"Password?" she asked, sounding sultry, yet looking genuinely confused. "Tony didn't tell me there was a password."

She turned to the front of her body against the doorframe, adopting a seductive post and keeping the crossbow down at her right side, hidden by the wall. She loosened her shirt suggestively with the other hand.

"He just told me I was a present. For the boss."

She frowned.

"He was supposed to meet me up there" She nodded to the surface, "but he didn't turn up. Lucky I knew about the back way..." she allowed her tongue to slip from between her teeth, in a coy smile "from last time." 

"He won't be happy if one of you trigger-happy gentlemen put a crossbow bolt in my soft, curves now will he?" She pouted. "Maybe you should go ask the boss about it?"

It was, she hoped, a better plot than simply raising her crossbow and banging off a shot. If she could persuade one of the men to leave, the odds would improve considerably. She was sure she would still have the advantage of surprise over them, even if they had their crossbows ready. After all, who'd expect a whore to have a crossbow? Thank Ranald she hadn't re-arranged her clothing all that well after her failed ploy a few moments ago. Even in these mens clothes, she might still pass as a slut. After all, a slut wasn't going to use this particular entrance while dressed in her best was she?

She was glad Tony was dead. She'd stubbed her toe kicking his lifeless corpse not an hour ago after all. But a strumpet hired hours before would have no way of knowing that, would she?

Honour Among Thieves: Kirsten Muses.

Kirsten nodded. She hadn't seemed the least bit put out that the gangster had seen through her ruse. She'd just stood on her tiptoes. shrugged, nodded her head, and flashed a blushing, somewhat mortified smile at her companions.

What ever will they think of me now, acting the doxie like that ?

"It was worth a try." She mumbled, not really willing to look any of them in the eye.

She listened with admiration as Wanda drew information from the man with all the grace and poise of a barber drawing a splinter from a wound. The older woman seemed to have an instinctive grasp of the mans' desire for vengeance. She wondered if it had something to do with her magical education.

Kirsten pondered that while Johann offered what succour he could.

"I'd best go first," she spoke up. "They way is likely to be trapped, and I doubt any of you would know thieves signs if you saw then." She beamed. "Fortunately, I do."

She turned to Malmir, extending her hand. "May I have the crossbow, unless you think it would be better for Harbull to have it in case we are followed?"

She didn't think that was at all likely, mind you. But the little fellow would probably feel better with a decent weapon in hand.

Leading the way out of the room, she surreptitiously turned her gaze back after a few steps, trying not to look directly at Malmir. Hoping (was that actually the right word? Hoping? He was an ELF for Ranald's sake) to catch him eyeing her the way he had previously. It was not that she wanted to encourage the elf's interest, as such. But after so long in men's clothes, her hair, nails and face deliberately dirtied to avoid notice, she was finding she rather enjoyed the attention. She'd forgotten what it was like to feel lovely and desirable -and clean- before she'd taken the time to wash at Oldenhallers. Dirty, street-waif Kirsten would never have caught the eye of a creature so elegant and charming the elf, that much was certain. If she could attract the elf of an elf with so little effort, then perhaps, with the right sort of schooling, she might land herself a richer, more powerful catch one day. A Graf perhaps. Or a merchant-prince.

Wanda looked so elegant and well turned out. She'd watched the older woman closely during the meal, noting how she held her glass. Cut her meat into small, dainty pieces before eating. A girl would need to know such things if she were to find a better place in the world.

Reaching the next, dangerous stretch, she thrust such thoughts aside. There would be time for dreaming later.

An Offer of Help: Kirsten finds a seat.

After picking herself up off the ground, silently mouthing an apology at Wanda as she did so, Kirsten began dusting herself down for a moment. Her eye's searching the bloody floor of the room for her discarded knife.

Now where did I? Ah, there it is.

Stooping to retrieve the soiled weapon from the buttocks of a dead man, (where it had so impressively -and accidentally- landed after being tossed aside), she made the mental switch from the "real" Kirsten to the habitual killer she'd often pretended to be. When Kirsten stood at her full height once again, her blushing features had been replaced by a stern mask. She stretched languidly, like a cat, arms above her head; until the bones in her shoulders cracked. Stretching her baggy, masculine clothing over the sleek, attractive, curves  concealed beneath .

