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- Location
- London, England
The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)
- Thread starter Maugan Ra
- Start date
- Fantasy
XVI - The Rich and Powerful
- Location
- London, England
XVI - The Rich and Powerful
The law is the law, and no matter your doubts that single fact remains true. You hesitate for a moment as the thought settles home, and then you nod but once. High Priest Edel smiles thinly, pleased that at least one other man here is willing to accept his authority, while Sigiwalt simply grinds his teeth together until you can hear the sound from where you stand.
"On your own heads be it, then," he spits, shaking his head, "I can but pray that Sigmar see fit to have the consequences fall on your heads alone, should you be wrong."
Without further ado the priest turns on his heel and storms out of the room, ignoring Ludo's upraised hand and open mouth. The high priest watches him go for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head.
"Too long tending to the poor and wretched, that one," he murmurs, half to himself, "He has forgotten that learned and righteous men yet exist. Well, I can deal with his insubordination later. For now, I think it is best that we begin with Councillor Teugen. If you'd care to accompany me, Herr Bruner?"
"Of course," you say politely, stepping aside and then falling in behind the high priest as he bustles out of the room, "If I may ask… from the manner of your conversation, it seems Father Sigiwalt's defiance is not uncommon?"
"Sigmar places obstacles in every man's path, and burdens upon every man's shoulder, yet so too does he give us the strength and conviction to rise above them," Edel says loftily as you walk, sweeping past the pews and the altar without a sideways glance. "My appointment to this position was made on merit, instead of length of service, and because I as a native of the town knew its character better than many other candidates. Alas, some among the existing clergy refuse to see that. They will be brought in line with time."
"Of course," you murmur, hiding a frown. A wise patron would have found this man somewhere safe and insignificant to establish his credibility, and only after a period of years pushed to favour his promotion. To place a relative novice in charge of the spiritual faith of all Bögenhafen is dangerously over-confident, and likely to ruin his career before too much longer. "A moment, if you would. I need to give my agent proper direction."
Max is still hanging around outside the temple, looking vaguely shifty and out of place and trading glares with passing watchmen, and though he only grunts at your reappearance you think he might be relieved. "Oh, hey boss. You missed a bit of fun, you know - some madman was out here ranting about the end times coming. Anyway, you get what you needed?"
"I did," you say simply, seeing no point in discussing the internal affairs of the cult with an outsider, "Now, listen carefully. The High Priest and I are going to see some of the local authorities. I want you to watch and see if anyone sends a messenger running while we're in there."
"Oh, I get it," Max grins, a thoroughly unpleasant expression, "Shake the trees and see what falls out, huh? You got it."
For a moment you consider speaking some words of caution, advising Max not to cause trouble he cannot solve in pursuit of this motive, but what would be the point? He's a thug, and you hired him for just this kind of work; at some point, you simply have to trust that he can handle it. So in the end you nod, and without further word you rejoin Father Edel outside the temple.
"That is your agent?" the priest says with a frown, staring at Max as if he might suddenly become something other than what he so evidently is, "I would not have thought his kind suited to your holy work."
"He has his uses," you say mildly, gesturing onward with your arm, "Now, shall we be about this?"
The town hall has not grown any less ostentatious since your last visit, nor the clerks any more helpful, but when the High Priest asks for a meeting with the head of the Town Council, there is little that even the most obstreperous of bureaucrats can do to deny it. So it is that within a matter of minutes you are being escorted along a wood-panelled corridor towards a sturdy oak door emblazoned with a brass placard that announces this as the office of one 'Johannes Teugen'. A polite knock at the door elicits a mumbled invitation, and then you are through, the clerk disappearing back into the corridors at your back.
The interior of the office is almost entirely pitch black, the richly appointed room lit only by a thin sliver of light that sneaks in through the curtained windows, and for a moment you almost think it entirely deserted. Then a narrow silhouette shifts in the darkness and a raspy voice calls out to you.
"Please, come in and shut the door," it says, filled with pain and regret, "I beg your forgiveness for the darkness, but I have the most dreadful headache."
"A tad too much enthusiasm for the Schaffenfest, I see," Ludo Edel says with wry amusement, closing the door as bidden and plunging you all deeper into shadow, "My apologies for disturbing you, then, but I am afraid this cannot wait. My companion is Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Orders of Sigmarite Templars."
"A pleasure, I am sure," Councillor Teugen says in his raspy voice, a pale and boney hand emerging into the light for a moment to grasp at a crystalline glass filled with rich red liquid. "Johannes Teugen, head of the Bögenhafen town council. Please, sit, and tell me what brings you here. In a quiet voice, if you'd be so kind."
"Of course," you murmur, awkwardly feeling your way across the room until you locate a chair next to the councillor's desk. You draw it out, wincing at the sharp scraping noise it makes on the floor, and settle yourself down. As your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, you see that Teugen is dressed in a richly embroidered outfit of crushed velvet, red and black with the seams picked out in golden thread. It is the kind of outfit that a prominent nobleman might wear, which speaks to the man's wealth and access. "I likewise apologise for the interruption, but the matter is serious. It began when I arrived in Bögenhafen, just before noon yesterday…"
Speaking quickly and clearly, you lay out the scope of your investigation and the evidence you have uncovered thus far - the murders, the daemon, the connection to the Steinhäger offices. Teugen listens to your report in silence, sipping slowly at the glass full of wine, while the air in the darkened office seems to grow warmer and heavier with each passing moment. You wonder if it might be possible to open one of the windows.
"I see. You said your name was Markus von Bruner, correct?" Teugen asks when at last you finish your report. "And you are… quite certain that you saw a daemon, of all things, in the sewers beneath my town? I find this hard to credit."
"I did, and I am," you say frostily, allowing your annoyance to seep into your tone, "I assure you, Councillor, that I am not some landless wanderer babbling about strange sightings on the evening road. I am a Templar of the Holy Orders, on official business in Bögenhafen."
"You are also a murderer," Teugen replies flatly, "Who gunned down Alexei Bueller, a respected merchant and personal acquaintance of mine, before the eyes of an entire village on charges of… well, none at all, as I recall. No charges, no trial, just your own judgement. Now you come to me pressing for the death of another merchant on the strength of that same judgement."
You grit your teeth and ball your hands into fists, struggling to control the sudden spike of rage and contempt before it spills out from your lips. You are painfully aware of just how difficult your work will become if you say half the things you are currently thinking, which is why you are grateful when Ludo Edel clears his throat and speaks up.
"Regardless of your opinion on his previous work, Councillor, Master von Bruner is still a Templar on official business," he says in a hard voice, "To that end, I insist that a proper investigation be conducted, and that you cooperate with it accordingly."
"Oh, very well," Teugen sighs, massaging his brow with one pale and slender hand, "I will arrange for a formal inquiry to be held at the courthouse in… let's say five days. That ought to give everyone involved time to prepare accordingly, and for the Schaffenfest crowds to disperse. I'll have the necessary documents drawn up and delivered to all parties by tonight."
"It would be better if the matter was handled discreetly," you say stiffly, already knowing what Teugen is likely to say.
"Herr Steinhäger is a respectable citizen entitled to the full protection of the law," Teugen growls, confirming your suspicions, "Including the necessary time to muster his resources and secure adequate legal representation. Understand that I indulge your spurious accusations solely out of respect for High Priest Edel, and get out."
There is little to be gained from protesting by this point, so after a few remaining formalities you rise and retreat from the room, the High Priest at your side. Neither of you say anything as you leave the town hall behind, only stopping when you stand in the shadow of the great statue in the plaza beyond.
"I assume he was correct, about this 'Bueller'?" Edel asks, tone more curious than annoyed.
"The man gave false testimony before Sigmar and sought to have a woman burned as a witch for refusing his advances," you say tersely, "I had every right to act as I did."
"Mm. Well, be that as it may, I am glad to see you have learned at least some discretion in the time since," Edel sighs, shaking his head, "Bögenhafen needs a diligent servant of the public good, not some frenzied attack dog straining at its chain."
"...if I were such a beast, it would be a fool indeed who said such things" you growl, one hand flexing at your side, "I am a noble and templar both, and my patience for such disrespect is limited."
"Yes, yes, of course," Edel scoffs, clearly entirely unimpressed by your mounting ire, "You have my support in this regardless, for the Cult must be seen to stand as one, but I do hope you have more success in our meeting with Guildmaster Magirius. Come, it is almost the first bell of the afternoon - he will have retired to the Golden Trout for lunch by now."
-/-
It has been some time since last you visited an establishment as fine as the Golden Trout, but the interior matches your hazy recollections almost exactly. This is a means to flaunt one's wealth more than anything else, where meals are eaten off fine china plates with silver cutlery beneath the light of a dozen candelabras and uniformed staff await to attend to your every whim. The assembled worthies who flock to such a place are too self-conscious to stare, but you can still feel their eyes on your back as High Priest Edel leads you across the floor to one particular table and the man eating there alone.
Friedrich Magirius, Merchant Guildmaster, is a slightly built man with neat grey hair and a forked beard, and when he looks up from his meal there is not a trace of hostility in those pale blue eyes.
"Ah, Ludo my good man," he says cheerfully, rising to his feet and offering the high priest a hand to shake, "Good to see you. I wasn't aware you were dining with us today."
"I'm afraid it is something of a last minute arrangement," Edel says with an apologetic shrug, "Friedrich, may I introduce Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Orders. I'm afraid certain rumours of your organisation have reached Altdorf of late, and Markus here has been sent to investigate them. I felt it would be sensible to give you a chance to clear up any confusion."
"Of course, of course," Magirius says with an easy smile, offering you his hand in turn. You take it, and are mildly surprised to find his handshake firm and steady, without a trace of hesitation or fear in it. "Please, sit, the both of you. Gertrude, my dear, two more plates for my friends here, thank you. Oh, and a pair of glasses for the brandy."
"My thanks, Herr Magirius," you say, mildly surprised as you take a seat at the table, "And, just for the sake of clarity - I have been called upon to investigate the Ordo Septenarius. Are you a member of this organisation?"
"Indeed, I hold a position on the Ordo's inner council, along with six others," Magirius replies, taking his seat and picking up his cutlery once more. He seems to be eating a side of lightly roasted beef, the meat appealing pink and soft as he cuts into it. "I cannot claim to have expected a visit from one of your Order, master Templar, but neither am I terribly surprised. Given the confidential nature of our business and the foibles of human nature, I suppose it was inevitable that certain rumours would start. Please, ask your questions, and I will answer as best I may."
You have to admit, you were not expecting someone to outright admit to membership in the Ordo at the slightest questioning, but just because Magirius is being cooperative it does not mean you can afford to become lax. "Thank you. To begin with, I understand the Ordo is a small group, contained largely within the upper ranks of the Merchant's Guild?"
"Yes, we're something of an elite club, so to speak," Magirius nods, his voice slightly muffled as he chews on the meat while he speaks, "There are fifty of us in total; forty two regular members, the seven members of the inner council, and of course the Magister, our leader. He sets our objectives, the inner council coordinates and distributes resources, and the rank and file carry them out. A few of us have special roles, of course - mine, for example, is to provide explanations like this one to those outside the Ordo who need to know."
The staff arrive then, appearing from seemingly nowhere to set out plates of spiced beef and rich greens before you and Edel. The High Priest murmurs his thanks and immediately sets about eating, and after a moment's hesitation you do as well. The beef is truly exquisite, all but bursting with flavour as you take a bite.
"And what sort of objectives is it that this magister sets for you?" you ask, though unlike Magirius you have the good manners to wait until your mouth is empty before you try to speak. "I assume that your Ordo has a guiding principle behind its operations."
"Our guiding principle? Why, the pursuit of profit, of course," Magirius chuckles, as if amused at his own joke, "A tad stereotypical for a collection of merchants, I admit, but sometimes those stereotypes are founded on at least a fragment of truth. There are the obvious joint ventures and shared investments, of course, along with the odd bit of price fixing and favoured treatment, but what really sets the Ordo apart is our interest in the good of Bögenhafen as a whole. We make investments into the town's resources and infrastructure, fund orphanages and soup kitchens in the poorer quarters, and donate to the cults whenever they seek to improve the public good. It sounds like simple charity, but we believe that a healthy, flourishing Bögenhafen is one that leads to better outcomes for all, our private ledgers included."
"Is that not the role of the Town Council?" you ask, taking a sip of the brandy that the staff have set out next to you. A Bretonnian variety, you think, though your palate is not refined enough to guess where from. "As Guildmaster, you have a seat upon that body as well, do you not?"
"I do, and in better times you would be right," Magirius allows, grimacing slightly at the reminder, "Alas, Bögenhafen's situation is rather unusual. We are not a free town, but neither are we entirely under the control of the nobility. Consequently, every significant decision the council commits to is the result of some considerable degree of politicking, and must be taken with a careful thought towards appearances."
"A regrettable state of affairs, but accurate," Edel confirms, dabbing at his lips with a napkin to clear away the juices from his meal, "As High Priest I have a seat on the council, and am expected to bring the concerns of all religious organisations within Bögenhafen to light. Yet I must also watch my words carefully, to avoid any implications of authority over my fellows. It can be a tiring dance, and a slow one."
"Working through the Ordo permits us to avoid such issues," Magirius picks up the thread of the conversation again, offering you a winning smile, "After all, I'm sure you would agree that it would be a great shame if the poor and needy were to be denied succour for such a petty reason."
You have to say you are a little dubious, for such rhetoric matches all too easily to that espoused by other criminals and malcontents who regard the law as nothing but a burden, but it would hardly be polite to say so. "I see. Is this the purpose of your anonymity and ritual, then?"
"In a sense, yes. There are many who would wish to know the Ordo's membership and its objectives, in order to profit at our expense, and so we choose to work covertly," Magirius nods vigorously, "As for the rest, a little pomp and circumstance help to keep the mind focused and the rank and file impressed. The ritual of our meetings brings a certain gravitas to the proceedings… though I assure you, it is entirely secular and mundane! No magic of any kind is employed, nor prayers offered to any god, though we are of course all pious souls."
Markus tests Intuition, skill is 47, roll is 05, success with +4SL
Oddly enough, Magirius seems entirely sincere. There is a touch of evasiveness when he mentions the ritual elements, but he clearly believes his own words about the Ordo's benevolent intent and law-abiding nature. If you had to guess, they're probably cribbing notes off foreign religious practices or the arcane rituals of the Colleges in order to add a touch of the exotic to their dealings. It wouldn't be the first or even the hundredth time groups of rich idiots have done something of the kind, and it is almost always more embarrassingly tacky than dangerous. Were it not for the daemon in the hidden shrine, you might have been inclined to take this one at face value and shrug it off as just another case of idiots with more money than good taste.
"I suspect I know the answer," you offer with a slight smile, "but if I were to enquire about the identities of your membership, or the locations where your meetings took place…"
"I'm afraid I'd need some rather compelling reasons to admit to either," Magirius chuckles, shaking his head, and by your side you can feel Edel giving you a sharp look, "And perhaps to consult a legal professional, if this were to escalate beyond a friendly conversation."
"I don't think that will be necessary," you say mildly, noting the way both men relax slightly at your concession, "Thank you for your candour, Herr Magirius. Your cooperation is appreciated."
From there the conversation turns to far less significant matters, with Magirius trading anecdotes about the wine and wool trade and Ludo holding forth on the finer points of theological discourse as applied to Bögenhafen's future. You do your best to participate civilly, and when at last the meal is over and the brandy all drunk (mostly by the other two) you bid a cordial farewell to the guildmaster and high priest both. It is the early afternoon by now, and both men have other business to attend to, leaving you with polite smiles and best wishes for your investigation.
You take a few minutes to stretch your legs as you amble back towards the town square, and when Max slips out of a nearby alleyway and falls into step behind you offer a grunt of welcome. "Any trouble?"
"None. A runner took off for Steinhäger's place about a minute or two after you came out of the town hall," Max says in a low voice, "Five minutes after he got there, about half a dozen more took off to all corners of town. I caught one en route, persuaded him to give me this."
