Name: Aerandir te tuin Luinwe

Race: Elf

Appearance/Physical Description: Aerandir appears as very dishevelled for an elf, uncommonly so in fact. His clothing comprises of dull woodland greens and browns, dirtied with wear. He wears a long cloak, which can be pulled tight around himself, and the hood raised, to shroud his identity. On his back lies a finely crafted elvish longbow, one of two passed down through his family line to him and his brother, and a quiver of arrows. By his side hangs a simple sheathed longsword, only used in desperate situations; Aerandir relies mainly on his bow skills and his brother to fight and survive.


Background: Aerandir was born within a family who inhabits one of the ancient Elvish watchtowers scattered throughout the old world. In years long since gone by, the Asur had a large realm, and these watchtowers were built to keep general order and communications active. With the retreating of the Asur empire, these towers were left behind, sometimes still standing and even occupied. Aerandirs family lived in one such tower, and has remained in the partly ruined Tor Luinwe for generations. They generally have very little contact with the outside world, only being accustomed to the humans that work and live on the land outside their ownership. None dare to attack the tower, as it is rumoured the spirit of the father of the Luinwe line guards it and the surrounding area.

Aerandir lived in the tower along with his father and brother for many long years. The tower gradually fell into worse states of ruin, and was finally completely neglected in repair with the departure of Aerandirs father from the world. He was apparently captured and killed by slavers out at sea, as he was making a pilgrimage to distant kin of the old world. For his two sons, Aerandir and Orinar, it was the most painful thing they ever felt, and they relied heavily on each other from then on for comfort and friendship.

They set out together to find their fathers capturers, but soon stumbled upon what their father was really endeavouring to achieve. It seemed he had been in contact with other members of an ancient elvish line, connected in some way to both Tor Luinwe and the Asur of old. Legends told of a mystical island, where elves dwell in safety and companionship. It was the final point from which the Asur would not retreat from, and it seemed their father had been trying to reach it.

All thoughts of their fathers killers were all but driven out of the brothers minds. They went on an eager quest throughout the lands of men, desperately seeking information to the whereabouts of the fey island of elves. They used each other for moral support as they both searched and mourned their father, and together the two finally discovered the whereabouts of the island. It was named Ulthuan in Riekspeak. Even in the crude human tongue the name sounded like a beautiful paradise. Aerandir and his brother hired a small sailing boat, crewed by treasure hunters seeking the gold and jewels of the elves of the sea.

Luck was not on the brothers side however. Though they had finally sighted what looked like the island home of their distant kin, the faster they sailed towards it, the further away it appeared. The enchantments and wards to keep out uninvited visitors were not just fables, and soon they had been enshrouded in a swirling mist, through which nothing could be seen. The crew decided not to push their luck and despite the two elves’ pleading, they turned away from the foreboding island to return to the lands of the Empire. Aerandir and Orinar watched as theirs and their father’s ultimate goal slipped away behind them.

To make matters worse, on the return journey the ship was waylaid by slaver pirates from Araby. Their ship was more than twice the size of the ship Aerandir and his brother were on, with twice the numbers to boot. The slavers swarmed towards them, jeering and getting ready to board, and the elves prepared to fight to the death. They drew their bows, and though their long feathered arrows streaked with unnatural speed and accuracy towards the Arabian slavers, killing a good half dozen before combat was even joined, the rest of the ships crew were not fit to fight, and the slavers quickly used weight of numbers to overpower and capture the ships occupants. It was only now the brothers realised exactly what had happened to their father.

The elves were separated from the rest of the crew, and were taken to be sold as slaves at a port in the border princes. When their blindfolds were finally removed and they were shown to their temporary cells, they immediately put into action a plan of escape. They wasted no time and struck as soon as they received the first meal they had been given in days. The guards underestimated the brothers, thinking them to be week and exhausted from lack of food and sleep. They didn’t see the small sliver of metal that was slipped into the lock. Didn’t notice that the key didn’t engage the main locking mechanism properly. Didn’t feel their necks break.

The brothers swept up through what seemed like a private house, about the size of a small keep. They struck fast, removing guards silently and methodically, and finally making their way to the ground level floors. Here they found their weapons that had been taken from them, in the corner of a banquet room. The scooted over to the pile of gear, and strapped on their weapons and equipment. Each drawing an arrow, Aerandir and Orinar continued their advance through the house.

The two brothers worked together in a seamless partnership, speedily and mercilessly clearing the house of slavers. As Orinar mounted a flight of stairs, Aerandir was there to slay the guard who appeared on the landing. As Aerandir opened a heavy oak door, the guard waiting behind already had an arrow puncturing his throat, a testimony to Orinar’s deadly aim. The two elves lost track of time; sneaking though the house, quietly slaying all they could find, avenging all those that the slavers had taken before. Perhaps they were even avenging their father at those moments their arrows struck home. They didn't know, and it didn't really matter.

Finally, they came back to their senses. Their arrows were all but spent, and the house full of Arabian corpses. Calming down, the brothers grinned grimly at each other, and made their way to the front door. They opened it, to find a long pathway, stretching through a snow covered lawn, and leading to a gate. They started walking, casting a final look back at the now soundless house.

It happened when they were about a third of the way down the snowy path. It was then that Aerandir heard the most frightening and sickening sound he would ever hear. It was a sound that made his heart drop right into his stomach, and would relive itself a thousand times over the next thousand nights as he revisited the moment in his dreams.

Aerandir knew instinctively what had happened. With tears already in his eyes, he notched the last of his arrows to his bow, turned, and released it in a flawless shot that nailed the guard standing in a second floor window, even as his brother slumped forwards, the black fletching of a crossbow bolt protruding from his back.

Over the next couple of weeks, Aerandir was in a kind of deep shock. He vaguely remembers making the long trip home, dragging his brother with him without even knowing why. He didn't sleep for the entirety of the journey, and when he finally made it back to the ruined Tor Luinwe, he collapsed to the ground next to the body of his brother, physically and mentally shattered.

Since then, he has become embroiled in the events surrounding the Skaven attack on Carroburg: while he has learned to trust humans a little more through his association with Richter Valgeir and the other mercenaries who fought against the invasion, he has also come to see how easily they can be corrupted, and the depths of evil to which they can sink. Unable to shake the horrific images of the battle, he has pursued the man known as Turich across the Empire with Valgeir, determined to exact some kind of justice.

Personality: Aerandir lives a very secluded life now, hardly ever being in direct contact with anyone and spending long days alone in his tower, or wandering around in Carrobourg. Whereas before he was joyful and optimistic, he now regards men as little more than animals, having had everything he ever loved taken from him by human slavers. As a result he has become deeply cynical, believing passionately that all men are motivated purely by selfishness. The once cheerful personality he and his brother shared has been demolished, and he hasn't smiled since the fateful day of Orinar’s death. Though he resents his now pointless life, he lacks the determination to destroy the last of the Luinwe line - himself - for his family's sake. Aerandir lives life as a vagrant mercenary, wandering and killing in a depressed state of mental breakdown. He gets through each day in sadness and endless despair, lacking the motivation to find real happiness,

Equipment: longbow & quiver [15 arrows], longsword, hooded cloak.

