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It was coming to the end of Jahrdrung in the year of our Lord Sigmar 2523, and the sun shone brightly for all that it was a damnably cold day. The promise of spring was in the air, even the black branches of the Drakwald forest looking as if they might contemplate the concept of bearing leaves... provided that such idle musings weren’t taken as any kind of a promise.
The coaching inn at Rosche was a sturdy place, as old as the village itself – indeed, the only reason there was a village here at all was because of the inn, serving traders on the Drakwald road between Marienburg and the south. The muddy courtyard was busy with carters harnessing their horses, the inn’s serving-boy trying to weave between them while carrying a stack of cut firewood that was rather too heavy for his skinny arms to carry. There was a smell of woodsmoke on the air, and from the village itself, the distant babble of geese.
Inside, the innkeeper sat at his stool, polishing a mug with a scrap of linen. He was used to strangers passing through, but the quartet that sat in his common hall at that particular point in time were particularly strange. A pair of strikingly dissimilar men, and a pair of elves, one male, one female. There were stories of elves in Laurelorn to the north, but they were supposed to keep very much to themselves. It had been a long time since even a single elf had passed through Rosche.
He glanced down as he saw the narrow-faced young man look his way, finding something very interesting at the bottom of the mug he was cleaning. From outside, the busy noises of the courtyard were growing louder – one by one, the heads in the common hall turned as they rose into a shouting-match.
The door to the inn slammed open, and a single man came storming through – a merchant or rich burgher, from the cut of his clothes. Short and pudgy, his pug-dog face was set in a scowl, the mutton-chop sideburns that framed it bristling madly.
“You’ll regret this, Feigel!” he shouted, his voice cracking. He had a tinge of a country man’s accent to his speech, growing stronger the louder he grew. “You mark me! You’ll never work in these parts again!”
From outside, there came a murmur of other voices, some of them seeming to jeer at the little round man. There was a rumble of hoofbeats – the man in the doorway turned puce, looking as if he might explode.
“NEVER! YOU HEAR ME? NEVER!”
As the stranger stood there shaking, the horsemen’s hooves pulled out of the courtyard. The man looked on the verge of apoplexy – jumping up and down on his tip-toes, he shook his fist after them, yelling hoarsely at the top of his voice until the sound of the horses was fading into the distance. Staring wildly after them, he finally fell silent. Then, with a sudden gasp he clutched at his chest, falling sideways...
The others in the inn were peering at the man in the doorway, some rising from the chairs - sliding down against the doorframe, he seemed to be having trouble breathing, his face the colour of a ripe tomato. Bloodshot eyes looking up at Pieter, he tried to say something, but his throat seemed constricted...
The soldier pushed himself to his feet, pushing aside the scraps of stew left in his bowl. "You need a priest o' Morr, not a soldier, Pieter," he said as he came over. "Unless he's just chokin' on somethin'."
Spoiler
Let's make an Int roll to see if Lothar's smarter than I am.
(1d100)[94] - nope
(oh, and incidentally, Sentinel- forks weren't common yet in the period analogous to this, either :P)
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
Holding the man under the arms, Pieter pulled him upright – no mean feat, considering the man’s pudding-like build. Straightened out, he gasped in a great wheezing cough of a breath, the crimson effusion of his face seeming to lessen a little.
Others were flocking around, the innkeeper among them.
“Mr Faulebrand, sir! Shallya’s mercy, someone fetch a bucket of water!”
“Give him some air!”
“Put his feet up over his head!”
“Get a bowl! ‘E needs to be bled!”
The portly man lay on the floor, coughing convulsively. By fate or blind luck, it seemed the immediate crisis had passed.
The petite elven woman sat quietly in the common hall, surrounded by her companions and saying little as she drank her watered ale. The observant onlooker might notice she sat a bit closer to her tall, bearded companion than the others... but then, most went out of their way to avoid drawing an elf's attention. Everyone knew elves were dangerous, and something about the fragile-seeming thing was a bit off-putting.
She was dressed fairly well for her surroundings, in a simple dress that seemed clean, with a heavy cloak over it and tall, warm cloth boots laced up to her knee. It was hardly the garb of the rich, but in a place where worn and stained garb was the order of the day, it was something that might catch the eye... as was the skinny cat curled up under the table by her feet. The creature had followed her in here entirely on it's own, and now appeared to be sleeping off the scraps of her food she had given it.
The cat paid more heed to the porty man's tantrum than she did, looking up and bristling up defensively at the loud noises while his keeper spared barely a glance before returning to staring off into her mug as if the secrets of life itself lie within.
