JOHANN I

It was cold as the farthest reaches of Norsca, cold as Kislev midwinter. The air was frigid, burning his lungs with every breath he took. He felt his robes, rich and cascading, and yet the chill tore through them like they were mere tattered rags. It was a screaming wind, shrieking and violent, the scream of the murdered, of the dying. About him encroached a black forest, the limbs malevolent and grasping. These trees were no mere pines or conifers, like those he had climbed in the forests around Talagaad with his brother when they were but boys and happily ignorant that in only a few short years they would be snatched from their loving home and shipped to Altdorf to hone their magical ability, lest their souls fall to the depredations of Chaos. These trees had faces, snarling and frowning, carved into white bark that wept with red sap. They were strange and foreign, the homes of gods that had yet to feel the pacifying presence of the White Wolf of Winter, nor the Horned Stag of Summer. Even as he stood, they closed in, surrounding him, attempting to smother him in darkness.

Somewhere, a crow cawed, than a dozen, than a hundred.

Cawing for him, for all of mankind.

He clenched his eyes shut, and bade himself go to peace.

Another wind blew now, quieter, a wind that he had heard a thousand times before. This was no screaming death wind. This wind was fading, fleeting and titillating, whispering in his ear, yet just quiet enough he could not discern what it said to him. It pulled away, and he pulled forwards, away and forward, away and forward he went. Now the wind was inspiration, an idea or a paradox, gently forming shapes to that which had no shape. He could the see the shapes now, the unknowable now known, a narrative written for a story that never existed.

He could see the stars.

About him light pulsed, an ethereal light that carved into the shadows, shadows that bled red sap.

Now the crows cawed once more, in protest, fleeing for their dark holes in the shadows as the maelstrom of thought and expression raged, erupting from his mind like lightning from a tempest. All fleeing from...Them

They made nests in the night, in the great wall of ice, in the hearts of men, frozen by their chilling presence, and yet raised to walk.

They made the dead walk.

The dead… Ah.

Him.

Johann turned to the trees, which parted and shrank before his luminous gaze.

All but the figure.

He stood in the center, a crow perched upon his shoulder, unfazed by the display, by the raging storm. Why would he? He feared no end. He was the End.

Now the figure raised a bony hand, face obscured by a shaded hood, his other hand clenched tightly about a scythe with a handle of withered bone. He pointed far and away, miles and miles to the North, to what displeased him so. Blue eyes in the cold, the dead denied their passage, they could not cross, they could not rest. Blue eyes stopped them, and made them walk.

They must rest.

He had to help them. He knew that now.

Johann turned to the figure.

"How?"

No answer.

He had a task, but no guide. No help. Or did he?

He heard it, too, now.

Drums and thunder, song and laughter, war cries and triumphant shouts.

He heard victory. He heard hope. He heard the blood of his ancestors. He heard the blood of his god, the blood that ran in all of His Sons.

He heard the Comet, and he heard its Master. His Master. Master of Mankind.

"Where?"

Silence now.

It struck him like a hammer, wielded by Him.

Nearby, not so far.

Now he saw blue eyes, like a lake, and red hair like a fire. He saw a boy.

"Who is he?"

"Who indeed?"

Now the stars faded, and the sky grew lighter and lighter, blinding him, burning him…

"Magister? MAGISTER! By the Hammer if I must kick you to rouse you from your slumber I will!"

At least he knew that voice.

Johann Geller opened his eyes in an instant, where they came to rest upon the eternally displeased visage of Witch Hunter Klutzer. His cold blue eyes narrowed at him.

Blue eyes in the cold…

"We are moving out posthaste. At this rate we should be at the Stark's castle in a few days, no more. Ready yourself."

Fortunately for Johann, preparing to move out was as simple as pulling on his formal robes, and stuffing his bedroll back into the satchel he carried it in. He took in the sight around him.

