~Thrain POV~
"I sense a great deal of corruption ahead. I plan to deal with it, you lot try not to die until I get back." After speaking his words the Skeleton masked sorcerer turned into a blazing star, breaking through the line of mutant heretics and the beastman monsters, leaving only a trail of carnage behind. The opening that the Khaozul had made was capitalized by the four slayers. Each attempted to chase after their wizard on stunted legs, trying to match the intensity of the unholy speed of their magically gifted human ally, but where the living calamity could walk through his enemies like a tsunami could wipe out civilization, the slayers were delayed with every enemy that they found unharmed by the wizard.
Thrain Stonebrow's runic axe burned with a cold, steady light as he hacked through another snarling beastman. The creature's head flew free in a spray of dark blood, its horns clattering against the stone floor of the von Quinn mansion's basement. Around him, the air was thick with the stench of warp-taint, sweat, and death.
Beside him, Grimnor Forgebane roared like a living avalanche. The massive almost human sized Slayer, had his hammer rise and fall with brutal rhythm, crushing a Wargor's chest and sending the hulking brute crashing into two of its lesser kin. Grimnor was a force of nature, as far as dawi went, manling sized dwarf had the strength of Tharin, Ulfrik, and Dwalin combined, as each swing of his hammer sent enemies flying. Grimnor could not stop, would not stop, didn't even know how to stop. If the enemy horde was endless then clearly it meant Grimnor was never going to stop until he was dead, and Thrain believed that would happen the day the beastman got civilized. Each swing claimed another life, each bellowed curse another broken body. Thrain had never seen a dwarf kill with such savage joy, nor in such a way that it put fear into beastman.
"To Grimnir!" Grimnor howled, smashing a fleeing gor's skull to pulp. "Come on then, ye filthy beasts! I've got grudges older than yer stinking mooing gods!"
Dwalin Silvervein fought with grim precision at Thrain's left, his axe flashing as he cut down anything that tried to flank them. Though he did not have Grimnor's strength and height, the old dwarf did not lack talent as his moves were as much surgical as it was deadly. A mutant with four heads had charged at the only slayer with an intact beard. The battle was intense, for the aged dwarf fought the amalgamation of four manlings upon arthritis inflicted knees that snap, crackled and popped on exertive movements. Eventually Dwalin the old slayer ended the fight by having to chop off all four heads off of the mutant before it finally fell and died.
Ulfrik Mendelbar, still more merchant than Slayer in his heart, not risking life unless the outcome was favorable. Yet, he timed his murderous investments perfectly, and fought with cold determination. From the little time that Thrain spent learning about his fellow slayers, Thrain was certain that Ulfrik was more motivated by the desire of acquiring the property of a noble who sheltered beastman and heretics than a proper washing of his shame. Whether it was the empire or the borderlands, if a manling fell to the worship of the ruinous powers, then all they possessed would fall into the hands of those who brought them to justice. Mayhaps not all of the noble's wealth would fall into Ulfriks hands, but a large enough reward motivated the slayer to keep on fighting with an intensity that nearly matched Grimnor's.
The four slayers pushed forward through the basement corridors like a storm of steel and angry shouts. Beastmen and cultists poured toward them in an equally frenzied tide, but soon that tide broke against dwarf-forged weaponry and the unyielding wrath of little people from scary mountains. Limbs and heads flew, as screams echoed off the rich wood paneling and marble floors. In the distance several explosions could be heard, most likely the work of their human magic user, who left carnage in his wake that could match that of all four slayers.
Thrain's own axe sang as he cleaved through a pair of twisted mutants that were joined at the hip, the runic blade cutting through corrupted flesh and bone as easily as it did through air, freeing the two mutants only to then leave them bleeding out to death. Each strike that Thrain unleashed felt righteous, felt like he was correcting the wrongs that inhabited his world. Each death washed away a little more of the shame that still burned on his beardless face.
