Off the beaten track, the usual forest roads between the Empire province of Reikland and the Bretonnian lands across the mountain, within the leafy confines of the largest forest in the province, can be found the highly insular hamlet of Rottfurt. It is built nearby a river, and indeed is a fine place if one wishes to move produce via the Imperial waterways, but outside of this it is an inbred and dismal place, full of local yokels and some of the stupidest people imaginable.

Fortunately this is not where this tale begins...

Some miles to the south-west of Rottfurt, between that very place and the free town of Übersreik – known across the province for its volume of trade and thoroughly important river bridge – is a tavern known to all and sundry as The Limping Nag.

If one were to wisely ignore both the unappealing name, and the disgruntled mumblings of the forest locals, then they would observe a fine family run establishment situated by a bubbling brook, the Nag being in actuality a well-supplied and firmly built timber structure with a thatched roof and a charming atmosphere to the low-beamed interior; scores of tables and benches are placed throughout the common room, the bar well stocked and kept clean by the burly proprietor of the tavern, and comfortable bedrooms available up a set of stairs at a reasonable price. A hearty fire burns softly in an alcove of the far wall of the room, and any customer will be treated to the sight of some of the finest wenches in the Reikland.

A simple traveller would never know that it was all a front, funded for an supplied by The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords – a collective of retired mercenaries, adventurers and military personnel who gathered together their wealth and privilege in order to all others to undertake their own missions in life; from young farmhands intent on running off to die in a desert seeking gold, to grizzled veterans who just can't sleep without thinking of the next battle, all are catered for and their needs met by the Guild.

It is to this place that you have come, for what purposes only you truly know.

Twilight it currently is, the sun beginning to set over the trees, the evening air hazy and humid, leaving a warm fuzz to settle over proceedings, and you are active and awake. Maybe you have been at the tavern for some time now, perhaps you are only arriving today, either way the barkeep – Ludolf Bohn, a retired soldier of the Empire Greatswords (Reikland province) – will be pleased to see to you and your needs.

So come on in, take a seat, seek out a friend, or simply make your business known.

Just inside and to the right of the the entryway door to The Limping Nag a tall, imposing figure leaned against the wall. Even in the warm dimness of the Tavern's interior, the tall figure's armour glinted with a bright silvery sheen in places where it was not covered by the massive ivory lion pelt cloak which hung from the figure's broad shoulders. On the figure's left shoulder, the one nearest the entryway door, the huge lion-head pauldron roaring in silent defiance at anyone who entered the tavern. This was intentional, as the tall figure was currently tasked with keeping the peace in the tavern, and so wanted all who entered to get a good glimpse of the symbol of his conquest. This would hopefully deter any would-be troublemakers who wandered in from the Reikland countryside. If it did not, the figure would part his cloak to reveal his massive greataxe. That almost always did the trick.

The figure's name was Galadred, though nearly everyone around these parts called him The Lion, or simply Lion if conversation was lighthearted. Due to his heavy (for his people) build, and his short hair, it was not immediately obvious that Galadred was an elf. The truth of his heritage was further disguised by the scar which marred his would-be handsome face, though it did not make him truly ugly by any means. His ears were sharp and pointed, however, and anyone who had been lucky enough to visit the city of Lothern on Ulthuan would likely recognize his armour as being made of Ithilmar, a metal which only came from that enchanting island nation. These things gave him away, but in the company of the Guild it mattered little what race one was. What truly mattered was one's goals, and one's capability to fulfill them.

Currently, however, Galadred found himself to be somewhat rudderless, and without much in the way of purpose. He had taken up the responsibility of keeping safe the Limping Nag, a service that allowed him room and board thanks to an arrangement with the innkeep Ludolf, who had apparently (impressively) recognized Galadred as a former White Lion of Chrace, and realized that he would make an excellent guard and muscleman should the need arise. Without anything on his plate in the way of mercenary work, Galadred had accepted gladly. That had been three months ago. Three months of intimidating peasants out of bar-brawls and guarding a door. Galadred sighed deeply at the thought, allowing himself a moment to think back to the sprawling palaces and grand vistas he had once defended. That trail of thought lead inevitably to wounds that he would rather not re-open, however, and so he forced the thought from his mind, scanning the room for any persons of potential interest. There were certainly a few interesting characters about nowadays.

He found himself thinking that what he really needed was an adventure. To travel, perhaps. He needed to see if there was anything in this world truly rivaling the beauty of Ulthuan. He doubted he would find any such majesty, but his heart ached for it nonetheless. He hoped seemingly beyond hope that some stranger from a far off land would enter the tavern in search of capable warriors for some errand. He had hoped for some such event for the better part of the last three months, to no avail.

As Galadred was hopelessly anticipating the arrival of renowned warriors, he would no doubt spot the seemingly mundane Jebidiah Braun. Jeb, as he was known to his friends and relatives, had traveled from Hochland to this part of the Reikland in search of opportunity and adventure, hoping to capitalize on his skill with a long rifle. Indeed, the Hochlander was a marksman, having raised himself as an avid and capable hunter, and proving himself by defending Esk from Beastmen.

