Cyrdic kicked the leading ratman back, busting its snout with his broad boot. He hauled himself upwards with his two powerful arms, hearing the screeches and inhuman noises of the mutants. He didn't know if it was fortunate or unfortunate that he heard the cries of Goblins deeper within. The Skaven turned, and hissed menacingly at their hated foe. Cyrdic didn't waste time, and hauled himself up one final bit before falling onto the sunlight to hit the ledge hard, the sun turning his dark hair as golden as the treasures he held.

He coughed and sputtered, and had no real energy left to speak of. One ratman did climb up, but it whimpered at the light of the sun, and was easy pickings for Camilla's fury (and rock), bashing it and sending it falling down with its fighting brethren once more. Cyrdic lay there for many moments, before picking himself up automatically. He never rested unless there was time for it.

His big chest heaved, and instead of sighing with relief, hugging Camilla, or collapsing, he gave a very blunt. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

---

It took them a few hours to make it out of the mountain range. Cyrdic had thankfully led them to one of the thinner passes. Not that it lessened their excitement, it seemed. Soon they made it past the crags and into the wooded foothills, though not within the dark forest proper. Relatively safe, supposedly.

Cyrdic had caught a few hares, skinned them and spit them over the fire Camilla had made. Finally, they could actually relax their tired selves and reflect on Sigmar knows what that was. "I've never heard of Beastmen underground," he said, turning the spitted hare over the fire. Their treasures laid under piles of leaves and sticks, in case any prying eyes or travelers were about. The sun had dipped down, but not completely. It was a nice afternoon sun. Welcome too, after the darkness.

Cyrdic took his coat off once more, and placed it over Camilla's shoulders, before plopping his rump down on a log. "Life of a Merc, I guess. Exciting and unexpected." He snorted. "If the pay is always this good, I can get used to it."
@Penny

Camilla settled down by the fire, wrapping the coat around her shoulders. She felt like a woman who had traded a fights worth of leathal stab wounds for an equivalent amount of scrapes bruises and contusions. Ranald alone knew how she was ever going to get her hair presentable.

"We call them the Ska'van," she said quietly, wrapping the welcome cloak around her against cold worse than the mountain air.

"And there the wretched shades must sing,
Where twisted profane prayers take wing,
And cursed eternal grim Mirarsa."

She intoned the lyrics of the ancient Tilean dirge and shivered again, the half remembered tune tumbling from her lips. The moon was rising over the tree tops and she cast a fearful look back at the mountains. Reaching out she took Cydric's hand.

"I think we should stick together Herr Renier," she responded, leaning back against the rock.

"It seems to work out for the best."

Cydric took the first watch this time and even the terrors of the past hours couldn't keep Camilla awake. She fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She woke in the night, tugged back to wakefulness by some instinct she didn't understand. Cydric was awake watching the fire. Giving him a reasuring pat on the shoulder she headed into the bushes to answer the call of nature. By chance she turned and looked towards the mountain as she did so. On a crag, clearly siloutted against the moon stood an unmoving human figure. Terror seized her and she froze in place. For long moments nothing happened, then a cloud rolled between the two of them when it cleared the figure was gone.

Shaking slightly she stumbled back into camp. Cydric arched an eyebrow at her.

"I saw someone out there," she said, "far off on the crag. He is gone now." She sat down by the fire pressing close to its light and heat.

"Cydric, he had no eyes," she whispered. Far in the distance a wolf howled at the sinking moon.

CHAPTER END
@POOHEAD189

Interlude

Smoke rose lazily from the camp of Otto of Hochland. The fires burned enthusiastically in the tag end of a rainy afternoon, providing little cheer to the men and horses huddled around them. It wasn’t a large encampment as such things less, a few dozen of Otto’s pistoleers and as many hangers on as the Count felt it too tedious to shake loose. Those who had come for the chance to ingratiate themselves with the new Count now regretted it, having been treated to a week of hard riding, and combing the forrests with hardly a break to eat.

In the center of the small, artificial hamlet of canvas tents and horse lines, stood a canvas pavilion, inside which the Count himself brooded.

“What do you mean there is no sign of them? Continue the search!” Otto screamed at the Captain of his Guard, a greying veteran named Boric. The old soldier was to seasoned a campaginer to sigh.

