Our Lady of War

[Bergenheim]

Our dear beloved Lady, who hears us when we roam;
Look down on us poor soldiers and bring us safely home!
Stave off the cold and hunger, and help us sate our drought,
We came with lots of money, and none when we came out!

The drumming! The drumming!
Alarm! Alarm! Alarm!
Heiriderideran, riederan,
Men, to arms!
Soldiers, to arms!
-Old Landsknecht Song, "Our Dear Lady"

For many centuries, the official saint of soldiers of fortune for the Tiburan faith in Bergenheim has been Our Lady Ysetta, or Lizette, or simply "Saint Liz". Her statue, showing her martyrdom clutching her wounded breast, decorates many small chapels throughout Bergenheim, and also the private chapels in every Free Company headquarters and office the world over.

The story goes that Ysetta was married to a Sarmatian mercenary of the Old Tiburan Empire, and that she prayed day and night that her love return safe and warm to her breast. Seven years passed, and the daft bugger, or so the story goes, swore to sacrifice the first thing he saw as thanks for his safe return.

Needless to say, he ends up tearfully shoving his lance through his lady's heart.

The biblical and provincial origin of such a grim story seems to appeal to the sardonic and vulgar mind of mercenaries, who can well understand the world-weary madness of mercenaries after a long time away.

They also are sentimental creatures, and love the idea that some big-titted angel is watching out for them.

Modern mercenaries tend to be more agnostic than their landsknecht forebears, but in that chaotic Summer, many found themselves offering a prayer to Our Dear Lady, as over half the Free Companies were now committed to war, somewhere in the world.

Colonel Willhelm Reinhardt of the 1st Batallion of the Eagle's Legion found himself presiding over one such deployment. Chaos reigned in the terminals of Sennengard National. Despite being the second-largest airport in Bergenheim, it was still overwhelmed by the chaos and panic of a multi-national, private millitary company essentially commandeering its runways to transport a mechanised infantry unit to Ne Cathay.

Angry tourists, businessmen and other travellers shouted and gesticulated angrily as flight after flight was delayed to accomodate the imminent arrival of NCEF heavy troop planes. The air-space over Bergenheim was nothing short of SNAFU.

For the fourty-five year old veteran mercenary, going to New Cathay with his men would be more than just chaotic. Angela was in New Cathay. He shouldn't really care, or follow her movements like this. But she was First Hand now, and quite famous. Surely he could be forgiven for hearing about such movements.

He sighed. A young enlistee almost blundered into him, carrying a crate far too heavy for the youngster.

"Fuck's sake, put your back into it boy!" he roared, living up to his reputation as "the Hammer". He swatted the youngster's back with his clip-board. Half the men in his company were fresh boys out of their national service, or eager youngsters back from college, looking for a paid adventure abroad.

They were the lucky ones, he knew. He pitied Havel's Band and the Kestrel Corps, headed to that clusterfuck in Eiffelland. He wondered how many would make it back.

At least this kind of deployment was one he knew well. A "pump and dump", as they called it in the trade. Get in, fuck up the backwards locals from the safety of your IFV, and then dump all your money into a ticket back home and a week-long bender in the Red light district of Yharnam.

The thought of sex reminded him of her again. His...dear lady, he thought sardonically. He wasn't the only one who lay awake at night thinking of a blonde angel, watching over him. His hand touched the scar over his left eye absent-mindedly.

Old wounds, old loves. No, there was no avoiding it, he supposed, as he haphazardly tried to guide some moron loading a pallet of MREs onto a forklift truck. This contract may be heading to New Cathay, with a new crew, new equipment and a very modern mission, but it had old days written all over it.

"Fuck it. Might give her a call." he laughed to himself. Would she recognise him, now? Would she care?

"Colonel sir, Lovebirds are on their way..."

"What did you fucking say?" he roared, almost punching his aide.

"Lovebirds! the New Cathay refuelers. ETA Six hours."

Reinhardt relaxed. His thoughts would be a blur indeed. "Christ, what a shit-show." he said, to cover for his agitation. His lieutenant noticed anyway. It was his job to do so.

"You okay sir? Got your heart pills?"

"Ha! Nothing wrong with the old ticker, by god. Its as sound as my left eye." he joked crudely. "It sees about the same."

A forklift truck, manned by an exhausted, overworked, underpaid Slavonian airport worker, almost ran over the moron who was trying to load a week's worth of MRE onto it. There was more shouting and cursing, as mercs, civillians and airport bureaucrats blundered into one another.

On the runway, could be heard the low, heavy roar of heavy transport engines. A 747 hastily manuevering out of the way, to make room for the big bastards.

