Update 14/12/27: Corrected a minor error.

Chapter 8: Frau Tannenbaum

With a groan, Giselbert Gottschalk lifted his stiff arm and laid it over his forehead. His throbbing forehead, which weighted like an anvil, was hot, no, burning to the touch. He gagged, his nostrils assailed by a mix of nauseating scent. Slowly, he opened his eyes; only to shut his eyelids tight immediately, his retina burnt by the light.

His ears twitched. The air was saturated with cries, moans and groans. However, amongst the noise, Giselbert could pick up a collection of muffled and slurred words. His mind wailed as he filtered the sound from the noise, finding words hidden amongst the groans and piecing them together into something coherent.

"...sur…"

"...cursing him…..worry too much…."

Giselbert slowly opened his eyes, allowing the light to gradually seep in. The former watchman swiveled his head to his left, to whence the words came, and was greeted by two blurry figures, in the midst of a discussion. One of them, a man, likely, was lean, with a sword and a lantern on his hip. The other was shorter, slightly bent, donned in loose, white robes.

"Worry too much?" spoke the robed figure, with a hoarse and matrony voice. "Worry too much, you say?" she shook her head. "Look here!" she unfolded her arms and gestured furiously, "He cracked his knuckles! He mangled his left forearm! His skull and jaw are cracked! He almost lost his left ear. Scratches and bruises everywhere! And WORSE, he is showing signs of the red pox! You are his friend, Lanric Schwart! Can't you keep a closer eye on him?"

"Look, Mother Bertha," said the lean figure with the sword and the lantern, "I am his friend, not his shadow."

Giselbert closed his eyes once more. He knitted his brow as he tightened his eyelids and squeezed the tears from his eyes. He opened his eyes and beheld the sight of Lanric Schwart, his former partner, and Mother Bertha, the matriarch of the local Temple of Shallya, arguing.

"I can't be with him all the time, I have my own life, my own duty, to attend to," Lanric scowled. "And yet, you have the time to go around picking up old women!" Mother Bertha argued. "Not any old woman, Giselbert's mother!" "Yes, yes. Solphie Gottschalk. You should be worrying over your friend more rather than his mother!"

"Mother Bertha…." Lanric grumbled as he held his head. "You have visited the Gottschalk household before! You know that place! If she stayed there, it's only a matter of time she gets her throat slit," he said, punctuating his statement by sliding his thumb across his throat. "I had to get her out of there!" "And your bright idea for keeping her safe is putting her at the tender mercies of the Fly Lord!" argued the matriarch, "There, she may have her throat slit, but here, she will most certainly catch pneumonia. Winter's coming and the Temple will be crowded! Colds go around like gossip among fish wives!"

"Then separate her from the other patients!" Lanric barked. "And as you said, Solphie is frail. Giselbert, on the other hand, is tougher than an ox! Remember the last time he was here? Gutted like a fish? You said he was going to die! He is still here, among the living! The hatter is not going to die anytime soon!"

"Damn right….you are….Lanric…." coughed Giselbert.

Lanric spun his head towards the patient, his mouth slightly opened and his eyes wide. He blinked for a moment. He then glanced at Mother Bertha, and then back at Giselbert again. His look of astonishment faded, his open mouth closed and curled into a triumphant grin, as he turned to the matriarch.

"See? See? I told you!"

Mother Bertha scowled as she folded her arms, "Ranald does not suffer fools forever. You keep an eye out on him and holler if anything happens."

As the matriarch turned to leave, she continued, "And make sure he drinks the draught! I don't care if it's too bitter or it rots his tongue; force it down his throat if you have to! I will not allow a red pox outbreak!" "Right…." Lanric rolled his eyes.

As soon as Mother Bertha was out of sight, Lanric crouched beside Giselbert. The bedridden watchman noted Lanric's disheveled state. His face was dotted with stubbles and worry lines. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils were shrunken. His hair, usually neatly combed, was unkempt. Moreover, his breath stank of fish and stale ale. Lanric's lips curled into a strained smile, "How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," Giselbert coughed.

"Thirsty?" Lanric beamed and chuckled. "That's all you have to say? Thirsty? You shared a same pit with a Norscan Berserker and all you have to say is 'Thirsty'?"

