Mordheim

The Man that was Not
By the Gray Sage aka Lex <[email protected]>

Xander Jandersz sits poised on the edge of the bench, "you mean to say that that guy actually is NOT here...??" The old storyteller pointedly taps his empty tankard on the table. Xander, getting the hint, motions Jinx, the lovely halfling barmaid of the Twisted Goat Tavern, over for a refill. "Well," the man says, as he gathers his grey robes around him, and prepares to launch his story, "listen to the Story of the Man that Was Not, and decide for yourself."

The Man that Was Not; source: Stories from the Twisted Goat, compiled by GG.

I had been walking through the desolate ruins of the harbour warehouse district when I suddenly came upon the strangest of sights. There, in the middle of the rubble and right before my very eyes suddenly appeared the shade of a person, or so my very first thought was. One of the unfortunate souls that was trapped in the aftermath of the cataclysm, connected to a body still unburied and thus forced to haunt the area. As these shades are easily confounded and avoided I gave it no further thought. Upon coming closer it, of sudden, spoke to me. "Good sir", it asked, "can you tell me where I am". Now as it is rather
uncommon for a ghost to speak-out and address a mortal, I focussed on the being and decided to give it my undivided attention, well at least for a moment.

Let me first describe to you what kind of apparition I saw.

My first impression of it had been that of a ghost, mostly because I could actually observe the surroundings through his form. Upon coming closer it took the shape of a rugged, if not handsome, beardless man in his early twenties. His long flowing hair was held back from his face by a headband, although he had not the cheek-scars that I would normally associate with the Steppe-rider braves. He also had a much fairer skin-tone then would have been found on one of them. One more
thing was clear from the beginning, although he was dressed like a warrior, wearing studded leathers, he approached me with open hands and I saw no obvious weapon, other then that he was carrying something strapped to his back.

So, obviously, instead of telling him we were in Mordheim, as by the destruction he most certainly must have known, I asked him why he could not tell. As all properly trained Sages know, a counter question often divulges the otherwise undisclosed reasons of the original request. Now I wont tell, verb pro verb, what he told me on that day, but rather give the gist of it. As he described, he and his band, the Howling
Huricanes, had been working a dockside warehouse gig (by which I think he meant a job). Whilst in his own words, they had been bringing the house down (obvious by the ruins around us) there was some freak explosion or fires and after that he found himself alone among the ruins in this place. He had been carefully exploring the area for some days and found out some obvious facts.

Now apart from his ethereal appearance, until that time it had been clear to me that he suffered from battle-fatigue, as warriors sometimes might, especially when being hit on the head (repeatedly). But then his story turned from peculiar to strange.

First of; the area was totally unfamiliar to him. Although not uncommon for one deranged, the fact that he HAD been able to roam about, meant that my, assuming him a ghost, for one was wrong. Secondly; he had not eaten, nor drunk or slept since arriving here. Now that again is not what would be deemed normal in neither ghost nor man. As men should do them all (and more) and ghost not even cares, whilst him it tore to know that what was once now was no more. Then; he could walk through walls, at least he said, when he arrived. But somehow now, that skill was him deprived. Well, at least there were some things to test. I dug through my satchels and pack and came up with an assorted array of items. Neither handing him things, or letting him try to pick things up gave much respite, as all either fell through his form or remained spread out before him. At least they did till we stumbled on a discovery. On my earlier walk I had found a small shard of Wyrdstone. The stranger rather reluctantly stuck out his hand to take it, so I asked why. He explained how he had found some shards before, and that coming near them, gave him the 'creeps' and that they felt like 'stat-tic' 'E-lek-tricky'. and more importantly, that they had vanished when he tried to pick them up. This I wanted to see myself, so I urged him to pick up this shard, and loo...before my very eyes the shard seems to melt into his form..... and when he stumbled back, into a still standing part of the wall, I saw with my own eyes that he was held back by the wall.

He reacted with unexpected speed, pulling the item that had been strapped to his back, still on its strap, in front of him, checking it for damage. Strangely enough, he called it an axe, although no axe like
I had ever seen before. Granted it had a haft, but its gleaming, multicoloured blade, must have been magical. And for some strange and sadly undivulged reason, one side of the haft had strings attached, like if it was a bow. He must have seen me rudely stare, because he asked me if there was something wrong with him. I mutely pointed to the strange apparatus he held in front of him... his BassAxe, in his
words, and then and there he showed me the greatest magick I have ever seen. Pulling a bit of rope from a little scribes-box at his belt, a box he called an 'Amp-li-fear', he made some arcane gestures over the Axe and then called up, from deepest hell, the fear invoking screams of the banshee.. Even for me, who has seen a lot, that sound alone was cause enough to almost flee the site. It did however somehow raise some undead minions near. The stranger saw them and called out "I've dealt with them alone before, you better make some room and make sure you stand clear". Then turned to face them by himself. Well, lets suffice to say that, what I heard and saw before, where nothing by what followed. With stonework flying, screams from hell and zombies ripped apart, I though I'd stayed for long enough and rapidly departed

So, here I sit and that is the tale that about the Man that maybe more OR less a man....