Boris Todbringer wouldn't want to hear it, but Altdorf was a lot like Middenheim in many ways. The stones were old and well cut, faithful iconography placed over every busy street, with a teeming citizenry and the noise that goes along with it. But he could tell many of the people were different, in a fashion. They were slightly shorter, with fairer features, not to mention many were noticeably fatter. Still, they were citizens of the empire and even sigmarites knew to be happy when they saw the white wolves. Or that was how it had been in Carroburg, and Senden, and any of the smaller hamlets they passed through in the southern realm. 

The other knights didn't notice, but Torm could see a lot of disapproving gazes glancing their way. Some had true vitriol in their gazes, but no one spoke up. Only a few even tried to get in their way, and they were nearly trampled, with the wolves at the fore not even noticing, likely chalking it up to being overcrowded. The group mostly passed by well-to-do members of society and white color workers, couriers, or even sight seers, as the Imperial Palace stood just to the north of them, dominating the streets with its grand presence, its inner walls manned by the city watch and a few token members of the Rieksguard. 

To their south were the vaults, a veritable castle unto itself. Nearly all the city's wealth, and even a sizeable portion of the provinces funds were locked in there, as were many of the wealthy citizen's hoards of gold. No commoners or day laborers would be around there, and it seemed to be true. All the people who watched them from the southern street were even more posh in their dress and countenance, but just as unwelcoming as the others in the crowd. The wolves rode on, Torm's eyes wandering, more curious now than ever. He had heard the chapter house in Altdorf needed more manpower and a greater presence in the city, but whatever problems they had that led to that decision looked to have gotten worse. The small contingent turned the corner past the Vaults, and even the older, jaded knights were surprised when they saw what lay at the foot of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar. 

Shouting and screaming suddenly blasted their ears, and an exponential amount of angry faces, some frothing at the mouth as various crowds shoved and pushed at one another on the holy flagstones. One man had climbed a statue of Sigmar, smearing what Torm could only guess was rotten fruit or excrement on the warrior god's face. Ulricans wielding banners with a wolf on it butted heads with twin tailed comet wielding citizens, yelling and pressing. 

"What the hell?" Gundahar asked aloud, perplexed at the spectacle. Thorsten cursed in old nordlander, and even some of the fiercer men were given pause even as their horses walked forward, always used to crowds clearing to make way. The beasts bumped into men and women, and Torm hoped there were no children less lucky than the last one outside the walls. 

Two hands shot out of the crowd, grabbing the reins of Isidor's barded steed. The knight's chilling gaze fell upon the crazed fellow, and with a dexterous twist of his arm, he butted the head of his hammer into the civilian's face, cracking his nose open in a spurt of blood. The man's face was too flattened for him to make a noise, and he spasmed and tumbled to the ground, disappearing into a mass of undulating flesh. Gundahar growled at someone looking his way, scaring some onlookers off with his snarl. Torm kept his head like a few of the older knights, using his keen eyes to gaze about. Torm, likely due to being the youngest, had the best eyes of the troupe. He pointed with his warhammer to the east, indicating a thinner crowd, like a small riverway running through a swamp. 

The message was carried up the line, the wolves sending their burly mounts in a curve toward the exit, batting away any handsy crowd members with swift kicks or strong blows of the hand. It was counter productive to his prior suggestion when Torm's eagle eyes spotted something in the crowd. A glint of iron in the sunlight, perhaps something in the air or a distant cry. But a part of the crowd detached from itself, cudgels and iron rods and even a few swords raised in the air. A wolf banner whipped in the wind, billowing above them as a cry from Ulric rose above the din. A crowd of sigmarites cried out, trying to understand what was happening before the other crowd charged. 

Torm tensed, and without thinking kicked Hauke into movement, breaking out of the order of march and flying through the crowd, knocking aside two men who tried to bar his way and raising his hammer into the air. He knew what was happening before he even thought about it. The Ulricans had grown bolder at the sight of the order, and Torm knew that bloodshed was moments from erupting on the flagstones of Altdorf. A few even looked overjoyed one of the wolves had entered the fray, but their cries fell when they saw the ferocious knight halt his steed between them rather than trampling through the sigmarites, facing the crowd of his own faithful and holding his hammer out defensively. They looked crestfallen, confused. Torm shook his head, black hair swaying in the air. 

"No." He said simply. 

"What!?" 

"Why?" 

"For Ulric!" 

"We are citizens of the Empire of Man!" Torm roared, moving Hauke to the left to throw his weight against the wall of men and women, causing them to back up, intimidated. Torm glanced back at the Sigmarites and their dumbfounded faces, but he paid them no heed other than that. He then raised his hammer, and to some he resembled the statue of Sigmar across the square, and to others perhaps he simply looked like a commander. He just hoped he did not look ridiculous in front of his elders. "We spill the blood of chaos worshipers, not Sigmarites or Ulricans! The Orcs fall to our hammers and the beastmen are slaughtered by our steel and gunpowder, but we cannot win if we fight one another!" 

He was met with stunned silence, but at least there wasn't a slaughter. He caught up to his fellows moments later, averting his gaze from theirs even as some began to mumble. Arnulf patted his shoulder, but still. He wondered if he had done the right thing.