"Through diligence, truth.
Through truth, justice.
Through justice, salvation."
Motto of the Truthblade Order
Reinesburg, Talabecland
Falk
Falk was fairly sure that no Empress had ever been born among the commoners of Reinesburg, but the locals insisted it was so. The most popular local tavern was "Her Highness's House", and wooden crowns were mounted above almost every front door in town. It was a nice change of pace from a town's point of pride being a particularly large pumpkin or fast horse, at least.
Beyond that oddity, Reinseburg was a typical sort of town one would see straddling the major roadways of the Empire. The town's permanent population was about one-thousand, but it could be double that on a given night depending on the traffic going between Talabheim and Altdorf. Only the main drag was paved, the rest of Reinesburg's streets mere channels of dirt that would become sodden swamps with the next heavy rainfall. Everything a traveler could need could be found lining the highway; inns, stables, farriers, wagoners, coopers, grocers, wholesalers, blacksmiths, the list went on.
As for what someone could want, well, that probably wasn't on the main drag.
Falk was a big man; tall, broad in the shoulders, thick through the middle. He wore a sleeveless, studded jerkin of dark leather and matching boots that were buckled at the knee over breeches that were striped in black and white. A wide-brimmed cavalier's hat rested at an angle upon his long, chestnut hair. Two feathers were stuck in the hat, both bright crimson. A falchion was sheathed on his left hip, a pistol on the right.
Walking off the highway that cut Reinesburg in half, Falk entered the town's small but busy red light district, really more of a red light alley. Still, it was night time, and thus couriers rubbed shoulders with merchants and mercs as each sought their own pleasure. Falk wasn't here to partake in the world's oldest profession.
Falk's steps took him to a brothel known by the rather wordy name of "Her Highness's Forgotten Half-Sister's House." From what Falk had pieced together, it was most commonly just called the Forgotten House. Whatever the name was, it was Falk's destination. He ignored the gyrations and catcalls of the establishment's employees in the windows, walking into a nostril-full of flowery scented air and an environment that was loud but not what one would call rowdy.
The Forgotten House's common room was brightly lit, which was somewhat odd to Falk. He was used to such places being dim. Immediately to his left and right as he walked in were several tables, most of them full of caravan guards playing at cards or dice. The brothel's employees flitted from table to table or up to the full bar until they managed to entice one of the patrons, clinging to their arms or sitting in laps, encouraging them to buy more ale, to play one more hand, smiling, laughing. There was an art to what these workers did, each gauging their quarries, figuring out what adjustments to behavior to make to maximize their chances of making a profitable evening.
A short, heavily freckled young man was the first to draw towards Falk, an iron fleck drawn by a magnet. The man's maroon shirt was unlaced, emphasizing a pale, hairless chest. The young man was handsome in that classical, effete way one would expect from a brooding, tragic hero in a stage play. Unfortunately for this one, Falk wasn't here for pleasure.
"Is there anything I can do for you, my good sir? Wine? A massage?" The worker asked, in a voice like silk.
Falk nodded once. "I'm here on business, not pleasure. Need to speak to the owner."
"I can assure you, sir, that one of my colleagues, or myself, can help you with both business and pleasure." The man said with a wink.
Falk sighed. "It's about Josette."
The prostitute's mask dropped from his face at the name. "Oh. Uhm…"
"Now, if you'd please. Time's not on my side." Falk insisted.
"Right. Yes. Come with me. Frau Sieglind is in her office." The young man said.
Falk followed his new guide through the Forgotten House, past cushioned couches and seats, past the bar to a stairway that led up to the second floor. Falk could feel the eyes of bouncers and workers alike on him as he started ascending.
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway went off to the left, but there was a wooden door immediately to the right that Falk's guide knocked on.
"Enter." A voice said.
The young man opened the door and walked in. Falk did the same. Beyond the door was a tackily appointed office with enough red velvet on the walls and furniture to create a shortage at the next Mondstille Fete in Altdorf. Behind a secondhand wooden desk of worn carvings and peeling lacquer sat the woman who had to be Frau Sieglind.
The Forgotten House's owner was of middling height and curvaceous build, dressed more like a bookkeeper than a brothel's madam in a burgundy silk dress. She held the wooden handle of a metal-tipped pen, dipping it in an inkwell as she briefly glanced up at Falk.
"If one of my employees has displeased you, be aware we don't do refunds." Sieglind said, surprising Falk with her candor.
"I'm not a customer. I'm Sir Falkenwulf Daur, Brother-Templar of the Order of Truthblades, in service to Wise Verena, Our Lady of Justice." Falk rattled off the introduction as he had many times before.
Sieglind raised an eyebrow. The irony was not lost on Falk that people expected servants of Verena to look like bookkeepers themselves, or stuffy judges looking down their noses. Falk produced a metal seal of office and showed it to her. It bore that same symbol of two swords crossed behind a set of scales that Falk had tattooed upon his right bicep.
"I'm here to talk to you about Josette." Falk went on as he tucked the seal away.
Sieglind frowned. She put her pen in the inkwell and let go of it.
"What about her? You lot already have her behind bars. She'll get her neck stretched and it'll be just one more whore for the pauper's grave, won't it? So why come bother us?" The madam snarled. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her complexion sallow. Sieglind hadn't been sleeping well, and had been weeping a lot.
"You're mistaking me. I'm here because I'm not so sure she's the one that did it. I want to ask you some questions. May I?" Falk asked. In truth, Frau Sieglind didn't really have a choice. The best he could offer sometimes was the illusion of choice.
"Help? Really?" Sieglind asked. A fragile hope bloomed in her voice. "Why?"
"The justice of Lady Verena is blind, Frau Sieglind. Your girl deserves a fair investigation and trial as much as an Emperor does. I aim to make sure this is one of the few times that ideal is actually held up." Falk leaned forward in his chair.
"Have you…Have you seen her? Is she alright?" Sieglind asked shakily.
"She's scared. Confused. Wasn't in a state to give me much. But alright. Now. Josette. Let's start with the basics. How long have you known her? What do you know about her?" Falk started the questioning. Hopefully this bore more fruit.
"She's been my best employee for nigh on five years now." Sieglind answered. She steepled her fingers. "Came from Bretonnia, you know. Couronne, I think. Gets the art of the work. Really gets it. I've been in this business for more than half of my forty winters. I know the naturals when I see them. Josette, she doesn't just make her customers believe in the act; she makes herself believe it, then takes it off like a cloak whenever she wants. First one I've ever needed a dedicated bouncer and waiting list for."