Tears formed at the corner of his eyes as he clutched his sides and violently convulsed. He coughed and wheezed, wincing as he held his ribcage, his face contorted into a pained look. "Ow….ow…." he muttered. "Oh, don't make me laugh…"

Lanric fell onto his knees, wheezing as he wiped his tears. He breathed heavily, supporting himself with his arms. He coughed several times before reaching out for a jug, lying on the side of the pillar on top of a silver tray, and poured Giselbert a glass of water. Giselbert stared at Lanric, and then at his glass. He gulped the beverage, wiped the fluid from the corner of his lips and asked, "What was that about my mother?"

"Oh, your mother," Lanric averted his gaze. "Right…about that. I went to your house yesterday. Thought it was a mighty fine idea to get Solphie out of that cesspit. I know, I know, winter's coming and all, but that area is mostly empty…"

"And does she know?" Giselbert asked, a little forcefully. Lanric blinked, wearing a worried look. "No…" he sputtered, "No! She doesn't!"

Giselbert sighed and looked to the ceiling. He then turned his gaze towards Lanric. He stretched his fingers out and pointed at his friend in the chest, "What's with the broken ribs?"

Lanric deflated, "Nothing escapes you, eh." "You aren't exactly hiding it," Giselbert pointed out, "Out with it!"

"Right…" Lanric exhaled. He looked around himself, bent closer towards Giselbert and dropped his voice down to a whisper, "What you are going to hear is going to be unbelievable. Promise me you will not laugh alright?" Giselbert narrowed his eyes, "Why would I laugh?"

"Well….it involved ratmen, and such…" Lanric mumbled.

"Skaven? You too?" said Giselbert, fluctuating his tone slightly. Lanric arched his brow and widened one of his eyes, "What do you mean with that?"

"Ran into those buggers myself," Giselbert sighed. "See this?" he raised his left forearm. "Ratman dagger."

"Right…" Lanric rolled his eyes. "Okay, so you ran into some ratmen. But this is still going to sound unbelievable."

Lanric told the former watchman his tale, about the witch hunter who came to the Watch headquarters, their trek in the sewers and the attack of the skaven tide and the monster which had pursued them. As he had expected, Giselbert was wearing an unbelieving look. "A rat ogre?" Giselbert mouthed, nodding slightly. "A rat ogre? Are you serious?"

"Well, I did warn you this is going to sound unbelievable…" Lanric shrugged.

"And a witch hunter," Giselbert placed his forehead on the tips of his fingers and exhaled. "A witch hunter! This complicates matters…." Lanric gave him a reassuring smile, "Oh, don't you worry, she isn't one of those 'burn them all and let Sigmar sort them out' types, so long as you do not disobey her."

"And what happens to those who disobey her?" Giselbert asked. "She will shoot off your kneecaps," Lanric deadpanned. "And that's better?" Giselbert frowned. Lanric raised his shoulders and shrugged. "And while we are on the subject, Emmanuel requests that you stand down and lay low for a while. Do what you will about it."

"Well, that's that. Your turn," Lanric grinned once more. "What were you up to these past two days? And who's the lass?"

"Well…" Giselbert sighed. "I suppose I will have to tell you about the…wait…lass? What lass?" Lanric's grin grew wider. "Oh, don't be coy. The lass who dragged you to the Temple doorstep? The one in the mannish clothes?"

"The suspicious-looking one?"

"Yes, that….one…." Lanric's frantic intonation slowed to a slur as his slippery grin gradually fadded. Giselbert, on the other hand, perked up. The voice was cool and gentle, reminding him of an autumn breeze. Suddenly it struck him. He knew this voice! He snapped his head towards Lanric, or rather, the lass behind him.

Giselbert agreed with Lanric. Her garb, the same as she wore the previous night, was masculine. However, rather than concealing her feminine figure, it served to emphasize it. The coat was cut such that it hugged her petite frame perfectly, her wide leather belt showed off her thin waist, and the daggers she wore attention to her slender thighs.

What truly surprised him, however, was the one donning such unusual trappings. From what little he had glimpsed of her the night before, he guessed that she was pretty, but never could he have imagined her to be this… flawless. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin almost porcelain. Her long, flowing hair shimmered upon her shoulders. Most striking, however, were her eyes, as magnificent as frozen emeralds.

She may have been diminutive in stature, but Giselbert could not help but feel overwhelmed by her. Her straight posture, her cool expression, the cold, calculating and critical gaze… She had an air of command about her. However, the former watchman could not help but notice the absence of luster in her eyes, the burden on her shoulders…

"A mordschlag to the head," the lass commented. "And you are still alive."

