Of Wolves and Witches (WHF Wizard Quest)

[Maugan Ra]

Dawn finds you in another woman's bed, limbs askew and clothing spread over what feels like half the room, basking in the afterglow of some spectacularly vigorous lovemaking. You lie there senseless, positively delighted with the course your life seems to have taken of late, and only stir when at last Selena emerges from beneath the covers to curl up tightly against your side.

"You know," you say breathlessly, "if that's the kind of wakeup I can expect on the regular, I might never leave."

Your mysterious lover merely smiles at that, wrapping her arms around your waist and trapping one leg between hers. She could do anything to you from this position, and you wouldn't have the wit or will to resist.

"Would that be so bad?" She murmurs, running an elegant hand slowly back and forth across your belly, delighting in the hard lines of chiseled muscle to be found there, "I could certainly use a woman with your, mm, talents…"

"Don't tempt me," you groan, catching her wandering hand in yours before it can give you another reason to spend all day in bed as well, "It'd be fun, no doubt, but I still have my duties. I need to find my father."

You made a point of not revealing such things to her when first you met, but considering all the other compromising or downright embarrassing things you might have said in the throes of lust last night it doesn't seem nearly as important now.

"Oh?" Selena turns her head to meet your gaze, and you could spend years drowning in her emerald eyes without ever wanting to stop, "Is he missing, or merely estranged?"

You lean in and kiss her, and that stops the conversation for a prolonged and rather enjoyable period.

"Bit of both," you say at last, when you have your breath back, "he's… well, it isn't blood that ties us together, but I care about him anyway. He was the local priest in the village where I grew up, in Nordland, took me to the Colleges in person rather than see me harmed when the magic came, but… I don't know where he is now."

"Hmm. I could help find him, you know," Selena offers in a soft voice, the temptation of silken pleasure given form, "I have friends and agents all over the old world. They'll find exactly where he is, so you don't have to waste time searching, and until then you could… stay here, with me, like this…"

The thought should be tempting, but before she's even finished speaking you are shaking your head. "I appreciate the offer, but no. It's… I have to do this myself. I owe him that much, you know?"

Selena considers this for a moment, then shrugs, the motion sending a silken waterfall of night-black hair rolling across her shoulder. "Very well, then. I'll keep my end of the bargain, Magister; passage north to Dieterschafen at least, and payment for a job well done."

You blink, shifting a bit to look down at her. "Truly? Not that I doubted your word, mind, but you don't strike me as a woman to give up so easily."

Selena laughs, a throaty purr that does all kinds of wonderful things to your concentration. "Erika, I have not lived so long or risen so high by getting greedy. You've done me a great service, and given me a rather wonderful night at that. Why risk what we have with petulence?"

You kind of want to ask her about that, because the topic serves to remind you that while you've been spilling your heart to this woman she still hasn't revealed a single thing about who she is or where she's from. Still, asking a woman about her age is always rude, and do you really want to risk ruining a rather lovely morning by trying to pry?

"I'll have to go soon, to catch my boat," you say, rolling over in the bed until you are the one on top and Selena the one trapped beneath you, "but before then… one more, for the road?"

Selena licks her lips, and with a laugh you kiss her, first on the lips and then working your way slowly down the length of her body. It's a slow process, given how you linger in places, but you both agree the diversion is time well spent.

-/-

You leave Marienburg later that day, a first class passenger aboard a private cutter that seems halfway between luxury liner and cargo smuggler. Your time in the city of coin was short but memorable, and when you leave it is with several new scars, a pouch full of coins and a rather delightful soreness that you cannot bring yourself to regret.

(+5 gold crowns)

You spend most of the early parts of the journey in your cabin, grateful for the swiftness of the ship and the professional competence of the crew as you sleep off the lingering effects of your exertions at the party and beyond. You regret nothing, but there is no denying that strenuous activity is a bit beyond you; once you have recovered from the fatigue you spend three days fighting off what seems to be some kind of lingering infection you must have picked up at some point, confined to your cabin with light-headed nausea and skin several notches cooler than it should have been.

Fortunately, you're not exactly missing much, for after you've recovered and started going out on deck again you find that the terrain rolling past on your starboard side is frankly more depressing than the view is worth. The Wasteland is well named, for aside from Marienburg the majority of the rebellious province consists entirely of rolling marshlands, stinking fens and scattered hamlets that fish or hunt serpents among the fetid wetlands.

You've heard that the elector of Nordland maintains a claim on significant portions of this land, but hasn't managed to properly enforce them in several centuries. Personally you suspect that has as much to do with a lack of willingness as any insufficiency in capability; who wants to fight a war with someone as rich and well-connected as Marienburg over a few leagues of blighted marshland? No, when the Empire reclaims its rogue province, you suspect it will go for the place in full.

Ultimately, you wind up spending most of the journey below decks, practicing what magic you can within the confines of wood and canvas and working through basic fitness routines over and over again until your muscles ache from the strain. In between those bouts of productivity you find yourself fretting endlessly over what might await you on Nordland's shores, the reception you are likely to find when at last you track down the man you choose to call yourself father. When the worried looking sailor pokes his head in and asks you to come up on the deck, you're honestly rather glad of the distraction.

The fear and caution of the crew is an almost physical thing by the time you emerge, a stifling blanket of stress and gnawing unease, but at a glance you cannot see anything wrong. The weather is fine, the ship is sailing smoothly, and no one seems to be injured. In the end you give up and make your way over to the squat form of the vessel's halfling captain.

"What's going on?" You say, trying not to look down at them too obviously and failing. You had no idea halflings even knew how to sail, but this one clearly does, and his wooden leg makes a harsh clacking sound as he leads you over to the side.

"That," he growls, pointing at the horizon with one gnarled finger, and with a frown you follow his gesture until at last you see it. There is a dark shape on the horizon, some kind of waterborn craft you think, and… ah, yes. You can see why the crew are so stressed.

People are about to die.

Article:

What is it that has the crew so worried? Who has decided to try their luck against you?

[ ] Druchii. The Dark Elves of Naggarond bring no magic to this fight, but their murderous prowess is feared for good reason, as is their habit of leashing monstrous beasts to hunt and kill at their command.

[ ] Fimir. Wreathed in layers of cloying mist and guided to their prey by foul daemons bound tightly to service, the one-eyed Fimir are a dark legend of the Empire, their hunger for flesh and blood unmatched by lesser foes.

[ ] Norscans. The raiders from the north come to pillage and plunder for the honour of their dark gods, led by powerful sorcerers who study the blackest of arts and whose scrutiny drives their warriors to feats of unrivaled martial prowess.

 

[Strypgia]

and we could make her fall in love with us, give her Stockholm syndrome and she'll realize how bad it is back home in naggarond and it'll be the adventures of Erika and Insert Druchii Name Here

Click to shrink...

Maybe she could be been a young lass who dreamt of being a dashing corsair, but found herself over her and has the plaything of the crew and utterly broken...

Click to shrink...

enough of this Take this sort of thing to QQ. Not here. QM is unhappy.

Now that that business is handled:

[X] Norscans. The raiders from the north come to pillage and plunder for the honour of their dark gods, led by powerful sorcerers who study the blackest of arts and whose scrutiny drives their warriors to feats of unrivaled martial prowess.

Heavy metal fight at sea? Yes please.

 

[Maugan Ra]

You cannot see the horizon, for scarcely a league in front of your little ship the mist of the marshes has spilled out over the water in a smothering blanket half a mile thick. It rises and falls like the waves beneath, roiling with strange currents, and even from this far off you can see the threads of arcane power woven through its mass like the bones beneath a corset.

"Don't suppose that sort of thing happens a lot," you comment dryly to the little captain, leaning on the railing and squinting at the unexpected obstruction, "or that you'd have dragged me up here if we could just go around?"

"Never seen it before," the halfling says with all the grim certainty of a lifetime veteran. "Heard stories though. Few tell them, having lived. It's the Fimir."

You blink, mind sorting back through the archives of facts taught once in your youth and discarded as irrelevant almost immediately thereafter. "The swamp demons? I thought they were just a legend."

"Because you're imperial," the captain snorts, "no Wastelander would say that. They take ships, sometimes. Or people. Only one or two a year. Guess it's our turn."

"Well, fuck that," you roll your shoulder, detaching the axe from your belt and making your way back towards the centre of the ship, "Give me some space, and try not to get in my way. Unless you want to surrender?"

The captain shakes his head, then begins marking orders to the crew in that rapid-fire staccato of all officers throughout history. You pay them no further attention; you don't know naval combat, or what to expect from your foe, and you have no time to get up to speed on either before the fog cloud sweeps over you. Instead you focus on what you can do, and reach for the Red Wind with a hand.

There is little Aqshy to be found, which is perhaps to be expected while on a ship so close to a sodden marshland, but fortunately you are no mere fumbling apprentice to be stymied by the lack of abundance. You take what you can find, drawing it out from the anger in your heart and the fragile resolve that straightens the spines of those around you, and you weave it into a pattern around your axe that sends flames crawling up and down the razor edge like a banner. Embers become a flame and then an inferno, and with rote phrases you spin what you can grasp into a layer of protective flame and a wider buffer of shimmering mirages around your shoulders.

Spoiler: Spellcasting rolls

Thanks to the early warning, Erika has five rounds to prepare before the fog cloud and whatever is inside it reaches the ship. She spends them as follows:

Round One: Channel for Flaming Sword of Rhuin. TN is 88, roll is 78, 1SL+3 from talents, 4SL.

