[IC] Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

[Penny]

By the light of springs new moon.
The dead stirred in their tombs of ancient stone.
And though brave knights with lance and sword did strive.
To quell that fearful tide of graves dark dust.
Little did their feat of arms prevail.

Then from the dark and strom rent sea
Awash with reknown from the nightless cold of north
With naught but swords and hearts of God loved steel
Came aid to Aquitaine in time of darkest strife
The Lioness and the Wolf.

The Lioness and the Wolf ~ Brettonian Troubadour Song.

The waves crashed on the shore of the stoney cove battering the two survivors as the fought the icy water to reach the shore. Morsliebb burned in the sky casting the whole scene in ghastly green light as they struggled onto the shore, sliping on the slimey shale in their haste to get ashore. Camilla quietly vowed that she would never in all her life set foot on another cursed ship. Cydric emerged from the surf behind her gasping for breath, his great chest heaving. Across his back hung his wolf pomelled sword, golden hilt catching the moonlight. Instinctively Camilla touched her own hip, relieved but not surprised to find her own elven weapon still snug in the sheath Cydric had bought for her name day a week and a half ago.

The Bonaventure, a trading vessel that ran the coasts between Brionne and Marienburg, had set sail from that great entrepot nearly three weeks ago. Using what little money they had left following their adventures in the north, they had booked passage on the ship following the rumored trail of the dark wizard Keffman whose schemes and betrayals had caused so much carnage in the north and taken the lives of Dietricha and Yanz, friends and companions on many a strange and perilous adventure. Ivan Petrovich too, lay grievously wounded, though the Tzarina said that with the aid of Ursan and her magic he might yet recover.

All had gone well for a time and the fresh winds of spring, so much a relief after a northern winter had carried the vessel south past the great cities of Lyonesse and Bourdelaux. The trader was loaded with fine Imperial steel, swords and lances meant for southern knights in exchange for wine and cloth from Araby. Not three days ago they had passed the cursed city of Moussilin and seen fell lights on the horizon, though she ship master had kept well of the coast and offered prayers and sacrifice to Manaan, God of the Sea. It had seemed that their goal was in reach, they were no more than two days from Brionne, when disaster had struck. Spying lights in the night the Captain had altered course and ran upon a submerged reef. The Bonaventure had been battered to pieces by the waves, the great vessel breaking apart under the relentless pounding of the surf. Camilla and Cydric had leaped into the sea at the last, clutching wreckage and each other as they struck for the distant shore and their mocking fires.

Having finally reached the shore Camilla found herself shivering and soaked. She was an astonishingly beautiful woman, chosen as a child to become a courtesan, and though the adventurers life had toughened her, there were few men whom her gentle curves, raven locks, and flashing dark eyes couldn’t tempt. Cydric by contrast was as solid and reliable as the winter snows. His body was broad and muscular, with the leanness of a wolf and though he would never model for a Tilean sculptor, there was a severe nobility about his face that leant him a compelling intensity.

“Ranalds cock, If I ever set foot on another bloody boat again it will be to soon,” Camilla cursed as they reached the high watermark, evident from a line of seaweed and other detritus kicked up by the tides. Cydric smirked, amused as much by the way her Tilean accent clipped the words as the words themselves.

The beach was a broad expanse of flat shale beneath a lowering cliff, at either end of the cliff wind and rain had crumpled the rocks into what looked to be climbable slopes. Above them she could see the faint fires which had prompted the ill fated change of course. Camilla looked out to sea, keen eyes piercing the darkness nearly as well as Cydrics, searching for any signs of their former crewmates. There were none. Men had fled to the ships single boat in a panic but they had seen it founder only a few dozen yards from the ship, so badly was it overloaded. Other men had leaped into the sea like the two adventurers, but if any of those had survived they currents had bought them ashore elsewhere.

A sudden movement in the darkness caused both of them to tense. Men were creeping down the bluff towards them weapons in hand. Cydric’s nose wrinkled as though detecting some scent that warned him clearer than his eyes. All Camilla could smell was salt and seaweed.

“Evening gentleman,” he called in his ringing basso voice. He spoke in Riekspiel, out of habit, though she knew that he had enough Bretonnian to curse with . The men started and froze before coming unsteadily to their feet, doubtless shocked that they had been spotted. More men appeared on the bluffs above, having been crouching in the long sea grass that carpeted the rock eminence. Camilla could see the occasional flash of steel, though by and large the men seemed to be carrying staves, reaping hooks, or other tools of agricultural practice.

“Well a few of the fish managed to swim ashore,” came a course voice speaking in Brettonian. Camilla, having studied Brettonian as a major language of song and poetry, could follow it without undue difficulty.

“We were passengers on the Bonaventure, wrecked on the rocks,” she called back in the slowly rolling syllables of the language. There was a mutter among the men and some evil sounding chuckles.

“Ah we will be happy to offer you aid and ahem hospitality m’lady,” the leader replied, his voice dripping with nasty innuendo. The commend drew more hungry rumbles of agreement from the dozen men that were clambering out of the rocks towards them. Camilla realised that her accent, learned for reciting poetry, would be closer to that of the ruling class than to rude peasants like these fellows. The looked out to sea, eyes peeled though for what she wasn’t sure.

“Shipwreckers,” Cydric muttered, his eyes narrowing. Camilla wasn’t familiar with the term though it was clear Cydric didn’t think much of their apparent rescuers.

“They light fires to lure ships onto the rocks, then loot what washes up ashore,” he said disgustedly. The leader was close enough now to make out. He was a beefy looking man with a massive maul, probably intended for slaughtering cattle clutched in his arm. There was a faint miasma of unwashed bodies and garlic about them which turned her stomach.

“Aha monsuier and madame, let us show you our hospitality,” he said switching to Rieksiel which he spoke with a heavy lilting accent. His hungry eyes roving over Camilla, her soaked clothes leaving little to the imagination.

“You are, how do you say, our guests afterall,” he said. Camilla looked at the motley bunch, with caution but not yet fear.

“Perhaps we shall be on our way,” she said in Brettonian, her face twisting into a disdainful sneer despite her best efforts. Camilla was a consummate actress under most circumstances but she was cold and exhausted and in no mood for dealing with men who murdered sailors for a few crates of wine.

“Ah but mademoiselle we insist, you cannot deprive us of your company before we have a chance to share some of our sausages.” The mob rushed forward howling with raucous laughter brandishing their crude weapons with looks of bestial glee. Camilla stepped forward, whipping her sword from its sheath in a glittering arc that sliced the throat of the leading man, a one eyed brute with a woodsman's axe. She checked him with her hip as his momentum carried him on, even as his eyes glazed, unwilling to let his body foul Cydric’s draw. She needn't have bothered, the familiar sound of the wolf pommeled blade clearing its sheath sounded behind her and he stepped forward into the onrushing crowd, swinging the weapon in a vast syncthing cut that opened a man from shoulder to hip, sending him tumbling back over the rocks in a welter of blood and entrails. Camilla stepped to Cydric’s left, footing sure despite the shifting rock. With a flick of her wrist she batted away a staff blow and thrust into the fellows chest, twisting the blade before it could stick in his flesh.

Screams of pain and panic filled the night as the salty tang of blood added to the scent of the sea. The peasants drew back in confusion. They had expected to find defenceless sailors, not hardened killers. One man screamed like a dying horse, clutching the stump of a hand Cydric had evidently severed while she had been focused on protecting her shield side.

“We should, be on our way,” Camilla repeated, her voice quiet and grim despite the musicaly lilting syllables.

“Alas mademoiselle you are worth more than we can make in a decade, you have a rich family that will pay your ransom, and you will entertain my men while we wait,” he replied, still leering though a tremor of fear had slipped into his voice. Hard men they might be but five of them had been killed or maimed in less time than it took to call a warning. The leader made a gesture with his hand. Camilla didn’t immediately realise what was happening but Cydric, ever the soldier, didn’t hesitate. Dropping his sword he snatched up a large section of driftwood, probably part of a wrecked ships decking and thrust Camilla to the ground. She cried out in surprised protest but Cydric crouched and covered her body with the sea soaked timber. Arrow head thunked into the improvised shield as the men on the cliff top losed a lazy hail of arrows down at them. Most few wide, but they likely would have been wounded or killed without Cydric’s quick reflexes.

“Bravo monsieur, bravo,” called the leader, applauding mockingly. Camilla wished that the powder in her pistol wasn’t soaked to uselessness.

“Surrender now, you cannot hope to get passed us while my boys rain you with arrows, let us be reasonable.” Camilla pressed her lips together in a frown.

“Cover us with the shield, if we can reach them, the archers will have to worry about hitting their friends,” she said reaching forward and lifting the hilt of his sword to his hand. It was an awkward grip but Cydric managed to hoist the wood, gripping a cross member. It wasn’t a great plan, a fact pointed out when a bodkin arrow struck the shield with a thunk, its point protruding a half food through the ancient timbers. But it wasn’t as though they had any real alternative. Camilla felt that there was no chance they could prevail against the rain of arrows and the clubs and axes of the renegades. She hoped the archers would be careful shooting in to a melee but the odds were just as good they would put arrows in their backs despite the risks. It seemed like a stupid way to die. Her mouth was dry and she wanted to kiss Cydric one last time before it was all over but there was no time.

