They're just stone. Grave markers, maybe, or some religious totem from pre-Imperial times. They've been here for as long as Grausse has, probably longer, never caused any problems… no one even cares about them. It's not like they're short of other, nicer places to build."

She frowns at that, glaring in the direction of a particular set of leather-wrapped books. Maybe she's regretting choosing to build here herself, but that's not your business, so you just nod. "Alright, that's common enough. Any markings on the stones? Etchings, symbols, that sort of thing?"

"Hell if I know," Stiegler snorts, before pausing for a moment, "I think so, actually. Some old pictograms, maybe. Reuter mentioned maybe taking some rubbings, seeing if any of those weirdos at the university down in Nuln were interested. Just another one of his genius ideas."

OK, well, no strange glyph-like markings that make people sick to look at, so that's the obvious stuff ruled out. You make a mental note to go and check the stones out once the light is better, but it doesn't sound like they're going to be a problem. Which means that you might just about manage to get paid for standing around looking pretty after all.

"Alright, sounds simple enough. You're a local… anything else about the area stand out as maybe something I should go take a look at?" You cast your mind back to what the old strigany woman… mother vadoma, whatever… was saying, "I heard something about a Beast?"

Johanna doesn't answer you at first, too preoccupied with draining the last few drops of brandy from the bottom of an already empty flask, and when she does speak her tone is exactly as dismissive as you were expecting.

"That old legend?" She sighs, tossing the flask aside onto a rough pile of discarded junk in one corner of the caravan, "There's a stretch of swampland near here, the Ortschlamm, on the other side of the river. The only reason people go over there is to try and hunt the eels - they make for decent eating, if you prepare them properly - and every now and then some idiot gets lost and freezes to death or drowns in the bog. No one likes the idea that their relative was that much of a fool, so they start talking about some mysterious 'beast' to make themselves feel better."

Well, that draws a frown, not that Johanna Stiegler seems to care. You're pretty sure she's telling the truth as she understands it, but that doesn't mean she's right. There are any number of tales like that scattered across the length and breadth of the Empire, and you take all of them seriously. Most turn out to be nothing, but a rare and terrible few…

"Anyone ever seen it?" You ask, opting not to try chiding this half drunk and deeply worn out woman on taking a possible threat lightly, "Or come up with specifics when they tell their stories?"

"Not even once," Johanna snorts, "And, look, Grausse is maybe a mile from here, two if you have to follow the lake around. If there was some kind of beast out here, it wouldn't have far to go to feed on more than the odd bog-fisher, now would it? Just some stupid story."

Well. You doubt you'll get much more of worth out of her, and honestly you're increasingly tired and sore yourself, so with that in mind you rise and nod to your employer-by-proxy. "Alright, it's probably nothing, but I'll take a look in the morning. I'll let you get some sleep."

Johanna just waves dismissively at you, and hiding your scowl you turn and make your way towards the exit. It's only when you're halfway out the door that she decides to speak again.

"Reuter didn't hire you just to poke at some old stones, did he?"

You pause, hovering on the threshold, and keep your gaze forwards. "I don't know what you mean."

That draws another snort, this one harsh and edged with contempt. "Sure you don't. Well, if I'm right, and this all comes to a head… I'll pay double. I'm a damn sight better at keeping promises than he is, too."

You're slightly insulted by the implication, but there's no sense in making enemies… and besides, you have debts to pay. "I'll keep that in mind."

Then, before either of you can say something you might need to repeat to a judge, you step out of the caravan and make your way back into the centre of the camp. Which is, now that you look at it properly, exactly as much of a mess as you thought it to be on first inspection. There's no organisation to anything, no signs of real progress in the construction, and… wait, there's no tents, outside of the two owned by the merchants backing this whole venture. Where the fuck are you meant to sleep?

"Erika!" Kezia calls out across the campsite, leaning out of the door of her caravan to wave at you. There's some kind of lantern inside, and you know this because the light provides an absolutely perfect silhouette of her delicate frame. "Come on, over here!"

Well now. That's that question answered, at least with a little luck, and with a broad grin you alter course and stride purposefully across the camp towards her. You don't run, of course, that would give entirely the wrong impression, but there's definitely a spring in your step and you are in no mood to apologise for it. Kezia just grins and steps aside, letting you climb up the small ladder and join her in the light.

Looking around, you can see that the healer has apparently made good use of the time you spent busy talking to Johanna; the crates of herbs have been unpacked and sorted carefully across a seemingly endless array of tiny shelves that line the walls of her wagon. Bundles of grass hang from hooks on the ceiling, glass bottles filled with strange potions are neatly sorted and labelled, and along one wall is a small cot laid out for patients to use while being treated for what ails them. Honestly it feels slightly claustrophobic, but then you're not Strigany; maybe the personal area past the curtain is more homely. Maybe Kezia will let you see it.

"I was beginning to wonder how long you were going to spend talking to that grumpy old goat," Kezia laughs, swinging the door shut in your wake and flicking the latch, "you almost had me worried. Now, take your top off."

You blink, once. Then again. Only then do you turn slowly to face Kezia, who is raising an eyebrow at you in silent expectation.

"...well I don't know how Strigany do things, but that seems very forwards," you say, slowly and carefully, because yes you've had fantasies like this before but they're not exactly a good point of reference, "You're not even drunk!"

