Selarthi inclined her head in disbelief as she spotted the building that was indicated upon her 'invitation' – even raising the waterlogged sheet of parchment in front of her, as if it would provide any confirmation. But no, even with the crude human-made map that was provided, it was obvious that this chapel was her destination. The man-tall ranger of Naggaroth tore the flyer into two, and spat a brief curse that was mostly rendered unintelligible by the hardy shawl veiling her head, hiding her features besides her eyes under an impenetrable black. But the Druchi was following fate's lead, and this particular breadcrumb had entered her possession by dumb chance when she'd rifled the possessions of a brigand, slain in self-defense. With nothing else of interest on his person, and certain that it was her divine task to somehow stay here in the Old World, the Shade was sure Anath Raema – or perhaps another cytharai – wanted her to join this Ogre's band. Soaked to the bone, she moved quickly to enter the chapel, weaving through the filthy masses, her remarkably stunted height servint well to anonymise her amongst them. One hand resting on the Imperial made sword she'd acquired somewhere in Marienburg, the other translating her momentum into a portal-opening push. Sela briefly shielding her eyes from the sudden influx of warmth and candlelight as she passed the precipice and found herself in front of an... armoured human. As a matter of “proving trustworthiness”, she pulled the shawl from her face, revealing a mess of rain-soaked blond, and wet white skin – as well as an expression that could have soured milk, although the ranger was politically-minded enough to pull up an imitation of a smile. Now, outside of a faceless mass, her style of dress (if not her wholly fay countenance and pointed ears) made it clear she hailed from one of the knife-ear city-states. The blue tunic she was wearing beneath her armour was clinging to her form from all the rain, and stained with splashes of mud, while a careful observer could see that there was dried blood caking her elven boots. The Shade bowed very curtly. “I received directions to come here by what I presume to be an employer of mercenaries”, she explains, rolling the Reikspiel words over her tongue with some sort of wholly non-Imperial dialect. “You look like you could be a Gunther. Selarthi Ankarel is who I am, ple-” The sight of the Asur mage made her pause, and grind her teeth.
"Break anything out there and I break you." Gunther called from a room beyond the main chapel body where an appropriately odd group of adventurers and vagabonds were mustering up. "Go cause a ruckus in the back at least." Warrior Priest returns without the woman. Hands encased in thick leather gloves rest on a large tome and the pommel of a light warhammer, a side arm compared to the dense monstrosity propped up against a support pillar near the pulpit: no doubt the man's primary weapon in more serious situations. Gunther steps past growing party and pulls a door left partially cracked closed. Clap of clashing wood and metals sounds through the halls and Warrior Priest turns to address them all once more. "Come along, since you all seem so eager to stand about I assume you fear getting lost." Man strides past and heads for one of two exits that flank both ends of back wall, vanishing into a curving hallway submerged in darkness. Those that follow find hallway curves like the base of a horseshoe, adjoining both portals and leading down a single hall into the back of the chapel. Lighting remained dim back here, three chandeliers hung overhead and cast stagnant candle light across transept and attached rooms. Wall opposite of them and at far end of passage bore a small indentation filled by a statue in Sigmar's supposed likeness. Gunther took them forward and made an immediate left into an open storage room, leaving what lay at the end of the other transept paths a mystery. Pointing party past the half-stocked shelves, stacked crates, barrels, and even a weapon wrack, their eyes fall upon a massive round door. "Head on through, it will take you right into Headquarters. Watch out for the 'Brave'." Tone made it clear Gunther was speaking of some fashion of living thing.
"We'll get to the bottom of this later, you and I," Dagrim told Lars as the newest batch of recruits caught his attention. Three females, one what seemed to be a regular manling lass got the least of Slayer's concerns, the other two however earned themselves a loud grunt and a little bit extra. "Damned Elgi," he pulled out a big chunk of phlegm and spat on the ground, "Unbaraki scum, all of them." Grumbling and cursing in his strange language, the Dwarf followed the Sigmarite priest down the hallway, the fear of the dark had no place in Dawi's heart and the sense of orientation when in close confines of buildings or tunnels came natural to every member of the mountain's folk, so Dagrim walked behind Gunther with assured step. When the priest pointed at the door Dagrim brushed past him, wanting to get this introduction over with and get something to drink. Vile mood was setting upon him when surrounded with all kinds of wazzoks so sooner he starts gulping some ale the better for all of them.
