Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
This is my new story hour. Yeah, I know, the last one didn't work out, but that was because I delegated the writing of chapter 1 to a player, and you know what lazy buggers they can be.
But, now, the players elected we start a new campaign, again in the Warhammer World, and who am I to object?
This time, I'll be writing the tale, and with regular updates, too. To start with, here is the party. I may or may not post more detailed character sheets to Rogues' Gallery.
Cast of Characters
Franz Hoffmann
LN male human Clr2 of Sigmar
An arrogant priest who has a thing against most everything not Sigmarite and/or human from the Empire. That thing is a warhammer.
Born and bred in Altdorf, and a firm believer in the letter, if not the spirit, of the Sigmarite dogma, he greatly resents being in the frozen wastelands of Kislev, a country led by a woman, no less. DECEASED.
Frederich
CN male human Bbn1/Ftr2
Another Sigmarite, but considerably more tolerant than Franz. He was born in Nuln, and has since found his way up north, to Kislev, where he has fought against Chaos alongside the local warriors and learned the ways of the berserkers.
With his short sword and battle axe, he is a truly fearsome man in combat.
Kase Galanodel
NG elf male Clr2 of Isha
Kase is a hermit priest from the woods. Raised by elves, hunted by orcs, and teached by dwarves, he has learned the ways of all three races. Unfortunately, this has led to a hole in his education, and thus he cannot speak a word of Common.
Like most people of his race, he is an expert with the bow, and not bad with his longsword, either. DECEASED.
Fisibbei Furfoot
N halfling male Drd3
Fisibbei is probably the strangest of this bunch. He is a hermitic halfling druid, ostracized by his kinfolk in the Moot, and now seeking strange herbs in the northern reaches of Kislev. He is accompanied by a great wolf, which can act as a steed for him, if needed. He acts as Kase's interpreter. In combat, he lets his sickle talk.
Khaelas
NG elf male Sor3
Khaelas is the mysterious, green-clad elf who joined the group in Sarbas. He speaks little of his past, but has proved himself as a skilled offensive spellcaster. He keeps to himself, but yet, for some reason of his own, has chosen to attach himself to the group.
Ranland
CG elf male Rog3
Ranland is one of the sea elves of Lothern. Despite his upbringing, however, he is at home not only in settings nautical, but also urban and rural. Especially urban, where there are many fat purses to steal...
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Hey, cool idea. I don't think I've seen a Warhammer SH before. I played in a Warhammer campaign in my early 20s. It'll be fun to revisit my group's old stomping grounds.
This tale, like so many other, begins in a bar. This particular bar is located in the northern city of Praag, in the land of Kislev.
Now, I could name our story "The Tales of Hoffman", but I'm afraid that not many would get the joke, and anyway, Hoffman is neither writing the story (thank gods), nor is he the primary character (despite what he might think).
But I digress.
Inside the bar, there was an extraordinary amount of people, so that four quite different travellers from quite different places had been forced to take seats in the same table. After they had eyed each other for a few moments of localized silence, one of them, a large man with reddish-brown hair and a short beard of the same colour, spoke:
"Greetings, fellows. I am Frederich, of Nuln. What brings you here to the cold north?"
"Fisibbei Furfoot is my name, and I am here in search of a particular herb," answered the halfling, clad in a plain brown robe. "He," the halfling continued, indicating the third man, a golden-haired elf, "is Kase Galanodel. He does not speak Old Worlder, so I have to translate for him."
The other human in the table was a bald, hawk-nosed man, clad in shining scale mail with not a speck of rust. From his neck hung a small silver hammer, the symbol of Sigmar. With a clipped Reiklander accent he replied:
"Sigmar's blessings to you. I am Franz Hoffmann of Altdorf, and I have been here seeking for an Arch Lector of our church for the past three months. He has disappeared somewhere Kislev, and I fear he might be dead."
"Adventurers everyone, then?" Frederich asked with a broad grin. As reply, he got a number of curt nods.
Finally, one of the few barmaids in this overcrowded and undermanned establishment made her way to the table of our protagonists.
"And vat shall you haff?" the woman asked, in a thick Kislevite accent.
"I'll have an ale," was Franz's reply.
"Zhat vill be two gold crowns."
"Two gold! That's the most expensive drink I've ever had!"
