POOHEAD189

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

Now to decide on who or what to make...

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir found his way to a high top table easy enough, grabbing a drink on the way. The aristocracy either gave him a wide berth or watched him curiously until he stared back, and they would look away. He was in no mood for games, at the current moment. The ridiculous Eleanor of Coucernne was a conundrum to him, but it had also made him less able to act amicably amongst the courtiers and nobility, and decided to simply get more drunk than he had originally intended. On his second glass, a pretty woman with blonde hair tied up with lacquered pins approached him, wearing a delectable dress and a necklace of blue pearls.

"That's an expensive brandy in your hand." She said, glancing over her shoulder. No doubt to a party she had left to speak to the anomaly, and Kasimir wondered if he was now the butt of a private joke. He simply shrugged, taking another sip.

"The richest people in Middenheim all gathered in one place and everything is free anyway." He said with faux interest. "Isn't it wonderful to be noble?"

She swallowed, but pressed forward and tilted her head. "You didn't look too enthused when you were attacked on the street because of who your father was." The declaration was unexpected, and though he did not place his drink down, she had his full attention. After a closer look, he believe he recognized her. She continued: "And I don't appreciate being used as an excuse for said attack."

She had been the noblewoman whose 'honor' Clausewitz defended. He would have laughed were he in a better mood. He glanced to his right to see a few eyes their way, but scattered amongst the crowd, not in a concentrated area as he might have expected. "I suppose you wouldn't. To what do I owe this meeting, my lady?"

"Lady Janderbilt." She said by way of introduction. She did not have a drink, and the servants were elsewhere. She stood somewhat awkwardly, opening and closing her mouth. "I just wanted to tell you not everyone is aghast at your presence, though you do well to make yourself unlikeable. The Brettonian woman, Lady d’Aberville, seems to have particular disdain for you. What did you say to her?"

"I was just inquiring on her journey to the city. I made one myself very recently." He replied, giving at least a half truth for her. Before she could speak again, one of the pair of eyes approached. The crowd behind, they coalesced into a familiar face. A bit greyer of hair and a few more wrinkles, but still tall and fit and with a jolly smile.

"Ah, Kasimir. I haven't seen you since you were a pup." The bear-like aristocrat said, extending his hand to shake. The Lady Janderbilt decided to make her exit there, apparently not wishing to speak without some privacy. Kasimir could not begin to guess why. She certainly did not seem attracted to him. He gave his full attention to his old friend, however.

"Lord Hargulf, I almost did not recognize you. It does me good to see you are well." Kasimir said honestly.

"I am doing quite well, and I can see you're less so. You certainly have the temper of your father." The hairy baron shook his head. Were he not in such fine clothes, he might have looked like the aging cheiftan of a Norscan tribe beyond the Sea of Claws.

"I did not strike first." The bastard assured him.

"I believe you, but perhaps you should do your best to keep out of sight after tonight. I fear the hydra that is this court has not been sated of drama as of yet, and you're the prime prey." Baron Hargulf whispered conspiratorially.

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"Inside?" Jocasta asked, finishing up her scibbling with a flourish of her pen. Well, she seemed about to finish, before she saw something else that had her furiously writing again. It was at that point Beren picked her up and draped her over his shoulder as he and Buri ran to the stairs that led into the grand mausoleum. Jocasta got the last bit of a rune inscripted onto the page before she dropped the book back in her pack and smoothed her hair out of her eyes. She saw Buri huffing and puffing behind them, the fat dwarf making it up the stairs in good time for one who's legs were so short.

"Jo, get your helpers to see if there are any other exits around this place." Beren told her, gently setting her on her feet.

"You heard 'em, get going." She said as she clapped twice, the two little drones hopping off her ears with energetic buzzing and zoomed off in two different directions.

The floor they were on looked incredibly ancient from the dust and the indecipherable inscriptions, yet the magnificent craftsmanship of the dwarves made it seem as if it were made only a day prior to its discovery. Dozens of sarcophagi, topped with immaculate and gilded stone effigies of every dwarf interred, lined the chasmal hall. Every few tombs, there were smaller mausoleums; arched sepulcher tombs for what looked to be resting places of even higher status dwarves. To Buri and Beren's lament, a few of the stones had been undone and some of the doors had been smashed in, but it was only light damage for a room that must have existed for over four thousand years.