Gold: 123 Silver: 8

Experience: 4

Skills:
Marksman
Fast Shot
Deadeye Shot
Evade
Honed Reflexes
Acrobatic
Lightning Strike

WS 70
BS 75
S 55
T 60
I 84
Int 70
Wp 80
Nv 70
Ld 60

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Total injury: 0

Name: Bartholomäus Blutighämmern

Race: Human (Sylvanian)

Age: 17

Height: 5’10”

Personality: A youth and one of noble blood, one would expect Bartholomäus to be rash and ‘brave,’ dashing into combat where those with more experience would be inclined to bide their time. Unusually for one of his station, he does not. The grim province of Sylvania does not allow for foolhardy nobility- those inclined to dash bravely into combat quickly vanish; taken by unholy living trees whose grey bark is streaked with rust-coloured blood or slain by the one of the many silver-pelted wolves that stalk the woods. The few who act rashly in youth and survive to age are inevitably grim warriors, cold and untrusting. The few others are vampires and are lost to kith and kin more than those merely slain.

Bartholomäus is a quiet young man, given more to watching those about him before acting. His master, the landed knight Sir Artür von Mordelm encourages this, finding the quiet, cautious youth a great asset at court. Bartholomäus is hardly taciturn, but prefers to retain his counsel until all others have spoken.

In combat the youth fights carefully, disinclined to melee unless absolutely imperative. A member of the Waldenhof pistolier corps, he is a skilled horseman and a decent shot and thus he prefers to use these skills over his swordsmanship which, while adequate, is more suited for duelling than actual combat.

Appearance: Like most in the Sylvanian courts, Bartholomäus is tall and slender, with the sharp, hooked features common amongst the aristocracy. Just shy of six feet, the young man has yet to fill out his frame overmuch, lending his features a gaunt appearance only a shade from being skeletal. This is exacerbated with his dark eyes and slender fingers. His winterstraw coloured hair is pulled into a short and, at least by Reiklander standards, utterly unfashionable ponytail. In a similar manner, his clothing is of good cloth and well kept, but of an older cut. In the practical manner of Sylvanian gentry, he always wears his weaponry, although it is invariably bound at court by white cords.

History: The family Blutighämmern have a long tradition of martial prowess, producing all manner of knights and warlords. Noblemen bearing the surname Blutighämmern have been members of Inner Circles of knights ranging from the Reiksguard to the Black Guard of Mörr. In recent years as the tide of darkness waxes in Sylvania, the family’s fortunes have waned. In the past generation no fewer than seven of the younger knights and courtiers have vanished or been slain by the beasts of Sylvania; two daughters went mad and claimed their own lives and the family matriarch, Dame Velmer Blutighämmern, was blacklisted by the Inquisition for necromancy and suspected vampirism. When cornered by the Templars of Sigmar, she threw herself from the parapets of the family keep and her corpse has not been found.

Most of these matters have been hushed up by the remnants of the family who are naturally eager to retain their good name. To silence, or at least stifle, the witch hunters, the family have come upon a sudden burst of profound faith, gifting the Church of Sigmar with most of the contents of their coffers as well as large swathes of land throughout the Empire- particularly the choice parcels held in the Reikland and southern Wissenland.

Many knights not members of holy orders and without lands of their own have turned to freelancing to keep themselves in silk and wine. Others have joined dubious adventuring armies headed to the southern deserts, western jungles or eastern savannas. Bartholomäus is highly placed within his family, being the great-grand nephew of unfortunate Velmer and the nephew of the new family lord, Master Wilhelm the Taciturn, of the Black Guard of Mörr. His immediate family are unlanded and his father, Moritz, and his elder brothers, Daniel and Cyrill, have some small reputation as stubborn, intractable fighters.

Bartholomäus was squired to Sir Artür von Mordelm, a knight local to Waldenhof with a small parcel of land. Artür’s family hails originally from Ostermark, from which they fled in the year two thousand after the chaos and tumultuous end of Mordheim. They’ve long been established in Sylvania and are regarded by most, including the Blutighämmern family, as honourable men and women.

Whether this is true for the majority of the von Mordelm family or not is irrelevant- Artür was a political machine, only interested in his own advancement. A distant, mostly uncaring master, Artür used his young squire only to further his own ambitions. To that end, he ‘volunteered’ his young protégé to assist in the rescue of the Graf’s daughter, a task which Bartholomäus was only partially suited, having no tracking skills whatsoever. Cooperating in the hope of amassing political capital, Bartholomäus found himself drawn in over his head, as Emilie’s abduction was the tip of an iceberg that would see the lich Dhenra raise the psychopathic Konrad Von Carstein from his grave on Grim Moor, and slaughter most of Waldenhof before he was stopped.

With von Mordelm killed in the fighting, and Bartholomäus’ own prominent role in the destruction of Konrad and defeat of Dhenra, the squire was awarded his master’s estate and hurried off to court in Wurtbad, the new Graf’s attempt to keep him conveniently out of the way. A week or so after his taking up residence in the von Mordelm property, an attempt was made by three men apparently in the pay of the Koehlen family to abduct him: their own incompetence led to their failure, and they were carrying their instructions – to take him to a backwater village in the Middle Mountains - something Bartholomäus viewed as suspicious. Under the creeping suspicion that more informed and able agents were watching the derelict mansion that he was trying to rebuild, he decided to steal a march on both them and the recruiting sergeants, who would soon be hastily mustering an army to oppose Mannfred von Carstein’s returning forces – declaring that he would root out the wretch behind the trespass on his property and rights, he set off for the Middle Mountains alone, hoping to find his old companions along the way – in the light of the Koehlen family’s seeming involvement in Dhenra’s scheme, and the coincidence of location between the kidnappers’ instructions and Dhenra’s challenge to the wizard Matthias, it seemed to him that the two incidents must be connected…

Equipment/Trappings: Aside from a selection of travelling gear, Bartholomäus carries the armour his family has provided for him as a pistolier: a pair of pistols (old, but well-maintained), a set of armour and a short sword.
[2 pistols, 20 shot, 4 packets powder. Breastplate, greaves, bracers, shortsword, rusted arming sword]

Gold: 19 Silver: 4

Experience: 31

Skills:
Rider
Pistolier (counts as Arquebusier)
Deadeye Shot

WS64
BS67
S55
T65
I61
Int60
Wp65
Nv68
Ld70
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 4
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 4
Injury: 7

TORSO:
Armour: 5 (front only)
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 4
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 4
Injury: 0

Total injury: 7

Name: Dante Spada

Appearance: Dante stands at 5’11”. His build is very slim, weighing in at only 167 lbs. For a mercenary, his build is rather odd, as he appears to have very little muscle build. Even more odd, however, is Dante’s attire.
Dante’s body is completely covered by clothing. He wears Tilean attire- knee high black boots, black pants, a white and black slashed sleeved shirt, and a leather jerkin. To protect his hands, which Dante requires in his form of fighting, the Tilean mercenary wears leather gloves. During many of his travels, Dante will wear a dark overcoat or a black traveler’s cloak around his clothing, most likely to protect it from the elements. Most startling about the man’s appearance, however, is the mask he wears. Covering his entire face is a silver-plated mask which is completely enclosed save two small eyeholes. On the edges on the mask, black silk is attached, covering the entire mercenary’s head from sight.

