Or “Never Trust a Man with a Sub-Optimal Allocation of Facial Features”

The next day, the team heads off to The Hill and Madame Beaumarteau to purchase appropriate costumes for such a dazzling event. Torus ends up dressed as a white witch hunter, Immolatus is resplendent in a dress, Yuri is in some bird and harlequin outfit, and Grudge selects a silver penis mask and black tights (obviously still groggy and not thinking too straight after his combat with the flagellants). This of course results in to any number of ‘humorous’ comments from his companions along the lines “Don’t ask me—mask me!”, “Put Your Ass Next to My Mask”, etc. It rapidly looks like a very, very bad—and all too expensive—idea.

While in the shopping mood, the adventurers make some additional purchases, notably a sling and shot for Torus. They sit around and rehashes the political situation, with some focus on Margrave Reinhardt von Mackensen as a possible solution to the problem of an otherwise very bad bunch of potential candidates.

And so to the ball. Arriving stylishly but not too late, there are already many attendees.

Yuri enters first, and is loudly introduced by the doorman to the thronging, noble crowd. Who ignore him. He immediately begins searching for possibly underground access to the premises. After all, any Chaos attack is bound to be surreptitious and secretive, right? They’re scarcely going to be knocking at the front door, are they?

Next to make their entrance are Torus and Immolatus, sweeping majestically (cough cough) into the ball ome minutes later. They too are loudly introduced by the doorman, and are also completely ignored. Torus heads upstairs to case the joint. Picking a couple of locks as he goes, he discovers that the mansion is clearly a rented property, with little in the way of entrenched—mostly storage rooms and servant quarters. Most of the rooms are unlocked, and none reveals anything of interest—not even any snogging couples at this early hour.

Immolatus notices von Bruner arguing with a young man dressed up in von Bruner livery with the cheeky addition of stuffed fabric tentacles as a costume, and moves on to Aschaffenberg, who is quick to point out (to the extent he can be bothered to talk at all to such lowly scum) that he didn’t invite any of the party to the Ball. The invitation was a forgery.

Aschaffenberg’s embarrassed, sotto voce direction to Immolatus is “Don’t draw attention to yourselves…”

…as Grudge walks in….

…to be introduced as quietly by the doorman as possible…

…as a silence gathers among the crowd, who turn to stare disbelievingly at the sight of a skin tight clad gnarly little bearded dwarf hidden behind a silver penis mask. For a second the night hangs in the balance, the adventurers hold their breath—then with a collective shrug the nobles return to their respective conversations. After all, it is the Ubersreik Masked Ball…

As Yuri wanders around the back and outside, searching for possible points of ingress, Immolatus notices one of von Saponatheim’s men surreptitiously spiking Aschaffenberg’s drink. Swiftly, Immolatus knocks the drink out of the Baron’s hand, cementing his reputation as a klutz but possibly saving Aschaffenberg from a dangerous—or at the very least embarrassing—incident. Is von Saponatheim the quarry?

Torus sidles up to Baron von Holzenauer for a quick chat, and quickly discovers that he also did not invite the adventurers, and that his purported invitation was also a forgery. Two out of three ain’t good. A quick check with the current prime suspect, von Saponatheim, confirms the party’s worst fears—he also had no intention to (and in fact did not) invite them.

This is terrible—not because some secret hand has deliberately and fraudulently arranged for our heroes to be present at the Ball for undeniably deadly reasons, but because it begs the question—why In Sigmar’s Beard did the party actually bother to jump through all of the nobles’ hoops? They could have just sat around at the pub and waited for the mysterious invitations to arrive.

So what now? Circulating and chatting really isn’t the adventurers’ strong point. Grudge notices some dwarves at the front door arguing with von Holzenauer—assuming they’re trying to get in for the free beer, he walks over to get them in. Of course, he has totally misread the situation—they don’t want to come in, they want money that von Holzenauer has borrowed from them. Tempers fray a bit (presumably not helped by the fact that the money-lending dwarves are in heated discussion with what is effectively a shiny penis-shaped mirror, and seeing one’s reflection in that particularly disturbing scenario is never conducive to rational and level-headed negotiation). Finally, the dwarves leave, with imprecations and dire threats hanging heavy in the air. Grudge however achieves no useful social benefit from his involvement—von Holzenauer wanders off (presumably to borrow some more money…)

Yuri, meanwhile, is still doing his investigative turn. Now outside in the dark, away from the bright lights, fine food and ample, pale décolletage, he hears the sound of barking dogs from the far back corner of the property. Casually looking over the wall, he starts to chat up a woman nearby. With consummate social skill, he manages to end up on the receiving end of a challenge from her husband. As he begins to disentangle himself from potential affray with the slightly disingenuous excuse that he couldn’t see too well in the dark, Yuri notices a sudden crescent of light as the kitchen door opens below. Suspecting the worse, he leaps over the wall—and plunges like a shapeless turd to the courtyard below. Ouch. However, he does notice the signs of spilled water by the well. Could it have been some servant merely drawing water from the well, or could the cultists have emerged from the sewers below? Carefully ‘Sherlock’ Stubbindrikov begins a hunt for footprints, but somehow slips on the spilled water and slimy cobblestones and finds himself once more lying on the ground, another wound on his person. Covered in stains, grass and mud, he tries to wipe himself clean, but he only makes it worse—his once fine plummage and harlequinary now reduced to a formless muddy mess. Perhaps he can pass off his costume as a sewer jack…

Yuri gives up on his external investigations and moves into the kitchen. As he does so, the chimney in the kitchen starts belching black, dense, eye-watering smoke—“oh My God—the chips!”. No, this is not merely the effects of a forgotten suckling pig—there is something nefarious afoot. From his vantage point below the level of the billowing smoke (well, almost), Grudge notices a cultist kneecap, and promptly smashes it to little bits. In what must be a fair bit of pain, the cultist drops a vial of some substance, which Grudge manages to snatch from the air before it falls and smashes on the ground.

Meanwhile, in the dining room as the smoke slowly makes its billowing presence felt, Torus and Immolatus notice von Saponatheim’s suspicious man from earlier in the evening surreptitiously spiking the punch. In a later age they might suspect Rohipnol, but in the current circumstances surely it can only mean… CULTIST! CHAOS! BURN HIM! Immolatus trips the perilous punch poisoner, who unfortunately drops his vessel of toxin in a billowing cloud over all the food. The party is really descending into chaos—literally.

“It was definitely better last year…” one of the guests is heard to mutter.

The triumphant adventurers drag the protesting perilous punch poisoner to his master and wicked Master of Chaos, von Saponatheim, who unfortunately convincingly protests that, sure, he was trying to make everyone nauseous to turn von Holzenauer’s party into a disaster, but the burgeoning Chaos fight in the kitchen has nothing to do with him. He would never countenance having such riff-raff at the Masquerade Ball (a not-so-subtle dig at our adventurers?)

If this was a novel, the failure of that particular denouement would mean that a sudden event would occur which…

And outside a carriage from hell arrives. There is a scream at the gate, and from the gloom emerges a wagon drawn by emaciated horses. Accompanied by a horde of diseased cultists, nurglings and probably tax collectors, it draws up to the gate. It is suddenly pretty clear that secrecy is not part of plan after all. This is a full frontal assault with all the subtlety of the moon of Morrsleib, hanging green and baleful in the night sky.

