Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)

[Maugan Ra]

Well, the Gravin did say that you should make a fuss in order to let everyone else know that the assassin has arrived. A blast of fire magic sounds like exactly the sort of thing that will grab everyone's attention, and also has the advantage of keeping you away from a knife-wielding assassin, which is always a bonus.

Rising from your chair, you focus your mind and reach out for the Red Wind, the first syllables of your incantation breaking the tense silence of the room.

Channelling test, TN is 68. Roll is 34, success with 3 SL, +2SL from Aethyric Attunement talent.

There are no fires in the room, no great braziers of flame to draw upon the wind in its most abundant form, but you are no mere apprentice who relies on props and bonfires to cast your spells. What little ambient aqshy exists in the air and the body and the cooling ash of the hearth is more than enough for you, and with a few moments work you conjure into being a blazing orb of blood-red flame. It hovers before you, crackling with barely-leashed power, and in its ruddy light you get your first proper look at your assailant.

It is a woman, a buxom redhead with pale skin and a rash of freckles across her cheeks, and her emerald eyes catch the light as she stares at you in horrified surprise. Were it not for the knife in her hand you would think her one of the taverns serving wenches, but there is no mistaking the gleam of steel or the oily sheen of poison on the blade.

"Lady's blessed tits," she swears, and on instinct flings the knife. Her aim is off, what skill she has dulled by surprise and the flaring light of your spell, and the blade embeds itself in the wall near your arm with a dull thunk.

"Burn."

The assassin throws herself aside at the last moment, desperation lending her haste, but it doesn't matter. Your spell strikes the wall at her back and detonates, flinging her through the air and engulfing the entire wall in brilliant orange flames. The glass window explodes in a jagged shower, followed a moment later by the dull rumble of the wall as it collapses outwards into the yard below.

Spoiler: Round Two rolls

Assassin goes first, due to her initiative characteristic being higher. She throws her dagger, suffering a -10 penalty from the darkness (it would be -30, but calling a fireball makes a significant difference in light levels).

Her TN is therefore 46. She rolls 65, a miss, but with Lucky gets to reroll. However, she gets an 83 on the reroll, and therefore still misses.

Erika has amassed enough SL to cast Fireblast. She rolls Language (Magick) against TN 59, roll is 29. Spell is successfully cast! 3SL were scored, thus the damage of the attack is 3 spell + 5 willpower + 3 SL - 5 toughness = Six wounds inflicted. Assassin has nine wounds remaining, and is now also ablaze.

Erika has one advantage.

Her skirts on fire, burns and bruises running up and down her side, the assassin looks at you with wide eyes.

"Oh, fuck this," she says, once more in Bretonnian, and turns to flee. For a moment the roaring flames see her hesitate, then she grits her teeth and sprints directly through their heart, throwing herself headlong through the newly created hole in the wall and out into the cold night beyond.

Growling a curse, you pursue, the flames parting as you move to stand next to what used to be a rather expensive window. Far below you can see the assassin break into a stumbling run, the fall apparently having harmed her not at all, one hand tearing away her burning skirts as she goes.

"Oh no you don't," you growl, reaching out with one hand to seize a handful of the flame from the burning remnants of the wall at your side, "You can't get away that easily!"

Anger makes up for what the fire alone lacks, and you fling another bolt of flame directly in her path. The explosion tears a sizeable crater in the ground and swathes the assassins arm in flame, but though she screams and stumbles she does not fall, still sprinting for her life towards the river.

Spoiler: Round Three rolls

Assassin flees! She moves and leaps out of the window. Average (+20) athletics test is taken to mitigate fall damage, TN is 95, roll is 21, success with 7SL is enough to entirely mitigate damage.
Assassin then uses her action to try and extinguish the flames, testing against 75. Roll is 44, success, ablaze condition removed.

Erika moves up to regain her line of sight. She can see the assassin below, and tries to cast fireblast again. Advantage grants +10 on the test, local fire grants +10, TN is therefore 59+20= 79.

Roll is 89, fail! Erika spends fortune to reroll, rolls 04! Success with +7SL. 4 are required to cast fireblast, so that is +3 net, for another six wounds. Assassin has three left, and is ablaze, again.

For a moment you consider leaping down after her, but… no, you're not nearly so confident in your ability to absorb a fall, and the last thing you want is a broken ankle. Instead you turn and race back across the room, throwing open the door and pushing past the startled guards outside.

"With me!" You roar, heading for the stairs as fast as you can, "Don't let her get away!"

Perception: TN is 33, Erika rolls 11, success with +2SL.
Assassin's Stealth: TN is ???, roll is ???, success with +5SL.

It is futile. By the time you and the guards have made it down the stairs and across the taproom into the yard beyond, the assassin is long gone, her passage marked solely by the fading ripples in the fast-flowing waters of the River Soll.

Swearing, you prowl up and down the bank for a few moments, then inspect the shredded remnants of burning cloth the girl tore away from her legs as she ran. Neither offer any clues, and in the end you are forced to concede and turn your attention back to the Three Feathers, where already shouts of panic fill the night as your conjured flames lick at the eastern side of the building.

By the time a bucket chain has been assembled and the fires doused, the rising sun is painting the horizon in shades of pink and much of the upper wing of the inn has been transformed into smouldering ruins. You do what you can to limit the spread of the flames, but buildings made of wood are always difficult to work with, and few of the staff or patrons seem to appreciate your assistance. In the end you give you on trying to get them to stop glaring at you and simply collect your bags, aiming to be back aboard the barge and gone as soon as practically possible.

The Gravin finds you on the dock, sitting on one of the stout wooden posts that barges can tie themselves to, and despite the shockingly early hour and the minimal rest afforded to her by the night she still manages to look elegant and composed.

"My thanks, Magister," she says, handing over a small purse of silver coins. You weigh it in your hand for a moment, noting how much less it is than the amount Gustaf paid you for his own commission. Maria-Ulrike, it seems, is much less ignorant or easily flustered when it comes to matters of payment.

"You're welcome," you say, tucking the purse away inside your robes, "though I'm actually still a journeywoman."

"One of considerable talent, all the same," the noblewoman inclines her head to you, the rising sun making her short blond hair shine like gold, "tell me, are you presently employed?"

You frown. "No. I finished my last commission a week ago; I only wound up here because the barge stopped for the night. Why do you ask?"

"Because, despite the temporary nature of this commission, I am still in need of a champion to represent me at Kemperbad," the gravin says, folding one hand over the other, "you seem far more capable than most other options. Should you win the duel for me, I will pay you a sum of forty crowns, and arrange an introduction to my aunt."

"The Countess?" You say, blinking in surprise, "A generous reward indeed. What are the terms of the duel?"

"To fight until one champion cannot continue," Maria-Ulrike smiles slightly, "This can be death, but incapacitation is also considered valid. Gustaf tells me that precedent permits a Bright Wizard to employ certain spells in such a match - those which enhance your capabilities or create some form of weapon, generally, but no great explosions as you wielded today."

You rub your jaw, considering the offer carefully. The reward is a valuable one indeed, and there is much honour and prestige to be earned fighting as a champion for a noblewoman of Maria-Ulrike's high station… but it would still mean risking death on her behalf, and striving to prove her innocence from a charge you know very little about.

Article:

Do you accept?

[ ] Yes, accept the commission. You will proceed to Kemperbad, there to fight a judicial duel with a champion nominated by the von Dammenblatz family.

• [ ] Take the Duellist Career. Your rewards for this arc will focus on making you more capable of personal-scale combat.
• [ ] Remain in the Wizard career. Your rewards for this arc will be taken from the same list of options as those of the last arc, save for spells, which will be new.

[ ] No, refuse the commission. You will return to the Colleges of Magic in Altdorf and seek out alternate employment.

Note - If you move into the Duellist career, you will still be a bright wizard and will have the option to switch your focus back to improving as a wizard in the future, perhaps when you seek to become an accredited Magister. This is more a question of how you focus your training in the short term; once I know the result of this vote I will post a new one where you can decide what stats, skills and spells you want to learn as appropriate.

 

[Maugan Ra]

It takes two weeks to get to Kemperbad, by coach and barge and horseback, and by the time you reach your destination your ass is sore and blistered from all the riding. You were never made for long stretches in the saddle. Still, you make the best of it, for enduring hardship without complaint is an excellent way to focus the will necessary for spellcasting, and the company of an entire retinue of bodyguards and men-at-arms allows for extended conversation on the arts of battle and swordsmanship. None of your new companions favour the axe, soft southern types that they are, but there is a virtue in having examples of your likely foes to spar against in practice.

Working on your spellcraft is somewhat more challenging, especially on the road, but the notes your master left in your grimoire are thankfully written in something vaguely legible. The Flaming Sword of Rhuin is one of the most famous spells that your College teaches its students, and by far the most complex you have attempted to learn thus far. Truth be told, you're a little skeptical over the wisdom of including it in a journeywoman's grimoire, but your master is wise and you are not, as they were always fond of saying, so you persevere. The real challenge is not in convincing the rambunctious aqshy to lend its destructive power to the weapon you want to enhance, but rather to stop that same energy from radiating out and causing your actual blade to explode under the strain moments later.

After a couple of embarrassing incidents that are in no way unreasonable to expect for a woman learning a new and potent example of spellcraft, the Grafin commands you to keep a safe distance from the rest of the convoy before you begin your practice. She also forbids you from testing your conjured weapon on any of her retainers, not that you were intending to do so in the first place. The Flaming Sword is not a weapon you wield against anyone you do not wish to see maimed, dead or on fire.

Eventually, however, you make it to Kemperbad. Getting up to the city from the river is something of a challenge, for the settlement is situated high atop a series of imposing cliffs that line the eastern bank of the River Reik and offer no conventional means of ascent for many miles in either direction. The solution, as it turns out, is an elaborate system of chains and pulleys that lifts the entire barge out of the water and deposits it safely in some bizarre parody of a dockyard built into the cliffs high above.

No-one is ever allowed to call wizards mad ever again.

Kemperbad is supposed to be one of the largest and most prosperous free cities in the entire Empire, owing fealty to none save the Emperor and paying taxes to not even he, but you don't get to see that much of it. The Grafin has a townhouse in the city, or rather she knows someone else who has one and is willing to lend it to her for a few days, and out of concern for the machinations of her adversary promptly confines you within its walls. You can't call her paranoid, exactly, not when there demonstrably is an assassin out there that killed her previous champion and made at least one attempt at his replacement, but gods is it frustrating. The sound of the markets fills the day and the revelry of the taverns haunts your nights, and you cannot partake in any of them.

By the time another week has passed, the third since you accepted this commission, the trial date is fast approaching and you are half a step from clawing at the walls. In desperation you hatch a cunning plan of convincing the Grafin that the markets might offer some valuable equipment that you could make use of in your upcoming duel, sure that she will see the wisdom of your words and let you venture out with an escort to secure them. Instead she simply smiles and has her servants summon the merchants to her instead. They even come when called, such is the indignity of your position, and you are forced to carefully select from the wares on offer in the confines of the parlour room rather than walking the streets as you so desperately desire.

Spoiler: Money and Purchases

At time of writing, Erika has 38 gold crowns and 35 silver shillings to her name. There are twenty silver shillings to a crown, and twelve brass pennies to a shilling (thus, a gold crown is worth 240 brass pennies).

After this update, I will include a list of possible goods that Erika could purchase. The vote will include a section for a purchase plan. Note that the Grafin could be persuaded to cover the cost of such purchases, but cannot be relied upon to do so - Erika will be making charm tests to persuade her, and will get a portion of the money expended back as appropriate to her success or failure.

At last, however, the day arrives. You wake early, all but trembling with anticipation, and are dressed and fed long before Maria-Ulrike summons you to the small study that she has taken as her own. Seeing her seated there, as perfectly groomed and composed as ever, it suddenly occurs to you that you must have shared at most a few dozen words with this woman over the course of three weeks spent in her employ. She simply seems… unapproachable, even to your enthusiastic inclinations.

"The duel will be taking place at noon today, in front of the town's courthouse," the Grafin explains, hands folded neatly in her lap as she looks up at you, "You will be sent on ahead, in the company of Gustaf and a pair of my guards. Use the time to familiarise yourself with the area, make your own preparations."

"I have been speaking with the Honourable Magistrates," Gustaf adds, and gods you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise because apparently being a lawyer in a library is a perfect natural camouflage, "and have arranged for a pair of braziers to be delivered to our pavilion in the main square. This should help you invoke your abilities, I believe?"

"Fire likes to grow, yes," you say with a thoughtful nod, "a proper bonfire would be better, but I guess that was too much to ask?"

"Just so," Gustaf nods primly, stroking his pointed grey beard with one wrinkled hand, "the contents of a contestant's pavilion are only regulated in the broadest possible sense, but anything that could be construed to be a major alteration to the duelling space itself is typically considered inappropriate. The rule stems back to… Horgus von Haend, I believe, a priest of Mannan who liked to fight all his duels while aboard an ocean-going vessel. Naturally, as a veteran mariner and a priest of the sea god, such an environment favoured him to a rather excessive degree."

