Penny

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Emmaline walked over towards the skull, scooping handfuls of sand away in an effort to reveal more of it. This proved to be a useless endeavor as more sand simply trickled into place to replace it. Muttering in disgust she gestured Amal back and raised her staff, whispering the words of a half remembered spell. A gust of wind burst from the tip of the staff, blowing the sand away at the pressure of water bursting through the base of a tall dyke. The sand flowed away from the skull to reveal the teeth and jaws of a great serpentine beast, a dragon beyond doubt. The spell faded away and sand began to trickle back with the slow insistence of an hourglass though it would take hours for the sand to reclaim the skull completely.

“Wait…” Emmaline said, glancing down at the markings on her arm that the wizards device had rendered on her flesh. A dragon skull was marked just above her wrist. As she beheld it the ink seemed to run, moving up her arm towards an oasis, the ink adding detail to the previously hinted at wadi, the two moons above the water shifted their position slightly and she glanced up at the sky, both moons hung waning in the sky just as the tattoos depicted.

“It’s like a bearing,” Emmaline mused in Reikspiel.

“A what?” Amal asked in his own language apparently not having the word.

“A direction, if we keep between the two moons, we will come to an oasis,” Emmaline explained. That was a very good thing because they didn't have anything to drink beyond a few bottles of wine. She leaned closer to the skull and seized one of the half foot long fangs and pulled it free with a snap.

“What are you doing?!” Amal asked in obvious alarm. Dragon’s teeth had alchemical properties and were worth a pretty penny to the right buyer. Emmaline snapped off a second tooth and tucked it into her bag before reaching for a third.

“Waste not, want not,” she quoted with a smirk.

The walked south and east following the path of the two moons. Attempts to rouse the strange magical carpet had been greeted with at best lethargic flaps of the tasseled edges. It was clear that the carpet, or whatever magic animated it, required rest. The going was tough and they had to stop and adjust their course at the top of each dune, but by the time the sun began to rise and the moons faded in the illumination of the dawn, they could glimpse the distant green fronds of date palms that were a certain indicator of an oasis. There appeared to be several buildings around the pool, but as they drew nearer it became obvious that these had fallen into ruin long ago.

“We can at least find water and shelter from the sun, maybe some dates as well,” Emmaline said hopefully as they descended a dune and reached the rocky fringe of the oasis. Tough scrubby grass grew here and a few twisted bushes as well, but most of the greenery lay closer to the rare and precious water at the wadi’s center.

Out on the Rim

Tatooine turned out to be a desert world. The heat was blinding as the small caravan of containers left the settlement of low whitewashed buildings, many of which were partially submerged as protection from the blazing hammers of the twin suns. Leyla drew a pair of goggles from her baggy clothing and slipped them over her eyes as protection from the blowing grit that the windrush carried as the speeders slid over the waste of rock and sand. If there was any roadway or path Leyla couldn’t see it, but the Dug seemed to know where he was going. As the drove east the landscape became rockier and they climbed several small ridgelines via switch backs that were probably the natural result of erosion rather than any kind of construction.

There was something eerily familiar about the place, or perhaps a presence that lingered over the area. Leyla hadn’t used her abilities much since the purge, at first it had been too great a risk with the Emperor’s hunters scouring the galaxy for survivors and over the years they had grown dormant, dulled without the discipline and practice her instructors had insisted on. Something about this place seemed to carry her back to when she had been a padawan and that made her uneasy. Almost tentatively she reached out with her feelings and almost immediately felt a flash of other lifeforms nearby, lurking with hostile intent.

“Down!” she snapped at Cleo, throwing herself flat behind the lip of the cargo carrier. The Zabrak obeyed instantly ducking his head a moment before a salvo of blaster bolts stabbed from the ridge like scarlet darts. Most of them flew wide but one ricocheted off the front of the grav struck and two more sliced through the air that she and Cleo had just vacated. The vehicle began to slow as the driver instinctively let off the accelerator.

“NO!” Leyla shouted, “GO GO GO!” She rose into a crotch, both pistols appearing in her hand as if by magic, and opened fire on the ridgeline though at this range and without a clear target it as little more than suppressing fire. She leaped down atop the cab and shouted through the window for the driver to floor it. The Bith did so, kicking the powerful engines into gear with a jolt that nearly threw Leyla from the cab. They rocketed up the switchback pursued by blasterfire that shattered rocks and kicked up plumes of dust. The grav truck raced over the ridge and down the other side towards a sea of sand dunes. Gunfire from the ambushers slowed as the angle worsened.

