It had been a good day for the tribe.

The little man looked so silly, flailing with his arms. Or, well, what was left of them anyway. Truth be told it was fairly impressive how after both hands were cut off he quickly scraped his bones to create improvised daggers of them. The stuntie even managed to take a minotaur before finally coming to the inevitable grasp of the most excellent Lord Zartai.

"Not quite reaching me, are you?"

This angered the Slayer even more, but with his mangled arms the only thing he could do was try to cut through the plated arm of the beastman, unable to reach his exposed body. This prospect failed before even starting, and after a few more mocking moments Zartai squeezed, before letting the headless body fall to the ground amidst its former comrades.



The Ungor Sorceror screamed as somehow there was enough squashed brains in the dead Dawi to get him to stand back up, and use one hand to impale a Gor Warrior whilst using the other to slash Zartai across his thigh. The Deathblow. Zartai had heard of it, though somehow he hadn't heeded the wisdom of this hearsay. Picking up the club of the fallen minotaur he bashed the Dwarf until there was naught left of him save a red puddle. By now all of his wounds had healed, and already he was ready to travel once more from this battlefield. The party was a very tenacious one truth be told, but it didn't last; it couldn't. Between the twinned Spellsinger and Spellweaver, the Slayer, the Knight of the Blazing Sun, the Witch Hunter, the Ranger and the Shaman from Albion they had managed to slayer hundreds of his warriors of the years they quarrelled.

Though a depleted one, Zartai's force was nevertheless to be reckoned with. He alone possessed enough mutations and magical gifts to make short work of much of what his adversaries could throw at him, but by his side there was still a Bray-Shaman, many monstrous beasts, and a great gaggle of mutants and simple heretics seeking their brothers in faith. Even now there were many more coming to serve him, and they were more than simple fodder, oh no. These were those powerful enough to taste the very flow of the warp, those who knew that Zartai had gained favour of all the Chaos Gods save Tzeentch, and that where he went there plunder would follow.

"Leave the wounded." He announced. His many underlings protested, but he hushed them all into silence and simply repeated the order. They could easily be replaced he reasoned, while time could never be. In fact he knew that was wrong, but it was an answer that satisfied or at least mollified his followers. Thus they headed North to the prosperous Wasteland, a status they hoped to change soon. Zartai would commune with Htarken again soon, and then the old world would know suffering.

Hugo groaned, but it was a groan of pleasure. The table before him was truly a mess, yet there was method to the madness. On the right were all the finished drinks ranging from wines red, white, and sparkling of Brettonnia combined with good Gisoreux Brandy, to Bugman's ale, to a sampling of Kislevite Kvass and Vodka with a cup of Arabyan coffee and two Nipponese teas. On the left was the charred stub of a hanscha roll-up from Araby, an expended tube of Cathayan pipeweed, a sniff of mints from Khuresh. In the middle was a veritable genocide of animals surrounded by the harvest of many plantations, the man not even remembering every single thing brought to him that had by now been consumed.

Such moments were rare, but when they could be organized they were bliss. The music played in the... tavern wasn't to his liking (at least when brought before the current weather and time of day) but it was good, and as workers of the establishment cleared the table in the rather large booth the Agent of the Black Badges looked out of the window. He'd been here many times before, but the effect was still something that made his brain feel upside down.

This Chapter-house of the Black Badges was under one of Nuln's more reputable taverns, not quite good enough for the upper nobility but good enough for the growing bourgeoisie of merchants and lesser nobles. Except looking through the window the word "under" felt disingenuous. Agents of the Black Badges would ask an elderly barmaid with red hair to speak to Agniezka Voorman, before being lead down a set of stairs. Through the stairs they would navigate a complicated passage of many turns, ramps, and for some even a ladder and staircase or two before finding themselves in a tavern with a wholly different clientele; the fact that through windows one had a good aerial view of Nuln despite having had such a long downwards journey simply demonstrated that the Black Badges had very, very good Shadow Wizards under their employ.

Though it would almost certainly play havoc with the minds of the three invited agents, they would certainly have to be thankful for respite from the rain. It wasn't a downpour that blocked the skies, but few people liked being wet for very long. Having been given a physical description of the men that were to join him, Hugo looked at the doorframe for them to enter the scene as well as through the window to perhaps catch a glimpse of the motley assembly. Even in the streets below, a High-Elf, a dark Brettonnian, and a disciple of Morr wouldn't be hard to spot.



