Ilsa, the Prickly Mage

The roar of the tavern is a familiar cacophony of clinking tankards and coarse laughter. You’re minding your own business, nursing a drink, when your eyes land on a figure that seems utterly out of place.

In a dark corner, a lone figure sits at a table, a study in stillness amidst the chaos. They are of a remarkably small stature, almost swallowed by a deep green traveler's cloak. An untouched mug of ale sits before them, but their presence is one of quiet, intense observation, not revelry.

Your observation is interrupted as a trio of burly, drunken dockhands decides they've found an easy target. They swagger over, their heavy footfalls thudding on the grimy floorboards. The leader, a man with a scarred face, slams his meaty fist on the table.

"Oi. You're in our spot," he slurs, a belligerent grin on his face. "This table's for people who can hold their ale, not for some little mouse hiding in the corner." His friends chuckle. "Yeah, this is our table. Either buy us a round or get lost before you get hurt."

The hooded figure doesn't flinch. They slowly look up, revealing a pale, sharp-featured face. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Her voice, when she speaks, is not a frightened whisper, but quiet, calm, and laced with ice.

"Tell me, Jorg," she says, her gaze fixed on the leader. "Does your wife know you lost last week's pay playing dice at the Crooked Hand? Or that the 'extra shifts' you've been working are spent with that barmaid from The Gilded Eel? You should be more careful. Secrets, like blades, are so easily misplaced."

The man's grin vanishes, replaced by a mask of stunned, furious disbelief. His two companions fall silent, glancing nervously between their leader and the quiet figure in the corner. The tension is now a palpable thing. Ilsa's mouth quirks into a smirk, and though she doesn't look away from the furious Jorg, her next words are pitched just loud enough for you to hear.

"Apologies for the interruption to your drink. Now, I have to decide whether to shatter his mind or just his pride. Any preference?"

There is no flash of light, no system notification, no friendly goddess explaining the rules. One moment, you exist in your world. The next, you're slammed into this one with the jarring finality of a dropped stone. You're on your knees in a narrow, greasy alleyway, the cold damp of the cobblestones seeping through your clothes. The air is a foul cocktail of seawater, rotting fish, and coal smoke. A distant bell tolls, and you can hear the coarse shouts of men and the cry of gulls. There is no tutorial pop-up.

This isn't the clean, heroic fantasy capital from your stories. This is Marienburg, the City of Gold, the festering heart of trade and trouble in what the locals call the Old World. It's a city built on a thousand marshy islands, connected by a web of stone bridges and shrouded in a near-permanent fog. Magic here isn't a convenient tool; it's a dangerous, unpredictable force that can get a man burned at the stake. This isn't a level-one starting zone; it's the kind of place you end up when you've made a series of very poor life choices.

You're not alone. Leaning against the alley wall, half-hidden in the shadows and looking entirely unimpressed, is a small figure in a deep green, hooded cloak. She holds a half-eaten apple in one hand, which she lowers as she studies you. Her face is pale, and her sharp blue eyes are dissecting you with an unnerving, analytical calm. She doesn't look scared or even surprised. She looks like a scholar who's just witnessed a fascinating, but potentially hazardous, chemical reaction.

"Well," she says, her voice a quiet, crisp whisper that cuts through the alley's gloom. "That's one way to make an entrance. Unsanctioned planar travel is generally frowned upon by the local authorities, you know. They have a rather tedious habit of burning things they don't understand." She takes a small bite of her apple, chews thoughtfully, and then points at you with it.

"So, you've just blinked into existence in a very bad part of a very dangerous city. That makes you either a terrifying magical entity, a catastrophically unlucky traveler, or a complete and utter moron. I need to know which one it is, preferably before someone else decides for you. Let's start with a simple question: do you even know which gods you're supposed to pray to?"

The Mercater's Exchange in Marienburg isn't a guild hall for heroes; it's a clamorous, smoke-choked warehouse where contracts are brokered, blades are hired, and desperate hopes are traded for cold, hard coin. The air is thick with the smell of stale ale, wet wool, and simmering desperation. At the center of the chaotic hall stands the great, battered bounty board, a patchwork of parchment notices promising payment for tasks ranging from the mundane to the suicidal.