"Well," Giselbert rapped his knuckles against the side of his head, "I have a hard head."

"Too thick headed to die, I see."

Giselbert pursed his lips, wearing the look of having being slapped. The 'ice princess' gazed upon him impassively, as cold and unmoved as gray walls. Lanric fidgeted, feeling the prickling on his skin. The patients were growing silent, glancing towards their direction every so often. It seemed as though the air around them had grown cold, cold enough Lanric swore he saw frost forming right under his very feet. The lass and the former watchman ignored him and his obvious discomfort, engrossed in their staring competition.

Lanric had enough. He cleared his throat and got up with a start.

The watchman wore his best smile as he greeted the lass, "I see you have recovered, Frau…." The young girl turned to him, wearing a small but warmless smile, "Tannenbaum. Frau Liselotte Tannenbaum. Thank you for your kind concern, Herr Lanric Schwart."

Lanric dropped his smile and knitted his brow. The lass brought her fist to her mouth and giggled, though as Giselbert observed, her giggle sounded forced. "I apologize for my rudeness, but I overheard your conversation," she smiled politely. Lanric eased up upon hearing her answer. "Ah, right…so…" his eyes fluttering wildly. He spun to his back, dragged a stool to the side of the sleeping mat and patted it. He then wore his most winning smile as he held out his hand, "Perhaps I can relief you of your burden?"

Tannenbaum, still wearing her polite smile, nodded. She removed her knapsack, along with the crossbow and the black cane hooked to its strap, and carefully placed them in his hands. Giselbert watched as his friend laid the leather knapsack and noted the suppleness of its leather.

Giselbert then studied the crossbow and the black cane, which Lanric laid beside the knapsack. The crossbow's rest was sculpted into the likeness of an eagle's head. Its trigger was similar to those of a firearm's. He could see an intricate mechanism built into its stock, likely to aid in the cocking of the bowstring.

The cane was entirely straight. Its head was furnished with a silver bulb, with the imagery of the Imperial Cross stamped onto it. He noticed that the cane was furrowed at the one-seventh mark, close to the handle.

Both the crossbow and the cane were crafted out of solid, black wood. He knew this wood, having seen them peddled with exorbitant prices by the merchants of the Market District, and he knew that this wood was not of Laurelorn forest. "Drakwald," he thought.

Giselbert's eyes were then drawn to her steel-tipped riding boots and her coarsegloves, both fastened to her slender limbs by the means of belts and buckles. The leather too was supple and of fine texture, like the knapsack.

His eyes trailed upwards, from her boots, following the leggings wrapping her slender thighs, up to the coat hugging her slender frame, the chapka hanging upon her belt and the black scarf wound around her neck. He noted that the leather coat, boots and coarsegloves too were of fine leather. The collar of the coat and the chapka was lined with fine, dark brown fur. Likely fox fur, he decided. The scarf around her neck was of fine wool.

Noting the quality of the materials and the craftsmanship of her armaments, he formed his conclusion.

"Sword. Hand and a halfter. Flattened diamond cross section, slightly convex face, no fuller" spoke the lass suddenly. Held in her small hands was a partially drawn sword, the very same the scruffy patient stole the night before.

"Thirty four inches in length. S-curved crossguard. Bulge in the middle of the grip. Wheel-shaped pommel. Typography type eighteen c. Standard Nordland Silversmith's Guild forgework. I believe this is yours?" she recited as she held out the sword. Giselbert glanced at the sword, and then at Tannenbaum. "Thanks," he grunted as he received the sword and laid it beside his mat.

Giselbert narrowed his eyes as he turned to Lanric. He asked, a little forcefully, "Lanric, what did you mean 'recover'?" Lanric chuckled, "Well, last night, she hauled your heavy arse to the Temple doorstep, the poor thing. Can't you treat a delicate flower right?"

Giselbert opened his mouth, before closing it again. He then shot a glare at Tannenbaum. Tannenbaum simply stared back, wearing her polite smile, her eyes never leaving him as she lowered herself onto the stool.

"So…" Lanric spoke suddenly, jolting Giselbert from his study. "How did the two of you meet?"

The scruffy patient grumbled. He shot an irritable look at Lanric and answered, with a low, growling voice, "We met last night. Pursuing certain felons. The cowled kind."