"I am sorry, but ve get our ale from a tribe to zhe east, who are in zhe middle of a var."
"A war? With whom?" asked Fisibbei, in a concerned tone of voice.
"Anozer tribe, one led by zhe varlord Viseslav. Igor, zhe leader of zhe tribe vho makes our ale iz badly outnumbered, zhey tell me."
"Why did this Viseslav attack his tribe? Or was Igor the instigator?" Fisibbei continued.
"Viseslav persecutes his tribe, for Igor follows zhe god Sigmar, and not Ulric, vho is traditionally vorshipped here in zhe north," the serving wench replied.
"A tribe of Sigmarites? Bah, they're probably all heretics anyway," Franz scoffed, his sharp features twisting into a sneer.
"You're thinking going to help?" Frederich asked the halfling druid. Fisibbei nodded solemnly.
"And I Kase will be joining me. Your help would be appreciated, naturally."
"I like you, little man. You are brave, and so is he," Frederich said, gesturing at the elf. "I will lend you my axe and my sword."
"And you? You look like a capable man, and it would be an honour to have you with us," Fisibbei said to the Sigmarite priest.
"And why would I be concerned over the fate of a few barbarians who have chosen to live out there in the cold, trackless wasteland?"
"But they are you brothers in faith. Would it not be right for you to aid them?"
"As I said, they are probably heretics anyway, with a debased religion centred around a hammer, or something."
The priest spat on the floor in disgust.
"But in that case, should you not try to show them the correct way of worshiping, or to destroy the infidels? And, if you are seeking for the Arch Lector, and have not found him in the cities, would it not be logical to seek him out in the wasteland?"
"The good halfling has a point, priest," Frederich said. "I have lived many years with the Kislevite tribes, and they miss little that happens in their lands."
For a moment, indecision wavered on Franz's face. Then, he spoke:
"Fine, then. You've convinced me. I shall join you, and may Sigmar be with us."
With that, the bald priest rose, and walked out of the tavern into the fresh air. Shrugging, the others followed.
* * *
For a few hours, the party of not-exactly-heroes wandered the town, seeking a horse trader. They found one in the outskirts of the city, marked by a great bit sign, with the text "Crazy Ivan's Horses for Hire".
History does not tell what the intrepid adventurers were thinking at the moment, but out of either stupidity or a sense of hurry, they decided to deal with the red-bearded fellow inside. Even his sales speech did not deter them, and they wound up hiring a wagon in reasonable condition, and two horses to drag it.
And thus, they left the questionable comfort and debatable safety of the city of Praag, the agony-contorted faces of the dead staring down at them from the walls.
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And thus, they travelled for seven days, each mile taking them further away from Praag, and deeper into the lawless wilds, ruled by the Ice Queen only in name. Perhaps they were indeed watched over by Sigmar Heldenhammer, for they encountered no perils on their way. In the evening of the seventh day, the walls of Ovotsk, Igor's fortified village, stood in sight.
The village was a loose cluster of houses and small farms, spread around a hill fort. The party noticed a great crowd had gathered to the south of the hill fort. Stopping their wagon, they went to investigate.
As they came closer, they saw a ship, placed atop a great mound. A middle-aged woman in a white robe, with dark blond hair and fair skin, held a torch. There was another woman, an old crone, circling the boat and reciting ancient chants of mourning.
Fisibbei stepped forward, lightly tugging on the sleeve of one of the men gathered.
"Who has passed away?" he asked quietly.
"Our brave lord and protector, Igor Jaroslavich, in a cowardly ambush by zhe troops of Viseslav," the man replied reverently, and then turned back to viewing the funeral ceremony. Now, the blond-haired woman walked up to the boat, and carefully placed the torch in the kindling set around the ship. In silence, the people of Ovotsk watched as the flames took their former leader to the next world.
Franz gazed at the flames with a disapproving expression.
"These heretics do not observe proper Sigmarite funeral traditions," he said quietly to Frederich.
"Old habits die hard, priest. Besides, you can't dig a grave in here. The ground is frozen solid for ten months of the year. The faith of Sigmar is not in the ceremonies, but in the beliefs. They certainly wear the symbols," the big man replied quietly, nodding at the white-robed woman. Indeed, the clasp of her cloak was a small silver hammer.
Franz stayed silent.