For a long moment Kezia just looks puzzled… and then your words sink in and her face turns a truly fascinating shade of red.

"I-I didn't… oh ancestors… not like that," she blurts, bringing both hands up to her mouth and apparently determined to look anywhere but directly at you, "I meant… your injuries! You've been walking around with them and… oh, ancestors…"

OK, that's slightly disappointing, but on the upside it turns out that Kezia is actually adorable when she blushes, to the point where you can't help but wonder what she'll look like if you take things a little further. Only one way to find out!

"Well, if you insist," you purr, setting your staff aside and tugging at the strings holding your bodice in place, "I suppose I'll just have to let you have your way."

There's something close to magnetic in the way that Kezia's gaze fixes itself to the gentle movement of your hands, and you spare a thought to be grateful that you were able to get a front-lacing variant in your size. Proper ladies lace their bodice at the back, but proper ladies have maidservants to help them get dressed, and you're not anywhere near that level of society.

Unfortunately, your plans for a slow, languorous seduction are ruined the second the bodice comes off, for without the constant pressure it was applying the dull throb in your side explodes instantly into a searing torrent of pain. You don't quite manage to hide your hiss, and at the sound Kezia forgets all embarrassment and rushes to assist you in pulling aside gown and chemise. Soon enough you sit topless on the cot, a pretty girl kneeling at your side, and lament the fact that with your entire flank covered in a patchwork of scraped skin and slowly darkening bruises you can't even enjoy it.

Since the fight against the Stirpike was effectively a 'tutorial' encounter, Kezia's care will restore all of your lost wounds after a good night's sleep. Normally, a successful Heal check will restore (Intelligence bonus + SL) wounds.

Otherwise, the only way to heal damage is a good night's rest, which requires a successful easy (+20) endurance test and restores (toughness bonus + SL) wounds per day (so, 4+SL for Erika) or the application of specialised magic.

Note that healing critical damage is considerably more difficult, and may not be possible at all. A broken bone will take weeks to recover, at least, and will likely require professional medical treatment if you don't want to incur permanent consequences.

"Oh for pity's sake," Kezia mutters crossily, unscrewing the lid from one of her little jars and smearing the cream inside across three delicate fingers, "It's bad enough when men try to show off by ignoring pain, I don't need the women to start doing it as well."

"Sorry," you force out through gritted teeth, flinching slightly as the icy-cold tincture is rubbed into your bruised skin, "if it helps, I'm not normally this much of an idiot. You're just really pretty."

That earns you a swift poke in the side, thankfully not on any of the bruised parts of your skin, and a brief laugh that you consider more than worth it.

"You are entirely without shame," Kezia says, still smiling despite her evident contradictory intent, "and if you must know, I prefer flowers."

You blink, looking around the interior of the caravan and its overflowing shelves full of plants and jars. "Would have thought you had enough of those already…"

Kezia snorts, busying herself with a thin roll of linen bandages. "These? These are herbs, not flowers. They're useful things, to be sure, but they're not exactly beautiful and many of them stink. Get me some proper flowers, and then we'll talk."

You'll do rather more than talk if you have your way, but that's a matter for future Erika to enjoy and present Erika to contemplate wistfully. Right now you'll just have to be content with practical medical care and the potential company of a rather beautiful woman.

"I'll do that," you say softly, catching Kezia's hand as she steps away and planting a gentle kiss against the back of her knuckles, "but for now, I… don't actually have anywhere to sleep."

The herbalist rolls her eyes at that, but in a fond way. "Of course you don't. I should have expected Reuter to just forget about the little details like that. Alright, you can sleep here, just promise to move if I need to treat someone else with more courage than brains, ok?"

Well, not a conventional arrangement, but you'll take it!

Article:

Tomorrow you will investigate the standing stones and see if there is anything to the talk of haunting or other lingering curses which might explain the troubles this project keeps running into. Tonight, there is only a night of restless sleep, and dreams…

What do you dream of?

[ ] The day you cast your first spell. Your people were very traditional, and as the daughter of the chief you were always destined for great things. The day the winds answered your call was the happiest of your life.

[ ] The day you found your faith. The gods have always been distant figures to most, but after you proved yourself, they answered your prayers in truth. Their emissary was a thing of fearful wonder, and when it arrived you knew yourself blessed in truth.

[ ] The day you died. You fell in battle, childless, struck down in your prime by those who could never understand your gifts. Your people buried you in the cold, wet earth, and there you dreamed for centuries.

[ ] The day of your return.

Maugan Ra · Dec 13, 2019

They laid you in the earth, and so you became your tomb. Your bones are the great stone columns of bedrock, your muscles the moldering peat. Your blood flows sluggishly through winding rivers, and your eye is a lake three miles wide that stares sightless at the sky. And everywhere there is life.

Snakes slither through your hair, worms wriggle beneath your skin. Fish swim in the depths of your heart and your flesh gives endless birth to florid green. Death is an illusion, the world an endless cycle. What was, will be. What is, once was. The truth pulses in your mind, the endless drumming repetitions that drowns out all thought. You were, and so, you will be.

The living will help.

They crawl across your skin, never looking up, afraid of the void above their heads. Their steps burn your flesh, gouging sizzling divots with every passing day, but you welcome the pain. It helps you focus. Their lives are so tiny, compared to yours, and yet so bright. They glimmer like captive flies, vermin clad in shining flesh, and oh, how sweet they smell. You are the earth and the earth is cold and you feel their heat and hunger.

