@POOHEAD189@TyrannosaursRex@The Wyrm@Blueskin@Penny@Dusty@BangoSkank

At least a week had passed, it must have, since Gunulf Dickermann of Unterbrochenerweiler had found himself in his current situation of captivity and carelessness. Such were his initial thoughts as he awoke again one overcast evening in the depths of the Reikwald, attempting first to open both his eyes - a feat made nearly impossible by the crusting blood sealing one shut - then immediately wishing to screw shut the one through which he could still perceive the surrounding world. Gunulf had never been a religious man, but his experiences since becoming a prisoner of unholy abominations convinced him that he probably should have been at least a little more pious in his life, the priests of Sigmar constantly telling him that if he continued to be such a slothful glutton that he would end up in exactly this sort of situation. Well, they had been right after all.

Spread out before his itching eye was a hellscape worse than any of the priests could have conjured from their undoubtedly imaginative minds...

The Beastmen had been raiding and looting travellers and travelling caravans for months at this point, capturing any number of Reiklanders and outsiders foolish or foolhardy enough to take this route. Now the lesser number of them, as well as those most recently claimed, were pressed tightly together here at the edge of the herds clearing, singular individuals or entire groups squeezed into makeshift and ramshackle holding cells - commonly crafted most ruggedly from forest materials, they were nevertheless equipped with 'bars' broad enough not to break, and space between them small enough that no man could fit himself through and find their freedom.

Beyond the ugly cages was a vista from the nightmares of Imperial artists, or the mouths of raving lunatics locked within the confines of Frederheim, and Gunulf knew that - in the extremely small chance of surviving much longer - he would, and could, never forget it in all his days.

Upon the central bonfire of the herd, their herdstone standing tall and erect slightly behind it, illuminated by the never ending conflagration of wood and mortal fat, small shapes that could only have been children were roasted and cooked to the gleeful braying of those cloven devils near and far; being at least dead, for the most part, before the spitting and cooking proceeded. Noticeable at the foot of the herdstone were the grotesque and flayed shapes of those that had no doubt been their parents, friends and so forth, all now mingled together in ritual death to the Dark Gods that the Beastmen worshipped and roared to in a language that hurt Gunulf's ears and made his nose bleed.

Other more terrible things he had seen - Ungor and Gor alike forcing themselves on human women until they were sated, any holy men or women made especial examples of in ways that were as ingenious as they were horrifying, the strongest of the Empire-dwellers being forced to fight one another or a chosen hoofed champion. These, at least, had a quick death given to them.

Gunulf himself had always been a coward, a fat and slow one at that, these seven days alone driving away his sanity and his bodily mass in increments. Now he was no longer Gunulf 'the fat', his belly flesh flopping like an apron inside the faecal and blood encrusted rags he called clothes, nor could he ever be called entirely sane again. Yet he need not die a coward, that at least he could change!

"You...boy." He croaked through cracked lips, his tongue too large in his mouth and his head lanced with pain by every movement.

A boy, no older than his ten-and-third winter, and now no more than a pile of bones with a thin skin covering, turned his emaciated face to the cook. Yes, this boy would never be sane again either, his cheeks hollow and his eyes glassy and wide from seeing things no child should ever have to see.

"Boy, you must get to Schartenfeld - you hear me lad?!"

The boy nodded slowly, mouthing the name of the burgh if not speaking it, his tiny hands grasping what remained of his clothing.

"There is a gap... there," said Gunulf as he pointed to a space between the bars, too small for an adult maybe, but not for a hunger-thin child, "go, and then run until you can no longer run! You must get to Schartenfeld, or else more will suffer as we have."

By now Gunulf was intent to die a better man than he had lived, lifting himself to his knees and heading toward the front of the cage, resolving to distract their horned jailer long enough for the boy to escape.

"Ey! You! You are one ugly shit, you know this? I am Gunulf of Unterbrochenerweiler and Sigmar shall know my name! You spawn of daemons, you mating between an ogre and a goat. Oh I do hope I stick in your gullet..."

This went on for some time, Gunulf only glancing back once before he was dispatched to whatever afterlife there was (or was not), a half-smile on his face even as he departed the world; the boy was gone, scurried into the forest and gods-willing on his way to Schartenfeld and retribution.

---

Thunder clapped across the sky, lightning revealing the face of Davor Arenas for but a moment, the proprietor of the Ogres Maw tavern spitting a gobbet of pipe-weed and phlegm onto the rough-hewn dirt trail that served as the 'road' in the interior precincts of Schartenfeld.

For quite some time he had been lent in the doorway of his establishment, content to let his wife Rosine see to the regulars and their needs - they were always the same anyway, the Maw courting a reputation that generally kept any new patrons away - his grey eyes searching the sky even as his thin lips puffed at the clay instrument dangling precariously from his mouth.

"Gonna be trouble tonight," he mused to no one but himself, "mark my words."

With a grunt and the first flecks of rain beginning to fall from the heavens he turned away and made his way back inside, not an eye looking his way as he crossed the reed-strewn floor of the spacious common room to the bar. Only his Bretonnian bride gave him a quick glance, in the process of serving a bitter looking local, leading the old skinflint to question once more why such a radiant woman had ever deigned to choose him as a partner.

"There'll be trouble tonight..." He began with a grimace, "mark your words?" Teased his raven-haired wife jokingly, "yes... mark my words."

---

Open the heavens did, pouring forth on Schartenfeld and the Maw most liberally, the tavern fortunate enough to have a stout thatched roof with which to protect those within; not so fortunate was the half-naked youth running through the trees toward the burh of Schartenfeld, and for those that night that would gather at the Maw.

Fortunes would change there as readily as coin changing hands, but for now all was as it should be and the rain kept pouring.

“I’ll kill you, you gossip mongering whore!” Johan Verbek screamed. He was a soft, gray haired man, not fat exactly but with doughlike excess of flesh that one expected of a successful cheesemonger. Judging by the throbbing vein in his right temple Johan stood a good chance of killing himself in a fit of apoplexy if he didn’t calm down soon. The plump burgers death would inconvenience few, save perhaps the drop in profits for the prostitutes he frequented during his monthly trips to Altdorf. Marguerite couldn’t have been more different from Verbek. Slender and blonde with piercing blue eyes and dimples when she smiled she might have been a mosaic for Reikish womanhood if not for the slightly hollow cheeks that months of living hand to mouth had imparted.

“Your wife has a right to know that you have the soldiers pox, no one forced you into whatever brothel you picked it up in,” Marguerite declared, maneuvering to keep one of the foot thick wooden posts between her and the enraged Verbek. The fat man made a grab for her but she danced back out of range. They were in the stable attached to the Ogre’s maw, they hayloft of which had served as Marguerite’s home place of business for the last tenday. It was rarely used, and though the straw on the floors was beginning to mold she was at least spared the full reek of horse odor which would normally haunt such a place. A single lantern hung from one of the posts above a water barrel, its filthy glass shutters keeping the flame alight in the drafty stable. Johan made another grab for her and Marguerite ducked to the side, avoiding his pudgy sausage like fingers with ease.

“The salve I gave you will clear it up, so you got value for your silver,” she said reasonably, glancing over her shoulder at the wooden ladder that lead up into the hayloft. If she could get enough of a lead to scramble up into the loft…

“You think I care about silver?! Bertha kicked me out of the house in front of Sigmar and everyone!” Verbek roared, staggering around the support post with speed given to him by fury. Marguerite seized the moment and darted past the raving cheesemonger. He made an uncoordinated grab for her, but slipped on the straw in his haste. The young woman raced back through the stable. The stall closest to the east wall had been laid with fresh straw and a variety of herbs and glassware was arrayed next to a small wood stove with a metal pipe that carried the smoke from the burning peat fuel outside. Bracken Bramble flowers were draped over the chimney drying slowly before Marguerite could grind them up. She ran up the ladder into the hayloft in three quick steps. The loft itself was empty save for a scattering of straw, her bedroll and a backpack of aged leather. A small sword in a leather sheath lay propped against one wall along with a walking staff and a pail of water. Marguerite bounded across to the pack and pulled a battered flintlock pistol from one of its pouches, spinning in time to see Verbek reaching the top of the ladder. He froze in place as she pulled back the pistols dog with an ominous click. Verbek froze in place.

“You won’t shoot me. You are a Sister of Shyalla,” the burger panted, though his tone was far from certain. Marguerite had to work hard not to tremble, keeping the pistol pointed at Verbek.

“I’d only be trying to wound you, but you never know, I might get lucky,” she returned evenly. Verbek seemed to consider this, frozen like a statue of effort at the top of the ladder.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled in frustrated anger.

“I think you should go home I’m sure you and Bertha have a lot to discuss Herr Verbek,” she said, managing to sound amused now the initial panic had passed.

“If she needs any salve my prices are very reasonable,” she added with increased confidence. That was almost a mistake, Verbek’s eyes bulged in their sockets and his grip tightened on the ladder. Killing him would certainly mean she would have to leave town even if they accepted her word that it had been in self defense. The door to the stables creaked open and the sound of the rain outside intensified, bringing with it the clean scent of fresh water.

“Frauline Sister?” a voice called from below, filled with puzzlement to find Verbek’s ample hindquarters halfway up the ladder to the hay loft.

“Sister you are needed in the inn,” the voice added. Verbek ground his teeth and Marguerite lowered the pistol, gently easing the hammer forward so as not to spark the frisson. With some effort she composed her face into the placid serene mask expected of a Sister of Shyalla. Tucking the pistol into her belt she adjusted the slightly stained white dress, brushing away stray pieces of straw.

“Duty calls,” she told Verbek with a pious bow if her head.

“Maria, come! Come! Mari come!”

It had been a mild day, a good day for the road after a cold morning dew had greeted them at dawn. Brandt and Roderick made good time, as had become usual for them these last months. They covered miles easily, and the dog did easier still.

