[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
-[x] [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)
-[X] [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)
-[X] [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)
-[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[x] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] Plan: Even Out
-[X] [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)
-[X] [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)
-[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] [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)
[X] Plan: Bloody rescue
-[X] [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)
-[X] [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)
-[X] [Decay] Markus remains motivated and diligent throughout his time among the common folk. (0 corruption)
-[X] [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)
[ ] [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)
[ ] [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)
[ ] [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)
[ ] [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)
XXV - Downtime
When you were a young man, not even a score of years beneath your narrow belt, you found in your heart a fondness for what the more elitist of your peers would refer to as 'slumming it'. Walking among the lower classes as one of them, tasting the pleasures of a less regimented life and escaping the confines of your own for a few fleeting moments, brought with them a sense of connection and adventure that little else has ever matched. You never truly wished to shun your heritage as some others would, always content to return from your jaunts and take up your rightful place among the elect, but neither do you deny the pleasure or the wisdom that your experiences granted. They are part of who you are now, as sure a foundation as the stones beneath your feet.
It feels almost perverse to return to such childish pastimes now, thoroughly unfitting for the man you have become, but then perhaps anything would. Your life is less of a spectrum than that of other men - you were a child for a time, and then you became a templar, and the transition between the two was as sharp and irrevocable as the blade that parts the flesh. General Wälder has forbidden you the templar's calling for a time, caring for the man beneath the mask with the same meticulous care that a soldier shows for their blade, and if you cannot be a templar then what else do you have?
You stay in Altdorf for your enforced convalescence, collecting your wages from the temple and purchasing a small set of rooms down near the riverfront, where the songs of drunken sailors and the stench of stagnant water fill the air at all hours of the day. Work is easy enough to find, even setting aside your education and acting in ways that hide your breeding, for you are broad shouldered and strong, and your face lends itself well to a menacing air. There is always a need for men like you, and soon enough you find yourself falling in with the stevedores, who load the ships and rule the riverfront with the same lengthy hooks. The work is hard on the body and often long enough to fill your mind with idle thoughts, but there is precious little of the fear and danger that have filled your more recent years.
At first it feels wrong, especially when you find yourself enjoying the work and the company that it brings with it. How can any god-fearing man shun his obligations in favour of such mindless ease? Yet you have been ordered to do just that, and you understand the concerns that drive Wälder to demand it, and so you push past the initial reluctance and apply yourself as best you can, and soon enough you see the benefits. It is pleasant, and almost shockingly easy, to simply sink into the comfortable embrace of the daily routine; to rise with the dawn and greet the day with no greater plans, to labour alongside your peers at the directions of your managers, to go drinking with them in the evening and meander home at night, and then rise again to do it all over again the very next day. No greater plans, no overarching ambitions, just a slow and gradual process to reconnecting with your roots. Part of you always railed at the slothful indolence of the common folk, the wilful blindness with which they seemed the regard the horrors that you knew were abroad in the world, but having experienced the life they live for even a matter of weeks… yes, you can understand. It is pleasant to live like this, to set aside your cares and your ambitions, and if one knows no better can you truly blame them for seeking it out?
It doesn't last, of course. Peace never truly does. In your case, reality finds you one warm summer night in the depths of a riverside tavern, surrounded by your fellow stevedores. The night is still young, the mood still that strange mix of tired and jubilant which always overtakes labourers after a tiring but tolerable day, and with your back to the wall you find it easy to listen through the window to the agitator in the street outside. He's been going on for some time now, enough that you're actually slightly impressed at his stamina, ranting without cease about some noblewoman down near Nuln who had a rival murdered at a party and escaped all consequence by having the charges dropped. What righteousness is there in a law so easily escaped and inconsistently applied, the agitator demands, and in truth you find it difficult to provide a compelling answer.
"Ey, Markus," Joachim, a wiry fellow who resembles nothing so much as a stick figure with great hams stapled on in place of arms, grabs your attention with a quick rap of calloused knuckles against the table, "You not really list'n to that guy, are you?"
"Guess I am," you reply, shrugging easily. "He's talking… well, he's not wrong. Just wanting to see if he's got some answers to go with the rumbling."
"Dangerous thing, you know," Joachim shakes his head sternly, frowning like an old wise priest might at the temple, "If he ain't giving you answers, means he's just stirring up trouble. Probably got a fish on his skin."
"Really? Never was my favourite food," you grunt, making a show of turning away from the window and back towards the others. The Fish are one of Altdorf's biggest gangs, and have a reputation for supporting and affiliating with the more radical and revolutionary of the myriad political sects. As a stevedore, you're expected to side more with the Hooks, who grew out of your profession and pride themselves as law-abiding pillars of the community (and deserving of appropriate respect and compensation).
Still, you can't help but notice that Joachim didn't say the man was wrong. Nobody is, in fact - from those listening raptly to the ones just trying to go about their day, nobody seems to regard the notion that a noble could murder someone with impunity as in any way implausible or exceptional. They just don't think that ranting about it in the street is going to change anything, or if it does that it would be worth the risk of speaking out. The rule of law and the bonds of the community are at the very heart of Sigmar's teachings - could they truly have grown so weak and rotten in the empire without you noticing? And if that is truly the case, what are you going to do about it?
Your ruminations are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a newcomer at your table, a barrel-chested fellow whose shadow falls across the entire group all at once. There's something about his bearing that reminds you of a sausage, one of the cheap ones sold by the enterprising on the corner of any busy Altdorf streets; too much meat and gristle packed tight into a too tight package of waxy skin, all of it threatening to burst out at the lightest touch. You almost don't notice the neatly pressed uniform that marks him out as the servant of some noble or overly pretentious merchant.
"Looking for Markus," the ruddy-faced stranger growls, studying your group with a pair of beady black eyes, and enough of your fellows react in just the right way that his gaze soon lands on you. "Need you to come with me, sir."
"Really? Shame, that," you say easily, raising your flagon in demonstration, "Because I'm not planning to go anywhere for a while yet."
"Best you be moving on, bud," Heinz chuckles, though there's an edge to his normally jovial tones as he looks up at the stranger, as there always is when a stranger comes calling for a friend by name, "Old Markus here likes to savour his drink, so he does. He'll be an hour yet I reckon before he's even finished with that first mug."
"Wasn't really a question," the stranger grunts, still looking at you and ignoring all others. There's something vaguely contemptuous in his eyes, but also a note of confusion, as though he was expecting something else and has been disappointed by the reality. "It's a family matter."
You pause at that, then set the flagon down on the table. The man isn't wearing the livery of your family, but you suppose this isn't exactly a terribly salubrious sort of establishment; he may well have been instructed to remove anything that would bring the von Bruner name into further disrepute before entering. "Well, then I'm definitely not going."
The walking sausage sighs at that, and without a further word of argument reaches out and grabs you by the shoulder. He clearly wants to drag you to your feet and then out the door to meet whichever one of your overly fussy relatives it is who sent him in here, and so he is just starting to smile when you rise at his bidding and slam your flagon of ale into his chin. The blow is sends him spinning back and around with an almost balletic grace to crash headfirst through the surface of the next table over, and at the loud and distinctive sound all other conversation in the tavern grinds to a sudden halt.
"Like I said," you say into the quiet air, "I'm not going anywhere with you."
For a moment it looks like the messenger is going to rise to his feet and continue the dispute, but then he finds someone's foot pressing down on his back as one of the men at the next table stands up and turns to face you. He's a big looking fellow, with the scars and wind-weathered skin of a professional soldier or mercenary, and the front of his doublet is currently dripping with freshly spilled ale.
"You spilled my drink," he says with a kind of fragile calm, glaring at you as his comrades rise to their feet in turn, "Apologise."
Behind you, you feel more than hear the rest of the stevedores getting up as well, and in the background the barkeep groans and starts making hasty gestures at his staff. You could still defuse the situation, you know - play off the incident with an apology, maybe buy the aggrieved man a new drink to make up for it.
"My mistake," you say, rolling your shoulders and setting your stance, "Only, I figured a dog would be happier licking his drink up off the floor."
