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Lothar chewed on the inside of his cheek. "You're sayin' that Illiiya's alive, then? Or just tryin' to say that Ith likes her more'n me?" He coughed and fiddled with his hands, looking down.
"I'm pretty fond of Ith an' Pieter, but I'd save my sister afore either o' them, an' Ith and Ill are like brother an' sister." Lothar shrugged awkwardly. "So I can't fault that choice."
He looked back up at the old man. "But if she's alive, Mister, then I've gotta get back to 'em. I don't mean to be rude, an' you're really polite, but it's a little urgent. We'll be back here," he added, gesturing at the cliffside, "all the sooner."
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
"Brother and sister," said the old man, slowly. There was the slightest hint of a smirk on his wrinkled face. Somehow, that mundane expression seemed unutterably sinister. "Is that right."
Straightening up with an almost audible creak of old bones, the old man hobbled over to the edge of the cliff, seeming to move less spryly than before. Down among the rocks below, the tiny shape of weed-encrusted planks were visible swirling in the eddies. The flotsam of some long-forgotten wreck, only now thrown up to the surface.
"You're very keen to be moving on, Mr Fischer," said the old man. The mocking undercurrent had gone, replaced by a kind of quiet resignation. "Be careful, young man. Sometimes, you're better off where you are."
Turning around, he placed a hand on Lothar's shoulder.
"Nothing lasts forever."
Without another word, he walked away into the woods. The forest had stolen closer when Lothar had looked away - it was at the boundary of the graveyard now, twisted roots pushing under the old drystone walls.
Backing up, Lothar looked down at the town below. The lights had gone out, and the streets had disappeared. Instead the sea ran through them, a calm, slow tide creeping up the river. From the square to the harbour, still water gleamed like lead in the morning sun.
The rooftops that rose from the waters looked as if they had been ruined for decades, many fallen in or rotted away. In the murky canals that had once been roads, decaying driftwood swirled aimlessly on the tide, shaggy with green beards of seaweed.
There was a muffled sound beneath his feet, and Lothar felt the earth give way. With a start, he opened his eyes.
~
It was morning. It was difficult for Lothar to tell how long he'd been asleep, but that pale glow in the east could only be the sun.
Some of the fatigue was gone, and he could think again, though that only focused his attention on the pain in his eye. More pressing even than that, though, was the thing that had woken him.
Making snuffling sounds like wet gravel being snorted through a sock, the biggest, ugliest boar he had ever seen was determinedly trying to eat one of his boots. Easily Lothar's weight and half again, its face was a mass of gnarled, scarred skin, sprouting such a cage of tusks that it looked more tusk than pig. The stink of its bristly, matted fur was overpowering.
Beady eyes focused intently on the job at hand, it didn't yet seem to have noticed that Lothar was awake...
OOC:
Spoiler
I already said that you have your daily Fortune Points back, I think? You've also slept, so remember to credit yourself with one regained wound if you haven't already.
Lothar nearly started, but years of soldier training clamped down hard on that part of his mind. Instead he exhaled slowly, carefully, and glanced around. Pain shot through his head and he couldn't see anything other than a reddish haze on his left, but he needed to get an idea of where he was lying to know how to get out.
Good Nordland boot, that. Don't envy the poor bugger tryin' to eat that thing. He'll have more luck with me toes. Little wiggly toes. Wiggle-wiggle. Heh. Like li'l crunchy minnows, bones going crunch-crunch. Maybe he should 'ave 'em on toast, like kipppers. Um. Right. Looking around. Don't let the boar eat your foot, Lothar. You'll get home and Ma'll have your guts for garters, losin' things like that. Remember the time Elfi lost that string you gave her? This'd be worse. 'First your eye, Lothar, an' now your bloody foot, what am I supposed to do with you', Ma'd say.
Noticing that, upon rising, he would not slide into the gaping mouth of the Tusked Boar of the Drakwald, a legendary beast no-one ever heard of until right this moment and why is everything so wet first thing in the morning anyway, Lothar very carefully scrabbled about for a loose stone in the scree that was his very comfortable, completely relaxing bed. Finding one, he cast it with all his right-now-rather-inconsiderable strength in some random direction. A direction that was 'not my boot, please stop eating that'.
