At that, Heinrich nodded, "Icon. Eat. Everything else is details and we control none of them. Roll the dice, see how these priests take the matter" and he took a small pouch from his belt, shook it for the rattle and clatter it produced, "Perhaps find a filthy little tavern and roll some dice for true"

He tucked the pouch back into his belt, looping the drawstring round where it was before.

"Let's be off, then" and he smirked, "Before Sigmar returns" and then he headed downstairs to wait for the others outside the ex-livery

The matter decided, you head down through the crowded warehouse, trying your best to ignore the sounds of fighting and fornication coming from behind the thin doors and walls. The place is alive with people, calling to each other from up and down the four levels. Accents and curses from across the Empire, and beyond, assail your ears.

Out on the street, the air is calmer, though not quieter. Behind the shouts and calls emanating from the nearby buildings, the ever present hammering of building work is a background rumble coming from the walls, especially towards the north. Despite this noise, the streets are fairly clear. The afternoon is drawing on, and most of those who would otherwise be loitering here have headed elsehwere, perhaps in search of food, or better yet, drink.

Taking a moment to orient yourselves, you fix your eyes upon the spires of the Temple of Ulric. It towers above the city, stretching up like the Ulricsberg itself, visible even over the fine houses and competing flags of the Merchant Quarter. With the Temple as your guiding star, you head down the streets and alleyways of Southgate-Ostwald.



Emerging onto one of the main strasses, a riot of industry welcomes you. The wide road that stretches back to the South Gate is full of goods wagons and marching bands of refugees and uniformed soldiers. Officers on horseback, calling to one another, direct the flow of people. Despite the busynees, there is an order to the madness. Hailing a nearby officer, you are directed to follow the road up towards the Plague Memorial, then bear right around the Great Park and pass through the Frieburg.

Proceeding up the Sudetenweg, you can hear a commotion ahead of you. Drums and pipes sound as cheers echo out. As you emerge into the square you see a crowd gathered around the huge statue in the centre. A tall, crowned figure stands, supporting a child on each shoulder and crushing a rat beneath its feet. The source of the music and cheers comes from the men draping a flag around statue. It is bloodied and torn, but it is the flag of Ulric, and those draping it are dressed in the armour and livery of the White Wolves, Ulric's fighting priesthood.

A band of musicians stands below them, extorting the crowd to greater cheers as they play the battle songs of the Wolf God. Around you, you notice a small band of watchmen observing the crowd, a couple of them looking somewhat uneasy. Most people are moving around on their business, but some are being drawn to the fanfare, and the crowd is growing...

Dietrich still felt the song of life fully lived now that they were back in civilization. Yes, there was camaraderie and laughter in a military encampment, but there was always the dark cloud of death and horror hovering over everything. Here, people could be who they wished to be without the fear of ancient unknowable evils and endless hordes of crazed zealots and mutated monstrosities. The pleasant atmosphere and fine afternoon put a bounce in his step that hadn't been present during the Storm.

When they came across the crowd and the music, the young man cocked a single brow as he beheld the scene.

"Can't say I'm a fan of the statuary..." he drawled casually.

The sight of the nervous watchmen was not lost on him. He may have been given an education to be an officer, but he had been born with a sword in his hand, and the war against Chaos had put him in the mud and blood with everyone else. Despite his light commentary, he kept both crowd and lawmen in his periphery vision, and kept his hand on the hilt of his fine Bretonnian steel.

Besides the nobleman, Heinrich hawked and spat on the cobbles, wiping his moouth with his sleave. His eyes were more on the watchmen than the crowd, for nervous men with badges and a sense of righteousnes were the greater danger in his mind, "Folks back home say this is Ulric's city more than Sigmar's; few would argue with those wearing plate and a wolf plate"

"Unless we want to be caught up in this fervour, best slip through quick" he offered, more warily, "Quick and quiet"

His fingers were wrapped into his belt, more concerned with his coin than this battered blade

Gilly threaded his way through the crowds, trying to keep up with his taller companions. In some places, he had the advantage of being small and nimble, in others not so much. But he managed to keep up and not gawk too much at the very crowded city and its very . . . vulgar inhabitants. At all times he kept one hand firmly clutched on his purse.

The scene at the statue and the presence of the Wolf God's priests make him draw back a little into the crowd so as not to stand out. Ulric is an old god, and while not exactly at odds with Sigmar, the two faiths do not mix well together.

He notes the reaction of the watchmen and wonders if there are schisms within the population that might make it . . . awkward to speak too openly about one's religion.

"We should keep moving," he suggests to the others.

Corvin turned a little red at some of the noises they originally heard. He ducked his head with an uncomfortable look on his face, the ghost of a smile, but he hurried on.

He kept his head on a swivel, as the saying went, trying to stay alert and aware while still taking in the sights. Some of the sights were less pleasant than others, but this was the biggest city he'd ever been in.