Once they entered Hugo would wave towards them and motion for each to come over and sit at the table he was at. Though there was a great board covered in papers within the booth, Hugo would tell the arrivals for now to simply order refreshments not wishing to discuss business until all the agents were assembled.

Deleted

A raven entered his view, clouding his vision as he darted his pupils around. Black, grey, and white were all he saw for a silent moment that seemed to last forever.

At once he opened his eyes, breathing hard. His eyes watered, the sting of harsh incense and candles lashing against him. His heart pounded and he mustered a cough. He nearly fell from where he sat as he pushed to his feet, the bare feet clutching to cold, damp stone. His robes furled at his ankles, his hood hanging low and pinning the collar against his neck.

The Altar before him was no more than a stone slab and an effigy of rock, carved as a gaunt figure holding a scythe in his left hand. Erwin pulled the collar from his neck, turning to leave the small side-chapel he inhabited.

The service in the main Chapel was still ongoing, a morning mass to Morr. Their chanting could be heard throughout the Great Cathedral of the Mourners, the grandest Abbey of Morr in the Empire besides that in great Altdorf itself.

Erwin slipped into his shoes at the end of the hall, and made towards the open door to his right. Entering the dining hall, he found the table immaculately set, ready for the ascetics which were praying to satisfy themselves upon. Loaves of rye bread, low-quality cheese, bowls with oats made of grain fit barely for a cock. And he’d lived this existence himself, for twenty-odd years of his own life.

There was no desire to stick around, not with his reputation. Erwin descended on the table, swiping a half-loaf of the rye and stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed, and swallowed the sourdough-leavened bread, nearly choking on the dryness in his gullet. He stole a gulp of wine from a goblet and then turned to make his escape.

There before him was all six-feet-one of an aged, bald man. His face was wrinkled and contorted into an ornery expression, and he had no facial hair to speak of, simply a scowl which scrutinized Erwin’s very being.

“Greetings, Master Reine-.” Erwin greeted the Abbot with the customary salute of Morr, pulling his hand down his face and throat as to simulate the last rites of the dying or dead.

“Not staying for the morning meal?” A nasally, agitated voice spoke from Abbot Reiner, the master of the Abbey of monks which accompanied the Cathedral.

“No, Mas-”

“Good.” A voice interrupted, holding up a hand, palm-inward. “I was just about to ask that you get on your way. You are still on your ‘pilgrimage’, you know.”

“Yes, Master. I was just leaving.” Erwin replied, attempting to be polite as one could be with stolen sourdough bread and a goblet in his hands.

The Abbot looked him up and down, and scowled harder than before.

“No matter. Depart at once.” The Abbot turned and left without another word.

Erwin looked on, flabbergasted. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect this outcome, but this was perhaps one of the only stays he’d gotten at a place of Morr where he’d been able to leave unharmed and unchallenged. Before he could jinx himself further, he stuffed the remainder of the bread into his mouth and downed the wine, setting the goblet back, heading towards the side entrance and out into the Gardens surrounding.

---

Erwin found himself on the streets of Nuln at just the right time, it seemed. At first the clouds above were light, then dark. First the rain began a drizzle, then a downpour. Men and women fled the streets as the rain came down harder, leaving the Priest of Morr in his soaked black robes to wander the pathways unhindered.

The odd shopkeeper who had an awning casted a glance. Bar patrons from inside their open-window places of gathering shared words, some kind, some benign, almost all motivated by inebriation. Erwin walked on, until a building at the end of the street called out to him. His pale green eyes fixed on its exterior, and he thought back to what he was told.

He entered and was welcomed, extending the kindness back to the benefactor he was told to meet. He met at the booth, where already a plate-clad man and the rotund noble he’d met at the door seemed to be sat. He made room for himself letting his hood down to keep its wetness from his hair. Of his order: simple beer. From their house keg, the best they could muster.

Now this was it, this was it!