The soldier, not waiting to see if the boar was distracted, scrambled to his feet and moved in what was hopefully another direction from it.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
The stone plinked off the far wall of the gully. Raising its head with a snort, the boar turned its massive head in the direction of the sound - then gave an enraged squeal as Lothar jumped to his feet, taking to his heels in the opposite direction.
OOC:
Spoiler
Lothar's ploy with the stone buys him a Surprise Round, in which he Stands and takes a half move away. Since the boar is surprised, it doesn't get to try to gore him as he moves out of contact.
Initiative:
Lothar - (1d10+41)[44] Tuskgor - (1d10+32)[40]
Map:
Spoiler
The dark area shows the gully floor; the grey lines show the gully walls. The breaks in the walls show where it's possible to move freely out of the gully (slopes). The grey boulders show where the gully wall is impassable; lines without boulders can be climbed with a Scale Sheer Surface check (no modifiers). This can be done as part of a full move: it costs you four squares off the distance you move, and you stop dead if you fail the test. Obviously the boar cannot climb the gully walls.
There are two types of trees shown: stunted trees (those whose trunk takes up only one square), and mature trees (those whose trunk sits across four squares). Mature trees can be climbed: as part of any move other than a Charge or Run, on making contact with the base of the tree you make a Strength check. Passing the test lets you climb two yards (one "square"); each further degree of success lets you climb another two yards. This test can be repeated in subsequent turns to climb higher. Once you have climbed a distance > 2 yards, you are out of the boar's reach.
Stunted trees are too slim to bear Lothar's weight at any height the boar could not reach, but all trees have impassable trunks. As a rules reminder you may or may not need: to make a Charge Attack, the last two squares of the boar's movement must be in a straight line.
The map is quite small, because I am lazy. If you want to move off the edge, feel free: I'll just extend it.
Something eating at her... Like how she let your betrothed be poisoned without speaking up.
No good would come from revealing the truth. Still, a mean-spirited part of Pieter hoped that Esther would be devoured by remorse until the day she died.
After a long, thoughtful silence, he spoke. "There were... rumors that painted you as shallow and selfish when it came to... you and Esther. It was part of why I didn't like you. But I can see you care more about her than some think. You should be there for her when she needs it. I can tell Mr Faulebrand resents her for what happened to his daughter, even though she had no part in it, and he may not be the only one. The gods know Esther's had enough loneliness already..."
The initiate was not sure what he was trying to accomplish here. Reluctantly, he realized that he wanted Ricard to be happy, even if it meant giving Esther a friendship she no longer deserved. The young man had lost a lot to the doctor's machinations; more than even he himself knew. How could Pieter dislike him now?
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Ricard took a moment to parse what Pieter had said. "Me go up there? Gods, how would that look?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
Looking back down into the forest, he paused before continuing. "Shallow and selfish, fair call. She seemed to take it alright, though. Wasn't much else for it, though, you know?" He sighed. "I wouldn't be marrying the daughter of the Drakwald's biggest bore if I had much of a choice."
As Pieter left, Illiiya's gaze followed him, a look of worry across her face. She loathed to be separated now. As if some horrible daemon were going to swoop in and claim one of her few remaining friends, should she take her eyes off him for even a moment. Choking down the feeling of dread, she took Ithelus' hand.
Let's find someplace to rest, Ith. She said to him, almost meekly, You'll stay with me... won't you?
__________________
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Pieter suppressed a chuckle, wondering if Mr Faulebrand had any idea what people said about him when he was not around.
"Esther took it alright, you say? Careful, Talberg, some people have a way of hiding their feelings. I can't claim to know Esther, but I do consider myself good at reading people, and I suspect she finds it hard to turn the page."
It hardly took a genius to figure that out, but saying any more was difficult without mentioning what Esther had allowed to happen to have Talberg back.
"I... didn't mean to sound self-righteous, sorry. We can drop the subject if you like."
Spoiler
I can't remember if Lothar shared with Pieter the fact that Esther's relationship with Ricard supposedly went a step or two beyond what is generally expected of unmarried couples.
Quote:
Originally Posted by LCP
"Wasn't much else for it, though, you know?"
