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“Seven!” The call was almost drowned out by the roar of the spectators. They lined the east and west sides of the Duellplatz, leaving the northern and southern sides clear. Chips in the ancient masonry from where thousands of pistol balls had spent their fury proclaimed the wisdom of that choice. The Duellplatz had once been a series of cloisters devoted to Shyalla the goddess of healing. A scowling statue of that worthy looked down on the proceedings with disapproval, the detail of her sandals and legs worn away by the brushes of duelist’s hands as they sought her protection.
“Eight!” The crowd continued to shout, drowning out the clinking of coins and jewelery as wagers were placed. Tonight was Sigmartag, and now that the sermons were over the Capital was well and truely in its cups in celebration. For a certain set of Altdorf high society, that meant watching duels. Unfortunately, even Altdorf’s famously touchy nobility didn’t manufacture enough affairs of honor to meet demand for the sport. The solution was to fight for the honor of the duel itself. Professional duelists, like Hannah Fischer, and the dillitant children of nobles and merchants, like her opponent, fought mock battles for notoriety and prize money, to the delight of their terminally bored peers.
“Nine!” Hannah was near the top of the ranks, having done passably well in the swordplay earlier in the evening, placing at the top of the middle of the field, and avoiding the scars that were a frequent, and to some, desirable, scars. Even though the bouts were to the touch, Altdorf’s barber surgeons had enjoyed a busy night also. Now that the pistols had come out though, she was climbing the ranks rapidly. So rapidly in fact, that if she won this bout, the prize would be hers. She began to steady her breathing, drawing in air in slow measured breaths, flexing her hand on the grip of her pistol to settle her grip just so.
“Ten!” Hannah spun, her vision blurring the ivy that crept up the walls of the cloister into a green swirl. The weight of her breastplate, a single chest piece that covered her from hip to neck, gave her more inertia than was normal, but she compensated for it, allowing the momentum to pull her around and lift her left shoulder slightly. Her opponent, a similarly equipped young man with dirty blonde hair, slid into her rising sights. Her breath stilled as her eye connected the barrel of her flintlock to to the blue and gold corsage pinned to his breastplate. Rudolf Cassenbaum was quick, his own weapon staring back at her, gaunt profile disfigured by one of the stylish slager scars that were so much the rage these days. Cassenbaum was good, but he was a swordsman by inclination, the second place in the steel today, a result that had disappointed many gamblers, Hannah included, but pistols were not his bread and butter, not like her. Not like Hannah Fisher, twenty duels with two fatalities and no defeats. She squeezed the trigger. Time seemed to slow, and though the crowd was screaming louder than ever, she couldn’t hear anything other than the thudding of her heart and the click of the mechanism. The hammer seemed to slide forward like a ladle moving through cream. The sharp flint struck the pan, driving back the frisson in a shower of sparks which touched off the powder in a fizzling cloud of gunsmoke. It hung for a subjective moment before the touchfire sucked into the barrel and touched off the main charge. The pistol roared and slapped back against her palm, fighting to lift the weapon, she didn’t fight it, merely controlled the lift. Smoke and flame blossomed from the chased steel barrel. She saw a flash from Cassenbaum’s weapon, but it was the touchfire rather than the barrel. Time seemed to speed up suddenly, the roar crashing in on her like a wave in a Marienburg storm. Cassenbaum’s weapon cracked at the same instant the corsage on his breastplate exploded in a spray of ribbon and red dust. Something slapped against the lower right section of her breastplate. She staggered slightly under the impact, reaching down and lifting her hand to see red clay dust on her palm. The dueling rounds were clay with a thin firing of glaze around them, rarely fatal unless one was hit in the eye or mouth. Cassenbaum had hit her, but the gold and red corsage on her breast was untouched.
“FISCHER!” the umpire, or crowd, or both roared, surging in from all sides. She just managed to lift her smoking weapon clear of the crowd before she was lifted up onto their shoulders.
“Fischer, Fischer, Fischer!” they chanted, carrying her towards the exit of the cloister. She glanced back to see Cassenbaum, pulling the straps of his half plate free so it fell the ground. He caught her eye and lifted his pistol in a salute that seemed to say ‘next time’. She echoed the gesture. Next time.
_______
Icy cold water crashed against Hannah like a wave of winter frost. She let out a mewling cry. It was so unfair that after spending a life time trying to get away from the wet and the damp that she was going to die in the rain.
“Wake up Fischer you ‘orrible little woman!” The shouted order cut into Hannah Fisher’s mind like an axe. It was delivered in a thick Dives accent, the way people spoke down by the docks and in Wharftown. Fish-ha, with the emphasis on the second syllable. Hannah’s own accent had been not so different once, before she trained the distinctive twang of the fisherman’s croft out of it in order to make herself more acceptable to Altdorf’s polite society. Hannah did not want to wake up, she wanted to finish dying in peace.
“Up an at ‘em lovely!” the voice continued with a jovial good nature that somehow made it worse. It got considerably worse when the sound of a wooden nightstick being dragged across steel bars joined in for emphasis. Hannah tried to get up, felt her guts clench into a knot of agony and then vomited. Or tried to vomit anyway, all she managed to produce was the taste of bile in a throat that already felt like it had been flayed raw. Her head was splitting and her hands trembled so violently she didn’t trust herself to unclench her fists.
“Oi! Nuff o’ that, I just had this place cleaned!”
With colossal effort, Hannah managed to peel back an eyelid. It felt tacky, like dirt and honey had been rubbed under it. She was in one of the Watch cells, and if it had ever been cleaned it must have been before she was a gleam in her father’s eye. It was a simple six foot square of stone closed off at one end by thumb thick iron bars. There was a slimy residue on the floor of which vomit and urine were probably two of the more palatable components. The smell was intolerable. Retching miserably, she managed to sit up, keeping one eye firmly shut. Her body was trembling hard and her skin felt clammy. Surely the pox would take her soon. On the other side of the bars stood a grinning man with a broad lantern like jaw and a pair of small eyes that flashed with malicious amusement. Walther Koneig was balding and in middle age with an aggressively receding hairline and though years of good living had swathed him in a comfortable layer of fat, he was still as squat and solid as a fireplug. He set the now empty water bucket down with an exaggerated flourish.
“Oh fuck me,” Hannah moaned miserable, trying to clutch at her chest. She was still wearing her breastplate, a fact underscored by the way the bottom of it scraped her thighs as she tried to sit. It was covered in mud, though, for a wonder, the dueling rosette was still in place, if a little bedraggled.
“Reckon you fucked yerself there girl,” Koneig put it with a snicker. At least the bastard had stopped ratting his steel shod nightstick on the damned bars. Hannah finally managed to open her other eye and immediately regretted it. Walther Koneig was something of an Altdorf legend. He was legendarily incorruptible in his service to the watch, which was a little ironic given the fact that no one of his low birth could hope to be a watch commander if he wasn’t blackmailing the living crap out of someone. Still in Koneig precinct things were done… if not by the book at least as fairly as one could hope where the watch was concerned. Rumors about his past deeds were a constant feature of the tall tales which circulated in the taverns late at night when the wine was flowing freely. The thought of wine made Hannah’s stomach lurch again. She tried to remember how she had come here, but the preceding hours were hazy and indistinct in her mind. She remembered drinking to celebrate yesterday's victory, vaguely she recalled loud drunken singing as she and some other duelists and hangers on had made their way down the street of a thousand taverns.
“Sigmar’s balls,” she muttered, reaching into her breastplate and finding her coinpurse. It was light but it was a surprise it was even there. Normally the watch would roll a drunk as a matter of course, if some cutpurse didn’t do it first of course. Well if it were Koneig and his boys who picked her up, maybe there was something to the vicious rumors about his honesty. Koneig made a face that was meant to be a smile but showed the two blackened teeth at the back, giving him an evil aspect.
“Oh I think you have had quite enough to say on the subject of our Lord and Savior, and his balls, or lack there of to hear you tell it,” he chuckled. Hannah shook her head in a vague effort to clear it and was wracked by a fresh bout of nausea. Gods save her, how much had she drunk? With a gasp she grabbed for her pistols, not in an effort to draw them, but in horror that they might have been stolen, the pair had been master crafted for her by her father and…
“Relax,” Koneig said, a hint of sympathy entering his voice for the first time, “we got yer kit back in lock up. Cant have armed drunks in the cells now can we? Set a bad pr’ec’dent.” It was a valiant attempt but had way too many glottal stops. Hannah relaxed slightly, moving from miserable and terrified back to miserable. It was tempting to berate herself for her stupidity, but there seemed little that self reproach could add to the misery of her pounding head, cramping guts, and shivering limbs. Evidently she had already thrown up to the point her stomach was empty and the muscles were exhausted besides.
“What are you holding me for?” she asked after a moment, the wine fumed fog in her mind not reminding her of any murders or other capital crimes she might or might not have committed. Koneig’s grin was back, he leaned forward allowing his broad forehead to rest against the bars.
“Well that’s a funny story that is. Seems you went on quite the bender.”
“Me and the rest of Altdorf,” she managed, though it was hard to feel indignant when you were about to die.
“Right right,” Koneig agreed, far from seeming put off by her objection.
“No one else in Altdorf though, decided it would be a good idea to climb onto the Emperor’s fountain and give a sermon.” Hannah felt her stomach sink, a distinctly unpleasant feeling considering the state that it was in. Now that he mentioned it she could dimly remember something about a fountain. For almost a month the city had been gripped in religious turmoil. There was a grand new statue being erected to Sigmar in a square which opened onto one of the few temples of Ulric in the city or some such nonsense. The issue had pushed the always fractious population to a boiling point. There had been two major riots already, during one of which the mounted Reiksguard had tried to intervene only to be pelted with roofing slates until they retreated. Luckily someone had better sense then to call out the full strength of the Knights, something which would certainly end in a blood bath and possibly in a civil war. Alfons, who so far as she knew had never been to a temple in his life, had been going on about how Sigmar had been a devout Ulrician and all the normal nonsense people spouted when they wanted to sound knowledgeable. Koneig chuckled.
“Climbed up on the fountain and started preaching, asking what all the fuss was about Sigmar and Ulric,” Koneig continued. Hannah felt her stomach plummeting now, her core muscles locking up around her chest in an instinctive reaction to panic that precluded speaking or vomiting.
“Why would anyone worship Sigmar when all the world can see that Myrmidia’s tits are the greatest sign of divine providence!” Koneig was howling with laughter now, his powerful form literally shaking the bars. The statue of Myrmidia in the Altplaz was a marble import from Tilea and did indeed bear a spectacular pair of breasts.
"Such brilliant the-o-logy Fischer, simply brilliant, always said you had a sharp mind ain't I?" Koneig laughed, clearly enjoying himself now.
“And anyway what woman would ever go for Ulric with that great ugly beard all scratchy between her legs,” Koneig pressed on. Literal tears of mirth were standing out from his eyes now, a sentiment which Hanna most certainly didn’t share. She had to get out of here, out of the city even before a mob showed up and burned down the watch house.
“And what’s Sigmar trying to compensate for always holding that huge hammer up over his head!” Koneig was howling with laughter now, but the icy bolts of pure fear were lancing through Hannah’s body like winter cloud bursts. Gods, gods, gods. This was bad. Really, really bad. Burn you at the stake bad.
“Are you insane?!” she exploded, fear finding vent on the only available target.
