“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

The news shouted in their tavern was one of the first heard in the city of Praag. Cyrdic bolted up. "What?" before he felt the intense stabbing of his shoulder, and he nearly buckled. Sigmar, why did the wound bother him after Camilla had tended to it? Outside, members of the cult of the White Wolf stalked past their window, and Kislevite guards moved to and fro as if being ordered by some collective intelligence. More than likely they had been given various tasks and were unsure of which they should first perform. Cyrdic had been there.

Konrad entered the Tavern at that moment, a new cloak wrapped around his form. He looked more like an uncouth mercenary rather than a Greatsword of the Empire at this moment, his unshaven face and lack of a haircut in over a month, along with his sullen visage. "I take it you've heard?" he asked them. Ivan nodded. "Haf you been to da valls?" He asked.

"No, and I almost wish not to." he admitted, walking in and ordering a drink by a raise of his hand. The serving wench scurried off to grab his drink with a smile. If Cyrdic didn't know any better she seemed sweet on Konrad despite his unkempt state. "We make it out of hell and hell followed us. Sigmar I feel as if we are cursed." He said, taking the drink with a rare smile from the barmaid and taking a sip. Cyrdic snorted at his comment, and glanced at Camilla. He often felt the same way, it was almost humorous now.

"Ve are safe in Praag," Ivan said. "More of an unfortunate zan anyfing. Unless da army is larger than any ve haf seen in a hundred years."

"Only one way to find out." Cyrdic remarked, stoic. He gathered himself up and donned his own cloak. Camilla did so with him. They had eaten as much as they could the last day or so, but Camilla was still far too slim and Cyrdic was leaner than he'd been since age 17. Yantz seemed less than enthused going to the wall, and he simply stabbed a piece of ham with one of his knives and devoured it off the blade, before standing up.

Konrad sighed, took one last swig of his drink and made it to his feet. He was no coward, Cyrdic knew. Almost any man would be tired after the journey they had undergone. "Where's Skaldi?" Cyrdic asked. The two men shrugged, but Camilla spoke up. "I think he might still be cooking. His shifts not over yet." Cyrdic wasn't going to bother him over this and they all headed out, the carved streets, normally bustling with citizens, were now filled with marching soldiers and the occasional onlooker, though at a glance many of the citizens were hanging out within the buildings and homes, and a few less reputable or uncaring men and woman still walked the streets. Cyrdic felt as if he was having a bad dream. Not from the news, but that coupled with the horrific architecture of Praag, moving toward what could be his doom gave him that impression.

They made it to the innergate of the city, one one of the second walls that overlooked the first and found the stone steps leading to the top of the parapets. Cyrdic's legs protested as he made his way up the steps, still sore from his journey. As the group crested the wall, Cyrdic blinked when he saw Skaldi and Dietrichia already there. "Aren't you supposed to be cooking?" Yantz asked the Dwarf, stepping over to stand by the witch. Skaldi scoffed. "No one's hungry." the Dwarf replied gruffly. "Not since that lot showed up." And he gestured to the horde of enemies gathering on the vast plains of Kislev.

The tail end of the winged lancers were heading through the outer gates of Praag into the safety of the fortress city, and the beastmen that attempted to chase them were riddled with arrows and shot down. Beyond them, an army of Norscans and beastmen had set up a hasty camp, and smoke rose from around the horizon, signalling the end to over a dozen settlements. "Ulric's wrath," Cyrdic breathed, frustration in his voice.

The army could not storm the walls of Praag and live, but it was still a sizeable force. 20,000 strong if he had to guess, and among the Chaos worshipers were the hulking shapes of war mammoths, and huge minotaurs lumbered about, grumbling and roaring. It was fascinating in a disturbing way. Seeing an army of Chaos always was, and he could tell it had that effect on his companions, all save Skaldi who was simply disgusted.

The fact that Praag could defend itself at the moment didn't relax Cyrdic. The army would not be stationed there if they did not have a plan, and if they received new warbands each day then soon they could storm the walls. "Only Norscans would go on a winter campaign," Cyrdic said, drawing the gazes of Yantz, Konrad, Boris, and a few of the nobles there as well. "They'll be effected like all men, but something about them let's them hold out longer in the cold. Let's no hope daemons join their ranks."
@Penny

Camilla pulled her borrowed dress tightly around her, resolving to buy some warm clothes at the next opportunity. She didn’t have much coin left, nothing but a handful of useless black iron from the chaos dwarves and a handful of copper. Perhaps she might consider singing or dancing to supplement her funds. She supposed she could play the harp if she could find one. The thought made her giggle and drew astonished glances from several of the locals who had come to view the enemy host.

In truth the mass of enemies filtering down from the foothills made her nervous. She accepted that Cydric, Ivan, and the other men knew what they were talking about when they said it wasn’t a large enough force to storm the city, but she wasn’t used to thinking in those terms. In Tilea five thousand condottieri would constitute a mighty host. The horde included many black armored warriors, the kind with which she had crossed swords entirely too many times since coming to the Empire.

“Why is there no snow?” she asked suddenly, jolted by Cydric’s comments about Norscans. A blanket of white frost sheathed the plain but where the army tread, the yellowish brown of mud and winter burnt grass showed. It was like looking at a slugs trail across tile. Dietricha scowled.

“It is an enchantment,” she said tersely. Ivan stiffened, his face growing more concerned at the mention of sorcery.

“Well can’t you … you know, unenchant it?” Camilla asked wiggling her fingers dramatically for emphasis. Dietricha shook her head sadly.

“If it were an ordinary spell perhaps,” she explained, in a slightly exasperated tone, as though Camilla should have known better than to ask such a question.

“But it is bound in an artefact of some kind, something of fire that they carry.” Camilla shrugged helplessly a little concerned to get so much intelligible speech out of the wizard. Somehow that seemed like a bad sign.

With the exception of the soldiers hurrying around there seemed little change in the routine of the city. Merchants still cried their wares in the markets, drunks still staggered into, and were occasionally bounced out of, the Drunken Mare, and people seemed to more or less go about their bussiness. It was almost as if everyone was going out of their way to pretend that there wasn’t a great army of the Ruinous Powers taking up position outside the city.

Camilla and Cydric walked the streets of the famous city, enjoying the evening after their shift had ended. Cydric’s shift really Camilla was not intimidating enough to make much of a bouncer, and her recourse was aways to sudden and dramatic violence rather than the kind of intimidation which best keep drunken louts behaved. Instead she had opted to help Rosalie and her serving girls, earning a small pile of coins in tips, a number of inappropriate suggestions and several pinches that she was glad Cydric had not witnessed.

Nevertheless, she now had enough coins to think about buying some clothing that would be more comfortable and practical than Rosalie’s cast offs. They found a well to do pawnbroker at a street atop a small rise near the market district. It was well appointed enough not to make her fear robbery but not grand enough that she would be laughed out of the store. The sign above the door was rendered with an artful golden hand with the word Ilsae, presumably the proprietor, spelled out with a letter above each digit. The store, and several others like it, seemed to be doing a brisk trade. A stream of Kislivites were leaving carrying weapons, either their own, pawned at some point in the past, or new aquisitions. Camilla even saw a gold chased Jezzail that either cam from Araby or was meant to look like it had, its barrel as long as the husky young man holding it.