As the battle raged on, Thrain soon noticed it had been a while since their wizard ally Aedan had caused some sort of magical form of property damage that got Ulfrik waddling faster to save his future mansion. Whatever threat the Khaozul's unnatural sight claimed was ahead of the group and it must have been quite severe. There were no further explosions nor shaking of the manor, either meaning the powerful human had defeated his foes or was defeated by them.
Grimnor, the giant dwarf, spat on the bloody floor and grinned fiercely after the last of the beastman were slain. "Oi, Thrain! Wanrag's yer pet wizard? By Grimnir's axe, the wazzock's missin' the best slaughter this side o' Karak Kadrin!"
"Bah! My Zharrak saw a worthy foe an' rushed ahead. He's no beardling. He'll find us again soon enough." Thrain honestly did not believe the manling would die so easily, his power could be compared to some of the old stories of legendary figures that went on to achieve godhood. Thrain felt confident that his ally was alive and well.
"Or mayhaps the wazzock's finally lost what little wits he had. Too much o' that cursed magic's turned his brain ta porridge, an' off he ran!" Dwalin, the oldest of the group had not found Aedan's presence reassuring, always expecting the worst out of the human with magic powers. Thrain had bristled at that comment, finding it to be insulting to the human that his prince had ordered Thrain to aid. Thrain's blood was still burnin' from the fight when he rounded on Dwalin, his axe still drippin' black blood, the slayer scout snarled at his fellow slayer.
"Mind yer tongue, Dwalin Silvervein! My manling's no coward. He saw a greater foe than these scrawny wazzocks an' charged it head-on while we were still hackin' through this rabble. Ye'd do well ta remember that, lest I remind ye with the flat o' me axe."
Dwalin snorted, dragging the edge of his axe across a dead cultist's tattered robes, cleaning it of its blood. "Bah, cool yer beardless face, Stonebrow. I only spoke what's on every Dawi's mind. Magic's a cursed thing. Twists the wits. One moment the lad's useful enough, the next he's frothin' at the mouth an' throwin' spells at the moon."
Ulfrik barked a laugh. "Or mayhaps the daft wazzock's already lost what little sense he had. Ran off chasin' some grand beastie of his mind while leavin' us ta do all the proper killin'."
Grimnor brought his hammer crashing down onto a twitching gor's skull, splattering the stones. He turned to his fellow slayers and roared at full volume. "Enough clatterin' yer gums! If the wizard's fallen, we'll avenge the fool proper. If he's still breathin', we'll catch the daft bugger soon enough an' help him finish the slaughter. Now quit standin' about like a pack o' beardlings an' get them stubby legs movin'!"
The argument died as quickly as it started. The four Slayers pressed on, long out of the basement and past a dozen of the manor's corridors. Everything had grown quieter the deeper they went. Fewer enemies appeared, only scattered stragglers that died quickly to dwarven steel. It was clear their sorcerer ally had already torn through much of the resistance ahead, leaving a trail of broken bodies and smoking craters.
They finally entered a larger, once-opulent chamber, where a surprising foe stood waiting for them. In the center of the room was the Cathayan vampire that had fled them in the sewers, and now he was fleeing the carnage that Aedan was bringing down this house of corruption. The undead creature had been frantically stuffing anything of value into a leather sack, the traveling pack already bulging with gold and silver heirlooms. It did not take a genius to realize the undead eastern was clearly preparing to flee the chaos engulfing the mansion. Turning to find the slayers, the vampire's crimson eyes widened in recognition of their scent. It hissed, fangs bared, already turning to run.
Thrain raised his axe with a grim smile. "Not this time, ye bloodsuckin' beast!"
Dwalin's threw his axe first, but it had missed by a mere centimeter, the axe clanging harmlessly off the marble wall that the undead was at but a moment before. Howeve, Thrain's strike held true, as he did not target where the vampire was, but where he would be. The Cathayan vampire hissed in pain as Thrain's runic axe buried itself deep into its leg, the blessed blade sizzling against undead flesh. The vampire staggered, unable to flee as the four Slayers circled it like wolves around a wounded stag.
