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
- Created
- Status
- Complete
- Watchers
- 331
- Recent readers
- 171
- Threadmarks
- 69
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Statistics (40 threadmarks, 130k words)
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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.
II - The Road to Altdorf
- Location
- London, England
II - The Road to Altdorf
Is it weak, to flinch away from the frightened stares and nervous glances? To be drawn to the company of those who look at you without hesitation? Perhaps it is. Perhaps you are weak. But even Sigmar rested after his mightiest battles, and preferred the company of friends and companions to strangers and enemies, and you are not so lost as to imagine yourself superior to him. So with a quiet nod and a weary sigh, you approach the well dressed man in the lace shirt.
"Might I sit with you?"
"Of course," the man says, smiling broadly. His is a face well suited to such expression, wrinkles by his lips and the corner of his eyes telling of a joyous life, and there is a twinkle in his eye when he gestures for you to take the seat across the table from him. "Phillipe Descartes, late of Parravon, at your service."
"Markus von Bruner, late of Ubersreik, at yours," you reply, taking a seat and removing the hat from your head. Parravon is in Bretonnia, the first major city one encounters after crossing the Grey Lady Pass, and though Phillipe's reikspeil is excellent you can still detect the soft tones of his native accent beneath each word. "What brings a son of Bretonnia to a wayside inn like this?"
"Poor fortune and a lady's disfavour, alas," Phillipe says with a cheerful shrug, seemingly unbothered by it at all. You remember your sister and her complaints about how long it took the servants to do her hair each morning, and yet here Phillipe sits with glossy black locks longer than hers. "I am… what is the word, a mercenary? No, that sounds too cold. I am a sword for hire, but it seems such men as I are not wanted in my homeland right now, especially after a rather embarrassing loss."
"I would not have thought Bretonnia a land kind to mercenaries at any time," you reply, raising your eyebrows in surprise. You've never actually crossed the border yourself, but stories of the land and its legendary knights have spread far and wide, and you doubt the code of chivalry leaves much room for mere gold as a motive to war. "Unless you are a knight of some kind?"
"Ack, no, and I shall be grateful there are none of my countrymen here to hear you say so," Phillipe laughs again, throwing up his hands, "No, I am a humble yeoman, nothing more. And you are right, Bretonnia is not a land that loves its mercenaries… which is why we do not call ourselves as much, no? We are adventurers, explorers, irregular levies - when I was last in Carcassonne, we called ourselves shepherds! Even had a little lamb to look after, while we patrolled the border with a full score of halberdiers at our back. I tell you, Markus, there never was a sheep so well protected as little Daisy."
Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling. There's just something about the image of a troop of hardened mercenaries protecting a single lamb that strikes a chord somewhere within your heart, and unlike some among the Cult you are not so hardened as to think mere humour a sign of moral degeneracy.
"Are you headed for Altdorf, then?" you ask, "I might have thought you'd prefer to remain closer to the border, where there are more enclaves of your countrymen to be found."
"Ah, so many questions. You are a very suspicious man, Herr Bruner," Phillipe grins to take the sting out of the words, "Yes, I am headed for your capital. I have heard that certain old friends of mine have made their homes there, and if they have not, it is as good a place for a mercenary to find employment as any other, no? And what of you, then, if we are to be sharing our plans for the future?"
You incline your head to recognise the point, for you are indeed a suspicious man by nature. It was not always so, but you might dare the heavens to find a man who has lived your life and remained trusting in the aftermath. "I too am headed for Altdorf, to make a report to my order and receive my next assignment."
"Truly? You Reiklanders speak so proudly of your capital, your jewel of the Reik, and yet you spare not a thought for what you might accomplish within her walls save duty?" Phillipe shakes his head, tsking softly. "This will not do. Come, we will play cards, and you will explain to me what else you do for fun."
"Wait, I," you begin, but it is already too late. From seemingly nowhere at all Phillipe has conjured a small pack of playing cards and begun laying them out upon the table, arranging them by deck and suite. "I am an anointed servant of the faith, you cannot simply ask me to gamble and…"
"I can and I am," the Bretonnian says breezily, pushing past your half-hearted objection, "Come now, we can start with something simple - that Scarlet Empress game you imperials so like, yes? Or you can always go sit somewhere else, if you wish to preserve your virtue from my sinful intent."
You blink, once again entirely wrongfooted. "Did you just… one might almost think you were flirting with a Witch Hunter, Herr Descartes."
"One might, yes," Phillipe grins again, flipping over the first card, "Now… draw."
-/-
The next morning is misty and overcast, cold in the way only the countryside can be. You wake alone in your room, mildly disappointed, and wash yourself briskly with the small bucket of spring water left outside your room. Only once you are properly groomed and fully dressed do you head back downstairs, for a Templar is a symbol more than he is a man, and to be anything less than immaculate in the eyes of your new travelling companions would be a gross dereliction of that duty.
(It's pointless, they all saw you last night. They saw you laugh, and gamble, and tell tales of your homeland. They know you are human.)
The innkeep serves you a humble breakfast of cheese and bread, one you consume in mechanical silence as you watch the rest of the guests stumble awkwardly down the stairs. Most baulk at the sight of you and take their seats elsewhere, and even Phillipe is too busy nursing a mild hangover - you chose not to join him in drinking the ale the innkeep tried to ply you with last night - to do anything more than mutter a greeting. It is, instead, the young woman Heidi who plucks up the will to approach you.
"Ah… master Templar, I…" she says slowly, hesitantly, regarding you as if unsure whether to press on or turn on her heel and flee, "I just wanted to… say thank you. For yesterday, for everything. I thought… I know you're going now, and we probably won't see each other again, but… thank you."
"You are quite welcome, Frau Heidi," you say smoothly, rising to your feet and taking her hand in yours, "While we may never cross paths again, I will take some comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, a good woman is living a full life because of what I did. A man can ask for no greater reward than that."
Then, because you were raised according to certain standards, you lift her hand in yours and plant a gentle kiss against her knuckles, as you might for the fairest of ladies. Heidi freezes for a moment, then blushes violently and all but runs for the door, leaving you standing there before the amused gazes of your travelling companions.
"And here I thought it was the Bretonnians who were renowned for their chivalry," Lady Isolde says idly, as if speaking to her maid instead of the room at large, "Truly, the world is full of wonders."
You shrug, resolutely unbothered by the implied teasing. "Only the lowest of men would permit shame to take precedence over courtesy. Now, I see we are all assembled - when is the carriage to depart?"
"After we have broken our fast, by rights," Lady Isolde says archly, looking around the taproom, "Yet I see no sign of our coachmen, nor any evidence they have prepared the vehicle to depart. Marie, go and rouse them, would you?"
Marie is her bodyguard, and while the lady's decision to travel with such a small party is still unusual, you can at least concede she has chosen her protector well. The woman must surely be of norscan stock, fully six and a half feet tall and broader than you at the shoulder, and when she makes for the common quarters there is a look in her pale eyes fit to make a knight quail in his plate. In the interests of ensuring the coachmen reach their post intact you elect to follow her, and she pays you about as much notice as a troll might a gnat.
Sure enough, the coachmen are still asleep, having drunk away most of their pay the night before with whatever spirits the inn had to offer. They groan and shuffle like the living dead when roused at last from their slumber, and when at last you work with the norscan to drag them outside and dip their heads in the freezing water of the horse trough the vitriol in their curses could strip paint from the temple wall in Altdorf. Even with your steadfast encouragement it takes close to a bell for the coach to be ready, and that too gives way to a solid twenty minutes where one man locks himself in the privy and the other falls asleep atop his post.
You elect to spend the extra time making sure your horse is fully saddled and ready for the day, and you take some satisfaction in how carefully the ostlers saw to her needs. The other passengers embark in ones and twos, each making sure to double check their luggage is properly secured given the evident lack of clear thought among the supposed professionals who will be driving you on today, and you watch with some interest as the young physician's apprentice shoves three different scholarly tomes so deep into his case you fear they might never be seen again, shooting you terrified glances all the while. Perhaps you should investigate them, just in case… but then, you understand most such works are written in the classical tongue, and you never were terribly attentive in your childhood lessons.
Eventually the coachmen are ready, and with a great deal of moaning and groaning they spur their horses into motion and set the carriage rocking on its way. You nudge your steed up alongside them, riding alone and proud against the pale sky, and try not to think about how long it will take you to get to Altdorf if this plodding speed is the best that Ratchett Lines is able to muster. You could ride on alone, of course, but there are dangers enough on the roads these days without adding to them through needless haste. In the end, you settle for leaning over in the saddle and speaking directly to the coachmen in your most professionally mild of voices.
"At this rate, we shall still be on the road when dusk falls this eve," you say with soft and deadly calm, "If we are, gentlemen, I assure you that a hangover will seem the very least of your troubles."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intimidate test. Target is 81, roll is 77. 1SL, raised to 3 by Menacing. Success.
It's not your most effective threat by any means (too much implication, not enough support), but today it serves well enough. The coachmen look at each other and then grit their teeth and spur their horses into a proper trot, coping with the faster swaying motion of their ride as best they can, and with a satisfied smile you nudge your mare into keeping pace. You're actually feeling somewhat good about the day ahead by that point, which of course probably has something to do with why it suddenly begins to rain.
"Of course," you grumble to yourself, turning up the collar of your coat and reflecting once again on the unexpected virtues of a broad-brimmed hat, "what else."
A milestone emerges from the mist and rain to answer your question, promising a mere forty leagues to Altdorf, and in a desperate attempt not to think about it you turn your attention to your surroundings. The weather would make even the most idyllic of surrounds difficult to appreciate, but southern Reikland has a certain rugged charm to it that the drizzle somehow seems to accentuate instead. Something about the shadowed depths of pine set against the pale slopes of the distant mountains seems to complement and even revel in the air of dismal melancholy the rain invokes, and there is nothing that the occasional small hamlet and patchwork assembly of fields and storage barns can do to disrupt the mood.
Almost despite yourself, you find your eyes turning inexorably to the low shale slopes of the east, where the Hägercrybs run in a solid line north to south and cut the Reikland almost in two. The clouds and rain shroud the rugged peaks in their cloying embrace, but here and there you can still see the silhouettes of old burial mounds and long forgotten menhirs standing proud against the ashen skies. A hundred different lords and ladies have sought to chart those hills or run a road across them, yet still the Hägercrybs keep their secrets, as proud and unapproachable today as they were three millennia past, when the oldest of the Unberogens buried their dead beneath the rugged slopes.
It's funny, really. As a scion of the von Bruners you had a childhood filled with opportunities and luxuries that most could scarcely dream of, yet for all those years you knew these lands as little more than lines on a balance sheet or the backdrop to one hunting lodge or another. It is only now that you can even claim to come close to understanding the land that your family purports to rule, and the thought fills you with a strange humour that buoys your spirits even as the rain at last begins to fade away.
Then you round a bend in the road and the coachmen are lurching upright in their seats, tugging sharply on the reins until their steeds shriek and whinny in their alarm.
"Sigmar's hairy balls!"
A minor blasphemy, but one you hardly feel inclined to chastise, for the sight before you is more than enough to excuse it. In the middle of the road up ahead a man lies dead, flat on his front in the muddy ground with the dull fletching of a crossbow bolt protruding from his ribs, but that is not what incites such a response. No, the fear and alarm the coachmen feel is reserved for the figure crouched over the dead man with a rusty knife in hand, wrapped in rags and carving at the corpse with a butcher's mechanical intent.
The thing was human once, you think, a man like you in all the key respects. Then the skin fell from its arms and green ichor took the place of tears, and in the space of a few moments what was once a man became a monster, glaring at you now with hateful eyes beneath a mop of stringy black hair, one neatly severed hand still hanging from its bloodstained maw. It roars and sprints towards you, waving the bloodstained knife wildly in the air, and before your mind can catch up your hands are drawing the pistol from your belt and levelling it at the foe.
Markus tests Ranged (Blackpowder), +20 for short range. Target is 78, roll is 53, hit with +2SL. Damage is 9+2-2 = 9 wounds, killshot.
Your bullet takes the mutant in the chest, a hammer blow of concussive force that stops its charge dead in every way at once, but you have only a moment to be satisfied before the consequences of your hasty shot come calling. Your horse is trained and steadfast, used to the roar of black powder and the screams of the dying, but the beasts that pull the coach cannot say the same. Already on edge after the sudden appearance of a threat, the echo of your shot is enough for them to panic, and with equine screams they buck wildly in place and tear their way free of the harness. One of the coachmen manages to free himself from the reins in time, but the other is pulled headlong from his perch, and tangled up in leather strips is helpless to do anything but scream as the horses gallop for the safety of the treeline.
"Hultz! Shit," the remaining coachman growls, fumbling in a case by his side until he draws out the broad form of a heavy blunderbuss, "we need to get the horses back under control before they kill him."
The door to the carriage swings open, Phillipe Descartes emerging with pistol drawn and one hand steady on the hilt of his sword, but then he sees the corpse lying on the ground and grunts in mild surprise.
"The mutants must have ambushed the previous coach," you growl, tearing open a small satchel of powder and pouring it down the muzzle of your pistol before fumbling at your belt for the next bullet, "this one didn't have a crossbow, which means there is at least one more out there."
"This is a main road to the capital," the coachman growls, following your lead and loading ammunition into his weapon, "what the hell is the road patrol playing at?"
"Things are bad everywhere of late, if you believe the stories," Phillipe says with admirable calm, stepping down out of the coach and eyeing the surrounding forest with a frown. You note that neither the noblewoman or her bodyguard have made an appearance yet, and while the former is to be expected you might hope the latter would know the importance of pitching in during a mess such as this. "I hear some claim the road wardens themselves are corrupt, more interested in their gold and their women than keeping the roads safe for honest sorts."
Part of you wants to chastise the foreigner for speaking so lightly of a land he does not know, but given the current situation you suppose it would be hard to avoid the sting of truth. Besides, it could just as easily be said that the existence of such a threat so close to the heartland is a failure of your order as much as the road wardens, and you do not care to investigate that possibility so soon.
"I… wait, I think I know that guy," the coachman says after a moment, peering down at the dead body of the mutant you shot, "Yeah, that's old Rolf! He was a coachman too, no later than two moons back. What in Sigmar's name happened to the poor bastard?"
You have neither the time nor inclination to explain the exact mechanisms of mutation to this man, though you suppose the mutant's former profession might explain why it felt inclined to target other coaches so close to home. It is often those closest to the lost that are the first to feel their fury, after all. Fortunately you are soon presented with a distraction, as from the depths of the forest to your left a shrill scream cuts through the shadowed boughs like a knife.
"That is a dying horse," Phillipe says with all the grim certainty of a veteran, "A broken leg, I think."
"Not just a horse," you say tightly, for you can hear below the scream a more plaintive tone of distress as well, the kind of noise a human in absolute terror makes before the end, "there's at least one person out there too, for at least as long as it takes the mutants to finish them both off."
You could ride to the rescue swiftly enough, and a large part of you wishes to do just that, but more cautious thoughts have their own opinions to share. It might well be a trap of some kind, meant to lure you off the road and into the treeline, and even if it is not you should probably pay at least some heed to the idea of pursuing Hultz and the horses that were drawing your own coach along before they were lost to panic.
"Well then, Witch Hunter," Phillipe says grimly, hefting his weapons, "Which way do we go?"
Is it weak, to flinch away from the frightened stares and nervous glances? To be drawn to the company of those who look at you without hesitation? Perhaps it is. Perhaps you are weak. But even Sigmar rested after his mightiest battles, and preferred the company of friends and companions to strangers and enemies, and you are not so lost as to imagine yourself superior to him. So with a quiet nod and a weary sigh, you approach the well dressed man in the lace shirt.
"Might I sit with you?"
"Of course," the man says, smiling broadly. His is a face well suited to such expression, wrinkles by his lips and the corner of his eyes telling of a joyous life, and there is a twinkle in his eye when he gestures for you to take the seat across the table from him. "Phillipe Descartes, late of Parravon, at your service."
"Markus von Bruner, late of Ubersreik, at yours," you reply, taking a seat and removing the hat from your head. Parravon is in Bretonnia, the first major city one encounters after crossing the Grey Lady Pass, and though Phillipe's reikspeil is excellent you can still detect the soft tones of his native accent beneath each word. "What brings a son of Bretonnia to a wayside inn like this?"
"Poor fortune and a lady's disfavour, alas," Phillipe says with a cheerful shrug, seemingly unbothered by it at all. You remember your sister and her complaints about how long it took the servants to do her hair each morning, and yet here Phillipe sits with glossy black locks longer than hers. "I am… what is the word, a mercenary? No, that sounds too cold. I am a sword for hire, but it seems such men as I are not wanted in my homeland right now, especially after a rather embarrassing loss."
"I would not have thought Bretonnia a land kind to mercenaries at any time," you reply, raising your eyebrows in surprise. You've never actually crossed the border yourself, but stories of the land and its legendary knights have spread far and wide, and you doubt the code of chivalry leaves much room for mere gold as a motive to war. "Unless you are a knight of some kind?"
"Ack, no, and I shall be grateful there are none of my countrymen here to hear you say so," Phillipe laughs again, throwing up his hands, "No, I am a humble yeoman, nothing more. And you are right, Bretonnia is not a land that loves its mercenaries… which is why we do not call ourselves as much, no? We are adventurers, explorers, irregular levies - when I was last in Carcassonne, we called ourselves shepherds! Even had a little lamb to look after, while we patrolled the border with a full score of halberdiers at our back. I tell you, Markus, there never was a sheep so well protected as little Daisy."
Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling. There's just something about the image of a troop of hardened mercenaries protecting a single lamb that strikes a chord somewhere within your heart, and unlike some among the Cult you are not so hardened as to think mere humour a sign of moral degeneracy.
"Are you headed for Altdorf, then?" you ask, "I might have thought you'd prefer to remain closer to the border, where there are more enclaves of your countrymen to be found."
"Ah, so many questions. You are a very suspicious man, Herr Bruner," Phillipe grins to take the sting out of the words, "Yes, I am headed for your capital. I have heard that certain old friends of mine have made their homes there, and if they have not, it is as good a place for a mercenary to find employment as any other, no? And what of you, then, if we are to be sharing our plans for the future?"
You incline your head to recognise the point, for you are indeed a suspicious man by nature. It was not always so, but you might dare the heavens to find a man who has lived your life and remained trusting in the aftermath. "I too am headed for Altdorf, to make a report to my order and receive my next assignment."
"Truly? You Reiklanders speak so proudly of your capital, your jewel of the Reik, and yet you spare not a thought for what you might accomplish within her walls save duty?" Phillipe shakes his head, tsking softly. "This will not do. Come, we will play cards, and you will explain to me what else you do for fun."
"Wait, I," you begin, but it is already too late. From seemingly nowhere at all Phillipe has conjured a small pack of playing cards and begun laying them out upon the table, arranging them by deck and suite. "I am an anointed servant of the faith, you cannot simply ask me to gamble and…"
"I can and I am," the Bretonnian says breezily, pushing past your half-hearted objection, "Come now, we can start with something simple - that Scarlet Empress game you imperials so like, yes? Or you can always go sit somewhere else, if you wish to preserve your virtue from my sinful intent."
You blink, once again entirely wrongfooted. "Did you just… one might almost think you were flirting with a Witch Hunter, Herr Descartes."
"One might, yes," Phillipe grins again, flipping over the first card, "Now… draw."
-/-
The next morning is misty and overcast, cold in the way only the countryside can be. You wake alone in your room, mildly disappointed, and wash yourself briskly with the small bucket of spring water left outside your room. Only once you are properly groomed and fully dressed do you head back downstairs, for a Templar is a symbol more than he is a man, and to be anything less than immaculate in the eyes of your new travelling companions would be a gross dereliction of that duty.
(It's pointless, they all saw you last night. They saw you laugh, and gamble, and tell tales of your homeland. They know you are human.)
