Jump to talking with Eagle (notes only atm)
The cooler air of the corridor was a relief. A gentle draught, unnoticed on the way in, sought out and soothed the sweat-dampened skin as Malachi hurried away from the ballroom. Before reaching his dressing room he removed the frog's head, just to be sure it could still be done, and held it under one arm as he approached the hallway where the door should be. He mounted the steps in one stride and turned right - into a window recess overlooking a courtyard. A neatly trimmed hedge wound around its area while the scent of wild herbs floated through the window. He hesitated, then went back to the steps. Three steps leading up to a hallway with a chequered floor, from a corridor which leads directly to the ballroom - yes. But this hallway should have four doors leading off it, one to each of the party's dressing rooms. Instead it appeared to have a spiral staircase ascending from one corner, another corridor leaving from the far side and a number of windows looking out on either side. He quickly glanced out of the other side - it seemed very similar, hedgeways and herbs.
Well, gardens or no gardens, he wasn't staying in these outlandish clothes any longer than he had to. He must have taken the wrong doorway out of the ballroom. There had been another to the left. He looked out of the window on the left, less cursorily this time. If he followed the corridor through this hallway and took the first left. Following it round, he should arrive in the right general area. The corridor curved to the left in a reassuring manner. As it happened the first left was a heavy door, which Malachi did not try on general principles - not til he was sure where he was. Second left was a narrow passageway with bare panels in place of the decorative hangings he had become accustomed to. A board creaked as he entered it, again not quite what he had come to expect of the Duke's palace. Still, it seemed to have the right general direction... It terminated in another alcove with a small embrasure, and a stairway leading upwards into the gloom. A look confirmed that he was still above the garden courtyard. In the absence of anything else, upwards.
The stairs themselves were poorly lit, with no openings, but they came out in an airy reception area, hung with silks and filled with stools and high-backed chairs surrounding low, broad tables. Openings all round, and the general shape of the room, revealed that he could only now be in a tower room somewhere. This was getting him nowhere, and he decided on retracing his steps, right to the ballroom if need be. A quick look from the windows should help him to get his bearings. No. All around, blasted gardens. And he couldn't even see the way back to the main building. For all he could tell this could be an island in a sea (albeit small) of tangled gardens. Back down the stairs then.
The stairs wound downwards to a small landing then rose again, bringing him back up to the airy room with the view of the gardens. After a brief stab of panic he realised that he was now on the far side of the room, and must have passed the stairway down, probably on the landing. Turning back, he descended the stairs to the landing. There didn't seem to be another way out there though. He'd better watch for openings on the way back up.
No openings; one airy room once more. He leant on a chair. Once more, and this time check both walls, going up and down.
"Herr Stark?"
At the top of the flight of steps he turned, and saw a figure standing by one of the windows on the far side of the room.
"You appear to be lost."
"No, not at all. I was just going back to the ballroom."
"Perhaps I could accompany you? I shall be passing the dressing rooms of your comrades, I believe that is on your way?"
"Oh, yes. Ah, yes, of course."
"Let us walk together then."
The figure stepped forward, a tall elf, and gently took Malachi's arm; a light touch, no more, just enough to point the way without appearing to lead.
"Ah, you know my name."
"And you know mine, I believe. At least, you know the name by which others have called me."
"I, ah...Trintillian!"
The elf inclined his head slightly.
"I fear when we met previously I was unaware of the capabilities of your companions. And of your own reputation."
"Oh yes? I can't think of what reputation I might have among your fair people."
"You are too modest Herr Stark. You are well known, although you have seldom seen fit to visit us. Few of your kind live so long as you have"
"There are many people older than I."
"That is not what I said, Herr Stark. If you take my meaning."
"Yes, I take your meaning."
"You are not a bold man, I believe, but a cautious one. No, I do not mean it as a criticism. It is strange, therefore that you should also be known as one who chooses to battle wild beasts with your bare hands. So you are not without a desire for honour."
"Ach, the impetuousness of youth, Trintillian. That's behind me." Malachi's cheeks acquired a certain colour.
