POOHEAD189

Blackguards of The Moonsea

The commotion from the other room had Malcador questioning on if he should go in and help out or simply wait, weighing his options. On the one hand, he was allergic to blades entering his body. On the other hand, Serphia was in there and he did not wish for her to die. It was lucky that another woman ran out of the room before he decided to burst in, and his small attempts at stopping her to tell her everything was okay turned out to be futile. Meanwhile, Arloke had begun to crawl off of him in anticipation for Serphia's return. That was a good sign at least, until a devil broke through the hall, snapping the rescued woman's head in the process. Malcador gave a small 'eugh' sound when he witnessed the death, but he was suddenly too busy dodging a spiked tail that tried to behead him with a quick flick. He ducked and rolled out of the corridor into the main living area.

Within, there was a black clad figure rummaging through a cupboard, either for something to eat or some goods they could steal. When Malcador hit the wall, both men paused and then looked to one another. Malcador cursed as the dark figure dropped what he was doing and unsheathed his messer, chuckling darkly. Malcador scrambled to his feet and looking around for something to use as a weapon, but realized he did not have the strength or swiftness to break a chair leg that quickly, and so he did the only thing he had the mind to do.

He opened the backdoor and ran.

Malcador was a fast runner, thanks to his long legs and his experience ducking and dodging town watchmen when he was young. He heard a shout from behind him, but he turned a corner into a small alleyway and hopped a wooden fence without pausing. Being unarmored and unarmed helped him in that endeavor at least. Unfortunately, he was now alone beside a shop with a broken window. Harsh roars and cries of anguish and glee could be heard in the street, and he knew he couldn't stay where he was. He cursed, and went around the back. He heard a hiss and something sickly, accompanied by a child's whimper. He stopped cold, hesitating as his heart pounded, before finding a small pocket in his mind that lacked self preservation and he stepped out to see a child and a grown man, likely a father, with him. The child was desperately trying to wake up his mother's corpse. Before them, back turned to Malcador, was a legion devil. He had read of such infernal footmen. Not quite as deadly as the spiked devil that had come between him and Serphia, but it still wielded a longsword in its right arm. As Malcador suspected, its left forearm was bloated, with a shield strapped to it.

They were without speech, and only communicated via telepathy. Malcador merely hoped he couldn't 'hear' what the mage was thinking, and once he mustered up the courage, he charged, an electric ball of energy exploding out of his hand. The legion devil evidently heard his feet brushing the soil, but he could not turn around quickly enough before Malcador's 'shocking hands' spell burst into his form. It's breastplate was no defense from the spell, its demonic-human face opened its mouth in agony. A long, purple tongue turning black from the electricity. Malcador held him there as long as he could, but the spell ran out after four heartbeats. The legion devil still had the vitality to shove Malcador back and backswipe at him, the mage leaping out of the blade's way in time, however the legion devil quickly toppled after that. The wizard waited for a moment to see if it was a trick, and when he was satisfied, he took the longsword from the devil's clawed paw.

"You should make for the forest and turn west." Malcador told them tiredly.

"Come with us! Protect us!"

"I have no more magic, now go!" He told them, pointing north with his new sword. The father knew he could not argue, and bade his son to follow. He still clutched his dead mother. Malcador moved past them, knowing if he stayed around it would decrease both of their chances to survive. Unfortunately, he was moving away from Serphia. He needed to find a way back to her, but a screech behind the fence told him that theory was not tenable at the moment. He would need to find another way around. Fuck this to the seven hells.

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

"You're right, heavy cavalry would not be too useful." Kayden reasoned in good humor. Otto seemed somewhat affronted, but he ignored the man. This meeting was somehow both more pleasant and less so than his usual dealings with nobles. She was straight forward, intelligent, attractive, but something did not sit right with him. Still, he would not back out of a meeting for something as trivial as what was likely the unfamiliar sensation of food in his stomach, and he traced his finger over the map. "I assume these greenskins are in the mine?"

"A problem?" She inquired.

Potentially, he thought. It would depend on the greenskins, and on the length of the mine. Morek had been a tunnel fighter before leaving Karak Bhufdar, and a number of his men had fought against goblins underground, and the vile ratmen the imperials seemed to believe were myth. "It is not our usual mode of fighting. Longbows and pikes don't do well in such places, as you imagine. But I do have some experts, and my men are nothing if not resourceful. Do you have a map of Silverhill's layout?"

"I have it readied in a dossier for after the meeting is concluded. However, I think we are now at the junction of discussing price. I would like to hire you and your men for a month's services. After that, I will evaluate your results and we can renegotiate another contract if need be, does that sound adequate?"