"I'll go ahead with the advance team. Fifty of us, 1 IFV, couple hummers, that should do the trick. We want to make an impression after all. The Dear Lady is watching, after all." he chuckled.

"Saint Liz, you mean sir? I think the KSB Board of trustees will be watching more closely, and threaten a far more realistic damnation."

"I like you, Thalmann. You're always a ray of sunshine."

 

[Vrijpoort]

Sennengard National Airport - Bergenheim

The 3

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transporters and 4

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multi role tankers had flown nearly 10 hours since their take-off from Yishun Airbase earlier that morning. With no payload and only the required crew onboard, their ferry range easily handled the distance although the pilots would need to get some sleep on arrival before the return journey despite flying in shifts. The journey had been made flying close together in a fuel efficient formation, standard operating procedure for the NCEF Sky Force when on non combat missions.

Their gradual descent had given them spectacular views of the mountains and glaciers of the country. The crew marvelled at the sights. Too bad they wouldn't have leave to check out more of the country. The most they would see would be the airport and maybe a cot to catch up on sleep.

'Sennengard National this is NCEF Sky Force Crimson Squadron Leader. Requesting clearance to land. The GoldenCranes will touch down first if that's all right for you, over'.

The permissions were granted after a short delay, only to be expected given the high demand. The GoldenCranes touched down and followed ground control's taxiing instructions and a few minutes later the Lovebirds gracefully swooped in to join the rest. Once parked on the tarmac with other planes not far off due to the lack of space, the squadron leader disembarked. The cargo doors of all the planes were already opening and ground grew started preparing to refuel, but had a brief chat with the squad crew to make sure they handled these foreign military aircraft appropriately.

The squad leader was of average height and mixed Western-Toyou heritage. He wore an orange beret, standard for the NCEF, and gave Colonel Reinhardt a salute.

'Colonel, refuelling has commenced and we are ready to begin loading cargo once refuelling is complete. Your men can begin boarding once all pallets and baggage have been secured. We hope to be back up in the air in less than six hours. We will then return to continue ferrying the legion. If you wouldn't mind, colonel, my crew and I would like some grub and somewhere to shower and sleep before we get airborne again. NCEF regulations require pilots to rest between flights, of course'.

 

[Bergenheim]

There was no time for pleasantries. Bergenheim Airspace was going to be very busy for the next few days, and even more chaotic once some of its GPS capabiltiy was knocked out.

But for now, Reinhardt tried to hustle the Legionaries advance party into some kind of order. About a tenth of the batallion would be heading out immediately on the Cranes and Lovebirds, along with much of their supplies and a few essential light vehicles. The rest would have to be picked up later, or sent along on the Legion's own heavy transports.

The NCEF crew were fed a very spartan breakfast, coffee, beans, toast and schnitzel. Once refreshed and fed, the planes were ready to leave after three hours, rather than the anticipated six. Time was a wasting, and an entire Airport and thousands of passengers were literally waiting on the mercenaries to be done.

No doubt many were emailing complaints to their Burghers, but they could go hang. The Freikorps had a very strong lobby in the House, and operations like this brought in a lot of income tax revenue for the government and its many generous social programmes.

Reinhardt stood in the cockpit next to the squad-leader, who was sipping some very hot coffee purchased from a Cafe Republik.

While the Cathayans were still jet-lagged, Reinhardt was impatient to be in the air. The sooner they were airborne and out, the less he could quell that nagging fear of being attacked by Kadikistanis. It was a paranoid and irrational fear, perhaps, but just knowing those bastards were active was enough to have him consider the possibility.

"How long do we have to wait for NCEF regulations? I can press-gang some of our pilots to the task...ah, let me guess, can't less foreign civilians fly craft like this, right?" He smirked at the tired-looking squad-leader.

Not that Reinhardt himself wasn't tired. He'd been popping caffeine pills for almost a day straight since the mobilisation order had come in. Now, with the advance party set, he left the rest of the preparations to his captains and lieutenants to organise. He was confident they could get the rest of the Batallion together, packed up and ready to ship out over the next few days.

"So tell me Squad leader, this your first time in a "cold" country? What do you think of our awful food? Coffee's not so bad though, eh? Its grown in Himyar." He chuckled at that.

"You been in the Badlands? I was there a couple times before. Not with you though. Or ah, anyone suspect." He hastily clarified. "Hellish place, but some companies do still try to do business there. Charities too. Frankly, its overdue for a proper pacification. Think we'll be weapons hot on this run?"

 

[Vrijpoort]

The squad leader stifled a yawn. The coffee was damn good, that was certain. He made a mental note to order some online when he next had a spare private moment - he chuckled at the thought of an NCEF Sky Force serviceman from getting private time.

