Markus von Bruner is a member of the Holy Order of Sigmar's Templars, more popularly known as the Witch Hunters. Follow him as he adventures across Reikland and beyond, rooting out hideous cults, hunting dangerous monsters, and seeking absolution for the sins of his past.
The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
- Fantasy
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- Ongoing
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I - A Judgement Deferred
- Location
- London, England
I - A Judgement Deferred
They are burning a woman in the village square. That is what the stablehand says when he takes your steed, eyes wide with awe and fear alike, but in truth you hardly needed him to speak the words. The skies above are blue and clear, the early spring breeze tinged with just a hint of warmth, but it still feels like a storm is about to break. There is a thickness to the air, harsh and cloying, the same choking sense of pressure that steals over a place in the moments before the heavens open and Mother Rhya vents her wrath. It is the feeling of a community that has turned against its own, and you know it all too well.
The crowds are equally familiar, men and women from all walks of life crowding the streets as they flock towards the spectacle. Some are filled with zealous enthusiasm, others seem nervous and uncertain, but all go pale and clear a path as you walk through the street. Whispers race ahead of you as you walk, muttered oaths and hurried rumours fit to outpace the fastest sprinter, but you pay no heed to either. Nor do you care for the men that doff their hats or the women who pull the children from the road. Duty takes precedent, as it ever does.
The main square is packed full, heaving fit to burst with a hundred families babbling to one another in thrice as many voices. You might think it a market day, but for the lack of farmers. Indeed, you see none present save those whose work might easily be set aside for a bell or two, bakers and weavers and shopkeepers all present where farmers and foresters are not. This is a recent decision, a burning held on short notice without time or opportunity for those further afield to witness. Such haste is likewise obvious in the pyre itself, damp wood and leafy branches piled high in a rough heap atop a stage more suited to a cryer's call than a heretic's demise. Wood of that kind will burn slowly and with great quantities of smoke, afflicting the audience even as it draws out the pain of the accused. It is hasty and amateur and cruel.
You enter the square, and for every step you take the people nearest take two to get out of your way. They know what you are, everyone does. The broad-brimmed hat, the long leather cloak, the grim expression on your face, these things are as much a part of your uniform as the silver pendant at your throat or the papers still resting back in your saddlebags. Your masters taught you to employ such things with the same ruthless surety as the blade you carry at your side, and so a look and a steady pace is enough to forge a path through a crowd a full regiment of soldiers might struggle to clear. You cross the square at a steady pace and place your foot upon the stage, and only then do you look upon the woman that so many have come to see die.
She is thin and fair of skin, not a day past her twentieth year if you had to judge, and her dark hair hangs in a long plait over one shoulder. You think she might be pretty, but it is hard to tell, for she has been beaten severely. Her jaw is swollen and purple, and her throat and shoulders bear a score of ugly bruises. Whoever tied her to the pyre stripped her to the waist first, and you're quite sure that if you fetched a goad from the stables it would match the livid red stripes across her breasts. Her eyes are red and puffy, thick with terror and despair, and a crude gag has been forced between her lips to prevent her from speaking. You take all of this in at length, and only when silence has fallen across the square do you speak.
"What are the charges?"
There are two others sharing the stage with you and the girl now, one rake-thin and clad in a priest's cassock, the other thickset beneath a merchant's finest hose and doublet. The former flinches at your words and says nothing, while the latter draws himself up like an actor upon the stage.
"Sorcery!" he proclaims in a rich baritone, his voice echoing back from the distant walls as he addresses you and the crowd alike. "The wench sought to enchant me, to drive me mad with unclean desires, that I might surrender all I owned in hopes of winning her favour!"
"Liar!" It is not the woman or the witness who speaks, but an old man at the edge of the crowd, his bearded face wet with tears and his arms held firmly by two men who look both sorrowful and resolute, "Heidi would never, could never!"
You hold up one hand, and even the old man - the woman's father, perhaps, judging by the hair and eyes - falls silent. You consider the words and how often you have heard their like before, and then you turn to the priest who has thus far said nothing. "You presided over her trial?"
The priest hesitates, the crowd murmurs, and this alone is enough to tell you the truth of it. There was no trial. The accuser seems a rich man, wealthy beyond what this town alone could support, a figure of influence if not authority. The accused is a young woman, unmarried yet beautiful, with none willing to speak in her defence save one old man blinded by love. The outcome was, from the start, all but inevitable. It is a scene that has played itself out a thousand times or more across the length and breadth of the Empire's history, distinguished solely by a single trait - you are here.
