#47 The Case of the Dowager Sanguisuge

"Desist interfering with your mask!'" hissed the Countess from behind her own as they ascended the magnificent steps approaching the grand entrance of the Weiß residence.

"I dislike the covering of my mouth and nose." growled the Count, but his hands dropped to his sides nonetheless. 

Wearing masks to the Marchioness's annual 'Masked Ball' was no novelty of course, but this season the nobility of Glymmsforge had adopted new designs which covered not just the eyes, but the entire face. This was in hope it might afford some protection from the pox which had been blighting the city for months. Most of the populace were reluctant even to leave their homes, but the wealthy socialites who received invitations to events such as this ball largely believed themselves somehow protected from such a 'common' disease. Nonetheless, a slightly larger mask was a simple precaution to take. And anyway, the larger the mask, the more secrets it could hide.

The Count and Countess drifted elegantly through the capacious entrance hall, allowing one footman to relieve them of their capes and accepting goblets of pungent wine from another. They made their way towards the main ballroom from which emanated the reedy sounds of Glymmsforge's finest chamber musicians playing a classic dirge of Shyish. The ensemble was performing from the mezzanine, while below them the cream of the city's society, all masked, were either dancing or observing those who were. The room was draped with pure white linen and scarlet velvet and every hard surface appeared to be covered in gold leaf, which gleamed in the light of a dozen massive chandeliers.

If the Count and Countess were impressed by the opulent surroundings, they certainly did not show it. To do so might diminish their own status, and anyway, they had visited the residence of old Marchioness Weiß many times before. 

Well-known socialites themselves, it was only a few moments before they were approached by an aristocratic guest who bowed ostentatiously. "Well met Count and Countess Heisenberg," simpered the short, fat man in a mask fashioned like a bat with ridiculous wings flapping around his bald pate, "no mask can disguise the elegance of your poise."

If the Count or Countess smiled, it was hidden by their masks. "Greetings Baronet." The Baronet was a newcomer to Glymmsforge, and indeed to Shyish. Hailing from Ghyran, the local gentry still found his demeanour uncouth, and his attitudes naive.

The Baronet was unperturbed by their frosty response. "I say –" he lowered his voice and drew closer. "– shocking news about General Prumt, eh?"

"Men die of poxes in the Realm of Life too I daresay?" sneered the Count, "Or are you surprised that someone of his rank would succumb to such a vulgar disease?"

"No not his death –"

"A loss I daresay we can bear..." muttered the Countess. The divisive General had been unpopular among the city's ruling classes, despite many of the proletariat loving him, especially his Glymmsmen.

The Baronet started again: "Not his death, but his, er – undeath!"

This was news to the Count and Countess, but they kept any surprise concealed behind their masks.

"Oh you must understand that such things are commonplace here," retorted the Countess.

"Ha! I suppose they are!" The Baronet shook his head in astonishment. "Back home, when a chap has died we expect him to remain so, not carry on galavanting around on his dead horse! They say one of his eyes had been pecked out by crows too!"

Guessing the General's corpse had been reanimated as a zombie, the Count adopted his most patronising tone to educate the Baronet regarding the nature of deadwalkers. If he had hoped it would offend the man and drive him away, he was quite mistaken.

"Fascinating, fascinating," trilled the Baronet, his eyes sparkling behind the bat mask. "Now, tell me about this magnificent house - and of course the Marchioness Weiß. She's very old I believe?"

"Not as old as some."

"And all these red rose emblems everywhere – are they the Weiß family crest?"

Despite herself, the Countess found herself answering the irritating little man for this was a subject on which she was well versed: "Not originally, but Marchioness Weiß adopted the blood rose symbol after the Marquis died and she joined the Society of the Sanguine Rose."

"Oh, I think I read about them somewhere. Weren't they a religious cult of some sort?"

"Yes. When I first met Paule Weiß she was going through a rather undignified pietistic phase. She used to hold prayer meetings here at her residence and was a very zealous and enthusiastic apologist for the 'Way of the Rose'. I remember she even had a baptismal pool built beneath this very room." The Countess made no effort to hide her distaste. "But thankfully she stopped that nonsense when the Gravewalkers humiliated the False Apostle and stamped out his cult. I suppose it is a measure of the antiquity and status of House Weiß that the dowager's reputation has since been restored."

