Duardo de Palanza de Fallucci de Trantio was to be considered on most accounts, although still one of the wealthiest men in Tilea, as a pretty broken sort of man; his fortunes had failed him in the last few years, he had become a reclusive shell of the man he had once been - locking up and hiding himself away from the world in his stronghold of stone - and now he was beginning to hear voices in the night and warnings of untimely deaths before they came to pass. Many said he was mad, and more sympathetic figures would sagely nod their heads and claim that he had a right to be after all that he had suffered, to which the opposite would sneer and go on about their business as usual.

Once upon a time he had been a jovial man, a rotund figure with three sons and a beautiful wife to call his own, his family home - the castle of Guilamuero, a central keep surrounded by a curtain wall and a deep moat, the serfs of his vineyards and estates living in settlements outside the walls - passed down to him on the death of his enterprising father, along with the old mans considerable fortune; it was a fortune he had used to fund the ill-fated expedition to Albion, the hiring of a mercenary army and the passage across the waves that would end in the deaths of all his sons, the decimation and desertion of his army, and the taking of his wife by another man into his bed. Oh, she claimed to have thought him dead...but he knew better.

Gaining passage back to his native Tilea from an Imperial skipper, with the very last of his coin, the now gaunt and ragged nobleman returned to an estate in ruins and a castle where only his faithful family servant Alfredo awaited him - yet Alfredo was old even when his father lived, and could not be expected to do much in the way of upkeep. He heard from this trusted man how his wife had spent all the money she could, never knowing about that which he had secreted away from all but himself, before taking the serfs and herself to a rivals estate somewhere to the south in the Republic of Remas.

All was lost, and the only artefact he had gained from Albion was a small golden talisman, a roughly hewn thing carved into the likeness of a Lizardman's skull, which over time he had began to think was driving him mad - even when he tried to rid himself of it, throwing it into the moat, it returned not moments later to lay neatly on his dusty desk, form where he liked to look out across his hilly and empty domain of a sunlit day.

Eventually, with anger and revenge burning a hole in his chest, he sent Alfredo and the swiftest mount that his wife had not taken to every inn, brothel and crossroad across the Principality of Trantio which read;

"Duardo de Trantio, Lord of Guilmuero and man of expansive wealth, seeks daring adventurers and sell-swords in need of employment to attend him at his castle in the foothills of the Apuccini mountains east of the city of Trantio; for those that attend there shall be food and a payment of coin extended to them simply for their presence.

The afeared of death and weak-hearted need not apply.

Make yourself known at the drawbridge, where a servant shall be waiting."

This was Tilea after all, so all one need do was wait and they would come...or would they?

Guilmuero had a black reputation since his return, many saying that it was cursed by the spirits of his slain sons, mercenaries of his former expeditionary force claiming that Duardo himself had partaken of eating human flesh when they had become trapped in a bog land near some odd structures, before being ambushed by a Druchii raiding party that is.

Yes, only the foolish or the desperate would find their way to that place, so they claimed.



Sometimes fate is known to tap you on the shoulder, offering you a helping or not-so-helping hand or direction, and other times...other times it simply slaps you across the face!

It was in the latter way that Jan was awoken from a rather pleasant sleep, if you discount the leering Goblin faces and the blood-curdling screams of his family being butchered, when a scrap of paper fluttered by, driven by the soft breeze coming down from the Apuccini Mountain range to try and smother him in his sleep - the impact was so sudden that he almost rolled off of the lightning-split tree trunk on which he was sleeping, straight into the dying embers of the fire he had lit the night before and allowed to turn to ashes.

"By all the Gods," he muttered, wrenching the paper away and glaring at the scrawled writing, unconciously plucking the long-stemmed pipe of clay from his pocket and clenching it between his teeth, "money...adventure..." food! His hand now scrabbled for some pipe weed and, satisfied it was enough for his morning smoke, pressed it into the bowl of the pipe and looked for something to act as some tinder, that was until his eyes fell once more to the paper before him.

Memorising the name of the castle, the location, and the name and title of this Tilean potente, he tore the blasted paper apart and sprinkled it liberally with his weed, using the last and largest piece to dip into the embers and alight his pipe.

"Aaaah!"

He could feel every worry draining away with the first inhilation, his toes curling and then relaxing, his mind becoming both clearer and more focused, and there was only one thing now on his mind...breakfast.

Sitting now as he was at a crossroads in the Apuccini foothills, the coarse and rugged yet rather beautiful terrain so far from his Mootland home as to make him weep, it was a good thing he had stocked up in Remus when he had the chance! His pack bulged with all manner of ingredients, the all-important cooking pot and frying pan hanging from the pack that was almost as large as himself, and it was as he recalled how he had got them that he cackled into the open air.

"Aye, they all be wanting a taste of the Halflin' sausage."

Oh how he wish others could have seen the look on the face of the Butcher when he discovered his wife and the stunted Mootlander, one atop the other and seemingly rather happy, the poor lady resembling a sausage herself - all tight in her flesh, as if her innards strained against it, eager to escape - and probably having had no attention from her husband for many years before Jan arrived; how he laughed to himself as he set about preparing his earliest morning meal, plucking fat sausages, thick bacon and even an unbroken egg from the depths of his pack.

It was known by all races that Halflings were considered able to make something from nigh on nothing, and Jan, as broken and deranged as he was, possessed that innate knowledge as much as any other.

"Well, Jan me lad," he yawned after having devoured his fried meal, feeling only half full but a little more tired than he had some time before, "time for yer second nap says I..."

Listing off the important details of the contract he had smoked away, he lay back down on the log, his bedroll beneath his head to act as a pillow, and was soon asleep once more, safe in the knowledge that no one would slit the throat of a sleeping Halfling. After all, what would be the point? They were much more useful alive, anyway.

@POOHEAD189@Austronaut@HopelesRomantis@Culluket@Kingfisher

"Oi! Did ye hear?" one Dwarf bellowed, holding a piece of parchment in his large and hairy fist. "Some foolish manling is giving away his entire fortune!"

This was the first Dwarf tavern since Sketti had made his exit from the Sea port of Barak Varr. The voyage was long and boring, but it gave him some time to scribble some new schematics for a Hellfire Organ gun he was cooking up for a contract in Everpeak. Not like he had a crew anymore to help though, Grimnir curse it all. He was more used to boats and sea voyages than most Dwarfs, and even he had some trouble sleeping on the wooden manling contraption. He only had to walk around the ship twice to see a dozen ways in which it could capsize from shoddy steering.