"Come now, Templar, we are humble folk here," the merchant says with an ingratiating smile, "If you demand it then I expect we can arrange a trial with the reeve, but surely my testimony given before mighty Sigmar is…"
The smoky roar of black powder draws shouts of surprise from the crowd, those nearest the stage flinching back in instinctive fear. The sight of the merchant collapsing backwards, his face a ruin of broken meat and fractured bone, is cause for outright screams. You lower the smoking pistol and turn to the crowd, and in the face of your ire even the boldest of them blanches and shrinks back.
"We are a nation of laws!" You roar, mask cracking as the rage in your breast spills forth, the smoke from your pistol veiling you like a vengeful halo, "Communities bound together by code and common cause, united against the monsters in the dark!"
How often did you hear such words as a child? How often did you mouth them without thinking, without ever truly believing, until at last your empty mockery of faith was put to the truest test? Some would caution against applying such condemnation to people who walk the same path as you, but you are not shy in your words or your contempt. You have more than enough left for yourself.
"There is no sin more reviled, no soul more worthy of condemnation, than those who would twist such bonds in service of their petty and wretched ends," you proclaim, holstering now the pistol and gesturing to the nearest of the men among the crowd. "You, who swallowed this man's lies and condemned your sister to death, do not imagine yourselves innocent of his crimes! Your sloth, your weakness, your willingness to believe without proof and pass judgement without law, are sins in the eyes of Sigmar, and one day you will answer for them! Remember this, and be grateful He has given you the chance to mend your ways!"
Some among the crowd look ashamed, others mutinous or defiant, and the greater part simply afraid. You pay no further mind to any of them, instead turning back towards the woman and the old man and gesturing sharply to the nearest of the crowd to free them both. They obey, unwilling to challenge a Templar's order even as their hearts roil in their breast, and you take the opportunity to step up next to the trembling priest. He was too close to the rich man when you shot him, and even now has yet to wipe the blood from his face or step clear of the gore now soaking slowly into his sandals.
"You knew damn well what he was doing, and you stood back and let it happen," you growl, keeping your voice low for the sake of not ruining what little authority Sigmar's worldly servant may yet have. The priest trembles for a moment, then closes his eyes and nods but once. "You failed your duty today, priest. You failed your flock, and you failed your god. Be better, and when the Order of the Flame comes to review your work, have something more than petty excuses to provide them."
The priest blanches at that, as well he should. Of the four Orders that comprise the core of Sigmar's Cult, the Order of the Flame is by far the smallest, but its power and authority are all but unmatched. The Order of the Torch preaches from the pulpit, the Silver Hammer wanders the roads and marches with the army, the Anvil records the Holy Word and rules on matters of doctrine, and the Flame keeps them all honest. They are the Cult's answer to corruption in matters both spiritual and material, sentinels and watchdogs and auditors by turns, and even if they find nothing worthy of condemnation in this man's conduct the mere fact of their attention will blight his career from this moment onward.
"And what of you, Templar?" the priest replies, a touch of venom in his tone as he straightens up and gestures to the corpse lying broken at your feet, "Herr Bueller was a well connected man, with rich relatives and powerful clients from here to Altdorf. When they find out that you executed him like this…"
You smile, grimly amused for reasons this man cannot hope to understand. "Then you will tell them that Markus von Bruner had their kinsman executed, and if they would like to protest the judgement, they will find more than one ally with a similar story awaiting them. All know where to find me."
He doesn't recognise the name or its significance, but then you hardly expected him to. Word of this day's events will get out sooner or later, though, and when it does those who move among your former social circles will hear of it before too long. You expect more than a few of them will curse your name or seek to turn it into a weapon against your long suffering family, but they've been doing that for years. The life of one well connected merchant will not tip the scales.
The woman - Heidi, you owe her the courtesy of a name - has been freed by now, and as you approach she clutches the old man you saw protesting earlier and sobs in desperate relief. She can hardly speak, but her father looks up at you with tears in his eyes and offers a shaky nod. "Thank you, Templar. Never thought I'd say that, but… thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," you say grimly, shaking your head, "She can't stay here. Do you have somewhere to go?"
A moment of confusion, and then grim recognition. The old man understands, and his daughter will too soon enough. It hardly matters that you saved her today, that you killed the man who would condemn her. Heidi's reputation is already ruined, and be it through doubt in your words or an unwillingness to admit error there will be those who remain convinced that she is a witch who escaped her rightful fate. In a small settlement like this, such rumours will kill her as surely as any spear.
