[WFRP] The Hour After Midnight (III)

[LCP]

"What of... the others?" he asked reluctantly, as if fearing the answer. "The slaves."

"Is that who they are?" said the man. "We've been trying to ascertain their identities. I'm afraid they haven't been able to help us much. Someone cut out their tongues."

"In any case, they'll be looked after. You have my word."

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

For near the entirety of the night, Illiiya had lay on her side, curled up in her cell. Only the most perceptive of souls would her hear softly speaking to no one in particular... muttering assurances that they were all right, and that everything would be fine. It would be a few hours before exhaustion claimed her and she feel asleep.

The morning brought to her a great deal of confusion, and it was not until she heard her friend's voices calling out that she crawled from her bed, looking frayed and vacant-eyed, with straw still in her hair, and listened to the strange man and what he was saying.

I just want to go... please... She said wearily to the newcomer as she sat upon the cold floor beside the bars of her cell, No one will say a word... just please let us go...

[-Sentinel-]

"I'm afraid they haven't been able to help us much. Someone cut out their tongues."

This explained Ana's near-incomprehensible speech, then. Pieter felt horribly disappointed: no witnesses left, unless one of them happened to be literate. His next feeling was guilt, for probably being the indirect cause of this. But how could he have known, and how could he have done anything about it? At least they were free now.

"Where's Magda? The blond one?" he inquired. "She's with us."

[LCP]

"Convalescing," replied the stranger. "Her arm has had to be resectioned."

[-Sentinel-]

"Hm. I'll have to pay her a visit before I go, if it's alright," Pieter murmured, wincing.

As if he needed even more guilt. If only he had insisted more strongly that she stay out of the whole thing, if only he had been more skilled at healing, if only he had remembered to remove the tourniquet before it deadened her arm's flesh... He tried to take it off his mind. Again, this was something he could not have done much about.

"Don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut about the whole Skaven thing." You have a Ranaldite's word of honor. "I don't care to revisit the past few days anyway, and no one would believe me. Thank you for everything, sir."


OOC:

Spoiler

Show

Awww, poor Magda.

I'm not really asking to roleplay the part where I visit Magda. It's only to see if Nameless Stranger evasively refuses the request, in which case I will become very suspicious about her fate.

[LCP]

"Well, then," said the stranger. "I'll see what can be done."

His eyes turned to Ithelus.

"And you, sir? Do you agree to the terms?"

[Exeson]

Ithelus moved over to Illiiya, no words coming from his mouth as he hugged her tight and cried.

At the question he fixed the man with a stare, and then a quick nod.

You're going to spend your whole life running... Coward.

[LCP]

“I knew you would understand,” said the man, with the slightest of smiles. Standing up, he straightened the creases in his clothes from where he had been sitting. “Well, then, I think our business is concluded. Arrangements will be made.”

Turning to leave, he paused in the doorway.

“I trust I don’t need to make clear what will happen should you choose to betray our trust,” he said, mildly. “We will be watching your careers with interest.”

Stepping through into the corridor beyond, the door closed behind him with a quiet click, and brisk footsteps receded rapidly away. It was at least an hour before the footsteps returned – the door creaked open, and the party found themselves looking up into the faces of a trio of guards. Their leader stared down at them with a frown you could hang a coat on.

“Up you get,” he barked. “Up and out.”

Their possessions were waiting for them in the castle courtyard, the guards who escorted trying their damnedest to pretend that what they were doing wasn’t happening. Inside the wooden chest, Lothar's old weapons nestled alongside a lonely-looking blunderbuss and broadsword. A small money-bag had discreetly been tucked away beside them, as if it had always been there.

The castle gates yawned open before them. Out over the snowy rooftops of the town, the broken crown of the Cathedral stood like a monument as the bright, wintry sun rose in the east, casting its rosy light against the flanks of the soaring tower. It seemed unlikely now that it would ever be finished.

“There's a wagon waitin' for you at the Emperor's Head. His Lordship said to tell you you might want to stop at Doc Rasen's."

The guard glowered at Pieter.

"You got 'til nightfall to get out of town,” he added, gesturing towards the open road down from the gatehouse. “I wouldn’t hang about, if I was you."

OOC:

Spoiler

Show

We're one update away from the big wrap-up. If I can get a summary of anything and everything you might want to do in Delberz before you leave, I can post it all up & conclude in the next GM post. Feel free to post IC or OOC, whatever's more appropriate

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Illiiya clung to Ithelus as they were let out, glad to know he was in one piece. She seemed to be in some far-off place again, just as she'd been when he first found her in the smoldering ruins of Gavinsburough, with her occasional soft muttering and far-off stare.

W-where are we going to go? She asked, seemingly out of the blue... seeming to slip back to the world for a few moments to look at her friends.