“They will have me executed for blasphemy!” Hannah shouted. The they in this case was fluid, but it seems like she had managed to offend most of the major religious groups in one drunken ramble. Fortunately it appeared that she hadn’t commented on Taal or Ranald, so running and hiding in the forest were still options. Koneig was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He pushed himself back from the bars with his arms, muscles bulging with the impromptu exercise.
“That is the real funny bit. Normally, the Sigmarites would be down here demanding to use you for firewood and the Ulricians would be…. Well however it is Ulricians kill people. I suppose Myrmidia’s lot might be recruiting on the basis of your now well publicized appreciation of their deity’s lady apples. You did say some stuff about Shyalla too but I guess being the Goddess of Mercy and all it would be bad for the image to have you drawn and quartered.”
“Not really seeing the funny part yet Koneig,” Hannah managed, forcing her voice into some semblance of calm.
“They can’t! You pissed off everyone, but the only thing they are more pissed at than you is each other. If the Sigmarites arrest you the Ulricians will riot, if the Ulricians do then the Sigmarites burn half the city,” Koneig roared with laughter. Hannah could see how, if it were happening to someone else, it might be a little amusing.
“So what are you going to do with me?” she asked, feeling a stirring of hope for the first time since her impromptu sermon had been reported to her. Koneig snickered.
“Well, all the temples expect me to do something, and so I have a proposition for ya. You see these riots have put me in a bit of a tight spot and I need someone to do a job for me. Get it done and I’ll let everyone know that I spanked you as hard as you suggested spanking Shyalla, I let you go, and everyone goes home happy.” Hannah groaned and pulled herself to her feet. She had no idea what Koneig wanted her to do, but if it got her out of this reeking cesspit it had at least that to recommend it.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“That’s the spirit Fischer!” Koneig grinned, “Just stand still one second first.” Hannah paused, swearing, and not for the first time, that she was done with drink. Before she could react a second bucket of icy cold water hit her full in the face.
“The smell you understand,” Koneig said, lowering the empty bucket without the barest hint of apology.
POOHEAD189 The Abmin
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Hauke whinnied, his large head shaking irritably. The southern air didn't agree with him, and Torm had to concur. Even on the tail end of winter, he felt the air wet and pungent with humors that couldn't survive the air in Middenheim. He reined his steed in, giving a stolid word of discipline to the willful horse, and Hauke replied immediately with straightening himself. Torm wanted to look at his fellows, but he kept his eyes forward. He had not been one of them for long, having been inducted and given full membership two years ago. He had a chip on his shoulder, easily seen by his betters, even as calm as he could be in the middle of a beastman raiding party. He kept his mouth shut and head high, his long hair and goatee having been cut to help with the riekland heat and culture, but that still left him with a mane of thick hair as black as a moonless night.
The sea of peasants scattered and even the freemen stepped lightly and made way for the company of warriors, nearly three dozen strong and having slowed to a canter once the walls of the capital had come into view. Carroburg was a nice respite, even with the weak drink, but the small city was utterly dwarfed by Altdorf, which looked as if it was larger than even Middenhiem in size. Doubtless it appeared so for the lack of mountains, but that didn't dissuade Torm from being impressed by its grand spires and imperial majesty. Whatever their politics, Karl Franz ruled here and they served the emperor. At least in their own fashion.
Amid the parting crowd, one small boy with big eyes stood still on the side of the road, waving up at the fur-clad northerners but making not a sound. One-eyed Isidor nearly trampled him, his steed missing the boy by sheer luck, its tail swishing against the youth's face like he was a fly. Angsar rode by next, brown haired and grim, his face long and terrifying. He pulled his steed to the left a bit to keep it from hitting him, but made no noise save for that. It was Gundahar that paid true notice to the boy, giving him a horrible roar that had sent fear in beastmen and bandits alike, his eyes wild and bloodshot making him look the part of a true madman. The boy gasped and ran off, tripping just once before disappearing as he screamed in fear. The red bearded Middenlander laughed at the departing youngster, waving his warhammer.
"Keep it to yourself," Thorsten warned him sternly, glaring at Gundahar with just a pinch of tolerance. It was easy to see they were old comrades.
"Hey, just having a bit of fun. The boy was going to kill himself standing there!" Gundahar protested, waving his hammer in the vague direction of the crowd, one man dropping a basket of blankets from the gesture, marring the fabrics in the mud. Sigmund rode just ahead of Torm, the battle-scarred man sixteen years his senior. He shook his head at the sight, muttering how soft the people must be here in Reikland if they feared Imperial contingents. Gundahar continued. "Besides, you know Wulfrim would have killed him for even looking our way."
"Hold your tongue until we get to the Chapter house," Arnulf warned, the second (or third?) oldest of the troupe. Torm did not know the details, but he and Thorsten used to be fast friends until some falling out thirteen winters ago. Unlike the white haired Nordlander, Arnulf still had a bit of his youthful bearing, if only barely. His salt and peppered mane and brown eyes had some of Ulric's luster, and Torm suspected it was his a blessing from the wolf god for the man's wisdom. "If you must speak, speak like you've got a swaddled babe trying to sleep."
Gundahar grunted with annoyance but complied, Thorsten granting Arnulf a nod. The most he would give his fellow, Torm had to guess. The younger knight heard a sudden calamity from the rear, but did not turn, recognizing it as Wulfrim's large horse. Hauke was a good size, but Wulfrim was even slightly larger than Gundahar, and he needed a horse to match. He galloped to the fore, hammer in the air to signal to the others they needed to maintain formation. The riders pressed their horses closer in a rigid, triple file march at their wolf brethren's order. Torm glanced at the bannerman as he rode past, three scars marring the left side of his grim face, somehow not losing an eye from the raking of the manticore's claws. Before them, as if the raising of the hammer held a power of psychic might, the doors to the city began to open with a dramatic groan, and the watchmen at the top screamed to his fellows below, cupping his mouth so all could hear the news.
"The wolves! The White Wolves of Ulric have come!"
The sea of peasants scattered and even the freemen stepped lightly and made way for the company of warriors, nearly three dozen strong and having slowed to a canter once the walls of the capital had come into view. Carroburg was a nice respite, even with the weak drink, but the small city was utterly dwarfed by Altdorf, which looked as if it was larger than even Middenhiem in size. Doubtless it appeared so for the lack of mountains, but that didn't dissuade Torm from being impressed by its grand spires and imperial majesty. Whatever their politics, Karl Franz ruled here and they served the emperor. At least in their own fashion.
Amid the parting crowd, one small boy with big eyes stood still on the side of the road, waving up at the fur-clad northerners but making not a sound. One-eyed Isidor nearly trampled him, his steed missing the boy by sheer luck, its tail swishing against the youth's face like he was a fly. Angsar rode by next, brown haired and grim, his face long and terrifying. He pulled his steed to the left a bit to keep it from hitting him, but made no noise save for that. It was Gundahar that paid true notice to the boy, giving him a horrible roar that had sent fear in beastmen and bandits alike, his eyes wild and bloodshot making him look the part of a true madman. The boy gasped and ran off, tripping just once before disappearing as he screamed in fear. The red bearded Middenlander laughed at the departing youngster, waving his warhammer.
"Keep it to yourself," Thorsten warned him sternly, glaring at Gundahar with just a pinch of tolerance. It was easy to see they were old comrades.
"Hey, just having a bit of fun. The boy was going to kill himself standing there!" Gundahar protested, waving his hammer in the vague direction of the crowd, one man dropping a basket of blankets from the gesture, marring the fabrics in the mud. Sigmund rode just ahead of Torm, the battle-scarred man sixteen years his senior. He shook his head at the sight, muttering how soft the people must be here in Reikland if they feared Imperial contingents. Gundahar continued. "Besides, you know Wulfrim would have killed him for even looking our way."
"Hold your tongue until we get to the Chapter house," Arnulf warned, the second (or third?) oldest of the troupe. Torm did not know the details, but he and Thorsten used to be fast friends until some falling out thirteen winters ago. Unlike the white haired Nordlander, Arnulf still had a bit of his youthful bearing, if only barely. His salt and peppered mane and brown eyes had some of Ulric's luster, and Torm suspected it was his a blessing from the wolf god for the man's wisdom. "If you must speak, speak like you've got a swaddled babe trying to sleep."
Gundahar grunted with annoyance but complied, Thorsten granting Arnulf a nod. The most he would give his fellow, Torm had to guess. The younger knight heard a sudden calamity from the rear, but did not turn, recognizing it as Wulfrim's large horse. Hauke was a good size, but Wulfrim was even slightly larger than Gundahar, and he needed a horse to match. He galloped to the fore, hammer in the air to signal to the others they needed to maintain formation. The riders pressed their horses closer in a rigid, triple file march at their wolf brethren's order. Torm glanced at the bannerman as he rode past, three scars marring the left side of his grim face, somehow not losing an eye from the raking of the manticore's claws. Before them, as if the raising of the hammer held a power of psychic might, the doors to the city began to open with a dramatic groan, and the watchmen at the top screamed to his fellows below, cupping his mouth so all could hear the news.
"The wolves! The White Wolves of Ulric have come!"
GM
Hannah picked at the hard bread without enthusiasm. The loaf that sat between her and the watch commander was stamped with the seal of one of the guild bakeries, which meant the saw dusty feeling was counterfeited by her mouth. Altdorf was awash with criminality, it was true, but it was worth your life to pass polluted bread; more than one merchant had been thrown into his own oven for the offense. The Full Moon was a workman’s tavern not far from the Watch house on Grabbler street, which Koenig commanded. The beer was good though and it soothed a tender stomach without being strong enough to recreate the original problem. The smell of cooking meat came from the three large black pots which hung on an iron bar across the impressive hearth. The Full Moon was a favorite with masons and navies and that patronage was shown off by the magnificent working of the simple river stones, painstaking planned and polished till they shone like marble. Mistress Tull and her three daughters were carrying arm loads of vegetables to hurl into the pots, adding oats to make the stew that would be the midday and evening meal. A little food seemed to be helping and she tore a bigger chunk from the bread.
“If you puke again I’m putin’ it on ya tab,” Koenig remarked. The Watch Captain wasn’t eating, but he had already put away three pints of the mediocre ale in a hearty liquid breakfast. Hannah stuck her tongue out at him and went back to chewing. Truthfully she felt much better, having washed in the watches simple changing room and accompanied Koneig to the garret that she rented above Barinson’s pawn shop for fresh clothes. Her breastplate had been oiled and tucked away under her bed, safe from thieves unless Barinson was late on paying his tithe to Ranald, which the dwarf never was. Koneig had chidded her for wasting time with it, but Hannah came from a humble background and her funds might not run to food and replacement breastplates if she let it rust. Besides, it was lucky, and no duelist took chances when it came to luck.
“So what is it you want me to do,” Hannah asked, finally getting to the point when it was clear Koenig was in no hurry. She needed to do some business today, people expected money from her, people who knew she had won yesterday and would want their gelt before she drank or gambled it away. There would be some left after she squared Tilean Tom and Squeaks Garvey. Not a whole lot, but that was how it went in Altdorf. After that there would be work, over to the Sigmarplatz to lounge around and look dangerous, after yesterday she didn’t doubt some nob would want to hire the fighter who one the rosette on Sigmartag.
“Oi, you bloody list’nin’,” Koenig demanded, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes. Hannah belatedly realized he had been speaking. It had been nearly two days since she had slept, if you didn’t count drunkenly passing out.
“Right, sorry, what?” she asked. Koenig rolled his eyes.