“Maria!” Brandt tried again. “Mari come! Come Mari! Here! Mari, heel! Heel! Mari, here!”

Roderick laughed as his companion threw up his arms in defeat.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Brandt said. “She listens to you. She comes back, she stays, she sits. You could probably teach her to roll around on a big balll like at the zirkus back in Bechafen.”

He gave Roderick a look that was equal parts frustration and good humour. “Despite the fact that she obviously understands what I’m saying, she won’t do a damn thing I tell her to. Who knew a mutt could be so pious that she only listens to a priest!”

Roderick, his mouth full of strawberry, was trying not to smile as his friend sought to lure the small dog back toward them. Her tail was up, the small white tuft on the end making it easy to track as she sniffed earnestly through the ferns along the side of the road, ears were cocked forward as she listened intently. She had the scent of something.

“Maybe she’s trying to find you a wee snack.” Said Roderick as he cuffed strawberry juice from his chin with the sleeve of his robe. Maria was undoubtedly the most accomplished hunter of the three and on more than one occasion they had enjoyed a dinner courtesy of her sharp eyes and surprising speed. Her most recent kill had been a jackrabbit not much smaller than herself.

Roderick shrugged his big shoulders forward to shift the weight of his hammer and the Book of Sigmar. The two items had the combined effect of making his upper back hurt at times and the shrug was his only means of easing the tension. There was of course the option of carrying them in either hand but how was a man to eat with his hands full?

They crested a rise in the road and paused to admire the view. Behind them the road stretched out in a straight line for many kilometres, rising and falling with small slopes, hemmed in on all sides by heavy trees. Ahead, smoke spiraling drifting into the sky, lay a settlement of some kind. Brandt had proven handier with maps than Roderick, and so he had given up trying to remember the names of any of the places they passed through.

“Looks like we’re coming up on a town,” Roderick nodded toward a small slat roof that was starting to show at a bend down the road. It sat outside a rude palisade whose gates were closed. That was just good practice in this world. Even in broad daylight a small Beastman might get close enough to snatch a child away. “Been a while since we had a pint I reckon.”

"Damn right," Brandt agreed. "Damn right. Reckon that's Schartenfeld, or have we missed it and gone past to Ostritz? Which one was supposed to have the palisade?" Roderick shrugged, and stretched again.

"Well I don't reckon it matters, the weather's turning," said the former smiths apprentice. "Let's get indoors.

The roll of thunder spurred them along and by the time they'd made it to the palisade they'd been keeping at a steady jog. Brandt rued the thought of scouring his kit for more rust come morning and had no intention of getting caught in the rain. Luckily, a holy man of Sigmar was rarely held to suspicion and the town guards allowed Roderick and his companion inside without much trouble. As it turned out, it was Schartenfeld they'd arrived at. The watchman directed the young men down the main street to the Ogre's Maw taphouse to sate their thirst, and told them they'd likely find lodgings there with the landlord.

"Ye'll know it well," the watchman had said. "Look for the bally great gut-plate hangin' above the door."

So it was; a humongous dished piece of rusted steel,large enough to cook soup for three families. Jagged triangles of black metal ringed its outer edge like a lamprey's mouth, ever open and hungry - the titular ogres maw.

It was at that moment that the sky opened and the rain hammered down, the sound of it bouncing off the gut plate loud enough to be clearly heard. Roderick was at least mostly dry, he wore a fine leather cloak given to him by a thankful Wood Elf that served to keep him cozy against the storm.

Maria trotted behind them, snapping at the heels of a passing donkey and baring her teeth at a stray mutt that slunk quickly away. She was soaked, her fur plastering itself into small black cone shapes that made her look even more feral than usual. Only the purple collar about her neck suggested she had a person to care for. Her long ears were twitching every time a raindrop hit them, making her look as though she was suffering some sort of a spasm.

The door into the Ogres Maw opened readily enough and Roderick pushed his way into the warmth of the room, Maria scooting in quickly before Brandt could follow his friend. A fire glowed in the hearth and an empty table offered a welcome respite for the two men. The tavern keeps hound lay in front of the blaze and lifted one eyebrow as Maria swiftly made her way over. She sat, her front paws together, ears still twitching, and gazed into the blaze.

Roderick took the table next to her, water cascading off the cloak as he swung it onto the back of the chair. It wasn’t much of a place but at least it was warm. Brandt joined him less gracefully, sitting on the edge of his wooden cloak which smelled heavily of damp and lanolin. He tried to adjust it, failed, and had to stand up and remove his huge swords baldric in order to drape the wet cloth over the back of the chair. He held the sword by its scabbard in his left hand; not defensively, but protectively, as if there wasn’t a place in the tavern worthy enough to lay it down.

The landlords wife soon came to greet them. “Ale,” Brandt said, indicating with his fingers he meant for the both of them.

“And food please,” added Roderick with a smile. “Whatever you have on offer.”

The wagon bumped along the forest road loudly. The wheels obviously somewhat off the axle, even with the multitude of rocks and shrubs along the supposedly well trodden path. Johann, the young manling at the fore, guided his mule along by the reins as he hummed to himself comfortingly. What sun that managed to penetrated through the thick canopy of the Reikwald was blocked by the lad's wide brimmed hat he'd procured from a farmer back in Merxhelm.

Fortune had it, he'd picked up a companion as well. A Dwarf of the World's Edge Mountains, by Sigmar. Young Johann had never been that far east before. He'd been to the capital once with his father, but that was by river barge. Today he made his monthly, two day journey to Schartenfeld, glad to have someone along to help with the unloading of his goods and to keep an eye for any wolves that might be lurking in the gloom. Behind him he heard a dark tune being sung in a voice like rolling stone, and he halted his humming to listen to the Dwarf.



Burundi paused and shoved some jerky in his mouth, chewing gingerly. His short legs hanging off the back of the Wagon, he could smell the tightly packed onions and beets even through his mouth, but he paid it no heed. You smelled many rancid things in his line of work, and he appreciated the ride. Not that he needed it for himself, mind. A Dwarf could travel just as fast as a cavalryman over long enough distances, due to the fact that he hardly ever needed to rest. But he had whatever salvageable material he could gather from his wrecked shop, and he intended to set up shop again at this Schartenfeld.

"What are you singing, master stuntie?" The lad asked, whipping the reins of the grumpy old mule. At the name, Burundi had the same look as the beast. He merely grumbled it away though. He was a young Dwarf, but in the empire he felt as old as the ancestors. Burundi swallowed the jerky and answered hoarsely.

"I sing of something my grandfather told me." He said, gaze lost in the endless woods around them. He had the look of a particularly melancholic bulldog. A well dressed bulldog, though. "Of a city called Karak Zorn, before my time. Before your mannish God Sigmar's time even!" He held his hands in the air, imagining the majesty of what it must have looked like, before the glumness returned to his eyes. "But it was lost..."

"My family has had to move a few times too. What happened to it?" Johann asked.

"Daemons." Burundi replied, and the mule bucked from Johann yanking on the reins in surprise. The wagon banked a bit to the left perilously close to the brush. Burundi's fat hand grabbed at his things to keep them locked in the wagon, along with the supplies the young one had brought. Burundi had never fought the ruinous powers himself, but this boy lacked even an Elf's courage he wagered. Still, he meant well which is more than the Dwarf could say about most men he'd met. "You trying to kill us both, Umgi!?"

"D-Daemons!? You'll find none of them around here, no sir my good Dwarf. They aren't real anyway, right? I mean Sigmar is, but...well I suppose they must be too, right?" The panic and surprise in his voice was subsiding, but he stilled seemed as if the conversation would bring doom upon them. "Why do you keep calling my Umgi? What's that mean anyway?"

"It means man. And you call me Burundi or Master Dwarf, understand Umgi?"

"Brunde, got it. Hey Brunde, you ever use that axe spear you have back there before?" The boy asked, glancing back past his wide brimmed hat to look at the poleaxe laying beside the Dwarf. It gleamed in the sunlight, and Johann knew it would sell for a pretty penny at the market. He thought his father had called weapons like it a Halberd. He hoped the Dwarf didn't think him stupid for asking about it. Burundi shook his head, but only because of the name once more.

"Aye, once or twice recently. It's a poleaxe, Umgi."

"Not a Halberd?"

Even though he wasn't looking, Burundi set both of his fists up parallel as if he was holding the haft of a long weapon. "Halberds are longer and thinner. It's not a halberd. Now, how long until we're in town?"

"Few more hours. There's just a...oh hammer..."

The Dwarf raised his bushy brows as the wagon slowed to an inevitable halt, and his keen ears picked up the crunching of gravel as footsteps approached. Burundi turned and saw Johann with his hands up, his complexion even more white than usual. Judging by the continual steps, there were three of them. They didn't move like beastmen or orcs, but the deliberate pace of men considering violence. Luckily, Burundi was too short to be seen without looking over the wooden walls of the wagon.

"Oi, boy. You heard there's a road tax here, eh?" A voice called. There was a snide surety in his tone.

"No there isn't. I come through here every month of spring and summer."

"Well there is now!" The voice was suddenly without patience, as if the mere act of questioning him had him on edge. Another man spoke up. "Smells like onions. You hauling onions boy? Give us a few sacks and we'll let you keep on going. Don't want to disappoint us, do you boy?"

The three highwaymen approached, short, stabbing blades out. Johann felt they looked like a mixture of murderers and snake oil salesmen, and he didn't know which was worse. The mule driver wanted to let them know there was a Dwarf back there, but he felt too nervous to speak once he saw the blades. Sigmar, he hoped Burundi ran away in the confusion. He swallowed, and slowly built up the courage to nod. "Y-e-yes yes. Take uh, whatever you want."

