The distant clatter of boots resonnated purposefully throughout the stone hallway; though muffeled by the heavy door leading to the Armoury, the sound was still clearly audiable to the keen elven ears.
It was late at night, and the pure white light of Sariour filled the room from the easten open window, pushing against the ominous greenish glow of the false moon - Morrslieb as the nations of men named it - which was creeping into the armoury from the north. A strange battle of lights, poetically summarizing the eternal struggle between the forces of Order and Chaos.
The loremaster stood in front of a sturdy wooden lectern that was pushed against the northern wall just in-between two stone windows, through which the gloomy green light crept. Above the lectern hung a large portrait of High Loremaster Teclis set in an ostentatious golden frame. The highly polished surface of the golden frame reflected the flickering light of a candle placed on a stand beneath, providing the much needed reading light.
The thumping sounds of heavy boots were getting closer.
“Strange,” the loremaster though to himself “I would bet dwarf’s beard I have read this very same passage before.”
Making a quick scribbly note he carefully turned on to the next page of the great tome, gently tracing the everchanging lines of text with his slender index finger.
“It would appear the overall complexity of the incantation is not at all as complex as Edianith described it to be” said the elf to himself with a jeer. This time, instead of grabbing his trusty notebook, he produced a small sapphire gem from the pouch that hung at his belt. Drawing on the Aethyr, the loremaster began weawing a complex pattern of Qhaish energies and carefully inlaying them into the gem.
The noises were getting louder and lounder, even faster now. Judging from the intenstity of the muffeled echoes, they were just around the corner that led to the short corridor outside the armoury.
Putting the sapphire back into his pouch, the loremaster carefully closed the tome. With an ellegant and methodical motion of his right hand he then traced a warding pattern over the book’s lid. The air around the tome began to shift and bend and then, in a few heartbeats, it wanished.
Thump. Thump. Thump…
Adjusting his robes, he folded his hand behind his back and gracefully paced to the center of the room, turning towards the entrace just as the door flew open and five imperial guardsmen rushed in swords drawn.
The elf watched with a hidden amusement as they hesitantly took their positions on both sides of the door, making sure they kept their distance from the mage. There was an apparent fear and uncertainty in their eyes.
Unmoving, the loremaster stood like a statue in the center of the armoury, waiting for their next move.
Then another tall figure emerged from the doorway, slowly and methodicaly walking forwards until he reached the elf.
The man was clad in a long, heavy leather coat with a great number of bandoliers and belts strapped around his waist and shoulders. The amount of weaponry this man was carrying was certainly impressive: a rapier, a dagger, set of stange potions, several scrolls and of course a great number of flintlock pistols. He stopped counting at six.
A tall, wide-rimmed hat cast a deep shadow onto his face. The stranger’s feature were sharp and intelligent. Bright eyes, strong nose and a dark short-cut beard that was crowned by a long, curly moustage.
The loremaster was most intrigued now, maybe even a little excited, though every possible emotion that flashed through his mind was perfectly hidden behind the well disciplined elven stone-cold features. This was certainly getting interesting.
With a smirk, the tall stanger produced a crumpled scroll from under his heavy coat. It bore the unmistakeable seal of the order. Templars of Sigmar.
“You will be coming with us” said the Witch Hunter with a satisfied sneer.