Meeting the remaining mercenaries and making them an offer...

The final changeover comes so quickly, yet so subtly, while the mercenaries are separated amongst a dozen brothels and drinking dens, that they cannot muster any concerted opposition. With a **** and haggard look, Cadh the hard-bitten mercenary announces that he is giving up his command of the company and buying himself out to enter early retirement as a bartender. Most of his men are so uneducated and naive that they don't find anything particularly suspicious about this and offer him an endless series of back slaps and garbled talk about how jealous they are that his new daily routine will be polishing glasses, having a drink whenever it suits him, and getting flirted with by attractive widows trying to get a few last pleasures of the flesh before their desires dry up with age. Still, he gets his heart back in place and has his life spared, so he doesn't dare complain too harshly since he's now in a city with many, many more witches and many more nasty tricks in store.

After all, their contract wasn't officially to attack Undrek - that would be a crime for Count Mace to order. It was all just to 'restore order'. They've done that, they've been paid, and now it's time for them to take up a new contract. The 100 which had been under Cadh's direct command were, in actuality, only a fraction of their total **** - the whole of the band is more like 500 men, some of whom had already been encamped near the walls of the city. And with that, a new contract is signed for the next three months (since the 'working women' in this city, though often of the highest quality, don't come cheaply... and besides, rumors had spread to them that one of the intentions of their employer Aldergrove was to 'clean up' this city and bring it back into line with the kingdom's laws), to serve as your 'personal bodyguards' as you march down to 'attend a feast' in Aldergrove.

Surprisingly, when you take a tour of the Crooked Tower once again, you receive a hero's welcome. Of course, Rima, Olivia, Yara and a few other malcontents are still upset with you... but most of the witches are ecstatic to have you back, worried that if any other noble took over (even Tula), their relative freedom and comfortable lifestyles would be curtailed in favor of the Tower going back to being run like the prison it was legally supposed to be.

Besides, although they dance around the issue, they are clearly quite grateful for you having obtained Flora, who had shared with them all sorts of valuable secrets of black magic and alchemy. It seems that Hannah has not been shy in singing your praises (and those of Marzena) since you returned.

It is with no small degree of surprise that you find Hannah calling you into the Crooked Tower's foyer for a surprise announcement just two days later. At first you're concerned it is more troublemaking stirred up by the likes of Rima, but no - Hannah has convinced fully half of all the girls of the tower to offer their services to you as 'war-witches', not out of an expectation that it will replace any of their other duties, but to show their honor and dedication to the city itself and to their Countess, in the hopes that the citizens will come to respect and accept them as an integral part of the militia. This is wonderful news of course. Not so much because they are particularly useful on the actual battlefield - a good, strong bowman has much greater range and killing power than the average witch throwing out offensive magics, with the exception of four or five powerhouses among their number like Marzena - but because their alluring beauty and sexuality will be both a boon to the morale of your own troops and a tempting lure to distract your enemies.

The following day, the 'Rabble' militia pours out of the gates for a marching drill outside. Shamed by their earlier poor performance, the returning militia have swollen their ranks and now have more than 600, considerably outnumbering the hundred or so remaining, non-Gaelican mercenaries. Tula has asked for a couple more days to properly 'reorganize' (that is to say, mollify) her retinue, so you have decided to act first before the mercenaries out there get impatient at seeing a siege is not to occur and drift away on their own, or end up reinforcing Mace's real army if and when it shows up.

The priorities of Undrek show through in the group around you - ultimately, self-preservation and self-satisfaction is the typical citizen's priority, so although at least three out of every four of them have invested in good, thick brigandine armor capable of stopping most spears or arrows (with a few even springing for maile), their weapons are mostly cheap, rusty hand-me-downs and re-purposed tools. After all, why spend good silver on a proper sword if you can just grab a spare meat cleaver, sledge-hammer or pig-sticker and call it good enough?

At the head of this band is the illustrious countess - you. Instead of armor, you have decided to emphasize the beauty that you are so proud of. Since you cannot help the fact that the women of your family are not naturally blessed with unreasonably large bosoms like your vassal baroness, you don't try to hide it with an oversized steel bustier or the like, and instead emphasize your petite figure in other ways. You have a tight white corset of supple leather over a ruffled silk undershirt, and an extremely short ruffled skirt of the type usually worn by street-walking whores. A pair of silk stockings tightly hugs your shapely thighs, held up by a garter belt, and your hair is in your favorite style cascading down your back with a small bejeweled tie holding it together at the end close to your waist.

