An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.

Franz Lohner's Chronicle - The Changer of Ways

Kruber’s back from Parravon. Sienna and Kerillian are back from … wherever. Even Bardin stuck his head out of the workshop this morning. Things are almost back to normal around here, which is nice.

Never realised how much I’ve got used to having our Ubersreik Five around … or maybe it’s more that I’ve never realised how much I’ve relied on the other four to keep Saltzpyre distracted. Tell you what, I’ve learned more about our good Witch Hunter’s existential dread this past week than is healthy. All told, I reckon I liked it better when he was a sneering presence in the corner of the room, waiting for the right moment to denounce My “vile, enduring heresy.”

I should really whisper a bit more encouragement in Catrinne’s ear. I’m not sure the lass knows what she’s letting herself in for, but you can’t save everyone, and I need a bit of a Saltzpyre break.

Anyway, even Olesya had a rare moment of sociability last night. Well, I say sociability. It was more of a lecture. As our resident maven of matters magical, seems she feels beholden to setting us straight on the Chaos Gods … just in case our lot end up crossing their paths. Last night it was Tzan … Tzeng … Tzetch …

Now come on, Franz, you can do this. Just take it nice and slow. One letter at a time.

Tzeentch. Hah! Cracked it!

Anyway, Olesya had quite a lot to say about Tzeentch. And Saltzpyre, bless him, sat quiet as a mouse through the whole thing. No accusations of heresy. No protestations of witchcraft. I think he’s a bit beyond that now, truth be told. Rightly or not, this Citadel of Eternity business has him thinking of himself as something outside the Order of the Silver Hammer. Then again, heresy’s very much an all or nothing business when you’re a Witch Hunter.

But Tzeentch. (That’s three times in a row now. Must be getting the hang of the spelling.) He’s the Chaos God of Magic, Deception and Change. A schemer, it goes, who revels in the plan, rather than the purpose. A case of not being able to see the forest for trees, or not caring to, at least. I’ve known plenty of bureaucrats like that, now I think on it – more interested in the form, than what the form’s for, if you take my meaning? I’ve always tried to avoid that. Sure, I’ve secrets and plans and wotnot, but it’s always for a reason.

Olesya had a lot to say about what might happen if Tzeentch glances at our lot when they’re in the Chaos Wastes. Cackling lightning sounded the nastiest. But what really opened my ears was Oleysa’s suggestion that he’s already been having a bit of a gander in our direction, playing us for puppets for his own, unknowable reasons.

Bardin scoffed at that. Took off his gromril helm and glared right at her. “There’s no Kazaki Gromthi making me dance, Aldrinn.”

“Is that so?” she asked, a wicked glint in her eye, and the shadows drawing closer. “But weren’t you a slayer just yesterday?”

Went a bit quiet after that, I can tell you. Because the thing of it was, I’d a clear memory of exactly that, but fuzzy, as if I’d forgotten. A slayer oath ain’t a pair of trousers. You don’t pull it on and take it off as it suits you. It’s a lifetime commitment, even if it’s not often a very long lifetime. Goreksson wasn’t a slayer today, so he couldn’t have been one yesterday. And yet he had been. More than that, Bardin’s eyes told me he believed it too.

It got worse. As I looked around the circle, everyone was different, but also the same. I made the mistake of blinking, and they all changed again. Same faces, same people … but not. And all of them looking as off-colour as I felt. And Olesya, of course, was laughing. Sigmar help me, but she’s an obnoxious baggage sometimes.

With no other recourse, I pinched my eyes shut and counted to ten. And then another ten. When I opened them, everyone was back to normal. Or what I used to think was normal, leastways. Can’t say anyone looked happy, but no one seemed in a hurry to speak.

Olesya wandered off after that, chuckling to herself. But the old bat shot me a mischievous wink before she went, and it got me wondering if any of it had been true, or one of her illusions. And if the latter, was she just having a joke, or making a macabre point? What happens if Tzeentch really is twiddling with our destiny? Does anything we do even matter?

What if this Citadel of Eternity lark was all his idea? Reckon I understand how Saltzpyre feels about the business better than I did before. Roads to damnation ain’t always labelled as such, after all.

Sigmar, but I need a drink. I wonder if there’s any of that Bugman’s left?