Through the window the town was a dismal sight. Smoke-trails pocketed the sky where the peoples of the land – now consumed by fright and the prospect of death – had turned to a gang mentality, to crime and murder, or worse…
The Sister-Superior could not stomach the thought, so she turned from the window and pulled down her hood. She sat down behind the altar and smoothed out her hair, blonde but slightly greying with age. Turning to one of the sisters who stood interspersed within the chapel, she spoke slowly:
"Bring in the Missionary, please." One of the sisters, a young girl with mahogany skin, nodded and pulled open one of the double-doors. She returned with a figure concealed from ankle to forehead in a modest set of robes. He staggered impishly towards the altar and bowed his head.
"Dear Ventra…" He spoke politely but with a smile; as a representative of Sigmar he saw himself not as her servant, but perhaps as an equal. Maybe even better.
The Superior picked up on the chiding tone, and she let his remark pass by. "Give me your report, Brother Michael. How are things holding up in the city?" She looked down. Being within this chapel, risen high above the slums of wood on this side of the river, there was almost a disconnect between the Sisterhood and those they were meant to serve. Perhaps that was why Sigmar punishes us now, she thought, but drew herself away from it. She couldn't afford to look saddened in front of such a subject.
"The market district has maintained a semblance of order, Dearest." He knew she hated being called that, "no doubt the promise of a little coin over-shadows any threat of death for such a kind."
"So there have been no incursions from Chaos?" Ventra asked with that spike of worry; her voice was two steps ahead of her thoughts. The Missionary waved off her concern.
"Nothing, do not fret. The populace in that quarter – as upper-class as they are – continue as they used to, but with the occasional worried murmur." He sighed reluctantly; clearly that was his good news. "But… the living quarter…"
"What of it?"
"Many have forsaken their old selves and become flagellants, Ventra. They think they are being punished. I have seen them, scowering the streets in twos and threes; barking like dogs. My contacts report they do not just beat themselves – they pick targets on the street and pounce when opportunity permits."
The Superior stroked her face from cheek to chin at the news. It was solemn, but not entirely unexpected; amongst the peasantry and rabble of the town – whom had already consigned themselves to their fates and labelled it 'Mordheim' – an event of such significance would naturally be met by hysteria and panic, she concluded. Indeed, it was only the blessings of Sigmar himself, and a well-understood knowledge of what they used to do and what they would have to start doing that stopped the Sisterhood from collapsing into a similar…
She thought for a moment, looking up to see the missionary stood patiently, rolling his hand over his staff.
Disorder. Yes. That was the right word. Proud of her own correctness, she finally spoke up. "Brother Michael. Head into town and round up these Flagellants. Have them search for any signs of corruption and then set them loose." The Missionary turned and began to waddle off. "And find me that Sister of Sigmar, she has been gone far too long. It is unlike her." She moaned, almost maternally. As the great doors groaned to a close, and light from outside freed the chapel inside of its revealing presence, Ventra fell back to her seat and sighed.
She cared about her Sisters, past all of the formality and piety. Perhaps she cared too much.
Sofie sank down into the seat, taking a sip of water and planting the cup back down onto the table. She had chosen the very same tavern from which she had taken the Merchant purposefully. It was a form of punishment, really; forcing herself to accept her failure. She looked up at the table where she remembered them sat. It was empty. She sighed and let her head sink again.
A few times she had been drawn by the sounds of commotion from outside. She had seen figures passing the windows in mobs, from housewives, to street urchins, to militiamen. They would roar, howl, sing praise to Sigmar, anything to draw their mind away from the apocalypse that was about to befall them. The comet could only have been a few days away now. Sofie had intended to make her way to the Chapel to account for her failings, but something had stopped her. She felt base emotions she had been taught to conceal before that night. She felt selfish, almost. Cowardly.
She stood up in a fit of rage, letting cutlery, plates and mugs roll off of the table and drum against the planked floor. The drive that she had always embraced – that pride of being a Sister – spurred her on suddenly, and she approached the door to investigate the happenings of the outside, ignoring how strangely weak that drive really was.
She let herself get dragged along by a passing group of people like a wave. They were one of many clumps of people that filed out of alleys and down streets, all towards the centre of town. There were men, women, and children here, and she didn't know what they were doing. Perhaps a meeting? They'd need to discuss their next course of action. The best way to ask Him for forgiveness, of course. But surely, she thought, not everyone will let themselves go quietly into the night…
She grunted in disgust and drew a pair of eyes from the people shuffling beside her. She let the doubt leave her mind as she followed the crowds to the town hall. People were breaking into a loose horseshoe now, around something she couldn't see. She heard howls of excitement, like school-boys egging on a fight.
Except she saw that, to her horror, that was exactly what the howls were doing. All these people – these men and women and children - they weren't going to a meeting, they were following the call of violence.
What worried her most was that she realised this; how deeply the depravity and chaos had taken hold here, and yet it made her feel… warm. It made her feel at home.
A/N: Feel free to R/R