"You interest me. I hope you will not take it amiss if I tell you that I feel I know you personally?"
"You flatter me unduly."
"Perhaps. If you believe it so." The elf's voice momentarily seemed cold. "However it is, you may find that your past is often more important than the present. You cannot cast it aside with age, and you would do well not to cast aside the offer of friendship. "
"Of course, I did not wish to be rude."
"Of course. I believe this door will afford us a quicker route. Excuse us, madam, sir."
<><><>
Van Rijn lay back against the fine silk pillows, and stroked his whiskers reflectively. Damnable fine sett-- er, mansion this, he mused. I like the balcony, with those splendid long French windows. So very convenient when you get taken short during the night.
He swung his legs over and stood up, wincing slightly at the unaccustomed ache in his back. Pausing to resettle the coverlet over his slumbering bedmate, he set off for the long windows on the other side of the room. Poor girl looks quite worn out. Probably never made it with a mortal before. Or a badger. Or, come to that, with an NJDF Supreme Clog Dancing champion. And me doing all this on an empty stomach too. Perhaps there's life in an old dog yet.
Mission accomplished, the Dutchman leaned against the pleasantly cool stone balustrade to smoke a cheroot. Out in the misty darkness, a light glowed. He stared at it, peering at the faint suggestion of - a mountain? It seemed familiar for some reason. Soft fingers interrupted his reverie in a fundamentally familiar fashion.
"Do you tire of me already, Sir Brock?"
"Perish the thought, Ma'am! Yet even a swordsman of renown must needs rest between bouts. Have pity on a poor cripple".
She gestured at the distant light. "Why Sir, your fascination with the Hold of Hrelya was so intense, I thought myself spurned withal. How could I dare rivalry with such a sorceress?".
"A formidable Lady indeed!" Van Rijn replied. "Not least in charm", he continued, as a vision once beheld of the Giantess swam briefly before him. Such fine broad thighs I never did see, he pondered. Each of 'em as long as a small field piece of course. "But against such an arsenal as you present.." - his gaze roamed appreciatively over her smooth pale limbs - "..I remain defenceless".
Her eyes widened. "Defenceless, Captain, but not, I deem, weaponless! What need a man fear from Elf or Daughter of Eve, who demonstrates such a mastery of the Great Truncheon?".
Suddenly the door swung open...
Malachi caught a brief glimpse of a startled looking van Rijn and his giggling companion, and averted his eyes.
"I must leave you here", the elf continued, closing the other door behind them with no apparent trace of embarrassment. "My way leads me from yours at this point, but if you wish to return to the ballroom it is at the far end of the corridor ahead of you. I wish you good day; perhaps it will be our fortune to meet again."
"Yes, goodbye. Perhaps."
The elf turned and left by further end of the hallway from the ballroom. Malachi watched him go, then took refuge in the dressing room he had been looking for in the first place. Thankfully the mouse was not there; a-courting had seemed like a good idea before but he didn't feel much like it now. Although when he thought of van Rijn's companion... No. If ever he had needed a reminder of the snares of Satan then the last twenty minutes or so had provided it.
<><><>
A room, like unto a thoroughfare...
No sooner has one door closed, than the other door opens again, to reveal the Duke, in foxhead.
"Ah Captain! Please don't inconvenience yourselves, I will be brief. I understand that you and your fellow gentlemen-knights are on a quest to find the lost realms of your homeland, and the means to restore them? Good. Now Athenais, do stop that for now - you are making the poor Captain blush.
"I believe I many be able to assist so heroic a quest in my own poor way and, though the road is long and hard, you shall triumph at the last - or so your compatriot the Minstrel assures me, that you are heroes and that a suitably heroic task should be set you as the price for my assistance - it is a matter of tradition of course, I hope you understand.
"So when you and your comrades are free perhaps you might seek me in the Tower of the Fire?"
He turns towards the door, but stops and turns again as it opens its widest so that all the busy corridor may glance in
"Athenais, I think you will find that if you move your left hand so... Yes! Excellent. Until we meet again then, Captain!"