As if in a breathless, hushed pause, everything suspends briefly—the carriage door opens and out steps an enormous, brutal-looking, truly terrifying (and nasty as crap) Chaos cultist and behind him, from the darkness of the cabin, steps—no, you have to be kidding me… Noseless Brandt! Our erstwhile sewer jack!

(Each of our Protagonists makes a mental note that the list of reasons never to take up a job as an Underling sewer jack has just increased by one… your noseless Boss is likely to be a Chaos Cultist Grade 1.)

Time returns with a rush, and the guests and guards are beset on all sides. The noise is sudden and overwhelming—the screams of women, the shouts of men, the gibbering of nurglings, the flatulence of Grudge. The Ball is a swirling, whirling maelstrom of chaos and carnage. “Up the stairs!” shouts one of our party. Some of the guests start heading to the upper floors, while the adventurers form up in defence against what looks like a particularly nasty piece of combat. “This was one invitation we should have turned down—there’s not enough free food and booze in the whole Empire to make up for this…”

The champion moves forward, ugly and ugly and ugly. Our heroes set themselves on the lower stairs, blocking access to the upper floors (and the frightened throng) and prepared to sell their lives dearly. Actually, prepared to kill as many creatures as possible and then run.

As the Chaos champion enters the melee, Grudge, Yuri and Torus all hit, healthy strikes that chisel away at the massive, warped, truly vile frame, but not enough to stop the ponderous killing machine. He returns the favour with interest, sending Grudge reeling. But our heroes are back in the fray, landing more blows until Immolatus finishes him off with a magic missile.

“You cannot kill m…” mutters the Champion as he pitches forward on his face. Famous last words—it’s just unusual that they come from one of the Bad Guys.

Brandt seems just a little perturbed, and more than a little pissed. This was not in the script—a Champion of Chaos is supposed to do a little more carnage than that. Oh well, if you want something done…

Which is why they invented the spell Nurgle’s Hand. With fiendish gestures and guttural murmurings, Brant unleashes his noisome power upon Immolatus, who suffers severe but non-terminal injuries. Now it is the Noseless Bastard’s turn…

The battle still rages. Bodies, and parts thereof, lie everywhere. Guests run this way and that, screaming as they are cut down by cultists or ridden by cackling nurglings. Blood, gore, brains, indeterminate bodily fluids. Mixed with the smoke from the kitchen, the smell and filth is overpowering. There is a very good chance that von Holzenauer will not be getting back his bond for the lease.

Adopting an adventurous fighting style more suited for his idiom, Torus steps from his vantage point on the stairs onto a stuffed bear, and then leaps for the chandelier so that he can swing and land on Brandt. Of course, he misses—this is perhaps more his idiom.

Acrobatics and flamboyant Flynn-ism is obviously catching: Yuri, too, decides on an adventurous approach to his combat with Brandt. Elegantly he runs up a pile of bodies and launches himself from the Champion’s corpse, but finds his foot entangled on the grotesque armour. Less elegantly, he trips, slips on the ichor-drenched floor and falls heavily. Somewhere, the Gods laugh.

Now it’s Grudge’s turn. Somehow failing to learn his lesson from the attempts of his companions, he launches himself through the air at Brandt and surprisingly lands an effective blow. But then falls to the side. Substance over form, that’s the motto.

Enraged, Brandt lashes out at Grudge, for minor damage. Now it’s Grudge’s turn to seek recompense for the many days of discomfort, mud, blood, injury and bad beer. With a final massive blow to Brandt’s nosehole, the dwarf finishes off the Nurgle-worshipping mastermind.

All is quiet, save the quiet sobs and last, dying gasps of the wounded and… dying (obviously). The scene is unbelievable, and will live forever in the memories of those guests who fail to seek solace in alcohol or drugs. OK, so most of them will forget almost immediately. Still, for now it is a vile, sobering vision. Slowly down the stairs, effectively arm in arm, come Aschaffenberg, von Holzenauer and von Saponatheim—is this a turning of a corner? Has this night of horror drawn them together, unifying them and offering hope for Ubersreik? Nope. Within seconds each is off, expounding their individual exploits and disparaging the efforts of their competition.

Sickened by their self-interest, Grudge turns to the Margrave and suggests that what Ubersreik needs is a single, unifying, external leader who will end the divisiveness and help Ubersreik to recover from the trauma of the evening Chaos attack and lead the city into a new, brighter more prosperous age (or mono-syllabic words to that effect).

The Margrave looks at Grudge with a mixture of puzzlement and incredulity, and replies “After this evening’s events, I’m heading straight home. Ubersreik can stew in its own filthy juices, as far as I’m concerned”.

“Et tu Margrave? And so falls Ubersreik…”

Dispirited, our weary adventurers head out into the night air. Looking up, they see that the bilious green of Morrsleib has given way to the true moon’s silver light. Which is all well and good, but you can’t eat, drink, sell or have sex with silvery light. This adventuring lark is turning much less profit and much more personal damage and angst than seems tenable. The Accountants’ Guild looks more tempting every day…

Or “How I Learn’d to Stop Worrying and Love Sigmar”

As Grudge heads off to von Bruner’s Mansion, Yuri and Immolatus race to Aschaffenberg for the (hopefully) self-interested Aschaffenberg cavalry. Torus starts off for the City Watch, but (with fortuitous prescience) quickly applies principles of economic laissez-faire capitalism to the combat scenario and decides that public service based military support will be no substitute for his own private sector participation and hurries after Grudge. Of course, at no time did any of these thoughts actually pass through his head…

Grudge arrives at the von Bruner mansion just one step ahead of the ravening, blood-crazed, chaos-obsessed mob, and looks around for a raised site from which he can address the crowd from a suitable height. In the absence of a 10 foot pedestal, he makes do with a small rise near the gate. Even worse than the fact that he can scarcely make eye-to-eye contact with the front row of the crowd, it appears that to get the initial attention of the rowdy participants will require leadership skills before Grudge can even attempt intimidation. Of course, being ugly, unpleasant and of doubtful intellectual skills, he has no hope. His fall-back is to stand before the gate and ask “who dies first?”. He never expects that the answer might be him.

Realising he can’t get through the growing crowd, Torus climbs up onto a balcony to get a good vantage point for the inevitable shotting of arrows.

As he does so, the ravening pack of religious zealots gets a little too close to Grudge for comfort, and Grudge responds by landing a huge blow on the leader of the flagellants, only to get surprisingly hammered in return. Torus lets fly with an arrow which hits the leader’s head.

Meanwhile, Yuri and Immolatus arrive at the Aschaffenberg manor and inform his men-at-arms what is going on, then begin to hurry back to the von Bruner mansion.

Torus shoots again, and with telling repetition drops his bow. None of the flagellants or participating townspeople have been killed as yet, but things are looking mighty grim for Grudge, who decides discretion is the better part of cowardice, drops to the ground, and begins crawling through the feet of the crowd, wounded and getting dangerous close to death as he endures a rain of blows.

Suddenly, an imposing figure arrives at the scene, announcing his arrival with shots into the air from two pistols. The shocked crowd parts as he walks to the gate. He is a hard man, in the latter half of his life but still vigorous and dangerous-looking. His beard is white, and his face is a mass of scars.

“Go back to your homes,” he says to the crowd.

“But they’re witches..!” [“he's got a wart!”]

The warrior tells the crowd that all will be decided in time. Turning to the adventurers, he asks “is your friend alive?”

