bramblefoot
alright, so the party ends up in front of the powderhouse. the area is silent as the grave, and the door to the powderhouse swings in the breeze.

regine: youd spot a single gold coin with arcane sigils laying on the doorstep of the powderhouse. the gold piece seems to whisper to you, calling you to pick it up. gimme wp at -20 to avoid grabbing it

 

wighard: you detect an aura of misery inside the powderhouse, as if many souls cried out at once, and were suddenly silenced

bruno and berty: feel free to theorize on what awaits you inside.

jasmine: youd spot a small grey scrap of cloth on the top piece of the door, as if someones cloak got stuck in the door

wdyd?
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  

Wighard is already concerned on the boat trip across from  Trundheim  as they arrive at the isolated powder house without being challenged.

His fears are  confirmed upon their arrival, and he turns to the crew of the boat,   Get back to  Trundheim  as fast as possible 
 

then devotes his attention to Siobhan

  Warning flags out please, get the boat back and keep a safe distance  
  Aye sir  

and returns his attention to the boat crew

  Why are you still here?  
 What about you? 
  We've survived worse, and we'll survive better not having to worry about you, move  

The boat pulls away as the  Trundheim  pulls the Imperial Ensign down and then rehoists it upside down
farothel
Bruno wasn't sure what Wighard had in mind, but he didn't say anything.  He only hoped that the powderhouse was build like the dwarves did in the empire.  Very thick walls and the lightest roof they could get away with.  Also with thick inside walls and heavy doors, so that an explosion in one chamber didn't necessarily mean that the whole thing went up in flames and if it did, the thick outside walls would contain the blast that would just throw the light roof away.

But in the empire, both dwarves and humans were used to black powder and its ways.  This was Bretonnia, where the whole concept was new and where people were often too proud to take advice of those who actually knew what they were doing.  Well, they would have to be careful no matter what the building looked like.
dojango
" A magic pot that sails underwater?  Like Strega Nona who brings pasta to all the good little boys and girls? "  Jasmine shakes her head.  " Hope you had fun out on shore leave... "

While the others are carefully watching the powderhouse, Jasmine points up to the top of the door.  " Bruno, kin you grab that?  I wanna take a closer look at it.  If it caught on the top o' the door, it must be someone real tall, much taller than a dwarf just went in. "
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  

Wighard looks at Bertelis, who is in one of his quiet subdued modes today, which is probably for the best as it means he is unlikely to do anything rash or impulsive, then turns his attention to Bruno and the others.

  Obvious trap is obvious, we want to wait for some local authority to show up given that there's no sign of anyone we can help?  
farothel
 "Sure, hold on,"  Bruno said, grabbing the piece of cloth and quickly looking at it before handing it over.
 "I'm not sure what the authorities can do here,"  he said,  "well, except for the fact that blackpowder is still forbidden around here, but that also means they have no idea on how to handle things.  I see them walking in with torches and that wouldn't be a good idea." 
dojango
" An' let the local authorities set off the trap?  While they hain't impressed me with their competence, integrity or attention ta basic hygiene, don't ya think that's a little cold ta use them up like that?  If ya reckon there's nowat we can do ta prevent the disaster then we're best jes' sailin' away like we did before an' letting the chips fall where they may, which in this case is gonna be over several dozen city blocks. "
wilphe
  It's a trap for   US  , not necessarily anyone else, because we are supposedly being set up to take the blame for something bad happening. We have assumed that means this is going to go skywards, but it might be something else.

That seems less likely if we simply alert the locals and go in with them, between the Duke, the City, The Grail Maidens and The Temple of Manaan someone should react to  Trundheim 's signal. There's a lot of money tied up in there.

Also we have a set MO that observant foes will anticipate us following, I would rather not act according to their expectations,  that's why I haven't lit up the building yet.  
farothel
 "Point taken,"  Bruno said,  "Maybe Bertelis can get the assistance.  He's the one with the authority here.  We can keep watch on this building until he comes back with the assistance, in whatever form." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The Thief was waltzing back to the agreed upon HQ of the group, the night air kissing her skin gently and a general good mood palpable in her own head.

That was, of course, until she spotted the coin.

Transfixed as its magic called out to her, the thief at first attempted to sway herself away from this trinket. But, she couldn't help herself. Maybe it sung to a deeply seated inner greed within her that over-rode her sense of reason, or maybe her inhibitions were temporarily disabled - but the well-dressed Master Thief knelt down and reached a gloved hand out to the coin and drew it up off the ground.
bramblefoot
alright, so you wait, and wait and wait. no local LEO's seem to be forthcoming, and it seems to be quiet as
a tomb. the aura of despair seems to be growing, and all of a sudden the doors swing open, and your worst nightmare appears.

everyone, please describe your worst nightmare, and gimme a int roll against mr magic users opposed int roll

int roll
 (1d100)[ 83 ] 

fp roll if necessary
 (1d100)[ 41 ] 

regine: the gold coin will stay in your hand, and then it switches to a small hand of glory with five fingers clenched around an unlit candle.

can i get a fear test at -20 or take 1d3 IP?
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  

Wighard gets a bit testy at the lack of response from, well anybody, and is considering firing off a signal - or simply leaving, when it happens.


He is back on a stream bank in the foothills of the Middle Mountains, five years ago.

He knows that he has just run from the destroyed ruins of a homestead in the woods.

He knows he will find a charred stake sticking lopsidedly out of the ground

He knows he will find nothing there because the ash and remains around it have all been cleared away, ground up and tossed into the river.

He knows his master will tell him there is nothing he could have done except die beside her

He know he is right

And yet

Would that have been so bad?


 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 48 ]  INT 71

 (1d100)[ 72 ]  FP if necessary
 
dojango
Jasmine feels like she is a child again, and hears voices from just out of sight.  Her uncle, and the sheriff talking.  "They were looking for mushrooms in the woods..."  "Beastmen raiders were seen..." "They haven't come back yet..."

She feels tears rolling down her cheeks, but intellectually she knows it's a trick.  She rolls her eyes and says to nobody in particular.  " The best part of bein' orphaned is it only happens once.  Shake it off, it's jes' dark magic, if that's their only shot it ain't much. "  She swivels to double check nobody's sneaking up on them or scurrying away.
farothel
Bruno looked at the table.  He was in a small cottage and he and his older brothers have just returned from a day of backbreaking work on the field, getting it ready for the next planting season.  But the table is empty, as are the stores.  The winter wheat, which should be ripe by now, has done nothing but feed mold and other parasites.  Looking at the table again, as if that was going to change something, he tried very hard not to cry as his stomach rumbled with hunger.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

int:  (1d100)[ 42 ]  vs 59
 FP if needed int:  (1d100)[ 79 ]  vs 59 
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Regine had pulled off the most daring heist of her life. The Barons coffers raided, his prized jewels stolen! She made off into the night with a satchel that would set her for life...but she was caught and imprisoned.

Naturally though, no jail could hold her skills and she escaped! Not only did she escape, but she swung past the Barons manor to thieve his jewels once more, to flee into the night...but she was caught and imprisoned.

Naturally though, no jail could hold her skills and she escaped! Not only did she escape, but she swung past the Barons manor to thieve his jewels once more, to flee into the night...but she was caught and imprisoned.

Naturally though...
bramblefoot
alright, so after that little mind trip, those of you who passed by more than 2 dos are fully back in your headspace. then, five gold statues with their faces in pure agony move out of the front door of the powderhouse and begin to march towards you. the aura of despair intensifies as these five statues move towards you, hands outstretched and grasping

wighard: gimme an occult roll at -20 pls to see if you know what these are. (spoiler alert, their nasty) also they seem uncannily focused on you

regine and jasmine: these things are slow, but steady. they'll reach you in a round, giving you plenty of time to shoot or do something

bruno: What's the play? you got 5 golden statues marching out, all headed for wighard

meanwhile, inside the powderhouse: a mysterious man in chain and plate will mutter to himself, as two people walk around, pouring out powder and rigging things up  "the statues will only hold them so long"  dreadlocks says, tapping her fingers against her arm. the other man will shrug  "we'll be long gone by then"  he says, fiddling with a small tinderbox.  "rig the candles like so, so when the rope burns, they fall into the powder"  the mysterious man barks, standing and tracing an arcane ward in tobacco ash on the wall.  "after your done, follow me" 

the mysterious man
 

dreadlocks
 

guard boy
 
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  

Wighard is unsure why there would be golden statues inside a magazine, so isn't sure if they would be real gold or just look like it. He backs up towards the water and keeps Bertelis and Bruno between him and them


[ 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 5 ]  AK/Magic 51
 
farothel
Bruno saw the golden statues come out and noticed they were on a sort of row, so he rushed the first one, trying to give it a push so it would fall on another which would fall on another and so on.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

agility at +10:  (1d100)[ 89 ]  vs 61 ( 30  FP reroll in OOC)
toughness at -20:  (1d100)[ 19 ]  vs 20
 
bramblefoot
the statues topple, but the foremost one snags bruno by the chainmail,  and youd all notice his chainmail starts to change to gold

wighard: these are midas gold statues, people who touched cursed coins, and were turned to gold by wicked sorcery. the cure is unknown, and it looks like brunos been touched

wdyd?
wilphe
  Bertelis Roche
  

Bertelis snaps from his sullen reverie at the prospect of danger and begins smashing at the one standing statue with his mace


 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 57 ]  41
 (1d10)[ 5 ]  +5

 (1d100)[ 40 ]  41
 (1d10)[ 6 ]  +5

 (1d100)[ 25 ]  46 Parry

 (1d100)[ 44 ]  52 Doge
 
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  
  Try not to let it touch you!  

Wighard isn't sure how to fix this, because if this is normal magic it seems like corrupted Metal college material that is outside his expertise and if it is a divine curse all bets are off.

On the other hand, it has so far only affected Bruno's armour, not himself, so maybe if he can channel enough Hysh into Bruno the hostile magic won't

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 38 ]  Channelling 87

 (1d100)[ 55 ]  FP if necessary
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Regined eyes opened at the sight of them all - Regines crossbow quickly in hand and loosung bolts.
dojango
Jasmine sees the molten gold is spreading and thinks quickly... maybe cooling it down will give him time to break free?  She pulls out her waterskin and tries to pour water on Bruno's armor where the gold is.
farothel
Bruno tries to dodge the attack from the statue after he bowled them over.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

dodge blow:  (1d100)[ 55 ]  vs 41
 
bramblefoot
bruno: the gilding climbs to the shoulders of the mail, and then dies off. the statue shudders, and releases its grip on bruno. the golden cover flakes away, to reveal a very dead dwarf with its body frozen, its face a mask of horror. seems like you found a dwarf

wounds taken by the molten gold
 (1d5+1)[ 5 ] 

wighard: the statues will move together, to form a 7ft automaton made of gold and dead dwarves. it will stand, as if awaiting orders, and then move to advance on you, feet like tombstones attempting to crush you

le trample

 (1d100)[ 99 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 

regine and jasmine: what are you two doing now that the golden automaton has risen and is attempting to play a game of squish the pesky humans
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5
  

Wighard sidesteps the stomp and draws weapons

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 74 ]  Parry 64

 (1d100)[ 47 ]  Dodge 54
 


Schlapp stays back and out of the way



Bertelis decides to keep smashing enemies even if he doesn't seem very enthusiastic about it and attacks in dour silence

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 77 ]  41
 (1d10)[ 10 ] +5

 (1d100)[ 69 ]  41
 (1d10)[ 7 ] +5

[ (1d100)[ 15 ] 46 Parry

 (1d100)[ 76 ] 52 Doge
 
dojango
While the warriors are dancing with the horrible automaton, Jasmine gets an uneasy feeling about the building and carefully skirts the battle and goes to the door to check inside to see what lurks within...

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 30 ]  v 79 silent move to sneak over and peer inside the powder-house
 
farothel
Taking a bit of distance for now, with part of his armour in gold (which is notoriously bad at being armour), he draws his pistol and fires it into the big golden statue.  Maybe a shot being fired will also get the lead out of the asses of the local guards.

 
 Spoiler: ooc rolls 

a few steps back, then quick draw and shoot at the statue:  (1d100)[ 8 ]  vs 58 for damage (impact):  (1d10+4)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
 
bramblefoot
jasmine: stalking around mr gold and dead dwarves and peeking your way inside, youd spot this man trace a few sigils in the air, and then snap out of reality. at the last sigil, the candles drop into the spilled powder, and the sound of the worlds biggest  crump  noise as the powderhouse explodes, leaving nothing but a raging fire and a massive crater in the island

meanwhile the rest of you would realize, as the illusion magic fades from reality, you just killed several powderhouse dwarves, just as the local guards round the corner with two mounted knights in the lead.  "alright boys, take em away for a tribunal"  the lead knight says dismissively, and the men at arms will nod.  "will you come quietly, or do we have to make a bigger mess than already exists?"  one of the men at arms says calmly

wdyd?
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 5/5  
  Get ready to come pick us up if necessary, is everyone ok?  
 Aye sir 

Wighard looks at the leading knight, his undischarged blunderbuss not pointed at anyone right now but definitely there

  Yes whenever I am going to blow things up I make sure to fly a distress signal and alert the authorities for up to an hour before I actually do it.  
 "will you come quietly, or do we have to make a bigger mess than already exists?" 
  That will very much depend on where you are so kindly inviting us to come.

We are happy to cooperate with your investigation, but not as prisoners

You would in any case be laying hands on a Bannerez and direct vassal of His Majesty as well as an Imperial Baronet.   

He lets that sink in for a bit

  That would be above your paygrade

Also if we did fight our way into the magazine you will notice that we are apparently entirely fresh and unwounded and no one landed a scratch on us  

He lets that sink in also, and for the slow on uptake

  Which would be good evidence that we did not in fact do anything; or that we are way scarier than anyone you want to mess with

So here is what will happen:

I will look for and treat anyone who needs it, which it doesn't seem there will be that many because this is an isolated and properly built magazine

We will remain here, whilst you alert someone who is of appropriate rank to deal with this and possibly summon reinforcements if that makes you more comfortable.

Also I strongly suggest that you ask a few grail damsels to check this place out because some powerful illusion magic has been employed.  
farothel
Bruno looked at his armour to see if the gold effect was still there and then he turned to the arriving officers.
 "Good evening officers,"  he said in his best Bretonnian to the knights,  "my name is Bruno, Baronet Richter and this is Sir Bertelis Roche, knight Banneret of Saulx.  And as my other esteemed colleague said, we're here to investigate some problems with this blackpowder house.  I'm willing to help you with your enquiries, as we all are.  However, I believe we have acted as good citizens and I'm sure your investigations will show.  But my esteemed colleague is correct that there was some heavy magic here, so you best get some Damsels or priests to investigate this part." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

charm I guess:  (1d100)[ 50 ]  vs 97 (67 Fel, 20 mastery, 10 etiquette talent)
 
dojango
As soon as Jasmine saw the candle falling over, she shrieked and started running back past where the others were.  "  RUN!  SHE'S GONNA BLOW!  " she screamed as she accelerated past them, and then she dived off the quay into the dark, murky waters of the harbor.  Again.
bramblefoot
if there is no objections, ill do a little jump cut, and let you all discuss what you did while in the good cells for foreigners. note that there are much worse cells for much worse people
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

When the illusion faded, Regine's eyes widened at the trickery bestowed upon them. What foul magicks had these been? Another sorcerer?! And why?

But perhaps even worse...the authorities arrived.

Regine, the master thief that she was, had been in this situation many, many times before. While the others chatted, she stepped backwards and slunk into the shadows...


______________________

OOC:

Regine is going to Concealment:  (1d100)[ 40 ]  vs TN 108

Then Silent Move away:  (1d100)[ 42 ]  vs TN 108

6 successes on both.
wilphe
Between Wighard and Bruno, as Bertelis doesn't do much except stand there and look sullen, a deal is hashed out

The Company agrees to go with the authorities and they agree to not stop us leaving unless we try to leave.

Its all very civilised and no one has to die.

Not yet anyway.

Imperial confinement is ok for as long as you have money, Bretonnia lacks that sort of organised system as judgement on peasants tends to be summary and immediate whilst nobles have to show up when summoned or lose any claim on honour.

Therefore the group gives parole and gets treated as honourable until they demonstrate otherwise, moving into a set of rooms in one of Bertelis' cousin's houses for a few days.

He will spend his time preparing a case
farothel
Bruno will help Wighard with the case, although his knowledge about law is limited, he does know a few things about history that could give precedent.  And as their primary talker, it would probably fall to him to plead the case to the local noble, so knowing what points to stress and which to gloss over would make it a lot easier to do just that.
dojango
Jasmine had landed in the water with a small splash and dove into the murky water.  When she surfaced, she was surprised to see that the powder-house had not, in fact, exploded, and the others were standing around chatting with some guards next to an unattended, recently sabotaged magazine.  She did not stick around.  Perhaps some of the guards had seen her jump in the water but none of them were inclined to jump in after her so she made her way to another dock and climbed out.  Wet and annoyed, she dumped all her weapons and gear in front of Bully and told him to dry them out and clean them up, and then waited for the others to arrive.  When she found out that they had been placed under house arrest and caught up in the machinations of Bretonnian justice, she felt a little lost and out to sea about how best to help them.  So, with a small purse of coin in hand she made a desperate and reckless decision.  She went a-looking for a lawyer...
bramblefoot
the company under house arrest: a small emissary will bring a document for the trial by combat. it will be aboard an old galleon anchored in the bay and scheduled for decommission. the combat will end when either all three participants on either side yield, or the participants can no longer continue. the three enemy contestents are aelfric the mad, lysander the quick, and grot the flatulent

you also get to choose a one handed, non-magical weapon to fight with. the rules state no more than leather armor, no shields, and no poison. surprisingly, their allowing black powder

regine: what are you doing?

jasmine: bully huffs, and will casually look over the firearms  "powders wet, so theres that"  he says. he will also suggest you dont take any dips with your firearms, and will grouse about other things
MrAbdiel
 The room is dark, because it is shut off from the outside world and flooded with supernatural darkness.  It is cold, but not for its own reasons; but only because the hot blood is flooding out of him through a gruesome hole in his chest. Outside, Bruno was proving his decision was the smart one, to seek after the rest of the Company. Here, Bertelis was dying cold, alone, afraid, and ashamed of that fear to the marrow of his bones. It is a common enough belief that the dead watched the affairs of living; that one's ancestors took an interest, if not a hand, in the life of their kin.

 Not in such a way, My Lady... Do not let them see me in such a way...  

This, the worse moment of his life, had come roaring back in the illusory assault and again in nightmare the night after. As his eyes creak open and gaze at the ceiling, he considers that he might simply remain here in this bed until he dies. This legal entanglement is shame brought upon him in his effort to serve his Duke, immediately after being honored by his king. The rebellion in L'Anguille roared on and their plot had worked, sabotaging the powder reserve of the Bordeleaux fleet, and the peasants in the interior continued their rampage. Somewhere, his brothers, and his sister, and his father, all languished or else were dead already.  And here was another delay - how callous the gods did seem, in the light of such a morning.

And then the corrupted bundles of reason in his mind shuddered and shifted in their unaccountable dance, and flooded his body with good humor. His roar of laughter, wheezing and undeniably crazed, echoed through the house and woke the late sleepers. When he stumbled out and received the note from the emissary, he knew why.

 "AAAAAAaaaahahahahahAHAH! Aelfric, Lady damn your diseased mind! How very like Bordeleaux's premier 'judge' to turn such a matter into an arena-like spectacle.  No doubt you are selling berths around the ship to watch the combat? Hah!  Hahaha! At least it will be swift, and we can be underway! Friends, we will need to fight out way out again. Aelfric is a moonstruck old knight who makes a habit of taking on matters of challenge like this - no doubt he is the architect of this unusual resolution as well as a participant. This Lysander I do not know, not this.. 'Grot'. Unusual names, deputized as  chevaliers de justice  for the spectacle. Bruno, it will be time to put those fencing lessons to work. We will need a third -..." 

Having likely attracted all the incarcerated companions with his boasting and ranting, he runs his eyes over Wighard... then Maxime, for good measure.

He grimaces a little. Wighard was a fair fighter, but he would not call him an arena champion - not without license to use his magics, which certainly would not be permitted. But Maxime was far too green - and 'he' had more to lose if the attention focused on him, especially in defeat, revealed his secret. Regine and Jasmine had somehow avoided capture entirely, and for that Bertelis was glad.

He'd rather fight them all himself than let the halfling be exposed into such a brawl. And Regine, while not so small of stature as the halfling and therefore not prone to evoke fraternal guardianship, was a lady all the same.

Well. Maybe not a lady. A  woman , still.

 "Well... One more. We may have to flip a coin - but if we work together, we will prevail here as in the other times. The duel is on the water to permit the use of pistols without the Lady's wrath, but I do not recommend using them - at least, not shooting to kill. Our conduct within the duel will reflect on us as much as our success.  Moreover, I must assure you this is unusual as a process - but Bordeleaux is a... city of spectacle. Still, even if we win, there is going to be hell to pay with those dwarves. We could use... whatever dwarves have that stand in where the empire has litigators.  Grumblelads, or Grudgeboys, or something, I assume. Not that there is likely to be one in town, I suppose - but I'm in the mood for a miracle." 
wilphe
  I will fight if I have to  

states Wighard flatly

  I feel though in my case a more appropriate ordeal would be to cure Grot the Flatulent  

Later though however he will speak to Bertelis alone

  For all our sakes you need to be in a mood ready to fight on the day; I will try and help with that  
farothel
Bruno wasn't too keen on fighting, but he knew that he probably wouldn't have a choice.  Sometimes it was easier just to be a roadwarden, although there were advantages to being a noble.  He would use his rapier, as it was the faster weapon, although it didn't do as much damage.  While he would have preferred to be in his full plate armour, he would be faster in just leather.  He knew he wasn't the best fighter of the group, but he hoped he would be able to hold his own.
bramblefoot
jasmine: looking for a dwarven longbeard, youd come across hestrad warbelt, a dwarf with a braided beard coming down to his stomach. hes currently noshing upon a large fish the size of your torso, and washing it down with a cask of dwarven ale on the table next to him. he turns to look at you, and smiles, revealing several golden teeth  "ah lassie, how can i help ye?"  he asks, patting the seat next to him. as youd climb up, youd spot gimgroth and a small teenage girl with a flute walking towards hestrad

hestrad warbelt
 

gimgroth: gimme a montage of your arrival at the island, and a perception roll pls. youd spot jasmine talking with another dwarf, a longbeard by the looks of him. the dwarf laughs uproariously, and slams a fist on the table

regine: what if any plans are you cooking up, and how do you plan to accomplish them?

the rest of you under house arrest: gimme a montage of the set-up and planning that you will undertake
dojango
Jasmine had heard Gimgroth complaining that the dwarves with the longest beards were generally regarded as the wisest and most influential, and so when she saw that this one had the longest beard she'd seen so far, she figured that he could help.  Perhaps.  Once he'd cleaned out the fishbones and grease from the beard.  At any rate, she told him, " Well, I don't know how you can help me, but I does need some help.  You know those fellows... those adventurers who are accused of killing those dwarves?  I happen ta know that they're innocent and that someone's trying to frame them for it.  Since I don't have any... " she makes air quotes, " 'Legal standing' in the law here there ain't much I can do about it.  But maybe the dwarves can help out?  Ya gotta know who done it so you can put it in your book, right?  And the locals just seem to want to do the easy thing instead of what's right.  Maybe you can get the officials to actually help figure out what was going on rather than just grabbing the closest people and calling it a day? "
LarsWester
It had been a long and fraught journey but Gimgroth and Beatrix guided the caravan safely into Bordeleaux.   Receiving his pay Gimgroth thought that Beatrix might like sleeping in a bed and partaking of a bath so the pair sought out a local inn.   After securing rooms the two were enjoying a meal in the dining hall downstairs.   Gimgroth noticed that at least one other dwarf found the establishment's beer acceptable so he ordered a round for Beatrix and himself.   The dwarf then set into informing his young ward of the plan.
 Right so tonight we rest and tomorrow we head out to my comrade  Sir Bertelis's family estate and seek word of his whereabouts.  Drink, bathe, eat for the road will be there again tomorrow.   Gimgroth frowned at Beatrix.   The girl was the cause of more than one instance of trouble during the caravan's journey, always off where she shouldn't be.    Gimgroth was tankard to chin when he couldn't believe his eyes.   That couldn't be mistress Jasmine Featherblossom approaching the longbeard at the counter or had Gimgroth's luck finally turned around.   The dwarf felt a twinge of shame as his hand crossed over his own mere months of stubble.  Nevermind that, silly to keep on about old wounds be they physical or to the pride.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

  PerceptionVs58  - (1d100)[ 93 ] 
 
bramblefoot
jasmine: hestram looks at you and considers for a long moment. you can practically see the wheels turning in his brain  "im curious as to where you think this will go"  he asks.  "yes i could do that, but i would need either significant remuneration or help with a task"  he leans in closer and says.  "have you heard of the seven blades of xanthu? the blades were supposedly formed in a long lost age by a master swordsmith as gifts for his seven sons"  he will wash down the remainder of the fish with another draught of ale, and belch.  "i have intel that says one of the magic blades will be making its way through the port. i need to know which ship it is traveling on."   he offers a hand  "do we have a deal?" 

gimgroth: the longbeard will finish up his meal, and begin discussion with jasmine: youd catch something about xanthu, port, and ship

ooc: lets say hestrad is willing to help minimally for the equivalent of 50 GC, and fully for more around 150
MrAbdiel
Bertelis practices technique, and leads Wighard and Bruno where they will permit his insufferable chipperness during the first day. But the rollercoaster continues - after a night sleeping in the courtyard hearing the whoops and carry-on of the party-city in the distance, he can barely muster himself to train at all the next day in his melancholy. By the third, he has evened out somewhat - the cool, passionless demeanor settling over him and dulling his sense of urgency, though not his capacity for violence.

He's ready to be done with this sour homecoming, and get back to the road - the bloodthirsty maw of duty that will consume him, body and soul, until nothing is left.
dojango
Jasmine spots Gimgroth and runs over to give him a hug and shake his and furiously.  And then pinches his arm hard.  " Are you the real Gimgroth?  Or another illusion?  I thought you was in Tilea! "  Once she's satisfied its the real one she relaxes and beckons him to come over to resume her conversation with Hestram.  " There's like, these evil sorcerers who we've been chasing.  They killed the dwarves and then, I don't know, raised them or something and made them attack Sir Bertelis and the others.  Now they gotta do this stupid trial by combat thing and, I don't know, they're going to chop up the other guys like mincemeat, but that's a huge waste of time and those other guys, so I was hopin' you guys, you know, the dwarven community, would step forward and demand a proper investigation.  All official like, and you know, diplomatic.  Something that the locals gotta listen to.  All I reckon you got to do is, I don't know, call for an official Venerean investigatrix ta take over the case with the backin' of the local community.  Someone to conduct the investigation as she sees fit and who won't leap to blame the nearest bunch of armed wanderers... "

Once Hestram names his price, she sighs and says, " I just got here, I got no contacts and don't know the local whosits and can barely speak the language.  It ain't gonna be easy, but I can give it the ol' Nulnish try if ya needs.  What's the blade look like an' where's it coming from?  Who had it last, do ya know? "
wilphe
Wighard pays close attention to what Bertelis wishes to impart, and even closer attention to his diet, sleep and mood. In fact he will go beyond that, consulting an astrologer for extra input and trying to predict how he will be on the day of the fight and how to treat it


 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 30 ]  Heal 91
 (1d100)[ 92 ]  T/Apothecary71
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Having escaped from the mass-arrest of her comrades by slipping into the darkness, Regine had been keeping a relatively low profile. She had managed to sneak back on board the ship and use area's within it that the less perceptive guards would notice, in order to give her somewhere else to stay, as well as access to her prior clothes. So that was something.

But outside of this small comfort, the thief felt like she  owed  something to her current companions.

She could, of course, just abandon them. And why not? She'd paid her dues and stuck her neck out on several occasions for them, so why did she owe them anything more?

But...it didn't  feel  right. As much as the Master Thief wanted to switch on the Callous mode in her brain, the sentimental part of her, buried as it was, drew her back from the precipice of icy eschewment of former comrades and directed her to visit them under house arrest.

Which is where she was now - visiting them.

Dressed well in nice clothes that made her look like a gender-bucking swashbuckler, a dashingly large hat upon her crown, Regine rapped upon the door of her compatriots domicile prison.
farothel
Bruno will switch his training to his rapier instead of his regular sword.  While the sword hits harder, the rapier is faster and therefore more difficult to dodge.  Without a shield, dodging becomes more important and he tends to take advantage of that.  He will train with Bertelis and Wighard, while also making sure that he has good food and enough sleep, so he was well rested before the fight.
MrAbdiel
In a break from practising their forms, after a small rigmarole of dealing with some assigned men at arms, there comes a knock at the door at the fancifully appointed home. Bertelis, dressed in breezy linens borrowed from the house which are now already speckled what look like the splitting of stitches here and there beneath, attends the sound. He slips the main gauche back into its loop at his waist, opening the door to blink in slow recognition at the jauntified Regine.

 "Ah. I wondered when you would turn up." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

They had not known each other long, but their trails had been arduous, to say the least. Thus, when Regine was greeted with Bertelis' image at the door, dressed in slacks and casual wear though she was, the thief took to it as something that was familiar in this new and unknown town.

 "Monsieur Bertelis,"  Regine affirmed, offering a curtsey-bow hybrid befitting her mixed dress and nature.

 "I am flattered that you think of me so often!"  she spoke playfully.

 "You did not think I would, ahem, skip town, so to speak?" 
wilphe
Wighard puts down the foil, deciding that he really doesn't like being without the weight and heft of his axe and will probably choose it regardless and picks up some cool white wine

  I knew you would show up

With that certainty pondering on the when would have been unproductive  
farothel
Bruno was a bit surprised when Regine arrived.  He had indeed thought that she would have skipped town but he was glad she hadn't.  Now the only one still missing was their halfling companion.
 "It's good that you can see us,"  he said,  "unfortunately I don't think they will let us out anytime soon, at least not without a fight." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Assuming they would allow her entrance to their prison-abode, Regine would follow through and stand amidst them. She had not known them long, truth be told, but they had been through a lot in that relatively short amount of time.

 "The thought was tempting, I will not lie..."  she said, a hint of an impish smirk at the corners of her lips.

 "But I am a long way from home, mon ami. What would I do with myself where I not in familiar company?" 

She allowed a pause.

 "But..."  her voice lowering, looking over at the windows as if she believed that agents of the crown were listening in,  "...I am here to offer assistance for your situation." 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis glanced up to the men-at-arms waiting out by the fence, as Reginé dropped her voice to be certain not to attract their ears. Joined now by his fellow prisoners, he suspects a plan germinating in the thief's mind is likely to involve unchivalrous subtleties... but on such a day, he cannot muster the moral strength to dismiss her offer out of hand, as honor might dictate on a better day.

 "What did you have in mind?" 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The Master Thief ensured she was beyond the visual or audible inspection of the guards that had been placed outside the house to dissuade any attempt at escape.

 "Options are limited, given the precious hold 'chivalry' has over your status,"  she answered. She knew that for knights their image was everything. They may be slain on the battlefield, but such an act only brought further honor and renown. To be publicly disgraced and proven dishonorable? That was a fate worse than death.

 "Liberating you from this house would be an easy affair, followed by a rendezvous at a waiting group of horses to affect an escape from the city. But, where to go from there? Were I on my own I could melt into the populace. But you all? Not so much I think, mon ami. City patrol and bounty hunters will bring you back to public shame, and that is something I do not think your honor can bear, yes?" 

The thief pursed her lips and tilted her head, as if she had already meditated on this.

 "So, you are entering a competition with Judicial champions: violent men that perform their work for a living. Brave and valorous you may be, but I ask myself: why would I take any risk? This is all public spectacle, the crowd just wants a good show and the authorities the veneer of order. So..."  she trailed off,  "something could be slipped into the food and water on the day of the trial by combat. Nothing too strong, but enough to slow them down, make them awkward in the pit." 
farothel
 "Interesting,"  Bruno said.  He didn't really care all that much about chivalry.  His adoptive family would, but he was far away and what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.  Besides, making someone drunk or something like that before a combat was not much compared to part of the family being chaos worshippers.
 "How about we just get them drunk,"  he suggested,  "it's not our fault if they drink too much, right." 
wilphe
  We're in Bourdelaux

If we want to throw them off their game we should figure out how to sober them up  
MrAbdiel
Bertelis should be at least secretly offended by Wighard's jape; but he can no more muster civic pride today than he can chivalry.

 "Joking aside, Bruno is right. Aside from the dishonor of it all, Bordelans regularly poison themselves with wine for fun. And this duel is set to be a... spectacular event. A three-versus-three duel is no man's idea of clear and god-honoring justice; it's a pit fight."  He looks over Regine's somewhat ambiguous disguise, and rubs his beard with his fingertips.

 "I would not ask you, or want you, to put yourself in danger trying to disrupt the duel in a criminal way. But... if you go by my uncle Remaund's house in the city - the big one, not this one - you'll find Deanna there; and she can perhaps lend you some attire that a-" , he gestures loosely to the theif,  "young woman as yourself might wear to such an event, and might cause boastful men to overdrink before an event just to impress her. But this is all somewhat sordid, even if it is less so than poisoning." 
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by dojango 
 Jasmine spots Gimgroth and runs over to give him a hug and shake his and furiously.  And then pinches his arm hard.  " Are you the real Gimgroth?  Or another illusion?  I thought you was in Tilea! " 
 

 Well met Jasmine Featherblossom this is my adoptive daughter Beatrix.  Gimgroth adds quickly slightly embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion from the halfling.  The young woman besides him stands astonished that her emotionally, and until recently literally, distant father was embraced so heartedly by another person.   Gimgroth served the role of a grim enforcer of boundaries, unfeeling and unrelenting during the caravan journey.   Beatrix couldn't help but smile thinking that somewhere out there her father had people who cared for him this much.  She stuck out an open palm in greeting to Lady Jasmine.   Pleased to make your acquaintance.   I can't wait to hear your stories about ... father.   The last word added after a brief pause.    Are the rest of the company here in Bordeleaux as well Jasmine?  Could our luck be so strong?   Gimgroth follows the halfling over to the greybeard dwarf named Hestram listening quietly as the tale unfolds.

 
 Originally Posted by dojango 
 " There's like, these evil sorcerers who we've been chasing.  They killed the dwarves and then, I don't know, raised them or something and made them attack Sir Bertelis and the others.  Now they gotta do this stupid trial by combat thing and, I don't know, they're going to chop up the other guys like mincemeat, but that's a huge waste of time and those other guys, so I was hopin' you guys, you know, the dwarven community, would step forward and demand a proper investigation.  All official like, and you know, diplomatic.  Something that the locals gotta listen to.  All I reckon you got to do is, I don't know, call for an official Venerean investigatrix ta take over the case with the backin' of the local community.  Someone to conduct the investigation as she sees fit and who won't leap to blame the nearest bunch of armed wanderers... " 
 

 Well if there's dwarven honor at stake as well as the reputation of the Company of the Slugs mayhaps a dwarf best serve as judicial champion in the contest.   I do hope the local rulers respect the Imperial position.  I believe Wighard as an Imperial citizen can request an Imperial Judicial Champion to stand in his place for the trial.  But I think Hestram here would have a vested interest in discovering who the real perpetrators of murder are and adding the proper names to the grudge book.   Gimgroth looks to the older dwarf for his ascent if not his approval.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
 Bertelis should be at least secretly offended by Wighard's jape; but he can no more muster civic pride today than he can chivalry.

 "Joking aside, Bruno is right. Aside from the dishonor of it all, Bordelans regularly poison themselves with wine for fun. And this duel is set to be a... spectacular event. A three-versus-three duel is no man's idea of clear and god-honoring justice; it's a pit fight."  He looks over Regine's somewhat ambiguous disguise, and rubs his beard with his fingertips.

 "I would not ask you, or want you, to put yourself in danger trying to disrupt the duel in a criminal way. But... if you go by my uncle Remaund's house in the city - the big one, not this one - you'll find Deanna there; and she can perhaps lend you some attire that a-" , he gestures loosely to the theif,  "young woman as yourself might wear to such an event, and might cause boastful men to overdrink before an event just to impress her. But this is all somewhat sordid, even if it is less so than poisoning."  
 


The thief would perk a slender eyebrow in an expression that was hard to discern whether she was offended or amused.

 "You wish for me to carouse with drunken men and...dress the part?"  she allowed the maybe-maybe-not insult linger in the air.

 "And to think that I came back to help you, only for you to impress upon me the oldest profession..."  she feigned esapseration, both hands up in the air in gesticulation at her dramatic requirement.

A sigh of resignation.

 "I will acquire the finest bottle of cognac available and ply them with it. But these vulgar requests of yours, Monsieur Bertelis,"  she brought up her right hand and drew her index finger back and forth like a pendulum, clucking her tongue in a tsk-tsk-tsk,  "non, I will not go that far. A ladies honour denies it"  said the Master Thief and gambler.
bramblefoot
alright. let the games begin!

regine, gimme d100 roll to see how sloshed you got in drinking. sir aelfric gets pretty sloshed, and will be at -10 for the duration of the combat

the combateers are rowed out by boat, after two men at arms make sure nothing more than leather armor is taken out, and a grail damsel checks for magic items.

the galleon sits in the water, surrounded by boats which hoot and holler as the combatants are rowed out and placed on the foredeck of the ship. three fighters appear on the other side. one, who bertelis would recognize as sir Aelfric sways vigorously, but seems to have some of his wits about him

the second judicial champion, surprisingly, is an elf. he'll do a small flourish of his blade, and return it to its sheath, preparing to watch over sir aelfric. the elf's face is marked with bright blue paint, and he points at you all and draws a finger across his throat

the third combatant is clad in forge leathers, and flies buzz around him. this combatant is very filthy, and he is standing apart from the rest. a small leather bandolier filled with goodies sits across his chest, and he will be holding a small flask of something in one hand, and a small metal stick in the other


a bell rings from onshore, and the fight is on! lysander will skip ahead, drawing the rapier and smiling gleefully, taking up a choke-point at the stairs coming up to the captains wheel of the ship

sir Aelfric will follow lysander, and grot will set up on the balustrade, preparing something


sir aelfric
 

lysander the quick
 

grot the flatulent
 
wilphe
Wighard is very happy to see Gimgroth

  So our paths cross again, and I see that you have a kid sidekick too.

This is turning into a regular Liga die Racher*

I hope your axe is still sharp, your arm strong and your aim true for we have need of your expertise  

Gimgroth may notice that whilst Wighard is happy he is here, it is the happiness that someone better is here to fight not that he didn't want to. And that while Wighard earlier was unsure of himself, paranoid of unseen machinations and carrying an unhealthy imposter syndrome after his promotion there is little sign of that now, rather someone aware of his power and confident in it.

Of course that might also be that they are a long way for the Empire and he doesn't have to think about Altdorf plots for the moment.


For the trial, Wighard will take his seat, sniff the winds and take an especial interest in Grot

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 61 ]  Magical Sense 87

 (1d100)[ 13 ]  Perception 101/111 Visual
 

 
 Spoiler: * 
I have established to my satisfaction that TMNT have an analogue in the Old World, so too must SuperHeroes

Though the X-Manner are mutants and hence the villains, hunted by heroic Witch-hunters and RoadWardens even if they can never quite kill Vielfraß
 
MrAbdiel
 At the house, with Regine... 

In other moods, Bertelis might be amusingly easy to rile up with such dainty needling; or at least flushed with cheer enough to enjoy it. As it happens, today is a phlegmatic day; and Regine's artful provocations are blunted on his callous demeanor.

 "Well. Alright. So long as there's no poison in that cognac that did not come from the distiller themself. One trial by combat is enough for one homecoming." 
 A little later... 

Jasmine, Gimgroth and Beatrix arrive at the house-arrest-hacienda shortly before the time comes to set off to the trial itself. Bertelis stands back with Bruno while the Wighard and Gimgroth speak - there is something particularly natural and complimentary in the friendship and shared travails of a wizard and warrior, and even Bertelis in his diminished state can respect that. He confers with Jasmine, whom he is glad, but not by now surprised, to see safe.

 "I cannot tell, Lady Jasmine, if the gods enjoy you or despise you; or if there is some contest between them on this front. I never know if you are going to be vanish in a fireball, or be clubbed and kidnapped by agents of darkness; or else you turn up with a band of men-at-arms or a very specifically capable dwarf in tow. You do always manage to come through, don't you?" 

When Gimgroth moves down the line to reunite with the other slugs, Bertelis gives him a weak but warm smile, and a firm shake of the hand. Bertelis seems to have... roughened since Gimgroth last saw him; his personal grooming is less attentive, and he seems to be perpetually in a state of poor sleep. He's thinner, too; the memory of good noble living retreating from his form as his skin tightens over his face. The scar from the warpstone round that struck him in the head is paler now, but no less obvious, striping from the corner of his eye back past his ear like the tail of a comet.

 "It's good to see you, Gimgroth. And especially good to see that you succeeded, and young Beatrix is alright. We could use your help. I trust Wighard will fill you in on our intervening adventures in his customary detail, but for now, the trial by combat comes upon us. It's on a ship. Stipulations are a single, mundane weapon gripped in one hand; and only leather or a gambeson to protect oneself. Battle to submission in teams of three. I am embarassed by this - sometimes my countrymen make a mockery of justice, rather than champion it. I can make no excuse for them. But if you are willing, it will be you, Bruno, and I against the three judicators. After this - ... Well. This first." 
 At the Trial 

The deck of the the  Maîtresse de Cérémonie  is low, Bertelis thinks, as he looks from the deck to the ships around. They must keep filled her lower decks flooded, or laden with ballast, to make the deck more easilly visible for the ships alongside. Later, he will remember to thank Wighard for the clarity of mind to make such an observation at all. He takes a minute to pray, then produces his main gauche in his off hand, and flexes the grip of gloved free hand.

 "A pack of characters to be sure. I do not know what the filthy one has in those pouches, but I suspect it to be unpleasant. Even his companions keep distance. Gimgroth, I must trust you to engage him - whatever he has planned, you are the doughtiest of us, and most capable of overcoming it... and perhaps heaving the villain overboard if the opportunity arises. Bruno, I will engage the elf if you can occupy Aelfric himself. He is drunk; but I know for a fact he has fought orcs and Bilbalians while drunk, and he managed to overcome in those encounters, so do not underestimate him." 
 "It is customary in a combat like this for each man to pair off against another. This breaks down by the end of the fight, but it reflects poorly on the side that resorts to 'ganging' first. If we can overwhelm them by forcing them to turn to 'ganging', our victory at the other end will be all the more respected. But it is better we pull through barely than not at all - and we must break and support one another if that is what it takes. May the Lady, and Manaan, show favor to us here." 

When they turn to face the enemy, Bertelis puffs up his chest, then sighs. Collaborating with his companions has taken all the spare creativity he has. While typically this would be a fine moment for him to practise some dueling drama (though strictly this is a trial by combat and not a duel), he cannot muster it from himself. When the observers ask for a mark of ready, he offers the only line he can muster.

 "By the shedding of blood, may the gods make known their will." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Initiative! 
Combat's on then. Presumably, Jasmine, Wighard, Regine, Maxime, Beatrix, Siobhan, and perhaps Bully are watching. Next time, we will insist it be a trial by hide and seek, and Jasmine and Regine can whip them up and down.

 INITIATIVE:

15 - Bruno
14 - Bertelis

11 - Lysander
11 - Grot
9 - Aelfric

6 - Gimgroth 

Gimgroth's initiative pending, but we're looking pretty good for now.
 
dojango
Jasmine tells Bertelis, " Oh aye, ya gotta be lighter on yer feet sometimes.  I'd hoped ta entangle this... nonsense up with some legalistic mumbo-jumbo but either the dwarves don't quite have the pull here or I been conned by some slick-talking longbeard.  Hey, that reminds me, Wighard, can I borrow your magic bird for a bit?  This dwarf wants us ta hunt for some magic goodies being smuggled through the harbor and I was thinking your bird could sniff them out or something.  I reckon whoever is smuggling illegal magic stuff might be in league with those sneaky sorcerers that set us up and murdered those dwarves. "
wilphe
Earlier:

  Kwolf is his own bird, you will have to ask him yourself  
farothel
Without his shield and heavy armour, Bruno wasn't about to charge in.  So he moved a bit away from his companions that in case the smelly fellow wanted to throw something, he couldn't hit all of them at once.  He positioned himself close to some ropes he might be able to use to tangle enemy weapons in, or cut to have stuff fall on them.  Then he held out his left hand, palm up and made the signal for 'come to me'.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

move away from the others, thinking those vials might be some sort of bomb
parrying stance
 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis flips his main gauche in his hand, and edges forward alongside Bruno. The plan to pair off against the enemy is sound enough - but a streak of guilt flashes through him, and in an instant's reflection, he understands why.

His eyes swivel quickly to Gimgroth, once again beside him. When they last fought together, the dwarf gave up his beard to skaven flame-weapons. Bertelis might never understand why something so superficial was so profoundly sacred to a dwarf; but as he considers again what alchemical or fiery nonsense Grot might have in store, he resolves not to require his friend to endanger the few months reparative growth that his chin has gained. The dwarf has earned as much.

 "Switch up, Gimgroth - the elf is all yours." 

And then he's off, blitzing across the deck in reckless haste to get to grips with the bandolier-bearing miscreant!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Charging Grot. Attacking with the Main Gauche. If I hit, I'm going to try to disarm him of whatever that metal stick is in his hand.

   vs71  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  to hit. Since he's not wielding an actual weapon (I think?) he's unlikely to have a parry available at all.

Presuming that hits, it's an opposed agility test. We repeat until one or both of us succeeds and defeats the other by a margin. If we both fail, we both reroll.

1.    vs52  - (1d100)[ 75 ] 
2.    vs52  - (1d100)[ 78 ] 
3.    vs52  - (1d100)[ 65 ] 
4.    vs52  - (1d100)[ 30 ] 
5.    vs52  - (1d100)[ 24 ] . 

Edit: Whiff!
 
bramblefoot
grot will not bother to dodge the clumsy disarm, and casually throws a handful of black coarse powder into your face. can you gimme a toughness test at -20? on a success youll spend the next round stunned sneezing your brains out, as that was concentrated black pepper. on a failure, make it three rounds and a -10 to visual acuity as the pepper has gotten in your eyeballs.

bruno: lysander will grin, and make a  come hither motion  to you. both of them go back to back, and let you come to them
dojango
Jasmine shakes her head and mutters, " Right.  He's his own bird.  And not, like, your pet.  I'll talk to 'him'. "

Shortly before the duel, she buys a bag of roasted nuts from a vendor and tracks down Kwolf.  She lays out a few of the nuts in front of her for him to eat and tells it, " So how much you wanna bet some of our enemies are gonna be spyin' on the duel?  Some of those sneaky sorcerers, or maybe their servants?   Your boss is too busy ta ask you, but I want ya to keep an eye on the crowd and try and sniff out any magic if ya can.  If ya see someone tryin' ta curse our boys, I dunno, fly over them or **** on them or summat so I can figure out how ta stop them.  And if nothin' happens, well, I guess ya can have the eyes of the losers or whatever for dessert. "

On the day of the duel, she doesn't have much interest in watching the fight itself and spends most of the lead up to the duel carefully watching the crowd to see if anyone is preparing to interfere with the duel, and keeping an eye out for the bird, to see if it will do what she had asked.  She also brings a few of the orphans with her and sets them to watch as well.  With strict orders not to get into too much trouble unless trouble finds them.

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 57 ]  v. 66 perception to look for trouble in the crowd or for anyone who might be trying to interfere.
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth feels near naked without his mail armor and shield.   The dwarf surveyed the arena of the trial and identified Grot as a priority threat.  He then heard Bertelis call out for him to target the elf.   Far be for a dawi to object to the chance to putting a hurting on leafkisser.  Gimgroth rushed at the elf with a borrowed handaxe from Wighard.  His own weapons being to magical for the stipulations of this trial combat.      AttackVs87  - (1d100)[ 52 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  or   Impact  - (1d10+6)[ 11 ]    Gimgroth saw the elf's weapon in his right hand and decided that he would try to dis-arm him.   Isn't that what Bertelis suggested?  Seems like a good strategic plan.
MrAbdiel
The knavery of the fat man knows no bounds, and black powder splashes across Bertelis' face. He reels and sneezes, slashing back and forth with his weapon as he palms at his eyes.

 He is going to set me on fire. He is going to try to set my face on fire, now. 

Bertelis has a brief recollection of Bruno's horrified scream when the spirit on the island set his countenance ablaze - only Wighard's magical and professional gifting had prevented that from being truly disfiguring. The Bordelan could not bear the thought himself. He forced himself to look through watering eyes.

 "You wretched blot. This is how you conduct a trial? Pray thanks that I am bound to higher conduct than you!" 


Barely able to see, he strikes out all the same...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Well, being blind will knock 20 off my WS, but I might as well swing. Parry stance, standard attack.

  vs41  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] .
 
farothel
As Grimgoth charged in, Bruno closely followed.  As the Elf blocked the dwarf's heavy hit (and Bruno was surprised he managed to do so), Bruno came towards the sir Aelfric, but as he stabbed at that man, he tried to hit the elf instead of him, using he speed of his rapier.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

half-action: move in
half action: feint vs elf (I guess):  (1d100)[ 85 ]  vs 56 (opposed WS with the elf)
extra half action with FP: attack:  (1d100)[ 33 ]  vs 56 for damage:  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 

If I win the feint, the attack can't be dodged or parried
If I don't, then the attack can be dodged (not parried, as he already used his parry) but at a -10% (as a rapier is a fast weapon).

wounds: 15/15
FP: 4/5
 
bramblefoot
gimgroth: lysander will take a narrrow slash across his duelling leathers, and snarl ferally. he seems to be empowered by the pain, and will make two attacks on gimgroth, leaving aelfric to deal with you

 (2d100)[ 12 ][ 50 ](62)  both hit

 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d100)[ 68 ]  fail

bruno: sir aelfric will let out a thunderous belch, and make a swing and a parrying stance at bruno

 (1d100)[ 78 ]  miss

 (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 (1d100)[ 54 ]  fail

bertelis: grot barely dodges the sword strike, and will depress the metal stick in his hand. there is a small  fwoosh  sound, and you feel the left side of your face blister and begin to burn. whatever the stick does, its nasty

 (1d10)[ 6 ]  take 6 wounds, and be on fire
farothel
Seeing that his opponent was quite careful, Bruno decided to be bold and trust on his ability to dodge instead of parry.  Also his weapon wasn't the best to parry with in any case.  Ignoring the stench of the belch, he tried to take the guy down as quickly as possible.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

full attack:
attack 1:  (1d100)[ 91 ]  vs 56 for damage:  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
attack 2:  (1d100)[ 12 ]  vs 56 for damage:  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 

parry at -10% due to fast weapon
 
LarsWester
The elf managed to parry Gimgroth's charge and inflict a serious wound to the dwarf's arm.   Gimgroth grunted unwilling to give the Elf the satisfaction of a cry of pain.   The dwarf summoned his strength and though the forms changed without his shield Gimgroth went through a series of blows practiced countless times every morning over decades of martial training.
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Well the elf doesn't have a parry anymore because he swift attacked.   So here goes a swift attack action rebuttal.
  Attack1Vs82  - (1d100)[ 76 ]   Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 16 ]   Impact  - (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
  Attack2Vs82  - (1d100)[ 12 ]   Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 16 ]   Impact  - (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
  Attack3Vs82  - (1d100)[ 16 ]   Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 12 ]   Impact  - (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 

this roll is for either fury confirmation or if none needed than a FP for a miss.  If all hit and no furies than ignore it.
  FuryorFPvs82  - (1d100)[ 40 ] 
  FuryDamage  - (1d10)[ 9 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 He is going to set my face on fire. 

In once sense, this vindication is validating because the flames that consume one side of the stubble on his jaw in a flash are not Gimgroth's whiskers. Later, he will thank the Lady for her providential insight at the last moment.

But right now, he is being set on fire; even if just barely, and reeling away from the ignition and swatting at himself with his good hand, he does his best to pat out the flames before they can do him harm...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Extinguishing flame!

  vs52Agi  - (1d100)[ 13 ] .   This is pretty important, so if necessary, I'll spend my next (last) FP to resolve it.   vs52Agi  - (1d100)[ 93 ] . 
 


...and with a moment's frantic effort, before Grot can exploit it, he is no worse for wear - if unevenly flame-shaven.
wilphe
 
 Originally Posted by dojango 
 Jasmine shakes her head and mutters, " Right.  He's his own bird.  And not, like, your pet.  I'll talk to 'him'. "

Shortly before the duel, she buys a bag of roasted nuts from a vendor and tracks down Kwolf.  She lays out a few of the nuts in front of her for him to eat and tells it, " So how much you wanna bet some of our enemies are gonna be spyin' on the duel?  Some of those sneaky sorcerers, or maybe their servants?   Your boss is too busy ta ask you, but I want ya to keep an eye on the crowd and try and sniff out any magic if ya can.  If ya see someone tryin' ta curse our boys, I dunno, fly over them or **** on them or summat so I can figure out how ta stop them.  And if nothin' happens, well, I guess ya can have the eyes of the losers or whatever for dessert. " 
 

Kwolf tilts his head sideways and looks at Jasmine with the thin hint of a smile

  How about you eat some too?  

Assuming she does

  This offering is sufficient. For future reference I prefer egg and sausage. You have at least until I finish these before I stop listening  

He gulps one down his throat whole

  He's not my boss, and he is not "too busy to ask me", he respects me as a partner.

If you want to patronise someone, try the wolves. They are a bit thick still, so not only will they not realise they will kind of deserve it.

Your proposal is acceptable, is there anything else?  
MrAbdiel
Bertelis snatches a handful of grot's filthy leathers beneath his chin, and reverses the grip on his main gauche - but then the adjudicating damsel calls a halt, and just like that it's over. Looking back across the deck, he is gratified to see his companions in fine shape. After a short exchange, Aelfric is bleeding and Lysander is down and badly wounded. The drunken knight must have given his signal of submission; perhaps to spare himself shame, perhaps to spare his elven companion. Grot wrenches out of his grip in the pause, and he gives the man no more thought - if he focuses on him, he may well last out, and invalidate the verdict.

 "Thus, the gods have made known their will!"  he calls, dovetailing the end of the trial with his stentorian conclusion.  "Let it be understood that the Company of the Burning Slug attended the powder house out of a good faith desire to save it from sabotage. Would that it could have been - but the good dwarves found there were killed by the saboteurs who proceeded us. Be wary of any who claim shameful or criminal actions of this party - they are trying to deceive you." 

This is a half truth in the case of Jasmine and Regine, but it was true enough. He dusts at his scorched stubble with his knuckles, regroups with Gimgroth and Bruno, and then the whole company.

 "Painless all things considered. Not defeated, but reunited with an old friend - come now. I've made reservations at  Gunther's Pork Knuckle . We leave for Mousillon tomorrow; for now, let us celebrate... within the strained borders of abstemious taste." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Halfling-quality dining for the victors and shame for the losers. Bertelis feels a need to show something like hospitality to his friends, who have had such a wealth of bad experiences in his homeland.

It'll also provide some time for Jasmine's pact with Kwolf to go into effect, and maybe get some intel about that ship with the sword the dwarf wants.

Perhaps an opportunity for a little Kwolf/Jasmine/Regine side quest heist, given that we just had a Bruno/Gimgroth/Bertelis duel?
 
wilphe
Wighard is out of his seat the minute the Damsel unexpectedly calls the fight, glad that this has not been to the death.

His companions are still standing, so he heads towards the stricken elf,   Lie still, let me look  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 31 ]  Heal 91
 (1d10)[ 6 ]  Heal
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth smiles as the elf submits after his first blow checking another deadly strikes mere inches from impact.   As the trial is declared decided in favor of the Company Gimgroth searches for his companions offer each a smile.   He then looks to his own wound, a deep cut in his blade arm.  Wighard approaches and sees to the elf's more serious wound.   Gimgroth chuckles as he states
 Same as always Wighard.  I bleed 'em, you leech 'em.   Good to be among your company again.   I have a scratch for you to look at after you've finished with Lysander there. 
Gimgroth then scans the crowd for his charge Beatrix.  She is still up in the stands talking excited to another young woman seated near her.   She offers a wave and a thankful smile that this was the outcome of the trial by combat.
dojango
Jasmine crunches a few of the nuts companionably with the bird and responds, " Yeah, I'd ask the wolves ta help out too but for some reason the locals don't like them wanderin' the streets.  And then... can you, I don't know, 'sniff out' the smell of magic like it were the scent of a decayin' corpse?  I want to try ta back-track them bastards that set us up and maybe they left some, I don't know, trail of magic lingerin' in the air. "

After the fight is quickly over, she is relieved to see that nobody had tried to interfere from the crowds and her vigilance had not been entirely necessary.  But still, the time you don't look is the time it happens.  She makes her way to the victorious fighters and says, " Well-spoken, Bertelis.  Let's get out of this damned city and to an even more damned city as soon as possible.  That dwarf I talked to was as useless as tits on a boar hog, I tell you what. "
farothel
The fight was over quickly, probably because Grimgoth almost ripped the elf's arm off.  Bruno held onto his weapon for now, but lowered it so he wasn't actively threatening people at the moment.  At least he hadn't made a complete fool of himself, but he still preferred to solve things with diplomacy.

 "Good idea, sir Bertelis,"  he said when the Bretonnian decided to head to a good restaurant.  He could do with some good food before they would move on.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Her devious strategy employed earlier with some fancy clothes and a bottle of fine cognac, Regine had sat in the stands and watched the affair unfold. Like a teenager watching an extravagant spectacle, she cupped her hands over her mouth, "Oohhhh!"ed along with the crowd and cover her eyes while still grinning and laughing at the violence that unfolded. But what was most surprising was how quickly it was all over, and when her companions stood victorious in the field with Bertelis' loud proclamation, Regine beamed happily an waved her arms in the air as if she was merely an impartial spectator out for a good show.

Drawing her dress up enough so that she could walk down the steps of the bleachers and towards the arena, Regine's demeanor became more amused, but thankful for the outcome.

 "Well done all - and here I had ten crowns on the other team!"  she joked with a festive grin.
MrAbdiel
  Later  
 Gunther's Pork Knuckle  is an Imperial style bistro in Bordeleaux harbour, which means a few things.

One: unlike almost everywhere else in the city, this place spells like stale  beer  instead of stale  wine .

Two: It is probably the first place any of the Imperials in the party will have been able to get a decent sausage since Helmgart. The halfling proprietor, Gunther, pays a premium and charges a premium to have the sausages shipped in (those that he doesn't make himself), but they are the authentic article. Ahlewurst, Bierwurst, Kemperbadwurst, Weisswurst, Todwurst - it's all there. Along with universal favorites - a conventional carvery does good trade within, and it would hardly be Bretonnian without bakers sticking their nose in.

 "I had almost forgotten how much you Sigmarites like grinding your meat into paste before cooking it,"  Bertelis says as he inspects a Bratwurst on his fork.  "Charity, I think, for the toothless beggar class that crops up around the cities. Thoughtful, even." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Some good old fashion Old World racism sounds like a spot of fun for the feast celebration. I've teed it up. Obviously, you know.. boundaries of good taste.
 
wilphe
  How many reservations did you make and are we taking guests?  

Wighard eyes the presiding damsel and their erstwhile opponents, trying to figure out Bertelis' mind on this.

He'd like to play nice, make up and he and Gimgroth are professionals with a "its you or me but no hard feelings" attitude. Bertelis on the other hand fights for honour and therefore does not tend to regard his opponents as worthy.
MrAbdiel
  Earlier  

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   How many reservations did you make and are we taking guests?   
 

 "I am certain they can accommodate more business, if you made a friend - even with the unexpected Gimgroth and Beatrice." 
wilphe
  Would you care to join us?  

he looks at the Damsel and the defeated champions, even Grot
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  "I had almost forgotten how much you Sigmarites like grinding your meat into paste before cooking it,"  Bertelis says as he inspects a Bratwurst on his fork.  "Charity, I think, for the toothless beggar class that crops up around the cities. Thoughtful, even."  
 

 "Makes it easier to mix meats if you want to,"  Bruno said with a smile,  "if you like beef and venison for instance, you can mix them both in one saugage." 
He was glad to have something from home.  While he didn't have a problem with Bretonnian cuisine, at times one liked to have something from home.
bramblefoot
alright, so lysander is the only one to show, his arm in a sling, and an old bottle of wine in his good hand. he sets the wine on the table, and pulls out a chair  "good showing old chap"  he remarks, and will tuck into his meal with gusto.  "its a good vintage, laid down maybe 100 years ago?"  he offers, offering you to open it  "if you insist on a taste test, as i know i would, pour me the first glass, and wait a while"  he chuckles at his own joke.

jasmine: what are you doing now that the fights over

regine: you find an old targeteer, who offers to teach you. tell me what his requirements are, and what you must do to learn from him
wilphe
Wighard is happy to see Lysander, perhaps just as happy not to see Grot and welcomes him

  Thank you and be seated. Tell me, how did you end up in this line of work?  
farothel
 "I wouldn't say no to that,"  Bruno said to Lysander,  "One thing I really like about Bretonnia is its wines.  I think it's best to divide stuff up.  You do the wine, we do the beer.
 Well, the dwarves in the Empire do the beer." 
dojango
Jasmine visits the bar briefly and manages to snag a few pieces of Altdorf-style sausage.  It's OK, the local provisioners fail to understand that gristle and mystery meat are what gives the sausage it's charm rather than something to be avoided, but other than that it is decent.  She heads back to the boat at night and waits for Kwolf to return.  She says to him, as she hands over one of the sausage, " Sorry ya didn't get to eat any elf eyeballs.  Mebbe next time.  Look, if ya are up for it, that old codger of a dwarf said someone's sneakin' magic crap through the harbor.  If'n ya can sniff it out somewheres it might be a lead on those damned warlock that set up the frame job.  It's the only lead I got and we're leavin' in the morning so this might be our only chance to figure out who's been messin' with us.  Here. "

 
 Spoiler 
Basically she wants to see if Kwolf can be like a dowsing rod for magic and sense those magic blades the dwarf was talking about.
 
wilphe
  I will go have a sniff  
wilphe
  Thank you and be seated. Tell me, how did you end up in this line of work?
  

Lysander shrugs

  I have expensive tastes dear boy and a good sword arm  

he looks at the sling

  Most of the time. I am fortunate that the cause of justice can be occasionally lucrative as well as rewarding.  

He looks around the Company, skipping past Bertelis, regarding Bruno and Gimgroth, then Wighard and lingering on Jasmine before finishing on Regine

  And how do you feel about Justice? Or are you amongst those wanderers who make their own?  
MrAbdiel
Bertelis doesn't seem to have the same moxie he had in the fight; whatever mystical or herbal boost Wilphe had concocted prior to the combat has worn off, and over the first half-hour of the feasting, he is slouching in his chair, barely engaged with the world; lazily picking away at the pork shoulder roast on his plate.

He doesn't even notice the disrespect the elf showed him, just now.
farothel
 "I'm quite in favour of justice,"  Bruno said,  "I used to be a roadwarden back home.  A roadwarden is a person who's responsible for a stretch of road, patrolling it against thieves, chaos mutants and the like.  Quite dangerous work actually.  You're often with a small group of people far from civilization, making sure your stretch of road is safe for others to travel upon." 
bramblefoot
wighard: kwolf returns with the smell of magic on his breath. it turns out that the thundercloud, an empire wolfship recently took on a small wrapped bundle that could have been a sword. their next port of call is mousillon
wilphe
Kwolf will appear when Jasmine gets up to casually pass that information on

Lysander meanwhile,

  Dangerous and lonely yes. I understand that they often must serve as judge and executioner for those they arrest. You ever have to do that?  
farothel
 "Once or twice,"  Bruno replied,  "but always clear cases of bandits that were attacking people when we arrived.  Or mutants, orcs and the like." 
dojango
Jasmine buys a fish from a fish vendor and tosses it to Kwolf.  Then she takes the paper it had been wrapped in and scribbles a brief note on it.  She gives the note to one of the urchins to deliver to Hestrad Warbelt.  Once that's done she spends her time making sure the ship is ready to leave with the morning tides; making sure the stores are loaded properly, that the ship's trim is even, that all the cordage and sheets are as mended as possible and that the crew is accounted for and mostly sober.

 
 Spoiler: Note 
Were leevin on the morning tid.  You shud chek oute the  Thunderclod  for wat you arr lookin four.  If you ken mak shur the dwarvs now we arr innercent I will considur the favur you ow us repade.  your frend, Jasmin Featherblossom.
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth's festive mood is brought low when the elf opponent accepts Wighard's invitation.   The elf did make a good job of showing off his injury however and it brightened the dwarf's spirits somewhat.   He grinned as Bruno mentioned dwarven beer as sweet memories of past draughts came to his mind.  It has been quite a few months since he had a proper dwarven pint.   Still the Imperial beer here was more to his liking than the wine so plentiful in this land.   When the table conversation turned to Justice and the means to make it he answered gruffly.  I suppose in the end, we each do what we feel is correct and honorable or else how does one sleep with their shame at night?   He then took a huge bite out of his sausage spraying the sizzling fat in a few directions.   It will be sometime before your arm heals Elf.  In that time how will you manage for yourself, if trial by combat is your vocation? 
wilphe
Lysander shows no sign of bearing a grudge against Gimgroth, not for what happened between them nor for any generic dwarf-elf rivalry and is apparently being genuinely friendly - even if he is fairly clearly figuring you out

  Trial by combat is not really a vocation for me and in any case opportunities don't come along very often.

I was lucky   

he looks at his arm

  Or perhaps not, that you were in town and anyway Bretonnian justice very rarely has need of such as I  
  If I wanted to do it as a career I would travel elsewhere, but even then a champion doesn't get to fight every much. It is like having a high priced lawyer. You want people to settle rather than ever go to trial.  
  So I have other outlets, bounty hunting for example

Is there still a price on you in Anguille Mme Lacroix?  

This sounds like polite conversation, not a threat, but you never know...
bramblefoot
The journey from Castle Lyonesse to Turris Vigilans unfolded beneath a vast expanse of azure sky, its clarity unmarred by the ominous clouds that often loomed over the Warhammer Fantasy world. The road, worn smooth by the passage of countless feet and wagon wheels, stretched across undulating landscapes of emerald green. Towering trees whispered ancient secrets, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze that carried the scent of blooming wildflowers.

As the sun ascended its zenith, the travelers crossed babbling brooks on stone bridges adorned with lichen and moss. Meadows stretched out on either side, painted with a riot of colors from the myriad flowers that nodded and swayed to the rhythm of nature's silent symphony. The air was filled with the distant hum of insects and the occasional trill of unseen birds.

The road wound through quaint villages, where red-tiled roofs clustered around market squares, and the villagers went about their daily tasks with a serene sense of routine. The landscape gradually changed, giving way to rolling hills that offered panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. Far in the distance, the silhouette of Turris Vigilans emerged against the horizon, its imposing spires reaching towards the heavens like ancient sentinels.

As the day wore on, the weather remained kind, the sun casting a warm, golden glow upon the landscape. The road began to ascend, and the air grew crisper. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, as if the very land itself recognized the significance of the destination.

With dusk approaching, the travelers reached the outskirts of Turris Vigilans. The city sprawled before them, a labyrinth of towering walls and winding streets. The first stars began to twinkle overhead, and the lights of the city flickered to life, casting a warm radiance that contrasted with the encroaching darkness.

At the city gates, a palpable tension replaced the earlier tranquility. Guards eyed the newcomers with a mix of suspicion and duty. Just as the party prepared to enter, a distant howl echoed through the gathering shadows, a haunting sound that seemed to carry an omen. The air thickened with a sense of foreboding, and the city gates loomed ahead, ready to either welcome the travelers into safety or plunge them into the depths of an unknown peril.
farothel
Bruno wasn't sure what he could expect when he was told what Turris Vigilans was.  He hadn't really seen any lighthouses except for the big one in L'Anguille, but that one was elven build and probably different from the human build ones.  And he had been in temples of Verena of course, but the combination was something to learn about.  He certainly hadn't expected a big city around that tower, but then again, it wasn't all that illogical when he thought about it.  The lighthouse and the temple needed support of a village and the lighthouse meant the coast was safer, so easier to trade.  And a lot of people had managed to get out of Mousillon and they had to go somewhere.  Protected by priests of Verena probably didn't sound too bad for those people.

When the howl sounded, Bruno moved his horse a bit faster.
 "I think we best try to get to the city as quickly as possible,"  he suggested to his companions,  "I'm not sure what that is, but probably nothing good." 
dojango
" Les' try not ta get bogged down here. "  Jasmine tells the others.  " Find out what we can about tha rebels and get movin' "
wilphe
Wighard is content to be moving again, and on dry land at that.

Kwolf spurts from tree to tree to shoulder whilst Schlapp trots alongside

The only thing he finds somewhat disturbing is being away from Siobhan and Cathwulf, them having being a continual presence in his life for so long.

Well, there is also the disturbing part of getting close to the cursed duchy itself, a dull and unwelcoming smear cross the river, but at least that means making progress and hopefully finding answers.
MrAbdiel
Bertelis goes through his normal kaleidoscope of emotions on the way to Turris Vigilans, though he is happy that their band has not had to fight off orcs or beastmen on this overland journey. They fall in with a small caravan of supply from the capital, with three wagons driven by three brothers well familiar with the road. As it happens, they get just about to the lighthouse proper without major incident, and Bertelis is glad for it. His horses have gotten to stretch and run after being confined in the bowels of ships for so long, and his devotions shifted in weight away from Manaan back toward the Lady with time on land. Still, whatever part of his mind had been knocked loose by that skaven bullet was still spinning, and he sagged in the saddle in a brooding melancholy as they arrived at the Lighthouse, barely twisting in the saddle at the menacing howl beyond.

He doesn't even have the presence of self to double-time the caravan to make the gates. But by this point, Maxime is well used to his eccentricities; and the squire can be seen conferring quietly with him and then taking it upon himself to call the wagons to rush, just in case, before galloping off ahead to arrange the gates to be open at their arrival.

Weary at even the prospect of battle at this hour, Bertelis lets the wagons overtake him as he slips on his helmet, and frees up his lance and shield. With the gates in sight, they were likely to make it in without trouble.

...But he had seen a lot of unlikely trouble.
wilphe
  Answer?  

Schlapp doesn't usually say much, so what passes for his thoughts are usually worthy of consideration

  What say they?  
  Do not know. Might be "here I am "  
  Respond if it pleases you  

Schlapp stops and gives an answering howl

Wighard drops back and covers the rear of the group, ensuring no one lags or gets left behind
bramblefoot
alright, so as the caravan files inside the gates of turris vigilans, wighard spots two pairs of glowing eyes, and one singular eye just watching him. one pair is green with vertical pupils, one is yellow with normal eyes, and the last is a singular red eye with an evil glare. they will just watch until everyone is inside, and then disappear back into the woods around the headlands

inside, the guards stare, and a burly fellow with a spear will say  "state your business please. you here for business or pleasure?"  at the last statement, a weaselly man with a wispy moustache will almost suppress a snicker
farothel
 "I'd say it is business this time,"  Bruno said, leaning into it,  "but maybe we'll be back later for some pleasure.  Any idea what that creature is that just popped its head up when we came in?" 
wilphe
  We have come to seek the counsel of your priests.

We are the Company of the Burning Slug, sworn companions of his Lordship Bertelis de Roche, Banerez de Saulx, Chevalier de Hérrison.

His Lordship Bruno, Baron Richter

I am Wighard Rauschenberg, Brevet Surgeon-at-large of the Order of Aetius the Bright, Stabsarzt of his Imperial Majesty's Army

Gimgroth Grimdurson, The Faithful

  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
This is really Maxime's job, but to keep things moving.

Also note that this is in descending order of precedence and he doesn't introduce the two females.

Partially because they are female peasants and therefore beneath notice, partially because I cannot remember if Regine ever formally signed articles but mostly because their typical activities are going to be hampered by someone loudly announcing their presence and identities to anyone who cares to listen
 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis gives a small nod when Wighard title-drops him; content to remain as an instrument of clout for the moment. The deeds ahead of them loomed over his world like mountains, like demons as big as mountains, and he found it hard to contribute at his usual sparkling level.
bramblefoot
the burly guard sighs  "got no clue what those things are. they've been savaging the local farmsteads around here though, and only at night. they never leave any survivors. they also leave a strange sigil on the door of the farmstead afterwards"  he proffers a small charcoal sketch of the sigil on the door.  "i dunno if it means anything to you, but it gives me the fugging creeps" 
 

the small weaselly man speaks up  "if your looking for lodging, the laughing wanderer has rooms open"  the guards will let you pass, but their eyes linger on your backs a second too long
wilphe
  Thank you, is anyone looking into this?  

he looks at the small weaselly man, surprised to see him alone, but not judgemental about his looks, that's pretty much a given for his chosen livelihood

  There are no ten year old boys around here to tout the delights of whichever place of rest or entertainment has them on commission or did you buy exclusive rights to the gate?  
  I warn you if you are offering whores and mandrake root you will find us unprofitable. Good food and wine however is a different matter.

And if you are planning on robbing us during the night you will probably end up doing so at the same time as we get attacked by something else way more dangerous than you.  
farothel
Bruno was looking at the symbol, trying to see if he recognised it form somewhere.  He smiled when Wighard threatened the small guy, but the truth was that he was probably right.

 
 Spoiler: OOC roll 

 (1d100)[ 49 ]  vs 59 for either
academic knowledge (genealogy/heraldry)
academic knowledge (history)
common knowledge (Bretonnia)
common knowledge (empire)

So if it falls under any of those, Bruno can know it.
 
bramblefoot
the weaselly man will back up slightly as wighard approaches.  "easy mr rauchesburg. i meant nothing by it."  he'll offer to lead you to the laughing wanderer, or if that will not do, he offers a map of the area, probably acquired through less than legal means

the laughing wanderer tavern is a hodgepodge of architecture, with a lopsided thatched roof that seems to mock the weariness of the surrounding landscape. A flickering lantern hangs above the entrance, casting a feeble light that barely illuminates the peculiar carvings and symbols etched into the wooden door.

Inside, the tavern exudes a warmth that contrasts sharply with the cold, foreboding world outside. The dimly lit room is adorned with mismatched furniture salvaged from various places, and the walls are adorned with faded tapestries depicting scenes from a bygone era. The air is thick with the scent of rough ale and the crackling of a meager fire in the hearth. Patrons huddle together in whispered conversations, their laughter carrying an air of both camaraderie and wariness.

gimgroth: youd spot a large male dwarf with a long braided beard nursing a tankard of spiced rum at the bar. he seems to have something on his mind, and a burning need to share it with another dawi

mr dawi
 

bertelis and bruno: youd both spot a female witch hunter sitting at a corner booth, smoking a long-stem pipe, and scanning the area. she looks at you, nods, and goes back to smoking

ms witch hunter
 

wighard: youd spot a bard playing some upbeat music and mumbling softly to himself. the bard doesnt look like hes all there, and hes prolly seen some shtuff in mousillon. his eyes are bright, and he smiles to something that is to your left  "Ah, darling, listen close as the shadows weave their tales in the silent corners of the night. Beware the twisted dance of spectral whispers that echo through the graveyard's cold embrace. The dead, they yearn for a macabre waltz, and the boundaries between the worlds waver like a fragile veil. Venture not lightly, for in that sepulchral realm, the forgotten yearn to share secrets darker than the tomb's cold stone. Tread with care, for the symphony of the damned awaits those who dare disturb the haunting melody of Marius' mad musings." 

marius the bard

 

wdyd?
wilphe
With the Inn not looking too seedy and Bertelis deep in torpor, Wighard orders Maxine, Odmar and Berthhold to attend to the mounts and enters the place.

Finding a suitable table he installs himself in a corner and surveys the room, as the bard finishes he looks as Beatrice

  You think you can follow that?  
farothel
On the way to the inn, Bruno had been thinking about the symbol.  He had some idea what it was.
 "You recognise the symbol,"  he asked Wighard when they entered,  "I think I did and it's not good.  Hopefully it's just a wannabe using the same symbol, but with our luck..." 

Looking around the inn, he noticed the witch hunter.  He was surprised to see one so far from the Empire, especially a woman.  Bretonnia wasn't known for its woman warriors and also it didn't have witch hunters as a tradition like in the Empire.  And the way most witch hunters behaved, they really needed that protection.  But having seen the symbol, he could understand why the witch hunter was here.

When he came back from getting a drink, he walked by the witch hunter and stopped.
 "Hey, long way from the Empire,"  he said,  "you're also here for the library and the priests?" 
dojango
Jasmine was mostly overlooked by the guards (possibly because she'd been napping in the wagon) but she hops out and heads over to the tavern with the others.  She follows Bruno over to the witch-hunter and says, " Oh hey, another Imperial!  You one of them witch hunters?  How ya doing?  What's your handle yer goin' by?  Always good ta see some proper sorts around ta help deal with stuff, ya know what I mean?  Lemme buy you a glass of white wine... "
wilphe
Wighard tries to look unconcerned at the prospect of Jasmine getting friendly with a Witchhunter
bramblefoot
jasmine: the witch hunter will assent, and let you get her a glass of white wine  "as they say, the best wine is free"  she jokes, patting the seat across from her.  "the company of the burning slug makes its way into mousillon, and i have a package from the hammer. im just here to make sure the company of the burning slug fulfills its oaths" 

she passes a wrapped package across the table that clinks as its set on the table.  "thats in case you run into any undead or daemons"  she says.

wighard: marius will stop playing, and saunter out to the outhouse, strumming a small tune on his lute
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 Finding a suitable table he installs himself in a corner and surveys the room, as the bard finishes he looks as Beatrice

  You think you can follow that?   
 

Beatrix gives Wighard a wink and dropping down from her stool she looks to Gimgroth for his permission.   The dwarf nods to the girl as he makes his way over to the other  dawi  at the bar.

 Not many Dawi around these parts.  It looks if you don't speak the very rocks will shout.   Let's share a point and a tale.   Gimgroth orders two of whatever passes as beer in this place.

Beatrix had found her way to the stage wearing her brown leather jerkin.   The tavern is quite noisy as the patrons are talking during the break in music from Marius.    The young lady slips onto the bard's stool and into an impression of Marius himself.
 Apologies my patrons I felt a need to be alone and strum my instrument.   You see I have a bit of a performance problem.   Well I am a bard of some renown so best that I sing and not just blather about it.    and Beatrix breaks into an impromptu song mimicing Marius's voice but not his tone.  Throughout the performance Beatrix is accentuating the lyrics with bawdy gestures and pantomimes.
 
In a world where love is wild and free, There's a tale of a man, let me tell you, see, I've got the charm, I've got the wit, But when it comes to action, I just can't commit.

(Chorus) Oh, I've got the humor, I've got the style, But in the bedroom, I just can't make you smile. I'm searching for a cure, but it's out of my reach, Oh, impotence, it's a lesson I must teach.

I crack jokes that'll make you laugh for days, But when it comes to passion, it all goes astray. I try so hard to light that fire, But when the moment comes, my desire expires.

(Chorus) Oh, I've got the humor, I've got the style, But in the bedroom, I just can't make you smile.  I'm searching for a cure, but it's out of my reach, Oh, impotence, it's a lesson I must teach.

So let's gather 'round and sing this song, About a man whose love life has gone wrong. Though my body may fail me in this dance, my spirit shines bright with every chance.

(Chorus) Oh, I've got the humor, I've got the style, But in the bedroom, I just can't make you smile. I'm searching for a cure.  and then Beatrix ends with a big flourish
 Ohhh I'm searching for a cure. 
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 jasmine: the witch hunter will assent, and let you get her a glass of white wine  "as they say, the best wine is free"  she jokes, patting the seat across from her.  "the company of the burning slug makes its way into mousillon, and i have a package from the hammer. im just here to make sure the company of the burning slug fulfills its oaths" 

she passes a wrapped package across the table that clinks as its set on the table.  "thats in case you run into any undead or daemons"  she says. 
 

 "We're still on it,"  Bruno said as she took the package, not opening it in the inn.  He would do so later with the others when they had some privacy.
 "We've had a few bumps along the road, but you know how that goes.  A few things that needed some of our time, but we're here to gain the knowledge of the priests before we head in.  The more you know about your enemy, the better it is.  And you have my thanks for coming out all this way to bring us this." 
bramblefoot
gimgroth: Marius returns from the outhouse, catching wind of Beatrix's brazen performance and the subtle jabs aimed at his romantic prowess. A sly grin crosses his face as he approaches her, ready to offer a spirited response.

 "Well, Beatrix, it seems my absence has inspired quite the creative endeavor," Marius remarks, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Let's address the elephant—or should I say, the beardless dwarf—in the room, shall we?" 

He takes a moment, then launches into a more assertive rendition:

 "In a world where beards once proudly flowed,
There's a dwarf without, and the truth's been sowed.
Beatrix, my friend, your humor's quite grand,
But let's talk about the beard in your dwarven homeland.

(Chorus) Oh, I've got the charm, I've got the might,
In the bedroom or the tavern, I'll set things right.
Your daddy lost his mane, a fate most dire,
But I'll make your heart sing, set it on fire.

I'll serenade you with a tale so bold,
Of a rogue whose love can't be bought or sold.
Beatrix, my dear, your act's quite a show,
But in the end, it's my love that'll grow.

(Chorus) Oh, I've got the charm, I've got the might,
In the bedroom or the tavern, I'll set things right.
Your daddy's without his beard, a loss profound,
But in love's battlefield, I hold my ground. 

Marius concludes with a defiant flourish, a challenge gleaming in his eyes. He bows with a touch of theatrical flair, leaving the crowd to decide the winner of this musical duel.

meanwhile, the rest of the patrons seem to be waiting for a response from beatrix, including the witch hunter
wilphe
As Marius retaliates, not against Beatrice but against her father Wighard keeps a watchful eye on the dwarf. He is somewhat torn between intervening to stop Gimgroth from responding or letting him do so in the manner to which he is accustomed, in which case a stool to the face would be getting off lightly.
LarsWester
Beatrix looks nervously over at Gimgroth as the bard foolishly decides to mock his lost beard.   Gimgroth drains his freshly poured beard nods curtly to the other dawi at the bar.   Waits for the bard's song to end before standing up from his stool shifting his shield into place along his left arm he takes up his hammer in his left hand.  The dwarf looks back up at his adoptive human daughter as her eyes plead with him to stay in his seat and let her handle this matter.   The young girl shoves the elf aside as she takes center stage

 Marius, Marious, you fool of an elf.
You insult my father instead of myself.
Words of his deeds proceed him everywhere,
The shine of his shield dost produce a glare.

(Chorus) Marius, you boast of might and charm
but anger Gimgroth and come to harm.
Shame and mock him to his wondrous face.
His hammer and shield will put you in place.

So now seems the right time for a shameless plug,
Be warned of crossing the Order of the Burning Slug.
For their might and their valor is greater by far
then any knife-eared bard born under doomed star

(Chorus) Marius, you boast of might and charm
but anger Gimgroth and come to harm.
Shame and mock him to his wondrous face.
His hammer and shield will put you in place.
 

Once Beatrix started her song Gimgroth started ringing his hammer on his shield to the rhythm.
Beatrix kept her attention during the first verse and chorus focused on Marius.  The second verse her attention turned to the patrons of the bar and she gestured that they join in with singing the chorus the second time.   When the second chorus ends Beatrix looks over to Gimgroth and notices that the dwarf has a smile on his face.
wilphe
Wighard joins in Gimgroth's percussion with his axe on shield, it gets louder and deeper until by the final chorus is not so much heard as felt. The deep bass shaking the building and everyone in it.

His eyes start to noticeably glow brilliant white at this point, but at this instant that hardly matters to him. Gimgroth has stood with him, he shall stand with Gimgroth.



 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 95 ]  Channeling 87
Going for Sounds

sounds
Casting Number: 4
Casting Time: Half action
Ingredient: A tiny bell (+1)
Description: You can create a phantom noise with this spell, with
volume ranging from a whisper to a roar. You can choose the
type of noise and the volume; the spell can reproduce any type
of noise but speech. The noise can last for up to one round.
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (3d10)[ 6 ][ 10 ][ 2 ](18)  -3 TN4
 
farothel
With a last nod to the witch hunter, Bruno took the package and headed back to the table where most of the group were sitting.
 "She was a messenger,"  he said to the others,  "package from our friend the Hammer to help us in our quest.  I suggest opening it later when we're alone." 

As the singing contest started, Bruno went on edge, ready to intervene if there was a need.
bramblefoot
marius will smile down at beatrix.  "you are good at your bardic works"  he says, passing beatrix a small flat wooden token  "take a token of performance as a show of my gratitude"  with that, he packs up his lute, and will walk out, humming a jaunty marching tune

the token of performance: +10 to a performance singing test. can be used thrice before withering away to nothing

what are the rest of you doing?

wighard: youd spot a small brownie crawling up the wall, and into the mouth of a large stuffed animal head that sits behind the bar. it will wink, and make a  come hither  motion with a small hand before going inside the stuffed animal

gimgroth: the dwarf will nod  "there is a curse that must be broken. the curse affects the forging of weapons, and i have been sent to find where it comes from. two days travel into mousillon lies an old ruin. inside lies danger, and several items that must be destroyed"  tell me what items must be destroyed. the dwarf says they are needed to be captured, and then brought back for proper disposal
MrAbdiel
Bertelis blinks. The hammering, clattering chorus of the spirited defence of Gimgroth's honor is enough to wake the dead, and he's near enough to be roused by it. For a little while, he blinks away the fog of his inattention, and tracks his eyes to the others in the party. Gimgroth, chatting to another dwarf; Wighard keeping his eyes out and backing the dawi champion up. Bruno and Jasmine across the room, talking to a woman who isn't hiding her dangerous profession... and Regine, here at this table, with him.

He looks down at the half-empty cup of wine in his hand, and then up at the thief again. Has she been disengaged from proceedings as well, or keeping an eye on him?

He musters his strength to engage her, if only to prevent her from gaining the impression that he might be easily stolen from.

 "You know Mousillon is our destination, yes...? Are you prepared for such a trek? Have you ever been to a cursed place, ma'amselle?" 
wilphe
Wighard allows Marius his exit and applauds Beatrice off the stage.

He will of course be checking over that little trinket that he left Beatrice, as well as whatever the witchhunter brought, but not yet. Later. In private.

He turns his attention to where the Brownie went, curious to check out how friendly it really is

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 2 ]  Magical Sense 87


I didn't see anything specific to WFRP Brownies, so I presume they are the mostly benevolent domestic fae of folklore?

Except with Warhammer.
 
farothel
Bruno will have something to drink and to eat until such time as they can get some privacy with the group (probably in one of the group's room) to open the package the witch hunter brought.
bramblefoot
wighard: Nestled within a cozy corner of the Laughing Wanderer is a tiny enclosure, hidden behind a curtain of woven leaves and hanging ivy. This enchanting space serves as a haven for a solitary brownie, a diminutive fey creature with mischievous eyes that sparkle like dewdrops on a moonlit night. The air within is alive with the scent of wildflowers and the soft hum of magic.

As you peek inside, you see the brownie meticulously arranging acorn cups and twigs into delicate patterns on a moss-covered table. In the corners, small orbs of light flicker, casting a warm glow over the quaint surroundings. The brownie, dressed in leaves and flower petals, pauses in its work and looks up at you with a knowing twinkle in its eyes.

With a mischievous grin, the brownie speaks,  "Ah, the fickle dance of mortals! In the blink of an eye, kingdoms rise and fall, yet their tales echo through the ages like the eternal rustle of leaves. Man's desires shift like the seasons, but the fey, dear visitor, we remain unchanged, guardians of tales spun in the threads of time. So tread softly through the realms of men, for their dreams and follies are but fleeting shadows in the eternal twilight of the fey." 

the brownie will come out, and pass you a small acorn.  "the fey court has had its eye on you for a while wighard rauchesburg"  it titters.  "meet me at the old crooked willow tree at midnight.  the antlered hunter wishes to speak to you" 

bertelis: a messenger arrives, passing you a letter with the seal of the verenan priests  "they have requested your presence at the lighthouse alone"  the messenger says bowing low  "they say they have a possible cure for your ailment, but the cure is dependent on the price you are willing to pay"  tell me what the letter says

bruno and the remainder of the party not mentioned: the barkeep will get you set up in the loft of the laughing wanderer. it has enough beds, and a small cozy reading room light by lanterns. the cost is roughly double the usual price for such accommodations, but its well worth the trouble
dojango
Jasmine listens politely to the witch hunter and says, " Woulda been nice ta have that afore we left but we're thankful enough for the help.  Tell the Hammer we're workin' on it, just everything's fallen down and onta our heads and we are tryin' ta dig our way outta it.  We'll be back in the Empire hoistin' a pint with the Hammer afore long though, I jest know it. "
wilphe
Wighard takes the proffered acorn and sips from it gently and with thanks

 "meet me at the old crooked willow tree at midnight. the antlered hunter wishes to speak to you" 
  Is this inside or outside the walls?  

Wighard will ask directions and be certain that he can get there before agreeing
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 gimgroth: the dwarf will nod  "there is a curse that must be broken. the curse affects the forging of weapons, and i have been sent to find where it comes from. two days travel into mousillon lies an old ruin. inside lies danger, and several items that must be destroyed"  tell me what items must be destroyed. the dwarf says they are needed to be captured, and then brought back for proper disposal 
 

Gimgroth hung his head to reflect the proper amount of dwarven sadness at the tale of a cursed forge incapable of producing any weapons.  How long could a Karak suffer under such a curse and persist.
 I be a member of a company that has dealt with all manner of foul magics.  Tell me more of this curse and what items be needed.   How did the forge gain this curse?  What items need to be regained and returned?   Also I am Gimgroth Grimdurson.   The Grimdurson of Trantio have a familial legacy of the forge.  With whom do I share the cups? 
 Well met Gimgroth Grimdurson.   I regret not sharing my name before it was asked.  I am Hrudim Lodeshield hailing from Khazid Frukund.   The curse beset our village last Geheimnisnacht.  The forge at Khazid Frukund was tended in chief by twin smiths Kharmraz and Kazgim Sternhearth.  During Geheimnisnacht Kharmraz was possessed by an deamon and slew Kazgim with a smithing hammer.   The following morning Kharmraz distraught by his murder of his kin took up the Slayer's Oath and left Khazid Frukund.  The forge has produced no suitable weapons since.   All metal workings become extremely brittle upon quenching and shatter at first contact.   Our priests have divined that to break the curse the Hammer of Kin-Slaying must be brought back to the forge and destroyed within.   In addition to the hammer there is a shattered crucible that must be remade.   It is believed that Kharmraz wears a piece of this crucible on a necklace around his neck.  Our priest received a prophetic vision of the death of Kharmraz at the mentioned ruin within Mousilon.   If you can return the piece of the crucible and the Hammer of Kinslaying they believe the curse could be lifted and our forge would be servicable again.  As the western flank of our people the importance of a working forge at Khazid Frukund can not be understated.   Will you aid us
son of the Grimdursons of the forge? 
 Mousilon be our road anyways.  I see no reason not to take up this quest for Khazid Frukund but I will confer with the rest of the company of The Order of the Burning Slug before taking any vows of committment.   with that Gimgroth drained his beer and looked for Beatrix.  She was working her way around the tavern taking in the patron's encouragement and tips for her talents.
bramblefoot
wighard, gimgroth and beatrix

what wighard sees
 

what gimgroth and beatrix see
 

The crooked willow tree looms in the shadow of the towering walls of Turris Vigilans, its branches twisted and gnarled, as if bearing witness to countless ages. Beneath its contorted form, the party of Wighard, Gimgroth, and Beatrix finds the enigmatic figure they seek – the purported avatar of Taal.

