Gallows End had never been a magnificent estate. These orc haunted marches grew few such, rearing instead a crop of keeps, fortified manors and walled towns. The Black Coach, a splendid construction of carved and lacquered wood and red velvet wound it’s way up into the foot hills, its iron bound wheels sparking on the flint packed road, drawing the mercenaries through a pair of ancient standing stones that had once been the lintels of great iron gates, recognizable only by the rust stains that marred the rock. A stream ran alongside the road, gurgling over a rocky bed, clear and cold out of the mountains. They passed overgrown orchards where towering cherries reached mournfully into the sky and through groves of overgrown apples with shriveled unwholesome looking fruit. There was no sign of habitation beyond the half tumbledown stone walls and an old mill half collapsing into the stream.


The coach driver, who had reluctantly identified himself as Johan Mesmer, was taciturn to the point of rudeness, answering in simple yes or no if a grunt would not suffice. Was he taking them to meet a prospective Patron? Yes. Was it far? No. Would they be there by nightfall? Yes. Would he tell them their host's name? No and other such anti-conversation. Mesmer had the look of a civilized man, perhaps a down on his heels nobleman or a burgher who took little pleasure in wealth. He dressed in black and had a shortsword and what looked to be a hunting rifle wrapped in an oilskin which he kept beside him on the drivers bench. The two black horses which drew the coach seemed to have little need of his instruction, for though he held the reigns he was never once observed to draw or snap them.


The sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, casting long dagger shaped shadows by the time they reached the house itself. They approached along a paved pathway, enough disturbed by the action of grass and tree root to make even their modest pace bumpy and uncomfortable. Vast dead oaks flanked the path, each one bearing marks of having been struck by lightning in the distant past. Piles of branches to either side showed that the path had been cleared in more recent times, though no effort had been made to do more than toss the lumber into rough piles. The house itself had once been grand but like everything else it seemed to have fallen into a state of some decay. It had a long ivy covered frontage and a forecourt which held a statue of Sigmar, hammer razed, divine dignity somewhat diminished by the fact that time had robbed him of a nose. The statue had been intended as a fountain, though the basin was now filled with brackish rain water topped with floating leaves. The house had two main floors and had once had taller towers on each end. One of the towers was collapsed now, blackened and burned. This gave the other tower a more sinister air, as though it were that of a snake rearing up to scent its prey. A suggestion further exaggerated by the fact that the only light in the gathering darkness was from windows on the top floor of the tower that resembled faintly purple eyes. 
“Whoa,” Mesmer announced as they coach reached a small stable by the side of the house. This, at last, showed signs of repair, its roof recently reshingled and its stalls repaired. Fresh hay had been stacked by the far wall. Two horses were in the stalls. A black stallion and a great warhorse of dark dappled grey. Both beasts watched the newcomers with flat, uninterested eyes. Mesmer covered the butt of the rifle with a flap of the cloth and climbed down to lower the stairs for the guests. Kayden and Morek stepped down, feeling the cold wind whip around them.


“Does the master of this place have no servants?” Kayden asked, no doubt concerned about the ability of anyone who lived in such a place to pay the fees he hoped to extract.

“She does not,” A voice said from the ornate, gargoyle flanked portico that marked the entrance. Kayden and Morek turned to see a striking woman in a black dress regarding them with dark eyes.  By any standard she was beautiful, though perhaps a little thinner than was the fashion in the Imperial Capital, and she wore no make up to enhance the angular lines of her face. Her little cupids bow mouth was set in an expression of neutrality and her dark hair was pulled back into a severe braid that was coiled behind her head. The silk of her dress was fine and she wore a cape of what appeared to be crow or raven feathers.  A necklace of thumb sized amethysts hung around her throat and bands of engraved silver encircled both her wrists. A ring of black stone encircled her left little finger, set with a piece of polished onyx instead of a gemstone. 


Unbidden, Mesmer crossed to her and genuflected. She reached out a hand and placed it on his head. The air seemed to grow dry for a few seconds and starlight flashed off the gemstones in the woman’s necklace. Mesmer muttered something then stood. The pale unhealthy look had gone from his skin and he seemed a decade younger, somehow more vital. 


“I am Calliope Blackwood and you are welcome in my house. I have heard much about you Captain, and I hope we may come to some arrangement, but let us talk of such things in comfort.”


_____________


Calliope led them through dusty rooms and abandoned parlors until they reached the base of the tower. Here at last were signs of repair. A large sitting room had been cleaned, and the furniture within gleamed. A respectable liquor cabinet sat against one wall and a massive portrait of a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Calliope dominated another.

“You will have to forgive the state of things,” Calliope told Kayden as she took a seat on a settee chair. Mesmer crossed the cabinets and opened a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for his mistress and for the new comers which he presented on a silver tray.


“This seat has been in my family for many years, but the seat of our power is in Brannerburg in Averland,” she admitted, taking the drink and sipping dark rich wine from the goblet. Brannerburg was on the Sylvanian border, at the corner of Averland, The Moot, and the Cursed Province. A slight narrowing of Calliope’s eyes suggested this was a sensitive topic. Her worthless uncle had schemed to take the place, bullying and bribing the local clergy into recognising his fabricated claims and denouncing her to the Witch Hunters to prevent her from contesting it. She suspected that any legal right she had to Gallows End came from the fact that he had forgotten it even existed. Still, it had proved an adequate retreat to resettle too, far from the eyes of prying Witch Hunters.


“Your reputation precedes you Captain, but before we get to business have you dined? Mesmer here is a man of hidden talents, and I am sure we can provide you with whatever you might like?”


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