“I said, you might have noticed things are a bit tense right now, which might, now that I come to think of it, be giving you a little too much credit.” Hannah chewed her mouthful of bread stoically and nodded.
“You mean between the Sigmartyrs and the Ulridiots?” she asked. Koenig cuffed her around the ears, it was a casual blow but it smarted.
“Keep your bloody voice down will ya? Last thing I need is this lot scraggin’ ya!” he snapped.
“I’d certainly hate to inconvenience you,” Hannah replied dryly, feeling that it would indeed be a terrible thing if Koenig were inconvenience by her unfortunate murder. She leaned forward across the table so she could whisper to her companion.
“What do you mean this lot?” she demand, “is this an Ulrican tavern?”
“And the penny drops, well done Fletcher, I mean its called the Full Moon and has pictures of wolves all over it, but you still managed to deduce that in a little over an hour.” Hannah was not amused.
“Are you out of your tiny jackbooted mind? I need to lay low and…” Koenig stood up and cleared his throat, the eyes of the dozen denizens of the tavern swiveled to him. It was only mid morning, but these were the serious drinkers, tavern regulars who would be here most of the day.
“This here is Hannah Fletcher,” Koenig declared, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet.
“The talkative one from the fountain last night,” he elaborated, incase the narrowed eyes and covert drawing of weapons hadn’t already made it clear that she had been recognized. A bouncer took a step towards them, lifting a truncheon from his belt.
“Now I interviewed miss Fletcher here, and she was pretty drunk,” Koneig continued, ignoring the fact that Hannah was trying to pull away from his grip, the thick ham sized fist clamped like a vice around her wrist. Disapproving mutterings circled the bar. The words ‘blasphemy’ and and ‘Sigmarite bitch’ featured prominently in the soto voce chorus.
“ She insulted Great Ulric!” someone at the back of what was now looking terrifyingly like a mob shouted.
“Called him a ‘great dumb ox from his great dumb mountain’” Koenig supplied, massively unhelpfully to Hannah’s mind. More angry mutterings.
“But like I said she was really drunk,” Koenig continued and “besides did you hear what she said about Sigmar?” Koenig chuckled and shook her wrist in the general direction of the mob. The bastard was a decent orator, decent enough that they hadn’t torn her appart yet, but that couldn’t last.
“What did she say?” one of the mob called, a skinny man with a flowing mustache. Hannah recognised him as one of Koenig’s watchmen, though he was in casual clothes, looking every bit like a mason drinking away his pay in a tavern. Koenig shook her wrist insistently and Hannah thought she understood what the whole pantomime was about.
“I said that anyone so obsessed with waving a stick around is trying to draw attention away from the fact he hasn’t any stones,” Hannah called, relieved to find her voice didn’t crack or squeak with fright. There was a laugh from the back of the crowd, Koenig’s plant again, but it got a chuckle from several other men also. The Watch captain had released her wrist but it would have been suicide to try to run now, and she only had her two pistols, her sword stowed away under her bed. Hannah didn’t doubt she could drop two of them with perfect heartshots, but that wouldn’t be that much consolation when the rest of them tore her appart.
“I said that if his priests were anything to go by the reason he did so well with that jawbone is that he was part ass himself!” General laughter followed and weapons were at least lowered if not put away. Koenig snickered theatrically and cuffed her across the back of the head.
“Its a good thing she’s pretty, cause truthfully old Fletch’ is a bit dim, but she’s all right,” he concluded. There was a general snicker from the crowd and the tension eased further. Mistress Tull, who probably didn’t care if Hannah was killed, but certainly DID care if her patrons rioted and destroyed her establishment, wisely chose that moment to intervene.
“Stew! Stew’s ready!” she bawled the top of her lungs. It almost certainly wasn’t but the crowd began to break up. Koenig let out a slow breath and Hannah punched him under the ribs as hard as she could. It was like hitting a slab of beef, and had about as much effect.
“Are you trying to get me killed?” she demanded, her voice was steady, long practice at keeping her nerve, but she was trembling on the inside.
“Ra’tha the oppoisit’, ” Koenig replied, slipping back into his seat. It was clear he had been more nervous than he had let on. You didn’t get to be Watch captain by being a fool, not unless you had a rich father a little too fond of didling the serving girls.
“Now we just have to do the whole dog and pony show over at the Three Bells and everyone will believe you are on their side see?” he explained. Hannah put a hand over her face.
“Remind me not to apply for a job with the watch,” she groaned.
“No fear on that score luv, mosta my boys are smart enough to get themselves nicked for burglary or somethin’ without pissing off the whole city. You don’t meet our high standards you see?” Hanna was about to retort when a boy, perhaps a grandson of Mistress Tull burst breathlessly into the bar.
“The White Wolves, the White Wolves have sent an army to the city to help us!” he crowed jubilantly. Gasps of delighted amazement went round the tavern.
“Ulric be blessed!” someone shouted. “Now we will show those snooty bastards.” There was a generalized surge out into the street, leaving Mistress Thull and her daughters holding a dozen plates of undercooked stew that suddenly had no one to eat them. Koenig stared after them agog.
“Ranald’s balls,” he sighed, gesturing the women over with the food. “What timing, there will be riots for bloody sure.”
“If you puke again I’m putin’ it on ya tab,” Koenig remarked. The Watch Captain wasn’t eating, but he had already put away three pints of the mediocre ale in a hearty liquid breakfast. Hannah stuck her tongue out at him and went back to chewing. Truthfully she felt much better, having washed in the watches simple changing room and accompanied Koneig to the garret that she rented above Barinson’s pawn shop for fresh clothes. Her breastplate had been oiled and tucked away under her bed, safe from thieves unless Barinson was late on paying his tithe to Ranald, which the dwarf never was. Koneig had chidded her for wasting time with it, but Hannah came from a humble background and her funds might not run to food and replacement breastplates if she let it rust. Besides, it was lucky, and no duelist took chances when it came to luck.
“So what is it you want me to do,” Hannah asked, finally getting to the point when it was clear Koenig was in no hurry. She needed to do some business today, people expected money from her, people who knew she had won yesterday and would want their gelt before she drank or gambled it away. There would be some left after she squared Tilean Tom and Squeaks Garvey. Not a whole lot, but that was how it went in Altdorf. After that there would be work, over to the Sigmarplatz to lounge around and look dangerous, after yesterday she didn’t doubt some nob would want to hire the fighter who one the rosette on Sigmartag.
“Oi, you bloody list’nin’,” Koenig demanded, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes. Hannah belatedly realized he had been speaking. It had been nearly two days since she had slept, if you didn’t count drunkenly passing out.
“Right, sorry, what?” she asked. Koenig rolled his eyes.
“I said, you might have noticed things are a bit tense right now, which might, now that I come to think of it, be giving you a little too much credit.” Hannah chewed her mouthful of bread stoically and nodded.
“You mean between the Sigmartyrs and the Ulridiots?” she asked. Koenig cuffed her around the ears, it was a casual blow but it smarted.
“Keep your bloody voice down will ya? Last thing I need is this lot scraggin’ ya!” he snapped.
“I’d certainly hate to inconvenience you,” Hannah replied dryly, feeling that it would indeed be a terrible thing if Koenig were inconvenience by her unfortunate murder. She leaned forward across the table so she could whisper to her companion.
“What do you mean this lot?” she demand, “is this an Ulrican tavern?”
“And the penny drops, well done Fletcher, I mean its called the Full Moon and has pictures of wolves all over it, but you still managed to deduce that in a little over an hour.” Hannah was not amused.
“Are you out of your tiny jackbooted mind? I need to lay low and…” Koenig stood up and cleared his throat, the eyes of the dozen denizens of the tavern swiveled to him. It was only mid morning, but these were the serious drinkers, tavern regulars who would be here most of the day.
“This here is Hannah Fletcher,” Koenig declared, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet.
“The talkative one from the fountain last night,” he elaborated, incase the narrowed eyes and covert drawing of weapons hadn’t already made it clear that she had been recognized. A bouncer took a step towards them, lifting a truncheon from his belt.
“Now I interviewed miss Fletcher here, and she was pretty drunk,” Koneig continued, ignoring the fact that Hannah was trying to pull away from his grip, the thick ham sized fist clamped like a vice around her wrist. Disapproving mutterings circled the bar. The words ‘blasphemy’ and and ‘Sigmarite bitch’ featured prominently in the soto voce chorus.
“ She insulted Great Ulric!” someone at the back of what was now looking terrifyingly like a mob shouted.
“Called him a ‘great dumb ox from his great dumb mountain’” Koenig supplied, massively unhelpfully to Hannah’s mind. More angry mutterings.
“But like I said she was really drunk,” Koenig continued and “besides did you hear what she said about Sigmar?” Koenig chuckled and shook her wrist in the general direction of the mob. The bastard was a decent orator, decent enough that they hadn’t torn her appart yet, but that couldn’t last.
“What did she say?” one of the mob called, a skinny man with a flowing mustache. Hannah recognised him as one of Koenig’s watchmen, though he was in casual clothes, looking every bit like a mason drinking away his pay in a tavern. Koenig shook her wrist insistently and Hannah thought she understood what the whole pantomime was about.
“I said that anyone so obsessed with waving a stick around is trying to draw attention away from the fact he hasn’t any stones,” Hannah called, relieved to find her voice didn’t crack or squeak with fright. There was a laugh from the back of the crowd, Koenig’s plant again, but it got a chuckle from several other men also. The Watch captain had released her wrist but it would have been suicide to try to run now, and she only had her two pistols, her sword stowed away under her bed. Hannah didn’t doubt she could drop two of them with perfect heartshots, but that wouldn’t be that much consolation when the rest of them tore her appart.
“I said that if his priests were anything to go by the reason he did so well with that jawbone is that he was part ass himself!” General laughter followed and weapons were at least lowered if not put away. Koenig snickered theatrically and cuffed her across the back of the head.
“Its a good thing she’s pretty, cause truthfully old Fletch’ is a bit dim, but she’s all right,” he concluded. There was a general snicker from the crowd and the tension eased further. Mistress Tull, who probably didn’t care if Hannah was killed, but certainly DID care if her patrons rioted and destroyed her establishment, wisely chose that moment to intervene.
“Stew! Stew’s ready!” she bawled the top of her lungs. It almost certainly wasn’t but the crowd began to break up. Koenig let out a slow breath and Hannah punched him under the ribs as hard as she could. It was like hitting a slab of beef, and had about as much effect.
“Are you trying to get me killed?” she demanded, her voice was steady, long practice at keeping her nerve, but she was trembling on the inside.
“Ra’tha the oppoisit’, ” Koenig replied, slipping back into his seat. It was clear he had been more nervous than he had let on. You didn’t get to be Watch captain by being a fool, not unless you had a rich father a little too fond of didling the serving girls.
“Now we just have to do the whole dog and pony show over at the Three Bells and everyone will believe you are on their side see?” he explained. Hannah put a hand over her face.
“Remind me not to apply for a job with the watch,” she groaned.
“No fear on that score luv, mosta my boys are smart enough to get themselves nicked for burglary or somethin’ without pissing off the whole city. You don’t meet our high standards you see?” Hanna was about to retort when a boy, perhaps a grandson of Mistress Tull burst breathlessly into the bar.
“The White Wolves, the White Wolves have sent an army to the city to help us!” he crowed jubilantly. Gasps of delighted amazement went round the tavern.
“Ulric be blessed!” someone shouted. “Now we will show those snooty bastards.” There was a generalized surge out into the street, leaving Mistress Thull and her daughters holding a dozen plates of undercooked stew that suddenly had no one to eat them. Koenig stared after them agog.
