A trio of strangers filed into the alehouse. A tall man mantled with shaggy, matted fur led the pack, sly and self-assured as a wolf stalking sheep. His youthful countenance seemed mismatched with the grey streaked through his unruly mane. A graceful minstrel whose bright crimson cloak jingled with silver bells all but pranced after him, half-smirking at the villagers staring back. Such simple folk had rarely seen the like of him, to be sure. And stomping up behind them was some manner of priest, or so it seemed from the heavy talisman dangling under his forked beard: the gleaming Hammer of Sigmar!