Round Two: Continue channeling for flaming sword. TN is 88, roll is 54, 6SL, meaning a total of 10 has been gathered.

Round Three: Cast flaming sword. TN is 79, roll is 74, bare pass is enough since Channelling sets the CN to 0.

Round Four: Casting Cuirass of Living Flame. TN is 89, roll is 28, becomes 8SL. CN is 2 so that is three levels of overcast, Erika has 4AP on all locations now.

Round Five: Casting Shimmering Mantle. TN is 89, roll is 48, 6SL so success with extra duration from overcasting.

That is as much time as the circumstances allow, for no sooner have you put the finishing touch on your mantle than the fog arrives, rolling over your ship like a wave of stifling wool. It clings to every surface and gathers around the eyes and mouth, blinding and choking and sapping the strength of you and the crew; more than that, you can see it already leeching at the heat of your body and at the threads of magic you have already woven. A cunning gambit, if this is intended to be an ambush, but one that reveals their hand to one of the few passengers a ship like this might have who is capable of doing something about it.

You can see the magic in the fog, the strands of Ulgu and Shyish that have been knotted together with an embroider's care and affixed to some anchor point far beyond your sight. This isn't active spellcraft, you think, but rather the product of some long-standing enchantment or relic, and that has both strengths and weaknesses. It needs no conscious thought to sustain, making it as reliable as magic can ever truly hope to be, but it also gives you all the time in the world to study it without interference.

Erika tests Language (Magick) to counterspell. TN is 79, +10 for her own fire. Roll is 34, creating 7 SL. Persistent mist is dispelled.

You find the nearest threads, those strands of magic pulsing like veins in the body of the fog cloud, and with a sharp word you set them aflame. Aqshy sears the structure to nothing and boils away the fog, and like a living thing the cloud flinches back from the pain, until at last your ship floats beneath a solitary patch of sky in the middle of a tide of shadow.

"You picked the wrong ship to take, beast!" You roar, addressing the drifting bank of mist as much for the benefit of the crew as any potential listener, "Leave, now, or I'll burn you to ash!"

There is silence for a moment, long and fragile, and then something replies. The words hurt your ears, the syllables of the Dark Tongue twisting the air and leaving the taste of copper on your tongue, and for all the mind-breaking insanity of the sound there is no mistaking the command for anything else. It is answered a moment later, as two ragged shapes come hurtling out of the mist towards you.

They are twisted things, blackened gargoyles with leathery skin and great bat-like wings, and in their yellow eyes glows a malign hunger for more than flesh. To your sight they move like oil on water, shining trails of corruptive colour left in their wake as they soar towards you, and you have a moment to realise just how thoroughly your magic marks you out from the crowd in the eyes of things that do not see the world as men do.

"Daemons!" Someone screams, shrill and terrified, and you do not bother looking to mark the source.

"Dead meat," you reply, and as the first slashes in towards you take half a step to the side. The shimmering cloak of illusion and mirage that surrounds you hides your motion, and when the fury goes to open up your throat with a wickedly hooked talon it finds nothing there but empty air. You duck under the second daemon's approach, and when you come back up it is with your blazing axe in a two handed grip.

Aethyr-forged flesh parts like silk beneath the glowing edge of your blade, and as the daemon falls apart in a cloud of ash you turn towards the second one. It is flaring its wings, desperately trying to regain some altitude before you can finish the job, but again it misreads your location and suffers for it with a lateral cut that severs head from torso in a blazing arc.

"ULRIC!" You scream, lifting your burning axe in challenge to the sky as the corpses of two daemons slain in as many seconds turn to ash and dust behind you, "ULRIC AND THE EMPIRE!"

"Marienburg and Manann!" The captain roars out in reply, with a surprisingly loud voice for one so small. It is a cry taken up by the majority of the crew in short order, and you keep your eyes on the drifting fog cloud, knowing that somewhere out there is the voice that unleashed those daemons on your vessel. Either they will decide that this particular voyage is too heavily armed to engage, or they will step in personally.

You are rather hoping for the latter.

Spoiler: Daemon fight rolls

Round One: A pair of Chaos Furies charge Erika, using their flying movement to bypass the rest of the crew. While they outnumber her 2:1, they get +20 on their rolls to hit her.

The Furies have a fear rating of 2. Erika tests Cool as they approach, her TN is 73 and she rolls 91. Opting to save her fortune, she instead spends a point of resolve to become immune to psychology until the end of the next round.

The first Fury attacks, once as normal and once with its Horns trait (that gives it a free attack when it charges). It has a TN of 50 (Base skill) +20 (outnumbering) +10 (charging) -20 (shimmering mantle) = 60. Erika defends with her Melee basic skill of 74 in each case.

• Attack one: Daemon rolls 72, fail with -1SL, Erika rolls 14, success with 6SL. Erika avoids harm.
• Attack two: Daemon rolls 71, fail with -1SL, Erika rolls 60, success with 1SL, Erika avoids harm.

The second Fury attacks. It has the same stats but Erika has two advantage from successfully avoiding the first one, so her TN is now 94.

• Attack one: Daemon rolls 83, fail with -2SL, Erika rolls 32, success with 6SL. No harm.
• Attack two: Daemon rolls 87, fail with -2SL, Erika rolls 15, success with 8SL. No harm.

On her turn, Erika makes a counter-attack. She has a mighty four advantage built up, while the daemons have lost theirs. Her TN is 114; she rolls 40, which is a head hit with 7SL, plus one for being over 100, so 8.
The daemon tries to defend with its combat skill of 50 and rolls 57, bare failure.
Erika has a net total of 8SL in her favour, meaning she does a base damage of 18, increased to 28 by the impact quality of her weapon. This is enough to kill the daemon twice over.

End of round one: One daemon is destroyed, Erika has spent one resolve and has six advantage built up.
Since the second Fury has the 'unstable' trait, it loses a number of wounds equal to the difference in advantage - in this case, six.

Round two:
The remaining fury, on half wounds and aware of just how fucked it is, attempts to escape. It has a dodge skill of 45 but gets a +20 bonus to this because it is so much faster. It rolls a 32, for 3SL.
Erika contests with her melee skill of, with advantage, 139. A roll of 59 means she stops the thing leaving; when it tries to flee anyway, Erika gets a free attack and rolls 62, hitting the thing for 10+6SL+2impact-3toughness = 15 wounds, killing it outright. Erika now has eight advantage.

On her round, Erika makes a Leadership test to rally the crew. Her base TN is 37; however, with advantage, this becomes 117. She rolls 76; success with 5SL. The effects of this are twofold: first, she grants everyone who can hear her a +10 bonus on their own fear and general psychology tests. Second, she passes out five of her advantage points to nearby allies, allowing them to hold their ground with greater ease.

A moment later you get your wish, as with the screech of nails against your spine a vessel emerges from the fog. You were expecting a ship or some other kind of watercraft, a full complement of Fimir warriors aboard, but instead the thing that comes for you resembles something closer to a chariot of brass and polished ebony wood. The beast that draws it resembles some kind of strange fish, blue of scale and festooned with eyes and gently undulating spines, but it is the creatures on the platform it draws behind it that truly draw your eye.

There are only two Fimir, one guiding the chariot across the sky and the other standing proud at its back, but there is no fear or hesitation to be found in the posture of either one. Their bodies are of a size and proportion befitting an ogre from the distant mountains, but in place of jaws they boast hooked avian beaks and a single glowing eye, and as the chariot swings round towards you they chant some kind of alien battlecry that sends grown men weeping to the floor.

The beast drawing the chariot is some kind of daemon, of that you have no doubt, and of a kind grander and fouler than the ragged furies you already dispatched; you can see the way it sails across the aethyr like a ship upon the current, and where its fins pass the fabric of the world splits and tears like rotten cloth. The Fimir on the back of the chariot extends its gnarled hands towards the rift and chants something in its disgusting tongue, and as you watch it draws power and shining azure flame out into the world to trail behind it like a banner.

Article:

Spell Identified: Power of Chaos

The sorcerer invokes the aid of the Dark Gods of Chaos, tearing a rent into the aethyr through which raw magical power can be drawn. All spells cast within a few yards of this rent gain +20 to their casting tests and benefit from a halved Casting Number; however, every round spent within this range demands an Average (+20) Endurance test to avoid acquiring a corruption point.

The chariot swoops by overhead, and in its wake the sorcerer screams a prayer to something you do not want to recognise and unleashes the flame to fall upon you like rain. There is more than the promise of death hidden in those flickering azure flames, you can tell; already they twist and corrupt the air, the promise of violent transformation ready to claim any that they touch. You cannot allow that, and so with a roar of your own call Aqshy to your hand and send it sweeping up in an opposing torrent.

Orange flame meets blue in a detonation that sends the ship rocking in the water, and though the crew scream and swear what tiny fragments of the alien spell made it through your counter are not enough to inflict any kind of lasting harm. You are grateful for that much, but have no time to focus on it; a javelin buries itself in the deck half a pace from your feet with a shivering thump, and you know better than to think the next will be so kind as to miss.

The crew are returning fire, hastily loaded handguns coughing great gouts of smoke into the air as they take aim at the circling chariot overhead, but either their shots miss or the sorcerer has some kind of protective ward in place because none of them succeed in bringing the foe down. What they do is buy time, and that is all you need.