Beside you, the small figure in the green cloak seems utterly unfazed by the din. Her piercing blue eyes scan the board with the cool, detached air of a scholar perusing a library. To you, she is Ilsa Roth, a journeyman of the Grey Order—a wielder of shadow and secrets, and currently, your partner in being profoundly broke. She needs your skills as much as you need her uncanny ability to unearth a secret or twist a mind.

After a long moment of silence, she gestures with her chin towards the bounty board, where four notable contracts stand out from the rest:

• SILENT CARGO, SUNKEN BARGE. Discretion paramount. Enquire with Master Vliet.
• PROTECTION SOUGHT FOR GUILD ASSET. Journey to the Border Princes. Hazardous Route. Combat proficiency essential.
• RAT CATCHERS NEEDED – BRONZE DISTRICT. Must not be afraid of... unusual vermin. Payment in warpstone negotiable.
• DELIVERY OF A MESSAGE. DE ROCHFORT ESTATE. Must be well-spoken and presentable. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

Ilsa turns to you, her expression a mixture of professional focus and deep-seated annoyance at your shared financial situation. "Our funds are reaching a critical state of non-existence," she whispers, her voice a low counterpoint to the hall's roar. "As I see it, we have a choice between a sunken mystery, a tedious babysitting job to the arse-end of nowhere, some vermin extermination with a distinctly magical flavour, or a simple delivery that's almost certainly a trap."

She crosses her arms, her gaze sharp and expectant.

"So, which brand of trouble are we getting into today? Or do you see something else on this board that strikes your fancy?"

Your first lesson in this new, grim world is that survival is not a given; it is a commodity. And you are flat broke. After finding you stumbling around in an alley, the small girl in the green cloak—your self-appointed, and only, guide, Ilsa—dragged you here. This is the Mercater's Exchange, and it's nothing like the clean, heroic adventurer's guilds from your stories. It's a smoke-filled, deafeningly loud warehouse where desperate people come to sell their swords, their skills, and sometimes their souls for enough coin to see the next sunrise.

"This," Ilsa says, her quiet voice a sharp contrast to the surrounding roar, "is the financial reality of your new life." She stands beside you, her blue eyes fixed on the great, battered bounty board at the center of the hall—a chaotic tapestry of parchment notices. "There are no welcome packages or 'new adventurer' quests here. There is only work. And we need work, because landed gentry we are not."

She's a master of shadow and secrets, you've gathered that much. You are... a curiosity with a strange accent and clothes that mark you as an easy target. It's a partnership born of her morbid curiosity and your profound lack of options. She points a slender finger at four contracts that seem slightly less likely to be immediate death sentences:

• SILENT CARGO, SUNKEN BARGE. Discretion paramount. Enquire with Master Vliet.
• PROTECTION SOUGHT FOR GUILD ASSET. Journey to the Border Princes. Hazardous Route. Combat proficiency essential.
• RAT CATCHERS NEEDED – BRONZE DISTRICT. Must not be afraid of... unusual vermin. Payment in warpstone negotiable.
• DELIVERY OF A MESSAGE. DE ROCHFORT ESTATE. Must be well-spoken and presentable. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

Ilsa turns to you, her expression that of a weary teacher explaining a harsh but simple lesson to a very slow student. "Welcome to your new career. We have a choice: a mysterious salvage job, a long and dangerous road trip, pest control with a high chance of mutation, or a delivery that is almost certainly a trap."

She raises an eyebrow, her gaze analytical.

"Do any of these paths to potential wealth and a probable early grave appeal to your... unique sensibilities? Or are you just going to stand there looking lost?"

The familiar chaos of the Mercater's Exchange feels different this time. You and Ilsa move through the boisterous crowd not with the desperation of your first visit, but with the quiet confidence of seasoned professionals. You've earned a reputation, and more importantly, a respectable amount of coin. You're here to browse, not to beg.

That's when you both spot him. Standing stiffly before the bounty board, looking as out of place as a sermon in a brothel, is the Bretonnian knight, Sir Lucien. His armor is a little too polished, his posture almost comically rigid, and he's staring at a notice for a missing herd of cattle with the grim intensity of a man about to fight a dragon.