Personality: Dante rarely speaks, only joining in conversation when pertaining to employment or when discussing battle tactics. He often acts cold and emotionless, knowing displaying his emotions may display his true self…

Background: Tilea; a land of warring city-states, a land of plots and assassination, a land of mercenaries. These lands are the perfect breeding grounds for battle hardened warriors, and Dante is no exception.
The youngest son of a baron of the Republic of Verrezo, Dante was never satisfied with his position in life. He was destined to inherit nothing due to the laws of primogeniture that governed the land, his father’s property instead going to his older and decadent brother Lorenzo. This fact of life slowly tore away at Dante’s soul, and drove him to quest for power. At the young age of seven, Dante had already taken up the art of the rapier and had begun to learn combat tactics in his mad quest. He continued down this path for nine years, until the death of his father.
Upon his father’s death, Lorenzo became baron of the land, and, fearing his bother’s growing skills, threw him out of his household. Having no skills save his martial prowess, Dante took up the only position he could- a mercenary. He quickly became known for his skill with deception and assassination, and became more famous throughout the land.
After years of the life of a mercenary, Dante has slowly changed. The young Tilean mercenary is now known through the old world as the “combattente del ferro”- the Iron Duelist. Hired by the Count von Raukov in the defense of Middenheim, Dante became separated from the main army during a retreat, and now traverses the lands alone…

Equipment: rapier, main gauche, mask, leather jerkin, overcoat, gloves, hooded travelling cloak, at least 20 vials, some of which contain a red elixir, well-made town sword.
[Rapier, vial of Black Lotus poison, padded clothes, mask-fronted helm, main gauche: counts as a dagger with the disarming effect achieved from a pair of hook swords]

Gold: 23 Silver: 0

Experience: 44

Skills: Duellist, Lightning Strike, Acrobatic

WS 70
BS 65
S 55
T 62
I 60
Int 60
Wp 50
Nv 70
Ld 60
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 1
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 1
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 1
Injury: 5

GROIN:
Armour: 1
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 1
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 1
Injury: 0

Total injury: 5

Name: Gregor Wechsler
Race/Sex: Human Male
Age: 53
Height: 5 foot 11 inches

Personality: One could describe Gregor as dour. He is not a friendly man: far from it. He is gruff, somewhat uncouth, and if he doesn’t like someone, he has no problems letting them know it. He has never really had or found any need for friends, but simply uses people he deems “useful” so that he can achieve his own goals. He is very suspicious of those around him, and has often been called paranoid, though he prefers to think of himself as “vigilant.” He is quick to anger, and has no problems letting his fists do the talking if an argument gets very heated. As he has aged, he has become increasingly more closed-minded, and now devotes himself fully to his work, caring little for the plights of others. It would be wrong to call him selfish: he has lost much, and thus feels involving himself in the troubles of others could lead to more emotional anguish, something he is not prepared to deal with.

Appearance: Gregor is dressed in unassuming clothes: he prefers to be able to blend into a crowd, rather than stand out. He wears a plain black leather overcoat, which hangs down below his knees. He wears knee-high brown leather boots, and dark brown trousers. His shirt is plain brown cotton, over which he wears a dark leather vest to help keep out the cold. His salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back in a ponytail. His face shows his age, the lines in his forehead and cheeks betraying his otherwise robust figure. One of his ears is partially gone, presumably blown off in some long-forgotten fight. Gregor eschews armor, preferring to rely on stealth and cunning in his chosen profession, rather than brute force and open combat.

History: Gregor Wechsler was born in the city of Hochsleberg in the south of The Empire, the only son of Erich Wechsler, a poor blacksmith. Despite not having very much growing up, Gergor was happy in his early child for perhaps the only time in his life. He was very close to his mother and father, as well as his sister, Katrina. From an early age, his father taught him the rudiments of swordplay, archery (mostly utilizing the crossbow), and unarmed combat. His father had served in the town watch for many years, and was highly regarded by his fellow slum-dwellers. By the time Gregor had reached the age of twelve, he was strong and capable, aiding his father in his shop whenever he could. Despite being a very happy boy, Gregor was an introvert, and never had many friends, unlike his older sister Katrina, who was the subject of many of the other boys’ attentions. He got into fights more than he should, and more than once was sternly disciplined by his father for letting his emotions get the better of him. On the day of his thirteenth birthday, tragedy stuck Gregor for the first, but certainly not the last, time. His mother and father were both struck down by an inexplicable and incurable sickness: within ten days of contracting the foul disease, they were dead. His sister was heartbroken: many were the nights that Katrina would be heard to be weeping for her loss. Gregor responded in a different way: he internalized all his feelings, becoming more and more introverted. It wasn’t that he didn’t care: far from it. It was simply that he couldn’t express his emotions in the same was as his sister.
As they matured, Gregor spent more and more time honing his martial skills. He took on the role of his sister’s protector, and subsequently ruined most of the relations she tried to form with other men, jealously clinging to the last thing he loved in the world. His love slowly began to morph into an obsession, and he saw threats to his sister everywhere, as he grew more and more paranoid. This pattern of behavior was severely taxing on Katrina, and it began to tear her apart. She knew that to escape poverty she had to marry a man who could care for her, but she also knew that her brother would die before letting her go. One night, Gregor returned to the room that he and his sister were sharing at a local inn. He found her there alone with a suitor, and in his rage he beat the man nearly to death with a fire poker, accusing him of rape and attempted kidnapping. Arrested for his actions, Gregor was thrown in jail.

After several months of incarceration, Gregor was finally released and he returned home in search of his sister. She was nowhere to be found, and there was no sign that she had ever lived there. Gregor flew into a rage, demanding that the watch send out a search party to find her kidnapper. When they refused, Gregor cursed the world, cursed the authorities, cursed The Empire itself, and set out to find his sister on his own. Though he found no trace of her, he did discover that he had a nose for tracking. This came not from any innate ability to track, but rather it stemmed from the complete obsession he would have with whatever he was tracking. Seeking to hone his skills, he took up the job of bounty hunter, and from that day forth has scoured The Empire, hunting down its most wanted criminals. He has never given up the search for his sister, however, and with each successive hunt that he goes on, it becomes more and more unclear as to who he is actually searching for: his quarry, or his long-lost sister.

