From the depths of hell, Primarch quest emerges once more, clawing its way through my sleep, and spilling out onto the pages of SV. Not going to lie, this was a bastard to write up. If it's no good I may drag it back down for a re-do. My lone proof-reader seemed to like it, though. CLocks in at just over 4100 words. Not bad, I hope.
You lay out your work, a quick leafing through of your rifle reveals a hard, and deeply unpleasant, truth. Your current rifle design is utterly hopeless, having seen the futility of the matchlock design, especially in the conditions you found yourself in.
You'd heard all sorts of horror stories from wounded state troopers, and from your father personally. Of course, the wheel-lock design your own pistols used was simply far, far too complex to ever enter mass production….you need something simpler. Something the common gunsmith can produce, and the common can use and load much, much faster.
(The creation! Roll = 30 + 10 + 35 (75).
IT LIIIIIIIVES. (Madness strikes you. Roll = 100. Divine Inspiration))
Madness! Utter, raving madness! Sixteen hours and you have only two dozens sketches of possible firing mechanisms. Locks of all shapes, sizes and makes, you took apart all three firearms your brough with you, but by Sigmar it was worth it!
You've done it! You have created the
ultimate firing mechanism! It fires using a small piece of flint locked in place by a vice. You must….you must test your creation on your return home...if it works….it
will work, for Sigmar has spoken to you in this matter! You have created a firing mechanism worthy of His holy name!
It shall strike the powder with a mighty….well, it's not a
hammer but an axe! You tried to design a hammer based version, to no avail. Not yet, at least. But when the flint-axe strikes the plate, the powder ignites, forcing itself through a small firing hole, like on all guns. That is the brutally simplified version your still somewhat frenzied mind conjures up, to ensure you do not revisit your madness place. It is so much
simpler than the overly fancified designs of the wheel lock! Sigmar loves simplicity, you are sure Sigmar loves your new weapon. He must, for He spoke it to you!
(Gained. Proto-Flintlock firing mechanism (Untested, Only a mechanism), +2 Piety. Lost. Two Wheel-lock pistols, one Wheel-lock musket.)
Staggering out of your tent, into the frigid air, you are struck by how clean the camp is! Indeed, the men have done a
roaring job fixing the place up. The wounded are in their tents, the men sit quietly around campfires talking….
Truly, the Empire is blessed to have such great men as its defenders! Praise be unto Sigmar!
Helmut walked over, grimacing. He clearly had some kind of a limp. That was….not good. "Helmut! What is wrong?" You ask, concern tinging your voice, but the older man shrugs, not caring to display any kind of weakness.
"Nothing, my lord. Just a minor scratch up my left leg. I'll be fine for the battle. Speaking of, have you decided a plan of attack? I tried to ask before, but….you were indisposed." You nod slowly, as far as you can tell you've been working at your prototype plan for over sixteen hours. Still! Nothing wrong with that, the time for action was now, after all!
"Are the men ready? I've discovered a back route into the orc camp, if we attack through there, we can overwhelm and
slaughter them where they rest!" You can see Helmut visibly brighten at the news. He is clearly excited to get started.
"Great news, my lord! Where is this pass? Shall we leave at once?" You give an affirmative nod, it was time to wipe this menace out, once and for all. As you prepared a speech, Sigmund gathered the men.
-------------------------------------------
Conrad was
not sure he knew what was in that letter, now he'd delivered it. All he knew is that his feet ached, and he was currently being permitted to rest
in the royal estate!
If his mother could see him now, she'd be so proud! He was doing pretty well, for a farmer's son. He mused, as he heard a growing commotion outside. Eating the bread that the grand prince had
generously provided him, he slowly walked up to the small window the room had, looking outside.
His jaw hit the floor! He'd never seen so many pennants! Dozens of them, held aloft by gleaming knights….there were so many of the
knights as well! Ranks on ranks of warriors clad in gleaming armor….he'd only been on patrols, he'd never seen this many soldiers in one place!
At the head of the procession was….he couldn't tell, but he had some
very fancy armor!
His curiosity sated, he returned to his comfy couch, and continued to eat bread and rest his feet, enjoying the opulence of the place.