The old man, hunched and seemingly feeble, stands there leaning on a staff, his cloak tattered and worn. His eyes, though clouded by age, gleam with a profound wisdom. To those attuned to magic, however, a different sight unfolds. The old man straightens, his form elongating into a majestic figure. Antlers, reminiscent of a stag's crown, sprout from his head, and a regal presence emanates from him.

As the party approaches, the avatar of Taal acknowledges them with a nod.  "Ah, travelers seeking balance within Turris Vigilans. The city may stand tall, but the roots of corruption run deep beneath its walls,"  he says, his voice echoing with both age and power.

From the folds of his robes, the avatar produces three crowns woven from delicate flowers, each exuding a faint, ethereal glow.  "Wighard, Gimgroth, and Beatrix, wear these crowns, gifts from the spirit of Taal. They shall lend you strength against the shadows that threaten this sacred place." 

As the crowns are placed upon their heads, the party feels a surge of energy, a connection to the natural forces that surround the crooked willow tree. Wighard senses the pulse of the earth beneath Turris Vigilans, Gimgroth feels the strength of the ancient tree infusing him, and Beatrix perceives the ebb and flow of magical energies that permeate the air.

The avatar of Taal gazes at them with approval.  "You bear the gifts of nature; let them guide you in your quest. Turris Vigilans may need your strength to unearth the hidden tendrils of corruption that threaten its foundation."
 
With a final nod, the majestic figure fades away, leaving the party standing beneath the crooked willow tree, their heads crowned with the magical flowers. The proximity to Turris Vigilans only intensifies the weight of their mission as they prepare to face the shadows lurking within the city's walls.

wighard: twice a month, but not within two weeks of each other, you can cast rhyas comfort with your magic characteristic

gimgroth: once per day, you can cast stags leap on yourself. the crown has 2 magic dice you can use to cast it

beatrix can see the winds of magic, and can bane or boon them once a day (add +1 to a magic characteristic, or -1 one enemies one)
wilphe
Wighard bows slightly upon meeting the avatar

  Milord  

Deities need handling differently.

With The Family, and especially with Morr, the relationship is familiar yet respectful. An apprentice to a master. a noble lord to a promising servant, an officer to an Emperor. No, more like a junior colleague to a mentor.

Manann. He is the sea itself, powerful, fickle. Always to be treated with respect, always keep your guard up.

Taal. He simply is.

The mountain does not care what you think of it.

To underestimate it is foolish, but it doesn't care for your grovelling either.


Wighard has never had much to do with Taal's cult, though he has spent some time in the wilderness when he was in the Army as an apprentice. He is much more familiar with the followers of Rhya. It was from them he learned much of the business of childbirth for his order teaches that you always have something to learn and that you learn medicine by doing. Not from stuffy textbooks or pedants in Altdorf who don't even know how many teeth women have.+


  Thank you milord  

As the avatar turns to leave he looks over his shoulder at Odmar as if expecting the avatar to acknowledge him but he does not.

Then he is gone.

Wighard approaches Odmar, who is silent throughout

  Odmar   he says gently

 That, that was beautiful. Thank you for bringing me Wighard. I never thought I would get to see that.

Even.

When I was in the mines

I still hoped

I still prayed 

The two hug, Odmar sobbing in a combination of religious joy and the sorrow of skaven slavery


 
 Spoiler: + 

Yes that was a real thing
 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis responds to the summons. Of course he does. How could he not? Though he is, at best, only partly aware of the ailment spoken of. He tips the messenger, and musters the effort to read the letter.

 Noble Chevalier,

From the tower above, we bid you greetings. Some in our number are aware of your condition, through certain oracular methods; and it would be profane cruelty not to offer the insight we can. Please attend this evening, if you please.

- Madame La Bonn, Deaconess. 

It's a short letter, but its matters are personal, so he is glad they were sparing. When he ascends the grand winding staircase all the way to the tower's top, the deaconess is more forthcoming. The upper chamber if the lighthouse, the one right below the capped roof with the grand white signal fire for naval charting, is a great panopticon with tall windows and balconies fitted with brass telescopes and instruments of measurement. A huge brass orrery featuring a complicated dance of the world, the sun, and the moons as well as certain key constellations and tokens for notable comets dominates the ceiling of the chamber. Priests and priestesses of Verena work here to watch Mousillon, to catalogue and pre-empt its horrors disgorged into the lands beyond, but also to gather knowledge of the stars. Many decades ago, the Fay Enchantress placed a blessing on Verena's sacred flame in the chamber above so that it burns pure white instead of gold; and for reasons unclear to many head-scratching luminaries from other nations, it has caused the light of the tower to cease to interfere with the study of the stars. A handful of the more junior Damsels of the Lady, those with a special interest in celestial magics, work in concert with the Verenans whose interest is more banal and scholarly.

Bertelis is not invited deep into the room; he confers with the Deaconess La Bonn at the top of the stairs, which suits him just fine.

 "We prefer not to place our trust in vague prophecies and oracles when we don't have to, Sir Bertelis. But it is a mark of folly, not wisdom, to close one's ears to the gods. You don't want to provoke them to shout." 

Bertelis nods along, tiredly. He is adapting to the fame of their adventuring party, and having people know things about him before they meet him. The Deaconess seems to have almost alarmingly intimate knowledge of his psyche; things he has told very few, and in confidence.

 "I can offer nothing for the frailty of spirit that afflicts you - that is between you, and your Lady, and your enemy. But quite apart from that, you are a man divided, Sir Bertelis. You are fit to do damage to those who rely on you, if this remains unsolved." 

The knight shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't  feel  divided; he feels like one man each day, as most do. But he does find himself struggling to explain his reasoning from one day to the next. But then, everyone's like that. More so than he is.

 "I fear you are mistaken. I am.. troubled, but I live in troubling times. I have many burdens. But my companions are growing erratic; energetic some days, slothful others. If anything, a curse is striking around me at those I travel with - and being companion to them is sometimes more taxing than rewarding." 

The Deaconess shakes her head.  "You are wrong. You did not throw yourself at Manaan's feet because you were plagued with your internal constancy, Sir Bertelis. You are suffering; your mind is changing day to day, and it is the way you  see  your friends that is changing. They are not growing energetic - you are waking to find the world too fast, and bitterly bright. They are not becoming slothful - your humours are prone to boiling up and making those with you seem dour by comparison. You are a man in a stained-glass prison, Bertelis; you are forgetting what colour the world is when viewed clearly." 

The ring of truth is unmistakable. But oh, he is tired. He can feel it coming up. He can feel... The Ask.

 "Don't tell me Verena has a task for me. Please. Please, Deaconess; I have taken so many oaths and bonds and strictures upon myself that I am stretched so thin in the soul..."  His voice trails off into a rasp, as he realises he is begging.  "I cannot keep adding to it. It must change..." 
 "No! Change is what's wrong, knight. You have been  poisoned  by change. You must rally yourself, and you will find yourself strong enough to bear your burdens, and those around you. It is in you to do so; that is why the dark gods have striven so hard to split you into pieces. But they are not the only masters; and not the only ones interested in your Company. Here..." 

She presses a bundle of cloth into his hands.  "This is the Battle Standard of Eric of Parravon. You know his story? He stood alone and guarded a grail chapel against a daemonic warband until his lancemates could relieve him; and he lived. You have more to give than just your blood and guts! And the world needs it. So here - fly this standard on a lonely hilltop one night, when Morrslieb is full. It will draw the daemons to it - the minions of the Changer. Be ready with your companions; the Changer of Ways is fickle and bitter and evil, and his minions do not like to be reminded of a failure. But if you stand through their attack, and banish the leader of that band just as Eric of Parravon did, I beleive that your whole body - your soul - will profit, and the daemon will take with it the dividedness that plagues you. There, you see? Not such an additional burden. But I would ask, when you settle in Saulx, that you provide a place where Verenans might lodge and study the realm around yours; perhaps even space for a chapel, which you and your knights will defend." 

He stands in the doorway, running his fingers through the cloth of the banner, thinking. Another lethal combat; another joust with demons. He needs to dispatch a champion of the Changer anyway, at some point. But can he willingly invite this combat on his allies for the sake of.. what? Some mild moodswings? Which may not even exist?

He tucks the banner away, and resolves to sleep on it. It's possible he will be too proud, or self hating, or distracted, or tired, to bring it up to his companions at all, any time soon.

Of course, he doesn't know that Jasmine might have overheard the whole thing just around the bend of the stairs, and the matter might not be up to him at all.
dojango
Jasmine had followed Bertelis and was uncharacteristically quiet on the journey over.  Lost in her own thoughts, she handed the door-warden the letter of introduction she had been given so long ago, naming her a Venerean Investigator.  In elegant, classical calligraphy it read:


  This letter certifies that Jasmine Featherblossom nee Whitehill is to be accorded all the rights and courtesies traditionally afforded to lay initiates of the host temple.  

and then below, in different handwriting


  Don't let her borrow books!  

Introductions made, she hurried after Bertelis and climbed the long and winding stairs.  Once Bertelis finishes talking to the deaconess, she tells him, " fightin' tha physical manifestation of change ain't the weirdest cure I ever heard, but then we get a lotta quacks in tha river-trade.  And the professor mighta said something similar once as well.  I remember once when we was crossin' the river and a big storm came up and while I was fightin' ta get us back on course he apologized ta me.  And I said for what?  And he said that his mind was so stormy that it brought these troubles upon us.  I laughed at him but I think he might agree with what the lady said.  If ya can't beat your troubles in yer heart then beat them upside their heads, I reckon. "
wilphe
  Meanwhile on the Sea of Claws:  

The knaar  Eòrdid  is heading north in company with the longship  Skuldelev . In the bow are a dozen wet hungry and frightened children trying to get some warmth under the coarse tarpaulin.

Well, most of them are frightened

 We just need to keeping praying to Sigmar, he will save us, you'll see. Believe brother 
 They killed everybody! They will sacrifice us to their horrible gods! 
 Or work us to death 
 They might feed us then 
 Be brave. Trust Sigmar. 
 Where was Sigmar when they raided our village? He doesn't care about us  
 You shut up, blasfemer 
 You don't know what a  blasphemer  is 
 I know what ever it is, he's one 


There's a slap and the sound of scuffling then one of the crew whacks the tarpaulin heavily with the butt of a spear until they go silent, then keeps going a bit for good measure

  Shut up all of you.   

The steersman looks at him

  Stop that Sven  
  I'm trying to sleep and no one is going to want to hear them whine in their soft southern tongue. They might as well learn that now, and the sooner they do the more they are worth. This trip hasn't been valuable enough for you to coddle them.  

He turns over and tries to go back to sleep.

The shadow attached to the underside of Eòrdid detaches and jets over to the stern of the following  Skuldelev. 

The first sign that anything might be wrong is when the lookout in the bow of  Skuldelev  notes her veering off course, not receiving any response to his hail he turns to talk to the steersman.

But he isn't there, the stearing oar hanging loose.

There is a brief moment of disbelief, then he is plucked off his feet and over the side before everything goes dark.

 Skuldelev  is now under no control and her remaining crew with the instincts of mariners are beginning to stir. They are mostly only half awake as tentacles curl over both sides of the ship to grab them, crush them, throw them into the sea, into the deck or each other.

This does attract the attention of the steersman on  Eòrdid , who shouts and kicks awake his crew mates, one of whom is not happy to be disturbed again

  I just got off again, this had better be good. What the hell is that   Sven reaches for the spear he used earlier but it drops from his hand as he too is grabbed and thrown in a low spin towards  Skuldelev  so that he actually skips twice before vanishing beneath the waves.

The steersman feels a large voice in his head

  TWO AGAIN

THAT'S MY PERSONAL BEST

YOU ARE THE CAPTAIN OF THIS VESSEL?  
  Y-Y-Yes?  
  YOU DON'T SOUND VERY SURE  
 Yes yes he is!  the remaining crew are anxious to agree, as it seems they can hear and so can the children

  YOU WILL BOARD THAT VESSEL.

YOU WILL TAKE ANYTHING OF VALUE ABOARD THIS ONE

YOU WILL FREE THE CHILDREN AND FEED THEM.

FEED THEM AS WELL AS YOURSELVES.

THEN I SHALL GIVE YOU A COURSE TO STEER

IS THIS UNDERSTOOD?  
  Yes! Certainly!  
  I LET YOU LIVE BECAUSE I NEED YOU

AND BECAUSE YOU EXTENDED TO YOUR CAPTIVES SOME TRIFLING CONSIDERATION

YOUR ULTIMATE FATE IS YET TO BE DECIDED

YOUR ENTHUSIASTIC COOPERATION IS A NECESSITY IF YOU WISH TO SURVIVE  
  See! I told you Sigmar would save us  
  Caw! Caw!  

The helmsman looks up to see a hitherto unnoticed Raven on the yardarm

It leaps off to circle the ship a few times in the company of an albatross before both birds disappear to the south.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Regine's presence had been relatively unseen, as the thief had kept to her own devices. As par for the course with her mercurial nature, she was sometimes present and sometimes not, though she was never treacherous or given to abandoning one of the group when they needed her. Instead, she was more like a cat that snuck in at times and disappeared into the shadows during others, but whom would often return and show a favourable disposition to those in her cotorie. What had the thief been up to? Who knew, to be honest. Few mortals could hide and move within the shadows as well as she could. She was crafty, an adept liar and a skillful gambler. If she couldn't swindle something from someone then she could often acquire it via triumphing in a game of chance and skill, or by planning and executing a heist.

So it was unusual that she would be waiting on the meeting for an aspirant Knight of the Realm. A fit and enduring young fellow who seemed to want to place himself between the world and all of its troubles, so that he could physically take the punishment intended for a nation. In a way it was brave and admirable. In another it was stupid and self-defeating. Regine could never decide which, as her opinion swung back and forth between the two opinions every time she was around the man. All these oaths and pledges were foreign to her, tying oneself, both physically and spiritually, to an obligation that others could lord over you and summon your efforts at the snap of a finger? To never have any peace of mind knowing that you controlled your own fate, rather than merely plodding along between tasks incurred by others pulling your strings? Regine didn't know how he did it, or how he had endured so many. Perhaps that's why he could be so foul-tempered at times? She didn't fancy her disposition would be a verdant field of sunshine if she had all of these expectations heaped upon her by entities that cared little for her wellbeing.

Footsteps from higher within the staircase pulled the thief out of her daydream, as she had found herself leaning against an arrowslit build into the stone wall adjacent to the stairway and peering through it as if to pour her thoughts through and into the beyond. Now, however, she knew Bertelis had returned, as she could hear his boots against the masonry of the footsteps and the chatter of the halfling, Jasmine.

 "Find what you were looking for?"  Regine's smooth voice would ask once the Knight came around the corner.
bramblefoot
 
 Spoiler: a little teaser 
In the hidden recesses of Mousillon's gloomy swamps, an ancient evil stirs, its wicked whispers weaving through the mist-laden air. Deep within a dilapidated lair, a flickering, ominous light reveals an eerie scene. In the dim glow of guttering candles, an evil hag, cloaked in tattered robes, hunches over a mystical crystal ball.

The orb, etched with arcane symbols, casts an ethereal glow upon her twisted features. With iron-nailed fingers, she traces patterns through the murky fog within the crystal, her eyes gleaming with an otherworldly knowledge. Shadows dance around her as the swamp hag peers into the crystal's depths, seeing beyond the veil of reality.

As she mutters incantations that echo through the swamp, her minions, distorted creatures of the bog, receive their cryptic orders. Through the crystal ball's gaze, the hag orchestrates a sinister symphony, dispatching her minions with a mere gesture. Their malevolent eyes reflect the ghastly illumination as they vanish into the night, leaving only ripples of darkness in their wake.

The air thickens with a sense of impending doom as the hag's cackling laughter reverberates through the lair. Unbeknownst to the party, the ancient evil has taken notice of their presence. The crystal ball reveals glimpses of their fate, and the hag's malevolent gaze lingers on the unsuspecting adventurers, setting in motion a macabre dance of shadows that will test the very limits of their courage.
 


bruno: the package contains several glass vials of greenish liquid that bubbles ominously. also inside are what appear to be a pair of stone daggers, elegantly chipped out of flint. they seem to emit a slight glow as the package is opened. a note detailing the daggers follows

the stone daggers: any daemon hit with the dagger must make a wp test at -30 or be dispelled. the daggers are one use only

the daggers are poor quality melee weapons

bertelis: it seems the two female thieves of the party have followed you! What's your opinion of that?

those not posted can do what they wish
wilphe
  AbitlaterthanMeanwhile on the Sea of Claws:  
 Eòrdid  is heading a few points south of south west

There is an uneasy truce between the children and the five remaining crew who were their former captors.

The knaar sits a little lower in the water with what was salvaged from  Skuldelev  resting in the bow and the children have moved further aft where it is at least slightly dryer if no warmer.

  Any idea where we are going?  
  No  
  Doesn't that bother you?  
  You saw what happened to Sven. I'm going to do whatever it wants unless that's more dangerous than pissing it of  
  YOU ARE VERY SENSIBLE  
  Where are you taking us Servant of Sigmar?  
  YOU HAVE NO KIN

I CANNOT RETURN YOU

WE GO SOMEWHERE SAFE

AND I DO NOT SERVE YOUR SIGMAR  
  We prayed to Sigmar to save us

You saved us

So Sigmar sent you  

The sea on the portside bubbles somewhat and what looks like an organic lantern appears into view, shortly followed by two large beaked octopus heads, all four eyes focus on the girl

  DO I LOOK LIKE I SERVE SIGMAR?  

The other 16 souls aboard recoil, the girl remains calm, reaches out and strokes one of the tentacles at the rail whilst replying firmly

  We prayed to Sigmar to save us

You saved us

So Sigmar sent you

Whether you know it or not  

Emma stares at her, she thought she understood humans pretty well, in the depths of their cruelty to each other and the warmth of compassion they can share even in the deepest adversity

Pure innocence and faith though

That's a little outside her understanding

She blinks a few times, then silently jets back into the ocean and her own thoughts
wilphe
Wighard will take a look at the bubbling vials

  Before Man learnt the gift of metalwork from the dwarves chaos was fought with weapons such as these.

Be careful, few know how to make them now, and even fewer how to enchant them  
farothel
After unpacking the strange package, Bruno would follow Wighard and the others to the altar of Taal just outside the city.  While he wasn't all that religious, wandering in the forests of the Empire made one think about things at times.  And Taal was the one to call upon while in the wilds.
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis is blindsided that he has been followed. He looks embarrassed to have been clearly overheard so directly by Jasmine, though she is not the type to mock his exposed weakness. Invoking Professor Lorrimer helps a little, and he nods in awkward appreciation of her receptiveness, and the implication that she is casually happy to fight daemons for the sake of his mental health.  "Well...Perhaps it won't come to that,"  he suggests in naked denial of his reality.

To immediately round the corner and run into Regine is a shock after recovering from the first.  This  sneaky companion he chooses to hope heard nothing of his purported lunacy. He holds the banner folded in its linen shroud beneath his arm, and pivots his body to keep it a little further away from Regine by instinct. The motion makes his heel slip, and he almost goes arse over head down the lighthouse stairs; but catches himself.  "No. Well... Yes. I-... It remains to be seen. But more importantly, we go into Mousillon tomorrow. Are you prepared for what lies within?" 

He shifts the discussion to a pontification about the danger to come instead of anything personal, as he leads off down the stairs.  "We are expecting daemonic foes, and vampires, as the least of our quarries within the cursed city. I am told all of the civilization that remains in that place is crowded around the dock, and most of the city proper is given over to waste and darkness. It will be... perhaps, our company's greatest test."  
bramblefoot
alright, so the party beds down in the laughing wanderer for the night (you know what this means, its dream sequence time)

regine, you dream of a tall woman sitting next to your bed and discussing the nature of vampirism at length. you awaken tired, and with a small bloodstain on the bedsheets by your neck. take a level of fatigue pls

tall vampire lady
 

bertelis: you have a dream visit from the red knight himself. tell me what he says, and gimme three weapon skill checks at flat while your at it

wighard: you have a dream visit from none other than ms cephelopod herself. tell me how it goes,

the rest of you sleep peacefully
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

One should develop a passion for learning. If they do, they will never cease to grow.

Or so the saying went.

When Regine had finished speaking with Bertelis and Jasmine, the knight clearly hiding further burdens that had been placed upon him - or had been invited onto his shoulders, Regine had speculated - the master thief had turned in for the night and slept within her own room as the emanation of the moon bathed the interior, watching over her like some silvery watchman. But as she drifted into slumber, Regine's mind became a canvas for the unexpected. Through the vaporous, eternal realm of Morpheus drew a tall, ethereal figure, languid yet elegant in refinement, the amorphous form slowly taking shape to present the pale, beautiful features of a woman who stood at a height equal to Regine herself, only her movements were somehow even more graceful. Dressed in an exotic finery that was plucked from centuries past, the regality of her commanding presence was fostered through her smile, above which sat two illuminated iris's that glowed with a piercing, malign intelligence.

 "Child..."  her voice indulgently soothing, almost possessed of its own minor echo. Each syllable was slowly delivered. Deliberately so.

 "You are so far from the comfort of your little home. That such a tiny one as you could have traveled so far upon a road so long. Across ships. Prison islands. Deceiving champions. Intruding into these lands." 

That smile again.

 "Our interest has been..."  she lifted up a gloved hand, long, claw-tipped fingers making a motion to seize a thrown ball,  "caught." 

The pale woman leaned forward, placing both elbows on the bed and cupping her chin with the triangle her intersecting hands made. Always those eyes boring into Regine's face, the thief unable to move, barely able to breath, compressed upon her mattress in immobility; paralysed but for her thumping heart as the scent of the blood-stained breath of the woman seeped into her nostrils.

 "Like you, little one, the shadows are our friend. We were born into them. It is a long story, one I relish being able to tell. Though, truth be told, it started very poorly..." 

What came forth was an echo of the millennia. A recounting of ancient history from dark, distant lands and the initiation of the parasitic race into a world whose domination they coveted. Born from blasphemy and cast into the fringes of every society into which they slithered, the bleak truth revealed itself to Regine's horrified mind and rendering it a prisoner within her own body. The transfixation of that gaze, those words, the unspeakable antiquity molded by a soul as black as night robbed her of any capacity to flee to flee the dark lady and that smile, the smile that leaned ever closer, lips parting across a row of white teeth punctuated by a pair of inch-long incisors grazing against Regine's neck.

In an instant Regine awoke with a shriek, drenched in a cold sweat. To her horror, she discovered a patch of blood on her sheets, a visceral reminder of the dream's intrusion into reality. Frantically, she scanned the room, her fingers trembling as she checked and rechecked the locks on her door, ensuring the window was sealed tight against the night.

Cowering in the corner, the once tall and formidable master thief clutched a knife in trembling hands, her fatigue evident in the hollowness of her eyes and the weariness etched across her face. Every creak and rustle outside the window heightened her anxiety. Regine endured the long hours until dawn, haunted by the vivid memories of the dreamlike visitation, its spectral tendrils lingering even in the waking world.
MrAbdiel
Two decrepit, wooden stands; a narrow pit of sand between them. Bertelis blinked as his mind resolved where he was. An arena?

No... A  hastiludrome . In the royal box, overlooking the scene, two figures stood in silent witness and gazed down upon him. One green and decked in floridly graven armor, powerful and frightful but familiar to Bertelis through legend, and art, and a few terrible dreams. And beside him, a crimson parody; a knight in warped red plate with fluted, almost organic elements and eyes that burned like hellfire. This one, Bertelis knew already through legend and art too - the Red Duke, of Aquitaine; the hero whose banner the company had been carrying, a marker of the time before his terrible curse and his elevation to vampire monster, killed and killed again. The sight of that figure froze his blood - a killer who had carved a bloody path through grail knights and champions well beyond Bertelis' ambition, let alone his standing.

But a trumpet blasted somewhere, and at once he realized he was mounted, and the mystery steed beneath him launched him forward along the side of the dividing beam as the fourth and final figure of meeting blazed toward him in turn, before Bertelis even realized he had his lance in hand and faster than he could level it - the figure he had glimpsed in dreams chasing his father's wife through the woods of Athel Loren, and then again lording over his brother in captivity. His chain was lacquered red like his master's, though less ornate, less supernatural; and as the Red Knight's lance glanced hard on his shield in the pass, things began to make sense.

Bertelis had brought this doom on his family. When they pulled that tapestry from the sunken tomb in Reikland, and when he had insisted on bringing it back to Bretonnia as a relic, he had made an offense to the Red Duke, who did not care to be reminded of his glorious crusading past. Dead though he may be, he was not without power, and not without champions. The abduction of his mother-in-law, and of his brother, were efforts by this Red Knight to appease the will of the slain but meddling duke; leverage to be used against Bertelis to take back the tapestry. The Green Knight had intervened in mercy, and now the contest played one against the other; the Red Knight of Mousillon in service of the banished Duke, and the mad Hedgehog-Banneret of Bordeleaux under the sponsorship of the Lady's own Champion.

Steadying himself in the saddle and rounding for the second pass, when the trumpet blasted, Bertelis had his lance in hand and brought it to bear. But how heavy it felt in his hand! How leaden and strange, after all these weeks and months at sea and underground and in small engagements in tight spaces. When had he last used his lance? Back in the Empire? In a blur, the Red Knight's own weapon both jostled his aside in the clinch and burst hard against the Bordelan's shield, heaving him from the saddle to crash into the ground, rolling and wheezing. He fumbled for his sword, and then to his feet, just in time to rip it from its sheathe and parry the knight's downward, killing blow. But the weapon was not the rune-blazed blade Glod had made, but the plain, fractured steel of his father's sword. He felt the vampire's breath, cold and blood-scented, as the weapons strained against each other in the bind. He saw the cracks in his father's sword craze outward from the hilt, and finally shatter beneath the vampire's strength...

And then he was awake. Not awake and screaming; he didn't even sit bolt up right. His eyes snapped open, and the intensity of the fear of the dream crashed into the soporific disinterest of his unbalanced humors... and he stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
wilphe
Wighard isn't that surprised to find a voice in his head, neither is he that surprised by who it is.

Of course that's he's normalised this sort of thing might not be healthy.

And its probably not healthy to talk to other people about it

Still, he is on a pier by a shoreline he doesn't recognise, behind him are the burnt out remains of a village

The voice however he does recognise, though its still and small here

 wighard? 
  Emma  

There is an uncomfortably long pause before Wighard breaks it

  How goes your quest for revenge?  
 those who bound me are long dead

those who used me afore you freed me

you are more likely to find them then me 
  So what have you been doing?  
 no one should suffer as i did

found a small norscan raiding party at sea

returning from some village in the north of your empire

with captives

they died too fast, but they died 
 Where are the captives? 
 safe

i spared some crew

i have an island for them
 
  You are not taking them back home?  
 look around you

this was their home

there is nothing here

maybe distant relatives who resent them

or to be trafiked and exploited by those i cannot reach 
  So you are their parent now?  

There is a disturbance at the end of the pier and Emma surfaces to regard Wighard unblinkingly

 am i? 
  You have taken responsibility for their welfare, that makes you such  
 it does, does it not 
  I did not set out to be a parent, never the less I found Siobhan

Having them when they can already walk, talk, reason and feed themselves?

The best way  

They both laugh, a bit

 five hundred years

a thousand score days

i was imprisoned in that ship

i thought i had seen all of mortals

from their deepest cruelties to their compassion even in the worst of fates

yet i was wrong 
  What did you learn?  
 one of them

Yolande

girl of 12 summers

she thinks i was sent by your Sigmar to save them 

Wighard thinks about it then drops the bomb

  Weren't you?  
  NO  
  Sure about that?  
 i would know 
  I would not be so confidant

If I have learnt one thing from the last six months or so it is that gods have plans and plots and schemes themselves and that they may last many generations.

I had a Skaven living in head until Morr could take him to his Realm rather than the Skaven afterlife; happiest I have even seen him.

Also he seemed happy that I showed mercy to you  
 i do find you mortals fascinating

but

i did not finish my story 
  Sorry, pray continue  
 when i saw her

and her fellows

in relief and gratitude for their freedom

 IT FELT GOOD  
 is this normal? 
  Yes  
 fascinating 

A few of her tentacles twitch

 i want more 
  And you want my help?  
 yes 
 Some questions please.

Does the Lord of Change or any of his followers still have any hold on you? 
 they left me to rot 
  Because you were weak and deserved to be enslaved  
 Exactly.

i have now been in the lands of mortals for long enough to be a native here

i doubt you could banish me if you tried

i know there is no place for me in the Realms of Chaos 
  Second question

Are you spreading mutation &amp; madness by your mere presence or otherwise making the world a worse place just by existing?  
 i don't think so 
  Understand that I have to keep that under review  
 so you will help? 
  Yes  
 will your gods have me? 
  I cannot speak for them

I can try something though  

He produces two candles and a blank piece of vellum, after some initial difficulty he lights both in the lantern on Emma's head and installs them there

  That is the sort of thing that only works in dream logic because that's not a real fire in there  
 what did you do? 
  Both of those candles were blessed by a human god. The first was by Verena and the spell I used makes people more persuasive but only if they speak truthfully.  
 i see 
  You might need that a lot of you plan on persuading people not to kill you on sight

I don't know if it will work on you or for how long  
 the other? 
  Bears the mark of Shallya and prevents disease within it's area of illumination  
 and how does that help? 
 Helps you do good

Also I was interested to see if your intentions were pure because I think for a true servant of chaos that would be extremely painful 
 they are, beautiful? 
  That's a good sign 
 
 so they will have me as their servant? 
  Possibly, I may however have done something really blasphemous and get hit by multiple lightning bolt when I wake up  
wilphe
Wighard wakes early, leaving Schlapp undisturbed at the foot of the bed as he washes and dress himself

The rest of the Company will find him installed in the common room of the inn at the same table and in the same seat he was in before having just finished a pile of fried courgette slices with a few eggs and a sausage or two

Kwolf is working on a sausage to the side and Schlapp is gnawing something under the table as Wighard assess who else might have had interesting experiences in Morr's domain

  Well I hope you slept well,   he eyes Regine and Bertelis

  Bruno and I identified the sigil found on a few houses outside the walls.

It's not great news

But it might not be our problem

It is the mark of a particularly unpleasant Necromancer known as the Renderer.

But to explain further, I need to give you a primer on some medical history, and if you have a weak stomach you may wish to skip breakfast

Ok? Good

There are two main traditions of academic medicine, the first and oldest is derived from the works of the High Elf Gaelen. If you've heard about balancing the four humours, that comes straight from him. A lot of herbalism and focus on treating the body as a whole. Some of this is time tested and it works, some of it is tradition and some of it is symbolism that goes way too far.

However it is great if you are the sort of Physician who doesn't want to actually have to do anything invasive and icky like touch sick people, or cut them open.


The other regards the body as a machine, a great organic sophisticated machine far beyond the dreams of any engineer. But to understand it, you have to know how all the pieces fit together.

This is where problems start.


You can learn medicine the way I did, in the field. I learned anatomy by seeing broken people and how they were put back together. This is however unfashionable and university trained doctors would insist that real medicine has to be grounded in what they call science.


However I'm not interested in grand theories of everything I am interested in what works.

So I would rather listen and learn from the village midwife rather than explain to her at length that she's wrong accordingly to a bunch of pedantic hacks recycling book knowledge several generations removed from actual understanding


Anyway, that's one of the few legitimate ways to learn anatomy, because the Empire frowns on what would be the easiest way to learn - dissecting corpses.

This is deeply taboo, some ascribe this to Morr's influence, but that interdiction does not apply in Tilea where his cult is if anything stronger and what passes for the seat of his faith is located

But if you don't want to join the army and can't afford a trip to sunny Tilea you have other options.

One of the less talked about is to apprentice to an executioner and learn from taking the body apart. This does have the great advantage that it is legally acceptable to do things to a live person by way of torture that it would be the most heinous blasphemy to do to a dead one.

A few, zealous, witch hunters have been known to accuse their own interrogators of necromancy because they had yet to notice their subject had died during their ministrations

These tend to the ones that have trouble finding good staff  
wilphe
  The more obvious way is to take a fresh corpse and take it apart piece by piece to see how it all fitted together.

No medical school has ever been proven to be doing this

When discovered it is always a rogue element operating without sanction

Of course

Which is where all those "rumours" of being able to make good coin grave robbing come from

The problem here is threefold.

Firstly once you stop looking at patients as people needing to be cured but collections of parts needing to be taken apart something happens to you inside.

Secondly once you start down this road you are associating with the sort of highly unsavoury scum who think digging up other people's deceased love ones to make a few coin to be a brilliant business plan

Thirdly, the other customers of such people are real necromancers who are also interested in accumulating dead bodies.

And it is really easy to cross over, listening to that voice telling your that you are being held back, maybe you could even cure death itself but for those stupid superstitions preventing you from doing what needs to be done.

This is the path the Renderer took, but it is not where he finished


There is a final way, many of these people left notes and books detailing and illustrating what they had found.


Regardless of the ethics of how that information was obtained, it exists, and there could be no harm in using it right?

Well, unfortunately those books are written by crazy people losing their grip on reality, so they are deeply disturbing to read and of dubious veracity.


The Renderer? Well, he decided that the only way to truly discern how the body worked and how organs functioned was to work on live bodies. So he'd do things like cut someone's liver out and see how long it took them to die and what of.

If he is still around now, he is almost certainly no longer human

It may then be someone who has gotten hold of his notes and following in his path

Or it may be someone who had the bright idea to start using his sigil to scare people  
MrAbdiel
Bertelis doesn't revel in the ghastly description of the Renderer's fall from professionalism. But he has been the recipient of grievous wounds enough times that he has learned a modicum of the craft mostly by osmosing some fragment of Wighard's skill performed upon him. That, and his morning malaise, insulate him against unbecoming reaction.

 "It would make sense such a monstrous man would be interested in breaching the Lighthouse. Within is a library of Verenan works, including their stock of Tilean texts on medical matters, I am forced to assume. But the marks on the houses - what have they to do with any of this? If he intended to take the occupants alive and torture them, is it some kind of... signal for his ghastly servants? Is that the baying we heard outside - some necromantic monster driven desperate by inability to complete a task assigned to it by its master hiding beyond the river? If that's the case... maybe we hunt for traces of it how, in early light, before we cross over. If we can thwart a threat to the locals... I... would have a hard time not taking that opportunity." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Regine sat in silence at the following morning breakfast, her exhaustion evident in her pallid demeanour. Normally a flush and healthy looking woman, Regine's sunken eyes and drained image cut a different figure, as her normally smooth, dark hair was frayed around her head with minimal effort applied to straighten and groom it to personal standards that the thief typically accrued.

She remained quiet, eating her breakfast, seemingly transfixed by its contents as it was clear her mind was elsewhere.
dojango
" Such a monster would have no qualms in falling so low as to steal library books... " she says.  " But if that were his true purpose he'da done it an' moved on with his life.  If there's this... glyph stuff... bein' left around then it's bein' done for what the professor usedta call 'ritual purposes' but I like ta call 'magic bull****'.  We can sniff around them ta see if there's anything that might hint as ta who put em up.  Still, it might be a good idea ta have someone respectable suggest to the Deaconess that she should do a survey of the 'esoteric' collection ta make sure it's all there. 
wilphe
Wighard looks at Bertelis sternly

  This is   not   the Empire and you are   not   the only knight of Brettonia for a hundred leagues.

There are others, even those who have supped from the Grail who can handle this

You have duties to family and fief that no one else can discharge as well as you

You cannot keep acting like everything bad in the world is your personal chance to prove your worth

You are not a teenage knight errant anymore and you have proven your valour on several occasions.

Please

Rein it in

And focus, because its driving you crazy  

His voice raises, not with anger but with firm "this is an intervention" energy

Then he is quiet again


  That said, if whoever it is gets in our way or is in league with our enemies then fine we deal with them then.

Taal expected trouble here, so it seems it may be our fate anyway  

And looks at Jasmine archly

  Are you perhaps suggesting that you are not respectable?

Looks like a task for Bruno, I intend to annoy them with questions  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 
 "There were tales circulating L'Anguille, just rumors among the thieves guilds and lone operators..."  Regine spoke up, face still staring at her warm porridge with sugar.

 "Certain crypts, graveyards and mausoleums you were warned aga - "  the thief's words were interrupted by a sudden, harsh cough. Drawing her fist to her mouth and turning her head away from the table, she sounded like she ha hacked up a lung, before turning herself back to her breakfast, an apologetic look across her pallid face.

 "...apologies. Some places you were warned against trying to liberate of their many riches. Those whose eyes were too big for their stomachs tried anyway; they were not seen again. I recommended staying away from such places; there are fates worse than just death." 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis receives Wighard's withering reprimand; and at its closure, he raises and hand and flaps it loosely. The action seems both to suggest the fanning away of an odour, but he does not contest the points raised, so they might be well enough taken.

When Regine offers her warning, Bertelis gives her a glance. In another mood, he might have picked up on the unusual pallor, or her break in personal confidence. In his present phlegmatism, he is reliably stolid, but not very perceptive.

 "I might have thought some of those stories were overblown, once; but we have seen too many things now to doubt much of anything, except the exactitude of which cursed demesne is which, and where. We are making a habit of plunging into dark places and... coming up sometimes with diamonds in our teeth, but usually vindicated. Stay with us, and the monsters in the darkness will soon tell shivering stories about you, ma'amselle." 
bramblefoot
bruno: here is your dream sequence.

As Baronet Richter wanders through the dense forest, the ancient trees whispering tales of ages past, a stirring in the underbrush heralds the presence of a mighty creature. From the foliage emerges a great brown bear, its fur glistening with dewdrops caught in the morning light.

Bruno's heart quickens as the bear approaches, its eyes conveying a wisdom beyond mortal understanding. Yet, instead of fear, a sense of calm washes over him, an inexplicable bond weaving between man and beast.

The great brown bear draws nearer, its massive form radiating a quiet strength. Without a hint of aggression, it lowers itself to meet Bruno at eye level, its gaze steady and reassuring. In that moment, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if bearing witness to a sacred communion.

With a gentle nuzzle, the bear nudges Bruno, its warm breath tickling his cheek. Then, in a gesture of profound affection, it leans forward and wraps its massive arms around him in a tender embrace. Bruno feels the embrace of Taal, the spirit of the wild, enveloping him with a sense of belonging and protection.

As the embrace lingers, the bear bestows upon Bruno a gift—a simple yet profound gesture. With a playful boop of its nose against Bruno's forehead, the bond between man and nature is sealed. In that fleeting moment, Bruno feels the pulse of the forest, the rhythm of life coursing through every leaf and branch.

As the great brown bear retreats into the depths of the forest, its presence lingering like a whisper on the wind, Bruno stands awestruck, his heart filled with gratitude and reverence. The encounter with Taal, in the form of the majestic bear, leaves an indelible mark on his soul, a reminder of the interconnectedness of all living things and the timeless wisdom of the wild.

take the gift of peace: spend a fortune point to speak first, before blades are drawn. against normal animals or people. this autosucceeds with a number of degrees equal to your fellowship. against chaos or notable foes, you must make a fellowship check against their WP to get through to them. note that slaughtering a notable enemy (unless he succeeds on his WP check) after this has been used will result in bad things happening.
dojango
Jasmine just shrugs when Wighard asks if she is respectable.  " Depends on who ya ask, but havin' a title means ya don't haveta rely on reputation.  Somethin' ta keep in mind. "
farothel
Bruno wasn't sure what had happened, but he did know that being chosen by a god was something that came with great power, but also great responsibility.  When he came to the common room for breakfast, he was still in his own thoughts about what happened while Wighard was explaining things.  He didn't really follow, knowing that Wighard could explain things much better than he could.  When he heard his name, he looked up.
 "I can ask questions,"  he said,  "but you are probably better at knowing which questions need to be asked, so we best have a bunch of them ready before we head to the Verenians.  I can do the talking, you just have to guide me a bit as to what I need to talk about.  Oh, and before we head into Moussillon, best make sure we have enough supplies.  I'd rather not eat the food or drink the water in that place.  Maybe even best to leave the horses here and all of our group who are not strictly needed.  I've only heard rumours about Moussillon, but even discarding half of what I heard, it's not a nice place to visit." 
wilphe
  Sir Bertelis is noble born, he would remain such no matter what he did

Baronet Richter was elevated, he has had to prove himself on social battlefields no less dangerous for being bloodless - mostly and usually. If he was not worthy, well, its only a minor title, assassins are expensive but protagonists are cheap.

And I was  breveted  Magister, all that I am could be taken away in an instant, I hope not to give them any excuse.
  #

  I have to ask them probing questions about whether the lady the Shallyans would have me slay truly deserves death before I even think about finding her

I feel Bruno that you could share with them the knowledge of the Renderer, suggest they check their stacks. This might of course not be news to them

Ask what they can tell us of our adversaries and the whereabouts of Sir Bertelis' family, why the All-Father seems to be concerned about the city


Of course such knowledge is not free, so they might want something of us  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The master thief remained quiet as she half focused on her breaky and half listened to the others. A part of her wanted to open up about the prior night, to confess on the nocturnal visitation she had received and the bleak possibilities of its consequences. Why had such a creature made itself known to her? Let alone share the history of their benighted existence if they didn't plan to advance towards a darker plan? Why just use her for a passing curiosity, a midnight snack, while also revelling their presence? A cynical part of the thief predicted the macabre answer, while the rest of her prayed to Morr that she was simply being toyed with by the arrogant lords of the night.

That blood that was on her sheets was evidence enough that she had been fed upon, that much was clear. But what was in a bite? Had the bloodletting transferred the curse to her, locking her on a path whose twisted end she could not escape, save for immediately throwing herself from the tallest tower? Or was conversion to their ranks a more labor-intensive process, requiring more than just a laceration from the fanged horrors, but also cooperation on her behalf in some black ritual? It troubled Regine that she could remember so little of the night. So few solid memories were retrievable when she tried to concentrate, and so it gave her no end of sinking concern that in her unconscious moments she may have participated in something...awful, something she would not agree to were her will her own. The lethargy in her bones, the nausea in her skull...she prayed that these were simply the companions of exhaustion rather than the initiation of a transformation taking place within her.

Exhaling, holding up some warm porridge within a wooden spoon, Regine peered at the sweet, nutritious mouthful and took it between her lips as she looked at the others. Could she trust them? Could she confess her visitor and deepest fear in the safety of their best efforts to help her? Or would their "help" take the form of salvaging what was left of her spirit?

They had been together for months now, almost half a year. In that time they had learned the art of sailing on the job, they had infiltrated sorcerous islands and battled the minions of Chaos side by side. They had braved false incriminations and further violence. They had endured, together, more than most crews in an entire lifetime...but would they help her with this? Bertelis with his honour and oaths may just as easily deduce that her body was damned beyond restoration, and that to save her soul he needed to hack her head from her shoulders. She could see Wighard viewing her with a new scientific curiosity, her soon to be unliving body an endless source of material for vivisections and anatomical diagrams, his own personal safety guaranteed by the magical power her wore like a mantle. The others, Bruno and Jasmine, they might simply give her a few days to clear off, or join Bertelis in the belief that the only way to be sure was with the kiss of steel and tongues of fire.

Swallowing down her porridge, Regine kept her thoughts to herself and decided against any revelatory disclosure until she could be certain of what was happening to her. Maybe she was overthinking it, and she really had just been a mortal victim of a cruel joke, one who should at least count her blessing that she was still among the living. Or perhaps her past had finally caught up with her. A decade of thievery, gambling, smuggling, extortion, deception and lies, Ranald had abandoned her to the judgement of fate, and this was its punishment for a life misspent.

Exhaling, Regine scraped the bottom of her bowl to draw the final traces of porridge to her mouth, before washing it down with warm milk.
dojango
" Yeah all ya gotta do is tell them ta do an inventory of the 'esoteric' collection.  That's what they call tha books that ain't for general knowledge.  That's e-s-o-t-e-r-i-c.   Make sure ya say that, not 'erotic' cause that's a whole nother issue. "
farothel
 "I'm sure I can do some negotiation on the price, should there be any,"  Bruno said.  While Brettonian knights might not sully their hands with commercial affairs, Imperial nobles didn't have such problems and Bruno certainly not.  While finishing his breakfast, he kept going over questions in his head, refining them as he things about the information they need, the people they most likely will be talking to and other such things that might be important.
 "Lets dress up a bit,"  he said,  "to make a good first impression." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Sitting there, staring into space, then blinking hard and shaking her head, Regine swallows before speaking.

 "Give me an hour, please,"  her voice softer, more whispery than her usual confidence,  "I will accompany you to ensure that you are not - "  she coughed hard into her closed fist, inhaling wheezingly, composing herself, swallowing,  "to ensure that you are not swindled, monsieur." 

Should no one stop her, the thief pushed herself and her seat away from the table before standing to leave. She was shuffle back to her bed and fall asleep immediately upon her head touching the pillow...after another coughing fit.

OOC:
Resting for an hour to remove her level of fatigue.
bramblefoot
regine: after your one hour nap, you can tell your hearing has sharpened significantly. you can hear a strange  dub dub  noise in your ears, and you can smell a strange odor of iron. on the side table is a small locket. wdyd?

bertelis bruno, and wighard. gimme the plan for the scholar peeps. whos going where, whos asking what etc

jasmine and gimgroth: what are you two doing?

 (1d100)[ 59 ] 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

When she awoke after her hour-long nap, the thief was thankful that at least the nausea had left her head. Her body felt its usual spry self, though upon sitting up on her bed, feet on the wooden floor, she blinked her eyes and peered around her room - things just seemed  sharper .

Then she noticed the locket.

Snapping her head around towards her door and then towards the mirror as that vulnerable sensation crept back into her muscles, Regine stood up as if expecting an attack. Exhaling, pursing her lips, she reached out and picked the locket up, inspected it, and, once she was sure it was not some sort of small, poisonous trap, opened it.
farothel
Bruno called his valet and headed back upstairs to get dressed, choosing his good clothes in the group's colours.  When he got back down, he would take his rapier and main gauche with him, leaving his armour and other weapons at the inn for now.  He didn't expect to fight, but he wanted to be ready should there be a need.  And it complemented his outfit anyway.
 "Okay, ready to go,"  he said.

When they arrived at the temple, he would introduce himself and his companions and announced that they had some question for the head priestess.
wilphe
Wighard doesn't really have a dress-down option, so will go as normal, albeit leaving bow and quiver at the Inn.
dojango
Jasmine is going to scout around the spots where the mysterious symbol appeared and look for footprints and other clues; try to see how the symbols were put on the doors, what material it's made of, that sort of thing.
wilphe
  Then I will send Schlapp with you  
bramblefoot
regine: youd get a small charcoal picture and a riddle

 I am born in shadows, yet thirst for the light.
From veins, I draw sustenance, in the darkest of night.
Once mortal, now kin, with the pale moon above,
I am the whisper of eternity, the embrace of love.

What am I, dear fledgling, as you join our fold?
A seeker of the darkness, a tale yet untold.
In veins, our secrets lie, in shadows, we thrive,
Welcome to the dance of the undead, where we truly come alive. 
 

the party going to the verenans: everyone toss me a random d100 roll, and adjudicate it. lower is  always better

jasmine: just a leetle clarification. the marks are all on the varying farmhouses outside turris vigilans, sure yoiu wanna go out there and see it alone?
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


The Master Thief felt a knot coiling within her stomach as she red the ghastly poem, a sink feeling compressing upon her shoulders as if to direct her into the grave opening up before her. Looking about her room once more, as if she were able to spot the intruder, Regine pursed her lips, swallowed and exhaled. She wanted to throw the locket away - to open the window and toss it henceforth, along with a few screamed obscenities. But she did not.

Tucking the charcoal picture away, shaking her head as if hoping whoever left the note could witness her consternation, Regine gathered several things, including her weapons, and departed, heading down to join the others, rucksack over her shoulder, along with her crossbow.

 "Apologies for keeping you all waiting, monsieur's!"  came her reply, before she joined the others on the trip to the Verena temple.
dojango
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Rather than split up the party, she'll tag along to the Verenean temple with the group,  (1d100)[ 16 ] 
 
LarsWester
Having slept in and missing breakfast with the rest of the Order of the Slug Gimgroth heard about the group's departing for the Venerans and hastily ready himself to accompany the troupe.  Deciding it best to wear his armor with his shield strapped to his back and hammer swinging at his belt the dwarf fell in line behind Wighard.
 There's a small matter I wish to broach with you Master Wighard.  Beatrix is quite talented with telling a tale or singing a song but I wonder if you or perhaps Siobhan could provide some form of education for the lass.   She was raised in a tavern not a boarding school.   I believe with the proper education in her letters and manners she could yet serve as minstrel or bard in some noble house.
What say you could you find the time to teach the ways of reading and writing? 
wilphe
  She's quick, she's smart. Honestly if she has the recall of a bard she should do fine.  And Bruno can put some polish on her, you remember from our time in Altdorf that I engage in wizardly politics by not engaging in it. It is all I can do to master magic and medicine, a human lifetime only allows so much  

He remembers that Gimgroth could not read, and therefore does not broach that subject with him


On arrival at the Temple he diverts into the Hall of Justice - which is a functional but small bureau with a fair amount of lawbooks. It's not the focus of the Temple here, but few are without at least some attention to this aspect of the Goddess.

There is one clerk on duty

  You seek guidance brother?  

Wighard smiles thinly

  The Most Holy Matriarch Lisegund has charged me to kill a certain Cecilia d'Orgremont  
  Most unusual  
  Is it not, but then I do not expect the Church of Shallya to be practiced at putting contracts on people  
  And this troubles you?  
  Gods  may  be omniscient and infallible, or at least as close to that as to be all but indistinguishable to a mortal, their servants are not

Before I even think about finding this woman, I must satisfy myself as to the verity and gravity of her offence and the impossibility of redemption  
MrAbdiel
The Phlegmatic knight trudges up the stairs with the rest of the company. The hour of his relief is fast approaching, but he is robbed of the joy of anticipation by the vexation within his mind.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
88 on the roll. I'm here, though!
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

As the group moved through the temple-town, Regine remained quiet and focused, mostly on their surroundings. The people in the street, shop-owners opening the front of their holdings and chatting with their neighbors, the scent of freshly cooked bread wafting down the street from the bakeries, the warm sun in the sky. The girl had a ticking clock within her counting down the hours she had left to enjoy the world, while her newly sharpening senses, ironically, helped her appreciate the scents and sounds of lively town market through which they moved.

The thief swallowed and inhaled, before angling her body to depart the group.

 "I will catch up with you at the temple, mon ami's, I'm just going to offload something!"  she explained, her figure easily sliding out from between her fellows before disappearing into the street crowds like a ghost.

It didn't take long for her to re-emerge in the storefronts and shopping booths where she would open her slingbag and produce various items and wares to offload, including the weapons she wore. Her crossbow, her sword, dagger, a silver bracelet she had pinched and even the dark leather armor she wore - all of it plied through the stores and being converted into a sack of gold coins.

 oOo 
Regine drew herself up the stairs towards the magnificent temple, a noticeably large sack of coins tethered to her hip. Being a rogue and a thief, a temple dedicated to the Goddess of Justice seemed and unlikely place for her to go, and even now in her...troubled state, Regine felt uncomfortable around the sanctity of judgement and sentencing. Nevertheless, Verena was also a being of knowledge, so if anyone had the smarts to deduce a reversal for her terrible bout of recent luck, it was one of her cultists.

If any of the rest of the group looked in her direction, Regine would return a nervous, but sincere smile.

 "We should ask one of the brothers or sisters about information pertinent to our...situation." 
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   She's quick, she's smart. Honestly if she has the recall of a bard she should do fine.  And Bruno can put some polish on her, you remember from our time in Altdorf that I engage in wizardly politics by not engaging in it. It is all I can do to master magic and medicine, a human lifetime only allows so much  

He remembers that Gimgroth could not read, and therefore does not broach that subject with him 
 

Gimgroth turned his face away from the man before answering Wighard.   Oh of course I didn't mean to make a pressing demand upon your precious time Wighard.  I understand. 
His pride wounded, that he had humbled himself to ask for a favor from his learned trusted companion, only to be rebuffed and passed off to someone else.   Gimgroth kick a few pebbles laying in the road.  Perhaps he had misjudged Wighard or perhaps the time and trials the man experienced while they were parted had changed the man.  Gimgroth tried not to let his disappointment show outwardly as they arrived at the Hall of Justice.
wilphe
Wighard knew there was an obvious way to make this awkward by making any reference to Gimgroth's (former?) illiteracy. He's not sure how he has managed to do so by not doing that, but he certainly has and he is genuinely upset for doing it.

  Gimgroth, however you took my words I never, never meant you to think that I would not.

I have taught Siobhan, I have taught Maxine, I have taught Jasmine's collection of waifs and strays. I mean, I mean, I know you weren't around for most of that but the idea of refusing never crossed my mind.

I can teach her as much of what I know as is safe to teach her and I think she shall learn fast.

However I don't, I can't know everything.

There are some things I cannot teach

I cannot teach her how to act as a court bard, because I fit in there as well as you do. By being too useful, frankly too dangerous, to be ignored.

That's not an approach you want for Beatrix because her equivalent of us would be a diva people tolerate only for her talent. At best that is lonely, at worst it means your tongue cut out when you finally go too far

No, for that we have to go to Bruno  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Regine listened to the exchange between Grimgoth and Wigard. The thief didn't know the dwarf that well, but she did know that the stunted folk could be prickly and see easy offence where none was intended - was he like that too? Nevertheless, the idea was that Grimgoth hoped that Wigard would teach someone in his care how to read and write, a valuable skill to be sure. Regine, believe it or not, had acquired such a skill during her time in the orphanage and on the streets. Afterall, what good is a thief who cannot read the ledgers of cargo boats or produce documents of their own that others could follow?

However it did suddenly pop an idea into the girls mind: the fat sack of coins adjoined to Regine's belt, and how best it might be spent. She was in the temple of Verena, after all, the goddess of reason, deduction, yes unfortunately justice, but also  learning . What if she could use those funds to foster some type of local school for children? An orphanage and school to ensure at least a few dozen children don't end up like she had?

Pursing her lips, peering around the beauty of the temple itself, Regine exhaled and pondered the qualities of the idea, as it was surely a tempting one - and about the way to employ those funds in as short a time as she had left.

 "Monsieur Roche,"  Regine would gently nudge the knight.

 "Did you want to speak to one of the most knowledgeable or learned priests about... you know ." 

The implication was clear: his brother.


________


(OOC: Regine is asking Bertelis that on the assumption that during their time together, he's brought him and his situation up to her. If he wouldn't have, then ignore this.)
bramblefoot
at the lighthouse: the company of the burning slug reaches the verenan lighthouse and are greeted by ysolde von mountbatten, an older priestess whos grey hair has streaks of white in it. she walks with a slight limp, but otherwise is hale and hearty. she stares each of you in the eyes, seemingly missing nothing. she greets everyone but sir bertelis heartily.  "so, what can i do for you fine adventurers today?"  she asks,leading you inside

ysolde von mountbatten

 
farothel
  "Thank you for receiving us, your honour,"   Bruno said, making a low bow,   "we are here to bring you information and also to seek the same to help us in our quest.  We are charged by multiple people to search a number of artefacts of different natures.  These we found out are all located in Moussillon.  Since none of us are native to this accursed region and the knowledge of the priesthood of Verena is legendary, we ventured here to seek your knowledge.  The first thing we seek is the so called Red Knight.  He has certain artefacts and also keeps hostage a family member of one of my companions."  
 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

I guess a charm roll is in order
 (1d100)[ 30 ]  vs 87 (97 if she's a noble, as I have etiquette).
 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis plods sluggishly up the steps, distracted and tired-looking as ever; though Regine's words focus him.

 "Yes.. Yes of course. That's why we're here."  He tries to straighten up a little, though the whimsy of humours today rob him of the more professional, respectable air he is owed - so much so that the priestess seems to pick his scattered nature immediately, and rebukes him with the subtlety of her disregard. Bertelis is wounded by this - but Bruno, faithful Bruno, articulates the matter about which he is concerned, and he is once more glad to know the Baronet Richter.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gonna leave the social to our most social fellow. It's more focused in this scene, and we're less likely to lose information or have questions lost in the mix. I think we're all pretty keen to get some answers then get to adventuring again.
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Regine instinctively lurked within the centre of the group as they moved into the Verenan Lighthouse, the goddesses predilection towards judgement and law and order infusing an almost supernatural instinct of caution within the master thief.

Smiling slightly as Bertelis was reminded of his purpose here, the thief nevertheless perked an eyebrow at his sluggish response, as if he was distracted by something. Granted, he looked tired...as she did...oh no, had  he  been visited during the night as well?! It wouldn't be in his character to withhold such a traumatic experience, so such a thing was doubtful, but nevertheless...

The question was asked: the red knight. Vampires.

Regine listened, and listened well, she, more than anyone else in the group, had the most riding on the following words...
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 Wighard knew there was an obvious way to make this awkward by making any reference to Gimgroth's (former?) illiteracy. He's not sure how he has managed to do so by not doing that, but he certainly has and he is genuinely upset for doing it.

  Gimgroth, however you took my words I never, never meant you to think that I would not.

I have taught Siobhan, I have taught Maxine, I have taught Jasmine's collection of waifs and strays. I mean, I mean, I know you weren't around for most of that but the idea of refusing never crossed my mind.

I can teach her as much of what I know as is safe to teach her and I think she shall learn fast.

However I don't, I can't know everything.

There are some things I cannot teach

I cannot teach her how to act as a court bard, because I fit in there as well as you do. By being too useful, frankly too dangerous, to be ignored.

That's not an approach you want for Beatrix because her equivalent of us would be a diva people tolerate only for her talent. At best that is lonely, at worst it means your tongue cut out when you finally go too far

No, for that we have to go to Bruno   
 

A smile spreads across Gimgroth's face but is quickly chased by a frown and worried brow.  Once again Wighard I fear I am honor debted to you.   I should never have thought so low of you that you would refuse the request of a friend, even if he's only a humble dwarf mercenary.  It's merely her letters and numbers I request you teach her.   Gimgroth's joy in Wighard's agreement to Beatrix's education won over his own self loathing.     I know you don't stab with a hammer my friend.   Gimgroth continued with a laugh.     The social graces and high manners are better instructed by our noble companions.   Otherwise what's the good in travelling with two Barons if they can't raise the social practices of your ward? 
dojango
Jasmine watches as the pleasantries unfold, but as the others talk without getting to the heart of the issue, she blurts out and says, " There's a lot of weird stuff goin' on.  Which is normal in these parts, I reckon.  But if ya haven't done an accountin' of yer 'esoteric' collection recently, I think it might be good if ya double-checked ta make sure none of it has walked off recently.  Because as we all know, yer a repository of strange and dangerous information and I just think we should double-check ta see if none of that has fallen inta the wrong hands. "
bramblefoot
alright, so ysolde will walk you inro the sitting room, with a small plate of fresh-baked delicacies. she will sit
across from you, and nosh upon a small cookie-like thing  "soo, how can i help the company today?"  she asks, pulling a piece of vellum out as if to take notes  "questions will be answered one at a time" 
farothel
  "Well, your holiness,"   Bruno said,   "as I mentioned, we're looking for the Red Knight, as he might have some artefacts we're looking for.  A demon sword we have to find and destroy, but also a spear that's sacred to Mannanan."  
bramblefoot
ysold will steeple her fingers.  "weve detected a pulse of magic coming and going around the environs of mousillon. it stinks of rot. as for the spear, we saw a trio of masked and hooded riders leaving with a bundle. it could be the spear,  but the urchin who saw this disappeared after the report" 

she will exhale, and say   "the red knight is also in mousillon at last deep scrying, which was a week ago" 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Regine remained quiet as she listened to the Wise Woman tell her tale, the caution of the Red Knight catching the thief's interest in particular.
farothel
 "Any idea on where in Moussilon,"  Bruno asked while taking some notes,  "it's maybe not the largest of the provinces of Bretonnia, but it's large enough that it would take a long time to search all." 
wilphe
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   Gods  may  be omniscient and infallible, or at least as close to that as to be all but indistinguishable to a mortal, their servants are not

Before I even think about finding this woman, I must satisfy myself as to the verity and gravity of her offence and the impossibility of redemption   
 

The clerk nods sagely

  That is an acceptable answer

However we were told to expect you and you alone  

Wighard looks sternly at him

  Herr Grimdurson is my sworn companion of longstanding, he has saved my life and I his. And unlike many other Champions his commitment to Justice is unquestionable.  

There is a brief pause

  Very well  

The clerk produces a key, proceeds over to one of the cabinets, unlocks a drawer and takes out a slim sheaf of papers bound with red twine and sealed with wax.

The folder is adressed to Wighard bears two marks that he recognises as Tilean abbreviations, one an owl with  
 Spoiler: SPTO 
Solo per i tuoi occhi (For your Eyes Only)
 
 at four corners, the other a sword of justice with  
 Spoiler: SSSDSDS 
Sul Servizio Segretissimo della Signora della Saggezza (On the Lady of Wisdom's Most Secret Service
 


He places it on the desk before the two companions

  Do you know what is within?  
  A few days ago some of us received a vision to take all our information on this woman and prepare it for you. The folder does however seem slightly thicker than when I put it away  
  Very well, do you wish to remain here while we open it?  
  I would very much prefer not to, but I shall wait outside to ensure you are not disturbed  
wilphe
Wighard takes a knife and slashes the twine, within are a few letters, reports as well as another smaller envelope with the same marks as before and also addressed to him that he puts to one side


The reports are those of her superiors at various temples commending her skills and compassion, but in a few cases noting that she spends too much time debating the best way to help people rather than simply getting on with it.

He reads this through for the benefit of Gimgroth

  A common debate within the Cult of Shallya, between those who want to do the most good and those who think you should not waste time thinking about that and just help whoever is in front of you at the time  

The letters go between a minor noble in Brionne, his feudal superior, the The Most Holy Matriarch Lisegund and a Handmaiden of the Lady called Laudia Quenay.

  She was in a village in Brionne that was suffering greatly from the Vermillion Flu. She was working to help the people when the Lord Lohenain demanded more taxes. They asked her to speak to him on their behalf
She agreed.
He refused
She accused him of being deaf to their plight
He said he would show her deafness and cut her ear off
There was a riot
Afterwards she could not be found

The Lord and his Lord demanded to the Matriarch that she be cast out of the cult and outlawed. The Matriarch refused but then got an obliquely threatening letter from Handmaiden Quenay to the effect that the Cult of Shaylla would not be allowed to threaten the structure of Bretonnia  

Then there are few reports of Cecilia's whereabouts, apparently being passed amongst the Herrimault bands to avoid Lord Lohenain and the Maidens' vengeance. She passed into Mousillon a few weeks ago.
MrAbdiel
Ysolde purses her lips.

 "I... may not be entirely at liberty to say. But if he has a captive of some station, then..." 

The matronly priestess looks indecisive; almost  pinned  by some aspect of the conversation not revealed. With exasperation, she looks over her shoulder to another figure; a blonde woman at the fire side of this level of the lighthouse-monastary. Her blondeness itself is less remarkable than the fact of her blondeness's apparancy; most of the women in Bretonnia who have passed the age of reason cover their hair completely that its color would not be plain to someone from across the room. But the blonde woman makes a gesture with one hand, a come-hither hooking with her index over one delicate shoulder, and Ysolde breathes a sigh of relief. She lets the party past to cross the room to this new interlocuter - all but Bertelis.

 "Not you, my good knight. Here; I have higher things to speak to you about. Talk with me, a moment. You, and your squire..." 

Bertelis, in his state, is easily enough led by this command.  "I will... Ah... We reconvene after, I suppose."  He, Maxime, and Ysolde peel off to an alcove for a discussion of what one must assume is great import.

Regine, Jasmine, and Bruno are permitted by, as the blonde woman leads them to a quieter edge of the library-level of the lighthouse where a balcony beyond presents the glimmering sea.

 
 Spoiler:  The Maiden Eugénie Gavreau 
 
 


She is jarringly beautiful; lovely in a way is disquieting and somehow accusatory. Her skin is cleaner and smoother than a woman's should be, even pampered and wealthy women whose hands know no labor. But it's not a  wicked  discomfort, at least. For a grown man, at least, it is familiar as the puzzling rush of unknowable chemistry fizzing behind the eyeballs; when as a boy he met a girl who for the first time registered to him not as an alien species but a fascinating creature whom he might spend every day of his life pursuing to know.

  "This... Red Knight, you see... It is a complicated business. A royal matter, and a spiritual one. The crown, and the churches, are in concert and competition here. It is not dissimilar in the Empire, I think."   Her Reikspiel is academic and clean and only lightly lilting with Breton sway. The comment, and her attention, seems to be directly principally to Bruno, as the group's spokesman and noble member.

  "In fact, you are wandering into an entwined matter... and one, it will become clear, that requires a measure of deception with which a Knight of Bretonnia is not permitted to operate. Not one who takes his vows seriously, anyway."   She takes a quarter turn and a couple of steps closer to the balcony so the sun can fall on her, shining warmly on her face, the shelf of her collarbone, the swell of her bust, and the scandalous measure of her blonde hair that sits forward of her gauzy wimple. The moment invites pursuit - perhaps some subtle expression of power, over a listener? Some kind of game to which the rules have not been explained?

  "I am the Maiden Eugénie Gavreau. I have many answers for you - about the Flylord's cult within the city Mousillon, and its current ... ah... territorial conflict with the Red Knight. But before I answer them, I must ask the three of you..."  

She turns to face you all now. Now, the sun is behind her; it lims her face in a golden corona, letting her countenance become darkened by the shade and difficult to regard directly with the sunlight skimming around her.

  "Would you rather die, than become a monster? And, supposing the answer is yes, would you hold in honor a friend who would take your life, if they saw you becoming such a monster?"  

The question is spoken in absolutes; the tone of it suggests there is no room for half-measures, or a creative reinterpretation of what 'monster' means. It is a plain, brute query. She waits, patient and interested, for your answers.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


The Maiden had...not been what Regine was expecting. Admittedly the master thief was not particularly knowledgeable on most religious matters, at least beyond that of what peasants accumulated in drips and drabs during their time on the mortal plane. But to her a priestess, or "Maiden" in this case, would be a woman who was senior in years and distinguished in presence. Not... this . She barely looked a day into 30, her appearance so heavenly crafted to appeal to lustful gazes she might have deliberately adopted it as a practical joke to separate the genuine from the lecherous.

Nevertheless, the Maiden spoke. She certainly had a flair for showmanship, Regine would give her that, as the master thief folded her arms and listened as well as she could, her eyes remaining fixated upon the wise woman.

  "This... Red Knight, you see... It is a complicated business. A royal matter, and a spiritual one. The crown, and the churches, are in concert and competition here. It is not dissimilar in the Empire, I think. In fact, you are wandering into an entwined matter... and one, it will become clear, that requires a measure of deception with which a Knight of Bretonnia is not permitted to operate. Not one who takes his vows seriously, anyway."   

Regine furrowed her brow as she listened. She had not reached the heights of her professional skill back in L'anguille by being ignorant to the movements of the wealthy and powerful, and she could...in a way, imagine that some formerly aristocratic knight, now turned into a blood-drinking creature of the knight, yet maintained the trappings and mantle of his former chivalric notions, would be embarrassing for the established gentry. Thinking of it in terms closer to her heart, it would be as if a close friend had died, only for an uncanny valley doppleganger to dress themselves in their clothes and to pretend as if they were really them. Desecration and insults both.

  "I am the Maiden Eugénie Gavreau. I have many answers for you - about the Flylord's cult within the city Mousillon, and its current ... ah... territorial conflict with the Red Knight. But before I answer them, I must ask the three of you...Would you rather die, than become a monster? And, supposing the answer is yes, would you hold in honor a friend who would take your life, if they saw you becoming such a monster?"
  

This struck closer to home for the thief. Swallowing, pursing her lips and peering at the Maiden, a part of Regine wanted to step forward and seize the woman by her collar and shove her against the wall before demanding to know who she had been talking to, and what she  really  meant. But, of course, Regine did no such thing.

 "I would do the deed myself,"  Regine answered, first among the trio, and forcefully so. Her usual playful charisma was remiss as those words were projected with force and determination, as if she were on trial already and answers were demanded of her.
 
"The Red Knight - can he be redeemed? Can he be brought back from his condition?" 
farothel
Bruno wasn't sure if splitting up here was a good idea, but as Bertelis agreed, he wasn't going to say something.  They could always compare notes later.
 "If by monster you mean becoming some undead thing or a chaos thing or something like that, then the answer is yes to both,"  Bruno said to Eugénie, speaking Breton to train himself in the language,  "and I can tell I will not hesitate to release my friends and companions from such a fate.  Non-violently if possible, otherwise if needed.  I've seen what happens with those who turn." 

He waited to see what more they would be told about the red knight.
bramblefoot
bruno, jasmine, regine: the maiden will sigh, and a cloud seems to pass over her face. she will speak softly about the nature of monsters

 "Men can be reasoned with, monsters are by nature unreasonable. This is the fundamental truth that courses through the veins of our world, staining the fabric of reality with its ominous hue. Look upon the faces of men, see the flicker of understanding, the glimmer of empathy that resides within their souls. They are creatures of reason, flawed as they may be, they harbor within them the capacity for discourse, for negotiation, for understanding.

But monsters, ah, monsters are a different breed altogether. Born from the darkest recesses of the mind, forged in the crucible of nightmare and fear, they know not the language of reason. They are the embodiment of chaos, the antithesis of order, the very essence of irrationality made manifest.

Look into the eyes of a monster and what do you see? Madness. Hunger. A primal, unrelenting thirst for destruction that knows no bounds. They are the predators that stalk the shadows, the harbingers of despair that lurk in the forgotten corners of the world. To reason with a monster is to speak to the wind, to plead with the storm, to beg for mercy from the void.

For monsters are not bound by the laws of men, nor are they swayed by the whims of conscience. They exist outside the realm of morality, outside the boundaries of civilization. They are the aberrations, the anomalies, the twisted reflections of our deepest fears and desires.

And yet, for all their terror, for all their savagery, there is a perverse beauty to be found in the nature of monsters. They are the embodiment of chaos, yes, but they are also the embodiment of freedom. They are free from the shackles of society, free from the constraints of morality, free to indulge in their most base and primal instincts without fear of repercussion.

In a world governed by order and reason, monsters stand as a reminder of the darkness that lurks within us all. They are the shadows that dance at the edge of our vision, the whispers that haunt our dreams. And though we may strive to banish them from our midst, to erase them from existence, we can never truly escape the truth they represent.

For in the end, we are all monsters. Bound by our own desires, shackled by our own fears, we are creatures of chaos masquerading as creatures of reason. And in the depths of our souls, we know that no matter how hard we try to deny it, no matter how fiercely we cling to the illusion of order, the monster within will always be there, waiting to be set free." 

bertelis and maxime:

ysolde will sit down, and offer a hand to bertelis.  "your thoughts seem clouded sir bertelis. tell me, have you tried reiki? i learned from a master from far cathay. it may help to relieve you of some of your madness. i can give you a treatment now, and it may remove some of those stormclouds upon your brow." 

wighard and gimgroth: nothing else happens. can i have your next moves?
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Admittedly, before joining the Burning Slug company, Regine knew very little about the metaphysics of the world. She still didn't. But she had learned a few things. Perhaps it was being teleported to a magical island where she fought... things , mutated things that were the essence of Chaos. Perhaps it was this disease-ridden Nurgle cult that were squatting on the horizon, or the fanged horrors of the night that had laid claim to her for induction into their ranks. But the master thief was rather skeptical of the priestess' claims of relativism in the face of such terrors.

 "If we're all monsters...then why fight them?"  she asked, with visible curiosity and uncertainty.

 "Are you saying there is nothing that can be done for the Red Knight except to slay him?" 
bramblefoot
the maiden will place a hand on regine  "some are redeemable, while others pretend and scheme. it is our job as servants of order to redeem those who can be redeemed, and put those who cannot to the torch or the sword. Every job you can do should be done as best you can. plagues may batter cities, and beastmen may pillage, but we will endure, as we have before. take heart, for there may be a day when the trumpets sound and we must all do what must be done to ensure the safety of our homes and families" 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 the maiden will place a hand on regine  "some are redeemable, while others pretend and scheme. it is our job as servants of order to redeem those who can be redeemed, and put those who cannot to the torch or the sword. Every job you can do should be done as best you can. plagues may batter cities, and beastmen may pillage, but we will endure, as we have before. take heart, for there may be a day when the trumpets sound and we must all do what must be done to ensure the safety of our homes and families"  
 


Regine looked confused. Indeed, she looked - and sounded - somewhat irritated.

 "Art thou deaf, woman?!"  she snapped.

 "I ask not for riddles; I asked if the Red Knight is beyond redemption! Is he forever cursed with his affliction, or are there means to prevent or return those who are transformed into such monsters?! Can he be salvaged - or is he lost to damnation?! Are those cursed with vampirism eternally set on its path, or can they be brought back and restored to a living station, their soul returned?" 
 I die in 72 hours, I don't have time for this mad-womans rambling!  she thought indignantly to herself.

The Master Thief had, for the first time, allowed her anger to get the better of her. Her knuckles were white as her hands were balled into fists, and a temper was visible across her face. Suddenly, as if realising what she had done, Regine exhaled, her eyes looking downwards as her cheeks flushed a shameful red.

 "I am sorry...madame..."  she brought her right hand to her forehead as if to massage it.

 "Please, forgive my outburst. I am...just very...this has been very trying. It weighs upon my soul in many ways, and I am unfamiliar with the multiple layers of consideration ones in your station must grant such spectacular situations. I apologise, madame,"  came her sincere words.
dojango
Jasmine says, " The witchhunters say somethin' similar bout monsters and such.  Tho they like ta think that 'burning' and 'redemption' usually go together.  Suppose they would agree about monsters lurkin' in the heart of men and all that, and that only faith in Sigmar is yer shield.  Suppose that might be true too.  But I've seen monsters get created ya know.  It's like, horrible little rat people and weird glowing goop and all that.  Dunno how much faith helps there and how much a fast mind and faster hands helps.  And then some people choose ta be monsters cause they think it might better their station.  And sometimes it might even work!  Speakin' of which, I ran across a guy consortin' with demons and a while back.  I tracked him down ta L'Anguile so he's probably manipulatin' the rebels as we speak.  Someone should probably look into that, not us though, since we're kind of persona nongrada with the rebels. "
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Jasmine! 
(Feel free to put up Jasmine's response to the question about monsters, and killing friends who are becoming monsters; I'm just moving on in this moment to get this revelation out!)
 


Having diverted her attention to Regine's questions for a long moment - long enough that Regine might be suspicious of her insight - the Maiden Eugénie Gavreau returns to her commentary about Mousillon. Apparently, the answers supplied to her question are sufficient. She draws in a quick breath through her nose, her chest swelling with the beginnings of a tale relevant to the situation.

 "Two hundred years ago, Mousillon fell to shame and ignominy. Maldred of Mousillon, the last Duke, attempted to seize the vacant throne with a False Grail ruse. When he was discovered, he fled to his city and the truly annointed king, Gaston de Beau Geste, laid siege. But the Red Pox came, then; tearing through both armies and especially the poor peasants of the city like a consuming fire. In the end, Gaston was able to walk into the city when the Pox took all the fight out of it, and found Maldred dead of the sickness within. This kind of tragedy has stained the land deeply; it continues to spit up its suffering today. But it is not without lure, to travelers fair and foul…” 
 “This Red Pox, you see, is a product of the rat-men; they have released it several times in Tilea and Bretonnia, each time to devastating effect. Over this, the Fly Lord became jealous. He sent a host of warriors as part of an invasion of Bretonnia, planning that some would survive and make their way south to where the rat-men toiled and boiled their plague. But brave King Jules, Jules the Just, died deflecting that invasion; some northmen fled on their boats, and a handful survived in flight in the land. One such chaos knight was  Sul Konarr , who struck out alone to discover the secrets of the skaven’s plague. He lay in wait through the siege, and the chaos the Pox caused; and after the city was condemned, he wandered to the northern gate, where a city’s worth of plague dead were buried. He summoned a daemon to aid him - a ravenous beast of plague that sniffed out the secrets of the pox from the dead. But before he could complete his work, he was struck down by a questing knight, Jean-Robert of Bordeleaux. He was a knight of great favor, and he wielded a spear blessed by Manaan - thought, at the time, to be a contender to inherit the Duchy from the sonless duke. Unfortunately, like Jules the Just, he perished in the doing of his deed, and never returned from Mousillon. Or so it was thought.” 

The Maiden moves again, with an eerie grace that borders on inhuman, off the balcony and back into the lighthouse library. She stops in front of a painting of a small gathering of well dressed knights, wizards, and priests; though their details are difficult to make out as the party’s eyes adjust from gazing out at the sun.
 
“Since that time, there has always been in existence a small order - a secret society devoted to watching the world for signs of the Red Pox, to spring into action and thwart it and the forces driving it. Its first member was Alumon the Joyful, squire of Jean-Robert of Bordeleaux, who knew the circumstances of his demise. The Secret Society of the Blooded Cloth thwarted many small outbreaks of Pox, both launched by skaven and agents of the Fly Lord. Its membership changed, its leadership shifted, and eventually, after a failure to stop the outbreaks in the Middle Mountains and in Miragliano some forty years ago, the order fractured and fell apart. That was our… last roster.”  She gestures to the portrait, where seven proud warriors, mystics, and adventurers stand in collegiate stillness for the portrait.

 
 Spoiler: The Figures In The Picture 
The first figure is a knight of Bretonnia, tall and blond and somewhat narrow of build. It does not take a scholar of heraldry to notice the iconographic similarity between the knight’s tabard, and Bertelis’ - though those trained in that particular school might discern that the similarities places him not on the du Roche side of Bertelis’s family - his mother’s father, perhaps. The plaque beneath the picture identifies him as  Alain du Bordeleaux .

The knight is Imperial, and his gold and green stag iconography is recognizable too. The  Baron Konrad Richter , late father of the current Baron Franz Richter, gazes out stoically to the artist capturing the moment.

The woman beside him has a youthful flare and holds her embroidered robes of the College of Heavens closed with coquettish suggestion. If not for the elements of the swirling dragon tattoos visible on her arms, this would be all but unrecognizable for the woman some of the party knows as  The Maga Onyll .

To her side stands a Heirophant in gold and white, a White Wizard whom only Wighard would recognise. When Wighard apprenticed under  Master Maher , of course, he was not so young.

The third and final imperial wizard in that assembly is familiar to most of the party. Regal in bearing yet somehow confidently warm in the rendition,  Professor Petrus Lorrimer  gazes out, looking not a day younger than when he intersected so many lives four decades later.

Beside him is  Maiden Eugénie Gavreau . She looks as hauntingly lovely, cresting the peak of young womanhood, in that portrait as she does in life gazing up at it, though there is no telling if Lorrimer’s method of deflecting the year’s burden is related to hers. It is easy to imagine that Death Wizards and Damsels of the Lady come at the problem of aging from opposite directions.

The last two-legged member of the Order of the Blooded Cloth in the image has certainly aged. A black haired boy, no more than ten years old, grinning with a gap in his teeth stands with his fists on his hips, and Lorrimer’s hand on his shoulder. A great, scruffy mastiff lazes at his feet; and a silver hammer pendant hangs prominently around his neck. The plaque identifies him as Johansonn the Boy Pilgrim - but imagination and a logical leap identifies him to some as  Johnson the Hammer, Witch Hunter of Sigmar , long before his infamy.
 

 “What we didn’t know,”  the Maiden continues,  “was that the source of the Pox’s resurgence was in Mousillon still. The rats go there to get their slaves infected, and then harvest it from them. Cultists of the Flylord do the same. They do so because the Chaos Knight,  Sul Konarr , is still there; the daemon he summoned is bound into his sword and revives him even when he is slain. This is good for him, because he has been slain more than once -  Jean-Robert of Bordeleaux , once though dead, makes war on him now as he has for two hundred years in fits and starts. The Red Pox nearly took him, but it seems he was not ready to die - he gave himself to the teeth of a vampire so he could live on, keeping Sul Konarr pinned in Mousillon, maddened by his inability to complete the deed. Thus, he became the Red Knight; lunatic jailer of the chaos champion who bears the Red Pox’s secrets in a daemon blade. Johnson and Lorrimer continued to work on the problem past the breaking of our fellowship - and more fool we, for the success they had. It took many years of unorthodox seeking of answers for him to learn the magics he needed to break the demon blade - in the time intervening, he had designed a spell to suppress to slumber the daemon within it, and had gone to Mousillon and inflicted it upon the sword with the aid of Johnson, and the Vampire Hunter, Le Bécassine." 
 “Magic rewards poetry, you see; it likes poetry. A daemon is bound in a sword; to bind it further, so it cannot act from within the sword, he made the key of his spell another sword. So long as that sword persisted, the Red Pox remained dormant, and the Chaos Knight remained impotent to release it. I suppose Petrus did not trust our fractured members with the knowledge of which sword and where; but I expect some in the Du Roche family knew; and I suspect that is why Petrus encouraged young Bertelis to extend his errantry journey in the empire, rather than going early back to Bretonnia. I suspect he spent those last years of his life, before the New Carissa affair, doing his best to cultivate those noble and good prospects who might inherit this task after him. But I further expect that the Red Knight is responsible for Petrus’s death, and Bertelis’ mother’s death much earlier; for that vampire has his spies too, and is desperate to complete his vow to kill Sul Konarr. Somehow, he learned that the spell Lorrimer used against the daemon blade was bound to the sword once owned by Alain du Bordeleaux, and passed by him down to Bertelis. I myself might never have known, had it not broken in your battle at Trundheim and briefly released the daemon from its sleep long enough for the pox to rip its way through Bordeleaux before, I was surprised to discover, you had somehow come upon a smith capable of reforging a broken blade into a new one. It is strange that Grungni would be the god foremost responsible for thwarting the flylord in this tangled web of schemes, but here we stand, with many gods having taken hands in the exchange.” 

She exhales deeply, and regards your group with what seems like distant affection; as if she is far away, within her own mind.

 “It is a convoluted matter. The summary points are these: Sul Konarr’s cult has been hunting Lorrimer’s confederates for many years. They have been targeting your families and trying to kill your party to see that reforged sword broken, or atleast to remain far away from Mousillon. The Red Knight’s agents have been doing everything they can to draw you toward the city, particularly by vexing Bertelis’ family to draw him back to Bretonnia.  You will have to destroy both - the Chaos Knight, Sul Konarr, and the Red Knight, Jean-Robert. The Fly Lord’s servants do not die easily - you will likely need both the Spear of Manaan that killed the chaos knight the first time, and the Company Blade that subdued the Daemon in the sword, to do the deed. But the Red Knight is not a vampire without power.  You will find Le Bécassine the hunter of vampires within the city, working with a dwarven slayer towards common purposes.  They may be your allies against the vampire. But here is the rub:...” 

Her eyes dart across the room to where Bertelis is speaking at length with the priestess. The knight looks tired, battered, and haunted, as he often does.

 “ You must not permit Bertelis to take part in the fight against the Red Knight . His mind is badly damaged, and in precisely the kind of state that is most vulnerable to the twisting of a vampire like the Red Knight. This vampire has put a great deal of resource into making sure he confronts him, to avenge the wrongs done to his family. You must not allow this confrontation to take place. Subdue him if you have to. Let him save his wrath for the Chaos Knight following. If he confronts the Red Knight in person, you may find your convictions about killing a friend turned to monsters to be put to trial.” 

With this done, she produces a slim scroll of vellum and hands it to Bruno lightly. When he unfurls it, he finds a map of the city - apparently drafted by one Matthias Thornhauser, for his master, Lord von Siert.

 “Do you see this? The the River Grismerie has two great branches. You must cross the first by boat to enter the Duchy of Mousillon - beware the Dracoleeches in the water. The second branch runs through the city itself, and forks again within it. You must make your way through the shantytown at the South Gate to enter the city. The people gathered around the gate, in the Chapel Quarter, and inside the wall on the south side are poor, often misshapen wretches but they are not wicked more than men tend to be as a rule. But the majority of the city, north of the bridges, is sunken, ruined, flooded, cursed, and doomed. The locals call it Lost Town. That is where you must go - to this damned place. Do not try to enter the city from the north - the hills there contain the mass dead from Red Pox two hundred years prior, and your task is difficult enough without inviting the weight of that dark magic on yourselves. The Red Knight has fortified a crypt in the Old Cemetry; you can expect he will be protected by lesser undead, but much of his force is devoted to street war against Sul Konarr, who quarters near the North Gate. He can only hear the slurred whispers of his Daemon Sword so close to those cursed hills; he does not stray far. Under no circumstances should you approach the Ducal Palace, in Lost Town. There is villainy there also, but unrelated, and perhaps even more dire than that which you must now confront. Do you understand?” 
 
 Spoiler: Map! 
 
 
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 He reads this through for the benefit of Gimgroth

  A common debate within the Cult of Shallya, between those who want to do the most good and those who think you should not waste time thinking about that and just help whoever is in front of you at the time  

The letters go between a minor noble in Brionne, his feudal superior, the The Most Holy Matriarch Lisegund and a Handmaiden of the Lady called Laudia Quenay.

  She was in a village in Brionne that was suffering greatly from the Vermillion Flu. She was working to help the people when the Lord Lohenain demanded more taxes. They asked her to speak to him on their behalf
She agreed.
He refused
She accused him of being deaf to their plight
He said he would show her deafness and cut her ear off
There was a riot
Afterwards she could not be found

The Lord and his Lord demanded to the Matriarch that she be cast out of the cult and outlawed. The Matriarch refused but then got an obliquely threatening letter from Handmaiden Quenay to the effect that the Cult of Shaylla would not be allowed to threaten the structure of Bretonnia  

Then there are few reports of Cecilia's whereabouts, apparently being passed amongst the Herrimault bands to avoid Lord Lohenain and the Maidens' vengeance. She passed into Mousillon a few weeks ago. 
 

Gimgroth smiled hearing Wighard's express his esteem of the dwarf's worth.   He stood by silently as the wizard shared the contents of the sealed envelopes.   When the man paused Gimgroth rubs his hands on the side of his armor.   This Cecelia seems like an honorable woman.   I would not seek her blood on our hands.   Something doesn't add up in my slow mind Wighard it sounds as if the High Matriarch has had quite a change of heart to go from defending this Cecelia to asking for her murder.
Does this vast change seem right to you?   You are more familiar with the politics of humans than I am.
Perhaps there is something I am missing to explain this change but heard it not in what you just shared.
I'd rather take both the ears of that Lord Lohenain as a blood tax myself.  What say you, friend? 
wilphe
Wighard looks at the last unread item

The envelope

  I'll bet this is what appeared in this file after the priests prepared it  

It doesn't bear the secret marks of the main bundle, just Wighard's name in simple, but immaculate handwriting

  Something doesn't add up in my slow mind Wighard it sounds as if the High Matriarch has had quite a change of heart to go from defending this Cecelia to asking for her murder.  
  Maybe she has not, I have heard that Shallyans are discouraged from thinking too deeply on who best to help, not because that's a distraction from helping people - though that is the official reason - but because then they might start thinking that the best way to alleviate suffering would be to fix things about society. Like maybe have a few less Lord Lohenain's in the world.

Officially, these people are flirting with heresy

Unofficially, they never seem to lose their connection to the Goddess.

But the Church of Shallya can't acknowledge them, because it wouldn't be allowed to exist if it did. I believe that is what Handmaiden Quenay was threatening.

To them Cecilia d'Orgremont is no longer a priestess, she is an agitator
  

He breathes out slowly

  Let's see what this last envelope says  

He breaks it open and reads, he can almost swear that it is re-writing itself as he opens it. In response to what he just said? In any case it is in the same neat cursive as his name

  
Do not judge the Matriarch too harshly Magister

She has the good of the cult to think about

As long they stick to treating symptoms of injustice and not the causes they can work and do good

Many people would suffer more if they were to be supressed.

If an innocent woman has to die, well what is being a Shallyan about if not about sacrifice for the good of others?

She may even have asked you because you would have doubts, there are plenty of thugs and assassins without scruple she could call on if she really wanted to find them.

In any case it is the Handmaiden Quenay who has decided she needs to die

I cannot say if she speaks for the Damsels as a whole, but I understand she is a cousin to Lord Lohenain

I can use someone like Cecilia d'Orgremont, but she will not be safe until she leaves Bretonnia

You could perhaps kill Handmaiden Quenay but even if she is acting without sanction the Damsels are unlikely to welcome the death of one of their own.

So I would like you to get her out, anywhere but Anguille. Your friend The Lord Reissner would be good, but I leave it to your discretion

This will clear your debt to me and more  

The letter is signed with a simple "V" that flows into an owl
wilphe
Wighard appears upstairs and stares deeply and silently at the portrait as the Maiden Eugénie Gavreau speaks
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Regine listened in silence, her eyes fixated upon Maiden Eugénie Gavreau the entire time. She took note of how the woman had apparently ceased to age, as the Maiden standing before her barely looked a day beyond her captured image in the painting of the portrait of her fellowship and prior companions.

Strange.

But, most of the more nuanced and finer details went over Regine's head. She had, after all, only been with the Burning Slugs since they had passed through her home-city of L'Anguille, which was approximately six months ago. To the Master Thief's understanding, they had been traveling together for years prior to that encounter, and had, evidently, accumulated quite the backlog of allies and enemies. Now, however, their future was dominated by two competing warlords of ruin: Sul Konarr and the Red Knight.