The inside of the shop was warm and inviting, brass lamps burned cheerily casting a warm radiance over weapons, clothing, tools, crockery and other items that defied easy description. Camilla spied a fine map on vellum that purported to be of far off Ind and wondered how such a thing, authentic or not, had ever ended up at the very end of the Human world. There were also jars of spices and dried fruit, neatly laid out in earthenware pots with wooden tongs to allow the patrons to serve themselves. Behind the counter stood a Kislivite man, rakish and handsome looking, though certainly old enough to be Camilla’s father.

“Lvooking for something in particular?” he asked, his accent drawing out the syllables in particular to a nearly comical extent.

“Jewelry or finery for your lady da?” the fellow asked, fluffing his mustache and winking at Cydric. The shopkeeper made an extravagant gesture to a wood and glass case containing an odd assortment of rings, pendants and brooches. Most of them appeared to be cheap pewter or brass but there were a few pieces of gold and silver.

“Clothing,” Camilla said firmly and headed over two a corner where an assortment of clothing hung and folded. Most of it was far to large but she found a hunting shirt and a pair of trousers that must have been cut for some noble’s adolescent son. It still wouldn’t quite fit but with a couple of hours with a needle and thread she was confident that she could alter them. Even after hard haggling the purchase wiped out the few coins she had been able to scrape together but she reluctantly pressed the copper pieces across the wooden counter, pausing to wistfully admire a pair of fine dueling pistols. As she did so a groan sounded from one of the back rooms. Camilla cocked an eyebrow and the shopkeeper shot her an apologetic smile.

“My son, he vas hurt,” the shopkeeper explained curtly. Camilla nodded sympathetically and muttered some pleasantry and exited the store.

------------

“I’m telling you father, those were the two!” Misha declared urgently as Isale the Pawnbroker stepped into the back room. The youth’s handsome face was disfigured and swollen where Camilla had smashed her mug the day before.

“You are a fool to fight in taverns,” Isale said contemptuously. That his son had been beaten by a pair of foreign mercenaries was an embarrassment to him, but there were more important matters than honor to be considered. Last night Isale had met with a consortium of other shopkeepers. The Brotherhood had began as a social club that provided drink and women. Slowly, so slowly that Isale hadn’t realised until it was too late, the pleasures had darkened. Before he knew it he had felt the claws of the Prince of Pleasure in his soul. Isale had never been a pious man, but when the true Gods had revealed themselves, he had embraced them. Here were gods that answered prayers, gods that didn’t stand by idly when your wife and daughter wasted away. The inner circle of the Brotherhood were committed to the cause of the Prince, newer members were weaned slowly and carefully. Last night they had received a portent that the time of their service was at hand.

“The Prince demands that…” Isale slapped his son hard across the face. His eyes blazed with fury and contempt. It had been a mistake to innitiate his son. Isale had neglected the boys education, he was soft and weak and a fool besides.

“Do not speak of such things, even here!” The boy quavered before his father's anger. Cringing back on the rough pallet on which he lay.

“Focus on what must be done, do not waste time with these foreign trash.” Misha nodded his agreement, but secretly he seethed for revenge. Soon the Prince’s vengeance would descend upon the city. Thousands of armed men would be about the city, scared and drunk. A pair of foreign mercenaries would not be missed. Perhaps the pretty one could be taken alive. That would be a most delicious justice, surely the Prince would reward him for such an act. His father was old and cowardly, without the vision to truly serve the Prince.
@POOHEAD189

Despire the modest purchase, Camilla having new clothing overjoyed her. It truly marked they had reached civilization once more, and she was giddily bouncing along the backstreets and alleys as they began to make their way back to the Inn. Cyrdic had them on a strict schedule for meals to fill their forms out. Three strict meals a day and snacks in between. Along with certain meads Cyrdic knew added some ample-ness to one's figure. Truthfully, he honestly had been worried sick over Camilla's weight loss, and had felt a bit less powerful with his, and so they did their best to keep to that regime.

"You look about as excited as when you showed me your blue dress at the court of Middenheim," Cyrdic grinned as Camilla hummed to herself.

"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "Was fabyoo-lose! Beautiful but deadly, like me, no?" She giggled and gave him a dazzling smile. He knew she was joking, but he had to admit it was right on the mark. Everyday she was getting quicker and healthier, every day closer to being her old acrobatic self. It gave him hope, he realized. To see her having gone through all of the horrors this world had to offer and still be just as bubbly when she found something she enjoyed.

He gave a laugh. "Hey, calm down. You still need to rest." he reminded her, though truthfully he rather enjoyed seeing her dancing about. She spun on him and drifted very close to him. "Calm down? Who will make me, hmmm? You?" She said, and poked his nose. He smiled and tried to grab her, but she danced away, and then glided closer once more as if to tease him.

The mood suddenly changed when they turned the corner, and a tear streaked woman blindly ran into them as if the very Gods of Chaos were on her tail. She screamed as soon as she hit Cyrdic's side, and scratched at his face wildly. Cyrdic felt nail driving into his cheek and with a gesture he shoved her off easily, thinking her a daemon until she hit the wall and crumple. "By the hammer, what?" Cyrdic breathed. Camilla had a dagger out within an instant, though when she saw their 'assailant' she made no move.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." the woman said, crying hysterically. "There's men trying to kill my husband a street back! Are you the guards? I have to find the guards!" she yelled and scrambled past them. Cyrdic looked at Camilla, both knowing they had left their swords back at the Inn. Other than her dagger, that's all they had to work with. He'd never really thought of themselves as overly altruistic people, killing for money. But they ran to the aid of this man they knew without hesitation.

Down the next alley, a well off merchant was surrounded by three men with knives, with a fourth man running headlong into them like the woman did, probably chasing her. Only when he realized who they were he tried to stab at Cyrdic. The big mercenary blocked the man's forearm on instinct, and took a measure of the situation even as he incapacitated the man with an elbow to the nose and a rough shove.

Camilla tore the knife out of the falling man's hands and flipped it to grab the blade, taking only an instant to measure her aim before she embedded it into one of the three men's backs with an impressive throw. Despite the lack of light, from here Cyrdic and Camilla could see these men were masked, as if they wore the fanciful disguises of a Nuln Imperial ball. Cyrdic doubted nobles would be doing any stabbings in the back alleyways, however.