"There looks like there's only two exits, one up and one down." Beren said.

"Aye, there wasn't much ceremony here like in the great masoleums in the center of the city." Buri remarked, which gave Beren a tight-lipped smile. Not much ceremony to a dwarf meant they only made perfect sculputes of every deceased and the family would still visit and recite their name and deeds and would hum dirges for hours to give proper respect. Still, he took Buri's meaning.

The drones careened back to Jocasta in unison, buzzing intermittently in what Beren could only guess was either in code or soft voices only she could hear. Either way, she understood them.

"There's smaller openings upstairs, but nothing but an arrow could fit in them. Other than the broken wall behind us and the stairway, that's all that anyone can use to get in." She said quickly. "I think we should go upstairs where there's only one way at us."

"And leave this floor for the wretches!?" Buri huffed, but as he looked around, he realized the strategy of it.

"One entrance also means one exit. So we'll have nowhere to run, either." Beren remarked. "But I guess it's better than being flanked. Jo, head upstairs. Buri, help me get a few of these slabs up there."

Jocasta nodded. "I'll set up what wards I can. Maybe give them a few surprises?" She said before bounding up the stairs. Buri and Beren grabbed a large slab and began carrying it, the stone even more weighty than it appeared.

"Have you ever fought Gundarogs before?" Beren asked the dwarf.

The merchant nodded. "Aye," but added uneasily. "Er, when I was a beardling. Managed to kill one too."

The two of them took the stairs, Beren walking backwards as Buri pushed. That news didn't bode well. Beren knew the fat dwarf was less combat experienced than all his fellows, save potentially for Varin the youngest, but he wasn't expecting to have killed more Gundarogs than him, considering the disparity of their lifespans.

Paranormal Detectives

I am ready to get hurt again

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

Like a Little Caesar's pizza, he's hot and ready.

Kian Cran'Darack the Flame Priest

Kian of the Flame

Priest of R'Hllor || Flame and Shadow

Kian cannot remember his parents very well. He recalls the smiling face of a woman, the deep voice of a man and a moving picture in his mind of what must have been his father walking past him, asking about the night's dinner. Somehow, the word Riverlands sticks in his mind. Verdant green and blue skies outside a wooden cottage, smoke lazily pouring forth from the chimney. The first smoke. His next memories fade, and suddenly he finds himself in flea bottom. The sun baking the sandstone hovels as men and women scrape for a living. He remembers walking the docks, fascinated with the men hauling ropes and carrying wooden crates of the unknown on and off ships as waves lap against the quay, dancing with coruscating, shimmering white light. It's all in a haze, as if he dreamed the entire affair. He remembers looking up, into the first clear image he can see in his mind.

Thrandos the Fateful looked upon him, his goatee more golden than grey, those years ago. A dimple on his left cheek, pock marks gently kissing the right of his head, just beside his mane of light hair, almost angelic as the sun beams upon him. Thrandos was kindly, Kian recalls. He offered Kian something to eat; a sweet he had never tasted before. The youth followed the man to a ship. The vessel gently rolls away from the sprawling urban center of the Westerosi. Waves and one particularly bad storm staying in his mind, even now. Hiding under the bed, fear gripping his throat.

Volantis awaited. A city that awed him, even beyond the scope of King's Landing. Perhaps so because he could not recall approaching the Westerosi capital from the sea. Only leaving it, and he was occupied with other things. But Volatnis was immense, a place of wonders. It was said the hundred isles of Braavos could be dropped into the harbor and disappear, he recalled one sailor claiming. The nameless ship had docked, and from there Thrandos the Faithful led the young one to a vast structure, almost a plaza of sorts, and yet its varying minarets seemed each as large as the Red Keep from across the narrow sea.

The Great Temple of the Lord of Light.

Kian's memories grow far more pellucid and unclouded. And yet, this is the chapter in his life that must remain shrouded in secrecy. R'hllor is the God of light, but also the God of shadow. His rituals are secret; surreptitious, and even if they were made know, the dimensions would be paradoxical, incomprehensible, and would undoubtedly prove ephemeral in one's limited mind.