“Excellency,” he pointed out in a weary but reasonable tone.

“We haven’t found a trace in three days, with all the Greenskin activity we have encountered there is no way they made it through the forest.”

Otto sat up on his chair, back very straight, eyes very cold. He thrust an accusatory finger at the veteran.

“Until you pull their bones from a Greenskin’s shit pile I expect you to keep looking,” he snapped, his tone brooking no argument. Boric snapped his heels together in a formal position of attention.

“Yes My Lord,” he responded and spun on his heel. After the man’s departure Otto sagged, the anger and animation leaving him like sand running from a glass.

His Excellency, Otto of Hochland, By the Grace of Sigmar Elector of Count and Protector of the Grand Barony of Hochland, was a strange looking man. He was tall, blond and athletic, he had a good figure, he had piercing blue eyes, in short he had all the makings of the perfect Imperial aristocrat. Somehow though, when one looked at him, the whole didn’t quite come together from the sum of his parts, there was an awkwardness to the man which was immediately apparent. His current state of near apoplexy was not helping the look. The Count sank back into his chair and knocked a goblet of wine angrily to the ground, avoiding staining his hunting jacket and leggings more by luck than design.

“They are not dead,” came a voice from behind one of the heavy tapestries that hung to create partitions for privacy, “We would have seen it.”

Otto sighed, sinking lower in his chair.

“Come on out Johan, you know I hate talking to your disembodied voice, slightly more than the sight of your face.” The words were tired and contained little real heat. From behind the tapestry stepped a tall almost cadaverous man with a neatly tonsured head and the robes of a Sigmarite priest.

“Perhaps we should let them go, they are out of reach now and even if they do make it to the mountains who would believe them, they will probably just fade into the rest of the wretched stew of humanity.”

The priest's face twisted into a sneer of contempt. He thrust an accusatory finger at Otto.

“Perhaps? Probably? Perhaps they did see to much, perhaps they are on their way to speak to the Temple of Sigmar, or the Arch Lector or the Gods only know who else. Perhaps they will destroy everything we have worked to achieve!” It was not a tone one directed at an Elector Count but Otto cringed away from the man's anger nonetheless.

“No one would believe them…” Otto began.

“Him!” Johan snapped, “No one would believe him! It is the girl, idiot child, your thrice damned Tilean whore, she knows how to talk to people, knows how to insinuate herself with people that matter. She could make people believe!” The priest's voice dripped with contempt as he stalked back and forth in front of the cowering Otto.

“Ten years of work and it is all at risk because you couldn’t keep it in your trousers another six months!” Johan fumed.

“She is just a foreign whore for the love of Sigmar!” Otto snapped, shame bringing some backbone back into the young Count.

“You better hope she is a dead foreign whore and soon. Him too, we can't risk it,” Johan’s tone become less angry and Otto sat up, once again the lordly aristocrat.

“I’ll have writs drawn up for them to be sent to the other provinces,” he declared. Johan was shaking his head before the words left the young mans mouth.

“No, no that will draw too much attention. Let me spread word assassins and bounty hunters will prove more effective and more discrete in this case,” Johan all but purred. Otto was noding his head like a metronome.

“As you advise my friend,” Otto murmured, reaching for the wine decanter again. The tall priest was facing away from the Count as he said it and so Otto never saw the man’s disdainful smirk at the word ‘advise’ or the word 'friend'.

They'd traveled three days following the River Eiskalt. The weather had held, and thankfully the ground was flat and sparsely wooded. Cyrdic knew the lack of Beastmen must have been for the very close proximity of Wolfenburg, and as they traveled he grew more and more sure of himself that Wolfenburg would be the only town on this side of the river allowing them passage on a barge. Luckily, with one of his last pistol shots, he'd scored a small buck. The soldier had skinned it, boiled the hide and made it into a makeshift bag for their treasures. It had been a fine night of feasting, one of the few the two outlaws have had.

On the fourth day, they found the Wolfenburg port, bartering passage aboard the River Barge called the Imperial Pride. It was an impressively large barge to be sure, but nothing entirely special about it. With a few of their gold coins, they'd bought a cabin for the two of them, though there was only one bed. Cyrdic volunteered to sleep on the floor, and told Camilla to stay on the barge while he entered Wolfenburg to trade in some of their valuables for money and supplies.