They made it to the small port town just south of Miragliano, and only one run in with pirates to speak of. It was a short battle, and a few of the deckhands had been butchered, but Sketti quickly turned the tide with his bombs, sinking the pirate vessel into a cold oblivion. The ship burned nicely too. After the voyage, the hard ground was welcoming to his stout feet, and he made a B-line for the Tavern and a nice place to fall over and sleep. He drank only a modest 10 pints of Ale before he took a quick snore. A few other Dwarfs had traveled with him, but when one of them had retrieved the letter from some unknown courier, races of all kinds flocked to this bizarre news. Sketti was woken up by the sound of them bickering about it.

"Eh? What?" he said, falling off the couch like a rock and getting to his feet. He scratched his head with the metal appendage. It could always hit the spot. He barreled through some of the crowd and approached the Dwarf holding the paper.
"What's this all about?"

A few men and Dwarves gave him a wide berth, and whether it was for being a Slayer or having such an odd and dangerous looking metal arm, he couldn't tell.
"Some Guilmuero manling has called for Mercenaries and crazed fools to come and visit him at his estate. He says he'll feed and pay just for showing up!"

Guilmuero...Sketti had heard of that name before. Some madman that had lost his fortune and family from some insane expedition. Sketti grinned, showing his rotting teeth and two shiny golden ones. He enjoyed madmen. They understood his kind of thinking. The Slayer puffed out his chest and slammed a meaty fist against it. "Where's this castle of his at?"

Within minutes (he needed another drink), Sketti was out the door and heading straight for this Guilmuero's fortress. He'd walk day and night until he got there, and crash through anything that got in his way.

Gobskag was having difficulty with the watch.

Specifically, Gobskag was being held off the ground by the scruff of his greasy robes, kicking and flailing as four very official, very well-equipped men surrounded him. The novelty of the situation hadn't yet worn off for them, but Gobskag had a sixth sense for these things, and he knew in his revolting green water that it was only a matter of time before he was squig food.

"Geddoff!" he shrieked, swinging from side to side, "You got da wrong bloke! I ain't one o' dem bad gobbos, I'm 'eroic! I'm a merc, see!"

"You were caught stealing chickens from market." declared the sargeant over the stifled cackling of his men, "Who's your employer, the guild of foxes?"

"Iss fer real boss! I got papers, see!" Gobskag waved the twisted Scary Face staff, which was currently festooned with official-looking shreds of paper, affixed with clumsy wax seals. He tore one off -- the invitation --and forced it into the face of one of the men, who took it with ill-concealed amusement. "See!"

"Ah yes," the sargeant sighed, "The papers. Old tavern mats with 'I AM A MERSENARY' written on them in mud." the man drew in a thoughtful breath, "Call it circumstantial, sir goblin, but I suspect these of being forgeries."

"They ain't forgeries! I made 'em meself, I swear!!"

"Moving on. Upon being discovered stuffing two chickens into a sack and the other into your disgusting mouth, you then threw some sort of noxious elixir at the farmer--"

"It were self defense boss!" the goblin pleaded, "He wuz comin' at me wiv a chickin choppa!"

"Due to the chickens you were dragging away, presumably."

"I dunno nuffink about that, boss! Dat could of been any gobbo in town! Anyway they tasted crap."

"...And upon being confronted by the watch, you then accosted one of my men with a... let's see here... 'wooden scary face,' is that correct, Gaius?"

"It was very scary, Sarge."

"I see..."

"Took years off me life, it did"

One of the other men snickered from somewhere behind him.

"...Serious charges, greenskin. What have you to say in your defence?"

This was it. His one chance. Gobskag put on his most appealing tone, spreading his green hands in a gesture of honesty so practiced it couldn't possibly have been genuine.

"Friends... Tillyans... Countrygits.... " he began, "Dis is just a big miss-understandin' is all. I is but a humble travella, a simple gob of 'umble means, what doesn't know about the strange kustoms of dis shiny, noble land. But I's been around, here and dere, I knows how fings operates..."

A small pouch fell from the goblin's sleeve, landing on the cobbles with a musical jingle, its loosened opening betraying a glint of coin within. The goblin grinned an unctuous yellow grin.

"Oh goodness, hehh heeeehhh, I seem to 'ave dropped somefing," he wailed theatrically, "Poor clumsy Goblin, hnheehhh... Per'aps now I'll just walk away over dere, right, wiv me back turned an' all, so I can't see if it gets picked up, an'--"

"Bloody piece of--" the guard holding Gobskag patted at his hip, briskly, "That's MY fecking coinpurse!"

The sargeant drew his sword, his amusement at an end.

"Right. Entertainment's over. You're not in the Badlands now, vermin, this is Tilea, we have laws, and a thousand other things an animal like you couldn't possibly understand. You're going to hang, forthwith." he gestured, curtly, "Get it to the scaffold."

Kicking and shrieking ensued. The Scary Face stikk claimed another victim, but the odds were overwhelming. And that was how Gobskag da Great met his ignominious death at the hands of--

"Sarge..."

--Something in the other guardsman's voice made the rest of them pause mid-scuffle. He was holding out the crumpled, dirt-streaked invitation, offering it to the Sargeant, his expression grave. The officer gave him a questioning look and took it, frowning, reading over the page.

Little by little, his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Di Trantio..." he murmured, slowly. The other men stiffened. One made the sign of Sigmar, uneasily. Guilmuero. So it was true. There'd been rumors, but...

A mirthless smile split the sargeant's features. The gallows suddenly seemed a tender mercy.

"Change of plans, lads," he said, crushing the paper and tossing it at the goblin, "Escort this esteemed sellsword to his employer's place of residence. Make sure he gets there in one piece. After all, he has his grand new career ahead of him!"

There were sinister chuckles from one or two of the other men. The goblin was deposited ungenerously onto his arse in the middle of the dirty flagstones.

Gobskag straightened himself up, reclaiming the crumpled invitation. About time these gits gave him some proppa respect! Mork, but being a mercenary was right tuff. There was slings and arrers, and some other stuff. Not the best start, but sod it, he was alive and finally getting wot was coming to him! And if nothing else, hey -- At least he could be confident the evening wouldn't hold another little man coming at him with a meat cleaver.

“Come on now, friend! Be reasonable!” Kaebos Morales shrieked as he swung back and forth in the air like a frenzied marionette, dangled from the Bronze Vault Bridge by a groaning tether of frayed rope.

“Where’ za ruby?” Chengrizz said for the fifth time, his attention fixed on making sure his shortsword got a decent coating of cleaning oil. He ran the cloth back and forth over its steely blade, feeling the cold metal against his gnarled green flesh.

“R-ruby?!” Kaebos spluttered helplessly, as he swooped beneath the bridge, the wind muffling his words “I promise you, good sir, I don’t know anything about a ruby!”