"So she's a well known person around town." Falk said. He was scribbling notes with a fountain pen into a small notebook. He caught Sieglind casting a covetous eye upon the writing utensil. They were a fairly new invention, expensive as hell for what they were, but damned convenient for the work.
"Certainly. Took all types through her door." Sieglind said.
"Any married individuals?" Falk asked.
"Sure, sure. Husbands and wives, both. Not a talker, my Josette. Kept secrets like a miser keeps coins." Sieglind answered.
Falk rubbed his chin as he pondered his next question. Infidelity in marriage was a common motive for all manner of violent deeds and retributive action.
"Any cuckolded spouses ever come around here looking for trouble?" Falk tried.
"Sure. What brothel hasn't had that? Klaus Jieber was probably the worst one, though. A cooper here in town, you see. His poor wife, Nadia; never seen a poorer match. Anyhow, Nadia was one of Josette's regulars and Herr Jieber took exception, came in here with a loaded pistol." Sieglind snorted. "Damned fool must've never used it before. It misfired when he tried to shoot Josette. My bouncers beat him black and blue and he left town."
Falk nodded. The story sounded adjacent to his case but not part of it.
"Can you think of any reason Josette would want to kill Rainer Traust?" Falk asked.
"No idea. Another regular, he was. Rich bachelor, a burgher here in town. But, guess you knew that." Sieglind idly scratched her nose, eyes distant.
"Would you say Josette cared for Herr Traust beyond him just being a regular client?" Falk queried.
"She liked him well enough, but I think that was mostly because he only just wanted someone pretty to eat dinner with once a week. Never had much interest in our usual services." Sieglind said with a shrug.
Falk nodded. "Where were you on the night of the murder?" He asked.
"Here. I'm here every night. I hadn't heard what happened 'til I woke up in the morning to the Baron's bully boys stomping through the place." Sieglind answered.
Another nod from Falk. She seemed to be telling the truth. He could tell she was protective of Josette, though. That might cause her to stretch the truth. Something to keep in mind.
"Josette's room. I need to look through it." Falk said.
"Of course. Baron's men made a mess of it, to be sure. Probably robbed the poor girl blind while they were at it." Sieglind said. She dug through a drawer and produced a key. "Right this was, sir."
Falk went with Sieglind out of the officer, ascending another set of stairs. They passed by a heavyset man with a prodigious mustache drunkenly swaying out of a door, his belt so haphazardly done up that his pantaloons were about to fall.
"Fix your belt, Heinrich. If you show your little hammer off outside the room you paid for I'll have one of the bouncers cut it off, you damned sot!" Sieglind snapped at the drunk.
Heinrich mumbled something incoherent, but did up his britches in a more satisfactory manner. Falk kept a bemused grin from his face.
Sieglind stopped outside of one of the doors in the third floor hallway, turned the key in the lock, then opened it.
"I'll seek you out if I need anything." Falk said by way of dismissal.
"Sir." Sieglind said with a slight bow of gratitude, then walked away.
Falk entered Josette's room. He used a small flint striker he kept for his tobacco pipe to light a lantern mounted on the wall beside the door. Sieglind had been correct. Baron Murrech's men had made a complete mess of the room. All the bedsheets were on the floor, personal belongings scattered, clothes trod upon by dirty boots. An armoire and a chest of drawers were open and clearly had been rifled through. The callousness of it rankled Falk. Maybe that was hypocritical. Maybe it was because Falk didn't think Josette was guilty. The Truthblade's line of work forced him to do some violent things, but this felt like punching down in an exceptional way.
"Blessed Verena, guide my sight." Falk muttered, then went to work.
He divided the room into sections and began searching, but quickly discovered that Josette didn't own very much. A few changes of clothes and undergarments, jars of cosmetics, a half-dozen secondhand poetry books, other pieces of miscellany that every person accrued on their day to day. Falk looked through a few papers he found on the ground, but they were all correspondence. They were written in Bretonnian, which was one of several languages Falk had learned during his years as a Truthblade.
A quick scan over the letters made it clear they were from Josette's family in Couronne, and Josette herself wasn't responding with anything other than continued confirmations that she was alive, well, and not coming home. The letters spoke of harvests, Josette's brother, Laurent, taking a job as a caravan guard, the local lord's knights clearing out some mutants from a nearby forest, a couple of marriages among Josette's childhood friends. Nothing exceptional.
Family can read and write, but this stationary's not what Bretonnian nobles would use, and neither's the verbiage in their letters. Merchant class family, maybe. Probably Yeoman. Falk mentally filed these facts away. They might matter, they might not. One never knew. He flipped through the poetry books to make sure nothing was hidden between the pages, checked under the bed and beneath the straw mattress. Nothing. None of the drawers had false bottoms, but then a quick check of the armoire revealed a false bottom. Falk pulled a board aside and looked within.
Three things were inside the secret compartment; a sheathed stiletto, a folded note, and a heavy coin purse.
Falk picked up the stiletto, unsheathing it. It was twelve inches of steel with a thin profile meant to slip easily into a body, too deep for a healer to just stitch up. A bad way to die, but this one didn't look like it had ever been used. Too narrow to be the murder weapon. Next, he checked the purse. It was full of silver shillings and brass pennies; a tidy sum for anyone of the lower classes to have saved up, but hardly the payoff for a contract killing. Finally, Falk opened the note and read it:
I've moved up the timetable. I'm ready. I hope you are, too. Don't bring anything. Everything will be prepared. It happens tomorrow night.
Falk's brow furrowed as he looked at the note. It could mean anything, but it was a damning piece of evidence without context. He still wasn't jumping to any conclusions. Verena bade that her servants examine as many angles as possible before passing judgement. As much as he tried to reassure Frau Sieglind, Falk was out to prove who was guilty, not to see if Josette was innocent. He'd be the first one saying the Bretonnian woman should go to the scaffold.
Falk folded the letter and tucked it into an inner pocket of his jerkin. The scene of the crime was his next destination, but that would have to wait. The night was deepening and an exhausted mind was a useless one. He left the room, closing the door behind him, then made his way out of the brothel without speaking to anyone else.
A few heartbeats after Falk left, two rough looking types followed after him, hands not quite going to the hilts of the swords they carried as they exited. Then, mere moments after those two left, another individual followed after them, drawing up the hood of a cloak as they went.