You inhale, muster your power, and exhale a column of eye-searing light that reaches up to engulf the chariot and everything around it in boiling flame. The spell is easily the equal of the one you unleashed on those poor bastards in Messingen, but where nothing was left standing in the wake of your fury on that day, the Fimir have their own answer to arcane power. They erupt from the blazing inferno untouched and unafraid, and in their wake you see the last fragments of your spell being drawn through the rent in the sky to feed the hunger of the beasts beyond the world. Your strongest spell, countered with no effect.

Except… no, that isn't quite true. You've made the sorcerer angry, and as the warrior grapples with the reins of leather and flax the daemonologist reaches into the thick robes it wears and draws forth something you cannot quite make out. There is no mistaking the blazing pulse of arcane power that forms when the sorcerer holds it up above its head, however… nor the source of the eager laughter that follows as the rift in the chariot's wake begins deforming and opening wider overhead.

"Oh fuck… no no no…"

You reach for the magic, for the writhing strands of green and blue that the sorcerer is wielding to do his work, for any way to stop this before it begins. You fail. Of course you do; your education never covered this, and those with any personal experience of this kind of spell are never the kind of allies that can be questioned on how to counter it. The magic slips through your hands like oil, leaving your hands numb and aching in its wake, and you can only watch with horror as the summoning concludes.

The Fimir tears a hole in the world, a gaping rent in the sky to the other side, and with joyous laughter the daemons fall through. You can hear the sorcerer laughing, hear it screaming as the backlash of magic disrupts his bindings and the thing leashed to the chariot slips it's chains and swims back through the rent in the sky, but you have no time to concern yourself with any of that.

A quartet of daemons fall from the sky, and with the ethereal grace of an acrobat they land in a staggered pattern all around you. In form they are humanoid, lithe and smooth and beautiful, their eyes inky pools too large for their skulls and their pale skin painted with colored ink and shining jewels, and where they pass the air fills with the scent of perfume and the sound of silver bells.

The daemonettes of Slannesh have come for your soul, and with a growl you heft your axe and prepare to make them fight for it.

"Come on, then. Come and die."

Spoiler: Fimir fight rolls

Round Three:
Fimir Sorcerer casts Blue Fire of Tzeentch! TN is 80, roll is 29, success with 6SL. Spell successfully cast!
Erika attempts to counterspell! Language (Magick) with three advantage, TN is 109, roll is 08! Success with 12SL! Spell countered!

Fimir guard hurls a javelin at Erika (on the grounds that she is marking herself out rather effectively), base TN is 45, +20 for half range so 65. Roll is 92, he misses utterly.

On her turn, Erika opts to respond with Dragonsong. She has four advantage and a fire in the form of her burning axe, so she has a +50 bonus, making her TN 129. She rolls 06! This is a success with, counting talents, 14SL.
The sorcerer attempts to counter with a skill of 80, rolls 01! It gets 8SL, and while Erika wins the opposed test, her remaining SLs are not enough to successfully cast dragonsong.

Round Four:
The Fimir Sorcerer, furious and afraid in equal measure, consumes a chunk of warpstone and invokes the spell Manifest Lesser Daemon.
The CN of this spell is normally 8, reduced to 4 by the nearby Power of Chaos effect. The sorcerer has a TN of 80; it rolls 08, for 8SL that is promptly doubled to 16SL by the warpstone.

Erika, desperate, attempts to counterspell. Her TN is currently 139: she rolls 92, for a success level of 7SL. Though she reduces the power of the summoning, she fails to stop it entirely; with 9 SL remaining, the sorcerer gets five levels of overcast (Dhar gets an overcast for every SL, rather than every two) summons a quartet of daemonettes onto the ship.

There is a consequence for using both warpstone and dark magic together like this: an automatic miscast. Normally it would be a minor miscast, but the sorcerer rolled an 08, the blessed number of Chaos Undivided; this raises the result to a major miscast. The roll for result is 63, Levitation; normally, this would result in the Fimir flying uncontrollably. However, since it is already flying, it instead removes that flight by virtue of the Screamer dragging its chariot slipping away into the immaterium through the same rent.

(The Fimir jump before they get pulled into the immaterium, but it isn't strictly relevant; either way, they're too busy surviving the consequences of their own magic to keep fighting)

Two of the daemons oblige, sashaying towards you in a movement that is more dance than charge, and while the other pair detach to hunt the crew you cannot afford to take your eyes off the first pair long enough to help. Not when your current foes slip and slide in your perception, liquid forms poured into the shape of vaguely feminine humanoids, inconstant and imprecise save for glowing eyes and hard, chitinous claws.

You fend off the first one, menacing it with your axe until it bares pearly white teeth in a smile and backs away, but before you can rally the second slides in through your blind spot and leaves an elegantly ragged cut in the meat of your left forearm. The feeling of your flesh parting beneath the razor edge of the daemon's claw is strangely pleasurable, a narcotic thrill that part of you aches to feel again, but you push the feelings aside and lash out in a counter-attack.

The blow you strike is a glancing one, but it sunders supple flesh with ease and wreathes the monstrosity in cleansing flames. The daemonette dances back, moaning with something that sounds uncomfortably close to pleasure even as it spins and pirouettes and lets the fire sear its flesh, but you have no time to think about it as the first lunges back in to resume the attack.

You dance together, the two of you, a thundering rhythm of clashing arms and pounding feet backed up by the agonised screams of the crew. Your opponent is laughing, soundless expressions of delight flickering across its alluringly beautiful face as you do your level best to kill it, and for several awkward moments you think it is almost encouraging you, urging you to bury your axe in its soft and tender flesh.

The distraction is very nearly fatal, as the third daemon grows bored with chasing terrified sailors and lunges across the ship with liquid grace before you can respond. A claw bites into your back, tearing at muscles just below your ribcage, and as you scream the first daemon claims its own share of blood with a scything cut that draws a red line across your abdomen. You stagger, flailing wildly, and with chiming laughter they back away to circle around you at a distance, sharks drawn by the scent of blood.

They are speaking, you think, whispering sweet words in alien tongues, but you know better than to listen. You will be haunted enough by this moment in your dreams, by the echoes of pain and fleeting glimpses of liquid flesh, you don't need to listen to them now as well. You don't need to do much of anything except fight, and though your back is white fire and your hands slippery with blood that is no excuse. You push past the pain, overcome the injury, and with a hoarse yell fling yourself headfirst at the two daemons that bedevil you.

You're not sure if you caught your target off guard or if it welcomes your attack, but either way the lunge is successful. You bury your axe in the daemonette's chest and stare into its eyes as the fires consume it whole, perfumed silk turning to ash as the creature smiles at you like a proud mother. It tries to touch you, reaching up with one insectoid claw to stroke your cheek, only to dissolve into golden sand and droplets of molten silver before the motion can be complete. You spit on what remains of the monster's corpse, then turn back to the third.

Distantly, you can feel the crew rallying, the captain roaring orders as the sailors strive to pin the fourth daemon in place and bring it down, but you have your own opponent to claim. The daemonette bows to you, a sweeping gesture more appropriate for the court than the deck of a blood smeared ship, and then beckons you onwards with a delicate claw.

You try your best, advancing on it with wide sweeping blows, your mouth twisting into a snarl as you force your way through the pain, but willpower alone is not enough. You're not sure what the sneak attack did, but your back screams with pain every time you move, and at times you try to perform a move that would win this fight and find that you simply cannot. Your body will not move the way you need it to, and eventually even the daemon grows bored of drawing out the inevitable.

You swing your axe, a two-handed lateral blow designed to shear the daemon in half, and in response it bends in half at the waist with a flexibility no living creature can match, and instead of rising plants its clawed hands on the ground and lashes out with a lightning-fast kick. The blow connects with your jaw, and with a grisly snapping sound you fall, the world swimming around you like water.

Spoiler: Daemon Fight, part two rolls

Round Five:
Two of the Daemonettes begin murdering members of the crew. The other pair attack Erika. Their outnumbering bonus is cancelled out by the shimmering mantle, so their TN is 60. Erika defends with her melee skill of 74, but the Daemonettes have the distracting quality, so it reduces to 54.

Daemonette One attacks, rolling 31 to score +3SL. Erika defends with a roll of 40, for +1SL. The daemonette wins and strikes Erika on the arm; damage is 9+2SL -4 toughness -4 armour = 3 wounds.

Daemonette Two attacks, rolling 80 to miss by -2SL. Erika defends with 40, a pass with +1SL, and therefore prevents any damage.

On her turn, Erika retaliates, targeting the second daemonette. She has one point of advantage and thus rolls against 64, rolling 34 for +3SL. The daemonette defends with a score of 40 (it doesn't get outnumbering on the defensive) and rolls 10 for +3SL. This is a draw, but Erika has the higher skill, so she hits it.
Erika's base damage is 10, plus 4 for impact = 14. The Daemonette has a TB of 3 and an 8+ ward save, which rolls 1 and thus fails. It takes eleven wounds and is now on fire.

At the end of the round the second daemonette takes d10= 5-3 = 2 more wounds, and then two more for having less advantage with the unstable trait. It now has two wounds remaining.
Erika has two advantage and fifteen remaining wounds, the first daemonette has one advantage.

Round Six:
Having made herself the most interesting target on the battlefield, Erika is by a third daemonette which takes the place of its burning comrade, while the burning one tries to extinguish itself.

Daemonette One attacks with a TN of 70, rolls 15 for 6SL. Erika defends with TN 74, rolls 73, a bare pass. The daemonette inflicts 9+6SL-4TB-4AP = seven wounds. Erika has eight wounds remaining.

Daemonette Two tests athletics to extinguish the blaze, rolls 05, success.