Kirsten-the-street-waif would not have so-casually displayed her attractive and -very- feminine form. Certainly not in the presence of so many men, near strangers all. And certainly not in the presence of a man-eating elf , let alone one whose eye's had been following her in a way that Kirsten knew all too well. But Kirsten-the-Killer would pay little heed to who saw her curves. Kirsten the Killer needed no one to protect her from predators. Kirsten the Killer was a Predator herself.

Rotating her neck slightly, arms still above her head, knowing she could not fail to attract the dying man's attention with this display, she fixed the gangster with her best approximation of a feral grin. It was a damned good act, she told herself, worthy of a traveling player. After all, she'd been perfecting it for the full eighteen years of her life.

She just hoped this blood-splattered survivor was not one of the gangsters who knew the real Kirsten. Otherwise she'd have made a display of her "wares" for nothing. What would her companions -especially Wanda- think of her then?

Concealing her disgust behind impassive features, she moved closer to the wounded man, plomping her shapely behind down on the nearest corpse with a casual air that belied her horror at such casual desecration. Settling herself in, making herself as comfortable as possible on the dead-mans bony-back, she flashed that feigned, feral grin once again. She hefted the throwing knife in her hand, tossing it casually a few inches in the air and catching it again with the same hand. Not high enough to risk having the blade spin around and impale her hand (Ranald no! The trickster god had blessed her with quick hands, but she was no street-juggler), but enough to impress none-the-less.

"Can you now?" she quipped, in the softest, most disquieting voice she could muster. "Tell you what, you look just about spent. Tell us about this little spat," she made a motion with her knife, as if to encompass all the death and carnage in the room, "And we might just let you live after my friend here finishes patching you up. Better be good though. I'd hate to think he was wasting his time -and our bandages."

The Empty Box: Kirsten Puts the Boot In

"Well" hissed Kirsten. That was pointless and disgusting. Next time, it's someone else's turn to search the pox-ridden corpse."

She glanced down at her gloves and knife, considering whether to toss the knife or keep it for the time being in case she had to prod around in yet more muck. Finally deciding, she kept the knife in her gloved hand for the time being. Returning to the first room with the corpses, she bent over the closest and began cleaning her knife on it's shirt.

That's when she suddenly swore, straightened up, and spat on the dead gangsters face!

"Serves you right you miserable s***eating son of a whore! Hope you rot in whatever hell Morr's prepared for you, you mutt-ugly, pox-c****ed, louse ridden, cat-f***ing son of a b****h!

Somewhere between the "hope" and the "you" she'd started kicking the body. By the time she finished her second round of cursing and seemed ready to draw a deep breath to continue, the devilish fury in her eyes and face started to abate. Even in the depths of her rage she'd had the wisdom to keep her enraged cursing to a low hiss, but now, as she drew back for one final kick, she looked shamefacedly at her companions. The crimson faded from her face to be replaced by pink blushes and a weak, rueful smile.

"It's not as much fun as it would have been were he alive," she explained ruefully. "He was... not a nice man. Not a nice man at all"

Hurriedly, somewhat embaressed by her display, she brushed past the others and made her way  to the front of the group, just behind the leader, where she could make sure no-one fell foul of any more traps.

Richer Blood: Kirsten Passes Comment

Kirsten didn't blame him. She didn't want to be in this room either, but she knew an excuse when she saw one. And here I thought elves were supposed to be immune to disease, regardless? She was beginning to wonder what else she'd heard about elves that hadn't been true. She turned to watch Malmir leave the room, surreptitiously eyeing his lithe elven butt as he left. Nope, no sign of a tail there, she realised.

After a moment, she flushed. Now that was stupid. Especially given the way he looks at me. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she spoke to Werner in a wry, somewhat amused tone of voice. Deliberately just audible enough that the departing elf could not fail to hear:

"Observe: our fearless leader departs."

She knew she wasn't (strictly speaking) being very fair to the elf. He had been in front -or very near to it- throughout all their explorations so far. But then, so had she. And although every inch of her body quivered with the need to flee this room, she was still here.

She smiled at Werner, and held the torch out to him.

"Hold this for one second please, while I follow your example."

