Ulric’s Revenge, was what the people called it. One of the harshest winters in living memory, its freezing grip hard on the heels of what was already being called the Second Great War Against Chaos. Many in the south said it was the wolf god’s parting blow against the Northers, the bitter winds and heavy snowfalls further scattering and culling the defeated fragments of Archaon’s great horde. Those in the north, where the tides of war had razed homes and burned hard-won supplies, tended to see it as Ulric’s anger at the forces of Chaos being allowed to come so close to his holiest of shrines.

The elation of victory had long since been punctured – the enemies of an overstretched and battered Empire did not miss the opportunities presented by the aftermath of the incursion. There were reports of uprisings in Carroburg, and fighting in the backwater towns of Sylvania – even an attack on the county’s decaying capital. With the army of Mannfred von Carstein still at large and now unobserved, and rumours of Archaon himself weathering Ulric’s wrath behind the broken walls of Brass Keep, the armies of the Empire were afforded no respite, still stretched to breaking point as they tried to guard a dozen different fronts.

Winter turned to spring, and as the passes cleared, the elite of Altdorf began to make plans, trying to rotate and relieve the forces that had dug themselves in to survive the winter. The skies remained troubled, crops rotting in their fields as unprecedented rain turned low-lying farms into marshes, and grey, cloying clouds choked the sunlight. Many peasants in the forests and highlands claimed to have seen dark omens, many-headed calves and other aberrations keeping the priests of Sigmar busy at their pyres. Men and women too were committed to the flames, a confused and divided church keen to exercise its authority, and aided by a superstitious populace. Natural order had failed to re-assert itself, as if it still bore the bruises of the unnatural war. There was unrest among the Colleges of Magic, although they strenuously avoided making its cause clear to their mundane neighbours – courtiers noticed, however, that record numbers of students were flocking to the usually unpopular Amethyst college, at the expense of almost every other magical institution. There was even talk of an Amethyst challenger to the patriarch, although no-one yet dared to name a candidate.

As the spring wore on, the weather lifted enough for the battered armies to move once more, and long-overdue supplies from the south began to reach the battle-scarred north, along with reserves shipped from Tilea, Estalia and the Border Princes at exorbitant cost. No aid was forthcoming from the dwarfs, who had turned inward on some private trouble of their own – agreements with Bretonnia faltered, cooled and failed for no apparent reason, many suspecting the hand of that country’s bizarre priesthood behind the sudden political about-turn. Nevertheless, no longer crippled by war or weather, the Empire moved once more to stamp out the enemies within its borders. Many nobles were clamouring for a purge of Middenland and Hochland, fearing that an enterprising chieftain might yet unite the splintered survivors of Archaon’s horde trapped there by the winter and make a fighting retreat north. The Church, too, was firmly in favour of a holy struggle to break Brass Keep and cleanse the mountains.

They had no conception, therefore, of just how important that battlefield would prove to be…

---

The Kurgan’s Head – its name changed with the times, the old wooden effigy of a greenskin’s bucket-jawed skull above its door now replaced with a black, horned helm that had been plundered from some recent battlefield – stood in the middle of Bäckersberg. The mountain village seemed to huddle around it, or more accurately, the well that stood in front of it: this far up the Lachtbec, in these times, the inn had few outside visitors, serving as a sort of exclusive club for the village’s menfolk. Those that had survived the Storm, at any rate – mostly men old, young, cunning, simple or crippled enough to have avoided the draft when it came to Bäckersberg, the recruiting sergeant’s hearty bellow and the bold martial rattle of the drum just another variation on the slam of a coffin lid. Of those who had marched away, only three had returned: two had done so for burial, and the third was tacitly understood to have deserted.

It was he who had brought back the Kurgan helm – a trophy he adamantly claimed to have won himself in combat against its owner – and the vicious axe the warrior of Chaos was supposed to have wielded was now mounted on the wall behind the stained wood of the bar, reminding all and sundry of the improbability of Gulli’s claim by its immense size. Gulli’s father had not been one of the lucky three to return: while the wives and old men of the village could not but disapprove of his having run, they agreed that it was a good thing for Bäckersberg to have life in the old inn again, and Gulli was better than no-one.

It was with this dubious authority that he was currently meditating on the strangers disturbing the peace of his establishment – some of the first he had seen pass through the village in months. It was good for business, but bad for the regulars – huddled in dark corners of the heavily-built tavern, the old men grumbled behind their tankards, flicking covert glances towards the newcomers whenever they thought they weren’t looking. Slowly spreading the grime more evenly around the leather tankard in his own hand with a greasy scrap of cloth, Gulli watched them closely, wary of any development that might occur. Occasionally, he glanced at the hawthorn cudgel he kept under the counter, to reassure himself that it was still there – perhaps a less intimidating weapon than the great axe, but one that he could possibly use without dislocating both shoulders.

Hanging up a cloak heavy with the evening’s rain, the nearest turned to face him – fancy clothes, in some foreign fashion… Gulli didn’t know or care where. A thin rapier hung at the man’s left side, a dagger with a strange curled hilt thrust through his belt on his right – strangest of all, he was carrying a silver mask, in the shape of a snarling skull. Looking down as the man’s pale, gaunt face found his, he busied himself with a more industrious scrubbing of the tankard.

