1st of Vorhexen (Early Evening)
Gunnar, Ferdinand, Adelhard and Gerella stood in silence. The small room seeming all the smaller with four of them in it. The book had been sundered with Gunnar’s axe blow. Adelhard took Gerella in his arms and gently stroked her face. She was weak, but acknowledged his touch. The old man’s disbelief was writ large. He did not think for one moment that she would be returned to him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”, he muttered. It wasn’t clear if these were thanks to her rescuers or to some deity for bringing her back to he. He fully expected that if her were ever to see her again that it would be in a morgue, having been fished out of the Reik or discarded in an anonymous alley. His gaze moved from Ferdinand to Gunnar, “How can I ever thank you?”. “How about a drink? Then maybe Ferdinand might see to our wounds…”, he said gesturing to Gerella’s neck and over his right shoulder.
Adelhard guided them downstairs. Gerella hadn’t spoken yet, but she seemed happy to be led to the parlour. Adelhard found a bottle of “something special” and poured a glass for each of them. “To my daughter’s safe return and to her rescuers”, he toasted, though Gunnar had already gulped back his drink. After a sip Adelhard pushed the bottle to Gunnar, who refilled his drink, swallowing it back almost as quickly. Ferdinand looked to Gerella’s wounds, distinctive puncture marks on each side of her neck. They were narrow and deep, but the blood flow from the most recent wounds had ceased. He cleaned the area and tied a bandage into place. He looked at Gunnar’s wounds, not too severe for someone who had been peppered with Blunderbuss shot, and determined this was best treated back at the boat. They bid father and daughter goodbye, Adelhard vowing that should they ever need help, certain with mercantile connections in the city, or in places like Nuln or Bögenhafen, that he would be happy to help. He had no wealth remaining, but he was sincere in this offer.
Salundra had had a pleasant day on the boat. She had chatted with Gele, watched the kids playing and took stock of all of the comings and goings on the dock. Franz returned with news of having secured dwellings for them all at the “Lock & Quay”, an inn only a stone’s throw from the dock. It promised to be more comfortable than the cramped conditions on the Deft Dancer.
Salundra, Maglyn, Franz and the kids were just about the head to the inn when Ferdinand and Gunnar returned to the boat. Salundra looked questioningly at them. “Best told over a drink”, Gunnar said. Gele, Felix and Yasmina decided to stay aboard the boat.
The decor in the “Lock & Quay” was strange to say the least. A mishmash of nautical and river-related paraphernalia hung from every surface. It also had a decidedly fishy smell. Adred Gebhardt, the landlord, had all of the mannerisms and speech of a river-hardened sailor. That was if the person he was speaking to had never met a river-hardened sailor. He was a pantomime performance, having never sailed the river or any body of water for that matter. Ferdinand tended to Gunnar’s wounds, a fire cleaned blade helping to remove the pellets.
They sat for a dinner, and as the smell promised it was indeed fishy. As Maglyn moved to get the children up to bed, amongst protestations from Eugen that he was too old to go to bed so early, Franz took a seat with Salundra, Ferdinand and Gunnar. “I’d like to check out the farm tomorrow… just the four of us. I’ve arranged a cart, bright and early mind, to bring us. That okay?”, he half-whispered. The three nodded.
Salundra took a walk before bed to check on the boat. All seemed well, Gele having gone for dinner with Josef, the owner of the Bierbele II, in the Boatman Inn. She got the distinct feeling she’d interrupted Felix and Yasmina.
2nd Vorhexen
Ferdinand slept soundly, more soundly than he’d slept in quite some time. He awoke to a firm grip on his shoulder and gentle. It was Franz, “It’s time to go”. It was dull in the room, the predawn light at this time of year being weak and the mists in Altdorf being dense. Ferdinand gathered his bits and pieces while Franz woke Salundra and Gunnar.
A cart driven by a wizened and hunched old man awaited them outside the “Lock & Quay”. There was little movement on the docks, the day not having woken up yet. They moved through the damp and dark misty streets. Their path took them over a building covered bridge that spanned the Reik to the south bank and then onwards towards the wall. It was still mostly dark as they exited the western gate into mist shrouded farmland. Light began to appear in the sky, the mists blanketing its effect. It was hard to discern quite where Sol had risen. Dark shapes were visible here and there through the mists. Some were farmhouses, others were the more ominous presence of forested areas; their outline being both fuzzy and jagged at the same time.