“Only just… he’s on the verge of death” [because of your Sigmar loving flagellant bastard friends]

“Get him to the Temple of Shallya.”

“Just out of curiosity, and not a big thing, but you are….?”

“I Am Matthias Krieger, witch hunter” [no shit on the Witch hunter bit. Are there any more weapons that could be hung on that self-righteous frame?]

The flagellants are still inflamed, but cowed by the presence of this mighty witch hunter of Sigmar.

Yuri’s attempts at first aid are successful, but Grudge remains unconscious.

“There will be an inquiry after I return from my missions to the Cursed Marches near Marienburg” [Don't hurry back on our account]

“You have handled a dangerous situation well,” says Krieger to the adventurers, “Sigmar’s blessings upon you.” [Oh, everything’s OK then] “Oh, and by the way—don’t leave town while we sort this out.”[Yeah, like to see you try to find us. On the other hand, maybe not...]

Ahhh, nothing like a deus ex machina—can’t live with ‘em, can’t live with ‘em. With 20:20 hindsight, the party should have waited for ol’ Matty the Witch Poker to save the day. Of course, they actually could have had absolutely no idea that they could afford to sit around playing cards to let him save the Von Bruner mansion. So damned if they do, damned if they don’t. Damned generally really. Clearly a Grim World of Perilous Adventure rather than a Fairly Mild World of Logic and Fairness. Perhaps an investigation of jobs with the Accountancy Guild is on the cards….

The adventurers return to the Temple of Shallya, despite thir unreasonable fear of glove-donning temple healers. Another donation is made. Grudge is healed—to an extent; the worst of his critical wounds are healed anyway. Of course, the symptoms of the Green Pox still manage to cling with their metaphorical slimy fingers to Torus and Immolatus.

Next morning, a figure appears behind the curtain around Grudge’s bed at the Temple of Shallya hospice. It is Sister Sonya, the blind woman at Grunwald Manor. Great—lots of good memories from that particular location.

Sister Sonya seems excited. “It is Shallya’s wish that we should meet again. Korden Kurgansson died last week, and he entrusted something to me— his hammer. His last wish, above all things, was for it to be returned to his ancestors at Karak Azgaraz.”

Grudge is not your typical dwarf however, and uunmoved by things such as ancient debts of honour. Besides, that place kicked him out. Sister Sonya doesn’t appear to be interested in taking no for an answer, however.

Later, the adventurers meet with Piotr Koch, von Saponatheim’s man, who entusts them with a small task before the night of masquerade ball arrives. Von Saponatheim wishes to solidify his links with the ‘common folk’ of Ubersreik, but it seems they are one step ahead of him and wary of talking to the men of a noble. He wishes them to track down the location of the local Temple of Ranald.

On the way to von Holzenauer’s, Torus feels his purse tugged, and have been once bitten, is twice shy. He whirls about and grabs a street urchin, whom he interrogates. He learns the best lead for finding the Temple of Ranald is to talk to the a fellow called Kraemer, who can be found at Rugger’s Boarding House.

The adventurers visit Rugger’s, a two-story half-timbered cheap boarding house run by an aging widow known as Gran’ma. Asking for Kraemer, they are directed upstairs, where a bodyguard stands outside a nondescript door.

The door leads to one large room with five circular tables at which men play cards or dice games and a bar along one wall. Various ruffians play cards and hang around. Everyone seems suspicious of newcomers, but Kraemer, playing cards at one of the tables, is pointed out to them.

“My name is Torus Lavarar—you may know my father. Mr Kraemer I presume…”

Kraemer is friendly enough but not about to divulge the location of the Temple to just anyone. He asks for proof that Torus is a Ranald disciple but Torus is unable to come up with any of Ranald’s basic precepts. So instead, he challenges Torus to a game of Sigmar and Gertrude, with a gold piece at stake. Luckily, Torus wins in a close game and Kraemer is as good as his word, and tells him the location of the Temple and the secret knock to get in.

Back at the Axe and Hammer, the adventurers pass on this information to Piotr Koch, von Saponatheim’s man.

Back to the Red Moon Inn, and there the adventurers again meet Leonhard Zauberlich, Aschaffenberg’s man, who emphasises again that as a deeply pious fellow, Aschaffenberg wishes to distance himself from the adventurere and their activities. The other adventurers are anoyed and leave him to return to the Temple of Shallya for healing, but Yuri stays behind and attempts a more diplomatic approach, which seems to win Zauberlich over somewhat.

As the day comes to a close, the barman at the Red Moon informs the adventurers that three envelopes have been left for them. Inside, they find three invitations to the masquereade, one each from Aschaffenberg, von Saponatheim, and von Holzenauer. Three disparate employers… things have only just started to get really complicated…

Or “A Turn For the Wirtz…”

In the warm, dim glow of the early morning sun, the entrance to the sewers looming in front of the party seems almost innocuous. Then ‘Noseless’ Brant turns the key and throws back the creaking door. “Welcome to my wonderful world”, he beams. Given his odious visage and annoying personality, the vomitous odour wafting from the portal, and the watery glint of light off the effluent beyond, the World of Brant is a rather questionable travel location…

As the band steps into the reeking red brick tunnel, coughing and spluttering and trying desperately not to lose breakfast so soon after ingesting it, they note that Brant is blithely unaware of his surroundings. Of course, his attitude to the smells is based on his main physical attribute (or lack thereof). But he is known as ‘Noseless’ Brant, not ‘Blind’ Brand, and so his casual approach to the visual horror before him can only be based on years in the sewers, inuring him to what can only be described as a veritable litany of putridness. There is, of course, excrement in all its guises, in every state (liquid, solid, semi-liquid, semi-solid) and colour (brown, brown, light brown, dark brown, brown, grey-brown, green-brown, brown grey-brown… you get the idea) imaginable. But there is also worse—the bodies of rats, cats, dogs and other beasts that cannot even be imagined in their matted, gnawed, putrescent, soaking, filthy state. There are unidentifiable lumps and bumps; sudden motions and slow movements; swirling, rainbow, oily runnels and choking, oozy festering channels. Before long each member of the group is prepared to swap a swarm of chaos demons for any longer in the festering tunnels. But they have a job to do; one which clearly in hindsight was not paying nearly enough…

Despite the fact that light will only make the nightmare landscape clearer, it’s clear that operating in complete darkness would not be particularly sensible, so Torus begins to prepare a torch for ignition.

“Hmmmm, I’d be wary o’ that” says Brant, holding up his own covered lantern. “Been known to be some strange gases down ’ere that tend to set them things off. You gots to watch fer strange smells as a warnin’…” Our travellers eye each other—there is nothing but strange smells down here. And what would Brant know about smells? Still, the advice makes sense, so rather than naked flame, Immolatus sets a magic glamour of light upon the end of his staff.

As well as the sights and smells—and in some ways more disturbing than either—are the sounds from the darkness. Dripping water and other liquids, echoing and magnified to have an actual life of their own; the scuttling and chittering of rats and other subterranean creatures; and the unidentifiable slobberings, sighings, wheezings… even giggling… out of the shadows. Just the wind searching through the tunnels? Or something worse, and unmentionable?

“There’s no such thing as giant rats” Grudge reminds Torus, none too convincingly.

“This way, this way” says Brant. “I’ll take you to the rough spot near where Wirtz vanished.” (The ‘rough spot’? There’s a rougher spot?)

