Introduction:
Orden Molotka
I could hear the dirt crunch beneath my feet. The air was heavy and damp from the
approaching mist. This is not a safe
time of night to be out. Is there ever a
safe time to be out in Mordheim? Every
sound snaps my neck around and elicits a flinch. I wouldn’t even be doing this if it weren’t
for… whatever… I am.
A whole building is out of place here. Is that it?
It is. A large wooden door stands
between me and the fulfillment of my mission on this night. I can hear an almost imperceptible sound
from inside and raise my hand to knock at the door. Before my hand can reach its target a voice
from the shadow speaks out a warning.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I stop. I turn my
eyes and try to focus toward the direction of the sound.
“Good idea.”
“Who are you?”
“This isn’t the place to draw attention to you.”
“I said, “Who are
you?””
He started to stir. I
reached for my dagger.
“Woah, woah. I don’t
want trouble, guy.”
He showed himself out of the shadows. A hunched old drunkard stumbled out a held
himself up against the door.
“Step aside old man I need to get in there.”
“Do you know what you’re doing? Where you’re heading?”
“Yes. In there. Now,
out of my way.”
The old man looked up.
Then he straightened. The figure
now looked strong, tall, imposing. His
voice strengthened.
“You should be careful how you speak to folks around
here. Now, do you know what you’re
doing?”
“Yes.” I said trying to sound sure of myself and
unafraid. “Five generation of my family
called this place home. I’ve heard
numerous tales of what once was here, the glory of this place. I want to take that back from the cursed and
the wielders of magic. Not for my
family, they are gone, but for this city.”
He removed his hood.
A slight grin appears on his face…
The large door opened with a creak and led to a dark
corridor. The hall spilled into a small
room that housed a long wooden table.
Carved into the center of the wood was a familiar symbol, the mark of Orden Molotka, the Order of the Hammer. Twelve chairs surrounded the table; five each
along the two long sides, one at the head, and one at the foot. There was no other decoration or furniture in
the room. Two small candles created a
dim glow. The large figure that followed
me from outside took his seat at the foot of the table leaving two side seats
remaining. He motioned toward the chairs
and I took one.
I could feel multiple eyes on me. The man at the head of the table spoke.
“Welcome, Brat Khresti told us
to be expecting you. I am Kihot.”
The rest went around the table introducing themselves.
The Witch Hunters…
“Slesh”
“Chayst”
“Povahu”
The Zealots…
“Palomnyk”
“Vtrata”
The Flagellants…
“Fanatyk”
“Oderzymi”
“Synyak”
The Warrior Priest…
“I am Brat Khresti.
We welcome you here Dzheffri.”
“How do you know my name?”
“We knew you’d be coming. Your arrival was foretold to us long
ago. The anger that fills you has sent
you here. We will teach you, train you,
and mold you in the sposib molotka. You
shall become your destiny, Orden Molotka.”
