"Magister Albrecht! Praise Ulric!" Lutke exclaims. He hurriedly runs to Caspar's side. "Be warned you three, there's a winter-cursed Kurgen hag running around using vile magicks! She nearly got me with that blasphemous power, so tread carefully."
Lutke glances around nervously for sight of any soldiers, gunners, camp followers, well...pretty much anyone who might increase their number. And naturally for any sign of opposition, or worse, the hag witch.
Perception (Int) 40 v.
Perception (Int) 40 v. 1d100 ⇒ 98 Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!
"We'll need to regroup with the rest of the Wolves if we're going to make it out alive. Magister, I suggest you take lead as you seem to be the strongest in battle among us." Caspar says as he looks around for other Wolves.
"Aye, I'll lead! You lot keep yours eyes peeled and sword arms ready, this isn't over. Let's cut our way through to the woods. We can gather any Wolves we find along the way." At this Albrecht sends a flare into the air, hoping the Wolves will recognize it and rally. "We have to assume any who don't come are as good as dead. Let's go!"
Albrecht attempts to lead the warriors three out the opposite side of the camp, collecting Wolves as they can.
Albrecht attempts to lead the warriors three out the opposite side of the camp, collecting Wolves as they can.
"Let's get moving then! No time like the present? Am I right? Lead on great warrior mage!"
Albrecht attempts to lead the warriors three out the opposite side of the camp, collecting Wolves as they can.
yipes! and Warriors Three? A bard, a locksmith and a camp follower? or were you thinking locksmith, bard, wizard?
Unable to see anyone in the immediate vicinity, Lutke notices all the carnage around him. So many dead...the legend of The Gray Wolves seems to be ending right before his eyes. This couldn't be! He had chosen to work for this regiment in the hopes he would have the chance to employ his ingenuity for mechanical workings to prevent such senseless death. He felt his head whirling and became a little dizzy.
Lutke felt himself involuntarily drop to his knees. Yet another dead soldier was lying close to where he now knelt. He saw it was Behrent Ruger that fresh faced young man who had left his new bride in whatever small village he had come from to defend his homeland from invasion. Such a sad fate. One we will all be sharing soon, no doubt, Lutke thought darkly.
Lutke picked up the fallen man's spear and used it to help lift himself to his feet. The wizard Albrecht was just launching a stream of fire into the air. Lutke shuddered. Magic frightened him terribly...but it still managed to intrigue him all the same. It had no measurement, no angles or guaranteed reproducible results. At least none the wizardly orders were willing to share. Lutke wished he could get into their heads, find out how to calculate it and make it work. Oh to be the maker of unpickable locks and perfect traps with science would be grand; throw a little magic in there...now that would be something. Lutke wished wistfully that humans were capable of the rune magic the dwarven culture was so proud. Now that was a magic that made sense.
Lutke snapped out of his daydream suddenly; the reality of the battlefield coming into focus once more. The sounds of men shouting, steel clashing, and dying screams assaulted his ears. He had a disquieting feeling and was not quite sure what brought him back to the moment. Caspar and the young woman he had his arm around were starting to follow Albrecht away from the former mess area. Lutke looked around the area yet again. The fog of war seemed to obscure everything.
Lutke adjusted his pack and satchel, replaced his wrench on his toolbelt, and scavenged Behrent's crossbow and the few bolts the poor boy had remaining. As an afterthought, Lutke removed the man's gray cloak. That slender young woman with Caspar was going to be cold once they got out the camp. As he straightened, he looked around the area one last time. Despite the sounds in the distance, the surround seemed unusually still and quiet. Lutke was sure he was missing something....something terrible. He gulped nervously and clutched his new spear. He realized the others were already 30 ft away moving at about 4 ft/sec. He hurried after them, dread growing in his heart. Lutke prayed under his breath to Ranald. If there was going to be anything the four of them needed, it was going to be luck.
"Boom tere yah eyes ovor dah, Looks like deah agthering round a central point. Hop on deh wagon mate!"
with that Krak, grabs the spilled bombs and carelessly tosses them in the back and climbs up to the driver's seat.
Looking to the direction Krak was pointing, Boom grunts and nods an approval to Krak. He loads the crossbow and jumps in the back of the wagon, sitting up ready to send bolts out to any nearby Kurgen.
As you begin to rally, Ulric obscures your retreat. New snow begins to fall, blowing hard and fast, the cloak of the God of winter falling heavy across the tide of battle.
