Chapter 1

Hexensnacht

Decades ago, Emperor Magnus the Pious after countless struggles, defeated the hordes of Chaos and heralded a new era for the Empire of Man in the heart of the Old World. What followed was a Golden Age of faith, of sorcery, of victory and science.

These times have faded. This is now a dark age, a sombre age, an age of regression, betrayal and despair. It is also an age of blood and sacrifice, the return of a King, of battles told and untold. From his throne in Altdorf reigns Emperor Leopold, first of his line, wielding the warhammer of the founder of his lands, Sigmar, as his badge of office. As always in times like these, great heroes rise to meet their enemies with cold steel, bravery and boldness.

This is no such story. This is not even a story about the Empire. This is a story about survival despite all odds, about battle both traditional and indirect, of love, and of staying true to oneself.

Witching Night – or Hexensnacht in Old Reikspiel – was the last night of the year, when the both full moons shone brightly and the dead grew so restless that they were prone to rise from their graves. It was one of two dangerous nights in the Empire's calendar in which only the priests of Morr, the God of the Dead, dared to step outside to sombrely practice their rituals on graveyards and other places where the wind of death blew strongly.

How unfortunate for any town if there is only one of those priests to call upon his god's favour to stave off the forces of Chaos, as it so happened with Sturmhöhe, a small yet industrious town in the Imperial province of Nordland. In this coldest and one of the most foreboding of nights in the year, such a lone Morrian was standing in Yalene's living room steadily descending into a state of anxiety and even mild panic.

"Far be it from me to bother a respectable woman like you …" Tjorben Aldebrook tended to speak thrice as fast when nervous, which only added to the dramatic emphasis when he slightly raised his voice. "… but there's a bloody GHOST in my garden and I need help nownowNOW!"

"More haste, less speed." Yalene managed to slip a soothing quality into her shout so that the Morrian could hear her while she worked in the kitchen. She understood his desire for resolving the matter, but she couldn't help anybody if the apple pie in her oven would burn her house down in her absence. So she first had to fix her kitchen and then get her cloak. Besides, if Tjorben had wanted quick help instead of thorough help, he wouldn't have knocked at the door of an infamously unhurried and unflappable scholar like her.

"Well, it's not your place that the ghost is thrashing!"

"Five minutes won't make a difference.", Yalene countered, again taking care to sound calm and decisive as not to upset that poor boy while she walked into her living room, donning her heavy winter cloak. She exuded exalted serenity, which had the desired mildly calming effect on the frustrated Morrian. The priest was young, in his mid-twenties, his lanky frame barely filling out the ornate black robes of his profession. As it was customary for priests of Morr, he was clean-shaven, lending a boyish quality to his already round features. As it was customary for Nordlanders, he wore his light brown hair long, tied back in a strict, thin ponytail.

"What, no third pair of stockings, not another underskirt? Thank every god and his mother!", he growled as Yalene planted herself before him, an understanding smile on her face.

"I am an old woman. It is my prerogative to be slow, be cold and wear as many stockings as I please."

"You are not that old. What was it again? 49?"

Yalene chuckled. "Charmer. It's 53, and we should look after your ghost. How a priest like you isn't able to calm one spirit of the dead is beyond me."

Tjorben gritted his teeth. "It's not that simple. Not with this ghost. Not tonight."

This was a legitimate point. Priests, after all, were the ultimate authority in regards to the boundaries of the miracles their were able to perform in the name of their deity; even more so, if the rituals that Tjorben had worked on all night, especially alone, were for some reason insufficient, he would know. Still, having a designated slayer of the undead feeling so helpless in the face of a ghost told her that the situation was indeed either bizarre, special or interesting. Possibly all of the above.
Yalene looked over the room one final time. She could see the black mass that was her dog, Trantüte, huddled up in the back of her living room, producing a low whine as the door was opened. Apparently, the night was too ominous for a large breed of dog to set a paw outside.

"Suit yourself.", Yalene told Trantüte, opened the door and stepped outside, the Morrian at her heels.

