Priest Adept
Prologue
Rising from his old wooden chair, Father Arnum shuffled over to crumbling stone fireplace. Sighing deeply he poked the dying embers with a poker as ancient and battered as he was. Satisfied that the fire would keep going a little longer he returned to his chair and drew his faded robes tight around his frail frame. The small table in front of him groaned under the weight of the Deux Sigmar lying on top of it, its pages yellowed with age and its metal hinges rusting at the edges. Father Arnum creaked open the cover and began his nightly read.
A few minutes later the book lay on the floor and Father Arnum's soft snores echoed through the draughty corridors of the monastery. The sudden moan of the large oak doors outside woke Father Arnum with a start. Pulling himself out of his chair he hurried, wheezingly to the door. Rain hit his face as he forced open the heavily barred doors of the monastery and the chill ran through to his old bones. Stepping out into the miserable night Arnum peered through the gloom for the late night caller but he couldn't see anything through the darkness. Chalking it down to local boys playing a trick he turned to haul himself inside. As he put his first foot back inside, a flash of light caught his eye. Whirling round with surprising agility he looked to the sky.
An orange light blazed across the face of the morrslieb, the lesser moon, almost eclipsing its baleful green glow. Arnum's withered hand clutched at the hammer talisman around his neck. "By Sigmar," he wheezed "the prophecy". The shock was too much for the old man and he collapsed to his knees. He struggled to rise but the stone steps of the monastery were slippery and he tumbled down into the gutter. Stretching out his hands for the step Father Arnum felt something unusual, a wicker basket. With the last vestiges of his strength he pulled the basket towards him and peered inside.