It took him half a day, but he returned with hardy carrying sacks, another long barreled Hochland pistol for Camilla, new clothing for the two of them, various items Camilla had suggested, and piles of Gold coins from what had been trades. They might not be as rich as kings, but they could survive comfortably for awhile.

The barges captain was a hooked nosed Hochlander named Fierchan Schmitt, who always seemed to pick splinters off the wooden railings whenever he contemplated a problem, or perhaps what to have for lunch. The cabin boys were most just that, boys. Younger than even Camilla, and more than a few had seemed intrigued by her. Apart from them, they had an Estalian sailing master, a Dwarf carpenter, and a few Middenland/Talabheim passangers, same as them.

Just as Cyrdic stepped back aboard and set their new items into their Cabin, did Schmitt call for them to cast off.
@Penny

Camilla plucked the penny from behind Fritz’ ear. Both of the cabin boys laughed in astonishment and several of the nearby crewmen tried not to look impressed. It was a simple enough trick in all truth but one that rarely failed to impress. Seeing Cydric returning she pressed the penny into the boys palm and headed forward to greet her friend.

They had discovered fairly quickly that the loot they had gathered in the mountains was difficult to move. A jeweled bracelet was undoubtedly valuable, but that was of limited utility if it was worth more than the whole village you tried to trade it in. Worse, they couldn’t let on that they carried such valuables, lest some local get it into his head that two dead strangers was a small price to pay for fabulous wealth.

The practical effect of this was that they only dared spend the coins which had more or less incidentally been collected. Even this had its problems, as the coins were of strange denominations and even the Imperial ones were ancient. Cydric seemed to make it work though, Camilla supposed that soldiers had ways of disposing of loot, in much the same way as courtesans liquidated a lovers gifts for more portable forms of wealth. Converting the jewelry to cash would have to wait for a large city.

“Did zou get ze souplies? She asked in her faux Brettonian accent as he stepped aboard. The Imperial pride bustled with activity as it cast off. Men heaved on long oak poles to force the craft away from the dock and into the river's current. It would be a few minutes before the sails were unfurled to speed their progress.

The pair went below decks to their cabin, attracting looks of curiosity and envy from the sailors they passed. More than a few of the passengers cast glowering looks, having been forced to bunk on the deck. Camilla had cleaned herself up as best she could and looked more like the glamorous courtesan she had been, but the ragged clothing, ugly bruising and numerous small cuts gave her a slightly harlequin air.

Bolting the door she turned to Cydric expectantly. Inside the sacks were clothing, wrapped in brown paper, some tools and adventuring items and some personal items. Camilla withdrew a silken shift, a grey hunting shirt and a dark brown coat, all much more to her size than anything she had worn in weeks, as well as a sturdy pair of leather boots that looked like they would fit. There was also a black leather scabbard and some lengths of leather stripping, intended to conceal the opulence of the rapier she had found in the vault.

Camilla ignored all of it and grabbed a simple wooden backed hair brush and began to draw it vigorously through her black hair. Wincing as she tugged at the tangles it had formed itself into. There was a bar of simple coarse soap wrapped up in an oilskin too.

“You are a prince among men,” she declared.

“Did you have any trouble?”

@POOHEAD189

"Indeed I did, Fraulien," he said to her as he stepped on board. He had on new traveling boots and dark brown, baggy breeches, but had waited to change into his other clothes below decks, following Camilla downward into their small room. He hauled the pack off his back, and set it down. It must have weighed nearly as much as Camilla, but he had placed it down as if putting down his tankard.

"Hey, you're the one with the crown," he joked lightly, winking at her. His spirits had lifted quite a bit since their recent surplus of funds, and the exiliration that they had so far survived both the authorities, and monsters from the deep of the world. It gave a man confidence, or at least a better appreciation at life. "No trouble. Once or twice I nearly ran into guardsmen. Not that they would be looking for us yet, but it pays to stay under their radar."

He opened the pack, and then stripped off his ripped shirt. The cloth fell off to the side, revealing hard muscle and far too many scars for someone his age. He fished his hand in the bag, producing a new linen shirt, following by a handsome vest, along with a green cape with tan and red hemlines that gave him the look of a forester noble once he donned it. He placed on himself his old chainmail, just below his vest. He'd buy more expensive armor when they were further south.