He hands over a small slip of paper, on which is written a brief message in hastily scrawled ink - Meeting tonight at my house, one hour after sundown. Inner Council to attend. F.S
"Good work," you say with a grim smile. You suppose it is possible that Steinhäger is referring to an entirely separate 'Inner Council' to Magirius, and that he has entirely innocent reasons to call a meeting immediately after being informed of your suspicions, but somehow you doubt it. "Yet you sound more grim than I would expect. You were not spotted, were you?"
"No, and the runner agreed to say it was a verbal message," Max says, shaking his head, "But on my way here I heard some people talking. Davrich Sweisser, that guildmaster you were talking to this morning? Seems he met with an accident less than an hour ago. That fancy griffon statue they have outside the offices fell on him. He's dead. Could be a coincidence, of course, but…"
You think of dead bodies, filleted like an animal, and of the daemon's final words. Sheru'tar Gee'taru will tear out your heart.
"Looks like someone's cleaning house," you murmur, your neck prickling with hidden suspicion, "And this one isn't locked inside a circle."
The law is the law, and no matter your doubts that single fact remains true. You hesitate for a moment as the thought settles home, and then you nod but once. High Priest Edel smiles thinly, pleased that at least one other man here is willing to accept his authority, while Sigiwalt simply grinds his teeth together until you can hear the sound from where you stand.
"On your own heads be it, then," he spits, shaking his head, "I can but pray that Sigmar see fit to have the consequences fall on your heads alone, should you be wrong."
Without further ado the priest turns on his heel and storms out of the room, ignoring Ludo's upraised hand and open mouth. The high priest watches him go for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head.
"Too long tending to the poor and wretched, that one," he murmurs, half to himself, "He has forgotten that learned and righteous men yet exist. Well, I can deal with his insubordination later. For now, I think it is best that we begin with Councillor Teugen. If you'd care to accompany me, Herr Bruner?"
"Of course," you say politely, stepping aside and then falling in behind the high priest as he bustles out of the room, "If I may ask… from the manner of your conversation, it seems Father Sigiwalt's defiance is not uncommon?"
"Sigmar places obstacles in every man's path, and burdens upon every man's shoulder, yet so too does he give us the strength and conviction to rise above them," Edel says loftily as you walk, sweeping past the pews and the altar without a sideways glance. "My appointment to this position was made on merit, instead of length of service, and because I as a native of the town knew its character better than many other candidates. Alas, some among the existing clergy refuse to see that. They will be brought in line with time."
"Of course," you murmur, hiding a frown. A wise patron would have found this man somewhere safe and insignificant to establish his credibility, and only after a period of years pushed to favour his promotion. To place a relative novice in charge of the spiritual faith of all Bögenhafen is dangerously over-confident, and likely to ruin his career before too much longer. "A moment, if you would. I need to give my agent proper direction."
Max is still hanging around outside the temple, looking vaguely shifty and out of place and trading glares with passing watchmen, and though he only grunts at your reappearance you think he might be relieved. "Oh, hey boss. You missed a bit of fun, you know - some madman was out here ranting about the end times coming. Anyway, you get what you needed?"
"I did," you say simply, seeing no point in discussing the internal affairs of the cult with an outsider, "Now, listen carefully. The High Priest and I are going to see some of the local authorities. I want you to watch and see if anyone sends a messenger running while we're in there."
"Oh, I get it," Max grins, a thoroughly unpleasant expression, "Shake the trees and see what falls out, huh? You got it."
For a moment you consider speaking some words of caution, advising Max not to cause trouble he cannot solve in pursuit of this motive, but what would be the point? He's a thug, and you hired him for just this kind of work; at some point, you simply have to trust that he can handle it. So in the end you nod, and without further word you rejoin Father Edel outside the temple.
"That is your agent?" the priest says with a frown, staring at Max as if he might suddenly become something other than what he so evidently is, "I would not have thought his kind suited to your holy work."
"He has his uses," you say mildly, gesturing onward with your arm, "Now, shall we be about this?"
The town hall has not grown any less ostentatious since your last visit, nor the clerks any more helpful, but when the High Priest asks for a meeting with the head of the Town Council, there is little that even the most obstreperous of bureaucrats can do to deny it. So it is that within a matter of minutes you are being escorted along a wood-panelled corridor towards a sturdy oak door emblazoned with a brass placard that announces this as the office of one 'Johannes Teugen'. A polite knock at the door elicits a mumbled invitation, and then you are through, the clerk disappearing back into the corridors at your back.
The interior of the office is almost entirely pitch black, the richly appointed room lit only by a thin sliver of light that sneaks in through the curtained windows, and for a moment you almost think it entirely deserted. Then a narrow silhouette shifts in the darkness and a raspy voice calls out to you.
"Please, come in and shut the door," it says, filled with pain and regret, "I beg your forgiveness for the darkness, but I have the most dreadful headache."
"A tad too much enthusiasm for the Schaffenfest, I see," Ludo Edel says with wry amusement, closing the door as bidden and plunging you all deeper into shadow, "My apologies for disturbing you, then, but I am afraid this cannot wait. My companion is Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Orders of Sigmarite Templars."
"A pleasure, I am sure," Councillor Teugen says in his raspy voice, a pale and boney hand emerging into the light for a moment to grasp at a crystalline glass filled with rich red liquid. "Johannes Teugen, head of the Bögenhafen town council. Please, sit, and tell me what brings you here. In a quiet voice, if you'd be so kind."
"Of course," you murmur, awkwardly feeling your way across the room until you locate a chair next to the councillor's desk. You draw it out, wincing at the sharp scraping noise it makes on the floor, and settle yourself down. As your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, you see that Teugen is dressed in a richly embroidered outfit of crushed velvet, red and black with the seams picked out in golden thread. It is the kind of outfit that a prominent nobleman might wear, which speaks to the man's wealth and access. "I likewise apologise for the interruption, but the matter is serious. It began when I arrived in Bögenhafen, just before noon yesterday…"
Speaking quickly and clearly, you lay out the scope of your investigation and the evidence you have uncovered thus far - the murders, the daemon, the connection to the Steinhäger offices. Teugen listens to your report in silence, sipping slowly at the glass full of wine, while the air in the darkened office seems to grow warmer and heavier with each passing moment. You wonder if it might be possible to open one of the windows.
"I see. You said your name was Markus von Bruner, correct?" Teugen asks when at last you finish your report. "And you are… quite certain that you saw a daemon, of all things, in the sewers beneath my town? I find this hard to credit."
"I did, and I am," you say frostily, allowing your annoyance to seep into your tone, "I assure you, Councillor, that I am not some landless wanderer babbling about strange sightings on the evening road. I am a Templar of the Holy Orders, on official business in Bögenhafen."
"You are also a murderer," Teugen replies flatly, "Who gunned down Alexei Bueller, a respected merchant and personal acquaintance of mine, before the eyes of an entire village on charges of… well, none at all, as I recall. No charges, no trial, just your own judgement. Now you come to me pressing for the death of another merchant on the strength of that same judgement."
You grit your teeth and ball your hands into fists, struggling to control the sudden spike of rage and contempt before it spills out from your lips. You are painfully aware of just how difficult your work will become if you say half the things you are currently thinking, which is why you are grateful when Ludo Edel clears his throat and speaks up.
"Regardless of your opinion on his previous work, Councillor, Master von Bruner is still a Templar on official business," he says in a hard voice, "To that end, I insist that a proper investigation be conducted, and that you cooperate with it accordingly."
"Oh, very well," Teugen sighs, massaging his brow with one pale and slender hand, "I will arrange for a formal inquiry to be held at the courthouse in… let's say five days. That ought to give everyone involved time to prepare accordingly, and for the Schaffenfest crowds to disperse. I'll have the necessary documents drawn up and delivered to all parties by tonight."
"It would be better if the matter was handled discreetly," you say stiffly, already knowing what Teugen is likely to say.
"Herr Steinhäger is a respectable citizen entitled to the full protection of the law," Teugen growls, confirming your suspicions, "Including the necessary time to muster his resources and secure adequate legal representation. Understand that I indulge your spurious accusations solely out of respect for High Priest Edel, and get out."
There is little to be gained from protesting by this point, so after a few remaining formalities you rise and retreat from the room, the High Priest at your side. Neither of you say anything as you leave the town hall behind, only stopping when you stand in the shadow of the great statue in the plaza beyond.
"I assume he was correct, about this 'Bueller'?" Edel asks, tone more curious than annoyed.
"The man gave false testimony before Sigmar and sought to have a woman burned as a witch for refusing his advances," you say tersely, "I had every right to act as I did."
"Mm. Well, be that as it may, I am glad to see you have learned at least some discretion in the time since," Edel sighs, shaking his head, "Bögenhafen needs a diligent servant of the public good, not some frenzied attack dog straining at its chain."
"...if I were such a beast, it would be a fool indeed who said such things" you growl, one hand flexing at your side, "I am a noble and templar both, and my patience for such disrespect is limited."
"Yes, yes, of course," Edel scoffs, clearly entirely unimpressed by your mounting ire, "You have my support in this regardless, for the Cult must be seen to stand as one, but I do hope you have more success in our meeting with Guildmaster Magirius. Come, it is almost the first bell of the afternoon - he will have retired to the Golden Trout for lunch by now."
-/-
It has been some time since last you visited an establishment as fine as the Golden Trout, but the interior matches your hazy recollections almost exactly. This is a means to flaunt one's wealth more than anything else, where meals are eaten off fine china plates with silver cutlery beneath the light of a dozen candelabras and uniformed staff await to attend to your every whim. The assembled worthies who flock to such a place are too self-conscious to stare, but you can still feel their eyes on your back as High Priest Edel leads you across the floor to one particular table and the man eating there alone.
Friedrich Magirius, Merchant Guildmaster, is a slightly built man with neat grey hair and a forked beard, and when he looks up from his meal there is not a trace of hostility in those pale blue eyes.
"Ah, Ludo my good man," he says cheerfully, rising to his feet and offering the high priest a hand to shake, "Good to see you. I wasn't aware you were dining with us today."
"I'm afraid it is something of a last minute arrangement," Edel says with an apologetic shrug, "Friedrich, may I introduce Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Orders. I'm afraid certain rumours of your organisation have reached Altdorf of late, and Markus here has been sent to investigate them. I felt it would be sensible to give you a chance to clear up any confusion."
"Of course, of course," Magirius says with an easy smile, offering you his hand in turn. You take it, and are mildly surprised to find his handshake firm and steady, without a trace of hesitation or fear in it. "Please, sit, the both of you. Gertrude, my dear, two more plates for my friends here, thank you. Oh, and a pair of glasses for the brandy."
"My thanks, Herr Magirius," you say, mildly surprised as you take a seat at the table, "And, just for the sake of clarity - I have been called upon to investigate the Ordo Septenarius. Are you a member of this organisation?"
"Indeed, I hold a position on the Ordo's inner council, along with six others," Magirius replies, taking his seat and picking up his cutlery once more. He seems to be eating a side of lightly roasted beef, the meat appealing pink and soft as he cuts into it. "I cannot claim to have expected a visit from one of your Order, master Templar, but neither am I terribly surprised. Given the confidential nature of our business and the foibles of human nature, I suppose it was inevitable that certain rumours would start. Please, ask your questions, and I will answer as best I may."
You have to admit, you were not expecting someone to outright admit to membership in the Ordo at the slightest questioning, but just because Magirius is being cooperative it does not mean you can afford to become lax. "Thank you. To begin with, I understand the Ordo is a small group, contained largely within the upper ranks of the Merchant's Guild?"
"Yes, we're something of an elite club, so to speak," Magirius nods, his voice slightly muffled as he chews on the meat while he speaks, "There are fifty of us in total; forty two regular members, the seven members of the inner council, and of course the Magister, our leader. He sets our objectives, the inner council coordinates and distributes resources, and the rank and file carry them out. A few of us have special roles, of course - mine, for example, is to provide explanations like this one to those outside the Ordo who need to know."
The staff arrive then, appearing from seemingly nowhere to set out plates of spiced beef and rich greens before you and Edel. The High Priest murmurs his thanks and immediately sets about eating, and after a moment's hesitation you do as well. The beef is truly exquisite, all but bursting with flavour as you take a bite.
"And what sort of objectives is it that this magister sets for you?" you ask, though unlike Magirius you have the good manners to wait until your mouth is empty before you try to speak. "I assume that your Ordo has a guiding principle behind its operations."
"Our guiding principle? Why, the pursuit of profit, of course," Magirius chuckles, as if amused at his own joke, "A tad stereotypical for a collection of merchants, I admit, but sometimes those stereotypes are founded on at least a fragment of truth. There are the obvious joint ventures and shared investments, of course, along with the odd bit of price fixing and favoured treatment, but what really sets the Ordo apart is our interest in the good of Bögenhafen as a whole. We make investments into the town's resources and infrastructure, fund orphanages and soup kitchens in the poorer quarters, and donate to the cults whenever they seek to improve the public good. It sounds like simple charity, but we believe that a healthy, flourishing Bögenhafen is one that leads to better outcomes for all, our private ledgers included."
"Is that not the role of the Town Council?" you ask, taking a sip of the brandy that the staff have set out next to you. A Bretonnian variety, you think, though your palate is not refined enough to guess where from. "As Guildmaster, you have a seat upon that body as well, do you not?"
"I do, and in better times you would be right," Magirius allows, grimacing slightly at the reminder, "Alas, Bögenhafen's situation is rather unusual. We are not a free town, but neither are we entirely under the control of the nobility. Consequently, every significant decision the council commits to is the result of some considerable degree of politicking, and must be taken with a careful thought towards appearances."
"A regrettable state of affairs, but accurate," Edel confirms, dabbing at his lips with a napkin to clear away the juices from his meal, "As High Priest I have a seat on the council, and am expected to bring the concerns of all religious organisations within Bögenhafen to light. Yet I must also watch my words carefully, to avoid any implications of authority over my fellows. It can be a tiring dance, and a slow one."
"Working through the Ordo permits us to avoid such issues," Magirius picks up the thread of the conversation again, offering you a winning smile, "After all, I'm sure you would agree that it would be a great shame if the poor and needy were to be denied succour for such a petty reason."
You have to say you are a little dubious, for such rhetoric matches all too easily to that espoused by other criminals and malcontents who regard the law as nothing but a burden, but it would hardly be polite to say so. "I see. Is this the purpose of your anonymity and ritual, then?"
"In a sense, yes. There are many who would wish to know the Ordo's membership and its objectives, in order to profit at our expense, and so we choose to work covertly," Magirius nods vigorously, "As for the rest, a little pomp and circumstance help to keep the mind focused and the rank and file impressed. The ritual of our meetings brings a certain gravitas to the proceedings… though I assure you, it is entirely secular and mundane! No magic of any kind is employed, nor prayers offered to any god, though we are of course all pious souls."
Markus tests Intuition, skill is 47, roll is 05, success with +4SL
Oddly enough, Magirius seems entirely sincere. There is a touch of evasiveness when he mentions the ritual elements, but he clearly believes his own words about the Ordo's benevolent intent and law-abiding nature. If you had to guess, they're probably cribbing notes off foreign religious practices or the arcane rituals of the Colleges in order to add a touch of the exotic to their dealings. It wouldn't be the first or even the hundredth time groups of rich idiots have done something of the kind, and it is almost always more embarrassingly tacky than dangerous. Were it not for the daemon in the hidden shrine, you might have been inclined to take this one at face value and shrug it off as just another case of idiots with more money than good taste.
"I suspect I know the answer," you offer with a slight smile, "but if I were to enquire about the identities of your membership, or the locations where your meetings took place…"
"I'm afraid I'd need some rather compelling reasons to admit to either," Magirius chuckles, shaking his head, and by your side you can feel Edel giving you a sharp look, "And perhaps to consult a legal professional, if this were to escalate beyond a friendly conversation."
