Bruckner And Son’s Alehouse and Brewery must have been, at some point in its existence, an upstanding business. The guildhouse was two stories tall, complete with a furbished cellar, and there were plenty of backrooms and chambers for travellers, meetings, and businesses. In a distant time, this building would have been host to adventurers, soldiers, merchants and tradesmen to meet and discuss the news of the day, back when the name Mordheim didn’t inspire dread in those who heard it. Now, in the present day, Bruckner And Son’s served a very different clientele, just as the city it was tied to did.

As Wilfried entered the smoky interior, he was met with the all-too familiar smell of incense, and the din of chanting voices. In the cellar, the cult congregated. Around a small shrine to the Ruinous Powers, the Cult of the Hidden Brethren would pray for guidance, power, and glory. Wilfried knew however, that Friederich would not be among them. No, instead of descending into the cellar, Wilfried stepped over an unconscious man and ascended the flight of stairs that led to the alehouse’s second floor.

It was hard to tell how much of the renting rooms might have been used in the old days, but now it seemed they were always occupied. The cultists needed bedding, and privacy for other matters, and as a result the second floor of the alehouse was rife with noise. Arguments, hushed prayers, laughter, moaning, snoring, all of it filtered through the thin walls, and Wilfried muttered a disdainful remark under his breath as he walked down the hall.

The chamber at the end of the hall was, presumably, a room reserved for private meetings between important individuals. In this respect, its purpose had not been altered. The only thing that had changed was who held the meetings.

With a bony hand, Wilfried knocked on the room’s door. Three times.

Slowly, a peevish doorman opened for Wilfried.

“Ah, brother, welcome. The Master has expected you.”

“Yes, I believe he has,” Said Wilfried, making sure the key was still in his pocket. He clutched it desperately as he entered the room to speak with his lord and master, the Magus of the Cult of the Hidden Brethren.

Fat. Everything about him was large, bloated. A spherical form rested on what seemed a raft of cushions and pillows made to accommodate the magus’ gross size. Rolls of flubber were testament to Friederich’s ravenous appetite, something that, in recent weeks, had only gotten more severe. Small, piggish eyes honed in on Wilfried, and the acolyte bowed immediately before his master. Two svelte women at Friederich’s side were still lounging beside him, but with a gesture of his flabby hand, they sank away to the sides of the large room, remaining to linger at the edges of Wilfried’s peripheries for the rest of the meeting.

“Magus...” Wilfried said simply, his capirote swaying as he bowed.

“Wilfried,” the bloated magus crooned, his mouth widening into a yellowed grin. “A pleasure to see you, my boy, splendid! I was just thinking, we hadn’t seen you in a good while. Richter, fetch the wine.”

Wilfried was about to cordially refuse, but the peevish doorman nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Master, of course Master.”

“Bretonnian?” Mused Friederich. “Or perhaps you’re of a southern taste? I prefer a good Morceaux, myself. Helps the humours, don’t you know!” Somehow, Friederich’s booming laugh was more grating to Wilfried’s nerves than his flabby voice, or unwashed stench. But before the cultist could refuse, the doorman had returned and thrust a goblet into his hand. Before long, Wilfried was sipping the best red wine he’d ever tasted in his life, and even he couldn’t fault Friedrich for that.

“So, onto business…” began the magus. “To what pleasure do I owe you?”

“I have discovered something master, in my investigations across our local dominion.” Wilfried produced the unassuming brass key from his pocket and immediately, Ludwig’s piggish eyes glittered with childish wonder. He seemed interested. Good.

“A key,” he said.

“Yes, master, a key.” Said Wilfried, silently spurning the magus. “I have it on good authority that this key opens a door in Mordheim’s Great Library, wherein lies a tome of power. Gunnar von Krugenheim’s personal grimoire.”

“Who?”

Wilfried bit his tongue. “No doubt a man of great power, if his private works had to be locked away within a place already so steeped in knowledge and secrets. My lord, if we were to find this tome, and if it was as powerful as it was implied to be, we could perhaps extend our-- Your influence even further across the masses.”

