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The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

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    • Scheduled vote count started by Maugan Ra on Sep 14, 2024 at 2:26 PM, finished with 118 posts and 46 votes.
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    XXI - A Shadow over Bögenhafen
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    • XXI - A Shadow Over Bögenhafen

    There is a part of you that wishes nothing more than to kick down the door and denounce all the wickedness that you find within in a ringing voice, but there is a much greater part that considers how lightly equipped you are for the task at hand and sees the virtue in discretion.

    "Best to avoid any fight we do not need," you murmur to the others, studying the misty street and eying the distances between the shadowy forms patrolling it, "Let's see how close we can get without being seen."

    Markus makes an Easy (+40) Stealth test. Skill is 66, roll is 69, bare failure.
    Thugs test perception, skill is 25, roll is 27, also bare failure.

    Even with the thick banks of mist cloaking everything the infiltration comes perilously close to failure more than once, with guards seeming to turn towards your fleeting footsteps at the worst possible moments and a plethora of small stones scattered in just the right places to be disturbed by an errant foot, but somehow you manage it. Slowly releasing your breath and wiping the combined sweat and condensation from your brow, you gather the others around you and press up against the outer wall of the warehouse. From here the sound of chanting is all too clear, and though there are wooden slats across the windows and the doors remain barred, you are able to find a small crack that allows you to peer inside.

    Within, nine chanting figures stand in a loose circle in an open section of the warehouse floor. Eight of them are robed in red and masked by silver, while the last seems like nothing more sinister than a young nobleman from the courts of Altdorf, disdaining concealment in favour of a sardonic smile as he watches the others intone the ritual words. A familiar copper ring lies on the ground between the group, encompassing within its shining lines an elaborate octagram speckled in blood and marked by eight black candles that burn with pale light, while at the centre a shallow silver bowl holds a human heart that glistens in the candlelight.

    (A bloodstained bundle of rough canvas lies propped up against the far wall, just the right size and shape to hold a young woman's body. You close your eyes for a moment and mutter a prayer for the victim's forgiveness, for you were not swift enough to save her from this fate.)

    It is obvious which among the foe is the leader, at least, for one of the cultists is bloated and obese beneath his robes and clutches a sacrificial dagger in one pudgy hand that he passes rhythmically through the flames of each candle in turn. That would be Franz Steinhäger, you assume, which makes the lean looking nobleman the mysterious Gideon.

    "Nine of them," you murmur to the others, describing what you can see of the ritual and its layout in a quiet voice as they lean in close to hang off your every word.

    "They're nearly finished," Spätin replies in an equally quiet voice when you are finished, "I don't know how I know that, but… there's no way we get away and come back before they're done. All or nothing. Make the call, boss - how do we stop this?"

    Nodding grimly, you cast back through your memories in search of anything close to this kind of ritual that you've seen or heard of, and more critically what it might take for your small band to stand a hope of disrupting it.

    Markus makes an average (+20) Lore (Witches) test. +10 from Spätin assisting, skill is 70, roll is 88, failure.

    Unfortunately, while you learned more than enough to recognise an evil ritual by the slightest trace of evidence or scattered paraphernalia, concrete advice on how to stop one once it is already in operation was somewhat harder to come by among your studies.

    "We'll just have to kill as many of them as possible, and hope they need everyone alive to finish the ritual," you say grimly, "Stand with me now, and do not fear. Sigmar is with us."

    Pushing down the treacherous thoughts that whisper doubt in your mind, you make your way around to the side door, the one that the warehouse workers use to enter and leave without needing to struggle with the main portal. It is unlocked, thankfully, and with a last moment to commend your soul to the gods, you push it open and step inside.

    Markus makes an average (+20) stealth test. Skill is 46, roll is 52, failure. Surprise lost.

    You were hoping to slip in unnoticed and seize the advantage of surprise, but the door hinges squeak loudly as you swing it open and all the masked faces turn to face you immediately. Suppressing the urge to curse, you step forward into the candlelight and draw your borrowed swords, holding them ready and visible at your sides.

    "I am Markus von Bruner, of the Holy Order of Sigmarite Templars," you say in your sternest, most commanding voice, "You are all hereby charged with murder, blasphemy and the performance of forbidden magics. Surrender."

    "Keep the chant, brothers," the leader of the cultists says in a harsh, rasping voice, "Gideon and I shall deal with this… interruption."

    "I suppose we shall have to," the lean looking nobleman says with a sigh, making a tutting motion as he steps forward to put himself between the ring of cowled figures and your little band, "You know, I really thought Goetrin would be able to keep you locked up for at least one night. You really can't get good help these days."

    He's confident, they both are, and while that is to be expected it is also displeasing to you in the extreme. Whatever injuries may have been done to your pride and self-regard, you are still a Templar of Sigmar, and you will not allow your god or order to be mocked even by proxy. So you take a gamble, and address the smiling rake directly.

    "Sheru-tar Gee'taru, I presume," you say in a cold and level voice, your tongue tingling slightly as it twists around the name that the guardian daemon snarled at you before you destroyed it. You doubt it is the entirety of the daemon's true name, and even if it were you lack the mystical knowledge to properly leverage that advantage, but from the way 'Gideon' flinches at the words it must feel rather like being scourged across the face.

    "...very well then, templar," the daemon says, its mocking grin sliding away and leaving only cold malice in its wake, "We'll play it your way, and long may you regret it."

    "Indeed!" Franz Steinhäger booms, casting his arms wide and throwing his head back as unclean power gathers in great coruscating arcs around his splayed hands, "We will show you the gifts our learning has brought us! Witness true power!"

    The air turns greasy and thick, strange whorls of light and shadow rippling across the ground surrounding Steinhäger like an inverted halo, but before he can finish whatever foul working he is engaged upon the sound of a serpent's hiss fills the warehouse and a small leaden ball strikes the merchant lord in his prodigious gut.

    "Ha!" Master Banbury cries out in triumph, already winding his sling back around a calloused hand as he scurries for cover behind a stack of wooden crates. "Take that, blackguard!"

    "Martak shira corus!" Steinhäger snarls in reply, only to stop and grab at his throat, "Sen? Fo, talar…"

    For a moment you think he might be intoning the words to some spell, but no magic comes forth, and when Adhema screams a wordless battle cry and hurls herself at the nearest of the robed figures still locked in their chanting no curse or malediction befalls her.

    "Oh dear, lost control of the magic already?" Gideon tuts like a disappointed parent, raising his hand and tracing a lurid purple rune on the air that hurts your eyes to look upon, "This is the problem with you humans, all ambition and no talent. Don't you agree, Master Templar?"

    Growling, you heft your swords and step towards him. Except… no, something's wrong. The weapons feel heavy and off balance in your hands, as if flawed in their construction. No, not even that. You are sure there is a way you should be holding them, some technique to balance the two against each other and fight effectively with two weapons in hand, you were taught how to do that, weren't you? Yes, you know you were, you remember the lessons in your old garden, the tutor hired at great expense to instruct you, but somehow the thought of what it was you learned turns to water and slips away as you try to grasp it.

    "Ah, the look of realisation is always so sweet," Gideon croons, staring at you with a rapt expression on his false face, "That's right, templar. No skill, no training, no little tricks or memorised lessons. I've taken everything from you except what your brute form alone provides, and I think we both know how little that is. Tell me, Markus - how will you win now?"

    You hesitate, mind racing, but before you can recover your wits Spätin lunges past your frozen form and stabs Gideon through the chest. The daemon in human form staggers backwards, stumbling like a drunk with an expression of mortal offence on his stolen face, and Spätin spares a moment to glance back over her shoulder at you.

    "It's not complicated, Markus," she says with a laugh, holding her rapier in a two handed grip like a child playing with sticks, "Pointy end goes in the enemy!"

    For one absurd moment you feel like objecting, the hot bloom of affronted pride chasing away your paralysis, but now is most assuredly not the time. You can imagine your peers laughing and your old tutor despairing, but that hardly matters compared to your duty, so you drop one of your swords in the dirt and take the other in a two handed grasp, stepping forward to hack at Gideon's slender form like a lumberjack going at a tree. The blade bites deep, oily sap leaking from the wound in place of blood, and the daemon shrieks.

    "No, no, no!" it squeals, false human skin peeling away like paper charring in the flames, revealing nothing but pink flames and a maw filled with a thousand and one mismatched fangs beneath, "This isn't fun anymore! Just burn!"

    Boiling pink and purple flames erupt from the daemon's maw and wash over you like a tide, at once agonising and enlightening, and you stagger back with a hoarse yell of pain swallowed by the blaze. The fire does not stop with you, leaping across the room to consume Ozzy and his hiding place both, and with an agonised scream the halfling collapses to the ground, rolling around in mindless pain as his flesh cooks and his clothes burn. You bat out the flames that threaten to consume you, choking back a further cry of pain, and in a fleeting moment behold the whole scope of the battle in a single glance.

    Ozzy is on the floor, shrieking in pain, consumed by daemonic fire. Adhema is retreating, one hand clutched to a horrible bleeding wound in her side, desperately fending off the lumbering form of Steinhäger as the cult magus advances on her, his sacrificial knife already wet with blood. You and Spätin are locked in combat with a daemon, one even now shedding its skin and bringing fresh power into play, while beyond you can see the main door open and the first of the cult's hired thugs stepping in to join the battle. And in the middle of it all, the seven remaining members of the Ordo Septenarius' inner circle continue their chanting, the ritual nearing completion. For one terrible moment, everything hangs by a thread. Then Spätin pushes past her fear and rams the point of her rapier down the daemon's slavering maw, ignoring the way the teeth close around her forearm like a vice.

    "Tell your master," she hisses, face white with pain and fear alike, "that the answer is no."