"My… my brother Gustav, he runs the Coach and Horses, a few miles down the main road," the old man says after a moment, "I need to take care of things here, but… milord, if you could perhaps…"
"Take her home, pack her things," you say firmly, nodding once and stepping away, "then come and find me by the stables. I'll see her safely there, and have your brother send back word."
You turn away, hiding a wistful sigh as you go. It has been a long day already, and you've several miles more to ride before nightfall it seems, with no prospect of a meal here now that you've caused such a stir. Well, so be it. Even the most compassionate priest would say you deserve at least this much.
-/-
The sun is close to the horizon by the time you arrive at the Coach and Horses inn, and the shadows that gather beneath the forest canopy have grown so thick and coiling you might think them almost alive. The inn is surrounded by a thick wall topped with spikes, as are all such facilities that hope to survive for more than a year or so in these lands, and as you approach the thick wooden gates swing open into the road beyond. A coach erupts from within with violent speed, the wheels creaking loudly as it slews around the corner and thunders down the road, and the drivers atop the main carriage are not sparing with their whips as they drive their horses on into a headlong gallop.
You watch it pass with a frown, unable to catch more than the briefest glimpse of the men driving it or the passengers within. To leave the inn so late will mean travelling on through the night, and that is a dangerous prospect at the best of times, even before you consider the poor condition of many roads and the risk posed by taking them at such speed. Did they see you coming, perhaps, and conclude that the perils of the forest by night are preferable to sharing company with a Templar? It is all too possible, but you can hardly chase them down for an explanation now. Your horse is too tired, to say nothing of your passenger, so you make a mental note to enquire at the next inn along and prod your steed on through the doors.
Heidi sits behind you on the horse, her arms around your waist and her head against your shoulder. She stopped trembling a few minutes after you left her hometown behind, but she still hasn't spoken a single word to you since. You can't blame her, really. Her world has changed so much since she woke this morning, and even if she bears no trauma from the event - an unlikely prospect, to put it mildly - there is little about a witch hunter to inspire much in the way of conversation or the hope of comfort. You sympathise, but what can you do? She is right to fear you.
There is another coach in the yard when you enter, a tall four-wheeled design bearing the livery of Ratchett Coaches, but this one clearly isn't planning to go anywhere before dawn. The team of horses that draw it have been released from their harness and are presently being tended to by a pair of ostlers, one of whom was on the way to close the gate again when you ride in. He looks up at you with fear and alarm in his eyes, but you won't hold it against him. Instead you simply ride your horse over to the small stables and dismount with a grunt, helping Heidi down and handing the reins over to the nearest ostler without a word. Then you turn and head for the common room.
Everyone glances up as you enter, and almost all of them do a double take as they register just what walked in through their door. You see a noble lady raise a hand to her mouth, a young scholar almost drop his book, and a pair of coachmen by the bar who suddenly look like they're regretting having quite so much to drink. There are others present too, but before you can get a good look at them the innkeep hurries out from behind the bar and approaches you at a brisk trot, his mutton-chopped jowls wobbling with each step.
"Ah, my good, ah, sir, truly we are honoured to have a… a holy templar grace our humble establishment this eve," he says, the usual patter falling a bit stiff as he wrestles with the unpleasant shock of having a witch hunter pay his establishment a surprise visit, "Please, come in, and… Heidi? Sigmar's mercy, what are you doing here!?"
The young woman lets out a strangled gasp and all but hurls herself at the innkeep, seizing him in a tight embrace that he returns a shocked moment later. Rather than standing there in silence, you offer to reply on behalf of you both.
"The young lady has lost her home to the sting of false accusation, and now seeks shelter with her kin," you say firmly, raising your voice so that all present can hear you clearly. "I am Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Order of Sigmar's Templars, and I vouch for her innocence and good character. I shall be riding on to Altdorf tomorrow morn, and require only a bed for the night and a meal for the road."
"I… of course, milord, of course," the innkeep replies, tugging at his forelock in instinctive deference to your rank and station both, "Our cleanest room and a full meal, on the house, as gratitude for protecting my niece."
You nod soberly, though in truth you suspect he might have offered you both even without the young woman to speak to your good character. Few commoners are willing to antagonist a noble by demanding payment in advance, and fewer still will risk antagonising a witch hunter by dickering over prices. You'll pay for both if he asks, of course, but until then… well. It's a long way to Altdorf, and your purse is rather lighter than you'd like. Best to save a shilling or two where you can.
The innkeep is already hurrying Heidi away, doubtless to get the full story from her somewhere private where she need not fear you listening in, and you let them both go without a word. It will take a few minutes at least to prepare your food and clean out whichever room they wish to give you, you think, and so you might as well spend it getting to know your new travelling companions. Not that you'll be riding in the coach, of course, but only a fool risks the roads alone these days, and you've questions some of them might be able to answer.