There is one who burns brighter than the rest, a towering inferno of light and heat and flame. She is a captive star, a vessel of the gods bound and shackled in mortal flesh, and you want her. You dream of cracking that fragile vessel, of spilling her heat across the ground, of drinking deep from all that she is. A worthy sacrifice, spent to anoint the wheel that is the cycle that is eternity.

Slowly, you reach out. Your claws are long and cruel, sharpened in the dark, and they slice neatly into succulent flesh. Slowly, carefully, you peel her apart. Flense away the skin, pick the bones out one by one, quietly now, slowly, gently. If you move too fast she just might...

-/-

Willpower test. TN is 48. Roll is 13, success, 3 SL.

You wake with a hiss, one hand spasming beneath the thin blanket as your wounds burn with pain. It's a minor discomfort, easily brushed aside. Far more unsettling are the contents of your dream, which even now are fading with the dawn. It seems that master Reuter wasn't being entirely foolish when he sent for the aid of a wizard.

Cautiously, without rising, you look around. In the mundane world the contents of Kezia's wagon are the same as they were last night, save perhaps for a few interesting shadows formed by the dangling array of plants and assorted herbs, but your real interest is in other, more rarified realms. You look for the winds of magic, the strange colours that have defined and imbued your world since before you even knew your own name, seeking any disturbance in their omnipresent ebb and flow. The caravan is rich in Ghyran, the jade wind of life and healing, and fortunately absent of all but the trace amounts you would expect when it comes to the other seven winds.

Just a dream, then, if a remarkably unsettling one. You cling to that thought, taking comfort in the absence of hostile magic, and then climb slowly to your feet. The fading memories are swiftly replaced by the image of Stiegler's face, her reddened eyes and unkempt hair. Has the merchant been subjected to similar torments, each and every night? No wonder she looks like shit.

Yawning, you bend over, rooting through your satchel for the tightly rolled form of a fresh chemise. You'll have to ask the Strigany how they go about cleaning their clothes, if this commission lasts any longer than you expect it to, because the gods know you won't subject your gown to being washed in river water so close to a swamp. Finding a frog in your pocket wasn't fun when you were an apprentice and it sounds even less appealing now. Still, at least your injuries appear to be healing well; whatever was in that tonic Kezia applied to your skin seems to have worked wonders, and now you're barely even bruised.

The image of the young herbalist, her lips pursed in concentration as she tends to your wounds, swims briefly across your mind. You savour it for a moment, then push the thought and the half-formed impulses it brings with it aside. Sneaking past the flimsy curtain to wake her up in pleasant fashion is unlikely to work out nearly as well as your fantasies might suggest, and besides, you still need to get her some flowers. Though where exactly you're meant to find anything like that in a swamp is an open question. Maybe you could make a trip to Grausse? It's not meant to be more than a couple of miles from here…

Such planning serves admirably to occupy the mind until you have finished dressing, and after a moment taken to brace yourself against the morning chill you open the door and slip out into the camp. The sun sits low on the horizon, a sullen orb of heatless red, and here and there the shadows are disturbed by signs of movement as the labourers make ready for the day to come.

Mist clings to your legs as you make your way through the camp, and almost entirely conceals Thulgrim from sight, but he has apparently started smoking early and the faint trail of soot extending into the air serves you well in tracking him down. A terse exchange sees you furnished with a small bowl of piping hot stew (gods bless the Strigany and their desire to eat well on the move) and you sit yourself down on a pile of sturdy looking bricks in order to eat.

The view from here is honestly rather disappointing. You think maybe the lake would look appealing if the weather was clearer, but as you eat your stew and the sun rises higher the mist resolutely refuses to disperse. It folds its way around everything, leaving a thin layer of moisture on every surface and stealing all but the meagrest shred of warmth from your bones. If you were a shadow mage you'd probably find the all-encompassing concealment rather comforting, but as it is you mostly just feel damp.

So it is that when Rutger turns up at last, with a spring in his step and a disconcertingly cheerful smile on his face, you're actually in the right mood to appreciate the distraction.

"Ah, Miss Kurtsdottir, there you are!" He says brightly, clasping his hands together and rocking back and forth on his heels. "Sleep well?"

"Not really," you grunt, levering yourself up off your improvised seat with the crackle of stiffened joints, "I doubt anyone else did, either. Still, I'm fit enough to work, so you'd better show me these stones you mentioned."

"Exactly what I was thinking!" The merchant scion nods briskly, before promptly doing an about face, "Come along then, they're not that far off!"

As was perhaps inevitable, the floppy-haired young man takes the opportunity presented by the brief walk to bend your ear with all manner of stories and anecdotes, each delivered in the same rapid-fire flow of crisply accented words. You tune him out after a while, instead focusing on what it is that you have been brought out here to see.

There are nine of them, a circle of eight arrayed neatly around a single central column. The stones of the outer ring are short, stumpy and covered in enough moss to resemble small hillocks, but when you scrape away some of that outer layer the surface beneath seems to be carved with an array of strange swirling patterns. You frown and, as Rutger blathers on about his intent to build a road linking the soon-to-be-mill with the nearby town shift your study to the central monolith.