“Then yer no use to me, blighta’.” The goblin shrugged his shoulders, sheathed his sword, and made his way over to the spiral of rope which bound Kaebos to the bridge.

“No! Wait! Please!” The dark-skinned man wailed, as Chengrizz pressed the sharp-edge of his blade against the rope “The Ruby...I sold it to a merchant named Argumant! He lives out in Guilmuer; that haunted castle!”

“Spirits don’t frighten me, Blighta’.” Chengrizz smirked “Can’t be that tough if they managed to get ‘emselves killed.”

The hobgoblin rose to his feet.

“Maybe someone’ll come along and save ya’?” He called down to Kaebos, as he turned and walked away, leaving the man to bellow insults and obscenities up at him, whilst he continued to swing back and forth beneath the bridge.

---

Chengrizz fought and bit and bullied his way to the man called Argumant, until he found him hiding out in a small shack on the verges of the ruined castle’s borders.

The man had been disagreeable at first, but once Chengrizz started taking fingers, he suddenly became that much more amicable. Not only did he return the hobgoblin’s ruby, but he also mentioned that the noble Duardo de Palanza de Fallucci de Trantio was looking for mercenaries.

Something that would interest an esteemed sellsword such as yourself, no? GAAAAH! Please! No more flaying!

The Hobgoblin arrived at the drawbridge but a few hours later, clad in the armour of his craft.

“This betta’ pay well.” He grumbled under his breath.

There's a simple saying that most folk know and practice: "Don't poke the bear." Some people, however, just can't repress the urge.

Two sailors crashed through the window of the Saucy Mermaid, rolling about the streets in a tangled, bloody mess. One groaned, and the other popped his nose back into his place with a cry. A passing guardsman decided to investigate, and he boldly stepped up to the door with his sword in hand, ready to stop the commotion inside and return law and order to the tavern.

That brave guardsman decided there were more pressing crimes to be dealt with when he saw a giant of a man snap a table in half over his knee.

It didn't take Bjorn long to finish the fight the sailors had started. He swung the two parts of the table about like a pair of shields, knocking the other drunks in the bar to the floor. The other patrons decided to give the Skaeling his space as he grabbed the last offender as he tried to flee and began squeezing him from behind with his tree trunk arms. Finally, just as the sailor thought it was all over, Bjorn simply tossed him onto the floor.

There was silence in the Mermaid. Two tables were wrecked, several chairs were scattered, bottles were broken, and one of the kegs was spewing its contents out onto the floor. Someone coughed. It was a huge mess.

The tavern keeper cleared his throat, stroking his hand through his scraggly beard. "So," he began slowly, "what bastard will be paying for the damages?"

"They will," Bjorn said with a grin, wiping blood off his face. One of the sailors had scratched him with a broken bottle. "They're in no position to argue," he observed, peering down at the men on the ground. They'd live, but their groans and moans were the sort you'd expect from someone in an infirmary. The mercenary knelt on down and cut the coinpurse of the fattest man (who, sure enough, had the fattest pouch of coins). After weighing it in his hands for a few moments, he tossed it over at the tavern keeper. The gray-haired man caught it, removed one of the coins, bit it, and gave Bjorn a satisfied nod.

"Now," said the old man with a raised eyebrow, "I'll ask you to leave. I'll be askin' everyone to leave," he added, waving his hand at the remaining patrons. "I've got a mess to clean."

Bjorn wouldn't argue with that. He left.

The Skaeling mercenary made his way past the market and toward the inn he was staying at. The merchants in the city were all very busy shouting to passersby and trying to cut into each others' business. In fact, Bjorn could have sworn he saw one merchant sneak over to another's stall, steal his fruits, then start hawking them as his own. It was... funny.

But what caught Bjorn's eye was a piece of parchment nailed to a jobs board. There was an offer of food and money just to visit some rich man's castle. All-in-all, it struck Bjorn as rather telling that nobody had snatched the paper up...

Chances were good it involved something more dangerous than it seemed to, probably a job pitch. Bjorn decided the risk made the little get together worth attending.

The Norse warrior noted the instructions, memorized them, and then made his way to the inn to gather his things. He was going to have a long walk ahead of him. It almost made him wish he had a horse.

Duardo de Trantio. Biannca wrinkled her nose in distaste. It would take a more desperate sellsword than she to ride to that mad man’s estate. Money or otherwise. Not too much desperate though. Lowering the employment note, she pulled the lace curtains back to look out over the city. The cool night wind caressed her naked flesh and a shiver of pleasure ran through her. The city of Verezzo stretched out beneath her like a glittering field of jewels. Further out , the lush plain was tinted with the moon’s silver light. Here and there a small prosperous farmstead blazed with firelight.

Behind her she heard a stirring in the bed. Giarlamo de Savara, a man in rather later middle age than she preferred, stirred in his bed. Still, this was a very beautiful and comfortable house on the hill and trade offs had to be made.

“Come back to bed Biannca,” Giarlamo murmured invitingly. She was about to make a mildly stinging remark about his capabilities in that area when a pounding on the heavy oak door.

“Come out whore!” Screamed a male voice, tinged with hysteria. Giarlamo sat up with a start, clearly confused. A chill ran through Biancca, there were enough people that might characterize her that way, and one appearing now was not good.

“How dare you!” The lordling thundered, grasping around in the near dark for a robe or a weapon. Biannca cast her eyes toward the dresser where her clothing and possessions were stored. Before she could move, the door exploded inward, banging violently against the stone wall. There, illuminated by the lanterns his two underlings carried, was Remo Calvaro. He had been her previous star crossed lover. It was perhaps unfortunate that the first sight that greeted him was her naked body silhouetted against the large stone window.

“Whore!” Remo screamed again, apparently limited in his repertoire insults.

“You swore you would be mine alone,” he cursed, stamping forward. The two men who followed him looked tough, mercenaries probably.

Giarlamo rolled out of bed, coming up with a rapier in his hand, pointing it low at the new comers chest.

“Remo?” The older man managed, he clearly recognized the other noble as fear and adrenaline chased the last cobwebs of sleep away.

“Biannca?” He asked doubtfully, “what is he talking about?”

Great, comparing notes was never good. Who could remember what you had said to whom anyway?

Her mouth worked, looking for a diplomatic way out of her predicament. Perhaps accepting favors from both men had been a mistake afterall. Before she could make up her mind on what to say one of the mercenaries rushed forward. His intention might have been to disarm Giarlarmo but the older man pivoted smoothly and reflexively thrust his rapier into the thugs belly. The coppery smell of blood and the sharp stench of intestines filled the room. Remo and his other crony rushed forward with howls of rage.