--------------------------------------------------
(Winding your way through the Lady. Roll 17 + 15 + 10 = 42)
Nothing disastrous happens during your trek through the mountains, though you notice traffic has died off
dramatically. The dwarves are as numerous as ever (or as rare, depending on how one looks at it) but you see only a few Bretonnian caravans. All with the colours of Paravon, all
heavily laden with foodstuffs. Winter had only just ended, though, wouldn't they be at the limit of their reserves….? Bah. It doesn't really bear thinking about. Just foolish lords letting their peasants starve. Hardly surprising, given they are Bretonnian.
You lead the procession slowly, making sure to gather fresh water from the reserves you had spotted. As much as you know it is likely just Morrslieb combined with the jagged cracks and fissures in the pass, you can't help but feel like you are being watched. By
what you can't say, for you doubt the orcs are scouting tonight. From what the goblin told you they had been busy celebrating, blind drunk on whatever sorry excuse they had for booze.
If not them, who?
After over an hour marching in the dark, you and the force you have lead arrive at the entrance to the back way. Small, especially here at its entrance, you barely fit. And, if your map is correct, it is a winding mess of tunnels and sheer drops into….wherever the hell these caves went.
"We have arrived. Helmut, get the knights ready, I shall lead the swordsmen through. Once we enter, you
must remain close to me, for only I know the way through." Helmut nodded, heavy helm clanking as he did. You could see his bright green eyes burn with righteous fire as he got ready to put down Sigmar's oldest foes. He marches off to prepare his knights, who have been visibly irritated at not being able to bring their horses.
You turn to the leader of the swordsmen, who seemed to….glow? Morrslieb was clearly in the mood to cause strange happenings, you surmised. "Sergeant! Ready your men to follow me. Stick close, and keep swords at ready. Who knows what we will find inside…." He nods and barks orders out. Many men keep their shields stowed, at least for now, as you enter into the tight corridor, first man down this path in….
Sigmar only knew how long, and inside you find….
(Inside this un-entered cavern is…. 61 = An abandoned dwarf mining station.)
What appears to be an old mining outpost. 'Tis hard to say at this distance, for it is quite a way along the
incredibly tight path, barely wide enough for two men, often winding, but you can see off in the distance, with your great sight, dwarvish runes.
You beckon your men through, and the march begins. The spearmen are right behind the swordsmen, and behind them, the knights. Their heavy armor makes much noise, so it would be best if they were far enough back no-one could hear them. No guards, at least. Things progress surprisingly swiftly, as you make your way through the winding tunnels and vast caverns with seemingly only a single, barely supported natural rock bridge wide enough for maybe one man at best. You don't even lose anyone, though…..Helmut seems off.
As you rest at the dwarven mining outpost, taking a few moments to gather your thoughts and to let the men rest their feet. Helmut doesn't seem….on his game, at the moment. This is certainly worrying, but you don't have time to deal with it. Maybe if you'd spent time focusing on healing him yesterday…..that was in the past, though.
You had to focus on the here, and now. After a brief rest, you and the men set out, making good time through the mess of warrens and caverns and ancient ravines that made up this back route.
(Happenings in the dark. Roll = 71. You are being watched.)
Nothing happens, the entire journey. Nothing
physical at least. But the entire time you can
hear things. Scurrying in the dark. Your mind tells you they are there, and yet your eyes tell you nothing. The men feel it as well. Lights sweep through tight corridors, the swordsmen take up shields, and any small crevasse, tunnel or other entryway is blocked up with stone. It make things slower…..but it puts the men at ease.
You as well. Your mind tries to puzzle out what in Sigmar's name is lurking in the shadows, and despite the holy inspiration that your work provided, you find yourself missing your pistols. Instead, you tightly grip your hammer, knuckles going white, as you keep marching through.
The silence is
deafening and even the knights seem to have gone quiet. And then you hear it. Chittering. Claws over stone. " Halt! Shields and spears at the ready!" The men nervously comply, forming a four-wide shield rank at both ends, and you stand in front of the lead shields. You wait, and wait. You can hear scraping noises, in front, and behind. Your eyes see nothing, until….