Both represented a change. A terrible change, but a change nonetheless. The Red Pox, like a bloodied scythe, had cleaved through every population into which it spread, severing thousands from their mortal coil and leaving the most horrid and putrefied of corpses in its wake. Those who reveled in such contamination were worshipers of the Chaos god of pestilence and plague, Nurgle. The Master Thief had to fight hard to repress the shudder that slithered through her shoulders when she thought of such a malign entity. To be slain was immediate, to be seduced promised at least some pleasure and to be tricked was simply mortal existence. But rotting away beneath a thousand epidemics to the amusement of a noxious idol? Skin and tissue sloughing from the bone, epidermal tissue blossoming with sores and pustules, fever seizing the mind and cancerous growths swelling the body and splitting its dimensions to allow the mélange of humours contained within to spill forth?

 Shudder.  

Then there was the Red Knight. Insane, evil, immortal, supernatural and metahuman. Regine's knowledge of vampires had been growing exponentially these past few days ever since her educational 'encounter', and though she were far from an expert she knew enough to understand the lineage of the fanged ones and what type of sovereignty they felt entitled to administer upon the hapless mortals that were unfortunate enough to find themselves beneath their dominion. Who knew what wicked decrees this Red Knight would impart on his subjects, enforced by his own crimson-stained blade and that of his minions. Regine doubted there were many freefolk rushing to place themselves at his service, outside of the desperate and the sycophantic who hoped to join their dark master in eternal unlife.

And so that was the choice for Mousillon. A disease-spreading madman, or an insane butcher.

The agony of choice.

But, still, when the Maiden had finished speaking, the Master Thief noted that she  still  had not answered her simple question. Though the history lesson and current evaluation was important, Regine had a burning need to know brewing within her chest, a sense of urgency that drove her to pester until its demands were met. She was not seized by any pedestrian curiousity, this was, literally, a matter of life or death.

 "Maiden Gavreau, I thank you for your insight and beg forgiveness for my prior outburst,"  the girl spoke out, her voice tempered and diplomatic.

 "But please, I am not a woman of puzzles, nor an academic or scholar. I deal in simple terms: is the Red Knight beyond salvation? Does any cure for vampirism exist outside of bodily destruction? Are those on the path so turned only able to be rescued with death? Or can their transformation be stayed, or reversed? Please, Maiden Gavreau, direct, simple answers. Yes or no?" 
bramblefoot
the maiden will accept regines apology.  "many that live deserve death. Some who die deserve life. Do not be so keen to deal out death and judgment, for in the tapestry of existence, the threads of fate are interwoven with complexity beyond mortal comprehension. To wield the power of life and death is to dance upon the precipice of hubris, for who among us possesses the wisdom to discern the true measure of another's worth? Let us tread lightly upon the paths of judgment, lest we ourselves become ensnared in the tangled web of our own righteousness."  she will take regines hand  "sometimes we must make our own decisions. even the very wise cannot see all ends, and i cannot spoon-feed my own opinions on one such as you. you must learn to fly on your own, or be forever earthbound" 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 the maiden will accept regines apology.  "many that live deserve death. Some who die deserve life. Do not be so keen to deal out death and judgment, for in the tapestry of existence, the threads of fate are interwoven with complexity beyond mortal comprehension. To wield the power of life and death is to dance upon the precipice of hubris, for who among us possesses the wisdom to discern the true measure of another's worth? Let us tread lightly upon the paths of judgment, lest we ourselves become ensnared in the tangled web of our own righteousness."  she will take regines hand  "sometimes we must make our own decisions. even the very wise cannot see all ends, and i cannot spoon-feed my own opinions on one such as you. you must learn to fly on your own, or be forever earthbound"  
 


Regine blanched at the Maiden's words, her hand held within the priestess' own soft grasp.

 If I do turn into a vampire, then I am going to come back and drink all of your blood, then we'll see if you're still singing that 'tangled web of your own righteousness' tune ...the thief thought bitterly to herself.

Calming herself down, but finding it difficult to do so due to the growling beast within her, Regine forced a smile and a nod, followed by a small curtsey.

 "As you say, Madame Maiden..."  she spoke.
dojango
Jasmine just shrugs and says, " Ya make judgements of life an' death every day o' yer life without realizin it or caring, sometimes.  Every day you walk by a beggar while wearin' a golden earrings, or ya decide that you'll have the chicken betrayed by his protector or the fish that dies a gaspin' death without understandin' why.  You make a judgment when ya think that whatever ya got going on... " she waves her hand around to indicate the temple " is more important than the quest you once sought ta do.  Stoppin' moving ta take a rest is a judgement cause the world don't stop when you do.  And if you want to stop and think about what judgement you want to make you'll often find ya just made it and you might not like the one ya did.  Don't you worry about our judgment, cause I think you'll find it was already made. "
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The Master Thief retired from the 'front' of the group after her words had been spoken and met with cryptic, apocryphal words from the Maiden. To say that Regine was disappointed would be an understatement - her heart beat rapidly within her chest, an anxiety pushing up from the pit of her soul to chew at her nervous system.

She wanted answers. She  needed  answers. Yet the most learned woman of an educated religious organisation was nothing but a font of indecipherable words.

A claustrophobia gnawed at Regine's spirit, a sense of enclosure compressing upon her psyche as she peered about the room, at the Maiden, her companions. Her instincts as a thief had been part of the story of her success, and all of them screamed in her ear to get out of there this instant! Swallowing, exhaling, the girl felt a bead of sweat form across her forehead and run down the side of her angular face, before she drew a hand up to swiftly rub it away.

Breathing out again, inhaling, exhaling, Regine rubbed her lips together.

 "Thank you, Madame. Fellows, I must take my leave - I have somewhere I need to be!" 

The thief curtseyed once again, her tall, lithe figure moving with her practiced grace before straightening up and departing. She moved past where Bertelis and the two ladies had entered, and the antechamber of the temple before exiting the building entirely. Once outside, Regine inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with cool, fresh air while she still could. A tear in her eye, the world abuzz as heart-beats throbbed in her ears, her swept her gaze around the crowded street in which every scent and sight was sharper than she'd ever known. Each bead of sweat on every passing commoner. The mead-laden breath exhaled by a tavern patron across the road. The perfume of a passing lady seated in her carriage. Every facial feature in focus and detectable on men and women dozens of yards away as if they stood right before her.

The change was occurring. Accelerating, even. She did not have much time left.
farothel
Bruno looked at the departing Regine.
 "I can understand my companion's sentiment,"  he said,  "while the information you provide certainly is useful, would it be possible to give us the condensed version.
 The faster we can get to Moussilon to destroy these characters, the faster this whole issue can be left behind." 
He ran through his mental checklist about things they had to ask about.
 "Our dwarven friend also has some artifact in Moussilon: a piece of the crucible and the Hammer of Kinslaying I believe it's called.  Any information on that should be very welcome." 
MrAbdiel
The Maiden Eugénie Gavreau watches Regine retreat from the room, with only the barest shadow of a smile on her lips. Whatever pedagogic apparatus she had spun into motion for the girl, she seemed to think it was still spinning. Bruno's request for clarity calls her attention back to him; her eyes darting to his countenance with the swiftness of an alighting hawk - and perhaps some measure of its mysterious hazard.

 "I fear I know nothing of a dwarven crucible, or pieces thereof, within the city. Our scrying here at the Lighthouse is a matter of marrying portents and riddled auguries to reports from scouts and conventional telescopy on the city across the river - it is the great players, the cult-runners and the war-bringers, whose motions make themselves visible to us. Of dwarves in the city, I know merely that a dwarf on his self-destruction vow has fallen into the company of  Le Bécassine , the vampire hunter, who has been habitually working to contain the vampire threat within the city. I would seek them out on your way in, perhaps in the Bridge District, within the superior tavern in the remnant city - 'Fallen Heaven'." 
 "The two should be distinct, even if they have more companions. Dwarf death-seekers have a very unique appearance even aside from dwarves in the common. And  Le Bécassine  is a man of the Southlands whose profession has drawn him to many places in the world. Men of such complexion are not common, north of the Gulf of Medes. The dwarf may help you find your dwarven problem;  Le Bécassine  will certainly help you navigate to your vampire problem, though I expect this may accrue a debt he will want repaid some day." 
  "The condensed version, for your benefit, Baronet Richter, is this: 
 The Red Knight  dwells near the Great Graveyard in western Lost Town, within the city. He wields the powerful Spear of Manaan you will need to thwart another foe. He is a warrior knight, a strategist, a necromancer, and most notably possessed of powers of hypnotic charm that will prove too effective upon Sir Bertelis du Roche for you to permit him to join that conflict, even if his honor demands it. You must kill this knight, and take the Spear of Manaan.

 Sul Konarr  dwells near the northern gate in Lost Town. He wields a daemonsword, the daemon within having mastery and power over the Red Pox, blessedly suppressed right now by a spell Petrus Lorrimer previously wove into the steel of the sword your friend Glod reforged into the Company Blade. Sul Konarr is a mighty knight of chaos, and his repulsive god snatches him from the grip of Morr and returns him to life in a bid to preserve the Red Pox. You may strike him down, but within a day he will return; you need both the Spear of Manaan, and the Company Blade, to kill him entire.

You may choose which of the two wicked men has earned your freshest wrath. The Red Knight has tormented Bertelis' family extensively, and is owed a debt of reprisal even if you cannot permit him to deliver it himself. Sul Konarr is ultimately responsible for the cult that snared your cousin, Baronet. The slumber that fell on Altdorf was some matter of ironic reprisal for Lorrimer's sleeping the daemon in the sword; I expect it was your group's proximity to the fragments of that broken sword that prevented you from falling to its effects. Likewise, the nurglites trying to kill your group in L'Anguille were driven from Sul Konarr's command. He would be extremely well defended with daemons and cult followers in Mousillon, as would the Red Knight, if they were not so dedicated to burning out each other's strength with their old hatred for one another. You must kill one, then the other. Once that is done, you may use the stones that the Hammer gave you long ago to destroy the Daemonsword and banish its occupant, forever scattering the power of the Red Pox from this world. And the Church of Manaan will desire their Spear back, certainly. There, now. Is this clear?" 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 
  Temple of Morr   
 Spoiler 

   
Though vice and carnality compelled her to walk into the tavern and order the best bottle of spirits for herself and all within, the brewing sense of purpose aimed her in other directions. Squaring her shoulders and gathering her resolve, Regine instead headed towards the Temple of Morr.

The Temple of Verena was almost the centre of this town, its towering edifice created to keep watch on the brooding denizens of Mousillon. However, smaller houses of worshipers to other deities existed, one of them being the God of the Dead, Prophecy and Dreams. His domain was that of the soul, the afterlife and discerning what may come to pass, while his priesthood tended to the mortal and deathly concerns of the common folk...Regine now being among them. The thief had never had had much time for Morr, which was peculiar given her particularly dangerous and daredevil-esque lifestyle, where a knife in the belly was a near constant threat in the rough and cut-throat streets of L'Anguille. But, when you're young and on top of your game, you feel invincible. It wasn't until the spectre of death loomed upon the horizon that ones mortality was truly considered.

The Temple of Morr itself was half cemetery, half place of worship. Descript looking walls formed the outer barrier of the consecrated ground, while what looked like a mausoleum dominated the central space of holy acreage, the rest containing crypts and graves neatly maintained beneath the crooked arcs of dead trees. Confronted with this imagery, Regine moved along the tiled walkway towards the heavy, oaken doors of the crypt and pressed her hands against them. Compressed by her weight and effort, the large doors creaked open and the thief was immediately hit with the scent of burning incense and the distant echoes of sombre chants. The flickering candlelight revealed a modest interior adorned with symbols of death and eternal rest while the cold stone floor underfoot seemed to absorb the sound of each step the thief took towards the rows of simple wooden benches where she slowly took a seat. Clad in dark robes, a Priest of Morr approached with measured solemnity, his features obscured by the shadows gathered by his cowl, with little save the visible wrinkles across his jaw betraying his true age.

 "The Temple of Morr welcomes you, child. If you seek the sermon, we hold them in the sunrise and dusk of each day,"  his gentle voice rumbled from within his cowl.

Regine pursed her lips, peering forward across the morbid interior of the temple.

 "I am not here for a sermon..."  she said before inhaling, the wood of the pew chair creaking against her body as she shifted her weight.

 "I...I'm not long for the world, father. A disease has me. Incurable." 

Even the solemn silhouette of the priests aged features piqued at this abrupt admission.

 "Pray tell, child, you cannot be so sure - " 
 "I am,"  was her immediate response.  "Within a week I'll be gone. That's why I'm here. Tell me..."  her voice weakened, swallowing once,  "what will happen to me? Where will I go?" 

The priests solemnity was palapble. Composed as he was, he was human in his core, presented with a girl barely 20 summers old who knew her end was near. The world was a cruel place, fairness was not its virtue and Regine was a visible reminder.

 "When one's mortal journey concludes,"  he began,  "Morr, the merciful god of death, gently cradles the departed soul in his divine embrace. In that ethereal realm, the spirit undergoes a solemn judgment, where the purity of its essence is weighed against the shadows of darkness. Should the soul emerge untainted, it is guided to Morr's Garden, a tranquil haven bathed in serene light, where rest eternal awaits. There, amidst the whispering leaves and blossoming flowers, the departed find solace in a timeless serenity. Yet, for those souls stained by the impurities of necromancy, chaos, or malevolence, Morr's judgment may lead them to darker realms, where they may face the consequences of their earthly transgressions. Our sacred duty is to honor the departed and ensure their peaceful passage, shielding them from the clutches of the profane and maintaining the delicate balance ordained by Morr himself." 

The Master Thief swallowed gently, the vision of her right eye blurring for a moment before reaching up and wiping the tear away.

 "Have you practiced the black arts of necromancy, in your life, child?"  the priest asked, his tone expecting a negative - which he received as Regine shook her head.

 "Have you formed pacts with the denizens of Chaos?" 

Once again, Regine signal a no.  "I have fought them and thwarted their spread throughout the world,"  she answered matter-of-factly,  "several times." 
 "This does your soul credit. Have you performed malevolence? Have you committed murder?" 
 "No." 
 "Have you...forced, yourself, upon someone? In perversities or labour?" 
 "No." 
 "Have you swindled others?" 

To this Regine pursed her lips, swallowed gently once more and nodded.  "Only from those in the game, who knew the stakes. Never from the commonfolk or those who seemed decent." 
 "Theft is theft, child." 
 "I..."  Regine started, her voice catching in her throat,  "I liquidated all that I have, all that I've made..."  the thief then reached behind herself, detaching the thick coin purse from her lower back and drawing it around to rest in her lap.  "I intended to use it to set a building in motion. Perhaps an orphanage and school. Something that will benefit others." 

The priest nodded. Whether this was a gesture of approval or understanding only he knew.

 "Do you wish to remain here at the temple for your final days? We will ensure the proper rites are performed over your remains, to keep your soul safe from Chaos so that you may pass to Morr for judgement. You have not practiced the black arts nor conspired with dark powers, you have not committed murder, rape or enslavement, you have fought the agents of the Chaos gods, and though you have swindled and indulged in vices, you are committing your ill-gotten gains towards more altruistic and noble purposes. I dare not presume what Morr's judgement will be, but he is merciful and understanding." 
 "No, I...I won't be available. I won't be here. Do you need...well...all of me?" 
 "A lock of hair, your full name; these can be conduits for the prayers of the rites." 

The Thief nodded, sighing a gentle exhale of relief. Drawing her left hand up to her black hair to gather an ebon lock around her fingers, she used her knife to sever it from her helm and then tie it into a knot. This was followed by Regine reaching her fingers into her purse to retrieve some of the gold coins within, before presenting them along with her physical token.

 "My full name is Regine Vivienne Lacroix." 

The priest extended a hand forward to receive the necessary items, his head bowing solemnly as he did so while retaining those shadows around his features. However, one brow visibly perked when Regine asked a more direction question.

 "You mentioned before...the practice of necromancy, tainting the soul? Are the undead beyond Morr's judgement?" 
 "They present a grievous challenge to Morr's divine order, they - " 
 "If someone is turned into an undead, against their will, does their soul pass on for judgement while their undead form remains here in the material realm?" 

The priest's gaze held a touch of sorrow,  "A soul that succumbs to undeath against its will faces a lamentable fate, caught in a paradoxical state between the realms of Morr's judgment and the material world. When one is unwillingly transformed into an undead being, their soul, still tethered to the mortal coil, undergoes the divine scrutiny of Morr. The outcome, however, is twofold. If the soul is found pure and untainted by the dark forces that animate their undead form, it may pass into Morr's Garden for eternal rest. Conversely, if the soul is deemed impure, it may be condemned to the chaotic realms, while the undead husk continues to roam the material realm, a macabre testament to the unholy forces that ensnared it. The priests of Morr strive to guide these wayward souls, offering prayers and rites to ease their passage and, if possible, liberate them from the cursed existence that binds them between life and death." 

Regine pursed her lips and nodded in thought, another inhale, exhale, before needing to wipe another tear from her eye.  "So the body will remain as an animated being, but the soul, if the rites are performed, will detach from the undead husk and pass on for judgement?" 
 "Indeed, that is correct, child. However, I must ask: this seems to be an oddly specific line of thought..."  the priest asked, clearly suspicious. But Regine gently waved his scepticism away.

 "My traveling companion...his brother is a knight. Or,  was . His body was re-animated against his will, in Mousillon..." 
 "A bleak and lamentable place." 

The thief took several long moments to compose herself, before straightening her shoulders.  "But. If you perform the final rites over what I have given you, with my full name, that will ensure safe passage of my spirit to judgement by Morr?" 
 "Yes, child." 

Regine rolled her lips together, her eyes getting warmer.

 "Good. And your temple assists with wills, last will and testament, yes?" 

The priest nodded.

 "Good. Yes, good,"  Regine said, standing up and rolling her shoulders.

 "I wish to create mine. I want to make sure this,"  she held up the purse she cradled, fat with coin,  "is put to a good use once I am no longer here." 
 "Of course, child. Follow me, I will take you to our scribe and clerk, he will assist you." 
 
bramblefoot
bertelis: ysolde will clap a hand on sir bertelis' shoulder.  "go with the lady, and may she protect you."  she will rise, and walk out of the area

bruno and the rest: the maiden will give a small nod.  "may the gods smile upon this venture. i will be watching your progress with great interest. do your duty with cunning, and no small amount of luck, and the day may be yours"  the maiden will curtsy, and walk away.

wighard: youd hear a cough, and a small portal opens. magus trakores eye is looking through the portal  "you have carried the wand well magister, but i will take it back now. every good student must be tested on responsible usage"  an old withered hand pokes through, and magus trakores voice sounds in wighards mind  still, that demon release was wonky, but ill give it a demerit. surely we can work something out neh? 

regine: whats the plan now?
farothel
 "One last thing, mylady,"  Bruno said to maiden's back,  "maybe some form of repayment for your information, we have also come with information of our own.  In the city, Master Wighard and myself recognised a symbol.  It belongs to a necromancer named the Renderer.  He's a nasty piece of work and he likes old books and magical artifacts.  I think it's best if you did an inventory of your works, especially the more dangerous ones, to make sure nothing is missing.  Also be on the lookout of said sign and this necromancer or his followers.  I'll draw you a picture of the symbol so you can look out for it, if you wish." 
wilphe
  "you have carried the wand well magister, but i will take it back now. every good student must be tested on responsible usage"
  
  Thank you Magus. If you don't mind, statistically how many students think "They have recognised my  greatness! This means I am special and awesome!" and start abusing their power?  
 still, that demon release was wonky, but ill give it a demerit. surely we can work something out neh? 
  I expect I shall have to answer for that at some point, but frankly Morr seems happy and I would rather please a deity and have a demerit in the eyes of my order than vice versa.

Besides so far it appears her actions have been mostly benevolent, and she has expressed interest in exploring a permanent change in allegiances.

Between her and the Skaven it may be my fate to redeem the otherwise irredeemable  
bramblefoot
bruno: the maiden nods  "ill take it"  she will wait for bruno to draw it out, and her brow crinkles  "that seems legitimate, and that worries me. be careful"  she will walk out after placing a hand on brunos shoulder

regine: the priest of morr will take the pouch, and nod  "i will get the orphanage's construction started now. peace be with you"  he will turn on his heel with precision, and walk into the back

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
if there is nothing else, lets cut to the tavern
 
MrAbdiel
Back at the tavern, Bertelis packs his things, cycles through his morning prayer... and considers that tomorrow, he will likely be spending the night in a tavern in the Cursed city. He convenes with the rest of the party downstairs.

On another day, he might be very eager to learn what was shared with the group by the damsel they spoke to; or why Regine slunk out early. But today, burdened with apathy as he is, he is loosely content to trust they are confident the party has what it needs to proceed.

 "We... ought to make the crossing as soon as possible. It's still early; but I would hate to tempt a situation where we are seeking entry into the city in darkness." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Regine thanked the Priest of Morr and spoke her last peace at the temple. She knelt at the shrine to prayer and she conversed briefly with other Priests. Nothing else could be said or done, and the thief had felt a great weight off her soul when she had handed that sack of coins over and received the churches legally-bound assurances that the gold would be spent towards the ends she desired. She had not been an evil or malevolent woman in her life, Regine could content herself with that. She had not stolen from anyone who hadn't had skin in the game, or who couldn't afford it. She had not slain anyone. She hadn't backstabbed anyone. She was not an angel of virtue...but she wasn't unworthy of eternal rest either, right? She did not want her name on the orphanage and school that would be constructing using those funds, because she didn't want her one true altruistic move to be one of ego and recognition. She wanted the sum of her ill-gotten gains going to something decent and pure. If she could point to any work produced during her paltry years on this material plane, that would be it.

The Master Thief arrived back at the inn in oddly high spirits, considering the dishevelment of her departure. Regine had walked through the door carrying only a bottle of  excellent  Bretonnian spirits, Château L'Ambroisie Royale. Aged for twenty years in barrels hewn from the grand oaks of the Limousin forest to produce among the finest alcohols that man could make - and the thief held a flagon in her dextrous hands. That her senses swept the inn and drew in every mote, iota and spec of sensation no longer bothered the thief. Indeed, she was growing used to it: the scent of sweat upon the brow of the brawny farmer at the bar. The odour of mead, beer and 88 proof spirits in the air. The gently burning fires situated in several points about the tavern, each fuelled by wood from different sources. All was laid bare to her extraordinary senses, and so it took no effort from the thief to spot her companions and discern details about them that only one with a microscope could acquire.

Spotting Bertelis and a handful of others already gathered around a table as the regulars of the tavern clung to the bar, the thief approached quietly and slipped down in between the members, next to the Knight. Placing the bottle of golden-amber beauty upon the bench, its glass emblazoned with the finery of its label, Regine surreptitiously put an arm around Bertelis' waist and leaned over to bring her lips towards his head where she kissed him upon the cheek.

 "One does not simply walk into Mousillon on the eve, chevalier!"  she spoke cheerily, drawing her hand away as she beckoned over the barkeep to deliver drinking cups for the spirits she had delivered.

 "At the height of my success in L'Anguille I would only ever enter the lions den if I gathered and knew all details that I could; including escape routes and refuge! We cannot leave today in a rush, monsier, such haste will damn our chances!"  she beamed brightly with that roguish grin of hers,  "Mousillon requires caution and patience, lest we all join the overcrowded earth six feet under!" 
wilphe
  We want to take the horses when we cross the river or leave them, Odmar and Berthold here?  

Wighard looks at Gimgroth then at Beatrice then back

  Get more bardic inspiration as a direct witness, and you probably want her where you can keep an eye on her. I support whatever decision you make though.  
farothel
 "I would leave as many people as we can,"  Bruno said,  "if only half the stories about Moussillon are true, it's not a nice place.  Odmar and Bertold are certainly not made to go traipsing around there.  Well, nobody really is, but we're at least used to that kind of stuff.  If it were up to me, I would even leave Siobhan, Beatrix and Maxime here and go with just the core group.  We can leave messages with them, so that other people we nominate are aware of what's happening should we fail." 
wilphe
  Siobhan is side questing aboard Trundheim remember, someone has to steer the damn thing.

For the other two, you can leave them here but there's a good chance they get attacked or they sneak off trying to follow us, and get captured. Yeah there is a possibility they don't get captured and appear out of nowhere to safe the day or escape and appear out of nowhere to safe the day.

But the most unlikely scenario is that we tell them to stay here, and they do, and absolutely nothing happens to them  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Regine started dispensing the Château L'Ambroisie Royale cognac, before sliding one each before those present and giving them a smile that invited them to enjoy it.

Taking a sip of her own, the girl sighed and exhaled gently as if she had just dipped her feet into warm, bubbly water after a long days march.

 "Magnifique... " she uttered softly to herself.

 "From what I hear of Mousillon, the very ground is tainted. Several wagons filled with barrels of fresh water and rations should receive eminent priority." 
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 Wighard looks at Gimgroth then at Beatrice then back

  Get more bardic inspiration as a direct witness, and you probably want her where you can keep an eye on her. I support whatever decision you make though.   
 

Gimgroth meets Wighard's gaze and turns to look at his charge pondering for a moment which path before had the most danger for the young woman.   Surely the path before the company was one fraught with threats each step of the way, but what threats would Beatrice face left here alone with his protection.   The girl already made a name for herself in the tavern where they were staying but also perhaps made a rival of the other bard.   Would it be safer to have her face all the coming dangers but behind his shield and under his eye?   Trapped in a dilemma for a moment before finding a possible solution finally the dwarf turned toward Beatrice speaking with a firmness that relayed the finality of the executioner's axe.   Beatrice you will return with me to the Verenan Lighthouse prior to the company's departure.   I wish to arrange a matter of further education for you.   I have spoken with Magus Wighard and he has agreed that when you accompany us he will instruct you in the matters of reading and writing.
However we will not have him start with the ore in the stone so to speak.   You are to spend the days when we are in Mousillon with the priestess and monks of Verena.   I will leave coin enough for beginning your education in numbers and writing and reading.   That way when we return and set out again with you in our company Wighard will have a foundation with which to continue your education. 
Beatrice smile disappear at the tone of her adoptive father's voice.   She knew there would be no dissuading the stubborn dwarf from his chosen path still she offered a weak protest.     Don't I get a say in the matter.   
 No.  came the soft but firm response.  Not in this case. 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis is blur-eyed and distracted until Regine kisses his cheek.

Knights Errant are tacitly encouraged by the legends of their forebears to engage in  des rendez-vous romantiques de bon goût  - tasteful romantic endeavours, abroad. It is impressed upon the young noble men going out into the world that they are expected to come home, become knights, and marry noble maidens then to bear noble children. Strictly speaking, the best way to do this unencumbered is  l'abstention.  But many, perhaps even most young knights see their errantry as a 'last gasp of freedom' and there are certainly gallant Breton oats sewn in Teutogen soils. Such things are avoidable in individual cases, and inevitable in the whole.

But as long as the Companions of the Burning Slug have known Bertelis, he has precious little romantic instinct towards grateful townsfolk, wayward merchant's wives, or dark-eyed fortune tellers. All that is romantic in the hedgehog knight seems to be bound up in the sword-and-chivalry part, and not the forbidden love or carnal adventures that populate the second half of that category. The learned may speculate on the reason for this stunted libido.

Still, something transformative happens in Regine's brief moment of flirtation. He doesn't flinch or fall from his chair or even blush, but that feminine contact calls out of him some dormant mannish instinct that heaves aside his phantom fatigue and malaise, at least for now, and draws him back to the moment. As with many changes in Bertelis' mental health, this goes undetected by him, but is visible and apparent to any of his friends watching it happen.


  "Mousillon requires caution and patience, lest we all join the overcrowded earth six feet under!"  

 "Certainly, Ma'amselle. Though I am anxious to be underway... Perhaps we best plan to make our crossing at first light. Since it is... Near now to midday."  He notes the time, as his eyes swing to the cognac the once-thief has acquired. Perhaps it  is  best to leave very early, so to have time to navigate challenges. And if they plan to drink a little before they go, it is best to do so earlier, so not to be hung-over in any measure...


   We want to take the horses when we cross the river or leave them, Odmar and Berthold here?   

 "Anguished as I am to pen my horses up again, I think they are best here. I think Bruno is right - our associates, proven as they are, are best left here. Mousillon is a place of much deceit and suffering; we dare not bring over the river anyone we will have to leave behind at a shady tavern, only to find them imperilled and our efforts split again."
 

After Gimgroth has made his decision and Beatrice is condemned to relative safety, Bertelis turns his glance to Maxime. The 'lad' seated beside him has been eying Regine with barely masked hostility since she arrived at the table, but his attention snaps to the knight as the order he anticipated comes to pass.

 "I shall task you to see that Beatrice, Odmar, Berthold and the beasts are safe here. It is unlikely the necromancer making these marks will make some effort of malevolence, but if he does, he will be yours to oppose - alongside the many priests, guards, and fighting men of this place." 

Maxime sighs.  "Is it likely, at any point in this squirehood, that you will tire of leaving me behind? If I were expected to teach knighthood to myself, I might have done that at home." 

This is more sass than Maxime has shown in a while, and given Bertelis' mental volatility, it's uncertain what kind of response it will produce. As it turns out, it's a measured one.

 "Boy, you have fought norscan pirates, daemons, and witches since you have followed me. You've seen wilder action that a score of other squires might have hoped. Sulk not.  Un chevalier cherche le Graal, pas le mamelon. " 

  "From what I hear of Mousillon, the very ground is tainted. Several wagons filled with barrels of fresh water and rations should receive eminent priority."  

The knight gives a nod, mitigated by a side to side sway of the head.  "You are right that we shall have to carry our own water, but we cannot bring barrels and wagons with us. Just our waterskins. I know there is a well, near a grail chapel in the south city; I understand it is where most of those who still reside get their water. We can replenish there, if we need to." 
wilphe
  And what is wring with drinking wine like any self-respecting true son of Brettonnia?  

He briefly looks at Bertelis and Regine, it seems out of character for both them, but it's also quite likely some or all of them will die tomorrow.

  Do what you have to do, Bully can you draw my shot and reload fresh for tomorrow please?

I have some letters to write, Maxine it will be your duty to send these on should we not return  

He will pen a few, one to Emil, one to Master Maher and one to Deanna

 
 Spoiler: Deanna excerpt 

  My mouth may have to sully your name tomorrow. If so, know that it was only to protect someone very dear to us both and I truly wish there could have been another way and I can only beg your forgiveness

I am better for knowing you

I remain Miladay, you most obedient and devoted servant  
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The thief noticed the way her contact with Bertelis almost stunned him from his thoughts, the press of her lips against his cheek for but a moment shocking him from whatever ruminations clouded his mind and distracted him from the present. She could not help but slightly smirk, before turning her gaze back to the glasses she had poured of the incredibly expensive and rare Bretonnian cognac she had purchased to share with her colleagues.

Reaching her hand towards the cups, Regine gently slid them forward to each person present, hoping they would at least try it. Even Maxime received a glass before her carrying that beautiful amber liquid, that shot-sized volume likely worth more than the 'lad' earned in a few months. The thief was not imperceptive. Oh, indeed, her senses were now sharpened to an almost supernatural degree and few things escaped her notice - including the look the squire had shot her.

In response, Regine issued her own response: a subtle, little wink and then a smirk.

It was no easy task they had been given. A vampire knight and his undead minions. A Nurgle chaos lord with his own insane cultists. The two had been warring with each other into a stalemate: the immovable object and the irresistible force. And their little coterie was to succeed where both of these powerful antagonists had failed? And with what help - the vampire hunter?

Regine felt an intrusive pang of bitterness enter her transforming heart: fat lot of good that useless incompetent had done.

 "Do we have any plan to destroy either of these foes, this Red Knight or Flylord, before entering Mousillon? Or are we  hoping  that the information we  might  receive from a vampire hunter  may  prove adequate to formulate a feasible scheme? The Madame Maiden,"  another useless incompetent, Regine thought dismissively,  "said that the  Spear of Mannan  that the Red Knight possesses will defeat the Nurgle lord...but the Red Knight possesses this weapon yet has failed to vanquish his foe, so what's our plan?" 
bramblefoot
wighard: bertelis seems a little too anxious to leave. could it be that his eagerness to fight the red knight has clouded his judgement? also, his insistent desire to leave without proper provender could spell doom later. You gonna call him out on that?

gimgroth: beatrice nods, and pats gimgroths arm  "of course father"  she says  "when shall i expect you back?" 
dojango
" We could use a couple wagon-loads of powder I reckon.  Lure the bastards over and then...  pop!  Like in Langooley. " Jasmine says, butchering the name of the rebel city.  " Failin' that, the cursed city is just across the bay.  We can make arrangements with the locals to keep us supplied periodically.  Odmar can work out the details with the local smug... uh, free merchants... on our behalf. "
MrAbdiel
Bertelis grimaces - at the notion of weaponizing powder again, and at the memory of the debacle in L'Anguille.

 "...Effective as a grand detonation can be, the only powderhouse within the Duchy is the one back in Bordeleaux... and we know how that turned out. But you're right about the locals. There is still a community scratching out its life, in the south of the city. They are a hub for criminals and fugitives because it is easy to disappear there, but we will be able to find food, water, and supply. They may merely need someone who... understands the dealing of 'free merchants' to make the deals. But for certain, you are right; if we struggle too much, you can have Bully send one of his pigeons over to Odmar to arrange a shipment of supply for us to pay on the return. They will have our horses as collateral. Still, I have faith that those invested in the fluidity of scruples will carry us through."  He glances between Jasmine and Regine, with the faintest suggestion of a smile. It is useful to have friends fluent in  crime.   "I only regret Emil could not be here, to lay eyes on a paradisal community with no lords or kings inflicting their will on the people." 
 "As for defeating these foes... From the recounting you have given me, it sounds that the Sul Konarr has been 'killed' by that spear more than once; but the daemon in his sword is capable of restoring him to life, even in its diminished state. We will need the nearness of the Company Blade to protect us from the daemon's worst magics, and the Spear to strike the champion down. But before you joined our troupe, back in Altdorf, a certain witch hunter tasked us to come to Mousillon to destroy this sword, and gave us three sacred stones for its pommel to do so. Between those three things - the Spear, the Company blade, and the sacred stones, we have all we need to put the plague-knight down and destroy the weapon that has kept him alive as a menace to the realm of men." 
 "As for the Red Knight... I fear there is no secret way or special deed to be done. All we know is that he has defeated Sul Konarr more than once, so we must assume him to be very fierce. But we vanquished a vampire before - perhaps one of his underlings, I wonder now - a Lord Armata, in Westvein near Altdorf. We must confront him, show no fear, and overcome him with superior might and purpose. More specifically.. if we can find that Vampire Hunter and his dwarf friend, they might have insights we do not have." 
farothel
 "Then we best get started with the gathering of those supplies we need,"  Bruno said,  "and while I don't understand the Bretonnian reluctance to use gunpowder, in this case I'm with Bertelis.  Those big explosions we can best avoid if possible.  There's still innocents living over there, how few and far between they actually might be." 

If nobody objected, he would head into town to get supplies.  Everybody is welcome to join, but maybe best to limit it to a few people.
wilphe
  I would prefer it if we could avoid wanton destruction, apart from the deaths of innocents and destruction of property we appear to have many enemies who favour causing city shattering kabooms and getting us to take the blame.

It's a lot harder to deny that sort of thing if you make it your MO.

As for leaving the horses as collateral, that should not be necessary. There is plenty of money in the communal fund.  


He places a pouch with 240 GC in front of Bruno


  There are two long hundreds in there if you need it, but spend it wisely. Don't let Jasmine spend it all on superior pipeweed and inferior powder. Some healing potions and whatever else you feel necessary

I shall ask the kitchen here to prepare us some rations to go, liquid will however be hard to carry.


As for confronting the Red Knight, her Ladyship was most insistent that you do not. You can either accept that and hold back, or flout it and force the 5 of us to fight him and you at the same time. That doesn't seem like a hard choice.  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  "As for defeating these foes... From the recounting you have given me, it sounds that the Sul Konarr has been 'killed' by that spear more than once; but the daemon in his sword is capable of restoring him to life, even in its diminished state. We will need the nearness of the Company Blade to protect us from the daemon's worst magics, and the Spear to strike the champion down. But before you joined our troupe, back in Altdorf, a certain witch hunter tasked us to come to Mousillon to destroy this sword, and gave us three sacred stones for its pommel to do so. Between those three things - the Spear, the Company blade, and the sacred stones, we have all we need to put the plague-knight down and destroy the weapon that has kept him alive as a menace to the realm of men." 
 "As for the Red Knight... I fear there is no secret way or special deed to be done. All we know is that he has defeated Sul Konarr more than once, so we must assume him to be very fierce. But we vanquished a vampire before - perhaps one of his underlings, I wonder now - a Lord Armata, in Westvein near Altdorf. We must confront him, show no fear, and overcome him with superior might and purpose. More specifically.. if we can find that Vampire Hunter and his dwarf friend, they might have insights we do not have."  
 


Regine listened quietly while she took another sip of her cognac, noting that no one else was touching the glasses she had poured and put before them. That was...a shame.

But, for Bertelis' words, the Master Thief, who had made her success in planning and executing heists, was not filled with confidence.

 " If ... might ..."  Regine tilted her left hand back and forth as if they were on unsteady ground.

The thief paused, thinking, tilting her head back and forth, thinking back to her particularly big jobs and dangerous situations that she'd managed to evade and move through.

 "Maybe we could take the vampire knight on his own turf. Catch him off guard when he's not prepared or when he's vulnerable, hit him hard and fast. But one wrong move,"  Regine then snapped her fingers  "and we're dead." 

Once more the thief looked at the others, her expression begging the question.

 "Okay - what of his minions? He's a necromancer, qui? So assumedly he has a number of undead henchmen. How many? Just a few? Or will we open the doors to his crypt only to be greeted with a battalions worth? Are they just corpses he raises from the victims of the Red Pox into zombies? Or has he surrounded himself with skilled Whites raised from former knights that wield weapons and wear armor as he does? Does he have mortal agents in his employ, hoping to receive the Blood Kiss if they serve their master well - are they open about their allegiance, or could we encounter the overtly vulnerable who are sleeper agents waiting for their chance to strike? Does he have local authorities on his payrole or frightened into serving him with mortal soldiers?" 

Once more she let the questions hang in the air before continuing.

 "Where even is his place of rest? Or does he move around? How many entrances? Any secret passages we can take - or that he knows of and will use to trap intruders? If we have to flee, are there any escape routes or will we be trapped?

How will we learn even half of what we need to know? From the Vampire Hunter? What if he's already dead? What if he doesn't have any further insight than that which we already know? What if his information is flawed? What if he's already dead but has been replaced by a fake who'll deliberately feed us misleading information? Or what if there is no Vampire Hunter, and he's just a tale spread by agents of the Knight to lure hopeful vampire slayers to their deaths? If, might, may, could...this is a powerful vampire Knight who has defeated Lords of Chaos, and he wields a spear - a spear that was magical, yes? An enemy like that you'd be foolish to rush in with just steel, spirit and faith - I have no doubt many have tried, and they're all dead. We need more time to prepare and gather intelligence to prepare the best plan. I did not get to the top of my game before I was twenty in a place like L'Anguille by winging it." 

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   
As for confronting the Red Knight, her Ladyship was most insistent that you do not. You can either accept that and hold back, or flout it and force the 5 of us to fight him and you at the same time. That doesn't seem like a hard choice.   
 

Regine nodded her head at the sorcerer's words.

 "Qui-qui; the Madame Maiden",  or Madame Useless as she should be called, Regine thought bitterly to herself,  "was most strident and persistent that  you , Chevalier Bertelis, do  not  confront the Red Knight. He has powers of mental domination to which you are uniquely vulnerable and will be unable to resist. You will become his unwilling, but obedient man-at-arms.

See? This is what I am talking about. You wouldn't have known that unless you were just told; you would have rushed in armed with just purpose and steel, only to fall under his spell and raise your sword against us instead, and within the hour we would all be getting re-animated as his mindless henchmen." 
wilphe
Wighard realises he hasn't touched the spirit offered by Regine, he takes it, warming the vessels with his hands and drawing in the scent as he waits for Bertelis' reaction
MrAbdiel
Bertelis is flummoxed somewhat at the demand that he does not satisfy the demand of his honor. Furthermore, he seems baffled that a Damsel of the lady would make such a requirement.

 "...First, of the vampire himself, we have delayed quite enough already for a very long time. I have suspended the good of my family for the good of others long enough; you must understand my reluctance to stay back and wring my hands about what there may, might, if, perhaps, be that does threaten us over there. We've been drawn here for this purpose - the gods have given us back Gimgroth, even, whose name I would have called if asked for a single asset to take to such a conflict. The vampire has been at war with this chaos knight for such a time and each must keep each other's forces in check. They are not the only menaces in the cursed city; neither can have legions, but small cohorts of damned defenders, certainly. The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, for whatever evil they serve, would brook no brewing competitor. These bands of damned warriors - this is the kind of foe we have been raised up to fight. As for his lair, what of it? It will have dangers. What can we do but brave them, or pay someone else to brave them for us? No, no. We must make our own observations, use our best guile and cunning, but the telling will be done by our courage in the end. Whatever obstacles - impersonators, soldiers, traps, whatever - we can only encounter and seek to overcome with our wits. We cannot require my brother suffer patiently any longer. Not now that we're here, right across the river, awaiting only this final strike." 

He throws back the cup of cognac as if to punctuate his insistence - there has been all the planning and delaying he can stand, and he can stand no more. But as for the secondary matter, his eyes darken a little, and move between each of his assembled companions as if waiting for one to crack and reveal this to be a joke in poor taste.

 "...This... seems beyond account, to me. I am - and I do not brag to say it - the most natural candidate to participate in such a fight. The Red Knight is a traitor against Bordelaux. My grandfather opposed him with this secret society. He has attacked my mother in law, and kidnapped my brother. I am initiated into the mysteries of Manaan, whose weapon this monster blasphemously wields. Why would-... What is-..." 

He frustrates over the proposition that he sit it out. Being unable to act against this particular foe has been a vice of conviction squeezing his skull for months.

 "...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you." 
wilphe
Wighard takes a sip of brandy and swirls it around his mouth before swallowing as he listens to Bertelis

  It's not about YOUR safety, it is about whether or not we have to fight you and him at the same time. Either to keep you away from him, or because you have got too close and fallen under his influence.

If you are intent on disregarding the Damsel's counsel understand that you will have to do so through me, I would rather not be acting as bodyguard for the person we are there to kill, and I would rather be concentrating on killing him than thwarting you  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
 Bertelis is flummoxed somewhat at the demand that he does not satisfy the demand of his honor. Furthermore, he seems baffled that a Damsel of the lady would make such a requirement.

 "...First, of the vampire himself, we have delayed quite enough already for a very long time. I have suspended the good of my family for the good of others long enough; you must understand my reluctance to stay back and wring my hands about what there may, might, if, perhaps, be that does threaten us over there. We've been drawn here for this purpose - the gods have given us back Gimgroth, even, whose name I would have called if asked for a single asset to take to such a conflict. The vampire has been at war with this chaos knight for such a time and each must keep each other's forces in check. They are not the only menaces in the cursed city; neither can have legions, but small cohorts of damned defenders, certainly. The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, for whatever evil they serve, would brook no brewing competitor. These bands of damned warriors - this is the kind of foe we have been raised up to fight. As for his lair, what of it? It will have dangers. What can we do but brave them, or pay someone else to brave them for us? No, no. We must make our own observations, use our best guile and cunning, but the telling will be done by our courage in the end. Whatever obstacles - impersonators, soldiers, traps, whatever - we can only encounter and seek to overcome with our wits. We cannot require my brother suffer patiently any longer. Not now that we're here, right across the river, awaiting only this final strike." 

He throws back the cup of cognac as if to punctuate his insistence - there has been all the planning and delaying he can stand, and he can stand no more. But as for the secondary matter, his eyes darken a little, and move between each of his assembled companions as if waiting for one to crack and reveal this to be a joke in poor taste.

 "...This... seems beyond account, to me. I am - and I do not brag to say it - the most natural candidate to participate in such a fight. The Red Knight is a traitor against Bordelaux. My grandfather opposed him with this secret society. He has attacked my mother in law, and kidnapped my brother. I am initiated into the mysteries of Manaan, whose weapon this monster blasphemously wields. Why would-... What is-..." 

He frustrates over the proposition that he sit it out. Being unable to act against this particular foe has been a vice of conviction squeezing his skull for months.

 "...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you."  
 

The tiniest of smiles crossed the thief's lips when she finally saw some others enjoy the spirits she had acquired and shared. It was the most expensive item she had ever extended to others, and the quality of the drink was unrivalled. If she were to expire soon, she'd at least like to know she'd allowed them to sample the finest alcohol made by man.

Regine watched Bertelis talk with the same slight amusement a mother might show their child when they recounted a story of how they saw bigfoot. Or, rather, how Regine had seen a mystical monster, for all the good her words seem to have on the gung-ho knight. Regine had seen those in her profession with such a mindset back in L'Anguile. They were dashing and daring and they burned bright, but burned out - they never lasted long.

 "It is impressive that you can answer every question I have and dismiss any caution I provide, with the power of speculation, monsieur!"  Regine answered, her smile humorous but still holding her ground that she  strongly  disagreed with how he was approaching the problem.

There was something dashing about Bertelis' damn-it-all-charge! attitude towards danger. A bravery, or recklessness, a manly foolishness to meet the foe with steel and faith. Mad and absurd, confident and self-assured, all in one. Like watching a lone knight charge audaciously into an enemy he knew he could not defeat, because it would buy time for others.



 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  "...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you."  
 


Regine offered a sympathetic look,  "but thou must, lest we all perish, Monsieur." 

The thief sighed softly, looking at the knight with an expression that was part amusement, part acceptance of some flaw.
 
"Undead to the right of them. Chaos cultists to the left of them. Disease and death to the rear of them. Into the valley of death rode the five. Bravery and foolishness are often only thinly separated, Chevalier Bertelis,"  she spoke, leaning in to kiss him once more on the cheek for a second before offering an affectionate smile. Turning back to her cognac and taking a sip, the thief took solace in Bruno departing to purchase more supplies and Wighward being equally determined to keep Bertelis from confronting the Red Knight.

They should be fine.
farothel
Bruno grabbed the money and looked at Regine's drink.
 "I'll have that when I come back from the shopping trip,"  he said,  "I think it's best if I keep a clear head so I don't forget anything we might need." 

Then he would walk out and try to get some supplies they might need.
MrAbdiel
 "I won't-" 

He threw up his hands in frustration, curled his fingers in the air as if strangling the vagaries of fate, then sunk forward onto the tabletop with his elbows. The knight's gaze flicked to Gimgroth and Jasmine then. Regine was Bretonnian and not without the mind of a strategist; Wighard was a theologian and scholar; Bruno was noble - if not born but raised - and something like a knight, as Imperials understood them. But of all of his companions, this was not the first time it was his Halfling and Dwarf companions whose minds he felt closest to. For Gimgroth, there was no question about plunging into the skaven nest on the principle - the damning, deadly, doomed principle - that such creatures needed to be destroyed and their captives set free and the calculus of likelihood was a second and quieter voice. Jasmine was not nailed to a code of honor like Bertelis or Gimgroth (not even close) but she'd displayed a devotion to her companions that manifested along a spectrum from fearlessness to ingenuity to see them delivered. If either of them had been told to stand aside while their brother's tormentor carried on, they would surely feel just as twisted up about it as he does.

But neither were fools; and both would, as Bertelis is forced to, come to reason about a matter so specifically thorny.

 "I... will not plunge in, there. I will delay back in another room or whatnot; carry myself in reserve, out of sight, when you confront the knight. I won't wait on this side of the river - but I will not... provoke an ironic demise. Bruno can carry the Company Blade, in this clash..."  He glances after the Baronet, as the Talabeclander slips out of the inn.  "He knows his way about it, now." 

He retreats to the redoubt of many classic sulkers: pretending he was having fun all along, clinking his empty cup against Regine's bottle, for a refill.  "Are you satisfied now? Anyway, this delay will have Odmar pleased. Second night in the same inn means Odmar is sleeping in my room, and I am in the hayloft sleeping sentinel over the horses again."  The vow he'd made to the Green Knight not to rest his head twice under the same roof had fallen into a routine, now; as close to one as his internal and external restlessness permitted, anyway.
wilphe
Wighard downs what is left of his brandy in one gulp, then flings the glass to shatter in the fireplace

  I am sure there will be plenty there to kill and plenty of blood to be spilt  
dojango
Jasmine just says, " It's too early to decide who's fightin' who and whatnot.  Perhaps people would be naturally steered towards to where they needed ta be without sayin' who can't fight who and what secret advice we was given.  At any rate, there ain't no point ta arguin' before we even got the stuff we need to stay alive out there, " and when Bruno leaves, she rushes after him.  " Hey, wait!  Mebbe we can find a secret stash o' firearms and powder somewhere in this burg. "
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  "I won't-" 

He threw up his hands in frustration, curled his fingers in the air as if strangling the vagaries of fate, then sunk forward onto the tabletop with his elbows. The knight's gaze flicked to Gimgroth and Jasmine then. Regine was Bretonnian and not without the mind of a strategist; Wighard was a theologian and scholar; Bruno was noble - if not born but raised - and something like a knight, as Imperials understood them. But of all of his companions, this was not the first time it was his Halfling and Dwarf companions whose minds he felt closest to. For Gimgroth, there was no question about plunging into the skaven nest on the principle - the damning, deadly, doomed principle - that such creatures needed to be destroyed and their captives set free and the calculus of likelihood was a second and quieter voice. Jasmine was not nailed to a code of honor like Bertelis or Gimgroth (not even close) but she'd displayed a devotion to her companions that manifested along a spectrum from fearlessness to ingenuity to see them delivered. If either of them had been told to stand aside while their brother's tormentor carried on, they would surely feel just as twisted up about it as he does.

But neither were fools; and both would, as Bertelis is forced to, come to reason about a matter so specifically thorny.

 "I... will not plunge in, there. I will delay back in another room or whatnot; carry myself in reserve, out of sight, when you confront the knight. I won't wait on this side of the river - but I will not... provoke an ironic demise. Bruno can carry the Company Blade, in this clash..."  He glances after the Baronet, as the Talabeclander slips out of the inn.  "He knows his way about it, now." 

He retreats to the redoubt of many classic sulkers: pretending he was having fun all along, clinking his empty cup against Regine's bottle, for a refill.  "Are you satisfied now? Anyway, this delay will have Odmar pleased. Second night in the same inn means Odmar is sleeping in my room, and I am in the hayloft sleeping sentinel over the horses again."  The vow he'd made to the Green Knight not to rest his head twice under the same roof had fallen into a routine, now; as close to one as his internal and external restlessness permitted, anyway. 
 


Regine couldn't help but smirk as she watched the brave, daring and dashing knight, eager to run headlong into the domain of the wicked Red Knight, throw up his hands and sulk forward on the table like a child denied his pudding.  'But I want to fight the Red Knight  now !'  she could envision him sooking, her lips arching slightly at the very idea. However, to the mans credit, he was yielding his ego to the practicality of the day. Regine had had very little experience with actual 'knights', for to her they were only an icon from fairy tales, figures that would swoop in and save damsels in their time of need or slaw monsters threatening the helpless common folk. Sadly, when she was in the orphanages, no such gallant mounted warrior came for her. Instead, she had only witnessed them from afar, particularly the younger, more hot-headed and impressionable  Knights Errant , whose reputation for immediate action was not unlike that exhibited by Bertelis. Yet even her minimal knowledge of their ways and reverences granted her enough insight to know the inner strength the man doubtlessly had to call upon to throw off the shackles of his personal desires so that he could make the only sensible decision that was necessary for the good of the group, and which maximised their chances of success.

Looking over at Wighard and seeing that he accepted this state of affairs, Regine nodded to herself. She also watched as Bruno politely declined his drink so that he could retain all  the wits necessary to haggle for good deals, while the Halfling felt likewise. The pair soon departed. Reaching over and drawing their glasses closer to herself, Regine drew one up, brought it to her lips and - head back, swallowed down, took it in all in before slamming the glass upon the table. She then wrapped her dexterous fingers around the other glass and repeated the process, taking in the incredibly expensive and beautifully tasting alcohol. Even now, in her transforming state, Regine was allowed these little joys, as her tastebuds were sharpened and honed to a degree that no human could understand how each flavour and ingredient was observable, detectable and enjoyable to her senses.

 "You have made the right decision, Chevalier Bertelis,"  Regine commented, her voice comforting and her closest hand coming up to reassuringly rub his shoulder.

 "The most successful move with silence and violence." 

Smiling with unusual open friendliness, the thief drew herself up out of the row-chairs of the table at which they were seated, the deliberations of the evening seemingly complete in favour of acquiring provisions, traveling,  gathering the necessarily intelligence before making a strike at the Red Knight in a battle that Bertelis had agreed to eschew himself from, lest he fall beneath the vampires spell. Regine believed that she had done her final job, her final assistance to the group by crafting a strategic vision for success and, with a bit of luck and the Lady's favour, cleansing three foul evils from the cursed Mousillon.

 "Wighard, temper Bertelis' hot-headed bravery, as both dashing and foolish as it is!"  the thief spoke affectionately, before bending forward in a stylish bow towards those who had remained.

 "It has been a pleasure, monsieur's and mademoiselle's, but I must retire. Au revoir mes amis and I will seen you all on the other side!"  her smile was bright and inflection warm, before she picked up her half empty bottle of cognac and moved towards the rooms of the Inn, her black hair capturing the illuminated warmth of the hearths.
farothel
 "I doubt it, and I'm not really going to look for it,"  Bruno said to Jasmine,  "see what happened last time.  No, we need rations, waterskins, healing supplies... lots of those actually, some rope probably and more mundane stuff." 
bramblefoot
bruno: checking out the markets, a small covered wagon pulled by two black horses enters the marketplace. a tall gangly man with a ying-yang mask will begin to hawk his wares  "shrieking bagpipes, only one gold crown"  whatever the man is hawking, it seems to be a cause for interest, as people line up to check out his wares. small curios and tinctures change hands for silver and gold as the man keeps up a rapid sales patter

gonna check it out?

the peddler
 

those at the table: marius will walk over and play a small ditty, staying out of arms reach

 "Life and death, what a jest,
In the grand play, we are but guests.
From birth to grave, we dance the tune,
A fleeting moment 'neath the moon.

Life's embrace, a tender kiss,
Yet death's cold touch we cannot dismiss.
In the cycle, we find our place,
A journey of wonder, grace, and chase.

Sir Bertelis, hear this rhyme,
As we ponder the rhythm of time.
For life and death, hand in hand,
Shape the essence of this mortal land." 

marius smiles, and will scoot off to the bar. He seems to know something you dont. the question is if you want to talk to him
wilphe
  "Wighard, temper Bertelis' hot-headed bravery, as both dashing and foolish as it is!"  
  Tempered men, like tempered blades, are more useful and last longer  


He looks at Bertelis as she leaves,   Don't be lonely in the hayloft  

And turns his attention to Marius
MrAbdiel
Perhaps Wighard's encouragement lodges somewhere in Bertelis' hindbrain and buzzes around in there; but he pretends not to notice it, ambiguously vulgar as the suggestion is and with two cups of cognac racing up on him. Men of Bordeleaux are famous drunks - all except the sailors, who are forbidden from drink less they foul their duties, and the Duke who simply declines the juice of the vine in general. Bertelis is neither a heavy drinker, not a non-partaker, which means when he does splash out like this occasion he is most susceptible indeed, and before long he is retiring to the stable and dismissing Odmar to take up residence in his room instead. With the horses fed and brushed for the day, he drinks in the solitude and quiet. He does not much care for the Damsel's demands - though often the Lady's servants are cryptic and obtuse, so perhaps some less frustrating way forward will reveal itself. Neither does he enjoy the heady lightness of the drinks he through back - just after lunch is far too early for such a giddy drop. But tomorrow they will leave early, and his companions are taking care of the supplies, and rather than stew in his worries for the adventure to come, he tries to do as the Estalians do and catch a midday nap. Perhaps he'd sleep through until the hours before dawn; that would suit him just fine.
farothel
  "Lets see what that's all about,"   Bruno suggested to Jasmine, heading towards the peddler but staying back a bit to first see what exactly he's selling and to figure out if he knows the mark he is wearing on his forehead.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

all have the same roll: academic knowledge (genealogy/heraldry or history) or common knowledge (empire or bretonnia):  77  vs 59 (in OOC topic)
 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


The thiefs quarters were sparsely furnished, as was the custom of the tavern. A simple bed was the centre of its features and a little desk was adjacent to the wall opposite the entrance, a wooden chair of reasonable quality situated before it. Though she had no prior need for such furnishings, Regine now found herself seated at the fixture, her bottle of cognac resting upon its face, a parchment before her and an ink-tipped quill in her right hand. Though many would be surprised to learn it, the Master Thief was literature. Enthusiastically so, even. Her scripture was cursive and neat, the elegant black letters flowing across each line as Regine put the most personal and private into writing. She had to stop an intervals, not only to take another swill of her expensive liquor, but to dry her eyes or compose and align her thoughts. Afterall, she only had one piece of paper that was suitable to carry her final message and so she did not want to ruin her gesture with inane ramblings. Instead, it was organised, direct and to the point, the preceding sequence of events marked out in catalogued: she had been visited in the night and turned against her will, she had subsequently liquidated what little gains she had from a life of thievery and funnelled them towards an anonymous act of charity and, finally, her sincere apologies that she could no longer remain in their midst for their own safety, and that even if she had alerted them to what was rotting her from within, the outcome would have been no different - this was a disease with only one cure.

With her writing finalised, Regine slouched back in her chair as best one could, its firm and barely comfortable constrictions forcing the girl to shift her weight several times until she found a tolerable position. This required removing one of the few things she still possessed, a knife, its length unsheathed from the holster against her lower back and its steel moved to the table top...Regine paused. A glimmer. Quick, shifting. An image. She brought the weapon closer to her face for inspection, holding it only a foot from her eyes where she saw that it wasn't just any likeness, it was her own. The thief held that blade aloft, altering its angles, tiling it forward a little, then back. It wasn't until she saw a facsimile of half her of her own face looking back at her from that polished steel that Regine ceased her fiddling: the angular features, the eyes, her jaw, skin and mouth and the black helm of hair - it was her. Struck by this moment of recognition at her own familiarity, Regine considered what lay beyond, or within, that image, the mind perceiving and considering its reflection, a nexus of experiences, knowledge and memories whose unique combination would forever remain contained within, never to be fully transmitted to another for safekeeping or further travels. Well, Regine swallowed and rolled her tongue across her top row of teeth, that chance was gone now, wasn't it?

Rolling the parchment into a scroll and tying it off with some string, the thief set it upon the table before collecting the cognac and taking another swill. Two hours had passed since she had opened the bottle, a hundred and twenty minutes of both shared and singular consumption, and now the amber liquid within was almost half empty. Already the thief could feel the alcohol gnawing away at her nervous system, slowing her normally liquid graceful movements and attaching the smallest of smears to every object in her vision when she moved her gaze too quickly. Nevertheless, the thief turned to her door and moved through it, ensuring to close it behind her and keep the key safely pocketed before she headed down the stairs. She returned to the main room of the tavern, only to find the others had dispersed to their own unique duties and activities, to which Regine would shrug and nod, before taking another sip of her drink. Continuing on, she recalled some prior words before she had departed, a smirk creasing her lips as she moved through the main floor of the lodge and towards the stables.

Sure enough, she found him amidst the horses. Clicking her tongue softly and affectionately towards each of the lovely animals that she past, warmly rubbing her palm across the long front face of each, the thief took another swill from her bottle as she came to lean against a support beam at the end of the square, equine pens, her eyes featured on the honorable knight, nestled in bed of golden hay.

Regine smirked and snorted lightly in amusement at the sight.

 "Hey,"  she spoke softly, reaching over to grip something small and soft that she tossed in Bertelis' direction, watching with an entertained eye as it bounced off of his head to hopefully stir him from his sleep.

 "Found better company than us, monsieur chevalier?"  Regine playfully teased, gesturing to the surrounding horses.
dojango
" Yeah sure, I'm sure the others won't mind havin' us spend our gold on knick-knacks and stuff, " but she pushes through the crowd, as only someone child-sized can do, and tries to look at the wares up close.
bramblefoot
jasmine: the peddler will turn his head as jasmine approaches.  "how about a toenail clipping of ludwig the fat?"  he offers, pulling a small toenail bit from nowhere and holding it between thumb and forefinger  "just a silver to the right halfling!"  his eyes twinkle behind the mask.  "so, what'll it be miss?" 

bruno: you have absolutely no idea what the symbol is, but everyone seems to consider him at least trustworthy. make of that what you will
MrAbdiel
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
  "Hey,"  she spoke softly, reaching over to grip something small and soft that she tossed in Bertelis' direction, watching with an entertained eye as it bounced off of his head to hopefully stir him from his sleep.

 "Found better company than us, monsieur chevalier?"  Regine playfully teased, gesturing to the surrounding horses. 
 

Bertelis startles somewhat comically when the loose cork - probably from some saddlier's Bordelan respite -  bonks off his head. He scuffs his heels against the loft with a flurry of hay kicked up and sits bolt upright, eyes hunting around wildly before settling and focusing. Deep at night, the sudden energy might have been disquieting in evening gloom. Here, in the afternoon glow, it's just silly.

 "Ah...  What..." 

He takes a moment to gather his sense. Having shed his leather armor, he wears only the battered and faded linen tunic that has held with him throughout his many adventures since leaving home, and the their accompanying white trouser-trunks. Both are stitched and repaired over and over from damage, in many places with corresponding blood stains from whatever arrow or bullet or blade or claw made the wound. A thorough wash and the occasional patch has prevented this gear from being a complete travesty; but it displays is wear.

 "Ah, ma'amselle... Hah, yes, well, I supposed they would not judge me for carrying my liquor poorly. Gimgroth would be ashamed, I think."  He rubs one eyesocket with the heel of his palm. It's the one with the scar that runs from the corner of that eyeback through his hair above his ear; the one he says was nearly shot out by a skaven longarm. Judging by the entry and exit holts in his helmet he's not lying.  "It's a very fine drop - I've just... made a habit of avoiding drink, these last couple of years. Now with two cups, I am liable to say foolish things.  Ah..."  At this point, his rebooting brain seems to catch up to the fact that he is in his underwear in the presence of a woman. He makes a split second decision to try not to draw attention to it, though a light colouring in his cheeks betrays him.  "Though I may be prone to those things sober. If I had the wit to have vowed not to sleep twice in the same bed, rather than under the same roof, I might still be resting on feathers, not hay." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The Master Thief smirked at the knights words.

She leaned against a support pillar for the barn, her tall, lithe figure seemingly at ease where-ever she found herself as she cradled the last half of her bottle of alcohol in her arms. She took a sip straight from the flagon.

 "Vowed not to sleep twice in the same bed?"  Regine smirked and snickered.

 "Back in L'Anguille there weren't working girls with that sort of work ethic..." 

To a high-strung, touchy and prickly man, the womans words would have been  insulting , to say the least. But from her? With her playful attitude and months of shared hardships? It was a friendly tease, at worst.

Approaching and twirling herself about on the spot with the liquid grace few other humans could match, Regine tumbled backwards to land on her rump just a foots distance from the knight, a soft  "Ahh!"  escaping Regine's lips as she did so.

 "That was my choice back then, you know?"  she spoke matter-of-factly, taking another swill from her flagon before holding it out for Bertelis to take and sample.

 "Girls like me? No name, no family, no education and straight out of the orphanage? The lucky ones acquire husbands. Those who aren't choose between whoring or thievery. Do you think I chose honourably?" 
farothel
Bruno wasn't about to buy stuff, so he waited for Jasmine to come back before he would move on to get those things they really needed.
MrAbdiel
Bertelis lets the oblique comparison to a prostitute glide by, repaying it with a tutting, half-hearted smile. He was less judgemental than he used to be; but perhaps more than that, pretty women have a way of generating forgiveness in men - especially those they catch off guard. When she plops down beside him in the hay, his options are to splutter and complain or play it off. And how would he complain? Indeed, he has taken a sip from her flagon in spite of, moments ago, confessing to coming here to rest off the buzz he was already feeling. When she asks if she made the honourable choice - between becoming a professional in vice or a professional in crime - he does not need to give it much thought.

 "You make the choice you can live with. Honour is a thing that changes in what it demands of you as you change. The privileged endure a greater demand, because they are privileged. Those with precious little are demanded to obey its precepts in the most elemental ways. If a woman has no choice but to sell herself, she is more honourable not to sell herself to the husbands of other women. If she sees no way forward but to steal, she ought to steal in such a way that is least injurious to her fellow man. I cannot, a boy born to a caring family with support and wealth and heritage, condemn an orphan girl when she steals to live."  He lets this magnanimous sentiment hover in the air, but then follows it up with a qualifier - a wagging finger extended from the flagon's handle.  "But a thief who steals to live year after year is not a very good thief.  And you, ma'amselle, are a very good thief. Are you going to tell me there was never any point in that path where you had enough that you might have taken some small risk to leap to a more respectable one? I suspect now you'd have very little trouble indeed finding a husband. Some... cheerful merchant in Couronne who needs a woman as urbane and clever as he, who can speak guilefully to the wives of his partners in Marienburg, and Ubersreik. Or cut a path of your own, even. That crossbow alone you could pawn to start a new life in a city of your choice. You have everything you need to be a woman who does not need to ask hypotheticals about her honour." 
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The thief smirked. It wasn't so much what the chevalier said, as  how  he said it. Skirting around the issue, pillowing his final, gentle opinion. It was clear the answer was 'no', but he took care to be saccharine, as to spare her any hurt or offense. In other words, he cared what she thought.

 "I should have met you earlier in life then, mon chéri?"  Regine smiled amiably with a wink.

 "Non, when I was a little girl I learned very quickly that the stories were all  conneries . There was no knight coming to save me. There was only me. Did I tell you how I afforded my first set of lockpicks? Oh la vache! Ten ecu for a reliable series! Where did I get that kind of money?" 

Regine then reached each of her hands over to the other, holding the base of her fingerless gloves and dexterously drawing them off to expose her fair skinned palms and digits beneath. Holding both up and towards the knight as if she were expecting them both to be held and kissed, Regine gestured to the now noticeably soft set of calluses across both sets of her knuckles.

 "La Vipère Noire of L'Anguille!"  she announced with a bright smile, as if presenting herself.

 "Bareknuckle. I was fifteen. I never lost a match. I wasn't the strongest, or the toughest. But I was the quickest. None could touch me enough to hurt me. Body blows initially, wear'em down and exhaust them, weakening their guard around the head, leaving them open for..."  and the thief shot her left hand forward, swift as an arrow, the knuckles of her index and middle finger jutted forward to narrow the area of exposure through which all that force would flow to maximise the pressure.

 "But...I was a little too good, monsieur. Some very shady mec' approached and wanted me to throw a fight. I refused. So I bet on myself to win and walked away with enough to start a new career...but the men I had turned down had other ideas, hehehe,"  the thief snickered as if remembering fond days because, in some odd way for her, they were.

 "I never stole from anyone who wasn't in the game, or who couldn't afford to lose it, chevalier,"  she nodded, her right hand still gloveless and held out,  "You wonder why I never gave it up?"  she pursed her lips, thought and then shrugged,  "because I liked it. I was one of the best at it. Scoping out a target, the challenge of access and retrieval, the heart-race of escape on foot!"  Regine smiled brightly, a genuine, warm smile as if recalling a family dinner,  "I never felt so alive, mon lapin . I did not do it for money. I did it for me." 

Looking at Bertelis and smiling, almost as if he'd said a good joke, she twiddled the fingers of her right hand as she turned it over;  "only the knuckles are rough; my palms are still soft, see?"  
MrAbdiel
The knight listened to the tale with slow melting scepticism in his eyes. The idea of Reginé brawling her way through childhood as a juvenile pitfighter seemed farfetched. She was too delicate for that. But then, she wasn't talking about muscling through an infantry press. Girls often grew faster than boys, and so there might well have been a number of L'Anguillan lads paired up against a younger Reginé without the overpowering force of their pubescent birthright making the matchup foolish.

Between that rationale, and this being another shovel full of validation of his disdain for treacherous L'Anguille as a city - not only turncoats but also abusing children for sport fights - he was able to accept the tale of  Le Vipère Noire .

When she calls him  mon lapin , he instinctively scrunches his nose. A more masculine comparison would suit his preference more; and he had taken a while to become used to Wighard spreading the  Le Chevalier Hérisson  epithet for him. Unfortunately, the very scrunching of the nose was a somewhat leporine gesture in itself, lending support to the cause he wanted to undermine.

 "I suppose we grew up throwing fists at the same time in different parts of the kingdom, ma'amselle. The knights do not except their sons and squires from training relentlessly. Pitting all the boys of one household against another in pitched battle games;  Roi de la Colline ,  Ramenez-les à la Vie , snotball... Not for money, but for the expectation that, at some point, the Skaeling would be wrapping around the coast of L'Anguille, or the Bilbalian dons would take a bite of Carcassonne, or Sigmar's  singes qui huent  would come scrambling through Axebite pass with their cannons and quote-unquote 'knights'... And it would be for real, then."  It occured to Bertelis only at that point that money probably did change hands, over those contests; it was hard to imagine the lords  not  gambling on the outcomes, now that he thought about it.

At some point in that reverie, Bertelis had quite subconciously taken Reginés hand into the custody of his own doubled hold; his thumbs brushing the soft palms while his fingertips tracked to the calloused knuckles she had drawn attention to.

When had he last sat in a quiet place and held a woman's hand? He had a vague memory of an imperial girl whose family's coach he had shared the road with long before Professor Lorrimer had died. It felt like decades ago. What had her name been..? Ingrid? Sigrid? Something blunt and exotically teutogen, like that.

 "I remember looking forward to such a day, with real battles. I've lead a few handfuls of soldiers now, but not been in a war; but the appeal is certainly gone. I suspect I will not see one. I... think I may die in Mousillon tomorrow, or perhaps in an escapade shortly after that. I don't know." 

A gloomy turn for the conversation, as the melancholy tries to lurch up and take him. The knight's eyes, a light and sincere blue almost to the verge of purple, look tired and far away, even as his thumbs circle mindlessly in the thief's palm.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 
 "We did not have as many spectators. Even in L'Anguille not many want to see young ladies punching the hell out of each other. They'll still bet though - scruples wither before gold,"  the thief smirked.

Regine remained quiet as Bertelis spoke his words, while below, her thumb slowly came to rest over the knuckle of his that was idly rubbing her palm. When Bertelis revealed his inner belief at his own demise, the thief perked an eyebrow and smirked coyishly. Softly, she folded her hand over his.

 "You think tomorrow is your final day?"  she asked with warm scepticism, before easily turning herself about and leaning back so her back was against his chest, usnig her hold on his hand to draw his arm abut her. Her black hair framing her face, she looked up at him, and took another sip of her cognac in the most ladyish way possible.

 "You're path doesn't end in Mousillon, mon chéri. Not if you use that handsome head of yours and listen to the halfling. Sneak. Hide. Lure the Red Knight where you want him, and let the barrels of gunpowder do the rest. Honor is an anchor in that blighted land, and it will drag you deep beneath the swamps - and you can't further your name with a pretty girl you rescue from a tower if you end up in the mire now, can you?" 
MrAbdiel
Bertelis did not believe it. At a logistical level, he did not believe that they would find barrels of gunpowder tucked away somewhere in this lighthouse village devoted to Verena, nor in Mousillon proper, and they certainly wouldn't be able to haul them through the marshy streets and set a useful trap even if they had them. At a moral level, he could appreciate a good trap but could never embrace a martial philosophy of running and hiding, so anathema was it to his whole self. And at a deep, perhaps selfish irrational level, he could not believe the job would get done without him. When Gimgroth left the group to seek the protection of his goddaughter, the knight had felt the weight of responsibility hit his shoulders like a leaden, laden yoke:  Now I am the line. Before this, if I failed, I could fall knowing Gimgroth would carry the day. Now I am the mightiest we have. I must engage the enemy at their strongest point and reserve nothing, because if I fail, they will all die.  A narrow field of thought, for sure; an unfair discounting of the martial abilities of his companions, Jasmine's flair for survival and proven deliverance of dark moments, and Wighard's rapidly growing grasp of frightful forces beyond the veil. But they were his thoughts all the same, and when Gimgroth rejoined the party, the knight's temperament was already bent to the wheel of self-destruction. He could not imagine that tomorrow, or over the next few days, there would be a moment where he would remain behind and his companions would dispatch the vampire without him. His bones  knew  something would happen and he would need to do... something.

He felt a hundred years old. It had taken a hundred years to walk, ride, sail, and mystically teleport back from the Empire to his homeland where his family's future was vapor and shadow, and once he had given up a last breath putting these things right, he could wheeze out his last geriatric breath and collapse into his grave.

The thought that he had not responded to her question, rhetorical as it was, draws him back from his inward spiral. Now he is holding her, somehow - she has maneuverer herself close, and his arm was around her, and she lay halfway into his lap, peering up at him with her big bright eyes.

He wasn't a hundred years old, actually. He was a young man. And  gods,  oh  gods,  of  grace of Rhya , it feels good to hold pretty young woman close like this.

His voice cracks a little. His eyes shine like he is near to tears.

  "You are very beautiful, ma'amselle."  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

Leaning back into his front, the thief smiled a warm, genuine countenance to the knights words. Her angular features were framed by her black hair, her green eyes at the centre peering up at the ruggedly hewn Bertelis. What was going on behind those orbs? What was she thinking? She hid much from others, and whatever thoughts that were currently passing through her skull were no exception. But whatever constellation of attitudes were contained within, from without, her intentions were clear as day.

 "I know,"  Regine replied softly with a coy smirk, before she simply leaned upwards and pressed them against his. She reached above and gently pressed her hand against the back of his head, and breathed through her nose - she wasn't letting go.
MrAbdiel
 * * * * * 
Odmar closed the door with as gentle a click as possible. When he'd come back to the stables to get his good bathing rag from one of the saddlebags, he'd had the good instinct to try to enter quietly expecting Bertelis to be asleep already.

It had become immediately apparent that wasn't the case, and an awkward undetected retreat was in order.

 Good for them,  he thought. The adventuring life, as far as he could tell, was so desperately dangerous and miserable that the folks who risked their lives and freedom deserved whatever joy they could get. As a man who might easilly have been dragged all the way to the centre of the earth to work for the ratmen until he died, Odmar had more than a little reverence for 'freebooters' and their do-gooding. He hadn't been sure about Regine - she'd flogged him out of a few silver early after her joining the company in a game of  Old Man Fetch  which he was quite sure she wasn't as new to as she claimed. But she'd been on deck on the ship, fighting for her life against the northmen on the wild quest to free another batch of miserable captives from a different fate worse than death again. The panicking horses had nearly kicked him to death on that voyage, but even battered and bloody on the floor below deck, he had been praying for the Companions above, instead of for himself.

 Good for them. 
 "Where is Bertelis?" 

Odmar startled and spun to see Maxime, pouty and imperious as ever, with a pair of demilances in arm. The points had been caped with straw packed leather; mercy to the chin of the vanquished in such training. Odmar had met  him  when  he  was a  her  before the whole ruse had been established, and he had assured the Companions he would abide by it for Maxime's sake - a girl who wanted to be a knight in a land that didn't recognize women as cantidates for such an office. Not that there had been many lady knights in Ostland or Averland or anywhere else he'd been; but far be it from him to know the mind of a woman, let alone a  Bretonnian  one. If she wanted to give up her life of comfort for the privilege of charging into the teeth of doom, so be it. And Maxime had been there on that deck when the northmen attacked too, so pouty and imperious as the squire was, Maxime was a hero in his book. But he was not blind to the complex dynamics going on  in the party, the sulking Maxime did when Bertelis was in his distracted fugues and unable to spare his afternoon for training, and the troubled mix of anger and adoration the squire seemed to harbor for the Knight-Banneret.

 "He's... asleep, master Maxime." 

Damn. His voice had cracked while he was concocting the lie and he saw the squire's face screw up in detection immediately.

 "Before two bells in the afternoon? Surely not. I will rouse him, lest he be unable to sleep tonight." 

The squire tried to step around him, and he stepped in the way.

 "Really, he's quite - he said not to disturb him!" 

Now he saw the anger clouded Maxime's face. The lie wasn't convincing, but more than that, he was performing a crime that was worse in Bretonnia than even in the Empire: getting in a toff's way. Maxime tossed the demilances to the ground beside, and seized Odmar by the shirt.

 "He might have said so to you. Stand aside, footman." 

He tried to keep his stance, but with a skilful little upward tug, he felt the weight coming off his feet, and his knees loosened to compensate, and with an almost comically gentle thrust she shove him aside where he spilled to the ground. Arguments would not halt the squire; but he could hardly let Maxime wander in to the stable at such a moment. So he rationalized, considered how much he would be personally willing to suffer to spare the frollicking companions their private moment, and decided it was enough.

Scrambling to his feet as Maxime's hand settled on the door handle to the stable, Odmar cranked back his arm and gave the squire's backside a ringing, crisp slap.

The layers of offense and indignity in the act turned Maxime's whole body paralytic with outrage. That was good, because Odmar needed those precious seconds to run.

 Good for them,  he thought again as he sprinted away down the village's main street with the red faced squire racing after.  Good for them. 
wilphe
With Beatrice and her father seemingly uninterested in talking to Marius Wighard will get himself up and head over

  So let me buy you a drink or two.

You can tell me what you know that we don't that you think we should

And we can discuss how you keep my name out of your mouth  
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 

The gentle nudge of the soft-lips of a curious horse brought Regine back to the world of the living. On her front, her black hair down her back, the rough-and-soft texture of hair against her features and physique, the thief said nothing as her eyes groggily opened and light came to be.

Another nudge. Another soft snort. That muzzle was soft against the back of her head, as Regine carefully rolled herself over to peer up at the ceiling.

Another nudge. The thief smiled and gently placed her hand on the long face of the curious equine, patting it softly and carefully pushing its head away so it could no longer indulge in its inquiry.

Inhaling deep, Regine brought in all the scents of the stable, good and bad, as well cast those from outside in the street. Her mind reactivating after slumber, she begun to tune her ears in as distant conversations sounded closer, and every detail of her surroundings sharper. Swallowing, looking over at Bertelis who was still asleep, Regine smiled gently and used her dexterous flexibility to withdraw one of her arms from under him without disturbing his well-earned rest. Quiet, the thief collected her things and got dressed, but when she stood she had to steady herself against the closest pen railing as the residual alcohol still in her system rushed straight into her head.

Which reminded her - where was that bottle?

Finding it bottled and nestled amidst some hay, the thief was relieved to see that there was still a couple hundred mls left within the flagon, as her first action was to take another sip and exhale when that hot liquid of vanilla, butterscotch and fruits hit her tongue. Straightening herself up, exhaling, rolling her joints, Regine looked down at the sleeping knight, another smile crossing her face as she knelt down beside him. Reaching up to her hair, Regine unsheathed one of her mini-scrunchies, a sweet little trinket as yellow as a field of daisies and part of a four-piece set. With its circular and crumpled appearance, it almost looked like a little yellow rose one might pluck from a garden of rare and exotic flora. Looking at this small, soft item, she leaned over and gently rested it upon his chest, before placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

Standing up, Regine considered the man for one last time.

 "'till next we meet, Chevalier..."  she whispered, her head bowing and her knee's bending in a curtsy. Turning, gathering her bottle, the thief silently departed.
BananaPhone
   Regine Lacroix 


Her will was set. Her funds put to a better use. Her farewells said. Her explanations written. Her last human hours spent in the most human way possible.

Regine stood at the centre of her small room in the tavern, her tall, athletic image bathed by the amber light of the setting sun. The thief had taken to opening the window for this occasion so that she could inhale the vestiges of the light and look upon her last day without impediment. Her senses were even sharper now, and so when she opened that window she could detect every call, every spoken word, every string of laughter emanating from the streets below, a soft choir of humanity to join the thief in observance of her final day.

But, as it always did, the sun lowered beneath the horizon and disappeared, the purple twilight of dusk blanketing the landscape as dots of stars slowly made their presence known in the blackening night sky. The crowds below had thinned and the conversations reduced, as most said their goodbyes and went indoors like the diurnal animals humans were.  As we should be , Regine thought, the evening darkness entering her room.

It was time to go.

Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, the thief reached out and snatch her cognac bottle to drink from it again. Still wobbly on her legs, the black-haired girl turned and pushed her door open and closed it behind her as she ascended the nearby staircase, bottle in hand. Feeling that rich taste of vanilla, fruits and butterscotch, Regine hissed the sensation away before reaching the pinnacle of the buildings elevation at its highest floor. Prying a window open and easily sliding out, the thief gripped the roof-tiles above with a practiced grip and gracefully drew her body out of the portal and up onto the roof, where the entirety of the large town stretched out in every direction, the streets still illuminated with patches of lit torches and starlight. Easily maintaining her balance, even in this state, Regine moved across the tiled ceiling as the cool air kissed her skin and whipped her black hair. She moved across the top of the tavern, for it did not suit her purposes. Instead, she chose the bell-tower next to it - leaping from one rooftop to the bas-relief ridge of the next. She had to hug against the white granite and stone wall, but that was no matter. Storing her bottle in her belt, the tipsy thief hummed to herself as she scaled the side of the tower: vines, roughness in the rock, cracks in the seams. All were stepping stones, until finally Regine drew herself up to the very pinnacle, six stories up. The four-pronged framework of the towers summit were beautifully crafted, the cap a dome of white, worked stone. Reaching a hand out, the thief ran her finger along the metal of the bell, its cool temperature running up her skin from the point of contact. She could only imagine how magnificent they sounded when employed, casting out across the town a reassuring, peaceful chime.

Casting her gaze across the town, the thief smiled at the sights of all the tiled and angled roofs, with even the ones hewn from thatch and hay offering a glimmer into past enjoyments. How many times had she fled across the skyline of L'Anguille, angry guards slowly falling behind and bellowing their curses as she made off into the night with gold, jewels and letters? How often had she avoided capture and apprehension, refusing to let others detain and control her?

 "You want me you fanged horrors of the night? You bastard fils de pute! You can't have me! I decide where I go - not you!" 

Regine smiled. She retrieved her cognac bottle and took a long, throaty drink until only a few drops ran past her lips. Gasping loudly, grinning, stumbling back a little, the thief snickered at first, but then she laughed. And then she jumped.
dojango
" If'n I meet a lucky halfling I'll let him know, " Jasmine retorts back to the peddler.  " I tol' my nieces I'd get them summat nice from Bretonnia, ya got any toe nails from a grail maiden or what not?" 
bramblefoot
jasmine: the peddler ***** his head for a second, as if considering something. He then pulls a small crudely cut cube out of an inside pocket of his jacket.  "tis a strange cube i picked up along my travels. call it a gold. if'n your looking for something for the chillins, may i suggest this set of knucklebone dice? It's good for the aspiring gambler. These I can't part with for less than five gold" 

wighard: marius will take the drink.  "i can, but a sweetened pot is guaranteed to keep my trap shut"  there is the unspoken  unless someone sweetens it more, then my trap comes unstuck  he will take a sip.  "shall we begin negotiations sir? im all ears" 

bertelis: you have a weird dream about a yodeling beastman with a banjo singing  be prepared 

bruno: jasmine seems to be taking her sweet time with the peddler. gonna wait or shop?
farothel
Bruno will wait for Jasmine, but check out the stalls around for anything they might need while she's busy.  And if he doesn't immediately finds the stuff they need, he will ask around so he knows where to go when Jasmine is done with her shopping.
dojango
Jasmine acts shocked, and retorts, " They are good, devout children!  Not... gamblers!  Come back when ya have some nice sacred relics! " and she turns and stalks away in a huff.  Rejoining Bruno, she tells him, "Let's jes' buy up all the powder in town if'n we can.  No gimmicks gonna save us, just gunpowder an' steel.  Preferably the former."
farothel
 "I doubt that they have powder here,"  Bruno said,  "and if you want some, I still have a stash.
 I'm not using it as much as I thought I would.  But first, we need to get some healing stuff.  I've got an address we can go for that stuff.  We can get the other stuff after that." 

He would lead Jasmine to an apothecary that he had gotten the address of on the market.  There he would haggle for some healing potions.
wilphe
 "shall we begin negotiations sir? im all ears" 
  Cheers

I wouldn't be so crass as to insult you with mere money. I mean I know it helps, but information and stories are truly valuable

I am however unfortunately literal minded and obtuse, and my education left me little time to appreciate the arts, so I have difficulty piercing finely crafted layered metaphors to the truth within

So if there is anything you wish to tell us about Mousillon, please speak plainly and then I can speak on a subject of your choice  
bramblefoot
wighard: Marius smiles, and perks up  "shall we trade stories? i have one from a compatriot that is about a swamp hag with iron nails. they sang and played bawdy music all night, until the witch let him go with his life and a new aptitude for music"  he quirks his mouth  "she took some of his sanity, but its a fair trade to not end up eaten, neh?"  he will wait for wighard to tell a story

bruno and jasmine: either there is no powder to be had, or everyone is tight-lipped and no one will sell to you.
farothel
For Bruno the powder is not as much a problem as all the other supplies.  So he goes to an apothecary that was supposed to have what they needed for some healing potions or salves and then the more mundane supplies.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

I'm not sure how much of these thing Bramble wants to give us (if any) so I'm leaving that open (as well as the price, although I can haggle for that).  The mundane supplies I assume we can get without too much problems.
 
wilphe
Schlapp gets up, shakes, and then plods over to be petted before lying at Wighard's feet

  Then let me tell you the story of the beast of Westvein; the poor hospitality of its Lord, how I met Shclapp and how the Company gained two members and lost another  
bramblefoot
wighard: Marius perks up  "do you mind if i take notes for a ballad?"  he asks, clearly waiting for your permission

the shoppers: in a small curio store, youd find a small fist-sized leather rock in a leather glove, a trio of inky marbles, and a serpent with weird inscriptions down the outside

the man at the counter will let out a small gibber, and point out the objects with a small rhyme. Hes clearly mad as a snake, but he still has his other faculties about him

 "Secrets, secrets, dark and deep,
In their shadows, mysteries keep.
Whispers of truth, hidden from sight,
Bathed in the cloak of the endless night.

Beware the allure of the hidden unknown,
For in its depths, seeds of chaos are sown.
Yet within these veils, wisdom may lie,
A treasure trove beneath the starry sky.

So tread softly in the realm of secrets untold,
For what is uncovered may be more than gold.
In the dance of shadows, truths may creep,
Secrets, secrets, dark and deep." 

bertelis: gimme your montage of waking up
wilphe
Wighard smiles

  Of course, I thought that was what we were here for.  


He will relate the story with accuracy, but leave off any mention of what happened on the barge before and after there and tone down the awfulness of Lord Armata's library.

And, of course, he himself is but the humble companion and supporter to the real heroes
dojango
Jasmine picks up the serpent horn and says to Bruno, " Honestly it don't matter if it's magic or whatever as long as that thing thinks it is, right?  We can use it as bait to draw it away from it's lair and maybe away from you know who while we send him in another direction. "
MrAbdiel
Hours pass. Early afternoon turns into evening, and Bertelis' blissful, tipsy slumber entangled with  La Vipère Noire du L'Anguille  becomes groggy wakefulness, and a pleasant wave of remembrance of what had preceded that sleep. But drawing himself up, he finds he is alone in the loft. He sits there for a moment, letting his senses crawl back into him; considering what he has done, and if he has the right to feel good about it. One of Regine's little floral hair-ties had fallen into his lap as he sat, and he beheld it in his palm with bleary affection.

Regine was a peasant - or rather, unbound from any lord's land, she was a vagrant. There was no law against their tryst - if anything, there was far too much winking encouragement of such dalliances from lords to their sons. But he was also the leader of the Companions (a fiction he intermittently allowed himself to believe) and she a recent inductee. Had he coerced her in some way that didn't come to his mind immediately? No, his memory played the event differently - his curling inward to his own miseries, her patient forbearance of this insufferable quality and diligent conjuration of his passion with nearness, and bright admiring eyes, and eagerness. She had not been coerced, and he had not been seduced, and it had been good. So it was alright to feel good about it. Wasn't it? Regine wasn't the kind of woman to be fainty and brokenhearted after. Perhaps the rest of the companions might not ever know.

Perhaps it could happen again.

The troubling possibility that  la petite mort  may also bring about  la petite vie  bubbles to his mind, dampening his wandering affections for a spell. What would that mean? A  noble  would classically cut contact, deny paternity publicly, support mother and child quietly to buy her silence. That wouldn't work for many reasons - premier among them that Bertelis did not consider himself so crass. No; if there was a child, then he would marry her. Marrying a common woman would be a terrible blow to reputation for most lords. But so what? He was a knight-banneret specifically tasked with ending the practise of exploiting common women this way in the fief of Saulx. If anything, marrying a common woman demonstrated dedication to that cause. He would answer to the king, but the king was unlikely to be struck with outrage. He had trusted the knight with forbidden knowledge and was clearly not a shallow man. He would understand, too, that there was hardly a long line of nobles seeking to send their daughters to marry lords in Mousillon. He could tell the king of Regine's participation freeing the captive L'Anguillan lord and fighting the Sarls - he could easily elevate her status, or atleast extend a peculiar toleration to her common blood. Yes; he would marry her, if a child was in the mix. Perhaps marriage would agree with her - though he expected it would take more than the mantle of wifedom to make an  honest woman  out of Regine Lacroix.

He pulled on his trousers and jerkin, treated himself to a splash of water from his flagging waterskin, and stepped out into the cool of the evening, then back into the inn. At the report that Regine had come back and left again, he was dismayed but not deterred. It was a small town, around the lighthouse's base; she could hardly have gone far.

He could in no way have been prepared for what he found. The townies ringed around the scene beneath the belltower; a smear of blood, and a constellation of broken glass. Stunned to numbness, he leaned down to pick up the neck of the bottle of sweet cognac Regine had brought with her to his bed. It was somehow mostly intact, though the bulb of the bottle had smashed into tiny fragments that one local was diligently sweeping up even now.

 "Poor girl. Climbed up drunk, and must've fallen off,"  one gossiping lady told another.  "So young, too. So young and pretty. Shame. Morr's mercy on her soul." 