The mercenary is silent for a moment, blinking in shock at your audacity, and that buys time for the stevedores to break into laughter and begin making little barking noises. Then, when comprehension comes and the other man lunges for you with a roar, it is the simplest thing in the world to slam a fist into his gut and send him down to join the messenger. Another mercenary lunges forward with his fists held high, Joachim intercepts him with a flying shoulder tackle, and just like that the brawl is on.
It doesn't last long, the tavern's bouncers see to that, but even a minute or so of joyous violence is enough to sate your appetite and work some of the lingering unpleasantness out of your mood. You make no real protest when the staff bundle you and the others out of the door, just laughing as you mark off another tavern that you probably can't go to after work for at least a week or so, and with all manner of back-slapping and boasting you and the other stevedores band together and begin making your way down the streets to a more welcoming establishment. You'll probably have a bruise or two come the morning, but that is a small price to pay for a fair bit of fun, and in the back of your mind you make plans to look into one of those fighting pits that Heinrich mentioned the last time you got into a proper dockside brawl with one of the teams from across the river.
Then you notice the horse-drawn carriage rolling slowly down the street after your little group and such thoughts flee with all dreams of a relaxing evening.
"Just remembered something I need to take care of back at the market," you say cheerfully to the others, shrugging off their hands and shaking your head at their drunken entreaties, "Go on, I'll catch up in a few minutes."
You think Joachim sees through your little deception, but despite eyeing you warily for a moment or two he chooses not to make a point of it, and soon enough you are wandering down the evening streets of Altdorf alone. You wait for a minute or two, just to make sure nobody else is about to approach, then draw to a halt and wait for the carriage to roll up alongside you. Sure enough, it stops in just the right place to hide you from the rest of the street, and with a soft click the door swings open.
"My, my," a familiar voice says, laden with exasperated fondness, "They told me you had changed, but I truly did not believe it. You truly have fallen on hard times, brother."
"...Maria," you say curtly, turning to face the carriage and trying not to acknowledge the sudden skip in your heartbeat. Your younger sister has, it seems, become the woman she was always destined to be - tall and graceful, her skin as smooth and pale as marble, her hair a waterfall of raven black. It is only the mischievous glimmer in her pale grey eyes that recalls the hellion you were raised beside. "What brings you to Altdorf?"
"You, obviously," your sister scoffs, looking you over from head to toe and in teasing disdain, "Though it seems I might have saved myself the trouble and grabbed the nearest thug off the street. What did you do to the man I sent in to get you?"
"He's fine," you say shortly, and even Maria's raised eyebrow of surprise is not enough to elicit further commentary. On some level you know it is improper to be so curt with her, for she deserves better than this from her elder brother despite all that lies between you, but you can't help it. You have been enjoying your rest, and your sister reappearing after so many years can only mean it is about to come to an end. "What do you want?"
"I want you to come home," Maria says, catching sight of your expression and rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh, "Not like that, you sentimental berk. I need you to come back with me and help to settle our father's ghost."
The world tilts beneath your feet. "What?"
"Get in and I will explain," Maria says primly, and what else can you do but comply? The interior of the coach is far more comfortable and well appointed than the hired versions you have become used to, and where you might normally expect fellow travellers here there are only a pair of handmaids. You assume that is their purpose, anyway, having never particularly concerned yourself with the staffing requirements of the fairer sex. They slide away as you enter, leaving you all the room you need to take a seat on the bench opposite your sister. "Thank you. That said, there is less to explain than I might like. Ever since… Well, ever since that day, the family estate has been haunted. Strange noises, sourceless voices, a sense of dread… truly, melodrama worthy of that hack Detlef Sierk."
You nod shallowly, hardly paying attention to the details. That the dead can rest uneasily in their graves is a simple matter of fact, but all your training and all your faith tells you that it should not be happening here. Your father did not die well, you cannot even begin to pretend at that, but at the very least he should have died pure. The pyre ought to have seared any lingering taint from his immortal soul, else why even employ it, but if his spirit remains despite that then…
"What of the priests?" you say, forcing yourself to set aside your fears for now, to be the man your sister needs you to be. The carriage is back in motion, you notice, but you don't have the time to care about that now. "Surely they should have been called."
"Rikard will not hear of it," Maria thins her lips in disapproval, "With father dead and you disinherited, he is head of the family and maintains authority over the estate. Mother moved back in with uncle less than a month later, and one might think my words written without ink for all the attention she pays them when we correspond."
You nod shallowly, hardly needing to ask for the obvious. The last time priests visited your family home, they burned your father and took you back to the temple with them. You can well believe that Rikard would reject any notion of allowing more across the threshold out of hand, for all that the priests of Morr and Sigmar are clearly distinct in their nature and demeanour. "And… does Rikard know you came to me?"
"Obviously not," Maria sniffs, "He would have a fit at the mere idea. I thought him unnecessarily childish in the matter, but I must say I am beginning to suspect he might be right. I had assumed you took up a priestly vocation of some sort, for whatever reason you cared to concoct, and instead I found my elder brother nothing more than a drunken thug sitting in a dockside tavern. Really, Markus, even without your inheritance one might have assumed you retained a little pride."
"I am a Templar of the Order of the Silver Hammer," you say sharply, bristling as a hedgehog might when confronted by a hornet's sting, "You simply found me on leave from official duties for a time."
"Ah, yes, I have heard such excuses before," Maria scoffs, "Tell me, what embarrassment did you bring down on your superior's head to be shuffled out the public eye with such alacrity? Get caught bedding one of the choir boys, perhaps?"
"I saved Bögenhafen from a malign plot," you say through gritted teeth, resisting the urge towards rueful affection at such nostalgic commentary, "and spilled my blood banishing the daemons that wove it. I am recuperating."
Maria stares at you for a long moment, then allows herself a smile. "Well. After all of that, a simple exorcism ought to be no trouble at all."
"I… you…simple?" You sigh, shaking your head and sitting back on the bench, "Oh, I give up. Have the driver pass by Frederickstrasse so that I might collect my equipment. If I am to be dragged into this, I shall do it well armed and in proper attire."
"Of course," Maria says with a pleasant smile, "We'd hate for anyone else to think you had become a drunken thug."
You don't know why you missed her, really.
Article:
Markus is returning home for the first time since he was a teenager. It is, however, a long ride back to Ubersreik. Choose one topic that he will ask Maria about on the way.
[ ] Rikard Your little brother is now head of the family. How else has life changed for him since you parted ways? Does he still hate you?
[ ] Maria Your little sister has clearly grown up, but what else has happened in your absence? Has she studied, taken up a hobby, found a husband?
[ ] Ubersreik You've heard little of your hometown since Karl Franz sent in the army and removed the Jungfreuds from power. How is the city these days? Does Maria have any insight into why the Emperor might have acted as he did?
-/-
In addition, choose one of the following topics that Maria opts to quiz you about, and quite insistently at that.
[ ] Your Marriage Prospects Specifically, your lack thereof. Maria finds it shameful that you have yet to wed or even start making plans towards that end, and sees no harm in interrogating you at length on your failure and the ways that she might help you rectify it.
[ ] Your Career It is not enough to simply 'be a templar'. Your sister demands that you know where you are going, the allies that are going to help you get there, and the perks that await when you do.
[ ] Your Work Maria has heard many stories of the templars, and regards you as a fine source of guidance in sifting truth from fiction. She is uncomfortably blase about the prospect, as if it were mere entertainment.
The atmosphere within the coach is excruciatingly awkward for the first leg of the journey, you and your sister staring at each other in silence save for the brief intermission where you retrieve your belongings. You try not to feel like a convict returning to the jail when you emerge, nor an exile snatching one last glimpse of home as you roll through Altdorf's towering gates. Above all else, you try not to dwell upon what awaits you at your destination, and the horrifying prospect that your father's soul might not rest easy after his troubled death. Your best intentions come to little without distraction, of course, but what is there even to talk about? You have not spoken with Maria in years, have not laid eyes upon her in longer still. You hardly know the woman who calls herself your sister, and in that at last you find the seeds of your salvation.