“Ready,” she whispered, gripping her own sword and picking her footing across the beach. A heart beat before she could tell Cydric to charge the night was split by the warble of a hunting horn. Suddenly the thunder of hooves could be heard above and the horn continued to sound with enthusiasm if not with musical skill. The ship wreckers recoiled in confusion at this unexpected event and Cydric shouted a war cry and rushed them. Camilla dashed along side him, trying to keep in the shelter of the improvised shield but no arrows fell. Ahead of her a man fell from the cliff, his body smashing to the shale, a broken lance point in his chest. Others jumped screaming from the precipice, breaking legs or arms in the fall. Camilla glanced up and saw armored men with lances and swords, hewing the peasant bowmen down even as their great horses bit and kicked. The cut through the ship wreckers like a scythe through fresh corn. Routing them as suddenly and completely as Camilla had ever seen.

Cydric was not to be shamed by their example. He cut into the party on the beach with the savage fury of a starving wolf. His great blade sheared their improvised weapons and cut through their bodies like water. Blood flashed red in the moonlight soaking the stones as they men tried to flee back up the escarpment. Camilla and Cydric followed at their heels, choping and stabbing at the backs of the retreating men.

Suddenly a voice called from above as cheerful and out of place as a choral choir in an abattoir.

“Mon Dieux, monsieur! Save a few rogues for the rope!!” the voice had the same upper class little as did Camilla’s and a moment later a knight in green and white livery appeared at the top of the tumble of rocks. His face was young and handsome framed by carefully curled dark hair with a neatly maintained mustache. Despite his stylish appearance he held a blood stained sword in his hand and his eyes were alight with the thrill of battle. As he spoke more armored men appeared in similar though varicoloured garb, perhaps a half dozen in total, barring the escape of the shipwreckers as completely as a city gate. Camilla saw that one of them held a brass chased horn, his face flushed from the effort of blowing the thing. The bandits glanced between the cast aways on the beach and the knights above, and began to throw down their weapons, raising their hands in surrender.

[POOHEAD189]

The night would have been stygian if not for the crescent moon hanging above the battered shores. The light was a small comfort, and only served to reflect the glow off of Cyrdic's bestial eyes, one of the main aspects about him that betrayed his otherwise peasant looks, though it was Beaumont's way of ignoring the man's rough handsomeness and striking musculature. The Knight could not get a good read on him, and he found it equally as impossible to ascertain the motives of the voluptuous beauty that had cut down the bandits like a she-witch of the Forest of Loren! Even through the broken shale and ragged rocks, they had fought like daemons and received naught but a scratch.

"My Marquisse Cariveau! What shall we do with these dogs?" a rakish knight asked, his sword at the throat of one of the Shipwreckers, clearly delighting in the man's fear and unease at the point of a sword being so close to his throat. Beaumont did not take his eyes off of the two newcomers they had come to rescue, shouting something in Bretonnian that clearly disappointed the Knights. A young squire trod out from behind the wall of steel that the Knight's presented, and he began binding every bandits hand with rope, concentrating on his work at the task as if his very future depended on it. Cyrdic imagined it likely did.

"So, monsieur and mademoiselle. I am Beaumont Cariveau, third son of Armand d'Aquitaine and cousin to Baron D'Epee of Chateau D'Epee. We have many questions for you, but it is not here that they will be asked. If you would accompany us to the Castle, you may be washed and fed." he said, his eyes lingering on Camilla for a moment longer than Cyrdic cared for, before whistling loudly. The Knight performed the trick even with his guantlet on, placing the steel fingers into his mouth and calling for his steed; a beautiful white Destrier that leaped through the brush as effortlessly as Camilla when she danced.

"Two minutes in Bretonnia and I already wish to leave." Cyrdic whispered, his woflish eyes boring into the Knight that had spoken to them. Despite the bloodied combat and Camilla's state of being covered in sea water and sand, her lush lips curved into a smile. She went about cleaning her Elven sword, though her large lover knew it was just for show. Blood seemed to disappear on her enchanted blade as if it cleansed itself.

Cyrdic knew very little of Bretonnia provinces. To an Empire man, the entire country was filled with stuck up snobs that jousted rather than fed their common folk, and common folk too cowardly and whipped to fight or even wish for a better life. He could ascertain only as much as one might hear in a tavern after a round of drinks, likely jokes at the foreign land's expense. He had heard informed knowledge of the place as a boy, but he couldn't quite bring the information to bear at the moment.

"Salut mon seigneur," Camilla replied to the Knight, sheathing her blade. "We would be honored to accept the Baron's hospitality." Once again, Cyrdic was amazed at her talent for languages and accents. The best he could do was a rough Kislevite, and even then it was best he not talk or else toss the dice and see if the one he spoke to was stupid enough to fall for it. "There might be more men washed ashore from the crash, Marquisse. Would you search for them?"

The man seemed very unused to taking requests, displeasure clear on his face at the woman speaking out of turn. "We have little time. The night grows late and we have hours to ride. There's no telling if there are D'Elbiq and Du Maisne fiends hiding in wait even now, or more of these wretches." He replied, mounting his stallion and inclining his head toward the captured bandits. The men looked utterly miserable, being tied to the saddles of the Knight's contingent of draft horses. "Tomorrow, we will send squires back this way to comb the beaches. I assume that is satisfactory to you, mademoiselle...?"

It was clear he was awaiting an introduction from the two of them.
@Penny

[Penny]

“I am Contessa Camilla del La Trantio and this is Cydric Becker the Graf of Estabrook,” Camilla responded in Brettonian through Cydric’s name and Imperial rank gave the sentence a guttural choppiness that didn’t flow well into that stately tongue. She frowned and then added:

“The Sieur d’Estabrook,” she clarified as the Brettonian hierarchy was a little more granular than the Imperial one. Though Camilla herself technically held the rank of Gravine in the Empire, using the equivalent ‘contessa’ of Tilean was easier to reconcile with her foreign looks. If the knight took it to mean she was the Contessa of La Trantio then she couldn’t be blamed for that. It proved not to be an issue because Beaumont’s face lit up like a lantern at the news she was a noble woman. Doubtlessly the notion of rescuing a distressed damsel was more appealing than simply aiding shipwrecked merchants.

“Ah, I might have known from your beauty mademoiselle,” the knight replied smoothly, lifting her hand and pressing his lips to it in formal Brettonian fashion. With a flourish he swept the cloak of green embroidered cloth from his shoulders and draped it around Camilla’s shoulder as protection against the cold. He turned and offered a formal bow to Cydric, whose face was stoney. If the Knight noticed he didn’t comment.

“And you My Lord, a fearsome display, worthy of any knight of the knight of the realm,” Beaumont’s spoke in thickly accented Reikspiel, an accomplishment that was unusual among Brettonian nobility. Camilla wondered if Beaumont would have been as complimentary if he knew Cydric had been born a commoner. Neither of them had ever visited the tiny estates they had been granted in Middenheim, the Count had made it clear the positions were purely ceremonial.

“You spoke of having miles to ride tonight Sir Beaumont,” Camilla said glancing around at the knights as they prepared their mounts. One of the squires was cutting fresh lances from a nearby grove of trees with the aid of one of his fellows who held a torch. Although the Brettonians appeared well turned out in fine armor and colorful surcoats closer inspection told a different story. Many of their kite shields were battered and scratched and only one night still retained a formal painted lance, about which hung a banner of green and white overlaid with a golden lion rampant. The other knights bore lances of simple green timber with steel points afixed by nails and leather bindings. The number of horses too was incongruous, even with pack horses their were more mounts than men. They had clearly seen action

“Surely we can rest until dawn and ride on when we have the light,” Camilla pressed. Beaumont’s handsome features grew harder.

“Alas madamosselle, there are worse things abroad in Aquataine this night than these villains,” he said with a dismissive gesture to the caravan of lashed prisoners.

“Such as…” Camilla said with a raised eyebrow. The knight looked uncomfortable.

“Madamosselle you are perfectly safe among us and I would not wish to distress…”

“Sir Knight.” Camilla said placing a heavy emphasis on each syllable to make the words a rebuke.

“I am blessed with a strong stomach,” she went on, touching the hilt of her sword with her hand to remind the man that she had been cutting down bandits only a few minutes before. Beaumont cleared his throat.

“The walking dead are abroad m’lady,” he said reluctantly, “bands of them move by night and it is better that we don’t tarry in open country where they can concentrate against us.” That amount of tactical acumen, marked Beaumont as an unusual man. The standard Brettonian response to any problem, large or small was to charge at it full tilt and smash it to pieces. Of course the Knights of Brettonian were renowned for smashing things to pieces in just such a fashion so it wasn’t as big an indictment as it might have been.

A pair of squires came forward, one with a brightly caparisoned charger and another with a dappled gray palfrey. Both man were glancing around nervously, fingering thier long knives, though the bluff was open enough that no sudden ambush would be possible.

“If its is necromancy you fear,” Cydric broke in, “you should burn the bodies of the dead.” Beaumont looked about, obviously considering it. The knight clearly didn’t want to tarry any longer than he needed to but Cydric’s suggestion made sense.

“Toss the bodies into the pyres garcon,” he called to the squires who leaped to begin seizing the mangled bodies.

“Take axes down to the beach and take their heads, hurl them into the sea,” he went on, clearly reasoning that building a fire down there, or transporting the bodies up to the bluff would take too much time. The squires set to the work while the knights affixed their lances with steel points and mounted. Camilla climbed into the saddle of the palfrey one of the knights near her gave her a disapproving look.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable riding side saddle m’lady?” he asked in his own tongue, his tone making it clear there was a right answer to the question.

“Fuck off,” she said in Tilean but in a tone so sweet and reasonable that the fellow, if he understood Tilean, wasn’t certain of what he had heard. Cydric chuckled and pulled himself up into the saddle of the warhorse he had been provided, a magnificent roan in red and gold livery. A dark stain across the saddle spoke of the demise of its previous owner. Beaumont called the order to ride and they set off at a slow trot, fast enough to be uncomfortable for the prisoners but not fast enough that they were dragged behind the horses.