"Now there's a good one." The lead bandit said, placing his hands on the railing of the wagon to take a peek of the goods. "You might make it in this world, after all."

The other two bandits suddenly had the sight of seeing their companion's chin being rune through by a spike from a powerful thrust, his body immediately going limp. Johann's eyes widened like saucers, and he along with the brigands saw the Dwarf rise up by stepping on an onion bag and pushing the dead man's flesh off his haft, sending him tumbling into the dirt. They two, surprised as much as their friend's death as seeing an armed Dwarf, began to back away.

Once Burundi pulled out his hunting crossbow, they began to full on sprint. Johann ducked, even if though he clearly wasn't in Burundi's way. The Dwarf sighted down his Quarreler for a moment, and loosed the bolt. It hit one of the fleeing men in the small of his back, and he fell with a cry. Johann covered his eyes, but peeking through his hands he saw Burundi hop off the wagon and approached the downed man, dragging him crying back to the wagon.

"You think they'll be offering rewards for this one?" Burundi asked.

Within three hours, as the boy sent by Gunulf announced his arrival to the village, Burundi and Johann hobbled in on the umgak wagon, dragging a scarred man toward the center of town.

The Breton boy rose to his feet, hot tears sprouting unbidden from his eyes as his weary body protested the sudden movement for all it was worth. How dare he! How could he, a son of Guerre and Bretonnia fall asleep like some child while at his prayers? To dishonor his name was one thing, but to spurn his sacred duty to the lady because he was tired? A tidal wave of shame washed over Guy de le Guerre as he angrily rubbed at his face, his fingers brushing briefly over the thin layer of dark stubble on his cheek. The product of a fortnight’s growth he guessed. To any passerby he must have looked the part of an unkempt urchin, stinking of horse and the road. The knees on his woolen breeches were stained by the grass, his once fine doublet was fraying at the hem, and his hair was a wild mess of raven curls, long overdue for a good trimming. A far cry from the noble picture he’d cut departing from his castle home in the lands of the Duchy of Bastonne. Guy dropped to his knees, sharp pangs forcing him to grit his teeth as he curled his thin fingers around the hilt of his sword, head bowing in humble reverence.

He prayed again, begging forgiveness for his transgression, requesting strength and guidance through this hostile foreign land, and pleading for some sign to show that he was on the right path. Whether the Lady heard his cries so far from their homeland he did not know, but he prayed nevertheless as his father had taught him, pouring his heart out into his last source of hope. How long he remained there, silent he could not say, it was only when the first droplets of rain struck his neck that he was jolted back into the land of the living.

How long have I slept? He wondered, looking to what he’d remembered being the morning sky, now shrouded by dark clouds heralding nasty weather. This road looks to be well traveled; how many could have passed me by as I snored away valuable daylight hours? Surely, I would have been seen and heard easily, I am only a few paces into the trees. I am a fortunate fool to not have lost my sword, my horse, and my purse while I rested in sacrilegious slumber!

Guy rose unsteadily, his legs tingling as the blood returned. How he would have loved to sink back down beneath the cover of the trees and rest his eyes for a little longer. The grass looked comfortable and welcoming in his current physicality, and his heavy cloak would keep him warm. Clenching his jaw Guy banished such traitorous thoughts. Had he not spent the better part of the hour asking for the strength to go on? Besides, distant rolls of thunder and heavy clouds promised a deluge before nightfall, and Guy did not fancy another sleepless night beneath the elements. He whipped his sword up with an irate twist from the earth where’d it’d sunk near half its length beneath the weight of his bowed head. Drawing the honed battle edge across his doublet he wiped it clean of loam before sheathing it safely at his hip. The familiar weight was comforting at least, like having a reliable friend at his side. His only friend now, Guy reminded himself as he gazed upon unfamiliar woodland.

The rain began to fall in earnest by the time Guy remounted and retook the road, forcing him to draw up his hood and clasp his cloak tight around his shoulders. Nevertheless, he shivered as fierce northern winds snaked through the trees biting deep through the fabric’s folds. Struggling to keep his exhausted steed centered Guy took the time to double check his baggage, ensuring the leather bags containing his maille and shield were sealed tight against the downpour. He was about to continue along his way when he felt the dun mare beneath him shrink, ever so slightly, ears twitching with wary attentiveness. A crack of a breaking branch alerted Guy to what had startled his horse and he laid a hand upon his sword hilt.

“…Bonjour?” He began, then remembering where he was, he started again. “Hello, who approaches?” Guy felt a tightening in his gut as the guttural heavily accented Reikspiel rolled off his tongue. He’d been warned many times by the locals that the Reikwald held many dangers for those traveling alone, bandits being the least of them. The last thing I desire right now is a fight, I nor the horse are capable. Plague and pestilence my eyes feel as heavy as lead weights and my fingers are cold, and clumsier than a newborn foal. Guy was jolted from his thoughts when a dark skinny shape leapt from the tree line taking too shaky steps onto the muddy road before collapsing in an expended heap. The mare and knight jumped together, the horse shying away from the offending form and Guy drawing his sword in one swift swish, cold and tiredness forgotten in a surge of adrenalin. For the space of a few tense heartbeats they sat in silent caution, ready for the shape to rise and attack.

Then Guy began to laugh. A weak, frightened laugh but a spate of nervous humor, nonetheless. “Naught but a child, girl.” He soothed the horse in High Bretonnian, clicking his tongue until he felt the mare ease beneath him. “A muddy, skinny little boy lost from his home no doubt. Not the terrifying monster we imagined hm?” Flicking the reins Guy made to ride around the prostrate body when the boy shifted, a gleam of blood on his lips, his gaunt haunted eyes rooting Guy to the spot.

“P-please.” He whimpered, barely audible over the driving rain.

Please, but please what? Guy frowned, glaring down at the boy. In truth he could not have been much younger than the knight, three or four years at the most, but he was nothing but skin stretched taunt over bone. “I have nothing for you.” Guy said at last wondering why he couldn’t bring himself to just ignore the peasant and ride on. Starving commoners was nothing new, yet something in those sad grey eyes kept him stationary. “…I have no food or coin to spare, and little time to waste before this rain kills us both of cold.”

“Schartenfeld!” The boy rasped chattering the word to such a degree that the Breton could not understand.

“What?”

“…Town… w-warn.” He pointed shakily down the road, in the direction Guy had been traveling.

“Boy, make yourself understood!” Guy snapped, growing annoyed at the pitiful statements. “I do not speak this tongue well, and the rain builds up such a racket. You must be clear.” No response came from the thin form to such a degree that Guy began to wonder if he had perished there on the road. But no, looking closer he could see the bloated stomach move ever so slightly with each pained breath.

Passed out then, and all the better for him, his passing may be gentler. May whatever god you worship accept your soul you poor child… But what were you trying to say? Warn… Town? I know those words, but where have I heard Schartenfeld before? A name perhaps, his name? Or maybe the name of this town, yes, I think I heard mention of this place, a village here in the Reikwald. Then he is a messenger, on a mission to warn Schartenfeld! But warn them of what? I cannot relay news of a threat of which I know nothing about… At long last Guy released a frustrated groan rolling his eyes skyward.

“For the Lady I do the most unpleasurable things." Guy groused aloud. "But of all the things, this? I will become known as Guy the Peasant Portage, he who lends his horse to whoever ask. Perhaps I should even charge a few penny fee? Bah, this warning better be serious.” Slipping down from the saddle Guy bent over the body, scooping the child up with shocking ease. Lice and fire this child must be at least twelve, but he weighs next to nothing, and all I feel are bones. Securing him in front of the saddle took little effort despite Guy’s own weariness, and soon they were off once again at a steady lope. Keeping one hand wrapped securely around the boy’s waist, and the other resting on his pommel he guided the mare with his knees, peering through the thickening sheets for any sign of habitation in the distance, while glancing regularly over his shoulder, mindful that whatever the boy had been running from might not be far behind. It was an hour before he saw lights, the watchman’s lantern bobbing along as the unlucky bastard given watch in the foul weather made his rounds.

He wasn’t a very good guard Guy discovered as he rode nearly over the top of the unsuspecting man, who was keeping his hood tight and his head bowed. “Open the gate!” He snapped when he wasn’t hailed, the man jumped fumbling with his lantern.

“Err, say who’re you old chap?”

“I am a knight.” Guy replied in haughty self-assuredness, stating his rank rather than his name. His noble blood alone should lend him swift entrance, and he wasn’t wrong. Upon seeing the soaked crimson raven embroidered upon the young man’s chest the watchmen made quick his duties of opening the gate just enough that Guy and his mare could slip inside, saluting their passing in the Imperial fashion.

“Point me towards the nearest, cheap establishment.” Guy ordered once they were inside and the gate was barred against the wind. He wanted out of the rain, and he did not have time to bandy words. “One with a fire and something hot to drink.”

“Is that kid alright? Er I mean, The Ogres’ Maw fits the bill sir.” The Watchman frowned lowering his hand, recalling the Breton’s rank. “But it doesn’t suit one of your stature sir, perhaps th’ Blu-”

“It will suffice” Guy kicked at his mare’s flanks leading her towards the building that’d been pointed out too him. In truth he possessed little coin. His foray into the Empire had been a long one, and while he had never dared live the life of luxury, Guy appreciated a bed and a warm meal, and his coinage reflected that. Sigmarites had an annoying habit of expecting payment for their services, whereas a noble son in the fair lands of Bretonnia need not even bring currency on his journeying. Every peasant was expected to provide when a knight came calling. Guy had been prepared of course, but his purse was lighter than ever, and he did not wish to waste it on unnecessary expenses.