"I don't think that will be necessary," you say mildly, noting the way both men relax slightly at your concession, "Thank you for your candour, Herr Magirius. Your cooperation is appreciated."
From there the conversation turns to far less significant matters, with Magirius trading anecdotes about the wine and wool trade and Ludo holding forth on the finer points of theological discourse as applied to Bögenhafen's future. You do your best to participate civilly, and when at last the meal is over and the brandy all drunk (mostly by the other two) you bid a cordial farewell to the guildmaster and high priest both. It is the early afternoon by now, and both men have other business to attend to, leaving you with polite smiles and best wishes for your investigation.
You take a few minutes to stretch your legs as you amble back towards the town square, and when Max slips out of a nearby alleyway and falls into step behind you offer a grunt of welcome. "Any trouble?"
"None. A runner took off for Steinhäger's place about a minute or two after you came out of the town hall," Max says in a low voice, "Five minutes after he got there, about half a dozen more took off to all corners of town. I caught one en route, persuaded him to give me this."
He hands over a small slip of paper, on which is written a brief message in hastily scrawled ink - Meeting tonight at my house, one hour after sundown. Inner Council to attend. F.S
"Good work," you say with a grim smile. You suppose it is possible that Steinhäger is referring to an entirely separate 'Inner Council' to Magirius, and that he has entirely innocent reasons to call a meeting immediately after being informed of your suspicions, but somehow you doubt it. "Yet you sound more grim than I would expect. You were not spotted, were you?"
"No, and the runner agreed to say it was a verbal message," Max says, shaking his head, "But on my way here I heard some people talking. Davrich Sweisser, that guildmaster you were talking to this morning? Seems he met with an accident less than an hour ago. That fancy griffon statue they have outside the offices fell on him. He's dead. Could be a coincidence, of course, but…"
You think of dead bodies, filleted like an animal, and of the daemon's final words. Sheru'tar Gee'taru will tear out your heart.
"Looks like someone's cleaning house," you murmur, your neck prickling with hidden suspicion, "And this one isn't locked inside a circle."
Article: It is just past two in the afternoon. There is a meeting of the suspected cultists tonight, which Markus will attempt to investigate when the time comes. This leaves you about six hours to further your investigation beforehand. Choose FOUR of the following options:
[ ] Visit the Shallyans
You wish to check in on your injured companions who also saw the daemon, and to consult with the priestesses regarding the good work the Ordo Septenarius supposedly does at the same time.
[ ] Visit the Verenans
The Temple of Verena will hold a great many records about the town, and the priests there will be able to provide you with valuable advice concerning the legalities and protocol of the upcoming trial.
[ ] Pray for Guidance
Return to the High Temple of Sigmar and spend some time praying for your god's guidance. It will help to clear and focus your mind, and if the agents of the arch-enemy truly are at work here, you will be well served to fortify your soul to face them.
[ ] Visit the Mourner's Guild
The bodies of Kuftsos and Gottri both bore similar wounds. Speak with the local Morrites and see if there have been others who died in similar fashion, and what pattern or information can be discerned if so.
[ ] Track down your other comrades
Spätin and Friedrich proved themselves capable enough in the sewers, and they may also be in danger. Seek them out and see if they are willing to assist you again, with testimony or direct action.
[ ] Find alternate accommodation
If someone is going after your allies, you do not wish to expose Josef to any further danger by remaining aboard his barge. Find a room at an inn or other accommodation, and warn him of the potential risks of remaining in town.
[ ] Contact the Smugglers
You know they exist due to Adhema's insight, and Max is a rough sort able to make contact with such disreputable elements. See what they can tell you about hidden movements in the town and beyond, and the location of the hidden temple you encountered.
[ ] Visit Father Sigiwalt
You know that the bellicose priest works at the Chapel of Blessed Sigmar in the northern districts. Track him down and see if you can get his side of the story.
[ ] Contact the Watch
Find the local commander of the city watch and bring him up to speed on your investigation. Any further witnesses may need protection, to say nothing of your own agents.
[ ] Write In
Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
XVII - Setting the Board
- Location
- London, England
[X] Track down your other comrades
[X] Find alternate accommodation
[X] Visit the Shallyans
[x] Visit Father Sigiwalt
[X] Find alternate accommodation
[X] Visit the Shallyans
[x] Visit Father Sigiwalt
XVII - Setting the Board
A templar's training covers many diverse disciplines, and what to do when you suspect someone might try to silence you and your allies is among them. The first step is to find new lodging; a fortified redoubt would be ideal, but failing that a public inn in a prosperous part of town is generally a good fallback option. Hired assassins will avoid fights they are not being paid for, while murderous fanatics often find operating in well-lit and properly secured areas of town more trouble than it is worth. Neither will be held off forever by such paltry measures, but if they opt to try a roadside ambush or bait you into a trap instead, that still works out in your favour.
Finding such an inn is challenging, especially given the glut of custom from the Schaffenfest, but after a few enquiries you find a room at the Journey's End Inn that has just been vacated. The innkeep charges a gold crown to keep the room free for your use until the end of the festival, an excessively high fee by any measure, but one you are willing to pay in exchange for promises to keep the staff out under pain of death until you've departed.
Josef is less receptive to the news that you'll be moving to new accommodation, and especially objects to your request that he move the barge elsewhere and give up on the rest of the festival, but you are insistent. It was already a mistake to return to the Berebeli for that first night, and now there is someone or something out to silence your contacts and perhaps even strike at you directly, and you cannot in good conscience risk Josef and his staff in such circumstances. The old man grumbles mightily about it, but ultimately it is the potential risk to Gilda and Wolmer's baby that sways him, and he agrees to take the barge on a quick run to a nearby settlement for a few days instead of hanging around in Bögenhafen indefinitely.
"You know," Max says thoughtfully as you watch the barge pull away from the wharf and head out onto the river, "I figured the old man was just an old contact or something, but you really care about him, don't you?"
"Josef is one of my oldest friends, and in my youth was something of a mentor," you say honestly, turning to face him, "Why, is it so unbelievable that I could have such things?"
"Kind of?" The legbreaker shrugs, holding up his hands in mock surrender, "Not saying anything strong, like, but you're still a witch hunter. Didn't think folk like you had much use for friends and shit. All grim faces and steel souls and such."
"A templar is blessed if he possesses an iron will and steely demeanour, for both will serve him well," you allow, turning your back on the river and setting off into town, "Yet if that becomes the whole of him, he ceases to be a champion of the people and soon becomes just another monster to frighten one's children. I aspire to more than mere iron-handed butchery. Now come - our work is not yet done."
-/-
Bögenhafen's Temple of Shallya hardly seems deserving of the term. There are no pews, no altars, no great works of devotional art or archives of sacred writings, only a small central office and then a pair of oversized wings filled with infirmaries and almshouses for the homeless and terminally ill. You're given to understand that Mother Rubenstein holds her religious services in the courtyard, and during times of inclement weather schedules more than average to give the faithful a chance to prove their devotion. It seems a strange way to run a faith to you, but the people of Bögenhafen seem to approve, so you suppose the revered mother knows what she is about.
You find Adhema in the infirmary, midway through getting the bandages around her leg changed. The wound is inflamed and clearly infected, leaking yellow-green pus that the volunteer assisting her wipes away with a grimace, and the infection has set in deeply enough that the merchant's skin is flushed and beaded with sweat. Still, she seems to recognise you when you stop by her bed, which is perhaps more than can be said for some patients here.
"Hey there, Templar," the merchant rasps out, lifting a hand in a limp wave. "You know, Ma always said all those dreams of adventure would be the death of me. Guess she was right."
"You did Sigmar's work yesterday," you say firmly, a faint worm of doubt gnawing at your inside, "Now your duty is to live, and in time recover. I have need of your testimony in court, and Sigmar needs brave souls like you to make his empire great."
"Ha. Well, I'd hate to disappoint," the young woman manages, closing her eyes as the attendant finishes tying the fresh bandage in place, "I'll… see what I can do."
Ozzy Banbury, when you find him, conspires to somehow look even worse than his companion. The Shallyans have moved him to a private bed at the far corner of the infirmary, and there is a heavy wooden bucket next to his bed filled with something you really don't want to look at too closely.
"Oh, it's you," the halfling groans as you approach, his face pale and blotchy as autumn clouds, "Piss off, longshanks. Leave me in peace."
"Mind your words, Master Banbury," you say sternly, stopping a good few paces away, "You yet have a duty to perform."
"Oh, what're you going to do, Templar, kill me twice?" the halfling lets out a breathy little chuckle, "Piss off already. Gods, I was a fool to listen to you…"
He convulses, then, grabbing for the bucket with the desperation of a drowning man, and rather than stick around to observe the process you elect to beat a dignified retreat.
Both Adhema and Ozzy were at 0 wounds when they were brought into the temple. Consequently, the first roll they make is to see how much (if at all) they recover. This is an average (+20) endurance test, so 55 for both of them, regaining SL+Toughness bonus wounds on success. This is increased by an additional +toughness bonus wounds for taking it easy for the day.
Adhema rolls 96, for -4SL. Consequently she regains (with bed rest) 3-4+3= 2 wounds.
Ozzy rolls 72, for -2SL. Consequently, he regains 4 wounds.
Adhema has a festering wound. She suffers from the Fever (-10 to all physical and fellowship tests), Malaise (fatigued condition, -10 to all tests) and Wounded (cannot heal one of your missing wounds) symptoms. She is consequently taking severe penalties on any efforts to do much of anything, and will need to make further tests at the end of the duration to actually recover from her illness.
Ozzy has the Bloody Flux. He suffers Fever and Malaise, just like Adhema, and also Nausea (failed physical rolls cause vomiting etc) and also the Flux (Severe) symptom. His body is attempting to evacuate everything it has; he is taking three wounds per day from this, and so when you visit him, he is back down to 1 wound. On the upside, the Shallyans were able to reset his dislocated shoulder.
Festering wounds last d10 days. Adhema rolled a 4, but constant care from the Shallyans halves this to a 2. Ozzy will likewise be able to make a test to recover in 2 days. At this point, they each have a 35% chance to recover, a 15% chance to remain as they are for another d10 days, and a 50% chance to progress to Blood Rot. If their symptoms progress that far, they will become unconscious and will have a 25% chance of dying each day.
(Note that the penalties from Fever and Malaise make the test to avoid dying harder, and that if Ozzy takes wounds from the flux while unconscious, he will perish due to the critical damage)
Adhema rolls 96, for -4SL. Consequently she regains (with bed rest) 3-4+3= 2 wounds.
Ozzy rolls 72, for -2SL. Consequently, he regains 4 wounds.
Adhema has a festering wound. She suffers from the Fever (-10 to all physical and fellowship tests), Malaise (fatigued condition, -10 to all tests) and Wounded (cannot heal one of your missing wounds) symptoms. She is consequently taking severe penalties on any efforts to do much of anything, and will need to make further tests at the end of the duration to actually recover from her illness.
Ozzy has the Bloody Flux. He suffers Fever and Malaise, just like Adhema, and also Nausea (failed physical rolls cause vomiting etc) and also the Flux (Severe) symptom. His body is attempting to evacuate everything it has; he is taking three wounds per day from this, and so when you visit him, he is back down to 1 wound. On the upside, the Shallyans were able to reset his dislocated shoulder.
Festering wounds last d10 days. Adhema rolled a 4, but constant care from the Shallyans halves this to a 2. Ozzy will likewise be able to make a test to recover in 2 days. At this point, they each have a 35% chance to recover, a 15% chance to remain as they are for another d10 days, and a 50% chance to progress to Blood Rot. If their symptoms progress that far, they will become unconscious and will have a 25% chance of dying each day.
(Note that the penalties from Fever and Malaise make the test to avoid dying harder, and that if Ozzy takes wounds from the flux while unconscious, he will perish due to the critical damage)
Mother Rubenstein is busy attending to other patients when you find her, but you are content to wait and eventually she is able to make some time for you. Unfortunately, her grim expression tells you what to expect before she even opens her mouth.
"Your companions both suffered open wounds in some of the least sanitary conditions I can imagine" she says, pursing her lips in distaste, "The human may pull through, or she may not. The halfling is almost certainly going to die. We can make them comfortable, but we lack the specialised resources here to effectively treat them."
"...I see," you say gravely, "Is there no method available? I was given to understand that your infirmary received considerable donations from the worthy of this town, the Ordo Septenarius among them."
"Oh, aye, we receive donations," the Shallyan says caustically, "Enough to be seen as doing their part, not enough to risk harming the numbers in their precious ledgers. If they cared as much as they claim, then the poor districts would not have open-air sewage pits near their wells, nor the poorhouses only unsold bread. And that useless wastrel Edel might as well be sucking merchant cock before the altar each day for all the good he does."
"That is… uncommonly vitriolic, for one of your profession," you say as diplomatically as you can.
"Bah. Get those silver-tongued sisters out here to do my job, and we'd see how long their good mood lasts," Rubenstein snorts, shaking her head, "Now, away with you. I have work to do, and so do you."
-/-
There's no bridge across the river Bögen, only a single ferry run by a cantankerous old man that everyone else in town is apparently content to put up with. Those on guild business get free passage, while outsiders like you need to pay a shilling per trip, and since you already sent away your only other form of river transport you just have to grit your teeth and pay up.
The north side of the river holds Bögenhafen's poorest district, densely packed with crumbling residences and the few businesses that the people here can afford. The locals are as filthy and run down as their settlement, and they glare suspiciously at you as you pass, or perhaps more accurately at the finely tailored clothes that mark you out as richer than anyone else present.
"This is a bad place, boss," Max mutters in a low voice as you make your way through the tightly packed streets, one hand on the hilt of his sword, "We stay here too long and someone'll jump us for the leather in our boots."
"We won't be here for more than an hour," you reply tersely, keeping your own hands ready to draw as needed, "I just need to speak with the priest."
Nobody present is going to tell you a damn thing, you can tell, but fortunately finding Father Sigiwalt turns out to be fairly straightforward. You simply head for the densest concentration of people and the loudest set of voices, and there in a muddy square that might have once been a small field you find two teams of a dozen men brawling over a battered leather ball. You'd be tempted to call the watch, but for the way that the brawl has attracted an audience of close to a hundred men and women, all of whom are roaring encouragement and swearing oaths at the people fighting over the ball. This is, it seems, some form of organised sporting event, and a few moments of observation finds Father Sigiwalt in the middle of the crowd roaring loud enough for three men. Someone taps the priest on the shoulder as you approach, and when he looks over at you his withered face curls back in a sneer.
"Well, how about that," he scoffs, shaking his head and folding his arms as others nearby turn to look in turn, "What's wrong, lapdog? Ludo's table scraps not to your liking?"
You draw up short at that, grimacing at the blatant disrespect showed, but you expected something of the kind and are determined not to let pride compromise your duty. "I am not your enemy, Father Sigiwalt, and whatever your dispute is with the High Priest I neither have nor want any part in it. I merely wish to do my duty."
Markus makes a Hard (-20) Charm test. Skill is 31, roll is 29, narrow success!
Sigiwalt grimaces at that, but after a moment or two relents, beckoning you to follow him as he steps away from the crowd and off to one side. There's only the barest illusion of privacy here, but at least the roar of the sporting event means you are unlikely to be easily overhead. "Very well, templar. I take it you've heard the official version?"
"I have," you nod, "and I have arranged for a formal inquiry and trial to be held in five days."
"Hah! A formal inquiry, very good," Sigiwalt shakes his head, all but radiating amused contempt, "You know they'll cover for each other, right? Even those that aren't in the Ordo are friends and business partners with the ones that are. They'll strangle your trial in the crib before it gets anywhere near a verdict."
"They will try," you say simply, "I know of a meeting tonight that I mean to observe. What I need is witnesses and testimony to anything else they have been doing. If the evidence is there, I can make the charges stick regardless of their supposed allies."