Biting cold greeted them both. For some, the winds of winter were a herald of Ulric's grim favour. For others, a snow-covered ground was a grim symbol of the inevitable embrace of death. The whole world became quieter, more serene when snow muffled steps and voices, and when people huddled at their fires in their homes, safe from the cold. For Yalene, it was different; when she saw the world covered in a shroud of snow, she always felt oddly at peace.

They both walked the silent, cobbled streets of the quaint little town of Sturmhöhe, snow crunching underfoot . Underneath the dim, flickering light and the starry sky, the narrow streets looked even more foreboding. Streets like these were common for communities as old as theirs, that had grown slowly but steadily over the centuries, new buildings being built seamlessly into the old style. Their town was large enough to employ nightwatches, but at this night, the only people daring to step outside were Morrian priests and those not fearing the evil eye of fate – like her. So their walk to the outskirts of town was a long and silent one, especially at a walk to the graveyard that would take half an hour if the streets were bustling with people, as they would normally do. At about three o'clock in the morning, Yalene could already see lights in the windows and shadows of people moving inside; the town had already woken, but even they couldn't stand against the all-compassing silence.

The winds of magic pertaining to death were potent on this night. It was said the restless dead tended to wander at Hexensnacht, bolstered by the chaos moon. This was visible to Yalene's witchsight, as her vision was clouded by a faint, purple sheen, while the floating purple mist that she interpreted as Shyish, the wind of death, only grew more dense the closer they got the graveyard, commonly known as a garden of Morr or a Morracker. The portents of doom and destiny were also strong, swirling around at the edge of her vision. She should have been afraid of the sight itself; however, she had read those tiny hints within the winds of magic for all her life. Those forms of the wheel she was perceiving were hard to interpret, but she received the distinct impression that she was not to die tonight. These signs failed her only on the rarest of occasions – it stood to hope that this was not the case right now.

As she set eyes on the garden of Morr. Between tombstones, shrouded by mist, snow and the purple and green winds, she saw a shape that looked like a young tree grown in a vaguely humanoid form. The bark itself oozed magic as if bleeding out of a thousand tiny cuts, its leafy hair was long, surrounded by a protective thicket that must have been grown spontaneously out of the snow. Behind her, she heard Tjorben inhaling sharply. Apparently, the situation had worsened, although the tree-like form was currently standing silent.

"That's … not a spirit of the dead, per se.", Yalene whispered, awed and moderately concerned.

"I don't think so either, but it is still drawn to the dead. When I approached it, it attacked me with twigs and hissed something in a tongue I didn't understand.", he whispered back, while Yalene finally understood why it was her door he had knocked at. Commonly, ghosts could be reasoned with if they were not malicious and just tormented. Promising them to investigate their death and bring the responsible to justice was standard procedure, as this was the easiest and least violent way to put them to eternal rest. But a spirit of the dead not entirely fitting that category on human burial ground speaking an unknown language could mean that this thing was not at all human. So it made sense to consult the local scholar and linguist. It also made sense to suspect an elven spirit, especially since the Laurelorn Forest, a bastion of Wood Elves, or Eonir, as they called themselves, happened to be close.

The Eonir were an odd folk, technically citizens of the Empire but in actuality their own people, their lands technically claimed by two provinces, Middenland and Nordland, but in actuality governing over their territory. Theirs was an isolated forest, and any unbidden intruders were shot on sight. In the rarest of cases, once a decade or so, when there was a larger incursion of greenskins, the elves could be bothered to coordinate with the surrounding provinces and Elector Counts. So there was a shaky peace between humans and elves in these parts, as well as a few treaties in place. Sturmhöhe was one of the closer settlements to the Laurelorn Forest and most townsfolk went a lifetime without ever setting sight on an elf. Both peoples kept their careful distance, and when any warning was issued, envoys were sent and bonfires were lit.

There were rumours about the elves bringing trees to life to fight beside them, that they employed a variety of wood sprites and other spirits. Was this creature one of them? To Yalene's magic senses, it felt strange, as if not in tune with reality. Currently, it was not moving, which was odd, since it had been clearly upset by the presence of a lone priest of Morr.