You nod seriously, though in truth you think that this sort of excessively elaborate reasoning is just another sign of how the southern nations have gotten soft ever since Sigmar's day. Your homeland has a proud duelling tradition of its own, one that requires only a white sheet to highlight any blood splatter and a few rules of basic conduct between the combatants, but… well, there's no use complaining, you'd be here all day.

"Excellent work, Gustaf," Maria-Ulrike says with a small smile, nodding to him in approval, "if I must defend myself against this ridiculous charge, at least it shall be done on my terms. Not that I expect von Dammenblatz to simply accept his loss gracefully - he's already tried to sabotage my chances once, and I fully expect him to try again, even on the day itself."

"Can he get away with that?" You frown, crossing your arms as you consider the notion, "Back home, any credible accusation of interference would see the accused forfeit the duel automatically."

"Not so in Kemperbad, unfortunately, which I suspect is one reason the Baron wished the trial held here," Gustaf says with a sigh, "any attempts at sabotage or murder will be filed as separate cases, to be heard after the current one is concluded. We would almost certainly win, but…"

"The punishment for causing death by witchcraft is burning at the stake," Maria-Ulrike says dryly, "so there would be little satisfaction in it. Speaking of, Gustaf, is the fallback option in place?"

"It is, my lady," Gustaf says with a reassuring smile, "The Baron's charge was quite imprecise; death via witchcraft or poisoning, not one or the other. I believe I have made a sufficiently positive impression on the Magistrates that it would be possible to have the lesser punishment enacted if absolutely required, although that is still a fine of some considerable magnitude."

"A better fate than the alternative, even so," Maria-Ulrike says with a faint smile, before turning to look at you, "and hopefully unnecessary, since I'm sure Erika here will fight to defend my honour most stridently."

You swallow, dryly, and banish all thoughts of the various others fantasies that you have which involve defending the honour of a beautiful woman and her appreciation thereof. Damn it, you were doing really well until now, with the enforced distance and the looming spectre of a fight to the death to keep you occupied. "As you say, my lady."

Fortunately for your composure, there seems little else to discuss, and within a few minutes you are walking out of the gates of the townhouse at last, Gustaf at your side and a pair of liveried guardsmen at your back.

"Gods, but I'm glad to be out in the open air again," you comment, rolling your shoulders and just barely resisting the urge to start sprinting until your muscles give out through exhaustion, "being cooped up inside is no life for me."

"One would have thought you were used to it," Gustaf raises an eyebrow as he follows you down the street, "as I understand it, a trainee wizard must remain on the grounds of their college for several years at least?"

You chew your lip for a moment, trying to decide how to answer that. You have fond memories of the Bright College, it is true, but it's a lot easier to think kindly of the place now that you are no longer confined within its walls. You made it out alive, after all, leaving as a graduate rather than a corpse, but you entered as a girl and came out a woman and those intervening years were… difficult. Private, as well, and you don't know Gustaf even nearly well enough to share such personal details with him on a whim.

"It's complicated," you say at last, and judging by his expression your response isn't what he was hoping for but fuck it, you have more important things to pay attention to. The streets of Kemperbad are much like those of any other Imperial city, which is to say that they are a riotous mix of sound and colour and smell, and you drink it all in like a dying woman in search of salvation. The laughter of children, the angry bickering of merchants, the scent of roasting chicken on the air… and, of course, the fashion.

You've heard rumour of the merchants of Kemperbad and their excessive tastes in fashion, but you never quite believed the stories. Only now, being here in person, do you understand that the rumours were if anything understating the truth. You see merchants in tunics of a dozen silken hues, mistresses in flowing robes that take four scurrying servants to hold aloft, brash young men and women decorated with enough feathers to resemble strutting peacocks, and everywhere the glitter of gold. You see rings and amulets and necklaces of polished gold, bracers of gleaming silver set with sapphires, belts strung with little satchels of exotic spices that fill the air with their tantalizing scents… gods, a merchant here must make more in a day than you do in a year.

Of course, for all its prosperity, Kemperbad is not so removed from the realities of the Empire as it might wish. Where there is wealth, so too is there poverty, and as you turn down the final street leading to the elegant two-story courthouse at the town's heart you see it in its most obvious form. Childish urchins, thin and clad in rags, cluster around the side of the street in little groups, playing knucklebones amid the cobbles or scuffling with each other over some point of childish pride. A few bear the symbols of the Cult of Shallya, having presumably been fed and clothed by the sisters of that merciful deity as best they can, but others are clearly deprived of any kind of shelter by the circumstances of their life.

As you come into view, one of those scuffles seems to take a nastier turn, and with a yelp one of the larger urchins breaks off and begins to flee along the street towards you, a full mob of his peers in close pursuit. You frown slightly at the sight, wondering if you should intervene, but… something about this situation sets on you edge.

Sixth Sense check, TN 33, roll is 29, bare pass!

At the last second, you see the knives come out, improvised shives and shards of sharpened rock clutched in grubby hands. Your eyes go wide, and then the children are upon you, crashing through your little party like a wave upon the rocks.

Spoiler: Rolls

Three Urchins are making attacks on Erika with improvised weapons. They have a mighty weapon skill of 20 each, gain +20 for outnumbering her, but do not have the benefits of surprise. Thus, they roll against 40.

Erika does not have her weapon to hand, and thus must rely on her dodge skill, which after the last round of improvements is now 50.

Urchin One: 56 versus 40, fail with -1 SL. Erika rolls 29 against 50, success with +3 SL. Net success of +4 to Erika, successfully dodged.

Urchin Two: 16 versus 40, success with +3 SL. Erika rolls 47 against 50, bare pass, counts as +1SL. Thus, net +2 to the Urchin. Damage is 3 weapon +2 SL -4 toughness = 1 wound. Erika has fifteen remaining.

Urchin Three: 82 against 40, fail with -4SL. Erika rolls 16 against 50, success with +4 SL. Net +8SL in favour of Erika.

Your own weapon is safely stowed away across your back, not that you would risk wielding an axe against children, and so you dodge. A single step to the side takes you out of the path of the first urchin, and a half turn sends your crimson gown billowing around your legs, disguising your stance and robbing the children of their target. Something bites into your back, sharp and clearly aimed at the kidneys, but it catches you on the turn and most of the force is lost.

Growling, you round on the mob… only to be greeted with yelps of panic and a row of skinny backs as they break and flee at top speed for the nearest set of alleyways.

Article:

Erika has taken one wound from a seemingly unprovoked attack by a small band of street urchins. How does she wish to proceed?

[ ] Chase them. Most of the urchins will get away, but if you can collar even one of them you can probably get some answers as to what provoked this. This will, however, delay you and could potentially lead you into further danger.

[ ] Order the Guards after them. You are close enough to the courthouse that you don't need any further escort, and the guards can hopefully collar a few of the urchins and get some answers. Of course, the sight of armed men in Ambosstein livery chasing homeless orphans is, perhaps, not an ideal first impression.

[ ] Ignore them. You were scratched at worst, and it's not worth getting truly worked up about. Continue to the courthouse and get on with your day. You have a duel to win.

Additionally, the following post will contain a list of potential purchases that Erika can make during her time in Kemperbad. Some of these may be reimbursed by the Grafin, but that is not guaranteed, and it is best to stick to your existing budget of 38 gold crowns and 35 silver shillings.

What, if anything, does she wish to buy?

[ ] Write in (Plan format ONLY, will be counted separately to the urchin vote)

 

[Maugan Ra]

Kemperbad Market
The following items are things that Erika could purchase for her own use during her time in Kemperbad. There is a great deal more than this that the markets could potentially provide, but I am restricting you to stuff that she can actually make practical use out of at this time.

Alchemist

Digestive Tonic (3 shillings a dose) - This concoction tastes foul, but enables you to sober up with remarkable speed, and provides a +20 bonus to resist ingested toxins or illnesses of the gut.

Faxtoryll (15 shillings per poultice) - Smearing this paste across a wound will staunch blood loss without risk of infection. It's a temporary solution, but can at least prevent you from bleeding to death before you can get to someone able to bandage you up properly.

Healing Draught (10 shillings per dose) - Swallowing this potion will grant you four 'phantom' wounds, enabling you to effectively ignore the damage of an existing injury for the duration of a fight. The actual damage will still require rest and proper medical attention to heal, and you derive no benefits from forcing this down your throat while at full health.

Vitality Draught (18 shillings a dose) - Drinking this will make you feel like a horse just kicked you in the face, but it will also remove all fatigue, disorientation and other penalties for several hours. You'll probably have one hell of a hangover after you eventually crash, though.


Armourer

Hand Weapon (1 gold crown) - Swords, axes, short-spears and the like. Double the price to find an example that is particularly lightweight, beautiful or resilient.

Dagger (16 shillings) - A useful backup weapon, deals less damage than your axe but much easier to conceal or use in a tight quarters brawl.

Buckler (18 shillings) - Small defensive item, reduces the SL of a victorious opponent by one and adds one point of 'armour' to all locations you manage to cover. Can be used without otherwise occupying your free hand.

Shield (2 gold crowns) - Standard military shield, same defensive benefits as a buckler save that it provides two points of armour and prevents you using that arm for anything else.

Large Shield (3 gold crowns) - Large, ornate shield that is shaped to offer maximum protection. As above, only it offers three points of armour, and you won't be running anywhere with it.

Scribe

Book, common (2 gold crowns) - Any work of literature you can think of that does not directly correspond to a complex skill or hidden information. Details on foreign lands, famous people and important historical trends fall into this category.

Book, advanced (10 gold crowns) - Something aimed at providing professionals with the information necessary to perform their trade falls into this category. If you want Erika to pick up another language, learn the basics of medicine and alchemy, or otherwise improve her knowledge in some way, you'll need one of these.

Book, specialised (15 gold crowns) - Not all topics are easily learned or simple to grasp. Engineering, law and other extremely complex fields will need a book of this level to learn about. Note this does not include magic - you cannot find grimoires on the open market.

Tailor

Fine Clothing (Six shillings) - Well made and comfortable clothing, if you have a particular idea for how you want Erika to look. Certain styles will give bonuses or penalties to interacting with different people.

Noble's Clothing (12 gold crowns or more) - This is Kemperbad; if you can imagine it, you can find someone who will make it to your precise measurements. If you have a particular idea for how you want Erika to look that verges more into 'ridiculously dramatic bitch' territory, take this option and specify.

Jewellery (How much you got?) - Rings, necklaces, bracers, chokers… the main benefit of this is looking cool, but a second benefit is that it is much harder to separate a girl from her coin when she is in fact wearing the coin. Most towns have a way to convert jewellery back into coin for more standard purchases.

 

[Maugan Ra]

You're not sure what the Grafin is paying these guards, but it's probably more than they deserve, because it's only after you narrowly avoided getting hamstrung by a band of children that they seem to start paying attention. Even then they don't seem outright alarmed, having presumably missed the flashing shivs, simply scowling at the urchins as they flee.

"Are you alright, my lady?" One of them asks with gruff politeness, as though you had merely been jostled by somebody rude in the street. You want to curse at him, but… no, there's no point.

"Quite fine, thank you," you say flatly, brushing down your robes and using the opportunity to lightly touch the faint burning mark you can feel on your side. Your fingers come away bloody, but not excessively so - likely it was just a shallow cut, not something that will actually threaten your life in any meaningful fashion. You'll just have to be careful to bandage it later. "Let's continue."

Gustaf, bless his curly wig, hardly seems to have noticed a thing. No doubt if the orphans had tried to present you with a legal summons he'd have been there before you could blink, but the idea of getting shanked in the streets by a mob of urchins doesn't seem to be a possibility that even exists in his world. Fuck, you think he's even humming something to himself under his breath.

With a bemused sigh, you push such thoughts aside and carry on towards the courthouse. At least you aren't wearing your lovely new clothes - you don't know what it takes to get blood out of shade-changing eastern silk but you doubt it's the sort of thing that can be done easily.

Built in the very centre of Kemperbad's civil district, the courthouse is an immense monolith of dirty white stone, festooned with tilean-style columns and balconies that gape like open wounds. Gargoyles leer from every surface, many clutching ornate swords etched with prayers to the goddess Verena, and inside a walled-off yard a row of gallows creak and sway in the early morning breeze. It looms over the free city like a watchful guardian, and even the finely attired merchant princes that throng the streets seem subdued and cautious in its ominous shadow.

The Sword of Verena cares for justice, after all, not blood or coin.

There is a wide plaza in front of the building, and as you approach you can see that a section of it has been cordoned off by thick lengths of rope strung between metal poles to form an improvised arena. Brightly coloured pavilions stand at either end of the space, and a set of wooden stands are currently being assembled by scurrying teams of labourers beneath the judging eyes of court officials. It's to be a public show, then… not unexpected. The masses always do like a bit of blood with their entertainment.