What Kian is permitted to recall aloud, however, is the women. Alonta of Braavos, Serana from Lys, Princess Philandrae of Sarnor, and many more. One needs to appreciate the finer things in life when traveling in service to the Lord of Light. Thrantos had told him that, though granted the old priest had meant the occasional glass of wine, not bedding royalty and whispering into the ears of other men's wives. But the Lord had blessed Kian with the looks of a sculpture and the voice of a singer, who was he to question it?

His devil-may-care attitude however, was somewhat tempered when his next pilgrimage was not to one of the Free Cities, but to the land of his birth. The council of flame had given it to him with their full blessing, but he could tell from their eyes it was a penal assignment; a punishment for his extracurricular activities. He was granted no audience with the crown, or any representation with any of the seven kingdoms. He was there to spread the faith, and provide light where there was darkness.

Well, he supposed he would have to make do, now wouldn't he?

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir had learned long ago that his status as a bastard made things quite awkward. He had grown used to it, and so he put that into the next logical step of this undesirable situation and merely answered matter-of-fact, even though he had not quite expected someone to ask him about it to his face. "Word spreads quickly. I am he, regrettably."

"I hear yu attack't heem before he coot even draw hiss swerd." She said, looking at him with the most innocent eyes Kasimir had ever seen. He was about as convinced as all the rest, but it was a stark contrast to the sharp eyed looks she had cast both times he had seen her previously. A nobleman sucked in a breath at the abrupt statement, and the two aristocratic women shared concerned glances. Even Oderik glanced at Eleanor, though only out of unease for her own embarrassment. It was only a reflex however. Kasimir knew whatever she said on the incident, it was his reputation on the line, not hers.

"I can say with honesty that is just a rumor." Kasimir said confidently, gingerly inclining his head to the woman. He sighed, as if the whole thing were some tragedy. He did not have to pretend much. He did not care about Clausewitz, but the duel's aftermath had been a headache. "I tried to alleviate his grievances but he attacked me and I defended himself. I never attack first, if I can help it."

"Ah, I zee." She said, as if she had just been granted the meaning of a particularly troublesome riddle. "It iz funnee. You say zis, and yet you, vat iz ze verd, assult our conversay-zhun and place yourzelf at ze center?"

"I am certain sir Reinhardt had no such intentions," Sir Oderick remarked, placing a comforting hand on Eleanour's dainty fingers. Despite the assurance, Oderick gave Kasimir a look of warning. Kasimir subtly glanced at the others, and it seemed half of the small crowd looked morbidly curious on the affair, while the two men were taking the opportunity to oggle Eleanor while the brettonian was distracted. Kasimir's eyes met one of the noblewomen, and her gaze averted sharply with a light blush. He guessed his reputation was not entirely detrimental.

"If I offended you, I apologize." Kasimir lamented to Eleanor. "I believe my manners have fled me with my weariness. I have just returned, actually. I have spent the better part of three years in the south, mostly Altdorf."

One woman nodded and the other said 'ah,' as the men listened. Oderick took it as a bandaid for this entire disagreement.

Eleanor smiled. "Iz it beautiful? I haf never been."

Kasimir looked at her, turning his head slightly. "But mademoiselle, you had to have traveled through reikland in order to get here."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. Whatever was going through her mind, it reasserted itself as quick as a whip crack. "Non, I took a sheehp. I landed in marienburg and travelled nurth from zere."

Kasimir kept his face a mask of congeniality, but he was not going to let it go. "My mistake. It is good you did not travel through the capital. A lovely city," He remarked, casting his gaze to those around him before settling back on Eleanor. "but I find the people arrogant, uneducated, and as plump as wine sacks."

There. For the briefest moment, he saw utter annoyance behind her eyes. She played it off well, however. Her gaze was disapproving, her full lips almost in a pout. "Zat iz a very root thing to say, monsier. Yu are quite uncouth."

