How had they arrived in this damned bog?! Where had this mist come from...it had come in so fast, like a curtain being dropped over them, or more like a shroud; for several weeks they had been marching across the rain-soaked island of Albion, parallel – or so he thought – to a number of other Imperial and Tilean forces, but when messengers were sent to make contact with these allied armies they never returned.

Duardo de Palanza de Fallucci de Trantio had spent a whole quarter of his considerable family fortune on equipping an army of hardened sellswords, paying ship masters to take them across the sea, and to keep them with him while he joined the numerous expeditions to the suddenly visible island of Albion; already they had fought their way through many raiding parties of woad-painted savages, even decapitating one of their so-called 'holy men' when he tried to summon some form of bog monster to attack them, then there were those standing stones which he had taken a liking to and ordered to be dismantled and taken back to Tilea.

A week ago had they become categorically lost within the inner bowels of the landmass, sheltering from the ever-worsening storms and gales inside ancient pyramid structures, fighting off attacks from natives, feral undead creatures, and causing him much heartbreak when his eldest son Giacinto was taken from him by a poisoned blow-dart...he was forced to watch as his healthy and formidable offspring wasted away, would take no water, and eventually perished in his arms.

“My lord,” croaked one of the soldiers, waving an arm at the mist around them, seemingly alive with tall and cruel figures, “we are surrounded! All is lost.”

Giancarlo...Gionata...both lost, enslaved or slain by these slender wraiths and their cruel blades.

“Wha-”

There he was, holding the decapitated head of his son in his hands, the feeling of fresh, warm blood and flesh caught between his teeth making his stomach moan with hunger.

The castle of Guilamuero rang with the sound of screams, the Duke de Trantio lashing out in his bed, the moth-bitten sheets wrapping about him as he leapt from his bed dressed in an unwashed night-gown and under-tunic, his mouth foaming and his twitching hands going to the blunderbuss he kept loaded and ready beside his four-post bed.

“Keep back!” He screamed, his last follicles of lank black hair messed up on his head, stuck to his skull by heavy sweating, “get back, you devils! You can't have me!”

From the top of the keep he came, sweeping his weapon from side-to-side as he went, his bare feet half slipping on the stone steps.

Now, eventually he would reach the feasting hall, and the one he shot at could well have been anyone! It could have been the Dwarf, it could have been the huge Skaeling, it could even have been Alfredo himself...but it appeared that it was the Hobgoblin who was closest to the door through which Duardo burst, his trigger-finger itching more than a dog with flees, a cry of “die!” On his lips as he pulled the trigger, Chengizz the Slick being thrown back onto the table in a shredded and bloody mass from where he was standing, food and drink going everywhere as his limbs flailed with a last few death throes.

Alfredo, familiar with his Duke's outbursts – violent or otherwise... - was the first up from his seat and to the side of Duardo.

“Your Grace! Please, wake up,” a shockingly strong slap echoed from the cheek of the Tilean nobleman, his erstwhile glazed and unfocused eyes returning sharply to consciousness and understanding, “your Grace, are you in control of your faculties?”

Returning to the present as Duardo de Palanza de Fallucci de Trantio, the Duke let the black-powder weapon slip from his grasp, his eyes nervously shifting from one mercenary to the next and settling at last on the still-bleeding Greenskin.

“D-did I do that?” He gasped at his only servant, looking to the now silent faces turned toward him, “p-please...carry on eating...” lowering his voice slightly, putting a hand over his mouth, he twisted his head toward Alfredo once more, “it seems as if we're going to need another sell-sword.”

“So, my friends,” he announced jovially, the haunted figure he had entered as now slipping away to reveal a hint of what he may have been many moons ago, “you are here to help, yes?”

Taking the seat at the head of the table, his former seat in times of greater glory, he interlocked his fingers and painted a smile onto his world-wearied features and took one shining red apple from a plate nearby.

Sketti had been eating heartily, enjoying the food for what it was. Food. Not as well cooked as it would have been in a Dwarfhold, but it was fine nonetheless. He bit down on more than his share of chicken, potatoes, and beans. His mug of Ale had been refilled 6 times (he was feeling a wee bit under the weather so he was cutting back), and would have been refilled a 7th if it wasn't for what happened next.

The manling Lord bursting into the room was one thing. Sketti hardly looked up when he did so, but the ever familiar sound of a black powder gunshot going off brought the engineer out of his reverie and brought his great, shaggy head up. When the smoke cleared, the Hobgrobi tottered, and fell over with a hole through his green chest. As all fell quiet, and the manling was just apologizing, Sketti did what came natural. He burst into laughter.

The Grobi got his just desserts, and Sketti had to do nothing at all! It was the crazy manling that did him in! He wasn't even mad that he hadn't done it himself, the execution (HAHA EXECUTION!) of the deed was too ironic and hilarious for him to take. He banged on the table with his metal stump and held onto the table with his opposite hand for dear life as he howled with laughter he couldn't hold. It was a long time before he regained his composure, and would forever remember this as one of the funniest things he had ever seen in his long life.