The vampire's crimson eyes widened in terror. It dropped to one knee, clutching the wound, and began chanting desperately in some foul eastern tongue. "Great Tzeentch! Changer of Ways! Save your humble servant from these bearded curs! Grant me power, grant me—"
"Beggin' yer false god now, are ye?" Grimnor snarled, hammer raised. "Pathetic bloodsucker."
Disgust and dark amusement warred on the Slayers' faces. Thrain spat on the floor. "Enough o' yer yappin'. Time to die proper."
They moved in for the kill, as their prey prayed his last zealous attempt at religious practice. Unfortunately for the dwarves, the vampires prayers were answered, as the realm of reality tore open with a sound like shattering glass and screaming children. Out came an abomination, a monster of nightmares and horrors. A floating magical aneurysm burst into existence, with too many eyes, shifting mouths, and blades made of living feathers. The Herald of Tzeentch laughed with a voice that clawed at the mind and immediately set upon the Slayers to protect its agent.
Dwalin was the first to fall. The daemon's clawed limb sliced through him like a hot knife through fat, cutting the old Slayer clean in half. Dwalin hit the floor with a wet thud, his blood painting the marble in a wide arc. The veteran dwarf's eyes were wide with shock for only a moment before a grim smile crossed his face. His last words came out in a rasp, right before the light left his eyes. "At least… me ancestors'll see I kept me beard to the very end."
"NO!" Thrain roared.
Grimnor and Ulfrik charged the daemon with bellowed war cries, hammer and axe swinging in furious arcs. Thrain turned to face the wounded vampire, who had torn Thrain's own runic axe from its leg and now wielded it with hateful glee. The moment of assured victory from earlier had now turned into a desperate fight for survival, as Thrain was unarmed and the injured vampire had his weapon.
Magic missiles of pure corruption screamed from the Herald's many mouths, striking walls and floors and turning them into writhing masses of tentacles and mutated flesh. None hit the dwarves directly, but the tentacles born of said unholy magic lashed out wildly for a victim. One caught Thrain across the shoulder, ripping away a chunk of mail and the flesh bellow. Another nearly took his leg had he not dodged properly. Pain burned through the young slayer, but he pressed on, grabbing a fallen sword from one of the dead von Quinn guards that Aedan killed on his way. A heretic's blade, but it would have to do, for without it Thrain felt as naked as his beardless face.
The vampire, even injured, was faster and stronger. It pressed Thrain hard, the stolen runic axe clashing against the borrowed sword with sparks of angry light. Thrain believed his doom had finally come. He fought with everything he had, determined to take the bloodsucker with him and redeem himself in Grimnir's divine sight.
Then one of the daemon's own tentacles whipped out and seized the vampire mid-swing, caring nothing for friend or foe. The undead creature shrieked as the fleshy appendage crushed its arm. Thrain saw his chance. He lunged, stabbing the borrowed sword deep into the vampire's side. The creature howled and dropped Thrain's axe.
Thrain snatched up his runic weapon. The vampire, one-armed and bleeding black ichor, desperately began chanting a necromantic spell, trying to summon the ghosts of those Aedan had slain earlier. It never finished. Thrain brought his axe down with a roar. The first blow bit deep into the vampire's shoulder. The second cracked ribs. On the third, the blessed blade sheared clean through the neck. The Cathayan vampire's head tumbled across the floor, its body collapsing in a spray of dark blood. The Pagoda of Tsien-Tsin was no more… at least here in Akendorf.
The battle against the daemon did not fare as well as it did with Thrain and his kill. The Herald of Tzeentch thrashed with unholy fury, its shifting form a nightmare of eyes, mouths, and blades. Ulfrik had charged in too early, whether desiring the honor of being a daemonslayer or using the daemon's death as a means to claim the mansion, the former's merchant's desperate courage had backfired. The daemon curled out a tentacle that backhanded Ulfrik and sent him flying like a child's toy, only for the merchant turned slayer to slam into a marble wall with bone-crushing force. Thrain did not know if Ulfrik still lived, for all he saw was the merchant's body twitching, the spot of flesh where the daemon had struck already began bubbling and twisting with foul mutations. If he was alive, Thrain thought grimly, the poor greedy fool would soon wish he were not.