Steel! You see a glint of the stuff, a blade! A huge screech is let loose, and it chills you to your bone. Your head throbs and aches, and the air seems almost….static with energy. You let out a roar in response and double down, planting your feet firmly placed onto the ground, not budging an inch, as….
Nothing happens. Their was a blinding flash of raw green energy, and your head throbbed violently. You felt sick to the pit of your stomach, the throbbing pain nauseated you. Fighting back the urge to vomit, you notice….the men are looking at you strangely, like you had something wrong with you. You choke back a bit of bile that had forced it's way up, and after fighting off a coughing fit, gesture forward
"W-we must continue on. ANd leave this Sigmar-cursed place." THe men seemed to agree with you, and the rest of the march is certainly no less tense, but you feel like you are no longer being watched. As you march past one of the many holes the men fill in with stone, however, you smell…..burned rat? Sigmar be merciful, it smelt like the slums of Altdorf! Now you were getting a little homesick. On top of generally sick, as the smell was
horrid.
Finally, though, you see it. The exit out into the night sky! It is a narrow slit, but you can
feel the elation of the men as it comes into view. You can sense many want to start cheering, and frankly, so do you. Silence reigns, however, as you and your men are far
more excited about what comes next. You wait on the precipice, you can see down, into the valley below, orcs and goblins celebrate, as only their degenerate kind knew how.
(Status of Orcs = 40. Many drunk, many more brawling. - 15 to cohesion
Status of Goblins = 1. Blind Drunk, fights to the death, many eaten by squigs. - 80 to cohesion.)
Seeing the status of their camp fills you with hope, and with righteous pride."Sons of Sigmar! Tonight, we shall crush Simgar's most hated foes, and drive them from this land! Tonight, Sigmar stands with us! Let Him guide your blades, your spears, and your hammers into the
heart of the foe! Let Him strengthen your shield, let Him be your armor! For the armor of the righteous never fails, and
we are the righteous! We are Sigmar's heirs! Let us prove it this day!"
(Speech. Roll = 88 + 20 + 10 = 118. Praise Sigmar!)
The men let out a thundering roar, screaming the names of their gods, and the 'battle' commenced. The orcs never saw you coming, and soon, leading the charge amongst your men, you crash down into the orc camp, crushing dozens of goblins under foot, as orcs are overwhelmed by dozens of blades, stuck like pigs by spears, and crushed beneath knightly hammers.
"FOR SIGMAR!" you bellow out as your mighty armored foot sends an orc flying with a bloody wound in his abdomen.
(Orc & Goblin reactions roll = 46 -15 (Orcs flung into chaos, many killed
-500 Orcs. 800 remain.) 33 - 80 (Goblins shattered, huge casualties.
-800 Goblins dead. 1500 remain.)
The carnage is….apocalyptic. Not only do they never see you coming, but in many cases you think that they believe
other orc groups are attacking them, picking fights with anyone and everyone. There are some meager attempts by the orcs to rally, and form something resembling a fighting group. Helmut sees to it that it doesn't last, as he and his knights, slower than your other forces, lumber right into the main force, crashing against them with prayers on their lips, plunging their swords into orc flesh, ripping them apart. You would pay more attention, but you are busy! You have things to do, and orcs to crush!
"You! Grab the torches, we don't want any orcs hiding!" You beckon to some nearby swordsmen, who nod and pick up the orcish torches, tossing them onto nearby tents, other men quickly follow suit, grabbing torches and setting alight orc 'tents' the oily furred hides burning spectacularly. The men cheer, before redoubling their attacks. You led a core of swordsmen, punching right into the biggest congregation of orcs you can find. You've lost track of where your men are, but by the sounds of battle, all goes well!
(Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell! 93 + 5 + 10 + 5 = 113. A crushing blow.)
You smash their lines, the orcs shall know true fear, as your hammer carves a bloody swarthe through their ranks. You feel Sigmar, he is with you in this. He grips your hammer with you, He drives the blows to the weak points in the orc. Even the heavily armored ones are no match for Sigmar's divine wrath!
"For Myrmidia, and the Empire!" You hear one of the Swordsmen Sergeants cry, he is squaring off against two of the heavily armored brutes, and mentally you will him on, to hold his will close to his god, and to strike true. As an afterthought, you punch the heavily armored, hulking brute in front of you, you don't even look him in the eyes as your armored gauntlet crushes his misshapen face into bloody paste, hammer swinging backwards and launching a small goblin high into air the foul thing screeched as it flew, before landing somewhere far behind him with a wet squelch, body crushing down into a broken, misshapen mess.