By the Gods this was where the Elven figure wished to be - for though he had been abroad in the Empire for just over a year now, Karuhar had seen very little of the larger cities, consigning himself to the closer study of and possible death at the hands of rural dullards and their ilk; Ubersreik, Basdahl, Eslohe, Rottfurt... all ill-made shanty towns and hovels in comparison to Altdorf, Marienburg and now Nuln.

Nuln had been called 'the Bastion of the South', a beautiful city of human inventors and weaponsmiths. True, like the entire Empire of Man this now smog-shrouded and seemingly eternally wet territory had once been part of the High Elven civilisation, but as the scholar-mage strolled casually through the busy and cramped streets of Altdorfs largest economic and military rival he could not help but allow himself a smile at how the mayflies of humanity had (poorly and with oh so little finesse) made the place their own.

Now, one might believe that an Elf mage being spattered with grime, soaked by rain, and spat close by by many more superstitious citizens - for although his kindred were not precisely rare within Nuln, Dwarfs and other men were far more common - would make a rather meagre sight for the eyes... and that would be just so!

Fortunately for this Elf, and for the pristine white and sea-blue clothing he wore, he could simply admire the sights, smells and sounds of Nuln from behind the bodily-encompassing bubble of unseeable magic that he had produced about himself, the only evidence for such a feat being a tiny spatter and shimmer of air when a raindrop deigned to fall upon him.

Eyes glared at him, mouths gawked at him, and hushed words reached his pointed ears as he sauntered down the streets toward the appointed tavern but he simply ignored them with all the haughtiness of a being that would outlive even the children passing by and pointing at him as innocents will do.

Interesting, he thought to himself as he neared the inn with a click-clack of his staff on the cobbled street, oh so very interesting!

Had he not been keeping his composure, he could have clapped his hands together and touched everything within reach, for that was why he had come to the Old World in the first place with his fellow students of the Tower.

Now he was alone, and about to embark upon something much different than simple anthropology.

---

"Agniezka Voorman."

The rather ugly barmaid looked Karuhar up and down, clearly unimpressed after having seen so many other potential candidates, one arm pointing to a set of stairs. It was clear that although agents were usually taken down the stairs, this haggard creature did not like the cut of his personality or looks after only two words.

Karuhar gave the slightest incline of his head, swept his blackened gaze over the strangely empty establishment, and then almost glided toward the indicated stairway.

For others it would no doubt of looked just like any other stairway, the corridors, ramps, ladders and so forth were lit up like an Imperial festival to one of his profession - whoever had woven the illusions in this location were skilled, very much so, and the Asur couldn't help brushing a slender and manicured hand over the wall as he turned another corner and then another that would appear to be the same corner but was not.

What fascination, what fun!

By the time Karuhar entered the room where the three other persons of interest now sat together - in what seemed like silence for the moment - the mage was, for an Elf anyway, in quite a fine mood. He was no longer scowling at everything, eyeing everything down his nose, or even producing that ever-present air of stoic calm that seemed to irritate other races so much.

The large man and the even larger Bretonnian drew quick looks from him, but it was the third figure that took up most of his interest. This man, for he was human in spite of the 'feeling' surrounding him, was somehow different to the others, different enough for Karuhar to narrow his eyes a fraction and take a seat not far from him even as Hugo gestured for the High Elf to take a seat.

Take a seat he did in customary Elvish style, with a sweep of his hand and a touch of backside to seat so gentle that it seemed as if he had drifted down to it on a breeze, his back as straight as a well-forged blade, and his staff apparently holding itself upright next to him.

No food or drink he asked for, but through his mind a million things made their way, so it had been for him and always would be.

---

---

As the first droplets of rain began to sprinkle from the sky, a merchant caravan meandered through the city of Nuln's southernmost gate. The merchant's wagon was a hefty thing, drawn by two pairs of two horses, and packed to the brim with silks and other expensive textiles, all rolled into thick spools of a multitude of colors and patterns. The wagon was a veritable rainbow of color in the otherwise drab gray of this first section of the city. Once past the relatively ornate gate, the city's stonework seemed to have been washed of any brightness that may have once been there by the sort of rain that threatened even now to fall in a deluge from the grey-clouded sky overhead.