Clearly, the thought of power had grasped the magus’ interest. He swirled the goblet in his flabby hand, and was silent for a moment.

“And you say that the secrets within would allow my influence to spread further amongst the… People of this place?”

“Perhaps, my lord. It is very possible.”

“I am uncertain…” Friederich’s fat face was pouting.

“But master, if such rumours are true, your enemies may very well be plotting against you as we speak!” There! That would be it. Immediately, Friederich’s eyes widened. Wilfried had struck gold.

“You believe so?” Friederich’s other hand flexed nervously, and he took a sip of wine for good measure. “That must not be allowed to pass. If any of these vagabonds were to lay their hands on it, they’d destroy it! Gods, you’re right!”

Wilfried nodded along, murmuring false acquiescences. “Yes, yes. And we must gather a group of able-bodied agents to take it.”

Friederich nodded along with his subordinate. “We shall, yes. You honour yourself with your wisdom, Wilfried, and you honour the Gods. We shall gather a group of acolytes and send them to retrieve this grimoire.”

“My lord, if you will, if our enemies truly know of this artefact, perhaps our mere brothers and sisters may be insufficient.”

Unexpectedly, the magus steepled his fingers, and smiled.

“Ah, Wilfried. Allay your concerns, my friend. We have a few tricks up our sleeves as well.”

That made Wilfried want to raise his eyebrow. What was the fool eluding to now?

“Master?” He asked hesitantly.

The magus was silent for a moment, scratching one of his chins in thought. “Do you recall when I sent Elisa on her journey in the Sigmarzeit just passed?”

“Of course, master.” She’d been one of Wilfried’s peers, an acolyte who he’d assumed had either long died or ran off.

“Recently, I received word from her, and the fruits of her labour.” The magus was now grinning widely. “Richter. Show the northerner in.”

Immediately, the servant bowed and scurried away. A few moments later, Friederich’s new guest had arrived.

He was huge, but even calling such a figure that would have been to call a mountain a molehill. He was titanic. Every step shook the floor, and his armour was jet-black, as if made of shadow. The fur of some great beast formed a collar around his neck, and his face was covered by a horned helmet of dark iron. Two red eyes pierced into Wilfried’s vision, and even though the figure said nothing, he felt his judgement pressing on his soul.

His surprise undoubtedly showed on his face, for when the warrior saw Wilfried, a raspy chuckle emanated from his helm.

“Greetings, little man.”

The warrior’s voice was heavy, and raspy, sounding like rocks falling down a cascade. Wilfried nodded gingerly.

“Master… How did we meet with them?”

“Elisa met with one of their number, and managed to establish an agreement with them. For now. They realise we serve the same masters, and to this end, they will agree to parley.” Friederich was grinning. Of course he was. He’d caught Wilfried completely off-guard. This made things unquestionably more interesting, to say the least.

“Is he alone?”

“For now, yes, but more will come in time. He is a servant of the Gods. His name is Ingvar, or so he tells us.”

“And… They will listen to us. Our orders?”

“He listens to no one, save himself and the gods. But he has said he will aid us, to a point. He shall be the one to go forth and retrieve this grimoire, with a group of followers to aid him.”

“Who shall go with the champion, master?”

“That shall be your decision to make, my friend.” Friederich gave a hearty chuckle. “I trust you’ll do well.”

Friederich’s manservant showed Ingvar out of the chamber, and Wilfried was left stunned that such a thing could even be possible. Contacting northmen? He wasn’t even aware that they would know of southern worshippers, much less agree to work with them. Wilfried said nothing, only bowing deeply. “Your might knows no bounds, my lord.”

Friederich nodded with a smile. “It is such things that please the gods, brother. Now, I trust you’ve work to do?”

“Of course, master.”

Almost immediately, the doorman had plucked the now-empty goblet from Wilfried’s hand, and the cultist was ushered out, back into the rotten hallway of the guildhouse. The door slammed behind him, and immediately Wilfried heard his master return to idly cavorting with his playthings.

Then, the real work began.