Ok, great. That was my worry.
Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest
- Thread starter Boney
- Start date
- Fantasy Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
Ok, great. That was my worry.
SuperSonicSound
Shadowmancer of the Shadow Cabal
The Orc gods are directly involved with the battle magic spells used by their shaman as their lores are essentially divine ones using the waagh field alongside the winds of magic, Mork being weakened almost certainly means that their battle magic spells are less powerful and potentially more dangerous to themselves.
@BoneyM Would you say my thoughts are on the right lines here or am I reading into things to much?
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-Its not strategically important for the Mercenary Commanders to know MC was channeling WAGH!. Stories like that end up with MC burnt at the stake and Freddy surviving that involved divine intervention... lets not hope Ranald feels like outing his connection to MC.
-Its not strategically important to have the grape vine know the mage snuffed out a newborn variant Ork god in the cradle. Again the Mercenary Commanders shouldn't known MC is technically accidentally off a new god. That is kind of a MAJOR thing.
-I'm not for inducing panic in the ranks for a situation already resolved.
-I'm for basic operational security of information that should not being causally released into the wild.
If its not clear... While I'm not for not telling about the Mork thing in public (which the main debriefing blatantly is) I am for telling relevant people in private a bit later. Its Need to know information at worst and the rank and file and nonenergy manipulators/nonDwarven upper command are most definitely people who seriously don't need to know.
Even if its just having people that have actual use for the info behind after the main meeting and telling them... 'So I managed to stealth kill the head priest who was actually the warboss... a Black Ork shaman (apparently this was a thing that occurred)... who was randomly in the middle of a ritual to make a splinter 'Only X' ork god when I sworded him to death.' Followed by 'and I know because I started catching visions as I was parrying all that energy somewhere where its no going to screw us over. I'm very happy I (and the mountain) didn't explode doing that.'
Add in they will be rather more happy if she doesn't mention the Black Ork origins in public (if they know specifically or not about it) and the 'Mork thing' is blatantly a topic for a smaller group.
If you can't tell I'm in favor or mentioning the warboss/rogue idol in the public leadership meeting and disclosing the horror stories in a private select meeting. Basic informational compartmentalization practiced by the intrigue wizard.
Even if it takes up a personal action.
...
TL; DR: Do not annouce in public the Orks almost succeded in making more ORK GODS! Panic and disorder for giggles/bragging rights is a stupid, stupid thing to do. Also OOC for MC's class/training.
SuperSonicSound
Shadowmancer of the Shadow Cabal
That's quite literally not what Mathilde would do. So you've completely grabbed the wrong end of the stick of what the vote is to do. Also we'll be talking to the War council so you know the Dwarf King, Krag the Grim.
This isn't about bragging this about relaying information of strategic importance. The Orc god having a chunk ripped from him is actually pretty serious business.
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What mercenary commanders are in the War Council?
Beyond that, orcs and goblins apparently come up with new cults to minor deities frequently, and they fade away as the tribe in question dies or absorbed. You need to be an expert to recognise the true significance of what was being done here.
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Note that this 'smaller group' will contain dwarfs who are very unlikely to take such lies by omission well, especially when it comes to someone like Kragg who already dislikes Mathilde.
- Location
- At the Edge of Insanity
[x] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
- Location
- US of A
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
Your 'almost certainty' should be more of a 'could theoretically'.
Unknown factors in this equation:
Does the magic for Waaagh spells come directly from the gods, from the shamans, or from both?
Would a reduction in available magic make shamans more or less prone to miscast?
If the gods supply part of the energy, do they grant a tiny percentage of their total power or a set amount of power?
Do the gods 'budget' their power or do they just spend what they have at hand?
Do they divide their energy and attention amongst different tasks or do they focus on one thing at a time?
Will Mork regenerate the lost power? What limits the power of gods?
Mathilde would need to become one of the world's foremost theological experts just to begin to guess with any certainty what the long-term repercussions of what happened are.
