Adebar von Bolstedt, scion of the von Bolstedt family of Altdorf, capital of the Empire, pinnacle of human achievement, was far from home.

Yes, he was further away from home than he had ever been, stuck in a roadside inn, deep in the woodland-province of Talabecland, with some of the strangest people he had ever met, and as if things couldn’t have gotten worse, it looked a damn lot like they would be the last faces he would see.

He’d never lived in the woods, never felt the cold of winter, the teeth of the Wolf-God Ulric. Those had been terrible enough on his tattered figure, but, far more terribly, the other dwellers of the forest suffered the same privations man suffered in the cold season.

Much to his terror, it seemed the children of the woods had found ways to make do.

Beastmen. Cloven monsters, half man, half animal. They brayed outside the thick walls of the inn, beat hide-bound drums and blew their primitive horns.

“Sigmar, help us all”, he muttered under his breath, hoping the God-King of Mankind would reach down and smite the chaotic slaves of darkness.

“Y’know, I always knew I’d end up like this, Herr, roads weren’t ever safe, really, but winter in the Great Forest, oh, now that’s a different story really.” It was Henno Schimmel who broke the tense silence in the taproom once more, as he’d done every ten minutes, or so von Bolstedt could swear. Usually he’d have attributed this talkativity to nervousness, but from a previous run-in with the messenger he had learned that the man was simply a class of his own in regards to words and their rapid regurgitation.

Before he could bring himself to scold the messenger, or consider throttling the damnable commoner so he could die with some dignified silence, it was the innkeeper who finally spoke up.

“Ulric’ll provide.” Well, that was as much as any of the Talabeclanders had said during the last hours of the small siege. They weren’t incredibly talkative, contrasting rather starkly with the talkative Schimmel, who, if von Bolstedt wasn’t mistaken, had roots in the southern province of Wissenland.

The innkeep, a surprisingly lean man, clad in simple clothes and girded with a leather jerkin, had been quite quick about sorting out both guests and servants of the house, sending marksmen to the windows in the first story, sending others to secure both the front and back entrances, rallying the guests to create a makeshift barricade running through the taproom.

Adebar had been astonished, and frankly too shocked to protest against being commanded by a peasant. When trying to bring up the topic later, in an effort to suppress his own nervousness, the innkeep had only shrugged calmly, polishing his longknife. In his own words, these things happened sometimes.

They were fifteen people, all in all, mostly local woodsmen, some travelling peddlers, the innkeep and his two sons, his wife, three daughters, one of which looked like she was no older than three summers. The poor thing looked like she was fighting back tears.

While Adebar somehow wanted to empathise, he was also immensely grateful that the girl wasn’t bawling. That was the last thing he needed now, sitting behind an overturned table, making sure once more his pistol was ready for what was sure to come. It was quite a heavy thing, simple but elegant, and a reminder of how all this had started, hunting the mad princeling of Diesdorf.

Von Bolstedt fended off the memories, deciding that he’d stared at the gun quite enough for today. It would work when the time came. If the banging and crunching of the heavy, oaken front door was any indication, that wouldn’t be far off now.

“Wonder how many there are, y’know? Maybe this won’t be the end, if it ain’t too many we could probably deal with them quite well!”

Schimmel seemingly still hadn’t gotten the message, or simply refused to die any other way than he’d lived, aiming his blunderbuss over the self-same table Adebar had taken position behind.

One of the innkeeper's sons picked up the question, relaying it to the men above with a hint more excitement than his father.

“‘arry, ‘ow many of the damn things ye reckon?”

A long pause, then the loud crack of a gunshot.

“One less now;” came the answer, in a tone that seemed almost bored, “three dozen more, maybe? ‘ard to say.”

No surprises, then. They’d soon all be wandering past the gates of Morr’s realm. At least one could but hope that it would be the God of the Dead that watched them, and not the daemonic masters of the beastmen outside.

The dark musings were pushed aside by a crunch that was rather too loud, and followed by too exultant a howl than could be good.

Through the planks of the door, the glistening of crude metal could be seen, before it retreated, only to be replaced by three more axe heads.

“Sigmar,” von Bolstedt spoke aloud, for all to hear, “preserve us.”