    Sheru-tar Gee'taru is a creature from far beyond this mortal realm, but this does not make it invulnerable or immortal, and this final blow is more than its conjured corpus can sustain. The daemon disintegrates, wailing in a child's terrified voice as its stolen limbs vanish in a haze of purple flame, and as it passes so too does the curse it laid upon you. All your skill and certainty returns in a rush, and before the enemy can adjust to the sudden change in fortunes you seize the advantage, leaping past the dying daemon to engage the fool that summoned it.

    Franz Steinhäger turns to face you at the last moment, but his skills with a dagger are far from sufficient to save him from your wrath, and with a single brutal motion you open his gut from right to left and send blood and bile cascading in a waterfall down the front of his crimson robes. The merchant lord staggers back with a bubbling shriek, tripping over his own feet as the strength leaves his lumbering body all at once, and scatters the candles as he falls within the copper circle upon the floor.

    "Franz Steinhäger," you say firmly, breathing hard but evenly as the remaining cultists break off their chants with cries of fear and alarm, "By your actions, the plea entered against my charges is one of manifest guilt. The punishment for any one of your crimes is death. May Sigmar judge you fairly, and Morr guide you to such a fate as you deserve."

    "No…" Steinhäger moans faintly, hands flailing as he tries to drag himself back across the dirt, as he tries to staunch the mortal wound in his gut, as he tries to save himself in any way he can, "No, this isn't right, this isn't what was promised… my lord, you promised me! My lord, save me! Save me, Lord Tzeentch!"

    The candles ignite, red and blue and green and a thousand other hues beside, and as you step back in alarm the flames leap in great arcs from the whip to lash at Steinhäger like snakes. The merchant shrieks in pain and fear, his swaddled bulk igniting like a bonfire, and from the smoke that rises from his burning corpse a great shape takes form. Your mind refuses to accept what it is, or perhaps it simply cannot make sense of all that your senses perceive. A great orb of inner flame, a swirling maelstrom of scintillating light, an abyss of whispering shadows, and above all else, an eye. The Eye.

    There is no portal. The pact is broken.

    The voice is felt more than heard, a thousand panes of glass shattering in agonising, mesmerising chorus to produce something that is very nearly a sound. You fall to your knees at the edge of the room, while somewhere behind you Adhema shrieks and Spätin weeps like a babe.

    Your souls are mine. They always were.

    One by one, the remaining members of the Ordo Septenarius combust like torches soaked in oil, burning in a thousand tongues of flame that slink like serpents through the air. One by one, they are consumed by the eye, wailing in shock and confusion as the betrayal takes hold. Some protest their innocence, others babble their ignorance, and one poor soul tries to call out to Sigmar to save him. None of it works.

    The Eye looks upon you, and bit by bit you start to unravel, your every petty hope and ignoble ambition flensed from your soul and dragged weeping to the surface, dreams leaking from your eyes like pale tears.

    Markus von Bruner. Your soul too is mine. One day I shall claim it.

    You choke on empty hope, writhe beneath the lash of hollow desire, burn in the fires of faith denied. You scream without words as pain unlike any you have ever known lashes you to the bone, and none of it hurts nearly as much as the despair that threatens to consume you at the sound of that awful, wonderful voice.

    But not today.

    And just like that, it is over. The voice falls silent, the eye disappears, and in the span of a heartbeat you are left on your knees in the burned out ruin of a warehouse, broken corpses and smouldering shadows all around. For a long moment, the only sound to break the silence is the soft, broken whimpering of minds pushed too far past their limits. Then you push through the pain and the fear and the feelings you don't even have a name for, and force yourself to your feet.

    "You there. Stevedores," you say in a hollow voice, nodding to the terrified, near babbling wrecks of the two men by the main door, or perhaps more pertinently to the merely uneasy comrades who joined them after the horror was over. "Summon the watch, the high priest, and the head of the Town Council. Go, now."

    The minions take off running, and you nod absently as you move towards the centre of the room. The copper circle has melted into slag and the bodies of the cultists are little more than burned cinders scattered around the perimeter, but there is enough here to make it clear just what it was that you interrupted. The others seem to be alive, one and all, though Ozzy and Adhema are even now being fussed over by Elvyra (who, it seems, stayed well clear of the warehouse entirely until the sounds of combat stopped), and you should feel happy about that, you think. Or perhaps you should be feeling angry or horrified about what else transpired, or… or something, surely. But no. You can only stand there, silent and still, until at last Spätin drags her way over and leans against the crate next to you.

    "Here," the duelist turned witch says hoarsely, thrusting a bottle into your hands. You realise, in a dim sort of way, that it bears the same markings as the wine that Josef carried as cargo on the way to Bögenhafen. A funny coincidence, you suppose, or perhaps nothing nearly so benign. How would you even tell? "You look like you need a drink. Me too. I… that was… is it always like that?"

    "No," you say quietly, pulling the cork from the neck and taking a long swig from the bottle, feeling nothing at all as it burns its way down, "Not like that. Never, I would have said, but… well."

    Spätin grunts wordlessly, and together the two of you stand amid the ruins, drinking stolen wine and letting your thoughts slowly settle. Not that they ever will, after tonight. Not truly. You don't want to think about that, though, so you cast about for something else to break the tension and land on an errant bit of curiosity.

    "You said… it should tell its master your answer was no," you say after a long moment, watching the mist flow slowly in through the open door, "What did you mean?"

    "Ah," Spätin winces, then from her doublet fishes out a small scroll capped in brass. She passes it to you, and when you look down at the strange lettering that covers it you find you can taste blood in your mouth. "I, uh, stole that. From the temple. The first one, in the sewers."

    It's a spell. You don't know how to speak the strange tongues that wizards use to conjure their magic, but you hardly need to in order to guess what kind of invocation is contained in this thing. The guardian daemon you encountered there had to be called forth somehow, after all, and the cultists didn't summon any more once you broke their temple and began your investigation proper.

    "Things like this…" you say slowly, annoyance and concern warring in your voice, the first stirrings of emotion you weren't sure you had left to feel, "They are dangerous, Spätin. To your soul, far more than your body. To take it so casually was a risk beyond any other I can easily name, to say nothing of the crime… you understand that, right?"

    "Yeah," the witch grimaces, "Don't know why I took it, really, but it started, uh, whispering to me. At night. Wanted me to use it, to speak the words and call forth something that could teach me. Seemed real keen on the idea."

    Alarm kindles in your breast now, along with a sharper kind of despair that sets itself in contrast to the all encompassing tides that threaten to drown you. You almost don't want to speak, you were so close to a success, and yet duty demands that you ask. "I see. Did you… listen? Did you call such a thing forth?"

    Spätin stares at you solemnly for a moment, the weight of every word hanging like lead in the air between you. Then, quite slowly, she shakes her head.

    "Nah," she shrugs, "I can't read."

    For one long, silent moment you stand there in mute incomprehension. Then the first crack forms in the frozen bulwark of your heart, and you smile. Then you chuckle. Then you laugh, and cry and curse her name, pass her the wine bottle and bite your fist to keep a scream inside. Everything in your heart comes boiling out in a single ragged burst, and the sound of your insane mirth frightens some more than the daemons ever could.

    You are still smiling when Reiner von Goetrin arrives at the head of a hastily organised company of town watch. Somehow, the sight fails to put the captain at ease.

    Article:
    The Ordo Septenarius have been thwarted and Bögenhafen saved. Congratulations! For this deed, Markus gains +1 fate point.

    XP has been awarded and will be allocated/spent in a later update, but first there are some loose threads to deal with in Bögenhafen. This is a task vote and each option will be considered separately.

    First: Watch Captain Reiner von Goetrin ignored your rights, obstructed your duties and had you imprisoned on spurious charges. Through his likely unwitting efforts, Bögenhafen came perilously close to destruction.

    [ ] [Goetrin] The Pyre. You will lay charges of conspiracy and blasphemous intent against the Captain, proclaiming that he willingly assisted a cult of the dark gods. He will likely be found guilty, regardless of his actual involvement, and sentenced to burn at the stake.

    [ ] [Goetrin] Disgrace. Graf von Saponatheim will be sending a representative to the town, and you expect they will be eager to be seen 'cleaning up' the town. Goetrin will likely be stripped of command and sent home in disgrace, tarnished with this failure in the eyes of his peers.

    [ ] [Goetrin] Retirement. You will speak privately with the captain, and offer him a chance to bow out with some honour. He will appoint a replacement of your choosing, someone of integrity, and then take an early retirement to pursue some harmless interest.

    Second: High Priest Ludo Edel refused to take the threat of the Ordo seriously, and undermined your investigation by assuring involved parties that this was a political act and not something to be treated with appropriate gravity.

    [ ] [Edel] Heretic. Whether knowingly or through ignorance, Edel lent significant aid and guidance to a cult of the dark gods, and Bögenhafen nearly paid the price. You will publicly condemn and prosecute the man, and damn all warnings of his friends and patrons.

    [ ] [Edel] Incompetent. You will make the necessary reports through the cult hierarchy to make it clear to the Arch Lectors the scale of Edel's failure. Likely he will be quietly 'promoted' to some forgotten corner of a distant abbey and a more appropriate high priest appointed. Perhaps Sigiwalt would like the job.

    [ ] [Edel] Humbled. You will speak privately to Edel and make it clear how thoroughly you can ruin him, and how closely you will be observing reports from your local sources. He will seize this chance with desperate hands and lend his weight to all of your other actions, now and in the future.

    Third: Town Councillor Johannes Teugen allowed his personal animosity for you to distort his judgement, and by dragging his heels and failing to fully cooperate he nearly led Bögenhafen to its doom.

    [ ] [Teugen] Recalled. You will not resort to the courts for this, but make it publicly known to all Bögenhafen what Teugen did and what the consequences almost were. Merchant families depend on their good reputation more than coin; likely, he will lose his job on the Council and his entire house will face very hard times until they can redeem their good name.