You're not sure who built this thing, or why, but even a moment's study is enough to tell you the thing is enchanted. There's no moss on it, for one thing, and a glance down at the ground confirms that the grass refuses to come within a radius of about six inches at most. Even the insects are steering well clear, a whole column of ants neatly altering course to avoid touching the stone itself even as you watch. There might have been inscriptions on it, once, but someone seems to have carefully defaced the stonework in the time since it was built, leaving only the rough octagonal shape behind.

You take a breath, and look at the monolith with fresh eyes. As you were expecting, the thing is a swirling nexus of magical power. There is ulgu in the mist, azyr glittering at the crown, shyish infusing the ground, and at the very core of it, a faint and twisting strand of…

"Dhar?" Rutger asks, a puzzled expression on his face, "I'm sorry, I don't… uh, what is Dhar?"

Working your jaw, you consider your answer. Explaining the full truth of the corrupted wind will be pointless at best, self-destructive at worst, but if you want the merchant to take your advice then you need to at least humour him with the basics.

"Think of it as… spoiled milk," you say at last, not taking your eyes from the monolith, "magic runs through the world all the time, and usually it's harmless. Sometimes, however, it gets caught, trapped. That's when it starts leaking into the world around it, causing… well, all the stuff people make horror stories about."

"Oh dear," Rutger says softly, taking several steps away from the monolith as though it might actually matter, "I, uh. Assuming there's this spoiled milk here… can it be fixed?"

For a moment, you hesitate. Stone circles like this one are often built on leylines, designed to harness the natural energies of the land to bring man closer to the gods and power the rituals of the old faiths. It is entirely possible that the build-up of Dhar is simply due to a misalignment of this ancient circle, in the same way that a suit of armour frequently struck will develop flaws and weaknesses. If that is the case, then removing the stones will fix the problem entirely, and likely have a positive effect on the surrounding environment in general.

That, however, is far from the only source of Dhar. Necromancy, witchcraft, dark magic… there is no end to the kinds of spellcraft that one could work with corrupted magic, assuming they had the mad self-confidence willing to risk it. If this is a spell, if the circle acts to anchor or focus some kind of grand working, then the effects of removing it are far harder to judge. You certainly don't want to try editing the effect yourself, not without a far better understanding of the foundation underlying it. An explosion would be the safest possible outcome there.

Neither choice is sure, but there is no one else qualified to make the decision within a hundred miles. Such is the life of a wizard.

Article:

The formal decision on what is to be done here is not yours to make, but your advice will be highly valued. What, then, do you recommend?

[ ] Remove the stones. Dig them up and cart them away, and the natural balance of the local winds will reassert itself. The nightmares should stop at the very least.

[ ] Leave the stones. You don't know what the magic in them is doing, if anything, but disturbing ancient magical rituals is a sure path to disaster. Better not to risk it.

Note - Either way Erika will be sending a report on her findings and reasoning back to the College. If a more senior wizard thinks it is important, they will look into the matter, but as a journeywoman Erika lacks the authority to actively summon aid.

Maugan Ra · Dec 14, 2019

You chew your lip, hand on hip as you study the scene stretched out before you. In truth you're not entirely sure what the right thing to do here is, but there is an outsider present and like hell are you going to besmirch the reputation of your college in front of him. Swift, decisive conclusions are called for, and when in doubt about creepy magical circles of uncertain provenance and function, there is only one conclusion you can fairly reach.

"Touch nothing," you say simply, "it may be that we can disassemble the working, or it might be the sort of thing best left untouched until natural processes do their work, but either way… for now, leave it alone."

Rutger frowns at that. "I'm afraid that might not be possible. The mill is behind schedule, yes, but it will be complete before too much longer, and when it is we shall simply have to build a road to supply it. This is the only available route, so…"

"Master Reuter," you say, sharply, "perhaps I was not clear. In my official judgement as a representative of the Imperial Colleges of Magic, this stone circle is a potentially dangerous nexus of arcane energy and you are not to touch it."

You half expect him to back down, as might the puppy dog he so often resembles, but instead he grits his teeth and digs his heels into the mud. "Miss Kurtsdottir, I appreciate that you have your area of expertise, but I have mine, and I am telling you these stones simply have to go. My family has invested far too much money in this endeavor for me to simply cancel it all now!"

You want to scream. Trust the merchant to be more concerned with his piles of golden coins over such trifling concerns as a threat of life, limb and spiritual integrity. The amount of problems in the Empire's history started, complicated or otherwise abetted by the greed of men like this is staggering in its scope, but no matter how good it would feel to scream in his face or insult his intellect or bury your sword in his guts… you know better. The practicalities of the situation must override the ideological, and to that end a compromise must be sought.

"I am not asking you to cancel your entire project, Master Reuter," you say, straining to retain a facade of polite deference, "merely to find some other way to complete it. Or, if this is the only way, to hold off on constructing this road until I can send a letter requesting aid from the Colleges or perhaps the Cult of Sigmar in making the area safe."

You would prefer the Cult of Ulric, to be truthful, for you are a girl of the northern lands and the god of wolves and winter has ever been your most reliable guide and protector, but this is Wissenland. Your faith is all but unknown here, regarded with some faint air of patronizing disdain as the indulgence of a backwater savage more concerned with the primal forests than the guidance of mankind's first Emperor. You doubt there is a sanctified Priest of Ulric anywhere within a hundred miles.

"Very well then, Journeywoman," Rutger says with a sigh, "I give you leave to send such a request. There is a mail coach that runs from the inn at Grausse, I believe."

