The Acolyte will apologize effusively. He's genuinely never encountered a reaction like that before, though that may only be a symptom of his rushing into Determination without doing more thoroughly preparations. He feels bad having talked up the value of Determination only to encounter this stumbling block before most of its benefits can be reaped.

If Klomm wants, the Acolyte can try and figure out a way through this, but even if he does, the best the Acolyte will be able to find is that Klomm's 'progress' towards the other side of this of painful stretch isn't lost, at least not quickly, so if it's easier, he can take regular breaks from it.

Klom will consider it, as something effortful and productive to be done, on days where he has little else to do. But for now, he will let it lie. He accepts the Acolyte's apologies, though. 

Klomm is an excellent student, all things considered, and the Acolyte will let him know it. With that all settled, the Acolyte will set out on his way the next morning, south to Praag, and then after restocking provisions, further on to Kislev City.

The road from Praag to Kislev (the city, not the country, for all they have the same name) is well-kept and well-travelled, as it winds its way through the steppe and then low forested hills, the acolyte still has to fight off a few ambushes from monsters of various stripes who would like to prey on a lone traveller. Eventually, the broken and forested land gives way to farms and pastures, the land growing less corrupt, warmer, and more populous as the acolyte heads south, though those are all very relative terms; the land is still corrupt, cold, and sparse. 

Eventually, the great walls of Kislev, unbroken even by the forces of chaos, come into sight, and the domes and spires of the temples and palaces visible above them. This is a rich city, as befits the capital, for all that the walls outside the gates have slums and shanty-towns built up against them, filled with crippled ex-soldiers and impoverished peasants. It speaks to the danger, and the militarisation, of Kislev as a nation, that some of the shanty-towns also have walls, albeit rickety wooden ones. 

He really should figure out some way to express the threat he is able to pose to would-be attackers at some point. It's not much effort on his part to defeat them, but even when he has the time and energy to temper his counter-attack, it's still a rather unpleasant experience. He can't really afford to just give every wandering bandit all his money though, since he doubts worming his way into the Tsar's good graces is going to be cheap.

Given that is his goal, he also probably isn't going to make much progress hanging aorund the slums longer than is necessary. He'll ask someone around which to the city gates, give them a reasonable tip from his lingering dockwork wages, and then try and get inside.

Greenskins, Beastmen, and forest spirits are not exactly attacking for his money, anyway. 

Getting to a gate isn't any trouble; the main road leads right up to them, for all it travels through the shanty-towns first. The guards at the gate will ask what his business in the city is. 

"I am looking to enter the Tsar's service as a fighting-man and war-wizard." He explains simply.

The guards look vaguely shocked. One of them spits on the ground. The other asks "... you an imperial then? You don't look like one." 

"No, not at all. I'd rather expect an imperial mage to even be offended at the association, from what I've heard of them. I'm from...further away than you'd believe, if you have any good sense, and I practice a tradition of magic that's as foreign to the empire as it is to the lands of Kislev."

"Do we have any reason to think you're not a sorcerer?" says one. "We should call in a witch-hunter." says the other. 

"What kind of sorcerer would just go and say 'I practice a tradition of magic that's as foreign to the empire as it is to the lands of Kislev'? Could someone that stupid actually become a sorcerer in the first place? Regardless, I'm willing to subject myself to whatever tests you can think of."

"Who knows what sorcerers think, they're sorcerers. They're all insane." "I'm going to go get that witch-hunter." The guard runs off. 

The Acolyte will wave off the guard who leaves before attempting to make some conversation with the one who stayed while they wait for the other to return with the witch-hunter. "So, I heard the Tsar is putting together some sort of monster-hunting army?"

"He has an army! The Tsar's guard are the finest heavy infantry in the world! The Gryphon Legion stands with him! The rotas will answer his call! We won a great victory over the undead last summer, Praise Ursun!" He will go on like this for some time, praising alternatively the Tsar and his men for facing various evils on the battlefield, the quality of those troops, the evil of the monsters, and the virtues of the gods of kislev for supporting them. Quite a patriot, this fellow. 

Eventually, the other guard returns, bringing with him a man in a very distinctive hat. 

"What's this about a foreign sorcerer?" he says, his tone dark and urgent. 