"This is Middenheim, my lady De Aberville. We are nothing if not uncouth." He said, granting her a bow to hide his smile. "I am certain your man is familiar with such things, especially after a successful battle." Oderick nodded at the compliment, though he still seemed a bit uneasy about the direction this conversation had taken.

"And yit no von seems out uff plece, bet you." She replied, her laughter like angelic bells. It put the group at ease, and a few laughed with her. Eleanor gave a playful smile, even though he was certain she was attempting to be scathing. "Small vonder you did not appear here viz a voman."

Kasimir's mirth fled and he stiffened.

It was a sore subject for him. He had no trouble with his appearance, but he was constantly thrust into social situations where he was the lowest on the social ladder. He would be lucky to marry anyone at all, truth be told. Even if he took the noblewoman who had been eyeing him aside after the party, she would deny it the next day and likely have him caught in a scandal. There was a touch of victory in Eleanour's eyes, Kasimir imagined.

He gave a wintry smile. "I have my eye on one," He said as if to no one in particularly, however his second statement landed his gaze squarely on Eleanors. "-but I believe she is untrustworthy."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"Do I really sound like that?" Beren asked Buri as the dwarf was unsteadily rising. Beren had a relatively deep, noticeably smooth voice. But of course it was always hard to hear how others heard one's timbre. For his part, Buri almost fell flat on his face again. Unfortunately, Buri was most definitely the least fit of all the dwarves, with a well groomed beard and attire more suited for a day merchant than any sort of dangerous travel. His small merchant's cap had fallen off, the dwarf grabbing it groggily.

"She makes a good effort," He said by way of an answer. The dwarf groaned, blinking away the spots in his eyes. It said something about the dwarven race, that even the most coddled were tough enough to get up after a head wound that would have left a man on death's door. "Better than I could, least ways."

The darkness, even with the glow worms, was still all-encompassing to the senses. Beren reached into his pack, grabbing the second to last torch. Buri grunted, taking out a small flint and tinder from his belt.

"I could just make some light, you know." Jocasta reasoned, her hands opening up as if emulating a small burst.

"I don't know much about magic, but a torch should be ok for now. I have a spare, and you should conserve what energy you have." The warrior monk said, unstrapping his axe as Buri set the torch alight. The sparks caught, and the flame whooshed to life. Buri handed it to Beren. The handsome warrior took it gingerly. "Buri, stay at the back. Jo, stay between us, and I'll take the lead."

"Alright, boy. But if we have to run, just remember my legs aren't that long." He complained. Beren grinned as Buri started muttering about the mead and salted pork he missed from back home. His voice echoed gently through the chasm. "Only reason I came was fer the wealth. Aye, the legends had me as enthralled as the next dwarf, but I was promised funds! Not traipsing around in the darkness..." His accent and the rolling r's caused his voice to doubly reverberate along the stone.

As they crept along, the mosaic grew noticeably cracked, bits of stone flaking off of the walls. Beren had expected it, and it nearly made him as forlorn as a proper dwarf. He decided to change the subject. "You know, speaking of funerary rights, there's probably some good research opportunities up ahead." He chimed in to Jocasta.

"That's true..." She said, mulling it over. Her earrings had zipped back onto her ears obediently, a glow worm propped up on her shoulder, like a miniature lamp.

"And there's probably an outpost up ahead too, with beer and running water." He continued conversationally. It was just a hunch, but as long as there were tunnels that led out into the underworld, there was always a guard station.

"Really?" She said, hope in her voice.

"Really?" He echoed, his voice as high pitched as he could manage. Jocasta stuck her tongue out at Beren and he responded by giggling like a boy.

"I'll turn you into a frog," She threatened, wiggling her fingers. A glow worm was just at the brink of her heavy bosom now, casting a light above and giving her cheekbones and eyes a shadowed, eerie look like a mad witch. He doubted she could do that, even if she wasn't playing around, but still it made him shake his head.

"Oh, so you can make fun of me, but when I do it-"

"When I do it it's tasteful-" She asserted, tossing her hair back.

They bickered for a few more moments, both failing to suppress smiles as they continued until Buri cleared his throat. "Oi, are the both of ye gonna flirt or can we keep going?"

"He/She started it," the remarked in unison.