"Oh boy" he wheezed. "Ooooh by Valya, Grimnir, and Grungi, that was rich, I tell ye." He coughed and sputtered, and cleared his throat. His eyes were almost bloodshot from his laughter. "Aye, we're here tae help. And yer alright in my book, alright, ye right bastard. By the way, if ye ever want me tae look at yer pistols and fix 'em up for ye, just let me know. Free of charge after that little stunt."

The loud report of a pistol roared in the room, sending the offending thug flying back into the table, crumpling onto the ground as he slid off the ruined table, clutching feebly at a torrent of life blood. The other two thugs didn't have a chance to rise, the twin roars of the follow on shots faster then a man could readily draw two more pistols from a brace. The fat man sitting so assuredly well guarded, blanched, hands raised at the figure standing in the door, one that had been firmly kicked open. Siegmeyer Heilborg, former Outrider and now a mercenary, had been hired on to take this fat filth in alive. Trafficking Chaos artifacts or some such nonsense, and the local powers that be owed the Witchhunters a favor. And so, in turn, he was hired to ride down this fat man and bring him in for some coin. Hell, they told him the fat bastard was trafficking in Chaos artifacts, he would have done this for free. Siegmeyer glared at the fat man, speaking with a Hochlander's accent, and completely without an iota of pleasantry. "I'll make this simple. I still have five shots, and my employers made it clear that, try anything, I can kill you on general principle. So get up before I decide to just say you went for something dangerous, foolish fat man."

Siegmeyer stepped back, whistling for his horse that was awaiting him outside while the fatman rose and slowly walked out. Siegmeyer hopped onto his horse, and gestured to the fat man. "Start walking, ahead of me. Try anything, and know that my lead flies faster than you could possibly waddle." Siegmeyer sighed quietly as the fatman began moving, smelling like he had soiled himself, as he slowly trotted along behind the man. It would be a long couple hours back to civilization, and a couple hours he could not relax on. But they were a, Sigmar be praised, blessedly short couple of hours, as nothing had happened. Arriving at the local town's guardhouse, he shoved the fat man into the custody of the local State Troops that had been waiting for him to return. "Pleasure doing business with you lads, one trafficker, as promised." He received his coin, a decent sum for relatively simple work, and he turned his horse onto the road again. No sense hanging around, he could make it to the next town before requiring a place to stay the night.

The local town board though, caught his eye, as a new piece of paper flitted on it gently in the wind. Riding over, he lifted the paper up to get a better angle on it. Duardo de Trantio was looking for able bodied mercenaries, eh? Madman was cursed by most sensible folk, all sorts of rumors swirling around his now black name. But Siegmeyer doubted it was little more than madness that afflicted most who crossed paths with Chaos of some sort or another. They all dealt with it in their own way, some more overt than others. He still had many sleepless nights from his own experiences, but that was not the pressing issue at hand. There was coin, and food, to be had for merely attending, so he would at least go hear this man out. Memorizing the details of where to be, he turned his horse onto a new path, riding off into the still rising sun, a new destination in mind.



"Such a decrepit looking grounds, seems the Lord of Guilmuer has fallen onto some hard times, looks like a warband hit this place, a long time ago..." Siegmeyer sat astride his horse, resting readily on the mount while he weighed his options. Quite a few had tried to turn him from his journey, stating it was foolish at best, and absolute suicide at worst. But he had pressed on this far, so by Sigmar, he would at least see this journey done. Trotting to the drawbridge, he paused, remembering the message, and raised his voice, calling firmly into the still night, and into the decrepit looking structure. "Hail there! Is any soul present here? I come in response to the summons by the Lord of Guilmuer!"

Siegmeyer had made his move, and now it was a matter of waiting. He just had to hope, now, that if someone indeed did respond, they had proper place for his horse. She had seen a long trip here, for he had been on the wrong side of Tilea when he got word of this place and the gathering of mercenaries for a cause yet unknown.

Biancca stepped quietly from behind her horse. She had left the feast in the wake of the hob-goblin’s unfortunate demise. Well, demise anyway. Her newfound companions made her a little nervous and she didn’t imagine that the addition of a lot of wine, beer and brandy, was going to make the situation any more desirable. Past experience warned her that she would be wise to be ready for a quick getaway. If this all turned as sour as Marienburg Ale, which it gave every indication it was going to, she wanted to be ready.

The next logical step was to check over her horse. The expensive stallion seemed sound enough, she hadn’t pushed him after she had gotten clear of that tangle in Verano. It didn’t do to be caught on an open road with a spent horse. The horse did seem a little restive, probably the simple hay affronted his elevated sense of self worth.

The sound of horse's hooves on the road caused her to freeze for a moment. Could it be someone had tracked her and sent a bounty hunter or assassin after her? Feverishly her mind compiled a list of former lovers, jealous wives and disgruntled business partners. It was a depressingly long list for such a young woman. With quiet care she reached into her belt and drew one of the ornate duelling pistols. Snapping open the frisson, she checked the priming and then snapped it shut before gently drawing back the dog's head which held the flint. By this point the newcomer had reached the drawbridge, he didn’t make any immediate effort to enter.

