The acrid smell of burning flesh and pinewood filled the clearing, a grim incense offered to gods Sigdir wasn't sure listened. The pyre crackled, consuming the bodies, purifying the physical taint of Chaos the best way fire could. He stood vigil, his face a mask of grim stoicism, the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes—eyes that held the weight of two lifetimes.
Heintz, the caravan master, eventually crept closer, his portly form hesitant. "Is it... done?" he asked, his voice trembling as he eyed the charring form of the mutant.
"It is done," Sigdir replied, his voice low and steady, devoid of triumph. It was a statement of fact. A necessary, ugly chore completed. "The immediate threat is ash. But this land is sick. We should move. Now."
The merchants needed no further encouragement. The sight of the mutation and the chilling efficiency with which Sigdir had dealt with it had left them deeply shaken. They packed with a frantic energy, eager to put distance between themselves and the cursed clearing.
Sigdir retrieved the Elven pendant from his pouch, his thick fingers tracing the impossibly fine lines of the tree and star. It felt alien in his hand. Light. Delicate. Everything his Dwarf upbringing taught him to distrust. Yet, it called to a part of him he had always suppressed, a whisper of a lineage he considered a mark of shame. Drifa had once told him, "A root cannot hate the soil it springs from, lad, even if it wishes for granite." He had grunted in disapproval then. Now, the wisdom felt less comfortable.
He secured the pendant on a separate leather thong around his neck, tucking it under his tunic and mail. Hidden, but present. A question mark against his skin.
The remainder of the journey to the small Kislevite town of Volgrad was tense and silent. Every rustle in the undergrowth made the merchants jump. Sigdir, however, walked with a predator's calm, his senses stretched to their limit. The old mercenary in him, Marcus, was on full alert, reading the forest, the wind, the subtle signs of danger. The attack had been a reminder: this world was not just one of grand armies and obvious monsters, but of insidious corruption that could bloom anywhere.
Volgrad was a testament to Kislev's harsh existence: a stockade of sharpened logs surrounding a cluster of sturdy, snow-heavy wooden buildings, perpetually shrouded in smoke from hearths fighting the cold. The guards at the gate, hardened men with thick beards and heavy axes, eyed Sigdir's mixed heritage with suspicion but recognized the look of a sellsword who had seen trouble. The sight of the relieved merchants vouching for him earned him passage.
Inside the muddy main square, Heintz eagerly counted out the agreed-upon sum of crowns into Sigdir's calloused palm. The coins clinked, a solid, satisfying sound. The language of completion.
"The bonus," Heintz said, adding a few extra coins. His hand was still shaking. "For... for the extra service. We wouldn't have made it."
Sigdir nodded, pocketing the coins without counting them. His word was given for a price, and the price was met. Counting it would imply doubt. "The roads are the blood of trade. They must be kept open. Even here."
His duty fulfilled, he felt the familiar shift in his being. The contract was over. The protector's mantle lifted, leaving the wanderer, the seeker. He made his way to the town's only inn, a loud, smoky establishment called "The Frozen Bear." The air inside was thick with the smell of cheap ale, stewed meat, and unwashed bodies. A few rough-looking Kossars drank in a corner, and local trappers argued over the price of furs.
Sigdir found a space at the end of the bar, the weight of his hammer and sword a comfortable presence. He ordered a tankard of Kvass—he had never developed a taste for the stronger Dwarf ales—and a bowl of stew. As he ate, he became an island of silence in the noisy room. His eyes, however, were active.
He listened to the gossip, the complaints, the tall tales. He was looking for a thread, a clue. The pendant felt warm against his chest. Elf. The word was a curse in the tongue of his people. Asur. Druchii. It mattered little to Dwarfs; both were equally untrustworthy, flighty, and arrogant. Where would an Elf, any Elf, be found in the frozen north of the Old World? It made no sense.
His thoughts were interrupted by the innkeeper, a burly Kislevite with a broken nose, slamming another tankard in front of him. "On the house," the man grunted, wiping the counter with a dirty rag. "Heintz says you handled your business. Good. We don't need that filth so close to our walls."
Sigdir gave a curt nod of thanks. "The land is uneasy. Have there been other... signs?"
The innkeeper's face darkened. "Aye. Herds gone missing from outlying farms. Not taken by wolves. Just gone. And folk talk of lights in the forest at night. Wrong lights." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Old Yuri, a trapper who knows the Taiga better than any, came back three days ago, white as a ghost. Babbling about a 'stone that bleeds' deep in the woods. He won't go back. Says the place is cursed."
A stone that bleeds. The phrase sent a cold jolt through Sigdir that had nothing to do with the Kvass. It resonated with the old, grim knowledge of the Dwarfs about the ways of Chaos defiling the very earth. And it resonated with Marcus's modern mind: a source of corruption. A focal point.
It was not an answer about Elves. It was a different path. But it was a path. A purpose. A contract, of sorts, though no one was paying him.
He finished his meal and stood, the chair scraping against the rough wooden floor. He placed a few coins on the counter, covering the cost of the free drink and then some. "This Old Yuri," Sigdir said, his voice low. "Where can he be found?"
The innkeeper eyed him, seeing the unwavering resolve in the half-breed's strange eyes. He gestured with his thumb towards the door. "Small hut near the eastern wall. Smells of wet dog and fear. You can't miss it."
Sigdir nodded his thanks and strode out into the biting cold. The night was clear, the stars sharp and cold as diamonds above Kislev. He pulled his cloak tighter.
A Dwarf would seek to purge the corruption, to seal the weeping wound in the world. It was his duty. A mercenary would weigh the risk against the reward. There was no reward here, only immense risk.
But the soul within him, the weary amalgam of Sigdir and Marcus, knew this was the way. To understand the corruption that threatened this land was perhaps, in a way, to understand the world he had been thrown into. And protecting it was the only oath that truly mattered, written not on paper, but in stone and blood.
He adjusted the hammer at his belt and the sword on his back. The contract with the merchants was finished. But his older, deeper contract with the world was not.
He found the trapper's hut. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the warped door. It was time to get directions.