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The Enemy Within: Something Rotten in Kislev – An Audience with the Master (S4E6)

 

Captain's Log: 6th of Nachenheim, 2514.

So we stood there in the laboratory of the dwarf necromancer Annandil. We waited a good moment while he tried to collect his thoughts and explain what exactly brought about the unliving plague that now ruled the town of Cherz- ch- the once beautiful home of the Dolgans. The pounding of rotted fists on the barricade below was like a frightening hobgoblin war drum. It really was getting on my nerves. Well... so did the alchemical tools, the bodies tainted by sorcery, and worst of all the disarmingly polite dwarf wizard. I was stunned by this sudden change of plan and our readiness to hear him out. I still am, to be perfectly honest. We could have just lopped off Annandil's head there and then with Death Dealer and left. Would have probably been reduced to fleshy bits in a ghoul's stomach right afterwards though. Yeah, that would have been shite. We've got too many holy duties to become another man's breakfast!

Annandil recognized the name of Sulring Dolgol and his green eyes lit up like the hideous glow of Morrslieb in full reign. He spoke some elven words and the thumping below was put to a sudden stop. It is a very strange thing to witness. A dwarf with the accent and mannerisms of an elf noble was perhaps the most startling thing I encountered in that wretched town. I don't know why. You think it would be the fellow made of water or the unceasing legion of the damned... by Sigmar. My sheer prowess in recent years at becoming familiar with the oddest bloody things never fails to make me reflect. He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he becomes an abyss himself. Or something like that.

Our mad host invited us to the local tavern where he could fully explain his claim of Chernozavtra and his fixation on raising the ungodly dead. We were all skeptical to say the least. Werner elbowed me as we walked past the ranks of staring dead and asked me if I had noticed anything odd about them. Well, I first noted that they weren't the greatest of conversationalists. That, however, was not what our marine was referring to. They were almost alive. I mean not dead. I mean that they were incredibly well preserved. You could fit one into a crowd and I mightn't notice anything off. Doctor Furfoot caught on immediately, of course. Annandil eagerly pointed out his lover's tower. He called to her with a sickening "COO-EE!" but there was no response. I understood there and then why his servants gave him such blank looks. This didn't rattle him one bit and we were soon at the tavern. There was no food or drink as the regulars here required neither. The few dead drunks seated groaned in an oddly slurred way. Sounded like every tavern I've ever been to with the pervasive grumbling, oath-edged talk. Frighteningly like living beings. Or is it that drunks are more like walking corpses? Regardless, we sat ourselves down and listened to Annandil's explanation.

Lad was given to an elven family very shortly after he was born. He suffered many hardships as he was unable to partake efficiently in many of their traditions and customs. It was because of his tough and powerful dwarf body that he was both mocked and feared by other children. At the tender age of forty eight his parents brought him to a nearby village and he became an alchemist's apprentice. He was too much of a hassle for the elves but the work required as an apprentice suited Annandil fine. Alchemist's apprentice, to a skilled practitioner of alchemy, and then finally a well regarded physician. Tragedy struck poor Annandil when a patient, a young elf woman he dearly loved, died from some sort of wasting affliction. Harbull reckons that this was the thing that drove him mental. He took a fancy dwarf name that means "death lord of the dead", or something along those lines, and began his work enchanting corpses.

Our host assured us that he believes that the things that serve him are living beings just like ourselves. Harbull and Werner were quick to question the moral right he had in dragging Dolgan warriors off to join his horde. He told us that they were invading his land, that they left it abandoned for many years, and that they would be unharmed as long as they kept their distance. There was a fair bit of a complex argument about morality and I was very confused. Annandil would not move one blighting inch from his belief that he was not evil and that the dead were grateful for being able to live once again. It was best just to let him be. His brain was as addled and decayed as the rest of his servants.

We took an oath set by the wizard. It was to never tell anyone of him and his methods, the secrets of necromancy that he was about to tell us, and to never slay a necromancer without the proper proof of evil. Shouldn't be that hard. Just wait until they send out a ghoul or two and then Death Dealer will do its gruesome work. Magical words and gestures bound us to this oath. Sigmar help us if we are to break it. We figured out that Sulring Dolgol was the fake name that an immortal elf necromancer used while trying to avoid the wrath of the law. He and Annandil exchanged letters for several years and this is what lead the latter down the dark path of the occult. The dwarf considered it the greatest means of achieving immorality and reviving his love. Considered it a science instead of a superstition. We need to find this Dolgol and...

What are we meant to do, exactly? Erm, I'll figure it out soon enough. Right, so, necromancy comes in three major forms: animating the meat of a creature, bringing it from another world through conjuration, or binding a summoned spirit. Conjuration summons "unstable" creatures that soon vanish and it takes great energy. It's the favoured method for warfare as you don't have a walking corpse or spirit to worry about afterwards. Animating the meat and then binding the original spirit to it is a new method that the dwarf wizard was very proud of. The more fresh the body, the more aware and intelligent the mind would be once the spirit was bound to it.