Gregor’s latest hunt brought him to the city of Waldenhof, where his quarry had fled, hoping the dark rumors surrounding the land of Sylvania would see his relentless pursuer off. Gregor, of course, proved him wrong, killing the man in a dark alley near the entrance to Waldenhof. Hearing of the disappearance of the Graf’s daughter, Gregor saw another opportunity to earn some coin through his skills as a tracker, having some faint sympathy for the ruler’s loss: he could not have anticipated the dark turn events would take in the Sylvanian woods.

Since the battle for Waldenhof, he has been following the trail of the sorcerer Dhenra with Matthias, Dante and Emilie, his distrust for the latter two kept in check only by Matthias’ constant diplomacy and their common purpose.

Equipment: crossbow and 20 bolts, plain shortsword, rusted arming sword, dagger (in boot), 6 yards of climbing rope (coiled and held at the belt), three torches, flint and tinderbox, burning oil, pipe with pipeweed, and map of The Empire.

Gold: 100 Silver: 0

Experience: 205

Skills:
Marksman
Deadeye Shot
Expertise (Sword)

WS63
BS60
S58
T60
I63
Int65
Wp70
Nv75
Ld50
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Total injury: 0

Jochen

Background: Born to a low class family in the slums of Carroburg, the former bandit leader known simply as Jochen was always forced to make his own way in the world. Between an indifferent father and a frequently drunk mother, physically and emotionally abusive over the fact that she saw him as the factor that had destroyed her life and freedom, he had access to no resources beyond what he could take for himself, and began thieving at an early age.

For a time he was successful, managing to take enough to keep himself fed and clothed without drawing undue attention to himself. He made contacts of some of the fences and other thieves, and gradually formed into a band with others like himself, working together to make more money than they had ever dreamed of. Of course, this led to ever more ambitious attempts, which quickly drew the eye of the city’s authorities. An organized raid into their hideout captured most of the members of this band, and forced the rest – led by Jochen – out of the city, into hiding.

Outside of the city, the remaining bandits began raiding poorly guarded merchants and travellers, gaining enough of a reputation to draw more followers to them. In the interests of survival, Jochen began training with weapons, primarily those that would be useful from ambush; the shortbow, daggers, and a short sword. The tales of his band continued to grow, drawing ever more and better-trained bandits, until they were capable of attacking even merchant caravans with some number of guards. Jochen’s cunning and growing skill with blades kept him alive and in control, and his warriors were surprisingly loyal, considering their backgrounds.

Then came the invasion of the Empire by the forces of Chaos. With shipments of goods and lone travelers all but gone from the roads, and having no cities desperate enough to accept a large band of thieves into their walls, Jochen’s band retreated to a forest encampment, setting up defences and training for the day when their skills would be useful again.

Unfortunately, the forest they had chosen for their base was in the line of advance for the forces that were attacking, and they were attacked by forces beyond anything they had encountered before. Hideous mutant beasts attacked anyone who left the safety of the buildings, and inhuman screams could be heard from the trees, just out of sight. Knowing that their only hope was to escape, Jochen himself led a desperate attack on the enemy forces, hoping to break through the enemy lines to the safety of Carroburg, who would surely accept their aid in defending the city.

The attack was doomed from the start; each beast was capable of surviving wounds that would fell the hardiest man and continue to fight, and Jochen lost three of his bandits for each monster that fell. Behind the beastmen were Daemons, creatures from the worst tales of childhood, and they proved immune to all but the best-placed strikes. Jochen’s men fell one by one, until he fought alone in a circle of creatures. After a short moment, with Jochen bleeding from numerous wounds, the Daemons stepped back, leaving a path through their ranks to the outskirts of the forest.

Unwilling to question his luck, Jochen ran, breaking from the woods moments later. As he fled down the path leading to town, he heard a voice whisper in his mind: You will serve our purpose better alive than you would dead. Flee now, but remember who granted your life.

The guards at Carroburg let him into the city, seeing only a wounded warrior fleeing the advancing hordes. By the time the invasion had ended, Jochen had disappeared once more into the criminal underground of the city, looking for a quick means to rebuild his contacts and fortune, and doing his best not to think of the words that had been planted in his head.

After the Skaven attack on Carroburg, Jochen found that his past would not let him alone: his mind curdled by the touch of an assassin’s warpstone weapon and Grey Seer Quekrit’s sorcery, he has become fixated on tracking down the mysterious mastermind of the plot, who seems to know the reason for the daemons’ mysterious words in the forest. While he rationalises his compulsion as a search for vengeance for the man who shattered his life for a second time, the truth is that there is little left about Jochen’s actions that is rational – although the initial terrifying intensity has subsided, he has been left subtly unhinged by his experiences.

Description/Personality: Jochen is a man of slightly below average height, with a slender build, giving him the appearance of frailty. His greasy brown hair hangs nearly to shoulder length, tied back with a thin strip of leather. His face is similar to those of most of the peasantry of the Empire, creased from long exposure to the elements and seeming to develop around his large, oft-broken nose. He tends to walk slightly hunched over, avoiding eye contact with anyone else, though those who have seen him in positions of command have remarked upon the change that overtakes him, seeming to physically replace this shifty character with one of the heroes of old.

When travelling in the wilderness, Jochen wears a set of battered armour, composed of leather sewn over with a small number of tarnished metal plates, stripped from the corpses of those he has robbed over the years. Since the loss of his fingers to Quekrit’s warp-lightning, he has abandoned his old shortsword and bow, prevailing on some of his old contacts to forge him a pair of sword-blades attached to broad gauntlets. While they are certainly unorthodox weapons, they are undoubtedly effective.

He tends to avoid physical confrontation where possible, knowing that his physical prowess is much less than those who have dedicated their lives to it, and prefers to attack from ambush when he can’t talk his way out of something. He is a skilled leader, able to quickly earn the loyalty of men like him with his quick mind and body, combined with ambitious plans that tend to lead towards great wealth, but he prefers to avoid drawing attention to himself. His life in the gutters has left him with a somewhat skewed, us-against-them worldview, and there is very little he would be unwilling to do, given the right circumstances.

Equipment:
Two gauntlet-swords (count as broadswords), leather cuirass with chain-link hoops, padded clothes, greaves, tinderbox.