Behind the foreigner, a much rougher-looking cove, an overcoat that had been battered into near-shapelessness hanging loosely over a toughened leather jack – there was a heavy-looking crossbow slung over his back, and a dark look in his eyes, his lined face not one that looked too accustomed to smiling. Next to him, a blonde-haired young-ish fellow in a faded red gown. He looked a fair sight cleaner and better-kept than most of the inn’s patrons, which to Gulli implied some kind of breeding, and thus explained the eccentric dress. He certainly wasn’t about to ask questions – the robed man, too, was armed. Unshipping his own cloak, he turned to the door, speaking to someone outside – with a little hesitation, the figure of a lady stepped over the threshold. Not a scrap of skin was showing: her face was covered by a veil, her hands by gloves. She looked wealthy enough – the strange men were probably in her pay.

One of the other newcomers glanced round at them as they shut the door – there were too many weapons in the Kurgan’s Head tonight, even without the axe and cudgel. Adjusting the scabbard at his side, the seated stranger turned back to his drink before the foreigner could notice him.

“How close, then, Gregor?” said the one in red. The man in the overcoat looked round.
“Close enough. We’re not going to get any further today. This is as good a place to stop as any.”
“How many days behind?”
”One. Maybe two. We’re not going to narrow that by running ourselves down.”
“We’re losing time. He won’t be stopping like this.”
“No, but he left his last horse behind in Vordf. I’d rather catch up with him on a full stomach and a good night’s sleep than after three days’ forced march, if it’s all the same to you.” There was a cutting edge to the man’s voice, but his heart wasn’t in it – his eyes kept darting back towards the veiled lady and the foreigner, as if he suspected they might turn and stab him in the back.
“Fine,” said the younger man, clearly not in the most best of tempers either. “We’ll stop here. I just hope the half-wit you told to watch the horses doesn’t run off with them.”
“Ha.” Gregor smiled. “That was a damn stroke of luck, wasn’t it?”
“Well, where he comes from, someone steals your horse, you can go round to their tent the next day and lop off their head. I don’t think he’s exactly clear on how things work in this country.” The younger man sounded tired, and not a little harassed – leading the way to the bar, he impatiently snapped his fingers at Gulli as the man tried to avoid eye contact.
“What’s your name, mein herr?”
”Gulli, sir. Gulli Lenkster.” Gulli had decided that servile deference was probably the best option at this moment. Surly resentment could wait for later.
“Mine’s Matthias. We’d like two ales, Herr Lenkster.” He paused and looked at the foreigner, who raised an eyebrow.
“Me? Wine, if you have it.”
”We don’t.” said Gulli, flatly.
“Then ale, Herr Lenkster, like my friends.”
“And the lady?”
“I’m not thirsty,” came a high-bred voice from behind the veil. The one called Gregor snorted, and muttered something – Gulli’s brow creased as he tried to make sense of what he’d heard. ‘Lucky for you’…?
“And food. Two big meals,” said Matthias. “Whatever you’ve got.”
Gulli looked at the lady and the foreigner – definitely her bodyguard, he had decided by now. “Not hungry, either?”
“No.” The voice from behind the veil was pointed now – peasant genes reverberating to the tones of automatic command, the innkeeper nodded and went about his business. The foreigner gave the lady a sideways glance, as if appraising her anew.

“Is there a table in this place?” Lifting her veil, the woman looked around her – she was young, and undoubtedly pretty – noble folk would probably say beautiful – although rather pale. That was bluebloods for you, though.
“Over there, m’lady.”
“I will sit.” She didn’t waste words – of all of them, she looked the most worn out by their days’ travelling, her expression leaden and lethargic. They had probably been riding a long time, considering the distance to the nearest town, and the state of the roads since the rains: the sunlight in the latticed windowpanes was already beginning to blush crimson, its parent orb beginning its stately descent towards the horizon and nightfall.

Gulli served the other three, the foreigner taking his ale and going to sit with the lady while Matthias and Gregor remained at the bar: the other newcomer glanced at them again, and this time the one called Gregor noticed, looking back. Averting his eye, the man looked back at his drink…

---

Aerandir stepped silently forwards, careful not to disturb a single leaf with his cat-like footfall: reaching over his shoulder with glacial slowness, he drew an arrow from its quiver, nocking it to his bow.
“Dresses like him,” the elf whispered, on the cusp of hearing. “We’re still on the trail.”
“Supposedly,” said Richter, the man’s attempt at a whisper painfully loud to the elf’s ears. Despite the man’s doubts, Aerandir could sense the excitement in his voice: they had chased this man across half the Empire, and now it seemed he stood before them.
“Where’d he get that horse?”
“Swapped it, maybe. I really think we should save the questions for later.”

The man on the road ahead of them had dismounted from his horse – a very fine-looking animal, if looking a little worn out. Kneeling down by its hoof, he persuaded it to let him look: the animal had thrown a shoe, making the man mutter something under his breath. Straightening up, he checked his saddlebags: the roads were little better than a stony quagmire, intermittent downpours having turned earth to mud and mud to watery ooze. A light rain was falling now, like descending mist, quickly soaking through clothes and chilling the skin: in his hiding-place among the trees, Richter shivered. Contorted to conceal his outline behind a fallen tree-trunk, he could not make out the man’s face from where he crouched – his back was to the two silent observers in the trees.

Adjusting the short black cape he wore against the rain, the man went to lead his horse by the reins: stopping, he glanced into the woods to either side of the road, making Aerandir shrink back into the shadows to avoid detection. Pausing for a moment, the man muttered something under his breath, tracing a complex pattern in the air with a finger: the air around him shimmered and rippled, distorting his outline and cloaking him in shadow…

“It’s him,” snarled Richter. With a shout, Aerandir rose from his hiding-place, pointing the bow straight at the gloom-shrouded figure: drawing his own bowstring taut, Valgeir rose to his feet, pointing the soot-dulled arrowhead straight at where he hoped the sorcerer’s heart would be and letting fly.

