Blueskin

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

<Snipped quote by Blueskin>
Mfw we gotta wait until Sunday

Hider

@POOHEAD189

Sunday? I wish! By the time you guys post it may as well be Monday here in the UK! It usually is!

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

<Snipped quote by The Wyrm>

Yeah, pretty much.

@Jb

Those who fall behind are left behind! Follow the code.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Brandt

Over the last year, Brandt had seen Roderick learn as much as he could from other priests and holymen. He was a decent physiker, skilled at battlefield medicine and Brandt had scars enough thanks to his companions efforts. Without, Brandt would likely be a limb or two short. However, there was a limit to what battle medicine could do, and even the blessings of Sigmar were aimed towards smiting foes and shielding warriors. There was likely little to be done for a boy so diseased and malnourished as the poor lad brought in by the foreigner. Brandt had been relieved when a proper healer had begun to treat him, but annoyed by the crowd. For a moment he thought he saw the same expression on her face that Roderick got when some peasant suggested a dung poultice.

“Give him some room, y’idiots,” he grumbled, eliciting a chuckle from Roderick as the man watched the same sight. Brandt quaffed a measure of his ale to wash down his annoyance, and nearly coughed it all over himself at the boom of the door being kicked in. He sputtered his ale, and elbowed Roderick twice, harder then he needed to.

“Is that a dwarf?” He said soto voice. “It’s gotta be a dwarf, it’s not some short fat man, it’s a proper dwarf and all the way out here!”

When the dwarf joined the crowd around the boy, Brandt wasn’t sure to laugh or holler. That deep rumbling voice then pronounced the boys immanent demise, Brandt couldn’t agree more. “He bloody will if you sods trample all over him! Foreigners and dwarfs, eh?”

Roderick shrugged and chuckled. Food and ale had put them in good humour, but it was not to last as Mr. Bock announced himself. Brandt adjusted his grip on his flamberge, frowning deeply. The man mentioned manic users, some sort of eldritch precognition. He looked back at his priestly companion. If this were a town that harboured witches, they would have to act... but no. The man, for all his scars and hard looks was simply a windbag. Surely a town like this would have some old crone or soothsayer, spouting enough nonsense that something had to stick.

Brandt shifted his weight and eased his grip on his swords scabbard. Brandt listened to the mans story. It was a familiar one, in these dark times. The sort of story whispered to children to keep them in line, and breed a healthy fear of the deep woods. Of course stories all come from somewhere, and the two men had seen enough in their short travels to know that there was more then children’s tales in the dark corners of the Empire.

When the man finally got around to the point, Brandt didn’t need to think much. He was about to ask Roderick’s thoughts, but the young priest merely nodded at his friend. Returning the gesture, Brandt put his drink down and stood in the now silent beer hall. His cloak fell open as he did so, showing the oft repaired cuirass he wore beneath. At the end of his left arm, armoured from shoulder to wrist, he clutched his great sword. Despite the wear of the road, the backlighting of the fire allowed him to cut an impressive figure.

“We’re up for it, sir,” he stated. “Though if you’ve got any leads, we’ll have ‘em. Don’t fancy wandering about in circles with no aim at all.”

The man glanced around the room. There were other warriors among them. Would some of the others offer to join? That weather beaten knight who’d been drinking at the bar looked like they could handle themselves well, and a few others. Brandt grinned at a sudden thought; maybe he’d get to fight beside a dwarf!

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

“Maria, come! Come! Mari come!”

It had been a mild day, a good day for the road after a cold morning dew had greeted them at dawn. Brandt and Roderick made good time, as had become usual for them these last months. They covered miles easily, and the dog did easier still.

“Maria!” Brandt tried again. “Mari come! Come Mari! Here! Mari, heel! Heel! Mari, here!”

Roderick laughed as his companion threw up his arms in defeat.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Brandt said. “She listens to you. She comes back, she stays, she sits. You could probably teach her to roll around on a big balll like at the zirkus back in Bechafen.”

