Warhammer: Vermintide

Breaking Point (Wrote This Ages Ago, But Was Too Coward to Post it to the Reddit Until Now)

“Faith is not the same as pyromancy, Witch.”

“Isn’t it?” she laughs. “If you’re so sure in your piety, why don’t you follow your superiors? I’m sure they’d love to add a new flagellant to their retinue.”

A Bright Wizard is taken to trial—a Witch Hunter loses custody over his prisoner. Underneath the righteous veneer, a Bounty Hunter rises from the smoldering ashes

TL;DR: This is 4k+ words, so if Reddit makes your eyes bleed, you can find it here.

Section titles are based off the different stages of a fire and how they can react.

I apologize to all my friends and the Fatshark staff who now know I write shipping fanfic trash; I know you all trusted me. 🙁


It has been some time since Victor Saltzpyre has taken a meal with his brothers. The cellars in the Great Temple are not of a well-stocked kind, and the Witch Hunters in the dormitories do not eat in indulgence. Their food is poor and lacking of any taste—served only bread, fruit, and water to express their devotion to Sigmar. The silence that fills the refectory as they eat their penance would prove more filling. Only these things have passed Saltzpyre’s lips the morning he descends the steps to the gaol.

Judgement day had been a harsh one.

Sienna’s cell is sequestered away at the far end of the Great Temple’s dungeons, fortified by iron, plastered with purity seals, and requiring three separate keys to undo the bolts on the door that are so heavy the Witch Hunter has to enlist an apprentice to help yank and tug at them to slide them away from their bearings. It is a cold, dingy place that reeks of mold and mildew, but the Bright Witch that lay seated within seems nonplussed at her quarters, her posture straightening when he enters the room.

“What a pleasant surprise, Victor. Come to check in on your prisoner?”

He latches the bolts back into place, feeding the keys through the iron bars in the door to the apprentice on the other side.

“You’re not mine anymore, Fuegonasus. The Order has seen fit to remove you from my custody.”

“Ohoho, and you fought them on this?”

He grunts.

“They think I’ve been corrupted since returning from Helmgart. I’m supposedly not fit to pass judgement on you.”

Sienna seems more amused than angry.

“They still don’t believe in the Skaven, even amongst these times?”

“No. I have told them Sigmar still has purpose for you, but—”

“But they don’t believe you. Ha! Of course not, Saltzpyre. Why would they? They are men who let fear lead their reasoning. Ubersreik, Helmgart—it’s all the same to them so long as it’s not Altdorf.”

Scorn curls in his gut at her remark when he replies—snappish and mordant.

“Mind your tongue, Witch, lest it be cut out for you within these walls! I’m not against withdrawing the Grand Theogonist’s favors.”

“So Kaslain’s offered you favors, hm? Now there’s a man who knows how to turn my head. What did he offer you, Darling?”

Saltzpyre snorts at her bawdy remark, gazing at her shackles thoughtfully.

“Not for me. For you. You have one final request, Fuegonasus. I suggest you choose it wisely.”

It had been a hard-fought battle that had come to fists pounding on tables, of his voice near to shouting, and had it not been for Kaslain himself in attendance, Saltzpyre doubted bones could not have been kept from being broken. While Sienna Fuegnasus was a witch—of this he had no qualms—her heresy had by far and away been too useful to handwave during the Skaven invasion. And even then, he had been loathe to turn her over to the Order. Were it not Sferza Zerndorff demanding he return to the Great Temple, Saltzpyre would have continued to travel without ever giving the Bright Wizard a trial. She was due, and Kaslain and Zerndorff believed him too attached to make a sound decision. It would have been easy enough to subvert Zerndorff’s authority, but for all his disagreements, Saltzpyre was not stupid enough to try to cross words with the Lord Protector. But Sienna had proven her use enough to warrant herself this small favor in his negotiations.

“A final request? Well, that’s easy.” She smiled roguishly, tugging at the shackles that bound her to the wall. “I could do for a nice a meal and a hard shag.”

Saltzpyre looks affronted before looking absolutely disgusted.

“An immodest request for an even more immodest being. You’re aware of what your sentence entails, are you not?”

“Starvation. Torture. The usual.” She shrugged. “Gormann expects your masters will lack creativity around my end.”

“Yes…Gormann. You realize he requested your release multiple times? The Grand Theogonist refused.”

“No surprise there,” she snorts.