There was nothing specifically interesting about the new arrival, and he was - for all intents and purposes - 'a commoner'. There were no colors to indicate his Hochlander origin, but the long rifle on his back would certainly give it away. A fur cloak hung over the man's shoulders, much like the lion hide around Galadred, though less imaginative. These observations would paint this man as a huntsman - stereotypical for a Hochlander.

The bushy-bearded, brown-eyed man rubbed his hand over his head, pulling his long brown hair out of his face. He observed the otherwise charming atmosphere of the locale, before setting his eyes upon Galadred. He was impressed at the man's size, armor, and the lion's hide - but further impressed when he realized it was no man but an elf.

But Jebidiah diverted his focus to Ludolf Bohn, the apparent owner of this establishment. He approached the bar and took a seat at one of the stools. Provided the barkeep approached, he would ask "Well met, friend. I'm after room and board."

"Quit whining ye dolt," the Longbeard said. The woman paid him little heed, though her scream at the retort turned into a pitiful whimper. Drimbold wondered how weak the manling folk were if they had never seen severed Grobi heads. Even Dwarf women would not blanch at such a sight, instead they would praise Valya and Grungni that there were three less Goblins tainting the world. The image of his wife Volga caused his mood to sour even more, and he continued on despite the stares he received from the still dripping heads that hung from his back.

Once he was paid the bounties for the slain Goblins (with typical shoddy manling coins to boot!), he decided he needed a place to find some beer or ale. Mead even, if there wasn't either of the other two to be found in this hamlet of a town. Stomping through the dirt streets, the armored elder was probably the most heavily armed person in town by the looks of these farmers and backwater merchants. The mercenary or two he saw seemed more like hired killers than actual soldiers.

He found the Limping Nag after asking a particularly fat man where the tavern was, and soon the inhabitants of the establishment felt a cool breeze waft and the sound of the door being shoved open. It revealed a Dwarf clad in Gromril, with an aged, grim visage and scarred skin where he wasn't covered in cloth or mail. His greying beard almost brushed the floor, and would have if it weren't for the bronze ringlets keeping it tied.

He smelled the air, getting a whiff of piss poor ale and sweaty manlings. However, there was a flowery stench he could not ignore. "I smell Elgi." He muttered, his eyes scanning the room until they fell upon Galadred. His jaw involuntarily clenched, only for him to stop short. If he caused a brawl here, they wouldn't serve him ale, piss poor though it be. With a few choice words of Khazalid, he made his way over to the bar.

"Ale. Keep it coming."

Ludolf Bohn enjoyed these warmer summer days and evenings, having fought from the warm climes to Estalia to the frozen wastelands of Norsca during his time as a warrior of the Empire. He had fought all manner of the living - from the forces of rival Elector Counts, to Greenskins and even (some said) the Rat-men of Skavenblight - as well as numerous encounters with the forces of undeath. He had seen his own comrades raised up to fight against him, hewing them apart with the very same zweihander blade that now held pride of place on brackets above and behind the bar. Yet running a tavern, along with his wife Hilda and young son Jochen, and the various hired hands of the establishment, was by far the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

A giant of a man at six-foot and four-inches in height, his pale flesh covered on his face by a great bushy beard of greying gold, he kept a close eye on all his patrons and staff with eyes the same grey as a thunderstorm cloud. Dressed as he was now, in a simple blue tunic and trousers of a brown, he wore a brown apron over it and could often be found simply wiping out the inside of a flagon behind the bar.

Having so many patrons move through the Nag every day, he barely noticed Jeb (@TJByrum) as the huntsman made his way past the hired doorman and peacekeeper - an Elf, but not just any Elf, one of the fabled White Lions of Chrace - and walked toward the bar, before taking a stool and catching the Reiklanders eye.

"Well met, friend. I'm after room and board."

"Oh yea," grunted the barkeep, taking in the measure of the young man with an experienced eye, one hand moving through his luxurious beard, "we have a few of both, Herr Hochlander. Could you be more specific?"

Before Jebidiah got a chance to reply though another patron took away his attention, a much shorter but heftier visitor, unmistakable as anything but a Dwarf (@POOHEAD189) of the mountain holds; they were travellers not uncommon in the Reikland, and Ludolf apologised to Jebidiah and begged his indulgence for a moment.

"Ale. Keep it coming."

Certainly here was a fine specimen of Dwarfish culture and manhood, a longbeard by the looks of him, one who should be accorded respect within his hold...well, he was not in any Dwarf hold, but a Reikland tavern.

"Ah, Master Dawi, I have a fine keg of Zhufbar Ale just waiting to be tapped...for the right price, of course. A rich flavour and dark colour, not an ale to be missed." One hand went to scratch his beard again, those grey eyes never leaving those of Drimbold as he spoke, "perhaps I may suggest a flagon or two of Korben’s Finest? A worthy Dwarfish stout made from pale malt, roasted unmalted barley,
and caramel malt? Two pennies for a pint of ale or one for the beer."

Meinhardt Volker was bored of the the Nag. He was bored of the town, and of rest. He’d returned from his last contract a fortnight past and had been thankful of the downtime; for the first few days. Two weeks on, however and he was eager to be off once more. The word from Ludolf was that something would be coming any day now and Volker was chomping at the bit.

