He had heard tell the men of the Empire enjoyed the rain. That the soft pitter patter atop the roof and on the windows was soothing to them and lulled children and adults alike to sleep. Burundi envied their small minds, as he couldn't find the enjoyment in hearing water fall from the bloody sky. Whenever something fell from above in a Karak, it was something to steer clear of, not comfort you! Even he, being a Dwarf from Barak Varr and used to hearing the ocean.

He had given the new Johan his equipment, keeping a small sack of supplies to himself. It was where he kept his storage of Gal he had collected over the past seven years as well. Waddling up the stairs like an ornery bulldog, he almost raced to his room so he could better count the number of coins he had again. That quick shot of Vodka had tempered him, but with all of this racket outside he needed to see his gold to fully calm his spirits.

So in a hurry was he that he nearly bumped into female manling that had just stalked out of one of the rooms, adjusting the strap on her revealing dress. Typical Umgi physique, lacking both the plumpness of breast and the rotund hips of a true woman. Her eyes widened when the Dwarf came down the hall in a low run, his hand pushing her aside. "Out of my way, flesh merchant!" He cried, and he heard her squeal and tumble back into the room she had just left when he was closing his own door. The muted argument that ensued in the hall was drowned out by the Dawi's desire of that most precious material.

Normally he wasn't that abrasive even to the Umgi, but what was known as the Gold fever had overtaken him. Carefully, he undid the thong on his small sack and pushed a chair forward, stomping over it and hopping up without grace to pour the Gold and Silver atop the weathered wood of the desk. It clinked enchantingly with weighted thuds, and he spread the coins out to count them exactly. Tonight he had spent one from his separate stash, but these were his 20%. These he would bring back to the hold to laud amongst his family.

"Gal... Galaz... Bryn," He muttered, meticulously counting every peice while reciting a different word for Gold in Khazalid each time. For the next few hours he would be at this task, recounting them all a dozen times, and with the silver he recounted six times. In the morning he would remember knocks on his door, and a Brettonian woman speaking of 'complaints' from outside. But he could not hear her in the throes of his earnings, until he had regained sense of himself and decided it was time for rest.

He decided to go to sleep by counting the gold another time.

By morning, Burundi Malgrimsson was downstairs at dawn, having eaten a breakfast of sausage and beer. Within minutes he was at the townhouse, standing there punctually with a Dwarfish disciplined that would be the envy of even the Rieksgard. Unfortunately, he realized almost a minute late that he was standing at the rump of the townhouse, foolishly thinking the sturdiest part of the structure would be the front.

He cursed in Khazalid and all but sprinted around to the front, seeing the three men and the woman discussing the boy and what news Margueritte had gleaned out of him. He announced his arrival by saying. "Couldn't be Grobi we're dealing with then," he said, letting them measure his words. "They'll simply eat you or butcher you without care. They've no need for pens other than to house their foul wolfish mounts."

He spat a very solid looking blob of phlegm onto the ground for emphasis.

If there were any looks of disgust, he didn't seem to take notice. The Dwwarf gestured with his weapon, nodding forward. "We taking the dog too? It's bound to become a Kazak out there if we're to bark at anything that scuttles in the deep wood." He counseled, not taking into account his own lack of subtlety when traveling. "I'd argue against the Kvinn coming along, but she's done more work than the lot of us."

Patience was not one of Brandt’s virtues. Certainly he was able to walk long distances without growing too bored, for there was nothing to be done and the view changed around every bend of the road. He could lie in wait for prey, or to avoid pursuit, for hours if need be, as there was a certain amount of excitement to that as well. The siege of Lorch had been mostly waiting, in fact. Brandt had taken well to the adventuring life, however, and was not so accustomed to waiting in an office. Or foyer? Maybe he could ask one of the Bretonnians what a foyer was if either of them decided to show.

Brandt felt a pop under his fingers. He’d been looking out the window, hand resting against the back of a well made leatherback chair, and had begun fiddling with the great brass upholstery pins. They were fine work, no mold lines from the casting process. One of them was a little loose, and for a while he was content to idly spin it. It had been worked loose without his realising, and come out. It’s absence would be quite conspicuous and Brandt froze, wondering if he could fit it back where it came from without Fancy Johan noticing.

The moment was saved by the robed sister who had been tending to the boy. Asthe three men turned to greet her, Brandt bowed, and stuffed the pin into a pouch at his belt.

“Sister,” he said awkwardly. She delivered her explanation of the boy. In truth the talk of cages and crows gave him the willies, but he’ refused to show it. “Bugger me, another Johan…”

“Bandits maybe?” he suggested. “With a crow banner. If the boys so hysterical he might’ve seen a plain red robin in the night for all we know, eh Roderick?”

The dwarf joined them then, and Brandt couldn’t hide his grin, his excitement for fighting next to one of the stout folk. Burundi discounted grobi, and the swordsman nodded..

“Aye, if that’s your word for greenskin, I’m inclined to agree. My spiritual companion and I have had to deal with them a few times, and capture doesn’t ever seem like their plan. What do you think, Roderick? Bandits, or some sort of foul witchery?”

A bit of cockiness came easily. He was going to get to fight beside a dwarf, and maybe even impress a lady! Schartenfeld was looking up, so long as he could survive the collections of Johan’s.

---

Roderick was not so quick as his companion to dismiss the boys comments as the ravings of a distressed person. It was true that he was no healer, and a budding warrior priest at best, but he knew enough of the human spirit to realize that there must be some truth to the words. He had the advantage of being able to approach the priest or priestess of any village they visited, and learn what he could from them. It was a chance he had never missed and most of the employment the friends had received was gleaned from those same holy persons or their local lords.