Smiling gratefully, she used the opportunity to pull her black neck-scarf over her face and mouth, as she would have done on one of her late night "expeditions" and pulled tight at her gloves, ensuring the fit was sufficiently tight to limit the risk that she might drop her sword.

Taking the torch back from Werner with a grateful smile, she was careful not to step into the blood or touch the body, and used a precious throwing knife to lift or move items on the table and to open drawers, all the while holding the torch high in her other hand to illuminate their efforts.

"Be careful Werner. My palms are itching, and I'm not sure if it's just the state of that corpse or something else."

Clues in the Blood: Lighting the Way

Kirsten surprised herself by giving Wanda something of a sympathetic look when she dropped the lantern, a vicious scolding dying unspoken on her lips. Her own reaction to their grisly discovery had been just as noisy -and far messier- than the older woman's.

Still a little shaken by the bloody slaughter they had uncovered, she didn't even think to feel resentment at being ordered around by a monster. He'd certainly seemed to cope with the ruined men and splattered blood far better than either she or Wanda. Perhaps it was because he himself was not human, but she had an inkling -wishful thinking or not- that he'd bloodied his sword a few times before. It was suddenly therefore, actually reassuring to have him nearby. Something she would never have believed possible just a few moments before.

Obediently, she stepped forward into the room, torch -and sword- held high.

Kirsten Explores: An Un-Expected Reaction

She'd thought the eerie silence and the presence of the elf behind her disquieting enough. She was even sure that, as she'd turned to acknowledge the elf's statement that he would accompany her, she had caught Malmir eyeing her. Like a house-frau  appreciating a cut of meat on market-day. And she hadn't been convinced that the elf's close proximity at the doorway had been entirely unintentional either. That thought alone had been enough to frighten her considerably. She'd been reassured somewhat by Johann's insistence that he had her back. But nothing -nothing- in her young life had prepared Kirsten for what she saw in that room.

Feeling her stomach heave, Kirsten quickly turned her head to one side, raising her left hand -a hand that had never known a truly honest day's work- rapidly to her face. But it was too late. She tasted bile forcing it's way up her throat even as she clasped her hands over her mouth. A torrent of gooey sludge, the remnants of the best -and richest- meal  she'd ever had, spurted out from between her fingers and onto the cold, bloodied flagstones below.

"I'm alright!" she hissed softly, between heaves, padding as quickly and as quietly as she could into the room. moving to cover the exits in case her humiliation had revealed their presence. "Just throw  the  pebble qui...hurruuuck!"

Pain burning in her chest and gut, she took up position beside the other door, sword in hand -when did I draw that, she wondered absently- and listened. Or tried to listen, her heartbeat thudding too loudly in her ears, beating out a drumbeat so loud that surely the elf -with his demonic senses- could hear it thumping within her chest.

With pale-cheeks-turned-dark- crimson from humiliation and heaving, she stood ready, sword raised inelegantly above her head, to carve down the first foe that entered the room.

"Ranald no, please grant that I don't have to kill", she muttered, blinking fiercely to stem her tears. She'd always known that her own death was a very real possibility. Especially tonight. But somehow, inexplicably, she'd never that she might need to take a life herself. She'd envisioned a simple con. A quick in-and-out snatch and grab. Not....not this. Not the shambles of a knackers yard.

Standing, trembling beside the doorway, blade raised high, tears streaming down her face, Kirsten let go of any pre-text that she was a competent, honed killer, and simply, fervently, hoped that Elves were as fearsome and adept at killing as she'd been told. She almost daren't look  back at him. Expecting that she would see scorn, ridicule, or scathing, hungry hatred for a weak food-animal written full across his angular, feral face. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the door she guarded, determined to do what was necessary to ensure the continuation of her life.

A Thorough Search: Kirsten plucks up her courage

Kirsten kept her own thoughts about the character of powerful men to herself. Werner would learn the hard way or he would not. She would simply have to do what she could to ensure he survived the learning process.

But at his suggestion that she lead, Kirsten felt her hands grow suddenly cold. Clenching them under her arm-pits to hide their trembling from the others, she nodded sombrely.

It's a good suggestion, she thought, and there is light ahead down that corridor.

"Stay here. I'll creep forward and listen, try to find where that light is coming from. If it's all clear, I'll throw a pebble back the way I came. Join me quietly if I do. If it's not clear..." she shrugged, "I'll come back here where we can discuss how to proceed."

