Writ to Flame

The script is tight and efficient, with the occasional blot where a gauntlet has smudged the ink.

Sigmar, Lord of the Hammer and Crown—

If You're listening—and if You're not, I’ll make do as usual—I write this on the eve of something that stinks of death and daemonic sorcery. Praag is surrounded. The enemy stands at our gates, foul and unnatural, pounding with claws and iron alike.

Tonight, we ride out.

It’s not the sort of battle I trained for. I’m a builder of machines, a student of powder and pressure, of draw angles and fracture points. Yet for the past week I’ve found myself pouring power into the wounded—regenerative magic, of all things. Healing flesh instead of breaking bone. Slowing death instead of speeding it along. It doesn’t sit easy. Not because I begrudge the work, but because it is not mine by trade. My tools have always been physical—metal, fire, structure. Now I am made to channel mercy.

I don’t know if that’s Your doing, or just some cruel necessity.

The Gilded Iron are ready, for what it’s worth. They’re grim. Focused. They speak little now. That’s good. Talk is cheap when the air smells of sulfur and fear.

Sigmar, if You still watch over men like me—men who don't pray right, don't dress right, and don’t pretend to be pious when they’re not—then watch over us now. If You still have use for engineers and foul-mouthed friars, lend me the strength to keep these warriors standing one minute longer than they otherwise would.

And if we fall… then let the noise of our charge haunt the bastards long after we’re gone.

This is written in truth, and given to flame.

—Karl
Friar of the Cult, Silver Hammer marked, Wielder of Bandage and Fire alike