Renault Geelard had always been a peasant, like his father and his father before him, bound to their little plot of Bretonnian soil in the Dukedom of Quenelles for just over ten-and-seven years... or was it ten-and-nine?

As a peasant of no education and downtrodden birth he was no even truly sure how old he was, his liege lord would never tell him and his father - the only individual who had ever openly loved him - had been struck down by a fairie arrow when their lord had attempted to enter Athel Loren in search of a particularly elegant stag.

Nevertheless, while not the brightest of folk, Renault had grown tall and strong as rustic folk are want to do when sufficiently provided for. Again, it was his father that had given him his last spoon of oats, or his single slice of beef on fesitival days, and although such thoughts filled him with great sadness it never failed to bring a lopsided smile to his youthfully handsome face.

The breaking point came when his lord, Sir Gilette de Mooton, began to gather another force of the peasantry to enter the fairie forest yet again; Renault would not be part of such an expedition, he would not die as his father did!

On a thunderous winter night he clothed himself in simple garbs of leather, breeches and a jerkin over his 'best' woollen shirt, and fled into the surrounding countryside.

By the time he reached the towering border between the Empire and Bretonnia...

Brandt Dittmar was a young man just reaching his prime, and would be considered handsome by the reckoning of most. His height is a little above average, and he has a strongly muscled upper body that made him stand out from the lean farmers and rangy hunters found throughout the Empire. He cuts a brave enough figure in his armour - a breastplate with tassets, and his left arm plated from pauldron to vambrace - though it’s polish can’t hide that it’s seen many repairs. He wore practical fitted trousers and high traveling boots that had seen many miles of road. A satchel hung around his right shoulder and held his meagre belongings and a cloak hung around his neck; green with red trim, in the colours of Hochland. Sticking out from the cloak is the handle of a huge flamberge sword of the sword wielded by the famed Greatsword soldiers, its finely ornamented pommel and quilions speaking further of its origins.

Once he had apprenticed as a smith under Gerard Schmitt, a man of no real importance in life and less so since his passing, except that Brandt was unable to fully learn the trade. The apprenticeship had been halted by the Siege of Lorch; the culmination of a number of skirmishes that had taken place during a border dispute between the small but proud province of Hochland and its neighbour, the larger and more belligerent province of Talabecland. Brandt has been trapped inside Lorche’s small keep along with a small garrison of men and what few townsfolk had fled there for safety. They’d been holed up there fore months, repelling ineffectual proves of their defences and, more than anything, waiting for relief. Brandt had done his part, both by fighting and hammering out dented breastplates and helms once Gerard had been killed. The relief had never come.

The enemy had been reinforced instead by artillery, which had reigned metal down upon them and blasted the gates open. The meagre garrison had been butchered, and Brandt would have been as well, had he and a few others - including the young priest named Roderick Walch and an unladylike merchants daughter named Maria Fosdick - not been charged with escorting a young noble to safety. They escaped through a hidden postern and were pursued by the enemy and braved goblin infested woods. At length, Brandt and his companions completed their mission, though not without losses.

That had been nearly a year past, the border dispute long forgotten. Brandt has since given up on the life of a smith and has instead been enjoying life on the road, joining mobs of Free Companymen when he can, escorting merchants or travelers and trying to make a name for himself. Unfortunately, since the siege of Lorch, there have been few opportunities for true valour. Brandt hopes that might turn around here in Schartenfeld, where he and the massive flamberge sword he wields might earn some renown.

Roderick skipped carefully over a puddle without really noticing, one hand cramming bread into his mouth while the other scratched idly at his chest beneath a badly dented cuirass. The gangly limbs and perpetual look of terror from a year ago had been replaced by huge broad shoulders and a sort of stoic indifference that people often mistook for anger.

Slung over his shoulder was the Warhammer he had pulled from the burning Chapel in Lorch; the silver trappings and red gem had long been pulled off and sold to pay for food, or for the new knee high black boots he wore beneath a shortened travelling priests robe. A Book of Sigmar was slung across his other shoulder, the heavy tome bouncing along unnoticed on his thigh for the time.