- Location
- Earth
Damn, we might not tell dwarves that we drew blood against a God. To just about the only people who should be told. Dwarves are big on truth and service and debts. Knowing they can call on the Colledges to really fuck up enemy shamans, even maybe hurt enemy bosses would have been nice.
- Location
- Argentina
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
- Location
- Germany
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] The death of the Warboss and the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol.
-[X] But tell Belegar about the weakening of Mork in private.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
I don't understand why people want to deny the dwarves possibly important information.
We don't need proof, we just report what we saw.
We don't need to lie, we just keep quiet about the channeling of the energy and Ranald's involvement.
"I disrupted the ritual. This led to a massive outpour of Waagh energy, likely weakening Mork. Fortunately the energy went away without causing major damage."
Yes, if people start probing we may have to lie, but this holds for the other option, too.
Edit: Added a second vote to the report vote option, in case people just object to telling stupid, superstitious humans about Mork.
[X] The death of the Warboss and the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol.
-[X] But tell Belegar about the weakening of Mork in private.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
I don't understand why people want to deny the dwarves possibly important information.
We don't need proof, we just report what we saw.
We don't need to lie, we just keep quiet about the channeling of the energy and Ranald's involvement.
"I disrupted the ritual. This led to a massive outpour of Waagh energy, likely weakening Mork. Fortunately the energy went away without causing major damage."
Yes, if people start probing we may have to lie, but this holds for the other option, too.
Edit: Added a second vote to the report vote option, in case people just object to telling stupid, superstitious humans about Mork.
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So far we know 25% of his adventurers are incapacitated (died, wounded or deserted), and there's been some heavy fighting. Average among the expedition is 20%, 25% for the frontline infantry is reasonable. There's nothing to suggest Codrin is a butcher.
- Location
- Singapore
Honestly, it seems almost as if keeping this crucial piece of intel about Mork to herself is way above Mathilde's paygrade, and assuming that this piece of Intel has no value to be shared and hence should be kept to herself is an act of arrogance. It feels like we are about to make a very big mistake that is going to bite Mathilde badly if the Dice rolls poorly if we don't at least get it out to Kragg the Grim at minimum about what we did to Mork and Gork out there, and I'd actually think even the Ulrician Grandmaster ought to know about what we did to Mork, since the Greenskins gods are an enemy of humanity. Forget about the consequences to Mathilde: I think that it's actually an incredibly cowardly act if Mathilde was to with-hold the truth with at least the matter of Gork. She can't even begin to guess the long term repercussions of what she did, and I think if Mathilde's understands this, her sense of duty almost makes it in character to tell about the blow stuck against Mork so that wiser minds may know.
She can leave what she did with Ranald out, in fact, she should for very good political reasons, but I feel all the proclamations that our intel about Mork has zero value feels very presumptuous in light of this statement. More likely, the value of this intel is utterly unknown to Mathilde, but maybe priceless to others, in ways that Mathilde cannot even begin to conceive since she is very far from a theological expert.
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[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
Kazak Umgi
- Location
- Australia
[I kinda feel Codrin's mercenaries deserve a little bit of a memorialising for their performance, hope no one minds the length]
- Kazak Umgi -
There is summat fey in the air.
Codrin Petrescu may nae be a man of religion, of cloth and silence or of hammers and fury. But a villein of Stirland he remains though the tramp of marching men brings him far from the woods and meadows he called his own, to this land of jagged rock and stone. Superstition isn't just a dabbled art for one such as he, but a matter so enjoined to his life that it were as marrow to him. It comes in with every breath of the mountain air, leaves with every exhale. In every rock there he finds an omen, in every cloud a sign. From the wind comes tomorrow's whisper, from the still pools the truth of times past. So Codrin is a man attuned to the nature of the world that surrounds him. And though he is not a religious man...
There is summat fey in the air.