When they asked the office for directions to the temple, he hung back and asked another question of his own.

The crowd and the music didn't bother him. The uneasy-looking watchmen was something to watch out for. He wasn't sure if it was just the crowd, the religious part or something else, but they were on edge and he thought something violent might happen in the near future. He wanted no part of that.

He nodded at the others. "Yes, move on, good idea."

Eyeing up the growing crowd with caution, you skirt around the spectacle, keeping hands on your purses as you do. The largest White Wolf that stands astride the statue seems to be leading the crowd in a chant. You all recognise trouble brewing when you see it and so do the soldiers and watchmen dribbling into the square.

Leaving the racket behind you, you strike a course east, towards the boundary of the Great Park. The road here is busy, full of an loud combination of pilgrims, street preachers and soldiers. Forced to shoulder your way past in parts, the reason for the crowd looms clear above you. The Great Temple of Ulric. A wonder of the modern world, or so you've been told. It looks the part, certainly. Heavy battlements enclose three sides of a central courtyard. A huge, vaulted dome rises from the centre, with a massive tower on the eastern wing. Smaller buildings stand in the shadow of all this, some old, built from the same dressed stone as the temple. The rest are clearly new, thrown up hurriedly or at random in red brick or white mortar.

The courtyard is thronged with people from across the Empire and beyond. You see pilgrims bearing the crest of Taal, shivering in their southern garb. A tall woman, her face tattooed in the style of the Norscans, pushes through the crowd, a black iron greatsword resting across her shoulders. Kislevite music rings out, low and fast, and voices tinged with all manner of accents call out praise to Ulric. Watching over the whole procession are the fur-clad Knights of the White Wolf. Bearded and heavy-browed, the glare at all those who pass through the gates of the Temple, hands straying to the hafts of their warhammers.

As you pass by, a man with a shaved head approaches you. He wears a threadbare brown robe and the remains of several pelts. Clasping an open box in his hands, he stands in your path and holds it aloft.

'Spare alms for the Saint? For Ulric's favoured son?'

Blanching, you meet the gaze of the eyeless skull inside the box. As you do, you can see the man seems to have several companions, dressed alike, and drifting towards you...
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:15, Tue 24 Sept.

Fingering a shilling from his purse, Heinrich nodded to himself as the shaven figure approached, "Seems a man oughta know another man's name before he parts with the Empire's coin" and he smiled, gesturing to the blanched skull, "Tell me about this fellow, my ma and pa raised me down south, where men must bow their head to the twin-tailed comet"

He tumbled the shilling between his fingers, then stopped, pulled out a second shilling, "Perhaps when the story’s told, you might point me to wherever Sigmar is hallowed here; I would rest easy telling ma I had left a pfennig-offering there, whilst I was here"

While Dietrich was more than happy to take a moment to admire the architecture of the Great Temple of Ulric, which could not hold a candle to the First Chapel in Bordeleaux or the Cathedral of Sigmar Risen and Transformed in Altdorf, it certainly had its own charm and style worth experiencing. And the young man also thought himself a man of charity, so he was unbothered to wait while Heinrich conducted his business. But when he saw more men seeking coin for their cause drifting in their direction, a small frown appeared on his handsome features.

"Merveilleux...suppliants..." he muttered under his breath.

He spoke Reikspiel equally as well as he did Breton, not to mention Old Reman, but in times of great stress, or when he didn't want his local audience to understand his harsh words or complaints, he would fall back to his native tongue.

"I was unaware that the Church of Ulric even had saints," Dietrich mused aloud as he waited near Heinrich's flank.

It was all a bit too noisy for Corvin, to be honest. There was a lot of people, a lot going on. And a whole lot of different styles, colors and whatnot. He wanted to just move on to the temple quickly. But then they got stopped, sort of.

And he frowned a little. It wasn't just the one person. Several more were moving up as well and he got a bad feeling it wasn't a shilling they were looking for, though he couldn't say why. Just...it felt like they were moving up and getting ready for something. Maybe he was wrong. He could just be paranoid, on edge from the big city and all the noise.

Nevertheless, standing a bit behind the others, he discreetly reached down and slid the club free from his belt. Just in case.

Gilly glances warily at the mendicant and his head in a box. He also looks to see others like him closing in on them. He racks his brain for any knowledge he might have about a brotherhood linked with Ulric that matches their general appearance but comes up short.

12:38, Today: Gillifian Mulciber rolled 80 using 1d100. VS Heraldry (53%).

His stout staff is already in his hand as a walking stick, so he is as prepared as he might want to be for rough-housing if it comes to that. And, knowing that Corvin is carrying the icon they promised to deliver, the halfling steps forward, standing up on tiptoe to look inside the proffered reliquary.