He had been surprised to find much of the book blank, the only spells within it were simple enough, but all of them were meant for war. Over the last year he had added to the pages as he encountered other priests, even nuns and mages, who could teach him bits and pieces, until the book showed the writings of a dozen different hands. It was unorthodox perhaps, but it seemed Sigmar himself did not disapprove. As long as Roderick continued to serve the Empire and root out evil, he had retained the gods favour.

Bread crumbs cascaded down his front, scattering off the dull grey armour to patter into the mud. Behind him, ears perked up in an ever hopeful manner, came a dog that looked as though it had more in common with a coyote than any sort of domestic canine. The bushy tail, sharply pointed ears, and inquisitive snout, made the dog a fine travel companion. He had named the dog Maria, after a former lover, and joked that she showed him more devotion than her namesake ever had. Maria wasn't a brute fighter, but as a tracker and lookout, she had few equals.

Less interested in valour than his boon companion, Roderick seeks to fulfill the calling of his order. Turning his hand to healing more often than not, he is always a welcome face in any village in need of a priest to cure wounds or treat ailments. Well he is no doctor, he is better than the leeches often prescribed by the local barber who always seemed to double as a medical professional in out of the way backwater towns.

Water trickled down his back despite the heavy cloak he wore and he squinted against the trickle of rain, peering through the light fog, to see the outskirts of Schartenfelds' palisade appear. He gave a satisfied grumble as he continued chewing, tossing the heel of bread to Maria who caught it in mid air. There would be warm food and ale soon enough.

Guy de le Guerre

Guy had witnessed only fourteen summers when his elder brother Phillipe rode off upon his Errantry quest astride a blood bay stallion, his lance held proud and tall, the crimson raven emblazoned upon his shield shining in the morning light as all the men and women of his father’s hall waved him farewell. For the younger brother, his cheeks burning with jealously beneath a mop of raven hair, that glorious departure would be last he would ever see of his gallant elder. In youth the two had been thick as thieves, best friends and trusted confidants raiding the kitchens and chasing the pretty young serving girls, never far for each other’s side. For Guy it was a foolish dream to think his brother would wait two more years to go on his Errand so they might partake in one of the most important rituals of their young lives together as they had done everything else. He’d hidden himself away the hour of Phillipe’s departure to shed angry tears at this betrayal, refusing to speak or even look at his brother when he came to console him before departing. It would prove to be a moment that would shame and haunt him endlessly as the years slipped past and news of Phillipe’s fate never emerged. For all the Guerre family knew Phillipe had rode well in a tourney in Quenelles, before turning east and vanishing into the Empire, to suffer some unknown demise.

In those two years Guy grew in more ways than one becoming a strong and capable young warrior, yet never once in all those long days of training did he accept the unspoken consensus that hung heavy over the Hall. He would become angry at the mere suggestion that Phillipe was dead and insisted that no honorary place be set for him in the family cemetery. Thus, it was not with dreams of valor and glory that he took up sword, lance, and shield and set out with on his own Errantry Quest. He drove his mare doggedly eastwards, kicking his iron spurs into her flanks, his blue eyes narrowed and his jaw set with grim determination. He would find his brother he’d sworn in the chapel before the Lady and a dozen witnesses, or his killer and bring the foul fiend to a gory justice. This was his vow; this was his quest!

It took weeks to reach the Empire, and months to trace a viable lead. Guy followed the tales and deeds of a Crimson knight, bearing a similar heraldry to himself. Finding one man amongst the Empire of Man a year and a half past proved as difficult as it sounded. Nevertheless, Guy de le Guerre would not be denied, and after endless days on the road, stopping in villages and taverns ever on the hunt for clues he came across a promising lead. A squire of an Imperial Knight of the Order of the Broken Sword. The man, barely older than Guy claimed to have ridden in battle beside a Bretonnian wearing the Crimson Raven upon his surcoat against several goblin bosses in the Reikwald forest only ten months past. They’d parted ways soon after, but the squire recalled a sizeable host of Broken Swords and freelances had vanished amongst the foreboding forest, taken by some unknown foe, and perhaps the absent Raven Knight had been among them. Guy needed no second bidding and rode hard for the Reikwald nigh impossible optimism blossoming with every cantered hoofbeat. No fiend could hope to stand against Phillipe, whether in ignoble ambush or otherwise. Surely his brother still lived, and was somewhere amongst the rural lands, lending his aid with the Broken Swords against the many monsters that stalked between the trees. Not even the plaguing doubt in the back of his mind could stymie the fresh surge of desperate hope that lent strength to his travel weary body. He would find his long lost brother, of this Guy was certain.