He called out in a booming voice harsh and guttural, a man of the empire? Probably he was another mercenary, come in response to the madman’s summons. The thought of another human eased her misgivings. He might not stay of course, but if he did it would be a significant comfort to her. She had worked with dwarves and even goblins before but another member of her species, besides the enigmatic barbarian, would be welcome.

Creeping to one of the crumbling arrow slits she looked out across the shallow moat. The man was well armored, at least by Tilean standards. His horse looked sturdy as it used to hard gallops as well as long treks. A variety of weapons including a rather complicated looking pistol. Stranger and stranger. His face was, to be frank, a bit of a disappointment, he had obviously been burned or scared at some point and the resulting look was quite ominus. She considered again if this man might be a bounty hunter. Maybe, but she doubted he had come so far for her.

Cautiously she tucked the pistol back into her belt and stepped into the doorway so she was silhouetted against the doorway. She couldn’t help but pose a little dramatically.

“Hello Senor!” she called to the horseman.

“There are a few souls here, though I won't vouch for their condition,” she held up her hands indicating she was weaponless.

“If you are here for the offer of employment, come on in and join us.”

Gobskag stared, frozen mid-chew as everything that was once Chengizz exploded across the surface of the table. Half a potato dripped out of his mouth before he had the presence of mind to scoop it back in and swallow, nervously.

"Eennnhh.... Yeeeees," he croaked, working his hands together and darting his eyes from the smoking carcass to the Lord of the house, "Dat's us. Here ta help. Right helpful, is what we are, isn't we, lads?" He appealed to the others with a note of desperation in his reedy voice.

"Ennh... here, let helpful old Gobskag clean dis mess off da table. Oh, poor, poor... ehhmmm... Grindlesticks," he wailed, picking a name at random as he dragged the perforated corpse off the table, sending a few cups and plates clattering to the ground, "Took from us too soon, 'ee was..."

_{"Just a bit to da right and he would of got da stunty..."} he muttered vindictively under his breath, grunting as Chengizz finally thumped onto the stone floor.

"Out, out, brief wossname!" Long green claws fished expertly through the hobgoblin's possessions as he tugged the body into a corner, covertly snagging a few stray coins and a fat, glittering red ruby. Gobskag leered from the privacy of his tatty hood. Mad humies with guns or not, this day was already off to a right good start. "But, enhh, life goes on, nehh?"

He helped himself to another drumstick without bothering to pick bits of Chengizz out of it, eyeing the others warily.

Sketti growled at Gobskag as the seedy little cunt started taking his kinsman's remains off the table. "Ye better help ye little greenskin runt." he muttered under his breath, lashing out lazily with his arm. He bit into a whole potato as if it was a small piece of freshly cooked sirloin he had cut, chewing it just as easily. He took a swig of his 8th beer, finishing it off with a large belch that shook the table. He dabbed his mouth with his beard.

"Well then, seems the lass has scurried off somewhere." he noted. "We can fill her in later if need be. But are ye gonna tell us what kinda mission we're here for?" The Dwarf sat up as best he could, which still meant his chin was just over the table. Burly and tough, he gazed at the others as he realized yet again who he'd be fighting with. He was hoping to get a contract that meant killing greenskins, not joining them!

He decided to get up and fetch his 9th beer. Still a light afternoon drink to the hearty Dwarf, he stomped back in and stood at the edge of the table, not bothering to sit again. His burly arm was crossed over his metal appendage, and he awaited the odd manling to speak up. Or shoot the other Greenskin. Either one was good for the Engineer.

@POOHEAD189@Culluket@Austronaut@Eisenhorn@Shorticus

"We can fill her in later if need be. But are ye gonna tell us what kinda mission we're here for?"

The Duke had been a little too preoccupied with trying to figure out what the Greenskin was saying to concentrate, his train of thought more often than not completely derailing itself at the slightest distractions, but it seemed now that the Dwarf's words had refocused his mind and, with an almost constantly quivering hand, he slipped it into his night-shirt and pulled free a talisman that had been draped about his neck; with more than a little worry on his face he showed the item to the group, a simple item it was, smaller than a pebble and roughly carved from jade, the piece itself shaped into the crude likeness of a lizards head - the Sauran visage in profile, the tongue protruding aggressively, and something...a faint, sickly, glow emanating from it even as Duardo held it up between thumb and forefinger.

"This," hissed the disturbed Tilean, "is the creator and bringer of all my misfortune, for it was not until I discovered it within a long-forgotten ziggurat that my life began to crumble. Many is the time I have sought to rid myself of it, and always it has simply reappeared back in my presence one way or another," with a sigh he placed let it drop to hang about his neck, a warning and the purpose of his hiring a group of mercenaries in the first place, "I cannot simply give it to you to take somewhere and return or destroy, you understand, so what I require of you is the procurement of someone that may help destroy it."

