This is a dark place, and full of secrets. Rumor hangs in the air, a palpable miasma, and greed is itself a stink. Everything I've heard is true. The living dead walk unchecked through the streets, and the rats here are large as men. They stand on two legs and speak in hisses to one another, and the green glow of abomination jets from their eyes.
Brother Ulf gave up his life in dispersing the rat-things, a faithful servant even unto the end. But still it troubles my heart. No man should die like that, a hundred small bites on every part of his body.
We are, by the grace of Sigmar, thusfar succesful. Myself and the Burning Brand have sent fistfuls of the green stuff back into Altdorf for the Theoginist's safekeeping, but shards of it lay upon the ground like gravel. The reek of Chaos is heavy when it's near, and the shards shed unwholesome light when touched by bare skin. Everywhere here there are depraved men, men bent to the service of gold, not gods. Men who murder unjustly for this vile stuff, this wyrdstone, and a few more crowns in pocket.
Sigmar give me strength. By the hands of the faithful and by the righteous fire of my Burning Brand, may we purge the corruption from fallen Mordheim. I must pray....
--From the Journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Commet 1999
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