“Sister Marguerite, this really is the last straw!” Abbess Hildegarde roared, her impressive jowls quivering in rage. The portly abbess punctuated the point by slamming her ham sized fist down on the dark oak table. Inkpots jounced at the blow, dispersing a fine mist of black droplets across the mornings correspondence.

Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Novice of the order of Shyalla, fixed her eyes determinedly on a spot just over Abbess Hildegarde’s shoulder. She was a trim girl with pale blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, though she tried to appear appropriately contrite and submissive the slight upturn of her chin and gleam in her eye conspired to ruin the illusion.

“How could you! You spoiled hateful brat. Graf Von Hammerstein is a patron of our order and his son was an honored guest of our house!” Gertrude Harker, an older novice with a pinched looking face and slightly buck teeth snarled, her dark eyes glittering with malice.

“That will be quite enough Sister Gertrude,” Hildegarde interjected, though the admonition was pro forma rather than any expression of disagreement with the sentiment. All three women were in the Abbess’ study. A luxuriously appointed room, by the rather severe standards of a Shyallan House, with hanging tapestries depicting the various mercies of the Goddess and woven rugs to cover the cold stone floor. A large polished desk piled high with, now, slightly ink dusted scrolls dominated the south side, and an illuminated window of stained glass casting a rainbow aura around the porcine Mother of the House. A brazier burned in a corner, though its heat was scarcely necessary with Hildegarde’s temper to warm the room. Marguerite crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Graf Von Hammerstein pays us so that we will send someone to treat his pox and his gout when he eats too much, which, judging by his twenty one stone and growing, is way too often. His son is a malingering coward who only visits us to ogle the sisters, drink our wine and keep himself as far from the battlefield as he can manage,” Marguerite snapped intemperately. Hildegardes jowls quivered with fury, she did after all have a particular insight into the portlier side of Imperial society, but it was Gretrude who spoke first, her cheeks flaming red with rage.

“You dare impune the honor of such a man as…” Gertrude spluttered. Marguerite waved her to silence with a dismissive gesture.

“Oh do shut up, the only reason you even care is because you’re too busy spreading your legs for the good gentlemen to bother with your…”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Gertrude flamed, her face turning beat red and her eyes widening with maniacal fury at the completely justified accusation.

“You dare to accuse me of…”

“Sister Marguerite, that will be...” Hildegarde tried to interject her words tumbling over Gertrudes but the Novice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the shouting.

“I don’t mean to imply that Gertrude has been keeping company with the young lord, not only with him anyway, she shares her bounty with all mankind I have heard, she is like Shyalla in that regard.” Gertrude let out a strangled cry and leaped across the intervening space, driving her fist into Marguerite’s stomach. Both novices went down in a tangle of white robes, clawing at each other with fingernails and spitting curses like wild cats. Gertrude was moved by fury and had the element of surprise, but Marguerite who had grown up with three brothers recovered quickly, driving a knee into her fellow Novice and rolling atop her, driving a fist down into her jaw with strength borne of frustration of a year and a half of abuse from the older girl. Her fist connected with the tip of Gertrude’s chin and bounced the other woman’s head against the woven carpet, the smiling face of Shyalla all that stopped her from cracking her skull against the flag stone. Triumphantly lifted her fist for another blow.

“ENOUGH!” Hildegarde roared, loud enough that a jar of some kind of dried herb jumped from a shelf and shattered against the stone floor filling the air with a pungent, vaguely astringent scent. Both Novice’s froze, Marguerite with her fist raised and Gertrude with her hands lifted in a pathetic attempt to ward off the younger Novice’s blows. The scowl on the Abbess’s face was so severe that it appeared to be sucking her pudgy cheeks up under how brow line.

