“Stop squirming,” Camilla commanded imperiously. Cydric obediently stopped moving as she pressed the sharp bone needle through the flesh bordering the wound in his shoulder and tugged the silken thread tight closing the wound. She carefully tied of the thread and wiped the neatly stitched wound with the Vodka soaked cloth. Cydric sucked his breath through his teeth as the pungent liquor stung him. The Ostlander had been fortunate that the Chaos Dwarves overbuilt their weapons. A slower moving Imperial handgun ball would have smashed his shoulder, but the more advanced dwarven weapon had punched cleanly through his flesh. For a wonder it had missed the major blood vessels. Camilla was still a little irritated he hadn’t mentioned it before, a point she had made at some considerable length.

“Vere did you learn to tind vounds?” Ivan asked as he slid into one of the seats. Rosalie had cleared a table in the corner for them in exchange for Skaldi’s help in the kitchen. Even though it was only early afternoon the tavern was already full to bursting, the city was swollen with refugees. Men women and children flooded the city, hardy folk the Kislivites might be but they were no fools. When raiders were abroad they fled to the fortified places. Halmets, Boyar holds, and cities like Praag were the citadels that protected the folk of Kislev against disaster.

“Tend wounds,” Camilla scoffed, “we had lessons in sewing as befits Tilean ladies.”

“Vell he look adarable,” Ivan guffawed. The Boyar was putting on a show of nonchalance but Camilla could tell by his frequent glances to the door that Ivan was nervous. The gossip of the morning had almost entirely been devoted to the unseasonable pattern of raiding. The citizens and refugees both were nervous. Unusual, when it came to the forces of Chaos, seldom meant good. Ivan wanted news of his kinsmen and assurances that his riders were safe.

“They have schools for whores in Tilea?” Yantz asked bluntly. The Imperial was drunk, not beacuse of excessive drinking but because of the vodka they had forced him to drink before they pulled the pieces of shattered sword blade from his chest. Even plied with liquor he had bitten the leather wrapped stick in half. Cydric and Ivan tensend but Camilla waved them off with a blood speckled hand.  She wasn’t ashamed of her past any more than she was her present occupation.

“For the better quality ones,” she agreed, “you need to learn to blend in with the nobillity if you want to really make money. Little enough profit in taking coppers from condottieri.” Yantz mumbled something about getting job as a teacher before groaning and lifting a cup of water to his lips and drinking deeply. It was a shame they hadn’t included lessons in stitching wounds, given how things had turned out.

Camilla rinsed her hands, pouring the remainder of a bowl of water over her hands, the pinkish residue falling among the rushes that covered the floor and soaking into the ground. She was dressed in a cast off dress that Rosalie had loaned her, a practical Kislevite garment of dark red wool. Even healthy it would have been large for her, but after the privations of the past few months it would have hung like a banner in a slack wind. Camilla had solved the problem by slicing a section down the back and lacing it tightly with black leather cord. The result was body hugging and  would have been slightly scandalous if she weren’t so painfully thing. She had even forgone her leather armor, unwilling to accept continued rubbing against travel sores from so long on the move. At least she was clean again and her dark hair shone from hours of careful brushing.

The party was in no shape to travel, and even if they could, the winter snows were closing in. Dietricha had cryptically told them that they needed to be in Praag, but the celestial wizard had provided no more infomation than that. Hexenaght was still nearly two weeks away. Camilla couldn’t imagine they would be ready to move by then. Perhaps it would be best to winter in Praag and wait for the spring thaws.

“Riders! Riders!” came a shout. Everyone looked towards the door. A breathless stablehand burst through the door, a weak chinned boy with a patchy and rather pathetic attempt a beard. Konrad, who had been guarding the door, stepped back to let the boy in.

“There is an army coming down from the glaciers! Thousands of chaos filth, the lancers are saying!” he gasped his voice cracking with the effort. The tavern errupted in nervous chattering. Camilla glanced nervously at Cydric.

“Vat is dis nansense!” Ivan demanded, springing to his feet.

“No van would march so late, General Winter will gnaw their bones!” A roar of approval answered the statement, but Camilla felt her stomach sinking.
[@POOHEAD189]