“I think we might be ok…” Leyla began clambering back up to her original position beside Cleo. A heartbeat after the words left her mouth a half dozen swoops leaped from behind the ridge, along with two heavier skiffs, racing after the fleeing grav truck. The swoops lowered towards the ground, their thrust lifting vast trails of dust behind them. Leyla saw that each of the skiff had a half dozen armed and tough looking thugs riding it, firing wildly with a variety of weapons. The motley appearance made them gang members rather than Imperials, which was at least something. Heavy blaster fire stitched the sand beside them as their driver swerved wildly to avoid the train tracking blaster cannon bolts. Leyla caught hold of a handle, firing with her other hand as the swoop raced past them pulling up and away. Their was a flash of light and a plume of dirty black smoke as her bolts struck something important, though the swoop didn’t crash or explode. They were clearly racing models rather than armored military variants.

“Friends of yours?” she called to Cleo as she turned to track another of the swoops, firing with the steady precision of a metronome.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Emmaline squealed as the carpet whipped out of the window and over the streets of Copher. The door gave way a heartbeat afterwards and several servants and an evil looking overseer rushed in with drawn swords cursing and shaking their fists at the vanishing pair. The streets below were in uproar as the hunt for escaped slaves continued. Shouts went up as searching guards caught sight of the flying carpet. Bowstrings snapped and arrows glittered in the moonlight as they rose towards the carpet.

“Can you do something about that!” Amal called back over the windrush. Emmaline who, to that point, hadn’t been able to do anything than cling to Amal and the carpet, forced herself to straighten up. The carpet seemed to wrap one of its corners around her waist to steady her as Amal zoomed between a pair of towers, narrowly avoiding a volley of arrows. Emmaline raised her arms and incanted a simple spell. The arrowheads flashed to fireballs as the metal sublimed to a molten state, igniting the shafts and fletchings in spiraling burning cinders that rained down like glowing fireworks, followed by a shower of droplets of molten steel.

“Can you get us out of here before a real wizard gets irritated!” Emmaline shouted, waving a hand to swat another flight of arrows like a bursting firework. Amal let out a shout and the carpet zoomed skyward until the city below them vanished to be replaced with the silvery moonlight desert.

The city was far out of sight when the carpet finally settled to the ground. It seemed to grow lethargic and settle to the ground Emmaline stepped somewhat thankfully to the ground and Amal with obvious reluctance. The carpet seemed to wave lethargically and then, as though elastic rolled itself up into a narrow cylinder.

“Well,” Emmaline said shakily, looking around the darkened desert in all directions.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

A tribute to the former fans of Star Wars

shooting animals for fun like some kind of insane person.

@Fabricant451

While Luke's piloting ability is highly suspect, I never stopped to consider he is the kind of asshole that shoots at animals from the back of a pickup.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Also in the interest of making everyone comfortable, if I do too much in a post or you would like me to make some kind of minor rewrite please let me know, I won't be offended and it makes life much easier just to openly talk about stuff!

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Marguerite Von Vissenbach - Defrocked Sister of Shyalla

“Sister Marguerite, this really is the last straw!” Abbess Hildegarde roared, her impressive jowls quivering in rage. The portly abbess punctuated the point by slamming her ham sized fist down on the dark oak table. Inkpots jounced at the blow, dispersing a fine mist of black droplets across the mornings correspondence.

Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Novice of the order of Shyalla, fixed her eyes determinedly on a spot just over Abbess Hildegarde’s shoulder. She was a trim girl with pale blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, though she tried to appear appropriately contrite and submissive the slight upturn of her chin and gleam in her eye conspired to ruin the illusion.

“How could you! You spoiled hateful brat. Graf Von Hammerstein is a patron of our order and his son was an honored guest of our house!” Gertrude Harker, an older novice with a pinched looking face and slightly buck teeth snarled, her dark eyes glittering with malice.