Leaving the mare for the time being Guy scooped the boy up with awkward uncertainty, cradling him as he pushed through the heavy door, kicking it shut behind him. Not sparing a single glance to the other patrons making their confusion and concern known he made a beeline for the fireplace, shooing away the pair of dogs near it and settling the child upon the warm earthen floor…

Deleted

Alvin Gammel stood on his chair and leaned against the table, gnawing away at a piece of slightly overcooked sausage. He was regaling a disinterested few of the Ogre's Maw regulars with one of his well worn stories of derring do, voicing all the parts himself. As was often the case his telling cast a young Halfling bearing a striking resemblance to himself as the hero. He was just getting to the good part of this tale, in which our handsome and wise Hero convinces his captors to follow him and so becomes commander of a mighty fighting force, when he took notice of the new arrivals. Taking careful measure he marks first where his dog, Woof, lies beside the chair then jumps over him nearly stumbling as he lands. Good ale, generous portions of good ale.

Living as an adventuring halfling one becomes well acquainted rather quickly with what danger and opportunity look like, and Alvin saw quite a lot of each in the new faces tonight. Peeking around seated patrons he tried to assess the situation and right himself. With only the slightest of gestures to Woof the dog makes it's own assessment of the situation and eagerly sets to assisting it's master. Woof's role was clear enough. First impressions were paramount and sausage juice on a young halfling's chin and coat simply would not do, this threat must be subdued. It takes to the task dutifully. It's master once more safe and close as he was like to get to presentable Woof retreated to the corner of the room to conduct careful reconnaissance on the inside of it's eyelids.

Taking a last moment to brush himself off and smooth back his hair he walks ever so slightly unsteadily toward the fireplace.

"Hey kid," he says in a soft voice, "you alright there? You look like shit. Want a potato?"

“If you will kindly get out of my way Herr Verbek?” Marguerite asked politely, slender fingers tapping the butt of her pistol in emphasis. The portly merchant glanced down at the messenger and then shot glare filled with hate and frustration at the healer.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered before climbing down the ladder and stomping away into the rain.

“I’ll be right down,” Marguerite called to the messenger, one of the barflies who frequented the Maw unless she missed her guess. She hoisted her leather satchel over her shoulder, the stoppered phials of herbs and unguents tinkling musically as they shifted inside. Most of what she had was stored in the satchel, though a few half-finished infusions steeped in buckets and flagons scattered around the hay loft. As an apothecary's workshop went it was a poor one, but Davor’s rent was reasonable and it kept the rain off. It might have been helpful to know what kind of illness she was being called to treat, but the quickest way to determine that was simply to go and see for herself. Reaching into her tunic she wrapped her hand around the small silver pendant she wore, a simple stylized dove, and whispered a quick prayer to Shyalla before sliding down the ladder and striding purposefully out into the rain.

The interior of the Ogre’s Maw was dark and earthy. A miasma of pipesmoke coiled and whirled across the ceiling, flowing along the channels defined by the dark wooden beams of ancient oak. A fire blazed in the stone hearth, flames licking the bottom of an iron cauldron filled with a bubbling stew of salt pork, barely and whatever vegetables Rosine had been able to barter. Cheap tallow candles flickered and guttered in the wind of the open door before Marguerite stepped through and pulled it shut. The rushes that covered the floor had been changed recently, but the smell of stale beer lingered in the grubby plaster walls.

A few of the regulars, mostly idlers and loafers grunted greetings to her as she entered. The interminable dice games with which they passed the time before dinner was ready temporarily forgotten in the excitement of the evening. There were several new faces, a handsome young man in armor with an enormous sword slung across his back, another in the robes of an itinerant priest, a Sigmarite by the hammer he carried, a halfling, who it appeared she had interrupted mid boast, and finally a third man with the harsh angular face of a Bretonnian who, although dressed as a knight, seemed a good deal more disheveled than other examples Marguerite had seen. The youthful chevalier sat close to a boy he had laid before the fireplace, and was rubbing hopelessly at his mud stained doublet in a vain attempt to cleanse it. Filth he no doubt collected by carrying the emaciated child indoors. Defeated by the persistent muck the Breton leaned his back against the tavern wall, looking up at and speaking warily to a cloaked Bretonnian mercenary who stood nearby, his distaste clear as his gaze flickered from the mercenary’s face to his belt which held an assortment of weaponry including a brace of pistols. He was addressing something he’d been asked before Marguerite’s entrance, all in the flowery tongue of his homeland.

”No, we were not attacked, at least none dared challenge me. The child…” Breton trailed off, glancing down at the boy lying unconscious close at hand. He almost seemed conflicted, and his bright blue eyes, ringed from lack of sleep ill-disguised a deepfelt confusion hidden in their depths. “I-I am uncertain.”

When Marguerite approached the Breton urged her towards the prone form of his charge, his heavily accented voice rising with more familiar wordage. “You are a healer?” He struggled to his feet, swaying ever so slightly before catching himself, his eyelids drooping. “I must warn you; I have no intention of compensating your services. Perhaps he might work for whatever treatment you provide once he is whole again?”

"Shallya's gift is it own reward," Marguerite said, a trifle ironically. In truth she regularly solicited donations for her efforts, Shallaya's gift did incur certain expenses after-all, but she couldn't imagine a circumstance in which having a child follow her around would be an aid to her activities.

Marguerite knelt beside the boy, the fire dried rushes crackling under her knees. She felt a little self-conscious doing so in front of the priest. Like all Reiklanders she had been raised to revere Sigmar and it wasn’t as though she were doing anything wrong, but there were priests and then there were priests. The boy’s pulse was erratic as she touched her fingertips to his neck, the flesh itself hot and clammy, though the moisture probably came from the rain rather than sweat. It was unlikely someone in his condition would be able to sweat naturally. Deftly, her fingers moved over his body, touching each of his visible wounds for a moment. Remarkably none of them seemed too serious, leaving his main problems as fever and malnutrition. Opening her bag, she rifled around for a moment before retrieving a small glass phial filled with a greyish white powder, an iron spoon and a jar of dark honey. She dipped the spoon into the honey and then shook a generous amount of powder over it, coating the sticky golden liquid. She began to whisper a prayer to Shyalla, laying a small hand on the boys swollen belly, calling upon the Goddess to aid the boy. Carefully she touched the spoon to his lips, the sweetness of the honey stimulated the child’s lips to part, and she thrust the spoon into his mouth, watching the muscles in his throat work as he unconsciously swallowed the mixture. As she finished the prayer, he drew a deep wracking breath and then settled, his skin beginning to cool and his pulse slowing to a more natural pace.

“Shyalla be thanked,” she breathed, stroking the boy’s forehead with her fingers.

“Might you wake him so that I may begin questioning?” The Breton interrupted suddenly from where he’d been standing, observing the entire procedure.

“Well of course I could wake him,” Maguerite replied sourly. “But he is still half out of his mind with fever and he is as likely to declare himself Emperor as tell us anything useful. He needs rest, and nourishment, but slowly lest he eat himself to death. Whatever he has to tell us will have to wait.” She dipped the spoon into the honey again, this time omitting the powder and pressing it to the boy’s lips.

“Shyalla bless you my child,” she whispered in pious afterthought.

---

Roderick was quite certain that the Ogres Maw had never been this full of strangers on a single night, and likely never would be again. He paid little attention to the regular crowd other than a friendly nod when they smiled at him, and tucked into the simple but heavy stew as soon as it arrived. He was a man given to enjoying his feed and munched happily on the soggy vegetables and over cooked meat. Brandt, he noticed, hadn't missed a beat either. Both men downed a pint of some tolerable local ale before their bowls were done.

He used the remainder of the bread to hunt down the last of the stew, ensuring he got every drop before passing it Maria. She took it gently from his hand and then wolfed it down instantly. She was steaming slightly and had spared a gentle lick of the hand for the young lass who brought her a bowl of water and a bone with some meat still attached. Her pointed ears never ceased moving as she regarded each person who went about the taproom. Roderick knew she was starting to relax when she accepted a morsel from Brandt and even let the blacksmith turned Greatsword fondle her ears for a few moments before trotting back to the fire and her bone.

The arrival of a warrior type, a Bretonnian by his slim build, caused little stir in the room. Roderick eyed the new comer from beneath half closed eyelids as the heat began to make him drowsy. They were a slender people, not given to the proud shoulders of the Reiklanders, but that did nothing to still their fighting prowess. He wondered what on earth the fellow was doing in such an out of the way little town. Then again, what were he and Brandt doing here?

Peace returned swiftly enough as the Knight settled at the end of the bartop, close enough that Maria stretched out her snout enquiringly, sniffing the air with interest. Must be a heck of a thing, the nose of a dog. Roderick could only imagine what she was picking out on the newcomer.

The barkeep brought brought the pair another round without being asked, the wooden mugs loud on the table as he set them down. He paused for a moment and shifted on his feet until Roderick finally looked up at him.

"Er, thing is father, I know your kind is good for it, but have you any coin?" The man looked dreadfully embarrassed and had turned quite red in the face.

"Oh, right, of course. My apologies my good man." Roderick dug into his robes and pulled out his coin purse. "What do we owe you?"

"Three bits for the stew, one per brew, and did you want a room?" Relief showed on the strong simple face.

"Five a piece then, so far." Roderick said with a sigh. Money didn't grow on trees in these parts but at least these small towns were cheaper than the man wagon roads. "And have you any objection to us sleeping in the taproom this eve?"

The proprietor shrugged as he took their coin, making it vanish into his apron with all the skill of a magician. "Not at all, father. I'll stack a bit of wood for the fire afore we close up. The hound will likely stick with you then."

"I have no doubt he will be welcome company." Roderick said with a smile, glancing down at Maria who was staunchly ignoring the humans, her ears cocked toward the front door. "More guests I reckon."

"Quite right." Said the other as he bustled off toward his space behind the rough oaken counter top.