They are burning a woman in the village square. That is what the stablehand says when he takes your steed, eyes wide with awe and fear alike, but in truth you hardly needed him to speak the words. The skies above are blue and clear, the early spring breeze tinged with just a hint of warmth, but it still feels like a storm is about to break. There is a thickness to the air, harsh and cloying, the same choking sense of pressure that steals over a place in the moments before the heavens open and Mother Rhya vents her wrath. It is the feeling of a community that has turned against its own, and you know it all too well.
The crowds are equally familiar, men and women from all walks of life crowding the streets as they flock towards the spectacle. Some are filled with zealous enthusiasm, others seem nervous and uncertain, but all go pale and clear a path as you walk through the street. Whispers race ahead of you as you walk, muttered oaths and hurried rumours fit to outpace the fastest sprinter, but you pay no heed to either. Nor do you care for the men that doff their hats or the women who pull the children from the road. Duty takes precedent, as it ever does.
The main square is packed full, heaving fit to burst with a hundred families babbling to one another in thrice as many voices. You might think it a market day, but for the lack of farmers. Indeed, you see none present save those whose work might easily be set aside for a bell or two, bakers and weavers and shopkeepers all present where farmers and foresters are not. This is a recent decision, a burning held on short notice without time or opportunity for those further afield to witness. Such haste is likewise obvious in the pyre itself, damp wood and leafy branches piled high in a rough heap atop a stage more suited to a cryer's call than a heretic's demise. Wood of that kind will burn slowly and with great quantities of smoke, afflicting the audience even as it draws out the pain of the accused. It is hasty and amateur and cruel.
You enter the square, and for every step you take the people nearest take two to get out of your way. They know what you are, everyone does. The broad-brimmed hat, the long leather cloak, the grim expression on your face, these things are as much a part of your uniform as the silver pendant at your throat or the papers still resting back in your saddlebags. Your masters taught you to employ such things with the same ruthless surety as the blade you carry at your side, and so a look and a steady pace is enough to forge a path through a crowd a full regiment of soldiers might struggle to clear. You cross the square at a steady pace and place your foot upon the stage, and only then do you look upon the woman that so many have come to see die.
She is thin and fair of skin, not a day past her twentieth year if you had to judge, and her dark hair hangs in a long plait over one shoulder. You think she might be pretty, but it is hard to tell, for she has been beaten severely. Her jaw is swollen and purple, and her throat and shoulders bear a score of ugly bruises. Whoever tied her to the pyre stripped her to the waist first, and you're quite sure that if you fetched a goad from the stables it would match the livid red stripes across her breasts. Her eyes are red and puffy, thick with terror and despair, and a crude gag has been forced between her lips to prevent her from speaking. You take all of this in at length, and only when silence has fallen across the square do you speak.
"What are the charges?"
There are two others sharing the stage with you and the girl now, one rake-thin and clad in a priest's cassock, the other thickset beneath a merchant's finest hose and doublet. The former flinches at your words and says nothing, while the latter draws himself up like an actor upon the stage.
"Sorcery!" he proclaims in a rich baritone, his voice echoing back from the distant walls as he addresses you and the crowd alike. "The wench sought to enchant me, to drive me mad with unclean desires, that I might surrender all I owned in hopes of winning her favour!"
"Liar!" It is not the woman or the witness who speaks, but an old man at the edge of the crowd, his bearded face wet with tears and his arms held firmly by two men who look both sorrowful and resolute, "Heidi would never, could never!"
You hold up one hand, and even the old man - the woman's father, perhaps, judging by the hair and eyes - falls silent. You consider the words and how often you have heard their like before, and then you turn to the priest who has thus far said nothing. "You presided over her trial?"
The priest hesitates, the crowd murmurs, and this alone is enough to tell you the truth of it. There was no trial. The accuser seems a rich man, wealthy beyond what this town alone could support, a figure of influence if not authority. The accused is a young woman, unmarried yet beautiful, with none willing to speak in her defence save one old man blinded by love. The outcome was, from the start, all but inevitable. It is a scene that has played itself out a thousand times or more across the length and breadth of the Empire's history, distinguished solely by a single trait - you are here.
"Come now, Templar, we are humble folk here," the merchant says with an ingratiating smile, "If you demand it then I expect we can arrange a trial with the reeve, but surely my testimony given before mighty Sigmar is…"
The smoky roar of black powder draws shouts of surprise from the crowd, those nearest the stage flinching back in instinctive fear. The sight of the merchant collapsing backwards, his face a ruin of broken meat and fractured bone, is cause for outright screams. You lower the smoking pistol and turn to the crowd, and in the face of your ire even the boldest of them blanches and shrinks back.
