Matteo drank heartily from his metal tankard, knowing it would likely be the last good Ale he would have for some time. Sitting in the Red Teeth Tavern with his Halberdier lieutenants, he soaked in the the Tilean Inspired furnishings, that would soon become the norm once he and the Dead Wood Guard boarded their barge to travel down to Monte Castello, through the narrow rivers and canals, leading to the River Orco.
Ruggero Steeleye, the owner and originally from Tilea had gotten used to Matteos custom before he went out on patrol. Matteo, was half Tilean on his mothers side, his father, some hedge knight, but it was the former ancestry that gave them a natural bond. “Allora, Matteo. How long will you be out on patrol this time eh? Not looking for the ‘ratto uomo’ myths again on the Stir are you?” Ruggero questioned with a wry smile, placing down a Tilean sheep Ragu on the table.
Matteo smiled. “Not quite” he said. “Me and the boys have a commission to escort an ale barge to your kinsmen in Monte Castello, they need some protection to make sure the centigors in the forest don’t raid them again. Strange thing is the size of the contingent, seems a bit much to me, but hey, duty is duty”.
“Don’t you mean, our kinsmen, Caro mio?” Ruggero snapped. “Don’t forget, you may have a taste for Ostermark Ale, and you could do with some colour, but your blood bleeds like a Tilean Red” he said, gesticulating in a manner, typical of most Tileans. “Of course. How can I forget. Half Tilean, half Bechafen. Half vino rosso, half ogre ale”. Matteos Men laughed, with droplets of ale and pieces of wheatmeal falling out of their mouths and into their well groomed beards. “A Job is a Job, Ruggero. Keep the booth warm for me and give my best to your daughter”. Ruggeros smile scrunched quickly into a deep frown. Years of wrinkles suddenly appeared lack cracks in the deserts of the badlands. “Please do extend your stay if you can – would hate for you to come back too soon…”. Matteo winked and headed for the door, flicking a coin to the barmaid and his retinue followed.
The afternoon gloom had already hit the docks of Bachafen. His men were ready – a small company of crossbows had joined him on this trip, thanks to his promotion to captain. Despite not being a true born son of Ostermark, Matteo had made a name for himself as a capable warrior and tested leader of men. Though only in his 20s, he had fought in half a dozen skirmishes, mostly beastmen and a few raiders, but to still be alive, and amazingly, unscathed, was rare. His promotion had come after he accepted and won a challenge against an orc big boss, decapitating him while protecting a grain caravan.
e approached the sergeant of the ranged detachments. They, like he and his men, were dressed in the traditional colours of Ostermark: a purple burgundy with the golden yellow their land was famous for. Despite having never been, this instantly pushed his mind to Tilea – the purple like the wines of Pavona and the yellows like the ever reaching fields of grain that could almost touch the sun on a hot summers day.
“Sergeant, good of you to make such good time, from where have you travelled?” Matteo inquired. “Flaukirth, Captain. We came in last night on a wagon. Some of the lads made a bit of a mess at the local Taverns, but I sorted them good and proper. They’ll be none of that on the boat, I assure you” the Sargeant Replied. “It bothers me not what your or my men do when off duty. I care only that they have a dead eye when a Gor tries to bite my hand off” Matteo quipped. The sergeant smiled “don’t worry sir. They shoot all manor of foul things on patrol in the woods for sport. Any foul children of chaos that come our way will be target practice before you can say Sigmar!”. Matteo fainted a laugh and patted the man on the back.
The Bechafen Docks were famous for their quality ships but Matteo and his men were in a less glamorous part of the jetty. It was a hive of scum and dodgy dealers, who, though criminal in nature, knew not to cause issues for imperial troopers. It was from these “scum” that he’d formed a free company of Militia, led by a Kislevite leader, Yeltsin and his Musical (and ferocious) bear, Boris. Many joked that it was Boris who led the band.
As the regiments moved through the crowds, the locals parted like waves on the bough of a ship to make their journey to their vessel all the more easy. And what a vessel it wasn’t – the “Estalian Lady” had seen better days. It’s wood was discoloured with tinges of green moss covering areas of the ship where it had been moored for too long. It’s brass was tinged blue with Verdigris and rust seeped into it’s iron work. Still, it looked warm and importantly, high from the river bank. That would make a boarding action of a disorganized beastman raid hard, Matteo thought.
He handed his papers to the shipmaster and boarded. He had expected a company or pistoliers, the Boy Cavaliers but they were late. This was typical of the wannabe nobility of the empire – everything on their time. He could not wait for these boy cavaliers he thought to himself. His men followed and immediately delved into the bowels of the ship. He was informed supper was to be a bowl of “gloop” – unknown meat and unknown flavours. Not really as appetizing as the Ruggero’s Ragu. He rested his arms on the side of the boat and gazed out across the city. Smoke rose from some of the chimneys as the biting cold set in. He would miss the cooler climate he thought – how could men thrive or even more, fight in the hot sun of Tilea?
A bell rang from outside the cabin of the shipmasters cabin. It was time to cast off and visit somewhere other than Ostermark. Hopefully, a quiet and restful time awaited him, with another step towards a promotion and more gold, but this time, with a little less bloodshed… but that begged the question: why send him down to Tilea with such a large retinue to escort some Ale?
