Been Around the Block
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This is a short bit I did for a Warhammer campaign I'm in, for my Beastmen army: The Gorgheist Clan
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Father Hinzermann cursed the unholy weather, the injustice of his posting, and the stupidity and primitive superstitions of the people of Kilhaug in equal measure as once more a gust of wind came down the chimney and extinguished the fire. He threw back the thin blanket and shuffled across his small room to re-light it. Though it had been several hours since the evening service had finished, soft white light still pressed in from outside. This far north, the sun did not set till late, and but for a few hours even then. Outside the snow still fell in fat, drifting flakes that settled on and obscured any corners or hard edges, diminishing the signs of civilization that had been imposed on the land.
Hinzermann snorted at the notion of civilization being used to describe this pathetic hovel as he struggled to kindle a flame. A simple misunderstanding involving the improper distribution of the tithes and donations given to his former temple in Talabheim had been blown completely out of proportion by the local head of the Sigmarite cult. As penance, he had been tasked with bringing the civilising word of Sigmar to the wild towns of the far north.
His heart had sank as he and his entourage trundled into town after a three week journey in increasingly frigid weather. Kilhaug consisted of little more than a dozen buildings huddled, as if for warmth, around a muddy crossroads. The only building of any size was the stone chapel built by the former missionary to the town, from whom no word had been heard of in some months. Waiting for him in front of it was the leader of Kilhaug’s people: a man named Venacher.
Hinzermann cursed the man’s obstinence as he finally got a flame to catch. Nearly a year of the holy presence of Sigmar had obviously done nothing to purge the townfolk of their pagan practices. As the detachment of temple soldiers unpacked the few possessions that he managed to salvage from his former life, he had gone with Venacher into the chapel to inquire after the fate of his predecessor. Inside were stacked burlap sacks of vegetables, wicker baskets of fruit and wrapped and cured cuts of lamb and venison. Taken aback at the amount of food for a town of no more than a hundred souls, he had asked for whom the food was intended.
“The kings of the forest, father” the man had replied.
The fire began to crackle as the meagre twigs and kindling were consumed by the flames. Hinzermann turned to the window, clutching a precious bottle of brandy he had smuggled in with his possessions. The diffuse white light had precluded any chance of sleep. The mist and snow outside were so dense that he could not even see the edge of the thick forest that lay barely a few yards beyond the border of the town. It was as if Kilhaug was under an upended bowl of frosted glass, trapping him here. The only colour other than white and grey that he could see was the last few dying embers of the bonfire in the crossroads below, dully glowing orange. On Hinzermann’s orders the soldiers had removed all the carved icons of the ‘kings of the forest’ from the townsfolk’s houses, along with anything else he had deemed contrary to the teachings of the Cult of Sigmar. He had expected protests, but they had just stood aside and watched with an eerie silence as the soldiers put the torch to their heathen artifacts. He had been surprised, however, by the opposition to removing the food from the chapel to more appropriate storage. The villagers had howled and pushed against the cordon of soldiers. Eventually Hinzermann got an explanation, of sorts, from Venacher. The food was the tribute to the kings, he said in his thick brutish accent. It was to placate them. Whenever the moon Morrslieb was full, half of the town’s harvest was left by the forest’s edge. Come morning, he said, it would be gone.
Hinzermann had dismissed this, and had the food moved to the larder of the house he and his entourage had commandeered. The people of the town had shouted and wailed, but the temple soldiers had their swords drawn, and there was nothing they could do.
Attendance at that evening’s service had been thin. After, Sergeant Vorrell had told him that some of his soldiers had seen villagers heading off into the snow, with whatever possessions they could carry. Hinzermann gave it no mind; they would not get far in the snow, as the nearest settlement was several days walk away. They would not be so foolish as to keep going to their deaths. By tomorrow they would have returned, and Hinzermann would give a sermon that evening on the follies of superstition.
In fact, looking down from his upper-floor window he could now see a figure approaching the building, coming out of the whiteness like a ghost. A cowed townsperson, no doubt, humbled and contrite. Perhaps he would go down and bless them, Hinzermann thought; an early convert would make his life here much easier.
Just as he was about to turn to go down the stair however, something made him pause. The approaching man had a curious gait. His legs seemed to bend in the wrong places. And what had seemed at first sight a hat began to look more like two long protuberances from the head.
Hinzermann gasped as the thing came close enough to be seen. Its pale face was elongated, like a beast, and two curved horns swept down from its head. It was clad in rags and battered pieces of armour. In its hand it held a large and heavy axe.
It looked up directly at his window. Pupil-less milky eyes locked onto his. It parted its sharp, canine teeth and a primal, bestial roar came forth, misting in front of its face.
Hinzermann began to shake, and no longer purely from the cold. The brandy bottle dropped from his nerveless hands as the thing’s roar was answered several times over from the occluded forest. A dozen, then a score, then a hundred ghostly shapes detached themselves from the obscurity of the snowstorm and strode silently into the town.
The kings of the forest had been denied their tribute, and were coming to claim it from the flesh of man.
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