With that, she turns and steps lightly into the darkness.

Unexpected Discoveries: Kirsten's Critical Eye.

"It certainly explains why no one asnwered our knock." she agrees.

Kirsten keeps her voice low, but, aware that whispers tend to attract the ear more than low conversation, continues to speak in casual tones.

"I suspect this is little more than a lever to disarm the trap at the door. I doubt the local toughs would be willing toimpart the secret of safe entry to any casual guests. Or perhaps it serves to dump any unwanted guests into the pit if they fail to provide the correct password after knocking?"

She regards the lever carefully.

"Still, it could be a trigger for something else". She eyed the empty doorway warily. "I doubt it triggers anything further on, such as a Portcullis. Generally speaking, one builds defences to keep intruders out, not in. It would make little sense to leave a lever that could disarm or trigger something dangerous out in plan view. Before, an intruder comes to it, that is. Still, I'll inspect the stonework. To be safe."

While Malmir and Johann attend to their duties, Kirsten carefully inspects the walls and ceiling as best she can in the limited light, looking for any obvious gaps, lines or indentations that might represent more traps, alarms, or a sign that the lever might trigger something more insidious, such as a portculis.

Into the Asylum: Kirsten Agrees with Warner

"Well, the old tales do tell us that Elves are a bloodthirsty lot," she concerned, regarding the elf's fading back with a concerned look. "Better he eats the local thugs than us though, no?"

Still, she was concerned by the elf taking it upon himself to adopt an aggressive approach. Especially when talking had a tendency to less painful for all concerned. The creature was headstrong and foolhardy, not given to paying heed to the desires of others. Kirsten had no intentions of dying in a brawl simply because the monster's blood was up - yet Johann seemed just as keen to put his own body in harm's way.

"I'll go second, after light foot there," she nodded down the corridor. Which of course meant she'd have to squeeze past Johann. She'd rather not mind, she didn't want to be too close to the front if fighting broke out. But perhaps she could prevent Malmir from triggering any more traps -or starting a fight they couldn't handle. "Of course, unlike Malmir, I can't see in the dark. So if one of you good people had the foresight to bring along torches or lamps, please be good enough to provide us with some illumination."

She regarded the others, "Wanda, if you'll pardon my observation, I don't believe you've ever had much experience of brawling, much less blade-work." Even less than me in fact, she thought, looking the other woman up and down with a considering expression, "Perhaps you'd best stay in the middle? With the light?"

Kirsten Shows her Skills

At the elf's invitation, she stepped forward towards the door, careful to avoid the looming pit, and examined it closely. She ran her gloved fingers around the edge of the door, where it met the frame, as though searching for hidden hinges that might reveal that the door swivelled on it's centre or opened outward instead of in. She looked for any abnormalities in the wood and the stonework around it that might suggest the presence of further traps or snares, all the while entirely unaware that, in her concentration, she allowed her mouth to open slightly, the slightest tip of her tongue showing pink where she clenched it lightly between her right incisors.

The proximity of the elf as they had leaned into the door a few moments before, his face only inches for hers, left Kirsten feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Yet, as in as much as she was afraid of this monster and what it might be capable of, she met his gaze levelly, looking into his eyes until it seemed natural to break away. Year's of dealing with common thugs and feral dogs had taught her the folly in openly showing her fear in the presence of strangers. Nonetheless, she had let out a slight tremble when she and the elf separated a few moments before.

After searching the lock, she bent lower, straddling the pit now, peering into the mechanism, looking for any keyhole and peering into one if present, as though trying to ascertain if the door is locked or not. Periodically, she places her ear against the door once again.

Once satisfied and prepared to make her attempt at safely opening the door she turns, still straddling the bit as best she can, to address Josef and Werner.

"Grab my belt please, Mein Herrs. Be prepared to pull me away quickly if you need too." Then her eyes narrowed mischievously, "and keep your mitts to to yourselves, unless you wish to wake in the morning with half your hair -or your moustache- shaved off."

Actually, that was a fine idea. She might just do that anyway.

Into the Asylum: Men!

Kirsten shared a vexed look with Wanda that simply exclaims, "Men!". The young woman caught herself herself, briefly, in wonder. Had she just found some common ground with the affluent woman after all?