The innkeep serves you a humble breakfast of cheese and bread, one you consume in mechanical silence as you watch the rest of the guests stumble awkwardly down the stairs. Most baulk at the sight of you and take their seats elsewhere, and even Phillipe is too busy nursing a mild hangover - you chose not to join him in drinking the ale the innkeep tried to ply you with last night - to do anything more than mutter a greeting. It is, instead, the young woman Heidi who plucks up the will to approach you.
"Ah… master Templar, I…" she says slowly, hesitantly, regarding you as if unsure whether to press on or turn on her heel and flee, "I just wanted to… say thank you. For yesterday, for everything. I thought… I know you're going now, and we probably won't see each other again, but… thank you."
"You are quite welcome, Frau Heidi," you say smoothly, rising to your feet and taking her hand in yours, "While we may never cross paths again, I will take some comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, a good woman is living a full life because of what I did. A man can ask for no greater reward than that."
Then, because you were raised according to certain standards, you lift her hand in yours and plant a gentle kiss against her knuckles, as you might for the fairest of ladies. Heidi freezes for a moment, then blushes violently and all but runs for the door, leaving you standing there before the amused gazes of your travelling companions.
"And here I thought it was the Bretonnians who were renowned for their chivalry," Lady Isolde says idly, as if speaking to her maid instead of the room at large, "Truly, the world is full of wonders."
You shrug, resolutely unbothered by the implied teasing. "Only the lowest of men would permit shame to take precedence over courtesy. Now, I see we are all assembled - when is the carriage to depart?"
"After we have broken our fast, by rights," Lady Isolde says archly, looking around the taproom, "Yet I see no sign of our coachmen, nor any evidence they have prepared the vehicle to depart. Marie, go and rouse them, would you?"
Marie is her bodyguard, and while the lady's decision to travel with such a small party is still unusual, you can at least concede she has chosen her protector well. The woman must surely be of norscan stock, fully six and a half feet tall and broader than you at the shoulder, and when she makes for the common quarters there is a look in her pale eyes fit to make a knight quail in his plate. In the interests of ensuring the coachmen reach their post intact you elect to follow her, and she pays you about as much notice as a troll might a gnat.
Sure enough, the coachmen are still asleep, having drunk away most of their pay the night before with whatever spirits the inn had to offer. They groan and shuffle like the living dead when roused at last from their slumber, and when at last you work with the norscan to drag them outside and dip their heads in the freezing water of the horse trough the vitriol in their curses could strip paint from the temple wall in Altdorf. Even with your steadfast encouragement it takes close to a bell for the coach to be ready, and that too gives way to a solid twenty minutes where one man locks himself in the privy and the other falls asleep atop his post.
You elect to spend the extra time making sure your horse is fully saddled and ready for the day, and you take some satisfaction in how carefully the ostlers saw to her needs. The other passengers embark in ones and twos, each making sure to double check their luggage is properly secured given the evident lack of clear thought among the supposed professionals who will be driving you on today, and you watch with some interest as the young physician's apprentice shoves three different scholarly tomes so deep into his case you fear they might never be seen again, shooting you terrified glances all the while. Perhaps you should investigate them, just in case… but then, you understand most such works are written in the classical tongue, and you never were terribly attentive in your childhood lessons.
Eventually the coachmen are ready, and with a great deal of moaning and groaning they spur their horses into motion and set the carriage rocking on its way. You nudge your steed up alongside them, riding alone and proud against the pale sky, and try not to think about how long it will take you to get to Altdorf if this plodding speed is the best that Ratchett Lines is able to muster. You could ride on alone, of course, but there are dangers enough on the roads these days without adding to them through needless haste. In the end, you settle for leaning over in the saddle and speaking directly to the coachmen in your most professionally mild of voices.
"At this rate, we shall still be on the road when dusk falls this eve," you say with soft and deadly calm, "If we are, gentlemen, I assure you that a hangover will seem the very least of your troubles."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intimidate test. Target is 81, roll is 77. 1SL, raised to 3 by Menacing. Success.
It's not your most effective threat by any means (too much implication, not enough support), but today it serves well enough. The coachmen look at each other and then grit their teeth and spur their horses into a proper trot, coping with the faster swaying motion of their ride as best they can, and with a satisfied smile you nudge your mare into keeping pace. You're actually feeling somewhat good about the day ahead by that point, which of course probably has something to do with why it suddenly begins to rain.
"Of course," you grumble to yourself, turning up the collar of your coat and reflecting once again on the unexpected virtues of a broad-brimmed hat, "what else."
A milestone emerges from the mist and rain to answer your question, promising a mere forty leagues to Altdorf, and in a desperate attempt not to think about it you turn your attention to your surroundings. The weather would make even the most idyllic of surrounds difficult to appreciate, but southern Reikland has a certain rugged charm to it that the drizzle somehow seems to accentuate instead. Something about the shadowed depths of pine set against the pale slopes of the distant mountains seems to complement and even revel in the air of dismal melancholy the rain invokes, and there is nothing that the occasional small hamlet and patchwork assembly of fields and storage barns can do to disrupt the mood.
Almost despite yourself, you find your eyes turning inexorably to the low shale slopes of the east, where the Hägercrybs run in a solid line north to south and cut the Reikland almost in two. The clouds and rain shroud the rugged peaks in their cloying embrace, but here and there you can still see the silhouettes of old burial mounds and long forgotten menhirs standing proud against the ashen skies. A hundred different lords and ladies have sought to chart those hills or run a road across them, yet still the Hägercrybs keep their secrets, as proud and unapproachable today as they were three millennia past, when the oldest of the Unberogens buried their dead beneath the rugged slopes.
It's funny, really. As a scion of the von Bruners you had a childhood filled with opportunities and luxuries that most could scarcely dream of, yet for all those years you knew these lands as little more than lines on a balance sheet or the backdrop to one hunting lodge or another. It is only now that you can even claim to come close to understanding the land that your family purports to rule, and the thought fills you with a strange humour that buoys your spirits even as the rain at last begins to fade away.
Then you round a bend in the road and the coachmen are lurching upright in their seats, tugging sharply on the reins until their steeds shriek and whinny in their alarm.
"Sigmar's hairy balls!"
A minor blasphemy, but one you hardly feel inclined to chastise, for the sight before you is more than enough to excuse it. In the middle of the road up ahead a man lies dead, flat on his front in the muddy ground with the dull fletching of a crossbow bolt protruding from his ribs, but that is not what incites such a response. No, the fear and alarm the coachmen feel is reserved for the figure crouched over the dead man with a rusty knife in hand, wrapped in rags and carving at the corpse with a butcher's mechanical intent.
The thing was human once, you think, a man like you in all the key respects. Then the skin fell from its arms and green ichor took the place of tears, and in the space of a few moments what was once a man became a monster, glaring at you now with hateful eyes beneath a mop of stringy black hair, one neatly severed hand still hanging from its bloodstained maw. It roars and sprints towards you, waving the bloodstained knife wildly in the air, and before your mind can catch up your hands are drawing the pistol from your belt and levelling it at the foe.
Markus tests Ranged (Blackpowder), +20 for short range. Target is 78, roll is 53, hit with +2SL. Damage is 9+2-2 = 9 wounds, killshot.
Your bullet takes the mutant in the chest, a hammer blow of concussive force that stops its charge dead in every way at once, but you have only a moment to be satisfied before the consequences of your hasty shot come calling. Your horse is trained and steadfast, used to the roar of black powder and the screams of the dying, but the beasts that pull the coach cannot say the same. Already on edge after the sudden appearance of a threat, the echo of your shot is enough for them to panic, and with equine screams they buck wildly in place and tear their way free of the harness. One of the coachmen manages to free himself from the reins in time, but the other is pulled headlong from his perch, and tangled up in leather strips is helpless to do anything but scream as the horses gallop for the safety of the treeline.
"Hultz! Shit," the remaining coachman growls, fumbling in a case by his side until he draws out the broad form of a heavy blunderbuss, "we need to get the horses back under control before they kill him."
The door to the carriage swings open, Phillipe Descartes emerging with pistol drawn and one hand steady on the hilt of his sword, but then he sees the corpse lying on the ground and grunts in mild surprise.
"The mutants must have ambushed the previous coach," you growl, tearing open a small satchel of powder and pouring it down the muzzle of your pistol before fumbling at your belt for the next bullet, "this one didn't have a crossbow, which means there is at least one more out there."
"This is a main road to the capital," the coachman growls, following your lead and loading ammunition into his weapon, "what the hell is the road patrol playing at?"
"Things are bad everywhere of late, if you believe the stories," Phillipe says with admirable calm, stepping down out of the coach and eyeing the surrounding forest with a frown. You note that neither the noblewoman or her bodyguard have made an appearance yet, and while the former is to be expected you might hope the latter would know the importance of pitching in during a mess such as this. "I hear some claim the road wardens themselves are corrupt, more interested in their gold and their women than keeping the roads safe for honest sorts."
Part of you wants to chastise the foreigner for speaking so lightly of a land he does not know, but given the current situation you suppose it would be hard to avoid the sting of truth. Besides, it could just as easily be said that the existence of such a threat so close to the heartland is a failure of your order as much as the road wardens, and you do not care to investigate that possibility so soon.
"I… wait, I think I know that guy," the coachman says after a moment, peering down at the dead body of the mutant you shot, "Yeah, that's old Rolf! He was a coachman too, no later than two moons back. What in Sigmar's name happened to the poor bastard?"
You have neither the time nor inclination to explain the exact mechanisms of mutation to this man, though you suppose the mutant's former profession might explain why it felt inclined to target other coaches so close to home. It is often those closest to the lost that are the first to feel their fury, after all. Fortunately you are soon presented with a distraction, as from the depths of the forest to your left a shrill scream cuts through the shadowed boughs like a knife.
"That is a dying horse," Phillipe says with all the grim certainty of a veteran, "A broken leg, I think."
"Not just a horse," you say tightly, for you can hear below the scream a more plaintive tone of distress as well, the kind of noise a human in absolute terror makes before the end, "there's at least one person out there too, for at least as long as it takes the mutants to finish them both off."
You could ride to the rescue swiftly enough, and a large part of you wishes to do just that, but more cautious thoughts have their own opinions to share. It might well be a trap of some kind, meant to lure you off the road and into the treeline, and even if it is not you should probably pay at least some heed to the idea of pursuing Hultz and the horses that were drawing your own coach along before they were lost to panic.
"Well then, Witch Hunter," Phillipe says grimly, hefting his weapons, "Which way do we go?"
Article: Choose one:
[ ] Follow Hultz. You will seek the coachman who was dragged off into the trees and seek to round up the horses who draw your coach.
[ ] Follow the Screams. You will follow the sounds of distress and seek to save the people making them, or at least to punish those responsible.
III - A Twisted Mirror
- Location
- London, England
III - A Twisted Mirror
If there is one justification for your existence, for the existence of your entire order, it is this: when monsters prowl the forests and screams ring out through the night, you are there.
"With me," you say tersely, swinging yourself out of your saddle and down onto the muddy road, because if there is one thing your old tutors impressed upon you it was to never try riding a horse at speed through dense terrain, "Coachman, look after my steed, and if we do not return take the lady and ride for the nearest town."
The man stammers out some form of agreement, but you don't have the time to stick around and listen, for the forest beckons and with grim purpose you allow it to swallow you whole. Dark pines and gnarled oaks rise in all directions like the bristles of some wild beast, and the mud underfoot is twisted and contoured by a thousand grasping roots. You push through at a steady pace, trusting in your leather coat to keep the bristles and brambles from your flesh, and to your rear Phillipe keeps pace with professional ease. You wonder briefly how the forests of Bretonnia compare to those of your home, then banish the thought and focus on the fight to come.
To your mild surprise, after less than a minute the forest opens up once again, another road cutting through the dense foliage and running off towards the west. Did the dead man you saw earlier flee through the forest only to be run down, or did the mutant drag his corpse there for some unknown reason? Regardless, you have found the rest of his band and the source of the attack both, for on the far side of the road a coach lies overturned with a broken axle, bodies littering the road around it like leaves fallen from the branch. Two of the horses are still alive, trapped in their twisted harnesses, while a third is currently being butchered by the methodical blows of a woodsman's axe in the hands of a hunchbacked brute in a heavy leather apron.
"I count five," Phillipe murmurs, pressing his back against the trunk of an old oak tree and peeking out for a moment, "you concur?"
"Aye," you growl, crouching behind an overturned log as you survey the scene. Aside from the butcher, you can see two lean forms stalking among the dead to pocket their possessions, while two more hunch down by the flank of the overturned coach. The screams, it seems, were coming from that last pair - it is hard to make out the details from this distance, but you think one of them must have been wounded in the ambush, for the other is crouched by its side with a long length of fabric that it is attempting to apply as a crude tourniquet. "Start with the looters. I'll take the one on the left."
Your chosen target is, you would guess, the leader of this little band of outcasts and monsters. Certainly it is the best equipped among them, clad in a full set of leather armour and carrying a loaded crossbow in one hand, and were it not for the thick green scales covering it from head to toe you could almost mistake it for the soldier it likely once was. Curiously, it isn't actually looting the dead bodies like you initially assumed. Instead it seems to be inspecting them, moving to each one in turn and rolling them over with a booted foot before looking back at a piece of paper in its left hand.
"On three, then…" Phillipe murmurs, as the two of you rise from your positions and level your pistols at the unsuspecting mutants, "One… two… three!"
The Bretonnian's bullet strikes his target square, pitching a cloven-hoofed looter over onto his back in the mud with a choked scream, but some foul instinct warns your target and it lurches aside at the last second. Your bullet whistles past its ear, but it merely drops to one knee and brings its crossbow up to his shoulder.
"Ambush!" it roars, golden yellow eyes scanning the treeline, "There, at the smoke! Terenz, Johann, get them before they can reload!"
"Ah, a professional. I hate fighting professionals," Phillipe growls, already pulling a bag of powder out of his belt pouch and feeding it down the muzzle of his pistol. You don't have time to respond, for at their leader's command the creature butchering the horses and the one that was bandaging the other's wounds both turn and begin charging across the open ground towards you.
Your thoughts race, facts clicking into place like the pieces of a puzzle. Your pistol is empty, as is Phillipe's. He is reloading, but there is no chance you will be ready before the mutants reach you. The enemy has a crossbow and the weight of numbers, if allowed to gain the momentum they will swiftly become more than you can handle. Decisive action is called for, and so you stow your pistol and draw your sword.
"Wait, what are you…" Phillipe begins as you step out of cover, the crossbow bolt hissing like a serpent as it skims past your left arm, but you are already advancing. Ideally a duelist of your education would have a rapier in one hand and a swordbreaker in the other, but in a pinch the silvered blade of a templar and a simple dagger will do just as well.
The first mutant, the one that was butchering the horse and still carries the bloodstained axe in one hand, at first seems to have no head at all. It is only when its leather coat hangs open that you spot the face growing like a cancerous tumour out of its chest, and with it the livid blue-and-yellow bruise that spreads across the chest. It has already been injured, struck a hefty blow by someone fighting in defence of the earlier coach, and that injury provides a perfect vulnerability for you to exploit. You step in and ram your blessed sword straight through the displaced cheek, already turning to lash out with the dagger in a follow up attack against the second mutant. This one features great growths of bone that have burst out from beneath its skin like coral, and the edge of your knife deflects from one of those just enough to leave a bleeding cut instead of an open gut.
"Bastard!" the mutant cries out, hacking wildly at you with a length of wood it wields like a club as you dance backwards out of the way, "Templar scum! Come on, Terenz, get up, quickly!"
Terenz, as you assume the other mutant must be called, cannot reply. It is too busy choking on its own blood, thrashing around on the floor, and you see the moment the realisation enters the bone-clad mutant's head, for it howls in abject despair and presses forward once more. Somewhere behind you there is a roar of gunfire as Phillipe opens fire once more, but you cannot take your gaze off your current assailant long enough to watch.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it all!" The bony mutant curses, flailing wildly at you with its club, eyes casting desperately around, "Knud, you coward, get back here and-"
The distraction provides the opening you need, and with a quick step and sharp thrust you put your blade through the creature's chest. A templar's sword is blessed in the light of Sigmar to bring death to even the unreal and the undying, but a mutant requires no such potency to slay. It has a heart like any other man, and when pierced falls dead at your feet like a puppet with its strings cut.
You pivot on your heel, lifting your blades into a classical duelist's pose to meet the next challenger, but it proves unnecessary. The remaining pair of mutants are fleeing, the scaled man afflicted with a painful looking limp, the strange canine looking creature stumbling on three limbs and using the fourth to hold the bandages around its midriff in place. Already, they are all but lost from view between the trees.
"Victory, it seems," Phillipe says in a cheerful tone, stepping up next to you, "Shall we pursue?"
"On foot, through the forest? No," you shake your head, marking the look of the two mutants in your mind. If they survived long enough to begin preying on coaches they almost certainly have a camp or redoubt somewhere nearby, and that is a threat you and a single Bretonnian mercenary are ill-equipped to face. "We have done what we ought. Let us check the bodies - there may yet be survivors."
Alas, it seems the mutants took no chances when they launched their ambush, and save for the two horses still tangled up in their harnesses, nothing here survived their fury. You find the corpses of three tradesmen and an initiate of Sigmar among the ruins, the last bearing a bloodstained hammer that clearly saw use in that final, desperate defence. Murmuring a prayer to your shared lord, you pull the novice and his fellow travellers away from the wreckage and lay them out beside the road. Such savagery is unusual; in your experience, even the most ruthless of bandits will give at least some thought to ransom, and mutants who survive any length of time are rarely so keen as to draw the state troops down on their heads through indiscriminate massacre.
Struck by a sudden thought, you walk back across the road to where the scale-skinned mutant with a crossbow was standing where the battle began. Sure enough, the parchment he was consulting is still there, stained in blood and mud but still legible. You pick it up and brush away the worst of the stains, then turn it over and almost choke in surprise. The top half of the paper is given over to a map of the local area, the intersection between this road and the route your own coach was travelling circled in red, but the lower half contains a crude yet instantly recognisable drawing of your own face.
"What in Sigmar's name…" you murmur, staring at the parchment as though it might disappear before your very eyes. Were the mutants after you, then, and struck the wrong coach by accident? No, that cannot be the case, for while you were en route to Altdorf it was only the business with Heidi that saw you come this way now instead of in a few days more.
"Ah, Lady have mercy… Markus?" Phillipe calls out, incredulity mixing with alarm in his tone, "You may wish to see this."
Somehow, part of you knows what you are going to see before you even look. Sure enough, Phillipe has found another corpse, the body of the one passenger who managed to run far enough to make it a few dozen paces down the road after the coach was overturned. A crossbow bolt protrudes from his back, just below the neck, and you can see where he fell to the ground and then clawed his way forward the last few desperate feet before the blood loss claimed him. His face, twisted in death and the fear that preceded it, is entirely and wholly familiar.
"Do you… have a brother, monsieur?" Phillipe asks cautiously, as though you might be about to break down in tears or roar in fury at the heavens, but you can only shake your head. The resemblance is uncanny: this is no mere familial relation you are looking at, but a veritable copy, as if you were simply plucked from your bed one day and dressed in foreign clothes. He even wears his hair the same way.
"No. Well, yes, but Rikard is shorter, younger, with my mother's pale hair," you mutter, staring down at the corpse and comparing it to the letter in your hand, "The von Bruner family is old, and we have cousins across Reikland and beyond, but this is… unless I was somehow born a twin, and nobody told me?"
It would not be the strangest thing your father did, nor the most pointlessly cruel, but even for him this would seem far out of line. You kneel by the corpse, rubbing your jaw in hopes of understanding, and so are close enough to spot a bloodstained sheath of papers protruding from your doppelganger's doublet. The first is a signed affidavit, a document you are passingly familiar with, confirming that the bearer is a man by the name of Kastor Lieberung of Nuln. The signatories are a lawyer and two priests, and though you have never been to Nuln you expect you could track down the individuals in question easily enough.