The merchant who sat the wagon, driving the horses along with the occasional yip or flick of the reins, was as vibrant as the wagon itself, bedecked in the very textiles he intended to trade and sell. Showing off the goods, one might say. Surrounding the merchant, however, was a loose collection of sellswords and guards who matched the surrounding grayness of this part of Nuln far better than the merchant. Scruffy swordsman in dented plate, road-weary faces shaded by the hoods of the cloaks they all drew about their heads in preparation for the rain. All but one.

Walking a few paces behind the wagon was an elf, though one might have to look twice to tell him apart from a tall, well-built man. His short-cropped blond hair was being plastered to his head by the rain as it increased from a light drizzle to a proper rain. Unlike the others, his cloak had no hood. The white lion's pelt wrapped around his neck and came down to the middle of his calves, testament to how massive the creature had been in life. The monstrous lion's head rested on his right shoulder, staring out in a perpetual roar. This was the first thing that caught most eyes, the second being his pointed ears, which began to cause the upper lips of the more superstitious commoners to twitch upward in xenophobic judgement.

If the elf noticed those looks, he gave no outward sign. His sharp eyes continued to scan the streets for some last potential threat to his current charge before his contract was complete, his elven mind working quickly to consider every potential angle of ambush or attack. Fortunately, Nuln seemed safe enough, and especially well patrolled so near to one of its gates. The merchant's wagon made it to its intended stopping point, and the mercenaries were all handed their wages. After a brief moment of chatting (the shedding of the loose bonds of road-born camaraderie,) the guards left the merchant to his own devices as he set up shop in the rain, and set off toward the nearest inn. The elf did not join them.

Without word, the well-muscled Asur began to help the merchant with the heavier-lifting. He had somewhere to be, and though the clouds hid the sun, he could tell he was already late, but the merchant had been jovial and kind on the journey, and watching him toil alone in the rain gave the elf a pang of guilt that he'd struggle to ignore if he didn't return the kindness in some way, so he spent the better part of the next hour helping the man lift the heavy spools and arrange his stand in the market.

"I thank you, elf." The merchant said in his strange accent when the work was done, "Though I've nothing left to offer until business starts up. Maybe you could stick around, help protect my stock (and myself.)" The last bit was a whispered laugh, "For a fixed rate of pay, of course. After all, now that I've seen what that axe can do, I'd hate to hire anyone else as a guard. My wife back home would feel much better if she knew you were protecting me on the roads, Gar-uhh... errr, Galor..." The merchant trailed off. The elf had only said his name once, and spoke rarely on the road, except when it was necessary. The man fidgeted awkwardly.

"Galadred." The stoic elf offered mercifully in his deep voice after watching the man stammer a moment. He gave a small laugh, a sign that the man had not offended, for which the merchant seemed visibly thankful. "I'm afraid I must decline your offer, friend. I have my own business in this city, as it happens. I bid you safe travels, nonetheless." And with that, Galadred turned on his heel and walked off back into the rain, heading for a very specific tavern.

It had been some time since he had set foot in Nuln, and Galadred had never been to the tavern that was his current destination. As he walked the city streets alone, dogged by the rain, his mind wandered, comparing the architecture to that of his homeland, which brought on the inevitable bitter ache in the pit of his stomach. The longing. The echoes of his shame and the betrayal that lead him to be here. His brow furrowed, and he forced himself to focus, purging the creeping depression from his mind. Finally, he had something to do besides guard human merchants and prevent drunken tavern-brawls. Finally, he had a duty that was, just maybe, a match for him. The thought burned like a torch, the creeping shadows of regret and shame melting away in its light. It was with this renewed mindset that he entered the tavern, striding quickly to the bartender and giving the woman a curt nod of greeting.

"I am here to speak with Agniezka Voorman." Galadred said. The barkeep mumbled something about 'another one,' though The Lion did not hear the full extent, and didn't care to, judging by the tone. He was too focused on this rush of almost boyish excitement to finally be a part of something worthwhile, and perhaps to some deeper degree, interesting again to bother with the thinly-veiled vitriol of such an individual.

The pathway from the tavern he entered, to the one in which he now stood made no sense. While he was no worker of the winds himself, he could tell that he had walked paths that had been magicked. Surely they were designed that way to keep unwanted visitors from reaching this place. It also explained why he was allowed to keep his great battleaxe, Argent Roar, slung over one shoulder with a thick leather strap. He had the feeling that if he had not been invited, he never would have found his way to this place.