To pass the time, the mercenary had settled into a steady routine not unlike that of a garrisoned soldier. He woke early from the guesthouse across the brook from the Nag and would go for a long run along the creek. A cold breakfast would be had in a glade on the outskirts of Übersreik, and then Meinhardt would return to get his kit on. The rest of the morning would involve physical training with a full pack, and would include everything from hauling logs, jumping back and forth across the creek and climbing every tree he could find. The locals had chuckled at first, until the local militia sergeant had begun incorporating small aspects of the training regime into the drills the militiamen did on the eighth day of every week. After lunch at the Nag was weapons training at the woods edge. One proud oak had served as a pell and had been mightily beaten by Meinhardt’s hammer and chopped at by by axe and knife. After an equipment check, it was time to eat.

After dinner at the Nag there wasn’t much else to do but have a few drinks, and though fairly well off as far as out of work mercenaries go, Meinhardt didn’t like to pay for anything he didn’t have to. Plenty of soldiers, mercenaries, old drunks and even the local boys would like the chance to prove they were Big Strong Men. Thus he would sit with a mug of ale, a clay cup and a coin on the table: a challenge. Men would sit at his small table and place down their coin, they would clasp hands and the first one to wrestle the others to the table was the victor. Meinhardt had lost a few, but the usual result was to take the mans coin and put it in the cup with a clink.

His latest win had come from the smiths apprentice, who had tried and failed thrice this week. He was a strong lad, perhaps even stronger then Meinhardt, but with no technique. Twisting subtly at the wrist, the boys knuckles had lowered steadily until they rapped against the wood. Old and crafty had defeated young and strong yet again. He would never get rich arm wrestling for pennies, but it kept him in all well enough.

As Meinhardt watched the newcomers and enjoyed his mug he wondered yet again if the Elfish bouncer would ever sit at his table. He thought he was stronger then the elf, put probably slower. It would be an interesting challenge. So far, however, Galadred had merely watched the room, dutiful and perhaps as bored as Meinhardt Volker was.

Frans Vou reined in his horse, regarding the twilit establishment before him. Removing a crumpled piece of parchment the young knight confirmed with a few quick sweeps of his eyes that he had indeed arrived at the proper destination after riding on the road for the better part of a week, traveling the highways between Bretonnia and the Empire through both mountain pass and thick woodland. It’d been an easy trip, thankfully void of inclement weather or any other issues to waylay a traveler. Shaking the dust of the road from his cloak and tunic Frans Vou dismounted his sturdy black steed bidding his page Adrian to take the reins, and providing both coin and instructions to ensure the proud beast was well cared for in the tavern’s stables. The stallion was his father’s favorite horse, taken specifically to spite his father Vincent, the honored patriarch of Bluspereaux family house. Indeed the animal had been of such immense value Frans Vou’s father had sent a company of ten yeomen to retrieve it, but their efforts were for naught when Frans Vou drew steel and invited them to take the horse out from under him. They’d trailed him for the next two nights until he passed into Imperial lands where they were forced to split off, for they were an unwelcome cohort to enter the province, armed and bearing colors as they were. Presumably they’d were being lambasted back at the Bluspereaux manor at this very moment, and the thought of his father’s angry face, beet red as he screamed obscenities upon the unsuccessful yeomen brought fresh energy to Frans Vou’s sore riding legs.

Straightening his sword and belt the young, bold Bretonnian strode through the foreign tavern’s door in high confidence, expecting to be a sight to be beheld amongst the presumed crowd of country folk and ragged sellswords. After all he’d stayed at three other Imperial taverns before the Limping Nag, and had no reason to expect this one to be any different. And oh folly by the Lady’s blessing was he mistaken.

The first sight to see, that any man entering should spot immediately upon entering, was the man dressed in a white lion’s pelt and fine armor. Upon closer inspection came the realization that it wasn’t a man at all but an elf. Frans Vou, in all his wildest dreams would never had expected one such as an elfish to be welcome in the company of rugged mercenaries. Granted his own life decisions having led one such as himself to ride with them, but that was one thing, the elf was another. Then Frans Vou's astonished blue eyes were drawn to the greatsword mounted proudly behind the bar, and following that was the amusing sight of an ancient Dawi warrior seated upon a stool. Releasing a low whistle Frans Vou swept his blonde hair from his face, suddenly unsure of whom to request an audience with. He’d expected that the toughest, richest, oldest and boldest man would be the one to speak with, but as it turned out that would be a much more difficult distinction to make than he’d originally thought.

After casting about the crowd for a good while Frans Vou spotted a worthy candidate to presume governance and strode over, sitting across from Meinhardt Volker by mere chance. “Monsieur, ye appear as a man of experience, if I may intrude for a moment of ou’s time?” Frans Vou opened the conversation, his thick High Bretonnian accent giving away his noble stature far better than his road dusted fine clothing or golden spurs ever could. “I am Francois Vou Bluspereaux, but please disregard such frivolous titling. I prefer Frans Vou. And I am in search zee Guild of Esteemed Sellswords. I ‘ave been made aware zey congregate wiven zis establishment on occasion. I speak to ou, for ye ‘ave zee look of ah, zat type of person, zat is whom is involved wee mercenaries. No?”