“That will be quite enough Sister Gertrude,” Hildegarde interjected, though the admonition was pro forma rather than any expression of disagreement with the sentiment. All three women were in the Abbess’ study. A luxuriously appointed room, by the rather severe standards of a Shyallan House, with hanging tapestries depicting the various mercies of the Goddess and woven rugs to cover the cold stone floor. A large polished desk piled high with, now, slightly ink dusted scrolls dominated the south side, and an illuminated window of stained glass casting a rainbow aura around the porcine Mother of the House. A brazier burned in a corner, though its heat was scarcely necessary with Hildegarde’s temper to warm the room. Marguerite crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Graf Von Hammerstein pays us so that we will send someone to treat his pox and his gout when he eats too much, which, judging by his twenty one stone and growing, is way too often. His son is a malingering coward who only visits us to ogle the sisters, drink our wine and keep himself as far from the battlefield as he can manage,” Marguerite snapped intemperately. Hildegardes jowls quivered with fury, she did after all have a particular insight into the portlier side of Imperial society, but it was Gretrude who spoke first, her cheeks flaming red with rage.

“You dare impune the honor of such a man as…” Gertrude spluttered. Marguerite waved her to silence with a dismissive gesture.

“Oh do shut up, the only reason you even care is because you’re too busy spreading your legs for the good gentlemen to bother with your…”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Gertrude flamed, her face turning beat red and her eyes widening with maniacal fury at the completely justified accusation.

“You dare to accuse me of…”

“Sister Marguerite, that will be...” Hildegarde tried to interject her words tumbling over Gertrudes but the Novice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the shouting.

“I don’t mean to imply that Gertrude has been keeping company with the young lord, not only with him anyway, she shares her bounty with all mankind I have heard, she is like Shyalla in that regard.” Gertrude let out a strangled cry and leaped across the intervening space, driving her fist into Marguerite’s stomach. Both novices went down in a tangle of white robes, clawing at each other with fingernails and spitting curses like wild cats. Gertrude was moved by fury and had the element of surprise, but Marguerite who had grown up with three brothers recovered quickly, driving a knee into her fellow Novice and rolling atop her, driving a fist down into her jaw with strength borne of frustration of a year and a half of abuse from the older girl. Her fist connected with the tip of Gertrude’s chin and bounced the other woman’s head against the woven carpet, the smiling face of Shyalla all that stopped her from cracking her skull against the flag stone. Triumphantly lifted her fist for another blow.

“ENOUGH!” Hildegarde roared, loud enough that a jar of some kind of dried herb jumped from a shelf and shattered against the stone floor filling the air with a pungent, vaguely astringent scent. Both Novice’s froze, Marguerite with her fist raised and Gertrude with her hands lifted in a pathetic attempt to ward off the younger Novice’s blows. The scowl on the Abbess’s face was so severe that it appeared to be sucking her pudgy cheeks up under how brow line.

“Sister Gertrude,” the Abbess hissed through grated teeth.

“Get out of here at once, I shall deal with you later.” Gertrude began to struggle beneath Marguerite’s pinning thighs, recovering faster than her attacker. Belatedly Marguerite lowered her small fist and let the other girl free. White robes, now smudged with the dust that the coal fire deposited on the rug, whispered as Gertrude scrambled to her feet and half ran from the room. She had lost one of her slippers in the scuffle, but if she had noticed she wasn’t inclined to try to retrieve it. The large wooden doors opened and closed behind Marguerite leaving the Novice alone with Abbess Hildegarde. The portly woman’s face had grown noticeably stoney.

“Novice Marguerite,” Hildegarde rasped, the throbbing vein in her right temple bespeaking the herculean effort she was making to control her temple.

“In the year and a half since you have come to us, I have summoned you to this office twenty seven times to deal with your insolence, insubordination and troublemaking.” Marguerite began to object but Hildegarde held up a pudgy finger in barr.

“I disapproved of taking you in at all, but given that you had already sullied your reputation with that dueling business I felt it was a chance to demonstrate Shyalla’s Mercy. That was a mistake.”

Marguerite began to object. It hadn’t been her idea to enter the convent and people really were overreacting to that whole duel thing. Not to mention her father had paid them a handsome some to take her in.