He had been invited though, and so the sorcerous pathways had lead him true, and now he stood in the doorway, beckoned to the table where four others sat. He stepped forward, pausing in his stride a moment as he noted another of the Asur among them. This instantly put him a little on edge, but he continued to the table and unslung Argent Roar from his back, laying the axehead on the floor and leaning the haft against the table. He gave a brief look to the others, eyes focusing for a brief moment on the other elf, then passing to the table. He picked a bottle of alcohol, seemingly at random, poured himself some with the glass set in front of him, and drank without hesitation, not saying a word. The one who had summoned them all here surely had enough to say for the lot of them.

---

The briefing.

As the table slowly filled with new members it was hard for Hugo to not drift off into sleep after his great meal, perhaps some of the teas and other select items he consumed being the only thing truly preventing this. He only politely smiled to the arrivals, even if he couldn't actually fathom looking upon his new comrades with a friendly view. They were so... well, when he was a student in this very city's university many used the term "buzzkill." What was with all the Sigmar-cursed black? Or the faces, from the Elves to the Brettonnian they looked as if they had a powerful force of suction push all of their faces to the centre. Still, these were the people entrusted to him and even if they were not the type one could have a chat with at the very least they looked capable.

Hugo was not born with a very good memory truth be told, and he'd be among the first to admit this. But he was quick to acknowledge this weakness and as such he adopted a method one of his professors called the library of the mind, cataloguing and associating everything so that information could easily be retrieved from memory forced into the depths of his brain. It all came to him, the Elf being a wizard of sorts and the Brettonnian lad being a nasty bastard with a kill-count extending into the hundreds over the decades of his life, if reports were to be trusted. The Cultist was far younger, but he could nevertheless be depended upon to do good work if the dossier spoke true. Yes it was a very, very capable group. Alas, it paled compared to the group that had been devastated prior to this one. The fact he now had to hunt a quarry that greater men than he failed to defeat did not give any confidence to the noble.

But he'd make do.

"Thank you all for coming!" he said, straightening out in his seat, and bowing before the assembled company. "I shall leave the mutual introductions for later, I know who you are and seeing as none of you appear to be talkative company in the traditional fashion we can then save time by getting through that on the road. You are all here because you have unique skills that some in our organization believe can be used to safeguard this world from the End Times that are oft prophesied. Our first assignment is somewhat of a probationary one for you new inductees into our Order, but to describe it as simple is... well, a futile effort in trying to boost your morale. Should this assignment be successful, it shall be part of a long string of operations to hunt a greater foe that this team is being groomed for."

It was at this moment that Hugo wondered if any of them would question how so much was known about Zartai, and yet this team would be - to their official knowledge - the first sent after it. "The Old World has been maligned by beastmen from before the foundation of the Empire, their threat at most an auxiliary one to that of the Northmen. However, one of their kind has become worrisome for those that represent Order on the grand scale of this planet. A creature we know as Zartai, an ungor, one of the lesser beastmen typically a mere mutated human has managed to become a chosen of three of the Dark Gods, now seeking to find favour in the Lord of Change. In conjunction with great artifacts that have come into his possession it will be a catastrophe if he ascends to become a Champion of Chaos Undivided in the true sense that he represents all four of their malign Gods, rather than none." At this point several papers on the wall were pointed to including a drawing of the vile fiend and a map indicating where he had been.

"After an extensive session of interrogation of one of his followers it has been revealed that to gain favour of the Lord of Change he must incite war between races or failing that at least incite war within them in memory of the war millennia ago waged between Asur and Dawi supposedly aided by the foul deity's hand." The man stopped to drink some water, both lips and tongue rather dry.