There was no sense in dallying, so Yalene stepped forward, slowly, carefully, as not to upset the woodland creature. Suddenly and not entirely surprisingly, the snow around her was erupting with numerous living roots, springing out as quickly and deadly as snakes in the grass. Yalene froze in her movements, but those roots stopped before hitting her, as if they were living beings that tried to pick up her scent. She felt panic rising when she realized that more roots were entangling her, crawling up her legs, seizing every limb, then rapping themselves tightly around her body and face, pushing the air out of her lungs; the sounds that Tjorben made behind her informed her that he had fallen for the same trap.

It took all of her discipline and self-control not to hyperventilate, even though a thoroughly undignified shriek escaped her as she felt the grip of that thing tightening, as if it wanted to to squash her like one would kill an ant in ones fist. Even so, she realized that she had now the one and possibly only and last chance to address the spirit, to reason with it in order to get herself released. So she did in Eltharin, wasting no time with greetings that the wood creature would probably not appreciate.

"What do you want, spirit?"

Her voice was shaky and high-pitched, but she was positive that she was correct in her pronunciation of this difficult language. There was a tense moment of silence that lasted for several long heartbeats in which the creature seemed to consider her words before replying, the pressure of the roots eased ever so slightly.

"Yooooouuuu arrreeeee nooooooot aaaaa daaaaaaark ooooonnnneee …"

Its voice vibrated within her body and her very soul; it was at the edge of being painful, like standing beside ringing bells the size of an average human, lacking the sheer volume of such. Despite the forceful and almost painful effect, the voice was only as loud as a whisper. This spirit operated on another level of existence, beyond the living and the dead, within the laws that only forces of nature had to obey. When being asked if she was a 'dark one', Yalene determined that it was best to deny this, even though she did not understand the question.

"No, I am a seeker of knowledge." She replied hopefully. "Tell me how I can help you."

Again, the spirit seemed to consider her words carefully, its unearthly amber eyes piercing through all her layers of cloth, flesh and mind, as if stripping her bare to her very soul. Only after a thorough examination, the woodland creature answered in the same, painful way, as if her eardrums were pierced.

"Huuuumaaaaaaan …?"

"Yes. I am Yalene Hoffman, citizen of the Empire of Man. If it is in my power to bring you peace, I shall. Please tell me how."

In hindsight, the wording was rather unfortunate, as if it were an invitation towards more mayhem caused on this garden of Morr, not to mention pressing the life out of both of those pesky humans. Tjorben had picked up on this as well, as she could hear him clearing his throat. They both waited in tense anticipation if the reaction of the spirit would be defined by concession or aggression. At last, the spirit seemed to have come to a decision.

"Brrrrriiiiinggg meeeeee hoooooomeeeee …"

Even in its alien appearance and demeanour, there was now a very human longing in its voice, making it clear that it was desperately pleading. Its plight, the desperation behind it would have made the coldest heart melt with compassion.

It was so lost. Pity those who are lost, always.

"As Verena is my witness, I shall bring you home.", she replied to the spirit, knowing that a vow like this was not to be broken. Invoking the name of the goddess of justice was oddly soothing and strengthened her enough to sound wholeheartedly sincere, instead of the shrill, stuttering mess she had been a moment ago.

"Hoooooomeeeee …" Its last word faded as the roots crumbled into dust, leaving Yalene and Tjorben to greedily gasp for air and relieved that this situation had resolved comparatively peacefully, and aside from a few scratches and a few tears in their clothes, they were fine. The sprite, however, had shrunk further and further into a glowing, walnut-sized kernel. The transformation seemed so unreal for such a short interaction and left Yalene as well as Tjorben completely flabbergasted. As the glowing kernel fell into the snow, melting any and all ice within its path and after a moment of stunned silence, they exchanged looks. Yalene was the first to overcome her initial shock.

"That was not as bracing as feared.", she finally stated in what she hoped was matter-of-factly.

Tjorben gave her an incredulous look, then shook his head. "No idea what you two were talking about … ", he tried to keep the same tone, but his underlying anxiety bled through rather spectacularly. " … but you just talked a tree into turning into a nut. That seems like a prime example of diplomacy for me." He then paused for a moment, then added in a deadpan tone. "I think I've peed my pants."

