Many things happened in Mordheim – the city was never idol. Somewhere in the Market District a band of Elves and Dwarves were battling over a stash of wyrdstone. In the ruined chapel of Sigmar, stained glass made eerie reflections dance across a one-armed Orc and a Human dueling through the broken pews. Skaven were scheming plans to steal treasure from unaware warbands and the Possesed were performing chaotic rituals, sacrificing stragglers to their dark god.
But one thing went unnoticed by all but the city herself.
Something stirred in the water at the docks, near the Drunken Fish Tavern, and a bloated corpse shambled its way out of the water and up the shore, slowly climbing the bulkhead. Its hollow eye sockets stared straight forward as it waited by a crate of rotting fish. It reeked of decay, and water dripped out of its many gaping wounds. There was no blood, only grey saggy flesh. It was dressed in rags, too far gone to be called actual garments, and it carried a waterlogged pistol in either hand. There it stood, a bloated rotting tongue lolling out of its mouth and empty eyes staring out at nothing.
There was an eerie silence as it stood there for several minutes before being joined by another, making its way across the bulkhead to stand next to the one before it. This one carried a rusted sword, and the zombie’s body was host to many small crabs, making themselves visible to any who may be watching as they scuttled from open wound to eye socket, before disappearing in the bowels of the creature.
These two stood around, waiting, as more of these soulless creatures gathered – all the while the heavy fog that clung near the docks grew thicker and thicker.
The sound of parting water, as if something was moving, made its way through the fog. Slowly the bow of a ship made itself visible. The figurehead was a beautiful woman, crossing her arms over her chest and staring down, as if crying. As the rest of the ship made itself visible the figurehead seemed to be the only part of the ship not rotten or falling apart. The wood that made up the rest of the ship was decayed and green, the sails beaten and torn. It was a wonder this ship could move, let alone float. But the strangest part about this ship was its crew.
Standing not far behind the bow, with one hand on the rail of the ship stood a skeleton dressed in the clothes of a captain, with a large hat to match. He ran his boney hand across the rail as he seemed to ponder what awaited him within the city he approached.
The ship was run by an entire undead crew, All moving in silence, going about the duties of bringing a ship into port. Without a word they cast over ropes to others who jumped over to the docks, catching them and tying them to the posts.
The moans and creaks of the ship were all that could be heard as a small group of these undead pirates, including the captain, gathered together with rusted cutlasses and pistols in hand and walked into the city without a word spoken between them. The bloated zombies staggered behind them as if walking only because the captain was.
When the night is dark and the Moon is new,
Lamentations are sung by a skeleton crew.
Not quite dead but not nearly alive,
With decaying skin and hollow eyes.
Out at sea, you’ll find them there.
On the rotting decks of the Shattered Prayer.