Forgive my imperfect grasp of English, but what does Talberg mean by that?
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Ithelus put a hand under Illiiy's chin and gently lifts her eyes to his. 'I don't want you to get my sickness. But I'll stay illiiya. For you I will.'
I should take her, we should run. Leave these humans behind us.
Pieter thought he sensed Ricard prickle a little at his warning. At some basic level, he was still a commoner speaking to a gentleman; even at the top of this chilly tower, that apparently couldn't be forgotten. Then again, perhaps there was a hint of something else - self-reflection, a tiny flicker of guilt. There was a brooding silence.
"You sound like the miller," he said, at last. "'If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's being a judge of character', he said, in a stuffy caricature of Aloysius' voice. He pursed his mouth. "Just about everybody in this village's got a read on Esther, you'd think from listening to them. They all think she's what they want her to be - a bloody saint, another Mils." He shifted position, adjusting his cloak against the cold. "Me, I think she's a tough old bird to read. That's why I worry. She's not as... predictable as the old man."
The cold was clearly getting to him. Picking up a charred-looking stick that the sentries must have been using to stoke the fire, he gave the cooling embers a poke to see if he could flush any more warmth out of them.
"I did a bit of asking about the Verlorens, you know, before the war. About Mrs Verloren that was." He gave the dead fire another jab. "Of course, these peasants wouldn't say a damn thing even if they knew, but some of the older chaps at court remembered her. Stunning woman, but a damn handful by all accounts. She drove the old man to distraction, testing his patience, and he drove her to distraction taking it all without a blink. The Verloren stoicism." Seeing that it was no help, he dropped the stick. "That's love I suppose. Died in childbirth, of course." Straightening his back, he looked out at the woods again. "Esther was lucky. My father would never have forgiven me for that."
Pieter wondered how he would have turned out if his mother had died in childbirth. With luck, a Shallyan orphanage would have taken him in. They would have taught him his letters and instilled obedience in him. Then they would have either kept him, if he showed the qualities they sought, or sent him to another church; maybe the Sigmarites or Vereneans. Or perhaps they would have let him make his own way in the world when he was old enough. One way or another, he would probably have grown into a honest, law-abiding, hard-working, Sigmar-worshipping, blissfully ignorant citizen.
The Ranaldite's thoughts went back to the current moment. By now he felt the cold very keenly, but he kept from shivering. His pride would not allow him to show that he regretted putting out the fire.
"Sounds like a hard father. Do you still miss what you left behind in Talabheim?"
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Not sure if 'left behind' is right, said Ricard. At least, until today, he reflected. Gods, I wouldn't want to try to ride back now. Not with him out there.
I was always planning to go back to the city, though. That was the point. Mary a girl from a good family, get father to loosen the old purse-strings again. Third son, you see. Convinced himself I was amounting to nothing, told me I could make my own way until I made something of myself. He shook his head. Joined the cavalry, but... well, the army wasn't the boy for me. He gave an uneasy laugh. All fun and games until there's an actual war, you know?
We were stationed near here, before the Driving. All the lads were saying the Northers'd never make it through Kislev. Matter of history. Used to come down to the village, waiting to hear that the war was over. I'd met Esther a couple of times before, but it was then that things really took off, you know? Thought I had it in the bag, as far pleasing the old man was concerned a commission with the pistoliers, and a wedding to a Verloren. I mean, how much more respectable can you be? He smiled wrily at the memory. I remember there was another chap, dead set on her. Decent sort of fellow, but terribly sincere, you know? The kind of fellow who'll just stare politely at the funniest jokes. All of us army types passing through, must have been the most excitement this old place had seen in a century.
Of course, then the word came through that the Northers were burning down through Ostland, and the Kislevites were all dead, or cowards, or traitors, and suddenly we were off north. He seemed to have strayed onto an uncomfortable subject; he awkwardly changed it. And then the poor old girl got sick, and suddenly things didn't look so respectable after all. There was a long pause. Unfortunately, my father and I didn't exactly see eye to eye on that count. So here I am again, throwing myself on the mercy of someone else's.
He stretched, a little stiff from keeping watch.
I suppose it all sounds terribly strange to you, eh, Hagen? he said, with a certain morose air. Things're simpler for you fellows.