<><><>
"No, no need to bloody knock, Praise-the-Lord, just barge in to the bugger's room"
A loud knock at the door followed the hoarse semi-whisper from van Rijn, showing that the Captain had chosen to ignore his advice. Malachi opened it to find his three companions standing outside.
"Well, Malachi, had enough of our host's hospitality for the moment?" asked Grimmelshausen with a broad grin. "I hear you didn't stop to share Pieter's fortune."
"We were just passing through. The elf didn't seem to mind where..."
"Ah well, save us the sordid excuses. If you and your friend were in a hurry to get elsewhere..."
"It wasn't exactly a friend. It was Trintillian."
"Was it, by Steelback's insolence? And what was he doing being so friendly?"
"He was, ah, taking me back to the ballroom."
"Good grief, man, we can't leave you alone for five minutes. What had you been up to?"
"I wasn't quite sure of my way."
"Oho, the expert cartographer! I don't suppose you ended up anywhere interesting?"
"A tower I couldn't find my way out of. He was there."
"What do you mean, couldn't find your way out of?"
"What I say. Twice I missed the stairs back down and as I was about to try for the third time he came and led me back here."
"You mean you'd had too much hospitality already!"
"I didn't have any."
"Hmm. I've heard stories about your map-making. And I've seen the wall map you made for my office in the Southfort."
"I've heard that kind of thing quite often enough myself. My maps were correct in as much as anything can pin down Færie. It seemed a bit convenient that it happened to be Trintillian who found me."
"So what did he say to you?"
"Well, nothing really. He said he'd heard of us, but he didn't know who we were when he met us at the bridge. He knew of us by reputation."
"Oho, so we're famous. Well, I'd rather we didn't have that but I suppose it's no surprise."
"You're showing a good Christian modesty there, Sergeant", commented Dethorm, beard hiding any smile.
"Well, you're no better. If you didn't go around blowing away giants we might find it a little easier to travel incognito. And it's Captain. We can talk about this later; for now, we've got an invitation to speak with the Duke." He waved a large gilt embossed card in the air. "Frivolous! Yes! But I like it!"
Praise-the-Lord Grimmelshausen proved all too easy to track down, even in the spacious halls of Aelfheim; Van Rijn had only to follow the smell of sweat, gunpowder and horse. This led him in turn to Muller, reading his bible, a furtive Stark and finally to where the Captain was emerging from a rather grandly furnished doorway. That veteran mercenary's lupine features wore a look of smug satisfaction.
"You're looking pleased with yourself!" he greeted the Dutchman. "Enjoying our good Duke's hospitality?"
"Surely. Or that, at least, of one of my more comely fellow guests. But listen! You won't believe what I just saw".
While Grimmelshausen was still trying to look arch - evidently not an easy expression for a wolf - a rather disgruntled looking Muller appeared from the throng.
"Can we go? If I don't get something to eat soon I'm going to give in and sack yonder citadel". He waved at a huge buffet table in the distance. Meat products of wondrous size and quality beckoned. The siren song was too much for Muller and Van Rijn, who started towards it. Grimmelshausen intervened his bulk with an ease born of many hours of crowd control, to cut them off. Sizing up their glazed expressions, he passed them a cup.
"Dull your appetites with this, lads. We can eat later, for now lets find Malachi and get our kit. I've got news for you...
There seems to be nothing special about the Tower of the Fire from a distance. Certainly there are no great infernos apparent in Alfheim, so you demand guidance of a passing goblin slave who malevolently leads you around by all the bridges, of stone, of silver, of glass, eventually delivering you at a small tower before turning abruptly away, by which you intuit that it has accomplished the task you set it. As you stand before the doors at the base they swing open - no magic but more goblin slaves dragging them open to allow you entrance. Inside there is a tiled hall at the centre of which burns a dancing, fluttering flame with no means of support. You are directed to a stair that winds up the wall beside you, climbing to a higher floor - glancing over the balustrade of the stairs you see the floor below to be tiled in intricate patterns of geometric forms, large slabs at the walls shrinking to mosaics and finer where the shimmer of the flame covers them from view.