As if on cue, the door burst open and new figure hurried in with what appeared to be a child in his arms. The man rudely dislodged the two dogs, Maria slinking away with all the hurt disgust her fifty pounds could communicate. Roderick reached down to tousle her ears as he observed the strange new pair. The child, couldn't be the mans child for the two looked nothing alike, had clearly been through a rough patch the last little while. A quick glance suggested there was little Roderick would be able to do to help. His healing skills were largely confined to making sure a man didn't bleed to death before he got to proper care.

As it was, not his child, not his problem. The village would have a healer somewhere who could look after the waif. Sigmar was not known for his sense of charity outside of his own sworn servants. Maybe they had one of those damned barbers who doubled as a surgeon. Just as likely to bleed you to death as whatever it was that had cut you. Roderick shuddered at the thought and saw Brandt do the same. The two shared a quick grin despite the new arrivals. It was apparent the two had been thinking along the same line.

As the two Bretons, he was sure of it now, spoke quickly with the liquid fluidity of their native tongue, Rodericks gaze was dragged away by the arrival of a Sister of Shaylla no less. He was impressed. Every small hamlet in the Empire had a shrine to the deity, but to have ones very own Sister, well, that was a different thing altogether. She largely ignored everyone else, pushing past a drunken Halfing who was trying to jab a potato into the boys face.

The small figure knelt next to the hearth and the blaze lit up her blonde hair and slim features. Roderick at least felt vindicated in his decision to not touch the child. There was very little he could offer that compared to the Sisters knowledge and he was certain that if she required his help, she would ask for it.

To say that a heavily laden Dwarf dragging in a known highwayman was not what Feitz, the city watchmen on duty, thought he would see today was an understatement. But the squat bearded thing hadn't even knocked! He had the good manners to lift up the wounded bloke, but it took a minute for Feitz to even believe the Dwarf hadn't committed assault on a townsman, much less get the guard to open one of the cells for him. He sifted through his four keys before he found the right one, and opened the last cell at the very end, just so if his Captain asked, the bandit had been there the whole time.

"No sorry, I can't pay you." Feitz said, looking from the wound of the criminal to the Dwarf eyeing him from waist height. Burundi himself simply let out a haggard sigh, expecting as much but still disappointed all the same.

It was a dangerous world, and even in Riekland there was plenty of conflict in the wooded areas. But Feitz himself had never seen any combat. He'd only been in the service for two years. The most intimidating thing about him was the single hair that grew out of his chin like a lone whisker. After seeing a shot man, he was a bit on edge. "Look, why don't you speak to the mayor tomorrow? Try a room at the Maw down the street. He might give you something for your troubles." He pulled at his shirt collar, hoping the Dwarf would leave.

After another moment of the Dwarf scrutinizing him to see if he was lying, Burundi shrugged. "You're welcome. Glad to be of service." He said.

"May the hammer watch you." Feitz said.

"My people made that hammer you worship so much."

"What?"

The Dwarf was already out of the door, squinting against the setting sun. The rain from the other day had been rough, but he and the Umgi had come from another direction. Good lad, though a bit dim. He was hoping he could see the boy again before he left, but there was no sign of him and Burundi needed a place to set his materials and goods. The items near bursted out of the sack over his shoulder, and he grabbed a hold of his poleaxe he'd left leaning by the door, using it as a casual walking stick.

As he stepped off the porch of gaol, he marveled at how such tall people built such short structures. No Karak had any public chamber that wasn't four Dwarfs high. But judging by these well made roads of dirt and heavily guarded roads of brigands, it was probably good that they made buildings sturdy enough to use as homes. The pole axe plodded along the ground as he stepped, staying out of the way of passing wagons and horses and making his way straight toward the tavern. He sincerely hoped they had a cask of Bugman's.

The door flew open, and Burundi's surprised gave way to a guilty smile. He laughed. "Seven years above ground and I forget how light wooden doors are." He said loud enough for some of the locals to hear. He truly hoped he didn't have to pay for any damages, but with a quick inspection he was satisfied that he didn't harm the doors integrity. Burundi grunted and turned around to gauge where the bar was, only to notice a concentration of manlings was over by the fire.

"Hey, barman!" Burundi called, suddenly turning to the Innkeeper who's attention snapped to the Dawi. The man had been conversing with a warrior priest of their Sigmar God. Good fighters and fine company they were, as far as Umgis went. "Grab me a pint of your finest ale my good manling, and I mean your finest ale! And a room for a night!" He produced a gold crown out of his pocket and tossed it to the man. A tenth of that brew better be pure alcohol now, by Grungni I want to sleep well tonight, he thought to himself.

He continued on toward the gathered group by the fire, and to his surprise he saw a Halfing there. He'd only seen two in his seventy years, and both had been less than honest, but good cooks.

There was an odd mixture of people gathered round, with even a few Brettonians if he didn't miss his guess. Most found it hard to distinguish between these and the Umgi from the Empire, but he had a knack for these sorts of things. Not for the first time did he think of writing a book on human culture one day.

The Dwarf stepped between a woman and a man, and without meaning to he practically shouldered his way into the enclosed circle. What lay before him was a broken boy, breathing shallow and worn with blood and scarring. Immediately, his face fell. Dwarf or man, he hated when children were subject to such harsh pain. Little comfort it was knowing how flimsy people of the Empire were. Maybe if this were a beardling he'd live but he couldn't imagine such a wretched thing to survive. He tried to think of the most diplomatic way to put it.

"Oh," he grunted, looking up at the five present. "He's going to die."

@POOHEAD189@TyrannosaursRex@The Wyrm@Blueskin@Penny@Dusty@BangoSkank

The evening sky had well and truly opened by the time the son of Malgrim nearly smashed a thick oak tavern door off of its hinges, thick, round droplets hammering down onto the township of Schartenfeld like the tears of weeping gods; by this time all decent folk of the Imperial burh had esconced themselves safely and securely within the four walls of their dwellings - at least those who had that luxury - as strong or flimsy as that may be.

There is always an exception to the rule though, and it was at this point that another figure slipped into the Maw, fresh on the heels of Burungi and his rather ill-advised comments. News travels swiftly you see, and the arrival of a Bretonnian bearing a half-dead youth had piqued the interest and curiousity of many. They came like an elusive shadow, slipping through the half-closed door and into the drying warmth of the tavern of ill-repute, sweeping aside the lower regions of a waterproofed cloak and taking a seat nearby the group that crowded the boy purposefully or not.

Meanwhile, across the room and working as swiftly as he could alongside his beautiful wife, Davor could only give his broad head a shake and release a sigh while he wiped clean another glass. He had been speaking to himself at the doorway, but it did seem that Sigmar - or some more devious deity - had been listening to his words; tonight had seen more interesting individuals come through the door of the place than he had ever seen before!

It was as he looked around at the faces and races that he caught the one good eye of the newcomer, the man who had just entered and pulled down his hood to reveal a face more horrifying than even that of the annoying Halfling.

He must have been six-feet-and-four in height if he was an inch, two broad shoulders supporting a bearing and a back that could only be that of a soldier or other professional, one hand covered in the mass of scarring caused by burning flesh while the other apeared untouched.

The face was what caused unease the most though, a pale-skinned face with a right-eyed empty socket and a left eye of glacial blue, the left-hand side of the man's face showing a jaw that had become infected during childhood, only to fuse together and give the man's visage a distinct and lopsided look.

Clearly he noticed the proprietor looking, turning the one good to Dovar for but a moment, exchanging a look that caused the barkeep to return swiftly to his duties as the owner of the Maw.

"Ladies, gentlemen and strangers from distant lands," rumbled the newcomer as he stood from his seat, drawing his cloak back to reveal simple but stout peasant clothing - a coarse doublet over a pair of pantaloons in the red, white and green of Schartenfeld - as well as a dagger at his hip, "may I have you attention for a moment," when some distasteful looks were thrown his way from the hearth he could only shrug, "I am certain the child will be fine for the moment."

Rising to his full height, he placed one hand on the table next to which he stood, and with another withdrew a scrap of parchment upon which was written a noble-looking scrawl and from which dangled a wax mayoral seal.

"My name is Johan Sebastian Bock, and I hold in my hand a letter from the Mayor which tells me two things and asks but one. It tells me that the magic-wielders in our service already knew you would all be here this night, perhaps not specifically, but that this would be a fine time for me to make myself present here and now. It also tells me to tell any interested party the very possible reason that this child now lays here before us."

Without a word Davor placed a flagon at the man's table, returning behind the bar to find the strongest alcohol for their only Dwarfish customer in the meantime, his hackles risen by all this talk of 'magic' and 'being here' - it was all too much for a simple tavern keep like himself, for the moment.

"While my lord Mayor does keep his own militia, indeed we have the finest militia in this part of Reikland, there have been disappereances in the course of the last month of so."

Pausing briefly, he plucked the flagon up and took a long draught, some of the liquid slipping from his misshapen mouth and onto his doublet even as he continued to slurred speech and sucking breath.

"Brigands and highwaymen have often been a problem, travellers robbed or killed on the roads hereabouts, but recently it had become more than just single travellers or wandering pilgrims. Entire caravans have gone missing without a trace, clearly overcome by a well organised group of assailants, from merchants to simple farm folk, and now we are in desperate straits... yes we are."

Another tossing back of the flagon and it was empty, a sleeve dragged across the mouth and followed by a belch.

"That is why I am here, and why I ask now if there are any among you that consider yourselves fit to do what our militia could not. To achieve, for rightful payment in coin and reputation, the location and rescue of captives and survivors, and the destuction of those that have taken them."

Spreading his arms wide, he gave what on any other face would have been considered a look of honesty and openness, but now came across more as one of a man trying to give that look to those he had interupted and asked to fight and possibly die for a not-entirely-known reason, and for an unknown Mayor and town.