"So far," He said, noticing she had not offered a price yet. As if she had read his mind, her eyes met his and she leaned back, opening her hand so Mesmer could place a rolled up parchment in it.

"We don't accept banking writs," He joked.

"You impudent-" Otto began, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Calliope held her hand up to stay his blade.

"This is merely the contract," she chuckled, extending it to him. He took it gingerly and unrolled the parchment. Kayden blinked. He could have sworn he saw Calliope Blackwood's name appearing in black ink at the bottom of the page. No, no it had to have always been there. "I am prepared to pay you and your men five thousand and seven hundred shillings, and twenty three hundred gold krowns for the month of Pflugzeit, beginning this day and ending on the fifth day of Sigmarzeit."

He looked away from the parchment to see an ink and a quill having appeared at his side of the table. Mesmer had not moved an inch from behind Calliope's shoulder, the lady watching him like a cobra. He hesitated for a brief moment, biting his tongue. "Usually I would negotiate and press you for more funds," He admitted. "It is not good business for me to accept the initial offership of payment. However, we are very new in the Empire, and we require work for reputation as much as coin. Five thousand and seven hundred shillings, and twenty three hundred gold krowns will suffice for myself and my men."

As he wrote his name down, her smile widened. "I will not forget this charity, Captain." She replied, a dark promise on her lips.

No Good Deed

One of the key elements of working magic was the mastery of one's self, which even the most skilled wizard will tell you it is easier said than done. The way to initially practice was through patience and meditation, something Malcador had been exceedingly bad at. However, he did manage to get marginally better at the task, and only then was he allowed to try and form magic in his mind and with his hands. The key was to not worry on the passage of time. Time was an illusion, his instructors would say. A figment of the universe trying to obscure one from the true vision of reality beyond the veil. Even now it sounded like horsepiss, but he felt he was reliving his lessons while floating down the river. Time seemed to both stretch and hurry, and he faded in and out of focus as the rough woman and he allowed the river to sweep them in what he believed was a southward direction.

Eventually, as the white overcast sky began to grey from the lowering of the sun, Malcador hit something in the water that snagged his foot. Immediately the mental image of a river troll burst into his mind, but after a few moments of panic, he realized it was the root of gnarled oak. It woke him up, however, and he desperately whirled around in the water to see if the brown haired woman had disappeared or unceremoniously drowned. Initially he couldn't see anything except the shorelines and the derelict forest around him, but after a moment he saw her floating form drawing closer. He splashed to get closer, and grabbed at her doubtlet. She began to thrash, and pulled a pistol out. But seeing who it was that grabbed her, and the wet powder, she put it away. Wordlessly, they swam to the eastern shore a few paces away.

The water had cleaned them of most of the blood and mud, but they were wet and tired. Their shoes slapped the earth as they stumbled out of the river, Malcador catching himself with a branch. "Smell like a bilge street sewer," the woman spat. Malcador thought it was a bit of an exaggeration, but the water could definitely had been cleaner.

Suddenly he felt something that turned his face white. A slimey, slithering thing in his robes. It flopped back and forth, and yet again his mind conjured images of a snake or some chaos abomination, but as he stripped the top of his robe off, a large bass flopped out. Malcador tried to grab it, but the wriggling thing slipped from his fingers, flying into the air. The woman dived, grabbing at it, and after two tries she managed to nab its tail and swing it to smack into a tree, ending its struggles. Despite that, she curled her lip at it in distaste.

"Well, we have dinner at least." Malcador deadpanned.

"'We'? I caught it." She remarked pointedly, despite her reservations.

Malcador was about to remind her he technically caught it, but he wasn't about to play that sort of game. Instead he looked at her and channeled his rage into a simmering reply. "Very well, let us part ways then." He threatened. She opened her mouth, almost as if she were about to tell him to sod off, but she realized the better of it. Having a wizard as a companion was better than being caught in the wilderness alone.

"Sigmar's balls," she said quietly, before apologizing. "I'm sorry magister. I'm short tempered." The wizard took that to mean that she was short tempered currently. Later he would find out she meant in general.

Malcador calmed as well, too tired to fight. "It's all well, I think we both are after this hell of a day." he said. "And I'm not a magister, even if there's a nice ring to it."

"What are the odds we have dinner, yeah?" She asked, catching up to him. She handed him the fish without prompting, and after a moment of feeling clammy, he wrapped the catch up in his robes, leaving his torso exposed. Malcador wasn't a big or muscled man, more used to scholarly work. But the harsher lessons and curriculum at the academy and the light provisions gave him a lean look, and he did his best to keep it for his vanity. No use being a pretty man with a big paunch, he thought.

"I would have rather my fortune spell grant me something else, but I won't complain too loudly." He said.

"You can cast a spell that brings good fortune?" She said, disbelief evident.