OOC:
Spoiler
The Spring Driving was the first stage of Archaon's invasion, when the combined armies assembled to stop him on the Kislevite steppe were swiftly and unexpectedly routed. The forces of Chaos then advanced into the Empire much faster than had been anticipated, passing through Kislev without laying siege to the capital.
Lothar
Spoiler
Running as fast as his legs would carry him, Lothar scrambled up the steep slope on his right, pebbles cascading back downhill under his flying feet. Hanging a sharp right at the top of the slope, he dashed for the nearest tree, zig-zagging to throw the creature off his trail.
Squealing like an angry Skaven, the boar came ploughing up the gravelly slope, hair bristling on its back. Slewing to a halt, it made a skidding turn, lowering its scarred head so that its longest tusks pointed straight at Lothar's legs. Breaking from behind the sapling he had already reached, Lothar raced for the ancient oak that overshadowed it, leaping to catch hold of its lowest-hanging branches.
Spoiler
Strength test to climb: (1d100)[32]
Success, with one full degree of success too! Lothar climbs just out of the boar's reach.
Feeling the coarse bark smack against his palms, Lothar gripped on as hard as he could. Straining every muscle in his body, he swung himself up into the twisted branches, pulling his dangling legs up just in time to avoid the grunting beast that came cannoning into the trunk of the tree below him.
Straightening up, he clambered a few steps higher, just to be sure. Down on the forest floor below, the huge boar squealed and growled in displeasure, circling the bottom of the tree with its red, piggy eyes upraised. Where the thick roots made a ramp, it tried a walk a little way up the trunk, but Lothar was safely out of reach.
Lothar wheezed. The wound in his side ached, blood trickling over the shredded remnants of his uniform. His head swam, the boar blurred, and for one eternal sickening moment he thought he was going to topple. He did not.
Instead, he blinked - winked? - and focused on the mutated thing, goring at his tree. The soldier was inexplicably reminded of carousing about the house with his brothers, pretending to climb the masts of one of the tall navy ships. His father's boat had no such magnificent rigging, nor really a need for it.
Lothar had no such talent for flipping about like a damned elf and had fallen square on his arse. His tailbone hurt for a month.
He winked again at the boar, scarred face twisted into something like his old grin. If his brothers could see him now! Or little Elfi - she'd be a dab hand at this, a marine and all.
Spoiler
OOC: If it seems stable, I'll load the rifle for 1.5 rounds (rapid reload) and then Aim and shoot the thing.
Shootin': (1d100)[77]
Damage: (1d10+4)[14] - pity it's a miss
Impact: (1d10+4)[10]
If it's not that stable, I'll... um... try and come up with a plan.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
Pieter snorted. "Simpler? Perhaps. Simpler doesn't mean easier, but I suppose it's somewhat liberating to have both less to lose and less to gain. Long ago I made the choice not to worry about tomorrow; I may come to regret it one day, but for now, things have worked out pretty fine. You just need to be a bit resourceful and very lucky."
He was silent for a moment, during which he lost his battle against the shivers. "I can understand why you decided war wasn't for you. I'm told the one who had an eye on Esther before you died during the Storm... Some say heroes live forever, but the truth is that for every hero who gets a statue, a dozen die alone and forgotten. Not that being one of the lucky few is any solace when you're rotting in the ground. Better to live, I say."
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
The tree was steady enough. Fumbling with shot and powder, Lothar loaded his gun, taking his time to make sure he didn't drop it.
With the gun loaded and primed, he took aim at the snuffling beast below. His hands were shaking as he pulled the trigger, the pull of the recoil sent his shot wide, spitting a spray of fallen leaves from the earth beside the boar's trotters.
With an alarmed squeal, the animal scurried back, looking left and right for the cause of the explosion. It was bright enough to interpret the roar of the gun as danger, but evidently not bright enough to understand the weapon's reach not when the bullet was buried in six inches of loam.
Trotting back from the tree, the boar retreated to a distance of ten yards or so. Standing in the shadow of the younger tree behind it, it stared suspiciously up at the monkey in the tree and its dissipating cloud of gunsmoke.
OOC: The boar is no longer close enough to give you a range bonus.