The party moves through the dark, Brant’s lantern and Immolatus’s enchanted flame throwing malformed shadows and shapes upon the foetid walls. As they move, the adventurers realise that the old advice that, over time, you get used to awful smells is… complete rubbish. Nothing gets better, and each five minutes feels like five hours.

So, centuries later, the bold and grimy heroes are led to a dank, square room with a central grill, which is clearly an overflow point for collecting storm water… and every other vile object that happens to arrive. In one corner is a pile of sodden boxes and other random detritus.

“Well, here it is,” says Brant. Yuri scrabbles through the boxes and after some time finds a hidden manhole.

“Do you know where this goes?” he asks.

“Nope. Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” and off goes brave, helpful Brant. Gazing after his vanishing lantern (and detailed knowledge of the sewers), not a few of the party wonder if anyone would notice the quick and violent disappearance of Ubersreik’s Master Sewerjack. However, the opportunity to act on inclination quickly passes, and our adventurers are left alone in the flickering dark.

Girding their loins and other body parts, they lift the manhole and head down into the (even more) stinking (even more) dark.  At the bottom, boot-deep in muck and mire, they look around. Immolatus, trusting his sorcerous intuition, leads them unerringly toward their goal, Torus supporting him with observations revealing the occasional passage of unidentified third parties.

After a time of squelching progress and tentative detective work, a distant noise is heard. Squeaking, scuttling, scratching—getting closer and closer. “Giant Rats?” breathes the party…

Nope—just a swirling horde of large sewer rats that breaks like a tide of fur, claws and flesh from around the corner in front of them and crashes upon the party, flinging biting, scrabbling rodents upon one and all. Suddenly each one of them is beating off multiple attacks of tooth and claw. Flailing through the furry torrent with magical flame and mundane steel, the party finally carves a path through the swarm, to emerge beyond, jittery and shaken. Perhaps a mere handful of Giant Rats would have been preferable…

Onwards now, through the darkness until Immolatus leads his colleagues to the half-eaten remains of a human body, lying deep in the filth of the tunnels. It isn’t Wirtz—this body is dressed in the tattered remains of a green jerkin and a robe.  Not the attire of the City Watch; instead, it is strangely reminiscent of the attire of the cultists at Hugeldal.

A quick search of the corpse reveals 3 shillings and a note:

The mysteries of life and death
are not within your holy books
or even written in the stars.
They are inscribed on your very flesh.
Each gangrenous wound, each
itching boil, each suppurated abcess
illuminates the majesty of the
true master of the world.
F.

Also—although it is hard to tell with such a badly preserved body (eye balls long disappeared, flesh extensively gnawed)—but do the remains of the chest suggest particular trauma in that region?

On the party goes, following instinct and subtle clues (and, in Grudge’s case, critically wounding himself upon a spiked board, submerged and unobserved under the sewer’s foul liquids), until they once again hear faint noises from out of the gloom. But these are not the dry sounds of rats on the move—they sound wet and slobbery; could it actually be… someone, or something, eating?

Of course it is! Cautiously rounding a corner, the nightmare tableau of three Crypt Ghouls stooping over their unwholesome meals is revealed. Seeing the light, and sensing warm, fresh meat, they raise their bloodied heads—“Braaaaains! Braaaaains!” (Why this peculiar ghoul predilection for brains? Why not liver, or kidney? Or a nice backstrap. Although “Baaaackstraaaap. Baaaaackstraaap” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it…)

Fighting their almost debilitating fear, the band flings themselves upon the Unholy Creatures. The combat lasts longer than expected—they are hardy adversaries, and are joined by three more ghouls shortly into the combat. They even land a few blows, but no diseases are transmitted and eventually axe, sword, fire and arrow prevails over claw and fang.

Panting, the adventurers stand over the battered ghoul corpses. Quickly Yuri applies rough first aid—a risky business, in the dark, and deep in unhygienic slime, but the efforts are both successful and contamination-free. Looking around, they see large double doors in one wall of the room in which they stand. Torus leans forward to listen at the door—and jumps back, with some evil crawling creature nibbling at the inside of his ear. A Grim World… etc etc. Batting the critter away, Torus confirms that he heard some liquid noises from behind the doors.

Rapidly deciding that, although discretion may be the better part of valour, it’s not nearly as fun as indiscretion, Yuri and Grudge burst through the doors to behold—a Demon!! Yay, another one!

This slimy daemon-beast resembles a huge, pallid slug, but with two webbed claws at the front, and a mass of paralyzing tentacles, teeth, and tongues for a head. Belying its repugnant appearance, it seems bizarrely friendly, its tentacles quivering with excitement, and its slugtails wagging, splashing toxic slime everywhere.

The giant slug-puppy slowly oozes towards the party, emanating the most curious sensation that it wants to hug and be as one with the adventurers (a Zen slug-puppy demon?). Once again, tendrils of fear work their way through our party’s psyches. They are perhaps not nearly as jaded and robust as they would like to think…

Those with ranged weapons—namely, Immolatus and Torus—start to argue about who will strike first. So Grudge and Yuri decide to short-circuit the prevarication and leap to the attack. After all, if you’ve killed one demon, you’ve killed them all.

Grudge lands a solid blow; the creature strikes at Yuri with its glistening pseudopods, but luckily misses, and Yuri counterblows. To the extent that one can tell such things, the slug seems to be weakening. Then things get really serious—Immolatus conjures a fully powered magic dart swarm. Like rain on jelly (a ‘blender and jelly’ analogy is a little too anachronistic) the darts shred the demon, spreading goo and slime onto the already filthy walls. Is there the faintest feeling of unrequited love from the monster as it is spread widely around the near vicinity?

Beyond the splattered remains of the beast is a single room with a domed brick ceiling, off which lead three entrances to three smaller rooms. In the first room is an iron gate, behind which crouches a gibbering figure, dressed in the remains of the clothes of a city watchman. It seems that Wirtz has been found, in body if not in spirit. He is a bedraggled, unkempt, slobbering, incoherent mess—and his eyes have been gnawed out of his face. 

Attempts to communicate fail dismally, as he continues to gnaw at what looks awfully like the remains of a rat, and gibbers a bit. Torus finds a key and goes so far as to enter the room to attempt to speak with the wretch, but it is hopeless. All he finds is a note, written in blood from the hacked stumps of Wirtz’s fingers, which reads:

Grandfather will watch
the ‘great ones’
Dance and caper
while they can
They know not that
the Fraternity of the
Second Flesh
are the true masters of
Ubersreik!

The party prevails upon Torus to leave the room (and lock the door behind him!)

The other two rooms are effectively empty—some broken, decrepit furniture and odd circular runes being the main forms of decoration. Immolatus casts back though his knowledge of the arcane to confirm that these are runes of Nurgle, at which Grudge has a brain wave—the text of the various notes, the attire of the corpse, the demon, it can mean only one thing: “I think we’re dealing with Nurgle Chaos Cultists!” he proclaims. Embarrassed, the band of adventurers doesn’t quite know what to say, and are saved by a scream which erupts from Wirtz. Running to his cage, they sees his chest writhing, flailing and roiling, the flesh over his ribs bubbling with sub-cutaneous energy, and then with a vile splattering and ripping Wirtz’s chest explodes to release six bloodied nurglings like horrific newborns.  If the Old World had cinemas, the parties would have been reminded of Ridlius von Scottus’s classic Alienus (only multiplied by six).