"Oh Gods," Gretta moans, shivering. "Great Father protect us..."
You can hear the horrific sounds from the camp you've left behind. The cries of agony and woe from the last remaining Gray Wolves bespeak of impossible tortures being served up. The followers of the Gods of Chaos are cruel indeed.
Pressing as fast as you're able, you find yourself involuntarily moving towards the Middle Mountains and the protection of the trees that surround them. These trees, menacing and old, are the fringes of the great Drakwald forest to which so many legends are spun. Yet given the dire circumstances, the open arms of the Drakwald feel warm and inviting.
Collapsing to the ground you take long moments to recover your breath, staring about at the flotsam band of ragged souls around you:
A pair of Dwarves who even now ponder the best way to lead their wagon forward through the growing denseness of the treeline. A failed bard and a young camp follower huddle together, a wild eyed tinkerer nearby. And then there's the Magister, a glowing ember of warmth in a world of winter.
"Where do we go now?" Gretta asks meekly, scanning the darkness of the forest ahead. Snow falls quickly now frosting her features in white. "Is there nowhere safe?"
WP success.
Krak is unruffled by the fighting, in fact, truth be told, he is actually feeling a bit exhilarated and "alive" because of it. He was never prone to backing down from a fight and more than once had thought of joining the guilds of "Shieldbreakers" from his clan, but meeting a fast talking Boom who filled his thoughts of fortune and glory outside of the Dwarves kingdoms had changed his decision.
So far there has been no fortune or glory, but Boom has been like a brother and Krak can definitely say that life in his company has not been boring.
"speaking of which...." he thinks while looking around..."WTF are we?"
WP success
Loading his crossbow yet again, Boom looks about calmly and realizes that he guided Krak into the woods behind the group blindly. He had no idea where he was and in the midst of shooting from the back at the wagon at following Kurgen , he had completely forgotten to memorize landmarks.
The group was now too deep in the woodland to go back and assess their location.
"PIG DUNG!!" He silently swears to himself.
RIGHT!, Vell Den...NO VERRIES comrades. I know precisely vhere ve are! Der human fort Obfuscar iz just southvest frum us. As soon as I clear a path, ve vill be able to continue
Finishing his speech, Boom reaches among the wagons euipment and pulls out a medium sized bellows with a Clay jar at one end and a short thin pole at the other with what looks like the flint mechanism of a musket. Various tubes run from the jar to the front of the bellows. Jumping down from the wagon, Boom presses a lever and sparks the flint causing a piece of cloth to ignite with a small flame.
Boom begins to walk in the direction he was pointing.
WP:
CK(Emp):
"Dwarves! Well met! Come with us, we need as many strong arms as we can get, and your four would be a welcome addition. But hurry, we haven't much time!"
Lutke leans up against a tree grateful for the spreading branches above him, the evergreen's needles preventing the snow from going down his tunic again. He runs through the numbers his mind had automatically been adding and of which he had been keeping track. Almost 4,312 plodding steps through the cruel blessing of snow. Just about two miles...Lutke converted. Not far enough. Not yet.
WP 33 v.
wp 43
ck empire 31
Caspar said a quiet prayer to Ranald as he hobbled behind the Wizard. He had thought himself dead (maybe a tad over dramatic, but he was performer afterall). He prayed to Ulric as well knowing full well that his new found friends weren't out of the woods yet....
WP: 1d100 ⇒ 77 (HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE?!)
Chaos. Fear. Confusion. And then Albrecht speaks. One by one you turn your gazes upon the otherwise unimpressive figure standing before you, but it's the light in his eyes. THE LIGHT! It burns like an eldritch flame...
"Well met! Come with us, we need as many strong arms as we can get. But hurry, we haven't much time!"
You feel a wave of warmth and confidence in the company of this man, strange and mysterious as he may be, he radiates an aura of power you've never before seen.
ALBRECHT: You close your eyes for a long moment, your mind opening to the tapestry of the Old World. Some call it Witch Sight, for you it's simply another sense you've always had.
To your north the ominous Middle Mountains loom, but there upon the southern face is a monastery of Shallyah known as the Temple of the White Dove. Certainly help and aid could be found there, yet chaos patrols and Kurgen warbands seems extremely dense in this area for reasons unknown.