"You were taking violin lessons," you say at last, startling your traveling companions out of their fugue with your abrupt words, "did that amount to… well, ah, are you still practicing?"
"Oh yes," Maria shakes her head, a wry twist of a smile promptly betrayed by the bleak tone of her words, "I'm as fine an amateur as you will ever find. A shame I will never perform outside the odd social function, but the performing arts are no place for a darkened reputation."
"I see," you cough, feeling a sudden surge of awkwardness, "If I had aught to do with that, then…"
"Oh, hush," Maria sighs, "Your deeds have hardly helped, but the family name has been tarnished by accusations for some time now, and far beyond our lonely branch of the blood at that. Some, I think, have more merit than we would like to accept, and we've done ourselves no favours grasping so desperately for Ubersreik while Jungfreuds yet remain in their demense."
You nod slowly, displeased but far from surprised by the news. The Von Bruner line is more accurately described as a tree with many branches, its roots securely planted in the ancient past and its manifold limbs spread out in all directions. Much like a tree, however, rot in one branch threatens the plant entire; there are cousins you have never met who likely curse your name, and kin you know nothing of that have tilted the perception of others to your favour or your woe.
"I see. Yet surely there are those troupes who care less for such stains?" you venture after a few moments, "Indeed, if rumour and perception is to be believed, there are no end of those who would actively court the scandal."
"Brother, please," Maria snorts, shaking her head, "'tis bad enough that my reputation suffer for the deeds of others without going so far as to tarnish it myself. What manner of career could I build from such obviously tainted blocks?" Again you nod, a touch more sombre this time. You cannot fairly blame your sister for focusing on the implications such an association would have for her career, but it is a little disappointing that she does not appear even remotely tempted. Clearly it is not any great passion for the art itself that moves her, only what it may be able to bring her. "But enough of me. What of your career, brother?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, joining the priesthood is certainly a respectable path, and a position within the Cult of Sigmar the most traditional," Maria explains, her faint frown betraying confusion that she has to explain it, "But surely you do not intend to spend your whole career hunting witches and burning heretics?"
"It is a worthy path," you say stiffly, though now is not the time to expand on the full extent of what your role actually entails.
"I'm sure," Maria says dubiously, "But the Cult has many worthy paths, many of which are likely to bring much greater fame, prosperity and responsibility than a mere templar could ever expect to see. Do not tell me you are so shy as to quail before a bit of public preaching?"
You grit your teeth, biting back on the first bitter and instinctual response that threatens to claw its way out of your throat. You did not choose the Templar's path out of some plan for eventual promotion, you chose it because you sought redemption, because there was no other way you could live with yourself. If Maria cannot understand that already, having seen what you did and since learning why, there is no amount of angry shouting that will communicate it to her.
To her credit, your sister evidently realises this is a sore point, and elects instead to change the topic. You spend the rest of the ride conversing about the sights and sounds of Altdorf, and it is only at the end of the day when you have disembarked and sent the driver off to arrange rooms at one of the inns that she brings the topic up again.
"Who is your sponsor?" she asks, and when you look briefly baffled she sighs and clarifies, "Not your hierarchical superior, most likely, but your patron, the person who watches your career and provides guidance on your path."
"Must I have one?" you reply, assisting the maids in unloading the coach and ignoring the faintly disapproving looks you get. Your sister's servants are not yours, and so you do not feel it proper to impose the burden of your luggage on them.
"Unless you mean to tell me that you have led a mediocre life unworthy of any regard by those above, yes," Maria says tartly, folding her arms as she waits for you to finish, "Every career a man might turn his hand to offers mentors, patrons and guides worth listening to, and I will not believe a Templar's life so different."
You consider the notion for a bit, handing your luggage off to the staff of the inn and leaving them to take it up to the rooms before following your sister through to a private dining room. Most inns of any quality maintain at least one, though it is fortunate indeed that there are no other nobles or particularly wealthy nobles travelling this road tonight to contest you for it.
"I suppose that would be Witchfinder General Wälder," you say at last, pulling out the chair for your sister so that she can sit herself gracefully down, "He promoted me to the rank of inquisitor not that long ago, granted me access to the Temple's funds and other resources in order to maintain a staff."
You wonder for a moment how the others are getting along, Max and Elvyra most notably. The General promised to find them light duties and keep them on the payroll during your convalescence, but you haven't had a chance to check in with either of them since it began.
"Wälder… not a name of any great renown, but I suppose the Templars have their reasons," Maria nods thoughtfully, "And why did he choose to promote you, then? There must have been any number of other possible names to fill the position when it opened."
"He favours my insight," you reply, taking your own seat and nodding to the servant who comes to bring you two the wine, "My willingness to reserve judgement, to not act until it seems the situation calls for it, instead of caving to the pressure others might feel that they be seen 'doing something'."
"Ah, so it was an ideological choice," Maria nods approvingly, "and it sounds as if you have chosen the correct faction to side with as well. The moderates are clearly in the ascent of late, for all that some proclaim they have overstepped with the mutant edict."
"It is a matter of faith and principle, not politics," you protest, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.
"It can be both - indeed, one would be hard pressed to find the politician who makes their choices without at least considering faith and principle alike," Maria waves off your protest with an idle hand, "Now, explain to me the position that the other factions within your order take, and I will be able to advise you. After all, if I can boast a prominent templar as a brother, more than a few barred doors will open in my path…"
-/-
The mood sours as you draw near your destination, what ground you and your sister managed to claim swiftly rolled back in the face of bitter nostalgia. Your family estate lies outside one of the small villages that exist to feed the hunger of nearby Ubersreik, and the closer you get the more familiar the sights and sounds that pass through the coach windows become. Here are the trees that you used to climb, there the fields where you were taught to ride, all of it sweet and painful in equal measure. You have not been back this way in close to a decade, but you feel like you could draw the outline of the estate walls and its ornate gate from memory.
When the coach draws to a halt and you dismount in full regalia, the first reaction from the staff of the manor is fear. The second is stunned recognition, spreading out from the older members of the retinue like ripples in the pond. It seems you are not so greatly changed from your teenage years as you might perhaps have supposed.
"Well, let us be about this," Maria says briskly, hiding her nerves beneath a confident mask as she comes up to join you, "Hopefully it can all be resolved in a day or two."
You nod absently, barely even hearing her words, for you have just caught sight of the mark upon the lawn and nothing else can hope to rival it for your attention. There, just a dozen paces away from the path, is a section of bare mud where all grass has been charred away. You hardly need to ask to know that it is where your father's pyre stood all those years ago, but the sight of it still takes you breath away.
"Ah, that," Maria says quietly, shaking her head. "The groundskeepers have tried to conceal it, but nothing grows there now, and attempts to cover it up seem to provoke the most vicious of responses."
You nod stiffly, your heartbeat so loud in your ears you can scarcely even hear her words, but before you can reply an angry voice cuts across the scene.
"You! You dare to come back here?!"
Rikard has grown tall but not broad with the passage of years, slender shoulders and a narrow chin giving him an almost serpentine look as he stalks across the lawn towards you. His skin is pale and almost waxen in the manner of a man who sees the sun but once a week at best, and such is his fury that his whole body trembles as he walks. You say nothing to him as he approaches, and when he draws to a halt and backhands you across the jaw you turn your head with the motion and little else.
"Hello brother," you say quietly, working your jaw and feeling the soft ache spread from what you suspect will probably be a fairly mild bruise. Your brother did not, it seems, continue his studies of the sword, nor maintain the exercise routine that your old tutors prescribed. You could probably pick him up under one arm.
"Don't call me that, bastard," Rikard spits, quite literally, in your face. "Get out. Leave now, before I call the guards and have you horsewhipped and driven forth a vagrant!"
"Rikard!" Maria protests, one hand raised to her mouth in shock, "What has come over you?"