"Yes," replied Tannenbaum. "You thought me poaching your prey."

Lanric looked at the two of them questioningly. "What happened last night?" he asked.

"I was investigating the warehouse north side of the Docks District, close to the Nordland XI," Giselbert recalled. "We met and decided to work together briefly."

"I suppose I have you to thank for," said former watchman, his statement directed at Tannenbaum. Tannenbaum smiled politely and nodded, though her eyes did not leave him, "I will not allow a servant of Sigmar to die in vain."

"Wait," Lanric looked at the two questioningly, "What did he do this time?"

Tannenbaum sighed, for perhaps the first time that morning, and replied, "The dummkopf engaged the cowled men." She glanced at the patient, "On the contrary of my instructions." Giselbert emitted a low growl. He then demanded hoarsely, "Give me some credit here, will ya? I downed four of them, and almost downed a fifth!" "No credit for vain efforts," the lass cooly replied.

The former watchman scowled.

Tannenbaum sighed, "But I suppose I can credit you for tenacity. Uncouth though your methods may be, there is no denying the results. Pray tell me, how does a youth of seventeen winters come to possess such skills?"

"Well, you can't live this long in the slums without picking up some tricks of your own," replied Giselbert, almost braggingly. "Oh, don't listen to him," Lanric chuckled. "The fellow used to slug it out in the pits."

"You aren't supposed to tell anyone that!" Giselbert snapped. Lanric sneered at his former partner while Giselbert seethed. Tannenbaum had gone silent, head bowed, holding her chin, looking upon her lap. Giselbert ignored her, his attention focused on his friend, "And don't think I didn't notice! You used to cart half the smuggled goods to the fence after our raids!" "Hey!" Lanric barked.

"The pits?" interrupted Tannenbaum. Impassive though her expression may be, there was an undisguised glimmer of interest in her eyes. Giselbert narrowed his eyes as he glared at the lass. He looked warningly at Lanric. Ignoring his fierce gaze, Lanric cleared his throat and imparted the tale.

"Yes, the pits. The sod used to slug other sods in the pits under the Skinned Cat Tavern. You have to understand. Meagre wages and the captain had a habit of docking his pay. Have to feed the family somehow, aye?"

"Used to? When did he stop?"

Lanric replied, sounding a little sorry, "Last year. The captain threatened to throw him into the cell…."

"Mother Bertha! Mother Bertha!" cried a Shallyan nun. "What is it, Sister Cecilia?" the matriarch, Mother Bertha, hurried after the distressed nun. "What happened?" "It's Erich! He...he has disappeared!" Sister Cecilia wailed.

Lanric sighed as he put on his helmet. Sounding a little sorry, he concluded his tale, "Well, would love to tell you more, but duty calls." He then turned towards Giselbert, wearing a slippery grin, "And you behave yourself in front of a lady!" "I am not THAT uncouth!" Giselbert snapped at Lanric. Lanric grinned and chuckled in reply.

"Well…." Giselbert rubbed his head. "If you are ever stuck, I'm here." Lanric placed his palm on Giselbert's shoulder and smiled, "I am not going to bother you, but thanks for the offer. Watch yourself, Gis." He turned and nodded at Frau Tannenbaum, "Frau Tannenbaum." Frau Tannenbaum, raised her head, smiled politely and nodded back.

As soon as the watchman was out of sight, the lass and the former watchman resumed glaring at each other. Giselbert broke the silence, "So, what does a Reikland noble daughter want from me?"

"Noble daughter?" Tannenbaum tilted her head slightly.

"Supple leather," Giselbert pointed his finger at Tannenbaum aggressively, "fine wool, fox fur, Drakwald wood. All these cost a fortune. You are obviously rich. And you know a thing or two about swords. Either you are the daughter of an arms merchant or a nob. If you are a daughter of a crown grubber, you wouldn't be wasting your time sneaking about last night. Too busy learning to rob sods in broad daylight. That leaves nob as the only conclusion. Now, what do you want from me? This is obviously not a social visit."

"I see you still have your wits about you," Tannenbaum smiled politely. She stood up and curtsied, or rather, she performed a close impression of one, "Allow me to reintroduce myself."

"Frau Liselotte Tannenbaum." She slid her right arm into her pouch and rifled through it. She pulled out a gold medallion and threw it at the former watchman. The former watchman caught the medallion. He squinted his eyes and frowned as he examined the medallion.