The answer is too short, even for the Bright Witch. Indeed, Thyrus Gormann’s presence had caused a commotion throughout the Great Temple, Captains stationing their underlings at strategic points en mass to stand guard. The current Patriarch of the Bright Order was not known for his patience, and if Kaslain and Gormann were to cross swords, no doubt all of Altdorf would suffer for it. But his visits had passed uneventfully, and much of their outcome was unknown. Saltzpyre had seen the Magister once, and only once, during his attendance, ascending the steps from the gaol. Their gazes had locked, and Gormann looked thoughtful before continuing on. Sienna didn’t seem particularly keen on sharing details about his visit.

“So do I get this ‘last request’ or not?” Bitten-off. Impatient. Eager for one last bid at freedom.

He clicks his tongue. “Very well, as indecent as it is, it is within my power to take you out on the town to find a suitable…partner. Though I had expected you to be more discerning about your end.”

“Oh, Darling,” Sienna laughs. “It’s not my end I’m concerned about.”


He takes her out for her last meal. Not the first time he’s done this for a prisoner of some rank, and it most certainly won’t be his last. But while wealthy benefactors would request the finest meal gold would buy, Sienna Fuegonasus is perfectly content with the driest roast goose Saltzpyre has ever had the misfortune of tasting and warm ale that is reminiscent of piss.

The Black Wolf Inn in Altdorf is one of the more frequented ones, its patronage made from a more roughshod crowd of vagabonds and rat-catchers hoping to drown their sorrows in alcohol and make their minds fuzzy enough to forget about the coming morn. It’s a filthy, vile place that Saltzpyre would never willingly set foot in, with vomit and mead stains marring the tables, but the pyromancer seems right at home among the crowd of burly men and old crones with mouthfuls of rotting teeth.

She slings back her tankard with an ease that would put the most frequent of tavern-goers to shame and draws a crowd around her as she drinks a man under the table.

Her voice carries over the cacophonous din of the inn’s tavern, cackling as her drinking partner leans out the nearest window to spill the contents of his stomach into the bushes below, hanging over the sill, groaning.

“Don’t feel too bad, Darling! Not everyone can handle a pyromancer’s brew! I’ve brought a dwarf ranger to his knees!”

Altdorf, while being the seat of the Empire, would of course be far more comfortable with a wizard’s occasional presence when the Magical Colleges were not far from the city center. Not wholly trusted, perhaps, but a curiosity nonetheless. Saltzpyre knows what the curiosity fosters in men and women alike—leads to an increased interest in heretical texts and magics. Any other day he would punish such association. But he had sworn an oath and had a promise to keep. Tonight, Sienna Fuegonasus was allowed to do as she wished, within her rigorous constraints. Tonight, she is amongst her kind.

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It borders on the obscene, he thinks, the way she speaks in bawdy tongues and draws weaker men to her like moth to a flame, spiking their drinks with magic in exchange for the rounds of ale they buy her. It is with no small manner of contrition that he watches her snap up the attention of a youth thirty years her junior in her metaphorical claws. He’s too drunk and young and naive to her heretical nature—a baker’s boy who doesn’t know his letters—stooping to press his lips to her blistered knuckles, and she looks playfully affronted.

“Young master! You’ll turn a lady’s head that way!”

The young man feeds her some smooth, well-rehearsed line through crooked teeth, buttering her up with a compliment, and she laughs as she tugs him onto the barstool next to her, their fingers entwined.

It makes Saltzpyre’s stomach roil, and he sneers, choking back a swig of cheap wine from the dented goblet in front of him. He turns his head away after the boy’s mischievous fingers wander past her waist and any form of common decency.

Sienna checks in with him an hour later, detaching herself from the current object of her affections, sliding onto the bench across from the Witch Hunter, propping her elbows on the table.

“You look as if you’ve been sucking lemons, Saltzpyre. You’d be much happier if you could feel the Red Winds in the air.”

“And consort with warp-spawn? Do not speak to me of your heretical powers and weak spirit!”

Her manner is coy, a wry smile twitching at the corner of her lip.

“Oh, I doubt you could handle the taste of Aqshy, Hunter.”

He glances towards the young man hovering nearby at the bar, awaiting the promise of a fulfilling night. And something the Witch Hunter has not felt in a long time curls deep in his gut, rearing its ugly, forbidden head to snap him up with fang-ridden jaws. His next words are borne from disgust, plain and simple, but underneath the aggravation that the pyromancer would dare challenge his authority, lies jealousy and the frustration of nurturing almost a year’s worth of tension thick enough onlookers could cut it with a knife.