    [ ] [Teugen] Replaced. You will speak with Graf von Saponatheim, or whoever he sends to represent him, and make it clear that the Cult views the current situation in Bögenhafen's leadership as responsible for this mess. The Graf will likely clean house, dissolving the council entirely and assuming a more direct rule over the town.

    [ ] [Teugen] Repaid. You will have a quiet word with the councilman, and make him see the wisdom of burying the hatchet. His wealth, and his connections among the nobility of Reikland and beyond, will be of great help to you and your agents in the future.

    Finally, any other tasks you wish to account for in Bögenhafen before departing should be specified below. Markus will almost certainly not be returning here in the lifetime of the quest. Any write in with a decent level of support that can be accomplished without contradicting another option will be implemented, within reason.

    [ ] [Other] (Optional write-in)



    Combat Rolls

    Initiative Order:
    1. Gideon (58)
    2. Steinhäger (58)
    3. Adhema and Ozzy (40)
    4. Spätin (36)
    5. Markus (32)

    At the beginning of combat, Markus and his allies have 2 advantage due to outnumbering (the actual combatants, since most of the cultists can't fight), while the Ordo has 1 due to the presence of a powerful threat.

    Round One
    • Gideon invokes the spell 'Treason of Tzeentch'. As a daemon of Tzeentch, he makes spellcasting tests at average (+20) difficulty and halves the CN, so he has a skill of 79 and wants Casting Number 3. He rolls 07, and so gets 7SL.
      • Gideon's four levels of overcast are invested in an additional target (Spätin) and in doubling the duration (to 12 rounds)
      • Markus and Spätin cannot, for the duration, use their talents or any skill advances. They roll with bare characteristics only.
      • Targeted by a spell from the Lore of Tzeentch, Markus makes an endurance test. His skill is 52 and he rolls 11, succeeding and gaining a fate point. Such are the inscrutable whims of Tzeentch.
    • Steinhäger opts to channel power in the form of Dhar. He tests against his skill of 80 but rolls 98! This is a failed test, and one that contains both an 8 (the number of chaos) and a 9 (the number of Tzeentch), while trying to use Dhar in a place of unhallowed power. Steinhäger therefore suffers a Major Miscast.
      • He rolls a 28, and thus gets Speak in Tongues. This result means that he can only babble senselessly for the next d10=2 rounds, during which time he obviously cannot cast any magic or channel power.
    • Ozzy moves to cover behind some crates and uses his sling to attack Steinhäger. With short range, his effective skill is 50, and he rolls 05. This is a hit with +5SL, for a total of 12 damage. Steinhäger has a toughness bonus of 4 and no armour, so he takes 8 wounds. He has 10 remaining.
    • Adhema charges one of the chanting cultists. She has a skill of 40 after the charge, and rolls 66. This is a fumble.
      • The cultist rolls against 40 to defend himself and gets 63, failing by -2SL as well. Consequently, Adhema manages a glancing blow (dealing 7 damage, or 4 wounds) but still fumbles.
      • Adhema catches part of her anatomy and loses one wound.
    • Spätin chooses to charge Gideon. As she cannot use her skills due to Treason of Tzeentch, she is reduced to her base weapon skill of 44, or 54 with the charge. She rolls 83, a failure by -3SL
      • Gideon defends with his skill of 47, reduced to 37 because a rapier is a fast weapon, and rolls 77, a failure by -4SL and also a fumble. Consequently, Spätin gets a bare hit with +1SL, for 8 damage reduced to 4 by Gideon's toughness.
      • Gideon rolls for his Daemonic trait, but with a 4 it fails to activate and he takes the damage.
      • Gideon then rolls for his fumble and stumbles badly. He loses his next move action.
    • Markus then also elects to charge Gideon. He is likewise reduced to his weapon skill of 48, but gains +30 to this due to the charge and also outnumbering Gideon 2:1, thus rolls against 78. He gets 03, a hit with +7SL
      • Gideon attempts to defend with his skill of 47 and rolls 64, a failure by -2SL, for a total of +9SL in Markus' favour.
      • Gideon rolls his daemonic trait, but with a 6 it again fails to activate
      • Total damage is 7 base plus 9SL minus 4 toughness = 12 wounds. Gideon has just 6 wounds remaining.

    At the end of the round Markus and co have 6 advantage, while the Ordo has 1. Ozzy spends all of that advantage to make another attack with +10, hoping to take Steinhäger out of the fight before he can recover or rally the cultists.
    • His effective skill is now 60, but unfortunately he rolls a 90 and thus misses entirely.

    At the end of the round two of the thugs from outside arrive at the door, being added to the fight at Initiative 25.

    Round Two
    • Gideon, angered now, sheds his mortal guise to reveal his daemonic nature. This gives him Fear 2. He then casts Pink Fire of Tzeentch at CN3, targeting Markus. His skill is 79 and he rolls 23, getting 5SL and thus successfully casting with 2 levels of overcast, which he invests in 1 extra damage and one extra target, picking Ozzy.
      • Markus and Ozzy are hit for 13 damage each, prior to toughness and armour. Ozzy is reduced to 2 wounds remaining. Markus takes 7 wounds and has 11 left. They are both ablaze.
      • Markus tests endurance and with 18 gains another fortune point.
    • Steinhäger, unable to cast, instead readies his sacrificial dagger and moves in to attack Adhema. He has a skill of 55 and gains +20 from outnumbering, since there is another cultist engaged with her. He rolls 46, a success with +3SL.
      • Adhema rolls her defence of 40 and gets 87, a failure by -4SL, for a total of +7SL to Steinhäger. He deals 6+7-3= 10 wounds to Adhema, leaving her with just one left after her earlier fumble.
    • Ozzy hits the deck, attempting to make an athletics test to extinguish the flames. His skill is 40 and he rolls 13, successfully extinguishing himself.
    • Adhema, badly injured, uses her action to back up to the side of the warehouse and take up a defensive stance.
    • Spätin attempts to stab Gideon again, rolling against her characteristic of 44 plus 20 for outnumbering the daemon. She gets 58, a success with +1SL, reduced to 0 by the fear trait.
      • Gideon defends with 37 and rolls 70, a failure with -4SL. He tests his daemonic trait and with a 7 it once again fails to activate (on an 8+ he ignores any damage from a given hit)
      • Spätin therefore inflicts 7+4-4 = 7 wounds. This reduces Gideon to below 0 wounds. As he is a daemon, he simply discorporates instantly upon hitting this threshold (rather than taking critical wounds like a human would).
    • Markus doesn't have time to burn and so spends a resolve point to negate his ablaze condition. He then elects to charge Steinhäger. Since Treason of Tzeentch is ended by the death of the caster, he uses his skill of 58 plus 10 for charging, a total of 68, and rolls 43. This is a total of +3SL with his talents taken into account.
      • Steinhäger tries to defend himself with his skill of 55 and rolls 71, a failure by -2SL. He takes 7+5-4 = 8 wounds more, reducing him to 2.
      • Markus makes a follow up attack, reversing his dice to get 34. Steinhäger defends again and this time rolls 97, an even worse result for a total of 8SL in Markus' favour. This is a total of 7+8-4=11 wounds, reducing him to an effective -9 and triggering a critical hit of d100+90 to the body.
      • The result is 114, Internal Bleeding. Steinhäger gains a Bleeding condition that can only be countered through surgery, and also contracts bloodrot. This is enough to effectively put him out of the fight.

    At this point combat ends and we proceed to the finale.
     
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    • Scheduled vote count started by Maugan Ra on Sep 17, 2024 at 7:57 PM, finished with 173 posts and 86 votes.
    [goetrin] [edel] [teugen] [other]
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    • XXII - Tying off Loose Ends
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    • Goetrin - Disgrace

    Edel - Incompetent

    Teugen - Repaid

    Others (Those with at least a third of the overall votes)
    • Arrange fitting rewards for Adhema and Ozzy
    • Give a glowing report and recommend promotion for Sigiwalt
    • Arrange a proper funeral for the murdered woman

    XXII - Tying off Loose Ends

    Conspiracies are fragile things. When unified they have power and reach that is almost impossible to fathom, but when fractured in even the smallest degree they fall apart with shocking speed. The Ordo Septenarius wove a net of power and influence across the entirety of Bögenhafen, one that incorporated allies and assets independent from and even unaware of the organisation itself, and with their guiding hand so violently removed the whole thing comes crashing down in spectacular fashion. The evidence of the Ordo's guilt is too obvious, the events that transpired within Warehouse Thirteen know to too many people, for even the most adroit of political operators to hush up entirely, and with their patrons and allies dead and gone the motivation many had to even try has likewise faded too.

    Still, this does not mean you can act with an entirely free hand. The incentives for cooperation among those with a need to demonstrate their innocence are high, but without proof that such a clean escape is possible that dynamic will not last, and the old channels of cooperation and mutual support will weave a new wall to stand in your way. You need at least one person on your side to make clean work of your remaining business in this town, and so you seek a meeting with Johannes Teugen.

    "The Ordo's true nature and dark ambitions were, of course, an intolerable horror," the merchant lord says in the most serious of tones, once the initial pleasantries are over, "yet I must stress that I was uninvolved in any but the most tenuous of fashions. Indeed, it is well known among men of character that Franz Steinhäger detested my family on a deep and personal level. I should not have been able to be involved even if I, by some twisted madness, wished to become so."

    You nod evenly, joining the other man by the window of his office and looking out over Bögenhafen's town square. The crowds out there are thick today, and you suspect this visit is the topic of many of those muttering conversations you can see being held in all corners of the square. Having retrieved your armour and weapons from the watch barracks within an hour or two of the initial incident, you have made a point of going nowhere without them ever since, and there is no way anyone mistook your identity when you arrived.