A dirt trail lead away from the bluff and through a narrow copse of trees. To the Brettonians it doubtless seemed like a forest, though to Camilla and Cydric who had traveled deep into the wooded darkness of the Drakwald it was more a garden. The knights formed a loose oval surrounding the prisoners and the squires as best they could. After a mile or so they broke through onto a dirt road bounded on one side by the forest and on another a low stone wall, across which fields and orchards could be seen. The formation shifted into a column, Beaumont took six of his knights, including the standard bearer to the front of the group and sent the remaining four men back to act as a rear guard. The squires and their prisoners clustered in the middle. If this were an imperial force they would have spread scouts out to either side, though Camilla didn’t imagine the odds of a foe hiding in a field of new sown wheat were high. In the distance she could see a windmill silhouetted against the feeble moonlight, great sails turning slowly.

“If there are undead why haven’t your nobles marshalled to meet them,” Cydric asked as he guided his horse up beside Camilla and Sir Beaumont. Cydric wasn’t a good horseman despite plenty of practice, and the warhorse, more fractious and aggressive then a regular animal tossed its head and stamped its feet in protest of his commands. The contrast with Beaumont who looked as though he had been born in the saddle was obvious. The knight made a face.

“The nobles of these lands have their own grudges,” Beaumont replied in a guarded tone.

“Most do not believe the threat is as grave as it is, or believe that it is some ruse to gain an advantage.” Camilla could tell from his tone that there was more going on here than he was willing to discuss. Her knowledge of Brettonia was limited to the working of its upper echelons and didn’t include the local politics of Aquitaine but she knew it wasn’t uncommon for lords to fight bloody and bitter feuds over territory and questions of honor.

“Well your enthusiasm for the Brettonia lasted a whole minute longer than mine,” Camillia sighed in Riekspiel. Only someone who knew Cydric very well could have detected the slight grin that settled over his features.

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic didn't respond, his amusement evident enough. The next few hours were ridden in relative silence, save the occasional Bretonnian Knight muttering and cursing the ghastly roads they trod, or telling a joke that was doubtless at the newcomer's expense, bandit or Camilla and Cyrdic. Sir Beaumont handled his horse expertly, riding a touch fast compared to Cyrdic and clearly trying to draw Camilla forward as he spoke to her.

The Roan Cyrdic rode seemed to be agitated and unruly to the touch, and doubtless a few of the lesser squires unused to seeing a horse act in such a fashion believed it to be the horse's fault. Truly Cyrdic had gotten better over the few years he had been riding with Camilla, but he still was no Knight, and there was something deeper about him that the horse instinctually feared. A suspicion the animal had from thousands of years of fleeing the great wolves of the forest.

As they crested a hill, the moonlight basked the well tilled fields and groomed forests with an eerie glow, giving even the light a chilling effect on the landscape. Though what was the most notable thing was a great fortress that stood vigil overlook the lands on the horizon. Cyrdic had seen many fortifications, and had distinguished himself on the walls of Praag not months before. But even the northern city paled in comparison to this fortification.

"Chateau D'Epee," Beaumont declared as they rumbled closer. Cyrdic would hear Camilla gasp at the sight of the walls. It truly looked a monument to the engineering expertise of man. Even in the Empire, where technology had exceeded Brettonian innovation (or lack their of) for the past two centuries, men would gaze at the defensive structure in wonder and awe. There must have been six great keeps towering over the landscape within the defenses. Banners of gold and blue fluttered in the light breeze of the night along the parapets, the sigil portraying a noble a Hyppogriph's claw. "Is it not magnificent?"

"Truly, Marquisse." Camilla replied. "There must be thousands of your noble subjects located within."

The Knight was quiet for a moment, and Cyrdic could guess why. The banners that hung above the walls were posted along merely one of the gatehouses and keeps. The rest of the citadel was barren and devoid of any heraldry or livery. Whatever had happened, the place had but an echo of its former strength. Cyrdic had to guess Camilla had noticed the same, feigning ignorance to embarrass the haughty Knight. By Ulric and Sigmar, Cyrdic loved her.

They made it to the gates, a distant cry of Bretonnian from above led the massive iron portcullis to raise at just the moment the Knights would be able to ride in without halting or ducking. The bridge they galloped upon led them into the courtyard of the central gatehouse, even now an impregnable defensive position with multilayered walls and overlapping towers that could be covered by varying degrees of fire, with more murderholes than Cyrdic could count. He briefly wondered if the Dwarfs had aided the men of Bretonnia long ago, much like they had in the Empire.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla gazed up at the castle with guarded awe. She had been in the great fortress of Middenheim perched atop the Ulricrag but with that sole exception this was the greatest structure she had ever beheld from close at hand. Even the alien pyramid cities of the Chaos Dwarves seemed to pale in comparison to what ordinary mortal hand had done.

The entered upon a great courtyard that gave access the keeps interior. Two massive towers rose up in front of them. Men at arms were visible on the battlements above and though they bore bows and wary expressions they did not seem alarmed. Beaumont led them to the left down a winding lane she realised that the exterior wall had no staircases. The Brettonian, following her gaze, slowed his mount to fall in beside her.

“The walls can only be accessed via walkways from the inner wall contessa,” he told her, gesturing with a gauntleted fist to where one such walkway, a construction of timber bridge the gap between the two walls.

“If the outerwall falls, we can draw back to the keep none the worse for it, while the enemy will find no shelter. Indeed the back of the outer turrets were open save for pillars of mortared stone so that men on the inner wall could shoot into them without difficulty, even if the walls were taken the enemy would find themselves on a thin stone ledge with no cover and no easy way to the ground.

“I don’t like sieges,” Camilla commented. Weeks of being cooped up in Praag gave her a revulsion for stone work, though hear at least she could at least be certain that the gargoyles weren’t going to come alive and try to eat her. Beaumont looked up at the battlements and the unfriendly looks.

“In these days we must all do things we don't like,” he muttered. It seemed to Camilla that he was speaking from personal experience.

“Ah have you been in many sieges m’lady?” he asked, in a clearer voice, obviously determined to continue the conversation.

“Too many,” she replied shortly, terminating the discussion. The paved street curved around to the back of the castle where an impressive barbican guarded the inner keep. An attacker, having breached the main gate, would have to traverse the length of the castle to reach the second portal. Camilla was not a military expert as such but the perfection of the design would have been apparent to anyone. The street was lined with shops and workshops. Few people were awake at this hour, though a hunch baked baker appeared briefly from his bakery to watch the odd procession. Each of the shops was a simple affair by Imperial standards, timber and roofed with thatch, so they could be fired if the need arose to abandon the outer walls.

At the barbican two knights sat mounted on matching black steeds. The had their visors down and carried lances, which would have been useless as weapons in these close quarters, both wore enameled armor of blue and gold and both wore a sash of blue silk over their surcoats. Beaumont drew ahead without any sign of directing his horse to do so. Both of the knights came forward at a sedate pace and stopped either side of Beaumont a horse length from him.

“You are not welcome here Sir Knight,” the one on the right declared in a tone which Camilla guessed would have lacked friendliness even if he hadn’t been roused in the middle of the night to perform a ceremonial greeting. Beaumont gave him a cold look and his horse champed at the air, sensing the tension and imagining it to be the preface to a fight.

“Why don’t you run along Guy and tell my uncle that I have come to see him,” Beaumont said stiffly, Camilla could see that his right hand was gripping the horn of his saddle, hard, clearly to keep himself from reaching for his sword. The knight, Guy evidently, smirked maliciously.

“I am afraid my Lord is a bed at this early hour Sir Knight,” Guy simpered, “Perhaps…”

Beaumont drew himself up in his saddle and the knights behind him tensed.

“I have with me the Contessa De La Trantino,” he boomed, not angry but loud enough that his voice echoed off the stone walls. He gestured back at Camilla who swore silently under her breath.

“A noble lady who has twice faced deadly peril in my uncle’s domain. Are we to stand here while she remain unprotected a third time?” The second knight involuntarily edged back from Beaumont’s evident fury leaving Guy standing alone.

“By the Lady, if you say it is so Sir Knight,” the title was clearly meant as an insult, “Then I shall cut you down for shaming my Leige Lord and Kinsman.” Sir Guy hesitated, clearly taken by surprise looked back over his shoulder. Although she couldn’t see Guy’s face, Camilla could tell he was staring daggers at the young knight. After a moment Guy turned and made an angry gesture, the portcullis began to rise with the rattling clack of a windlass.

“Enter then and let your uncle decide what to do with you.” Beaumont nodded and the party began to trot through the second portcullis.

“It looks like someone isn’t very popular at home,” Camilla whispered to Cydric who found the rapid fire Brettonian hard to follow.

[POOHEAD189]

"Ah, Nephew." the Old Baron said. "I was wondering why I had a chill this night."

Considering this was merely the gatehouse of Chataeu D'Epee, they had walked many paces in order to make it to the Great Chamber they now stood within. The immaculate carpet of blue and gold, sewn meticuliously with images of flying Hyppogriphs and Flower petals shimmering from the heavens was matched by the elaborately vaulted ceiling, mirrored by suits of armor holding finely crafted halberds. The moon paled eerily through the stained glass windows.

The old Baron sat in his chair of fine oak and red velvet pillows, with an well bred warhound laying at his feet. Behind him was a roaring fireplace, with a stone overmantel that housed various trophies of art and battle. The glowing, wicked mace of a slain Orc Warchief was trophied right beside a lovely flower of unknown like that sat gently atop a Tilean Vase of expensive design. Cyrdic had thought the image of the vast Porte-cochère and the impressive long gallery was dramatic, but this room seemed to be right out of a playwrite's dreams.