"Also, saw this in the market. Thought you could use a treat," he told her, handing her a bottle of old Tilean wine. He himself had bought some hearty, Ostland ale. "I've got some food too. Cheese, salted beef, honey and bread if we need it...Taal willing we move quickly. Middenlanders need all of the Mercenaries they can get I hear. The Drakwald is full of beasts."

He drew himself up, and strapped on his broadsword. He'd keep his ornate bastard sword below decks. Shouldn't draw too much suspicion or wonder at the moment. He gave her the almost grim nod of a comrade. He'd been surprised when she had decided to stick together with him. Though honestly, her spirited personality clashed with his gruff views perfectly. They soon felt the barge shift from beneath them.
@Penny

Camilla cast a covert but admiring look at Cydric as he changed. Fashions were different here in the Empire, Cydric would have been considered too muscular by the aesthetic standards of Tilea but there was an appealing solidity about him. A sort of bedrock of granite that seemed emblematic of how these grim northerners had hewed an Empire out of their mutant infested wilderness.

"Beueno!' she exclaimed and grabbed the bottle of whine. She removed the cork with a deft twist of a wrist and raised the bottle to her lips. It was resinous and hadn't traveled well, but it was unmistakably the rich bouquet of grapes grown in sun drenched Tilea.

"Any sommelier worth is name would skin me alive for drinking it like that," she confessed, handing the bottle to the now fully dress Cydric.

"Try it!" she encouraged, if the voyage went on like this it would be one to remember.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Fire! Fire on the river!" cried the lookout in the cross trees. The sailors tensed for a moment, a cry of fire on a wooden vessel was always an occasion for alarm, the relaxed as the rest of the call made it clear that the problem of burning alive was delayed, at least for now. Camilla sat up from where she had been drowsing against a gunnel, her eyes were drawn westward where she fancied she could see a slight glow on the horizon.

The previous day and a half had gone by swiftly. Camilla was no judge but Schmitt seemed to know his bussiness. He wasn't a risk taker with the barge that was his livelyhood, but he certainly cracked on with all speed when the light and wind was fair. He was dressed now in a flannel dressing gown, clearly dragged from his bed by the look outs cry.

"Ease the sheets!" he yelled to the sailors scrambling up the tangled mass of ropes that Camilla had come to realize was the rigging that directed the ship. The sheets thundered as the ropes holding them were released, they snapped and popped with a muted fury. The barge slowed noticably with a groaning rumble of timbers giving up the stress that had been imparted to them.

Ahead of them a low wall of flame began to grow. Camilla moved to the bow and peered out but she needn't have bothered. THe lookouts aloft had telescopes and a far better vantage point.

"Burning ships blocking the river!" one of them shrieked down. Camilla noted that all of the small crew was above decks now, some of them seizing poles, others standing by the heavy metal anchor at the rear of the barge. The rate of growth slowed with each passing moment, the glow on the horizon slowly resolved into a line of barges, less sophisticated than the Imperial Pride, they were strung across the river, perhaps in a makeshift bridge or barricade.

"Ranald's teeth," Camilla breathed. Each of the burning vessels flew a strange banner, a single large fish on a white field, though the fires were beginning to consume some of them as their masts fell into ruin. Numerous smaller boats, fisherman's smacks and smaller dingies were engaged in pulling people and produce from the swiftly running river.

"LET GO THE ANCOR!" Schmitt screamed, and the sailors complied instantly, heaving the anchor over the back of the barge. The heavy hemp anchor cord played out quickly. Slithering over the deck in a disconcerting echo of the spilled entrails Camilla had seen far to recently.

"BRACE!" Schmitt roared, and every sailor grabbed for the nearest solid object. Camilla was a second slower but managed to get her arms around one of the balustrades before the cable snubbed up with a violent jerk, throwing cargo and unsecured passengers into dissary.