He narrows his eyes.

“Try me, Witch.”

He expects fire to spurt from her palms, to scorch his skin, to give him reason enough to put a bullet through her neck. He expects her to force his hand and end it all here to avoid enduring returning her to the Order’s hands alive come sunrise.

He does not expect Sienna’s fingers to trace the contours of his mouth, to drop his chin between her forefinger and thumb, to lean towards him.

Her lips barely touching his own, she exhales, and smoke leeches between them.

It is not a kiss. He’s keen enough to realize this, but the pure hit of magic as he inhales heightens his senses, and his fingertips dig into the back of his chair as he flattens himself against it. It’s a heady taste, he thinks. Certainly not what a member of the Bright Order would experience, but perhaps a close enough comparison. It is pungent—sharp and ashy—burning harsh lines in his throat, dense like an entire forest caught fire. Aqshy is flame, this he knows. But then it hits him—the sheer, raw power and instinct—and further still, the fervor, the almost manic-like enthusiasm and passion.

It’s heresy when it resonates in his soul more than he cares to admit.

She pulls away at the soft groan upon his lips, eyes alight, glowing runes dancing underneath her skin.

The Bright Wizard’s fingers still haven’t broken contact with his flesh, and it grows warm underneath the heat from her gloves.

“That’s Aqshy, Saltzpyre. Doesn’t it make you burn?” Her voice is low, and rough; full of unspoken promise. They both know what she wants.

“And the boy you’re leaving stranded at the counter?”

She looks at the young man, something crude twisting into her grin as she turns back to him.

“Why settle for a toy when I can put in some real work right now?”

He coughs; grey, vapory whisps leaking from between his teeth.

“I should have you reminded, Fuegonasus, that it has been some time for me.”

She laughs, the sound hoarse like flint on steel, but no less delighted, her lean arms locking around the back of his neck.

“Oh, but that would make two of us, Darling. I’d say we’re both fit to dance, tonight.”

And Sigmar help him, because while he considers himself a righteous man, when she drops her gaze and whispers something absolutely filthy into his ear, in that moment, Victor Saltzpyre is a weak one, and gives in.


As an apprentice, the Order is keen to tell aspiring Witch Hunters about the dangers of those who consort with magic, and that even the most sanctioned wizard is to be held in some manner of suspect. Women who wield magic, in particular, are to be trusted the least, as they are considered weak and feeble-minded—too easily turned over to the ruinous powers. It is with caution, they tell these young men, should you approach one. They are sly, silver-tongued chaos spawn who will grasp you with their claws and pull you down to Hell. Women are temptresses, and women who can control the winds even more so. It’s as the sun is just crowning over the horizon to filter the first rays of light past the slats in the boarded window does Saltzpyre wonder how far he’s fallen.

The supposition, he thinks, is not wholly inaccurate, for despite her age, Sienna Fuegonasus had attacked him with a vigor that would have put some of the most passionate Estalians to shame. Even now, as his heartbeat just begins to slow, he remembers testing the strength of her limbs, feeling her rake Aqshy-charged nails down his back hard enough he’d snarled into the hollow of her throat, and her making no efforts to be quiet about it.

(He’d shackled her hands to the headboard for that while she’d laughed him her encouragement: “Now that’s the spirit, Darling!” No doubt he’d be paying the innkeeper a large sum of hush money later.)

But the world seems far too quiet and at peace as she lay curled against him, arm slung haphazardly over his hips, dozing lightly as his fingers traced the line of her spine. It is not smooth like the women he had known long ago, who traded their body for coin, but harsh and rough, marred by deep, keloid scarring that raised the skin—a mess of crosshatched disfigurement. She stirs lightly at the touch and turns her head to face him, glancing up at him through her lashes before stretching.

He watches sculpted arms and legs pull taut for a brief moment before she grunts her satisfaction.

“Something on your mind, Victor?”

He snatches his hand away as if caught, saving face by gesturing vaguely at her scars.

“From the Order?”

Her bark of laughter rattles throughout the room.

“Ha! Only in their dreams! Those dunglickers have yet to lay their hands on me. Your apprentices aren’t the only ones who face harsh punishments for rebellion.”

“The College, then.”

“Indeed! Thyrus Gormann always was a man with a sharp tongue and an even sharper whip. Made appearing before Karl Franz look like a small task in comparison.”