"Justice would be a glorious thing to see," Sigiwalt chuckles, shaking his bald head, "Alright, templar, we'll try it your way. I can find staff and servants that have stories to tell, about what they've seen or the colleagues that have gone missing since. Some of them will do it just for the rare pleasure of seeing the inside of a courtroom."
"I will make their efforts worth it," you promise, nodding sharply, "But watch yourself, priest. At least one man who I meant to call as witness has suffered a fatal accident already. I would hate for you to join him."
"Hah! Don't worry yourself, milord," Sigiwalt grins, cracking his neck, "Any cutthroats come looking for ol' Sig, they'll find I've a few friends of my own."
You spend a minute or two discussing the details of what kind of evidence you need, then shake hands and part ways once more. On your way back to the river, you find yourself reflecting at length on Sigiwalt's manner, and what it must mean to preach the word of Sigmar to such poor and downtrodden people. Does he counsel them to find their place in the grand scheme of things, you wonder, or is he one of those torch-bearing fanatics stepping up the very limits of the law in their rhetoric and deeds?
"Eyes up," Max snaps suddenly, stopping and drawing his sword, "We've got company."
You've reached the waterfront by now, the sluggish waters of the Bögen barring all onward passage, and from the narrow streets and decaying houses nine heavyset men and women have emerged to form a loose ring between you and the rest of the town. They wear the rough, practical garb of dockworkers and stevedores, and every last one of them has an ugly look in their eyes and something heavy and dangerous clutched in their hands.
"Afternoon, milord," one of them says, a lanky fellow with the pockmarked scars of some old infection across his face and neck, "got a message for you, we do."
"Do you now," you say quietly, leaving your weapons sheathed as you look slowly from one thug to the next. You've a keen nose for trouble by now, and something tells you that violence isn't what these people have in mind, at least not just yet. "Well, let's hear it."
"Bögenhafen's not safe for the likes of you," the stevedore says with an unpleasant grin, "Might be best if you left town, sooner rather than later. I hear Altdorf's nice this time of year."
"You are brave men, to threaten a Templar so," you say, still calm, still focused as you memorise one face after another, "or perhaps you are simply fools."
"Threats? Oh no milord, perish the thought," the thug chuckles, shaking his head, "We're just civic minded folks, passing on a friendly bit of advice. You take care now."
With that final mockery of courtesy, the band of dockworkers turns and disperses back into the slum, disappearing from view almost immediately. You watch them go, then shake your head and sigh. As if being stalked by demonologists isn't enough, now you must contend with two-a-penny thugs as well.
-/-
Markus makes a challenging Gossip test, skill is 51, roll is 40, pass.
Finding two souls in a bustling market town of any size would always be challenging, let alone a town like Bögenhafen at the height of its annual festival, but you persevere. You have their names, descriptions and occupations, and perhaps more relevantly you have the advantage that most people want to keep you happy and also far away from them. With these tools in hand, you set about tracking down the other two adventurers who faced the daemon in the sewers with you.
Friedrich Audobahn has, it seems, already left town. According to the witnesses you spoke with, the road warden all but bullied his way onto a caravan heading south earlier this morning, casting increasingly furtive looks back over his shoulder during the negotiations. Most assume that he crossed some local gangster or slept with the spouse of someone prominent and vengeful, but you have your own suspicions and can only offer a prayer to Sigmar for his safety.
Fortunately, your other compatriot is still in town. You find Spätin in the festival grounds, emerging with a look of bemused frustration from a tent advertising the services of 'Mystic Margret', and when the duelist sees you approaching her expression goes through several strange contortions before ultimately settling on rueful humour.
"You two again?" she says, chuckling and shaking her head, "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Could ask you the same, lass," Max says with a lecherous smile, "Thought you'd be in bed with that apprentice with the sculpted arms by now. Don't tell me he's that much of a quick shot…"
"Pig," Spätin snorts, shaking her head. She doesn't seem offended, though, which given the rapier she wears at her narrow waist is likely a good thing. Max is a fine legbreaker, but you doubt he'd enjoy anything approaching a proper duel. "We've arranged a private dinner, if you must know, and I'm looking forward to it."
"Oho, not bad, not bad," Max chuckles, rubbing his hands together, "That why you went to see the mystic, then? Want some advice on whether this is the one?"
"Hah! Even if I did, this one's a fraud," Spätin scoffs, "Real good at reading people, not a drop of magic in her."
"How could you tell?" you say, speaking up for the first time, and Spätin freezes for a moment as if she'd entirely forgot you were there.
"Well, stands to reason, don't it?" she says with a slightly strained laugh, rubbing the back of her head with one hand. She wears her hair short, you notice, and from the crude cut likely does it herself with a dagger and a handheld mirror. "If she were a real witch, she wouldn't exactly be advertising now, would she? Not with folks like you around, all tall and dark and menacing."
Markus tests Intuition, skill is 47, roll is 42, bare pass. Spätin scores a bare pass as well, but has a lower skill. Markus wins the tie.
In the span between one heartbeat and the next, the pieces come together. Spätin's confidence in her judgement, her interest in the fortune teller and the golden apprentice, the sense of foreboding she felt when you approached the temple in the sewers. There's nothing decisive there, no irrefutable evidence, but the picture they paint is enough for your gut and you've learned to listen when your instincts speak.
"You know," you say carefully, "Rumours aside, we don't burn everyone who might be a witch. If she were an… unsanctioned spellcaster, then I'd take her to the Colleges in Altdorf. I wouldn't harm her."
Spätin pauses at that, her dark eyes narrowing. Then, very casually, her hand drops to the hilt of her rapier. "Well, I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear that. If it mattered. Thing is, though, maybe she doesn't want to go."
Max opens his mouth, then pauses as he picks up on the sudden tension in the air, looking warily from you to Spätin and back again. "Uh… boss, you want to…"
"Why not?" you say quietly, studying this young woman who stands before you, this possible redemption for your father's failure, "Hypothetically speaking."
"I don't know what that means, but if we're talking maybes, well, there's all sorts of reasons," Spätin drawls, rocking slightly on her heels as if preparing to lunge or flee, "Maybe she just doesn't feel like it's a good deal. You know, signing away your life like that, agreeing to join the army and such, and all for some bastards who hate you. Could be loads of reasons, you know?"
The duelist - the witch - watches you carefully, and you watch her in turn. This is your chance, your one window of opportunity. You cannot, will not, forsake it.
Article: What do you say, to persuade Spätin to admit what she is and join the colleges? There will be a charm test involved in this, but better arguments (according to Spätin's own judgement) will give bonuses or perhaps even automatic success.
[ ] Write in
MORATORIUM IS IN EFFECT.
Due to an earlier vote, Markus considers the prospect of bringing an apprentice to the colleges to play some role in redeeming himself for his father's death. He desperately wants to succeed here. Vote accordingly.
Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
XVIII - Unlikely Allies
- Location
- London, England
The winning vote was to play on Spätin's assumed desire for companionship and people who understand what she's going through. The follow up, to be employed if that isn't successful, is to emphasise that becoming a wizard is far more freeing than remaining a witch, if looked at in the right way.
XVIII - Unlikely Allies
The air is tense and still, nerves stretched to breaking point as you and Spätin stare each other down. Outside this little bubble the rest of the Schaffenfest continues unimpeded, drunken laughter and the low cries of animals filling the air, but in this moment such mundane concerns seem almost a world away.
"So, uh," Max gets out slowly, "someone going to tell me what's going on?"
"Why not," Spätin says with a strange twist to her mouth, "Care to do the honours, milord templar?"
"Spätin," you say carefully, your hands hovering at your sides, torn between the desire to draw weapons and defuse tension, "is an unlicensed spellcaster. A witch, in common parlance."
"Oh," Max says, looking more bemused than alarmed, his thoughts struggling to catch up with the situation before him, "So, what, we need to kill her or?"
You blink, and in the instant between your eyes closing and opening once more, Spätin draws her rapier and sets the tip of it to Max's throat. The legbreaker freezes, instincts screaming as he locks in place, but Spätin scarcely even spares him a glance. Her attention is almost entirely on you.
"What do you think, Max?" she says, not looking at the man even as the tip of her blade draws a bead of blood from his skin, "You think he'll hesitate? Or do you reckon he'll go for it? Guess it depends how much he values your life, huh. Not a good gamble, is it?"
"It doesn't have to go this way," you say carefully, conscious of how easy it would be for even an errant twitch to spell the end of your agent's life.
"It kinda does," Spätin says, almost casual now, her hazel brown eyes alight with a kind of fatalistic glee, "Seeing as I don't much care for the alternative, working for you and yours on pain of death."
Your thoughts race, desperation fueling your wits as you hunt for something, anything to say. There has to be a way to resolve this, to save her and send her to the colleges, but what? You failed your father by not looking for such a solution, you will not fail again. Perhaps there is something to be found in her actions, in the decision to seek out the company of the apprentice and the mystic? It is a fragile thread to hang your hopes on, but you cannot waste time looking for anything more; already passers by are taking note of the stand-off, whispering to their neighbours and clearing the area. You need to resolve this, and you need to do it soon, or all will be lost.
"I won't claim to understand your position," you say roughly, making sure to keep your hands out and away from your weapons, to give Spätin no reason to flinch and spill Max's blood across the muddy ground, "I've never stood where you stand, never faced a decision like you are now. But there are those who have. Hundreds of them dwell in Altdorf, even now."
"Lot of people lost out to some real shitty odds, so what," Spätin snorts, shaking her head, "Just because you clapped a hundred guys in chains doesn't mean I'm feeling any great rush to be a hundred and one."
"If you believe that then you're a fool," you snap, doing your best to keep your expression level and your hands motionless even as frustration bubbles over and desperation curdles in your chest. "Gormann and his ilk could vanquish a regiment with the wave of a hand, if they cared to leave the Colleges behind there is nothing any of us could do to stop them. They are there because they want to be there."
It is not a terribly wise admission, but even the most virulently zealous witch hunters concede with much lamentation that the Colleges are here to stay. The wizards are simply too numerous, too powerful and too organised to root out entirely by this point, even if you wished to try. That point was proven quite conclusively when Dieter IV stripped the wizards of their legal protections and mandate in 2415; even under assault by the Grand Theogonist himself at the head of a small army, the Colleges endured unbroken. Spätin has no way to know that history, but she must surely have detected some of the passionate venom in your voice, for she says nothing as you master your heart once more.
"The greatest treasure of the Imperial Colleges is their graduates," you say at last, controlling your voice and placing your hopes and fervent prayers behind every word, "Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people just like you. People who see what you see, who want what you want, who feel the way you feel. People who will understand you in ways that Max or I or anyone else outside those walls never truly could. It isn't a prison, Spätin. It's a new home."
Markus makes an average (+20) charm test. Skill is 71, roll is 06, astounding success.
For a long moment Spätin hesitates, the rapier in her hand trembling slightly in a way that makes Max swallow nervously. Then she slumps, seeming almost to deflate where she stands, and the sword drops back to her side.
"Fuck it," she says with bitter resignation, letting out a long and shaky breath, "and fuck you too, von Bruner. You and all your fancy words. I… I surrender."
"Thank you," you exhale, feeling the tension drain slowly out of your body, replaced with a kind of light exhilaration quite unlike anything you have felt before. "Truly, thank you. I… we will be returning to Altdorf regardless, once my work here is done. I will accompany you to the Colleges then."
"Guess so," Spätin snorts, shaking her head with a strange little smirk, "Gods, three years I spent on this path… Well, fine. This work of yours - going after the people who called up that thing in the sewers, then?"
You hesitate briefly, glancing around at the watching crowds and the busy festival beyond. Most of them have already lost interest now that it seems no duel or murder is to be forthcoming, drifting away in ones and twos, but there are still too many nearby for you to feel comfortable speaking. "Not here. Walk with me."
"For the record," Max grumbles, raising a hand to rub at the faint nick on his throat, "I could have taken you."
"In your dreams, deadbeat," Spätin snorts, falling in on your left without further protest and letting Max stay to your right. You make a note to double check with your other agent later that he is truly sanguine about this, for the absolute last thing you need to be dealing with now is some foolish attempt at vigilante justice or revenge, but right now your heart is so light it is far more of an effort not to smile. "So, what's the plan, then? You're not going to ask me for the sword?"
"There seems little point," you say dryly, unsure of exactly what kind of magic Spätin can muster but preferring not to put it to the test, "Our business in Bögenhafen is likely to last another week at least, and I can hardly keep you under guard at all hours. You may choose to remain in the inn room for the duration if that is your wish, but I would welcome your assistance."
"Hell with it," Spätin chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief, "In for a pfenning, in for a crown."
"In for a couple of shillings to pay the raven, too, if you carry on like that," someone calls out from one of the stalls next to the path, "Idiot girl. What good will a crown do when you keel over?"
Surprised, you realise that you recognise the speaker. It is the ruddy-skinned woman you met here yesterday, the one who hailed you out of your contemplative reverie and directed you in the direction of the Pandemonium Carnival. What was her name again?
"What are you rambling about now, grandma?" Spätin scoffs, turning to address the woman as well, "If either of us is about to keel over, it's you. Shouldn't you be back on the farm badgering the grandkids into fetching and carrying for you?"
"Cheeky cow," the pharmacist chuckles, shaking her head, "Roll up that sleeve of yours if you're so confident, then."
Frowning, Spätin does just that, revealing a length of rough cloth wrapped tightly around her forearm. You remember the bats that attacked you all in the sewers, and the bleeding wound the duelist sported in the aftermath. Sure enough, even from here you can see that the skin under the crude bandage is red and puffy; judging by the sudden alarm in Spätin's eyes, it was not nearly so inflamed when she applied the bandage this morning.
"Ah, fool of a girl. You didn't wash it out properly," the older woman clucks her tongue, dipping into the seemingly endless array of jars, bottles and wrapped bundles that cover her little wooden stall before emerging with a bandaged package in a calloused hand. She lobs the package at Spätin, cackling briefly at the faint yelp that the swordswoman lets out as she scrabbles to catch it. "Slap that poultice down across the wound and wrap the bandage tight over the top, you hear? It'll sting like a whole hive of angry bees, but if you pull it off before the skin's cooled back down I'll tan your hide myself."
"A generous donation, Frau Kleinestun," you say as the alchemist's name comes back into your mind at last, "and much appreciated."
"Ah, milord is too kind, remembering such a humble old lady like myself," Elvyra chuckles, and for a moment you wonder how old she actually is. Between the windburned face and shapeless smock she could be anything from thirty to sixty. "See you've still got those draughts I sold you, too."
"I've had no cause to use them as yet," you say, uncertain whether you should begrudge that fact. Is it hubris to wish that you had been injured in the place of your companions, you who deserves and can endure it more than any of them? Perhaps, yet that does not quiet the pang in your heart.
"Ah, that's a shame," Elvyra shakes her head, giving you a wicked grin as Spätin starts cursing at the touch of the poultice on her injured arm, "Was hoping I might get more business from you."
"...you may yet, Frau Kleinestun," you say abruptly, the thought leaping into your mind and thence from your mouth without pause. "I have two other companions currently confined to the Shallyan hospice, suffering from infected wounds of similar origin yet greater magnitude to that which Spätin bears. The priestess indicates that they have not the resources to provide proper treatment. Might you be able to intercede?"
"Might be," Elvyra squints at you thoughtfully, chewing one lip for a moment before she speaks again, "No promises, mind, and no more freebies either."
"I thought as much," you allow, though in truth you are briefly disappointed by the insistence on payment, "What price would you place on a consultation and such aid as you might provide?"
"A place in your retinue," Elvyra replies promptly, and both Spätin and Max stop their muted bickering to look over in shock.
"That is… not typically considered payment," you say carefully, hunting for the angle you are sure must be there somewhere, "Might I ask you to elaborate?"
"Well, I'm not a typical woman, now am I?" Elvyra shrugs, "I do a lot of my work on the move as is, so that wouldn't change, and there's all manner of herbs and such that'd be much easier to get with a noble's signature on the order. Fair few books and such, too, that a witch hunter can lay hands on without getting in trouble."