[goblinpaladin]

With something resembling delight, although with the fatigue and blossoming bruises all over his face it was hard to tell, Lothar buckled one of his old regimental swords about his waist. It was awkward, with only one hand, but he managed.

"Doc Rasen, first. He -ow- needs to set this," he said, wincing. "And I'd like to see him and make sure he is all fine before we leave."

[-Sentinel-]

"You got 'til nightfall to get out of town,” one of the guards said, gesturing towards the open road down from the gatehouse. “I wouldn’t hang about, if I was you."

"We got no reason to," the initiate assured him.

But where to go now? Didn't matter. Elsewhere was good enough. Pieter's Strigany blood stirred at the mere thought of hitting the road again. The idea that anyone could tolerate settled life was beyond him.

With a satisfied grin, the Ranaldite retrieved his good old shortsword, his trusty deck of cards and his clerical brown robes. Then his eyes hungrily went to the money bag. Before he went to Rasen's, he would need to stop at the Altmarket to buy a little something or two for Magda.


OOC:

Spoiler

Show

No idea how much money I have now, but I'll give Magda the following:

• A good shirt (worth, say, around 1 gc) to replace the one that got ruined.
• Two tiny gold earrings (Best Craftsmanship) for 1 gc.
• A box of sweets. Is one shilling reasonable?
• The old deck of cards I took from a Hound, so she can play solitaire and get practice at performing tasks one-handedly.
• Another kiss? If she'll have it, of course.

Depending on how much money I end up with, I might leave a few crowns on her bedside table. Oh, and maybe also a few crowns for Dr Rasen, who's always been so kind and helpful.

But more important than money is.......... XP.

[Exeson]

Ithelus nods to the guard's words. Securing his possessions he grunted realising he was two throwing knives down. A bit of shopping to be done then. 'I say we see the Doc first' he says as he swings his crossbow over his shoulder absent mindedly and the suddenly grunting in pain.

With a deft motion he picked up the bag and counted out his and Illiiya's share.

[LCP]

Two guards stood at Doctor Rasen’s door, one of them puffing slowly on a pipe as he sat on the only step clear of snow. The narrow house stood on its narrow street the same as it had looked on their first day in the town – only the shattered Cathedral spire to the west, and the smell of smoke still lingering on the south wind, betrayed the fact that anything had changed.

Inside, the Doctor was asleep, slumped with his hands folded across his chest on a chair whose horsehair stuffing was leaking from the corners. The plague-doctor’s mask hung on a hook on the wall over his head: beside him on the table stood an empty glass and a bottle of brandy, two-thirds gone.

He started awake as Lothar coughed. Blinking, his eyes widened as he saw who was standing before him.

“...Goodness,” he said. His eyes immediately went to their wrists, looking for shackles. “I take it you’re not for the gallows, then.”

Rising stiffly from the chair, he looked around at each of them. “Well, I can’t say I’m not glad.” He cracked a faint smile. “It’d be a pity to lose my most regular customers.” His eyes flicked to Lothar’s other arm. “I take it that’s why you’re here.”
“Among other things, aye.”
“Don’t suppose you can pay, this time? Only, I heard about young von Brucker.” The doctor’s smile faded. “A man can’t keep himself in shoes pro bono, I’m afraid.”

He seemed pleasantly surprised to see their bag of coin – though he restrained himself from the question that showed clearly in his eyes, of how they got it. With a surprisingly steady hand, he set to work.

“I’ve been told not to ask questions,” he said, drily. “Apparently, they’re going to explain it all some time soon. Writing up the proclamation now, no doubt.” He glanced towards the window. “I hear they’re saying it was the storm. Some storm, hm?”

Their injuries almost seen to, he went back to his surgery to fetch his tools. The door left open behind him, Pieter hurried forwards as he saw a familiar figure lying inside. A camp-bed had been made for Magda, the young woman deep in sleep. Below the elbow, her arm was a bandaged stump.

“They wanted to send her to the Temple of Shallya to recuperate,” said Rasen, quietly, “but I didn’t want to leave her in the hands of those prayer-mumblers.” He looked at the bundle of things under Pieter’s arm. “I wouldn’t wake her, if I were you. Leave them here and I’ll make sure she knows who left them.” He looked down at Magda’s pale face. “Not much work for a printer, with only one arm. Still, I’m sure she’ll find something.”

Finishing his work, the doctor received his pay: he looked rather surprised when Lothar made the gift of his sword.

“Oh.” He turned the weapon around in his hand, with the air of complete uncertainty. “Um, thank you. It’s very... pointy.”

Setting it down, he held out a hand to Lothar, looking him straight in the eye.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, warmly shaking the soldier’s good hand. “Now promise me never to come back,” he laughed. “I’ve had to perform quite enough amputations for one week.”