"It's not as glamorous as it sounds, Fraulien." He said as they trudged southwards. "We're still in this Sigmar-damned mess."

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

Dramatis Personae

Mercenaries
Kayden Caladwarden - Borderland Prince of Albion descent, duelist, mercenary captain
Morek of Karak Bhufdar - Ironbreaker and sworn protector of Kayden. Commands the Bulwark (119)
Pike - Lieutenant. Commander of the Longbowmen (156)
Fletcher - Lieutenant. Commander of the Pikemen (161)
Merie Wholecake - Sergeant. Halfling Commander of the Rear Guard (31)
Cyrdic Becker - Ex-sergeant from Ostermark. Sergeant. Commander of the Linebreakers (54)
Neil Edwards - Engineer, Thief. Sergeant. Commander of the Sappers and Artillery (15)
Jeremias Larc- Former Corsair. First Sergeant of the Freebooters (51)

Blackwood Household
Calliope Blackwood - Death Wizard, Imperial Noblewoman, Patron
Mesmer - Mysterious right hand to Calliope
Sir Otto Van Draken - Knight, Commander of her retainers

Antagonists
Ernst Ruttiger - Silver Baron (Wealthy Merchant) of Nehren

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

The longer the trip had been, the less confident he was that he had made the right decision to come. Morek had insisted on coming with him, something that usually boosted his confidence. But even Morek was mortal, and Kayden had felt the use of magic in the air before. It caused the hairs on his arm and neck to rise and twisted his stomach. When Mesmer had finally halted the coach, Kayden and Morek were greeted by what a poet might refer to as a Black Rose. He knew he was meeting a noblewoman. That in of itself was somewhat odd, usually any noblewoman who wished to meet him did so on behalf of her husband, or to beg Kayden and his mercenaries to come to a family member's aid. Calliope Blackwood, whatever she had in mind, was not a simpering beggar. She was certainly not what he expected. She had none of the bovine stupidity that was usually written on the faces of provincial nobles, nor was she plump as a pidgeon like the more wealthy noblewomen. She looked hard, and sharp and fierce as a black serpent. There was something predatory in her beauty, but she was beautiful none the less.

Gallow's End looked much like something out of a madman's nightmare, but money did funny things to men (and dwarfs). He allowed himself to be escorted inside, preparing for the inevitable request to give up their arms, but to his surprise it never came. After finally settling down once he had taken a long look at the baroque inner tower, he took the wine offered with a nod of thanks. Morek had not deigned to sit, and when he grabbed the beverage, he sniffed it like a hound.

Kayden took a generous sip, and pondered for a moment. "Bilbali?" He inquired, allowing the taste to linger. "No, Frizzante."

"You know your wines, Captain." Lady Blackwood replied, a small measure of approval in her eyes. "But is it from Campogrotta or Alimento?"

"I am afraid that is a bit beyond my knowledge," Kayden admitted with a smile. Meanwhile, Morek had drained the whole glass and placed the cup back on the silver tray Mesmer had once again lowered. Luckily neither of them had been stricken from some poison. He had once had the pleasure of gazing at Lucrezzia Belladonna, princess of Pavona and reputedly one of the most gorgeous woman in the old world, and a master of poisons and intrigue. Ever since then, meeting an attractive woman in a clandestine location always had him properly paranoid.

"Mesmer, see to it these gentlemen are fed. Captain Caladwarden? Might your companion eat in the dining room? I wish to speak to you privately."

"You may call me Captain if I am hired, for now I am simply herr Caladwarden." He bade her, as his stout companion looked at her skeptically. "I keep no secrets from Morek, either."

"You misunderstand me. I know the honor of the Dwarfs, I know he would not speak if he swore he would not. However, in my experience it is best to negotiate one on one. Old habits, you'll forgive me." She said. Kayden looked to Morek, who's face was unreadable. When he looked back, he saw a faintly amused smile on Lady Blackwood's face. It was like seeing a crocodile grin. "I mean you no harm, herr Caladwarden." She assured him. Kayden was not so certain, she looked like she could do him a great deal of harm if she so wished. But he acquiesced, and nodded for Morek to step outside. Morek did so, and Kayden patted Mesmer's arm as he turned to escort the dwarf.

"Keep the beer and food coming and he'll be well behaved," Kayden joked. He expected a wan or tight lipped smile, but Mesmer gave no indication he even registered the comment. When the door closed behind them, Kayden gave one last glance at it before turning back to the noblewoman. "He's very dour."