"Agents of our Order have strong reason to belief he is at work in Marienburg and the nearby Seas. We have been informed that somebody is smuggling warpstone to Ulthuan, ground up in the manner that lets it have narcotic uses, this in turn correlating with strange occurrences in that far-off land. The ships that get caught with it seem to have little in common, those of High Elven merchants and human or even Dwarfen ones seemingly being used to carry crates of the stuff. A long investigation revealed that the only commonality between the vessels is that they all went to port in the Wasteland before coming to the Asur Coasts. Typically Marienburg, but a few have docked in Broekwater, Mannansport Zee, and some smaller villages by Reaver's Point. As of late a reverse effect has been noticed by the Marienburg directorate in the Wasteland's ports, and rather than cooperation we are only seeing hostilities grow between the two realms. We, the Black Badge, are tasked with investigating this and putting a stop to it. Given a previous Northward trek of our furry friend there is little doubt he is at least in part responsible. We leave for Marienburg at first Sunlight, there are accommodations for all of you to rest until the morning. I have been given a hefty sum to finance this venture and should any of you need something for our investigations and possible confrontation then I suggest you ask now, for after this meeting I shall be going right to bed."

Most of the speech had been recited from memory of about half an hour with quill. He stuttered a few times, but ultimately he said everything he wanted to in good time, though no doubt many thoughts would have by now come into the minds of the people before him. "Thoughts?" Hugo asked, slightly shifting his weight on his chair as the dark got darker.

Clop-clop-clop-clop-clop….



The noise of the hooves was the only thing to punctuate the carts movement. Nuln was rather far from Marienburg and more and more Hugo was finding it that he was wishing their trip had started in the Altdorf chapter house, even if Nuln was cozier to the man. Everyone would take turns at the reins, Jehan’s horse tied along to go after the cart when the Knight might feel the need to rest. The group would have had only a few hours to sleep after their short meeting and for them to end up being anything more than groggy would be a miracle. More and more the quietness of the group was starting to get to him, Hugo noticed. Everyone kept to themselves, and it was… unnerving. Not only that but he also saw it as unproductive given a team that spoke and bantered with one another was better able to cooperate in a hardy situation.

This had to be rectified.

Hugo looked to his side at Sauer. Cultists of Morr would in the mental image of most be thin, bony men, mirroring their obsession. But Erwin looked more sinewy than thin, and wouldn’t bowl over after but a few meaty punches. Well, the road ahead was clear it seemed and thus there was no reason to not strike up a conversation with his charge, the noble reasoned.

“So, Sauer, sounds almost like sour eh? Har-har. You have been to Tilea, right? Learned the tongue?”

Erwin broke from the mindless reading of the tome in his hairy hands as he was addressed, pulled from what had kept him occupied thus far on the trip they'd undertaken.

He faked a smile and a light chuckle at Hugo’s attempt of a joke. It'd been one he'd heard all throughout his life. He spoke up in the foreign tongue with a thick Middenlander accent.

"Sí, maestro."

“That’s good. Languages are useful in this profession. Learned many in university myself. All the Kislevarin dialects, the Classical Tongue, Riekspiel variants, Norse, Estalian - which they tell me is quite close to Tilean - and Bretton. I even dabbled in the languages of the aliens myself, I can speak Mootish rather well and I can at least make a sentence in the languages of the Dwarfs and Elves to have them understand me, though the arrogant buggers usually squeal in protest at how I say it. ‘Course I’ve not been much outside the Empire. Seen Bordelaux and Karak Kadrin, but that’s about it for foreign parts.” Feeling he had gabbled on too long himself, the noble turned the subject back to Erwin. “Beastmen now, I’ve seen them a lot in this job. Had many encounters with mutants yourself?”

Erwin took in the information as it came, quickly archiving it, yet critically analyzing said qualifications Hugo claimed to possess. His opinion was that he was in the presence of a braggart, and an unabashed one at that. But perhaps that would be useful in the tasks to come.

"I know little of the language. Enough to ask a name and say a prayer or two. I thankfully don't need to do much talking in my profession." Erwin added to the conversation. "As for mutants, I have not had the distinct pleasure of encountering them beyond the deaths they supposedly caused."

“You’re in for a surprise, then.” Hugo laughed mirthlessly. “I’m sure you’ve fought men before. Well, think of fighting a man that’s too stupid to know when he’s beaten or even in pain; and that’s just the dumb little ungors. Gors are just like that but they got the size and strength of a beast, and bestigors… well you can see where this is going. More luck than skill involved with fighting them. Before you fellows I worked with the Black Badge under an Ulrican Priest. Man swung a hammer with the speed and grace of Witch Hunters and their feather-weight rapiers. It didn’t save him from getting gutted by a mutant, though. He fought them as if they were people, forgetting they had no care for parrying or self preservation much of the time and would swing right at you even as you are centimetres from breaking their skull. Not looking forward to meeting them again I’ll tell you that. I’ll take a good orc or cultist over the beastfolk any day.”

