Forgotten days,
Forgotten thoughts,
In the hour of Chaos,
Pass a torch to your brethren in the dark
-To your Brethren in the Dark by Satyricon
During the black tide which ebbs lowest betwixt night and nether night, your grandfather clock peals a haunted thirteen chimes. The New Year races over the horizon upon black wings. In the shivering realms of farthest North, the witchmen are unfurling their burning standards to march under the banner of Asavar Kul, the Everchosen. You have heard rumors of a man who proclaims himself the chosen of Sigmar, a man who professes his holiness even as he leads thousands to certain death. Holiness, of what benefit is it? How can purity be more desirable than that which all men truly crave: wealth, power.
You light a candle and set it in the bare window casement. The bullseye panes of glass behind it ripple in the faint glow it casts. Until tonight, you had been prepared to throw your lot in with the stream of brigands, highwaymen and thieves making the sullen journey to Mordheim. Then the courier arrived - bringing a letter from Elector Count Fitzpatrick himself. You clutch the parchment in your pocket. Now, everything has changed.
A wind sets the windowpanes rattling. It carries the faint hint of blood. War is coming. Whether by the twisting flames of Chaos or the brilliant fire of Sigmar, the land will burn. Only those with resources to match that of kings will survive. You extinguish the candle. The Light of Sigmar, the Light of Chaos - let them blaze against one another in the high inferno of endless battle. What does it matter? You've always preferred the dark.