The swordsman grips tightly at his sword and shield, while the first orc charges in, and he narrowly deflects with his shield, beating the clusmy blow aside, before cutting at the green beast with his sword, slicing it's arm open.
And then you see him. A bloated, disgusting goblin, as big as most orcs you'd seen "Oi! You can't crump mi boys! Only I can crump mi boys! I'm gunna mount ya head on ma boss pole!" He laughed, wielding a huge cleaver, you charged right at him, as he carved two men in half. You let out a mighty roar and charge straight for him. He shall not kill your men! You will not allow it!
(Sigmund Von Holswig-Schleistein vs. Warboss Grak da Gigantic. 99 + 10 + 10 + 5 vs. 87 + 20 + 10. Locking blades.)
You bring down your mighty gryphon hammer against the goblinid abomination, but he is
fast for something his size, and you telegraphed your running hammer drop well before attacking, even so, it barely matters, despite the goblins freakish strength, he is barely able to deflect your blow, grunting as his big butcher's blade struggles to take the impact, and his arm buckles. He narrowly deflects the attack, for a given value of deflects, as your hammer rips a chunk of pale green flesh with it. You sneer at the abomination, which just laughs back at you
"Yew'll be a reel gud fight! Ah can tell!" His maniacal cackles and joy are brought to an abrupt end as you ram the head of your greathammer into his face, bulbous pustule covered nose exploding in a shower of deep red gore, he recoiled, falling backwards. He was
monstrously tall for a goblin, but quick for all his size and fat. He was up quick, and before you could recover your hammer, he was upon you, blade sliding under your armor, slicing into your flesh. You cough up blood, but it doesn't stop you. Your free hand wraps itself around the goblin, pushing him back, blade still embedded in you. You heft him and throw him.
"You do not scare me, foul beast. I have Sigmar by my side, you will
die in His name!" You can feel warmth pumping out your side aruond the blade. It
hurts badly, but you will live. Ripping the blade out, you can feel your body already starting to heal. One knife wound is nothing to you. Tossing his butcher's blade to the ground, you stalk towards him, crushing it beneath a heavily armored boot.
To your continued frustration, the goblin just starts to laugh as it rises back to it's feet. "You iz gonna go
straight to da top a me boss pole! Dats an honor, dat is!" You don't respond with words, just with a sneer. All around you, battle raged, men fighting and dying for Sigmar's Holy Empire, though the orcs did most of the dying. You keep advancing on the goblin, hammer gripped tightly as you feel the bleeding ebb. The goblin leads a staggering charge against you, and several goblins and orcs notice joining in the blind rush towards you. Planting your feet on the ground, you grit your teeth and prepare for them.
(Orc charge. 86 + 10 + 5 + 5 v. 25 + 30 + 10 -5
Hammertime.)
Two of the orcs are faster than their bloated leader, and charge directly at you. First mistake. Second mistake, was they raised their huge cleavers above their head. Dropping low, you rush the both, massive shoulder slamming into the chest of the first one, slamming him aside as the head of your hammer punches through the guts of his compatriot. Orcs surround you, brandishing swords and cleavers. You don't care, you have a hammer, they don't.
You sweep your mighty warhammer low, catching many of the beasts by surprise, upending them, allowing you to bring an end to their misbegotten existence with a stop of your heavy boot. "Who is next! Come and face me!" You jeer, of the orcs that gharged you, only three remain alive, plus their warboss. The boss laughs at you, brandishing the cleaver he still has.
"You got a lotta fight in ya, 'umie. More'n that armored git. Time ta say noight noight, tho. That dagga was poisoned. Yew are gonna di-
URK" You ram the head of your hammer into his chest, spike at the top popping his bloated belly open, he vomits pus and bile, and Sigmar knows whatever else all over the place. The orcs run, and you
can feel the poison. It's not painful but….you feel tired. Your hammer drips with gore, and your body is covered in it. The orc sputters something in it's beast tongue, but you don't care. Looking around, your men have crushed the orcs near totally. It has been a good day.