It crackles and it shimmers with a power that sits in the corner of the eye. Pockets of still air heave as though they wrestle with weighty matters. The wind that comes through the peaks of Karag Nar to scour the valley bears the marks of the otherworldly like the marks a man's teeth makes upon his supper. A trusted man, leaning upon his polearm as they await the storm of steel, feels it too; inquires of Codrin of the peculiar prickles on the back of his neck.
"We walk with gods today," he replies quietly, looking off to yonder peaks. "I reckoned this was that witch's work. Mebbe it still be her craft that caught the eye. But there's more."
"Sigmar?"
"Ours, there's, our stumpy mates up the hill," says Codrin. "I dunno. I know woods, some metal, blood. Gods ain't my stage."
"Greenskin gods? I suppose they'd have to have such a thing," says the mercenary. "What if its them?"
"If its ours, then we die in good hands," Codrin says. "If its there's, then ya get t' die spitting in the eye of the biggest greenskin y' ever imagined." He cocks his head. "And if it be the dwarves then hope they put in a good word fer us."
Somewhere behind them a cannon roars, a deep and booming fwoomp of noise and powdersmoke. A flicker of motion overhead, and then from the far side of a ridge line the tops of a geyser of fire and earth. And then another cannon, and then another. Another, another, another, the thunderous rumble soon rises beyond mere sound. A wave that churns the guts, reverberates through the skull. Cannon shot screeches like banshees overhead and the ground roils. Fast as they can load they deliver. Soon the twang of catgut and torsion bars, bolts with a sound like ripping canvas launch off dwarven platforms to skewer packed ranks of heedless orcs.
"Reckon I wouldn't want t' go to work through that," bellows the mercenary next to Codrin. "Not that our archers are helpin' any with you down here."
The Marksman snorts and then waves him on. They walk forward to the milling battle line. A half-dozen of the most important mercenary band leaders await, but there are no new orders. The score is clear. All that is green and mean is coming up the draw ahead, soon to crest the ridge line and hit their waiting men. Cannons will do for many, bolt and stone for others. Quarrels and arrows will carpet the stone like macabre crop-fields. But not all. Never all. The orc will come and then it will be time for valour, courage, duty, and the rest of that hogshit that men use to trick other men into dying over. But if they don't do it, the Orcs will sweep through. Good Stirlanders behind him will be overrun and put to the choppa.
Codrin knows; gotta hold, gotta stop the charge here. But it ain't enough. Any chump can die here. Aye, he could just fall on his sword now and manage that. These men have to win. Have to think they can throw down the greenskin, gotta know that they can actually collect that promised prize money. So Codrin steps up to the back ranks of the formation. Garish mismatches of gear and livery are everywhere. Were the liveries to be taken at face value then Codrin commands Bretonnian knights, Averland greatswords, Sigmarite priests, and a dozen increasingly implausible forces. At least one mercenary who bears the livery of a dozen sources, even. There seems to be no two things alike on the men he pulls aside with firm hands to shoulders as he passes through the ranks. But what they have works. Morr already came for the shysters and scoundrels, the men who would slit their brother's throat in camp if it netted but a handful of coppers. Codrin personally saw to that. Those that remain are a fighting force. Just need to remind them they can collect their paychecks as long as they push that way, he thinks as he glances up at the Citadel in the distance.
A hush settles over the men around him as they see him pass through to the front of the army, walking out towards the thin line of picket men watching from the ridge. Pebbles dance around his feet with the furious pounding of cannons. The fey cast to the air only grows stronger with every step, as though stirred up from the earth by dwarven ferocity. And when he stands on the ridge and sees the vast orcish horde that comes intent upon his life, he breaths deeply.
With the air comes something else, filling his lungs with the divine. Essences dance in his breath. The hearth is there, the good soil and rock, the smell of a blacksmith's forge, smoke tickling his nose as it rises from the charcoal. Something strange has been stirred up, and so many things flit through his thoughts that he can barely put a name to. He turns back towards the ranks of armed and armoured men and draws the arming sword from his side, holding it aloft.
