The following morning, Marienburg woke under a blanket of grey rain, but for Geneviève, it was not a dreary day; it was a day of strategic purchasing. With the bag of gold coins earned from killing the Ogre weighing pleasantly at her belt, she headed toward the Winkelmarkt, the market of specialized artisans.
She was not looking for luxuries. She was looking for survival. The first stop was an alchemist licensed by the Temple of Sigmar. "Holy water," asked Geneviève's hoarse voice. "And consecrated oil for weapons." The alchemist, a bald man with acid stains on his hands, looked at her over his spectacles. "Undead hunting, knight? Or just paranoid?"
"I'm going south," she replied laconically. The man nodded gravely and sold her three reinforced crystal vials and a jar of thick ointment scented with frankincense. Geneviève knew that, as a Paladin, she could channel divine power, but in the Cursed Marshes, the air itself oppressed faith. Having a physical reserve of holiness to anoint her blade was not just prudence; it was tactics.
The second stop was a saddler. She bought whale oil to waterproof her boots and the joints of her armor. The marshes corroded metal faster than rust, and she could not allow her Dwarf Full Plate to seize up.
The third stop was the most significant. She returned to the heraldry shop at the harbor. The man was painting the crest of a fish merchant (a cod with a crown) when he saw the imposing black figure enter. "Sir Gilles!" exclaimed the artist, putting down his brush. "Have you returned for another shield? I have some excellent oak that arrived this morning..."
Geneviève shook her head. The memory of the anchor's CRACK splitting the wood was still fresh. "No shield," she croaked.
The heraldist blinked. "But... a knight without a shield is naked, milord. Where will you parry the blows?"
Geneviève placed her hand on the hilt of the two-handed sword jutting over her shoulder. "I have learned that the best wall is one that cuts," she said. Her Combat Mastery now allowed her to use the blade to deflect attacks with a speed that rendered wood superfluous.
She approached the counter and touched her chest, right over her heart, on the newly polished black steel breastplate. "Paint it here."
The artist hesitated. "On the armor? Directly on the metal? If the paint chips during a fight..."
"If I get hit there," interrupted Geneviève, "the paint will be the least of my problems. Paint."
She stood motionless for an hour, a living statue, while the man worked with fine brushes and resistant oil enamels. When he finished, Geneviève looked at herself in a bronze mirror. On the black background of the cuirass, right over her heart, the crest stood out: the Silver Chevron (the mountain) protecting the Three Iron Nails. It was no longer something she could throw away or that could break separately from her. Now it was part of her metal skin. It was a declaration: I am the mountain and the iron.
While the paint dried, Geneviève took the opportunity to prepare spiritually. In an empty Church of Myrmidia, she knelt not to pray to the goddess of strategy, but to connect with the Lady of the Lake. She felt the warmth of Divine Grace flow into her veins. She knew the Marshes were full of diseases: swamp fever, red rot, black cough. But she smiled under the helm. Her Divine Health (immunity to disease) was absolute. She could walk in the breath of pestilence and breathe fresh air. What for others was a toxic hell, for her was just a muddy battlefield. However, she still bought aromatic herbs and nasal filters. Not for herself, but to maintain the fiction. Sir Gilles must not seem supernatural, just lucky.
At sunset, they met at the South Gate, the one overlooking the desolation of the Wasteland.
Alonzo de Rocca was there, wrapped in a plum-colored oilskin cloak, with a scented scarf pressed against his nose. "Gilles, my friend!" exclaimed the Estalian, pointing to his light horse laden with saddlebags. "I bought wine, cheese, and enough perfume to cover the smell of an army of zombies. I hope you brought your magic sword, because I heard the mosquitoes down there are as big as sparrows."
Geneviève nodded, patting Duraz's massive neck. The dwarf destrier wore oiled leather covers over his barding to protect the joint mechanisms from the mud.
Then, she saw him. The Silent One. Van Haagen's observer stood in the shadows, motionless. He wore a nondescript grey tunic and that white porcelain mask, featureless, disturbing. He had no luggage. He had no visible weapons. Geneviève used Detect Evil for an instant. Still nothing. A void. As if beneath that cloak there was no soul, only an executed order.
"We are ready," said the muffled, toneless voice of The Silent One. It was not a question.
The city guards opened the gate with a squeal of unoiled chains. Before them stretched a raised causeway disappearing into the yellowish fog of the marshes. Geneviève spurred her horse. Duraz advanced, his shod hooves sounding grim on the damp cobblestones.
As they passed under the stone arch, Geneviève felt the weight of the city slip away, replaced by the weight of the unknown. She no longer had a shield. She had painted her honor directly over her heart, offering a target to the world.
"Let's go get this crate," croaked the gravel voice. "Before the swamp gets us."
The three knights—the Peacock, the Ghost, and the Iron—rode out of civilization, swallowed by the fog that tasted of ancient earth and grudges never settled.