The townsfolk stayed there for a long time, standing in respectful silence as the fire died down, leaving only the charred remains of the ship behind. Then, the crowd quietly dispersed.
Soon afterwards, the travellers were making their way to the local alehouse, when a member of the local militia came to them.
"Hold, adventurers. Lady Predeslava would speak vith you."
Glancing at each other, the adventurers nodded, and followed. They were led into a large building, obviously the chieftain's hall. Inside was a wooden throne, covered with furs, and on the throne sat a woman. It was the blond-haired woman they had seen at the pyre, though her attire was now changed. Gone was the white robe, replaced by red and blue woollens, and a great bearskin cloak over her shoulders. It was held in place by a silver clasp in the shape of a warhammer.
"Greetings, travellers," she began. "Sigmar's blessings to you. You look like able and experienced varriors. I could use people like you. Do you know vhat has happened in Ovotsk in recent months?"
"Yes, milady, we have heard," Frederich answered.
"Zhen I vill not bozher to go over it again. Suffice to say, I need help. Ve need help. I vill pay you, each, 800 gold crowns, if you vill stay in Ovotsk, and help my people keep the swine Viseslav's raiders at bay until my brother Ottakar returns from zhe lands to zhe south vith his men. Vill you agree?"
Before any of the others could speak, Fisibbei stepped forward.
"Indeed, Lady, to protect your town and tribe was our very reason of journeying here from Praag. We will protect this town, and its people, until Ottakar's army returns, or until Viseslav is defeated for good."
A faint smile appeared on Predeslava's face.
"Good," she said. "You will be shown to your house, and given food. Now go… I must rest. These have been trying times, and have taken a heavy toll."
As they left the room, a man came to them. He had a remarkably long moustache.
"Good day to you, travellers. I am Boian, a former warrior of Igor. On behalf of the local militia, I vould like to velcome you to Ovotsk."
"Good day, Boian," Fisibbei replied. "You were a close man of Igor's, then?"
"Yes. I vas vith him vhen ve vere ambushed. I vas knocked in zhe head and fell dovn… Vlaseslav's men left me for dead. It vas a great shame. A good varrior dies vith his master." Boian shaked his head. "If you vill excuse me. I have… things to do."
* * *
And thus, a week passed, as the party of no longer travellers spent their time in the fort. There was little to do, but Franz, Fisibbei and Kase found more than enough entertainment in prayer and contemplation. Frederich trained with his axe and sword.
Then, one day, a rider arrived in the village. He was fatigued, and had almost ridden his steed to death. People in the village began shouting. Then, the alarm was raised. The heroes were watching from the top of the palisade, as a dozen horsemen galloped over the ridge south of the town, drawn scimitars flashing in the morning sun and warcries at their lips. They descended upon the fleeing villagers who tried to make it to the fort, slashing at their exposed backs and herding them in the other direction.
"We cannot just stand here while they get slaughtered!" said Frederich, unshouldering his great axe and drawing his sword. Kase nocked an arrow and let fly, hitting the dirt in front of one of the riders. The man wore chainmail, and had many gold and silver bracelets. He was obviously the leader.
From the open gates of the hill fort, stepped an enraged Frederich, flanked by the grim-looking Fisibbei and stern Franz. Hefting their weapons high, they charged at the mounted warriors.
Franz ducked a scimitar slash at his head, whirling around and bringing his heavy warhammer in an arc at his enemy's stomach. The powerful blow smashed him off the saddle, killing him instantly. Four other horsemen, including the chieftain, charged at the heroes. They were no match for the blades of their opponents, though, and soon Frederich had downed the second man, his axe glistening red with the fallen opponent's blood. In the battlements, Kase realized it'd be futile to try shooting into the raging melee, and quickly joined his friends outside the fort.
Fisibbei was a small whirlwind of death. The small halfling and his sharp sickle slashed open the throat of a horse, its rider only barely avoiding being crushed by the falling steed. This did not help him, for Kase was there to meet him, and sank his sword into the man's gut.
The diminutive druid claimed his second kill in that battle as Franz smashed the kneecap of the last horseman. Fisibbei came from the other side, disembowelling him with a swift slash.