    "You were not a member of the Ordo, nor directly involved in their scheme," you concede with solemn grace, "yet the fact remains that you impeded my investigation, and however innocent your motivations provided information to the magister of a chaos cult about my intent and plans."

    "Yet I committed no crime," Teugen says firmly, eying you as warily as he might a snake in his path, "As well you know. Unless you intend to root through every judge and magistrate in Reikland in search of one with the requisite bias to do whatever you say, we both know that pressing charges against me for involvement will do nothing but weaken your overall case against those truly responsible."

    "You are correct," you agree again, smiling slightly when Teugen's expression only grows more wary in response, "Yet I have heard it said that a merchant's greatest asset is his reputation, the trust he is afforded his most valuable investment. House Teugen, in particular, is renowned for the good stead in which nobles and prominent citizens across Reikland and beyond hold you."

    Teugen's eyes narrow, but he does not allow himself any greater sign of distress than that. You hardly need to speak the words aloud for him to grasp at what you are implying, but he is a proud man even so, and consequently unwilling to submit on conjecture alone. "Are you threatening me, master Templar?"

    "Yes," you say simply, "I am. The information I possess, and the reports I have made, could ruin your career and badly damage the future of your House. I do not doubt you would eventually be able to recover from the scandal, but it would cost you greatly to do so."

    "I see," Teugen purses his lips, and though there is a gleam of antipathy in his eyes you both know he is too much the businessman to let it overtake him. You were never going to be friends, not after the business with Bueller, so why not have everything out in the open? "Very well. What are your terms?"

    "You will assist me in wrapping up my investigation and settling all remaining affairs in Bögenhafen," you tell him, for this is not a discussion or a negotiation, merely an ultimatum, "and once I have departed, you will make available to me and my agents a stipend of funds and such introductions to your clients and patrons as I deem required. In return, I shall make sure that your reputation comes through this unsullied, and while I will not help you in profiting from the whole affair, neither will I prevent it."

    Teugen considers this for a long moment, but he only really has one choice here and you both know it. "Agreed."

    With the head of the town council on your side, wrapping up the rest of your affairs in Bögenhafen proves relatively easy. Using the list that Magirius gave you, you name each of the Inner Circle to a panel of magistrates and secure a sweeping legal judgement in your favour, one that grants you access to all of the dead cultists' accounts and the right to confiscate anything you deem to have been obtained through unhale methods or in collaboration with the proscribed cult.

    You are careful not to beggar any of the houses involved - even House Steinhäger is allowed to pass mostly intact into the possession of Franz's younger brother Heinrich - but the assets you confiscate and the pious donations that many of the involved feel compelled to make represent an eye watering sum all the same. You make sure that enough of it is set aside to offer the murdered sacrifice a proper funeral in the local Garden of Morr, along with bereavement payments for the families of those who suffered and died at the Ordo's hands in prior years, and the lower classes of Bögenhafen enjoy a truly prosperous season as a result. Of course, targeting the relief appropriately means working closely with those who you trust to provide a fair assessment, and though the list is short it is blessedly not empty.

    "Some good has come of this all, at least," Father Sigiwalt says in a grimly satisfied sort of way, folding his arms and nodding in approval as he watches the work crews deepen and cover up the previously open sewer that runs through the northern districts of Bögenhafen. There's a new sewer watch being commissioned as well, you know, and some talk of getting the same dwarf clan that built the original system in to do an extended set of repairs and expansions. "I hear Mother Rubenstein is in talks with the merchants to organise a stipend for the poorhouses, enough that they can buy bread on the regular instead of relying on donations alone. Heard she's had a certain templar hanging around glaring meaningfully at people during the meetings, too."

    "It is not enough to simply punish the wicked," you say plainly, finding your hand straying to the small icon of the hammer that hangs around your neck, "If we do not comfort the afflicted and reward the righteous, then Sigmar's work is going undone. I am not well suited to the latter pursuits, but I can assist those who are."

    "Aye, and the town will be better off for it," Sigiwalt says with a smile, before pausing and giving you a sideways glance, "Way I hear about it, the report you sent up to the Lectors has Edel sweating bullets."

    "Whatever the merits that earned him the position in the first place, he has clearly proven himself incapable of bearing the burden of such a rank," you say in what might be perhaps described as something close to a diplomatic tone, "I expect there will be a new appointment to a more fitting role in his future. When that day comes, Bögenhafen will need a new High Priest. If the Lectors place any value in my opinion, your name will be near the top of the list."

    "And removed from it just as swiftly," Sigiwalt snorts, shaking his head, "I appreciate the mark of confidence, young man, but I'm not going anywhere. These are my people, the ones I fight for, the community I serve. I'm not going anywhere until Morr says otherwise."

    You frown, pausing for a moment as you strive to put your objections into words that cannot be construed as insulting. "One might observe that you could do much more for them with the power and authority of a high priest than as the mere custodian of a chapel."

    "Able, aye, but would I be willing? More than a few priests have climbed that ladder since Sigmar's day, and precious few seem to remember where they came from once they're at the top," Sigiwalt shakes his head, frowning as well. "I'll not take that gamble. Sigmar's way is in the strength and structure of the community, the bonds of kith and kin. I can do more for mine by standing with them than taking a position of leadership over them."

    You are far from convinced by the logic, but Sigiwalt is a stubborn old goat and will not be moved. Fortunately, the others you would see rewarded are far more willing to let you help them. A significant share of the Ordo's confiscated profits and resources are entrusted to Adhema of Annsbrook, enough to promote her from humble grain trader to the head of a minor trading house overnight, while Ozzy Banbury finds himself with the letters of recommendation necessary to study as a clerical lawyer at the Grand Cathedral in Altdorf, with enough funds earmarked to pay his fees for the entire length of the course. You expect great things from both of them, and you are not shy in expressing that opinion when bestowing the rewards of their courage and virtue upon each.

    Graf von Saponatheim declines to get personally involved in your work, or indeed to set foot in Bögenhafen at all, but he does send his nephew Magnus to oversee his interests in the region. You judge the young man to be a diligent and principled sort of fellow, and take a certain degree of vicious satisfaction in watching him ritually strip Captain von Goetrin of his command in front of a hundred stone silent members of the watch. The former captain keeps enough of his dignity to keep a dry eye and stiff upper lip, at least, and takes his horse and rides for his ancestral home without delay. In his place, and with the benefit of your advice, the young noble promotes the former commander of the North Barracks in Goetrin's place. Gisela Brotte is a broad-shouldered woman with a perpetually furrowed brow, and while you are far from sure that she will be able to last in this new position - her rumoured antipathy towards the merchant's guild is like to cause her trouble sooner or later - you will at least take solace in the knowledge that you have given her as good a starting point as can be made.

    All told, you spend just under a month tying off every loose end and making sure Bögenhafen is left in as fine a state as possible. Elvyra leaves after little more than a week, heading back to her home in Weissbruck in order to settle her own affairs in preparation for long term employment in your retinue, the two of you making arrangements to reunite en route to Altdorf. Max spends most of his time resting and undertaking limited and carefully regulated exercise in order to recover from his injuries, and the rest of it drinking whatever he can stretch his stipend to include. As for Spätin, the journeyman smith with the muscular arms is but the first of half a dozen torrid affairs and whirlwind flings the witch indulges in over the course of the month, trading on the fame she has acquired by proxy to 'get it all out of her system' prior to what she apparently expects to be a near-monastic period of foundational education once she enrols in the Colleges of Magic.

    Eventually, though, you have exhausted all reasonable preoccupations, and it is time to return to the capital and seek your next assignment.

    Article:
    After saving Bögenhafen and wrapping up his investigation, Markus has a total of 500xp to spend. Choose TWO of the following options, each of which indicates a short social scene and also a package of themed purchases.

    [ ] Fencing with Spätin
    The duelist's love life is a rolling disaster, and somehow you find yourself fighting duels in the streets of Bögenhafen, defending her honour against an array of jilted suitors. +5 Weapon Skill, +5 Melee (Fencing).

    [ ] Hunting with Magnus von Saponatheim
    The young noble has aspirations to join the Pistoliers, and as such is keen to practise his riding and marksmanship alongside you. +5 Ballistic Skill, +5 Ranged (Blackpowder).

    [ ] Drinking with Max Ernst
    The legbreaker is taking his injury hard, and by sharing a drink with him you might get him to open up instead of spiralling. +5 Toughness, +5 Endurance.

    [ ] Playing Middenball with Father Sigiwalt
    The grizzled priest was supposed to be showing you how he ministers to the common folk. You're not quite sure how you ended up in the scrum as a result, but it seems to work. +5 Fellowship, +5 Leadership and Melee (Brawl).

    [ ] Talking Shop with Elvyra
    Practising medicine requires a strong stomach and a deep knowledge of all the ways in which the human body can be ruined. Elvyra possesses both. +5 Willpower and +5 Heal.

    [ ] Write In
    Each of the packages above costs between 200 and 300xp, so a write in package should ideally be balanced around that level. Alternately, simply name a social scene you wish to pursue and I'll make thematically appropriate purchases using my best judgement.
     
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    • XXIII - Leaving Bögenhafen
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    • [x] Drinking with Max Ernst

    [x] Fencing with Spätin

    XXIII - Leaving Bögenhafen

    The Journey's End Inn has extended you a generous tab for your remaining time here, but even they have some limits, and when at last one of their servers musters up the nerve to ask you about the sheer quantity of drinks being ordered to your room it is well past the point of being brushed off. You promise to attend to the matter, and when you head upstairs in the middle of the afternoon, you find Max Ernst slumped across the table in your room amid a pile of dozens of empty bottles. He looks up blearily as you enter, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, and then sets his jaw and deliberately makes a show of grabbing another bottle.