"I don't know, Brandt..." He turned his gaze on the Priestess. "The Red Crow is a term I have heard in several villages now. Most of the priests and lords have dismissed it because it has not troubled them, but now I fear we may have found the truth of it."

The sun was finally warm on the top of his bald head and he ran a hand over it self-consciously. He largely ignored the Dwarf for the moment. He was certain the stout warrior would be invaluable in a fight, but he was equally certain the Dawi was hardly going to provide useful insight into the psychology of humans.

"Let me think..." He stared up at the ticking face of the town clock, idling scratching Marias' nose as she nuzzled him, her gaze fixed on the dwarf. "Pens, Red Crow..." Roderick continued to mutter for a moment or two. "I think we might be looking at a force of Cloven Ones?"

He glanced about at the four others, noting the sword the priestess carried. She saw his gaze and wrapped a small hand over the hilt protectively and he quickly offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It was not his place to dictate how she chose to go about her business.

"Orcs are not so subtle, and the locals would know they were afoot easily enough. The Skaven are always preceded by some sickness and I have heard nothing of note reported. A single Vampire would not take so many folk and an army of undead is not easy to miss, even for a militia patrol. Goblins would not drive a boy insane like that. That, I believe, leaves us with Cloven Ones or other humans."

He finished the sentence rather lamely even though he knew he was right. The boy might be mad but even a young lad like that would have seen some horrors in his day. This was a world prone to violence and destruction. Nowhere in the world of men was truly safe and soldiers were ever patrolling the roadways for large bodies of enemies. Only Cloven Ones could move so carefully without detection. It had to be them.

Deleted

The Halfling's feet swung back and forth through the air, kicking thoughtlessly, as he sat near the bar (the only place with seats high enough to allow him to eat while doing so) munching away at a particularly excessive breakfast. Alvin could not say when he might be back in an Inn or even if he would and so he would take advantage of the time he had. More sausages then he could eat in a sitting, more potatoes than was at all reasonable for so small a man. A generous meal even for a full grown man, let alone a Halfling. His belly would be full when the trip began, he would hold on to the leftovers to make it up to his dogs for they would have to carry his feast heavy arse around this morning. They sat near him, happy faces knowing full well that their master would never finish his meal and they would glean the benefit of his gluttonous eyes.

Between the simple but comforting food and good ale Alvin scarcely looked up from the table as the darkly garbed Bretonnian came in from the morning, sipping slowly at some schnapps, leaning against the wall. Outwardly he scarcely seemed to notice the tension when the other Bretonnian entered, though he listened in intently. Matters of family honor and vows, Alvin had always admired the Bretonnians for that. The hearth and home never far from a Halfling's mind, particularly one who had wandered as far as he had. Kith and Kin, all that.

With a bit of his sad story told Jehan left and Alvin decided it was time he pack up and depart for the Town Square. He'd likely taken too long at his breakfast, mustn't be too late. Alvin's body protested as he slid off his stool, then with a slight nod to Guy de le Guerre he headed up to his room with his dogs close at his heels, them still smelling the delightful sausages and potatoes he had emptied into his pockets for later.

Most of Alvin's packing had been done the night before to grant him more time to indulge in his customary pre-adventure smorgasboard so there was not much more to be done. His dogs, Woof and Bark, sat obediently beside the door as he strapped some of his belongings to them, careful too keep his pockets containing the food far from their faces. They were well behaved, well trained, but it's never wise to tempt a dog with something as tasty as Rosine's cooking. He slotted his knife into his belt sheath, slung his quiver over one shoulder and his bow over the other, then dug back in to one of his bags to find a particular snack that one among the party was liable to appreciate. He didn't have much of it, tough as it was he could only ever worry away at a tiny piece, but the Dwarf may well appreciate it, the old Dwarven delicacy Traggot, boiled wolf hide. He would make a powerful ally, and a solid wall to hide behind.

He headed back down the stairs, the two dogs following side by side, and quickly made his way out the door and to the Town Square, where indeed the party seemed to be assembling rapidly. The journey was about to begin. He belched.

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

Sebastian Johan Bock (no relation to Johan Sebastian Bock) could barely contain himself, his avian-like form nearly shaking with all this talk of 'Cloven Ones', of red crows and malarial children, and the arrival of not one but two stunted figures that honestly made the Chamberlains flesh crawl.

"Cloven ones?" Scoffed the hunched over Reiklander, "bloody Beastmen?! Oh give me a rest," he turned his eyes to the Priestess, "with all due respect to you, Sister, I would not take the word of your fellow clergyman here; we have had patrols sifting the woodlands here abouts, hundreds of armed men, and have found nothing to even suggest such a thing."

After his eyes nearly rolling back into his own head, Sebastian assumed that there was no-one else coming, looking from the towering knight to the Sigmarite to the Halfling, he gave a heavy sigh and gestured for the group to follow him into the town hall.

It truly was a marvellous structure - one of the greatest in this part of the Reikland in fact! - and beginning with entering through the thick oaken doors, flanked by two halberd-bearing militiamen dressed in flamboyant hat, shining breastplate and with a shortsword as a sidearm, this could clearly be seen.

The entry hall was a high-ceiling space supported by stout beams, the clock-housing visible if one were to look back toward the door, the entire hall formed of sturdy Reikwald timber.

Directly before the group was a wide hall with a central stairway, the steps covered in a fine layer of velvet and wide enough for a carriage to rumble up the stairs if needed, moving to a second floor wherein were housed the mayors quarters and rooms for visiting diplomats - in one of these rooms was where poor little Johan even now tossed and turned in delirium.