As the knight stood in silence, his heart as heavy and dull as a cannonball in his chest, another townie came with a pail of water and splashed it on the blood, turning the smear into puddle of pale pink. The next pail scattered it further. By tomorrow, there might be no sign at all that Regine Lacroix had died here.

Back in the stable, he carefully wrapped the bottleneck and the scrunchie in a wad of cloth thick enough that no damage might be done to or by either, and placed it carefully in Rainier's left saddlebag with his other sentimental tokens. Then he lay down in the hay, curled himself into as tight a creature as his frame would permit, and wept like a child.
farothel
 "If our companion can see if something is magical, so probably can a vampire, being a creature of foul magic,"  Bruno said,  "so I think we best make sure that we get the real deal.  So, good merchant, what do these things do and what do you want for them?" 
bramblefoot
The company of the burning slug will set out towards mousillon. everbody please gimme your first opinion as the cordon sanitaire approaches, and two men on horses meet you, flying brettonian colors
wilphe
Wighard is trying to avoid looking like he is in a sombre mood, but Regine's death has affected him. He wonders if he would have the strength to do that in a similar situation, especially as how all his instinct and training would be to employ every scrap of knowledge and power to cure himself and he is not sure that failing in that would leave him with the capacity to act so decisively.

Mostly though he is worried about how Beretelis is taking it, that afternoon together should have been good for him. Albeit its not really the sort of thing he can prescribe, nor is it the sort of thing he has experience of with his own relationships having never progressed to that level of intimacy.

He briefly thinks of Deanna and mumbles an apology  If your name is in my mouth today I can only apologise 

Kwolf picks up the riders before anyone else, though he is not that worried. They are mostly there to stop people and things getting out, not people getting in
farothel
Without the horses, they had to walk the entire trip, something he hadn't done in quite some time and his plate armour was heavy.  However, he did wear it because you could never know what was going to happen.  When he was informed about the approaching people, he made sure the device on his shield was clearly visible, but he kept his sword in its scabbard for now.

When they were closer, Bruno would step forward and announce the group, first Bertelis as a Bretonnian noble, then himself and then the others.
 "We are on a mission from Turris Vigilans,"  he said in his accented Bretonnian,  "and request passage to finish this mission as quickly as possible." 
LarsWester
It was an especially sullen Gimgroth that plodded along the path with the Company of the Burning Slug.   The death of Regine, a woman he had not had the pleasure of getting to know deeply, was dwarfed by his grief of leaving Beatrice in the care of others.   No matter how much sense it made Gimgroth felt deep down that he was betraying the memory of Beatrice's father by once again leaving the girl in the care of others.   With his head buried into his chest he was one of the last to notice the approaching horsemen.   As they rode up he shook his shield into place and rested his warhammer over his shoulder as he waited for the more well spoken of the company to make the proper introductions.
dojango
Jasmine is oddly cheerful as they head, once more, into certain danger.  When she had heard about Regine's accident, her investigatory nature had kicked in.  Although the locals had very quickly moved to clean up the body and the evidence, a sensible precaution so close to the cursed lands of Mousillion, she had noted that the 'accident' theory was extremely unlikely.  " The brightest flame burns so quickly " was all that she had said, and went back to packing away and stowing their gear.  And so it was with a light heart and a heavy pack that she spotted the oncoming patrol.  She wrapped her crude mask over her face and nose a little more tightly and said to the others, " remember, give them at least six feet o' space!  It'll keep the miasma from spreadin'. "
MrAbdiel
Bertelis trudges along with the group. He has offered minimal prayers, in the morning; responds to questions when probed; but he is in one of his gloomier moods. It's unclear whether it is the result of Reginé's passing or if it is his regular... idiosyncrasy numbing him to that particular loss.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I'm making some geographical assumptions here, that we have to...

- Cross the Cordon Sanitaire around the dock
- Cross the main branch of the river Grismerie that divides Bordeleaux and Mousillon
- Hoof it to the southern gates of Mousillon and then get our bearings

Correct me if I'm wrong. I have an idea of how this approach """Should""" go in my head but it's your story Bramble and if you want to smooth past some elements or simplify the geography or whatnot that's up to you!
 


Bertelis is content for Bruno to do the most of his speaking, but backs up the Talabeclander's words.

 "It is as he says. I am Sir Bertelis, Knight Banneret of Saulx; my lands lie over the river. Is there a jetty with reliable rivermen to which you can point us?" 
bramblefoot
the two men will approach. both are veterans, with the scars to prove it  "what business do you have with mousillon?"  the first one says, but the second shushes him.  "my knight banneret, how can we help?"  he queries, dropping a healthy bow from horseback.  "information is sparse, but it's quiet as a tomb. Nobody in or out afaik. Havent seen bo-diddly of any mutant activity" 

is there anything you wish to ask them? The first one is rather grim and dour, while the second is younger and more chatty

ooc: the riverboats are small, so its likely to take several trips across and add delays, dracoleech activity is moderate, but there is a pesky one that has a taste for boats
MrAbdiel
Bertelis nods. He's not sure what to make of the suggestion that no one has been going in or out - it's not an attractive destination at the best of times, and presumably these guards are not keeping track of the smuggling vessels sneaking into the city's port proper in the dead of night.

 "No word of strange visitors in earlier weeks - perhaps a wild looking dwarf, or a man with the dark skin one does not expect north of the Arabyan gulf?" 
bramblefoot
the chattier one nods  "we saw him with that crazy dwarf guy. shirtless, big double bitted axe, tattoos up the wazoo. the dark-skinned man was a real hardcase, extremely talented with a rapier. He had a small mule loaded with provisions, and a barrel over its withers." 
wilphe
  Well the last dracoleach that crossed our path nearly died of embarrassment. Don't know if that is good or bad  
MrAbdiel
A less morose Bertelis might have invited Wighard not to tempt Ranald by saying such things out loud. But this is the Morose Bertelis; he remains sullen.

 "Alright. We shall hire some jettymen to take us across; two or three boats, I suppose. We ought get underway." 
bramblefoot
alvight, so ze crossing goes smoothly, and you're on the other bank of the grismerie. The city of mousillon hangs in the air like a bad tankard of ale, practically oozing miasma

do as thou wilt.
wilphe
Wighard arranges the shuttling of personnel across the river, pairing up melee and ranged like a high stakes game of Wolf-Rabbit-Cabbage and once out of earshot of the ferrymen begins serous conversation

  Ok, did we have an elaborate plan or we just going to hit these *******s as hard and fast as we can? If so which one first?   
MrAbdiel
Bertelis looks likely surprised - the failure of a Dracoleech to attack is a suspicious failure of poor fortune to assail them. He checks the buckles of his fine leathers, then takes the scabbarded  Company Blade  from his belt to offer to Bruno.

 "If we require the relic spear from the vampire to put the chaos knight down for good, it makes sense to see the Red Knight first... and I would see my brother freed as soon as possible."  He unfurls the map they were given, and gestures to its content...

 
 Spoiler: Map: 
 

Some ideas for you to disrupt and dismay us are included in Bertelis' ramble to follow, Bramble. As always, feel free to do as much or as little with this as you want.

The Red Knight reportedly lairs at the Old Cemetry, 8. The Chaos knight reportedly lairs near the North Gate, 12.

Everything on the northside of the big river beyond the immediate docks is Lost Town; scary, marshy, overrun by gangs, heretics, and the most desperate folk living amongst them. South of the river are the 'normal' citizens of Mousillon, if such a thing can be said to exist; a theoretically orderly if still rough, cursed, and befouled place to be.
 

 "First we pass through the  South Gate , which is a shanty town. They are unlikely to trouble us unless we look vulnerable, and we are a formidible troupe."

"From there we must cross over to the  Bridge Quarter  - I would expect an extortive toll, since those who want water from the  well  by the chapel must cross over this way."

"Once in the Bridge Quarter, we have out best chance to fight the hunter and the dwarf. This is the sinkhole of vice -  brothels, gambling dens, fighting pits, taverns  are the least impious places in the district. But it is also where travellers will find lodging - as might we, if we are forced. But I hope it does not come to that..." 
 "Once we have made contact with them - or given up seeking them - we must cross to the north side of the river and follow it west to  The Docks  on the north bank. This whole area is, I am given to understand, orderly enough as the docks are Mousillon's only means of profit from cargo... especially illicit kinds. The gangs run this area. They are what passes for law, here. I am told the three biggest  Sang'Argent  - run by old Tilean pirates out of the  Damoiselle Vert ; the  Ecorcheurs  from the ruined lighthouse; and the  Garde Cimetiere , who once thrived plundering the cemetry... but if the Red Knight has moved in, they likely have been displaced or destroyed. Or... made to serve. These gangs are mere men, but they are numerous and dangerous, and they are not our targets." 
 "But my hope is that we can find lodging in the  Temple of Manaan . They must be used to turning away those seeking lodging, but I am initiated now into Manaan's mysteries, so perhaps they will permit us to base from there. Especially since we seek the Spear of Manaan's return. I have be told that the temple of Manaan is the best kept, and least harassed building in the city - even the gangs, smugglers, and slavers fear Manaan's wrath. All but the Red Knight, it seems." 
wilphe
  Bridge quarter sounds fine

We aren't going to be safe anywhere and you don't want to tread mud through the Temple, literally or figuratively  
farothel
 "Are you sure,"  Bruno said, as Bertelis offered him the blade,  "you're a better fighter with it than I am." 
LarsWester
Gimgroth claps Bruno on the elbow.   Ah Bruno that may be  but sadly Bertelis is fate forbidden to bear it against this foe. If you'll recall our charge and foretelling from the Damsel back in the Lighthouse forbade Bertelis from participation in this fight.   The dwarf also asks a question of the Bretonian Knight.  You mentioning possibly fighting the dwarf and hunter within the confines of the Bridge Quarter have our plans changed?  I thought we wished to locate and interrogate, possibly ally ourselves with the pair.
I think we should look for lodging in the Bridge Quarter tonight but if the toll is as extravagant as Sir Bertelis expects than I would hesitate to pay it nightly to sleep in a dangerous locale.   Might be better for future nights to seek out someplace to rest among the docks district if the Temple seems struck from the options available. 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Haha, 'fight' the hunter and dwarf was a legit typo. Damn. But let's roll with it.
 


Bertelis looks baffled at Gimgroth for a long moment.  "...Fight them? Did I say that?"  He looks up at the rest of the company, whose noninterventionist gazes suggest to him that it was a fault in his speech, not the dwarf's hearing. He shakes his head slightly.  "Forgive me, no. No, the hunter Le Becassin is our best chance for a knowledgable ally against the Red Knight. And the dwarf we have no quarrel with; I know resolving his quest is a matter you are pledge to. I meant only to find them." 

He touches his own forehead lightly, as if he expects to feel a crack, and his brains oozing out. He glances again to Bruno.

 "I am not so much better than I was when we started sparring, Bruno. And you may be the better man, over all. We have been through most of the same trials together, but you have born your suffering better. And the foes we face today are owed your wrath as much as mine - Sul Kovaar is responsible for the plaguelord's targeting of your family... The suspicion levelled upon them, and forcing you to battle your cousin back in Altdorf. Carry the blade. I will fight for what battles I can, but I must be ready to.. withdraw if the situation demands. When this is over - when we go to claim back my family's lands in Bordeleaux - I believe we will see the Dancer again. I will need it for that fight. But today... You are our sword." 
bramblefoot
alright, so the walk is as peaceful as its gonna get in this accursed land. youd arrive at the south gate, and nobody gives you a peep, except a small waif who will walk up to sir bertelis  "its time to admit the waters have grown."  she will walk away, and a older man will say  "better get swimming, or youll sink like a stone"  other than those two weirdos, nothing
wilphe
Wighard looks around, taking in the crumbling buildings, the stench of, well, everything and the reek of corruption.

He's also making a rough estimate of what percentage of the population might pass for non-mutants after some attention from his knives.

It's not high


He reaches up from petting Shclapp

  I highly recommend not drinking the water, but you knew that  
MrAbdiel
Bertelis looks at the pitiable wretches who wander by with their cryptic rhymes. He frowns a little.. and distracts himself by asking Wighard a question in his expertise.

 "Most of the folk of Mousillon are under one curse or another. Born without the right allotment of fingers, or one leg too short, or curved of back. Is there... Do you think, a line between deformity and mutation..? Is one simply the terrible extend of the other, or are they matters of a different kind entirely? Is one... more natural than the other?" 
LarsWester
Gimgroth interjects quickly but quietly  They're all the same to the witch hunters.   He then shuffles his boot in the dirt ashamed that he spoke out of turn.
wilphe
Wighard grimaces

  If it has got to the point where a Witch Hunter has to decide if you are a mutant or not it's already too late for you  

He looks at Bertelis

  In theory no one in the Empire is supposed to be condemned as a mutant without a medical examination. In practice that hardly ever happens, but I keep it in my pocket in case I ever need it.

There is a difference between abnormality and mutation, but it does depend a lot on who is doing the assessing.

In practice it might not matter because part of the horror of mutation is being shunned, alienated and the deep feeling of self-loathing and resentment of others. In that case why you are different scarcely matters, chaos will get a hold of you anyway.

I have worked in a few mutantenklaven. A lot of people there aren't mutants, but if you think you are damned already and everyone tells you you are, you end up living down to expectations    
farothel
 "Okay then,"  Bruno said, taking the blade and handing over his own sword so Bertelis had a weapon.  It wouldn't do to walk around here without one.
 "So, what way do we have to go." 
MrAbdiel
   Welcome to Unlovely Mousillon

   

The gate to the city of Mousillon is beautiful. It’s elven, like many of the foundations of the cities in Bretonnia; abandoned long ago and left for the despoiling of the greenskins before, as legend has it, the tribes of the Bretonni seized them back, and built their own mighty cities. The gate is tall with a peaked archway set into snugly fitting stonecraft around it. The elven artisans that made it many ages ago ought to be proud; even through centuries of strife and war, it does not seem to have been broken down.

It is the only beautiful thing about the city so far as you can tell; perhaps the only beautiful thing you will see for a long time.

The road leading to the this southern facing gate is wide and slick with packed mud forever churned by the feet and hooves of those unlucky enough to walk it and settled again by the rains. Lining the approach to the gate is a maze of tents, shanties, shacks, hovels, huts, lean-tos, shelters, and all conceivable variety of poor quality shelter cobbled together or stolen by the hundreds of ragged paupers who live outside the walls. There exists a susurrus of ‘village’ life all around and through the shanty town, but it bleeds down to a quieter murmur as folk come to the edges of the road to watch your group wander toward the city. And what folk they are - oddly sized ears, bulging eyes, extra fingers, lumpen heads, hoist shoulders, there seems none among them who have developed completely right. They are as miserable and poor people as you might ever have seen, but they gaze upon your party with fascination and wonder, especially the dwarven and halfling members.

And then, as you near the gate, a man with one leg shorter than the other by two inches forcing him to caper and slouch in his approach hustles forward, grabbing the unsewn hem of his sackcloth vest and holding it so the cloth makes an impromptu beggar’s bowl.

“Spare coin or bread?” He asks, his voice dry and reedy. That seems to be all it takes; then a dozen more detach from their hovels and close in about your group.

     “Gods favor the gen’rous, lords!”
                    “My son! My son is ill, very ill - he needs silver!”
   “Just a coin or more ser, just a coin or more!”
                                         “Dwarf! Dwarf, here, let me rub yer head, fer me gout!”
“Just three penny, outlanders - three penny for the blessing of Maldor, the city-god!”
        “Geef? Geef? Geef ‘ere? Geef ‘ere?” 

Now there’s a score of them - holding bowls, rattling bone boxes, petitioning your attention and money. One hops foot to foot in what he must hope is a pleasing dance worthy of compensation. Another wears a crude diorama hanging from his neck like a gaudy talisman - though what the clustered stick figures are meant to represent is beyond a cursory glance. You are all seasoned enough travellers that you know to keep your purses in sight in crowds like this, but you have moments before the score around you becomes two score, and three, and more. Beyond the gathering mob, the great gates of the city sit open wide enough for a few to walk abreast - but there are no guards, no knights, not even tollmeisters here, and no one to whom one might appeal for order.

 
 Spoiler: OOC:Sacre Bleu! 
This seems like a good time to offer rolls! Consider the difficulty Challenging in all cases, though if it's too outlandish, I reserve the right to penalize after the fact. Intimidate, public speaking, some creative use of performance - something to repel, settle, or subdue this gathering crowd of beggers before they pull the buttons off your boots.
 
 
farothel
This country was depressing, that was all Bruno could say about it.  He knew that the Empire had its share of problems and especially in locations like Sylvania things weren't good either, but something about this place made him on edge.  When they were accosted by beggars, Bruno's hand went to his sword, before he relented and started to speak.
 "Ladies and gentlemen,"  he said,  "we're here to rid this land from its curse, or at least some of its curses.  We're willing to pay for information, but only good information about such things as The Red Knight, The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, the Flylord Sul Konarr and some undead lead by a vampire and ..." 

He named a few other threats in this region to mask what exactly they are looking for, although a group like the Company will quickly be known to be present by their adversaries, no matter what they do.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

I'll go with charm and as I have public speaking, I can use that skill on up to 67 people

charm:  (1d100)[ 20 ]  vs 66 (67 fel -10 challanging)

 FP reroll if needed.
charm:  (1d100)[ 73 ]  vs 66 (67 fel -10 challanging) 
 
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 4/5  
  “My son! My son is ill, very ill - he needs silver!”  

Wighard's eyes pivot

  I am a healer, show me.  

Whilst examining the child in question in the corner of a shack, Wighard hears Bruno loudly declaim their intentions, as well as a bunch of other false leads

  So much for a low profile 
 No one was gonna believe we were so misinformed as to come here for the waters. Stay high, don't want you ripped apart as a holy relic  

Kwolf settles himself on the wall above the gate and keeps an eye out for an ambush or ambitious urchins with slings

The child turns out to have a cough, but has not yet developed consumption. Wighard digs out a few herbs to help clear the symptoms and steps out to address the closer part of the crowd

  If our business is successfully concluded I will try to spend some time among you to provide relief and succour. However right now we have things to do   
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 89 ]  Heal 81  FP to 24
 
MrAbdiel
 Bruno's courtly talents do not fail him here, translated though they are to speak to a lower class. He was one of them himself, once (though perhaps never so low as this); and even the act of imposing a structure on the situation has a decisive effect. This is a forest of desperation in which every human composing it is tremendously in need of anything they can beg from travellers; but as soon as it seems like the  travellers  want something from them, especially with matters involving such frightful titles as those announced, the flow reverses. They drain away, almost none of them willing to get involved matters of knights, and lords, and vampires, and dead-men.

Even Wighard's good natured effort to attend the ill here is stymied by the implosive dishonesty and deprivation of these people - the woman crying for help for her ill son has a tent not so far away, and a son within it indeed. He is not ill, though he is malnourished; and Kwolf damningly observes the woman trying to gesture to her son behind Wighard's back to play along. The boy doesn't get it. He is enamoured by the tame giant wolf, and has no talent for the grift. At a guess, the mother is used to begging for silver and being fobbed off with copper, and that being enough. None of this is to say that there is no illness to treat here - the mass of humanity here is so poor and ill-treated that Wighard could pitch a tent in the with them outside the walls and spend the rest of his life battling waves of Wheezing Croop and Crawling Shingles and The Scampers roiling through the camp, not to mention treating the chronic sufferings of people so routinely afflicted with asymmetry that their spines are destined to strain and give grief. When poxes do come through here, they must shred such a slum most brutally. But in the short term, in this moment, there is nothing much Wighard can do to abate such a monument of human misery.

Back at the gate, as the beggars lose hope that they will be given money and gain fear they will be roped into something dangerous, they drain back to their hovels until only one remains. At first your eyes register him as a halfling, but he is no such thing. Halflings for all their plumpness are built to purpose; they are spry and comfortable in their stature, as quick on their toes as they might lack strength in arms. This man is shorter than a halfling, perhaps three feet tall on a good day; but with the proportions of a man compressed ill fittingly. Barrel chested, big headed, short of limb; he leans on his left side on a crutch made of a 'y' branch wrapped in fraying cord. But within the creases of his face, his eyes a big, brown and clear; and he manages a nervous smile to your band, showcasing that he has retained most of his teeth.

 "Well, lords, ma'amselle; if you are going into the city herself, p'rhaps I can show you on your way. I've nought to say on such grim figures as you mention..."  he says, the confession seemingly containing the sentiment 'not out here, anyway'.  "...But I might show you about in the dock district, and perhaps there y'll find a man who knows more. Small Gaétan, I am. There have been no tolliers at the gate for two weeks, and for the first there were more making use of it."  He wheels about and begins hobbling on his crutch toward the open gate, his badly diminished stride forcing you to walk slowly if you intent to take him at his offer.  "Will you be lodging lavishly, or frugally?"  
wilphe
Wighard lets the boy pet Schlapp for a few moments, then departs.

  That was quick 
 This place needs an Emil, not me. I can't fix poor.  

He looks over Small Gaétan, surveying him for any tinge in the winds that might indicate magic or mutation

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 63 ]  Magical Sense 87
 

  Hail and well met, perhaps.

We're probably going to get attacked where ever, so might as well be somewhere comfortable.

And where any collateral damage is limited to those who might have it coming   
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Magical/Medical Sense for Wighard 
The study of mutation is adjacent to a direct study of the ruinous powers, and so is frowned upon. As and Gimgroth both note moments ago, witch hunters rarely approach these matters with enough precision. Mutants themselves do not exude the tainted chaos wind except when very recently mutated, leading to a fairly well accepted order of operations - chaos magic causes mutation. Mousillon is not a riot of chaotic energy, though it is... dour. The nature of the curse of this land is blamed on all kinds of malefactors and events, but it seems to predate the men that settled it. The grail companion, Landuin, was the patron of this realm before he fell to despair and spent his latter years in morose isolation. Whatever the base curse that has corrupted this land, it predates Bretonnia as a nation. Perhaps there is an elven archivist in far Ulthuan who knows something about the city Mousillon was, before they abandoned it to the orcs.

The important thing is that, while the land itself has a sort of  background count  of  dhar , it is not directly mutative. Most of these people are deformed but their deformities are predictable spoilings of human standards. You see no hooves, tentacles, or clusters of extra eyes (though there are extra fingers here and there). That said, you can assume with a fair amount of authority that mutants would fit in with these people much more easily than others accustomed to normalcy. Where there are men, there are mutants. But they need not flee into the far and wild places if they can skulk in a fallen city full of unfortunates like this...

Small Gaétan himself, you are quite sure, is no mutant, nor magic user. He is a sufferer of a deformity you read about once - Kleinwelg's malady, in which a human child is born with compressed proportions leaving them no taller than a dwarf or halfling. Such children are so rare in the world they are almost theoretical - they must certainly be thought to be mutants, or else an indictment of a mother's unwholesome appetite for non-human men. Ironically, here in this most cursed and unlovely town, Small Gaétan lived where almost anywhere more fortunate in the world, he would have died.
 

 "Comfortable, eh...? Well... p'raps, perhaps, we can find something like comfortable, and you look right to look after y'selves if I do say. Small Gaétan will show you surely, heh..." 

The little fellow's nervousness drains rapidly away as you manifest to him as honest dealers - a like a dog used to beatings needs to sniff a hand before it wags its tail. He hobbles along on his crutch and huffs and puffs as he does, apparently used to hustling along so that the folk he guides are not overly frustrated by the delay short legs force.

 "I shall show you to the best lodging in town - Ezekiah rents rooms next to the  Fallen Heaven . You like arts? Comedy and music, and such? There are such things, and more unsavouriness, heh...Might I ask wherefrom you hail? Sigmarland, yes?" 

He probes good naturedly about your group as he leads you through the gate into the Southgate distinct - a ruination of decrepit and collapsed buildings through which yet more desperate and destitute folk scamper and perch and boggle at you as you go. These ones seem brave enough to carve out shelter in the ruins of the city - or perhaps they are the ones who are not welcome in the shanty town. Ahead is a channel that splits off the Grismerie as it runs through the city, dividing the South Gate from the Bridge and Chapel districts. The Grismerie is foul in the best of places, but here it is utterly rank, and choked with rubbish, filth and corpses; the funk of it wafts up and invades your nostrils even as you approach the rickety looking bridge that crosses it. It is build from posts lashed and secured to skeletal and sunken buildings in the channel where the ground seems to have buckled and swallowed parts of the city here.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Perception! 
What a fine and wonderful time for a reaction post from everyone, and then a Perception test for no reason at all! You may fell your diminuative guide about where you are from if you like, though he can hardly force you.
 
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth matched strides with their diminutive guide.    I'm sure this Ezekial will reward you with a few coins for bringing us to his rooms.  But if we survive the night without trouble come find us in the morning and I'll add a handful of silver to whatever the proprietor provides you.   Since you ask Gaétan, I hail from Tilea having recently served in one of the countless mercenary bands of that land.  
As the group approaches the channel Gimgroth raises an arm to cover his nose from the stench.    Gah! It's worse than a Troll's crotch.   
 
 Spoiler: OCC 

  Perception  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  vs 58 4 D.O.S.
 
farothel
 "Comfortable, for certain,"  Bruno agrees after getting rid of most of the other beggars.  He really didn't want to know what 'basic' or 'roughing it' was in this area.  While they moved behind their guide, he did keep an eye out for trouble, as you could never know here.  He nodded at the question, but didn't go into any detail.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

perception:  (1d100)[ 36 ]  vs 69
 
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 4/5  

Wighard takes the opportunity to take a look at their guide, and possibly look at him a bit closer

  Yes, most of us are from Sigmarland. That's where we all met. You were born here or you moved?  

He drops his voice a bit softer

  I am a student of medicine, I would be happy to pay for your time if you would consent to an examination. I get to see so few patients like you. It is entirely up to you of course  

Wighard has noticed his senses becoming more acute over the time the Company has been together, especially after he was temporarily blinded. This is usually a boon, here, it isn't, but he attempts to avoid being over-whelmed and instead focus on specific smells and what they can tell him.

He isn't yet at the state where he can determine time and cause of death just by sniffing, but the time may not be far off


 (1d100)[ 84 ]  Perception 101
MrAbdiel
 Small Gaétan puffs as he forces his diminished step to keep up with your party's ambling pace. He's leery of Schlapp - not surprising, as the juvenile giant wolf is a threat to him far beyond even what such beasts are to normal men. But with the wolf padding on the other side of Wighard, the little man is free engage with you all, giving his best efforts to be conversational though he is clearly not widely travelled enough to have much in the way of worldly experiences to share. He knows little of Sigmar, but is interested to hear about Sigmarland; he knows little of Bretonnia even beyond Mousillon, though the faces on the coins make it clear that there is a king, and the nation's legacy of knights and valor is tarnished but still known here. Of Tilea, he has a little more to say.

 "Ah - Tilealand? I know some Tileamen from Tilealand. Many of the Sang'Argent gangfellows are Tileamen, under old Lanfranco, eheh. All tallfellows, though; not like us, ahah!"  He reaches as if to rap his little fist on Gimgroth's shoulder, glancing back at Jasmine for some kind of solidarity between the short, but he bails short of contact and offers and apologetic, bashful smile as he gets to answering Wighard's question instead.

 
 Spoiler: Gimgroth 
You've heard of Lanfranco. Sartosans are bloody parasites in the eyes of most Tileas, and Lanfranco is the name of a pirate who must by now be in his greying human years. He is know to you because he is one of those pirates who has self-validated sense of gallantry and romanticism about raiding and plundering, sufficiently that he and the crew of the  Damoiselle Vert  (a Bretonnian ship of war that Lanfranco's men seized in a daring night invasion by rowboat off the coast of Bilbali) were able to sell their services as a mercenary gang from time to time. This made them less odious than most pirates, but it did create the suspicion that however crafty he was, he was not vicious enough, or perhaps just not skilled enough, to make break open a fortune as a pirate. He his retirement took him to Mousillon, and not anywhere more pleasant in the world, the rumors may be right.

You were once on the same battlefield as Lanfranco, though you never had occasion to exchange words. (You can decide the circumstances of that battle, if you and Lanfranco's pirates were on the same side or opposing, and so forth. No rush for that memory; it may come up later!)
 

 "Well, that's a story, my lordfellows; and both is true. My mother'll have me here, but she'll take me away to village Puanteure. She will die when I am still young, and I'm making a penny playing flute sometimes; but rogues come to Puanteure, and throw many of the children in bags, and scoop me up also. But when they'll let me out of the bag days after, I'll be on the docks in Mousillon and they are selling one and all to the Arabymen. But they'll look at me, and say, 'Ah, not this one, he is too small!' and they will throw me into the water. But as the gods will have, I'll land in a tangled mat of river weed, and instead of sinking, I'll be there until after the Arabymen ship will've sailed and a pair of ragged goodfellows pull me out of the water. They'll say, 'Small Gaétan, we save your life, you must learn to be a thief like us', and they will've taken pity on a boy and I'll say to do it. And three days later, they will pick a house to rob, and they will say "Small Gaétan, stay here on the street and if the master of the house is coming home, you holler and we shall flee." But as the gods will have, the master will be home already, and he will be the pit fighter Rolf the Wolf, and he will beat the lives out of them and dump them on the street corner, and give me a piece of silver to tell the cartfellows to come get them. And I'll have been here ever since!" 

The anecdote is jarring, though you've heard it before in your travels in Bretonnia - a lower class quirk in the way past stories are told, the  narrative future tense , which is just one more reason Imperials and Bretonnians find each other difficult to comprehend.

As for the medical examination, the little fellow nods along at Wighard's offer - the promise of paid work of almost any kind, however odd, is appealing to him; though he doesn't seem to understand why this is a paid service, and is afraid to blow his good fortune by questioning it.

As the companions approach the bridge and power of the smell invades your nostils, your attention is drawn to a spectacle being made by a mob to one side of the street. A man in rags is hauled out of a crumbling tenement, tied to a convenient post, and flogged by a a dozen men, women and children wielding an assortment of sticks, belts, and knotted ropes.

 "More creeping things seen in the night, I think,"  Small Gaétan explains as he urges you to pass by and not interfere.  "Some people think they are attracted to evil thoughts, so when they are seen creeping around a house, this happens... Poorfellow." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If you passed your Perception Check before... 
...Even these distractions are not enough for you to fail to notice, from the angle of your approach to the rickety crossing coming up, that there are wooden pegs and handholds along the wides and under the 'bridge'. Presumably, these are used to hide the numbers of criminals trying to waylay people crossing the bridge and strongarm them for money, permitting a superior number of opponents to quickly scramble up top and even the odds. You see only a pair of scruffy young toughs on the bridge right now anticipating your approach, but there are likely quite a few more under the bridge waiting for a signal.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Gimgroth, for succeeding quite so well: 
There's also something else - far on the other side of the bridge, in what is formally called the Bridge District where the dilapidation of the city as at its least terrible, there is a three story building with a pronounced sag to one side, causing it to slouch into its neighbour that in turn slouches to another. But in the window of the second floor of that building, you make out a humanoid figure shifting ever so slightly and watching the happenings on the other side of the river; and presumably watching those who cross.
 

 
 
dojango
Jasmine mostly ignores the crowd of beggars and hides behind Gimgroth to shelter from the worst of the press.  After all, in her mask and cloak she might just pass for a child or servant herself, albeit one with a curious device slung over her shoulder and heavily laden with bags.  She spends most of the trip trying to stay close to the others, but also trying to stay at least six feet away from the native which does not work out nearly as well as she'd hoped.  She ignores the patter of their guide, instead preferring to look around her for the ambush that he is no doubt being paid to lead them into; after all she has not just fallen off the turnip cart yesterday.
farothel
As the approached the bridge, Bruno noticed the interesting features.
 "Interesting bridge design,"  he said to the youngling guiding them,  "it's the first time I see something like that.  Engineering is a bit of a hobby of mine, I'll have to study that design in more detail.  It's as they say, you're never too old to learn.  And speaking about that, remind me when we're settled to tell you the story how we fought some chaos demons and a whole bunch of Skaven.  It's quite interesting." 
MrAbdiel
“Eh? Ah, strength at arms serve you well in this city,” he says with an a faint smile; seemingly reassured by the idea he as unwittingly hitched himself to a party of hearty warriors. “Strong arms carry silver and gold, where weak ones carry only wood and steel, they say. This crossing - it is a small crossing over this channel, the real river is yet much further ahead - this crossing the Sang will press for money. If you look weak, they might just rob you; but, eheh..”

He flaps a hand at Bruno in his plate and Gimgroth bristling with weapons particularly, as his reason to believe a simple bribe will suffice.
wilphe
  And smart arms carry nitre and lead.  

He looks at the others

  So, ill advised takedown attempt, someone sending expendable minions to their death to try us out, or maybe a distraction?  
dojango
" Or just local yokels with more hunger than sense, " Jasmine pipes up.  " Desperation can make a little guy fight a lion, after all. "
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I'm making the assumption this suspicious side-talk is taking place in Reikspiel so not to tip off your guide more than by Bruno's oblique warning.
 


Small Gaétan rubs his hands nervously together as your party nears the bridge. He looks to Wighard, his most forwardly conversational cliente, and pivots on his crutch to explain directly, and offers first a cringing little smile.

 "What? No, nothing like this. They are Sang'Argent gangfellows, but gangfellows are everywhere in this town. Gangfellows run everything north of the channel; everything worth running is run by such gangs. You run with them, or you cope with them; this is all.  Come, come.."  
 "These gangfellows, on the bridge... they will charge a toll. The well is on the other side, see? So it is good business for them. You are all very, ah..."  He gestures loosely at your group; however battered and rough you look, you are all polished gems amidst Mousillon's filth.  "Wealthy, so they may try a bigger toll. But not too much; the gangs run much of the town, so they only will rob you if you seem too poor to have money to spend, you see? They take your last coin, but not your second last. Not too much, I promise." 

With this assurance, he tries to lead you to the channel crossing bridge, toward the gangland wardens manning it; a pair of bruisers almost comically well matched with sloped shoulders, one sloping right and the other sloping left. Ratty leather armor adorns them where blurry, incomprehensibly abstract tattoos are not on display on arms and legs; and soiled red kerchiefs hang around their necks pregnant with the symbolism of a uniform. 
LarsWester
 "If those Sang'Argent lads want a toll they are welcome to try and take it from me hands."   Gimgroth says loudly in Tilean as he has his shield in his left hand and his hammer slung over his left shoulder but gripped in his right hand.   "Only problem is me hands are rather full at the moment."   These words in Tilean are said loudly enough that the two twin toll-takers can obviously hear what is being said and also anyone waiting in ambush under the bridge.   More quietly the dwarf turns towards Small Gaetan.   How is old Lanfranco?  I was served with him on the same side in Tilea.  Didn't have the honor to meet him on that occasion as he was a commander of his mercenary band while I was but a grunt in my own band at the time.   But that was many years ago probably about twelve or thirteen years if I recall correctly. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

MrAbdiel your PM mailbox is full.   Also thinking that maybe a Intimidate roll is in order here.  Basically Gimgroth is trying to A intimidate the toll-takers to letting them cross without a toll failing that have them reduce the toll.
  Intimidate  - (1d100)[ 19 ]   versus 66 not including any circumstantial bonuses or penalties.
 
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 4/5  
 "Or just local yokels with more hunger than sense," 
  That's an interesting perspective, though there is an old Tilean proverb,  "Dying ain't much of a living" .  

Wighard will hang back and let the people better at talking and violence handle this
MrAbdiel
  "Lanfranco? Heh, grey hair old, all I can say. Maybe oldest man in town, but this is not to say much - this is Mousillon, after all." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Gimgroth 
I'll suspend that intimidate roll and honour it if you decide to proceed with that approach in a moment!
 


He takes a moment to process the first half of Gimgroth's words, pivoting on his heel to halt the (slow) movement of the group. Fear crumples his features, and the hand that doesn't brace his crutch waves back and forth in a gesture of submissive plea.

 "You mean to fight these gangfellows? No no, please... Please, they will kill us! And if they do not, if you prevail, then they will kill me for bringing wrath on them. I must live in Mousillon, lords; I have little more than that life at all. Do not pull such a storm on poor, Small Gaétan's head..." 

The thugs on the bridge are out of earshot, but they're close enough to see the group hesitating and deciding whether to take the crossing or not. They seem confident; unbothered by presentation of an armed group, in that habitual failure that ruffians perform to parse the posers from genuine fighters like yourselves.

 "Ah, woe; if I had known you had war in your pockets, I might have known better than to get involved..." 
 "We intend to make war on much graver figures than gangs and common cretins, Small Gaétan,"  Bertelis finally weighs in with that labored tone suggesting it takes an uncommon effort to do so today,  "if these men attack us, they will no walk away alive to accuse you. Still... Loath as I am to pay criminals rather than hang them, perhaps we do not need to purchase more trouble than we intend to find..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's the decision at hand - you can approach the bridge, intent to pay their toll or try to spook them away from trying to exact it. Your guide fears this will have repercussions for him in the longer term, but how credible those fears are, and how worthy they are of consideration, is up to you. Attempting to find another crossing of the southern channel is likely to be much less direct and possibly more ambigiously dangerous; but depending on how lucky you're feeling, how much worse than walking into a shakedown/ambush can it be?
 
 
dojango
Jasmine says, in Reikspiel, " They're just tollkeepers, master dwarf.  Surely you've seen them in the Empire or in the dwarf holds?  They presumably keep this bridge in... " she pauses.  Repair seems like the wrong word, as does 'working order', 'safe', or 'functional'.  " The way it is?  And return we travelers pay a copper or three.  Perhaps some of the money is used to fund the local lord's wine collection or his wife's dress collection, but what is that to us travelers?  We simply pay the toll and move on.  If they demand too much, then we find another way, or cross over on their bodies, but at least let them make their assessment. "
LarsWester
Gimgroth frowns looking alternatively between the toll collectors and Jasmine.    "The bridge looks like it could use repairs before someone gets hurt.   If this fee is to prevent the injury of others crossing this perilous pass I could perhaps be convinced of parting with a few copper or even as much as a schilling to achieve such an end.   If these be naught but disguised highwaymen and their fee be extravagant than they'll receive naught but a knocking on their noggin from me.    Gimgroth slaps the head of his hammer with the last statement.  He stands ready to hear the demand of these would be Toll-keepers perhaps highwaymen.    "And as for you Small Gaetan if we cause any trouble for you, you are welcome to stay by our side as long as you deem it safer than the alternative." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

I'd like to apply the intimidate roll to reduce the charge these "toll-keepers" were thinking to extract to something in the silver/copper range rather than the Gold crown range.
 
wilphe
Wighard places a hand on Gimroth's shoulder

  If you served with Lanfranco then perhaps maybe we shouldn't jeopardise that connection, perhaps we should speak to him  
farothel
 "Maybe I can give it a try,"  Bruno suggested,  "dwarves have many qualities, but diplomacy is not always one of them, unless it's the axe-in-your-face kind." 

He will approach the bridge, shield in hand, but sword not.
 "Greetings, gentlemen,"  he said in his best Bretonnian,  "I assume you are the wardens tasked with protecting and keeping in repair this bridge and we will have to pay a small toll for our crossing of your bridge.  I'm sure we can come to some arrangement, so we can continue the quest we have been charged with." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

charm:  (1d100)[ 75 ]  vs 87

 FP reroll if needed: charm:  (1d100)[ 80 ]  vs 87 
 
MrAbdiel
 The two toughs on the bridge straighten up a little as Bruno leads the approach, and they let him say his piece. One of them - the slightly larger one, whose shoulders slope right rather than left, crooks an eyebrow at the accented Breton in the air, but bobs his head somewhat amicably.

 "You have the right of it. And there is a normal fee - for a group of your size, it's not so small. But given that you have come so far, perhaps you are right ,and we can find an arrangement. Goods are better to us than coin, right now. The dwarf's hammer is very fine, but expect he would be loathe to part with it. Maybe... A different instrument." 

He gestures with his empty hand toward the scabbarded  Company Blade  on Bruno's hip.

 
 Spoiler: Another Perception Check, sight based, +0 for Bruno, -20 for everyone else 
While Righty is talking, Lefty reaches up a hand to scratch slightly at the stained red scarf. You catch a glimpse of a mark on his neck - a scabbed over puncture wound that could very well have another just below it.
 


Bruno is quite sure he didn't say anything offensive or fumble the approach - for some reason, these bridge 'guards' are more interested in hardware than lucre.
 
farothel
 "I'm sure that our dwarven companion won't be willing to part with his weapon,"  Bruno said,  "I must likewise decline to part with mine.  You see, this isn't my blade, but I have it on loan for this mission we have, so I can't give it away.  Only those who have given it to me can do that, unfortunately.  I'm sure you can understand that I can't give away something that doesn't belong to me." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

perception:  (1d100)[ 20 ]  vs 69
 
dojango
Jasmine was mostly ignoring the toughs, expecting a demand for a shilling or two.  But when they demanded one of the company's weapons, she peered a bit more closely at them.  She hisses to Bruno in her finest Classical, " Ixnay on the issionmay. "  And then in Bretonnian she adds, " Mission?  I thought we was here to find a fence? "
LarsWester
Upon hearing the twins' suggestion for a toll Gimgroth laughs a fierce laugh.   "If it's me hammer you want as toll.  It's your teeth that will be doin' the collecting.  The dwarf muscles are tense ready for this bartering to turning into battering at any second.
wilphe
  Wighard 13/13 4/5  

Wighard gives a snort of derision

  Your bridge isn't  that  nice  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 93 ]  Perception 91
 
farothel
 "That's a mission, no,"  Bruno said to Jasmine,  "sorry, spend a bit too long in the company of Bretonnian knights.  To them finding food is a mission." 
MrAbdiel
 Lefty's eyes track between the dwarf and his hammer, and Bruno, and the man with the faintly lambent eyes. He hesitates.

Small Gaétan adds his plea to your case.  "Come, goodfellows, please - surely you would not part these visitors from weapons in dangerous Mousillon? What will they do if someone less reasonable comes to them - a pack of Ecorcheurs, or Garde Cimetiere perhaps? Best they are armed to put down such rabid dogs. Surely a few coins will serve as toll?" 

Whether convinced, or convicted of some alternative ruse, the slouching pair share a glance and shrug their respective high shoudlers.

 "Fine... Fine. Call it... ten  ecu , and on your way." 

Ten gold pieces is indeed an extortionate toll; but it's certainly a much smaller price than surrendering a best quality weapon, let alone a runic one. But is it a worthy price to avoid trouble so early into your arrival?

The goon has one hand resting on the stained half of a handaxe at his hip - wary like you are - but extends the other hand, to receive payment. 
farothel
Bruno looks at the others of the group.  He knows it's a lot of money, but they have it and it might be worth to pay up to get things moving.  He also had to say a few things to the others which he'd rather not do in public.
wilphe
Wighard shrugs and begins counting it out before Dwarven Violence begins, then hands it over to the outstretched hand
MrAbdiel
 You pay the extortionate toll, and the sloped goons stand aside for you to make your way across the bridge. Small Gaétan is visibly relieved, and hobbles forth to lead the way over the rancid south channel of the Grismerie.

It is surprising only to him, when the ambush falls. For Bruno and Jasmine, former professionals of the road and river well acquainted with the world of toll takers extortionate or otherwise, the move seems foolish. If you start ambushing you victims after they pay the extortionate toll, then very quickly people stop paying and there's no one to ambush either. Toll taking is a business like any other, and reaving one's own client base is bad for long term sustainability. But all of you were suspicious from the start, and when at the other end of the bridge a trio of Sang thugs emerge to block the way and box you in, and more begin scrambling up the sides of the bridge and crawling over, you are at least mentally prepared for the fight...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Everyone can take a free Ready Action, in addition to not being surprised, for being so plainly suspicious of the circumstances. Then roll initiative!
 

 "Wait, wait - there is no need for-"  Small Gaétan begins, pivoting about and hobbling at his full speed back towards the two who let you by. Lefty barely breaks stride to kick him. The toe of a ratty boot catches the diminutive guide full in the stomach and carries him into the air with a pitiful choking gasp. His heels clip the decrepit remains of a railing on one side of the bridge and he spins end over end to splat into the foetid water. His crutch, having remained somehow comically upright until this point, clatters to the boards; and the misshapen cretins close in with cudgels, axes and ropes in hand...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

 (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  - Lefty
 (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  - Righty
 (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  - Sang Goon3
 (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  - Sang Goon4
 (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  - Sang Goon5
 (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  - Sang Flanker6
 (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  - Sang Flanker7
 (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  - Sang Flanker8
 (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  - Sang Flanker9

Lefty and Righty have hand weapons readied when combat begins. Flankers have lassos. Goons have bolas.

To be clear, the speculative house rules I proposed are not yet in effect; I figure we'll close out this arc of the story using the rules we're all equipped and used to, and make changes in a good spot of downtime. For now, let's get initiatives on the board in the OOC!
 
 
wilphe
Wighard W 8/13 FP 4/5 Init 10


 
 Spoiler: OOC 
[roll[1d100[/roll] Channelling 87
 (4d10)[ 24 ]  -4 TN14
 
wilphe
  Wighard W 8/13 FP 4/5 Init 10
  

Taking his cues from he more streetwise of his companions Wighard had been gathering up the winds around him; his left palm resting on the blade of his axe.

The release of energy and lifeforce sends 8 jets of burning blood from Wighard's left hand towards their ambushers and Lefty

Schalpp meanwhile jumps into the river after their guide


 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Well I ballsed that up, so here we go again

 (1d100)[ 1 ]  WP87
 (4d10)[ 6 ][ 5 ][ 8 ][ 4 ](23) 


Shadowblood
Casting Number: 14
Casting Time: Full action
Ingredient: The blood of a Vampire (+2)
Description: Burning blood leaps from your hands and ignites a target within 12 yards (6 squares).This is a
magic missile causing a Damage 4 hit that affects a number of targets equal to your Magic Characteristic.
Its duration is instant. If you spend 5 Wounds cutting yourself to provide blood for the spell, you may double the number of targets.
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 


Lefty  (1d10)[ 4 ]  +4 = 8
Sang Goon3  (1d10)[ 9 ]  +4 = 13
Sang Goon4  (1d10)[ 4 ]  +4 = 8
Sang Goon5  (1d10)[ 10 ]  +4 = 15
Sang Flanker6  (1d10)[ 2 ]  +4 = 6
Sang Flanker7 (1d10)[ 8 ]  +4 = 12
Sang Flanker8  (1d10)[ 7 ]  +4 =11
Sang Flanker9  (1d10)[ 7 ]  +4 = 11
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 52 ] 77
 (1d10)[ 1 ] 
 
farothel
As soon as he noticed the goons climbing up, he drew the company blade and turned towards the nearest guy, ready to defend himself.
MrAbdiel
 The thugs close in, jeering and whooping as the trap is sprung on prey however wary. Foremost in the assault are two of the goons from the far end of the bridge, who whip their bolas about and release them humming through the air at the companions. Wighard remains impressively composed as he leans out of the path of a spinning cord that might have bound up his neck, and the weapon clatters against the rubble banks of the Grismerie and splashes in, fruitless. But the second bola scythes through the air and slaps into Bertelis' shield with a ringing  bang , its weighted cords whipping around him and toppling him mid-stride to the boards of the bridge. The knight growns and strains the bonds, but even as he does, the slope shouldered guards from behind track their eyes to the easy target.

The first of the flankers is up on the bridge and flings a loop of rope adroitly over the Baronet, pulling sharply so the noose contracts and cinches around his knees. Bruno is forced to the deck too, though with his blade free, the enemies are less immediately keen to close to exploit his vulnerability.

Wighard's grim invocation sends a fan of hunting sanguine missiles into the enemy, and a sinister chortles turn to alarmed shrieks. Seared, bloody wounds manifest all around the combat as a result - not least of which on Wighard himself, self inflicted for the sake of the combat edge.

"The witch - get the witch!" Lefty shouts, cradling a scarlet welter of sizzling blood at his side.

 
 Spoiler: Initiative and Enemy Injury 

[13] - Sang Goon3 -  10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[13] - Sang Goon4 -  5 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -  8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -  8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  4 Wounds - Lightly Wounded 
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
[7] - Sang Flanker6 -  3 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -  9 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[5] - Righty
[5] - Sang Goon5 -  12 wounds - Heavily Wounded  

Bertelis is struck by a bola for (1d10+1)[4] damage to the left arm. He is immobilized, prone, and helpless until he breaks out with a successful +0 Agi or Strength test as an action. Nearby allies can make similar tests to free entangled allies.

Bruno is snared around the legs with a lasso. He is immobilized and prone (but not helpless, because his arms are free) until he breaks out with with a successful +0 Agi or Strength test as an action. Nearby allies can make similar tests to free entangled allies.

The other bolas goes whizzing by Wighard, missing him.

Wighard's action is already posted, so it's Gimgroth time now. Gimgroth, there are three flankers with lassos in hand ready to try their luck, and one goon with a bolas still aloft. But theoretically, all enemies are within your charge range.
 
 
LarsWester
When the inevitable trap springs Gimgroth crack his neck as he stretches it.  He turns looking back at the twin sloped ones.    Teeth it is.  he shouts as he charges at Lefty winding up a mighty swing of his runed hammer.
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Called shot to aim for Lefty's face.
  WS  - (1d100)[ 2 ]   +10 for charge +5 for BQ = 92 - called shot penalty
  Damage  - (1d10)[ 6 ] +6.  For 12 damage.
 
farothel
As he still had his hands free, Bruno activated the rune of fire on the blade and used that to cut through the rope, letting the flame basically burn the rope.  As the rope burned through, he looked at the guys coming up.
 "Shall we try this again,"  he said, sword and shield ready as he stood up.  He would let them come to him for now.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

half action: agility roll:  (1d100)[ 33 ]  vs 71

half action: stand up
 
MrAbdiel
 Lefty turns out to be a bit more of a brawler than the motley crew around him would suggest, and he takes Gimgroth's promise seriously enough that he leans back out of the swing of the hammer just enough to spare his teeth and jaw from being pulverized. With a flick of the wrist, he brings a dagger to hand and squares off with the dwarf, keeping his guard centered and striking out with opportunistic chops with his hatchet!

Meanwhile, another of the flankers takes the warning about the witch to heart and flings his lasso toward Wighard, but it cinches air to no avail and he withdraws it to prepare for another try.

Bertelis scuffs about on the deck of the bridge for long enough that he can strain the bolas cords away from his body with a surge of strength, and lever Bruno's borrowed sword into them to set himself free - but he's still on the ground while the rest of the enemy band closes in!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Lefty manages to dodge Gimgroth's jawbreaker blow, and offers a reprisal: 10 damage to the dwarf's body, unless he can defend against it.

Flanker9 Misses Wighard with his lasso, and readies it again.

Bertelis first fails, then succeeds, to free himself.

It's Jasmine's turn! She's spoiled for targets. Only Lefty is presently engaged in melee; there is a Goon with an active bolas to throw and two more Flankers with lassos ready to fling, as well as Righty who seems slightly more threatening than most of these mooks.
 
 
dojango
Jasmine is not surprised by the sudden assault and has her pistol out, but is still slow to react as the bolas begin flying.  Watching one of the enemy preparing to throw more of them at her companions, she takes a moment to aim at him and fires her pistol, hitting him squarely in the chest.

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 16 ]  v. 72,  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] ,  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 With a comforting  crack!  Jasmine's pistol barks its dismay at the ambushers, and the bullet sinks into the chest of the bolas-goon at the end of the bridge. With a spray of blood, he staggers backwards and collapses to dangle ragdoll-wise over the rickety railing.

Two more flankers make their best afforts to get their lassos around the wizard, but the soldier-surgeon-heirophant-laypriest is lightfooted enough even injured as he is to evade both - as well as the axeblow from Righty who lumbers in, hoping to hack down a restrained foe but finding a skilled and elusive one untethered.

It's on for young and old, at that point, goons and flankers drawing cudgels and longknives and rushing into the fray. Two crowd into Bruno at the fore of the combat with blazing blade in hand, but neither can land a useful blow; another slips by and tries to swing his jagged cane-knife into the face of the toppled Bretonnian, but Bertelis has enough wherewithal to roll away from the blow. The enemy gives all they have, and it seems not to be enough...

 
 Spoiler: Initiative and Enemy Injury 

Round 2.

[13] - Sang Goon3 -  10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[13] - Sang Goon4 -  5 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -  8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -  8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  4 Wounds - Lightly Wounded 
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
[7] - Sang Flanker6 -  3 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -  9 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[5] - Righty
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 

Terrible rolls from the goons this turn. Two lassos and a charge miss Wighard. Two charges miss Bruno and Bertelis. And a second charge hits Bruno, but at 5 damage, that won't penetrate his armor and his defenses refresh now so no result no matter what happens!

Wighard, Gimgroth, and Bruno are up!

Wighard is engaged with Righty, who is uninjured.
Gimgroth is engaged with Lefty, who is lightly injured.
Bruno is engaged with Goon3 and Flanker8, both injured.

Bertelis is prone and engaged with Goon4, but he will stand up and fight before that goon can attack again.
 
 
wilphe
  R2 Wighard W 3/13 FP 4/5 Init 10  

Wighard feels like he has been the centre of attention and only one of their 9 assailants has yet been dropped. That does simplify matters as there are now 8 targets, another cut to his arm makes the gore flow but he is at first unable to grasp the winds properly

The hidden cloak however enables him to grasp the flailing winds of magic and send another spray at their assailants

  I AM NO WITCH CAGNA, KNOW IN YOUR LAST MOMENTS THAT YOU HAVE ****ED WITH A WIZARD OF THE EMPIRE AND FOUND OUT  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (4d10)[ 3 ][ 1 ][ 4 ][ 7 ](15) -4 TN14
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Targets in the listed init order

 (1d10)[ 2 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 6 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 1 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 1 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 10 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 4 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 1 ] +4
 (1d10)[ 1 ] +4
 
farothel
Bruno had just stood up when two goons were near him, so he engaged them both, swinging his sword to take them down quickly.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

full attack.
attack 1 on goon 3:  (1d100)[ 90 ]  vs 61 for damage:  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  (and 1 fire damage)
attack 1 on goon 3 or flanker 8 if attack 1 killed goon 3:  (1d100)[ 96 ]  vs 61 for damage:  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]  (and 1 fire damage)
 
LarsWester
 R2 Gimgroth Wounds 18/19 FP 2/2  Init 10 
Gimgroth enraged that somehow this buffoon before him got a dagger through his mail shirt enough to prick some skin and draw blood grunts and then grins as he unleashes a series of swipes, smashes and bashes with his hammer.

 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Full Action = Swift attack for 4 attacks WS + BQ = 82 on Lefty
  Attack1vs82  - (1d100)[ 23 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
  Attack2vs82  - (1d100)[ 11 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
  Attack3vs82  - (1d100)[ 32 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
  Attack4vs82  - (1d100)[ 57 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
  AnyFuryConfirm  - (1d100)[ 17 ]    Damage  - (1d10)[ 10 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 Another spray of sizzling blood magic arcs into the enemy, and a chorus of horrified screams rises through them. Most wounded of all is the left-slanted cretin who is given no time to enjoy his moment of superiority over the dwarf before him - a spike of burning blood lances into his chest and he drops to the ground, writhing and shivering, eyes fluttering in a fugue of pain. As Gimgroth's opponent drops to Wighard's attack, the opportunity to repay the favor comes nigh, and with a quick step the dwarf brings his hammer around at the right-sloped aggressor. The malformed harasser steps out of the way of the first blow, but then come three more; the final thumping into his chest with rib-gravelling power that sends a geyser of blood from the toppling foe's mouth.

Elsewhere, Bruno strikes fiery arcs in the air against his dual foes, keeping them back but landing no telling strike. With the two meanest foes down, the ambushers waver and consider their options - but only until a new figure arrives on the scene. Vaulting from the second story of the building on the far side of the bridge, he lands upright with barely a bend of the knees. In heavy Bretonnian mail and with a cowled crimson cloak trailing after him, he breaks into a run across the bridge toward the combat.

  "FIGHT!"  , he roars with throaty menace; and the fear of what it means to flee the combat rapidly overtakes the fear of what it means to stay.

And so, the combat rages on. Bertelis is back on his feet and, like Bruno, holds is own but does not land a telling strike. A lasso whips through the air where Gimgroth's head would be if her were a human, retracting back into the panicking flanker's hands to spool for another attempt. And the red-cloaked enemy races toward the combat with terrible inhuman speed, a pair of flashing weapons in hand; a longsword in one, and thick-forged swordbreaker in the other.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Lefty is stunned for 10 turns and effectively out of the combat. Gimgroth kills Righty. Bertelis and Bruno both fail to drop enemies. And a new challenger has joined the melee!

The red-cloaked stranger is about 22 yards away from the main melee.

We can assume Bruno and Bertelis are fighting back to back against Goon4, Goon3, and Flanker8, so no one is outnumbered by 2:1. Gimgroth and Wighard have a breather for a moment; Jasmine's petite presence continues to permit her enemies to discount her threat. Flankers 6 and 7 are still not engaged, but are preparing to get involved directly. But it's Jasmine's turn first!

[16] -  Redcloak  - Uninjured
[13] - Sang Goon3 -   13 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[13] - Sang Goon4 -   12 wounds - Heavily Wounded ]
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  Critically Wounded  - Stunned for 10
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
[7] - Sang Flanker6 -   8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -   11 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
 [5] - Righty - Dead 
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 
 
 
dojango
Jasmine stows her pistol and quickly unslings  The Nutcracker  from her back.  She points it at the newest addition to the party, kneels, aims and fires in one smooth motion.  The shot hits the red-cloaked knight's helm!

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 30 ]  v. 77,  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 The flankers and goons fight as they are enjoined to, but they are base criminals, not proven adventurers; their blows slip aside Bruno, Bertelis, Wighard, and Gimgroth now that the ambush chaos has worn of. But the red-cloaked warrior is an unaccounted for factor, and he streaks toward the combat like a crimson arrow.

He is fast.  Supernaturally fast . But not  bullet dodgingly fast , and just as well. Jasmine had been assured the  Nutcracker  blew the head off Carlos von Carstein during the vampire wars. Here, it proves at least to have that decapitating urge, though it does not replicate the feat. The warrior jukes just enough that the shot doesn't hit square on, and punches through the corner of the left eyeslot, rending cowl and coif and throwing split links of mail. The impact twists and deforms the helmet on the knight's head and creates a terrible din that must be merciless for the wearer, sufficient that he staggers in his blitzing stride to reach up and rip the helm off. He casts it to the ground with a snarl.

Moonlight pale skin, fiery red hair, and the youthful beginnings of a beard to frame the face, with a trickle of blood from his bullet creased temple come into view. The features seen there are eerily familiar to all the Companions, but known only to one of them.

 "Maheiu! No! NO!" 

Bertelis is paralyzed by revelation long enough for one of his opponents to strike out at one of his legs, driving him to kneel. When he stands, the malaise and depression that had burdened him that morning is replaced with a howling, grieving rage.

 "No, no! I'll kill - I'll-" 

Most of the rest is inarticulate. So it seems, all of a sudden, the party's objectives have narrowed. The assailant here is not the Red Knight himself, but Bertelis' brother taken captive so long ago. His allegiance is shown in his cloaks color, it seems; there is no rescue to perform, anymore. Only revenge. How long his fate has been concluded cannot be known - Was it when they were detained in Bordeleaux? Delayed in L'Anguille? Who can know such a thing? But the tale of Landuin of Mousillon is a tragic one, and Mahieu is just another knight whose tale ended here, in miserable solitude. Such is the way of the world; even good gods do not preside over abundant goodness.

Mahieu's reaction to his brother's inconsolable outburst appears to be bland recognition, turning to agitation as his skin begins to smoke in the clouded sunlight. With a dancer's lightness he throws himself over the side of the bridge, only to scabbard his sword in the same motion, seize one of the climbing pegs in its side, and vanish into the shadow beneath.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
A grand rolling of absolute ass from the ambushers, nothing hitting that could possibly do damage.

Vampire Spawn Mahieu du Roche leaves his eyeshot helm on the bridge and takes cover beneath the structure. We're back around to Wighard, Bruno and Gimgroth.

Wighard and Gimgroth are engaged back to back with Flankers 6 and 7. They only have handweapons drawn, so they have no free parry this turn, though they appear to be dodgy.

Bertelis and Bruno are back to back against Goons 3, 4, and Flanker 8. They flubbed their all out attacks this turn, so they cannot defend themselves at all. This turn, Schlapp pulls Small Gaétan to safety out of the 'water' of the Grismerie, and will be back at his master's side to attack next turn.

[16] -  Redcloak  -  Lightly Wounded; hidden. 
[13] - Sang Goon3 -   13 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[13] - Sang Goon4 -   12 wounds - Heavily Wounded ]
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  Critically Wounded  - Stunned for 9
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
[7] - Sang Flanker6 -   8 wounds - Lightly Wounded 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -   11 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
 [5] - Righty - Dead 
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 
 
 
wilphe
R3 Wighard W 3/13 FP 4/5 Init 10

Wounded and unarmed Wighard is left apparently at the mercy of his assailant, but at least he has done enough to ensure his companions will win.

In his last moments his mind turns to a scroll that was on the wall in his suite at the Light College

  You only live twice
Once when you're born
And once when you look death in the face.  

However he doesn't stare death, in the form of Righty, in the face for very long as his grim look of impending triumph vanishes as Gimgroth dispatches him with characteristically brutal efficiency.

Of course there is still a melee going on, and Wighard readies axe and shield and concentrates on staying alive whilst his companions mop up


Down below Schlapp is exiting the river with Small Gaétan as Maheiu drops underneath the bridge, the river does not smell nice, but even over that the smell of an incipiently immolating vampire is distinctive.

The Dire Wolf meanwhile does nothing except keep guard over Gaétan and eyes on Maheiu whilst Wighard and Kwolf confer


  Can we fix that or it just a matter of killing him as fast as possible? 
 Well...  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 42 ]  AK Necromancy 77
 
farothel
Bruno kept fighting the guys in front of him for now.  Until they were gone, he couldn't do much else.
 "We accept your surrender at any time,"  he said in between attacks

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

full attack.
attack 1 on goon 3:  (1d100)[ 58 ]  vs 61 for damage:  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  (and 1 fire damage)
attack 2 on goon 3 or flanker 8 if attack 1 killed goon 3:  (1d100)[ 82 ]  vs 61 for damage:  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  (and 1 fire damage)
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth's frown at the appearance of the caped leader of this ambush turned to a grin with the well aimed shot of his halfling companion.   Then turning his attention to the foes foolish enough to charge forward to engage himself and Wighard the dwarf set to work.

 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Full Action - Swift Attacks on Flanker 6 and any extra on to Flanker 7.
  Attack1Vs82  - (1d100)[ 43 ]    Damage1  - (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
  Attack2Vs82  - (1d100)[ 1 ]    Damage2  - (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
  Attack3Vs82  - (1d100)[ 87 ]    Damage3  - (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  Attack4Vs82  - (1d100)[ 86 ]    Damage4  - (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
  AnyFuryConfrim  - (1d100)[ 5 ]    FuryDamage  - (1d10)[ 5 ] 
 
 Spoiler: Defensive Rolls 

  PreemptiveParryVs92  - (1d100)[ 16 ] 
  PreemptiveDodge  - (1d100)[ 44 ] 
 

 
MrAbdiel
 The tide has turned. Bruno's blend of formal combat training and hard-won roadwarden skills pay dividends as the flaming  Company Blade  drives his attackers back, then spears through one attacker's thigh. The ganger screams as blood sizzles and flows, but tips over as shock stewards him into the dark. Bertelis has similar success, carving through the arm of one leaving his right side disarmed, and driving a knee into the groin of another. Gimgroth's sparest efforts are often lethal, and his present opponent is driven to the ground. He is afforded enough time to yelp as the dwarf's hammer squashes his head, throwing foul brains like pulp from a split melon. The last unengaged flanker pales a his lasso, flung from a shaking hand, flops impotently on the ground next to the dwarf. He musters enough courage to face death armed, dropping the lasso, drawing longknife and messer...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Update 


[16] -  Redcloak  -  Lightly Wounded; hidden. 
 [13] - Sang Goon3 - Dead 
[13] - Sang Goon4 -   Critically Wounded - RA7, bleeding 20% 
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -   Critically Wounded - B2, delayed 1 turn. 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  Critically Wounded  - Stunned for 8
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
 [7] - Sang Flanker6 - Dead 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -   11 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
 [5] - Righty - Dead 
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 

An ambush turns into a massacre.

Bruno and Bertelis are in combat with two foes, now. One has a mangled right arm and is bleeding to death from it (Goon4), the other got smashed in the goolies and skips his action this turn (Flanker8).

Gimgroth and Wighard are currently outnumbering Flanker7. Flanker9 is giving up the lasso, but he's presently not engaged in combat.

Mahieu du Roche has not emerged from where he retreated under the bridge.

It's  Jasmine's  turn again!
 
 
dojango
Jasmine slings her longarm and goes over to snatch the lasso from the ground.  She tells its former owner, " You oughter run; we usually leave one guy alive to warn everyone not to mess with us, and that could be you! "

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 82 ]  v. 55 intimidate to convince him to bugger off.
 
MrAbdiel
 The dishevelled ganger hesitates, as Jasmine offers him a chance to flee - suspended between suspicion, opportunity, and dread. His comrades aren’t faring well - the battered ganger trying his best to cause trouble for Wighard cannot get around his guard; and the goon with the cloven hand looses enough blood that he sags to the ground and perishes. This leaves a single attacker between Bruno and Bertelis - wincing and trying to recover from a groin strike.

Of Mahieu du Roche there is no emergent sign; whether he has retreated somewhere, or whether he is prowling under the bridge to attack without charging down the barrel of a gun, is anyone’s guess.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Back to Bruno, Gimgroth, and Wighard. Only one target surviving in each mini-combat!

[16] -  Redcloak  -  Lightly Wounded; hidden. 
 [13] - Sang Goon3 - Dead 
 [13] - Sang Goon4 - Dead 
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -   Critically Wounded - B2, delayed 1 turn. 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
[9] - Lefty -  Critically Wounded  - Stunned for 7
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
 [7] - Sang Flanker6 - Dead 
[6] - Sang Flanker7 -   11 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
 [5] - Righty - Dead 
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 
 
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth turns his furious attention unto the remaining Sang goon near him and Wighard.
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

Full Action = Swift attacks
  Attack1Vs82  - (1d100)[ 39 ]    Damage1  - (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
  Attack2Vs82  - (1d100)[ 100 ]    Damage2  - (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
  Attack3Vs82  - (1d100)[ 72 ]    Damage3  - (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
  Attack4Vs82  - (1d100)[ 40 ]    Damage4  - (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  AnyFury  - (1d100)[ 5 ]    FuryDamage  - (1d10)[ 2 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 Gimgroth's blows rain on the desperate, crazed ambusher. One strike smashes his thigh, and the muscle gives out for him to collapse at the dwarf's feet. He manages to roll to avoid the second blow, but the dwarven veteran stomps on his hand and smashes the arm at the elbow. The next blow cracks against the goon's forehead which strikes a bleed and leaves him slack on the ground. He breathes, shallow but regular - mangled, he may survive the dwarf's assault.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Flanker7 is down and knocked out. To be left or executed at your preference. Flanker8 still up and on Bruno and Bertelis. Flanker 9 paralyzed with indecision near Jasmine. Bruno and Wighard still to go this sequence.

[16] -  Redcloak  -  Lightly Wounded; hidden. 
 [13] - Sang Goon3 - Dead 
 [13] - Sang Goon4 - Dead 
[11] - Sang Flanker8 -   Critically Wounded - B2, delayed 1 turn. 
10 - WIGHARD (On tiebreak)
10 - GIMGROTH
9 - BRUNO (On tiebreak)
[9] - Sang Flanker9 -   10 wounds - Heavily Wounded 
 [9] - Lefty - Stunned for 7 
8 - BERTELIS
7 - JASMINE (On tiebreak)
 [7] - Sang Flanker6 - Dead 
 [6] - Sang Flanker7 - Out Cold 
 [5] - Righty - Dead 
 [5] - Sang Goon5 - Dead 
 
 
wilphe
R4 Wighard W 8/14 FP 4/5 Init 10

Wighard waits for Gimgroth to deal with their assailant and downs a healing draught. He still looks pale from the self-inflicted loss of blood but as the stimulants kick in he seems active and not at the brink of death.

He looks at his dwarven companion,   I don't want to linger on a bridge that has a vampire under it, we should surround him from both sides and both ends

But I also don't want to have to worry about Bertelis  

So for the moment he is assessing the situation



 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Got 175 XP unspent
Spend 100 to gain a Wound, now at 4 so Lightly Wounded
Chug Healing Draught = 8

 (1d100)[ 21 ]  Perception 101/111 Visual
 
farothel
 "Sounds like a plan,"  Bruno said as he tried to dispatch the last thug in front of him.  With a quick slash he killed him and then he moved to the other end of the bridge to block the vampire flunky's escape.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

attack 1:  (1d100)[ 57 ]  vs 61 for damage [rol]1d10+4[/roll]

 attack 2 if needed:  (1d100)[ 63 ]  vs 61 for damage [rol]1d10+4[/roll] 
move towards the end of the bridge.
 
dojango
Jasmine simply looks at the remaining thug near her and shrugs.  " Last chance, Jack, to be the one that got away, " as she calmly begins reloading the Nutcracker.
MrAbdiel
 Jacques elects to run. The little woman knows his name, and that's a bad omen if he's ever heard one. With one arm clutching the searing magical wound over his chest, he turns on his heel and runs, keeping just ahead of the advance of Gimgroth and Wighard as he does, and vanishes into the streets beyond.

Bertelis stands numbly for a few moments with glassy-eyed dullness before putting away his weapons and using the remnants of the bolas that struck him to tie up the groggy Lefty. The Company stands sentry, waiting for the vampire to emerge... but there is no movement, and no sign. Eventually, with experimental caution, Kwolf confirms with a few reconnoitring swoops that there is no one hiding under the bridge - but a tunnel through the canal wall just below the bridgetop on the north side suggests he left long ago, perhaps right after his retreat.

Off the side of the bridge on a raft of garbage and driftwood, Small Gaétan coughs pitifully and struggles to breathe. He won't drown in the horrid water, now; but a vicious kick to such a small body is damaging enough that he is much less conversational for the moment. His crutch is gone, but one hand clutches Schlapp's fur.

When it's clear Mahieu is gone, Bertelis begins to crack again. He pulls his dagger on the restrained, and badly concussed, captive Lefty.

 "Where?! Where does your master lair!? Tell me now! Tell me now or I cut you to pieces!" 

It's obvious to anyone else that any interrogation value in the captive, if there is any to be had, will not be for some time of recovery. 
wilphe
  R4 Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5 Init 10  

With their quarry gone Wighard turns to triage, first to stop any of their enemies from dying then to small Gaetan, himself and Gimgroth

 
 Gimgroth do you want to check that passage out? Bertelis please leave the patient until I can get him in a state to talk to people

Also that gentleman (righty) has 10 of our ecus that we would like back with interest
 
 


He looks at Gaetan

  I don't think there was ever going to be a non-violent solution to that, so don't worry.

I feel bruising but no cracked ribs, it will hurt for a few days and it will be fine

Now lets get you cleaned up  

A glowing ball of energy clenses and dries both Gaetan and Schlapp

Gaetan might now be cleaner than he has ever been and he turns his attention to Gimgroth

  Yeah just a scratch, so this might be overkill. But he also seems the type to poison his blade and this isn't the place to have an open wound  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 45 ]  Channel 77 for +4

If he doesn't get the Channel he will try again

 (2d10)[ 5 ]  -2 TN5
Clean Gaetan


 (1d100)[ 74 ]  Channel 77 for +4

 (2d10)[ 18 ]  -2 TN5
Clean Schlapp


 (1d100)[ 77 ]  Heal 91
 (1d10)[ 6 ]  Gaetan

 (1d100)[ 35 ]  Heal 91
 (1d10)[ 3 ]  Self

 (1d100)[ 8 ]  Heal 91
 (1d10)[ 9 ]  Gimgroth

 (1d100)[ 72 ]  Heal 91  Goons
He's only stabilising them, not recovering W
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 


Reroll those

 (2d10)[ 2 ][ 1 ](3) 
 (2d10)[ 5 ][ 9 ](14) 
 
dojango
Once Gaetan is taken care of, Jasmine will tell him, " Thanks for warnin' us about the ambush.  Now go git a couple of locals who don't mind makin' a bit of coin ta come here and help me take care of these lads. "  Whether or not he does so, she goes about recovering the money they'd paid and she takes her own purse out and starts putting coppers over the eyes of the dead men, and then wraps their bloody cloaks about them to serve as a shroud.  " We don't want them ta come back and bother us, so let's send them over to Manaan to take care of. "
farothel
Bruno can help little with the current events, so he puts the light on the sword out and stands guard against other people of the same or a different gang trying something.
MrAbdiel
 Small Gaétan is delighted to be alive, but also afraid and confused - not to mention in pain from his unceremonious punting. Crutchless, he leans against a post of the now unmanned bridge.

 "It's... madness. These gangfellows - what would compel them to do something so foolish as this? Five of you and this great big dog - even if they through they could kill you, they should expect to suffer badly for it. They have have..."  He raps his knuckles on his own temple,  "malady of the mind, I fear!" 

As Jasmine goes about preparing the dead, she can produce a theory for that 'malady' - all of these creeps have fangmarks, some old and healed, some new and clotted, on their necks concealed by the red scarves. If they were gang members once, they had become something else now - willing, or compelled accomplices to vampiric masters.

 "They very commonly come back, ma'amselle,"  he offers;  "but Morr's men will scoop them up if they are heaped by the roadside. Here, I'll... See if I can get you some hands..." 

He's even slower without the crutch, but he tries, gods bless him, and he gets a little ways before he can holler for some of the locals to scuttle down from where they have been watching the fight on the south side of the channel, eager to earn Jasmine's coin. And the recovered bribe isn't all the halfling gains, standing there.

 "Here you are, ma'amselle!"  a cheerful local calls, flicking a silver piece at her before weaving his handcart full of empty water jars between the bodies and hustling on his way.

Meanwhile, Wighard is able to stabilise both the ambusher and Lefty, though both are badly injured from his spellcraft and, in the ambusher's case, substantial trauma that may well require amputations, through which the chance to live is somewhat fantastical.

Bertelis sits with the abandoned helmet in his hands, looking at the eerily matching distortion of the metal from an eerilly similar wound. He has very little to say, now. He looks profoundly tired. 
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 [B][COLOR="#008080"]
 
 Gimgroth do you want to check that passage out?
 
  
 

Gimgroth frowns at Wighard suggestion and offers a minor objection that it's but a scratch and more from his armor than the enemies blade but when the Physician mentions the likelihood of infection in this place of death the dwarf relents and allows his wound to be tended to.
While Wighard is inspecting him the dwarf puzzles out the path ahead.
  I think it is worth checking out but I am unclear on how to access it for it opens underneath the bridge.   I assume one would need some rope and grappling hook to perhaps approach from the closest support pilon.  Is it worth going that route to run into a vampire in the dark of the cave.
I'd rather consider Bertelis former brother a problem for another day as he is likely far gone by now.     The dwarf glances up towards the tower where he notices a figure observing the bridge before the ambush was sprung.    
 Spoiler: OOC 
Is that figure still there?   Could Gimgroth determine if that was this helmed vampire or someone else
 
dojango
Jasmine doesn't mention the bite marks; not being terribly surprised by them, but she doesn't want to start a panic while the denizens of the city are in earshot.  She simply says to her new laborers " Jes hoy the bodies in the river, Manann will see them through, I paid the fare. "  While the bodies splash (or thud) into the river she tells the others, " I ain't got the patience to chase red cloak into an obvious trap.  He'll find us again sure as eggs. "
wilphe
  As you wish, I just feel we have the opportunity for the initiative rather than passively awaiting attack. Is there anything else on these rascals?  

He takes the 10 ecus back for the communal fund and recites a quick prayer for the dead, then looks at Lefty,

  Would someone more charming than I and less emotionally invested than Bertelis care to talk with him? I am sure he'd not appreciate being left here to the tender mercies of those he has tormented  

and then to Gaetan   Stay with Schlapp for the moment, he can support you until we get you a replacement  

He then takes Bertelis aside to talk to him

  The reality is frequently better than the imagination, because imagination can encompass all infinity whereas reality can only be one or few no matter how bad

You know as well as I do that is no longer your brother, it wears his form and shares his memories but it is not him.

On the one hand, put aside any thought of love or compassion. Any love it will try to use against you. You demonstrate compassion by ending its existence.

On the other hand, if you have any memory, any information, so real and visceral about your former brother that it could stun even the thing that wears his form, it would be good to share  

He hopes that Bertelis doesn't notice the contradiction in those words
MrAbdiel
 Gimgroth's eyes rake over the windows of the building overwatching the bridge, and find, perhaps as expected, there is no longer a figure watching. Likely, that was the post Mahieu was using to observe the ambush, and he intervened in a frustrated moment when it looked like he could tip the combat into his favor, only to scarper when things tipped the other way. Gimgroth isn't a miner himself, but he's triggered and foiled his share of ambushes in his time - and by his instinct, that tunnel under the bridge likely just slopes up to the basement of that building, allowing discrete insertion of ambushers or, as in this case, covered escape for a fleeing opponent. I could lead down to a warren of tunnels, but it's doubtful - it's frankly not well hidden enough for a direct entrance to somewhere valuable. Then again, these goons could just be idiots.

The spontaneous bridge tolls paid by incidental Mousillonians hurrying across the bridge to get their water vessels filled at the well more than covers the ceremonial coppers and the compensation for the grubby lads emerging to huck the slain gangers into the crawling Grismerie. Once that's done, Jasmine is left with 'loot', if it can be called that.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Loot 
Loot From The Battle Of The South Channel Bridge

 (1d100)[ 22 ]  pennies of various lands.
 (1d10)[ 4 ]  silver pieces (mostly Bretonnian).
2 Lassos.
2 Bolas.

1 Great Pile of knives, cudgels, rusty cutlasses, belaying pins, and assorted low quality weaponry that can be reasonably sold to an undiscerning buyer for a benchmark price of  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  gold pieces, and a sack to carry them all in.

The rest is their ragged and now bloodied clothing, and an abundance of cruddy little charms including carved human teeth, dessicated mice, and a baffling cluster of finger-sized dry fish that have mutated stubby little legs.
 


Bertelis is in no condition to penetrate the logical paradox Wighard presents. He's just shattered.

 "No, no.. Not that I... can think. He's the most literate of us... He did all the reading, on our Errantry quest, until Professor Lorrimer forced me to pick up the slack. He was... the second youngest, of four. A little jealous sometimes, but never... tremendously so. He could keep up with me, in sparring... Sometimes win. But I haven't seen him for... more than a year, now. I don't even know which lord took him on as a house knight..." 

Then he's gone again, vanishing into himself in an inconsolable vortex of grief and rage and blame, capable of staggering along behind the group in motion but not a lot else. 
LarsWester
As Wighard consoles Bertelis Gimgroth approaches and relays to the others what he noticed prior to the ambush.
 As we approach I noticed a figure which I can only assume was this Vampire spawn we faced watching the bridge over there.   Gimgroth points to the no vacant building.   We may want to check the location to see if this Vampire is within there may also be further evidence, clues, or supplies to gather.   It might be guarded but I feel it is a strategic path forward.  What are your opinions on the mater? 
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5   

Wighard leaves the building and returns to the bridge


  Does someone more charming want to talk to these fellows? No? Ok.  

He works quickly to try to ensure they are at least mobile, conscious and not at the brink of death

  Do you know who were are?

In any case you've seen what we can do

So I strongly suggest if you have information you share it

Then you can either report your failure to your bosses or run far and run fast

And do not confuse mercy for weakness, mercy is a luxury for the strong. If you doubt that, think what consideration you might have got had we left you helpless around those you have preyed upon for so long

But be clear please

If you ever attack, threaten or even obstruct me or anyone of my associates ever again I will end you

If our paths ever cross again I expect either immediate flight or enthusiastic cooperation

  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 52 ]  Heal 77
 (1d10)[ 4 ] 
 (1d100)[ 46 ]  Heal 77
 (1d10)[ 2 ] 
 (1d100)[ 59 ]  Charm or Gossip is at 51, Intimidate is base 44 but I feel should come with some hefty modifiers
 
MrAbdiel
 The 'flanker' has a leg almost destroyed, but he'll realize that only after the analgesic herbs Wighard has packed onto his wounds wear off. Ironically, if he survives, he'll need a crutch. For now, he legs it. It's Lefty, surfacing from his concussion by Wighard's medical conjuration, who is willing to offer anything at all for this non-mercy.

 "I don't know who you are... All I know is the blood-suckers want your sword."  He glances to the Company blade, with baleful resentment for the instrument which has been at the intersection of his fortune turning this way.  "It's the price they demand to leave us alone. Four days ago I was Sang'Argent, and happy for it. This morning, I was a slave to a monster who drinks my blood. But now..."  He gingerly touches his scalp where his head hit the ground as he fell; the wound now clean.  "Now there is only running."  He spares a glance to the ruination that befell his right-slanted brother, just before that body is heaved into the river. He stumbles over to spit after it, and then takes off, toward the gate of the city.

 * * * * * 
Small Gaétan stays with Schlapp as the party tentatively explores the building across from the crossing. A ratty, run-down building that must have been a storefront on the bottom with living space above in its heyday, it's not a rotting and sagging hulk. The chimney is crumbled in, but there are places where bricks have been cannibalized from the structure and made to support fires for cooking or warmth inside, leaving the walls smoke licked in addition to wretched with dirt and mould. On its lower floor, in a back room which may have once been a secure place for goods, a hole has been bored through the foundation, propped up with adequate but not good struts and braces, and leads down to the underside of the bridge. Ambushers could sneak into place this way without alerting those on the bridge - or as has happened, escape this way if things go badly. But the fact that this building isn't being occupied and squatted in right now suggests it has been the property of the Sang for some time. Cruddy as it is, it has a roof, and walls, and it's on the side of the crossing with the well.

 "I don't understand,"  Small Gaétan repeats.  "The gangs are the law around here; but they remain so because they are not so foolish and reckless as to sell their lives like this."  The little man seems bewildered by the ambush. Given that he would have died without your intervention, his confusion has certain ring of honesty. But nothing more can be done here, and you bundle your captives with you, discarding their gang colors, and follow the direction to a place to lodge.

  * * * * *  
 Fallen Heaven  is a music hall and entertainment complex, but it's also a tavern in the most classic sense in that it is a place for entertaining and libation rather than lodging, but the enterprise sprawls to include a dozen buildings around it that offer rooms for those desiring them. They are all lined up along the sides of Landuin's Crossing, one of the few remaining stone bridges in the city, and the only bridge that remains in place with original habitable structures on it. The fragrance of the main channel of the Grismerie below is rank, but you are beginning, slowly, to become accustomed to it.

You make what seems like a good deal for one of the buildings near the tavern for a potentially extended stay, bargaining with the greasy-skinned caretaker for five  ecu  the first week, three each week after that. It's a two story wooden structure that has been cared for well enough to command such prices within the scope of homes in Mousillon, but it doesn't take too much work to find where a mildew soaked wall has been caked with whitewash or a buckling floorboard is being depressed with the furniture placement to hold it down. What's important is that it's secure. The windows are oak shutters that open inward with bars infront of them, and each has a cut-for-purpose brace of wood that can be wedged in place for additional mechanical safety. The chimney is clean and workable, with bars build in halfway up the flute that would prevent anything larger than a cat from being unable to get in that way. The fireplace, also, has  wrought iron 'doors' that can be closed and braced.

The amenities are as you might have guessed. There are wooden pails for relieving oneself, to be emptied over the edge of the bridge into the Grismerie. A small keg of water is left complimentarily for in the entryway - Small Gaétan suggests that locals can drink the water from the well unboiled usually, but he would not recommend it to travellers.

Food you will have to secure for yourself - but you're told that  Fallen Heaven  has that, and the answer to just about any other appetite one might have. He is exhausted after the day's events, and marvelling at his state of cleanliness, and volunteers to watch the the house with Schlapp while you get about your business. He is clearly trying to parlay his position into a bit more paying work, but you sense he is genuinely fearful to go outside alone now - lack of crutch not withstanding, he's now party to a massacre of Sang'Argent gangers in public view, however out of character he maintains the conflict to be.

As for the tavern itself, your guide gives you a run-down...


 
 Originally Posted by WFRP 'Barony of the Damned' 
 The Fallen Heaven is a huge, mostly jerrybuilt building that teeters on the brink of Landuin’s Crossing, leaning precariously over the Grismerie. A large painted board over
the main double doors proclaims the building’s name, and the place seems busy at all hours of the day. The building is painted to resemble somewhere far grander and gaudier, having lots of gold and red paint. Traders set up camp outside the doors, hawking food and trinkets to the patrons, knowing that a man is far more likely to buy a rat on a stick when he is drunk than when he is sober.

Music and loud voices surround the place, as do drunkards and pools of vomit. The “Boys”, as the Fallen Heaven’s security men are called, are everywhere, large and intimidating men employed for their air of menace whose job is to quickly and quietly remove anyone whose presence might be hurting business. They won’t throw out adventurers for looking strange or even for being a non-Human race, but they will act quickly if the adventurers begin acting violently or erratically. The Boys answer to Ezekiah Shortshin, the owner of the Fallen Heaven and one of the few Halflings in Mousillon. 
 

Not that most Mousillon folk know what a Halfling is - but Small Gaétan has obvious reasons to be something of an expert on the shortfolk divisions between Dwarf, Halfling, and men merely cursed with a malady of growth like himself.

The question is... what shall you do now? 
dojango
The vampire hunter... might be anyone.  Going hidden, to conceal his vengeance until it is poised above the immortal neck of his quarry... Jasmine reckons he will be difficult to find.  A dwarf slayer, on the other hand, not so much.  Short, loud and brightly colored... he, no doubt would have cut a daring swathe through the soaks and demimonde of Mousillon.  And so Jasmine starts asking around the drinking halls of the tavern and the rat onna stick vendors nearby to learn of his exploits... and his whereabouts.

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 25 ]  v. 61 gossip
 
farothel
 "They probably thought they could handle us,"  Bruno said to their guide as they moved towards he inn.  And as soon as they're settled in, he will check with Wighard if their prisoner can be questioned from a medical point of view and then he will do so, using charm, misdirection, guile and intellect to get answers rather than intimidation.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

questions to ask certainly:
-who is your master?
-where does he reside?
-how many of you are there?
-any traps and other defenses in your master's lair?

charm:  (1d100)[ 27 ]  vs 87 (67 basic Fel, +20 mastery; vs 97 if the schemer talent is appropriate here), resisted with WP
 FP reroll if needed: charm:  (1d100)[ 80 ]  vs 87 (97 if the schemer talent is appropriate here), resisted with WP 
 
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard disposes of the loot along the way and will leave Schlapp with Gaetan, trusting in their psychic bond in case of trouble and getting food for both

  Replacement crutch is coming. It can come through the window, do not open the door for anyone except us  

Unless Gimgroth has any other ideas, with that he heads over to the  Fallen Heaven , orders Liver and Onions with a dark Albion stout to recover from his bloodloss and awaits reaction, good or bad, to the fact that they very publicly defeated one of the most dangerous gangs in the city whilst outnumbered 2 to 1 with an awesome display of magic.

Kwolf meanwhile gets a few dubious sausages and takes up a high perch keeping an eye on things
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 Bruno and Gimgroth - We'll assume this extra interrogation takes places before Lefty is set packing, and then you can get back to any other business you like!
 


Lefty is cagey first to Bruno's questioning, but the knight wears him down with the dwarf veteran shadowing over them.

 "My master..? I don't know anymore. I used to work for Lanfranco, out of the  Damoiselle Vert  on the docks. The Sang'Argent... there's lots of us. Bosses with lieutenants and lieutenants with bands of cutters. We're the only thing in Mousillon keeping those lunatic Ecourchers slave runners and rabid sadist Garde Cimetiere from having their way with the whole town. You don't know this place - whatever you think of us, we're the closest thing to do-gooders on offer. But Lost Town is getting all stirred up, in recent weeks. And this guy... The red haired knight, the one you shot at... He just pulls us off the street one at a time and..." 

He rubs his neck, and the pierce marks there.  "Sometimes he can just make you do what he wants and you don't get a say. But some folks who turn him down just end up... Worse than dead. Sucked dry. Everyone thinks they're a tough guy who'll die before turning on their gang, until it's fangs on their throat. I don't know where he comes from. Lost Town, I guess. He comes and goes as he wants. He might have dragooned more than just us into his crew... From the other gangs, even." 

When Gimgroth adds his questions about Lanfranco, the thug exhibits a display of shame and despair in his swelling features.  "Lanfranco..? Yeah, he's holed up in the  Damoiselle Vert . Growing more paranoid in recent weeks, but... I guess he was right. There is something happening. It just happened to me, not him. Can't go back, now... He'll spike me and hang me in a cage for working for someone else. I gotta get out of town..." 
 * * * * * 
Jasmine takes to the shonky crowds of the tavern like a fish to water. Her halfling status is a true novelty - for some, this is proof that halflings are  real  and not a story, since now they've met a male and a female (with the proprietor Ezekiah Shortshin as the other). Some active bets seem to be resolved by this, and money changes hands. Ultimately, it's Ezekiah himself who is most helpful, one far-flung child of the Moot to another.

He's about as well dressed as people get in Mousillon; a middle aged halfling who wears a soldier's uniform presumably for the novelty of it. It's clearly tailored for a halfling like himself, though perhaps not himself directly. The uniform itself is Stirland colors; it has the insignia of the Deathjacks. It's faded and covered in stiched repairs, and Ezekiah makes up for this shortfall with many gold rings on his fingers.

 "The dwarf, the slayer, yeah; he's in here every other night. Only joint in town that has dwarf ale, all the way up from Barak Varr. He didn't strike me as much of a slayer, mind you - not much of a mohawk, so I figure he's only recently spiralled. Not as rambunctious as dwarves often are, either."  He rubs his chin with one hand.  "Here, stick around. He's as likely to be here tonight as tomorrow night. He took in a show, last time. He has no use for the Fallen Heaven Chorus girls, though, so he'll likely come out for a fresh drink after Manc." 