    "What are you doing?" you sigh, pinching the brow of your nose and trying not to notice how sharp the stench of alcohol and body odour has grown. Gods, Max must be opening the windows to air the whole place out before you come back each night.

    "What's it look like," Max slurs, lifting the bottle in mockery of salute, "I'm drinking."

    "I can see that," you grunt, staring him down, "But if you want to be precious about it, tell me why."

    "Why not?" Max coughs out some pathetic excuse for a laugh, shaking his head, "Not like I'm good for anything else."

    There's bitterness in Max's voice, of course, but more than that there is a raw edge of pain that you doubt he intended to show. Whatever this is, it is clearly far more serious than a mere bit of drunken overindulgence, and consequently needs to be corrected sharply before it leads you both to ruin. With that in mind, you cross the distance between you in two swift steps and pull the bottle out of Max's hand. The drunk grunts in outrage and tries to grab it back, rising unsteadily to his feet, but before he can get anywhere you backhand him across the jaw and send him crashing back down into his seat.

    "You are in my service, Max Ernst," you say sternly, looming over him like the judgement of Sigmar himself, "and while you take my coin you will keep your habit under control."

    "Ah, fuck off," the legbreaker groans, rubbing at his jaw where you struck him, "What, you're going to put me on notice for the next day or two? Like I care."

    You raise an eyebrow. "If you're looking to quit my service…"

    "Of course not, but it doesn't matter what I want, does it?" Max growls, a glimmer of genuine anger in his eyes now, "You came here to cut me loose, so forgive me if I don't feel like doing the deed for you."

    "Why would I do that?"

    "Because everyone does!" Max roars, slashing at the air and sending two of the empty bottles clattering to the floor. You see him pause there for a moment, breathing heavily as he wrestles with the fury and the words it made him speak, before he casts aside reserve and continues. "Everyone does. Everyone. You think this is the first time I've tried going straight? Five honest jobs I've had, more if you count the steady work that's a little shady. Lost every one. My old man was there for me, and then he drowned. I found a girl, and some psycho cut her to pieces. Every time, every fucking time I try to pull my life together, it falls apart again and it's never… fucking… worth it."

    You consider this for a long moment, letting the silence stretch as Max slumps back down in his chair, wincing at the pain of his injured back. Perhaps if he were whole in body it would not have gotten to this point, but there is no sense in wasting time wondering after a what-if. "So you have a sob story. So does everyone. Cope."

    "Don't talk like you get it," Max sighs, bitter resentment in every word, "The fuck would some noble ponce like you know about the kind of life I've had?"

    That assumption, that blithe dismissal, bites at you in ways you did not realise anything could and before you can come to terms with it you find you are leaning forward to stare the legbreaker directly in the eye. "I saw my father burn at the stake. I was seventeen."

    Part of you wants to keep going, to vent every toxic fear and doubtful sin all at once, to tell Max how that was the last day your family spoke to you or confess your growing uncertainty if your father deserved to die at all, but you hold your tongue. It is enough to watch the man work through the implications of your little statement, to pair it with your chosen profession and wonder at the thoughts that drove you then. It is enough that he knows you have scars of your own, without needing to display them for any lecherous fool to see. Max says nothing, however, and after a moment you sigh and straighten back up.

    "If you wish to drown your sorrows, at the very least do so with some company, and wait longer than the middle of the day," you say, a touch more wry than you had intended, "Have some bloody self-respect. That much, at least, the world can't take from you."

    "...piss off," Max grunts, but there is no heat in his words, and he does not reach for any of the remaining bottles. That, you think, will have to do.

    -/-

    "So," you say to Spätin, hanging your armoured coat on the hook and rolling up your sleeves, "Remind me why, exactly, I am doing this?"

    Perched atop a narrow bar stool, her legs kicking freely and a mug of fresh ale in her hand, Spätin grins so widely you fear her face might crack apart and raises her drink in mock salute. "Because I'm your prisoner, which means you're obligated to defend me. And don't pretend you don't love it."

    You like to think yourself an honest man, and so you elect to say nothing as you finish removing your armour and take out your blades. The rapier is newly forged, a gift bestowed upon you by the metalworkers guild in gratitude for your work in avenging their slain guildmaster, while the buckler is of a distinctly common design. It has been some time since last you were called upon to fence in any kind of meaningful duel, but you still remember how entertaining it can be, the sheer exhilaration of the back-and-forth of dancing steel. One of the few respectable hobbies from your earlier days that you kept, in fact.

    Shaking your head to clear away the nostalgia, you step out of the bar and into the street, where your opponent for the night awaits along with a rapidly growing audience. The boy is noble by blood, albeit from some minor family you cannot claim to have heard of before, and though his face is paling by the moment he has not succumbed to fear and fled. That speaks well of him, you think.

    "You can, of course, withdraw at any time," you say casually, moving out into the street to take up your position. Without the hat and coat you might appear as any other man, but these people know you by now, and there is an electric air of anticipation to the scene.

    "I thank you for the offer, sir, but I cannot," the boy says with admirable calm, and though he does not add anything further a quick flick of the gaze to the watching crowd is enough. The consequences to you for this night's entertainment are unlikely to matter over much, for you will be leaving town soon enough and are a templar besides, but backing down in front of his peers and neighbours would ruin this young man's reputation in Bögenhafen beyond recovery.

    "Very well then," you say, playing your part as he must now play his, "For the record, then, state your grievance that all may hear."

    "Your… retainer," the young man bites out, jabbing an accusing finger at where Spätin lounges in the tavern doorway, "laid with my sister's betrothed. She is away on service with the army, serving our nation with pride and honour, and so it falls to me to demand satisfaction for the slight to my family's honour."

    Silent, you turn to Spätin and raise an eyebrow, but the witch just offers you a cheerful shrug by way of reply, utterly unrepentant. For a moment you consider turning the accusation around on your opponent, highlighting the betrothed's lack of fidelity and character in succumbing to such base temptation, but what would be the point in that? You gain nothing by tarring the man's good name, and Spätin is unlikely to care for her own reputation in this town regardless. You assume not, at any rate, given the way she's been carrying on of late.

    "We deny it, of course," you say instead, a retort mild enough to serve as a concession in the eyes of some, "but we recognise that honour must be satisfied. First blood?"

    For a moment the youth seems to waver. "It… that is, given the nature of the offence, surely it should be…"

    The humour leaves your voice and all good feeling flees your heart, and before the fool can dig a grave here you interrupt him. "Think carefully, now. Your sister cares for you, and your future seems like to be a bright one. Do not be hasty to tarnish that path with life's blood so quickly."

    Your opponent hesitates, and you see the moment he works through the implication. If he pushes for a lethal duel, likely you will kill him, and if you do not then he will be remembered as the man who slew a templar of the faith mere weeks after that man saved his town from the dark gods. Neither path offers a pleasant end, and so after another moment he simply nods and says "First blood."

    You take your stance, and in that fleeting moment seek to reclaim the good mood you had before. It is gone, naught but pain and bloodshed in its place.

    -/-

    You leave Bögenhafen without ceremony, riding out the east gate an hour after dawn with your two companions close behind. No cheering crowds see you off, no admirers linger to wish you heartfelt farewells. In truth you are almost glad of it, for though Max has healed enough to ride he still curses with pain every three paces while Spätin rides with all the grace of a sack of turnips; an anonymous exit at least allows you to preserve a degree of dignity in the face of such lack of grace.

    You make decent time at least, following the river back north and making frequent stops at the inns and smaller towns you encounter along the way. Word from those you encounter on the road is blessedly uneventful, save for the general awareness that Karl Franz has not been seen in public for close to a month now and the usual gossiping about why. Personally you suspect that the Emperor is almost certainly just choosing to keep a low profile after the disruption caused by the Ubersreik incident and following mutant edict, but you suppose the rumours of some debilitating illness might not be impossible. You're hardly worried, for the Emperor has access to the finest physicians and magical healing in the Old World, and will surely be back on his feet before too much longer even if afflicted by the very worst of maladies.

    You reach Weissbruck in a matter of days, and while Max inquiries with the less than reputable inhabitants of the first inn you come to - a somewhat rundown affair that declares itself to be 'The Happy Man' - you dismount and set about checking your steed for any injury or need. The riding horse is another unwilling gift extracted from Teugen's estate, and so far you are more than satisfied with his generosity (or at least his desire to keep his name conspicuously clean and pious).

    "Long ride, milord?" a passerby enquires in a friendly tone of voice, looking over the stead with visible appreciation. Perhaps the smell does not agree with him, however, for after a moment he reaches up with one hand and begins scratching his nose.

    "Long enough," you reply, feeling your own nose itch in sympathy and scratching it absent-mindedly, "Longer still to come, I expect."

    The man nods knowingly, and after a moment extends his hand to you. It is somewhat presumptuous, especially for someone dressed like nothing more than a common pedlar, but you are not so rarified in your mannerisms as to refuse, and with a shrug you take the hand and shake it firmly.

    "Do I know you?" you ask, something about the scene tickling at your mind.

    "No milord, though I know of you, by reputation at least," the pedlar says with a grin, pulling back his hand and turning away, "Safe travels now."

    He heads away down the street at a brisk walk, and after a moment of curious staring you glance down at your own hand, still half outstretched where he left it. To your considerable surprise, it seems your entire palm has become covered in what looks for all the world like purple ink, or perhaps some form of wine, now dripping into the dusty road.

    "The hell was that about?" Spätin asks with a curious tilt of the head, watching as the pedlar disappears down a sidestreet.

    Markus tests Lore (Chaos), skill is 35, roll is 97. Complete failure.

    "I have no idea," you say, wiping your hand against the horse's flank and leaving a faint smear of purple across its dark hide, "Some manner of youthful prank, perhaps. Bold, to play such a thing on a templar, but stupidity and drink have charted many unwise courses in their day."