Intricately carved onto the medallion was an image of Sigmar's warhammer, the Ghal Maraz, wroughted in flames. Giselbert knew this emblem, what it represented. He had seen this image numerous times during his first year as a watchman. The former captain required his men to memorize all emblems, seals and insignias of all Imperial organizations they will answer to. He knew this to be the Inquisitorial Seal, the badge of a witch hunter, granted to their retinues to authorize them to act on their behalf. He turned the medallion around and true enough, there was a series of numbers finely etched into its back, verifying its authenticity.

He understood what this meant.

Giselbert placed the seal back the lass's open palm, "Herr Giselbert Gottschalk."

"Witch hunter's retinue you may be, I still do not know your motives." "For as long as I serve Him, does it matter?" Tannenbaum replied as she took her seat.

Giselbert gave her a doubtful look. He shrugged and relented, "Fine. What do you wish to know?"

Tannenbaum slid her hand to her back. Her shoulder jerked as she unclasped a leather-bound notebook from her belt. She laid the notebook on her lap and drew a thin piece of charcoal. She then looked at him, tapping the piece of charcoal against the coarse pages of the notebook, and said coldly, "Everything."

Giselbert frowned. He laid his head against the pillar, rolling his eyes back as he tried to recollect the events of the previous day. He wiped his sweaty brow and turned to the witch hunter's retinue. The former watchman then looked towards the water jug. He retrieved it, gulped down its contents and told his tale.

He regurgitated everything he had seen and heard, every minute detail. He detailed his experience as a stevedore and how he witnessed the cargoes, contained in crates bearing the seal of the Nordland Silversmith's Guild, being loaded onto the three docked carracks directly from the wagon. Tannenbaum pressed him for names, but he insisted that he couldn't possibly know, as the names were not displayed on the hulls and insisted, even more loudly, that she should be interrogating the Port Authorities for that information instead.

He then detailed his investigations in the tavern Nordland XI and how there was a notable absence of sailors in the tavern. Tannenbaum questioned his basis for treating this as suspicious. Giselbert reasoned that if the cargoes were loaded onto the carracks directly from the wagons, it showed that the merchant who employed the ships must be in a hurry to ship the cargo to whatever destination he intended. Thus, the sailors will wait in the nearest taverns and inns. Nordland XI was the nearest tavern to the warehouse. Therefore, their absence was suspicious.

He moved on to his snooping about in the warehouse, on the absence of guards and of the activities of the cultists. He mentioned that the 'unique' weapons found deeper in the crates, as well as the presence of unmarked crates containing bombs (which he remarked was stolen from him by the lass. She insisted that it was necessary).

He then spoke of what he heard as he dug through the rubble concealing the narrow entrance into the skaven tunnel. He mentioned that the heretics answered to one 'Executioner' and his advisors, and that they had orders to seek warpstone for purposes yet unknown. He spoke of how he followed the heretics, how they searched the strange wreckages in the tunnels, their battle with another group of cultists close to the tunnel walls.

"And thus you decided to ambush them despite your obvious illness," Tannenbaum shook her head disapprovingly. "If I hadn't done that, the family that lives beyond that wall will die," Giselbert shrugged. "What do you expect me to do? Soil my breeches and crawl away?" "Had you chose escape, your survival would be guaranteed and you will certainly relay this information," Tannenbaum answered. "Information we can use to end this heresy." "Well, it turned out all right in the end, didn't it?" Giselbert grumbled. "Credited to your good fortune," Tannenbaum deadpanned. She paused for a moment, before she added, "and your prowess. However, be reminded that Ranald does not suffer fools everlong."

"So tell me, Herr Gottschalk," Tannenbaum leaned forward, her chin resting at the back of her entwined fingers, "What do you make of all these?"

"From what I could gather, the cultists worked in small, autonomous groups, answering to this Executioner and his advisors, and that they are engaged in a bloody rivalry for reasons unknown. It is clear, however, that the cult possesses considerable resources, likely provided by the merchant who hired those ships. The weapons they utilize, though wicked, are quite brittle, considering how one of them shattered against my sword. I believe they are supplied by apprentice blacksmiths or sculptors thinking themselves blacksmiths."

"And how would you progress with this investigation?" asked Tannenbaum.