He gives Jasmine a theatre bill penned on a well over-scraped piece of parchment. It suggests three shows in the evening:

 Orien the Bulbous and his Hilarious Dancing Cat
The Traditional Mousillon Comedy of Manc the Frogwife
The Fallen Heaven Chorus 

He orders a drink for Jasmine on the house.  "Try the frog's legs while you're here. Best in the world. The one thing Mousillon does well! Hey, are you any relation to Frubald Featherblossom, in Ubersreik?" 
 * * * * * 
Wighard's examination of Small Gaétan reveals, in addition to being born in such a compacted state, one leg is shorter than the other by a half inch. That wouldn't mean too much to normally proportioned people, but a lifetime of compensating for it has proven a terrible strain on the little man's hips, and now he's forced to choose between hobbling along awkwardly, hopping, using a crutch, or walking in circles, and none of them painlessly. There's no cure for a short leg - some people are just born unlucky - but if you were in Altdorf or somewhere civilized, you think even a set of shoes, one with a larger sole to offset the shortfall, would do wonders.

Inside the bistro element of  Fallen Heaven , Wighard fights the liver and onions decent - pungeunt enough to purge the Grismerie from his sinuses for a while.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Wighard Visual Perception Test at +0, on a Success... 
People leave you alone. Your faintly glowing eyes mark you as a spellcaster, but you dress and behave like someone who expects to be part of society. No one knows how to deal with you spontaneously, and so far, no one is drunk enough to guess.

What you do notice, as you finish your meal, is something unusual, creeping up the leg of your table - a skinny little leech, cobalt blue in color.
 
 
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard is quietly behaving himself and minding his own business, whilst also carrying at least two other practical tools of violence so he doesn't have to rely on the implicit threat of turning people into newts just to see if they'd survive in the Grismerie.

It is whilst idly surveying the crowd for medical oddities and scanning the winds for any signs of magery that he notices the blue little leach on the table leg and keeps his distance whilst assessing it
dojango
Jasmine laughs.   "Oh, you know ol' Frubald?  One o' my husband's cousins.  Got us a big ol' silver tureen for our weddin'.  Said it fell off the back of an oxcart.  Streets near his house are real bad, you know?  Lotta stuff falls off down there.  I knew he had... acquantainces all over but I never thought I'd run inta one out here.  Hey, speakin' of silver ya know any silversmiths around here?  Lookin' ta get a silver necklace or mebbe some silver beads about this big... "  she holds up one of the lead shot for her firearm.  " I'll keep a lookout for the dwarf once night falls then.  Some o' those shows sound interestin' enough.  Hey, and speakin' o' lads who don't got much use for chorus girls, ya know a fancy feller named Ernald Dandycrust?  He was trapped in L'Anguille when the troubles started and I'm wonderin' if he made it out before the siege lines were drawn.  He's too clever by half so hopefully he didn't **** up his escape by over-complicatin' it. "

 
 Spoiler 
Suppose some literal silver bullets, purchased on the sly, couldn't hurt.
 
MrAbdiel
  "Dandycrust? Dandycrust. Dandycrust."  Shortshin clicks his tongue as he repeats the name, drawing the memory up.  "Heard the name, but not met. He's  Quinsberry , I thought; trying to build chapters in Bretonnia for years, they are. A few years ago we'll have some Quinsberry boys try to move in in Mousillon, saying Mootfolk are like mold because we'll live in any crack in the wall, not afraid of hardship or circumstance. I'll talk to the boss - not Dandycrust, but another bloke who dropped the name - I'll tell the guy, 'buddy, you're not ready for this wall. You don't want to live in these cracks. Heh.'"  He takes a slug of some beverage from a flask, then raps his knuckles on the bar so the scrawny human barkeep comes to refill it with rum.

 "I think the Ecourchers ran them down. Put them in sacks, sold them to some scumbag powderrunners. Someone told me they sell them to ogre bands - cook or be cooked, see? - and another guy says they use them for sport fights. Get then sick with the rabies, then make them fight when they're starved and lunatic. Bet on 'em, you know? But that story sounds a little nutty, even to me. And I like stories. And nuts." 
 
 Spoiler: Jasmine Flashback 

 The ships that Jasmine is looking for are the ones that haven't been following normal procedures for breaking bulk. Ones that have posted guards, docked in the outer regions of the harbor, and strictly forbade the use of open flame lighting while unloading. After all, nobody's quite sure what would happen if a powdership were to have an uncontrolled fire, and nobody wants to find out. Most of the ships that meet those criteria are fairly straightforward, but there's one that's been docked in the harbor for nearly a week and still doesn't seem to have been unloaded. Jasmine goes to check it out once the sun's gone down. As she gets closer to the unguarded gangplank, she sees some strange carvings on the side of the ship. Looking closely, it's the halfling symbols for 'this man is a known cheat'. Curious, she decides to investigate further. Moving across one of the hatchways, suddenly, it gives way! She yelps out as she falls, and to her surprise, she's surrounded by the mad halflings. " Help, help, they've gone baggins! " she shouts up, as she grabs her shield and uses it to fend them off. 
 
 
wilphe
Wighard will flag down one of the passing members of staff

  Sorry, I am not tremendously familiar with the local fauna

Do you, know what this is?  
MrAbdiel
 The serving girls actively avoid Wighard. They flinch away when addressed and keep clear of his table entirely, and they're not subtle about - he frightens them. For all the maltreatment wizards received in the empire, here was a land where there were no formal institutions of sorcerers at all - just a mysterious league of blessed, magical women who rode out of the forest and spoke for the Lady in the land. The only experience Bretonnians at large had with male wizards were a mythically small handful of troublemakers that had no place in society at all, and those that came across the sea or the mountains with their foreign ways and strangeness. And that was without even factoring in Mousillon, which is a pit to rival the stories of Mordheim. Eventually, Wighard the White is forced to rise from the table and speak to the scrawny bartender, who is oblidged to give him attention on account of the money changing hands. He pries himself away from the orbit of Jasmine and Ezekiah Shortshin (who seem to be getting along just fine) to hear Wighard's question about the leech - even following him over to the table to look. But when they return, the creature is gone; only leaving a faint patina of mucus gleaming on the table leg from the creature's attempts to climb.

The bartender shrugs, and based on the description, gives an unhelpful guess:  "Couldn't say. Probably something crawled out of the Grismerie, but I wouldn't touch." 

Over at the bar, Shortshin adds to his previous commentary to the former riverwarden:  "As far as those 'beads'... Well, I wouldn't buy local. You don't get that, uh.. necessary lustre from alloyed silver, and it's pretty rubbish around here. Not brightsmith in town as far as I know, but I'll see if I can't find someone with a crucible you could snatch up. Then all you need is a fistful of silver shillings, and a press, and you can cast your own jewelry."  Given that the Nutcracker has a bullet handpress to match its barrel (and near enough to the group's pistols), it strikes her as doable. 
wilphe
Wighard thanks the man, leaves his server an outrageous tip just to see if they take it and lingers near Jasmine to give her the opportunity to introduce him whilst starting work on a bottle of porter
dojango
" Oh yeah, I heard the rumors about the kidnappings too.  Dandycrust was still safe when we left town, but in these days, who can tell?  Things went from bad to worse in L'Anguille and Dandycrust said he was gonna try and get out.  Maybe even here, gods help him.  If he turns up, or any halfling refugees from L'Anguille turn up here, tell em' that the offer ta settle down at Sault is still good. "

Once Wighard sits down, she adds " Well, ifn' ya can find that crucible and have it dropped off at our quarters I'd consider it a great favor. "  She turns to Wighard and hands him the playbill.

Orien the Bulbous and his Hilarious Dancing Cat
The Traditional Mousillon Comedy of Manc the Frogwife
The Fallen Heaven Chorus

" Bruno and Bert might get a kick outta the Chorus and I'd like ta see the Dancin' cat.  Our dwarf contact might show up afters, too, and I'd think we should try ta meet him here and offer him a drink or five ."
farothel
 "Kick out of what chorus,"  Bruno said as he came back down after the interrogation.  It had gone rather well and he wanted to let the others know what they had found out.
dojango
" Dancin' girls.  Mousillon's finest.  Maybe some singin'.  And afters we might find our dwarf contact. "
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard bows at Shortshin and clicks heels. He doesn't raise the issue of the uniform, that's for Shortshin to bring up if he wishes but he is glad to see what looks like another Imperial.

  Wighard Rauschenberg, Stabsarzt in his Imperial Majesty's Service, and at your service.

I apologise if I have unnerved your waitstaff, I guess I am disturbing even by Mousillon standards.   

He stratches his left eyebrow

  I won't say I am harmless but I mean them no harm.  

He looks at Jasmine

  This entertainment is here, or nearby?  
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Jasmine: Where's the Entertainment? 
As for where the entertainment is, Jasmine having arrived early to scope the Fallen Heaven out, the answers are known to her. The lower floor and front of the building is this sprawling, packed drinking establishment and eatery - the best in a city of bad selections. But above the tavern (and behind it, overhanging the river some) is a great theatre and music hall where the shows take place.

And above  that  is a warren of small rooms that principally supply privacy for the Fallen Heaven's  professionals , though no doubt a considerable amount of less primal transactions take place up there too.
 


Ezekiah Shortshin remains composed at Wighard's introduction (apart from visibly flinching at the click of heels - a parade ground gesture mistaken for a mystical one, suggesting despite his uniform he has not himself served).

 "Ah... Ezekiah Shortshin. Proprietor and publican. You're a long way from his Imperial Majestic lands, master Rauschenberg. You stick out like a foot, at a sore thumb convention. They're every bit as superstitious here as elsewhere in the world, but I think it's the appearance as well as that... show of magical force earlier that has people wary. But trust me, a town like this? You're better to be feared than loved." 

As the rest of the Company begins to assemble, and the likelihood they'll begin talking about their reasons to be in Mousillon - reasons Ezekiah is interested in hearing about only second hand, where it's safe - he excuses himself.

 "I'll send over a plate of legs." 

He gives the tabletop a knock, and gestures to the bartender to keep the table in refreshment, before getting a deniable distance from the troublemakers. 
dojango
Once Shortshin leaves, Jasmine tells Bruno and Wighard, " There's a theater in the back.  Word is the dwarf slayer comes in ta drink here most nights.  I reckon he can lead us to the... " she pauses as the plate of frogs legs are delivered.  Once the server is out of earshot she lowers her voice and says, " I reckon he can lead us to the vampire hunter.  Once we meet him we can find out about our quarry and about our latest assailant. "
wilphe
  And if he doesn't show up tomorrow we can see Lanfranco. Or we think that's a bad idea?  
dojango
" If'n ya got some wizardly way to find where he's lurkin' then we can go see him direct.  But I don't want ta wander around town askin' people if they seen a guy who wants to keep quiet.  That's a surefire way to get him ta go ta ground. "
wilphe
  The more mobile and lucid of the survivors from earlier said he's holed up on the  Damoiselle Vert  at the docks

Finding him shouldn't be a problem, it's a question of whether we think his potential value as an ally is worth cold-calling a paranoid crime lord  
dojango
" Oh yeah, the crime lord guy.  Uh, let's call that 'Plan L' for last resort. "
farothel
 "I'm up for a bit of theatre,"  Bruno said with a smile,  "and with a dwarven slayer, there will certainly be theatre." 
He looked at Grimgoth.
 "Any particularities we have to know when dealing with these slayers,"  he asked,  "I only have heard rumours and one of the things that they all say is that these slayers tend to be touchy and I'd rather not make a faux pas." 
MrAbdiel
 The frog legs are the size of chicken drumsticks, and they are amazing. There is a reason frogs and frog legs form Mousillon's greatest (legal) export - while everything else in this down seems to be on the rapid slide to rot and ruin, those who can convince themselves in the Bretonnian fashion that frogs are in fact for eating are delighted at how succulent and flavourful the little leaper's limbs are properly prepared. They come breaded with three sauces - one cheesy, one tangy, one mild and pleasantly sour. Bertelis assures the companions, in a moment of lucid emergency from his fugue, that the snails are also top notch - if you dare to try them. But the frogs are a strong cantidate for  most pleasant part of your experience in Mousillon , running.

The theatre is a matter of taste. Or lack there of - as it turns out,  theatre  is something of a generous term.

You squeeze into the gallery that evening with the horde of variously inebriated, malformed locals. The Grismerie has innoculated your nostrils to bad smells, but you imagine the press of humanity would have bothered your olfactory senses a few days ago. Your company is afforded a modicum more space than most folk are - people keeping distance from Wighard, when they notice him. It's all standing room - but there's a couple of wooden boxes against the left wall which children and the infirm seem to use to elevate themselves to see the stage. Providing Jasmine and Gimgroth don't consider this insulting, the option is available to them as well.

Orien the Bulbous is a predictably fat man - though how he manages to be fat in such a town is a mystery. His legs and arms manage to be reedy and thin so he comes off as a kind of manic marionette himself capering across the stage with fiddle in hand. He has a small backup band that play through their crowdwarming ditties and lurid sailor songs. The dancing cat is a lazy looking black furred feline who is admirably inured to being in a room full of drunk reprobates howling and throwing things. It is missing its front paws, so it gets about by hopping up on its back legs and dashing about on the back legs like some sort of prissy, long tailed mongoose. A regular stream of projectiles come from the crowd trying to hit the cat, and some even succeed; but there's no knives or big rocks. It's mostly frog bones, but there's pennies and the occasional scrap of meat. The cat snatches up the latter as soon as they hit the stage. Orien rakes the former together with one foot while he plays, and scrapes them into a bucket at the end of each song.

The Traditional Mousillon Comedy of Manc the Frogwife turns out to be an ugly middle aged man dressed like an old woman, putting on a shrill old woman voice and telling jokes mostly in the form of stories from 'her' life. Manc the Frogwife seems to have had at least nine different husbands, all of which died in some lurid manner. The cornerstone of this routine is impressively filthy. Manc's average joke is the kind of tasteless raunch available in grimy taverns from one end of the world to the other. Manc's  worst  jokes are so eye-wateringly foul they'd make a Marienburg pimp's tongue shrivel in his mouth to recite. The locals, of course, think this is all hilarious, but they're getting roudy and impatient by the end of the set, and Manc knows to get out while the getting's good to make way for what they're all really here for.

The Fallen Heaven chorus is a line of ladies who emerge onto the stage at a spritely jog and arrange themselves in a line, hands on each other's shoulders, for their dance routine while Orien's band emerges again to play their music. Those Companions who have had reason to investigate similar houses of carnal exhibition may be as shocked as those new to the experience. In most of the world, a dancing girls routine attempts to feature a modicum of subtlety to enhance the performance. Here, they emerge completely naked except for a variety of different hats and veils, the central most trio wearing wimples recalling the headwear of the Lady's damsels. Thus, however lewd the performance, they are atleast observant of the Bretonnian custom of keeping a woman's hair covered.

Bertelis cracks before the line has even formed on stage, red faced and mortified, and begins beating a path back to the bar. He's not the only one. While this is the house's second-to-main attraction, it's also the best time for the dedicated alcoholics to receive the most attention from the barkeep, and so the handful of folk with no interest in naked, apparently non-deformed women and those with a primary interest in drinking in peace slink out to the bar together. This is the time Ezekiah suggested you might find your dwarf, and he was not wrong.

Visible now in the diminished occupation of the tavern is a dwarf, drinking a fresh flagon of stout alone on a stool at one side of the room. He has some of the look you've expected of a slayer - hair shaved but for the centre strip, and that spiked up with some kind of fat or wax; but the fan of upright hair is only a few inches tall. He has a stronger tan on his arms than his pale chest, and seems reasonably strong; though a perceptive glance can tell the hands are calloused out of proportion to the muscles of the arms - a craftsman, more than a warrior or labourer. A hand axe and smithing hammer hang from his belt, and a shard of baked clay on a rawhide thread around his neck. He has few tattoos, but Gimgroth would immediately recognize the one on his right forearm as the runes for Khazid Frukund.

This must be Kharmraz Sternhearth - kinslayer. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What an excellent time for a charm roll for first impressions. Dwarves are clannish enough that Gimgroth's roll is the one that matters here. Factoring in loneliness, bearlessness, dwarfishness, reputation, and everything, I'll give Gimgroth a +30% on his charm test to make a positive impression on Kharmraz, if he intends to.

If he wants to make a negative impression, well.. He can do that for free.
 
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5  


With the duties of a military doctor including the inspection, treatment and certification of "Girls of Joy" - especially in winter outside the campaign season - there isn't much about this that can phase Wighard; particularly as what he's seen has already more or less killed any desire to partake himself.

He gives a brief stare for professional reasons and then follows Bertelis back upstairs
LarsWester
 Gimgroth 
 
 Spoiler: Earlier Interrogation Bad Cop Scene 

Bruno after taking his turn interrogating leaves the captive to Gimgroth.  The dwarf silently walks up to the man cleaning the recently spilled blood off the head of his hammer.   Once a mere foot or two from the man the dwarf sets his hammer down placing the head of it on the man's foot.  The dwarf leans towards the man placing on of his feet on the head of the hammer such that he could control the amount of pressure squeezing the poor souls toes just by shifting his considerable weight.
 Tell me everything you can think of about Lanfranco and the Sang D'Argent.  How would one go about arranging a meeting on neutral ground? 
 

Gimgroth frowned as the crowds poured into the theatre.  After tapping the fourth human who stood in front of him to make way he gave up any hope at actually seeing anything.   He offered to have Jasmine stand on his shoulders for Orien and his cat's performance.   When it came time for Manc's comedy Gimgroth laughed at what jokes he understood some of them were definitely seasoned with local slang and human references that went over his head.   Gimgroth grew bored of the theatre and left before the dancing ladies came on stage.   He laughed harder at the red faced Bertelis fleeing the theatre than at any of Manc's off-colour jokes.    It was this outburst of laughter that bought him to the attention of Kharmraz Sternhearth the young slayer at the bar.   Gimgroth noticed his tattoos declaring him of Karak Frukund.  Gimgroth approached the slayer cautiously and offered a warm but not overly friendly grunt before adding   Best beer I've had in awhile. This land is too full of wine.  If I wanted grape juice I'd ask a toddler.  
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

  DwarvishCharmVs42  - (1d100)[ 9 ] 
 
dojango
From atop her perch on Gimgroth's shoulders, Jasmine is disappointed by the dancing cat.  " I donno what I was expectin' but it weren't that, " she tells him.  She hucks an uneaten frog leg at the cat for it to feast on.  She does not toss any coins.  The comedy is more to her liking, and she laughs at the jokes and the stories.  Even though it is told in badly accented Bretonnian, she is able to pick up the meanings of a lot of the slang terms from context and the detailed hand gestures made by the performer, and she files away the knowledge for academic purposes.  However, as the crowd begins to press up against the stage in anticipation of the final act, she ends up being carried away by Gimgroth since he isn't able to put her down, and she follows him to the bar, not wanting to get caught up and trampled by the rowdy audience.  She sits with him and responds, " Hey, we been feedin' the orphans a steady diet of wine and hard-tack and they're growin' like weeds.  It's good fer the lads. "

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d100)[ 32 ]  v. 51 charm
 
wilphe
Wighard knows he doesn't understand much of the nuances of Dwarven culture but knows that slayers are not to be taken lightly. So he will quietly guide Bertelis to another part of the bar and let the demi-humans sort this out.

He will also keep an eye out to see if the Becassine is in the crowd, or if any trouble is about to hit

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 31 ]  Perception 111
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Earlier Interrogation with Gimgroth 
 "Neutral ground? With his men getting pulled off the streets and turned against him? He has his back to the wall in the Damselle Vert, and nothing short of burning it down would get him out. And the Sang... We-... They used to run most of the enterprise in the docks. Less crazy than the others, like I said. But they might not be so now. We've been suffering..." 

One thing seems likely - these exiled goons, having been dragooned into the service of a competing power, are of no use to you getting close to Lanfranco. Gang leaders who forgive treachery don't reign long.
 


Kharmaz looks surprised to see another dwarf; so surprised he takes an extra second to comprehend the content of the words. It's a heartbeat of pause Gimgroth is well familiar with. It's the same pause the beardless veteran experienced in himself when meeting other dwarves in his travels this last year, in which a surge of self conciousness about one's shame paralyzes the throat. But the slayer's shame is on display in his hair and garb, and Gimgroth's in his truncated beard; so both immediately have that in common, rather than hanging over them. And Jasmine's added presence as another obvious outsider thaws his initial hesitation further.

 "Heh. Well, 'tis a drink for elves, children, and the desperately poor - and I'm only in danger if being the latter if I drink too fast." 

The three hit it off well. Kharmaz comes off as a very lonely dwarf indeed, perhaps why he so regularly attends a public show he doesn't seem to enjoy; not at all the storied image of a slayer, a fearless weapon of Grimnir flung frothing and doom-filled into the jaws of evil. He's a craftsdwarf, who served his tenure as a middling warrior in the tunnels fighting the hated  grobi  and takes axe to hand when the horns of war blow in the Karak, but otherwise he was content to spend his life at the forge doing detail smithing on works of craftsdwarfship for thanes, and nobles, and greater warriors than he. To both Jasmine and Gimgroth, who have each faced terrible death on many occasions and proven their mettle, Kharmaz does not have the bearing of a frightful warrior born.

He is likely to be a very successful slayer indeed, given the profession's unusual objective.

 "C'n you believe that poor bloody cat? Hardest worker up there, I think. Heh. But... What're you both doing here, in Mousillon?" 

Over at the bar, Bertelis sits between Wighard and Bruno, goes through half a cup of wine very quickly, and begins to do some of the unravelling he is due to do since the encounter on the bridge.

 "Do you think..." He speculates, in a low thoughtful voice as if contemplating his ability to change events,  "...We could have gotten here sooner? If we had... gone overland, perhaps. Sailed down the Grismerie..." 

This is foolishness - the time cut off the journey to Mousillon by the teleporting miracle of the Black Crypt, where Meloth made his sacrifice, is more than could have been made up going any other way. But the mind grasps, in such times.

 "Gods, no. My brother... Mahieu might have been the best of us. I should have... I don't know..."  
farothel
Bruno wasn't all that interested in the 'entertainment'.  He kept near the back of the room and looked around for anything out of the ordinary, insofar as he could see such in this environment.  When the entertainment was done and everybody headed to the bar, he did too, keeping a bit back and letting Gimgroth handle things for now and looking around to see who was interested in either the group or Gimgroth talking to the slayer.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

perception:  (1d100)[ 53 ]  vs 69
 
wilphe
Wighard isn't going to reason or argue with Bertelis, he's just going to listen and let him work it out, and if necessary stop him drinking too much too quickly
dojango
Jasmine just says, " We've had a heckuva journey to get here.  Storms and revolutions and rat-men.  Stirpike and skraelings.  All ta get the knight to his new fief, ya know?  We're gonna help him run it.  But worst of all we ran into... " she puts two fingers downward in front of her mouth in an imitation of fangs.  " Damn thing tried ta attack us in the middle of the day!  I thought they had more sense than that.  Ya know any way to a put a stop to those fang-boys? "
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I mean, you guys did smash those Charm rolls. The guy's charmed.
 


Kharmaz looks around to make sure the group isn't being overheard, but the chorus is drawing most of the Fallen Heaven's activity right now, and those that aren't are too serious about their drinking to be overly concerned about anyone elses.

 "Mousillon's riddled with 'em. I've helped in killing one of them - in that case, it was just a matter of landing the blows. They're fast and strong but they're flesh and blood. Mostly, I think. My... friend knows more than I do, on the matter. But if you don't want to get caught in a long war against those buggers, I suggest getting out of town quickly. If that's an option you have. But I've got to stay and... Well, I've got something to do."  
LarsWester
Gimgroth grabs his mug and raises it to Kharmaz.    "To the veins that must be mined, to the gold that need be refined.  To the strength and will bent to the task,  to the last drop of the flask."  
After his toast to this fellow shame bearing dwarf Gimgroth rubs the stubble on his chin subconsciously before continuing.
  "I bet few come to Mousilon without a dire task to complete.  We have our own three or four things must be accomplished before we can leave this cursed place behind us.   Perhaps we could be of mutual assistance to each other.   I seek some relics that I've heard are located in the area.  Jasmine here is as fine a halfling as you'll ever meet and a great shot with a rifle.  Nearly shot the face of one of them fanged things that accosted us on the bridge.  A shot worth a song to be sure.  What task has fate thrown you to complete before you depart this place?  
MrAbdiel
  "I..."
 
He begins, pauses, but decides it feels good to talk about these things.

 "My hammer - it's a family relic, and I performed a deed most wicked with it. I know what must be done to repay that deed - I've accepted it. But the tool itself has meaning, and it requires redemption too. I need to use it to smite down to death something as foul by nature as my deed was to honor - then it'll be redeemed to its purpose. Else all the works made with it will carry the stain of what I've done."  
dojango
" That's good advice, " Jasmine says.  " I wish we could take it.  But the fang boy that attacked us... turns out it's his lordship's brother.  Or... it was his lordship's brother.  It's best to think of him as dead already.  Legally speaking, he is already.  If you think your friend can help with that we'd be eternally obliged to you if'n you could introduce us.  As far as we're concerned we can't leave town until his brother is properly interred. "
MrAbdiel
 The slayer begins to look nervous. Perhaps more awkward than nervous.

 "My friend - ... Well, he's a little... unusual. Eccentric, you might say. Maybe we can group up tomorrow - I know we're looking for reliable help. But... Well, he's proven himself to me. That's the best guarantee I can give." 


Meanwhile, over by the bar, Bertelis is working his way through the shallow waters of his grief between Wighard and Bruno...

 
 Spoiler: Perception -20% (Visual) - Wighard 
The results of this test are for the successfully rolled perception from Wighard only. Snooping further may result in less fun and mystery for you. 
 Spoiler: You've been warned. 
You see that little oddity again - just a flash of the slick little blue leech, just as it vanishes under the cuff of Bruno's right hand glove.
 

 

 
 Spoiler: Perception -20% (Visual) - Bruno 
The results of this test are for the successfully rolled perception from Bruno only. Snooping further may result in less fun and mystery for you. 
 Spoiler: You've been warned. 
You detect nothing out of the ordinary. It's possible that in Wilphe's post, Wighard is going to insist something is there for Bruno to see - but Bruno does not see it, no matter how plain the wizard says it is.
 

 
 
dojango
Jasmine looks over at where Wighard and Bertelis are.  " I ain't no stranger to 'eccentric' so don't worry about that. "
wilphe
 Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5 

Wighard instantly drops into serious medical mode, that tone of voice and expression that means you do what he says with no argument because he isn't messing about

  BRUNO

Right glove

Off now  

Fortunately they are in Mousillon, he expects leeches and has at least two ways of dealing with them to hand, left hand goes for salt, right hand goes for knife
farothel
 "Wait, what,"  Bruno said, looking at this right glove,  "there's nothing here.  See.  What did you see?" 
wilphe
  
Leach

Magical

Glove

Off

Now  
farothel
Bruno still didn't see anything, but he had been in the group for long enough to know that Wighard knew his magic, so if he saw something magical, Bruno wasn't about to argue.  He took his glove off and put it on the table or whatever surface was readily available.
 "I still don't see a thing,"  he said,  "can you describe exactly what you see?" 
MrAbdiel
 There it is - a tiny blue bloodsucker, moving across the back of Bruno’s hand as if selecting which of the veins to tap.

 
 Spoiler: Private Info for Bruno 
Bruno sees, and feels, nothing of the sort.
 


At the table of the shortfolk, the slayer gives a little self-reassuring nod.  “Alright. Alright, maybe… come back here tomorrow night. I’ll see if we can’t have a meeting in one of the private rooms. A clean one.” 
 
 Spoiler: Private Info for Jasmine, Gimgroth 
In the off chance Gimgroth or Jasmine come over to check out the commotion…  
 Spoiler: Successful +20 Perception Check 
…they also see no creature of that kind no matter how much Wighard insists it is there.
 
  
 Spoiler: Failed +20 Perception Check 
…they also see no creature of that kind no matter how much Wighard insists it is there.
 

 
 
wilphe
Wighard slips the point of the knife slightly behind the leach

  Good it hasn't bitten yet, that could be problematic.  

He tips the salt on it
MrAbdiel
 The salt splashes out of its jar, entombing the azure annelid in a saline snowdrift. However odd its coloration, it seems to have no unusual means of escape or defence.

 
 Spoiler: Healing Rolls... 
...Just kidding, this is such a routine matter it would be insane to make anyone roll anything beyond spotting it. It'd be like demanding a WS check every morning to shave without slitting your own throat.
 
 
dojango
Jasmine turns to watch Wighard and Bruno for a moment.  The wizard is being 'eccentric' again, she notices.  " Yah, I think your friend will fit right in with our friends, " she says.  " Was nice ta meet someone friendly in this town, glad yer here, " she says to the dwarf.
wilphe
Wighard waits a few moments then dusts off the salt with the knife to examine this thing
MrAbdiel
Bafflingly, when the salt is brushed away, there is no trace of it - not even any clumps of salt crystals to have cohered around the creature’s moisture. With no where for it to have gone, your medical opinion can only be that it just… vanished.
wilphe
He sniffs and at looks at Bruno

  You feel ok? Its a leach of course so you probably shouldn't feel anything even if it is inside you, but I have to ask  
farothel
 "I'm fine,"  Bruno said, looking at his hand,  "what exactly did you see there?  And why salt?" 
wilphe
  I saw a tiny blue leach with a hint of magic on me whilst I was eating, but it had gone before I could ask any of the locals about it. That's what was on you.  

He shrugs

  I knew we were in Mousillon so I came prepared for leeches. Usually you can just let them drink their fill and drop off, sometimes it might even do you good. If you have to, slide a knife or something underneath them and they'll usually let go.

You don't want to use salt or fire on them if they are attached because they'll vomit back into your blood and you definitely don't want to rip or pull them off because that can leave the head behind still in you

Never seen one like that before though  
MrAbdiel
 The dwarf finishes his drink and bids Jasmine and Gimgroth farewell for now, leaving them to regroup with there companions and share their success. With no additional leeches manifesting in the evening, you call the night a win and bring yourselves (and a somewhat worse for wear Bertelis) back toward your quarters ... Where it seems your seeking has born fruit well ahead of time.

 * * * * * 
Standing in front the door to your rented quarters is a tall figure of a man whose eyes are tracking you the moment you round the corner into sight - certainly waiting for you. He wears a panoply of fine leathers and dark grey silks, with wrapped hilt of an exotic curved blade poking over his shoulder. He's festooned with an adventurer's wealth in pouches and sheathes, and all his buckles and tokens have graven iconography whose meaning is lost to your eyes - but the buckle on his hat is clearly featuring the likeness of a wading bird, like an ibis or a snipe.

Not to bury the lede, most outlandish features of his appearance are not his clothes. A crop of loose black hair is arrested by his hat, but his skin is very dark indeed, and recalls tales of those dark skinned tribes dwelling deep in the southlands beyond even the realm of Araby. Where his skin is visible from neck to temples, faint silver-white markings shine in strange patterns on his flesh; and red eyes glow in the shadow beneath the brim of his hat.

 La Becassin  opens his arms slowly to either side - perhaps to show he is not holding a weapon, perhaps in a gesture of invitation. In thickly accented Reikspiel (curled both with Bretonnian and some other affect from his exotic heritage) he offers plainly:

  "Well. Here I am."  
 
 Spoiler: OOC: La Becassin, Vampire Hunter 
 
 Blame Wilphe. 
 
 
wilphe
  Wighard W 11/14 FP 4/5  


Not to be done in the dramatic posing department Wighard casually lets Kwolf  swoop down onto his left shoulder and gives him a little stroke before a minor bow

  There you are indeed.

The Company of the Burning Slug greets you.

Do you wish to join us, or you have another idea where we can talk  
farothel
 "Good evening, monsieur,"  Bruno replies,  "I know the hour grows late, but might I offer you a small libation while we discuss items of mutual interest." 
MrAbdiel
 La Becassin's eyes shift between the speakers. He makes a gesture with his hand of concession to the invitation to drink, and speak.  "Inside, here, is fine." 

Kharmaz, the dwarven slayer, emerges a moment layer from around the other side of the house where, judging by his mid-stride struggle with the laces of his trousers, he had been urinating into the river.  "I knocked on the door, but the little guy inside wouldn't open up, and I didn't want to bash the door in. Becassin, that's them.  Them, that's La Becassin." 
 "I know, Kharmaz. They dusted Lord Armata Kleinholtz, in Westvein." 

The strange man's eyes shift briefly to the jewel-hilted rapier on Gimgroth's person, then back to the door of the house.

 "May I come in?" 
 * * * * * 
Presuming an invitation follows, you are soon arrayed inside at the roughcut dining table. Small Gaétan's crutch hasn't arrived yet, but he's more than happy to stay away from this conversation in another room, flopped down on to a blanket and sleeping off the day's trials. Becassin clearly disturbs him to see, and he's happy to put your hardy crew between him, and the stranger.

 "Kharmaz says you're here hunting someone's brother."  He looks at the slowly sobering, but clearly distraught Bertelis and makes a logical inference. The knight watches him with detached, but weighty wariness.  "...You have my condolences. But I'm sure you have some questions about me. Let me answer some of the more obvious ones." 

He lifts a hand and extends his thumb - one.

 "Yes, I am." 

He extends his index finger - two.

 "It's possible - but not without considerable moral effort. Humans are creatures defined by our brevity. Give them immortality, and the slide towards madness and cruelty is almost undeniable. Almost." 

He extends his middle finger - three.

 "Older than any man alive. Younger than most elves." 

He drops his hand to the table, and leans back in his chair, apparently sure he's cleared the air of the three most likely inquiries.

 "Anything else you're inclined to ask, I invite it. There's a lot of work to be done in this city - much easier with allies. Otherwise... Why don't you tell what you intend to accomplish, in Mousillon?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You don't need to go the distance of recapping everything I've told you about everything - an abstract "I update him on the situation with the Red Knight and Sul Konarr the chaos knight" will do.

I moved the scene forward a bit even though there could have been some intervening eyeballing and character judgement, but only because the essense of the moment is that this is not a trap. La Becassin does seem to be the ally Wighard was divinely prompted to expect, and he does seem to be genuinely interested in assisting you, if he can count on your assistance likewise.
 
 
wilphe
 the little guy inside wouldn't open up, 
  Good job Gaetan, open up its us  


Wighard looks at the Bécassine


  Won't you come in  

He greets Schlapp with a doggy bag and also brings something hot for Gaetan and entirely approves of him making himself scarce whilst giving the place a once over to see if anything is changed or different, Kwolf meanwhile returns to a nearby rooftop


Wighard is otherwise entirely at ease, perhaps even glad to meet another of the Raven Lord's off-the-books agents. He appreciates that the rest of the Company might not share his trust, and helps Bertelis off his feet


  Forgive him, he's had a hard day of distressing revelation.

Talk quietly if you please, I don't like to talk in front of the servants because they aren't being paid to deal with this ****, I respect their off-time and if they don't know anything they can't betray us accidently or deliberately. Besides Gaetan has yet to reach the status of permanent and trusted, I evaluate him as being at the stage where he'd feel guilty about betraying us but would still do it


Slight correction Westvein is where we all met, but only the three of us and the new Lord fought Armata, Jasmine and Bruno joined up soon afterwards. That was a hell of a fight, individually we have had worse days but that was probably the closest we've ever come to dying as a group  
  Anything else you're inclined to ask, I invite it.  
  Four, did you actually need to be invited in or was that just politeness?

As we are to work together it would be helpful to know what your weakness are

Five, how can we help you, because we have a long list of people to kill and a specific order to do it in  

He will brief the Bécassine fully but not reveal unnecessary information about his companions because that's up to them
farothel
Bruno will see if there's some cups somewhere and pour a drop of spirits from his flask in two cups, one for La Becassin and one for Kharmaz.  They might end up not working together, but it never hurt to be polite.  He will let Wighard do the talking, just adding a few things if he wizard forgot something (or hadn't been present when something that might be of importance had taken place).

 "Well, the long and the short of it is that we need to find some beings in a specific order to retrieve some important things that shouldn't be in said being's hands... or claws,"  he summarized,  "we can sure use your assistance, especially in finding said beings.  If there is anything you require of us to render this assistance, I'm sure we can come to some form of arrangement.  And I believe that these beings we search are on your list as well, at least one of them." 
MrAbdiel
 La Bécassine grins a little at Wighard's first question, showcasing a little fang and appreciation for his attention to detail. He gives an evasive response.

 "I am in the habit of confirming every rumor and stereotype about weakness at all times. It has saved me from destruction more than once. Killing vampires, after all, is largely a matter of learning the target's weakness and leveraging it against them. There are grand tales of defeating vampires on the battlefield, man-to-man. Gunther van Hel's campaign against the knights of the Blood Keep; Willhelm III tackling old Vlad off the battlements of Altdorf..."  His eyes track to Jasmine, and to the barrel of the weapon poking up over her shoulder.  "That firearm took Carlos von Carstein back in the third Vampire War. But that was as much bullet, as gun. The point is that it is rarely wise to match strength with a vampire on their own terms and seek to overpower them. They are rarely created from less than promising individuals to begin with, and have unholy strength added to their own. The gods have fixed them with weaknesses for men to exploit, but they are not all fixed equally. Learning those weaknesses is part of the hunt." 

When it comes to talking about how you can help him, the answer is forthcoming though not especially comforting.  "I'm here because killing vampires serves my purposes. It's part of what I must do to prevent myself becoming  like  them. Working together to root out the Red Knight and put him down for good is all I seek - but as you've explained yourself, that can't happen without excising the plaguelord's champion and minions as well. I've fought such creatures before, but I'm not sure there are many parties in the Old World with more experience fighting those creatures. I shall teach you about hunting my quarry, and I shall help you hunt yours. But make no mistake - you have not come to Mousillon to perform two assassinations. You have come to enact a campaign of destuction upon two small armies, rending them both into fragments piece by peice so that neither is unbalanced against the other. Both bloodsucker and plagueprince have lieutenants with whom they are exerting influence all through Lost Town, warring with each other, dragging in innocents and ... relative innocents alike. This new spawn -" , he looks to Bertelis,  "is just the latest target of opportunity to be overpowered and turned to service. Your brother is a tool of your enemy, now; but he has many tools." 
 
"We have been asking if it is possible to... redeem, or cure this curse. If you are able to conduct yourself with something like honor... Can others do so? Is there a chance that my brother may yet be saved?" 
 "Saved from death? No. He is dead. Save his soul? That is the wrong question. We understand frightfully little about what we mean, and the gods mean, when we talk of souls. But saved from heaping misdeeds upon his head, so that your Lady of the Lake may call him to her side beyond this life? I don't know. Perhaps. But if he is already doing the Red Knight's bidding, he may be too far gone. This is a stair that can be descended, but never ascended. The fight is to stand still, where one has halted, and descend no further." 

This is naturally not a particularly encouraging answer for Bertelis, but he takes it into his melancholy to dwell upon. It seems to have some positive effect, and he begins rummaging in his belongings.

 "It's a worthy doom,"  Kharmaz adds,  "to banish this corrupt pair of covens. If I can strike down a bloodsucker of beast of the plague god before I fall, I will go to my ancestors without shame."  He glances to Gimgroth. There is a space there where he might have vocalized a desire for the dwarven champion to see his possessions safeguarded back to his people if or when he falls - but it does not need to be spoken. They have made a fast bond over ale and looking past each other's shames; he trusts his fellow dwarf to do what is dwarven, when the time comes.

Bertelis lays a large, blank scroll over the table and begins to sketch out the city in light strokes of charcoal - his dilettante pursuit of map-making proving useful here again, on the verge of what a handful of very brave and dogged historians will come to call the Mousillon Sepsis War.

Bécassine sips from the cup Bruno poured for him, then offers it toward the centre of the table for a grim toast with the companions.

 "To a worthy doom. May it find all those who deserve it." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Mousillon Sepsis War begins. 
Gain 100XP. Feel free to post any more questions or interactions you want for this scene here - but the next step in the story is going to be a little more abstract.

Rather than play out two or three weeks of intense planning, skulking, ambushing and progress against the lieutenants of your two enemies, I'm going to instead ask, in a bramble-esque fashion, that everyone provide one short scene in this montage in which their character is the one who is playing the pivotal role in  the action. You could be firing the leading shot in an ambush, personally dragging down the enemy champion in a patrol you collided with, or watching in satisfaction as they fall into a trap you devised. The enemy you're acting against could be a vampire-spawn lieutenant of the Red Knight (so a low level vampire with any number of zombies, skeletons, and necromantic gribblies), or it could be a plague-ridden minion of Sul Konarr the Chaos Knight (so chaos devoted scoundrel who has proven themself capable, leading cultists and even lesser daemons). All this action takes place in the half-sunken, dilapidated and cursed back-end of Mousillon, so feel free to be as dramatic and destructible with terrain as suits your purposes. Give the scene of the conflict a little title - the Three Alley Ambush, the Poxwalker's Gambit, or whatever you like. It's a showcase scene for your character so try to make it cool.

I'll ask a couple of things.

1. This is meant to be a pretty gruelling little campaign of kinetic actions. You can choose to either take 1d5 Insanity points for the psychological toll or, alternatively, some kind of physical scar or war wound that will not provide a mechanical penalty, but will serve as a reminder of your little war in Mousillon.

2. Choose one of these two options:

a) A Specialist Weapon Group talent that you don't have, but someone else in the party does have.
OR
b) A Skill that someone else in the party has at a higher level of expertise than you (so Trained if you are untrained, +10 if you are trained, or +20 if you are +10). This skill can't be Dodge Blow, or Perception.

Work into your posted scene in some way how your character has learned this skill or talent from their comrade over the long period of their travel and service together, and how it's helping now. Then gain a that Talent, or else a level of training in that Skill. If this can work out so that everyone in the party is someone's "mentor" one time, everyone can have a bonus 50XP. Feel free to work out before posting who is learning what, in the OOC!
 
 
wilphe
The following morning Wighard will assemble with Gimgroth and Kharmaz; and the Bécassine if available, but temporarily without his armour

  I know you are still honour-bound to protect my life, and there is no one I would rather trust with it.

However, we have travelled apart for several months and I have irresponsibly been remiss in updating you with how my capabilities have grown during during our separation

As I have to brief our new allies on what I can and cannot do, it would be efficient to rectify this oversight at the same time   

He lifts a hand and extends his thumb

  Firstly, yes I do wear armour. Yes it inhibits casting, I still see myself as an army surgeon and my orders motto is   Do Not Cast if you Can Cut, do not Cut if you can Nurse  . Part of wearing armour is to make you think if casting is really necessary, another is that is generally useful in camp life. I have treated almost as many camp followers for cook fire burns as I have anything else.

Usually if you ever see me without it should be taken as a sign that I expect some very serious magic is about to go down. not right now though because I wish do some demonstrations and don't want to make my life harder  

He extends his index finger

  Secondly, yes I do carry a firearm. I have no particular expertise in reloading the thing. It may seem unusual for a wizard to carry one, but it is the same philosophy. Think hard before you pull the trigger  

He extends his middle finger

  Thirdly, yes I carry a shield. It also inhibits my casting, so deploying it usually means I am done casting. There was a time it was my only defence but I have developed some ability to avoid blows from having lots of people try to kill me. However I am not trained, so there is probably something in my balance or footwork that discerning eyes such as yours can tell me where I am going wrong   

He taps his axe

  Better than most wizards you will ever meet, not as a good as a trained warrior and frankly it is a waste to use me as such. Though I have stood alongside my comrades in melee many times.   
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 84 ]  Channelling 87
 


He begins to channel
  If you would please prepare for some sparring Gimgroth. As you should shortly see I can put up some formidable magical defences, but it takes time and I am vulnerable if ambushed. That should be the time your services are most vital  
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (2d10)[ 4 ][ 8 ](12)  TN 8


Radiant Sentinel
Casting Number: 14
Casting Time: Full action
Ingredient: A buckler (+2)
Description: You create a ball of glowing light the size of a Human head that floats around your body, moving slowly or quickly as the situation demands. The ball deflects blows aimed against you, protecting you from harm. Once per round the radiant sentinel can parry a melee attack made against you, using your Will Power in place of Weapon Skill. This does not count towards your limit of one parry per round. The ball dissipates after a number of minutes equal to your Magic Characteristic ROS
 


He throws a buckler up in the air and it disappears into a glowing ball of light and gently circles his body

  This will last a couple of minutes, and its ability to intercept blows is dependent on my mind not my body. So even the typical wizard who does not share my ability in physical combat can become hard to hit. If you would like to begin Gimgroth  
LarsWester
Gimgroth listens intently digesting the newly gained abilities of his old colleague.    This is good Wighard.  Very good.   I am proud to be considered your friend.   Now I shall do as you ask but I won't hold back too much as I know that would stain your honor.   the dwarf drew his hammer which had shimmering blue ruins intertwined spiraling down the shaft.   He also took his shield into a tight grip on his left hand.    For Friendship and Kin.  he shouts as he salutes Wighard before launching a series of attacks on the wizard.
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

not sure if we just want to roleplay this out or roll this out.   I'm fine with either and will place my combat rolls in the next spoiler.
 
 Spoiler: CombatRolls 

  Attack1vs87  - (1d100)[ 47 ]    StrikeToStunvs66  - (1d100)[ 35 ]   Rounds  - (1d10)[ 1 ] 
  Attack2vs87  - (1d100)[ 25 ]    StrikeToStunvs66  - (1d100)[ 78 ]   Rounds  - (1d10)[ 5 ] 
  Attack3vs87  - (1d100)[ 16 ]    StrikeToStunvs66  - (1d100)[ 52 ]   Rounds  - (1d10)[ 8 ] 
  Attack4vs87  - (1d100)[ 42 ]    StrikeToStunvs66  - (1d100)[ 23 ]   Rounds  - (1d10)[ 7 ] 
If an attack is not parried or dodged then Toughness needs to be tested.  If you succeed on toughness test than no effect otherwise Wighard is stunned.  Gimgroth still can't bring himself to make mortally wounding attacks on his friend so going this route instead.
 

 
wilphe
Wighard is somewhat taken aback by the dwarven concept of sparring but somehow blocks or dodges every incoming blow bar the last, which sends him realing for over a minute




 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 19 ]  77 WP
 (1d100)[ 13 ]  Shield 54
 (1d100)[ 29 ]  Dodge 54

 (1d100)[ 75 ]  Toughness as necessary
 (1d100)[ 80 ]  Toughness
 (1d100)[ 29 ]  Toughness
 (1d100)[ 19 ]  Toughness
 
dojango
Jasmine unconsciously scoots her chair back from  Le Becassine  and makes sure the scarf around her neck is secure.  She glances back at the musket.  " Aye, I'm gonna be makin' some silver slugs later.  And then fry them up in garlic sauce an' serve them hot. "

After their experience dealing with the plague on the floating island, perusing a few medical books in her spare time, and of course, after watching Wighard intently she has picked up a passing familiarity with the medical arts; perhaps not enough to gain admittance to an elite physician's guild (especially since they don't usually admit women or halflings) but enough to be able to identify symptoms and provide some palliative advice.  And so, over the next few days, she spends her time wandering around with a scarf stuffed with herbs covering half her face trying to track the progress and spread of diseases.  After a few days she thinks she has a location pinpointed.  She spends most of the day carefully watching the isolated tenement, watching who goes in and watching who comes out, and starts to think of a plan...

That night, after the evening show, Jasmine and Shortshins sit at a table.  She tells him, " What I need is three barrels of gunpowder and a sack of ten-penny nails... "

"I don't think I can find gunpowder here," replies Ezekiel.

" What about naptha? "

A long pause.

" A hogshead of turpentine... "

He shakes his head.

" Grease?  Can I get any grease? "  the smell of cooking wafts out of the kitchens.

"That, I think, can be arranged."  Ezekial smiles.

" Then I also need a cart full of dung, a couple of thugs and a one o' yer actors.  And a few props. "

Ezekial pales at that.  "That is not a small ask...  It will cost a fair amount..."

Jasmine smiles brightly.  " Then I have a bridge I'd like to sell you... "
wilphe
Wighard has been at war before of course, but not one quite like this, and not one where he got to make decisions, or really fight for that matter.

Almost his first act after recovering from Gimgroth's pummelling is to setup other safehouses to use, staying in one place invites attack - which is fine if that is what you want, and at one point they might.

This is a war of stealth and shadows, and he develops a certain talent for it. It is already hard to hide from him, and he now learns to stay under the awareness of others.

Until he wants to that is

And then the flash of magic signals an ambush or an assault

At first these are simple,  Illuminate the Edifice  to give light, then the flash of steel.

After a few days this is switched up a bit,  Illuminate  the building and don't assault, waiting for those inside to flush out or to be left in anticipation whilst you strike elsewhere

Sometimes even Illuminate a different building entirely as a diversion

Then heavier magic directly focused on demon hunting,  Lights Demand ,  Pillar of Radiance 

The winds of magic are unpredictable, sometimes this heavy use of Hysh would deplete it, here it seems the more it is drawn upon the more it flows as if the winds themselves are trying to cleanse Mousillon's corruption, or at least over-write it with a more benevolent one.

The back end of Mousillon where the battle rages fiercest develops a background glow of Hysh, buildings never quite fading to nothing.

For many of the inhabitants this is terrifying, for others it seems the cleanest and heathiest they have ever been.
wilphe
Wighard had always been around soldiers, but he'd never been one of them and while he had picked up the odd word of their unique slang (or at least unique to the ones with more professionalism and perhaps ambitions to be something other than sword fodder) he didn't really understand it.


He knew that the subtle changes in body language, intonation and peculiar choice of words he'd never expect some of them to know meant something was going on that he was not privy to, but he didn't know what.


Gimgroth is finally able to help him to piece it all together, the two of them now an even more dangerous partnership communicating whole sentences in a few gestures


++++++++++


At some point, in a lull, Wighard takes the opportunity to sit with the Bécassine.


This might be the only chance either of them have to speak to someone who understands something of the other's struggles


The Bécassine's stuggle to not give into his inherent vampire instincts, and Wighard's struggle against Khaine's hold on his soul to stay disciplined, moral and avoid giving into bestial violence as anything other than a last resort


Neither of them will probably ever speak to another soul about that conversation, but both remember it
wilphe
About three weeks into the war, in one of the towers of the Celestial College in Altdorf


A group of high ranking wizards are listening attentively to their Supreme Patriarch as they stand next to some complicated device


  I received a missive from our colleagues in Bretonnia, it seems the Damsels have detected large scale use of magic in Mousillon, they ask if we can illuminate them?  

Balthazar Gelt pauses for effect

  I would very much like to have an answer ready should his Imperial Majesty receive such an inquiry from his Bretonnian majesty via conventional channels.  

His mask shows no emotion, but his voice is displeased

  It would vex me severely to admit ignorance, so I hope you can enlighten me. Now they believe one of our number to be responsible as it is a wind they do not touch  

The representatives of the Jade and Amber colleges visibly relax, the other 5 that leaves remain tense

  Shall we see which one?  

The display on the equipment flickers into life, it shows a top down view of a city where one of the of the towers seems to glow with light

  This must be Turris Vigilans, Mousillon does not have a lighthouse  
  Wrong side of the river

But you are correct

It didn't

It does now

Zoom and enhance  

His impassive gaze focuses upon the representative of the College of Light, Berent Foltz, as they can see that part of Mousillon is glowing with what even the other colleges can feel is a residue of Hysh. 4 other representatives audibly breathe out.

  All our Lords' whereabouts are accounted for Supreme Patriarch, not more than a dozen of us have such power  
  You might need to do a recount.

Its not Ice Magic, so its not the Witches

There is no known user in Marienberg and I would hate to think that one has eluded our agents  

Foltz swallows nervously

  You don't have anybody in one of your subordinate orders? The Flavians? The Aetians?  
  No, no one in the Aetians has had such power since we ejected their founder. They are too primitive to gain that level of power  
 Unless it is the bearer of the Cloak of Destiny 

Foltz focuses on the new speaker, anxious to deflect the Supreme Patriarch's Ire

  Rauschenberg!

It was your organisation that gave him that damn wand! It was you who let him keep the Cloak of Destiny that should have gone to someone who could handle the responsibility and it was you who recommended him for promotion!  

All attention is now focused upon the Maga Onyll who responds calmly and coldly

 Firstly, You took the decision to brevet him, based on your own internal politics. The rest of us can make observations but the decision was your Order's alone

Secondly, its the Cloak of Destiny. It goes where it wants to go. Its not the Cloak of Who-Can-Make-The-Best-Argument-Why-They-Should-Have-It

Thirdly its not the wand, Magus Trakore recovered it. If he is doing this, its all him or mostly him 
  Mostly  

The Supreme Patriarch lets that word hang

  Mostly?  
 He has bootstrapped himself up with use of multiple familiars 
  Clever boy, I hope he is not too attached to his pets  
 And during one of the few occasions he did use magic whilst he held the wand he showed a spontaneous ability to draw upon his apprentice 
  Interesting  
 And when he intervened to save the life of his friend's stepmother he was able to boost his power by what shows all the indications of a spontaneous divine bargain 

No one has ever seen Balthazar Gelt blink, but those who where there then are sure he did

  Foltz, I want his dossier. Again. Onyll, come with me. The rest of you thank you for your attendance, you may go  
wilphe
The ambush is over quickly, a few slashes of steel and the opponents are down without damage to the company

All except Wighard that is, who is holding his left hand high and close to his body whilst reaching for a dressing

Everyone except Bruno understands the gestures once his right hand is free

&lt;&lt;I'm fine, let's get out of here&gt;&gt;


At their latest safehouse he gets out his instruments and calls Jasmine over

  Here's a practical anatomy lesson for you  

He peels away the dressing revealing a long slash along the inside of his left index finger

  ****er got me with a last slash.

Now, finger injuries are a bitch. One reason is because there's very little there except bone, skin and tendon. All the muscles are up in the arms.

This is similar to why injuries to a horse's hooves are so bad, their lower feet are just skin over bone so its hard to get any bloodflow to heal anything. Fortunately, humanoids don't have it so bad, plenty of blood here.  

He calmly talks about tendons and blood vessels and treatment, letting her have a poke with a few instruments sterilised in rotgut and flame and apparently not wincing.

  Now normally I would sew that up and then splint it to the other so it doesn't flex and let nature take it's course. However we don't have time for that to heal. so you are going to sew it up and then I am going to magic it fixed.  
farothel
Bruno wasn't happy to be here.  The ground was soggy and the houses were too, with moldy wood and like.  But they had managed to gain some intelligence that a group of cultists were down here and they had come down to clear them out.  While it would draw Sul Konarr's attention, that was not to be avoided and if they could clean up these groups piecemeal that would be easier than having a big army to worry about.  Bruno had put on his heavy armour and taken both pistol and the company sword on this outing and he was getting a bit worried that he would sink into the soft ground with his heavy armour if things would continue to get worse.

But suddenly a guy came out of one of he hovels, followed by a bunch of cultists and what looked like a demon.  The guy, as far as Bruno could tell, had claws instead of hands and while Bruno was no doctor, it looked as if he had three diseases at once.
 "That one is mine,"  he said to his companion, activating the runes on the company blade.  He moved closer as his companions started combat with the demon and the cultists.

With his flaming blade ready and shield raised, Bruno attacked the guy and immediately found that he was a lot faster than he looked.  While the blade seemed to twist to hit the guy, he did manage to dodge Bruno's blows.  And when he managed to hit, even with the flaming blade, he also found that followers of Nurgle were also a lot tougher than they appeared.  And while he tried to hit, the guy tried to do the same to him and quickly he was pushed in the defensive, with only his shield, quick reflexes and his armour saving him.

Back and forth they went with neither gaining a upper hand.  At one point Bruno hit one of the hovels and the blade when straight through the supporting beam (which was mostly rotten anyway), bringing it down on a few cultists being driven there by his companions.  The guy he was fighting was also hit by a beam and while he shrugged it off, the distraction was enough for Bruno to get a good hit in.  It didn't kill the guy, but he was limping.  Unfortunately a bit later the destroyed hovel did hinder Bruno when he tripped over a part of hit and the guy hit his helmet with his claw.  The claw went through the side of the helmet and through his jaw.  But the claw got stuck in the helmet and Bruno, despite the pain, used the moment to draw the blade through his opponent's chest, having him folding up.

A wound from a Nurglite had to be treated with caution and when they were back at the inn, Wighard managed to get the infection under control, but it would always leave a scar on Bruno's face, on the left side basically from the corner of his mouth to where his lower jaw was set to the rest of the skull.
wilphe
  Back in Altdorf:  

Onyll felt that Gelt's bureau was best described as austerely opulent, there is very little there and its not particularly big, but what is there is tasteful and expensive. He's not the sort to fill the place with stuffed crocodiles   (Why is it always crocodiles?)   or impressively thick tomes that clearly haven't been moved in decades.

It is just warm, well lit and and comfortable as she sits in one of the four chairs whilst Gelt peruses Wighard's dossier and she sips warm and exquisite tea with a hint of bergamot. The room doesn't even smell too bad for something in the grounds of the Metal College


  You know I did not come up through the Colleges?  

She nods  Yes Supreme Patriarch 
  You can dispense with that, we are in private.

Part of the problem with that lot. They had to spend decades before being allowed out by themselves so they think everyone else should too

And I know they resent me for it, because my existence is proof that their methods aren't essential  

The Maga shifts slightly

  Yes I know, we can't afford to let irresponsible apprentices out frightening livestock or mind tricking girls or vice versa

However, it does mean we lose a lot of potential, there are plenty of apprentices in the Colleges who could handle being out there, but we don't let them  

He takes a sip of tea himself through a straw

  And it means we lose out on otherwise promising mages who would prefer to remain independent and stay underground or flee the Empire rather than do busy work for a bunch of pedants with the promise that if they do it well enough they might get to see the sun again.

I was fortunate enough to be too powerful for them to say no to
  
  So, I am quite happy to see the Order of Aetius' methods so apparently vindicated.
And I am happy to see that that little initiative of yourself and Trakore working out, you have a new subject in mind?  
 We do, but we wish to ensure any of Rauschenberg's traits are clensed before giving it out. He has a complex aura 
wilphe
  A complex aura?  
 Jade from controlling that magic boat of theirs, Amethyst from his divine interactions and a few traces of others from the same 
  He is not experimenting?  

She shakes her head

 We specifically monitor the Order for that but they've all been strictly Orthodox in that regard  
  And why do the Vigilants devote such effort?   
 Normally we all lose our abilities to manipulate the other winds as we practice our specific Lore.

One of the allegations at Aetius's trial was that by advocating restraint in the use of magic his students would not lose their ability to work with the other winds of magic and therefore be tempted to try to work with more than one 
  And what was his defence?   
 That it was theoretically possible, but also that the people most likely to try that sort of thing are not the ones who are going to show restraint in using magic in the first place

In theoretical arguments this is known as Amida's paradox, that the casters most likely to be able to master more than one wind are the ones least likely to try and the experience of the Vigliants is that it holds in reverse 
  Indeed?  
 The ones who try are arrogant power crazed impatient fools who are not as clever, original or strong willed as they think they are and they always fail 
  I see  
 It does also follow though that if, theoretically, someone was able to master more than one wind, they'd be doing it so rarely we probably wouldn't be able to notice 
  Would it even be a problem at that point?  
 Interesting you ask that, its hard to have access to Aetian students to draw them into the sort of discussion where you can see who might become problematic.

But one of our agents did manage it with Rauschenberg 
  And what was the result of that discussion?  
 He added a new twist.

He said that the worst thing you could do would be to succeed, because any good you could do by doing so would be miniscule compared to the harm caused by people falling to chaos trying to emulate you now they knew it was possible 
  Fascinating

Aetius was acquitted of course?  
 Yes, but the Light College still resent that 
  It was ridiculous of them to try that point of attack. It just shows how embarrassed they were and how desperate to discredit him.

 I never met old Aetius but I have read his papers and I believe he had a point about them, living in a glowing pyramid away from the natural cycles of the sun and the seasons is no better for you than living in darkness under a mountain  
dojango
Jasmine spread word that she'd opened up a small clinic to treat the sick.  Whenever someone suffering from illness came, she'd done the best she could to help alleviate their suffering.  While she worked, the actor she'd hired was hanging around wearing prop armor and holding an oversized fake sword.  The actor was dumb as a brick, but was happily telling all her patients that he was 'Bruno Imperialis' and that he'd come to Mousillion with a magic sword to kill a plague demon.  Her patients shied away from the man, but her little gambit worked.  After a few days, late one evening, a horde of plague cultists attacked.  The actor took one look at them and took to his heels running; Jasmine didn't bother to see if he'd escaped.  For she'd chosen the spot her clinic was at very well; about midway down a hill on a very narrow street.  So when she saw that a dozen diseased looking men led by a huge malformed brute were heading up the street towards her clinic, she gave the signal to release the dung-cart.  Yes, the dung cart soaked in as much rotten grease as she'd been able to get from Ezekiel.  Her thugs lit the cart on fire and gave it a heave out of its hiding place on top of the hill.

The look on the cultist's faces when they spotted the flaming mass heading straight for them was priceless; and Jasmine scurried out of the top of the building and over the roofs away from the screaming.  The brute lasted the longest, and began rolling in the muck to try and put out the clinging flames, so Jasmine put a bullet in him to put him down for good.  "Sorry about the cart, I guess ya won't get yer deposit back" she told Ezekial later.  He knew enough not to ask questions, and Jasmine found herself surprising unable to care too much about the actor's fate.

 
 Spoiler 
 (1d5)[ 5 ]  for insanity
 
wilphe
Wighard is ready for the worst when he treats Bruno, especially as how his record with the former roadwarden isn't the best


He is ready with rotgut and swabs to clean the thing out thoroughly, but when he gets a good look at it he realises that the wound is already clean and pristine like cutting into a raw steak


He even calls over Bertelis and Jasmine to verify what he's seeing, then gives it a look over in magesight. There's a faint aura of the divine about it, which is a relief because that means its probably not a side effect from him


  For whatever reason you seem Blessed by Shallya, I don't know how long that will last, or why, but for as long as it does you get to take point against Nurglists

Congratulations  

Wighard is only semi-ironic, because he knows that if a Deity is bothering with a mortal, they've got a good reason and that usually means you are going to end up somewhere nasty and hostile.
farothel
Bruno was quite philosophical about the whole thing.  There was little he could change about it and any help in this forsaken country was more than welcome
 "Well, I have my own axe to grind with the nurglites,"  he said,  "and any divine help is most certainly welcome.  We'll worry about the rest as soon as we have gotten rid of this infection of chaos.  If anything, it should prove to the Sigmarites back home that I'm not a follower of nurgle like some of my family members.  Shallya would never bless me if I was." 
LarsWester
It was a week into the war after several more skirmishes against vampire-turned former gang members that a letter found it's way into the hands of Gimgroth through Sang'Argent lad.   Truth be told the Sang'Argent boys counted for more of the fanged up gang members than any of the other numerous gangs in Mousillon.  The letter was written from one former Tilean merc to another.   Gimgroth still hasn't gotten us to the Burning Slug's notoriety despite how many time Wighard warns him that the legends of the burned-beard dwarf are widely known.  It seemed word of his presence among in Mousillon had reached Lanfranco's ears.   The leader of the Sang'Argent had request a parlay with Gimgroth Grimdurson the Faithful.   The letter was peppered with slang that only a brother in arms could decipher.   Gimgroth considered the letter and offered it to Wighard as study material for later.   The wizard had asked the dwarf to tutor him in the Battle Tongue.   The surgeon had taken to the hand gestures with an immediate grace and was picking up more and more vocabulary.   The letter requested that Gimgroth attend a meeting alone but it was suggested that surely the old Sea Captain wouldn't object to a bird accompanying the dwarf so it was with Kwolf perched upon his shoulder that the dwarf set off to meet with the infamous leader of the Sang'Argent.
wilphe
Kwolf settles himself on Gimgroth's left shoulder as the perfect accessory for a goth pirate

  Right, well if we get into trouble I can call Little Boss and Skippy.

You just need to cut your way out

So, this guy we are meeting. You know him?  


If Gimgroth is uncommunicative abut that, Kwolf will ask him about dwarven sausage


+++++


Wighard meanwhile has alerted the others and stands overwatch, aware that whilst it might be a trap for Gimgroth, it might equally be a trap for whoever is watching over him.
wilphe
  About two weeks into the war:  

Wighard is sitting in a corner of the Fallen Heaven, nursing a cider and minding his own business.

His eyes glow fiercely, making it obvious to anyone that he has powers, just in case anyone hadn't connected him with recent events and by this point the entire city has learned that there is some powerful foreign magician active.

Also, that despite appearances he seems to lack the commitment to collateral damage displayed by that female halfling he sometimes hangs around with.

The wait staff are still wary of him, but he is quiet, polite, tips well and so far has brought no trouble to the place.


Then he notices a woman enter and summon the courage necessary to approach him, she's clearly afraid, but also afraid not to with desperation written all over her face.

  Monsieur.... They say you are a great healer  
  What do you need Madame?  
  My sister, she has been in labour many hours. The midwives fear for her life  

Wighard looks at her, stands and finishes his drink in one

  Take me to her  
LarsWester
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 Kwolf settles himself on Gimgroth's left shoulder as the perfect accessory for a goth pirate

  Right, well if we get into trouble I can call Little Boss and Skippy.

You just need to cut your way out

So, this guy we are meeting. You know him?   
 

That Kwolf can speak so clearly and with such personality still is something that Gimgroth is not entirely accustomed to.   He rubs his chin as he considers his answer the Raven's inquiry.   "Perceptive, very perceptive.   Years ago Lanfranco and I were on the same battlefield serving as mercenaries on the same side of the conflict but in different companies.   His mercenary fleet was supposed to bring supplies and reinforcements to reprieve me and my company.   However Lanfranco didn't arrive when expected but showed up a full fortnite later blaming poor weather.   Our company suffered extreme losses due to his tardiness.  In the years since I've heard rumors that there was no weather issues causing the delay but Lanfranco got involved with a local lord's wife and was imprisoned until a great ransom was paid.   Until I received his letter I had assumed that Lanfranco wouldn't remember me as I was a grunt merc at the time.   Never really raised up the mercenary ranks you know.  Regardless I think it best to not bring up the past in this man's company.   In fact it would probably be best if you stayed silent." 

The dwarf and crow soon found themselves walking a pier towards the  Damoiselle Vert .   There were several Sang'Argent goons guarding the dock were the ship was moored.   "Who ye be and what's yer business?"   the largest challenged towards the heavily armed Gimgroth.   The dwarf let's his hammer drop from his shoulder placing it on it's head on the dock before retrieving Lanfranco's letter from his belt.   Seem's Lanfranco wants to talk to me so you'd best let me up.   I'm keeping the hammer but the rest of my weapons you may hold for me into I leave the ship.   You got a problem with that you can tell Lanfranco to come down here and we can talk it out right here on the dock. 
 "Boys take everything sharp and pointy from this lad and see him aboard." 
So it was that crow and dwarf found themselves climbing a cargo net to board the  Damoiselle Vert  Gimgroth hammer secured to his back.   Aboard there were more of Sang'Argent gang members mulling about mind the ship and their duties.   Gimgroth was led down to the captain's quarters.   There were four sailors in the room however Lanfranco was easily identified by his wooden nose.  He motioned for Gimgroth to take a seat at a small table as he sat down himself.
 "Gimgroth my comrade how many years has it been since we were last united against a common foe.  Your legend grows the beardless dwarven champion who had his start in a humble Tilean mercenary company.   Was it thirteen or fourteen years ago?" 
 "Fourteen"  Gimgroth answered quickly and coldly visions of a four-year Beatrice flash in his mind.
 "You must be right I'm sure.   I wrote to you to see if once again we may strike at the same foe.   Rumors tell of the bearded dwarf and his order of the burning slug in Mousillon to bring about the end of the curse of this place.  I doubt that to be true but I do have verified reports that you bested some fanged up former Sang'Argent boys your first day into town and have been battling both vampires and demons of the plague knight.   It is your conflict with the vampires where I wish to form an alliance they have turned or pressed ganged several of my Sang'Argent boys.   There must be an answer to this outrage.  So what say you will you ally yourself with the Sang'Argent to put an end to these bloodsuckers."   Lanfranco leans back in his chair awaiting Gimgroth's assent to the offer of a temporary alliance
 "Your sources are correct on the matter of us Slugs putting the vampires under ground with stakes through their hearts. We already have a few allies in this fight but I don't see how more could hurt.  What is the extent of this alliance are you talking shared information or joint operations?" 
Lanfranco pours out a glass of brandy for himself and Gimgroth raising his cup he offers  "Perhaps both and more.  Time will tell I suppose.  What say you?" 
Gimgroth raises the brandy  "Let's kill those that are already dead then"  and he toasts Lanfranco before draining the brandy which warms his throat on the way down.

Once recovering his other equipment Gimgroth tells Kwolf  Well now that's done let's hope the weather holds up. 
LarsWester
The weather did not hold up as Gimgroth had hoped in fact it was raining by the time that Kwolf and he returned to update the rest of the Order of the Burning Slug on the offer of alliance from Lanfranco and the Sang'Argent boys.
 "Now I have the most reasons of any of you to doubt that pirate but best I can gauge it his offer is true.   I think this fanged folk have got the Sang'Argent on there toes.  So unless there's major objections I suggest we proceed forward but with caution.   I think for obvious reasons we should not mingle the two alliances we have.   I doubt Lanfranco and his anti-vamp gangers would draw the correct conclusion about our other Vampire Hunter friend. 
It was over the next week that the alliance with Sang'Argent proved it's worth.   There was a flow of information coming in to better plan actions against the red Knight.   Also when a planned action was against a larger amount of targets Lanfranco offered up some of his tougher Sang'Argent enforcers to come along as well.    There was no back stabbing, no tardiness on supplies,  no "bad weather"  delays to the assistance that was flowing to Order of the Burning Slug.  So there was little concern to Gimgroth's mind when he was on his way to a warehouse near the docks to discuss the next operation with Lanfranco's second in command, Lemmy.   While Gimgroth offered to go alone to the meeting his fellow dwarf, Kharmaz insisted on following him.   These operation planning meetings all took place during daytime to limit the vampiric interference threat.    The dwarves arrived five minutes before the scheduled time and entered the dark warehouse.  Kharmaz let out a surprised cry when Gimgroth's torch alighted on the dead body of Lemmy in a pool of blood.  The blood still oozing from two puncture holes on the poor Tilean's neck.
 Kharmaz this is a fresh kill.  Who ever did this can't be far.   Keep an eye out.  Gimgroth said calmly to the other dwarf handing over his torch, while getting out his hammer and shield determined to not go down without his weapons in his hands.
 So smart.  Our little beardless one.   a voice taunted from the darkness of the warehouse.   Gimgroth whirled around in the direction where he thought it came from but couldn't identify its source.
 It's a shame really.   The direction of the voice was nearly 30 degrees off from the last taunt.     Poor Beatrice.  To think I'll have been responsible for the death of two of her fathers  Lanfranco said stepping into the torch light.  I have found a better offer from the Red Knight himself you see so our deal is off I fear.   The torch showed that the Lanfranco's face had taken on the grey shade of the undead.  His smile slowly revealed his two new fangs.
 Drop the torch and run Kharmaz!  Gimgroth shouted as the vampiric Lanfranco closed into melee.
Kharmaz did as he was told dropping the torch and running as fast as his legs could take him from the warehouse and out into the midday street of Mousilon.
Inside the warehouse the pace of the melee was astounding Gimgroth worked his hammer nearly as quickly as Lanfranco sliced away with his claws.  Gimgroth was hard pressed to keep the creatures attacks at bay.  On one parried strike Lanfranco grabbed Gimgroth shield and managed to tear it away from the dwarf's arm so great was the creature's strength.  Gimgroth drew a dagger in his offhand and still parried blow after blow.  Lanfranco had taken a few blows from Gimgroth but hasn't shown signs of letting up.  After a few more moments of struggle Lanfranco had Gimgroth pinned back to some crates.  When there was a loud crash as a keg of ale crashed through the roof of the warehouse letting in the sun from above.   Lanfranco jumped out of the rays of the sun allowing Gimgroth to scramble to his feet.    Another keg crashed through the roof spilling its dark liquor unto the floor of the warehouse and allowing more light into the warehouse from above.   Kharmaz grinned at Gimgroth through the newly created hole.   The dwarf had run but not run away he'd run into the nearby tavern and was tossing the establishment's libations onto the neighboring roof.   Gimgroth offer a weak smile back as he seized the opening.    Kharmaz threw one more keg of beer to crash through the roof this time by sure stroke of Tymora happened to catch Lanfranco off guard crashing onto the vampire's foot. Lanfranco looked down at his foot in surprised pain.  Taking his eyes off Gimgroth long enough for the dwarf to land a master stroke with his hammer.  So hard was the blow that Lanfranco's wooden nose flew three yards away cluttering against a crate.  The vampire was stunned and Gimgroth quickly took the advantage bringing his hammer down with such force and such rapidity that much remained of Lanfranco face.  When Gimgroth was done he turned around to see Kharmaz in the grasp of four of the Tavern's bouncers.   The four of them tossed the dwarf through the warehouse ceiling.   Kharmaz crashed through a pile of crates.   He stood up grinning at Gimgroth before putting his hand to his neck where a large shard of glass protruding.   His grin got a little bigger before he slumped to the ground as blood continued to pour from his wound.  Gimgroth ran to his dwarven companion, he placed his hammer in Kharmaz right hand and squeezed the lad's left hand.
 Aye we'll chalk that one up tom ye Kharmaz the Vampire Slayer.   Drink with yer kin tonight with honor my lad.  Your oath is fulfilled. 
MrAbdiel
 It has been a difficult couple of weeks for the Hedgehog knight. The discovery of Mahieu's turning has naturally devastated him, and all his craving to take part in some act of vengeance against the vampire cult has been met with his companion's steadfast stonewalling in effort to keep him away from the possibility of running afoul of the warning laid upon them before coming to the city. All he can do is sublimate that rage and despair in the swell of his teetering mind towards the destruction of the other enemy: the cult of Sul Konarr, champion of Nurgle. In restful hours, he has been spending long conversations with Bruno and Gimgroth, as the three spar physically to keep their skills honed, and verbally to polish Gimgroth's Breton, which has become more important as the dwarf forged an alliance with the local gangers. It had been Bruno who had seeded in Bertelis mind that clarity wasn't always the ideal tool, however:

 "On the roads in Talabecland, even before the war and the refugees, it was common enough for highwaymen and robbers to plead misunderstanding. Most of them fake it, naturally - but some really come from some Hochland backwater where the Reikspiel sounds like chipmunk speak, and there's the odd band of Kislevites fleeing somewhere green just to turn to brigandry. But everyone understands the language of threat. If you really lean into it. It's not as elegant as a  diestro  challenge, but a Kislevite with a pistol in his face knows that he's being told to settle down or else go to his gods." 
 * * * * * 
The plan had gone sideways. They'd busted in on a cult meeting expecting to face ten to fifteen bandaged, filthy plague-varlets. Then another thirty had boiled out of the basement, with a dozen leprous snarling hounds in tow, and everything went to bedlam. The Company had fallen back, but the lay of the buildings split them. With Becassin and Wighard elsewhere seeking leads about the Red Knight, this left Bruno, Gimgroth, Jasmine and Bertelis to face the horde, and moment-to-moment decisions left Gimgroth holding a tight alley side by side with Bruno, and Jasmine clambering alley wreckage for a clear line. Bertelis had dodged back and right from a leaping hound only to shear himself off from the group, fighting his own withdrawal with rapier and main-gauche. The sound of Gimgroth breaking bones and the searing flash of the  Company Blade  in Bruno's hands echoed through the muddy roar of the madmen; the ripping  boom  of Jasmine's blunderbuss barking over all of it.

But staggering back, Bertelis grew more and more alone as he fought not to be surrounded, his parrying dagger lodged in a mutated dog's skull and twisted from his grip, his rapier slipping out of his hand as claws and rusty knives drew blood. Some of them managed to grab tight on his fine gambeson he had so proudly purchased back in Altdorf, and he felt its wooden toggles snap and ping away onto the filthy cobbles as he twisted out of it to get away. To his allies who caught sight of him last vanishing around a corner, seperated from them by more than two dozen frothing, seething madmen running in all directions, the knight fighting on his heels trying to not be swarmed, it may well have appeared he was going to die.

It would not be entirely clear what changed after rounding that corner; but a few moments later it was the cultists (and some of the dogs) fleeing around the corner with Bertelis chasing them. The few moments of isolation had changed him like a stage performance. He had disappeared as a skilled and dextrous swordsman under overwhelming pressure; but rounded the corner again like some Bretonni berserker, shirtless and screaming, red bodied with blood splatter and red-faced with fury. The gore-soaked boat anchor he carried as a relic of Manaan whirled overhead on its chain as he chased, and the cultists fleeing the Manaanite maniac ran into the backs of those trying to press past the other companions. A broken front morphed into a hammer-and-anvil, and after a long couple of minutes of savage combat, the remnants of the cult cell scattered leaving their dead behind. Bertelis turned a little to face the direction he had fled - toward the riverfront, toward the Temple of Manaan - as he caught his breath.

His body had a general battered and scarred quality - this much was not new to his companions - but what was new certainly were the hooks. Fish hooks, threaded into the skin of his back and out again like cosmetic piercings on an Indan pilgrim wanderer; fifteen of them in total. Each sat in its own bruisy welter, certainly twisting and shifting uncomfortably under his gambeson every day as he wore it. Together the formed a constellation familiar to any observant Old Worlder: Dragomas the Drake, the sign of the courageous, the strong, and the doomed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Bertelis learns  Intimidate. 
 
 
MrAbdiel
  * * * * * 
The Sepsis War rages on. It's hard going - alliances are made with locals and some of those are not so hardy or fated. Becassin's expertise on stalking the vampires proves invaluable, but information about the Red Knight's personal vulnerabilities are still hard to come by. When one opportunity arises to run down one of the Knight's lieutenants in a swamp-sunken and forsaken holy site of Shallya in the heart of Lost Town. Scouting the sagging, crumbling cathedral confirms that the Red Knight's minions are using to hide  something  in barrels in the foul waters. Becassin considers it to be worth striking.

 "Some of them require native soil in order to sleep and recover. If they are stashing watersealed barrels of soil brought in from Bordeleaux, and we destroy them, we will have done a serious blow to the vampire's ability to take succour in this land." 

Unfortunately, the Company are not the only ones with designs...

A short brawl with swamp-skeletons hauling barrels inside the deconsecrated temple leaves the party victorious, sloshing around in the disgusting waters up to their ankles and looking no less than forty barrels piled against the walls, stacked on top of moldering old pews and debris so they aren't sitting in the water. While the building is no longer sacred, the whole area is redolent to Wighard's senses - it's radiating Dhar from a concentration of dark magic in this place.

 "I hope... someone thought to bring a crowbar" , Bertelis suggests... a little later than might have been useful.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
We're back in play. It's about a month into the campaign of fighting in Mousillon, and you've tracked these theoretically promising barrels down to this forsaken Shallyan cathedral. You've dispatched the petty undead nearby - what now, adventurers?
 
 
wilphe
Wighard looks to Gimgroth at the news of Kharmaz's passing

  Do I mourn his death or be happy he gained the redemption he sought?  

+++++++++++++++++++++

It has been two weeks and mother and child are doing well.

As for the midwives and wise women, he is quietly respectful towards them. After all almost everything he learned about obstetrics he learned from their colleagues. Academic physicians and the scholars at the College of the Light possessing only the vaguest ideas about female anatomy and some dangerously wrong ideas. So he joins them every few days for tea and chat after he checks up on the patients.

  Did you ever do that before Msr?  
  Twice

But never before on a mother who was alive when I started

Neither orcs nor beastmen have any respect for the non-combatant status of camp followers  

Between a successful Kaiserschnitt and Gaetan he has a few papers to present when he gets back to Altdorf, if not before.

The former, in particular, is a career making move as that's normally only a desperate expedient to save the life of the child at the expense of the mother.

It is also a good advert for his order, because only practical medical knowledge and magic combined could have pulled that off. The difficult bit was ensuring she didn't die from shock and pain whilst he was working.

He's probably still ahead on the lives saved/lives ended ratio, but that ratio seems to get closer to 1:1 every day. Of course the lives he is ending are mostly those of cultists and abominations, so their status as "people he should feel guilty about killing" is dubious

Nevertheless its a handy reminder that his purpose in live is healing not killing, even if he is getting rather good at the latter
wilphe
Wighard's senses and sensibilities are suffering from the reck and desecration of this place, however he is not without caution.

  I have an axe if necessary.

However it seems a bad place to store powder, but an excellent place to store warpstone

Mrs Featherblossom would you care to examine one of these please?  
farothel
Bruno was reloading this pistol while keeping some guard.
 "If not I'm sure we can improvise something,"  he said as soon as the pistol was reloaded.  Letting the others check the barrels, he started looking around just in case someone or something decided to pay a visit.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

perception:  (1d100)[ 14 ]  vs 69
 
LarsWester
 Wighard looks to Gimgroth at the news of Kharmaz's passing

Do I mourn his death or be happy he gained the redemption he sought? 

Gimgroth shakes his head at Wighard's question.   They have been travelling together for several months at this point.   Sure Gimgroth caused an interruption of a month or two but still the fact that Wighard didn't have a firm understanding of dwarven customs by now surely reflected poorly upon Gimgroth.  He'd have to take this lack of training to mind and find more opportunities to enlighten the good wizard physician about the ways of his people.

 "Wighard we should be happy and drink to his memory and talk of his great deeds tonight.  The moment he took his oath this outcome was the best that could be achieved.   With the killing of a vampiric spawn who was also the leader of one of the notorious gangs of this desolate place.
That is a far greater acomplishment than most Slayers ever achieve.  Join me tonight before bed with a toast to his valor and when we return to Beatrice I will have her compose a ballad of his life." 

+++++++++++++++++++++

When Bertelis suggests the need for a crowbar Gimgroth rests his new hammer on the floor of the warehouse and unslings a slingbag from his shoulders.  Reaching in he rummages around a bit before pulling out a thin crowbar.
 Come Jasmine let's see what the barrels hold and if our information was accurate or not.    He walks over to a nearby barrel and waits for Jasmine to join him before trying to pry the barrel open.
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis keeps watch at the arched entryway to the crumbling cathedral - perhaps out of genuine conviction, or perhaps because he is trying to keep Becassin infront of him. Whatever the reason, the vampiric vampire hunter is used to sceptical allies, and takes up a position of watchfulness next to Bruno.

Above the company, under a ceiling whose majority of tiling has wilted and sheared off over time, a fractured third of the countenance of Shallya observes the investigation. Her stained and discolored face, and the left half of her torso, represent remnants of what might have once been a remarkable portrait. There are spaces where her eyes should be - whether they have been gouged out in deliberate blasphemy, or if they once contained precious stones which some enterprising treasure hunter snagged with pluck and forty foot tall ladder, is anyone's guess.

Between Jasmine and Gimgroth, the first barrel is cracked open. It does indeed seem to contain dirt! Tipping it over, that stowed soil dumps out into the swampy slush simply enough - but with it comes a warped and mangled human body! It's long dead - bloodless, dessicated, and badly flattened as though crushed and left for a long time under some massive press of weight which has flattened much of the chest and head before it was interred.

The Company barely has time to register it splash into the ankle-deep swamp water before it jerks upright with ghastly, broken-marionette agility and wheezes as though in horror of itself.

 
 Spoiler: CK: Bretonnia (+0) or AK: Necromancy (+20) 
 Knockers  (or  Renverseurs  if you prefer) are a type of simple undead that is more common to, but not exclusive to Bretonnia. They are the spontaneously reanimated remnants of those crushed to death, typically in mining accidents where careless lords or foolish overseers have cut corners sinking a mineshaft. When freed, their animated remains are immediately overwhelmed with a desire to replicate the experience of their death, which compels them to attack the struts and braces keeping the mine up. More than one mining crew has lost souls to a collapse only to lose even more in the act of trying to retrieve the bodies of their fallen. Despite being broken-boned and crushed badly, the animating forces invested in them equip them with a monstrous strength sufficient to bash through load bearing structures with remarkable, self-destructive speed.
 


...And with that call to action, the dozens of barrels start buckling and splitting, loosing their own hidden occupant. In a great crack, as barrels lower in the stack give way and the ones above them fall, the whole heap comes crashing down with just enough time spared for Jasmine and Gimgroth to get clear of the collapse. And then the mangled dead men are hauling themselves up from the debris, moaning and screaming.

Bertelis animates too - thankfully, he is not quite as mangled to start with - and breaks into a run toward what looks to be a fierce combat. And then the trap is sprung. A huge figure lumbers into view beyond the doorway - skeletal, swamp sodden, towering and inhuman. It bears the proportions of some kind of mutant troll or ogre, with a bony tail projecting behind it and a long crocodilian skull poking out infront. Behind it stands a black-shrouded in the shadow of the cathedral - another minor vampiric lieutenant of Red Knight like those you've dispatched several times in this campaign already. But this one proves more cunning than the others by getting you where he wants you.

The crocodile-thing-skeleton heaves a great, rusted steel grate - ripped from an abandoned porticullis, or some kind of waterflow - and slams it down to block the doorway.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roll initiative! You can act immediately - these guys all act on Initiative 1 because they are crawling out of the ruined barrels this turn.

There are  (2d10+30)[ 46 ]  barrel-bursters in the room; and one huge skeleton and vampire spawn outside it, in the partial cover provided by the grate.
 
 
farothel
 "Figures,"  Bruno mutters as he points his pistol to the lieutenant.  That's the most dangerous opponent and he has heard rumours that some undead collapse if you kill their creator, so it's worth a shot.  Then he quickly grabs his shield and gets ready for the attack that will come.

 
 Spoiler: OOC  

rolls in OOC: attack  67  vs 58 so no hit
init  7 
knowledge:  10  vs 59
 
LarsWester
Gimgroth utters dwarven curses fouler than a month-forgotten clump of cheese.  He looks towards the horde of undead emerging from the barrels around him and Jasmine and then looks back towards the skeletal monstrosity barring the way.
Turning to Jasmine  Destroy whatever that thing is.
 It's the only way any of us walk out of here.   He then turns to face the impossible odds of the horde of barrel-smashers.   Sparing a moment of regret for the fact that these next score of targets had no blood to cleanse Kharmaz smithing hammer and the very likely possibility that Gimgroth would fall here in this building unable to fulfill his most recent oath.   Gimgroth lashed out in a rage at the nearest few stumbling barrel-bursters.
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

We'll start 100% offense.   With so many targets I'm going to think there's three within melee range of Gimgroth.  Correct if wrong.   He would be focusing these attacks on a single target until it is down before moving to the next one.
  Attack1  - (1d100)[ 36 ] 
  Attack2  - (1d100)[ 41 ] 
  Attack3  - (1d100)[ 1 ] 
  Damage1  - (1d10)[ 10 ]  Fury Confirmed 24 points of damage pre-soak.  Hopefully this takes down one of the barrel bursters
  Damage1  - (1d10)[ 7 ]  13 points of damage pre-soak.
  Damage1  - (1d10)[ 10 ]  Just missed fury 16 points of damage pre-soak.   Hopefully this combined with attack 2 takes down another of the barrel bursters.
 
wilphe
 (1d100)[ 91 ]  AK/N 91

 (1d10)[ 5 ]  Init+5
MrAbdiel
La Becassin hisses, his slim curved blade whispering from its sheath.  "A trap. Don't get surrounded." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Vampire Hunter quickdraws his weapon, and moves back to Wighard whom he perceives as most likely to suffer if surrounded, given that Jasmine is adjacent to Gimgroth already. He takes a uses his second half action to draw a dagger.
 


Bertelis snatches his rapier and main gauche from their scabbards, and draws near to the cluster of Wighard, Bruno, and La Becassin.  "These creatures are knockers... These... you don't find outside of a mineshaft, or cave-in." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gimgroth and Jasmine are up toward the front of the cathedral near the barrel-busters; everyone else is clustered sort of in the middle of the space. Gimgroth's posted his actions, so just Wighard and Jasmine to go now. Dojango's still a bit MIA from busy life stuff, so I'll proffer Jasmine's action without too much delay.
 


Gimgroth bursts into action, the barrel-bursters clawing clear of the wreckage receiving his immediate wrath. His hammer breaks and splatters two of the corpses, while dozens more animate into murderous motion!
MrAbdiel
 Jasmine takes careful aim toward the massive skeleton, trying to target its spinal stack and hoping that will constitute a serious enough hit to kill it quickly - a shot she can't afford to miss...

Meanwhile, Wighard levels and blasts with his blunderbuss almost haphazardly into the mass of necrotic threats, before drawing the winds of magic into himself and  pushes them out through his fingertips. Four spinning spines of black blood manifest in the air and corkscrew to their targets - one punching into a barrel burster, another slamming into another and ripping it apart completely. Another thwacks into the bones of the monstrosity outside the grate, seeming to fail to harm it; but the forth punches into the chest of its vampiring handler, sending him stumbling back with an outraged gasp.

But something has gone wrong - and the Light Wizard almost staggers his way into Gimgroth's protective zone. Blood is gushing out of his hands, his sleeves, his neck - dripping freely from tiny, circular wounds...

 
 Spoiler: Wighard sees... 
As soon as the winds leave your body, you feel burning pain ripping up your arms, your neck, and all over your back and chest. You see them on your hands - little blue leeches,  thousands  of them, guzzling your magic rich blood and growing quickly fat and luminous from the stolen  hysh ! They're all over your torso and arms - you feel them wriggling and pulsing under your clothes!
 


Meanwhile, the enemy does not fail to act. The vampire, clutching its wound, takes the modicum of effort to step to the side out of the view of the doorway, rendering further attacks impossible - and his champion, the massive skeleton, merely hunkers behind the grill and waits.

But it's the  knockers , these barrel-bursting corpses, that act most surprisingly. They do not swarm over the companions assembled - instead, they swarm past them toward the pillars and the walls of the cathedral and throw themselves against the stone with wheezing, maddened abandon. As they do, the effect is immediate - spidering cracks race out from where they thrash themselves against the stone, and the crumbling structure gives an uneasy shudder. A sheet of tiles that once composed part of the ceiling portrait tumbles down and smashes against the ground next to Bruno.

 
 Spoiler: Gimgroth's Dwarfcraft: 
You've heard of  knockers  before, and the damage they can do in mines - trying to collapse them on other miners. Dwarven mines are build to a stronger standard, but that only slows the creatures in their disastrous efforts. It's against these necromantic creature's 'nature' (to strain a term) to attack a structure rather than the supports of a mineshaft, but they're clearly being made to do so to great effect.

You estimate that you might have very little time indeed - certainly not enough to kill all these creatures - before this whole damaged cathedral comes down - how bitterly blasphemous, to turn a temple to the human's god of healing into a weapon itself.