"Helmut! That you?" You call out to a similarly gore soaked knight. The entire field is litered with gore and charred orc. The men who aren't chasing fleeing orcs and goblins are busy burning everything. The knight in question pops open his helmet as he makes his way over.
"Yes! That was a hell of a fight, Sigmund. Are we still alive?" He laughed, though he was clearly quite tired. To your surprise you couldn't see any real injuries on him, despite pitting and denting in his armor. He'd clearly done better than you had, even if your wound had largely sealed itself up by this stage. Looking around, you see shockingly few of your own men have been lost to the orcs. What a glorious battle!
"We are still alive last I checked, Helmut! What a fight that was, though. I've never seen so many orcs in one place!" You laugh together, just enjoying the post battle afterglow. The knights have begun to organise brigades of soldiers to burn out any remaining orcs, and to destroy their tents and….well, you don't know what the fungal things are, but you should ask Helmut some time.
Helmut claps you on the back, mostly just thankful for being alive despite his poor leg and general exhaustion. ANd then he sees it, and
you see it. Dozens of banners fluttering in the breeze.
Brettonian banners. There is a blaring of horns, and a dozen bolts fly at you, you stagger back as you are hit, and Helmut collapses to the ground. You didn't see where he was hit, and your attention is called forward, to the
bastards who just shot you.
"
I am Duke Marcel Du Paravon, and
you have violated ancestral treaties of co-operation! For this and your other crimes, I demand your immediate surrender, on pain of
death." The Duke sneered at you, his voice carried by a trumpet, sounding tinny and stupid. That second bit might've just been his inner Breton, though. Your mind is racing, and your blood is starting to get up. You feel a familiar haze descend upon you, and tightening your grip on your warhammer, you….
- [] Take a deep breathe, bring yourself under control, and surrender. You are outnumbered. It is likely all your men will die if you don't, and you need some kind of medical aid for Helmut. Now.
- [] Charge. You don't care what happens next. They shot you. They might've just killed your friend. They will pay. They will all pay.
- [] Write in… (Subject to GM approval)
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"They have my son." Wilhelm stared out the window, down into the pass he'd so proudly sent his precious boy into. Now….he felt sick to his stomach. He was disgusted with himself, for not giving his son more soldiers, for not trying to…..for just….for not being with him.
"This is an outrage! We must retaliate at once!" One of the generals exclaimed, moustache bristling with anger. It was a common sight, as Wilhelm had gathered his chief advisors, and any general loyal to him nearby.
"The Duke has caravans nearby! We can grab those, hold them to ransom!" Another explained, trying to come up with some reasonable measure to twist the duke's arm.
"What is forty caravans, when compared to a prince?!" The conversation swiftly degraded into a shouting match, with those arguing for an immediate response arguing with those who wanted something less extreme. The argument went on for another ten minutes, before Wilhelm interceded. Whirling around, he slammed his hands down on the mighty bloodpine table the advisors and generals were seated at.
"THEY HAVE MY SON! Get out. All of you." He sneered, waving all the men off, bar Boris. "Not you, Ullyanov. I have need of you still." The hulking Kislevite nodded, marching back to his seat, waiting for his Master to speak. Wilhelm just sank down into his chair, pouring some fresh alcohol for himself and drinking. "Do we have any news, beyond what the courier said?"
Boris shook his head, in truth, they didn't know anything beyond large movements of Parravonese soldiers near where his son had been camping.He knew the Parravonese, though. Their duke wasn't an honor-obsessed fool like many of his compatriots. He was something far, far worse. "I haff sent werd out, my Lord. Forces should arrive soon. Do you want me to lead them into the pass?" Wilhelm nodded slowly, pouring more alcohol and drinking. How….how would he explain this to Anna?
"I will join you, Boris. We must leave at once, though." He decided he wouldn't, not until he had something concrete to tell her. To tell everyone. Sighing, his beleaguered bodyguard and friend nodded.
"I will inform the armory. Get some rest, we will leave soon." And with that, Boris Ullyanov left, leaving Wilhelm alone in his meeting room. He resolved to leave as well, and to get some quick rest before bed.