The Baron himself held a nobility to his daunting grey eyes, with a well groomed goatee and a physique that, while now frail, belied a grace and musculature of a former knight and someone whom even now, you mustn't underestimate. His Knights flanked him to his right and left, with his loyal hound's head perked up and attentative. Camilla smiled at the dog. The Ostlander would never know, but the loyal canine reminded her of Cyrdic.

"Did you tell your trollop of a mother my demands?" he asked in his native tongue, somehow making even a petty insult into a grave threat with but a look. Beaumont did his best not to scowl, though the effort was wasted. His Knights stood behind him, hands close to their swords in case of quick violence. "Judging by your look, I gather not. Why do you come to my domain so armed, and who might these newcomers be? Speak boy."

"Ware your tongue, Uncle." Beaumont replied in rough Reikspiel, to better honor his guests. "I do not come as an enemy, nor do I seek refuge for my own safety, but those of my guests. Shipwrecked along the coastline. This is Contessa Camilla del La Trantio and Cydric Becker, the Graf of Estabrook. We came upon them being waylaid by common casseurs of the coastline. And I come to take your challenge, to inherit Chateau D'Epee and gain the favor of the Lady by right of quest."

"Tu n'as pas les hommes ni la force!" Guy gasped, appalled at the proclamation, though he silenced himself with a wave of quiet from the Baron, who seemed perfectly composed. He studied Beaumont for a moment, considering in his grey eyes. "I see. We shall discuss your trial and that of your men tomorrow. As of now, we must adhere to our guests." For the first time, he gazed at Camilla and Cyrdic, an almost grandfatherly smile reaching his face. "These are dark times, and it pains me to here of such news from nobility even not of our fair land."

"Red Duke, be cursed!" a Knight exclaimed, raising a gauntleted fist as if attempting to summon the very Lady herself to him for her aid. The Baron nodded in agreement, and his hound gave a forlorn howl that echoed across the curved vaulted ceiling and drifted into the antechamber behind them. Baron D'Epee patted his loyal hound on the head. "Indeed, Reynald." he said, and then spoke to Cyrdic and Camilla. "Lady Bless you, my esteemed guests. We shall provide rooms and bath for the two of you."

"We are...beholden to one another, my lord." Camilla said, her delicate hand slipping into Cyrdic's large fist. To say that Beaumont was shocked was an understatement. The Baron nodded and smiled at the Knight's clear discomfort. "Room, then."
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla offered a slight curtsey to the aged Baron and Cydric sketched a stiff bow that probably wasn’t sufficiently deep. Imperial customs were far more egalitarian than the Brettonian’s the lowliest peasant could theoretically stand on his rights against the Emperor himself though in practice such a thing would never occur.

“We thank you for your hospitality my lord,” Camilla said using Reikspiel even though her Brettonian was more than up to the challenge. The internal politics of the Brettonian nobility didn’t interest her and she was slightly irritated that Beaumont had used her presence as an excuse to forward his own agenda. Still the knight had been brave and in all likelihood his intervention at the clifftop had saved her life.

“I would also like to thank your nephew for his gallantry tonight,” she said, turning a sunny smile upon Beaumont who all but preened. The old Baron grunted in reluctant acknowledgement, too much of a product of chivalry to completely ignore the service.

“Yes well, have quarters prepared for my nephew and his men as well.”

Liveried servants came forward as though to lead the two foreigners from the room but before they could do so a side door flew open and a woman burst into the room. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty, and heart stoppingly beautiful. Blonde hair hung in curls bound up with a silver circlet. She wore a dress of green satin with slashes of white silk that ran diagonally across the voluminous skirt. Though she was slim enough in all truth she must have been corseted to the point she could hardly breathe so narrow did her waist appear and so high and firm were her breasts. The plunging neckline of the dress revealed a generous flash of pale white bosom.

“Ah, Melisende,” the Baron said, his face hardening as he spoke, “how kind of you to join us.”

“My apologies husband,” the woman replied with a venom in her voice which could not be missed, “I was not informed we had guests.” Beaumont cast a look at the woman which was far from filial and she could almost hear the Baron’s teeth grinding. Camilla realised that the woman's choice of garb, the same green and white which was Beaumont’s livery, was a calculated provocation. Though whether it was designed to annoy her husband or inflame the young knight she couldn’t be sure.

The woman’s eyes flicked from Beaumont to Camilla and Cydric who still stood hand in hand. It wasn’t a particularly friendly look, though neither was it overly hostile. Melisende’s blue eyes flicked from Camilla to Beaumont and narrowed slightly. The Baron, clearly accustomed to giving as good as he got, cleared his throat.

“I had not though to wake you so early my dear May I present Cydric Sieur D’Estabrook and Contessa Camilla De La Trantio, whom my nephew so gallantly rescued from peril,” the Baron all but simpered. Melisende’s eyes narrowed further as she looked Camilla up and down and gave Cydric a more speculative glance.

“My Lord you cannot let her stand there in such rags,” Melisende gasped in outrage which was no less dramatic for clearly being manufactured. Camilla was dressed in her customary hunting shirt and pants of soft buckskin, to make matters worse she was still wearing the cloak Beaumont had given her. The garments were blood stained and crusted with the salt of dried sea water, a far cry from the courtly garb Melisende herself wore. She clapped her hands in a premportory fashion and two handmaidens, peasant girls but pretty enough not to offend the sensibilities of their noble masters appeared at her side as if by sorcery.

“Please, take the Contessa to the bath house and find her something appropriate to wear!” The two girls curtsied and all dragged Camilla from the hall before she could speak another word.

It was mind morning by the time Camilla finally escaped the clutches of the servants. A liveried man at arms lead her to a large room somewhere in the castle, though she wouldn’t have wanted to try to find it on her own. True to their mistresses command the handmaidens had bathed her in a large wooden tub of scalding water, scrubbing her body with soap of scented lye and washing her hair. Once dried by a fire they had dressed her in a gown of blood red velvet which Camilla didn’t feel matched her darker complexion particularly well. The scalloped sleeve and flowing train of the thing mad the garment almost ridiculously impractical. Only threats of physical violence had compelled them to abandon the idea of putting her in a corset. They had brushed her hair until it shone a lustrous black, buffing away the damage of weeks of sea travel by sheer effort. Finally they had fitted her for velvet slippers and fastened a band of gold around her neck before declaring her marginally presentable.

Her own clothes had been spirited away with a vague promise that they would be delivered to her room once they had been cleaned. Camilla was exhausted and ravenous and not best pleased to be made the object of a child’s game of dress up but she bore it all with grim determination. The whole process had been worth it for the servants look of horror when she had belted her sword and pistols on over the flaring waist of the courtly dress. Of Melisende herself there had been no sign, for which Camilla was eternally grateful.

The room she was led to was surprisingly spacious for being located in a fortress. Narrow arched windows let in some sunlight, but the chamber would have seemed cold if not for a fire burning in the hearth on the far wall. The floor, cobbled stone, was covered with furs to give it an illusion of comfort. Several smaller chambers opened off the main room set off by ornate arches of carven stone. The Brettonians did everything in their power to convince themselves that they weren't living in what was first and foremost a fortress. Of Cydic there was no sign.

“Is there anything else we can do fo you m’lady?” One of the handmaidens asked.

“Perhaps take you ...umm.. accessories to the armory?” Camilla wheeled on the pair, managed a faint smile and then slammed the heavy wooden door in their faces, unable to take any more of their obsequious demands. By the window there was a small table on which rested a platter of fruit an a pitcher of what looked to be wine. Wearily she walked over to it, flopped onto a chair in what was probably a very unlady like fashion and started stuffing grapes into her mouth before taking a criminally large swig of what was a very good wine. By Ranald the sooner they got clear of this mad house the better.

[POOHEAD189]

The servant girls tugged Camilla out of the room, her face made of stone as she was dragged out. Cyrdic felt for her, and he could understand that both she and the servants would have a very long night in turning her into a proper lady. Well, that isn't entirely accurate. She knew how to be a proper lady better than those born in wealth. She just chose the fierce life, which was one of the myriad of reasons why Cyrdic had fallen for her. That and her penchant for getting into trouble. It was a shame that all they saw was a pretty face.

Still, as regretful as he was to her being left out. He admitted that the others might now speak unhindered with the lady out of the room. To them, war was the province of men. Cyrdic used to agree until he'd met Camilla. Melisende had already glided away, her eyes lingering on Beaumont as she exited. Cyrdic turned to the Knights who were now discussing matters of bedchambers, trying to see who had the honor of gaining the most valiant place amid the line of bedroom succession, or so Cyrdic thought sardonically.

"Forgive me for interrupting." The Ostlander said amid their talks. Sir Beaumont was interrupted midsentence, and the Baron was happy to halt him, though he did give Cyrdic a look of speculation. He was not used to such manners either. Cyrdic gave another stiff bow. "I must seem a brute, I am not accustomed to your manners, my Lord." he said. At D'Epee's wave to continue, he did just that. "But what is this quest sir Beaumont has mentioned. One that sounds like you know personally?"

The room was stone silent, and he briefly wondered if he had offended them greatly. He did his best not to reach for his weapon, closing his fists and facing the Baron squarely, ignoring the looks from Guy and Beaumont. Outside, lightning rumbled across the countryside, illuminating the inner chamber with the silhouettes of the imposing statues of elderly knights outside. The Baron gave a smile that was devoid of mirth. "The inner Castle of Chateau D'Epee is cursed by a presence that can only be destroyed with the sword."