Next to enter was the Ice Mage. Volodymyr, Vladimir, Waldemar, however he called himself, the man walked straight and tall but not particularly imposing or even noticeable, to one not paying much attention. He dismounted just outside knowing perfectly well that his faithful companion would stay outside exactly where he was, at most moving a metre or two to graze. He left one sword and his staff there, keeping the lighter blade on his purpose. Vlad stopped outside before walking inside. It was quite the journey that got him to this point in life. From having everything he could want at a simple word of a doting father, to long and boring yet almost paradoxically restless time of study, and at last selling his skills to the highest or - if luck was bad - first bidder.

The young man considered how to present himself to the audiences there. He knew it would be quite rag-tag, but he didn't know exactly who he would meet. He had been only in Reikland and Kislev before, and was only exposed to those cultures in real amounts. Oh he had went to the Elven, Dwarfen, and other quarters of the city and seen a glimpse of what the world had to offer. Yet it was but a glimpse, and he knew what he would get himself into would likely end up in more than a glimpse, particularly if his talents carried his name. The youth wondered if he would get a chance to ever see home again. Obviously under a disguise, but still there as himself. His train of thought lead him to more and more anger. Why had his own kinsmen forsaken him? He wasn't destroying the bloody North as the damned witch prophecies said he would, he was just an ordinary man who had something he never even asked for stuck to him. Oh he heard that they could get his powers away, and that thus he could roam Kislev freely once more. Yes he could remember some of the people who had that happen to them, now realizing why they were such. They were like cats neutered with a pair of scissors or hedge clippers as in the good traditions of Kislev. Aimless, quiet, unimaginative and dull if not precisely stupid. Maybe that was part of removing the magics from him?

Vlad shook his head and got the thoughts out of his head. Brimming with emotion he already felt exhausted from the uncontrolled release of magics this brought, covering his hands in frost and even an icicle or two. Slapping the icicles off of his hands he sighed again. Life was bloody unfair, and after wiping a tear away with a still frosty hand the lad walked over to the doors. Instinctively from his noble days he banged his boots together to get the mud off of them, the steel caps making sparks as they clanged together. The man entered, and looked around. He knew that his Northman features with eyes slanted like a Cathay or Nippon man would make him noticed, if the big fur hat and cultural sword did not. From his first step in he already got a taste of the exotic, staring an elf in the face. He didn't particularly care for their kind other than appreciating their magic, but in any other respect they were annoying, arrogant, and soft bastards he wanted not much dealings with. There was also a Dwarf, who he didn't particularly care for much either. The stunties were just as if not more arrogant, and even more pathetic in their grudging and disgusting greed. But they were a kind that valued strength and one's ability to hold liquor, so they were just a shred above elves in his humble opinion. He wiped the rest of the melting icicles and frost from his hands and looked to the barkeep. Yes, for now he'd have to play the Kislevite drunkard until he got a better lay of the land.

Walking exaggeratedly from one foot to the other, the Northerner got to the bar and banged a single large but thick gold coin down, from a pouch that probably held quite a bit more from it's apparent weight. "Any Vodka or Horelka for a good customer?" he said, rolling his Rs with the stereotypical but admittedly true style of the Gospodar tongue. "I have been going horse for long time, and I vant vodka after travel. You can provide, da? If you have, then a round of it for everyone on me!" He said, with a wave of a slightly damp fist. He leaned a bit closer to the barkeep presumably after the last interaction was done and said "I vant to kno' if there is vork here. Good vork, something long lasting with decent pay, for someone that can fight and has... special talents." It was right to the point, but such was the way of the Gospodar folk.

Balgrim prepared his pack for a long journey at his family home in Karak Norn. He did this in silence for his family were out working tirelessly in the mines. Balgrim preferred to set out without a drawn out goodbye and figured he'd save himself the scorn and grumbles his family would likely foster for his choice to pursue goals of adventuring. He wanted to see his family's status restored in his own lifetime and didn't enjoy the thought of them toiling for another 3 generations to repay their debt.

With his pack sufficiently stuffed with mead, bread, and goat steaks he set out for the city of Nuln. Balgrim had always enjoyed his longer scouting trips as a ranger and was delighted at the thought of making such a long journey to begin his career as an adventurer. During the first week of his expedition he took comfort in the joy he got from traveling and ignored the doubts he had in himself based on the fact that he had undertaken this goal without much of a plan. He knew he could make more coin adventuring than toiling in the mines or serving as a ranger but had no concrete plans on where to start other than to head to a large manling city and start looking for opportunities.

His journey up through Heisenberg and Meissen had been quite pleasant. Stopping in Wrumgrube he met a farmer at the local tavern who traded some fine Mootland tobacco for some of his dwarven mead. Setting out again Balgrim made a brief stop in Wissenburg when a recruitment poster caught his eye. The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords had been looking for new members. Balgrim's eyes widened as he was overcome with excitement, along with a small feeling of disappointment. He had found his opportunity for adventure, though he had been looking forward to spending time wandering Nuln. He pushed onward at a brisker pace, reinvigorated with a purposeful starting point to his quest. He kept his sightseeing to a minimal, and plotted a direct route to Übersreik. Balgrim cut through the woods and camped under the stars as he did as a ranger.