"Brothers! You children of Man! Every last misbegotten whore's son among you! You slack-jawed Stirlanders, you venereal-ridden Averlanders, motherless Middenlanders, you trash and refuse, swept off t' fight like shit off the gong farmer's porch. Brothers all! You all bleed red like good gods-fearin' folks, and in a moment, we'll bleed side by side."
Despite the storm of powder and runic thunder, somehow his men hear him. He looks up and down the line. They all hear his voice. Seven and a half thousand men under arms in a thick belt that stretches off in the distance in either way, yet all watch rapt. In his eyes shines a light, fierce and cold like a gromril rune. The tingle in his throat, up the back of his neck, he has never known the like.
"Down that slope a ways is enough green it oughtta put ye off yer veg for a year," he bellows out. "Our hosts have put us here to hold, buy time for that cannons to work their magic. But we aren't just going to buy time. The Dwarves have brought the thunder, well we have brought the mountain! Here the greenskins will break! Here the grobi fail!" he continues, wondering idly to himself what a grobi is. "Here we stand, immovable like the rocks themselves. Back there is Karag Nar, yonder is Karag Lhune, well here is another. Where we stand is a mountain of our will as Men! And when the Dwarves see our stand they will call this the ninth peak; Karag Umgi!
"Now who are you!?" he calls to the warriors as they start to beat their shields and howl.
"Karag! Umgi!" comes rumbling back over him, somehow more physical than the blast waves of the cannons. It is taken up as a chant from one end of the battle line to the other. And when the orcs come storming up the slope they slam into a force whose feet are set like the roots of the eight peaks themselves, as the cry of Karag Umgi is spat into their faces.
-
"What in the name of all the gromril in the world is going on down there," blurts a very confused Longbeard among the gun pits.
"Say what you will of the manlings, at least they keep things from being boring," snorts another as they watch the force expected to be a speedbump stop the emerald tide cold.
-
"By Sigmar, Codrin, never knew you were a poet," snorts one of the mercenaries after the battle as they survey the stacked heaps of orc corpses at the base of their lines.
"I don't even remember rousin' up the lads," admits Codrin honestly.
"The gods, Codrin, the gods," replies the man with a tap of his finger against his nose.
"Yeah, but whose?" says Codrin.
Around them, the air is quiet once more, with nothing left of the fey taint of the morning beyond a feeling like a lonesome note on an instrument. To Codrin, that last essence seems ... pleased.
- Kazak Umgi -
There is summat fey in the air.
Codrin Petrescu may nae be a man of religion, of cloth and silence or of hammers and fury. But a villein of Stirland he remains though the tramp of marching men brings him far from the woods and meadows he called his own, to this land of jagged rock and stone. Superstition isn't just a dabbled art for one such as he, but a matter so enjoined to his life that it were as marrow to him. It comes in with every breath of the mountain air, leaves with every exhale. In every rock there he finds an omen, in every cloud a sign. From the wind comes tomorrow's whisper, from the still pools the truth of times past. So Codrin is a man attuned to the nature of the world that surrounds him. And though he is not a religious man...
There is summat fey in the air.
It crackles and it shimmers with a power that sits in the corner of the eye. Pockets of still air heave as though they wrestle with weighty matters. The wind that comes through the peaks of Karag Nar to scour the valley bears the marks of the otherworldly like the marks a man's teeth makes upon his supper. A trusted man, leaning upon his polearm as they await the storm of steel, feels it too; inquires of Codrin of the peculiar prickles on the back of his neck.
"We walk with gods today," he replies quietly, looking off to yonder peaks. "I reckoned this was that witch's work. Mebbe it still be her craft that caught the eye. But there's more."
"Sigmar?"
"Ours, there's, our stumpy mates up the hill," says Codrin. "I dunno. I know woods, some metal, blood. Gods ain't my stage."