Daemonette Three charges in with a TN of 70, rolls 66, critical hit with +1SL. Erika has lost her advantage and must defend with her TN of 54, rolls 40. She avoids taking a normal hit but still suffers a critical hit.
Critical result is 91-20=71 to the body: Erika suffers a torn muscle, meaning she is at -20 to all tests involving her torso for the next three weeks or so. She also takes another four wounds from this, so is down to just four remaining.

On her turn, Erika attacks the first Daemonette. Her TN is 54-20 for the torn muscle = 34. She spends a resolve point to ignore the effects of the critical hit she took until the next round, powering through the pain, so her TN is 54 again.
She rolls 73, spends fortune for a reroll, 14; success with +4SL. The daemonette defends itself with a TN of 60, rolls 30 for 3SL and is struck. Erika inflicts 10+1SL+4impact-3TB = 12 wounds. The daemonette fails to activate its daemonic ward save and thus is reduced to 5 wounds remaining.

End of Round Six:

• Erika has four wounds, two resolve and two fortune left. She has two points of advantage, and also a Torn Muscle (Major) injury that inflicts -20 on all tests that involve her torso.
• Daemonette One has five wounds and is on fire - it takes another d10 = 7-3 = four wounds and is reduced to one wound. The Unstable trait means it takes another two, and therefore is vanquished.
• Daemonette Two has two wounds remaining, but ends combat with two less advantage than Erika, so it vanishes as well.
• Daemonette Three has two advantage and no injuries.
• Daemonette Four has no advantage but isn't in combat with Erika.

Round Seven:
Daemonette Three presses the attack, but is alone now so has no outnumber penalty, so with two advantage it has a TN of 60. It rolls 91, a fail by 3 SL. Erika defends with TN 74, rolls 89, failure with -1SL. She opts not to reroll, since that wins anyway, and gives her another advantage.

On her turn, Erika spends another resolve to ignore the critical penalty, and attacks the daemonette with TN 84. She rolls 57, success with +3SL. The daemon defends itself with TN 40, rolling 08 for +4SL, winning.
As the daemonette has the Champion trait, it inflicts damage even on the defensive: 9+1SL-4TB-4AP = 2 wounds. Erika has two wounds remaining.

Round Eight:
Daemonette Three seizes the advantage, now rolling at TN 50, it scores 87 for another fail at -3SL. Erika defends with TN 54, rolls 64, failure by one SL but again enough to win anyway.

Erika attacks back, spending her final resolve point to ignore the wound penalty, her TN is 64. She rolls 52 to hit, success with 1SL. The daemonette defends with TN 40, rolls 10, winning with 3SL.
As before, Champion means that the daemonette inflicts 9+2SL-4TB-4AP = 3 wounds. This takes Erika to zero wounds and she falls prone.
Erika also takes a critical hit to the face of 75-20=55, Fractured Jaw. Erika cannot use her mouth until she recovers, and takes two stunned conditions on top of that.

You cannot move, you can barely see, and when the daemonette leans in close to study you all that your spinning head will let you do is spit blood in futile defiance. The creature smiles at that, planting a soft kiss on your brow that makes your skin crawl with conflicting instincts, and then vanishes again. You can hear screams and shouts and horrible agonised moans as the daemon joins its compatriot, but you… you cannot do anything.

Erika tests Endurance to remove Stunned. TN is 54, roll is 15, all Stunned conditions removed.

No. No, that isn't true. You are a warrior of Ulric, a devotee of winter. Pain and injury, trauma and despair, these are nothing. You close your eyes and think of duty, and when you open them the world makes sense once more.

You are on your back, sprawled out across the deck of the ship. Your back throbs with pain, some kind of muscle pulled or severed in such a way as to make rising once more all but impossible. Your jaw is fractured, throbbing and swollen and threatening to choke you as you try to speak. In the distance, you can see the daemonettes drawing out their fun, slowly flaying their way through an ever-shrinking knot of terrified and despairing sailors.

You focus your will, and call to the flame.

Erika casts Flickering Wasp, tests Language (Magick). Base skill is 79, +10 burning axe, -30 fractured jaw, -10 pain, TN is 49. Roll is 07! Success with +6SL after talents.
Strikes both daemonettes for 12 damage, ignites them.

It is agony, speaking even those simple syllables through a broken jaw, but you persevere. The complex spellwork of pure battle magic is beyond you, but you don't need it for this; you only need flame, thin strands of it, a coruscating whip that lashes out and sears unholy flesh from absent bone. The daemonettes reel, scourged and ignited by your wrath, and that is enough for the crew to rally.

Several more give their lives in the remaining moments, brought down by lithe muscle and scything claw as they stab and shoot and bludgeon, but the daemons are vanquished. The Fimir that summoned them are gone - perhaps the fall from the chariot killed them, perhaps they were drawn through the rift by their renegade steed, perhaps they have merely retreated. It doesn't matter. The foe is overcome and you… you have done your duty.

Smiling, you drop back and allow the darkness to claim you.

Major Corruptive Influence encountered. Erika tests Endurance, TN is 54, roll is 56, bare failure. Fortune point reroll, 60, failure. Three Corruption Points received.

Article:

Erika has been reduced to zero wounds. She has suffered a fractured jaw and a serious muscle injury in her back. It will take her at least a month to recover from both; until she does she suffers a -30 penalty to all language tests and -20 to most physical tests. Fortunately, enough of the crew survived to continue to Dieterschafen.

What does Erika dream of, en route?

[ ] Glory. The clash of arms and the thrill of victory is an intoxicating mix, the triumph of victory over a worthy foe sweeter than the finest wine. The visceral thrill of bloodshed warms you in the cold depths of the night.

[ ] Perfection. The horizon beckons, the infinite expanse of the ideal calling to you with siren sweet songs.. Live, grow, strive and prosper; one step after another on the path, until your father smiles with pride.

[ ] Serenity. Peace, at last, is the only prize worth the name. You rest beneath shadowed boughs, swim through shining currents, live and laugh and love with friends and those closer still.

[ ] Ambition. Daemons and monsters fall before you, rent apart by blade and spell. With every passing day you grow stronger; with every enemy slain your name is spoken by another adoring soul. Listen, and stand proud.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Exposure to shrines, daemons, warpstone and other places or substances associated with the dark gods runs the risk of a character becoming corrupted. Resisting such corruption requires a test of Cool (for spiritual contamination) or Endurance (for physical). More potent sources of corruption may inflict multiple points, or require a Erika to succeed by a greater margin to avoid all corruption entirely.

Erika can 'safely' accumulate a number of corruption points equal to her Willpower Bonus + Toughness Bonus (at time of writing, this is ten). After that point, each further exposure requires an endurance test, with failure inflicting a mutation to body or mind; too many mutations will result in her falling to Chaos entirely. Notably, passing the test to resist mutation does not change how many corruption points Erika has - once she hits ten points, every single additional point will compel another mutation test, while failing reduces the total (as spiritual taint transfers to physical or mental) but does not cleanse them entirely.

Corruption points, once gained, can only be removed in the following three ways:

• Accepting the influence of the dark gods. While Erika has corruption points, certain new vote options will be unlocked, generally allowing you to deliberately fail in some fashion - maybe Erika falls asleep on watch, maybe she accidentally strikes an ally in combat, and so on. Taking this option means that the purpose the dark gods have for her has been fulfilled, and she loses a corruption point.
• Completing a pilgrimage or other holy trial, or else joining a religious order and committing mighty deeds in service to a god (almost certainly Ulric). Acts will remove different amounts of corruption depending on scope, as the White Wolf protects his servant's soul from harm.
• Destroying a dark artifact, razing a corrupted temple or otherwise acting to directly thwart the dark gods in some meaningful way. This is the most directly effective path, but also exposes Erika to multiple other sources of potential corruption in the process.

 

[Maugan Ra]

In your dreams, you see a mountain. No true peak has ever been so grand or imposing, so glorious in its natural beauty and might, but such things mean less than nothing in this place. The mountain exists, and the dappled white and grey of its flanks bring tears of wonder to your eyes, while the cold chill of its air is sweeter on the lips than the finest wine. You climb, hands and feet aching and scrambling against unyielding stone, drawn on by the promise of the shining world that awaits you at the summit.

You do not climb alone, of course; anyone who sees the mountain is compelled to at least attempt the ascent, and all around you rise friends and lovers, rivals and foes, easily recognisable faces picked out from amongst the shapeless multitude. Some fall away at each ridge and plateau, unable to match the challenges found there or unwilling to make the attempt, and you pity them. They will never know the true splendour of the heights, as you will.

Only one other climbs as you do, matching you step for step, ever at your side. A wolf, eight hands high at the shoulder, with fur the colour of a winter sky. The air frosts when it breathes, and when it speaks it is with the growling chorus of a battle cry.

"Why do you climb?"

The words make no sense. Why? What else is there? There is a mountain in your way, a glorious reward awaiting at the summit, a chance to grow and develop and improve yourself in body and soul. How could you do anything less than aspire to the peak, to climb until the summit rests within your grasp?

"Look at your hands."

You obey, but you do not understand. Your hands are much as they have ever been; blackened and bleeding, fractured and groaning from the strain of hauling yourself up the mountain one span at a time. Perhaps the damage extends further up your arms than you remember, but what of it? If your hands fall away and your arms become bloody fragments you will crawl, and if your knees turn to powder you will crawl on your belly like a snake. The climb is all that matters.

"Fool."