Pieter
Mm. Not sure old Anhame would have agreed with you. He seemed to take the whole thing with Esther fairly hard. Ricard looked at the floor, as if puzzling over something else in the back of his head. There was a week or so when I was worried the poor chap'd call me out. I wouldn't have liked to fight him, he said. He was a deadly sort of cove. A Panther, like... like those poor buggers out in the forest. Carried the company banner. He shook his head. A hero's death, that would have been right up his alley. Man was like Mils, born in the wrong century.
I remember there was one of that lot... big fellow. Adelhard. Used to come join us down there when they were back from patrol. He nodded down in the direction of the Heartless Man. He was always ribbing me with stories about Reinhardt's swordsmanship. The lads thought it was hilarious. Ricard's tone implied that maybe he hadn't found it so funny.
Lothar blinked. Sweat curled from his shaggy hair, stinging like fire in the wound that was the left side of his face. His right eye blurred. He inhaled, exhaled. His hands worked on automatic. Carefully shaking the powder, the reloaded the rifle, stretched it out - inhale, exhale.
He paused for a moment, licked his lips - and shifted the gun slightly.
He only had one eye now.
Spoiler
Second verse same as the &c. (1d100)[28] - a hit, a palpable hit! Right in the 82! (right leg, apparently) (1d10+4)[10] (1d10+4)[9]
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
The shot hit the boar at the top of its right hindleg. Squealing in sudden pain, it limped and stumbled for a moment as it recovered from the impact - then, snorting and grunting, it took off into the trees. It clearly wasn't going to hang about waiting for another shot.
OOC:
Spoiler
You do 6 wounds. The boar was 5 squares from the base of the tree; it runs another 21, putting it out of the normal range of your gun.
It's possible to fire at Extreme Range, but it carries a -30% penalty (including an aim) which I think nixes your chance to hit now that you've lost the eye - and that's before you apply the penalty for firing at a target that Ran. Plus, by the time you've reloaded and aimed it'll be another 42 squares into the woods and probably out of sight.
Lothar nodded slowly to himself, sighing. There. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and set about putting his gun and 'powder away. His hands still trembled, but only a little; he felt buoyed, lighter, and had to suppress a grin.
"'Never close an eye,' they said," Lothar muttered. "'You need both eyes to aim,' they said. One eye'll do just fine, thanks."
His rifle stowed, the deserter looked about. By now the mutated boar was long gone, the stomping-snorting ruckus of its movement retreated into the distance. It was time to get back to the village.
"Where in the name of the blasted wastelands of the north am I?"
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
A Knight Panther. Not for the first time, Pieter's thoughts turned to who the undead knight had been before his death. But of course, it would be quite a coincidence for Anhame to die so close from his village after fighting in the Storm. Besides, it was said he had been killed in Middenheim. The initiate felt frustrated; he had a good picture of the puzzle, but several pieces were still missing, and many of his guesses were based only on the shakiest logic. Even if he and the Elves saved the village from the threats that beset it, he knew he would not feel it like a victory until he reassembled the whole picture.
Deep in his thoughts, he almost missed a golden opportunity to make a snarky remark. "Guess you're fortunate Anhame didn't call you out, then. Maybe he decided there was no honor in duelling someone he knew would lose."
He moved on: "The company... Which one was it? Do you remember the emblem? Might've met them in the war."
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Climbing the tree was a nerve-testing affair. Twigs cracked under his fingers and branches swayed under his feet, seeming to take a second or ten to finish making up their mind about whether they would deign to take his weight. Nevertheless, there were a lot of them: these crooked oaks were rich in handholds. Making his way steadily upwards, Lothar finally reached a level where he could see out.
No sign of the village. Looking down, he could see the mossy scar of the gully he had clambered out of - it joined with others, a network of tumbled boulders amidst the trees. They led down a gentle slope, one side of a low valley: at the bottom of it, he could see sections of a shallow river, gleaming like silver at the coming sunrise.
He knew he had recognised this place. These rocks, the stream - this was near the robbers' cave. Which meant it was the river. Not just some nameless stream, but the Taalbruck itself.
Pieter
"Hm?" Pieter's remark about one-sided duels seemed to have gone right over his head. "Oh, I don't know, some kind of big cat. Aren't they all?" He paused. "Just the head, I think. A panther's head."