At a gesture Alfredo got to his feet, scurrying off into the innards of the keep for a moment or two, before returning with a dusty and slowly disintegrating scroll of parchment. Another gesture caused him to roll it out, shifting plates and platters here and there to create more room on the table, to reveal a surprisingly detailed map of Tilea and the surrounding nations, the closer ones - Estalia for example - far more detailed than those further away.

"Her name is Josephine Arnaud, a Damsel of Bretonnia but a minor one, and he dwelling is said to lie within this region..." A skeletal finger reached out to place itself over the name 'Ducato di Aquitania', the Bretonnian Dukedom of Aquitaine, "there is a small settlement here where she is said to dwell, and it is from here that I would ask you all to bring her." Before anyone could answer, he held up a hand to silence them and spoke once more, "you may consider this kidnapping..and you would not be wrong! I have attempted to contact her before, pleaded for her help but to no avail, and this is my last, bitter, gamble before I take my own life out of depression and woe. Please, my friends, I shall pay you almost anything you wish to undertake this charge of mine - if it is within my power - you have but to name it."

The Dwarf Slayer tilted his head, uncrossing his arm(s) and placed the appendage on his hip as his other hand held the tankard. "So we're just gonna grab some manling lass from the flighty tongue lands and bring her here? I'm thinking there has to be some complications here, though even if there is, I wouldn't care too much. Name me price ye say?" Sketti pursed his fat lips and looked inwardly, before nodding not moments later. He gave a small burp and then nodded. "Alright."

The Dwarf was thinking of walking up to the Duke and looking him square in the eye. That might have been the smart thing to do. But he wasn't often an untrusting or grumpy Dwarf. His company gave him an excuse to be, though. He finally made his mind up and spoke up. "Yer going tae pay me however much I need in order to buy a small spit of land wherever I choose, and a shop to work in to make all me gadgets and engines. Oh, and free beer from your manor whenever I visit. Ye best keep your pantries filled."

Gobskag's beady eyes were fixed on the amulet, reflecting its unhealthy luminance like dirty red marbles.

"Almost anyfing?" he murmured, rubbing his skinny hands together and scheming on basic reflex, "Dat's twice as much as I was expectin', heenh... Well, poor, simple Gobskag is a gob of 'umble means, not a mighty boss or a greedy stunty, and will only ask fer one little fing as 'is reward. We can sort out da details an' such afterward, nehh..? Sure, sure, righto den, anyfing you say, you're da boss, hehh... I's sure missus whatserface will lissen ta reason, once we explains areselves and appeals ta her kindly nature, hneh heheh..." He swung his head shiftily between Sketti and de Trantio, grasping his staff in both hands and leaning on it heavily, "After all, dere's only one of 'er, and loads of us, nehh?..."

The goblin trailed off as his eyes darted from one end of the room to the other.

"Ehh... Din't we 'ave more gits a minnit ago?"

"We will need a ship,” Biancca said from the doorway, lounging against the crumbling stone column, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Several of the mercenaries looked more than a little sceptical. Kidnapping, for, if one was blunt, that is what this amounted to, was a little out of their comfort zones.

“Something small and fast, or large and heavily armed if we are to escape the Araby corairs. The could go overland of course but that was a long journey through hostile lands. It also didn’t bode for a quick escape.

“No doubt every questing Knight in the kingdom will be after us. A rare chance to rescue the literal damsel in distress.”

“Also if the goblin is coming, we will need a plan for that,” she grinned mischievously at the dwarf.

“The northern kingdoms take a more enlightened attitude towards greenskins as I understand it.”

She strode across the room to take her seat, retrieving her glass of wine.

“And money up front of course,” she said sweetly to the strange lord.

“I am not impugning your honour you understand my lord, but I’d really rather not be left to face Brettonian ‘justice’ if you accidently sail away without us.”

"You've underpaid me."

"What? No I 'aven't, it's all there, see? Thought you lot 'ad good eyesight or summat."

"We do, and I can see that you've underpaid by several shillings."

"Psh, nooo... you, er... you forgot about the ear tax."

"...is that how this is going to go, then? The most cliched reason for not paying an elf their fair due in the book."

"Look 'ere, you... elf! I didn't ask you to clear out those rats from the sewers-"

"You actually specifically asked me to help you, for lack of any other adventurers. You specifically stated that my payment would be two gold crowns, a nomination which has been lessened by nearly a quarter."

"Yeah, I mean... i's not like you did all tha' much anyway!"

"And it turned out that the rats were... beastmen, of a sort, making my job much harder than you claimed it would be. Your town would have been wiped from the face of the Empire if I hadn't been present."

"Sure, sure. Rat beastmen, 'onestly... prob'ly just larger buggers than usual, is all."

"And you think you could have dealt with them."

"I mean, rats aren't so tough. If'n I can deal with your skinny be'ind any day o' the week, I'm sure some overgrown vermin would be easy!"

"And are you willing to back up that statement?"