Draga
Dragamina Bajra had to keep an audible sigh of disappointment from her lips as she got herself on the tail of the two individuals following after her partner. This happened more than one would think. A warrior-priest or witch hunter of any god had a way of stirring the guilty to action, even if they weren't the targets, even if the feared holy warriors were merely passing through. It was amazing, really, how many times the guilty did the work of the righteous for them.
It was easy to follow Falk through the crowd. The man's ridiculous hat and ridiculous size made it look like an ogre was shoving its way through a gathering of halflings. It was also easy to follow the people that were trailing Falk. They were not professionals; at least, not at this. Sellswords, Draga wagered. Likely not locals. Few sellswords would make permanent residence in a place like Reinesburg. No, these were almost certainly a pair of caravan guards or simply mercenaries traveling in search of work that happened upon a job here.
Draga knew the hunt. She was a warrior-priest of Taal. She knew what prey and predator looked like, and she knew what a man looked like when he couldn't figure out which one he was. There wasn't overt hostility in the stance of the two sellswords. Did their hands stray near their weapons from fear, then? Did they expect the Truthblade to suddenly turn and draw his own steel?
The thing was, Falk knew about the men tailing him. He knew because they had followed Falk into the Forgotten House. Draga, in turn, had tailed them. The three part production continued on. Draga had her hands on the fighting knives she wore beneath her cloak. She did not carry the black longbow that was the signature weapon of her holy order. It would have been too obvious here.
There was a dearth of good places to have a confrontation without the interference of meddling guards, yet all but the smallest of hamlets were utterly lacking. Coincidentally enough, it was the back lot of the inn Draga and Falk were staying at that the Truthblade ended up leading his pursuers into. Draga drew one of her fighting blades. The messer was something between a knife and a shortsword. The hilt was distinctly like one would find on a knife, which made Draga call them knives for mostly arbitrary reasons, but all the same. The messer she held had a slight backward curve and a clipped point.
The Blackbow picked up her pace, slipping through the opening in the inn's back fence that those ahead of her had already gone through. Empty barrels and bottles were all around and the lot stank of piss. It was a poor impression of the establishment. The Halting Hoof was actually fairly nice, as cheaper inns went.
Falk was turned around, silently glaring at his pursuers. One was bald and stocky, average height, older. His younger companion had long hair, an abundance of tattoos. Baldy was starting to speak as Draga slithered up behind. She chose him, placing the blade of her dagger against the side of the man's neck, ready to plunge in and saw outward.
"What the f-...?" Her victim started to say.
"Ah ah. You're not the one asking the questions here." Draga cooed. "Weapons on the ground. Or I start cutting."
Neither thug moved. They were frozen with indecision. Inky wasn't threatening with a knife was close enough to draw steel and attack. He'd hit nothing except Baldy being used as a human shield, but regardless.
"Strigany. Sh-She's Strigany." Inky hissed. "She'll curse us, she will…"
"Only if you're very lucky." Dragamina said, playing up her accent.
"This, gentlemen, is my dear old friend Dragamina. She's a Blackbow of a Taal." Falk said. "A divine hunter, able to skin a deer faster than either of you can take a piss." The Truthblade grinned. "Speaking of, if you don't drop your weapons and cooperate, you might have a little trouble doing that once she's done…"
Swords hit the ground. Draga snickered.
"Step away", Draga said to Inky.
The heavily tattooed man did so.
Falk collected the swords, took a dagger off Baldy and a hatchet from Inky. When he was done, Draga released Baldy, stepping back to block off the exit through the fence.
"All yours, my friend." Draga said. She yawned and pulled her hood down. The Blackbow had thick hair of coppery auburn that she kept in a long braid. She had a deep tan and an abundance of freckles from years spent outdoors. Draga began cleaning under her nails with the point of her messer.
"Much obliged." Falk said. He turned his attention to the mercs. "Look, you have done anything other than follow me, so you're not past the point of no return. Tell me who put you on this and where I can find them."
"We don't know who it was!" Baldy croaked. "Wore a hood, they did, made their voice all quare. Couldn't pick 'em out if they was two feet in front of us."
Inky nodded enthusiastic agreement.
Falk sucked his teeth, pondering the sellswords. "What were you supposed to do after you followed me?" He asked.
"We was just supposed to leave a note saying where you were staying at a dead drop outside of town; a hollowed out stump in some grove. Geller's Grove, I think. Our money was gonna be in the dead drop." Baldy explained. "Please, sir, we'd never try to hurt a warrior-priest, but a man's gotta make a living somehow, doesn't he?"
Draga suspected they would hurt a warrior-priest if paid enough to do so. That was neither here nor there.
"I see. Well, gents…", Falk trailed off, and Draga could see the look he got when an idea was starting to coalesce in his mind. "...yes, I think you should go ahead and do what you were told. Make the dead drop. Tell them we're staying here." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the Halting Hoof.
Baldy and Inky looked at each other, confused.
"Uh…really?" Baldy asked.
"Really." Falk said. "Do it and leave town. Understand?"
"Yes. Yes, sir!" Baldy said, baffled but eager to be away.
Inky nodded vigorously in agreement.
"Good. Now get going." Falk said.
The two sellswords hurried away, not even pausing to pick up their discarded weapons. Draga watched them go with an idle sniff.
"So, you just volunteered me for 'follow the dumbasses' duty tomorrow, I take it?" Draga asked.
"Either that or finding Geller's Grove yourself." Falk said. "I need to go investigate Herr Traust's house."
Draga grunted, not actually bothered. This was why their partnership worked. Falk had street smarts, really seemed to feel a given city out through his boots. Draga, meanwhile, was most at home in the wilds, could blend in, track, hunt, and survive as only a servant of Taal and Rhya could. They had taught each other a few things over the six months they had worked together, but it was obvious whose expertise lay where.
"We're wasting our time, if you ask me. Classic case of a rich man lying to some poor doxie about how they were going to run away together and live like royalty." Draga insisted as Falk turned to walk into the back of the Halted Hoof.
"Figured it all out already, did you? Verena's seething that you picked a different god." Falk said with a smirk.
"Sarcasm looks as good on you as rouge on a skaven." Draga snipped.
Both of them laughed as they entered the inn. Draga did legitimately think what she said was true. She suspected Baldy and Inky were unrelated, some other lowlife trying to cover their ass, not realizing they weren't the target. The Blackbow was going to be happy to foil whoever might be on the other side of the dead drop, regardless.
The weather was just about as perfect as one could hope for; balmy, with intermittent clouds and a slight, crisp breeze.
