Blueskin

The Long Peace (PRIVATE)

Georg Hegel, Oberleutnant(retired)

Former tank commander of the 2nd Panzer Division.
Owner and operator of Brotzeit Beirhaus in Vichy

Associates:
Nicolette Hegel, wife.
Veronique, waitress at Brotzeit Beirhaus
Anselm, cousin in Berlin.

The Long Peace (PRIVATE)

Brotzeit Beirhaus on the Boulevard du Sichon was not the busiest German bar in Vichy, but it was one of the most popular with the large population of Germans, mostly former soldiers of the second Great War. Many of them had a similar story to the Beirhaus’ publican. Serving with the 2nd Panzer Division out of Vienna, Oberleutnant Georg Hegel had commanded his tank crew through Poland, France and Russia before heading back to France to counter the invasion of Normandy. He’d been wounded and thus missed the near destruction of the Division in the Falaise Pocket. The Fuhrer had dropped the bomb before he had rotated back to duty and he never saw action again.

Georg unloaded the last tankard from his tray on to the table of customers to a chorus of thank you’s. He made his way back behind the bar, collecting empties as he went. As he moved through his place he picked up snatches of conversion. Most was the usual, jokes and banter or classic bar arguments about history or films, but something caught Georg’s ear.

“It was those fucking Algerians, I swear it was!” complained an older Austrian man, not a regular.

“What did it say?” asked his companion.

“Vive la liberté! Right across the windows of my shop!” The man huffed in exasperation, the fire having come out of his voice. “I asked my neighbours, one of them said he saw one of those negroes watching my shop from down the street. I repair watches, now the paint is all over my...”

It was not the first story Georg had heard like this. The Tirailleurs, an activist group made up of young French-Africans and Army if Africa veterans, had been causing trouble in Vichy for years. Their ‘statements’ had become more common in the last month, with news of a diplomatic conference between certain European Powers. It was only weeks away, and the Tirailleurs and other likeminded groups had been working hard to make their position known. Mostly there were rallies and speeches in cafes and salons, but not always.

Georg stayed away from such things. His wife was French, and though Nicolette was a very patriotic woman she respected his wishes in the matter. Together, they would live their lives in peace. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

“Did you hear me, Georg?” asked one of his waitresses, Veronique. “You have a call on the telephone from Berlin. He says he is your cousin Anselm?”

“Je vous remercie Veronique,” said Georg.

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The former Bone’ead known as Waldo had been given the chance to change and put his kit on before being introduced to his new squad. It was an unorthodox appointment for both he and them both. Ogryns in mixed units were very unusual, as they usually took too much looking after and there was a risk of accidents due to clumsiness.

Still, it was better then his cell back on redemption and far better then the chair they’d used to transfer him to the fleet. Waldo had taken to his squad fairly well, even though Arbiter Kenelm has had to remind him several times about the explosive collar around his neck. He liked Mason, who he thought was loud and friendly and otherwise did as he was told by Tigranes or followed Octavia’s gestures.

They would find him a fairly pleasant companion if they could get passed his questionable personal hygiene - only showering when he was specifically ordered, and even then usually just a rinse - and distaste for small spaces. Waldo laughed at any joke anyone made with deep happy chuckles, even though he usually didn’t get it and even nodded along with the mad ramblings of Hall, who shared Waldo’s love of the Emperor but took it rather more seriously then anyone else he’d met.

On the planet of Ioanus Secundus Waldo had started cheerful and happy to be out of the shop and to see the sky. The feeling had waned however as the Catachan had set them to digging trenches. At one point they had finished their emplacements just in time for the lines to change. They’d had to hoof it to a new location and start digging all over again.

As Mason hollered at them to get back to digging, Waldo reached for his huge trench shovel. He stood with a burp and picked up where he’d left off. Mason made sure he kept going in the right direction, moving as much dirt as a whole squad. The rest of 8th Squad merely had to tidy up the trench behind them, which was easy enough so long as Waldo didn’t accidentally toss the dirt back in behind him.

Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world!

The man who approached Meinhardt’s table had the look of most of his challengers. Young, strong and sure of their abilities. It was as he sat down so boldly that the veteran soldier noted the details about him. His bearing was noble and his dress was fine, though roadworn. His accent confirmed it; a foreigner from Bretonnia, and not one of those buck toothed peasants that made even the most backwards Imperial citizen seem like a scholar.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Vou,” Meinhardt said while reaching forward to shake the younger mans hand. “You’ve come to the right place, sure enough. Ludolf Bohn behind the bar keeps this place as a meeting point and watering hole for the Guild.”

Meinhardt stroked his long dark grey-streaked beard with his other hand as he considered the foreigner. For his part, Meinhardt wore faded blue and white striped pants and a leather arming coat over an old tunic. His eyes were nut brown and sharp but had a tiredness to them that didn’t match his smile.

“You’re looking for work are you?” he asked. “Call me Volker. Meinhardt Volker.”

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

The sky was bright blue, lighter then any gemstone. King Halvard watched as his shadow shrank to almost nothing. On a clear day such as this, even with the sun high, it could be cold this far north and the wind threatened to steal the heat from beneath his sealskin coat. The creature in front of him didn’t seem concerned, beached on this uninhabitable stretch of rock. The merrow had the oily green skin of an eel and the spines fins of the kind of deep sea fish that got thrown back. It - for even Halvard Seascorn didn’t know if the merrow had genders like man and woman - propped itself up on a two-pronged spear of Knarrling make and peered at him with unblinking eyes. Sea slime dropped from around its toothy jaw as it regarded the man with its abyssal eyes.

Eventually it touched an earring that pierced a fin on the top of its head, and gestured forward. A subordinate with less golden jewellery crawled forward and opened a wet sack between Halvard and the merrow chief, revealing rings and coins of silver and gold. Halvard nodded, and gestured one of his own men forward, revealing a bundle of forked spears. The chief looked down at the bundle, bubbling deep in its throat, before snatching half the pile of treasure in its webbed hand.

“Aye, there’ll be less weapons for your ilk,” spoke the Fisher King, never sure if they understood. “We have our own wars to fight.”

The merrow nodded towards the spears and its subordinate snatched them up and quickly scuttled into the cold sea. The chief regarded Halvard for a moment then followed at a more confident pace until it was gone beneath the waves.

“Gold for the master, silver for the maid
Copper for the craftsman, skilled in his trade.
Good, said the King, sitting in his hall
For iron, cold iron will be master of them all...”

King Halvard Storstrand smiled, looking to the south.

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Warhammer Fantasy: The Guild of Esteemed Sellswords - An adventure in the Warhammer Fantasy world!

Meinhardt Volker was bored of the the Nag. He was bored of the town, and of rest. He’d returned from his last contract a fortnight past and had been thankful of the downtime; for the first few days. Two weeks on, however and he was eager to be off once more. The word from Ludolf was that something would be coming any day now and Volker was chomping at the bit.

To pass the time, the mercenary had settled into a steady routine not unlike that of a garrisoned soldier. He woke early from the guesthouse across the brook from the Nag and would go for a long run along the creek. A cold breakfast would be had in a glade on the outskirts of Übersreik, and then Meinhardt would return to get his kit on. The rest of the morning would involve physical training with a full pack, and would include everything from hauling logs, jumping back and forth across the creek and climbing every tree he could find. The locals had chuckled at first, until the local militia sergeant had begun incorporating small aspects of the training regime into the drills the militiamen did on the eighth day of every week. After lunch at the Nag was weapons training at the woods edge. One proud oak had served as a pell and had been mightily beaten by Meinhardt’s hammer and chopped at by by axe and knife. After an equipment check, it was time to eat.

