Once the last cultist had passed through the adhoc gate, it closed behind him with a metallic groan. The whole encampment was sectioned off by a crude perimeter wall, made up of anything the heretics could gather, and contained three clusters of tents occupying what was once the central courtyard for an administrative complex. It looked to have housed a good fifty people at peak, but given the recent skirmish, it must've been much fewer now.
As the survivors passed into the courtyard, their heads hung in shame and their faces a spiteful, rage-filled glare, they began to drop off and go about their business. One marauder moved off into the first cluster of tents, behind which a thin trailing of smoke betrayed some sort of smithy in action. Another handful broke off and head into the old town hall, it's dominant presence stood in contrast to the meagre and primitive nature of it's new denizens. The final, tallest and most ashamed of the marauders advanced on, never once letting his eyes wander and never once speaking to any whom he passed.
He passed the final cluster of khaki, leather tents and turned into an alley. Marching forward with a resigned sigh, he turned the corner into the back of the hall. From where he stood, to halfway through the room - which was divided by a thick, black set of curtains - the place betrayed it's past role as a storage room. Large crates of wood, long-since ransacked with their lids still hanging open or absent, were all about. That didn't matter to him.
What mattered was what lay on the other side. He stepped forward, wincing slightly when he heard an echoing scream from behind the curtain. It wasn't that he sympathised with the victim; after all, his warband had scattered all who they had met, and whoever that was must have been a spoil of war, with whom to pay tribute to Chaos.
But what his master could do to that person, he could do to the marauder, too. He swallowed hard and pushed past the curtain. Inside, sets of chairs with bindings for wrists and ankles lay in lines on either side. An intimidating figure stood at the end of one line, examining his latest victim. He was a full head or two taller than any of the others - even the marauders themselves, as hard as that would be to believe. He was fully encased in plate, striking magenta and covered in thick, white patterns that ached to look at, and more painful still to try and understand. The figure took a black hood from the table and covered the victim's head, before freeing him of his bonds and throwing him away with the care of a man swatting flies. He landed out of sight with a thump and a squeal, and there was a shuffling as he was taken away.
The armoured figure turned and looked at the trembling marauder - though in what manner he could not say. There was a deep, muffled sigh. The figure stepped closer. Then, in a strangely beautiful voice, he spoke:
"Who have you brought for me today, my pawn?"
The Marauder gulped. He ran rings around one hand with the other and averted his gaze to the floor. "No-one." He mumbled.
"Speak up, you aren't a snivvling Imperial!" His master seethed.
"No-one." He yelled this time, almost in defiance. He saw the darkness bend in the back of the room as something began moving along the wall. It reached the corner before the movement of this master ahead of the marauder drew his attention back.
"Well, who am I to play with today then?" He cocked his head questioningly.
"Perhaps..." The Marauder paused, "Perhaps the misguided one, from the last raid? You do so like torturin-"
"No!" The plated one spoke in anger - he would've spat if there wasn't a helmet to stop him. "There is only so much he can take... And I require him alive. You, on the other hand..."
The Marauder stepped back. He heard a creak and a slam, and what light the door let pass before was now an envelopment of darkness.
When Sofie reached the end of the road, seeing the cobbled-together wall twenty-odd metres away, she was stopped in her tracks by a raw, horrified screaming.
She stopped, breathing hard into her helmet in surprise. "Are you sure this is where our captive lies?"
"Yes," The banshee groaned with all the enthusiasm of an office secretary. "I don't suppose you're afraid by a little crude wailing?"
Sofie grit her teeth and began looking for a way in. The wall cut across the road from the front of one building into that of the other. It was sturdy enough - as sturdy as you'd expect from barbarians like this, at least. It was all wood and plates of iron, perhaps smelted down from looted weapons and the like. The entire wall was riddled with holes as if it had been attacked before, but the passivity of it's inhabitants - there wasn't a single guard or watchman this side of the central pulley-fed gate - made that seem unlikely.
She began to pace parallel to the wall. There was no doubt in her mind that she could brute force her way in, but she did not know how many, or what, she would be met with if she did so. What if she was swarmed and beaten...
She scoffed at the idea of losing to a mortal, but was regrettably aware of the possibility, however unlikely. Instead, she opted to take a look from the high ground - this cult had set up in the shadow of the main hall, after all, and what they gained in prestige they lost in stealth. She began pacing towards the nearest building, burying her gauntlets in the wall to make her own grips, but when a shimmering light began to spread from over her shouldier she realised she'd been beaten. She turned around.
The source of the light was the translucent figure of a woman. She could not tell her age or demeanor - her face was devoid of any features, and her shape was hazy and hard to pinpoint, even for a vampire. It spoke and it's voice was familiar, of course, but also far more friendly:
"Sofie, I know of a way in." She spoke abruptly, in a calm and soothing echo.
"Is that so? Please share..." Sofie responded, although she wasn't fully paying attention, too busy was she observing the skyline for opportunities to get in.
"This encampment relies on a watchman with a horn - crude, if I may say so, my lady - to alert it to threats, at which point the warriors within should scramble towards the gate. I will make my way into his body; you would be surprised how weak-willed these zealots and barbarians are," she observed, but then gave it more thought: "Or maybe not."
"Excellent, Banshee... Thank you. I don't think I've done that yet." She spoke with a warmness that she had almost forgotten she possessed, but perhaps the Banshee taking a physical form, however otherworldly, coaxed what was left of it from her.
The Banshee chuckled in embarassment, nodded, and disappeared. Sofie felt a cold wind blow past her, in the direction of the town hall's foremost spire. She scaled the nearest building and waited for the time to strike.