Adebar had never thought he could sweat in the midst of winter, but the experience of being chased by mutant-beasts proved to him that he’d been wrong.

His blood hammered through his skull, sweat ran down his back, too much to be sucked up by the thick layers of cloth, all the while it felt like his feet would turn into ice-blocks as he kicked up snow.

They couldn’t run forever, he knew. Whatever manner of hound these beasts had sicked on them, they were steadily gaining on them, less impeded by the underbrush, the man-sized shrubs or the hip-height snow-mounds.

How was it possible?! Did the Dark Gods allow their servant’s ghostly gifts to simply fly above all mortal concern?

Holzer was a few steps ahead, forging the path, cursing under his breath. It was almost comedic, but, in truth, Adebar was too mortified to give much thought to the irony of the old hunter being the quarry this once.

Suddenly the ground gave out beneath the two men and they slid downward into the old, worn bed of a creek. Adebar connected with the ground hard, bones shaking as he scrambled to get up. From the thorny brush above broke a singular, dark shape, at first looking like a common wolf, but as it crashed into the hard ground it became clear that this was no mere canine. Muscled, twisted and packed in the wrong places, its head was barren of all fur, instead wearing many gnarled, yellowed horns. he’d barely ripped free steel before the thing was on him, pouncing, bringing him down again, fangs snapping toward his face, tainted, foul breath filling his lungs.

The blade was too long, so he disregarded it, scrambling for the pistol tucked under his belt. His left hand stayed at the beast’s throat, as its hind legs tore at his thick coat. A loud bang and the thing went slack. Adebar seized the rapier and scrambled after Holzer, up the other side of the small ravine, turning around to see more and more of the beasts and their diminutive masters breaking through the thorny bushes, hurling javelins. He turned back to see where they’d wound up. Before him were the ruins of what seemed to be the impossible: an abandoned temple, here, far away from civilization. Holzer beckoned for him to follow, and the men escaped into the shadow of the dark, overgrown brickwork. Muscles tensed, hearts hammered as they pressed the ancient, venerable oaken gate shut, and barred it, in vain hope.

“Bloody ‘ell.” Holzer blurted out, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Adebar couldn’t help but share the sentiment, sagging back against the wood.

It took a moment to catch his breath, during which he took in the place that served as their sanctuary now. The walls seemed sturdy enough, the roof had mostly come down, giving way for snow to gather on the stone floor. There were rows of pews, the walls were lined by gothic columns. Whatever exits had once existed were half collapsed and wouldn’t need to be considered. All the way in the back, at the other end of the nave, stood an altar, atop it a rotting, broken figure. A man with a hammer. The trappings of a holy place of Sigmar.

“Seems your god is lookin’ out for you, Herr.”

Von Bolstedt remained where he was, listening for the baying and howling of the Beastmen outside.

To Holzer this place may have seemed like a sanctuary, but how long could the gate hold? Was this not merely a prolonging of their lives? Weren’t they already dead, if the full herd came upon them?

Adebarrose, slowly moving toward the rotting, wooden statue.

He looked about the rotten pews, the washed out paintings on mossy walls, the broken glass of the high windows. He felt cold, then.

This was no holy place. Maybe it never had been. How had it come here? Were there more ruins out there? A lost place, forsaken by all good gods? How many people had died out there, crying for succour?

Maybe his suffering wasn’t any god’s will.

‘Maybe,’ he thought, turning back to look to the worm-bitten features of Sigmar, ‘maybe He just has no power here.’