Grimnor fought on alone for that moment, roaring like a wounded bear. His hammer was torn from his grip by a tentacle and sent flying. Undeterred, the giant of a dwarf slayer waded in bare-handed, throwing punches that could fell a human with ease. But the daemon was unfazed, each blow only fed the corruption it inflicted upon the slayer. Grimnor's fists began to warp, skin splitting into fleshy mouths that snapped and bit at their own master. The Slayer roared in rage and pain, desperately trying to control his own mutating hands as they turned against him. Thrain having seen too much already, charged with a bellow, runic axe raised high. "For Dwalin and Ulfrik! For the Ancestors! For Grimnir!"
The words were more for Thrain's own courage, as he charged at the daemon, ready for a fate worse than death if it meant he would have a chance of slaying the monster. The daemon swatted him away like a bothersome fly. Thrain tumbled across the blood-slick floor, pain exploding through his ribs. As he struggled to rise, the Herald loomed over him, many mouths laughing in overlapping voices. But then the daemon hesitated. Its countless eyes widened in sudden fear. Some of the mouths began speaking to one another in great alarm.
"The Angel of the Anathema comes…" it hissed, already turning to flee.
Thrain, fueled by hate, by shame, by the possible loss of several companions, lunged, stabbing his axe deep into one of the daemon's thrashing tentacles, pinning it in place. "Ye're not goin' anywhere, ye foul abomination!"
The Herald screeched at the delay, so focused it was on escaping, that instead of killing the slayer, it simply severed its own tentacle in a spray of unholy ichor that burned the floor that it fell upon, all in an attempt to escape the horror that was coming. Unfortunately for the netherborn, its 2nd attempt at escape also failed, as Grimnor the slayer was already there by its side. The unnaturally large dwarf was missing chunks of his face, yet the Slayer's mutated hands, still biting with hungry mouths, directed their sharp teeth upon their maker, latching onto the daemon's form with pure hatred. Grimnor refused to let go of the Herald, even as the mouths gnawed at his own arms just they did with the Tzeentchian daemon. No, matter how hard the Herald bucked and striked, Grimnor, through gritted teeth, screamed out in a roar. "I'll hold ye till the end times, ye foul creten!"
The daemon thrashed wildly, tentacles whipping, corruptive energy flaring, but Grimnor's grip, born of Slayer stubbornness and disgust, held firm. Held long enough for the golden light of punishment to come to end the daemon. Aedan Vaelor arrived like a blazing comet. The sorcerer of order descended in a streak of gold, his black armor and wings of light flaring his presence like a holy aspect of the human death god Morr. The daemon Herald screamed in terror as Aedan raised one hand and unleashed a school of magic this universe would never know, but they would learn to fear. Black Void Lightning crackled silently from the tips of Aedan's armoured fingers, a devastating barrage that struck the Herald dead center. The daemon didn't even have time to finish its last scream. Its ever-changing form simply ceased to exist, erased from reality in a single, silent flash. No explosion. No dramatic death cry. Just… nothing. The Herald of Tzeentch was gone, as if it had never been, and never would be ever again, for the void lightning struck at the daemon's true name, destroying it, and unraveling the creature from existence itself. The chamber fell silent except for the heavy breathing of the survivors.
The magical light show faded, leaving the chamber silent except for heavy breathing and the wet sounds of mutating flesh. Thrain collapsed to one knee, his body twitching uncontrollably from the daemon's corrupting touch, his muscles acting like they had a life of their own and wanted to break free from his flesh. Ignoring whatever horrible fate awaited him, Thrain looked at the carnage around him, hoping the sight would distract him from his mutations. It didn't. Ulfrik was slowly devolving into a writhing mass of tentacles, his dwarven form powerful against corruption, but it had lost in the end run, and the last stubborn hold out would soon be lost as the merchant slayer would turn into a chaos spawn. Grimnor's hands had released their hold upon the daemon before the black lightning of Aedan was unleashed. The fear of the black lightning had gotten the sentient hungry hands to retreat in a primal fear, though the angry maws soon returned to their biting ways, lashing out against anything nearby that had flesh. Dwalin's body, split in two, was somewhere behind them; a prayer to the Ancestors was needed for the slain slayer, and the survivors who suffered at the hands of the daemon.