"By Ursun, help me!" The fat man cried.
@Penny

The remaining assassins looked from their victim to the newcomers. Though their faces were covered their, fear and chagrin were clear. With shouted curses the threw down their bloody knives and fled hobnailed boots striking sparks from the ancient coblestones. Camilla leaped over the man Cydric had beaten senseless and raced after them only to be bowled over by several burly guardsmen as they burst from a side alley the impact, an unintentional collision rather than an attempted tackle, bounced Camilla into a half timbered wall with enough force do drive the air from her lungs, the guards seeing blood and drawn weapons immediately snatched stout cudgels from their belts. The were big men in coats of boiled leather, with conical metal helms rimmed with fur in the Kislivite fashion. Though they wore swords every man produced a club, a sure sign that the steel had been added after the invading army had been sighted.

“Asperatte! Asperatte!” Camila yelled as one of the guardsmen swung a clumsy blow at her rib cage, she skipped back effortlessly holding her hands wide in what she hoped was a gesture of compliance.

“Hold you poxed sons of goats!” Cydric’s voice thundered down the alley with the force of a battering ram and the confused guardsmen froze in uncertainty. Disciplined men responding to a tone of command.

“Wait, we mean no harm!” Camilla added, switching belated to Riekspiel, through her thick rolling R made the last word come out more like harrrem. Further discussion was interrupted by a woman's scream. The same tear soaked woman who had sent them to her husbands aid rushed to the fat merchants side, throwing her arms around him. The man winced in obvious pain at the embrace. The fur coat he was wearing was blood stained but the cuts must have been fairly superficial. Amatuers tended to slash rather than stab, and the heavy garment had born the worst of it.

“Put your weapons down!” one of the guardsmen commanded, in sternly accented Riekspiel. Two of the guards stepped forward, effectively pinning Camilla against the wall while the others barred Cydric’s advance. The Tilean dropped her dagger to the ground with a clatter.

“Oh thank you! Thank you,” the wife cried sezing Cydric’s hands and kissing the palms fervently.

“Without you my Oleg would be dead by now!”

“I think you had better explain,” the guard commander demanded.

“These good people saved my husband!” the woman declared. She seemed torn between continuing to kiss Cydric’s hands and heading back to her husband.

“I was… set upon by thieves,” the fat merchant, Oleg presumabley, rumbled. He sounded like a bear but an adolescent one to Ivan’s adult. He pressed his hand to his side, probing the shallow cuts that ran across his chest.

“After my coin purse I suppose,” Oleg said with a disdainful air. Camilla didn’t interject, but it was clear to her that the attackers were far too well dressed to be regular thieves. The one she had hit with the thrown knife lay still, the knife had sunk its tip into his kidney, a fatal wound and for once mercifully quick. The one Cydric had downed moaned softly but didn’t try to rise, by the unnatural shape of his face the mercenaries blow had broken his jaw. One of the guardsmen stepped to the dead man and lifted his mask. The features were waxy and unfamiliar to Camilla but she saw Oleg stiffen slightly in recognition. His wife opened her mouth but the merchant made a shushing motion.

“Thieves, well they got what they deserved,” the leader began to say when a shout of alarm rose up from one of his men. The dead man’s shirt had been torn open while the guards had been surreptitiously searching for any loot worth taking. The man’s chest was as smooth as a womans, but in the center of it between his nipples nestled a jagged mouth with fanged teeth. The stigmata of chaos.

“Traitors!” shouted one of the guards and drew his sword and unnecessarily beheaded the corpse. Sluggish blood flowed from the severed stump trickling slowly down the slightly declining street.

“Seize that one!” the commander snapped, and the guards roughly snatched up the man Cydric had incapacitated. Suspicious eyes turned onto Cydric and Camilla. Camilla did her best to look like a concerned citizen who was just happy to have been in the right place at the right time. It might have gone either way before the big merchant stepped forward and gave Camilla a crushing hug and then did the same to Cydric.

“My rescuers! You save my life! Come I must do what little I can to repay you? Dinner yes!” the merchant prattled on. The guards seemed to relax, they doubtlessly had enough on their plates already and it was more difficult to stop motion once it had began. They turned back to their prisoner and began to drag the moaning man away. Camilla dabbed a toe down, flicking her dagger upright against a cobblestone and kicked upwards with her boot. The knife flew upwards into her hand and then disappeared into her ill fitting dress. It was a good knife and she didn’t doubt it would come in handy again before long.
@POOHEAD189

"Dinner?" Cyrdic echoed, used to more gravity in these sorts of life or death situations rather than immediate pomp and celebration. However the wife seemed to agree and with a shrug and smile from Camilla, Cyrdic found himself practically whisked away down the alley and across the street to where the fat Merchant called Oleg's business and home would be found. Cyrdic wasn't sure what to expect, but the building was three stories tall and it seemed as if his shop was on the bottom floor.

"Yes yes, come in." He implored them when he opened the door. "Bornhald! Grab some meads and fetch dinner! We have guests!"

Inside, a heavily accented voice that Cyrdic could not quite pinpoint called back. After a moment he realized the man had said "as you wish, sir," in a dialect he had never heard before. The shop inside looked to be of the sales of textiles and embroidered clothing, with some silk from Cathay on display. He shouldn't have doubted Oleg's means but he truly was an upper-middle class of the city, far better off than many of the struggling merchants in the poor quarter. Then again, with a siege mounting, many of the merchants will probably do well the coming months.

Behind the counter moved a burly, albeit somewhat aging barbarian. It was the only word Cyrdic could use to describe the man, though he did not look Norscan. His features were brutal but fair, and his skin was covered in blue woad tattoos. He wore an apron and a white linen shirt above rough looking trousers, his beard looked to be braided enough to make Skaldi proud. "Deenar is redeh," he said to the master of the house, setting down a large roast chicken along with various other bowls of foods, peas, potatoes, etc.

"Thank you Borhald, on time and apt as per usual," he said with a satisfied smile. His wife had already sat down, having gone into the back to clear off her tears and fix her hair for but a moment. He turned to Cyrdic and Camilla, who seemed somewhat confused on the ettiquette that was expected of them. "Please, please, sit!" he told them, waving them over to have a seat. "By Ursun, save my life and expect me to scold you on manners. You truly are heroes, aren't you?" he laughed.

The mead was set down, and silverware was provided. Cyrdic had not seen so much shined and luxurious kitchenware and plates since Middenheim, to be sure.
@Penny

Camilla sat down as gracefully as her improvised dress allowed, touching Cydrics arm for a moment in formal style. She carefully smoothed her skirts and smiled at their host. For an amusing moment the act of formally taking a seat reminded her that she was officially the countess of… some place in Middenheim? How many people could claim to have forgotten a title like that? Oleg Trigvarson, as he had identified himself earlier, was a ruddy man in paunchy good health. Camilla wondered if he suffered from gout and other ailments which often beset those who had plenty of food to eat. Once cleaned up, his wife Leyena, was a handsome woman though no woman in the company of Camilla de la Trantio was likely to have a chance to boast. She had honey blonde hair and was the daughter of some marcher lord with whom Trivarson did business.

