24th Jahrdrung 2512 (from late evening)
The Bierbele II sat heavy in the water at the northern docks of Weissbrook, its timbers groaning softly against the stone quay. The air was thick with the scent of river mud and the lingering dampness of an afternoon rain. After the unsettling encounter at The Black Gold tavern—where the man with the livid scar had vanished like a ghost into a rear alley—a profound silence had settled over the trio. Ferdinandsat by the rail, his new face reflected in the dark, undulating surface of the Bogen, a stranger’s jawline and a full head of hair mocking his internal confusion. Salundra paced the deck, her military instincts screaming that the scarred man was not merely a traveler but a beacon for a brewing storm. Across from her, Gunnar maintained a brooding vigil, his knuckles white upon the haft of Shadowsplitter, his Dwarven distain for the “weird poop” of human sorcery simmering just beneath his skin.
25th Jahrdrung 2512 (early hours)
The Night of Fire
The domesticity of the barge—the rhythmic snoring of Josef and the soft, teething whimpers of baby Elsa below decks—was shattered just after midnight. Salundra, keeping the first watch, felt a sudden shift in the air before she saw the movement. From the lightless periphery of the docks, a streak of orange flame arced through the sky. It was a flaming incendiary, whistling through the darkness to smash against the Bierbele II’s mainmast.
Fire, the ancient enemy of any river vessel, erupted instantly. The base of the mast was engulfed in a hungry, chemical glow. Salundra’s alarm rang out, a sharp, practiced command that tore the others from their sleep. Ferdinand was up like a cat, his mind instantly clearing of the wine-fog he had sought as a shield earlier that evening. Gunnar, however, was slower to waken, his Dwarven slumber proving stubborn until Josef rushed to give him a frantic shake. In the confusion, the Slayer’s instincts flared; he delivered a heavy punch to the master of the barge’s chest before his nose truly registered the smoke from the flames licking at the rigging.
As Josef scrambled for his fire-fighting buckets, another flask of oil came sailing from the docks. It smashed at Salundra’s feet, the liquid fire splashing upward to catch the hem of her trousers. With the cool-headed precision of a seasoned soldier, she didn’t panic. She grabbed a heavy, treated tarp, wrapping it around her legs and patting the flames into oblivion even as the searing heat radiated against her skin.
Illumination and the Slayer’s Path
On deck, Ferdinand realised the attackers were shrouded by the night. Though he feared the scrutiny of the civilians on board, the need to see the enemy outweighed his caution. He whispered the words of a petty illumination spell, and a strange, ambient violet light began to bleed into the dockside. The glow was just enough to expose the silhouettes of three figures lurking near the warehouse shadows.
One of the figures was already sparking a third flask. Gunnar didn’t wait for it to fly. With a single-hand plant on the rail, the Slayer vaulted over the side of the Bierbele II with terrifying speed. He hit the stone dock with his momentum unchecked, a red-crested engine of destruction sprinting through the newly formed pools of fire.
The assailant clutching the lit incendiary was too slow. As the Slayer leaped through the flames, his axe was held high in a double-handed grip. Shadowsplitter came down with the weight of a grudge, cleaving the man through the skull and down through the torso. The body literally peeled apart, falling into a spreading pool of blood on the stone. A second attacker, seeing the visceral end of his comrade, dropped her flask and bolted into the shadows.
The Alley Pursuit
Salundra followed Gunnar off the boat, her vault less elegant as a crossbow bolt hissing from the dark struck her in the fleshy part of the leg. She gritted her teeth against the searing pain, her roll carrying her into a stand. She ignored the wound, her eyes locked on the third figure—the man with the scarred neck—who was now retreating into a narrow alleyway behind the docks.
Ferdinand clambered off the barge, bringing the violet light with him as he trailed Salundra into the dark. The alley was a maze of refuse and overhanging timbers, the air thick with the stench of stagnant water and urine. They caught the scarred man as he stumbled against a crate. He turned, his sword singing as it cleared the scabbard, his face a mask of desperation.
The duel was brief and brutal. Salundra, fueled by the pain in her leg and the protective instinct for her companions, moved with a fluidity that belied her injury. She batted aside the man’s clumsy lunges with the flat of her blade, countering with a precise up-slice that caught him in the thigh. As he slumped against the wall, the scarred man looked at them with a mixture of terror and realisation. “How can you work for the Magister?” he gasped before his life’s blood soaked into the cobbles.
The Magister’s Shadow
While Gunnar secured the female accomplice who had immolated herself with her own dropped flask—dragging her by the ankle and unceremoniously dipping her into the canal to extinguish the flames—Salundra and Ferdinand rifled through the pockets of the dead man.
They found a letter addressed to a Herr Adolphus Kuftsos at the Nine Stars Coaching Inn. The contents sent a chill through them that the winter wind could not match. The letter, signed by a mysterious “Q.F.” confirmed Kuftsos’ suspicions about a society whose name remained unspoken. Most damningly, it mentioned a specific officer known as the “Magister Impedimentae” and identified him by the name Kastor Lieberung.
Attached to the letter was a sketch—a rough, charcoal drawing of a man’s face. It was unmistakable. It was the face currently worn by Ferdinand.
The realisation hit them like a physical blow. Ferdinand was not merely wearing a dead man’s face; he was wearing the face of a high-ranking member of a secret and seemingly malevolent organisation. Kuftsos hadn’t been an assassin sent to kill them; he had been a hunter trying to track down a “Magister” of a dark cult. He had died believing he was fighting evil.
Leaving Dodge
The trio regrouped on the deck of the Bierbele II as the smell of cauterized flesh and burnt rigging hung in the air. The female prisoner offered little more than a confession of being hired by the scarred man to “cause hassle” for the barge. Recognising she was a mere hireling, Salundra booted her off the boat with a warning that would haunt her dreams.
The Bierbele II was damaged; the ropes were charred, and the rigging was precarious. Josef was anxious, his booming laugh replaced by a focused, riverman’s grimness. He suggested they could either stay and effect repairs in the morning or risk a slow departure under cover of night. Fearing the arrival of the Weissbrook watch and the discovery of the corpses they had left behind, the party urged an immediate departure. A hasty clean up would have to suffice.
Using long poles to control the boat’s position and momentum, Josef and Wolmar manoeuvred the barge out into the centre of the river. They drifted past the sleeping town, a dark silhouette against the moonlit water, and pushed upstream on River Bogan.
Healing and Foreboding
As the town of Weissbrook receded into the mist, Ferdinand set to work on Salundra’s leg. He used a sharp, fire-cleansed knife to extract the crossbow bolt, his hands steady despite the emotional turmoil within him. He bound the wound with professional care, his silence speaking volumes.
Gunnar sat on a crate, cleaning the blood from Shadowsplitter, his eyes occasionally drifting to Ferdinand. The “Magister” title hung in the air like a curse. They were three souls bound together by gold, blood, and a necklace of split coins, but the road ahead was no longer just about an inheritance. It was about an identity that carried a death sentence.
“After we perform repairs tomorrow, we should reach the outskirts of Bögenhafen in four days,” Josef called out from the tiller, his voice a low rumble over the water. “In good time for the Schaffenfest.”
They nodded in the darkness, their minds turning to the shadows the street preacher had warned them about in Altdorf. The inheritance was waiting—20,000 gold crowns and a manor—but so was the mystery of the Magister.
Until next time,
Owen