Does anyone write any fan fiction for WFRP? If so, where can I read some? Thanks.
Fan fiction
Rumors of Decay
The air compressed and concussed with the discharge of Malichi's pistol. The diseased cultist heeled over clutching his chest and lay still on the floor. From behind the overturned table another stood and flung some vile concoction at the Witch Hunter, which he deflected by spinning away and flaring his cloak in front of him. The caustic liquid hissed as it spattered against the Witch Hunter's weathered cloak. Doktor Ernst replied to the attack on his comrade with a thrust from his spear that took the cultist in the side. The spear sank deep into his torso and a putrescent, brown taint oozed from the wound, but the cultist was immune to such pains and turned on Ernst with hellish hunger in his eyes. Ernst leaned in and shoved the short spear deeper into the wound. With a grunt the cultist finally succumbed and fell to the ground. Malichi expertly reloaded his pistols, knowing that in the next room the remaining cultists were preparing for their final stand. Malichi primed his pistols and looked at Ernst. Ernst gave him the nod. They covered their faces and charged the door.
The sudden explosion threw Malichi back through the room and into the wall. He landed on his back and unloaded both pistols through the smoking ruin of the door with blinding speed. The satisfying fleshy thumps of lead hitting flesh rewarded him as he shook the fog from his vision. Ernst leveled his spear above his head and waited by the door with his back against the wall. The first cultist through the door was clutching his chest, blood streaming from the fresh bullet wound. The cultist drew back, and prepared to launch an axe at the prone Witch Hunter as Ernst’s spear skewered his collarbone, pinning him to the frame of the door. Blood gushed from the wound as the man struggled against the pain in the last pitiful seconds before he expired.
The dead man’s body suddenly lurched forward as a steel-shod boot kicked him clear of the doorway. A monstrous figure filled the smoking opening. Blood oozed from a bullet hole in its thigh, but it didn’t seem to notice. The thing that was once a man was huge. It barely fit through the door. It was shirtless and hairless, and its skin had the pall of the grave. Open sores wept bile down its face and its lips had almost completely deteriorated, leaving behind a rictal grin and exposing rotted stumps of teeth. It shook its head and locked its milky, dead eyes on Malichi. It rattled a challenge from deep within its chest, sick with phlegm, and raised a gigantic maul over its head. Malichi slid up the wall and shakily pulled his feet under him. Looking down, he saw that both pistols were expended. He dropped one and drew his saber, then reversed his grip on the offhand so that the metal-shod butt faced this new threat. Malichi set his feet against the wall behind him and braced himself as the monstrosity raised its weapon and charged.
Ernst stepped back as the monster raced past him. It plowed into Malichi and crushed him into the wall with an explosion of dust and fragmented plaster. The Witch Hunter’s saber protruded from its back, the wound leaking a thin brownish fluid as the beast ground him into the ruined wall. Ernst struggled to free his spear but the body refused to release its hold on the weapon. Becoming frantic, Ernst forced the spear from the corpse, spraying gore across the walls and his leather apron. A fan of blood splashed his face, and while the mask protected his mouth and nose, the right lens of his spectacles dripped with the tainted blood. Ernst set his spear on his thigh and charged the monster that was crushing his comrade. He screamed a cry of triumph as his weapon neared its target, but it was premature. The remaining cultist from the other room bowled him over from behind and rode him to the ground. The two tied up, rolling on the floor to gain the advantage.
Malichi was in deep trouble. This thing was crushing the life from him and had the long handle of its maul across his neck. Motes of light danced before the Witch Hunter's eyes as he struggled to remain conscious. With a final burst of strength, Malichi twisted the handle of the saber and pushed it further into his adversary’s side. The razor edge of the saber sliced through the soft tissue and cut free with a spray of putrid fluid. Malichi reversed the blow and cut deep into the beast’s knee. It roared in rage and pain and stumbled backwards enough for the Witch Hunter to free his pistol arm. Malichi brought the steel-shod butt of the pistol down onto the forehead of the staggered beast. The butt of the pistol sank deep into its skull with a sharp report. The enraged roar of the monster dwindled to a groan and it sank to its wounded knee. Malichi seized the opportunity and delivered a quick stroke across its throat with his saber. The beast fell forward, knocking the Witch Hunter against the wall once more, and slid down his body to writhe choking on the floor.
Ernst released his spear as his opponent gained the upper position in the grapple. He reached for his belt with his free hand and drew his scalpel, a cruel affair with a long serrated edge, then quickly turned his head and closed his eyes as the cultist vomited a foul ichor across his neck. Ernst twisted under the mutant and stabbed at its back repeatedly. Seconds later the body lay limply across his chest. Ernst scrambled out from under the body, scuttling back toward the wall, and lay there panting as the Witch Hunter caught his breath.
Ernst cleaned his face and gathered his weapons while the Witch Hunter once again reloaded his pistols. The house was quiet and the dust and smoke were beginning to settle. As the adrenaline of battle began to wear off, Ernst retched a little at the smell. The cultists stank as much in death as when they were alive, but they weren’t the source of this stench. Malichi chanted a short litany to fortify the spirit and moved forward with Ernst in tow through the shattered door.
