Ghoulslayer

Your Celestial Highnesses,

Forgive the break in communication, but after leaving Klemp, the Slayer’s quest to find Nagash took a strange turn that led me beyond the reach of even the most dedicated Azyrite agents. I will spare you the details, at least until I return to Azyr, but suffice to say, I am still in Gotrek’s company, as is the Stormcast Eternal, Lord Ordinator Trachos. We have finished our delightful sojourn in the Amethyst Princedoms and are now on the road to a stormkeep recommended by Trachos. It is a large fortress known as Hammerskáld, where I hope to find a messenger who can carry this missive to you. I find it hard to explain exactly how this has come to pass, but we will reach Hammer­skáld travelling in a fleet of ancient Kharadron aether-ships, with a dispossessed nation trailing in our wake. The entire population of a forgotten underworld has adopted Gotrek as their holy saviour. Since leaving their homeland, many of their priests have painted stripes on their heads in mimicry of his greasy mohawk, and soldiers have hammered their weapons into new shapes in an attempt to make them resemble the Slayer’s axe. It is singularly the most absurd thing I have ever seen – pale-faced waifs, in their hundreds, attempting to emulate the heavy tread of an inebriated duardin.

By all the gods of all the realms, I swear that I have no idea how such a thing is possible. But along with the absurdity of it, I sense something else. It is hard to explain, but I sense a significance to all of this that I cannot quite explain in words. I imagine you now think me as deluded as the refugees, but if you could see him, hauling an entire diaspora through these ruined hells, you might understand. He has an inexplicable magnetism. He attracts people as easily as he attracts flies. They are drawn to him, caught in his trajectory, convinced he can help even though he is so clearly ­unable to help himself.

He takes no pleasure in it, mind. Where others would delight in such adoration, Gotrek considers it an inconvenience, hurling abuse at his followers, demanding they leave him in peace and stop asking him so many questions. If it weren’t for the alcohol they keep offering him, I think he would have jumped overboard days ago. He has clearly come to regret his newfound altruism. I imagine we will leave Hammerskáld without this fervid host in tow.

But I digress. The Master Rune is still safe, but I feel no closer to convincing the Slayer that he should return with me to Azyr. I had hoped he might do so as soon as we reach Hammerskáld, but I am troubled to report that he is now in the grips of a new obsession. Despite the dreadful ordeals we endured in the princedoms, he seems to have quite abandoned his mission to face Nagash. He now assures me that he can ‘fix’ the Mortal Realms if he can lay his hands on an axe he once owned. Apparently, the enormous fyreslayer greataxe he currently wields is not impressive enough. He says it hinders his ability to teach the realms any ‘bloody sense’, so he has set himself the challenge of retrieving a weapon that probably never existed beyond the addled confines of his own ale-steeped brain.

I am painfully aware that my return to Azyr is terribly overdue, your highnesses. And I imagine that you have despaired of me ever bringing you the rune. Perhaps you have even sent other agents of the Order to replace me and complete the job. But I will give you this warning – the Slayer will not be fooled, bought or strong-armed. For all his hatred of gods, he is the closest thing I have ever met to one. I have still to decide if he is a tragic simpleton or the greatest hero of the age, but whatever he is, I am closer to understanding him than anyone else alive. And I am therefore your best chance of harnessing the rune for Sigmar’s crusade. For Khaine and the God-King, I swear I will find a way to claim this elusive prize. And, while doing so, I shall also endeavour to solve the infuriating enigma of Gotrek Gurnisson.

Your most loyal and faithful votary,

Maleneth Witchblade