The wolf insults you, but it does not leave. It will never leave your side, not until you part ways of your own accord, or you see at last what it is that the beast considers so important. You have given up on understanding why, content to accept its presence for the blessing that it is. Even the least companionable of escorts is better than making the ascent alone.

You climb.

-/-

Awareness returns by degrees, the dream and the waking world slowly flowing into one another as your mind struggles to make sense of either. There is no pain, which does not help; typically you could guess that the world where some part of your body is screaming in agony is more likely to be real, but in both you are on your back and floating through a haze of almost narcotic pleasure. It is only after several minutes that you realise that the one without the mountain is the truth.

There are hands on your skin, and when you open your eyes it is to the sight of a young woman in a pure white robe bent over your reclining form, chewing on a strand of her own night-black hair in silent concentration. You want to brush a hand against her delicate jaw, but your body feels like it has been replaced with a sack of lead, and so it is all you can do to speak.

"Hello, beautiful." That's what you mean to say, but judging by the strangled groan that comes out of your mouth you don't have as much control of your words as you might have wished. The young woman smiles for a moment, straightening up to look at you, and then yelps in fearful surprise and physically leaps backwards.

"Your eyes…" she whispers, before suddenly her hands snap up to cover her mouth in shock and self recrimination. From this angle you can see the golden heart emblazoned on the front of her robes, picked out in yellow thread. A Sister of Shallya, then, which explains the lack of pain.

"Sorry," you grunt, making sure to pronounce the word carefully and with as much clarity as you can muster. Your jaw isn't moving like you want it to, which… oh, right, you got kicked by a daemon. It probably got fractured. Alright, a vocabulary of single words delivered in a heavily slurred tone it is, at least for the immediate future.

"No, please… if anyone should apologise, it is I," the Sister says in a quiet voice, dropping her hands to smooth down her robes and regain some composure, "Shallya would not want me to abandon my duties just because I was caught off guard. Please, if you don't mind?"

You nod, as best you can with what feels like several inches of fabric bandages wrapped around your jaw, and the priestess moves in to resume her duties. The two of you are alone, it seems, hidden in some annex or back room of… wherever it is that you have wound up, precisely.

"This is the Temple of Our Merciful Lady, in Dieterschafen," the sister says, perhaps picking up on your confusion even as she checks your bandages, "I am Sister Marie. Your crewmates brought you in yesterday, still unconscious, and we have been tending to you since then. How do you feel?"

Honestly you are feeling shockingly good, all things considered, which probably means that they forced some kind of pain-killing draught down your throat while you were too senseless to object. Or perhaps it might be relief of a more supernatural kind; you've heard that Shallya blesses the particularly devout among her priestesses with the ability to take pain with a touch and cure wounds with a tear. In the end, you just sort of shrug, which seems to convey the impression well enough.

"Yes, I expect you must have been rather heavily sedated," Marie says with a soft smile, her dark eyes filled with compassion as she runs a hand over your stomach. The touch sends butterflies through your innards, but the priestess doesn't seem to notice. "Your wounds were rather severe, and they seem to be resisting our efforts to ensure a clean recovery. They must have been delivered by something rather dangerous."

"Daemons," you grunt, overcoming the leaden feeling in your arm to make a vague gesture that you can only hope encompasses what you mean, "Six."

"Oh my," Marie blinks in shock, shivering in momentary fear that you are too weak to properly comfort her over, "A… truly? On the coastline? Then it is fortunate you made it here… though it does explain why the crew were so insistent you be treated. And… these other wounds, they seem somewhat older…"

She touches the small puckered mark on your stomach where Dieter shot you, tracing the line of torn flesh that it left in its wake. "Pistol. Vampire."

"Blessed Shallya," the priestess whispers, and there is more than just sorrowful compassion in her voice as she takes your hand in her own. If anything, you think she might be impressed. "And… the fingers?"

"Sword. Was… burning."

On and on it goes, with the pretty little dark-haired priestess picking out each of your scars in turn. Many of them you don't even remember receiving, and while your station means you always received the finest kinds of medical care, there is no escaping the fact that your skin is increasingly scarred and broken by a life of unrelenting violence.

"Rapier," you say with a voice rough from more than pain, when she touches the pale mark on your breast, "Honour duel."

You might feel ashamed, accounting for such things before a pacifist who may have saved your life, but… well, Sister Marie is a very pretty woman, and you are currently laying helpless before her probing fingers, your modesty preserved only by a few shreds of fabric and blessed bandages. It doesn't help that she has stopped moving her hands, instead leaving them where they rest while she looks at you with an expression somewhere between sorrow and intrigue, and eventually you have to clear your throat and give her a meaningful look.

"Oh!" Marie blurts out, her face turning bright red as she steps back, flustered and off balance, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't…"

"Don't," you say, and smiling is a bit beyond you right now but you try anyway, "Was nice."

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, as with a panicked stream of apologies Sister Marie gathers up her tools and flees the room in haste. You watch her go in vague bemusement, then relax back on your simple cot and close your eyes again.

You need your strength, if you are to find your father anytime soon.

-/-

It takes you close to a week before you are recovered enough to walk under your own power, and that only with the aid of crutches and some kind of anaesthetic medicine. Your back is a frozen slab of ice, the muscles paralysed by the sisters to prevent you over-exerting them by mistake, and you manage to do little more than hobble awkwardly down the street with the tattered shreds of your dignity wrapped tight around your shoulders.

Dieterschafen is an old town, clinging to the Nordland coast like a barnacle of wood and stone and lashed by cold winds and frequent rain off the Sea of Claws. You have neither the time nor patience to explore it in depth, hobbled as you are, but fortunately even the most clipped of questions is enough to get directions to the local Temple of Ulric. It sits near the centre of town, a fortress-monolith of unmarked stone clearly built with an eye towards defence, and though you get a few odd looks as you hobble your way up the steps no-one dreams of challenging you.

Inside you find an open space filled with wooden benches, all arrayed in circular pattern around a central pit and the large fire that blazes within. No sermon is being given at present, so there is nobody to stop you from taking a seat on one of the frontmost rows and basking in the glow. The flame is mundane, a purely natural fire fuelled by wood from the forests and kept lit by the ministrations of priests and acolytes, but it has been burning for centuries on end at least, and by now Aqshy has soaked the temple to its roots. The comforting warmth of the fire, the sense of community and continuity it carries with it… it is a source of strength, and one you feel no shame in enjoying silently with eyes closed in private contemplation.

Eventually, one of the priests decides that you are clearly here for a reason, and makes his approach. He is a big man, with the broad shoulders and barrel chest of a lifelong warrior, and his grey beard and missing eye both speak to decades of unflinching service and experience. Predictably for a Priest of Ulric, he wastes no time in coming straight to the point.

"Those are some nasty injuries, faithful," he says, settling himself into the pew at your side and adjusting his wolf-fur cloak for comfort, "what manner of foe delivered them?"

"Daemons," you say, and though your words are slow and careful to compensate for your injured jaw he does not hurry you, "four of them. Six, really. Fimir attacked the boat."

"You fought six daemons and lived? Were you victorious?" The priest asks, and when you nod his face splits into an enormous grin, "Excellent! Would that we all could stand against the darkness in such direct and triumphant fashion!"

You smile, as best you can. It has been many years since you were able to speak to a genuine Priest of Ulric, for they are not all that common in the south, and the blunt support and reassurance you have been offered here despite your obvious nature and the marks of the arcane upon your flesh is… heartening. You know better than to expect all Ulricans to be so accepting, but this one is, and that is all you need right now.

"Did you come here just to pray?" The priest asks, nodding towards the ever-burning flame at the temple's heart, "Or for something more specific?"

"Looking for someone," you say, slowly, "A man. A priest. Name is Kurt, looked after… a village, in Nordland. Twenty years ago. Might be there still, might not."

"Not much to go on, if it dragged you all the way up here," the priest chuckles, "Why this man in particular?"

For a moment you hesitate. How can you explain what the man called Kurt means to you, the potentially one-sided bond between the two of you, the history that you share? Doubtless you could if you had the time, but… no, this isn't the time to share everything. There's only one thing that really matters here.

"He's my father."

The priest is silent for a time. You wonder what he is thinking, what explanations he is cooking up behind that single glittering eye for such a short and simple statement. Are you some bastard byblow seeking their heritage, an abandoned burden seeking vengeance, a loving daughter parted by the whims of fate? Why would you know nothing more of the man than his name and where he was two decades past? In the end, only one thing matters.

"Do you mean him harm?"

You shake your head. "He saved me. Did right by me. I want… to thank him."

"Hmm," the old man rubs his chin for a moment, then nods, "Very well. I will check the archives here, and if necessary send a rider to Salzenmund to consult the central archives. You must know, however - it is a common name. It could take weeks to gather the information you seek, and years to search every village it names."

"Not going anywhere," you say with a vague shrug, "Got time. It's important."

The College will get antsy if you look like you're wasting years of your life chasing down ghosts and rumours in Nordland, but honestly, you can't bring yourself to care. You'll find paying work to sustain yourself and fend off their questions, if needs be, and you'll keep going until you find the man… one way or another. You're not blind to the possibility that he might be dead, after all. It's been twenty years, and priests of the war-god are often first into any kind of danger that might threaten their flock.

That's fine, though. You'll visit his grave, say what you need to there. Then you'll take vengeance. One way or another, you're not leaving until this business is done. No matter the cost.

Article:

The Sisters of Shallya are a charitable organisation; they provide food, shelter and medical care to all who require it, asking not a single pfenning in return. There is a cultural expectation, however, that those with the capability to support them make sure to do so, especially after receiving care.