"What?"

"You insinuated that you would best me in a fight, in spite of your acquisition of my talents for the task of rat slaying. Are you willing to support that sentiment?"

"...er. Erm."

"You know, I believe the dwarves have a saying- or is it ogres?- that roughly translates to "either put up or shut up". That is to say, don't make claims you can't support. So, will I receive my full payment, or must I further prove that I'm worth the money to you?"

"Well, y'see... tha' is to say... I... uhh... uhhh... oh for Sigmar's sake, fine! 'ere's the other eight shillings. But I want you out o' 'ere by sundown, an' I don' wanna see your mug again after tha'!"

"I had no intention of staying much longer anyway. Glad I could be of service, innkeeper."

"...hmm. Interesting. Daring adventurers and sellswords, food and pay for simply presenting myself... afeared of death need not... I believe that'll be my next stop, then."

---

One expects a horse to create sound as it travels. The sound a creature makes whilst moving is, after all, a major facet of flesh and blood entities, in the described case that of hooves against whatever surface is being traversed. Not so the case for a magical, transient version of the creature - the Steed of Shadows, that a fair few Grey Wizards have found themselves capable of producing, makes very little sound of its own, for its feet are not of a substance that is well-known for being particularly loud.

Thus, it happened to be the case that Baecion's approach to the castle Guilamuero was rather quieter than one would expect. Enough so, in fact, that he successfully moved within a hundred meters of the keep without being noticed (though the audience of maybe two persons had other things to focus on), before dismounting his steed and allowing it to dissipate into the night; the final stretch was traversed on foot, the wizard remaining in the shadows just in case he was in the wrong place. Judging by the state of the building, he doubted it - from local gossip, he knew the Lord Trantio was short on funds, shorter on fortune, and completely brassic when it came to sanity, or so Tilea's peasantry would have him believe. Even so, he couldn't help but mull over a wry comment about how Athel Loren probably had better craftsmanship than that fortress. He was sure his allies would have appreciated it, were they still alive.

As he drew close, he espied a woman who was quite classically beautiful, for a human at least, turning and re-entering the building, followed shortly by a man in half-plate. Refraining from introducing himself for the time being just in case they did not mean well, Baecion shadowed their movement (not as well as he would have cared to, but they didn't seem to be paying attention to him anyway) through the castle's halls, until such time as they approached the main hall itself; here, the woman leaned up against an entrance column briefly, describing the tools she and the others in the room would require for what sounded like a kidnapping (So it's that sort of expedition, is it?), as well as a mention of a goblin (Oh dear.), before striding into the room proper, muffling the rest of what she said from Baecion's perception.

As she continued to talk, the elf quietly slipped into the hall, taking a seat at the great table fairly close to the surprisingly plentiful feast, but away from what appeared to be a stain of gore across a rather wide area, acquiring choice morsels from the platters near him for his own plate as they caught his fancy. He didn't at this point make any effort to remain concealed, though he still wasn't necessarily keen on introducing himself immediately, being that present company included a dwarf with a missing hand, an exceptionally large and mean-looking human, and of all things a goblin. He was quite sure the corpse in the corner had been a greenskin of some sort, too, and wondered about how likely it was for yet another unsavoury face to turn up after himself.

For a flimsy lass on stick legs, Sketti was taking a liking to the way Biancca was thinkin'. And here he thought he'd be the only one who had a good head on his shoulders. He gave a wicked grin when she mentioned the Goblin, showing his golden teeth. Oh, he'd make sure that greenskin got in no one's way. That got him wondering at his luck though. Two greenskins were going to be bad, but Valya seemed to bless him with a joke that made his day and brought their numbers down. He still had one to contend with however. He supposed if the Greenskin got too...Grobi like, that would be enough of an excuse to gut him like the filth he was. The Dwarf grumbled and looked inwardly as Baecion strode by him imperiously. It took him all of 5 seconds to go from how he could get rid of the Goblin to his next query. Beard bristling, he looked at the slim newcomer in horror. "What the fuck is an Elf doing here!?"

@Culluket@BCTheEntity@Austronaut@Jbcool

Never mind which unsavoury faces are to turn up in the near future, Baecion sighed to himself internally. Worry about the unsavoury faces staring at you right now.

"I'm glad to see I'm being given such a warm reception from the get-go," the wizard proclaimed in a deadpan fashion, without turning to look at the recipient of his statement. "I'm sure the rivalry our races have decided is appropriate to uphold in the face of far greater potential catastrophes will bloom, perhaps even suddenly blossom with a dramatic flourish of colour and activity, quite healthily between our two selves, so as to allow for a great many moments of tension and eventful argumentation both brief and protracted, eventually transforming into a glorious if untraditional friendship derived from a certain minor degree of vitriol tempered into great interpersonal strength and loyalty by the bonds that only multiple heated battles in short order can forge, Dawi."