Stunned, the party can only watch as the nurglings leap through the bars and charge past them, giggling and screeching, down the hallway. Then, as if a spell had broken, the adventurers turn and charge after the foul creatures.

Torus decides that he is not fleet enough to catch them, so stops and nocks an arrow. It is a difficult shot in the dark, against small moving targets, but in an inspired piece of archery Torus’s arrow plucks a nurgling from the floor and drives it against a wall, kicking and struggling to the end. Of the others in the group, only Grudge can keep up with the demons, his stubby legs pumping like a piece of dwarven machinery unknown to the Empire at large so a reference to it in this context will mean little to anyone. Waving his axe, he slices one nurgling in half (each half continuing to run for a pace before it looks at its other half, realises it’s dead, and falls over) and squashes another. But then they are at a ladder, and up it flee the nurglings, throwing open a manhole and plunging pell-mell into—Ubersreik’s busy market. Of course. They could have fled into an alley, or a warehouse, or a brothel—somewhere they wouldn’t have been noticed. Instead, out into the biggest crowd, in the marketstrasse, at its peak of business. Chaos has immaculate timing…

Immediately the market square rings with screams and cries. Grudge starts yelling “hairless rats!” in an attempt to quell fears, but within moments the terrified crowd converts this cry to “hairless demons!”, “demon rats!”, “hairless demon rats!” and even “harbinger ranting doctors!” (possibly someone was a little hard of hearing…)

The three remaining nurglings part ways, one towards a priest of Sigmar, one towards a raving Sigmar flagellant on a podium and one towards a small group of children playing ring-a-ring-a-rosy. Grudge heads for the priest and Torus and Immolatus to the flagellant. Yuri starts towards the children but is interrupted by a flagellant handing him a sheet of parchment—“Repent! Repent! etc etc.” So Yuri hits him. Hard. Then continues running after his target.

Grudge reaches his destination first, flicks the nurgling off the priest and squashes it with his axe. Sub-consciously, the rest of the party sighs with relief that he didn’t try a reckless blow with it. Torus lunges for the flagellant and his nurgling, grabbing it, landing and holding it writhing and struggling on the ground as Immolatus raises his staff for one of his first ever melee strikes—and misses. And again. And again. Like a game of ‘Whack a Daemon’. Almost insane with frustration, Immolatus raises his staff for yet another effort—and the flagellant leader reaches over and splatters the nurgling with his whip. “See,” says Torus to the flagellant, “it’s so much better to use that on other creatures.” At which the leader begins calmly mortifying his flesh again (seemingly heedless of the demon bits embedding themselves in his skin as he does so. Now, there’s someone to watch for mutations…)

Yuri reaches the children, only to find the nurgling has insinuated himself in the dancing circle, the children too terrified to stop, as the chaos beast laughs and capers and sings alongside them. Conscious of the bad publicity associated with hacking little children to bits, Yuri carefully tries to stab the creature without doing any collateral damage, and finds himself missing the annoying little object of his attacks. Again and again it darts out of the way, but eventually finds itself impaled. Released from their fearsome playmate, the children run screaming. Best keep an eye on them too…

There is a lull. But as we know, lulls never last long. Scarcely has breath returned to tired lungs when the flagellant leader starts building himself into a cyclone of righteous wrath. “The proof is before ye! Chaos arises, and the End of Days nears, when Sigmar will judge ye all, and most will be found wanting and be cast into the foulest of Pits!”

(Just come out of those, thinks the party)

Mr Sensible, the Sigmar Extremist, continues his rant. “And who is responsible?!? Who is known to cavort with daemons and the filthy whores of Chaos?”

(Whores? Did someone say whores? Where?)

“The von Bruners.” (Oh, not real whores, then) “They have led our City down the Path of Evil! They must be punished! They must Learn the Error of their Ways! Painfully… etc etc.”

The party wonders whether they should perhaps have allowed the nurgling to eat this guy and save a lot of trouble. But it’s too late now—as the mob turns up the hill towards the nearby von Bruner mansion, waving their metaphorical pitchforks, our brave heroes give serious thought to moving off to the nearest pub for a cleansing ale. However, they recall that von Bruner and Aschaffenberg are connected (Ludmilla von Bruner being Lord Rickard Aschaffenberg’s wife), and with the notorious non-syllogistic thought processes of the rich and shameless Aschaffenberg could easily blame them for any misfortune visited on the von Bruners.

Grudge turns to the priest of Sigmar. “It would seem that things may be moving adversely to a point of no return. We need the words of a man of authority and power to assuage the torrents of anger, to pour calming oil upon troubled seas.” (Actually, he didn’t quite say this—more like “Quick man, calm the fuckers down before they burn everything”. But it doesn’t sound suitably Epic).

“Perhaps they have a point,” says the priest. (Great!) “We should summon the city watch however.” (Helpful. And then maybe he can say a few prayers over the burnt remains of the von Bruner mansion. As always with religion and priests, they talk the mumbo-jumbo, but if you actually want something done you have to do it yourself.)

The band splits up, some off to the mansion and some to the authorities. As Torus races away to (hopefully) summon the city watch, Grudge helpfully shouts after him—“See, I told you there’s no such things as Giant Rats. Sure, there’s ghouls, and some nurglings, and a monstrous slug-puppy daemon… but no Giant Rats!”

or “Once Were Yokels”

The foul stench of dirty, sweaty flesh. The mindless shouts and murmuring of the rough, brutal and uneducated. The bestial lust for blood, death and dismemberment… and this is all just from Grudge’s corner of the pit. The rest of the basement is almost as bad—to use technical terms, it ‘smells like buggery’ and sounds like the very mouth of whichever particular Hell or Hells your personal religious beliefs lead you to fear. It is smelly, dingy, rowdy, dim, dark—a swirling maelstrom of greed and bloodlust, and in the calm eye of that chaos stand Grudge and his opponent, Agnes Schild, the personal bodyguard of Baron von Holzenauer.

Schild reaches forward to shake Grudge’s hand. “So” she asks, “why are you fighting for von Saponatheim?”

“Oh, is that who it is?” replies Grudge. “I didn’t know. I’ll fight for anyone, if the pay’s good.”

“Then let’s see how you fight…”

Leaping to the attack, Grudge lands the first strike—a vicious two-handed clout to the neck, blind side, which does crippling damage. The odds on his victory shorten immediately. She retaliates, and lands a fist, but Grudge’s scarred, nuggetty frame bears it well. The chances of this combat lasting a long time suddenly seem small. A few more blows are traded, Schild weakening visibly but with perverse good humour, spitting blood and teeth; but when she misses with one of her attempted punches a swift riposte from Grudge lays her on the floor, unconscious. However, the dwarf won’t be celebrating his victory any time soon, for even as the dust rises around the still form on the pit floor, events in the crowd take a turn for the decidedly antisocial…

During the combat, Immolatus casts a minor spell to detect the use of magic in the basement. However, one of his neighbours in the crowd takes offence at the vicinity of a magic user (ironic, this, from the lowest of society’s low-lives…) and shoves our flame-tempered hero. As Grudge lands his final blow, an anonymous arm strikes Immolatus out of the formless mass that is the basement’s crowd, and within seconds—like a generic fire-starting implement applied to generic combustible material—the room is heaving with conflict; after all, it’s so much more fun to take part than just to watch!