(It's the start of the 2nd combat round. At the end of the 4th combat round, the building will collapse.)
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Strictly Bertelis and La Becassin go now, but in the interest of allowing the actual players to make decision in the game, I'm going to make them act last out of the Companions. So it's Wighard, Gimgroth, Jasmine, and Bruno's turns!
 
 
wilphe
Wighard snickers  unsettlingly like he is finding something really and incongruously funny



  Why should I be afraid of you, Tools of my trade?  

He coos and flicks some of his blood towards the receding vampire

  You don't want some? More for my pets then.

I hear there is nothing like the rush from a wizard's blood


Wars have been fought to claim such as I as a thrall  
farothel
With his sword and shield ready, Bruno moved towards the crock skellie while activating the flame rune on the sword and tried to take it down quickly, as he thought it was the only way to quickly get out of this location.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

half-action: move closer
free action: flame on.
half-action: attack the crock skellie:  (1d100)[ 51 ]  vs 61 for damage:  (1d10)[ 8 ]  (+4 or +8 vs &gt;50 T and +1 flame, so  13  or  17 ).
 
LarsWester
A very primal fear coursed through Gimgroth's blood.   A dwarven instinct dormant after decades of living topside.    Collapse! Suffocation!  Death in the dark crushed by tons of stone.   Gimgroth choked down the fear and shouted  Knockers!  Work fast to free us or our order ends here.    Not wasting time himself he invokes the flower crown of Taal to cast Stags Leap on himself and he charges the Croc Skelly slamming his new smithing hammer into the creatures hands hoping to shatter the bones holding him and his friends caged in this death trap.
 
 Spoiler: Mechanics 

1/2 action casting Stag's Leap   TN6  - (2d10)[ 13 ]  to gain charge as 1/2 action
1/2 action charge the CrocSkelly   WSvs92  - (1d100)[ 90 ]    Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 

FP for extra 1/2 action to attack   WSvs82  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for   Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 9 ]   if casting of Stag's Leap above fails then ignore this roll and a FP would be spent to do full action charge.
 
MrAbdiel
  BANG! 

The  Nutcracker  looses a shot that threads through the grate and smashes a rib free from the huge skeleton's ribcage, along with a shower of bonechips from the thoracic spine. Bruno advances and plunges the company blade in a lunge through the grate, shearing bone and scorching ancient marrow; and Gimgroth vaults through the air and descends like a comet with a hammerblow that smashes all of the monster's fingerbones on the left hand, then cracks the hammer against the right to dislodge one. Fire from the company blade begins to engulf the skeleton, licking up over ancient dust and cobwebs in its cracks; but insensate to pain, it presses skull and torso against the grate while its grip is diminished to maintain the critical brace. There is no intelligence inside it; but the fire flashing inside the hollows of the huge fanged skull seem to flicker with special mockery.

From beyond the sightline of that exit, a trill of dry laughter rises over the mad clamour of the living dead smashing themselves against the supports and walls of the cathedral. The Vampire-Hunter, La Beccassin,  gives a fanged sneer at the sound, then seizes Wighard by his bloodsoaked sleeve and hauls him toward the grate.

  "Come now, Doktor! I cannot fault your courage, but the only thing the vampire feels more keenly than the lust for blood is the fear of final death."  

For Bertelis, the doom of the scenario seems actually to soften the confusion and battle-edge in his features. He looks up at the ceiling, at the cracking imagery of the goddess of mercy, and lets his arms go slack at his sides. A pillar gives way, and a plunging avalanche of the interior masonry rushes toward the knight. He seems unable to bring himself to move, but Jasmine is there just inside of the critical moment to wallop the meagre weight of her body against his side and force him out of the way - an act that earns the halfing a blow from a shard of brick in the midst of her hair, setting blood to run down her face. Dazed (one psychologically, on physiologically), the knight and the halfling stagger together to the entrance where the rest of the company tries mightily to free them from the deathtrap...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Jasmine's injury is cinematic - setting her up with a heroic concussion so she will be able to sit out of some story until Dojango is ready to return.

We're almost ready to wrap around to the next turn, but I have another post to do, so wait for that one please. :D

Vampire necromancer is out of line of sight, with the wound Wighard caused him.
Krox-Skelly has taken 28 Wounds!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Beyond the gate, behind the skeletal Kroxigor, a flash of moonlight touches an airborne vial of liquid as it sailed into sight. The vampire, once confident, if wounded, double-takes the object before it struck the ground and shatters with a  Hiss! , disgorging a billowing bank of grey-black smoke from its impact like an engulfing mist, as a shadow slices in through the cover.

A shout. A snarl. The chorus of violence from the singing of steel on metal.

The Skeletal Kroxigor rises up like an animatronic, its current task forgotten as it heeds new silent orders from its master. Flames devouring its black cloak, wreathing it in fire, the burning animation turns about towards the smoke cloud and barrels forward with powerful momentum, its physical form melting into the haze and becoming nothing but an amber-orange halo illuminating its massive silhouette within the grey pollution. It was clear from its janky movements that it was swinging at  something , swiping its huge claws, turning itself about to meet a more agile foe, staggering backwards from blows until finally collapsing as a pile of cinderous bones across the floor.

Silence.

Another shape emerged from within the smoke. One much more familiar. The tall, feminine gymnasts physique with a cloak draped across its shoulders. The angular, moonlight pale features framed by a mane of black, rich hair drawn back into a top-knot ponytail. She was sheathing a sword of Gromril starmetal on one hip, and an ruby-pommeled knife on the other.

 "On three!"  Regine spoke hurriedly to the group, latching her gloved hands under a solid grip on the metal gate that impeded the Company of the Burning Slug, ready to lend her help and free them.

 "One...two...three!" 
 
 Spoiler: Five Minutes Earlier 

   

The night in Mousillon was as bleak as it ever was, with the cold blanket of stars above presiding over a grimly lit sprawl of urban decay, vice and ruin. Jutting across this benighted landscape was a hodge-podge of towers and crumbling multi-story buildings that stood as corroded monuments to past glories, a time long forgotten when this was once the beating heart of a vibrant, verdant land, but now which had fallen so far into ruin that the the stink of corruption lingered in the very air.

Perched atop the rotting rooftops of Mousillon, Regine von Carstein surveyed the slumping sprawl of the city below. The full moon, a pitiless sentinel in the sky, cast a cold, silver light over the twisted maze of red-drab houses and crumbling walls. From her elevated vantage, every detail of the city was starkly clear to her sharp, vampiric senses, though her focus was solely on a single group moving through the labyrinthine streets towards their destination. Motely wouldn't begin to describe them, a collection of humans, a dwarf, a halfling and that  thing , all marching beneath the banner of the Company of the Burning Slug. All, her former companions, all except, of course, the murderous traitor.

But that wasn't what concerned her. It was the coterie of figures  behind  them that concerned her.

Along the route, the group had picked up a tail that lurked approximately fifty meters behind them. Nine figures in total. One in particular towered above the rest, its boney muzzle pointing out from under a dark hood, while another shorter, but no less impressive figure, lumbered alongside it with a barely visible face that seemed stitched together from several, unwilling 'donors'. Dispersed around them were six human-sized figures in cloaks and cowls, while at the head of the group moved a fellow kindred that had been on Regine's radar for a little while now: Henri Bercherot. Known for his cunning even among Sul Kunar's lieutenants, he moved with smiling confidence, and if he was happy about something, Regine felt a spike of fear stab upwards into her chest.

Turning her sight back to the Company of the Burning slug, she watched them enter the blighted grounds of an old, crumbling cathedral, through the rotten, unkempt close and into the building itself.

Back to Henri and his group, the vampire could see them entering the same perimeter only thirty seconds or so after her former companions.

 "...get out of there now... move ..."  Regine hissed under her breath as if she could whisper into their ears. She silently pleaded that someone, anyone, would notice they were slowly being surrounded. But it wasn't until she could see deeper into the cathedral itself, through fissures in the masonry and shattered openings that exposed the internals to the night sky, that her eyes widened with horror when she saw they were interacting with the barrels.

 “...no, damnit! Don’t touch them!” 

Too late.

The barrels burst open, unleashing a swarm of zombified Knockers. The grotesque creatures, driven by primal instincts, surged towards the cathedral's walls, intent on demolishing them and trapping everyone inside.

As if on cue, the entrance to the cathedral was abruptly blocked and the trap was sprung. The skeletal Kroxigor heaved a massive tangle of spiked metal across the yawning gap, sealing it with a grim finality. Henri, a calculating smile on his lips, watched with cold satisfaction as the blockade was completed. Meanwhile, his cultist minions had dispersed throughout the Cathedral close to ensure none of their prey could escape via other means.

Regine’s mind raced and an uncomfortable conclusion was reached. The time for subtlety had passed; she needed to act quickly. She knew her former companions would try to fight off the Knockers, but she also knew it would be futile. They would be overwhelmed and dead within moments if she did not intervene. Her gaze darted to the perimeter of the cathedral, where Henri’s cultists were moving about. They had to go first.

Standing up, her dark cloak billowing behind her in the Mousillon night wind, Regine drew her Gromril sword, rolled her shoulders and concentrated. In an instant her body imploded into a swirling vortex of black shadow as she shifted into her vampire bat form, the broad, red-membraned wings catching the air and taking her into the sky. Everything became small to her as she gained altitude, but not small enough that she could no longer track her targets. Spotting a trio of cultists patrolling the Cathedral close, the large, frankenstinian one flanked by two normal sized men in black robes, Regine aimed her bat-like body down and dived.

The wind howled around her as she hurled towards the Cathedral like a meteor, her wings beating furiously to increase her speed before tucking back against her body to bleed off any resistance. Rapidly approaching, her image transformed back into her human form at the last possible moment, that Gromril sword brandished like a cavalry lance as the hulking brute only had half a second to look up before it speared right through his chest with the force of breakneck velocity. The Gromril blade penetrated its deep, barrel-like centre and came out the other side in time to pin the necromantic-born monster to the floor.

The momentum of Regine's strike carried her into a fast forward roll, past the other two stunned companion of the hulk. Regine sprang to her feet several meters away, her whip in hand. With a swift, practiced flick, the steel-claw end of the whip lashed out, wrapping around the neck of the closest of the two. The vampire yanked him forward with brutal strength then clotheslined him with a bone-crushing force that shattered his ribs and broke his neck across the rotten floorboards in a shower of fissured wood and splinters.

The second, having regained his senses, came at Regine with sword drawn and eyes wide. She back-stepped the first wild swipe, and the second return swing, before side-stepping the clumsy thrust that over-extended the cultist. Grabbing his wrist and yanking his arm across her front, she shot her other palm forward like an arrow against the back of his elbow, the sickening  Crunch!  coinciding with his tormented scream as jagged yellow-white bone from within punctured through the destroyed tissue and into open view. The noise attracted then rest of the mortal crew, the other four rushing into the area, weapons ready, two crossbows leveling in her direction.

Regine immediately drew herself about, the two loosed crossbow bolts silencing the agony of her impromptu human shield. Moving with fluid precision, she charged out towards the last four, cartwheel-tumbling over the fallen form of the brute to retrieve her sword while draw her knife. Two of them came at her with blades in their hands and she landed between them in the deadly dance of combat: slash, parry, dodge, and spin. One opponent fell with a gash across his throat, while another was dispatched with a swift stab to the chest. With a deft, one-motion maneuver, the vampire aimed and hurled her knife at one of the crossbowmen, the only of the pair that had managed to reload his weapon in time. The flash of steel hissed through the air and caught the man in the throat, tumbling him to the floor in a gargling mess with red coughing from his lips.

The other crossbowman barely had time to draw his sword before Regine closed in, a dark shadow of flashing steel. She thrust, slashed, and parried with relentless precision, her blade cleaving through the air as with a final, decisive arc, she severed the crossbowman’s head clean from his shoulders.

The battlefield fell silent, save for the distant, haunting sounds of the Knockers battering at the cathedral walls. Regine stood amidst the chaos, her heart still and unbeating within her chest, despite the rush of adrenaline of combat and the urgency of her mission. But she could not be still. Retrieving her knife, the vampire darted off towards the front entrance of the cathedral.
 
wilphe
Wighard isn't sure who he is supposed to be killing or why, or even what is going on except that there seem to be a lot of vampires around and most of them are not immediately hostile.

So at this point he is mostly a package being dragged around by the stronger and more aware members of the party
farothel
Standing close to the gate, Bruno also tried to help getting it out so they could move out of the cathedral before it came down on them.  They could still attack the knockers from the outside in instead of from the inside out.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

strength test:  (1d100)[ 52 ]  vs 43
 
MrAbdiel
With a titanic collective effort, the Company puts all their weight and strength into shoving the obstructing grate. With a groan of tortured iron, it flexes, and then finally kicks up the submerged pavers where it stood as it collapses backward. Wizards, dwarves, nobles and halflings all tumble out together into the swampy street just as the walls of the defiled cathedral finally buckle and the structure collapses into itself with an avalanche roar. A geyser of stone flecks, swamp water, and old grave dust blasts out of the doorway in the collapse and covers the whole company in its grey powdery debris. Every one of them is rendered blind for a moment, but a little later as the dust is settling it becomes clear they've all made it out alive - barely. The muted, pitiful growl of re-buried knockers whispers from the ruination nearby, but aside from that there is no sign of the vampire who sprang the trap. The massive skeleton, its clawed hands smashed to bits and its spinal column buckled from another tremendous blow, lies idle and lifeless in the swampwater nearby.

And Regine, thought dead, is once again in the company's midst - though forever changed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Thank you for indulging this dramatic reunion. The combat/escape is over.

Wighard no longer perceives a wealth of leeches all over him. Just blood running from spontaneous wounds that opened up during his miscast.

If anyone has anything threatening, short, or quippy to say in this moment, you may do so. But after that, we should cut back to the hideout, everyone cleaning the grime from their clothes and equipment, as Regine explains the circumstances of her return.
 
wilphe
Wighard gathers what is left of his wits, having strained his back on his second attempt at a lift.

He then realises that he is covered in blood around (two?) vampires and that it is probably impolite to rely upon their self-restraint in this manner and begins cleaning himself up

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 67 ] Heal 91
 (1d10)[ 4 ] 
 

  Those things are going stay alive until they bash themselves out or someone disturbs them aren't they

I don't know how to fix that beyond a "This place is cursed leave well alone"  

He has recognised that something is different about Regine, apart from anything else she is carrying a fine and expensive sword, an air of nobility and her aura is totally different, but he exchanges glances with the Becassine and leaves it up to her to speak
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Without a pulse or a heart-beat, Regine lacked the signs of fatigue and adrenaline-pulsing escape that others might have exhibited. Instead she helped haul the tangled mess of steel up and away, then stood aside to let the others pass, and reached out to lend a hand where it was necessary.

But while the others watched the Cathedral collapse, taken out at the basal support by the dozens of hideous Knockers that had beaten the foundations into pulp, Regine kept her left hand near the hilt of her dagger, her eyes first on Becassine. If anyone caught it, it was clear from her gaze that she did  not  like him, the subtle indentures around her eyes as she glared daggers at the murderous traitor, her lips hard at the edges. But, slowly her eyes moved across everyone else present, lingering for half a second at faces she never thought she'd see again, while Bertelis, naturally, received the lengthiest of her survey, the slightest curl of a smile in the corners of her lips that quickly disappeared.

When Wighard spoke, his words drew Regine's attention, and her sense of smell. She watched with restraint as he bandaged himself, for she could  smell  the iron-tang of fresh blood in the air, but exhibited remarkable self-control as she simply watched.

 "We don't have time,"  Regine answered his question, her chin a little higher, her shoulders more square, back straight, the palm of her right hand resting on the snakes-head pommel of her sword.

 "His name is Henri Bercherot, he is one of the Red Knights lieutenants,"  she started, clearly speaking of the prior vampire that had locked them in the cathedral,  "you've all made a lot of waves recently, and he if can track you down in the open city like this and prepare an ambush...others won't be far behind." 

The vampire tilted her head, as if scanning the looming, red-drab houses and buildings that stood as silent, decaying sentinels upon the perimeter of the swamp. She sniffed the air once, twice. Pursed her lips. Turned her head back to face the group.

 "We should go. I promised that little crippled servant of yours - Gaeten? That I would bring you back safely. Don't worry, I left my girl-servant with him. He's fine." 
wilphe
  You might have noticed we've helped turn the place from an accursed ****hole so an accused warzone that in places glows a bit

They were going to get something in against us at some point, but thank you

The former wearer of that form left our Company under circumstances  that indicated they were unhappy with their impending transformation, are we to presume that you are now at peace with that?  

He hands his now empty blunderbuss to Jasmine

  Now what brings the entity that resembles but is legally distinct from the late Regine Lacroix to Moussillon, and how does she wish to be addressed?  
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Vousvoyer 
Wighard's Bretonnian and Reikspeil has also changed when speaking to their new ally.

He considers himself on tu (or du) terms with everybody but usually uses vous on Bretelis because tutoyering a Bretonnian noble in public can be embarrassing and dishonouring so he does so less since they returned to Bretonnia



Bertelis - Vous except in private or he is trying to make a point

Bruno - Similar but less strict (especially as how Bruno probably doesn't care very much

Gimgroth. The two are closest, so intimate tu

Siobhan, Kwolf, Schlapp, Cathwulf - Mostly Tu, but as they are in continuous link sometimes use 1st person plural (nous) or the usefully ambiguous (on)

Jasmine and old Regine - Informal tu

Deanna - Intimate tu but not in public or in front of Bertelis

New Regine - Vous all the time for now



Servants  - get voused as mark of respect but he is not treating them as equals

Maxime - voused unless he is putting her in her place
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   You might have noticed we've helped turn the place from an accursed ****hole so an accused warzone that in places glows a bit

They were going to get something in against us at some point, but thank you

The former wearer of that form left our Company under circumstances  that indicated they were unhappy with their impending transformation, are we to presume that you are now at peace with that?  

He hands his now empty blunderbuss to Jasmine

  Now what brings the entity that resembles but is legally distinct from the late Regine Lacroix to Moussillon, and how does she wish to be addressed?   
 


Regine had a slight perk to her right eyebrow, as she appeared more amused than anything, while the corner of her lip arched ever so slightly over the idea Whigard was suggesting.

 "Time's change,"  she answered to the question of being unhappy about her impending, ahem, transformation.

 "I am who I always have been, Whigard - Regine. I'm here because we both have a common enemy: the Red Knight and Sul Kunar. I know how to defeat them both; but I can't do it alone." 
farothel
Bruno was looking back to the knockers and hadn't at first seen who had saved them.  When Wighard started talking to Regine, he turned around and seeing a vampire so soon after they had fought with one, he brought the still flaming blade up in a reflex before he saw who it was.  He put out the flames and lowered the blade, but in this environment, didn't sheat it.
 "Sorry,"  he said,  "these are nervous times and no offense, but you have changed a bit since we last saw you." 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by farothel 
 Bruno was looking back to the knockers and hadn't at first seen who had saved them.  When Wighard started talking to Regine, he turned around and seeing a vampire so soon after they had fought with one, he brought the still flaming blade up in a reflex before he saw who it was.  He put out the flames and lowered the blade, but in this environment, didn't sheat it.
 "Sorry,"  he said,  "these are nervous times and no offense, but you have changed a bit since we last saw you."  
 


A subtle and faint smirk appeared across Regine's lips, a hint of her old personality of sarcastic, sardonic humour.

 "Just a little." 

For the briefest of seconds, her eyes shifted over to Bertelis again, before back to taking in the group at large.

 "I can answer anything you wish back at your lodgings; but we cannot loiter." 
MrAbdiel
 Becassin, the mysterious vampire hunter, has not been returning Regine's baleful glares. He must have noticed them; he must certainly be on guard. But he recognises a sketchy ally when he sees one, and it would be highly ironic for him to lash out instinctively against the arrival.  "Well. Since out effort here seems not to have yielded fruit, I suppose you are right. Since you seem to already know where we are quartered, I'd rather you in front of us than lurking elsewhere. I shall hope you can appreciate that one wicked trick is enough for a day's work, and that it's not merely a failure of my imagination to understand how you could be in league with the Red Knight and also profit him by working to our salvation." 

Bertelis says nothing. Nothing coherant, anyway. He is caked with swamp grit and stone dust from the collapsing cathedral, and he has stared in long disbelief at Regine reborn. It's a bizarre revelation that seems to be still working to find how it should be received into his mind, clonking against his capacity to grapple like an oddly shaped peg against a regular hole, until it finds its rotation. He chuckles.  He giggles, and then he doubles over in hysterical, silent laughter; wheezing blurts of manic vocalisation that echo through the quiet streets never quite finding the shape of words. He's not dissociated - he helplessly gestures toward Regine with his main-gauche as it to indicate what he finds so work-crackingly funny. But he cannot explain it, and so turns to start tottering away, red faced and wheezing and crying and breathless, back in the direction of their lodging.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Willpower roll for Bertelis specifically for Regine coming back vampirey.   vs54  - (1d100)[ 81 ] , FP as required   vs54  - (1d100)[ 54 ] .

Will give Lars a chance to post a reaction to risen Regine (though Gimgroth knew her more briefly than anyone) and the whole debacle, and then I'll move the scene along.
 
 
wilphe
Wighard takes some comfort in that their two allies aren't immediately at each others throats, but that isn't really vampire MO, not these types anyway

He takes Regine aside softly, as Bertelis leaves

  His bother we came to rescue has been transformed by the Red Knight.

He has not taken this well.

I have explained to him that his brother is no longer his brother even it wears his form and shares his memory.

I am aware this is a less than totally accurate simplification, however we don't need his mind to fray further nor for him to hesitate at a vital moment.

I am open to other suggestions how to handle this  

Kwolf settles nearby and assesses Regine

  Hello Regine

Seems the boss was right in assigning your spot in his garden to that skaven   
  Shall we get out of here? Might want to move to the next house soon as.

If one person can find it, so can others  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine's eyes and brow remained flat in Becassin's direction. Whatever noise the creature spouted, the vampiress seemed to hold little respect.

 "Yes..."  she scoffed, her eyes hard in their glare against the traitor.

 "I'm sure you do..."  she uttered.

Tempting. It was so, so tempting to just end this bastard right here and now, threat that he was. Legendary though he may be, he wasn't invincible, and Regine knew enough of the creatures habits to understand that he went after unprepared targets to maximise the chances of his success. So how would he fare against one who was prepped and ready to fight him right here and now?

But she held back, and it wasn't because of a potential menace. No, it was something else entirely: it was Bertelis.

Truth be told, his reaction completely pulled the rug out from under the former thief. Regine watched with visible hurt as he simply pointed a weapon in her direction....and  laughed . No wide-eyed recognition. No rictus of astonishment. Nothing. Nothing but humor, a mocking laughter that rang in her vampirically-enhanced ears for moments after he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, visibly hurt and emotionally wounded, as the only man who had ever mattered to her turned his back and walked off after seeing what she had become - where she had landed after penetrating and returning from that barrier between life and death.

Regine swallowed. She didn't need to, obviously. No physiological process compelled her into the action. No, this was just a reflex, a residual habit from her days among the living which were only a month and a half or so behind her.

The von Carstein composed herself. She squared her shoulders and straightened her back. Looking as regal as she had been since re-introduced herself, the vampire's composure changed to that of indifference, until Wighard spoke to to her in hushed whispers....



 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 Wighard takes some comfort in that their two allies aren't immediately at each others throats, but that isn't really vampire MO, not these types anyway

He takes Regine aside softly, as Bertelis leaves

  His bother we came to rescue has been transformed by the Red Knight.

He has not taken this well.

I have explained to him that his brother is no longer his brother even it wears his form and shares his memory.

I am aware this is a less than totally accurate simplification, however we don't need his mind to fray further nor for him to hesitate at a vital moment.

I am open to other suggestions how to handle this  

Kwolf settles nearby and assesses Regine

  Hello Regine

Seems the boss was right in assigning your spot in his garden to that skaven   
  Shall we get out of here? Might want to move to the next house soon as.

If one person can find it, so can others   
 

Turning to look at the wizard, Regine looked oddly composed, though internally she felt a pang of sorrow for the idea that Bertlis' brother had been...well, had joined her ranks. But his ensuing words spoke to something else, the idea that Wighard was attempting to compartmentalise for Bertlis the idea that his beloved brother was deceased, and what he was now was merely an imitation wearing his form.

Naturally, for Regine, this was an  insult . Worse than an insult even; a slap in the face.  She  was who she was, she was who she had always been. She was not some parasite that had latched onto her physical form and entered through the opening provided by the fangs of her vampiric mother - no! She was Regine von Carstein, formally la Croix! She was not an imitation. No no no...she was the upgrade.

But...

Regine stared at Wighard with her eyes, this vampiric eyes. If she wished them, they would be the green, her natural, human color, but now they were not: two red orbs peered at the wizard from the moonlight pale face he had once known.

 "I will speak to him. I will make him understand." 

Regine paused briefly, voice soft and whisper like,   "and...hello again."  

Kwolf's words, however, took her off-guard.

 "...what?"  the tall, black-haired woman asked, visibly confused to his words.
wilphe
kwolf looks at her sadly and makes sure to stay out of reach

  Your sire didn't tell you?

Ok, looks like I have to give you that part of The Talk.

You are immortal now

If unlife gets boring you can check out any time you want,  but you can't ever leave.

Your soul is forever barred from My Master's Realm regardless of what happens to your physical form.

You have forgone the opportunity of Eternal Rest for the opportunity of Eternal Life
  

He's not taunting her, but he does sound disappointed
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 "What a clever little bird you are..."  Regine responded to the familiar, peering at the corvid while slowly circling - her black hair and attire, her feline like appearance unmistakable, as if she were about to shoot one arm out like an arrow and snatch the darkly feathered creature in her clawed hands.

 "And how right you would be. But before my...transformation, I  spoke with the Priests of Morr . I supplied them with what was required to perform the necessary rites upon my passing..." 

The vampire paused for a moment, before continuing with her smooth voice.

 "Make no mistake, little bird. I penetrated the barrier between life and death. I passed to the other side. I saw what lies beyond. My soul was...plucked from me. Have you had your spirit pulled from your mind? It...is  extremely  painful. But necessary. That part of me lays in eternal rest within Morr's garden, little raven. I am a continuation." 

Once more another pause.
 
"What should happen this time if I expire?"  the vampire looked down at her body, her tall, gymnastic physique in her practical, but excellent quality clothes,  "we may never know. I plan to live forever." 
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis walks well enough ahead of the group that he doesn't overhear this conversation. It's probably for the best. La Becassin loiters infront, but near enough to overhear. He doesn't laugh (laughter, after the Knight's hysteria, has been temporarily robbed of its humorous qualities) but his shoulders do bounce with a scoff as he glances back at the hierophant, the revenant and the raven talking through life, and death, and life after death.

A startling buffeting of wings and partial avian collision batters past Wighard's shoulder as a blur of white lances through the middle of the group. It's a swamp fowl of some kind - a wading bird with white plumage from the base of the neck to the tip of the tail, but black skin on its somewhat scholarly bald head and tall legs holding it regally above the swampwater where it has alighted nearby. It has a big, wriggling blue leech the size of a man's thumb clutched in its long curbed beak; then it tosses its head back and gobbles the little parasite up. Then, with no call or regard for other birds or folk, it takes a couple of splashing steps in the water, spreads its wide white wings, and launches into the air and off towards its business elsewhere. 
wilphe
 "And how right you would be. But before my...transformation, I  spoke with the Priests of Morr . I supplied them with what was required to perform the necessary rites upon my passing..." 

Kwolf fails to conceal that he is not at least a little impressed

The vampire paused for a moment, before continuing with her smooth voice.

 Have you had your spirit pulled from your mind? It...is  extremely  painful. But necessary.  

He smiles at her, like he in fact does - and that it has happened more than once


 "we may never know. I plan to live forever." 
  Of course, they always do  
wilphe
Wighard brings the bird and its prey to Bruno's attention

  You see that?  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
  "And how right you would be. But before my...transformation, I  spoke with the Priests of Morr . I supplied them with what was required to perform the necessary rites upon my passing..." 

Kwolf fails to conceal that he is not at least a little impressed

The vampire paused for a moment, before continuing with her smooth voice.

 Have you had your spirit pulled from your mind? It...is  extremely  painful. But necessary.  

He smiles at her, like he in fact does - and that it has happened more than once


 "we may never know. I plan to live forever." 
  Of course, they always do   
 



Regine's left eyebrow perked, her lips arched slightly in a smirk. Hearing the ravens words, she gave a small nod and a wink, her piece spoken and over.

Looking back ahead of them, through the drab, ghastly streets of Mousillon, the vampire looked at Bertelis' back, wondering privately to herself if she should approach him...but she thought better of it. She wanted to speak to him in private, not while meandering through a street with dozens of ears tuning in to whatever she would say or whisper.
wilphe
Wighard reclaims his blunderbuss from Jasmine, checks it and holsters it

  I might start to like that one

hashtag notallVampires  
  And that's how they get you  
farothel
Bruno had indeed seen the bird and something strange into its mouth, but besides being a bit surprised it came this close, he didn't think much about it.  Birds lived here and they fed on whatever they could find, in this cursed country this most likely included strange stuff.  Despite everything he had seen the past time with the Company, he still wasn't all that familiar with magic, or comfortable around it.
 "It was a bird,"  he said,  "we've seen more of those around here." 
wilphe
Wighard nods and says nothing else on the matter
wilphe
 Back at the safehouse: 

Wighard hopes that Gaetan has obeyed orders to not let anyone in, but he won't make a scene if he has, just take notes

He also tries to act that near-death experiences and friendly vampires are nothing to freak out about

  Gaetan, her Ladyship Regine Lacroix  

He waits for Regine to introduce her servant

He takes his coat off,   if you could beat the dust out of this that would be lovely thank you
  

As they are settled and relax a bit, he will catch up with Regine on what has happened since their separation. He won't press her on anything she doesn't want to talk about, but he will note what she holds back on

  Now, you said something about knowing how to defeat the Red Knight and Sul Kunar   
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Upon returning to their rented house or set of rooms, the group would quickly discover things were in much greater order. No sealed item had been gone through, no private document disturbed, but things were arranged neatly, the dusting had been performed, the cobwebs swept away and a general air of cleanliness and pleasantness was immediately palpable. To add to the welcoming, homely air, the scent of cooking food could be detected wafting from what passed for a little kitchen, with what was clearly a mutton-based stew being prepared out of sight while the soft, feminine humming from within could be heard.

But not for long.

At the sound of the groups return, a pleasant looking figure emerged from the back, her bright smile a sign of welcome and hospitality. She would have been in her mid teens, most likely, her face surprisingly untouched by the various diseases that were common among the denizens of this blighted land. Her large, chestnut eyes were warm and matched the color of her hair that was faintly visible beneath the headscarf so commonly worn by Bretonnian women and girls, while her attire doubtlessly marked her as a peasant - but one clothed in quality fitting their servitude to a high ranking noble.

Or creature of the night.

 
 Spoiler 
   
 

 "Votre Seigneurie, you have returned!"  the girl exclaimed happily, curtseying before Regine first, before turning her attention to the group and supplying the same polite gestures of greeting.

 "They are safe! Lady's Mercy!"  she seemed genuinely happy, before addressing Regine once again,  "Dame Regine, Geatan was resting, I prepared a bath for him in his quarters. Do you wish me to help with any issues - Monsiuer you are hurt!"  she suddenly noticed Wighards bandaged injury.

 "No need, Sophie. The place looks homely and whatever you're preparing smells wonderful. You have done very well. Where are Raphael and Gaston?" 

At this, Sophie blushed and smiled and nodded once, and the contrast between the two women could not be more different. Sophie's shorter, peasant-trim image, flush with health and bashful in praise, next to Regine's taller, sleak-predatory figure with her black cloak, garb and hair framing her moonlight pale features smiling gently above her servant.

 "They are at our other lodgings, Dame Regine. Should I have a messenger send for them?" 
 "Not yet. Tend to what they need, and retrieve the custard cake. You may have most of the night to yourself, we have things to...discuss." 

Sophie gave another curtsey,  "Oui, ma dame." 



The cake in question turned into a centerpiece of the discussion, in a way. When the others had gathered to hear Regine speak about what she knew and the circumstances of her return, at the centre of the table sat a delicious looking item, carved neatly into pieces, its quality visible in its rich, creamy texture and undeniable scent:

 
 Spoiler 
   
 


Where-ever Regine had gotten it from in this town, she had clearly paid top silver for it.



 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
 As they are settled and relax a bit, he will catch up with Regine on what has happened since their separation. He won't press her on anything she doesn't want to talk about, but he will note what she holds back on

  Now, you said something about knowing how to defeat the Red Knight and Sul Kunar    
 

Regine had taken her own weapons and cloak off and hung them close by, as she sat in pleasant evening clothes that were of visible quality - markedly higher than what she had worn during the time they had all known each other.

 "I did try to spare you all,"  she started,  "as well as myself. I got my affairs in order. I supplied Morr's priests with the material to escort my soul to Morr for judgement. I knew I couldn't reveal to you all what was occuring, I dreaded the consequences. So I took matters into my own hands. Obviously...that didn't work..."  she gestured to herself.

 "I had been visited in the night some days prior, and it had been against my will. By the time of my attempt to end it all I was too far transformed, my new nature preserving me just enough to be retrieved by my mother. She took me away,  and when I awoke , the process was complete. I met my mother...mother of my rebirth, my uncles, my grandfather..."  Regine trailed off softly, a small smile at the corner of her lips as if remembering affectionate recollections.

 "The region where my family presides has came under threat from Sul Kunar, that is why I am here. I was exploring my family's lands and I came upon an old silver mine, within which was a remnant of a Beastman warherd, sickly, diseased. I fought through them, and their leader, some Rakath Blackmane, if you've ever heard of him. At the centre of it all was some pillar, a pylon of some sort, covered in symbols, and further outside and in a ravine, I came across and...neutralised, a Norscan raiding party. Their champion was carrying that,"  she gestured to the snake-headed pommel of the Gromril sword hanging upon her belt,  "and his skin was fused to his armor! They were agents of Sul Kunar, and they had been spreading diseased barrels into the water supply that ran into our region. Hundreds of thousands of my family's subjects were at risk, and the beastmen were simply closer to the source. My uncles are cleaning that up, but they knew that more will spillover and threatetn the human populations...and so, I was sent here.

They knew I would encounter you all: the Red Knight and Sul Kunar are a common enemy, and I seek their elimination as much as you all do.

I understand how my new... condition  might evoke distrust within you. So I will offer two elements of vulnerability, as tokens of trust and goodwill. The first, my last name is no longer la Croix; it is von Carstein.

Second; the Red Knight and Sul Kunar must be defeated within twenty four hours of each other, otherwise both of them will return anew.

And I know how to prevent it." 
farothel
 "Von Carstein is not a name to engender trust with,"  Bruno said, still not all that happy with all the vampires around.  Even he knows the name and his knowledge of Imperial History is fairly limited.
 "I will take you having common cause with us at face value at the moment, but I would not go into the empire with that name if I were you.  The Empire is not as forgiving as I am." 
wilphe
Wighard looks at Sophie as she leaves, then sends Schlapp after her,

  Not going to let a young lady walk around a place like this by herself. Besides he misses Siobhan  


He takes Regine's new family in his stride, but apparently sincerely, and he does seem to be a lot happier after hearing about her soul arrangements

  Congratulations on your elevation.

Does any specific title come with that?  

but doesn't look directly at Bruno


  What happens in Mousillon stays in Mousillon

I in any case have yet to decide how to spin these events in our favour and not to our discredit
  
MrAbdiel
 Back at the bolthole, the Company gathered to regroup and strategize. Weeks of ambushing the forces of both the the Red Knight and Sul Konarr had been largely successful, but exhausting. When they had begun, they could barely move about old town without being in the domain of one or the other. Now, they had considerably more freedom to move - even, perhaps, to strike deeply toward one or both.

La Becassin has been largely laconic about the arrival of the vampiress, but the more she gleefully pronounces her heritage, the more his distance seems to be hardening into judgement. At separate occasions, he catches her eyes, and Wighards. To each respectively, his look has the same message:  we will have words about this development. 
 "It sounds like you've been very busy, then."  Bertelis notes after Regine's tale of her post mortal exploits. His tone is chipper as he offers his commentary, his attention on the discussion though his eyes watch his hands as he uses a cloth to rub the grime of the adventures from his leather armor on the table before him. He sits with open gambeson, airing out the scars of skeletal claws that raked his chest in the near-death before this most recent near-death. He nods without looking toward the gromril sword.

 "An impressive trophy. The only gromril swords floating about the world are those made by dwarves for the hands of men, and only very impressive men. It probably belonged to some respected man before it was snatched up as a prize by his killer, and then again and again a few times, making its way to you. If Glod were here, he might be able to tell you its provenance." 

He makes no comment on Regine's name-change, however. He glances briefly toward the side room, where Jasmine is resting after her own brush with death, and then back to his armour.

Neither does he have a comment about her assurance of salvation. He might have thoughts - he's something of a theologian himself, inducted as far into the priesthood of Manaan as he can be without giving up his knighthood - but what does one do with a claim from the breathless body of someone you knew, that they died and their soul is certainly at rest because they conferred with the Morrites? And then such glee in becoming a vampire - an enemy of life...

He chuckles at no specific word's instigation, as his damaged mind renders the whole situation uncanny and amusing.

 "Within twenty four hours? That will be quite an effort. Just enough time to regroup and rest, and not much time to  let wounds mend."
 
He glances to Wighard then. Magical healing was an option, but he knew the healer to be reluctant to lean on it. What's more, his delusion during the last battle had suggested something was... wrong with his magic.

Perhaps they'd all lose their minds, here in Mousillon. 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by farothel 
  "Von Carstein is not a name to engender trust with,"  Bruno said, still not all that happy with all the vampires around.  Even he knows the name and his knowledge of Imperial History is fairly limited.
 "I will take you having common cause with us at face value at the moment, but I would not go into the empire with that name if I were you.  The Empire is not as forgiving as I am."  
 


The vampire smiled softly, subtly.

 "Then I should count myself lucky that you're one of my judges,"  she replied with mirth tugging at the corner of her lips - the same, gently sarcastic sense of humour she had in life.

 "But...I offer this not to brag or intimidate. My family and... extended  family have many enemies. My Great Grandfather, Vlad von Carstein, was a rather active induvial, as were some of my cousins. I give you this as a sign of goodwill and trust, though I ask that in public you refer to me by my former surname; la Croix. It has less...baggage, attached to it." 

That coy, small, playful smile at her lips again.

 "Also, to be up front and honest, I do have several homing pigeons for sending them messages, should the need arise." 

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   Congratulations on your elevation.

Does any specific title come with that?  

but doesn't look directly at Bruno


  What happens in Mousillon stays in Mousillon

I in any case have yet to decide how to spin these events in our favour and not to our discredit
   
 

 "None that you need address me by..."  Regine shrugged softly, her humour remaining in her small smile.

 "But I...passed beyond it all, all of this..."  she gestured gently to their surroundings with both her hands. The vampire was sitting at the head of the table, her hands clasped upon it before parting them to circularly motion towards this material plane of theirs.

 "I went... beyond ..."  she uttered again, this time her tone, her face, her words. Though repeating herself, she carried a genuine wonder and fear to what she was saying, her eyes on Wighard, then the others, trying to get across the gravity of the concept she was trying to communicate, as if she still carried a residual trauma from the ordeal.

 "When I threw myself from that building, I thought I'd spared you all. I had never thought my journey would end in such a way. I hit that ground and..."  she trailed off, pursing her lips, looking at the table,  "the curtain pulled back...I went through the silvered glass..." 

She paused, contemplating. Remembering.

 "That eternal part of me was peeled from my mind. I watched it. I  felt  it. My spirit rests in Morr's garden now...while  I , I was yanked back here. The Priests did their job." 

She pursed her lips and thought for a few seconds on the heavy subject.

 "It's something you will all go through, it is another path you all will take, one day. If you take anything from my presence, understand and accept that the soul exists -  your  soul exists. Guard it from evil, and when your time comes, you will enter into the far green country and the white shores beyond." 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Back at the bolthole, the Company gathered to regroup and strategize. Weeks of ambushing the forces of both the the Red Knight and Sul Konarr had been largely successful, but exhausting. When they had begun, they could barely move about old town without being in the domain of one or the other. Now, they had considerably more freedom to move - even, perhaps, to strike deeply toward one or both.

La Becassin has been largely laconic about the arrival of the vampiress, but the more she gleefully pronounces her heritage, the more his distance seems to be hardening into judgement. At separate occasions, he catches her eyes, and Wighards. To each respectively, his look has the same message:  we will have words about this development. 
 "It sounds like you've been very busy, then."  Bertelis notes after Regine's tale of her post mortal exploits. His tone is chipper as he offers his commentary, his attention on the discussion though his eyes watch his hands as he uses a cloth to rub the grime of the adventures from his leather armor on the table before him. He sits with open gambeson, airing out the scars of skeletal claws that raked his chest in the near-death before this most recent near-death. He nods without looking toward the gromril sword.

 "An impressive trophy. The only gromril swords floating about the world are those made by dwarves for the hands of men, and only very impressive men. It probably belonged to some respected man before it was snatched up as a prize by his killer, and then again and again a few times, making its way to you. If Glod were here, he might be able to tell you its provenance." 

He makes no comment on Regine's name-change, however. He glances briefly toward the side room, where Jasmine is resting after her own brush with death, and then back to his armour.

Neither does he have a comment about her assurance of salvation. He might have thoughts - he's something of a theologian himself, inducted as far into the priesthood of Manaan as he can be without giving up his knighthood - but what does one do with a claim from the breathless body of someone you knew, that they died and their soul is certainly at rest because they conferred with the Morrites? And then such glee in becoming a vampire - an enemy of life...

He chuckles at no specific word's instigation, as his damaged mind renders the whole situation uncanny and amusing.

  
 


It was perhaps Bertelis' flippant approach to her presence that hurt Regine the most - though she barely showed it.  Barely . Anyone perceptive would notice small little details upon her features, from the corners of her eyes and lips, to her demeanour in general. She had hoped he would at least be happy to see her again, but clearly it wasn't the case. He acted as if she hadn't been gone at all. Or had not returned. Or at least be as happy to see her as much as she was happy to see him.

 "Oh, I know it's history - one of my Uncles recognized it!"  Regine piped up, her smile sincere and almost chipper, as she looked over to the Gromril sword hanging within its scabbard, the ruby eyes within the snakes-head pommel glinting when catching illumination from the fire.

 "It was granted to the patriarch of the House DuBois after the Bretonnian lord led a charge against the orcs during the Battle of Blackwater Plains, three hundred years ago. The king of the Dwarven Diamondbeard Clan had it forged and granted in gratitude. Generations later it was eventually lost to Beastmen in battle, after which it passed through various hands of ill repute...until it found its way into mine!"  she smiled,  "now it has served a better purpose. It's name is  Midnight ." 

  "Within twenty four hours? That will be quite an effort. Just enough time to regroup and rest, and not much time to  let wounds mend."
  

The vampire nodded.

 "Within twenty four hours. The Red Knight has made an oath to destroy Sul Konarr. He is bound to this oath to such a degree that, even if he is destroyed, he returns to being by sundown, with the Spear of Manann retrieved into his grasp.

Meanwhile, Sul Konarr is likewise resurrected by his daemonblade weapon whenever he perishes.

So, we need to first slay the Red Knight, and then use the Spear of Manaan to destroy Sul Konarr and his chaos-infused weapon, to ensure that both threats remain dead and buried." 

Regine allowed the knowledge to hang in the air briefly, before continuing.

 "The Red Knight is not vulnerable to holy items...except icons of Manaan. Also, some of my kind..."  Regine said, reaching into her purse upon her hip and withdrawing a silver coin,  "are vulnerable to silver..."  she then pressed the coin flat against her right cheek, where she exhibited no such signs of sensitivity; no hissing burning, no scorch marks,  "I am not,"  she announced, laying the coin upon the table.

 "But the Red Knight is. I suggest silver-plated weapons when facing him."  

She then swept her right index finger in a semi-circle, gesturing to all gathered.

 "You," 

Before turning it to point at herself.

 "Me," 

Then a full circle to encompass all gathered.

 "We." 
wilphe
Wighard listens intently to Regine whilst acknowledging the Becassine's discomfort. His thinking being   I do not want my friends to kill each other, but if you have to try - AFTER the mission 

He removes his hat, inside the crown of flowers is still there, fresh and unblemished

  Taal did gift us this. Very possibly with foreaight for this contingency  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Rhya’s Comfort
Casting Number: 18
Casting Time: 1 minute
Duration: Instant
Range: You (large template)
Ingredients: A cup of fresh milk (+2)
Description: You ask the Mother Goddess to provide succour for her children. Centre the large template on you. Those affected are refreshed as if they just had a full night’s sleep and received three day’s worth of natural healing.
 

  I have been using much magic. I am not depleting the winds as new magic is flowing in faster than I can use it. Things may get, unpredictable. But I hope as a divine item this will not be affected  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

Regine nods to Wighards proposal, knowing the item would become invaluable for the mortals recuperation if they emerge victorious against the Red Knight.

 "We will want to hit the Red Knight after dusk. That will give us a little under 24 hours to then eliminate Sul Kunarr. And remember, we're one down against the Red Knight to begin with..."  she gestured towards Bertelis in remembrance of the oracles warning.

 "Then we have to elimate Sul Kunarr." 

She allowed the weight of the massive undertaking to linger in the air a moment before finishing.

 "We're going to have to know where they both are at what time, what security they have around then and how to breach their lairs.  We're going to have know these crucial points with 100% certainty before initiate our efforts, because we will likely only have one shot.

So...this is why I have approached you. I cannot do this alone, and nor can you. We either succeed together, or we fail." 
farothel
 "We've not been sitting still the past time,"  Bruno explained to Regine,  "we have a general fix on both group's headquarters.  For the Red Knight that's in one of the underground mausoleums in the old cemetery, which is hardly surprising.  We've been going at his minions for some time now, so the defenses there should be doable, although still something we need to plan carefully.  We have that vampire we met today, Bertelis' brother and the big guy himself, plus whatever undead minions they can summon up.

For Sul Konarr, he's in the gatehouse at the north of the city, overlooking the Charnel Hills where all the plague dead are buried.  Which also makes sense for a Nurgle follower.  Again, we've been going at their cultists, but the big man and his main followers are still out there.  I had planned on trying to find out if anybody had any building plans of either location, so that we have a general idea of how things are looking, but I haven't gotten around to that yet.  And I doubt there will be any plans still in the city, but there might be people who know what things look like." 
wilphe
Wighard concentrates for moment then looks at Bertelis

  Kwolf asks if you can draw a map from a birds eye view  
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis is mid stretch and yawn when he is called upon, fumbling a little in his chair as the front legs land back on the ground again.

 "Can I - Oh, yes. Certainly. I've been making charcoal sketches of the city streets we've worked. With sufficient description, maybe a little scouting, we could chart the mauseleums before we go into the graveyard though obviously they're mostly underground.  But ... if we're talking about a map of the gatehouse, that's going to be trouble. All we can get is the shape from outside, and make some guesses. But anything the bird learns by peering in windows might add some detail to the endeavour. But, ah..." 

He gestures towards Regine - an offhanded, detached wave of the fingers like he's digging through the airborne remnants of what she has said for something particularly.

 "About hitting the Red Knight after sundown. That certainly gives the longest time frame, but... Wouldn't it be better to go after this lair of vampires at sunrise? Otherwise we seem to be inviting their full strength, rather than having the option of fleeing out into the... well, cloud-filtered sunlight. With Wighard's boon of Taal, we might be better off trying to accomplish this feat in fourteen daylit hours rather than twenty four, including fighting vampires at night."  
wilphe
  I believe the implication was he reforms at dusk? Or do I have that wrong?  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Kwolf 17
+20 Skill
+20 Keen Senses
+10 Vision
+10 Link
+40


 (1d100)[ 27 ]  v 117
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

Regine listened and nodded at Bruno's words, glad that they had been gathering a degree of recon at least. For the vampire, she felt like she was back in L'Anguille, during her times as a master thief; hired for difficult jobs whose execution she had to figure out...which meant lots and lots of reconnaissance and information gathering.

 "Excellent, we can work with that. I can help further the reconnaissance,"  she spoke,  "there are places I can go where...mortals, cannot, in this city." 

But, it was still Bertelis that was getting under her skin the most, though she did her best to hide it.

 "I would be weaker as well,"  she answered calmly, her tone soothing and soft.

 "As would... he ,"  she gestured to the  other  vampire in the room, her venomous dislike of the traitor only barely veiled.

 "And you cannot participate, as the Oracle warned, so we would be down another full operator. It would also cut in half the time we have to travel towards Sul Kunar's lair, defeat his security and slay him.

But the choice, of course, is yours." 
BananaPhone
 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   I believe the implication was he reforms at dusk? Or do I have that wrong?  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

Kwolf 17
+20 Skill
+20 Keen Senses
+10 Vision
+10 Link
+40


[roll0] v 117
 
 
 


Regine nodded once in Wighards direction,  "that is correct, yes. Fully formed and re-armed with the  Spear of Manaan , which we need to destroy Sul Kunarr's Daemonsword." 
wilphe
  Then the ideal timing would be to deal with his underlings before dusk and himself immediately thereafter

That might be hard to arrange however  
farothel
 "That would indeed be best,"  Bruno agrees with Wighard,  "that way we can also hit them piecemeal instead of all at once.  We might give some planning to try to do it like this while Regine performs extra scouting.  We can assume he would send his minions in first without joining the fight himself, or is he one of those 'lead from the front' type of people?" 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

The vampire smiled slowly at Bruno's words, her lips arching across her angular, pleasant features.

 "Sounds like we have something to work with,"  she started, pursing her lips in thought for a moment.

 "Perhaps if we can devise a means to lure away most of the Red Knights inner circle. Your efforts over the past month have had, from what I have gathered, an attritional effect on the quality of members he can muster. Skeletons, death cultists and necromancers aside, my kind are not all equal in ability; the embrace...enhances us, but the resulting expertise is heavily dependent on the initial quality of the candidate. With only Henri and..."  she trailed off, allowing the implication of  who  to hang in the air,  "...left, any others we face are likely being given the Kiss in a type of, shock troop, human wave tactic..."  Regine finished, the look on her face clearly one of disapproval at such distasteful waste of the vampiric gift.

  "Maybe if I could talk to them...convince them to see the writing on the wall, to change allegiance...get them to see they're on a sinking ship..."   she spoke softly to herself, eyes off in thought, before curling her lips and shaking her head once,   "...no, unlikely."  
 "Well, it sounds like we have a general working plan. I will continue on reconnaissance, and we determine the honeypot irresistible enough to draw out the bulk of the Red Knights security in order to make him vulnerable. We go in, armed with silver and holy icons of Manaan, hopefully emerge victorious, employ the magic of the item of Taal, then move to engage Sul Kunarr and use the  Spear of Manaan  to destroy his weapon, and end the threat of both these wretched creatures to this blighted city. Details to come.

Does this sound agreeable?" 

Regine smiled as she looked across the assembled group.
wilphe
Wighard nods

  I will bring forward our move to the next safe house. If you could find this place then so can our enemies.

Of course I might maintain this one as a decoy, would be a handy place to lure them out  
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis gives an agreeable shrug.

 "Alright. We ought to make our way before the attack to the Temple of Manaan - it's not so far from the cemetery, and it's the only holy ground you will be able to retreat to if things go poorly. I may be able to compel the priests to bless your weapons; but either way I shall remain there and await the signal to rejoin you for the second assault against Sul Konarr. It's a pity we never found a brightsmith - we have enough silver coins to perform some silvering of our mundane weapons, just in case."  
wilphe
  Does anybody involved in this operation on either side of this operation have any taboo on Holy Ground?  

asks Wighard quizzically
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine said nothing. She knew the answer of course, and were she before her former companions alone she would confess her...distaste for holy icons, and grounds.

But she would be loathe to reveal any vulnerabilities in front of the Traitor, who sat silently at the table, watchful.

Instead she nodded, looking at everyone.

 "I'm glad to be among you all again. I was relieved that this wretched city hadn't claimed you." 

Her voice was soft and her smile gentle and sincere, a hint of lamentation on her features that this is what fate had had in store for her.

Standing up, she offered the group a small farewell curtsey with her inhumanly graceful movements, before retrieving her hanging weapons and cloak. She made her way to towards the stairs to enter the upper floors, but then paused at the base, thought for a second, then turned to face the group, her face etched with thought.

 "... however ,"  she started,  "one of my entourage  is  a capable gemologist. He dabbles in silversmithing for his craft...he  may  be able to plate some weapons in silver to make our task more expedient." 

The vampire nodded once towards the group, before once again offering a polite, aristocratic bow that was unlike her prior, living self,  "good evening" .

Regine them moved up the stairs with an unnatural ease and disappeared into the upper floors.

Suffice to say, Bertelis would have someone waiting for him in his quarters, seated, one knee over the other...
wilphe
Wighard sighs

  I have a bag of poppy seeds here and I am not afraid to use it.

I understand if people don't want to reveal their particular idiosyncratic hangups.

I do however have a big problem if we are allowed to make a plan based on false assumptions.

We just fought on, admittedly old and decayed, holy ground and no one seems to have had any issue being there,

I don't know if this is a specific Brettonian belief or not, but I am unfamiliar with it  
MrAbdiel
 Le Becassin smiles a little at Wighard's threat - and perhaps a little at Regine's apparent discomfort.

 "Holy ground, and holy symbols, are common deterrents for such creatures. I suspect part of the Red Knight's inability to complete his desperate task is the desecration of the Plague God repels his lesser minions. Even the dark gods despise this perversion of life, though no weaknesses are guaranteed - the Knight himself, your friend tells us, is repelled principally by the icons of Bordeleaux's aquatic sponsor. Beyond that, most vampires suffer in sunlight, and that we have already seen. Silver burns some, and there are other more exotic metal vulnerabilities - ithilmar, gromril - but silver has additional benefits, because it defeats undead regenerative gifts even if it does not do damage on its own. And you are bluffing with the poppy seeds - but the counting curse real, if rare. Mastery of this, hunting the masters of the night, is about discovering across months, years, or generations what are a particular monster's weaknesses, and leveraging them. As for the temple we just fought in... There was no trace of holy ground there, anymore. This cursed city swallows up consecration that is not rigorously maintained by clergy. The temple of Manaan is sanctified still; but the Grail Chapel on the other side, to which all the local pilgrims go grovelling, is a hall of charlatans. There is nothing sacred there, for example. Are you satisfied, Wighard?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Operating under the assumption that Regine will linger for the tail end of this discussion.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Oi, Regine! 
Didn't you bring along a brightsmith (silversmith) specifically to be able to give the party access to silvering of weapons?
 

 
 
wilphe
  Thank you

If he so fears Manaan perhaps we could try seawater?

And no I don't expect poppy seeds to work, but its not painful whilst being mildly humiliating.
  
farothel
 "For the blunderbuss we can just sharpen a few coins or something like that and stuff those in,"  Bruno said,  "a few silver balls for the pistols would also be a very good idea.  I hope that the magic of the company sword will do its thing without needing any silver, but I guess that's for the experts to determine." 
He looked at the two vampires and Wighard, who as a wizard had some experience with these matters.
MrAbdiel
  "Seawater..? Maybe. I expect the aversion is more psychological than theological, being so specific. Seawater wouldn't be the strangest weakness I had ever seen - more often it's running water - but given that we are making a singular assault, and we have no free to experiment and withdraw, I would recommend going with the intelligence from sources you trust."
 
Becassin's eyes flick to Regine briefly, then to Bruno at the question he raises.

 "A magic weapon is almost always better than a mundane one, against such creatures. Still, if The Red Knight is possessed of unwholesome regeneration, then a  silvered  magical blade will do more good than a merely magical one. And the flame will at worse burn flesh like anyone elses, and at best burn more vigorously. It's a fine sword for the engagement. It's also the key the Red Knight needs to accomplish  his  goal of destroying Sul Konarr, and he will engage you with the intention to take it off your body just as we intend to take from him the Spear of Manaan. If you intend to see the forests of your homeland again, I recommend true caution."  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 "I will ask Raphael when I see him tonight,"  Regine replied,  "his speciality is gemcutting, but he also knows how to work silver. He may be able to plate some weapons with the material." 
wilphe
  How big an entourage did you bring?

I need to readjust what our assets and liabilities are  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by wilphe 
   How big an entourage did you bring?

I need to readjust what our assets and liabilities are   
 


The vampire remained at the base of that stairs, halting her depature to address more immediate concerns.

 "Three,"  she answers matter-of-factly,  "Raphael is a gemcutter and jeweller, Sophie is, as you've seen, a lovely girl from Mousillon, and another, Gaston..."  Regine smirked, eyes tilting off slightly as she thought of something,  "Gaston is Gaston. He does what I tell him and looks out for the other two." 
wilphe
  I believe silvering wears off with strikes

So one has the tactical consideration if one wishes to silver ones best weapon and risk it being no longer efficacious if we have to chew threw mooks to get to the target or bring two weapons and keep the silvered one in reserve for the main event  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 "The later would be preferred. Both of these opponents will be... challenging ,"  the vampire returned, her voice smooth.

 "I think it would be best if I had some sparring lessons with those of you who intended to fight them up close with weapons in your hands, to prepare you for what you will be facing. We speak now of the Red Knight, but don't assume Sul Kunar will be any easier. I fought one of those walking mountains of metal, that's where I got this,"  she strummed her right fingers along the snakes-head pommel of the Gromril sword hanging from her hip.

 "They're freakish big and freakish strong, and a lot quicker than you would expect for men of that size. They carry very large and brutal weapons, and they know how to use them. One misstep,"  Regine  Click! 'ed her right hand fingers,  "and you're dead. Let's make sure everyone comes back alive,"  she nodded, her gaze across the group again.

One hand on the railing of the stairs beside her, she spoke directly to Bertelis,  "Bertelis, when you have a moment, please," , before shifting her eyes over to look at La Becassin and return a knowing glance of her own:  you'll get your chance for your little talk, traitor .

With that, Regine moved up the stairs like a silent shadow, disappearing into the set of rooms above.
wilphe
Kwolf's voice appears in Wighard's head

  Yeah. come back alive, right  
MrAbdiel
 Bertelis looks up from the map he had been fully engaged in detailing, as if surprised to be called. It takes a blink for him to understand, and he deals with his quills and inks before easing from the chair with an aching grunt and ambling off to a side room to speak with the vampiress - apparently unworried.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Preparations! 
Now is the time to prepare for a great brawl - we'll have a short interlude with some individual scenes and then we'll go into the hunt for the Red Knight and Sul Konarr right after.

Everyone can elect to have  one  silvered melee weapon of their choice, with the understanding the silver will wear off with blows. You may have  four  pieces of silvered ammunition each. You may elect to 'share' with anyone else who you want. Loading a Blunderbuss requires all four to give it an appropriately silvery mass of shrapnel.

Any other preparations you want to make before the big battle, now is the time to decide on them. Otherwise, I'll line up some dream sequences! If you want to conduct any 'side scenes' with other characters, don't let me stop you. If they overrun, we can always put them in brackets.
 


Alone with Regine, some portion of Bertelis's unstable sanguinity fades - but not all of it. He regards her with wary positivity that seems to cash out in his scarred countenance as something like haughtiness.

  "So."   
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: With Bertelis 
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
   "So."   
 


Regine had moved into Bertelis' room, within which she stood in the centre. Behind her, upon whatever passed as a small, rickety desk, rested an oddly large object whose dimensions were clearly hefty and huge, but whose identity was wrapped in linen cloth. The vampire, meanwhile, looked at the Bretonnian, her pale, angular features flanked by her black hair atop her gymnast physique garbed in quality, black clothing. She had an undeniable predatory beauty to her, like a panther standing with its chin up as a new source of regal poise had been passed onto it through the blood.

 "You can drop the act,"  she spoke. Instead of irritancy, as he might have expected, instead her voice was soft and caring, sympathetic even, as if she understood his prior behaviour. In death, her voice had become that bit richer.

She took a silent step forward, her inhuman grace evident in the ease with which she reached forward and held his hand with hers, gloves off, and brought his palm to her cheek and held it there, cradled by her own. She wasn't cold, as he might have expected, but nor did she have the warmth of life. But, perhaps surprisingly, her skin retained the softness of hydration as if she were still alive.

 "It's me."
 
Six weeks separated. She had gone beyond life and death, yet here she now stood.

 "I'm back." 




OOC -
Caught me right as I was going to bed, hah.)
 
wilphe
Wighard suveys at who remains and looks at the Becassine

  I was given a vision of Madame La Croix as a friend from the same source that bade me seek you out.  

He pulls the  Misericorde of Poisonous Malice  from his boot

  Lest people think I give random acquaintances powerful items on a whim.

Maybe I will have this silvered. Will Black Lotus work on our target?  

He returns it to his boot

  This would not have been without purpose, and no such purpose has yet transpired.

Until it does, or I receive a superseding update I shall regard her as a friend and ally; afterwards I  may  revaluate.

And in answer to your next question, no I do not trust her. But I don't even trust myself. I trust Gimgroth more than I trust myself.

For the moment I catagorise her under "would betray us, but would feel guilty about it"  
  I don't like this  
  I am not asking you to, but admit it you were blindsided by the fact our Master already has her soul. That's an unprecedented development that deserves further study  
  Then what is driving her around?  
  That is an excellent question  
MrAbdiel
 Becassine considers the  Misericorde  when it's produced. His eyes are on it long enough to consider the runnel for the poison, and the subtle markers of its magical nature.

 "It won't hurt to have on hand. Few vampires are immediately allergic to magic - it tends to be something more substantial. Magically altered metals, like elf and dwarf steel; wyrdstone, sometimes. Or earthen things like certain herbs, or silver. But magic weapons are useful to have on hand for spirits, if the Red Knight has the means to conjour them; or daemons that Sul Konarr certainly will employ. As for the poison..." 

He shakes his head.  "Dead men do not suffer poison. And the plague god's followers celebrate toxin as much as disease. Whomever is responsible for your vision, whatever they intend this weapon for, I cannot know their ultimate mind. You might silver it - I might say you're best to silver whatever weapon you think you can put the most force behind. Silver is good; silver and wrath is the alloy we need." 

He glances up at Kwolf for moment, but the vampire's thoughts of the death-god's emissary are unreadable. He slips out to the street, into the cackle of debauched nightlife, to do whatever such a creature does.

 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 
Instintive more than delibered, Bertelis' heel slid back at the same time Regine's step moved forward; but he arrested his retreat and even permitted her to take and life his hand to her cheek. His thumb moved gently on the curve of her cheek bone, as it had once before, before he drew his hand back to himself. The war in his features between an inappropriately sanguine sentiment and a wary, haunted substrate is visible, any not a particularly pleasant rendering of his countenance.

 "Is it? How would I know? A moment ago you make something of passionate defense of the opposite - that Regine's soul rests with Morr, that you have rapidly adopted a family of blood drinking abominations as your family. Whom did I love? A soul with a body, or a body with a soul? And to call yourself so  proudly  by the name von Carstein as if it is not moniker so steeped in tyrannical misery and monstrous evil.." 

The knight shakes his head; negating any offer of certainty about identity, or continuity.
 

 
 Spoiler: End of Scene! 
I'm about to cut to a last round of dream sequences before the big fight. If anyone has anything they want to continue in this last scene, feel free to do so - spoiler tags help to keep the continuity tidy, so I recommend it.
 
 
MrAbdiel
  Gimgroth Dreams... 

A frosty mountain plateau. Around you and your companion, the hacked and scattered remnants dozens of hated  grobi . You're resting here for a while, breathing deeply of the air in the Apuccini mountains. You and your companion need such breaks; behind you, the doors to Karak Diri are open and the foul stink of the goblin infection wafts out. Back in the glory of Karaz-Ankor, even a small Karak like this would have been build with a mind to provide airflow for the deep dwellings of the dwarves. But the goblins do not care for such things, and they have blocked up all the flues and passages that would let forge smoke out and fresh air in. If they didn't, the rats would come in those ways, and the result is that Karak Diri, in addition to being full of greenskins, is almost unbreathable. So from time to time, you and your companion must resurface, refill your lungs, and look out across the land below - Verezzo, Luccini, and a glimmering silver slice of the distant Tilean Sea.

You know you are dreaming because you have your beard back. Full as it is here, fuller even than at any time in your life, it is nothing compared to the beard of your companion. But the fact of the dreaming melts away in short order; and the unreality of this moment will not factor much into your thoughts until it is over.

Sitting on a rock beside you, splattered with goblin blood and leaning forward on the hilt of his massive axe, is a dwarf so ancient his features have transcended the signs of age and surged into the realm of legend. His has a massive mane of white hair that radiates around his craggy features, and a white beard down to his knees, likely longer if it were not so generously braided and clasped with ornaments of oathgold. Both his eyebrows and moustache stab out and up from his face, and his whole person seems to imply explosive force. All except his expression, which right now in this break between slaughters, is as serene as anyone might hope to ever see upon the face of The White Dwarf.

 "It's good land,"  he comments finally, lifting the axe to gesture loosely to the land of Tilea below.  "Very good. I'd prefer to say it had been wasted on the elves, but they were good stewards of field and forest, if they were nothing else. Will you return here, lad? Hang up your weapons, and take up tools?" 
 Bruno Dreams... 

Trautenau's  good  harvest years are similar to most village's  bad  harvest years. This autumn had seen a poor harvest by the village's own standards, and with winter setting in that year, the local priests had declared a  Taalfreiden  - a Taal-peace, permitting peasants to hunt even in forest areas normally considered game reserves for the nobility and protected Taalie forest. Cynical villagers muttered that this was less a gift than an opportunity to be sent charging into the brush to flush out beastmen. But your family can't afford to be so cynical. You're sixteen this year. Your oldest brother is managing the farm as best he can, with your father's illness keeping him bedridden; so it's you and the middle brother loping through the evening glow in the Great Forest with your home-carved bows, looking to bag a rabbit, or a game bird, or - if Taal is kind - a deer, if the other ravenous villagers haven't chased them all off.

Part of you knows this is a dream. It's multiple lifetimes ago for you. Before the Company, there was your adoptive Richter family. Before them, the Road Wardens who taught you much about the world and how to survive in it. But before that, there was Trautenau, and your brothers. Your father dies, this year. But that's dream logic - the kind of thing that will only seem clear and actionable after you wake.

Your brother flags you over with one hand to an unusual find - a single shed antler, medium sized, from one of the local high-haunch deer.

 "What luck - and the nub's still warm, too."  He whispers, grins, and tosses the antler to you, to stow. Antler's always useful - for handles for tools and knives made on your father's little anvil in his farm workshop. He's no smith, but all farmers must become skilled a little at a lot of things. And the numb where the antler has dropped from the deer's head does indeed seem to carry a fleck of warmth.

 "Early for shedding. Old stag, maybe. Or sick. Let's find out, little brother!"  He's lankier than you, and faster in an open sprint - but you can keep up when you're sneaking, and he's reading trails.

 "Do you miss this?"  He asks, the otherworldliness of the question muted somewhat by the dream,  "The farm, and hunting? Your family? When you left..."  he sifts his hand though some leaves, raising to your senses the faint aroma of deer urine. The quarry is near.  "When you left, you never looked back, did you?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Feel free to name your Middle and Older brothers, Farothel. As well as your mother and father, if you like. I don't think they're named in your background, but now's an opportunity!
 

 Wighard Dreams... 

You're on the bridge, over the Grismerie - the one where you slashed your hand to fight the ambushers. The smell of the water below reeks terribly. You'd cover your nose with your hands, if they weren't covered in blood. Mousillon is quiet, now. No clamour of debauched peasants, or degenerate mutants in their hovels; no scuffle of vermin in the rubbish or the moaning sick in their squatter's dens. Filthy, but peaceful.

That would tell you this was a dream, if nothing else did. Kwolf is with you, as he sometimes is in dreams; though none of your other familiars are. Whether this is the real raven, or your mind's dreamy approximation of it, is irrelevant right now - the luciditiy will only come to you later to ask the question.

You watch the foul waters of the Grismerie churn and part, and the maw of a terrible and towering dracoleech punches up, splashing filth onto the bridge; and it curls its upper parts in your direction. An orifice - little more than a massive coit of muscle embedded with rows, and rows of jagged little teeth - flexes open toward you like an expanding pupil. But it does not attack - peace continues to reign in Mousillon.

An ibis alights on the rickety bridge beside you, tilting its head to one side to see you with one of its eyes. You shouldn't be surprised, by now, to witness the sound of a man's voice from the beak of a bird.

 "What will happen to them, do you think? Your Company, your coterie, if you die tomorrow?" 
 Regine Patrols... 

You don't sleep when they do, but it seems like it may strain the reparative effects of your revisited friendship with the companions to stalk around awake while they sleep. And you have your own business to attend in the night, anyway. You're getting the hang of roof-hopping in Lost Town, now; you can pick by the shade of decay in the buildings which rooves are rotted through and will collapse, and which can support you as you dash across.

Unfortunately, the other, the dark skinned vampire traitor who calls himself Becassine, seems to have that knack too. How long has he been following you? Has he just picked up your pursuit, or has he been after you since you left the safe house? You can't tell. But you haven't fed yet, and the void in your stomach that once craved food and drink growls for its new, blasphemous ration. It will have to wait.  Now that you have noticed him, he closes the distance, making no movement to draw his weapons, and soon you're sharing a rooftop under one and a half clouded moons.

 "That was a subtle half-truth you offered, back there. With the coin."  He taps his cheek with a fingertip, mimicking your previous demonstration.  "Is it important to you that they learn to trust you, again, if you plan to retreat to your holdings with your 'family'?"  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: With Bertelis 


 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 
Instintive more than delibered, Bertelis' heel slid back at the same time Regine's step moved forward; but he arrested his retreat and even permitted her to take and life his hand to her cheek. His thumb moved gently on the curve of her cheek bone, as it had once before, before he drew his hand back to himself. The war in his features between an inappropriately sanguine sentiment and a wary, haunted substrate is visible, any not a particularly pleasant rendering of his countenance.

 "Is it? How would I know? A moment ago you make something of passionate defense of the opposite - that Regine's soul rests with Morr, that you have rapidly adopted a family of blood drinking abominations as your family. Whom did I love? A soul with a body, or a body with a soul? And to call yourself so  proudly  by the name von Carstein as if it is not moniker so steeped in tyrannical misery and monstrous evil.." 

The knight shakes his head; negating any offer of certainty about identity, or continuity.
 
 
 

 "Proudly?"  Regine asked rhetorically, sounding confused at the accusation.

 "I simply stated fact. Would you rather I have revealed as such to you at a later date?"  she asked in the way one as if they already knew the answer, and how more damaging withholding that information would have been.

 "Well...which-ever one stirred your heart; half of that equation remains,"  the vampiress gestured down to herself, keeping her eyes on his; her features soft and tone hinting at enough emotion stirring within her now unliving body.

She stepped forward again, almost floating her movements were so weightless. She brought her right hand up to rest on his shoulder, her fingers gently against him. It was almost hypnotic how smoothly she could get close to him; one hand softly on his shoulder, her own body drawing closer to his, her other arm wrapping around his opposite shoulder, her face coming to rest affectionately against his jaw, her eyes closed, her voice soft and soothing.

 "I gave you my last living night in this world, before I...took  measures  that I thought would spare you this. I was so... scared , 'Telis; all I could remember...the ground rushing up at me...the silver-glass curtain drawing back...the void beyond...the, the  agony  of being separated, cleaved, yanked back; the screams, the hunger, the silence." 

Regine held him in an embrace, and though her grip was gentle, daresay even warm, affectionate, he could feel the iron-strength in her arms. But no evil came from it.

  "Oh Bertelis...there is so much I have seen...so much I would have you know..."   she whispered.

Finally, she lifted her face and kissed his cheek, before withdrawing herself by a couple of steps.

 "I was born to and with, nothing. I couldn't choose how I was brought into this world. Apparently, fate decided I couldn't even choose how I left it, either. I don't expect you to come rushing back into my arms, as much as I might wish it. But I am going to try and play the sh!tty cards delt to me in the best way I can. And I want you to be a part of it." 
 


 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Regine Patrols... 

You don't sleep when they do, but it seems like it may strain the reparative effects of your revisited friendship with the companions to stalk around awake while they sleep. And you have your own business to attend in the night, anyway. You're getting the hang of roof-hopping in Lost Town, now; you can pick by the shade of decay in the buildings which rooves are rotted through and will collapse, and which can support you as you dash across.

Unfortunately, the other, the dark skinned vampire traitor who calls himself Becassine, seems to have that knack too. How long has he been following you? Has he just picked up your pursuit, or has he been after you since you left the safe house? You can't tell. But you haven't fed yet, and the void in your stomach that once craved food and drink growls for its new, blasphemous ration. It will have to wait.  Now that you have noticed him, he closes the distance, making no movement to draw his weapons, and soon you're sharing a rooftop under one and a half clouded moons.

 "That was a subtle half-truth you offered, back there. With the coin."  He taps his cheek with a fingertip, mimicking your previous demonstration.  "Is it important to you that they learn to trust you, again, if you plan to retreat to your holdings with your 'family'?" [/FONT] 
 


Regine had wondered...just wondered...if she had to, it came down to him or her...

The vampiress stood upon the rickety roof-tops of the city of decay, that pale moon hanging in the sky as a pitiless spectator. The wind, rank with the stench of the urban sprawl, carried Regine's cloak behind her slightly as she returned Becassine's look. Deliberately, her hands stayed away from the hilts of her weapons; both a show of confidence, and neutrality. If they did come to blows, it wouldn't be her that broke the truce.

 "A degree of self-preservation,"  she answered,  "I am not naive enough to think they would celebrate my return. Nor could I count out  certain actors  putting ideas into their heads that I'm not who I am, and that they need to 'finish the job', for my own good..." 

She pursed her lips, gesturing to him.

 "What's your excuse?" 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Bertelis with Regine 
Bertelis indulges in that closeness - but the discomfort and disarray rolls off him in waves. He doesn't seem to enjoy the crypticness of it all - the high mystery of death and undeath. But there's enough of her there, within it, that he is unable to dismiss her entirely. When she withdraws by her few steps, the young, scarred knight sits on the side of his bed. He takes up one of the his small leather bags, beaten and weathered from all the journeys, and draws out from it a bundle of rags. Unwrapping them, he produces the neck and jagged shoulder of the bottle - the one she'd shared with him, then finished on top of the bell tower and took with her when she leapt. He turns it over in his fingertips as he must have before.

 "My brother - I was too slow to save him. The Red Knight must have tormented him badly. He attacked us - I saw his face. I don't..."  He overpowers the warped part of his mind that wants him to smile, for just a moment; just long enough to frown before the expression bounces up into a half-smirk.  "I don't know how to mourn him, in this state. And I had already started mourning you. I wasn't finished. This is a very... tangled... matter. I am... glad you seem at peace, even if this isn't the peace I prayed for you. I don't know what comes next. But I cannot think about this, now. I still have family who need my help. I need these cretins dead so we can go find my father's holdings and I can... save what's left. Before..." 

He does not complete the thought, but one hand raised to his temple, fingers curled like claws as if to dig something out of his head, makes the answer plain.

 Before I lose my mind. 
 

 Regine Patrols... 

The lean, longcoated hunter hooks his thumbs over his belt - a casual enough gesture that puts his hands where she can see them, as a matter of fair play.

 "My excuse? For what? I came to Mousillon to make war on the Red Knight. I brought with me a dwarf on his death-wish. Gimgroth helped him regain his honour. I trust these companions to do the thing they mean to do - rid the world of these two warring wretches. Once that is done, I'll move on somewhere else, to the next most odious bloodsucker's warren, and drag them squealing into the sunlight, or whatever is required. Why would I need an excuse?"  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: With Bertelis 


 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
   
 Spoiler: Bertelis with Regine 
Bertelis indulges in that closeness - but the discomfort and disarray rolls off him in waves. He doesn't seem to enjoy the crypticness of it all - the high mystery of death and undeath. But there's enough of her there, within it, that he is unable to dismiss her entirely. When she withdraws by her few steps, the young, scarred knight sits on the side of his bed. He takes up one of the his small leather bags, beaten and weathered from all the journeys, and draws out from it a bundle of rags. Unwrapping them, he produces the neck and jagged shoulder of the bottle - the one she'd shared with him, then finished on top of the bell tower and took with her when she leapt. He turns it over in his fingertips as he must have before.

 "My brother - I was too slow to save him. The Red Knight must have tormented him badly. He attacked us - I saw his face. I don't..."  He overpowers the warped part of his mind that wants him to smile, for just a moment; just long enough to frown before the expression bounces up into a half-smirk.  "I don't know how to mourn him, in this state. And I had already started mourning you. I wasn't finished. This is a very... tangled... matter. I am... glad you seem at peace, even if this isn't the peace I prayed for you. I don't know what comes next. But I cannot think about this, now. I still have family who need my help. I need these cretins dead so we can go find my father's holdings and I can... save what's left. Before..." 

He does not complete the thought, but one hand raised to his temple, fingers curled like claws as if to dig something out of his head, makes the answer plain.

 Before I lose my mind. 
 
  
 

 


If it was even possible, Regine was sympathetic. She had been born to no one. She'd grown up as no one. She had no one. She had no land, no name, no family - nothing. Though Bertelis' position in life had given him a considerable 'head start' so to speak, it had given him something she had never felt: developing alongside ones siblings. He'd had brothers whom he had shared his with, whom he had grown up with. There was a comradery there born in blood and fostered during puberty that she would  never  have, a closeness one only got when experiencing trauma for the first time when shoulder-to-shoulder with a companion.

Her expression soft, her eyelids slightly lowered as she reached a hand forward and softly lay it on his shoulder, before she sat down next to him.

 "I heard about your brother..."  Regine spoke quietly, looking at the shattered bottleneck glass that the Knight had retained - a symbol of her last moment of ill-fated defiance.

 "...I'm sorry, 'Telis,"  she spoke with gentle sincerity.

The vampiress knew what her 'kindred' had gone through, his brother. She didn't want to send Bertelis even further down the misery-hole by outlining for him the mind-warping trauma of receiving the Blood Kiss. Her case, however, was unique; the danger of vampirism was how the mortal soul was retained in the undead remains and stained with its ensuing wickedness, thus condemning it to oblivion should such debauchery grow too heavy by the time it was finally freed and sent to Morr.

Her pale hand reached over once more to hold his with her surprisingly soft skin and hydrated tissue, before bringing it up to her face and kissing the back, before putting it back down again.

 "I don't have an answer for you...but I will help how I can." 
 
 
 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Regine Patrols... 

The lean, longcoated hunter hooks his thumbs over his belt - a casual enough gesture that puts his hands where she can see them, as a matter of fair play.

 "My excuse? For what? I came to Mousillon to make war on the Red Knight. I brought with me a dwarf on his death-wish. Gimgroth helped him regain his honour. I trust these companions to do the thing they mean to do - rid the world of these two warring wretches. Once that is done, I'll move on somewhere else, to the next most odious bloodsucker's warren, and drag them squealing into the sunlight, or whatever is required. Why would I need an excuse?"  
 

 Regine looked up at the vampire hunter, her expression flat as she listened to his words. Like him, she kept her hands away, but close-enough, to the hilt of her weapons, operating in the same 'just in case' territory as he did.

 "You know what I mean. You're smart enough to have thought about it within the first few days of your... change ,"  she flicked her lips.

 "We're going to live forever: and this is how you choose to spend it?" 
wilphe
With the Becassine:

  Fair, finishing a vampire lord with an assassins weapon - especially a magical one, seems the sort of the thing that would have consequences.

I will take a silvered spear, the weapon of the common man and a few arrows. Jasmine may have whatever extra silver balls we can muster.  

He fondles the pistol shot in his pocket

  This is the ball I was shot with in our battle on the docks at Anguille. I keep it as the first thing from which that spell protected me from. One day it may be the basis of a talisman
  

He looks around

  Whatever we employ will be around great magic and great deeds, these things resonate. Items you employ may capture power, or they may later be empowered by bards and belief. I'm not saying it will happen, just be ready  
farothel
Bruno will have the company sword silvered if that's possible with a magical blade (he doesn't know actually).  If all else fails, the magic in the blade will also help.  While that's going on, he will try to figure out which of the mausolea was the one they needed.

 
 Spoiler: The dream 

 "Otto never liked me,"  Bruno said to his brother Heinz,  "so when dad died, it was difficult for me to stay.  I like you, but I knew that Otto would kick me out at some point and you know it too.  I'd rather go on my own and after that I was caught in a lot of affairs and never had the time to come back." 

He then moved towards where the deer was, so they had at least something to eat that evening and hopefully a few days after as well.
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard Dreams... 

 "What will happen to them, do you think? Your Company, your coterie, if you die tomorrow?" 
  If they survive and I do not then that likely means we accomplished the mission. Otherwise it doesn't matter very much.

In any case the person I have to be concerned about is Siobhan, I have taught her much, but not everything she needs. And I hope she gets taken by my order rather than subsumed into the College as a anonymous chanter.

We are in contact, she knows what to do and I have given her some names.

Hopefully Schlapp can stay with the Company and make it to her.

Deanna I would miss, but that was never going to go anywhere anyway and we both knew it

If the Company lives and I die, then it is Gimgroth I would worry about. He has sworn an oath to protect me and he would take failure ill - even if it were not his fault.

Hopefully Bertelis could find a little peace.





  
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: More Wighard 

Wighard did his final letters and arrangements before they left Turris Vigilens

 https://forums.giantitp.com/showsing...&amp;postcount=232 

So he's been prepared to die for some time

Of course he's a medic and a soldier - you should always be prepared to die because he knows how sudden and random death can be
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Wighard's Advice 
The idea that items that have been used to perform great deeds attract the winds, even if just to make them  easier  to enchant, is a solid fantasy trope and comports with the odd way the winds work, certainly. So it's fine inspirational advice to consider your chosen weapons, perhaps, future treasures.
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Bruno's Investigation 
Bruno's careful interrogation of which Mausoleum will be worth targetting will bear fruit; but I will yield that fruit to you in a later scene!
 

 Bruno Dreams... 

"Otto was jealous, Bruno. Every season, when the coughs and ails rolled around, you recovered twice as quickly. You don't remember, you weren't born, but the pox nearly killed him when he was a baby. He grew up ashamed of the pox-marks and fearful of every sickness, but you always barreled through better than any of us. And when dad got proper sick and started turning for the worst - well. Forgive him, Bruno. Young men are prone to their superstitions and project their fears on others. And precious few of us get to be the instruments of the divine."

Your arm, the one where the Neiglish Rot took hold and threatened to kill you in Altdorf except for the nigh-miraculous abating magics of Wighard, throbs with pain, and then numbness, and then the feeling comes back, just as before.

 "Hey - shh! There it is." 

Heinz pulls you down behind a great rotted out log, and you peer over it to glimpse your quarry. The one-horned deer is there. A towering warrior in red-lacquered plate armour stands, facing obliquely away from you, holding the old stag up roughly by the snout and one leg. The warrior's pale features are caked in gore and blood, as he furiously gnaws on the dying deer's throat, draining the pumping blood from it as it weakly kicks.

 "Can you take it down with one shot? It's no good to wound it and have it run off into the woods with an arrow in its arse, Bruno. I'll take the shot if you're not ready." 
 Wighard Dreams... 

The ibis hops up on a raised spar of wood supporting the rickety bridge, so it settles at your eyelevel. The mouth of the dracoleech, leering and drooling over you, watches silently; ripples of blue worming beneath its rugose flesh.

 "These are fine suppositions. Jasmine, you did not mention; nor Bruno, but both companions are capable of retiring to the Empire of the man Sigmar and resting in respect and plenty. But Regine you did not mention, either - and her fate may change most dramatically, depending on you. Your gods have done well to raise you and your companions up for the coming blow; but they are not the only gods, and not the only ones with designs for which you are being prepared." 

Kwolf - this dream Kwolf, hops about to address the ibis, but is confounded when a slim blue ribbon flashes into being and ties itself into a bow around the raven's beak. The bird hops back about, fluttering in mute outrage, and looks for something to scrape the gag upon to free itself. Of course, this would not stop your familiar speaking into your mind - but like much dream logic, that doesn't seem important right now.

The ibis speaks again.

 "I require of you a service, Wighard Rauschenberg. I do not choose instruments with profligacy. It is an honour to be chosen in this way. You would do the thing I ask because you will want to, because of your convictions. The service I require of you is to carry a certain, heavy wisdom. Few can bear it, but you have been prepared for this as much as any other task. You do not know my name. But do you know who I am?" 
 Regine Patrols... 

The vampire-vampire hunter paces a few steps across the shingles of the roof, and back again; side to side in your view, casual-like.

 "I had a mentor who taught me many things. More than anything, how to learn. And since then I have asked questions and found their answers, and this is the life available to a man who understands this condition more than almost any other - perhaps, with the exception of a few of the ancients, and handful of dusty Necrarchs losing their minds in the esoterica and lust for power. I learned, and I understand; and what I know compels me to act. But you, fledgeling, have been this way for a matter of weeks and months. On what grounds do you imagine you know much about it - or that what you have been told is true?"  
wilphe
Wighard Dreams

  I regret I have not had the pleasure but you take the form of a bird of the Southlands which suggests you are a power of Araby or Nehekhara.

Sadly my knowledge of these areas is limited
  

He looks at Kwolf

  I would appreciate you releasing my companion

I admit he is occasionally sarcastic and annoying but then so am I

Otherwise I might wonder why you wish me to not hear his counsel  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Regine Patrols... 

The vampire-vampire hunter paces a few steps across the shingles of the roof, and back again; side to side in your view, casual-like.

 "I had a mentor who taught me many things. More than anything, how to learn. And since then I have asked questions and found their answers, and this is the life available to a man who understands this condition more than almost any other - perhaps, with the exception of a few of the ancients, and handful of dusty Necrarchs losing their minds in the esoterica and lust for power. I learned, and I understand; and what I know compels me to act. But you, fledgeling, have been this way for a matter of weeks and months. On what grounds do you imagine you know much about it - or that what you have been told is true?" [/FONT] 
 


Regine watched her opposite pace back and forth, the tension palpable between them as the mortals went about their night in the streets below, unaware of the two apex predators above them hashing out philosophy. Even still, the former thief felt her stomach grumble with a supernatural hunger that ached across her entire body and demanded restitution.

 "What I know, is that I have a lot more time on this world than I thought I did a year ago. Dying gives one a bit of perspective..." 

She cast a look out across the moldy rooftops of Mousillon, before eyeing the vampire hunter again.

 "The Red Knight and Sul Kunar are a threat that must be dealt with. They, Bertelis..."  her voice trailed off, the hint of a smile in the corner of her lips,  "need my help. And who knows - what's spending a few dozen years lending a hand?"  she asked.

 "Kislev...Norsca...Cathay...Araby...Lustria...  so much to see; and now I've got all the time in the world." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
I take it the Reg and Bert scene is over?
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 
OOC: Oop, missed you replied in your post before last somehow, lel.

The distraught knight does not wrench away from Regine's little gestures of intimacy - hand touching and kissing, sitting close to him - but he does not reciprocate them. Ironically, he seems more like the animate dead than she does, with certain exceptions acknowledged. He was barely hanging on to himself when circumstances forced them to divert from the quest to save his family over and over - a painful heroic burden, and one that almost crushed him flat. He found something unlikely with Regine that buoyed him, but lost it immediately after, and everything after that has been too much. The his brother's death and return as an enemy, and Regine's death and return as a strange ally - these are emotional enigmas that queue, in an orderly fashion, behind the monomania gripping his soul. It is not coldness exactly - there is no sense in him that he has a conviction to scorn her for what she has become, even. That would require too thorough of an interrogation of the facts at hand. The man Bertelis du Roche is folded entirely into the oaths he has taken to the Lady, to Manaan, to his family, to the Company - and to confront and destroy the Dancer in the Dark. He is simply unable to marshall the mental and emotional engagement to treat all other developments with more than polite and dutiful regard, flavoured by the quartering fracture of his mood.

 "Well. You saved us at the Cathedral of Shallya. Perhaps you will save us all again, before the end of this." 

He offers this appreciation, and its pablum-ish positivity, as the only thing he can really offer.
 

 Wighard Dreams... 

The ibis opens its beak and offers a throaty chortle, though whether it's at your guess, or your petition, you can't be sure.

 "You have a politeness, without the obsequiousness, that you employ in divine matters that is rare between the servants of gods and wizards alike. Your familiar does not share your respect, but your advocacy is credit. As you say." 

The ribbon vanishes from Kwolf's beak, much to the bird's relief.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Nevermore 
You may now control this 'Kwolf', as if he had joined the dream with you at this point - as though before you turned your mind to him so directly, he wasn't 'really' here.
 

 "And you are correct. Mostly. As correct as it is possible for a man to be, when speaking of such things; nothing to dismiss. I am more than that, but I am atleast that." 

Suddenly, without the transition from one moment to the next as might be expected, the ibis is gargantuan. It is monstrously big, towering above you like a mountainside. It steps off the bridge into the Grismerie, wading as waders do, and snatches up the dracoleech in its beach, tossing it into the air as if the leech itself weren't an elephantine monstrosity, gobbling it up. Above you, in the sky, the clouds of night swirl and drain away into the darkness between the stars. The stars silently pursue - spinning, swirling, draining into the velvet of the sky. Mannlieb retreats into the black, to a dot, to a speck, and then it is gone. Morrslieb grows, as if racing toward the earth for a gut-churning moment, but then shivers, splinters into four great rough quarters. Three of those quarters tumble back into the darkness, and are gone. The remainder is burned up in scarlet fire to a black husk, then swarmed by rats, and then is gone, too. The sky is a canopy of inky darkness, now. The horizon in all directions begins to drop away, until the buildings of Mousillon are teetering and plunging off the edge of the world, out of your vision.

While you have watched this, the ibis has taken on a golden sheen instead of a white one - and flickering heiroglyphs, like those you have seen sketched in the old book on ancient Khemri you have pawed through since you acquired it back in the Empire, depict scenes and ideas across its feathers. Scorpions. Great toothy lizards. Dragons. Falcons. Beasts you have never seen. Battles. Burials. Exhumations. War. War. War. Victory. Plague. Defeat. Water. Blood. They cycle and strobe in a nonsense pattern just beyond your capacity to assemble into a true story.

 "What I am asking of you is not an easy thing. Take of me a token of good faith. Ask me a question - any question - and I will tell you truth, in as much as it is my power to know." 
 Regine ... Patrols? 

Becassine looks at you with that seems expressly to be pity - and not a tremendously kind pity. The pity of a doctor who has decided the arm must, unfortunately, come off.

