Tales from Forgotten Europa

Elsewhere in Europa

Somewhere in Southeast Germany, in a town far from the heart of the Empire, there is a gala underway. The dignitaries of the town are all in their resplendent best, gowns and gloves, surcoats and tabards, finery normally reserved for Sigmar’s high holy days, or for the seasonal festivals. Tonight they celebrate their liberation, long and hard and merrily.

Here in the drakwalds of the Empire, lawlessness has a heavy hand. Roadwardens, champions and justices are far too few, and far too distant. This area has languished under the auspices of a Meister who has long abused his power and wealth. He had murdered his rivals, destroyed his competitors, and ruled as a petty tyrant for 25 years, all under the very nose of the Emperor himself.

Tonight this same man, Meister Illbereth, lies in a pauper’s mass grave with his lieutenants and soldiery. The celebration is to anoint the town’s hero of the hour, he who slew the tyrant and gave the smallfolk back their lands and wealth and freedom. Tonight, they all hail the Knight of the White Arrow!

His pennon flies regally from the highest tower of old Illbereth’s castle. He sits in state with the newly elected constable of the town, the young blacksmith, Fallowden. Within a month, Fallowden will have moved into the old offices of Illbereth on the town square, and have 5 men-in-arms wearing the crest and color of the area, deputized constables, with their names on a scroll awaiting the next roadwarden’s visit to be official. Within 2 months, the town will have recovered from their joy and celebration and once again pick up life in the norm, sowing and reaping, hunting and gathering.

6 months from now, Fallowden will replace the faded pennon on the castle’s high turret with a new one, freshly dyed, its white arrow bright and unmistakable.


Raethe sleeps next to the fire in the center of camp, his watch ended over an hour ago, and Khalid has taken over the duty until daybreak. The slayer drifts off after some time thinking about the lost road, the fallen slayer Dornrik, and the lost karak. Little did he know that his dreams this night would be of something far more ominous.

Raethe had become used to his “waking dreams,” dreams in which he could hear, touch, and smell the scenery and events happening around him. Tonight’s dream was different though. These had become a painful but often cathartic side effect of his enduring quest. There was no reliving the pain of past events, no cat and mouse games with greater powers, or frustration of goals just out of reach. No, tonight’s dream was of events he could not explain.

The place was unfamiliar, but he knew it was somewhere in the Holy German Empire. The banners and statues to Sigmar, the architecture, and the people all gave that much away. He looked around a busy cobbled street, and saw the silhouette of a figure moving off in the distance surrounded by several Teutonic Knights.

He tried to follow them but felt as though he was moving in slow motion. He closed his eyes and strained himself to move faster, but when he opened them the figure and his retinue were gone. He was looking at a muddy field that had been heavily trodden. There was a light rain, but not enough to disguise the tracks in the muck. There was a battle here. Not a battle between armies, smaller, maybe twenty against a larger force of forty or fifty. It was hard to tell more than that.

Raethe glided over the field, and came over a small hill. On the other side he could see the same armored men, and the silhouette of the one they protected. They stood at the mouth of a huge pauper’s grave. Several others stood around the edge, swords in the air, cheering. A few peasants were filling in the hole. He approached to get a look at the victims, and his eyes fell on a portly and elaborately dressed man.

Instantly his vision rushed back to the events that concluded with four-dozen men in a mass grave. The images flew in and out of focus, and everyone’s movements blurred and meshed together. One thing he could see clearly though, and it brought a familiar feeling with it.

The White Arrow, streaked across the field, laying waste to any in its path, and Raethe was at once overwhelmed by two feelings that rarely touched him: peace and terror. The carnage was swift and terrible. The comrades of the shadowy figure hardly needed to lift a finger in aid of their lord, and as suddenly as the violence began, it stopped.

Just as he couldn’t explain it outside Dan’Dannock, he found himself unable to comprehend it now. He felt torn in two, one part of him being drawn helplessly and willingly toward the brilliant arrow, and the other desperately trying to flee the sight of it. Mercifully, he woke. Disoriented and dripping with sweat, Raethe jumped to his feet and stomped down the road and into the brush to collect himself. Of all the things that weighed on his mind, he never thought he would be confronted with the Arrow again. And the figure in silhouette, it had to be Kil’Derek, did it not? What could that mean? Why would the fates show him a glimpse of a long separated companion? Did this mean that there paths would cross again? It must, but for good or ill?

Raethe resolved to collect himself and think on these things, and decide what to do after they left the Slayer King. He would talk to Kal about this when the time was right. Surely he knew more about this, or at least a way they could learn more.

Elsewhere in Europa
The Mad Viking

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