---

The expensive livery and the heraldry of this Sigmar forsaken place almost distracted Cyrdic from the clear martial quality of the impressive fortress. Despite the clear danger presented in even staying here, he had to admit he was intrigued at the quality of the architecture and the honor that must have led men to defend these walls. He stood now in the Long Gallery, having been to the rooms to see Camilla was not finished being tended to yet. He'd taken a bath as well, having a similar problem with the servant girls, those these women more oggled him than tended to him, particularly in the bath. He'd had to chase them out, almost.

Now he stood in a vast corridor filled with paintings of heroism and piety, and busts of the most famous knights of the realm of Aquitaine. This place and these Knights reminded him of one of Camilla and his early adventures, when they were trapped in a fortification with insane Templars and beset outside by the forces of Chaos and a mad Dragon. He hoped history did not repeat itself.

A dancing flame at the end of the hall appeared in his peripheral vision, and when the Knight turned to enter the Gallery, he gasped at the sudden yellow in Cyrdic's eyes, for in a split second he looked more beast than man, with his jagged brown hair that raised at the thought of someone intruding. On second look, Cyrdic seemed a normal man once more. A muscled and powerful man who had clearly seen combat, but normal.

The Ostlander recognized the Knight as Reynald.

"Why do you not sleep?" Reynald asked, eyeing Cyrdic suspiciously. The Knight was resplendent in an orange red tabard that complimented his red mane and goatee. "My Lord." Cyrdic smiled at the fellow warrior. He might be too proper for Cyrdic's liking, but he seemed a decent sort.

"My lady was not in the room, so I decided to give a bearing on the Castle." Cyrdic explained. "I hope my line of questioning did not offend earlier."

"You did not offend. The discussion of a Quest is very delicate. Though truth be told, the Baron hires any adventurer who wishes to save his Castle for him."

"Hire?" Cyrdic echoed. "What ails the Castle? He would not say."

Reynald gave a smile. "And he will never say. It has been ten years since any has come back alive from the inner keeps. And fifteen since any have come back sane. The last being the Baron himself, and he will not say what he saw in those horrible halls." He explained, giving Cyrdic much to consider. "If you wish to join Beaumont's quest, I am sure the Baron would pay you if you succeed and he does not. But you have a lady to look after, it would not do to bring her into harm's way..."

Cyrdic grinned ironically. If only the man knew. Even if she couldn't take care of herself, which she could, she would likely end up in trouble anyway. It was apart of her charm.

When Cyrdic made it back to the room near dawn, he saw Camilla sitting on the chair in a huff, wearing a very bright and guady dress and looking as miserable as she ever had. He wouldn't tell her this, but red complimented her despite the ridiculous poofiness of the gown. Camilla muttered something in Tilean, and he had learned enough to understand its translation was "Not a word." He closed the door behind him, and had a cake on a plate for her. "I have news." he told her, and pulled up a chair to tell her of what he found out.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla drumed her long fingers on the arm of her chair as Cydric told her what he had learned of the curse and the quest. Although it had been many hours since she slept, the wreck of the Bonaventure had woken her, by this point in her career she had adapted to sleeping when she could and didn’t feel the lack the way she once had. Idly her other hand stroked the hilt of her elven blade, remembering the lessons that she had been given by the elf Indendre in Kislev, he had shown her some of his fighting style, though it seemed to mostly be forms for stretching and exercising. Since they had left Kislev, she had dutifully performed the series of stretches everyday, though it had been obvious there was something the elf hadn’t been telling her.

Complicated situations seemed to be more common these days. There was obviously bad blood between Beaumont and his uncle, it obviously involved Melisende in some way, the woman certainly had eyes for the knight but there was no way of knowing whether the attention was returned. Brettonians were such inveterate dramatics that Melisende might be choosing to favor the younger man simply because her husband obviously disliked him. It was equally possible that Beaumont was merely following the chivalric tradition of worshiping an idealized love from afar without any real intentions towards the lady. That was before one even began to consider whatever quest or cursed had everyone worked up. Camilla pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“I don’t suppose there is any chance we can just hire on guarding a caravan and get out of this place,” she asked disconsolately. In the Empire she would have suggested just such a course, but Brettonia didn’t have anything like the flow of trade that the Empire enjoyed.

“Reynard says that that the Baron is willing to pay anyone who can remove the curse,” Cydric supplied. There was a piece of cured ham on the table which Cydric sliced into generous slabs with the edge of a silver knife that had been provided for the purpose before slicing the cheese up into similar pieces and setting some on her plate. Almost everything that they owned, mostly Kislivite silver and a few gold Imperials had gone down with the ship and they only had a few coins between them. If they were going to continue their search for Keffman they needed money.

“Well I highly doubt they are going to let me come along…” The door flew open and both Camilla and Cydric were on their feet in a heartbeat, weapons drawn. Camilla gripped the edge of the table in one hand, ready to cast it into the path of onrushing attackers. Melisende stood in the door a shocked expression on her face. Whatever reaction she had inspected, meeting two armed opponents with drawn steel hadn’t been among them. Her cheeks were flushed with anger but she wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. There were two men at arms behind her, though they stood slack jawed, unsure whether they should push past the noblewoman in order to protect her.

“A pleasure to welcome you my lady,” Camilla said carefully, releasing her grip of the table and returning her sword to its sheath, feeling a little ridiculous to be wearing or wielding steel in such an elaborate gown. Cydric too returned his sword to his scabbard looking a little shame faced.

“Did my husband put you up to this?!” she demanded, a little braver once the swords were away. Camilla looked the Brettonian vixen up and down.

“To eating in our own chambers?” she asked diffidently.

“Don’t play the peasant with me you foreign chit!” Melisende blazed, “he did didn’t he! Hired you both so that you could trick young Beaumont into throwing his life away on this foolish quest!” Unless Camilla very much missed her guess, ‘young’ Beaumont was older than Melisende herself was. Cydric obviously wasn’t following the rapid and impassioned Brettonian but the women's intent was clear in her tone and volume.

“M’lady...” Cydric began in Riekspiel but Melisende didn’t let him continue.

“Do not speak to me in that barbaric tongue! I am a daughter of…” the words died away as Beaumont’s voice sounded down the corridor.

“M’lady Melisende?” The woman stiffened like a board, cast a hateful glance at Camilla and then spun and strode away, her hands lifting the train of her elegant gown.

“Is everything well Contessa?” Beaumont said appearing at the door. He was dressed in doublet and hose slashed in his colors of green and white rather than the armor he had been wearing when they had met.

“I suppose it is too late to bar the door, we have enough ham for a three day siege,” Camilla muttered in Kislivite.

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic noticed the man hadn't asked him if everything was well. Then again it was probably just the Knightly way of being concerned for the woman more than the male. He had to snicker at Camilla's reply, however. "Everything's fine." Cyrdic said to answer him. He looked to Cyrdic as if he hadn't even noticed the man was there until now. "The lady Melisende seemed very concerned for your well being, sir Beaumont."

"Truly?" Beamont replied, a light look in his eyes that spoke of approval, though obviously not personal involvement. However, he could hear the sarcasm in Cyrdic's voice, and drew himself up. "She is a fine woman, and a dutiful wife. Any man would be lucky to have her, as you are lucky, my Lord." His eyes swept to Camilla, who gave him the most rigid smile Cyrdic had ever seen. "If all is well, I will give you leave."

"Thank you, sir. It is well." Camilla asked briskly, and she went to shut the door. Beaumont did step out politely, but when he was gone, Cyrdic could smell the flower scent on the man still lingering outside of the door of a few minutes. He turned to Camilla, seeing her miserable. He had to agree, and decided on something. "Sigmar curse it, let's take a nap." he told Camilla, who looked at him like he had suggested something outlandish.

"A nap? In this place?" she asked, her accent causing her voice to raise in pitch. He scooped her up playfully, though she contested at first. "No, they just put this ridiculous thing on me!"

"Then don't you want to wrinkle it?" he asked her.

It took her a moment, but then she giggled. "True, I do." and kissed him. They settled on the bed, and slept likely. Camilla and Cyrdic regaining a bit of their stamina from the nap. For Camilla, it was a dreamless sleep. For Cyrdic, he wouldn't remember, but when Camilla awoke, she heard a very wolfish growl escaping Cyrdic's lip. On second inspection, his hair was getting thicker as well, though only his love would notice it. "Ceer-dik?" she said, poking him awake.

A snarl escaped him, and then a normal snore, and what followed was his eyes opening. "Hmmm?" he asked, looking normal as usual. She blinked, looking at him with concern. Though when she was about to speak, she saw something behind him, on the floor. She slid off the bed and went to pick up what looked to be a message, breaking the seal and pulling out a letter. With each word, her hair stood on end and it was her turn to seem bestial and feirce, and she cursed in Tilean in more ways than even Cyrdic could translate.

"What? What is it?" he asked.

It was a letter from Beaumont, or his retainer to be more precise. In flowing Bretonnian script, she read it aloud in Reikspeil, and Cyrdic's jaw set firmly. On this day at noon, he had challenged Cyrdic to a joust in the royal courtyard, for the honor of lady Contessa Camilla del La Trantio.
@Penny

[Penny]

“Cydric do you even know how to joust?” Camilla asked as the Ostander stalked back and forth. She had seen Cydric fight from horseback with a sword before but she couldn’t ever rember ever seeing him use so much as a spear.

“I’ve used a halberd,” he said guardedly, “how different can it be.” Camilla sighed and walked over to Cydric. Without ceremony she slapped him over the back of the head. Cydric yelped and leaped backwards rubbing his scalp.

