A proud, pious battlepriest of Sigmar

You were once an acolyte of a well-known Sigmarian battlepriest and oft followed him into battle against the dark forces of evil and chaos. All your training have served you well as there were numerous times your training kicked in and saved your skin in the mayhem and confusion of battle. However, as a consequence of your countless fights, your body, although muscular and well-toned, bears a patchwork of ugly scars that criss-cross the entirety of your body. Even your face wasn't spared, the once angular and handsome face now terribly marred by a large vicious gash that ran from your left temple down to the right side of your chin, cutting through your lips, nose and eyebrow. Despite everything the healers have tried, you still lost half of your nose and your lips are split apart badly enough that your teeth can be seen and that you now speak with a lisp.

Yet, all that sacrifice was worth it. After numerous years of serving by his side, your master has recognized your efforts and talents in battle and with the rites of Sigmar and personally recommended for your promotion from acolyte to full-fledged battlepriest. He also gifted you with a standard set of battlepriest equipment as well as a letter to the High Priest for your inauguration ceremony which is to take place at Marienburg. You still remember his face fondly about a week ago, old and wizened but with fiery eyes full of vigor and strength as he clapped his hand on your shoulders, positively beaming with pride and blessed you before you left him on your journey. Now, you're slowly making your way through the treacherous snowy mountain passes past Couronne on horseback.

You pull the thick fur mantle closer to you as another gust of chilling wind batter down on your weary form and tired steed. Flipping the map open to check your bearing again, you grit your teeth to suppress another shudder at the cold that seemed to sap at your strength. "Tis' too cold a weather for this time of the year, even at such heights. I might even be so bold as to claim that magick is involved," you grumbled to no one in particular. Suddenly, the ears on your faithful steed perked up before flattening. Its eyes rolled in panic, nose flared, as it whinnied loudly and abruptly bucked with enough to even unseat you, an experienced horserider off it. Taken by surprise, your battle-honed reflexes barely manage to get your feet under you as you clumsily landed in the thick snow. The horse, rattled with dreadful fear by whatever danger that approached you, fled together with your meager few possessions in the burlap backpack still tied with the horse saddle.

You tried to reach out and grab ahold of the reins as the horse bolted, but an arrow smacked into your shoulder and your hand gripped empty air as your aim was thrown off. A curse upon your lips, you grunt as you pull out the offensive missile lodged in your plate armour. Deftly hefting your warhammer, you ready your battle stance as verses of Holy Deus Sigmar pass through your lips. No sooner as the familiar fiery glow of Sigmar's blessing enveloped you, an icy bolt of magickal origins smashed into your torso. Despite Sigmar's protection, the of the blow causes you to stagger and it was at that moment your attackers show themselves.