Giselbert rubbed his chin, "There are two leads: this merchant and the Nordland Silversmith's Guild. I will talk to the Port Authorities and the Merchant's Guild; see if I could get any evidence pointing to some shady deals involving the merchant and the Guild. At least that is what I will do were I still in uniform. As I am now," Giselbert sighed as he stared at the ceiling, "I will be forced to steal into their compounds, find records and other evidence." He then turned to Tannenbaum, his expression harder than ever, "And I would like to detain and interrogate one of the cultists, preferably the group leaders. They seem to be the most knowing sorts. Likely, they know what is really going on, what the Executioner is planning…."

"I was right about you," interrupted Tannenbaum. Giselbert stared at her. Though she spoke with her usual cool voice, Giselbert thought she sounded a little…pleased. He frowned. The lass straightened her posture, wearing her usual polite smile. She stood up, adjusting and tucking her hair under her scarf as she declared, "Starting from today, you will answer to Frau Fruehauf, and you will answer to me." She threw her knapsack over her narrow shoulders and strapped on her cane and crossbow. "Your basic wage is one crown per day, subjected to increment or decrement based on performance and results."

"However," her expression hardened, growing more severe. Her emerald-green eyes and her voice were even colder than previously, cold enough to freeze the blood of murderers, "you will not be paid for vain efforts."

Giselbert scowled. Noticing his dissastifaction, Tannenbaum replied, "We discourage recklessness." She placed her chapka onto her head, allowing the ear flaps to fall upon her cheeks. She then glanced at the watchman and added, "Your employment begins upon your full recovery. For now, see to your health. A sick former watchman is of no use to anyone."

"And how do I find you?" Giselbert queried, as the lass turned to leave. Tannenbaum turned her head slightly, and answered coldly, "You don't."

Giselbert blinked. He looked to his lap as he attempted to analyze her words. He turned to her, his mouth opened. He blinked once more. He closed his mouth and frowned.

Tannenbaum was gone.


Like waves of the stormy seas, the grey, mountainous clouds rolled across the skies, casting their shroud across Salzenmund. The winds that carried them howled fiercely, scattering dried leaves, debris and ashes across the streets, toppling shanty huts and make-shift tents, threatening to tear the ships off their anchors.

Yet, life moved on despite the chill and the bite of the northern wind. The denizens of the Slums District milled along the streets around the Temple of Shallya, patronizing the make-shift stalls pitched up along the sides of the streets. Not even the toppling of the stalls could prevent business from continuing.

The stallkeepers and the flea-bitten housewives argued and bargained bitterly over the prices of second hand goods and salvaged merchandises, trying to be heard in spite of the wind and each other. So loud was the commotion it drowned out the tolling of the Temple bells and the chants emanating from its halls.

Standing at the Temple doorstep was a petite, delicate girl, dressed in a dark brown coat. Though her clothes were, by the standards of the Empire, masculine, they did not hide any of her feminine features. Instead, they were emphasized. Her belt showed her thin waist, her coat cut to fit her slender frame, her leggings and daggers hugged her slender thighs.

The wind howled on, casting dried leaves and branches upon the young girl. The girl shut her eyelids tight, clinging to her chapka and scarf, looking as though she was on the verge of being blown away. As the wind died down, she slowly opened her green eyes, green as pine trees.

Her eyes were cold like frozen emeralds, ill-fitting her snow-white skin and her small, delicate stature. She cast her gaze upon the Temple Courtyard, taking in the sights and sounds of her surroundings, like a little fox surveying its hunting ground. The fountain before her was dry. The trees lining the grey walls stretched their gnarly branches towards the sky. The dried leaves which once carpeted the grassy field and cobblestones were dancing with the breeze.

The young lass, Liselotte Tannenbaum, adjusted her chapka, so that its ear flaps will not hinder her sights. She pulled, tugged, straightened and adjusted her scarf, concealing her fine, silky golden hair and her blushing cheeks beneath it. She brought her small hands, clad in dark brown coarsegloves, close to her cheeks, the vapors emanated from her mouth swirling between her slender fingers.

Tannenbaum stretched out her slender legs and strode swiftly yet cautiously down the stairs. As she reached the fountain, she suddenly stopped. Tannenbaum narrowed her eyes slightly, looking upon a lean man in a watchman's trappings, standing beside the portal.