The food was excellent, for all the fact it had been prepared by someone who looked half a wild norscan. Camilla ate hungrily and though she was obliged by both etiquette and heritage to drink the wine, drank only in moderation. There was something more to this meeting than the merchant was saying, but she was willing enough to wait for him to broach the subject himself. For most of the meal they spoke of their recent adventures, and though Cydric dumbed down the details considerably the Trivarson’s were still agape when he wound down. Camilla picked politely at a custard tart, eating it in small dainty bites as the tale wound down, leaving their hosts absolutely stupefied.

“By Ursun my prayers have been answered,” Oleg said, before pausing to belch impressively. The merchant had eaten heartily and drank better yet. He snapped his fingers to summon a stone cask of vodka and several glasses which he filled without asking his guests preference. He knocked his back and poured another. Camilla supposed he had a right to celebrate, though the assassins had been amateurish in their strike, another few seconds and one of them would have dealt the death blow to the rotund linen merchant.

“So you did recognise the unmasked assassin then,” Camilla prompted, sensing where this evening dinner was headed. Oleg exchanged a glance with his wife and then waved his hand in dismissal. The woman stood without complaint and headed into the sitting room attached to the impressive dining chamber.

“A sharp one eh?” he speculated, casting a shrewd glance towards Camilla.

“Yes, I recognised him, his name was Pyter Nadeskev, the one the took alive was Valter Kratle.” Oleg delivered the news as though it were a bombshell but Camilla merely waited patiently.

“Pyter sold lace a few shops down from mine, Valter is a cheesemunger of considerable importance,” Oleg went on. Camlla nodded her head sagely.

“Some bussiness dispute then, is that why you didn’t tell the guards?” she asked, puzzled by such a strange reaction. It was certainly unusual for merchants to resort to knifing each other but when there was money involved…

“No, you saw Pyter, the… the thing on his chest,” Oleg interupted in something close to panic. Camilla wished she didn’t recall the gaping maw quite so vividly, particularly as she was chewing on food of her own.

“For months now… years I suppose… I’ve found myself blocked at every chance to expand my trade. At first I thought it was just bad luck, but over time it began to add up. A delivery late here, a missed signature on a contract. I thought it was some sort of syndicate. Well Frauline, I am a man of means and I sought to join this syndicate. Eventually I was asked to attend a party and of course I attended, and found mysef the only one without a mask. It was odd but not unheard of but then they bought in women and began to… entertain themselves. When I was a lad I fought with the marchers, thats how I met Leyena,” he said with a fond smile towards the living room. Camilla sipped at her vodka, exchanging concerned looks with Cydric.

“I know what the stink of the north smells like, I pretended to be drunk and got out of there. Since that night I have been investigating. I tried to take it to the watch, but the officer I reported it too wound up falling from the walls and breaking his neck. My wife thinks I am crazy… or anyway she thought I was before today but there must be a cult at work. They can get to the guards.”

Oleg sat his glass down, appearing deadly serious and not at all soft or ridiculous. For a moment Camilla could see a younger version of Oleg atop a horse with a lance in his hand, riding across the northern tundras with a thunder of Kislivite horsemen.

“I need help my friends, and you are the only people I know for sure I can trust.”

@POOHEAD189

"With a siege at the walls, I don't think any cult would last very long within the city, no matter the means." Cyrdic said aloud. The Ostlander was far smarter than his rough nature and powerful physique would claim, but even after all of their experiences with the upperclass and counts, he still did not fully appreciate the sway they could have within their realms. Oleg was shaking his head as soon as Cyrdic finished. "They'll be too busy focusing on the army to worry about conspirators within the walls. You don't know these men like I do, nor the city for that matter. I tell you now your help is of grave importance not only to me but every citizen of Praag stuck within these walls."

"What do you suggest we can do about it?" Camilla asked, taking a gingerly sip of her wine as Cyrdic dug into a chicken leg, though his wolfish eyes were still intent on the good Merchant as he spoke. "Even after your tall tales, I thought you would refuse out of hand. But you're different, aren't you? Yes, I suppose I cannot show my face to the 'syndicate' anymore, or even leave this house without being under Bornhalds protection. But I can tell you where they frequent."

"I don't feel right joining a cult's activities, even if it is to spy," Cyrdic said, unwavering.

"I did not suggest that is what you do, though that would most likely be the smartest and most covert option." The fat merchant said, his face nearly as steeled and soldierly as Cyrdic's. "Who the leader is I cannot know. They were masks, even among each other. But there is a very high end establishment called the 'Hussar's Hooves' in the eastern quarter of the city. Every few days, some of the lords and merchants that frequent there leave early. If you were to go there and follow one..."

"How would we get into such a place to begin with?" asked the Tilean. She had already devoured her meal, though chose not to pursue seconds as Cyrdic was. Camilla dabbed the sides of her mouth with a cloth, trying to regain some of her formal training. Her experiences in the north and east had done just as much to her normal habits as to her health, though thankfully both seemed to be rejuvenating rather quickly.

"Why, with my seal." Oleg said, reaching into his pocket. He presented a silver symbol in the form of a bear's claw. The merchant tossed it to Cyrdic, though Camilla plucked it out of the air and stuck her tongue out at Cyrdic. The broad shouldered merc eyed her but smiled after a moment. "That will get you in, as long as you look the part. Granted, business has not been as well as it could have been the past year but I am still a man of means. I'll have my tailor suit you up something nice."

"At our suggestion?" Camilla asked, clearly wanting to guide and have a choice on the kind of dress or suit she would wear. Oleg chuckled and inclined his head. "Of course, my dear. Now, where do you currently reside?" Cyrdic not for the first time was curious on how long he had been in Praag. He had a ksilevite accent, but it was far more conservative than someone like Ivan's. Perhaps city upperclassmen had less of a drawl.

Camilla blushed at his question, hiding it behind another sip as Cyrdic spoke. "The Drunken Mare. We're bouncers. We...sleep in the stables." He admitted with a sigh, more because it sounded horrid to someone like Oleg rather than Cyrdic truly disliking it himself. For his part, Oleg's eyes widened, and he guffawed. "This simply will not do!"

"It is fine, sir. It is." Cyrdic replied, holding his hands up to calm down the once again very civilian looking gentleman. Though Oleg would have the last word. "Well if you ever need another place to stay, I insist you come to me first. My upstairs has plenty of rooms! And if you wish to be let in, knock thrice in quick succession and then twice. Bornhald should be here to allow you entry."

"You're placing a lot of trust in us." Cyrdic said, blinking. "Even considering we we saved your lives."

Oleg smiled sadly. "Let's just say, I am at the end of my rope. If you don't succeed, I might soon need to move...if I live through the siege that is."
@Penny

The cock crowed with alarming volume and Camilla jolted awake. Even in her sleep her hand had found the hilt of the sword propped against the straw filled pallet she shared with Cydric. Her eye pierced the gloom well enough to see and she frowned at the sword. Privately, she had asked Dietricha to look her over for any ‘lingering effects’ of her sojourn to the North. The sorceress had touched her temples and spoken some words and then assured Camilla that she could sense nothing of Chaos. The answer struck her as vague in a way she couldn't articulate, but ‘vague in a way you can’t articulate’ was a pretty fair description of Dietricha herself.