Cyrdic had missed Camilla's gaze, but there was no way he could miss the bottle. She'd thrust it into his face just when he donned the cloak. He blinked, and grabbed it. He'd never had the money for Tilean wine, so why not try it? The rugged soldier took a swig, and the drink caressed his taste buds with what he perceived to be the far off land his companion hailed from. "Tasty," he admitted. "Not as strong as I'm used to. But I'll say this much." He smiled. "I can't imagine something better for barge travel."

The next day or so was relaxing. It was almost unnerving to him, having been traveling the countryside to fight for the Baron of Ostland, and then surviving both his escape of said Baron, and the middle mountains. It seemed a bit too easy for him the first day. Though as the second dragged on, he began to feel himself relax. If only he and Camilla could speak to each other without feigning identities, it would have been 'lovely.' A word as foreign to him as Araby.

He'd just finished a meal on the 2nd day when the excitement happened, and he was nearly yanked off the Barge from the sudden stop. "That's more like it," he muttered sarcastically. It was one thing after another, he guessed. Still, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't made for this kind of life. His muscled arms had gripped the side railing, holding him in place for the most part as the barge had jerked.

The barge halted and drifted in a short spin, drifting close enough to the huge wall of flame that Cyrdic could feel the heat from it. "Ulfric's beard, Captain!" he called to Schmitt, the man barking orders now turning to Cyrdic. "We need to send some dingies out to help them!"

Schmitt halted for a moment, but only a moment. "Good man, Reiner. My men are beholden elsewhere, but if you find a few willing, Grab a few of the lads and head out there to help! You're on your own until I can secure the ship to shore."
@Penny

Camilla climbed into the launch with Cydric and a few of the younger sailors, more because she didn’t care to separated from her Imperial companion than a desire to risk her life on the fireshot river. The dark waters parted as they shoved off towards the wrecks, sluicing down the sides of the launch in a smooth clean wake.

They encountered bodies almost immediately. The dead floated in the water, Camilla was no physic but she judged they hadn’t been dead long. Leaning close she held out the glass cased lantern she had bought from the Pride.

“Reiner, arrows,” she exclaimed, pointing at one of the corpses floating passed. Several long shafted arrows protruded from the corpse. She could imagine trails of blood seeping from the wicked points, lost in the darkness. It had been too much to hope for that it had been some sort of natural disaster. Her skin suddenly crawled imagining bow men concealed in the thickets by the shore. And here she was holding a lantern and everything, she tried to think unobtrusive thoughts.

“There is a live one!” someone shouted and the boat lurched sideways. Two of the deckhands reached over the side and yanked a weakly struggling man into the boat. The fellow had an arrow in his arm pinning it to his leather jerkin like a grotesque doll.

“Praise be to the Fisher King,” the man gasped, his pale flesh trembling with cold and weakness. He hacked noisily, spattering a sailor with a fine mist of blood.

“The brigands didn't get through!”
@POOHEAD189

The man coughed up water mixed with blood, eyes glazed from the loss of so much bodily fluid. One of the sailors kept him upright by Cyrdic's request, and the soldier bent down to examine the wound. He was no physician, but he'd seen arrow wounds before. "Hold still, man." Cyrdic told him. "We'll get you back to the boat."

With that, he ordered the younger sailors to row back, and he told Camilla to keep a lookout for any other live ones as they returned to the Imperial Pride. Cyrdic lifted the man over his shoulder to hand to the sailors aboard. He knew if they could clean the wound and keep him from losing too much blood, he'd live. "Hold..." the injured man croaked weakly. Cyrdic and the sailors halted for a moment. "Pirates ahead...hit us from the trees...and the water. Thought they were a merchant ship...My Brumhilda...where is she?"

He passed out as they carried him below decks. Cyrdic reached down to grip Camilla's hand, helping her onto the deck just as they were making landfall on the southern side of the Talabec. He patted her shoulder somberly.

"Sigmar's fucking hammer," Schmitt said. "Make all of the precautions you can, and brigands will not only ruin the trip, but slaughter good imperial men and women."

The Dwarf cook muttered something in Khazalid, his burly arms crossed as he watched the scene before them. His brown beard was intricately braided, his hair long at the back. "The ship needs some repairs anyway, Cap'n. Nothing too much, but she's long overdue for some basic look overs. That and the sudden stop unhooked a few of the finer linings."

"We'll need men to clear out the blockade, Cap'n," a sailor said from atop the main mast.