“I really dont think…”

“YOU. WILL. BE. SILENT!” Hildegarde roared, literal foam was appearing at the corners of the Abbess’ mouth now and her face was the color of cherry brandy, her eyeballs produced frog like from her rage contorted visage. The bit of each word like the snap of a drum. The Abbess reached into a draw in her desk and, for a moment, Marguerite had the absurd notion that Hildegarde was about to pull a pistol on her, instead the Abbess drew forth a leather bag that jingled with the clink of golden marks. She tossed the pouch to the ground at Marguerite's feet with a metallic jangle.

“That is your endowment less the cost of a years room and board,” the fat Abbess sneered. Marguerite had the momentary and worrying sensation that the older woman could read her mind, though if that were the case she would have been here more than twenty seven times.

“Take it and get out of here,” she commanded, gesturing to the door imperiously.

“You can’t just…” Marguerite began to object. Hildegarde’s face contorted with rage to the point it was scarcely recognisable from vissages of demons Marguerite had seen on the walls of the Temple of Sigmar in Nuln.

“I am the Abbess of this House, you insolent pup! You are dismissed from Shyalla’s service, now take the coin and get out of here. If you are still in the building when the gong strikes for noon, I will have Sister Gertrude and her friends whip you out of town with rose bushes, I swear it by Shyalla Tear!”

Murguite gulped visibly then scooped up the pouch and scrambled for the door. There was no doubt in her mind that Hildegarde would make good on the threat, and probably take a great deal of pleasure in doing so.

“Ranald’s bloody balls,” she muttered to herself as she dashed towards the main gate. What was she supposed to do now?

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene grabbed Rosaria’s pistol barrel the skin of his palm obstructing the receiver from moving back and forward.

“What..” the girl started, instinctively trying to pull the weapon away. Rene kept his grip without difficulty.

“Control the barrel,” he repeated, “If you wave it around like that you are likely to shoot someone, probably yourself but more problematically me.” Teaching civilians to use firearms and particularly pistols was a nerve wracking business, more so because Rene was trying to be polite about it. If he had waved a loaded gun around like Rosaria had just done the best he could have expected was a dressing down and more likely a blow to emphasize the point. It didn’t help that most people had seen enough holo-dramas to assume they had some idea what they were doing. Yarue took the opposite attitude to Rosaria. Probably owing to having seen weapons used first hand he was almost fearful of the small pistol that Rene had issued him. That caused its own problems though they weren’t as immediately life threatening as Rosaria accidentally shooting someone would be.

The main hold of the Bonaventure was about fifty feet on a diagonal and thus the only area on the ship long enough to provide a practical range. A tarp had been hung from the opposite corner with four targets painted on them. The targets were more or less human shaped. Less really given Rene’s limited artistic abillity, but psycologist had long known that, despite a species wide penchant for violence and war, individual humans did not like to harm each other. Without proper training a combatant was likely to jerk the barrel to the side at the last minute, or to slash with the edge of a blade rather than thrusting home. Overcoming that instinct meant training people with targets that looked human. Rene found the notion of training people out of an impulse to spare each others lives to be vaguely depressing.

“Alright, take aim like I showed you,” Rene told the pair, demonstrating a proper shooters stance, legs spread and weight shifted forward. Rosaria and Yarue aped the stance, peering over the sights of their weapons.

“Fire when you are ready,” Rene began to say. Predictabley Rosaria fired before he had finished speaking. Plasma snapped across the room, burning a fist sized black mark. They were using plasma pistols, civilian variants of the marine issued side arm that Rene was used to. The power level had been dialed back to a minimum, theoretically ‘less lethal’ setting that allowed them to practice without shooting hole in the freighters hull. Rosaria’s shot was well wide of her mark and she cursed in frustration, Yarue did better winging his target with a black burn.

“You need to squeeze the trigger gently, jerking it like that makes the barrel waver,” Rene told the girl.

“How many times are you going to tell me that!” she snapped in frustration.

“Until you start doing it,” Rene replied simply.

“Dinner is ready Colonel,” Mia purred lustily, evidently having awaited a pause in the conversation. Rene nodded his head.

“Ok, safe your weapons,” he instructed, demonstrating by clicking the saftey on and siding the powercell from his own weapon. Rosaria and Yarue did the same, although in Rosaria’s case with a mixture of reluctance and frustration. Rene smiled inwardly. Did the girl expect to be a sharpshooter on her first day? Evidently she did, but if that was the case she was going to be learning some hard lessons about a great many subjects in the near future. The thought occurred to Rene that perhaps Thorne had punished her if she hadn't learned quickly enough. He felt a good deal more sympathy than he had a moment ago.