You neither sought nor require his leave to do any such thing, but once again, practical realities make acceding to the directive a better choice than shoving your foot so far up the man's arse he tastes leather. So you nod, once, and the two of you part ways, he back to the camp and you to the nearby shore of the lake that will lead you around to the town of Grausse.

The journey does little to improve your mood, for everything about it seems determined to prove your judgement right. The water is stagnant, the foliage alternately silent and filled with ominous buzzing growls, the mist is thick and cloying and all of it fades away the second you get more than a mile or so from the stone circle. Well, maybe two miles, you're walking pretty fast, but the point is made. This land is tainted by overflowing magical energy that has been improperly harnessed and only the grandest kind of idiot would insist on building here regardless, but what do you know? You're just a journeywoman.

Grausse itself is little better, despite the sharp uptick in weather conditions and removal of the creepy all-encompassing mist. It's a small town, closer to a village really, barely more than four hundred souls if you are any judge, and each and every one of them looks at you like you're some kind of horrible marsh demon that just shambled it's way into town. They wrinkle their noses and avert their eyes and whisper behind their hands to their neighbors and you hate it. You hate all of it.

Fortunately, the fact that they think you're some kind of witch or secret cultist does nothing to dampen the value of your money, and for the cost of a single silver shilling you convince the innkeep to pass on your hastily written letter to the next coach that ventures through the town. Another shilling buys you some halfway decent ale to drink while you write it, left in solitude despite the constant flow of patrons in and out as the noonday sun burns overhead. You only have eight left now, but hopefully you'll be able to convince Reuter to pay you what you're owed despite telling him what he clearly didn't want to hear.

Thinking of the merchant just gets your blood boiling again, so you opt to quit the village before you wind up causing some kind of scene. A leisurely stroll back through the countryside is briefly interrupted by a period spent gathering up a small bundle of blue and yellow flowers, which you think Kezia might appreciate, and by the time you make your return to the camp your temper has cooled enough to make civil conversation less of a burdensome proposition.

Alas that Johanna Stiegler has no interest in civil conversation.

You find her overseeing the construction, which is to say standing around looking judgemental while the Strigany under Thulgrim's lashing tongue do all the actual work, and the thunderous expression on her face is all the warning you get.

"Wizard!" She growls, turning away from the workers and stalking over towards you, her fine leather boots squelching in the mire, "What in all the hells do you think you're doing?"

You spare a brief moment to feel thankful that you stowed the flowers inside your satchel before entering the camp, because you don't think 'picking out a gift so I can seduce the pretty herbalist over there' would go down well as a reply.

"I was having a letter sent from Grausse," you say, opting for another kind of honesty even as you plant the end of your staff in the ground and meet Johanna's gaze with one of your own, "Why, did something happen?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you're perfectly innocent," Stiegler snarls, and over her shoulder you can see some of the workers leaving their labour undone in favour of drifting closer to properly overhear. Thulgrim makes some half-hearted efforts to chivvy them back into line, but he clearly doesn't care all that much. "You only have the best and most noble of intentions, is that it?"

"Lady Stiegler, if you have something you wish to say, just say it," you reply, your voice one step above a growl, "Or am I to pick my way blindly through your snide insinuations?"

"You're trying to sabotage this project!" Stiegler proclaims, coming to a halt and jabbing you in the chest with one outstretched finger, "Or maybe you're just trying to give Reuter an excuse to do it instead, is that it? A nice little justification for him to abandon the project and walk away with my money?"

In the background you can see Thulgrim turn to look in your direction, a thunderous scowl upon his face, but right now you have no time to waste on worrying what the grimy little shit thinks of you.

"You're being ridiculous," you snap, lifting your staff and jabbing Stiegler right back, "and honestly it's absurd that you even needed me to point out the obvious. This place is tainted, Stiegler, poisoned by the outflow of energy from that old stone circle. For all I know it might very well be cursed!"

"Oh, spare me your peasant superstition," Stiegler growls, as uneasy muttering sweeps the camp, "we had the omens checked by an actual Priest of Morr long before we set this into motion, so I won't have you trying to undermine it. In fact, if that's all you're going to do, I don't want you here at all! You're dismissed!"

"I don't work for you, Miss Stiegler," you spit, trying not to think about your reputation back at the college if you somehow manage to botch even this simple milkrun of an assignment, "I work for House Reuter, and they are the ones paying me. So back off before you say something you'll regret."

"Hah! Then you picked a bad choice of employer, girl, because House Reuter are the worst kind of profligate, unreliable fools you will ever find this side of Drakwald!" The merchant scoffs, "And besides, we have joint control over the funding for this expedition. You won't get so much as a pfenning without my leave, which I refuse to give!"

You stare at her, heartbeat pounding in your ears like the drums of war. This woman, this upjumped little penny-pincher, she dares to treat you like this? Like some fucking servant, to be scolded for a single word out of place, to be denied pay for failing to utterly anticipate the capricious whims of those who dream that they could ever be your betters? Oh, no, not this time, never this time...

Someone screams, loud and shrill with horror, and before you can even process the sound you are shoving your way past Stiegler and sprinting towards the source. The Strigany cry out in alarm as you pass, one hand wrapped tight around the hilt of a sword that you do not remember drawing, and ahead a shouted oath joins the scream as another member of the work crew responds. The sounds are coming from the back of Reuter's oversized pavilion, and somehow you know what it is you will find long before you round the corner and skid to a mud-stained halt.