The horse screamed and reared, the arrow passing straight through the glimmering veil of shadows – as the spell dispersed, it revealed there was no-one inside its darkened shroud. Dashing for the trees, the man had nearly reached their cover when Aerandir’s arrow slashed into the mud a few feet in front of him, bringing him to a dead halt – turning, he stared at his ambushers, raising his hands in surrender. Aerandir already had another arrow to his bow, the weapon aimed firmly at the man’s throat. Richter glared at the man’s face, his expression seeming to harden as he took in each unfamiliar feature in turn – with a snort of disgust, he turned to Aerandir, motioning for the elf to lower his bow.
“Not him.”
“Who are you?” called the elf, holding his weapon where it was. Lowering his hands, the man replied.
“A traveller. Who are you looking for?”
“What was that, then? Witchcraft?”
“I’m college. Sanctioned.” The man inclined his head towards his horse, his initial fear appearing already to have fled. “My papers are in my bags.”
“You don’t look like a wizard,” said Richter, resentfully.
“We don’t all have pointy hats and long beards, you know.”
“Hmh.”
“What’s your name, ‘traveller’?” asked Aerandir – the arrow was still nocked, but now he lowered the bow.
“Korvich.”
The two glanced at each other. Richter nodded his head in Aerandir’s direction, his face still sullen and scowling.
“Have you seen another man travelling on this road? Dressed quite like yourself… tall…”
“Case of mistaken identity, is it? No, can’t say I have. Wouldn’t want to be him, though, from the looks of things.” Despite his words, the man sounded slightly interested.
“I’m sorry. We thought you were him.”
“I’d worked that out.” Herr Korvich turned back to his horse. “No hard feelings, eh?” he said, sarcastically. “You going to Bäckersberg?”
“Is that the next town?”
“If you’d call it a town, yes.”
“I suppose so, then.”
“You may as well come with me. This damned animal has thrown a shoe, and some of the highwaymen on this road are professionals. We’d probably both be safer.”
“How far is it?” said Richter.
“Came out without a map, did you?” Herr Korvich raised an eyebrow. “A mile, or two. I was hoping to make it before dark before this happened.” He gestured at his horse’s hoof.
“We don’t need you,” said Richter, sharply.
“Maybe not, but I’d rather be travelling in a group after sundown, and I think you owe me.”

Aerandir and Richter exchanged looks – his scowl deepening even further, the ranger followed the elf out into the road…

---

It was dark in the Kurgan’s Head – a dingy establishment at the best of times, with nightfall had come the kind of creeping blackness that one usually associated with a lower class of cave. A single storm-lantern cast its sickly glow over the counter, the grime on its bleary glass making shadowed blots in the thin illumination it shed. The trophy behind the counter loomed monstrous in the darkness, its jagged blade casting distorted, pitch-black shadows on the wall behind it.

Matthias had remained at the table, slowly draining the last of his drink: watching the others, he found his mind wandering in dark alleys. If Gregor was right, they were closer on Dhenra’s trail now than they had been for days – weeks, even – and the mountains loomed uncomfortably large in the foreground. Remembering the sorcerer’s words in Waldenhof, it was hard not to believe that whatever the daemon-mage was planning next was going to happen here – and happen soon. What was more, Dhenra’s words on the tower had been a challenge. The lich would be expecting him. However much he tried to second-guess the course events would take, all he could see were those blazing blue eyes, staring back at him.

A glimmer of clean light from one of the other tables caught his eye, breaking his reverie: a short, bearded man was reading from a heavy-looking book, a point of gleaming radiance hovering over his shoulder. There was the scrape of a chair being pushed back as one of the locals rose, glaring daggers at the old man: seeming to realise where he was for the first time, the mage looked up, and the light he had summoned winked out.