Gold: 79 Silver: 7

Experience: 46

Skills:
Mercantile
Guerrilla Tactics: he gets to disengage once per turn as a free action.
Street Fighter
Honed Reflexes
Hatred (‘T’)

WS 65
BS 67
S 50
T 55
I 63
Int 65
Wp 55
Nv 60
Ld 70
Speed: 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 5
Injury: 0

Total injury: 0

Name: Lothar Haldriksson

Race/Culture: Marienburger Human

Age: 39

Height: 5’11”

Personality: Outwardly, Lothar was a cheerful, happy-go-lucky kind of guy who would always crack a joke or offer to buy someone a drink. He got along well with everyone, and always seeming to find a way to lighten up a situation. With a personality like his, it was hard to believe that he is, in fact, one of the most ruthless killers in the Old World. Once, he was one of the most notorious hitmen in Marienburg. When he got down to business, his cheerful personality contrasted chillingly with his remorseless behaviour. He can be very sneaky and almost treacherous when he wants to be -- he'll think nothing of calling someone down for a parlay simply so that he can get close enough for a fatal stab. Whenever anyone voices their disgust or shock at what he has just done, he often simply shrugs and says "It's just business."
The truth, however, is that Lothar's outward personality was nothing more than a front: deep down inside, he is a deeply depressed individual who feels that his life has lost all purpose. Once or twice, he has even attempted suicide in the past, but has always failed. Now, he simply drifts along wherever fate takes him, trying to cope with life as best he can.

Since the events that transpired at Tarn Dhul, Lothar has lost something of his ‘normal’ façade: he is now strongly fixated on hunting down ‘Kruger’ and Somers, both out of pure hatred (especially for the latter), and in the knowledge that where they go, the daemon Khal-Tzaan must be nearby. While he holds the daemon in a mixture of terror and loathing, he also knows from first-hand experience that there is nothing more certain to end in death than trying to fight it.

Appearance: Clean-shaven, short brown hair. Those who have known him have commented that there is a hollowness to his smile, a secret despair in his eyes.

History:
Lothar Haldriksson is an old drinking companion of Captain Beringar. Additionally, whether Beringar knows it or not, Lothar was once one of the most highly-paid assassins in Marienburg. Working for various criminal underlords at a time, Lothar was ruthlessly efficient at his work, and had a 95% success rate.

However, years of murder began to eventually take their toll on Lothar: he fell into depression, and briefly turned to alcoholism. Things got worse for him when the Marienburg constabulary filed a warrant for his arrest, forcing him to flee the city. For a few years, Lothar wandered the old world as a mercenary, his depression building all the while. Once or twice, Lothar tried to kill himself, but both times, he failed to to abysmal bad luck (or good luck, whichever way you look at it).

Eventually, Lothar heard that his old friend Beringar had formed a mercenary company somewhere in Kislev, and journeyed up to join it. He quickly became the unofficial stealth and infiltration specialist of the company, lending the skills he had lived by in Middenheim to the service of the company. It is for this reason that his fellow mercenaries looked on him with an equal measure of respect and fear -- a few of them had seen how ruthless Lothar can be at eliminating enemies, and no one wants to get on his bad side.

During the battle for Tarn Dhul, his already tenuous sanity was further scarred by the carnage of the wood elf attack and his personal encounter with the daemon Khal-Tzaan: his survival of the Lord of Change’s attack, and his successfully escaping the Asrai who pursued him out of Athel Loren almost led him to believe that the daemon knew his mind, and was perversely trying to keep him alive against his will: he had already encountered its manipulation in his dreams, playing on his deepest fears and desires to keep him on Kruger’s side as long as was necessary for it to be freed. When he returned to the village of Halgerbach, he was taken in and confined as a lunatic, raving about tree-monsters and winged daemons – he managed to escape, and since then has been making his way across the Empire close on the trail of his enemies.

Equipment/Trappings:
Leather vest, the dagger Johann didn't notice, a worn whittling stick, actual wooden dice that he bought in Ostland.

[Leather jack, dagger]

Gold: 32 Silver: 8

XP: 12

Skills:
Street Fighter
Lightning Strike
Expert Shot
Deadeye Shot
Stubborn


WS69
BS72
S61
T58
I66
Int59
Wp51
Nv65
Ld41
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 4

RIGHT ARM
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM
Armour: 0
Injury: 4

TORSO
Armour: 2
Injury: 0

GROIN
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Injury total: 8

Name: Matthias Stromheim
Race: Human
Age: 22
Height: 6’1”

Personality:
Matthias is one of those people who you either love or hate. He was popular amongst his peers at the Bright College, but was scorned by many of his superiors, who thought of him as disrespectful and overconfident. Many of his doubters were proved right when he quit the college, but his friends thought well of him for standing up for his beliefs. He is trusting and merciful, always willing to have fun, but is deadly serious when the situation calls for it. Although he has matured, he is still a little blasé about his use of magic sometimes, which has led to the witch hunters calling on him more than once. He has an innate dislike of riding horses.

Appearance:
Matthias has blue eyes and long, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. He always wears his Bright order robes. He stands around six feet tall, and has a huge scar cut across his right cheek, ruining a previously very handsome face. A small brooch of a dragon is pinned over his chest.

History:
Matthias Stromheim was once a promising young wizard in the Bright College of Magic, Altdorf. His animated personality and ability to talk his way out of difficult situations made him popular among his peers, although it often annoyed some of the more traditionalist nobles. Despite his preference for fire magic, he had the foresight to study rudimentary spells from other orders, including basic healing techniques. He was the favourite pupil of the Wizard Lord Cederick Scorn, who Matthias thought of as a replacement for the father he never had. It was only natural then that when Cederick fell out with Thyrus Gormann and quit the college, Matthias followed him. Cederick took Matthias under his wing as his apprentice, and the two travelled the Empire gaining experience.

When they heard of the Karak Kadrin siege, they set out on the long journey there, hoping to assist the Slayer Keep in repelling the forces of Chaos. On route, however, they were ambushed by at least two score of beastmen. The wizards fought the mutants as only mages of the fire college can, scorching many of the abominations before the creatures reached them. They fought valiantly, but were gravely outnumbered. Cederick was slain by an axe blow to the neck, throwing Matthias into a rage. He cast the most powerful spell he'd ever been taught, the Flaming Sword. He had little finesse and technique, but his raw fury won through. He hacked left and right with the magical weapon, until none of the foul creatures remained. Exhausted, he collapsed.

His adventures were not to end there, however. Many young wizards would have drifted back towards the safety of the colleges – not so Matthias. Something drew him to continue the hike up the mountain path. Soon, however, the decision seemed foolish. In a cruel echo of the events of the last few days, he was assaulted by a score of goblin wolf riders. He fought as best he could, but he was exhausted. Just as the final greenskins took him to the ground, help arrived.

Six warriors rode in on horseback and put the goblins to flight, among them Dante the duellist, Mirroseth the elf and Alec the pistoleer. They were on a quest to rid the dwarfhold of Karak Azal of whatever had stopped its communications with the outside world. Young and naïve, the idea of an adventure appealed to the apprentice wizard, and after healing the wounded Mirroseth, he joined the group.

The quest led them up into the World’s Edge mountains, where they found hordes of greenskins and warriors of Chaos camped outside the stronghold. As luck would have it, they ran into a small scouting party of Kislevites, who helped them to sneak inside their target. What they found shocked them beyond belief: the mighty dragon Caradroc, warped by the powers of Chaos, hoarding the dwarf treasure and the potent “Hammer of Valaya.” They slew the beast, but at great cost. The only surviving dwarfs of Karak Azal burned to death, and Alric and Lodain of the group were mercilessly butchered.