The second document is a letter.
"You know, I am new to these lands," Phillipe says in a thoughtful kind of way, "But it occurs to me that twenty thousand gold crowns… this is a lot of money, no?"
"A very great quantity, yes," you mutter, rising back to your feet and considering the matter. Even you, who were born noble and raised in the very lap of luxury, have never reckoned with such great wealth before. "One could train and outfit an entire company of knights for such a fee, and likely build a fortress for them to dwell within at that. To say nothing of the noble title…"
A baronet is among the very lowest kind of noble title, it must be said, but for most within the Empire even such a modest rank would represent a near incomprehensible increase in their fortunes. Indeed, there are a great many nobles who might leap at the chance to inherit a title of their own, even one so meagre as that, instead of relying solely on their family's largesse.
"Yes indeed, money enough to drive a man to many things," Phillipe murmurs, his voice distant, "And all to be bestowed on the man who arrives at this address and presents this letter, then?"
You look up at him then, one hand going to the hilt of your sword. "You are not thinking of impersonating the man, I trust?"
Phillipe shrugs, hands open and away from his sides. "The thought did occur. I could raise and equip a full company of my fellows for even a fraction of that fee, or perhaps simply retire to a life of ease. And you… it is not as if you men of Sigmar are sworn to poverty, no?"
"That is not the point," you say through gritted teeth, wondering if you are going to have to draw your blade on an ally once again, "to commit such fraud would be a severe crime. To do so merely in the interests of personal gain…"
"Who said it would be for that alone, mm? Not I," Phillipe says carefully, a sharp gleam in his eye, "Think of it, Markus. This Baronet, he has perished already, his one heir now dead on the road. There is no victim here, and surely you could do great things with the coin, no? A grand temple, perhaps, or a hospice for the poor. An orphanage, maybe, or a school… even a band of your own, to follow you into battle against Sigmar's foes!"
He isn't wrong. You could do a great deal with such coin, great works of charity and military might… Even if you simply donated it all to the Cult, that would in turn have a far mightier impact than simply letting the coin rest in legal limbo, but… does that make it acceptable? And if it does not… what of Phillipe, who is quite transparently weighing his options?
If there is one justification for your existence, for the existence of your entire order, it is this: when monsters prowl the forests and screams ring out through the night, you are there.
"With me," you say tersely, swinging yourself out of your saddle and down onto the muddy road, because if there is one thing your old tutors impressed upon you it was to never try riding a horse at speed through dense terrain, "Coachman, look after my steed, and if we do not return take the lady and ride for the nearest town."
The man stammers out some form of agreement, but you don't have the time to stick around and listen, for the forest beckons and with grim purpose you allow it to swallow you whole. Dark pines and gnarled oaks rise in all directions like the bristles of some wild beast, and the mud underfoot is twisted and contoured by a thousand grasping roots. You push through at a steady pace, trusting in your leather coat to keep the bristles and brambles from your flesh, and to your rear Phillipe keeps pace with professional ease. You wonder briefly how the forests of Bretonnia compare to those of your home, then banish the thought and focus on the fight to come.
To your mild surprise, after less than a minute the forest opens up once again, another road cutting through the dense foliage and running off towards the west. Did the dead man you saw earlier flee through the forest only to be run down, or did the mutant drag his corpse there for some unknown reason? Regardless, you have found the rest of his band and the source of the attack both, for on the far side of the road a coach lies overturned with a broken axle, bodies littering the road around it like leaves fallen from the branch. Two of the horses are still alive, trapped in their twisted harnesses, while a third is currently being butchered by the methodical blows of a woodsman's axe in the hands of a hunchbacked brute in a heavy leather apron.
"I count five," Phillipe murmurs, pressing his back against the trunk of an old oak tree and peeking out for a moment, "you concur?"
"Aye," you growl, crouching behind an overturned log as you survey the scene. Aside from the butcher, you can see two lean forms stalking among the dead to pocket their possessions, while two more hunch down by the flank of the overturned coach. The screams, it seems, were coming from that last pair - it is hard to make out the details from this distance, but you think one of them must have been wounded in the ambush, for the other is crouched by its side with a long length of fabric that it is attempting to apply as a crude tourniquet. "Start with the looters. I'll take the one on the left."
Your chosen target is, you would guess, the leader of this little band of outcasts and monsters. Certainly it is the best equipped among them, clad in a full set of leather armour and carrying a loaded crossbow in one hand, and were it not for the thick green scales covering it from head to toe you could almost mistake it for the soldier it likely once was. Curiously, it isn't actually looting the dead bodies like you initially assumed. Instead it seems to be inspecting them, moving to each one in turn and rolling them over with a booted foot before looking back at a piece of paper in its left hand.
"On three, then…" Phillipe murmurs, as the two of you rise from your positions and level your pistols at the unsuspecting mutants, "One… two… three!"
The Bretonnian's bullet strikes his target square, pitching a cloven-hoofed looter over onto his back in the mud with a choked scream, but some foul instinct warns your target and it lurches aside at the last second. Your bullet whistles past its ear, but it merely drops to one knee and brings its crossbow up to his shoulder.
"Ambush!" it roars, golden yellow eyes scanning the treeline, "There, at the smoke! Terenz, Johann, get them before they can reload!"
"Ah, a professional. I hate fighting professionals," Phillipe growls, already pulling a bag of powder out of his belt pouch and feeding it down the muzzle of his pistol. You don't have time to respond, for at their leader's command the creature butchering the horses and the one that was bandaging the other's wounds both turn and begin charging across the open ground towards you.
We begin by calculating the advantage scores. Advantage is a resource that friends and enemies share and can be spent to activate special abilities or modify tests.
Combat turns are taken in order of initiative. The mutant leader has an initiative of 35 and so would normally go first, but Surprise means that Markus and Phillipe get to act unopposed for the first round. Markus has initiative 32 while Phillipe has initiative 31, so Markus goes first.
He fires at the mutant leader with his pistol. He gets a +20 modifier for taking the time to aim, and so he is rolling against 78. He rolls 93, which would be a miss, and so elects to spend a fortune point to reroll. Unfortunately the reroll is 79, and so he misses anyway.
Being shot at by blackpowder weapons is terrifying, and so the mutant leader must take an Average (+20) Cool test not to break immediately. He rolls a 16 and holds his nerve.
Phillipe has a skill of 60, which is raised to 80 by the aiming. He shoots at the other looter and rolls a 47. This is a hit with 4 Success Levels (the difference in the 10s digit, so 8-4), so he deals 9+4 = 13 base damage. The mutant reduces this by 3 due to his toughness, but 10 wounds is still enough to kill him.
The party advantage score rises to 4, as Phillipe removed an enemy.
- Markus and Phillipe are attacking from surprise and have cover, so they begin with 3 points of advantage.
- The mutants outnumber our heroes by 2:1, and so begin with 2 points of advantage.
Combat turns are taken in order of initiative. The mutant leader has an initiative of 35 and so would normally go first, but Surprise means that Markus and Phillipe get to act unopposed for the first round. Markus has initiative 32 while Phillipe has initiative 31, so Markus goes first.
He fires at the mutant leader with his pistol. He gets a +20 modifier for taking the time to aim, and so he is rolling against 78. He rolls 93, which would be a miss, and so elects to spend a fortune point to reroll. Unfortunately the reroll is 79, and so he misses anyway.
Being shot at by blackpowder weapons is terrifying, and so the mutant leader must take an Average (+20) Cool test not to break immediately. He rolls a 16 and holds his nerve.
Phillipe has a skill of 60, which is raised to 80 by the aiming. He shoots at the other looter and rolls a 47. This is a hit with 4 Success Levels (the difference in the 10s digit, so 8-4), so he deals 9+4 = 13 base damage. The mutant reduces this by 3 due to his toughness, but 10 wounds is still enough to kill him.
The party advantage score rises to 4, as Phillipe removed an enemy.
Your thoughts race, facts clicking into place like the pieces of a puzzle. Your pistol is empty, as is Phillipe's. He is reloading, but there is no chance you will be ready before the mutants reach you. The enemy has a crossbow and the weight of numbers, if allowed to gain the momentum they will swiftly become more than you can handle. Decisive action is called for, and so you stow your pistol and draw your sword.
"Wait, what are you…" Phillipe begins as you step out of cover, the crossbow bolt hissing like a serpent as it skims past your left arm, but you are already advancing. Ideally a duelist of your education would have a rapier in one hand and a swordbreaker in the other, but in a pinch the silvered blade of a templar and a simple dagger will do just as well.
The first mutant, the one that was butchering the horse and still carries the bloodstained axe in one hand, at first seems to have no head at all. It is only when its leather coat hangs open that you spot the face growing like a cancerous tumour out of its chest, and with it the livid blue-and-yellow bruise that spreads across the chest. It has already been injured, struck a hefty blow by someone fighting in defence of the earlier coach, and that injury provides a perfect vulnerability for you to exploit. You step in and ram your blessed sword straight through the displaced cheek, already turning to lash out with the dagger in a follow up attack against the second mutant. This one features great growths of bone that have burst out from beneath its skin like coral, and the edge of your knife deflects from one of those just enough to leave a bleeding cut instead of an open gut.
"Bastard!" the mutant cries out, hacking wildly at you with a length of wood it wields like a club as you dance backwards out of the way, "Templar scum! Come on, Terenz, get up, quickly!"
Terenz, as you assume the other mutant must be called, cannot reply. It is too busy choking on its own blood, thrashing around on the floor, and you see the moment the realisation enters the bone-clad mutant's head, for it howls in abject despair and presses forward once more. Somewhere behind you there is a roar of gunfire as Phillipe opens fire once more, but you cannot take your gaze off your current assailant long enough to watch.
Round Two
- Mutant leader fires at Markus. He gets a +20 for short range, -20 for the medium cover, and so rolls against 52. He rolls a 75 and thus misses.
- Markus switches to sword and dagger and charges out to meet the two mutants. His skill is 58, +10 for the charge. He rolls 68, and thus gets a bare hit, raised to +1 by dual wielder.
- The pin-headed mutant has a skill of 45, and rolls 67, failing by -2SL. Markus hits, inflicting SB+4+1+2 = 10 damage. The mutant, already wounded by the earlier ambush, perishes.
- Markus reverses his roll to get 86 to hit with his dagger, a total of -2SL. The second mutant, with a bony growth, rolls against 45 and gets 86, failing by -4. Markus hits with net +2SL, inflicting SB+2+2 = 7 damage, reduced to 4 by the mutant's toughness bonus. It is injured, but alive.
- Markus adds +3 advantage to the pool for winning two opposed rolls and killing an opponent, bringing the group advantage to 7.
- Phillipe rolls to reload his pistol. This is an extended range test, requiring (for a pistol) one SL. He rolls against his skill of 60 and gets 49, more than sufficient.
- Phillipe spends four advantage points to take an additional action. He fires at the mutant leader, and spends the remaining 3 advantage to add +20 to his test. His skill is therefore 80, and he rolls 78, enough for a bare hit.
- Pistols deal 9 damage base, but bypass non metal armour. The mutant leader takes six wounds, bringing him to half health.
- The leader tests his cool again, and with a 76 fails. He gets a Broken condition.
- The bone-growth mutant, badly wounded and furious, spends his side's two advantage points to attack Markus with a +10 on his skill. He rolls against 55 and gets 97, a miss by -4.
- Markus takes a -10 penalty on his defence because he used dual wielder. Thus he rolls against 48 and gets 45, successfully fending off the attack and gaining 1 advantage.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it all!" The bony mutant curses, flailing wildly at you with its club, eyes casting desperately around, "Knud, you coward, get back here and-"
The distraction provides the opening you need, and with a quick step and sharp thrust you put your blade through the creature's chest. A templar's sword is blessed in the light of Sigmar to bring death to even the unreal and the undying, but a mutant requires no such potency to slay. It has a heart like any other man, and when pierced falls dead at your feet like a puppet with its strings cut.
You pivot on your heel, lifting your blades into a classical duelist's pose to meet the next challenger, but it proves unnecessary. The remaining pair of mutants are fleeing, the scaled man afflicted with a painful looking limp, the strange canine looking creature stumbling on three limbs and using the fourth to hold the bandages around its midriff in place. Already, they are all but lost from view between the trees.
"Victory, it seems," Phillipe says in a cheerful tone, stepping up next to you, "Shall we pursue?"
"On foot, through the forest? No," you shake your head, marking the look of the two mutants in your mind. If they survived long enough to begin preying on coaches they almost certainly have a camp or redoubt somewhere nearby, and that is a threat you and a single Bretonnian mercenary are ill-equipped to face. "We have done what we ought. Let us check the bodies - there may yet be survivors."
Round Three
- Having a broken condition, the mutant leader is obligated to flee as fast as he can, running off into the forest. He is joined by the fifth, already badly injured mutant.
- Markus makes an attack against the bony mutant to finish him off. He has a skill of 58 and rolls 52, a bare hit that gets +1SL from the dual wielder talent.
- The mutant rolls to defend against 45 and rolls a 99. This is a failure by -5SL and also a fumble. He drops his weapon and then takes SB+4+1+5= 13 damage, which would kill him even at full health.
- Phillipe moves up here, but still need to reload his pistol, and there is not enough advantage to repeat the earlier trick of acting twice in a round. Thus, combat essentially ends here.
Alas, it seems the mutants took no chances when they launched their ambush, and save for the two horses still tangled up in their harnesses, nothing here survived their fury. You find the corpses of three tradesmen and an initiate of Sigmar among the ruins, the last bearing a bloodstained hammer that clearly saw use in that final, desperate defence. Murmuring a prayer to your shared lord, you pull the novice and his fellow travellers away from the wreckage and lay them out beside the road. Such savagery is unusual; in your experience, even the most ruthless of bandits will give at least some thought to ransom, and mutants who survive any length of time are rarely so keen as to draw the state troops down on their heads through indiscriminate massacre.
Struck by a sudden thought, you walk back across the road to where the scale-skinned mutant with a crossbow was standing where the battle began. Sure enough, the parchment he was consulting is still there, stained in blood and mud but still legible. You pick it up and brush away the worst of the stains, then turn it over and almost choke in surprise. The top half of the paper is given over to a map of the local area, the intersection between this road and the route your own coach was travelling circled in red, but the lower half contains a crude yet instantly recognisable drawing of your own face.
"What in Sigmar's name…" you murmur, staring at the parchment as though it might disappear before your very eyes. Were the mutants after you, then, and struck the wrong coach by accident? No, that cannot be the case, for while you were en route to Altdorf it was only the business with Heidi that saw you come this way now instead of in a few days more.
"Ah, Lady have mercy… Markus?" Phillipe calls out, incredulity mixing with alarm in his tone, "You may wish to see this."
Somehow, part of you knows what you are going to see before you even look. Sure enough, Phillipe has found another corpse, the body of the one passenger who managed to run far enough to make it a few dozen paces down the road after the coach was overturned. A crossbow bolt protrudes from his back, just below the neck, and you can see where he fell to the ground and then clawed his way forward the last few desperate feet before the blood loss claimed him. His face, twisted in death and the fear that preceded it, is entirely and wholly familiar.
"Do you… have a brother, monsieur?" Phillipe asks cautiously, as though you might be about to break down in tears or roar in fury at the heavens, but you can only shake your head. The resemblance is uncanny: this is no mere familial relation you are looking at, but a veritable copy, as if you were simply plucked from your bed one day and dressed in foreign clothes. He even wears his hair the same way.
"No. Well, yes, but Rikard is shorter, younger, with my mother's pale hair," you mutter, staring down at the corpse and comparing it to the letter in your hand, "The von Bruner family is old, and we have cousins across Reikland and beyond, but this is… unless I was somehow born a twin, and nobody told me?"
It would not be the strangest thing your father did, nor the most pointlessly cruel, but even for him this would seem far out of line. You kneel by the corpse, rubbing your jaw in hopes of understanding, and so are close enough to spot a bloodstained sheath of papers protruding from your doppelganger's doublet. The first is a signed affidavit, a document you are passingly familiar with, confirming that the bearer is a man by the name of Kastor Lieberung of Nuln. The signatories are a lawyer and two priests, and though you have never been to Nuln you expect you could track down the individuals in question easily enough.
The second document is a letter.
Article: Messrs Lock, Stock & Barl
Civil Lawyers, Commissioners for Oaths, etc.
Garten Weg
Bögenhafen
Dear Herr Lieberung,
After many lengthy researches, we have come to believe that you are the only living relative of one Baronet Lieberung, late of the town of Ubersreik. This being the case, and any other heretofore unknown and pertinent factors notwithstanding, I am herewith charged to inform you that you are the sole beneficiary of the late Baronet's last will and testament (hereinafter referred to as the party of the first part), as well as to the entail of his title and all lands and estates attached thereunto.
I, the undersigned, acting in my capacity as legal executor of the aforementioned document of the party of the first part, do therefore urge you to make your way with all convenient speed to my offices at the address superscribed to this letter. Thereupon, and upon your production of a signed and twofold witnessed affidavit confirming your identity as Kastor Aloysius Lieberung, we shall be pleased to place into your hands the title deeds to Lieberung Manor and all attached lands and estates, and the bequeathed sum of twenty thousand gold crowns, Imperial.
I remain, your most humble and respectful servant,
Dietrich Barl. K.C., LL.B. (Alt)
Signed this tenth day of Nachhexen, in the two thousandth, five hundredth and twelfth year of the Empire.
"You know, I am new to these lands," Phillipe says in a thoughtful kind of way, "But it occurs to me that twenty thousand gold crowns… this is a lot of money, no?"
"A very great quantity, yes," you mutter, rising back to your feet and considering the matter. Even you, who were born noble and raised in the very lap of luxury, have never reckoned with such great wealth before. "One could train and outfit an entire company of knights for such a fee, and likely build a fortress for them to dwell within at that. To say nothing of the noble title…"
A baronet is among the very lowest kind of noble title, it must be said, but for most within the Empire even such a modest rank would represent a near incomprehensible increase in their fortunes. Indeed, there are a great many nobles who might leap at the chance to inherit a title of their own, even one so meagre as that, instead of relying solely on their family's largesse.
"Yes indeed, money enough to drive a man to many things," Phillipe murmurs, his voice distant, "And all to be bestowed on the man who arrives at this address and presents this letter, then?"
You look up at him then, one hand going to the hilt of your sword. "You are not thinking of impersonating the man, I trust?"
Phillipe shrugs, hands open and away from his sides. "The thought did occur. I could raise and equip a full company of my fellows for even a fraction of that fee, or perhaps simply retire to a life of ease. And you… it is not as if you men of Sigmar are sworn to poverty, no?"
"That is not the point," you say through gritted teeth, wondering if you are going to have to draw your blade on an ally once again, "to commit such fraud would be a severe crime. To do so merely in the interests of personal gain…"
"Who said it would be for that alone, mm? Not I," Phillipe says carefully, a sharp gleam in his eye, "Think of it, Markus. This Baronet, he has perished already, his one heir now dead on the road. There is no victim here, and surely you could do great things with the coin, no? A grand temple, perhaps, or a hospice for the poor. An orphanage, maybe, or a school… even a band of your own, to follow you into battle against Sigmar's foes!"
He isn't wrong. You could do a great deal with such coin, great works of charity and military might… Even if you simply donated it all to the Cult, that would in turn have a far mightier impact than simply letting the coin rest in legal limbo, but… does that make it acceptable? And if it does not… what of Phillipe, who is quite transparently weighing his options?
Article: How do you wish to proceed?
[ ] Claim the Inheritance. The good you could do with such wealth far outweighs the victimless crime required to claim it. The gods have placed this opportunity in your path for a reason.
