[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart

[LCP]

Lothar

Mr Talberg seemed surprised to see Lothar approaching him, but not offended. The young man raised his own glass in reply, giving a white smile – even Lothar had to admit he was a good-looking sort of fellow.

“Father-in-law to be,” he said, laughingly. “And thank you.” Over the young man’s shoulder, Lothar could see Sigurd Waite talking to the man he assumed to be Lord Verloren. “I heard there was something of an unpleasant surprise on the road. Don’t know what we’d do if the old man got into a trouble, eh?”

[goblinpaladin]

"Ah," said Lothar, returning the man's smile with one of his own. "We weren' attacked, but there were some wild-looking lads who'd got the worst of it." He paused, inclining his head in deference to the women present. Nobby ladies didn't like talk of beheadings.

"Gotta say, 'sabit odd that Herr Faulebrand's not rounded up some likely lads who're good with a spear to root 'em out. Gotta be costin' him coin an' grain. Hells, I bet you know how to use a horse an' pistols, eh?"

[LCP]

Lothar

Mr Talberg smiled and nodded. “I served with von Behring’s pistoliers,” he said, “during the War. Packed it in, though,” he added. “I don’t think the army was the boy for me.”

He furrowed his handsome brow at Lothar’s talk of ‘rounding up likely-looking lads’. “Well... I haven’t much of a head for business, you know. I think for now there isn’t too much traffic on the road... what with the, um, seasons and all.” He made a gesture that tried to communicate a complete ignorance of agricultural matters. “You’d have to talk to the old man, I suppose.”

[goblinpaladin]

"Well, maybe I'll do that. 'Snot the time right now, I think." Lothar raised his mug again. "To your health, and the lady's." Smiling, the soldier moved on.

[LCP]

Everyone

As the food and drink laid out vanished steadily into the people’s stomachs, the sun sank to the west, touching the treetops with red and gold. Men with torches went the length of the table, renewing the light: as she sat by Ithelus, Illiiya found a small, sticky-faced child looking up at her by the torchlight, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Miss,” he said, “have you seen our pig?”
Illiiya blinked in confusion.
“They let me an’ Clora raise her. She has black spots, and she goes oink,” he said sincerely. “She went away yesterday. Mam said she’d gone to live with the Fair Folk.”
Sitting next to Illiiya, Ithelus found himself looking slowly round towards the bare-boned carcass now resting on the spit.
“Have you seen her miss? Only, our mam said...”

The mother in question appeared on the scene. “Josef!” she cried, shooing the boy away. “Leave the poor...” – she faltered, her eyes drifting inexorably to Illiiya’s inhuman face. “Leave, um, leave the poor lady alone.”

Tearing her eyes away, she looked resolutely at Illiiya’s feet.
“Terribly sorry, ma’am,” she said, practically bundling her child up in her arms and hurrying away. Ribault watched her go with an amused grin, which only seemed to make her scurry away faster.

At last, the food was finished, and the people of Hohlesbruck sat back with full bellies, talking merrily among themselves. From the head of the table, there came a clamour of metal on metal – Mr Faulebrand was beating an iron spoon against a brass bowl, the genteel tinkle of a glass evidently not sufficing for a gathering this size.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried, his bumptious voice carrying over the whole assembly. “Mr Ricard Talberg and myself would like to speak – would like to say a little before the festivities continue. I beg you to be silent!”

An obedient hush fell. Nodding graciously to Mr Faulebrand, the young Mr Talberg got to his feet.

“If I could just say a few words,” he began, “I would be a better public speaker.” There was a dutiful murmur of laughter from the villagers. “I consider it my second greatest honour to first have found your village, in my opinion the best and brightest spot in all the Empire,” – there was a cheer – “beaten only by the honour of having been allowed, by the grace of the gods, to return.”
Alexa Faulebrand gave him an adoring look. Mils Verloren found something very interesting to stare at in his empty bowl. Ricard smiled broadly to the villagers.
“I thank you all for coming, and hope I will be seeing much more of you in the days – and years – to come. Gods bless you all.”
There was a sound round of applause. Before it had died away, Mr Faulebrand was back on his feet, with a speech nowhere near as brief. He spoke of the Faulebrands’ long ties to the village, of the honour of the Talberg family, of how love could level all ranks, and perhaps a dozen other things that even Pieter, for all his diplomatic astuteness, found his mind wandering from. His attention was only jerked back to the present by the miller clapping his hands at the end of his rambling monologue.