The man took off his hat, and smoothed down his hair before putting it down. There was still much daylight, but somehow there was gloom. In combination with the untalkative party the mood of the noble soured very fast, and a slight paranoia crept upon him. The trees seemed to rustle more than they should have, bushes moved about. Once again, Hugo tried to distract himself. “Done much boating in your life? Might come in handy here. Got no sea legs, me. Thought I’d take to it naturally what with my father sailing all up and down the Reik, but apparently not. I’ll start hurling only a few hours into a sail, nasty business the water.”

Erwin flicked his eyes to and from the tome which he read avidly throughout the conversation, settling his eyes on Hugo finally after it was clear the conversation was going further than simple pleasantries.

“They really have no sense of self preservation? Interesting.” Erwin mused, before going about answering the question posed in the latter of Hugo’s ramblings. “Boating? I’ve been on a few. Mainly river barges, but never out in open water. I’ve no proper sea legs to speak of.” He chuckled dryly, an empty gesture it seemed.

"Errr, my apologies, I said that wrong Master Sauer. Its more they're too stupid to properly use them. When they see an Imperial army a band of them will run leaving only droppings and piss behind. But they often just cannot tell their doom is here, if that clears it up my good chap. Regardless, bad sea legs is unfortunate. Maybe at least the elves will have some what with the Ulthuani marine tradition, eh? Perhaps the two of them can hold us as we both let our dinners fly out."

Hugo scratched his nose. The conversation was fluid but… well, it only touched matters of their work truth be told, and it almost felt awkward. Now it could have been the prior paranoia, but it seemed the bushes and trees were getting more lively. Now that in and of itself wasn’t bad, but he hadn’t seen any squirrels or other creatures of the woods that would normally be to blame for disturbing the silence. The thought that the usual animals of the place had been frightened away started to preoccupy Hugo’s mind the moment it came to him. “So, err, you… like to read do you?” the man said, trying to sound nonchalant so that any ne’erdowells listening would not suspect he was looking out for them. “Say, you know who likes reading? That Elf, Karuhar, I reckon the two of you could get quite a bit from one another.”

Having mentioned Karuhar’s name once, Hugo felt it prudent he mention it again as well as that of Galadred. He read that elves were far more adept than humans in reading expressions, emotions, and all the rest of the business that let one person discern the humours of another. There was very little time for the party was about to exit the woods into open fields were chances that in the distance help would be more than visible, or at least a place where they could see the enemy coming.

“You been to Marienburg before, Asur?” Hugo asked of the two elves. What information he tried to convey to them through subtle gesticulation and emoting would be the last warning of the incoming attack. Hugo had been to these woods many times before and knew them like the fingers on his hands but somehow he had failed for so long to see what was happening, and shame overwhelmed him far more than fear as it came out.

“Kla-dza karu wotu!” came the strange bray noise from the woods as an arrow flew to cleave Galadred's ear in half, but it came dangerously close to his eyes. A minotaur uprooted a smaller tree by the great one he used to hide and after swinging it left Jehan without a head, the Knight's frightened horse bolting in fear. Several Gors rushed out from the right side of the cart, whilst a duo of ungors ahead rushed out to try and intercept that cart by jabbing its horses with their spears. After a half second trying to reign them in, Hugo realized that the two horses pulling the cart were likewise bolting and thus they were now only a liability to himself and his comrades.

“Off the cart, off the cart, now!” He cried, only reaching under his seat to grab his crossbow before jumping into the dirt with a roll. Barely dodging a tuskgor that ran to gore him, the nobleman cut the thing’s thin tail off with a slice of his rapier as a very small, and hollow victory. The Hochlander Elric ran off likely far too frightened by the scenario and thus only Erwin and the two Ulthuani were left with Hugo against rather many beastmen. It would not be an easy fight, that much was for sure.