Standing next to you as you walk into the largest of the tents is Johari, the dusky-skinned, bespectacled woman looking rather chagrined and sour. At your behest the city magistrate had ruled that her misconduct and disloyalty was clearly a result of temporary feeblemindedness brought on by 'too much time in cloistered rooms and not enough sunlight or fresh air'. To that end, she was now forbidden from dressing in long, flowing black robes as her order preferred, and had a new set of proscribed garments, "for her health".

The first of these new proscribed outfits hasn't been to the necromantrix's liking. Although her hair is still done up in a serious bun and she tries to maintain a dour glare from behind her thick glasses, she is wearing a pair of grey silk stockings with the images of bones running up and down their length. Down on her feet she wobbles along on high stiletto heels that make walking on uneven ground a downright chore. She has nothing on her waist and hips except for a garterbelt and a pair of tight black silken panties with a stylized skull embroidered on the front. Her generous bosom is cradled in a matching black brassiere of the thinnest, tightest fabric you could find, specially fitted to her at considerable expense, and a similar image of a grinning skull on the front of each breast, nipples clearly poking out through the front of it.

Even the most brazen prostitutes usually wore more than Johari does now. Re-fitted for her with great haste by a team of tailors working all night, it had cost a sizable pile of silver despite how little fabric had gone into it; needless to say, Johari would be paying back the cost out of her own pocket (not that she had pockets anymore).

Next to her was the newest and youngest member of the town council, Michaela. She had short, unkempt hair that reached down to the back of her neck and her jawline at the sides, platinum blonde so pale it was almost white. A blacksmith by profession, she always dressed accordingly and wears a heavy leather apron over a simple tunic, practical heavy-soled leather boots, gloves, and has a pair of goggles with smoked lenses worn around her neck. Despite seemingly going to lengths to avoid appearing feminine and having a visible swell of muscle in her exposed upper arms, Michaela's breasts push out against the front of her apron enough to help her win the sordid popularity contest that elects local leaders. Since the militia lacks much support at the moment she has been hastily appointed as quartermaster, and is your new advisor on matters of logistics and armory.

While the militia stand in a disorderly throng, most of the assorted mercenaries who'd been occupying those tents have armed themselves and assembled, worried they're facing an imminent attack, though the fact that you and your two advisors are coming closer by yourselves, leaving your troops at a safe distance, keeps the tension from reaching a boiling point.

Johari's ire, on the other hand, is constantly boiling over. She remains silent and sulks for long periods but every so often pipes up with complaints. "In among all your petty insults and hectoring, Zoe," she says, trying not to look self-conscious at the curious eyes of the mercenaries staring at her in her new outfit, "I think you neglected to explain, to my satisfaction, WHY I am being punished like this in the first place?! How can you possibly justify this shabby treatment of your most learned and prominent citizen, even to yourself?"

"Hmph. Tula making a grab for my throne is one thing. She is part of the nobility, and though murky and questionable, she had a justification and claim for trying to snatch it up. You, on the other hand," you say, not breaking your hip-swaying stride as you approach the tents, "were obliged to make at least some attempt to rescue me when it turned out that the hostile **** approaching was larger and fiercer than anticipated. My family has been your grotesque order's one and only patron for ages yet not only did you not lift a finger to help even after my militia returned and told you what had happened," you poke Johari in her shoulder sharply, "but when I got back here and demanded to be let back in, you specifically tried to tell Tula NOT to let me in, and not even to accept a challenge she was honor-bound to entertain. If you were a man, and I was a man - in all likelihood you'd be getting tortured and possibly executed right now. But I'm pragmatic, you know - and I think it would be a shame to mark up your valuable body for no good cause. That's why I'm going to allow your punishment to be a bit more organic."

"Aye, take no offense for it, Johari," Michaela chimes in. "You know I'm grateful for all the cheap, expendable labor you've provided us smiths and tanners over the years, especially since it conspires to help keep the payment low even for those low-class men who still need coin to eat. But with you dressed up like that I'll feel a lot safer going to meetings with higher ups from the Kingdom proper, on account of that rule that they're allowed to screw anyone they care to." You nod to her but keep your smirk hidden - it seems not to have occurred to the boisterous yet busty blacksmith that some of the horny louts you're going to 'negotiate' with might not have the patience to wait their turn for the tarted-up necromantrix.