After a couple weeks he had finally made it to Übersreik. The town seemed rather unremarkable to him on first impressions. During his tour he came across the Übersreik marketplace. It was easily the busiest part of the town and he saw many merchant stalls and trade carts tangling together in what reminded him of a thick bubbling stew. The manlings were so loud, all shouting at passers by seemingly desperately trying to sell their wares to anyone within earshot. It was nothing like the guild marketplaces of a Karak, and Balgrim began to understand why the Longbeards back home would grumble about manling workmanship and trade practices.

His eyes finally fell on the The Limping Nag, and his throwing axes chimed and clanged as he quickly waddled his way to the door. Hastily throwing the door open Balgrim took a deep breath and surveyed the tavern. Scanning the room he skipped over any ordinary looking person and spotted adventuring types that let him know he was in the right place. He spotted a couple men talking at a table, another sitting at the bar along with a fellow Dawi. They had the look Balgrim sought and he continued his scan until his eyes halted at the sight of armored figure standing just to the right of the doorway propped up against a wall. Balgrim knew straight away it was an elf as it was standard for dwarf rangers to be familiar with all types should they need to report any invading troops or warbands of elves that ventured into their lands.

Balgrim wasted no time and approached the elf, eager to ply his favorite hobby.

"What's this you ave'?" he boomed as his footsteps made the old floor creak.

Balgrim brazenly flicked the elf's armor a few times and it sung a chime back to him.

"I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns."

He exhaled a deep laugh and pulled the widest grin he could muster looking up at the elf.

The man who approached Meinhardt’s table had the look of most of his challengers. Young, strong and sure of their abilities. It was as he sat down so boldly that the veteran soldier noted the details about him. His bearing was noble and his dress was fine, though roadworn. His accent confirmed it; a foreigner from Bretonnia, and not one of those buck toothed peasants that made even the most backwards Imperial citizen seem like a scholar.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Vou,” Meinhardt said while reaching forward to shake the younger mans hand. “You’ve come to the right place, sure enough. Ludolf Bohn behind the bar keeps this place as a meeting point and watering hole for the Guild.”

Meinhardt stroked his long dark grey-streaked beard with his other hand as he considered the foreigner. For his part, Meinhardt wore faded blue and white striped pants and a leather arming coat over an old tunic. His eyes were nut brown and sharp but had a tiredness to them that didn’t match his smile.

“You’re looking for work are you?” he asked. “Call me Volker. Meinhardt Volker.”

In a dingy corner of the tavern sat Vargni, a slumped and dishevelled mess of flesh and hair that one could have quite easily overlooked as just another odd adventuring trophy dumped away from sight. And indeed this was the case, as Vargni gradually roused from what had been a pleasantly undisturbed slumber. Like a whipping snake, his limbs suddenly lashed into life as he stretched them and lazily rubbed crusted deposits of sleep and snot from his face.

Waking up in the late afternoon was not a particularly unusual experience for Vargni. It wasn't the drinking that did it - he could hold his ale better than most dwarves his age - but rather a sort of sticky lethargy and depression that was gradually webbing him down. It was the lack of work that was doing it, and he hated it. Vargni wished there were trolls eating the local children. He wished there were beastfolk building effigies in the forest. He wished there were goblins burrowing into the sewers. But unfortunately, monster hunting was very much a career of peaks and troughs. The monsters were there, you slayed them, and then they were dead and no one had work for you anymore.

And so, like a man dying of thirst in a desert, Vargni had crawled to The Limping Nag and gone into hibernation, in the desperate hope that something would come along to save him before he couldn't go on any longer. If there was any place where one could find work, it was here.

Opening his bleary eyes, Vargni caught a wiff of potential. A heap of newcomers had arrived, with that sort of bright energy that clings to those seeking death (when one becomes a slayer, one develops something of a cynical attitude towards the word 'adventure'). And a few dawi, at that.

Pushing himself up on his elbows and climbing to his feet, using the dry plastered wall as support, his attention was attracted to the noise of the newly arrived ranger as he addressed the elgi.

"What's this you ave'? I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns."

Vargni's dry lips curled into a smirk at the ranger's words as he stumbled over, and with a hoarse voice he grumbled:

"Careful now, or he'll wear your ruddy face alongside that house-cat on his shoulder."

Galadred's eye wandered to Volker's table in boredom. When there was any trouble, it usually came from there. Tests of strength always seemed to bring out the worst in men. Though The Lion's face was blank, expressionless, he inwardly pleaded for Meinhardt to draw a rowdy challenger. He found himself thinking anything to break the monotony. However, as was often the case for him, he found himself regretting the thought almost instantaneously as the tavern door opened, and in trotted a dwarf. The smell hit his keen, elven nostrils instantly. This dwarf was old, and had either been on the road a long while, or preferred not to wash. The new arrival looked about the Nag, then his deep-set eyes, sunken into his leathery face, settled on Galadred. There was a brief moment of tension, the longbearded dwarf's jaw tensed, and though Galadred managed to hold on to his expressionless stoicism, he felt a tingle of excitement at the base of his spine, and his hands clenched tightly around the haft of his axe beneath the lion-pelt cloak. Give me a reason. The elf thought.