"Me? What has come over you, sister, to bring this bastard back here?" Rikard rounds on her, his eyes wide and filled with rage, "You know full well my thoughts on the matter, and you defy me all the same? And for him?"
"I am not a bastard," you say evenly, dragging his attention back to you as a lodestone does the needle, "nor am I a traitor. I heard of the situation with father, and I…"
"You don't get to call him that," Rikard growls, his eyes narrowing and turning hard as he stares you down, "You betrayed this family and forsook your name the night you sent my father to the pyre, and now you come striding back through those gates wearing the same uniform as the men who burned him? You are a wretched little worm, unworthy of name or honour, and every day I weep for the naivety of the young fool who thought to call you brother."
It is too much. Your heart is pounding, your hands trembling, your mask of composure already beginning to crack. You have no name for what boils in your gut and curdles behind your eyes, for it is rage and grief and shame and hatred all in one, but it cannot stay there. You must act, now, and let it out before it consumes you from the inside out. Before it burns you as you burned your father.
Article:
Choose one:
[ ] Punch Rikard You came here to save your father's soul, and now your wretch of a brother dares imagine his wounded heart and bitter pride more important? No. This ends now.
[ ] Plead with Rikard Your pride is worth less than your father's soul. Let Rikard think of you what he wills, so long as Pietr von Bruner can be laid to rest at last.
[ ] Walk Away You will not abandon this cause, but neither can you stand here and take this abuse. Walk away and find somewhere quiet to vent before you do something both you and Rikard will regret.
[ ] Write in (Note - Markus is very emotional right now, and neither he nor Rikard are presently capable of considering reasoned arguments.)
Rage burns hot in your breast, the flames of ire eating away at your ribs from the inside, but Rikard says nothing that you have not thought of more than once before. You will not chastise another for repeating your own judgements back at you, and having avoided the flagellants creed thus far, neither will you strike and mortify his flesh. You swallow your pain and choke down your anger and turn your back upon your brother, walking away without a word.
"Really, Rikard," you hear Maria say, reproof in her fading voice as the pair fall further behind you, "One might be tempted to think you a child, rather than a man grown…"
You do not think such tactics will work, but then you have not spoken to your younger brother in close to a decade. Best to leave the matter of cooling his temper to one with the experience for it, and look to your own turbulent heart in the meanwhile. Perhaps you can reunite in a day or so and try this again, with the first surge of bile already spat and bitter hearts expended.
You are less than a dozen paces from the exit when the heavy iron gates swing closed with a deafening rattle. Surprised, you halt in place and cast a look around for the staff responsible, but nobody is near enough save for a single stableboy already backing away with fear in his eyes. You think to question him, but then you realise it is not you that he is staring at, but rather the gates themselves.
"My… Milord?" the stableboy calls out, rapidly growing pale, and with a sinking feeling in your gut you realise how much colder the wind has grown over the past few moments. "The… the gate, milord, I…"
"Oh, fuck me with the hammer," Rikard curses from somewhere behind you, the casual blasphemy enough to shock you out of your brief confusion, "Everyone, inside! Now!"
You turn to your brother, intending to remonstrate or at least enquire, but the sight of the lawn is enough to steal the words from your throat. The scorched patch of grass bleeds shadows like a wound, and from the stygian depths now covering the grass a robed and withered form is pulling itself free. It looks like some blasphemous imitation of the statuary that stands guard over the Gardens of Morr, a long black robe hiding all detail save for the bare skull of a face and the long scythe cradled in boney arms, and the pale fire that burns in those empty eye sockets is a thing of endless malice.
Markus tests Cool to resist Terror! Skill is 61, roll is 97. Fortune reroll is 39, pass.
Fearsome foes inflict a penalty of -1SL on all rolls opposing them, and require a cool test to approach. Terrifying foes immediately cause their opponents to break and flee. Both effects can be resisted by a Cool test, or in extremis by spending resolve to become immune for one round (hopefully enough time to deal with them!).
This creature has a terror rating of 3. Any pass would be sufficient to stand your ground, but it requires 3SL on the test to avoid being affected by the fear debuff. Fortunately, Markus passed by exactly that much.
For one brief moment your guts turn to water and the blood freezes in your veins, the animal that lurks beneath the face of every civilised man gibbering at you to run, now. Then you catch sight of your family and the servants retreating at a dead run towards the manor house and you remember your duty. There is a faint tremor in your hands as you draw the blessed silver blade that your order presented you with, but there is no doubt at all in your voice as you address the phantom.
"Come then," you say, holding the blade up before you in traditional salute, "allow me to lay you to rest, as all souls deserve."
The wraith hisses at you, a horrible rattling sound like hailstones off cobble, but you have mastered your fear by now and barely even hear it. You charge towards it with nary a sound, and whatever tattered memories of life the thing carries with it, sword combat is clearly not among them. Your first blow leaves a faintly burning line from the crown to the navel, blessed silver cutting through cursed ectoplasm with contemptuous ease, and this time the creature's shriek bears with it an unmistakable note of pain. The creature lashes out with the strange scythe it carries, but the movement is clumsy and slow, easily avoided.
(Just as well - something about the wailing sound the weapon makes as it passes tells you that no amount of armour would help should you have been struck.)
A mortal foe would retreat and seek to adjust here, but the ghost has no such sense of self-preservation. It stays where it is, bringing the scythe back around, and that gives you enough of an opening to step up close and drive your sword straight through its torso. You doubt very much that the thing has a heart any longer, but the symbolism of the act lends more than enough weight to the blow; with a despairing howl, the spirit's corpus falls apart into tattered shreds of essence, each of which disappear again a moment later.
Markus has 32 initiative versus the Wraith's 15, so he goes first. He elects to charge.
His melee skill is 63, raised to 73 by the charge, and he cannot fight with two weapons here, as he only has one weapon capable of damaging an ethereal foe. He rolls 71, for a bare success.
The Wraith rolls its defence of 35 and gets a 73, a failure with -4SL.
Markus deals 7 base +4 strength -3 toughness +1 resolute = 9 wounds to the wraith.
On its turn, the wraith attacks with its Chill Grasp ability. It rolls against 35 to hit, and with a roll of 39 gets a bare failure. Markus defends with his melee basic skill of 63 and rolls 43, successfully defending himself.
At the end of the round, Markus has two advantage (having won two opposed rolls) and so inflicts two more wounds upon the Wraith, due to its "Unstable" trait.
Round Two
Markus goes first, attacking as before. He has a melee basic skill of 63 and rolls 68, again a bare failure. He opts to spend fortune to reroll and gets 39, a success with +3SL.
The Wraith defends with its skill of 35 and rolls 02, gaining +3SL. This means there is a draw, but as Markus has the higher base skill he hits anyway, inflicting 7-3=4 wounds. This is enough to destroy the wraith.
For a few breaths you stand there, your heart numb like ice in your chest, the significance of what you have just done too weighty to grapple with so cleanly. Then you sheathe your sword and make your way over towards the manor house, where even now Rikard and the others wait in the entrance hall, wary and respectful looks upon their gathered faces.
"It is done," you say roughly, and if they detect a certain depth of emotion behind your words, none think to comment on it.
"You've achieved nothing," Rikard snorts, shaking his head, "Were it that easy we would have resolved the issue years ago."
"He's achieved more than any of us have of late," Maria says sharply, and after a moment your brother looks aside, unwilling to either gainsay her or apologise to you. It will have to do, you suppose, and by her sigh it appears Maria agrees. "Father's ghost is… well, a far more powerful creature than that. Its presence on the estate has thinned the veil, allowing lesser undead to cross more easily and drawing others from leagues around."
You nod grimly, thinking back to your lessons on such matters. It is a common enough issue, and a reason why the Templars of Sigmar and Morr alike take even minor hauntings so seriously; if allowed to reach a critical mass, the result could well be on the scale of another Sylvania. That is the theory, at any rate, though for obvious reasons none have allowed it to progress so far in order to check.
"It seems the situation is far more serious than you led me to believe," you say, keeping your expertise to yourself for now, "which makes me wonder why you are still here."