Finding herself naturally inclined to obey the older woman's instructions, whether ofrom some deeply ingrained class-consciousness or simply because they made sense, Kirsten ruefully shrugged herself back into her weather-stained jerkin and took up position in front of the door, in plain view to anyone beside it.

She waited patiently while Malmir was rescued and his wounds seen to.

"Somethings not right. It took time for Werner to get the elf out the pit and for Harbul to tend his wounds. Someone should be here by now."

Tentatively, she leaned forward, across the pit, placing her ear to the door and waving for silence with her free hand. Holding her breath, she listened for a few tense moments, ready to leap back at the first hint of a crossbow being wound.

[Update- see comments]: After a few moments, she shook her head. "Nothing. Just a few scratching noises. Rats perhaps." She returns to surer footing, looking at the others.

"This isn't right. If there are men readying to fight behind these doors, I should hear clinks, scrapes, shuffling. Something at least. But the trapped door? They must have heard us?"

Into the Asylum: Fishing

With a sort of terrified resignation, Kirsten reached out a hand to grab the elf, knowing it was already too late.

The pit opened. He fell in.

Ah well, she reasoned, at least it wasn't a  bolt from a siege crossbow. Doubtless the gang wanted to keep any idiot locals who tried to break in alive for questioning. Besides, it wouldn't do to accidentally impale a passing witch-hunter or town official coming to offer a bribe, would it?

"Everyone stay still!" The elf cried weakly. "There maybe other traps! I will survive, though I have a nasty cut on my forehead where I hit the wall on the way down."

"Yeah", she muttered, "No shit Elfie." Hopefully, when he eventually got himself out of that pit, he'd be good enough to leave his ego and impetuosity behind. Then, louder, "I thought you people were supposed to be patient."

Werner's voice grabbed her attention: "Kirsten, if anyone shows up, explain to them we have a drunk down there, the gods know enough people fall down holes if they can't handle their alcohol"

That was good thinking, something she hadn't quite expected from the big labourer. Don't underestimate someone's intelligence just because they're big, she reminded herself.

She muttered her agreement, standing at the edge of the pit and glancing up at the door. Someone was bound to investigate that. Even if they hadn't heard the clatter of the fall, surely they'd have an alarm of some kind rigged to the door. Even if it was nothing more than some scrap iron tied to a rope?

Harbul nattered on about spikes, rats and Ranald knows what else, but the halfling had a point. Malmir had been lucky. It looked like the gangs really had wanted to take intruders alive after all.

Elf-in-a-hole, she chuckled appreciatively at Harbull. That was a good one.

"Don't climb in yet Werner. Even if you boost the elf out, how do we get you out later?"

She looked around, it was too much to expect that anyone would have a rope. Sighing, she removed her jacket, exposing a once-white linen shirt that was far too sheer and clinging for Kirsten's comfort in mixed company. She felt herself blushing once again. This better not rip my jerkin, she thought, holding the garment out towards Harbul.

"Everyone, pass your cloaks or jackets to Harbull." She smiled at the halfling, "We need you to make a line for fishing the elf out his hole."

Kirsten nodded an acknowledgement of the moustache, the Elf and their words, the tips of her ears turning a pretty pink, from embarrassment this time rather than anger. In her eighteen years, she hadn't had many compliments. Even if the one about her fighting abilities was entirely undeserved.

However, as the conversation drew on, she began to regard the door warily. There would be a guard on that door. Surely by now he would have heard their talk and taken interest -or action. Did a half dozen guards now stand on the other side of that simple slab of wood, crossbows knocked and readied? Awaiting just one mistake on their part?

She turned to address the elf, her jaw dropping at the monster's suggestion for a vote! Who'd have thought, among devil-kind, that she'd had finally found a being willing to practise something so egal-ah-tanian as this? Her conscience warred with her for a moment. To have so long dreamed of having an opinion that counted where decisions were concerned? But then, they were tarrying here overlong. Already any guard behind that door must be -at the least- suspicious, if not already alert and ready for threats.