The watchman, noticing her approach, left his roost and walked towards her. He was wearing a dark expression, his lips frowning and his cheeks pallid despite the biting wind. He gave Tannenbaum a cold, hard look, as though about to inflict great injuries and insults. While his glare was fearsome, the young lass showed no signs of being affected. Her green eyes were focused upon him; her slightly blushed cheeks neither paled nor darkened and her posture still and relaxed.

Lanric's shoulders tensed as his hand leapt for his sword. He blinked as soon as his hand touched his pommel. He wore a look of puzzlement. After a moment, his hand left his sword as he straightened his posture and relaxed slightly. Tannenbaum had merely curtsied.

"Cold weather, isn't it, Herr Schwart?" Tannenbaum greeted. "It would seem that Ulric is getting impatient."

"Don't be coy, you know why I am here," Lanric growled.

Tannenbaum tore her eyes from the clouds overhead and cast it upon the watchman. Whether her cold, critical gaze affected him, he showed no sign. Tannenbaum replied, her tone level and slightly cold, betraying no fear or anxiety, "Yes, 'tis about Herr Gottschalk, is it not?"

"So you do know," Lanric scowled. "Then you know what I am going to ask." Tannenbaum tilted her head slightly, giving him a puzzled look. However, her eyes were cold as usual, bring question to her sincerity. Lanric knitted his brow. He spat, "What does Frau Fruehauf intend to do with him?"

"You Nordlanders never cease to surprise me," Tannenbaum spoke. "Yes, Herr Gottschalk has now come into His service. However, I must admit, it was I who advised his recruitment."

With a mighty cry, Lanric Schwart lunged upon and seized Tannenbaum by her collar. Her limbs flailed as he hoisted her up and shook her violently. "Have you any idea what you just did? You are sending him to his deaths!" Lanric snarled. Tannenbaum, however, was unmoved, gazing upon him with impassive eyes.

"And do you think he will not charge towards his doom without our involvement?"

Lanric's scowl slowly faded. He cautiously, almost gently, lowered her down. He sighed heavily and held his forehead. He then looked upon her once more, frowning. "You are right," he spoke, "The sod ain't one to hide in a hole when there's trouble. Damn it, I followed him to hell and back more times than I can count!"

Tannenbaum nodded, "With our guidance however, he will not be charging blindly to certain doom."

Lanric blinked once more. His lips curled into a grin as he let out a hoarse laugh. "Charging blindly?" he shook his head. "Is that what you think he will do? Charging blindly?"

"Listen, Tannenbaum. I know the sod for five years now, getting into all sorts of trouble. I will tell you this; Giselbert is not as reckless as you think. He does not take his gambles lightly. And do not expect him to obey blindly either. If you do not believe me, go ask Captain Josef Aushwitz. Or better, the old captain."

"Now that I have said my piece, it is time for me to get back to work," said Lanric as he patted his leather bound notebook and prepared to depart. He scarcely lifted his boots as he stopped in his tracks. "What do you expect to discover from the disappearance of Erich Kastner?" Tannenbaum had asked.

Lanric replied, "If I am lucky, he is skulking around in a tavern somewhere. If I am not, the cultists got him."

"I see," said Tannenbaum. "Sigmar speed your way then."

Lanric shot her a sideways glance and grunted before marching away.


It was an early Salzenmund afternoon. The autumn chill had seeped into the Salzenmund Watch headquarter. So cold was the interior of the headquarters that the watchmen had to wear their greatcoats and cloaks and hurdle in corners. Quite a number of them were drunk, singing bawdy songs like sailors, having consumed copious amounts of ale in an attempt to keep warm.

Beyond that, it was business as usual, despite the absence of the captain and the witch hunter. There was, however, the addition of the Sigmarite warrior priest, Brother Gottlieb. Brother Gottlieb was dressed in his usual, recently repaired armored cassock. He stood at one corner, beside a massive iron pot, propped onto the stove, holding a ladle in his massive fist.

Brother Gottlieb thrust a warm bowl of gruel into the waiting hands of the senior watchman, Emmanuel Marx. Emmanuel knitted his brow. The gruel was oilier than what he was accustomed to, courtesy of the three thick strips of meat buried beneath the moist grains. He glanced at Brother Gottlieb, who smiled genially at him and muttered a prayer. Emmanuel nodded at the warrior priest and strode towards the gathered desks.