Much of the Empire was forested. Talabecland was no exception to this. It was covered by the Great Forest, a place of deep shadows and dangerous creatures. Nevermind the goblins and beastmen, Great Forest wolves alone were enough to keep most sensible people indoors when the sun went down. Draga liked to believe she was sensible, but the forest was Taal's domain, and in it His servants had no equals, save the wood elves.
Draga had opted to learn of the location of Geller's Grove independently, finding her way out there and setting herself up. By the time she was settled, the sun was just peaking over the horizon with the dawn. With a hunter's patience, the Blackbow waited.
This was what the Blackbows were created for. They were an offshoot of Taal's more well-known order of warrior-priests, the Longshanks. Theirs was the duty of wandering the Empire, culling beasts, guarding both pilgrims of Taal and Rhya as well as their sacred shrines out in nature. But Longshanks could not remain in one place. The Wandering Vow meant they could only stay in a certain vicinity for a week at most. Some hunts took longer than that. Sometimes, it took weeks, even months, to take elusive or dangerous prey. Thus, the Blackbows were formed, chosen from trainee Longshanks who showed particular patience and a level-headed nature.
Draga sat on a branch up in a stout elm. Her face was painted with swatches of green and brown woad. Her dull green cloak was hung with leaves and twigs; far from perfect concealment, but it broke up the solid mass of drab green that would have stood out. Beyond this, Draga wore studded leather armor, itself dyed a seemingly random array of greens, browns, and greys.
Draga moved very little, remaining close to the trunk of the tree. She had a good view of the grove, a curious feature of geography. It was only about twenty yards across at its widest. A large tree stump sat at its center, taking up a solid quarter of the grove's area. It was hard to imagine such a huge tree growing here, easily dwarfing the rest of the forest. The Old World was full of such curiosities. Some were benign. Many more weren't.
Three hours passed. Draga had been taught how to slowly, carefully move her limbs to keep them limber without drawing attention. It wasn't always possible to do so, but stiff arms or legs could mean the difference between life and death if an angry troll suddenly came barging through the trees. After those three hours, there was movement.
Baldy and Inky emerged into the clearing. They looked around suspiciously as they did. The former had acquired a truncheon with nails driven through the business end, the latter a butcher's cleaver. Serious downgrades. Such was the life of a mercenary, Draga thought with a smirk.
As Draga watched, Baldy approached the big stump, climbing on top of it. He walked to the middle of it, produced a rolled up piece of paper, then stuffed it into a hole in the stump. It wasn't a very good hiding place for a dead drop, and though the grove wasn't easy to reach and few citizens would wander out this far, it was well-known enough that it couldn't be called secure.
Draga watched as Baldy started walking towards the edge of the big stump. She prepared to settle herself in for a long wait to see who would come for the dead drop.
Then Inky went down screaming, a crossbow bolt stuck in his gut. Baldy yelled wordlessly, struck in the chest by another bolt just as he was about to spring into whatever reflexive action his body had tensed up to achieve.
Draga felt her eyes go wide, but she remained completely still. It made no sense. Why hire the sellswords just to kill them? Why not use the people who did the killing to do the following and reporting and cut out the middle men?
The question was quickly answered. There were five of them, dressed in ragged clothing at odds with their well-kept weapons. At first glance, they appeared to be human. To call them as such would see the speaker join them on a pyre.
Mutants were an ever present problem in the Empire. It was preached by every major Imperial cult that corruption of the flesh was a visible sign of corruption of the soul. It was the duty of every pious citizen to know, hate, and destroy the mutant. Draga didn't hold such hatred in her heart. Hers was a much more clinical view. Whatever the truth of the matter, whether or not a mutant could hold goodness and kindness in their soul, it didn't matter. Mutation was the touch of the Ruinous Powers. Anything marked by Chaos had to be destroyed. It was that simple.
Each mutant was different from the others. One had a series of vestigial eyes upon its left cheek. Another walked on a leg that was a thick tentacle that flexed under every other step. Two held crossbows. The others held hunting spears. All had daggers or hatchets on their belts. A mutant with almost metallic looking grey skin and far too many exposed toes approached Inky, who sat slumped against the giant stump. The mercenary wheezed a plea for mercy.
A spear was thrust through him and into the trunk.
While a mutant with only an extra finger that was obviously visible climbed onto the big tree trunk to collect the message, Draga weighed her options. If these creatures were after the dead drop, then they would be taking it back to a leader. The mutants couldn't walk among the people of Reineburg. They would be killed on sight. Who hired Baldy and Inky, then? Draga knew she should follow these mutants back their leader. But, what if she did that, then had to choose between letting the mutants go and learning more about the person behind them? Any mutant could one day be a foot soldier in a warherd of beastmen, or mutate out of control into a chaos spawn that could destroy entire villages.
The grey mutant picked up the dead drop and didn't read it, merely tucking it into a ruined satchel bag hung over a bony shoulder. It hopped down from the stump, pausing only for its companions to finish looting the dead mercenaries, then they started heading into the woods.
Draga climbed down from her perch with a cat's grace. She had made up her mind. If there was someone in the woods around Reinesburg rallying mutants to their cause, she had to know who it was. As she had done countless times in the past, Draga trailed her targets, flitting between trees like a forest specter, fighting the urge to nock an arrow and let loose with every step.
Falk
Rainer Traust's home was an enviable townhouse in the heart of Reinesburg. Since the Baron kept his castle on a hill overlooking the town nearby, Reinesburg's center was where those who mattered in the settlement's little ecosystem dwelt. Reinesburg's burgomeister kept a manor and accompanying gardens in the very center of town, with their lessers radiating out around.
Traust's townhouse was three stories tall, standing on the end of a block. Flowers bloomed in window boxes on all three stories. It was quiet and unoccupied. Two soldiers in the red and yellow of Talabecland stood guard at the front door. They let Traust through when he showed them his seal. The Truthblades, much like the Witch Hunters of Sigmar and some other holy orders, were officially endorsed by the Imperial government, giving them authority over secular legal matters. Servants of Verena were commonly trusted as judges and lawyers as well as investigators like Falk.
Falk entered the Traust's house. The entryway was unremarkable. There were some cloaks hanging on hooks on the wall, a hatstand, small paintings on a wall leading down a hallway on the right, a staircase up to the second floor on the left. The murder had taken place on the second floor. Falk remained on the first for the moment, looking through a dining room, a kitchen, a sitting room. He found nothing of interest. There was a door to a cellar but he didn't go down there yet.