“Va bene,” she whispered to Cydric as he groaned beside her, she leaned down and kissed his forehead trailing her slender fingers through the tangled hair of his chest absently. It was still dark outside, the days were short at this time of year and dawn came late. The dinner had run down pleasantly enough, though Oleg had drank enough Vodka to be slightly slurring his words by the time his wife ushered the out. The merchant had provided them with some gold, small enough, but a veritable fortune in their current impoverished straights, as well as a letter of credit to a local tailor with whom he had a long association and thus was fairly sure he could trust. It seemed like there was no end to the corruption and infiltration of Imperial society by cultists of the Ruinous Powers. She wondered if it were the same in Tilea, only less visible, or if the forces of the enemy were focused on their most immediate opponent.

The rooster crowed again rousing Cydric to half awakened. Camilla frowned peering into the darkness. A figure crouched by a post below, swathed in a grey cloak that looked ungainly and deformed. She sat up with a start and the figure flinched and tossed back its cloak. Cydric yanked her down to the pallet a moment before the crossbow twanged, the bolt logding into beam behind their pallet with a thunk, passing so close to her she felt the wind of its passage on her bare shoulder. Camilla screamed, loudly, to raise the alarm and shoved herself up off the bed and the struggling Cydric. She backflipped gracefully over the wooden railing at the edge of the loft and landed naked save for her sword on both feet and one hand in a collapsing tripod to spread the shock. Camilla pressed herself up, the tip of her weapon held parallel to her body and rotating horizontal incase she needed to parry but the figure was already fleeing. A big figure, Yantz, wraped in a horse blanket but otherwise naked, crashed through the side of one of the stalls they had converted to a bed. He leveled his pistol at the fleeing assassin but Camilla struck his hand hard with the flat of her sword jolting it free. She snatched it from the air before it could hit the ground.

“What in the name of Sig...ma,” Yantz trailed off as he realised Camilla was completely naked. He pursed his lips for a moment before going on in a more reasonable tone.

“What is transpiring here Frauline,” he said, his voice husky with amused innuendo.

“Someone just tried to shoot Cydric or me with a crossbow,” she said, making n move to cover up. Attitudes towards nudity were markedly different among Tileans than they were among stody Imperials.

“Ah and you stopped me from shooting this would be marksmen because…” Cydric returned from the street, having somehow gotten his trousers on and given chase. He held the big wolf pommeled sword in one hand, with negligent power. He blinked at the naked Camilla and the nearly naked Yantz and then picked up a blanket and tossed it to Camila who gratefully wrapped it around her. Modesty or not it was bitingly cold.

“I lost him,” Cydric admitted, “every one is on their way to the market.” Camilla nodded and sighed.

“So the not killing part?” Yantz persisted. Ivan emerged bleary eyed saber in hand. A dark haired girl many years his junior who Camilla recognized from the working girls above the tavern, looked about with scared dark eyes. Camilla dropped her voice into a whisper that only the two Imperials could hear.

“Bouncers are supposed to keep trouble away not bring it to the door,” she explained, “it isn’t much of a job, but I’d just as soon not be looking for somewhere else to lay my head.”
@POOHEAD189

Plus, whatever assassins come after us, I'd like for them to know we aren't to be toyed with. Only way to do that is by word of mouth," Cyrdic said, then smiled to himself as he thought unless putting a body on display would work. But it wouldn't for this establishment. Cyrdic stepped back into the stables fully and rummaged around for his shirt. Yantz had gone back to his stable and Ivan called out. "Heh!? Vot happened?"

Camilla shook her head. "It's over now, get dressed."

"Ah leetle bird, you haf a way with me, eh?" He said with a fatherly smile. Cyrdic thought it odd he treated Camilla like a daughter and then rutted with a girl only slightly older than Camilla. She looked to be Cyrdic's age, and she clung to Ivan as if he were her only protection, even among his friends. "Be gone, girl. It iss fine now. No moar danger." Ivan said to her, gently prying off her slim arms and smacking her rear. She squealed and practically scampered off, glancing at Cyrdic as if he were a Norscan let loose in the city as she ran by him.

There was a loud snoring from the back of the stables, and Cyrdic opened up the door to where the sound came from. Skaldi was still fast asleep. Cyrdic shook his head. "Out like a rock."

Konrad had already awoken before them, and had made his way to the Inn even before the assassin's attack. He'd been restless the previous night, and had been assailed by dreams of Chaos that left a cold chill on him even in the morning hours. By the time the group had reached him in the tavern, he was already tipsy. It even impressed Skaldi, who felt a keen appreciation to the art of drinking to go at it first thing in the morning.

"Ye should have told me, I'd have joined ye, manling." the Dawi said, walking past him and grabbing his apron. It was his responsibility to get the cooking pot going. The Brettonian Innkeeper had not yet unlocked the front door, and had refused to serve Konrad more than three drinks. 'Only to calm his nerves' she informed the group when she had let them in. The Greatsword's hair was disheveled and his eyes were red.

"You can't be doing this to yourself." Cyrdic said to him, but Konrad waved him away and went to take another sip. Cyrdic pushed the mug out of his hand and grabbed him by the shoulder. Konrad snarled, but Cyrdic didn't waver. "You're a man of Nordland by the hammer, act like it." he scolded him. A knock at the door defused the situation, and Ivan stomped over to the door, the only one not on edge at having had assassin's come after them the night previous.

"Ah, tank yoo" the kislevite said, and closed the door. "A courier hass a lettar for us. From da sorceress."
@Penny

Camilla turned the letter over in her hands. It was thick vellum rather than the milled paper more common in the Empire and sealed with one of the Count’s seals, the heraldric device pressed into red wax. The whole group was watching her, even the bleary eyed Konrad, so without wasting time she broke the seal and unrolled it and began to read aloud:

Dear Companions,

You are requested and required to present yourself to the Counts palace for dinner tonight. He is eager to hear the tale of the Heroes of Nordland, which he expects will bring honor and luster to his hall.

Dinner will be served at the eigth tolling of the bell. YOU MUST NOT BE LATE.

Prima spilla grande prima spilla piccola seconda spilla grande media seconda spilla media

“You slipped into Tilean,” Cydric interjected. Camilla looked up in mild annoyance, shifting the uncomfortable blanket across her skin.

“No I didn’t, it is written in Tilean,” she responded, her tone a little vexed. Skaldi shook his head impatiently. He ground a fist against his eye with frustration. The dwarf was pulling on an apron in preparation for starting the lunch stew.

“Lets pretend we don’t all speak Tilean girl…”

Camilla looked around in wide eyed theatrical shock.

“Oh? People talking in a different language, that must be terrible…” she smirked. Skaldi growled but she was already going on.

“It is talking about pins and distances it sounds like…” she looked up in perplexity. Dietricha was cryptic and vague at the best of times but this seemed to reaching new depths. For a moment she considered what she would say.