"I am obliged, of course, to answer any questions you may have - and you are well within rights to say no to the offer - but, if I have judged the room correct, there will be fewer questions and more acceptance."

Brandt

Over the last year, Brandt had seen Roderick learn as much as he could from other priests and holymen. He was a decent physiker, skilled at battlefield medicine and Brandt had scars enough thanks to his companions efforts. Without, Brandt would likely be a limb or two short. However, there was a limit to what battle medicine could do, and even the blessings of Sigmar were aimed towards smiting foes and shielding warriors. There was likely little to be done for a boy so diseased and malnourished as the poor lad brought in by the foreigner. Brandt had been relieved when a proper healer had begun to treat him, but annoyed by the crowd. For a moment he thought he saw the same expression on her face that Roderick got when some peasant suggested a dung poultice.

“Give him some room, y’idiots,” he grumbled, eliciting a chuckle from Roderick as the man watched the same sight. Brandt quaffed a measure of his ale to wash down his annoyance, and nearly coughed it all over himself at the boom of the door being kicked in. He sputtered his ale, and elbowed Roderick twice, harder then he needed to.

“Is that a dwarf?” He said soto voice. “It’s gotta be a dwarf, it’s not some short fat man, it’s a proper dwarf and all the way out here!”

When the dwarf joined the crowd around the boy, Brandt wasn’t sure to laugh or holler. That deep rumbling voice then pronounced the boys immanent demise, Brandt couldn’t agree more. “He bloody will if you sods trample all over him! Foreigners and dwarfs, eh?”

Roderick shrugged and chuckled. Food and ale had put them in good humour, but it was not to last as Mr. Bock announced himself. Brandt adjusted his grip on his flamberge, frowning deeply. The man mentioned manic users, some sort of eldritch precognition. He looked back at his priestly companion. If this were a town that harboured witches, they would have to act... but no. The man, for all his scars and hard looks was simply a windbag. Surely a town like this would have some old crone or soothsayer, spouting enough nonsense that something had to stick.

Brandt shifted his weight and eased his grip on his swords scabbard. Brandt listened to the mans story. It was a familiar one, in these dark times. The sort of story whispered to children to keep them in line, and breed a healthy fear of the deep woods. Of course stories all come from somewhere, and the two men had seen enough in their short travels to know that there was more then children’s tales in the dark corners of the Empire.

When the man finally got around to the point, Brandt didn’t need to think much. He was about to ask Roderick’s thoughts, but the young priest merely nodded at his friend. Returning the gesture, Brandt put his drink down and stood in the now silent beer hall. His cloak fell open as he did so, showing the oft repaired cuirass he wore beneath. At the end of his left arm, armoured from shoulder to wrist, he clutched his great sword. Despite the wear of the road, the backlighting of the fire allowed him to cut an impressive figure.

“We’re up for it, sir,” he stated. “Though if you’ve got any leads, we’ll have ‘em. Don’t fancy wandering about in circles with no aim at all.”

The man glanced around the room. There were other warriors among them. Would some of the others offer to join? That weather beaten knight who’d been drinking at the bar looked like they could handle themselves well, and a few others. Brandt grinned at a sudden thought; maybe he’d get to fight beside a dwarf!

Deleted

The situation had gone from interesting to unfortunate for the journeyman's tastes.

It seemed the consensus was the lad was going to recover and waken, and he trusted these manlings to know more about their own anatomy than he. He was relieved of that, but with all of his livelihood on his back he was a bit more concerned with himself at the moment. This was growing a bit too involved in the local politics. He was here to make a living, not a legend. Bringing back gold for his clan was the utmost importance.

He turned to the disfigured manling that spoke to him as if he knew him, ignoring the others that spoke up about joining on this woodland trek. "I'm a tanner, not a-" He started, then realized he was about to say 'soldier.' A man of the Empire likely couldn't appreciate it, but that was close to blasphemy. Every Dwarf in a hold was expected to gather arms in time of war. The Dwarf stalked past him toward the bar, where his drink was readied. "I'm here to make saddles and jerkins."

The Dwarf reached up and took the pint off the counter, taking a long whiff of what he knew to be Kislevite Vodka. It wasn't Dwarf make, but it would certainly do. The Dwarf sat down in thought at the table. He took a robust sip, froth sticking to the fringe of his mustache and upper beard as he considered. Despite his words, the prospect stuck to him with the simple logic that if this town were to be sacked, he'd have no place to set up shop. How could he claim to wish to be apart of the trade if he wasn't willing to fight for it?

Burundi knew his father would offhandedly claim he died for some human affair if he perished on this journey. But then he thought of young Johann. No, the other one. The roads were dangerous enough for a lad like that. If there was Grobi or Chaos-filth infesting the woods, he might meet his end out there, working just as Burundi was. Slowly, he knew he had to go with these Brettonian bastards. He could use a few good battles on his belt to honor his family, he had to admit.

The Dwarf had been sitting and thinking for what seemed like an eternity, and once he broke out of his thoughts he felt as if eyes were on him, and with a very brutish grumble, he opened his throat and downed the last half of the pint. The cup clapped onto the table, and Burundi took up his poleaxe and hopped off his seat. The chair was relieved to be rid of the Dwarfish weight, creaking and standing up a bit taller.

He approached the new Johan, his face grim and set for purpose. "Find a place to stash my belongings while I'm gone, and you have my service. That and the coin. I don't need the reputation, but I need the gold. Understand?" He asked, and once he was satisfied, leaving his workman pack with him, he strode over to Brandt, Roderick, and Jehan armed with his melee weapon and crossbow, and a small knapsack of rations and ale.

Luckily, the three that had volunteered look like they knew how to handle themselves. He hoped the two Brettonians were capable of fighting off horseback. He'd seen how effective Sigmarite Warrior Priests were when they're fervor was at its height. Much like Slayers in a backwards sort of way. He supposed there was worse company he could have been in. He could be going in with militiamen like Feitz.

"I hope we're to fight Orcs." He said to the two as he approached, stopping in between them and turning to address the room. "Grimnir knows we could do with a few less of them in the world."

The tavern had quite come to life just recently. An adventure was stirring and, much to the Halfling's delight, several rather burly strangers had seemed to attach themselves to the party of this Johan Sebastian Bock. He meant to join his considerable power, and might, and wisdom, and bravery to their number and in so doing take his own share of the coin and reputation on offer. It certainly helped tha several capable looking men had attached themselves already. One with a massive Flamberge, one with a Warhammer, plus that black-clad knight and a dwarf to boot. Mean looking bastard of a dwarf too, his favorite kind. Though they were all mean looking bastards to Alvin, it was why he was so fond of them.

"Sir," he spoke up, literally, dusting off his fur lined vest and looking up at the scarred visage of the Mayor's messenger and (Alvin hoped) party leader. "My name is Alvin Gammel, Tracker in these parts and seasoned traveler far afield," he continued as he moved toward the growing group discussing Sr. Bock's proposal and his dog trotted up behind him to sit down on it's haunches, "This is my humble steed, Woof. Her brother's waiting outside. We're small Sir, sure, but we're quick and we know these roads. I've a keen eye and they've keen snouts, and we'll all be near to the roads. If you might point us to the ones those caravans were last seen on before they disappeared, or if you know between what cities they were traveling, it would be a good start to the search."

Though his tone still had the musical quality even grown Halfling's seemed to have a difficult time distancing themselves from he had dropped the braggadocio and conducted himself more respectably. His audience from earlier had a mixed reaction to the little man stepping up. In the darker corners of the tavern one or two chuffed at the notion of him going out into the wilds to track whatever bandits had been overtaking entire caravans, but however much they might doubt his ability the majority knew they wouldn't be putting themselves in the position. Not to be publically rejected by the grim visage of this Johan Sebastian Bock, and even worse not to potentially have their offer of assistance be accepted and find themselves attached to this party. It was hard to join yourself to a cause that would likely lead to your death, so much easier to stay in a nice bar. Dry, warm, lubricated. It was the wee man's funeral, not theirs. Let the mayor's militia send more men or let them call for backup from the rest of Reikland, it was their job wasn't it.

@POOHEAD189@TyrannosaursRex@The Wyrm@Blueskin@Penny@Dusty@BangoSkank

Johan weathered the entire next burst of speech and masculine gestures with a look of impassivity veiling anything he may have personally thought, although the appearance of both a Dwarf and a Halfling into the blend of Imperial and Bretonnian – the two volunteering far more eagerly than any other for the no doubt hazardous task ahead – at least bought a grudging not form the towering Reiklander.

Unlike the down-and-outs and locals cluttering up the outer circles of the taverns common room, Johan was an old sweat and knew the value of both these more diminutive races, having fought alongside both in his time.

He knew that, although he was not of the Dwarfish warrior-class, they were almost all fighters in their own ways, and from the looks of it (as well as the weapon he ostensibly used as a walking stick) this one was no stranger to violence. As for the Moot-dweller, Johan and his comrades had been present during the Stirland incursion of eighty-two, and the hulking Imperial could even now recall the impact of Halfling sling-stones and the way the little bastards had mercilessly butchered downed Stirlanders – they may seem like lazy and peaceful idlers, but he knew better.

"Schartenfeld and those who's lives you will no doubt save with your undertaking give you their thanks," he said with a nod of gratitude to the small band gathered near the fire, "and to you in particular, Master Dawi. Your things shall be kept here with trusty Davor, if that is acceptable?"

Next he looked to the Sigmarite and the swordsman, knowing that as fellow Imperials they should need little in the way of platitudes, "my thanks to you also, though you may not be Reiklanders, and I know it is a lot to ask."

The black-clad knight... now there was an odd one for, much unlike the other 'shinier' Bretonnian, he had come to the fore and volunteered. Truth be told, Johan had not expected either of them to lend this town their blades or experience, but never say never he supposed.