Slowly but surely they ascended onward and upwards, moving along the landing past further members of the militia - sturdy men and boys of the township - until they reached a door at the farthest end of the landing.

"Mind your manners, keep any questions short."

With the top of his staff the chamberlain knocked thrice upon the door, before I voice bid them enter.

---

Truly the mayors chambers were a cornucopia of 'stuff' - eyes immediatly drawn toward the tapestries showing Imperial victories, successful invasions, and even one of a scenic Mootland scene where little Halfling children dipped their hairy feet in the Aver river - the furniture obviously carved by the greatest carpenters in this part of the Reikwald at least, and a painting of Schartenfelds very first mayor was in pride of place above the desk at the far end of the room.

Yet above even that painting, shining just as much as it had when it was first forged by Dwarfish smiths of Karak Ziflin, was an Imperial zweihander of peerless quality; forged for the usage of the current mayor, a former veteran Greatsword of the Reikland state army, it had seen action from Kislev to Tilea and back again, taken many lives, and now sat as peacefully as a babe-in-arms in some chamber in some backwater town.

"Welcome," announced Dietrich van Schlofel, turning to look at the group and gesturing to the five or so seats in front of his desk - a little cramped maybe, but enough space for all - his one empty socket and lopsided smile instantly showing the hulk of a man that had presented himself at the Maw yesterday, "please take a seat, my friend."

"I have had some time to organise myself, and so here are a couple of answers to your questions of yesterday."

Though not too much shorter in his seated position, Dietrich - formerly Johan - dressed in his mayoral uniform, flared pantaloons and all, the chain of office clearly causing no discomfort about his neck, unrolled a map of the local area and began to slowly move one thick digit along various roads.

"There have been several raids on travelling groups, some pilgrims, and at least three caravans. They usually come along this road... here. Thus far there have been no bodies of either assailant or captive, nor have my many militia patrols found anything so far."

There was a small splutter from Sebastian, but he did little more than glare at a bookshelf in the corner.

"I am not going to pretend that we can offer much help - although you will get whatever supplies and materials you request and we can provide, as well as a wagon should you wish it - I will give you as detailed a map as I may."

Leaning back a little in his chair, Dietrich opened his arms and then clasped his hands back together after a moment, leaning forward toward the group.

"Now, before I send you on your way, is there anything I can do for you?"

Burundi had not forgotten, as a Dwarf never forgets. But he had assumed they had decided to eschew the whole 'meeting' they had planned on yesterday. They were all here, fresh, and ready! What was the problem? Say what you will about the Dawi, who's conservative stances and indecisive grumbling can last decades. At least when they decide something, they don't take a tour of the local manor so they can then ask more questions.

Still, he didn't complain. He had all morning to venture into the woods and cut down whatever threatened his new livelihood. If the manlings wished to be comforted with asking the local clan leader a query or two, he wouldn't deny it to them. Some useful knowledge might yet be gleamed, after all. He didn't put much stock in these manlings but even an Elgi was right twice a day, as the saying goes. A Dwarf was nothing if not patient.

Passing through the building's doors, he did his best not to scoff at the 'magnificent' statue that had been erected outside. It was good, for human work. But he could see over half a dozen imperfections, and he wasn't even a stone mason. How these long legged fools had managed to survive this long was anyone's guess. He realized, after a moment, he was being unfair. Men had value in ways other than craft and manner...and food...and beer...and intelligence...and weapons...and music...

They passed by the young Johan.

"...and names." He whispered to himself.

As they all stepped into the upper chamber, the others were greeted by yet again the one eye from yesterday, who sat in his resplendent hall for all to see and gaze upon. To one's surprise, Burundi's eyes were inevitably drawn to the greatsword of Dwarf make, with the mark of Karak Ziflin upon it's steel. To see it was a breath of fresh air. He gave a small prayer of thanks to Grungi before Dietrich shared his news.

That's a lot of men to be lost over the course of a week or two. Any Dwarf hold that lost that much would have sent out a party of rangers and a militia of Dwarf warriors to find out what happened and to right whatever grudge had stolen the lives of their kin. How could this be allowed to continue so blatantly? Still, as offended as he was, he knew he needed to help in solving this problem or it would be allowed to continue.

"Disappearances?" Burundi echoed, considering into his beard. He placed his polearm down gently as he began to think on what might be the cause. "Maybe these beastman theories hold true, after all. That or other worshipers of the ruinous powers using them for some dark ritual or..." His eyes widened in abject shock, and he held his hands out as if to hold himself steady in case the building began to collapse by his sheer rationale. "You don't have Elves in these woods do you!?"

Alvin had fallen behind the others shortly after entering the Mayor's chambers, not a great practice for a scout and a tracker, but the Mootland scene had stopped him dead in his tracks. Right there in the hall amid painstakingly carved masterwork furniture, paintings of past Mayors, tapestries depicting great Imperial victories, and even a massive Zweihander, amid all these treasures was a painting of his own people. The first he had seen in quite some time. To the Halfling the other treasures paled in comparison. This was a scene he knew.

That bend of the Aver, where the children tested the waters, where the braver (or luckier) of them would look back to their peers with a wry smile and plunge in. In his mind's eye Alvin could see the painting expanding, tracking up the river to Hornsby's Ferry to follow the youths as they skittered home dripping water with every step. The Altern Forest beyond, and the myths of their being haunted, myths believed well enough that travelers within will rush to get through before the end of daylight. Myths believed well enough that Inns prosper on both sides to allow travelers an early start going either direction.