Biannca dived for the dresser as the room erupted in chaos behind her. Giarlarmo screamed like a gelded hog for the merest second before cutting off in a bubbling grunt. She snatched one of her pistols from between her silk garment, thumbed back the hammer and spun. One of the thugs was lunging towards her and she fired without really aiming. The thunder of the powder in the stone chamber left her ears ringing but the thug was hurled back across the blood stained bed blood bubbling from his lips. Bright lights danced across her eyes from the discharge. She groped for the second pistol but just as her fingertips brushed the wooden stock a heavy weight hit her across the chest. Her head smacked against stone floor while Remo grasped at her throat with iron fingers.

“You filthy slut, you won’t live to regret making me a laughing stock,” he hissed as he started to squeeze. The world spun drunkenly around her. With strength born of desperation she bought the butt of her pistol up in a vicious arc, smashing the heavy wood into his temple. At the same time she drove her knee into his groin, throwing him off her with a pained grunt. She crawled frantically across the stone floor towards one of the fallen mercenaries, reaching the man a moment before Remo’s strong hands grabbed her ankles. WIth a final desperate effort she snatched a dagger from the fallen sell swords belt and spinning on her attacker. There was just enough time to take in his face, twisted with hate and jealously, before drove the slim blade into his throat. Remo fell back with a gurgle, grasping uselessly at the knife as blood fountained out around the blade. He staggered back with a plaintive whine, took a step towards the window and collapsed in a heap.

Biannca stood for a moment, naked, splashed with blood, over the bodies of two of Verezzo’s most powerful men. Her chest heaved as she struggled to fill her lungs. Her eyes drifted down to the note, surprisingly white in the moonlight. She grabbed for her clothes and weapons. Perhaps she WAS that desperate.

Alfredo, eldest and last serving member of the de Trantio family (or what there was left of it), sat deep in thought at his small table located in the gatehouse of Guilamuero castle. He still thought of it as a castle, even if it was now little more than a central keep - something so sturdy not falling easily to the ravages of time and disrepair - ruined sections of tumbled-down walls, and a moat that would barely be able to stop a half-capable swimmer let alone an invading army!

Fortunately he and his master had little to worry about on that account, people for miles around referring to him as 'the Cursed Duke' and claiming that the castle was haunted; one villager had even invented a plethora of ghostly apparitions from deaths that had not happened anywhere near Guilamuero castle, the rest of his superstitious friends spreading the same tales like wildfire through a dry forest.

Truth be told, he did not expect anyone to come. Oh yes, he believed that money - and of that the Duke still had plenty secreted away - was a most excellent motivator, but he knew for a fact that mercenaries were a troublesome, quarrelsome and unsavoury assemblage of characters. Some there may be, yes, but even if they did turn up he imagined they would likely take one look at the castle and turn right back around; for days now he had sat hunched-over in his little wooden gatehouse, doing his best to keep the Duke alive, to keep the cobwebs and dust from the main hall in case someone was mad enough to approach and seek employment with a man who had gotten his own sons killed, and he had even stocked up the larder with whatever foodstuffs he could purchase or steal from traveling merchants or villages hereabouts.

"Woe...woe is me..." he began to bemoan once more, his hands coming up to cover his face, his eyes looking down to notice the holes in his hose and how they had gotten much bigger recently, "woe...wo-" wait, was that a sound? No, it couldn't be!

Lifting his head from his hands, and standing up slowly to take a small peek out of the one window of the gatehouse, he almost gave a small squeak of fright when he caught sight of the green-skinned individual standing before the drawbridge, clearly mouthing something to itself in a probably unintelligible tongue. Well, he certainly looked the part of a sellsword, the pointed helmet on his head most becoming if Alfredo said so himself; perhaps this was the beginning of something after all?

"Welcome!" Half-yelled the servant as he emerged from the gatehouse - dressed in the red and orange livery of his master and a pair of mouth-eaten hose, he was really not much to look at. An elderly man with sun-browned skin like toughened old leather, balding on top of his head and with a slightly puckered mouth, his back hunched from decades of scraping and bowing.

"Welcome, friend, to Guilamuero Castle! The seat of my master, the Duke de Trantio," a wide sweep of his arm was given to make sure that Chengizz realised the majesty and grandeur of the pile of stones before him, "please, if you have come seeking employment, then follow me. This way."

Not even waiting for an affirmation that he was a sword-for-hire, Alfredo moved off at a sloping gait that was easy for anyone with fully functioning legs to keep up with. He made his way through the corridors of the keep, a square building four-floors high and made of solid stone from the nearby mountains, with the confidence and knowledge of a man who had spent pretty much his entire life wandering those halls, stopping only when they reached a hall - the feasting hall - illuminated by dozens of candles, although light still came in through numerous arrow-slits in the walls; directly before them, laid out with dedication and precision, was a table capable of seating over twenty-four people that extended to the farthest reaches of the hall, all manner of food and drink presented there - from partridge and wine, to boar and ale, most foods were accounted for.

"Eeer, it occurs to me that I have not even asked your name -" he paused for a brief moment, taking in the Hobgoblin with a quick glance, "um, sir."



@Austronaut@Shorticus@Kingfisher@Culluket@POOHEAD189@HopelesRomantis

As soon as the blasted greenskin was out of sight, Sketti came stomping around the bend in the road. He stopped as soon as his eyes fell upon the ruin that was Guilamuero castle. He scratched his beard, and spit into the dirt. The Engineer shook his shaggy head, crest swaying in the air. Manlings would live in anything these days. He'd not seen such shoddy stonework since he'd visited Sylvania for a winter, passing through.

He had gotten used to Manlings the past 50 years, but this was still pushing it. The image of Gold in his head quickly made him remember this was all worth it. He'd probably get to slay some greenskins after all, he thought with a hearty chuckle. Hefting his pack and scratching his meaty chest with his metal appendage, he strode forward with a purpose, passing the bridge and the open gatehouse.

He'd have to talk to this supposed madman about the hovel he was living in. A toddler could improve this place, imagine what he could do? Despite his constant thoughts of the amount of disarray, he was much less harsher than many other Dwarfs he knew, and he was very giddy to get to killing and being paid. He needed some more funds to help his next engineering project. He made his way up the stairs, knowing his way through the stonehalls as if he had been born and raised among them. He stomped into the feasting hall where he heard voices. "Oi! Is this the madman's castle or am I wasting my time at-"
His beard bristled and his eyes popped open at the farce of a meeting before him. "Grobi!" he cried, and pulled one of his pistols. "Ye'll not get me off guard ye durned uncreative greenskin!"

Chengizz had been mid-sentence when the Dwarf appeared and started waving his pistols about the place.

"You wanna tussle, Blighta'?" He snarled, his nimble fingers already coiling around the hilt of his sword.