"Merci monsieur," was all he said to him, more used to killing the high-up cockerals than giving thanks to them.

Lastly he came to Alvin, a smile finally crossing his features as he peered through his one good eye, bobbing his head as he took in the trio of hounds that seemed to belong to the group as well.

"Welcome to Schartenfeld then, Master Gammel - I am certain we can find a use for your hounds and yourself, make no mistake."

This left only the haughtier Bretonnian, whom Johan chose to pointedly ignore - even though he knew it might insult the fool - as well as the young lad and his current physician.

"His spirit is strong," commented the veteran, taking a few steps to stand beside Marguerite and her surprise charge, "and, with your ministrations Sister, I do not doubt he shall make it. For now he shall remain here, but tomorrow I hope he can be moved to more comfortable lodgings in the mayors wing of the city hall."

One plate-sized hand shifted to place itself upon Marguerites shoulder, giving a quick and gentle squeeze of comfort before withdrawing, Johan turning about to address them all one last time.

"I have not forgotten your question, sir," he promised Brandt before moving on, his eyes lingering on the greatsword briefly, "but the night draws in on us now, and they shall have to wait."

Adjusting his cloak and drawing his hood back over his features, Johan spoke his final piece before leaving the tavern.

"Those who are with Schartenfeld - or those who are yet undecided - please present yourself at city hall tomorrow to a man named Sebastian Johan Bock. No relation. He is our chamberlain and shall be waiting at the door to show you to the mayor, who will answer all questions. From there it shall be decided how best to proceed. I bid you all a guten nacht."

Wild winds splashed rain into the taverns interior for a brief moment, and then the large man was gone out into the darkening gloom once more.

Rosine Arenas had been watching and listening to everything as she worked, her shimmering eyes sparkling in the gloom as she lit extra candles and dotted them about the main area of the Maw.

"Excuse moi," came her sweet voice as she addressed those present, "may I ask that those who wish to remain do so, but shall be required to pay. The rest of you, I am afraid zat you shall need to find your ways home or to some suitable lodging."

There was a great grumble as regulars shuffled out, some trying to land a kiss on the nimble foreigner - her slight frame easily skipping out of reach, even as he arm moved them toward the door - and very soon it was only those that had arrived that day who stayed where they were.

"Oh, but of course you are all welcome to stay!" She said with a bright and inviting smile, "alzough mon husband may ask for some coin, I am afraid. He does 'ave a tavern to keep after all."

After sweeping the last of the locals out into the downpour, she wiped her hands on her apron and approached the Sister of Shallya.

"You may take the petite enfant to your own room if you wish, Sister. I too believe that he will survive, the Lady and Shallya willing."

"Now,if zere is anyone wishing for food or drink before bed, please say so and I shall get it for you."

---

The next day...

Morning crept over Schartenfeld as slow as the melting of a glacier, the chill air barely made warmer by the weak rays of the sun pressing onto the awakening township - merchants opening their stalls and shops, cattle-herders and shepherds driving their livestock out of the large gates and off to pasture for the day, and the citizenry going about their lives much as any others across the Empire of Man.

Sebastian Johan Bock, no relation to Johan Sebastian Bock, and chamberlain for the town and its mayor, waited impatiently in the crisp morning air; as a bureaucrat and a 'man of paper' he was always punctual, but admitted to himself that he shouldn't count on coin-pinching adventurers to keep to the same high standards.

Neither was he all that inconspicuous, dressed as he was in finered and green robes of his office, a golden chain wrapped about his vulture-like neck, his rudimentary spectacles perched precariously on the edge of his long, hooked, nose. In his hand a staff was held, topped with an hippogryphs roaring head, the crest of Schartenfeld carved into the broad wood.

Lastly, as if his occupation were ever in any doubt, he was stood before the town hall and its fully functioning clock, a marvel bought from Hochland as it happened.

He did hope though that they would not make him wait all day.

---

The two friend strode down the narrow streets toward the tall spires of the Town Hall, easily spotted as they towered over the thatched rooves of the common folk. They dodged potholes filled with water from the nights rain and the ever present cow pies that littered the road as the farmers drove their stock into town. The sun, at least, was out, and had begun to chase the morning chill away when they ventured outside.

Their night, and the breakfast, had been unremarkable. Pushing a pair of benches together and wrapping themselves in blankets provided by the barmaid had provided them a warm and affordable place to stay. Admittedly it could have been more comfortable, but those with limited coin could not be choosy. Better than another night in the woods, after all.

Roderick was painfully aware that he smelled wet, despite drying out in the tavern. He hadn't bathed in a day or two and was feeling a bit gamy as they approached the town square. The paving stone expanse was mostly intact, a pair of peasants replacing two cracked tiles near the centre of the space. There were overseen by a bored looking village reeve who spared the two men a nod and a polite word to the sigmarite.

"Decent looking building for a place like this, eh?" Roderick commented as he looked up at the clocktower, admiring the polished glass and second hand that ticked away faithfully behind it. Brandt grunted an agreement. He was less of a morning person than his friend and was likely to remain somewhat "stoic" until the sun had climbed a bit higher in the sky. Maria on the other hand was fair giddy with excitement, earnestly sniffing at everything she encountered, snapping her teeth at a horses heels and trotting quickly after the two men when a drover snapped his long whip at her.

It was not hard to find Sebastian Johan Bock, the man stuck out a fair in a town where most folk wore homespun brown linen garments. The red and green robes of his office, fancy golden chain, and staff, marked him at once as an important man. He looked almost as out of place as an Orc in a nunnery. The two approached him with a confident stride, noting that they were the first to arrive. Not that Roderick was much surprised. Getting up early was his trademark.

"Sebastian Johan Bock, I presume?" The young priest held out a hand. Bock took it, his wrist limp, and grimaced at the grip.

"Yes, and you are?" His voice was strangely high pitched and Roderick had to fight down a grin. Even Brandt seemed amused.

"Brandt the Brave and plain old Brother Roderick," He glanced at the dog who was eyeing Bock with something between disdain and curiosity. "And Maria."

The man nodded and glanced behind them to where other figures were emerging into the square. "Thank you for coming. We'll wait for the rest."

The following morning Guy de le Guerre awoke with the rising sun, feeling and looking much fresher than he’d been the previous evening. After the eventful exposition downstairs, he’d retired to his purchased quarters, spending the scant few extra pennies on a tub of hot water and a sharp razor to preform the traditional Bretonnian preening. Scraping the fuzz from his chin and trimming the curling locks by a good three inches did wonders on their own merit, but the bath and a fresh pair of breeches and tunic finished the transformation off, très bon.

Sighing in content he strode lazily over to his single window, throwing open the wooden shutters to allow the eastern sun free access. Fresh forest air wafted indoors smelling of rain and pine chasing away all the worries he still possessed about his ever-dwindling currency supply. If there is one thing I shall bring back to Bretonnia, he considered staring down at the commonfolk going about their morning duties. It will be the sewers. How Imperial towns of this size do not smell solely of dung and pestilence is a marvel, and one sorely needed at my father’s fiefdom. Perhaps my brother and I shall bring back one of their architects, to design a system. Wouldn’t that put a smile on his face, seeing his sons return full Knights of the Realm with gifts to boot. Smiling at this optimistic notion he knelt reciting his morning prayers before the sun, as always begging for strength and guidance. The practiced words did not take long for the young knight to articulate and before the half hour he’d risen, sheathed his sword, and oiled his armor, packing it away under his bed. His morning ritual finished he proceeded promptly down to the stables where his unnamed mare had waited out the night, chewing contentedly at a few flakes of hay he’d thrown for her.

He met the stable boy by the door, who was already hard at work shoveling soiled straw into a wheelbarrow. The heavyset lad perhaps a year Guy’s senior perked up at the accent, seeming to think this Bretonnian might be as generous as the last. He began retelling how fervently he’d cared for the blood bay, grooming and brushing the mud from her mane and fur as if he was tending the Emperor’s own noble steed. Whatever reward he might have expected for his extra efforts however were waved away and rebuffed by the haughty adolescent.

“You, cared for her? Bah, do not make me laugh you foolish peon, you do not look to know a bridle from a halter. Hurry along now, fetch me a pick and brush, I shall attend her needs personally.” From learned experience Guy knew that only the best taverns throughout the Empire possessed stable hands of merit, and the Ogre’s Maw did not enjoy an air of an establishment that hired proper stable masters. Besides, he had been caring for his particularly perfectionist father’s horses since his fourth nameday and knew the business well. When it came to his only mount Guy reasoned only the best would suffice. Sure enough, after a few minutes of diligent searching he discovered a few clumps of mud clinging at her girth, and a pebble lodged in her right forehoof all of which were removed with a few economic flicks of his wrist.

I ought to have him whipped for selling lies. Have these Imperial commoners no respect for the diligence of the nobility? I suppose the layman would soak in his falsehoods and pay him handsomely for his services, leading him to think he might hoodwink anyone. Guy groused as he tossed away the tools, giving his mare a few heartfelt pats on her sturdy neck. He grinned, somewhat maliciously at the notion of pursuing just such a tactic. It was something his uncle would do semi-religiously, but his father would consider it petty no doubt. Guy tossed the idea away, continuing to pet the loyal beast who’d carried him this far, his hand traveling up until it was scratching behind her ears beneath the dark mane. She deserved a name he knew, but none he could invoked seemed to fit the surefooted mount. Naming pets and horses was Phillipe’s specialty, his brother always had a knack for finding the perfect label in the space of a heartbeat. His own Erranty horse had been dubbed Bonjour un-jour and it suited his grey charger perfectly. Perhaps once they reunited Phillipe would once again conjure up the perfect name for Guy’s mare, Quest Finisher, or Oathkeeper or something. Guy shook himself, grinning self-consciously once the supposed names sank in. Those were terrible. He nearly laughed aloud, but merely gave the unnamed mare one last good-natured pat before heading back indoors.