"We are a nation of laws!" You roar, mask cracking as the rage in your breast spills forth, the smoke from your pistol veiling you like a vengeful halo, "Communities bound together by code and common cause, united against the monsters in the dark!"
How often did you hear such words as a child? How often did you mouth them without thinking, without ever truly believing, until at last your empty mockery of faith was put to the truest test? Some would caution against applying such condemnation to people who walk the same path as you, but you are not shy in your words or your contempt. You have more than enough left for yourself.
"There is no sin more reviled, no soul more worthy of condemnation, than those who would twist such bonds in service of their petty and wretched ends," you proclaim, holstering now the pistol and gesturing to the nearest of the men among the crowd. "You, who swallowed this man's lies and condemned your sister to death, do not imagine yourselves innocent of his crimes! Your sloth, your weakness, your willingness to believe without proof and pass judgement without law, are sins in the eyes of Sigmar, and one day you will answer for them! Remember this, and be grateful He has given you the chance to mend your ways!"
Some among the crowd look ashamed, others mutinous or defiant, and the greater part simply afraid. You pay no further mind to any of them, instead turning back towards the woman and the old man and gesturing sharply to the nearest of the crowd to free them both. They obey, unwilling to challenge a Templar's order even as their hearts roil in their breast, and you take the opportunity to step up next to the trembling priest. He was too close to the rich man when you shot him, and even now has yet to wipe the blood from his face or step clear of the gore now soaking slowly into his sandals.
"You knew damn well what he was doing, and you stood back and let it happen," you growl, keeping your voice low for the sake of not ruining what little authority Sigmar's worldly servant may yet have. The priest trembles for a moment, then closes his eyes and nods but once. "You failed your duty today, priest. You failed your flock, and you failed your god. Be better, and when the Order of the Flame comes to review your work, have something more than petty excuses to provide them."
The priest blanches at that, as well he should. Of the four Orders that comprise the core of Sigmar's Cult, the Order of the Flame is by far the smallest, but its power and authority are all but unmatched. The Order of the Torch preaches from the pulpit, the Silver Hammer wanders the roads and marches with the army, the Anvil records the Holy Word and rules on matters of doctrine, and the Flame keeps them all honest. They are the Cult's answer to corruption in matters both spiritual and material, sentinels and watchdogs and auditors by turns, and even if they find nothing worthy of condemnation in this man's conduct the mere fact of their attention will blight his career from this moment onward.
"And what of you, Templar?" the priest replies, a touch of venom in his tone as he straightens up and gestures to the corpse lying broken at your feet, "Herr Bueller was a well connected man, with rich relatives and powerful clients from here to Altdorf. When they find out that you executed him like this…"
You smile, grimly amused for reasons this man cannot hope to understand. "Then you will tell them that Markus von Bruner had their kinsman executed, and if they would like to protest the judgement, they will find more than one ally with a similar story awaiting them. All know where to find me."
He doesn't recognise the name or its significance, but then you hardly expected him to. Word of this day's events will get out sooner or later, though, and when it does those who move among your former social circles will hear of it before too long. You expect more than a few of them will curse your name or seek to turn it into a weapon against your long suffering family, but they've been doing that for years. The life of one well connected merchant will not tip the scales.
The woman - Heidi, you owe her the courtesy of a name - has been freed by now, and as you approach she clutches the old man you saw protesting earlier and sobs in desperate relief. She can hardly speak, but her father looks up at you with tears in his eyes and offers a shaky nod. "Thank you, Templar. Never thought I'd say that, but… thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," you say grimly, shaking your head, "She can't stay here. Do you have somewhere to go?"
A moment of confusion, and then grim recognition. The old man understands, and his daughter will too soon enough. It hardly matters that you saved her today, that you killed the man who would condemn her. Heidi's reputation is already ruined, and be it through doubt in your words or an unwillingness to admit error there will be those who remain convinced that she is a witch who escaped her rightful fate. In a small settlement like this, such rumours will kill her as surely as any spear.
"My… my brother Gustav, he runs the Coach and Horses, a few miles down the main road," the old man says after a moment, "I need to take care of things here, but… milord, if you could perhaps…"
"Take her home, pack her things," you say firmly, nodding once and stepping away, "then come and find me by the stables. I'll see her safely there, and have your brother send back word."