The fate of Azal was not the only revelation to come, however. Dante admitted that he bore the curse of undeath, Konrad attempted to betray the party and steal the hammer, and Mirroseth lost the battle with his inner daemons, giving in to the temptations of the Druchii and fleeing alone with the priceless weapon. In the events that followed, all hell broke loose between the orcs and followers of Chaos. The Tzeentchian Warlord Aqur and his bodyguards were killed, largely due to the abilities afforded by Dante’s curse. The Orc Warboss Ghurzat was slain by the traitorous elf, who in turn was felled by Alec. The hammer retrieved, the hold’s fate discovered, the adventure was over. Matthias returned with Dante and Alec to the inn where it had all begun, just days before he met them. He’d accepted what Dante was; it hadn’t stopped him doing what was right. Still, the actions of Mirroseth, Aqur et al had shown him something. There was evil across the globe. There was also money to be made fighting it. He could do good, and make his way in the world. He didn’t need the colleges.

He had lingering doubts in his abilities, however. He’d been a hotshot back at the college: effortlessly talented, able to charm his way through life. Now, though, life was different. Aqur had effortlessly outclassed him, he’d sensed a mage in the orc camp that was scarily powerful, and back at the inn they’d encountered the Chaos Sorcerer who seemed to have set up all that had happened at Karak Azal. This spellcaster had thrown Matthias across the room with just a flick of his finger. He’d learnt that life wasn’t like the Altdorf Globe Theatre – the good guys didn’t always win.

The sorcerer plagued his nightmares as Matthias made his way back to the Empire. Sometimes Aqur joined him, mocking his puny, mortal ways. Occasionally a small goblin cackled away in the background. The mage still put up his cheerful, friendly front, but alone he worried, and cursed the Dark Gods. He knew that he’d never be properly happy again until he had closure, proof that the sorcerer was gone for good. Proof that he could go toe-to-toe with the worst the forces of evil could throw at him. He had to complete his training.

Matthias came to Sylvania after hearing rumours of the plight of the Graf. Back in Altdorf the apprentice wizards were often send out to perform simple charms and spells for the nobles, and he’d developed friendships with quiet a few of the upper class, including Ruprecht Van Dort, the kidnapped girl’s fiancée. Volunteering for the rescue mission, Matthias didn’t realise that his old enemy would surface again, this time the guiding hand behind a returned Konrad Von Carstein. Facing down Dhenra on the battlements of Waldenhof Keep, the sorcerer managed to slip through his fingers once more: before he escaped, however, he challenged Stromheim to meet him in the Middle Mountains.

It was not a challenge that Matthias could walk away from.

Equipment: Matthias carries an elaborate staff, the symbol of his position & his college. It is a long, smooth stave of mahogany, tipped by a golden motif of spread eagle's wings with a yellowish gem fused into the gilt. The crystal glows with an faint, fiery inner light that is both intriguing and disturbing. Since his time in the World’s Edge Mountains, he has also kept a plain shortsword with him, knowing that his magic cannot, and oft-times should not, be relied upon to get him out of every situation. He dresses in the colours and uniform of his college, although his old robes are somewhat faded from wear: he relies on them to convince the witch hunters and mage-lynching mobs that are too prevalent in the Empire that he is a sanctioned spellcaster.

Gold: 54 Silver: 0

Experience: 21

Skills: None

Battle spells:

Flaming Sword: Casting value 10+, conjures flaming arming sword for 2 turns.
Fires of U’zhul: Does 2D6 ranged flaming damage. Casting value 7+
Cauterise: Heals 2D6 points of damage on touch. Casting value 7+.
Fireball: Does D10 ranged flaming damage, with a blast radius of 1.5 yards. Casting value 10+
Shield of Aq’shy: Summons a magical shield that will absorb up to 10 points of damage, or 20 points if the damage is flaming: the wizard must remain stationary to maintain the shield. The shield lasts the remainder of the turn. Casting value 10+

Lesser Spells:
Spark: Casting value 3+. Generates a spark of Aethyric energy which can be used to light fires, pipes, and the like.
Glowing Light: Casting value 2+. The wizard causes any object he is holding to glow like a lantern for an hour, or until he lets go (whichever comes soonest).
Sky Sign: Casting value 6+. The wizard gains D3 re-rolls to be used within the next 10 minutes.

WS65
BS50
S60
T55
I60
Int70
Wp70
Nv75
Ld65

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 0
Injury: 10

GROIN:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Total injury: 0

Name: Oswin Korvich

Race: Human

Age: 24

Height: 180 cm

Personality
Scheming. He will act in whatever manner the occasion calls for, a skill he has developed well over the years. When alone he will go into his usual demeanor, quiet and brooding.

Appearance
Striking facial features inherited from his noble background, but kind of scrawny. He tries to set his appearence for the situation, and does it quite well.

History
Oswin Korvich was the son of an imperial nobleman, and a child of great privilege. Although blessed with a naturally sharp mind, his spoiled upbringing made him incredibly lazy. He would only ever exert an effort at the last possible instance, but still end up succeeding.

His father couldn’t stand his idle nature and tried to reform him through military training, but Oswin had never been particularly adept when it came to physical tasks and failed at it. In a last ditch effort to fix his attitude, Oswin was sent to the colleges of magic.

This was something Oswin did enjoy, and for a solid year he devoted himself to study, far surpassing his fellow students and delving into the lore of shadows. However, being ahead, he eventually stopped trying as hard and he was quickly caught up to and overtaken by the other students. Rather than catch up he dropped out.

As he returned home, his father awaited him at the door. Oswin tried to enter but was pushed back. His father called him a disgrace and told him that he would never again be allowed to set foot in this house. He could hear his mother crying from within the building and realized that if her tears could not move him, Oswin’s words would have no effect. His father handed him a small purse of coin, and promptly closed the door in his face.

The money did not last him long, and Oswin soon found himself lounging in a tavern staring at his last coin. Picking it up, he began to spin the coin across his fingers, a trick he had learned when he was a child. It came back to him easily and he began to spin the coin faster and faster until with a flick of his wrist, he made it disappear. The coin had of course simply been dropped into his sleeve, but the speed of the move would be lost on a casual observer, of which there were quite a few.

The sound of an amused clap brought Oswin’s gaze upward, slightly bewildered. Several sets of eyes met his scan of the room around him, and it struck Oswin that if he could impress these people so easily, he could perhaps do the same elsewhere. Taking initiative, he performed another simple trick, leading one of the other patrons to buy him a drink. Oswin realized how lucrative this could be, performing parlour tricks for small coin to feed himself, before moving on to the next town when his act grew stale.