He gave Roderick a look that was equal parts frustration and good humour. “Despite the fact that she obviously understands what I’m saying, she won’t do a damn thing I tell her to. Who knew a mutt could be so pious that she only listens to a priest!”

Roderick, his mouth full of strawberry, was trying not to smile as his friend sought to lure the small dog back toward them. Her tail was up, the small white tuft on the end making it easy to track as she sniffed earnestly through the ferns along the side of the road, ears were cocked forward as she listened intently. She had the scent of something.

“Maybe she’s trying to find you a wee snack.” Said Roderick as he cuffed strawberry juice from his chin with the sleeve of his robe. Maria was undoubtedly the most accomplished hunter of the three and on more than one occasion they had enjoyed a dinner courtesy of her sharp eyes and surprising speed. Her most recent kill had been a jackrabbit not much smaller than herself.

Roderick shrugged his big shoulders forward to shift the weight of his hammer and the Book of Sigmar. The two items had the combined effect of making his upper back hurt at times and the shrug was his only means of easing the tension. There was of course the option of carrying them in either hand but how was a man to eat with his hands full?

They crested a rise in the road and paused to admire the view. Behind them the road stretched out in a straight line for many kilometres, rising and falling with small slopes, hemmed in on all sides by heavy trees. Ahead, smoke spiraling drifting into the sky, lay a settlement of some kind. Brandt had proven handier with maps than Roderick, and so he had given up trying to remember the names of any of the places they passed through.

“Looks like we’re coming up on a town,” Roderick nodded toward a small slat roof that was starting to show at a bend down the road. It sat outside a rude palisade whose gates were closed. That was just good practice in this world. Even in broad daylight a small Beastman might get close enough to snatch a child away. “Been a while since we had a pint I reckon.”

"Damn right," Brandt agreed. "Damn right. Reckon that's Schartenfeld, or have we missed it and gone past to Ostritz? Which one was supposed to have the palisade?" Roderick shrugged, and stretched again.

"Well I don't reckon it matters, the weather's turning," said the former smiths apprentice. "Let's get indoors.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Ready and rarin’ to go!

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Brandt Dittmar

My Hider

Brandt Dittmar was a young man just reaching his prime, and would be considered handsome by the reckoning of most. His height is a little above average, and he has a strongly muscled upper body that made him stand out from the lean farmers and rangy hunters found throughout the Empire. He cuts a brave enough figure in his armour - a breastplate with tassets, and his left arm plated from pauldron to vambrace - though it’s polish can’t hide that it’s seen many repairs. He wore practical fitted trousers and high traveling boots that had seen many miles of road. A satchel hung around his right shoulder and held his meagre belongings and a cloak hung around his neck; green with red trim, in the colours of Hochland. Sticking out from the cloak is the handle of a huge flamberge sword of the sword wielded by the famed Greatsword soldiers, its finely ornamented pommel and quilions speaking further of its origins.

Once he had apprenticed as a smith under Gerard Schmitt, a man of no real importance in life and less so since his passing, except that Brandt was unable to fully learn the trade. The apprenticeship had been halted by the Siege of Lorch; the culmination of a number of skirmishes that had taken place during a border dispute between the small but proud province of Hochland and its neighbour, the larger and more belligerent province of Talabecland. Brandt has been trapped inside Lorche’s small keep along with a small garrison of men and what few townsfolk had fled there for safety. They’d been holed up there fore months, repelling ineffectual proves of their defences and, more than anything, waiting for relief. Brandt had done his part, both by fighting and hammering out dented breastplates and helms once Gerard had been killed. The relief had never come.

The enemy had been reinforced instead by artillery, which had reigned metal down upon them and blasted the gates open. The meagre garrison had been butchered, and Brandt would have been as well, had he and a few others - including the young priest named Roderick Walch and an unladylike merchants daughter named Maria Fosdick - not been charged with escorting a young noble to safety. They escaped through a hidden postern and were pursued by the enemy and braved goblin infested woods. At length, Brandt and his companions completed their mission, though not without losses.