[ ] Spurn the Inheritance. You will not give in to greed, nor commit a crime such as this no matter the temptation. The gods are testing you, and you will not fail.
IV - The Sin of Avarice
- Location
- London, England
IV - The Sin of Avarice
In the end, it all comes down to a simple fact - to do as Phillipe suggests would be to commit yourself to breaking the law, in full foreknowledge and with wilful intent, and that is not something you can allow. The law is not mere words on paper, but the very structure that holds together Sigmar's Empire, the bones upon which all civilisation rests. It is in the abstract a holy thing, and while there are arguments to be made about the righteousness or suitability of particular laws and ordinances, there is no such excuse for fraudulently taking another man's identity for the sake of stealing his inheritance.
"No. This man was the true heir to those lands, and I shall entertain no talk of usurping him," you say firmly, shaking your head as you tuck the documents away within the pocket of your leather coat. "I shall send word to Bogenhafen and inform these lawyers; likely there is a clause in the old Baronet's will to be followed in such circumstances, or else some local ordinance to guide them."
Phillipe has a sour look on his face at that, but in the end he simply sighs and nods. "Very well, then. A shame, but if you will not be convinced, there is nothing else for it."
"Come, let us return to our travelling companions," you say, turning away and making for the treeline, "they shall be wondering what has become of us by now. Likely we can find a road warden outpost at the next inn, and then-"
Phillipe rolls Ranged (Blackpowder). +40 for point blank, target is 100, roll is 15, success with 9SL. Damage is 9 +9SL -5 Toughness = 13 wounds. Markus has 5/18 left.
The bullet slams into you like a strike from Sigmar's own hammer, driving all breath from your lungs and strength from your legs in a single moment. You stagger, boots sliding in the mud, and one knee hits the ground hard enough to send jolts of icy pain racing up your spine.
"I am sorry, my friend," Phillipe says in a sombre tone, sincere as you choke on pain and the acrid stench of black powder, "but twenty thousand crowns… I will make a donation to a temple of your god, help you sleep better in the garden."
You grit your teeth, clench your fist. Rage pulses through you, fury so bright and fierce it banishes the agony of the shot and the pain of betrayal, and with a grunt you force yourself back to your feet.
"How will you do that," you growl, turning to face him with fire in your eyes, "when you rest in a traitor's grave?"
"...your resilience is truly impressive," the Bretonnian says with a frown, his dark eyes intent as he holsters his pistol and reaches for his sword, "Do they grow men in these lands, or orcs with pale skin?"
You lunge, reaching out with gloved hands to seize your foe and cast him to the ground before he can draw his blade, but Phillipe is a veteran soldier and scrambles clear before you can get a decent grip. He draws his narrow blade and swings it for your torso in a single fluid motion, and it is only rawest fortune that allows you to slap his hand in time to keep the steel from your flesh.
Fighting a swordsman with bare hands alone is an elaborate form of suicide, and so with a growl you step back and pull your own weapons free. Phillipe seeks to take advantage of your momentary distraction, darting in with a low strike at your legs, but you expected as much and turn the blow aside with your dagger. The impact makes your wounds ache, but now it is your foe who is exposed, and with a fluid motion you lift your sword and draw a narrow cut along the man's left arm.
Phillipe barks in pain, staggering back, and in that moment you see your chance. The dagger rises, chasing the retreating blade, and with a jerk and savage twist tears through the meat of the Bretonnian's right arm just above the elbow. Blood gushes forth like the spring rain, turning the dirt underfoot to thick and choking mud, and with a breathless little gasp Phillipe falls to his knees.
For a moment you hesitate, stepping back and eyeing your fallen foe. His face is pale, his arm soaked in blood - you must have nicked a vein, you think, the kind of injury that could very easily kill a man so far from the city and its doctors. Perhaps you could patch it up yourself, obtain his surrender and bring him in for trial, end this without death… but what would be the point? He just attempted to murder a noble of the Empire. He shot you in the back. The only choice now is if he dies here on the road or at the end of a hangman's rope.
"We could have been friends, you sorry bastard," you mutter, and before Phillipe can muster the wit or will to respond, you step forward and drive your sword through his heart.
Leaving the blade in place, you sheathe your dagger and step back, awkwardly reaching behind your back and under your coat to prod at your injury. It hurts like hell itself, as if some foul spirit has replaced your bones with molten lead and set your flesh afire, but you can feel no blood nor detect any broken bones. The shot must have failed to penetrate the leather of your coat somehow, a salvation you will be sure to thank Sigmar for when next you pass a suitable shrine. More immediately relevant, the lack of a bleeding wound means you will not be forced to attempt first aid upon yourself on a muddy road in the Reikland forests, which is of truly great relief.
Turning your attention back to Phillipe's corpse, you tug the sword free of his chest with a wet rasp and wipe the blade against his embroidered top. Next you reach down and claim his pistol and spare shot, and after brief hesitation his coin purse as well. You're no common bandit, but the weapon will serve you well, and there is no good to be served by leaving the coins to rest with a fallen traitor.
Walking stiffly, your back protesting with every errant motion, you make your way over to the two horses still entangled in their harnesses, recalling the lessons of your youth as you seek to calm and inspect them in turn. The first has a broken leg, far beyond your ability to fix, while the second at least seems in good condition. You free that one from the remnants of the harness and guide it over to a small pool of water by the far side of the road, before returning to the first with a dagger drawn to put it out of its misery. That seems to be the best you can hope to do these days.
"At least I saved one creature today," you mutter to the horse in a low voice as you return to her side, laying a gentle hand upon her muzzle and guiding her towards the trees, "Come on, girl. Let's get back to the others and leave this place behind us."
You depart without a backwards glance, feeling the weight of dead men's gazes upon your ruined back.
-/-
The Seven Spokes Inn is the next facility of any size along the Altdorf road, and though it is nearly dark by the time your reduced party manages to limp through the gates you are grateful for the respite. The horse you brought back was enough to get the coach moving again, at least when paired with two more from the original compliment that returned on their own initiative, but you never did find the coachman they'd dragged off into the woods first. You can only hope for the sake of Hultz's soul that he died swiftly, perhaps from a broken neck, instead of meeting any of the myriad fouler fates that might befall a man alone in the woods.
The road wardens keep a small outpost at the inn, and they are only too happy to take your testimony along with that of the other passengers when you arrive. The sergeant on duty, a tough looking fellow with a long forked beard, assures you that he will send a patrol out at first light to retrieve the bodies, and that the Inn maintains the facilities to hold the dead until one of the roving priests of Morr can arrive to conduct the proper rites. It feels a paltry effort, especially considering their absence likely had much to do with the ambush being possible in the first place, but you are in no hurry to upbraid the men for their work. Leave that to their officers, or perhaps their priests.
There are three other coaches staying the night at the inn, enough to make the whole place bustle with activity, but nobody approaches you as you take a seat in the common room with a small flagon of watered ale. Few people can muster the courage to bother a witch hunter in a bad mood, and given what happened today you are in no mood to approach any of them in turn. Instead you sit and nurse your drink, keeping an ear out for any interesting gossip. Most of it concerns you and your party, of course, but the talk that grows out of such topics is still interesting. Apparently one of your order burned the village of Teufelfuer to the ground recently (unlikely, if only for reasons of manpower), and your encounter with mutants and bandits is far from unique. People are speculating that the Emperor has cut the road patrol's budget, perhaps diverting it to the State Army in the wake of some incident down near Ubersreik.
Your ruminations are interrupted by the approach of the small, mousy girl you saw attending to Lady Isolde, who swallows nervously before curtsying in front of you.
"My Lord von Bruner," she says in a quiet and formal voice, "The Lady von Strudeldorf wishes to express her gratitude, and invites you to join her at her table."
You grunt wordlessly in acknowledgement and rise to your feet. Not that you are feeling particularly sociable, of course, but you were raised with better manners than to just brush off a lady entirely. Moving across the common room to join the lady in question at her table is a complex and uncomfortable process with your back so swollen and bruised, but you manage it all the same.
"Lord von Bruner," Lady Isolde says with a polite nod as you settle yourself down, her towering bodyguard shifting position slightly to stand between the two of you and the rest of the tavern, "I apologise, I did not realise you were injured. Janna tells me there is a physician in residence here if you require treatment."
"A glancing blow, my lady," you say roughly, shaking your head and shifting in your seat, "nothing to concern yourself with, I am sure."
Isolde's eyebrows rise at that, a perfect golden arc that stretches across her pale brow. "I see. I would not have thought a man so used to violence would turn his back upon the enemy."
"Not knowingly, no," you say grimly, and watch as Isolde's eyes drift down to the second pistol you now wear in a strap across your front. She knew Phillipe was dead, of course, for you left with him and returned alone, but now her pale blue eyes narrow as she puts together the likely answer to how. Not that she will say anything, of course. It would be terribly gauche.
"I have booked seats aboard a Four Seasons coach for the final leg of our journey to Altdorf, as Ratchett Lines seems unlikely to bear us hence until a new driver can arrive," she says instead, folding one hand atop the other on the table between you. "You are welcome to ride with us, if you wish. It would hardly be appropriate to ride alongside as you did today, not with an injury that pains you so."
"Your consideration is most kind, my lady," you say carefully, studying her for any sign of motive. If she has one beyond the obvious it escapes you, though that is no great surprise - a noblewoman worth the name learns to hide her heart behind a polished mask early in life. "I would be honoured to accept."
"It is hardly any great sacrifice on my part," Isolde says with a thin smile, "Merely the proper thing for one of our shared station… though I suppose you would know more about that than I."
You pause at that, hearing the weight behind her words. For a moment you consider feigning ignorance, or perhaps deflecting with some other topic, but what would be the point? "I see. I suppose you recognised my name, then?"
"It is rather infamous," Lady Isolde says, inclining her head in what might be an acknowledgement or an apology. "The von Bruner line is old and respected, but when one of their lords is taken and burned, and his eldest son disclaims his inheritance in favour of the Templar's cause… well, even the most modest of tongues might wag."
"I suppose they might," you sigh and close your eyes, suddenly feeling terribly tired, "but you'll forgive me for not wishing to dwell upon it."
"Of course," your fellow noble says with an understanding smile, "I merely wished to express my admiration. It takes a rare man to do what you did."
You stand then, almost before you can think, and distantly you realise that your hand has balled into a fist. "Forgive me, Lady Isolde, but I am tired and my injury pains me. I shall see you on the morrow."
"I… oh," the Drakwalder blinks, clearly somewhat hurt, "Yes, of course. I wish you a pleasant night."
You allow yourself a bitter smile at that, and without another word turn away and make for the stairs. A rare man indeed. Would that you were nothing of the kind, or else worthy of the admiration so many seem keen to heap upon you. Truly, the world would be a better place for either.
In the end, it all comes down to a simple fact - to do as Phillipe suggests would be to commit yourself to breaking the law, in full foreknowledge and with wilful intent, and that is not something you can allow. The law is not mere words on paper, but the very structure that holds together Sigmar's Empire, the bones upon which all civilisation rests. It is in the abstract a holy thing, and while there are arguments to be made about the righteousness or suitability of particular laws and ordinances, there is no such excuse for fraudulently taking another man's identity for the sake of stealing his inheritance.
"No. This man was the true heir to those lands, and I shall entertain no talk of usurping him," you say firmly, shaking your head as you tuck the documents away within the pocket of your leather coat. "I shall send word to Bogenhafen and inform these lawyers; likely there is a clause in the old Baronet's will to be followed in such circumstances, or else some local ordinance to guide them."
Phillipe has a sour look on his face at that, but in the end he simply sighs and nods. "Very well, then. A shame, but if you will not be convinced, there is nothing else for it."
"Come, let us return to our travelling companions," you say, turning away and making for the treeline, "they shall be wondering what has become of us by now. Likely we can find a road warden outpost at the next inn, and then-"
Phillipe rolls Ranged (Blackpowder). +40 for point blank, target is 100, roll is 15, success with 9SL. Damage is 9 +9SL -5 Toughness = 13 wounds. Markus has 5/18 left.
The bullet slams into you like a strike from Sigmar's own hammer, driving all breath from your lungs and strength from your legs in a single moment. You stagger, boots sliding in the mud, and one knee hits the ground hard enough to send jolts of icy pain racing up your spine.
"I am sorry, my friend," Phillipe says in a sombre tone, sincere as you choke on pain and the acrid stench of black powder, "but twenty thousand crowns… I will make a donation to a temple of your god, help you sleep better in the garden."
You grit your teeth, clench your fist. Rage pulses through you, fury so bright and fierce it banishes the agony of the shot and the pain of betrayal, and with a grunt you force yourself back to your feet.
"How will you do that," you growl, turning to face him with fire in your eyes, "when you rest in a traitor's grave?"
"...your resilience is truly impressive," the Bretonnian says with a frown, his dark eyes intent as he holsters his pistol and reaches for his sword, "Do they grow men in these lands, or orcs with pale skin?"
You lunge, reaching out with gloved hands to seize your foe and cast him to the ground before he can draw his blade, but Phillipe is a veteran soldier and scrambles clear before you can get a decent grip. He draws his narrow blade and swings it for your torso in a single fluid motion, and it is only rawest fortune that allows you to slap his hand in time to keep the steel from your flesh.
Phillipe begins with 3 advantage, due to surprise and inflicting damage. Markus goes first, as his initiative is one point higher.
Markus
At the end of round one, Markus has one advantage, Phillipe has zero
Markus
- Attacks Phillipe with an unarmed attack, rolling Melee (Brawling) against 58. Roll is 60, bare failure.
- Phillipe defends with dodge 60, rolls 31, successfully dodges the attack, gains +1 advantage.
- Phillipe uses his action to draw a sword, then spends his four advantage to take another action and attack. His skill is 57 and he rolls 34, a success with +2SL.
- Markus takes a -10 penalty to defend against a sword with his bare hands. His skill is thus 48 and he rolls 74. This would be a very dangerous failure, so he spends a fortune point to reroll and scores 08, succeeding with +4SL.
At the end of round one, Markus has one advantage, Phillipe has zero
Fighting a swordsman with bare hands alone is an elaborate form of suicide, and so with a growl you step back and pull your own weapons free. Phillipe seeks to take advantage of your momentary distraction, darting in with a low strike at your legs, but you expected as much and turn the blow aside with your dagger. The impact makes your wounds ache, but now it is your foe who is exposed, and with a fluid motion you lift your sword and draw a narrow cut along the man's left arm.
Phillipe barks in pain, staggering back, and in that moment you see your chance. The dagger rises, chasing the retreating blade, and with a jerk and savage twist tears through the meat of the Bretonnian's right arm just above the elbow. Blood gushes forth like the spring rain, turning the dirt underfoot to thick and choking mud, and with a breathless little gasp Phillipe falls to his knees.
Markus
Round Three
Markus
As Phillipe is on zero wounds with a bleeding condition, he becomes unconscious.
- Spends his action drawing his sword and dagger
- Makes an attack with his sword. His skill is 57 and he rolls 68, a failure by -1SL
- Markus defends with his skill of 58, rolls 27, a success with 3SL. He gains +1 advantage, for a total of 2.
Round Three
Markus
- Makes a dual wielder attack against Phillipe, spending his 2 advantage for a +10 bonus on the test. His skill is thus 68 and he rolls 41, a success with +3SL after the talent.
- Phillipe defends with his skill of 57, rolls 51, this is a success with 0SL.
- Markus hits with +3SL net. His damage is Strength (3) +4 +3 = 10. Phillipe has no armour and a toughness bonus of 2, and so takes eight wounds. He has two wounds remaining.
- Markus reverses his earlier roll for the follow up attack, getting 14, a success with +6SL after the talent bonus.
- Phillipe defends again with his skill of 57, rolling 62 for a failure by -1SL.
- The damage is SB (3) +2 +6 = 12. Phillipe reduces it by two and takes ten wounds. This is enough to knock him below zero, and he suffers a critical hit to his right arm.
- Critical roll is 31, inflicting a Torn Muscles result. Phillipe takes penalties on all tests with that arm and gains a bleeding condition.
As Phillipe is on zero wounds with a bleeding condition, he becomes unconscious.
For a moment you hesitate, stepping back and eyeing your fallen foe. His face is pale, his arm soaked in blood - you must have nicked a vein, you think, the kind of injury that could very easily kill a man so far from the city and its doctors. Perhaps you could patch it up yourself, obtain his surrender and bring him in for trial, end this without death… but what would be the point? He just attempted to murder a noble of the Empire. He shot you in the back. The only choice now is if he dies here on the road or at the end of a hangman's rope.
"We could have been friends, you sorry bastard," you mutter, and before Phillipe can muster the wit or will to respond, you step forward and drive your sword through his heart.
Leaving the blade in place, you sheathe your dagger and step back, awkwardly reaching behind your back and under your coat to prod at your injury. It hurts like hell itself, as if some foul spirit has replaced your bones with molten lead and set your flesh afire, but you can feel no blood nor detect any broken bones. The shot must have failed to penetrate the leather of your coat somehow, a salvation you will be sure to thank Sigmar for when next you pass a suitable shrine. More immediately relevant, the lack of a bleeding wound means you will not be forced to attempt first aid upon yourself on a muddy road in the Reikland forests, which is of truly great relief.
Turning your attention back to Phillipe's corpse, you tug the sword free of his chest with a wet rasp and wipe the blade against his embroidered top. Next you reach down and claim his pistol and spare shot, and after brief hesitation his coin purse as well. You're no common bandit, but the weapon will serve you well, and there is no good to be served by leaving the coins to rest with a fallen traitor.
Walking stiffly, your back protesting with every errant motion, you make your way over to the two horses still entangled in their harnesses, recalling the lessons of your youth as you seek to calm and inspect them in turn. The first has a broken leg, far beyond your ability to fix, while the second at least seems in good condition. You free that one from the remnants of the harness and guide it over to a small pool of water by the far side of the road, before returning to the first with a dagger drawn to put it out of its misery. That seems to be the best you can hope to do these days.
"At least I saved one creature today," you mutter to the horse in a low voice as you return to her side, laying a gentle hand upon her muzzle and guiding her towards the trees, "Come on, girl. Let's get back to the others and leave this place behind us."
You depart without a backwards glance, feeling the weight of dead men's gazes upon your ruined back.
-/-
The Seven Spokes Inn is the next facility of any size along the Altdorf road, and though it is nearly dark by the time your reduced party manages to limp through the gates you are grateful for the respite. The horse you brought back was enough to get the coach moving again, at least when paired with two more from the original compliment that returned on their own initiative, but you never did find the coachman they'd dragged off into the woods first. You can only hope for the sake of Hultz's soul that he died swiftly, perhaps from a broken neck, instead of meeting any of the myriad fouler fates that might befall a man alone in the woods.
The road wardens keep a small outpost at the inn, and they are only too happy to take your testimony along with that of the other passengers when you arrive. The sergeant on duty, a tough looking fellow with a long forked beard, assures you that he will send a patrol out at first light to retrieve the bodies, and that the Inn maintains the facilities to hold the dead until one of the roving priests of Morr can arrive to conduct the proper rites. It feels a paltry effort, especially considering their absence likely had much to do with the ambush being possible in the first place, but you are in no hurry to upbraid the men for their work. Leave that to their officers, or perhaps their priests.
There are three other coaches staying the night at the inn, enough to make the whole place bustle with activity, but nobody approaches you as you take a seat in the common room with a small flagon of watered ale. Few people can muster the courage to bother a witch hunter in a bad mood, and given what happened today you are in no mood to approach any of them in turn. Instead you sit and nurse your drink, keeping an ear out for any interesting gossip. Most of it concerns you and your party, of course, but the talk that grows out of such topics is still interesting. Apparently one of your order burned the village of Teufelfuer to the ground recently (unlikely, if only for reasons of manpower), and your encounter with mutants and bandits is far from unique. People are speculating that the Emperor has cut the road patrol's budget, perhaps diverting it to the State Army in the wake of some incident down near Ubersreik.
