@BiffleChump@Andreyich@Oak7ree@BangoSkank (possibly @Sleater)

On any other night in Ubersreik the place would have been packed to the rafters, the ladies of the night would have been plying their trade, and ale and imported Dwarfish beer would have been gushing from the tapped barrels contained at the bar of The Intelligent Guard - one of the more popular taverns of the city - but tonight was not any other night, in fact it was just one odd night in a series of days and nights that were getting ever stranger in a world descending into the strange, the corrupt, and the evil.

On this night the tavern was more-or-less empty of life, and for good reason, only the proprietor of the establishment given permission to remain where he was; this was primarily so he new al that happened, if damages should be done and the like, but also so he could hand out beverages as and when they were required.

Apart from him were half-a-dozen of the harbour-cities militia, fully armed and suited, their halberds glinting in the dim light of the tavern and their eyes alert for any signs of mischief.

Why would there be mischief, or indeed guards, in a more-or-less empty tavern?

Well, the sole reason for the ale-houses lack of custom on this night had taken a seat behind one of the larger tables in the taverns common room.

Shifting furniture so that he sat directly before the doorway to the tavern, one hand playing idly with the hilt of a silver dagger, the other holding a quill next to an inkwell and what seemed to be a contract of sorts, Helmut Van Graff - Witch Hunter and former Imperial soldier - glared at the portal with eyes the colour of slate...waiting.

Upon his arrival in the city (and following the recent demise of his last retinue) the Witch Hunter had sent out a city-wide call for those desperate, skilled, or simply stupid enough to answer to meet him here at this hour of this night. It had been a simple task with the help of the garrison commander, an old military comrade of the unsanctioned slayer of evil, to make sure his location and identity were known, now all he had to do was see who came.

Van Graff himself was a man of middling-years, his gaunt and weathered face with its salt-and-pepper goatee telling more of a tale than any words ever could, his head topped by shoulder-length mane of hair that was presently deep brown but streaked with gray. Lookin sickly in the face, it appeared that his body shared the same streak, his limbs almost skeletal and belying what was actually a deep strength - there was not an ounce of fat on the man, all that remained was muscle, and he was shockingly quick along with it.

As could be expected he dressed from head-to-toe in the manner of his adopted persona, his stiff-brimmed and tall hat sat on the table to one side, his body clad in a long coat of buff colour, and all over armed to the teeth - if it wasn't the sword at his hip, it was the four pistol he carried in two braces on his torso, or the other dagger in his calf-high cavalry boots.

All-in-all, Helmut Van Graff was not a man to be angered or crossed.

When he finally spoke it was in a tone that made no disagreement possible, for it was hard...cold even...uncaring of what others thought or believed, the voice of a world-weary man who had seen too much of everything this life had to offer.

Now he simply was, a man doing his best to combat the evils of the world in the only way he knew how.

"Barkeep, another flagon of the Ubersreik brown, if you would be so kind; I forsee that this may be a long night."

Hans von Lipvig rode along the streets of Ubersreik. What a funny city this was, from the outside the impression was of wealth and goodness, the lights seen from oh so far away. Yet as he was properly in it he could see the true poverty and squalor. Truly this was the Reikland way: so much money to only cramp yourselves and make your folk miserable. Riding along the alien city he could not help but feel nostalgia for his home in Middenland. How he was so alienated from the people he grew with was an unwelcome and almost tear inducing thought to the lad, one he had to force down to continue.

Riding along the city he could not help but eventually have to stop for lodging and he wanted somewhere cheap. He happened upon one that he couldn't quite properly see the sign of, eyes blinded from a lamp the lamp-lit wealthy district he had just passed by. "The..." he began, trying to read the sign, but ultimately gave up realizing there was little chance of success, not to mention no real use in knowing the name.