“You are doing well, trust me, it takes some time,” he said to his two students as they all headed for the improvised table where Solae and Dasin would bring the food. Rene and Solae had agreed that the meal would also serve as a chance to discuss what to expect when they were contacted by the Kalodrei. In addition to being well born enough to work in an important diplomatic post Solae had a passion for the work that was obvious to any one who knew her. Rene was proud of Solae and pleased that she had found work that bought her such joy. The Kalodori were there best chance of survival and Rene was pleased that the woman he loved was an expert.

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Never Argue with the GM ~ Penny

As a wise woman once said, never argue with the GM Marguerite it is

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

@The Wyrm Well he would be solo rather than with his horde of persons, that was just for the purposes of that snipit, but I also am leaning towards Marguerite

Warhammer Fantasy: From Small Beginnings...

Decisions decisions...

Marguerite Von Vissenbach - Defrocked Sister of Shyalla

“Sister Marguerite, this really is the last straw!” Abbess Hildegarde roared, her impressive jowls quivering in rage. The portly abbess punctuated the point by slamming her ham sized fist down on the dark oak table. Inkpots jounced at the blow, dispersing a fine mist of black droplets across the mornings correspondence.

Marguerite Von Vissenbach, Novice of the order of Shyalla, fixed her eyes determinedly on a spot just over Abbess Hildegarde’s shoulder. She was a trim girl with pale blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, though she tried to appear appropriately contrite and submissive the slight upturn of her chin and gleam in her eye conspired to ruin the illusion.

“How could you! You spoiled hateful brat. Graf Von Hammerstein is a patron of our order and his son was an honored guest of our house!” Gertrude Harker, an older novice with a pinched looking face and slightly buck teeth snarled, her dark eyes glittering with malice.

“That will be quite enough Sister Gertrude,” Hildegarde interjected, though the admonition was pro forma rather than any expression of disagreement with the sentiment. All three women were in the Abbess’ study. A luxuriously appointed room, by the rather severe standards of a Shyallan House, with hanging tapestries depicting the various mercies of the Goddess and woven rugs to cover the cold stone floor. A large polished desk piled high with, now, slightly ink dusted scrolls dominated the south side, and an illuminated window of stained glass casting a rainbow aura around the porcine Mother of the House. A brazier burned in a corner, though its heat was scarcely necessary with Hildegarde’s temper to warm the room. Marguerite crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

“Graf Von Hammerstein pays us so that we will send someone to treat his pox and his gout when he eats too much, which, judging by his twenty one stone and growing, is way too often. His son is a malingering coward who only visits us to ogle the sisters, drink our wine and keep himself as far from the battlefield as he can manage,” Marguerite snapped intemperately. Hildegardes jowls quivered with fury, she did after all have a particular insight into the portlier side of Imperial society, but it was Gretrude who spoke first, her cheeks flaming red with rage.

“You dare impune the honor of such a man as…” Gertrude spluttered. Marguerite waved her to silence with a dismissive gesture.

“Oh do shut up, the only reason you even care is because you’re too busy spreading your legs for the good gentlemen to bother with your…”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Gertrude flamed, her face turning beat red and her eyes widening with maniacal fury at the completely justified accusation.

“You dare to accuse me of…”

“Sister Marguerite, that will be...” Hildegarde tried to interject her words tumbling over Gertrudes but the Novice continued, raising her voice to be heard over the shouting.

“I don’t mean to imply that Gertrude has been keeping company with the young lord, not only with him anyway, she shares her bounty with all mankind I have heard, she is like Shyalla in that regard.” Gertrude let out a strangled cry and leaped across the intervening space, driving her fist into Marguerite’s stomach. Both novices went down in a tangle of white robes, clawing at each other with fingernails and spitting curses like wild cats. Gertrude was moved by fury and had the element of surprise, but Marguerite who had grown up with three brothers recovered quickly, driving a knee into her fellow Novice and rolling atop her, driving a fist down into her jaw with strength borne of frustration of a year and a half of abuse from the older girl. Her fist connected with the tip of Gertrude’s chin and bounced the other woman’s head against the woven carpet, the smiling face of Shyalla all that stopped her from cracking her skull against the flag stone. Triumphantly lifted her fist for another blow.