Your ruminations are interrupted by the approach of the small, mousy girl you saw attending to Lady Isolde, who swallows nervously before curtsying in front of you.
"My Lord von Bruner," she says in a quiet and formal voice, "The Lady von Strudeldorf wishes to express her gratitude, and invites you to join her at her table."
You grunt wordlessly in acknowledgement and rise to your feet. Not that you are feeling particularly sociable, of course, but you were raised with better manners than to just brush off a lady entirely. Moving across the common room to join the lady in question at her table is a complex and uncomfortable process with your back so swollen and bruised, but you manage it all the same.
"Lord von Bruner," Lady Isolde says with a polite nod as you settle yourself down, her towering bodyguard shifting position slightly to stand between the two of you and the rest of the tavern, "I apologise, I did not realise you were injured. Janna tells me there is a physician in residence here if you require treatment."
"A glancing blow, my lady," you say roughly, shaking your head and shifting in your seat, "nothing to concern yourself with, I am sure."
Isolde's eyebrows rise at that, a perfect golden arc that stretches across her pale brow. "I see. I would not have thought a man so used to violence would turn his back upon the enemy."
"Not knowingly, no," you say grimly, and watch as Isolde's eyes drift down to the second pistol you now wear in a strap across your front. She knew Phillipe was dead, of course, for you left with him and returned alone, but now her pale blue eyes narrow as she puts together the likely answer to how. Not that she will say anything, of course. It would be terribly gauche.
"I have booked seats aboard a Four Seasons coach for the final leg of our journey to Altdorf, as Ratchett Lines seems unlikely to bear us hence until a new driver can arrive," she says instead, folding one hand atop the other on the table between you. "You are welcome to ride with us, if you wish. It would hardly be appropriate to ride alongside as you did today, not with an injury that pains you so."
"Your consideration is most kind, my lady," you say carefully, studying her for any sign of motive. If she has one beyond the obvious it escapes you, though that is no great surprise - a noblewoman worth the name learns to hide her heart behind a polished mask early in life. "I would be honoured to accept."
"It is hardly any great sacrifice on my part," Isolde says with a thin smile, "Merely the proper thing for one of our shared station… though I suppose you would know more about that than I."
You pause at that, hearing the weight behind her words. For a moment you consider feigning ignorance, or perhaps deflecting with some other topic, but what would be the point? "I see. I suppose you recognised my name, then?"
"It is rather infamous," Lady Isolde says, inclining her head in what might be an acknowledgement or an apology. "The von Bruner line is old and respected, but when one of their lords is taken and burned, and his eldest son disclaims his inheritance in favour of the Templar's cause… well, even the most modest of tongues might wag."
"I suppose they might," you sigh and close your eyes, suddenly feeling terribly tired, "but you'll forgive me for not wishing to dwell upon it."
"Of course," your fellow noble says with an understanding smile, "I merely wished to express my admiration. It takes a rare man to do what you did."
You stand then, almost before you can think, and distantly you realise that your hand has balled into a fist. "Forgive me, Lady Isolde, but I am tired and my injury pains me. I shall see you on the morrow."
"I… oh," the Drakwalder blinks, clearly somewhat hurt, "Yes, of course. I wish you a pleasant night."
You allow yourself a bitter smile at that, and without another word turn away and make for the stairs. A rare man indeed. Would that you were nothing of the kind, or else worthy of the admiration so many seem keen to heap upon you. Truly, the world would be a better place for either.
Article: Markus is a man given to introspection, and today has given him much to brood upon. What does he ultimately choose to blame for Phillipe's death?
[ ] Foreigners
Bretonnians are strange folk with strange ideas, and it was that unfamiliarity that led Markus to misjudge Phillipe's intent. He will think twice before turning his back on a foreigner in future, and scrutinise them more intently before extending any trust.
[ ] Commoners
A noble would have understood the necessity of truth and adherence to the law, or at the very least would have challenged him to a duel or in the courts. Only a man of lowly birth would think of shooting a man in the back, and Markus will remember their lack of character going forward.
[ ] Mercenaries
A man who fights for nothing more than gold will do anything if it means increasing his share thereof, and it was Markus' assumption of shared zeal and principle that blinded him to treacherous intent. Duty, honour and ideals can be trusted, mere professionalism or greed cannot.
[ ] The Dark Gods
It is the Tempter that places the love of gold in men's hearts, the Changer that bids them dream of elevating their station through trickery and deceit. Markus will count this a lesson well learned, and be alert for any sign of such foul and insidious influence among his companions in the future.
[ ] Himself
A man answers to Sigmar in the end and himself alone before that. Markus could have avoided this by paying more attention, thinking outside his own narrow perspective, doing more and being better. Unflinching self-critique is the only way to improve.
V - The Crown of the Empire
- Location
- London, England
Markus has chosen to blame Phillipe's profession for the conflict that saw him die, and consequently has gained the Psychology trait of Prejudice (Mercenaries). Whenever he encounters one, he must take a Cool test (a skill based on willpower, at time of writing 61), with bonuses or penalties based on the current situation. If he fails the test, he is compelled to verbally and loudly mock, criticise and insult them.
Markus lost 13 wounds during his battle with Phillipe, reducing him to 5/18. For every good night's rest he gets, he is entitled to make an Average (+20) Endurance test. For Markus this skill is at a base of 52, and so he rolls against 72.
He rolls 30, scoring +2SL. This means that he heals his toughness bonus (5) plus SL (2) wounds, in this case 7, bringing him up to 12/18 wounds total.
He rolls 30, scoring +2SL. This means that he heals his toughness bonus (5) plus SL (2) wounds, in this case 7, bringing him up to 12/18 wounds total.
V - The Crown of the Empire
One hears Altdorf before they see it, and they smell it considerably before that. Built at the intersection of the great rivers Reik and Talabec, surrounded for leagues in all directions by mud flats and marshlands, the Capital is at once a place both sacred and profane, beautiful and besmirched. It has produced the Empire's greatest heroes and its most vile villains, great works of scientific artifice and pits of squalor to stain the soul. It is the heart of spiritual and secular power in the nation, and the greatest prize its many enemies yet scheme to claim.
"I have never actually been to Altdorf," Lady Isolde says abruptly, as your carriage rattles its way down the road and past the first of many outlying farms and hamlets, "One hears so many stories that the truth itself is hard to discern."
You turn your gaze from the window and back towards her, aware on some level that she likely hoped to broach such a subject in casual conversation much earlier, only put off by your brooding demeanour. In truth your sullen silence shames you, and you take a moment to chastise yourself for the poor manners before answering.
"Sigmar's City contains the best and worst of humanity," you say at length, thinking of all the stories you have heard from your peers and their contemporaries. "I cannot claim to be nearly as familiar with it as a native, but if you have the time to spare, I do have a few recommendations…"
The Lady does indeed have time to spare, now and in the future, and so you pass the final few hours of your journey in earnest conversation. You speak of the Great Cathedral and the sermons you have heard there, the University and its lectures, the wondrous theatres with their manifold plays and performances. You offer recommendations for the best eateries along the South Bank, and which districts to avoid no matter how beguiling the guides make them sound (Marie, the lady's towering bodyguard, pays far more attention to these parts). You even touch upon the city's most prominent and influential officials, and which social clubs and events you have heard they like to frequent, though in truth none of them are likely to know you or welcome the attention of a Witch Hunter.
Such conversation proves so absorbing that you almost miss your arrival in the city proper, though that at least you are inclined to blame upon the fog. Altdorf is infamous for the way great clouds of mist and smoke roll in off the rivers at the slightest provocation, and today seems to be a notably bad day of it - you can scarcely see much more than a yard or two beyond the carriage windows, much less yet a good look at the city's famous white walls or the imposing landmarks of the skyline. Only the looming bulk of shadowed buildings all around, paired with the uptick of babbling voices you can hear even through the glass, provides any clue as to your urban environs.
Still, there is no mistaking your arrival at the Königsplatz. The buildings fall away, the fog thins slightly, and everywhere the hustle and bustle of city life is replaced by the focused chaos of a route terminal in the middle of the day. There are coaches and carriages by the dozen parked up around the square, each swarming with teams of drivers and porters like ants around a hive, and when you disembark a wave of voices crashed against you as bawds and guides holler their services into the fog. You pause for a moment, taking a shallow breath so as to not gag on the sudden stench of a city after so long in the woods, and then turn and offer a gentleman's hand to Lady Isolde as she disembarks.
"My thanks, Lord Bruner," the noblewoman murmurs to you as she steps down from the carriage, her servant already disembarking the other side to take care of the luggage, "You likely have duties to attend to, but if you have some time in the coming days, I am staying at the Hotel Imperial for the next week. Please feel free to call upon me."
"Of course, my lady," you reply, equally polite despite your utter lack of interest in the proposition. Truthfully you're a little bemused; offering to cover your carriage fee to Altdorf was an act of consideration and respect, but even the most fastidious of souls would agree that any obligation ended upon arrival at the capital. Likely she has some other motive, but you cannot guess at what. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
With good manners attended to, you turn your attention to your horse, which seemed entirely happy to trot along behind the carriage on the way here without the additional weight of a rider on her back. You slip the reins from around the back of the carriage, check her over for any signs of injury or distress, then pat her on the shoulder and look towards the edge of the square. The Königsplatz is in the northern part of the city, so you will need to find your way south and head towards the Grand Cathedral in order to make your report. Altdorf is a distressingly challenging place to navigate, especially in the fog, so you are likely to do better with a guide of some kind.
Curiously, among the gathered crowds of hawkers, bawds and visitors around the edge of the square, there are two men who appear to be looking directly at you. Neither of them is particularly remarkable, dressed in the comfortable yet sturdy clothing of the lower middle class, but they are quite clearly staring directly at you. One of them scratches his ear, and when you frown he glances at his neighbour in evident confusion.
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intuition test, skill is 62, roll is 81, fail
It seems as if they're expecting you to recognise them, but you can't claim to have clapped eyes on either man in all your life. For a long moment you stare at each other across the plaza, neither side knowing what to do or whether they should approach, and then their expressions turn from confusion to relief and they move off towards the far side of the square. Tracking them with your eyes, you see them nod in welcome to a stocky, bearded man in a long leather coat who just stepped out of one of the houses that lie along the perimeter of the square. You wouldn't say the two of you look identical by any means, but given the distance and the fog a case of confused identity isn't anything worth remarking on.
Dismissing the pair of onlookers from your mind, you turn back to your earlier efforts of finding a guide, discarding out of hand the various hawks and bawds looking to advertise one tavern or another until you spot a small cluster of pious looking souls gathering in one corner of the square. Their evident leader is holding a long staff tipped with a painted wooden hammer, and with a nod you take your horse's reins in hand and move over to join them.
"And now we can… oh!" the guide says, noticing your approach and glancing from your weapons to the broad-brimmed hat with a slight edge of nervousness, "A Templar of Sigmar! Ah, how can I assist you, sir?"
"I am bound for the Grand Cathedral," you say simply, dispensing with the details in favour of the practical, "I would walk with you until then."
The guide agrees, of course. You don't think he even works for the Cult in any formal capacity, being a mere local with a knowledge built up over time of interesting stories and intriguing facts about Altdorf's religious sites, so it is no surprise that he opts not to incur even the possibility of a witch hunter's ire. As for the pilgrims he is guiding, most of them look positively awestruck to be accompanied on their journey by a genuine templar of the faith, even if a few of them suddenly look nervous or a trifle guilty over some petty personal failing. Thankfully none of them seem inclined to engage you in conversation, and soon enough your party sets off at a steady walk, venturing forth into the fog-wrapped streets of the capital.
The guide keeps up a steady patter of commentary and observations as you walk, none of which is terribly interesting. You're not familiar with the events or even most of the saints that he alludes to, but that is no surprise; you were not a particularly pious youth, and your more recent schooling in matters theological has tended towards the practical and exclusionary end of the scale. You could tell someone precisely what manner of blessing ought to be carved on a silver bullet for best effect against a tainted beast, but the epistles of the Venerated Martyn are strange and unfamiliar to your ear. You feel a bit guilty about that, at times, but Sigmar knows what is in your heart and your service has always been exemplary.
The fog grows thicker as you approach the river, until the appearance of each new passerby on the street is a sudden surprise. Part of you itches at the lack of vision, paranoid about what might be lurking in the mists, but the rest of you knows that it would be all but impossible for anyone who meant you harm to even find you right now. That is why the sudden shout from the man standing on the next corner is so alarming.
"You! You, sinners, hunters, I see you!" He screams, perched on a rickety wooden box that means you need to tilt your head back to see him properly. His beard is long and ragged, and what were once the tough leathers of a smith are stained and tattered by long misuse. "I see it all! I see darkness gathering as the last house of joy falls! Beware, hunter, for shadows over Bögenhafen stir!"
You had meant to keep walking, for madmen screaming at passers by are three a penny in Altdorf, but the mention of Bögenhafen draws you up short. The pilgrims and their guide stop in their turn, muttering to each other in worried voices, but you have no time to spare for them. Bögenhafen, where the letter of inheritance you now bear would have you go, where the man who wears your face was bound… is this a coincidence, or a sign?
"I see Beloved Morr, resplendent in vestments of green, stand astride Sigmar's great river!" The prophet howls, his voice rising in pitch as he sees your interest, beating at his chest with one soot-stained hand. "Yea, I see death upon the Reik, and I despair!"
"Vestments of green?" You murmur the words with a frown, trying to discern the meaning of such a phrase. Morr is god of the dead, so to see him astride the river presumably means great calamity or disease born upon the waters, but why green? If the ragged prophet hears your words he gives no sign, merely working himself up into an ever greater frenzy.
"Then the stained hand guides the once mighty lord, and this power behind the throne curses us all!" he screams, staring at his own stained hands as if they might suddenly betray him. "Lo, the Horned Rat claims the Broken King atop his throne of lies, and the white walls fall, leaving our Empire in ruins! Tremble in fear, ye mighty! Tremble, for the End Times have come!"
That final pronouncement seems to be all that the fanatic's heart can take, for a moment later he pitches over backwards and falls from the crate, hitting the ground with bloody froth gathering at his lips. For a long moment everyone just stares at him, torn between incredulity and concern, and then the prophet coughs violently before rolling over onto his side.
"Ah, well - you may see many sights such as this during your visit to Sigmar's city, faithful," the guide picks up after a moment, nodding seriously, "The presence of such a sacred legacy, to say nothing of the holy relics held secure in the Grand Cathedral and elsewhere, often grants ecstatic visions to the pious."
"So too can men see many things when drowning in their cups," you say curtly, making the nearest pilgrims flinch backwards at the reminder of your presence and remit. The man said nothing overtly heretical and so there is no need for you to act, but the common folk do not know this. "Best to inform the priests when we reach the Cathedral, and allow them to determine if he is blessed or simply a fool."
The guide takes your comment as an implied command and soon you are underway once more, crossing the great bridge across the Reik and heading into the southern quarters of the city. The vast bulk of the Great Cathedral looms like a mountain amid the mist, visible in a way few other things are, but while part of your soul wishes nothing more to stay with the pilgrims and cleanse your sins in prayer, duty must come first. You pull away from the group just as the first of the great statues that dot the cathedral exterior are starting to come into focus, and instead make for the squat, ominous looking building that you know lies just to the east: the Grand Temple of the Sigmarite Templars.
Despite the name, the temple is more of a chapterhouse and barracks than a place of worship, the flat grey stones of its construction giving it the air of a fortress set down in the very heart of the capital. There are no guards here in the traditional sense, not even the knights that watch over the other religious sites nearby, for your order trusts none but their own and even that under duress, but as ever there is a novice in the small gatehouse waiting to take your name and assign you a key to one of the temple's rooms during your stay.
"Is General Wälder in?" you ask, making a note to drop by the servants quarters and collect your bedding before you turn in tonight. You didn't know how to do such things before you began your training, but no Templar is comfortable with an unknown person passing through their quarters on a regular basis, no matter how innocuous or thoroughly vetted.
"He is in a meeting, sir," the novice replies politely, and you note with some approval how they restrain the urge to provide any further detail that might compromise security, "However, if you care to wait outside his office, I am sure he will see you shortly."
You nod at that, and with the formalities attended to head inside. As with any fortress the Grand Temple has everything within its walls that the defenders might need, from the smiths who make your specialised tools to the infirmary where the most devastating of wounds can be cared for, but a witch hunter contends not with physical threats alone. There is a library here, with primers on topics that might get a man burnt if discovered outside these walls, and below your feet the gaol cells that play host to your harshest interrogations await your arrival. So few taken there ever emerge again, but that reputation is itself a weapon in your arsenal. Still, you have no business in such places just yet, instead heading through the doors of the main building and up the stairs to the offices above.
There are other templars around, of course, seated in small groups at tables or attending to the unique business of their particular assignments, but aside from the odd nod and muttered greeting none of you have cause to speak. The Witch Hunters do not select for gregarious souls in the first place, and what nature alone does not account for, years of harsh lessons and paranoid experience does. The sole exception is when you reach the hallway outside your general's office and find another witch hunter waiting there already, and that has more to do with the bloody swath of cloth wrapped around half her face than any great friendliness.
"Katarin," you say with a frown, taking up a position on the other side of the hallway from her, beneath the glowering portrait of some former Witchfinder General you never cared to read up on. "I trust you paid them back for the injury?"
"No," your comrade snorts, shaking her head and then wincing at the pain the motion elicits. You're not entirely sure she should be out of the infirmary at all, given the red stains that you can see leaking slowly through the fabric, but you're not going to ask. "It was Deathclaw, the Emperor's own griffon. The blasted thing went mad the second I went near its enclosure. The keepers say it has been in a terrible mood lately; even Karl-Franz won't go near it."
You nod slowly, choosing not to ask what exactly your peer was doing in the Imperial Zoo in the first place. Some investigation, no doubt, and not one you need to know about just yet. Given the reputation for savagery that griffons have, and the wounds you've heard of them inflicting on their prey, you suppose it is fortunate that Katarin's head is still attached to her shoulders. Templars rarely get noble or glorious deaths, but that would still rank as one of the least inspiring you've heard of.
Before you can continue the conversation the door by your side swings open and a small coterie of scholars emerge, their balding heads twitching back and forth like strange cowled birds as they scurry off down the corridor. You tilt your head in silent query at Katarina, and when she shakes her head, stand and make your way inside.
"Ah, von Bruner, good to see you." Witchhunter General Wälder is an old man with only a few strands of thin grey hair left atop his head, and you know that behind his desk his chair is equipped with wheels to do what his ravaged legs no longer can, but there is a razor gleam in his pale eyes as he looks up at you. "You were attending to the rumours of hedgefolk down by Grunberg, as I recall. Close the door and make your report."
"Aye sir," you nod, closing the door as directed and taking a moment to note the metal plates nailed down across the back of its wooden frame. "I tracked the supposed coven through three villages before I caught up with them near Rottfurt. It was a Strigany caravan, reported for all the usual reasons they are brought to our attention."
Wälder nods, one clawed hand scribbling notes down in a small leather-bound diary as he listens to you. The notes are not for him, of course - the General's unfaltering memory and ability to perfectly recall snippets of conversation from decades in the past are the stuff of legend - but he will need to make a formal written report once this is done, as will you, and immediate impressions are invaluable for such things.
"The Strigany have been known to harbour witches in the past, either local criminals or students of their own deviant traditions," Wälder says in a neutral tone of voice, watching you carefully, "I assume you considered the possibility?"
"I did, and did the necessary due diligence," you say firmly, keeping your legs firmly planted and your arms folded behind your back. "The supposed mind-reading was nothing more than a huckster's cold reading, and the accusations of a curse levelled on the fields produced a harvest in line with what the parish records suggested was known for the reason. The Strigany simply recognised that local sentiment was turning against them and moved on, leaving the peasants to complain to their priest, who then sent word to us."
