The sun had gone down in the west, sunken behind the hills and forests of Averland, as if to honour the province’s heraldry with the last of its powerful radiance. The day had been warm, and Adebar had been preoccupied with his own inquiries into coachmen, their destinations and calculating the harm their fares would do to his slowly shrinking purse.

Now he sat quietly on his bed at the Rising Gale, stuffing his few belongings into a small rucksack. But for his rugged (and expensive) clothes he wore almost daily, he owned little, two pairs of undergarments, as whetstone, a utilitarian knife, and the other effects of a man that travelled lightly. All other things he bore on his person, both rapier and pistol, as well as a dagger, was carried on his belt, and both hat and coat were more than welcome in the creeping cold.

Deeply in thought he reached for his pistol, over on the small table which, together with both a chair and his very bed made up all the comforts he had enjoyed in Streissen. The firearm, finely crafted and dependable, had been a gift with a singular purpose. This purpose it had fulfilled well, and sent Adebar further on his way to where he was now. Simple engraved lines guided his thumb toward the muzzle, a twisting pattern that did its own little part to make the once unadorned pistol a bit more welcoming. A small smile played across his features, however briefly, when he thought of that first escapade, and its final conclusion when he returned to that place to settle the score once and for all.

A knock at his door tore von Bolstedt out of his indulgent reverie. He felt as though someone had caught him during some great indecency, and he quickly returned the pistol to its place on the table, before rising to answer the door. The feeling of exposure immediately turned into mild annoyance. What could Schimmel want this time?

When he opened the door his blood turned to ice. Before him stood not the lanky, long-shanked Wissenlander, but rather a full-grown dame of a delicate, pale complexion, garbed in a dress of red satin, the cut of which reminded Adebar far too much of Altdorf to not startle the culture-starved nobleman.

His bafflement must have been writ large across his features, for it was his surprise-guest who had the first word.

“Von Bolstedt, I presume?”

The Witchhunter quickly straightened his posture, doing his best to hide his embarrassment, nodding his confirmation, and immediately biting his tongue for so common a gesture. The woman evoked in him the certainty that he had been in the presence of Schimmel and other, common men, for far too long, and he did not enjoy the discovery of his much diminished etiquette at all.

“May I come in?”

Before he even truly had the time to think on the offer, he found that he had already shut the door behind her.

Von Bolstedt could not suppress his sense of unease in the presence of his visitor. She had taken a seat upon his singular, rickety chair, while he stood at attention halfway across the room, uncertain as to whether decorum would allow him to sit as he had done before. All of a sudden he became dangerously aware of his rustic shelter, and, though his guest showed no signs of judgement, she saw in her stead the mien of his old matron, scolding him incessantly for how low he had fallen.

A painful heartbeat carried away his surprise and he was back in control.

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“My apologies for my sparse furnishings. I fear my trade allows little in the ways of comfort,” he said plainly, taking a seat upon the bed.

“You seem to know my name already, would you, perchance, do me the favour of knowing yours, before we continue?”

The Lady smiled slightly. Adebar now noticed that a cloyingly sweet aroma had wafted into the room with her, quite out of place in the Rising Gale.

“I am the Lady von Hermling, and I do indeed know your name well.

I have followed your progress over the last months with some interest from afar.”

The name meant nothing to von Bolstedt, though that did not surprise him. Altdorf, he had learned, had barely taught him about the Reikland, and as such the hill-country of Averland was as foreign to him as the Wasteland or the Border Princes. What did surprise him was the apparent influence of this stranger, if she had indeed tracked his progress.

“Your involvement in the Diesdorf hounding, the official commendation of Count von Gostahof, the destruction of the Strigany of Worlitz, the Fang-Cult of Lengenfeld? All quite impressive, if I may commend you, and now I hear it was you that discovered the corpse of poor Master Hibbert.”

Von Hermling spoke without much sympathy or care, detached and nonchalant.

“If you speak of the corpse found on the Schwesingplatz you would be correct, my Lady. I had not inquired after the victim’s identity, however. Captain Burlin did not seem to appreciate my investigations very much, I am afraid.”

Von Hermling did not bat an eye at this, simply keeping eye-contact with him. There was an intensity there that spoke of a fierce intellect, Adebar noted with no particular surprise.

“Well, von Bolstedt, let us say the Captain will not be an issue in future.”

She barely inclined her head, indicating his packed rucksack.

“I hope your travelling plans can still be called off, Herr von Bolstedt. I need your helping hand in the solving of these murders.”

This much he had anticipated by now. Work was always welcome, and at this point, he had worked for far less affluent clients. Her exact words were of interest, however.

“My Lady, you speak of murders? Has there been another unfortunate soul?”

Von Hermling merely inclined her head, her elaborate, red hairdo balanced precariously atop her scalp.

“I need you to find whoever is behind these…incidents, and bring them to justice swiftly and decisively, von Bolstedt.” Though her words did not betray it, her tone had shifted now. There was a strange air of threat about her now, an urgency.

This was a personal affair to her. What was her connection? Why not alert the guard?

Von Bolstedt held her gaze, searching those green eyes for deception, some clue as to her intention. She certainly seemed wealthy, and well connected as well. Something about her compelled him, and it was not mere intrigue.

“It would be my pleasure, my Lady.”