"Sometimes… survivin' is worse than dyin'." Between the horror of Ulfrik becoming a chaos spawn and then the cursed hunger now gnawing at Grimnor's own flesh, Thrain wondered if this battle had been worth surviving at all, like their capture by the foul Urks, there was only one dawi who got off easy. Only Dwalin, in his final moments, had truly won his doom, his form remaining pure, his beard intact.
~Aedan Vaelor POV~
The greatest source of corruption pulsed like a rotten heart in the deepest part of the von Quinn mansion. Aedan found it in a hidden sanctum filled with warpstone idols and shifting tapestries. The heretical altar, the glowing runes, the lingering presence of Tzeentch, all of it would be evidence that would hopefully prove their innocence, assuming the dead beastman and mutants did not. As Aedan turned away from the heretical altar, from the remains of the last von Quinn nobleman, his senses sweeping the mansion, Aedan hissed under his breath. "Damn it… I spent too much time looting."
By the time he had reached his allies, Aedan learned what dangerous threat they were dealing with. So much so that Aedan rushed with a speed that defied reality to end the monstrosity once and for all, giving the Herald of Tzeentch a smack down that wiped it from the face of existence, never to reform in the warp and come back for revenge. With the threat gone, all that was left was dealing with the survivors, each one was reduced to a horror state that would have eaten at the sanity of a normal mortal man. Grimnor was roaring in fury, trying to control his own hands that had mutated into snapping, hungry mouths that wanted to eat more of him. The mouths gnashed out, trying to devour their owner now that the daemon was gone. Ulfrik had become a writhing mass of tentacles and eyes, he would soon become a fresh chaos spawn, barely recognizable as the merchant-turned-slayer. Thrain twitched violently on the floor like a man in the throes of a seizure, the daemon's corruption still eating at his nerves. Dwalin lay split in half nearby, his barely-kept beard matted with blood, finally having found his doom.
Aedan moved quickly, first to Grimnor. He grabbed the Slayer's mutating wrists and poured master-class biomancy into him. The fleshy mouths receded, hands returning to normal for just a moment. The moment Aedan let go and ended the biomancy, Grimnor's hand immediately started mutating again, back into the hungry mouths, this time lunging at Aedan. Aedan dodged the hungry limbs, and planned to reapply the healing, but this time the psyker would use something far more powerful. Taking off his skeletal helmet and placing it within his dimensional storage, the psyker replaced the helm with a vial containing a single tear extracted from the God-Emperor. A thousand theories of what this single drop could do, filled Aedan's mind since acquiring it, and now he would consume the holy juice of his god and see what would happen. The effects were immediate, for outworlders psychic powers magnified a thousand folds, growing stronger than the dark gods and their curses. The power was large enough to make his next bout of biomancy work as intended. As the golden light flared with the extent of his psychic powers, the mutation on Grimnor's hands vanished completely, returning to the normal formed hands of a dawi hammer. Not stopping there, as divine powers coursing through the psyker did more enhancements further strengthening and building a resistance within the dwarves DNA against further corruption. Aedan finished the healing and strengthening of Grimnor's mutated genetics, restoring to its pristine former glory that did not involve limbs that attempted to eat the rest of the body. With mutations cured, Aedan would also cast his biomancy to seal every wound and bite mark upon the poor giant of a slayer, restoring the lost flesh without even leaving a single scar behind. Grimnor was stunned, the large, rough, and always angry dwarf looked at his restored hands silently, unable to process what had happened.
