‘Captain. This is all we could find.’ Captain Reinholdt Kuiper, duellist extraordinaire and renowned bounty hunter, took the crumpled mass of papers from his sergeant’s hands. Before him stood the charred husk of a once opulent inn, that but a month ago had been his company’s refuge in this gods-forsaken city. Sifting through the papers, the Captain dropped his head with a disappointed grunt. He crushed the papers in his gauntleted hand before casting them to the ground. What remained of his contract, along with weeks of intelligence on his current bounty, was now left to the smouldering ruins. Whoever had gained the Merchant Guild’s ire was one of the few who could claim good fortune after the coming of Sigmar’s Wrath. If he still drew breath to enjoy it, of course.
Alone but for his men in the now silent streets, the Captain had already heard the approach of the lone horsemen. Ready for any danger the city might produce, Kuiper was surprised to see the rider was a young and well-dressed messenger, though his weary face and unkempt, if fashioned, appearance spoke of a long and hastened journey.
‘Captain Kuiper! By Sigmar, at last. I bring news from the Guild Master.’ The young man presented a letter, sealed with the mark of one of Marienburg’s many wealthy merchant guilds. The Captain opened the letter and began to read, a wizened look upon his face as he digested the information within. He did not recognise this word, ‘Wyrdstone’, though knew from its description that it was the unnatural looking rock he had seen spread amongst the city’s rubble-strewn streets. He pocketed the letter; his orders clear. The Merchant Guilds of Marienburg desired this ‘Wyrdstone’, and what the guilds desired was never less than valuable. With knowledge of their new bounty, the Captain and his men headed deeper into the newly christened City of the Damned.
Monday, 11 May 2009
The Experiences Of Learned Horst II
The Experiences of Learned Horst - Part II
“Where did ye learn to fight like dat?” Maria of Hasselhund asked.
“Hmmm.” Learned Horst began to think. He and Maria walked down an empty street, over the fallen front wall of a Mordheim fishmongers. They stumbled slightly on the bricks, struggling with their respective loads. Maria carried a dead pig over her shoulders, the beast having swallowed a splash of poison earlier in the week. Horst’s burden was even more unusual, a humanoid lizard.
“I’m not sure.” He answered. “The young men in my village were taught to wield a sword or cudgel, or even a big stick, to help fend off greenskins. But I’ve never really…”
Horst tailed off, wondering where exactly his turn of combat prowess had come from. Witch Finder Konrat Harker had heard rumours of a witch selling potions and charms in the abandoned Mordheim University and so Horst had travelled along, eager to do Sigmar’s bidding. Of course he knew the city was a dangerous place, but Horst had never really considered what he would do if fighting broke out. So when a band of these blue-skinned lizard men began shooting at them as they travelled down the street, Horst was at rather a loss.
Konrat sensed this, and thankfully asked Horst to do the one thing he was good at. “Read, lad.” He said simply, and Horst fumbled with his copy of Thee Pashions of Sigmar, and selected an appropriate verse. It was called We Are His Hammers and was the one Horst was most familiar with, which was useful as attempting to read at the same time as charging forward as part of a raging mob was not a practice he was used to. Still he must have managed well enough as a crazed mad man, who Horst supposed was nominally on his side though he was unsure of the man’s name, came up to him after the battle to decry how much he had enjoyed the reading, ‘especially the bit about the hammers.’
Horst saw very little of the battle, his eyes flicking between his feet and his book. However he did manage to notice one very important moment in the fight, when he accidentally strayed from the warband whilst struggling with a particularly long word. He heard a chirping noise that put Horst in mind of a Stirland Thrush, and looked up to see one of the lizards only a metre away dropping a short bow and pulling out a curved dagger. Horst had reacted quickly, bringing his club round in a sweeping arc that the lizard easily ducked under as it made to stab Horst’s belly.
Thee Pashions of Sigmar was the only other weapon to hand, and Horst flung his arm sideways, the book catching the lizard in the chin and spinning its head around with a terrible sounding crack. Horst stared at it’s body until the next thing he knew, people were clapping him on the back and congratulating him. It seems the rest of the lizards had fled with a few injuries and Horst was the only confirmed kill, making him some sort of hero amongst these people.
So now Learned Horst was carrying the corpse to the edge of Mordheim, where traders would hopefully pay a few shillings for such an unusual body. Maria was with him with her deceased swine, hoping to sell the meat and purchase a replacement. Horst had asked her if she was upset at her pet’s death. “The little shite bit ma finger this mornin’.” Was the reply.
“I believe Sigmar must have been guiding my arm.” Horst decided, diplomatically.