Selarthi was a bit too hung up on the Asur mage to comment on the beardling's words (oh, but she would make him eat them in time), even after they followed apparently-Gunther deeper inside the building. Knowing well that the self-proclaimed "rightful Lords of Ulthuan" loved to meddle in affairs greater than themselves, she took her presence as nothing less than another portent, eyes trained on the blonde. The darkness did not faze the Shade; her kind in general were well used to darkness, and what worth was a ranger of the Blackspine Mountains if she feared the black? Regardless, one outstretched, Khaine-marked hand remained on the walls, feeling the texture of the stone upon her palm. And when the grumpy mess of red fur and grease barged through the door, Selarthi followed immediately after, tearing her eyes off the mage for the first time.
Selaris turned around to face the voice that had cut themselves short, but could do little more than frown and narrow her eyes at the Druchii before she moved with Gunther, deciding to try 'overhearing' the Dwarf's comment (not that she'd enjoy making him retract those words), for the moment. For all she knew, all of them were a little nervous about the meeting like she was Suffice to say, the High Elf's lack of experience in darkness was apparent with her rather audible. nervous, stumbling steps as she used her staff more physically to make sure she didn't bump into anything in the dark, given she was holding off on the magic until she could make a big show of it. So when the Asur came to a stop in the room that lead to the headquarters, she was glad that there was now some light, even if she then went after both the rather short Druchii and the Dwarf (and avoided making comments just yet) to see what the inside of the headquarters was like.
Striding through the dimly lit streets of Norden, a man would be gazing down upon a small piece of parchment, reading over it's lines, gazing about as if scanning about. Moving about the city, each footfall lost to the sounds of the drizzle from above, he'd finally halt, looking up towards the building before him, before quickly checking back over the parchment, as if in confirmation. With a sheepish grin, the man would turn, pointing a thumb towards the Church of Sigmar, as he'd speak. "There it is m'lord, as I promised, Ol'Gunther's place." The being he addressed would gaze down upon him, as he sat atop a large chesnut brown war horse, his figure draped with a cloak, soaking and clinging to his body. With an intense gaze, the man would look from the peasant before him, a local he'd picked up once arriving to the city, towards the Church, the point of his destination. A perplexed look, quickly growing with annoyance, would form upon his face. This was the place he'd come to, to find these Warriors Of The World, and to say the least, he was not impressed. Yet, he'd let out a sigh, trying to sooth his frustration, as he reminded himself the will of The Lady was not for him to question, merely to follow. His thoughts would be interrupted, with a cough from the peasant before him, the man extending out his hands, one holding the parchment, the other, empty and waiting. "I have done my part, m'lord, best be getting back to work now, yeah?" The disdain upon the man's face would be clearly visible, as not for the first time, he would rue the leniency The Empire gave it's peasantry. Resisting the urge to cuff the man with the back of his gauntlet for his impudence, he'd instead turn to look down upon his travelling compatriot. The man, standing at his side, would be of large standing, shoulders like a stone wall, with a large mustache he currently stroked with his fingers in a contemplative manner. "Lorin." The word, the name, it was all that was needed for the servant to move into action, as the burly man would reach into one of his rucksack's many pockets, to withdraw a small pouch. Retrieving a few coins, which would promptly be tossed towards the peasant, Lorin would nod towards the establishment, as the pair began moving towards it. "This is the place, sir?" "Indeed, it seems we move one step closer on this quest, let us go within, and see these 'Warriors Of The World'." _____ The doors to the church would be opened, as Lorain would stride within, clearing the way for his master, the big man looking about the humble chamber, to lock his gaze down upon the priest. Giving a curt bow towards the holy man, Lorain would take a step to the side, allowing a full view of his liege, as he began to speak. "I would introduce my lord, Rolayn of House Gwelon, noble son of Bretonnia." Bowing his head towards Rolayn, Lorin would silence himself, as the man would step towards Gunther. Casting back his cloak, the Knight of Bretonnia would reveal his tabard, proudly displaying his own colours for all to see. With sword at his hip, and an air of determined tenacity, the man, perhaps just past his twentieth winter, would speak in a tone that reflected his stern stature. "I have come seeking the Warriors of The World, where might I speak with them?"