"Ah, and there are the magistrates," Gustaf says happily, gesturing to a small knot of three figures clad in ornate robes near the entrance to the courthouse, "I shall go and speak with them, I think, just to make sure of the final arrangements. Miss Kurtsdottir, it would likely be best for you to wait in the pavilion."

"Sure," you say, eyeing the trio critically. The first is a jovial looking man who clearly thinks his hair dye makes him look younger than it does, the second an old woman so gnarled and wrinkly you half expect her to drop dead, and the third a cringing little fat man with the subservient air of a born minion. Not the most inspiring figures to trust the life of your employer to, but you doubt you have a choice in the matter.

Sighing, you head over to the pavilion, ducking under the hemp rope and enjoying the faint chorus of whispers from the slowly gathering crowd as they realise exactly who the Ambosstein champion is. Hopefully your opponent will be similarly overawed, and occupy themselves entirely with defence against imagined witchcraft so that you can axe them in the face.

The interior of the pavilion is much as you expected. There is a rack to hold your weapons, a stand for the armour you cannot actually wear, a small table set out with goblets and a jug of water, and a comfortable looking chair. And, as promised, a pair of metal braziers piled high with unlit tinder. Chances are that the rituals and legal formalities for a judicial duel will take up a considerable amount of time, so you opt not to light them just yet, but it's good to know that Gustaf came through for you. Smiling in satisfaction, you make your way over to the table, intending to deposit the small selection of alchemical tonics you purchased the other day ready for later use.

Something hisses at you from the shadows.

Pausing, you slowly sink into a crouch and peer into the shadows under the table. There, curled around one of the wooden legs, is the scaly form of a rather grumpy looking snake. It's scales are black, save for a repeating pattern of orange diamonds down its spine, and as you watch it tastes the air with a flickering tongue the hue of freshly spilled blood.

"Well, how about that. A mountain viper," you say with a wry smile, calling to mind everything you know about the creatures. They're supposed to be particularly bad tempered reptiles, possessed of a venom that can be fatal with a single bite, and aren't native to anywhere within a hundred miles of Kemperbad. "Hello there, little fellow. Were you meant to kill me?"

The viper seems to consider this for a moment, then unwinds itself from the table leg and slithers across the floor towards you. Still smiling, you extend a hand to it and wait patiently. The snake stares at you for a moment, tongue flickering in and out between the surprisingly delicate looking fangs, then takes the offer and winds itself slowly around your arm. The rasp of scales against your skin feels remarkably relaxing, and you grunt slightly at the weight. Your new friend has to be at least three foot long, though you don't know enough about the breed to tell if that's any kind of normal.

Spoiler: Animal Affinity Talent

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)

Rising back to your feet, you let the snake get comfortable around your shoulders, then head for the entrance to the pavilion again. You won't be able to fight with it still hanging around, but for now it seems to appreciate your ambient body heat, tucking itself comfortably into place as you step out into the sun.

"Let's see if there's anyone out here for me to thank, mm?"

Average (+10) Perception test, TN is 43, roll is 87. Fail.

Alas, no one among the crowd seems to be staring at you with the poorly concealed shock of a recently thwarted assassin. A shame, but you suppose things couldn't be that easy. Still, taking the time to look over the area does reveal a few other people of interest.

The first is a young woman with ebon-black skin and an elegant longsword that shines like silver in the sun. She's wearing the ornate white robes of a Priestess of Verena, and judging by the small crowd of acolytes following her is someone of considerable rank within that Cult; respectable, especially since she can't be more than a few years past her twentieth birthday.

The second is a muscular, bearded man in a leather overcoat, who seems to be standing by the edge of the ring and glaring at… if not you in particular, then at least the world in general. You can see a pistol, a pendent wrought in the shape of a twin-tailed comet, and a distinctive pointed hat hanging from his side. Oh, how wonderful. A witch hunter.

Your concern over the Templar's appearance is strong enough that you almost miss the last pair, but you happen to glance the right way just in time to see them shoot a venomous glare at the gathering of legal types in the shadow of the stairs. A man and a woman, thick cloaks of blue-stained wool hiding most distinguishing details, but… well. Maybe they just have some grudge against the local magistrates. Or maybe they're more of Gustaf's old friends.

Article:

Who do you approach?

[ ] The Priestess. Verena is a goddess heavily associated with fairness and justice, and she probably has a role in seeing that this duel proceeds without cheating or disruption. Speak to her about your concerns, see if she can do anything. Of course, you are one of the champions, so your testimony will probably be taken as inherently biased.

[ ] The Templar. You sure as hell didn't invite a witch hunter here, and you doubt that the Grafin did either. The possibility that von Dammenblatz did something to bring the templars in on his side is too alarming to discount, so you need to talk to the man as soon as you can. And, you know, hope he doesn't shoot you on principle.

[ ] The Couple. You don't know what they're here for, but no one glares like that without some serious animosity to back it up. See if you can talk to them, or failing that provoke them into doing something that can justify having the guards remove them from the area.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Though you claim Ulric as your god and patron, no citizen of the Empire denies the existence or power of the other members of the pantheon. You offer prayers to Shallya when sick or injured, consult a priest of Morr for insight into the meaning behind certain striking dreams, and honour Sigmar as founder of the Empire as it exists today.

Verena, though, you know comparatively little of. She has always been seen as more of a southern god, too delicate and nuanced for the harsh realities of day-to-day life in your homeland. She is the wife of Morr, you think, a goddess of law and justice who wields a sword in defence of what is right. You think you remember something about a veil as well, connected to her secondary domains of wisdom and knowledge? The symbology never made much sense to you, but you know that people like Gustaf revere her above all others, and judging by the presence of her priestess she cares about the proper handling of judicial duels at least.

Either way, then, if you want to make sure that this trial proceeds without further disruption then speaking to that young woman is probably the way to go. You have confidence in your own skills to see you through anything approaching a fair fight, but if your opponent is willing to slip poisonous animals into your pavilion there's no guarantee that skill will have anything to do with the outcome. Your mind made up, you make your way across the arena towards her.

The priestess is, as you observed, a surprisingly young woman to be holding a position of such importance. Her skin is the deep black of someone with a strong southlands ancestry, though you wouldn't care to guess exactly where, and her build reminds you of a small statuette that your master used to keep in their study; slight, gracefully artistic, yet solid enough to bludgeon someone to death with in a pinch. She turns as you approach, sizing you up with the most amazingly clear blue eyes.

"You must be the Ambosstein champion," she nods briskly to you, leaning slightly on the silvered sword in her hands, "Petra Steinmetz, Quiet Mother of Verena. A pleasure."

The name is definitely Imperial, as is the accent. Most likely she's a second or third generation immigrant, then; you used to make a game of guessing at people's ancestry, back home where every other family had a Norseman somewhere in the ancestry, but you suspect such playful speculation would not be so well received this far south.

"Erika Kurtsdottir," you say with a nod, and as though prompted the snake around your shoulders lifts its head and hisses softly, "this is my new pet. It doesn't have a name yet, I think."

"A mountain viper?" Petra's eyebrows rise in bemusement, "An interesting choice of pet. Highly venomous, as I recall."

"Indeed," you say lightly, making sure not to look too concerned in the eyes of anyone watching, "Someone left it for me in the pavilion. I shudder to think what might have happened if I wasn't a wizard."

Petra frowns at that, her expression shockingly severe. "I see. You wish to make an allegation of foul play, then?"

She doesn't look all that surprised by the accusation, you note. Displeased, yes, but there's no shock in her eyes, or in the grumbling mob of acolytes hanging around at her back. Are such tactics truly so common in Kemperbad? In duels between the nobility in general?

"Seemed the right thing to do," you nod, keeping your further thoughts to yourself, "I'm not entirely sure what your role is here, but as a priestess of Verena you're presumably concerned with fairness and proper conduct?"

"I am. It is my duty to administer the oaths of the champions and witness the duel," Petra inclines her head in a motion too slight to be truly called a nod, "please rest assured that whatever tactics any involved might attempt outside the arena, the duel itself will be conducted in full adherence with the law."

You hesitate for a moment. Truth be told you were rather hoping for something more tangible than that, an interrogation of the Dammenblatz representatives or a formal judgement or something, but… well, you are the sworn champion of the rival party in this duel. Maybe she doesn't think you're being entirely honest and straightforward?

"Please don't take this the wrong way, Quiet Mother," you say carefully, knowing full well the consequences of accidentally offending a representative of a powerful cult, "but if my foe is willing to go so far as this outside the ring, I have some difficulty trusting he will restrain himself within it."

Petra Steinmetz straightens slightly, an almost imperceptible motion, and for one brief moment she seems somehow… more. There is an energy about her, a faint halo that enhances the contrast, sets her apart from the world, and it is not hyish or azyr or any of the winds you know, but something more, something cold and sharp and hard as steel.

"It is not mortal law," she says, and her eyes, her eyes are gone, replaced by two shining orbs of perfect flawless white, "that I ask you to trust."

You step back. It's not a deliberate motion, not a conscious choice, but you do it anyway. You look this woman in the eyes and see reflected in their depths every sin, every failing, every mistake you have ever made over the course of your short and wretched life.

"I… of course," you say, and your voice is shaking but you can't help it, "a good day to you, priestess."

Then you turn your heel and flee, marching briskly back across the arena and ducking into the pavilion, and only once you are there do you stop and breathe and let yourself shake like a leaf in the wind.

Gods. Quite literally, gods. You always believed they empowered their chosen priests, the Colleges confirmed what you knew from watching your father at work, but there is a sharp difference between the unquestioning faith of a child and… well, that.

The snake flicks its tongue out, nuzzling up against your neck for a moment, and you let out a shaking breath. You really need to give this thing a name, especially if you're going to keep it, but for now… for now you occupy your hands and your thoughts with gathering up the small collection of tinder and setting the twin braziers alight. The sudden bloom of aqshy is comforting in its familiarity, and the sight of your pet slithering down your arm to curl up around the warmest thing in the area surprisingly calming.

It takes you several minutes to properly regain control, but that's fine. You don't have anything better to do, there's no requirement for you to do anything but stand here and slowly bring your breathing back down to normal, luxuriating in the flickering glow of the braziers.

It is the rapping of drums that brings you back out of the pavilion again, just in time to see the two nobles and their retinues arrive with all pomp and ceremony at the stands. Maria-Ulrike has apparently opted to wear a dress that leaves her shoulders bare and a golden necklace that draws the eye to the elegant curve of her neck, both choices you thoroughly approve of, but you've had plenty of chances to see her before. It is her rival that you are more interested in today.

Otto von Dammenblatz is a tall, well muscled man with a forked beard that reaches halfway down his chest. His silken outfit of green and black silks has been cut to emphasize the soldier's build, and judging by the way he carries himself he earned those muscles with actual service. The most striking part of his appearance, however, is the air of command that seems to hang around his shoulders like a cloak, a natural authority that underlines his every word and gesture. Like Maria, he was clearly born to command, and lives up to that potential in style.

You're too far away to catch what the two nobles say to each other, but there is no missing the rough anger from Dammenblatz or the cool disdain your patron returns. You're fairly sure that, no matter what the actual truth of the matter might be, Otto at the very least has convinced himself that the von Ambosstein are responsible for his father's murder. That bodes poorly for your chances of a well-behaved opponent.

So focused are you on the pair of nobles that you almost don't notice their extended retinues, each filing into place and taking their own seats on the stands while their masters exchange quiet words. Until, that is, Gustaf Rechtshandler goes to sit down and then immediately leaps back to his feet with a yelp of pain. He pauses for a moment, says something to the Grafin… and then stumbles.

Spoiler: Poison Mechanics

Gustaf Rechtshandler has just been stabbed with a poison needle. Unfortunate for him, but also an excellent place to demonstrate how the poison rules work, which will probably become increasingly important as Erika spends more time around the nobility.


Basically, getting poisoned - breathing in gas, consuming tainted food, getting stabbed with an envenomed weapon, whatever - applies a variable number of "Poisoned" conditions. For each poison condition you have, you take one wound at the end of the round, and also a -10 stacking penalty on all tests. If these take you to zero wounds, you collapse and probably die shortly thereafter.


Poison is resisted with the Endurance skill, which Gustaf has a rating of 39, modified according to the poison in question - in this case, Difficult (-10). Each round, you can roll Endurance to try and shake off the poison, with every SL removing one condition. Gustaf is presently dealing with two doses in his system.


Round one: Gustaf rolls 48 against a TN of 29. He fails, and takes two wounds. He has 9 wounds left.


Round two: Gustaf rolls 86 against TN 29, another fail. He is down to 7 wounds.


Round three: Gustaf rolls 25 against TN 29. He gets a bare success, and removes one poison condition, but is still down to 6 wounds.


