Mordheim's Lost and Found

Our hunt for wyrdstone goes well. I've seen cart after cart sent back towards Altdorf, deep ruts carved into the ground from the weight of the cargo. But even as our mission progresses, the resolve of my Templars fades. The losses take their toll, and the men grow hollow-eyed from lack of sleep.

It only grew worse after our last encounter with the rat-things. They are innumerable, Sigmar damn them, skulking in every ruin and chittering beneath the streets. You can hear their footfalls echoing from the sewerways, rising out of wells, clicking up from drains. We killed I know not how many of them this time, but they kept coming. They would not scatter as before. And we were forced to leave the body of Rolf behind.

Our flagellants especially suffer. They seem to die as soon as they arrive, taking the brunt of punishment from Mordheim. It's as if the city itself is set against them....

It was some compensation the next evening when we encountered the walking dead. Chauncey missed his footing in his fight with the vampire, and only by luck did he miss his own demise. He was stabbed through in a dozen places, but the bloodsucker failed to hit our ogre's vitals. Grim Morton performed his ministration, and these lesser wounds closed in a matter of hours. Chauncey's first words upon awaking were, "Praise be to Sigmar." It did my heart good to hear.

We won the day in any case, spiriting away the Volfsterne family horde and keeping its contents from the zombies.

But as we lay around the fire that night, we found no joy in counting our wealth. We all of us were tired from battle and from loss of life. The zealots sang their songs for the dead, and the hounds lay silent and unmoving upon the ground.

Yet even in the deepest night, I find that the light of Sigmar has a way of shining through. We heard a familiar voice from the surrounding dark.

"Hail the Brand!" it said. And other voices joined in the same: "Hail the Brand." And stepping into the circle of firelight, leading a tattered band of aristocrats, Rolf's still-living face smiled round at all of us.

He explained that he'd lain unconscious after the battle with the rats. Finding himself alone when he awoke, he made his way through the ruins, trying to join with us but losing his way in the dark. That night, as he lay down beneath a smashed statue for shelter, he heard voices calling from beneath the rubble. Rousing himself to the task at hand, he began to dig. The voices grew louder. The layer of stone grew thinner. And finally using his flail to smash through the last--breaking both it and the statue's pedestal--he uncovered a secret compartment. Prying it wide, he found none other than the surviving Volfsterne clan, trapped within their own hidden chamber.

Lord Volfsterne made his thanks to the Brand, kissing my hand and making many bows. He told us to keep our hard-won gold, calling it a gift of the Volfsternes and praising his own magnanimity. I have no doubt that he'd more still tucked away in other cities and hidden upon his person.

Yet this is a time for celebration, and the vanity of aristocrats is of little concern to me. The men now are greatly heartened. With Rolf's seeming return from the dead, our flagellants are more determined than ever to raze this horrid place, tearing the evil from it brick by brick. The songs for the dead are changed to songs of joy, and our warhounds are howling in chorus. In the words of a good friend, "Praise be to Sigmar."

--From the journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Commet, 1999