  "Oh, no, Regine la Croix. You have much, much more time than that."  

He races toward you with speed that astonishes you - even the new you, at this scale of operation - and seizes you by the face. You feel your heels come off the tiles of the roof, your world rotate, your back hit the roof, a burst of wood and shingle...

...And then you land on your back in a dark room of cold stone, absolutely black, with force that would have knocked the wind out of you, if you needed it at all. You are dreaming, you think - maybe the first dream you have had since your death. There is no Mousillon roof above you with the traitor staring down through the hole; the awful smell of the city and its river is gone entirely. This place smells like stone, and ancient death. And its only visual feature is a tiny speck of a rectangle, deep in the distance; a tiny window of light that suggests an exit at the end of a great long tunnel. But Becassine's voice is still here, disembodied - coming from all around.

  "What does it profit a woman to gain the whole world - but lose her soul?"   
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 


Perhaps it was an echo hurrying up to be heard from deep within her mind, or where the heart figuratively lay within the undead body, but Regine  felt  Bertelis' pain. Her improved hearing could detect the heart-beat within his chest, her eyes more powerful than any mortals living as she looked at him and heard the words of a man she had feelings for - the only one she could remember. Had it been love, or infatuation? The vampire did not know for certain, but whatever the impetus had been, the results had been crystallised within her form since her 'change' as a heartfelt residue that would remain within her for the rest of her days, be they months, years, centuries or millennia.

Maybe it was because she had only been turned for near two months. Maybe it was because whatever strong emotions had died with her now remained with her in unlife, frozen in place and doomed to haunt her for centuries after Bertelis himself was just a dim memory.

That was a frightening thought that spiked through the recesses of her consciousness. Had giving him her 'last living night' only precipitated a feeling towards him that, were she still alive, been entirely fleeting? But now, cemented in her psyche at the time of her death, granted her an endless, school-girl like infatuation?

No, Regine decided. Of course not. There had been many things she had felt that night with particular power that no longer held sway over her.

No, this was real. Her revealed tender side was real. After all - her great grandfather, Vlad von Carstein, had genuinely loved and showed physical affection for Isabella, had he not? It had started while she had been mortal and had carried over into her ascension to their ranks.

The vampiress smiled at his words, and once again she put her arms around his shoulders and brought her mouth close to his neck and jaw, where her soft lips connected with his cheek in an affectionate peck, before warmly nuzzling her face against his jaw-line.

 "You rubbed off on me a little bit after all?"  she smirked with an affectionate tease, drawing her face away. Looking over her shoulder and back at that big, heavy, linen-bag wrapped object resting on the small, rickety desk, she turned back to Bertelis.

 "...did you want to see a surprise? Or did you want an early night?"  she asked, her voice still soft and considerate.
 



The vampire hissed as the traitorous hunter surged forward to grip her face - Regine's fangs now extended and bare, her face the mask of the terrifying nocturnal predator she was.

But her movements were slow. She  wanted  to move her arms, wanted to dart back and withdraw weapons to engage and end the threat the foreign kindred represented. Instead, only a gradual, glacial pace was achieved, like moving through water in the vain attempts to fend off a shark. That grip seized her, drew her up and slammed her down through the rotten rooftops in a loud shower of ceramic and wooden splinters, as Regine landed heavily upon her back far, far below and the world twisted away into darkness.


   "What does it profit a woman to gain the whole world - but lose her soul?"   


By now the vampire was back upon her feet, nimble and cat-like as her dexterity had returned. Sharper senses fed her with motes here and there, but nothing substantial outside of that small, rectangular source of light in the distance, the sole indication that  something  existed in the engulfing darkness.

 "I'll make my own way!"  the former thief bellowed defiantly.

 "You have!" 

That rectangle, the light pouring in - the only escape. Her speed returned, her senses sharp, the vampire went from standing to a sprint, her strength helping propel her towards the one exit of escape in the distance...
wilphe
Wighard Dreams...

 The ribbon vanishes from Kwolf's beak, much to the bird's relief. 

Wighard bows politely

  Thank you Son of the South

I had not considered such a boon, therefore I request that we postpone redemption of your offer at another time.

Now what would you have me do?  
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Bruno Dreams... 

"Otto was jealous, Bruno. Every season, when the coughs and ails rolled around, you recovered twice as quickly. You don't remember, you weren't born, but the pox nearly killed him when he was a baby. He grew up ashamed of the pox-marks and fearful of every sickness, but you always barreled through better than any of us. And when dad got proper sick and started turning for the worst - well. Forgive him, Bruno. Young men are prone to their superstitions and project their fears on others. And precious few of us get to be the instruments of the divine."

Your arm, the one where the Neiglish Rot took hold and threatened to kill you in Altdorf except for the nigh-miraculous abating magics of Wighard, throbs with pain, and then numbness, and then the feeling comes back, just as before.

 "Hey - shh! There it is." 

Heinz pulls you down behind a great rotted out log, and you peer over it to glimpse your quarry. The one-horned deer is there. A towering warrior in red-lacquered plate armour stands, facing obliquely away from you, holding the old stag up roughly by the snout and one leg. The warrior's pale features are caked in gore and blood, as he furiously gnaws on the dying deer's throat, draining the pumping blood from it as it weakly kicks.

 "Can you take it down with one shot? It's no good to wound it and have it run off into the woods with an arrow in its arse, Bruno. I'll take the shot if you're not ready."  
 

Bruno didn't know that, or at least not consciously.  But when he saw the warrior, he recognised him as a chaos warrior, so his shot went that way instead of at what was essentially a dead deer.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Bertelis and Regine 
He leans a little away when she gets in close to his neck - she can feel him tense - but if she holds fast to her conviction to be present and non-threatening, they settle into a nearness that is, if not intimate, certainly non-hostile. This is remarkably improved when Regine turns the conversation away from the topics about which he cannot propel himself to think. Indeed, his strangely sanguine mood much agrees with the set-up for the obvious joke she has provided.

 "A surprise? Was this not  surprising , by your reckoning?"  he rejoins, throwing his arms into the air with melodramatic flair.
 

 Regine Dreams... 
  "Make your own way - as you did your whole life. But despite your striving, in the end, a way was made  for you , and you simple fell into it."  

You race down the dark corridor. The brightness of the exist seems to be retreating as you run to it, but you redouble and drag the horizon toward you with huge strides and bloody-minded determination. The sunlight of that slowly growing rectangle doesn't bother you, in the dream - it does not register to you as a threat by the dream's logic, but as your only escape from this dark pit. Finally you reach it, bursting past the threshold to an unimagined vista of some strange and alien kingdom. The sky is as clear and blue as you have ever seen it, the sun massive and somehow furious in the heavens. It beats down on an ocean of golden sand spilling out ahead of you, in a horizon jagged with huge white stone pyramids with golden caps. You have just emerged from one such structure, the goliath construction both geometrically simple but preposterous in scale and craftsmanship - but it seems small compared to a mountainous black pyramid, in the far distance. And across the sands, great armies are swarming and crashing into one another. One force is a massive coalition of nations, with bannered legions in bronze with flashing khopesh and glittering mail. They are bolstered by titantic creatures of living stone - statues that combine carved elements of man and beast, rendered in gold and granite and lapis; some jackal and hawk headed warriors as tall as two men, and some stalking, building sized monuments like scorpions, lions, and creatures too strange to describe; powered by and hurling magic in great searing bolts. The enemies of this army of stone and living legions are a grand sea of skeletal warriors, surging forward with blade and bow and chattering bleached skulls, riding skeletal horses and chariots. Dark priests lead this horde of the dead, brandishing their wicked tomes of dark magic, each emblazoned with a gruesome icon of a winged skull beneath a single, narrowed eye.

The sand beneath your feet begins to slip and give away, dumping you into a slide down the dune toward the battle - though you feel at once the power to direct which side of the clash you will collide with.




 Wighard Dreams... 
 "My offer stands reliable for now; its redemption at another time is subject to my caprices, though I will not lie to you in any case. Have it as you will." 

The buildings of the city rumble, fall apart, and drop away as the horizon closes in; and finally even the ground under your feet falls away, down, down until it is gone and 'down' becomes a hard thing to determine. Only the grand ibis maintains a sense of orientation in the space, dabbling about with its long legs in the void as if it were water, its feet rising up out of and then somehow into, or  behind , the endless night of oblivion. You and Kwolf are left drifting, only able to orient yourself in relation to your interlocutor.

 "You have devoted yourself to arresting illness, and abating death, Wighard Rauschenberg. And no one can fault you for it - on your own merit, as a healer, you are capable of being remembered in the same pantheon of physicians as Gaelen, Vesalius, and Lidda Al-Harab of Ka-Sabar. This is why other gods have flung you, spearlike, at the agents of the plague-god. They know you can succeed, and it is a lifetime's work. But I must burden you with another great work - a knowledge that must remain secret. It will die with you as it died with its last custodian, and perhaps in time I will pass it to another. But it is the way of secrets to lose power if spread, and it is not beyond undoing by my Great Enemy. Secrecy is armor. I will make you my armorer, for a very select kind of soldiery. For you have made war on sickness, and death - but now Death is sick, Wighard Rauschenberg. The symptoms are present, but undeniable; they come in waves that shake the world. Eventually, Death will be in the fight of its life, and the illness will either claim it, or pass once and for all. We must fortify it. They will not make statues of you in the medical academies in the Empire and Tilea; but you will have done a a greater, more subtle work. And fame, I think, has never greatly appealed to you." 
 Bruno Dreams 

The arrow flies true - it bites through the warrior's armor and deep into its back, and he whirls around, furious. At once, it's clear this is no warrior of chaos - bloody fangs and pallid skin mark this as your vampiric foe. There are some subtle elements in the shape of his features that recall Bertelis' countenance, but the delerium and madness is this creature makes Bertelis look robustly sane. With tremendous speed, the vampire moves as if to lunge before fading as if he were never there, and the deer - shot clean through the heart and killed at once, not at all mauled or torn by the illusory foe - lies to be claimed.

 "Hah! What a shot. See? I've taught you well, Bruno. Keep shooting like that, and they'll want to snatch you away for the Knights of the Verdant Field, and they'll have you chasing the Grand Duke's game in the Taalgrunhaar!"  Heinz is pleased as punch, and ruffles the back of your hair with his hand before leaping over the log to inspect the deer.  "It's a little old, but not sick!"  He grasps its lone antler, gives it a wiggle, and it pops free.  "One for you, one for me - matching knife handles I'll make, see if I don't!"  Pulling the arrow free and handing it off to you, he throws the carcass over his shoulders and you hustle back towards your home to clean and gut the beast before it cools.

You hit a crossroad in the forest - one that shouldn't exist, and some element of you knows at once is a navigation not within a memory, but between them, in this dreamy rendering. Heinz hooks left and starts hustling down the road to your small family farm... But right, the road rises up and away to the modest country castle that you know well as the hub of the Barony of Franz Richter. And between the roads, the road ahead ranges off into the distance, a highway that runs the length of the river Talabec all the way to Altdorf. You see a troop of road wardens riding in the distance; their shapes indistinct, but familiar to you.

Heinz stops on his road, and looks back to where you stand at the intersection. Disappointment crosses his face, but then comes a brave smile. The choice of where to explore this strange dream-sprawl of your old memories, it seems, is up to you. 
wilphe
  Wighard Dreams...  
  So you are telling me I may escape the fate of having my works be spouted by pedants who know every word but none of the meaning.
  

He looks at Kwolf

  Now normally when a physician sets out to cure death it ends up them punished for their hubris or they seek to sidestep it with vampirism or necromancy. And that never turns out well either.

This appears to not be what you mean.

So I shall redeem your boon

Speak plainly, who or what are you, who or what is your great enemy. how is death menaced and how can I assist

Preferably no sweeping visions either  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 

  Why, Ranald damnit, did I feel this way? Pull yourself together girl!   the vampiress swore at herself internally.

Why, why, why!? Before she'd met this goodie-two shoes Knight, she'd been one of, if not  the , best thief in L'Anguille. The best! Not third or second or fourth - the best there was! One didn't reach such pinnacles against the stiffest competition possible by being a soft little school girl going giddy in her heart over some brooding, broken Knight that filled her with I-can-fix-him! vibes.

And now? Now she was a  vampire ! A Lady of the Night! Well, not  that  type of lady of the night - Lord of the Night! Peasants trembled at the very mention of her approach and her name, von Carstein, was one of indomitable willpower and terror before which fled the bravest of men and under which rose the slumbering legions of the dead to harken her command and fulfill her will...getting giggly over a boy. Ughh how she hated it!

...but maybe it was always a part of her, locked away, deep within. She had risen to the top of the criminal underworld in L'Anguille, an environment where 99% of girls her age were hookers or up-and-coming madams, not thieves. To call it the school of hard knocks would be an understatement, as she had had to develop a very outwardly masculine personality to receive the minimal degree of respect from her peers...perhaps, now, maybe, the side of her that she had ignored or suppressed for so long, was finding a font to emerge, and was doing so in the most classical way possible.

Wait...why was  she  trying to get  him  to accept her?!

She  died  for him, hell she had  killed herself  for him, after letting him mount her like some mare in a stable, she then saves his life  again  and commits to risking her new immortality to help solve  his  problems...and she's trying to get him to accept her?! It should be the other way around! He should be throwing himself at her! Begging for her forgiveness and acceptance! Prostrating himself befo -

The way the candles caught his eyes and the shadows accentuated his jawline. He looked so broken, and handsome, and hurt...she could fix him.

All of this went on behind the angular features of the lady vampire as she watched Bertelis.

 
 "A surprise? Was this not surprising, by your reckoning?" 

 

Regine gently held him by the back of his neck and drew her face to his. She pressed her lips against his and just kissed him, and did so with clear enthusiasm. One second. Two. Four. Six. Eight. Ten seconds. She broke off, looked at him, then nuzzled her cheek against his before another peck was granted, then she stood up, saying nothing, and moved to the large, covered item upon the bench.

 "Do you remember earlier how I mentioned I had to fight my way through an abandoned silver mine? I fought beastmen, 'Telis - beatsmen! You know, with the goat legs, and the horns"  she brought both of her hands to her head to simulate horns, and the  "Grrghh!"  she mimicked their sounds, before smiling and shrugging,  "Yeah, them. By Ranald do they  stink  up close!"  the vampiress tapped her nose,  "as keen as a wolf's scent now; I can smell  everything  - I can  hear  everything, like you wouldn't believe! And being that close to them? When they're dying? Innards spill out and all that?"  Regine shook her head in disgust, her bare hands moving to the large, linen-covered mound.

 "But, I fought one of them...by Ranald! A...mye-no...mee-no..."  she struggled for a few seconds, before composing herself properly,  "a min-o-taur, my Uncle told me they're called. A minotaur. Oh - 'Telis, this thing was  huge! !"  she held her hands up as if simulating the creatures height and sheer size,  "Whenever it ran I could  feel  it through my feet on the ground! Ouaou! It had arms the size of my whole body, and it swung this massive axe around!"  she once again positioned her hands together, mimicking the fierce swings of the massive man-animal.

 "I tried leaping away out of its weapon - but it was cunning! It learned and predicted it; it grabbed me around my legs; and  slaamed  me onto the stone floor -  bam !"  she performed the motion with her own arm,  "I felt my spine break! Just splintered along the length! It brought one huge hoof, the size of a dinner plate, pressed it against my chest, right here - "  Regine formed a wide circle with her hands, suggesting the sheer size of the minotaurs impression and how it fit over her chest.

 "...but...I won, obviously!"  she piped up, smiling, before abruptly going bashful, almost blushing as she drew in upon herself a little in a sheepish way. Deliberately, she left out  how  she had gotten out of that predicament; by extending her razor-sharp claws and tearing its knee open, buying her the time to escape and stab it through the neck with a spear. Some details had a time and a place.

 "...but...I dunno...it...sounds silly when I say it out loud...but I...I thought if I ever saw you again...you'd need some type of proof that I am...you know, despite now being..."  she gestured to herself, the impression obvious; a vampire.  "...you'd be content knowing I at least  reduce  the amount of evil things in the world..." 

Regine's hand wandered over to the linen wrap, before she offered another shrug,  "...I hoped you be proud of me, anyway..." 

A pause lingered as she pursed her lips, unable to look him in the eyes directly, before continuing,  "...and, so I took this from the minotaur, my Uncle processed it and made this...and...well, I hoped you'd like it...one less evil thing in the world, right?" 

With that, she drew the linen back, the brown material opening aside to reveal a  massive , bull-like head with a single, orange eye and a heavy, deep scar where the other should be; a dark mane surrounding its hideously bovine features that had lost none of their menace in death, while the two horns were pristine and preserved, along with the rest of the head that had been fixed to a wall-mount.
 
 Spoiler 

 
 
 
 

 




Regine hurled herself through that closing rectangle of light and plummeted out the other side. She landed with a graceful roll, but as soon as she swiftly stood up, vampiric instinct seized her in a spike of panic as she felt the sun illuminating her pale figure.

 "Hss!!"  she hissed, bringing up both hands to cover herself out of reflex...but nothing happened. No heat, no burning, no engulfing immolation, as she slowly and cautiously lowered her arms to behold...

 "Nehekhara?"  the vampire gasped softly, recognizing the description from her tutelage beneath her Uncle and Grandfather. This was the Land of the Dead, the birthplace of her race: vampires.

But this was not the realm of treacherous silence of today. No - this was some other point in time; the pyramids rose defiantly into the air, and mortals clashed with the legions of death and decay. Endless and monstrous, a black tide of disease and cadavers urged forth by the will of malign necromancers to destroy and slay until all within the land joined them in silent servitude.

A part of Regine wanted to assist. She was, after all, undead too. The side of the living would never accept her as one of their own. She was an affront to life...but so too was she an abomination to the morosity of the dead legions. The necromancers did not want thinking, powerful servants whose individual minds could plot their downfall: they wanted mindless slaves, fodder to throw at their enemies the way a man might hurl javelins. And once she had fulfilled her purpose in their ranks and all of the living had joined them in death, then she would be of no further use to them, and her need for bloody sustenance would be their ace. They wouldn't need to defeat her, they just had to wait until starvation and thirst overcame her, then they could do as they pleased.

To one she was a monster. To the other she was a slave and tool. To one she had a future, even in the shadows. To the other, she would exist for as long as she was useful.

She was better off with the living. She had no place on a dead world.

Feeling that dream-like influence shifting through her mind, Regine  willed  success and victory as best she could, like plugging a leak in a boat with her bare hands, and she did so towards the living, whose ranks she had only recently departed.
farothel
 Bruno Dreams 

Bruno looks at both sides.  This is a tricky one, but he has to do what he has to do.  He turns to his brother.
 "As soon as I've finished up this thing I'm involved in, I'm coming back home, I promise,"  he called out to his brother before he headed towards the roadwardens and the castle.  He wanted to see what would happen and hopefully get a few tips that he would remember when he woke up in the morning.
MrAbdiel
  Wighard Dreams... 
 "Bah!" 

The massive ibis flutters his huge wings in an irritable ruffle.

 "I am not inviting you to cure  life  of  death ; I am inviting you to participate in the work of curing  death  of the very sickness of vampirism and necromancy you mention - for both are at the root one and the same ailment." 

He takes a couple of paces in the watery void, but rounds quickly to focus one eye on you when you call to invoke the boon just given.

 "No sweeping visions - a nearsighted request. You ask me to tell you  less ; to give you  fewer  wisdoms, and you rob yourself of what merit there might be in visions which, failing to comprehend now, you may yet find crucially valuable in a later day. This is why you children of Sigmar think of me only my work principally as god of death, but forget that I am also god of dreams. Yet I dispensed this boom, and you have called it. I am Usirian. The children of the Nehekhara once called to me as you call to Morr. Morr and I are the same essence, but not the same face - thus, your familiar knew me not at once, but recognizes my essence now. I am the keeper and marshal of the ancient dead, and among that number are many gods who fell into silence when their priests perished in the great blasphemy. I perished, too - in a sense - but death for the god of death is a different challenge. Now, I am the shepherd of lost multitudes, keeper of a lost pantheon, and stalking enemy of the archnecromancer whose name I shall not utter, as it is not worthy of my tongue." 

This is quite a bit of revelation, and as per your request it comes with no visual component to muddy or expand its meanings.

 "I intend to teach you, Wighard Rauschenberg, something no one else living knows. A vampire cannot be made alive again - but I will show you how to save them from damnation." 
 Regine Dreams... 
 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 
Bertelis remains resistant to direct affection - awkward, uncomfortable, subtly protective of himself. He is still stricken with the tangled complication of mourning her, being glad she is alive, and being horrified that she is not strictly alive at all. But he doesn't fight her about it. He cannot. It is not in him, at this point.

He watches her pantomime and retell her conquest of the beastmen with the patient indulgence of a good uncle with endless tolerance for tomfoolery. When she tells about slaying the minotaur, one brow rises. When she reveals the preserved head, the other rises; and he leans forward with his hands clasped together beneath his chin to consider the beast...

 "...It's fabulously ugly, Regine. I would be proud to hang in on the wall in my lodgings in Saulx. Presuming they are still standing, when we arrive." 
 


Regine  wills , knowing the battle she is in to be an illusion of her dreaming mind... But the combatants do not respond to her will. She is dreaming, but she is not dreaming  her own  dream. She is dreaming a dream given her from outside, in which she features but does not reign; and rapidly the clash of battle closes around her. The figures are not responsive to her mind - only her strength in arms. But her decision seems to register atleast, and the army of the living and their animate constructs seems to treat her as part of theirs; and a blurry nightmare of a day spend thrashing skeletons collapses into a dreamy moment of violence, and delerium.

  "Do you have any idea how many before you have walked with the same hubris - the same self assurance that they, different from all others, would not become mad, and cruel, and foolish?"  

You think your side is winning - the dead are falling, the necromancers with their tomes being struck with flights of arrows, and then the sand gives way beneath your feet and you plunge into it, buried and covered over by it -

...Until you're standing in the corner of candle lit, carved stone basement away from the judgement of the sun. A woman is there, at the centre of a dais with eleven companions - kings, viziers, priestly women. She is a queen, a priest-queen with a coven of priestesses in their scant ornamentation of gold and bronze. She is tremendously beautiful with dusky loveliness and imperious self assurance. She is completing a work of an alchemical nature, shifting the contents of one jar into another, manipulating it with effortless wisps of magic from her fingertips, until she is holding a golden cup raised high in her hands, and her companions whisper and praise her. With sick recognition, you see the tome from which she is drawing instruction for the elixir - one of the books from which the necromancers was calling their invocations on the battlefield.

  "Do you suppose you are better than them all? Why?"  
 Bruno Dreams... 

Heinz, or this dream iteration of him, gives you an understanding nod, and waves at you with a hand clutching the antlers you found. You know he's going home, and there he will indeed make a set of matching hunting knives with the antler as handle. One he carries with him constantly - at least, the last time you saw it. The other is in your kit, and has come all the way across the Old World with you.  He jogs off down the road to your old, troubled home. You go another way, and you are walking - and then, you're suddenly riding. Beneath you is Helga, the oldest and calmest horse in the company of road wardens who took you on, and perfectly tolerant of you as you learn to ride. There's four of the wardens all of them gents in the middle of their lives, all who served a term in the state troops of their elector's forces before, through long and listless tales they regale you with around campfires, over months and months, falling into work with each other. There's Klaus, a man of Talabheim, with some airs of civilization about him and an abundant affection for Taal, in whose priesthood he briefly studied. There's Bertrum, a man of Reikland, who was run out of Altdorf for certain crimes he would never admit specifically, but who has made his life's effort repaying good to the empire beyond his home state. There's Calvern, who was once a kossar in far Kislev, until he saved his pay to buy and train a bear to dance; and when the bear died, he followed the river south and found the work he could for a man of martial skill. Then there was Sigismund, the Hochlander - who purchased respect for himself among roadwardens in Talabecland by hard work and struggle against a disrespect held against all Hochlanders, who was one of the fiercest men you knew and who taught you how to shoot, and whom you and the other road wardens just took to calling the Old Man.

 "Now that pistol's loaded - mind the hammer, boy. If you fumble that when drawing it, you may shoot your own horse out from under you - but you'd best learn to draw it quickly, because for every one time you protect the road by shooting, there are nine times you protect it with the threat of shooting. Smugglers and thugs don't want a bullet in the eye any more than you do; and most can't imagine the rope coming until it's around their neck, so they'll stand down or try to bargain rather than invite the lead. If you're not ready for the lead, we can put you back on the bow, with Klaus." 

You ride a little longer, and listen to the veterans talk in wheezing, taciturn anecdotes about their fights, and things they once saw and never seen nothing like it - stories you'd hear over and over again. There's a covered wagon up ahead moving towards you, but it's far off, right now. When it gets close, your party will pull it over to check it. But before that, Sigismund asks.
 
"Tell true and no lie, boy. Why'd you fall in with the wardens? You've too good of a head on your shoulders to be wrangling herring smugglers for a living."  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 
Regine wasn't a stupid girl. She might have her failings and moments of vacillation, but she had not gotten as far as she did in as short a time as she had by being unperceptive. She had not expected a round of applause, nor even a standing ovation. But she had hoped for  something  when retelling her story, some type of recognition at the danger she had been in and the lengths to which she had gone, from a man whose opinion she had once treasured. But now? He visibly couldn't care less. He wasn't particularly interested in what she had gone through or done. He only tolerated and indulged her with all the condescension of the nobility for peasants like her that managed something above their station.

The past ten minutes had been an exercise in rejection, again and again. She had comforted him. Held him. Kissed him. Dotted on him. Shared with him the most raw and personal vulnerabilities that had left their traumatic scars on her psyche, believing that a sliver of care would emerge from him over the idea that at least the woman she had been had underwent such soul-grinding hardship. But nothing; just rejection and toleration. She had a limit.

Visibly, all warmth immediately drained from Regine's angular, pale features. Her face hardened, her lips tersed as she glared at Bertelis and shook her head. There was so much she wanted to say, so many hissing vulgarities to hurl at a man to satisfy the anger brewing within her over his patronisation.

Finally, she spoke.

 "I sacrificed  everything  for you! I gave you my last living night! I threw myself off of a building to spare you all! I came back from the dead and saved you -  again!  - and gave you what you need to succeed in this pile of a city!"  her voice raised towards the end, anger and pain contorting her features.

 "The least you can do is  pretend  to give a damn!" 

That voice lost its anger, its steely-hard fury and menace, trailing off into a soft, feminine disbelief and hurt. Were she capable of tears, they would have trailed down her face as she hurried towards the door, covering her face with her closest hand to block her image from Bertelis' sight.

Like a gust of wind, she was gone.
 




The plight of mortal and undead churned before the vampiress, her lot being placed with the living out of the cold calculus that they were whom she was better off with in the long run. Her very nature ensured she had no future on a dead world. However, her lucid dreaming granted her only so much power over her fantastical surroundings, as her own figure was drawn into an endlessly churning sand dune through which her figure passed, emerging below - or above? - into another realm of isolated darkness.

The figures. She recognised them.

Or at least she  believed  she did. Regine had not seen any artistically captured rendition of that initial cotorie whom Neferetta had granted the blood kiss, and so the precise details were lost to her and to time. But if she had to guess...if she had to point a finger towards a gathering she would stake her unlife upon as being the collection of mortals who would transform themselves with that elixer and then go on to cast a broad, dark shadow across the world of the living...including herself...well, there they stood.

Regine stood and stared wide-eyed, her mouth partly agape.  How  was she seeing this? Why?


   "Do you have any idea how many before you have walked with the same hubris - the same self assurance that they, different from all others, would not become mad, and cruel, and foolish? Do you suppose you are better than them all? Why?"
   

The vampiress' eyes narrowed and she tilted her head about in search of the source of that floating voice...but she knew from whom it came. The scene before her continued to unfold like a researched play as her attention switched to the traitorous vampire. Her answer came fast and sharp:

 "You haven't." 

Regine flicked her lips, eyes and ears searching.

 "Where's  your  jury?" 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Regine and Bertelis 

When Regine leaves she will find Wighard outside

Not obviously outside, like he's been deliberately eavesdropping, more a reluctant watchmen responding to a report of a domestic in progress

He looks at least a bit relieved that there doesn't seem to be much violence and speaks softly

 I can barely get that boy to care about himself, I don't think there is any cure for that without fixing his external problems.

If you need to talk to someone, I am here

If you need to get drunk, well I can do that too. 
 
wilphe
Wighar's Dream:

The deities Wighard has dealt with before have been unpretentious. This might be because they are truly secure in their power, they have evaluated the best way to communicate with him the or they are sharing an elaborate joke at his expense.

In any case, this entity is the mostly superseded custodian of of a mostly defunct pantheon. It might be that Nekharans were more impressed by empty spectacle, or it might be that Usirian rarely speaks to anyone these days and needs to put up a front to conceal his dwindling power and relevance - like an aged courtesan underneath a mountain of makeup.

He keeps these thoughts to himself of course whilst racking his brains for what he knows of this name

  Then speak on Scalebearer it seems it is my fate to redeem those normally beyond salvation  
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 

When Wighard spotted Regine, he actually startled her.

She had had her face in her palms, her shoulders slumped, as if she were sobbing, like an broken blackbird cradling a damaged little wing.

Jumping slightly in shock at the mans voice, Regine whipped around on the corner of her heel. There were no tears on her face, but were she alive, her features would have been a mess. The crimson irises were likewise gone, her natural green hue having returned.

 "Wighard...I..."  she composed herself,  "sorry. You startled me."  

She snorted lightly in amusement at his suggestion, a small, sincere smile crossing her lips.

 "I can't get drunk anymore,"  she answered softly, before raising her hands a little as if gesturing to the heavens,  "thanks, huh?"  she laughed slightly.

The vampire inhaled, then exhaled, shaking her head, her stature still slouched and face downcast, not even able to look Wighard in the eye as she spoke softly.

 "I'm sorry...I...don't know what I hoped for...I didn't expect open arms...but at least  something . Tsk,"  Regine flicked her lips, shaking her head, gesturing to herself,  "...as if he ever could care about  this , again. I was stupid for even hoping for it. I can't even see  myself  in the mirror..." 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

  Do you still hug?  

He holds out his arms

  Its not you, necessarily, but its definitely him

His fault is not that he doesn't care but that he cares too much

The worries he already has have nearly broken him, I don't think he can take anymore

But if you don't want to drink, you can at least please sit with me while I do.

I made my peace and prepared to die before we entered this city 8 weeks ago. I have no unfinished business   
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 
 
  Do you still hug?  

 

Regine looked a touched confused for half a second, then amused. Not in a way that implied condescension, but rather that she thought it was cute.

 "You're not...worried that I'm going to...you know..."  and she made a small, downward gesture with her forehead, implying sinking her fangs into his neck.

Invited to do so, Regine slowly leaned forward and received Wighards hug. Contrasting to her attempts at affection with Bertelis, whom was like hugging an unresponsive rock, Wighards was genuine and applied. It felt nice.

Trust by little steps?

  "...thank you..."  

   Its not you, necessarily, but its definitely him

His fault is not that he doesn't care but that he cares too much

The worries he already has have nearly broken him, I don't think he can take anymore

But if you don't want to drink, you can at least please sit with me while I do.

I made my peace and prepared to die before we entered this city 8 weeks ago. I have no unfinished business   

Regine snorted lightly in amusement again, nodding,  "No, I think I definitely play a part..."  she offered slightly, turning to walk with the wizard to where he wanted to sit and enjoy some alcohol. She could too...she just wouldn't become inebriated.

 "I thought the same thing, before my end came for me,"  Regine offered, accepting a glass of whatever Wighard prepared,  "maybe it's a good thing that we always have unfinished business, even after we're gone. It shows we were here, and that we mattered to someone." 

She pursed her lips, shaking her head softly,  "I pushed too much, too fast. Half way through I had a foothold...I should have left it at that, given him time to adjust, see that I'm not...what he thinks I am. But I just couldn't let be." 

The vampire brought up a glass of Wighards drink of choice, sipping it gently.  "I told you earlier I would speak to him, help anchor him. I'm sorry, I blew it." 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

 "You're not...worried that I'm going to...you know..." 
  Thought had not occurred to me, I must be getting careless.  

Wighard takes her, and a passable bottle of eau de vie to the roof

 "I told you earlier I would speak to him, help anchor him. I'm sorry, I blew it." 
  I could get the most powerful of treatment for him, but that would only cure symptoms not problems, or it would zap him into a mental zombie.

A lasting solution has to be fixing the problems, but in keeping him ready for battle am I doing what is best for Bertelis? Or am I treating him like a horse or a cannon. An asset to be looked after because it is useful?  
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 

Regine peered out at the skyline of Mousillon, that large, sickly yellow moon in the sky casting itself across the decaying roof-tops.

 "In L'Anguile, you never took along someone to a job if they were...unreliable. Psychos, cut-throats, show-boaters with something to prove; you can't rely on them. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link." 

The vampire took another sip of the fruit brandy, her pale, angular features framed by her black hair that soaked up with midnight. She could taste every ingredient and step in its fermentation and distillation.

 "...what are you going to do about his brother?" 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

 "In L'Anguile, you never took along someone to a job if they were...unreliable. Psychos, cut-throats, show-boaters with something to prove; you can't rely on them. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link." 
  Yeah but this isn't a job.

Its a mission; its personal.

He has skin in the game and we can't resolve it without him; can't drug him into unconsciousness and leave him behind. If I thought that would work I would have done it before we entered the city.  
 "...what are you going to do about his brother?" 

Wighard takes a sip of brandy, feeling the warmth run through his mouth

  He doesn't have your unique circumstances nor the Becassine's strength of will.

He was, by Bertelis' account, captured and horribly tortured before being embraced.

Whether his sire has any control over him or not, this doesn't sound like someone who can become a well-adjusted friendly neighbourhood vampire

Also he is of the line of Abhorash yes?

I have met a few form Sylvania who in their cups admit to preferring your kins rule to that of the nobles of the Empire

But the BloodDragons?

Their only use it to point them at someone even worse.
  

He pauses

  And yet

When I saw him the first time I resolved he must be killed

Now? Not so sure.  
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 


The vampire looked solemn, as she simply took another sip before answering. Deep within, a longing to make Bertelis whole and  help  him rested within her, an anchor that would need considerable impulsion to sever its connection to her.

But on the other hand...her undead state was somewhat... cooler , less roused to immediate sentiment, with some few, passionate exceptions of course. Thus, the idea of Bertelis' brother seeing his final dusk held little sway with Regine, one way or another, and it was only the fallout on 'Telis himself that really concerned her.

 "Morr is merciful, and understanding..."  the vampire started, staring at her drink.

 "Bertelis brother was turned against his will..."   like I was, she left out,  "his mind broken with torture and agony; if his mind cannot be recovered, would Morr know this, and judge him on his actions when he was of sound mind?"  she asked quietly, almost cautiously.

Or...maybe...if a dog had rabies, you just put it down.

At the mention of the Blood Dragons, Regine smirked. She had been given a crash-course introduction to her kind, the major bloodlines, their history, the significant players etc but such was a broad view of an incredibly detailed subject. She still had much to learn. Nevertheless, the Blood Dragons were a curiosity.

 "He could be. It is the most probable. It's highly unlikely he's one of ours,"  she said, 'ours', the von Carsteins,  "the Lahmians would never let one of their own operate in the open so brazenly, and a male at that..."  she softly speculated, before shrugging, smirking a little at Wighards suggestion that some in far-off Sylvania preferred the rule of her cousins over that of living, breathing despots.

 "Conquering a country and ruling a country are two very different prospects, as many great generals have discovered throughout history, much to their chagrin. From what little I know, the Blood Dragons don't care about administration or stability; they care only about getting better at swinging sharp bits of metal, and knocking other men off of horses with a stick." 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

 "Bertelis brother was turned against his will..."   like I was, she left out,  "his mind broken with torture and agony; if his mind cannot be recovered, would Morr know this, and judge him on his actions when he was of sound mind?" 
  Morr doesn't judge you, he's the psychopomp that guides your soul to its final destination and prevents it being eaten by something malign, like chaos, and in some interpretations his ******* brother.

But if a vampire's soul is bound forever to the lands of mortals it will never try to go anywhere. Maybe he can't do anything.

This doesn't get discussed much to be honest  
 "He could be. It is the most probable. It's highly unlikely he's one of ours,"  she said, 'ours', the von Carsteins,  "the Lahmians would never let one of their own operate in the open so brazenly, and a male at that..."  she softly speculated, before shrugging, smirking a little at Wighards suggestion that some in far-off Sylvania preferred the rule of her cousins over that of living, breathing despots.

Wighard acknowledges her smirk but says nothing, still, an olive branch offered and the beginnings of some common ground to work upon


  Your evaluation is correct. He is certainly one of them, same vision that bade me seek out the Becassine told me the Red Knight's bloodline  
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine didn't say anything to Wighards correction that Morr judged incoming souls. But, she knew that the subject of discussion was the more important element.

 "So...what's your...solution, for Bertelis' brother?"  she asked, taking another sip of the clear, fruit brandy; swishing it silently in her mouth, hew heightened senses allowing her to enjoy every ingredient to a beautiful extent.

 "The transformation...the Blood Kiss...it changes more than your body; it alters your mind,"  she said quietly and slowly, though she figured that he knew this already.

 "When I...awoke, I remembered things from years ago that would have once elicited some deep reaction, but now..."  Regine trailed off, shrugging,  "...now, I don't care. If 'Telis brother was tortured and savaged before the Blood Kiss...I don't know how he comes back from that...are you able to help him?" 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

 "When I...awoke, I remembered things from years ago that would have once elicited some deep reaction, but now..."  Regine trailed off, shrugging,  "...now, I don't care. If 'Telis brother was tortured and savaged before the Blood Kiss...I don't know how he comes back from that...are you able to help him?" 
  As an aside, that might be why the Children of the Night tend towards extremes, be it violence or decadence or something else. Its not ennui or boredom, or even the opportunity to be be free of the bounds of normal society. Its the chance to feel anything   

This tangent seems partially his curiosity and partially an attempt to postpone answering the question

  I was going to say no, but then there is a spell in the Light College that might work. It's the most powerful healing magic of any College or Cult. It does a full-body reset of any disease or injury. It's preferable to have some hair from the subject cut when they were well and the re-set will be dated to then - without that, bit more open-ended.

This is why I give everyone a haircut when they join the Company.

I've only cast it once, and that was the save Deanna from a slit-throat when we fought the Skaven.

And to be honest I had some divine assistance to channel enough energy that entailed a few obligations.

It might work, but I wouldn't want to do it without being thoroughly prepared and controlled, which means we would have to subdue him and then keep him for later  

He takes another drink

  And if it does work my life gets really complicated, because some of your kin are going to want me punished for my presumption whilst the rest are going to think this is an excellent way to dispose of their rivals.   
 

 
 Spoiler: Boon of Hysh 
Boon of Hysh
Casting Number: 27
Casting Time: 2 full actions
Ingredient: A lock of hair from the target, cut while he was well (+3)
Description: You wrap a single character in the healing power of Hysh and all damage and maladies affecting him are healed. This includes all Wounds sustained, diseases currently being suffered, poisons currently in the system, and the like. You can also cast this spell on yourself. This is a touch spell

We've had a discussion before about whether this cures limb loss. "maldies" "and the like" can cover a lot. My preference is that the more ambitious you get the riskier it is (like a  Wish) .
Curing Vampirism would be pretty ambitious

I don't know if this is where his later vision was going, but this might represent that mechanically
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 


That was quite a lot to unpack, and not all of it pleasant.

The vampire sat neatly within her chair, leaning forward a touch as she took another sip of the fruity brandy she was enjoying, before casting her eyes out to Mousillon once again. The pale disc of the moon and blanket of stars in a beautifully dark night. Her eyes picked out regions outside of the city's walls and to forests that lay beyond, and a part of her wanted to thank Wighard for his time and then change into a bat so that she could soar across the world and take it all in in its nightly beauty with the cool air upon her face and wings abroad in soaring grace.

 "We still feel. I am not a disease."  Regine answered, her green eyes still peering out to possibilities, but there was a slight tremble in her voice.

 "I think it's the soul,"  she continued, her attention now coming back to Wighard.

 "Mine rests with Morr; as far as I know, my situation is...unique, among my kin. The Blood Kiss is traumatic, and the ensuing life one of predation. It alters the mind, but it stains the soul, changes and twists it, makes it become something it wasn't as a sort of defence mechanism. It no longer resides as a source of the divine, but an anchor, a tar pit you carry about with you that you must fight against to change." 

The vampire pursed her lips as she visibly thought, taking another drink. When she spoke again, she leaned forward gently, her voice softer as if sharing a secret - because she was.

 "I tell you this because I trust your...intellectual curiosity, and your confidence. But after I awoke? For weeks, my family's human castle servants, their men at arms..."  Regine trails off, eyes lost in recolleciton before she shrugged,  "...I didn't see  people , not in the way I used to and do now. I just saw cattle. Food. Do you think of cows much? You don't feel cruel to them, but at the end of the day, they're milk, butter and steak,"  she smirked at the end of her sentence, clearly adding a touch of levity to an otherwise morose reflection.

 "But as the weeks went on and my transformation was further away, I learned control over myself, I changed, or I returned, maybe. I  feel  quite a lot, but it's more..."  she trailed off, thinking of the best word,  "compartmentalised."  Regine held up her hands to form the outline of a square box before her chest,  "more difficult for the outside world to reach, prone to inner bursts, but there, and quite deep. But I need it that way, because residing in that box is a beast that  wants  to take the reins, it wants to get out. But during those weeks, remembering what I felt for others helped build a barrier that keeps it sealed away. And maybe I was able to do so at a relatively quicker pace because I no longer had a Blood Kiss traumatised soul within me like a tar pit." 

The vampire then took another sip of her brandy, allowing the weight and possibilities of what she had said hang in the air.

 "I want to help Bertelis' brother, for both their sakes. I don't know if your magic can..."  Regine held her tongue, not using the word 'cure',  " return  him back into a living, breathing mortal. I don't know much about arcane history, but I'm sure if such a thing were possible, we would have seen it speculated during the Vampire Wars of two centuries? But it's his mind we need to try and cure. I think so anyway, I just don't know how. Perhaps your spell can treat maladies of the mind and spirit?" 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

  So you will remain grounded so long as you retain mortal memories? Or if you are around friends?  

+++++++++

He smiles

  I was trying to avoid the implication that your condition is something that can, let alone should be,  cured 

I'm not sure that's what I'd be doing anyway, some subjects have reported loss of memory from the time they were wounded. Its more like a return to a previous version of yourself.

As for why its not been done before, there are maybe a dozen people capable of such magic at one time, all of them have better things to do try that just for satisfy their curiosity.

In any case few Kindred would willingly cooperate and that's another hurdle to clear

Magic is an art, most don't get to learn very many spells and finding creative applications for your magic is where much of the art lies - rather than just throwing raw power around.

But there is a line between "stretch parameters of the spell" and "do crazy **** to see what happens", because its magic, if you don't know what happens, its probably something bad

I would take the risk for Bertelis' sake

But I can't fix his mind with magic, you do a lot of talking or give him to the Shallyan's. We can be pretty certain however that they are not going to work on a vampire.

Also if I am to deal with a crazy person, I'd rather it be a crazy mortal than a crazy vampire
  
 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine smirked. It was her old, lopsided, scoundrel smirk over something she found darkly humorous.

 "Actually..."  she started,  "it was my mother that taught me. Unexpectedly, of course." 

Regine then brought her right hand up and gripped it into a fist, as if she were holding a baton, gesturing it towards an 'imaginary' younger Regine fresh out of her Blood Kiss.

  "Now now, mon lapin, you  must  learn to control yourself - the servants are our helpers, they are  not  for eating!"   she mimicked her vampiric mothers higher pitched, very feminine voice and mannerisms with eerie accuracy, as if Wighard were listening to a recording.

The vampire then swiftly brought her hand towards her other, as if striking herself on the knuckles to simulate punishment while she faked a little pained whine.

Then Regine snickered darkly.

 "That was the doorway; self-control. Forcing the Beast back down into the deepest parts of me where it belongs; it allows me to be me. I don't expect you to understand. Think of banishing the worst addiction you have ever possessed, and working to always keep it at bay." 

She thought for a few more seconds before continuing,  "on the way to Mousillon...a few dozen miles away...I was crossing a small bridge when I came upon a boy...he had fallen into the creek. He was just fishing, some Mousillon runt, no older than 10. I could have let the water have him,"  she shrugged,  "heck; fish him out afterwards and keep him on the way here in case I got peckish,"  she snickered, her dark sense of humor remaining.

 "He was fluttering around, splashing up a storm. He tried to yell but all that came out was gargling as this kid sank further and further beneath the surface until his struggles were submerged completely...I could have left him there - what was he to me? But I didn't. I held my spear by the haft and shoved the pommel in down into the water towards him...once I felt him grip it, I hauled him out, and he spluttered and flopped around on the bank of the river like a caught fish. I scolded him a little, naturally, silly boy lost his footing. I asked if he was alright. I gave him a silver and told him to run home and get out of those wet clothes before he caught a cold." 

+++++++++

Regine nodded, pursing her lips, taking a sip of her brandy as she listened.

 "I will help how I can, for Bertelis' sake,"  she offered once Wighard had explained the situation further. She wasn't sure if it would work, in fact she doubted it would, but the effort was what counted here.

 "You know..."  the vampire started, rolling her tongue in her mouth as if wondering how to frame what she wanted to say next,  "...I am going to be around for a very, very long time. Those little magical tricks of yours...could you teach me any?" 
 
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  "Tell true and no lie, boy. Why'd you fall in with the wardens? You've too good of a head on your shoulders to be wrangling herring smugglers for a living."  
 

 "It was that or staying on the family farm,"  Bruno said,  "with me gone, they have one less mouth to feed." 
He was quite pragmatic this way, and this way he still saw some more of the Empire, as well as helping people.
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

 "That was the doorway; self-control. Forcing the Beast back down into the deepest parts of me where it belongs; it allows me to be me. I don't expect you to understand. Think of banishing the worst addiction you have ever possessed, and working to always keep it at bay." 
  I understand more than you might think.

I left my village after I near beat a man to death. Isven was on leave from the army, and, bothering, some of the local girls

I enjoyed it too much, and I was afraid, so I became a healer

You have not seen me when the bloodlust comes over me, but it can  

+++++++++

  "...I am going to be around for a very, very long time. Those little magical tricks of yours...could you teach me any?" 
  In the Empire there was a Friar named Ottfried Platz. The church tried to discipline him for spending all his time in the taverns and gaming dens, amongst thieves, whores and other lowlifes

He said those were the ones who needed him most

I often think of his example for when I am called to account, there is enough against me to see me burned several times over be they so inclined
  

He looks at her

  However, I can teach you to focus your mind and draw upon the clean winds without using Dhar. And what you can achieve with even the pettiest spells.

What have your family taught you of this? Or was the focus more on getting you to stop snacking on the help?  
 
MrAbdiel
  Regine Dreams... 
 "This isn't about  me , Regine. Where you are, I once was. Where I am, you one day shall be. I'm trying to give you information, Regine. Trying to make you understand. It's hardly your fault. You're a puppy, fresh to the world. You're sending the world for the first time... But your eyes are still closed." 

You watch as Neferatta - this depiction of her, or this vision, or whatever it is - imbibes the elixir she has wrought from the book. The oblique angle of witness your dreamscape gives you affords you some extra fragment of insight that those assembled don't seem to glean - as she convulses, olive skin paling, fangs emerging, dark eyes swirling to red, you recognise something in her that is familiar to you: surprise. This is not the immortality she thought she was procuring. She hides this in her demeanor, but you saw it: the blood dependency and all its myriad flaws are a defect in the condition.

The scene around you dissolves into sand; people, objects, structures and all. It whips away in a storm, and when it clears you're witnessing another battle like the one you witnessed a moment before. This time, the battle is even more fierce. Now the hordes of the undead have new captains - vampires, with all their strength and might, waging war against the living in the name of the necromancer king. At the rear of that horde, that bleak sorcery performs his conjurations beyond your vision. At the front, a start vampire warrior with long white hair carves a path of blood toward the general of the living - a Nehekharan warrior king with the bearing of a mythic champion himself. They duel - until at some point, given some realization, the vampire champion allows himself to be struck down. A that point, the other vampiric warriors scatter - some compulsion on them severed.

Time begins moving very fast. Scenes play out in flashes that vanish before you can take in all their details, strobing one at a time before your eyes.

The necromancer king retreats in shame, and performs a great bitter convocation that turns a great river to blood and condemns all of Nehekhara to death.

The warrior king sits helpless in a prison cell as the nation perishes to the last man woman and child.

Furred, claws hands set the warrior king free, and push a blade of lambent green crystal into his hands. He takes his revenge. The body of the necromancer is incinerated in a great furnace until only dust remains.

The world moves on. Particles of dust are drawn together, one at a time.

The necromancer king is reborn - this time, with his monstrosity in full display as a towering tyrant of smoke, and bone, and jagged iron.

War again - a new war, a seething tide of the dead from many kingdoms you cannot know by their dress and weapons, and among them many vampires. They are falling upon warriors more like those you know, though somewhat more primitive. A mighty man - Sigmar, you intuit from his hammer, with the recognition stinging your eyes - does combat with the necromancer king at the centre of the battle. With a great shout, and at great cost, the champion of man smashes the hammer into the necromancer's chest and he is slain again.

The world moves on. Particles of dust are drawn together, one at a time.

 "Do you understand?" 

You feel something lurch in your body; a sense of time inverting. You are no longer dreaming of what was - but what is to come. Moments flash by you like thunderclaps.

The necromancer king rises again, more terrible, more powerful.

 Flash. 

All the armies of the world thrash against each other.

 Flash. 

The Necromancer King moves toward some arcane gambit. The white haired vampire, badly marred by time and death, marches with him.

 Flash. 

A conflagration of warriors, chaotic and greenskin, human and elvish and dwarvish and dead, war outside of a burning mountain city.

 Flash. 

The edges of the world begin to fray as the winds of magic begin stripping reality like the abrading sandstorms of Nehekhara.

 Flash. 

The world ends. Everyone is dead.






























 Flash. 

In the incomprehensible aftermath of the collapsed cosmos, the necromancer king, bloated with power, snatches divinity and rips open the gates to the Gardens of Morr. Souls once at rest rush out like water underpressure, moving to the necromancer's gestures like a murmurration of starlings. Perhaps yours is among them.

 Flash. 

The remaining gods and powers fashion their own petty realms in flimsy parody of what came before. Slowly, even these creations are eroding towards infinite death.

 Flash. 

You march in ranks with other vampires, your movements not your own, in a war against eyeless elves riding sharks. You are killed.

 Flash. 

You march in ranks with other vampires, your movements not your own, in a war against dwarves in clockwork flying machines. You are killed.

 Flash. 

You march in ranks with other vampires, your movements not your own, in a war against the warriors of Sigmar. You are killed.

 Flash. 

You march in ranks with other vampires, your movements not your own, in a war against the greenskins. You are killed.

 Flash. 

You march in ranks with other vampires, your movements not your own, in a war against the slavering minions of the Blood God. You are killed.

 Flash. 
 Flash. 
 Flash. 
 Flash. 

The carousel of purgatorial deathmarches strobe again and again.

 "You're a slave, Regine. That is what the Blood Kiss is. You are a slave, dancing while her master sleeps. But one day, he will awaken; and then neither he, nor you, will ever sleep again." 
 Wighard Dreams... 

The ibis nods its massive head a little. Then shivers its feathers from neck to tail in a way that birds certainly do, but it seems needlessly eccentric for a god to do.

 "Fate - perhaps. Fate is a concept about which men can not know as much as they would prefer any more than a boy can understand his father until he is a man grown. How much is the father's work? How much is in the boy, and cannot be moved? These are indivisible mysteries. But we speak first of the soul, another indivisible mystery, so you may understand it better. It is key to much of this, and you have pondered it at length - take this wisdom, and let it enhance your own." 

He gestures with a wing, and light crawls through the air into a series of anatomical sketches of the human body as if drawn in pencil made of sunlight.

 "A physician knows better than anyone that complexities can escape even great minds. Men, elves, and dwarves have learned much by digging around inside the bodies of the dead and speculating as to what performs what function; but even now much of the enlightened world labels under the notion of the compulsion of humours. A simple answer is welcoming because it would be easy to attribute many problems to a profusion of bile or blood. But within the blood even, there is complexity that escapes man's gaze." 
 "Likewise the immaterial things - the mind, and the soul, and the nature of these things. Morrites tend to think of people as bifurcated, a soul piloting a body; and this is not quite true. The people who once worshipped me divided the immaterial part up into an astonishing series of subdivisions, and this itself was also not quite true. I will make clear what I can." 

The image becomes a man, naked, fit, with long white hair, walking in idle demonstration across a sandy dune.

 "The soul is the product of the contact of two souls, in almost all cases, by the most natural process. A soul is a member of the greater category spirit, which contains not just living souls, but also daemons and animal spirits and gods and other things. Consider a person's life - not just their animating force, but the sum of all their loves, fears, experiences, pledges, sins - to be a kind of mould in which the soul rests.  It is shaped and impressed by all these things. That is the special quality of the living soul. When it comes time for a man to die - whether he is being struck down in battle, or becoming a vampire..." 

The figure produces from apparently nowhere a chalice, drinks from it, chokes, and falls to the ground. A spectral image of him slips away, and sinks below the dune, vanishing.

 "...his soul flies, to rest, or judgement, or to the side of his gods. This specific does not concern us. But the man's  life  that shaped the soul and the soul itself are distinct things. The soul has flown, and with it any capacity to create new souls and new life. But the life, the mould, still exist in abstraction - and necromancy is able to invest ethereal energy to populate that abstraction with spirit. Crude necromancy produces animating spirit that barely 'fits' the remnants, thus their clumsy and dull nature. The more technical necromancy becomes, the better it is able to grasp the abstraction of a life and parody it with animating power. Thus, a vampire has no soul - you can see the dhar crawling where it once was, if you look - but they have a  spirit , which is the essence of the person they were, driven back into their body." 

The image of the man crawls back to his feet, looking at his hands, touching his face, revelling in his reanimation.

 "But the vampire brought back to 'life' this way is 'living' - they are adding to themselves with more experiences, more heartbreak, more knowledge, more everything. Their limitations are much removed - they need only blood, which is easy for them to gain with their strength; and they need to avoid true death. A hundred years from now, Regine will be a woman who spent five times as long as a blood drinking, ageless predator than she did as a human woman. And in all that time, the dhar that bubbles where her soul was will be marinating her spirit towards its inherent darkness. The spirit that occupies her will bear little resemblance to the soul she shed at her death." 

The image of the vampire flees to a sketched castle, surrounded by minions, and hides away.

 "Given immortality, only true death is to be feared, and true death can only be stayed by acquiring the power to defeat those who would bring it, either in combat or by manipulating the mortals surrounding or by mastering magic in new forms. Power becomes the craving, and the acquisition of it is possible with care and time. But a  spirit formed by necromancy is answerable to necromancers . It is for this reason that a vampire, like the Red Knight, can be drawn endlessly back to life even if he is killed over and over again. And in the final days, the Archnecromancer will draw to his side all his vampire captains, and it will be the power they accumulated over their extended lives he turns to his most effective weapon. This is why I make very subtle instruments, like Le Becassine, to destroy vampires - so that when they are called upon in the final battle, they are stunted by the time spend disanimate and bodiless, instead of nourished by endless centuries spent practising magic and swordcraft unmolested in their towers." 

This is a lot to say, and he gives you a moment to take it in - and a silent perhaps for questions.


 Bruno Dreams... 
 "A damn shame, that is. But not uncommon."  Sigismund acknowledges with a tone that someone who didn't know him might have mistaken for disinterest. At this time, you didn't know him as well as you do with retrospect. He doesn't say much more, after that, but with reflection it seems less like he doesn't care about the answer and more like he regrets that he has no good reply by the silence of solidarity.

Up head, Betrum and Calvern call the covered wagon approaching off the road. The driver oblidges and pulls to the road shoulder, but produces a bell from under his seat and gives it a few clarion rings. You see Bertrum and Calvern hestiate, and shy away from getting too close.

 "Plaguebell? Hmm. A good lesson, Bruno. A wagon comes on a road used by smugglers, and they ring a bell to warn that they have plagued folk. A convenient cover for smugglers, so a warden might check what is in back anyway. But a warden travels hither and yon, and if he catches plague he may carry it from town to town, so he ought to stand clear. What does a just warden do?"  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
  Regine Dreams  

Regine watched in her ephemeral form as Neferatta took that fateful drink from her corrupted Elixir of Life. However mighty her race may be, they are the descendants of a woman whose ambition outstripped her sense. Had she been alive, Regine would never have trusted her existence to a potion, especially on such flimsy grounds, but Neferatta had. Powerful, beautiful and skilled...she had many traits, but prudence and wisdom were not among them.

And Regine was now one of her descendants. Vlad von Carstein, unknown to Regine as the vampire general that seemingly offered his neck to the blade of the mortal king, was her Great Grandfather - but had he been given the Blood Kiss from Neferatta, or had he drunk from the chalice?

She didn't know. And in some way, it didn't matter. Yet it did. Perhaps the aristocratic pretentions were already taking root in the former thiefs mind, but Regine felt a stronger connection to this... decision  by virtue how how few steps she was removed from the progenitor Queen of Vampires.

But, the young vampire had little time to dwell on blood and social circles. For there was something behind Neferrata, a bleak, fearsome shadow with eyes of green sulfur and a mind of unimaginable evil and ambition. Looming and all-powerful, his gaze dominated all, no matter how many times he was fallen by a lineage of heroes that rose up in defiance against him. Again and again he was slain and again and again he reanimated anew, his rotten spirit never fully banished from the world to finally protect it from his cancerous returns.

His ascension to divinity and his splitting open of the garden of Morr, the contents within pouring forth like spilled innards. Her face in the ranks, lieutenant and general among the mindless legions of the dead. Already, she could feel the creeping icy grip of servitude spreading down her neck to reach in through her back and squeeze her heart.

But, amidst the seemingly grim inevitability, Regine also saw the slivers of the Necromancers defeat. As much as her heart curled and twisted, the black horizon that would swallow up her new found freedom, whether in a century, a millennia or more - it was towards that endless maw she was be drawn with all the other Undead across the world...there was something else. Otherwise, why resist at all if defeat was inevitable?

 "This fate awaits you too..."  Regine barks out at the voice, turning her head as able to spot the source.

But there was something different in her tone, something...conciliatory, as if she had accepted the gravity of what she had been shown but had shaken off her initial dread and drawn upon her characteristic well of rebellion in what seemed like the 'sounding out' of possible allies.
wilphe
 Wighard Dreams... 

Kwolf looks at Wighard
  
Sah, Ren, Ba, ka, Ib, Shuyet, Shekem  

Sings the Raven in a solfège Wighard doesn't recognise

  So, VampireRegine is a Copy of MortalRegine, but as VampireRegine unlives she will have more experiences and resemble MortalRegine less and less.

And because Vampires are formed by Necromancy they can always be bound by Necromancers - whether they will it or not. And they might not, because Vampires need mortals in a way that Necromancers do it except as a source of raw materials.

You seek to keep vampires "slain" so they are weak when the Necromancer calls for them, but you require a more permanent solution? One that breaks the tie your adversary?  
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

   Regine von Carstein 

At the mention of "thieves, whores and other lowlifes", Regine allowed herself a subtle smirk. That had been her world before The Company had been granted 'wardship' over her in that prison...not that she'd  needed  them to escape. Still, there had been immediate benefits to be gained by being associated with a Knight, a noble, a wizard and their traveling demi-circus, one that she had ingratiated herself into.

 "My mother was tight-lipped as she was focused on teaching me other things, though she has learned a little from my youngest Uncle. My Grandfather directed me towards history and learning from the past. My eldest uncle used to be a Knight in the Empire centuries ago; I have never felt more out-skilled when wielding a blade as when I stood before him during practice, hah..."  Regine answered, the bond of blood having given her a swift affection for her new 'family' that was evident in the almost wholesome and sweet smile she wore on her face.

 "My younger Uncle...you'd like him, I think. He has been around for a couple of centuries, his workshop is like some amalgam of machine-shop, alchemy lab and wizards study. He said he had too much to teach me in just two weeks,"  that smile remained,  "which is true. Only smatterings, crash course stuff you'd teach a rookie you're bringing onto a low-risk job. I have heard of  Dhar  before; some inversion or corruption of all the channels of magic or some such?" 

The vampire shook her head, rolling her eyes,  "were I still alive, I'd never want to touch the stuff. Why bother? Whenever you hear of some necromancer rotting themselves away to pursue this avenue, their souls damned, I just don't understand what compels mortals to pursue it! What benefit could you possibly gain that makes all the sacrifice worth it? Even when I was alive, I knew when not to get greedy." 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 


Wighard also smiles

  You have an advantage that mortals lack.

Time.

Mortals turn to dark magic because it promises power fast, and necromancy also lets them cheat death and gives them time to study

And you want to take your time, because I think whilst you are immune to aging, you are not immune to how magical misfires can change your body  

He taps the side of his skull where his eye glows

  At least I think not, so be careful, lest you end up a warped and twisted thing.

Anyway, I am tempted to say that apprentices spend a decade learning theory before they even get allowed to try casting by themselves, but much of what they spend their time doing is mindless busy work to winnow out those lacking the discipline or the dedication, or to keep them out of trouble, or because Magisters had to put with this and therefore perpetuate the system.

Anyway, I didn't learn in a college, I learned alongside my master. So my theoretical studies are weak, both in medicine and magic. I focussed on practicalities,

For medicine this is fine, because what matters is results, not erudite and pedantic commentary from those who are no doubt very clever but do not know what colour blood is

Also however, it is easy to despise what you don't have

Magic comes into the world in the farthest North, and is shaped by humans into the 8 winds. I wield the White Wind of Hysh, each of these 8 winds have different energies and can be used for different things.

Though the world being what it is all schools have some capability for personal destruction and protection whilst even the Red school has uses other than setting fire to things

In the Empire, licensed wizards are limited to only one. Such was the restriction enacted by Great Teclis as part of the price for us being allowed a legitimate place within the Empire.

Elves master all 8, but this may take several human lifetimes and even if a human could, they would not complete their studies in time to do anything useful before being crippled by age. And the Colleges exist to serve the needs of the Empire, not pure research.

So, that we may be useful whilst still retaining some youth we use one wind only. This is ne reason ambitious and foolish casters turn to other sources of power, they believe the elves are keeping power for themselves.

This might actually be true

But it is also for good reason, rogue casters who flout that restriction invariably become corrupted and dangerous


Different nations have different traditions, they tend to regard each other with disdain, but it more like the tradition is suited to that region.

In Kislev they are close to the source of the winds and rather than tap them directly go through spirits or ice magic

To the south, the winds are frequently too weak and those casters employ the spirits of that land and bind them to service

In these latitudes however, winds are strong enough to be grasped but not so powerful as to be dangerous, though they are never safe.

  Dhar   well sources differ on what it is, all agree its nasty though. When winds go stagnant seems as good a description as any
  
 
farothel
 Bruno dreams 
 "have everybody get out and stand at a distance,"  Bruno said,  "then first look to see if there are any hidden compartments that can be seen from the outside.  Then search the inside while holding something before your nose you don't breath in the bad air.  Then the only thing they can smuggle are small things on their person, but that everybody can do." 
BananaPhone
 
 Spoiler: Wighard and Regine 

   Regine von Carstein 

Regine smirked and finished her brandy, savouring the taste of fruit across her enhanced taste-buds.

 "We'll see. Until then, we should prepare for how we'll deal with the Red Knight and Sul Kunar,"  the vampiress nodded.
 
MrAbdiel
 Wighard Dreams... 

Usurian preens under one of his wings, while speaking.

 "'Copy' is not quite the right word - it implies more separation than is the case, but it is near enough for the business at hand. But yes, you have the right of it. It is a brazen necromancer who snares a vampire of more than fledgling competence, and they are more likely even to form common cause - but the First Necromancer will call on them all, one day. If there is any hope for the living or the dead, he must call on as small and weak an assembly as can be prepared to be the case. That is my business - I toil in the daylight so that in the night there may be hope and light. This is an adversary who laid low Nehekhara and all her gods; who ripped the secrets of dark magic from the tight fists of the dark elves; who very nearly snuffed out the brief candle of Ulric's favored son before he earned his legend and apotheosis. But the outraged and starved gods of Khemri are in me, now; and We are not without our weapons. The White Pyramid was raised up to oppose the Black Pyramid, though even Teclis does not know it. Do you know Teclis? Yes; certainly you do."  He shakes out his head and long beak.

 "A permanent solution is the end of all vampires and necromancers and the vanishing of that perverse discovery from the memory of the world. But this is too much to hope for. I take only the actions I need to, and which keep me concealed. Small things. Leverage. Investment. Compounded interest. Differential force. Yes? Yes. But here: you have seen Becassin, my servant. The marks on his skin? These are marks of a covenant. He has a slim connection to his soul, lying still in my realm; so his mind does not fray and distort and stray from his old self. The marks also keep him from Ptah's spiteful eye; he can walk in the sunlight without fear or pain. But when he does, he walks just as a living man does - without the profane strength, and speed, and power. He has a half-life, and in this way he is not vulnerable to the necromancers. I will teach you how to make these marks - your study of Hysh will make them comprehensible to you, once I show you the pattern of it. I do not have infinite strength to support this gift - there is Becassine, and there have been select others. But there is strength for one more, at this time - the girl Regine, I think; or else the boy Mahieu, but I fear the latter is too far gone for consideration."  
 Regine Dreams... 
 "So it does. So it does. And what shall you and I do about it, Regine?" 

The vision of the neverending march fades to black. Then that black populates with dim stars, and your nose fills with the stench of Mousillon, and you sense the weight of yourself, lying on your back on the shingled roof in the night; with the dark skinned Becassine sitting nearby you.

 "Now you see what I am traitor to. Is it so great a crime, after all, to be treacherous to such a wicked king?" 
 Bruno Dreams... 

The Old Man seems to agree, and nods approvingly; the wardens call to those inside the wagon to come out and stand aside. They do, one at a time; sickly, pale individuals with sores and and a pall of pity on them. Caution this time yields knowledge that they are indeed plagued. Later on other stops, the opposite will prove true.

 "A fair and judicious temperament will serve you well, Bruno. A corrupt warden is worse than no warden at all." 

Betrum calls to the Old Man Sigismund; there's nothing in the cart, and so the plagued men pile back into the cart and their driver gets them back underway. He glances back at you with eyes so light amber they seem almost to be yellow. You look back to warn Sigismund of this strange feature, but he's not there - and neither are you. No longer on the horse on the road, but back in the sparring court outside the modest estate of the Richter family. Joseph is there, sheened with sweat, smiling with victor's glee after having bested you in a bout of longsword.

 "Ah, Bruno. How remarkable you'd be, if they'd got you to the dueling swords at a properly young age. That sword's too heavy for your wrist, I think."  He reaches out with the tip of his own sword, and raps the blade's point on a wooden swordblock where other weights of training swords are sunk into hollows up to their hilts. Three hilts protrude - one with a smooth wooden handle and brass pommel; another with fine silver filigree; a third with gold leaf, and inlayed pattern of braids.
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Regine Dreams... 
 "So it does. So it does. And what shall you and I do about it, Regine?" 

The vision of the neverending march fades to black. Then that black populates with dim stars, and your nose fills with the stench of Mousillon, and you sense the weight of yourself, lying on your back on the shingled roof in the night; with the dark skinned Becassine sitting nearby you.

 "Now you see what I am traitor to. Is it so great a crime, after all, to be treacherous to such a wicked king?"  
 


The vampire pursed her lips as she returned to her feet. Rolling her shoulders and glaring about, Regine swiftly processed the avalanche of information pouring in through her enhanced senses which, unfortunately, included olfactory detection of Mousillon.

 "I have no loyalty to whatever creature that is..."  Regine spoke.

 "But if he were invincible, then I daresay you would be preparing to survive him at best...not hoping for allies in his defeat." 

A pause lingered in the grimy air of that putrid city.

 "So tell me...is it possible?" 
wilphe
 Wighard Dreams... 

Usurian preens under one of his wings, while speaking.

  It is a brazen necromancer who snares a vampire of more than fledgling competence 
  Tempted to ask if there are any other kind, but of course the ones I hear about and the Colleges tend to face turned to necromancy because they were arrogant, impatient and greedy.

No doubt one who is patient, subtle and disciplined would be a formidable foe indeed  
 The White Pyramid was raised up to oppose the Black Pyramid, though even Teclis does not know it. Do you know Teclis? Yes; certainly you do."   He shakes out his head and long beak. 
  I know of him as our Collegiate wizards do

So far as I know our paths have never crossed so never seen him, let alone met him  
 "I do not have infinite strength to support this gift - there is Becassine, and there have been select others. But there is strength for one more, at this time - the girl Regine, I think; or else the boy Mahieu, but I fear the latter is too far gone for consideration."  
  Are there ways to augment your strength? Or is that beyond ways I can assist?

Their consent is required? She seems very loyal towards her new "family", but then a family member who can walk in the day without fear and is not subject to the control of any necromancer would no doubt be a welcome asset to them  
farothel
 Bruno dreams... 
 "Well, at least I have some stamina, old man,"  Bruno said with a smile,  "if I can avoid being hit, I can just wait until you're tired and then move in for the kill.  And I know that a real longsword doesn't weigh as much as this practice sword.  And I still have this..." 
He drew his pistol, unloaded of course as he didn't want any accidents.
MrAbdiel
  Regine Reflects... 

Becassine frowns out at the corrupted city. Any sense of hostility or offense that once existed in his posture towards her is gone, now. Now she is initiated into the same doomful knowledge as he; to continue to posture or spar in such grave light would be foolish indeed.

 "Possible... to defeat him? Truly? I do not know. His incarnated form has been struck down before and drawn itself together after sufficient time has passed. I have heard some speculate that, if certain talismans that belonged to him could be found and destroyed, he would have no anchor at all and be forever gone; but my patron, the one who revealed these things to me, has suggested that such an effort is largely fruitless. It was Sigmar's age when the necromancer king was last in the world. Hunting lost talismans so ancient may take from now till the end of the world - better simply to listen for word of their emergence. But what I can do - what you may find occasion to do, I hope - is to bear witness to the awful truth that, while a slim minority of our kind keep their senses for many years, and another slim minority are sold to the service of that dark lord willingly, the greatest body of vampires are corrupt, self-absorbed, monstrous creatures who live to accumulate power. When the Necromancer King calls them up from the dust - for there is nothing you or I can do to kill any vampire so dead it is beyond raising - he will add their power to his armies. Every mad bloodsucker denied his goal of increased power or mastery of the winds of magic is a bunted arrow in his quiver." 

This is a fairly grim assessment, and he lets it sit for a moment, before adding:

 "Is it possible to escape his harness entirely? Maybe. It is a gift afforded to few, and I am not its giver. Both you and I must wait to see if that will be the case. I suspect by the end of our business in Mousillon, we will know." 
 Wighard Dreams 

The familiar sense of defined space creeps back into your awareness. Your feed are grounded again - on a dream simulacrum of the rickety bridge over the Grismerie, where you fought the ambushing gangers. Dimensionality is slowly returning to the dreamscape.

 "No, no; no augmenting. It is not possible; and if it were possible, I would not desire it, because of the attention it would draw to me. I am as dead as a god of the dead can be, and in me are all of my southland divine kin. All their glittering khopesh and spear did not win this battle. So I have become a flint knife, which served in the fist of vengeful slayers for ancient millennia; it is the best weapon for the task." 
 "And yes - their consent is required. On both parts - their risen self must desire it, and their soul at rest must still recognise that risen spirit. The bond of soul to spirit becomes an anchor against necromantic predation and also against the untethered madness vampires are prone to.  As for her 'family'... I can do nothing for them. They are too much their new selves for the old to take to it. But perhaps, if they are as familial as Regine believes, she will be a tether for them, and they will not degrade. More likely, that clan will fall to bickering and conflict - this is almost always the way for vampire communes, Von Carstein and otherwise. I give this over to your judgement - if you think she is  good , good by your standards such that you are convinced the sudden swell of power has not made her dangerous and wicked, I will trust your judgement. You have long proven yourself trustworthy. Now - you will receive this knowledge with the sunrise. I grant you another question to ask - another truth, before you go back. What would you know, Wighard Rauschenberg? About this mystery, or any other?" 
 Bruno Dreams... 

The setting of your dream blurs. You catch the old man's smile back, and the wood lined grass of the great road beyond; but an instant later you are somewhere else entirely. It's not the old man's smile, but Joseph Richter who has been sparring with you, in the sparring court outside the noble estate that took you in after your conspicuous acts of bravery.

 "True, true. And that pistol will serve you well if you're called to duel some dusty fop in Nuln. But there will be plenty of occasion where the blade will be all you have to rely on. Come now, choose another that suits you better." 

He reaches out with the tip of his own sword, and raps the blade's point on a wooden swordblock where other weights of training swords are sunk into hollows up to their hilts. Three hilts protrude - one with a smooth wooden handle and brass pommel; another with fine silver filigree; a third with gold leaf, and inlayed pattern of braids.

It seems the choice of which to reach for first, whatever that means in this dream land, is yours. 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


It would seem that the worlds sense of humour was endless. Regine had been born into nothing, was given half of a year of being among others and then was snatched away for a new existence. No sooner had she started to grow comfortable with her new station and marveled at the possibilities that stretched out before her, than the cosmos came knocking once more to deliver her the good word that her enlistment was necessary in an ongoing and unseen war against some ancient Necromancer King whose mere memory warranted eternal vigilance, lest the bastard reform his hulking figure and rein in blood and terror once more.

And she would be one of the sentinels on the wall.

Could she ever catch a break?

 "I am no enemy of man,"  Regine finally spoke, her own tall, gymnast figure standing and peering down at the streets below while the decaying wind of this blighted city caught her dark cloak.

 "I was hoping, on my return that..."  she trailed off, pursing her lips. She didn't need to elaborate further for it to be ascertained upon whom she was speaking.

She shook her head,  "...maybe he'll come around. But down there,"  Regine gestured to the single, paired and groups of humans hobbling about their business in the lit night-time streets of Mousillon.

 "I hold no malice, nor entertain dominion"  she stated matter-of-factly,  "I can only draw nourishment from the wicked and deserving. How's that for irony?"  she snorted lightly in amusement, shaking her head again.
wilphe
 Wighard Dreams 
 Now - you will receive this knowledge with the sunrise. I grant you another question to ask - another truth, before you go back. What would you know, Wighard Rauschenberg? About this mystery, or any other?" 

Wighard bows and welcomes the return to somewhat normality rather than epic vistas

  I shall fulfil your charge to the best of my ability Son of the South, and endeavour to be worthy of your trust

As for truth, I give you several questions, some minor, please answer as you think I need to know

Is there anything else we must do to be successful in our mission here in Mousillon? And thereafter to deal with this uprising? Is this a normal peasant insurrection or do darker forces lie behind it?

Your colleague the Lady told Bertelis that Siobhan was more important than she seemed. Is that a reference to her magical abilities, or something else and more?

If none of the above, then tell me of the White Pyramid and how I can help.

I would ask if you could put me in touch with Great Teclis, but if I am worthy of his attention I am sure he will show up sooner or later
  
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
 Bruno Dreams... 

The setting of your dream blurs. You catch the old man's smile back, and the wood lined grass of the great road beyond; but an instant later you are somewhere else entirely. It's not the old man's smile, but Joseph Richter who has been sparring with you, in the sparring court outside the noble estate that took you in after your conspicuous acts of bravery.

 "True, true. And that pistol will serve you well if you're called to duel some dusty fop in Nuln. But there will be plenty of occasion where the blade will be all you have to rely on. Come now, choose another that suits you better." 

He reaches out with the tip of his own sword, and raps the blade's point on a wooden swordblock where other weights of training swords are sunk into hollows up to their hilts. Three hilts protrude - one with a smooth wooden handle and brass pommel; another with fine silver filigree; a third with gold leaf, and inlayed pattern of braids.

It seems the choice of which to reach for first, whatever that means in this dream land, is yours.  
 

Bruno wasn't sure what to do now.  His first reaction would be to take the simple sword, as that most often was the most practical weapon.  However, something made him hesitate.  He wasn't sure what this dream was to be.  So he had a closer look at all three weapons, checking to see if he could see how the swords themselves were made.  The handle finish wasn't all that important, the most important was the blade.  That had to be made well, the finish of the handle was just that.  On the other hand, most of the times when you spend a lot of money on all that finish, you also wanted a well-made blade.

He looked at all three again and then took the one with the gold finish.
MrAbdiel
  Regine Reflects... 

The dark skinned hunter keeps his gaze deflected, as Regine reflects on her hopes. No doubt, he had his own complex situation when it was his time to cross the threshold from life, to death, back to life-or-near-enough. He makes no specific commentary on that stunted romance, but offers a more generalized statement - the first half-hopeful thing he has even tried to offer.

 "Perhaps he will. That is... helpful, to some. Grounding, for a little while." 

He raises an eyebrow at her confession. Smiles faintly.  "Phakth's Thorn. Or Verena's Bridle, if you prefer. You will have a difficult time remaining in one place, with such a curse. It's not clear whose standard of 'deserving' is really binding - but it can't be your own, because there are some truly demented monsters who visit their sadism on the innocent even if they can't feed on them. You will have to discover that matter on your own; but it will not be easilly sustained dwelling in peace surrounded by honest serfs. The world is full of wicked men, but sequential exsanguination is a strong deterrent to banditry." 
 Wighard Dreams... 

Usirian considers your crop of questions for a moment.

 "Last to first, then. You generosity in willingness deserves generosity in kind." 
 "Teclis has his own agendas, but he is on the side of righteousness. If he does seek you for some matter, be wary - he has all the same flaws that other elves have. Hubris, longsightedness, debauchery. Less prejudice than others; but all the same." 
 "You know the White Pyramid - you have a room there, after all. Though the heirophants of Altdorf have their eyes fixed on the Chaos powers, and with good reason, there is a society within that understands the insidious threat of the Great Necromancer also. But that cartel, the Bonerattlers, have their own works. You are well positioned, by not dwelling there amidst the relics and libraries of Hysh." 
 "The Lady I know by her acts and reputation, but not by introduction. If she has her eye on Siobhan, that is a great mystery; because her interests tend to be in children with magical talent, and men with the luxury of wealth that permits a life in pursuit of extravagant virtue. She does not whisk teenagers off to the lands of the Fey; and not Imperials, either. Perhaps she has a great deed of her own to do, in the future; one for which you and your companions are unknowingly preparing her for now." 
 "In Mousillon - in your matter between the plague knight and the blood knight? Keep your dagger close. Many threads are converging, here. The Talabeclander may be your best shield against the plague knight - the rot failed to take him before, and now has no teeth at all, where it may quickly kill the rest of you. Except your vampires, but the dark gods are not shy with their wicked symbols, and they will make the approach difficult for them. And the blood knight is very strong, but his lair is his greatest weapon and he has not yet needed to reveal it. But your company has already made their masterstroke, in that regard - you need only illuminate it, to bring forth the arrow you shot previously." 
 "There. You are as armed for the conflict ahead as I can make you. Enjoy rest and peace when you can find it, Wighard Rauschenberg. You will find precious few seasons for it, in your life.  Now... Take a breath..." 

You go blind. You hear wind rushing past your ears. A sirocco wind scours the crevices of your mind clean of fatigue and fear. You recall in perfect clarity the pages of the book you own - the one you left back at the College of Light, on Nehekharan ruins. At once you can understand the glyphs replicated on the pages by the author, the odd pictorial language of that ancient people. Sun. War. King. Doom. Blood. Fire. Gods. Wrath. Nagash. Silence.

Knowledge like a hurricane bores into you. You feel... clean.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Set your insanity points back to 0.

Gain Speak Language (Nekeharan)

You gain the knowledge required to bestow Usirian's Tether, which you recognise now as the markings on Becassin's skin. When bestowed upon a vampire (more or less permanently with tattoos scorched in with Hysh), this means that:
 Between Sunset and Sunrise , the tethered vampire operates with their normal profile.
 Between Sunrise and Sunset , the tethered vampire operates as if they had not applied the vampire template to their characteristics. This means a numerical reduction in most cases, but it does mean that the vampire has access to the Fate Points they had when they were alive. It also grants them immunity to the ravages of sunlight, and a +20% bonus on and vampiric insanity rolls.
 


Then you wake up.




 Bruno Dreams... 
 "Good choice..." 

You examine the blades cursorily, but then take up the blade with the gold filigree. It's heavy in your hand - that's because, as you lift it, you find the scene around you has changed again, and the weapon in your hand isn't a sword at all.

It's a hammer. A fine dwarven hammer in golden gromril that almost hums with majesty and ancient strength.

You are in Altdorf. You see the great city in all its distinctively human roughness and artistry sprawled out before you, below the rail of the balcony on which you stand. Wighard is beside you - older, looking uncomfortably formal in heirophant's robes. Glod you recognise also, along with Gimgroth; though they have worn any extra years with almost no physical change except a recovery in the thickness of Gimgroth's beard, if not the length of it.

They, like you, are wearing sheaths of fine steel plate armor. It fits you like a second skin, so carefully wrought it is; and you can scarcely imagine the value of it.

Far below you, in the courtyard before the imperial palace, is a sea of men, women and children. As your eyes wander out to them, they seem to notice, and the crowd surges with energy and life in a growl of excitement that refines swiftly into a chant.

  " Imperator!  Imperator!  Imperator! "  
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Set your insanity points back to 0. Mysterious and confusing as this series of visions has been, it has, at least, been very mentally restful.
 


You wake up.
 
wilphe
Wighard awakes, cleansed and filled with new knowledge and yet also deeply disturbed

The founding mythos of his order is that what he must now think of as the White Pyramid is a bad idea, deleterious to the health and wellbeing of those residing in it and that Aetius was unjustly persecuted for pointing this out. With the implication that the apprentices who maintain it are oppressed and exploited prisoners who could be doing more good out in the world

That it is actually built and maintained that way on purpose as part of a high-stakes long-term struggle for the ultimate fate of the world, and that at least some of the White College know that and willingly pay the price

Well, that's a challenge to his world view that's going to take a while to process. La Becassine, Xueex, Emma, Regine and even for that matter deific contact have all been things he's taken more or less in his stride

This though, that's an upset to his understanding of the world he was not expecting
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 "I don't know about that,"  Regine shrugged, peering out across the skyline of Mousillon beneath the red moon of a cursed land.

 "Perhaps find residence above a prison - an endless supply!'  she almost smirked.

 "I come from down there,"  the vampire said, following up in response to his further words.

 "I was born into the criminal underworld; few with this curse are better equipped to find their fill." 

To think that weeks ago she would have been in this position at all was astounding. Where once she had awoken in a cold shiver as the terror swept across her mind at the realisation of what had been forced upon her, to now standing upon the roof-tops, the deed done, her nature set in place, her self-acceptance complete. For all the ridicule, distrust and contempt heaped upon her by the mortals of the world, given her current station, she was perhaps far more mentally potent than most gave her credit for. So many would have crumbled beneath the pressure of transformation and rejection by that which they had once knew and held dear, their psyche's and sense of self toppling into a sea of despair as the cliff gave way beneath their feet.

But not Regine. She was, if anything, a survivor, and all survivors were nothing if not adaptable.

And she'd need it, if the foreign vampires words were to be believed - which was a prospect with growing certainty in the wake of what Regine had witnessed, the history that surrounded her race and the possible future that awaited it, should  he  return.

While the vampire remained quiet and in thought, the night of Mousillon sat heavy around them with its torch-light, moonshade and the throngs of hobbled humanity passing through the streets below.

 "You have made your case. You know I'm no threat,"  Regine started, her tone like that of accountant calculating the numbers.

 "What now? Because speaking of sustenance, I  am  getting a touch peckish, and dawn will soon be upon us..." 
farothel
Bruno awakes with a sense of wonder, as if quite a bit of worry had fallen off him.  He had seen quite a few things since joining the Company and not all of those things were meant to be seen, but now it felt as if it had just been a walk in the park.  He wasn't sure about the meaning of the dream, especially the last part, but for now it didn't really matter.
After getting dressed, he headed to get some breakfast, seeing some of the others there.
 "Good morning all,"  he said,  "ready to get this stuff sorted out? 
wilphe
Wighard is already up and halfway through the breakfast Sophie has made for him of rare steak and eggs   Dig in, we have a long day ahead and if the worst happens there's no point getting killed on an empty stomach  

He seems in a buoyant mood, perhaps because one way or another something will get resolved today and the release of tension is palpable.

  Do not fear death for the manner of your doom is set and no mortal can escape it. How you chose to meet your death is however, up to you

Cheers  

He's kept a  good  bottle of wine back for this occasion
BananaPhone
   Sophie 

Sophie had awoken early, as is the habit of servants, and begun her day with a soft and gentle hum that carried on throughout the duties of the morning. First, she saw to it that the Ma Demoiselle von Cartstein was sleeping comfortably in her light-shut out section of the habitat. Once that had been confirmed, she quietly moved down the stairs and towards the kitchen, with which she had become relatively familiar the night prior. While the Ma Demoiselle was away during the night, Sophie had spent some hours organising the pantry, stores, stove and oven, so that when she arrived in the morning, preparing a breakfast for the large group of people to whom her Ma Demoiselle was attached, was a straight forward affair.

Gaston and Raphael were still at the other house, packing things up to move here, so that meant two less guests she would have to prepare for.

When the others came down in the morning, they would immediately be seduced by the scent of grilled steak, fried eggs, cooked and salted bacon, and the sweet aroma of powdered Bretonnian toast and buttered beer. Fruits were, sadly, a rare commodity within Mousillon, while ripe and sweet examples of their kind were essentially nonexistent. Thus, those who wished for less meat-based morning sustenance would find their tastes furnished with powdered Bretonnian toast, bread fried in butter and sugar, arrayed next to Soppes Dorre - toasted white bread with sweet spices, white wine, and thick homemade almond milk.

Preparing it all and arranging it on the central table down its centre for those arriving to choose what they desired, Sophie stood at the helm of her creation and looked upon it with a small, soft smirk and flush of pride through her youthful features. Allowing herself a wider smile and a self-congratulatory nod, Sophie hummed a little song happily to herself as she disappeared back into the kitchen, intending, due to her servant-class position, to stay out-of-sight, as polite society required.
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: Mousillon Sepsis War 

  Three Weeks Earlier...  


In the shadowy realm of Mousillon, northeast of the fortress-castle that bore its namesake, a village had been cleared. A blanket of stars in a cloudless night bore witness to a ritual unfolding on the outskirts of the hamlet. Twelve pale figures, naked from the waist up, were tied to stone slabs, each etched with intricate networks of jagged, angular symbols that thrummed faintly with an otherworldly power. Arranged in a perfect circle, their heads faced toward a central pit where a cauldron of viscous, bubbling liquid hissed and steamed. The air itself seemed to hum with tension, thick with the coppery tang of blood and the oppressive weight of the winds of magic, as if the land itself recoiled from the blasphemy taking place.

At the head of this arrangement stood a tall figure, silhouetted by his rich, midnight-black cloak that billowed in the wind from the waist down. The cowl obscured his features, but the crooked, red-stained grin of yellowed teeth carved across his pale, decayed jaw betrayed an eerie satisfaction. Confidently he stood, waiting, watching, as another figure slowly approached, the light of the stars catching in their cloak that hugged their clearly athletically feminine figure.

 “You came after all?”  he spoke, grin present, a barrel-chested chuckle following his words. He reached into his robes and produced a horn-like goblet, slender enough to conceal on his person but deep enough to carry a pint of liquid. He held it out for her to behold, before dipping it into the bubbling cauldron, scooping it across the dark, red contents and drawing it up to present a its bloody contents.

 “Drink. Drink and Mousillon will kneel before you…” 

Now it was the womans turn to smirk. Her lips arched into a knowing smile as she half-circled around her counterpart, head tilted in thought.

 “And what, Renault, would I give in return?” 

The man chuckled again, his cracked, stained mouth arching as he reached up to draw the silky black cowl from his features to present his pallid, dead features, at the centre of which his lifeless eyes still managed to conjure a spark of menace.

 “We all take orders from someone…” 

She stared at him with a flat grimace. Slowly, she held the goblet out to her side and tilted it over – the crimson red contents within waterfalling down upon the ground, useless.

Andre’s image was furious, his eyes burning hot, expression hard and both hands brought up like claw-like fists – but then   he   sounded across the clearing.   His   voice boomed like rolling thunder across all those gathered.

   “You, would reject, this gift?”   

Andre’s image changed immediately. He smirked, drew his cowl back across his head and slunk backwards, back into the shadows, as Regine turned about to face the source of the vocal avalanche.

Never had she felt so small. Never had she felt so diminutive before a physical, walking, thinking being, each hoof-fall felt through the earth with the weight they carried leaving deep dentures where-ever they made landfall. What moved into sight from the shadows of the village was a Daemon Prince of monstrous proportions. His huge, goat-like legs were clad in skin the color of dead flesh, upon which was a grotesquely muscled physique of pure power and dominance. Swaggering, slow moving but indomitable,  Malgor  glared down upon the vampire before him with a single, large, dull-green eye that held and focused all of the malice, cruelty and spite of a god in waiting. But more than that were the wings sprouting from its broad, muscular back; a pair of leathery, massive bat-like wings that ensured no one could escape, even if they wanted to. Meanwhile, the chiseled physique and massive shoulders carried that hideous, tooth-filled head. Yet, it was the mind inside that beastly formation that drove the daemon of nine yards in height to raise one thick, muscled arm and the blade-tipped staff to point it in Regine’s direction.

   “You refuse to remedy your pointless existence? Drink from our offering and become one with the Great Father! Find some purpose in your soulless unlife…”   

Regine stared up at the massive Daemon Prince, having to crane her neck back to at least peer up at his disgusting face. But instead of responding to his taunts or promises, she simply gazed upon him, saying and doing nothing for several long crucial moments. It was only when the skies above her received the streaking fireballs of a dozen burning stones launched by hidden trebuchets did the vampire allow herself a shift in image: she smiled.

   “What?!”    the Daemon Prince bellowed, as the first of the fireballs landed among them to detonate in bouts of flame, fire and shrapnel, blowing Andre off of his feet and into the darkness of his ritual.

   “Arrghh!!”    Malgor roared, shielding himself with one, thick arm before gesturing forth with his other – the staff he grasped erupting into green fire that seared across the now-battlefield to blast apart the human soldiers that were now swiftly emerging from their hiding places among the shadows of the treeline.