"It is not as unsafe as you seem to fear," Maria reassures you, though you think her priorities would be better turned towards her own safety, "Most nights nothing happens, and never before have I seen a manifestation during the daylight hours."
"They avoid the house itself in any case, and I will not forsake our birthright without first fighting to hold it," Rikard says tersely, looking you over with some distaste, "As for why it manifested just now, well, perhaps they simply hate you Markus. They would not be the only ones."
You grimace, but before you can respond the possibility that Rikard is right slaps you like a duelist's challenge. You close your mouth and think for a moment, seeing by their sudden tension that your siblings have both realised the same thing, and then you slowly nod. "It would… not be impossible. The stories all speak of the lure of unfinished business, and if… if Father was motivated by a desire for revenge, or even just an accounting…"
"Oh? Offering to take responsibility, are you?" Rikard snorts, shaking his head.
"Yes," you say simply, taking some brief pleasure from the way your words make your brother flinch, "If my presence will draw our father's spirit out, or expose what binds it to this world, then it is my duty to do so."
You cannot quite put a name to the expression that crosses Rikard's face at that, but after a long moment he simply scoffs. "Well, I suppose you may as well be of some use, then. Father has only appeared in full upon the lawn… and I expect you can guess the time of day."
You nod soberly. The templars lit the pyre just as the sun was dipping below the horizon; it stands to reason, or at least to symbolism, that dusk will be the best time to confront what remains of the man they burned. Rikard stares at you a moment longer, then sets his jaw and turns away, marching back inside the house to attend to whatever distraction he imagines will help to clear his thoughts.
"I do hope you are not planning to do anything foolish," Maria says sternly, though she cannot quite disguise the concern in her tone. "I did not fetch you from that drinking pit solely to see you die upon our very lawn."
"I have no intention of perishing, sister," you say, which is at least mostly true, "still, we have some time yet. Tell me, is the chapel still open?"
The answer is yes, and to your satisfaction and quiet relief it has clearly seen fairly frequent use since you left home. The furnishings are immaculate, of course, but you can still tell that the holy tomes have been frequently leafed through and the candles restocked with some regularity. Your family was never so prominent or expansive as to justify a resident priest, travelling to the one of the many nearby temples on a rotation every feast-day for Throng, but when your father sought to have you and your siblings schooled in faith it was in this small chapel that your lessons took place. You expect that Brother Jacobs has retired by now, for he was an old man even when you were young, but the chapel still carries with it the same sense of orderly serenity you remember from those long distant days.
"I'll pray with you, if you don't mind," Maria says, and given the way she is already lighting the candles you do not think it is truly a question. Not that you wish to deny her in any case, of course, but you still find yourself smiling as you watch her.
"Of course," you say, taking a seat and clearing your mind as best you can, "I am not intending any particular ritual. I simply need to… centre myself, before dusk."
Before you stand before your father and see what your deeds have left of him.
Article:
Markus is resolved to face the ghost of his dead father, condemned to burn by the same organisation his son now serves. This is not the time for wavering wills, and so Markus buries a single principle in his heart before setting forth. Choose one:
[ ] Faith It doesn't matter who was right and wrong on that day, not anymore. What matters is that the dead must rest in Morr's garden, not walk the earth and trouble the living. The words of his faith will give Markus the strength to do what must be done.
[ ] Responsibility It should not have come to this, but it has, and while he cannot undo what has been done, there is still a chance to make it right. If his blood is the price that must be paid to lift this curse, then it is a worthy trade indeed.
[ ] Conviction It was not Markus who delved into dark sorcery and consorted with witches, and it is not his soul that refuses the judgement of the garden and blights his family with misery now. If he must kill his father twice to make it stick, then so be it, but he will not sabotage himself with guilt.
"Blessed Sigmar, against whom no foe could stand, no rogue could hide, no army vanquish. Great Heldenhammer, gird my soul against the trials to come..."
You murmur the prayers by rote, Maria providing quiet accompaniment, as your mind treads internal paths as familiar as the estate itself. You've wondered many a-time what you would say should you return to your father's pyre, and tonight you'll have both podium and audience. Though the Edict shook your faith in the fallibility of men and their laws, the sights you endured at Bögenhafen reaffirmed why they exist.
The world is cruel and cold, unforgiving to mortal men. This Sigmar perceived, and so he fought to impose order on a chaotic universe. Laws, strictures, scripture and writ; all may debate individual rules, yet none gainsay the need for their existence. Morr's precepts are clear that the dead are to remain dead, for the good of all. You believe that your father, whatever he believes (believed, you remind yourself) and whatever he was, would agree.
The Cult of Sigmar holds that the soul consists of animus and anima, identity and energy. You witnessed the flames claim Pietr's body and the priests of Morr spoke prayers for his soul, but the events of today make it clear that some scrap of him remains. This wraith that your siblings speak of must therefore be the anima, the motive force and base instincts of the man-that-was, shorn of the reason and memories which would have kept it from striking at innocent servants and family.
(by that you refer to Maria and the estate staff, of course. You won't begrudge the shade taking a swipe at you for old time's sake)
The law requires that the dead remain in Morr's Garden, and your family's recent troubles prove its necessity. The shade, for you refuse to call it 'father,' is a tattered fragment of Pietr von Bruner rather than the man who loved you. Its existence violates the laws of men and gods, and your duty is clear here as elsewhere.
The shade clearly retains tattered remnants of your father's memories, and it's perverse nature ensures it will use them for evil. The creature will doubtlessly take your father's face, speak with his voice, and use his authority to weaken your resolve. You ready yourself for its faces, the ploys and rhetorical venom that the undead creature will surely employ. The law is clear, and as its enforcer your will must be likewise.
You won't kill Pietr von Bruner at dusk, because you already did so a decade prior. Tonight, Inquisitor von Bruner will merely prevent a shade from preying further upon the living. You make the sign of the hammer across your chest, readying your will for battle.
"By the Hammer."
-/-
Sunset has always been a spectacular thing here, the slow descent of Söll's chariot setting the sky ablaze and painting the southern mountains in shades of blue and purple. You used to spend hours watching them in your youth, your family at your side and cups of hot wine in your hands to ward away the evening chill. Now you stand alone on that self same lawn, your surviving relatives hiding behind the manor walls and peering out through curtained windows, scarcely able to appreciate the beauty that once moved your heart to tears.
You wait patiently as the sun sinks below the horizon and the world grows dark, shadows crawling across the lawn to swathe all in their smothering embrace. All, that is, save for the small patch of burned grass that marks the place where your father's pyre once stood. That stays illuminated in defiance of the gods and natural order, and as your attention sharpens so too does the light. It swells and grows like an unnatural dawn, rising by degrees until a shimmering pillar of sunlight rises from the ground in echo of that remembered pyre, and from between the unnatural flames a figure emerges.
It bears the shape of a man. The skin is black and crisp, like dry and rotting leaves stretched thin over cracked and boiled bones, and here and there runnels of molten fat hang like jewellery in golden chains. You can still see the ropes that held it in place, preventing it from fleeing as the flames rose higher, and when the charred stumps that once were feet touch the ground the grass withers and crawls away.
"Hello father," you whisper, and at the sound of your voice the dead man's head lifts to sniff the air like a hound at the hunt.
"Templar," it snarls, spitting the word through blackened teeth with a tongue fused to the palate, and with that single word it lunges for your throat.
Your pistol, ready in your hand since first the light started to grow, roars in answer. Mere lead and powder will do nothing to a ghost, and you had neither the time nor resources to source silver shot inscribed with prayers as your order might prefer to employ, but a few hours of prayerful contemplation sufficed to convey a blessing upon one singular round in your possession. The blessed round strikes the dead man straight between the eyes, snapping back its head in a spray of burning ichor, but what might slay a mortal outright is barely even enough to check the momentum of that charge and you are forced to raise your blade in defence.