The crime scene itself was where Falk made his next stop. It was in the master bedroom on the third floor of the townhouse.
Falk had seen some gruesome, chaotic crime scenes. It was always odd to see one that was in relatively good order. The four poster bed was made and in good order. The dressers, writing desk, and chifferobe were free of blood and damage. Herr Traust had died in front of a cold hearth. Blood had long since dried to brown-black on a carpet before the fireplace. The victim had tipped over a high-backed leather chair in his dying moments, falling face down on the floor. The murder weapon had been a knife of some sort. Falk had seen the body where it was being embalmed by the local priest of Morr. Traust had been stabbed three times in the stomach and chest.
Falk produced his notebook and pen, beginning to scribble down notes about the crime scene, writing in a shorthand the Cult of Verena has taught him. No sign of a struggle; he was surprised, trusted the killer. No blood trail or smears. He died quickly. Handwriting on letters on desk match note found in Josette's room. Note was from victim.
Unfortunately, nothing in the room told him much as far as who was responsible. The letters on the desk were mostly business related, with a few that were regular correspondence with a cousin of Traust's in Talabheim. Falk found no false drawers or compartments here. The second floor was primarily the servants' quarters, Traust kept a housekeeper and a gardener that doubled as a cook. Both had been away from the house during the night of the murder, their alibis confirmed by witnesses. One had been in the red light district, the other at a temple of Morr to mourn a recently passed sibling.
But that itself was odd, wasn't it? Giving both servants the night off the same night Traust was murdered? Falk thought of the note from Josette's room. The victim had been planning something he didn't want anyone to know about.
That left the cellar. Falk went down there, carrying a lantern he purloined from near the front door. It was musty and cold, with odd acoustics. Falk drew his pistol, feeling silly for doing so, but better to have it and not need it, as the saying went. The gun was not quite one-of-a-kind, but it approached as such. It was big piece with two barrels, one atop the other. Runes of Khazalid, the dwarf language, were inscribed along the barrels, the grip wrapped with mournfang leather. It had been a gift from the dwarf engineer that had crafted the gun after Falk had recovered schematics that had been stolen from said engineer in Nuln. It was a cut-down dammaz thrund, "grudge raker."
Lantern in one hand, leading with the pistol, Falk reached the bottom of the stairs. The cellar was not large. A few wine racks and storage crates loomed out of the gloom around him. Falk took a few steps into the basement, his own footfalls crunching against dust sounding far too loud in his ears.
There, at the far end of the room, Falk saw something. Sitting beside a ladder were two travel packs, both of them fully laden. Falk was about to approach them when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
A canvas tarp had been draped over something in between two wine racks. It stood against the wall. Unease filled Falk's gut as he approached it, then gave the covered item a sharp prod with his toe. His boot struck something hard. The tarp didn't suddenly fly up in a flurry of claws and terror. Whatever was underneath wobbled a little, then went still. Falk set the lantern down on one of the wine racks, grabbed the canvas, and pulled, raising his gun as the tarp pooled on the ground at his feet.
What looked back at him was a roughly carved, wooden bust. The statue was crafted at about one-half scale, depicting an old, bearded man. The man had only one eye, and whorls marked his cheeks. The bust was resting atop a narrow shelving unit, upon which sat several sets of folded robes.
Falk grit his teeth. Before the Imperial Cults became the mandated faiths of the Empire, the barbarian tribes that would one day make up the Provinces had worshipped an endless variety of local deities and folkloric figures. These gods had been spirits, fell creatures, even daemons where they hadn't simply been made up with no basis at all. Even now, after thousands of years, cults to these things could be found. Problem was, even when worshipping some fake river spirit began as harmless, all too often, the horrors of Old Night were all too happy to suborn and twist them.
Leaving the idol behind and vowing to inform the Baron just how incompetent his men were for missing something like this, Falk walked over to the travel packs and inspected what was inside them. Money, clothing, preserved food. No dust built up on them. The packs had been set there very recently.
Falk scratched his head. A theory was beginning to form in his mind. Herr Traust, hosting a forbidden cult, decides he wants to run away with Josette for some reason. Perhaps the cult was getting too serious, or neighbors were onto him. Another member finds out and kills him for it. It had some merit, but there were still pieces missing. A murder would draw attention to the cult a lot more than letting a member flee town would. It didn't add up.
Another conversation with Josette was in order, Falk decided.
Creak.
Dust fell from the ceiling as someone entered the house above him. He lifted the grudge-raker on instinct, pointing upward. Either the guards themselves had come inside for some reason, or the more likely option, they had been paid off.
Two more sets of footsteps followed the first. They were moving slowly. They knew he was here. And their destination was clearly the stairway to the cellar.
Falk snuffed the lantern. He took cover behind a crate with a good view of the stairwell's landing, drew his falchion, and waited.
The new arrivals paused at the top of the stairs. There was a whispered discussion, then someone started walking down.
"Dunno who you are, stranger, but you'd best not try anything foolish." A shaky, masculine voice said. "We've got more outside. Just let us do what we're here to do and no blood needs to get spilled."
Falk had to suppress a snort. It was obviously a bluff. He'd grant these idiots might have one or two more people backing them up, but there were only a half-dozen sets of robes under the wooden bust, and one of the wearers was already a corpse. The Truthblade didn't answer. He just waited.
The footsteps drew closer. The long barrel of a handgun preceded its owner. Falk didn't smell the telltale acrid smoke of a slow-burn match cord. It was an expensive firearm, then. The hands that held it were shaking. Eventually, a paunchy figure in a merchant's finery entered. He was balding, with a large mustache. Behind him was a middle-aged woman in expensive riding clothes holding up a lantern, a pistol held uncertainly in her other hand. Bringing up the rear was a bespectacled man, the youngest of the three, clutched a rapier. His modest garments looked more like a scholar's.
Falk grew serious. Treat every threat like the one that's going to kill you. That's what his sergeant had hammered into his skull back in his days wielding a zweihander in the Ostland State Troops. Nervous and reluctant these three may have been, but they had just threatened a Truthblade, and were here to obfuscate a crime scene involving a heretical cult. There was only one way this ended.
Falk tossed his unlit lantern aside. It smashed into the wall near the heretical idol. Both handgun and pistol were fired off in a panic one splintering into the ceiling, the other actually shattering one of the few wine bottles the Baron's soldiers hadn't looted.
