Omens and Portents In The Old World

Bitter End of the Road

It’s been just over a year since you fled your home in the Reikland.

Things prospered for your patron house, and Lord Rickard’s influence in the city of Ubersreik and it’s countryside grew.
During a campaign to construct a new Temple and Library of Verena you discovered a conspiracy among some of the city-states nobles and merchant houses to sabotage the project by altering architectural plans and cause a collapse of the structure after it’s completion, hoping to add fuel to the rumor that his house is tainted since marrying into the von Bruner family.

Your efforts to expose the guilty parties was subverted at every turn until it came to light that Dietrich’s very house (Vogel) was behind the countermeasures.

During the turmolt, a retinue of Witch Hunters, Templars of the Holy Order of Sigmar, made their way into the city. Their order had been flooding the countryside for months. Ever since the incident at Grunwald Lodge, word had made it’s way across the county over the walls of the capital in Altdorf, into the hallowed halls of the Cathedral of Sigmar. There rumors spiraled into paranoia and zealotry.
After a slew of citizens, noble and peasant alike, were exposed to warpstone powder at a masked ball, causing them to mutate into horrid Chaos Spawn, evidence was discovered that implicated Lord RIckard in the crime and linking him to far more horrendous sins.

The Witch Hunters needed no more to place Rickard under arrest.

Your own master and lord Rickard Ashaffenberg was accused of the heinous sin of conspiring with the ruinous power and after a lengthy trial was convicted by the Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar and sentenced to the pyre.

After his execution his family and cohorts were also brought under suspicion. You escaped the city under the cover of night and fled north toward Marienburg.

After months of traveling, rarely settling for more than a few nights at a time, you’ve drawn close to the north western coast and are nearing the wastelands that surround Marienburg, a wet rotten estuary of peat bogs, fetid marsh, wetlands and soggy soil.

You’ve subsisted on the little silver and even less gold you had in your pockets when you flew from the city a little over a year ago. You’ve worked odd jobs along the way, laying low as farmhands and manual laborers, only one or two occasions lending your arms for little to no reward.

You’ve at long last drawn close to the Wastelands, the barren soggy curse of a land that surrounds, and in fact protects, the free City State of Marienburg from approach by armies on its land side. It’s opposite side is flanked by the Sea of Claws and further out the Middle Sea and beyond. There you can hope to find respite from the persecution of the Templars and Church of Sigmar.

It is mid-summerzeit and the road is thick with mist, and the humidity is heavy in the air. Occasional hillocks of barren grey earth jut out from the flat landscape around you. Twisted black trees line the path on either side of you. The warm climate and lack of wind during the past couple days ride has left you exhausted, your mounts are hungry as the last coaching inn (a poor establishment with a peculiar smell) had no hay for them to eat, and the dry scrub patches that dot the forest floor provide little in the way of sustenance. Your stomachs also ache, as your rations have run low and your coin purses light. You were told by the proprietor of the inn that a town called Fauligmere, a small fishing village, lay two days downriver from Marienburg proper, saving time and risk travelling through the wasteland by road. He was vague as to whether you could acquire a boat there, but the thought of a hot meal and a bunk on a dry bed is a welcome one.

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