With neither Frenz or Olaf giving ground, Olaf called Frenz outside to settle this matter with fists.

Into the streets of Durben, Olaf, the grim looking blacksmith, and the more dapper cardsharp Frenz, started to duke it out, with Frenz gaining the upper hand, with Olaf taking a sucker punch to the jaw. Branisalava, unimpressed, dumped her axe, bow, and shield with the elf, Farsormor, and proceeded to brawl with the thief.

Hearing the commotion the priest of Sigmar, and nervous wreck, Oskar, wandered over to see what was happening, accompanied by his hired help, the dwarven smuggler Grundlik, and the bean thin gravedigger, Morden. Oskar was surprised to his friends here fighting. Stepping between the fighters the priest called for an end to the boxing. Thinking he has escaped, Frenz backed away, looking to flee into the crowd – who were booing the priest for his intervention – only to be grabbed by Grundlik.

In an alleyway Frenz was easily bullied into revealing what had happened. The Ritter – or Franz as he was known – had been his gang’s target for a bounty. They captured him and his cart of books, and Frenz took the chance to sell a book or two. Frenz explained that on the way to Brigandburg, the gang would hold up in a barrow in the Bleak Moors.

With Frenz as guide, the troupe set off, hoping to catch up with the brigands and Franz. Leaving the town of Durben behind, and now with three more friends in tow, headed out into the Moors.

The Bleak Moors was a trudge, with near constant rain, and blankets of fog. Sodden and damp, and with little life out here, other than the odd farmstead of sheep, the troupe make camp near a collapsed tower, with Farsormor and Branislava heading out to hunt for rabbits.

After a stew and with many a sleep, especially the barely sober ratcatcher Jurgen, and Frenz bound and staked to the ground, some of the troupe kept watch. Though this was broken, as screams came from Frenz. Swinging the lamp around, Grundlik revealed to their horror 3 wolves trying to drag Frenz off into the dark.

Farsormor deftly loosed an arrow at one wolf, as Oskar and Olaf clubbed another, and Branislava and Morden chopped away at another. Howls and whelps sounded, and eventually the wolves fled. But Frenz was dead, and Oskar had been wounded where one of the wolves had mauled his arm.

Burying Frenz in the morning, the troupe headed off to the barrow. Wary, Farsomor and Branislava snuck closer, keeping an eye out for guards, while the others sat up on the ridge, again watching for the brigands. Farsormor, attuned to the natural flow of magic could feel something was wrong. Old elvish on the stones were a warning. This place was ancient, perhaps dating to before the coming of the human god-king.

Signalling for the others, the troupe headed inside, driven in by the growing storm, as rain lashed down and thunder cracked overhead. Within it was dry and there was no sign of life. The brigands must have been here for there was signs in the entrance of a small fire.

Hearing a cry for help from within the tomb, the troupe crept in, with Olaf staying at the entrance. It was then Olaf saw, illuminated by lightning, near the tomb entrance in a small passage, the remains of some of the brigands.

Deep into the tomb Morden discovered a tomb, and upon it rested a strange green stone, and sat in the corner an old man with a tattered cloak and hood. The figure reached out for help, but Morden, his senses noticing something not quite right, stepped back and the figure launched forward, revealing itself to be a wraith.

Many of the troupe fled the chamber, looking to escape, gripped by terror. But the stern Kislevite, Morden, and Oskar, stood their ground. As the wraith rushed at them, attacking and them fading back into the stone of the tomb walls, Oskar prayed to Sigmar to save them, blessing Branislava’s Kossar axe, which in turn was swung and slashed and rent apart the wraith.

Not seeking to dilly dally with the dead, the troupe setoff, using a map found on the bodies, and headed out to the Great Wood, and on to Mordheim.

Another day or two travel, passing few farmsteads, the troupe could see the Great Forest stretching for miles, and beyond the city of Mordheim, from which smoke still rose. The small map they had from the bodies of the brigands marked a path into the forest, and past the village of Hammertal. There was also a symbol marked near the town of Brigandsburg – a 7 point sun with an all seeing eye in the centre.