“So! With the assistance of Jan Torsbeck and his friends – one of the villagers nodded in acknowledgement, a cluster of them seeming to have produced musical instruments practically from nowhere, “we shall have a little dancing. Thank you, all, and enjoy the rest of the evening!”

There was another grateful cheer, and the villagers began to rise from their seats, mingling in babbling circles. They waited for the happy couple to lead the way, the ‘band’ sounding a few experimental notes – smiling, Ricard and Alexa rose from their seats again, holding hands.

They had barely gone three steps when the young woman stumbled – still seated beside Lord Verloren, Sigurd heard her speak.

“I... I don’t feel very well...”

As suddenly and unexpectedly as a debtor’s notice, Alexa fell, crumpling down like a puppet with her strings cut – Ricard caught her, the villagers turning to stare with a stunned silence...

[-Sentinel-]

Sucking in a breath, Pieter rose from his stool and pushed his way through the shocked crowd, regretting he had not seen fit to bring any of his medical supplies.

"Let me have a look at her," he said in a sharp tone of command. "Was a healer in the war."

[LCP]

Easily pushing his way to the front, Pieter approached the girl - she looked very pale, and was breathing shallowly.

"Let me through!" came a reedy voice from behind the assembled people. "Let me through, I'm a doctor."

Doctor Reifennen appeared through the crowd of onlookers. Kneeling next to Ricard, he looked closely at Alexa's face before patting Ricard reassuringly on the shoulder.

"I suspect it is a hysterical attack. The, mm, excitement, too much for her, you know?"

The doctor stood up, gesturing for the onlookers to clear out. "Give her some air, please, give her some air."

He turned to Mr Faulebrand who had come bustling up behind.

"It is my medical opinion that the young lady should be taken to her chamber to recuperate," he said. "A little peace and quiet will be the thing."

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter's eyes flicked briefly to Verloren, trying to see if the listless nobleman took any interest in the events. He would certainly not be one to wish long life and good health to Alexa Faulebrand.

Quit it. You're growing paranoid.

"The excitement," he echoed skeptically at the doctor's words. "I suppose you're the expert. But, um, I'm told there's a wise woman around here. Could she perhaps provide a second opinion?"

[goblinpaladin]

Lothar rose, but not to give medical attention to the girl. He could wrap a sword-gash or splint a broken arm, but a fainting spell or food poisoning -was it? He felt fine...- was beyond his skill. Instead, he scanned the crowd, looking to see if anyone had slipped away quietly in the confusion.

Spoiler

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That would be a secret roll, I think.

[LCP]

“A wise woman?” said Doctor Reifennen, in the same tones that someone might use for ‘sewer rat’. He sniffed. “Sir, I am an accredited physician, of the College of Physicians, in Altdorf. I am not in the habit of taking diagnoses from wise women.”

Lord Verloren was looking on with a quiet sort of dismay. Seeming to feel he had dealt with Pieter, Doctor Reifennen had turned to Mr Faulebrand, and was spelling out the arrangements he felt should be made for the miller’s daughter.

Taking in the scene, Lothar checked for the faces of those he knew. There was Mr Waite and Lord Verloren, still seated – Mr Faulebrand with his wife hovering close behind, and the doctor and Ricard – and, watching the whole affair with the detached air of a lazy cat, Monsieur Ribault was still visible, strolling through the crowd to get a better look. No-one seemed to be skulking away, at least that Lothar could see.

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter patiently waited until the doctor was done talking to Mr Faulebrand before approaching the merchant discreetly from behind.

"Mr Faulebrand," he whispered in his ear, "when we met in Rosche, you had a fit of some sort. Sounds like something you should mention to the doctor. Some ills run in the blood, you know." He glanced down at the poor girl.

[LCP]

Mr Faulebrand jumped a little – he clearly had been too absorbed in the doctor’s words to notice Pieter coming up behind him.

“That – uh, thank you, Mr Hagen,” he said, distractedly. “A good thought. I will.” He paused. “But that was really very minor, you know. Hale and hearty, you know, hale and hearty.”

His words trailed off, his attention turning back to his daughter. Ricard had lifted her up off the floor, the people making way to let him back to the door of the Faulebrands’ house: scuttling forwards in his wake, Aloysius approached the doctor again.