The room was dim. Sharp slices of light cut through the smoky haze from a boarded-up window in the filthy decaying wall. Malichi’s ears rang from the previous discharges of his pistol and his head throbbed with fever. The floor in the center of the room had been torn up. Inside the floor, the ground had been dug out and the hole filled with all manner of foulness. The smell from the charnel pit was overwhelming. Ernst backed up as the Witch Hunter began searching through the wreckage of the room. Under the piles of robes and cult sundries was a small wooden box. It was made of black walnut and was etched with brass in the shape of the Plague Lord’s rune. Just gazing at the rune made Malichi's fever spike. The Witch Hunter carefully wrapped it in a white cloth, stitched with holy symbols, and placed it on the ground before him.
Ernst leaned against the wall, exhausted. “We don’t have much time. The fever will take us soon.”
Malichi looked at the box and smiled. “They may take us, old friend, but they will take no others. This is the key to their ritual. Without it, the thing they call upon will destroy them. You have done Sigmar’s work this day, good Doktor. I salute you.”
Ernst closed his eyes and slid down the wall. “Do me a favor, eh? Next time you hear a ‘rumor’ of a cult, leave me out of it will you?”
Malichi chuckled and shielded his eyes as he fired his pistol into the box. Next time, old friend… Next time.” He closed his eyes and settled against the wall. He was tired. So tired.
The Man in the Silk Hat
The alleyways of Nuln stank even in the winter. The warm steam from the sewers hung low to the ground and did not stir in the still, frigid air. Always when the nights were frozen and the air was stagnant and crackling with frost, his mind went back. Back to the days before these, back to when he could still be redeemed.
Long ago he had been a normal man, just a man. He had worked a normal job at the docks, he had a wife, and he had a child on the way. He paid the rent for his modest Wohnunghaus and he paid his taxes. Then some noble had bought the building where he lived and he and his wife were tossed into the streets in the dead of Ulriczeit. It was the coldest winter he could remember in his long life. She got the wet lung before he could find them some place warm. She died in the street, begging Shallya to save their child while he wept and called her name over and over.
His life had become a blur after that, a whirlwind of low places and dark faces. He had given his soul away back then because he no longer recognized or needed it. The blood on his hands from that day til this could stain the Reik crimson.
Frederic lit a cigar, perhaps his only vice these days, and recalled the details of the meeting. A man calling himself "Gaston" had used the and called a meeting. He had brought the required fee, and had fidgeted nervously as he detailed the target and the manner in which it should be disposed. That led him here, waiting like a dark ghost for the man in the silk hat to pass.
As promised, his target rounded the corner carrying a small leather case. The man moved quickly down the silent street, his soft leather boots crunching the frozen snow and stirring the reeking mist from the sewers. Frederic slowed his breathing and slipped from the dark alley, careful to avoid the splashes of light from the street lamps, and shadowed his victim. The man in the silk hat stopped in front of a warehouse and fumbled with the lock. He opened the door, momentarily spilling light into the street as Frederic silently closed the distance.
Frederic crept up onto the roof. The locked gable posed no obstacle, and within moments he was sliding silently along the rafters. Below him the man in the silk hat opened the case and reached inside. A soft knock came from the front door. Frederic melted into the shadows. He was a professional and reacting to changes was his forte.
The man in the silk hat quickly opened the door and allowed his portly guest to enter. This was an unexpected arrival, and Frederic silently crouched in the shadows as he waited to watch the scene play itself out. The portly man sat at the table as the man in the silk hat resumed his foray into the leather case. In a few moments he removed a sizable number of gold Karls and set them before his guest. He sat and pulled a book and quill from his coat and began preparing his writing tools.
"Thank you for meeting me here Alfred," said the man in the silk hat. "There is much we must discuss before dawn. It seems our friend has moved up his schedule. He has already filed the paper work for the take-over. My agent spotted him yesterday at the Scriptorium, along with his cronies, bribing the officials to push the paperwork through."
The portly man grunted as he listened to the story, but his eyes never left the stack of Karls before him. The man in the silk hat noticed, but continued anyway. "I want you to file a counter as soon as the Scriptorium opens and block the acquisition."
The guest finally spoke, "Why do you care? I mean, you're getting a fair price for the property. You own half of the Faulestadt and the largest foundry in the Industrielplatz. What do you care if some tenement is leveled for a theatre?"
The man in the silk hat sighed, "You're right I suppose, but I promised Greta, Shallya keep her, that I wouldn't sell it. We met there, you see. Besides, where would those people go?"
"That's your own fault," scoffed the guest, "you haven't raised the rent in that rat hole in a decade." The man in the silk hat looked at him imploringly and the portly man sighed in resignation. "Very well, have it your way. What company is the old goat operating under these days? I need to make sure I file the counter properly."
The man in the silk hat ruffled though papers in the case again and pulled out a ledger. He fumbled with his spectacles for a moment then perused the document, looking down his nose through the low hanging glasses, "It looks like he filed this one under 'Gaston and Sons'. We have to stop him. I won't let him do this to me again like he did with the alehouse in the Universitat and the Wohnunghaus in the Handelbezirk down by the docks."
In the rafters something stirred. A small cloud of dust billowed and settled gently to the floor. The portly man looked up into the darkness of the rafters, grumbled something about rats, and went back to scratching his quill on the papers that he would submit at first light.
Once again in the cold, Frederic paused to peer though the dirty window at the pair in the warehouse. He grimaced as he thought of how this man would never know how close he had come to death nor how his simple sentimental nature had bought him his life. Frederic hurried though the frozen streets, silent as a death. He had a new target. Perhaps he could not be redeemed, but he could be avenged. The mist from the sewers finally settled to the ground. It was the witching hour and the night had just gotten a little colder.
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