Malgor’s cyclopean gaze swept across the battlefield, catching sight of what first appeared to be an unassuming horse-drawn cart positioned near the treeline. Its weathered wooden frame and a cover of coarse burlap hardly suggested a threat, blending seamlessly into the surroundings. Yet, as his attention shifted to the skirmish among the human soldiers, a burst of movement betrayed the cart’s true nature. The cloaked figures attending it cast aside their disguises and tore free the burlap to reveal the concealed Helblaster Volleygun beneath—a masterpiece of Imperial engineering. The humans worked frantically, casting aside camouflaging branches and debris, their hands racing to align the weapon and readying its fuse as the dark barrels absorbed the night-sky gleam of stars with the promise of fiery wrath.

The Daemon Prince’s eye narrowed. Ignoring the vampire before him, he roared with thunder as he rose his staff high, its head erupting with a line of hellish green fire. The searing projectile arced across the battlefield and struck the cart in a blast of noxious energy, the surrounding grass turning black as smoke belched into the air. The front wheels splintered violently, and the cart lurched to one side with emerald flames licking at its frame. The crew fared little better. Mortal as they were, the men were tossed violently to the ground, their bodies limp and broken, while the tethered horses screamed in primal agony as the flames ate their flesh and burned the life from them, as their once mighty bodies crumpled uselessly to the earth. Black smoke and sulphur filled the air as the damaged machine came to rest, precariously tilted and seemingly useless. Satisfied, Malgor turned his wrathful focus to the scattered soldiers, roaring commands to his staff as more bursts of vile magic rained down upon the battlefield.

For a moment the vampire felt her dead heart sink into the void that once housed her soul. Barely minutes into their confrontation and their hopes seemed dashed! But, suddenly, she noticed something crucial, something essential that blasted her system with the fire of hope that seized all that she had to focus. the battlefield churned with chaos and the green fire’s heat scorched the air, her crimson eyes locked onto the smoldering cart and the weapon it concealed. It was damaged but not beyond salvation, as her keen senses could pick out the one, tiny detail through the night air that Malgor had missed: the fuse was still lit. The weapon was live. The countdown was on. Without hesitation, she broke into a sprint, dodging bursts of flame and leaping over corpses, her mind set on the only chance they had to bring down the towering Daemon Prince.

Regine rushed forward as green-flame exploded around her, the heat scouring her skin and the acrid scent of sulfur assaulting her nostrils as she ran, jumped and finally leapt across the broken earth to land near the half over-turned cart sinking heavily to the side by the weight of its lethal cargo. The crew were already dead, the horses slain, their large bodies still tethered to the front of the wagon as the vampire scrambled behind it. Given only a second to assess the situation, she could see that the Helblaster Volleygun was still very much operational, the 9, dark tubes of its construct arranged in that triangular fashion around a turning mechanism. The base of the weapon was intact, the wheels fastened loosely to the floor of the wagon so that it could be used without the ensuing explosive pressures tearing the wood away. But, the gunpowder weapon was aimed completely off target, its body half turned down as wheels of the carts themselves had been shattered by the impact of the Daemon Prince’s weapon, and all the while it was faced in this useless direction, the fuse upon its rear-most compartment was slowly burning down, nearing the state of ignition.

Regine’s eyes widened. Precious milliseconds ticked away as she shoved her hands beneath the wagon itself, cursing the added weight of the tethered dead horses, digging her clawed fingers between oaken wood and compacted earth to grip and hold and draw the rear of the cart up and out of the sediment – the resistance burning through her body as the ground gripped tightly, refusing to relinquish its new prize.  “Hnnngggh….!”  The vampire heaved with all of her might, her teeth grinding together in her grimace as her powerful vampiric muscles strained, from shoulders, to arms, to core and legs, her gymnast physique exerting all the physical power she could muster as the wagon slowly rose from its broken embankment, turning inch-by-precious-inch under Regine’s direction as even now the weight of the two dead horses still tethered to the cart worked against her, their carcasses leaving marks in the soft earth as the vampire had to drag them with her efforts.

Thousands of pounds of force worked against her, but her persistence bore fruit as the wagon moved and the Hellblasters cannons were slowly turned towards their target that loomed brutally in the distance, the Daemon Prince howling and snarling as it aimed its putrescent-stream projecting weapon at embankments of dispersed soldiers that were peppering it with an endless smattering of crossbow bolts. It was only when the giant, winged beast noticed Regine’s movements that it turned its hulk about to face her, that singular, blazing red, cyclyoptic eye gazing hatefully upon the vampire that had recovered the humans gunpowder weapon and was turning it about to face right in its direction – the fuse burning down to its ignition.

  Boom-Boom-Boom!   The first row erupted into cacophonous fire and smoke, the entire front half of the weapon whirring to the side with a loud,  Crank!  to bring up the next fresh set of barrels to bare their deadly payload.

  Boom-Boom-Boom!  
 Whir-Crank! 
  Boom-Boom-Boom!  

Fire and sulphur ignited the night sky as the Hellblaster roared to life and fulfilled its namesake, discharging dozens of leaded projectiles in an incendiary arc that threw up a wall of flame.

   “Arrrghh!!!!”    Malgor bellowed, his enormous frame stumbling backwards as vicious, black-blooded wounds ripped open across its body, spilling the putrescent contents within as gouts of pus and maggots, the pain ripping apart the Daemon Prince’s nervous system as a massive sheet of fire charred the world before him. He was lame in his left leg. He could feel great chunks of flesh blown from his limbs. His left arm was missing from beneath the elbow with only strips of midnight-blood covered, ragged muscle remaining. Not even his mighty wings were spared, as the black membranes were shredded between the clawed fingers of his span. That singular eye blinked, his head shaking to regain senses and situate himself, hissing under his breath, exhaling and glaring into the curtain of flame, searching for its hated enemy –

Her form wore the image of fire for only a brief moment. Regine came sailing through the towering inferno, black hair billowing behind her. Her face was a death-rictus, and that glimmering, star-metal sword in her hands travelled with her like a fired rocket, sword-tip aimed and spearing through the singular, massive eye of the Daemon Prince to hilt itself from Malgor’s eye to out the back of his head.

Half a second of disbelief passed. Cough. Inhale. The massive creature shot its clawed hands up to its skull to claw uselessly at its fatal wound. Staggering back, senses fleeing its command, the great beast could only bellow out his furious death-roar that echoed off the clearing and shook the bones of all who heard it as destruction came for him. Falling to its knees, arms weakly grabbing at the blade lodged in its massive eye, one final demonic scream was roared to the heavens as its veins brightened beneath its leathery flesh and its image cracked over like dry, green mud, before detonating in a shower of acidic organs, dead flies and putrescence.

When the smoke cleared, Malgor was dead. The discharged remnants of the Daemon Prince’s body was sprawled across the sacrificial dais, his remaining single, long thick arm out-stretched, black claws pointed to the starry night sky, and his half-head staring upwards with jagged rips and an exposed inner mouth with a black, lolled tongue. But, centred within that massive skull, its tip pressed into the clay beneath where the Daemon lay, was the gleaming, daemon-blood smattered star-metal of the sword that had pierced the beasts eye, skull and brain and sent him back to the void –  Midnight .

A gloved hand wrapped around the hilt and wretched it free with a wet  Shlick! , before bringing a cloth to its blade to clean it of the daemon’s filth.

 “N…no…Malgor…th…this cannot be!” 

The words were croaked and strained, sputtered by a voice that had once been proud and arrogant: Andre Renault. Fire from the trebuchet’s had scorched his once fine, dark robes and singed his well-groomed goatee. That face, angular, foppishly handsome, long since half-ruined by the diseases of Grandfather Nurgle, looked on in disbelieving horror at the physical remains of his once seemingly invincible master.

Regine turned about on her boot to face her former rival. She strode forward and put a foot on the mans shoulder and kicked him hard enough to turn him over onto his back, sputtering and coughing as blood leaked from shrapnel wounds across what was visible of his jaundiced flesh. It was only now that he could look her directly in the face, her hood gone and revealing the moonlight pale, angular features of the troublesome thief of L'Anguile he once knew and cursed.

 “You!”  he gasped in recognition.

 “B-but you’re dead! You died in Turris Vigilans! No! No – this,  this  was not our destiny!” 

The vampire allowed herself a small smile.

 “Times change.” 

Regine reached down and wrapped a hand around Andre’s throat, his eyes bulging as she effortlessly hoisted him to his feet and shoved him towards a waiting trio of men-at-arms dressed in the colors of Vicomte Harcourt.

 “And someone wants a word with you,”  she smirked.

One of the footman wasted no time in roughly bashing Andre in the stomach with the pommel of his sword. The priest garbled loudly, doubling over from the winding impact, before the second man-at-arms took the opportunity to slug him across the side of his head before he was limply dragged away.

Regine watched. She smiled. She would never see him again, and she knew what fate awaited him. Turning back to the group of vampires that were untethered from their restraints, a dozen pale figures, lean like predators, looked up to her elevated position as a score of blood-red eyes in the night.

Regine reached down to pick up the vellum that had once threatened them all. Across its front was the hack-and-slash symbols of a blasphemous language, notes and directions to create the ritual to which they would have all been a part. It outlined the positions each must occupy, the precise time of night, the quantity of blood needed, the vessel to carry the  fulcrum, and, of course, the one required to drink it. Once they had anointed member of the ritual had imbibed the foul drink, the minds of all the vampires locked into the ritualistic circle would be bound to them like slaves. Yet he who partook in the procession as the receptor of their magically coerced loyalty would know no rest, for his own will would be tethered to the one who had set the ritual in motion, the one whom had gathered the magical winds necessary to weave them all together – Andre Renault.

Malgor’s gift to the Nurgle Priest would have been a powerful one. Regine could only imagine what he could accomplish if the Sul Kunar-aligned Vicar of Rot had entered Mousillon with thirteen obedient vampires at his beck and call.

Sneering, Regine held the heavy scroll up for her kindred-of-the-night to witness. In her other hand she brandished her star-metal sword,  Midnight  high above her head, black top-knot ponytail hair and blood-red cape caught in the fingers of the wind behind her.

 “We will never be slaves!” 

Her brothers and sisters roared in her defiance as she cast the cursed instructions down into the fire below, its wicked evil blasting out a plume of hellish green flame that illuminated all present as it disappeared from the earth, burned to ashes.

 “But we will…be  masters …” 

Thirteen vampires cheered and celebrated their freedom and the evasion of disaster. Prisoners had been brought to nourish the blood-kindred and the night was alive with the jubilance of the Vampirus nocturii. Isolated though they may seem, surrounded by woods, mountains and villages, upon the horizon was the jagged, redly lit bastion of the realm, a decaying monument fought over by the very same forces that had struggled so viciously in that clearing: Mousillon.
 
wilphe
  Thank you Sophie, please get the panniers ready for Schlapp to take what's left over to the troops  

He finds Gaetan and presses a few coins into his hand

  I have deliberately told you little, because then you cannot be captured and forced to reveal it. If we do not return you may of course make your way ty Turris Vigilens and then to the  Trundheim  should you wish  

The observant will notice that Wighard isn't wearing his armour, a sign that he intends throwing some  serious  magic around
BananaPhone
   Sophie 

The gentle-faced teenager gave her small curtsey to Whigards gratitude, when she emerged to clean up the area in the wake of the party having enjoyed the morning fare.

 "Oui, monsieur,"  she bowed, before adding  "I will prepare several large pots of biscuit de guerre. Ma Demoiselle von Carstein secured a barrel of salted pork; I will apply half of it, 20 livres, that should make it extra particular for them, monsieur!"  Sophie beamed happily, offering another little curtsey as she departed the room. Whighard might notice that Sophie's method of doing so was to always move while facing him, essentially curtsey-walking backwards, never turning her back to him, instead maintaining deference and humility until she was out of sight around the kitchen door.
wilphe
  Thank you Sophie

One more thing, how did you come to be in her Ladyship's service?  
BananaPhone
   Sophie 


Sophie paused before slipping out of sight, her eyes not quite making eye contact with Wighard as she returned to standing in a deferential manner. He might know that this was not a sign of fear or terror, but rather a natural result of the class divide between the peasantry of Bretonnia and their social superiors. The proposition that she, to Wighard's mind, being some peasant girl from the country, would stand with shoulders square and meet his gaze, was unthinkable. She was a salt-of-the-earth Bretonnian girl, that much was clear, and she came complete with a cover that mostly obfuscated her chestnut hair and reverential disposition.

 "Oui, monseigneur,"  Sophie replied softly, her words touched by the lilting cadence of Mousillon. Her smile was modest, and her voice carried a touch of hesitance, as though she chose her words carefully.  "I... am the eldest of eleven, monseigneur. Life in Mousillon, it is not easy, especially when the harvests are poor." 

It was Mousillon; when were harvests ever  not  poor?

 "When Ma Demoiselle von Carstein—ah, forgive me—Ma Demoiselle Lacroix came to our village, I had never seen the like of a lady such as her! So tall, monseigneur, and fair of skin as the snow upon the mountaintops. She rode her black steed like a knight, a sword upon her hip and a shield at her side! Her hair flowed like a banner of midnight in the wind, and yet none dared to approach her." 

Sophie seemed somewhat enchanted at first, but towards the end, her voice lowered and her eyes darted to and fro, as if in the habit of making sure no one was dropping any eaves.

 "But, of course, we all knew  why , monseigneur." 

The implication was clear, but unspoken. She paused, her hands folding tightly together, as though she were mustering courage.

 "And yet, I—I could not help myself. I approached her." 

Her tone became wistful, almost dreamy, as though recalling a moment of great bravery or folly.

 "She watched me come near, monseigneur, her eyes two distant flecks of emerald. There was a weight upon me, as though the air itself bade me turn back. But I did not. I—I was...foolish, no doubt." 

Sophie allowed herself a small, self-deprecating chuckle, her blush deepening. She cast her eyes briefly upward, her voice softening even further.

 " ‘Yes, child?’   she said to me, her voice so calm, so measured. , ‘Your steed, ma dame—it is a fine beast. Might I... might I pat him?’" 

Sophie rolled her eyes and hid her blushing face in her palms, shaking her head. Credit were credit was due, however, her impersonation of Regine was amusingly close. If her labours as a serving girl came to a close, perhaps she had an alternate career as an impressionist?

 "She laughed, monseigneur! A sound as clear as water over the stones.  ‘You approach me for this?’  she asked. The men of the village, strong and weathered by the fields, kept their distance, but I—I had come to her for the chance to stroke her horse!” 

Sophie’s blush deepened further, but a smile tugged at her lips.

 "And do you know, monseigneur? She bid me do so!  ‘Please, girl,’  she said.  ‘And there is a silver coin in it for you, if you see to it that his trough is filled with the best your village has to offer.’ " 

Sophie blinked, as if recalling her surprise. Then she shrugged, her expression growing more solemn.

 "Ma Demoiselle Lacroix was kind to me, monseigneur. She gave my father half my wages for the year, all in advance, so that he might feed my family. The rest, she allows me to keep, with no charge for my room or board. She has promised not to hinder my chances of marriage, even saying she will help me find a good husband when the time comes." 

She curtsied deeply, her voice full of quiet gratitude.

 "I am blessed, monseigneur. Blessed to serve such a mistress. Should she ask you, please tell her I spoke well of her and that I am grateful for her kindness." 

Whether Regine's apparent kindness stemmed from genuine benevolence or the practicality of being gentle with those who knew where you slept during the day was up to Wighards judgment. What was clear was that Sophie seemed to  believe  that she had gained a fantastic deal—and who could blame her? The average life of a Mousillon peasant was one of drudgery and sorrow while constantly circled by famine, yet this girl had taken a risk and landed herself a role beneath, if not a compassionate mistress, then at least one who was not cruel and domineering. It would have been all too easy for the newest von Carstein vampire to pluck up some desperate Bretonnian peasant girl and condemn her to harsh and exploitative servitude. Instead, Sophie stood before the well-travelled scholar, happily recanting gratitude at her current station in life, however different the wizard might see the situation.

Was the vampire's dead heart holding a degree of sympathy for a poor peasant girl, such as Regine herself had been? Or was she playing the practical game of sensible self-preservation, where she merely treated those who knew where she slept during the day, with the facsimile of benevolence and generosity to cement their loyalty?

That was for Wighard to decide.

It went to show how far a little bit of kindness would go in a place like Mousillon, as Gaetan's current loyalty stood as testimony.
wilphe
  You like horses then Sophie?

We did not bring ours into the city, they are still in Turris Vigiens

Sir Betelis' steed Adélard is a noble animal, I have saved his life and he mine, but I believe he is due to retire soon.  

Wighard doesn't ponder too much on Regine's motivations, he knows that good, like evil, is a habit and that you are what you pretend to be

  And how do you feel about wolves? I think Schlapp kept you safe last night  
BananaPhone
   Sophie 
 "Oh - they are beautiful animals, monseigneur!"  the girls face lit up at the mention of horses,  "my father always had one to help him plow the fields; strong and handsome beasts. Now I tend to Ma Demoiselle Lacroix mount; he is a warhose, I believe. Darkly handsome! Hehe!"  she giggled into her palm,  "but sweet if you approach him well. Your Adélard sounds deserving of twilight years spent in comfort, monseigneur!" 
 "Oui...the wolf,"  Sophie replied with visible skepticism and apprehension. And who could blame her? The life of a Bretonnian peasant residing within the rural regions was one of constant fear and concern about the dark things that lurked in the forests, particularly those of Mousillon. But few creatures were as universally dreaded by the common folk as the packs of  cunning, vicious wolves  that prowled the groves and fields, before whom even a man on his own could fall prey, let alone a small, wandering child.

 "...I trust he is...domesticated, monseigneur?" 
wilphe
Wighard sratches Schlapp's head

  We have raised Schlapp from a pup and he has already saved Gaetan from the Grismerie. He is bound to me and I him. His sister Cathwulf is the companion of my apprentice Siobhan

Despite their fearsome appearance they are not for battle, a stout warrior in iron would probably best them. But they are useful and noble companions  
  If your mistress has not yet given you instructions in the event of things not going entirely to plan, you are welcome to join those we left in Turris Vigilens  
farothel
Bruno kept to his breakfast, letting the others do the talking.  Today would be a day of testing and a day of truth.  Would he have what it took to stand up against vampires and nurgle demons.  The stuff they had done so far was just the smaller minions.  Now they would go to the big guys.  He was trained, had done fighting before, but he was aware that there were many others who were better than him in this regard.  But he was the one with the special blade, especially with Bertelis out of the first fight.  Well, he would give it his best and when all this was done, he was going to head back home and see how his birth family was doing.
MrAbdiel
 
 
 Originally Posted by Regine 
  "What now? Because speaking of sustenance, I am getting a touch peckish, and dawn will soon be upon us..."  
 

 "Then do what you must do; for we must soon be about our preparation for the next night's vicious work. These enemies first. But soon, after that, we may consider the more... impossible kind." 

The dark skinned vampire hunter registers the shift in their relation - from tension to wary respect - and confirms it with a bow, before backing up, pivoting, and dropping off the roof into an alley below. He to his devices, she to hers.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Thanks for your scene indulges, guys. I will remember this when I come to lavish you all with experience later on.

And thanks for keeping some side-RP going, especially Wilphe and Banana, back at the base. Mucho appreciado.

Let me roll a cheeky D100 here for Bertelis' mood the next day. I'll edit it in, as relevent.   Mood  - (1d100)[ 78 ] .

Choleric - the best result one could expect for a combat situation. He's cranky and itching to fight.
 

 * * * * * 
The day is what Bertelis calls a 'drawstring day', in which all previous plans are being drawn together for the final counting. The work Bruno, Wighard, and Jasmine have done making friends with the locals has rounded up a not-inconsiderable militia unit of destitutes, prostitutes, gang exiles and the medically honor-bound. They are armed with spears after a decent fashion; most of them quarter staves rigged with daggers and knives to their end. But the rigging goes well, and the knives are sharp - Gimgroth has been forced to break out his dusty but not forgotten smithing skills to ready the armaments, and in doing so adds some redemption to the smithing hammer fallen into his possession. Some of those spears are tipped with silver, but not many - there is only so much time to spare on the project, and the silvered spears are given to those most capable of using them.

Bruno, Regine, and Wighard wait on a rooftop near the ancient graveyard, as close as they dare, without rising interfering with the  plan and drawing attention. Below, out of the sight line of the company's three selected strikers, Bertelis and a subgroup of silver spearwielding gangers prepare to make a nuisance of themselves. Their intention is to flash the false Company Blade, and draw an attack from the many guardians of graveyard immediately after sunset; to briefly joust with whatever monstrosities come to fight them, then fall back a few streets to where the rest of the Mousillon Highly Irregulars lurk, and make a stand. When they are engaged, Small Gaetán will flash a mirror from his own rooftop perch where he can see the strike team and the battle (though remains safe from direct contact with the graveyard), which is the signal to scramble down and approach.

Bruno's research has narrowed the right crypt down to two options. Hopefully, getting close enough will show obvious signs of traffic in and our from one, which will suggest the correct one.

The sun sets. The daemon moon Morrslieb glows in the sky, three quarters full; voyeuristically drawn to the comic conflict. Below, you hear the muted sound of Bertelis raising a war cry, and the mild clang of battle begins.

Within the next twenty minutes or so, you will be charging into the laid of the most dangerous foe you have fought to date. If the gods are kind, you will be victorious, and then go to face another. But before this can begin, you must wait for the signal.

So you wait. And wait.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Let's get ahead of things and get initiative rolls, in addition to any 'last words' you might have to each other on the roof while you wait for the signal!
 
 
wilphe
Wighard has checked his equipment, and sits ready.

Kwolf is airborne and Schlapp sits near to Gaetán, the valet had wanted to participate so badly that they were content to give him this task. Wighard has familiar contingencies however.

He himself is silent in prayer

  Great Sigmar, I do not often bother you and I know that many of my allies are not what you are used to

But our course is just and valour can burn even in the humblest and most unusual of hearts.

You know how busy I must be this night, if I forget you please do not forget me  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 Earlier... 
 
 Spoiler 
The vampire had not liked how their earlier meeting had ended, and so Regine thought of it more as entering an intermission: the debate wasn't over. Not yet anyway. Not while she had a will. And where the was a will, there was a way.

The former thiefs current way was to once again be where she knew Bertelis would be alone. She knew his habits as a knightly man of holy aspirations would compel him to pray to the Lady before the engagement, and to do so privately, for none other among their entourage harbored similar sentiments. And so, when the knight rounded the corners and ascended the stairs to the small little shrine onto which he could visit his hopes and prayers so that it could serve as a conduit to the lady, even from dark places in the world like Mousilon, Bertelis encountered the vampiress waiting for him.

Under other circumstances, such a run-in may have given him a fright. It still may, but for alternate reasons. She stood amid the shadows of the building, clinging to the protective barriers of the walls and staying away from the windows, even as the amber sun sagged towards the horizon to signal the end of another day, and the beginning of their venture. This dash of dark orange color even managed to catch the fringes of her dark attire, which in itself was strikingly similar to when they had been reunited. As was typical, Regine was dressed for the occasion, with black being the primary color of choice, from her clothing, leather armor across her torso and arms, to even the midnight ponytail her hair had been drawn into and styled, accentuating her angular, pale features.
 
"I am sorry to interrupt,"  the vampire spoke towards Bertelis, keeping in the shadow of the bulky window frames as the setting sun drew closer to the boundaries of the world behind them.

 "But...I did not like how our last meeting ended. Given the circumstances, I would rather such not be the  final  parting memory..." 

Her image was lethal and predatory, a sleek puma barely visible through the bushes of its native environment. Yet there was something in her rich voice and posture that spoke of her hopeful sincerity, a reflection in her eyes that considered him.
 




Regine perched upon the rooftop like a dark osprey awaiting the first sight of prey. One of the finest thieves in L'Anguille during her living years, this set up was where the vampire not only excelled, but where she felt  alive . The planning, the strategizing, the effort and execution. Few things excited the woman more than a good plan that was nicely carried out.

With her keen eyes, Regine was always on the look-out for a reflective hint from Small Gaeteans mirror, while also allowing her excellent hearing to roam the surrounding area and alert her of any movement coming from the crypts - doubtless the phalanx of minions the Red Knight would send forth to fall into the trap they had lain. With any luck and some dogged determination, the plan could work.

But all wars had casualties, and even now, focused on the job as she was, Regine couldn't help but let her eyes wander back to that group of ramshackle militia with  him , only for him and his lot to disappear deeper into defensible city blocks once they had been set upon by the undead. That they had not frozen up in terror before fleeing in a blind panic, as so many unprepared to witness the dead for the first time, were want to do, was a good sign. But today would need a few more than just good signs.

 "Please, please don't do anything stupid..."  Regine whispered under her breath, eyes watching Bertelis' pack of Unlikely Militia withdraw deeper into the streets, and luring away a shambling circus of moaning, groaning, gnashing undead.

The vampire knew she should take comfort in knowing that Gaston was with the distraction crew, however far that would go. Intimidatingly rough but hardened and experienced from two decades of soldiering to shape him, he would be a highly valuable sword-arm and source of calm for the peasantry around him.

If things really went pear-shaped, he could drag Beterlis away, and rescue the damn fool from his own stupidity.

Hopefully.
farothel
Bruno awaits their attack.  This will be it and he's a bit nervous.  The plan they have is the best they could come up with in the group, considering the amount of resources they had.  Back home they would probably have been able to get some extra witch hunters and/or trained militia or even regular troops.  But now they would have to work with some irregulars that he and Bertelis had trained as much as possible in the short time they had.  That's why he had suggested that Bertelis, who could join in this attack, would stay with that group as they were used to following his commands, he could keep them grouped as one unit and he could also help bolster their defense, especially for the withdrawal, always one of the more difficult military maneuvers.

 
 Spoiler: OOC initiative 

initiative:  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 
 
wilphe
Wighard doesn't fidget as he waits for the signal, he's beyond that and almost meditative

The three on the roof aren't the only ones waiting.

Trundheim rides at anchor in Bourdelaux Roads, gently rocking. Siobhan excuses herself from dinner in the wardroom and retires to the cabin she once shared with Wighard and now shares with Cathwulf

 So you need anything?  asks Captain Petrus

 No  she replies softly,  Just please do not disturb us, I do not know if I can help from this distance, but I want to be able to try.
Pray perhaps
I am sure the Gods are watching, but it doesn't hurt to remind them we care 

She sits quietly in her bunk with Cathwulf at her feet and opens the connection

 Wighard?

 Glad you could join us 
 Man its crowded in here  

Schlapp and Cathwulf give low growls of recognition
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Regine, Earlier: 
The "Grail Shrine" here, on this side of the river, is something of a farce. Regine can tell that on account of the fact that the ground doesn't repel her. Watching the handful of ladies who keep the shrine, it's clear they aren't damsels and the men who guard it aren't grail pilgrims or knights. It's a criminal enterprise, guarding the only pure(ish) well in the city; and charging the citizens to draw its "blessed" waters. It's a great blasphemy - but so is everything else in the city. And if one gang did not hold the well and exploit it, another certainly would; another black in the seemingly impenetrable wall of corruption that made up the city. Nonetheless, it was the closest thing to a legitimate grail shrine on hand. When Bertelis had come, the fake servants had stepped aside. Perhaps they'd heard of the war the Company had been waging against the daemonic and the damned, against whom lawful men and criminals might be considered allies of a sort. Perhaps they just didn't want to pick the fight that day. They give Regine the same berth, when she comes; and so when she intercepts him, they are undisturbed.


  "I am sorry to interrupt, but... I did not like how our last meeting ended. Given the circumstances, I would rather such not be the final parting memory..."  

He looks at her, his eyes narrowed at the glare of the sinking sun beyond. He looks tired. Angry. Much older than he is, by weight of feeling. He is not the clear eyed knight he was once; but atleast today, the lots the gods have cast for his temperament have left him raw and focused instead of flippant and dismissive. After a moment, he replies.

 "Well. You needn't worry. We aren't going to die, tonight. We're going to rip these  weeds  out of the city, then head east to finish our work in Bordeleaux. And after that we can... We can talk." 

Fury, directionless and volatile, simmers behind his eyes. He's running into that same wall, that same inability to think directly about her vampiric condition and how he is obliged to respond to that.

But what he's  not  doing, even in this state of fracture-brained agitation and unactivated violence, is attacking her. Whatever she is to him, he has refused an easy opportunity to consider her a  weed . For a hopeful heart, that may be something to cling to.
 

 
 Spoiler: Wighard OOC! 
I appreciate that side-scene you're setting up with Siobhan. It did catch me off guard! I had planned for the party to discover this later, but I can modify it to discover it now.

Some of the company's supporting staff has left the city in the night. Maxime, Odmar, Berthold, Beatrice, and Bully, along with 3 of Jasmine's orphans (Filch, Lunk, and Brambleberry Finn) have stolen away in the night. Maxime left a letter for Siobhan explaining that they had to undertake a 'certain quest', that they could not tell Siobhan because she would try to stop them and alert Wighard right away with her mystical connection. As for why Siobhan didn't alert him that morning when she woke up...

Let's say the winds were volatile that morning and were only clear now!
 


The signal comes.  Gaetán 's mirror winks at you, and the time to move comes. The hair on the back of your neck prickles as a frosty, spectral wind blows south across your path - a ghostly wind, carrying a moaning trio of shapes darting past you in the air to join the distant distracted combat. No time for that - you throw your ropes down the front of the building, shimmy down, and break for the graveyard.

To the south, you see the back of the sloppy train of the dead making their way to the distraction combat. The wraiths move too fast to chase - they suggest a terrible extra supernatural burden for the combatants, but you cannot join them in time to help. All you can do is trust, mantling the decrepit wall of what was once a garden of Morr, and moving through a field of defiled and upset headstones on your way to the bigger crypts. In the distance, a flute begins to play a whaling shanty...

 
 Spoiler: What you don't see... 
Gimgroth lays about with his runed axe at the front of the Highly Irregulars, drawing more attention to himself and dishing out outsized punishment. The zombies and skeletons are no threat to him - and Bruno's advice taken during the drills (to lash a crosswise bolt near the spearpoint, like a boarspear's lugs) pays dividends as they keep the horde variously back, and down.

Toward the middle of the mob moves a figure you've never seen before - but he's seen you.


 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 meanwhile, inside the powderhouse: a mysterious man in chain and plate will mutter to himself, as two people walk around, pouring out powder and rigging things up  "the statues will only hold them so long"  dreadlocks says, tapping her fingers against her arm. the other man will shrug  "we'll be long gone by then"  he says, fiddling with a small tinderbox.  "rig the candles like so, so when the rope burns, they fall into the powder"  the mysterious man barks, standing and tracing an arcane ward in tobacco ash on the wall.  "after your done, follow me" 

the mysterious man
 

dreadlocks
 

guard boy
  
 

Big, brawny, full bearded, and clad in bronzed plat armour and chain mail with a matching bronze crown, Huric d'Loseau feels better than he has in his entire life. Ultimately, Mask's plot to have the Company executed for blowing up the powder house in Bordeleaux had failed. The wandering dwarf had fouled calculations, and they had departed with the sword in their possession. Mask had taken the punishment for the failure from the Red Knight - he was their subordinate, now - but he and his sister, Fulgia, had been given a new chance. And with this chance, they had been given new life. The vampire curse had made him stronger, faster, and deadlier than ever. When the Company turned up in Mousillon, they bided their time waiting for the right chance to attack and seize the Blade. And when the freebooters with their motley crew had attacked the Red Knight's stronghold and been forced to retreat, there would be no better opportunity. He pushed his way through the walking corpses, drew a massive halberd off his back, and howled out his challenge to the Bretonnian knight with the flashing magic blade cutting down zombies in the street.

 "You! Champion! Fight me, or-" 

Bertelis turned at the challenge just in time to hear the report of the  Nutcracker  and to watch the silver bullet punch a small hole in Huric's forehead. It pulled a gory stream of churned grey matter and blood out a larger hole in the back, and the killer-turned-vampire-spawn slouched to the ground.

Poking out of the top of chimney nearby, Jasmine went about reloading the relic weapon. As it turned out, it  was  perfectly suited to shooting vampires.

Bertelis didn't have time to decide if he should be embittered that the shot had deprived him of a direct challenge. Gaetán would have heard the shot, and would be signalling the others. But the worst case had manifested - ethereal attackers, robed wraiths with spectral scythes, roared towards the combat from down the street. Their shuddering presence along might scatter the militia, and only Gimgroth had a weapon genuinely magical enough to oppose them.

The knight plunged the false  Company Blade  into the chest of a zombie, and kicked it aside with the weapon wobbling upright from the ground. Then he fished around in his long belt pouch for something he had avoided using for a long time - a human tibia, hollowed and smoothed, yellowed and drilled with fingerholes. The  Flute of Soul Trapping  had been an obscene treasure to claim, when they did claim it. All of a sudden, he didn't feel so bad about holding on to it.
 

 "There! Look, there! They're coming!" 

The call comes from a wild eyed woman, long hair lank in filthy dreadlocks and face streaked with ash and profane markings. She appears to be performing her duty as sentry infront of the crypts, and you to the attention of (and to your attention likewise) a second figure - this one in black lackered plate armor, with a hunched posture, grey robe, and grim metal mask. Both sentries seem alarmed at the sight of the three of you loping through the recently vacated graveyard...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: It's Rollin' time! 
Well, you guys rolled pretty back for initiative. Let's see if you can surprise them.

If all three of you can beat a Silent Move roll of Challenging, you get a surprise round. Otherwise, they spot you coming in, and we'll go right into order.

Fulgia D'Loseau -  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Mask -  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

You are good, and I expected them to do that

Siobhan in any case didn't come with us to Turris Vigilens, she stayed with Trundheim to give her some experience by herself and because that ship without a wizard to run it is a bit too archaic to be useful.

As such they can sneak out without her knowing

++++++++++++++++++++

I was going to suggest line formation with Regine on point as the fastest stealthiest and can see in the dark, Bruno the full-plate terminator in the rear and Wighard in the middle

[roll]1d100/roll] Silent Move 54
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: ROLL 
 (1d100)[ 20 ]  Silent Move 54-10 = 2 degrees
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 
 Spoiler: Earlier with Bert 
Regine felt a little smirk cross her face. Just a tiny one that resided in the corner of her mouth. It was nice to see Bertelis animated like this, confident and directed, his emotional state more workable than the detached and diffusive personality he had been several nights ago.  That  had been hard to work with, having compounded an already stressful situation into a potentially explosive altercation. And it  certainly  did not help that beneath Regine's new, pale exterior roiled a sea of passion, just waiting for that lull in her stoic demeanor to geyser forth, in either love or anger. A gift imparted upon her by her new vampiric state, no doubt.


  "Well. You needn't worry. We aren't going to die, tonight. We're going to rip these weeds out of the city, then head east to finish our work in Bordeleaux. And after that we can... We can talk."
  

The vampire noted that she had apparently not been counted among the 'weeds'. Indeed, she was included as one of the many, as one of the 'we', who would be tending to this mismanaged garden and setting things right.

But what did he mean by 'head east'? And back into Bordeleaux? Regine had always thought that Bertelis, wedded to his ridiculous fantasies of destiny and 'nobility', intended to stay within Mousillon entirely and rehabilitate its bleak lands into a fitting example of a domain beneath the Lady. Did he intend to leave, then? To finish some 'work' back in Bordeleaux?

And only after  that  would he address her? Until then she would follow him about like some lost puppy hoping for a pet from its owner?

 No. No no no. Calm yourself, girl,  Regine spoke internally, realising that that storm within was brewing and needed suppressing.

 "Before that time, I pray it be so."  Regine answered, her rich, smooth voice quiet and deliberate. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, to hold one of his rough, calloused hands within hers, or to hug him. Instead, her green eyes considered him, soft around the edges of her lids.

 "But, I beg thee, do not act rashly nor do aught foolish. 'Tis but a diversion we require, not a martyr to the cause. Moreover, the Red Knight is not the sole foe we must contend with in this town. Keep thy strength, I beseech thee, for the servant of Chaos yet awaits." 
 




The signal came. Gaetens mirror winked the beacon for initiation. Show time.

Regine cast a sharp glance toward Wighard and Bruno, lifting a hand in a silent gesture—a clear signal that the time to strike had come. Her gaze then shifted back to the city streets sprawled below, encircling the shadowed mausoleum. Without hesitation, her body began to twist and contort, her limbs folding unnaturally as if drawn inward by some unseen force. Arms flattened and stretched, morphing into membranous wings, while a fine coat of fur rippled across her form. Shrinking rapidly, she assumed the guise of a bat, the purple membranes of her wings catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight and bulging with the air beneath them. With barely a sound, Regine let herself fall from the rooftop, wings spread wide, gliding silently into the yawning crypt below, vanishing like a shadow swallowed by the dark as she took point.

When Regine landed, she did so at a rapid speed, transforming back into her feminine image and rolling across the ground for a revolution before springing back up to her feet and clinging to the shadows. The coast was clear, for now.

Wanting to retain unity, she immediately turned to face her two human compatriots that were following in her way, making sure to catch their attention and signal her location so they could form up and press on again, with the vampire moving several meters ahead.

The graveyard sprawled within the city's shadowed heart, walled off by crumbling stone and iron gates corroded with age and neglect. Narrow, winding paths snaked between the gravestones, their surfaces weathered and mottled with moss, the inscriptions worn to illegibility by the passage of centuries. The air hung thick with dampness, a mingling of earth and decay that clung to the skin like a shroud.

Dominating the grounds were two grand crypts, their entrances gaping like the mouths of slumbering beasts. Each was adorned with heavy, iron-banded doors set into arches of blackened stone. One bore a broken crest, its fractured pieces scattered at its base, while the other had carvings of skeletal forms etched into its façade, as if warding the living from the secrets within. Dim lanterns hung from iron hooks nearby, their weak flames flickering in the cool night breeze, casting erratic, spectral light upon the crypts and the uneven terrain.

Despite its age and abandonment, the graveyard pulsed with a vigorous desecration, a charged, dark energy forever disturbing the entombed souls and sitting them to unwilling service. It was a place where the living whispered and the shadows seemed to listen.

For the vampire, the sensation was undeniable, a thousand pinpricks of power dancing across her skin, electrifying her nerves and stirring something deep within. To her mortal companions, the air seemed still and unremarkable, but to Regine, it thrummed with a presence that only her kind could sense and savor. It was palpable, intoxicating, a call that no living soul could comprehend. The living might compare it to stepping into a warm, inviting home, the air thick with the tantalizing scent of a feast prepared in their honor. But to Regine, it was far more profound, a primal allure that stirred at the base of her skull, beckoning her to bask in this domain of death. Here, she felt the weight of her sovereignty, the seductive promise of power in the kingdom of the dead, where her kind reigned as emperors over the silent and the slain.

The vampire shook her head once, casting such thoughts from her notice. She had to focus. Already she could hear and see the grizzly and disgusting tail-end of the ramshackle undead staggered off towards the diversion created by their companions - companions she could not fail. Wighard and Bruno were counting on her, and the trust they had placed within her to come this far and walk with them into the Red Knights lair under promises of being their ally were ones they believed. They were trusting her with their lives, and if she truly wanted to prove she was who she had always been, this was it.



 "There! Look, there! They're coming!"

The call comes from a wild eyed woman, long hair lank in filthy dreadlocks and face streaked with ash and profane markings. She appears to be performing her duty as sentry infront of the crypts, and you to the attention of (and to your attention likewise) a second figure - this one in black lackered plate armor, with a hunched posture, grey robe, and grim metal mask. Both sentries seem alarmed at the sight of the three of you loping through the recently vacated graveyard... 


How would she handle this if she were on her own?

Javelin the woman. Two in the chest should finish her. Change back into a bat and return to the shadows, where she could fell the knight with a thousand cuts. Was he a vampire? Was he a White? Something else? She couldn't tell from here, so the only sensible option would be the proceed with the assumption that he could best her. That would keep her sharp and slay any chance of complacency.

But, she didn't have that luxury. Wighard was with her. And though she did not doubt his ability to contribute, she couldn't leave him to be the bait before two foes, even if Bruno was close behind. She  had  to take their attention upon herself, to give the wizard time to work his magic.

But more than that, she knew they had to act  now  - the woman, disgusting though she was, would have eyes upon them at any second!

 "I'll buy you time and keep them distracted!"  Regine uttered quickly to Wighard, both of them in the shadows with Bruno not far behind.

That was all the warning Wighard received before the vampire shot forward like a swift, dark arrow through the night, wasting no time in charging in to engage both sentries; shield and blade already in hand, the gromril star metal of  Midnight  flashing out beneath the pale moonlight.
wilphe
  Surprise Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 5  

Despite his calm Wighard feels a release of tension as the signal comes and he follows Regine to the ground by more conventional means.

She is fast and quiet, but even so Wighard's enhanced senses can just about keep track of her. He was used to how the Kindred of the Night moved from working with the Becassine, but he was at base a warrior whilst Regine had imbibed stealth and guile almost from her mother's milk

He wondered what it must be like to be hunted by such a predator, but put that to one side. Tonight he also was predator not prey and her ran with her as a hunting pair.

That thought, and the adrenaline of the chase, he clamped down on as he felt the warmth begin to come from the rabbit pelt

  Not yet, there may be a time for wild ferocity but this is not it  

A low chuckle echoed in his head


Coming across the target he realised that whilst he had learned the soldiers tongue neither Regine nor Burno had. They might speak the cant of thieves or argot of rangers but that wasn't helpful

As they came upon their quarry his axe chopped deep at the female's arm


 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 45 ]  64
 (2d10)[ 8 ][ 6 ](14)  +4
 
farothel
bruno followed a bit after, as he was quite aware that he wasn't good at sneaking, and wearing full plate didn't help either.  His pistols were loaded though.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Regine, earlier with Bert 
The hesitation between his statement and her reply speaks to some element missing in their communication. How could it not be so? She joined the Company quite late in the journey, and then was lost from it for a time. How could he blame her for not knowing they had come to Bretonnia, first above all things, to attend his family - imperilled as a pox put the surrounding fiefs in revolt and clamour? It would be irrational to expect her to keep account of his miseries, and the unknown fate of his father, his little sister, and two remaining brothers. But the tension between immediately pressing heroic deeds and the ticking clock on his family's doom had split his mind, and he  was  irrational; and a flash of that irrational anger strobed in a vein at his temple.

Only a deep well of feeling for her - affection, guilt, confusion - crushed his irrational anger into containment.

 "...Yes. More foes, still. And Sul Konarr, especially, I have wrath for. The first of four, to fulfil the oath I made. So... Yes. Be careful, in the crypt. And if you encounter Mahieu..." 

His dull, angered gaze dips to the floor at his feet.

 "If he is not... like you. Do not hesitate. Please." 
 


The dreadlocked woman brings her hands up, long fingers curling and scribing blasphemous symbols to defend herself - or at least, she starts. The heroes are too close on her, when she spots them. Wighard's axe slashes down her arm, and she screams a horrified peal that marks the movement of an ego from total confidence to abject fear of life. The scream lasts less than second - Regine's gromril blade shears slick through her neck and she tumbles backward, head messilly toppling into her lap.

The masked man jerks back, the suddenness of the violence on his watchmate startling him. He chokes out a single hissed syllable.

 "You!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
With Wighard's blow landing first, Regine follows up and beheads Fulgia. End of surprise round!

P.S., the sentries were not standing close enough together for mutual engagement with a single change - despite the flavour in Regine's post, she'll have to move or charge to close the gap to Mask!

PC turns again. Bruno has joined the combat also.
 
 
wilphe
  R1 Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 5  
  Yeah, us  

Wighard barely spares the fallen woman a second glance, only enough to confirm that Regine finished what he started before launching himself at the remaining foe

His blow would be solid if it landed but the spawn evades it, hopefully leaving an opening for Bruno and Regine

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 24 ]  Charge 64
 (2d10)[ 10 ][ 3 ](13)  +4

 (1d100)[ 86 ]   Parry 64
 (1d100)[ 66 ]   Dodge 54
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Usirian's displeasure 

 (1d10)[ 8 ]  22 to left arm
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 
 Earlier -  
 
 Spoiler: With Bert 

Regine considered the man before her, their time together only half a year, but a connection shaped by their trials and her girlish hopes of a knight to her rescue spurring an affection she might have been better off without.

The vampire possessed a genuine desire to ease Bertelis' burdens. She wanted to make him happier, his trials a touch easier. But she would be lying if she said that she was purely altruistic in both her outset and intentions. As such, the mention of his brother initially spurred her sympathies, dredging them up from within herself so that she might offer some modicum of comfort to a sibling in mourning. But her rectitude was turned aside when Bertelis spoke those magical words: 'if he is not like you'.

If only six syllables could prompt a fan of warmth to spread out from her heart to all corners of her being, it was those. So much was said with so little.

Unable to resist, Regine nodded simply, understandingly. She stepped within his personal space, her arms drawing up and around his shoulders, her face close to his neck. She would forgive the natural instinct to flinch, if he showed it, as she held him warmly and kissed him once upon the cheek with a whispered promise:  "I will." 
 


It happened so quickly, the flower of violence blooming before Regine as a thousand crimson shards spurted from the stump that had once been the necromancer's neck. Her blade,  Midnight , gleamed with the crimson stain of its trade, the star-metal slicing through flesh and bone as effortlessly as parchment. Where a corrupted woman had stood, her identity, thoughts, and black ambitions, there was now only the clean severance, her ghastly visage tumbling onto the desecrated earth where it belonged.

Regine's undead state spared her from mortal squeamishness, but it did not shield her from the surge of dark emotions that stirred deep within. The iron tang of fresh blood flooded her senses, intoxicating and primal, igniting a hunger that clawed at her self-control. For a moment, she lingered, transfixed by the scarlet fountain, its aroma filling the air and threatening to overwhelm her. The savage violence of the strike, the freely spilling blood...everything about the scene whispered excited seduction to the predator within. This foolish girl had meddled with powers beyond her grasp, and now her life-force would sustain her betters. The thought hovered, unbidden and dark, a vestige of the creature she fought to suppress.

Regine shook herself free of the pull, forcing her focus back to the present. She shoved aside the lifeless body of the dark witch, her movements deliberate and measured, burying her instincts beneath iron resolve. Her feet carried her forward, closing the distance to the second sentry with the swiftness of a shadow.  Midnight , slick with the blood of the wicked, sang for more as the vampire drove her blade forward, striking with lethal precision.
farothel
Bruno is a bit slow to respond, but then again, Vampires are known to be very fast.  He does recover and while he ignites the blade, he moves in close and tries to finish the fight as quickly as possible.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

Charge the spawn:  (1d100)[ 55 ]  vs 81 (56 + 5 BQ Weapon + 10 charge + 10 outnumber) for damage: [roll]1d10+4+1[/roll] (an extra +4 if the guy has &gt;50% toughness) (7 damage, rolled in OOC)
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: OOC Wighard 

I'll do something for that group when you give me the ok. Meanwhile I will probably do the watchparty in Altdorf

Edit:
I don't think Jasmine's trio of scamps came to TV either and stayed on Trundheim, so if they are to arrive its either retcon or desertion
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Altdorf 


The Vigilants have an undisclosed number of discreet rooms of various size around the city, some of them in the Colleges themselves, others in increasingly unlikely locations.

This one is in the lower reaches of the Celestial College, accessed through the laundry room, a place few astromancers will ever bother to set foot in.

It is therefore a discreet place for those wishing to access the College's divinatory assets without wishing to make an overt request

Whilst just after dusk in Mousillon it is just before further north in the Empire, but the warm summer night doesn't really make any difference to the warm and somewhat humid atmosphere adjacent to the laundry.

Maga Onyll and Magus Trakore are settled in comfortable chairs with a few warm drinks and a large pile of sandwiches and cakes, both displaying a outward sense of quiet contentment that neither really feels. But neither wants to disturb the other by pacing up and down like they want to.

That in both cases their tea is liberally fortified with rum is the only overt indication of their tension

The silvery pane of waterlike glass in front of them goes blurry as Trakore tunes the reception, then clears up to reveal an oblique ariel shot of Mousillon. The the decoy battle against the undead can just about be glimpsed, the narrow streets preventing a direct view.

Then the owl's vision picks up a flying bat, focusing in n it as it reverts to the form of a lithe and unalive Regine Carstein, Wighard and Bruno following behind.

 And we are on schedule  mutters the Magus, with a confidence he doesn't really feel
 
MrAbdiel
 The masked figure moves with with animal slickness, jerking his body away as Wighard's axe comes singing through the air where his arm was - but the blow drives him into position for a punishing slash from Regine, and he howls as the  Company Blade  stripes his body with a line of white flame. Reeling back, clearly injured badly, he reaches with one hand to his face to rip away his mask.

If the face beneath was human once, it is that no longer. Pale, dry, dead, gaunt; skin like pallid paper stretched over a toothy skull. Eyes like sickly white pearls, pointed ears less elven and more animal. And within those features, on top of all of it, a wellspring of monstrous hatred and hostility to life that seethes out of him like the dark blood bubbling past fangs over his lips.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
This is a Necrarch vampire, who is  terrifying , triggering a Terror test in all three heroes at the beginning of their turns to act. That's a flat Will Power test, though since you're all veteran adventurers now, the idea that you'd run screaming into the night doesn't fit. That suits beginning WFRP characters; but these characters have matured past that. So here is what failure on a this Terror test does:

1 Insanity Point (and another if you fail again at the start of your next turn, and another, ad bedlam.)
A  Terrified  character must try to put at least 5 yards between them and the source of their terror with their action, and otherwise defend themselves as best as possible. This means using the Disengage action to escape combat, and taking the Parry Stance or Defensive Stance actions. They can take other reasonable defensive measures, like defensive spells or hiding, but they cannot attack - their momentary instinct is entirely on defence, until they get a hold of themselves. None of this 'offense is the best defence' stuff; that's too philosophical for the terrified mind.

If you fail this Terror Test by less than 10%, you can opt to have your character embarass themself in some small way - screaming girlishly in shock, wetting themselves, dropping something important - and pass instead. There is no lasting penalty for this concession, it's just space to RP, and for your character to feel bad about later.
 


He barks a hateful slur in a bleak magical language, and stomps his heel into the ground... and the ground of the graveyard begins to shudder and drum with the sounds of the unquiet dead battering and clawing their way upwards.

 
 Spoiler: Wighard (fluff): 
You're hoping to counterspell, but there's no window for it - the vampiric necromancer isn't casting something, but releasing a magical restraint on profane spells long seeded and established.

But you are tracking the  dhar  with your witchsight, and it's that flow that chills you.

The Red Knight's base of operations is the mausoleum on the left - the one with the broken crest. You know this because, this close, you can see great spirals of putrid  dhar  punching down into the earth like monstrous roots. More than that, you recognise this magical presense. You've seen it before.

When you and the Company chased the Lord of the Foxwoods into a swamp near Westvein, this same mausoleum was waiting for you. You managed to plunder it of certain treasures - the misericord, the bone flute, the bretonnian banner - before its custodian attempted to collapse it upon you. Yet here it is, richer than ever with dark animating magics penetrating deep into the ground. Last time you were within, it was able to shift you around within itself and collapse sections seemingly at its leisure, in addition to having a host of traps and necromantic occupants. Here it must have the same, perhaps worse. This seems to be its native soil, and its power is greater here.

This is a  carcinumus loci , a kind of horrendous phenomenon that happens when a location steeps in dark magic long enough to animate the location itself with agency and malice and magical power - the power to transport itself across the world, it seems, at the bidding of a master who  almost  managed to snare the crushed bodies of the Company, with the sword shards that would become the Company Blade includes.

Stepping inside that thing seems tremendously dangerous - but your more immediate threat, of course, is the vampire in front of you!
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The vampire is badly wounded. Terror tests from Wighard and Regine first, then actions from them; then Mask will act again, and Bruno after that!
 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Terror! 
 (1d100)[ 53 ]  Terror 87 Pass
 
wilphe
  R2 Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard tries not to think too hard about the implications of that Mausoleum being here again, though it does explain why there was such a deep underground complex in a swamp

For the moment he has a Necrach in front of him who needs to die, exactly what he has released can be worried about then

He launches a furious set of blows at the necromancer's torso, perhaps trying to go three better than Regine's decapitation and quarter him

 
 Spoiler: Attack! 

 (1d100)[ 100 ]  54+20 if they are both still there
 (2d10)[ 10 ][ 4 ](14) +4

 (1d100)[ 17 ] +20 if they are both still there
 (2d10)[ 5 ][ 1 ](6) +4

 (1d100)[ 85 ]  Parry 64
 (1d100)[ 52 ]  Dodge 54

19 to the body if at least one of his allies sticks around
Then another 9
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: FP That 100 

I know Abdiel is maybe not as wedded to crit fails as Bramble, however that is asking for trouble
 (1d100)[ 62 ] 
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Usirian's disappointment? 

 (1d100)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10)[ 5 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 The once-masked vampire takes Regine and Bruno to be the greater threats - but no sooner does Wighard manage to slip to one side and swing his silver-plated axe into the monster's back, buckling through the culet and cleaving flesh and bone. It gasps and pitches over, incapacitated for a moment - long enough to receive Wighard's deathblow.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Feel free to describe Wighard's deathblow here, as it feels like a threshold towards Hunter of the Dead.
 
 
wilphe
Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 4/5

Wighard dispatches the Necrach in a brutal and efficient manner that would make Gimgroth proud, but its not a  neat  amputation like Regine's kill or what Wighard still considers his main skill set.

It does however leave him a pile of limbs and a head with only the loose remnants of a torso to suggest that they were ever connected

The pelt in his belt glows warm and tries to remain clam and not show the thrill of the kill

  We are about to get some company, hopefully it is not Knockers again  

He points down

  We should get to solid ground

And yes Bruno I think we did see this building before, I didn't recognise it from the air or until we get close but it is the mausoleum from the swamp, so be wary of it and try to avoid being forced into it that might be what they try to do

I have a few different tricks now however  

He looks around for a solid slab, or a roof they can get on and tries to guess how much company they are going to get

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 50 ]  Perception 101
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

When the masked one withdrew his visage to reveal the rat-like, taut skin and clammy demeanor beneath, hissing from a shriveled, fanged maw with incisors extended, Regine narrowed her eyes in disgust at the creature before her. It was understandable that she had undergone some...mental adjustments, to her fresh station and acceptance for her new race. But she wondered to herself for just a moment how she would have fared if vampirism had blighted her attractive features with such a ghastly countenance? Would she still have returned to the Company of the Burning Slug if her image was as disgusting as that which she now beheld? Doubtful. Rejected from the world and hated for her disgusting presence, it's likely she would have been pushed further into the wings of the most darkly minded of her kind, instead of the uncertain path she now tread.

In either case, her blow to the creature rang true,  Midnight  drinking deep and causing a horrific wound to the vampires arm. Staggered and momentarily seized, the wicked creature was boxed in as Regine maintained his frontal attention, while Wighard and Bruno closed in from the sides, axe and burning blade swinging, stabbing and hacking, until all that lay before them were dismembered limbs of what once was.

  The plate armor is still intact...  Regine thought to herself. Afterall, she hadn't become a Master Thief by letting opportunities fall by the wayside. Maybe she could have it repaired, repainted, refitted to her more feminine, gymnast physique.

The vampire withdrew a rope and started to thread it through the separate plate sections, intending to create an almost necklace that she could keep near her person.

 "What do you mean?"  she asked of Wighard, her own magical senses detecting the throbs of black magic seeping about the graveyard. Yet, without the refined training of Wighards practice - or that of her centuries old Uncle - the fledgling vampire could not make sense of it.

However, there was something  else  that the Necrach had uttered in his final moments, the accusingly sharp stabbing of a single word: You! Did he recognise her? Was she suspected? Was she upon the radar of the Red Knight and his entourage...or had that word been reserved for Wighard and Bruno, whom, doubtlessly, had drawn far more attention at the bridge, a month or so earlier?

Something told her they would find out soon enough.
wilphe
Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 4/5

  He released more undead, they are digging their way out.

That  

he pointed at the Mausoleum

  We encountered several months ago, in the swamps northeast of Altdorf. It was full of traps, we got split up and were nearly entombed within.

We shall find our quarry within, but be wary.

They may try to force us inside, I do not want to cooperate  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

The vampire looked about her with predatory senses alert and scanning, yet it was the prickle of eldrtich power across her skin that seized her attention and warned her of the incoming threat.

However, Wighard spoke of Altdorf possessing an identical tomb to the one before which they stood - but such countenance was merely a coincidence, surely? Though initially denying such translocating possibilities, the vampire recalled when she and the others had been lifted up and seemingly deposited thousands of miles away onto lonely, creggy island that had become the eternal home of one of the companys former companions. So, perhaps Wighards story was not as fanciful as it may seem.

 "Oui, I sense it—a dark and foreboding power stirs within the very earth itself. The Necrarch hath roused some ancient evil!"  Regine returned, abandoning her current pursuit and standing tall to attention, as she drew herself closer to Bruno and Wighard, so that the trio may form a defensive triangle against whatever slavish, rotting beasts would soon be upon them.

 "Tell us, wizard, what course shall we take?" 
wilphe
Wighard Init 10 W14/14 FP 4/5

  They are coming up through the ground. If we are to stand I would like to be on solid stone, or even a roof

Or we can retreat inside the structure itself, but that means we will be trapped  

He steps over to the structure, I believe I am supposed to do this however, he channels Hysh into the structure whilst hoping that he has not taken the Ibis's advice overly literally

  And the blood knight is very strong, but his lair is his greatest weapon and he has not yet needed to reveal it. But your company has already made their masterstroke, in that regard - you need only illuminate it, to bring forth the arrow you shot previously." 

He ends up drawing more than twice as much as he needs (26v11) and the magic causes every nerve on Wighard's body to tingle and he begins to shake slightly with the energy powering through him

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 73 ]  Channelling 87

[rollv[4d10[/rollv]TN11
Illuminate the Edifice
Casting Number: 11
Casting Time: Full action
Ingredient: An unburned wax candle (+2)
Description: You cause the interior spaces of any single building to shine with daylight. With Magic 1 you can affect a hovel-sized building, with Magic 2 a moderate sized multi-roomed house or building, with Magic 3 a large manor house, and with Magic 4 any single contiguous building of any size whatsoever. The light shines in rooms, attics, closets, and any other spaces bounded by a man-made roof and walls on all sides. In addition to illuminating the interior of the building, light shines out through open doors, windows, and even the cracks between boards and shingles. This is a touch spell; you must touch a solid structural element (wall, beam, or the like) of the building to be affected. Duration of one hour per point of your Magic Characteristic.

Wighard will be at -5 to tests for 7 rounds
 
farothel
Bruno had just seen the guy's face, or what was left of it, when he crumpled.  Looking at the mausoleum, he nodded at Wighard.
  "Indeed, but chances are that he won't want to come out, so then we'll have to go in.  We have to move quickly, as we're on a timer as soon as we kill the head honcho."  
He looked at the mausoleum, trying to see if anybody was going to come out.
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

The idea that they would push into the crypt, only to have their primary means of escsape cut off behind them by a horde of flesh-eating zombies, skeletons and assorted uglies of undead, flared up every instinct Regine had as a thief.

 "If we go down there, we'll be blocked in by whatever ghouls and fiends currently claw their way to the surface!"  Regine stated.

 "Barricade the door after we enter - but understand: there will be no escape if we fail." 
MrAbdiel
 The mausoleum lights up with Hysh and glows brightly, washing the graveyard bright with the warmth of false daylight. Shadows from headstones and dilapidated grave markers throw radial shadows like dark petals on this most usual bloom, and a deep clicking and groaning in the earth suggests that tonnes of masonry and timbre are shifting below the surface in objection to their luminescence.

Around the doorway, an arc of dwarven runes (once laid for the protection of the grave, now enslaved to the defense of profanity) flash an angry red objection, and granite slabs snap together from either side behind the door, gnashing like jaws, grinding and banging. The whole structure begins to exude a thick fog, which turns gold and smokes away just as fast in the illumination.

If there is to be entry here, it will have to follow the end of this tantrum. Meanwhile, the garden of Morr yields wicked fruit. Old, decrepit skeletons begin hauling themselves out of the graves with rusted, broken weapons in hand. It does not strike you as obvious that all these people would be buried with swords - and it becomes clear, quickly, that more than one skeletal soldier erupts from the same grave. There may be many more to come - but until the way into the mausoleum opens, there seems naught to do but fight!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
There are 20 skeleton warriors joining the fight at initiative 1. You can assume they are close enough to swift attack right away, if you wish. They appear to be driven with enough necromantic precision to recognise even undead Regine as a threat; so they will push in from all sides and attack all three of you, when their time comes.

Wighard, Regine, and Bruno may strike! These are crumbly mooks, so every attack you make that deals more than double their TB (so 6 total) kills them, and entitles you to a free Deathblow attack on an adjacent target. Deathblows do not chain additional Deathblows.
 
 
wilphe
R3 Wighard Init 10 W9/14 FP 4/5 -5% for 6 more turns

  If they want us inside they have an odd way of showing it  

He turns his attention to the newcomers

  Weak they maybe, but don't let yourself get mot bobbed and dragged down  

He shelters behind Bruno - and Regine if she is holding the line, and sends a fountain of blood at the enemies causing at least half a dozen to shatter as burning blood and bone fragments shoot everywhere

The wizard himself is not unharmed, apart from the self-inflicted flow of blood his left hand is twisted into what seems to be a near anatomically impossible claw, which if Bruno has the presence of mind he will recognise as the same way it ended up in Anguille
 
 Spoiler: OOC 

[rollv]4d10/rollv]
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

Regine quickly formed a defensive triangle with Wighard and Bruno, placing herself at its tip with Bruno beside her to guard the magic-user behind them. When the lumbering, dirt-encrusted skeletons shambled up to them, soundless moans creaking from their broken, exposed jaws and the dim, red pinpoints of animating magic in their empty sockets, Regine kept her shield before her and stabbed with  Midnight  overhead, her main focus being to keep the horde at bay and buy Wighard time.

 "Whatever you're going to do, wizard, now's the time!" 
farothel
Shield and sword at the ready, Bruno starts chopping skeletons as soon as they come up for air.  He knows there is a short moment between them coming out of the ground and being ready to attack and he makes the most of it.  He manages to scatter three of the skeletons before they have a chance to act out.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

full attack:
attack 1:  (1d100)[ 56 ]  vs 61 (56 + 5 BQ weapon) for damage:  (1d10+5)[ 8 ]  (1 of this damage is fire)
deadblow 1 (if applicable):  (1d100)[ 77 ]  vs 61 (56 + 5 BQ weapon) for damage:  (1d10+5)[ 12 ]  (1 of this damage is fire)

attack 2:  (1d100)[ 14 ]  vs 61 (56 + 5 BQ weapon) for damage:  (1d10+5)[ 8 ]  (1 of this damage is fire)
deadblow 2 (if applicable):  (1d100)[ 29 ]  vs 61 (56 + 5 BQ weapon) for damage:  (1d10+5)[ 8 ]  (1 of this damage is fire)
 
MrAbdiel
 A furious barrage of weaponized blood blasts more than a dozen of the decrepit skeletons to fragments, and the blades of the company put another four down. Only two of the first wave survive long enough to find their footing and attack!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Skeleton Warriors! 
The two unshattered skelebos strike at Regine and Bruno.

  vs25  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  at Regine,
  vs25  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  at Bruno.
 


Disturbingly, the splintered skeletal parts sink into the soil as if it were hot tar, leaving no trace of their emergence... but a shudder in the cursed ground like digestion... or gestation.

Then comes the next surprise of the evening - a thunderclap as the air above the glowing mausoleum is displaced violently, and a new structure arrives on the scene. It's the central tower of a keep you have all seen before, ripped from the structure by supernatural power and delivered to Mousillon. 'The Black Crypt', that living dungeon which the Company raided after fighting through a longboat of Skaeling pirates, has ripped itself free of the keep and the island where you found it like a hermit crab discarding a shell - and for a moment, hovering in the moment of arrival over the top of the haunted mausoleum, you can see a forest of monstrous tendrils like veins curling and dangling beneath its foundations. Then it falls the two dozen or so feet, smashing the mausoleum entrance into the ground and knocking the party off their feet with the booming impact. The tower groans and slouches, but does not topple; and its flanks become alive with a war of coiling extremities. Two cursed 'places', two  carcinimus loci ; the mausoleum's appendages reaching up, the Crypt's reaching town, embracing and strangling each other. And as the illumination enchantment bleeds into the tower and creeps up its stones all the way to the parapets, the slim silhuoette of the tower's guardian, Meloth Greenfeather, is made visible. Two arrows zip down from above, executing the two remaining skeletons before they can stand.

Curling tendrils of the Crypt's pseudo-flesh reach around to the mess of crushed stone at its base, where the flattened mausoleum mingles with its pulverized foundation, and drive into the rubble to rake it apart. They tear it open like a wound, and the stairs that descend into the lair of the Red Knight are revealed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're clear to descend - the way is illuminated by Wighard's spell, so I don't think anyone strictly needs a torch!

I'll take another initiative roll from everyone, and a perception check for hearing, as you descend.
 
 
wilphe
Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 4/5

Wighard is flung to the ground, grave dirt, dust, earth and debris flying around

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. The keep not exactly quite staking the Mausoleum and pinning it to the ground, but as a metaphor it will do nicely

He waves to Meloth with his stricken hand and with the other pulls out a Healing Draught - unable, with one hand gnarled and his nerves tingling to bind the wound - he instead downs it one and lets the alcohol and other drugs work through his system, deadening pain and jolting him alert.

  Well I don't think we are going to be considered for any contracts to rebuild Middenheim anytime soon, but you can't fault our promptness  

He looks at Regine

  When we encountered this before it did the "stairs are now a ramp thing" to dump us down and split us up. I did debrief everyone after the event but as it collapsed I didn't really expect to ever see it again, so now I have to remember, even though it might have changed inside, it might not  
  Someone else have a light? No? I can magic a backup i necessary

You would like to take point milady? You have better chance of sensing a trap and of course you are less beholden to gravity than the rest of us  
 
 Spoiler: OOC 


First time we encountered this thing:
 https://forums.giantitp.com/showsing...postcount=1283 
 (1d10)[ 7 ]  Init (His AB is unchanged, but I will apply that -5 to knock it down, so that's 11 not 12)
 (1d100)[ 45 ]  Perception 96
 (1d100)[ 14 ]  Int 66 to recall details and brief Regine

Move as before with 2-5m or so spacing:
Regine
Wighard
Sir Bruno Clanks-A-Lot
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

The vampire hissed and leapt away as shards of debris smashed about her and rained upon their positions from the destruction wrought by the floating castle, and its eldritch tentacles that shoved themselves as anchors into the crypt of the Red Keep. landing upon a shoulder and rolling across the graveyard floor before rolling to come up into a crouching position, Regine glared with hateful eyes at the spectacle before her, until the visage of Meloth revealed himself as a saviour - his levitating castle held aloft by magics that were here, today, an ally to arrest any effort by the Red Knights crypt to exfiltrate its profane master to safety.

Glaring, eyes narrowing, but her expression softening, Regine looked up at the elf whom she had only just started to get to know before he had sacrificed himself for the group...and immediately, she felt a thread of connection with the elf. The comparison between them was obvious, though not perfectly overlaid, as both now existed in new forms while fulfilling previous loyalties. Standing up, still peering up at the elf, draped in his other-worldly power, Regine offered a nod and a short, respectful little salute of gratitude and, now, recognition at what they had both become, before turning her attention back to the moment.


 You would like to take point milady? You have better chance of sensing a trap and of course you are less beholden to gravity than the rest of us 

Shield and  Midnight  in hand, Regine peered down at the craggy, forced open entranceway to the crypt, as the shadows cast by the wizards illuminating magics danced upon the scenery. For the vampire, she lost herself in momentary fascination at the reconciliation, her hand almost reaching out as if she could touch the source of light that did not burn her skin or cast her away, but instead hugged her angular, predatorially-beautiful face, midnight pale as she was, and project her silhouette upon their surroundings, allowing her to join the others, in some morbid way.

Though Regine had only been exiled from the suns gaze for a few months, standing and staring at the purity of its brilliance made her feel as if it had been years, as a forlorn recognition crossed her features for only a moment at what she could no longer greet every morning.

The vampire nodded,  "Yes, fall in behind me and keep your distance." 
wilphe
  Don't worry Bruno, as long as its "kill them before they know we are there" time you're at the back.

When it comes time for a standup fight, well, you are the one with armour. Besides, need to keep you fresh to fight the Nurgalistas   
farothel
 "No problem, I can guard the back,"  Bruno said,  "and come forward when needed.  You're probably more silent then I am in this armour anyway." 
He would follow the others into the mausoleum, ready for more combat, as he was sure it would happen at one time.

 
 Spoiler: ooc rolls 

initiative:  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 

perception:  (1d100)[ 5 ]  vs 69
 
wilphe
 
 Spoiler: Altdorf 

  Impressive getting access to live surveillance like this   remarks Trakore

 Gelt arranged it 

There's a knock at the door, the Maga checks the spyhole and opens up to two figures, one in orange robes and one in grey

 Magisters Nostitz and Wendland, what an unexpected surprise. We were expecting the Supreme Patriarch to join us, so it might get a little crowded 

Abraham Nostitz makes his way in, his grey colleague following silently behind

  His Excellency, ah, asked us to come in his stead. He is - ah - a little busy with other matters.

He has tasked us with reporting back to him our observations that he may - ah fully brief his Majesty in the event of success
  

he smiled thinly

  In the unlikely event of failure - ah - you can discharge that responsibility personally.

I understand his Imperial Majesty has taken a - ah - very personal interest in this affair   

Ewald Wendland meanwhile is making himself comfortable,   Not every day his capital gets put to sleep after all.
Thank you for your hospitality. Have we missed anything? We had forgotten that dusk would come earlier further south  
 No, they seem to be just getting started, their main forces are drawing the undead out so the strike team can go in 

The four watch Regine, Wighard and Bruno head towards the crypt

  They have a new vampire partner? What happened to the Becassine?  
 He is with the diversion team. It seems this is the Thief they acquired in Anguille and was thought to die in Turris Vigilens 
  This one is - ah - certainly easier on the eyes  

Both Ewald and Abraham are somewhat taken aback by Wighard's efficient dispatch of the Necromancer
 
 Well, that was a -  thing. We know the Light College have the spells to be good gishes, but most of them don't have the martial skill to back it up.  

The unexpected arrival of the tower meanwhile catches all 4 of them with shock and suprise and the display of fire and blood prompts Nostitz to try and regain some ascendancy

  And - ah - how do the Vigilents feel about blood magic - Hum?  
  As long as its your own, no problem. You start using other people's we have issues  
  Ah - most interesting  

The owl they are watching through descends through the dust cloud and lands looking at the entrance to the glowing crypt

  Worth the price of admission so far. The Celestials were able to bypass the block on scrying Rauschenberg?  
 No, it needs manual control, technically we are watching the area he is in, not he himself. If we lose sight of him, they might have difficulty reacquiring  

There's a flutter of wings nearby, the owl turns it head to reveal that Kwolf has alighted next to it

  Hello Altdorf. Airspace is congested today, I count at least five other familiars out here. One from the Ice Witches and two from the the Grailers plus a few more I don't feel the urge to share with you right now  
 
MrAbdiel
 Down the companions plunge into the uncomfortably literal belly of the beast; the sounds of the haunting flute and the battle elsewhere in Mousillon fading as you descend. At least the way is illuminated - Wighard's spell lighting the structure seems to have comformed to every inch of this subterranean lair as well, bathing the unwholesome stonework, bulging with distortions and warring muscular fibres, in golden-white radiance. The stairs that spiral down do indeed try to trap you, flattening into a steep ramp - but only some parts of the construction manage. One in three stairs manages to flatten to the angle; but another third are cracked and not able to fully confirm to the plan, and another third are buttressed by the invading presense of the Black Crypt so instead of flattening they shiver and jostle with outrage. This makes the climb tricky, but not overly hazardous. You effortly bypass several side chutes, and head toward the deepest depth.

The room at the base where the spiral disgorges you is a wide hall tilted with grey stone pavers, some of which feature stylized carvings of Imperial knights striking menacing poses. At the far side of the hall are a set of double doors, heavy oak, perhaps barred from the other side. Either side of the doors is a stonework circle pressing out of the wall, with a circular face and a noble crest at each of the cardinal positions, for a total of eight. From this distance, it's hard to make them out - except the one to the  left  of the door in the  southern  face is the same as the cracked icon outside - one that Bruno identified last time you confronted this place as a client family of the Von Carsteins of Sylvania.

Further inspection of this wall and its iconography may have to wait, because crossing the middle of the room is not as easy as it should be.  Splitting the room end to end is a great chasm where the pavers have buckled inward, leaving jagged edges of the north and south ends of the room like savage jawlines and, at the bottom of the pit, a hissing, grinding mess of stone protrusions and meaty, cursed musculature - something like a digestive vault, for this living dungeon. You can only imagine how easy it would be in darkness for someone to wander in here and be swallowed up. But fully illuminated, under attack, the pit yawns and gnashes. It cannot wait for you to step close and part to permit you. It does however present a 20ft wide gap that you must find some way to cross safely.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Clearing the gap at running jump is a Challenging agility check. Failure is not instant death - but it is an invitation for complications!
 

 
wilphe
  Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard stumbles once as the steps try their tricks, he still has a bit of nerve tingling and a hand out of commission. But he stays upright and cautiously makes his way down ignoring the side chutes as much as possible.

  You recognise any more of these families?   he looks at the noble and the vampire for guidance

  Standard issue toothy maw, in Trundheim we dumped fire in, but I didn't bring any this time

I have some spikes though if anyone has rope?  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine navigated the disjointed and out-of-sync staircase with an enviable grace that harkened to her time as a thief and her new nature. Yet even before her transformation, the girl had always been unnatural dexterous and agile, as her innate talent and the demands of her professions had sculptured her into something one would be forgiven to mistake for elven when witnessing her footwork. And so, with practiced ease, she navigated the spiraling staircase ahead of her two companions, often stopping to point out crevices, cracks and uneven surfaces that might dislodge their flight and send them skidding down to crumble somewhere deep below, where-ever the descent might end.

And  what  an end.

No sooner had the trio emerged into the cavernous antechamber deep beneath the earth than the vampire paused for a moment as her senses were flooded with recollections and awe. Situated close to the beating heart of the Red Knights lair, it was only natural that this palace of the damned with emanate a dark energy that the vampire was able to detect running across her skin, but it was the statues themselves that prompted something primal within her, something instinctual. It was something embedded within her, something elemental at her foundations...something in her  blood  that recognised these monuments to the glories of men long gone, or the celebration of their subservience to something else...something greater...not just vampires,  von Carsteins  -  her  new brood.

The von Casteins were as far above mundane vampires as vampires were above mortals. Nagash may be the Great Necromancer, but in his absence, no group of undead wielded as much collective political, social, militaristic and magical might as the von Carsteins -  her  family, her lineage to which she had been chosen to be granted membership. She was great granddaughter to Vlad von Carstein, a being of power, skill, guile and cunning to such a degree that he had threatened Nagash in ages past, and had almost come to rule the Empire as its vampiric Emperor. Already, Regine could feel that bloodborne legacy stirring in her veins as she slowly moved through that hallway flanked by her family's long-gone servants...but so too could she recall the vampire hunters warnings, his provided vision of an even darker future for all if she and others like her, did not resist the siren song of debasement. The allure of power, pomp, luxury and prestige were almost overwhelming in their seduction, prone to diminishing the inhibitions and enflaming the lusts for inner desires long denied in life, but which could blossom in undeath.

Regine had to pause for a moment, close her eyes. Deliberately, she inhaled and drew in the scent and taste of the air, before allowing it all out.

The Red Knight was the focus. He must fall.

 "Yes, I carry a rope of 30 yards,"  the vampire spoke up to Wighards question, approaching and withdrawing the length from her backpack and holding one end forth for him to take.

 "Fasten it well; I can ferry the other end to other side." 
farothel
Bruno would attach the rope somewhere it would be safe and if needed, he had 10 extra yards of rope that he could knot together with Regine's.  He would draw his pistol to cover Regine while she was at the other side.  It would be a long shot, but still, it was better than nothing.
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

The vampire nodded to Bruno as he offered his rope to form a greater length. Together they tied the two ends into a stable knot, before Regine took the open lead and headed back towards the lip of that chasm.

The smell. Sometimes having fantastic senses was a curse...this was one of those times.

Scrunching her nose and waving away the odiferous disgust, Regine willed her transformation upon herself; her form contorting inwards, her arms flattening as a soft coat of fur sprouted from her skin. All of her possessions, worn and carried, merged into the black vapor of her alteration as her bat-form flew from the mist and flapped its purple-membraned wings to carry her over the deep, yawning fissure, before transforming back into her more pleasing humanoid appearance on the other side, where she immediately looked for a place to fasten the rope.
wilphe
Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 4/5

  Ideally we want two, so we can have one for hands and one for feet   then Wighard went quiet as he suspected both of these two knew more about ropes than he ever would

Of course Bruno was in full-plate, so that might make life interesting. As might the fact that with one on each side and one in the middle would be the perfect time for an ambush
MrAbdiel
With no trees or posts in the middle of the hall, and the heaving stones cracked and insecure, there seems to be nothing in which to spike the rope. But the walls make a decent compromise, and hammering a spike into the wall either side the pit at shoulder height permits an opportunity to shimmy across leveraged against the wall!

 
 Spoiler 
With the rope assist, make it Agility +30%. Chain mail has its normal -10 penalty here.
 
wilphe
Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 4/5

Wighard makes his way across with a comfort that he doesn't really feel and then keeps an eye out whilst waiting for Bruno - this mostly involves levelling a blunderbuss at the door just in case it flings open and a mob tries to rush them into the maw

 
 Spoiler: OOC 

 (1d100)[ 20 ]  84
 
farothel
When it was his turn, Bruno took it slowly, as he was wearing full plate with chain underneath.  Not the best attire to do acrobatics in, but it had to do as it would simply take too much time to take it off and put it back on again.  And he was quite sure he would need it later.  As he was moving across, he slipped at one point, but he just managed to hold on and complete the journey, even though his heart was racing.

 
 Spoiler: OOC rolls 

agility:  (1d100)[ 79 ]  vs 71 (51 -10 chain +30 rope)
 38  FP reroll in OOC
 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 

Regine watched with a cautious eye as Bruno took to the rope. Instinctively, she reached up with her left hand to grip the length on her side of the chasm, to help stabilize it against the Imperials heavier frame, due to his encasement in plate armor. Flinching once when he almost lost his grip, Regine was there with an outstretched hand to grip her companion by his arm and shoulder to help safely onto their ledge.
wilphe
  Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 4/5  

Wighard doesn't relax, or at least as much as he can relax in this situation, until both Regine and Bruno are safe and secure on solid ground and ready to fight

  Any idea on the Heraldry?   he looks at them hopefully, letting the two of them go first
MrAbdiel
 Once safely across the yawning pit, the party may be delighted to find no sudden ambush or trap waiting. All that stands before them is the great door, firmly secure it seems, and the panels of heraldry to either side.

Bruno, schooled in heraldry by his adoptive family, understands the layout instinctively. It's a not-uncommon honorific practice for forts, mansions, and graveplaces dedicated to a noble individual from the early Empire - around the 800-1200 IC mark. The eight family heraldries depicted correspond to the primary figure's great grantparents (a practice that fell off as more and more this became awkwardly confessional of ancestral inbreeding). The four compass points of each four-panel figure suggest which region of the primary figure's home province in which those families principally held domain - though this rule of positioning is slippery, as having too many ancestors from, say, the south, would force a symbolic repositioning to some other direction in which it might be generously construed that the ancestor had domain or deed. In such a case, the more prestigious ancestor usually won the 'slot', and displaced his or her lessers to some other compass point.

Theoretically, the four heraldry plates on the left side are all the great grandmothers, and on the right all the great grandfathers.

But a quick examination of the display suggests the plates are not fixed to the wall - they can be gently pulled loose, revealing a circular slot into which any of the plates may be placed, and they seem to have been commonly rearranged based on the wear of the stone edges. A cursory mystical examination suggests a whiff of the same dwarven runework is at play here, in some mechanism deep within the wall - this is a kind of 'ancestor lock', which desires the plates to be arranged appropriately to 'unlock'.

Bruno and Wighard remember, based on the neglect of the tomb and its design, Bertelis had speculated it belonged to some dead noble of the lost Drakwald province. Though knowing the tomb's mobile nature raises some questions, this maps to the style of the ancestor lock - by the time this design of heraldry had fallen out of fashion, the last of the Drakwald electors had died, and the province had been swallowed up by Middenland and Nordland.

You wrack your brains for what you know about these heraldic designs. It's unlikely anyone alive could recall, off the top of their head, the individual nobles operating in the Courts of Carroburg more than a thousand years ago. But some of these families still have presence, and some educated guesses are possible. Though it's impossible to guess from these loose facts whether an ancestral family represented donated a great grandfather or great grandmother to the lineage, you are forced to hope the enchantment isn't that picky.

But you  might  be able to puzzle out which two families are 'most south', which are two are 'most north', and so on.

The designs are as follows, in the arrangement you have found them.

 The Left Compass 

North: A Stag Striking Down A Dragon. Motto: 'Through Valor, Domain'

South: A Mountain Behind A Flying Banner. No Motto.

East: A Hooded Knight, Striking a Giant Mouse. No Motto.

West: Wolf Rampant in Foreground, Wreath in Background. Motto: 'Winter Take The Hindmost'.

 The Right Compass 

North: An Imperial Cross in Background, Sword and Hammer crossed in foreground. No Motto.

South: An Archer Kneeling, Aiming his Bow Skyward. Motto: 'Unerring.'

East: Checkered Background, Dancing Man in Foreground. Motto: 'Men of Raak, As One Man'

West: A Two Mast Ship, with Captain and First Mate Shaking hands. No Background. No Motto.




 (You may roll for any skill in which you are trained each time.) 
 
 Spoiler: Stag Striking Down A Dragon - AK: Heraldry -20 
House Falk. Still has some continuty of lineage in Talabecland.
 

 
 Spoiler: Stag Striking Down A Dragon - AK: Theology -20 
The imagery is drawn from the legend of Taal throwing down a dragon to create the crater that became Talabheim. Likely the family was fairly high in Talabheim nobility.
 

 
 Spoiler: Mountain Behind A Flying Banner - Free 
This is the symbol Bruno previously identified as belonging to House Augstein, a client 'feeder' house for the Von Carstein family.
 

 
 Spoiler: Mountain Behind A Flying Banner - AK: Necromancy +0 
There is a known account of a witchhunter drowning a vampire from the Augstein family in the running waters of the river Delb.
 

 
 Spoiler: Hooded Knight, Striking a Giant Mouse - AK: Heraldry -20 
House Mausengart. Despite the imagery, there's no record of this house having any particular conflict with Skaven, or any imperial euphemism. The name derives, probably from fierce opposition to mice attacking their barley stores before they could ship them down the River Kristall to Marienburg.
 

 
 Spoiler: Hooded Knight, Striking a Giant Mouse - AK: Magic -20 
A mage from the noble family 'Mausengart' wrote a speculatively piece that his family's heraldry was a hidden message about a pact or conflict they had with the gnomes of the Midden Moors, who do not officially exist; but who unofficially are masterful weavers of the Grey Wind.
 

 
 Spoiler: Wolf and Wreath - AK: Heraldry +0 
House Thurin. Ulrican Stalwarts from Sigmar's time, now part of the Middenheim nobility.
 

 
 Spoiler: Wolf and Wreath - AK: Theology -20 
A wolf rampant, and a motto like that, suggests Ulrican heritage that has received honors from the Ar-Ulric.
 

 
 Spoiler: Imperial Cross, Sword and Hammer - AK: Heraldry +0 
House Hohenbach. An Imperial line associated with the notorious 'Drakwald' Emperors. An Emperor's kin must have, at that time, dwelt in the Drakwald's capital, Carroburg.
 

 
 Spoiler: Imperial Cross, Sword and Hammer - AK: History +20 
The hammer depicted is dwarven style, suggesting this is a crest from the era of Boris Goldgather, who employed dwarven excisemen to collect his extortionate taxes. It's definately associated with House Hohenbach, out of Carroburg.
 

 
 Spoiler: Archer Kneeling, Bow Skyward - AK: Heraldry +0 
House Vilner. Vilner was the name of the last Elector Count of the Drakwald - or at least, the last to actually rule within the province itself.
 

 
 Spoiler: Archer Kneeling, Bow Skyward - AK: History +0 or CK: The Empire -40 
Vilner was a count of Drakwald who had a famous border war with Nordland, and won it by convincing the elves of Laurelorn to sabotage the Nordlander's supply train.
 

 
 Spoiler: Checkered Background, Dancing Man - AK: Heraldry -20 
You are confident that you have never seen this heraldry before. It did not feature in your education at all.
 

 
 Spoiler: Checkered Background, Dancing Man - SL: Reikspiel -30 
'Raak' might be a family name, here. It doesn't sound Reikspiel - closer to Wastelander.
 

 
 Spoiler: Two Mast Ship, Captain and First Mate - AK: Heraldry -20 
You are confident that you have never seen this heraldry before. It did not feature in your education at all.
 

 
 Spoiler: Two Mast Ship, Captain and First Mate - SS: Thief +0 
The sailors on the deck of the ship are performing a riverpirate handshake, with the index finger curling around the partner's thumb. River pirates on the Reik have been doing this ever since their golden age under Boris I's corrupt reign.
 
 
wilphe
  Oh, wow

Bit more than just  "speak "Friend" and enter"

But then everyone knows that one  

Wighard is quietly impressed with the effort on display and lets the other two with their greater knowledge of nobility - even if adopted take lead whilst he stands watch

When he does he will of course try to short circuit the whole thing by seeing if any scratches and markings on the panels synch up with the sockets
farothel
Bruno had a long look at each of the devices, while trying to remember what he had read or heard.
 "I know some of them,"  he said,  "that one we already identified last time we were in this dump. 
He pointed at the left compass, south one.
 "And I know the following ones,"  he added pointing at the West one on the left compass and north and south on the right compass.  He quickly explained what he knew.


 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
 Mountain Behind A Flying Banner: This is the symbol Bruno previously identified as belonging to House Augstein, a client 'feeder' house for the Von Carstein family.

Wolf and Wreath: House Thurin. Ulrican Stalwarts from Sigmar's time, now part of the Middenheim nobility.

Imperial Cross, Sword and Hammer: House Hohenbach. An Imperial line associated with the notorious 'Drakwald' Emperors. An Emperor's kin must have, at that time, dwelt in the Drakwald's capital, Carroburg.
Imperial Cross, Sword and Hammer: The hammer depicted is dwarven style, suggesting this is a crest from the era of Boris Goldgather, who employed dwarven excisemen to collect his extortionate taxes. It's definately associated with House Hohenbach, out of Carroburg.

Archer Kneeling, Bow Skyward: Vilner was a count of Drakwald who had a famous border war with Nordland, and won it by convincing the elves of Laurelorn to sabotage the Nordlander's supply train. 
 

 https://forums.giantitp.com/showsing...0&amp;postcount=32 
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


Regine peered at the elaborate puzzle before her, a series of heraldries that doubtlessly had to be activated or locked into the correct combination that would permit their passage through the portal.

Though she was unfamiliar with most of them, given her low-born birth within a notorious port-city at the north-west of Bretonnia, the vampire was able to recall two particular decorations and their significance.

The first was the Mountain Behind A Flying Banner.  It marks the family of House Augstein, who themselves were loyal vassals to her own coven, the Von Carsteins. When the time was right, they would supply their most exalted and capable sons and daughters into the VC's ranks by marriage, before they too would receive the Blood Kiss and ingratiate themselves into the family, through matrimony and blood.

However, that it would be placed here caught Regine's attention, particularly in regards to most 'Northernly' and 'Southernly'. She knew little of the geography of the Emprie, ironic as that was, but she recalled a story that might be of relevance to such requirements.

 "This belongs to House Augstein,"  Regine pointed a gloved finger up at the crest.

 "To do with direction..."  she uttered softly to herself in thought, tilting her head from side to side for a moment,  "there...was one account, of a Witch Hunter drowning one of my kind in the running waters of the river Delb...does that mean anything to you, Bruno?"  she asked, hoping the Imperial would understand the significance.

But, Regine's eyes remained on the arrangement of sigils, before smirking at the image of the Two Mast Ship, Captain and First Mate.

 "See the sign they make?"  she brought Wighard and Bruno's attention to the gestures of the sailors, as she recreated it herself: her right index finger curling around her left handed thumb.

 "It's a handshake of recognition. Piracy is punishable by hanging, and so they developed coded gestures and phrases. This is a pirates handshake, intended to identify each other. They have been performing as such since the sordid rule of Boris I." 
wilphe
Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 2/5

  Well that,   he points at the Stag and Dragon,   would seem to be a reference to Taal throwing down the dragon to make Talabheim. So would surmise from there?


I agree with you about the archer and the mountain

And the Delb is in Middenland


We should be careful though, there's a finite number of possibilities, so it is possible one could just brute force this by trying all the possible combinations.

On the one hand, the place might be guarded so that they figured tomb robbers would never have the time enough to try

On the other hand something bad might happen if you get it wrong and its obvious you are just guessing.  

He mutters a prayer to Verena whilst racking his brain over the two nobody understands
farothel
 "We can place them on the ground in front of the mechanism in the order we think it should be,"  Bruno suggested,  "at least the ones we're sure about.  That should reduce the number of possibilities to something we can then maybe brute force." 
wilphe
Wighard Init 11 W13/14 FP 2/5

Wighard hums and hehs a bit, then talks

  Well I don't think we have to worry about which side of the family each plate goes, only relative geographical location.

Of course that would also make sense because, how would you know?  
BananaPhone
   Regine von Carstein 


The vampire drew in the air as her years of thievery experience rushed from her memory to aid her in the present. Having spoken her piece of recognition, and
believing they were faced with some sort of puzzle that required them to arrange the various crests in such a manner as to represent particular 'directions', Regine turned her attention to the hidden mechanisms that were carved into the surrounding masonry. She spotted the cleverly hidden seams that suggested the presence of eight hidden portals, while her fledgling senses for the arcane could detect the faintest whiff of necromancy lurking behind each one: four to the left, four to the right.

 "Can you see them?"  her voice spoke up, her motions directing the attention of any who heeded her words towards the hidden compartments.

 "Four that side; four upon the other. Something...dead resides behind each one. Dead, but not at rest. If we choose incorrectly, steel thyself for whatever mayest stir from within each chamber; it is likely a ward against trespassers." 