The going was slow, but the mule just trudged along with the occasional silent encouragement from the driver. None of them spoke. It was too early. They took a left off the Bruckthin road. “Not far now”, Franz whispered, the mist seeming to demand silence. Sure enough, the cart approached a walled farm. It was as misty here, but a little less silent. There was a shuffling and mewing of large animals nearby. They didn’t sound distressed, but Salundra thought it strange that they were outside in winter. The cart paused at the main gate to the farmyard and was on its return journey as soon as they hopped off, not a word from the driver. The main gates were open. Franz looked to the others and proceeded cautiously into the yard and towards the house within. The mist was thinner in the yard. He sniffed the air, “I would have expected the smell of cooking. I wonder where Gerold, the old farmhand, might be.” He didn’t like the silence… he’d never know the farmhouse to be like this. He drew Saif Al-Janub, a beautifully decorated prize from his time in Tilea. He pushed the door open only to be greeted by a man rushing him, a frying pan in hand. Franz grabbed the weapon wielding wrist and spoke with urgency to the man, “Gerold. Gerold! Calm down… it’s me… Franz”. The old man took a pained step backwards, for it was clear from his gait that he often walked with a stick, and sat at the kitchen table. “It’s okay… we’re here to help, to find Georg. Find your breath and tell us what you know”, he continued and took a seat beside the man, keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
It was clear it might take a few moments for the man to find that breath, so Salundra decided to quickly look around outside. She found a well appointed farm, the main house, yard and stables enclosed by a study wall. Beyond was a large barn and several pens holding cattle. They seemed calm. She suspected there were field shrouded in mist not far off. All seemed normal. When she returned, she found Gunnar in the yard. “Two workhorses in the stable and it looks like a third is missing. There are some hoof tracks that haven’t been washed away.”, he said drawing a line with his hand from the stable to the yard gate.
They returned inside to the smell of cooking. Franz had taken the ‘weapon’ and had found some cured meat and stale looking bread. Gerold had calmed and began to talk. He started by saying he wasn’t an educated man, not good with words or numbers. That’s why Corporal Müller from Kreatur Hürde had written the letter about Georg going missing. Gerold reckoned she was sweet on Georg. He said the afternoon he’d gone missing Georg had left in a rage, the payment from Kreatur Hürde was less than he’d expected… again. An awful wind and heavy picked up that evening and Georg hadn’t come home. Corporal Müller did her standard check in on the farm two days later. That’s when Gerold, who was very worried at this stage, asked her to write to Franz. He reckoned Georg had gone missing 10-12 days ago. He’d never paid much attention to dates… he dealt in the farming seasons.
The telling of this tale was obviously harrowing for the old man. He apologised for the state of the farm, pointing to his walking stick and saying he’d done his best, but it was too much for him alone. Franz reassured him that he had done well in the circumstances and a plate of hot food seemed to help compose him again.
“We need to go to Kreatur Hürde”, Salundra said. Franz nodded and asked Gerold to try to rest while they were gone. He assured him they’d return soon.
They walked north from the farm, crossing the Bruckthin road and continuing to Kreatur Hürde. An easterly wind had started to pick up. The mists began to clear. The imperial facility was formidable. Large solid walls concealed all of the interior buildings. Each corner had a taller town, offering the soldiers within with commanding lines of fire. They were challenged as they approached the stout gates on the left side of the fortress. Franz stated his name, showed his Grudgebringer shield and asked that they might speak to Quartermaster concerning his brother Georg. The gates opened, admitting them to a claustrophobic internal path, another wall channeling them forward. The perimeter towers covered its length and they had the distinct impression crossbows were tracking their progress. They encountered another gate at the far end, an eye slit opened and Franz restated their business. The sight that met them when they were permitted through was stunning. There were several buildings, all built and maintained immaculately. That wasn’t the impressive part. It was the dozen or so pens housing Demigryphs. Some were being worked with, others were free to move in their high fenced pens. Gunnar was fixated… he wondered if any Slayer had ever had a Demigryph as a mount.
The sergeant who had admitted them guided them to a large building and to the Quartermaster’s office within and has a word with the occupant. Quartermaster Sergeant ‘Iron-Fist’ Albrecht Brandt is a burly, middle-aged man, with a permanently flushed face and a booming voice that often carries across the parade grounds of the Kreatur Hürde. He doesn’t look up from the ledger he’s examining as they walk in. “Yes?”, he grunts, his finger running down a column on the page. “I’m here about Georg Löhner…”, Franz says and tails off. Albrecht’s eyes rise from the page. “I haven’t seen him in over a week. The last time I did he was quite irate. I explained the situation, but he wasn’t happy. I can only pay what the Imperial coffers allow me to pay”, he states matter-of-factly.
“I don’t understand. The arrangement between the farm and Kreatur Hürde has been in place for many years.”
“I know, but the recent events in Ubersreik have really strained the Altdorf finances. Even here”, he waves an arm, “isn’t immune to the diversion of gold crowns to put down sedition. Now go… I’m busy”.