Picking their way into the woods, led by Jurgen’s ratcatching dog, they found the path and the scent of the brigands. They were catching up. And finding trouble.

Following the path through the woods, they heard cries for help. Oskar, never wanting to desert people, pressed on, as some of the others circled around, as Jurgen and his keen hearing detected there were highwaymen up ahead.

Keeping low, and seeing these ruffians striking a family of townsfolk, their wagon overturned, Farsomor loosed and arrow, striking one of the brigands in the arm. Branislava followed suit, and struck another brigand in the head. Shocked by the attack the leader of the highwaymen took on of the townfolk hostage, placing a blade to their throat. Seeing how things had escalated, Olaf steeped out from cover and demanded the highwayman let the people go, and in return the troupe would let the men live. Convinced, and taking a small bag of coins, the brigands fled.

Helping the family up and righting their wagon, the troupe learnt that the men they were seeking had passed just a day ago, and that there was a logging cabin hours from here that would act as a good camp as they had a good day’s travel to get out of the woods.

Thanking the family for their information the troupe continued on, following the path and down a side trail to an old logging camp. Finding it deserted they opened one of the cabins and made camp, with Branislava and Farsomor once more hunting for food and bringing back a wild boar.

With half the troupe sleeping, Grundlik out keeping watch, Farsomor stirred as she heard something out in the woods. Lit only by the stars, a hulking beast, 3 times the size of a boar, and rippling with sinew and a back dotted with wicked spines, dragged a deer out onto the trail. The wet smacking of it feeding was audible, and the crunch of bone. The elf could see the glint of wyrd green in its eyes, and the beast for a moment appear to look back. It snorted and sniffed the air, and approached the cabin, Grundlik barely holding his never. The beast turned to where the dwarf was hiding, behind a pile of wood, and seeing the danger, Farsomor and Branislava shot arrows at the beast. The creature roared in rage and crashed into the cabin. Oskar praying to Sigmar for aid, as the band of warriors stabbed and clubbed the creature, as Jurgen narrowly escaped being torn in half. To their horror the foul creature was able to regenerate the wounds they inflicted, but the troupe continued their attacks, before the beast was brought low, and an axe severed the creatures head. In the light of the fire and lamps it had a sticky dark blood that sizzled against the wooden floor, a wolf like skull that had exposed bone and muscle, and flesh that was either furry in some places, or scaled in others. Disgusted by what they had faced, a clear sign of the corruption in these lands, the troupe left the camp, setting the cabin ablaze, hoping that would be the last they saw of the creature.

Continuing their journey towards Mordheim, the troupe emerged from the otherside of the forest, and before them on the horizon was the distressing smoke rising from Mordheim. There was also a closer settlement just in the valley. Hammertal.

Passing farmsteads on their way to the village, it was clear the comet that had struck Mordheim had also changed the land. There was the buzzing of flies as live stock were obviously lying dead in the fields, and what animals were alive were emaciated and struggling. Crows and carrions birds circled overhead, and the grim scarecrows in the dead fields were an foul reminder of events in Munster where Oskar, Branislava and Olaf had fled months ago.

The village of Hammertal was a grim place. The people looked sickly, and what food on offer in on market stalls looked foul and sour. The local inn, The Chunky Truffle, was not the most inviting of establishments, the rake thin landlord looked ill, and his ale smelt of mould. Morden was happy the boar from the other night had made a pleasant dinner and breakfast. Their communal quarters was drab and damp, and there were signs of lice. But then colour broke the gloom, as a burst of flame erupted from behind a building. It was a carnival. Their wagons snaked into town, led by a procession of mimes, clowns, a bearded lady, strongman, fire breather, sword eater, contortionist and more.

Making it down stairs and into the village square the party witnessed the flamboyant and made up master of ceremonies, Razza Martaz introduce his “Carnival of Delights and Wonders”.