It would take a few weeks for Adebar’s wounds to heal. The days were restful at first, the young nobleman happy to catch some well-deserved rest in a proper bed like he hadn’t done since his flight from Altdorf’s walls. After three days of inactivity, however, he found little respite, only a deep blue sea of boredom. Much to his great disappointment, the man of the house had obeyed his wife, and as such it was only Mildred von Gostahof, for that was indeed where he was, who broke up the monotony when she brought food or tended his injuries.

His first steps were shaky and stiff, the long rest had harmed his form, taken some of his muscle tone. Though he was far from fattened, he also wasn’t as wiry as his long days on the road had made him. Alas, he was free of obvious pain, and, if the Lady von Gostahof was to be believed, his ribs wouldn’t maim and cripple him when he breathed, so he supposed he owed a small prayer to Rhya for that recovery. In the end it was mostly Shallya to whom he prayed, for the wife of Taal was a foreign, feral deity to him, too distant from his conception of the world.

The snow had piled high, suffocating the land under a thick blanket of white, chilly death. Von Bolstedt had been given new clothes, his old fineries too torn and ragged. But three of his old finger rings remained to him, the last reminders of his student-life.

The garb he wore now consisted of several layers of finely woven wool, coarse to his flesh, stout against the cold. The wind was biting, carrying frost into his unshaven beard. Were it not for the fur-cap trapping his unkempt mane of hair he would’ve likely lost his ears to frostbite, or so he thought. It was cold, too cold for him.

“Refreshing, isn’t it? Something different from that dusty old chamber.”

He stood together with Berchthold von Gostahof, looking down from the ramparts of the family’s castle, surveying the lightly wooded slopes by the dark River Stir, where the houses that formed Gostahof were spread out between sparse fields and copses of trees.

“It has a certain charm to it.” He barely contained his bodily need to shiver, fearing that his dismissal of the visual splendours of the wintery backwater wasn’t too obvious.

If the Lord noticed he did not say, content to gaze out at his domain.

“What brings you out here, von Bolstedt? Few young, strapping noblemen from Altdorf think Talabecland is worth a visit for the right reasons, so I’d have yours.”

Von Bolstedt had known this would come, and he’d had time to consider if he had an answer. He thought a hint of honesty suitable.

“I seek the goodwill of Sigmar, my Lord.”

How much could he tell here, he wondered? The man had saved his life and given him food, shelter and the very clothes he wore, but how far could the wood-lord’s goodwill extend?

“I have taken our Lord’s name in vain in the past, and he saw fit to cast me low. Now I wander your land to find His forgiveness.”

Von Gostahof didn’t look at him for a while, staring up at the greyish white clouds.

“Have you found much of that?”

The question was blunt and delivered like an arrow to the chest, startling Adebar with the slight hint of sacrilege the question carried.

“No, Lord.”

Berchthold chuckled to himself, finally turning piercing eyes to his guest.

“Have you done much to get it?”

This now finally was too much to hide, surprise and indignation sprang from Adebar’s features, words raced to be spoken, only to be swallowed down before he could say something he would regret.

“I have sought to do good by the people of all places I have visited, Lord.”

The words nearly got stuck in his throat, jumbled with concerns over his own honour. Lord von Gostahof had more to awe him with, however.

“That’s the trouble with you Sigmarites, always flagellating yourself like that’ll ‘elp anyone.” While Adebar found his humours rising, Berchthold was far from done.

“Sometimes it’s just not your year. Couldn’t be, it's always the ill will of Sigmar!”

Von Gostahof laughed out loud, clapping von Bolstedt on the shoulder as if his blasphemy held any mirth.

“Are you denying the divinity of our Lord?!”

The laughter ceased, the tall man cocked his head.

“He’s not a god in my book, if that is what you ask. Admirable man, chosen of Ulric, for sure. Much to look up to in our great uniter.”

Baffling, utterly shocking! Adebar had known Talabecland to be a godless place, but he wouldn’t have thought that the heathens would be so bold as to openly deny the godhood of the Heldenhammer himself!

The Lord turned away from his domain, unconcerned with a slowly unravelling von Bolstedt.

“Come along now, Taal, I hope Mauritz brings back something fat today!”

Von Gostahof descended wooden stairs, leaving von Bolstedt staring after him.

The Lord’s words had, of course, been sacrilege, but still, there was something mocking about them, like a gnawing truth. He hadn’t been having the best of luck ever since Diesdorf, even if he’d done his best, hunting down simple robbers and thieves in every village and town between that place and this one.

The thought was dangerous, he knew. He also knew that it was far too late now to deny the small spark of bitter frustration deep in his chest.