Story Time - Mordheim

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…

“Enter.”

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.”