The ghost strikes you with vast, unbelievable strength, a sledgehammer blow quite out of keeping with the ragged echo of muscle and bone it yet commands. Even with your sword raised and ready you are still sent sliding back across the ground, your ribs crying out in agony at the crushing strength of the hit, but though you grunt in pain and feel the breath leave your lungs you manage to remain upright. The spectre comes in again but this time you are ready, dropping your pistol into the grass and taking your blessed sword in two hands that you might have the strength to stand against the blow, setting your shoulders and locking your blade in place against the broken ruin of the spectre's fist.
For one long moment the two of you stand there, mortal strength against immortal malice, and then the pressure eases. The spectre has neither eyes to see nor ears to hear, yet as you struggle you could swear you see the moment when comprehension comes.
"...Markus," it hisses, the word rattling from the cavernous echo of its chest, "How is this…"
If you were a different man you might condemn your father's shade here, or perhaps plead with him for a way that you might make this right. Yet you came here in the name of faith and duty, and it is those principles that drive you now. "In Sigmar's name, I bid you depart and return to your rest. Morr's Garden awaits, and…"
The ghost snarls, flame spilling forth in a great wave from between those blackened teeth, and with a hasty grunt you are forced to break contact and put some distance between you. This will not, it seems, be resolved with peace and doctrine.
Neither side begins with any advantage. Markus has an initiative of 32, while Pietr has initiative 10, so Markus goes first.
Markus fires his pistol at the wraith.
Normally the Ethereal trait would make the ghost immune to such attacks, but in this case Markus has been able to prepare a single blessed round.
He is at short range, for +20 to his base skill of 58, total of 78. Markus rolls 30, a head hit with +4SL. Due to the Impale quality, this is also an automatic critical hit.
Damage is 9 base +4SL = 13. The ghost takes 10 wounds.
The critical hit is "Struck Forehead". Normally this would blind the opponent with blood in the eyes, but as a ghost has no blood or indeed eyes, it simply takes two additional wounds. It has taken 12 wounds total, bringing it to half health.
Pietr charges his living son.
Charged by a fear-causing enemy, Markus is required to test Cool. He rolls 31 and passes.
Pietr's weapon skill is 50, raised to 60 by charging. He rolls 36, for +3SL, raised to +4 by his Hatred trait.
Markus has a melee (basic) skill of 63. He rolls 74 to defend, then spends a fortune to get a 60. This would normally be a bare success, but Pietr counts as a large target, so Markus takes a -2SL penalty to defend against his attacks. In total, he has lost by -6SL.
Pietr's attacks have the damaging trait, so he replaces his 3SL from the roll with 6SL from the unit dice. He effectively hits with 9SL. The damage is 6+9=15 damage to the body. Markus has four points of armour on the body and a toughness bonus of five, so he reduces the damage by 9 and takes six wounds.
At the end of the round both Markus and Pietr have hit each other once, and Pietr has also charged. Markus has one advantage, Pietr has two. Pietr spends one of his advantage points to make another attack.
Pietr has skill 50 and rolls 88, a fumble with -3SL. He loses his Hatred trait for the next round as his mind clears.
Markus rolls to defend with 63 (even with the size penalty, this is still better than his dodge) and gets 71, a fail by -1SL. This is reduced to -3SL by the size penalty, but as he has the higher skill, Markus still successfully defends.
So be it.
You quell the tremor in your heart and draw your second sword from its sheath. Without the pure silver cladding and divine blessings of your first blade it will do nothing to the wraith, but just having the weight in your off hand makes the old routines come easier to your mind. You flow from one stance into the next, your twin swords questing for the echo of undying flesh, and the deadly dance begins.
Your father always was a skilled duelist, however, and what memories death has taken from him are easily replaced by monstrous strength and an ignorance of bodily limits. Back and forth the two of you go, blades flashing and ruined hands scything, and try though you might there is no opening to be found.
"That uniform…" the shade growls, mad fury creeping by degrees back across the remnants of its face, "A mad dog's coat, a tame killer's colours…"
"I am proud to wear it," you reply through gritted teeth, denying the accusation even as you strive to destroy the thing that makes it, "I have saved innocents and slain monsters, brought the guilty to account and the lost back to the righteous path. Though the road is murky and often strange, I walk it proud and unashamed."
You said the words without thinking, half expecting your heart to rebel at the notion, but to your faint shock there is nothing. You stand before your father's ghost in the colours of the men who killed him, and you do not feel ashamed. Your judgement may be flawed and your choices could well be mistakes, but your motives are pure, your ideals inviolate. You are a servant of your god and your fellow man, and you are proud to think of yourself as such.
The ghost snarls, animal fury overtaking it in the face of your defiance, and that is a weakness. It moves too aggressively, strikes too heedlessly, and with a flickering motion you sever its right arm at the elbow. Burning ichor spews forth in place of blood, coating you from head to toe and searing your flesh with its fury, but with a garbled shout you focus your will and force the feeling aside. The flames are not real and they cannot burn you; you think it must be thus, and so it is.
Burning Blood trait inflicts Ablaze! Markus spends a resolve point to negate it. Three remaining.
Breathing hard you return to your stance, only to realise a moment later that the ghost has not seized the advantage. Indeed, now that you look you can see it has stopped moving, remaining in place and staring at the severed remnant of its hand. A remnant that is even now beginning to unravel like old and rotten cloth, the trauma inflicted upon it too much for even this unquiet soul to ignore.
"Rest now, father," you say, pushing past the faint sting of grief in your heart, "Rest, and dream of better days."
"Markus…" the ghost rasps, turning its blind face towards you as the decay spreads to its chest, "You have to protect him. You have to protect your brother. Protect Rikard."
Then he is gone. It is over.
Markus acts first. He draws a mundane blade with his free hand; while this second attack cannot hurt the ghost, it still allows for the dual wielder talent to provide its bonuses.
Markus has skill 63, raised to 73 by Pietr's effective size. He rolls 66 to attack, a critical hit with +1SL, raised to +2 by his dual wielder talent.
Pietr rolls defence against 50 and scores 28, successfully defending himself with +3SL.
The critical hit still applies and would normally inflict a bleeding condition, but as before undead don't bleed, so this becomes +1 wound. Pietr has 11 remaining.
Pietr attacks again, swinging with his skill of 50.
He rolls 32, a success with +2SL.
Markus rolls his defence at a -10 penalty (for using dual wielder), getting a 09 for +5SL. Even with the size penalty he successfully manages to defend.
At the end of the round both combatants have gained one advantage from successful defences, so they have two each.
Round Three
Markus once again attacks
He rolls 64 against a modified total of 73, a hit with +1SL, again raised to +2 by dual wielder.
Pietr defends with his skill of 50 and rolls 62, a failure by -1SL. Markus gets a total of +3 net success levels.
Damage is 7 base +3SL, -3TB. He inflicts 7 more wounds on the ghost. Pietr has 4 wounds remaining.
Pietr's Burning Blood quality triggers! Markus takes a hit of d10=4 damage, reduced to the minimum of one wound, and also suffers an Ablaze condition. Markus promptly spends a resolve point to negate this - he ain't got time to burn!
Pietr counterattacks. He has regained his Hatred talent.
Pietr rolls 92, a failure by -4SL, adjusted to -3 by Hatred.
Markus defends with skill 53 and rolls 33, for +2SL (reduced to 0 by the size) and also inflicting a critical hit.
The critical hit resolves as a Wrenched Arm, making that limb useless for the rest of the fight and inflicting an additional two wounds.
At the end of the round, Markus has four advantage after winning both opposed rolls this turn. Pietr has two, and this difference of two means the Unstable trait costs him two extra wounds. The ghost reaches 0 wounds and dissipates.
For a long moment all you can do is stand there and stare into space, whatever other feelings you might have had about laying your father to rest now replaced with absolute bafflement. Why Rikard? You are the oldest child and the most militant by far, so naturally you have a duty to protect your siblings from whatever might come to threaten them, but why did your father not mention Maria? You know he loved each of you equally, or at least you thought he did, so why only ask for protection for one? Is there some threat that only Rikard faces, some malady that has spared your sister to afflict only him? If you were a physician such a situation could well explain it, but you are a templar, not a doktor. What is it that your father felt so strongly about that he…
Comprehension comes in a single frozen moment, and before you can even put it into words your feet are carrying you back across the lawn towards the manor house. Maria opens the door as you approach, stepping out to greet you with a smile both sad and relieved upon her face, but whatever she spies in your face takes the words from her mouth before she can think to speak them.