Soon, only the leader was left. Fearlessly, he charged, hefting his scimitar high, and scoring a slash across Kase's scalp. However, the elf got back, thrusting his blade deep in the man's thigh. Frederich came from the other side, his sword leaving a red streak in the man's side. The last thing Mundiak the Chieftain saw, as he was lying on the ground, his other foot still in the slashed stirrup, was the descending sickle of the halfling druid.
And there, as the noon sun bathed them in its rays, they cried out their victory.
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Flesh, Blood & Magic: The Biothaumaturgist's Handbook - In Development
"...the red-armoured warrior watched the tides of the battle, face hidden from view by his visor such that he seemed like an impassive sentinel watching the vagaries of fate."
- Red Talon, Carnifex's Story Hour
Well... There was no game on Monday. That can be blamed to a communications glitch, which can be safely blamed on my little brother, the pest.
But the good news is that we have a game today. So, this Story Hour will be getting an update sometime during the next week. I'll try to bang it up today and tomorrow, if I have the time.
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I agree that its good to see a Warhammer Story Hour on the boards. I played in a campaign that spanned many years, and it was a blast. Only reason we're not playing now is that the group is currently playing my secondary Planescape campaign.
And no, Skaven aren't cool. Speaking as someone captured, enslaved, and slightly mutated by them, I can testify! =)
Yeah, I promised to get this up earlier, but stuff came in the way. Good thing for you, however, is that I just finished another session, which should yield enough material for a while. However, the campaign will now have a break of about five or six weeks, due to some players going abroad. With the players that remain, however, I will be playing one-shot adventures of Spycraft, Call of Cthulhu, and Star Wars, and maybe even Warhammer Fantasy Role-Playing Game, or Ars Magica. I may or may not post up tales of these. We will see.
Chapter 2 – Fire, Steel, and Blood
After defeating Mundiak and his horsemen, the adventurers, having thus received their baptism by fire as a group together, rested. There were wounds to heal, dead to bury, and preparations to make. They all knew that this was only the beginning.
Eight days from the first conflict, it happened. In the small hours of the night, three ships landed next to the village. The guards were asleep at their posts. And thus, when the rising sun's first rays hit Ovotsk, they were greeted by screams of death, pain, and fear. The houses were in flames, thick, dark plumes of smoke rising from the thatch roofs. A number of warriors, wielding spears and axes, were looting and pillaging, capturing people and leading them to their boats.
Then, finally, alarm was rung. The heroes woke up, grabbed their arms and armour, and quickly made their way to the top of the palisade, where they met Predeslava and Boian. The town militia was outside, fighting with the invaders.
From the burning chaos emerged three figures, walking towards the hill fort. Thirty feet from the gates, they stopped. One of them unshouldered a large horn, and blew out a battle challenge. Another stuck a long banner pole in the ground. The banner was solid black, thrashing to and fro like it was alive in the wind.
The third man, the one in the middle, took a step forward, and turned his gaze up to the battlements. His Norse goggle helm made his eyes look like black pits. His wild, shaggy hair and beard were white as snow, yet his muscular body betrayed no trace of old age.
"It is over now, Predeslava!"
As a response, the gates of the fort swung open. It quickly became clear, though, it was no surrender. From within, stepped the four adventurers, accompanied by Boian. A silent challenge had been issued, and weapons were drawn. From a loop in his back, Helgi produced an enormous battle axe.
One of the white-haired Norseman's companions grabbed a javelin from his back, and flung it at Franz, going so wide of the target he might have been aiming at Altdorf, for all it was worth. Helgi chucked a small throwing axe at Fisibbei, with similar results.
Chanting the litanies of his faith, Franz charged the Norseman with his warhammer held high. The warhammer and the battleaxe met each other with a resounding clang, striking sparks. Frederich came to help the priest, sinking his axe and shortsword in the whitebeard's side.
Meanwhile, Kase was shooting at one of the Norseman's cohorts. He was interrupted by Boian on his left, who tried to sink a dagger into his side. Nimbly evading the attacker, Kase snarled at the traitor, and drew his sword. Boian answered in kind, and the two locked blades, soon engaged in a fight to the death.
The white-haired Norseman was a good fighter, they could give him that. And strong, too. Batting away Frederich's axe, he twirled his own weapon in the air, bringing it around to strike Franz on the shoulder. Blood burst from the wound, and the priest fell down, bleeding. In response, Frederich stabbed the man under the ribcage, and slashed upwards. As blood stained his white beard red, the warrior fell.