To your south is the formidable Castle Lenkster which rests like a great black crow on the shores of the River Wulfen.
Finally, to your east was your original goal, the besieged city and capital of Ostland, Wolfenburg. Your certain to find all measure of challenges and tests there.
What direction to take? Where do your loyalties lie?
Flicking his eyes open Albrecht looks as if he has just experienced enlightenment.
"There is a monastery of Shallyah we can approach, that is to the north in the foothills of the Middle Mountains. Or we may proceed directly to Wolfenburg. I would have us proceed directly to Wolfenburg. Even if we were to rest at the monastery I don't think we'd be much better off than we are now. What say you?"
"You wish to take on the beasts who sac Wolfenburg while the Grey Wolves' blood still soils the ground. You are brave Magister, but I figured you to be much wiser. I for one like the idea of Shallya's warm embrace."
Castle Lenkster
Caspar thinks for awhile on hearing of Castle Lenkster, trying to remember any tales he might have heard.
The last owner was Lord Lenkster IV himself. They said he went mad after his last heir died. It must be that Lord Lenkster IV was a well educated, he spent many hours in his study. He prided himself as the best Physician in Ostland, so prideful he was that he would let no other see his heirs. The legend says that after his last son died he was able to revive his son using the combination of leylines, using the dark magics. other tales tell of the Lord kidnapping maidens to father a new heir, killing those who do not produce quality offspring. Whatever the event, the end is true. The townsfolk stormed the keep and beheaded Lenkster in his own study. Anyone seen leaving the keep shares the same fate by the superstitious townsfolk, simple as they are. No one dares live in the cursed keep."
Looking around Krak notices the wizard. Krak's eyes widen and his mouth slacks. He had not seen someone display that kind of authority and power since seeing Runelords in action against maurding Stormvermin in the southern mining tunnels of his clan
"Errrrr, Boom? Methinks deh Wizard may have eh notion 'bout here o dhere....."
"For ye start clearing eh path, mayhaps lessee wot eh has ter say"
Boom had been as transfixed as everyone else and had nearly dropped his "flame spitter", but hearing Krak's voice had broken his revery.
Shaking his head, he cocks an eyebrow and with a crooked questioning smirk...looks about noticing all the wounded and battered remainder of Gray Wolves
Using Gossip (or haggle) for a +10? (INT 35)
He thinks to himself, "Vell know, cant be havin no so an so human tinking too much of dimselves..."
"Listen here Mister big shot who-hah "loookit me wit burning eyes unz big man voice datz soo scary unz firey unz fullof de who-hah vurds"
Looks like u should take a look see. VE have Vunded. Unz I believe ze human God Sheellilak or Shelleelee can fix it dem, ja?"
"If that is your wish, I will gladly lead us there. It feels wrong to leave the city unawares. Master Lutke? What is your thoughts on the matter? From here out it is vastly dangerous and we must be as one in purpose and action!"
Lutke snaps out of his reverie of calculations. His step counting had led to imagining a trapped hallway that was reset and wound by the pressure of an intruders steps across a hallway. No sense in worrying about it now...
"Yes, I think the Temple of the White Dove would be the best trap we could go to...er, I mean the best place we could go to now," Lutke stammered. He shook his head to help clear his mind. "It would be the smartest place for any wounded yet surviving Gray Wolves to attempt to reach. We may be able to assist. As it stands, I doubt that a war party of mostly support staff will be too effective at the front lines of Wolfenburg."
Lutke looked around at the small band of survivors. "I hate to add that we should also consider...we may be the Temple's only defense if the Kurgen's have brought about the end of The Gray Wolves this day. Stone walls...tools...helping to make them a passable defensive fortification may be all I can offer with the legion overrun..."
The thought makes Lutke ache a little. So many good men lost...and he didn't even know how well his traps had performed! He prayed to Ranald that his trap had worked and had killed that Ulric-cursed Kurgen hag!
The sun breaks across the wind swept mountains, glimmering from the majestic peaks like lances in the cool morning light. Somewhere, across the span of space and time, the great Eye of the Architect of Fate peers from beyond the veil of reality and for a short ponderous moment considers the ragged band of survivors huddled together for warmth.
As they Eye of Tzeentch passes over each of you, you feel strangely invigorated.
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As Lutke finishes providing his vote for their destination, he feels a strong sense of vertigo. For a moment, Lutke's mind is opened and the rules of reality he has come to accept as natural laws vanish. His thoughts find strange and terrifying avenues to take to arrive at new solutions to problems other men of science had written as having no other answers.
A pressurized hallway? Easy enough. All Lutke needed was a handful of sand and 1200 butterfly wings. The doxemity of the horizabolas only needed to be at the correct angle of the color versimillitude. How could he not have realized how simple it was?
Lutke looked around the angle and distance and length and mass and degree of everything was rotating at exactly the correct suspension. Radiating out from him in such a way, all he had to do was pluck something like a string and it would have done anything he wanted.
Lutke could never remember feeling so perfect. He knew everything there was to know about engineering, physics....how the world operated! He jumped up and ran over to Caspar. He withdrew one of his lockpick tools stuck it into Caspar's wound and unwound the reichlometer. Voila! The damage reversed and was applied to the next available quartizon. Laughing at his newfound knowledge, he looked around the party for what he could fix next. The dwarves wanted to be taller? A slight adjustment to the birecto parnum was all that was needed. The woman wanted tentacles instead of fingers? Rangfiguration was in order! Electricity for blood? Just insert a few nitsuj particles!
Then it came to him. How the lock on the dwarven lockbox he had been unable to open could be opened. Lutke didn't realize his mouth had dropped open in amazement. The solarund had to be depressed at the right trivector! And then once he removed a few seconds and used them to prop open the hour, the lock would open since that was the right section in the warp!! Lutke pulled out the small elaborately carved box. He stared lovingly at it, and then he depressed the trivector. The seconds were removed correctly and the lid opened...and Lutke reached in and pulled the small dwarven lockbox out of itself just as he had expected to do.
Suddenly, the weight of reality crashed onto him again. The things in his head were jumbled...nonsense. The versimillitude of rangfiguration...what? Images of things impossible to exist within nature screamed through his head like the whistle of incoming artillery fire. The explosion of physics and biology distorted and ruined ravaged his thoughts, and he felt a part of himself tear and separate, changed forever.
When Lutke looked down, he was not surprised to see the small dwarven lockbox closed shut and locked clutched in his hand. What he was surpised to see, was a second dwarven lockbox clutched in his other hand. Lutke stared at the second box and realized something terrifying. It was wan't a second box at all. It was the exact same box. Exact. Same. Box.
Lutke quickly shoved both boxes back into his backpack and found himself staring at his hands. All his life he had known something marvelous and wonderful waited for him on the inside of the dwarven lockbox. He knew it was his destiny to open it. He now knew if he ever opened it and let out that beautiful and amazing thing inside, the other box would also open. To open one would be to open the other. And just as Lutke had always known the item inside was great and fantastic, the other was terrible and atrocious. Evil and awful. What was Lutke going to do now? He knew it was his destiny to open the box...he knew it was. But how could he do it now knowing something horrible would also emerge?
Lutke thought about the locking mechanism as he did often since he had not yet found a way to open it. Suddenly he realized he knew more about it then he had few moments ago...not yet enough to open it, but more than he knew before. That exhilirated and frightened him at the same time. A part of himself had been changed forever...
Exact. Same. Box.
As you begin your march into the foothills of the Middle Mountains, you come to the realization that Ulric is a cruel and uncaring god. In all your life, you've never felt such a bone shattering cold as you do this winter.
"It's only going to get worse the higher we climb," Gretta whimpers, her teeth chattering badly behind pale blue lips. "What I wouldn't give for just one day of warmth."
In response, a cold gust sweeps across you, howling from the shattered teeth of the mountain passes high above. Clouds have been a growing threat all day, and while the Kurgen war party that had decimated the Gray Wolves seems to have moved on, you almost wish they'd have finished the job instead of leaving you to this ghastly frozen fate.
Still, things could be worse. The Dwarves, KRAK and BOOOM, have been generous with the spirits in their wagon. The potent liquor floods your body with an earthy warmth that appears to stave off the inevitable first symptoms of frostbite.
The Magister of Fire, Albercht, has also done his part to keep the harsh breath of Ulric at bay. As he leads the way, he mutters and chants to himself. The air about him seems to shimmer with an unseen heat and you cannot deny that the closer you stand to your radiant captain the warmer you feel.
"Wait, what's that?" Gretta says, cocking her ear to the side.
vs 31 int
Caspar's preoccupied as he continues complaining about anything and everything he can think of. The world is obviously against him.
"You know what would help keep us warm, my lute! It'd do better as a heater than it faired a parrying weapon! I could've played us a song or two to keep our minds off this CURSED COLD!" Caspar begins to angst more and more as the cold begins to get to him. "Why do the Gods curse us? Did we not stand against the might of Chaos?"
Failure.
Too busy keeping his mind sharp and on focus, Albrecht is only minutely aware of his surroundings. The constant expenditure of magical energy is taking its toil as he has never had to sustain anything for such a prolonged amount of time.
The bitter cold bites deep as the group tends its wounded. As Krak reorganizes the supplies in the wagon, he pulls a tarp off of one of their kegs...."Dang his rotten teeth, I told Boom to label these. Now lessee, I believe I put the powder here and the water there....or was it the other way? And which one of these is the nitro and which the Ale keg?" "Bah, I do not have time for this, might as well go for the good stuff..."Old King's poison"". With that Krak reaches beneath the seat of the driver's side and pulls out a small personal keg marked with an elaborate characture of a Dwarf wearing a crown. His eyes are "x's" and his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth. Ontop of the picture are Dwarven runes.
Krak looks at the keg whistfully and smiles. He shakes his head "ahhhh, gonna miss ya, ya ol' lout, but its times like dis dah warrent de likes of ye."
"You there, take dis an pass it among everyone...an donna yo take ter takin too much of it iffen yo 'now wats good fer ya. Dunna dink yer human sensibilities cannah stand it fer too long." With a wink he hands the keg down to one of the Gray wolves.
Without understanding a word Krak said, the boy looks up wild-eyed and shrugs his shoulders. "S-sure Herr Krak, and thank you."
"Old Kings poison" is known among many Dwaven kingdoms as one of the finest and many would argue the strongest of the Dwarven ales.
Legend has it that it was 1st created in the lost Karak eight peaks as a POISON to kill the once King Ingram GraniteGut V before the kingdom's fall.
King Ingram had made numerous enemies with his over-extravagant debauchery and week-long parties. Much of his kingdom's wealth was often wasted while the kingdom's defenses and infrastructure suffered. Some say that even after his death the Kingdom never fully recovered which in part led to it being overrun, but that has been hotly been debated by Dwarven scholars throughout the Old world.
Nonetheless, the story goes that his many enemies conspired to poison the king and what better way than mixing the poison into his favored brew. Ironically, they had underestimated the Kings resolve and huge tolerance for substance abuse. The 1st tankard had not killed him as intended....nor the 2nd or 3rd or 10th and in the end some say that it was not the poison at all but the 100th or so tankard of ale and his falling asleep in his stew.
Disappointed and yet gladdened the assassins had abandoned the recipe for the poison, however a young aspiring alchemist obtained it through various resources and from him it was passed on from interested party to interested part until Bugman himself came upon it and on a whim and a famous "Bugman inspiration" decided to try the long forgotten recipe along with a variation of King Ingram's favorite ale of the time.
It became an instant sucess. No one but the current Bugman's Brewery owner Josef Bugman and possibly a handful of his apprentices know the the contents of the receipe.
Old King's Poison MAY not kill you, but for those who are not used to it, its after effects may feel far worse.
Boom looks about the camp. He shakes his head thinking that they had all better find somewhere safe soon, or they are up a Troll's pathway without an axe. The wizard certainly looks promising though and Boom contimplates that it might be a good idea to stay REAL close to him. "Ja, that vould probably be the safest ting to do in ze times like these..." he thinks.
Boom shrugs. Vell, in the meantime, there is not much else to do but let Krak get ze vagon in order unz vait till ze humans get demselves ready for ze trip to ze temple of Sheleelee or Shelilak or vhatever....
He looks at the fur satchel he had managed to quickly pick up from a fallen Kurgen and looks through it.
"Hmmm.....a sveetloaf of ze bread mit Green sprinkles..."...nothing else though. Sniffing it..."eh, not bad at all. Sumtimes dez human cun bake right enough." "curious....ze sprinkles zeems to have a slight glow. Eh, no matter vill taste right enough I vager."
Krak, cummin ze here!! Break zee sveet smelling bread vit me"
The two take a break, drinking some Ale and eating of the Kurgen's sweet bread with glowing green sprinkles.
Krak:
Percep: Success
Chaos corruption: ...ummmmm
Boom:
Percep: Success
Chaos corruption: ...OUCH!
Lutke has been rather distracted due to his moment of "enlightment", but he perks up at the young doxy's question.
"Hmmm...?". Perception (Int) 40 -10 for distraction v.
Lutke could never remember feeling so perfect. He knew everything there was to know about engineering, physics....how the world operated! He jumped up and ran over to Caspar. He withdrew one of his lockpick tools stuck it into Caspar's wound and unwound the reichlometer. Voila! The damage reversed and was applied to the next available quartizon. Laughing at his newfound knowledge, he looked around the party for what he could fix next.
CASPAR: As Lutke approaches you, a strange wind stirring the brittle air, his eyes appear transfixed by some unseen wonder...glowing?! With a strange green light?! With a slight smirk (snarl) of insight and enlightenment, he begins to work (tinker) with your wounds! A moment before you recoil in horror, Lutke retracts his hands with an odious laugh, his work complete at last!
The cruel march into the mountain passes of the Middle Mountains is made only less harsh by the sips you take from the strangely marked ale barrel KRAK has been passing around, his squinting eyes ever watchful that none take more than a single draft.
"You there, take dis an pass it among everyone...an donna yo take ter takin too much of it iffen yo 'now wats good fer ya!" he bellows, lifting a heavy eyebrow and shaking a stubby fist.
"Wait, what's that?" Gretta says, cocking her ear to the side.
As Lutke approaches Caspar, lockpicking tools in hand, he seems to get louder "What? What ARE YOU DOING? NO! SHALLYA HAVE MERCY!!" and then silence. Whatever Lutke had done it had seems to have shut Caspar up for the time being. He walks in a state of bliss, almost smiling.
Gretta's warning falls on deaf ears, except for Lutke who is the first to notice the shambling figures moving down the mountain pass towards you.
"There!" Gretta yelps, pressing herself closer to Caspar in fear.
Almost at once each of you fall into your own unique fighting stance, senses pressed outwards against the blazing whiteness of sun dancing across the mountain snow. And then you see them:
A group of six men come into view, bound to each other by large chains slung across their sagging shoulders. Upon their faces they each wear wooden masks painted gold in the likeness of some strange angelic cherub. What is perhaps the most disturbing thing of all is that each one of the men is totally and utterly naked...
"Mother Rhya," Gretta gasps.
Quite suddenly the figures stop, their chanting coming to an abrupt end. The leader of the ragged group lifts his head, his fanatical keen blue eyes glimmering from beneath his wooden mask.
"Ahhhh, greetings fellow travelers." The fanatic says, his voice muffled. "May the blessings of the Child rest ever on your shoulders and uplift you in these dark times!"
The madman uplifts his palms to the air as the others do the same.
"Hail the Child! Hail the glorious return of Sigmar!"
"Sir, you do realize you're naked and it's freezing cold? Who's this child you speak of?"
vs 52 gossip
"Sir, you do realize you're naked and it's freezing cold? Who's this child you speak of?"
"Aye," the wild eyed fanatic croons, "But in order for us to stand before the Child, we must first expunge all that we once held dear."
In unison the six men shout aloud a strange chant in what you assume must be the classical tongue. Then the leader of this uncanny band continues:
"We are on pilgrimage and need nothing more than the holy glory of the God King to sustain us! It is to Altdorf that we go. Have you not heard the news?!"
There is a silence as you feel everyone around you staring in confusion at these strange naked men.
"The Emperor himself has bowed his knee! Sigmar has been reborn in the body of the Child. And he shall bring a thousand years of peace from his golden throne!"
"Glory be THE CHILD!" the others chant.
It seems clear to you that you're dealing with madmen doomed to die of exposure, if Kurgen raiders or savage wolves don't finish the job first.
"VELL! Salwation sure aint cummin frum ze, for ze cold sure has done avay vit your manly parts, but den again humans vere newer werly blessed in dat department anyho!"
Krak spits out a mouthful of ale and cookies and both Krak and Boom almost fall off the wagon laughing
Gretta shivers in the chill afternoon sun, her eyes locked curiously on the group of six naked men standing knee deep in snow.
"I've heard rumors of something strange happening in Altdorf. I guess there was some truth to it?"
As the men begin to ramble and chant once more about the second coming of Sigmar, Gretta clutches her garments tightly, wrapping her cloak about her shoulders. A look of fear crosses her youthful face.
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