[@POOHEAD189][@TyrannosaursRex][@The Wyrm][@Blueskin][@Penny][@Dusty][@BangoSkank]


The evening sky had well and truly opened by the time the son of Malgrim nearly smashed a thick oak tavern door off of its hinges, thick, round droplets hammering down onto the township of Schartenfeld like the tears of weeping gods; by this time all decent folk of the Imperial burh had esconced themselves safely and securely within the four walls of their dwellings - at least those who had that luxury - as strong or flimsy as that may be.

There is always an exception to the rule though, and it was at this point that another figure slipped into the [i]Maw[/i], fresh on the heels of Burungi and his rather ill-advised comments. News travels swiftly you see, and the arrival of a Bretonnian bearing a half-dead youth had piqued the interest and curiousity of many. They came like an elusive shadow, slipping through the half-closed door and into the drying warmth of the tavern of ill-repute, sweeping aside the lower regions of a waterproofed cloak and taking a seat nearby the group that crowded the boy purposefully or not.

Meanwhile, across the room and working as swiftly as he could alongside his beautiful wife, Davor could only give his broad head a shake and release a sigh while he wiped clean another glass. He had been speaking to himself at the doorway, but it did seem that Sigmar - or some more devious deity - had been listening to his words; tonight had seen more [i]interesting[/i] individuals come through the door of the place than he had ever seen before!

It was as he looked around at the faces and races that he caught the one good eye of the newcomer, the man who had just entered and pulled down his hood to reveal a face more horrifying than even that of the annoying Halfling.

He must have been six-feet-and-four in height if he was an inch, two broad shoulders supporting a bearing and a back that could only be that of a soldier or other professional, one hand covered in the mass of scarring caused by burning flesh while the other apeared untouched.

The face was what caused unease the most though, a pale-skinned face with a right-eyed empty socket and a left eye of glacial blue, the left-hand side of the man's face showing a jaw that had become infected during childhood, only to fuse together and give the man's visage a distinct and lopsided look.

Clearly he noticed the proprietor looking, turning the one good to Dovar for but a moment, exchanging a look that caused the barkeep to return swiftly to his duties as the owner of the [i]Maw[/i].

"Ladies, gentlemen and strangers from distant lands," rumbled the newcomer as he stood from his seat, drawing his cloak back to reveal simple but stout peasant clothing - a coarse doublet over a pair of pantaloons in the red, white and green of Schartenfeld - as well as a dagger at his hip, "may I have you attention for a moment," when some distasteful looks were thrown his way from the hearth he could only shrug, "I am certain the child will be fine for the moment."

Rising to his full height, he placed one hand on the table next to which he stood, and with another withdrew a scrap of parchment upon which was written a noble-looking scrawl and from which dangled a wax mayoral seal.

"My name is Johan Sebastian Bock, and I hold in my hand a letter from the Mayor which tells me two things and asks but one. It tells me that the magic-wielders in our service already knew you would all be here this night, perhaps not specifically, but that this would be a fine time for me to make myself present here and now. It also tells me to tell any interested party the very possible reason that this child now lays here before us."

Without a word Davor placed a flagon at the man's table, returning behind the bar to find the strongest alcohol for their only Dwarfish customer in the meantime, his hackles risen by all this talk of 'magic' and 'being here' - it was all too much for a simple tavern keep like himself, for the moment.

"While my lord Mayor does keep his own militia, indeed we have the finest militia in this part of Reikland, there have been disappereances in the course of the last month of so."

Pausing briefly, he plucked the flagon up and took a long draught, some of the liquid slipping from his misshapen mouth and onto his doublet even as he continued to slurred speech and sucking breath.

"Brigands and highwaymen have  often been a problem, travellers robbed or killed on the roads hereabouts, but recently it had become more than just single travellers or wandering pilgrims. Entire caravans have gone missing without a trace, clearly overcome by a well organised group of assailants, from merchants to simple farm folk, and now we are in desperate straits... yes we are."

Another tossing back of the flagon and it was empty, a sleeve dragged across the mouth and followed by a belch.

"That is why I am here, and why I ask now if there are any among you that consider yourselves fit to do what our militia could not. To achieve, for rightful payment in coin and reputation, the location and rescue of captives and survivors, and the destuction of those that have taken them."

Spreading his arms wide, he gave what on any other face would have been considered a look of honesty and openness, but now came across more as one of a man trying to give that look to those he had interupted and asked to fight and possibly die for a not-entirely-known reason, and for an unknown Mayor and town.

"I am obliged, of course, to answer any questions you may have - and you are well within rights to say no to the offer - but, if I have judged the room correct, there will be fewer questions and more acceptance."