Saltzpyre nearly chokes on his tongue as he speaks, bordering on disbelief.

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“You’ve met the Emperor?”

“Has it not occurred to you why Gormann’s contacted the Order so frequently since my imprisonment? I suppose I expect too much from you Witch Hunters.” She sighs wistfully, propping herself up an elbow, chin in hand. “For a time, I was his favorite student. Hated every bloody minute of it. He’s an old fool, but even he’s tactful enough not to drag Franz into it, I suppose.”

He narrows his gaze, glaring at her out of the side of his one good eye. His voice drips in warning.

“Take care to mind your tongue, Fuegonasus. I’ll not stand for you addressing the Emperor so casually.”

She raises her eyebrows, a chuckle pushing its way past her lips.

“Still concerned with heresy, Saltzpyre? I think we’re both past the point of redemption, Darling.”

He growls lowly in his throat before jerking his head away, staring at the filth-stained wall next to the bed. Victor Saltzpyre is all too well aware he’d barreled past a line he shouldn’t have crossed. In a moment of passion, he had opened himself up to being labelled as a heretic, and the knowledge sinks like a stone in the pit of his stomach. Not the first time he would mar his arms and legs for his guilt later—not the first time Sigmar would forgive him. With in the hour, they would leave this poor excuse of an inn, she would no longer be his responsibility, and he would be done with the matter.

He doesn’t like the thought of it, and rolls out from underneath the threadbare blanket to plant his feet on the cold floor, long-unused muscles screaming at their master in protest before his legs give out from under him. He catches himself with an elbow wrapped around the bedpost, stumbling towards the pile of clothes haphazardly strewn about the room.

“Sigmar have mercy.”

Sienna laughs at him from the bed before she joins him, joints cracking and popping loudly as she vibrated satiety from every pore.

“Don’t look so shagged-out, Saltzpyre. And here Kerillian was criticizing me about my stamina. Feeling the beginnings of your age already?”

“I didn’t ask for your crude commentary, Witch. No doubt you’ll cease your mocking back at the Temple.”

It comes out more toxic than he intends it to—his verbal barb an instinctive defense—and guilt gnaws at his gut. He squelches it down when he shoves his tunic over his head, throwing her robes at her chest.

“Will I?”

Her reply causes his fingers to skip over the buttons of his shirt, but still he refuses to face the pyromancer behind him. She’s too nonchalant about the entire affair—her line too coolly delivered—and there is ice in his veins for it.

"So you do not fear it, then?”

She snorts.

“What? My punishment? I’d be a poor excuse of a Battle Wizard if I did not accept my choices always ended in death.”

The floorboards creak behind him. He feels the heat of her body hovering against him, her fingertips dragging against the side of his face. His head turns, their eyes lock. The nails digging into the line of his jaw allow him no quarter.

It has been a long time since Victor Saltzpyre has felt so trapped.

“You just had to sign the warrant, Darling.”


The next time he sees her, the screams have stopped, yet every step down the stairs that leads him deeper into the gaol of the Great Temple fills Saltzpyre with a growing sense of existential dread. While they kept the furnaces in the torture chambers burning noon and night, the corridor leading towards Sienna’s cell is bitterly cold, nipping the skin of the witch hunter’s nose raw, threatening just shy of frostbite. Uncomfortable for a man of the Order, sure enough, but for a member of the Bright College… The temperature tells all Saltzpyre needs to know when he unlatches the heavy, iron bolts on the door, the rotting stench of gangrene assaulting his nostrils upon entrance.

The Bright Wizard is unresponsive this time when he approaches, her body gaunt and skeletal with flesh barely hanging onto her bones as if clinging there for dear life. Her eyes are glassed over, her fingertips blistered and black, two coagulated stumps long since chewed off to unsuccessfully stop the spread of rot. No doubt Sienna Fuegonasus’ own fingers were one of the last things to provide her sustenance.

It makes bile rise up from his gut to sit on his tongue, and he covers his mouth with his hand, turning away suddenly and breathing harshly through his teeth, biting down on the tobacco pipe he offered himself until the nausea faded. His fingers fumble with the tinder box in his pocket, struggling with the flint until it sparks and lights, and only then does she stir, some manner of lucidity leeching into the glaze of her eyes.