That had been nearly a year past, the border dispute long forgotten. Brandt has since given up on the life of a smith and has instead been enjoying life on the road, joining mobs of Free Companymen when he can, escorting merchants or travelers and trying to make a name for himself. Unfortunately, since the siege of Lorch, there have been few opportunities for true valour. Brandt hopes that might turn around here in Schartenfeld, where he and the massive flamberge sword he wields might earn some renown.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

I'm happy to present Brandt Dittmar, a young man of some skill and more potential.

My Hider

Brandt Dittmar was a young man just reaching his prime, and would be considered handsome by the reckoning of most. His height is a little above average, and he has a strongly muscled upper body that made him stand out from the lean farmers and rangy hunters found throughout the Empire. He cuts a brave enough figure in his armour - a breastplate with tassets, and his left arm plated from pauldron to vambrace - though it’s polish can’t hide that it’s seen many repairs. He wore practical fitted trousers and high traveling boots that had seen many miles of road. A satchel hung around his right shoulder and held his meagre belongings and a cloak hung around his neck; green with red trim, in the colours of Hochland. Sticking out from the cloak is the handle of a huge flamberge sword of the sword wielded by the famed Greatsword soldiers, its finely ornamented pommel and quilions speaking further of its origins.

Once he had apprenticed as a smith under Gerard Schmitt, a man of no real importance in life and less so since his passing, except that Brandt was unable to fully learn the trade. The apprenticeship had been halted by the Siege of Lorch; the culmination of a number of skirmishes that had taken place during a border dispute between the small but proud province of Hochland and its neighbour, the larger and more belligerent province of Talabecland. Brandt has been trapped inside Lorche’s small keep along with a small garrison of men and what few townsfolk had fled there for safety. They’d been holed up there fore months, repelling ineffectual proves of their defences and, more than anything, waiting for relief. Brandt had done his part, both by fighting and hammering out dented breastplates and helms once Gerard had been killed. The relief had never come.

The enemy had been reinforced instead by artillery, which had reigned metal down upon them and blasted the gates open. The meagre garrison had been butchered, and Brandt would have been as well, had he and a few others - including the young priest named Roderick Walch and an unladylike merchants daughter named Maria Fosdick - not been charged with escorting a young noble to safety. They escaped through a hidden postern and were pursued by the enemy and braved goblin infested woods. At length, Brandt and his companions completed their mission, though not without losses.

That had been nearly a year past, the border dispute long forgotten. Brandt has since given up on the life of a smith and has instead been enjoying life on the road, joining mobs of Free Companymen when he can, escorting merchants or travelers and trying to make a name for himself. Unfortunately, since the siege of Lorch, there have been few opportunities for true valour. Brandt hopes that might turn around here in Schartenfeld, where he and the massive flamberge sword he wields might earn some renown.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings... [CLOSED, for now]

I’m keen! Will knock up a character concept quick as I can.

Rise of Heroes

The smith took a moment to examine the fine long blade. It was well made, one of the best he’d seen, and unadorned. A fine, practical weapon. He discarded the goblin blade he’d scavenged, and his shield. It still had arrows sticking out of it, and probably wouldn’t have survived another battle anway. “Shall we?” asked Roderick, and Brandt nodded. He bent down to unbelt the baldric that held Jurgen’s scabbard, trying to do so with as much care as possible. Brandt told himself it was a matter of respect, and not because the bloated throat and the pink-red spiderweb of burst blood vessels made his stomach lurch. He strapped the wide leather belt on and took point at the front of the column, assuming Jurgen’s place as the best armed.