Rising from his place, Falk's pistol boomed twice, deafening in the enclosed cellar. The balding man and middle-aged woman both fell, each with a torso now a few grams heavier with tight groupings of lead pellets. Blood sprayed the wall behind them. The younger man with the rapier barely reacted by the time Falk had closed the distance with him. All it took was a single downward slash to knock the rapier from the youth's grip. Falk slammed into him, driving the young man back into the wall. The air whistled from his lungs as Falk raised the edge of his falchion to the youth's throat.
"Listen to me, heretic, and listen good. I'm going to ask you some questions. You'll answer them if you know what's good for you." Falk growled.
"M-Mother! Father!" The youth wailed. Now that he was up close, Falk could see the young man was probably not quite into his twenties yet.
The other two heretics were on the floor. The woman was already still, her heart pulped by a spray of shot. The man was squirming, curled in on himself as blood slowly pooled around him. The exit wound in his back looked like a cannonball had torn through him. He didn't have long.
"Look at me, boy. Look at me!" Falk snarled, pressing the blade of his sword to the youth's neck. "They're dead, and you're about to be unless you fucking talk!"
The boy was crying. Falk felt couldn't lie and say he felt no sympathy. This young man had probably been led into this cult by his parents. But there could be no tolerance for heresy.
"Who killed Rainer Traust? Which one of you was it?!" Falk accused. He wasn't actually sure if one of them had. He was just trying to evoke a reaction.
"Wh-What? Killed…?" The youth asked, the statement serving the desired purpose and shocking him into some semblance of usefulness. "No. No! We didn't kill him! Brother Rainer was the one who led us in the worship of-AGH!"
Falk let his sword split the young man's neck enough to draw blood.
"I am a Truthblade of Verena, and I swear on the Lady of Justice that I will open your throat right now if you dare utter the name of whatever unholy falsehood you worship." Falk snapped. "If you didn't kill Traust, then who did?"
"I don't…We didn't know! We weren't here. We just heard he was dead and that whore he kept bringing around did it." The youth exclaimed. He then looked down at his parents and started blubbering incoherently.
Falk sighed. These three all being related had been an unexpected variable. He was inclined to believe what the boy was saying, though. These people were not killers, for all they wanted to appear so.
"You're coming with me." Falk said, beginning to haul the lad up the stairs.
"No. No! Mother! Fath-"
Falk slammed the young man's head against the wall. He went limp. This one wouldn't be able to tell him much about the murder, but he would be able to tell the Baron's men about who else was in the forbidden cult. Falk threw the youth over his shoulder and started ascending the stairs. Speaking of the Baron's men, they'd be here soon after those gunshots, and Falk would have to figure out just which ones had allowed these cultists through the front door at some point.
Josette was somewhat taller than average. Falk suspected she had always been slender, but almost a week in a cell, eating whatever the Baron's jailer deigned to give, had reduced her to something closer to waifish.
Or maybe it was the fact that she was dead.
Josette had tied the sheet from her cot around her neck, attaching the other end to the bars around the high window of her cell. It was a bad death, the sort a victim really had to think through the entire time it was happening. She'd gone through with it. There was no beautiful tragedy of star-crossed lovers here, no final note with some trite words about hope for the rest of the world. Josette was simply dead, all but admitting her guilt except for one thing. It had happened after the morning bowl of gruel. Falk knew this because Josette had smeared a word upon the floor using the watery porridge; a word that answered some questions and raised others.
Falk knew he should feel more. It was a young life cut short, passing from the hands of Verena, who judged the living, into the hands of her husband, Morr, who judged the dead. The fact was that, knowing what he knew now, she might have done herself a favor.
Falk was just leaving the town garrison when he saw Dragamina approaching at a jog, her expression grave.
"You look like you found something." Falk said, sounding more tired than he intended.
"We need to see the Baron." Draga said at once.
"Why?" Falk asked.
"Because there's a big gang of mutants out there and some fucker has them stirred up." Draga explained.
…could it be?
"This, uh, fucker…you happen to hear a name?" Falk asked.
"No. I don't think he's the one in charge. Had a weird accent, too." Draga said. "Why?"
"Because I think I know who it is." Falk said, already looking around for the nearest coach or wagon that could be hired to take them up to the castle. "And I think what you and I have been looking into was all linked after all."
Draga
The Baron deserved some small amount of credit. A substantial number of the Empire's nobility were decadent sops removed from the society they were supposed to steward. Many of them who fell under that category were both indifferent towards their duties while also being misers over everything under their control; money, territory, and in this case, soldiers. The Baron of Reinesburg was obviously decadent, with his rotund frame hobbled by gout and a face marked with broken blood vessels from a life of heavy drinking. His indifference, however, was different. He wanted problems solved. He just didn't want to put any effort into solving them. All it took was a semi-convincing argument from the two warrior-priests for the Baron to lazily raise a hand and order the captain of his soldiers to gather a force.
Captain Gregor was a hard-bitten man in his late thirties. A wooden nose was strapped across his face to conceal the fact that the one he was born with had been hacked away at some point. He was, in Draga's opinion, a quintessential example of an Imperial soldier; rough voiced, foul-mouthed, blunt, and altogether a delight to be around.
Gregor's experience with the armies of Talabecland had primarily been serving with units of Huntsmen, and thus, he was creeping through the forest alongside Draga and four others. Even though Draga was a full fifteen years younger than Gregor, the Captain showed her great respect for her status as a Blackbow, showing the symbols of Taal and Rhya tattooed on the backs of his hands. He wasn't going to let her command any of his troops, of course, but that was fine. Draga was no commander.
Some distance back from the six scouts were two-dozen soldiers walking alongside Falk, making enough noise to wake up the lizardmen of Lustria. If Draga's count of the enemy camp had been right, they would be outnumbered two to one. Superior training, equipment, and experience would have to be sufficient to counter superior numbers.
Draga signaled a halt as she spotted a sentry among the trees and brush. One of the other scouts, who was far enough back to be seen by the main body of troops, relayed the signal. The mutant wasn't making much of an effort to hide. He leaned on a spear, staring out across the forest. Had it not been for a breeze making the brush move and rustle, approaching unnoticed would have been almost impossible.
"Mutie?" Gregor asked in a low voice.
Draga nodded wordlessly, nocking an arrow. Her ebon longbow had been blessed by a high priest of Taal at the height of the spring equinox, imbued with holy power to strike down all that profaned the natural order. In a motion she had practiced thousands of times, Draga stood, pulled back the string, and let her arrow fly. The sentry had just enough time to fully realize someone had just stood up in his field of view before the arrow crossed the distance and sank into his throat. The mutant fell, clutching at the arrow.