In a room with an outside window, though covered, Duke Alfric waits, sat at a high counting desk that reminds some of you of Cllr Volger's interview room. If it were, there are at least a pair of blunderbuss pointing at you in the desk, and doubtless others from secret spyholes about the room. But of course it isn't, as the goblin servitors bringing the chairs for you to sit, in the presence, confirm.
"Ah, the good Captain and his men. I trust your visit has been pleasant so far? Now, we come to business. You seek the return of Faerie to your world and the re-establishing of the borderlands, or at least to find those borderlands once more. I will be blunt and admit that either act is beyond my immediate power, and it is my belief that it will be beyond the power of any other you may be able to consult; for those powerful enough do not listen quickly enough for your brief lifetimes to make yourselves heard. I apologise for such hurtful directness but you would learn this sooner or later and I would rather you did not think I deceived you.
"However brute force is not the only answer - shift a small balance and the circular courses of the world itself may change. Yet a price equal to the worth of the service is required - and in some small matters you owe me already.
"I once lost a contest. A mere battle in a campaign, so of no lasting significance, and yet and inconvenience for with it I lost something to the mortal against whom I contested. She took it, and did great works with it I have no doubt, nor do I doubt that they are works that I would not have undertaken, for good or ill, in that place at that time. Pass on, then. It seems to me that she will have lost the campaign, in the inevitable way of your kind, for my ally is time, and I can outwait the merely mortal.
"I would have you return to me the Eye of the Sun as my price to assist you. As a specific bargain for such aid not only is my ability to assist you much improved, but also - I am sure you will be pleased to know - I am, of course, constrained so to do.
"The way to the Eye will not be easy, though I can offer you some assistance in that, and your return."
The Eye of the Sun, explains Alfric, is a large yellow jewel with a sunburst deep within it. He lost it to one Josephine Delacroix some time ago, he believes, in mortal terms, but does not know who has it now. Certainly this wizard had to be a power in the land when she took it, or soon after. Unfortunately the duke, while being aware of the concepts of mortal boundaries - countries and borders - expresses a disdain for the tedious business of keeping up with their frequent changes and cannot tell you where this occurred in the world, in your terms.
Malachi Stark enquires whether this was a place in the borderlands, which a Alfric agrees and comments that the Eye of the Sun may well have maintained something of the borderlands in its own right. Thinking aloud, Malachi goes on to ask if, should the Duke not pick up the four comrades and the jewel immediately, the borderlands would travel with them, say to Helstadt and- He is interrupted by the impact of three Leibnitz boots as the Duke leans forwards and gently points out that there would be little point as the Eye of the Sun is his. Pieter quickly takes another line of questioning. The Eye of the Sun is obviously an item of weighty power; how easy, how safe then will it be to transport if you have to carry it for a while? Fortunately it seems that its powers are subtle. You are neither likely to be affected by it, nor to evoke anything from it. However, like any borderland the location will be identifiable by the changes to the mundane made, for good or ill - though which Aelfric could not say. Praise-the-Lord interjects that changes might even be made for amusement; into which, Aelfric acknowledges, he would have a much better insight.
In the matter of returning, once the Eye of the Sun is in your possession, there is possibly a small problem, in that the Duke cannot guarantee a particular time of return. His attention cannot be on you all the time, so you are dependent on him noticing that you have it, eventually. It should be no particular problem, the delay will only be a few years at most- Pieter asks if there is any way to attract Aelfric's attention more quickly than this, but the Duke believes this to be unlikely as you have no one skilled in the arts magical.
"Why then, Praise-the-Lord, you are something of a necromancer, couldn't you attract his Grace's attention?" In response to Pieter's question Grimmelshausen coughs modestly and denies any significant power in that sphere, shuffling uncomfortably as the Duke watches him with an air of polite interest. Quickly the Captain changes the subject again, querying whether the power known as The Eye might be connected with the Eye of the Sun, and kicks the Dutchman as the Elf considers the matter.
