[WFRP 2e] Renegade Princeps Interlude 51.5

My PC
Vaervenshyael - Female Elf Assassin (suffering from a Host of Fiends disability and carrying a magical stone linked to gluttony)

My companions
Tankred "Silver Bear" Tenneckermann - Human Artisan/Mercenary/Champion

Wilhelm Hechland - Human Pistoleer/Engineer/???

Doctor Johann Wilhelm Woeller - Human Physician
Gertrude - NPC Human Knight, emissary of Mathilde, prince in the north.
Ludovic - NPC Human Prince of Padua
Maximillian - NPC Halfling Master of the Horse of Padua
Azmir - NPC Local merchant and wizard in Padua

(Previous Notes)

Meta: Does Azmir look anything like Abdul Al Shar?

Answer: Azmir is an almost black skinned Arabyan. A salted black beard, shorter than you've seen in images of Abdul, but a profile that could be Abdul, older. He wears elaborate white robes of his color, Hysh, and can be often heard singing under his breath if he's not talking.

Whether he worships still the one god of Araby is only rumor and of no matter to most in the Badlands. His warehouse of goods and home is always heavy with incenses and spices from his wife's kitchen.

Vaervenshyael asks Azmir, "Things seem lax around here since your battle with Ubain. Have the Prince and the Master really been pulled into a sense of security from one battle? There are greenskins amassing to the north, and relations with Mathildaburg are a bit strained at the moment. I see no opportunity for sitting on one's laurels with so much danger still about...if ever in the Badlands."

Azmir: "Lax?! I think not! Our Princeps labors on an epic song. His Master of Horse labors over maps of old Ubain even now at the Library, our cells hold the captured for details. The Smith labors over a bounty of steel from the fields of slain. We stacked the dead and cared for the dying! The Morr priest has labored over the dead as the Northern fashion dictates. Graves dug. Many of own buried. Roofs repaired. The mill cuts new timbers and the woodsman are unmolested by the Ubain impostor assassins.

"Go to the wall and look East. Al'Shar was badly advised! His forces crashed against our walls and he was crushed! To hear the refugees in the camps beyond the pyres, he has paid for it with his life! His folly leaving a ruin. His sell-swords putting the city to fire, Khorne burning in their eyes some have said.

"No. We are quite busy. Quite busy as you appear to have been in the ever present song of Hysh tells me. There is help for you, all you need is ask. And yet we still must prepare the spells to release you from the bonds of the power stone."

Vaervenshyael: "Excellent! I am relieved by your report of diligence. Let us find Maximillian and get these rituals completed. I feel I am starting to get hungry again."

Tankred meanwhile will be looking to relieve the stress of the road in the forge. As well as working with Gertie and his men on drills and techniques he picked up from watching the dwarves and orcs.

Azmir, rubbing his beard as he leads Vaervenshyael back to the manor says, "I must ask you Vaervenshyael, have you ever gone to our barber-surgeon for a haircut?"

Vaervenshyael: "That seems an odd non sequitur. Anyway, shouldn't we be heading to the library. I want to find Maximillian and get this while thing over as soon as possible."

Azmir: "Yes, the library. But hair is a powerful reagent in Hysh and other winds. And my dear Vaervenshyeal, you may be in need of arcane and divine help."

Vaervenshyael: "The doctor is competent in patching up my various wounds, but he is not welcome to touch my hair. I'm curious what kind of spell you are thinking of casting that uses my hair. In general, those are the kind of spells one tries to avoid, no?"

(Cut to Tankred)

The forge's outbuilding is stacked with mail, shields, swords, helmets, and a myriad collection of detritus from the field of battle. The Sleuth has not been lazy in your absence. Althea has become an apprentice and shown a mastery of shop organization. Things have moved, but after the frustration passes, the move makes sense, and approval makes you smile.

The folly of Abdul seems to have transferred his armory to the Princeps. If the weapon and armor style strikes one as odd, yet effective no less.

Tankred asks Gertie if she thinks she can locate a suitable set of recruits. An organized martial unit of Myrmidians would aid the town if she would be up for training them.

He will the take his place working on repairing and making ready the weapons. His brother being the armorer.

Tankred is also thinking that someone is going to have to head out in about a month to go to Barak Varr to get his sword, Gertrude Grudgebringer.