Instead he dismounted, and hitched his horse to a pole. He took the bag with his money off of it hoping nobody would steal the rest in the time he'd pay for the steed to be stabled before going into the tavern. Hans was looking through the bag as he walked in to the tavern and only paying attention to counting his coin, he realized quite late that he was in the midst of an empty room with halberd bearing men in it. The situation perplexed the young man as he closed the bag and again shouldered it before raising both hands placating to either side at chest level. "Now-now, sorry friends, it was an accident, I don't know whats here but I mean no trouble and I couldn't cause any even if I wanted to, I'll just be on my way out now if you wouldn't mind." He bloody well hoped they didn't notice him priming his pistol with an elbow as he shouldered his bag, it was a necessity should they attack but he didn't want it to be the cause for them taking a swing.

The ride from Nuln to Übersreik had been a swift one at first. The roads closest to the capital of the Empire were well-kept, the stay at Dunkelberg pleasant and the toll-bridge at Stimmigen easy enough to dodge, but as Jan van Boschterp ventured yet further to the northwest, the imperial road thinned out to little more than a dirt track, and the weather had taken a turn for the worse.
Jan felt a strange tug at his heart as he ventured north, unsure of whether he wanted to return to the monotony of his overly-controlling family at Marienburg, or stay in the Empire.

The tall trees of the Reikwald forest did little to shield Jan from the heavy rain, as did the city-boy’s shoddily made shelter. Jan had been warned that the Drakwald was a haven to outlaws, so he and his manservant Friedrich Egelmann had agreed to stay awake in turns to watch the other’s backs and belongings. As night gave way to day, Jan’s horse and manservant had most inconveniently disappeared, and no amount of searching, waiting, or praying made the servant reappear.

Jan continued on, grumbling over the journey’s misfortunes, but at least relieved that he had kept his most precious belongings – his journal, sword, pistol, and jerky – on his person, and trudged along as best he could to Übersreik.

It was dark by the time he reached the town, but the rains had at least abated. Jan von Boschterp made his way into Übersreik, noting the place was a thriving, if not affluent, market town, and that there was a certain tension in the air. He saw a hastily scribbled note spiked onto a nearby planking – something about a witch hunter seeking new hirelings for his personal crusade against the innumerable forces of darkness in the world? Despite his initial misgivings, Jan could not help but feel tempted. Joining a mercenary army would only mean being one nameless soldier among thousand and dying from infection from a poorly cleaned musket-wound or dysentery from an uncleaned latrine, but membership in a small and chosen company of do-gooders in a more… familiarly urban… setting might win him some glory.

First, however, he needed a bit of rest, and ventured to the nearest tavern he could find that looked somewhat decent. He saw one that felt strangely compelling.

As it turned out, that tavern was full of soldiers, and a certain haggard face, looking strangely familiar from a certain recently seen scribbled note, was there on the other side of the room. A similarly-aged boy was standing in the room, looking only marginally less sheepish than Jan.
Verily, this must be a sign from fate.

@Andreyich@BiffleChump

Van Graff had almost finished his third flagon of piss-poor alcohol when the first applicant - albeit one that looked severely confused and not at all like a volunteer - made their way through the poor and into the The Intelligent Guard. Indeed, this...man soon revealed that what Helmut believed to be true was.

"Now-now, sorry friends, it was an accident, I don't know whats here but I mean no trouble and I couldn't cause any even if I wanted to, I'll just be on my way out now if you wouldn't mind."

This nearly gave the Witch Hunter cause to smile, almost. Instead he studied the young man and found him to be the atypical model of a noble born Imperial, a Middenlander from his accent, his hand already seeming to be going for something just out of sight.

Helmut was about to raise a hand to reassure the dumbfounded lad when another figure entered the tavern, this one clearly recognising him from somewhere (possibly one of the posters slapped up around the place?), and he took a moment to recline in his chair and switch his steely gaze from one to the other and back again.

"I see you are both confused," he finally said, his tone oddly friendly for a man of his profession, "but please do not be too alarmed by my friends and I, there is good reason for their presence."