"Where is he?" you say, your heart thundering in your chest.
"I…" Maria hesitates for a moment, as if to deny you the answer or perhaps to profess ignorance, but in the end she speaks. "Upstairs, in his studio."
You nod stiffly and step past her without a further word, ascending the grand staircase two steps at a time. The walls on both sides are covered in works of art, as are almost all bare stretches of wall throughout the estate and those of your social peers; you always found them pleasant to look upon, but it was your brother that took a real interest in art as a discipline. He started painting at a young age, and your father dragged the three of you along to more than one salon designed to show off the budding artist's newest works to those who might coo over them appropriately. When Rikard's interest lasted out the first year, father had the manor remodelled to turn one of the upper rooms into a professional studio for him, and the open doors await you with all the patient malice of a predator's maw.
You find Rikard inside, standing in front of a blank canvas with his arms folded behind his back, and your brother needs only a single look at your expression to realise what has happened.
"Ah," he murmurs softly, looking you over with a kind of weary contempt, "I suppose you figured it out, then?"
It is difficult to speak, your throat swollen tight with emotion, but you force the words through anyway. This is too important to let your heart goad you into silence.
"Father wasn't the witch," you say, each word a torment, "you were."
Rikard hums faintly at that, glancing sideways at one of the works he has propped up on a frame nearby. It is a landscape, the view from a nearby hillside at night, but between the shining points of the stars and moons he has traced long flowing patterns of pale blue and off white, one blossoming into the next in a strangely ordered harmony. It would look beautiful, you think, to someone who didn't understand the significance.
"Father always had an interest in the arcane and those who practiced it. He didn't have the Sight, but he still collected testimonials, paid handsomely for old journals," your brother says with a vague wave of his hand, "I don't think half of it was accurate, but enough was that he recognised what I was painting before even I did."
Your hands have curled into fists by now, clenched so tight it almost hurts, but you keep your voice level with an act of will. "Why did he not send you to the Colleges?"
"Do you know how many apprentices survive to become magisters, Markus?" Rikard shoots you a sideways glance, shaking his head, "Or of those that do, how many live to grow grey hair? It would have been safer to buy me a commission and send me off to war for the rest of my life, to say nothing of the mutation that seems to reliably befall those of any talent. Not that they call it that, of course… though perhaps they will, with the new edict to clear the way."
"You speak of the danger, of the risk?" You shake your head, unsure whether the disgust you feel is at your brother or the man who raised you. "What of duty, Rikard? What of faith?"
"And where would those have led me, Markus? If I had gone to the Colleges and become an obedient little servant?" Rikard smiles mirthlessly, "I'd have graduated by now, most likely. Would I have been sent to Ubersreik, do you think? Sent to take up arms against our liege lords, in service to a tyrant's paranoia?"
You grit your teeth and swallow your words, refusing to be baited. You have your own doubts about Karl-Franz's choices of late, your own criticisms that you would make of his policies, but this isn't the time to get drawn into a debate about the Emperor. That isn't what is important here.
"He went looking for more information, didn't he," you say instead, knowing by the hollow weight in your heart that you speak the truth, "A sanctioned wizard might have reported you both, so he went looking elsewhere. That is how he made contact with the witch."
"Etelka Herzen, yes," Rikard nods, folding his arms and frowning at the memory, "I'll not defend that choice, nor the quality of her character. She fed him with honeyed words and poured poison in his ear, convinced him that there was another way, one that was safer and would not see me lost to the family entirely. Doubtless she had some larger scheme in the works, and I like to imagine that father would have broken off the relationship once he realised what it was, but you ruined it before they could get that far. Father knew running was pointless; we'd be caught, and there was every chance the hunters would realise what I was. So he stayed to greet them, and made sure to cast a spell where they could see him. After that, well, they saw what they wanted to see."
"Wait," you interrupt, frowning in confusion, "You said he wasn't a witch. How did he cast a spell?"
"I said that he didn't have the Sight," Rikard corrects you with a thin and mirthless smile, "but you don't need to be able to perceive magic in order to shape it, you just need to have a soul. When a drunkard starts a fight, the red wind blows hot across his heart. When an old man feels Morr's hand upon his shoulder, the purple wind draws close. Even you, Markus, shape the winds of magic with your every thought and deed - even from the window, I saw the white wind respond to your thoughts when you fought our father. Let me guess - you were thinking of faith and duty, the proper order of the world?"
"What are you saying?" You have no idea if Rikard is telling the truth or not, for your education in matters magical was always more concerned with the signs needed to hunt it down or face it on a battlefield.
"I'm saying, Markus, that if you knew the right words and the proper gestures to use, you could have cast a spell as well as any magister," Rikard chuckles bleakly, then pauses for a moment in thought. "Well, not exactly. There are reasons the Colleges don't try and educate everyone, after all. It's… ah, how to explain…"
Your brother looks around for a moment, then nods and crosses the room to a small desk piled high with pots of paint. He opens a drawer and draws out an elegant dueling pistol from within, and though you tense with sudden suspicion he does not point it at anything, instead holding it up in demonstration.
"To cast a spell without being able to perceive the Winds of Magic is rather like loading and firing this gun, if first you donned a blindfold and a set of thick woolen mittens," Rikard says, nodding in satisfaction at his own explanation as he feeds powder into the barrel and draws a small bullet from a pouch on his belt, "Physically possible, provided someone had explained to you what a gun was and what motions it would require to load, but far more dangerous, to you and anyone you might accidentally point it towards."
"Even if I accept you are correct, this isn't a question of technicalities, Rikard," you say tersely, painfully aware that your brother hasn't put down the pistol, that there is a rapier propped up by the edge of the desk, "You are a spellcaster. You must go to the Colleges."
"No," Rikard says simply, and despite yourself you cannot restrain a snarl.
"Damn it, Rikard, it isn't a choice!" you roar, taking a step forward and letting your hand go to the hilt of your sword, "I can offer amnesty for past deeds if need be, but you know better than most what the penalty is for unsanctioned witchcraft!"
"Oh, but it is. A choice, I mean," Rikard says, an odd little smile on his face now as he looks at you, "I could learn to cast spells, but I haven't. Not since father died, at any rate. I perceive more of the world than most do, but aside from my paintings that awareness changes nothing about my life. I am neither a spellcaster nor a witch."
"You know the law doesn't see it that way," you say, fighting down the bleak surge of despair that threatens to consume you, because you can see how this is going to go. You can see what Rikard is working himself up to.
"The law is ink on paper, Markus, and justice is blind; why else would Verena hide her eyes?" Rikard says softly, and you can hear the anger in his voice, the bitter contempt that lurks behind his placid expression. He knows full well how poorly such an argument would hold up in front of any court you might happen to find. "What matters is how it is enforced, and here you are, an agent of the church and state charged with doing just that. So tell me, brother mine. You've heard my argument, and you know my answer. What is yours?"
Article:
Choose One:
[ ] Kill your Brother Rikard hates you too much to listen to any argument, and will resist any attempt to arrest him with lethal force. You can't let him go, and try though you might, you cannot capture him alive. His death is, at least, kinder than your father's.
[ ] Turn a Blind Eye Walk away, and hope that your brother is telling the truth. If this ever comes to light your peers may well understand, may even sympathise, but they will not pardon you. You will burn like your father did, for the Templars cannot be seen to be above the laws that they enforce.
---[X] More specifically, kill his illusions of safety and remind him that he's a very small minnow in a very big cavern. Imperial 'justice' is still better than a cult suborning him like one nearly did to Pietr.