Erika presently has twenty three gold crowns to her name; a single crown would pay for about three weeks worth of groceries for a single person. What kind of donation should she make?
[ ] Five Crowns. A small donation, but enough to fulfill her social obligations. Will likely be added to the temple's ongoing budget.
[ ] Ten Crowns. A more substantial donation, but one that leaves her with plenty. Will likely be used to fund a specific outreach program or event, such as a major public banquet for the needy.
[ ] Twenty Crowns. A very generous donation, one that leaves Erika with just enough to cover her own needs. Will likely be used to expand the Shallyan's capabilities in some long term fashion.

It will take Erika approximately three weeks to recover from her injuries. How does she choose to spend her time? Choose TWO.

[ ] Assist the Shallyans. Though Erika is not a doctor or a devotee of the faith, the Sisters of Shallya will not turn down honest offers of help. They can doubtless find some use to put her to.

[ ] Consulting. Dieterschafen is a major town, and there will always be merchants in such places willing to pay a Magister for her time. Earn some coin and make some connections in the process.

[ ] Spell Research. With reference to the spell list in this post, Erika attempts to learn a new arcane spell to expand her repertoire. Each time this option is chosen will grant one Lore (Magic) roll - the Bookish talent allows you to reverse the dice roll if desired, and adds +1SL.
- [ ] Specify spell (Write in)

[ ] Visit the Temple of Ulric. Attending religious services at the temple on a regular basis provides no direct mechanical or financial gain; it is an act of faith, and while it may draw notice or approval from others, Erika will not seek such things out.

[ ] Write in.

 

[Maugan Ra]

You spend much of your free time over the next few weeks in the temple, drawing strength and comfort from the simple practice of your faith and the community of like-minded believers. Nordland has always been strongly Ulrican, and while few of your fellow congregants know quite what to make of you, it would be unseemly to deny entrance to the temple to one wounded in the endless fight against the dark. It is the strength of the community that gives mankind the capability to carve out a life for itself in this bleak and unforgiving world, and a strong community is one that shelters those injured in its defence until they can stand once more.

Compared to those services you attended or overhead while in the southern nations, the religious rituals of Nordland's Ulrican cult are blunt to the point of parody. There are no elaborate displays of reason or tortured analogies, no references to the words of priests and luminaries long dead as guidance for their descendents. No, here the sermons favour strong, simple and repetitive messaging, traditional tales and old war stories that reinforce the message of the sermon with all the subtlety of an axe blow. This is good, and why. That is bad, and why. The priests themselves spend most of their time out in the community or roaming abroad in its defence, leading by example, and many sermons draw on their personal experience for extra weight and credibility.

You enjoy your time there, the certainty that comes from proper guidance and support for those beliefs you forged piecemeal from what teachings you could find away from the heartlands of your faith, but it is no surprise that your presence ultimately draws questions. Three weeks in, the whispers grow loud enough that you cannot ignore them any longer.

"Father," one of the congregation says, rising to his feet and balling calloused hands into fists, "what of witchcraft, then? Are the dark arts not still among the greatest threats to our lands and people? Are we to… to turn our gaze aside, from what we know to be true?"

He is a dockworker, you think, given the simple cut of his clothing and the barrel-like muscles around his core, but that doesn't matter. In this moment he is the voice of his neighbours, many of whom are looking at you with increasing suspicion and wariness. Your presence here is clearly tolerated by the priests, but Father Jorah - as the old one-eyed man who helped you is named - and his kin only lead through the consent and respect of those beneath them. This isn't a question he can fairly answer, so when he glances your way you sigh and rise to your feet.

"Magic is magic," you grunt, moving to the front of the hall, where the ever-burning flame serves as the focal point for the sermon. Jorah steps aside as you approach, giving you leave to speak for yourself. "Blight your crops, heal your wounds. Call a daemon, burn a mob of orcs. It's all magic."

Your words draw confused whispers and sidelong glances from the congregation, none of whom expected someone so visibly marked by the arcane to confess to such things so readily. In truth there are profound differences between the spellcraft you wield and the twisted incantations of a witch or bray-shaman, but these people don't know that, and they won't take kindly to attempts to draw a line between the two. Ulric demands honesty and forthright deeds from those who worship him, and you intend to embody those tenets today.

"Magic is magic, as steel is steel," you continue, when it becomes clear that no one is going to speak out against you just yet, tapping your fingers pointedly on the haft of your axe, "You need to use it right."

Your jaw has healed, more or less, but you've gotten into the habit of speaking in clipped sentences now and it will take time to shake. Then again, Nordlanders are famously blunt, and most of those present have not anywhere near your level of formal education. Trying to flavour your words with signs of learning and erudition might very well sabotage your actual intent.

"Pretty words," another congregant speaks up, this one a woman in the dour dress of a farmhand's wife, her windburned face twisted into a scowl, "And who decides what's right, eh? You?"

You snort. Then, before the eyes of everyone, you roll up your sleeve and bare the scarred flesh beneath to the world. You'll have the marks that the daemon's claws left upon you until your dying day, but they were not deep enough to impede long term function, and nobody has the means or motive to stop you from leaning over and thrusting your hand into the fire. You leave it there for a moment, letting all see the way that the flame coils around your flesh without burning it, then withdraw it once more.

"The gods decide," you say, shrugging your sleeve back into place, "If not them, then the law. I fight daemons, kill vampires, save pretty ladies from the dark. What do you do?"

The woman flushes angrily, but you have every right to ask the question and all here know it. Ulric respects none save those who back their words with action, and you could well challenge any who deny your righteousness to a duel by arms.

"That proves nothing," she spits, unwilling to give ground, "You're one of them fire mages, you just used witchcraft to protect yourself!"

You laugh, a loud bark of amusement that sends a faint twinge of pain sparking out from your barely-healed back. "You think I could stop Ulric, if I was vile?"

That draws hesitation, as you were hoping it would. This is not Middenheim, the fire here is mundane rather than gifted directly from the gods, but you know better than to think that means you could get away with anything disrespectful. If your soul was truly lost, or your intentions insincere, Ulric would have burned the skin from your bones the second you thought to test him, your natural affinity with fire be damned. Still grinning, you focus your will, and a small stream of flickering firelight emerges from the pyre to dance around your outstretched hand.

"This is aqshy," you say, letting the crowd see, speaking as much to the priests as to the people they hope to guide, "It is the fire in your hearth, and the courage in your hearts. Both are Ulric's gift to the faithful - how can it be wrong to use them?"

You're not sure how convincing you are, but you think the number of people who refuse to meet your eyes when the sermon ends is less than it was in the past, and that will have to be some kind of victory. Take the small triumphs, as your teacher always said; they may be the only ones you get.

"Not bad, for a first time orator," Jorah, the one-eyed priest, says with a sharp grin as he approaches you in the aftermath, "could maybe use a bit more references to scripture, but there's something to be said for raw honesty."

"If you say so," you shrug, trying not to let the fact that you had to defend yourself like that in the temple at all get to you. The only place you've ever been totally accepted without question by those who weren't wizards themselves was an actual chaos cult, and you are not going down that road, not even in your thoughts.

"Anyway, got something to show you," Jorah nods, beckoning for you to follow him as he stomps off towards the back of the temple. You think he's in a good mood, he's just the sort of person who stomps everywhere regardless, and with a faint smile you trail into his wake. There is a small annex back there, and in that annex is a table covered with detailed maps of Nordland, the borders inked clearly and strange monsters drawn to cover up the blank patches where mortal knowledge fails.

"Got a message back from Salzenmund earlier today," Jorah grunts, moving around the table and gesturing for you to approach, "Like I said, Kurt's a common name. There's five different villages that had a priest of that name twenty years ago, more or less… but there's only one that's still ministered by the same man."

Your breath catches in your throat, and with a grin Jorah indicates a small mark on the map, tracing a path from Dieterschafen with a withered finger. "This one, here. Small place, name of Gotheim, or possibly Gottam, whoever drew this map has some fucking terrible hand-writing… anyway, seems like a good place to start, I reckon, and if it doesn't work out then you've got a list of other places to check as well."

You nod shakily, your hand locking onto the edge of the table with manic strength. "Thanks. That… I'll do that. What is that, maybe a week's travel from here?"

"Less if you push it, but I don't recommend that," the priest grunts, before extending his hand, "Ulric show you the path, sister."

You shake his hand, then step back and fold the middle and ring fingers back against your palm, holding them there with your thumb. The 'U' sign that remains is one of the oldest and most traditional of Ulrican signs, and Jorah clicks his teeth in approval as you make the salute. "Ulric guides us all."

-/-

The chest makes a very satisfying thump as you drop it into the back of the small wooden cart, and with a smile of satisfaction you run one last check of your supplies. Food and water, survival gear and warm clothing, and of course the cart itself… they cost you a pretty pfenning all together, but there were enough merchant houses and lesser nobles willing to pay for your expertise over the last month in Dieterschafen that you think it comes out more or less equal. Content with your inventory, you move around to the front of the cart and check on your mighty steed.

Surly is a walking lesson in not underestimating a wizard, because you're fairly sure the merchant who sold you him was trying to fob you off with the most stubborn-headed bastard of a donkey in his possession, only to see the beast take a shine to you almost immediately. Now the donkey just nuzzles you affectionately as you pass, and gives a happy little grunt when you reinforce the faint strand of magic running under his skin.

(It's not Ghur, not truly, but it comes remarkably close, and you can't help but think of Entschaffen and Hagerdorn's experiments when you use it. Where are they now, you wonder. Will you ever see them again?)