A heavy-set, middle-aged man, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his face halfway to becoming a beard of his own, got up and started to walk towards the old man at his seat – several other locals followed him, their faces set and dark. A tall, young-ish looking man at the bar pushed back his stool, his hand straying towards the sabre at his side – his one eye followed the men as they swaggered towards the wizard. The other eye was a milky glass sphere, its socket crossed by a thin, vertical scar that ran the length of his cheek, and could not follow anyone.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the old man in a dry, calm voice as they arrived by his seat, looming over him – pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he turned to look at them. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of your company?”
The one-eyed man at the bar closed his good eye, and sighed. The portly man at the fore of the group stiffened, his face colouring.
“We saw what you done.”
“Yes?”
“We don’t like wizards here.”
“Ah – a simple misunderstanding. I have my papers, my seal, from the College of Light, in Altdorf, if you would like to inspect them.”
“We don’t like wizards here.”
“Well, I don’t particularly like this place, either, but there is nowhere else for me to spend the night.”
A meaty hand reached out and grabbed the sandy-haired wizard by his collar, lifting him from his seat. He spluttered in indignation. “Let go of me! This instant!”
“What you goin’ to do?” sneered a hanger-on. “Turn us into frogs?”
“We should nail ‘im to a tree by his ears,” said another, in a high, nasal voice.
“Damn wizards,” growled a third. There was a general susurration of muttered agreement from the seated village folk, although each mutterer took care to mutter more quietly than the others, for fear of drawing attention. Not all of them were so confident in the old man’s lack of frog-turning ability. Some of them, not least Gulli, who was now trying to make himself inconspicuous at the back of the common-room and rapidly planning a route for a convenient and unnoticed disappearance, had noticed that the stranger at the counter at the bar had silently drawn his blade, and was holding it cross-wise across his lap.
“I demand you let go of me at once!”
“Demand, is it?” said the ringleader. “You think you’re very high and mighty, Herr wizard, I’m sure. Probably you are, back in Altdorf.”
“Back in Altdorf,” echoed one of the followers.
“Shut up, Hans.”
“Yes, Piotre.”
“But this ain’t Altdorf, see? This is the Middle Mountains, an’ we does things different here.”
“Different. Hur hur.”
“Hans.”
“sorrypiotre.”
“So, you can either get out, find somewhere else to stay the night, or I can give you to Lester an’ we can take you to the tree. Hans’ll find some nails for us, won’t you Hans?”
“Nails. Hur hur.”
“An’ then we can have us a nice bonfire. What do you say to that, Herr Altdorf?”
“This is ridiculous! It’s already dark, there are highwaymen on the roads…”
“They’re not standin’ in front of you, Herr Altdorf. What’s it goin’ to be?”
The man was right in the old wizard’s face, the fields of stubble that covered his veined jowls smelling quite distinctly of the tavern’s ale, but he didn’t seem far gone enough for this to be mere drunkenness. Gregor was quiet, seeming content to watch the show: Dante’s eyes, meanwhile, were fixed on the stranger at the bar, more concerned with the naked weapon than the ageing bully’s threats. Emilie looked more alive than she had all day, her eyes darting around the scene, a curious expression on her face. Matthias turned back to the confrontation.

The door swung open. Most of the men looked round as three more strangers came in, another wave of mutters sweeping the seated locals – shaking the water from his cloak, Oswin turned and stopped dead, taking in the familiar faces, and the ugly tableaux behind them. Gregor, the first to see him, stared back.

The one-eyed man stood, knocking his stool over backwards with a clatter as he saw Aerandir’s face – whirling round, the big man menacing the wizard saw the sabre in his hand for the first time.
“You watch yourself, cully,” he snarled. “That kind of thing isn’t wanted here.”

Aerandir’s eyes jumped from one person to the other as he tried to figure out what was happening. What he did know was that a one-eyed man had jumped up yust at the moment he had walked in.

“I think that we’ve arrived at the wrong time Richter. Maybe we should sleep in the forest tonight, don't you agree?.” Aerandir whispered to Richter as his fingers closed around his sword underneath his cloack. It was more sarcasm then it actually was a question.

Matthias let out an audible sigh.

Everywhere I go, the same thing. You'd think that after the Storm there'd be a measure of respect for the other-worldly practices that helped protect the Empire. Still, some people steadfastly remain ignorant, and I'm afraid that can't be stood for.

The fire mage rose to his feet, loudly and intentionally tapping his staff on the ground as he crossed the inn towards the drama. Coming to a halt a few feet behind the group of locals, he cleared his throat to ensure he had their attention, if the thumping of his stave hadn't done the job.

"Do we have a problem here, gentlemen?" he asked, allowing a small smile to flicker across his lips, "or would you care to take a seat and allow me to examine this fellow's papers?"

There's no way these barbarians have the remotest clue about this wizard, they're just xenophobes. All the same, keep an eye on him. It's not like you haven't met practicers of magic who aren't trustworthy...

Nodding first to Gregor as he met his gaze, Oswin then yawned mutedly into his left hand as Matthias chose to interject himself into a situation that didn't concern him. He had met few men as entertainingly predictable as the Bright Mage, and this looked like it could be a good show.

Making his way over to the bar, Oswin dropped onto a stool and leaned back against the wood.

Wonderful, Richter thought. Civilisation.

Ignoring Aerandir, he opened his mouth and spoke.

"What's going on - " he began, but paused as one of the other of the inn's customers stood. His eyes turned to the man with the blonde hair and took in his staff.

Oh, great. Damn wizards.

He saw Aerandir's move to grasp his sword's hilt and his own hand went beneath the folds of his cloak, discreetly resting upon his hammer's handle as he waited for the situation to become either more or less complicated.

“Another one,” growled one of the hangers-on. The ringleader’s bloodshot gaze turned to Matthias, fully taking in the red robes, the staff, the words.
“Yeah, well…” he began uncertainly. “That ain’t much good, is it? Your word. You and Herr Altdorf here might be the Emperor’s pantaloons when it comes to writin’ and readin’ as such, but we’ve never ‘ad much use for it out here.” He set the old man down. “You ought to learn to keep your ‘ead down.”
“Oh no, it’s a sure show of moral fibre how he’s standing up for a frail old gentleman in need,” chimed in the one-eyed man at the bar – his voice had a slightly upper-class ring to it, although to Matthias’ ears, one that sounded slightly false. Sheathing the sabre again, the man stepped forwards: the impression of seemingly limitless confidence was only broken by the way he kept glancing sideways at the elf.
“Why don’t we all pretend this never happened, eh? That way all this unpleasantness can be avoided.”
“You can stuff that.” The ringleader sensed he was losing his audience, and turned savagely on Matthias and the old man, his veined face looking like an exploding tomato as he yelled. “Both of you! Out!”

Watching the drama unfold, Dante could not help but sigh over Matthias' decision to so directly involve himself in the situation. It has been awhile since the vampire had been in a bar fight- last time had been enjoyable, to say the least.