The pink of her ears now spreading to the warm the rest fo her face as well, feeling somehow proud to know that, for the first time in her life, her voice mattered. Smiling her agreement with the halfling, Herr Harbul; Kirsen strode forward and wrapped smartly -once- on the door. Then, hurriedly, she took a single step back and stood before the door, in plain view, hands away from her weapons, gesturing for the halfling to join her. Murmuring from the corner of her mouth, she added:

"Sheathe those weapons. Looks suspicious."

Already, she was working through a story in her head. As a known independent in the local gutter scene, she'd be bringing a group of independently contracting opportunists from out of town to see the bosses. Negotiating dues for a job they had planned and making arrangements to avoid entanglements with any local capers they might otherwise inadvertently complicate by their actions. It was a good story. Credible too. And it would get them deep into Asylum. Maybe even into one of the bosses offices. Yes. That would work.

Into the Asylum: Kirsten Spills the Beans:

Good question, she thought, in response to Werner's remark. Certainly she couldn't make head nor tails of the strange, arcane scribbles writhing across the paper as though left by the muddy tracks of an earthworm. She was not about to admit that though -not with that snooty Fraulein present. No doubt she'd had plenty of leisure time for learning a skill so utterly useless-from a street waifs point of view- as being able to read.

She told herself it wasn't jealousy she was feeling. Then, she told herself she was a liar. What wouldn't she give to be able to read, to expand her knowledge of the world and forge a place in it? Well, there'd be time to learn such a skill later. 100 Crowns was a fortune! She could drink herself to death in a year with such a sum -or buy herself an Altdorf education.

But such thoughts were for another time. She sighed, removed her throwing knives from their place of concealment within her jerkin and fastened them (and their belt) around one thigh.

"Oldenhaller was holding something back. He wasn't quite lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. "

At least, she hoped it was that simple. Her thumbs had been itching, as they always did when she smelt a rat.

"Of course, it could simply be that he intends to kill us when the job is done. 100 Crowns is too much for a simple snatch-and-run. Even taking into account who we'll be doing the snatching from."  She had spoke flatly, matter-of-fact, as if double-dealing, innuendo and even outright treachery were a simple fact of life for her.

"Still," she added, bright and cheerily, "If he tries that, we can always stick 'em with the pointy end and sell the thing somewhere else, right? Now, we have tonight's password. Which of you fine gentlemen would care to knock?"

She regarded the elf levelly.

"Best let me do the talking, chatterbox. You fine folks all have lovely voices and lots to say, but there's no way any of you can pass as locals." She shot Wanda a side-ways glance, "Least ways, not the sort of locals as would have dealings with these types," she added, resentfully.

A New Life Beckons: Kirsten Wilts.

Overcome by the grandeur of the property in which she stood, Kirsten  felt shame at her ragged state-and despised herself for it. Not because she stood amidst such opulence in man's clothing, old and worn, though of stout make, but because she felt such shame at all. She had not been born to wealth. The good boots, dark cloth and, by Ranald yes, even the sword she bore and the brace of throwing knives concealed within the lining of her man's jerkin, had all been earned by the sweat of her brow.

Her fellow gutter waifs would have jeered to see her so dumbstruck by the wealth of one born to his power and position. But she knew one thing: despite the unfairness of it all, despite the fact the price of this man's desk alone could keep half the asylum in black bread and broth for a week or more, she knew she wanted this. Damn the Empire and it's strict class system. She could not change it, but by the God's she could change herself. Oldenhaller's ancestors had been peasants too, by Ranald, before they had become merchants. If others could rise from the mud then so would she. Her peasant background and female sex be damned! She would rise -and rise high- by her own merits. And this over-decorated ass had just provided the means to begin that journey.

She had to exercise a great deal of willpower not to ruffle Harbal's curly hair in her glee.

She did not approve of the loathsome, wicked elf thing presuming to take the lead. Hadn't being pelted by filth shown the monster it's place in this human world? The simple fact of it's alien nature would cause problems -for it, and the others- if they continued to allow it to parade itself around in the open at all, let alone allow the thing to speak for them. She had no desire of being perceived as the lackey of a monster. Yet who else could speak on behalf of the "group", if this rag-tag assemblage befitted such a term? This "Wanda" woman, perhaps? She was high-born (and that pricked at her nerves, she knew) but surely that meant the Fraulein could navigate the maze that was Imperial etiquette far better than any man-eating elf? Why wouldn't the woman speak up, put the creature in it's place? Oldenhaller clearly knew the woman after all. That meant she had more business taking charge of the motley band than a vagrant monster who blithely flaunted his unholy self seemingly everywhere he went.