“Ranald’s balls,” he sighed, gesturing the women over with the food. “What timing, there will be riots for bloody sure.”
POOHEAD189 The Abmin
Admin
Seen
1 hr ago
Boris Todbringer wouldn't want to hear it, but Altdorf was a lot like Middenheim in many ways. The stones were old and well cut, faithful iconography placed over every busy street, with a teeming citizenry and the noise that goes along with it. But he could tell many of the people were different, in a fashion. They were slightly shorter, with fairer features, not to mention many were noticeably fatter. Still, they were citizens of the empire and even sigmarites knew to be happy when they saw the white wolves. Or that was how it had been in Carroburg, and Senden, and any of the smaller hamlets they passed through in the southern realm.
The other knights didn't notice, but Torm could see a lot of disapproving gazes glancing their way. Some had true vitriol in their gazes, but no one spoke up. Only a few even tried to get in their way, and they were nearly trampled, with the wolves at the fore not even noticing, likely chalking it up to being overcrowded. The group mostly passed by well-to-do members of society and white color workers, couriers, or even sight seers, as the Imperial Palace stood just to the north of them, dominating the streets with its grand presence, its inner walls manned by the city watch and a few token members of the Rieksguard.
To their south were the vaults, a veritable castle unto itself. Nearly all the city's wealth, and even a sizeable portion of the provinces funds were locked in there, as were many of the wealthy citizen's hoards of gold. No commoners or day laborers would be around there, and it seemed to be true. All the people who watched them from the southern street were even more posh in their dress and countenance, but just as unwelcoming as the others in the crowd. The wolves rode on, Torm's eyes wandering, more curious now than ever. He had heard the chapter house in Altdorf needed more manpower and a greater presence in the city, but whatever problems they had that led to that decision looked to have gotten worse. The small contingent turned the corner past the Vaults, and even the older, jaded knights were surprised when they saw what lay at the foot of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar.
Shouting and screaming suddenly blasted their ears, and an exponential amount of angry faces, some frothing at the mouth as various crowds shoved and pushed at one another on the holy flagstones. One man had climbed a statue of Sigmar, smearing what Torm could only guess was rotten fruit or excrement on the warrior god's face. Ulricans wielding banners with a wolf on it butted heads with twin tailed comet wielding citizens, yelling and pressing.
"What the hell?" Gundahar asked aloud, perplexed at the spectacle. Thorsten cursed in old nordlander, and even some of the fiercer men were given pause even as their horses walked forward, always used to crowds clearing to make way. The beasts bumped into men and women, and Torm hoped there were no children less lucky than the last one outside the walls.
Two hands shot out of the crowd, grabbing the reins of Isidor's barded steed. The knight's chilling gaze fell upon the crazed fellow, and with a dexterous twist of his arm, he butted the head of his hammer into the civilian's face, cracking his nose open in a spurt of blood. The man's face was too flattened for him to make a noise, and he spasmed and tumbled to the ground, disappearing into a mass of undulating flesh. Gundahar growled at someone looking his way, scaring some onlookers off with his snarl. Torm kept his head like a few of the older knights, using his keen eyes to gaze about. Torm, likely due to being the youngest, had the best eyes of the troupe. He pointed with his warhammer to the east, indicating a thinner crowd, like a small riverway running through a swamp.
The message was carried up the line, the wolves sending their burly mounts in a curve toward the exit, batting away any handsy crowd members with swift kicks or strong blows of the hand. It was counter productive to his prior suggestion when Torm's eagle eyes spotted something in the crowd. A glint of iron in the sunlight, perhaps something in the air or a distant cry. But a part of the crowd detached from itself, cudgels and iron rods and even a few swords raised in the air. A wolf banner whipped in the wind, billowing above them as a cry from Ulric rose above the din. A crowd of sigmarites cried out, trying to understand what was happening before the other crowd charged.
Torm tensed, and without thinking kicked Hauke into movement, breaking out of the order of march and flying through the crowd, knocking aside two men who tried to bar his way and raising his hammer into the air. He knew what was happening before he even thought about it. The Ulricans had grown bolder at the sight of the order, and Torm knew that bloodshed was moments from erupting on the flagstones of Altdorf. A few even looked overjoyed one of the wolves had entered the fray, but their cries fell when they saw the ferocious knight halt his steed between them rather than trampling through the sigmarites, facing the crowd of his own faithful and holding his hammer out defensively. They looked crestfallen, confused. Torm shook his head, black hair swaying in the air.
"No." He said simply.
"What!?"
"Why?"
"For Ulric!"
"We are citizens of the Empire of Man!" Torm roared, moving Hauke to the left to throw his weight against the wall of men and women, causing them to back up, intimidated. Torm glanced back at the Sigmarites and their dumbfounded faces, but he paid them no heed other than that. He then raised his hammer, and to some he resembled the statue of Sigmar across the square, and to others perhaps he simply looked like a commander. He just hoped he did not look ridiculous in front of his elders. "We spill the blood of chaos worshipers, not Sigmarites or Ulricans! The Orcs fall to our hammers and the beastmen are slaughtered by our steel and gunpowder, but we cannot win if we fight one another!"
He was met with stunned silence, but at least there wasn't a slaughter. He caught up to his fellows moments later, averting his gaze from theirs even as some began to mumble. Arnulf patted his shoulder, but still. He wondered if he had done the right thing.
The other knights didn't notice, but Torm could see a lot of disapproving gazes glancing their way. Some had true vitriol in their gazes, but no one spoke up. Only a few even tried to get in their way, and they were nearly trampled, with the wolves at the fore not even noticing, likely chalking it up to being overcrowded. The group mostly passed by well-to-do members of society and white color workers, couriers, or even sight seers, as the Imperial Palace stood just to the north of them, dominating the streets with its grand presence, its inner walls manned by the city watch and a few token members of the Rieksguard.
To their south were the vaults, a veritable castle unto itself. Nearly all the city's wealth, and even a sizeable portion of the provinces funds were locked in there, as were many of the wealthy citizen's hoards of gold. No commoners or day laborers would be around there, and it seemed to be true. All the people who watched them from the southern street were even more posh in their dress and countenance, but just as unwelcoming as the others in the crowd. The wolves rode on, Torm's eyes wandering, more curious now than ever. He had heard the chapter house in Altdorf needed more manpower and a greater presence in the city, but whatever problems they had that led to that decision looked to have gotten worse. The small contingent turned the corner past the Vaults, and even the older, jaded knights were surprised when they saw what lay at the foot of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar.
Shouting and screaming suddenly blasted their ears, and an exponential amount of angry faces, some frothing at the mouth as various crowds shoved and pushed at one another on the holy flagstones. One man had climbed a statue of Sigmar, smearing what Torm could only guess was rotten fruit or excrement on the warrior god's face. Ulricans wielding banners with a wolf on it butted heads with twin tailed comet wielding citizens, yelling and pressing.
"What the hell?" Gundahar asked aloud, perplexed at the spectacle. Thorsten cursed in old nordlander, and even some of the fiercer men were given pause even as their horses walked forward, always used to crowds clearing to make way. The beasts bumped into men and women, and Torm hoped there were no children less lucky than the last one outside the walls.
Two hands shot out of the crowd, grabbing the reins of Isidor's barded steed. The knight's chilling gaze fell upon the crazed fellow, and with a dexterous twist of his arm, he butted the head of his hammer into the civilian's face, cracking his nose open in a spurt of blood. The man's face was too flattened for him to make a noise, and he spasmed and tumbled to the ground, disappearing into a mass of undulating flesh. Gundahar growled at someone looking his way, scaring some onlookers off with his snarl. Torm kept his head like a few of the older knights, using his keen eyes to gaze about. Torm, likely due to being the youngest, had the best eyes of the troupe. He pointed with his warhammer to the east, indicating a thinner crowd, like a small riverway running through a swamp.
The message was carried up the line, the wolves sending their burly mounts in a curve toward the exit, batting away any handsy crowd members with swift kicks or strong blows of the hand. It was counter productive to his prior suggestion when Torm's eagle eyes spotted something in the crowd. A glint of iron in the sunlight, perhaps something in the air or a distant cry. But a part of the crowd detached from itself, cudgels and iron rods and even a few swords raised in the air. A wolf banner whipped in the wind, billowing above them as a cry from Ulric rose above the din. A crowd of sigmarites cried out, trying to understand what was happening before the other crowd charged.
Torm tensed, and without thinking kicked Hauke into movement, breaking out of the order of march and flying through the crowd, knocking aside two men who tried to bar his way and raising his hammer into the air. He knew what was happening before he even thought about it. The Ulricans had grown bolder at the sight of the order, and Torm knew that bloodshed was moments from erupting on the flagstones of Altdorf. A few even looked overjoyed one of the wolves had entered the fray, but their cries fell when they saw the ferocious knight halt his steed between them rather than trampling through the sigmarites, facing the crowd of his own faithful and holding his hammer out defensively. They looked crestfallen, confused. Torm shook his head, black hair swaying in the air.
"No." He said simply.
"What!?"
"Why?"
"For Ulric!"
"We are citizens of the Empire of Man!" Torm roared, moving Hauke to the left to throw his weight against the wall of men and women, causing them to back up, intimidated. Torm glanced back at the Sigmarites and their dumbfounded faces, but he paid them no heed other than that. He then raised his hammer, and to some he resembled the statue of Sigmar across the square, and to others perhaps he simply looked like a commander. He just hoped he did not look ridiculous in front of his elders. "We spill the blood of chaos worshipers, not Sigmarites or Ulricans! The Orcs fall to our hammers and the beastmen are slaughtered by our steel and gunpowder, but we cannot win if we fight one another!"
He was met with stunned silence, but at least there wasn't a slaughter. He caught up to his fellows moments later, averting his gaze from theirs even as some began to mumble. Arnulf patted his shoulder, but still. He wondered if he had done the right thing.
GM
The Temple of Morr was large and imposing, with soaring arches and great windows of glass which had been artfully stained in shades of blue and gold. Skull iconography sprouted from it with depressing regularity, spreading out into the Gardens that surrounded it. Altdorf’s dead were too numerous for any Garden of Morr to hold for long, so all but the greatest were exhumed after a time, the dry bones stacked in ossuaries or buried in large common pits. The work was continuous and at any given time one could see the black robed acolytes of the temple stacking bones for disposal. For obvious reasons it wasn’t a particularly well attended temple. Hannah hadn’t been here since her father had died two years earlier, and she wasn’t keen to visit again.
Koenig had, at least, allowed her to return to her garret where she had taken a much needed bath and changed her clothes. She was dressed now in a simple grey leather tunic over a gold and black hunting shirt that had been given to her by an Averlander for whom she had won a duel. A dark woolen cloak hung over one shoulder concealing her pistols and her fencing steel from casual observation. Fine leather riding boots rose to mid calf over brown doeskin trousers. All in all the outfit was designed to avoid showing any kind of sectarian allegiance. Rioting had been avoided this morning, but come tonight, when the end of the work day released men to their drink, things were likely to get very heated. It might be worth your life to be wearing a strip of red or white cloth in the wrong part of town.
“This little job of yours dosen’t involve anything… unnatural does it?” she asked Koenig as they passed a pile of skulls in a wheelbarrow.