Perhaps it was good these myths had always had just enough hint of reality to spur the feet of even the most curious of his kind. Though he would have enjoyed dwelling there further, looking at the painting and recalling the flow of the Aver and the cities of his youth (Eicheschatten in particular, that great Halfling capital) his thoughts of the Altern Forest bring him back to the present. Alvin's eyes venture back to the Zweihander and he gulps before hurrying along to catch up with the others.

Alvin stood quietly, for once, amid the others while the situation was further explained. He stood on his tiptoes more out of habit than necessity when Van Schlofel pointed out the road the caravans, pilgrims, and travelers had been last seen on. No bodies, not of the citizens nor of their attackers. Nothing found by militia patrol. Van Schlofel offered them what help he could, but what they really needed was somewhere to start. Something the militia had not had.

The Halfling tried but failed to restrain a chuckle at the Dwarf's comment, though he'd been unable to stifle the chuckle he forced the grin from his face. It was still a good question. The more they knew about the forest the better. He waited for the Dwarf to receive his answer and then asked aloud but mostly to the woman, the Sister of Shallya,

"The Boy, he was out there in the forest wasn't he. Do we have anything of his? Something the dogs might get a scent from?"

The secrets of this forest may be darker than those of the old Altern Forest just past Hornsby's Ferry along the Aver, but they would find these secrets. They would all take the plunge.

Jehan’s parting words left Guy more than a little confused. The young knight slumped in his chair, puzzling over the cryptic response that hinted at terrible loss and misery for the older, yet smooth-faced Errant. Unlike the snide retorts and saber rattling he’d expected Guy was instead handed a sincere warning, one that left his inexperienced mind reeling. He could not however follow the advice, even if he was inclined too. Ideals were important, but his brother’s life or honor could very well be at stake and he would sooner perish than crawl home defeated and empty handed.

So what if the world plagued by darkness? What if others fall from their true path and fail in their duties? If a man’s word is worth nothing, what does he have but the false luxuries and a poisoned existence. There are things in life worth dying for, and honor and holy vows are some of those noble things that I cannot forsake.

Guy’s father always contained whimsical lines for such times, Lord Guerre would set his sword point first upon the limestone floor of the chapel, the stained-glass windows casting him in rainbow hue as he spoke his words of wisdom. “An honorable man dies but once, but a coward shall perish a thousand times and more.”

“Apologies monsieur?”

Guy jerked back from his reprieve, remembering where he was. He’d spoken his father’s line aloud, and the tavern hosts wife had heard him as she approached laden by a plate of eggs and bread and a tumbler of beer. Guy eyed the dark-haired woman with interest, surprised by the presence of yet another Bretonnian this deep within Imperial borders. She’d answered in lower Bretonnian, the peasants’ tongue, and more likely than not did not fully comprehend his quotation of his father, following only to a minor degree. Indeed, what she did understand of his words probably would be quite distressing to hear in one’s home and business.

“Nothing of your concern.” Guy answered at last in Reikspiel, accepting the proffered breakfast, and placing his final penny upon the table for her to collect. “I do have a question for you however.” The woman nodded, preforming a passable bow, keeping her eyes downcast and respectful. “This sigil, do you recognize it?”

She glanced up, frowning, and then nodded once. “Yes, m’lord, I have seen it before.”

Guy’s heart skipped a beat, and he snatched the woman’s hand, making her flinch, more from shock than pain, but the intensity in the young man’s gaze kept her riveted in place, fearful that he might strike her. “I am no lord.” Guy corrected; a bit harsher than he should have been. “And I do not intend to become one, at least not for a while yet the Lady be kind. That honor is to be my brother’s, and his alone. The raven, you have seen it. When?”

“In Bretonnia, when I was still a child, I do not remember the place, there were many knights, and many banners, but the red raven stood out. It was place upon a larger flag than the others, I think, though, it was different somehow…?” she panicked seeing the twisted defeat on Guy’s face. “I do not recall why; I am sorry monsieur!”

“No,” Guy released her, slumping back in his chair forcing away his tears, that’d for a moment been ones of hope now dashed. “It was wreathed in vineyard vines perhaps, or crowned in a fleur-de-lis, the marks of my family and kin. No, I meant have you seen it recently, here in this town?”

The nervous shake of her head shattered whatever was left of his hope that is brother may have ridden through this place on his rides with the Broken Swords. “But, the Ogre’s Maw does not often host knights sir, perhaps the other establishments in town?”

Guy nodded glumly, not thrilled by the prospect of wandering from tavern to tavern asking if any of the patrons or owners had seen his brother. The emotional ups and downs as people hmmed and hawed over the inquiry left him exhausted, no matter how accustom he became with the wearisome task. Guy scooped some rapidly cooling eggs into his mouth to give himself something to do as the goodwife stepped away to tend to other customers. He would attend to that duty later, he would be in this place for a few more days no doubt, waiting for the boy he’d rescued the previous night to recover, and he still intended to deliver the vague message to the town leadership. Guy finished his breakfast his course of action decided. The mayor first, then to the healer Margueritte to see if the boy was lucid enough to answer any questions, and finally to interrogate the other taverns in Schartenfeld.

Rising Guy departed the tavern turning down the road towards the one building that domineered over all the rest, concluding this was the only place worthy of housing the local government. He was met at the door by the guardsmen, dressed in their flamboyant finery they respectfully requested he wait while someone fetched the Chamberlain.

“Recken yer late fer th’ meetin’ wit’ th’ mayor?” One asked in a version of Reikspiel that even Guy, being well educated on the tongue had trouble understanding. The knight decided it best to ignore the man than puzzle through the question and tapped his boot upon the cobbled paving impatiently. Sebastian Johan Bock (No relation to Johan Sebastian Bock) arrived just as the Breton was contemplating abandoning his goodwill quest to inform the mayor of the boy’s warning altogether.