“It sounds like instructions for picking a lock,” she admitted. It wasn’t really her area of expertise though as a child she had engaged in some petty thievery. Ricardo, her long time friend had been much more of an expert at this sort of thing.

“It is signed Dietricha...and Yantz,” she turned to the mercenary her voice taking on a sharper more accusatory tone. He clutched his own blanket to his body and held up a hand as though to shield himself from her words.

“Why is this dated tomorrow?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. The Imperial flushed.

“Why do people always assume that I know what is going on?” he protested rhetorically. Camilla sighed and tossed him the note. She didn’t know if they were supposed to be at the palace tonight or tomorrow.

“Then go and find out,” she said pleasantly before turning the blanket fanning up provocatively like a ball gown.

“I’m going to get dressed.”
@POOHEAD189

As Yantz was practically flushed out of the Inn to see what was going on, Cyrdic and Camilla had gone to visit Oleg at his residence, after Cyrdic had made sure Konrad would halt his drinking for the day. The Greatsword had reluctantly agreed, and Skaldi had given his Dwarfish Oath that he'd keep an eye on the soldier as they went to fetch their new clothing. Cyrdic had only really worn expensive finery at Middenheim, and he had forgotten how much of a to do it was.

Needless to say it took most of the morning for Cyrdic and Camilla to be measured and the thread resewn to fit them snuggly, and that was after they had picked their colors and fabrics. The two had been ushered off into separate rooms while they were fitted and dressed, and Cyrdic was entirely uncomfortable throughout the whole experience, as men and women he had never met essentially displayed him in his underwear as they spoke of his clothing. Finally they found something both they and Cyrdic could agree on.

Stepping out of the room was like leaving a room filled with warpstone, and he instantly felt better. A servant informed him that Camilla was still within her room. Cyrdic, stepping out of his room, shaved and styled to a point, thanked the servant. The merc had on an overcoat of burgundy with earthy thread, under which was a tanned tunic over a white linen shirt. His belt was made of new, shined leather with a bronze belt buckle in the sign of the hammer, and though his trousers were poofier than he cared for, they fit well. Oddly enough, he had not seen Camilla for some hours and he felt like they were ushered to different areas as if they were being dressed before their wedding. Gods, that was a thought that hadn't occurred to him yet. Would that ever be something she would want? Did he? He loved her and wanted no other, but that seemed like a large to-do. The thought made him more nervous than he thought it would.

"Sir," a coarse voice from the side drew his attention, and Cyrdic turned to face a man that rivaled his stature, something he wasn't used to with anyone but Ivan. Bornhald gave a bow, and beckoned him come forward. "A man ferh you at tha duar sir." After taking a moment to understand the brute's speech, Cyrdic gave a nod in thanks and passed him to make his way downstairs into the shop. The common shop had been closed as of this day, though Yantz seemed to have had no trouble getting in.

"Well, what is it?" Cyrdic asked him.

Yantz snickered, glancing at the Ostlander's clothes. "Please don't punish me, m'lord. I'll tell you right away, I will."

When it became apparent Cyrdic wouldn't joke back, Yantz shook his head and continued. He held up the note and tossed it to Cyrdic. "The blasted witch herself doesn't know, or care to tell why this is dated tomorrow or the combination. Only that you'll know later tonight, and tomorrow both I and the others need to be ready...for some thrice poxed thing we don't yet know." He sounded annoyed, and Cyrdic didn't blame him. "Mages," they sighed in unison, just as Oleg popped out of the back.

"Ah, by Ursun you look conservative but marvelous, my young friend." The merchant commented, pleased with himself at how it turned out. "You'll certainly look the part of a Boyar noble. How does it feel?"

"It moves well," Cyrdic said with a light tone to his voice, not wanting to be rude to the fellow who's dime this suit was on. He even gave a smile to him. The clicking of footsteps announced Camilla's arrival down the stairs, and as always her presence caused everyone's jaw to drop.
@Penny

Fashion was always a fusion. National dress tended to be a blend of various regional styles the more urban a location, the more trade it engaged in, the closer it was tied into the court fashions current in Correne or Altdorf, but no place existed without its regional influences. Kislivite women, for the most part, dressed in conservative styles, wives of merchants tended a little more towards the Imperial and those of the noble classes were able to borrow a touch from the almost mystic style of the Tzarina.

Camilla stepped out of the fitting room at long last. She wore a dress of fine blue silk with a long slash up the left side to allow her legs freedom of movement. Around her chest she wore a tightly laced corset of fine grey leather, which allowed her to display her figure without showing any skin. A mantle of a darker shade of the same material was fastened around her neck covering her shoulders. The leather mantle was intricately embossed with flowing stylized wind motifs that seemed to sweep from her neck down over her shoulders. It also incorporated a hood, though for the moment she was not wearing it. Unusually she had not opted for jewelry, instead selecting only a single silver and sapphire brooch to pin the mantle in place. Partly this was because she didn’t want to stretch their patrons credit to completely ridiculous lengths but it was also a strategic decision. If they were attending this alleged cultist meeting in the guise of up and coming merchants, it made sense to dress to impress, but they had to be careful not to be too impressive, lest their excessive means give them away.

“You think it needs gloves?” Camilla asked? Momentarily oblivious to the shocked reaction of the three males. She stretched out her arms and examined her fingers, considering again if she should have opted for a ring.

“Ummm…” Yantz managed after a moment.

“I think it looks fine,” he concluded lamely before clearing his throat. The clothier beamed in delight at the effect.

“Madam you grace my establishment, why I only wish you were on your way the palace so that my humble wares could dazzle the court!” Camilla bowed her head gracefully, feeling a little uneasy about Dietricha’s cryptic note. The wizard had never shown herself to be anything other than a, admittedly slightly deranged, friend, but it was clear she knew something she wasn’t sharing.

“What do you think?” she asked Cydric, “too much?”

Cyrdic shook his head, smiling wide. "The only thing that's too much is the girl wearing them, and I wouldn't have it any other way." he said. The Ostlander seemed to be the only one that wasn't breathless at the sight of her, but the truth was he had just gotten better at hiding it. Much like how he hid his fear during battle, or when faced with chaotic magics. He tried to straighten his jerkin, but it was a bit off around his shoulders. Camilla approached and tugged at it for him, fixing it almost immediately. Oleg snorted.

"Well, you both look the part I must say." he said, patting his belly. "And I am hungry. Everything is as it should be, it seems. Now! One last thing I must pay an expenditure on is your ride. You need to go there in a bit of style, yes?"

"Our ride?"

Hours later, Cyrdic regretted listening to Oleg with a will. His pants, though soldierly to an aristocrat, did not do well on the Kislevite horse he was riding. Camilla rode a mare next to him of similar class, much more gracefully. He had never been fond on riding horses. He had forgotten just how good his lover was at it. They seemed to have too much ease and strength for such a light steed. The Kislevites truly were born horsemen to control a steed like these. "I don't see how anyone could ride in these clothes." He said softly as they trotted across the cobbled street. Even in the nicer part of Praag, the devilish architecture loomed over them with a a near malevolent aura.