His good mood was cut short as he stepped through the door that separated the stables and the common. His eyes immediately locking upon the face of the Bretonnian mercenary who’d spoken to him the night before. Jehan le Cordelier as he had introduced himself so boldly, proudly carrying the Imperial black powder weaponry, and forgoing the sigil of his father, as if the precious heraldry meant nothing. Guy for his part wore the Crimson Raven like the badge of honor it was, his separated from those of his brothers and father by a delicate white rose clutched gingerly in one talon, as the red death-bird spread its mighty wings in defiance against all evil. Jehan wore none, most probably because any fallen Bretonnian knight would be hunted to the ends of the earth by their extended family should the fallen wear the house’s symbols in dishonorable fashion. This way he could act as a gold biting mercenary without wrathful second cousins shadowing his every move. When they’d spoken briefly the previous evening Guy had been too enthralled in the events surrounding the man Johan Sebastian Bock and the other colorful figures to give Jehan much thought. He’d watched as the adults- No, he was a man grown, and no longer needed to think of them as his seniors, - the company concluded their business and departed, as his exhausted brain put together the different facts ultimately drawing the only possible conclusion for Jehan’s past. A fallen Knight, spurning Lady and blood and oath in pursuit of gold.

“Jehan le Cordelier,” He spat the name out in Reikspiel as if it was some foul excrement not worthy of their native tongue. His fingers dropped until they were resting on his sword’s leather-bound hilt, ready at a moment’s notice. He’d left his armor upstairs, but the tough embroidered doublet, and travel cloak would serve to stave off shallow cuts, and Guy was confident enough in his skill that he could win, should his needling provoke the dishonored Breton into action. “I see you have not yet departed to serve as the errand boy for the lesser folk, to scrounge your meals at the generosity of employers, and further dishonor your family’s proud name. Cordelier, I do not recognize this House, but I can only imagine how your ancestors suffer in their graves at the shame you bring upon them. I, Guy de le Guerre am half a mind to ease their pain…” Guy’s tone was harsh, and his barbed underlying threats were not withheld, but he did not feel them, not truly. His tone shifted as he wondered what would drive a noble son to forsake everything and live as Jehan did. Deep within Guy felt a jolt of hurt and confusion, and part of him did not want to admit even to himself how uncertain he felt.

“Why would you break your vows?” He asked suddenly in High Bretonnian, unable to maintain the air of cold indifference as his voice hesitated ever so slightly. “Were you not like me once, a Knight Errant? And – and the Lady, and your father, and your kin and everything we swore to uphold? How do you reconcile betraying everything?”

The night passed fitfully with rain driving a continuous tattoo against the slate roof of the Townhall. Marguerite was glad for the room she had been offered to care for the stricken boy. It was warmer and drier than the hayloft at the Maw, and much less likely to result in an altercation with Johan. Angry the cheesemonger might be, but he certainly wasn’t going to break into the half timbered building to force a confrontation. Breaking the peace like that would carry a considerably steeper penalty than his wife’s displeasure.

The boy slept uneasily, tossing and turning constantly and mumbling incomprehensibly to himself. Though he never seemed to quite wake, at times he seemed to still as though staring sightlessly behind closed eyelids. At those times Margueritte fed him with tiny spoonfuls of dark honey infused with powdered willow bark. She prayed to Shyalla as she had been taught and sometime after midnight her prayers were rewarded when his fever broke. After that she began to press a cloth dipped in sweet dessert wine, acquired from the Mayor’s cellars between his lips. He sucked at the cloth as much by instinct as conscious design but the nourishment seemed to do him good, his breathing slowed and lost its ragged edge and after an hour or so Margureitte felt confident enough to try to sleep on the palette beside the boy.

Margueritte rarely dreamed. At her dooming ceremony she had been warned to beware of dreams but that hadn’t much concerned her until, one winter night, she had dreamed of cold water closing over her head and dragging her down into the darkness. Waking she had the taste of salt on her lips, from tears she had assumed. The news had come a week later that her brother, Otto, had drowned when a storm had wrecked the ship he had been taking from Courrne to Marienburg. She tried not to think about it too much. There had been other such dreams over the years, though none since her father had cloistered her in the Shyallan convent, effective payment for her older brothers recovery from the Red Pox. Tonight she dreamed. Vast trees, taller than the Gray Mountains clawed up towards the veiled heavens, spreading their branches to stop even feeble starlight reaching the forest floor below. In all directions stretched an ominous darkness, inky and absolute in its intensity. An evil hunger and hatred seemed to fill the forest around her, pulsing like the artery of the world. Wings beat overhead and she glanced up. A raven, its feathers crimson as fresh blood glared hatefully down at her, flexing its talons till wood shaving feel from the bough upon which it had alighted. It swooped down at her like a thunderbolt, a soul splitting caw erupting from its beak. Margueritte turned and fled, running barefoot across the leafmould with no direction in mind but away. For a moment she thought she had escaped until, with the perverse logic of dreams, she found herself back in the same clearing with the same crimson raven. Time and time again she fled, each time arriving back in the same fell clearing, each time the bird getting a little closer to her before she escaped. Finally she could run no longer and stood mute as the creature swooped down to rend her flesh. To her shock there was a sudden bolt of white and a dove darted from above to intercept the bird, worrying it and tearing at it with its own much less impressive talons. Both birds hit the ground infront of her in a storm of wings, and snapping beaks. For a moment it seemed the dove was pure white but it turned to look at her revealing a dark discoloration under its left eye. It cooed at her urgently.

“What?” she tried to say, though her dream lips didn’t move to form the sound. The dove gave an exasperated coo and then launched itself at her, battering her face with its wings.

Marguerite’s eyes snapped open in the pitch dark. A blast of lightinging filled the room with pale light for a heartbeat, long enough for her to see a figure standing over her with something raised over its head.

“Ranald’s balls!” she shrieked and rolled off the pallete a heartbeat before the boy she had been nursing drove the heavy vase down where her head had been not a moment before. Pottery shattered and the boy howeld with something not quite human, pain and rage and other emotions Marguerite could put no name to. She rolled to her feet and dived at the boy. Growin up with brothers had taught her a thing or two that they didn’t teach at the convent and she hit him with her full weight across the hips, smashing him from his feet so hard that his head bounced auibley on the wooden floor. He heaved against her with a strength that bordered on the superhuman but she clung desperately to him, fouling any attempt to form a blow or a kick. His flesh was like a furnace and he clawed and bit at her like an animal until, after a moment, a great convolution seemed to wrack his body and he went limp. A moment later he began to sob. Having dealt with the insane before Marguerite did not immediately release him but after a moment began to disentangle herself.

“It is alright,” she said, for want of anything better, “you are safe now.”

The boy began to laugh, though there was a touch of mania to the sound.

“Safe, safe, safe,” he chortled, drawing out the end of the word unaturally.

“None of us are safe. Get to Schartenfield. Tell them.”

“You are in Schartenfield,” Margueritte pointed out, “what are you supposed to tell us?”

“They took us off the road. Held us in the pens. Like chickens,” the boy raved, making exaggerated clucking noises before reverting to sobs. Margueritte crossed to the fireplace and drew forth a sliver of smouldering timber before blowing on the end. It flared to light long enough for her to light a wax taper, throwing the simple roomroom into sharp relief.

“What is your name?” she asked gently, guiding the agitated child to the palate after brushing of the broken shards of pottery.

“J...j...j… Johan,” the boy stammered, the name wretched from him with considerable effort. Marguerite shot him a skeptical look.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Yes… Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrift,” the boy managed, seeming to draw strength from repeating the name, as though it were a talisman or a prayer.

“What are you supposed to warn us about Johan?” Margueritte pressed.

“The Red Crow! The Red Crow!” he half shrieked, suddenly looking panicked. Marguerite felt her blood run cold, the uncomfortable memory of the dream rushing back in a wave.

“Who is the Red Crow Johan?” Marguerite pressed.

“DEATH,” the boy wailed, snot running from his nose in clumps. Marguerite tried for several more minutes to extract more information but any mention of who or what had taken him and his family inevitably lead back to more ramblings about death and red crows. Reluctantly she gave the boy a draft of wine infused with what little milk of the poppy she had left and within minutes he lay in a deep, and hopefully dreamless sleep.

Marguerite stopped by the loft, keeping a sharp eye open for any of the apparently innumerable Johans, and collected the herbs and potions that were ready for use. She also uncovered a small sword, stolen from a swaggering Tilean a few months ago, that she had wrapped in oilskins and hidden under the hay. Like the pistol it didn’t do her image any good to carry the thing, but times were more dangerous even than. She belted on the sword and tucked her pistol into the leather wrappings before hurrying to the square in search of Bock. As luck would have it the priest she had met in the tavern the previous night and his greatsword wielding companion were already there. She hurried up to them

“Father….,” she trailed off having forgotten the fellows name. Broderick or something? It didn’t really matter.

“The boy woke this morning, briefly,” she declared, feeling a little self conscious to have the three mens full attention. She adjusted her white robes slightly, feeling more foolish than before to be wearing her sword.

“I’m afraid his mind is disturbed and, though I asked Shyalla to salve his hurts, it may be weeks or months before he regains his full senses.” It might be never, but she didn’t see any reason to be needlessly gloomy.

“His name is Johan Clauzewitz from Eberschrif,” she told them, making a gesture in the general direction of the town. She had never been there but had heard of it from the locals.

“Something he called the Red Crow, took him and his family off the road, probably imprisoned them, he mentioned ‘pens’ but fell to hysterics when I asked for any details.” She shrugged in apology, although it certainly wasn’t her fault.

“He also seemed to have come to Schartenfield to warn us, though he was too confused to tell me more than that we were in danger.”