“Finally come to see me?” She laughs at him still, but it is weak and hoarse, her limbs dangling uselessly at her sides, fingers twitching as she rolls her head to fix her gaze upon him like a marionette with her strings clipped. “I’m afraid I make for a poor dancing partner now, Darling.”

She talks, but does not look at him again, sights trained solely on that lone, dancing flame between his fingers and she shudders—hard—at the sight, a broken whimper weaving its way past her lips.

Her legs have long since refused to work, the witch hunter surmises, but it does not stop her from crawling to him on boney elbows, scraping the skin there to leave bloody streaks across the floor as her shackles rattle in protest across the cobblestone, a staunch hunger in her eyes that nigh two weeks ago he had last seen directed at him. A mangled hand reaches out to make a grab towards the tiny fire as he takes a knee to meet her—and he snuffs it out just shy of her making physical contact with it.

She makes a sound short of an agonized wail.

“You won’t light my pipe tonight, Fuegonasus? Pity.”

And for all her trials—through all her suffering of two weeks of torture and cold and starvation—Sienna all but looks ready to murder him.

It’s the first sign of life he’s seen from her in weeks.

“You’re a cruel man, Saltzpyre, asking me that when I can still taste the Aqshy in the air.”

He licks dry lips before he speaks, wondering exactly, if she tastes the same thing she did in the tavern or whether she imagines it. So far gone is the pyromancer, he is wary to trust her judgement. Sienna watches his face, nostrils flaring as his brow creases and she snorts.

“Not from the flame, Darling. From you. You think I summon these flames from some hidden tinderbox, Victor?” Her laughter is bitter this time, and he can taste it caustic upon his tongue. “Your kind is passionate about their tortures. It gives me life.”

“But not enough.”

Her expressions darkens once more.

“No, not enough. Your masters are too well-practiced to give me access. They prefer leaving me a drooling, raving mess of a woman. Oh, I know I’m an addict, Saltzpyre. We’re not so different, you and I. You just get rewarded for it.”

His upper lip curls, and he snarls in contempt.

“Faith is not the same as pyromancy, Witch.”

“Isn’t it?” she laughs. “If you’re so sure in your piety, why don’t you follow your superiors? I’m sure they’d love to add a new flagellant to their retinue.”

His hands are around her throat before he can catch himself, fingers digging into her windpipe. Witch Hunters have never been known to temper their anger.

She chokes once, her chest heaving in unspilled mirth as her eyes roll back in her head. It’s then that Victor Saltzpyre realizes that the Bright Wizard has completely and utterly snapped. Sienna Fuegonasus is no longer there.

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But just who is the insane one here, Saltzpyre?

His fingers loosen. He feels her lungs expand with a breath. And as his fingers trail her neck to trace her jawline to place his hands on either side of her face, she coughs—a spattering of crimson against her mouth. Dimly, he’s aware of her turning her face away—of Sienna’s lips pressed briefly against against the palm of his hand before she withdraws, sagging heavily against the dungeon wall.

“Sigmar still has purpose for you, Witch.”

“Oh, don’t get sentimental on me, Victor. There’s still fire in me yet.”

The Witch Hunter’s lips tighten.

“Leave me in peace now, Saltzpyre. I’m tired.”

He looks at her, and for the first time, he sees them—beneath the laughter—behind where she sits as they creak on rusty hinges in some dark cacophony.

The Gates of Morr are already open to greet her.


Sylvania is a wretched, dreary city where the land is so swampy the soil holds onto your boots tight enough one might be threatened to lose them. Saltzpyre’s avoided the the place as much as possible. Mathias Thulmann, however, is more familiar with it than he’d ought to be. The two Witch Hunters were not necessarily fond of each other’s company, but short of begging the Grand Theogonist for any mission that would see him out of the Great Temple for any extended period of time, Saltzpyre found his work ethic amendable enough, given the circumstances. It’s only the blistering cold wind that sees a pause in their travels to hunker down outside the rickety awning of the lone inn that somehow still managed to stay in business there.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard?” Mathias blows hot air into his gloved hands before rubbing them together to keep his fingertips from freezing.

It’s the first sentence Saltzpyre has heard from the man in days—something he appreciated. A far cry from the company he’s kept in the past months—a dwarf too chatty, an elf too acrid, a soldier too longing for home…and a witch with a verbal barb all too ready upon her tongue. Sylvania, in particular, is a place where it is better not to speak at all, particularly as the season turns cold and the Witch Hunters pick the bones on their plate, unsure if they’re being served “sweet pork” or actual swine. There is no love for the Empire here—Witch Hunter and man alike.