Buri mumbled something in dwarvish that was clearly derogatory. Jocasta placed her hands on Beren's left shoulder and got on her tip toes. "What did he say?" She whispered.

"You don't wanna know," He whispered back.

The chasm soon blossomed into a hollow cavity in the endless stone. Initially it was a natural widening, but it sharpely turned with hard right angles. They stood just outside of the main structure, and from where they had entered, they saw there were three levels of the 'graveyard,' every dwarf body either interred within the well-carved walls, or in stone tombs inlaid with runes along each level. The stairways were easily accessible and wide.

Stout, protuberant pillars stretched from ground floor to tiled ceiling, drawing the eye upwards to see an incredible piece of artistry. Every tile was hexagonal, and every hexagonal shape was filled with sparkling gilded veins that had been formed into runes that spoke the name of every dwarf interred within. At its center, one large hexagon held an immaculate canvas of Mahal, the fortress guarding the dwarven afterlife.

"Muradin's beard..." Beren muttered, and Jocasta grabbed his hand as she looked skyward with him.

"Aye..." Buri agreed, taking his hat off in respect. A few moments later, he added: "The most wealth I've seen here, and I would be damned for eternity if I touched any of it. The gods have a way of testing you."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

"Fraulien," Kasimir greeted cooly, but the baroness Grimhausen did not seem to hear. In fact she seemed to steer clear away from him, turning from her original route across the floor to veer left. Kasimir sighed, not entirely surprised. A serving man walked by him with six glasses of stout being carried to the tables. Kasimir nabbed one with an effortless grace without the fellow noticing, downing half of its contents before a count of three.

Perhaps he should insist upon conversation with one of the many houses or well-to-do upstart nobles. Already he could see people watching him, whispering as he stood there. Every fit of laughter caused him to feel as if it was at his own expense, but he also noticed whenever he cast his gaze in a direction too long, the gossip grew quieter and the looks were less overt. Perhaps his duel with Heilwig was poorly timed, but he could use his reputation as a swordsman to his advantage. He had enemies yes, but he was also one of the few men here who were dangerous without household guards bolstering their confidence.

He sequestered that bit of philosophy to the back of his mind and waded into the crowd, past a congregation of portly, mustachiode men and their giggling wives. He found himself at the table of appetizers, and upon the cloak of one man, he recognized the sigil of house Boeslegar. The man was broad, but not overly so, with a brown beard that reached into his oaken hairline behind his ears. If the guard captain could be believed, the patriarch of the Boeslegar family, Ingvald had slain a beastman warchief in battle with his own spear.

"Pardon me," Kasimir said by way of announcement, reaching past the burly man to grab a small plate with honeyed ham and steamed bean, grabbing a fork while he was at it. "It would do my reputation even less service to bump into you, honored sir."

The man looked at Kasimir gravely for a few, pregnant moments. Then his face widened in a smile. He seemed to have the magnetism of a man used to leading in battle. "I believe I know you. You're Graf Todbringer's new pup, are you not?"

"I've not been called that to my face, exactly." Kasimir remarked, and Ingvald chuckled.

"I have no talent for rumor, be it by ear or tongue." Ingvald said by way of apology. "But it is good to meet you. The Graf has spoken of you, and not without some small measure of praise, which is hard to garner. Most usually have better luck finding good farmland in the Drakwald. But perhaps he had reason. You are one of the two most famous newcomers to the city, after today's killing." Kasimir tried not to make a face at the term. It sounded a bit too close to murder, for his liking.

"Who is the other?" Kasimir asked casually.

"Ha, well I suppose it is unsurprising you've not heard, as most men steer clear when a white wolf is guarding one, even a woman so beautiful as that." Ingvald replied, granting a nod across the table. Kasimir's wintry gaze passed a small winding opening in the pressed bodies to see a curvaceous woman standing there, smiling prettily up at the hulking white wolf guarding her. The two of them were speaking to another two aristocrats, one older and one at the cusp of youth, and a number of noble ladies. "-But we've a brettonian in our midst, and between you and me, she's got a pair on her as lush as a reikland field. Don't keep your eye on her too long, though. You've enough enemies as it is."