“Doctor Reifennen, I wonder if I could prevail on you to look after her?” he asked. “Probably just nerves, to be sure, but it would ease my mind greatly if I knew there a, ah, a physician to see to her welfare.” Taking the taller man’s elbow, he began to propel him along after Ricard and his daughter, talking all the while. “Of course, I can pay whatever rates you feel are appropriate, whatever rates you think proper – no expense too small, you understand...”

Doctor Reifennen allowed himself to be borne away, nodding faintly as the short merchant’s stream of words washed over him. Lord Verloren made to stand, making his apologies to Sigurd.

“I... think I may return home,” said the lord to his neighbour, shrugging on his thick coat. “It seems our hosts are retiring... and I am not one for dancing. Please do call by, Mr Waite, if you wish to further your historical enquiries.”

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Illiiya paled at the sudden clamor, her mind immediately leaping the worst of possible scenarios. Dark magic and chaos-borne plagues... murder and conspiracy. So many dark thoughts flooded into her head that she could scarcely remember them all.

It's happening. It's happening already.

Calm down Illiiya, or you'll be fainting right alongside her.

The disembodied voice in her head was far more reasonable-seeming than a disembodied voice in her head had a right to be. Panic and hysterics came far to easily to her. That would not solve a thing. She watched Pieter and the doctor discussing things with nervous apprehension, her eyes darting about in paranoia as if something horrible was lurking about waiting to strike.

Ith... She muttered, tugging lightly on Ithelus' sleeve, I don't know if she should be left alone with just that doctor.

[Exeson]

As the night wore on Ithelus lit up his pipe and amused himself with trying to blow smoke rings during the monotenous speech. When the poor girl collapsed he shot a lazy eye in her direction, 'things just keep getting more interesting'.

In response to Illiiya's pleadings he turned to her, 'don't you trust him?..... Have you, ugh, seen anything?'. His hushed tone makes it obvious he may not be referring to things that an ordinary person can see.

[-Sentinel-]

Unable to get rid of a nagging suspicion, Pieter walked over to Alexa Faulebrand's seat. He gave a long look at her half-finished plate of food and, after a moment of thought, innocently laid it on the ground.

"Hey, dog," he called Indigo. "You still hungry?"

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

During the young Talberg's speech, Sigurd leans discretely in to the Lord and says in a low but crisp voice, "Transparent poppycock."

Once the bride faints and the Lord excuses himself, Sigurd thanks him quickly and promises to call. On his feet, he doesn't push his way to the center of the ring around Alexa, but he does meander nearby to observe the proceedings.

He frowns deeply when Reifennen's diagnosis secures him time alone with Miss Faulebrand. But then he sees someone speaking to his dog.

* * * *

Indigo looks at the bowl Pieter puts before her and moves up sniffing it. She doesn't immediately set to, but then, she's been fed scraps all around the table for the past hour or more.

Sigurd's cane falls between he muzzle and the dish, and the dog looks up with a start.

Sigurd stares at Pieter meaningfully. "You rather wouldn't like her when her stomach is upset, Mister Hagen. She becomes intensely grouchy. She's been known to bite."

He glances at the dish. "Still, I applaud your detecting. I suspect Mother Yilese knows a thing or three about herbs. If there's anyone who might be able to check that food, it's her."

Mrrrr.... Indigo slinks away from the denied bowl, in search of other prizes.

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter blinked in mock innocence.

"What are you talking about, Mr Waite?" he asked with a lopsided smile. "No sense in wasting perfectly good food, is there?"

He strolled away, casually whistling the tune of a Marienburg drinking song, but left the dish on the ground in case another dog or pig volunteered to have a taste. And he tried to remember who, besides Mr Talberg, was sitting near Alexa during the feast.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

As Pieter turns and strolls away, Sigurd can't help but to grin to himself. I kind of like that kid.

Taking a napkin from the table, he extracts a lump of meat from the dish and wraps it up, tucking it into his inner coat pocket. He too leaves the dish on the ground for other animals to experiment with, though he glances around first to make sure the elf's cat isn't first in line. I'shara, I'shara, I'shara. I'shari, I'shari, I'shari...