“Aye. He’s good like dat.” Maria replied, flashing Horst a dirty grin. “Well, we’d better get a move on. Konrat, he’s got plans, aye. Plans for all o’ us bastards.”
Horst nodded, remembering the front of Mordheim University as they had departed an hour a go. Over the entrance a witch was hanging.
“Where did ye learn to fight like dat?” Maria of Hasselhund asked.
“Hmmm.” Learned Horst began to think. He and Maria walked down an empty street, over the fallen front wall of a Mordheim fishmongers. They stumbled slightly on the bricks, struggling with their respective loads. Maria carried a dead pig over her shoulders, the beast having swallowed a splash of poison earlier in the week. Horst’s burden was even more unusual, a humanoid lizard.
“I’m not sure.” He answered. “The young men in my village were taught to wield a sword or cudgel, or even a big stick, to help fend off greenskins. But I’ve never really…”
Horst tailed off, wondering where exactly his turn of combat prowess had come from. Witch Finder Konrat Harker had heard rumours of a witch selling potions and charms in the abandoned Mordheim University and so Horst had travelled along, eager to do Sigmar’s bidding. Of course he knew the city was a dangerous place, but Horst had never really considered what he would do if fighting broke out. So when a band of these blue-skinned lizard men began shooting at them as they travelled down the street, Horst was at rather a loss.
Konrat sensed this, and thankfully asked Horst to do the one thing he was good at. “Read, lad.” He said simply, and Horst fumbled with his copy of Thee Pashions of Sigmar, and selected an appropriate verse. It was called We Are His Hammers and was the one Horst was most familiar with, which was useful as attempting to read at the same time as charging forward as part of a raging mob was not a practice he was used to. Still he must have managed well enough as a crazed mad man, who Horst supposed was nominally on his side though he was unsure of the man’s name, came up to him after the battle to decry how much he had enjoyed the reading, ‘especially the bit about the hammers.’
Horst saw very little of the battle, his eyes flicking between his feet and his book. However he did manage to notice one very important moment in the fight, when he accidentally strayed from the warband whilst struggling with a particularly long word. He heard a chirping noise that put Horst in mind of a Stirland Thrush, and looked up to see one of the lizards only a metre away dropping a short bow and pulling out a curved dagger. Horst had reacted quickly, bringing his club round in a sweeping arc that the lizard easily ducked under as it made to stab Horst’s belly.
Thee Pashions of Sigmar was the only other weapon to hand, and Horst flung his arm sideways, the book catching the lizard in the chin and spinning its head around with a terrible sounding crack. Horst stared at it’s body until the next thing he knew, people were clapping him on the back and congratulating him. It seems the rest of the lizards had fled with a few injuries and Horst was the only confirmed kill, making him some sort of hero amongst these people.
So now Learned Horst was carrying the corpse to the edge of Mordheim, where traders would hopefully pay a few shillings for such an unusual body. Maria was with him with her deceased swine, hoping to sell the meat and purchase a replacement. Horst had asked her if she was upset at her pet’s death. “The little shite bit ma finger this mornin’.” Was the reply.
“I believe Sigmar must have been guiding my arm.” Horst decided, diplomatically.
“Aye. He’s good like dat.” Maria replied, flashing Horst a dirty grin. “Well, we’d better get a move on. Konrat, he’s got plans, aye. Plans for all o’ us bastards.”
Horst nodded, remembering the front of Mordheim University as they had departed an hour a go. Over the entrance a witch was hanging.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
Fen Fiends week 2
Scabious Bilious and Pestilous were arguing ferociously "You tell her Scabious".
"No Bilious shall".
"Shan't let one of the Ungor do it"
"Yes Pestilous one of the Ungor can do it"
"Oy you yes you you shall tell the mistress about our adventures"
The cowering Ungor headed up the stairs of the tower in the bog outside Mordheim. The rest of the party relaxed the sacrifice having been selected. Minutes later the cowering shrieks of a scared goat came across out of the tower window then suddenly the shattered body of the Ungor flew out as it crashed like a rag doll into the wall it sunk straight into the swamp beneath where it landed to drown. Moments later Scabious Bilious and Pestilous heard a weird buzzing in their ears.
"Shit she still wants us" murmured Pestilous
As the woebegone Beastman afraid of nothing save the mistress entered the tower he tried to think of anything that could save him from his failures. The only thing he could think of was the Jewelled Sword they'd recovered from a cart and maybe the pretty rocks. They definitely weren't looking forward to this discussion.
"No Bilious shall".