Rutger Reuter is dead.

His fine clothes are torn and soiled, covered in mud and blood and fouler things besides, and his body lies skewed bonelessly across the threshold between the path and the thick foliage of the marsh. One of his arms is gone, torn clean off by whatever creature left the savage looking tears across his chest and neck, and his pale face is locked in an expression of mild surprise. He might have been the recipient of some faintly unsettling news, going by that face, but instead he lies here in the middle of a rapidly gathering crowd of sickened and terrified onlookers.

"The Beast…" says one, and it takes you a moment to place the man as Reiko, the nominal leader of the band and Vadoma's grandson, "the Beast of the Ortschlamm… it is true, what Mother Vadoma said. This place is cursed and haunted. We need to leave, before it kills again!"

Many of the nearby Strigany are already muttering in agreement, but you have no time for them, moving forwards to kneel in the muck at Reuter's side. There is something about the body that disquiets you, something that seems entirely out of place…

"Ulric grant me the eyes of the Wolf," you murmur, returning your sword to its sheath so you can clutch the wolf-fang amulet that hangs around your neck, "that I might find my enemies…"

Hard (-20) Perception test, TN is 13. Roll 11, pass.

His arm, you realize. That's what is bothering you. Not the missing one, torn off and dragged away somewhere, but the remaining one. It's clean, undamaged, without any sign of defensive wounds. In fact, now that you look closer, you think Rutger's body is actually entirely unmarked, save for the horrid injuries across his shoulder. Did he not fight back, then, even as he was being partially devoured? Or is there something more going on here?

The sound of tramping feet behind you announce the arrival of the last few stragglers, and you make sure to hide your thoughts behind an expressionless face as you rise to meet them.

"And now the dotard has gone and got himself killed," Johanna says, voice rich with contempt, "how utterly typical. I suppose I'll have to explain that to his parents, as if he hasn't already caused me enough problems."

"Show some bloody respect," Thulgrim growls, hawking up a string of soot-stained spittle at her feet, "for the dead if not the living."

"Respect? For this lump? Pfagh," Johanna scoffs, stepping forwards and unhooking a thick purse from her belt, "What we need here is justice. Justice and answers. Ten gold crowns to whoever can bring me either! Ten gold crowns for the head of whatever did this!"

You frown, suddenly thoughtful. Your natural inclination would have been to assume that Johanna was responsible, contriving some way to remove a burdensome partner, but you would not have expected a reward to be offered if that was the case. Perhaps she is merely taking advantage of an unfortunate coincidence, no matter how cold-blooded that decision might be?

"Hells, I'll need access to the project funds as well," Stiegler grumbles, returning her coin pouch to its place on her belt and advancing on Reuter's corpse, "where's his key?"

"Hold on now," Thulgrim growls, "I think I'd better hold onto that. This is a joint operation, after all, and I doubt the Reuter's would be happy to just hand over control of their portion of the funds to an outsider. I know how it would make me feel to see someone else with my money."

There is a black look in the dwarf's eye as he says that last part, but if Stiegler notices she certainly doesn't seem to care, instead retrieving an ornate looking key from Reuter's belt with a faint look of disgust on her face.

"You, Dwarf? Hardly," she says dismissively, rising to her feet, "You have no stake, no say and no authority over this expedition. It is a joint partnership between Houses Stiegler and Reuter, and until his family send someone to take over from dear departed Rutger then final authority lies with me."

Article:

Johanna and Thulgrim seem at loggerheads over this issue, and a word from Erika might suffice to tilt the odds. Who does she support?

[ ] Stiegler keeps the key. The merchant is an absolute bitch, but she is legally in the right here, and if you want to get paid for this job at all you'll need her support.

[ ] Give Thulgrim the key. The Dwarf is a grumpy, dirty and unpleasant to be around, but if there was foul play involved here then a neutral party with some control of the funds isn't a bad idea.

[ ] No-one. Getting involved in quarrels over money never ends well, especially for a wizard.

Secondly, Erika is bound by faith, duty and naked self-interest to see if she can track down who or what did this to Rutger, but she's not going to do it on her own. Pick two of the following that she convinces to accompany her.

[ ] Reiko. The leader of the Strigany owes you for saving his grandmother's life, and he's apparently pretty good with a spear besides.

[ ] Kezia. You didn't so much convince her as be badgered into accepting the company, but she has a bow and a powerful knowledge of the wilderness that could most assuredly help.

[ ] Johanna Stiegler. The merchant woman wants to be sure the reward money is earned, and more than that she has a sword and a pistol and claims to be a trained duelist when it comes to using both.

[ ] Thulgrim Nadrisson. The dwarf doesn't look like much of a warrior, but there's a dangerous glint in his eye and a rather large crossbow in his hands which make for a rather persuasive argument.

Maugan Ra · Dec 15, 2019

Your training was focused on mastery of the arcane arts, of course, but just as important in many ways was what some of your fellow apprentices derisively referred to as 'bag handling'. Qualified wizards often find themselves attached to a noble's staff, and by natural consequence are located distressingly close to arguments concerning wealth, title and inheritance. Despite the natural tendency of people like you to meddle, the lesson taught by your teachers has almost universally been a simple one: don't.