The Acolyte will commit any names the guard mentions to memory, but otherwise he's not really expecting to find much useful information.

When the presumed witch-hunter arrives, the Acolyte will wave to them and the returning guard. As he does this, a paper tucked away in an internal pocket of his shirt crinkles enough to remind him of its present, prompting him to remember that Veranites back in Praag gave him a letter of recommendation, which sounds extremely relevant now that he remembers it. "Actually, I'm terribly sorry for having you go and get the witch-hunter, and to draw out here, but I just remembered I do actually have a modicum of proof for my worth." He will then produce the letter from his pocket.

"The fact that you have deceived others is no - Oh Sigmar dammit, this is political isn't it. Can't be going to the generals and telling them I've killed their battle wizard. If you could come with me, I can do some tests which will help to verify your nature?" 

"I doubt fooling the Veranites is easy, they seem like clever folk, or at least very well-read. And certainly! Please lead the way." Off they go.

"Half those bloody scholars are neck deep in forbidden lore themselves at the best of times. Can't be trusted." 

He will take the Acolyte to, well. It looks like a jail, with a large and esoterically stocked torture chamber. 

Not a fan of forbidden lore, evidently. The Acolyte can only suppose that local threats warrant it, it does seem to align with the Veranites' own caution, just untempered by their appreciation for knowledge in itself.

The Acolyte has never been tortured in the proper sense, but he has had the displeasure of seeing devices of some similarity to these used before. In his experience, they server no purpose except to satisfy the cruel passions of their users, so he hopes that these tests won't involve them, at least not much.

In this case, he is subjected to the usual round of questions about his magic, as well as the more novel examinations of his anatomy for mutations, attempts to stab him with a wide variety of stakes and arrowheads of various materials, exposure to a collection of holy symbols, and a request to drink a series of increasingly awful beverages, several of which are moderately toxic, at least enough to induce vomiting, in a mundane human being. The interesting torture machines are left alone for now, lest this witch-hunter accidentally kill or maim someone of importance; one's career comes before one's efficacy, after all, says the witch-hunter. 

The Acolyte manages to restrain his passion for exposition regarding Fire, though not to the point of hiding anything the witch-hunter asks to know.

The Acolyte's physical anatomy is entirely human, albeit with the characteristic weathering of a life-long traveler and the scars of a fighting man. If the witch-hunter makes it clear that these are part of the test beforehand, the stakes, arrowheads, and beverages will visit all their usual unpleasantness upon the Acolyte, and possibly wear on his patience if there are many of them.

On the off chance that any of the holy symbols actually summon some sort of divine or spiritual being, that being will almost certainly be able to observe that the Acolyte's metaphysical make-up is distinctly alien, though with nary a hint of dhar, or indeed anything recognizable as local magic at all. Whether this hypothetical being communicates this to the witch-hunter is up to it.

Them visiting their usual unpleasantness is in fact part of the point; inflicting more or less than expected is a sign of unexpected magic, and thus chaos. The beverage that makes him throw up is supposed to be utterly organ-destroying to those using Nurgle's power to resist disease while remaining human-looking, apparently. Who knows if it actually works. 

The holy symbols might be more likely to be imbued with the true power of the gods if they were not commissioned and collected by a Sigmarite witch-hunter. As it is, only the hammer-amulet has any real power to it, and even then, it is the a lingering touch of an alien power not unalike to that of the dhar which touched everything in Praag, with no direct attention or potency. 

The Acolyte is left with a collection of minor injuries and without the contents of his stomach, but eventually, the witch-hunter admits that he has no evidence that the Acolyte is tainted, corrupted, or in league with evil powers, beyond the fact that that's a good default assumption for any magic-user. He reluctantly will send the Acolyte on his way, with another, much less glowing, letter for whoever he ends up talking to. 

Now he just needs to find the next person to talk to! The witch-hunter wouldn't happen to have a suggestion for that?

If not, the Acolyte will probably just wander over to the nearest guard-house and see if he can talk his way up to whoever he needs to see to join the Tsar's army.

The Acolyte's letter is addressed to a specific Boyar in the army, because he is a coreligionist of the people writing it. His offices can be found without much trouble, and it's still early enough in the year that he's present, rather than in the field.