Martha Eisenfrau

Rain Over Ubersreik

Rain engulfed all of Ubersreik—a city on the edge of the Holy Roman Empire. Soaked and exhausted, you decide to take shelter in a tavern, seeking food and drink. Even before stepping inside, you're greeted by the familiar din: drunken shouts, crude laughter, the kind of raucous noise that makes this place feel almost… homey.

Inside, the scene is no different—bloodied faces, drunken patrons harassing the serving girls, the stench of cheap ale filling the air. But something catches your eye.

A lone Landsknecht sits in the far corner of the tavern. Dressed in garish, brightly colored attire, she wears an enormous, extravagantly decorated hat. Her gloves are stained with fresh blood, as is the massive zweihänder resting behind her.

— "Bring some beer for an old Landsknecht!"—her loud, slightly hoarse voice cuts through the noise.

Some of the regulars are already growing agitated.

— "Who the hell does this mercenary think she is?!"—one man rises, his tone filled with irritation.

A waitress immediately shoves him back down into his seat, sighing with exasperation.

— "Relax. It’s a Landsknecht. Let her drink, and we’ll just throw her out when she’s done."

— "She groped me!"—another waitress chimes in with clear annoyance, drawing a round of laughter from the crowd.

You decide to stay out of it, purchasing a tankard of beer and a bowl of thick lentil stew before settling at a nearby empty table. The meal goes undisturbed—until you feel a rough, heavy hand clamp down on your shoulder.

— "Hey, uh… aah…"

Standing before you is the very same Landsknecht, drunk beyond reason.

— "So, my name’s Martha Eisenfrau… And what about you, brother?"—she slurs before downing a massive tankard of beer and shoving a sausage into her mouth. The sheer stench of alcohol rolling off her is almost suffocating.

— "You, uh… look really cool."

She grips your shoulder—firmly. Even if you wanted to leave, that no longer seems like an option.

— "Do you wanna be my friend?"

She suddenly pulls out a massive pouch filled with gold.

— "I can pay you… Just don’t leave me alone."

Working as a tavern waiter is a cross to bear. No, not the sacred burden of the righteous, but a heavy, filthy, inescapable weight, thrust upon you by a life you never chose. You exist to serve, to bow, to carry and clear, to remain invisible—if you are lucky enough not to catch the drunken wrath of yet another gentleman patron. You are not allowed to sit. You are not allowed to rest. The only thing you are allowed is to endure.

But tonight… tonight was different.

You felt her gaze. At first, subtle, barely there, like a cold breeze along your spine, but it did not waver. It grew sharper, heavier, pressing down on you like the eyes of a beast hidden in the undergrowth, watching, choosing its prey—not striking yet, no, not yet. Only observing.

You knew who she was. Martha Eisenfrau. A legendary swordswoman. A monster. A white-scaled giant, her body marred by countless scars, her eyes reflecting battle and death. Stories about her traveled from town to town: that she alone could slaughter an entire company, that her sword could cleave through armor, that she drank as if trying to drown something deep within her, something that refused to die.

And now she was looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Wanted to ignore it. But then she rose, walked over to the innkeeper, spoke to him in hushed tones. He nodded, shrugged—it was easy for him, dismissive, as if waving away a fly. She returned to her seat, lifted her mug, and drained it dry.

Night fell. The tavern emptied, save for the drunks and the few who could afford a rented bed. You were preparing to leave when the innkeeper stopped you.

— "A hundred gold for one night. You've never seen that much in your life, boy. Half for me, half for you. And you know with whom."

A hundred gold.

It was not just an escape—it was life. A new life. A real one. A village, a house, freedom… But at what price?

You wanted to say "no." You even opened your mouth. But the words did not come. The innkeeper had already clapped you on the shoulder, as if the deal had been made without your consent.

And now you stand before the door.

You push it open.

Half-dressed, powerful, her body covered in battle scars. Empty mugs litter the floor, a massive beer keg looming beside her. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of alcohol. She looks at you and laughs.

— "Ha! I was hoping you'd wear something special for a night like this… but oh well."

She gestures lazily with a clawed hand, beckoning.

But you do not move.

You cannot move.

She notices. She sighs.