Warm air rushed past the company crammed into the storeroom. Wind carried with it scent of welcoming spices that charmed stomachs into unwitting compliance, at least one growling aloud as Gunther lifted his head and took a whiff. "Fine timing, seems Cooky is putting the finishing touches on tonight's stew." Man steps back to let the others through, paying only a cursory glance at Dagrim as he marches himself in. "Save some for me, I shall be along shortly." Gunther leaves them there, trusting that either they can figure out how to enter a doorway or that someone else can come and herd them along. Already in a foul mood the Slayer catches whiff of food, and just as spirits might lift, a stench foul and familiar sours the night further. Looking up he spies a Goblin, perched inside a cap-less rock troll skull hanging from the ceiling. Greenskin stares right back, idly chewing on a piece of jerky. "Bozz is down thats'a'way stunty." Surprisingly the goblin did not immediately pounce, instead spearing a nail further down the rounded tunnel. A quick study of the walls and a bit of three dimensional thinking made it apparent that the HQ itself had been constructed within the actual hill. Costly work no doubt, especially seeing how the space needed fit at least one Ogre and who knew what else. Those that carried forward soon found themselves at an intersection that branched off in several places, flaring out in a cone that filtered into even more open spaces at each end. A sign post with it base still buried in a pyramid of compacted dirt listed against a wall, arrow shaped signs pointing towards a Barracks, Kitchen, Storage, Armory, Treasury, and 'Argot's Foods, Golds, an Argot Office'. That last one looked like it had been hastily written up by an Orc with white paint. For an underground lair it was awfully cozy. Most of the cold, soaked earth was hidden away behind sturdy wooden supports, beams and cross-beams that lent HQ an atmosphere of a mine shaft in many ways. Delicious scents continued to suffuse the air, drawing minds, stomachs, and eyes towards the kitchen where something was audibly bubbling in a no doubt massive cauldron. In the background the sharper eared folk could make out the constant rattle of rain fall above, traveling through multiple pipes running in and out of the hill to keep fresh air cycling through the tunnels. Tokens of victory were hung up all over, some seemingly nonsensical trinkets and others very clearly artifacts of great deeds. Just superior to Selarthi's head was a shield with a head sized puncture through its center, torn Squig leather draping over the wound and old blood mucking up the yellow paint job on the edges. Carefully placed between a pair of lanterns lighting the intersection was a plaque displaying an image of a bear wielding paired blunderbusses while a line of angry men, women, and inhuman things aimed pikes out toward some unseen enemy. 'In Honor of the Warriors of the World and their heroism in the face of Kislev's enemies." Back inside the Chapel Gunther moved, unintentionally, to greet another guest. Looking upon first Lorin and then Rolayn the priest's stomach would growl in annoyance for him. "Lovely, head in towards the back and enter the first room on the left. Head on into HQ through the big round door. Should be able to figure out the rest for yourself, I am sure the Elf woman is still stumbling down the way." He pauses a moment, then recalls whom he is dealing with. "And no, you are not bringing your horse inside."