“Be serious for once in your idot life, will ya?” Koenig snarled. Hannah realised with a start that the watch captain was nervous, though whether his nervousness was about the task he had in mind for her, or just general unease in the presence of so much obvious death, she couldn’t be sure. The entered the temple through an unobtrusive rear door, moving down a flight of dingy steps to a set of large oak doors. Koenig knocked and they were admitted by a young woman in the black robes of an Acolyte of Morr. Hannah gave her a smile, but the priestess didn’t acknowledge either of them, merely turning and leading the way deeper into the temple. The went down into the embalming vaults, heavy with the smell of death and the unguents that Morr’s priests used to preserve them until burial. It was cold. Very cold. The walls seemed to sweat moisture and Hannah’s breath began to steam. Finally they reached their destination, the deepest embalming chamber in the temple. Inside on a stone slab lay a man, his face contracted into a rictus of pain. He wore the robes of a sigmarite preacher, somewhat the worse for several large blood stains that spread from tears in the cloth. He seemed somewhat familiar to Hannah though she couldn’t quite place him.
“This is Helmut Greefer,” Koenig stated as they entered. Greefer. Hannah remembered now, one of the charismatic preachers who spent their time whipping people up into a frenzy at the Sigmarplaz. She looked him over, noting he couldn’t have been dead more than a day, even with the cold.
“What do you think?” Koenig asked, his voice serious. Hannah peered at the wounds, obviously knifework.
“There appears to have been a murder, someone should inform the Watch,” she replied filppantly. Koenig growled in frustration.
“Would you pull what passes for your head out of what passes for your arse for a minute?” he demanded. Hannah threw up her hands in surrender.
“Fine, looks like he was stabbed to death, I bet they get a dozen just like this in here everyday,” she replied, not understanding why the Watch captain had brought her here. She wasn’t a barber surgeon, or for that matter an acolyte of Morr, either of whom could certainly have tole him more than she could.
“Two dozen,” the Priestess, whose presence Hannah had forgotten, put in unexpectedly. Hannah cast her another look, amused to see her leaning against a bier and picking at her nails. It was quite the most ordinary pose she had ever seen a priestess adopt.
“Herr Greefer was hit by a wagon,” Koenig stated flatly. Hannah arched an eyebrow and leaned close as though scrutinizing the wounds carefully.
“Looks like three very small, very sharp wagons,” she commented, earning a snicker from the Priestess. Koenig gave the acolyte a black look and then sighed as if explaining something to a very young, very dim child.
“If Herr Greefer was stabbed then it’d be murder wouldn’t it?” Koenig began. Hannah’s eyes went very wide.
“Why I believe you are right! With insight like that you might consider a career with the Watch!” Hannah couldn’t help herself. The priestess burst out in laughter, quickly covering her mouth to stifle such sacrilegious sound in such a sacred place.
“Use what passes for your brains Fischer!” Koenig snapped, clearly losing patience with her insouciance. “What happens if a popular preacher is murdered at a time like this?” Hannah sobered, imagining the Sigmarite mob howling for the blood of their Ulrician counterparts.
“There it is, all the sense the gods gave a goat working together at last,” Koenig observed. The priestess continued to snigger.
“Don’t you people take a vow of bloody silencer or some’in’,” Koenig demanded.
“No,” the priestess said, clearly unabashed. “Its just most of what we have to say is pretty depressing. Hello Sir, would you like to hear about the inevitability of death?” Her voice sing songed in a pleasant contralto and Hannah gave her a longer look. The priestess was a young woman, perhaps younger than Hannah herself with a soft rounded face that looked vaguely Brettonian despite a lack of accent. What hair she could see beneath the black cowl of her robe was very pale blonde, almost white.
“Well do us a favor and embrace your inner corpse while I’m talking,” Koenig snapped. The priestess mimed buttoning her lip.
“Now as I was trying to say, this man died in an accident, because if he didn’t we will have a real bloody problem on our hands. I let anyone in the watch in on this and the whole precinct will know, and someone is bound to go pin the tail on the nearest wolf and then we will have the watch station burned down around our ears.” Hannah nodded, understanding the difficulty. With the best of intentions this murder would look suspicously like the work of Ulricians. For all she knew it had been, that was as likely as a random knifing, maybe more so considering these preachers usually at least put on a show of being little more than beggars.
“Ok, so, pistol ball dodged, just toss him in the ground and call it an accident?” she probed. Koenig leaned back on one of the damp walls, folding his arms. His face was troubled, uncharacteristically so in Hannah’s experience of the man.
“Something is going on here Fischer, something… wrong. I don’t know much, but I know this city and there is something strange about all this religious turmoil. Never seen the like. At first I thought, you know, times are hard people are looking for something but now…” he made a gesture to the corpse, “I’m not so sure.”
“Ok, well unless you want to call out a vague sense of unease and have me fight a duel with it, I still dont see what you want from me.” Koenig sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples.
“You're a clever woman, Fischer despite all evidence to the contrary. Better yet no one will look at you and think you are anything more than a drunken idiot who said some stupid things. You can go places, you can ask questions.” The penny dropped.
“You want me to investigate a murder for you?!” she gasped in shock. If there was one simple rule to surviving in the shadow world of Altdorf it was that you didn’t work with the Watch. You didn’t see anything, you didn’t know anything, you were actually from Nuln and here on a pilgrimage.
“A miracle! Can it be that she has finally gotten the point?” Koneig asked the vaulted ceiling.
Koenig had, at least, allowed her to return to her garret where she had taken a much needed bath and changed her clothes. She was dressed now in a simple grey leather tunic over a gold and black hunting shirt that had been given to her by an Averlander for whom she had won a duel. A dark woolen cloak hung over one shoulder concealing her pistols and her fencing steel from casual observation. Fine leather riding boots rose to mid calf over brown doeskin trousers. All in all the outfit was designed to avoid showing any kind of sectarian allegiance. Rioting had been avoided this morning, but come tonight, when the end of the work day released men to their drink, things were likely to get very heated. It might be worth your life to be wearing a strip of red or white cloth in the wrong part of town.
“This little job of yours dosen’t involve anything… unnatural does it?” she asked Koenig as they passed a pile of skulls in a wheelbarrow.
“Be serious for once in your idot life, will ya?” Koenig snarled. Hannah realised with a start that the watch captain was nervous, though whether his nervousness was about the task he had in mind for her, or just general unease in the presence of so much obvious death, she couldn’t be sure. The entered the temple through an unobtrusive rear door, moving down a flight of dingy steps to a set of large oak doors. Koenig knocked and they were admitted by a young woman in the black robes of an Acolyte of Morr. Hannah gave her a smile, but the priestess didn’t acknowledge either of them, merely turning and leading the way deeper into the temple. The went down into the embalming vaults, heavy with the smell of death and the unguents that Morr’s priests used to preserve them until burial. It was cold. Very cold. The walls seemed to sweat moisture and Hannah’s breath began to steam. Finally they reached their destination, the deepest embalming chamber in the temple. Inside on a stone slab lay a man, his face contracted into a rictus of pain. He wore the robes of a sigmarite preacher, somewhat the worse for several large blood stains that spread from tears in the cloth. He seemed somewhat familiar to Hannah though she couldn’t quite place him.
“This is Helmut Greefer,” Koenig stated as they entered. Greefer. Hannah remembered now, one of the charismatic preachers who spent their time whipping people up into a frenzy at the Sigmarplaz. She looked him over, noting he couldn’t have been dead more than a day, even with the cold.
“What do you think?” Koenig asked, his voice serious. Hannah peered at the wounds, obviously knifework.
“There appears to have been a murder, someone should inform the Watch,” she replied filppantly. Koenig growled in frustration.
“Would you pull what passes for your head out of what passes for your arse for a minute?” he demanded. Hannah threw up her hands in surrender.
“Fine, looks like he was stabbed to death, I bet they get a dozen just like this in here everyday,” she replied, not understanding why the Watch captain had brought her here. She wasn’t a barber surgeon, or for that matter an acolyte of Morr, either of whom could certainly have tole him more than she could.
“Two dozen,” the Priestess, whose presence Hannah had forgotten, put in unexpectedly. Hannah cast her another look, amused to see her leaning against a bier and picking at her nails. It was quite the most ordinary pose she had ever seen a priestess adopt.
“Herr Greefer was hit by a wagon,” Koenig stated flatly. Hannah arched an eyebrow and leaned close as though scrutinizing the wounds carefully.
“Looks like three very small, very sharp wagons,” she commented, earning a snicker from the Priestess. Koenig gave the acolyte a black look and then sighed as if explaining something to a very young, very dim child.
“If Herr Greefer was stabbed then it’d be murder wouldn’t it?” Koenig began. Hannah’s eyes went very wide.
“Why I believe you are right! With insight like that you might consider a career with the Watch!” Hannah couldn’t help herself. The priestess burst out in laughter, quickly covering her mouth to stifle such sacrilegious sound in such a sacred place.
“Use what passes for your brains Fischer!” Koenig snapped, clearly losing patience with her insouciance. “What happens if a popular preacher is murdered at a time like this?” Hannah sobered, imagining the Sigmarite mob howling for the blood of their Ulrician counterparts.
“There it is, all the sense the gods gave a goat working together at last,” Koenig observed. The priestess continued to snigger.
“Don’t you people take a vow of bloody silencer or some’in’,” Koenig demanded.
“No,” the priestess said, clearly unabashed. “Its just most of what we have to say is pretty depressing. Hello Sir, would you like to hear about the inevitability of death?” Her voice sing songed in a pleasant contralto and Hannah gave her a longer look. The priestess was a young woman, perhaps younger than Hannah herself with a soft rounded face that looked vaguely Brettonian despite a lack of accent. What hair she could see beneath the black cowl of her robe was very pale blonde, almost white.
“Well do us a favor and embrace your inner corpse while I’m talking,” Koenig snapped. The priestess mimed buttoning her lip.
“Now as I was trying to say, this man died in an accident, because if he didn’t we will have a real bloody problem on our hands. I let anyone in the watch in on this and the whole precinct will know, and someone is bound to go pin the tail on the nearest wolf and then we will have the watch station burned down around our ears.” Hannah nodded, understanding the difficulty. With the best of intentions this murder would look suspicously like the work of Ulricians. For all she knew it had been, that was as likely as a random knifing, maybe more so considering these preachers usually at least put on a show of being little more than beggars.
“Ok, so, pistol ball dodged, just toss him in the ground and call it an accident?” she probed. Koenig leaned back on one of the damp walls, folding his arms. His face was troubled, uncharacteristically so in Hannah’s experience of the man.
“Something is going on here Fischer, something… wrong. I don’t know much, but I know this city and there is something strange about all this religious turmoil. Never seen the like. At first I thought, you know, times are hard people are looking for something but now…” he made a gesture to the corpse, “I’m not so sure.”
“Ok, well unless you want to call out a vague sense of unease and have me fight a duel with it, I still dont see what you want from me.” Koenig sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples.
“You're a clever woman, Fischer despite all evidence to the contrary. Better yet no one will look at you and think you are anything more than a drunken idiot who said some stupid things. You can go places, you can ask questions.” The penny dropped.
“You want me to investigate a murder for you?!” she gasped in shock. If there was one simple rule to surviving in the shadow world of Altdorf it was that you didn’t work with the Watch. You didn’t see anything, you didn’t know anything, you were actually from Nuln and here on a pilgrimage.
“A miracle! Can it be that she has finally gotten the point?” Koneig asked the vaulted ceiling.