"Taal's holy horns." Gregor said with approval.
Draga didn't reply. The hunt wasn't over. She switched her longbow to her other hand. Draga had taught herself to shoot with both hands and did so as often as possible to keep both arms strong. Signaling the advance, Draga got moving once again.
The mutant camp was in a minor uproar as its inhabitants scurried around, packing things, dowsing campfires. Draga noted that some of them were dressed in a style more common in Bretonnia than the Empire, with woolen, hooded stohls or mantles on their shoulders. The gang were leaving the area. They weren't numerous enough to threaten Reinesburg, but they'd leave a trail of destroyed caravans and raided villages along their route of travel. There were no pickets out. The mutants were too focused on getting out of here. Amateurs.
Draga made another signal, then got herself into position. Falk and the Reinesburg troops approached shortly thereafter. The Truthblade was at the fore, clad in half-plate and with a wave-bladed flamberge that was longer than Draga was tall resting on his shoulder. As much as Draga wished she and the other scouts could just open fire and get a free volley in, the big oaf had other plans.
The mutants started seeing the approaching formation of State Troops, men in breastplates and helmets, carrying shields and spears.
"Laurent!" Falk bellowed. "Laurent! Show yourself!"
Draga peered at the mutants. As expected, the shouting voice drew all their attention. But then, several of them looked towards one young man; the same young man with an extra finger Draga had seen grabbing the dead drop, the one who had gotten this camp all worked up.
The Blackbow fire. Her arrow took Laurent through the thigh and he went down with a wail.
"Open fire", Gregor commanded, loosing an arrow of his own.
Several more of the mutants dropped as feathered shafts fell among them. A big mutant wielding a laborer's mattock rallied the mutants around him.
"We got 'em outnumbered, you cowards! Kill 'em all and we'll take their meat for the road!" The leader bellowed and sent them forward in a charge.
Draga and the other scouts fell back behind the spearmen.
"I was right." Falk muttered as she passed by him.
"Don't be fucking smug." Draga retorted.
Falk kept the spearmen together as much as the trees would allow. They locked shields, spears pointed outward in well-drilled order. The Truthblade's pistol roared twice. A mutant's head exploded, another losing a leg at the knee.
"Lady of Justice!" Falk bellowed, letting his flamberge fall like a guillotine. It cleft the first mutant in half before the creature could even get into striking distance.
Spears thrust out. Mutants were spitted upon them. Draga sent several arrows down range, felling a barrel chested brute with fish scales on his face. Then the mutants were among the soldiers and things became too muddled to shoot surely.
"Blessed Taal, may my steel take the prey." Draga uttered as she slipped her bow into its sheath and drew her messers. The Blackbow emerged from the foliage and stabbed a mutant in the back, pivoting around them to suddenly appear before another and open their belly with a quick slash. Intestines that squirmed just a little too much on their own spilled to the forest floor. Draga ducked under a swung axe that stuck in a tree trunk, slitting open the arm that held it down to the bone from wrist to elbow. The axe stayed in the tree as the injured arm let it go.
Draga weaved through the melee, rebounding from a spearman falling back with his helmet stoved in by a pickaxe. There was Falk, his greatsword hewing the head from a mutant's shoulders as the clawed hands of another were fouled by the back of his cuirass. Draga fell upon the one behind Falk, dragging them to the ground, stabbing them in the crook of the neck repeatedly.
"Stay down!" Falk roared.
Draga did so. She felt the air move in the wake of Falk's sword as the flamberge cut its ponderous arc. Steel bit through flesh and bone. The legs of a mutant ran into Draga as the accompanying torso flopped to the ground.
"Had that one." Draga said breathlessly as she stood up.
"Never doubted it." Falk said.
No time to survey the battle. The big mutant with the mattock caved in a spearman's breastplate, sending the man down with a jet of blood from his mouth. Another tried to avenge his fallen comrade but the mutant chief smashed the butt of the handle into his attacker's face.
"Only the worthiest prey for hunters of Taal, right?" Falk asked, hefting his flamberge as the chief rounded on the duo.
Draga nodded as she flicked the blood from her messers. A smile was on her lips. She lived for this.
"You always introduce me to the nicest people." The Blackbow said.
The two warrior-priests charged as one. The mutant leader did the same.
The mattock whipped through the air, a meteoric swing. Falk planted his feet, one hand bracing just above his flamberge's crossguard upon the leather-wrapped ricasso. The impact of the blow caused Falk to skid back a full foot, but Draga managed to roll under it, slashing out with a messer in an underhanded grip. The blade carved through the leader's right thigh and he snarled in response.
Stars flared before Draga's eyes as a backhanded fist clubbed her in the back of the head. She stumbled forward, barely keeping her feet. The mutant chief stood toe to toe with Falk, superior strength showing in the way the leader's mattock whirled about as if it had been crafted for war and not breaking soil. Falk was on the defensive, warding away the mattock's strikes with the parrying hooks just above his flamberge's ricasso.
Draga didn't think. She sprang up onto the mutant leader's back, hacking downward with one hand, but the big man's thrashing kept her from doing anything but scoring flesh wounds. Draga did manage to flense off an ear, something that caused the mutant chief to shriek with pain.
"Draga! Drop!" Falk warned.
The Blackbow released her enemy, falling to the forest floor. She saw Falk had used the chief's distraction to plant his flamberge in the earth, then quickly break open and load fresh shells into his pistol. His thumbs were pulling back the twin hammers by the time Draga's backside was hitting terra firma.
A shot rang out. The pellets ripped into the mutant chieftain's chest. Even still, somehow, the big man lurched forward, mattock raised and ready to brain the Truthblade that now had no sword to parry with in a final act of defiance.
One of Draga's messer's slipped into the mutant's armpit, snaking in to pierce the leader's heart. The mutant shuddered, losing his grip on the mattock as he tried to swing it, momentum carrying him into a twirling fall to the ground.
Draga looked around the forest. What few mutants remained alive were scattering now, more than one stricken down by a Huntsman's arrow. Fully half the State Troops that had joined the two warrior-priests in this fight were either dead or wounded to the point where they might as well have been. The survivors were picking through the carnage, spearing wounded mutants, pulling their comrades out from under bodies. Few of them were unscathed. It was the Empire in microcosm. Bloodied and battered, but victorious. Losses to mourn, but future horrors had been prevented. Captain Gregor caught Draga's eye and offered her a casual salute in spite of the carnage around him. To veterans like Gregor, this was just another day on duty.