You turn away, hiding a wistful sigh as you go. It has been a long day already, and you've several miles more to ride before nightfall it seems, with no prospect of a meal here now that you've caused such a stir. Well, so be it. Even the most compassionate priest would say you deserve at least this much.
-/-
The sun is close to the horizon by the time you arrive at the Coach and Horses inn, and the shadows that gather beneath the forest canopy have grown so thick and coiling you might think them almost alive. The inn is surrounded by a thick wall topped with spikes, as are all such facilities that hope to survive for more than a year or so in these lands, and as you approach the thick wooden gates swing open into the road beyond. A coach erupts from within with violent speed, the wheels creaking loudly as it slews around the corner and thunders down the road, and the drivers atop the main carriage are not sparing with their whips as they drive their horses on into a headlong gallop.
You watch it pass with a frown, unable to catch more than the briefest glimpse of the men driving it or the passengers within. To leave the inn so late will mean travelling on through the night, and that is a dangerous prospect at the best of times, even before you consider the poor condition of many roads and the risk posed by taking them at such speed. Did they see you coming, perhaps, and conclude that the perils of the forest by night are preferable to sharing company with a Templar? It is all too possible, but you can hardly chase them down for an explanation now. Your horse is too tired, to say nothing of your passenger, so you make a mental note to enquire at the next inn along and prod your steed on through the doors.
Heidi sits behind you on the horse, her arms around your waist and her head against your shoulder. She stopped trembling a few minutes after you left her hometown behind, but she still hasn't spoken a single word to you since. You can't blame her, really. Her world has changed so much since she woke this morning, and even if she bears no trauma from the event - an unlikely prospect, to put it mildly - there is little about a witch hunter to inspire much in the way of conversation or the hope of comfort. You sympathise, but what can you do? She is right to fear you.
There is another coach in the yard when you enter, a tall four-wheeled design bearing the livery of Ratchett Coaches, but this one clearly isn't planning to go anywhere before dawn. The team of horses that draw it have been released from their harness and are presently being tended to by a pair of ostlers, one of whom was on the way to close the gate again when you ride in. He looks up at you with fear and alarm in his eyes, but you won't hold it against him. Instead you simply ride your horse over to the small stables and dismount with a grunt, helping Heidi down and handing the reins over to the nearest ostler without a word. Then you turn and head for the common room.
Everyone glances up as you enter, and almost all of them do a double take as they register just what walked in through their door. You see a noble lady raise a hand to her mouth, a young scholar almost drop his book, and a pair of coachmen by the bar who suddenly look like they're regretting having quite so much to drink. There are others present too, but before you can get a good look at them the innkeep hurries out from behind the bar and approaches you at a brisk trot, his mutton-chopped jowls wobbling with each step.
"Ah, my good, ah, sir, truly we are honoured to have a… a holy templar grace our humble establishment this eve," he says, the usual patter falling a bit stiff as he wrestles with the unpleasant shock of having a witch hunter pay his establishment a surprise visit, "Please, come in, and… Heidi? Sigmar's mercy, what are you doing here!?"
The young woman lets out a strangled gasp and all but hurls herself at the innkeep, seizing him in a tight embrace that he returns a shocked moment later. Rather than standing there in silence, you offer to reply on behalf of you both.
"The young lady has lost her home to the sting of false accusation, and now seeks shelter with her kin," you say firmly, raising your voice so that all present can hear you clearly. "I am Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Order of Sigmar's Templars, and I vouch for her innocence and good character. I shall be riding on to Altdorf tomorrow morn, and require only a bed for the night and a meal for the road."
"I… of course, milord, of course," the innkeep replies, tugging at his forelock in instinctive deference to your rank and station both, "Our cleanest room and a full meal, on the house, as gratitude for protecting my niece."
You nod soberly, though in truth you suspect he might have offered you both even without the young woman to speak to your good character. Few commoners are willing to antagonist a noble by demanding payment in advance, and fewer still will risk antagonising a witch hunter by dickering over prices. You'll pay for both if he asks, of course, but until then… well. It's a long way to Altdorf, and your purse is rather lighter than you'd like. Best to save a shilling or two where you can.
The innkeep is already hurrying Heidi away, doubtless to get the full story from her somewhere private where she need not fear you listening in, and you let them both go without a word. It will take a few minutes at least to prepare your food and clean out whichever room they wish to give you, you think, and so you might as well spend it getting to know your new travelling companions. Not that you'll be riding in the coach, of course, but only a fool risks the roads alone these days, and you've questions some of them might be able to answer.