Lord Waldo followed behind and Priska afterwards, and Brandt heard sniffling and the occasional choked off sob, though he wasn’t sure from whom. Roderick and Maria walked behind them, and Brandt drew courage from their presence. They would miss Maria’s crossbow, and if it were up to Brandt they’d keep it just in case… though in case of what, he wasn’t sure. He lead them east, as Maria suggested, and as they walked Brandt felt a determination to see the five of them out of the forest. That determination fueled his stride, and despite the pain in his arm from the still throbbing wound, he set a brisk pace.

They spent that night huddled together in a hollow created by the roots of a fallen tree, with Roderick, Brandt and Maria taking turns on watch. None of the five of them slept well that night, though they were undisturbed, and in the morning they set out again with Brandt in the lead, after Roderick saw to his arm. According to the priest, it was starting to heal. None of them spoke much, eyes and ears alert for goblins or some other threat from the Drakwald.

“Do you think we’ve lost them?” Brandt asked later in the day.

“Everything I’ve heard says the goblins are cowards,” replied Maria. “Maybe we beat them and scared them off.”

“You’re right,” spoke Waldo, startling them. “My father's armsman taught me about greenskins. They always follow the biggest and toughest one, and when you fight them it’s best to try to kill that one, as they’ll often run away. Then they fight amongst themselves until there’s a new leader.”

They group paused, considering it. Priska sniffed; she’d developed a runny nose.

“Well good,” Brandt said at last. “Thank you, uh, m’lord.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, but that is good news,” added Roderick, trying a smile to Maria and Brandt.

Rise of Heroes

Brandt sighed, rolling Maria’s question through his mind, taking up his position at the end of their little column. As much as Waldo Seidl was at best an embarrassment to the nobility and at worst a liability, though he had managed to hold his own against the goblins and wounded a couple, if not resulted in their death. It had been hard to tell from what was left of the little green corpses, most of which had been tossed about and dismembered by Jurgen’s massive sword. Lord or not, Waldo was little more than a child and as much as he wouldn’t miss the boy if they survived the Drakwald, he couldn’t bring himself to leave him in the woods for wolves, greenskins or worse. Besides, their chances of survival were much improved with the might of the only professional soldier amongst them.

The apprentice-cum-warrior had carefully unstrapped his shield from his wounded arm and slung it behind him. He busied himself trying to rebind the crude handle of wood that had been fastened to the sharpened steel that was little more than a large knife; the weapon they’d salvaged from the dead goblins. After the third attempt, he gave up on any true measure of success, resigning himself to the fact that another weapon might fail him in combat if it came to that once more. Brandt tried to imagine a way he could repair the handle and frustratingly came up with a half dozen options that would be easy enough, but were completely impossible with the items they had.

At the front of their little troup, Jurgen stumbled, one leg dragging awkwardly behind him. He took a few more dogged steps, shaking his head as if to clear it. As he put weight on the leg again, it buckled, and his arms went wide as he toppled sideways into the brush. Waldo and Priska behind him both stared, slack-jawed, whereas Brandt leaned over to get a better look. Roderick and then Maria pressed past, the priest going to his knees beside the fallen Greatsword. As Roderick rolled the man onto his back to assess him, Maria spotted something.

“Roderick, hold him there,” she said as she reached down to the back of his legs, between plates. There she found a sharpened wooden dart with a small tuft of red fluff. There was another on the ground beside him. As the Sigmarite caught on he, scoured the man's body and found two more darts. Sniffing them he put voice to what they were all thinking. “Poison.”

“They must have targeted him because he looked the strongest,” Brandt said.

“He was the strongest!” snapped Priska, going to one knee at the warriors other side.

“How bad is it, Roderick?” asked the smith, looking guiltily away from the noblewoman.

The priest checked Jurgen’s throat, wrists and breath, then peered into the fallen man’s eyes. “I’m not sure. We can’t leave him here though, we’ll need to find a place to camp. Brandt, can you make us a sledge to drag him?”

“Aye, I should be able to sort something out.”