He'll linger a bit at the dancing, and if nothing else exciting is happening, within a half hour he'll head to the Heartless Man to see out local storytellers.

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

No... Illiiya confessed to Ithelus, wringing her hands together in apprehensively, But I do not like coincidences. Maybe it would be best if we just left. This is not our concern.

And if it IS serious... It is only a matter of time before they start looking for sorcerers. She thought to herself. It was a decent lie, but in truth it was fear of the horrors of Delberz following her that made her long to leave this place, far and fast.

[LCP]

“Alors, ma’moiselle, you cannot leave!” came a voice from behind them. Both Ithelus and Illiiya whirled round in surprise – they had not heard Monsieur Ribault approach. The man moved as quietly as a cat. “Two elves in the village. It is probably the most exciting thing to happen to these poor people since the time of their grandfathers, non?”

He grinned with good humour, but his smiling eyes turned slowly towards the Faulebrand residence as the door shut behind Alexa and her family.

“Death of my life,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so only the elves could hear. “Les riches, they are all the same, oui? On the outside, all pretences most happy... when underneath, something, it is rotten.”

His eyes were fixed on the closed door with a singular intensity. There was a hungry glitter in them that Illiiya did not entirely like: as he stared, he hummed a simple little folk tune under his breath.

“Maldred s’en va t’en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine...”

He tore his gaze away, and grinned his wolfish grin again. Tipping his hat to the pair of them, he bobbed his head in a quick bow and raised his voice back to its previous volume.

“Monsieur, ma’moiselle, I bid you good night. You will enjoy the dancing, oui?” Stepping back, he vanished into the crowded shadows. The Hohlesbruckers were evidently too level-headed by far to be upset by a little fainting: from the direction of the village square, the players were striking up a tune. The night was surprisingly warm in the light of the torches, and the young men and women of the village were gravitating swiftly and surely towards the sound of music. Over their babbling, Ithelus thought he heard the receding voice of the Breton, singing to himself with a coarse kind of merriment as he walked away.

“Maldred s’en va t’en guerre,
Ne sait qu’en reviendra!”

~

The dancing stretched on well past the Faulebrands’ dramatic exit – eventually, people began to filter away, Sigurd watching with quiet amusement as one or two young couples disappeared into the dark. For all that it was a favourable evening, it was beginning to grow cold, and those who stuck it out – particularly the men – were gravitating towards the door of the Heartless Man. Indigo had returned to his side, sitting faithfully at the merchant’s heel.

Inside, there was a roaring fire in the hearth, and Wulli was doing a busy trade. Dionyse Ribault was sitting alone in one corner, his boots up on the table and his hat pulled down over his eyes. The older men of the village were clustered around the rough oaken bar, holding forth to a fair-sized captive audience as Wulli went about his work.

“That thur Aloysius Faulebrand been givin’ his daughter airs, I say,” opined one grey-bearded villager. “Ain’t no proper Hohlesbruck girl ‘d go faintin’ at a feast out o’ nerves.”
“He can give her all the airs he likes, if he’ll give us another feast,” replied another man, merrily. There was a laughing murmur of assent.

"Tell us a story, Wilbur!" came a younger voice, addressing the greybeard who had spoke first - it seemed not all the children had yet gone to sleep. "Tell us the one about Mother Yilese and the man from Marienburg!"

OOC:

Spoiler

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If you want to join the men in the inn, please feel free to strike up conversation: I considered writing your entrance, but seeing as so far I only know for sure that one person is intending to enter, I thought that would be overstepping the line a bit on my part.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd leaves Indigo outside for the time being and settles in quietly with his second ale of the evening to hear the story. He has great interest in that particular tale.

[-Sentinel-]

At the feast

Standing just out of earshot, Pieter suspiciously watched the smirking Ribault as he bid good night to the Elves. His uneasy feeling grew when he remembered that he had dropped his tipsy act the moment Alexa collapsed. Had Ribault noticed? He seemed like the kind of man who would. Unless he was the kind of man who would not fall for it in the first place.

The music took the initiate's mind off the evening's troubling events. He quickly downed another ale, just enough to wash away his worries, and went in search of someone who would share a dance with him.

Spoiler

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Is Ellie at the feast? If she's there and does not have a partner (and if there doesn't seem to be a surly-looking father or brother hovering about), Pieter will invite her to dance. He will only act casual and friendly, not seductive. Tell me if there's a Fel test required.