Fisibbei's wolf clamped its jaws down on the standard bearer's foot, tearing away a goodly-sized chunk of flesh. As the man cried out in pain and fell down, the animal went for the throat, quickly finishing him off.
The druid himself saw he was not immediately needed in the battle, and knelt down next to Franz, administering a healing spell. It was not enough to bring him back to the battle, but staunched the flow of blood.
Rising up, the halfling saw Kase an Boian, locked in a duel the elven priest was losing. Silently, the halfling ran up to the traitor, stabbing his sickle in the man's back. The wound was not lethal, but the unexpected pain made him drop his guard, which was all that Kase needed to decapitate his opponent.
Frederich turned to the last opponent, the one with the horn. Charging each other, the two exchanged a short series of fast blows. Frederich's extraordinary strength and speed prevailed, however, and his adversary was soon dead.
Like a wildfire, news of their leader's defeat spread through his troops, and what had only minutes before been a victorious battle quickly turned to a full rout, as the warriors dropped their weapons and ran for their ships. The Ovotsk militia followed, cutting down all they could, with the same amount of mercy that had been shown on them and their families. At the ships, skirmishes broke out, as the raiders tried to hold off the militia long enough for their comrades to push their ships, filled with captives and loot, off the beach.
There was no rest for the weary adventurers. They saw that at one of the boats, the raiders had successfully held off the militia, and were pushing the ship to the water. They ran down the hillside and to the beach, with Frederich drawing first blood by cutting one of the men down with a single swipe of his great axe. The red-bearded warrior ran to his next foe, who raised a spear to block the blow, but slipped in the mud. A downwards swipe cleaved his skull in half.
The other adventurers weren't doing so well, however. Kase was stabbed with a spear, and he curled up in the ground, bleeding profusely. Fisibbei's wolf bit one of the raiders in the arm, but was rewarded with a spear through the skull, killing the noble animal instantly. Seeing this, the halfling seemed to go into a berserker rage. Charging the slayer of his friend, he lost all finesse, just chopping at the enemy with his sickle, cutting through his spear, his arm, and his heart.
Frederich's opponent found an opening in the big man's guard, and plunged his spear into Frederich's ribcage. Frederich collapsed instantly, but this was little consolation to the raider, who was slain by Fisibbei, with a well-placed blow from behind.
Franz was up against two of the raiders, alone. After a while of inefficient blocking, attacking, and parrying, he took a step back, and then brought his warhammer around in a sideways sweep of terrifying power. It splintered the spear shafts raised against it into kindling, and crushed the skulls of both men opposing him.
Once again, the enemy had been driven back, but at a terrible cost.
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Well, since our campaign is finally getting back on track, I grabbed myself by the scruff of my neck, and started updating... Expect more in the close future.
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It was high noon when the heroes finally made their way up to the hill fort, where Predeslava sat on her throne. They spoke for a long time. Ovotsk was no longer safe. That they all agreed on. The threat of Viseslav's army was too great, and most people had already fled to the forests to seek shelter. Predeslava's plan now was to take whoever would come with her and travel southwards on the River Chernak, through the Haunted Wood and Witch Fens, to the town of Sarbas, where Predeslava's uncle, Khuritsa, lived.
The planning finished, they strode out of the fort, and called the people of Ovotsk to them, asking if they would come with their leader. Few did. The Haunted Wood and Witch Fens had foul reputations, and Franz suspected they might actually be tainted by Chaos.
Thus, they departed the burning Ovotsk. Only two dozen villagers came with them on their monoxyla. The druid Fisibbei handled the navigation and steering, along with one of the villagers. They proved to be a rather competent pair, not only managing to keep the ship in the river, but also making it through the rapids in the Haunted Wood, with the boat intact and all men still on board.
The Haunted Wood was an eerie place. In some places, the branches overhead clustered so tightly that no sunlight passed through, casting those underneath into darkness. The usual sounds of the forest were absent, and the could see no animals. Shadows flitted at the edges of their sight, and strange, beautiful faces were seen in the water, only to disappear in moments. They were all wary.