When he incorporated a bit of magic into one of his acts, making someone disappear by teleporting them into a nearby alley, he was run out of town. A group of thieves had been watching his act though, and his magical ability and nimble hands had caught their attention. The ruffians approached Oswin with a simple proposition, join them and steal from people, or take a knife in the ribs.

Needless to say, Oswin chose to continue living, and so by day he took the people’s money openly at his displays, while at night he snuck into homes and robbed those same people blind.

This lasted for a few years until Oswin realized that he was doing all the real work now. He demanded a larger cut, and was beaten down swiftly. When he healed up sufficiently to continue working, he executed a spiteful plan.

As the group worked their way into the next target, a wealthy manor they had scouted for some time, a dark smile could be seen on Oswin’s lips. As they broke in, the group realized that Oswin had disappeared. Before they could react though, the lights were uncovered and the room around them revealed. Several of the town’s guard stood there awaiting them.

Oswin returned to the hideout alone, the only member of the band that hadn’t gone to the job was the leader, and Oswin knew he would be waiting. When the boss saw Oswin enter alone, he immediately suspected treason and moved for his weapon.

Not quickly enough though, as his arm was rendered useless by the knife that now stuck through his forearm. Oswin had practiced this act often, and it was just as easy to hit the target as it was to miss. Another knife flew threw the air, and another, and another, until the bandit leader had his arms and legs paralyzed by the blades.

Oswin gave his employer two choices, tell him where the stash was, or die.

The response he received was not a great one, a string of curses and spittle launched in his direction. The magician and thief sighed lightly as he drew out another knife. Spinning quickly, he threw the small blade at the immobilized man. The knife imbedded itself in the target’s throat, and Oswin left the man to die as he scoured the hideout for the band’s money.

What he did find was not enough to keep him going for very long, it was disappointing but impossible to remedy. Retrieving his knives he left the hideout and continued on to the next city. He still continues his acts, performing tricks by day and then robbing homes at night, before moving on once again.

His travels have led him here, to the city of Waldenhof. The first manse he noticed was that of Reinhart Von Marienburg, and he marked it as his target before he headed to the nearest tavern. As he drank in silence he heard of the missing daughter and the substantial reward being offered.

This he liked the sound of, he could take the job and scout out the place, take the man’s money for fulfilling the job, and then come back to rob him later. He would just need to ensure that his real magic would be useful in getting the job done, how hard could it be?

After the chaos that followed, Oswin found himself motivated for the first time by something other than direct personal gain: the sorcerer Dhenra’s plans had discarded him like like a faceless peasant, nearly precipitating his violent death at the hands of Konrad Von Carstein himself. Once he had finished extracting everything of value he could obtain from the keep, he set off in pursuit of the sorcerer – no-one treated him like that and got away with it.

Equipment
A reversible cloak, purple on one side, black on the other; suited for his dual occupations of magician and thief. He basically carries with him two sets of equipment and clothing; one consisting of fine clothing and the tools of his magic acts (flash powder, trick rings, coins, etc.), the other drab clothing and the tools of the thief (lockpicks and such). In terms of weapons, he has a set of twelve throwing knives with which he is reasonably proficient from afar, not particularly great up close.

Since his time in Waldenhof, and taking up Dhenra’s pursuit, he has been equipping himself a little more fully for the hunt – not least with a pedigree racehorse stolen from the new Count’s stables…

[12 Throwing Knives, Dagger, set of lockpicks, biased coin, 5 packets of dwarf flash-powder, poorly forged College licence, 40 feet of rope, flint & tinder, 3 small hand mirrors, 3 bottles of Dr. Jonas Goldberger’s Cure-All Paste, roll of bandages, three days’ provisions, blanket]

Gold: 56 Silver: 0

XP: 66

Skills:
Trick Throw (Marksman)
Lightning Strike
Honed Reflexes

Spells:
Shadowcloak: Korvich wraps himself in shadow, making him difficult to detect. All others are at -40% to perceive Oswin while this spell is in effect. Once cast, it remains until Oswin casts another spell, attacks someone, or loses his concentration – this can happen through taking a hit, being distracted or any other feasible way, although a Wp test can be taken to keep his concentration. 7+ to cast.
Bewilder: This spell can be cast on any character who Oswin can see and who can see Oswin back: the victim must take a Wp test or count as stunned for the next round. 6+ to cast.
Doppelganger
Casting value: 9+
You can take on the appearance (including clothing and armour) of any living, humanoid creature under ten feet tall (i.e. humans, elves, orcs…) for 30 minutes. A successful Willpower test is required to duplicate the features of a specific individual – otherwise, you just look like a generic member of that race.

Lesser Spells:
Witch-Lights
Magic Alarm

WS55
BS65
S55
T55
I69
Int69
Wp65
Nv60
Ld65
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 0
Injury: 9

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Total injury: 0

Name: Richter Valgeir

Race: Human

Appearance: Richter stands six feet tall, and looks very much the intimidating ex-ranger. He is clad from head to toe in black, except for his cloak – a souvenir from his previous job. This hooded cloak was expertly crafted using a variety of green and brown fabrics to help Richter remain unseen by his enemies. His skin is pale and his features are rough and intense – years in the wilderness have done nothing for Valgeir’s looks. An old, battered shirt of chainmail hangs under his tunic, but other than this he is unarmoured.

Personality: Richter is harsh and unforgiving. He often makes his mind up about a person within the first few minutes of meeting them, and once he has decided, he rarely changes his mind. He is fanatically faithful to his god, Sigmar, and to his Grand Theogonist, Johann Esmer. Although he likes to think he has scrupulous principles, Valgeir will stop at nothing to get his own way and to carry out what he interprets to be the will of Sigmar. He is also highly xenophobic, and refuses to place any trust in elves or dwarves.

History: Richter Valgeir was born some thirty years ago in Marienburg. He never knew his mother, but his father, a rich merchant, took good care of him and he wanted for nothing. His father often organized caravans travelling to far off lands in search of valuable goods, and wherever his father went, Richter went too. By the age of fifteen, Richter had seen more of the world than most men see in a lifetime. He had travelled east to the mystical lands of Ind, and south to the scorching deserts and majestic palaces of Araby. He had been north to the brutal settlements of the Norse, and west to Ulthuan, home of the elves. Indeed, there was only one corner of the world that Richter had not visited, and he begged his father to organise an expedition there. His father resisted, saying that the road was far too dangerous, and very few would be willing to risk the journey. Nonetheless, Richter persisted. He nagged at his father for months before he finally agreed. Richter Valgeir was going to Cathay.