Silently, Yalene poured two cups of brandy to celebrate a strange situation survived while Tjorben let himself fall on her couch. Part of his pants and cloak had been torn, while two scratches now graced his forehead and nose. He was lucky in that regard, as she had a painful scratch on her ear that hadn't decided to stop bleeding yet. They both looked like scarecrows; still, they were safe, sound and in her home, and had both determined that at about after four o'clock in the morning, an ordeal like this justified the consumption of some hard liquor.

"You say the darndest things sometimes.", Tjorben replied, leaning back in Yalene's favourite armchair after taking a swig of said brandy. "So let me get this straight … you promised that thing that you will get it into the Laurelorn Forest, which, as we all know, is filled with trigger-happy elves."

"Correct.", Yalene replied more nonchalantly than she had intended.

"And despite the danger for life, limb and pants, you want to do this tomorrow night?"

"Which technically is tonight, but yes."

Tjorben shook his head. "What exactly makes you think that you will survive this trip?"

"I simply … hope?" Yalene smiled. In truth, she was not certain at all and would consult the stars and any omen she could find before her trip, but as far as she could see, there was only a great change coming, but not something catastrophic. Since the winds had turned, she had assumed that the weather would be changing dramatically soon. That, however, was something that she could mention to Tjorben, the young man she was friendly with, but not Father Aldebrook, the resident priest of Morr. Unfortunately, one could not be parted from the other. Besides, Morr was also the god granting prophetic dreams to his followers. If something absolutely sinister was afoot, the priest would know better than her.

She sighed, adding to her former statement. "I do not think that this trip is that dangerous. Greenskins rarely roam the forests in winter, which makes me think that they freeze as much as we do. As for the elves … I've had dealings with them before. Besides, they usually give at least the courtesy of a warning shot if they suspect a local wanderer. As long as I am given the opportunity to explain myself, I should be fine."

"Very funny. I'm coming with you tomorrow, right after the Dooming."

She tilted her head. "I thought this doesn't concern you?"

"It does!", he said emphatically. "It is a spirit of the dead in need of shepherding. She might not be human, but she went to my garden under my watch. So I can't turn my back and call myself a servant of Morr." He paused, only to add more sheepishly. "At least, I think it is a spirit of the dead. It feels like it … what do you think?"

Yalene put her brandy aside and pulled the nut-sized object out of her apron that the spirit had left. It glowed ever so softly and was pleasantly warm to touch. Magic swirled around it, but it was also something deeply natural now, something that felt foreign and familiar at the same time. She pondered for a moment, regarding that spirit walnut in her hand.

"I've read that the elves face oblivion when they die and that their souls are devoured by the ruinous powers. Even if by some miracle they reach their afterlife, it is eternal torture, not eternal rest." Her tone was sombre as she recounted the hints the tales that her teacher of Eltharin had told her so many years ago. "To circumvent this fate, the High Elves store parts of their souls in waystones, while the Wood Elves store it in trees. When an elf dies, his soul returns to this waystone or tree to act as a guardian for their home."

The Morrian frowned. "That seems so wrong to me. And you think that this seed there is an elven soul? What was she doing outside of her home?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Fair point. But what about Sea Elves? Dark Elves?"

Yalene tucked the spirit walnut away and started sipping her brandy. "As far as I understand it, Sea Elves are not their own people per se. They technically belong to the High Elves, or so I've been told. Dark Elves, however …" Her voice trailed off and she spoke in a lower tone, as if she feared that they could be overheard. This happened with good reason, because the powers that she referenced brought ill when spoken about aloud. "… a part of them openly worships the ruinous powers. They are either unconcerned with their afterlife or welcome their eventual fate."

She could see that this seemed alien to Tjorben, as it should be. As a priest of Morr, his first and foremost duty was the burial of a human body and the guiding of the human souls into Morr's embrace. The thought that other races were not concerned with their soul, their afterlife, was contrary to all that he believed in. He disapproved quite obviously, but what could one do? The elves didn't worship Morr, so they didn't get saved by Morr. That was the way of things.