Round Four: Gustaf rolls 18, passing with +1SL. He removes the last of the poison from his system and gains a fatigued condition, meaning he now has a -10 penalty on all tests until he rests. He's also lost five wounds, which given his age and constitution will take him at least two days of bedrest to properly recover.


Assuming, of course, that nobody tries to finish the job.

"Shit," you growl, already breaking into a run as on the stands the barrister sways and then topples over behind the seats. Poison, it has to be. You have no idea how to go about treating that, but if you can at least find the weapon that did it…

With a dull clash, a pair of halberds lock together in an X shape between you and the stairs, forcing you to slide rapidly to a halt or risk being impaled. The men holding the weapons are members of the local watch, thick slabs of hammered beef squeezed uncomfortably into tightly pressed uniforms in the dark red and blue of Kemperbad, and their piggish eyes glare at you with undisguised hate.

"Back off, witch," one of them growls, spittle flying through scarred and half-worn lips as he stares you down, "stay in the arena."

You don't have time for this. You can't see Gustaf, but the fretting of the other servants and the angry expression on Maria's face as she complains to the magistrates are not reassuring.

"Get out of my way you ridiculous man," you snarl, only barely restraining the urge to draw steel and force your way past, "my comrade has been assaulted, I have to help."

"Do I look like I care?" The second guard asks with a roll of his eyes, smacking the butt of his weapon against the ground to emphasise the gesture, "No-one approaches their eminances without explicit invitation, especially not a fire-haired bitch like you."

You growl, and are maybe half a second from doing something truly unwise when the Grafin takes note of the confrontation.

"Erika," she says sharply, and your gaze snaps up to meet hers, "it is fine. Gustaf was only briefly exposed; he will be taken to the Temple of Shallya and seen to."

Her dark eyes exert an almost physical force, and though you want to protest and complain and do something about the watchmen something in that gaze tells you that doing any of that would be a dire mistake. In the end you simply nod, jaw aching as you grit your teeth, and step back again. You can see Gustaf being all but carried down the stairs by two of the Grafin's attendants, his head rolling drunkenly with every step, but he is clearly still alive. That will have to be enough for now.

"As you say, my lady," you say, the words short and clipped. You turn, intending to head back to the pavilion, and find that you are no longer alone in the arena.

Von Dammenblatz's champion is a tall, narrow-faced man with weather-beaten skin and a complexion marred by scars from some childhood pox. Like his employer he carries himself with a military air, but in place of fine silks wears a thick suit of boiled leather reinforced with metal plates. He carries a pair of swords on his hip, one long and slender, the other short and curved.

"Heinrich Bӧttcher," he says, his voice a dull monotone more appropriate to someone on the very verge of slumber, "sworn champion of his excellency the Baron von Dammenblatz. You must be my counterpart. Not what I was expecting."

You frown, letting one hand drift near the hilt of your axe. "Erika Kurtsdottir. I stepped in after the Grafin's former champion wound up with a knife in his spine."

"Hmm," Heinrich barely seems to react, his expression a flat wooden mask, "I see. Might I ask why?"

"You first," you reply, circling the other champion warily. You'll be fighting this man soon, quite possibly to the death, but he seems entirely unbothered by the idea. It's not confidence, you've seen enough swaggering warriors to know the look, but rather a kind of… resigned detachment.

"I served under the Baron in the State Troops," Bӧttcher says with a slow, lazy shrug, "he seemed a good enough man, led us to victory more than once. My term ended, he offered the work, I agreed. And you?"

Article:

What answer does Erika give? For this decision, approval voting is in place - you can vote for several different options as you like. Note that Erika is an honest woman by nature, so her answer here will reflect her genuine priorities, even if she feels motivated by a combination of options.

[ ] Faith. You are an adherent of Ulric, and the Wolf God commands that his followers never shy away from a challenge or a chance to prove their worth.

[ ] Gold. Forty crowns is a lot of money, likely more than you'd have ever seen in your entire life before becoming a wizard.

[ ] Glory. The chance to demonstrate your skills before an appreciative audience is very welcome, and highly skilled duellists can be famous in their own right.

[ ] Honour. It offends you, to see a woman put in peril because an unscrupulous foe is willing to resort to deception and slander.

[ ] Lust. What can you say, Maria-Ulrike is a very beautiful woman, and you've always been a sucker for pretty girls asking you to save them.

[ ] Prestige. Your career will only benefit from the gratitude of noble patrons, especially if Maria follows through on her promise to introduce you to the Countess of Wissenland.

[ ] Write in. QM reserves veto if the expressed reason is not in line with Erika's displayed behaviour and thoughts thus far.

 

[Maugan Ra]

What do you say in response to a question like that? There are so many possible answers. Do you tell him that you're doing it for the fame it might bring? For the honour of your god? Because a beautiful woman asked you for it and you're a hopeless idiot in such situations? All would be true, at least to some degree, but there is one reason that stands out above the rest.

"Like I said; the Grafin's old champion caught a knife in the spine," you say simply, eyes hard as you stare the former soldier down, "I take offence to the idea of someone winning a duel through such dishonourable methods."

Bӧttcher rolls his eyes. "And the fact she's niece to an Elector had nothing to do with it?"

"A girl can fight for more than one reason," you grin without humour, "but it's funny to me how you find the idea of fighting for honour so unbelievable."

The Dammenblatz champion narrows his eyes at that, but before either of you can escalate the matter there is a sharp cough from your right. Turning, you find that Petra Steinmetz has moved into the arena and now stands just before the magistrate's box, watching you both with her pale blue eyes.

"If there are no further diversions?" She says with a certain chilly politeness, waiting until you and Bӧttcher both shake your heads, "Very well then. We shall begin final preparations. If you would both recite the oath?"

You lick your lips, nerves overtaking you for a moment. The formal oath that champions take before a duel is something that Gustaf drilled you on, but had you known that the whole match was going to be overseen by one of the goddess' own blessed priestesses you would have put more effort into memorising it.

"I swear before all assembled here and in the sight of Verena that my cause is just and my case is truthful," you say formally, trying not to think how literal the reference to Verena's sight might actually be. "I swear that I shall abide forever by the results of the trial, seeking no other remedies and pursuing no other means if my appeal to Verena's judgement is unsuccessful."

Behind you, you can hear Heinrich Bӧttcher reciting the oath as well, though honestly you think the clauses there should really be taken by your patrons. After all, the loser here is probably going to be dead or at least seriously wounded. It's the nobility that will have the means and motive to continue the vendetta in the future.

"May all-knowing Verena strengthen the hand that is true, and see justice prevail. This I swear."

At the edge of the ring, a herald in Kemperbad livery raises a trumpet and blows a series of dramatic sounding notes. Petra nods to both of you, and as you turn to head for your pavilion you can hear her beginning the ritual prayers that will bless the arena itself and invoke the Goddess' protection against any outside influence.

Most conventional champions would be taking this chance to don their armour and secure their own equipment, but the only mundane tools you have to prepare are the small alchemical vials in your belt pouches. No, your real efforts must be directed towards spellcraft, and to that end you turn and focus on the twin braziers. The Red Wind of aqshy swirls around them, and as you sharpen your will it responds as it always has.

Language (Magick) test to cast Cuirass of Fire, base skill is 64 +20 from two braziers, TN is 84. Roll is 93, Fail.

The fire in the brazier swirls and spikes as you focus on it, weaving itself into a fluid substance that you can hopefully use to armour yourself. Bӧttcher seems to be using a paired sword style, so you'll need to be wary of quick strikes from odd angles. Maybe you can…

So focused are you on the possibilities inherent in your opponent's fighting style that you fail to properly control the flame, and with a dull sputtering sound it collapses back into the brazier. You bite back a curse, trying not to imagine the disappointed tut that your master would undoubtedly be voicing at this shameful loss of concentration.

Taking a moment to calm yourself and regain your focus, you reach out and try again.

Language (Magick) test to try again, TN is still 84, roll is 18. Success with +7 SL. Erika gains 3 AP on all locations.

This time, the flame leaps to your call, aqshy weaving itself into an elegant pattern that you hang around your shoulders like a cape. It swirls and ripples with your every motion, twisting to protect your vulnerable quarters as you prompt it with your thoughts. It's hard to tell in advance how much protection that this will offer in comparison to a more conventional suit of armour, but since metal and hide would disrupt your spellcasting you'll just have to take what you can get.

Outside, you can hear Petra pacing around the outside of the ring, still intoning her prayers. You don't imagine you have very long before the preparations are complete and you will be called forwards to fight, so you move onto your next spell, holding your axe ready in one hand and calling the winds to the other. The Flaming Sword of Rhuin does not limit itself in what weapons it can enhance, thankfully, but it does involve a complex series of incantations and gestures that are almost like weaving a garment. You don't have long to work, but trying to rush something like this could be absolutely disastrous.

Channelling test, base TN 78, +20 from braziers, +10 from existing fire spell, TN is 108. Roll is 40, success with +6SL, +2SL from Aethyric Attunement, 8SL banked. Enough to cast.

Language (Magick) to cast, TN is 94, roll is 57, success.

Fortunately, the process is actually deceptively easy. There is so much aqshy in the air, both from the braziers and the slowly building sense of excitement from the watching crowd outside that you have more than enough to work with. You weave layer upon layer of magic around your axe, until the steel is wreathed in rippling flame and every motion showers sparks across the room, and only when you are satisfied do you cease the casting and step back.

Outside, another trumpet sounds, the herald calling the champions forth to battle. Smiling grimly, you turn and exit the pavilion, the roaring cheers of the crowd strangled suddenly into silence as you appear. Mothers hurry their babies back inside and grown men cluster tightly together and mutter in worried voices as you stride across the arena floor, wreathed in a cloak of living flame and bearing a weapon that glows as though fresh from the forge, but you pay them no heed at all. You will never gain popular acclaim for your use of magic, and you came to terms with that a long time ago. What prizes you will win must be claimed more directly.

Heinrich Bӧttcher waits for you in the centre of the ring, his expression almost bored and a pair of swords held loosely in leather-gloved hands. One is a slender rapier, a basket hilt serving to protect his wrist, while the other seems to be closer to a sharpened hook than any conventional dagger you've laid eyes on before. It's a Tilean style, if you're not mistaken; an unexpected choice from someone that used to serve in the State Troops, but maybe he picked it up somewhere else.

"Hear ye, hear ye," one of the magistrates calls in a wavering voice as you stop a short distance away from your opponent, "the case between Grafin Maria-Ulrike von Ambosstein and Baron Otto von Dammenblatz of Wissenland, to be settled through trial by combat, shall now begin. Champions, take your marks, and may Verena bring victory to the just!"

There is a faint flutter of falling silk in the corner of your eye as the magistrate drops a handkerchief, but you pay little attention. All of your focus is reserved for the man in front of you, as each nods to the other and begins to circle. He certainly moves with enough grace, and you think… yes, you think he is slightly faster than you, and his weapon certainly has more reach. A rapier isn't nearly as good as your axe for fighting monsters in the woods, but that's not what he's here to do so it's largely irrelevant.

Slowly the circle closes, the roaring cheers of the crowd fading away in the background as you draw closer and closer together. Each of you tries a few feints, the jabbing of the rapier met with the blazing sweep of the axe, but you both know that the real clash is coming. You're both human, and a human can die to a single well-placed strike if they are unlucky, so…

Bӧttcher side steps, breaking the circle to go back on himself, and as you are still adjusting dances in with light footed grace and scores the first blow. The tip of his rapier draws a burning line across your left bicep, and by the time you have brought the axe around to counter he has danced back out of range again.

Two seconds, maybe three, and you are bleeding while he smiles coldly at you from a safe distance.

Spoiler: Round One rolls

Heinrich is wielding a rapier, which is a fast weapon with a longer reach. He therefore gains +10 reach advantage. He is also faster than you (your initiative attribute governs this, and also the number of times you can take certain talents), so he therefore gains one advantage on the charge and thus he rolls against 87.

Erika is using a basic weapon and rolls against her skill of 69.

Heinrich rolls 31, success with +5 SL.
Erika rolls 51, success with +1 SL.

Heinrich wins with +4 net SL. His damage is 9 weapon +4 SL - 4 toughness - 3 armour = 6 wounds.

Erika has nine wounds remaining.

"You're not a duelist," he says, like he's making casual conversation rather than flicking your blood from his blade, "are you? No, you trained to fight orcs and hunt goblins. You left your arm open; too used to fighting people who won't notice it? Or… ah, yes. You need it free to cast your spells, don't you?"

"Oh fuck off," you snarl, shifting your axe into a two-handed grip and thanking all the gods that he didn't manage to catch a vein with that first blow, "this is painful enough without listening to your lecturing."