Yes, that looks like a reasonable fill of food. Having taken his share of the feast on to his plate, Baecion finally turned to stare at the dwarf who'd asked about his presence in as uncouth a fashion as one can imagine. "And to actually answer your question," he began in a more normal tone, "you'd do well to understand that I have no intentions of actively assaulting you or any other person in this room, save in self-defense should I be attacked by one of you first. Funnily enough, I too have a need to acquire funds for my future expeditions, despite- or, some might claim, as a result of- being an elf. But where are my manners?" he asked, spreading his hands in supplication and looking round the room at his future... companions. "I haven't even introduced myself yet. I am Baecion, an elf, as has been quite bluntly described already. And yourselves, fellow mercenaries?"

@Jbcool@POOHEAD189@Eisenhorn@Austronaut@Culluket

It started to rain as night fell in the border princes.

He recognized the place: that was the narrow wooden bridge in which the Baron's “Piatellos” - soldiers- had asked them for a tax to cross the river. Now, their guardhouse was void and abandoned: poor old Baron, in his own way. He couldn't even spare three more men to collect his sole source of income. Perhaps because of the 50 hard cash he was going to pay them each for the ork Boss' head. Hopefully.

The Sylvanian “petit mâetre” and the dwarf were outside the house in guard duty. Barbaggi felt again the pain in his torso, were the goblin minions of the greenskin had introduced their rusty lances. Damn vermin!. The Mirmydia priestess had just closed her eyes in the chair at the other side of the room. But Gahetano couldn't find yet the energies to supress his adrenalyn and sleep. Counting the fleas in the room. Maybe that would help him sleep...

There was a shout by the door, in the bridge. The priestess awoke and handed his lance. Gahetano found himself under a window, prepairing the crossbow. Rest... nuts!. He was still so nervous he had practically awakened later than he had acted. Outside, the dwarf was discussing something with some stranger. The sylvanian was desperately trying to get on charge of the conversation. Gahetano armed the crossbow, but he made an effort to relax: it was probably nothing after all. With naturality, he made a signal to the priestess to be calmed, and walked through the door, trying not to look dangerous or nervous. An easy task, since most people kept thinking he was some little girl playing soldiers.

Outside, two horsemen in seemengly expensive robes were arguing with Snorri and Manfred. Dark cloaks, black steeds... people who didnt seemed to belong in the poor Republic administrated by Baron Andrea Vitello.

And then he realized the girl.

Poor little Child Elzbeth. Sleeping and tied up just in front of one of the horsemen, who kept her with one hand and the beast's reins with the other. The priestess and Gahetano had paid three days worth of Inn room for the girl to be safe back in the village were the Baron was waiting for them. What was she doing here? Why had these men taken her?. Had it anything to do with his father's misterious suicide?

The priestess appeared behind him, but Gahetano decided and insisted in not intevening. Yet. The first horseman answered to Snorri's demands by showing them a ring. Manfred became white just by looking at it, but the Dwarf demanded the inmediate liberation of the girl anyhow. The imperial made a visible facepalm, but then he seemed to made up his own mind, and drawing his rapier, joined the dwarf's demands.

Next, it was all too fast.

The horseman who was holding Elzbeth raised a handgun and fired a shot at Manfred's head, making him fall behind the bridge. Snorri then jumped against the kidnapper and, in short time, horse and horseman had been cut in half by an axe designed to kill trolls.
The other man, exploiting his mount's fear for blood and noise, fled. Manfred, somehow yet alive but with one less ear, shouted: “Dont let'm scape! Dont let'm scape or we are all doomed!” The priestess threw his lance, and gahetano shot his weapon. Both missing. There were a brief moment that looked as an eternity meanwhile the tilean was prepairing another bolt. He pointed again...

He was very far away. It was a difficult shot. And the man could not scape, or they were all doomed, it seemed.

Gahetano downed his crossbow, hurried for Manfred's horse and jumping on it, forced the animal to start galloping inmediately. The man could not scape. That was not a possiblility. Dot.
The mercenary hadn't made lots of mounting in his life, while the horseman was, obviously, an expert. The night and the rain made it even more difficult to see anything. But it also made it difficult for the kidnapper to hear how he was being pursued.
Gahetano was able to close in to just a dozen metres from his prey. Driving the horse just with his legs -somehow- he made a much easier shot... at the steed.

The bolt penetrated deep into the animal's left rear leg, driving it crazy with pain. But the horseman was good at his trade, and didn't fell, resuming the run afterwards. Gahetano drew his short sword next, and concentrated into reaching the man and just cutting off his throat. Howewer, both animal and man were clearly apt for the sole purpose of going fast and reliably through great distances, and when Gahetano eventually catch them, it was only because the bloodloss had proven too much for the poor beast.

Both of them fell into the muddy ground, the rain now turned into a full monsoon that made it impossible to see a handful metres from one's nose. The mercenary descended from his own mount, shield and sword in hand, to properly end the work. The elegantly clothed individual was now scared himself. And tried to threaten Gahetano with the dire consequences of his actions. “No consequences once I've buried you in a grave with no markings” Gahetano thought under his water-soaked hair, over his mud-covered boots, before the man raised a charged pistol.