"You're talking about poison," Max interjects then, shaking his head slowly as he folds his arms, "Maybe some of the drugs that the gangs back home sell in the off-road dens. I'll give you points for guts, grandma, but seriously?"
"Mind your tongue, boy," Elvyra clucks at him, before turning back to you with a shrug, "Take it from me, milord - the difference between a poison and a cure is one of dosage, nothing more. There's nothing in this world you can't put to at least some kind of good use. And before you ask, it's not illegal neither, the stuff I'm after. Well, not if you happen to be a noble and a templar, anyways. So, what'd you say?"
Article: Elvyra Kleinestun, Master Apothecary, has offered to join your retinue. Her price for this (in addition to a standard wage) is that Markus uses his authority and influence to aid her in acquiring various restricted herbs, texts and alchemical reagents, and not look too closely at what she does with them.
Do you accept?
[ ] Yes
[ ] No
Elvyra is genuinely a fantastic healer and alchemist. She has a Heal skill of 85, and a number of lore and trade skills related to medicine, alchemy and herbology at 80-90. Combined with her talents, she will vastly increase the survivability of Markus' band and any allies he wishes to be involved with.
Elvyra is also a criminal. She is very good at charming and bribing people, can use many of the more popular secret tongues and codes employed by criminal organisations across the Empire, and has the Etiquette (Criminals) talent. She also has a Trade (Poisoner) skill of 89.
Elvyra is not a combatant. She has three points in melee (basic) and no other combat relevant skills. If exposed to danger, she will do her level best to run away or hide behind one of the party's more militant characters.
-/-
Just after nightfall that evening, you and your companions slip out of the Journey's End Inn and begin making your way through the streets of Bögenhafen towards the Steinhäger estate. Your journey is surprisingly easy and unobstructed, but you cannot find it in yourself to be grateful. Morrsleib looms large in the sky, motionless and twice the size of its more wholesome twin, and beneath that baleful green light few indeed choose to linger out of doors. It is a foul omen indeed, but then your most important work so often takes place on such nights, and with your steadfast example to follow neither Max or Spätin voice any complaint.
The Adel Ring is Bögenhafen's richest and most exclusive district, with palatial mansions and luxurious townhouses built in a staggered ring around the central axis of the beautiful Saponatheim Park. Even on a night such as this the watch are out in force, patrolling the well lit streets and wide boulevards to keep both free of what the locals imagine the criminal element to look like, and small bands of lesser aristocrats and rakish students dare the baleful moonlight in shows of courageous debauchery. You are able to persuade one of the watch patrols to open the gate to the park for you, and while there are several other residents enjoying the serene environs, most are too distracted by romantic or carnal pursuits to notice you.
"Either of you two ever do anything like that?" Max asks in a low voice, eyes lingering on a pair of scantily dressed teens entwined beneath the boughs of an oak tree. "Seems like a list-of-wishes kinda deal, honestly. Maybe not under the green moon though…"
"No," you say tersely, visions of dockside taverns and rather less sophisticated liaisons dancing through your mind for a moment before you banish them.
"Eh, parks only feel special if you're a townie," Spätin murmurs quietly, pacing silently through the undergrowth next to you, "Something to be said for rooftops and hillsides, though."
The Steinhäger residence lies on the western side of the Adel Ring, and even an amateur's eye can pick out the chaotic mishmash of architectural styles that went into its design. Classical pillars hold up peaked roofs of imperial design between a series of gothic towers straight out of Sylvanian dramas, and even now one whole wing of the house is clearly undergoing refurbishment and expansion to incorporate yet more aesthetics. It is a profoundly ugly building, but also the sort of thing that must have cost a truly staggering sum of coin to construct, and for a man like Franz Steinhäger you suppose that might be all that matters. Settling into a comfortable position behind the iron fence of the park, you and your companions keep a close watch on the building and its inhabitants as the appointed time draws near.
Over the course of the next half an hour, you watch as seven different richly dressed men and women approach the Steinhäger house. Each carries a bundle in their arms that can only hold robes and masks, and many come with bodyguards or other escorts, and you take care to memorise the face of each one as they step into the lamplight outside the house and address the servants gathered there. Seven members of the Inner Council, as Magirius explained - himself among the first to arrive - which you assume must make Steinhäger the 'magister' who leads them. Movement and candlelight behind the drawn curtains of one of the upper level rooms suggests that is where they are holding their meeting, and as soon as the last member of the council has arrived, the guards draw the wrought iron gates closed and take up positions on either side.
"What do you think our chances are of getting closer?" you ask the others in a low voice.
"Dogshit," Max replies succinctly, "There's gotta be like twenty guys over there, with all the protection the bigwigs brought with them, and there's no cover between the park and the gate. No way we get close enough to see anything worth the risk."
"Pipe down," Spätin mutters, "I'm trying to listen."
You blink, turning to face her, and find to your mild alarm that she is currently standing in the shadow of a tall oak tree with one hand cupped around her ear, the other tracing a tiny repeating signal in the air before her. Your skin crawls. Magic, it has to be.
"Spätin," you growl, "What the hell are you-"
"Hsst," the duelist snaps, before suddenly smiling, "Gotcha! They've started greeting each other… no names, just 'brethren of the ordo'. Boss sounds like he's got a bad cough, definitely a reiklander though."
Max gives you a wary and deeply uncomfortable look, but after a moment's hesitation you elect not to interrupt Spätin while she is working her magic. There is always a much greater risk of something going wrong if a spellcaster is startled midway through weaving their strange tricks, and more than that this is likely your only chance to listen in on the meeting.
"Yeah, they're talking about the shrine," Spätin continues after a moment, frowning in concentration, "seems they can't use it after we broke in. And… yeah, most of them are worried, but the boss is assuring them he's got a backup site almost ready to go."
"A backup?" you grunt, feeling like you just bit into something sour. "Great. Any clue where it is?"
"If they say something I'll tell you," Spätin rolls her eyes, before pausing, "Wait, they just mentioned… shit, yeah, they're doing something tomorrow, stroke of midnight. A ritual or something? Boss just mentioned bringing in a sacrifice to consecrate the new site."
At your side, your hand balls into a fist. Animal sacrifices are a key part of many religious rituals, but you strongly suspect that these people have something rather more awful in mind. It never hurts to be cynical when it comes to secretive cults.
"Huh, sounds like one of them doesn't like the idea…" Spätin murmurs, still concentrating on her spell, "The others are trying to encourage him. Something about how it will be worth it, when they're all rich and raise Bögenhafen to… shit!"
On the upper floor of the Steinhäger house, a silhouette limed in purple light briefly appears in one of the windows, disappearing again a moment later. Spätin yanks her hand away from her ear as if she just touched a pot upon the fire, hissing in pain and shooting a frightened look up at the house.
"Move," you growl, grabbing your new recruit by the arm and hauling her behind you as you head back deeper into the park, "Max, you too. Back to the inn."
"I don't… what the fuck was that?" Spätin groans, stumbling along after you like a drunk woman.
"That, Spätin, was another spellcaster, one who knows what they are actually doing," you growl, choosing not to share your suspicion that it might have been something far worse. So long as it simply restricted itself to breaking the connection Spätin was using to eavesdrop, you think she should be fine, or at least not badly imperilled enough that the Colleges won't be able to account for it. "Speaking of which, you just committed a mortal crime in front of a templar you stupid girl. What were you thinking?"
"Oh, fuck off," Spätin grunts, shaking her head to clear her head, "I agreed to go with you to the Colleges, I didn't agree to swallow all your fucking dogma. If I'd asked, you would have said no, and then we wouldn't know about tomorrow's ritual or anything, now would we?"
You grit your teeth and don't reply, knowing better than to get into an argument over this kind of thing. Fortunately it appears that nobody is pursuing you as you emerge from the park and leave the Adel Ring behind, but despite that you cannot shake the feeling that you are being watched by some strange and unwholesome presence. It is only when you stop looking behind you and choose to look up instead that you finally put a name to the feeling, for on the face of the chaos moon a pair of dark shadows have formed just above a ragged trench you could swear was not present earlier.
Morrsleib hangs low over the town of Bögenhafen, a hungry smile upon its wicked face.
Article: You have identified the most prominent members of the Ordo Septenarius, and you know they intend to conduct some manner of magical ritual tomorrow at midnight, one involving some form of morally objectionable sacrifice. How do you wish to resolve this?
[ ] Go to the authorities
You will take your accusations to Ludo Edel and Johannes Teugen, and demand that they arrest the conspirators for immediate trial. Your evidence is somewhat threadbare, since testimony from an eavesdropping witch is legally dubious to say the least, but you can at the very least make the ritual impossible to perform.
[ ] Pressure the wavering
Spätin claims that at least one of the Ordo's inner council was uncomfortable with the proposed sacrifice, and you know Magirius sincerely believed in their benevolent intent. Approach the guildmaster covertly, and see if you can persuade him to turn on his co-conspirators.
[ ] Raid the ritual
Magical rituals cannot lightly be rescheduled, and you know the Ordo intends to act tomorrow night. You will follow their members, discern where it is to be held, and catch them red-handed before the sacrifice can be completed or their sorcery begun.
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Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
XIX - The Burden of Conscience
- Location
- London, England
[x] Yes
[x] Pressure the wavering
[x] Pressure the wavering
XIX - The Burden of Conscience
You sleep poorly that night, your dreams haunted by visions of running through a collapsing world while the moon smiles at your suffering. The third time that you jolt awake unbidden you decide to just give up on slumber as an obviously lost cause, instead rising from your bed and using the extra time to wash thoroughly and dress well before the others. It helps, you think, to have something so reassuringly mundane to focus on, and the vaguely intimidated look in the servants eyes when they bring up your morning meal and find you so perfectly composed is a petty kind of pleasure.
"I mean to call upon Guildmaster Magirius this morning," you say to your comrades over a steaming cup of boiled water, watching as they break their fast with a ravenous fervour. Max and Spätin elected to stay with you in the Journey's End, while Elvyra has arrangements of her own she did not care to abandon. "Max, you will accompany me in case there is more resistance to my appeal than hoped for. Spätin, I need you to keep an eye on Elvyra; she is to sell the last of her excess stock at the festival and then call upon the Shallyans, there to provide what aid she can to our fallen comrades before returning here by noon."
"Busy day," Spätin muses, chewing her way through a small dish of chicken eggs prepared in some local fashion you are unfamiliar with, "What of lunch? Dear Terrell did promise to take me out somewhere nice…"
You sigh, suppressing a brief flash of annoyance. You might have set aside all hope of undeserved intimacy in the wake of taking up your calling, but you cannot expect others to be so dedicated in their pursuits, no matter how personally inconvenient it may be. "Then have your lunch after aiding the alchemist, and return swiftly thereafter."
Spätin nods, and you are not blind to the brief flash of surprise or muted gratitude in her hazel eyes. You would have every legal and perhaps even pragmatic reason to clamp down on her movements after she surrendered, but instead you are letting her roam free to set her affairs in order. It is a demonstration of great trust, and one you are hoping will compel her sense of honour to repay in kind.
"I've seen sailors fresh from six months at sea less focused on scratching the itch than you," Max chuckles roughly, making an indistinct yet undeniably lewd gesture with one hand while shovelling food into his mouth with the other, "Must be real uncomfortable in those pants of yours, huh."
"Perhaps I merely wish to savour my final experience with a gentleman before condemning myself to your company," Spätin says archly, rolling her eyes at the pantomime display, "Shocking as it may seem, Max, some of us can think with what lies between our ears, not merely our legs."
You close your eyes and pray silently to whatever god is listening for patience, or failing that for a meteor to fall and rid you of head and headache both. Then, since the gods help those who help themselves, you open your eyes again and press on.
"After I have spoken with the Guildmaster, I intend to seek out Father Sigiwalt for advice on which members of the city guard can be trusted," you explain, "With Magirius' testimony in hand, we will be able to seize such material evidence as necessary to justify placing the ringleaders in custody. With any fortune, this whole affair may be wrapped up swiftly and with a minimum of fuss."
You suspect Ludo Edel will not be pleased to see you going even that far, but he will understand the necessity of action once the guildmaster is in hand. Even the most conservative of minds will understand the need to act before the commencement of a grand ritual of uncertain purpose, even if they do not credit the hand of the great enemy behind it. So you hope, in any case.
"Right, right, but what if I happen to meet some sweet young thing en route," Max says gamely, "And she's offering to take me out for a nice time somewhere with a little privacy…"
Not for the first time, you consider shooting everyone in this room. A shame you only have two pistols.
-/-
The headquarters of Bögenhafen's merchants guild is, in a word, tacky. There is a point at which ostentatious wealth crosses even the most generous of lines, and with its gold-inlay floors and marble desks encrusted with coins and comets the guildhouse clearly passed it long ago and kept going regardless. The major merchant families of Bögenhafen don't even use this place for their business, preferring their own properties elsewhere in the town; no, this is for the aspirational kind of merchant, the one who pays through the nose for an office on the ground floor and surrounds himself with signs of the extravagant wealth he needs to impress his supposed status upon all who come and go. Even the staff here have the feel of ludicrous expense, parading around in professionally tailored uniforms that likely cost more than any of the people wearing them make in their yearly salary.
Still, no matter what you think about the guild and its taste in decorations, right now it pays to be discreet. You leave your weapons and armour with Max, doff the broad-brimmed hat, and enter the guild at a brisk pace with only a friendly nod to those who cross your path. Everyone who sees you en route to the guildmaster's office - itself immediately obvious due to size and elevated position - assumes you have business with someone else already here, and so nobody even questions it until you are knocking on the door and letting yourself in. Magirius is already inside despite the early hour, slumped behind his desk with a half empty glass of wine and his fine clothes already in disarray.
"I believe I was quite clear," he says slowly as you enter, enunciating every word with painful precision, "that I was not to be… oh."
You cross the room without a word, glad to see that he recognises your face and what your arrival in such circumstances likely means. It saves a lot of time when you don't have to explain yourself, and one never suffers from setting the stage accordingly. Only when you are standing directly in front of him, looming over his desk, do you speak.
"Who are they planning to sacrifice, Frederich?" you ask, and the guildmaster's eyes go wide.
"How did you…" he starts, before his jaw snaps shut and a look of chagrin comes over his features. Then, a moment later, he sighs and slumps further in his chair. "Well. No point in denying it now, is there? I just… it wasn't supposed to be like this. Nobody was supposed to get hurt."
He sounds defeated, and more than that he sounds remorseful. You feel a brief flicker of satisfaction at seeing your guess confirmed, for there was never any guarantee that Magirius was the wavering soul that Spätin overheard, but you know better than to let it show on your face. For this, only the most stern and implacable of moods will do. "Start at the beginning."
"It was Franz's idea, Franz Steinhäger," the guildmaster says tiredly, too dispirited to do anything except comply with your command, "Not that I can claim to be uninvolved, nor any of us really, but he was the initiator. He went on a business trip to Altdorf, about three years ago now, and came back with an ally and a plan to change our fortunes forever."
"This ally," you lean in slightly, "Tell me about him."
"Hm? Oh, Franz calls him Gideon, a young man with some real potential, gave him a job as his personal assistant. None of the rest of us really know that much about him, but he's the one who really knows how all the magic works," Magirius shakes his head, chuckling briefly at his own foolishness. "We all knew he wasn't a real wizard, I think, not from the Colleges, but it was easier not to ask. Easier to assume that he'd just stolen a legitimate ritual from them that we could use for our own advantage."
You nod sternly, filing that thought away. The ability of a man to embrace delusion in the name of his own comfort is a very human one, and so too is it among the most powerful foes your order has ever faced. There is a vast sea of grey that lies between the mundanity of one's everyday life and acts of undeniable witchcraft, and it is all too often easier to simply pretend not to notice when something beneficial begins to approach the far end of that comforting expanse.
"The ritual," you say, not moving from your spot, still looming over the guildmaster at his desk, "how was it meant to work?"