Even by dwarf standards, this one looked well-built, what with his barrel chest and broad shoulders, although his distinct lack of a left arm was worth noting.

"If I was tryin' ta catch ye off guard I'd behind a bush, not out 'ere in the open, like. Feckin' half-wit."

The Hobgoblin's beady eyes fell upon the pistol which was being aimed at him.

"Gonna smoke us from afar, are ya?" Chengizz sneered "Thought you types were supposed to be tough."

As he spoke the greenskin was carefully using his free-hand to shimmy his harpy knife out of its scabbard on his back. Should the dwarf rush him, he was more than willing to shiv him in the gut.

Bjorn couldn't help but laugh when he looked at the castle from afar. It looked more like a haunted ruin than a noble's castle. He half-expected he'd find some skaven or a necromancer skulking about.

The walls were abandoned. The roads were in disrepair, though the sharp-eyed Norseman could see two figures approaching the castle on foot from the hill he was on. One of them was definitely dwarf sized. The wind beat against the whole landscape like it harbored some hatred for it. The walls were a mess, the moat was pathetic, and the takeaway was clear: if the man who owned this place had any real wealth, he'd have spent it maintaining this place.

The Norseman's laughter faded. A flat frown settled on his jaw, and a look of cold malice one normally associated with warriors of Chaos overtook his face. He was always happy to hire on with would-be adventurers or to find himself a fight, but this was starting to bode ill. Bjorn felt like his time was being wasted. He did not like having his time wasted.

No matter. The mercenary set his axe on his shoulder and started marching on down toward the ruins. His smile returned: there were some high windows in the dilapidated castle, so he could always chuck the owner out a window if this was a farce.

The path on down was quicker, if a little more slippery. It beat taking the longer route along the road, and Bjorn had the stamina for it. His impression of the place didn't get any better as he came to the door. If there was a watchman, he wasn't there anymore. Bjorn wondered if he was walking into a trap, so he pulled his shield off from over his back and started heading inside. Necromancers were a tricky lot.

As he stepped inside the castle, he heard the sound of footsteps. He followed them, eyeing his surroundings warily as he went. It seemed there was some semblance of life in the place, like someone tried to live in the ruins...

And that is when the Norseman heard a loud, dwarven voice shout "GROBI!"

Bjorn didn't know much about dwarves. However, he knew a word of hatred when he heard it. He had several of his own. What's more, he'd only ever heard that word spat when greenskins were around.

The giant man began bulldozing through the hall, knocking over a rusty suit of armor with a crash, crushing the remains of a termite-ridden end table with his feet. He burst into the room, sending the door flying off its hinges in splinters, and he saw the dwarf and the hobgoblin posturing against each other. Bjorn knew who he would pick for an ally.

"OI! Drop that damned pigsticker of yours, you green runt!" snarled the Norseman, standing up to his full height and pointing his axe at the greenskin. The skull on his armor gleamed in the torchlight, and he growled down to the dwarf, "We'll not be killed by any goblin ambush today, half-man."

If this greenskin was begging for his life, he was doing a right shoddy job of it. Still, Sketti got the jist of what the creature was spewing out and he cocked the hammer on his pistol. "I'm afraid of no Grobi." he growled. He was just about to put the pistol down and cave in its head with his metal arm, but he grinned, showing his missing and golden teeth. "But there's something about watching a bullet fly through one's head that soothes me heart."

The Slayer was just about to pull the trigger when he heard a bustle and comotion in the hall. What in Grungni's hammer? A huge Skaeling warrior strode in and hefted his huge Axe. He was a big man for sure. Probably weighed as much as Sketti, himself! The Dwarf slowly put his pistol back in his holster, and put his hand and stump on his stout hips, as if he couldn't believe he 1) had a norsca on his side, and 2) the bastard called him a half man. "I'm no Half man ye blasted Chaos spawn!" he roared, shaking his metal appendage. "Ye want a piece of me or-...by Valya's tits..."

The cogs in his mind turned, and suddenly he realized what they were all doing here. Not even a manling lord would hire these two, and have the gall to not warn a Dwarf about it! "Did you two happen to get here for this manling's call for sellswords, by any chance?" he asked them slowly, eyes still showing a wild edge about them. As if as soon as they said no, he'd punch the Skaeling in the testicles and bash the Hobgoblin's brains in.

"Now dis is a great castle!"

The wall was a cracked ruin of toppled stone, overgrown with creepers and weeds. The open portcullis loomed like a fanged maw, casting deep shadows across the courtyard despite the bright heat of day. The gatehouse was empty, and the only sound other than the goblin's babbling and the crunch of boots on gravel was the harsh croaking of ravens from the dead trees nearby.

Gobskag continued to elucidate.

"Look at dem walls!" he said, reedily, "It takes smart buildin' to make 'em crumble proper like dat. Not to mention gettin' it cursed just right. Spiders everywhere I bet. Dis place is dead magical, I can smells it."

One of the men muttered something and cracked his knuckles. Jealous, probably. Gobskag's good fortune was obvious.

"Where's the servant?" rumbled one of the other men, looking left and right with unease. "No one said anything about us having to go in."

"I don't like it either, but orders are orders." His companion was adamant. "The sooner we get this greasy little shit inside, the sooner we leave. So let's move."

They crossed the courtyard quickly, the two 'escorts' shoving Gobskag ahead of them over the cracked cobblestones and wild, overgrown grass. Still there was nobody. Where was Gobskag's royal Mercenary welcome? He had the papers and everyfing. Yet not a single swordboy or flunky to be seen. I mean, they'd left the gate open for him at least. And the door was ajar.... Probably the door to the treasure room was ajar, too... Not to mention the larder...

Gobskag grinned a conniving yellow grin and worked his twisted hands together unctuously.

"Alright lads, youse done your jobs," he condescended to his bodyguards, "Dis is definitely the place. I'll just ah, sees meself in, heh heh... No harm in havin' a little bit of a poke around, heeeenh? Heh heh..." One long, skinny claw reached out for the door.

"GROBI!" the raw, savage bellow echoed throughout the overgrown courtyard. "YE'LL NOT GET ME OFF GUARD YE DURNED UNCREATIVE GREENSKIN!"

Gobskag froze. The flour-sack hood slowly turned to face the two men behind him, beady red eyes glittering with sudden, urgent nervousness.

"Ehhhhnh..." he began, "actually, I fink this is a diff'rent castle--"

The foremost escort already had his sword leveled at the goblin's throat.

"In." he ordered, grimly.