Edit: Questions addressed in the OOC thread.

He quickly spotted the gossipy young woman he had met earlier, and it seemed she was all alone. His strong sense of duty urging him to remedy this, Pieter walked over to her, put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a pleasant smile.

"Ellie, is it? Tell me, how do you people dance in these parts?" he inquired with just the right amount of apologetic curiosity. "I'm a man of the city, y'know..."


[hr]

After the feast

Pieter would gladly have danced until dawn, but country people went to bed early and the initiate found himself back at the Heartless Man sooner than he had planned. Pleased to see that the night's entertainment was not over, he slumped into a chair in the corner opposite to Ribault, where he could keep an eye on him without looking like it. His ears perked up with interest when the child asked for a story, and he felt his lips stretch into a smile.

He loved stories. Even those that were true.

[LCP]

At the Feast

Ellie seemed more than flattered by Pieter’s attention, and gladly took his hand. Pieter took to the villager’s dancing rather well, and Ellie held onto him rather longer than he expected – as he finally broke away, he noticed a scrawny young lad of the village glowering at him as he walked away. If Ellie noticed him, however, she paid him no heed.

[hr]

After the Feast

Seemingly very gratified to have an appreciative audience, the old man launched into the tale.

“Twenty winters ago,” began the old man, “there was a Marienburg merchant used to pass through these parts, name of Balthus. One day, old Balthus came to the village in a terrible fluster, and asked the way to Mother Yilese’s cottage – even back then, people knew her, here and in the villages roundabout, and some say she ain’t aged a day all the time between.”

“Anyway, soon as he found the way, Balthus came runnin’ to her door. ‘Madam Yilese’, he said, ‘cos he were a city man and right fancy in his way of speakin’, ‘I’ve come to you ‘cos I’m out of my mind with uncertainty. I fear my wife’s bein’ unfaithful, but I don’t know how to be sure, for she’s cleverer than me.’”

“So old Balthus begged Mother Yilese to work a charm for him, so he could tell for sure one way or t’other. Well, she looked long an’ ard at him, the way she does” – some of the village people chuckled – “but then she said to him, ‘bring me a lock of your wife’s hair, and I’ll see what I can do.’”

“Balthus were passing through on business, so it was ‘bout a month ‘fore he was back in Hohlesbruck. He came back though, an’ he had a lock of his wife’s hair with him, what he’d taken while she was asleep. Mother Yilese took it, and made a draught to give to him.”

“’Give this to your wife,’ she said, ‘and watch your wife closely. If you see her hair change colour, even a little, you’ll know she’s been untrue.’”

“So Balthus went away again, and when he came back he was fair mad with despair.”

“’It’s true!’ he cried. ‘Adulteress! I gave her the draught, and her hair, it’s turned black as a crow.’ He was so distressed, he blamed old Mother – said what she’d done was witchcraft, that she was tryin’ to undo him with her sorcery.”

“’Mister Balthus’, Mother Yilese says, ‘I ain’t done no magic.’”
“’The devil you have!’ cries Balthus. ‘You gave me that potion, and you mean to drive me mad.’ But she just shook her head.”
“’What I gave you was water,’ she says. ‘How long’ve you been married, Mister Balthus?’”
“’Twenty-nine years,’ he says, all taken aback. ‘Well,’ says Mother, takin’ out the lock of hair he’d brought her and holdin' it up to his eyes, ‘if your wife’s only dyein’ her grey hairs now, it don’t take a wizard to see it ain’t for your benefit!’”

The storyteller slapped his knee, and the inn broke out in a hubbub of laughter – the easy, relaxed laughter of a punchline that many of them had evidently heard before.

[goblinpaladin]

Lothar, tucked into a corner table with a mug of warmed wine in hand, laughed along with the rest of them. Raising his drink, he called across to the inkeeper: "Here, Wulli, don't forget you owe a tale, too."

[LCP]

“Mister Fischer! You been enjoying the feast?” called Wulli merrily. He turned to the village men at the bar. “Mister Fischer wanted to hear the story of how this place got its name.”
“Well, that’s a story worth the hearin’,” said one of them.
“It was the first dozen times we heard it,” said another, knocking back his ale.
“Ah, hold yer gob, Dietrich,” said Wulli’s wife, bustling out from behind the bar. “We got guests, and they ain’t heard it.”