Best way to deal with them is to go for the legs and cripple them. They can still sense your life and follow that even if the neck is severed. Somehow become dumber than usual though. Easily lead into traps. Fire doesn't work although some remember fire well enough to fear it. Conjured creatures don't last for too long due to their unnatural presence in our realm. Werner seemed to be writing all of this down in a journal. I had no idea that he was able to read and write. Our host offered us the chance to be turned into a spirit-bound corpse if we wanted to experience it and help him with his work. I politely declined. Werner and Harbull both attempted to volunteer the other for this unusual opportunity. Oh, we also got a ghoul-smiting sword that was black as coal, a protective amulet that looks like a mace with a crossguard, arrows deadly to conjured ghouls, and a wand, with a head shaped like a crow, that would prevent any necromancy from tainting a corpse once the wand touched it.

A letter explaining this peculiar situation was required for the highly superstitious Dolgan tribe. He gave us a letter that was not exactly polite, but would suffice. We bid him farewell as he rejoined with his lover, walked towards the gates as the hobgoblin servants opened them, and fled quickly back inside. Arrows were still landing on the gates, each with a definite "THUNK", even after we reached cover. Glumly, Dolgan Jim heard their yells and told us the terrible news: the Dolgans thought that we'd aligned ourselves with Chaos! We tried explaining our letter and were mailed many arrows in response. Stuck between angry tribes of barbarians and hobgoblins... there's a reason I like to deal with these things one at a time! The doctor had ideas of how to lure the Dolgan braves into the town for an ambush. We both realized that they knew that there were corpses on the ramparts. So we couldn't trick them into thinking that we had rid the town of its scourge. Damn. We couldn't even magically fly out of there as The One was unable to accompany us to the town. Damn damn.

We rejoined the wizard and his corpse paramour. She had a, very, very... unique appearance. Yeah, that's the word. Unique. I'll be nice about it. He probably saw her the way an old captain would see their weathered old vessel. To others it may seem hideous and decayed, and it is, but the old captain has a special appreciation for its unique qualities. He introduced her to me and I had to fight all of my old courtly manners from Middenheim. I was sure as hell not going to kiss that rot- unique hand. I quickly turned it into a hand shake. He didn't notice anything and was absolutely delighted. Phew. The horde couldn't leave the town as they were preserved by a cooling process only possible with the binding of those water creatures. Finally, we were brought to the stables near the wizard's tower. The stable doors were flung open and we were face to face with reanimated steeds.

Some nearly skeletons, others with their intestines hanging out, the whole rotting range of these equestrian affronts to Sigmar were before us. It was unfortunately our best option. Jim and Werner had a very easy time controlling their steeds. Harbull and I literally couldn't ride a horse to save our lives. Annandil made for us these strange skeleton riders that would keep us fastened to the horse as the steed galloped. A harness made of ribs would be the best way I could describe it. In no time at all we were sent flying out of the gate by a huge gust of wind that our necromancer summoned. We rode past stunned Dolgan warriors, the wind blowing away their lit torches, and easily escaped them. The guttural cries of the pursuing goblins behind us was a different matter.

A whole pack of wolf rider archers had been sent by Haablo to hunt us. I could only hold onto the rib cage harness and hope for the best as arrows barely flew by us. The wolf riders were growing impatient and spurred their wolves into a ferocious pace. Our horses did the same and glided across the snow tirelessly. I looked behind in relief at the slowly shrinking view of the goblins and realized that Werner's horse and mine began to... flicker like a light? Unstable. Shite. I prayed to Sigmar with all my might and a miracle had blessed us. With hooves like fire, the horses began to gallop and struggle against their spiritual strain and we looked to be reaching our freedom soon. Rage, rage against th-

Werner's horse dissolved underneath him and he hit the ground. I yelled in terror as I realized that my old friend would soon become another skull in the pile amassed by those horrible goblins. To see our friend gone so suddenly from our crew, without dignity or fanfare, was an unfitting end for such a valiant and skilled warrior. Doctor Harbull Furfoot thought the same thing as he rode up from behind him. Healer of wounds, destroyer of doors, he charged fearlessly as a hail of arrows threatened to end his life. Our doctor grabbed the warrior by the hand and pulled him up upon his horse. Truly our own might was humbled by the bravery and loyalty of Harbull. The goblins gave up their hunt shortly after. No doubt humiliated by the heroic efforts of our crew.

Our horses had all finally returned to that other realm. Jim was waiting for us. He had outpaced everyone involved by a considerable distance. I should ask him how he did that, at some point. It was finally time to return the Tsar's court and report our quest. We were knee deep in the snow, with Harbull needing to ride on Werner's back, until we found a fine tavern. It was there that our doctor discovered that all of Werner's written notes were very simple drawings of what we had learned. Harbull had a hearty laugh at this. I thought it was pretty funny too but none of us are exactly Tilean painters. We finally made our way back quickly using a raft. I'm more used to building boats nowadays but adapting to raft making wasn't too bad. It was nice to be on a river again, even briefly.

So we're back in a nice, warm palace and waiting for our next quest. It's been a few days now but I can't complain about a small break. Mr. Crumbles, my... I've never mentioned him, have I? By the hammer, how silly of me! I have a pet monkey that I purchased and trained after the Middenheim incident. His name is Mr. Cheeky Crumbles and he is a very respectable member of our crew. Too many crumbs were snatched by his paws so our marine called him that and it stuck. Got him back on my shoulder as soon as I returned to the Tsar. He's a good fellow and very loyal.

Maybe I should buy him a small coat so I can bring him along...

  • Johann Dasbuut.

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