"I don't understand the technical details, but as Gideon explained it, the purpose is to twist the lines of fate and desire that lead to Bögenhafen, to ensure that all one desired can be found here, and all one brought would find those that wanted it," Magirius explains, shaking his head. "You must understand, to a merchant's mind such a thing makes clear, almost intuitive sense - so much of commerce rests on predicting supply and demand, so to know for certain that any good you shipped here would find a willing buyer? Even a mediocre salesman could profit handsomely from such guaranteed fortune."
For a moment you are tempted to lambast the blind greed of these fools, that they did not seek to question why such a gift could exist unused by those who knew more than they… but then, you suppose to a merchant that too makes sense. Of course any land that chose to benefit from such magic would hide the source of their new fortune, so as to preserve the comparative advantage they now enjoyed. Indeed, to a particularly suspicious mind the mere existence of a prosperous trade hub could be taken as evidence of such magic at play, especially if it endured fits of ill fortune that might have ended the prosperity of another town.
"And the Ordo?" you ask instead, focusing on the practical details, "You were sincere when you claimed no magic was being wrought by its meetings. Were the others fooling you?"
"No, no… well, not about this, at any rate," Magirius shakes his head again, more firmly this time. "The ritualism of our meetings served all the purposes I explained to you… but it also encouraged people not to be surprised by our preparations for the singular work of magic we had planned. When the work was complete, we of the inner circle would stand to benefit above all others, for we alone would know to prepare for our coming fortune and could advise our juniors in the lower ranks accordingly."
Hm. If he is telling the truth, and given his evident feelings of doubt and defeat you think it more likely than not, then that creates an interesting wrinkle in this case. Centuries of legal wrangling by the Colleges and their various clients have established that merely benefitting from the working of magic is perfectly legal, and thanks to the Van Hel debacle even obvious works of darkest sorcery do not void that protection. If you wish to prosecute the members of the Ordo Septenarius, you will need to establish that they knowingly intended to perform forbidden magic, themselves, in violation of the Articles and all associated law.
"I assume Franz Steinhäger is the leading magister of whom you spoke," you say instead, taking a piece of parchment from Magirius' desk and claiming his quill for your own, "Which means that there are six other members of the Inner Circle besides yourself. Give me their names."
Magirius hesitates at that. "I… understand you must do your work, Lord Bruner, but… we truly did not intend for anyone to get harmed…"
He is wavering, but not yet committed. You have seen men like this before, tormented by conscience but unwilling to face the full consequences of the law, still seeking some neat solution that will allow them a path out of the grave they have dug. Perhaps, if you were a hardened zealot, you would browbeat and threaten this man until he gave you what you need, but at times like this you find the velvet glove every bit as useful.
"Cooperate, Master Magirius, and it is yet possible that nobody will be," you say in a steady tone, your voice a beacon of reassurance and certainty to a man in desperate need of both, "There will be a price to pay, but as prosecutor I have wide discretion on what charges to press and what penalties to seek. For most, financial and political penalties may yet be appropriate - only Steinhäger and Gideon, the two who orchestrated this knowing the lives it would cost, need suffer the full weight of the law."
Markus tests charm! Difficulty is easy (+40) due to Magirius' desperation, so skill is 91. Roll is 80, success.
He doesn't believe you, not entirely, but now that same trick of human psychology works in your favour; in his uncertainty, Magirius chooses not to question what seems to be his good fortune. He gives you the names of his conspirators, and at a slight bit of prompting, signs the written copy you set before him and affixes his personal seal as well. Now you have his testimony, signed and sealed, that the members of the Ordo Septenarius' inner circle planned to perform an act of ritual magic in knowing violation of the law.
You don't need to honour your implied promise, not by any law, but you are not the kind of bastard to offer salvation with one hand and then stab the man who seeks to take it. Neither, though, are you required to leave these people with anything more than their lives and the shirts upon their backs, once the courts are through with them. In the eyes of many of their fellow merchants, such a penalty might well strike more terror than a burning in the public square.
"You did not name Johannes Teugen," you observe as you tuck the paper away in your jerkin, "nor Heinrich Steinhäger. Are they uninvolved?"
"Franz detests them both," Magirius says with a sigh, shaking his head, "Teugen, for being more successful, and his younger brother for daring to question his ability to lead the family. He would not consent to any plan that might benefit either man."
There is, you think, something quietly reassuring about that sort of petty spite. It is always nice to be reminded that the villains you are dealing with are human. The real question is whether or not this 'Gideon' is anything of the kind, but you can hardly ask Magirius that. He would hardly have baulked at human sacrifice while tolerating the active involvement of a daemon.
"The ritual is to be held tonight at midnight, when the Schaffenfest comes to a close," Magirius offers, sitting up straighter now in his chair, his resolve strengthened by the decision he has made, "I do not yet know the location, but Franz has claimed he will send word once it is prepared. When I know, I will send word to you. And then, well…"
"Then we shall do as we must, Master Magirius," you say, sternly reassuring in a way that briefly and uncomfortably reminds you of your own father, "You are doing the right thing. Do not allow yourself to lose sight of that truth."
With that final platitude delivered, and spending a moment or two just to be sure nobody was listening at the keyhole or otherwise spying on the meeting, you bid the guildmaster farewell and make your way back outside. Max awaits you on the far side of the courtyard, your armour and weapons piled neatly by his feet.
"Take it you got what you needed?" he asks, chuckling to himself as you don your armour once more.
"I did," you nod, grimly satisfied, "I trust all was quiet here, or at least amusing?"
"Oh yeah. Funniest fucking thing - the merchants have got halflings working for them, right, and I saw one of them walking around with a writing table strapped to his head. Apparently their job is to be nearby whenever some fancy coinpurse wants to sign a missive at short notice," Max explains, shaking his head.
"And… such treatment of the halflings amuses you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow as you strap your pistols back across your chest. You cannot claim to have any friends from among the mootfolk yourself, but that is no cause to mock them.
"Oh, it's not them I'm laughing at," Max grins viciously, "It's the stupid bastards giving them a front row seat to all their finest deals and every motive to miss in the ale. Some cunning little bastard is going to steal the shirt off the merchant's fancy backs, and they are going to hear me laughing in Middenheim."
You've no idea if such a route to vengeance and riches truly exists, but then you suppose Max has you at a disadvantage in matters of spiteful profit. Since it hardly concerns you in any case, you choose not to respond, simply leaving the town centre behind and heading back north. You have a list of the inner circle and soon you will have the opportunity to catch them red handed performing forbidden magic; all you need now is enough muscle to be sure of the arrest, and for that your best bet is contacting Father Sigiwalt for his perspective on which of the town guards can be trusted. High Priest Edel will need to be informed of your intentions as well, of course, but in matters such as this it is better to have all the pieces set up before you commit to the game, lest your observers seek to quibble over the details.
Something prickles at your awareness as you and Max reach the waterfront, and without a moment's pause you turn on your heel and draw the pistol from your belt. Sure enough, the pair of stevedores following you freeze at the sight of the readied weapon, the heavy boat hooks in their hands hanging awkwardly as they try to decide how to respond.
"You lads really don't want to roll these dice," you say in your firmest voice, "Walk away, right now."
"Ah, fuck," Max mutters from behind you, and when you chance a look back over your shoulder you have to strangle the urge to add a curse of your own. More of the stevedores have emerged from nearby warehouses and alleyways, eight or nine of them in all, each brandishing heavy hooks or weighted clubs as they fan out slowly to surround you. One of them, clearly the leader, is the same man who delivered the threat to you on the far side of the river yesterday.
"Walking away ain't really an option," he drawls, stiffening the resolve of his underlings even as he joins the slowly tightening circle and onlookers hurry to clear the area, "You were warned, and we know who our friends are. Get 'em, lads."
Despite the command, nobody is keen to be the first to charge. You stand back to back with Max, drawing your second pistol as he readies his blade, and consider the slowly closing noose of brawny men and rangy women that mean to end your investigation here and now.
"So," Max says casually, his laconic ease barely covering the core of tension in his voice, "What do you reckon? The mouthy one first?"
"As good a choice as any," you murmur, and as the nearest of the dockhands finds his courage and begins to charge, you throw yourself into motion.
This is the fundamental principle of an ambush: one side sets the terms, and the other side dies. You have no interest in fulfilling the latter role, and so as the stevedores close in from all directions with weapons ready, you turn towards the lanky form of their leader and you charge. The pistols in your hand roar one after the other, shockingly loud even against the bustling backdrop of the waterfront, and the enemy staggers beneath the twin hammer blows of impact. Max does not wait to see if that is enough before finishing the job with a running slash across the throat, and in the span of an instant you have punched through the closing cordon and won yourself a moment's reprieve.
Unfortunately, a moment is all you get, as before the boss' corpse can even hit the ground the nearest stevedores are swarming you like bees, the hooks and clubs scything in from all directions. You fend off one blow and then three more in quick succession, twisting and turning to keep your heavily armoured arms between the weapons and your vulnerable flesh and grunting as each thuds home, but you are not the only target here and Max lacks your professional's training. You don't see what happens, at first, but the ragged edge of his scream cuts through the air like a knife, and when you glance across you see him falling to one knee, his back laid open to the bone by a stevedore's hook.
"Fuck," you spit, all eloquence lost as you dive across the mere paces that separate you and snatch up the sword falling from your ally's suddenly limp hand, "Come on, you bastards, and I'll send you all to Morr myself!"
Due to Markus' Nose for Trouble talent, the ambushing thugs do not get the benefit of any surprise. They do however start with three points of advantage due to their overwhelming advantage of numbers.
Normal order of action is Max, then the thug boss, then Markus, then the regular thugs.
Round One
Markus
At the end of this round, Markus has six advantage points and the enemy has three (they spent two and then got two back for beating Max so badly).
Markus spends four advantage to take another turn. He draws his sword, grabs Max's sword as well, and then makes an intimidate check against the enemy.
Normal order of action is Max, then the thug boss, then Markus, then the regular thugs.
Round One
Markus
- Spends a fortune point to act first despite lower initiative.
- Draws his second pistol, moves up to within point blank range of the thug boss and makes a dual wielder attack to shoot him twice. Skill is 58, +40 for point blank, roll is 41 for 6SL after talents.
- At point blank the thug boss can defend himself, he tries using his dodge of 35 and rolls 29, for +1SL.
- Markus' first hit gets +5SL net, for 9+5=14 damage that ignores nonmetal armour. The boss has a toughness bonus of 5 and so takes 9 wounds.
- Markus' second shot is reversed to a 14, a total of 9SL after talents. The boss tries to dodge again and rolls 09, for +3SL. This is 6SL net in Markus' favour and so he inflicts another ten wounds. The boss is a hardy sort and so still has three left.
- Gain two advantage for beating the enemy on an opposed roll twice in a turn.
- Max elects to charge the thug boss with his sword. He gets +10 for charging and so rolls against skill 52+10=62, rolling 36 for +3SL
- The boss defends with his melee skill of 55 and gets 25, also +3SL. Since Max has a higher skill, he hits by a bare threshold of 0, inflicting 9 damage and four wounds. The Thug Boss is dropped (being an unnamed character, he is incapacitated on zero wounds instead of getting critical hits)
- Gain one point of advantage for beating the enemy on an opposed roll, and another for removing an enemy from the fight
- The eight thugs advance to fight. However, due to positioning only four of them can reach the combatants right now, so two each charge Markus and Max. With charging and outnumbering, they roll at skill 75.
- The two attacking Markus (Thugs 1 and 2) roll 98 and 96, each failing by -2SL
- Markus rolls his brawling skill of 58 to defend and gets 90 and 25, for -4SL and +3SL respectively. He spends fortune to reroll the first and gets 63, a failure by -1SL but still enough to defend himself. He therefore gets two advantage for defending himself twice.
- The two attacking Max (Thugs 3 and 4) roll 01 and 25, for +7 and +5SL respectively. Max defends himself with his skill of 55 and rolls 56 and 24, a bare failure and +3SL respectively. Thus, he gets hit twice, with 7 and 2SL net against him respectively.
- The thugs have base damage 7, so this becomes 14 and then 9 damage. Max has toughness 39 and leather armour, so he reduces the hits by 4 damage each. He takes 10 wounds and then 5 more wounds.
- The second hit puts him below 0 wounds, and so a critical is rolled against his body with a +20 modifier (for overflow damage). This results in 51+20=71, a Pulled Back. Max suffers a badly damaged muscle in his back, which means he will take a -20 penalty to all physical tests that involve moving his back for the next 27 days.
At the end of this round, Markus has six advantage points and the enemy has three (they spent two and then got two back for beating Max so badly).
Markus spends four advantage to take another turn. He draws his sword, grabs Max's sword as well, and then makes an intimidate check against the enemy.
- His skill is 61 and he rolls 93, rerolling with fortune (his third point) to get 04. This is more than the thugs are capable of passing, and so they all treat Markus as having the fear trait.
For the briefest of moments your would-be killers hesitate, the sight of their leader's corpse and a templar in full fury enough to induce a stirring of doubt, and in that moment you draw your silvered sword in your other hand and lunge. Two of them are within reach, and before the first can recognise his peril you smash aside his arm with one blade and unzip his gut with the other. He falls, a wet gurgle of incomprehension his only eulogy, and when the second darts in to deliver a glancing blow to your thigh you grunt and decapitate him in reply.
Max is prone (due to being on zero wounds) and also takes a -20 penalty on all physical tests involving his back. He can do little other than crawl away slowly.
Markus has two enemies in combat with him, and elects to begin with them, trusting in the fear to keep the others at bay for at least a while.
At the end of the round Markus has four advantage and the enemy has four. Markus spends that four to make another attack against the remaining thug fighting him.
Markus has two enemies in combat with him, and elects to begin with them, trusting in the fear to keep the others at bay for at least a while.
- Melee (basic) is 58, Markus spends two advantage for +10 to this roll. He rolls 34, for +4SL after talents on the first hit.
- The thug has a skill of 45 and rolls 07 for +4SL on his defence, reduced to +3 because he feels fear. Markus hits with one threshold, dealing a total of 8 damage, or 4 after toughness.
- The second attack reverses the dice to 43, a hit with +3SL post talents. The thug rolls defence and gets 50, meaning -1 after fear, Markus inflicts 7+4-4 = 7 more wounds. Thug one drops.
- The six thugs not in combat with Markus must pass cool tests in order to get closer. I will roll once for them all for the sake of ease and get 56, so they fail and cannot approach. Instead they spread out in a loose ring.
- The surviving thug fighting Markus continues to do so. He has a skill of 45, but he loses -1SL due to fear.
- He rolls 69 (nice) for -3SL after fear, Markus defends with 96, for -4SL. He takes eight damage from the hit, which is on the right leg. He has one point of armour there and five toughness, so he takes two wounds.
At the end of the round Markus has four advantage and the enemy has four. Markus spends that four to make another attack against the remaining thug fighting him.
- Skill is 58, roll is 15, +5SL after talent.
- Thug defends with 45, rolls 43, -1SL after fear.
- Damage is 7+5+1 = 13, or nine wounds after toughness
- Follow up attack reverses to 51, a success with +1SL after talents. The thug rolls 100 to defend, a failure by -7, and takes 7+1+7-4 = 11 more wounds, dying immediately
Three men dead now, one by pistol and two by blade, a third of your attackers slain in exchange for a single glancing blow. Max lies moaning on the ground behind you, maybe dying, maybe crippled, but these common men and women do not see him. They see only you, the Templar of Sigmar, with bloodied swords held ready and the light of judgement in your eyes. They see you, and they know fear.
You take a step towards them, and half the remaining assassins break and flee in a single instant, running for the imagined safety of the wharfs and piers. Of the three that remain, one takes a faltering step back and trips over a loose coil of rope on the ground, screaming first in shock and then in pain as your sword flicks out to carve a bloody line across her outstretched arm. The others advance, closing in on you from the right and from the left, and for a moment it is all you can do to keep your life in the face of their frenzied assault.