His father’s merchant guild turned out in force for the trip. It seemed that Marienburg’s elite were willing to risk death and damnation going to the ends of the earth for a profit. The caravan travelled east, through Carroburg and Altdorf, then turned south, past Nuln and Stirland. It rattled through the World’s Edge Mountains, then over the so-called “Darklands”. On numerous occasions the caravan was attacked by roving bands of orcs and goblins, but the guards stood firm and the attacks were repelled. One of the merchants gave Richter a longbow, and he honed his skills with it defending the caravan. In the month it took for the caravan to cross those treacherous lands, Valgeir became adept with the bow, able to hit a goblin on wolfback from hundreds of yards. It was his sixteenth birthday when the caravan finally left the plains and arrived at a small town named Durburg. Richter’s father decided that the group would stay for a few days here, reasoning that it would be a long time before they reached civilisation again.

Richter and his father’s guild were not the only foreigners in Durburg at this time. Many merchants visit Durburg to try to sell their wares to those en route to Cathay, and one evening Richter’s father went to down to the market to purchase some supplies. He returned with a glowing green amulet, which he said would protect the caravan from magical attacks. Two days later, the caravan moved off down the Silver Road.

The journey disappointed Richter. He had expected glorious, exciting combat. Instead, the long, dry days all seemed to roll into one. The caravan trundled along slowly, and all Richter could do was stare out across the mountains. His father, too, appeared to be changing. Where once he had been friendly and playful with Richter, now he was quiet and scornful. He spent longer and longer alone in his cabin, fiddling with his amulet. Richter had spent many long hours reading back home in Marienburg, and he had taken a special interest in magical artefacts. He knew that all magic drew its roots from Chaos, and the danger that brings. He was beginning to suspect that the amulet was tainted, that it was taking hold of his father. His worst fears were confirmed when his father shot a guard for falling asleep on duty. His old father would never have even considered such a thing. Anger welling up inside him, Richter leapt upon his father from behind.

“Heretic!” the teenager bellowed. “I will return you to the light of Sigmar!” His father threw him over his shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground, then drew his warhammer.

“I am no heretic,” he stated, clearly and calmly. “My amulet is purely defensive, and there is nothing of the dark four about it.” Richter knew at this point that he had been correct. He hadn’t mentioned the amulet, or Chaos, but his father had still brought it up. Realising his mistake, the older Valgeir hefted the hammer. “You will not part me from my treasure!” He swung the hammer down, but Richter had rolled aside. He leapt to his feet, grabbing a knife from the tabletop. His father swung again, but Richter ducked underneath it, thrusting out with the blade. It punctured his father in the side, sending him reeling. Pressing home the advantage, Richter quickly notched an arrow to his bow. He fired it, almost point blank, into what had once been his father’s heart. The heretic crumpled backwards, falling out of the still moving carriage. The cartwheel, then the horse behind, trampled over Henrik Valgeir’s corpse. Richter’s father was dead. Knowing that he would be found tainted merely by association with his father, Richter jumped out of the carriage, down onto the dusty path. He rolled into a bush, and watched the caravan pass. It seemed he was not going to Cathay after all. Once he was sure the road was quiet, Valgeir ran out to what was left of his father’s body. It had been mutilated by the sheer weight of the caravan. Richter hefted his father’s warhammer, feeling its weight. Deciding it would be useful for the road ahead, Valgeir clipped it to his belt. He began the slow trek back to Durburg – he would find the man responsible for his father’s demise, and slay him personally.

When he finally made it back to the mountain town, he found the place in pandemonium. A peasant informed him that the witch hunters had discovered a merchant had been selling Chaotic goods, and he had fled into the mountains. The witch hunter captain was recruiting keen-eyed men to act as rangers, in the vain hope of finding the man. Without thanking the peasant for the information, Richter rushed to the town square. Sure enough, there was a small group of men gathered around a man clad fully in black. Valgeir joined them, and within days he had been tasked with leading five of the Durburgers into the mountains.

For months the rangers searched, looking desperately for any sign of the man. The men’s rations quickly ran out, but they lived off the land – using their longbows to hunt mountain goats and sheep. Any farmers who objected to their animals being commandeered were executed by Richter personally. He said that they were trying to stop Sigmar’s work, so they must be Chaos cultists. The other rangers grew wary of Richter. His moods were getting darker, and soon he was more fanatical than the witch hunter captain back in Durburg. He uncaringly ordered the other rangers around; they were mere peasants in his eyes, whereas he was one of Marienburg’s finest.

After a year of pitiful searching, Valgeir took to stopping any traveller on the river or upon the mountain paths. He scorned mages, putting more than one to death for “aiding the arch enemy”. He interrogated any dwarfs or elves found in the region. Why were they here? Who sent them?

Eventually, Valgeir gave up his duties. If the merchant was still in the mountains, he’d have been found by now. The captain of the Durburg rangers silently pledged to travel the world and cleanse it of the forces of Chaos.

One night, as the other rangers slept, Richter slipped away into the night. He returned to Durburg to find it very much as it had been when he had first visited with his father. Merchants and mercenaries intermingled, and Richter decided that the best way back to the Old World was hitching a ride on a caravan as a guard. He found one about to set off for the Empire, and got himself employed.

Since returning to the Empire, Richter has become increasingly suspicious of his fellow man. He has killed scores whom he suspected of cult activity, caring not whether the innocent suffer. He lives his life by the principle that it is better that ten innocents die than one heretic survives. In recent years he has also taken to hiring himself out as a mercenary. He has found that many a sellsword has given his life to the dark powers, so Richter has plenty of targets to unleash his wrath upon. His recent experiences in Carroburg have both deepened and tempered his intolerance: while his tendency to see enemies everywhere has if anything been exacerbated, he has been forced to trust others, if only for a short time: even the elf Aerandir has managed to earn his respect.

Equipment: An old but nonetheless well kept longbow hangs over Richter’s shoulder. This was his weapon of choice during his years as a ranger, but since then he has discovered that there are far more effective ways to punish his enemies. His father’s warhammer hangs from his belt, and although it is not much on the eye, it is brutally effective when wielded either one- or two-handed. Richter also keeps a loaded pistol hidden in a holster at his ankle. Many of those whom he considers to be heretical or unfaithful to his beloved god Sigmar have fallen to a shot from this weapon – often without their knowing that they were even under scrutiny. Richter will not hesitate to draw this upon his “comrades” if he believes them to carry the taint of chaos. He will not use it in actual combat unless the situation is truly dire.
[Warhammer, Longbow, 20 arrows, chainmail shirt, pistol, 5 shot, 1 packet of powder]

Gold: 20 Silver: 0

Experience: 2

Skills:
Zealot
Stubborn
Hatred (Followers of Chaos) (Skaven)
Deadeye Shot

WS 68
BS 65
S 60
T 55
I 55
Int 50
Wp 70
Nv 80
Ld 55
Speed 5

HEAD
Armour: 0
Injury: 10

RIGHT ARM:
Armour: 6
Injury: 0

LEFT ARM:
Armour: 6
Injury: 0

TORSO:
Armour: 6
Injury: 0

GROIN:
Armour: 6
Injury: 0

LEFT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

RIGHT LEG:
Armour: 0
Injury: 0

Total injury: 12