Even in a bar full of men who would love to ring his neck, that mage will place himself into a situation that brings attention to him... I've missed the company of humans like him. But then there is Emilie...

"M'lady," Dante muttered, his voice muted over the murmurs that were coming from other tables, "while normally I wouldn't place myself into a situation such as this, I'm afraid I would rather have Matthias alive as we progress. I hope you don't mind if I take your leave for a moment..."

At these words, there was a quiet sound of metal brushing against leather, followed by the Tilean gently taking Emile's hand and placing his dagger into the now open palm. He only paused a minute as he looked over the noblewoman's surprised face. Was from him handing her the blade, or the fact he took her hand in the first place? There was little time to muse. Danted leaned over to her ear.

"I would prefer you not join in this- it's obvious we've drawn enough attention. Take the dagger in case a fight ensues, practice what I've taught if anyone even considers laying a hand on you. Keep in mind, you are more powerful than any man in this room."

With a smile on his face, Dante bowed his head to the vampiress and rose from his seat. Striding over to where the Matthias now stood, Dante closed behind him, displaying a look of impatience and annoyance on his face as he stared to the three locals.

"I'm sorry, good Herr, but I would prefer this one stay. He's with me, you see, and I would be loathe to be lost of his company." His words were a combination of vieled threats and sarcasm, and his expression showed his time was much to valuable to waste with this man.

The man stared belligerently back at Dante, drink and pride warring with self-preservation.

"Sigmar save us all, a bloody foreigner as well," he managed. "Lenkster, your inn is going to the dogs."
As he turned back towards the old man, his hand began to move towards the inside of his jacket - before it was even halfway there, there was a flash of movement from behind him and he doubled over, clutching his abdomen and gasping painfully. Reaching down, the one-eyed man prised the knife from his fingers like a man taking a toy from a recalcitrant child, pocketing it before rubbing his elbow with a wince.

On his knees, the stout man wheezed at his croneys. "What in Volkmar's name are you waiting for?" Those of them with more sense looked around at the scar-faced man, Dante, Matthias and the old wizard, and stepped back: that left Hans, staring at his friend's attacker in a decidedly pugilistic fashion. He blinked as he realised he was suddenly alone, and sagged.
"Don't want no trouble," he mumbled, and backed off. Pulling himself up, the ringleader gaped at his retreating allies, turning furiously on the one-eyed man - who grinned, and patted him on the back.
"Run along now."

Bristling, the man stepped back, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the door, slamming it hard behind him. A couple of other men reluctantly got to their feet and followed, glancing askance at the two wizards - the others stayed where they were, their eyes now fixed firmly on their drinks.

Breathing out, the old man nodded to his guard, and looked up at Matthias and Dante.
"I believe I owe you two my sincere thanks," he said, proferring a hand. "My name is - Ludo. Ludo Kaufmann. Of the Order of Light," he added, nodding to Matthias. "It's not often you see a College man in these parts, even a journeyman like yourself. What brings you here?"

Tapping Matthias on the shoulder, Dante smiled at his friend and seemed to chuckle.

"I'm going back over to sit with Emilie. Try to keep yourself out of trouble, yes? The journey is long, and you know how hard it is to carry a dead man with you."

The statment seemed to have some underlying element of humour to it, or perhaps multiple veins to it, but the Tilean knew it would be lost on all but his companions. Striding back over to the table where Emilie sat, he took the dagger back from her extended hand and placed it back in his belt.

"That went unexpectedly well then, yes?"

Richter's hand dropped from his weapon, the need for it gone. He brushed past the wizards and took a seat at the bar one seat from Oswin.

"An ale," he grunted at the barkeep, "and make it quick." He turned to look at Aerandir and raised his eyebrows at the elf; a clear question of his companion's next intentions. Twisting back around to look at the barman, he kept listening to what was unfolding behind him.

Aerandir walked over to the bar without exposing his back to the group in the middle and placed himself next to Richter- his hand only now releasing its grip around his sword.

"Do you have brandy?" The elf asked at the bartender. He enjoyed the sweatness of brandy over the bitter taste of beer. "And can you bring us something to eat?"

Matthias shook the wizard's extended hand.

"Matthias Stromheim," he replied, "Bright College." The younger mage rummaged for his wizarding license. "Mind if we quickly compare papers? Just a formality, I'm sure you understand, but these are still dangerous times. There are imposters about..."

Dhenra.

"...I'll explain later."

Stromheim risked a sideways glance to Kaufmann's companion. There was something not quite natural in the way he'd moved to disarm the ringleader of the rabble.

Probably nothing, but you can't be too careful. I know all too well about a certain somebody who can assume a different shape...

“As a matter of fact, they’re in my travelling chest,” said Kaufmann, inclining his head towards the ceiling. “In my room. This, however, is my seal.” Reaching over the back of his head, he unhooked a heavy pendant from round his neck, its bronze face worked with the eight-spoked wheel of the Light Order. It looked like it had been in the wars – its surface was battered and scarred, looking like it had been rather badly repaired at some point in the past – but it meant the man was a fully-fledged Magister, the kind of man who used to order Matthias around in the halls of the Bright College. Stromheim wondered what would have happened to the inebriated locals if they had pushed the old man any further… and then remembered that not all wizards were as directly dangerous as the members of his own order.