No, Aelfric has not heard of the power of the Eye, nor does he think it possible for it to be a manifestation of the Eye of the Sun, or vice versa. Pressed further he parses the description of the Eye that you have from Imogen Richter and perhaps from the Scotsman: a vast disembodied eye at the bottom of a chasm too vast to fit below the Hobgoblin Ridge by the Jordan.
"First we have an Eye, unblinking, looking at its victim. From this it is obviously what you suppose, a Power, watching. The chasm represents imprisonment, probably of the victim-observer, though possibly of this 'Eye'. From the fact that all that is to be seen is an eye we can suppose it hides its true nature, thus must be a weak power in the relative scale of things, for a strong power is obvious to all!" As he concludes he gestures proudly about him, encompassing Aelfheim in the sweep of his arm.
Pausing in the rubbing of his bruises, Malachi asks whether the image of screaming souls dragged into the pit under the ridge that houses the Eye has a symbolic significance. Aelfric seems to have tired of analysis, commenting only that is probably symbolic of the Eye power eating souls - symbol and reality can be the same. Ignoring the asperic tone of the answer Malachi asks further how it would be possible to escape such a power, which brings the reply that the Duke believes you all to be resourceful men...
The irritation in Aelfric's voice brings another intervention from Praise-the-Lord, asking for news of a known Power, Jade, or the Mara. Did she survive the dissolution/displacement of the Dragon. She did, for being one of those powers that exists on many levels she was never wholly involved.
"She owes me, I reckon." reflects Grimmelshausen. Aelfric leans forward.
"Remember that whatever the differences between us, we are as brothers compared with such as her."
"Ah then. Are hobgoblins brothers too?"
"There are no hobgoblin powers, while there are some that were human, minor though the Towers be."
"What of the Sorceress, Nameless."
"Powerful from what I been told, but not a Power in the least sense. Perhaps that is what she sought through her control of a dragon."
"And Nicophareos. Was that one one of yours?"
Aelfric stands, clearly furious.
"What has that one been saying to you? No!"
He quickly recovers his composure and remains standing to indicate the interview is at an end. He gives you leave to discuss matters amongst yourselves and make an answer to his offer when it is convenient to you. Goblin slaves lead you to an ante-chamber where you might consider undisturbed by the hustle and life of the main towers of Aelfheim.
"I reckon we should do it." starts Praise-the-Lord, staring about belligerently to see if anyone will give him a 'Nay'. Grunts of agreement come from van Rijn and Müller, but Stark shifts awkwardly, looking for his courage. Finding it, he speaks.
"Shouldn't we get a second opinion? I mean to say, Alfric is a good chap, and very helpful," he rolls his eyes meaningfully, to which others who are familiar with the ways of 'private' conversations in the Town Guard barracks or Councillor Volger's ante-room nod understandingly, "but perhaps other Powers here might be able to give us confirmation? After all we are only, umm, well, at least within sight of the mountain."
"Well-"
The debate goes round and round. Consult another (several?) Powers? Would Aelfric's offer stand open? What if other opinions are offered? How long to spend gathering opinions, for Faerie is large, larger than a mortal lifetime's exploration... Underneath it all, who to trust? Eventually, slowly, a consensus is hammered out: Agreement to undertake Aelfric's task if the nature and degree of his assistance is clarified, and take the council of one who, if not entirely neutral, is felt to have personal interest in the advancement of the cause - Boris Runesinger, dwarf of the borderlands, perhaps not a Power, but more trust approachable for that.
Course decided, the company meets with the Duke once more to appraise him of the decision and the provisos of his explanation and Boris- advice. The Elf considers. The concern, it is explained arises from the Duke's own comments about the possible delay in bringing the successful group back; having retrieved the Eye of the Sun and fulfilled the conditions on one side, how long would it be before Aelfric would fulfil his part of the bargain?
"Once the compact is made I am constrained, as I explained. To fail to deal with your needs expeditiously would be to act against them in the short term, thus my status would be reduced. A Power is more constrained in bargains of this kind than is a mere immortal."
This seems fair enough, and Aelfric is understanding when the wish to return to Boris for various reasons, such as the equipment left there, is expressed. Indeed the Duke is quite agreeable and accommodating, offering to speed your way there by his arts and powers. This offer is accepted and you are led back down into the main hall of the Tower of Fire, where the flame still dances in the centre, while at the edge, at the foot of the stairs are the packs and gear with which you arrived in Aelfheim.