Rolayn would simply raise an eyebrow at the words of the priest before him, unsure if the barb towards his steed was cast with hostile intent, or a poor attempt at comedy. Deciding he cared little for either outcome, he would turn towards Lorin, waving him onwards, as he started strutting off towards the doorway, leading him deeper into the complex. Regarding his horse, he was trusting that DeLoria would be fine hitched outside, knowing the temperament of his steed would keep curious folks at bay. With that, his mind would move onto the matters at hand, as he walked down the halls leading towards the HQ. The trophies that he'd pass would be of intrigue to the man, who'd find himself pausing at a handful to further investigate them. He could only wonder at how a company of such stature had come to rest it's stronghold here, by the dingy chapel. He would turn, hearing his servant speak up, running a finger along what looked to be a tattered banner. "Seems they have made a name for themselves, sir." Quickly swatting the man's hand from what could possibly be a highly treasured piece of warband history, as he replied. "Indeed, it would seem that we shall be in respected company." Continuing to walk along, he could only be thankful that the gloomy first impressions of The Church were rapidly changing along this passage.
An Orc clad in blackened plate walks toward the location of the one known as "Argot", his eyes scanning the halls and surroundings rather intently. Upon finding "Argot", The Ork would look him over for a few moments. It wasn't a human so it was already probably a better employer than the ones the greenskin had worked for in the past. " The names Grahk an' I'm lookin fer work. I'll fight anything ya want as long as I get loot out of it " The Orc spoke in a rather deep and guttural but overall understandable manner. Additionally, as he spoke, he straightened himself up a bit, raising his height nearer to eight feet. As a Black Orc, Grahk is naturally more imposing than his lesser green cousins. To further exemplify this, Grahk is adorned in a suit of massive, blackened plate armor. Attached to the plate are the tribal trophies and effigies commonly associated with the Orc race. What stands out among those are three trophies in particular: A dented helm that undoubtedly belonged to a warrior of Chaos, the cracked ratlike skull of a skaven, and a tattered old grimoire of some sort. All three hang from the waist and are secure by hook, chain, or a combination of both. Though his helm and armor obscure most of his form, one could tell from what is visible is that the Orc had seen his fair share of combat. Large scars crisscross and intersect across the exposed areas of his arms and neck. Furthermore, Grahks beady red eyes seem to continuously scan their surroundings, betraying a rather on edge or at the ready mindset. Burning behind even that however, is a rather developed intelligence. One that stands above the normal Orc at the least. Finally, clasped tightly in the Orcs right hand, is a crudely made yet undeniably efficient Great-Axe. The weapon itself is as gnarled and weathered as it's owner. The Weapons haft is notched and marked with what could be assumed to be a large tally of kills. A jagged and rather vicious looking point adorns the bottom of the haft which would imply it's use as a makeshift spear or the like from time to time. Oblivious to any sort of social greeting that might have been necessary, Grahk awaits an answer. As far as he was concerned, having an Orc fight for someone would be a win-win for both sides.
"The nobility of the manling God and his servants has obviously suffered a blow, when they allow Grobi to enter their sacred halls and piss all over them," Dagrim grunted once again but decided to add anything further for it seemed that he just had to get used to these things. They were most definitely a strange bunch, all of them, especially now when two manlings arrived followed by what seemed to be another Greenskin, betrayed by their familiar stench. However not everything was doom and gloom. After taking the Oath, the Dwarf never smiled again, however he nodded in approval once he took hold of the surroundings. Much to his satisfaction (although that was not something he would ever admit), the headquarters of the group was located underground and throughout it all a smell of fine stew was spreading. Like any Dwarf, Dagrim also loved spending time below the earth, even though in his past life he did a lot of work on the high peaks, there was something inside each Dwarf that pulled him back towards the caves, the tunnels, the great underground halls of their mighty Holds. Also, at the moment he was quite hungry and thirsty, so he forced the damned Greenskins, Elves, Norscans and any other miscreant out of his mind as he moved towards the Argot's office. Food, rest and getting to know others a little bit more could wait, because at the moment the most important thing was meeting this Ogre himself, by the looks of the trophies hanging on the walls these people, despite perhaps not giving the great first impression, definitely had some decent scrap behind them. Then again, Dagrim himself wasn't looking all that great so he took a bit of grease and returned the mohawk back into its glorious shape before arriving at the office's doors and banging on them. "Ogri Argot, come out of ye lair. We come asking for work, battle and the prospect of a mighty doom! Will you answer?!"