---

Gobskag scuttled through the shadows, darting from one piece of furniture to the next, hauling himself up a spiral flight of stairs in the most hidden alcove he could find, flinching as the sound of breaking wood and something huge hurtling bodily through the corridors nearby reached his flapping great ears. Surely there was an open window or a drain he could squeeze through. He'd find another employer, one who wasn't as keen to murder him as this one apparently was.

"Gonna smoke us from afar, are ya?" a voice sneered from somewhere below "Thought you types were supposed to be tough."

The goblin ducked, panting, taking a moment to realize he'd circled around and found himself at a rickety wooden balcony overlooking the dining hall. Skulking behind the railing, he peered down at the four men - wait, naff that: One man, one hobber(!) one stuntie with a shiny arm, and just now one a' them chaos boys -- all facing off and about to start bashing.

Fear dissolved into opportunism and mischief began to percolate in the goblin's wizened little mind as he went from fleeing for his life to scheming to take somebody else's in the time it takes to flip a coin. So that were it. It weren't him they were after. In fact they hadn't seen him yet at all. He was in the perfect position for one o' them attacks of opportunity.

He eyed one of the tarnished, cobwebbed suits of armor posed by the opposing wall, leering.

Okay, sure, it was heavy. But the hostility and adrenaline of the imminent brawl below along with the presence of the murderous hobgoblin was enough to grant him a thin trickle of da green stuff, enough to bolster his puny physique with a hushed Gettin' Tuffer! zap, charging his little green body with revolting vigor. He pressed his hunching back against the metal armor, jammed first his Stikk and then his feet against the corner of the wall and heaved with all the effort he could muster. The plated suit began to creak and groan as it slowly began to tilt toward the edge.

"OI! Drop that damned pigsticker of yours, you green runt!"

Alright, Gobskag thought, it weren't going to be what you'd call a precision strike. But, he reasoned, no matter who he squished, someone was bound to be grateful. He'd side with whoever had more boys once the dust settled and...

"We'll not be killed by any goblin ambush today, half-man."

It was a moment after the point at which it was far too late that Gobskag realized the groaning wasn't coming from the armor at all.

It was coming from the balcony.

The beams, after far too long suffering the depredations of termites and damp rot, could no longer support the kind of pressure being exerted on them. One by one they began to cave, and right as the Dwarf was asking some sort of question the entire wooden platform buckled -- it, the suit of armor and the now panicking goblin all sliding like a slow avalanche toward the four below.

It was an impossible situation. Gobskag did the only thing he could.

"WAAAAGH!" he shrieked, plummeting.

Feeling overdressed was not normally a sensation which bothered Biannca. It was better to shine in silk than to sulk in sackcloth after all. Still, looking at the dilapidated keep, she felt distinctly overdressed, it’s crumbling ramparts and general disrepair did little to inspire confidence. Still, she had ridden all the way here, and if it turned out to be a fool’s errand she at least intended to collect the money she had been promised for appearing. With a vexed sigh she nudged her black stallion with the heels of her leather riding boots. The horse huffed out an affronted breath but started, reluctantly, down the shallow slope towards the castle.



The horse was of the finest Arabyian bloodline, the young groomsman had boasted in an effort to impress her, but it would take months to turn the brute from a show pony to a useful steed. Perhaps she was being a little uncharitable. The stolen horse had come with a new saddle and the cursed thing had been doing its best to pound her bottom into submission every mile of the week long ride. Even making such allowances, it was with some relief that she slipped from the saddle when she reached the courtyard.



The castle failed to improve its aesthetics up close. Clearly there would be no silken balls or galas here. With a sigh she tied the horse’s reigns to a post, sparing a speculative glance towards its structural integrity. No welcoming party, no guards. She had the sudden and unpleasant notion that she was the unfortunate heroine in one of those awful Dietrich Schlief novels. She certainly looked the parts, her polished black leather chest plate, form fitted over her tunic of slashed red and scarlet silk. Conscious of making a good impression, she brushed some of the dust away, making herself presentable. She fished a comb of carved ivory from a pouch and ran it through her hair. First impressions mattered afterall. With another sceptical look at the castle, she unfastened her weapons from the saddle. She fastened the leather belt around her right hip so as to leave her rapier and dirks in easy reach. Next she took her pair of pistols from a saddle bag, checked the priming, and thrust both weapons into her black and silver silk sash.



“Hello the castle?” she called, feeling foolish even as the words left her lips. There was no answer. Had other mercenaries arrived before her and looted the place? It seemed unlikely, not enough fires, looters always started fires. Reluctantly she climbed the stairs into the dilapidated building.



Biancca slipped quietly through the halls of the castle. Some efforts had been made to keep the place at least marginally clean, suggesting it wasn’t abandoned. She heard voices ahead of her and resisted the effort to draw her weapons. They sounded heated, angry insults maybe. Her soft leather boots made little sound as she ghosted forward to a crumbling stone doorway. Inside she found herself confronted by a sight that was so incredible she was momentarily stunned. A greenskin, a dwarf and the largest man she had ever seen, stood locked in tense confrontation. The man appeared to be wearing some kind of vast white animal pelt. A bear? The Dwarf was pointing a pistol at the greenskin. They were all snarling and none of them smelled too pleasant. Her hands moved unconsciously down to the butts of her pistols.



“What in the name of Myrmida is going on here?” she demanded intent on taking control of the situation. Before her words could register on the strange group, there was the tearing sound of ancient timber giving way and a clanging, clattering roar, like a metallic avalanche. Above the roar she thought she could make out some sort of inarticulate cry. Instinctively she stepped back into the shelter of the doorway. It wouldn’t do to spoil her outfit.

Before the Norsca and the Hobgoblin could answer the Dwarf's question, he heard a word that was forever etched into the mind of all Dawi. "WAAAAAGH!" Instinctually he looked up just in time to see the majority of the ceiling attachments falling around and near him. One beam managed to fall right atop Sketti Hammerhand, burying him in the wooden rubble and dust billowed forth. Behind him he thought he heard some Lass speak too, but this was too much for the Dwarf and he decided he'd fine the truth of that later.

Among his kind, Sketti was known for his eccentricities and wild side. He loved explosions, gunpowder, battle. You know, the simple things. He often had mad laughter on his lips when exposed to any of these. Sketti was also known for having a prankster's sense of humor and a light view of life. But greenskins!? GROBI!?

No Dwarf, no matter how odd, could bear such filth to live! Tough as the mountain stone, Sketti rose out of the pile of wrecked timber with a disheveled beard and a wild wrath about him. He took out his Axe, grinning wickedly at his supposed foes. If the Norsca got in his way, he'd cut him in half and wade right through him! If only he'd prepared bombs beforehand. Oh well, make do with what ye got.

What is worse than having a Hobgoblin inside your feasting hall? Having several racially divided mercenaries in one place, apparently.