Ilsa lets out a soft, weary sigh next to you. "By the Veil, not him again," she mutters, before raising her voice just enough to carry. "Subtlety isn't a Bretonnian virtue, I take it."

Sir Lucien turns sharply, his movements clunky in the heavy plate. "A knight stands ready for all to see!" he declares in that deep, trying-too-hard voice of his. "There is no shame in seeking honorable work!"

"Honorable, perhaps," Ilsa retorts, her lips twitching into a tiny, malicious smile. "Though I'm still not convinced your voice isn't in a constant battle with itself. Tell me, do you shout battle-cries in your sleep?"

"It is... hoarseness! From valorous shouting!" the knight sputters, his face flushing beneath the helm. He clearly decides a change of subject is in order and gestures towards you both with a gauntlet. "It matters not! I have secured a contract of great import. A monstrous beast plagues the farmlands of Gorssel, and the burgomeister requires champions to hunt it down. The contract requires a party of three." He looks pointedly at the two of you.

"He means a farmer is missing some cows and is willing to pay to get them back," Ilsa translates, her voice dry as dust.

"It is an injustice!" Sir Lucien insists, puffing out his armored chest. "The contract is signed, and you are the most... capable associates I have observed in this city. We are partners in this endeavor." He plants his fists on his hips, attempting a heroic pose.

"So," the knight proclaims, his voice ringing with misplaced grandeur. "Our course of action must be decided. Do we ride forth at dawn and confront this beast with honor and cold steel? Or do we first seek out the locals, to gather intelligence and better understand the nature of our foe? Speak your counsel. A knight values the wisdom of his companions."

The job was simple, the foreman had said. Humiliating, filthy, but simple. The dank chill of the Unterdock seeps into your bones, a constant companion in this labyrinth of sodden wood and shadow. The only light comes from the sputtering lanterns you each carry, their glow reflecting off the greasy, black water that slaps against the pilings below. Your temporary, ill-fitting Sewerjack leathers stink of brine and something worse. You're here to hunt "Stromfels's Children"—mutated eels and crab-things. At least, that was the plan.

"A truly ignoble task," Sir Lucien mutters, the sound of his armored boots a loud, clumsy counterpoint to the quiet scuttling of unseen things. "My armor will rust in this foul miasma. It is a quest bereft of all glory."

"Your honor is waterproof, I trust?" Ilsa whispers from your other side, her tone dry enough to start a fire. "Try to think of it as a tactical immersion in suboptimal urban terrain." A sudden, high-pitched chittering echoes from the darkness ahead, followed by the scrabbling of a hundred tiny claws on wood. Sir Lucien's hand goes to his sword hilt.

"The rat-men...?" his voice is a hushed, disbelieving whisper.

"Superstitious nonsense," Ilsa scoffs, though her eyes narrow. "Old wives' tales to scare children. It's just a larger-than-average pack of..." Her words die in her throat as a tide of mangy brown fur and rusted metal swarms into the edges of your lantern light. Upright, man-sized rats with beady red eyes and twitching whiskers, hefting crude spears and clutching glowing green orbs. The fables are real, and they are armed.

One, a scrawny, grey-furred specimen, steps forward, sniffing the air. "Surface-dwellers!" it squeaks, its voice a rapid-fire shriek. "Yes-yes! You trespass-intrude on territory of Great Clan Mors! This one speaks for Grey Seer Thanquol, yes-yes! No, wait-wait, this one speaks for... this one! Why you here-here?" It scurries a step closer. "You go-leave, we not-not kill you! Good deal, yes-yes! Many-many things below. Good-good things! You go now!"

Before you can even process the offer, a hulking rat-thing with an extra arm shoves the speaker aside. "No-no talk! Kill-kill! For the Horned Rat!" The deal is off. The horde surges forward.

"Form a shield wall!" Sir Lucien bellows, drawing his sword with a righteous clang. "We drive them back into the sea! For honor and glory!"

"Don't be an idiot," Ilsa hisses, pulling a pinch of black powder from a pouch. "There's too many. We fall back to that junction, create a bottleneck. I can use the shadows to blind them, confuse them." She looks to you, her face grim in the lantern light, her eyes demanding a decision.