POOHEAD189 The Abmin
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The Chapter House was not of the same size or accommodations as the Grand Order's House in Middenheim, but it was nearly there. Reikland was a province brimming with wealth, wine, and trade, and the Emperor Karl Franz saw the wisdom in providing for the sons of Ulric with a few coffers from the Imperial Vault. The protection of the warrior god had served humanity even before Sigmar, and it did not do to piss him off. Him or his chosen warriors. Unfortunately, Torm couldn't give it too much appreciation. He was distracted by the strange looks many of his Chapter brothers had given him since the courtyard debacle.
"Well, he's got spirit, I'll give him that." Isidor remarked, his one eye fixed markedly on Brimhall, the Altdorf Chapter House commander. It was four words more than Isidor usually spoke in a given day, which had Torm worried. Wulfrim stood beside the Commander, grim face and unwavering in his ability to appear both neutral and disapproving all at once. The group, including Gundahar but absent of Arnulf and Thorsten and a few other notable members, were not there for any specific hearing on Torm's behalf, but they had invited the young wolf along to speak on him breaking ranks in front of the crowd.
"Pretty brazen," Gundahar agreed hypocritically, having broken more than a few rules because 'Ulric had taken him,' which they all knew he was too swollen on drink to think straight. Torm used a monumental amount of effort to keep his face straight after Gundahar had the gall to uttered the words. It was lucky too, because Brimhall did not take his eyes off of him. Ironically, the man looked like one of the statues of Sigmar out in the courtyard, which made him look more Ulrican than most. His beard was well trimmed and his physique heroic, despite his aging.
"Can I speak, Commander?" Torm asked, chin raised. His wintry eyes stolid.
"No need." Brimhall replied. "You did the right thing."
No one in the troupe was vying for Torm getting reprimanded, but their surprise was still quite genuine. Torm had expected to be sent on stable duty or make the what they called the 'low rounds' in the slums with more danger and little reward. Cleaning duty perhaps. Torm had experienced that enough in his formative years. Gundahar spit, too used to the road and forgetting the hardwood floors weren't a place to do that. Wulfrim and Brimhall looked at him, but he didn't notice at first. Instead he strode over and clapped Torm on the shoulder.
"Good job, lad! You always had some brass balls, I tell old Thorsten."
"He did the right thing, but he still broke ranks." Brimhall corrected, drawing Torm and Gundahar's gaze. Torm did not know if he would like where this was leading, but it promised to be interesting. If he was just going to be outright punished, they would have done it immediately and gotten it over with.
Brimhall got up, and waved for the others to follow. His look told Torm he didn't want the boy to move an inch, and Torm stood at the ready, arms down and chin high at attention. Isidor moved past without a word, followed by a grumbling Gundahar, and Angsar as well. Only Wulfrim stayed, the one knight Torm had to admit he was intimidated by him. Oh, if he faced any in battle he would feel immense trepidation, but Wulfrim had a force of personality behind his grim demeanor that showed the mark of both a great leader and a terrible man to piss off. However, Ulric sought for this day to be full of surprises. Wulfrim turned to the right, walked over to a door Torm hadn't noticed before, and opened it. Out walked a man that could only be described as sleazy, but with a cunning intellect that belied his gap-tooth smile.
"You can speak freely, pup." Wulfrim said, stepping back and watching them both. Torm nodded and turned to the newcomer.
"Who the hell are you?" He asked. Wulfrim snorted and the man let out a chuckle.
"Koneig," he said with an accent that was decidedly northern, but not middenheim or any nordlander inflection. A coin played along the back of his deft fingers, and as he stepped closer, Torm was in awe of how he hadn't smelled this man's breath even behind the door. "I'm what you might call a talent seeker, if you would. I saw you at the courtyard today. You look like a problem solver, and I've got a big problem, and a problem with a slim waist and a big mouth. I want you to solve both of 'em for me."
Torm glanced at Wulfrim, and the older wolf spoke.
"You're young, boy. You've got promise, but we need to send you somewhere after today. We can't have you looking like you were punished, but we can't give you a pat on the back either. Luckily, we have an out. Koneig here needs a wolf-"
"Sir-"
"And you're not worth as much as the older knights," Wulfrim finished. Torm swallowed a retort and nodded, having seen it coming from a mile away. He knew being the youngest meant he was expendable, but it still felt like they underestimated him. He let it slide, and instead turned to Koneig.
"What's the big problem, and who's the small problem?"
Koneig put his arm around the White Wolf, his worn guard uniform browned and strange clashing with the brilliant white of the wolf pelt and the abyssal black of his armor. "Let me tell you about the big one while we go and visit the wee one, ay?"
GM
Piebald’s was an upper chop house between the Street of A Thousand Taverns and the Nob Quarter. It did a considerable trade, both in walk in business and in delivering meals to the houses of the various minor nobles and merchants who wanted to eat out but couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t want to risk the streets. Unlike most of Hannah’s haunts Piebald’s was primarily an eatery, with a large common room appended to massive stone kitchens with attendant ladders and cellars. Every time the doors between the kitchen and the common room opened, they provided a brief glimpse into a world of shouting cooks, hurrying servers and overworked chefs. One of them was a halfling with quite the biggest set of lungs Hannah had ever heard. The shiny old grease burns across his face identified him as the titular owner of the place. The eatery itself was a relatively simple affair, plain pine benches upholstered with clean but cheap linen. It wasn’t a place you brought a date to impress her, but it was a good place to get a good meal at a fair price. It also lacked the smell of stale beer and vomit that characterized many of the divier places. Piebld’s did serve ale of course, otherwise Hannah wouldn’t be caught dead here, but they were very fastidious about cleaning up the resulting ejecta.
The key to living in Altdorf was knowing which Altdorf you were in at any given time. Hannah had suggested Piebald’s to Koenig as a rendezvous because it was upper class enough to be above the sectarian partisanship in the streets. The clientele was well dressed, though like Hannah, had deliberately avoided wearing red or white, and very nervous. People didn’t give the idle rich much credit, but they were smart enough to know that rioting and mob violence, no matter where it sprang from, would naturally progress to property damage and looting, both of paramount concern to those with significant stores of loot and property.
“It feels very strange,” Dietricha commented for what Hannah carefully calculated was the billionth time. The acolyte of Morr looked radically different than she had earlier in the afternoon. The iconic black robes, faintly redolent of must and death, had been replaced with a cream and green dress from Hannah’s garet. The dress was one of the few that Hannah hadn’t pawned and was a touch snugger on Dietricha than it was on her. A rather pleasing effect all things considered. Koenig would doubtlessly be pissed when he learned she had invited the death priestess along, but if he got too rowdy there was a good chance that the bouncers to whom Hannah was a renowned duelist and Koenig was guttersweepings, would take her side on the matter. The two women were enjoying thin slivers of venison cooked in wine and some kind of spicy sauce in ‘the Brettonian Fashion’ which probably reflected actual Brettonian cuisine as much as Hannah represented the Grand Duchy of Averland, but was the fashionable thing to say. A bottle of claret sat on the table between them, though so far Hannah had been doing the majority of the drinking.
“Drink,” she encouraged Dietricha with a little flick of her hand.
“Otherwise I’ll drink the whole bloody thing and Im trying to cut back,” she said by way of encouragement.
“Well we wu’dn’t want that now would we?” Koenig’s distinctive voice boomed as he stepped through the door leading another man who… God's teeth, he was dressed in the armor of a bloody Templar of Ulric. Hannah was frozen with a fork full of venison halfway to her mouth.
“The great Hannah Fischer lost for words hey?” Koenig put in cheerfully, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and spinning it round so that the could straddle it with is arms on the backing. With a smooth motion he snatched up the bottle of wine and took a long pull from the neck with a satisfied smacking of his lips.
“Were you kicked in the head as a child?” Hannah enquired, her voice slightly strangled with shock.
“Did your mother pound her laundry dry with your skull?” she continued warming to the topic.
“Did all the idiots in all the villages of all the provinces hold an election for Supreme Idiot and carry you to victory by a landslide?”
“Did the Gods, in solemn conclave, come together to create for the word a single pure moron from which all other morons derive their moronity and cry out in a ringing voice: Behold for his name shall be Walther Koenig, King of the Imbeciles?” she declared portentously.
“See what I mean,” Koenig said to the knight, looking not the least offended by the prodigious string of insults. “Can’t get her to shut up to save me life,” Koenig said apologetically.
“You ask me to keep a low profile, and then march up to my table with a giant, hairy, half wolf, in thirty pounds of armor stamped with ‘I love Ulric’?!” Hannah demanded, eyes bulging with outrage. Dietricha coughed meaningfully and nodded her head towards the newcomer in warning. Hannah paused in mid diatribe and then leaned around Koenig to look at the warrior.
“No offense ahh… Sir Knight,” she put in quickly, realizing rather belatedly that being torn apart by a mob wouldn’t be a concern if she were decapitated by a touchy northerner.
The key to living in Altdorf was knowing which Altdorf you were in at any given time. Hannah had suggested Piebald’s to Koenig as a rendezvous because it was upper class enough to be above the sectarian partisanship in the streets. The clientele was well dressed, though like Hannah, had deliberately avoided wearing red or white, and very nervous. People didn’t give the idle rich much credit, but they were smart enough to know that rioting and mob violence, no matter where it sprang from, would naturally progress to property damage and looting, both of paramount concern to those with significant stores of loot and property.
“It feels very strange,” Dietricha commented for what Hannah carefully calculated was the billionth time. The acolyte of Morr looked radically different than she had earlier in the afternoon. The iconic black robes, faintly redolent of must and death, had been replaced with a cream and green dress from Hannah’s garet. The dress was one of the few that Hannah hadn’t pawned and was a touch snugger on Dietricha than it was on her. A rather pleasing effect all things considered. Koenig would doubtlessly be pissed when he learned she had invited the death priestess along, but if he got too rowdy there was a good chance that the bouncers to whom Hannah was a renowned duelist and Koenig was guttersweepings, would take her side on the matter. The two women were enjoying thin slivers of venison cooked in wine and some kind of spicy sauce in ‘the Brettonian Fashion’ which probably reflected actual Brettonian cuisine as much as Hannah represented the Grand Duchy of Averland, but was the fashionable thing to say. A bottle of claret sat on the table between them, though so far Hannah had been doing the majority of the drinking.
“Drink,” she encouraged Dietricha with a little flick of her hand.
“Otherwise I’ll drink the whole bloody thing and Im trying to cut back,” she said by way of encouragement.
“Well we wu’dn’t want that now would we?” Koenig’s distinctive voice boomed as he stepped through the door leading another man who… God's teeth, he was dressed in the armor of a bloody Templar of Ulric. Hannah was frozen with a fork full of venison halfway to her mouth.
“The great Hannah Fischer lost for words hey?” Koenig put in cheerfully, grabbing a chair from a nearby table and spinning it round so that the could straddle it with is arms on the backing. With a smooth motion he snatched up the bottle of wine and took a long pull from the neck with a satisfied smacking of his lips.
“Were you kicked in the head as a child?” Hannah enquired, her voice slightly strangled with shock.
“Did your mother pound her laundry dry with your skull?” she continued warming to the topic.
“Did all the idiots in all the villages of all the provinces hold an election for Supreme Idiot and carry you to victory by a landslide?”
“Did the Gods, in solemn conclave, come together to create for the word a single pure moron from which all other morons derive their moronity and cry out in a ringing voice: Behold for his name shall be Walther Koenig, King of the Imbeciles?” she declared portentously.
“See what I mean,” Koenig said to the knight, looking not the least offended by the prodigious string of insults. “Can’t get her to shut up to save me life,” Koenig said apologetically.