"If you would be so kind as to walk to the centre of the hall." Suggests Aelfric.
You march. With the intelligent observation of the practised traveller in strange parts no one cries out at the realisation that the patterned slabs beneath your feet maintain their size as you walk forwards, however they may have appeared from the edge. Indeed only two voices speak in the entire journey. At one point Praise-the-Lord glances up at the flames, which have taken on an edged, angular geometric look amongst other changes they go through as they dance, to comment, almost to himself, "Well I've been here before. It's That Which Lies Beyond, or Between, or something." And at the end, just as a cold blast tightens your cheeks and waters your eyes, when your boots crunch through a swirl of white powdery snow overlying the tiles; you hear far behind you a cultured, intelligent, inhuman voice:
"Oh dear."
Then the snow is all about you. Thick under foot, stretching away in all directions and swirling down from the sky above you.
"Ah, a sky," remarks someone, "Think Aelfric got something wrong?"
"Perhaps he... forgot... to send us to Boris's first. We are probably where the bauble is."
"Where it arrived anyway, Dethorm," replies Praise-the-Lord, turning slowly on the spot- "It has that sort of look about it." He gestures at the great ring of stone gateways standing somewhat behind you. "Yes, it is that sort of place."
"We aren't entirely alone either." Malachi was looking in the opposite direction as the flurrying snow clears for a moment to show a scene you all recognise from various phases of your lives. An encamped army.
You seem to be well outside their patrol perimeter. Praise-the-Lord volunteers himself to take a look at the army while the rest of you take shelter from the wind within the stones. He'll be quieter in the snow than those encumbered with bodies, he reckons. He pauses before leaving though then removes his gauntlet and handing a ring to Pieter.
"Just a little something Boris sung up for me. If something exciting happens stick it back on my finger, it should get me back." He lies down and his body goes still. Something flickers at the corner of your eye and is gone.
Looking about the stones finds no inscriptions, nor sign of recent passage of anyone other than a sheep that left some now frozen droppings by a slab in the centre of the ring. The surrounding countryside is as interesting. The land is gently rolling with a thin blanket of snow through which poke straggling bushes and a army. The camp is wide with occasional cavalry pickets dotted about, moving occasionally as the cold gets to them. Indeed it seems a perfectly ordinary camp, save for the lack of a nearby town to provide the normal comforts in winter. A bad sign, if they have been run out of town...
Eventually Praise-the-Lord grunts and stirs, his face assuming a slightly embarrassed look.
"They spotted me. I gave my word to go in in person, but I didn't commit you, though they know I've someone out here.
"I got down there easily enough. Some of the cavalry were a little uneasy when I went by, but they didn't see anything. I got to the edge of the tents. The camp's a mess compared with anything I've ever seen, and that's saying something.
"They've got guns though, our sort - well just matchlocks. I was just going in for a better look around when someone challenged me, someone I couldn't see, so I backed off.
"Then the cavalry came sniffing after where I'd been, obviously looking for something, and between here and me. It seemed like a good idea to circle round... When I tried to cut through the camp again I was challenged again. No one there. Well, I didn't want them thinking I was hostile so I answered and was called into the centre. There's a big tent with guards. Inside was a ceremonial circle, incense and the like, and in that were two women. One wore black armour, full plate save the helmet, the other one was the witch or whatever in robes - and feathers instead of hair. She looked straight at me, though the armoured woman couldn't see or speak to me until she was holding the witch's hand.
"To cut a long story short I told them I was checking them before bringing my troops in - the armoured woman, 'The Protector' seems to be in command of the army and was quite pleased at the thought of recruits, even, perhaps especially, foreigners. They recognised me as a 'Deutcher'.
"I told them that I was just checking that they didn't roast babies on spits, which didn't go down too well..."
"I should think not," interrupts van Rijn, "always preferred 'em boiled meself."
