The Enemy Within (WHF Witch Hunter Quest)

XXVII - A Patricide's Welcome

Rage burns hot in your breast, the flames of ire eating away at your ribs from the inside, but Rikard says nothing that you have not thought of more than once before. You will not chastise another for repeating your own judgements back at you, and having avoided the flagellants creed thus far, neither will you strike and mortify his flesh. You swallow your pain and choke down your anger and turn your back upon your brother, walking away without a word.

"Really, Rikard," you hear Maria say, reproof in her fading voice as the pair fall further behind you, "One might be tempted to think you a child, rather than a man grown…"

You do not think such tactics will work, but then you have not spoken to your younger brother in close to a decade. Best to leave the matter of cooling his temper to one with the experience for it, and look to your own turbulent heart in the meanwhile. Perhaps you can reunite in a day or so and try this again, with the first surge of bile already spat and bitter hearts expended.

You are less than a dozen paces from the exit when the heavy iron gates swing closed with a deafening rattle. Surprised, you halt in place and cast a look around for the staff responsible, but nobody is near enough save for a single stableboy already backing away with fear in his eyes. You think to question him, but then you realise it is not you that he is staring at, but rather the gates themselves.

"My… Milord?" the stableboy calls out, rapidly growing pale, and with a sinking feeling in your gut you realise how much colder the wind has grown over the past few moments. "The… the gate, milord, I…"

"Oh, fuck me with the hammer," Rikard curses from somewhere behind you, the casual blasphemy enough to shock you out of your brief confusion, "Everyone, inside! Now!"

You turn to your brother, intending to remonstrate or at least enquire, but the sight of the lawn is enough to steal the words from your throat. The scorched patch of grass bleeds shadows like a wound, and from the stygian depths now covering the grass a robed and withered form is pulling itself free. It looks like some blasphemous imitation of the statuary that stands guard over the Gardens of Morr, a long black robe hiding all detail save for the bare skull of a face and the long scythe cradled in boney arms, and the pale fire that burns in those empty eye sockets is a thing of endless malice.

Markus tests Cool to resist Terror! Skill is 61, roll is 97. Fortune reroll is 39, pass.


For one brief moment your guts turn to water and the blood freezes in your veins, the animal that lurks beneath the face of every civilised man gibbering at you to run, now. Then you catch sight of your family and the servants retreating at a dead run towards the manor house and you remember your duty. There is a faint tremor in your hands as you draw the blessed silver blade that your order presented you with, but there is no doubt at all in your voice as you address the phantom.

"Come then," you say, holding the blade up before you in traditional salute, "allow me to lay you to rest, as all souls deserve."

The wraith hisses at you, a horrible rattling sound like hailstones off cobble, but you have mastered your fear by now and barely even hear it. You charge towards it with nary a sound, and whatever tattered memories of life the thing carries with it, sword combat is clearly not among them. Your first blow leaves a faintly burning line from the crown to the navel, blessed silver cutting through cursed ectoplasm with contemptuous ease, and this time the creature's shriek bears with it an unmistakable note of pain. The creature lashes out with the strange scythe it carries, but the movement is clumsy and slow, easily avoided.

(Just as well - something about the wailing sound the weapon makes as it passes tells you that no amount of armour would help should you have been struck.)

A mortal foe would retreat and seek to adjust here, but the ghost has no such sense of self-preservation. It stays where it is, bringing the scythe back around, and that gives you enough of an opening to step up close and drive your sword straight through its torso. You doubt very much that the thing has a heart any longer, but the symbolism of the act lends more than enough weight to the blow; with a despairing howl, the spirit's corpus falls apart into tattered shreds of essence, each of which disappear again a moment later.


For a few breaths you stand there, your heart numb like ice in your chest, the significance of what you have just done too weighty to grapple with so cleanly. Then you sheathe your sword and make your way over towards the manor house, where even now Rikard and the others wait in the entrance hall, wary and respectful looks upon their gathered faces.

"It is done," you say roughly, and if they detect a certain depth of emotion behind your words, none think to comment on it.

"You've achieved nothing," Rikard snorts, shaking his head, "Were it that easy we would have resolved the issue years ago."

"He's achieved more than any of us have of late," Maria says sharply, and after a moment your brother looks aside, unwilling to either gainsay her or apologise to you. It will have to do, you suppose, and by her sigh it appears Maria agrees. "Father's ghost is… well, a far more powerful creature than that. Its presence on the estate has thinned the veil, allowing lesser undead to cross more easily and drawing others from leagues around."