Aside from the Gaels, most of the mercenaries encamped here are small scouting parties and vanguards from a variety of little bands that Count Mace has hired with his war chest. There are three of those... and one considerable **** of a couple hundred men who has arrived in its entirety, the "Company of the Grey Star". This last group is threatening because, unlike many of of the roustabouts swept up in calls for mercenaries, they are mostly made up of veterans from the armies of the Frostpeaks and the King himself, and you can see them lining up in an orderly square with pikes and halberds, each man being equipped with almost-uniform sets of munition plate. Even if your troops overran them with sheer numbers, you expect casualties would be quite high.

A pair of armored guards uncross their halberds, glaring suspiciously but saying nothing as you enter the tent, where you can see several representatives of the other mercenary companies are already there. Two of them are rather unremarkable shabby young fellows who look like bandits, scraggly beards and clothes and skin stained brown with mud and grime.

Surprisingly, there are also three women bearing arms and armor of their own present, sitting aside from everyone else - representative of the vanguard of a company of 'Amazon' mercenaries who apparently had little qualm taking money from a man in exchange for helping topple the only semi-matriarchal city state in Itheria.

Their leader is a striking young woman of slender and athletic build with short hair. Perhaps it is just for show, but her armor is more feminine and alluring than you'd expected; a sort of light armored mini-dress that left her legs and most of her thighs exposed save for metal kneepads and shin guards. There are shoulderpads and a fitted plate over her bust, but otherwise the plates are so thin they're hard to even notice under the fabric. At least she didn't have a big unarmored hole over her heart to allow her cleavage to show through like all of Tula's commissioned armors did. Even so, under the trailing hem of her dress-like tunic she wore leggings that were so tight they were almost underwear, and over them a pair of thigh-high leather boots held up with buckled straps.

In the middle of the tent, slumped in a simple chair, was a broad-shouldered older man with a bald shaven head and a large but neatly trimmed and groomed gray beard. Without his armor he is wearing above his breeches except for a pair of criss-crossed leather straps over his chest, showing off the patchwork of scars across his powerfully-built pectorals. Even so, age was clearly catching up with the man, as he had a bit of a beer-gut rather than defined abdominal muscles. Standing behind him was a similarly broadly-built young man who seemed to have a bit of a family resemblance except with a long full head of hair and a moustache but no beard, who showed no shame or reserve in staring lecherously at you. At least these two seem like they've bathed recently.

Their guards, who had followed you in, introduce you tersely to "Sir" Nasheim and his son and second in command, Claude. Claude, in turn, introduces Yig and Ulf (the two shabbier mercenary scouts from a large free company of archers) and Lady Rella (the amazon).

Sir Nasheim (you sincerely doubt he deserves that honorific but it's not the time to challenge it) clears his throat and holds up a fist. "You must be the Countess. I'm sorry if my words are cutt but I'm no diplomat. We aren't here to be hired by you, m'lady. Sorts like us can't afford nice principles or seneschals or discussing matters of diplomacy over pastries at an all-night salon. We are here because we took coin to do a job, and our professional reputation depends on doing that and no less. And even had we not, landing respectable work might become far more difficult if it becomes known widely that we work for Undrek."

"Er, listen old man," the stout, flat-nosed man named Yig says, "I think we should talk this over nice and careful-like. We all know damn well that the Brave Blades or whatever Cadh's gang of swordsmen were calling themselves have switched sides and Undrek clearly has a much larger levy than our client told us they had."

"Maybe," Ulf next to him, who has a handsome face but wild scraggly hair full of twigs and stuck leaves, rumbles, "if we just let the Countess know that we'll be returning our original payment on account of the misinformation and heading off to greener pastures..."

"HA!" the young man behind Nasheim, his son Claude, gave a deep laugh. "You came all the way here to Undrek, the south's premier den of sin, and you're not only going to give up your payment but walk away without taking a single girl for yourselves? Look!" he points at you and Johari, making the latter grit her teeth and face away, cheeks burning. "Look how the bitches here dress! These are their *leaders*, and they're wearing costumes that any whore in the capital would be ashamed to set foot outside in! And I can say it right in front of them, too," he says, narrowing his eyes at you with an entitled sneer, "because they know it as well as I do. Can't you see what a prize Aldergrove is offering us? Their 'army' is clearly a bunch of lowlives, eunuchs, and of course, yet more lovely ladies."

