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Being the second son has always been a worse path for men. The spare to the heir rarely supplanted them. Where the firstborn were to follow in the footsteps of their fathers - for better or for worse - at least their path was blazed for them. The rest were left to find their own way in the world
Thus being the third son further dwindled Dieter’s prospects. His eldest brother, Markus, had taken to managing the family estate alongside their father; Alain, the second, had taken to be a courtier (some would say sycophant) in a baron’s court. His two sisters, Carla and Edyth, were not yet adults when Dieter had left. But Dieter knew his lot - he would inherit no fortune here. No, all he would have is his noble name and upbringing. He left home at seven and ten years, taking a third son’s share - a set of armor, heavy, old, reliable. His uncle’s lance, tournament tested, and his second cousin’s sword, plus the shield from above the mantle in the dusty east wing of the manor. And Penelope, the mare he had learned to ride one, a steed loyal and true.
He loved his family, and would not burden them. He would return a conquering hero, with fortune and glory - or never be seen again. Such as it was nine years ago, and the Empire was in Flames
—
Claimants to the Imperial Throne had fought for centuries, and these 1990s were no different. With the Small Wars raging, there was much demand for a Freelancer. Dieter had take up arms for a half dozen lords, burghers, warbands, and pretenders, in raids and pitched battles and one nasty long siege. He had been on campaigns, and fought Man, Ork, and Ogre. His armor served him well, patched and fixed and tinkered from vambrace to pauldron. His lance had been broken many times, and always had it’s point retrieved for the next time. His cousin’s sword was lost to stropping and scale, and replaced with a lovely piece of Tilean steel. His shield was battered but unbroken. A new helmet was added to this ensemble, after he has seen a man’s skull cleft in twain in front of him - resolving never to suffer such a horrid fate. His beloved Penelope served him for three long years before being laid low by a foul Troll, a wretched beast that would not survive that day. Dieter had learned to fight on foot as well as on horse - where once he haughtily looked down upon these men-at-arms, he found a new respect for these lowborn mudsloggers. Mounted atop Penelope the third, Dieter was rangier now, with more scars, and many lessons learned.
Larimar’s Lads had been a decent warband. Tolerable fellows who made a reliable bunch to camp with. Dieter, the Captain, and a dozen others had followed a jumped-up pretender to an Ostermark barony. The pay was poor, but the battlefield pickings made up for it. All until the poor bastard pretender did his impression of a pincushion with his foes arrows, and the erstwhile army dissolved. Larimar struck out with his warband, trampling through the country they had already picked clean of prey. Disaster struck when the Captain bit off more than they could handle.
It had started off well. Ambushing a pair of covered wagons in a merchant's caravan at dawn looked to be the remedy to their poor fortunes of late. A handful of sellswords walking alongside would be easy prey. Dieter had charged and lanced the man in the lead, and trampled the man next to him. Arrows from the warband’s marksmen had killed the mount of the first cart, stranding it here, and the rest of the warband charged into the caravan. Just as planned - until the covers were pulled back from the wagons, and a dozen armed and angry mercenaries poured from the wagon. Mayhaps they had taken offense at the ambush.
The warbands warriors in the melee held for a moment, and were overwhelmed. Larimar took a halberd to the stomach, screaming until another halberd relieved him of his head. The marksmen turned tail into the wood. Dieter had seen this before. The rout had taken hold. He dug in his heels, rode past the wrothful guards, and spirited away from this disaster.
Back at the warband’s spartan camp, Dieter packed his few belongings, and tied his saddlebags to Penelope. The first one back, he sifted through Larimar’s belongings - the poor fellow wouldn’t be needing them anymore - and was rewarded with a heavy coinpurse of groats. A paltry severance. Mounting up again, he took Penny to a trot as they left Larmimar’s Lads to whatever fate took them.
By afternoon, Dieter happened upon a village - one large enough to have a public house, or what passed for one. A few drinks wetter (and a few groats poorer), he considered his options. North to Kislev - cold and chaos - not bloody likely. East to the mountains - dwarfs paid well, but Penny wouldn’t bear the terrain. Sheer cliffs and winding passages wouldn’t do at all. South was Sylvania, with wretched poor peasants and cursed necromancers. No coin to be had for any sane man. But west…Mordheim. The city of the Damned Rich would be a fine place to visit, and almost at the new year. Pit fighting, rich merchants, and foolish merchants, a freelancer could do well there…