You nod grimly, thinking back to your lessons on such matters. It is a common enough issue, and a reason why the Templars of Sigmar and Morr alike take even minor hauntings so seriously; if allowed to reach a critical mass, the result could well be on the scale of another Sylvania. That is the theory, at any rate, though for obvious reasons none have allowed it to progress so far in order to check.

"It seems the situation is far more serious than you led me to believe," you say, keeping your expertise to yourself for now, "which makes me wonder why you are still here."

"It is not as unsafe as you seem to fear," Maria reassures you, though you think her priorities would be better turned towards her own safety, "Most nights nothing happens, and never before have I seen a manifestation during the daylight hours."

"They avoid the house itself in any case, and I will not forsake our birthright without first fighting to hold it," Rikard says tersely, looking you over with some distaste, "As for why it manifested just now, well, perhaps they simply hate you Markus. They would not be the only ones."

You grimace, but before you can respond the possibility that Rikard is right slaps you like a duelist's challenge. You close your mouth and think for a moment, seeing by their sudden tension that your siblings have both realised the same thing, and then you slowly nod. "It would… not be impossible. The stories all speak of the lure of unfinished business, and if… if Father was motivated by a desire for revenge, or even just an accounting…"

"Oh? Offering to take responsibility, are you?" Rikard snorts, shaking his head.

"Yes," you say simply, taking some brief pleasure from the way your words make your brother flinch, "If my presence will draw our father's spirit out, or expose what binds it to this world, then it is my duty to do so."

You cannot quite put a name to the expression that crosses Rikard's face at that, but after a long moment he simply scoffs. "Well, I suppose you may as well be of some use, then. Father has only appeared in full upon the lawn… and I expect you can guess the time of day."

You nod soberly. The templars lit the pyre just as the sun was dipping below the horizon; it stands to reason, or at least to symbolism, that dusk will be the best time to confront what remains of the man they burned. Rikard stares at you a moment longer, then sets his jaw and turns away, marching back inside the house to attend to whatever distraction he imagines will help to clear his thoughts.

"I do hope you are not planning to do anything foolish," Maria says sternly, though she cannot quite disguise the concern in her tone. "I did not fetch you from that drinking pit solely to see you die upon our very lawn."

"I have no intention of perishing, sister," you say, which is at least mostly true, "still, we have some time yet. Tell me, is the chapel still open?"

The answer is yes, and to your satisfaction and quiet relief it has clearly seen fairly frequent use since you left home. The furnishings are immaculate, of course, but you can still tell that the holy tomes have been frequently leafed through and the candles restocked with some regularity. Your family was never so prominent or expansive as to justify a resident priest, travelling to the one of the many nearby temples on a rotation every feast-day for Throng, but when your father sought to have you and your siblings schooled in faith it was in this small chapel that your lessons took place. You expect that Brother Jacobs has retired by now, for he was an old man even when you were young, but the chapel still carries with it the same sense of orderly serenity you remember from those long distant days.

"I'll pray with you, if you don't mind," Maria says, and given the way she is already lighting the candles you do not think it is truly a question. Not that you wish to deny her in any case, of course, but you still find yourself smiling as you watch her.

"Of course," you say, taking a seat and clearing your mind as best you can, "I am not intending any particular ritual. I simply need to… centre myself, before dusk."

Before you stand before your father and see what your deeds have left of him.

Article:

Markus is resolved to face the ghost of his dead father, condemned to burn by the same organisation his son now serves. This is not the time for wavering wills, and so Markus buries a single principle in his heart before setting forth. Choose one:

[ ] Faith
It doesn't matter who was right and wrong on that day, not anymore. What matters is that the dead must rest in Morr's garden, not walk the earth and trouble the living. The words of his faith will give Markus the strength to do what must be done.

[ ] Responsibility
It should not have come to this, but it has, and while he cannot undo what has been done, there is still a chance to make it right. If his blood is the price that must be paid to lift this curse, then it is a worthy trade indeed.

[ ] Conviction
It was not Markus who delved into dark sorcery and consorted with witches, and it is not his soul that refuses the judgement of the garden and blights his family with misery now. If he must kill his father twice to make it stick, then so be it, but he will not sabotage himself with guilt.