Poor, poor, Alfredo; it had been bad enough with only one sword-for-hire, and a greenskin at that, but he had barely had time to point out all the delicious morsels laid out for him when a Dwarf had joined them. How he had made his way here was completely a mystery to the elderly servant, but he assumed it must be some sort of innate Dwarfen ability of sorts, not that it really mattered all that much. What did matter was that between getting from one moment to this current moment, Alfredo had very nearly had several severe heart attacks and was currently trying to hold back a apoplectic shock that was violently threatening to overwhelm him.

"I-" he managed to groan from between gritted teeth, one skeletal hand clutching at his rapidly palpitating chest, "I need to...sit down."

A couple of steps backward carried him to one of the many chairs arranged around the table further into the hall, an area that thankfully had not been touched by the violence - not the heavy set Norscan, nor the one-armed Dwarf, or even the suicidal Goblin who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. The food remained in place, as did the furniture, and as those milky eyes looked upon this, and saw that it was good, a calm descended upon the aged servant.

"Please," he coughed as the Dwarf announced his intentions to fillet the Hobgoblin, "he must be alive," a wheeze escaped his lips as he raised a weary arm, as thin as a twig, "will you not all join me here at the table, there is plenty of food for hungry adventurers, non?"

Please he prayed inwardly please let their eyes be bigger than their...weapons.

It was at this time that Jan, fresh from a fruitful breakfast of eggs and sausage, and a whole pipe-bowl of Halfling weed, made his way through the ruins and arrived at the keep. Needless to say he was impressed, for he was easily impressed by most dwellings of the larger folk, except even he could see that it needed some repairs and he was no engineer.

Using his cleaver as a walking stick-cum-crutch, he padded his way along the corridors, eventually coming to a point where he could make out the shape of someone standing in the outer passage; from what he could make out it was female...human...and, dare he think, quite attractive. It took him a moment to stop thinking with his 'cleaver' and decide to make his presence known, walking almost without a sound to within an arms length of the elegantly armoured Tilean.

"Excuse me," came the greeting, his voice oddly bass for such a diminutive figure, "I do believe that I'm meant to be in there, an I can smell food..."

Brushing his way past the woman, now almost completely forgotten in his mind, he ignored the four other sellswords and made straight for the platers and dishes of assorted foodstuffs - as any good Halfling of the Moot would!

Within moments he was face-deep in a haunch of pig, and woe betide anyone who tried to pry him from it.

For a moment Biancca was too stunned to react. The Halfling brushed past her towards a large table laden with food. It had somehow managed to escape her notice, probably owing to the tense and immediately dangerous confrontation that had drawn her eye. Now though, her attention was drawn to the platters of sliced meats and vegetables. Several large decanters of wine rested on the table and her mouth watered in spite of herself, it had been a long and dusty journey afterall. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world. The Halfling was already tucking in with a disgusting enthusiasm and a general brawl seemed yet to develop.

Adopting a bemused expression, she swaggered across the room past the would be combatants, strutting with all the confidence she had learned from pirates and courtesans both. Stopping at the table she poured herself a glass of wine. Eschewing a chair, she perched herself on the edge of the table opposite the Halfling so she could keep her cool gaze on the dwarf and the greenskins.
Maintaining her expression of amused disinterest she plucked an apple from one of the fruit platters and began to eat.

The scrawny manling butler tried to calm him down, but it would have taken more than that to calm Sketti. That is, until the tension was broken with the Halfling striding in casually, straight past Sketti's vision and making his way over to the food. Ah, the food. Smelled good, it did. He was surprised he'd not noticed it beforehand. Still, what in Grungni's name was a moot boy doing here?

Walking in behind the Halfling was that lass he must have heard moments ago. She sashayed her way towards the table and sat down, grabbing an apple to eat. He almost laughed, though not out of any sort of mocking. He hadn't met many manling women who had the sack to make their living fighting. This one might be twiggy and strut around like a peacock, but hey, might make for an interesting mix with these other...

He glared at the greenskins again. He supposed he could...not kill them...yet. It irked him beyond belief, and he was the tolerant one of his race! Grumbling, he sheathed his axe and stomped over to the table, deciding to just pretend the grobi weren't there. "Oi lass." he said, plopping his fat rump and stout body onto the chair next to her. He rubbed his meaty hands together, and then decided to dig in, grabbing two large chicken drumsticks and chomping into one, tearing the skin and meat off.

As he chomped, one could argue there was some bone crunching in his mouth as well. He took a swig of ale, and belched loudly. "Pardon me" he said, dabbing his mouth with his beard. "So! Is the manling lordling going tae show up or are we wasting our time here?" he asked loudly, then leaned over to Biancca and did his best to whisper, though it was still fairly audible, only a bit raspy. "I hear he's a looney."

Just as quickly as it had all began, just as Bjorn was able to tackle and strangle a screaming goblin, the would-be bloodfest turned into... dinner.

It was an odd moment for Bjorn. There he stood with a large, heavy slab of stone he'd picked up, ready to hurl it at the offending goblin that had attacked them all from above. In those moments, the Norsca had a chance to make a few very important observations:

First: he realized the dwarf was right, and these were all probably going to be his brothers-in-battle. These people would be the ones he'd depend on for survival.

Second: he realized that while he could possibly kill them, that would leave him without brothers-in-battle.

Third: he'd probably lose the job if he killed his compatriots.

Fourth: food. Eat.

Therefore, deciding it was best to belay his killing urges, Bjorn sat himself down at the feasting table and grabbed a whole platter of mutton for himself. He ate voraciously, much as befit a hungry barbarian, and displayed all the courtly niceties of a rabid, starving wolf.

As he ate, the Skaeling began to look over his... battle brothers... for the first time. Well, he had seen them before, but things were finally calm enough that he could inspect them. The dwarf he gave his attention to first, wiping grease off his chin as he eyed the fellow. He seemed caught in a conversation with the woman that had entered the room last, grumbling something about the "manling lordling" that Bjorn couldn't make out over the sound of his own chewing. But what struck Bjorn was he was staring at an obvious veteran, a man whose hand appeared to be made of metal. His hair was graying, and his scars were numerous. Perhaps he couldn't reach the top of a bookshelf, but he seemed like an asset at the least.

Then there was the woman. Truth be told, Bjorn found it hard to be attracted to her, as much as he missed having a warm woman pressed against him. True, she was beautiful enough, but she was still young. What's more, she was shaped like a twig. She didn't have the girth of a proper Norsca woman. She did, however, have a warrior's confidence on her face - and that confused Bjorn, since she didn't seem to carry any real weapons on her. What in Khorne's accursed name did she intend to do with that skinny sword? Still, she had those guns as well, and if she was any good with them, well... that would be useful. That would be very useful.