“What was that for?!” he demanded.

“You will not risk your life jousting with Beaumont. It is bad enough that the locals act like their armor has scrambled their brains without you joining in,” she snapped.

“But your honor…”

“... will be quite secure without fools hitting each other with sticks over it,” she responded acidly, plucking the note from his hand and tossing it out the window while Cydric gaped. A footman appeared at the door a moment later.

“M’lord I was told to take a res…” the man began but Camilla cut him off.

“Fetch me quill and ink,” she ordered. THe footman might have been confused but he didn’t hesitate vanishing from the room and returning an instant later. Camilla dipped the goose quill in ink and wrote a reply in carelessly graceful Brettonian before blowing on it to dry the ink. After a minute she folded up the paper and passed it to the footman.

“Take this to the tallest tower that isn’t currently inhabited and leave it there,” she instructed.

“Then go and tell Sir Beaumont that I shall meet him there and that I ask him to come in full armor.” The servant bowed and rushed out of the room, he clearly didn’t understand but he was probably used to that.

“Why full armor?” Cydric asked looking baffled.

“I just enjoy the idea of people climbing stairs carrying all that extra weight,” she said with a malicious grin. Cydric looked puzzled and amused. Camilla crossed the room and collected her sword. It was only an hour till noon but knowing the Brettonian’s they would already be gathering.

“If I’m not going to joust…”

“You are not,” Camilla agreed.

“Then what are we going to do?” Cydric asked a little plaintively. Camilla belted on her sword and then drew a knife and slashed the expensive dress at thigh height, clearing her legs to move freely. Tucking the dagger back into its sheath she collected the gunpowder she had been drying on the window sill and poured it back into her pistol, wadding down the ball with a little of the left over silk before adding a pinch to the pan. It wasn’t going to be easy to find replacement powder outside of the major cities but that couldn’t be helped.

“You and I are going to investigate this curse at the center of the castle while they are all gathered to play with sticks,” she declared. No one would be there who would be able to stop her going with Cydric if they were all out at the lists.

“Uhhh… wont they wonder where we are?” Cydric asked. Camilla turned her devastating smile upon him, making a gesture after the departing footman.

“Why Cydric, I left them a note of course.”

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic was somewhat confused at first. He was simply suggesting they do what Camilla had always cautioned him to do, which was adhere to the local custom so as not to cause too much of a stir. Cyrdic had notions of martial honor in an Imperial way, to his regiment, to the Emperor, and to Sigmar, but he had never fought over a woman before, at least for the "honor" of it. But when Camilla had scoffed at it, he dropped it. As long as they were together, he felt secure about it no matter what dandy in a suit of armor had to say about it.

"We shouldn't use the inner halls." Cyrdic said as they stalked down the Long Gallery, moving as quietly as they could.

Camilla seemed to agree, seeing the wisdom in running into as few people as possible. "No no, we go up them." she said, twiddling her middle and pointer fingers as if they were two legs running up a steep incline.

It occurred to Cyrdic just how crazy this would be not four years ago. Running headlong into an intensely horrifying castle, against the customs and wishes of their hosts for nothing but likely a bag of coin that would only last them until the next time they would risk their lives. But now, it was only a brief thought of "might as well." Slinking through the halls, Cyrdic had to yank Camilla into a corner once or twice to avoid passing Knights and Yeoman, but soon they were as far north as they could go within the castle.

A small corridor led to one of the outer walls on the second level, and they opened the heavy, iron bound door of oak to preview what it looked like outside. The sun was high and there were only a few large clouds drifting across the horizon. The courtyard below held Knights speaking to one another in haughty voices, and two fought in mock combat using blunted sword. No sign of Beaumont or the Lord Baron, or Melisende for that matter. If Camilla and Cyrdic could stay low and hug the parapets, they could make it to the next section of wall where another Porte-cochère stood leading into the third level, though it was likely manned.

They crouched and moved, having fought together so often that they didn't even require hand signals to communicate when to stop and continue as a sentryman above on the opposite wall made his rounds. Once they arrived at the outcropping of the wall where the Porte-cochère stood, they found a small corner where they would not be seen behind the architecture.

Cyrdic knelt down, with his hands cupped, indicating Camilla go up first.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla slipped silently through the porte-cochere and in to the inner keep. She found herself in a large room which must once of have been an entry hall. Holes in the ceiling, and carven arrow slits in the walls would have made this chamber a death trap for men attempting to force the inner walls. At the end of the chamber was a large door of golden oak, polished to a sheen and bound with intricately worked metal. Two figures flanked the door. One was a marble worked effigy of The Lady of the Lake. Tileans had a natural contempt for Brettonian artisanship but even Camilla had to admit that the statue was heart stoppingly beautiful. The other figure was a somber looking knight with a beard of steel grey. Camilla was unsure of how old the man was but he had a vitality and energy about him that was almost unnatural. He wore a suit of simple armor and no surcoat or livery and although he had no sword there was an axe propped against the wall that would have done a Norscan Reaver proud.

“Ah, visitors,” he said, looking up from an illuminated manuscript he had been reading. Camilla who had made no sound, looked slightly affronted that she had been noticed.

“Two of you is it?” he went on in a friendly tone and Camilla glanced behind her to see Cydric had joined her, clearly realising that stealth was a lost cause at this point.

“We have come for the sake of the quest,” Camilla declared, walking up the hall towards the old knight.

“Ah.. yes, people genuinely do,” the Knight said with a sigh.

“I am Sir Cavic,” he said with a formal bow. Camilla performed a slight curtsey, looking completely ridiculous in her vandalized red dress.

“Camilla and Cydric,” she said with deliberate lack of formality. The knight watched her approach for a moment and then put his eyes on Cydric, clearly measuring the Imperial as a worthy warrior.

“The quest is no place for a woman,” he said, his eyes traveling to the sword at her waist.

“Even one armed as you are.”

“Right because you men have been having such great luck with it?” Camilla asked innocently. Cavic paused, his mouth opening and closing for a few moments before he threw his head back and laughed.

“Well spoken m’lady,” the Knight declared.

“What do you know of this quest?” he asked assuming a more formal stance before them.

“Only that some evil lurks at the heart of the keep,” Camilla said. By now Cydric had reached her and stood by her side, watching the knight with his wolfish eyes.

“An evil, yes…” the knight said his face grim.

“Born of foul magic employed by the vain and foolish, a splinter in the festering wound that ails Aquitaine,” the knight intoned sonorously.

“So you know what it is? Cydric asked in Riekspiel, clearly following enough of the Brettonian to get by. To Camilla’s considerable surprise the knight switched to the Imperial tongue in a heartbeat, his accent sight compared to other Brettonian’s she had met.

“I do Sir Knight,” Cavic confirmed with a nod of his head.

“Well? What is it?” Camilla demanded, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Cavic looked apologetic.

“I cannot tell you, m’lady,” the Knight appologised, bowing slightly.

“Cannot, or will not?” Camilla demanded. In response the knight turned to the statue of the Lady.

“I have made a vow not to speak of it. Knowing too much might doom you, if you are not doomed already,” the knight explained.

“Myrmidia’s Tits is there something in the water that makes everyone so difficult to deal with,” Camilla complained. Cydric swallowed a laugh with an odd snorting sound.

“You Imperial’s are a direct people,” the knight remarked. Camilla didn’t choose to object to being lumped in with the Empire in this respect.

“Much of what we do is out of habit, but I assure you, in this case the facts could lead to your undoing, as they have to so many others who have known or suspected them.” Camilla shrugged her slim shoulders. The situation made less sense to her by the moment, but the longer they wasted here the further ahead of them Keffman would draw. Their slain friends could not rest easy while the wizard lived.

“Fine whatever, we are going in,” Camilla declared. The knight raised a hand in bar and Cydric’s hand went to the hilt of his sword instinctively. With a slow motion, obviously intended not to seem threatening the knight drew a golden key from his armor, hitherto suspended by a chain around his neck.

“Are you both here of your own free will?” Cavic asked formally. Cydric and Camilla both nodded.

“Enter then, the door shall not open for you while the evil resides within. The Lady be with you.” He turned and placed the key in the large ornate lock and with a whisper of long stale air the doors began to swing open onto a darkened hallway.

[POOHEAD189]

The door closing shut behind them sent echoes through the catacomb-like halls of the inner fortress. The darkness foreboding, even for ones who had been blessed (or cursed) with such senses as Camilla and Cyrdic. They found themselves within a baroque antechamber, chairs both standing upright and overthrown by something in a mad frenzy from the past were covered in thick dust. Cyrdic should have asked when the last man had braved this venture.

"Why are we here again?" he whispered to Camilla. Even in such a low volume, he felt it was far too loud.

Camilla looked at him in shock. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet!" she remarked as loudly as she dared.

"I just feel we could use a vacation." He said with a wink.

She smiled. "Every vacation we have ends up in something like this." she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. They shared a look, and then a longing kiss. They had not had much alone time for quite awhile, and a deserted fortress with an unspeakable evil was about as good of a locked door as they would get. Cyrdic pressed forward a bit, and despite herself Camilla lifted her legs to wrap around his waist as they embraced, before the Tilean's rump would bump against the table.

The wood was so old it cracked after merely swaying, falling into a broken heap and knocking into an old cupboard, which then toppled in a comical aftershock that caused both of them to let go of one another, their swords out and heads sobered up almost immediately. Cyrdic blinked, holding his head. Seconds passed them by, and he wondered if their sudden embrace was because of some chaos influence, or they were getting far too comfortable facing evils of the ancient world. He dearly hoped it was the former.