As they said their goodbyes, the guards parted to let them pass. Down the road, a gaggle of Hounds were engaged in a vehement argument with a troop of guards – as they set off towards the Emperor’s Head, Pieter could not help but smile at the sight of the Militiamen being pushed away, one of the watchmen collecting their white ribbons. It was a sight they had already seen once or twice on the way here: the shadow of von Kemperbad’s hand was finally being lifted from over the town.

The wagon was waiting for them by the drinking-trough outside the Emperor’s Head, just as the nameless stranger had promised. The driver turned as they approached: Lothar stopped as he recognised Jurgen Mettrinker, from the quarry wagons.

“Mister Fischer!” he called, waving one hand. “Climb aboard!”

The cart was just as rickety as Lothar and the elves remembered it, Jurgen’s face just as florid and red. Turning to grin at them, the garrulous waggoner peered at Pieter for a moment.

“What a day, eh? Everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout the Cathedral there. ‘s more excitement than I’ve seen in years!” He gestured expressively, the spirits in the flask he was holding sloshing as he did so. “Can’t believe I was out of town. Anyway, make yerselves comfortable.”

The carthorses whinnied wearily as he pulled them away from their hay and water. The cart rumbled around towards the Altdorf road, picking up the pace to a gentle trot.

“You’ll have to tell me the whole story!” said Jurgen, turning his head to shout over his shoulder. As he did so, the rattling wagon left the last of the crowded streets behind. Behind them, the sun shone down on the whole of Delberz, its light catching the broken tower like a sundial. Ahead of them, the open road yawned, the trees of the Great Forest raising their bare branches beyond the empty fields.

“So tell me,” callsed Jurgen, hands on the reins. “...You folks ever been to Eldagsen? ”

[hr]

In the dark hall of the Castle, the Baron picked listlessly at his food, looking up at his guest.

“It was very good of you to come so quickly, Lord Katzenholm,” he said. “I’m amazed at how quickly you heard.”
“Just doing my public duty, your lordship,” said the grey-and-green-clad stranger, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “It’s just fortunate I was so close.”
“And you’re sure it was...”
“The details, I’m sure, will become clear in time,” he said, smoothly. Pushing his chair back from the table, he rose to his feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be continuing on. Altdorf waits, you know.”
“You’re sure you won’t stay? It would be the least we could do.”
“Thank you – but I’m sure that entertaining guests is the last thing you desire at present.” He bowed low. “I have the greatest sympathy for your lordship’s loss. No, my coach is waiting.”
“Well, then,” said the Baron. “Go with my thanks.”
“I shall. And thanks to you again, for your kind hospitality.”

Walking with brisk footsteps, Lord Katzenholm turned and left. Behind him, the Baron lowered his head slowly into his hands.

[hr]

2509 I.C.
Vorhexen

The city of Altdorf sprawled in a sea of rooftops beneath a heavy, drifting rain, the smoke of a thousand chimneys chopped and churned by uncounted armies of raindrops. On the western side of the great river Reik, the iconic architecture of the Empire’s capital raised a forest of spires against the sodden sky, the gilded dome of the Temple of Sigmar gleaming defiantly through the murk. Far away to the south-east, fires were burning high in the sooty towers of the Bright College. They always were.

Such monuments of the great and the good, however, were of little concern to the woman who struggled through the rain-drenched street below. Her belly was a burden to her, clearly in the final stages of a long pregnancy – despite her condition, she walked alone, clutching a thick, plain woolen cloak against the weather. The odd Altdorfer watched her pass with a curious eye, but none stopped to ask her story, or lend a helping hand.

Footsteps rippling in the puddles that pooled between the cobbles, she found her muddy way to the door of a tall, narrow house in one of the grander districts. The polished brass knocker pounded on the door for almost a minute before it creaked open, an unseen servant ushering her inside...

Midnight, or near enough. The screams of a woman in labour rose from the house with the brass knocker, muffled by its thick stone walls – at its back, by the servant’s entrance, a cloaked figure lingered. Anyone could have told that the screams from within were not the sounds of a delivery going well, but the bent little man in his hooded rags watched the moons tracking across the clouded sky with an air of quiet boredom.

At length, the last of the howls of pain faded away – replaced by the quieter, sobbing cries of an infant. Looking round in sudden anticipation, the hooded figure let himself inside.

Inside, a fire flickered behind an ornate iron grate, dying for want of fuel. Wrapped in a bloodstained white shift, the woman who had struggled through the rain and the mud lay in the centre of the room, completely still. Beside her, a tall, sharp-faced man sat with his head in his hands: but for the touches of grey beginning to creep into his black hair, Theophilus von Kemperbad would have been difficult to recognise, thirteen years and a lifetime’s fear younger.

He had turned his chair away from a basket in the corner – there, wrapped in white linen, was the only source of sound in the room save the dying crackle of the fire. A newborn baby, still red and wrinkled, wriggled and grasped at the air, giving out the occasional cry: one leg was withered and twisted, something more like an animal’s paw taking the place of its foot.