“Sister Gertrude,” the Abbess hissed through grated teeth.

“Get out of here at once, I shall deal with you later.” Gertrude began to struggle beneath Marguerite’s pinning thighs, recovering faster than her attacker. Belatedly Marguerite lowered her small fist and let the other girl free. White robes, now smudged with the dust that the coal fire deposited on the rug, whispered as Gertrude scrambled to her feet and half ran from the room. She had lost one of her slippers in the scuffle, but if she had noticed she wasn’t inclined to try to retrieve it. The large wooden doors opened and closed behind Marguerite leaving the Novice alone with Abbess Hildegarde. The portly woman’s face had grown noticeably stoney.

“Novice Marguerite,” Hildegarde rasped, the throbbing vein in her right temple bespeaking the herculean effort she was making to control her temple.

“In the year and a half since you have come to us, I have summoned you to this office twenty seven times to deal with your insolence, insubordination and troublemaking.” Marguerite began to object but Hildegarde held up a pudgy finger in barr.

“I disapproved of taking you in at all, but given that you had already sullied your reputation with that dueling business I felt it was a chance to demonstrate Shyalla’s Mercy. That was a mistake.”

Marguerite began to object. It hadn’t been her idea to enter the convent and people really were overreacting to that whole duel thing. Not to mention her father had paid them a handsome some to take her in.

“I really dont think…”

“YOU. WILL. BE. SILENT!” Hildegarde roared, literal foam was appearing at the corners of the Abbess’ mouth now and her face was the color of cherry brandy, her eyeballs produced frog like from her rage contorted visage. The bit of each word like the snap of a drum. The Abbess reached into a draw in her desk and, for a moment, Marguerite had the absurd notion that Hildegarde was about to pull a pistol on her, instead the Abbess drew forth a leather bag that jingled with the clink of golden marks. She tossed the pouch to the ground at Marguerite's feet with a metallic jangle.

“That is your endowment less the cost of a years room and board,” the fat Abbess sneered. Marguerite had the momentary and worrying sensation that the older woman could read her mind, though if that were the case she would have been here more than twenty seven times.

“Take it and get out of here,” she commanded, gesturing to the door imperiously.

“You can’t just…” Marguerite began to object. Hildegarde’s face contorted with rage to the point it was scarcely recognisable from vissages of demons Marguerite had seen on the walls of the Temple of Sigmar in Nuln.

“I am the Abbess of this House, you insolent pup! You are dismissed from Shyalla’s service, now take the coin and get out of here. If you are still in the building when the gong strikes for noon, I will have Sister Gertrude and her friends whip you out of town with rose bushes, I swear it by Shyalla Tear!”

Murguite gulped visibly then scooped up the pouch and scrambled for the door. There was no doubt in her mind that Hildegarde would make good on the threat, and probably take a great deal of pleasure in doing so.

“Ranald’s bloody balls,” she muttered to herself as she dashed towards the main gate. What was she supposed to do now?

“There go the horses,” Heinreick groaned, slapping the leaden glass cover of the window closed. A round of groans went up from the taverns occupants at the unwelcome news. The pistoliers were the only customers of the Hound and Badger this night, save for the terrified innkeeper who huddled behind the bar in a food stained apron. The dozen Imperials, armed and armored, filled the taproom, lounging on the tables of coarse oak and drinking from heavy wooden flagons. They were a dirty an unkempt lot that would have given a Riekland drill sergeant nightmares. A pair of men stood to either side of the two small windows and another at the top of the short flight of stone stairs that led to the upper story. Candles of cheap tallow guttered and smoked in the damp wind that blew through the ancient stone walls, filling the room with a miasma of black smoke that gathered against the timbered ceiling.

“Monsieur!” came a shout from the rain-swept night beyond the inn.

“Monsieur, are you still in there?” the Brettonian accent was artificially bright, especially for a man who must be soaked to the very expensive armor.