"Let's move." he told her. She nodded, pointing left. "Thees way."

The two stalked as silently as they could, as swiftly as they could away from the noise they had just caused, going through long abandoned galleries that held paintings that had been created probably centuries ago. Dim sunlight beamed in through stained glass windows, and the air was thick and stuffy, making Cyrdic cover his sensitive nose up with the bottom of his shirt. Briefly he looked behind him as they all but ran, and there was no pursuit by...whatever lurked within.

He looked back ahead and nearly barrled into Camilla, who had halted and held her hand for him to do the same. "Do you hear it?" she breathed. The big man calmed, and steadied his breathing as he began to listen. At first there was nothing. Nothing he could discern in the depths of the haunted place. But then there was a slight tapping. A pattering in the distance, and then creaks. Something heavy approached.

Something with claws that scraped the floors.

Camilla grabbed Cyrdic's shirt to pull him into another passage way, but he was already moving with her as they made it into one of the many middle foyer's of the inner citadel, crouching behind a small strip of wall as whatever had been approaching had now stepped into the hall they had just fled from.

There was an unnerving stench that suddenly filled Cyrdic's nose, even penetrating his shirt. But it was no ordinary smell. Nothing a living creature could bring. He could smell death, and foul magic that threatened to cause him to gag audibly. He held himself in check, barely.
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla kept close to Cydric as she peered into the gloom. Experience had taught her that the safest place was as near as she could be to his great wolf hilted sword. Camilla was a dangerous opponent, but her skills were in speed and agility, her weapons too light to be a serious threat to heavy opponents. More than once in the north her only option had been to try to hold off heavily armored Northmen until Cydric could cut them down. Similarly with orcs and chaos dwarves, come to think of it most of their enemies tended to be much bigger and better armored than she was. The thought tugged her lips into something like a smile.

“What?” Cydric asked casting her a glance before returning to searching the darkened hallways.

“I was just thinking that it is funny that I’m still alive,” she replied, a nervous giggle escaping her in spite of her best efforts. Cydric gave her a look as though she had lost her mind but this was no time to stop and explain. Whatever clawed thing was stalking them ceased its movement, giving no sign of its presence beyond the putrid odor of death, not distinct enough to pick out from the background reek. She had no real way to know where to go, but considering this place was built by Brettonians, it was a fair bet whatever troubled this place could be found in the heart of the great hall.

“Lets go,” she whispered and they moved forward. Cydric glared around him as though daring whatever was in the darkness to attack. The moved down the gallery at a walk. Though the hall was dusty, it looked as though it had been sealed up in perfect order. Tapestries hung in moth eaten glory, tables were laid out with mouldering books of hours and quills set in long desiccated inkwells. There were a few suits of armor, display pieces rather than true harness, that stood back to pillars, empty visors gaping like skulls. Now and again Camilla though she caught the sound of claws, though each time she tried to locate it the sound stopped. She gripped her elven blade tight, bunching and losing her muscles as the elves had shown her.

At last the reached the great wooden doors that opened onto the great hall. The massive wooden doors were bound with verdigris bronze and stood open only a few feet. Camilla dropped back slightly and turned slightly to watch behind as Cydric slipped through the gap. It would have been a perfect moment for an ambush but only silence came from beyond the door. With a quick step Camilla too was beyond the door, stepping passed Cydric who turned to heave against the door. The great hinges screamed, the sound blasphemously loud in the gravelike quiet, and the door swung shut with the ponders weight of an avalanche. At least nothing could take them from behind without making it obvious. Since they had arrived in Brettonia Camilla had been subtly uncomfortable with the architecture. For all their silk and tapestry the castle was an ugly thing, a creation of necessity, built for war and inhabited only as a very distant secondary concern. The Great Hall changed her mind. Vast stained glass windows rose on all three sides, suspended by traceries of stone that seemed scarcely capable of supporting the intricately carved ceiling. The main window on the back of the wall was clearly that of the Lady of the Lake extending a sword to a kneeling knight. The changes of color were so subtle as to be almost painted, though each shard of glass magnified and refracted the light. A field of white lilies rose from the bottom of the scene in a work which would have been the culmination of any artists career, winding into the Lady’s gown as though she was clothed in them. The other two windows, each of them showing feats of arms, were equally beautiful, though slightly less grand. Camilla realised that they showed the three stages of Knighthood, the beginning of the quest, the search for the Grail, and its final fulfillment.

“It’s beautiful,” Cydric breathed, as surprised as Camilla was by the beauty of the place. At the center of the room was a small dais, a rich carpet making a walkway to a pair of small thrones. One, the larger one, was empty but on the smaller throne sat a woman in a gown of gold embroidered green velvet that was thick with dust. Her face was pale and beautiful and her brown hair was wreathed in a coronet of gold and emeralds that could have paid for a small mansion. Her eyes snapped open.

“Yessss….” the woman spoke as though her throat was dry with the dust of centuries. She stood up. Camilla started back in horror at the unexpected turn of events. The womans face seemed to flicker into semi translucence before hardening again, like a reflection in a pool of water that has been struck by a raindrop. The woman was heavily pregnant, a fact that the dress had concealed until she stood. A sword was buried in her belly, the gold chased hilt protruding a foot from her, the point exiting her back. The dress below the wound was black with ancient crusted blood. Her hand grotesquely cradled her belly as an expectant mother might do.

“Beautiful,” the woman-thing agreed.

“Have you come to right the wrong my husband has done me?”

[POOHEAD189]

The putrid stench of the...thing from the hallway was ever present to Cyrdic's keen nose, but it was faint enough to tell him that whatever it was, it was not in the vicinity. Unfortunately, the scent of a thousand decaying corpses was not the worst thing to assault his senses, and he shuddered in unbridaled horror and anger at the abomination that rose from the throne. A parody of an expectant mother. An undead imitation of life. He made a sign of the hammer on instinct, as any man of the empire would do when faced with such a thing.

"Back," Cyrdic told Camilla, his sword out before he could even register he made the move. His sword keened with a burning desire to cleave through whatever this abberition was. If she noticed the threat, she gave no sign. Her throat croaked, and her body groaned as she attempted to draw breath like she had in life, but it was more like cleaning a chimney than breathing through a throat, dust and flakes of what Cyrdic assumed was dead skin filtering out.

"My husband, have you seen him?" She asked, her hand lovingly caressing the bulge of her stomach as she watched them. The Ostlander had the uncomfortable notion that it looked very much like a spider curling its web around helpless pray. "He must pay for his crimes. He has been quite the rapscallion. Driving a sword through my stomach is not how a Lord should act in such times." The blade looked heavy enough that Cyrdic was surprised it didn't simply slip through her paper thin skin.

Cyrdic stepped forward once, placing his free hand on the hilt of his longsword as well while she spoke, hoping to strike before she noticed he made a move. Camilla placed a hand on his forearm, shaking her head to stop him. He had been intent on slaying this thing quickly. Even such an abomination likely deserved a swift, merciful death. But the glint in Camilla's eyes bespoke of an idea, and he learned years ago to trust in her wiles.

"Who is your husband, my lady?" She asked in perfect Brettonian, curtsying in a courtly fashion. Cyrdic stiffened, unsure if he was to bow. Camilla yanked his sleeves and he did so in a mechanical fashion simply to sate the obviously mad creature that spoke to them. She only gave them the barest of looks.

"Why, Lucien, brother to Louis the Righteous. I know not where he is. The Wars in Araby have been kept him occupied. Crusading is a dull affair, but he does it for the lady." She said, and Cyrdic realized she truly must be mad. That occurred over a thousand years ago. "It was when he returned from a campaign that he died, and did this to me. He killed poor Francois..."

"He sounds like a man who demands respect," Camilla replied, though her face was contorted in confusion towards Cyrdic a moment after she had spoken with such surety.

The Great Hall suddenly jumped by a thud, followed by another thud. Cyrdic sniffed the air, smelling the stench of rotted cadavers growing closer. Had this been his and Camilla's first time fighting in such a situation, they would likely be dead. But now they both had the eyes that could penetrate darkness and bathe it in the mere light that penetrated into the gloom. And Cyrdic could see that the thing approached once more.

"If you find my husband. Ask him why he slew me." she croaked from behind them. "Have I not been a faithful wife?"
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla dragged her eyes off the eerie woman with an obvious effort. Her throat was thick with a strange taste, like gravedust mixed with lilacs. The common folk spoke with terror of necromancy but this was the first time she had ever seen it up close. From the dark came a sinister chuckling sound, though it sounded more like that of a hyena than anything human. Camilla revolved on the spot the point of her elven sword held low, watching for attack. Who was this woman, why was he belly pierced with a sword. She must be some distant ancestor of the current Lord of the castle. Is that why he had turned back?

There was a knocking at the great doors. Then a second fist joined the first and another until the panels themselves began to shake with the hammering. Dust rained down and Camila fought back a sneeze as she backed from the door. Glancing over he shoulder she saw the spectral lady was sitting on her throne, hands folded placidly over her belly.

“My husband’s men at arms I fear,” she commented with gentle regret.

“How can we lift the curse on this place?” Camilla demanded. Timber splintered and a rusted sword blade thrust a foot through. Before it could be withdraw Cydric kicked at it, warping the blade and trapping it in the timber despite its unseen wielders best efforts to wrench it free. The ghostly woman looked up at Camilla in surprise.