The matron in charge of the Shallyan temple is an old lady named Emiliana, with wrinkled skin and grey hair and eyes that have seen more suffering that you can even begin to comprehend. She smiles gently as you approach, taking notice of your confident step and easy movements.

"You are leaving, then?" She says in a voice worn away to something soft and smooth, "You seem in good health, at least."

"I am, to both, and I've imposed on you for long enough," you say, bowing your head in thanks before unhooking the heavy coin purse from your belt, "Please, accept this donation."

(-20 gold crowns)

"This is… quite generous," Emiliana says with a raised eyebrow, weighing the purse in her hands for a moment, "Are you certain you will not be needing it?"

"I know that I needed help and you gave it to me, well enough that I've healed from wounds that might have crippled me for life," you say frankly, before nodding to the purse, "The number of people you could help with that… yeah, I call that worth the call."

The matron smiles approvingly at you, and out of the corner of your eye you see… Yes, it's Marie, the nun who tended to you when you first woke up in this place. She's lurking at the threshold of the room, as you have caught her doing more than once over the past few weeks. You're not quite sure if she's shy or just reluctant to approach you, but you make a point of smiling and raising your voice a tad all the same.

"Maybe I could check back in next time I come through, see how you've been doing," you say, and you think there is a faint twinkle of amusement in the old matron's eye, "Would that be acceptable?"

"I think that would be just fine, Erika," she says, before reaching out with one wrinkled hand and touching you gently over the heart, "Shallya watch over you on your journeys, Magister."

"And over your work here," you reply, before turning and heading out the door. You'll need to make sure to set a decent pace, you think, or else you won't reach anywhere with shelter worth the name before nightfall makes travel unsafe.

As it turns out, you don't even make it all the way to the town gates before a breathless voice calls for you to wait. You turn, and have to suppress a smile at the sight of Sister Marie hurrying after you with a hastily stuffed sling bag over her shoulder.

"Wasn't expecting to see you again so soon, Marie," you say teasingly, enjoying the brief flush that your words bring to her cheeks, "Do you need something?"

"You are, as I understand it, going to a number of isolated villages in the immediate future," Sister Marie says, clearing her throat and shuffling her feet for a moment, "I would… like to come with you. To ensure they are receiving appropriate care."

You blink, then squint at the young woman for a moment. "Is that… don't take this the wrong way, sister, but you don't give me the impression of someone who does a lot of travelling."

"I don't… I mean, I have not yet had the proper opportunity," Marie says awkwardly, seemingly torn on whether or not she can get away with looking directly at you, "But travel is considered to be a hardship undertaken in pursuit of worthy ends, and is therefore an appropriate sacrament in Shallya's eyes."

OK you're not entirely sure you believe that, but the most obvious alternative is that the cute little priestess has ulterior motives for wanting to spend a prolonged period of time with you away from all civilisation and witnesses, and what kind of hot-blooded young woman would you be if you said no?

"Alright, fair enough," you shrug, and oh gods but her smile is adorable, "Dump your bag in the cart and let's get going. We can talk on the way."

Article:

Erika is headed to the village of Gotheim, where cult records suggest that she might find her father. She expects it to take roughly a week to get there - fortunately, this gives her plenty of time to get to know her travelling companion.

What do they speak about? Choose TWO.

[ ] Early Life. Marie, as it transpires, was all but raised in the temple. The similarities and differences between her life and the one Erika led in the Colleges makes for an easy way for the two to bond.

[ ] Foreign Lands. Neither woman has travelled beyond the boundaries of the Empire, but both have read about such places extensively, and dreams of adventure are a fine way to get to know someone.

[ ] Medicine. Erika knows little of the healing craft, but she is very familiar with injuries, and Marie is jaded enough to find the talk of scars and old battle wounds rather interesting.

[ ] Pacifism. The Shallyans preach absolute non-violence, which Marie holds to, engaging Erika in a long conversation about the merits and practicalities of the approach as opposed to Ulrican sensibilities.

[ ] Relationships. Priestesses and Magisters are both set apart from wider society in many small but undeniable ways, and how this affects the bonds they forge with those around them is grounds for sympathy.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The roads of Nordland are not the worst you have ever encountered, but that truly is a low bar, and when the cart inevitably gets stuck Surly is of precisely no help whatsoever. The donkey just sits there and bleats at you as you struggle and sweat and try not to swear while getting the cart out of the latest rut, and only once you've done all the hard work does he deign to resume your journey. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and the upside to your slow and awkward odyssey across the wilderness is that it gives you plenty of time to talk.

"I never knew my parents," Marie reveals, on the seventh day of your mutual association, "though whether they were dead or just unable to look after me… the temple doesn't let us see the records for such things. We were all raised as equals, wards of the cult, so it didn't really matter."

"Makes sense," you nod, patting Surly briefly on the flank when the donkey looks like he might be contemplating sitting down for a nice afternoon nap in the middle of the road, "people always say you can't choose your family, but honestly, I think they're full of shit. I have birth parents out there somewhere, but Kurt was more a father to me than they ever were, so if anyone has the right to call me family it's him."

You hope the sentiment is returned. Fears that your regard will prove one sided have haunted you since before you left Dieterschafen, but you don't let them slow you down or turn you from your path. A true daughter of Ulric does not flinch from danger or the threat of heartbreak, she presses on regardless in pursuit of what she knows to be right… and, perhaps, buries her insecurities in a wandering conversation with a pretty Shallyan priestess with a crush.

"I suppose… yes, if I were to call anyone my family, it would be the other priestesses," Marie says thoughtfully, as though she didn't blush and fight through a stammer at the mere fact that you were agreeing with her on such a personal topic. Any other woman would have made some kind of move by now, given how obvious her attraction is, but it's looking increasingly like you'll need to take pity and also the initiative if you want anything out of this. Which you will! Just as soon as you figure out how. "They are my sisters, my aunts and cousins, the closest and most immediate source of support. I guess… the temple was my family. Everything outside was not."

Huh. You have to wonder what that sort of dichotomy did to Marie's understand of sex and romance. Do the Shallyans just… not do that sort of thing? No, that's ridiculous, they're still human after all.

"I don't think… the Colleges really had that same kind of community," you rub your jaw, pausing to help the pretty girl over a small stream like the pillar of chivalry that you are, "I was close to my master, she's probably the closest thing I ever had to a maternal figure… and gods but that is a horrifying thought… but everyone else was always more distant. They were peers and colleagues, not family. I guess there was too much turnover for that."

And thank all the gods for that. You're not sure what would have come of your development if you were forced to look outside the College walls for pretty women to sweep you off your feet, but it probably would have been absolutely excruciating. You might even have wound up relying entirely on smutty romance novels, and the thought alone is enough to send a shudder of horror through your very bones.

"Was it your master who decided which type of magic you would study, then?" Marie asks, gesturing to your clothes of orange and red, "Forgive me, I don't know much about how magic works."

"Nothing to forgive," you say easily, because someone that cute would have to go a lot further to actually offend you, "and no, my master was a bright wizard, just like me. We're sorted depending on personality and natural inclination more than anything else. My father took me to the Jade College first, actually, because it was the easiest one to find - they've got themselves a big old walled compound in the middle of Altdorf, ten stories high."

"Really?" Marie frowns, "I thought… the Jade are the healers, right? The life wizards?"

"Healers, herbalists, druids, that sort of thing," you nod, "the wall hides their garden from the rest of the city. It's apparently really nice in there, but I only stayed there for a few days before they sent me to the Bright college. Probably just as well… I'd have made a terrible flower girl."

For a moment, you stop to wonder. Ghyran has never been your path, true enough, too dependent on natural cycles and the slow rhythms of the world for your headstrong nature, but… where else could you have flourished, if given the chance? The Amber, you think, for the chance to truly embody the primal fury of your god. Maybe the Gold, if your wilfulness ever settled down into something more implacable. One of the more material winds, at the very least, you can't even imagine the subtle and rarified magics of Ulgu or Hyish responding to your demands as readily as the flame eternal.

"What about you?" You ask, shaking such thoughts from your mind. It's not good to get lost in your own thoughts when someone else is talking to you, especially not when it's as personal as this. "Do all orphans grow up to be priestesses?"

"Not even nearly," Marie laughs, and you take a moment to appreciate how nice she looks when she's laughing, "but I volunteered for it. I… really felt a calling, you know? So I went to the sisters in charge and told them, and they gave me an important duty to do, just as a test. I had to look after the temple doves for a week."

"The… doves?" You frown, "I mean, I guess I can see it. They're Shallya's sacred animal, right?"

"They are. And they shit everywhere," Marie grins, scandalous glee in her eyes as she transgresses with a laugh, "Seriously, places you wouldn't even think they could get, just to spite you. And my job… was to clean it all up."

"And you still wanted to be a priestess?" You say, grinning broadly as the pretty priestess rocks back and forth on the back of the cart, laughing to herself, "I'd have thought you would have taken the hint."

"Oh, it wasn't a hint," Marie says, wiping the tears from her eyes, "More of… a test, I guess? The sort of stuff we deal with, plagues and famine and wounds gone bad… If you can't clean up birdshit for a week without losing your nerve, then the sisterhood isn't for you. Which, you know, isn't a bad thing - the world needs more than just priestesses - but it's a good sort of signpost."

"Huh. I guess that makes sense," you say, squinting down at your hand and remembering the bloody ruin the patriarch made of it, "It's… battle wounds, I get, but I can't say I know much about the other stuff. Bright wizards tend not to get sick all that often."