Out of the struggle, backed against a wall in one of the dingy recesses of the basement, von Saponatheim cries “Men! Men! Help me!”, looking to our party for assistance. Foolish man.

Grudge picks Schild from the floor and carries her to some likely-looking retainers. As she comes to, she asks (through bruised lips and broken teeth—she wasn’t pretty to start with, but now…) whether Grudge is interested in some work with von Holzenauer. He looks across at the stricken von Saponatheim and replies yes, but that he has an immediate contract to fulfil. Schild suggests a meeting at dawn the next day at East Gate, and then is lead quickly away through the crowd. Grudge slowly turns and dons his armour, with a view to providing assistance when he’s good and ready!

In the meantime, Torus quickly surveys the packed room for a glimpse of the bookie with whom he’d laid his bet on Grudge, and sees from the corner of his eye his quarry heading for the stairs. Literally surfing the crowd (ignoring the fact that surfing is unknown to the citizens of the Empire), Torus reaches the stairs just behind the fleeing bookie. With a lunge, Torus trips him. All is heading towards fisticuffs until Torus hands across his betting stub, upon which the bookie placidly hands across the gold piece he owes and Torus stuffs it greedily (and presciently) into his pocket. Turning back to the throng, Torus uses a tried and trusted method of crowd-clearing—brandishing his diseased limbs—and amid cried of “plague” and “pustules”, he starts wending his way towards his beleaguered employer.

The rest of our happy band are a little more immediately accommodating to von Saponatheim’s needs. Yuri pushes his way through the crowd, glowering at those around him and administering the occasional solid clout to keep his way clear. Immolatus attempts to shield himself from the barrage with a spell, but fails—however, the consequent spray of sparks gives him breathing space as his anti-magic assailants fall back in superstitious fear.

Gradually the party makes their way to von Saponatheim, and—facing the crowd, (literal) backs to the (semi-literal) wall, (metaphorical) noses to the (metaphorical) grindstone—they prepare to face (and return) the blows of the crowd. When…

A thunderous blast echoes through the room! A large man appears at the top of the stairs, and having fired his blunderbuss into the ceiling, shouts “Get Out you lot!” Sheepishly, like misbehaving children, the crowd ceases their violence and, sheep-like, wend their way up the stairs into the taproom and thence into the night. Many bear the scars of the evening’s entertainment, some received from our band (including one young lout whose nose will forever move around his face thanks to Grudge’s tender ministrations).

It transpires that the gun-toting thug is the tavern keeper, William Docker, suggesting that the name of the tavern—The Docker’s Arms—was inspired either by a massive ego, a poor grasp of grammar, or a peculiar sense of humour (“so, you are the Docker?” “yes”.“Let’s see your arms” etc etc… Ubersreikians are not renowned for their repartee). With cries of “see you tomorrow night” to Innkeeper Docker our band stumbles out into the baleful green moonlight of the city evening. The sickly emerald penumbra formed by the glow of Morrsleib, the Chaos Moon, causes more than one stomach, already weakened by alcohol and violence, to empty on the filthy alleys around the inn. Just another night in the Docks…

Away from the tavern crowds, von Saponatheim suddenly drops his foppish act and a dodgy disguise and appears much more deserving of respect (or even fear?) than before. He reveals that the gold crown originally paid was counterfeit (now passed off to the unwitting bookie), and, congratulating the adventurers on their loyalty, pays them two crowns for their excellent work. He also indicates that if the band want any further employment, they can approach his shifty part-Kislevian employee Pietr Koch at the Axe and Hammer.

Back to the Red Moon Inn, where Torus spends a restless night grappling with his visions and demons and awakes unrefreshed and just as ill as he went to sleep; Immolatus recovers from his secondary infection but can’t shake off the pox; and Grudge and Yuri sleep like particularly ugly and ill-smelling babies. The wages of sin are certainly not distributed evenly in the Old World…

Waking unpleasantly early the next morning, the party stumbles bleary-eyed to the East Gate to find a sprightly and foppish hunting party, complete with servants, ready to depart and led by von Holzenauer (accompanied by a battered Schild). As Grudge waves clear of the whole riding business (“Ya won’t find me on one of those misconceived contraptions..”) and mentally prepares himself for a lot of running, the others try their hands at mounting their steeds, with various levels of success—Torus is fluid (in a good way); Yuri and Immolatus are fluid (in the way diarrhoea is fluid) and end up on their butt (in the case of Yuri) or backwards on the horse (in the case of Immolatus).

The horns sound and the hunters set off. Fortunately for Grudge, there are numerous stops for refreshments, and so he manages to catch up for a breath before the group sets off again each time. However, there is no avoiding the strong implication that our heroes are not impressing anyone with their skills or breeding. Grudge spends some time speaking with Schild, who can at least operate at his lower levels (physically and socially), but Torus decides that something more impressive is required. Scanning the trees, his eagle eye picks out a small rabbit nibbling grass in a clearing. Without a second’s thought, he nonchalantly draws his bow, gets his hands caught in the string, juggles it crazily for a moment, drops it, and sees it shatter upon the rocks. A general snigger breaks out, as von Holzenauer raises a mildly condescending eyebrow. Not to be daunted (and much ruing the cost of a new bow), Torus raises his crossbow and with an impressive shot pierces the poor defenseless bunny. Grudging nods from the onlookers, and von Holzenauer says “I see you are more skilled in the crossbow than the long bow.” Ouch.

Attempts at social intercourse are equally futile—as Torus asks about the political situation in Ubersreik, the baron’s lengthy monologue on “Silver mines… Imperium… my second cousin’s husband’s uncle… blah blah… civil war… council… von Jungfreuds.. blah blah blah” quickly results in glazed looks and muted yawns. The only part of this monologue even remotely comprehensible is that it will be von Holzenauer who is hosting the masquerade ball, at his mansion.

Just as things are getting terminal, a beater cries “deer!” and the company launches into action; all but Grudge, who continues his puffing trundle, and Yuri, who falls nobly from the saddle. Our adventurers sigh—at this rate, they will be lucky if von Holzenauer gives them a job cleaning lavatories. Fortunately, their potential employer fells the buck with a single, impressive shot, which seems to improve everybody’s humour (especially the servants, who no longer need to fear a beating for an unsuccessful hunt). As the carcass is stripped, von Holzenauer mentions a small task that needs looking into, the successful resolution of which might not, taken as a whole and in the general scheme of things, adversely affect his political ambitions (yes, nobles do talk in such ellipses; the upshot—“you help me, I help you”. Eventually the party understands…)

Apparently a member of the city watch, one Grimwold Wirtz, has gone missing while searching the sewers. Notwithstanding that this would seem to be an occupational hazard for sewer-searchers, von Holzenauer requests the band to speak with Captain Andrea Pfeffer, chief of the watch, with a view to finding the errant watchman. A small reward is even promised (after some prompting by Torus).

Of course, all good things must come to and end. And so does the hunt. Our adventurers return to Ubersreik, confident in the knowledge that they will be missed not at all by those with whom they rode. And good riddance.