“Don’t trouble with your own papers. It would be remiss of me to have such dark suspicions of my rescuer.” A quick smile scuttled across the old man’s face, gone as soon as it appeared. He seemed to remember himself, and turned to his companion. “I’m sorry – this is my guard.”
The young man bowed. “Jonathan… Stiller, at your service, sir.” He grinned his white-toothed smile again – the milky glass eye and its companion scar gave the expression a slightly unnerving air. Continuing in the same cheerful tone, he shook Matthias’ hand as he spoke.
“Mind if I ask you what you meant when you said impostors, sir? Can’t be too careful, like you said.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Something rum’s happening in these parts, if you ask me. I mean,” he inclined his head covertly towards Aerandir. “Elves…”

---

“I’m surprised you didn’t take the opportunity to use your weapon,” said Emilie, frostily. Dante lifted his eyebrows in mock offence.
“Are you suggesting I enjoy having to fight?”
“Or showing off.” Removing her veil, she looked around the room: the sun had almost finished setting, and she seemed more alert and awake than she had all day.
“I would like to practise tonight,” she said, apropos of nothing. “This may be the last chance we get before the mountains.”

---

Gulli nodded mutely at Aerandir – with an elf and two wizards suddenly emerging in his tavern, he didn’t feel like making conversation. Pushing a tankard of ale and a grimy glass of what looked vaguely like brandy across the bar, he held out his hand.
“Four schillings.” He blinked, remembering what the elf had said. “We ain’t got no fancy food, mind. Who’s eating?”

“That does not matter, bring something for me and my companion.” Aeranfir answered and waved his hand carelessly at Richter as indication he was his companion. But it was an act, inside he felt more nervous then he had been in weeks. “I’ll pay this time.” He said to Richter while he dropped the amount of schillings on the bar.

"That'll be another schilling each, then," said Gulli doubtfully. "It'll be a while."

Aerandir took out two more schillings and dropped them on the bar on the others. “Here you go,” he added. The elf then turned his back to the bar and observed the people in the room. His eyes where automatically drawn towards the man with the scar. Why had he yumped up? Was he scared? insulted?

"Thanks," Richter said curtly to Aerandir, giving a nod of appreciation. He turned his head as inconspicuously as possible to look to the wizard's seal and noted that it seemed genuine.

There are a lot of wizards in these parts ... and Turich definitely came this way. Not a poor choice of a place to lay low, if he's still here. We'd better keep our eyes open.

Matthias stifled the laugh that tried to rise from his chest. If this Stiller thought that an elf was the most exotic creature in the tavern, he was sorely mistaken.

"Indeed," the wizard nodded, "these are difficult times."

He paused. How was the best way to phrase this? He didn't want to give too much away. His encounters with Dhenra had made him less trusting, perhaps more paranoid than in the past.

"I take it you heard of the troubles in Sylvania?"

"A little," said Kaufmann, cautiously. "Why?"

The hell with it. Be proud of your achievements.

Matthias nodded to his companions in the corner.

"We're the reason Waldenhof is even remotely safe right about now."

He paused to let that sink in. Let them have a little respect for us, even if I do come off as a cocky b@stard.

"But that's not completely over. Hell, it's the reason I'm up here."

Matthias was suddenly aware that the old man was watching him very closely.
“Really? That sounds a fascinating story.” He glanced over his shoulder at his bodyguard, who nodded. “Why don’t you let me buy you and your… friends a meal, and you can tell me the whole thing? It’s inexcusable of me to keep you standing here.” He half-turned towards the barman. “It’s the least I can do, after your help just now.”

Oswin shot Matthias a venomous glare.

The fool, doesn't he realize that anyone could be our enemy. Dhenra was a body snatcher, and he was bound to have spies watching and waiting for us.

The shadow mage glanced over at the elf and the man who had attacked him. They were after a wizard of some kind, and had come to the Middle Mountains to find him. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

Oswin looked back to Matthias and the rescued wizard, speaking loudly enough to interrupt, "I apologize, but may I borrow my friend's ear for a moment; I'm sure there will be plenty of time later to regale you with tales of his bravery."

Ludo looked confused - not having realised that Oswin was with the others.
"Oh - but of course." He looked back at where he had left his book. "We'll stay at our table."

Matthias turned to see who had interrupted, and was momentarily taken aback.

That is not the friendly face I was expecting to see.

Recovering, he replied, "Herr Korvich, good evening." With a brief parting nod to his fellow wizard, Stromheim allowed himself to be lead away by Oswin.

This ought to be interesting.

When Oswin had figured he was out of earshot of the strange wizard and his guard, he whispered angrily.

"Are you insane? You cannot honestly believe it is a good idea to proclaim openly what we've been through, especially not here and now, so close to catching up with the b***ard."

Oswin stopped himself though, "but whatever, its your funeral, more importantly I think there are others here with a similar goal to you and I."

He gestured mutedly back toward the bar where the elf and his companion sat.

Looking over Emilie, Dante contemplated the lessons he had taught the girl... yes, her technique was good. She had learned to slash, cut, and thrust with the proper form to keep herself protected and waste the least energy; she understood how to lunge, to parry, to disengage her opponents blade. Her footwork was not bad, though she hadn't given it her own style yet. She had seemed eager to learn quickly... a bit too eager for Dante's tastes, but the prospect of revenge always motivated people to such extremes. He just made sure to continue training alone when he could, and to always keep part of his swordplay to himself, in case she decided to turn her blade against him- the techniques and philosophies were too advanced for her anyways. One did not stay alive for 150 years, after all, by giving away all they knew.