The moment passed, and the dwarf turned and walked toward the bar, but the elf remained charged, electrified, eager. None of the tension had left him. Several minutes of silent vigil eventually eased him down to a simmer, and in came another newcomer. While it wasn't so strange to have multiple arrivals in one day, this man was not the usual sort. Galadred had had met many a member of the Bretonian royalty whilst escorting diplomats from Ulthuan for the occasional meeting. Though this was rare, Galadred had learned to spot their particular styles. This man was, unmistakably Bretonian. He looked around the room, seemingly unsure of who to approach, yet despite his lack of direction, his bearing exuded confidence and self-assuredness. He looked over Galadred briefly, and the elf gave him the slightest of nods, then the noble man strolled confidently to Volker's table. Galadred raised an eyebrow. Surely this Bretonian hadn't come this far east simply to challenge a man to an arm wrestle? He watched with barely disguised interest, straining his elven ears to hear the conversation as the man sat down across from Meinhardt.

The Lion's focus was so absolute that he didn't notice the man with the heavy Kislevite accent until he offered a round of vodka for all. This distracted the elf slightly, but he wasn't much of a drinker. After one has tasted the wines of the Asur, not much else can compare. Besides, he was on duty. He shrugged off the distraction, focusing in on Volker and the Bretonian again, currently the only table which had the potential to produce an interesting turn of events, and a reason for him to flex his muscles. He was dimly aware of another patron entering, but paid little heed. That is, until the brazen little dwarf walked straight up to him. Galadred didn't register what he said at first, but turned to look at the dwarf just in time to see the stubby fingers flick his ithilmar armour near the waist. The silvery reverberation, like the tinkle of an expertly crafted bell, gave the elf a sudden vision of home, but it was broken before it could fully materialize by the dwarf's gruff voice.

"I didn't know Übersreik was famous for 'canned elf', they'll ave' to add that to the roadsigns." The dwarf bellowed.

Galadred was momentarily taken aback. The forwardness of the lesser races often had this effect on him, even to this day. However, nearly twenty years in the old world had helped him to grow accustomed to the banter and boasting, to a degree. Another dwarf, who Galadred knew as Vargni (another current resident of the Nag) had approached. Though Galadred and Vargni had interacted a bare minimum, the elf didn't mind the slayer. Smelly and unhygienic though he was, he rendered an important service in the surrounding area, and Galadred had to respect anyone of such short stature who would actively seek out monsters in the wilds.

"Careful now," Vargni grumbled, still apparently slightly inebriated, "Or he'll wear your ruddy face alongside that house-cat on his shoulder."

"Hmmm..." Galadred hummed as he raised an eyebrow, then put one hand to his chin in mock thought, conveniently allowing his cloak to slip open and reveal Argent Roar, his mighty enchanted axe. "I think not. A face like that would only dampen the luster of my ensemble, no?"

Jeb turned and looked upon the dwarf (@poohead189) with curious eyes. "Ale. Keep it coming," he had told the barkeep, stealing away the Hochlander's attention. He would have spoken up if another, Vlad (@andreyich), had not plopped down beside him, who soon proclaimed a round of vodka for everyone.

Jeb shrugged, grinning, and looked back the barkeep. "I s'pose I'll take vodka, then." The sharpshooter adjusted the straps that ran across his chest, which held his long rifle on his back. He looked at the dwarf, and then over at the Kislevite. "The two of you look mighty experienced," he began, "name's Jeb. I'm lookin' for work." Jeb looked over the dawi's panoply of axes: "but I'm not fighter. At least, not an experienced one. But I can shoot - and I'm a damn good marksman."

Jebidiah looked at both individuals beside him, eager to sell his services to either of them.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance monsieur Volker. Indeed Il was a blessing of zee lady to find zee Guild of Esteemed Sellswords, or at least zer flyer, weeh pointed moi in zis direction.” Here Frans Vou flattened out the slip of parchment upon which the Guild’s name, and the location of the Limping Nag tavern were emblazoned in bold colors. Folding his hands Frans Vou leaned ever so slightly to the left in order to look past Volker’s bulk and gaze upon the man working the bar, the apparent Ludolf Bohn who’d been so kindly indicated. Frans Vou couldn’t help but frown at this realization, casting a worried glimpse deep into Volker’s brown eyes trying to catch some hint of deceit. Surely a great warrior, an honored leader of a proper mercenary guild wouldn’t lower himself to the work of commoners, cleaning dwarf spit from tumblers. Frans Vou expected Ludolf Bohn to be a rough man, but certainly not a humbly working one. Still the young knight detected no sign of malicious intent in the aging warrior’s gaze, seeing only honest intention and curiosity on Volker’s face.

Biting his lower lip Frans Vou gave a quick shake of his head, clearing away his thoughts of mistrust. “No, ah I am not looking for work, in so much as seeking glory and adventure and more importantly a way to find it. I ‘ave no need for gold, zough I would not refuse it, haha. I am wei zey call a knight Errant of Bretonnia. My quest led moi ‘ere, not zee typical rout of an Errant knight, but I was not traditional in my leaving home neizer.”

At that moment a small commotion was occurring between the elf and a couple dwarves. Frans Vou cast a baleful look in their direction, a slightly irritated tone in his voice as he addressed Volker. “Are zee old folk always like zat? Zey are not so common in zee place w’ere from I ‘ail from. Nay, I cannot say I ‘ave seen zem interact before.”