"Worry not on him," She said, sipping her wine delicately. She cleared her throat and set the glass down on the table, crossing her legs. "Now, I understand you have many questions for me, but I have a few for you before we get down to business, if you would humor me." Kayden felt a bit sardonic at his predicament. Meeting a beautiful woman in the middle of a tower fit for a Sylvanian cultist who wished to speak to him alone with a terrible secret. He felt as if he were thrust into a Detlef Sierck melodrama. "Something funny, herr Caladwarden?"

"No, forgive me." He assured her, setting his own wine glass down. "It's somewhat irregular, but I can answer your questions to the best of my ability."

That pleased her. "Very good. You have been on campaign in both Tilea and Estalia, yes?"

"Yes, though the Border Princes is where my outfit began." He confessed. When he accrued enough funds, he was planning on returning to right a few wrongs and create his own principality, but that was far in the future. "I have visited araby, but I have not campaigned there."

"Have you ever been to the Empire?" She inquired.

"Twice, but not as a mercenary. Both times I visited Altdorf, though once I traveled through Carroburg from Marienburg." He said. "I visited the Altdorf academy, and had a brief interaction with a lecturer named Osmund Hoerhoffen."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes in a way that made it plain it was not directed at Kayden. "That boorish charlatan. Let me guess, he argued the treatise of Heironymous Leitdorf in the Imperial Script showcases a better understanding of history than Halten's work written in Classical."

"We began to debate on the greatest military commanders in the Old World, and after an hour he refused to speak me because of my 'Neo-Classical mind and Verenian Tongue,' he put it."

"Do you prefer Classical to the Imperial?" She asked him, now sipping her wine again, though her eyes bored into him.

"I do." He admitted. "I understand Imperial grants a wider audience, but the works should be preserved in their original script to better understand the nuances."

"Very good," She replied, placing down her empty glass. Kayden reached up to toy with his earring as he regarded her. It was at that moment Mesmer walked in with a silver tray of steaming goose, the spices pungent even by the door. Despite himself, he felt his mouth water in anticipation. Mesmer did not deign to look at him, merely lowering the tray and giving a low bow to the Lady Blackwood, before walking out as silently as he had entered. Kayden helped himself, cutting off strips to place on his porcelain dish.

"How many men are under your command?" She asked. Kayden swallowed what he had eaten before answering.

"Five hundred and eighty seven."

"My reports tell me your men use longbows rather than crossbows or rifles." She stated. "As well as pikes rather than halberds, and very little cavalry."

"We have a few riflemen and crossbowmen, but longbowmen can loose quicker, with nearly as much punch, and the enemy does not know they're there until we're volleyed thrice." He said, somewhat defensively. "Pikes are the Tilean fashion. And we have four dozen freebooters with swords and pistols. Perhaps we can gain heavy cavalry after our numbers grow, but so far we have done well enough without."

"And you have women in your ranks?" The last word ending in a sibilant hiss.

He wondered how she knew. "About forty. Anyone who has the skill and courage can join."

No Good Deed

When limbs flew and blood spurted, Malcador had been too frightened to scream. Not so with the other men. They screamed just fine. He imagined it would have been cathartic for him, but it seemed he was cursed with mad panting and scrambling through the imperial lines. The more men between him and the orcs, the better. Unfortunately, every step he took, he could hear the wet squelch of iron cutting into men and the cries of anguish and pain that followed. He felt like he gained no ground, and a part of him felt an intense reproach about the potential Magister Zauberhaft dying from being cut in twain by an orc from behind.

He stopped, and turned around as the rain began to wet the ground. What in Sigmar's name are you doing, you daft idiot? He thought to himself, but he did not listen. Before him, an Orc was run through by a spear, but another took its place, cleaving the spearman's head in half and kneeing the body of the man like a barroom brawler. The line was buckling, rifles discharged by his head, but he was too busy trying to recite the battle directives magister Uldof had tried to teach him. Very well, step 1. Pre plan his spells. He would just skip that step for now. Step 2? Don't panic. That would not work, either. Step 3? He forgot.

"I'm dead," he said to himself as he watched a large orc shoulder past a falling free company man. Another eyed Malcador appraisingly, and another pair had just finished chewing the faces off of a pair of unfortunate riflemen. Behind the orcs, lightning arced. A foreboding sign for many, but to Malcador, it brought the lesson crashing back into his mind. He could hardly remember the majority of it, but he did recall how strong emotion could help him manipulate magic if used carefully, and when lightning was in the air, it made it that much easier to conjure.

Another flash of lightning snaked across the sky, and another. They began to coruscate so rapidly, even the orcs stopped to notice. No sooner had the four looked up, that a bolt as thick as a sapling struck between them, breaking into four arcs and ensconcing each of them. Malcador held the magic in his shaky arms for another moment, and by the end of it, he could smell putrid, burning meat. The behemoths tumbled onto the blackened soil and rent grass, and he took a deep breathe. He inhaled half of it before a huge shoulder hit him like a lance from a reiksgard. His world went black, and he felt more than saw himself fly through a makeshift wooden wall that the soldiers had erected between the ruins to help block further arrows. The wood gave way instantly, and he hit the wet soil in a heap. The battle continued to rage around him as he tried to gather his wits, the magic keeping him a bit more crisp than most normal men would be in his position, but he had no more energy for it.