“Ah, you must be late for the meeting with the mayor young sir.” The chamberlain chided, sounding very much annoyed that someone would arrive late for such an important occasion. Guy blinked in surprise, uncertain of what scheduled meeting he was late for, but he only shrugged, gesturing for Sebastian to lead the way. Unbeknownst to Guy he traversed the same path as the others, looking about at the Imperial architecture and gathered militia with an appraising eye as Sebastian led him through the halls and straight to the office of the esteemed mayor. A sharp triple knock, and a bid for him to enter found Guy stepping over the threshold and into the crowded space. It took him only a moment to recall Johan Sebastian Bock’s request for mercenaries and for him to recognize all their semi-familiar presence and intentions.

“Of course. Well, it is as good a time to be recruiting mercenaries.” Guy said as he squeezed into the room, rolling his eyes skyward as he figured out what meeting he was apparently late in arriving too. As if he, a Knight of Bretonnia would fight for blood gold. The mayor had just finished answering a few questions it seemed, and Guy stomped over whatever business they’d been conducting to attend to his own purpose. “I discovered a common boy on the road, starving and pathetic, he requested I see him here to Schartenfeld so that he may deliver a warning of some kind, of a danger to this town I presume. He might have more information on that front, though according to the healer he was in no condition to relay more. I thought you may wish to know, so you could prepare.”

Marguerite stood at the back of the group keeping quiet. It didn’t come naturally to her despite her time in Shyalla’s convent but she was shrewd enough to know that while it was safe enough to practice her healings and various other potions among the common folk, it was a different story with people of higher social station. Such people were more likely to travel, more likely to gossip to others about a Sister of Shyalla working in their town, before you know it word would reach one of the convents where some busy body with too much time on their hands would take notice and investigate. Still there were times when a little risk could pay off.

“Herr Mayor,” she spoke up, surprising even herself.

“The boy may have run many miles and judging by the condition of his feet, much of it through the forest.” That much was certainly true, there had been a crust of pine tar and leaf litter on his feet, something she had needed to peel off before she could dress his torn soles.

“It may take us some time to find whatever it is took him, might we trouble you for a wagon and some supplies for the journey?”

The mayor arched a bushy eyebrow at her, clearly not having anticipated that a healer would be interested in accompanying such a group. Truthfully she didn’t have much inclination to do so but she had felt something during her dream and she didn’t want to ignore it. More than that, this way if she decided to blow town it would be with a wagon.

“Its a… religious obligation,” she temporized for a moment before inspiration struck.

“If I understand the cause of the boys malady, I might be better able to help cure him, tis often the way with diseases of the mind,” she went on authoritatively.

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

Dietrich sat as patiently as he could, waiting with only his eyebrows showing anything of his inner thoughts, as adventurers spoke over one another and answered questions that had already been asked or answere - it amused the mayor, even as it exasperated his chamberlain, and the one-eyed Reiklander raised one large hand as Marguerite finished speaking.

"We have no Elves to speak of in the Reikwald, Herr Dawi," spake Dietrich to Burundi, "at least not that I know of," he leant forward slightly and with a conspiratorial whisper said "but you never really know, not with Elves."

"Now I do believe the remainder of your questions can be answered by yourselves, and I suggest you hurry outside and proceed with what I am certain shall be an easy task for a group of such skill. You shall each be paid upon return but..." his hand went into a drawer beneath his desk, withdrawing pouches filled with two-hundred golden coin exactly, each being placed on the desk before the group, "let this be a small incentive, of course our tardy Bretonnian need not take one if he sees fit."

---

It was just past noon when the group returned to the sunlit town, citizens watching them warily, for it was not often that a group of such assortment and exotic leanings came to their patch of earth, a wagon indeed present in the main square and awaiting their arrival.

It was none other than Johann Cartman (yes, that was his family name, what of it?) Now with a thoroughly empty wagon, and a smile as wide as a half-moon on his face when he realised just who he would be transporting, a smile that may just as easily fade when he discovered why he would be doing so.

Tied to the rear of the wagon were a train of donkeys, each one packed with supplies, enough food and water there to last the party a good week in the wilds, the last two of six beasts loaded with tents, roll mats and other camp assortments.

It would appear that Dietrich was as good as his word, and knew that they would accept his offer before even they did.

"Ho' Master Brunde, I see you have some friends with you this time?" He called, giving a small wave of an optimistic hand, "this is exciting."

---

Wheels creaked and Bretonnian horses snorted, dogs running about four strong legs, and hushed speech taking place as the wagon rolled unevenly away from the cleared land around the burg of Schartenfeld and into the shadowy treeline of the Reikwald proper...

It was unlikely that anyone saw the eye watching, eyes that sooner or later they would not doubt look into face-to-face.

Deleted

Alvin rarely got the opportunity to travel quite so well protected and provisioned. It had always been his practice to travel light. A halfling riding a dog could hide much easier than a man atop a horse, flee nearly as quickly, and if seen would generally present a less desirable target. Not a lot of meat, not a lot of wealth, unlikely to be anyone of import, not worth the time really. The loaded wagon creaked and whined behind them pulled along by massive Bretonnian work horses, his compatriots rode along atop sturdy horses of their own or rode within the wagon itself. Behind them followed the train of donkey's carrying their bedding and supplies. They were quite the sight.