“Don’t play the fool with me, Brother Saltzpyre. You’re more astute than that.”

“I presume you’re speaking of the great fire, then? Mm, yes, I’ve heard. What of it?”

“The Order suspects your Fire Witch started it. It seems someone left their tinder box in the Great Temple’s dungeons.” He eyes Saltzpyre from the corner of his gaze.

Saltzpyre procures his pipe from the brim of his hat, chewing on the stem.

“I know nothing of it. May I borrow yours? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

Thulmann curses softly under his breath before tossing the object to the Witch Hunter next to him.

“It is time to start counting your days, Brother Saltzpyre. When Order finds out—”

“What the Order doesn’t know won’t hurt them,” he replies, striking the flint and gazing at the flame longer than he intends to. “They have pushed far too much under the rug of late. I’d say our Order is more interested in their coiffers than of chaos-spawn and the rat-men. Any word on the Fire Witch?”

“The dungeons are nothing but charred out rubble. Sferza Zerndorff’s heading the search himself.”

“The Witch Hunter General South is getting his hands dirty? Unexpected.” Saltzpyre exhales a stream of purple smoke from between his lips. “His glory-seeking days will be over soon. Pity. I assume the Bright College has been uncooperative?”

“Thyrus Gormann is not known to be the most forthcoming man.” There’s a pause as Saltzpyre passes the tinderbox back to him before Thulmann continues, voice just shy of an implicit threat. “We have been in Sylvania for too long, and my patience has its limits. I suspect the Grand Theogonist did not send us here for the reasons you state.”

The Plague, they say, had spread to Sylvania. Not unexpected, Saltzpyre had told him, not since Nurgle’s filthy hands had pushed the Northlanders into action at Helmgart. Slowly but surely, a black, feculent rot of disease and corruption had spread throughout the land, creeping its dark fingers into the outer edges of the Empire. But for what reason would the Order care for a backwater, lonely city as unwelcoming as Sylvania? None at all. The citizens have never sought the Empire’s help.

“You always were distrustful of your superiors, Brother Thulmann. Questioning my judgement?” He sucks on his pipe thoughtfully. “No, the Grand Theogonist cares naught for this wretched town. You were dispatched simply to keep an eye on me. This investigation is funded on my own coin. I’ve bitten my tongue for them long enough.”

Thulmann narrowed his eyes.

“So you no longer walk a righteous path.”

Saltzpyre exhales a stream of blue smoke into the cold air—watching as the eddies fade into nothingness seconds later.

“I walk Sigmar’s righteous path, not the Order’s.”

The sound of Thulmann drawing his pistol is barely a whisper of wood against leather, but Saltzpyre catches it anyways, far too familiar with the sound, and his shoulders stiffen for the briefest instant before uncoiling. He continues to nurse his bowl of tobacco. It would come to this, he had known. Now it was simply a matter of playing his cards right.

Do not speak to me with arguments of logic and reason!

“You stand accused, Brother Saltzpyre, held in contempt of a Templar’s oath and for consorting with the ruinous powers. Do you question Sigmar’s will?”

Saltzpyre turns, eyeing the firearm coolly while he snuffs out his pipe.

“Do I? We are given the privilege to accuse, dispense judgement, declare anathema and excommunicate,” he states.

“And our obedience is to the Lord Protector and the renunciation of one’s own will,” the other Witch Hunter finishes.

Saltzpyre raises his gaze to focus squarely on Thulmann. A flicker of understanding crosses between the two, some manner of plan unspokenly shared, and there’s a soft click as the flintlock clips into place.

“I trust you won’t tell Zerndorff you cowed to mercy, Brother Thulmann.”

“Of course not.”

A lone shot rings out into the night.

Additional reading, for those interested in the lore this fic references implicitly or otherwise:

The Witch Hunter’s Handbook: Concerning the methodology, doctrinal texts and hierarchical structure of The Ancient Initiative and Holy Order of the Templars of Sigmar by Kaspar von Liebenstein—by Darius Hinks. Published by the Black Library

Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Realms of Sorcery. Published by Games Workshop.

Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Sigmar’s Heirs. Published by Games Workshop.

Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay: Tome of Salvation. Published by Games Workshop.

Warhammer: Estalia—by Mathias Eliasson. Unofficial fan supplement.

Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter—by C.L. Werner. Published by the Black Library.


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