The quick turnaround was impressive even to the crew from NCEF who were trained to move as rapidly and efficiently as possible. The squad leader, James was his name, set down the steel mug on the console, tapped a touch screen a couple of times and flipped a few switches. He would pilot the takeoff before handing over to his first officer when the plane went under autopilot.

'Colonel I am more than certain your men could fly this beauty but then our insurance policy would become invalid'. James turned around and smiled at Reinhardt. 'We have regulations to avoid costly and deadly human and mechanical error, but we are quick, Colonel. We're ready to go, I'm actually waiting on ATC'.

The ATC taxiing directives and runway assignment finally came in and they began moving quickly. The

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sped down the runway, the first of the squad up in the air and quickly ascended while waiting for the two other Cranes and the

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s. Once all airborne they got into their fuel efficient formation and set course for New Cathay. They wanted out of this airspace ASAP.

Reinhardt unstrapped himself once they were at cruising altitude and James handed over controls to the first officer once autopilot had been set.

'Yes, Colonel, my first time to a cold country. I would love to learn how to ski. It looks fun. But I think that will have to wait a while'. James briefed Reinhardt on the downing of the jet just a few hours before.

'So you see, while it isn't me prerogative to speculate, I think you've been called in to help us drive a massive offensive into the Badlands. I've never been there on the ground, but I've flown countless sorties over the years and bombed the hell out of it. It's beautiful land. Lush, green, ripe for farming. But the people are nasty little shits. When you live without government for so long I suppose that's what happens'. Ironic since that's exactly how Cathay had been until the arrival of Jyskerige-Østveg.

Their 10-hour flight was uneventful. Flying through the night, by the time they arrived at Juliana Peak Airbase the first morning rays were coming over the mountains.

Once all planes were on the tarmac the ground crews immediately began refuelling and unloading. Another flight crew was arriving to get the birds back up in the air for another run. Vans carrying New Cathay Immigration and Checkpoints Authority officers arrived at each plane. Before the mercenaries could disembark they had their passports quickly scanned and stamped 'NCEF Special Pass'. Fingerprints were also taken with portable electronic scanners. The process was quick and each man was able to deplane once his papers had been checked.

Busses took the men to an airbase barracks which had been prepared for their use. A Sky Force steward politely and loudly called out instructions.

'Choose a bunk and locker. Showers are down there. Canteen is opposite. Hot meals are waiting for you. Wifi password is on a card on your pillow along with a local SIM card for your mobiles'.

James led Reinhardt into the barracks. 'This is where your men will be for tonight. But tomorrow we head to Checkpoint Zed on the border and they will be weapons hot, Colonel. You will be fully briefed in the morning. We arranged separate accommodation for you at the onsite hotel for officers and above. It's not the Mandarin Oriental but I think you will find it quite nice. Get some rest and I will see you in the morning'. James clicked his heels and gave a salute before heading out.

 

[Bergenheim]

The Colonel chuckled. As far as state military types went, Squad Leader James didn't seem too bad. "Thanks for all the help. Its always hell trying to get a unit of this size somewhere quickly and in good order. For an island military your sort didn't do too badly, either." Reinhardt massaged his fingers, a little irked about the finger-printing. He hoped they didn't run background checks on mercs entering the country under special pass.

More than a few of his men, here and in the battalion at large, would be ex-pats from around the world. And more than a few of those would be criminals with a past. Landsknecht service was considered an acceptable way to disappear, for most. Though the Free Companies ran their own background checks, and made sure nobody too repugnant ended up in service.

The Barracks was typical for functional, thrown-together buildings. He'd slept in a dozen or so such places throughout his life. This one at least had mattresses. "Alright, find your bed and locker. No fighting. If there aren't enough beds we'll use the sleeping bags. No complaining. We're on our way to the mission zone in the morning."

He left much of the wrangling to his NCOs, who knew how to keep unruly, action-itchy men. It was always the worst in the prelude-stage. You've left home, you're eager to get to the action, not because of bloodlust, but because of an innate sense that the sooner you get it over with the better.

Some units could be driven half-mad just through being stir-crazy. Mercenary service was often like that. You had to have a certain kind of temperament to deal with it. Fortunately, most of the men in this Advance company were veterans, hand-picked to be reliable as first-ins. The fresher troops would follow close behind, and begin setting up over the next few days.

With them would be the IFVs and mortar sections, as well as, hopefully, some helicopters for medevac and recon purposes. The NCAF, it was hoped, would provide the air support, when it would be needed.

As he sat on the bunk, fatigue rushed into all his muscles. It had been a very long day, and he had crossed more than a few time-zones. He didn't much have energy or concern about an off-site hotel. He preferred to stick with his men, in one location. Mercenaries didn't stand on ceremony, so a strict separation of officer and landser was seen as less important. He checked his phone. The Mandarin Oriental, that sounded familiar...