His eyes flicked to the hobgoblin next. What little experience the Norsca had with hobgoblins told him they were a treacherous lot, not to be depended on in a pinch. Though this greenskin's attire was a little foreign to him, Bjorn had no doubt the best way to make sure the little monster actually fought was to keep it in front of him.

Bjorn trusted the smaller goblin a little more, specifically because he could throw him farther. He also noticed the goblin was eyeing him specifically, the same way he'd seen soldiers and adventurers staring at well bred horses for sale. The goblin, being weak like goblins naturally are, must have decided that the biggest person in the room was the best to keep close. This made sense: in greenskin bands, it was often the biggest, scariest ork which ruled them all.

Of course, that probably meant the goblin, like his taller kinsman, would turn yellow as soon as any of the fighting went south. And it could very well be the goblin was just thinking about stabbing him in the back first, or contemplating which boot to steal first should he die. Once again, the Norsca made a mental note to make certain the greenskins marched at the front of the battle lines.

There was one more fellow among these battle brothers: the halfling. He just... boggled Bjorn. He was musclebound, like a small, rounded ball of raw fury. If he didn't know any better, Bjorn might have thought the halfling was a tiny ogre, so muscular was he. He ate like a champion, too, tearing at a haunch of ham like some sort of ravenous beast. His face had a sort of scowl to it, even though he certainly seemed to be enjoying his meal, as if he were going to rip off the arm of anyone that threatened his platter of meat and vegetables. And his cleaver... it was...

Well, Bjorn knew he didn't want to learn if the halfling could swing that cleaver just yet.

Really, when Bjorn looked out at the group as a whole, he realized something: there was an awful lot of distrust. The greenskins were hard to read, but that's because they were the little sort, and the little sort always wanted to find good fights while being more than eager to switch sides at the wrong moment. Nobody seemed particularly enthused about the state of affairs. If this was going to be his band of brothers, and if they, as a group, were going to do any work for the crazed lord that gathered them together... They were going to need some sort of camaraderie, weren't they?

"You've got a mighty healthy appetite, shortstuff," Bjorn grunted to the halfling with a belch, grinning over at the halfling. "And you've got a mighty weapon, too. If you fight like you eat, woe betide our foes, eh?" With a chuckle, the Norsca grabbed at the nearest pitcher of ale and took a solid gulp from it, belching yet again. Then he looked about the table with another sweep of his head.

"So, we're all here for this Lord of Guh-cargo's job offer, eh?" Bjorn thought aloud, pausing in his meal and setting his elbows on the table. "This seems a damned motley crew. It might help if there were names to go with these ugly faces, or else I might just call you something we'd all regret!" The huge man slapped his hands into a bowl of water, splashed the stuff over his face, and started to clean his face just so.

"My name is Bjorn. They call me bear-blooded, though I can't imagine why." Wrapping a giant hand around a haunch of meat, the Skaeling then tore off a piece, swallowed, and grinned in a friendly manner at his company. "Well?" he grunted. "Spit out your names! I'd rather know who I'll be singing of should any of you die in battle."

The stained, dusty heap of multicolored fabric had squeezed itself out from under a pile of broken planks, shrieking and scurrying over behind the fur-clad giant on base instinct, darting from one tree-trunk leg to the other as the familiar sign of Dwarven bloodlust glittered in Sketti's eyes and the house manservant crumpled in on himself in growing despair.

"Ehhh, phwoar!" it had squeaked, obnoxiously, waving the I AM A MERSENARY stikk like a defensive talisman, "What a, um, terrible accident!"

---

Food had a way of enforcing the most uneasy of truces, and so it was that the would-be hirelings now sat around the banquet table as the dust settled, and one or two stubborn chunks of rubble dropped down from the erstwhile balcony above.

"See, I was jus' lookin' about fer da boss of da castle," Gobskag was explaining, shrilly, "When I noticed dis, ehhh..." the goblin's beady red eyes shifted between Jan and the Dwarf, "evil-lookin'... one-armed... 'alfling..." he tried, "All lurkin' about, wiv a crossbow an' all like, eyein' the proceedins below. And ehhh, I heard 'im mutterin' like, sayin "I'll get dese gits if iss da last fing I do, cos I 'ate da boss of dis castle an I'm gunna shank anyone what tries ta help 'im!""

Gobskag stuffed a whole potato in his mouth, not even slowing down as he continued his tale and chewed at the same time, potentially goading Biancca to put a musket ball between his eyes and spare her another moment of Etiquette Hell.

"Well, bein' of an 'eroic nature, I charged the git, an' fought wiv all da strengf I could musta, which is why I was shoutin', see -- but it were too late! Da platform fing started to break, and he disappeared inna puff of smoke, leavin' me ta fall to my deff! 'Ow was I to know dis castle was so shonky? Fank Mork da damage weren't worse than it was! And that, ehhh, the, ehh, nice... stunty... didn't get krumped."

Gobskag tried not to look shifty, unfortunately looking shifty about trying not to look shifty.

"You boyz an' ehh... girly-boyz..." he attempted, eyeing Biancca uncertainly, "...can calls me Gobskag da Great, top finga-waggla of da Scarey Face tribe, an' also da Black Bonez tribe. Dey's all dead, mind, but it still counts."

Another potato and the top half of a drumstick, bones and all, followed the first into Gobskag's abnormally capacious gob.

"Fooo, ehhh.... (chomp, krakk) ..Whem duff we gef paid?"

Biancca felt the tension ease out of her as the gathering descended into more or less civil discourse. She smiled sunnily at the dwarf.

"Mad as a march hare by all reports," she agreed, making no effort to conceal her voice.

"Still it is the interrogative of the prosperous to be eccentric..." blank stares greeted her. Elocution clearly wouldn't be a large part of this job, if she agreed to take it.

"I mean to say the rich can be crazy if they have the gold," she amended, with a concerted effort to use smaller words.

The goblin's ate with a feral enthusiasm that made the half-ling and barbarian look like courtiers. She hadn't served much with greenskins in the past but their evil reputation and unreliability were almost a mercenary by-word. That left the barbarian, the halfling and the dwarf. She wondered how reliable any of them might be. Still she needed the job which meant she needed them.

"I am pleased to meet you Bjorn Bearblooded," she declared formally pushing herself to her feet and taking a long swig from her glass of wine. It really was an excellent vintage she decided.

She stood with a flourish, pivoting slowly to take in the assembly bowing slightly to the assembled group.

"I am Biancca Del’Arivara, I am honored to meet you all," she lied outrageously, "I'm sure our patron will appear in due time and let us know exactly how we can win glory, honor, and most importantly gold in his service."