As the newcomer collapsed and several of her companions rushed to him, she finally looked up, seeming almost shocked by the sudden noise as if she'd entirely failed to notice any of the racket until her allies moved and she felt briefly exposed in their absence. She still did not rise, but she watched them intently, seeming more concerned after them than the portly man and his sudden brush with Morr.
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"You might want t' calm down, 'less you want another o' these fits." The burly soldier scratched at his newly-regrown beard. "Shallya seems t' like you today, but if you keep datin' the daughter, you'll meet the father."
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
“He’s right, Mister Faulebrand,” added the innkeeper. “Carrying on like that, you’ll do yourself an injury.”
“A-hum,” coughed the man. “Well, maybe you’re right, sir. Sigmar knows such, such vagabonds aren’t worth my time.”
His rural accent had waned, slowly being replaced by what a commoner might imagine to be the way important people spoke.
He looked up at the people standing over him. “Give me a hand up, will you? I have very important business to attend to at home.” He looked around the inn, his lips moving silently. “Business which mustn’t be delayed.”
His eyes seemed to fix on Lothar for the first time.
Lothar blinked. "Er, me? I'm a soldier. Was a soldier." He waved a hand vaguely. "Fought in the War, got discharged, that sort o' thing." He nodded around at Pieter and their table. "This lot're with me."
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
The man's eyes followed Lothar's gesture with a sudden, keen interest.
"Would they be... soldiers... too?" he asked, immediately seeming to doubt himself as he laid eyes on them. "You see, I find myself divested of guards," - he shot a venomous look towards the door, "and I must get back to Hohlesbruck immediately, sir, immediately, but there are bandits on the road. You look to me a capable man - what would you say to an offer of employment, eh?"
"Er." Lothar blinked, clearly taken aback by the offer- certainly he was armed, but this rotund man barely knew him. "Well, we come as a group, so I suppose that would be down to the others."
"What're you offerin' to pay us- and what're you transporting? Just yerself?"
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
"Myself, and, ah," - he lowered his voice a little - "some funds I am carrying with me. I am returning from trading in Altdorf, very profitable trading, I might say - but my so-called 'guards' thought they would find better prospects continuing to Marienburg from here," he added, with a bitter barb.
"You understand it's a matter of great urgency - I would chance it alone, but for the money. It's my daughter's engagement, you see, to Ricard Talberg. Of the Talabheim Talbergs. Can't be late home for that!" He puffed out his chest like a pouter pigeon, his country man's accent vanishing almost entirely. "I'll give you a gold crown a head, and you'll be welcome at the feast - a better bargain you won't find north of Araby, my friend."
At first, Pieter could not help but feel that a trip with this kind of man would not be an overly pleasant one. And for once in his life, his purse was already full. But if Lothar said yes, Illiiya would probably want to follow him... and Ithelus would go wherever Illiiya went.
Then the man said something that caught Pieter's attention.
"Oh, your daughter's getting engaged?" He smiled genuinely, not his usual lazy smirk. "I'm happy for you. It's not something you're allowed to miss. If you say true, I'm confident the gods will guard us. What do you say, sarge?" he asked Lothar with an almost imperceptible hint of irony.
It's not as if I have anywhere important to go, he thought.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
The second elf, the male one, had remained silent throughout the whole scene. He is wearing a hooded coat that had obviously been repaired a few times, and gloves that had seen better days. Either he had no money or clothes were not a concern to this creature. With a shake of his head he pulls out a pipe and a pouch, and with a very deliberate movements he fills the pipe with pipe weed. He then pulls out another, smaller pouch and takes a pinch of brown power, sprinkling into the pipe as well.
At the mention of work and marriage Ithelus looks up, 'It's not like we have anything else to do, except keep on running of course.' he says with a slight grin, 'Plus I have a good feeling about this'
He lights a match and holds it to the pipe, taking a deep draw as it ignites, giving off a faint sickly sweet scent.
It was only when Ithelus chose to involve himself that Illiiya finally seemed to give the situation at hand any thought. She leaned over to scoop up Mr Cat, letting the feline rest in her lap as she looked to Ithelus with a slight sigh.
For those who speak elven only.
Spoiler
A good feeling? Ith... She said in a soft, disapproving voice, One crown each to be yelled at by a fat, weezing human for days upon the road? We do not need the money, do we?
She gave a soft sigh as she spoke in the elven tongue, and her tone did not suggest a hearty recommendation.
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The door darkens. Still open from the man's fit, a shadow now blocks the sunlight glowing in.
Filling the door is a human man: fairly tall, lean of build, in the start of his middle years. He wears a well-kept traveling coat and cloak, the edge of a grey scarf showing beneath it, a leather satchel bag hanging from his shoulder and a long cane in his hand. A wide brimmed hat, waxed against rain or sleet, rests across his head--with a wisp of brown-going-grey hair sneaking out of it. His face is neutral as he surveys the scene in the bar.