Article: Choose one of the following to approach:
[ ] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
Tall, handsome and wearing fine clothes trimmed with lace, Phillipe is the very picture of a charming rake. A former mercenary commander on his way to visit a friend in Altdorf, he is also one of the only people in the inn who doesn't seem even slightly intimidated by your arrival.
[ ] Ernst Heidlemann, the Physician's Apprentice
A gangly man with a narrow face and a truly dreadful haircut, Ernst is on his way to Altdorf to begin his training at the city's famous university. He appears absolutely terrified of you, and is visibly considering whether his pride will allow him to go and hide under the covers in his room.
[ ] Lady Isolde von Strudeldorf, the Drakwalder Noblewoman
An imperious and headstrong woman of high station, and thus one of your few social peers, Lady Isolde has made the unusual decision to travel via public transport with only a single maid and bodyguard for company. She is clearly nervous at your attention, but determined to brazen it out.
Introduction and Character Sheet
- Location
- London, England
This quest, like Of Wolves and Witches before it, is being run on Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 4th Edition rules. A full understanding of the rules is not necessary in order to participate, but for those who are entirely unfamiliar, the following provides a quick summary:
The character sheet, for those curious, can be found here - Markus von Brunner, Witch Hunter
As the name suggests, this quest is going to take Markus through the events of the Enemy Within adventure path, which I have been running for a group of my friends recently and have subsequently become obsessed with. The original adventure was published in the 80s as one of the very first pieces of setting lore for this new-fangled "warhammer fantasy" thing, and has been rereleased and updated every few years ever since.
Those who have some experience with the AP can rest assured that I will be changing enough things around to avoid the most significant spoilers, the specific identities of the villain in each module being a good example.
- This is a percentile based roll-under system. So if you have a skill of 64 in something, you want to roll a d100 and score 64 or less to pass. The lower your number, the better.
- Your target number is set by your base attribute plus your skill modifier. Typically, there will also be significant modifiers from circumstances and difficulty, such as a +20 for shooting something within half range or a -10 for being fatigued.
- Most significant rolls are opposed, so you and the target/opponent both roll, and whoever got the best result wins. This means you can fail your roll and still win, so long as the other guy rolled worse.
- Most humans have an average attribute of 30. A skilled professional will generally be rolling against 40, a veteran against 50, and the most elite against 60 or so, prior to any circumstantial modifiers.
The character sheet, for those curious, can be found here - Markus von Brunner, Witch Hunter
As the name suggests, this quest is going to take Markus through the events of the Enemy Within adventure path, which I have been running for a group of my friends recently and have subsequently become obsessed with. The original adventure was published in the 80s as one of the very first pieces of setting lore for this new-fangled "warhammer fantasy" thing, and has been rereleased and updated every few years ever since.
Those who have some experience with the AP can rest assured that I will be changing enough things around to avoid the most significant spoilers, the specific identities of the villain in each module being a good example.
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So what *is* a Witch Hunter?
- Location
- London, England
The Holy Orders of Sigmar's Templars
Since our protagonist is a Witch Hunter, I think it is important to establish what that actually means, both in terms of your responsibilities and authority and also how people are likely to regard you.
The term 'witch hunter' is a broad one, and often applied without a great deal of precision. Generally, witch hunters fall into the following categories:
As a Templar, your authority derives from the Emperor and the Cult of Sigmar, and while it is significant it is by no means absolute. Your mandate permits you free travel within Sigmar's Empire and the right to interview any subject of the Emperor as you see fit, but you are not inherently endowed with the right to judge or sentence them. Instead, you are expected to restrain your suspects and bring them in for trial, where you will serve as the prosecution and obey the ruling of the court.
(Note that this policy is not absolute - Markus executed Herr Bueller in the first update for knowingly giving false testimony before Sigmar, an act of blasphemy that he as a Templar is permitted to punish accordingly. Also, as a noble in a feudal society he has the right to enact summary judgement on non-nobles who fail to offer the respect and deference due to one of his high station.)
Naturally, what you have the legal authority to do and what people will let you get away with are pretty divergent standards, more contingent on the social standing and relative popularity of your target than any legal principle… but Markus will, for personal reasons, always attempt to stay inside the boundaries of the law.
Since our protagonist is a Witch Hunter, I think it is important to establish what that actually means, both in terms of your responsibilities and authority and also how people are likely to regard you.
The term 'witch hunter' is a broad one, and often applied without a great deal of precision. Generally, witch hunters fall into the following categories:
- Mercenaries - Essentially a specialised form of bounty hunter, pursuing warrants issued by the state on rogue spellcasters and other threats. Probably the most common, has significant overlap with vampire hunters and other specialist trades, but has no legal standing or supporting organisation.
