He needed a new name.

What in all hells had possessed him to agree to this inane scheme?! He wasn’t out here to hunt crazed murderers, he was supposed to get to Nuln and begin his life anew, climb to the top, to gain the respect he so rightfully deserved as a son of the von Bolstedt line!

“Shallya,” he took the name of the Dove-Goddess of health in vain, “my head!”

Adebar had awoken on a simple straw mattress, more comfortable than walking all night, but still torturously coarse to his pampered sensibilities. His roaring headache, as well as the feeling that his eyes had crusted over with all manner of bodily grime, didn’t help his general constitution either.

The noble carcass didn’t know how long it took him to get out of his peasant-bed, creeping sluggishly toward the door. He fumbled for the key within his doublet, but found the door unlocked anway. Opening it halfway the wooden planks hit something very solid and very heavy that groaned in response. Adebar’s hand instinctively went to his side, grasping for his rapier. If he could make a dashing escape now...his rapier! Where was it!?

He whirled around, eyes darting around his allotted room, finding it concerningly vacant of his trusted blade.

Taking heart, he finally peeked around the door, taking a look at what blocked its path.

It was Ludolf, he noted with some irritation. Had the Talabeclander just up and passed out right here like some form of pauper in a cramped alley?

His investigation into the slumbering woodsman was disturbed by something he could only describe as divine intervention: there was a pleasant scent in the air!

Fresh bread, he mused, as his shaky legs carried him down the slip-shod stairs that led up to the beds, finding to his great pleasure that Gottlieb, seemingly also nursing a bit of a hangover, sat at a table with another man, simple wooden bowls marked out three other places at a long table, away from the main taproom, so as to distinguish the inn and the alehouse further.

Adebar immediately recognized where he was supposed to sit, right next to the stranger, for his place was marked with his rapier, leaning against the table side. How embarrassing! How was he going to save these village idiots if he couldn’t even keep an eye on his sword? What was he saying, he wouldn’t stay here!

“Ah, Herr von Bolstedt, I see you’ve recovered quite nicely.” Gottlieb chimed in a voice that tried to convey energy, but couldn’t hide a thick layer of lethargy.

He sat down next to the stranger, who gave him a janky nod as he was shovelling dark bread into a relatively small mouth. The stranger wore a jacket and tight leggings, the latter striped black and red. At his side hung a dagger, between his feet he huddled what might’ve been a bag or rucksack. The man was in his thirties, Adebar supposed, but he couldn’t help but find the whole man rather hard to pin down.

“Meet Henno Schimmel, a good friend and common patron.” Gottlieb handled the introduction. Von Bolstedt pressed out some quaint enough phrase, before Henno himself began running his mouth.

“Schimmel, I’m a messenger. Roadwarden too, I suppose, but only when her Highness decides she can pay us well enough, y’know, high nobles, always got better things to be concerned about. If you want anything delivered I’ll get it from here to Altdorf in four days. Five days tops! Alright, maybe six if the tollmen don’t get crackin’, but the point still stands.” Adebar, in his maimed state, couldn’t help but liken this assault on his ears to the report of a whole regiment of Altdorf’s proud handgunners, giving off their best impression of a drumming band, not only in intensity but also speed with which the man prattled on.

“What’d you say was your name Herr? Von Bolstedt? Like the von Bolstedts of Altdorf, or the branch in Wurtbad? Good people from what I’ve seen, not that, y’know, I’d seen much, but y’hear things when you’re on the road all day, y’know?”

Mustering only the barest of responses, confirming his Reikland breeding, and trying to make the man see that he didn’t want anything delivered, Adebar fought for what sure as hell felt like his life. The only reprieve came when the messenger was crunching away his bread in a most rat-like fashion, and when his flood of rumours and news he’d apparently gathered everywhere from Nuln to Marienburg was silenced by heavy footfalls coming down the stairs. Much to everyone’s great surprise, it was Ludolf, who, all in all, looked like he’d done when Adebar had first met him. At the sight of the imposing woodsman the wiry messenger gathered his things and rose in a precise fashion, heading for the door at a speed that only made apparent how long his legs were in contrast to most of his body.

“Well, good day to you all, time is money, quite literally if you’re me!”

Gottlieb raised a hairy hand in farewell as Schimmel put on a black cape and disappeared like a ghost.

“So long, longshanks.” Ludolf grumbled audibly as he sat down with such little control that Adebar feared that the bench would break out from under him. Much to the nobleman’s horror, the first thing the hunter did was reach for his hip flask, pouring a reddish-brown liquor down his gullet that smelt so strongly of herbs that Adebar could swear that he’d actually passed out on the doorstep of some perfumist.

The three ate in amiable silence, savouring the dark, filling bread. Von Bolstedt was, of course, used to lighter doughs, but his rioting stomach commanded him to be happy with whatever he got. For some reason some food always did the difference for him, at least dealing with the worst of the sickness. The headache would, sadly, prevail all day.

“So, Gottlieb,” he finally started, half rested on the table, “if you would do me a favour, could you tell me who that young boy with the outdated fashion sense was?”

The innkeeper looked at him for a good long while, as if he hadn’t understood, heavy eyelids blinking once, before a flame of cognition sparked.

“Ah, of course, that was young Erwin Schlosser. Son of the old Schlosser, one of the Count’s merchant-lackeys. Nothing but trouble the boy, really, but I suppose with you here he’ll finally need to keep his mouth shut for once.”

Right.

“So, this murder he mentioned, why aren’t the local guards doing anything about it?” He posited, hoping he could, somehow, wind his way out of this mess still.

“Well, they did,” the innkeeper responded with a constipated look, “but sadly the one they put on the chopping block for it didn’t do it, at least if any of us are concerned.”

That sounded ominous enough to remind him of a Detlef Sierck play, and he needed to fight to keep a slight, ironic smile from his lips. It was Ludolf that fell in out of nowhere.

“They killed a poor old hound for it. No way in hell that thing did the murderin’ poor old Gerda...” the woodsman interrupted himself, eyes drawn behind Gottlieb. Following his gaze Adebar was met with an open door, a whole line of people coming through. First and foremost a tall woman around Gottlieb’s age, the way the two looked at each other, his wife. Behind her trailed a gaggle of three children like ducklings after their mother. The woman of the house sat down to Gottlieb’s right, sending him something of a look, before smiling at Ludolf.

“Ludo, I didn’t know you were in town! I thought the Count had given you leave for now?” The Talabeclander just shrugged, before nodding toward Adebar.

“Just brought our blue-blooded friend here a bit further along the way.”

The woman’s eyes went wide, it seemed she made to rise from her seat.

“Please, Frau Zech, no need!” His reassurance at least seemed to make her stay seated, but with cast down eyes. Usually this would have pleased him, but this morning he just didn’t find he could care at all.

“Herr von Bolstedt here has promised to help us out with our little...law problem.” Gottlieb’s elaboration drew a surprised look from the woman. Her second look went for her children, two daughters, and a single son, the youngest. The way their round eyes twinkled at him filled him with apprehension.

“If that is true, Herr, I want you to know that you can depend on my...our...eternal gratitude.” Her words bore the tones of doubtful hope, and, though he felt it melodramatic, he thought he had just understood that, at least to her, this perceived threat of a mad murderer was very, very real indeed.