After dinner at the Nag there wasn’t much else to do but have a few drinks, and though fairly well off as far as out of work mercenaries go, Meinhardt didn’t like to pay for anything he didn’t have to. Plenty of soldiers, mercenaries, old drunks and even the local boys would like the chance to prove they were Big Strong Men. Thus he would sit with a mug of ale, a clay cup and a coin on the table: a challenge. Men would sit at his small table and place down their coin, they would clasp hands and the first one to wrestle the others to the table was the victor. Meinhardt had lost a few, but the usual result was to take the mans coin and put it in the cup with a clink.

His latest win had come from the smiths apprentice, who had tried and failed thrice this week. He was a strong lad, perhaps even stronger then Meinhardt, but with no technique. Twisting subtly at the wrist, the boys knuckles had lowered steadily until they rapped against the wood. Old and crafty had defeated young and strong yet again. He would never get rich arm wrestling for pennies, but it kept him in all well enough.

As Meinhardt watched the newcomers and enjoyed his mug he wondered yet again if the Elfish bouncer would ever sit at his table. He thought he was stronger then the elf, put probably slower. It would be an interesting challenge. So far, however, Galadred had merely watched the room, dutiful and perhaps as bored as Meinhardt Volker was.

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

Found a place to have the Knarrlings. I’ll do some looking to learn more about my neighbors. The yellow dot is the stone lighthouse known as the Laggard Tower and the green dot is Oskandr, their largest settlement.

My Hider

The Empty Throne: War in the Broken Lands

The weather was up as Halvard Storstrand hauled on the tiller of his knarre, the boat turning around the head of the island at his command. The wind shifted the yard and the the sail remained full. His men adjusted the tack lines and the vessel surged forward, shuddering as it crashed over the budding whitecaps.

As their point of view shifted, the town of Oskandr came into view and the sailors cheered to see their home. Halvard smiled to see the great hall looming up in the growing rain. His people were an industrial folk, and smoke and heat could be seen coming from the ground vents that lead to the ancient underground barrows that the Knarrlings called home. In the wet weather the great stone and wood hall that topped the submerged settlement loomed like a great beast amongst the clouds. A dragon, watching the sea, thought Halvard.

The crew expertly got to work as the knarre neared Oskandr’s pier. They furled the sail and Halvard guided the vessel in without anyone ever having to unship the oars. As the boat was secured, Halvard Farsailer’s boots hit the wood and he was off to the hall. His men would handle the knarre and he had news to bring to his family.

——-

Fish stew was a simple staple on the islands and coastlines that the Knarrlings called home, but after a cold day on the sea there was nothing better. King Halvard’s eldest children were gathered, but they knew better then to press their father until he was finished his meal.

Ingvild Storstrand, first daughter of Halvard, was impatient nonetheless. Her knee bounced as she waited, watching how her brothers reacted to their fathers patience. Hjalmer, only a year younger then her sat immobile, his dark hair that was so similar to hers still wet from the rain. He would sit quietly for an hour if he must, and without complaint. Lost in his own head somewhere. Their younger half brother Knute was less serious then Hjalmer and fiddling with a button on his sea coat. After a moment of her scrutiny he looked back at her, eyes flicking to a scar on the side of her lip that gave her a permanent snarl. Ingvild leaned forward and was about to speak when the sound of their fathers spoon landing in the empty bowl interrupted her.

“Well,” began the Fisher King in his slow deliberate way. “It may yet be war. Erlendr is regent, but not recognised by all. The Pale Ones rise again, and some claim armies from the south rally to invade all of the Broken Lands.”

“And where do you stand on these events, father?” Asked Hjalmer dutifully. Sometimes his decorum infuriated Ingvild.

“I have declared the Knarrlings for nobody,” declared the elder Storstrand. “As to the rumours from the south, I fear there could be grains of truth to it.”

“What do we do?” asked his daughter impatiently.

“This will please you, Ingvild Ironclad,” their father stated with a wry, humourless smile. “We will make swords and axes. We will build armour and shields. The Knarrlings will prepare for war.”

Ingvild was pleased, but Hjalmer interrupted her feelings. “We will prepare for war,” he began thoughtfully. “But on whose side?”

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Are we still at this? Anyone still around after the return of the site?