The shot went through his shield, his armor and his torso. A wave of pain invaded the tilean, but also a wave of adrenalyn. After receiving the shot without falling into the ground, he stared at the man: “I'm going straight to hell... but you're coming before me to announce my entrance!” And shouting like a maniac, he charged the terrorized kidnapper who had been as corageous as to drug a little girl. “Just die already!” the soon-to-be-corpse replied drawing another gun from his belt. Gahetano tried to stab him in the loins, but the man dodged it while trying to point the weapon correctly. The tilean, then, out of mere desperation, striked him with the big, round bronze shield. The weapon was just too big for dodging, and the man's nose broke with the first impact. Then Gahetano hit him again.

And again, and again, and again.

Finally, the kidnapper fell into the mud, were a crazied tilean mercenary stabbed him several times, kneeled over his body and crazed by pain, fear and emotion. It all ended when a thunder brought light to the darkness, and Gahetano was able to see his own face, mirrowed for an instant into a bloody puddle. Covered in human fluids, sweat, water and dirt. The face of an assasin he already knew. The eyes of someone who he never expected to become.

Now, there was just one scared man under that rain. Crying.

THREE YEARS LATER

The bridge was vacant, but he had had the good idea of asking in the village about Il Signore Di Trantio's lodging. Taking advantage of the stop in the bridge, Gahetano took a little time to polish his boots and replace his sandals with them. Then he made a handful of aesthetic adjustments, including a little bit of hygiene. In his experience, the only stains an employer may like to see in a mercenary were those of blood. Meanwhile, he kept repeating his presentation: “Buona Sera, my good sir: My name is Gahetano M. Bargbaggi. I've worked for two years in the border princes and for one year under noneless than captain Pirazzo. I can fulfill almost any....”

There was a huge noise. Like a tree made up of tinker falling apart. And Gahetano stopped in his trails to listen. A moment. Another moment. And then a gunshot. From the general direction in which the castle was. Crap.

He quickly gathered his things and rushed to that direction. He found the door open, so he interned himself into the building, where the echo of someone who was talking to a public was audible "Her name is Josephine Arnaud, a Damsel of Bretonnia but a minor one...” Gahetano followed the trail of the voice. In a matter of half a minute he had found the origin. And the scent of well-made pasta helped a lot. In the room there were a colorful gang re-united, and Gahetano had worked with adventurers before saying so. An elf seemed to be the newest newcomer till his own entrance. Some of the heads turned over the noise he was making, obviously worried, because the man seemed to be proposing a task so illegal it could mean a casus belli with nothing less than the kingdom of Bretonnia. Feeling himself target of such attention -and probably looking rushed, red and not employable at all- he coughed and raised a hand. He realized he had the sword in that hand: “Gahetano Barbaggi. I've returned from the border princes just to attend the call of Signore di Trantio. I'm just late because I waited too long for someone to appear at the bridge.” he lied. Then he realized another thing: the elf was a rare sight, the goblin was... well, that was just weird. And Myrmidia may know how had the Norse arrived so far south and with what intentions. But there was a lady in the room. Elegant, well armed, and beautiful. So he decided to be marginally polite: “Signora...” he said removing his helmet and making a brief vow. “I'll go and close the door, so the conversation may take place in more conpfortable circumstances. Then I'll join you again”

As the elf continued his tirade, proving himself the very epitome of loquaciousness, Sketti’s left eye began to twitch more and more. Once Baecion was done, all the room was quiet until the Slayer spoke. “Aye. I’mma kill him.” he said, and took a step forward before a slim hand fell upon his broad shoulder to halt him.

Biannca felt she could no more stop the dwarf then she might stop an avalanche, but to her shock the engineer slowed, looking up at her with something between surprise and rage. She leaned in close to the dwarf, bending at the waist to bring her lips close to his ears.

“More chance of seeing the gold with him along,” she breathed into his ear. Dwarven gold lust was legendary among mercenaries but it was also dangerous if not handled correctly. The slayer squinted somewhat suspiciously as she spoke, but the term gold had him softening.

“If he is treacherous, you can always kill him later, before the shares are distributed of course,” she went on with a wicked smile. Trusting on the noise of the chamber to keep her words from the elf's ears. She didn’t really want to kill him but they had to get this mission off the ground before there would be any spoils to scheme over.

Sketti Hammerhand crossed his burly arm over his metal appendage and drew in a deep breath through his flaring nostrils. He could feel his gold lust surging through his breast, but he was equal parts pissed at this entire affair. He couldn’t even voice his acceptance of her proposal at first, despite the fact that he was calming down somewhat. It wasn’t fair at all. He was known among his race as being more accepting of others because he generally cared more for his own explosive experiments than wasting time grumbling. He might not have been so against the Elf if he hadn’t already dealt with Grobi.