"Need to make sure the mutants don't escape." Draga said, trading her messers for her longbow.
"Right." Falk said. "Good hunting. I'll go have a talk with Laurent. Nice shot there, by the way."
"You really should learn to expect nothing less, my friend." Draga said with a wink, then set off in pursuit. This final part of her hunt, she expected, wouldn't take long.
Falk
His flamberge shouldered with one hand, his grudge-raker gripped in the other, Falk stalked into the half-packed mutant camp. There was Laurent, desperately trying to drag himself away, leaving behind a trail of blood that was far too bright in its redness to be natural. As Falk walked along the blood trail, he passed by a hastily loaded wagon. One of the items sitting in it was a wooden bust of the same effigy that had been in Traust's cellar.
Laurent heard him coming. The Bretonnian drew a dagger as Falk approached, turning as if to fight the Truthblade from the ground. Blood still oozed from the entry and exit wounds of Draga's arrow.
"The bow that put that arrow through your leg isn't the only holy weapon you have to face today. This silvered blade of mine has been blessed by one of the high priests of my goddess, on the anniversary of the day Verena herself judged her first high priest worthy. Do you really think you'd be able to do anything with that pig sticker, even if you had the use of both legs?" Falk asked him as he stopped in front of Laurent.
"Better to die fighting." Laurent retorted through clenched teeth.
"And that wasn't even mentioning the pistol." Falk added.
Laurent just scowled, then grimaced. He tossed the dagger aside.
"Let's get the important part out of the way first." Falk said, looking down at Laurent. "You killed Rainer Traust."
Laurent blinked. He didn't say anything, but he did look away. Not exactly a confession of guilt, but it wasn't a defense, either.
"Let me see if I have this right." Falk said, planting his sword, leaning on it as he crouched down, his pistol aimed at Laurent. "You grew up in a Yeoman family. For the peasant class of Bretonnia, something approaching paradise; more wealth than most peasants will ever dream of with none of the responsibilities of the ruling class. Still happily forgotten by the nobles, as close to free as you could hope. And your parents, desperate to keep this perfect position for your family, have tried to sculpt you and all your sibling perfectly to carry it on. But you all chafed at it. It was Josette that finally had the courage to flee, seek her own way. You were envious. Do I have it so far?"
Laurent's deepening scowl was his confirmation.
Falk went on. "Things went on mostly per usual until the troubles with the mutants, so bad your local lord actually bothered to rouse his knights and ride out to destroy them. Gods know how much grief they were giving you until then. Close proximity to mutants tends to cause more mutations, this is common knowledge, so that does beg the question; were you born mutated, or did it crop up later?"
"Was born with the extra finger. Parents always made me wear gloves." Laurent said bitterly. "The bright blood came later."
"Either way, that incident meant more scrutiny. Wasn't safe for you. So you got your wish, except it wasn't your choice. Your parents stuck you as a caravan guard, making money for the family while also getting out of their hair. Except you didn't join alone, because some of the others we just killed survived your lord's purge and joined up with , wouldn't you know it, your caravan came through a caravan town like Reinesburg, a place you knew your sister was. In asking around about her, you found out about Traust, and he led you to something else." He pointed at the wagon where the wooden bust was. "A heretical cult that welcomes mutants. So you came out here, where you all would have remained forgotten. Except you couldn't leave well enough alone. You stabbed Rainer Traust to death. Question is; why?"
Laurent gasped as some fresh wave of pain swept through him.
"Josi ratted me out, didn't she?" The mutant asked.
"In a way, yes." Falk said. "She wrote your name in gruel on the floor of her prison cell shortly before she hanged herself."
"Hanged…!" Laurent breathed, and for a moment the pain of his wound was eclipsed by the pain of loss.
Falk waited.
"Traust tried to get her to join the cult. The two of them were going to leave to spread it in Talabheim. That's what Traust planned, anyway. He brought me to the house, a new convert, to try to help persuade her. Josi lost it. She was going to tell the guards. Traust was going to kill her when she said that."
"And so you protected your sister." Falk finished.
Laurent nodded, his expression desolate. "That's what a big brother's for, isn't it?"
Falk sighed, standing up. There was no point in delaying things any longer. "By the power vested in me by Verena, Our Lady of Justice, I pronounce you guilty of the murder of Rainer Traust, of bearing the mark of the Ruinous Powers, of consorting with mutants, of heresy, and of conspiracy to spread proscribed faith. The sentence is death. Have you any last words?"
"None that would make a difference." Laurent said, closing his eyes.
"Then go now to your final judgement." Falk said as he pointed his pistol and fired the remaining shell.
Laurent's lifeless body went still.
The next day was cloudy, marred by a constant fine drizzle of rain. It wasn't the best weather for traveling, but Falk wanted to be away from Reinesburg.
The Truthblade felt no joy from the work of the past few days. There was, perhaps, a feeling not unlike closure from seeing Verena's work done, but that was as good as it got.
"Josette was doomed anyway. You know that, right? Once the Baron's people learned her brother was one of the mutants, or her beaux was a cultist, she was done for." Draga said.
The two warrior-priests were on horseback, riding side-by-side down the forested highway to Nuln, and eventually, Altdorf.
"I know." Falk said. "It's not just her."
"Yes, it's fucking unfair that those people got turned into mutants." Draga added. "Not their fault. They didn't choose that life. But how long until they got scooped up by a beastmen warherd? Or until one of them mutated out of control into a chaos spawn? They got all their weapons from somewhere and it wasn't making them themselves, and you don't feed that many in the wild on hunting alone."
"Or a daemon would take the place of their god. I know, lass. If I couldn't handle the work, I wouldn't be doing it." Falk assured her. "It's just…heavy sometimes."
"It is." Draga agreed. "Tell you what, when we hit Nuln, I'm taking you to a wine place I know and we're going to get absolutely sloshed."
"On wine?" Falk asked.
"Wine drunk is different from ale drunk. And the hangover's about five times worse." Draga explained.
"You're not making it sound particularly tempting." Falk said.
"I'm also not giving you an option." Draga said. "Rhya holds dominion over what comes from the vine. You'll offend her if you refuse."
Falk snorted. It was difficult to remain sullen around Draga. Maybe that was one of the reasons why they were still working together.
"Far be it from me to stand in the way of Rhya's will, then." Falk chuckled.
The road continued to stretch out before them, and at least for the moment, it didn't seem so dismal.