"And we won't go no further unless we're sure'n its safe, right Cap'n?" another said.

"I'm not Sigmar man! Give me a minute to think here..."
@Penny

Camilla nervously watched the darkness as Scmidtt yelled for the sailing master. The two men put their heads together and began an intense conversation with a great deal of hand gestures. The pale survivor was ranting something low and unintelligible about fish, clearly delirious.

As the sailors communed one of the passengers stomped up from below. He was a big man, heavily muscled and with a great black mustache. Thus far he had kept more or less to himself, although the rumor had it he was from Kislev. Camilla was uncertain as to wear or what Kislev was, but she had a vague impression it was north of the Empire, if such a thing were possible.

The man was wearing a tightly fitted leather jerkin and carried a vicious looking sword with a slight curve. On his back was a quiver of arrows and a small recurve bow of some sort of polished animal horn. A leather buckler hung from his arm, almost comically small for such a large man. He lost no time in locating Cydric.

"Hou! Imparial, whats say we go ashore and teach these dog fuckers what what!" his accent was thick with to many z's and drawn out consonants. The man turned and spread his bear like arms wide to the shore.

"Hou hear that dog fuckers! Ivan Petrovich is coming. Better get bak to mammy hey!" he roared, clashing his weapon and buckler together in challenge. The man proceeded to thrust his crotch in a lewed gesture, roaring with a belly laugh that shook timbers.

The whole crew fell into stunned silence at once, except the sailing master.

"Channel close to the north bank, we would be out of bow shot of the south if we could break through somehow."

An hour later, Cyrdic, Camilla, Ivan, and three Sailors who had claimed combat experience had hopped on two of the dingies and sailed to the northern shore of the Talabec. The Dwarf Cook had joined them, wielding a cleaver and a Dwarf shield he must have kept in his own quarters. He introduced himself as Skaldi Forgehammer. The eight unlikely companions had taken two small dingies, the boats having been dragged back across to the Imperial Pride via ropes having been attached to them.

The forest was thick and heavy, and if Cyrdic had to guess, they were within the lower reaches of the Drakwald. Maybe not as life-risking as traveling further in, but a dangerous place to be. He'd only been near the upper reaches once, but the stories of the monsters he'd heard made his experiences with the Norscans seem tame. Bullmen made of cast iron, Chimeras, Dragons, not to mention Orcs and Beastmen.

He suddenly felt as if he should have taken his bastard sword. Somehow, he felt it would have protected him from the more otherworldly beasts. Still, he'd never met something he and his broadsword had not gotten the better of so far, and into the dark they traveled. Cyrdic made sure to never go too fast, keeping Camilla close so he could protect her. Not that she was harmless, by any means.

Skaldi trudged through the thickets as inexorable as a bull, chopping clean through any roots that dared tried to impeded his feet. He seemed tireless. Ivan strode as far ahead as he dared, the big man's short legs surprisingly nimble, though he had a rolling gait as if he was so used to riding horses, that walking on flat ground was unfamiliar territory.
@Penny

Camilla wondered if the risk of being roasted alive had really been that great. Certainly it didn't seem like it worsened her odds of survival. Skaldi, if you could believe that was his name, made enough noise for an entire regiment, making even Ivan seem stealthy. The sailors that had come ashore with them looked to be having the same doubts.

"Careful, I'm not sure they heard you in Sartosa," she muttered, loosening her rapier in its scabbard. The glittering hilt had been carefully wrapped in leather strips to conceal its value and she was grateful that it also served the purpose of making her less conspicuous. Ivan Petrovich let out a booming laugh.

"Worry not little dove! No harm will come to you while Ivan Petrovich lives!" Little dove? Camilla cast a side long at the Kislivite.

"That will be a great comfort to me for about ten seconds, you know, before you are riddled with crossbow bolts or whatever." The big Kislivite laughed uproariously, as the the quip were the funniest thing he had ever heard. Camilla shared a helpless glance with Cydric.

They had gone maybe half a mile, pushing their way through dense undergrowth towards the growing light of the burning ships, when Skaldi suddenly shouted something in his grating alien tongue and dropped to the ground. Whatever the word was Petrovich instantly dropped to the dirt. One of the sailors staggered back clutching at his belly and there was a sound like the hissing of snakes. Beside Camilla a crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching in a tree beside her.