He takes a step forward threateningly. Both you and Michaela stand your ground. The latter folds her arms and glares at him sternly, muttering something about having dressed quite practically and not wanting to be lumped in with Johari. Claude continues. "Not going to tell me I'm wrong? Not going to tell my father the captain, or the other lieutenants, that you came out here dressed like that to convince us to protect your city full of girls from all those other big, bad men?"

"Alright, that's enough!" Lady Rella said. "Ugh. I can't believe my mistress expects us to work with barnyard animals like this. That said, I must say this Countess seems to be a contemptible figure as well, trying to use her looks to cajole men into granting her mercy instead of fighting to protect herself..."

...

All this time you've scarcely been able to get a word in edgewise. Perhaps you should just march right back out and order your levy to overrun them and wipe the lot of them out, no matter how many casualties it costs you. Johari can at least make the fallen into more zombies, right?

"Well, there are several things I came out here to offer you." you say, remaining calm. "Not being run down and beaten into the mud by a **** that outnumbers you more than six to one in the fanciful hope of reinforcements is one of them. And, yes, getting to indulge your basest lusts upon three ravishing women right here in this filthy tent is another of them. But economics, strategy, and the potential for not NEEDING to go sniffing around for other contracts while hoping your stash of coin from the last bloody errand doesn't run out, is the main appeal I'd hoped to make."

Michaela does a little double-take in your direction. "Wait did you say, three...?" Most of them ignore her, except for Lady Rella who rolls her eyes and snorts contemptuously. "I think you've been listening to bad rumors about we Amazons, Countess... suffice to say I'm not interested in the bodies of you or your underdressed wench."

"Go on, Johari," you say. "Tell them about our profits, production numbers and trade routes, and how much we could afford to pay long-term guards. Michaela, tell them about what some of your equipment is capable of and how well we could equip a **** with an eye towards expanding..."

Michaela nods and produces a small satchel full of scrolls, as well as a few select armor pieces for display and demonstration. Johari, for her part, looks somewhat relieved and mollified for the first time, nodding slowly and clearing her throat.

"But," you say to Johari with a smirk, "remember that the magistrate found that your mental, and moral, ailment needs to be cured with more human contact. I, hm hm, don't mean to impose, Sir Nasheim, but would you mind terribly if my wise and intelligent philosopher-scribe Johari explains the benefits of contracting with Undrek while, say, sitting in your lap?"

Though he doesn't respond yet, you can see a flicker of sudden, uncontrolled lust spring into the eyes of the shirtless brute. He runs a hand through his thick, squared-off beard as he considers, then wordlessly takes his arms out of his lap and nods to her. Johari gives a little huff of disbelief and whirls on you. "You cannot be serious, Zoe!! He's... damnation, he's as old as my father by the looks of him!"

"Young master Claude," you continue, giving Johari a rough shove in the grizzled old fighter's direction, causing her to yelp and nearly trip over her heels again, "I'm afraid that I need this outfit to remain pristine and in place today, as I have a lot of meetings to attend and no time for a second bath, so I'd be limited in what favors I could show you. But if my foremost blacksmith isn't persuasive with her words alone and starts to bore you, feel free to have her show you her rather amusing impression of an anvil."

Michaela, already unfurling the first record sheet, looks bit confused. "Anvil? I don't... what...?"

"You know," you say with a flippant toss of your hair. "demonstrate your art by playing the part of an anvil and letting him give you a good pounding." The pale-haired craftswoman looks shocked and a fierce blush creeps into her pale cheeks. It's too bad, you think, that this was too important a meeting to risk having Marzena around - she would've appreciated that joke.

"Um..." the grubby little man Yig mumbles, half-raising his hand, "does that mean... can we...?"

"No, no, not you." you say with a dismissive wave of your hand. "you've already shown yourselves to be fearful and ready to fall at my feet, no need for me to grant you any more favors. You seem to represent a rather low kind of free company, anyways, so you can go ahead and run away like rats if you don't want to accept the rather stingy contract for serving me, instead. If you want to prove otherwise, well," you point towards Lady Rella, who raises an eyebrow again. "...you could always show me your worth and resolve by subduing that spitfire of a woman there. I wouldn't object to anything you did to her - she seems determined to be my enemy, after all. But that might go poorly for you, and besides, I think it's possible she is just playing hard to get and really is so wet at the thought of sitting on my face that as soon as she pulls down her leggings it'll smell like a fish-market in here."