Hauke whinnied, his large head shaking irritably. The southern air didn't agree with him, and Torm had to concur. Even on the tail end of winter, he felt the air wet and pungent with humors that couldn't survive the air in Middenheim. He reined his steed in, giving a stolid word of discipline to the willful horse, and Hauke replied immediately with straightening himself. Torm wanted to look at his fellows, but he kept his eyes forward. He had not been one of them for long, having been inducted and given full membership two years ago. He had a chip on his shoulder, easily seen by his betters, even as calm as he could be in the middle of a beastman raiding party. He kept his mouth shut and head high, his long hair and goatee having been cut to help with the riekland heat and culture, but that still left him with a mane of thick hair as black as a moonless night. 

The sea of peasants scattered and even the freemen stepped lightly and made way for the company of warriors, nearly three dozen strong and having slowed to a canter once the walls of the capital had come into view. Carroburg was a nice respite, even with the weak drink, but the small city was utterly dwarfed by Altdorf, which looked as if it was larger than even Middenhiem in size. Doubtless it appeared so for the lack of mountains, but that didn't dissuade Torm from being impressed by its grand spires and imperial majesty. Whatever their politics, Karl Franz ruled here and they served the emperor. At least in their own fashion. 

Amid the parting crowd, one small boy with big eyes stood still on the side of the road, waving up at the fur-clad northerners but making not a sound. One-eyed Isidor nearly trampled him, his steed missing the boy by sheer luck, its tail swishing against the youth's face like he was a fly. Angsar rode by next, brown haired and grim, his face long and terrifying. He pulled his steed to the left a bit to keep it from hitting him, but made no noise save for that. It was Gundahar that paid true notice to the boy, giving him a horrible roar that had sent fear in beastmen and bandits alike, his eyes wild and bloodshot making him look the part of a true madman. The boy gasped and ran off, tripping just once before disappearing as he screamed in fear. The red bearded Middenlander laughed at the departing youngster, waving his warhammer. 

"Keep it to yourself," Thorsten warned him sternly, glaring at Gundahar with just a pinch of tolerance. It was easy to see they were old comrades. 

"Hey, just having a bit of fun. The boy was going to kill himself standing there!" Gundahar protested, waving his hammer in the vague direction of the crowd, one man dropping a basket of blankets from the gesture, marring the fabrics in the mud. Sigmund rode just ahead of Torm, the battle-scarred man sixteen years his senior. He shook his head at the sight, muttering how soft the people must be here in Reikland if they feared Imperial contingents. Gundahar continued. "Besides, you know Wulfrim would have killed him for even looking our way." 

"Hold your tongue until we get to the Chapter house," Arnulf warned, the second (or third?) oldest of the troupe. Torm did not know the details, but he and Thorsten used to be fast friends until some falling out thirteen winters ago. Unlike the white haired Nordlander, Arnulf still had a bit of his youthful bearing, if only barely. His salt and peppered mane and brown eyes had some of Ulric's luster, and Torm suspected it was his a blessing from the wolf god for the man's wisdom. "If you must speak, speak like you've got a swaddled babe trying to sleep."

Gundahar grunted with annoyance but complied, Thorsten granting Arnulf a nod. The most he would give his fellow, Torm had to guess. The younger knight heard a sudden calamity from the rear, but did not turn, recognizing it as Wulfrim's large horse. Hauke was a good size, but Wulfrim was even slightly larger than Gundahar, and he needed a horse to match. He galloped to the fore, hammer in the air to signal to the others they needed to maintain formation. The riders pressed their horses closer in a rigid, triple file march at their wolf brethren's order. Torm glanced at the bannerman as he rode past, three scars marring the left side of his grim face, somehow not losing an eye from the raking of the manticore's claws. Before them, as if the raising of the hammer held a power of psychic might, the doors to the city began to open with a dramatic groan, and the watchmen at the top screamed to his fellows below, cupping his mouth so all could hear the news. 

"The wolves! The White Wolves of Ulric have come!"