The Chapter House was not of the same size or accommodations as the Grand Order's House in Middenheim, but it was nearly there. Reikland was a province brimming with wealth, wine, and trade, and the Emperor Karl Franz saw the wisdom in providing for the sons of Ulric with a few coffers from the Imperial Vault. The protection of the warrior god had served humanity even before Sigmar, and it did not do to piss him off. Him or his chosen warriors. Unfortunately, Torm couldn't give it too much appreciation. He was distracted by the strange looks many of his Chapter brothers had given him since the courtyard debacle. 

"Well, he's got spirit, I'll give him that." Isidor remarked, his one eye fixed markedly on Brimhall, the Altdorf Chapter House commander. It was four words more than Isidor usually spoke in a given day, which had Torm worried. Wulfrim stood beside the Commander, grim face and unwavering in his ability to appear both neutral and disapproving all at once. The group, including Gundahar but absent of Arnulf and Thorsten and a few other notable members, were not there for any specific hearing on Torm's behalf, but they had invited the young wolf along to speak on him breaking ranks in front of the crowd. 

"Pretty brazen," Gundahar agreed hypocritically, having broken more than a few rules because 'Ulric had taken him,' which they all knew he was too swollen on drink to think straight. Torm used a monumental amount of effort to keep his face straight after Gundahar had the gall to uttered the words. It was lucky too, because Brimhall did not take his eyes off of him. Ironically, the man looked like one of the statues of Sigmar out in the courtyard, which made him look more Ulrican than most. His beard was well trimmed and his physique heroic, despite his aging. 

"Can I speak, Commander?" Torm asked, chin raised. His wintry eyes stolid. 

"No need." Brimhall replied. "You did the right thing." 

No one in the troupe was vying for Torm getting reprimanded, but their surprise was still quite genuine. Torm had expected to be sent on stable duty or make the what they called the 'low rounds' in the slums with more danger and little reward. Cleaning duty perhaps. Torm had experienced that enough in his formative years. Gundahar spit, too used to the road and forgetting the hardwood floors weren't a place to do that. Wulfrim and Brimhall looked at him, but he didn't notice at first. Instead he strode over and clapped Torm on the shoulder. 

"Good job, lad! You always had some brass balls, I tell old Thorsten." 

"He did the right thing, but he still broke ranks." Brimhall corrected, drawing Torm and Gundahar's gaze. Torm did not know if he would like where this was leading, but it promised to be interesting. If he was just going to be outright punished, they would have done it immediately and gotten it over with. 

Brimhall got up, and waved for the others to follow. His look told Torm he didn't want the boy to move an inch, and Torm stood at the ready, arms down and chin high at attention. Isidor moved past without a word, followed by a grumbling Gundahar, and Angsar as well. Only Wulfrim stayed, the one knight Torm had to admit he was intimidated by him. Oh, if he faced any in battle he would feel immense trepidation, but Wulfrim had a force of personality behind his grim demeanor that showed the mark of both a great leader and a terrible man to piss off. However, Ulric sought for this day to be full of surprises. Wulfrim turned to the right, walked over to a door Torm hadn't noticed before, and opened it. Out walked a man that could only be described as sleazy, but with a cunning intellect that belied his gap-tooth smile. 

"You can speak freely, pup." Wulfrim said, stepping back and watching them both. Torm nodded and turned to the newcomer.

"Who the hell are you?" He asked. Wulfrim snorted and the man let out a chuckle. 

"Koneig," he said with an accent that was decidedly northern, but not middenheim or any nordlander inflection. A coin played along the back of his deft fingers, and as he stepped closer, Torm was in awe of how he hadn't smelled this man's breath even behind the door. "I'm what you might call a talent seeker, if you would. I saw you at the courtyard today. You look like a problem solver, and I've got a big problem, and a problem with a slim waist and a big mouth. I want you to solve both of 'em for me."  

Torm glanced at Wulfrim, and the older wolf spoke. 

"You're young, boy. You've got promise, but we need to send you somewhere after today. We can't have you looking like you were punished, but we can't give you a pat on the back either. Luckily, we have an out. Koneig here needs a wolf-" 

"Sir-" 

"And you're not worth as much as the older knights," Wulfrim finished. Torm swallowed a retort and nodded, having seen it coming from a mile away. He knew being the youngest meant he was expendable, but it still felt like they underestimated him. He let it slide, and instead turned to Koneig. 

"What's the big problem, and who's the small problem?" 

Koneig put his arm around the White Wolf, his worn guard uniform browned and strange clashing with the brilliant white of the wolf pelt and the abyssal black of his armor. "Let me tell you about the big one while we go and visit the wee one, ay?"