Without further preamble a score of men burst from a slight gully. It was difficult to see in the wan light of distant fires, but she could make out men casting aside crossbows and drawing steel. They seemed to be dressed in a motley patchwork of armor and rags, though all carried clean steel weapons. There was a snapping flash as one of them fired a pistol, Camilla didn't see anyone go down. The men charged forth with undulating screams, clearly believing that they would overwhelm the small party in short order.

A score of men was not good odds for them, Cyrdic thought darkly. But he'd be damned if he ran from common Brigands. Ivan roared like some great bear, and leaped into the fray like a whirling madman. Skaldi charged in like some short, ugly bull, shield leading. He must have broken two men's legs just by his bullrush. If one looked closely, you could see the cleaver hacking up and down within the mob of men.

Cyrdic had carefully aimed his pistol, and fire into the heart of them as they'd rushed the lesser group, scoring a kill. He was no marksmen, but he was good under pressure. With that, and cried out "For the Empire!" which, in hindsight, was a bit odd considering the Empire wished him imprisoned or dead. The muscled Ostlander cut unto the small line of brigands that had their attentions elsewhere, before engaging in smaller duels, blocking with his shield and splitting stomach and skulls when the opportunity presented itself. It left the flanks wide open for Camilla and the other two Sailors.

To the would-be murderer's dismay, the group did not seem to be going down quite so easily as they had hoped. A few of the men in the back began backpedalling, which left the men at the front that much thinner in numbers. Cyrdic knew a route when he saw one, and cried out a premature roar of victory as he hamstrung one of the fleeing pirates. His punched him with the hilt of his broadsword, sagging the man to the ground. They would need someone to question...
@Penny

Camilla hadn't really had time to think during the skirmishes in the mountains. Then, fear and terror had been her only motivates, that and a desperate desire to escape. Those things had been monsters, these were just people. It took her a second longer to react than it should have but she snatched the pistol Cydric had given her from her belt leveled it at a man charging her and pulled the trigger. The flint snapped forward but nothing happened. Camilla's eyes widened in shock, as she realized she had forgotten to prime the weapon. The charging opponent, a big man with a beard matted with food and who knew what realized it too and a slow grin full of ruined teeth split his face. He was still grinning when Camilla hurled the pistol into his face with all her might. There was a bony crack and the man went down clutching his face, blood spurting from his ruined nose.

Camilla ripped her rapier from its holster and tried to make herself thrust it into the stricken man. She managed an awkward prod and the man hopped back, screaming from the painful but non fatal wound. Camilla hesitated unsure of whether to follow the man up and finish him when Petrovich bought the edge of his shield down on the back of the mans neck with the strength of a guillotine. The cracking of the man's spine was audible and he spasmed once and died.

Gasping in relief, Camilla looked around for another opponent but found they were all fleeing. Retrieving her pistol she fumbled with the powder, trying to prime the weapon, but by the time she managed it, the fight was well and truly over. Men moaned and screamed on the ground. The screamers were quickly silenced with short brutal cleaver blows by the Dwarf. A wave of nausea rushed over her, she had never killed another person before and the smell of blood and steel turned her stomach.

A few of the wounded men were in a condition to talk, though most of them only babbled pleas for their lives, particularly when the dwarf came close to them. One of the wounded was a pale, attractive man with several days of beard growth. As she came closer Camilla realized that his pale complexion had more to do with the blood leaking from a great gash on the back of his calves. Kneeling down she pulled of the mans belt and lopped it around his legs, twisting till he screamed to slow the blood flow.

"Who are you?!" she snapped and seeing the confusion on the mans face realized she was speaking Tilean. Shaking her head in frustration she changed back to her Brettonian accented Reikspeil and repeated the question.

"Mer.. mercenaries," the man gasped. He wiped blood from his hands onto the leafy ground.

"Pirates really," he confessed to the hard glances of the party. His chest rose and fell raggedly as he spoke.

"These villagers, they are traitors anyway," he gasped.