Desperately, he began to crawl away. A pistol shot rang behind him and a roar rose up from a berserker orc. A riderless horse cantered a mere stride before him, disappearing into the woods like a wraith. He finally stopped, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. At the edge of his vision, he saw a woman with a brace of pistols staggering out of the melee, her earthy brown hair tied in a loose bun. She saw him, and he could tell she was deliberating something, before she stumbled to his position at the back of the battle. Malcador coughed haggardly, and grabbed a broken branch beside him, slowly pulling himself up to use it as a cane.

"Wizard!" She said, roughly grabbing his robe out of desperation. "It's gone to shit! We have to-"

"Agreed," He said tiredly. By the look in her eyes, she thought he might try to stand and fight valiantly. Ulric and Sigmar might bless them, but he'd rather some wine and Emmaline Von Morganstern on all fours. He jerked his head to the forest.

"Let's get the fuck out of here, fraulein."

No Good Deed

One look into the valley had Malcador sweating. If he had not been trained to keep his visage serene, he would look much worse than the frightened conscripts that surrounded him, and that was a high bar.

He hadn't even been given a horse! What imperial wizard wasn't given a horse on the battlefield? If Elspeth Von Draken can get a bloody dragon, Malcador Zauberhaft could get a damned horse. He knew that was not quite the same, but it was still insulting. On a steed a wizard had a greater vantage point, could cast his spells with more agency across the battlefield, and go to those in aid far more swiftly. The ability to run away quickly as well was also not a small thought in his mind.

His contemplations were interrupted when the largest Orc he had ever seen walked out of the roughly formed rabble. Granted, all of these orcs were the first orcs he had ever seen, but as all of them were head and shoulders larger than a man, and this one was head and shoulders above them, it was enough to cause someone to soil their trousers. He did not, but judging from an unpleasant wafting smell, a few of his comrades had. The grizzled sergeant with a basket hilted broadsword called his men to ready their weapons in a bristling line. Halberds and spears lowered to form a rough wall.

"At least this way they orcs might get satisfyingly uncomfortable when they tear through us," Malcador whispered, having found a broken piece of half-buried masonry to stand upon, granting him a view one could describe as marginally better than the average foot soldier. He was being somewhat facetious. While the men of the empire were outnumbered, he did notice a few stone-faced men he might consider veterans, and the imperials had the higher ground and greater ranged capability, which counted for something. He could see a few crude catapults down below, but they would not reach their lines within wheeling them a hundred paces forward. Malcador simply hoped he could add to his own forces ranged advantage in some small way.

His wit was entirely cast out, however, when the Orc Warboss lifted his immense cleaver into the air as a rallying point for the other greenskins, bellowing a warbling battlecry that echoed through the valley. The giant implement was terrifying for its massive size and the ease in which the warboss carried it, but Malcador's witchsight told him a different tale. It seemed to shimmer in fell greenish energy, and he felt a certain alien malevolence to it that made him shudder in revulsion and fear. The sharpened piece of metal felt...hungry was the best word to describe it. It made him feel sick, and Malcador looked to see if anyone else had felt such a palpable sensation, but it seemed they were merely afraid, unaware of the powerful enchantments in the forsaken blade. Good for morale, at least.

With a multitude of bellows, the greenskins down below recited the untranslatable battlecry, followed by the telltale 'WAAAGH' in unison with such fury they shook the earth. One man dropped his halberd from the force of it, and the green tide surged forth in untold tons of muscle and iron, appearing as an unnatural green wave that streamed uphill. Malcador had to keep himself from clutching his own robe when the imperial cannons belched flame and smoke, the cannon balls sailing into the horde like scythes through wheat. There was red mist and dozens of greenskins fell, but it was a paltry number. Out of the tide, a number of burly orc archers raised their bows and loosed just as the imperial handgunners and crossbowmen unleashed their weapons. He was almost too mesmerized by the spectacle of the volley, but he had a mind like a whip and recalled his own thoughts, whirling his hands in a short, whirring maneuver as he incanted 'Sevarii Sethai!'

The dozens of arrows that were arcing towards their lines were caught in an unexpected wind, harmlessly losing their momentum and falling to the broken ground softly. On the other end of the battleline, a few men caught arrows in their knees or chests, but on the left flank, Malcador had at least done some good. A small cheer rose up from the men around him, but he did not feel like he had earned it.

