It would be remiss of me to begin this account without asserting my innocence. You no doubt know that my part of this expedition was not merely because of my fluency in the Tilean language or my short time at the university of Verezzo, but my alleged hand in the debacle concerning Father Bierschenk and his sham of a scheme. I would never be so callous as to be complicit in such a low-brow scheme as selling a faux artifact in the Altdorf Auction and finding a mark to perform the so-called Estalian-Prisoner’s Scam. ‘Sigmar’s Girdle’ does not even sound real.  

But alas, I was suspected with absolutely no evidence. In fact, I am accused of having relations with the Countess Droessler the very same day, another alleged malfeasance of which there is no evidence, save my comment I apparently uttered before the arch-lector. The esteemed elder can barely hear, I simply do not see how he could have overheard my wishes to ‘ride her like a brettonian destrier’ but, it seems with two crimes at the same moment with, again, no evidence for either, saved my proverbial hide. 

But enough of my past, needless to say I am quite happy with how things turned out, despite the perils on the road and what mayhem transpired in the ostentatiously palladian city-state of Remas. I recalled it as vividly as if it were yesterday. 

The yawning gates of the Republic of Remas were as welcome a sight as a breath of air to a drowning man. Its three great walls enclosing the docks, the city, and even the lagoon were monuments to the genius of Leonardo De Miragliano. The gate, now bustling with rural tileans from Ciarascura to Catrazza, almost leaned over the expansive moat. Its ornate towers were made with an ingenious seven pointed star design, granting virtually no weak points in its defense, allowing interwoven fire from all angles and granting little purchase to any cannons attempting to topple the lofty spires. 

“Magnificent,” The fat chamberlain breathed in gathered awe. Hortiman Schulz was a simple man blessed with good fortune. He wore a cap of the finest doeskin to hide his bald head, his impressive white beard covering all his lower face save his rosy cheeks, and his paunch was resplendently adorned with the finest satin coat and breeches. Upon his thick neck and the swell of his chest was a livery collar made of gilded steel, emblazoned at the end with a griffon that represented the greatest house in all the empire. Yes, Hortiman Schulz was an esteemed courtier to Orcbane, the Prince of Reikland, the illustrious ruler of our great empire, Karl Franz. How that occurred I still do not know, but evidently our sovereign trusted him a great deal. I found I trusted his earnestness, I suppose, but he was a bit slow on the uptake and a little bumbling in countenance. He practically bounced as he looked to myself and the grim captain Muller. “Isn’t it so?” 

“I never tire of Tilean architecture,” I told him with a smile. Despite my lack of confidence in his abilities, he was a jovial man and hard to dislike. Muller merely grunted, eyeing the commonfolk passing through the gate with suspicion, almost scorn. I found Chamberlain Schulz was easy to sway, but Harold Muller was the living embodiment of the term “stubborn as a mule.” He did not trust easily, and I found he liked my company not at all. The twenty four reikland state troops under his command were fine men, now spread out as sentries overlooking our baggage train. They and I were on fine terms. I drank with them, joked with them, even prayed with them when asked, but their commander was a bit too conservative with his ideas of priesthood. He had heard of my alleged crimes and made certain I was under no pretenses on what he thought of the validity of my innocence. 

“You have been here before, haven’t you herr Cran’Darrack?” He asked, and then realigned his phrasing. “I mean herr Priest.” 
“No, but I was in a city much like this before my induction into the priesthood of our blessed lord Sigmar. Luckily I was able to procure a map when we passed through Monte Negro a week prior.” 

“By gambling,” Muller growled disapprovingly. 

I hide my grin heroically, providing a solemn, pious look upon my visage. “I simply made a deal with my brothers from the Fellowship of the Shroud. If holy men of different faiths cannot break bread and deal with one another on their terms, then I fear chaos truly has won.” 

“Now don’t fight you two. Let us go in and meet with the princes!” The good chamberlain suggested, his simplicity sometimes perilously close to wisdom. 

“Remember, they are the triumvirate of Remas.” I said guardedly, leaning down to give sincerity to my caution. “There are three of them, and we should gather our gifts to the front to be presented immediately. Do you have the scroll?” 

“The scroll? Oh yes, yes.” Schulz said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a roll of parchment with the imperial seal unbroken upon it. If I could have held it for him, I would have. But by Imperial law it was his burden to carry. No doubt I would still provide the brunt of the dialogue with whichever of the three rulers we happened to meet, whether by way of translation or by means of elucidation.   

I was often given such tasks by my peers, it was almost second nature now. I had a smooth cadence to my voice that people enjoyed listening to, and my education provided me with a vocabulary most cannot match on the fly. 

Ah yes, and I will add without shame that I am extremely attractive. It’s not a boast, merely a fact. I am tall and lean, fit but not bulky. My face is finely featured, and my dark tousled hair fashionably tied at the nape of my neck. I was blessed with dark eyes of blue and a sculpted nose of perfect proportion. Despite my fair skin, I look much unlike most of the heavily bearded stoutly built men of the empire. I don’t remember my childhood very well, but evidently I was taken into an orphanage in Marienburg after being found on the beach by a sailor. Upon my neck was a torque with a script of my name in crude riekspeil upon it. My colleagues believe I am from Albion, and I concur out of habit, but I could not tell you.

And now, a supposed son of Albion found himself standing at the breadth of the great city-state of Remas to broker a deal between the triumvirate and the Empire. I suppose if I thought about it, I could turn that into a joke. But it had been a long road and honestly, I just wanted a fucking drink. 
[@Penny]