“You ask me to keep a low profile, and then march up to my table with a giant, hairy, half wolf, in thirty pounds of armor stamped with ‘I love Ulric’?!” Hannah demanded, eyes bulging with outrage. Dietricha coughed meaningfully and nodded her head towards the newcomer in warning. Hannah paused in mid diatribe and then leaned around Koenig to look at the warrior.
“No offense ahh… Sir Knight,” she put in quickly, realizing rather belatedly that being torn apart by a mob wouldn’t be a concern if she were decapitated by a touchy northerner.
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Koneig had walked in like he had just purchased the property, Torm noted, who followed in a manner that could only be described as a guarded confidence. Wary of a trap, but with no doubt that whoever leaped at him was going to die without much trouble. He didn't have his warhammer with him, after Koneig spent a good twenty minutes arguing with him on how they were just going to meet his contact and Torm's new partner, but the White Wolf still sported his armor and wolf pelt cloak, and he bore an arming sword at his side. The place looked snug enough, and though a White Wolf stood out wherever one went, the establishment was busy enough and with a number of flamboyant and important people judging by their dress that this could still potentially be a social visit.
What Torm wasn't expecting was the tirade and bleeting from what would usually be considered a relatively attractive woman, next to another woman who seemed far more composed. Unfortunately, it looked like the loud one was the one he would be working with, judging by her outburst. Well, he was used to boisterous men and clangorous spaces, this wasn't going to be anything new. But he had expected someone more...professional.
"None taken," he said, his worries more on their chances than any insults she might have thrown.
"Hey, hey," Koneig said, putting an arm around Hannah's shoulders. It was supposed to be reassuring, and while there was no threat, Torm noticed Koneig stood like he had all the power in their dynamic. Judging her more closely, her hands were rougher than most maidens and she had a few bruises on her not easily seen from a distance. He didn't think Koneig did the work, but he could tell she was probably roped into this as much, if not more so than Torm himself. Koneig continued. "Look, ye don' know wot you got tae deal with out there, eh? This lad has the muscles, the armor tha' can stop any pistol shot unless they get close enuff fe' him to bash 'em over the 'ead, yeah? And if ye need to get into high en' places, he can march ye roight in. Quick, easy, simple, luv."
Torm raised an eyebrow. He knew he didn't have a choice, his superiors shoving him out the door to help this Koneig on his errands. But he would take some convincing on why he needed her, not that she likely wasn't good at what she did. He rubbed his goatee, always speaking when he likely shouldn't, his masters would say.
"As long as you don't yell wherever we go, I think we'll live." He remarked, and it was difficult to tell if it was an awkward man making an earnest statement or a clever man having a jab. Dietricha looked away, holding her mouth as if to sneeze, though it was easy to see she was hiding a smile. In the background another call for drinks rang out by a merchant who appeared to have made a huge sale the day previously, judging by their drunken raucousness a table over.
Koneigh gave a long pause, and then wheezed out a laugh that sounded like a steam whistle. "Oi, brilliant! You two are going to be 'avin fun, I can tell ye that! Just make sure it's not all fun, mind. Now, do either of ye need to be briefed?"
"You haven't told me what we're doing, yet." Torm said, and then gave his best impression of the upfront, gap-toothed man. "'Skulkin' abowt' isn't a description."
What Torm wasn't expecting was the tirade and bleeting from what would usually be considered a relatively attractive woman, next to another woman who seemed far more composed. Unfortunately, it looked like the loud one was the one he would be working with, judging by her outburst. Well, he was used to boisterous men and clangorous spaces, this wasn't going to be anything new. But he had expected someone more...professional.
"None taken," he said, his worries more on their chances than any insults she might have thrown.
"Hey, hey," Koneig said, putting an arm around Hannah's shoulders. It was supposed to be reassuring, and while there was no threat, Torm noticed Koneig stood like he had all the power in their dynamic. Judging her more closely, her hands were rougher than most maidens and she had a few bruises on her not easily seen from a distance. He didn't think Koneig did the work, but he could tell she was probably roped into this as much, if not more so than Torm himself. Koneig continued. "Look, ye don' know wot you got tae deal with out there, eh? This lad has the muscles, the armor tha' can stop any pistol shot unless they get close enuff fe' him to bash 'em over the 'ead, yeah? And if ye need to get into high en' places, he can march ye roight in. Quick, easy, simple, luv."
Torm raised an eyebrow. He knew he didn't have a choice, his superiors shoving him out the door to help this Koneig on his errands. But he would take some convincing on why he needed her, not that she likely wasn't good at what she did. He rubbed his goatee, always speaking when he likely shouldn't, his masters would say.
"As long as you don't yell wherever we go, I think we'll live." He remarked, and it was difficult to tell if it was an awkward man making an earnest statement or a clever man having a jab. Dietricha looked away, holding her mouth as if to sneeze, though it was easy to see she was hiding a smile. In the background another call for drinks rang out by a merchant who appeared to have made a huge sale the day previously, judging by their drunken raucousness a table over.
Koneigh gave a long pause, and then wheezed out a laugh that sounded like a steam whistle. "Oi, brilliant! You two are going to be 'avin fun, I can tell ye that! Just make sure it's not all fun, mind. Now, do either of ye need to be briefed?"
"You haven't told me what we're doing, yet." Torm said, and then gave his best impression of the upfront, gap-toothed man. "'Skulkin' abowt' isn't a description."
GM
Koenig picked up a piece of the venison Hannah and Dietricha had been sharing, ignoring the utensils in favor of his dirty fingers. He took a bite and masticated noisily while waving to a waitress. The frumpy looking woman came over looking skeptical.
“Be a good lass and fetch us some bread and ale,” he instructed, making a broad sweep to indicate the table. He pinched her rump as she turned away and was rewarded with a venomous look. Hannah mouthed ‘put it on the watch’ over Koenig’s shoulder, delighted to get out of having to pay for her dinner.
“O’right,” Koenig continued, pausing to swallow a mouthful of chewed meat. He reached for one of the wine glasses to wash it down but both Hannah and Dietricha snatched their goblets away. Koenig gave them a wounded look and the picked up the bottle and took a drink from the neck.
“Oh where are my manners!?” he exclaimed, lowering the bottle and licking the last few dregs of wine from the top.
“It is a mystery,” Hannah put in dryly, draining her own goblet and waving to the overworked waitress to bring another bottle of claret.
“This ‘ere is Hannah Fischer, despite all appearances she’s a sharp one.” The compliment left Hannah to taken aback to frame an insult and Koenig plunged onwards into the verbal breach.
“Hannah, this is Sir Torm Kaufen..kriger..hemier…dorf?” Koenig stumbled onwards uncertainly, his grip on the Middenlander’s name clearly tenuous. “Lets say Sir Torm of the White Wolves.”
“Charmed,” Hannah put in, rolling her eyes at Koenig for Torm’s benefit in what she hoped was a comeradely fashion.
“And this is Mortess Dietricha who is also here for some reason,” Koenig put in with a pointed glance at Hannah who heroically refused to rise to the bait.
“Slow day in Morrs Garden,” the white haired priestess said demurely.
“Which leads us into how we don’t want it getting a lot bloody busier in Morr’s little patch of dirt,” Koenig segwayed neatly. He paused for a moment as the serving girl returned with four circular loaves of yeasty bread with a pot of churned butter and a trencher of pungently spiced stew. Hannah flicked her a gold Imperial which the woman snatched from the air, bit and made vanish into her bodice with a deftness that any duelist would be proud of.
“I think its fair to say that we are all aware that our devout Sigmarites and our fierce Ulrician’s are not exactly seeing eye to eye,” Koenig explained.
“Truly the Watch has its finger on the pulse of the city,” Hannah observed dryly, tearing into her bread and dipping a hunk of it into the savory stew. Koenig ignored the comment with regal disdain.
“Now for the tricky bit,” Koenig admitted, the jocular bruiser fading into the concerned watchman.
“I think someone is deliberately stirring the pot,” he confided, reaching into his jacket to produce two small press papers. One bore in large type, ‘Are Ulrician’s Loyal’, the other ‘Middenland Pushes for Secession’. Hannah leaned over to examine the crumpled flyer.
“Judging by the type they might have come off the same press,” Hannah observed. It was Koenig’s turn to feign astonishment.
“I didn’t know you could read Fischer, blimey and here I thought you spent all your time drinking and shooting people.”
“I’m branching out,” she admitted, lifting a flagon of ale to her lips.
“Unfortunately there are too many people in the watch that might come down one way or the other, so I need some people who are… neutral I suppose is the word, to look into it.”
“Hannah here knows everyone who is everyone in Altdorf on account of owing them all money,” Koenig explained. Hannah lifted her tankard in salute to a fair point.
“And because of recent … lets say theological opinions she has shared, neither side takes her too seriously.” Hannah blushed slightly at that hoping that Torm hadn’t yet heard of her drunken rant.
“Unfortunately, everyone who meets her is overcome with the immediate desire to murder her on account of the fact she cant seem to shut her oh so clever mouth. Sir Torm here, it can be hoped, can prevent such justifiable homicide.”
“Homicide? And he accuses me of reading?” Hannah stuck in, but Koenig plowed on.
“Sir Torm here can open doors with the Ulricians as well as stop some well meaning citizen from stoving in Hannah’s head with a paving stone. Between the two of you we might just be able to get to the bottom of this without burning down the capital,” the watch captain concluded, looking very somber at the prospect.
“Or worse.”
“Be a good lass and fetch us some bread and ale,” he instructed, making a broad sweep to indicate the table. He pinched her rump as she turned away and was rewarded with a venomous look. Hannah mouthed ‘put it on the watch’ over Koenig’s shoulder, delighted to get out of having to pay for her dinner.
“O’right,” Koenig continued, pausing to swallow a mouthful of chewed meat. He reached for one of the wine glasses to wash it down but both Hannah and Dietricha snatched their goblets away. Koenig gave them a wounded look and the picked up the bottle and took a drink from the neck.
“Oh where are my manners!?” he exclaimed, lowering the bottle and licking the last few dregs of wine from the top.
“It is a mystery,” Hannah put in dryly, draining her own goblet and waving to the overworked waitress to bring another bottle of claret.
“This ‘ere is Hannah Fischer, despite all appearances she’s a sharp one.” The compliment left Hannah to taken aback to frame an insult and Koenig plunged onwards into the verbal breach.
“Hannah, this is Sir Torm Kaufen..kriger..hemier…dorf?” Koenig stumbled onwards uncertainly, his grip on the Middenlander’s name clearly tenuous. “Lets say Sir Torm of the White Wolves.”
“Charmed,” Hannah put in, rolling her eyes at Koenig for Torm’s benefit in what she hoped was a comeradely fashion.
“And this is Mortess Dietricha who is also here for some reason,” Koenig put in with a pointed glance at Hannah who heroically refused to rise to the bait.
“Slow day in Morrs Garden,” the white haired priestess said demurely.
“Which leads us into how we don’t want it getting a lot bloody busier in Morr’s little patch of dirt,” Koenig segwayed neatly. He paused for a moment as the serving girl returned with four circular loaves of yeasty bread with a pot of churned butter and a trencher of pungently spiced stew. Hannah flicked her a gold Imperial which the woman snatched from the air, bit and made vanish into her bodice with a deftness that any duelist would be proud of.
“I think its fair to say that we are all aware that our devout Sigmarites and our fierce Ulrician’s are not exactly seeing eye to eye,” Koenig explained.