Another silhouette moves beside him, and a great shaggy blond hound trots in.
The man's gaze moves from the red-faced merchant across the room, pausing for just a second on the elves. He doesn't seem incredulous or afraid, just interested for a beat before he steps over the threshold.
The dog noses around, finding Faulebrand's hat on the ground. She sniffs at it curiously. Before she can do more, the stranger swoops up the hat with his cane and holds it out at the merchant.
"Mister... Faulebrand, was it?"
His dog makes her way toward the hearth, stopping halfway and looking at Illiiya. Changing course, the dog trots over to Mister Cat instead.
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In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
Pieter arched an eyebrow in puzzlement. The situation was decidedly getting confusing. The initiate almost instinctively shrank back from the dog; he hated dogs, big ones in particular.
"Um. So you're looking for guards too?" he asked the newcomer uncertainly. "Or are you offering to work as one?"
That Sigurd fellow did not look like a warrior... but then again, neither did Pieter.
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
The man's eyes move from Faulebrand over to Pieter, taking in the young traveler for a second time. Then his face breaks into a deeper smile and he chuckles.
As if in answer, he lifts his cloak to reveal a hip not girded with any weapons.
"I am quite incapable at such a line of work," he says. "And looking for guards is like looking for trouble. Asking for either one tends to bring both."
He moves to one of the chairs near the door and watches Indigo with amusement as the hound sticks its nose at the cat. He produces a pipe as he goes on.
"Looking more for companions on the road I suppose. There's always safety in numbers, and I've waited a right few days now. Couldn't have hoped to be so lucky as to find a bona fide soldier and, erm, friends."
He nods at Lothar at the world "soldier."
__________________
In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
Mr Faulebrand caught his hat with a sudden, snatching motion, clutching it to his chest.
"Hm. It sounds to me like you are looking for guards," he said. He sniffed. "Just looking not to pay for it as well."
He put the hat on his head, straightening it out and turning fully to face the newcomer with an air of bumptious self-regard. He tried to mask his discomfort at the proximity of the enormous dog.
"It seems you and me are both going the same way, Mr Waite, whereas these gentlemen... and lady... aren't, unless they're paid. I'll offer you a fifty-fifty split of the expense, and you can't say fairer than that."
Ithelus regarded the newcomer with curiosity, the dog with fear. With a lazy grin he turns back to Illiiya, 'See, told you I had a good feeling about this.' Whether his tone is sarcastic or not is hard to tell.
"Mm." Lothar patted his pouches for his own pipe; the site of others lighting up reminded him that he needed the sweet scent of Breton 'baccy. "A crown apiece for- how many days was it? An' now watchin' two well-dressed, wealthy chaps."
He pulled leaf from his pouch and started filling the bowl. "Tell you what: Pieter here's smarter'n me about money stuff. I'll let you talk it out with him, an' Handrich'll sort you out." He clapped Pieter on the back with one hand, winking. The other brushed his belt as he returned the excess pipeweed- as the Ranaldite cleric would have long ago spotted, it had a pattern of small crosses worked into the leather.
Leaving the pair of proto-capitalists to be fleeced negotiated with, the soldier rejoined the others and lit his pipe.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
Sigurd chews the stem of his empty pipe, not yet producing weed with which to fuel it. "I rather find the dog to be quite more useful than a caravan guard," he explains, and his eyes drift away as if preoccupied with more important business.
"If these lot aren't going our way, I'll give you my company and the presence of a well-trained dog free of charge," he offers. "And if they are coming, in your employ or out, I'll offer them the same deal--neither paying for their protection, nor charging them for the dog's."
He shrugs. "It doesn't matter much to me."
Unless anyone intervenes, Indigo greets Mister Cat with a giant lick on the face.
__________________
In real life I quit my job and left my home to become a professional adventurer. The Great Adventure
Illiiya watched the large dog trot over to her, feeling Mr. Cat tense up in her lap. She displayed no particular fear of the animal, but the cat was another story entirely. It stood and raised it's haunches, giving a low, rumbling hiss as the dog approached. The hound knew no fear and licked the cat's face, and Illiiya jumped as claws dug into her lap.
I'shara! She called out, plucking the cat from her lap, No claws! It is just a hound.
Illiiya placed the cat on the table, letting it fuss and recoil from the dog as it choosed, and held out the palm of a hand to the big hound for it to inspect.
You are a good puppy, yes? She asked the animal in a soft voice, scratching it's head, before she turned to Ithelus, I suppose it's fine. If you wish to go, we can go.
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[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart
