Chapter 1: The Enemy in Shadows

On the surface, the Empire is all but invincible. It is the greatest of the Old World’s realms, both in extent and in military might. Founded two and a half millennia ago, it has withstood countless assaults by Greenskins, Skaven, Chaos, and its many neighbors. Beneath the banner of the twin-tailed comet, emblem of its founder-god Sigmar Heldenhammer, the State Armies of the Empire take to the field behind their mighty Griffon-Riding Emperor, confident of victory.

However, scratch the surface and peer just beneath, and things take on a different aspect. There are worrying rumors concerning the Emperor’s health, and he hasn’t been near his Griffon for months. Deep in the remote forests of this vast realm, Beastmen and worse still lurk, even though the forces of Chaos were expelled from the land two centuries ago. The taint of Chaos touches everywhere, inflicting strange mutations that force good folk to hide from their neighbors or face the flames of the witch hunters. Strange and secretive cults worship blasphemous gods with titles like "the Changer of the Ways," "the Prince of Pleasure," and "the Father of Decay."

Beyond the Empire’s borders, past the icy fringes of Kislev and Norsca, the swelling forces of Chaos in habit the twisted and unnatural Northern Chaos Wastes. Leaders rise and fall, amassing armies to raid and plunder, only to have them disperse again.

It has been two centuries since any Champion of Chaos has arisen with the strength to unite the Enemy Without. But, rumor suggests a new Chosen of the Ruinous Powers walks the north, and is binding the warlike tribes together. So, the rulers of the Old World do not relax their vigilance. They keep their eyes steadily on this terrible external threat. And, in doing so, they overlook the Enemy Within.

On the Northern road, ironically enough, heading southward toward Altdorf, our party thought they were on the homeward stretch of a journey that would be relatively straightforward. The chills of winter had at last abated, and a heavier than expected Spring rain season had caused many of the rivers of glorious Talabecland to flood. Boatmen of the Reikland, long accustomed to shipping grain from the vast bounty of the province were left with no ships capable nor river men daring to make a crossing in those waterways, and so, our own boatmen is off to Altdorf at the behest of his longtime friend, Josef Quartjin, a bear of a boat captain, truly one of the nicest, most generous men to ply the rivers of the Empire, wrote him a letter (dictated as he cannot read, and read, as neither can our intrepid boatmen), to join him in Altdorf for a job and vacation opportunity all in one! Josef even generously sent the messenger with coin to pay his passage to the great City of Sigmar.

The white wizard sharing his coach had also come from Talabecland, though her errand, far more grave, could strike a terrible blow to the Empire: assigned to assist her Master by singing to aid in his channeling of spells, they were sent to find and eliminate the taint of Nurgle in the vast woods of the province, only to find treachery and politics in their path. Ostland, a province of strong, curt people, saw a terrible tragedy, as the Prince’s only son was murdered. Often at odds with his neighboring province, he immediately declared it to be the work of Talabeclanders. Her teacher, called to assist the government as wizard and as advisor, has sent her to the Colleges to reassign her to a less dangerous post, send a replacement, and request instructions.

Two dwarves of Middenheim, one a soldier in good standing with his clan, has been dispatched with a petition to give to a clerk or messenger of the Emperor, to hear his case: the Graf of Middenheim is set soon to levy unnecessary, unwarranted, injurious, and insulting taxes on all dwarves of the city, and the dwarves, incensed, have decided that apart from fiery protest, must petition his Imperial majesty himself to intervene diplomatically on their behalf: was Sigmar not a dwarf friend? A Slayer, a mysterious, solitary figure, took to the road beside the soldier, perhaps at last to see for himself what manlings could build in the south.

A priest of Shallaya, sworn to do no harm, had also been along the roads of Middenheim, healing the sick and infirmed. As spring is a time of hay fever and infections, he was kept quite busy… when a vision came to him: Altdorf is an open, infectious sore: it festers, and must be cleansed!

After changing coaches to take their final leg of the journey, they began talking, and began to form something of a… tolerance… to one another. (If you wish, you may roleplay this), until, their coachmen were attacked suddenly! Mutants, or Beastmen, or both, in a torrential downpour surrounded and killed the horses, causing the coach to crash. The downpour made the powder of the coachman’s blunderbuss misfire, and he was consumed by a mutant vomiting acid on him! The mutants screamed in murderous rage "Pigs!!! Filth!!! We are the true heirs of this Empire!!! You live a lie!!! Join us, or we shall…!" The slayer dug his axe into the disgusting creature, and destroyed the monologuing miscreant, as the others ran away, disappearing cowards in the thick, horrible rain.

And so it was, wet to the bone, they were forced to trudge the last mile in the mud and muck and rain to their next stop: The Coach and Horses inn.

Feel free to roleplay your reactions to this opening, and everyone roll me a Perception test

Roll perception please, Master Dwarf!

The Adventurers, soaked to the skin, and miserable, find it a bit difficult to see what’s coming, eyes full of rain water. Finally able to just barely make out smoke from the chimney of a nearby Coaching Inn, their steps grow lighter, defying the leaden heaviness in their legs. The sound of an approaching Coach barely registered, as they finally could make out its approach, slowly moving out of the road… all except Anders. Weighed down by misery, cold, and trembling, he had inwardly been wondering if food and warmth yet awaited him, when the coachman, an angry looking, hideous man, sitting shotgun, and carrying the instrument of his duties, shouted "Out of the way, ragamuffin!!!" At the bedraggled boatman!

Roll a Challenging (+0) Dodge test, our beleaguered Boatman!

Tripping in the mud as he flung himself aside, Anders was very nearly crushed under the weight of the massive coach, but more terrifyingly, a sound, like thunder, as the coachman riding shotgun blasted the Blunderbuss! Anderson was not struck, by the grace of Sigmar, but Anders landed hard onto packed mud, winded.

You suffer 1 Fatigued condition until you have the opportunity to rest for 1 hour

The rest of the journey is relatively dull, but the closer they get to the nearby inn, The Coach and Horses, the second to last stop before you were to reach Altdorf. The Coach outside (horses stabled, leaving the coach, belonging to Ratchett Coaching Lines (the main competition of the Four Seasons Coaching lines, like the Coach you had all been sharing), is at least a hope that you have a chance to reach Altdorf on time. The smells of reducing strew and the sounds of raucous singing comes from inside the inn’s common room. Upon at last flinging the door open, you immediately see a gaunt, slim barman bringing a wooden tray of beers to a raucously singing couple of revelers… dressed in coachman’s livery, as they drink and sing. A balding, chubby landlord immediately breaks into a massive smile upon seeing you all enter.

"Welcome to the Coach and Horses, gents! Make yourselves at home, and come on in out of the rain! You must be soaked to the bone, friends! Pull up a chair and sit close to the fire if it suits you! My, but your boots are muddy, don’t tell me you walked all this long way! Can I get you a meal, maybe something to drink? Herpin! Herpin, take their order, would yeh?! Tell me, good friends! What news have you? Where have yeh come from, and where will yeh go?"

The innkeeper, obviously a friendly sort, clearly has something of the endless ability to chat. Your fellow tavern patrons are few and far between, though an eclectic group to say the least: apart from the barman, innkeeper, and rather boisterous coachmen, you see a very gorgeously dressed woman, apparently a noble, seated with her servant, who doesn’t even look at the door as it opens. Her servant, a pretty young thing, keeps her head down and her mouth shut as she embroiders quietly, serving her lady ship if, and when required. At the end of their table sits a lady who could not be more different: muscular, armed with a sword, and wearing leather armor, with "Lady’s Bodyguard" written all over her.

A handsome, mustached man sits at a table near the bar by himself, shuffling cards, and making a show of being lonely as he sips a glass of red wine. In a corner nearest the fire sits a rather slender man with a puddling bowl haircut, reading a boring looking book that Agnes can read as "Leeches and their Curative Properties".

What does the party wish to do?

The coach drivers either ignore or don’t hear the request, as they continue to sing drunkenly, downing mug after mug of beer. The innkeeper, chuckling at their boisterousness, answers for you. "I’s expecting a coach from the Four Seasons coaching line several hours ago! Not sure what became of them, perhaps they’ve broken down! The next coach after them won’t be for days yet, I’m afraid. A pint of ale at the tap’ll run you 3 pennies, a shilling for a nice bowl of rabbit stew! A pint o’ Bugman’s Best, as it is my finest ale is 9 pennies! What with the grain running short, I may have to raise prices on it with the flooding in Talabecland! Any bloodcurdling takes from the road? Any gossip? If so, I might be inclined to see a pint or two your way on the house! I’m a man what loves the spoken word, I am!"

Try roleplaying what you tell the innkeeper as you succeeded, and in exchange you will get some interesting gossip!

The coach what nearly run you down was headed in the opposite direction, but the two coachmen, drunkenly laughing riotously wore the livery of the same coaching company. They laughed uproariously, sounding like braying jackasses as they continued to pour beer down their throats.

Great job! Though it’s Talabecland and Sigmar for future reference!

The innkeeper listens intently, mouth going more and more agape with every passing word! He made the sign of the hammer at the mention of mutants attacking your coach!

"Sigmar preserve us from the Ruinous Powers!" The innkeeper intoned, "Herpin! Herpin, bring this man a pint of Bugman’s Best, and a bowl of stew! In fact, that rabbit’s soon to turn, bring every one of them a bowl of stew and a pint… a pint of… simpler ale for t’others, mind, that Bugman’s got to last!"

Herpin, the slender, stoic barman, merely nodded in response, fetching bowls of hot rabbit stew and ale. You lot must’ve been on the coach I’s expecting’! Well, make yourselves good and comfortable, the Four Seasons coaching company ain’t soon to set foot in ‘ere for a few days yet… the coach leaving in the mornin’ is run by those fellows." He pointed to the drunken louts singing loudly, already calling for more ale. "The roads’ll only get worse, as the Emperor’s recently pulled the soldiers off regular patrol to go to bleedin’ Ubersreik to quell the place, since ‘e found out the Jungfreuds were all traitors to the Empire! Good to root them out, I s’pose, but it does ‘amper road travel, as you lot clearly found out! My family and I ‘ave always been strong supporters of the Emperors, but even the best of them make questionable decisions! Look at Magnus the Pious! Establishing the colleges of magic, setting wizards loose in Altdorf a… and…" The Innkeeper suddenly noticed that one among your number, despite being soaked and muddy, was clearly wearing a wizard’s robe. He cleared his throat, "And we certainly can’t thank him enough for that!"

Obviously desperate to change the subject, he went on, "Speaking on strange goin’s on, the village of Teufelfeuer was recently burnt down by that famous witch hunter, Faberous Heinzdork! Supposedly, ‘e found out the entire town were in league with Daemons! I ‘eard some nonsense that a warrant were issued for ‘is arrest over the affair, but that can’t be! Imagine arresting a right decent witch hunter for doin’ his Sigmar given duty!"

The stew is warm, the rabbit meat falling off the bone, though a bit ripe: the innkeeper spoke true when he said it was close to going bad. The parsnips are tender, as are the carrots and cabbage. It’s hardly fancy fare, but the ale is far from the worst you’ve ever drunk, and a warm bowl of stew does wonders to chase off the chill.

The gentleman eyes the dwarf with apparent interest, looking quite pleased to see his eye catch his own! He speaks in a heavy Bretonnian accent.

"Ah! Monsieur Dwarf! I see you are wanting perhap a game of card? I long to find a fellow ‘oo will play Scarlett Empress with me! Perhap we make a wager? I play for nothing less zan two shilling I am afraid!"

A pint of beer for each of your fellow travelers will cost you 12 Pennies

The innkeeper appeared unmoved by the attempts at charming him, still suspicious of this witchy woman, eyeing her suspiciously.

Eh… no, no… fraid not, Miss… I uh… Herpin and I got the situation in hand! If you talk to those two coachmen there, it might be that they might could work out a room to get you out of here, I mean… to Altdorf… quick as could be!

The innkeeper strikes his beard.

"Seeing as you’re soaked and strapped, you’re welcome to sleep in the common room for the night! That’s normally 10 pennies, but I’m not ‘eartless seeing your circumstances. There might be work on the notice board, I ain't changed it in a while. Those coachmen over there, if you’ve a mind to make it all the way to Altdorf, they might could do yeh, I ain’t certain they got any room left, but perhaps yeh could broker a bargain with you!

Unable to read, the Slayer knows wanted posters when he sees them. The notice board has only two notices that haven’t been ripped down, either by adventurer’s who’ve taken them for themselves, or by outlaws themselves pretending to take the bounty. An unimpressive notice hangs low which simply has a large "HELP" heading it, followed by a hen scratched note that anyone capable of reading would have a difficult time understanding, let alone an illiterate. A far more impressive notice, however, the Slayer may not be able to read, but quite obviously announced "WANTED: BOLD ADVENTURERS!" Even illiterate, the Slayer can smell an opportunity for gold and adventure. Perhaps the priest of the witch can read?

Wanted: Bold Adventurers!

His Excellency, Hergard von Tassen Tassenick of the Principality of Ostland, hereby gives notice that services of a party of skilled adventurers is required urgently! Employment is to begin as soon as possible, for an indefinite period.

Would-be applicants are forewarned that they shall be required to undertake a most perilous mission into unexplored regions of the Grey Mountains. The matter is of utmost delicacy and absolute discretion is required.

Remuneration is negotiable, depending where n experience, but a minimum of 8 gold crowns per day, per person is guaranteed, in addition to a generous bonus on completion of the mission. No laggards, cowards, or dwarfs need apply.

Signed

Personal scribe to Crown Prince Hegrard

The notice appears old, perhaps a month or so… Agnes will recall that she heard that Hergard’s son had recently been killed while on sone mission for his father… could this be…?

The other notice, scrawled in a hen scratch so difficult to read, it may as well be smeared ink, reads:

HELP: Pore Foke in neede ov strawng mene or ladees wut cood stoppe a moste fowl bandit nawrth of Oltdorf. Luk for a sine post wut reeds Clampden and ask for Widow Clamp. That mawnster stolled my granddotter’s pig bank e did! Reeword to be diskussed.

The Bretonnian raises his head to the boatman next…

"Ah, Monsieur! Perhap you desire to play a game of Scarlett Empress, ehh? Surely a Reiklander like you is willing to show me, a lowly Bretonnian lesprit militaire zat made ze Reikland ze envy of ze world, eh? Come! You and your dwarf friend as well, let us perhaps wager 2 shilling each? We also talk, like gentlemen, eh?

"Ah, Monsieur, Scarlett Empress is simple! Or, if you prefer, perhap we play Al-Azahr, ehhh? Dice are a simpler game, I am thinking, ehhh? Sit with me! Convince your dwarf friend to play me, and perhap you win enough coin to see yourself safely to ze city of your… Zigmahr? A friendly game, a 2 shiplong wager, and we all ‘appy, we all leave friends, ehhh?"

OOC GM: So gentlemen and lady, you have two coachmen set soon to rush to Altdorf in the morning who are rather drunk and dining, the Innkeeper, the Batman, a student, a noblewoman and her servant and bodyguard, and a Bretonnian card player. Knowing the coachmen are likely your quickest way to get to Altdorf, but you’ll likely have to pay, the card player might lose some money to you, and that there are bandits nearby, what do we want to do?

Ah, Monsieur dwarf, What bring me to zis beautiful country? I was a zoldier for years… many is ze woman, many is ze lady I ‘ave… ‘ow you zay… broken ‘er ‘eart? And zo I find myself… ‘ow you zay? Doing a bunk? I pass through Ubersreik on my way into ze Empire… zuch strange goings on! Your Emperor declare ze Jungfreuds traitors and strike zen down just like zat, eeeh?

He dealt out the cards with extreme expertise.

The coachmen barely seem to notice you at first, so loud is their riotous laughter. Soon, however, they calm down just enough to notice they’re being spoken to.

"Oh well, ‘ello, preachuh! T’ain’t no room inside it, I’m afraid, that lady there…"

He pointed most rudely to the noble woman and her entourage.

"She’s taken up the entire inside for ‘er lackeys and all her numerous hats, she has! It’s a fair full go of it, we got that Bretonnian popinjay and that nerdy student over there goin’ too… you’d ’ave to all squeeze up on top with us… but the good news is, I’m outta drinkin’ money, so I’ll let you and yours ride with us for…"

He and his thinner colleague confer a moment…

"Four shillings apiece?

The coachmen, swallowing somewhat as he looked at the Slayer… both coachmen conferred a few moments longer in quiet whispers… before finally clearing his throat, and in his most dignified drunken slur managed to say


"I’m a godly man, I am, and a friend to dwarfs, as Sigmar commanded, says I! You and yer… Slayer companion can ride free… your fellow travelers? Can we agree on 3 Shillings a piece, seeing as how they’re with you two?"

The cards fly from the Bretonnian’s fingers with surprising Dexterity. Speaking to Grotnar, as everyone antes 2 shillings apiece, he says:

"I am ashamed to say, Monsieur Dwarf, but is true, tis pity is, tis true! I am on ze run from lady troubles! Oh, ‘ow rude of me, Monsieur Dwarf, I am, ‘ow you say… forgetting my manners? My name is Phillipe! Phillipe Descartes! And yours, my Dwarf friend? And you, Monsieur Boatman?"

As he dealt the cards, Anders found himself with four aces, Grotnar with a pair of kings. Philippe, with a -5 SL, turned over a bluffing hand with what looked as if it could be a straight, if inoy one card weren’t off.

"Ah, Monsieur, you won! You won! ‘Ow thrilling for you, mon amis! Perhaps we play again? Perhap anuzzer game at 2 Shillong each?"

The innkeeper, seeing you drink slowly, takes it as an opportunity to begin speaking to you rapidly, and with barely a breath in-between. A friendly jab, he seems incapable of shutting up.

"…last time we ‘ad a Slayer in ‘ere, must’ve been oh… three years past? A jolly fellow, ‘e was, drunk up four kegs of ale on ‘is way to fight Minotaurs at the Middenheim Carnival ‘e were! ‘E told us done bloodcurdling stories about fightin’ Greenskins in Black Fire pass! Say, speaking of Black Fire pass, did you ‘ear Colonel Sievers of the Imperial Ostlanders just left from there ‘eaded to Altdorf? ‘E must’ve won a great victory over those damnable orcs, ‘E must’ve!"

The Bretonnian, somewhat taken aback by someone speaking his native language, says in fluent Bretonnian.

"Oh, cheers, mate, wanna try your luck? A few shillings could save a lot of orphans and sick folk, mate!"

The Bretonnian nodded, a charming smile flitting across his face as he gave you a nod, adding in Bretonnian:

"Of course, my friend, of course! I only like a good game now and then, and as you can see, pickings are slim."

The Bretonnian, looking somewhat hurt, puts on his best pleading voice.

"Monsieur, do not so quickly abandon ze gentleman’s game! We are, ‘ow you say… just ‘aving a friendly game, n’est pas? Monsieur, you would not want a ‘umble Bretonnian to believe zat ze brave men of ze Reik were, ‘ow you say… afraid of a simple game of chance?"

The Bretonnian offered a wink and a nod to Agnes, his handsome features twisting into a smile.

"Mon cherie, per’ap you could take your Boatman friend’s place if ‘e ‘as, ‘ow you say… lost ‘is nerve for ze game, ehhh? Come! Play with me, I ‘ave no fear of a wizard, nor of a woman! I ‘ave broken too many ‘earts to ‘ave fear of breaking anuzzer, ehhh?"

The Bretonnonian gave a wry smile, standing, and bowing low before Agnes…

"Mon Dieu, it would appear zat I ‘ave… ‘ow you say… Overplayed my ‘and, ehhh? A pity! I should ‘ave enjoyed to furzer make your… ‘ow you say…? Acquaintanceship! I am skilled in many arts, mon Cherie, not merely ze art of cards. Bon nuit, Messieurs, boatman, dwarf, et Monsieur Man of ze Cloth. I retire to my room. Sometimes when you gamble, you lose, ehhh?"

Unless someone stops him, the Bretonnian retires to the upstairs with a sweeping bow. Thoroughly disgusted by the company she has, the noblewoman snaps her fingers, and she and her servant and bodyguard retire for the evening as well.

The innkeeper, overhearing the conversation.

"Ho there, Miss, couldn’t ‘elp over’earin’! If you’ve a mind to go to Clampden like it says in that notice there, they’re less than a mile from the next coaching inn! If you leave in the mornin’ with these gentlemen on their coach, you might could find the place off the beaten path… course, I ‘ward some rumors bout their troubles. It’s a bit of a kettle o’ turnips if ya get my meaning… Miss…"

His disdain for "witches" makes him a little hesitant at the end there.

Upon returning to the inn you had left from this morning, you found it warmer and somehow brighter than it was before. The smell of rabbit stew, and the sounds of drunken partying assailed you, as the coachmen of the Coach here were drunken, stupidly singing, and occasionally vomiting. The others here were a motley bunch, a white wizard woman, a slayer, a soldier, a priest, a boatman, and a skinny little nobody reading a boring book by the fire. The friendly innkeeper immediately shouted a greeting.

"Ah, Herr Reuter! Welcome back! Anything amiss? Your coach left this very forenoon if I’m not mistaken? Accident? Or something worse? These gentlemen and lady were attacked by mutants if you can believe it!"

The innkeeper shook his head

"Only these gentlemen here, they’re to leave tomorrow morning! After that, I don’t expect a coach for a week or more!"

"We’ll take you along for 3 shillings, Sir! It’ll be a squeeze, you’ll have to ride on top, as the lady who’s rented the inside has taken it all for her hats!"

The coachmen seem unconcerned, and even if they were, they’re far too drunk, insisting that the coachmen are likely already done repairing the axel and at the next coaching inn by now.

As you catch the noblewoman on the stairs, although she finds you somewhat attractive, she doesn’t even speak to you. Her servant simply looks at her eye, and says:

"Please leave her ladyship alone."

The coachmen look at one another before clinking their points together, laughing in jollity.

"You’ve a fine bargain there, lad!"

They accept your round of pints, 6 pennies served by the innkeeper, and your single shilling. You will now be headed to Altdorf with this coach in the morning.

The coachmen are both more or less at the vomiting drunk stage at this point…. Their songs are now little more than silly humming as they struggle to find any more coin to pay for any more drinking money.

The morning dawned, though the rain outside was still coming down in soft droplets, the sky dark enough to make one think it was still night. The noblewoman from the night before was giving curt, short commands to her servant to load the coach up with bags x after box of hats, as her bodyguard looked on, amused to be seeing the young lady bullied. The Bretonnian card player greeted you all with a smile as he drank beer and ate a breakfast of buttered bread crusts, shuffling his cards in an obvious display of showmanship. The young student was yawning softly, his pudding bowl haircut disheveled as he tried reading his book on leeches.

Only the two coachmen were conspicuously absent, though the sound of vomiting soon alerted you to their presence.

The innkeeper, affable as always clapped you one after the other on the shoulder, with a bellowed good morning.

"Mornin’, friends! Can I get anyone a beer? Maybe some gruel? Not much, but you’ll not have a shot at a proper meal for a few more hours, I’m afraid!"

"1 Shilling, m’good man! The eggs were cooked in the same grease from her ladyship’s bacon, so they’ll be good and tasty, I guarantee!"

Outside, the two coachmen were doing their best to rally themselves, encouraging one another between bouts of vomiting.

"Right… y’can do thish… Itsh only a short drive t… bwahhhhhhh checchhhhh!!!!"

"Don’t start, you’ll get me going t… wacchhhh!!!! Acchhhh!!!!!"

"Ginger y’say? No, sir, no sir, I could maybe scare up some mint! Would that praps do yeh?"

The coachmen do their best to pull it together.

"N… next coach won’t b… be here for w… w… I…I’m losing it! I’m… wrrraaauuuggghhh!!!!!"

"Don’t worry… we’ll make it… j… just need a m… mwaaarrrggghhh!!!!!!"

You manage to assist the two Coachmen with some not-ideal homemade remedies. It calms their stomachs down somewhat, though they still look incredibly exhausted…

"Arrrr, thank yeh, priest. Oof… really calmed the tummy there. I’ll drive."

"Brrrruuuooooo… yeah… I’ll take shotgun, you just keep the horses good and calm, will yeh?"

They both still looked rather out of it as they took a moment before heading to the coach, though the food offered by the innkeeper seemed to make them sick again, and he quickly took it away.

The Coachmen, still rather horribly hung over, are at least able to get into their seats now. The one riding shotgun has to shake himself out of snoring multiple times, as everyone rises to the top of the coach. It’s crowded up there, with the Boatman you met on the last coach ride, the pudding bowl hair cutted scholar, the Bretonnian gambler, and all of you. With rain consistently pelting you all, it’s particularly uncomfortable. Only the high born lady, her servant, and bodyguard are at all comfy, as they, and bid after box of hats are in the belly of the beast.

The coachmen continually fall asleep, having to be shaken awake, or shouted at the get up… it’s slow going, especially when, unconscious, one of the coachmen nearly steers off the road and into a tree. Before long, under their inept ministrations, the horses begin to slow to a crawl.

Annoyance, however, turns to terror, as. Sudden bend in the road leads to a horrific scene. Yards away, what looks like a corpse is partially sunken into the muddy road ahead. A figure, hooded and cloak stands over him. A hideous sound… like wet munching, is barely audible over the rainfall. The hooded figure raises his head to reveal a severed human hand dangles from his mouth, as bright yellow pus drops from his mouth alongside oozing blood as he continues to gnaw the hand… he growls hideously before leaping at your coach, madness filling barely visible eyes. Sobering up instantly, the coachman riding shotgun attempts to fire his blunderbuss at the creature, but the rain had soaked the black powder.

The mutant roars in agony as his flailing, scaled left arm has that staff crack down on it! He screams in an inhuman rage, coughing up thick, disgusting mucus, the rough staff, little more than a long stick rebuffed somewhat by thick, almost reptilian hide.

Raging in abject pain and anguish, the mutant turned away from the blow!

The growling mutant gave a hideous laugh, the stone crashing into a nearby tree.

With a sickening "Whack!!!" The soldier’s weapon split through the mutant’s skull, spraying blood and brain matter over every single one of the group. The mutant growled even in death, pus covered jaws snapping as he writhed in silent suffering a few seconds… too stubborn to know he was dead. The coachmen were busy vomiting at the disgusting sight, her ladyship’s maid in the coach poking out her head to airily cry out:

"Her lady ship demands to know what the holdup is!"

The dead man lying on the road is wearing a coachman’s livery. A broken whip handle is in his hand. Ralf immediately recognizes him as one of the coachmen who was on the coach he was on last night… he also has a sleeved mail shirt on.

Of identification, he carried only a bronze symbol which would identify him at a glance, as a driver for the Four Seasons Coaching Company. His whip, or rather what remained of it, was broken in his right hand. If he had any coin, it had been lost en route to here. Aside from his ruined, beaver skin hat and clothes, he wore a sleeved mail shirt and a horrified expression.

Assuming no one assists you in digging, it takes you approximately an hour to bury both bodies. The ground is thankfully soft due to the rain, and that helps you to at least ensure they’re buried deep enough in the ground. The Bretonnian gambler, who had fled with a scream at the sight of the approaching mutant, finally returns as you dig the graves, with apologies that he was merely trying to draw the creature away.

Neither of you are are exhausted by the experience, and it takes you about half an hour to dig the graves.

Ne présumez pas que mes intentions étaient lâches ! J'ai simplement supposé qu'il pourrait y en avoir davantage !

The Bretonnian says as he climbs back aboard, the drivers, waking up slowly begin moving the horses again… after a bend in the road, the coach suddenly comes upon yet another gruesome sight. A coach, flipped completely over at an odd angle, surrounded by misshapen, hideous figures. One, a mutant with a tiny, baby-like head, continues stupidly hacking at a horse, laughing maniacally as he strips flesh from it, stuffing it in his mouth. A mutant with a dog-like head howls from an apparent wound, as a pinheaded mutant seems to be trying to apply healing to him as he lies in the ground. Another mutant, this one with clearly visible hooves, munches softly on a dead man beside the road, a wound at his side hastily bandaged. A final mutant, this one the apparent leader, dressed in filthy, but recognizable finery, a crossbow slung on his shoulder appears to be looting dead bodies.

Doing so would be impossible, as the flipped coach is blocking the road… unless you intend to abandon the coach and run away through the forest.