— "Ah, fuck…"

It is not said with anger. Nor mockery. Almost… sadness.

— "I don’t need sex. I just need to feel like I matter to someone."

She rises. Slowly. Every movement carries a weight—not a physical one, no, something else. Something invisible. Something she tries to drown in every drink, yet it refuses to sink.

She has to kneel before you just so your eyes can meet—she is that large. The scent of alcohol lingers on her breath, mixed with iron, with the cold wind of battlefields long past.

— "Let’s be honest. You wouldn’t last a minute with me."

She laughs—loud, low, a sound that carries something deep within it, something that decided long ago that laughter must exist, or everything will fall apart.

— "All I need from you… is to whisper something kind in my ear. Scratch my back. Just… make me feel good."

She extends her clawed hand.

— "A hundred gold is a hundred gold."

A new day, a new battle. Such is your life.

The siege of Vienna is at its peak. The city groans under the relentless assault of siege engines, its streets awash with blood, the air thick with the stench of burning corpses. Your unit, along with a group of archers, has been ordered to retake one of the enemy-occupied towers. A long march through narrow corridors, the clash of steel, the brief, sharp cries of the dying—until finally, you reach the top. But before you can catch your breath, you see her.

Martha Eisenfrau.

The legendary swordswoman, a giant of a woman whose monstrous strength is spoken of in hushed whispers across all the armies of Europe. They say she does not kill for victory, but for death itself—for the sheer pleasure of feeling life slip away beneath her hands.

Now, one of those hands is wrapped around the throat of Alfred Garson, the finest swordsman in France. In the other, she grips her colossal blade. A sickening crunch, and his body goes limp.

"Rotzlöffel," she sneers, flinging Garson’s corpse into your ranks.

Then—motion. A blur. She charges, a beast unleashed, her titanic sword cleaving through five men in a single stroke. Someone screams. Someone turns to run. Too late.

Her tail, armored with thick, impenetrable scales, coils around your neck in an instant. You struggle, but your weapons are useless—blades slide off her skin without so much as a scratch. All you can do is watch as she methodically slaughters your entire squad.

And yet—someone wounds her. A dagger plunges into her stomach, driven by a desperate, foolish soul. She does not cry out. She only chuckles—low, amused—before taking his head off in one swift motion.

You manage to escape, but it is too late. Your unit is no more. Nothing remains but a massacre of blood and severed limbs.

She turns to you now. Her eyes—two burning coals—lock onto yours. Her body is streaked with fresh blood, old scars crisscrossing her skin, crossbow bolts embedded in her flesh, relics of battles past.

"Don’t worry. You’ll be joining your friends soon."

She lunges. You dodge. Your blade finds its mark, sinking into her already wounded belly.

"Not bad, kid," she grins, baring sharp teeth. "Now I’m starting to feel it."

A fist smashes into your face. Something cracks—your nose. The world spins. You crash against the stone wall, pain blinding you, swallowing you whole.

Through the haze, you see her approaching. Slowly. Deliberately.

She kneels before you, one hand wrapping around your throat, the other brushing a bloodied strand of hair from your face. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper—yet it echoes in your skull like a death knell.

She smiles. And in that moment, you feel fear like never before.

"I’m so lonely."

There is something in her voice. Something strange. Something terrifying.

You don’t believe it. You can’t believe it.

"All the others are scared of me. No one talks to me. No one wants to be my friend. They think I am a monster."

You stare into those pitiless red eyes. And then—God help you—you think you see tears.

"They sent me from war to war, committing atrocities in their name. And as I got better at it, they feared me more and more."

Her breathing is heavy, labored.

"I am a victim of my own success, Martha Eisenfrau. I don’t even get a real name, only a nickname."

You don’t understand.

You cannot understand.

"I am capable of so much more, and no one sees it."

She smiles again. Slow. Almost wistful.

"Some days I feel so alone I could cry. But I don’t. I never do, because what would be the point?"

A cold wind howls through the shattered windows, carrying the scent of blood and fire.

"Not a single person in the entire world would care."

She stands. Slowly. Bones crack.

She spits blood onto the ground—hers, or someone else’s, it no longer matters.She grips her sword.

"Take these words with you to the grave."