Their first task, given the very options and quests open to them, is, of course, to look for a bow and some armour. After Torus fails in his attempts to find a bow, Grudge impatiently threatens a passer-by into revealing the location of appropriate merchants. Torus quickly buys his long bow. Grudge is all ready to buy some (human made, ho hum) scale armour for 3 crowns when he decides to haggle—and alienates the merchant so much that the sale is cancelled and he is banned from the shop. Infuriated, Grudge intimates the hapless vendor into soiling his garments, but the sale is not consummated (and the shop door is quickly closed and bolted as the seller runs of to wash and change…) “Closed for the business”, so to speak…

Finally recalling their verbal commitments, the adventurers make their way to the barracks of the city watch to speak with Captain Pfeffer. She explains the situation (albeit with a perturbing lack of apparent interest in the fate of her errant watchman), and suggests they speak with the City’s sewer expert, a certain ‘Noseless’ Brandt, who resides at the Red Moon Inn and with whom the adventurers are already acquainted—in the common room, his constant refrain of giant rats and dangerous tunnels being hard to ignore.

The continued poxed state of various members of the group is still a matter of concern, so Yuri decides to investigate the availability of some form of healing potion from Wolfhart Lutzen. Travelling to Lutzen’s Floracopoeia, our naïve travellers are about to discover the true evil that lurks in the hearts of men. Blindly, trustingly, blithely they travel the streets to their destination, where Yuri wrangles a single valuable bottle of healing draught, needed most by Torus. Happily, Torus reaches for his pouch, wherein resides almost 5 gold crowns (some 3 or so of which are party funds) only to discover that some odious prestidigitator, some light-fingered pilfering wretch, has absconded with all his funds, save only the solitary gold crown that he pocketed from the bookie at The Dockers Arms. To say Torus’s mood sours is an understatement—now considering himself to be penurious, he declines the health draught. Immolatus immediately purchases it instead.

In a dudgeon, they head to The Red Moon Inn, where they speak to Noseless Brandt. Well, more like they get spoken at by Noseless Brandt. For ages. And ages. Interminably. They hear the epic tale of how he lost his nose (thereby acquiring his ‘nom de nez’), in the process taking down a horde of 20 or 30… no, was it 30 or 40?… greenskins. How his new state suited his new role as Ubersreik’s Chief (aka only) Sewerjack. How only a trained professional should attempt the sewers. How… another beer? Thanks. How the city watch should have listened to his advice. How big the rats are down there—did he say how big the rats are down there? They’re big, the rats down there.

Eventually, crossing his throat with ale and his palm with silver, our party persuades Brandt to take them into the sewers the next morning, through one of the western grates closest to where Grimwold Wirtz went missing. So, aurally beaten and reeling from a day of disasters, there are but two tasks left to draw a curtain upon the whole sorry affair.

First, to the Temple of Shallya for some healing. But even this is no easy task—the temple is in an uproar, as a one-legged man is tended to, screaming of ‘tentacles’ and ‘slime’, surrounded by the city watch as the adventurers hear tales of him having killed his whole family (and removing his own leg). The man is obviously mad, or chaos infected, or suffering indescribably bad deliria tremens. Or all three. Pleasantly for our band, the patient seems to hail from the location of the sewer grate to which they are heading the next day. Rats, tentacles and slime—a perfect breakfast.

Torus at last receives a benediction from Shallya and loses his delirium symptoms. He remains disturbingly poxed however. As for Immolatus, even the expensive healing draft cannot help him shake the damned pestilence.

The final business for the day is a quick trip to von Holzenauer’s mansion. A small bribe to the evening watch speeds their passage, where Grudge asks to speak with Schild. First, he expresses his suspicions as to the ball and poisoned beer. Slightly skeptical (but recognising Grudge’s frightful uppercut), she agrees to ensure that all supplies are properly tasted and vetted. Next, Grudge asks of any well-known professional types with an ‘F’ in their name. She can think of only two – a certain Wolfgang von Falkenhayn (a friendly but somewhat oafish supporter of von Holzenauer) and the dwarf Borgun Foambeard (from Borgun’s Brewery). Neither seems an immediate suspect.

Dispirited, the team wend their weary and embarrassed way back to their inn, there to await the morning and their impending trip into the sewers of Ubersreik. There’s nothing quite like going to bed with something to look forward to…

Evisceration. Disembowelment. Gutting. Charnel house. Foetid, intestine ridden putrescent mass of festering body parts. Given their grasp of the Imperial language, these are the thoughts that are swirling through Immolatus’ and Torus’ minds as they view the field of combat. “Shit, ay!” is what Grudge and Yuri are thinking, their vocabulary being somewhat more limited.

The scene is literally one from the End of Days. The bodies, the stench, the weeping, the wailing, the crackling flames, the dancing shadows, the mindless humming of Grudge as he cleans his Great Axe and mentally rehearses the embellished drinking stories he will tell of his first encounter with a Daemon…

As the party picks their way carefully across the blood and ichor soaked ground, morning mist rising in the damp air as if the very souls of the damned were leaving the bodies of the dead, the Lady Agnetha raises her eyes to the saviours of her town and with true and noble gratitude shouts: “It’s all their fault. This all started when they arrived. They’re responsible for all this!”

The adventurers are slightly taken aback; this isn’t quite what they expected. No “thank you, my children”. No “please have this small fortune in gratitude”. No “let me anoint your naked bodies with these expensive oils…” Just the usual “It’s all their fault”. A hero’s life is singularly unrewarding from an emotional perspective.

Lucky the pay tends to be good.

The moment is a perilous one. Certainly, there are some in the crowd who saw the combat, while others appreciate that the Green Pox started a long time before the party arrived. But logic never stopped a good old crowd frenzy, and some of the townspeople begin casting angry and irrational eyes at our protagonists. Surely this is the time for someone with a smooth tongue and honeyed words to turn the tide. Someone who, with a few bon mots and a clever turn of phrase, can bring the situation under control. Someone with charm, and grace, and poise. Instead, Grudge speaks to Lady Agnetha.

“Puill yoursel’ togitherrr, woman!” [Grudge’s accent will be translated into Imperial from here on] “The town is a mess, and your people need you now more than ever. Act like the leader you are, and stop making up ridiculous stories”. At the same time, Yuri gently takes the son’s body from Lady Agnetha’s arms (with a small and largely unnoticed slip…) and tries to calm her with soothing words. The good cop/bad cop act seems to work; Lady Agnetha is led away and the tense moment passes. Torus, who had slipped off into the shadows, reappears. His explanation was that he was just surveying the crowd in anticipation of combat action. The others aren’t convinced…

It is decided that Torus, the best rider of the group, should depart post haste to Ubersreik to ensure appropriate spin is put on the recent events—given that their instructions were to be discreet (foolish instructions to our band at the best of times), it is important to minimise the negative elements of Lady Agnetha’s actions (eg. banishing Shallyan priests, presiding over a plague of Green Pox, harbouring chaos minions, hugging poxed dead children, going insane…) and highlight the positives (eg. um…). Torus speeds to the Bucket of Blood Inn to commandeer a horse, one ‘Rufus’, from the innkeeper, who tentatively asks for it to be returned (alive). Torus happily gives this reassurance, with absolutely no interest in its veracity, and sets off on the ten mile journey to Ubersreik.

The others retire to Lady Agnetha’s residence, to find the place a shambles. Servants and guards mingle and formicate with little or no purpose. The party take the Lady to her room, where she promptly crawls into bed with her son’s corpse (who, it transpires, has been dead for weeks). This is not a good situation. Quickly summoning Friedhilda, Lady Agnetha’s maid, the adventurers obtain the Lady’s standard sleeping draught and see it administered in more than sufficient quantities. Once Agnetha is down, the dead boy’s body is taken and cremated (with due care, reverence and odour) in the family crypt. Hopefully little is left to snuggle up to.