As sleep threatened to engulf him, he wondered idly, and he remembered it was were Angela and the government detachment were, negotiating some kind of trade deal or something.

He closed his eyes, and fell backwards into a deep and fitful sleep...

Tomorrow would begin Day One of three months in the Badlands. One step closer to Hell, and one step closer to an Angel to watch over him...

 

[Vrijpoort]

OOC: For those following this story, now that it has entered Toyou

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. Happy reading

 

[Bergenheim]

SNAPSHOTS -Volume I
​

OOC: This is a collection of short one-offs to give a multitude of perspectives on different events/things within Bergenheim. I've put it here to save from creating a new thread. Also, the theme will be "war". If you'd prefer to see this in a seperate thread, and or want to write your own "snapshots", please PM me. ^^

​

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.

The sky was heavy with pregnant rain-clouds as the National Unity press conference concluded. Sigrid Vogt looked ten years older, her heavy eyes lined with age, her grey hair stark and wiry. Even Lotti's seemingly permanent loli-face had cracked and worn, and the red-rims suggested many sleepless nights.

"Joaquim Zwiefelhofer, from the Bergen Times. Miss Degurechaff...A moment...please...Miss Degurechaff..."
"It's Mrs or General, rookie." She growled as she pushed past the hapless reporter. Joaquim's cheeks reddened. Shit, he'd forgotten. She had a civil partner up in that eighteenth century estate of hers.

He stood, notepad in hand, the click and whirr of cameras around, the press-pack's moment lost as both the First First and Archchancellor got into their respective vehicles. Zwiefelhofer felt the first spots of rain, and saw them spatter on his empty notebook.

"Nice try Jo. Better luck next time." Laughed his competition, who were starting to pack up their set. Not many reporters still walked around with notepads in big brown trenchcoats the way Zwiefelhofer still did. Most were opportunists, nighthawks and papparazzi looking for a soundbyte or a quick snapshot.

Snapshots, he thought. How was anyone supposed to get a clear picture of the world with just a few broad strokes?

Sighing bitterly, he stuffed the notepad into his heavy jacket pocket, and joined the rush of reporters to the nearest Metro entrance, as the heavens threatened to open up.

Sitting on the crowded train home, he engaged in his favourite past-time of people watching. In his train-car alone, he identified maybe a dozen Persons of Interest. A mother in an orthodox head-scarf, trying to calm her baby. A bored looking white-blonde stockbroker, with an edelweiss pinned in his jacket. A black man in a biker jacket, nervously twirling a crumpled cigarette packet in his fingers. A wild-haired busker with a large guitar-case on his legs. A teenage girl with a nose-ring, ripped jeans, straggly blue hair and a beanie. Everyone had a story, he thought.

He thought about snapshots again. How would they, the so called new media, deal with these POIs? And how should a real journalist? Such questions busied his mind untill he reached his stop, somewhere in the outer suburbs of the city. Tiergarden North. All change for surface and northern lines. Please mind the gap.

As he ran from the station, long, grey streaks stabbed down at him from the sky. Over head he heard a familiar roar, unseen in the clouds. Planes coming and coming from Midweis International. Sometimes even military traffic, more these days.

Fishing in his pocket for his key, he entered his crummy, flyover apartment, the smell of fast-food boxes and stale air assailing his nostrils, as he wearily flumped into his apartment. No girlfriend, no roommate, just a pile of unopened mail, yesterday's take-away and empty beer bottles cluttering all spaces.

"What a snapshot this would make." he thought humorlessly. Clearing a space on his worn, battered couch, he closed his eyes for a moment. No quote. No story. More yelling tomorrow at the office. Everyone thought he was a joke. Joaquim Zwiefelhofer. Even his name sounded like a joke. Like one of those BNTV comedies about inbred yokel Elbeners, slapping their knees to polka and colliding with one another to canned laughter.

Everyone in Midweis had cool, punchynames. No Herr Meiers here. Wearily he turned on the TV, to see repeating footage of the conference he'd just left. Operation Moses. War. National Unity. Edited bulletpoints, snappy soundbytes, the whole package. He thought about how, during the three hours he had been there, Lotti Degurechaff had scratched her nose fifteen times. Nobody else seemed to notice. It certainly wasn't on the footage shown.

"Details." He thought to himself with hollow pride. Details are what made the journalist. Everyone else was looking for something punchy, eye-catching. The stockbroker with the edelweiss on the train. Every one of them would have focused in on the flower. A memento of a loved one? A signal for a meeting? Poltiical affiliation? Not him. Assume nothing. Observe only the details, and ask questions.