"Ohh!" he speaks as if he's a bit daft (which maybe he is). "He looks pretty dead to me, govn'r. Was he one of you lot?"

As Heinrich spoke politely to the penitent, his eyes grew wide and his mouth wider.

'Yes, boy, yes! The Wolves that cross the sky bring many portents! Why, when I was but a lad myself-'

His monologue was swiftly cut off by Gillifan, poking his curious nose almost right into the hole where the skulls would be.

Caught off guard by this cheerful intrusion, he stammered to find his place.

'The sss, the ss-aint! This is Rualt! Rualt the Red! When the dark ones came and besieged us, he was first upon the walls, first to show them the fire of his contempt!'

Spittle flew all too heavily from the madman's mouth as his story gripped him, lifting the skull up for all to see.

'His sword did cut them down, two, three, four at one stroke! Beastman, Norscan, all who would dare oppose Ulric and his chosen!'

The other zealots, drawing closer, seemed a strange mix of entranced and intense. Some bore the scars of violence, other the sunken cheeks and dark eyes of starvation. As their prophet extolled, they began to chant themselves.

'Rualt! Rualt, Rulat!'

They pushed past you, gathering around the skull, laying hands upon it, shoving one another aside to be the one to do so.

As you backed up a step, one of their number turned to you. He pointed up along the street, eastwards.

'Go that way, southerners. Take the north road by the park and follow it, you shall find your Sigmar.'

He came closer, looming over Gillifan and causing you all a moment of tension. His hand held up an empty wooden bowl.

'Would you take with you the Blessing of Ulric? Would you have alms for his sons?'

Corvin looked a bit thoughtful as he watched and listened to the men. They seemed to have such...passion. Such zeal. Such...strength of will or purpose. It was...a little inspiring, actually. He hadn't felt like that himself really. He'd worked on the farm initially as that was expected of him and was the family business, what he was raised to do, told he was supposed to do.

He had only left home and gone in to other lines of work out of necessity. And revenge. And while he had felt something driving him towards it, he couldn't say it looked like what these men seemed to be feeling. It was...interesting. Food for thought.

He scratched his nose and nodde. "Sure, why not." He wasn't sure about an alm, but pulled out a 4 pennies, 1 for each of the men sort of, and handed them over.

Then he started heading towards where the Temple they were looking for was supposed to be at.

Having already made an offering, Heinrich lingered to ensure the halfling disengaged himself successfully and then headed in the direction they had pointed

"Well, what do you know? I guess the adorateurs du loup do have saints. You learn something new every day..." Dietrich drawled with mild amusement.

With a private smirk, the young man flicked an entire gold into the wooden bowl. He didn't have anything smaller. Then again, all of his wealth in the world was currently in his pockets, so perhaps he should be less free with his coin, but the choice had already been made.

"As your faith is fond of saying - 'The sacred fires in the holy places of Ulric must never be allowed to go out.' I believe the people are the sacred fire. Put it to good use. Au revoir mon ami," he said with a tip of his hat.

With that, he began walking away, toward the temple that they sought, and the completion of their obligation.

Gilly swallowed a sudden gush of nervousness as the mildly deranged-looking prophet and his rag-tag brethren loomed over him with the collection bowl.

"The blessings of the Gods are always to be desired," he managed to speak without flinching away from the man. He slides his fingers into his outside purse, which contains mostly copper pennies and a few silver shillings. Extracting three pence, trusting his fingers to distinguish the coins by size and heft, he pulls them out and tips them into the offering bowl.

"May Ulric and Sigmar smile upon us both, brother. Blessings to you and your brothers."

Having made his offering, Gilly will use his diminutive size and agility to melt away from the grim brothers and catch up with his companions.

Bowing his head in thanks at the generosity your group shows, you note the tall zealot quickly move the offerings to his pouch, as the rest of the street was quickly becoming choked by the throng of Ulrican fanatics building themselves up to a rapturous frenzy.

Having managed to extricate yourselves before things got too bad, you hurry on, the shouts of 'Rualt! RUUUALT!' echoing behind you. Following the street, it wends north and east. The buildings on the western side grow higher more ornate, while to the east side trees sprout. A forest, fenced behind a large iron fence sprawls out. You can see figures moving within, plucking fruit. This must be the Great Park you had heard about. It's said that a huge inn, many storeys high and packed with every ale in the Empire lies within, as well as a mighty theatre.

The refugees you'd milled with at the gate had mentioned it too. Many of them were heading there to the makeshift camps that had sprung up in the wide open area beyond the trees. As you watched, ambling along, a squad of well-armed troops patrolled down the street ahead of you. They wore the livery of the Todbringers, Electors of the city, and each bore a sprig of oak upon breastplate. Their attention was on the trees, and they looked ready for trouble.