Next was Ulfrik. The chaos spawn form was harder, requiring more psychic energies for it to be reversed. Still riding the high of the God-Emperor of mankind's tear, aka Aedan's private stock of holy juice, the biomancy went to work undoing what would have been impossible for everyone else, including the gods of the old world. A total of three attempts were made, but eventually Aedan's biomancy overwhelmed the corruption and rewrote the dwarfs' genetics back to its original form, now greatly strengthened and upgraded against further corruption. Ulfrik gasped, as he was returned to his original form, wounds closing rapidly, the small dwarf looked up at his magical companion and asked a simple question. "By Grimnir! Manling… are ye a god?"
Angry zealous imperial noises exited out of Aedan's twitching mouth as he moved away from the merchant slayer, refusing to answer his blasphemous question, as the psyker devoted to the God-Emperor of Mankind, reached Thrain. He was the last of the slayers, the mutation was still in its early form, though the muscles were twitching underneath the slayer's skin more violently than before. If Aedan had to guess the nature of the mutation it would be some form of sentient muscle mass or nerves that wish to break free from the body that imprisoned it. Of the three, Thrain was easiest to help, reversing the mutations, and purifying his gene's of chaos corruption in a single round of focused biomancy. Aedan was certain he could have done it even without the holy juice, purging the corruption from Thrain and making his biology stronger in the case he ever ran into future daemons or chaos taint. Soon Thrain's body calmed, the spasming muscles dying down, though the mental trauma of it remained in his eyes, Aedan was certain the dwarf would be stubborn enough to get over any psychological effects the event might have caused him…eventually. All three surviving dwarves stared at the psyker, each grateful, yet deeply unsettled, for what Aedan had just done should not have even been imagined, much less possible to do.
The only problem came in the form of Dwalin Silvervein, the dwarf was cut in half, the slayer was dead, and met his doom bravely. Aedan still felt the flow of the holy juice, and thought it possible to maybe even use the last of it to bring a dead dwarf back to life. Yet, denying a dwarf his doom, would be something that would take the gratitude of the other three dwarves and most likely turn it into a grudge. Or worse, they might actually start believing that Aedan is a god, as such the psyker simply collected the dead dwarfs body, shut the still open eyes of Dwalin, and let the dwarf rest in peace… assuming chaos did not get his soul and torture it for all of eternity. Aedan tried not to think about that, believing the old dwarf was in a paradise with his ancestors. Focusing upon the survivors and making sure the dead would be honored, Aedan remained as quiet as his dwarf companions, plotting what should be done next now that the threat was neutralized.
Grimnor, breaking the silence while flexing his restored hands, scowling. "Unnatural… eeeh… thank ye, Zharrak. Yer magic…Yer kindness kept me more Dawi than meat. Ye have me thanks."
Ulfrik and Thrain murmured similar thanks, amazement and discomfort clear on their faces. Before they could say more or Aedan could even welcome them, the sound of boots and steel filled the halls. A witch hunter and priests of Sigmar were first through the door, observing the carnage of the room with grim and unfriendly stares that focused upon the three dwarves and one heavily armored human in a room of corruption that writhed and struck anything that got too close. With the zealous men came, fifty Akendorf militiamen, their captain was flanked by Private Gunther and Corporal Yates, lastly came the slayer Borin Hurbo who most likely guided the lot of them through the sewers, not only burst into the chamber with their weapons but also the rancid stink of the sewers.
Witch Hunter had taken lead of the entire group, either extremely brave or plain stupid zealotry, as he entered the chamber, with a gaunt figure in deep black leather and a long, soot-stained coat that swallowed the light. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed a face carved into suspicion, one gloved hand already gripping his unsheathed silvered rapier. He scanned the room like a man hunting a single excuse, one twitch, one wrong word, one flicker of warp-taint, and he would burn the entire mansion down to the ground. At first the Witch Hunters and guards raised weapons, eyes taking in the strangeness of the entire scene, focusing upon the survivors in a mansion of mutants, beastman, and chaos corruption. "Heretics! Heretics!"