The last part was directed much more at Hans, and, hoping that the boy wouldn't drag out his pistol and unleash it on someone - it would not end well for him - Van Graff opened his arms wide, accompanied by a swish of his coat, and gestured to two seats placed on the opposite side of the table at which he sat.

"Please, seat yourselves. Tell me your names. Would you like a drink? You both look exhausted."

Not waiting to see whether they said yes to the drink, he then gestured to the proprietor of the tavern.

"Three flagons, if you please."

Rutger Helfried, the belligerent owner of the Intelligent Guardsman, gave a long suffering sigh and went to fetch the drinks.

This fool better be paying me for these!

Henrik had arrived to Ubersreik a few ago, after leaving Altdorf after few weeks. He had given a noble's son a few fencing lessons, but the son had turned out to be a lazy student. Henrik had hoped that someone would have a job for a swordsman or a bodyguard, but there had been only cold shoulders. Henrik had been preparing to leave, but a witch hunter had put out a call for hired swords. Henrik had met a couple witch hunters, and they had been an over-zealous bunch of piss and vinegar. I have my hopes up, but the witch hunter should be a man of reason if I am going to cooperate with him.

He had a vague idea of the Intelligent Guard's location. He had been to Ubersreik only a few times. Last time was with his light company, d. All clad in polished brest plates, uniforms and boots, armed with pistols and longswords and ready to ride out where they were needed. It had been the World's Edge Mountains and their doom. They had made a few stops across the way, but Ubersreik had been the last proper stop before they had set out to a march.

Henrik shivered as he remembered the details. Lieutenant who had served under him for a year had been torn limb from limb by an Ork. He had had wife and three children. Henrik had sent the newly-widowed a letter. He had to send dozens of similar letters. He wondered sometimes, did the families of the fallen ever curse his name. Did they blame him? Maybe.

Henrik had dressed his regular travelling clothes and a black beret. He wore his sword on his hip, and had the rest of his stuff in his backpack tightly packed. The backpack wasn't very heavy, but all the trudging around the streets with it made his back quite sweaty. After asking a couple times for directions from locals, he found his way to the tavern. He entered the establishment and scanned the room. He spied a witch hunter's hat on a larger table, and a man approaching middle-age and two companions. He started walking nearer with steady pace and asked the trio "I presume one of you is Helmut von Graff, the witch hunter who seeks a helping hand?"

Hans looked at the Witch Hunter, awaiting a response, his eyes only now slowly properly adjusting to the new light. But he didn't have time to properly consider his situation as someone came from behind. Hans wasn't exactly prepared for this and was certainly on edge moments before that, and in a paradoxically organized panic drew the pistol he had cocked. He tried to make distance between himself, the newcomer and the people already present at the same time.

But it seemed the Witch Hunter wanted to ameliorate the situation, and in his weary state the lad was quite susceptible to a soft word of peace. First slowly, but then instantly he lowered his firearm and put it to the rightful holster with hammer lowered. Again the young man fanned both hands placatingly, saying without saying that he wanted no trouble. He went forth and sat himself down, speaking up. "Hans von Lipvig." he said, hoping that the von would carry some weight in not getting his throat cut.

"Don't know what this is, I'm just looking for somewhere to sleep the night, and work. This is a tavern right? Thought I could get the likes." Hans stated, leaning back in his chair as he was now used to by upbringing. Yet another man came in, and stated that the Witch Hunter was looking for help. The lad wasn't sure what to think of that and felt something in his stomach turn. He wasn't quite sure if prancing across the Empire to get ripped up by a Vampire was something he wanted.

@Oak7ree@Andreyich

Not really one for humour, Helmut nevertheless allowed himself a grim smile at the situation. What manner of fate had bought these three here at this time, had it been Sigmar in his benevolence? Was it one of the other Gods? Who knew.

After waiting patiently for the temporarily ruffled newcomers to settle down a little, he listened to their questions and bade Henrik pull up another chair and take a seat while he answered their questions.