Maybe he'll catch on later, Pieter thought hopefully. Hate to waste a good insult.
"But the company?" he asked. "The Panthers have several of them, right? Do you remember which one it was and if they had a specific symbol? Just curious..."
In truth, he did not remember if the dead knights near the tree had any distinctive emblem besides the panther. But perhaps that knowledge was buried deep inside his skull, somewhere.
Wouldn't want to go back there to check...
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
"That was the one," repeated Ricard. "Their banner. I mean it's always something with a big cat, you know, but their banner was a panther's head." He paused, thinking back. "Panther's head over a cross."
Can you please roll me a secret Intelligence 57 test to see if this banner rings any bells? Not sure Pieter paid attention to the blazons of the dead knights, but his subconscious may have filed that info somewhere.
Were there more light, the pistolier could have seen the initiate's eyes narrow suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. But whatever Pieter had thought, he did not share it just yet. He went on:
"That knight we fought... it can't enter the shrine to Shallya. As if it burned it just to try. I think that's a useful thing to know." He squinted at the east to see if the stars were starting to pale. "But what if it doesn't come back to the village? Can the people go on with their lives, knowing it's still out there? I sure wouldn't want to hunt it on its own turf."
__________________
Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
The clouds were too thick for stars. Shuffling about under his cloak, Ricard folded his arms over his knees.
It's magic, he said, almost as fearfully as the peasants he held himself above. I heard some stories about what went down at Middenheim, but I never saw anything. Nothing like that... wound.
I don't know what anyone can do. But at least if we see him coming, people will have time to run.
OOC:
Spoiler
I take it from your previous posts that you're ready to move on. I will now segue forwards in time; if you have anything you want to add to this conversation, we can timesplit it.
Lothar
Spoiler
Picking his way slowly down out of the tree, Lothar swept the forest around with his gun, waiting for a good ten seconds or so before lowering the barrel. It would have been just his luck if the boar were lurking somewhere out of sight, waiting.
Heading back to the gulley, he half-clambered, half-slid down to the floor of the mossy ravine. There was a slight downward slope towards the river: his feet let gravity lead the way, the sound of running water growing louder as he approached.
Emerging from behind a tumbled boulder the cast-off of some ancient glacier he saw the river before him, stumbling out into its shallow water until it splashed around the ankles of his boots. Stooping painfully down, he cupped his hands and drank, wetting his crusted lips. His throat stang as he drank, but not as badly as his face as he washed away the worst of the dried blood.
Straightening up, he searched his memories, triangulating the direction of the village from the flow of the water. Pulling himself gratefully up onto the bank, he began to force his weary legs in its direction.
~
The pale hints of dawn in the east had spread from horizon to horizon by the time Lothar saw the sails of the Hohlesbruck mill rising ahead. There was a yellow flame in the east, sharp streamers of light cutting horizontally through the trees: they made him squint with his good eye, still used to the night's long dark.
The banks of the river here were overgrown and steep. Pulling himself up through clumps of ferns, Lothar stumbled in the direction of the village, seeing the shapes of buildings resolve themselves through the trees. He had made it.
Ithelus and Illiiya
The elves slept uneasily. Nightmares, delirious inkeepers, daemonic incursions there seemed far too many things waiting to wake them from whatever sleep they might steal.
Surprisingly enough, they slept until morning. Yellow sunlight was slanting in through the slats of window when Ithelus woke, roused by a knocking from downstairs. Pulling on his clothes, he made his way to the door of the inn.
A small child was standing there, alone. It was the girl from the banquet, the one who had asked Illiiya if the pig was living with her now: she stared up at Ithelus with eyes like saucers, a child who had seen a real live elf.
She was carrying a heavy iron pot in both hands. There was a silence of ten seconds or so while she just stared then, abruptly, she thrust the pot out towards Ithelus. She clearly had trouble lifting it much further above the ground than it already was.
Soup, she said. Ma said bring the soup. For Wulli and Hanna. There was another over-long pause.
You can probably have some too, she added. But you have to share.
OOC: Pieter is still in the windmill, expecting a change of shift. The watch was not eventful.