---[X] Offer Rikard the chance to choose how he arrives at the Colleges with you, and which College he chooses. If he's still here in the morning, reminisce about the Perpetual Apprentices and Journeymen you've seen, and remind Rikard that your father's understanding of the Colleges came from Etelka Herzen, almost certainly a cultist herself. You're not about to condemn your own brother to death by proxy.
---[X] Threaten Rikard with the Grey Order, who might decide that Rikard's gone too far and must be killed. You're the Witch Hunter he knows, rather than the unknown Wizard he fears.
You can't do it. You should, you know this - the law is uncompromising on this matter, and opposition to the unclean magics of the witch is a core tenet of Sigmar's teachings for very good reason. There are a thousand reasons you ought to draw your sword and slay the unsanctioned spellcaster here and now, reasons pragmatic and legal and spiritual, and all of them fall short against a single straightforward fact - Rikard is your brother. He's an annoying little shit, especially of late, a man who hates you and seems compelled to antagonise you at every turn, but he is still your brother. You've sent one relative to the pyre already, and faced now with the chance to repeat that deed, you simply cannot. Your arms will not move, your tongue will not speak, your heart will not lend you strength.
"...he asked me to protect you," you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat, and in your heart a small shred of conviction that once drove you falls away and fades to nothing.
"I… what?" Rikard seems surprised, almost to the point of incomprehension. Perhaps that is a comfort, or perhaps it merely adds to the burden; even your brother thought you would be better than this.
"Father's ghost," you explain, closing your eyes and feeling all the fire drain out of your body, "Just before I laid him to rest. He asked me to protect you. It's what he died doing. I can't betray that."
"Oh. I see," Rikard's voice sounds faint, almost hollow, and when you open your eyes again it is just in time to see him wipe his own free of tears. "Well. What happens now?"
"We may as well start by having Maria join us," you reply, raising your voice just enough to be clearly audible in the hallway outside. You didn't close the door when you entered, and sure enough a moment later your sister appears in the doorway, her pale face drawn and tense with mingled fear and relief. "Did you know, sister?"
"No," Maria shakes her head, casting Rikard a look both venomous and faintly exasperated. "If I had, I would not have invited a Templar of Sigmar to our door. Meaning no offence to you, Markus."
"Naturally," you say dryly, a faint flicker of amusement lighting the dark hollow of your heart. "Well, we know now. As for what happens next… that, Rikard, depends on you."
"What do you mean?" Rikard frowns at you, but you notice with some relief that he has put down the gun, and there is less distaste in his words than there was before.
"If you spoke true, if you have not cast anything since that day, if you never do so in the future… then nothing will happen," you explain, shaking your head in wonder. You have no real name for the cocktail of emotions swirling through your soul right now, at once shamed and relieved beyond measure. You have committed to this course, and now you must see it through. "If you were lying, or intend to break your word in the future, then you and I will burn together."
"I… you'd go that far?" Rikard blinks at you, clearly astonished.
"Think about it, idiot," Maria scoffs, folding her hands and fixing your brother with a withering glare, "The penalties for sheltering a witch are hardly less harsh than being one, and Markus is a Templar. No organisation tolerates betrayal, especially not one so dependent upon the respect that others have for the law to function."
You nod grimly, all too aware that Maria herself is now running the same risk. Perhaps another woman might be able to claim ignorance, but the daughter and sister of two confirmed witches? The chance that she might be believed is slim indeed, unless she turns you both in herself. If she does, well, you'd be the world's greatest hypocrite to blame her for it.
"Father should have gone to the Colleges, and I still think you should do likewise," you sigh, looking at your brother once more, "but I won't kill you for refusing. Others will not be nearly so merciful, so you need to resist any temptation to cast from now until you die. Frankly, you probably need to stop painting the Winds into your works as well; father isn't the only noble to take an interest in the arcane, and the chances that someone else will recognise them are too high already."
Rikard nods shakily, and you realise with some bleak amusement that he never considered this. He was expecting you to kill him when the truth came out, likely built his entire model of you on that assumption, and so never bothered to think much further into the future. Perhaps he even expected that the truth would come out one way or the other in the end, that eventually he'd be forced to make a choice between the Colleges and death. Now he has been presented with a third choice, and it seems he does not know what to do with it or himself.
"Who else knows?" Maria says briskly, casting a brief glance back at the doorway, "I ordered the servants away, and will need to take steps to ensure nobody disobeyed, but beyond that?"
"Nobody," Rikard says haltingly, before pausing and frowning, "Wait, no. Etelka Herzen, the witch who contacted father. She knows, assuming that she still lives."
"Then it seems, dear brother, you have a cultist to track down," Maria says sweetly, a cold look in her eyes as she sizes you up, "I assume your order maintains at least some records of those it burns, in case we should be so fortunate?"
"It does," you allow, slightly discomforted by the intense look in your sister's eyes, "Though it would take a great deal of time to sift through ten years of records, especially if I need to confirm that the name does not appear."
"We're not under any urgent time pressure - if she lives, the witch has not used what she knows for ten years at least," Maria waves her hand dismissively, "Beyond which, you hardly need to work alone. You have a position of authority, and you have future career prospects that may encourage any number of enterprising souls to curry your favour; let it be known that you seek to ascertain the fate of the woman who led your father astray and many will fall over themselves praising you for your diligence."
"...you've become a dangerous woman, Maria," you say, bemused and a little bit concerned.
"I have little choice in the matter, since it seems both my brothers are content to self-destruct in pursuit of their most absurd principles," your sister sniffs, "Now, I will have the servants prepare dinner. You will both join me for a hot meal in the western hall, one hour from now, and there we will have a civilised conversation with each other for the first time in ten years."
So saying, Maria von Bruner turns on her heel and sweeps out of the studio with her head held high, leaving you and your brother adrift and rudderless in her wake. For a moment neither of you says anything, then Rikard cracks something approaching a smile.
"I don't suppose the pyre is still an option?"
"Rikard," you growl, hands balling back into fists, but your brother merely raises his hands in surrender.
"A poor jest, my apologies," he sighs, heading for the door as well, "Well, we might as well prepare. You'll find your old clothes still in your rooms, reasonably well maintained. Go and wash up before you join us for dinner. We do still have standards."
-/-
Article:
Markus has resolved the Haunted Home situation and completed his personal long-term goal of earning his father's forgiveness (or perhaps more accurately realised that he feels able to defend his choices before his father's ghost). Consequently, he has 780xp to spend.
Below are a series of premade packages, each worth roughly 250xp. You may choose three of them.
Alternately, those of you with greater system mastery may create and suggest plan votes that spend the 780 total in a more customised way, either in total or as alternate packages. You may draw from up to rank 3 Witch Hunter or rank 2 Stevedore.
[ ] Swordsman +2 weapon skill (100), +5 Melee Fencing (100), +5 Melee Basic (100). This package raises Markus' primary melee skills to a total of 70.
[ ] Marksman +2 ballistic skill (80), +5 Ranged Blackpowder (100), +3 perception (90). This package makes you a better shot and more likely to spot your targets at range.
[ ] Fistfighter +7 Melee Brawling (160) and the Dirty Fighting talent (100). This package raises Markus' unarmed combat skill to 70, and also lets him inflict more damage and gain more SL at the cost of violating good sportsmanship.
[ ] Unshakeable +4 willpower (160), +5 Cool (100). This package makes Markus far harder to shake or intimidate, raising his Cool skill to a total of 70.
[ ] Inspiring +5 Fellowship (125), +4 Charm (80), +4 Leadership (80). This package raises Markus' primary skills for swaying and commanding others to a total of 60 each.
[ ] Tough As Nails +3 Toughness (150), Tenacious talent (100). This package raises Markus' toughness to 60, giving him two more wounds and another point of damage reduction, and doubles the amount of time he can endure harsh conditions or deprivation.
[ ] Brawny +3 strength (75), Very Strong talent (100), +5 Swim (100). This package raises Markus' strength bonus to 4, meaning he hits harder and can bear more weight, and also means he learns how to swim.
[ ] Insightful +8 initiative (270). This 'package' makes Markus notably faster to act, and also increases his skills at reading people, noticing details and navigation.