The woman with the orthodox head-scarf. No doubt she got a lot of racist flak for that. Assumptions of being a 'Slavonian refugee. But, Joaquim thought smugly, he had done a piece on Old Believers in Midweis, a tiny community of a few hundred who had emigrated from Kadikistan in the 1800s and were still around. The woman probably thought of herself as ethnically Bergenheimer now, despite the religion.

And then himself. He leaned forward. Zwiefelhofer. The sort of name a country yokel had. A loser in a trenchcoat, permanent five o clock shadow, an apartment littered with junk and no girlfriend. How easy it would be to ignore him, to conclude he was some also-ran failed journalist, like hundreds in Midweis and elsewhere, who slouched through life, always chasing a Big Scoop.

Joaquim flipped open his battered, worn laptop, and logged on to Twatter. Still connectivity issues. Rumours of government jamming or plans to shut everything down. Always rumours. He fired up his anonymous handle account. Five hundred thousand followers. And he began to type.

How could he be a failed joke, when half the city listened? He was more than a snapshot.

He thought about what to write. Lotti Degurechaff. He typed. Scratched her nose fifteen times at todays conference. She's nervous. #notjustacold #nuc

Now five hundred thousand people would pour over the footage, and find it for him, and wonder about it obsessively. But the nose was a snapshot too. Always analyse, he thought. And ask questions.

He brought up his OpenVPN client, and began accessing his tool-kit. Time to go looking for medical records. Maybe it was just a cold? Start there, and work your way in...

"Well Frau General, let's correct my ignorance shall we?" He thought with a bitter smile.

 

[Bergenheim]

SNAPSHOTS -Volume II

Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen
Kann verbrennen, kann euch blenden
Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht
Legt sich heiß auf das Gesicht
Sie wird heute Nacht nicht untergehen
Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn​

-Rammstein, Sonne

Loud, pounding metal filled the box-like club. Young pretty things with tattoos, nose-piercings and netting pounded the hard floor with their heels and shook their long, party-coloured manes. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, stale alcohol and the buzz of Blud-users.

This was Yharnam, the forgotten port city of Bergenheim, and this was Valhalla, the most notorious den of debauchery in a city steeped in sin.

Zwiefelhofer was as out of place here as he was anywhere. He handed over a ten mark note and got back a single shot of something acid-blue that burned worse than bleach. Everything was getting more expensive, these days. He had a sense that a storm was about to break. And he knew he had his fingers around the bolt that would break it.

"Yeaaah...we were in the Kommando together. Back in '01, '02. Her call-sign was Weissteufel." The drunken, drug-wrecked sot slurred his words. His hair was shorn, and his cauliflower nose and shorn ear showed that he'd been in more than a few fights. The faded Skull-and-devil's tongue tattoo marked him as possibly being truthful about being a former Jagdkommando.

But such tattoos could be gotten anywhere. Nonetheless, Joaquim persisted.

"How did she handle the hazing? First girl in the kommando? Must have been rough."

The wretch wheezed and laughed. "Tough? Bitch sought us out, demanded we haze her that first night. She wasn't going to stand on ceremony, that was for sure. First guy that tried to grab her little tits, she damn near bit his finger off! She already know like, three martial arts. Wasn't so much a hazing as a slow beating. We pinned her eventually of course, but she'd tasted every one of us blood." he chuckled, his rheumy eyes staring into the distance, at memories and ghosts both.

"That was why we called her the White Devil. She had a fierceness, a Kriegsliebe that none of us could surpass. She rose pretty quickly because of that."

"What about the Al-Khazari Affair? In 2003? She was involved wasn't she?"

The informant frowned, his addict fugue breaking for a moment, his eyes darting furtively. He leaned in close.

"Where did you hear about that? Last I heard it was still a secret."

"I have my sources." Joaquim said evasively. Like everything, he was gambling with shit-all to gain more. He'd heard whispers, found tiny fragments in cracked government databases and dark rumours that floated on the currents.

"Aye, Al-Khazari. Ugly affair. A whole family kidnapped by some crazy moon-worshipping sect, demanding a ransom in gold-bars for some unholy purpose. Wolf Team was sent in first, Fox was kept in reserve. It turned into a real SNAFU. Somehow they'd known we were coming. Maybe some little Gunn told them." He spat into his ash-tray, his ruined face twisted for a moment in memory of old pains.

"Wolf team got jumped by about thirty of the devils. Heavy shit. Little Devil said, to hell with orders. She took her 'bird in real close and jumped right on top of them, fighting and firing a Thompson like a maniac. She got most of Wolf Team out. She got a court martial and a medal the same day. A promotion six months later. What did I say? Devil's fury, devil's own luck."