Looking away to Matthais for a moment, he noticed the mage was now conversing with the other practitioner of the winds... just as well, Dante supposed- someone to keep the fire mage entertained.

"Yes... we shall train tonight. I will have two seperate things to practice with you, Emilie. First, I want to work on your ability to sink the point exactly where you want. With a thrusting sword like the one I gave you, the most powerful ability you'll have is being able to find a chink in the opponent's armor and sink the blade where he is least protected. The second thing I want to teach you is how to use your... natural talents, shall we say, in conjunction with your swordplay. It's something I've peronally been working on as of late, and there's a few things I think you should know."

Dante suddenly saw a bit of movement from the corner of his eye, and noticed another man had taken Matthias aside. At least this one didn't seem to have hatred for all things magic. Watching for another moment, Dante suddenly realized that the two seemed to be conversing as if they knew one another. Where the cloaked fellow had been sitting, the vampire also noticed another man and an elf, of all things.

"I wonder who that one is?", Dante asked aloud, interested by the newcomers.

"His name is Korvich," said Emilie, looking across at Gregor as she spoke. "He was with us in Waldenhof."

With his peripheral vision, Richter saw the man they'd met earlier, Herr ... Korvich, motion towards himself and Aerandir. He turned his head away from Korvich and the blond mage so that they could not see his face. Resting an elbow on the bar, he put his chin in his hand to obscure his mouth to the rest of the inn's occupants and gave a low murmur.

"Can you hear what the wizards are saying? I'm pretty sure it's about us," he whispered, so low that he could barely hear it himself. He was sure, though, that the elf would get his message, and hopefully would be able to eavesdrop on the others from a distance.

Matthias' eyes flashed with anger, an action made all the more unnerving by how infrequently it occured. He glared at Oswin.

"Look," he growled quietly, barely keeping his rage in check, "You don't know Dhenra like I do. He knows we're coming - Sigmar save us, he told us to! There's no use in trying to cover our tracks."

The wizard took a deep breath, calming himself down.

"What we actually need, is help. I can barely hold him off - I managed to destroy his body once, but he took another one. If you recall, it was my childhood friend's."

The anger in Stromheim's eyes was replaced with sadness.

"Everything I do, I do for this 'quest'. We need help to fight him. Handy as it is that you seem to have seen fit to join us, you can't deny that your magic tricks won't be enough."

Matthias nodded to the wizard.

"He might be useful."

Dante looked with some humour as he sized up the newcomer to the bar- another one of these proclaimed "vampire killers" apparently. He couldn't help but to snicker to himself- he may never be as powerful as Konrad, but he certainly wasn't going to have the absence of mind to walk into a city which hated him and proclaim his rule. one of the most powerful beings in the world had his supposed reign cut short by what was mostly a group of ragtage mercenaries.

Glancing over to Emilie, Dante noticed she was staring at Gregor... again. Sighing, he turned his full attention to the noblewoman.

"Are you still worried about that rundown old man, dear Emilie? Even in the infancy of your new powers, you're more than a match for him, you know. Granted, however, I would prefer have this ally, even if by ally I mean 'wants to discharge an entire quiver of bolts into our chests'. Dhrena is a powerful one, after all. Plus, Matthias will continue playing the role of diplomat to make sure your head remains conected to your neck and your body . So try to relax, yes?"

And then there's the fact he has two to worry about now, instead of one. Dante considered this with a slight smile. Yes... two undead, of different bloodlines, at that. What interesting luck he had- only at the loss of an elf, albeit a wonderful tracker. He had only wished he knew necromancy to raise a banshee


Taking a swig of the ale from the tankard he had been given, Dante paused for a moment, as if to taste the quality of the drink- preposterous, as he had lost need for such things over a century ago.

"I suppose this stuff tastes terrible... at least I would assume so. When do you wish to train?", Dante curtly asked.

"Maybe so, but there is no reason to be so open", Oswin replied calmly, ignoring the anger of the fire mage. As much as he disliked Matthias, he knew he was right.

"But that said, you will need allies; I will follow for as long as it takes to collect on the blood I am owed", he said while rubbing his arm in memory of the battle atop the keep.

"Good luck courting your new friend, I will at least keep an eye on those two at the bar, they are apparently hunting a mage, and I am far too paranoid now to think it a coincidence."

Oswin glanced over his shoulder before adding, "'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' and 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer' both come to mind."

"You would do well to trust no one at this point, especially not me."

Emilie looked back at Dante, giving him a bright, brittle smile.
“That’s an interesting opinion. As I remember, the last time this little band were together, I was almost burned to death. Or have you not noticed that they’re starting to outnumber us now?”
She stood. “All we need now is for Wilfried to rise from the dead.” Looking down at her hands, she brushed some dust from her sleeve where it had been touching the table. “I am going to change. I’ll meet you in the stableyard… half an hour?”

She still didn’t trust him, he thought. Well, it was only natural. The problem was that it might also be very dangerous.

Gregor continued to stare openly at the two vampires. Every time they whispered together it made his stomach turn over.

Sigmar only knows what the two of them are planning...probably going to try to devour us in our sleep. Stromheim seems to trust the foreign one...his loss. After we find that b***ard sorcerer I'm going to have to find a way to deal with them once and for all.

Gregor snapped out of his musings and realized that Oswin had somehow ended up in the same place. Gregor didn't find the shadow mage too trustworthy, but at least he seemed to have a clearer opinion of the monsters that he was traveling with. Gregor rose to his feet and walked over towards Korvich.

