Feeling overdressed was not normally a sensation which bothered Biannca. It was better to shine in silk than to sulk in sackcloth after all. Still, looking at the dilapidated keep, she felt distinctly overdressed, it’s crumbling ramparts and general disrepair did little to inspire confidence. Still, she had ridden all the way here, and if it turned out to be a fool’s errand she at least intended to collect the money she had been promised for appearing. With a vexed sigh she nudged her black stallion with the heels of her leather riding boots. The horse huffed out an affronted breath but started, reluctantly, down the shallow slope towards the castle.

 

The horse was of the finest Arabyian bloodline, the young groomsman had boasted in an effort to impress her, but it would take months to turn the brute from a show pony to a useful steed. Perhaps she was being a little uncharitable. The stolen horse had come with a new saddle and the cursed thing had been doing its best to pound her bottom into submission every mile of the week long ride. Even making such allowances, it was with some relief that she slipped from the saddle when she reached the courtyard.

 

The castle failed to improve its aesthetics up close. Clearly there would be no silken balls or galas here. With a sigh she tied the horse’s reigns to a post, sparing a speculative glance towards its structural integrity. No welcoming party, no guards. She had the sudden and unpleasant notion that she was the unfortunate heroine in one of those awful Dietrich Schlief novels. She certainly looked the parts, her polished black leather chest plate, form fitted over her tunic of slashed red and scarlet silk. Conscious of making a good impression, she brushed some of the dust away, making herself presentable. She fished a comb of carved ivory from a pouch and ran it through her hair. First impressions mattered afterall. With another sceptical look at the castle, she unfastened her weapons from the saddle. She fastened the leather belt around her right hip so as to leave her rapier and dirks in easy reach. Next she took her pair of pistols from a saddle bag, checked the priming, and thrust both weapons into her black and silver silk sash.

 

[b]“Hello the castle?”[/b] she called, feeling foolish even as the words left her lips. There was no answer. Had other mercenaries arrived before her and looted the place? It seemed unlikely, not enough fires, looters always started fires. Reluctantly she climbed the stairs into the dilapidated building.

 

Biancca slipped quietly through the halls of the castle. Some efforts had been made to keep the place at least marginally clean, suggesting it wasn’t abandoned.  She heard voices ahead of her and resisted the effort to draw her weapons. They sounded heated, angry insults maybe. Her soft leather boots made little sound as she ghosted forward to a crumbling stone doorway. Inside she found herself confronted by a sight that was so incredible she was momentarily stunned. A greenskin, a dwarf and the largest man she had ever seen, stood locked in tense confrontation. The man appeared to be wearing some kind of vast white animal pelt. A bear? The Dwarf was pointing a pistol at the greenskin. They were all snarling and none of them smelled too pleasant. Her hands moved unconsciously down to the butts of her pistols.

 

[b]“What in the name of Myrmida is going on here?”[/b] she demanded intent on taking control of the situation. Before her words could register on the strange group, there was the tearing sound of ancient timber giving way and a clanging, clattering roar, like a metallic avalanche. Above the roar she thought she could make out some sort of inarticulate cry. Instinctively she stepped back into the shelter of the doorway. It wouldn’t do to spoil her outfit.