Wizards that are too free with their advice, too willing to hold forth with their opinions, are wizards liable to find themselves unemployed in short order, or worse if their former patron is of a particularly vindictive mindset. Yes, you have your own opinions on this divide between Johanna Stiegler and Thulgrim Nadrisson, but your opinion does not matter, not here and not now. Until they ask you to mediate you are best served by keeping your head down, your nose clean and your mouth shut.

In any case, the argument doesn't last much longer. Johanna has the key already, and she has the legal basis to control it at that. Thulgrim proves unwilling to press the matter once his lack of support becomes clear, and within a minute is retreating back towards the camp, cursing a storm with every step. Stiegler watches him go with a distinct air of exasperation, and only when the mist swallows the dwarf whole does she turn her attention back to the group.

"As I said - ten crowns to whoever brings me the head of our murderer, be it man or beast. What are you waiting for?"

You can't help but snort. "For the risk of death to be worth a handful of gold."

Stiegler glares at you. "Are you a coward as well as a saboteur then, wizard?"

"Call me that again and we duel, moneybags," you say cheerfully, "and I'll hunt your beast, for duty if not your gold."

That declaration brings a fresh wave of muttering from the Strigany, even as it elicits a blink of surprise from the merchant woman before you. It's actually rather amusing, in a dark sort of way, watching as she tries to figure out why a woman like you might be moved to action without the incentive of gold. The Stieglers aren't nobility, but they have money in considerable quantity, and as far as most are concerned that's more or less the same thing. You're halfway through planning out your next barb when the addition of a third voice throws all your plans into disarray.

"I'll go with you," says Kezia, her voice quiet and firm as she steps out from amid the milling crowd, "you need someone to watch your back."

You blink, genuinely taken aback, and in the pause before you can reply the murmurs of the Strigany rise into a tempestuous roar. None are using reikspiel, but you don't need to know the language to understand the sudden fear and anger on their faces, or the fire in Kezia's eyes as she faces down those who would seek to constrain her. The word 'Vadoma' is mentioned several times, mostly by Kezia with hands on her hips, and eventually it seems to do the trick; the brawny Reiko calms the crowd with a commanding shout, then steps forward to address you in turn.

"I will go as well," he says simply, "but only to make sure Kezia returns alive."

You consider this for a moment, then nod. "More than fair. My thanks."

Stiegler, for her part, looks utterly baffled by the interplay of duty and emotion on display before her, ultimately choosing to turn on one heel and march back to her caravan rather than say anything that might be taken amiss. It is a small mercy, one mirrored by the majority of the other Strigany as they begin to disperse. None seem inclined to return to work, even though the day is barely half done, and you cannot find it in yourself to blame them. Like as not they intend to flee the place entirely as soon as their kin are back with them. Speaking of which…

"That was unexpected," you say, falling into step with Kezia as she heads back to her caravan at a brisk pace, "I won't turn down the help, of course, but I am curious as to why it was offered."

"Ah, well," Kezia hesitates for a moment, seemingly content to look anywhere but directly at you, "It's only fair, isn't it? You saved Mother Vadoma from the river, and if this place is cursed then telling everyone might have saved us as well. So… we have a debt, don't we?"

You consider this for a moment, then shake your head, lingering outside while Kezia all but leaps up the steps into her caravan and starts sorting through her supplies. "Nah. It's a good excuse, but that's not your reason."

You hear her pause for a moment, then the sound of jars being moved and straps being tightened speeds up, as Kezia buries herself in her preparations. You lean back against the side of the caravan, having already obtained all the supplies you need, and wonder why you're bothering to press. If the Strigany girl has her own reasons to help then you should really avoid looking the gift horse in the mouth, but something about this situation bothers you. No one has ever put themselves forwards to help you out without some kind of ulterior motive, save perhaps for your dimly-remembered father, and you wouldn't be you if ignoring the lessons of experience was nearly so easy.

"I, well," Kezia stammers out from inside the cart, before reappearing suddenly in the doorway. "I think you're cute, ok?"

Oh. Oh.

You should really respond. Complement her, return her declaration, do anything at all, but your plans are rather thoroughly derailed by the discover that your cute little herbalist apparently owns a set of hunting leathers. Tight-fighting hunting leathers. Which you are presently getting a really, really good look at, what with the height advantage she enjoys perched on her caravan step. And oh gods she's smiling at you, smiling and blushing at the same time and that's just not fair.

"I got you flowers!" you blurt out, cheeks burning as you utterly fail to convey any kind of suave self-confidence, "I, uh, well I picked some earlier, and they're in my bag and… uh."

Kezia hops down from her perch at the entrance to the caravan, which helps somewhat in regaining your composure, and then moves to stand almost toe to toe with you, which has the exact opposite effect.

"You brought me flowers?" She says with a soft little smile, looking up at you with a certain gleam in her eyes that sends your heart thudding in your chest, "Well, now. However will I repay you?"

Right, no, that's it. Your pride demands a better response than might be expected of a stammering milkmaid, and before you can hesitate and lose the moment you lift your hand to Kezia's chin and lower your lips to brush against hers. The kiss is soft and warm and tastes faintly of mint, and by the time you break it off Kezia's eyes are wide and her breathing delightfully shallow.

"I have a few ideas," you say, your voice a throaty purr as you tuck a stray lock of black hair back behind Kezia's ear, "but we probably shouldn't keep Reiko waiting, mm?"