Heinrich frowns at that, and then steps back in, lashing out with a couple of other experimental strikes that you swat aside. He's curiously reluctant in his motions, not committing to the kill shot, but… ah, that's why. It's not that he's scared of your weapon, it's that he's trying to draw this out. He thinks he can afford to whittle you down slowly, to cut your limbs until you stagger and collapse. A slow, drawn-out death, one the crowd can really get their teeth into.

Well, fuck that.

You lift the axe, just slightly, and as expected Bӧttcher leaps in to try and exploit the weakness, aiming a viper-fast cut at your knee. You let him get most of the way in before slamming your axe back down, aiming not at him but at the main body of his weapon, knocking the rapier aside and bringing your burning axe into contact with the ground.

There is a hollow roar, an explosion of sand and flame, and then Heinrich Bӧttcher is staggering backwards with his right leg bleeding and aflame.

Spoiler: Round two rolls

Heinrich has two points of advantage, and rolls against 97 as a result. Erika still rolls against 69.

Heinrich rolls 89, success with +1 SL.

Erika rolls 49, success with +2 SL. Leg hit.

Erika wins with +1SL net. Heinrich is wielding a defensive weapon in his off-hand that reduces that to +0SL. Damage is 9 weapon + 9 impact - 7 armour and toughness = 11 wounds.

Heinrich has six remaining, and is now ablaze.

"Funny thing about fighting monsters: if it works, it works," you say with a grin, wrenching your burning axe out of the small crater as Heinrich limps backwards and pats desperately at the flames on his shrapnel-riddled leg, "maybe I can't match your fancy tilean swordplay, but my axe explodes when it strikes something, so…"

It is at that moment that someone opts to hit you in the gut with Sigmar's own hammer.

The force of the blow is incredible, a solid wall of air that lifts you from your feet and slams you back down onto the sandy ground, and when you gasp for breath the dusty air chokes your lungs.

Hard (-20) Cool test to retain control of spells, TN is 41, Erika rolls 44, bare fail. Flaming Sword of Rhuin lost.

You're on your back, your grip on the axe lost, barely able to think much less hear over the deafening rumble of thunder. Distantly, you take note of the rising column of smoke and flame from somewhere on the other side of the courthouse. That… was that gunpowder? Who the fuck is setting off gunpowder?

Rolling over onto your side, you find your arm hanging heavy at your side and… oh, right, yes. Your axe is still there, hanging from the leather loop wrapped around your wrist. The spell is gone, the delicate traceries of magic too easily disrupted by whatever the fuck just happened, but… that's fine.

People are screaming in the background, but it's just confusion and fear, not the sound of combat. You can see people running, guards making their way to the rear of the courthouse where the explosion originated, others moving to secure their charges from potential harm. The duel… the duel is still going, you think, and a few yards away Heinrich Bӧttcher is clambering unsteadily to his feet.

He looks confused, off-balance… vulnerable.

Article:

What do you do?

[ ] Attack Bӧttcher. Victory in battle goes to she that adapts quickest to changing circumstances. Bring him down, while he is vulnerable. Given the behaviour the Dammenblatz team have shown so far, he'd do the same to you.

[ ] Find the Grafin. Your patron might be in danger, and keeping her safe until this is resolved outweighs the risk of leaving the arena before the duel is concluded. It shouldn't count as a forfeit, you think.

[ ] Retreat to your pavilion. You can wait there until the duel resumes, safe and able to rebuild your spellwork. It does mean surrendering the initiative on responding to whatever the hell just happened, though.

 

[Maugan Ra]

For a moment you are lost, bewildered, your head ringing as you clamber back to your feet. A great cloud of smoke and flame is rising into the air, and you can see the retreating backs of the guards as nobles and magistrates alike are hurried away by their retinues. No one has called an end to the duel just yet, but perhaps you should retreat to your pavilion anyway, let the officials sort this all out. And then you see your opponent, stunned and confused but rising slowly in his turn.

Ulric will not grant you such vulnerable prey twice.

Gripping your axe tightly in one hand you advance, falling into a lurching run that is closer to a controlled fall across the duelling field than anything more advanced. Bӧttcher sees you coming at the last moment, but it's all he can do to desperately lift his sword in defense, interposing it between the edge of your axe and his vulnerable flesh.

He doesn't have the strength to hold you back; your weapon bites home, cutting a bloody groove across his muscular chest, and the former soldier falls before the force of your charge. With a victorious yell you lift your bloody weapon high, bringing it down to finish this fight at last…

There is a harsh clang, and then Petra Steinmetz is there, silvered sword braced across her forearm as she intercepts your blow.

Spoiler: Rolls

Erika has one point of advantage and is effectively charging. Her TN is 89, she rolls 43, success with +4 SL.
Bӧttcher has lost his range advantage, takes a -20 penalty for being caught off-guard. His TN is 47, he rolls 36, success with +1SL.

Erika has a net success of +3, reduced to +2 by the defensive weapon.

Damage is 7 weapon + 2SL - 7 Armour and toughness = 2 wounds. Bӧttcher has four remaining.

"The duel," she says, her voice shaking with the effort of holding you back, "is suspended."

Growling, you step back, lifting your axe away from the injured man and the woman who saved him. "There was no signal."

"I am suspending it now, as per my role as adjudicator," Petra says harshly, and there is nothing but contempt in her voice, hard disdain in the lines of her face. "Step back, and wait for further instructions."

Muttering a curse under your breath, you comply, taking half a dozen steps back and waiting there. You doubt you could get away with any kind of visible spellcasting, not in full view like this where anyone could misinterpret your efforts as an attempt to break the rules, so instead you pull one of the small vials you purchased from the alchemist free of your belt. The liquid inside tastes absolutely vile, but you choke it down all the same, feeling the spreading warmth and strength as the concoction goes to work on your system.

Across the field from you, Heinrich Bӧttcher tends to his own wounds, applying a strange grey paste to the burns and shrapnel cuts that you left up and down his leg. There is a cold kind of malice in his eyes as he looks at you, entirely divorced from his earlier indifference, but so be it. You won't apologise for seizing the opportunity presented to you.

Slowly, order is restored. The echoes of the explosion fade away, and no greater destruction or sound of conflict replaces it. The city watch return to their stations around the edge of the ring, and you hear some of them chattering to each other about what just transpired; some kind of prison break, it seems, aimed at breaking a compatriot out of the courthouse cells while all eyes were focused on this duel. You can't make out any details, nor does anyone feel like sharing them with you, but ultimately after perhaps twenty minutes everyone is back in place.

"I demand that this woman be expelled from the duel!" Otto von Dammenblatz proclaims, hands on his hips as he scowls down at you from the stands, "I have clear testimony that she sought to slay my champion after recess was called, in clear violation of both law and procedure!"

"Oh, be quiet you silly little man," the Grafin responds in an arch tone, "I did not call for your expulsion when my lawyer was poisoned, and he was certainly a harder loss. Besides, there was no formal signal for the suspension of the duel, even if any of us could hear it."

The magistrates deliberate this for a few moments, though in truth only the older pair do any of the speaking. The youngest member simply waits silently for his betters to render their judgement, then stands to announce it.

"No penalty shall be applied against the von Ambosstein champion," he announces in a quavering voice, the much-reduced crowd grumbling at being denied satisfaction by proxy, "the champions shall take their positions three paces apart, and then the duel shall resume."

Heinrich Bӧttcher is more than happy with those terms, for no sooner has the handkerchief dropped for the second time than he is upon you, his weapons hissing with speed and his face curled into a mask of vindictive rage. You swing your axe in a short blow, more to regain the space than to land a strike of your own, and are unpleasantly surprised to find it parried by the curved dagger in Bӧttcher's left hand.

A moment later, your skin turns to ice as the enemy champion sinks an inch of steel into your gut.

Spoiler: Round Four rolls

All advantage has been reset by the pause, the two combatants start too close for any charge actions. Erika has used the healing draught and added four 'phantom' wounds, bringing her back up to thirteen. Heinrich has done something similar and is now on eight wounds.


Heinrich has a TN of 77, he rolls 26, success with 5 SL.


Erika has a TN of 69, she rolls 50, success with 1 SL.

Heinrich wins with +4 net SL. Damage is 9 weapon + 2 SL - 7 armour and toughness = 4 wounds. Erika has nine wounds remaining.

"You thought it was that easy, did you?" Bӧttcher growls, stepping back and lifting his rapier high so that the audience can see the bright red of your blood across the tip, "I've fought Orcs, girl. You think you're the first one to try gutting me while I'm on the back foot?"

"Oh, shut up," you spit, tasting the sharp coppery tang of your own blood as you shift your grip on the axe. You're not interested in hearing this man's blustering bravado, and with a growl you lunge after him, swinging your axe towards his gut.

There is a metallic clatter as Bӧttcher parries your strike, the flat edge of his rapier rapping against your knuckles as he locks your hand in place. For one brief and terrifying moment you are exposed, and it is a vulnerability that your foe exploits without mercy, smashing the pommel of his dagger into your jaw.

Stars explode behind your eyes, blinding you, and before you can rally there is a sharp tugging motion near your wrist and your axe is gone, flung clear across the arena.

Spoiler: Round Five rolls

Bӧttcher has one point of advantage, and therefore rolls against 87. He elects to try for a disarm move, which replaces the damage if he wins with removing Erika's weapon (Disarm requires having a talent, which was one of the things you could have picked up in the duellist career).

Bӧttcher rolls against TN 87, roll is 10, success with +7 SL.

Erika rolls against TN 69, roll is 45, success with +2 SL.

Bӧttcher wins the opposed roll with +5 net SL. He disarms Erika and knocks her axe so it lands ten foot behind him. Additionally, because his weapon has the impale rule, a roll of 10 is a critical hit, result (55-20 for non-lethal trigger) 33.

Erika receives a 'rattling blow'. She suffers a stunned condition, which prevents her from acting until removed (though she can still move slowly and defend herself with a penalty), as well as two more wounds. She has seven wounds remaining.

"I've never fought a wizard before," the enemy champion says tauntingly, flourishing his blade with a soft hiss of air as he plays to the crowd, "is this all you've got? Tricks and misdirection, because you can't match me blade to blade?"

You growl, a wordless sound of rage and pain as you shake off the stun, one hand scrabbling at your belt as you grab your backup weapon. A dagger is not nearly as effective as your axe in a fight like this, but it's all you have; certainly you don't have nearly enough time to invoke the Flaming Sword again.

"A dagger? Really?" Heinrich says, voice thick with contempt, "This isn't even funny anymore. It's just pathetic."

He's toying with you now, and you can't do a damn thing to stop it. Again and again the rapier lashes out, scoring shallow wounds across your arms and breast and gut, too fast and slender for your pathetic little dagger to hold at bay.

Spoiler: Round Six

Erika spends a resolve point to shake off the Stunned condition. She then draws a dagger.

Bӧttcher has two points of advantage now. His TN is 97, he rolls 45, success with +5 SL.


Erika rolls against TN 69, rolls 77. She spends a fortune point to reroll, scores 30, success with +3 SL.

Bӧttcher wins with a net +2 SL. Damage is 9 weapon + 2 SL - 7 armour and toughness = 4 more wounds.

Erika has three wounds remaining.

I'm going to die.

The thought sits like a lead weight in your mind, warping everything around it. Your body is cold as ice, a shambling corpse frozen to the bone by the winter wind, lit only by half a dozen burning points of bleeding heat. You feel halfway dead already, and your gown hangs heavy with the weight of freshly spilled blood.

"Come on, wizard," Bӧttcher calls, and gods above you want him to shut up, he's fucking well enjoying this and you hate it. "Come on and… and…"

His voice trails off, and when you lift your head to glare at him you find that he isn't looking at you at all. He's staring at the ground, mouth working soundlessly as his weapons drop listlessly in his hands. You frown, then glance down and see exactly why he's so off balance.

Your blood is moving.

The ground of the ring has been covered by sawdust, but the gore that spills from your wounds flows across the top of it without pause, running like oil as it joins with the other splatter-marks spread across the arena. It's not just your blood, either, for you can see faint tendrils of red leaking from Bӧttcher's chest and leg, drawn out by the same invisible force until it gathers and pools in the very centre of the ring.

The air swarms with shyish, the purple wind of death seeping out through wounds and shadow to hover eagerly above the pool, an eager parent above the crib. You can hear the muted screams of the audience, the worried mutters of the guards, the fervent prayers of your opponent, but you don't care about any of them. All you have eyes for is the blood and the pool and the slowly rising form beneath.

"Oh, Ulric," you whisper, your breath misting on the warm summer air, and then the ground explodes.

Wreathed in spectral flames, shrouded by shimmering heat, the insubstantial form of a pyre erupts from beneath the sand. Ash-black wood is piled high around the base and glowing chains hang from the tip, while strapped tight to the central pole a fire-blackened corpse shrieks and writhes and screams.

"To me, Sons of Sigmar!"