"Enemies, you say?" Kasimir wondered idly, watching the woman. Kasimir had to admit Ingvald's assertions of her beauty were right. The classical green dress and gilded girdle only enhanced her feminine charms. But there was something else about her that drew his attention. The Knight of Ulric handed her a second glass of what looked to be wine, which she graciously accepted. However, when her escort threw his head back in a laugh after the younger noble said something particularly crass, she swiftly poured the drink out, the wine falling into the soil of the potted plant next to her. Within a blink, she had her glass back to her lips, acting as if she had just drained it.

"Now as I said, I am not one for rumor. I only know of whispers, but if I were you, I would keep that sword on you. And try not to step on anyone else's toes." The Lord Boeslegar said, patting Kasimir on the shoulder, and taking his leave of the food table. One fat man eyed the table, but seemed frozen, his eyes going between Kasimir and the food. The bastard decided to grant him his wish, quickly finished the plate, and walked away to leave the man to his own dinner.

He dodged and shouldered his way through the crowd, sliding up to the small gathering beside the White Wolf and his prize. The golden haired woman giggled with the group, and Kasimir gave a small token laugh as well to act involved. Perhaps it was nothing, he thought. Perhaps his suspicion of...something, was just his attraction working into his mind.

"I hear your Athel Loren is as dangerous as our Drakwald, my lady." The older noble said, smiling to the woman graciously. The women went quiet and the men turned their eyes to her. She nodded emphatically.

"Oh oui monsier. Iz ver-ee dangeroos. Bit beauteevul."

"Might we hear a story or two of the place?" Kasimir added, and for the first time, it seemed the entire crowd had noticed he was there. Not the woman, of course. She had noticed as soon as he had arrived. "Or, I'm sorry, does the forest reach your province? I have forgotten."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

Beren watched her spectacle, thoroughly enjoying Jo just being herself. It was difficult to describe how he was feeling. He had just been through one of the most horrific experiences in most people's lives, and then had a building fall on him. But he wakes up and Jocasta pops over, and he was enjoying every word, every movement, every idiosyncrasy. If he had a mirror he would have advised himself not to be so obvious about it.

"I don't sound like that..." He said though he was grinning, but she cut him off and poked his chest, talking to him about honor. His grin disappeared, and he looked at her with pure honesty.

"I'm not gonna die." He replied, shaking his head. He meant it. "You tell me to jump I jump, you tell me to stay alive I will. We're a team. We have been since I pegged that Orc with a wooden chest."

"And I opened that hole in the ground that sent us to the draugr caves," She said, remembering it fondly. The memory of magic bringing sparkles to her eyes.

"And it looked like a tiger and swallowed us..." He said, the glow worm now having popped back down her shirt, and glanced at. Beren shook his head.

"What are you looking at?" She asked.

"I'm just jealous of that little guy." He said, resignedly. "It's your best quality."

Beren held it together for a good two seconds as she realized what he said, but his face twisted into a laugh and she burst out laughing too, acting like she was going to hit him. Instead she just tapped his chest, trying to push her smile away. "I guess we have that in common..."

Their laughter died away as they looked at one another, their lips parting and their faces drawing together to finally share a kiss they had been waiting on for months...

The ground started undulating violently. Jocasta nearly flew off of Beren, and it was lucky they hadn't banged their faces into one another. A thunderous roar rolled all around them, and a cacophony of cracks sounded around the immense cavern overlooking the city. Beren kept her from launching into the rocks, but despite the immediate danger, Beren looked for all the world like he had just lost an important card game rather than being thrust into an earthquake underground.

"Why!? Why can't I kiss her? Is it me? Is it something I did!?" He exclaimed, and gave a guttural curse in dwarfish. Jocasta unsteadily got to her feet, the rumbling slightly subsiding enough to allow movement, and across the fire Buri bounced twice before the rock his body fell on opened him up, halting his snorting. With a small word, Jocasta's earrings hopped off her ears, zipping around to go and locate the other dwarves.

She thrust his shirt into his arms and whispered. "Soon!"

"We need to find the others," He said, swiftly pulling his shirt down over himself. "I'll go and-"

This time she did give him a punch in the stomach. Not hard, but enough to make his sore form feel it. "What did we just talk about!?" She cried.