He made small ticking noises to direct his loyal steed Woof to slow down momentarily and keep pace again with the wagon, Bark picked his head up from his paws in the back of the wagon and stuck his muzzle out for a sniff and a pet before settling back in for a nice nap. Schartenfeld was gradually growing smaller behind them and the Reikwald loomed ever larger as they rode out. Shivering from the talk of a Red Crow or Raven or whatever creepy sort of bird it was, some portent of doom, and his own old but suddenly not really all that old memories of the stories surrounding Altern Forest, he looked about and was thankful indeed for the protection of the others. A strong young man wielding a warhammer and the word of Sigmar, a strong young man wielding a Flamberge and some well worn armor, a young Knight with all the promise that brought, the rather spooky Black Errant, Master Dwarf, and a Healer in case any monsters got past all that beef and endangered poor little Alvin.

Thinking of it, Alvin digs in to his pocket to find his little treasure. A Dwarven delicacy, boiled wolf hide, a perfect trail snack. Flavorful (if an acquired taste), chewy (perhaps too chewy), and long lasting. He made his way to offer it to the others, starting with the one most likely to appreciate it,

"Master Dwarf!," he called out trotting Woof along, looking for his hardy compatriot, "I've something for you."

He'd offer it to each, you didn't need much Traggot, the taste was strong and the hide was stronger, so a little went a long ways. He'd ask the healer last. He meant to speak with her anyway, once they were out a bit closer to the woods. If Woof could pick up a scent from that poor young man's clothing that would likely be their best shot at finding a trail. Hopefully she had something of the poor lad's, something that might have his scent and perhaps the scent of whoever or whatever had taken him, bird or no.

---

"Hello?" Rodericks voice seemed very small and was quickly lost among pillars as it echoed throughout the gold domed chamber.

"Yes? Hello?" An eager voice replied. "Coming!" A moment later, in a flurry of brown robes, a young Friar appeared from behind a column with a broom clasped in his hands. He immediately reminded Roderick of himself, not more than a year ago, in Lorch. The face looked very young and the shaved head had been newly done so that it reflected the light from the high windows.

"Good morning, Brother." Roderick said with a nod and a grin. The other man halted almost at once, nearly tripping on the hem on his long robe.

"Good morning, Brother." A pair of brown eyes looked Roderick over from beneath bushy black eyebrows. "You have come a long way?"

"Aye, from Lorch. My companion and I have joined forces with some others to try and discover the source of your missing folk."

"Oh, you're that Roderick!" The smile was back and the man, no boy, hurried forward and pumped Rodericks hand enthusiastically. "It's an honour to meet you! I am Brother Fredrick!"

"Er.. yes... You too..." Roderick had to rescue his hand from the others grip even as he muttered the words. He knew that a few poets and bards had picked up their actions in small out of the way towns but he never thought it would get much past the ale soaked dirt floors of this backwater settlements.

"Forgive Brother Fredrick," A new voice interrupted and an older man, his head bald by virtue of age rather than choice, and criss-crossed by a dozen impressive scars, appeared. "He listens to one to many tales among the shop keepers. Back to your work, Fredrick. The pews have yet to be done."

The older man waited until his charge had slunk away before turning to eye Roderick. This time it was less a look of youthful excitement and more of one predator weighing another. After a moments pause he held out his hand and Roderick took it, the tough callouses on the others hand very similar to his own.

"Father Gustav. I am the Prior of this Chapel. I have two other novices in training here with me." He released Rodericks hand and cast a shrewd eye over the Book of Sigmar and hammer that hung from broad shoulders. "I would hazard a guess that you have cut your teeth as a warrior by now."

Roderick nodded, though he was strangely self conscious. Not to long ago it had been him wielding the broom when fighting brothers came to visit. It was a strange feeling to be on the other end of that now. "I have, Father. I have spent the last year with a friend, Brandt of Lorch, doing what we can to make this land a better place."

"Yes, I have heard. Such is the state of our Empire that even young men like yourself can gain some notoriety." Father Gustav managed to sound disapproving and Roderick felt his heart drop. This was something he had always feared. For the past year he and Brandt had really only encountered small village priests, men who would never carry a weapon into battle. But now, in this Temple built to honour Sigmar, he had found a true Priest of Sigmar.

The bag of coins was heavy in Rodericks hand. He had counted out one hundred coin, half of what he earned always went to the Church, and he now held it out to the older priest who took it, weighing it carefully in his hands. For a moment he looked thoughtful and then turned and began to walk toward the altar. "Come with me.

The two men strode up the aisle and even here, in this building of stone and glass, Roderick could feel the power of Sigmar. The gold was placed on an altar made of white stone and covered with a blood red cloth; Gustav stepped back and turned to his guest.

"I have also heard of your generosity to Sigmar and I believe that if this part is true, so too are those of your noble quests in the name of Sigmar."

Something akin to relief flooded through Roderick and he failed to keep a small grin from his face. Gustavs lip twisted slightly into what might have been a smile before he crossed his hands in front of him and stared hard at the younger man.

"Brother Roderick. There are many ways to serve Sigmar. Some of us tend to the sick, some offer guidance to noble lords, other like Brother Fredrick become keepers of lore. Others still take their vocation on the field of battle. These are the men who become legends and whose names are whispered by even the Lords of Chaos." He tipped his chin upward and Roderick followed his gaze to the great cloth tapestries that hung from the walls showing Warrior Priests vanquishing numerous foes.

"But all of them served Sigmar, fulfilling for him quests and duties as directed by the Church of Sigmar. Have you undertaken such a quest yet?"

"No, Father, I have not." Roderick felt a tingling sensation in his spine and a cooling chill swept through his chest and shoulders.