Wulli finished clearing the bar, then handed over to his wife, taking a seat by the fireplace. The dancing fire cast a flickering shadow against the wall as the innkeeper pulled his chair closer to it.

“This inn’s been here a long time,” he said. “I was taught where the name comes from by my father, like he was told by his. It’s an old folk tale in these parts.”

It was clearly a folk tale that many of the villagers liked. A small audience was gathering – Ellie had come inside, and sat down next to Pieter, listening intently to Wulli’s words.

“Back in the time of Sigmar, there was a great chieftain in these woods. They called him Black Gaerovald after the colour of his banner, and there was no warrior as could best him from here to the sea. When Sigmar united the tribes, Gaerovald swore fealty, and fought at his side.”

“When the Old Night rose in the south” – Wulli made the sign of the hammer over his chest, many of the older men and children doing the same – “Sigmar rode to meet it, and Black Gaerovald rode with his armies. He took his warriors with him, and left his wife and brother behind.”

“Those were dark times, when the dead would not rest easy in their graves. Gaerovald sent messengers home as he marched south, but none of them could escape from the Great Necromancer’s shadow. Gaerovald’s brother, who was a craven, covetous man, saw the fear in his sister-in-law’s eyes, and saw there his own opportunity. He worked at her fears until she gave her husband up for dead, and when her tears had dried, he wormed his way into his brother’s old bed.”

“But Black Gaerovald had not died, and at the end of that bloody war, Sigmar struck down his enemy, and the armies of the dead fell to bones and ash. The chieftain rode home to find his wife, who he loved more than anything in the whole blessed world, in the arms of his weasel brother, who had been too cowardly or too cunning to come with him and fight at his side. He flew into a terrible rage, laying about himself with that same sword as had cut down the walking dead at Sigmar’s side. When he came out of it, it was too late to turn back what he’d done. The love of his life lay dead at his feet, aye, and his brother, his own flesh and blood for all that he had been no virtuous man. Mad with grief, he fled into the woods all alone.”

The fire was burning low, lighting Wulli’s lined face from beneath as his voice became hushed and reverent.

“Gaerovald hid himself in the wild woods for three days, wandering like a lunatic. On the third day, when he couldn’t cry no more tears, they say he took up his sword again, and cut out his own heart, so that he mightn’t feel the pain of it any more. But before he did it, he wailed to the heavens, crying out that he gave his soul to any god who would forgive what he’d done – and the Ruinous Powers heard him.”

“He took that blade to his chest, the self-same sword that had cut through the walking dead at Sigmar’s side and shed the blood of his wife and brother, and he cut out his heart – but he didn’t die. His wish had been granted, and he walked the earth like the monsters he had fought, feelin’ no pain, no grief, no sorrow – but no love, no joy, nor happiness, nothin’ but the will of his master. He returned to his tribe, and his warriors were too a-feared to disobey his commands – he became the terror of the Middenland, the Heartless Man who marauded up and down the land in the name of his new god, leavin’ nothin’ but ruin and destruction behind to spread the suffering that had created him.”

“At last, the people united against him, but though they might slay his followers, no man could slay the warlord, for you can’t kill a man who’s already murdered himself. At their wit’s end, they went to the oldest wise woman of the Teutogens, and she told ‘em – that the only way to kill the Heartless Man was with his own sword, the sword that had already slain the dead, and was steeped in the blood of Gaerovald and his kin.”

“They ran him to ground not far from here, and there they broke the last of his followers. Black Gaerovald fought to the last, and they say he killed a hundred men that day before they brought him down. It took six of the strongest warriors to pin him to the ground, while the seventh tore the sword from his hand and cut him in pieces with his own cursed blade.”

“The chiefs of the Teutogens insisted that he be given a proper burial, out of respect for the man he’d been, afore Chaos swallowed him up. They raised a barrow over the spot where he died, and laid him to rest with his sword by his side, for they said the blade had seen too much evil for another man to wield.”

“Accordin’ to the legend, the barrow’s in the woods round here, overgrown and forgotten – none of them ancient folk would live near it, and they left the trees to grow over it. They say that when the Chaos Moon is full, Black Gaerovald stalks the forest paths, with his bloody sword in hand – for he can’t rest while there’s love and happiness among the living. That was his pact with the Powers – relief from his own misery, if he’d help drag the rest of the world down into that pit of despair he’d crawled out of.”