“Yes Gaston, I’m still here,” Reinholt replied casting any eye up to his man at the top of the stairs. Reinholt Harker was to all appearances a middling man. Somewhere in his mid twenties, of middling height, neither handsome or ugly, he looked for all the world like a clerk, albeit it a rather athletic one. His battered curriass and well cared for weapons combined and the deep tan burned into his skin by years in the saddle in all weathers told a different story.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer monsieur, I am afraid we cannot wait all night, and it is Henri, as I told you earlier,” the voice called back.

“Oh I don’t know Gaston,” Reinholt called back, keeping his hand on his flintlock as he took a drink from his tankard. There wasn’t any long term benefit in irritating Sir Henri Du Benoir but then there really wasn’t a lot of long term benefits in anything he might do.

“I’m still mulling it over,” he admitted, gaining a grim chuckle from the assembled pistoliers. There was a long silence interrupted only by the drum of rain upon the slate roof.

“I have someone who wishes to speak to you!” Henri’s voice called after a long minute. The pistoliers began to rumble uncertainty to one another, unsure of what this meant. Reinholt arched an eyebrow and gestured his men to quiet.

“Harker,” came another strained voice, this one with an upper class Reikland accent.

“Harker, I want you and your men to accept Sir Henri’s offer,” the voice called. Reinholt’s lip curled in contempt. Gustav Hoffman had always been a fool, but Reinholt had never considered him a coward. The mercenary captain had made his name fighting hill brigands and endlessly reminding people he had once been a captain in an Imperial Regiment.

“What do you think lads,” Reinholt asked his men in a quiet voice. They were hard bitten men, bastards and cutthroats, murderers and thieves all but everyone of them had bled with him on the brutal rides and desperate retreats of the last months. Their growls of anger and defiance were all he needed right now. He leaned his head close to the door once more.

“No, no I don’t think we will,” he called back. This whole mess was Hoffman's fault. If the pompous ass had the brains that the Gods gave a goose he would never have let himself be drawn out onto the plains the way he had. Any fool could see that was a recipe for disaster. Well, not any fool apparently.

“That is an order Harker I am your superior officer and I com…”

With a sudden jerk Reinholt threw open the heavy wooden door to reveal the rain soaked mud street beyond. Two men stood in the shadowed doorway of a leather shop across the way. Both were big men, though in Henri’s case it was more to do with the elaborate plate armor he wore rather than the bulk flesh that heavy eating and drinking had gifted Hoffman. Reinholt leveled his flintlock and fired, the flash of the pistol lit the night like a bolt of lightning, the familiar prickles of burning powder stinging his bare hands as the frisson lit off the charge. The fatter of the two men, Hoffman, pitched forward into the street, thrashing like a poleaxed ox, his heels drumming in the muddy roadway as he gurgled and died. Reinholt jerked the door closed a moment before it resounded to the blows of a half dozen arrows slamming into its heavy oak timbers. Two of the shafts penetrated far enough to reveal their bodkin heads.

“That was very foolish monsieur,” came Henri’s voice after a moment, his voice tight with the effort of sounding calm, despite knowing full well that the pistol ball would have punched through his breastplate as easily as it did Hoffman’s flesh. Reinholt tore the top of a waxed cartridge with his teeth and poured the charge into the barrel of his empty pistol, before adding the wadding and spitting the ball into the barrel. Reinholt wasn't sorry the incompetent ass was dead, though he would just have soon have left Henri dead in the street. Still there was some justice, they wouldn't be in this situation at all if Hoffman had any spine at all.

“I’m sorry Gaston,” Reinholt voice dripping with faux sincerity. He worked the rod into the barrel and tamped down ball and charge, securing it in place with the cartridge paper. All the pistoliers were on their feet now, draining their cups and readying pistols and short swords. This was going to be a tough one, but at least the rain and the slate roof meant the Brettonian's couldn't just burn them out.

“But I’m afraid you are just going to have to come in and get us.”

Buruni draped the hides he had just purified in the water over the drying rack, droplets slapping the floor. Three hides were laid upon it, and he turned around to continue his work for the second batch, folding them neatly and placing them in another clay bowl to remove all of the salt left over from the curing. Wiping his large paw-like hands, he pulled the rope dangling next to his bearded head and a section of the makeshift workspace opened up so the sun could pour upon the drying skins.