"Then I, Father Gustav, Warrior Priest of Sigmar, will charge you with a most sacred task in the name of Sigmar and the Empire. Kneel."

Roderick dropped to both knees, the head of his hammer hitting the floor with a resonating "crack" that both men ignored. Gustav held out his hands and Roderick clasped his hands, placing them between the other mans. Gustav began to speak and as he did so the hammers about their necks began to glow softly, a muted gold that shone even through the heavy cloth they wore.

"Brother Roderick, I, Father Gustav, charge you to guard with your very life the person of Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Sister of Shyalla, until the beasts that plague this town have been vanquished." The hammers grew even brighter and Roderick suddenly had the feeling of being watched, not by any earthly eyes, but by something far more powerful. "Do you so swear?"

"I do." Roderick replied, his voice little more than a whisper as he felt Gustavs' will beating against his own.

"Tell me your oath!" Gustavs' voice sounded tremendously loud in the chamber and it seemed to echo everywhere at once.

"I swear to protect the person of Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Sister of Shyalla, and to give my life in her defence!" Rodericks own voice gained in strength and he felt a surge of power like nothing he had ever experienced before course though him.

"For Sigmar!" The two said the words in unison. The light faded at once and the two were left, Roderick still kneeling on the stone, in the open space. The feeling of a new strength remained however and Roderick slowly climbed to his feet. He felt bigger, taller, stronger. Gustav smiled openly this time.

"The power of Sigmar. I remember the first time I truly experienced it. Wear it well, Brother of Sigmar."


"Thanks!" Roderick took the proffered wolf hide and popped it into his mouth, chewing it around with the bread that he was currently devouring. He was walking, Maria at his side, a short way behind the cart. He had never learned to ride a horse and he wasn't likely to start now. Besides, horseback was no place for a man with a two handed hammer.

A small donkey was tethered to the cart, its packs barely needed to carry the few worldly possessions he and Brandt had accumulated over the past year. His hammer and the Book of Sigmar were always on his person, leaving some new clothes, his heavy breastplate and greaves, and some other personal items, to be carried by the stoic little creature.

He watched the Halfling make his way through the group, doling out his tasty treat. It was nice to have one of the little folk around; they were usually good natured and a pleasure to talk to. It seemed that this one would be no different. The Bretonnians', well, he'd never so much as seen one before this particular pair and so far they were as arrogant as their reputation suggested they would be.

The Dwarf was more or less what he had anticipated as well, and Roderick had noted with silent amusement how excited Brandt was by the bearded warrior. He rather suspected that his friend should have been born a Dwarf but he would never dare make such a suggestion out loud.

That left Sister Marguerite, surrounded by her healing items. He had decided not to say anything to her about the oath quite yet. The truth was simple; the Sisters tended to be unarmoured and made easy targets for melee fighters who could get close enough. His own healing skills were nothing when compared to hers, leaving him to wield his hammer with freedom. It was not uncommon for Priests to be charged with protecting a Priestess, especially on battlefields where the quality of local militia was suspect.

They had a fair walk ahead and with the Bertonnian leading the way, and acting as bait, Roderick decided he could do worse than supporting the Halfling in his efforts to try and find where the lad had come from. In truth, and he was more certain of it than many things, he knew that whatever was out there was likely to find them long before they found it.

The man's words of Elves would ring in Burundi's ears until they hit the road. The Elgi were nothing to laugh at or take lightly, for they had broken every oath they had ever made with the Dawi, and sent hundreds of thousands of them to their dooms. Only the Grobi and Skaven, and the leech-like Vampires had more serious grudges in the Damaz-Kron. Something Burundi nor any Dwarf would ever forget.

But he let it go when he saw young Johann at the car, awaiting them. The Dwarf wasn't mirthless earlier, but it was still a very large smile that crossed his face when he saw the young one. That is, until he realized that this might mean that he was to be put in danger. Burundi insisted upon taking Blunderbuss, as it was called. Sitting up front with the young one to keep watch, his crossbow in his hands.

If anyone in the group were to question the young one, they'd need to speak to the Dwarf as well. Contestation on the boy's loyalties wouldn't be tolerated, as far as Burundi was concerned. He still didn't consider him a close friend, but he had been honorable enough to a stranger that needed to hitch on his wagon, and so he would be honorable in turn.

It was another pleasant surprise, when the Halfling appeared as if by some strange magic to offer him a proper Dwarfen treat! He wasn't expecting such a thing in any lands ruled by Men! "Ack! Thank ye, lad. You do me belly well, by my beard." He stated, and began to chew gingerly on the fine meal. As the others approached, he didn't hide his chewing, but he did attempt to keep his beard clean at least.

This day would prove fortuitous, if it brought not only such a meal, but a chance for gold as well. The payment in his purse from earlier was already nearly as good as a pint of bugmans.

Alvin forgot his original intention, to ask Marguerite if she might have something of the boys to help his faithful steed Woof find the trails, distracted as he was by the looming forest and the rather large rather varied party he had found himself with. His tiny little Halfling brain well and thoroughly inundated with happy chemicals as they plodded on he was in a sort of fog, just enjoying himself, until he felt Woof begin to move differently. He'd ridden the old dog long enough he knew how it felt when Woof was just padding along with a caravan or following Alvin's own subtle directions, but old Woof had something on his mind now. His own purpose.
veered hard away from the well worn road that had taken them this far. They were heading off across a long hill covered in tall grass and the woods beyond at a bounding pace with Woof's snout pressed close to the ground huffing away steadily at whatever spore or smell his sensitive nose had picked up.

