Imperial Artisans > The Imperial Office

Roland Schultz

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Baneblade:
The witch hunter stood alone watching the burning prison barge. A warm Tilean breeze caused his coat to billow, and he held his tricorne firm to the shaven dome beneath the hat. The man smiled to himself. His target was surely a corpse, the soul cleansed, damned at once. Alas, the condemned souls were also doomed aboard the vessel. They were prisoners, the guards he was assured were also corrupt, half of them common seabound pirates. The lights of Sartosa glittered in the dusky evening light across the blackened waves.

"Sir?" His aid, Gotz asked him down the hill, shouldering his falchion. "Fritz and the others have reported it went off simple. The Luccini fleet is mobilizing, going to check out the wreck."

"And we will not be here when they leave port." He turned to Gotz. "Have the boy run to Fritz and his men, get them away from the shore. I don't care if they need rest. I shant risk that. We were never here. No trace. Not even a boot or hoof print on the sand." He turned fully and moved past his friend. "I'll wait for you at my carriage, I'll give you ten minutes at most. If not, you are on your own with Frtiz's team." Gotz already was bolting down the grassy hill. Roland sighed, pulling off his tricorne and wiping his brow. He wandered to his carriage at the base of the hill, parked within the shadowy boughs of a thicket of trees, clouded by bushes. He entered, his driver blinked. "Wait for Gotz, he'll return." Surely enough, the warrior hopped into the carriage, sweating, and the horses began pulling them onto the seaside road. Out the window, Roland spotted Fritz and his lads moving swiftly by horseback. By the end of the week they would surely have entered Estalia, and, if no bandits or beastmen impeded them, the Luccini navy would not have found a trace of the Templars of Sigmar.

The target had been a maddened cultist disguised as a prison warden. Roland and crew had been tailing him for years, and at last he was caught up with. The barge was full of his future potential army he was planning on dragging north. No longer. Roland smiled, leaning back. He placed his tricorne by his side and picked up a bottle of brandy he had been saving in case they were successful. He popped the cork out with his knife and took a long sip.

He deserved this.

Gankom:
Nice! A fun little blurb.

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