He saw indeed that the camp was breaking down, the fur and leather clad natives pulling down tents and dousing fires, some doing so around mouthfuls of cold bacon and swigs of ale. His camp was shared with that of Klutzer and Heinrich, their small fire now only ash, extinguished some while ago. Klutzer he knew was already finished packing, his meagre personal effects neatly folded and tucked into a saddlebag that he now swung over his borrowed courser. He had the suspicion that the witch hunter in his professional paranoia had slept little, if at all. Heinrich had likely been awake for hours already and now was positioned farther away, fully armored, about halfway between their camp and the nearest camp of the natives, and was now praying his morning prayers before a small altar of Sigmar he had erected in a patch of grass. It was a crude, makeshift thing, little more than a carved statuette of Sigmar's Hammer. As Johann watched, Heinrich finished his devotions, ignoring the prying looks being sent his way by a nearby group of natives, the two sons of the Lord Stark among them. With a sign of the Comet made over his heart the Reiksguard knight was finished, removing the statuette and packing it into his own knapsack, his hand idly resting on the pommel of the Runefang he carried as he strode towards the treeline.

Apparently after the dramatic unveiling of that monstrous creature the knight rode about as a mount, Lord Stark had asked that he keep the creature well away from the main camp, so as to prevent the horses from panicking. Johann had been rather impressed, for when Stark made that request the terror and awe had been obvious to see in his expression. He might even venture to say that the men were at a greater risk of panicking than were the horses. Lord Stark had required that Heinrich swear upon his honor as a knight that the griffon would harm no one, to which Heinrich responded that Victory killed only the wicked. A fine non-answer, and which allowed him to commit to nothing concrete. Clever man.

His musing was interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat from Klutzer, who now motioned towards the horse next to him, a sturdy-looking garron he had taken as his own from the Stark lord's own stock. He mounted up, and straightened his back, appearing every bit as regal and dignified as a Wizard of the Celestial Order could be.

Not unapproachable it seemed however, for as the day wore on the younger lads that had accompanied the party out rode just behind his horse. From here he could hear their murmuring and whispering, no doubt as they tried to deduce just what his purpose here was. He understood why they picked him. No doubt they were rather averse to the witch hunter after he threatened to murder one of their number, and the Reiksguard was somewhere high in the clouds now, hidden from sight.

He looked up at them now, staring at the billowing piles of white upon blue. Somewhere up there floated the Blue Wind, Azyr, the source of his power just as it was for all Celestial Mages. His dream… when he got the chance he absolutely had to converse with his brother. In private too, for he had no doubt the witch hunter would love nothing more than an excuse to leave both of them dead of a bullet to the brain. Of course, they could likely kill Klutzer if they had to, but they were still outnumbered, and witch hunters were not known for their unpreparedness. Besides, the all worked towards a common goal. Just what that goal was, however… this required further research. But these things could not be rushed, no.

In his pondering he failed to notice one of the youths ride up to him, and nervously hail him.

"Pardon me, my...um...lord?"

He almost startled at the sudden interruption, but maintained a mask of cool indifference as he turned to regard the boy beside him. A lesser lord of some sort rode with the party, and this was his younger son, Johann vaguely recalled. He couldn't be older than 12, with a mixture of sharp jawline and soft eyes that indicated oncoming adolescence. Johann didn't think he misread the apprehension in the boy's grey-blue eyes.

"I'm no lord, lad. Merely a Magister of the Celestial Order. And you are…?"

Now the boy paled considerably, and Johann could hear muted chuckles from behind them. Johann guessed that the boy had been put up to this by his young friends, dared to go and speak with the scary foreigner. When the boy remained silent, Johann sent up a single golden eyebrow.

"Oh! Ah...Ethan, my lor… uh my Magister! Ethan Forrester. I merely wished to ask, ah...why… you wear that jewelry."

Now the boys could not hold in their good humour, and the whole group broke into half-muffled laughs and juvenile giggles. He rolled his eyes, and responded with a flat tone.

"Because I intend to look beautiful for the ball."

At that, the lads exploded into laughter, and even the Forrester boy smiled some. Johann himself cracked a small grin.

That faded almost immediately when Klutzer, having caught wind of potential merrymaking underfoot, turned back towards where Johann and the boys rode. He shot them a withering glare that had the whole party silent as a crypt. With a mumbled apology Ethan pulled back his horse, falling in line with his compatriots. Johann could not help but sigh.

Good humor was in such short supply these days, whichever universe one found oneself.