"See men!? We have a wizard on our side! Now stand like Sigmar is watching!" The sergeant roared, hefting his shield and pointing at Malcador with his blade. It caused a few men to grin, though the veterans kept their eyes on the oncoming horde. Malcador tried not to look at it, but the orcish advance drew his eyes as readily as the hands of fate. It was a sad day if that paltry wind would raise the men's spirits. Malcador couldn't change the tide of the battle, he doubted he could even save his own skin!

"Who do they think I am? Thyrus Gormman?" He asked himself, wiping his hands on his handsome blue and white robes. The closest man managed to catch his mumbling.

"Who's that, herr magister?" He asked, his accent painfully provincial.

"Nothing," he told the swordman. Great, they were even more uneducated than he feared. He had tried to divine the battle's outcome the day before, to see if he would be better off fleeing and facing the gallows than an orcish axe, but the future had been muddied and vague. He then tried to cast the spell of fortune, but he hadn't the correct spell components. Fate had an unfunny way of not working out the way one planned. Acolytes to the celestial order, even incredibly handsome and intelligent ones like Malcador, were supposed to be strictly obedient to their masters, and Malcador had been just that! Cleaned the gutters, prioritized his errands, alphabetized his books. But that damned 'no fraternizing' rule, and that sumptuous blonde gold wizard asking him to help her with her dissertation. So they flirted a bit! Had a few drinks! The college did not even have the decency to catch him after the fraternizing really got going! And now he saw that warboss and his accursed cleaver coming closer, and he doubted he had any spell in his repertoire to change what you did not need to consult a diviner to know what was about to happen.

He looked into the sky, hoping to see if he could use anything else to hit the enemy with before they struck their lines, but as his indigo eyes met the sky, he saw two dozen dots careening through the air, growing larger by the second. He did not know what in Sigmar's name they could be, but they were changing their trajectory! He watched helplessly as the living projectiles roughly in the shape of birds hit their lines. Malcador ducked under a sweeping missile, and realized they were goblins with makeshift wings and spikes on their oversized heads! Even as he dodged one, he saw one of Wegindorf’s courtier's impaled and knocked off his horse, the goblin's neck breaking in the process.

What manner of insane race were the greenskins!?

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers!" He cursed.

Black Serpents: Warhammer RP

Baron Werholdt cursed his thrice-damned luck. If he did not hurry, it would all fall apart at the seams.

He rode at the head of four hundred halberdiers, his personal guard on chargers and riflemen set up on the flanks. His steward had summoned his forces with impressive speed, but he was still on the back end. That princely captain and his motley crew of miscreants had risen before the dawn and set out with speed. Werholdt had thought he would catch them on the moors, but somehow they had covered the bog as if they had flown, and they were now getting dangerously close to blackland territory, where no one save the dead dwelt. The forest around him was thick, the trees so old, some men whispered they were splintered from Athel Loren during the War of the Ancients.

His prized steed Magnus knickered, stamping out of step momentarily as if he caught a foul wind on the air. A number of other horses did as well, and their riders weren't too enthused about the whole affair either. He would have to ask Ludenburg how he managed to keep an outfit in this wilderness.

"Easy men!" Captain Fridolf cautioned the troops. The trees seemed to absorb the sound, the words sounding almost too heavy to carry. Werholdt spun in his horse and glared at his second, snapping at him. "Be quiet!"

Despite the thick trees, it was eerie they heard no sounds ahead. Ludenburg and that upstart Kayden had to have come to battle now. Perhaps the clash of steel would have not traveled far, but the blackpowder weapons surely would have. It was driving the baron mad!

It had all been so simple. He could make a killing by taxing Baron Adelbert's caravans through the pass, publicly dismissing his reserve men to show his goodwill from the rising tensions, and secretly keeping them as bandits to raid Adelbert's caravans after they were taxed. Plausible deniability, control of the pass, extra income, it was all perfect! But then the Grey Mountains had to belch forth the Wyvern Company, and Adelbert had to get them to mediate the problem. Werholdt had no choice but to "hire" them to take out the bandits, and now that he had done so, he was going to find sergeant Ludenburg and help him crush this nuisance. In the forest, there would be no witnesses. Hardly any of the rangers even came this far. A few of the Dwarfen prospectors that came from the mountains told tales of strange happenings in the wastelands here. Ghosts in the hills, trees whispering to each other, mutated chaos giants, ghouls crawling out of endless catacombs wrought from Gorbad's invasion, and some even spoke of a black witch of terrible power. He hardly believed any of it, but the long march made the mind wander.

"My lord, the scouts have yet to return." Fridolf informed him.