"Having trouble?" Camilla asked lightly, though her horse still wasn't completely under her control.

"I just don't like riding."

Camilla gave an impish smile that Cyrdic caught, and he rolled his eyes. "You're better looking than the horse." Camilla laughed at that and replied with. "I theenk they are pretty mounts."

After a few more uncomfortable minutes, almost nearly running over a middle-aged couple, the two made it to the Hussar's Hooves. A glorious establishment made of stone, with wooden and silver trimming to give it an archiac, legendary look. There was also no grotesque statues, with the only figure being a life sized Hussar carved at the front of the two-way, curved walkway that lead into the tavern. Inside, the fire promised warmth and good food. Cyrdic could smell the fine meals out here.

Now they just needed to find the stabled and dismount, something Cyrdic doubted he could do without falling on his ass.
@Penny

Camilla giggled and slid gracefully from the saddle. It never ceased to amaze her that anyone who could wield a sword the way he did could be so poor a seat on horseback. Her eyes flicked over the pommel of his sword, currently wrapped in leather to keep the distinctive wolf pommel hidden. Maybe it was more than his poor posture that was the problem. With practiced care she placed her palm on the horses white blaze. It immediately calmed, responding to the signal for quiet.

“Now see if you can slide down without complete wrenching the saddle off,” she advised with a smirk. Cydric slid out of the saddle in an ungainly half leap, the horse whinnying in protest.

“Better put ze hood up,” she said, her accent shifting seamlessly to Brettonian as she tugged her own hood up to hide her face. Oleg’s directions called for wearing a mask and she had such a mask in one of her pouches but she was unwilling to make a spectacle of herself until she knew for sure. Even as she took the reigns in her hand a handsome young stable boy, Cydric’s height though not as stocky trotted out. He was dressed in what was almost but not quite livery and had a strange odor about him, like cloves or cinnamon. He measured them with his eyes for a moment.

“ Are you here for the private event?” he asked gruffly. Camilla reached into her pocket and withdrew the sealed invitation passing it across the stablehand. He nodded and whistled and moment later a second groom appeared and led away their horses. The first performed a slight bow and led them into the tavern.

If Camilla expected scenes of orgiastic excess she was dissapointed. The clintele was clearly wealthy and they ate fine food at clean tables. In the corner a man played on a lute singing softly for the amusement of the guests. No one paid them any mind as the stable hand led them through the tables to an ornate staircase at the back of the tavern. More racous entertainment could be heard from above but it was muffled by some sort of sound proofing, perhaps straw or linen stuffed in the walls.

“Do you have masks patrons?” the stable hand asked. Camilla thought his voice sounded muffled like he had too much in his mouth to speak properly but she dutifully produced a masquerade mask and affixed it to her face. Cydric did the same, though she could sense his unease. The stablehand smiled and seemed to sigh before taking a large metal key from his pocket and unlocking the lock which sealed the door at the top of the stairs.

“Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Society, I hope you will find it is everything you have heard.” Somehow, the voice seemed to mock them.@POOHEAD189

When the boy opened the door for them, Cyrdic didn't know what he expected. A blood slicked floor, a tangle of limbs as men and women writhed together, or perhaps the summoning of a daemon. Instead, there was a dim corridor that creaked as they stepped through it, and markings along the door of the opposite end of the hall. They were not even marked in blood, but some form of adhesive, it looked. He settled his mask along his face to better see, and the two entered the room.

It looked close to a banquet hall, with a large, curvaceous table that stretched across the room. Various men and women, both fat and slim and all wearing masks chatted and loitered, speaking to one another jovially. Some lifted their masks up, but only enough to take a sample of the delectable meats and fruits at the smaller tables. It was even brighter in here than in the hallway. Cyrdic wondered if Oleg was crazy after all. The attack had happened but...this couldn't be where Chaos worshippers went to connive.

Camilla tugged at Cyrdic's sleeve, and she indicated him look up. He did so, his confusion turning to dread as he saw the grisly fresco that had been painted upon the ceiling. A bronze warrior of intense hatred, a putrid and rotting monster, a crow headed mage, and an hermaphroditic temptress were descending upon a bastion of fading light, and brutal carnage and blood ringed the walls as they unleashed their hordes upon innocent woman and children.

"Ah, hello." A voice like silk whispered, and the Ostlander felt a hand on his other arm, the side where Camilla was not. He looked down to see a slim woman, her mask in the form of two horses rearing upon their legs hiding most of her visage. "Ah new one I see...much larger than many of the others. How are you?" Her voice had more than a hint of suggestion to it, and Cyrdic didn't immediately answer.

Suddenly, a glass was tapped by a spoon at the fore of the room, and all conversation ceased almost instantly. Even the woman, who had nearly run her hand across his chest, had stepped away and stood in perfect silence, intently gazing at the man who has made the noise. A darkly cloaked figure, his face covered by the mask of a bull-headed daemon. In a trance-like slowness, he set down the glass and spoon politely.

"Take your seats." the voice commanded. It had a compulsion to its tone that beggared belief, though it wasn't impossible to fight. It only made you open to listening, and the aristocrats did as they were told. Cyrdic led Camilla to an empty part of the large table to not draw attention.

"When last we met, the time was not right. Nor is it now. But soon our patience will be rewarded. The army of our masters forms, and we are the daggers in the dark ready to help cleanse this nation of Bear worshippers." The man said. He did not have a kislevite accent. It was one Cyrdic couldn't pinpoint. Reikland? "Next we meet, Morrsleib will be full, and the time will be right. As of now, your orders are where they are always kept."

Everyone, in unison reached under the table and pulled out slips of parchment. Cyrdic and Camilla needed to reach for a moment, but they felt something brush their fingers and pull them out. It was a list of names, 12 in all. Both of their notes had them. On the bottom right of the parchment was a mark of Chaos, and Cyrdic could not even bring himself to hold it any longer, placing it on the table before him.

"But before that, delve into the nether as you always do." the voice said, placing a hand down on the closest man's arm and unsheathing a knife. With a quick chop, he severed a finger, causing the man behind the mask to cry out until he was breathed upon by the Daemon-masked one, and he began to moan instead, and smeared his bloody stump across the skin of the one next to him. Everyone began to unclothe, and women from within the walls began to sashay out of the tapestries, as naked as they day they were born, except masked as all others were. "Please Slaanesh and Tzeentch." he said. "Khorne and Nurgle shall have their fills in the siege..."

"We need to go." Cyrdic whispered.
@Penny

Camilla felt her blood turn to ice at the bizarre and otherworldly transformation taking place. The air suddenly had the scent of spices and jasmin, a heady and aromatic mist tugged at her nostril. The smell should have been delicious and all but irrisistable but she could scent the subttle undercurrent that had been there during her abuction, the slavering abhorrence which was only hinted at at the very edges. Grimly she took hold of the knowledge and forced herself to focus.