"Tjorben?", she tentatively asked after a long, ponderous pause.

"Hm?"

"What is a soul? Why is a human one different than an elven one?"

In all the literature regarding that topic she had ever read, any research she had ever done, she had never found a satisfying answer to that question. She had discussed this topic with other scholars, with Verenans, Morrians … none had been able to reach some sort of definite conclusion why the souls of different races were treated differently. Most priests pointed out that worship of the gods was the reason why humans would rest more easily, but could not answer why the elven counterpart of Morr didn't possess the same power. Tjorben's mother, the former priestess of Morr in Sturmhöhe, had been of the staunch opinion that the elven gods did not exist and that just about everybody should convert to the human faith. That was quite progressive thinking on her part.
As Verena was the goddess of law and justice, but more importantly knowledge, science and civilization, her followers were drawn to free thinking – therefore theses among them varied wildly, but most admitted that they had too little information to form a theory and they would need an elven, dwarven and halfling perspective before entertaining any sort of conclusion. Yalene followed the Verenan approach in this matter, but she wanted to know what a young priest of Morr like Tjorben would have to say.

The Morrian before her however just chugging down the last of his brandy, afterwards shaking his head. "Sorry, ma'am. Whatever knowledge I have is yours, but after what I've seen tonight … I wonder if I know too little, or if I know too much. After all, Morr is the god of the dead, not the god of death."

Oh, she just got ma'amed. Tjorben was now speaking with the authority as the priest that he was, a fact that he sometimes needed to be reminded of. "A soul is the breath of the gods. That's what I've been taught, that's what I know to be true. So that's all I can say."

This was not exactly what she had hoped for, but it was an opinion, for which she was thankful, respectfully inclining her head and wisely keeping her own counsel. This concluded the conversation, so Tjorben put his cup down.

"Time to dislodge yourself from my excellent hospitality? That seems fair.", Yalene grinned, and if the Morrian wanted to answer something witty, it tragically got stuck in the wheels of politeness he was just remembering. In the end, he wished her a good morning, took his cloak and left him for some much-needed rest, leaving Yalene with the remnants of Witching Night.

Hexensnacht was the night of the dead, whether they were walking or resting. As it was customary, Yalene had renewed her family shrine in her home and now paused at it to reflect one final time. The heavy commode she had reserved for this duty was crowned by an ornate, stained ebony mirror that had been in her maternal family's possession for generations. Now, it was presiding over the ritualistic gifts she had made for her deceased loved ones, which would be burnt and the ashes sprinkled on the respective graves the next day by Tjorben in his function as Father Aldebrook.

For her grandmother, she had had knitted a pair of socks which she knew said granny would snicker about, while the grandfather she knew nothing about had to content himself with a cap knitted from the same wool. Her mother, ever the sweet-tooth, had been served the first slice of the first apple pie that she had baked tonight. As per his express wish, her father received the first branch of hazelnuts that Yalene had gotten her hands on earlier in spring, referencing a fairy tale the father had loved above all others. Both she and her younger sister, Marleen, had always been fond of lavender, so every year, she dried lavender leaves from her own garden in her favourite books to sprinkle those on the little sister's grave. To this day, it was still painful to recall that Marleen had not even lived to see age twenty. For the little nephew that had died with his mother, Yalene usually whittled a small toy, oftentimes in the form of an animal. This year, the unnamed nephew was gifted coloured marbles.

Loss was an experience for every human being, past, present and future. One could not live life to the fullest without losing someone dear to separation, distance, alienation or death. Philosophers of all ages had pondered over the pain of loss with differing conclusions; some nihilistic and pessimistic in their view that all living things must end, others celebrating the influence of those long gone on the current lives as the defining factors of a personality. For Yalene, the truth was somewhere in the middle, as it was with all things mortal: Those that accompanied her on her path were never truly dead as long as she remembered them. Her life had been richer thanks to them, and therefore, they were a part of her. She mourned the loss of her loved ones still, but these were wounds well-healed at this point.