"Yes, I am well aware of that, Captain. Why don't you go and find out why?" The Baron remarked derisively. All around him, he merely heard the sound of footsteps and horses snorting. He groaned and turned to Fridolf. "I said, why-" His words fell away when he saw Fridolf's corpse dragging along the ground, his foot snagged in his horse's stirrup. A long arrow protruding from his neck. Even as his eyes went up to the rest of his men, he saw a volley of arrows stream out of the trees of the upper embankment. They scythed into the men, punching into necks, faces, hips, and some even pierced the armor of their breastplates, albeit in the thinner sections of the side. He was so aghast, his men began to yell before he could even begin to speak. He found his lungs at the second volley, drawing his sword.

"Form up you whoresons!" He cried, but by then his riflemen had already begun to fire sporadically into the treeline. Perhaps it was his imagination, but there were sparks of flame and plumes of smoke on the opposite end of the road as well, to the south. His sergeants began to bellow orders, calling the men into formation as the onslaught continued. What swordsmen he had raised their bucklers, and the halberdiers had formed into lines so they might charge, but even as they tried to move, men fell in the midst of their ranks from a resounding boom out of the treeline. Grapeshot!

The shouts of men and cries of the dying was drowned out by a foreboding, sonorous horn. The Baron wheeled his cavaliers around with a raising of his sword, his knights gathering to him roughly as an eclectic assortment of men with shields of brass, the symbol of a crimson wyvern emblazoned on them, charged into the fray. At their head was a massive dwarf, armored head to toe and wielding a large axe it would take a team of men to handle. Werholdt was about to cry for his men to charge, when he felt a pressure in his back, something jerking him forward. He looked down, and saw a neat hole having gone through his breastplate. Damn Versignon, that bastard had promised him the bloody thing was bulletproof! He managed to glance behind him, to see men with pikes and skirmishers with pistols step out. They bore forest colored surcoats, but their standard was the same brass and crimson. The only one not in standard regalia was a striking, princely figure in dark blue and mail, with a sidesword in one hand and a pistol in the other. He looked built for court rather than battle, but there was a hardness to his eyes. He had done this before.

"Myrmidia! For the Wyverns!" He roared as he blocked a thrust by a spearman and cut down the baron's man with a swift riposte of his sharp sword.

"Damn this whole thing to hell," Werholdt tried to say, but it only came out as a whisper. He lost balance, teetering off his horse, and darkness took him as his knights fled into the wilderness, overpaid and overvalued.

---

3 days later...

"And he fought valiantly, slaying the bandit leader himself, in fact." Kayden added pointedly, clapping the wounded baron on the shoulder.

Werholdt was stricken with pain, but he gave a pained, fake grin to better sell the story. The summit had convened as soon as was applicable, which in turn happened to be right after Werholdt had been patched up, a blade put to his neck, and an ultimatum made and settled. The three leaders sat in a small pavilion, under a flag of truce, once again uncomfortably near the wastelands but this time, on an open field with a mixture of forces waiting outside. Under the scrutinizing eyes of Baron Adelbert, Werholdt had relayed the tale, with Kayden added in smooth additions to the narrative whenever the captain felt prudent.

Evidently, the Wyverns had sorely pressed the brigands under the terrible Ludenburg, who had apparently taken up to banditry once his contracts with Werholdt had been terminated. Wishing to see the deed done, Baron Werhold and his men had valiantly gone to the aid of Kayden and the Wyverns, halting Ludenburg's escape. The Baron and the Bandit Captain had faced one another, old friends turned enemies, a traitor and a true son of the empire, and under the canopy of the dark forest they had clashed blades until Werholdt had taken his head. The cur had even shot Werholdt, breaking the terms of the duel, but the Baron had gritted his teeth and powered through with his faith and steel.

All horseshit, of course. But to both keep his head and reputation, and since the Wyverns had finished the contract and sniffed a betrayal by the bastard Werholdt, they had tripled the price of the original contract and were given provisions for another fortnight. Adelbelt need not worry about the "bandits" anymore, and Werholdt got to be hero, while the Wyverns did the dirty work. Kayden wanted to make a reputation, but the money had been more important. The trek through the mountains had been perilous, and some of the money had been lost. He had been afraid he had no funds left to pay the men the next season, but now he had some breathing room in that regard.

"I misjudged you," Lord Adelbert said to his rival, inclining his head slightly. It was hard to say if he believed all of it, but clearly at least part of the tale had been sold to him.

"Think nothing of it," Werholdt croaked through the fresh wound, waving him off. Adelbert turned to Kayden, smiling a smile that spread his grey mustache.

"You as well, my boy. You do tight work. I'll remember that."