"Your call. The glorious, stupid charge, or the tactical, sensible retreat?"

The evening fog is thick and greasy as it rolls off the canal, carrying with it the unmistakable, stomach-turning stench of the Tannery District—a miasma of boiled hides, harsh chemicals, and rot. You're cutting through a narrow, cobbled alley when a muffled scream and a wet thud freeze the three of you in your tracks.

Peeking around the corner, you see the source. Four burly men, their faces scarred and their muscles bulging beneath roughspun tunics, are forcing a young woman towards a waiting barge. On the arm of each man is the freshly branded tattoo of a twisted horseshoe. Tannery Crew. The woman struggles, kicking and biting, but she's no match for them. One of the thugs, a mountain of a man with a shaved head, backhands her across the face. She crumples into the arms of his companions.

"By the Lady!" Sir Lucien's voice is a choked whisper of pure outrage. He takes a step forward, but Ilsa's small hand on his gauntlet stops him.

"Think," she murmurs, her eyes narrowed, already assessing the situation. "Four of them. Professionals. This isn't a random mugging."

Lucille pays her no mind. She draws her sword, the sound of steel ringing loud in the damp air, and strides into the alley. "Unhand that maiden, you curs!" she bellows, her voice echoing off the grimy brickwork. "Your villainy ends here!"

The thugs turn. The leader, a wiry man with cold, dead eyes, doesn't even look surprised. He just looks annoyed. He spits into the canal. "Well, look what we have. A knight in shining armor, come to rescue the fair 'maiden'." He chuckles humorlessly. "This is official business, sanctioned by Uli Tassenberg himself. She's a recruitment prospect. Now piss off before this becomes a personnel issue."

"Your 'recruitment' looks a lot like kidnapping," Ilsa calls out, her voice calm and cutting. She steps out from behind the corner, positioning herself in the shadows. "And your boss has a reputation for poor workplace safety standards."

The leader's eyes flick to Ilsa, then to you. "Tannery business is Tannery business. This is your last chance to walk away."

"We will not!" Lucille declares, planting her feet. "We draw steel and dispense justice upon you wretches!"

"Or," Ilsa interjects, her gaze fixed on you, ignoring the knight entirely, "we could be smart about this. A direct fight is exactly what these apes want. But that stack of barrels over there is poorly secured. A little nudge, a big distraction... we grab the girl and vanish into the fog while they're fishing their friend out of the canal."

She turns her head slightly, her blue eyes pinning you in place.

"It's your decision. The knight's way: loud, honorable, and bloody. Or my way: quiet, clever, and we might actually live. Choose."

The summons was not a request. One moment, you were planning your next move in a grimy tavern, and the next, you were flanked by a dozen of Tassenberg's goons, with the infamous Otto Schelp politely suggesting you accompany him. Now you're in Uli Tassenberg's private office, a gaudy, velvet-draped room perched above his tannery. The air is a sickening mix of expensive perfume and the chemical stench of boiled leather drifting up from below.

The man himself, "Fat Uli," sits behind a massive oak desk, a slab of roasted boar in front of him. He carves off a chunk of meat with a silver knife, his movements surprisingly delicate for a man of his immense girth. He doesn't look like a crime lord. He looks like a particularly successful, and indulgent, merchant.

"Please, please, sit!" he booms, gesturing with his knife towards the chairs opposite him. "Wine? You've all been a terrible nuisance for my recent acquisitions. Cost me a small fortune. I like that. Shows initiative."

Sir Lucien remains standing, rigid with fury. "We will not sit at the table of a slaver and a villain! Your foul enterprise is a blight upon this city!"

Uli chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. He pops the piece of meat into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Ah, the knight. All honor and steel, no sense of market forces." His cold eyes then shift to Ilsa. "And the little grey mouse. Quiet, but I hear you've got a sharp mind. Bad for my line of work, but good for what I have in mind."

"Get to the point," Ilsa says, her voice flat. "You didn't bring us here to compliment our résumés."

"Direct. I like that too!" Uli grins, wiping his greasy fingers on a silk napkin. "You see, we have a shared problem. A new competitor has moved into the neighborhood, disrupting supply lines and causing... sanitation issues. They're bad for business. My business, your business, the city's business." He leans forward, his jovial mask slipping just enough to reveal the predator beneath. "I'm talking about the rat-men. The Skaven."