The bellow is fierce and powerful, echoing off the stone walls of the courthouse with almost inhuman strength, and it snaps you from your daze more effectively than any physical blow. The witch hunter, huge and bearded and bearing weapons of silvered steel, vaults over the rope that demarcates the ring and advances on the spectre without fear. "Send this wretched creature back to the abyss!"

The spectre seems to hear him, fire-blackened bones creaking loudly as it twists its head to stare at the advancing Templar. Its jaw hangs open, lit from within by flickering orange light, and its voice is the sizzling death of human meat upon the pyre. "Hubkind… you did this… you… you will pay..."

Article:

How does Erika respond?

[ ] Engage the spectre. You know your duty, and magic is one of the few things that can harm a ghost in any appreciable fashion. Engage the dead thing immediately, with faith and summoned flame, before it can harm anyone.

[ ] Rally and Rearm. You know your duty, but engaging something like this unprepared is suicide. Collect your axe, drink the remaining healing draught, and invoke the Flaming Sword once more. The Templar should be able to stall the spectre until you are ready to engage.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Ghosts are not your speciality. It is the Amethyst Order that deals with such matters, their mastery of the wind of death granting them an endless array of specialised options to handle the different kinds of unquiet dead, not the Bright. Even so, your tutors made sure to teach you the basics, just in case you should ever meet such a creature upon the field of battle, and so you can see at a glance how dire the situation truly is. Ghosts are not physical beings, and cannot be slain by steel or any mortal artifice. Only magic can harm them, and even then it is no sure thing, for a ghost might possess any number of unnatural abilities born of its age and power and should never be taken lightly.

You are the only wielder of magic on this field, and you are half dead and all but unarmed. If you throw yourself at this foe without hesitation, you will only be committing suicide. These are the truths that weigh heavy in your mind as you turn away, and leave the Witch Hunter to his fate. The spectre hates him, this at least is certain, and that gives you a window to act. Gritting your teeth to strangle the cry of pain, you begin limping towards your fallen weapon.

"What?" Hubkind, for such is apparently his name, growls in confusion, "What madness moves your wretched tongue, beast?"

"Beast?" The spectre's voice is the hiss of steam and the wail of distant cries, the wood of its false pyre cracking and turning to ash as it advances, "Not beast… my name… you know… you KNOW!"

Indeed it seems the hunter does, for after a moment's scrutiny his eyes go wide and his steady advance falters. "...Samrich?"

"MURDERER!" The creature screams, and hurls itself across the ring, red-hot chains coiling around it like so many snakes. There is a cry of pain as it makes contact, but you cannot spare the time to track the details, or listen to the terrified screams of the audience. You have reached the spot where your axe was thrown, and with a grunt you pick it up once more, trying not to sway as your wounds throb dully with the pain.

The steel axe is heavy in your hands as you heft it, but even holding it is a comfort. With a growl you pull the remaining elixir from your belt, pulling the tiny cork lid out with your teeth. You can scarcely even taste the liquid within over the tang of your own blood, but the sensation of slowly spreading heat through your torso is more than welcome. You don't even want to imagine the amount of time it will take you to recover from these wounds, but the potions will keep you on your feet for a little longer, and that will have to do.

Spoiler: Round one rolls

First, fear tests must be made! The ghost has a fear rating of 2, meaning that 2 SL are required on an extended cool test in order to willingly approach it.

Matthias Hubkind, the Witch Hunter, tests against TN 73. He rolls 92, and therefore fails.

Erika tests against TN 61. She rolls 34, succeeds with +3SL, and therefore gets to ignore her fear.

The ghost attacks the witch hunter. It has a weapon skill of 40, and is also subject to Hatred, meaning it adds +1SL automatically to all combat tests.

As a fear-causing creature is moving closer to him, Matthias must test his cool again. He rolls a 90, and therefore fails. He takes a -10 on the test to defend himself, and will need to flee on his turn.

Ghost has one point of advantage from charging, tests against TN 50, rolls 14. Success with +5SL.
Hubkind tests against 55, rolls 06, success with +5SL.
Draw, but as both combatants succeeded, this is resolved as a hit. Damage is +7 weapon - 4 toughness -1 armour = Matthias takes two wounds.

Erika drinks her remaining healing draught, now has seven wounds.

Matthias is forced to flee. As he goes, the ghost gains an advantage (for a total of two) and gets to make a free attack against him with a +20 bonus. It has a TN of 80, rolls 64 for a success with +2 SL. Matthias takes another four wounds, and has 23 remaining.

You have your axe, you have the strength to stand. You need but one thing more, and with a muttered invocation you reach out with your will, seeking the red wind that has been your companion since childhood. It comes only slowly to your call, all but drowned beneath the tide of stagnant shyish that clings to all things dead and dying. Indeed, the strongest source of it by far here is…

"I shall not doubt!" Matthias Hubkind, Templar of Sigmar, roars with fury. He is bleeding, his leather armour torn by spectral claws, his heart blazing with fiery passion. You take it for your own, as you might heat from the hearth. "You shall not…"

Whatever oath the witch hunter sought to invoke is lost, as the glowing chains that hang from the ghost's blackened arms lunge for him like serpents. They circle his arms and clinch tight around his throat, held at bay solely by one straining arm, and where they touch you can see Hubkind's flesh beginning to char.

"Burn, Matthiasss…" the ghost hisses, lifting the witch hunter from his feet, "Burn… as you burned me…"

"Why do you hesitate?" Petra Steinmetz asks in a cold voice, appearing at your side once again, and gods do you hate how she keeps doing that, "The duel is suspended…"

"I fucking guessed," you growl, trying not to lose focus as you weave ever-more aqshy out of the air and into your weapon, "but steel won't touch a ghost like that. It needs a magic blade to end it."

"I see," Petra says solemnly, and you try not to flinch as she draws her blade, as that terrifying divine energy begins to gather around her once again. It is light, stripped of all physical form; pure, illuminating, revealing. "Holy Verena, I ask your aid. Let your light fill my heart, let your hand guide my arm, that my sword be a tool of justice…"

There is a brief, terrible pause… and then the light vanishes, leaving nothing but darkness behind. Petra Steinmetz blinks dumbly for a moment, then collapses to the ground, a puppet with her strings cut.

"My lady…" she whispers, her voice utterly hollow, "why?"

Spoiler: Round Two rolls

Erika attempts a channelling test. Her base TN is 78, +10 for the existing fire spell Cuirass of Flame, so 88. She rolls 62, for a total of 4 SL after the aethyric attunement talent is taken into account. She needs four more before she can cast Flaming Sword.

Matthias rolls to resist his fear! TN is 73, roll is 12! He rallies and can now fight back.

Ghost has a TN of 70 (due to three advantage), rolls 60, success with +2 SL.
Matthias has TN of 55, rolls 59, bare failure.
Ghost wins, inflicts three more wounds on Hubkind, who has 20 left.

Petra Steinmetz enters the field! She makes a Prayer test against TN 50, seeking to invoke the miracle "Sword of Justice". Unfortunately, she rolls 88 - not only is this a fail, but her failure invokes the Wrath of the Gods.

With a result of 45, Petra is afflicted by "Your Cause is Unworthy". She is knocked prone, and loses the ability to invoke miracles like this for the next few days. Verena, it seems, believes that intervening in this situation would be unjust!

"He was innocent," you growl, anger colouring your voice as the realisation comes, "the witch hunter burned an innocent man."

Scant yards away, the ghost of a man named Samrich snarls furiously, stick-thin fingers digging bloody trenches in the arms and chest of the man who killed him. Hubkind growls oaths and prayers as he defends himself as best he can, a zealot utterly unwilling to change, just like every witch hunter you've ever known. Gods, of course the ghost was innocent. Only the most terrible of deaths can bind a spirit to its place of death, and being burned as a heretic before the eyes of your whole community has to be among the worst.

Ghosts are not your speciality, but anger… oh yes. Anger, you understand. And this man's anger, the rage he must feel at the presence of his murderer, at the blood spilled on the place he died and the crackling heat of your fire… no wonder he came back. No wonder Verena chose to grant him a chance. You would too if you were a goddess, but unfortunately for the world you are not. You are a wizard, and a wizard's duty here is clear.

"Get up," you snarl, glaring down at the hollow-eyed priestess, "get up and fight. You think that thing will stop with the Templar? You think it can?"

Petra just stares blankly, muttering something to herself in a language you think might be Classical. She is praying, you think, seeking forgiveness and guidance from her deity. There will be no help from her, then, nor from any of the shrieking crowd you can see fleeing back into the streets and alleys of Kemperbad. Even the nobles seem paralysed by doubt, and the city watch are if anything outright happy to watch the Templar fight and die in their place. Damn the lot of them for the useless bastards that they are, then, you'll do it yourself if you must!

Spoiler: Round Three rolls

Erika Channels again, TN is 88, roll is 81. Bare pass, two more degrees of success thanks to the talent, total of six. Two more needed.

Ghost rolls against TN 80, with four advantage, gets 47, success with +5SL
Hubkind rolls against TN 55, scores 03, success with +5SL
Draw, again results in the ghost winning, Hubkind takes two wounds. 18 left.

Ah, and there is the aqshy you were calling for, the red wind born of heat and human passion. It boils around you in a cloud now, more than you could ever need for even the most destructive of spells, and you smile thinly with pleasure at the sight.

Distantly, you hear the ghost scream in pain, forced to release the witch hunter as he brandishes what seems to be a small chunk of bone. The Templar might be battered and bloody, but he is not out of tricks just yet, it seems. So be it. You need no tricks. You have the favour of your god, and it is time to show these soft southerners just what that means.

Spoiler: Round four rolls

Erika channels again, rolls 37. 7 SL, enough that she can finally cast the spell on her next turn.

Ghost turns three of its four advantage into activating Frenzy. It gets +10 strength and the ability to make a free attack every round.

Ghost rolls against TN 50, scores 97! Failure with -4SL.
Hubkind rolls against TN 55, scores 32, success with +2 SL.

Hubkind has freed himself, but without a magical weapon he cannot actually inflict any damage to the ghost.

Ghost makes a free attack against TN 40, scores 43, bare fail.
Hubkind does not get to defend because it was a free attack.

"FOR ULRIC!"

Your axe bursts into flame, the zeal of your shout all you need to leash the vibrant wind of aqshy and turn it to your will. It showers sparks across the ground, and with a single thought you gather the excess energy and send it forth, binding it to Hubkind's sword as well.

Unfortunately, the witch hunter is not used to battling alongside wizards of your ilk; the sight of his own sword erupting into flames startles him, and that brief pause is all his opponent needs. Ghostly claws rake at Hubkind's face, tearing great strips of flesh from jaw and shoulder, and he staggers back with a choking cry of pain.

Spoiler: round five

Erika rolls Language (Magick) in order to cast Flaming Sword of Rhuin. Her TN is 74. She rolls 10, success with +6 SL. Every +2 allows her to bless the weapon of one other ally in range; she chooses Hubkind, as the only person actively fighting.

Ghost still attacks Hubkind, TN is 40, roll is 20, success with +3 SL.
Hubkind defends, TN is 65, roll is 62, bare pass.
3 SL in favour of the ghost, Hubkind takes six wounds, has twelve left.

Ghost makes free attack, TN is 50, roll is 52, miss.

"Must I do everything?" you scream, fear and desperation transforming into rage as you heft your burning blade and sprint across the arena. The ghost barely seems to notice you, cackling with vengeful joy as it savages the reeling form of the man who murdered it. Only at the last, when you are scarce paces away, does it realise its peril, and by then it is far, far too late.

Your axe catches the undead just below the ribs and does not stop, shearing the flickering torso entirely in two. For a moment the twin halves hang there, liberated in death from the harsh demands of gravity, and then the fires of aqshy devours them whole.

In moments, only ash remains.

Spoiler: round six

Erika charges! Her base skill is 69, +1 advantage for the charge, +20 for outnumbering the ghost so TN is 99. She rolls 43, success with +5 SL.
Ghost defends with TN 50, roll is 95, fail with -4 SL.

Damage is 6 weapon +3 strength +9SL +3 impact -3 toughness = 18 wounds. The ghost is destroyed.

For a moment you stand there, breathing heavily, feeling the stagnant mist of shyish fade as the last remnants of the ghost's corpus boils away to nothing. In front of you stands Matthias Hubkind, the witch hunter, and though his flesh is torn and his leather coat soaked in blood he remains on his feet, expression still set in an unflinching scowl.

"...my thanks, wizard," he forces out between blood stained teeth, "Your assistance was… timely."

You briefly consider how good it would feel to bury your axe directly between his eyes. The man he burned was innocent, and had it been a child or relative seeking revenge you would have given serious thought to simply standing aside and letting them have what justice demands. To make common cause with the dead, though, even for a moment… no, that is anathema.

"Oh shut up," you say instead, putting as much of your anger and disgust as possible into your tone so that this murderer will know exactly what you think of him. Hubkind's face grows thunderous, but you truly do not care, instead turning away in search of your previous opponent.

