Scouts View
We came up the hill, in lines by squads, hiding from the beastmen. Before us went one of the Empire's tame witches. A Magister they call them, but we knew the old ways. Blessed be Magnus the Pious, such was his piety that he could even take such unnatural and evil beings, and wed them to the proper service and might of the Empire, like a smith forging a blade from scrap. But it was still such a new thing, barely older than my great grandmother's grandmother mother.
But even with all the work of the priests, to bring the glory of Sigmar to these lost souls, magic was an unnatural thing. Who had not seen the The Dämmerlichtreiter? All of Stirland knew of the shadowy rider, and many merchants had fled the road at her coming and torches wavered at her passing. For all that she had commanded us when the Count fell, no right thinking man was comfortable in service to one such as it, even if it was also a Knight. How can a Witch be a Knight? Not for simple folk like us, to meddle in the affairs of the noble and powerful. I pity the poor fools who have to serve on the lands cursed to be the holdings of Dame Weber, who knows what unnatural things beset them?
Ah but other's would say, whatever thing her cursed magic might bring, she'll cut them out and melt it away in her shadow. For we were there, when that abomination died. We saw it silenced, dead and decaying meat and bone melting in deepest dusk. So when told she'd take the gates alone, we nodded, and followed.
Trained woodsmen we are, a lifetime among the hills and gullies, but she went up that climb like a ghost, like morning fog. And then walked right on the air across the walls. Chilled the bones it did. But it was nothing to what came after. With a loud clang, the door opened, and we ran, stealth forgotten. The beasts no doubt heard it, and she was but one. Fools, we. The screaming started long before we got there.
What we saw upon that hill was a scene from hell, one I'll never forget. A thing stood in a butchers yard, a thing of shadow and death, horrid tendrils reaching, always reaching to strangle, rend, kill. Smashed, cut apart and destroyed beastmen filled the courtyard, and it was worst at the door. As we marched into the gloom, lost to the light of the sun, we found dozens, hundreds of bodies, that had rend each other apart, mad from fear, running from it.
Drive's a man to drink, it does, sleeping in camp near something like that. By Sigmar, at least she's on our side!