Collaborations

Everywhere Hidalgo Pensador looked, he saw red.  It blossomed into bouquets of love and loyalty.  It flared in furious flames.  The latter was starting to happen more and more.

Every time he saw one of those horrible, tall hats, Hidalgo's teeth gritted together, and his mind filled with images of him running his sword through those men and women who called themselves Witch Hunters.  They knew nothing of honor or integrity.  They wore those broad-brimmed hats to hide from Myrmidia's gaze, as they embodied everything She hated.  Yet still She did not turn them to ash, as he had asked.

The fire crackled cheerily on the hearth it's bright glow filling the room with a warm light that was not reflected in the eyes of the room's sole occupant. Margaret sat on the edge of the hard bed, her armor spread across it in neatly organized ranks. Each piece was freshly cleaned and oiled, the dark steel finish polished to an unusual level. Even her shield had been cleaned and polished, the enameled metal reflecting back the firelight's glow. Now, all that was left was the sword that Margaret had laid out across her lap.

A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead as she worked. The bright fire had filled the room with an unusual warmth and Margaret stopped to roll up the sleeves of her undershirt. Her eyes flicked to the fire and then to the brand that lay before it.

The floor tilted and shuddered furiously still, but the feet that walked upon it navigated the shaky terrain with ease.  The air was full of invisible beasts that screamed and roared and ripped at Stanislaw's body, but they left the new arrival in peace.

No.  No, no, not you.  Please . . .   Stanislaw hugged his book tightly and tried with all of his might to will himself through the floorboards, preferring to drop down to the hard stone floor below than to be seen like this.  Please . . .

Stanislaw retreated to the candlelit interior of the Temple of Sigmar, where the shadows remained long and blurry at all hours.  Within the bleary shade of a far wall, he was able to offer his words to Sigmar without further interruption.

"I thank You, Sigmar, savior of man, bane of the foul.  You have shown Your will by providing proof of innocence, and so I stay my hand in Your name . . . "

"What?!"  Margaret looked at the two men, stunned.  "I.. I didn't know."

The rat scampered away as Stanislaw echoed her words.  "You didn't know."

Her gaze went directly to Hidalgo, who still looked terrified, but completely unhurt.  Bewildered, she simply repeated herself.  "I didn't know!  NO!"

"Well, Sigmar knew."  Stanislaw's tone was suddenly very calm.  Too calm.  "Be grateful fer that, anyhow."

People always told Stanislaw his hat was too big.  It sat low on his head, and its broad brim only drew more attention to the narrowness of his shoulders.  But he liked the fit.  It hid him well.  Normally he hated crowds of people.  He could feel all eyes move to him, and hear his name in their whispered words.  Not now, though, as he tugged down on his hat and spit the remnants of a leaf onto the cobblestones.  He wore an impenetrable shield of shadows and brown leather.

He circled the Market Square once again, still unsure of what he was looking for.  This wasn't the best place to look for Pensador.  Faust was in Talabecland.  The Troupe Leaders were all out on the front.

The sun shone down on the war quarter's checkerboard courtyard, banishing the shadows to insubstantial puddles. Margaret stood atop the ramparts and considered the meager shadow cast by a guard crossing the courtyard below. It hid beneath him, afraid of Myrmidia's harsh gaze, so that it appeared to be nothing more than a gray smudge on the stone tiles. The sight of it brought a smile to her face. To often of late the shadows seemed to reach out towards her, each of them holding the threat of the Man in Brown. Now she prayed as she had each day since the man named Stanislaw had released her from that dark room, at noon to Myrmidia the Strong, she who sees all.

Ten lashes with prayers, that brought a smile to Sigmar's face.  Each time, as Stan's back stung and burned, he could feel that same soothing warmth wash over him, like a gentle spring breeze.  And so he lived these past few days in Sigmar's graces, and they were good.

Night was far different.  As he lay there in the dark, the warmth faded, and he was alone.  More alone than he'd thought possible before.  The features of the room stood cold and distant and apathetic, and he found that even his own heart was empty.  He had whipped the Balrik boy into silence, maybe even death, and by doing so he left himself with absolutely no one.  That was how the branded man fell asleep - alone.

The Temple of Sigmar stretched towards the sky every inch of it gleaming or shining in the early afternoon sun, every part except the great circular window of colored glass. Bright panes of glass shaped the images of Sigmar and the empire; the skull, the hammer, the twin tailed comet, the cross. The design was simple, brought to life by the bold colors in the glass itself and by the sharp rays of the sun.