“What curse?” she asked in puzzlement. The door flew open as though struck by a vast cannonball of dark energy. Cydric only survived being smashed to jelly by virtue of being located so centrally that the doors opened around him. On the other side of the door was a hoard of men, all armored in rusting mail and moth eaten tabards. Camilla was no judge of such things but some of the armor looked new, and others looked like they had been taken from a painting of days long past. Baleful green witch fire glowed in empty skeletal eye sockets, and leathery tendons stretched and popped as the phalanx of dead knights pushed forward.

“Back!” Cydric yelled, lashing out to amputate the arm of one of the knights as he thrust. Severed bracer, gauntlet and sword fell to the floor with a clatter but rather than falling back in agony like a human foe the undead knights other hand shot forward seizing Cydric by the rim of his breast plate. Camilla sprang forward, slicing her blade down through the things elbow before reversing the thrust and whiping it up through the knights neck. Links of rusted chain mail exploded in a shower of tinkling metal. The witch fire in the thing’s eyes went out as its head clattered to the floor.

“Back!” Cydric yelled again and the fell back from the onrushing horde of undead. Camilla cast her eyes about her. There were no obvious exits on the three enclosing walls of stained glass but in the corner of the wall which housed the door was a dusty wooden stair case, rising in a tight spiral to a balcony above.

“Go!” Cydric shouted, as his eyes followed hers and Camilla dashed up the stairs at a sprint. Cydric parried a thrust from a sword, skipped back and bolted. Camilla pulled her pistol from her belt, hesitated for a second and then thrust it back. She only had powder for one shot and there was nothing in so homogenous a horde to inspire her to waste it. The dead moved fast, but not so quickly they could catch the fleeing Cydric. A statue of a knight stood on a central plinth that reached towards the ceiling. Camila leaped to it, bouncing back and forth between the statue and the wall to give herself height and then thrust out her legs and arms. Her boots were on the statues shoulders and her arms pressed against the wall. She heaved with all her might and the great stone statue shifted and began to topple. Cydric reached the top of the stairs just before the ponderous statue tumbled from its plinth striking the stairs with an explosion of splitters and a great cloud of dust. A half dozen of the knights were crushed beneath the weight, though their arms and legs of some continued vainly to drag themselves forward.

“What now?” Camilla demanded, wiping dust from her eyes. Hallways led from either end of the balcony though to where they couldn’t be sure. Below them the evil chuckle sounded again and the horde began to shamble out of the throne room, proof that there was another way to reach their position despite the momentary respite.

[POOHEAD189]

Cyrdic guessed they should count themselves lucky. Just like modern Brettonians, these undead Knights of Old didn't carry the longbows the peasantry did, the Knightly class considering such a weapon cowardly. Still, they only had a brief respite. "I don't intend on running forever," Cyrdic replied, still intent on slaying the source of this permeating evil. But they needed to move now, and Cyrdic opted they move left, as the Knights had (at least seemed) to have turned right.

They fled the light of the central chamber into a lesser, upper hallway lined with worn paintings and web encrusted candelabras. Cyrdic took point while Camilla kept her eyes on the rear and their sides, noting the small doors framing the hall and peering into each if she had the chance to. Once they made it to the edge of the hall, Cyrdic opened the once hardy door and found themselves in a stairwell. If this was a less serious situation, it would have been humorous when Cyrdic halted at the top of the stairs to stare into the witchfire eyes of the undead Knight that looked up at him, both having stopped for a heartbeat to acknowledge the other.

Cyrdic didn't even bother to tell Camilla to run, instead turning around and lifting her up by the waist for a quick second to drop her back into the hallway, closing the door behind them and then using his intense strength to heave a large cabinet to block the doorway. "That way is occupied." he said. Camilla pointed at the 2nd door to the left. "There! There could be a way out through that one!"

Cyrdic punched the ancient wood twice, shattering it into kindling and stepping through. It looked to be an old servant's bedroom, only there was a gaping hole in the floor, with the planks protruding upwards. For a moment, Cyrdic could visually imagine a creature of the dead bursting into the room to devour whoever rested in here, thinking they were safe. Well, it was a way out now. As the Knights began to hack at the door and the cabinet, Cyrdic scooped Camilla up once more and leaped. She squacked but clung to him, and they whisked down onto the ground floor...

Only to break through the floor and fall another dozen feet onto a dirt laden, hard ground inside a stone wrought catacomb. The two were tangled in a mass of limbs, but Camilla reoriented herself and leaped up, helping Cyrdic to recover as well. "Ranalds Roguish Cock, what is this place?" she cursed, stomping her booted foot into the ground. Cyrdic gazed up at the broken floor they had fallen through, knowing any minute a host of undead would swoop down from above.

Cyrdic had to guess this was a crypt from the elder days, probably made near Aquitaine's founding. Of course he was by no means an expert in Brettonian history, but he knew castles well and many times the crypts were the oldest parts of fortifications, made for the bravest warriors that conquered the land, and the first workers that began to build the vast structure of this fortress.

"We need to move." He told her. "Your turn to choose."
@Penny

[Penny]

Camilla looked around the crypts in confusion. Large sarcophagi lay in sconces dug into the walls, their sides graven with chivalric scenes of battle and the hunt. Cobwebs draped the caskets in gossamer sheets of silk, though, thankfully, Camilla didn’t see any of the webs progenitors. A slight breeze stirred the strands and Camilla turned towards the source of the unseen airflow.

“This way,” she declared, stepping through the nearest archway. The heavy stone arches stretched off in both directions like rib bones of a vast serpent. Bones crunched underfoot from where something had overturned stone ossuaries. The bones were yellowed with age and splintered by blows as though to get a the marrow, though Camilla couldn’t imagine remains so ancient retaining any such thing. At least these ancient Knights had been spared the vile necromancy that had dragged their more recent brethren.

“There has to be a way…” Camilla’s words trailed off in a scream as something black and massive smashed into her sending her sprawling into a side passage. She skidded across the slick stone, her left hand grasping for some hand hold as her right held onto her rapier in a death grip. A bestial roar mingled with Cydric’s battle cry and the hiss of a blade slicing the air. With a strangled oath she felt the ground give way beneath her as she went over the edge of a pit, plunging deeper into the darkness. She had just enough time to scream before she splashed into icy water. Instinctively she held her breath and kicked her feet, driving herself back above the surface, though it was so black she could see nothing. The current sucked her along at the speed of a brisk walk. Rocks scratched at her skin and she thrust an arm out in front of her incase of an unseen object.

“Myrmidia’s bleeding…” she tumbled down a shallow decline and splashed into another pool. To her surprise she found that there was light here. Veins of quartz in the wall glowed with lumience from some unknown source. She was in a large pool that was fed from the stream that had swept her along. Kicking and splashing she crawled ashore on a pebbled beach. The room was a subterranean grotto that had been eroded around the pool. The light that suffused the place was pale and pure. Camilla watched it in fascination as the light shifted through the spectrum at some slow random progression.

“Cydric!” she yelled, but the roar of the water and the echoes of her own voice were all that returned to her. Glancing around she noticed a fissure in the rock. Pushing herself to her feet she walked to the opening and squeezed through. On the other side she found a small room light by the same crystalline light. A skeleton, partially articulated but covered with fungus was huddled in a corner. The body was wearing rusted armor but the gauntlets and pauldrons were missing. Writing was scratched onto the wall. Camilla leaned close and read the ancient Brettonian. And then she understood.

[POOHEAD189]

It was a curious thing, Cyrdic would think later, that despite facing Dragons, Wights, and the Daemons of hell itself, that the most horrifying thing in his life is hearing Camilla scream. He wasn't fast enough to reach her, and as he skid to a stop at the precipice, he could at least hear rushing water. Calm down, man. She can take care of herself, you know she can. It will not help her to have you panicking up here. He also had more immediate dangers as the thing raised from the kindling of where it had crashed.

Its skin, if the slime encrusted fabric-like hull on its body could truly be called that, looked both wet and perpetually dried all at once. But what was more horrifying was its snarling curl of a mouth, with fangs dripping what Cyrdic imagined was pox ridden mucus. It raised its haunches like a wolf, something Cyrdic was all too familiar with from his dreams. He knew what to expect, and when the thing jumped impossibly fast, Cyrdic was already moving, his sword where his body once stood. Most men wouldn't have the strength to cut the flying monstrosity, but were it his powerful form or his runic sword, the Ghoul was sliced from balls to brains and left to hit the wall.

He looked at the ghoul slumping, wondering if a former corpse could become a corpse again...

It looked like it. Briefly he wanted to jump down into the hole that led to where Camilla was, but he would likely sink far easier than she. Not that he wasn't prepared to if he found no other way down. He turned and gazed deeper into the catacombs, now hearing more shuffling in the deep of the various crypts. Likely they had landed in a nest of the things. "Ulric's balls." he cursed, and simply ran further into the gloom, passing awakening beasts and hoping beyond hopes he would find an exit before he was surrounded. A wretched screech to his left got his attention as a ghoul swiped at him. It likely merely scratched his brettonian apparel, and he ran it through before it could fully utilize itself.

It melted under the blazing runes of the Ulrican Sword, but behind him more Ghouls were gathering, and they would be less sluggish than this one.

There was a turn up ahead, and he could feel the cool feeling of new air just as he felt the shambling of undead beasts behind him, itching to taste warm flesh in their jowls. Down another corridor, he ran into a large door of yew, bound in iron bolts. He tried to open it, but the door wouldn't budge. Beyond, he could hear running water. Roaring with pentup rage, he slammed his massive fists into the wood twice, thrice, and another brought it down.

Ironically, the door wouldn't fit going down the roughly hewn stairs, so he kept it at the top to ward off anything that pursued, though truth be told it would only cause a dozen seconds delay at most. He didn't care, rushing into the lower depths to find Camilla.
@Penny