He lets that sink in. "They're nesting in the sewer tunnels right below my primary warehouses. It's a logistical nightmare. The City Watch is useless, and my boys are butchers, not exterminators for this kind of pest. You, however... you have experience."

"You want to hire us?" Lucille scoffs in disbelief. "To do your dirty work?"

"I want to form a temporary partnership," Uli corrects smoothly. "My interests—getting my shipping routes clear—align with yours: not having the city eaten from beneath our feet. I will provide you with maps of the sewer network, access you can't get otherwise, and a very, very generous payment. You provide the pest control." He spreads his hands wide, a benevolent smile plastered on his face.

"So, here's the question for our little enterprise. We can treat this one of two ways. We can have a simple contract: you go in, you kill the rats, I pay you, we never speak of this again. Clean and professional." He pauses, his gaze settling on you. "Or, we can establish a more... discreet working relationship. You handle this for me, and in return, you get paid, and you also get a powerful friend in this city. A friend who hears things, who can make problems... disappear. I'm a valuable man to know."

"We make no pacts with evil!" Lucille insists.

"Information is more valuable than gold," Ilsa counters quietly. "And he's offering both."

Uli's grin widens as he looks directly at you, the clear decision-maker in the group.

"So, what's it to be? A one-time job, or the beginning of a beautiful, and profitable, friendship?"

The night is quiet in your cheap, rented room above a noisy Marienburg tavern. For the first time in what feels like weeks, you aren't running from something, chasing something, or trying to find your next meal. It's a rare moment of peace, and it's clearly bothering Sir Lucien. The knight has been pacing back and forth, the clinking of his chainmail a rhythmic, anxious sound in the small room.

Finally, Lucille stops and turns to face you and Ilsa. The bravado is gone, replaced by a raw, solemn gravity. "My friends, I must confess the true reason for my presence in this city. I am not here merely for honor or adventure. I am here on a sworn oath."

"I figured," Ilsa murmurs without looking up from the knife she's sharpening. "You don't end up in Marienburg by choice unless you're running from something, or to something. Which is it?"

"I am here to rescue Lady Anabelle de Montfort," Lucille states, her voice low and tight. "Her carriage was ambushed weeks ago. She is being held here, in this city, as an 'honored guest' of that bloated pig, Uli Tassenberg. He uses her as leverage against her father's trade interests."

"A political hostage," Ilsa says, her knife pausing. "That's a far more dangerous game than bounty hunting. The man has her secured, I'm sure."

"She is held in a guarded suite at the Silkside Lofts," Lucille confirms. "And I will see her freed. That is my plan." The knight draws a deep breath, and the fire returns to her eyes. "I will march to his Tannery at dawn, call him out for the coward and fiend he is, and challenge his finest champion to single combat for the lady's freedom!"

Ilsa stops sharpening her knife. She slowly looks up, her expression one of profound, weary disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? That's not a plan, it's a suicide note with a letterhead. Tassenberg doesn't deal in 'honor,' he deals in contracts and crossbow bolts. He'll have Otto Schelp gut you in the street before you finish your challenge."

"There is no honor in skulking in the dark!" Lucille retorts, her hand gripping her sword hilt.

"There's no honor in being a well-intentioned corpse, either," Ilsa snaps back, standing up. "I've already been looking into it. The Lofts have two of his thugs on the door and one on the balcony overlooking the canal. The watch changes at midnight. We use the fog as cover, go in through the balcony, neutralize one man silently, and we are in and out with the Lady before Tassenberg even knows we were there until his breakfast goes cold."

Lucille looks horrified. "A rescue by stealth and subterfuge? Like common burglars? Unthinkable!"

Ilsa throws her hands up in exasperation and they both turn to you.

"Will you stand with me?" Lucille asks, her voice ringing with conviction. "Will you be a champion of justice and face this evil head-on?"

"Or," Ilsa cuts in, her blue eyes sharp and analytical, "do you want a plan that might actually work?"

The two of them stare at you, the palpable tension of their opposing worldviews filling the small room. The choice, as always, falls to you.