"Interesting seeing you here. And it seems you brought friends. We going to the same place?"

“Certainly,” Aerandir whispered silently behind his glass af brandy, yust hard enough for Richter to hear. While he eavesdropped the conversation he regularly sipped from his brandy.

“Apparently they’re after someone they both hate...” Aerandir whispered after some time while he brought his mouth to Richter’s ear. “Korvich thinks we’re here for the same reason... He thinks we're after a wizard because we attacked him on the road. Korvich told the blond wizard to trust no one at this point and certainly not him... why would someone tell someone not to trust him?”

“And what place would that be?” Aerandir said loudly as he turned to the old man and the two wizards. “Why do you think that?”

Richter turned in surprise as Aerandir spoke aloud.

"By Sigmar," he muttered, "shut up!" But it was already too late. Attention from all parties was diverted towards himself and the elf. Swearing softly, he got off his barstool and approached Herr Korvich where he spoke with the other mage.

"My companion has told me that you ... believe we may have a similar goal," he said quietly. "Herr ... Korvich may have told you that we are pursuing a wizard. Are you engaged in a similar task?"

What was he thinking, Richter thought to himself. Aerandir must know that Turich could have allies! We can't trust anybody yet, but now he's gone and otten us involved ...

A very perceptible look of disgust crossed Gregor's face as he realized he was being addressed by an elf, as if someone had just thrust something very unsavory under his nose. He opened his mouth slowly to answer Aerandir when Richter stepped in and interrupted. Someone taken aback by the brazen nature of these newcomers, Gregor inhaled and narrowed his eyes before answering.

"I don't remember talking to either one of you. Especially not the elf. Why don't you two just get back to your drinks and I'll pretend that you weren't eavesdropping on me."

Aerandir’s face turned red in a mixture of humiliation and anger. That man had yust insulted him and his entire race. Aerandir noticed his hand had disapeared under his cloack and brushed againsed his sword. He knew better, he quickly pulled his hand from under his cloack.

Ignoring the old man Aerandir walked over next to Richter and crossed his arms. “I apologise Herr Korvich. But I hear alot better then your kind and I couldn’t help it overhearing you talking about us. Normally I wouldn’t even come over but these are dire times and in dire times you need to take risks in order to take action againsed a certain evil.” Aerandir turned to Gregor and adressed him. “I think even you would understand that.”

Moving towards the small village inn, trying somehow to avoid the attention of the villagers whose attention was instinctively drawn to a stranger in their remote home, Jochen fumbled with the straps on his gauntlets. If it had been up to him he would not have been wearing them while traveling, the blades joined to the backs of his hands interfering somewhat with the simpler actions of his movement through the wilderness, but he knew that if he had been attacked his foes could have killed him before he had even one of the weapons properly affixed to his arms. Now that there were other people around, though, he knew that he should avoid displaying his weapons too prominently.

Removing the gauntlets from his hands, he left the thick under-padding on his hands in order to disguise his disfigurements. He slid the blades of his weapons through his belt, positioning them so that a careless observer might mistake them for more conventional swords, taking some small comfort from the increased dexterity he was able to force out of the remnants of his fingers after months of practice, then pushed open the door of the inn.

The smell of cooking food was the first thing that struck him, and for a brief moment it was all he could think of - if he could get a proper meal again, maybe the voices would leave him alone. Maybe he would feel like himself again. He stepped through the door and was struck again, by something far less pleasant.

The small inn was full of people. He cast his gaze around hesitantly, trying to find a table or corner where he could avoid the attention of the patrons, then froze as he saw the faces of two of the people who had turned to see who was entering the building.

The Sigmarite! At the sight of the man, unpleasant memories were being dredged up from where he had buried them. Rat-men, death, pain...Turich. The familiar rage overwhelmed him, the same anger that had allowed him to get this far. The manipulation, the pain, it would all be forgotten if he could just find the man again and make him pay...he knew it would.

Jochen shook his head, dragging his attention back to the present. The man in front of him...Richter, a name floating up from the darkness that was much of his recent past. Had they been allies, enemies? He had the impression that it had been a little of each, that perhaps he, and the elf standing beside him, could be allies in his hunt, if he could trust them, and keep his own weaknesses hidden. He stood, caught in hesitation, trying to decide what to do while a familiar voice laughed in his head...

Oswin laid a hand on Gregor's shoulder, "peace, while I agree with your sentiments on the rudeness of listening where your ear is not asked, we were talking about them anyway."

Korvich looked to Aerandir, "I'm going to be straight with you, there are three ways I see this."

"First possibility, we are after the same thing, in which case we could probably use each other's help."

He raised a second finger to join the first he had already extended during the last statement, "second, we are not after the same thing, which is impossible to tell until the journey's end."

"Or third possibility, one of us is actually working for other's enemy, and in that case I would feel a whole hell of a lot better being able to see where you are."

He paused a moment as he thought of something else, resuming "regardless of which it is, we would be better off in each other's company."

An outside breeze touched Aerandir face for a moment reminding him they where not alone in the inn. And that there could be eyes and ears waching them as they speak. He glanced towards the door to see who had let the wind in by opening the door. Jochen. What was he doing here?

“Richter, look.” Was the only thing Aerandir could say at the moment. He thought Jochen was dead, he hadn’t seen him since the battle where Karl and Edgar had died. A tear ran down Aerandir’s cheeck when he thought of the death of his friends. Why was Jochen here? The same season as him and Richter?