Mokol the Blademonger was tired. Tired of so many things. He was weary of the society that had cast him out, for refusing to relinquish his family’s blades of war and continuously demanding fresh campaigns against the Night Goblin incursions on his hold. After his hold refused to listen to him, he decided that he knew what was best for his family better than his kith and kin, and descended into the darkness of the deep. More than proficient with blades, he reveled in many a gutted goblin, a slain Skaven every so often as well. Every one that he killed was one less dead Dwarf, one more thankful smile those weaklings could attribute to his name. But when he returned, he did so to a chorus of angry cries. Believing that he had antagonized the underlairs, the community of the crag convened and decided to cast Mokol out, staking his blades to his hands to show all that came across him that he was too prone to taking his own counsel over that of others.

Mokol was tired in his arms. A few months after his exile, he came across five oddly colored Beastmen, fighting over a scrap of rotting meat. As he approached, they turned to face him, braying their guttural challenge at him as they rushed towards Mokol. He raised his arms to defend himself, and as the Gors saw the blades attached to his arms they halted. At first, Mokol thought to himself that he was in no shape to give pause to charging Gors. Then he turned round, and saw a ghastly apparition appear in the glade.

“Mokol…,” it whispered. “Being right…is not a crime. I see that you…still wish to prove your worth to someone. If you choose to…prove it to me, I will reward you greatly…” And with that, Mokol’s arms began to warp. The flesh from his forearms began to dance, began to crawl. It crawled over the hilts of the blades, crawled over the blades themselves, and then it glowed with the most intense violet light. After Mokol regained his vision, he saw that the small, rusted blades that were staked into his hands had been transformed, shifted into ornate, elegant blades, the make of which had never been seen by his dwarven eyes. They were covered, dominated by one repeating symbol.

He heard the voice again. “…prove your worth…” He raised his head at the Gors, still taken aback by the ghostly vision. He ran towards them, an unworldly cry leaping forth from his throat.

That was three days ago. Two of the beastmen trailed behind him, knowing who the alpha of the pack was. The same symbol appeared in the scruff of their neck-fur.

They traveled North. Ever North.

There is no rest for the wicked.