He paused, and then nodded. "Alright, we'll get out of here. But we can't go far. Buri!"

"What in the blazes!?" The dwarf barked, running a fat hand over his eyes and grimacing. Across the endless chasm, buildings collapsed in cascading showers of rocks. "The whole city's going down!"

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Sleep had fortunately not eluded him.

He had killed before Clausewitz Heilwig, though even his first hadn't riled him up more than a minute. He suspected he might not be what the sigmarite priests called a 'man of conscience.' He would dispute that, if he had the care to. The half a dozen men who had fallen to his blade had either tried to kill him, or were scourges the empire could do without. Fortunately, it seemed Clausewitz Heilwig happened to be both. The weariness of the road had worn off of him, and true to his word, Hammershaldt had provided clothes for the evening for after he had washed up.

His fears of being put in some ostentatious display were alleviated. He had been given a handsome black jerkin with embroidered patterns of ulrican wolves mirroring one another. His wolfskin cloak had been replaced with a gilded cape that swept about his shoulders, and the shirt beneath was colored light and made of satin, and his trousers were comfortable and loose fitting save for when the fabric met just above his ankles. His traveling shoes had been polished to the best of the court's considerable abilities, likely not having the time to find something else in his size on such short notice.

Once he donned the outfit and slid on a pair of belts, one to hold his hunting knife and the other for his sword, opened the door leading out of his chambers.

"There's no need for that."

Kasimir found himself standing face to face with what happened to be the captain of the guard, flanked by six men with halberds. He had a mustache that would make an ostermark man proud, and grey eyes that looked far too striking for his relatively mundane, aged face. He wore no helmet, but he had on armor and a surcoat that would be the envy of any imperial swordsman. Kasimir knew immediately he meant his own sword. The bastard glanced down at his hip, and then back at the captain.

"Have you been ordered to make sure I don't bring it?" Kasimir asked, wanting to be specific.

"Yes. I was told you would likely argue, but I want this to be as easy as possible. If you please..." After a moment's hesitation, Kasimir acquiesced. He unhooked the belt, and laid it across the bench next to the door, and stepped out into the hall. The nap had lasted for a few hours, as the windows showed the sun was now finally dipping low, the clouds having fled and Ulric blessing them with a red sky. As soon as Kasimir stepped out, the captain smiled. "If you please, sir."

"Let's not keep them waiting," Kasimir quipped, and the troupe marched north, leaving the southern wing of the Graf's palace. Kasimir strode at the head, acting for all he was worth like the captain himself, confident and fierce. They were making good time, as the grounds of the fortress were vast, until a pair of workmen hauling a large table stalled them, trying to manuever out of a chamber for some refashioning project to one of the rooms. Kasimir glanced out one of the windows. To fill the silence, the real captain spoke. "Have they told you of your responsibilities yet, herr Reinhardt?"

Down below, Kasimir saw an odd pair walking across the flagstones, followed by a small entourage of servants. The man was clearly a white wolf, broad shouldered and red bearded. With some chagrin, Kasimir noted he was armed. On his arm, walking with him was one of the most lovely women he had ever seen, pretty of face and curvaceous in every place a man dreams of. But she clearly was not from here, that was evident just by the way she moved. Her eyes flicked to every exit, glinting with some hidden secret, though perhaps he was imagining things. She smiled and seemed to be laughing at the man's jokes, but somehow it did not reach her eyes.

"Not specifically," Kasimir said, turning away. He had only taken a second to glance outside.

"That is because specifically you're to do what the Graf or Hammserhaldt tells you, or any other noble for that matter, unless they are superseded by one of the two. I know your position, and I don't envy it. I had one much like it, once upon a time." The older man said, and spread his mustache in a smile. "I am originally from Nordland, and I also found refuge in the court of Middenheim. Perhaps one day you'll have my job, or one like it. Or if you're lucky, you'll seduce some baron's daughter. Stranger things have happened."

"I appreciate the advice, but I've only been here a day. Let's not make ambitious plans just yet." The bastard replied, indicating they move forward now the hall was clear.