Sunrise. Back in Nuln, this had usually heralded bedtime as far as Pieter was concerned. Old habits died hard, and even nowadays he was far from an early riser Lothar's soldierly habit to get everyone ready to hit the road by mid-morning had always grated on his nerves.
He won't wake us up at dawn again, he reminded himself. Why could he not feel more sorrow than that? Was his mind still reeling from Lothar's nightmarish death, as if in denial? Or had the horror of Hohlesbruck, so soon after the Delberz events, made him already cold and jaded?
The initiate blew in his stiff fingers in a vain attempt to warm them. Freezing his balls off had proved entirely futile; if, Ranald forbid, he had to stand watch another night, he would keep that brazier burning. He listlessly kept watching the bridge and the forest, but often glanced at the village in the hope of seeing someone relieve them. The pistolier, to his credit, was not too whiny about doing a boring duty in difficult conditions.
"Gods, I could eat a horse," Pieter breathed.
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
Illiiya was slower to rise than Ithelus. A faint, gloomy ennui tinging her motions as she rose and dressed herself for the day. She had slept poorly, visions of Lothar's last moments flitting through her head... or what she imagined they were, at least. She spent an extra moment or two to check her wounds beneath the makeshift bandages Pieter had provided her, and found that stretching her arms was still fair too painful. Instead she followed Ithelus out to the front door, arriving in time to see him gather a large pot from a human child.
Food? From whom? She asked the moment the smell of it's contents reached her, I'm wary of where our meals come from... after those pies.
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For a long moment, Lothar leaned against a tree, staring down over the village. Every moment hurt. Every blink against the morning sun swept more sweat, burning and hot, into his eyes. His joints creaked, aching. He felt a hundred years old and shrunken.
"Sod."
Groaning, he levered himself from the tree and began the slow, steady stomp into the village. It seemed awful normal, as if the houses and the ancient grass had no idea of the long night he'd endured, of the newly-dead in that northern clearing.
__________________ Games:
[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart, reprising Lothar Fischer, Nordlander deserter.
The little girl seemed a little reluctant to leave, as if expecting the elves to perform some magic trick before she left. After a few seconds, it became apparent that Ithelus was not about to turn into a toad: realising she was staring, the human child fled.
In the back room, Hanna was still sleeping. The morning light filtering through the window made Wulli look no better. Beneath the weight of his sweat-stained bedclothes, he scarcely seemed to breathe.
Pieter
Ricard only grunted in reply to Pieter a grunt that sounded suspiciously like someone waking up. Glancing sideways at Talberg, Pieter was suddenly distracted by movement down below.
A dark figure had emerged from the trees around the river. Pieter saw the outline of a sword at the stranger's side, and felt his heart start hammering against the inside of his chest.
The figure stumbled out of the shadow of the trees and into the slanting sunlight. Pieter felt a wave of relief as he saw no sign of rusted plate. Instead, the morning sun shone upon a filthy mop of tangled, copper-coloured hair...
Pieter squinted. "...Ranald's teeth," he breathed, forgetting the presence within earshot of an authority figure who was likely unfond of the Trickster.
He hurried down the stairs, silently thanking Ranald for lending luck, Shallya for Her mercy, and Morr for staying His scythe. And grudgingly, almost as an afterthought, Sigmar for protecting His servant. It was a long way to the copper-haired soldier, and Pieter had time to shake himself and regain a semblance of composure. Lothar no doubt expect a dry or irreverent comment from him, not hugs and tears; the initiate was loath to lose his hard-earned reputation.
So, when he was close enough to speak - and to notice, with a wince, the torn area around the soldier's left eye - he drawled, as casually as he could: "You here to take over watch duty? Took you long enough, Talberg and I were frozen stiff up there and I need to rest. Keep an eye out for that bloody knight, will you?"
Spoiler
Pieter rolls Fellowship 61 to keep his voice from breaking with emotion. (d100)[76]
His voice cracked near the end; the last syllable was almost a sob. Tears stung his eyes as he gripped the soldier's shoulder, as if to make sure he was substantial. "Illiiya's alive," he choked out, forgetting his insolent Ranaldite dignity. "Ith got her out."
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Ponytar of myself by MeanMrsMustard.
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