On the fourth day of their journey, they rounded a bend in the river, and came upon a strange sight. There was an enormous obelisk, jutting up from the water. It was covered in strange runes and symbols. On the beach, there sat an ogre, fishing with a line tied to his seven-foot spear. As it spotted them, it stood up, and shouted:
"Pay homage to the River Goddess or sail no further upon her waters! The Pool awaits your gifts."
"Who are you to demand sacrifices from us?" Franz shouted back.
"I am Orimir, humble servant of the River Goddess. Cast your offerings into the Pool, and you may pass."
"Why should we pay to a filthy ogre and his false goddess for our passage?" the priest replied, fingering his warhammer.
"Pay, or face the Children of the River Goddess!"
Franz was about to shout back a reply that would surely have doomed their monoxyla, but was silenced by Predeslava, who stepped forward.
"We shall pay homage to the River Goddess."
With that simple announcement, she tugged a jewelled gold ring off her finger, and dropped it into the pool. It vanished to the depths with a quiet plop.
Grudgingly, the adventurers followed suit, all but Franz sending bracelets or rings down to the riverbed. Seemingly sated, the ogre Orimir stepped forward the beach, and placed his huge hand upon the bow of their small craft. In his guttural voice, he began chanting a strange litany, obviously casting a spell. With a dark expression, Franz made no move to stop him. Then, light flared out from under the ogre's splayed fingers. When he stepped back, the men in the boat could see a strange glyph in the wood glowing briefly, and then fading into a hitherto unnoticeable outline.
"There. Your ship has been given the blessing of the River Goddess. You may pass."
With that, they departed the strange pool.
* * *
A day later, they came upon a lake, in the middle of the forest. The Haunted Forest would soon end, they knew, and they would come to the Witch Fens, an even more terrible place, a marsh reputedly tainted by Chaos.
As the monoxyla left the confines of the river to float on the lake's shimmering surface, a strange event took place. The water around the ship began to foam and spray, as if boiling. With a lurch, it shot forward at the river outlet they could see breaking the line of the opposite beach. The craft was speeding forward at an unnatural pace, the sails threatening to rip. They made it across the lake in mere minutes, and travelled a goodly amount down the river before they lost the momentum. None of them could explain this strange phenomenon, though there were mumblings among the Ovotskians about the blessing of the River Goddess. All were silent, however, as the wall of trees on their both sides gave way to the grey and bleak Witch Fens.
The progress through the Witch Fens was even slower than their travel in the Haunted Wood. Here, the stream was choked by mud, clay, debris, and more unsavoury things. A haze of mist hung over everything, and the wind carried the stench of death. They were all wary, constantly on the watch. There were no animals in the Witch Fens.
It was the morning of the second day. The adventurers were alerted by one of the Ovotskians, a fellow named Sergej. The bearded man took them to a water hole, explaining that two of the villagers, young men, had disappeared. They had gone fishing, but never returned.
At the water hole, there were two fishing rods, and a few dead fish lying in the mud by the pool. Two pairs of tracks led off into the dead wood.
"When did they disappear?" Frederich asked.
"Last night. Zeir disappearance vasn't noticed until nov," Sergej answered.
"These Witch Fens are a dangerous region, correct?" Franz asked, peering critically into the deep wood.
"Yes. Very dangerous. Hags live here, it is said."
"The men are most likely dead, then?"
Sergej looked down, and took a deep, wavering breath.
"Yes. Most likely."
"Then there is no reason we should go out there and risk both our and the villagers' lives, just because two boys were foolish enough to wander off. I say we leave them behind and continue." The priest's stern gaze challenged anyone to object. Nobody did.
They travelled onwards without incident, from then on. There was a silent agreement among the people aboard. They were not harassed, for the Witch Fens had already taken their toll.
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And here, the final installment of Chapter Two. Enjoy!
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Seven days had passed since the destruction of Ovotsk when the small boat with its survivors arrived in the city of Sarbas. The bodies of criminals were hanging from the trees on the riverbanks, their dead eyes gazing at the monoxyla as it floated past them and into the city.