- State Operatives - Many nobles will hire specialist operatives to keep their fiefs secure from 'unhale' forces. Some are experienced professionals who conduct formal investigations, others are little more than hired thugs kept around to terrorise the populace. All derive their authority solely from their patron, and have no legal recourse outside of said noble's demesne.
- Fanatics - Zealous murderers who take the name and aesthetic of the witch hunter to legitimise their pogroms and persecutions, but hold no actual legal authority or formal backing. While legally criminals, many of them retain a degree of popular support that makes arresting them for their actions significantly more challenging than it otherwise might be.
- The Holy Orders - Officially licensed operatives of the Sigmarite Cult, and thanks to the patronage of Magnus the Pious sanctioned agents of the Empire, the Holy Orders are true professionals whose opinion of other 'witch hunters' tends to be strained at best.
As a Templar, your authority derives from the Emperor and the Cult of Sigmar, and while it is significant it is by no means absolute. Your mandate permits you free travel within Sigmar's Empire and the right to interview any subject of the Emperor as you see fit, but you are not inherently endowed with the right to judge or sentence them. Instead, you are expected to restrain your suspects and bring them in for trial, where you will serve as the prosecution and obey the ruling of the court.
(Note that this policy is not absolute - Markus executed Herr Bueller in the first update for knowingly giving false testimony before Sigmar, an act of blasphemy that he as a Templar is permitted to punish accordingly. Also, as a noble in a feudal society he has the right to enact summary judgement on non-nobles who fail to offer the respect and deference due to one of his high station.)
Naturally, what you have the legal authority to do and what people will let you get away with are pretty divergent standards, more contingent on the social standing and relative popularity of your target than any legal principle… but Markus will, for personal reasons, always attempt to stay inside the boundaries of the law.
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
Tall, handsome and wearing fine clothes trimmed with lace, Phillipe is the very picture of a charming rake. A former mercenary commander on his way to visit a friend in Altdorf, he is also one of the only people in the inn who doesn't seem even slightly intimidated by your arrival.
It is a well known fact that a by the book nigh on fanatical THE RULES ARE THE RULES man must be in want of a loose cannon on the edge only plays by his own rules scoundrel man to be his sidekick on their action packed adventures.
Tall, handsome and wearing fine clothes trimmed with lace, Phillipe is the very picture of a charming rake. A former mercenary commander on his way to visit a friend in Altdorf, he is also one of the only people in the inn who doesn't seem even slightly intimidated by your arrival.
It is a well known fact that a by the book nigh on fanatical THE RULES ARE THE RULES man must be in want of a loose cannon on the edge only plays by his own rules scoundrel man to be his sidekick on their action packed adventures.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Lady Isolde von Strudeldorf, the Drakwalder Noblewoman
Might as well check on the sus woman
Might as well check on the sus woman
- Location
- [REDACTED]
[X] Ernst Heidlemann, the Physician's Apprentice
You have my attention.
You have my attention.
mynameisyouQQQ
Miss Brightside
- Location
- A Hell of my own making
- Pronouns
- Fae/Any
[X] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
- Location
- USA
[X] Lady Isolde von Strudeldorf, the Drakwalder Noblewoman
Kaboomatic
Where the Wild Things Are
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
- Location
- Te Ika-a-Māui
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] Lady Isolde von Strudeldorf, the Drakwalder Noblewoman
Why the Strudeldorfs of Drakwald- our great-aunt married the Baron Strudeldorf's second cousin twice removed, and ol' uncle Kasimir of the von Brunners zu Unfähiger knighted a Strudeldorf page while he was dying on the battlefield- we're practically kin!
Why the Strudeldorfs of Drakwald- our great-aunt married the Baron Strudeldorf's second cousin twice removed, and ol' uncle Kasimir of the von Brunners zu Unfähiger knighted a Strudeldorf page while he was dying on the battlefield- we're practically kin!
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Lady Isolde von Strudeldorf, the Drakwalder Noblewoman
[X] Phillipe Descartes, the Bretonnian Gambler
I heard he's a great guy, plays cards with some passing ragtag sorts with no money and no self-respect, doesn't even ask for any coins, wonderful fellow really.
I heard he's a great guy, plays cards with some passing ragtag sorts with no money and no self-respect, doesn't even ask for any coins, wonderful fellow really.
ChiefTurtle117
The Sigillite
- Location
- Holy Terra
Magic sword that cursed him, wants to atone and work within the law. He's totally some stupid noble brat who fucked with illegal magical shit he shouldn't have.
