Journal Eight

Boris is lucky to have me watching his back. I suppose that having Victor around is useful too.

Before the brute had a chance to charge us, Victor put an arrow through its arm, pinning it to the doorframe and allowing us a few moments to pepper the giant rat with arrows. Boris naturally resorted to that thundering, crude weapon of his and managed to near deafen the lot of us in that enclosed space (the sound was enough to put me off my otherwise flawless aim!). He also seems to have trouble judging the correct amount of powder judging by the number of times he seems to overload it. All told, I fear the man cannot be trusted with his pistols – I shall bring it to the attention of Karl for him to take the necessary action.

Sad to say, Victor’s quick thinking only bought us limited time. Barely had we landed a volley of shots before the brute pulled itself free and made to charge us. Lacking the time to load and seeing the need to protect those less alert to the danger, I threw my own weapon at the rat-thing, distracting it sufficiently that an otherwise lethal rake with its claws caused only a minor wound to Boris. They claws, enhanced with some manner of metal blades, reduced his shirt to ribbons (arguably a service to quality tailoring) and left him with a cut that oozed blood. Needless to say, Boris complained excessively about the severity of the wound and seemed to blame me for not directly interposing myself between him and the rat. Had I not been so deeply engaged in the ensuing melee I would have taken the time to mention that chest wounds are well known for looking worse than they really are (chest wounds? Arm wounds? Some sort of wound, certainly).

We killed the rat. I won’t go into too much detail about the killing blow other than to state that my blade was the last to pierce the creature’s foul form. Karl insisted on taking the head as a trophy, but a real man needs no such grisly proof of his prowess, so I let his boasts go unchallenged.

No sooner had we caught our breath than the true treat was revealed – a vile ratman conjurer who set upon us with his minions. Boris, ever slow to move, was fortunate to survive and even my quick wit and quicker blade could not save him from himself. In the end it was Victor’s bow that put the creature down.

After purging the den with fire, we returned to the surface. Heedless to my warning that his attire – torn, bloody and covered in all manner of filth after rolling on the floor during the fight as he did – was most unsuitable, Boris tried to return to the ball. The rest of us, sanity prevailing, found rest and clean clothing at out inn. On considering the state of my costume I can only marvel at my foresight in deciding to rent rather than buy!

I sit here now recovering slowly from my wound (the nails to the leg mentioned in my last entry). Boris is fuming about the foolish priest of Sigmar, which shows he does have some small judgement beneath that cloddish exterior, although what has set him off this time I cannot say.

I feel the time is fast approaching when I must shake the dust of Ubersreik from my feet and set out on the road in search of my fortune once more, at least until the aforementioned dust settles.

Journal Eight

Brash Young Fools destrin destrin