BEING A TRUE AND HONEST ACCOUNT OF THE FIELD OF CARNAGE AND THE RESCUE OF FAIR BIANCA.

Though stout dwarven Moradrin and my most angry Master did solemnly press upon the others the need for haste to come upon those scurrolous dogs who had most foully undertaken this dark and foul deed of theft and murder, t'was Deiter, Alane, Bertholdt and Grundi who prevailed with their council to first search the field for friend and foe.

Thus, when further searching the field of woe and verily preparing both graves and bodies for burial, did the young scribe Bertholdt of Stirland come across the dying form of an elderly Frau still clinging to life and a scrap of blue cloth. Letting out a mighty cry, Bertholdt caused the others to rush to his defence, yet seeing no swordplay was necessary, the brave Grundi, though possessing but little skill in the healing arts (as all his surviving campaigns can repeatedly attest), set to tending the Frau's wounds. Yet it was clear even to young and sheltered Bertholdt (being but eighteen and having led the sheltered life of a scribe) that little could be done.

The dying woman clutched tightly upon the arm of the young man, clawing deep wounds upon his flesh in her icily determined grip upon fading life. She did doth spoke unto him, placing upon the companions a mighty quest to save the life of a young girl, Bianca, the natural born daughter of Graf Von Radiditch in Helmsdorf. Grimly did Bertholdt clutch the a thin sealed parchment produced by the Frau and placed into the hands of the young scribe as the proud and honoured Frau – who had not even spoken her own name unto the heroes- breathed her last.

With young life now at at stake, Siegfried and Mordrin, now even more determined to abandon the efforts of burial in their haste, did press upon the others the need for swift departure. My Masters anger was, he tells me, of the most righteous sort and though in other circumstances a man of certain acquisitiveness and greed, in this dire regard he was driven by no thought's of reward, but bloody vengeance and gentle compassion (something most certainly hard to believe of my master, had not the wise and truthful Bertholdt declared it so. For verily doth he seem a fierce man, and not one given to pity or remorse for any creature, let alone a poor scribe with many hungry mouths in his home to whom he pays only a few coppers a bushel).

In the face of such reasoned and determined argument, the other four companions could not help but acqueas. Though by now light was fading under the dark eaves of the Forest, the six determined souls set off with great speed in the direction from whence they had came, all thoughts of seeking the lost boat driven from their minds by the urgency of this new plight.

Spurred on by swiftly building anger, the group deducted that the Bandit band they had encountered in the guise of innocent travellers would camp by the Tollbooth ruins. In this they were correct, for, although they came upon that sight well into that shadowy twilight period of dusk made most magical by the twinkling reflections of light playing upon shiny leaves and through voids in the woven tapestry of green branches, they could see clearly the many wagons gathered and collect by the foe. Yet Herr Schwimmer, my cunning and wise master and paying patron, was prickled about his neck hairs by the absence of fire and movement from the camp. Leaving the others a short distance away, armed and primed with pistol, crossbow and blunderbuss at the ready, he proceeded to scout the camp in a most brave and worthy manner.

But not at all a great deal of time had passed, perhaps as long as the time required for one of the aforementioned leaves from the topmost branches of the mighty forest to float to its gentle repast upon the earth, before the man of Middenheim, my patron and a true servant of Ulric did enjoinder upon the others to meet him within at the camp.

There their eyes befall a second grisly sight, yet not one which presented much grief, for seemingly all the bandits had been slain, with no trace of any tracks leading away from the camp to safety – save those of goblins and wolves. Pausing only to collect some weapons as might still be useful- and to kick a goblin body or two- the party did search excitedly for some trace of the girl. Though nothing could be found in camp during the dying of the light, it was Grundi who, traipsing morosely into the wounds to relieve himself of his burden of pickled ale pie from that wondrous and cheaply priced coaching inn, the Prancing Cockerel, did come upon a small scrap of blue dress left, quite deliberately it seemed, impaled upon a small yet barren branch ofunderbrush.

Joyfully did Grundi call out to his companions, who remarked that their quarry, or the little girl at least, for they were not so foolish as to think the goblins had left so deliberate a trail, was a canny and resourceful one indeed. Thus, their hopes brightened by the prospect of the continued chase, they were soon dashed by the final setting of the sun and the arrival of nightfall upon the forest.

Thus did my master find himself, on the Night of Mystery, that darkest and most dangerous of times when Daemons may walk the Empires holy earth unhindered, encamped in the darkest forest of the Old World, surrounded by enemies, encamped mere dwarf-throw's away from the scene of a massacre with it's ancient hungry ghosts now joined by the blood of a dozen deservingly murdered bandits.

It was a grim night, though one which, thanks the Gods, passed seemingly without incident, though the heroes were woken often by the howl of wolves and other (often unspeakable) things passing in the night, not the least of which being the hideous bowel movements of a dawrven coachman (which I can attest personally doth rent the air foully with both smell and noise of squishy moistness).

Next Edition:
Fire and Bloodshed. A Hero Falls. A Girl is Saved. Much Celebration and Rejoicing and drinking of ale for a Shilling and a Penny.