"Shan't let one of the Ungor do it"
"Yes Pestilous one of the Ungor can do it"
"Oy you yes you you shall tell the mistress about our adventures"
The cowering Ungor headed up the stairs of the tower in the bog outside Mordheim. The rest of the party relaxed the sacrifice having been selected. Minutes later the cowering shrieks of a scared goat came across out of the tower window then suddenly the shattered body of the Ungor flew out as it crashed like a rag doll into the wall it sunk straight into the swamp beneath where it landed to drown. Moments later Scabious Bilious and Pestilous heard a weird buzzing in their ears.
"Shit she still wants us" murmured Pestilous
As the woebegone Beastman afraid of nothing save the mistress entered the tower he tried to think of anything that could save him from his failures. The only thing he could think of was the Jewelled Sword they'd recovered from a cart and maybe the pretty rocks. They definitely weren't looking forward to this discussion.
Servants of the Shadowlord
The violent scene tore across his vision once more. A red sheet of slow, rippling liquid lapped at his naked feet. Before him a ruined city stood, burning and ripe with darkness – there were pieces of pure wickedness there. In the centre a sinister, impenetrable shadow hung, above the city. A pair of red, coal eyes peered from what might have been the head. The name “Mordheim” ricocheted around his mind forcefully. Halibel opened his eyes and was back in the small farm that once might have been prosperous. But now it was dormant and dead. The screams of those who once occupied it were now and forever silent. He missed them. In the distance he spied the city, a great spire of smoke still drifted from its ruined corpse. It had been nearly a month since the so named 'Judgement of Sigmar' had struck the city, it had quickly become a haven for those not wanting to be found or those serving a higher purpose. Like Halibel.
********
It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.
The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.
“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.
Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.
********
It had only been a week or two since he had entered the city, he had forgotten since time never seemed to flow here, but Halibel now had quite the gathering. His cult's den, as he called it, sprawled a single three story building. The ruined rooms were rife with debauchery that would make a servant of the pleasure god blush. Rough cloth died purple hung all over the building, the rooms used them as rugs or doors for the more private of events. Everywhere he walked the smell of the blue lotus clogged the air. The rare flower had some very interesting effects when burnt, the smoke became a powerful hallucinogenic and aphrodisiac. Something that helped him gather those needed. Nodding to two fully inducted brethren he picked out four females from a group in one of the rooms, each semmingly involved in an act more mind boggling than the last. The two robed figures wound their way past the profligate revellers to the chosen, and unceremoniously dragged them from the room. Taking one last look, Halibel took a deep breath and left, leaving the moaning and gasps to echo down an empty hall.
The drugged women were carried down to a darkened cellar, lit only by a dozen half burnt candles. The first female was lain across the stone tablet in the middle, a large arcane circle has be carved into its surface, deep channels cut into the rock. Pulling a curved dagger from beneath his robes, Halibel began to mutter a prayer. His words would bring his dark master's, the mysterious “Shadow Lord”, gaze towards his sacrifice. Plunging the dagger down, its highly polished surface cut into her pale skin with ease, in a moment of lucidity she arced her back, a tortured scream tore from her blood flecked lips as the blade gouged a rough circular shape in her chest. Her last, final gasp came as he ripped the vital muscle from her chest. Her corpse flopped back down onto the stone, the channels below filled with crimson, completing the arcane symbol. Turning, the bloody heart in his hands, Halibel dropped it into the burning brazier next to him. The hissing sound of meat being cooked filled the silence, the crackling of the coking meat suddenly gave way to roaring flames of black and white leaping from the brazier, forming a leering daemonic visage for mere moments before vanishing once more.
“Ulquiorra” he muttered. “Dinner”. From one of the darkened corner of the room a hulking figure emerged. It stood nearly a head taller than any other in the room, its hunched body was constantly racked with changes, as if the skin was being pushed at from inside. Its slack jawed face belied the possessed power. Halibel knew that either of its three arms could rip a limb off. As if illustrating his unspoken observation Ulquiorra picked up the heartless woman and in a sharp, vicious movement he tore her arm free from the body. Acidic saliva dripped from the creatures maw as its powerful jaws clamped hard on the necrotic flesh and Ulquiorra tore a chunk of pale flesh off, before gulping it down.
Halibel tore his gaze away from the spectacle. He had work to do.
Hidyoshi's Cadre
Hideyoshi looked out over the ruins of the city with trepidation. He had heard stories of whole bands of men disappearing in the blasted wreckage that the city had been reduced to. It certainly didn't look hospitable, and his men were far from home. Still, he hadn't come half way across the world to leave empty handed.
Resolved to complete this mission, which, although a risky undertaking, could bring great wealth and honour to his clan, Hideyoshi led his men into the city.
Resolved to complete this mission, which, although a risky undertaking, could bring great wealth and honour to his clan, Hideyoshi led his men into the city.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
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.”
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.”
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