When she looked at her family shrine, she had to admit that she was exceedingly fortunate. In this town, she was known as a walking lucky charm, a night like this bearing testimony and evidence to this fact. The tragedy that had befallen her poor sister had been the last one to her family in three decades. Her two remaining brothers were still alive, one being a successful captain in the Imperial navy, the other being a prosperous trader in Dietershafen. Their families were thriving, so she had nieces and nephews aplenty. She shouldn't play favourites, but her favourite nephew, Jeldrik, even lived in Sturmhöhe with his family. His first daughter, her grandniece, had been born two years ago and was now an adorable terror of a toddler with a little sibling on the way.

The townspeople, even most of her friends and family simply thought of her to be fortune's darling, favoured by Ranald and any other deity granting good luck. There was no denying that she was lucky. Not pretty, perhaps, but lucky and happy. Unlike most women, she had been financially secure enough to have the luxury of an existence of an unmarried woman, independent in her craft and finances due to inheritance, education and often sought skills as a scribe and interpreter. All her life, she had wanted nothing more than to be independent, and now that she had reached the autumn of her life, she was blissfully free of the shackles of marriage, had cultivated deep and lasting friendships, her surviving kin was loving and flourishing and she herself was a seeker and guardian of knowledge by trade. Even the plants in her garden were greener and healthier, and whenever there was a game of chance, she usually won it. Her neighbours and friends called it obscenely good fortune. She called it careful planning, smart budgeting, dedication and a small amount of reading portents and omens in the stars. It was almost a science.

There was an emphasis to be put on the word 'almost'. It had been her father who had taught her rituals and spells to interpret the omens in stars and nature; that he had done so in a scientific manner to ensure that she practised her craft safely had led her to suspect that he had been a runaway mage from the Colleges of Magic; the man himself had kept silent about his past, so a secret it remained. She was smart enough to never let anybody see her cast a spell, never called a charm for what it was, and was always conveniently absent when one of those fanatical Witch Hunters happened to pass through town.

She concluded her prayer for most treasured departed with a ritualistic gesture almost unthinkingly, letting her open palm slide over her face, thus imitating Morr's Shroud as a fond wish that they had found their way into Morr's halls peacefully. When she opened her eyes, she looked into the mirror, the family heirloom. The stained glass showed her visage, gaunt and long-faced, that had aged as it was proper, the lines on her face designating a woman who had smiled often in her life and had laughed heartily. Nobody would have been so unkind as to call her a beauty, be it in her youth or even ten or twenty years ago, her face being too long and her nose too large to be even considered towards traditional attractiveness.

Her face was covered in faded pockmarks, the only serious illness she had ever had to survive, while her body shape was more akin to a slender man than a woman. The only thing beautiful about her were her eyes, coloured in a light grey that depending on the lighting could be mistaken for light blue or even a pale violet. Yalene was also proud of her hair, which with age had thinned considerably, yet still maintained its wiry and sturdy quality, two straw-blonde braids reaching towards her hips. There was much more grey than blonde in those braids nowadays, of course. Age also came with a side of painful joints and stomach ache, but all in all, she was more content with being old and established in her independent life than being young and frowned upon.

To her utter surprise, she saw her own reflection turn into the one of a man, one that bore a striking resemblance to her, with grey eyes like her own, large ears and stark features. As she had seen her father on his deathbed, he appeared to her now, mouthing only three words, fading as the first light of dawn drew nearer.

"Take my grimoire."

His words echoed as the apparition abruptly vanished, his reflection turned into hers as if he were merely a thought gone astray, and it still shook Yalene to the core. It was to be expected that the ghosts of the dead made an appearance on Witching Night, but a warning this clear was unusual indeed. She had hidden her father's grimoire for fear of discovery and subsequent burning at the stake, but she knew better than to let that kind of apparition go to waste. She hadn't looked into the grimoire in years, as she knew the few rituals used in her day-to-day-life by heart. Given the warning, there was no time to waste to retrieve that grimoire at once and reacquaint herself with its contents. Perhaps that journey she was planning this evening was more important and dangerous than she had thought.