They docked their small vessel at the piers reserved for such, and paid the docking fee, which Franz equated to robbery. Then, Predeslava led the adventurers and the Ovotskian survivors through the city, to his uncle Khuritsa's estate. Khuritsa was obviously a wealthy man. His house, nay, manor, stood on the edge of the city, circled by its own ten-foot wall. The heavy iron gate was guarded by two rather tired-looking guards, who immediately sprung alert as they saw the motley party walking up the path to the gate. As the guards challenged them, spears held at ready, Predeslava stepped forward, announcing their identity and intent. One of the guards, much more respectful now, disappeared inside the compound to get Uncle Khuritsa. He soon returned with a huge bear of a man. The large fellow was in his sixties, as evidenced by the traces of grey in his enormous beard and balding hair. Laughter twinkled in his blue eyes, as he ran up to Predeslava, sweeping her up in a bear hug. His joviality was contagious, and soon, the survivors of Ovotsk were at ease, unburdened by their recent troubles. The journey was over, and they had survived it.
They soon found that Uncle Khuritsa was an excellent host. Soft beds, warm meals, and hot baths were soon prepared for the weary travellers. Khuritsa was always there, ready with a tale of the adventures in his youth, when he was one of the Kislev Winged Lancers, elite knights, who fought against the followers of Chaos, the greenskins, and whatever else threatened their northern country. Khuritsa had inherited his father's horse-trading coster, and was now reaping great profits after signing a deal with his former knightly order to supply them with the best warhorses the frozen steppe had to offer.
Food and drink were plentiful in Khuritsa's estate, and the next two weeks went past quickly. Then, one day, a runner appeared to the gates, with an important message: the warlord Viseslav had been seen selling slaves in the market. At Predeslava's command, the group quickly armed themselves, and made their way to the marketplace, accompanied by five men of Khuritsa's house guard, and the runner boy, who was to point out Viseslav from the crowd.
"He is zat big, bristle-haired man over zere, talking vith the small noble. The nobleman is Liut, a local fop. Killing him probably isn't smart," the boy said, pointing at a pair of men haggling over the price of a slave.
The adventurers and Khuritsa's men stealthily wandered through the crowd, fanning out and circling Viseslav, Liut, and their respective retinues, both five men strong. Then, without warning, they attacked. Two of Viseslav's guard were struck down immediately by Frederich and Franz. Kase shot a third on in the shoulder with his longbow, and the man was soon run through by one of Khuritsa's men.
The marketplace soon emptied of all but the warriors, as the innocent bystanders tried not to get brained by a stray axe swing. Liut's men joined the fray at the command of their employer, and the adventurers suddenly found they were being outnumbered. The guards of Liut and Khuritsa crossed axes and swords, as Fisibbei was stuck in single combat with their dagger-wielding leader. The fight was soon resolved, as Fisibbei nearly disembowelled him, and then cast a minor curative spell so the nobleman wouldn't die of his injuries.
Meanwhile, Frederich and Franz duelled with Viseslav. The warlord swung his bastard sword with deadly accuracy and strength, and the Sigmarites were hard-pressed to defend themselves. The warrior whirled around, swinging his sword in a wide arc, killing one of Khuritsa's men and forcing Frederich and Franz to retreat. The two then pressed their attack, Frederich scoring a deep wound in Viseslav's side with his sword. This seemed to only enrage the warlord, whose return strike pierced Franz's leg, taking the priest out of the fight.
Kase and Fisibbei were fighting against three men, their backs against the wall, when they saw their companion fall. The elf reacted to this by uttering a terrible warcry, and then cutting down his surprised opponent. A few long, running strides took him to Franz, and he began incanting a healing spell. The Sigmarite priest jumped up, his wounds cured, and new life coursing through his veins. Shouting his god's name, he crushed the skull of the last of Viseslav's men.
Frederich and Viseslav were in their own world. Steel clanged on steel, attacks were parried and returned. Both combatants were bleeding from dozens of small injuries. There was no finesse in their attacks, only brute strength and uncanny speed. And then, the death came from behind. Franz's warhammer shattered three of Viseslav's ribs with an audible crunch. The agony caused the warlord to momentarily lower his guard, and with a single swipe of Frederich's axe, his head was cleanly separated from his body.
The battle was over. Sixteen men lay on the ground, dead. The four adventurers were the only ones standing. The crowd of horrified, but entertained, onlookers parted before a group of armoured, halberd-wielding soldiers. One of them, a grizzled veteran with a face that looked like it had been used as a dartboard, stepped forward and announced:
"By the lav of Kislev, I place you under arrest!"
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