"Greenskin gods? I suppose they'd have to have such a thing," says the mercenary. "What if its them?"
"If its ours, then we die in good hands," Codrin says. "If its there's, then ya get t' die spitting in the eye of the biggest greenskin y' ever imagined." He cocks his head. "And if it be the dwarves then hope they put in a good word fer us."
Somewhere behind them a cannon roars, a deep and booming fwoomp of noise and powdersmoke. A flicker of motion overhead, and then from the far side of a ridge line the tops of a geyser of fire and earth. And then another cannon, and then another. Another, another, another, the thunderous rumble soon rises beyond mere sound. A wave that churns the guts, reverberates through the skull. Cannon shot screeches like banshees overhead and the ground roils. Fast as they can load they deliver. Soon the twang of catgut and torsion bars, bolts with a sound like ripping canvas launch off dwarven platforms to skewer packed ranks of heedless orcs.
"Reckon I wouldn't want t' go to work through that," bellows the mercenary next to Codrin. "Not that our archers are helpin' any with you down here."
The Marksman snorts and then waves him on. They walk forward to the milling battle line. A half-dozen of the most important mercenary band leaders await, but there are no new orders. The score is clear. All that is green and mean is coming up the draw ahead, soon to crest the ridge line and hit their waiting men. Cannons will do for many, bolt and stone for others. Quarrels and arrows will carpet the stone like macabre crop-fields. But not all. Never all. The orc will come and then it will be time for valour, courage, duty, and the rest of that hogshit that men use to trick other men into dying over. But if they don't do it, the Orcs will sweep through. Good Stirlanders behind him will be overrun and put to the choppa.
Codrin knows; gotta hold, gotta stop the charge here. But it ain't enough. Any chump can die here. Aye, he could just fall on his sword now and manage that. These men have to win. Have to think they can throw down the greenskin, gotta know that they can actually collect that promised prize money. So Codrin steps up to the back ranks of the formation. Garish mismatches of gear and livery are everywhere. Were the liveries to be taken at face value then Codrin commands Bretonnian knights, Averland greatswords, Sigmarite priests, and a dozen increasingly implausible forces. At least one mercenary who bears the livery of a dozen sources, even. There seems to be no two things alike on the men he pulls aside with firm hands to shoulders as he passes through the ranks. But what they have works. Morr already came for the shysters and scoundrels, the men who would slit their brother's throat in camp if it netted but a handful of coppers. Codrin personally saw to that. Those that remain are a fighting force. Just need to remind them they can collect their paychecks as long as they push that way, he thinks as he glances up at the Citadel in the distance.
A hush settles over the men around him as they see him pass through to the front of the army, walking out towards the thin line of picket men watching from the ridge. Pebbles dance around his feet with the furious pounding of cannons. The fey cast to the air only grows stronger with every step, as though stirred up from the earth by dwarven ferocity. And when he stands on the ridge and sees the vast orcish horde that comes intent upon his life, he breaths deeply.
With the air comes something else, filling his lungs with the divine. Essences dance in his breath. The hearth is there, the good soil and rock, the smell of a blacksmith's forge, smoke tickling his nose as it rises from the charcoal. Something strange has been stirred up, and so many things flit through his thoughts that he can barely put a name to. He turns back towards the ranks of armed and armoured men and draws the arming sword from his side, holding it aloft.
"Brothers! You children of Man! Every last misbegotten whore's son among you! You slack-jawed Stirlanders, you venereal-ridden Averlanders, motherless Middenlanders, you trash and refuse, swept off t' fight like shit off the gong farmer's porch. Brothers all! You all bleed red like good gods-fearin' folks, and in a moment, we'll bleed side by side."
Despite the storm of powder and runic thunder, somehow his men hear him. He looks up and down the line. They all hear his voice. Seven and a half thousand men under arms in a thick belt that stretches off in the distance in either way, yet all watch rapt. In his eyes shines a light, fierce and cold like a gromril rune. The tingle in his throat, up the back of his neck, he has never known the like.
