@BiffleChump@Andreyich@Oak7ree@BangoSkank (possibly @Sleater)
On any other night in Ubersreik the place would have been packed to the rafters, the ladies of the night would have been plying their trade, and ale and imported Dwarfish beer would have been gushing from the tapped barrels contained at the bar of The Intelligent Guard - one of the more popular taverns of the city - but tonight was not any other night, in fact it was just one odd night in a series of days and nights that were getting ever stranger in a world descending into the strange, the corrupt, and the evil.
On this night the tavern was more-or-less empty of life, and for good reason, only the proprietor of the establishment given permission to remain where he was; this was primarily so he new al that happened, if damages should be done and the like, but also so he could hand out beverages as and when they were required.
Apart from him were half-a-dozen of the harbour-cities militia, fully armed and suited, their halberds glinting in the dim light of the tavern and their eyes alert for any signs of mischief.
Why would there be mischief, or indeed guards, in a more-or-less empty tavern?
Well, the sole reason for the ale-houses lack of custom on this night had taken a seat behind one of the larger tables in the taverns common room.
Shifting furniture so that he sat directly before the doorway to the tavern, one hand playing idly with the hilt of a silver dagger, the other holding a quill next to an inkwell and what seemed to be a contract of sorts, Helmut Van Graff - Witch Hunter and former Imperial soldier - glared at the portal with eyes the colour of slate...waiting.
Upon his arrival in the city (and following the recent demise of his last retinue) the Witch Hunter had sent out a city-wide call for those desperate, skilled, or simply stupid enough to answer to meet him here at this hour of this night. It had been a simple task with the help of the garrison commander, an old military comrade of the unsanctioned slayer of evil, to make sure his location and identity were known, now all he had to do was see who came.
Van Graff himself was a man of middling-years, his gaunt and weathered face with its salt-and-pepper goatee telling more of a tale than any words ever could, his head topped by shoulder-length mane of hair that was presently deep brown but streaked with gray. Lookin sickly in the face, it appeared that his body shared the same streak, his limbs almost skeletal and belying what was actually a deep strength - there was not an ounce of fat on the man, all that remained was muscle, and he was shockingly quick along with it.
As could be expected he dressed from head-to-toe in the manner of his adopted persona, his stiff-brimmed and tall hat sat on the table to one side, his body clad in a long coat of buff colour, and all over armed to the teeth - if it wasn't the sword at his hip, it was the four pistol he carried in two braces on his torso, or the other dagger in his calf-high cavalry boots.
All-in-all, Helmut Van Graff was not a man to be angered or crossed.
When he finally spoke it was in a tone that made no disagreement possible, for it was hard...cold even...uncaring of what others thought or believed, the voice of a world-weary man who had seen too much of everything this life had to offer.
Now he simply was, a man doing his best to combat the evils of the world in the only way he knew how.
"Barkeep, another flagon of the Ubersreik brown, if you would be so kind; I forsee that this may be a long night."
On any other night in Ubersreik the place would have been packed to the rafters, the ladies of the night would have been plying their trade, and ale and imported Dwarfish beer would have been gushing from the tapped barrels contained at the bar of The Intelligent Guard - one of the more popular taverns of the city - but tonight was not any other night, in fact it was just one odd night in a series of days and nights that were getting ever stranger in a world descending into the strange, the corrupt, and the evil.
On this night the tavern was more-or-less empty of life, and for good reason, only the proprietor of the establishment given permission to remain where he was; this was primarily so he new al that happened, if damages should be done and the like, but also so he could hand out beverages as and when they were required.
Apart from him were half-a-dozen of the harbour-cities militia, fully armed and suited, their halberds glinting in the dim light of the tavern and their eyes alert for any signs of mischief.
Why would there be mischief, or indeed guards, in a more-or-less empty tavern?
Well, the sole reason for the ale-houses lack of custom on this night had taken a seat behind one of the larger tables in the taverns common room.
Shifting furniture so that he sat directly before the doorway to the tavern, one hand playing idly with the hilt of a silver dagger, the other holding a quill next to an inkwell and what seemed to be a contract of sorts, Helmut Van Graff - Witch Hunter and former Imperial soldier - glared at the portal with eyes the colour of slate...waiting.
Upon his arrival in the city (and following the recent demise of his last retinue) the Witch Hunter had sent out a city-wide call for those desperate, skilled, or simply stupid enough to answer to meet him here at this hour of this night. It had been a simple task with the help of the garrison commander, an old military comrade of the unsanctioned slayer of evil, to make sure his location and identity were known, now all he had to do was see who came.
Van Graff himself was a man of middling-years, his gaunt and weathered face with its salt-and-pepper goatee telling more of a tale than any words ever could, his head topped by shoulder-length mane of hair that was presently deep brown but streaked with gray. Lookin sickly in the face, it appeared that his body shared the same streak, his limbs almost skeletal and belying what was actually a deep strength - there was not an ounce of fat on the man, all that remained was muscle, and he was shockingly quick along with it.
As could be expected he dressed from head-to-toe in the manner of his adopted persona, his stiff-brimmed and tall hat sat on the table to one side, his body clad in a long coat of buff colour, and all over armed to the teeth - if it wasn't the sword at his hip, it was the four pistol he carried in two braces on his torso, or the other dagger in his calf-high cavalry boots.
All-in-all, Helmut Van Graff was not a man to be angered or crossed.
When he finally spoke it was in a tone that made no disagreement possible, for it was hard...cold even...uncaring of what others thought or believed, the voice of a world-weary man who had seen too much of everything this life had to offer.
Now he simply was, a man doing his best to combat the evils of the world in the only way he knew how.
"Barkeep, another flagon of the Ubersreik brown, if you would be so kind; I forsee that this may be a long night."
