The journey to the edge of town was uneventful, especially compared to the rest of that morning. There wasn't a soul in sight; it was far too early for that, and the Sisterhood was still reeling from the attack. Sofie felt guilt for a second, until she reminded herself of the fact that they were to put her to the sword as her mysterious rescuer had put them to it, and that comforted her. She didn't quite trust the one in black, who skulked through the shadows ahead of her like a wolf on the hunt, crouched over and ever-alert.
They turned the corner, into an opening where a ring of houses walled-in a small patch of grass which was turning dry and brown where its life was escaping it. He stopped at the opening into the yard and edged his head around the corner. Sofie could hear the coughing and muttering of some people on the other side of the building. They sounded like urchins.
The figure drew his sword, marching around the corner. Understandable, she thought, they'd just rat us out to the guard. There wasn't even a scream, just a muffled gasp and the slumping of bodies. The one in black plate appeared on the other side of the courtyard, beckoning the Sister to follow him out of town. She did so.
They were outside of Mordheim now (the name struggled to come out when she said it aloud; it felt unnatural.) There was a lone oil-lamp casting a weak, flickering crescent of light over the track, which fell down to the East before being swallowed by the shadows of trees. The figure leant against this lamp, whistling coarsely.
"Nothing happened," Sofie mused. The figure turned and looked at her with his head cocked to the side. The whinny of a horse and the beat of hooves rose up from behind him, as a wagon appeared before them. It was well-polished; the cabin was a deep purple which blended in well with the morning haze. It was drawn by two black stallions that looked muscular and healthy, but when Sofie patted one's neck with gratitude it felt cold to the touch. The figure strolled up to the wagon, delicately opening one of the doors and inviting Sofie inside.
There was a lash from the front of a wagon, where some unseen teamster willed the horses into action. The one sat opposite Sofie saw her puzzlement.
"Banshee," he spoke slowly; articulately. He took off his mask and wiped his brow. He grinned at Sofie, and his voice was as sharp and delicate as his fangs. "They aren't seen until they want to be seen; she doesn't trust you yet. She will in time."
"In time?" Sofie spoke cautiously, like someone trying to walk through a field of nails.
"Oh, yes." The figure spoke. He was handsome, in a strange way. His face was smooth and his features were all sharp and defined. He conducted himself with the grace of a gentleman. "You look parched, dear. How about some wine?" He opened a case above his head and pulled out a small, clear bottle. Something red and viscous sat inside it. He poured a cup for himself and a cup for the Sister.
Sofie glared at it for a second. Something was strange about the wine, that shook like jelly in-time with every incline, pebble and jaggedness on the path. He looked at her expectantly, so she sighed and drank. It tasted perfect – the flavour was sharp and intoxicating, and she felt warmth flood into her face. Her cheeks, which had been bone-tight with decay before, were now lively and plump. She felt invigorated. "What is it?"
"Blood, dear." The man laughed sadistically. He watched her put the cup down for a few seconds before the alluring scent made her lop up every drop like a starved dog would with meat. "Oh, yes. Everyone's like that, when they start. You put it off for so long, you see; what civilized person would dare drink such a thing?" He paused. "And then when you take that first little sip, it's like someone's deprived something from you, all your life; something you needed." Something resonated with the young Sister. She watched him with intent.
"You hated your order, didn't you? The protocols, the rigidness. The mistreatment; why do you think they set you off with a merchant carriage, alongside bandits, and alcoholics, and lowlifes?" He laughed again and it drove through Sofie's ears like an ice-pick. "But enough about that. I want to know about the details. There's a story they told you, isn't there? Something about a Sister and a Babe…"
"I refuse to tell the likes of you." She spat. Blood was dripping down from the corners of her mouth in her feverish drinking.
"Very well. You'll learn to trust me," The man spoke with a disarming smile, "I intend you treat you like a Princess." There was a moaning of horses from ahead of the man, and the wagon drew to a halt. "It appears we are here." The man donned his helmet once more and slid out of the wagon. Sofie followed. The scene made her gasp.
The keep was an intimidating sight. Sat in an opening in the woodland like a king's head in the middle of a fur cloak, its tower seemed unnaturally and menacingly sharp at the tip. The main building was ringed with a single set of walls, all of coal-black stone, that were old enough to be respected, but well-kept enough to be fit for purpose. There was not a streak of moss or a hole in sight. In-between the open gate and the wagon, figures milled about slowly and with strain. The arrow that stuck from one's shoulder-blade as it stumbled out of an opening between trees, wood-axe loosely in-hand, told her that these were undead; and yet they made no effort to harm her even as she followed her new ally up to the gate. Indeed, on more than one occasion the undead servants would stop to let her pass. She could get used to this.
"How did we not see this?" She muttered aloud.
The man answered without losing his stride, "its great how fast and far you can travel, when your horses don't have the disease we call Life." He paused and tried to neuter the opaqueness of his last comment; "Now then, let us set about training you up."
"Training me up?" Sofie spoke hesitantly. She knew she was a hostage in all but name, but it'd worked out well for her thus far, so she was less than opposed to whatever the man had in mind.
"Why yes, my dear. You're going to make a lovely Lahmian." He chuckled, "Lovely Lahmian!"