All too aware of her youth, her social condition, and her sex, Kirsten remained silent. Standing behind the others with her head slightly down. Trying hard not to gape at the magnificence of her surroundings and all the while silently willing Wanda to speak up.

A new life beckons.

Wellentag, 25th Jahrdrung.

And so the diverse group of wanderers set off in an unruly, raggedy procession lead by an Elf and a lady arm in arm. After quick speeches and commotion this sight could not help to attract a following.  There were jeers and some throwing of filth, particularly at the elf but it was for the most part good natured.  Initially it seemed the whole citizenry of Deberz had nothing better to do than follow up the mud, offal and night-soil covered road.  However as the occasional, rough, cobbles steadily became more frequent, well cut and clean nothing more than a ragtag group of young urchins followed.

Step by step each of the adventurous souls, as yet strangers to each other, made a commitment to a new life and each found time to contemplate reasons to look backwards.

Werner thought hard about the job advertised by the crier, good pay building one of the Emperors new signal towers. But he didn’t look back.

Harbull may have looked forlornly into the open door of the Hanged Man but as they past, mercifully up wind of the smell of good breakfast sausages, beer and bread, he did not look back.

Kirsten considered her comparatively safe life of anonymity and not for one second looked back.

Johan thought about the river and the life he had given up through little choice of his own. He was too proud to look back.

Wanda knew as the turning to her master’s house approached, with its dusty tomes and learned council, she could not afford to look back.

Malmir alone had walked this way before when he had left behind his idyllic life with his own people for what he knew would be a more brutal but more fulfilling life.  He had nothing to look back to. 

Wanda lead the procession to the mansion and with a sudden realisation approached the servant’s entrance.  The doorkeeper clearly expected to see people in heavy boots tramping into his master's hallway. A messenger was sent to the Councillor, and after a half-hour wait all were led through winding, opulently decorated corridors to a huge study. The floors were covered with oriental rugs and the walls were hung with family portraits, hunting trophies and framed contracts and bonds.

Albrecht Oldenhaller sat behind a vast mahogany desk, toying with a jewelled paper knife. Looking at Wanda he smiled, “Wanda I suppose I should have expected you, Herr Blitzens informed me he was to send you out as journeyman.” Then he looked the other prospective employees up and down, and then spoke.

"As you may be aware," he said, "The House of Oldenhaller is engaged in trading and other activities at a number of levels, and we would be most unhappy if our dealings with certain agents and contacts were to be made public. Accordingly, I must insist that this business must be conducted in the utmost secrecy. So no repeats of your march up here." He pauses significantly while this sinks in.

"A certain gem has appeared in the city," he continued. "I won't bore you with the details, except to say that it was acquired on behalf of the House of Oldenhaller by a group of people vulgarly known as the Schatzenheimer Gang, who have so far failed to make delivery. You are to recover the stone from them and deliver it here by dawn tomorrow. Like many great stones, there are several legends and superstitions attached to the gem. It is said to have come from a ring worn by one best not named, and to carry some unpleasantness which afflicts all those who handle it. I set no store by these superstitions, but in case there is some substance behind them, you will take this" – he then pushed an elaborately-carved wooden box across the desk -"and use it to carry the stone. It has been enchanted to suppress the magic of anything inside for precisely six hours. That should give you adequate time to deliver the stone here. You will set out at nightfall, and I will have you guided to one of the entrances to the area known as the Asylum, which is where I believe the stone to be. Any questions?"

A Fateful Meeting: Kirsten follows on.

Kirsten couldn't help but giggle delightedly at Herr Harbull's earnest desperation. Bemused that any creature with so full a figure for it's size would be more concerned with finding food than the wealth to buy it, she allowed herself to follow along in the wake of the others. She kept a careful, wary eye on "the moustache" (as she had come to think of the potential witch in their midst) and considered simply fading into some shadowed alley somewhere along the way. Werner and Harbull seemed like hearty companions, but the witch and the elf could be downright dangerous! And the other woman? Well, she already seemed to represent everything Kirsten despised about the moneyed classes. Still, (and she cast a nervous glance back over her shoulder as she thought about it), perhaps being in the company of such obviously dangerous types as these would keep Al and his Tilean cronies off her back?