Leaning towards the nearest enraptured child, Wulli lowered his voice to a terrifying whisper.

“Even now, the northern woods are a fearful place, fit only for beastmen to lurk in. Brave men won’t tread there after nightfall, and those that do..."

Wulli drew his finger slowly across his throat.

"Well, you can’t expect no pity from a heartless man.”

The little child made himself as small as he could, eyes as wide as saucers. Wulli held his gaze for a long moment – then broke off, with a sudden, laughing grin. The inn laughed with him.

“That’s the story as they tell it, Mister Fischer. The Heartless Man’s been the name of the inn in Hohlesbruck since anyone can remember, and there’s your reason why.” He raised a welcoming hand towards the soldier. “We’ve told you our tale – now you’ve got to tell us yours!”

[-Sentinel-]

At the feast

Pieter pretended not to notice the lad glaring at him. A jealous peasant boy was nowhere near the scariest thing he had faced recently. Still, it was awfully early to be making enemies.

[hr]

After the feast

The initiate listened to both tales intently, taking his eyes off Wulli only to flash Ellie a quick grin. The first tale made him somewhat curious: many villages were said to shelter hedge witches, fearing them but allowing them to stay so long as they made themselves useful. Of course, for every actual witch, there were dozens of crazy old women without supernatural powers whatsoever. The second tale was decidedly a myth, like almost all stories from the time of Sigmar, but just as interesting as the first.

"I'll have a tale of my own, when Mr Fischer is done," Pieter offered.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd cleans his pipe as he listens to the tale with interest. He laughs along with the others at the end. Deciding not to grill the man with questions just yet, he settles in for Lothar's story - but he makes sure he'll recognize the storyteller by face and dress later.

OOC:

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if we get to a point where Sigurd can sit next to the storyteller and chat, he'll do so. If not ignore this:

Once he sits at the man's table he'll compliment the story and buy a round for the table. He says he's heard stories from some of the finest tellers in this part of the Empire, and this one was particularly memorable. "But I've heard say there are many barrows around Hohlesbruck, how do you know which is the one where the Heartless Man was buried?"

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Illiiya gave an uncertain look to the idea that she should stay, but so long as her companions chose to, she would as well. She sat somewhere peacefully to watch the dancing, the barest flicker of a smile crossing her face when she saw Pieter take to it with relish. So often lately his cheer had seemed forced, as if it were stretched too tightly over him with spots left bare. She was glad he seemed content, if for a while.

She lurked beside Ithelus for the remainder of the evening, until the bulk of the revelers had sifted off into the night or journeyed off to listen to tales told around the hearth fire. Illiiya followed along with Lothar and Pieter, though she seemed less willing to bring notice on herself... simply sitting in the back quietly and listening to the tales.

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Little Illiiya isn't really the sort to like attention, so she'll kinda lurk in the back (near Ithelus if he's a mind) and just listen to the stories, lost in thought. If anyone does try to speak to her they'll likely startle her.

[LCP]

As Lothar’s seat became centre stage, the Nordlander did not disappoint – he narrated his tale with grisly aplomb, and it did indeed have trolls in it.

When Mr Fischer had finished, Sigurd made his way over to where Wulli had been sat listening. The merchant made himself very welcome by getting in a round for the table – as he took his seat, Illiiya noticed that the dark-haired Breton had excused himself at some time during Lothar’s tale, and had vanished from the common hall.

Over at the innkeeper’s table, Sigurd’s attention still seemed to be on the tale of Black Gaerovald.

"I've heard say there are many barrows around Hohlesbruck. How do you know which is the one where the Heartless Man was buried?"

“Oh, no one does, sir,” said Wulli. “It’s only an old legend, and everyone knows ‘tis bad luck to go pokin’ around the mounds.” He paused. “I think the gentleman from Nuln might’ve been tryin’ to find it, but the beastmen got to him first.” The innkeeper took a swig of his own ale. “Fancy city scholar like ‘im, didn’t have no time for ghost stories.”

The door creaked, and Indigo crept back inside. Scurrying over to her master, the big wolfhound began nuzzling his shin rather insistently.