"That sounds heroic. Why is this still so secret?"

The informant chuckled. "You hear about any family of tourists getting rescued back in '03? No? She saved the team all right, but by the time they finally found the family..." he shuddered. "Damn Moonies had cut them all real good. Even the little ones."

He took a long, deep swig of his whiskey, and tapped the empty bottle. "I'll have anutherr..."

He began to sway, before slumping to the table, to Joaquim's irritation. "Wake up...damnit, fuck...this interview's not over you..." He sighed, giving up. Let the old soldier sleep his sorrows away. God knows what evil he'd seen down in Port Stanley.

He collected his things and began to leave the club. He noticed that he was being followed, and took appropriate steps as he disappeared into the throngs on Yharnam's crowded streets. The Rotstrasse was the heart of its night-life, and also one of the most criminal stretches of urban real-estate in the whole republic. If it could be snorted, drank, injected or chewed, chances were you could find it here in the Rotstrasse.

Losing his tails took a little time and several swapped subway cars before he felt safe and could breath again. He didn't know who they were, Nekmet probably. He didn't want to know. But his presence in Yharnam had been noticed, and any one, especially a reporter, who started asking questions started getting noticed.

Fortunately, he wasn't interested in the booming, Slavonian-fed underground, or the looming turf war with the Yids. Such vice and murder could be some other gonzo's scoop. He had his eyes on the Queen Devil herself.

He added the drunken soldier's recorded testimony to his growing collection of dirt on Degurechaff, along with a snatched page of her medical records. The picture he was starting to build about this woman...well..."woman"....was a fascinatingly macabre one. He grinned. And all because she'd scratched her nose at him.

Next stop, he figured, would be the Orphanage. The Shalebridge Cradle. Place had burned down years ago, something Joaquim no longer saw as coincidence. But that was where this devil had begun. If he could find something on her parentage...he grinned.

Maybe she hadn't even been born in Bergenheim at all. An Orphan from Crotobaltislavonia, perhaps? How richly ironic that would be.​

 

[Bergenheim]

Yharnam
Forty-Five Years Ago

Dark was the night when our tale was begun, on the docks near Yharnam.
A band of gypsies and refugees snuck ashore, to the tolling of the old church bells.

But a trap had been laid, and a force of Constabulary ambushed them, with the intent of returning to them once they came.

But one starving mother, fearing for her infant who already bore the mark of a monster, and fearing the superstition of her rural antecedents, ran from the police, her child clutched tight. She ran, ran like the hounds of hell pursued her, and she followed the sound of the bells.

St Jude's Tower had stood on the promontory of Yharnam for hundreds of years, and its old bells tolled for sailors lost at sea. Tonight they tolled for other kinds of lost souls. The refugee ran through filthy, dripping alley-ways, cobbled streets unwashed by anything save misty brine, threatening to trip or spill her. Behind her the police dogs barked, as faceless, grim men in black pursued.

She felt as if her heart and lungs might burst, that day she hammered on the doors of St Jude's. She claimed sanctuary in broken English, in heartfelt Romany, and mangled Slavic. Fortunately, the preist was awake, and knew the tone, if not the words, that was coming from below. Taking an old lantern and dressed in his nightgown, he hurried to see what the commotion was.

The hounds found her first, but she refused to heel. She held her child up, even as they tore at her arms and legs. In those days the "refugee-chasers" were not as well trained as they were now, and many bore cruel injuries from such terrifying pursuers.

The man in charge held his men back, watching and laughing at the display. Another 'fugee getting what they deserved, or so he thought.

Yet as the doors to the church opened, and she gave out one last heart-felt cry, she flung the child at the feet of the preist, even as her weak heart gave out, and blood from her wounds ran like claret in the cobbles of Old Yharnam.

The Captain of the Constables stepped forward, calling his dogs off, and asked for the return of the child. The Preist, though but clad in a gown and his senses but half-awake, saw the ghastly spectacle at his very feet, and saw in his countrymen not officers of the law, but demons.

"See where the innocent blood you have spilled on the steps of St Judes! You can lie to yourselves and to your friends, but you can never run from the eyes of a yet higher authority! Will you damn yourselves yet further?"

And in that moment, moonlight shining through the stained-glass windows far behind the archdeacon, the policemen felt a superstitious dread of their own. And though they had every legal cause, they took the bloody, comatose body of the mother with them, leaving a stain and their guilt on the steps, with the orphan baby in the priest's hands.

"And who are you little one?" He asked, looking down into a cherubic face, a soft golden curl between two, mercurial-blue eyes. An adorable baby-girl, clearly. White as the driven snow. Who would have thought the Romany could produce such a child? Clearly the father was of a different race, a Germanic mercenary perhaps.