Cyrdic had heard Camilla hissing in her native tongue, and he dearly hoped neither Ivan nor Skaldi spoke either Brettonian or Tilean. Instead, he did his best to act as if she had uttered Brettonian by completely ignoring it, instead focusing on his very real anger at this pirate here, accusing the villagers and making excuses for wanton murder. The cold steel of his broadsword pressed upon the man's neck had the brigand's eyes wide with horror.

Luckily for Cyrdic and Camilla, Ivan and Skaldi seemed perplexed at her sudden native outburst, but nothing came of it. The great Kislevite knew very little of the southern nations, and all manlings were manlings to the Dwarf. It was the last Sailor alive that seemed suspicious. A man named Gilbrecht, a long time sailor who audibly vied for the Quartermaster position on the Imperial Pride, but never did quite seem to make the cut to Captain Schmitt.

"Watch your tongue," Cyrdic said to the pirate, though he hoped Camilla heard it as well and took the hint. His next words were, of course, aimed solely at the Brigand. "If you fancy living, I'd give us an explanation, and the location of your hideout. Or if you'd prefer, I could give you to the horse lover."

"No need for name calling," Ivan comically replied touchily, the word calling sounding like 'Khal-eenkg.' Meanwhile, the Dwarf 'cook' sniffed the air, staring into the forest like a hound.
@Penny

The wounded brigand held up his hands in supplication.

"You haven't heard of the Fisher King?" he asked looking nervously from face to face. Camilla frowned at the mention of the name, trying to remember where she had heard it before.

"We need to move," she said to no one in particular, "Some of those that run away might have crossbows, us all standing in a group like this."

Ivan snorted. Pausing to spit into the darkness in the direction the other brigands had fled.

"Worry not little dove, does dog fahkers be half way to zher mothers tits by now," he chortled. The big man flexed his shoulders, spreading his arms like a bear stretching.

"If you two would shut up," the sailor, Gilbrecht, interuptted. Camilla turned a cool look on the man and Ivan snorted in amusement.

"What are you talking about pirate?" the sailor sneered. The Brigands eyes seemed to be going in an out of focus.

"The locals... the townsmen..." he murmered his eyes fading in and out of focus. Camilla snapped her fingers infront of his eyes.

"Focus," she hissed in irritation before an idea occured to her.

"We aren't with this fisher person, we want to get you back to your base to fix you up. You just need to tell us where it is."

"Tell you..." the prisoner stumbled, as though his tongue was too thick.

"Rorque Island... a few miles down... down stream."

@POOHEAD189

Cyrdic pressed his blade to his throat a bit harder for a moment, then withdrew his broadsword and sheathed it. He'd already begun walking downstream. "Gilbrecht, hail the Pride and get this man onboard. We'll go ahead." The Ostland soldier didn't look back as he spoke. Gilbrecht shook his head. "If you think I'm going to just follow-"

"Do it now," Cyrdic said, turning to him. His voice was commanding and confident. He'd spent three years ordering footsoldiers about, and he knew how to keep someone from arguing when need be. That, and his rugged, Ostland 'brutishness' gave him quite the intimidating look when he needed to present himself as such. Gilbrecht glowered, and cast a look at Camilla, before nodding.

Skaldi snorted, and hefted his shield and Cleaver. "I sense no danger, manling. Not that it'd stop you, nor me," he said to Cyrdic. "Been too long since I wielded a weapon. Me ancestors must be spittin' on me," he intoned. Ivan gave a hearty laugh, seemingly overjoyed at their continuing the mission. He gravitated toward Camilla, his huge paunch almost hitting her quite a few times as they moved forward, following the river.

It was not long before they heard voices up ahead, and the companions had slipped into the treeline to get a better look without announcing their arrival. A tall, haggard pirate stood next to three long boats, barking at the remaining brigands who had fled back to their landing. Behind them was the river, the Talabec flowing as it always did to the west, though over a bend in the river, they could make out masts and a looming hill made of stone. A cove?

They needed to get to the longboats, but the brigands could easily cast off without a fight if they presented themselves. "Ve need bait," Ivan whispered (if he called that a whisper) and Skaldi looked at Camilla. She was far too legsy and boney for him, but he'd been around humans enough to know they thought she'd be attractive.

"C-...Vivvienne, we'll find a different way. If we rush them, we can grab the boats." Cyrdic said, reluctant to volunteer his companion into danger.
@Penny