"What you got buddy," Alvin whispered to his mount, crouching low and holding tight to maintain his balance and searching the ground ahead of them as Woof moved, hoping to pick up on something yet finding nothing. Whatever it was the dog had a track of it wasn't anything he could appreciate just yet. These hills, as they flew by, were just hills, nothing special about them. No bones, no blood, no grasping skeletal hands, no pulsating runes inscribed in the earth, but Woof had found something interesting enough to break away from the party.

Just before the woods the dog stopped suddenly, splaying out low in the tall grass and whining slightly until Alvin hopped off his back. As Alvin unstrapped his bow and readied an arrow he could feel it too. He couldn't say precisely what it was, but something felt off. He felt watched by unseen eyes. He was grateful to be as small as he was, and grateful too for the tall grass. He scratched old Woof behind the ears and whispered to him again, "What you got buddy."

As the long grass near that edge of the woods waved in the air a keen eye could just make out two small disturbances. Places where the long grass ought to be waving more than it was. One created a path head straight toward the woods while the other followed the first in an elliptical pattern. The first finally reached the woods and stopped until the second passed from the grasslands into the woods some twenty to thirty feet away.

Making his way carefully through the woods near where Woof had stopped Alvin scanned and moved, scanned and moved, looking for what had drawn the dogs attention. The feeling had not gone away in all this time, the feeling of being watched, yet he hadn't seen anything to explain it. The woods were a bit odd perhaps. Not grown as close together here as they seemed to be a bit further in, but that was normal enough. Woods tended to thin out before they gave way to grasslands. He didn't doubt that Woof had a hold of something, but he had found nothing lurking. Though he couldn't shake an unsettled feeling he crept to Woof, who cowered still near the long grass, well expecting to chalk this up to a loss. Still, he'd done a good job. Followed his sniffer, stayed low in the grass, mostly quiet.

Deserved a sausage.

Alvin sat there beside Woof for a moment trying to shake the feeling, scratching Woof on his jaw just like he liked, and looking around. He saw it now. Couldn't help but see it.

The forest thins out as it approaches grasslands sure, but this wasn't natural. It was well disguised, cleared out in natural patterns rather than geometric shapes that would catch the eye. Even so, from this angle and with enough time to appreciate it this was clearly not natural. A thick old tree, a clearing about it, with trees surrounding it in a roughly circular pattern. Odd, but not that odd, until another detail stood out to Alvin. The trees themselves, there were slight depressions carved in to them. Not the thick old tree in the center, but the ones surrounding it. Slight depressions, carved in, and leading upward.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the canopy he could make them out. Well concealed small platforms set up in the trees, many of them. Small, but more than enough to space for a sentry to watch from. They were empty now, but they would not always be so.

As Alvin stood up and walked back into the clearing Woof's whining started again. He soon discovered why. Amid the fallen leaf cover gathered all around this clearing he caught a familiar metallic scent, and as he neared the central tree he saw it. Blood on the leaves. A few more furtive steps toward the central tree and the ground became darker, warmer, less solid, leaves beginning to stick to his feet.

"Shit," Alvin whispered to himself, before backing up to Woof, slipping quietly onto the old dog, and riding back to the hill to look down toward the trail and find the others. Woof attacked the hills with a new vigor, happy to be running away from the danger, at least for the moment.

As Roderick spent time with the local clergy, Brandt had settled their accounts at the in an wrangled some extra supplies for the pair. It was an unspoken arrangement that Brandt was more than happy with. The way he saw it, his slightly increased contribution towards their kit and their food was easily offset by the contributions Roderick made to the War Gods church, and by extent, their favour in Sigmar’s eyes. The balance had worked well so far. Brandt also tended to use that time to chase skirts if the opportunity arose, as the sort of women he usually flirted with always became sudden saints when his partner was around; fussing with their hair and smoothing their skirts. His efforts came to naught however, for it seemed in this unhappy town he was just a stranger and ill omened outsider. A reminder of their hardships.

When they set out with, Brandt had claimed the back of one of the pack animals for he and Roderick’s gear, happy to be able to travel light. In truth, he’d never sat astride and animal in his life, though he’d driven a cart a handful of times. Feet on the ground, that was the way forward.

The party wasn’t particularly chatty at first, and that was fine enough at first. Brandt’s mind turned back to the mayor, his office, and the immense sword hung on the wall. It was a truly fine weapon. His own was of good quality, with small embellishments of brass wire on the grip, and finely wrought quillons and pommel. He could probably make better, but had never had the heart to take it apart. It had been a gift from a dying companion - not a friend, exactly, but a fellow survivor. That is, until he wasn’t. The blade, however, was a work of great craftsmanship. The subtle even curves of the flamberge were regular and the steel was excellent.

Alvin interrupted Brandt’s daydreaming with a treat, which Brandt accepted with a happy “thank you.” It was tough as a root, but the flavour was good, and the blacksmith-turned-mercenary happily cheers away, returning his thoughts to that mighty sword, and then to the man that owned it…

As the halfling wandered off with his hound, Brandt finally managed to swallow enough of the jerky to be able to speak, admittedly with his mouth full. He addressed the party at large, guileless.

“Does anyone else think it’s strange that the mayor just paid us such a sum without doing a damn thing? Lesser men - and women - might be inclined to just saunter on down the road and leave that burg to its troubles. With a pouch significantly full of coin - gold, no less, proper gold - and our own wagon train even! Call that a job well done.

“With that sort of coffer,” Brandt continued, “Johanbock back there could pay a proper garrison of soldiers to keep his people safe, yet he’s turned to us rabble. It seems too good to be true, and I can’t help but feel we’ve been duped. Are we about to get bent over?”