The tribe's innocence in various associated charges of theft, smuggling and immoral sexual practices is another matter, of course, but such concerns are not part of your remit and you refuse to dignify them with your time. Let the local bailiffs and town guard worry about such things.
"I see. You know, von Bruner, not many would say such things to me," Wälder says calmly, closing his notebook and fixing you with his pale eyes, "Most would have taken at least some form of decisive action while in the field, instead of coming back to Altdorf with nothing but failure and false sightings to report."
Behind your back, your hand clenches into a fist. Still, you manage to keep your voice more or less level. "I will not condemn an innocent to the pyre for the sake of polishing my reputation, sir. Frankly, any templar that would is unworthy of the name."
Wälder studies you for a long moment in silence, and then allows himself a thin little smile. "Well spoken. As it happens I quite agree, which is why I have signed your promotion to Inquisitor. Congratulations, von Bruner. The Order needs more men like you."
You blink, completely thrown off balance. A promotion to Inquisitor… on paper the title means little, for your remit and authority across the Empire has not changed, and indeed the law does not recognise any difference in the rank. Internally, however, the promotion gives you the right to recruit new agents and issue a salary for each from the Order's own finances. It is a tool meant to encourage you to grow more accustomed to leading agents and coordinating assets in the field, and a significant step on the path to higher rank. "I… thank you, sir. I will strive to be worthy of the honour."
"Of that I have no doubt," Wälder chuckles without humour, shaking his head, "Now, as it happens I have some other assignments that might suit your new authority, but before we go there - is there anything else you wish to report?"
"Aye sir, there is," you nod, drawing out the letters of inheritance and testimony you collected and laying them on the desk. They are yet stained with blood and dirt, but the Witchhunter General has handled far worse, and he does not even blink as he picks them up and scans them methodically. "Kastor Lieberung, the man who bore these letters, was ambushed and killed by a band of mutants on the Altdorf road. They had his route and a sketch of his face."
You hesitate for a moment, then decide not to mention the eerie similarities with your own features. Until you know for certain that such a detail is relevant to the wider Order, there seems little reason to complicate your life by bringing it up in an official report.
"Organised mutants? Interesting," Wälder murmurs, his gaze distant and thoughtful, "The motive is doubtless connected to this inheritance, but the culprit… perhaps the Red Crown?"
Markus tests Lore (Witches), skill is 40, roll is 50, narrow failure.
"Red Crown, sir?" You say, a trifle hesitantly, "The name sounds familiar, but I cannot say I have experience with them."
"Mm, no reason you would. The Red Crown are a cult of the dark gods, specifically bound to the Changer," Wälder explains briefly, his lip curling in contempt. "They operate as a support network and hidden society for mutants of all kinds, providing them material aid and using the perceived debt to induct them into worship of their foul patron."
You nod thoughtfully. Certainly a network like the one Wälder describes might be able to position a group of mutants in the right place and time to carry out such an assassination, especially if they have members with less visible deformities operating within nearby towns and villages to feed their comrades intelligence. Control of the inheritance would provide a fine motive as well, since gold in such quantities could vastly increase their ability to find, support and arm new mutants for their hosts.
"I see, sir. Shall I return to the area and conduct a follow up investigation?" you ask, just for the sake of being thorough.
"No, I'll send a junior in need of some field experience to do the legwork," Wälder shakes his head, pushing the inheritance papers back across the table towards you. You nod and pick them up, tucking both safely back away inside your coat. "You, I think, would be better off heading to Bögenhafen. As it happens we've had a report from the priest there, conveying certain concerns about a new group embedded in the local merchants guild - a covert group that apparently calls itself the Ordo Septinarius. We know virtually nothing of them as of yet, but there is a certain efficiency in killing two birds with one stone."
You nod, understanding the concerns that would motivate such an interest. The Empire has no shortage of religious sects, mystery cults and secret fraternities, and the vast majority of them are nothing worth worrying about… but just enough are that you can be justified in poking around and asking a few questions. If you are going to be in the area anyway, it makes sense.
"As you say, sir. I'll begin arranging transportation on the morrow."
"Oh, stay a few days longer than that," Wälder chuckles, waving his hand at you, "You've time enough to prepare… and between you and me, you want to give that back of yours a chance to heal before you return to the field."
You pause at that, then smile ruefully. Of course your stiffness and muted pain would be visible to the Witchhunter General. You doubt there's anything those pale eyes of his ever really miss. "As you say, sir. As you say."
Article: Markus is being sent to Bögenhafen, there to resolve the issue of the inheritance and also investigate reports of a secret fraternity within the local merchant's guild. Given his promotion, it may be worth determining what kind of retinue you think he would be best served to gather around him.
(This is not an immediate vote, but may become part of the preparations for Bögenhafen in the upcoming updates if there is a particular consensus)
Before that, however, he has earned some 220xp to assign (for a full breakdown of where this came from, see the character sheet). This xp allows him to purchase TWO of the following options, which I have pre-costed for you.
CHOOSE TWO
[ ] Fellowship (from +0 to +5).
Increasing this attribute will bolster all of your social skills and associated rolls.
[ ] Charm (from +10 to +15)
This skill is rolled for all positive social interaction, creating a good impression and making people think well of you.
[ ] Intimidate (from +10 to +15)
This skill is rolled for virtually all hostile social interactions, or those based on fear and coercion. It is also your earning skill, responsible for your income endeavours during downtime.
[ ] Cool (from +10 to +15)
This skill is rolled to resist fear, psychology and social influence. It is also rolled to lie with a straight face.
[ ] Melee (Basic) (from +10 to +15)
This skill is used to attack and defend with the most common types of melee weapons, including swords, spears and axes.
[ ] Ranged (Blackpowder) (from +10 to +15)
This skill is rolled to attack people with blackpowder weapons like pistols, and also to repair and rapidly reload them.
[ ] Lore (Reikland) (from +10 to +20)
This lore skill represents your knowledge of things you may encounter in Reikland, and can substitute for many other lore skills such as Heraldry (for Reikland nobles), Law (for Reikland law) and even Cults (for cults known to operate in Reikland), albeit at a higher difficulty. It also benefits from an xp discount due to the Seasoned Traveller talent.
[ ] Endurance (from +0 to +10)
Used to resist environmental effects, disease and poison, as well as certain status effects like Stunned. Also rolled to determine how quickly you recover from damage taken in battle.
[ ] Lore (Law) (from +0 to +10)
This skill represents your familiarity and technical knowledge of codes of law across the Empire and beyond, as well as the professionals who work in the field and the protocol when dealing with various courts.
[ ] Fearless (Witches)
This talent allows you to make a single average (+20) cool test to ignore all fear, terror and other psychological effects created by a hostile spellcaster for the scene.
[ ] Nose for Trouble
This talent means you are perpetually on the alert, able to roll intuition to detect hostile intent even when you are distracted, off guard or around those you think of as allies.
[ ] Write In
This option is reserved for those with a sufficient knowledge of WFRP 4th edition to suggest their own purchases.
VI - An Old Friend
- Location
- London, England
You have chosen to increase Markus's Lore (Law) skill and also to pick up the Nose for Trouble talent.
VI - An Old Friend
Over the next few days you busy yourself with learning all you can of Bögenhafen and the law with which you will contend once there. The chapterhouse of your order offers all the rest and food you require to sustain you during your studies, and the famed library of the nearby Grand Cathedral provides all you could possibly need to know about the topic or any other. It was the ambition of Magnus the Pious to one day boast the sum total of human knowledge with those walls, and while that day is still a long way off, the Cathedral's rival repositories can be counted on the finger of one hand at best. You study historical charts, copies of noble charters, legal commentaries by scholars of the time and church records of the town and its surroundings, and piece by piece a picture emerges.
The Vorbergland is the richest and most prosperous part of Reikland outside the capital itself, a long strip of fertile lowland that divides the mineral-rich slopes of the Grey Mountains from the dense forests to the north, and Bögenhafen is its beating heart. Built where the River Bögen becomes deep enough to support the heaviest kind of transport barges, the town is ideally situated to serve as a hub for transport and commerce across much of the province, a place where crops and ore are exchanged for finished goods and rare imports. The river runs straight down to join the Reik near the great metropolis of Carroburg, while the Weissbruck canal offers a direct route to Altdorf for those who would rather avoid the old Drakwalder capital and its famously stringent taxes.
Normally such a prosperous trading hub would be one of the local lord's most prized possessions, but from what you can tell Graf Wilhelm von Saponatheim barely even cares to visit Bögenhafen much less take a hand in its administration. True, his duchy is one of the largest in the Reikland and his seat at Castle Grauenburg an ancient and honourable one, but there is nothing half as prosperous as Bögenhafen to be found elsewhere within its borders, and such a hands-off attitude is uncommon to say the least. Instead the Graf delegates rule of the town and its trade to a town council, itself elected by the various guilds, merchant houses and temples that rest within the walls. That could be an issue; in your experience, councils like this are prone to placing matters of profit and local influence far above mere things like heresy or the laws of the realm.
Still, the process of assembling your dossier of briefing materials proves surprisingly inspiring, and you soon find yourself branching out to take full advantage of the resources now available to you. You consult with legal experts in the cult, read introductory texts aimed at courthouse apprentices, and spend an increasing share of your time buried in the archives of the Grand Cathedral, shunning all but the bare necessities in your pursuit of understanding. What you uncover about the law and its practice is, in a word, enlightening.
At a fundamental level, all law and social hierarchy descends and draws legitimacy from Sigmar. By leading the Unberogen in conquest of the other tribes he forged a united realm beneath a single ruler, and by respecting the rights and traditions of those selfsame tribes he bound the legitimacy of their rulers to the legitimacy of the Empire itself. Why pay taxes, or train in the militia, or respect the contract drawn up with your neighbour? Because the baron decrees. Why listen to the baron? Because the duke commands. Why respect the duke's authority? Because the Emperor proclaims you must. Why pay fealty to the crown? Because Sigmar commands it so, and Sigmar is divine, sovereign over men and first among the gods.
Small wonder, then, that the Cult of Sigmar is so closely entwined with the Empire as a state. The children of the nobility often serve as priests, and the keenest among the clergy serve as lawyers in the courts of the nobility, and around and around it goes, law and dogma building on each other in an endless web that binds and strengthens the Empire at every level. Only Verena plays anything close to the same role in the governance of civilization, and her disciples are all too often concerned with abstract principles of justice and equality over the social hierarchy that binds the Empire together. The teachings of the other faiths are respected, of course, but only through the Grand Conclave can they become law, and it is the Emperor who chairs the Conclave and pays heed to their counsel. It is the Emperor who draws the line between witch and wizard, who draws the boundaries of noble fiefs, who bestows and revokes the electoral seats, who declares war and negotiates peace with the rulers of foreign lands.
Such studies are fascinating and religiously significant, but they are also tiring beyond all sensible measure and by the time the end of the week approaches you are all but praying for salvation. Your prayers are answered late one afternoon when at last you take a break from your studies in the Great Cathedral and are headed back across the plaza beyond to the chapterhouse of your order, lost in thought and planning for the trials to come.
"Well I'll be damned… Markus! Young master Markus, is that you?"
You stop in your tracks, stunned to be addressed so brazenly in public like this, but when you turn to look at the speaker all confusion vanishes in a moment. You recognise that thick grey beard, that even thicker belly, that mischievous twinkle in those storm grey eyes.
"Josef Quartjin," you say with a slowly blooming smile, "you old rogue. How are you still alive?"
Broad of shoulder and thick of muscle beneath a heavy layer of fat, Josef's whole body quakes when he laughs, clapping his meaty hands together and spreading them wide again like a showman about to demonstrate a new trick. When you were a young scion of the von Bruner line, still learning the shape of your ancestral fief and the source of your familial wealth, Josef was one of many boatmen who worked to ship ore and coal from your mines in the Hägercrybs to the markets of Ubersreik, anonymous and entirely unremarkable. It was only later that year, when you first donned a disguise and went slumming it through every tavern and drug den along the waterfront willing to take your money, that you actually got to know him as a man. Most would have encouraged a noble brat with more money than sense to count his blessings and go back home, but not Josef. Instead, he took you under his wing, showing you all his favourite haunts and introducing you to the roughest collection of rogues you've ever had the misfortunate pleasure of meeting. He taught you a great deal about yourself in those heady days of youthful idiocy, and you're pretty sure he saved your life at least once in the process, but it's been years since those carefree days.
"Someone up there loves me, young lord, and be it Taal or Ranald or Sigmar himself, I am here to make it everyone else's problem," your old friend bellows with laughter, before drawing himself up and looking you over from head to foot, "and what about you, eh? All respectable and sombre. You almost look like… wait, don't tell me you went and joined the clergy?"
For a moment you are confused, and then you realise; you're not wearing your hat, nor anything else that might identify you as a templar, only the kind of serious and comfortable clothes suitable for an afternoon studying at the Cathedral. Josef has no way of knowing what you are unless you tell him… and right now, at this moment, the prospect of clinging to that anonymity is too painfully tempting to ignore.
"Never mind that," you say, and you'll tell him later, of course you will, just not yet, "don't you think you're being a bit presumptuous, speaking to a noble like that?"
From another of your birth that would be a threat, but from you it is a jest, and though you have not spoken in years Josef still knows you well enough to tell the difference. He grins broadly, places one meaty hand over his chest, and gives his best impression of a courtly bow. It really isn't very good.
"Ah, a thousand apologies, milord," he says in a voice so servile and fawning you feel almost physically repelled by it, "perhaps I might beg his grace's forgiveness with some humble hospitality?"
You hesitate for a moment, abruptly conscious of the Cathedral at your back and the dutiful solitude of the quarters which await you at the chapterhouse. Then you shake off the feeling and nod. The gods have placed your old friend in your path once more for a reason, and you'd be a fool to spurn it now. Besides, you have your sword and your pistol both, a noble's privilege even in these rarified surroundings, so it is not as if there is a physical danger to be risked.
"I suppose I might," you say at last, "Lead on, peon, and pray I find your offerings of an acceptable standard."
Chortling merrily, Josef picks himself back up and sets off back towards the city north, slapping you jovially on the back when you fall in alongside him. Looking at him now, your light hearted greeting begins to feel almost uncomfortably sincere; Josef Quartjin is old. His thick waist-length beard is grey turning to white, his leathery skin is wrinkled and spotted, and his loping walk is slow enough you need to pace yourself to match. There's still muscle under that layer of flab, and he still seems to have all his wits about him, but if he were a noble he'd have retired by now, stepped back to lead a comfortable life badgering his younger relatives and enjoying the spoils of a hard life lived well.
"What are you up to these days, Josef?" you ask, because that is as close as you can get to asking without crossing one of the few lines left between you, "Still piloting that old tub around?"
"The Berebeli is a fine ship, brat, with a few good years left in her yet," Josef says indignantly, but you don't miss the look of understanding in his eyes, or the wry smile on his lips. "But if you must know, I've taken on a couple of new boathands lately. Wolmar and Gilda, good folk, married with a baby girl and all. They're saving up, putting their share of the cargo aside. Another year or two and they'll be able to buy the barge off me, I reckon. Then I can settle down in some nice little village somewhere, spend my time fishing and spinning yarns for the locals."
"Good," you exhale slowly with relief. You haven't thought about this man in years, but the mere idea of him being reduced to penury and destitution in his old age was discomforting. The Shallyans would provide care where possible, of course, but without a family or fixed community of his own, you doubt that would have been enough. "That's good."
The Street of a Hundred Taverns is named with more poetic licence than accuracy, but even the most cynical would concede that there are dozens of different taverns, inns, public houses and purveyors of vice to be found along its length. It runs from the docks all the way up to the Konigsplatz, but Josef opts to lead you to a particular establishment nearer the waterline, a squat looking building named the Boatman's Inn. Your fine and sombre clothes mark you as an outsider from the moment you step in through the door, but Josef's presence at your side is as good as a warrant in the eyes of the various hard bitten dockworkers and sailors that pack the taproom from end to end.
"Best beer north of the Reik here, my lad, trust me," Josef says cheerfully as he elbows his way closer to the far, "Una, darling, a bottle of the house special for me and my friend here."
The proprietor is a tall woman with the dusky skin of a southerner, no more than twenty years old by your reckoning, but she handles the bottles and beer steins piled around her with an expert's steady grace. "Josef, back already? Thought you had cargo to load up."
"I do, and I did, and then I met an old friend and had to catch up," Josef says cheerfully, dragging you closer to the bar and patting you on the shoulder, "Markus, this here is Una Mühlmauer, owner and mistress both since her old man passed last year. Don't let the breathy accent fool you, she's as mean as any east end cutter you'll ever meet, which makes sense given her mother was…"
"Finish that sentence old man and you'll be out on your ear," Una growls, but she's still smiling even as she produces a pair of brown glass bottles with a flourish and hands them over. Her gaze is briefly appraising as she looks you over, then she shakes her head with a snort. "Don't take this the wrong way, Markus, but you look far too fancy to be hanging around this drunken old sot."
"What can I say," you say dryly, taking the bottles before Josef can lay his hands on them, "he's grown on me. Like a mould."
Josef sputters in protest at that, but all his affronted dignity doesn't stop him from following you over to one of the few remaining tables and taking a seat, nor does it prevent him from grabbing a pair of glasses and expertly pouring a measure of the ale into each.
"Speaking of old men," he chuckles fondly, raising his glass in toast to you, "How's yours, these days? Still going strong, I assume, if you're here."
You freeze, every muscle locking up at once, then force yourself to relax. No, you suppose it isn't a surprise to hear that Josef never found out. Your family did what it could to bury the whole affair, and while fellow nobles have their ways and their grapevines of salacious gossip to call upon, revealing such things to the commoners is an entirely different matter.
"He's dead," you say shortly, swallowing your drink and feeling the burn as it goes down your throat, "They burned him. Witchcraft."
Josef coughs at that, so shocked that he almost chokes on his drink, and then with watery eyes shakes his head. "Old Man Pietr, truly? Well, I'll be damned. I guess you never can tell." For a moment you think he might be about to connect the dots, might be about to ask the question you really don't want to hear, but either his comprehension falls short or he chooses mercy because all he says is "My sympathies, lad. Not worth much, I know, but even so."
"I appreciate it," you say, quietly, bitterly, thinking of how your father died and then taking another drink, "And no. You never can tell."
"Is, uh…" Josef hesitates for a moment, struggling to put his thoughts into words that won't be as knives driven into your raw and bleeding wounds, "Is that why you're doing the priestly thing? Familial reputation? Or, uh, personal."
"Something like that," you grimace, shaking your head. You could explain it all, pick apart your own reasons and the burning drive to make it right that haunts you more with every passing day, but you won't. There's no point. "I gave up my inheritance after… well, after. Rikard inherited my responsibilities."
Josef nods soberly. "Well, he'll probably do well with them, I imagine. No disrespect, of course, but he always was the more scholarly of you two."
You smile, despite yourself, remembering your little brother's eager eyes and the way he always used to get ink on his hands. "Smarter, too. Harder working. Actually attended to his studies instead of letting a drunken old boatman drag him around the waterfront."
Josef grumbles something of a protest at that but you're too distracted to hear him. Someone else has just walked into the tavern, and like a stone cast into a still lake his presence ripples out before him like a wave, dock workers and tavern regulars falling silent one after the other. He's a tall man, gaunt and pale of skin, with slicked back hair and a neatly trimmed beard that doesn't quite cover an ugly scar that extends up one side of his cheek. You don't see anything approaching a uniform, only a leather jerkin and trousers stained the colour of old soot, but when he approaches a table the locals there get up without a word and depart. The stranger takes the seat they left vacant, and a moment later the landlady is coming out with a bottle of whiskey that he pays for with a grunt and a handful of gleaming silver coins.