"Let's see if we have any milk in the fridge...Saint Carmelita's for you I imagine..." he said wistfully, naming the local Orphanage.

And so began her tale, as a foundling of the church, her mother weak and soon to die, uncared for, unknown, in the back of a civic ambulance. Another lost soul from the east, buried in an unmarked mass grave as Jane Doe #11231.

As for the foundling, she was Orphan 151 for that year at Saint Carmelita's- LCI in Tiburan numerals. Someone thought that it looked a bit like "LOT", and given the cursed status she allegedly had later, they took to calling her by that name.

As for the surname?

Officially, the name of her mercenary father. I couldn't tell you more about him though, I'm afraid.

========================================================================

Zwiefelhofer took down the somewhat apocryphal retelling of Lotti's origin in Bergenheim from the old nun with some suspicion. It sounded rather like the opening to a popular movie about a hunchback living in a bell-tower. He regarded the scant records before him.

"You said she was at Saint Carmelita's, but my previous source said she was at Shalebridge."
The Old Nun looked a little startled at this. "Ah well...truth is, she was transferred there when she was about seven years old. We simply didnt have the funds or room to keep caring for her then."

"I see. You have been...suprisingly candid about her being regarded as cursed. Could you elaborate?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know what I mean. She had such a devilish look in her eyes, and that smile she always had, even as a child..."

"So we're -not- talking about her being a hermaphrodite then?"

The Old Nun flinched at that old word. "Well...yes. Poor child. It was all taken care of by the doctors when she was very young, of course, but somehow...well, rumours...children can be so cruel."

Zwiefelhofer nodded. He barely found this old woman and her tale-spinning credible, but it was something. He had had to take a leap of faith with this one, and he suspected more such leaps would be needed. He still couldn't find any documentation Shalebridge, its staff, why it had burned down, what happened to Lotti between the ages of thirteen and sixteen... As far as he could make out, she must have lived alone on the streets of Yharnam, but that scarcely seemed possible.

A tween girl by herself? In the early nineties? Even Yharnam isn't that terrible. Who did she stay with? And Why?

As for her father...he had a dark suspicion, if the dates were correct. Crotobaltislavonia of the 80s had not been much better than it was today, and he had little doubt the Republic had interceded for its own interests back then as well. Who knows? Some Landsknecht or Jagdkommando on a black op pays a Romany girl five marks, forgets to use a condom...and everything else plays out as it does.

But Degurechaff wasn't a -very- Germanic name. He couldn't find any records of one serving with the main Freikorps in the 70s or 80s. Curioser and Curioser.

This rabbit-hole was going to take him yet deeper, he was sure.

 

[Bergenheim]

The autumn rains battered the gothic, tiled roofs of Yharnam, steel and stone spires poking from twisting, narrow streets. Oktoberfest was in full swing, and the smell of spilled beer, urine and schnapps added to the usual pungent odours of the old port town.

Zwiefelhofer had been digging for over three months now. His editor had cut him off, and he was living on the last of his savings. He didn't care. He was on the edge of a scoop of a lifetime. He almost had the full story. He just needed to find a way to get his hands on the last few pieces.

There was a hammering on the door of his hostel room. "Zwiefelhofer? You need to pay up. I have a waiting list of 'fugees want this room. I don't have my money by tomorrow I'm turfing you out, you hear me?"

The freelancer ignored the landlord. He was too busy cutting together a documentary he planned to post online, from audio, video and written notes he'd made. Soon. He just needed a little more time.

"Zwiefelhofer? You in there? You better not be passed out drunk, ah verdammtschiesse..."

"I'm here. You'll get your money." he said automatically. The landlord grunted, and left, gravely discontent. He had a day left. No worries. He just had to follow one last lead.

He packed his tape recorder and things, and went out into the rain.

The Beerhall at Gerberstrasse was one of the old breed- creaky wooden floorboards, tables that reeked of ages-old spilled malt, and biermaidens who looked closer to fifty than to flirty. Heroes may never die, but they can certainly rot in inebriated squalor, he thought cynically.

Some pale man in an old hunter's jacket was up-front, mumbling into a microphone about national destiny and Jews. The usual club-life you'd find in a soldier's pissery like this. He was being soundly ignored by the old men, nursing their drinks and chatting amongst themselves, while the storm raged overhead.

The man he sought was sat apart from the rest, in a private, roped off space. Even out of uniform, even with a drinker's jowls and years of hard drinking behind him, there was no mistaking Hans von Zettour, the former First Fist who had mentored Lotti Degurechaff.