"Down that slope a ways is enough green it oughtta put ye off yer veg for a year," he bellows out. "Our hosts have put us here to hold, buy time for that cannons to work their magic. But we aren't just going to buy time. The Dwarves have brought the thunder, well we have brought the mountain! Here the greenskins will break! Here the grobi fail!" he continues, wondering idly to himself what a grobi is. "Here we stand, immovable like the rocks themselves. Back there is Karag Nar, yonder is Karag Lhune, well here is another. Where we stand is a mountain of our will as Men! And when the Dwarves see our stand they will call this the ninth peak; Karag Umgi!
"Now who are you!?" he calls to the warriors as they start to beat their shields and howl.
"Karag! Umgi!" comes rumbling back over him, somehow more physical than the blast waves of the cannons. It is taken up as a chant from one end of the battle line to the other. And when the orcs come storming up the slope they slam into a force whose feet are set like the roots of the eight peaks themselves, as the cry of Karag Umgi is spat into their faces.
-
"What in the name of all the gromril in the world is going on down there," blurts a very confused Longbeard among the gun pits.
"Say what you will of the manlings, at least they keep things from being boring," snorts another as they watch the force expected to be a speedbump stop the emerald tide cold.
-
"By Sigmar, Codrin, never knew you were a poet," snorts one of the mercenaries after the battle as they survey the stacked heaps of orc corpses at the base of their lines.
"I don't even remember rousin' up the lads," admits Codrin honestly.
"The gods, Codrin, the gods," replies the man with a tap of his finger against his nose.
"Yeah, but whose?" says Codrin.
Around them, the air is quiet once more, with nothing left of the fey taint of the morning beyond a feeling like a lonesome note on an instrument. To Codrin, that last essence seems ... pleased.
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[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
minimap_op
plsnerf
- Location
- Lower Lefthand Corner
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
I have to admit I do have sympathy with the need to know aspects to this. I would hope that Mathilde, who imbibed tradecraft with her (grey) morning gruel in the College, would keep that in mind.
if something isn't suitable for the human audience, I think she'll indicate that she needs to do a more detailed debrief with the dwarves at the end of the main meeting. Simply hinting it was something magic related would have the humans running for the doors.
I wonder how developed the dwarves' theological knowledge is. As they have divine lores and so their priests can apparently produce divine miracles (of which runecraft apparently is one), they may actually be pretty expert at the subject, given that they had their Ancestors living in communion with them for a long time, and have had millenia to think on the subject, as well as the crossover from the elven understanding.
if something isn't suitable for the human audience, I think she'll indicate that she needs to do a more detailed debrief with the dwarves at the end of the main meeting. Simply hinting it was something magic related would have the humans running for the doors.
I wonder how developed the dwarves' theological knowledge is. As they have divine lores and so their priests can apparently produce divine miracles (of which runecraft apparently is one), they may actually be pretty expert at the subject, given that they had their Ancestors living in communion with them for a long time, and have had millenia to think on the subject, as well as the crossover from the elven understanding.
- Location
- California
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
Any discussion on the subject would have to start with thinking very carefully whether you'd want to draw a direct parallel between the Ancestor Gods, and Gork and Mork.
Ask them what they know about the elven gods then
More seriously, the thing is that they don't have to discuss it with Mathilde or for her to ask them for them to think about it off-screen and make plans based on that that she'd only see the results of, if that.
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We should write a report on that in the next downtime. This is possibly the first use of an Anvil of Doom in battle where a Magister with Windreader was in a perfect position to watch the whole thing go down from a safe vantage point.
It does look like extremely advanced enchanting at a minor glance, though I doubt we'd be allowed near the Anvil proper to study the interactions of the hammer, anvil and rune being pounded on it.
