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[NiTessine]

Chapter 1: The Cold, Trackless Wasteland

This tale, like so many other, begins in a bar. This particular bar is located in the northern city of Praag, in the land of Kislev.

Now, I could name our story "The Tales of Hoffman", but I'm afraid that not many would get the joke, and anyway, Hoffman is neither writing the story (thank gods), nor is he the primary character (despite what he might think).

But I digress.

Inside the bar, there was an extraordinary amount of people, so that four quite different travellers from quite different places had been forced to take seats in the same table. After they had eyed each other for a few moments of localized silence, one of them, a large man with reddish-brown hair and a short beard of the same colour, spoke:
"Greetings, fellows. I am Frederich, of Nuln. What brings you here to the cold north?"
"Fisibbei Furfoot is my name, and I am here in search of a particular herb," answered the halfling, clad in a plain brown robe. "He," the halfling continued, indicating the third man, a golden-haired elf, "is Kase Galanodel. He does not speak Old Worlder, so I have to translate for him."
The other human in the table was a bald, hawk-nosed man, clad in shining scale mail with not a speck of rust. From his neck hung a small silver hammer, the symbol of Sigmar. With a clipped Reiklander accent he replied:
"Sigmar's blessings to you. I am Franz Hoffmann of Altdorf, and I have been here seeking for an Arch Lector of our church for the past three months. He has disappeared somewhere Kislev, and I fear he might be dead."
"Adventurers everyone, then?" Frederich asked with a broad grin. As reply, he got a number of curt nods.

Finally, one of the few barmaids in this overcrowded and undermanned establishment made her way to the table of our protagonists.
"And vat shall you haff?" the woman asked, in a thick Kislevite accent.
"I'll have an ale," was Franz's reply.
"Zhat vill be two gold crowns."
"Two gold! That's the most expensive drink I've ever had!"
"I am sorry, but ve get our ale from a tribe to zhe east, who are in zhe middle of a var."
"A war? With whom?" asked Fisibbei, in a concerned tone of voice.
"Anozer tribe, one led by zhe varlord Viseslav. Igor, zhe leader of zhe tribe vho makes our ale iz badly outnumbered, zhey tell me."
"Why did this Viseslav attack his tribe? Or was Igor the instigator?" Fisibbei continued.
"Viseslav persecutes his tribe, for Igor follows zhe god Sigmar, and not Ulric, vho is traditionally vorshipped here in zhe north," the serving wench replied.
"A tribe of Sigmarites? Bah, they're probably all heretics anyway," Franz scoffed, his sharp features twisting into a sneer.
"You're thinking going to help?" Frederich asked the halfling druid. Fisibbei nodded solemnly.
"And I Kase will be joining me. Your help would be appreciated, naturally."
"I like you, little man. You are brave, and so is he," Frederich said, gesturing at the elf. "I will lend you my axe and my sword."
"And you? You look like a capable man, and it would be an honour to have you with us," Fisibbei said to the Sigmarite priest.
"And why would I be concerned over the fate of a few barbarians who have chosen to live out there in the cold, trackless wasteland?"
"But they are you brothers in faith. Would it not be right for you to aid them?"
"As I said, they are probably heretics anyway, with a debased religion centred around a hammer, or something."
The priest spat on the floor in disgust.
"But in that case, should you not try to show them the correct way of worshiping, or to destroy the infidels? And, if you are seeking for the Arch Lector, and have not found him in the cities, would it not be logical to seek him out in the wasteland?"
"The good halfling has a point, priest," Frederich said. "I have lived many years with the Kislevite tribes, and they miss little that happens in their lands."
For a moment, indecision wavered on Franz's face. Then, he spoke:
"Fine, then. You've convinced me. I shall join you, and may Sigmar be with us."
With that, the bald priest rose, and walked out of the tavern into the fresh air. Shrugging, the others followed.

* * *

For a few hours, the party of not-exactly-heroes wandered the town, seeking a horse trader. They found one in the outskirts of the city, marked by a great bit sign, with the text "Crazy Ivan's Horses for Hire".

History does not tell what the intrepid adventurers were thinking at the moment, but out of either stupidity or a sense of hurry, they decided to deal with the red-bearded fellow inside. Even his sales speech did not deter them, and they wound up hiring a wagon in reasonable condition, and two horses to drag it.

And thus, they left the questionable comfort and debatable safety of the city of Praag, the agony-contorted faces of the dead staring down at them from the walls.