"Max Ernst," Josef grumbles quietly, keeping his voice down so the new arrival cannot hear him, "Debt collector, most of the time, the kind that you send if you're less worried about the money and more the message. Surprised nobody's stuck a knife in him yet."
"Looks like he's here for a fight," you murmur back, husbanding your liquor as you study the rangy looking back at his table. You're not the only one, but if Max cares at all he doesn't show it. You expect everyone is waiting to see if someone else is going to pick the fight first, and if they don't, who the thug will pick to vent his foul mood on.
Josef shrugs and takes another drink, setting the cup back down with a deliberately nonchalant clink as conversation slowly picks back up. "Well, let's hope he likes his chances against someone else a little better. Until then… I need you to stop me if it looks like I'm getting into my cups, alright? I've got a shipment of wine and salted meat going out to Bögenhafen tomorrow, and I need to be up and mostly sober with the sun to make the first leg on schedule."
You blink at that, turning your attention back to your old friend and self-appointed mentor. That you should encounter a figure from your past like this, one conveniently going where you need to go and with a form of transportation to hand, strains the bounds of coincidence. Perhaps this meeting truly is the work of the gods. "Bögenhafen? I actually have business out that way soon. Any chance of a spare bunk?"
"Hah! For you, young master, always," Josef grins broadly, revealing a gap-tooth smile stained brown by a life you'd rather not contemplate right now. "Assuming you can be down at pier six by dawn tomorrow, anyway. I'm serious about that schedule, you know - I need to get there by the time the schaffenfest starts or my cargo loses half its value."
The schaffenfest is something you recall seeing mentioned in your earlier studies of Bögenhafen, but before you can ask about it further the door to the tavern opens again and another group comes in. These ones are, if anything, even more worthy of caution than the black clad thug, for while four of them are clearly bodyguards in hard and practical leathers, the remaining two are young men in the very finest of courtly fashions. They could not be any more obviously nobles, and unless you miss your guess they are already more than a little drunk.
"Oh my, what a quaint little establishment," the first young man, his face flushed and beaded with sweat, chuckles as he saunters up to the bar, "Landlord! Two of your finest beverages, please."
Una Mühlmauer smiles and inclines her head and immediately fetches a clear glass bottle from under the bar, filled with an amber liquid you are sure must be ruinously expensive. You're surprised she even has something like that, but it was probably a gift or a memento of some kind, and now she has to sacrifice it to appease a pair of drunken nobles out play-acting at slumming it with the masses.
"Oh, I say Georg," the second young man comments, his immaculately coiffed black hair as out of place here as a mutant in a ballroom, "your man wasn't lying. She really would be quite the looker if she cleaned up a bit."
Una's jaw tightens, but she doesn't say anything, and nor do any of the other patrons of the establishment. They know how this goes, how it always goes when young nobles like this decide to have a little fun at the expense of their social inferiors. You could probably get involved yourself, but then it might very well escalate, and the locals probably wouldn't thank you for it.
"Jacob, my good man, you would find a pig attractive in the right light," the first scion replies in a grand voice, downing the first glass that Una sets before him with no appreciation for the cost or the quality of the liquor within. He belches loudly, then makes a show of sniffing at the air. "Though I suppose that might explain the smell. Urgh. Have none of these people ever heard of bathing?"
"Tell me I was never that bad," you murmur to Josef, ducking your head to hide your wince of embarrassment. You went slumming it more than once, but you never took your bodyguards with you when you did. That defeats the entire point.
"No, and thank Taal for that," Josef mutters back, likewise grimacing at the sudden air of strain that fills the bar. Lashing out at these boys or even raising one's voice will end badly for anyone else here, at the hands of those stone-faced bodyguards immediately and the class hierarchy in time, but that doesn't mean nobody will. Sometimes you run into someone with nothing to lose, or more likely, someone too drunk to realise what they're getting into before the fists start flying.
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intuition test, skill is 62, result is 62, bare pass.
Without conscious thought, your gaze drifts over to Max Ernst, the debt collector here looking for a fight. As you expected he is studying the nobles and their bodyguards carefully, but to your surprise there's no immediate hostility in his gaze. He looks like he's waiting for something.
"This could get ugly," you mutter to Josef, setting your glass aside and rising to your feet, "Let's move on."
The boatman grunts his agreement and follows you back across the floor, but as you get near the door two of the bodyguards step deliberately into your path, blocking the way with their bodies. They're stone-faced men, both of them, with the grizzled air and old scars of former soldiers taken up into new employment, and neither of them are looking at you directly.
"Get out of my way," you say flatly, but neither of them so much as twitch a muscle. Great. Just great.
"I say, is that a rat I see, fleeing for its hole?" One of the nobles calls out in a singsong voice, drunken humour blurring his high class accent, "First pigs and now rats… this place really is a mess."
"Now now, Georg," the other noble chimes in, chuckling at his own wit, "Everyone knows that commoners run away at the first excuse, especially if they're scared of something. Maybe he just finds us a bit too intimidating for him?"
"A thousand apologies, milords," Josef says reluctantly, bowing deep at the waist as he tries to defuse this before it gets any worse, "Our boat leaves at first light, and we wanted to get a start on loading it up."
It's a decent excuse, the sort that any reasonable man would accept with a negligent wave and let you both go, but these two brats aren't here to be reasonable.
"Oh my! A pig that speaks!" The first of them, Georg, says with a kind of malicious humour, "You know, I don't think pigs are meant to speak. Maybe we ought to fix that."
You sigh, giving up on your dreams of a relaxing evening of reminiscing with an old friend or even a graceful exit from the conversation, and turn. Before you can say anything, though, you are interrupted by the gaunt figure of Max Ernst, who rises from his chair and stalks over to stand before you.
"I wouldn't do that, pea-brain," he growls, shoving you hard in the chest and sending you stumbling back. "Why don't you just sit down and enjoy your drink, yeah?"
You say nothing, too astounded to reply. Truly, the consequences of relative anonymity are catching up with you. To these people you look like nothing more than a scholar of middling means out on the town after a hard day of work; the perfect victim, in fact. Georg and Jacob clearly seem to think so, clustering together and sniggering violently at the show that has just started up in front of them.
"What's the matter, dipshit, too thick to speak?" Max growls, goading you now, seeking a response that he can use to start a fight. "Little rats like you should know your place, crawling around on the floor. Go on, then. Crawl!"
Article: A local debt collector/thug for hire is trying to start a fight with you, almost certainly on the orders of two noble brats out for a fun night of making their social inferiors fight for their amusement. How do you wish to proceed?
[ ] Punch Him. They want a fight, and frankly you think you'd enjoy one yourself right now. No weapons, just fists and liquid courage.
[ ] Introduce yourself
- [ ] As a Noble. Making your birth and house known will remove you and Josef from the list of viable targets. You might even be able to talk the young brats out of their plans.
- [ ] As a Witch Hunter. It isn't quite within your legal remit, but you doubt Sigmar would object overly much if you terrified these little shits into being less of a disgrace to their class and station.
[ ] Write in
VII - Templar
- Location
- London, England
VII - Templar
You can see how this scene is meant to go. These nobles, these selfish children, are out on the town in search of fun, and the best idea they can come up with is tormenting their lessers. They are here to bully and intimidate, to humiliate those who cannot fight back and revel in their power, safe from any consequences behind the wall of their status and the skill of their bodyguards. It sickens you; a visceral, nauseating fury that boils like acid in your gut, and you will not stand for it.
Max Ernst goes to push you again, and with a growl of fury you draw your pistol and level it at his head.
"Hey, hey, woah now," Josef says urgently, laying a hand on your arm as the bully freezes and the tavern falls silent, "No need for that, Markus. Just… just put the gun away, alright?"
The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife, and even the two young nobles seem a little unsure of what to do as their bodyguards draw blades and step between you and their charges. If you pull the trigger now they'll gut you before you can reload and everyone here knows it, but that won't keep Max Ernst's brains from decorating the floorboards. The whole situation just escalated far beyond what any present expected, and everything now rests on the edge of a knife.
"Introductions are in order, I think," you speak into the silence, your voice cold and clear and filled with an aristocrat's furious contempt, "I am Markus von Bruner, initiate of the Holy Order of Sigmarite Templars."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intimidate check. Skill is 81, roll is 23, 6SL (8 with talents). Astounding success.
"Witch hunter," someone hisses, their voice like a pin dropped in the silence of the tavern. Outside you can hear the hustle and bustle of an Altdorf evening, from above the low groan of wood and plaster settling with the change of temperature, but in the tavern's main room nobody makes so much as a whisper. Half of the people watching are barely remembering to breathe.
"You, boy," you say flatly, looking past the thug you have at gunpoint and the now-wavering bodyguard to address the noble at his back, "What is your name?"
"I, uh," the boy swallows, his eyes glassy with familiar shock. You've seen that look on too many faces before. He barely even understands what is happening right now, because every time comprehension comes close his mind flinches and scrambles away. "Jacob von Katzenreik, uh, sir. This is Georg von Ostbrun. We… we were just…"
"Having a bit of fun?" you ask, and from the way he blanches your voice must have contained almost as much venom as your heart, "You, Jacob von Katzenreik, are a disgrace. You bring shame to your name, to your family and to your god. Go home, and know that if I ever hear word that you have done anything like this again, you will mourn the day you were born."
Markus tests intimidate, skill is 61, rolls 62, bare failure with 0SL.
Noble tests Cool, skill is 26, roll is 79, failure with -5SL.
Markus succeeds with +5 net SL.
You lack any legal authority to issue such a command, and if the boys commanded their retainers to gut you like a fish you would certainly die, but neither of those things matters. What matters is how they feel, what they see, and so at your command two scions of Reikland's proud noble families nod and bow and slink from the Boatman's Inn like whipped curs. Their guards go with them, most not daring to take their eyes off you until they are safely through the doors, and at last you allow yourself to lower the pistol.
"That goes for you too, Max Ernst," you say flatly, keeping an eye on the thug just in case he thinks of trying his luck now that you've put the pistol away, "Go home. Be better."
Max Ernst tests Cool, skill is 65, roll is 43. Pass.
The thug swallows, then works his jaw and shakes his head, adopting a deliberately nonchalant pose. "Sure, sure. You hiring?"
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Well, see, that's by pay packet you just sent scurrying down the road soaked in his own piss," Max drawls, nodding at the door but never taking his eyes off you, "which means I'm in the market for a new boss. You seem a right vicious bastard, so… are you hiring?"
You blink, too bemused by the sheer audacity on display to take offence at the slur on your parentage. "You are offering me your services? As, what, a professional legbreaker?"
"Something like that," Max nods agreeably, "I hurt people. I'm good at it. Scare them pretty good too, and I don't need to wave a pistol around to do it. Figure you might be interested."
You nod slowly, just to show you understand. You won't pretend that there's no use for a man like Max in your line of work, or that you're too good for such company, and you remember how the whole room fell silent when he first walked in. Of course, you suspect that reputation is why he's making this offer in the first place - he might have lost some face back there, but the sheer audacity of making this pitch in front of so many witnesses will win it back and then some.
-/-
The sun has set and evening cast its dark cloak across the sky, but the docks of Altdorf are still alive with sound and motion as you make your way back down the street. Workers hard off their day shift, merchants hawking their wares, working girls opening their windows and purveyors of vice calling out from nearby alleyways, all of it vital and vibrant. You pass through the crowds like a wraith, unseen and unseeing, and it is only when you reach the bridge and begin to cross back towards the city south and the waiting cathedral that Josef at last musters up the wit to speak.
"So. A witch hunter, huh," he says, a trifle awkward, caught between faux-casual and deep concern, "I never would have guessed."
"Yeah," you say, stopping in place and feeling the cool evening breeze tug at your hair. "I swore my oaths when… the day my father died."
You don't look back, not yet. You can't. Instead you turn and make your way over to the side of the bridge, leaning on the railing and staring out over the vast sweep of the Reik as it passes by. There's a grain barge making its way down the river, slow and ponderous, and as you watch the crew start work on lowering the rigid sail so it can fit beneath the bridge you stand on.
"I, ah," Josef says slowly from behind you, hesitating to come too close, afraid to leave you alone, "I guess it's got something to do with how that went down, then. Only I've heard the stories, everyone has, and if whatever happened was enough to make you like that then…"
He's afraid of you. Of course he is, it's only sensible. You're a Templar of Sigmar, a Witch Hunter, a mad killer redeemed through service to state and creed, the monsters the Empire keeps close to match against the horrors in the dark. You laugh, once, a cold and ugly sound that tears its way free of your chest like a beast from a trap.
"I did it," you say, and you don't know why you're saying it, why you're telling him anything like this at all, save that the very thought of deceiving him for even a moment longer hurts worse than the truth of what must happen next. "I turned him in. I found my father practising his sorcery, speaking with a witch he'd invited into our home, and I reported him. The Templars came that same day, they broke down his office door and they found his notes and his tools and they burned him in the garden that night."
Your eyes are burning and your vision blurred, your skin is cold and your throat so tight you can barely get the words out, but you keep speaking. It isn't a choice. You never get to choose.
"The witch was already gone, she ran the second she realised I'd seen them, but father… he was still there. He didn't even try to flee," you whisper, hunched over on that railing, shoulders trembling as your body rebels and the wind whips at your hair. "He thought we could talk it out, that he could explain, that I would listen. He thought… he thought he could trust me to give him that much, and I didn't, and he didn't even blame me."
You don't regret it. You don't. It was the right thing to do, everything you know, everything you were ever taught is clear on that. You joined the Templars because you knew it was right, because Sigmar's law will make a better world and yours will be the hands that build that shining future.
Josef's hand is on your shoulder now, but you do not feel it, and if he speaks you do not hear him. All you can hear is the crackle of the flames, the sound of the priest's voice as he read the charges and passed the sentence. All you can see is the pyre they built, and the stump of the apple tree where first you learned to climb. You remember seeing your father walk to his end, a terrible dignity in his poise and bearing, a grim look in his eyes. You remember how your mother cried, how your sister begged, how your brother stared at you with a look you have never seen on another's face before or since. You remember your father's last words.
You remember him saying 'I love you'.
And you remember his screams.
You can see how this scene is meant to go. These nobles, these selfish children, are out on the town in search of fun, and the best idea they can come up with is tormenting their lessers. They are here to bully and intimidate, to humiliate those who cannot fight back and revel in their power, safe from any consequences behind the wall of their status and the skill of their bodyguards. It sickens you; a visceral, nauseating fury that boils like acid in your gut, and you will not stand for it.
Max Ernst goes to push you again, and with a growl of fury you draw your pistol and level it at his head.
"Hey, hey, woah now," Josef says urgently, laying a hand on your arm as the bully freezes and the tavern falls silent, "No need for that, Markus. Just… just put the gun away, alright?"
The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife, and even the two young nobles seem a little unsure of what to do as their bodyguards draw blades and step between you and their charges. If you pull the trigger now they'll gut you before you can reload and everyone here knows it, but that won't keep Max Ernst's brains from decorating the floorboards. The whole situation just escalated far beyond what any present expected, and everything now rests on the edge of a knife.
"Introductions are in order, I think," you speak into the silence, your voice cold and clear and filled with an aristocrat's furious contempt, "I am Markus von Bruner, initiate of the Holy Order of Sigmarite Templars."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intimidate check. Skill is 81, roll is 23, 6SL (8 with talents). Astounding success.
More than any other type of roll, social tests are prone to circumstantial modifiers. Here, Markus is enjoying a +20 modifier because he has a gun and has higher social status than the vast majority of people present. He is not gaining a modifier from naming himself as a Witch Hunter, as he has no way to prove this and does not really look the part.
Technically, this intimidate check could be opposed by the Cool skill of all targets. However, nobody present has a high enough willpower+cool to actually exceed Markus' 8 success levels, so I am not rolling.
Having succeeded, Markus can intimidate up to his willpower bonus (5) plus SL (8) targets, for a total of 13 - more than enough to tag Max, the two nobles and their four guards. Said targets will stand down and not get in his way or oppose him, and should combat break out, they treat him as having a fear rating.
Future intimidate checks can be used to compel specific courses of action, but should you ever fail one, the target stops being afraid of you and can no longer be intimidated for the rest of the scene.
Technically, this intimidate check could be opposed by the Cool skill of all targets. However, nobody present has a high enough willpower+cool to actually exceed Markus' 8 success levels, so I am not rolling.
Having succeeded, Markus can intimidate up to his willpower bonus (5) plus SL (8) targets, for a total of 13 - more than enough to tag Max, the two nobles and their four guards. Said targets will stand down and not get in his way or oppose him, and should combat break out, they treat him as having a fear rating.
Future intimidate checks can be used to compel specific courses of action, but should you ever fail one, the target stops being afraid of you and can no longer be intimidated for the rest of the scene.
"Witch hunter," someone hisses, their voice like a pin dropped in the silence of the tavern. Outside you can hear the hustle and bustle of an Altdorf evening, from above the low groan of wood and plaster settling with the change of temperature, but in the tavern's main room nobody makes so much as a whisper. Half of the people watching are barely remembering to breathe.
"You, boy," you say flatly, looking past the thug you have at gunpoint and the now-wavering bodyguard to address the noble at his back, "What is your name?"
"I, uh," the boy swallows, his eyes glassy with familiar shock. You've seen that look on too many faces before. He barely even understands what is happening right now, because every time comprehension comes close his mind flinches and scrambles away. "Jacob von Katzenreik, uh, sir. This is Georg von Ostbrun. We… we were just…"
"Having a bit of fun?" you ask, and from the way he blanches your voice must have contained almost as much venom as your heart, "You, Jacob von Katzenreik, are a disgrace. You bring shame to your name, to your family and to your god. Go home, and know that if I ever hear word that you have done anything like this again, you will mourn the day you were born."
Markus tests intimidate, skill is 61, rolls 62, bare failure with 0SL.
Noble tests Cool, skill is 26, roll is 79, failure with -5SL.
Markus succeeds with +5 net SL.
You lack any legal authority to issue such a command, and if the boys commanded their retainers to gut you like a fish you would certainly die, but neither of those things matters. What matters is how they feel, what they see, and so at your command two scions of Reikland's proud noble families nod and bow and slink from the Boatman's Inn like whipped curs. Their guards go with them, most not daring to take their eyes off you until they are safely through the doors, and at last you allow yourself to lower the pistol.
"That goes for you too, Max Ernst," you say flatly, keeping an eye on the thug just in case he thinks of trying his luck now that you've put the pistol away, "Go home. Be better."
Max Ernst tests Cool, skill is 65, roll is 43. Pass.
The thug swallows, then works his jaw and shakes his head, adopting a deliberately nonchalant pose. "Sure, sure. You hiring?"
"...I beg your pardon?"
"Well, see, that's by pay packet you just sent scurrying down the road soaked in his own piss," Max drawls, nodding at the door but never taking his eyes off you, "which means I'm in the market for a new boss. You seem a right vicious bastard, so… are you hiring?"
You blink, too bemused by the sheer audacity on display to take offence at the slur on your parentage. "You are offering me your services? As, what, a professional legbreaker?"
"Something like that," Max nods agreeably, "I hurt people. I'm good at it. Scare them pretty good too, and I don't need to wave a pistol around to do it. Figure you might be interested."
You nod slowly, just to show you understand. You won't pretend that there's no use for a man like Max in your line of work, or that you're too good for such company, and you remember how the whole room fell silent when he first walked in. Of course, you suspect that reputation is why he's making this offer in the first place - he might have lost some face back there, but the sheer audacity of making this pitch in front of so many witnesses will win it back and then some.
Article: Do you hire Max Ernst?
[ ] Yes. You'll arrange a stipend at the chapterhouse later, and he will meet you by the docks tomorrow morning.
[ ] No. You'll send him on his way, and hopefully never lay eyes on the man again.