Every item in the shack, indeed the shack itself, the Dwarf had meticuliously fashioned by his lonesome. All save the fire-forged poleaxe, armor, and the small set of supplies he had in a knapsack. Even if his father had not ordered him to go and make a name for himself, he likely would have done it seeing how these manlings made things. He had heard of their shoddy work, but this was ridiculous. He wagered he could forge better armor than the town smith, and he had only used the hammer five times in his seventy years!

Strange for a Dwarf to work on textiles rather than steel, at least when someone only expected the stereotype. Did they think there were no Dawi farmers or bankers? Did they spring up from holes in the ground, beard and all? He shook his shaggy head and continued his task, working milk of lime along the drying leather with a precision unmatched in the empire. If only his father had thought the same in Barak Varr. Well when he came back rich, he'd tell the old longbeard off! With respect of course.

At the back of his mind, he registered he heard a small noise from out front. Another click in the air, and suddenly the tanning rack he was working on snapped and fell over, along with half of the shack he had made! The wood falling upon his head heavily. If he had been anything but a Dwarf, it would have laid him low. Instead he grumbled and shoved the kindling out of the way, grabbing his poleaxe more to move the small beams than out of anger. But as soon as he stepped out of the pile, he knew it had been foul play.

"Step off Dwarf." The tall lollard sneered, taking a deep drink from his small bottle of whiskey. It was Kert Varnan, the leather tanner from across the small hamlet Burundi lived in. The man's ten year old lad stood there as well, laughing like a goblin from the deeps. He could have guessed the cause of this one collapsing his shop. The fool had probably lost his business when Burundi entered town. Unfortunately, rather than leave with dignity or shave his head and honor his Gods, manlings instead liked to express their grievances in the most petty way possible. "We've had enough of you stunties around here." Kert continued.

Even with the splintered in his beard, Burundi cut a noble figure for one of his tough race. Blue and gold colors adorned his workman's robes, and bronze ringlets curled about his dark beard, framing it. The Dwarf stomped the butt of his poleaxe on the ground, not in any threatening way. But he did see Kert go for his broadsword. His son cheered. "Get him pop! Show him what you're gonna do if he stays!"

Burundi ignored the boy. "You're about as brazen as you are nonthreatening, and you're about as nonthreatening as a whipped mongrel pup." He growled. He would rather not do violence here in the village, but his anger was also mounting. "Take this chance and leave with what little honor you have left, if you ever had any. Do it before I end your life suffering. More than I can say about your suffering business."

As Burundi son of Malgrim turned to go and salvage his materials, it was Kert's curse of "Hells with you, filth!" that warned him an attack was coming. The Dwarf turned, Poleaxe leading to intercept the slash with a clang. The boy stepped back, and the Dwarf hoped it would stop there, but the man, clearly wanting to end the competition and impress his son, drew back for a stab. Burundi chopped down at the sword thrust, redirecting it as he simultaneously stepped forward, running the man through with the spike of his weapon.

The 'dag' as it was called in Brettonia punched through the man's lower back, bloodied. The whirl and cheers from the lad fell silent as Kert let out a noise in surprise and pain, and he soon began to shake as blood dropped to the dirt so much like the water had on his soaked skins. A gasp to the side drew Burundi's attention. The cobbler had been watching, with a hand on his mouth and his eyes wide. The boy whimpered, and he ran over to his father as Kert collapsed onto the ground, clearly losing his life as they watched.

Burundi Malgrimsson cleaned his weapon, squaring his jaw to keep his guilt from rising up. He had been attacked and he had defended himself. Grungni, nor even the mannish Sigmar would hold him accountable. Still, with his shack gone and a known man about town dead, it was best if he left with dignity, as Kert should have.

The boy ran up to Burundi and began to hit him, barely reaching his chin, though it did little to the sturdy Dwarf. After a few moments of letting the kid get his anger out, Burundi struck him on the head lightly with the haft of his weapon, sending him to the ground, dazed. As the boy's world turned to black, he saw Burundi Malgrimsson turning away, saying. "When you grow older boy, don't be like your father. Trust me."