Heinrich Bӧttcher waits where you had left him, seemingly rooted to the spot, and his bark-like skin is sallow and pale. Truthfully he scarcely seems aware of you, only blinking in surprise several seconds after you come to a halt in front of him, and even then he doesn't seem able to speak.

"Well?" you say, holding your axe in a white-knuckled grip, "Come on then. We're not finished yet."

Bӧttcher swallows dryly, then forces a thin smile onto his narrow lips.

"Actually, I think we are," he croaks, like some kind of frog, "I yield."

You blink. "Can… can you do that?"

The von Dammenblatz champion shrugs vaguely, then raises his voice to a shout. "I yield! I forfeit, I quit, whatever! She wins!"

The reaction from the stands is instantaneous, sheer outrage apparently allowing the aggrieved baron to break through the paralysed silence of fear as he begins screaming imprecations at his supposed champion, but you… you think you want to sit down for a bit.

Oh. You already are. How nice.

Maybe you ought to rest. Invoking magic while suffering from extensive blood loss is one of those things that… that your tutors… that they…

The world goes away.

Article:

You have won your judicial duel. However, the Baron Otto von Dammenblatz will not take this lying down. How does he intend to get even?

[ ] Assassination. A professional killer is sent to open your throat while you sleep, but is willing to entertain alternate offers.

[ ] Disgrace. The witch hunter is persuaded to arrest you for necromancy, but the deed enrages those truly responsible.

[ ] Slander. An accusation of cheating is lodged against you in the courts, countered by support from an unexpected quarter.

 

[Maugan Ra]

You spend two days slipping in and out of consciousness, the alchemical resilience granted by your potions draining away with the battle's end. Despite the loss of blood and the multiple puncture wounds, however, you are not truly in any danger of death; the Grafin has you transferred to the care of the Priesthood of Shallya, and there is nothing to fear once you rest beneath their sheltering wings. The Goddess of Mercy blessed all who act to relieve suffering in the world, and between her divine grace and the medicinal skills of those who have dedicated themselves to her service your recovery is never in any doubt.

Indeed, your greatest regret is that your near-comatose state leaves you unable to verify the stories you have heard about the Sisterhood and the beauty of their all-female membership. A tragedy, but one that can perhaps be corrected later, when you return to make a pious donation in thanks for their service.

Once you are well enough to travel, you are transferred back to the Grafin's townhouse and assigned one of the most luxuriously appointed rooms available, with a small bevy of servants seconded to tend to your every want and need. Maria-Ulrike is not stingy in demonstrations of her gratitude, and you find that you want for nothing save company during the following days of convalescence. The servants are polite and attentive, but they are also a bit too nervous around you to make decent conversation, so you bury your desire for gossip in devouring what books and reports you can convince people to lend you.

The appearance of Gustaf on the second day of your enforced bedrest is an absolute delight, and after you're done badgering him for details of his own near-miss with death - the poison in the needle was quite potent, apparently, but his own reflexes saved him from a fatal dose - he fills you in on the current state of the case. As you had expected, the Baron von Dammenblatz had attempted to contest the legality of your victory through forfeit, but the magistrates had apparently opted to dismiss his case without a moment's hesitation.

"The existence of multiple assassination attempts aided their decision making quite considerably," he says, a certain satisfaction in his tone as he strokes his pointed beard, "one should never forget, Miss Kurtsdottir, that while the law is immortal those who enforce it are not. A judge has a great deal of leeway when it comes to interpreting the law, and shockingly little tolerance for people who try to game the system."

He leaves you with several of his legal texts, both the basic introductory works and a few case files, in a well-intentioned but rather pointless gift. You imagine he probably finds such things to be light reading, but trying to delve into them yourself is like swimming in swamp water. Still, it's the thought that counts, you think, and despite his towering sense of self-assurance the barrister does seem to be genuinely rather fond of you.

It is early on the morning of third day of your enforced rest that a knock comes at the door to your room. Assuming it to be another servant and unwilling to get out of bed to answer, you call out an indistinct invitation, and are rather unpleasantly surprised when the Grafin lets herself in.

"Oh, don't trouble yourself," the noblewoman says with a slight smile, making a vague shushing gesture as you lurch upright beneath the covers, "I would not have you undo the work of the Priestesses through hasty motion on my account."

Maria-Ulrike is dressed with remarkable formality for the place and hour, you notice. Her dress is a long, multi-layered thing of white and black decorated with the blazing red sun of the Sudenland, while long gloves of dark red silk run all the way up past her elbow. You think she's done something with her hair as well, though it is hard to tell what beneath the broad expanse of her soft black hat and it's pinwheel of red and white feathers.

"That's a striking getup," you say vaguely, trying not to make it look like you're hiding beneath the covers. In truth she looks ready for a formal ball, and for a moment you occupy yourself with vague fantasies of leading her onto some kind of dance floor and waltzing hand in hand. Not that you have any idea how to do a proper waltz, of course, but the Erika of your idle fantasy is an excellent dancer all the same. "Is there some party I should know about?"

Maria-Ulrike does not reply at first, instead crossing the room and settling herself down on the side of your bed, mattress creaking slightly as it sinks beneath her added weight. You try very hard not to stare at her shoulders, or the rather fantastic effect that dress is having on her cleavage.

"A small celebration, downstairs later today," she says with a small smile, reaching out to take one of your hands in her own, "the guest list is limited, especially since there are no true nobility in this oddity of a town, but you are of course invited. Indeed, I expect you would qualify as the guest of honour. Do you have appropriate garments?"

You nod, somewhat shakily, because she hasn't let go of your hand and wow her gloves are very soft. Then, because you've never turned down a chance to push your luck, you say "Would this be as your guest, or…"

Maria blinks for a moment, then laughs in what you dearly hope is delight, because her laugh is the sound of silver bells and you really want to hear it again. "My, and here I was beginning to think I was not your 'type'. Your broader preferences were certainly made clear enough at the Three Feathers…"

Yes, ok, this is not a good time to be reminded that your first serious conversation with Marie-Ulrike came less than twenty minutes after getting fucked up against the wall by a buff woman in tight leather armour. You shrug as best you can, wincing slightly at the flash of pain from your injuries and hoping that your blush isn't nearly as evident as the burning in your cheeks suggests. "I try to avoid getting, uh… involved… while still under contract. It's not very professional."

"I see," the Grafin says seriously, but the sparkle in her eyes makes you doubt the success of your deflection, "Speaking of our contract…"

There is a small piece of paper tucked neatly inside her corset, which you personally think is dreadfully unfair. The Grafin pulls it out, allowing you to catch a glimpse of the beautifully flowing ink and the small black ribbon that holds it shut, and hands it to you. "You can exchange this promissory note for your payment at the Bank of Altdorf, assuming you are returning there. It makes for easier transportation than hard coinage."

You nod, making a note to tuck the letter securely away inside your satchel at the first opportunity. "And the, ah, introduction?"

"Of course. I can arrange that at a more convenient time, if you wish it," Maria stands, letting go of your hand as she does, and quirks one eyebrow as she looks down at you, "I might recommend qualifying as a Magister before you take me up on the offer, however. My aunt is a very busy woman, and you will only have one opportunity to make a good impression. It is best if you have the title to back up your deeds."

You nod thoughtfully. That certainly makes sense; an Elector-Countess can likely ask the Colleges to send her a wizard and be guaranteed a skilled and veteran agent with relative speed. If you want her to remember your name specifically, then you'll want to be more than just a mere journeywoman with a handful of successful missions under your belt when you are introduced.

"Well, you have an hour until the first guests are due to arrive," the Grafin says with a nod, turning back towards the door, "I hope you'll take me up on the offer. Until then, Erika."

She departs, and with a sigh you lie back and stare at the beautifully painted ceiling overhead. A party, huh. If this was back at the College you'd know what to expect, but… this is a merchant free-town, and a celebration hosted by a member of the high nobility. Can you expect any of your experience to carry across? You've never been all that good at interacting with people, outside of charming the prettiest women into bed, but… wait, shit, she never gave you an answer!

Groaning, you roll out of bed and make your way across the room to the floor-length mirror on the far wall. It aches to walk, but… not as badly as you had feared. The real question is whether or not you can make it through an entire night of socialising without doubling over in pain as old wounds flare up again, much less get laid in a way that doesn't require your partner to do all the work. A girl has to have her priorities, after all, and with that in mind you strip off your nightshirt and begin inspecting the collection of wounds that Heinrich Bӧttcher left you with.

Spoiler: Healing Rolls

In the aftermath of the fight, the potions wear off and Erika effectively has zero wounds, which is why she passed out. After a few hours she regains one wound along with her consciousness.

Priestesses of Shallya test Heal against TN 70, roll is 82. Erika feels better for being under their care for two days, but the only practical benefit is that their treatment guarantees no chance of infection or other complications.

This is the fifth day of her enforced bedrest. For each good night of rest, Erika tests Endurance at a +20 modifier; success grants her SL+toughness bonus wounds.

Her TN is 64. She rolls 28, 92, 6 and 99, succeeding twice with 4 and 6 SL respectively. Thus, she regains (4+4TB) 8 + (6+4TB) 10 = 18 wounds in total, and is back to full health.

They're actually healing remarkably well, all things considered, which you can probably attribute to the armour of flame you were wearing rather brutally cleaning away any lingering filth on the enemy's rapier. The fresh skin is taut and almost shiny, but unbroken and free from blood, so while you're not best pleased to have a battle scar on your left tit it's not unmanageable. Anyone who sees it will hopefully be in a state beyond caring by that point anyway, if you have anything to say about the matter.

Still, at the very least that means that you have no reason to avoid the party. It's not your thing, generally speaking, but if all else fails you can probably mutter something that sounds arcane and mystical until people stop bothering you. Besides, you do still have those purchases from the tailor to try on, and it would be a shame to leave Kemperbad behind without at least experiencing one night of fashionable excess.

Your mind made up, you call for your maids and begin preparing for the night ahead.

-/-





Erika Kurtsdottir
Journeywoman of the Bright Order


Art by @Renu, an excellent artist whose work I absolutely recommend. Great drawings, positive customer experience, reasonable prices. Also they have an Art Thread.


(I believe in paying with exposure and money)

-/-​

"Damn," you muse, turning this way and that to admire yourself in the mirror, "I look fine."

There is a muffled snort from one of the maids waiting quietly at your back, but honestly you're too pleased with your recent purchases to care. The bold colours, the striking design, the hat... oh yes. Spending so much gold on this outfit might not have been the most financially sound decision, but it was definitely one worth making. Now, time to show everyone else what they've been missing, bereft of your radiant company.

You consider taking the axe, but… no, where would you even hang it? You will have to look into getting a specialised belt made that fits with the general aesthetic, or maybe take lessons in fighting with a rapier. For now, you will need to trust in the nature of your magic to see off any unexpected threats, and make do with simply looking incredibly sexy. Humming happily to yourself, you leave your room and head downstairs, the babbling of voices growing ever louder as you approach.

"Ok, girl, you've got this," you mutter as you come to the bottom of the staircase, the liveried servants either side of the double doors ahead smiling politely as you approach, "nobody is going to doubt you because you are amazing."

The doors open, and you step through into a whirlwind of colour and sound. The main hall of the house is absolutely filled with small clusters of men and women chattering away with glasses in hand, while musicians play and servants hurry to set the tables with all the food and drink the upcoming feast will require. The breadth of fashion on display reminds you of tropical birds, each posturing for the eyes of their peers and displaying vibrant plumage in red, green and blue, while the glittering assortment of jewellery on display could likely feed a small city for a month.

For a moment you hesitate… and then the Grafin arrives, almost seeming to materialise out of the swirling crowds with a radiant smile to take you by the hand.

"And here she is," she proclaims, her commanding voice cutting clearly through the babble, "my valiant champion, Erika Kurtsdottir!"

A smattering of polite applause is your reward, lords and ladies who might not look twice at you before today raising glasses in salute, and you take the opportunity presented by your magnificent hat to doff it as part of a bow. With the introductions handled everyone seems to go back to what they were doing almost immediately, but the Grafin stays by your side, her hands warm in yours.

"Very nicely dressed, my dear," she murmurs softly, pressing herself in close to your side as she guides you forwards. You think she might actually be shorter than you, though how this escaped notice up until now is a mystery for the ages. "Now, this is your first society ball, yes? Ah, I thought so. Don't worry, everyone has to go through it eventually. Now… who should we introduce you to first…"

Article:

The Grafin appears to be taking the lead here. Who does she introduce you to?

[ ] The Burghers. Dreadfully boring, many of them, but they have money and a quite unseemly interest in the exotic. You, my dear, most certainly qualify. Just try not to smack any of them.