The Baronet seemed about to continue the conversation so the Countess made a point of looking straight over his head to scan the crowd of aristocrats for someone more interesting. "Now, where is Lady Beauvoir...?" Threading her arm though the Count's, they moved on.

Lady Beauvoir was nowhere to be seen, but just at that moment the music paused and the Marchioness herself entered the room. As usual, she wore a gown of white, delicately embroidered with red roses. She had opted for a traditional half-mask of scarlet velvet which, unlike her guests', did not cover her mouth.

"Greetings o noble Houses of Glymmsforge, and welcome once again to the Masked Ball of House Wieß!" The musicians struck up a new threnody and, as was the tradition, the dowager hostess led the next dance. The Count and Countess were not the only ones to marvel once again the remarkable sprightliness of the elderly Marchioness. 

* * *

As the evening wore on, the wine flowed, the dancing became more vigorous and the chatter more animated. Yet even now, the precepts of high society manners constrained the revellers' behaviour (at least where they could be observed). The dowager Marchioness Weiß herself moved among the guests, making introductions and renewing acquaintances; the perfect hostess. Even the Count and Countess were quietly enjoying the event as they gossiped and networked and spun their various webs among the rich and notorious.

Suddenly it became evident that there was a disturbance in the entrance hall, and moments later the orchestra faltered into silence as a giant figure strode unceremoniously into the ballroom. Like everyone else, he was wearing a mask, although his skull visage formed the faceplate of an ancient suit of sigmarite mortis armour. He was a Stormcast Eternal, clad in the black and gold of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer: a Gravewalker, a defender of Glymmsforge. Half a dozen Liberators in similar livery followed him and swiftly spread around the room, blocking the exits.

(courtesy of grave.walkers)

The first Stormcast spoke, without ceremony, etiquette or apology: "I am the Lord-Relictor Baelus the Revered. You will all remain where you are."

After a moment of shocked silence, waves of muttering surged through the crowd. This was outrageous, most unseemly, rude, insensitive... The nobility of Glymmsforge were happy enough to enjoy the Gravewalkers' protection, but the dour warriors rarely frequented their social gatherings and were not especially welcome when they did.

"I shall come straight to the point: One of you here is a vampire whom we have come to destroy. The individual was observed murdering Glymmsmen officers, drinking their blood and reviving their corpses as deadwalkers."

Gasps echoed around the ballroom. The Count and Countess glanced at each other but whatever look passed between them was hidden by their masks.

"Marchioness Weiß," roared Baelus the Revered, "You are unmasked!"

Suddenly, many things happened at the same time: noblemen and noblewomen gasped in shock at the revelation; the count and countess suddenly seemed to relax; Marchioness Weiß herself hissed and bared fangs that her half-mask could not hide. An instant later, as she swirled her hands in mystic gestures, a tide of spectral figures surged up out of the ballroom floor like a flood. They were the swirling forms of bladegheist revenants, tormented spirits of forced converts to the Way of the Rose, long ago drowned in the baptism pool that Weiß had once had built beneath the floor on which the guests had been dancing. The gheists immediately charged towards the Gravewalker guards, spectral blades scything indiscriminately through the crowds of masked socialites en route. Dukes and barons, viscountesses and earls scattered before them or were slain in a sudden spray of gore, their blood adding yet more colour the ballroom's decorations. 

Amind the screaming, Baelus and his retinue stepped forward without hesitation to banish the malignant spirits. Drawing on the power of the storm, the Lord-Relictor banished gheist after gheist as if they were no more than immaterial wisps of smoke. The Liberators swung their celestial-forged warhammers, mystical energies severing the revenants' tenuous hold on the reality of the living.

A few moments later the Nighthaunts were all gone. But so was Marchioness Weiß, vanishing into the night thanks to a simple diversion. Blood-splattered revellers screamed; the Lord-Relictor cursed. He should have known better than to confront a Soulblight in her own lair.

#48 WEAPONS OF THE INQUISITION