Meinhardt smiled behind his beard at the young knight as he produced the Guild flyer. It was the same roughly printed poster that had gotten his attention over a year ago, with the guilds heroic - and completely fabricated - crest as well as bold print espousing exactly the glory and adventure which young ‘Frans’ was searching for. It was printed in reikspiel, which spoke to Frans’ noble education.

“Well hopefully the guild can provide a mighty quest worthy of an Errantry Knight, Mr. Vou,” said Meinhardt with an honest chuckle. “I’ve seen you Bretonnian’s on campaign once, maybe fifteen, sixteen years back. Your folk are might horsemen indeed.”

The old soldier leaned forward with a more friendly posture then he’d had, having a drink of his ale. Then in a conspiratorial tone he continued, “I’m after precisely that myself, admittedly. I’ve been with the Guild for about eight months now and have mostly run protection for caravans. Milk runs, easy enough but not much to it. Rumour says something bigger is coming our way. Mayhaps you and I will end up campaigning together.”

When the Bretonnian brought Meinhardt’s attention to the potential scuffle going on near the entrance, causing him to furrow his bushy eyebrows and he took stock of those involved.

“The elder races don’t get along,” explained Meinhardt. “The War of the Beard, they call it, but don’t ever call it that in front of a dwarf. Some ancient conflict from way back when, hated each other ever since. My advice: don’t get involved.”

@Dusty

As Balgrim tapped the tall elf's armor another dawi appeared from the shadows and warned him about taunting the White Lion. The dwarf's mane was unmistakable and Balgrim took further comfort in knowing more dawi populated the small tavern, even if it was a slayer.

"Ho there kin!" exclaimed Balgrim, giving the slayer a swift slap on his naked shoulder.

The elf chimed in and to Balgrim's surprise fired back at him with another insult. Balgrim had only ever met elves during his patrols and most often the interaction began and ended with either group telling the other to sod off. Meeting one in a much more relaxed environment proved amusing to him, and he looked forward to future bouts of insult tossing with this elf in the future.

"Really? I should think even the poshest Elgi would be overjoyed to wear my handsome skin as a cloak."

Balgrim let out a loud laugh through the small tavern. "Well if you've done well enough to earn the respect of my kin perhaps I should watch my step." Balgrim looked down and took a hand to his bulging stomach that hung over his belt. "Easier said than done." he said and let out another loud cackle.

He tapped the elf's armor one final time and took a seat at a nearby table.

@Lucian@Laduguer

Drimbold had placed a few of the shoddy manling coins upon the counter and had waited expectantly for the ale, until this manling had offered something else that had piqued his interest. Furrowing his brow, he stared at him with a curious disbelief. "Zhufbar Ale?" he declared allowed. "How'd you get that?" The question hung in the air, but in the end he knew it did not matter. By Gungni, he just needed a drink. It wasn't like the manling had claimed he had read any of the sacred texts of Valya!

"Aye, Zhufbar Ale it is. And keep that coming!" He cried, shoving some more of the manling coins his way. If he didn't accept the payment, Drimbold had some extra Dwarfish gold in his pack. But he'd not give that to any but of the Elder in any but the most dire circumstances.

As he waited for his drink, he glanced out into the room. Oddly enough, it was a diverse crowd of manlings and even other Dawi. A beardling and a slayer (who looked like a beardling himself) had just greeted one another. They looked like they hadn't even been on a dozen campaigns against Grobi! It was the fifteenth campaign when a Dwarf got a beard on his chest! Still, he heard Vargni's comment about the Elgi and it brought an obnoxious, roaring laugh from Drimbold's lips.

His mirth only died down when the riflemen sitting next to him paid him a greetings, to which he shot him a guarded and uninterested look. Luckily, the Ale had slid into his ham sized fist and the good Dwarfish alcohol improved his mood to where he would at least speak. After taking a long swig, he set the mug down and wiped his mouth with his forearm. "I don't pay men to fight fer me. I do me own fighting, manling." He saw the longrifle the hochlander wore. If nothing else, he respected the weapon. Might not be as good as a Dwarfish handgun, but it was good work for a man engineer.

@Blueskin@Lucian@Dusty@Drinky@Andreyich@POOHEAD189@TJByrum@Laduguer

"I have been going horse for long time, and I vant vodka after travel. You can provide, da? If you have, then a round of it for everyone on me!" He said, with a wave of a slightly damp fist. He leaned a bit closer to the barkeep presumably after the last interaction was done and said "I vant to kno' if there is vork here. Good vork, something long lasting with decent pay, for someone that can fight and has... special talents." It was right to the point, but such was the way of the Gospodar folk.

Oh Gods... Thought Ludolf silently to himself ...a bloody Kislevite.

After exchanging coin with the greybeard sat at the bar and handing him a pint flagon of Zhufbar Ale – not as uncommon, even here, as the Dwarfs craggy features showed he believed – the tavern proprietor gave a small chuckle at the rebuke from the clearly experienced warrior and turned his attention back to the apparently presumptuous snow-dweller.

“Look northerner, I have vodka if you are willing to pay up coin to buy it, if not then you stop offering drinks to everyone in this place. We do not give out drink for free in the Empire...and by the looks of all here, well, I'd say you owe about nine crowns at least. You have that money, do you?”