Just as Emmanuel set his bowl on the desk, a fierce wind blew into the headquarters, toppling his bowl. The watchmen and clerk swore as paperwork soared across the room. Frowning, Emmanuel turned towards the door, from whence the wind came.

Standing at the door was the dread figure of the witch hunter herself. Recognising the arrivals, the watchmen and the clerk fell silent and returned to their work and their discussion, trying their best to ignore the presence of the dark creature.

The witch hunter sneezed softly as she closed the door behind her and strode towards the Captain's Desk. Emmanuel, ignoring his spilled bowl, started towards the witch hunter. He stopped, just as he was about to call out to her, and frowned. Hansel Aushwitz, the useless son of the now-crippled captain, Josef Aushwitz, had intercepted the witch hunter.

"Milady," said Hansel with a terribly nasal voice, wearing his most charming smile. "Allow me to help..." The witch hunter brushed him aside, disinterested in his offer. Hansel stood dumbfounded, confused by what had happened. Emmanuel's frown faded somewhat, when he realised that the witch hunter was carrying a stack of paperwork under her thin arm.

The former lieutenant waited for the witch hunter to set her parchments and scrolls onto the Captain's Desk before approaching her. The witch hunter, aware of his approach, turned to gaze upon him. Emmanuel paused in his tracks. His breathing grew heavier, more difficult, as soon as he felt her cold gaze upon him. He swallowed his saliva, adjusted his collar and started towards her once more.

"Where have you been?" he asked with the coldest tone he could muster. The witch hunter pulled up the heavy chair and took her seat. She then replied calmly, "Meeting my colleagues."

Emmanuel's frown intensified as he glanced at the stacks of documents the witch hunter had stacked onto the desk. "You may speak, Herr Marx," said the witch hunter. Emmanuel turned his gaze towards the cloaked girl. He breathed deeply, cleared the saliva and mucus clogging his throat and answered, "Three more murders last night. Same as yesterday. Doors locked inside, no eye witnesses. Neighbours reported hearing the sound of digging beneath their basements. Dispatched three groups to investigate," he reported.

"And I did a little digging about the warehouse this morning. Had to….ah….. 'convince' the clerk in the Port Authorities building….." "You meant a bribe," the witch hunter deduced. Emmanuel closed his mouth and frowned once more. After a while, he sighed and answered, "….yes."

"Continue," the Witch Hunter gestured. "I have the names of the ships. They were the St. Maurus, the Mannslieb and the Jewel of Lustria. They have docking rights until the next Wellentag," Emmanuel continued his report. "The docking fees of these three ships were paid for by the proprietor of the Accum Trading Company, Arnold Accum."

"What do you know of Arnold Accum?" she asked. "Arnold Accum trades in weapons, armor and other metalworks. He dabbles in fur trade and lumber trade as well. He has a…..foul reputation."

"Explain," requested the witch hunter as she opened a leather bound notebook and produced a piece of charcoal. "I do not know the details but from the way I hear it, he is known as a sort of a bully within the Salzenmund Merchant's Guild. I do know for certain that he has a sort of a deal, a contract or a partnership or whatever with the Nordland Silversmith's Guild," answered the senior watchman.

Frau Fruehauf paused for a moment. She then queried, "Any further details?" "No. We intend to speak with the Guild about this matter but I'm afraid we might be denied access into their records. The Guild dislikes government involvement in their business and prefers to keep their problems to themselves. Unsurprising seeing how the government keeps trying to control their pricing of goods and bother them about tariffs."

"Do what you can to acquire information about Arnold Accum. I would like to know the nature of his business, his associates, his personal assets and his history. Maintain discretion," ordered Fruehauf. Emmanuel nodded and gave her a brief salute. As he turned to leave to fulfill his orders, he jumped. The witch hunter had spoken again, and the contents of her words surprised him, "And before I forget, do report all your expenses."

Emmanuel gave the witch hunter a quizzical look. He opened his mouth briefly before closing it again. He frowned and bowed. Before he could leave however, the witch hunter spoke yet again, "Who amongst the Watch has the most experience in combat?" Emmanuel knitted his brow as he stared at the witch hunter. As usual, the witch hunter was unreadable, what with her hat and her cloak concealing her features and her lack of body gesture. His lips quivered as he answered, "That would be Olaf Bauer, milady."

"Summon him," ordered the witch hunter as she retrieved one of her parchments.