Kayden returned the smile, and gave them both a courtly bow. "Thank you, my lords. It has been my esteemed pleasure to have worked under the service of such fine march wardens of the Empire. If you'll excuse me, however, I must see to my men."

"Of course."

Kayden stepped out of the pavilion, the Halberdiers standing at attention glancing at him appraisingly. Kayden ignored them, seeing his oldest friend across the short pathway to another tent. Morek the Ironbreaker enjoyed a pipe, leaning against a crate and blowing rings at small intervals. When the dawi saw Kayden, he raised his pipe to him. Kayden motioned for him to follow, and the two stepped past the quartermaster and his clerks hurrying along and various guards going about their business, making it to their side of the large camp where Kayden could finally relax.

"Count the gold?" He asked the dwarf. Morek gave a 'hrmmph' as a response. That meant yes, in his experience. "And we're good?" He asked. Morek gave a wave of his hand, tilting his head. That usually translated for 'for now.' But they had many miles before there was someone else with any real contracts. There was little but deadlands from here, other than the occasional farmstead or inn on the traderoad. Maybe a hundred kilometers of marching before they truly made it into Wissenland, and then the men would earn a place to spend their coins, and it would start all over again.

The two were halted in their camp by a short, plump woman wearing a kettle helm too big for her head. On her back was a crossbow, and she gave a crisp salute, despite the helm obscuring her vision. "Captain Kayden, sir!"

"Yes, Merie?" He asked the halfling. Before she could speak, he raised a hand. "At ease."

She lowered her hand and raised the helm off her head so she could see. "Erm, there's a visitor for you sir. He came in by a Black Coach. He says he has a contract for us..."

Kayden and Morek met the man, a tall fellow with a civilized bearing. Kayden could not place his accent, but despite himself, the vague promises and shifty manner about his patron intrigued him. He took a change of clothes and a wash of his face, and stepped into the black coach after some small deliberation. They had money now, but it would dry up soon, and whatever this was about, Kayden had always gained victory through audacity.

Blackguards of The Moonsea

If Malcador were a less intelligent man, he might have given into the thoughts of how adorable he found Serphia while she was deliberating, or while she was doing most things for that matter. He knew that Lolth, the dark mistress cast out of the Seldarine, had made her children deceptively attractive. And while Serphia certainly was extremely lovely in a deadly sort of way, he just always assumed the attractiveness meant alluring rather than the more typical "I really want to ask you out" sort of inclination that took hold of most surface dwellers. Luckily, Malcador had a strong will and knew to watch out for these sorts of things, and he was simply relieved when she ended up giving in to his logic.

He was not keen on running into the fray either. A sorcerer had less spells in their repertoire and were by omission slightly less educated, however they had the convenience of their magical power mostly being from their own magical blood and will. A wizard needed a spellbook, most usefully his own spellbook, to properly use what spells he was familiar with. Of course, studying other spellbooks allowed him to add more spells to his list, and right now he would have to find a another spellbook to use on the fly. However, he was talented enough that, as long as he had a grimoire, he could still likely protect himself as well as Serphia. Granted, he might need certain spell components, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

But as it were, with out a book he was at the moment just a charming, albeit mediocre, thief. At least he had a somewhat mercurial dark elf assassin and her little (in a certain point of view) spider to help out. He would ignore the small thrill he got when she told him to stay close, and instead took a professional curiosity at Arloke. It was rather fascinating watching him spin the web and created an exit for them, and with a "WHOA!" from out of his mouth when Serphia slapped his ass, he flew out of the barn. It was fortunate he was slim and still fairly fit and not a soft greybeard, he kept his grip and dropped when it was applicable. He hit the ground in a rough roll. It was planned, but he hadn't practiced in awhile.

Still, he rose smoothly and brushed himself off. Serphia dropped beside him far more smoothly, Arloke clambering behind with his squat but nimble body. Malcador crouched in the wheat, and they moved closer to the town as the chaos continued to spread. A few men with swords had seen their descent, drawing their blades and wading through the field, but their vision was obscured and it was easy to evade them. "We have a better chance attacking those not looking for us," he whispered, somewhat redundantly. He mostly wanted to emphasize they should bypass them because there would be more loot indoors.

They reached the edge of the field, and there was a short five yard road between them and the closest houses and businesses. They weren't small, but most were just one story tall and relatively long. At the opportune time, after a winged devil flew overhead, causing Malcador's hackles to rise, they sprinted from cover and burst into the backdoor that led into a lobby facing a hall. It was a domestic residence, likely to a middle class merchant or tradesman. Blood soaked the floor, an open door behind them showcased a limp arm laying into the hallway.

They heard a scuffle in the other room, and a woman's scream. There was an aggressive shout from two men.

"Could be an easy target?" Malcador voiced, indicating there was likely no devil in there.