His companions noticed the journalists approach, and whispered something in the silvered wolf's ear. He looked up sharply, and despite being three pints deep into the evening, he seemed to have lost none of his military focus or bearing. The Old Wolf, indeed.

"Herr von Zettour? Forgive me, I'm-"

"Joaquim Zwiefelhofer. Yes, I know."

The journalist was surprised. This was quite possibly the first time in his life anyone had known who he was. His surprise was made complete when two heavy set men in undistinguished clothes came up behind him, and not so gently forced him into a seat in front of the retired general.

"You have taken your time getting here, Herr Zwiefelhofer. I had almost given up hope." von Zettour said dourly, his face not betraying any humour. Where Lotti was all false smiles and angelic devilry, this man was simply the winter- stone, steel and iron.

"My men first followed you after you talked to that poor devil Rhiner. We keep tabs on all our fallen Jagdkommandos, no matter what holes they lose themselves in."

"Ah, Herr General, I think there has been a misunderstanding-"

"Oh? You are looking to tell the full story of Frau General Degurechaff are you not? My men have searched your mess of a hostel room five times. I admit, more out of boredom than concern. We take ourselves far too seriously sometimes." The slightest trace of a smile.

"I admit I had hoped for...better, when this day came. But perhaps in this day and age, it would be down to the dregs to do this." He sighed with great regret, and leaned back in his chair. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, no thank you Herr General." Zwiefelhofer looked about himself, wondering if he should be scared. Noone was directly threatening him, but the situation was certainly...tense. All this time he had been worried about Nekmet.

He hadn't considered there might be...other factions in play.

"Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a pissant like you would have been left to burn your squalid little life out, never getting what you want. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the rat is -snapped- by the trap, and does not get the cheese."

Zettour leaned forward, the worn lines in his face illuminated in the dim beerhall lighting.

"But, I am bored, and my successor failed to deliver the fine promise she once had. She is retiring anyway. So, all secrets will out, I think."

He took a light swig of his mostly empty mug, and slammed it back on the table. "The story of Lotti Degurechaff is not a story of a gypsy seeking sanctuary in a church. It is not the story of a little lost Slavonian girl fending for herself in the streets of Yharnam. It is not even the story of a wild young woman murdering moonies in darkest Himyar." Zettour snorted in contempt.

"No, my friend. Degurechaff is an old, old, Bergenheimer family. Perhaps even older than your own, my dear son of illiterate goat-herders."

Zwiefelhofer rankled at this. He was the one who was supposed to control these conversations, to ask questions. Perhaps foolishly, he took this opportunity to interject.

"And so now you tell me the Grail story. Whats next? I am visited by the Ghost of King Lothric and told she is the Last True Heir? If you're going to bemoan what I have found, Herr General, you could offer something better than a 15th century mummer's play."

There was suddenly a lot of eyes on Joaquim. Hans von Zettour did not react, but his grey moustache twitched a little.

"Ah, so the journalist doesn't like what he hears? No, I don't think you're a journalist, Zwiefelhofer. I think you've already decided in your heart what the story of our dear fraulein is. You want to impress me? Then tell me what -you- think her story is, hmmm?"

Zettour sat there, waiting, tapping his finger impatiently on the desk. Joaquim looked around him, and saw that most of the beerhall was now surreptitiously watching them. He had badly underestimated the old general's pull, or perhaps simply his penchant to keep playing soldier and conspirator even in his seventies.

"I wonder." Joaquim began. "I wonder if our Mountain Republic would have quite so many conspiracies, tall tales and legends if we had had anything better to do these past five hundred years. Or maybe every millitary is like this. Maybe every nation has an old soldier's club and dynasties of old warriors who want to pretend it all had more meaning. That standing in a freezing ditch for twenty years holding an old rifle, shooting at wolves, meant that you were part of some sacred brotherhood. That being the one kid out of every twenty who drinks the kool-aid makes you special."

Joaquim chuckled quietly. "Yes, its true, I'm a cynic chasing after a dark secret to sell. But whats the darkest secret of all? That Bergenheim is run by a Mystic Knights Order out of an old beerhall? That its saviour in time of need turned out not to be needed? Or maybe that there was never a grand story at all. That Lotti is exactly as she has always appeared to be, and nothing more."

There was a dark silence. Finally, the Old Wolf let out a short, sharp laugh.

"I might start to like you after all, Zwiefelhofer. You have balls, thats for sure."

A mug of foaming ale was placed in front of the freelancer.

"Drink deep. This is Heldenbrau. The best in Bergenheim. Now, Herr Zwiefelhofer. if we are not going to talk stories, then let's talk politics. I have an agenda, and you have a pressing need for money. If you will not take grails and freemasons, perhaps you will talk realpolitik and real marks."