Unfortunately, some of the servants have observed their mistress’s erratic behaviour, and short of having them all killed or incarcerated (both solutions holding some attractions for Grudge), word of the situation is bound to leak out, making Torus’ valiant ride to Ubersreik in the dark and the wet and the cold even more important.

So we flash to Torus. Not long out of Hugeldal, he encounters the Shallyans who have camped awaiting news of the events in the town under the leadership of Father Bram. Torus quickly updates them on the unbelievable events of the night before, and they immediately commence striking camp to offer their assistance to the remaining townsfolk. Of course, if their assistance to Torus is anything to go by, the townsfolk shouldn’t hold their breath—Father Bram’s attempts to cure the pox are spectacularly unsuccessful. Even as Father Bram dons his pig-intestine surgical gloves (with the large knots!) with a resounding ‘snap’, Torus begins to wonder what is actually involved in Shallyan medical training…

As Torus prepares to leave the Shallyan camp, his parting words of encouragement stress that “the moment is now” for the Shallyans to impress Hugeldal with their skill and dedication. And then falls off his horse. He scrambles back on, and rides off into the dark and the wet and the cold…

So we flash to the rest of the party, taking their baths, eating their fill, fondling the staff and sleeping like babies.

To Torus, cantering through the dark and the wet and the cold.

To the others—silence, other than contented snoring and the occasional nocturnal fart.

To Torus, who arrives at last outside Ubersreik through the dark and the wet and the cold… to find the gates closed and the guards of absolutely no mind to let him in, even after the blandishment of 5 shillings. Muttering under his breath about wasting time and dreaming of warm fires and soft bedding, Torus finds a lean-to and makes himself as warm as he can, with Rufus the Wonderhorse.

Back in Hugeldal, the other party members wake—fully refreshed in Grudge’s case, partly refreshed in Yuri’s, and tired and weak and one symptom worse off in the case of Immolatus. Truly a grim and perilous world of Diseased Adventure.

Agnetha starts screaming for her son, and Grudge’s blunt attempts at clinical psychology (including telling her that her son has been cremated and reminding her that this is a grim world of perilous adventure) leave her initially delusional and ultimately catatonic. Quickly exculpating himself of all responsibility, Grudge decides that this is clearly a job for the experts, which in the case of the Empire isn’t saying much. Off, then, to the priests of Shallya to offload this little problem. At the same time Immolatus has Father Bram (gloves and all) cure him of his most recent symptom, and the party agrees to take messages to Marianne Altenblum at the Temple of Shallya and the burgomeister of Ubersreik of the events in Hugeldal. The party agrees, with absolutely no interest in the veracity of their promise.

Some quick shopping for new clothes (their previous ones having been burned for sheer grossness) and then the adventurers set off for Hugeldal to meet Torus at the Red Moon Inn, where Torus arrived early that morning when the gates opened and ate and drank himself into a minor stupor waiting for Leonhard Zauberlich. Torus books a room to wait, and appears downstairs just as his compatriots arrive. Together they meet with Zauberlich, and update him on the situation in Hugeldal. They suggest that Aschaffenberg send out a team to deal with Lady Agnetha and the situation, while putting a positive spin on the rumours that will start emerging (“The Lady Agnetha valiantly fought off a horde of Chaos Daemons with her bare hands” sort of stuff). As they talk to Zauberlich, and as he orders drink after drink, they realize that he is a useless boozer, and they wonder whether Aschaffenberg will get the message and, if so, what sort of garbled state it will be in. Oh well, that’s his problem. In his cups, Zauerlich eventually gives the companions Aschaffenberg’s address.

Heading off to the Temple of Shallya, it transpires that Mother Altenblum is ill (Green Pox perchance?) and instead our heroes meet with Marianne Hertzlich, a tall, willowy, young priestess with striking features and sad blue eyes, who they update on the Hugeldal Situation. Those with injuries also remain at the Temple hospice further healing. Yuri is completely healed of his wounds and is a happy chappy. Torus is healed of his wounds but fails abjectly in his endeavours to shake his disease. Immolatus is healed neither of his wounds nor his disease. The status of Shallya in the pantheon of the party’s gods is slipping rapidly. They are also readily developing a strong aversion to gloves, pig intestines and what passes for medical education in the Empire.

Grudge meanwhile wanders off to the Dwarf Quarter (obviously), to a tavern called The Axe and Hammer which is has been built to look and feel as much as possible like a subterranean dwarven hall. While there he passes a jocular ‘test’ by not paying for non-existent Bugman’s XXXXXX (as if they’d have Bugman’s XXXXXX in Ubersreik…) and is offered a job by a shifty looking human. He hires a room for the evening, passing to the downstairs halls to the ‘dwarf only’ section where he spends much of the night bullshitting with other dwarfs. As part of the gossip, he learns about a drama at the nearby Borgun’s Brewery, where a figure was detected skulking around the beers—and after asking, Grudge finds out that one of their beers, Old Subterranean, is to be served at the upcoming ball. Grudge’s mind leaps to the suspicion that someone is going to poison the beer with Green Pox to infect the nobles at the ball. Generally sounds like a good idea.

The next day, Torus and Immolatus try again for healing, and again Shallya gives them the proverbial finger (encased in the proverbial surgical glove). Atheism looms large on their respective spiritual horizons…

Yuri wanders off to find a herbalist and eventually discovers Lutzen’s Floracopoeia, owned by stringy-lloking fellow with a nervous blink called Wolfhart Lutzen. Uri proves his credentials and opens his wallet and joins the Guild of Apothecaries—at a special rate following a successful sob-story.

Grudge waddles to the Temple of Sigmar to find details of the “prying Sigmarite priest” mentioned in the Hugeldal note, but instead spots Lord Rickard Aschaffenberg and wife sitting in the pews. Bribing a priest with a 5 shilling donation to the temple, Grudge delivers a short and cryptic message to Aschaffenberg, who briefly speaks with Grudge in the shadows of the columns and confirms that Zauberlich did his job and ‘things’ are being taken care of. He also reiterates that he has his reputation to consider and can’t be seen mixing with vagrant adventurers, but perhaps if they keep their conduct to a high standard he may have further use for them.

And so the party meets up outside The Axe and Hammer at sundown, where the shifty agent awaits them and a carriage (with blacked out crest) eventually arrives. A well-dressed man with a long pointed beard and groomed moustache, who is calling himself ‘Klaus’ for the evening, flips the the adventurers 1 gold piece as half payment for the evening and invites them onto the back of the carriage. They head off to a very bad part of town.

They arrive at a backstreet tavern called The Docker’s Arms, the outside of which Torus quickly cases. It transpires that ‘Klaus’ wants the adventurers to inconvenience another noble by incapacitating (not killing) that competitor’s ‘right hand man’. Inside the place is packed and rowdy. After paying off a doorman at the back they head down some stairs to the cellar, which is dominated by a pit fighting ring. It seems that Grudge is to return, albeit briefly, to his previous employment. As he strips down and enters the pit, and as Torus starts to make bets, his adversary pushes through the crowd—it is a tough, dark-haired woman with a leather patch over her left eye, wearing colours of black and red. Without more ado she springs into action. Combat has commenced, and after almost 48 hours without violence, the enthusiasm among our adventurers for a good punch-up, even vicariously, is almost palpable…