Its like a microchip being plugged into a circuit board.
By contrast the Imperial practice of enchanting is basically a single piece, made for a single task, and has to be designed from scratch each time, which means debugging and replication is slow and ponderous.
That is a lot of high quality ruination being dispensed there.
Also he just gave the Citadel a lava moat the greenskins have to cross to get to us.
...and they found something to fight thats not other greenskins.
Which PROBABLY means instead of solving the heresy issue then and there they'd kick it down the road.
Or Mork appointed a new champion.
And theres the Greenskin champion. A +25 commander...utterly wasted because we have artillery, archery and Kragg Battlemagic set up on a sighted, open ground. Thats two rounds right there of their leader pushing Greenskins to advance across a killing field.
Its their success, but its also good for us because never have we killed greenskins so efficiently!
Look at the leadership bonus change. Kragg NUKED their warboss along with thousands of their best.
The Stirland archer complement isn't functioning well though. I suspect its down to morale this time, they've never seen this many orcs charging down at them before, or seen magic applied on such a horrific scale before. Maxmillian, you may recall is basically an archer on the battlefield. He does it weirdly and he's more effective than any normal archer, but he shoots bolts of metal through enemies, which is what they do anyway.
These are the same guys who find Burning Shadows to be impressive and confronted with dwarf battle magic that looks like the wrath of gods.
Kragg split the earth here.
Heh, amusing.
Hmm, we did take out their warboss, but I guess punching through heavy infantry sentries in chokepoints is difficult.
Also Skaroki is giving the treasure a funny look and wondering why the fuss over it?
I like how we're slowly growing their acceptance to at least make use of useful magics.
That said the Longbeards are probably internally thinking "we should get some portable spyglasses made, so we don't need to rely on the magic."
And the mercenaries fight like heroes.
I'm guessing in counterpoint to the Stirlanders being spooked by the magic, the adventurers are galvanized...because Kragg is seriously impressing and scaring them and they'd really really want to kill the orcs faster so he stops being scary.
Also this bit confirms to me the Stirlanders are spooked. They're retreating faster than they should.
...and now Mork is throwing a tantrum because they can't get the greenskins to continue attacking over lava after Kragg sunk the last warboss into lava.
All the better for us.
Its just not Mork's day.
Think the dwarfs might have an idea or two to exploit that?
AND they break RIGHT after the Orcs made it across the whole killing ground, made melee contact.
Which is to say they succeeded in a way which was the worst possible way for the orcs. Lost a shitload, got nothing.
I See You Panoramia
Letting her know we know and disapprove of the risk should be plenty. Its totally not a coincidence we spotted her despite not being even on the same battlefield!.
A little paranoia in the Journeymanlings at the Grey Wizard goes a long way!
And now the orcs fail in the worst possible way for them, giving everyone lots of kills.
And delivering the trolls dinner on wheels.
Should be good XP overall for the journeymanlings:
-Maximillian didn't do so good, but wasn't hurt.
-Johann is with the artillery and they reaped a massive toll on orcs. Might have advanced Trial and Error.
-Esber and Seija got a lot of live experience riding down greenskins of monstrous cavalry and overall had great fun.
-Panoramia cast while exhausted and didn't fail. We got a Magic advance when we did the same back then I think? Can't recall clearly.
The dragon sleeps upon on their hoard.
...Panoramia is going to be so confused how we learned what she was doing while out cold in a completely different part of the battlefield hehehe.
- Location
- florida
[X] The death of the Warboss, the shattering of an Almost-Rogue Idol, and the weakening of Mork.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
Not telling for Renald is... Fair.
I like Mathildes weird honesty though, I'd rather keep it.
[X] You'd have done the same once. Tell her you understand, but treat her to a lecture on the risks and dangers of miscasts.
[X] The residents are weakened, taking the Citadel is now a possibility.
Not telling for Renald is... Fair.
I like Mathildes weird honesty though, I'd rather keep it.