The seedy hideout of the Cutthroat’s Den was as squalid as ever, Wilfried noted with an ugly grin as he scurried across the street of rain-sodden cobbles. No one turned a gaze to the small acolyte, and he went near-unnoticed against the groups of scraggly adventurers, vagabonds, and cultist flocks which milled their way through the destitute outskirts of Mordheim. All in all, that was precisely as Wilfried liked it. Unseen, unnoticed, unremarkable. In time, of course, they would understand his power, the gifts that the Gods had given him, but for now, like a gem hidden under earth and stone, it was hidden. One day, however, they would all see. That the acolyte was certain of.

The stick-thin magister deftly moved between a crowd of bustling outlaws, and began to walk through the dilapidated streets at a wary pace. Outer Mordheim, although less dangerous than its walled interior, was still lethal if you didn’t know where you were going, or was often the case with Wilfried, who you were going to see. That was one small mercy of being the underling, as he had often noted with little relish: The wolves would not strike the sheep for fear of the master’s ire.

The hideout of Wilfried and his brothers-in-faith, the Cult of the Hidden Brethren, was a guildhouse-turned shrine. In truth, it was a vast improvement over their previous locale (a cistern in the sewers under Wurtbad) and was more convenient in its location (being located extremely close to the treasure-trove of Mordheim, and not underneath a Verenan Cult). Ever since they’d moved in, followers from all across the east had joined their cult, and some had even stuck around permanently. With the mess of Wurtbad behind them, things were beginning to look up, at least theoretically. However, Wilfried was ill at ease with the new changes. Unfamiliar faces amongst the congregation had grown, each one an enem, and ones familiar had likewise lessened, giving Wilfried a whole new appreciation for the term “Better the Devil you know.” And what had the new ones come for? Illumination? Comfort? Comradeship? No, they had simply come to “enact the will of the Gods”, which with Friederich in charge had come to mean something entirely different. Ah yes… Friederich.

Oh, how Wilfried’s blood boiled at the thought of him. An unworthy specimen of a man, only chosen by the rest of the acolytes to be Magus of the Hidden Brethren because of his loyalty to old Heldmann. Of all the people to be blessed by the Four Fathers, why did it have to be him? A sloth and base entity, who knew left the actual running of the cult to Wilfried and his peers. Wilfried’s ire was drawn every time he thought of the fact that it was fat Friederich who was blessed and chosen, and not him!

Slowly, the cultist’s frustration began to bubble away as he approached the looming crowd. A flock of grey-robed cultists were milling their way into the old alehouse. Some were talking in hushed tones amongst themselves, but the rest were silent, bowing their heads or otherwise preparing for prayer. As Wilfried approached alongside the gathering flock, a stern grip closed around his hand.

“Hello, brother,” The hooded figure spoke with a curiously raspy tone that Wilfried was unfamiliar with. The magister gave the man a look.

“What is it, fellow brethren? I have a meeting with the master.”

“I know you do. I’ll be brief.”

“I am to speak with the master, no such time, I’m afraid.” Replied Wilfried coldly. “If you’ll excuse me…”

The hand grabbed him again, and somehow its grip was stronger than before. Icicles of cold sweat began to run down his spine as he turned to the figure, his face completely hidden by the shadow of his cowl.

“I have an offer for you.” He said simply. The clasp tightened, harsh and unnatural in its strength. Sweat began to bead on Wilfried’s brow, his capirote began to irritate his head incessantly.

“What do you want?” The magister replied, his voice quavering far more than he would have preferred.

“I’m an explorer, an adventurer. And I have something to offer you.” The figure said, with a rattling chuckle. Around the two, life proceeded as if nothing was going on at all. Cultists flowed in through the shrine’s doors, capirotes and cowls bobbing, and soon there were none left in the yard but Wilfried and the stranger.

“The Great Library,” Stated the stranger with a pause. “You know of it?”

“Of course I do. In the Merchant’s Quarter?”

“Yes, in the Merchant’s Quarter. I have gathered that there is an… artefact of importance within its walls.” Slowly, the figure produced a rusted key from the furls of his robes and held it in a black gloved hand. “This opens the door to its chambers. It is the grimoire of Gunnar von Krugenheim, and I believe that it would serve better in the world than locked away in a dusty room.”

Wilfried raised a brow. A book of power would serve him well, but undoubtedly Friederich would have already caught wind if this stranger knew. Wilfried couldn’t be sure if this was some trick, one of the magus’ machinations to discern Wilfried’s loyalty.

“How do I know this tale is true? You’re a liar. Perhaps you’re one of my enemies, who only wishes to see me dead. And why would you tell me?”

“If we were enemies, Herr Wilfried, we would not be having this conversation. And I am but a lowly scavenger. Magicks, secrets, knowledge… These things are beyond one such as I.”

“I… I never told you my name.” Wilfried said, staring in wide-eyed surprise at the stranger who was now beginning to walk away from the guildhouse.

“Perhaps your reputation precedes you. Perhaps we already knew each other. It matters little, in the end. You seem unwilling to take my offer, but should you decide to accept…” With a careless gesture, the stranger threw the key over his shoulder onto the floor by Wilfried’s feet. It landed with a splash into a small puddle.

Before the cultist could ask anymore questions, the black-clad stranger was gone, leaving Wilfried alone with the key lodged in the murky water.

The man was clearly lying, that much the acolyte was certain of. A scavenger… Does he take me for a fool? More likely, Wilfried thought, he was someone who wanted to see Wilfried botch something up in order to look a fool, possibly even to get himself killed. The risk was high but, even so… The Great Library was filled with hundreds of such powerful tomes, so much so that it was one of the most common battlegrounds in all of Mordheim because of it. If the dreg was telling the truth…

It only took a few moments for the magister to decide what he would do next. If it was a death-trap, so be it. If it was true, Wilfried was certain to curry favour with that bloated… His master. A grimoire. A tome of power. The anticipation of such a thing made Wilfried grin, even as his hand raked through the muck of the floor to pick the key out of the puddle it was stuck in.

Either way, he would gain something. And that, in Wilfried’s mind, was all that mattered.