"Oh, I should have expected that," Marie nods firmly, "You're so hot you burn away the daemons."

You blink, momentarily confused. Did she just… wait how does that… "Excuse me?"

"That's what causes disease," Marie explains, and now she is the one who looks confused, as though you have just expressed ignorance on a topic that everyone should surely know. "The Fly Lord's daemons are everywhere, hidden in every piece of filth and decay. You can't see them, but they're always looking to get inside, to exploit any kind of weakness. Open wounds offer an easy way, but if you're weak from lack of food you're easier to sicken as well."

You are… well, no, part of you immediately rebels at the notion that there are invisible daemons all around you that must be fought off at every turn, because it sounds ridiculous, but then you're not exactly an expert. Maybe if you'd been raised as a druid or learned the chirurgeon's trade you'd be nodding along at the moment, but as it is, you… guess you'll just have to take the priestess's word for it?

"So… is that why you do…" you make a vague gesture that you think more or less encompasses your meaning, "All that?"

"You mean… the feasts for the poor, the sanitation rituals?" Marie smiles faintly, "In part. They do make it harder for the Fly Lord to find weakness that it might exploit, true enough, but we would do them all the same were that not the case. Relieving suffering is a worthy end in its own right, even divorced from the opposition of evil."

You know, you think you could probably spin a whole philosophical discussion out of that singular argument, but you never were very good at that sort of thing. If you'd been the sort of person who could probably articulate advanced theological positions you would have joined the priesthood instead of remaining a Bright Wizard, but before you have to admit your lack of skill in such matters the path leads you over a hill and… there, before you, is your destination.

Gotheim is a walled hamlet of perhaps two or three dozen households, and the second you see it some distant feeling of doom disappears from the back of your mind like so much smoke. Part of you had expected it to be in ruins, or abandoned to time and the fury of the elements, for your journey to have been made in vain… but no, even from here you can see the hustle and bustle of an active settlement, and after a moment to steady your nerves you descend the slopes to approach the gate.

There are a pair of sturdy watchtowers overlooking the approach, each manned by a member of the town militia with a hunter's bow and a loud horn, the bare minimum any Imperial settlement needs to protect itself from the creatures of the forest. The watchers within stare at you as you approach, seemingly torn as to whether or not to shout in welcome or loose their arrows, but the gate has been left open and so you need neither their permission or approval to pass through and enter the village square beyond.

There are at least a score of people there to see you enter, and one by one each abandons whatever routine or chore they were undertaking to stare at you in dull shock. A few whisper to their neighbours with dark looks in their eyes, a few more drag children back inside or rapidly find somewhere else to be, and none have anywhere near the courage to so much as address you directly. You almost hope that you have come to the wrong place, for it would be easier on your pride to believe your kin drawn from worthier stock.

"Is it always like this?" Marie murmurs, coming to a halt at your side, and the tension in the air is only mildly reduced by a resentful braying scream from the donkey at your back.

"Pretty much," you reply, setting one hand on the hilt of your axe as you step forwards and raise your voice to address the crowd as a whole, "I seek your priest, a man named Kurt. Where is he?"

Not one person speaks in reply, peasants and burghers all clutching their loved ones closer to their side as though you just threatened to hex their children, but enough glance towards the centre of the village that you have your answer all the same. You sigh and advance, the crowd parting like water around you, and spare a moment to hope that no one will try whipping up a mob in the absence of a priest. That could end badly for quite literally everyone.

As you walk, you look about you, trying to identify faces or find familiar sights among the layout of the buildings, but all are strange and new to you. Twenty years and a lifetime of experience since you were last here, if this is indeed your hometown, so a lack of familiarity should not be strange or upsetting, and yet…

The Temple of Ulric lies at the very heart of the village, dominating one side of the central square around which all social life in this desolate place revolves, and as you expected it is built in the manner of a fortress or final redoubt as much as a place of worship. There is little difference between such things in the eyes of Ulric, and so it does not surprise you to see a militia training in the forecourt, many of them young boys and girls on the very edge of adulthood. They don't waver as you approach, moving through a series of basic drills with admirable discipline, and though you know all they will accomplish in the face of a true threat is dying a hair more slowly, you admire their poise all the same. Then you catch sight of the man leading them in their routine and your composure shatters completely.

Father Kurt is a giant of a man set in fervent opposition to the march of time, with snow white hair that remains thick and wrinkled skin painted across a scarred and muscular body. His voice is warm and strong and fresh from your memories, and when he moves it is with an almost audible creak that tells of speed lacking but strength still in abundance.

"Widen your stance, girl," he growls, the words echoing in the now and like a clarion from the deepest recesses of memory, "You think you can stand against an orc like that? A stiff breeze could take you off your feet!"

You stand there, and you stare, and you drink in the sight of him. Marie says something at your side, but you do not hear her. Everything you have and everything you are is given over to this single instant, this knowledge that you were right, that you have succeeded. You have found your father, and now… and now…

"...alright, that's enough for today," the priest says, catching sight of you waiting for him and dismissing the class with a wave of one leathery hand, and as the militia disperse he moves to stand before you. "Well. Don't get many Imperial Wizards out this way. What can I help you with, Magister?"

You hesitate, you lick your lips, you freeze like a frightened child on the eve of battle… and then Marie elbows you in the side and sense returns at last.

"I came to find you," you say, aware that your voice is shaking, aware that your heart is beating loud enough to shake the ground underfoot. "You… I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" Kurt frowns for a moment, weathered skin pulling taut as he looks you up and down with piercing blue eyes, seeming to stare straight through your skin to the shaking soul beneath, "Whatever for?"

"...twenty years ago, a child in this village was found to have the gift of magic," you say, and in one hand you grip the wolf fang pendant hard enough that the point threatens to draw blood, "You saved her, when the village wanted to kill her. You took her south, to Altdorf, and left her with an icon and a cloak from your own shoulders. She has… I have never forgotten it."

There is silence, long and fragile, broken solely by the howl of the wind and the astounded whispers of those discourteous enough to listen. You stand there, frozen as the ice, and wait for the judgement. Then you stagger, the breath leaving your body in a single great rush, as your father crosses the distance between you and wraps great arms around your trembling body.

"Erika!" He roars, laughter in his voice as he lifts you from your feet and twirls you around, and for one beautiful moment you are a little girl once more. "Gods but it's good to see you! Welcome home, little one. I've missed you."

Your heart is melting. Your eyes are burning, what vision you have dissolving into watery depths of tears freely shed and dissolving on the winter breeze. "I've missed you too, father. I… I always meant to… I hope you don't mind…"

"Mind? Why would I mind?" Kurt bellows with mirth, setting you back down again before taking half a step back to look you up and down, "By Ulric you've grown… you're almost as tall as me! Guess they fed you properly down south, at least, that's good, and… oho? Who is this?"

"Sister Marie, honoured father," the priestess at your side says with a polite bow, "of the Temple of Our Merciful Lady. I am travelling in pursuit of my faith, and Magister Kurtsdottir was kind enough to offer me escort."

"Well, that is good to hear, and…" Kurt says, before suddenly pausing. "Magister… Kurtsdottir?"

You hesitate, hands balling back into fists as you blink the tears from your eyes. "I, well… they needed a name, to put on the records, and I… well that is to say, you always were… I don't…"

"Erika," your father says in a quiet voice, taking your hand in his own as he looks you in the eye. You can see the burning orbs that aqshy left in its wake reflected in his pale gaze. "I am honoured."

Oh. Well. You… you don't know what to say, so you stay silent and nod and do your level best to maintain some sense of composure as your heart thunders like a drum and your hands tremble with something midway between relief and exhilaration.

"Come on," the old man says with a rogue's grin, gesturing to the temple, "Let's go somewhere more private. We have a lot of catching up to do, it seems, and I hope you're prepared for questions, because Ulric knows I have enough for… hah. Twenty years, at least."

You nod, a genuine smile on your face for the first time in far too long, and hand in hand you follow where your father leads.

To Be Continued.​

 

[Maugan Ra]

And with that, Wolves and Witches is coming to a close. The story of Erika Kurtsdottir is not done, and I already have a bunch of different ideas bubbling away in my head for plots to follow in the future - her role in the invasion of Azhag the Slaughterer, for example - but those will be the focus of other stories and other quests, not this one.

As for why I'm ending the quest here, there are a few reasons. The main one is that I am starting to run up against the limitations of the mechanical framework I'm using for the quest. I made the decision to borrow the rules from 4th edition WFRP because the brutal, bloody and often dangerous feeling they evoked seemed perfect for the story of a journeywoman wizard making her way in the Old World, but Erika has more or less grown beyond them by this point (if only because the amount of xp she would have if built as a standard PC is well into the realms of several years worth of regular gameplay).

Basically, when you find yourself spending hours just resolving a bunch of dice rolls before the time comes to even write the update proper, it's time to stop. Erika reuniting with her father seemed a perfect place for it, and leaves room for any number of future plots picking her story back up without leaving anything major unresolved or awkwardly handled offscreen. Plus there's even a brand new catalogue of completed quests this can go in now!

I'd like to thank you all for sticking with me for the length of this crazy adventure and for your part in shaping the story of what might, quite possibly, be the most useless lesbian on sufficient velocity. Wouldn't have been the same without you!

 

[Maugan Ra]

For those of you who might still have this thread on watch and be interested, I have actually started a sequel to this quest, taking place a few years down the line. You can find it here: Of Wizards and Winter