The street widened briefly, arching a branch off to the west, then narrowed again. The lanes were tight, buildings leaning towards one another over the street. They were old, most of them, made from faded stone with years of soot staining them. In between are narrow, wooden buildings. Many seem only as wide as their own front door, and all seem in a state of near-collapse.

As the street winds down into a small square, you realise your directions have run out. As you turn to each other, the door on a nearby tavern bursts open.

'-Out of your blasted MIND!'

'-quite simply IMPOSSIBLE!'

Two people, dressed in garish robes, emerge into the day. One wears scarlet, the other ochre. Arguing over something, they head to the middle of the square as a crowd follows them from the inn.

Instinctively Heinrich followed the crowd, sidling up to a likely looking mark as he did, "What's the beef between these fellas? They priests, or wizards? Don't want my boy turned into a frog, or somesuch"

Corvin was a little happy to be away from the crowd. Their zeal fascinated him. He knew of the gods and, of course, believed in them, prayed to them, but...he'd never felt as connected to them as those lot had seemed. Sure, it could go too far and delve in to some unpleasant things, and not all gods and powers were good to worship. And crowds could get amped up quickly and be driven to do things they normally wouldn't individually. Better to be away from them and their noise.

The Great Park quickly took his interest away, though. He smiled slightly. "Would be nice to one day afford to be able to stay in the inn there, yeah?" He figured it was probably pretty bloody expensive.

But then they were suddenly accosted audibly by new loud sounds of a different sort! Two people arguing, in different colored robes. One eyebrow went up. The crowd was following like there was about to be some sort of fight. He glanced at his companions, "Stay and watch? Not sure where we go next."

Gilly stays close to his companions of the road, but he also seeks something solid to get behind if this argument turns into a duel. He has been craning his neck to look at the tall buildings as they follow their meager directions, hoping to catch sight of the spires of the cathedral to Sigmar. It has been his observation that humans like to build tall religious buildings so they can be seen from a distance.

Turning to Heinrich, the bar patron chuckled and said 'Ah, there's nothing new here. Wizards, as these two be, are all for shouting and hollerin' over minor thibgs. They know better than to involve others. I think yon one thar' he said, pointing to the ochre clad mage 'said that there's laws o' metal that fire can't touch, and yer fella Voldebrandt', he gestured to the irate form of the red wizard, 'took exception!'

One of the wizards had produced a tankard from somewhere, and it was now oscillating in the air between them as each muttered words of power and fluttered their hands in arcane circles.

'5 silver shillings on my friends in the red!' a voice cried out from the crowd, immediately answered by a chorus of other bets.

Shaking his head as sparks began to fly from the tankard, the heavyset man talking to Heinrich took in his companions with a jovial eye.

'What brings folk such as thee to Middenheim? For small as you are my lad, and from the look of yon big fellers moustache, I'd say thee bain't be locals.'

Gilly is rather shocked to see such a blatant display of magic. He has grown up in a fairly conservative, even religious community that tends to think of magic as having a vague taint of Chaos to it. He's sophisticated enough to know that some folk do practice magic without losing their souls, but it's a bit akin to watching someone washing their privates in public. Yes, we all have them, but really . . . they're called privates for a reason.

"Yes, you're right," he turns to the barfly. "We are strangers here. We're looking for the Temple of Sigmar -- someone said it was down this way. Can you point us in the right direction?"

Corvin suddenly looked like a bloody tourist for real. His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open a bit. Magic. Real actual magic! He'd never seen the like before. Calling a country bumpkin would honestly be pretty accurate, up until not that long ago. He certainly wasn't what one would call 'worldly'.

He just stared silently at the 'argument' as it took on a magic competition. Right in the bloody street too!

Although Dietrich had spent most of his academic life in a major metropolitan city, the actual Imperial Colleges of Magic were in Altdorf, not Nuln. So while he knew at least a cursory bit about approved magics and their history with the Empire, he had little in the way of firsthand experience with the practice. And everything from his childhood that dealt with magic had a more...mysterious air about it. And much more reverence. For those that could control the ancient forces were either hated witches, or Damsels of the Lady. More mist-shrouded and mysterious than the centuries old bureaucratic institution that the Imperials had built. But still, even on the battlefield during the Storm, Dietrich had only glimpsed battle magic from a distance, and usually he was too busy to give it his full attention.

So here he was, gawking like a common rube.

"Voudriez-vous regarder ça..." he murmured to himself.

"What gave us away, mon ami?" Dietrich asked dryly to the bar patron.

Heinrich smiled, though whether it was the barfly's explanation or the reaction of his companions was tricky to tell. Raised halfway in Altdorf, he has seen pomp and ceremony, and some few overheated debates between priests and wizards - but none as crass as this. One eyebrow raised at the sight and he let Gilly and Bauderlaire do the talking for a moment, whilst his eyes scanned the crowd