"Indeed. But it gave the first hint about what's going on here. We are well in the west, this is England. It is a civil war. This Protector is fighting the Queen's enemies, except that the Queen's enemies are the Queen's Army. As is this. One of those civil wars.
"We should fit in nicely..."
You go down to the camp, escorted part way by some tough-looking cavalry, and sign-on in the big tent. You swear to obey the directions of the Protector, Olivia, the woman in the black armour, which oath is overseen by the witch, Eagle (certainly her 'hair' looks like eagle feathers). As experienced foreign mercenaries from the east (Siberia and Poland are names dropped) you are all appointed company commanders. This is not as good (or perhaps bad) as it may sound as a company is a squad of 6-10 men, with which you are all quite comfortable. Stark and van Rijn get cavalry, Müller infantry and Grimmelshausen artillery, though Eagle offered a place on the sorcerous side instead - he puts her off but agrees to discuss it further, later. The quality of the troops leaves something to be desired, especially the locals who at best are trained band militia. Supplies are almost entirely lacking. Indeed when you find some other Deutcher mercenaries to question the story gets worse. The war here has been going on for twenty-ish years, and it is 1658 now. The locals, say your 'countrymen' haven't the faintest idea how to organise themselves into effective armies, with the result that most of the fighting is desultory and ineffective skirmishing. All the cities and ports are pretty much ruins, excepting London, the capital itself which is held by both sides. The Queen is held prisoner in the palace of St James by her evil Councillors. The Protector controls the whole army directly while in London, but when she is away, or or any unit not directly in her presence outwith the city, any other Councillor (for she is one too) can take command in the Queen's name. They seems undisturbed at this ineffectual stalemate, given there are damn few other opportunities for a soldier to earn a living in the world at the moment, from which you gather that Europe is quiet. For all that there are no supplies, pretty much, because there is nothing to supply the armies. England is a wasteland, much like parts of the Germanies in the 30 Years, but worse.
Some supplies come in through the ports, but the richest (or toughest which comes to the same thing) get them. There is little powder to go round and no one seems to give a damn. Your native troops mostly joined up to get semi-regular feeding rather than starve to death in the ruins. Faced with that information the agreed objective is to make sure you get your share of what supplies there are. To this end the years of practice elsewhere are applied - company scroungers are appointed, personal stores used as leverage. And learn the language, enough to get by, in short order, the traditional mercenaries way - individual personal tuition from a bedwarmer. Once it becomes apparent that you are upwardly mobile there are plenty of applicants.
Horses, swords, armour, clothing, all these are available for redistribution to your companies from the careless, but powder is a different matter. There is none. You each have on his person more than the rest of your company put together. There being none to beg, borrow or buy you are forced to make it. Charcoal and nitre are easy enough, the nitre even being supplied by the army's own latrines, but sulphur, as ever, is the difficult member of the trinity. Praise-the-Lord turns to the Protector who, to his considerable surprise, names the exact amounts of powder he has for his field pieces, that of your individual troops and that facing him in the arsenals of your opponents. She is quite aware of the forces at her disposal and expects her Captains to make the most of them. He suggests taking or making more powder. She is not against it as such, but when he reaches the stage of proposing a raid to obtain powder itself or the makings, or even to hold a port to ship some in she shakes her head. Then she goes on to shake him, for she says that such a raid would distract from the true course and effort of the war, which she will not countenance
"...for the troops have to be where they have to be, and the shots have to be fired where they have to be fired."
Somewhat baffled by this statement, Grimmelshausen takes his leave and seeks you all out to discuss it. While all are still boggling over the lack of concern for supply and wrestling with the Protector's statement of Strategy, Stark's face clears for a moment with inspiration then falls again as he explains its import:
"Oh great. We're chess pieces in a symbolic magical war."
Much supporting evidence is gained by detailed questioning of comrades over the exact conduct of last year's campaign. They marched to and fro, fought pointless battles, gave up victories, set sieges here, stormed castles there-
"Don't hold anything for a week before you march off again."
With this in mind Praise-the-Lord takes a deep breath and takes up Eagle's offer of a discussion on the matter of Power...