The majority of the guests began to give themselves over to the revel enthusiastically, shedding clothing and embracing across the table. One woman lay herself on the table like a dish, spreading her dimpled thighs and even going so far as to press an apple into her mouth to complete the simulation of a suckling pig. Others grasped each other and fell to the floor with orgiastic enthusiasm, wine and fine food fell to the floor or was poured over naked bodies. Worst were those who enthusiastically reached for the demon women who came from the tapestries. While the revelers were an unlovely bunch for the most part the demon things were almost painfully beautiful. Where they grasped lover, the flesh of both parties began to meld together bubbling and popping like a pot of hot pitch.

Some of the others screamed in horror and a couple darted for the door. THe women seized them and kissed them, though truthfully the motion was closer to a bite. The man and woman struggled for a moment before slowly settling and then enthusiastically returning the attention. It suddenly occurred to her while the cult was so easy to penetrate, anyone not already initiated would be converted. By force. A leering paunchy man, bald save for a salt and peper mustache reached for her hungrily. With no time to draw a weapon she snatched a bottle from the table and whirled it in a whistling arch that ended in the mans temple. THe bottle didn’t break but rather offered a musical tonk, which almost but not quite drowned out the crunch of bone. Three of the demon things turned to look at her, their lovely faces seemed all the hungrier for the sight of death. Screaming a Tilean curse she hurled the bottle at the thing. The projectile hit it just below its breasts but rather than slow it the missle seemed to slip into the flesh as easily as a stone into a pond.

“Uhhh…,” Camilla looked around trying to find some way out.

“If you have a bright idea…”

The Ostlander had to keep himself calm. His sword howled in his mind so loudly he was almost afraid others would hear it. He heard Camilla but was too overwhelmed by instinct borne of his sword to reply immediately. Cyrdic sniffed the air, his keen senses trying to penetrate past the scent of spices and sweat that permeated the room. The room. No, the tapestries. The markings along the tapestries in blood. They were miniature portals that led to the realm of Chaos. No wonder he hadn't sensed the demonic temptresses before.

The sudden insight opened his eyes essentially, and he was suddenly aware of the twisting horns and curled tails of the succubi who writhed, tasted, and bucked against the last remaining men and women who tried to fight against them, their screams turning to moans of erupting pleasure as they began to cling and begged for more. Cyrdic wanted nothing more than to hack his way through and escape, but despite his strength and runic sword, there were too many of them. He did all he could to keep the magic of the Ulrican blade contained and not give away their position.

"Cyrdic," Camilla whispered harshly, trying to gain his attention to what she had said. She tugged at his arm fiercely.

Cyrdic took his mask off, tore Camilla's mask off and suddenly kissed her roughly. Camilla blinked in surprise, and after a moment she tried to push him away, thinking he had been bewitched as the others had. Instead, Cyrdic lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the wall, pressing her into it as if he was lost in a world of lust, his huge bulk forcing her to comply. That is, until his hand on the wall slowly slipped over and found the door handle.

The mere turning of the knob caused the succubi to screech in their minds, but the two were already gone and nearly tumbling down the stairs, Camilla no longer trying to fight and Cyrdic running as fast as he could down the twisting steps until the two suddenly burst into the main dining hall. Multitudes of men and women looked up from their dinners to see Camilla's leg's around Cyrdic's waist and Cyrdic holding Camilla up, their hair disheveled.

With a slow dignity only a royal princess could muster, Camilla climbed off of Cyrdic and straightened her clothes. Cyrdic tried to brush his unruly hair with his fingers, and the two strode out of the Hussar's Hooves as quickly and silently as they could muster, glaring at any who dared watch them too closely. When they made it out into the night air, Cyrdic rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry." he whispered, meaning his forceful kiss upstairs. "I didn't know how else to get out..."
@Penny

Camilla leaned in an kissed Cydric passionately.

“We need more plans that start that way!”
Behind them she heard shouts of confusion which quickly transmuted to panic. A fat man burst from the Golden Huzzah blubbering in terror. He fled sightlessly past Cydric and Camilla, his tunic soaked with ale and spilled food. Behind him came a flood of other patrons. Whether it was the daemons or the cultists, someone was obviously giving chase.

“Best we scappa!” Camilla added. She didn’t have her sword and even if she did she didn’t care to try it against the seductive daemon women that had been summoned from the tapestry. She saw half naked cultists appearing in the door, hands and improvised weapons slicked with blood. One of the women a plain looking merchant's wife had blood around her mouth and was licking it away in obvious ecstasy. Without another word the pair of mercenaries turned and fled with the remaining patrons.

If the cultists pursued them they were quickly lost in the twisting streets of the city. After a few minutes they slowed and stepped into an alley, waiting and watching. The alarm bells began to clamor and soldiers rushed passed in the general direction of the tavern. Even against the sky Camillia could see a pall of smoke begining to rise.

“They must have set it on fire,” she concluded, shivering at the lengths cultists would go to to achive their horrifying aims.

“We need…” the thought was interrupted by the chiming of bells.

“Palle di Ranald! We need to be at the palace!” Camilla hissed, suddenly remembering Dietricha’s cryptic message. It could have been meant for today or tomorrow, but suddenly Camilla was overcome with the absolute certainty that it meant tonight.
@POOHEAD189

Cyrdic was glad the room of perverse cultists didn't ruin Camilla's spirits or libido!

"Sigmar, the Palace..." Cyrdic lamented. He nearly cursed, but he realized the Gods might be the only thing he can count on to save them this time. He wasn't about to displease them. "At least we're dressed the part." He said, barreling down one of the lesser lit streets, the patter of Camilla's footsteps letting him know she was still beside him.

His warrior instincts told him there was no more pursuit. His adrenaline from being chased to running to reach a deadline. "I wish we still had out horses" he said as he ran. They had been a bit too preoccupied to grab them. It took him a second to remember the horses weren't theirs to forget. Oleg would need to bill them, he guessed.

After ducking and dodging through the grim streets of Praag, trying to keep out of the soldier's eyes as best they could (it wouldn't do for Palace Guests to be questioned and placed in Jail for the night) they turned the last corner and nearly ran into the Palace sentries. Kislevites wearing impeccably forged breastplates and bearskin hats halted them with halberds, almost skewering Cyrdic. He had to grab Camilla before she ran straight into one of the guards.

"Halt! Wvat business do you haf at the palace! Speak quickly, or leave zis place at once!"

Cyrdic held his hands up, opening his mouth to speak before Camilla's delicate hand covered his mouth with a hard clap. "Actually, we have been invited by Duke Enrik for the festivities this evening. I do believe our effects are in order?" She spoke so quickly, Cyrdic almost didn't realize her accent was perfect Kislevite. With a gesture she produced the letter of invitation, presenting it to the Guard in question.

"T-They are."

"Thank you, lovely to see you." Camilla blew kisses at the guards as she shoved her big companion forward. Cyrdic shook his head. "I love you, you know that?"
@Penny