    "You can say that again," Max chuckles as he emerges from the inn, holding himself stiffly but taking some evident pleasure in being able to walk even after most of a day on horseback, "Anyway, found Elvyra's house. Seems she lives not far from here, actually."

    Leaving the horses behind in a local stable for a few hours, and making sure to impress upon the groom the dire consequences should he allow anyone but you to reclaim them, you head out towards the outskirts of town with your companions in tow. Nobody bothers you, and you swiftly pass through the densely packed urban sprawl and into the pseudo-rural districts where the cottages and huts of the peasantry can be found.

    "No bounty hunters this time, at least," Max jokes as you walk, before chortling as he sees Spätin's confused expression out of the corner of his eye, "Oh man, nobody told you? Yeah, last time the boss and I were here some upjumped thief-taker tried to ambush us."

    "A case of mistaken identity," you sigh, shaking your head, "And one that saw him pursue us to Bögenhafen and his own demise shortly thereafter. Not a pleasant story."

    Max seems about ready to reply, but then his gaze falls upon the house you are approaching and all humour drains away as he draws his sword. Following his gaze, you hardly need to ask him for an explanation; the door to the house hangs open, and the window has been broken in. Drawing your own weapons and gesturing for the others to watch your back, you advance cautiously up the path until you can look within.

    Elvyra's house is a humble affair, suitable for a middle aged woman living alone, but it is quite clear that the woman herself is not here. The table has been overturned and the contents of her kitchen scattered roughly onto the floor, while a small medicine cabinet in the next room has been prised open and all but a few broken bottles looted by whoever broke in.

    "No blood, at least," you comment to the others as you warily pick your way through the household, "And no signs of struggle beyond the main room, either. A kidnapping?"

    "Seems likely," Spätin mutters, slowly returning her rapier to her belt as she looks around the interior, "But why?"

    "Lots of reasons," Max grunts, "But if I had to guess, some bigshot's gone down with something embarrassing, and he wants someone who can't say no to make it go away. They'll have taken Elvyra to him, or if not, to somewhere they can hold her for transport. Near the canal, most like."

    You consider the reasons Max might be so intimately familiar with this kind of operation, but before you can think to voice your thoughts the sound of a hoarse cough echoes from somewhere underfoot. Moving with careful grace you head for the kitchen and the low flight of stairs down into the cellar you saw there, peering into the darkness. Sure enough, something small and humanoid scurries into the deeper shadows the moment you put your foot on the first step.

    "I know you are there," you say through gritted teeth, descending slowly and carefully into the dark with sword and pistol held ready, "Come out, now."

    Yet more movement, something small and lean pressing back against the far wall, and were you a more paranoid or ruthless soul you might have opened fire or advanced to drag it into the light. Instead you stand at the base of the stairs until your eyes adjust, and after a long moment realise that the fleeting form you can see cowering against the back wall is nothing more than a lean, terrified looking young girl.

    "Oh," you say, like the finest of idiots, holstering your weapons immediately and moving your arms away to your sides, "Easy there, young miss. I didn't mean to frighten you. Come on out, please - you're safe now."

    Markus makes an Average (+20) Charm test. Skill is 71, roll is 72, failure. Fortune spent for reroll, 32, clear success.

    Slowly, hesitantly, the girl creeps closer. She can't be older than ten if you are any judge, dressed in a simple smock stained with dirt and strange dyes, but when she looks at you she seems almost painfully hopeful. "...hello. Are you Mister Markus?"

    "I… that is my name, yes," you say, pushing away the temptation to correct her as a self-evident absurdity, "Can I ask what your name is?"

    "I'm Liza," the girl says, swallowing nervously as she steps out into the light, reaching out to touch your coat as if not quite sure you are real, "Aunty Elvyra told me about you. She said you were a good man, and that you'd be coming to see us soon."

    Moving slowly, so as not to startle the girl, you step aside and gesture for her to head up the staircase. "I came here looking for your auntie. She has helped me before, and… well, can you tell me what happened here?"

    The girl won't go up the stairs until you lay a careful hand on her shoulder, at which point she latches on like a limpet. In the end you resort to simply lifting her up in your arms, allowing her to burrow into your chest as she shudders with emotions she is too young to properly understand much less control.

    "I… I… I was only playing, I promise, but I touched the special powders and Auntie sent me to the cellar," she sniffles, glancing around briefly and then burrowing deeper into your chest at her first sight of Max and Spätin. "I was still down there when the bad men came. They argued with Auntie, and then they took her away. They said… they said they were taking her to the red barn, and then to Altdorf. Auntie doesn't want to go to Altdorf, she says it's an ugly city, that it smells worse than anything!"

    "I see. Don't worry, Liza," you say as warmly as you know how, which really isn't very comforting at all, setting her down on the table, "I'm going to go and get your auntie back. This is Max, another of my friends. He will look after you until we get back."

    "I… wait, what?" Max sputters, "Boss, come on, you want me to look after a kid? What do I look like, a Shallyan matron?"

    "You look like the least mobile of us," you say heartlessly, stepping back and leaving Liza perched on the table observing you all like an owl, "Besides, this young lady has had a very hard time of it of late, and needs someone who understands what it is like when life turns against you like that."

    Max glares at you for a moment, then lets out an explosive sigh. "Fine. Hey, kid - want to learn how to stab people?"

    Leaving the girl and her new tutor behind, you head back out the door and off towards the town, Spätin following like a shadow. Following the trail that the kidnappers left is almost easy, for the locals are all but falling over themselves to share what they know as soon as they realise that it is an angry Templar who is asking, and soon enough you've tracked the small group of new arrivals to their likely hiding place. There are many barns in Weissbruck, but only a handful of them are painted red, and of those only one is largely abandoned and close enough to the canal to make for a suitable base for people with a need to move unwilling cargo with some discretion.

    "Yeah, looks like someone's home - you see the candle in the upper window?" Spätin says thoughtfully, studying the place from the nearest road, "Alright, boss, how do you want to - hey!"

    You're already several paces ahead of her, pistol held ready in one hand as you reach out to hammer on the door of the barn with another. You've never been much of one for covert infiltration, absent the pressures of that night in Bögenhafen, and you are in a foul mood besides. At the sound of your knocking someone grunts a curse from within, and with a grim smile you raise your voice and call out.

    "Open up, in Sigmar's name!"

    "Gerroff my land," someone within calls in reply, in what might be the very worst impression of a rural peasant's accent you have ever heard, "Sigmar or no, you keep banging at that door and I'll call the watch!"

    "I am a Templar of the Cult of Sigmar," you say sharply in reply, "You will find the watch no friends in the face of my wrath. Last chance. Open this door."

    "Oh, shit," someone says, and since they seem to be moving with haste and making no move to obey, you decide to stop asking and simply force the door open yourself. It resists your efforts for a brief moment, then creaks loudly as you all but break off the hinges and stride through, Spätin following on your heels with a poorly hidden sigh.

    There are four people within the barn, and three of them freeze in fear at your sudden appearance. The last of them has not the freedom to do even that much, for it seems the thugs here have bound Elvyra hand and foot and tied her to a rickety old chair, and given the way they've gagged her you expect she gave them an earful for trying.

    "I, uh," the first of the kidnappers says, a lean looking man with a rat-like face, holding a long knife dangerously close to Elvyra's neck, "Let's not do anything hasty now, alright? Hate for this to get messy…"

    You consider your options. Three enemies, one hostage, nobody on the other side armed with anything more than a short blade or clad in anything more than leather… you doubt any of these three are any serious threat to you or Spätin, but it doesn't require much to harm an unarmed woman bound hand and foot to a chair. If you play this wrong, it will be Elvyra that pays the price.

    Article:
    How do you wish to proceed?

    [ ] Attack Immediately. You will attempt to gun down the man threatening Elvyra and keep the others away from her until the fighting is over.
    - [ ] To the death. You will take no chances here. Kill the thugs as quickly as possible.
    - [ ] Seek captives. You will seek to take one of the thugs alive for interrogation. This will require you to grapple them.

    [ ] Attempt Negotiation. You can't let them take the apothecary, but if they wish to escape here with their lives, this is their chance.
    - [ ] No harm, no foul. So long as they depart peacefully, you will not press them further. They just have to do the smart thing.
    - [ ] Buy your lives. You will demand the name and motive of the thugs' employer at the very least before you allow these villains to escape justice.

    [ ] Deceive them. You will say whatever the thugs need to hear to get them away from Elvyra, and then you will turn on them. They deserve nothing less for kidnapping an unarmed civilian.
    - [ ] Kill them.
    - [ ] Attempt capture.
     
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    • XXIV - Separate Ways
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    • [X] Attempt Negotiation. You can't let them take the apothecary, but if they wish to escape here with their lives, this is their chance.
    - [X] Buy your lives. You will demand the name and motive of the thugs' employer at the very least before you allow these villains to escape justice.

    XXIV - Separate Ways

    You consider the situation for a moment, weighing up your options, measuring the distance between your blade and the three thugs you would need to cut through in order to secure your ally's life. The situation is not terribly favourable, but then it hardly needs to be; you've no great personal animus here, nor anything to gain from their death save the removal of a threat that could be mitigated in any number of other ways.

    "Very well," you say, nodding briskly, "Tell me who you are working for."

    The three thugs look at each other for a moment, briefly confused. They don't seem like professionals, in so much as the term has any real meaning, but even an amateur can be dangerous if given a weapon and the motive enough to use it. "What?"

    "As you said, there is no need for this to get messy," you elaborate with a brief shrug, feeling Spätin step up just behind you and biding her wait with a raised hand, "Tell me who sent you here, and for what purpose, and you may depart unharmed."