“ENOUGH!” Hildegarde roared, loud enough that a jar of some kind of dried herb jumped from a shelf and shattered against the stone floor filling the air with a pungent, vaguely astringent scent. Both Novice’s froze, Marguerite with her fist raised and Gertrude with her hands lifted in a pathetic attempt to ward off the younger Novice’s blows. The scowl on the Abbess’s face was so severe that it appeared to be sucking her pudgy cheeks up under how brow line.

“Sister Gertrude,” the Abbess hissed through grated teeth.

“Get out of here at once, I shall deal with you later.” Gertrude began to struggle beneath Marguerite’s pinning thighs, recovering faster than her attacker. Belatedly Marguerite lowered her small fist and let the other girl free. White robes, now smudged with the dust that the coal fire deposited on the rug, whispered as Gertrude scrambled to her feet and half ran from the room. She had lost one of her slippers in the scuffle, but if she had noticed she wasn’t inclined to try to retrieve it. The large wooden doors opened and closed behind Marguerite leaving the Novice alone with Abbess Hildegarde. The portly woman’s face had grown noticeably stoney.

“Novice Marguerite,” Hildegarde rasped, the throbbing vein in her right temple bespeaking the herculean effort she was making to control her temple.

“In the year and a half since you have come to us, I have summoned you to this office twenty seven times to deal with your insolence, insubordination and troublemaking.” Marguerite began to object but Hildegarde held up a pudgy finger in barr.

“I disapproved of taking you in at all, but given that you had already sullied your reputation with that dueling business I felt it was a chance to demonstrate Shyalla’s Mercy. That was a mistake.”

Marguerite began to object. It hadn’t been her idea to enter the convent and people really were overreacting to that whole duel thing. Not to mention her father had paid them a handsome some to take her in.

“I really dont think…”

“YOU. WILL. BE. SILENT!” Hildegarde roared, literal foam was appearing at the corners of the Abbess’ mouth now and her face was the color of cherry brandy, her eyeballs produced frog like from her rage contorted visage. The bit of each word like the snap of a drum. The Abbess reached into a draw in her desk and, for a moment, Marguerite had the absurd notion that Hildegarde was about to pull a pistol on her, instead the Abbess drew forth a leather bag that jingled with the clink of golden marks. She tossed the pouch to the ground at Marguerite's feet with a metallic jangle.

“That is your endowment less the cost of a years room and board,” the fat Abbess sneered. Marguerite had the momentary and worrying sensation that the older woman could read her mind, though if that were the case she would have been here more than twenty seven times.

“Take it and get out of here,” she commanded, gesturing to the door imperiously.

“You can’t just…” Marguerite began to object. Hildegarde’s face contorted with rage to the point it was scarcely recognisable from vissages of demons Marguerite had seen on the walls of the Temple of Sigmar in Nuln.

“I am the Abbess of this House, you insolent pup! You are dismissed from Shyalla’s service, now take the coin and get out of here. If you are still in the building when the gong strikes for noon, I will have Sister Gertrude and her friends whip you out of town with rose bushes, I swear it by Shyalla Tear!”

Murguite gulped visibly then scooped up the pouch and scrambled for the door. There was no doubt in her mind that Hildegarde would make good on the threat, and probably take a great deal of pleasure in doing so.

“Ranald’s bloody balls,” she muttered to herself as she dashed towards the main gate. What was she supposed to do now?

Reinholt Harker - Mercenary Pisotlier

“There go the horses,” Heinreick groaned, slapping the leaden glass cover of the window closed. A round of groans went up from the taverns occupants at the unwelcome news. The pistoliers were the only customers of the Hound and Badger this night, save for the terrified innkeeper who huddled behind the bar in a food stained apron. The dozen Imperials, armed and armored, filled the taproom, lounging on the tables of coarse oak and drinking from heavy wooden flagons. They were a dirty an unkempt lot that would have given a Riekland drill sergeant nightmares. A pair of men stood to either side of the two small windows and another at the top of the short flight of stone stairs that led to the upper story. Candles of cheap tallow guttered and smoked in the damp wind that blew through the ancient stone walls, filling the room with a miasma of black smoke that gathered against the timbered ceiling.

