The hulking, cloaked figure sat in the back corner of the Trench’s Head tavern nursed a mug of warm ale on an uncharacteristically cold night in the Scarlands. An unnatural chill had seemingly touched the whole length of the Ur-River as rumors abounded of an orruk demi-god risen from the Age of Myth to slay godbeasts, daemons and other ridiculous ideas that made Knight-Questor Rahlia Greygreave snort with bemusement.
Whatever the reason, the unexpected winter weather had frozen much of Trench Hunter Cove, stranding the boisterous inhabitants of Reaver’s Glory at their local tavern and leaving them with nothing to do but drink, gossip, and brawl. Sailors swore up storms as they described how Captain Castian slew the legendary Krabnos upon the Karkino Sea, stealing the kill and plundering the Hall of Drowned Gold from under the noses of their rivals. They boasted how even now they were building a new tavern from its ponderous shell, a new home for all who took part in the hunt.
Rahlia lost track of how many fights broke out over the size, shape, origin and even name of Krabnos, and the Stormcast thought she might lose her mind before Sigmar’s next vision when whispered words caught her ear.
“Lissen, I ain’t gonna lie t’ya,” came a sibilant voice from a table nearby. “This rift is one of them stable ones, don’t let any tell ya otherwise. Straight to Azyr, shining halls and all. You’n yours’ll be safe. Jus’ don’t go tellin’ anyone else, y’hear? ‘Cause then Sigmar’s heavens won’t be so safe n’more, see? Wouldn’t want anythin’ nasty followin’ ya there, threatenin’ your family again. Them heavenfolk’ll give ya the boot if’n they knew you brought ‘em trouble, but trust me, these papers...” Rahlia heard the rustle of parchment, “...will make it seem like you belong. Nicked ‘em from some workers myself, I did.”
“Oh, thank you, kind soul!” came the emotional response. “Thank you! I swear, only my family and their kin, that’s all I’ll bring with me.”
“See that y’do. Come’n back tomorrow with the Ghyranis, an’ I’ll tell ya where to find it. Now, off with you, I’ve said too much a’ready…”
Rahlia shook her head, saddened as another lost soul bought into the lie that Azyr could be reached by just anyone. Still, she would need to put a stop to it; it was the least she could do while she waited. As the information broker slid out the door, the Knight-Questor realized the situation might be more interesting than she had believed as another robed figure followed him out. She departed as silently as a shadow, none in the tavern even taking notice despite her size.
Leaving the raucous establishment and the monstrous skull it was built from behind, she allowed both figures to get well ahead of her, just to be safe. The broker didn’t seem to notice his stalker, and neither did his pursuer realize it was being hunted. It wasn’t long before they had left the small village and skirted around the teeth of the cove, using the rocks for cover. The Knight-Questor expected to find a den of scum and villainy at the end of the trail.
Rahlia lost sight of them for a moment, and as she approached the metallic tang of blood caught on the cold night air. She rushed forward, drawing her blade as she moved, and found the broker asprawl, his throat slit and his entrails spilled from his belly. His killer was already slipping away, fleeing toward a cove.
The Stormcast was faster, her long legs closing the distance with the alacrity of lightning. The hilt of her blade caught the side of the creature’s head as her free hand ripped the cloak from it. Moments later, she held a burly beastman by the throat, blade pressed to its heart.
From her many hunts, the Knight-Questor knew something was wrong. The loathsome Brayherds were in decline, hated even by their own gods. This one wore primal fetishes not unlike those she had seen on bonesplitter orruks, another dying breed. If this was a den of thieves, why hadn’t their sentries stopped this creature from gutting one of their own?
“Why did you kill that man, beast?” she hissed. “Thunder marches,” it bleated with what she assumed was a grin. “And only the March can call it home!” Before she could question the beastman further, it wildly stabbed a concealed dagger at her kidneys. Rahlia snapped its neck and put her sword through its heart well before the blade reached her. Dropping the punctured corpse, she realized the coppery smell of blood was much too strong for two bodies.
She approached the cove and found two more mortals there, perforated by crooked arrows. Entering the hideout, she ignited her mace to reveal what had been a smugglers den had now become a charnel house. The dead were eviscerated and torn apart, slashed with hacking blades and wicked claws. She found no orruks or gors among the dead, but their work was unmistakable none-the-less. More concerningly, she could find no ledgers nor maps in the den, nothing written to show the smugglers routes our deals, much less the location of this alleged rift. Even their trinkets and effects had been taken, despite these beasts typically caring little for such baubles.
Rahlia shook her head. She bore little fondness for the cutthroats, but she would need to hunt down this band of savages before they could further threaten-
Then Sigmar spoke to her with a splitting peal of silent thunder, and her next quest began.