    "You're kidding, right?" the nearest of the thugs scoffs, crossing his burly arms and shaking his head, "We're not rats. You want to talk terms then…"

    "This isn't a negotiation," you say sharply, cutting the man off before he can finish, "It's the price I am setting on your lives."

    "Yeah?" The man at the back speaks now, holding his knife up to Elvyra's throat, the apothecary squirming slightly in her bonds as she tries to lean away from the bared steel, "You're forgetting who holds the cards here, I think."

    "No, I'm not," you reply evenly, narrowing your eyes at the man with the knife, "I'm not letting you leave here with Frau Kleinestun, so taking her hostage buys you nothing but time. If you run, I will shoot you in the back. If you fight, my companion and I will cut you all down. If you harm an agent of the Holy Templars, our vengeance will find you wherever you might hide, and you will die slowly, screaming all the while. You have one way out of this, and that is by telling me who sent you here and why. Do that, and you live."

    Markus makes an Average (+20) Intimidate check. Skill is 81, roll is 73, success

    They believe you. Of course they do. If you were anything or anyone else they might feel compelled to take a chance with running or perhaps even with fighting, but the Holy Orders have earned their grim reputation indeed over centuries of bloody service, and right now they are remembering every hushed rumour and frightened tale they have ever heard of your kind in their lives. Eventually, the man at the back cracks, removing his knife from Elvyra's neck and clearing his throat.

    "Fella by the name of Alberich Hollzauber," he says, faking a kind of nonchalant calm you know he does not truly feel, "Some wizardly sort in Altdorf, figured out your bird here was wanted by the magistrates back home for something nasty. Sent us here to shake her down for some fancy herbs, but she decided to play hard to get, so."

    "A wizard?" Spätin murmurs quietly, her brow furrowed in thought, but you see no reason to engage your foes in conversation. You have what you wanted, and you are a man of your word, so you step aside and gesture wordlessly to the door at your back. The thugs hesitate for a moment, then find their wits and take off running, not one of them looking back as they seize the chance their wisdom has given them.

    "Are you well, Frau?" Elvyra squirms a little as you take your knife to her bindings, but soon enough she is free and able to stand once more.

    "Aye, well enough," she says in a slightly rough voice, "Tell me, you must have been to the house - is Liza…"

    "The girl is fine," you reassure her, "I have Max looking after her at present, and she will be doubtless glad to know you too are safe."

    Elvyra breathes a sigh of relief, but before she can respond Spätin cuts in. "Why didn't you just give them the herbs? Like, I get they're probably expensive, but…"

    "Hollzauber has a dark reputation," Elvyra says grimly, rubbing her wrists where the ropes chafed at her skin, "They say he lays curses on people and summons wicked spirits. Slipping a few narcotics to the Hooks as the price of business is one thing, getting tangled up with a man like that is quite another."

    You frown, concern leeching away at your earlier relief. "The wizard is a daemonologist?"

    "By reputation, aye," Elvyra nods, before suddenly realising the root of your concern, "Oh, he's not one of them college lot. Leastwise, I don't think so… thing is, there's a whole community of unlicensed folk like that in Altdorf, on account of how easy it is to get magical supplies and such there."

    You nod slowly, filing that thought away for later consideration. By dint of sheer population you would expect Altdorf to regularly produce a steady stream of unlicensed arcanists and other dabblers; more concerning is the notion that they could persist long enough to form a true community, even under the very nose of your order and the colleges themselves. Still, you can follow up on that with the Witchfinder General when you return and make your report.

    (For a moment you think to ask Elvyra what crime it is she stands accused of that this witch thought to blackmail her with… but you doubt she would tell you, and in truth you do not truly care. It is her conduct in your employ that concerns you, not the sins of her past.)

    "Come then," you say, turning to leave the red barn behind, "Let us reunite with the others and seek passage to Altdorf. We have lingered in this town too long already."

    -/-

    You take the rest of the day to settle affairs in Weissbruck, which principally involves Elvyra tidying up the damage done to her house before leaving the keys with the young married couple who have agreed to buy it off of her. Apparently the plan was that they would look after Liza as well for a time, but in the aftermath of the kidnapping the child adamantly refuses to leave her aunt's side, and none of the rest of you have the heart to insist. You make a note to look at sponsoring the girl for an apprenticeship somewhere respectable in the capital, once she has calmed down some. Elvyra at least seems too sensible to think of dragging the waif through the kind of places your duty will likely take you.

    Transport back to Altdorf is arranged via a passenger barge, and drawing on the funds provided by the ever-helpful House Teugen you are even able to secure proper room and board this time around. There are those who would condemn you for seeking out such luxuries, but you have never believed that there is any virtue in denying yourself small comforts born of honest toil. To scourge yourself for failure is one thing, but to punish yourself even in the advent of success is folly; Sigmar was no ascetic, after all, quite famously so according to certain interpretations of scripture.

    Altdorf is as bustling as ever when you arrive, a buzzing hive of insectoid activity, though you note with some mild interest that Spätin appears less interested in the city itself and more in the sky overhead, which to your eyes appears as calm and clear as any spring day. You suppose to some capable of perceiving the flow of magic it must look quite different; either way, she barely says a word as you step off at the dock.

    "Max, take Elvyra and the girl and find some lodgings," you say briskly, handing the man a pouch of coins for his trouble, "I'll be taking Spätin with me to arrange her enrollment, and then reporting to the temple after, so send word there once you have something settled."

    "Sure thing," Max says gruffly, and you have to hide a smile at how protective he seems when he lays a hand on young Liza's shoulder, "Now then, girl, Altdorf's a dangerous place, so what you need to look out for is…"

    Leaving the three of them to take care of things, you gesture for Spätin to follow you as you make your way out of the docklands and into Altdorf proper. You're not entirely sure how exactly the Colleges determine which of their number is most suitable for a given aspirant, but since there are only a few of them considerate enough to advertise their existence and location you figure you may as well head for the nearest of those and let the wizards take it from there. As it happens, you do not even need to go that far.

    "Markus von Bruner, I assume?" A tall, stately looking lady in elegant blue robes calls out to you from her table outside a small cafe as you walk down the street. She has an ornate golden staff propped up by her side, and when you turn towards her she peers at you through a pair of half-moon spectacles. "I am High Astromancer Filonia Perls. You may leave my new apprentice with me."

    "...the fuck?" Spätin snaps out of her contemplative reverie with a sudden start, looking over at the woman with a thunderous scowl, "I'm not some pretty little gewgaw you can just claim like that, lady."

    "Naturally not," Perls gives your ward a tiny little smile, "But you will come with me anyway. The Blue Wind is the wind of prophecy and foretelling and knowledge beyond mortal limits. If you should master it, you will never again need to fear failure or rejection. You will know who will embrace you and who will recoil in fear, who can be trusted and who to hold at arm's length, which path leads to ruin and which to success."

    "I… you…" Spätin stammers, seemingly lost for words, torn between fury at being so transparently manipulated and a sudden deep longing you have nothing near the context to understand. She stops at last, forcibly asserting control over herself, and then snorts. "And I suppose being a superior bitch waving your knowledge in everyone's face is part of the package as well, then?"

    "Among my very favourite parts," Perls replies gravely, allowing her smile to grow just a fraction wider, "You will do well with us, Spätin, and while we are not the only college that would match your aptitudes, I shall be shameless and note that only the Blue and Amber allow you to fly."

    "Alright, alright, fuck, you've convinced me," Spätin sighs, chuckling despite herself, before pausing and turning to you. There's a strange look in her eyes now, an expression you cannot quite decipher on her face, as if she herself is torn between conflicting feelings. "So, I… guess this is it, huh?"

    "I suppose it is," you say quietly, wrestling with a sudden surge of feelings, the desire to congratulate or caution or perhaps even embrace her threatening to overwhelm your self control. None of those would be welcome or appropriate, however, so in the end you simply incline your head and allow yourself a single fleeting indulgence. "Write to me at the Grand Temple when you can. It would do my heart good to know that the choice I made… that you are doing well."

    "You know I can't read," Spätin says, an odd little twist on her lips, and you sigh.

    "Then hire a scribe or learn, woman," you shake your head, fighting the urge to laugh, "It's bad enough you studied the blade without being able to read the works of the old masters, you don't want the other wizards thinking you an unlettered buffoon."

    Spätin smiles, and extends her hand. You take it without thinking, a brisk shake that cannot hope to encompass the full scope of your heart, and then you release your hands and step apart. Spätin takes a seat opposite her new mistress, and you control your expression and turn away, knowing that your part in this story is done for now. You wonder if the two of you will meet again, if Spätin's success will redeem your earlier failure, if if if.

    If High Astromancer Perls knows the answer to any of these questions, she doesn't care to speak, only watching in silence as you walk away into an uncertain future.

    -/-

    Your return to the Grand Temple is made without ceremony, and no sooner have you stepped through the gate than you notice the change in the air. When you left for your assignment in Bögenhafen the temple was a place of quiet professionalism and grim purpose, but now the air is thick and tense and templars sit in huddled groups casting suspicious glances at their peers. You hold your tongue until you are shown into your meeting with General Wälder, who merely offers a weary sigh at your opening question.

    "Noticed it, did you?" the old man says with a bitter smile, shaking his head and settling back in his wheelchair, "It's the mutant edict. The whole Cult is riven by discord over the matter, not helped by Volkmar's steadfast refusal to treat it as anything more than a settled question, but our order has been particularly divided. I've had a dozen men resign their commissions in the last week alone, and I expect no few of those who remain are contemplating rather more drastic measures of expressing their disapproval."

    "I… I see," you murmur, deeply worried but entirely unsurprised. For a templar, questions of purity and corruption are not merely academic debates of theological principles, but the ground upon which they have built their very lives. "I confess it was a shock to hear the news, and I still do not quite know how to reconcile the law with the dogma myself."