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Getting a round in sets Sigurd back twelve pfennigs. If any of you have plans that stretch as far as bedtime for your characters, please do post 'em up - no winged nightmares are going to come crashing through the windows just yet.

[-Sentinel-]

“I have a tale too,” Pieter put in. “A classic in the cities. The tale of the Count's new clothes.”

He cleared his throat and made sure he had everyone's attention.

“Elector Count Kaspar of Wissenland was an oaf of staggering vanity, who would squander his honest people's taxes on works of art for his palace in Nuln, lavish parties for the nobility, and the attentions of expensive courtesans. But most of all, he was a man who loved to dress well. He wasn't attractive, far from it, yet he believed that mantles of Cathayan silk and ermine capes were enough all by themselves to make him handsome as a god. He would seek out the very best tailors in the Empire and pay them kingly sums to make for him the most extravagant clothes ever seen. And every time the Count flaunted his latest clothes, a new fashion sprang among the local nobility, who sought their lord's favour by imitating him. This amused old Kaspar, for his pride swelled at how his tastes of the moment influenced his fellow nobles. But part of him also dreamed of one day wearing something that none of his lickspittles could ever afford, and so remind them that he still was above them.”

“There came a lean year, when all the common folks of Nuln starved. But would old Count Kaspar lower their taxes to ease their suffering? Of course not. He went on flaunting his wealth and donning the best clothes money could buy. That year, a young stranger by the name of Johann came into the city, and though he dressed like a vagabond, he bore a writ proclaiming him to be a wizard of the mysterious Grey Order... a master of illusion and deception. The young man sought an audience with the Count and made him an offer the vain old man couldn't possibly decline: for a thousand crowns, he would make him a unique set of clothing woven from the very strands of shadow magic... something no one but a wizard could make, and no one but a mighty lord could own. These clothes, Johann promised, would appear breathtakingly beautiful to the wise and the clever... but would be invisible to fools who could not appreciate their beauty. The Count was intrigued yet dubious, and demanded that the young man demonstrate that he was truly a wizard. Johann awed the entire court of Nuln with his spells of illusion, and Kaspar hired him on the spot.”

“And so the young man went to work in a workshop with a locked door and no windows. He toiled and toiled for several days, poking his head out only to ask for exotic tools and ingredients such as a needle carved from a unicorn's horn and a vial of dew collected from a spider's web. And meanwhile an excited rumor went on, at court and in the streets, about Count Kaspar's clothes that only the wise would ever see. Finally, Johann summoned his vain employer and had him stand still while he put the new clothes on him. But the Count was dismayed, for he could not see them! Was he a fool? He could certainly not allow it to show! So, when presented with a huge mirror, he exclaimed: 'Why, young man, never have I worn anything half so exquisite!' He proudly paraded in front of his wife, his advisors, his fellow nobles and his valets to hear what they would say... but though none could see the clothes, all meekly agreed that they were beautiful indeed.”

“The next day was Marktag, and like every Marktag, Count Kaspar flaunted his latest clothes in the crowded marketplace. By now everyone in Nuln had heard of the Count's enchanted clothes, and when they saw their lord, all hailed his garb as the work of the finest tailor the Empire had ever known: 'Look at this superb mantle! What lovely colors! How these pants suit him!'”

“Until a little girl shouted, loud enough for all to hear: 'But mom, the Count is naked!' Her mother, of course, she tried to shush her... but another cry went up from an old beggar who had no fear of passing for a fool: 'It's true, I can't see his clothes either!' More and more people took up the cry, until Kaspar himself understood that the young wizard had tricked him. Naked and embarrassed, he kept walking with his head up, holding on to whatever dignity he had left... and promised himself that his next garment would be the con man's flayed skin.”

“But by now, Johann, whose forged magic licence, skillful parlor tricks and glib tongue had truly shown what a fool Kaspar was, had already fled the palace with his pay. He distributed it to the poor people of Nuln to compensate for the tax money their lord had wasted on clothes, and kept but a tenth of it for himself.”

“There is another tale about how Johann managed to collect the bounty Count Kaspar put on his head, but that's for another night.”


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[Illiiya] sat somewhere peacefully to watch the dancing, the barest flicker of a smile crossing her face when she saw Pieter take to it with relish. So often lately his cheer had seemed forced, as if it were stretched too tightly over him with spots left bare. She was glad he seemed content, if for a while.

D'awww, she's sweet.