You don't get much of an audible reply to that, and with the smug self confidence that comes of having your romantic prowess confirmed you turn and lead Kezia back across the camp towards where you found the body. Reiko is waiting for you en route, likewise clad in leather armour and balancing a hefty spear over one shoulder, and he takes precisely one look at the pair of you before breaking out into hearty laughter.

"I should have known," he says, with a wide smile that makes Kezia sigh in resignation, "you and dangerous women, eh Kezia? Are you going to try and keep this one?"

You frown, displeased by the remark. You've come to accept that none of your relationships will be the long-term things that true partnerships are made of, as the demands of duty and the pursuit of mastery tear you away, but that doesn't make the reminder any sweeter. Kezia seems similarly discontent, merely snapping something acidic at Reiko in their native tongue, but he merely laughs once again. You suppose a migratory people will be no strangers to brief liaisons, but… well, you suppose you'll just have to make this memorable.

All thought of humour and flirting is pushed firmly aside, however, as the three of you return to the site of Rutger's body. Someone has thankfully taken the corpse away, but the stench of blood and offal set against the fetid swampland makes for a deeply unpleasant brew. Even without the matted trail of compressed grass and displaced mud you could probably follow the culprit by smell alone, but you're grateful for an easy task all the same.

The discovery of several three-toed footprints over a yard long, however, is somewhat less welcome.

"If this was the Beast," Reiko says in a low voice, glancing between the tracks and the horizon with every other step, "we take no chances, yes? You burn it with witch-fire, soon as it moves."

You take a certain amount of offence to that description, but considering Reiko is presently standing between you and any hypothetical beast you opt not to press it. Instead you hang back, with Kezia at your side, as the three of you press on deeper into the fen.

Thankfully, your initial fears are not confirmed, as the tracks lead away from the cluster of standing stones you examined with Reuter earlier in the day. Instead they take you deeper and deeper into the swamp, where the mist lies thickly against the ground and the buzzing of insects fill the air in a dissonant choir. Ever onwards the trail leads, and as the low lying marshes give way to a series of low hills you begin to harbour some questions of your own. Nothing seems to obstruct the tracks, nor does whatever made them seem to have taken a single detour en route to devour your short-lived patron, and the combination of confidence and purpose such things imply make you very uneasy indeed.

Ahead of you, Reiko pauses, frowning down at the ground. "There's something about these tracks that's just… not right."

Moving up beside him, you follow his gaze and briefly regret that your magic blossomed so early. If you'd stayed a peasant girl a while longer you might have learned to hunt properly, and the heavy indentations in the ground might actually mean something. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the weight distribution keeps changing," Reiko says thoughtfully, gesturing to a couple of different claw-prints that look entirely identical to your eyes, "if I didn't know better, I'd almost say…"

A scream of terror splits the air, and as your eyes snap towards the source you have to hold back a cry of your own. There are three men coming down the hill, dressed in warm woolen tunics and carrying hefty satchels across their backs, and you think you vaguely recognise them from your earlier visit to Grausse. They are slipping and tumbling their way down the slope, sheer terror motivating them to speed beyond any concerns of safety, and when you see what follows them you understand completely.

The Beast of the Ortschlamm is a massive, reptilian creature fully ten foot long from nose to tail, taller at the shoulder than a full grown man. Eight muscular legs propel it across the land, and strings of sizzling venom hang like drool from its crocodilian jaws. You scarcely need to look at the winds to feel the dark magic that drives it, to taste the madness and corruption that flows within its veins. No animal this, or creature of the natural world, but a beast twisted to dark design by the malignant powers of Chaos and let loose upon mankind.

"Ulric preserve us," you whisper, backing away and drawing your sword in one trembling hand, "it's a basilisk."

"Oh ancestors," Kezia moans, the bow trembling in her hands as she stares at the monster advancing down the hill, "what do we do? Erika, what do we do?"

And for a moment, you hesitate.

A healthy Basilisk is a creature out of nightmare, the kind of monster that any Journeywoman would be best advised to flee unless accompanied by a full regiment of state troops, but this one… this one is ancient. Weakened, perhaps, by the march of years and the scars of terrible battles fought long ago. Its scaly hide is stretched taut across malnourished limbs, and there is a visible trembling in its lurching gait. Even the eyes, the most fearsome part of the monster's legend, are dull and clouded by cataracts.

Could you kill this thing? Perhaps, if you all worked together, if the wind of Aqshy answers your call. If you flee, can you outright it? Impossible to say, without a better look at its gait that you do not have the time to take. If you leave it be, will more innocents die before another does what you will not? Almost certainly, though you help little by adding your own life to the tally.

All these thoughts and more flick through your mind in an instant, and a heartbeat later you have your answer.

Article:

What do you do?

[ ] Flee. Outrun the beast, if you can, and comfort yourself in the knowledge that there is no shame in avoiding suicide.
- [ ] Try to lead it somewhere harmless. If you can get the beast turned around before you slip away, then the threat to Grausse or the camp is minimised.
- [ ] Prioritise escape. However long it has been here, the beast has never troubled settlements before. Deprived of prey, it will likely return to its lair.

[ ] Fight. You are a Wizard of the Bright Order and a willing devotee of Ulric, God of Battle. You will not run, even from something such as this.
- [ ] Specify Tactics (Write-in, optional, general strategy is preferred rather than a round-by-round battleplan)

Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)

Of Wolves and Witches

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