It wasn't that the former soldier disliked the pale Kislevite, he was just not one to part with his stock for anything less than a fair price; as for the Hochlander, he didn't even look old enough to drink.

“As for work, well, he should be here any minute.”



Severo Emigdio the One-Eyed hauled his skeletal frame along the road with as much energy as he could muster, huffing and puffing to himself all the while, muttering in Estalian and wishing he had never become a 'party' of the Guild all those decades ago. It was quite a boring tale really, and short; he had made his way to the misty isle of Albion, discovered a jewel the size of his own head, and taken it from beneath the gaze of a mentally deficient giant! True, it had taken right eye, but in the end the wealth that had come from the jewel had been worth a singular eye and allowed him to buy his way into the lower hierarchy of the Guild.

Now, as he visibly sweltered beneath the colourful red cloak and inside the green tunic and hose he wore, he cursed that ruby to the Underworld and back.

The Estalian certainly did not look the 'sellsword' type, and indeed he was not, if anything he was a huge fluke, and his gaunt appearance and slicked back black hair did nothing to give him any form of martial air possessed by some. At five feet and seven inches he was of average height for one with decent nutrition, the cane he held in one spindly hand and supported himself upon with a silver top in the shape of an Estalian galleon, and the general clothing he wore showing him as a man of wealth but not of war.

Across his chest was a broad leather strap, supporting an entire collection of writing equipment inside a leather satchel, these were – for the moment – the tools of his trade; for he was a recruiter for the Guild, and all that that entailed.

“Estupid calor,” he growled as he eyed the pathway leading into the open space before him, his head rising to see the exterior of the Nag before him, “Finalment, estic aquí.”

Urging his lanky legs to carry him the rest of the way, he half-fell through the doorway of the tavern – barely avoiding the Elf and gaggle of Dwarfs milling about not far from the entrance – righting himself with all the composure he could muster and walking to his regular table in the farthest corner of the place.

On this day he sat as far away from the fire as he could, giving Ludolf a curt nod to let the Reiklander know he was here, and arranging on the tabletop his implements with skilled and practised motions; a quill, parchment, an inkwell and so forth.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, may I hath your attention!” He intoned loudly, standing from his seat and opening his arms wide, “any and all seeking work with the Guild shall see me in their own time, one at a time. Pleath enjoy yourselves until then.”

The young Bretonnian flushed with pride at Volker’s words of his countrymen’s skill in cavalry. Frans Vou was a knight and nobleman after all and knew well the discipline and skill which the realm chevaliers possessed as they rode into battle. Frans Vou’s pleasure was short lived however as Volker continued, explaining his recent duties within the Guild. Guard duty and patrolling was the work of men-at-arms not professional warriors. Such tiresome duties did not sit well with Frans Vou and he stirred in his seat, glad once Volker changed the subject and answered him on his apprehensions with the Old Folks’ banter.

“Aye, zose zings do not concern moi. I too see no need to meddle in zair affairs. I zal take ou’s advice and leave old battles to rest in zair graves.” Frans Vou said in dismissal, waving away his earlier concerns like they were a stale scent on the breeze. Just then, a thin middle-aged man who had managed to enter unnoticed by Frans Vou spoke up from the corner of the room, announcing his purpose, and also the opportunity to speak with the Guild’s recruiter himself. Standing from his table Frans Vou nodded to Volker, utter a friendly. “Excuse moi for zee moment friend.” Turning away the knight proceeded across the tavern, his hand resting relaxed upon his sword hilt as he came before the recruiter, boldly introducing himself.

“Salutations good man, I am Sir Francois Vou Bluspereaux, and I am interested in joining zee Guild. For important duties only, of course.”

Vlad was about to go for a snappy retort, before a man who he presumed to be Tilean stepped in. He spun his head to examine the newcomer, before turning back to the barkeep and with a fluid movement snatching the gold piece off of the table. "You're right!" He said cheerfully, emptying a large pile of bronze coins with two silver ones on the table. "I think that should be enough for two bottles and a glass of vodka. Oh! A glass of water too, please." The words came quickly but clearly, and once he presumably got what he wanted he'd down the glass and grab the two bottles before walking off.

Just as he was about to approach the theoretical employer, someone else did. It was a bloody frog no less! Bored, he turned to face the Dwarfs and the elf, watching their rather silly grievances. The northerner knew that his kin liked a grudge quite a lot, but the enmity between knife ear and stunty was quite absurd. He had to admit one of the Dwarfs had quite good cracks but the elf gave ripostes just as well. He downed his glass of vodka in a single deep gulp before wiping his mouth and sitting at a chair with his hands supporting his head. He thought of the Hochlander too, for a moment pondering the possibility that someone with such an exquisite weapon had been hired by some Ice bwitch to track and kill him. Dismissing the thought as silly he relaxed and waited calmly.

Some time after the Bretonnian, the Kislevite approached 'Severo Emigdio' and gave him a brief bow. "My name is Waldemar Vetroff, I would like to go into your employ. I think I have valuable skills that would earn you a pretty penny... with me getting an obvious piece of the penny course." He'd place the glass of water he purchased earlier in one hand, and stuck his other hand's index finger in it. With a grunt of effort, he'd get to freezing the whole of it's contents.