"I am Helmut Van Graff, Witch Hunter and keeper of the Emperor's law and justice." One look at Henrik told him that, in spite of looking older than he was, the blue-eyed arrival was more than he seemed, "will you not join us?"

One gloved hand rose up to scratch his cheek as he looked to Hans, seeing the expression that had overtaken the boys face, "this is the tavern, though I feel you may be in the wrong place. Then again...." his free hand reached into a pocket, plucking something from it and presenting his palm to the seventeen year old "...perhaps this may interest you?"

There, glinting in the dim light of the tavern and standing out against the dark leather glove, was a golden crown - also known as Karls, Crowns or Gelt - the face of Karl Franz on one side and a Reaper holding an hour-glass on the other.

"This would buy you more than a room for a night, and there is plenty of it."

The young Boschterp was mildly relieved to see that the Witchhunter had greeted them with a friendly enough tone for a man likely long-acclimatized to that grim line of work, and that he had addressed their confusion with a welcome rather than with outrage, suspicion, or a sharp-loaded flintlock pistol.

Jan sat down and accepted the inn’s hospitality as best he could, trying not to get too much in anybody’s way, hoping that the meagre funds he had remaining were not going to be fully spent by the end of the night. Looking at the others, the two other companions seemed alright enough at a first glance. Hans appeared to be roughly around Jan’s own age, so they might have some interests in common, while the scarred veteran would likely be like a sturdy and dependable cliff that could weather the winds and waves of combat.

Jan held back a mild gasp as he saw the witch hunt present a coin to Hans; not so much for the value of the coin – being a son of a merchant family made life an exercise of counting coins and displaying one’s possession of them to one’s peers – but Jan had just realized, somewhat sheepishly, that he had no idea of how witch-hunters were appointed or paid in the Empire. Did they undergo specialized training at some faculty, or was it simply up to the local noble or other authorities to appoint whatever man appeared the best for the job? To what extent could a witch hunter be called an trained agent beholden only to the state and crown, and to what extent were they mercenaries who sought the battles that no other man dared face?

He bowed as best he could: “- I am Jan van Boschterp. It is an honour to meet one of the men who keeps the order and light of this land.”
He was about to ask the witch hunter what ills might be ailing the land, since the witch hunter needed comrades-in-arms, but thought better of it and let the questions wait till he heard the man himself told what he deemed was appropriate to tell.

Udo had heard through the local grapevine of the arrival of the Witch Hunter to The Intelligent Guardsmen and meant to attach himself to the party. He had arrived late, never a good first impression, but nonetheless he meant to make an introduction and join up. Pressing in he saw the gathered guards and the Witch Hunter at once, Helmut Van Graff. Walking past the guards and toward the Witch Hunter and the adventurers gathered about him Udo liked what he saw. The Witch Hunter was clearly an experienced hand with the grim look one expected of a Witch Hunter. He had the look of a man with purpose, which was something Udo was quite short on as of late.

"I am Udo Wanderfoot," he offered, looking up to meet the gaze of the man and the others, "a bounty hunter in these parts. I heard the call and have come to join you in service to the Empire."

@Andreyich

"It's also for me an honour to finally meet you, Herr von Graff. It was a bit difficult to find the tavern, as the town isn't very familiar. The name's Henrik Karl Adler Ritter von Altdorf" he said to the witch hunter. This could be a good chance to both gain some silver and gold to fill his purse and make amends for those lost in the service of the Empire. He gave a look to the two younger companions, the nervous von Lipvig and van Borschtep.

The two youths were barely of age. By their age Henrik had already started to serve in the army as a subaltern in a pistolier unit. They looked barely more than children in his eyes, though they and Henrik didn't have that great of a age gap. But what had struck at Henrik's eyes, was the young Lipvig's manners.

"Do you always pull a gun at people who come to talk with you, Herr von Lipvig?" His voice stayed firm and calm.