-/-
The sun has set and evening cast its dark cloak across the sky, but the docks of Altdorf are still alive with sound and motion as you make your way back down the street. Workers hard off their day shift, merchants hawking their wares, working girls opening their windows and purveyors of vice calling out from nearby alleyways, all of it vital and vibrant. You pass through the crowds like a wraith, unseen and unseeing, and it is only when you reach the bridge and begin to cross back towards the city south and the waiting cathedral that Josef at last musters up the wit to speak.
"So. A witch hunter, huh," he says, a trifle awkward, caught between faux-casual and deep concern, "I never would have guessed."
"Yeah," you say, stopping in place and feeling the cool evening breeze tug at your hair. "I swore my oaths when… the day my father died."
You don't look back, not yet. You can't. Instead you turn and make your way over to the side of the bridge, leaning on the railing and staring out over the vast sweep of the Reik as it passes by. There's a grain barge making its way down the river, slow and ponderous, and as you watch the crew start work on lowering the rigid sail so it can fit beneath the bridge you stand on.
"I, ah," Josef says slowly from behind you, hesitating to come too close, afraid to leave you alone, "I guess it's got something to do with how that went down, then. Only I've heard the stories, everyone has, and if whatever happened was enough to make you like that then…"
He's afraid of you. Of course he is, it's only sensible. You're a Templar of Sigmar, a Witch Hunter, a mad killer redeemed through service to state and creed, the monsters the Empire keeps close to match against the horrors in the dark. You laugh, once, a cold and ugly sound that tears its way free of your chest like a beast from a trap.
"I did it," you say, and you don't know why you're saying it, why you're telling him anything like this at all, save that the very thought of deceiving him for even a moment longer hurts worse than the truth of what must happen next. "I turned him in. I found my father practising his sorcery, speaking with a witch he'd invited into our home, and I reported him. The Templars came that same day, they broke down his office door and they found his notes and his tools and they burned him in the garden that night."
Your eyes are burning and your vision blurred, your skin is cold and your throat so tight you can barely get the words out, but you keep speaking. It isn't a choice. You never get to choose.
"The witch was already gone, she ran the second she realised I'd seen them, but father… he was still there. He didn't even try to flee," you whisper, hunched over on that railing, shoulders trembling as your body rebels and the wind whips at your hair. "He thought we could talk it out, that he could explain, that I would listen. He thought… he thought he could trust me to give him that much, and I didn't, and he didn't even blame me."
You don't regret it. You don't. It was the right thing to do, everything you know, everything you were ever taught is clear on that. You joined the Templars because you knew it was right, because Sigmar's law will make a better world and yours will be the hands that build that shining future.
Josef's hand is on your shoulder now, but you do not feel it, and if he speaks you do not hear him. All you can hear is the crackle of the flames, the sound of the priest's voice as he read the charges and passed the sentence. All you can see is the pyre they built, and the stump of the apple tree where first you learned to climb. You remember seeing your father walk to his end, a terrible dignity in his poise and bearing, a grim look in his eyes. You remember how your mother cried, how your sister begged, how your brother stared at you with a look you have never seen on another's face before or since. You remember your father's last words.
You remember him saying 'I love you'.
And you remember his screams.
Article: Every character has two personal goals, one short term, one long term. Completing a short term goal grants 50xp. Completing a long term goal grants 500xp and allows you to retire the character if you wish.
Markus' long term personal goal is "Earn my father's forgiveness".
How does he imagine this might be achieved?
[ ] Find the Witch. The woman who brought your father those forbidden texts is the one who damned him. You know her name - Etelka Herzen - and one day you will have justice for her crimes.
[ ] Mentor a Wizard. Your father could have, should have, turned himself in to the colleges. Finding another in his situation, one who needs you to guide them, and seeing them become a respected magister will redeem him and you both.
[ ] Enter the Garden. Through the prayers of a Morrite or the magic of an Amethyst you might find your father's spirit. Nothing else will suffice. And if such methods fail, well, there is always the traditional way.
[ ] Confess your Sins. Find some fault in Sigmarite dogma, something truly undeniable and intolerable, and you will break their hold over you. Then you can be forgiven for what you did. Then you can be punished.
VIII - Leaving Altdorf
- Location
- London, England
You voted to hire Max Ernst, and also to focus on the idea of sending a wizard for training as a kind of validation-by-proxy for Markus' unresolved issues surrounding his own father.
VIII - Leaving Altdorf
Eventually the fire that consumes you burns out, leaving only cold ashes in your heart and a bone-deep weariness in your soul. You part ways with Josef, pathetically grateful for the way he seems determined to ignore your breakdown, and return to the chapterhouse alone. You are quite sure that some of the other templars who see you that evening know of the turmoil that gripped you, the truth written for anyone to see in the red of your eyes and the cold languor of your movements, but they don't say anything either. They understand better than most what you are going for, but as you stay silent when they bend and all but break, so too do they offer you the same courtesy.
Nobody who joins the Witch Hunters is coming from a happy place in their life. Zeal can carry a man into the priesthood, duty into the army, but to dedicate your life to grappling with the very worst that mankind has to offer requires something altogether more bitter. For some it is grief, others hate, and for the worst of you all pure conviction, but none of it makes for pleasant conversation or the building blocks of healthy camaraderie. So you eat a cold meal at a lonely table, exchange a few words with the silent servants, and retire alone to collapse into your narrow bed. Morr at least is merciful, and your sleep is deep and untroubled by dreams.
You are woken by the servants just before the fifth bell, the sky still dark outside and the city as close to silent as it ever gets. In silence you wash yourself in the small bucket of water they bring and shave the stubble from your neck and chin, ruefully considering your utter inability to grow a beard worth the name. Then you kneel before the small icon of Sigmar over your bed and murmur a quiet prayer, hoping in your heart that the Heldenhammer will give you the opportunities you wish for so ardently. Not wealth or fame, but simply a chance to learn for yourself if your father could have ever avoided his fate. Then you dress and arm yourself and leave the chapterhouse behind.
Promotion to Inquisitor comes with greater access to the order's armoury, and signalling your willingness to leave a trained riding horse behind - for such a steed has no place on a trading barge like the Berebeli, certainly not for the week or more you expect it will take you to reach Bögenhafen - earned you appropriate considerations from the quartermaster. Your old leather jack has been taken in for repair, and in its place you now have a long brigandine coat and a shirt of chainmail so surpassingly light and resilient you are sure it must be dwarven work. Along with the armour comes a full set of sombre but stylish day wear you would not be embarrassed to wear into court; useful, considering where your career will likely take you. The Templars frown on decadence, but you are increasingly likely to be the face of your organisation to the outside world, and duty demands that you look the part.
For simplicity's sake, I elected to handle purchases off screen. Markus has traded in his old riding horse and leather jack for a set of armour that will actually stand up to open battle. Plate would of course be better, but such things are simply beyond the price range of any save a knightly order.
Altdorf never really sleeps, but there is still a kind of peace in the air as you make your way through the early morning gloom to the docks. Gulls caw in welcome as the skies slowly begin to lighten, matched by the tuneless whistling of the dung collectors as they push their reeking cargo through the streets. Nobody speaks or even pretends to have seen you until you reach the section of the docks where the Berebeli is meant to be tied up, at which point Max Ernst steps out of the nearest alleyway and nods to you.
"Ho there, Templar," he says in a rough voice, and between the growl and the shadows under his eyes you wonder if he managed to sleep at all last night. "The boat's up ahead, but you'll want to see this first, I think."
Frowning, you make your way over to where he stands, and your mood hardly benefits from the sight of two dead bodies in the alleyway behind him. Dockworkers, at a guess, killed recently enough that the blood pooling around them has cooled but not yet congealed. The smears on the ground suggest that someone dragged them out of sight, but they can't have come from very far away.
"Did you do this?" you ask, just to be certain.
"Nope," Max shakes his head, grimacing at the motion. You wonder how much brandy he had after you left the tavern last night, and how much he regrets that decision now. "Just found them. Told the old guy and he said they'd probably gotten drunk and knifed each other."
Markus makes an Average (+20) perception test, skill is 62, roll is 95. Fail.
Looking the two bodies over, you can't see anything that would contradict that impression. The wounds on their necks and bodies could have come from a knife, wielded with sufficient skill or raw fury, and yet something about the idea prickles at your instincts in a way you cannot really put a name to. It is only when you put a boot to the nearest body and roll it over that you realise what is bothering you.
"I've seen these two before," you mutter, casting your mind back to earlier in the week when you arrived in Altdorf with Lady Isolde. Yes, it is definitely them; the two men who briefly confused you for someone else they were looking to meet, now dead and cold at your feet. A coincidence, surely, for you cannot see how they could possibly be connected to your current investigation in a town so far away from here, but even so there is something about this situation that bothers you. "Did they have any identification on them?"
"Nope," Max grunts, squinting down at the dead bodies, "No papers or guild marks, anyway. Just a couple of daggers and some silver."
You're not blind to the implication that he looted them and expects to keep the proceeds, but after a moment of consideration you decide that you really don't care. Nor can you afford to spend more time on what appears to be either a brutal falling out between friends or at worst a simple murder. Your assignment in Bögenhafen awaits, and Josef will not be able to wait forever.
"The watch will handle it," you say, shaking your head and turning away, "Come, let us depart."
The Berebeli reflects its master in all important respects, being fat and sturdy and filled with far more bottles of wine than you would expect any one man capable of drinking, and when you arrive Josef has just finished rigging the sails for an impending departure. He seems almost obnoxiously cheerful in the cold morning air, hustling and bustling and driving the two deckhands (who seem far more reasonably tired) to distraction as he checks everything is in its place.
"Ah, there you two are, welcome," he calls out as you step aboard, "We'll be setting off in a few minutes, I think. Have either of you ever crewed a river barge? No? Then make yourselves comfortable in the cabin for now."
That's as polite a request as you've ever heard to get out from underfoot before someone treads on you, so with a quiet chuckle you comply. The Berebeli keeps most of its cargo on the main deck, massive piles of wooden crates held in place by thick chains and protected by heavy cloth coverings, but there's enough room between the stacks to make your way over to the main cabin area near the centre. The interior is a cosy little space, packed full of hand-crafted furniture and assorted knickknacks from across the Empire, and while there are a pair of rooms towards the back you can already tell those are reserved for Josef and his workers. Instead, a pair of cots have been set up against the far wall for you and Max to make use of, each labelled with the faded crest of the Altdorf state army - surplus gear from an old campaign, you expect, and for the sake of your good mood you decide not to wonder whether the quartermaster who sold it to your old friend was technically allowed to do so.
"Huh," Max grunts, all but collapsing into his cot and putting his back to the cabin wall, "Surprised you're not grabbing one of the rooms for yourself. Being noble, and all."
You're not surprised by the comment or the implied question; indeed, you'd be more concerned if Max chose not to ask. He is your agent now, so of course he wishes to get a grasp on your attitude and what it means for him and his work as soon as possible. A naive young scion might bluster about not letting mere social status get between friends and comrades, but Max would not believe that even if you honestly meant it. You are a noble, you are a Witch Hunter. These things define you and divide you, setting you apart from and above others, and it does neither of you any favours to pretend otherwise, especially not when your authority over this man is still new and as of yet untested.
"Josef is an old man, and his boathands have a baby girl in there to take care of," you say instead, settling your pack down under the cot and rolling your shoulders to work the stiffness out, "What kind of man would I be to turf either of them out for the sake of a week's modest comfort?"
Max nods at that, as you expected. A noble disdaining the privileges of their birth is one thing, a man choosing to prioritise chivalrous conduct over his own comfort is quite another. Part of you is curious about how a man like Max Ernst sees the world, having lived below the likes of you and your family for so long, but your curiosity is not a strong enough motive to breach propriety in such a way.
As promised, the Berebeli gets underway shortly after you have settled in, and within the hour you are passing the walls of Altdorf and entering the great natural harbour of the Reiksport beyond. Here can be found the majority of the capital's shipyards and long term berthing facilities, and as you emerge onto the deck you get a fine view of the Imperial First Fleet. The sun has more or less risen now, and silhouetted against the dawn the dozens of sailing ships resting at anchor make for an impressive sight indeed, their decks bristling with cannon and their vibrant pennants snapping in the breeze.
"You know, I heard not even half of these things have seen the sea, much less a battle worth telling of," Max grunts, leaning against the railing and scowling at the ships as they roll slowly by. You think that perhaps the steady rocking motion of the barge is upsetting his stomach, but if so he makes a show of not letting it get to him. "Seems a real waste. All that tax money for a bunch of glorified barges."
He's testing you again, trying to figure out how much overt patriotism you are going to demand during your work together, but that doesn't mean he's wrong. The First Fleet has never seen open sea battle as far as you know, and while Marienburg's tolls on military traffic remain as high as they have been for the last few generations that seems unlikely to change.
"They serve a valuable purpose as deterrence, should any seek to sail up the Reik and attack," you say, though you know your tone is far from the most convincing. "One goes to war with the fleet one has; better, then, to have a fine one ready than to let your guard down."
Personally, you suspect the Fleet's real purpose is one of revanchism. Marienburg will not be conquered or Westerland reclaimed without a sizable fleet, and that is a dream many generations of Emperors have held close to their hearts. Personally you are a bit more ambivalent on the matter than the hoary old men who used to sit around your father's table and agitate for the campaign, for no matter how corrupt he might have been Dieter was still the rightfully elected Emperor when he granted the province its independence. Nor can a campaign of reconquest be fairly said to be in honour of Sigmar, for the Jutones never pledged to the Heldenhammer, being conquered instead by Sigismund the Second around the fifth century, and to claim legitimate ownership of the Conqueror's legacy would perforce mean laying claim to what is now a significant swathe of Bretonnia and the Border Princes.
Around midday you reach the quiet village of Lethov, at the very edge of the Altdorf Flats, and there Josef ties up the barge and goes ashore to pay the access fee for the Weissbruck canal. You elect not to go with him, lest the sudden appearance of a witch hunter give people the wrong idea, and instead broach conversation with Wolmar and Gilda, your old friend's employees and boathands.
"Aye milord, we've been this way many a time," Gilda says with studied politeness, keeping her gaze lowered as she answers your question, "Them that run the canal charge a toll for its use, true enough, but far less than the tolls for taking cargo of any size past Carroburg. Faster, too."
"You know, I always did wonder," Wolmar, her husband, chimes in with a nod at the humble looking lockhouse that governs access to the canal beyond, "Why there's three sets of heraldry displayed at each end. Normally there's only one noble house that lays claim to a place like this."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Lore (Reikland) test. Target is 60, roll is 04, astounding success (6SL)
"Those are the sigils of House Holswig-Schleistein, House Holzkrug and House Gruber," you say, studying the symbols and noting with some distaste how faded the paint on some of them has gotten. "Respectively, the Emperor's own household, one of their biggest rivals, and a newly elevated house from Weissbruck proper."
Were you among peers you might refer to the Grubers as upjumped merchants who bribed their way into a claim that their blood really does not support, but airing the business of the nobility before the peasantry never works out well for anyone.
"Huh. Which of them's in charge, then?" Max Ernst asks, poking his head out from where he was previously taking a nap under the cargo sheet.
"All three share the profits equally, but Gruber handle the day to day business," you explain, teasing the details out of memories of grumbling complaints voiced around some forgotten banquet table, "It is said they exploited the rivalry between the two old houses to secure the funding and land grants for the canal in the first place, and elevating a neutral third party as middlemen was deemed preferable by both to having their ancestral rivals take control of such a profitable holding."
"Well, damn, alright," Max chuckles, shaking his head and laying back down again, "Not too fond of merchants most days, but it must have taken some real stones to pull that off. Colour me impressed."
You grimace at the praise, but there's no point in voicing your objections to it here. The Grubers will either prove themselves worthy of the honour bestowed upon their bloodline or they won't, and there's no sense in worrying about it now. Even if the very idea of a merchant clan buying its way into the gentry displeases you on principle. Josef's return offers a ready distraction in any case, especially when he looks as grim as a man on his way to a funeral.
"Problems with the toll?" you ask as he stumps back aboard, considering your options for scaring the local bureaucrats into compliance if he says yes.
"No, we're all paid up and free to go," Josef shakes his head, pausing where he is instead of heading straight for the wheel as you might expect, "Only… seems we've got some interesting times ahead. Old Karl-Franz just sent the state troops into Ubersreik, kicked the old Jungfreud family out of their manors."
"He what?" You exclaim, spluttering like someone just threw a bucket of cold water over your head. The Jungfreud family is one of Reikland's oldest and most powerful of noble houses, and more importantly, their title is directly above that of House von Bruner in the feudal hierarchy of the province. Or rather, it was. "On what grounds?"
"Hell if I know. Something about treason, or the old Archduke gearing up for war against his neighbour?" Josef shakes his head, sucking his teeth as he works through the implications. "Anyway, apparently the family managed to get out of Ubersreik in time, ran off back to their holdings in Black Rock, up in the mountains. Nobody knows what happens now, which you can bet is going to make business real complicated for a while."
"The Emperor… sent in the army?" Wolmar blinks, looking more interested than horrified, like this is simply a piece of local gossip that Josef is passing along, "Can he do that?"
Markus makes an average (+20) Lore (Law) test. Target is 60, roll is 97, failure. Fortune point spent for reroll, result is 12, impressive success.
Markus is not an ordinary man, and is marked out by the gods for greater things than most. To reflect this, he has three fate points. Whenever he would die or otherwise suffer catastrophic personal harm, he may spend a fate point to miraculously survive.
Fate points are lost once spent, and can only be regained by great acts of personal heroism and religious significance, such as saving an entire town from daemonic incursion.
He also has four fortune points (normally he would have three, as fortune is equal to fate, but due to the Lucky talent he has one more). These allow him to reroll failed tests or act outside of his turn in combat.
Fortune points refresh at the beginning of every day (or other narrative timeframe, in the case of an update that covers an extended period of downtime).
Fate points are lost once spent, and can only be regained by great acts of personal heroism and religious significance, such as saving an entire town from daemonic incursion.
He also has four fortune points (normally he would have three, as fortune is equal to fate, but due to the Lucky talent he has one more). These allow him to reroll failed tests or act outside of his turn in combat.
Fortune points refresh at the beginning of every day (or other narrative timeframe, in the case of an update that covers an extended period of downtime).
You consider the question, casting your mind back through everything you've learned during your upbringing and more recent studies. Unfortunately, the answer is more complicated than you might like. Certainly, as Emperor of the realm and Grand Prince of Reikland, Karl-Franz has the legal authority to strip a noble of his title and holdings, and a charge of treason would be more than justifiable cause to do so. Yet the Jungfreuds are an ancient and noble line, with all attendant rights and privileges - such charges should by rights have merited a trial before the assembled peers of the Reikland Diet, not a sudden pronouncement of guilt delivered by the state troops at spearpoint. Is the lack of such proceedings enough to render the judgement illegal? You don't know. As far as you can recall, the issue is all but unprecedented.
Everyone is looking at you, you realise. Of course they are; you are a nobleman yourself, and a sanctioned agent of the Cult of Sigmar besides. Your judgement in this matter is, if not necessarily law, as close as they are going to get. Yet… what do you even say?
Article: What judgement do you make?
[ ] The Emperor has the right. The action is legitimate, and if the proper forms were not followed, you can only trust that Karl-Franz had good cause to bypass the Diet and enact such a summary judgement upon his wayward vassal.
[ ] The Emperor oversteps. The Archduke deserves a fair trial under the law, and his peers in the Reikland Diet are entitled to hear the evidence and have their voices heard. To depose a vassal by force of arms absent such processes is nothing more or less than tyranny.
[ ] Ours Not to Reason Why. Regardless of your own thoughts on the matter, it is not proper for the affairs of high nobility to be banded about by a common barge master and his crew. You cannot stop them from gossiping, but you can at least refuse to encourage it.