“Truly the Watch has its finger on the pulse of the city,” Hannah observed dryly, tearing into her bread and dipping a hunk of it into the savory stew. Koenig ignored the comment with regal disdain.
“Now for the tricky bit,” Koenig admitted, the jocular bruiser fading into the concerned watchman.
“I think someone is deliberately stirring the pot,” he confided, reaching into his jacket to produce two small press papers. One bore in large type, ‘Are Ulrician’s Loyal’, the other ‘Middenland Pushes for Secession’. Hannah leaned over to examine the crumpled flyer.
“Judging by the type they might have come off the same press,” Hannah observed. It was Koenig’s turn to feign astonishment.
“I didn’t know you could read Fischer, blimey and here I thought you spent all your time drinking and shooting people.”
“I’m branching out,” she admitted, lifting a flagon of ale to her lips.
“Unfortunately there are too many people in the watch that might come down one way or the other, so I need some people who are… neutral I suppose is the word, to look into it.”
“Hannah here knows everyone who is everyone in Altdorf on account of owing them all money,” Koenig explained. Hannah lifted her tankard in salute to a fair point.
“And because of recent … lets say theological opinions she has shared, neither side takes her too seriously.” Hannah blushed slightly at that hoping that Torm hadn’t yet heard of her drunken rant.
“Unfortunately, everyone who meets her is overcome with the immediate desire to murder her on account of the fact she cant seem to shut her oh so clever mouth. Sir Torm here, it can be hoped, can prevent such justifiable homicide.”
“Homicide? And he accuses me of reading?” Hannah stuck in, but Koenig plowed on.
“Sir Torm here can open doors with the Ulricians as well as stop some well meaning citizen from stoving in Hannah’s head with a paving stone. Between the two of you we might just be able to get to the bottom of this without burning down the capital,” the watch captain concluded, looking very somber at the prospect.
“Or worse.”
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Torm withstood the barrage of banter like a stone hit by crashing waves. He had to admit they got clever with a few here or there, but the information was what he really listened to. The religious turmoil he saw was strange, but he wasn't used to Altdorf. It was probably naive to think it wasn't too farfetched, but when you were used to have slathering beastmen bearing down on you, a wild crowd wasn't a large obstacle to overcome.
"What makes you think this is being orchestrated?" Torm asked, glancing at Hannah. The woman was fun, at first glance. He just needed to make sure he kept a cool head or there might be another controversy for the wolves. He wondered what exactly she had done, that Koneig referenced, but he wasn't going to pry.
"Not orchestrated, lad." Koneig corrected, waving his hands gently in a theatrical fashion Torm needed to get used to. "Merely bein' pushed into what was already about to roll downhill, catch me drift? And how I came by that information is me own business, but let's say I've got lil birdies all across the city, ay? Birdies that need to stay at their posts and can't go scroungin' around like you lot. A few of me birds here or there have seen the same fellas at different spots, disappearin' and reappearin' to vandalize both the sigmarite and ulrican statues, fer starters. And that's just the tip o' the iceberg."
"If I'm doing this, I'm taking my hammer." The Knight declared. Koneig didn't look like he wanted to argue the point.
"By all means, son. I just din't want ye to waltz in here drawrin' too mean gazes. Out there? It's all you two." He said, indicating the two of them like they were old chums. Behind Koneig, the waitress reappeared and refilled their glasses, putting down another bottle, asking Torm if he wanted anything. The knight shook his head. He wanted a drink, but he needed to focus. Once she waltzed off, he continued.
"Any leads then?" Torm asked, and Koneig put a finger to his lips.
"Go' an address fer ye, or at least a street name. I wrote it down and gave it to our very own Hannah, seein' as she's an educated gurl." He remarked with a wink. "And you two start once we finish these drinks. Oh an, you get a few krowns courtesy of the city guard for damages and rooms if ye need them, the money of which I'll give to the one of yous I can trust." He promptly plopped a coinpurse in front of Torm. "Don't go back to the Chapter house unless you need to. You might be a white wolf, but we want as few strings attached as possible, hear?"
"What makes you think this is being orchestrated?" Torm asked, glancing at Hannah. The woman was fun, at first glance. He just needed to make sure he kept a cool head or there might be another controversy for the wolves. He wondered what exactly she had done, that Koneig referenced, but he wasn't going to pry.
"Not orchestrated, lad." Koneig corrected, waving his hands gently in a theatrical fashion Torm needed to get used to. "Merely bein' pushed into what was already about to roll downhill, catch me drift? And how I came by that information is me own business, but let's say I've got lil birdies all across the city, ay? Birdies that need to stay at their posts and can't go scroungin' around like you lot. A few of me birds here or there have seen the same fellas at different spots, disappearin' and reappearin' to vandalize both the sigmarite and ulrican statues, fer starters. And that's just the tip o' the iceberg."
"If I'm doing this, I'm taking my hammer." The Knight declared. Koneig didn't look like he wanted to argue the point.
"By all means, son. I just din't want ye to waltz in here drawrin' too mean gazes. Out there? It's all you two." He said, indicating the two of them like they were old chums. Behind Koneig, the waitress reappeared and refilled their glasses, putting down another bottle, asking Torm if he wanted anything. The knight shook his head. He wanted a drink, but he needed to focus. Once she waltzed off, he continued.
"Any leads then?" Torm asked, and Koneig put a finger to his lips.
"Go' an address fer ye, or at least a street name. I wrote it down and gave it to our very own Hannah, seein' as she's an educated gurl." He remarked with a wink. "And you two start once we finish these drinks. Oh an, you get a few krowns courtesy of the city guard for damages and rooms if ye need them, the money of which I'll give to the one of yous I can trust." He promptly plopped a coinpurse in front of Torm. "Don't go back to the Chapter house unless you need to. You might be a white wolf, but we want as few strings attached as possible, hear?"
GM
Hannah heaved a put upon sigh as Koenig dropped the coins in front of the knight. After all they had been through together! The watch Captain stood up, leaning on his scarred knuckles and making the table creak alarmingly. His craggy face was, for once, deadly serious.
“Do me a fava, try not to muck this up and get ‘alf the city burned down around our ears.” and with that he was gone. Hannah reached for the gold but Torm, without hurrying, picked up the purse and tucked it into his armor. Not very sporting.
“What we really should do is lay low till morning, try not to touch off any trouble,” Hannah put in hopefully. Neither Torm nor Dietricha looked particularly convinced.
“Fine,” Hannah sighed resignedly, knocking back the last of her wine and flipping the serving girl a coin that fetched her a smile.
“But we need to make a stop first.”
The garret on Rose Street was a small attic room atop a pawn broker. The trio were greeted at the door by Olev, an evil looking Kislivite who sometimes worked as a bouncer. He was an old friend of the owner and obviously had decided to spend his night making sure that any looting was kept away from Salvia’ Sundries.
“You bring problem,” he said sulkily as he glared at Torm.
“No problem, just have to run up to my room and get a few things,” Hannah explained patiently.
“If anyone see wolf, make problem,” Olev continued stubbornly.
“And the longer we stand out here in the street the more likely that someone will see him,” Hannah continued. Olev was a little simple, but he had a good heart.
“Ok, ok,” he huffed and pulled open the door. Hannah lead her companions up a set of rickety stairs to her room. It was a cramped but clean space. A bed, a battered desk, a cupboard and some shelves with a few books and nick nacks. A small ceramic furnace, just a couple of nested bowls for melting lead sat in one corner. Its chief attraction was its view. Due to various accidents of geography Salvia’s sundry was the highest building above the long slop down to Docklands. Moonlight glinted on hundreds of tile roofs and the glow of hearth fires flickered in the tops of chimneys. The Reik itself was a distant silver strip, its edges deformed by docks and wharves.
“It’s gorgeous,” Dietricha exclaimed, gazing out over the tableau of Altdorf by night. She reached in and lifted a wine decanter, finding it to her mild surprise, to be filled with lead shavings.
“Well not exactly the circumstances I was hoping to bring you here under,” Hannah muttered as she stepped across the threshold, bending down to pick up up a handful of letters, several marked with wax seals, that had been slipped under the door. She deposited them on the desk and then bent down and dragged a heavy chest from beneath her bed. It was finer than anything else she owned dark wood inbuilt with a heavy dwarven lock. She produced a key and unlocked it, lifting the lid and fossicking about inside. One by one she produced four heavy pistols, simple things but well made, placing each on the bed. Next came a long belt of dull leather, festooned with loops and buckles. Finally she took a powder horn from the chest and methodically added a pinch of powder to the frisson of each pistol before snapping them closed.
"Now I'm ready," she declared, tucking each of the pistols into its holster before turning to the big Middenlander.
"What do you think Sir Knight? Ready to go poking around dark streets filled with blood thirsty fanatics?"
“Do me a fava, try not to muck this up and get ‘alf the city burned down around our ears.” and with that he was gone. Hannah reached for the gold but Torm, without hurrying, picked up the purse and tucked it into his armor. Not very sporting.
“What we really should do is lay low till morning, try not to touch off any trouble,” Hannah put in hopefully. Neither Torm nor Dietricha looked particularly convinced.
“Fine,” Hannah sighed resignedly, knocking back the last of her wine and flipping the serving girl a coin that fetched her a smile.
“But we need to make a stop first.”
The garret on Rose Street was a small attic room atop a pawn broker. The trio were greeted at the door by Olev, an evil looking Kislivite who sometimes worked as a bouncer. He was an old friend of the owner and obviously had decided to spend his night making sure that any looting was kept away from Salvia’ Sundries.
“You bring problem,” he said sulkily as he glared at Torm.
“No problem, just have to run up to my room and get a few things,” Hannah explained patiently.
“If anyone see wolf, make problem,” Olev continued stubbornly.
“And the longer we stand out here in the street the more likely that someone will see him,” Hannah continued. Olev was a little simple, but he had a good heart.
“Ok, ok,” he huffed and pulled open the door. Hannah lead her companions up a set of rickety stairs to her room. It was a cramped but clean space. A bed, a battered desk, a cupboard and some shelves with a few books and nick nacks. A small ceramic furnace, just a couple of nested bowls for melting lead sat in one corner. Its chief attraction was its view. Due to various accidents of geography Salvia’s sundry was the highest building above the long slop down to Docklands. Moonlight glinted on hundreds of tile roofs and the glow of hearth fires flickered in the tops of chimneys. The Reik itself was a distant silver strip, its edges deformed by docks and wharves.
“It’s gorgeous,” Dietricha exclaimed, gazing out over the tableau of Altdorf by night. She reached in and lifted a wine decanter, finding it to her mild surprise, to be filled with lead shavings.
“Well not exactly the circumstances I was hoping to bring you here under,” Hannah muttered as she stepped across the threshold, bending down to pick up up a handful of letters, several marked with wax seals, that had been slipped under the door. She deposited them on the desk and then bent down and dragged a heavy chest from beneath her bed. It was finer than anything else she owned dark wood inbuilt with a heavy dwarven lock. She produced a key and unlocked it, lifting the lid and fossicking about inside. One by one she produced four heavy pistols, simple things but well made, placing each on the bed. Next came a long belt of dull leather, festooned with loops and buckles. Finally she took a powder horn from the chest and methodically added a pinch of powder to the frisson of each pistol before snapping them closed.
"Now I'm ready," she declared, tucking each of the pistols into its holster before turning to the big Middenlander.
"What do you think Sir Knight? Ready to go poking around dark streets filled with blood thirsty fanatics?"
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