Reluctantly, she decided that staying with the halfling and his amiable companion was her safest option. Still, she'd have a word in private with Harbull and Werner when she could, warning them to keep an eye on the moustache and the elf. She sighed. Perhaps she'd better have them keep an eye on the other woman too? But for different reasons. She seemed to be making rather cosy with the elf, and any sensible person knew how that would end up. She felt sure she would come to dislike the Fraulein even more intensely during the next few hours. But still, disliking someone was not nearly reason enough to allow them to end up warming a sharp-toothed elf's belly from the inside.

A Fateful Meeting: Kirsten Spots a Witch!

Bemused, Kirsten listened to the hairball harangue the elf with his unceasing babble? The brave little fool! Didn't he know that the Elf's not only had tails, they also happened to eat people? Everyone knew that. She made to step forward and draw the cheerful little fellow back before the elf leaned forward to tear his throat out with sharp teeth. Fortunately however, some old man with a 'tache managed to deflect the halfling's attention with a well timed racial insult. A few moments later, her jaw fell open witha  click. Had that... man... just accused she and Harball of being thieves? In public?  How dare he! How dare he make such a presumption about her? Or anyone! Didn't he know such talk could send up a hue and cry? That such idle talk could get her killed?The fact he was right on the button with regards to her profession was besides the point. How on earth had he known? It wasn't as though she walked around with a set of lock-picks on her belt after all. Her eye's narrowed.

Was he some sort of witch?

She glared at the moustached witch angrily, bravely (or foolishly) opening her mouth to begin a harangue of her own when yet another stranger arrived and being throwing her weight around. Johann Stumpfur, the local Agitator, would have called the new-comer a boor-jewr bitch! And going by the way she threw her name around (as though it was supposed to mean something) he'd have been right! Just because she'd had the fortune to be born somebody, it didn't make her better than anyone else. Even if most of the foolish Imperial pro-tail-e-at were stupid enough to believe it did.

With so many targets for her indignation, Kirsten found herself unsure where to begin. Instead, she stamped her foot impotently. Such people! Well, if they all intended to seek work together, at least they would have some use as walking shields to hide behind. Certainly, she couldn't imagine that any of them -least of all Fraulein high-and-mighty there- would be of any use.

Except for Werner and Harbal, of course. Harbal had a point about his kin's ability to travel about unseen and Werner? Well, if anyone in this knot of vagrants looking for work could handle himself in a fight, it would be Werner.

It was hardly an auspicious start to the day. There were already almost as many separate arguments in process as there were beings gathered around the departing town-criers' nook.

A Fateful Meeting - Kirsten the Cautious

Forgetting her manners, or, more accurately, caring little for such conventions, Kirsten answered Werner's jovial question before the other woman could even open her mouth.

"Herr Oldenhaller owns most of the boats you and Hairba- I mean, Harbal, tried to book passage on the other day."

Her voice was steady enough, but she'd paled noticeably at Werner's enthusiasm for dangerous work. Yet still, dangerous work was certain to be well-paid work. Given her notably deteriorating relations with the upstart Tileans muscling in on the local gangs -and, more worryingly- independant opportunists such as herself- it was high time she found means to leave Delberz behind forever. Besides, this Werner was a big, hefty lad. She was in little doubt he could look after himself well enough -and even Al had been reluctant to take on the big man toe to toe. She didn't entirely trust the big bumpkin yet, of course. She'd learned the hard way that men might offer protection of a sort fully in the expectation of receiving something from her in return. Something she'd not been willing to give. But the brute's halfling companion was too short and child-like to possibly have any carnal intentions towards her, and she hadn't even once caught Werner giving her the sort of look that might warn her he had something along those lines in mind.

"I think that Herr Oldenhaller is sure to pay well. Well enough that we might even be able to buy passage on a riverboat heading upriver towards Altdorf."

Altdorf. A real city. A clever fraulein could no doubt find ways to better herself in the Empire's capital. Way's truly unavailable to her here, in this little river-side town she had already outgrown. She was still considering that when a tall, lithe man -no, not a man, by Ranald,  but an honest-to-Gods elf, began addressing those nearby in a sweetly melodious voice!