The Slayer turned to Biannca, his squat and powerful form over twice her width, though his forehead reached chest height if she stood up straight. “Fine.” he said, grumbling. His remaining hand pointed to the door suddenly. “But I swear to Grungni, if a Skaven walks through that door and tries to be all buddy buddy with me, I can’t promise that this whole castle won’t go up in flames.”

Biancca let out a relieved breath as quietly as she could. She clasped Sketti’s remaining arm, her hand tiny against his dense muscle. There was an odd sinking feeling in her stomach as she considered what working with this fractious crew might be like. On the other hand a few months away from Tilea would be the perfect thing to give her various jilted lovers and their enraged wives a chance to settle down and put away the knives.

“Agreed, if a skaven or a lizardman or any other cursed thing joins the party we will all agree to shoot first and ask questions later,” she grinned theatrically and projected her voice to her fellow mercenaries.

Sketti looked at Biancca, then patted her arm. “Yer a good lass.” he said, like a proud uncle. “Skinny as all hell, but yer heart is in the right place.” The Slayer turned, and his eyes fell upon Gahetano. He waved his metal appendage at him. At least he/she was a manling.
@Sleater@BCTheEntity@Culluket@Eisenhorn

Gahetano returned the salute to the dwarf, but frawned a little when he realized the odd appendage of the engineer. Then, he headed towards the door to make sure nobody else interrumped without being announced, given the apparently delicate nature of the mission. In his way back, he realized there were a trail of blood in the corridor's floor. A big trail. Maybe the reunion had exploded into violence far before his arrival. And now that the idea was in his head... weren't one of the room's tables completely collapsed?. For a moment he feared to find a rat-beastman trying to attend the contract.

Once the door was safely closed, he returned into the room and decided to take breakfast: "I would say the two main problems we face..." he added to the conversation "...are: not calling any atention and do the job fast. Aside of the lady's resistance. With that in mind, I ask myself if some distraction maneouver is in order. The less pears of the realm we have to slay, the better. For several reasons."

The Alcatani grapes were superb.

"You know: at night. One group to bring the lady, one to keep the scape-route safe... someone to guard the entrance and, perhaps, someone who can assure us the levy is busy somewhere else."

Biancca nodded thoughtfully, relived that the conversation was turning in less homicidal directions. Idly, she swirled the wine around in her cup. Gahetano? It seemed she had heard the name before.

“It is about a month to midsummer,” she added thoughtfully, wishing she had bought her map case from the stables.

“If we can make it to Brettonnia in time, we might be able to use the Midsummer festivals as cover. The peasants will be drunk and the Knights will be consumed with hunting and tournaments.” Visions of silken gowns and golden finery swam unbidden into her mind. That thought turned her mind back to proper courtesy.

“But I forget myself,” she exclaimed coming to her feet and bowing slightly in a smooth motion.

“I am Biancca Del'Arivara Signor, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

"The pleasure is mine" Gahetano answered. "You made a good point, miss Del'Arivara... posing as traders or feriants for the festivals, we might stay in the town for a while without calling any atention and make a more accurate plan"

He took a cup of whine. After doubting for a moment, he noticed the old demi-fainted man in a chair near the wall, and handed him the alcohol. The man accepted it with a grateful gesture. Then Gahetano adressed the group: "In that, we are all concerned: does enyone know if it's legal to exhibit caged goblins in Bretonnia? Or does anyone have another suggestion?"

The mercenary raised another cup, while meaningfuly pulling a jar near the little greenskin. For one moment he remembered that one goblin ambush the same month of the horsemen. Now he found it even stranger the little runt hadn't tried to stab his ribs yet. Gods. Poor lil Elzbeth knew how to speak Bretonnian. She would had been so useful here... but no: she was safe now. And the farer from him the better.

As the new manling person checked the security of the area and began discussing plans with the lass, Sketti pulled up a chair and hopped up. The wooden legs creaked slightly from the weight, but he didn't seem concerned. He grabbed the closest pint of whatever Ale their was and sipped it, having already consumed closed to 10 and trying to take it easy for the food in his stomach at the moment. Once their formalities were done, he nodded. "Och, that's easy." he said, interrupting. "I can distract whatever guards are around. I dinnae even have to be there. Just rig a small explosive to an abandoned cart or area and have it go off with a timed fuse." he explained. The Dwarf burped, despite his slow intake of Ale. "'Course, sometimes me bombs don't go off, so I might need to set three just in case. But if we time this right, we have the manling woman bagged and gagged just as I set off the explosion, and they'll be too busy scrambling for their lives than focusing on us. Especially at night. Manling eyes aren't well adjusted to it, no offense."
His mug pointed at the greenskin. "As for this one, not sure if it's 'legal' to cage one and display it but, from what I hear festivals aren't known for being picky with entertainment."

"I thought bombs are expensive" Gahetano observed "Perhaps we are discussing it too early: first thing first. How are we gonna get a ship... and what ship? We need one at our disposal: both for travel and for scaping"

Gahetano found a chair by the fire. He liked being warm. And the wine became also compfotably hotter. He started wondering to himself if they could give the damsel a gift big enough to hide her inside it.