This angered Franz. “Now what a minute…”, he blurts. “Ah… just like your brother I see”, he smirks. Saundra steadies Franz, “We’ve gotten all there is to get here”.
They leave none the wiser as to what happened to Georg. All they know is that he was angry. Franz was a bit angry now too. Gunnar again eyes up a Demigryph on the way out. He whistles… a Dwarf can dream.
The wind has continued to pick up and the mist is mostly cleared as they leave Kreatur Hürde behind. The forest is much more menacing now that its full extent can be seen. The farmland, and even Kreatur Hürde, are stolen pockets that seem as if the forest wants them back. They traipse the road south again, crossing the main road. They’re less than a mile from the farm when Saundra and Gunnar notice the other two have stalled behind them. Franz has his sword drawn and shield raised. Ferdinand is intently focussed on the forest. He feels an intense rage, but it isn’t his own. This place is angry… more correctly, this place exudes anger. The other two return to them, drawing their weapons. Franz looks to Ferdinand, “You feel that too?”. The wizard nods. “Follow me, but space out a little. Keep your wits about you”, Franz instructs. The forest is all gloom and dullness. It takes a while for the human eyes to adjust to it. Franz’s experience hunting Skaven was apparent as soon as they stepped into the forest. His movements were lithe and controlled, each footfall carefully place, his eyes continuously scanning. They were a few dozen yards in when Franz put up a hand to halt them. Gunnar had smelt it too… there was a rank mustiness being carried by the wind. It was slight, but it was there. “I’ll check it out. Wait here”, he said in hushed tones. He proceeded noiselessly. A crunching snapped him from his hunt… Gunnar had decided to join him! “Please wait… you’re too noisy!”, Franz exclaimed. It took every ounce of Gunnar’s willpower to remain where he was, but he let Franz move on alone.
Franz returned after a few minutes, his face flushed, but his movements as controlled as ever. “I’ve found something… let’s step out from under the trees and make a plan”, he said, an urgency in his voice.
They emerged into the bright and he gathered them together. He was just about to speak when the thundering of hooves took his attention. Corporal Fronika Müller sped into view, the destrier under her sweating. She barely waited for it to stop before jumping from the saddle. “I heard you were asking after Georg”, she panted, “If there is anything I can do to help find him… I’d do anything to see him safe again”. “I was just about to get to that”, Franz continues and they all huddled in. “There’s a band of about fifteen to twenty Gors… beastmen… in there. They’re chatting lowly in some form of foul ritual. There’s more… there’s a man strung up by his arms between two trees. He’s on the far side of those animals. I think it’s Georg, but I’m not sure if he’s alive”, he uttered all of this matter-of-factly, though the last few words caught in his throat. “We need to make a plan…”, he started but was cut off. “I have a plan… Attack!”, Gunnar grunted before turning and sprinting full tilt back into the forest.
The others stared in disbelief, but there was no choice. They soon followed in pursuit of the nihilistic Slayer. Scant seconds later they found a frenzied scene of destruction. Gunnar was a maniac, his axe hewing through beastmen. As one fell another would take its place. Gunnar’s axe welcomed them. A fell Bray Shaman uttered accursed tones to try to weaken the Slayer, but he shrugged it off, barely noticing amidst the carnage he wrought. Franz made to circle the area, trying to get to the man he thought was his brother. Salundra and Ferdinand joined Gunnar. Salundra had time to cut down a beast before the Bray Shaman bellowed a retreat, the panic and fear in its animal eyes plain to see even in the gloom. The Gor turned and ran, only a handful of their number remaining for ten or so had been slain. There was something larger hidden in the darkness of the wood… it wasn’t fleeing.
Franz was cutting the man down, the artefacts around him telling of his ordeal a rusty sword and shield and the heads of at least five Ungors told of the gladiatorial travails he had endured. Salundra ran to help, just as a Minotaur burst into the clearing, running at full tilt towards the Slayer. Gunnar leapt to run at it. Ferdinand sent a searing bolt at the it, but the glowing magic barely registered with the monster. The Minotaur lowered its horns to strike the Slayer, but Gunnar’s axe made contact first – an upstroke through the torso, followed by batting the monster’s shield aside and a downstroke almost cleaving its head from its neck. Its dying momentum knocked Gunnar from his feet, but he was unhurt. His blood was up however and the immediate fatigue of his frenzied rage struck.
The man was Georg. Müller, who had frozen in fear for most of the encounter, came to when she saw him. Franz, Salundra and Fronika carried Georg from the forest. He was conscious, but in a bad way. Ferdinand cautiously went to help Gunnar. The fatigue had overtaken him. Ferdinand propped up the Slayer as he half stumbled to the edge of the forest.
Until next time,
Owen