“Monsieur!” came a shout from the rain-swept night beyond the inn.

“Monsieur, are you still in there?” the Brettonian accent was artificially bright, especially for a man who must be soaked to the very expensive armor.

“Yes Gaston, I’m still here,” Reinholt replied casting any eye up to his man at the top of the stairs. Reinholt Harker was to all appearances a middling man. Somewhere in his mid twenties, of middling height, neither handsome or ugly, he looked for all the world like a clerk, albeit it a rather athletic one. His battered curriass and well cared for weapons combined and the deep tan burned into his skin by years in the saddle in all weathers told a different story.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer monsieur, I am afraid we cannot wait all night, and it is Henri, as I told you earlier,” the voice called back.

“Oh I don’t know Gaston,” Reinholt called back, keeping his hand on his flintlock as he took a drink from his tankard. There wasn’t any long term benefit in irritating Sir Henri Du Benoir but then there really wasn’t a lot of long term benefits in anything he might do.

“I’m still mulling it over,” he admitted, gaining a grim chuckle from the assembled pistoliers. There was a long silence interrupted only by the drum of rain upon the slate roof.

“I have someone who wishes to speak to you!” Henri’s voice called after a long minute. The pistoliers began to rumble uncertainty to one another, unsure of what this meant. Reinholt arched an eyebrow and gestured his men to quiet.

“Harker,” came another strained voice, this one with an upper class Reikland accent.

“Harker, I want you and your men to accept Sir Henri’s offer,” the voice called. Reinholt’s lip curled in contempt. Gustav Hoffman had always been a fool, but Reinholt had never considered him a coward. The mercenary captain had made his name fighting hill brigands and endlessly reminding people he had once been a captain in an Imperial Regiment.

“What do you think lads,” Reinholt asked his men in a quiet voice. They were hard bitten men, bastards and cutthroats, murderers and thieves all but everyone of them had bled with him on the brutal rides and desperate retreats of the last months. Their growls of anger and defiance were all he needed right now. He leaned his head close to the door once more.

“No, no I don’t think we will,” he called back. This whole mess was Hoffman's fault. If the pompous ass had the brains that the Gods gave a goose he would never have let himself be drawn out onto the plains the way he had. Any fool could see that was a recipe for disaster. Well, not any fool apparently.

“That is an order Harker I am your superior officer and I com…”

With a sudden jerk Reinholt threw open the heavy wooden door to reveal the rain soaked mud street beyond. Two men stood in the shadowed doorway of a leather shop across the way. Both were big men, though in Henri’s case it was more to do with the elaborate plate armor he wore rather than the bulk flesh that heavy eating and drinking had gifted Hoffman. Reinholt leveled his flintlock and fired, the flash of the pistol lit the night like a bolt of lightning, the familiar prickles of burning powder stinging his bare hands as the frisson lit off the charge. The fatter of the two men, Hoffman, pitched forward into the street, thrashing like a poleaxed ox, his heels drumming in the muddy roadway as he gurgled and died. Reinholt jerked the door closed a moment before it resounded to the blows of a half dozen arrows slamming into its heavy oak timbers. Two of the shafts penetrated far enough to reveal their bodkin heads.

“That was very foolish monsieur,” came Henri’s voice after a moment, his voice tight with the effort of sounding calm, despite knowing full well that the pistol ball would have punched through his breastplate as easily as it did Hoffman’s flesh. Reinholt tore the top of a waxed cartridge with his teeth and poured the charge into the barrel of his empty pistol, before adding the wadding and spitting the ball into the barrel. Reinholt wasn't sorry the incompetent ass was dead, though he would just have soon have left Henri dead in the street. Still there was some justice, they wouldn't be in this situation at all if Hoffman had any spine at all.

“I’m sorry Gaston,” Reinholt voice dripping with faux sincerity. He worked the rod into the barrel and tamped down ball and charge, securing it in place with the cartridge paper. All the pistoliers were on their feet now, draining their cups and readying pistols and short swords. This was going to be a tough one, but at least the rain and the slate roof meant the Brettonian's couldn't just burn them out.

“But I’m afraid you are just going to have to come in and get us.”