[ ] The Mercenaries. Kemperbad is a free town, so of course they are not obligated to support a state regiment. Still, violence is inescapable, so they make do with contracting professionals. Adventurous sorts, with a great many fascinating stories, if you can keep them well plied with wine…

[ ] The Scholars. A bit insular, of course, but you will likely have better luck than I at convincing them to talk. Just show off a bit, toss out the odd part of unusual trivia, I'm convinced they maintain some kind of scoring system…

[ ] No-One. Oh. Well, if you insist, I suppose.

 

[Maugan Ra]

"Well, let us start off with something easy, shall we?" Maria says softly as she guides you through the milling crowds, "A woman has to know how to pace herself."

You make a vague noise of agreement, pushed too far off-balance by the soft warmth of the beautiful woman pressed up against your side to really contest where she wants to lead you. Thankfully you don't think anyone notices, and soon enough you are being lead up to a small collection of… well, if you had to guess you would say they were actors trying to portray hardened warriors, complete with elaborate costumes and almost theatrically exaggerated scars, but their weapons are certainly real enough.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, might I please introduce my champion, Erika Kurtsdottir," the Grafin says smoothly, letting go of your arm and taking half a step aside as you draw to a halt in front of the small group, "Erika has expressed a certain interest in meeting others of a more martial inclination, and naturally, you were the first to come to mind."

You did absolutely nothing of the sort, but saying so in front of these people would hardly seem like the most politic of statements, so instead you incline your head to them in brief semblance of a bow. Now that you look closer, you can see that the men and women in front of you are most likely the officer corp of some private mercenary company, dressed up as best they can to make a good impression on potential clients. They have just the right blend of fancy clothes worn by those unused to such things and practical equipment gleaming with recent polish to sell the impression, and most look at you with the practiced assessment of experienced soldiers.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Kurtsdottir," the woman at their centre says with an expression too polite to be called a genuine smile. She has light brown skin, of the sort common among Estalians and those in neighbouring realms who share some of their blood, and to your surprise she has disdained the fancy silks and linen of her peers in favour of a full-body suit of gleaming silver-blue chainmail. Only a leather jerkin breaks up the shoulder-to-ankle expanse of polished metal, itself emblazoned with the heraldic imagery of Kemperbad. "I am Isabella de Arlest, and these are my Invaders."

"Likewise," you nod, because the fact that you've never heard of them would probably be a poor choice of greeting, "I assume you're… under contract with the city, then?"

"That we are," says one of the other mercenaries, who you think is a rather feminine looking man. It's hard to tell. There's no mistaking the massive two-handed sword across their back, though. "Standing around merchant estates, looking pretty, that's us."

"Hush, Mala," Isabella says fondly, smacking her comrade lightly on the arm, "if you want excitement, our contract renews next month. Bring up an interesting suggestion then and I'll consider it."

The Grafin takes this as her cue to depart, patting you lightly on the arm and then vanishing into the swirling crowd of dignitaries before you can muster the wit to respond. Part of you wants to go after her, but the larger portion refuses to look like a love-struck puppy in front of so many strangers.

"We heard about your duel, in any case," Isabella says, turning her dark eyes back towards you, "it was quite an impressive display, so I'm told, and it's always nice to hear someone using the Tilean school get knocked down a peg or three."

Definitely Estalian, then. The rivalry between the children of that nation and those of neighbouring Tilea is one of the first things that comes to mind whenever any Imperial crosses paths with either, though you can't claim to understand the particulars or any of the root causes.

"My thanks," you say with a nod, "though to be honest, I could have done without losing quite so much blood in the process."

"Ah, see, this is why Myrmidia gave us armour!" The mercenary… captain? General? You know most companies give their commanders some form of formal title but damned if you can guess which one the Invaders favour.

"And if she gives us some that does not interfere with my magic, then maybe I will," you reply, glancing over the armoured woman for a moment and trying not to get distracted by how large her biceps are, "Though I'll admit, I'm surprised you're wearing it tonight. Surely it gets uncomfortable."

The other mercenaries groan theatrically at that, but Isabella ignores them with practiced ease, instead leaning forwards and flexing her arms in a way that sets the chainmail jingling faintly. "If it was human made, sure, but this is elf craftsmanship. We did a job for one of their merchant princes a while back, and he gave me this as a bonus. Light as silk!"

"And twice as pretty, yes Captain, we've all heard it before," Mala, who you think has no business calling anything else unreasonably pretty even if you can't quite work out what's going on there, says with a roll of their eyes, "Anyway, you should ask the fire lady if she's ever considered mercenary work. Would be good to have a wizard of our own, you know?"

"Hush, Mala," Isabella says again, before smiling apologetically at you, "Sorry, they've never been good at this indirect stuff. That said, have you considered it? There's any number of foes that use magic out there, but you Imperial mages are so hard to hire…"

"Sorry," you say with a slightly awkward shrug, because you truly do not wish to spend your evening debating the relevant restrictions of the Articles of Magic, "I'm still a journeywoman. The College will get very upset if I go running off abroad without at least finishing my schooling."

And by 'upset' you mean 'will dispatch magister-vigilants to hunt me like a dog' but there's no need to talk about such unpleasant topics in a public space like this one.

"A shame," Isabella says with a sigh, brushing her long black hair back behind one ear as she looks around, "Still, perhaps we can share stories anyway? Come, there must be something worth drinking around here somewhere…"

You don't get a chance to find out, as with a loud boom the double doors at the far end of the hall fly open. Heads turn throughout the chamber, a crowd of beautiful peacocks peering in confusion at the strange newcomers to their midst, and heralded by slowly spreading silence Matthias Hubkind strides into the room. He wears the same battered leather armour as he did at the duel, but in his hands he holds both sword and pistol, and at his back stride a full squad of eight halberdiers from the judicial guard.

Well, fuck.

"Master Templar," Maria-Ulrike steps out of the suddenly frozen crowd of grandees, her voice as warm and sharp as a freshly-forged sword, "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Save your insipid wordplay, woman," the Templar growls, his dark eyes sweeping back and forth across the room like sharpened knives, "I am not here for your shameful debaucheries. It is your pet witch that concerns me."

Well, double fuck.

"Wizard, if you'd be so kind," you say sharply, stepping away from the suddenly rather nervous-looking mercenaries and into a rapidly clearing space in the middle of the chamber, "I did not earn my license for some yapping dog to piss all over it."

"Erika Kurtsdottir," the witch hunter says, sick satisfaction in his tone as he stares you down, "You stand accused of witchcraft and heresy, of sorcerous enchantment and the foul crime of necromancy. How do you plead."

"Go fuck yourself," you reply simply, because like hell you'll play along with this half-tamed maniac and his delusions of righteousness, "and use whatever half-sane scribblings you claim are evidence for a cock."

You're making him angry, and that is a dangerous game to play, but fuck it you'll not stand idly by and let this murderer of innocents tell you what you did or did not do. He cannot touch you without the approval of your patron or some kind of iron-clad evidence, and you'll not give anyone here cause to doubt your sincerity at that.

"While my champion speaks somewhat rashly," the Grafin interjects, her voice chilled as ice, "the sentiment is one I share. What basis is there to such dire accusations, to justify creating such an ugly scene?"

"The testimony of Heinrich Bӧttcher, that his surrender was compelled against his will," Hubkind proclaims in a thundering voice, gloved hands creaking slightly as he grips his weapons tight, "and the evidence of my own eyes, that it was her blood which called forth the spectre that sought to slay me. Perhaps she thought to save herself from a losing duel, or perhaps it was simply to remove the threat of scrutiny from her patron's affairs… either way, Miss Kurtsdottir is guilty, and will be accompanying me to the temple for trial!"

You are going to kill Bӧttcher when next you see him. Doubtless the Templar leaned on him, made him doubt his own recollection, but to give such testimony as this… or perhaps it was his employer, stewing in bitterness over an unexpected defeat. Either is possible, but it does not change the outcome.

"I will do not such thing," you retort, before Maria can be forced to choose between picking your side or that of the Church, "nor will I let such slander stand unquestioned. The spirit was the ghost of an innocent man that you had burned to death, and Heinrich Bӧttcher was too much of a coward to face it or me in the aftermath!"

Perception test! TN is 33, Erika rolls 19, success with +2 SL.

The Witch Hunter's face goes red, spittle flying from his lips as he denounces you once again, but you have no time to pay attention to him. Even as he speaks, the winds of magic are stirring, whirling in a maddened spray as some foreign mind imposes its will, and with mounting horror you track them as best you can. There is aqshy and chamon and shyish in the mix, far too many different winds for any professional spellcaster to try turning towards a legitimate cause, and you need… there!

Standing behind the Witch Hunter and his party is a young woman, no more than twenty years of age, with curiously pale skin and long black hair held back in an elaborate style by silver hairpins. She wears a long dress of black, like a professional mourner, and as she extends a hand towards your group her pale grey eyes burn with hate.

"WATCH OUT!" You roar, stepping forwards and forcibly throwing Maria-Ulrike back with one arm even as you reach for the winds with the other.

Unknown Witch rolls to cast, TN is ???, roll is 44, critical success!
Erika tests Language (Magick) to counterspell, base TN is 64, roll is 16, success with +5 SL.
Spell countered! Miscast triggered!

Spoiler: Counterspells and Witchcraft

One of the most valuable roles that a wizard can play upon the battlefield is in countering the magic of other spellcasters. If she is aware of a spell being cast anywhere within about fifty yards or so, Erika can choose to make the casting an opposed roll, in a similar way to melee combat. In the above case, both sides succeeded at their roll, but Erika managed to reduce the net SL that the witch achieved to a result lower than she needed to meet the casting number of her spell, thereby cancelling it.

'Witchcraft' is a broad term used to refer to virtually any kind of spellcasting done without formal training from the Colleges of Magic or another recognised institution. It has the advantage of versatility, but cannot allow practitioners to wield the more specialised power of a colour wizard, and critically also runs an increased risk of miscasts.

"Murderer!" The unknown woman screams, pale grey light gathering around her outstretched hand as an insane medley of eldritch power builds up in her flesh. Hubkind whirls, but he's too slow, the woman is a heartbeat from unleashing her spell at best. "You will not take another!"

You don't have time for anything fancy, so you fall back on one of the very first lessons that your master taught you. As the crowd screams and backs away, you sharpen a strand of aqshy into a blade and turn it to your will, severing the delicate web of magical power that the witch was attempting to gather. Her eyes bulge in shock as the magic turns on her, crackling arcs of lightning splashing out to scorch blackened marks on the ground and walls, and then… flesh becomes stone, her arm below the elbow turning into frozen obsidian, and she topples to the ground under the sudden weight.

For one moment you are triumphant, vindicated in the eyes of all around you… and then Matthias Hubkind rounds on the witch, righteous anger twisting his face into a hateful mask.

"Eliza Weizen," he growls, glaring down at the now-kneeling woman, "I should have known you would join your brother in heresy."

"Fuck you…" the woman spits, staggering back to her feet and clutching her petrified arm in her other hand, "Samrich was innocent, you hateful maniac! You burned him, and… and I… I heard his screams! Every night!"

Your stomach turns, bile threatening to climb its way up your throat. How many times have you heard this story? How many times has a wizard discovered her power in times of such turmoil? To be able to perceive a ghost bound to the earth, to learn that no one else could see what you could…

"And so you bound his soul and sent him for revenge, is that it?" The Templar snorts, holstering his pistol and gesturing to the watchmen that accompanied him into the hall. "Take her. She can join her brother on the pyre."

"No!" Eliza says, sick fear twisting her face as she staggers back, retreating before the looming form of two armoured watchmen as they advance on her, "Stay back! I'm… I'm warning you! Please!"

You can save her.

The thought is a sharp one, cold and painful, twisting your mind like a splinter. Witchcraft is a capital crime under the law of every state and institution in the Empire, necromancy all the more so, and ignorance is no excuse. This woman is destined for the pyre, for an agonising death at the hands of the same man who killed her brother… unless you intervene.

The Colleges take witches all the time. They take them, and they train them, and they name them magisters and turn them to the service of the Empire. If she didn't know what she was doing, if she simply sought to placate her brother's spirit and unknowingly fed it with shyish in the process, you have a right to take her, to escort her back to Altdorf for training. But… if she knew what she was doing, if she knowingly violated the laws on necromancy and tried to kill an agent of the Church, then the law demands you do nothing. No, it demands that you drag her to the pyre yourself if you have to.

An investigation could reveal the truth, could take the decision out of your hands… but there's no time. The Templar has pronounced her guilty already. There will be no trial, no salvation for this woman, not unless you intervene. Unless you defend her, and force the witch hunter to back down, whatever that might take.

Article:

Choose one:

[ ] Intervene. You will not see another wizard dragged to the pyre when you could do something about it. Gamble on the woman's innocence, and stand between the Templar and his prey.

[ ] Withdraw. You will not make risk your life and reputation for the sake of a suspected necromancer. No matter how much you dislike the Templar, you must not stand in the way of his holy duty.