    "Hm. Uncertainty is dangerous in our line of work, but I suppose I cannot blame you," Wälder grunts, and you notice that he has not said which side of the debate, if any, he favours. "Still, you've done well enough for yourself it seems. I received your preliminary reports from the courier, but for the sake of thoroughness, let us go over it from the top."

    By the time your debriefing is finished the sky has grown dark outside and your body cries out for the embrace of a soft feather bed, but you are well used to such trials by now. It is good that Wälder is taking your report so seriously, you think, for while you averted the threat the fact remains that the Empire came very close to losing an entire town to the machinations of the Great Enemy, and such dangers cannot be allowed to slip from mind.

    "Unless you have some greater and pressing need, I'd like to pick up the trail of this Hollzauber," you say at last, manfully suppressing the urge to yawn, "At the very least, we ought to investigate the rumours of a daemonologist in the capital."

    "Denied," Wälder says brusquely, before smiling thinly at your stupefied expression, "I have another agent on the case already, and I am sure they will be grateful for the additional datapoint, but you're not taking any active work just yet. In fact, I'm putting you on leave for the next six months."

    "I… sir, why?" you say, completely thrown by this sudden change in direction, "Was there some consequence to my mission I am unaware of?"

    "Markus, you were a direct witness to the partial summoning of a Greater Daemon," Wälder says sharply, "I dare say you can imagine some of the potential consequences, and if you dare to tell me you were entirely unaffected I will call you a liar."

    The memory of that terrible eye surfaces once more in your mind, rising from the depths of your thoughts like some chthonic beast from beneath the frozen waves, and despite yourself you flinch. "I… will not pretend it was not trying, but I am not corrupted, sir."

    "If I thought otherwise, we would be having a very different conversation," the Witchfinder General says grimly, before taking a moment to deliberately soften voice and expression both, "This is not a punishment, Markus. It is a medical and spiritual necessity. Even Sigmar rested in the wake of his great labour, finding strength and succour in the embrace of kin and comrade, and in this as so much else man is wise to follow his example."

    "I… I suppose so, sir," you say hesitantly, though in truth the idea of simply doing nothing for weeks or months at a time horrifies you. The certainty given by your purpose, the comfort you have taken in your good works, these things have kept you going when the whispers grew most difficult. To face the worries of your heart without anything so holy to quiet them is a daunting thought indeed. "I… what of my agents?"

    "They shall be kept on the payroll and provided with light duties," Wälder says with a dismissive wave, "Do not concern yourself overmuch with such worries, Markus. Instead, think of this as an opportunity, a chance for you to centre yourself and return to our sacred work with fresh purpose and a certain heart."

    You do not know if it will be anywhere near as easy as General Wälder is making it sound, but… well. It isn't as if you have a choice, now is it? You will simply have to make the best of it. Somehow.

    Article:
    Markus has been placed on mandatory leave from his duties, as a precaution against both spiritual corruption and psychological burnout. How does he choose to spend this enforced leisure time?

    [ ] Seclusion
    Markus will shave his head and spend some time in an isolated monastery, taking comfort in the quiet routine and the serene embrace of faith.

    [ ] Slumming
    Markus will revisit the days of his youth and spend time pretending to be a common labourer, engaging in honest work and taking comfort in the camaraderie of the masses.

    [ ] Society
    Markus will take advantage of his blood and station and spend his time enjoying the fruits of civilization, visiting galleries and watching plays and reconnecting with his noble peers.

    (OoC - Most of the following mini-arc will be used to timeskip ahead and reintroduce other characters who have gone their separate ways for a bit, but it will also be an excellent opportunity for Markus to shed some of his corruption points and maybe confront some of that stuff he's been valiantly repressing for a while now.)
     
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    • Scheduled vote count started by Maugan Ra on Sep 29, 2024 at 4:59 PM, finished with 103 posts and 79 votes.
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    • XXV.1 - Downtime Prelude
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    • [ ] Slumming
    Markus will revisit the days of his youth and spend time pretending to be a common labourer, engaging in honest work and taking comfort in the camaraderie of the masses.

    XXV.1 - Downtime Prelude

    Markus has elected to spend his enforced leave period by abandoning the pretences of his rank and station and living as a common man within the bustling metropolis of Altdorf. As he is a mean looking fellow with a strong right hook and the build of a brick outhouse, he will find employment as a labourer and stevedore on the docks.

    In the process, he will be beset by Dark Whispers - the seductive voice of the dark gods, seeking to steer him towards certain acts in accordance with their malign beliefs. Markus will not be aware of the origin of these strange impulses (else he would deny them out of hand), but by indulging in them he will find his mind clearer and his soul less burdened by the memories of what he encountered in Bögenhafen. Mechanically, he will lose corruption points, a process best understood as the dark gods expending their hold over his soul in order to push him towards a path they feel best serves their interests.

    Each of the Four will attempt to influence Markus independently, a process that will be determined via a task vote. Markus begins with FIVE (5) corruption points; while he does not need to remove all of them here, this is the only opportunity he has to do so for the foreseeable future.

    -/-

    [ ] [Blood] In a somewhat surprising turn of events, Markus makes it through his downtime without ever getting into anything more serious than a brief shoving match. (0 Corruption)

    [ ] [Blood] After a hard day's work, the stevedores descend on Altdorf's taverns for a hard night's carousing. Markus finds himself getting involved in the inevitable drunken brawls with increasing frequency. More than that, he finds that he has started to look forward to them. (-1 Corruption)

    [ ] [Blood] The fighting pits and betting arenas of Altdorf are always in need of fresh meat, and more than a few dockside labourers take the chance to earn some extra coin by competing. Markus finds himself beating other men bloody for the roars of the adoring crowd, and enjoying himself far more than he would have thought. (-2 corruption)

    [ ] [Blood] The Hooks, one of Altdorf's most notorious and widespread gangs, have close ties to the stevedores and other dockside labourers. Markus gets swept up in one of the city's periodic gang wars, and while at first he fights to defend his new comrades and drinking buddies, the chance to vent his fury on lawbreakers and other lowlife scum is seductively appealing. (-3 corruption)

    -/-

    [ ] [Excess] Markus keeps his head and cool throughout his time on the docks, regarded by his fellow labourers as a bit of a killjoy, for all that they appreciate having someone sober to watch over them. (0 corruption)

    [ ] [Excess] Markus develops a serious drinking habit during his time on the docks, impressing his peers with his ability to stay relatively coherent after downing enough ale to sedate a horse. He finds the prospect of being able to forget his woes for a night remarkably comforting. (-1 corruption)

    [ ] [Excess] While still not convinced he is worthy of love, Markus finds indulging baser needs far more easy to justify. He takes lovers heedlessly and often, drowning himself in desire, caring nothing for anything beyond this night and this indulgence. It means nothing. (-2 corruption)

    [ ] [Excess] One can get almost anything in Altdorf, if they know where to look. At first it is curiosity that drives Markus to experiment, then an increasingly desperate need for the comforting oblivion they bring with them, and while a friend is able to drag him back to the surface before he drowns, the temptation lingers in his mind. (-3 corruption)

    -/-

    [ ] [Decay] Markus remains motivated and diligent throughout his time among the common folk. (0 corruption)

    [ ] [Decay] Though he was discomforted at first by his enforced rest, Markus soon finds the prospect of just laying down his burdens and forgetting all higher purposes and grand social obligations for a time surprisingly comfortable. (-1 corruption)

    [ ] [Decay] One sees and hears all manner of things on the Altdorf docklands, things that might be dangerous to care about, and what starts as simple prudence becomes a growing sense of numb fatalism to the world and its troubles. Why wear yourself ragged worrying about what you cannot change? (-2 corruption)

    [ ] [Decay] Plague sweeps the docklands, as it often does, and though Markus falls sick with so many others he finds he hardly cares. A man's fate is not his own, his life and death in the hands of the gods above. Though he recovers from the plague, Markus soon finds that this too brings no great satisfaction. (-3 corruption)

    -/-

    [ ] [Change] There's always another agitator, another would-be-revolutionary, but Markus keeps well clear of them all. He's here to get away from higher causes for a bit. (0 corruption)

    [ ] [Change] When the student radicals distribute their pamphlets and the demagogues begin spitting vitriol at the ruling classes, Markus finds himself surprisingly taken by some of their rhetoric. For a noble-born agent of the state, such sympathies are uncomfortable and dangerous, but he cannot help what his heart proclaims. (-1 corruption)

    [ ] [Change] Finding himself increasingly uncomfortable with his enforced idleness, Markus throws himself into supporting and aiding a number of different social movements and political groups. It is deeply disquieting to him to discover that such pursuits bring him just as much satisfaction as his service to Sigmar did… was it always thus? Was his faith never more than a convenient cause to dedicate himself to? (-2 corruption)

    [ ] [Change] With the mutant edict, it is illegal to persecute those whose flesh betrays them, but not all within the church or state agree. Moved by principle, Markus ends up killing a zealous priest in order to defend a mutant from the pyre, an act that may bring his entire future career - perhaps even his life - into jeopardy if it becomes known. (-3 corruption)

    Article:
    Markus has five corruption. Obviously, it is possible for some combination of the above votes to result in him 'losing' more than that. If this happens, every point of 'overflow' will instead grant Markus an additional 100xp. He will be able to spend these points on a thematically appropriate selection of skills, talents and other boons.

    Go ahead. Take advantage. One time offer, no strings attached. Would I lie to you?

    EDIT - Please avoid plan votes here. Or rather, if you want to vote for a plan, format it as something like:

    Plan: Example

    [x] Blood option
    [x] Excess option

    etc etc

    This is purely for the sake of making the tally system a little easier to work with, I don't think anything will explode if I have to manually put things together at the end.
     
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