Very slowly, von Kemperbad spoke.

“I know you’re there,” he said, not raising his head from his hands. “I can smell you.”

Hooded head bowed low, the ragged stranger stepped out from around the doorway.

“You said...” began the priest. “You said the child would be stillborn. You didn’t...”
He looked up.
“What was in that vial?”
“A remedy,” answered the stranger, evasively. His manner was grovelling and supplicant. “A thousand apologies that the mother had such an... unfortunate reaction.”
“Look at it!” cried von Kemperbad, raising his voice for the first time as he pointed to the child in the crib. “Look at it! My son, touched by Chaos. This... this is your doing.”

The cowled head shook slowly from side to side once more.
“The infant was already corrupted, in its mother’s womb. There is no other explanation for how this could have happened. The fault must lie with the mother’s line.” There was a significant pause, a little of the stranger’s contrived contrition evaporating with it. “Or with the father’s seed.”

Those last five words seem to strike von Kemperbad into silence. Looking round at the baby as if it were a bomb with a fizzing fuse, the priest’s face went paler still.
“The mother,” he said. “I knew nothing of her.”
He hesitated again.
“What must I do?” he whispered.
“Surely you know!” exclaimed the ragged figure, scurrying into the room with a startling alacrity. “You are a godly man, hm? A man of Sigmar? What must be done with the changed?”
Von Kemperbad stepped back as the cowled figure came closer, wrinkling his nose. His face was frozen in indecision, eyes flickering between the infant in the cot and the shadowy trespasser.

“Ahh, but you are not a killer. Not your own flesh and blood. Not your own son.” Creeping around in a tight circle around the immobile priest, the hooded figure leant in closer. “This was an accident,” he whispered. “Why should you suffer for it more than you already have? You have the potential to become a great man. For your Empire. For your Church.”

“I can take the child, feed him, clothe him. I can hide him away. He will live out his life in safety and shelter, and no-one will ever know of his father... or what happened here tonight.”

Moving with a fiendish swiftness, the ragged robe scuttled round to stand in front of von Kemperbad’s chair. Looking up, the priest seemed almost transfixed by the stranger’s unseen eyes, one bandaged hand snaking out from beneath the tattered rags once again for him to shake.

“You will hide him... where no-one else can see?”

“Not one human soul.” Beneath the hood, a glimmering grin slashed the darkened face. “And all I ask in return is my one favour. An excellent bargain... yes-yes?”

For a long moment, von Kemperbad hesitated.

Then, slowly, he reached out and shook the proffered hand.

[hr]

Speeding down the narrow road from the Castle gates, an unmarked coach descended into the stone and timber sprawl of Delberz. Over the rooftops, the shattered spike of the Cathedral spire gleamed in the sun, the populace of the town scurrying through the snow of the new day with an excited hubbub. The great wheels of the rumour mill were already a-spin, but there was something else in the air – the lifting of a shadow they had not even known was there, a lingering weight of fear finally dissolved in the bright, wintry light of morning.

The coach headed west into the narrow roads surrounding the nobles’ manors, quickly leaving the growing crowds behind: beside a rather nondescript, run-down old house on Blucher Street, it stopped abruptly, the driver evidently receiving a command from within. Opening the door for himself, Lord Katzenholm stepped down onto the street, signalling for his driver to wait as he walked purposefully into the alleyway beside the house.

If someone had followed him, down that dingy alley and around its dog’s-leg bend, to the boxed-in courtyard where the sewer grate sat reeking, they might have seen something peculiar. If anyone had been watching, they might have seen the curious figure who waited in the shadows, or the strange exchange of words that took place there. If they had watched closely, they might even have seen what it was that Katzenholm took, that he placed in his pocket as he walked back towards the waiting carriage.

Nobody watched, and nobody saw. On Blucher Street, the well-dressed nobleman clambered back into his coach, and the driver urged his horses on towards the Altdorf road, iron-rimmed wheels churning up slush behind them.

In the dark courtyard where the sun didn't reach, something pulled the sewer grate back into place with a scrape of iron. Just barely audible over the distant clamour of the city, scuttling footsteps faded away into the blackness...

"The Lord Sigmar sends me visions of hell! I see gigantic treadmills eternally turning in the dark. I see uncountable masses of swarming vermin standing on their hindlegs in a foul parody of Man. I see bloated queens with atrophied limbs breeding their rotten offspring. All this I see, and in my head the dreadful tolling of the cursed bells still screams. It won't stop! The multitude of red eyes stare at us from the darkness of the sewers and graves. They loathe us, and they will rise to devour us all for our sins! Make it stop, make it stop!"

- H. Bosc, Imperial Scholar. Declared insane 2427 I.C., died 2432.