A/N: Just a few things quickly. This story will obviously include some made-up things, like characters and places. This is intentional, and I will try my best to make sure that everything makes sense in the WHF world (not Age of Sigmar! )Also, my knowledge of the lore is rusty at best, so if anything leaps out as being incorrect, feel free to tell me.

Finally, I have no idea how long this will be or where it will go, so we'll see. For now, R/R and enjoy.

The old beggar coughed and wheezed, shaking her small tin container with a single skeletal hand. There was no satisfying jingle of coins tapping together, for there were no coins to do so. She sighed in resignation, looking up only when the next person approached the door. She pushed the container forward and let it spin along the dirt, stopping as it hit the edge of the stone path. She didn't expect anything – the last half-dozen people, who had approached this bar to drink away the few hours they had that were free of toil, had spared nothing for her, and as the hard steel boots, tucked behind a chain skirt, advanced passed her, she feared that yet another person would forsake her.

The warrior-woman stopped, peeling open a leather bag and letting a hand slip inside it. She pulled out a handful of coins and poured them down, and spoke with a young, tender voice:

"Blessings of Sigmar upon you, stranger." The beggar couldn't see the woman's face – even when she did spare a glance, it was concealed by a hood – but she imagined that she was gazing up when she spoke again: "You'll need it soon."

The beggar bashed her dry lips together, trying to thank the maiden for her generosity, but before she could finish standing up the girl was gone and the door to the tavern was sliding shut once more.

A man with a build of bulk and a stern expression approached her with crossed arms as she caught her bearings. He reached up and plucked a steaming pipe from his lips.

"Who goes there? We charge for the presence, 'specially with all that's going on." The man spoke.

"For the presence?"

"Aye, madame. With that ol' comet in the air and all the horror in the streets, this 'ere shelter and warmth is a luxury, you see. And luxuries cost."

"That won't be necessary, sir, I am just picking someone up. I am Sister Sofie." As she spoke the man nodded slightly in recognition.

"Aye, then. They're on the table at the back. Rest've us'll chant ya name for clearin' those annoying brats."

She smiled sweetly. "Well, the Sisters of Sigmar will always help those in need."

The people around the table at the back seemed to stand out compared to the others. Like the rest, these people were residents of the city. But while the rest preferred to hide their grief and despair with drink and idle chatter, these five didn't. The three children shared the same ghostly expression, that of fright even if they didn't understand it's cause. The woman sat on the other side of the table was busy trying to prepare the children for departure, but the man was free to turn and greet the Sister as she approached.

"My lady, bless you for doing this, for a humble merchant and his family." He smiled, but it wavered weakly. He reached into his pocket almost habitually and brought forth a purse full of gold. The sister brushed it off with a hand.

"We don't do it for money, sir. Come quickly, the wagon is soon to leave and we haven't much time." She let her eyes loose as she spoke, and already some glares of resentment were reaching her from the rest of the tavern. In this city, classes were but a façade. That didn't stop the better-off of society from being the first to the firing line when hardship befell the population. This definitely counted as hardship, the sister knew that much, and she helped the merchant to stand almost with a tug.

It took until the last of the party reached the door for someone to face them. It was a man in soldier's garb, showing off the white-and-blue checked heraldry of Middenland which was stained with drink and phlegm. He stumbled over and muttered inaudibly before tackling the merchant through the doorway. The woman and children outside yelled in horror as the soldier began to pin down the hand that gripped the purse. The sister pushed past the bouncer at the door, who let her pass with a grunt before turning away from the scene.

"Help me! You're my escort!" The Merchant seethed at Sofie as the soldier's hand wrapped around his wrist. Another hand landed a blow on his face through a chainmail mitt.

But he didn't have to ask. As soon as the soldier hurt her charge, she brought forth a mace of stainless steel and brought it down hard on his back, but with enough control not to land a debilitating blow. He fell sprawling, howling in pain and rocking from side-to-side on the road. Sofie stood over him, and being a Sister did what she was always told to do. She offered him a hand with the words: "Come on. We've enough enemies in this world without fighting each other."

The soldier stood wearily, his legs wobbling with the weakening influence of mead in his belly. Brushed her hand aside, and she offered him a handful of coins from her satchel. They had been ordered to spare coin only for honourable intentions, but the Sister judged that dulling the man's senses such that his imminent death was painless was just enough to pass. He took it, and stood quietly for a few moments.

Then the mead willed him on again, and he whacked her in the jaw. She brought the mace down hard on his head with a yell. This time, when he fell and began to leak red over the side of the path, he did not rise again.

"Sorry about that, sir." She lay a hand on the merchant's shoulder. "We must go."

"Indeed." He spoke with artificial concern, bringing up a forefinger to wipe away a bead of blood that was dripping down the side of Sofie's lip. "Let us go then."

The six figures departed, leaving the Beggar, silent and in the background as always, alone with the corpse. She shook her container again, smiling wide at the satisfying rattle.