You grunt as a club smashes your sword down out of its guard, the sheer force of the blow enough to make your arm ache even through the parry. You snarl as a boat hook bites into your shoulder and pulls away most of your leather sleeve as it withdraws. Near misses both, but today that is all you need, and as you fend off the murderous assault the sound of furious shouting and shrill whistling fills the air and you smile.
Markus advances towards the enemy. Since they are afflicted by fear, they must all roll cool or get a broken condition. They each have a willpower of 30, so I will roll for them all here - 62; 23; 82; 19; 30; 79. Half the remaining enemy break and run, the others recover from their fear.
Markus
At the end of round 3, the watch arrives.
Markus
- Markus attacks the first enemy. He has a skill of 58 and rolls 64, a failure by -1SL (he does not get the talent bonus on a miss)
- The third thug rolls to defend with 45, he rolls 99, failing by -5SL and also getting a fumble that means he trips over.
- Markus inflicts 7-1+5= 11 damage, reduced to seven wounds by toughness.
- He cannot make a second attack since he missed the first.
- One of the thugs tripped over due to that fumble and so is unable to attack this round. The other two close in and attack Markus, getting +20 because they outnumber him and so rolling at 65.
- The first rolls 52, for +1SL. Markus defends with a 96, and spends his last fortune point to get a 72, failing by -2SL.
- Markus takes 1+7+2 = 10 damage to his right arm, reduced down to 1 wound by toughness and armour.
- The second rolls 22, for +4SL. Markus defends with a 17, for +4SL, and since he has a higher skill he parries the blow. Normally a 22 would cause a critical, however Markus chooses to sacrifice a point of armour on his left arm in order to avoid that.
At the end of round 3, the watch arrives.
Summoned by the sound of your gunfire, a patrol group of the Bögenhafen town watch is charging along the waterfront, fully armed soldiers forcing their way through the milling crowds with barked orders and bludgeoning fists, and the sight of reinforcements is too much for the remaining assailants to stomach. They break and flee, sprinting away as fast as their legs can take them, and with a slow sigh you lower your blades and allow them to run.
"Still alive, Max?" you ask, stepping back away from the corpses and sheathing the weapons before anyone in the arriving force can leap to the wrong and also very painful conclusion.
"Fuck you, you poncy git," Max groans, dragging himself up onto one knee before giving it up as a bad idea, "Oh sweet Shallya this hurts…"
"Dead men don't swear at people," you say, shaking your head and stepping away to greet the arriving guards, "so I reckon you'll be fine."
-/-
"His back's completely fucked," Elvyra Kleinestun says bluntly, stepping back from the bed and shaking her head like a disapproving old mother hen, "Whatever hit him tore through three or four muscles at least. Until they heal, he'll scream like a baby whenever he tries to move."
Laid out on the bed, his jacket and shirt carefully pulled away to expose the bleeding ruin of his back, Max groans in pain and something very much like despair. "Don't say that, you old bat… come on, there must be some kind of potion or…"
"Shut your trap, you blithering idiot, and be glad none of them got properly severed," Elvyra clucks her tongue, "I can give you something for the pain, but you're on bedrest for at least the next month, assuming you ever want to move again."
Stood near the door, you fold your arms and grind your teeth together. Your own injuries are mostly superficial, though the torn arm of your leather coat will create a weak point until you can get it repaired or replaced, but you know enough anatomy to understand Elvyra's concern. It isn't a matter of willpower or endurance on Max's behalf; back injuries like this will make it physically impossible for him to move with enough agility to be worth anything in a fight, even if you could somehow account for the agony such efforts would put him through.
"Gods damn me for a fool," Max groans, letting his head fall onto the pillow and biting back what sounds like a sob, "Every time, every fucking time I get my life together…"
"Oh boo hoo," Spätin says in a caustic tone from her position by the wall, "You going to fall to pieces because you took one bad hit? Man up, you little bitch."
"Spätin, enough," you say sharply, stepping forwards, "Max, listen to the doctor and rest. Elvyra, do what you can for him. And, before I forget - the others, in the hospice?"
"They'll live," the alchemist sniffs, "They won't enjoy it, but another day or so will purge the last of the infection from their system, with a little help from my own remedies. They'll be up and about again after that."
You nod stiffly, pleased and frustrated at the same time. That your comrades who stood against the daemon will live is reassuring, but that they will not be ready in time to interrupt this ritual tonight leaves you dangerously short handed. Reaching Father Sigiwalt in the north part of the town right now is a dangerous prospect, especially since you have no guarantee that your enemies cannot stir up yet more armed ambushers to make life difficult for you, but you have few other options unless you wish to appeal to Edel and Teugen and lose what control you yet have over this investigation.
"You two, remain here for now," you say at last, turning towards the door, "Spätin, come with me."
The witch grumbles a bit at that, but thankfully does not object outright. She is displeased by this whole affair, especially since it seems bound to ruin her desired leisure time before the final night draws in, but she understands the necessity of her presence even so. With Max down and your other allies an uncertain distance away, you cannot afford to let the duellist leave your side.
The common room of the Journey's End Inn is filled to bursting, even now in the early afternoon, and the air is thick with the sound of rumour and speculation. Plenty saw you arrive earlier with an injured comrade in your arms, and more have heard of the attack down by the waterfront, but so far you've been discreet enough in your investigation that nobody knows quite what you're doing here or who might be seeking to stop you. Nor is anyone courageous enough to ask, not even the innkeep who eyes you nervously as you approach the bar.
"I need one of your staff to deliver a message for me, to Father Sigiwalt of the Chapel of Blessed Sigmar," you say tersely, "A written missive, which they are to see into the priest's hands and none other."
"And another," Spätin chimes in from behind you, ignoring your baleful look, "to journeyman Terrell, who will be waiting outside the Silver Platter. I need to reschedule our meal."
"Aye, milord, we can do that. There's some of the local boys that run messages for us, I can vouch for them," the innkeep nods soberly, his mutton chops quivering slightly with the motion, "Oh, on that note, one of them dropped off a message for you just a few minutes ago. Left just as quickly, didn't even wait for a tip."
Frowning, you take the small missive he hands you, opening it and scanning the contents within. As you expected, the paper bears the stamp of the merchant's guild on the upper corner, clearly written in haste on whatever was to hand.
Article: My friend
I need to see you urgently. My house lies on the Adel Ring. Come with haste.
M
-/-
Whatever wealth and privilege that being the Guildmaster of the merchants of Bögenhafen provides, it is clearly not enough to elevate Magirius to one of the absurdly luxurious mansions you witnessed during your last visit to this district. Instead, the locals direct you to a small but elegant townhouse near the very end of the ring, where a neatly organised garden seems doomed to fall far short of the splendour of the nearby public park.
"So, what do we do if this priest of yours can't get the goods?" Spätin asks, hanging back as you knock on the door, "Because I don't rate your chances of finding some honest lawmen in a town like this all that high."
"If I have to, I'll find a festival crowd and whip up a lynch mob," you say darkly, in no mood for her needling questions now, "It will be ugly and the High Priest will be very upset, but better that than human sacrifice and forbidden magic go unopposed."
Spätin has no chance to reply to that as the door to the townhouse opens and a neatly dressed gentleman in an almost stereotypical butler's outfit peers out at you. "Yes? Oh, you must be the templar. Master Magirius told me to expect you. Please, come in - the master is in his office on the first floor."
Nodding briskly to the servant, you step past him and into the house. Magirius is a bachelor, it seems, and while his servant clearly tries to keep his residence in good shape, there is still an air of benign neglect about the whole place that makes you wonder how much time the guildmaster actually spends in his own home. Still, you are not here to critique such things, and so you climb the narrow staircase and enter the small library and office that waits for you at the top.
Sprawled across the heavy wooden desk, Frederich Magarius lies dead, his throat sliced neatly open with a chirurgeon's expertise and his fine vestments soaked in blood.
"Sigmar be with me," you mutter, drawing your silvered sword and turning back towards the staircase. There, standing on the bottom step, the elderly butler smiles at you with genial amusement.
"You really should have listened," he says, serene and unbothered even as Spätin draws her rapier and rams it through his heart, barely even twitching with the impact, "But I suppose it hardly matters now. The dam is built and the flood waters are rising. Flee to higher ground, or stay behind and drown. Isn't free will a marvellous thing?"
Then, before your very eyes, the thing wearing the face of a kindly old man dissolves into purple fire and boils away to nothing. Spätin steps back next to you, her eyes hunting wildly for a target and her sword held ready, but as one heartbeat after another passes you realise that the creature has elected to take its leave. Keeping your sword held ready just in case, you step back into the office and approach the guildmaster's corpse.
Magirius' face bears a strange look of surprise and desperation, and when you tip his body back into an upright position you see that the blood is still wet and the body still warm. He was clearly slain mere minutes ago, given no chance to escape or even understand what had happened, but more interesting than that is the scrawled series of letters and numbers marked in blood across his desk.
WHSE 13
"W…H… Warehouse?" you murmur, reaching out to close the dead man's eyes, "Warehouse thirteen. I see. Thank you, Magirius. May Sigmar show mercy and Morr welcome you into his garden."
"We've got a problem," Spätin growls, peering out the small window at the street beyond, "Fucker summoned reinforcements."
For a moment you feel an icy pit forming in your stomach, but when you join the duelist by the window the half-expected horde of daemons is nowhere to be seen. Instead there is only a full squad of town watch running towards the house, breastplates gleaming and a richly attired officer in the lead.
"But why would he…" you murmur, briefly surprised, and Spätin shoots you an incredulous look.
"He's framing you, idiot," she bites out, shaking her head in disgust, "Guildmaster's dead, and there's nobody here but a mad dog of a Templar to blame for it. Half the guys in the watch probably owe their careers to merchant patrons, you think they'll blink at making you disappear?"
You suspect they will, for you are a templar and a noble and Spätin has yet to fully understand how much leeway that can buy, but then the Ordo don't need you dead in order to achieve their goals. They just need you tied up in trying to assert your innocence and sidestep a formal trial for long enough to conduct this ritual, and if they are willing to go this far to see it done, you can only assume the truth of it is far less benign than poor Magirius believed.
If you run now, you can likely make it out the back door and escape over the wall before the watch arrive, but… will adding the appearance of guilt to your name really make things any better? Either way, you need to make a decision, now.
Article: How do you wish to proceed?
[ ] Confront the Watch
You will seek to use your authority, your evidence and your sheer force of will to prevent the watch from imprisoning you (or worse). Perhaps you can even turn it back on the daemon and its mortal dupes, and so gain new allies for the fight to come.
[ ] Flee the Scene
You will escape out the back door now, and return to your original plan of contacting Father Sigiwalt and other, more reliable souls for aid in what is to come. Hopefully you can smooth this all out later, but you cannot afford to waste time now.
Last edited:
Vote closed
- Location
- London, England
XX - Lèse Majesté
- Location
- London, England
[x] Confront the Watch
XX - Lèse Majesté
Spätin is probably correct in believing the watch is heavily compromised by the merchant's guild, but your corpse will be cooling in the ground before you flee the authorities like some common criminal. You grit your teeth and make for the front door, and the look on your face is enough to tell the duelist what your decision is.
"You're absolutely mad," Spätin says, a strange kind of admiring horror in her voice as she looks at you.
"I am a servant of the law, Frau Spätin," you say sternly, "and I will not flee like a thief in the night."
"Well I'm not, and I will," the witch snorts, turning on her heel and making for the back garden, "Best of luck!"
"Spätin!" you snap, but she is already gone, the door to the rear garden slamming in her wake. You can't afford to waste time chasing her, not with the watch patrol almost here, and with bile burning in your heart you turn back and step out of the front door. The soldiers draw up short at the sight of you, their faces red and puffy and their breastplates gleaming in the noonday sun, and you nod severely to the sergeant at their head.
"Guildmaster Magirius has been murdered," you say to them in a clear voice, "you will find his body upstairs. Secure the site and send for the mourner's guild."
The soldiers hesitate, and then they look to their sergeant, a meaty looking man with a stringy excuse for a beard that seems to dance as he sneers contemptuously at you. "Heinrich, go check the body. As for you, sir, I must ask that you surrender your weapons and place your arms behind your back."
You frown intently at him, but the sergeant seems unbothered. "For what reason?"
"The guildmaster's servant claims that you confronted the guildmaster in his home and slew him when he would not yield to your demands," the sergeant says, drawing himself up, "I am hereby placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder."
"Ridiculous," you scoff, glancing around to see if the 'servant' in question is anywhere nearby. Alas it seems not - likely the daemon kept the disguise just long enough to deliver the report, then disappeared once more. "I am a Templar of the Holy Orders, not some common murderer."
"That would be for the courts and my commanders to determine, sir," the sergeant says firmly, putting a tad too much emphasis on that final word for your liking, "Your rights and status will be respected, but I must do my duty to Bögenhafen."
He speaks the words, but it isn't the town that commands his obedience. You can see it in his eyes, in the way his hands ball into fists, in the sneer he just barely keeps from his face. The daemon chose its patsy well for this, and for a moment you wonder if this sergeant's corruption is financial or more theological. Either way, you won't be convincing him to let you go without a fight, and you have no interest in risking your life here or slaughtering the loyal soldiers who are following him.
"I will not relinquish my weapons," you say firmly, "but I will permit you to escort me to your commander, so that we may resolve this situation swiftly and fairly. That should suffice to fulfil your duty."
"I, uh," the sergeant hesitates for a moment, then nods, "Yeah, I guess that'll do. Right, you lot, fall in. Let's head back to the Fort."
Being marched through the streets by a group of armed watchmen is an unpleasantly novel experience, but you do your best to adapt to the change in circumstances with appropriate dignity. The headquarters of the watch lies in the beating heart of Bögenhafen, where shops and trade outlets compete with private residences for space and hundreds of people throng the streets and whisper at the sight of you passing by. Many are workers and labourers, but the majority you think are members of the rising middle class, those who own property of their own and treat the sight of a Templar being arrested as a source of scandalous gossip more than any real threat. You speak to none of them, and take note of the quiet relief in your escort when they realise you are not about to call upon a mob of the faithful to demand your liberation.
As with many settlements across the Empire, Bögenhafen's town watch is drawn from the ranks of the State Army, trained soldiers pressed into other service in the absence of an immediate war to fight. You are not sure just how much martial readiness is left inside the 99th Reikland Foot after such a prolonged change in duties, but their banner flies proudly above the gate to Fort Bögenhafen and the walls of the compound seem sturdy and well built. It is easy to believe that this place could serve as a fine headquarters in the event of invasion or civil unrest, but right now the gates are open and the guard on the gate merely raises an eyebrow as you are marched past him into the courtyard beyond. Here a score of new recruits practise their drill in ordered ranks, while hoary veterans shout encouragement and an officer in the most resplendent finery looks on. All of them stop and stare as you are marched in through the gates.
"What is the meaning of this?" The officer is tall and almost cadaverously thin, his thinning hair the colour of sun-bleached bone, and there is an aristocratic lilt to his voice as he looks down at you from his position on the steps leading up to the main blockhouse.
"Captain von Goetrin, sir!" The sergeant who escorted you here stops and salutes smartly before continuing, "I regret to report that Guildmaster Magirius has been murdered, sir! Throat cut from behind, looks like. The guildmaster's servant accused this man of being the killer."
The report sets off a wave of whispers and gloomy muttering across the courtyard, but you do not care to wait for the soldiers to sort themselves out. Instead you step out from behind your escort and lift your head to regard the officer who now studies you in turn.
"My name is Markus von Bruner, Inquisitor of the Holy Order of Sigmarite Templars," you say formally, pitching your voice so that everyone can hear it, "I have been investigating a hidden cult operating within this town, and Guildmaster Magirius was cooperating with my investigation, which I believe they murdered him to prevent."
Captain von Goetrin considers you at length as the whispers spread, and you have to fight not to be distracted by the spectacular visage of his moustache. It almost looks like someone implanted a pair of horizontal walrus tusks into his upper lip, and you cannot imagine the amount of time and effort it must take the man to keep it clean and properly shaped each day.
