The experiences of Learned Horst

Learned Horst was his name, for in his village he was the only one who could read letters, an overrated skill acquired during his brief time as a Friar’s apprentice. Friar Dietmund was a good man, but not without his vices. He caught the Bretonnian Disease from a Talabheim prostitute and succumbed to its ravages less than a year after he had taken (the then unlearned) Horst under his flabby wing. Though Horst was not sure it was the disease that did him in but the small doses of arsenic the good father took to keep the symptoms at bay.
This was years ago of course, and today Learned Horst was riding Gosbert, his faithful yet half-blind nag, through the streets of Mordheim. He was slowly progressing down Tanner Lane and looking for The Leaping Troute having received directions from a crooked bone picker only ten minutes back. In payment the picker had taken a sermon from Horst’s most important possession, his book. Though whenever Horst looked up from his reading to see the effect his most stirring words were having on the poor fellow, the picker seemed more interested is Gosbert, eyeing the beast hungrily. The book was the only possession of Friar Dietmund that Horst had left. It was unfortunately called "Thee Pashions of Sigmar", unfortunate as it was a series of rousing verses intended to inflame mens’ hearts and certainly not their loins as one intoxicated tavern occupier had suggested to Horst. He had received a crack on his skull from Horst’s club as divine punishment and Horst stopped telling interested parties the book’s title. He had considered maybe changing the title but Friar Dietmund had taught him how to read but not how to write.
The Leaping Troute was in view, a tavern made of stern stone that still stood in a street of fallen buildings. Here Horst expected to find Witch Finder Konrat Harker, known to some as Konrat the Bloody, known to others as Heartless Konrat. It is said even the most pious Witch Hunters of Altdorf breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to head to Mordheim in search of mutants, rat-men and sorcerous folk. Using a standing tavern as his base of operations, Konrat was recruiting those mad/devout enough to join him.
It was a surprise to Horst, therefore that the entrance was guarded not by a bearded fanatic but by a wild haired lady in a tattered red dress struggling to hold back a frothing swine on the end of a thankfully sturdy looking chain. If Gosbert had been able to see that far, he probably would shy away, but the old steed plodded on towards the snapping teeth of the pig.
“Ye be looking for Konrat.” The woman said taking Horst, who had been more focussed on the immediate problem of the attack-pig, by surprise. “He’s inside. Name’s Maria of Hasselhund.”
Horst said the first thing that came to mind, then immediately regretted it. “I heard Hasselhund doesn’t exist anymore.”
"Aye, it don’t. Whole place burned by chaotic bastards.”
Horst was about to apologise, though Maria didn’t actually look upset, when from
The Troute’s doorway strode a figure carrying itself as only a man who received nicknames such as ‘Heartless’ and ‘The Bloody’ could. Witch Finder Harker regarded Horst with a glare that lasted, or at least it seemed so to Horst, minutes and reducing him to babbling incoherently.
“Lord… that is to say… most holy… err… sir. Witch Finder sir. Horst…. That’s me sir. That… I mean I… I’m here under the guidance of… of most holy Sigmar. That is to say, our lord had guided us, me, myself here. Err…”
Horst managed to reign in his prattling, just as Konrat Harker gave a slight nod to Maria and spun round on his heels and marched back into the inn. Maria smiled through blackened teeth, her swine calmed for the moment and laying at her feet. “Looks like yer in my dear. Bring that club o’yours and get inside. We got huntin’ ta do.”