Private Gunther, Corporal Yates, and the dwarf slayer Borin Hurbo quickly stepped in, preventing the witch hunter and the devoted priests of sigmar from massacring the heroes of Akendorf.
"No great witch hunter! That is the rest of this honored dwarf's companions, the human is the one that alerted us to this heresy to begin with!" Private Gunter spoke quickly and loudly enough to be heard over the screaming of heresy. The witch hunter took the words, processed them, and lowered his rapier a fraction, as the priests and guards circled the group instead of striking them like pin cushions.
Corporal Yates words also followed to reassure the witch hunters and zealous holy men, pointing at Aedan personally. "That's the concerned citizen, who alerted my partner and I to the warehouse of heresy. He helped expose the cult, he slayed the vampire that tried to kill me. They are heroes and fight for mankind's salvation."
"Harm so much as a hair on me fellow Dawi, or that manling, and I'll come collectin' on the grudge. By me ancestors, I swear it." The former dwarf scout turned slayer, spoke his words as proudly as the rest, Aedan did not imagine Borin would defend him, though he suspected it was more for Thrain who made an oath to protect Aedan, than attempt actual care for what he thought was a sorcerer.
The witch hunter lowered his weapon further, though he glared at slayer Borin with rage at the threat. The witch hunter, the one that Aedan and his slayer companions had the unfortunate experience of getting to know, was Heinrick Stahlhelm. A paranoid man that suspected everyone, and trusted no one. Even seeing all the dead corpse of those he would call heretics and blights against Sigmar's divine image was not enough proof to pardon Aedan and his companions from the witch hunters imagined crimes.
Luckily, Corporal Yates, and Private Gunther had their Captain Lukas Stein step in on behalf of the group. Aedan and the slayers had their weapons temporarily taken, with a promise of being returned after the group was thoroughly questioned, kindly, far more kindly than Heinrick Stahlhelm would have offered, on the matters of the heretical cult. Between the corpse of the dead vampire, and Aedan informing the devoted of Sigmar where to find the corpse of the heretic mastermind, as well as his dark inner sanctum, had won the group their freedom. Though Heinrick Stahlhelm's suspicion remained, even after confirming the stories of all the party members involved. The witch hunter and the priests of sigmar searched the mansion thoroughly, finding beastmen thralls, mutant cultists, and the mangled remains of Lord Bell von Quinn in a chamber that was closer to a shrine dedicated to chaos than a private study. See that finally got the Witch Hunter to back off, as he nodded grimly, deciding we were free from further questioning.
"Now then, manling—about our reward. We rid yer city o' monsters ye umgi were too blind ta find beneath yer own bloody feet. I reckon the least ye can do is open yer coffers… or hand me the estate o' that worthless traitor. He's got no use fer it now, does he?" The merchant turned slayer had expected to receive something great for his service to saving Akendorf, Witch hunter Heinrick Stahlhelm answered with silence. Ulfrik soon got to watch, in traumatized silence, as the entire von Quinn palace was put to the torch.
"Service to Sigmar is reward enough, enjoy your lives, after all the taint I have witnessed, that is a costly enough reward to give you lot." Witch hunter Heinrick Stahlhelm walked away, and was fortunate not to hear the curses that the merchant-turned-slayer had for the witch hunter. Aedan was certain the dawi would keep a perfect account of what he thought to be a valid grudge. Aedan had already looted enough wealthy in secret ahead of time, he did not know how much he had, only that it was a rather large sum, enough to pay for his ship to Lustria, but that could wait. Clearly the God-Emperor of Mankind would approve of his newest favorite psyker delaying his trip to the cosmos a little while longer. More importantly Aedan's psychic sight picked up one more sight of corruption, the one that most likely kept a beastman child if his theory was correct. He would leave his companions out of this, as the psyker made his way secretly to a palace far greater than the one owned by Lord Bell von Quinn. For none in all of Akendorf dare raise a manor greater than its Prince, and Aedan would confront him regarding the real reason the Beastman horde plotted to besiege his city.