"I have been warned about you, Herr von Bruner," the captain says at length, giving you a slow and serious nod, "Councillor Teugen informs me that you have a track record of murdering merchants for spurious reasons. High Priest Edel, meanwhile, has assured me that your investigation is nothing more than a politically motivated sham."
For a brief moment a spark of fury blossoms in your heart, but you quash it ruthlessly. You will need to have words with Edel about undermining your authority with such talk, especially after he took such pains to project unity less than a day ago, but those problems can wait.
"Captain, I assure you," you begin, taking a step forward, but before you can approach the man two of his soldiers step forward and slam the end of their polearms into the dirt before you, barring the way with crossed blades.
"Markus von Bruner, you are hereby charged with the murder of Frederich Magirius," the captain says in an arch tone, looking down his nose at you and making a cutting gesture with one hand, "As a man of quality, I must ask you to surrender your arms and offer your parole."
Markus makes an Average (+20) Intuition test. Skill is 62, roll is 62, bare pass.
You glance around swiftly, taking in the expressions of the watching soldiers and the attitudes on display. Some of them seem gleeful at the sight of your arrest, while others are worried and uncertain, and a few even outright disapproving. Still, none go so far as to protest outright, their respect for the captain and his authority too pronounced to dare such a thing without further encouragement. As for Goetrin himself, you have no idea whether he truly believes you guilty or is merely acting to further his master's interests, be they mundane or diabolic. At this point, it matters little.
"Listen to me, all of you," you call out in a clear and ringing voice, putting your conviction and urgency behind every word, "There is a cult of the dark gods at work in Bögenhafen, and it must be stopped. The Ordo Septenarius has summoned daemons and offered human sacrifice, and they mean to conduct a ritual this very night to secure their power. I know where and when, but without good and loyal soldiers like you I cannot hope to stop them alone."
Markus is going to use a charm test for public speaking. He has a base skill of 51, and as he has a higher status than the average watchman he gains +10 on the skill. Additionally, he has the Noble Blood talent, which adds an additional SL to tests affected by status if he succeeds.
Unfortunately, he rolls an 85, and so fails. After the fight against the stevedores, he has no fortune points remaining and so cannot reroll this.
Unfortunately, he rolls an 85, and so fails. After the fight against the stevedores, he has no fortune points remaining and so cannot reroll this.
For a moment it seems like you have them, that your words have struck a chord, but then Captain von Goetrin's voice cracks like a whip and the moment is lost.
"I see we are adding incitement to mutiny to your charges, sir!" he roars, bristling with sudden fury, "Well then, I had planned to host you as your station demands, but if you will act like a mere recidivist then that is how you shall be treated! Soldiers, disarm him and take him to the cells."
The soldiers obey their commander, and with brutal speed and practised efficiency you are stripped of your weapons and armour alike and frog-marched across the fort towards a set of stairs that descend into darkness. Your protests are ignored, and since you stop short of attempting to actively fight back the rough handling likewise stops short of an outright beating, and soon enough you are all but thrown into a dingy little cell beneath the barracks with only a flickering torch for light.
"We shall send word to High Priest Edel and the Graf von Saponatheim," Captain von Goetrin sneers from his position by the door, "But as the former is very busy and the latter dwells some eighty miles north of here, it may be some time before they respond and your trial may be arranged. Until then, you will enjoy our finest hospitality."
"Captain, you are making a dire mistake," you say, trying to keep your frantic concern from your voice, "Please, if you will but accompany me with a small force at the proper time then you will see the truth of my words."
"Frederich Magirius was a respected patron of mine, templar, and more than that he was one of very few men I counted as a friend," the captain says, a cold and ugly look in his eyes as he looks at you, "If it were up to me you would hang this very night. As it is, I shall pray to Verena and Sigmar alike that justice be done and you pay the price for your crimes. Good day."
He leaves then, slamming the cell door closed and striding away down the corridor, and before he departs the building entirely you hear the distant sound of barked orders as he establishes how you are to be restrained. You don't doubt that he will bend every resource he has to seeing you blamed and executed for the death of the guildmaster, and while you truly do not think it will go so far, the idea that he might release you in time to intervene in the Ordo's plan seems equally distant. Fearful despair takes root in your heart and begins to rise, but you push it back down and sink to your knees.
"Blessed Sigmar, hear the words of your servant," you murmur, clasping your hands together and hoping with every shred of resolve you have left. "I implore you to guide the captain's heart towards wisdom, or else send a sign that the wise may follow. And… if not that, my lord, then I ask only that you send another in my stead, to defend this land where I cannot."
You receive no answer, only silence and the gnawing cold of the buried cell. Not that you expected a bright light and booming voice, of course not, but previously prayer has helped to centre you, to give you the sense of purpose and certainty that you need. Now… Now there is nothing, only the disquiet beating of your heart and the growing awareness of your own failure. You pray again, whispering the words of your earlier entreaty, mumbling old chants beaten into your memory with growing desperation, and nothing comes.
Hours pass, and save for the odd patrol of a passing guard, nothing stirs you from your forgotten solitude. You pray where you can, pace back and forth in the growing darkness of your cell where you cannot, and in the end resign yourself to simply sitting there in silence, lost in your own thoughts. Despair freezes you by inches, like the first frost of winter creeping across the fields, and this time you can do nothing to halt its ascent. The fire you need so desperately has gone out, and you do not know if it can be rekindled.
Perhaps this is the sign you sought after all. How many times have you failed now? You acted blindly when your father strayed, and so betrayed him to his death. You could not choose a side nor see a path to unity when news of the Mutant Edict broke, and so allowed doubt into your heart. You persuaded Spätin to turn herself in, then drove her to abandon you, and in your foolhardy pride you placed yourself into the hands of your enemies and lost all chance of saving Bögenhafen from the scheme that threatens to ensnare it. You are not worthy to call yourself a Templar, not strong enough to serve Sigmar and he deserves. Perhaps you never were.
How long you sit there in the cell you cannot hope to guess, for there is no natural light down here and the walls are too thick to hear the sound of the distant bells, but after some time you become aware of a quiet scraping sound from the wall to your left. You stare, baffled and confused, and then leap to your feet a moment later as one of the stone bricks pops out of the wall and slides aside, revealing a narrow tunnel and a familiar face beyond.
"...Master Banbury?" you whisper, blinking in shock, "What is the meaning of this?"
The halfling puts a finger to his lips, cocking his head to listen for the sound of guards. When last you saw him he was all but dying in the Shallyan hospice, but now his face is flushed with vigour and there is only dedication in his eyes. After another moment's caution he nods and pulls himself out of the tunnel completely, gesturing for you to enter it in turn. For a moment you hesitate, wary of adding further crimes to your apparent tally, but then sense returns and you go down on your knees. The tunnel beyond is a small and narrow thing, barely large enough to accommodate you, but you grit your teeth and keep going as Ozzy Banbury levers the stone back into place and crawls along behind you.
The tunnel is not very long, as it turns out, and less than a minute later you are emerging into the reeking confines of Bögenhafen's sewers. A small lantern has been left on the side for you, and you take it up as you stretch as best you can, breathing shallowly as you wait for Banbury to join you. The halfling seems no happier about being back in this place than you are, but after a moment he masters himself and leads the way along the narrow walkway, one hand firmly against the wall to avoid going too close to the toxic stew. You are almost unsurprised when he leads you to the sealed door you encountered upon first entering the sewers, the one marked by the sign of the local smugglers, and after a quick series of knocks the portal opens and you are ushered through.
The room on the far side is clearly a cellar of some kind, stacked high with boxes and barrels covered by heavy canvas tarpaulins, but tonight it is being used as some manner of covert rendezvous. You recognise Adhema the merchant leaning against one of the nearby boxes, while Spätin reclines catlike atop another. Close to a dozen hardened looking men and women sit around the perimeter beyond a small ring of lanterns, while nearer the centre a brawny looking man in an innkeeper's leather apron stands flanked by a pair of identical twins bearing identical swords. Elvyra is with him, and unlike your other companions the cheerful woman seems entirely at ease in such company.
"Ah, Master Markus, there you are," the apothecary says in a warm voice, nodding in satisfaction, "I wasn't sure they'd put you in with the common cells, but it seems old Reiner decided to make a show of it."
"Frau Kleinestun," you say warily, nodding to her as you step out of the doorway and close it behind you, "I will not deny it is good to see you, but you will forgive me for asking how, exactly, this came to be."
"Ah, well, less than an hour after you left to go answer that message, this one came running back home with some daft story about how you'd gone and gotten arrested - and gone quietly, at that!" Elvyra clucks her tongue disapprovingly at you, nodding up at where Spätin rests, "So I decided I'd gather up those other friends of yours, and then reach out to a few friends of mine."
"Franz Baumann," the innkeeper says with a cheerful smile, crossing his broad arms across a barrel chest and nodding to you, "Your friendly local innkeeper and, more relevantly, priest of Ranald and master of the local Crooked Fingers."
"...a criminal, then," you say with a frown. The Cult of Ranald is not technically a proscribed faith (though you have never been able to entirely follow the theological and political reasons for why) but there are few Sigmarites who care much for the god of criminals, revolutionaries and outcasts.
"Just like you now, way I hear it," the priest says with a nasty grin, and though you flinch you cannot help but concede the point with a sharp nod, "Don't take this the wrong way, templar, but I really don't like your kind very much. This little favour is done entirely because Elvyra here made a pretty striking case… and because it means you owe us one. Rest assured we will be collecting."
"I see," you say warily, and though you suspect you know the answer already, honesty compels you to ask, "And if I should refuse to cooperate, or recognise any debt you might imagine I owe to a band of recidivist criminals and outlaws?"
"Well, then my boys Reiner and Reiner here would get very upset," Baumann says with an exaggerated shrug, the identical twin bodyguards grinning unpleasantly at you, "And then something very unfortunate would probably happen to you. I try not to spend my time thinking too closely about what - not good business for an innkeeper, you understand, if his stomach turns at the wrong moment."
You nod, since that is more or less what you expected. You should probably be offended at the idea of criminals daring to threaten a templar and noble so brazenly, but these are Ranaldians, so you can't really claim to be surprised. "Very well. Let none say I do not recognise when others have done me a service, nor that I forget my debts."
"Marvellous!" Baumann says cheerfully, clapping his hands together, "Now, seeing as all your shiny gear is in Reiner's lockup, I figured we might as well stretch to some charity. No silvered swords or fancy pistols here, I'm afraid, but there's some proper leather and a pair of cutters in that bundle by the door. Reiner will lead your little band through the sewers down to the docks, near the warehouses, since I hear that's where you're looking to go. From there, well, it's up to you."
You nod silently, and without further ado one of the twins peels off from the group and opens the door back into the sewers, handing you the bundle as you get close. Adhema, Spätin, Elvyra and Banbury all fall in behind you as you follow the Ranaldian back out into the sewers, and from there down towards the docks. You walk in silence, partly due to stealth and the listening company, and partly because none of you want to open your mouth or breath in too deeply while in the reeking confines of the sewers. You thought it would be easier the second time, but it really is not.
Reiner knows his trade, at least, and no more than a quarter bell later you are being led through an overflow pipe and out onto the muddy shoreline of the River Bögen, the iron grate that is meant to prevent just this kind of trespass lifting freely out of its socket at the enforcer's gentle touch. Night has clearly fallen, and a thick mist seems to have rolled in off the river to swamp the entire district while you were imprisoned, drowning all sound and making your damp clothes cling to your skin. Reiner tips a mocking salute, pulls the grate back into place, and vanishes.
"My thanks, all of you," you say at last in a rough voice, busying yourself by pulling open the pack and strapping on the boiled leather armour within. Hopefully you will be able to reclaim your chainmail and brigandine from the watch before too long, for the protection it offers is far superior to this, but tonight it will simply have to do.
"Don't mention it," Ozzy Banbury says blithely, squinting up at the shadowed bulk of the nearest building as you clamber up onto the waterfront proper, "Never could have afforded the lady's medicine without you anyway, so I reckon I owe you at least one more. Now… where would warehouse thirteen be…"
"Turn right and go for a block or two, I reckon," Adhema the merchant chimes in, beads of water glittering like diamonds in her long curly hair as the mist grasps at her, "And cut that talk of debts, too. Even if we didn't owe you a penny, this is important work. Got to be, given, well."
She points skyward, and you are forced to acknowledge what you were hoping to avoid. Night has fallen but darkness has not come with it, for in the sky over Bögenhafen the chaos moon has swollen to a vast and terrifying size. If you did not know it to be impossible you could almost imagine it possible to reach out and touch Morrsleib from the top of the town's highest roofs, and the pattern of shadows and lines on its broken face gives the unshakeable impression of a hungry, smiling face staring down at the streets below. Morrsleib is as a gourmand awaiting the feast, and your lives and souls mere morsels to satiate its remorseless hunger.
"Something foul is happening," Spätin murmurs grimly, "The moonlight feels like poison, but underneath that, if you know what to look for… whatever they're doing, Markus, it isn't some petty ritual to bring good luck."
There hardly seems to be a need to answer that, and so with a grunt you simply nod and begin ushering everyone along the waterfront at as fast a clip as you can manage. The moonlit mist swirls around you like a living thing and the shadowed bulk of the buildings pass you like leviathans in the deep, but soon enough you find yourself approaching warehouse thirteen. You know this must be the place you seek, for it alone of all the buildings near here is lit from within by flickering candlelight, and you could swear you hear the faintest echo of chanting carried on the still night air.
"More thugs," Spätin murmurs as the five of you take cover behind an abandoned cart closer to the waterfront, peering into the gloom, "Two, four… could be a dozen or so, if they're spread out around the whole perimeter. Reckon we'd need to go through two of them at least if we wanted to burst in."
"Could always try sneaking past," Ozzy Banbury replies, studying the facade of the warehouse before you, "Mist is pretty thick, and these guys don't look like they'd want to go hunting for every little sound."
"Could even offer to pay some of them off," Elvyra notes, "I don't reckon they like listening to that chanting all that much. They might even listen to a bit of righteous preaching, though if they got picked to stand guard over this I kind of doubt it. Anyway, I'll be here in case any of you get knocked about, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at fighting."
"Whatever we do, we need to do it now," Spätin hisses, shaking her head as if to ward off a gnat, "I can feel the power building. They're nearly finished."
Article: How do you proceed? There is no time to secure further reinforcements - either you can lead a witch, a student lawyer and a grain merchant to save Bögenhafen, or the dark gods win.
[ ] Charge
You have no time for subtlety. Surprise and sudden violence will get you past the guards and into the warehouse, where you will stop this ritual or die trying.
[ ] Sneak in
The mists offer a great deal of cover, perhaps enough to creep past the guards and get a good look at the interior of the warehouse before being discovered.
[ ] Attempt Persuasion
You will gamble on the notion that the guards can be bought off or perhaps even swayed to your side, thereby removing them from consideration and allowing you to focus on the ritual.
-/-
Markus has no guns, little armour and no remaining fortune points. There are, however, other powers that might be willing to lend a hand in stopping a Tzeentchian ritual, especially if it allows them to get their claws into a noble-born templar riven with self-doubt and vengeful fury.
Taking a Dark Deal allows you to reroll any test after the result is known, even if it was already rerolled, and then take the better of the two results. This can be done for the price of a single corruption point each time. Currently, Markus has two Corruption points, and will need to test for mutation if he reaches ten.
This is presently Markus' only possible source of rerolls. Are you willing to take advantage?
[ ] In Dire Necessity
Markus will take a dark deal only for the most critical of rolls, to avoid being slain or defeated outright, provided it can be done without pushing him over the threshold of mutation.
[ ] Die Pure
Markus will take no dark deals of any kind, and allow the dice to fall as they may.
[ ] Drink Deep
Markus will take the deal to reroll any failed test, hoping that the additional success will allow him to end this ritual swiftly before the cost grows too high.