I don't think Orks are a good example of this. They basically create their own ecosystem as they move along, and coordination is probably in good parts literal (Waagh-)magic.
Norsca and Skaven, I kinda agree. That's questionable on the basis of food production alone. Chaos, well, that's magic again, and who knows how many actually need to eat.
The Chaos Warriors at least, explicitly don't need to eat, drink, or sleep.
IIRC, Tamurkhan: Throne of Chaos gives a good example of how a Chaos army evolves, the mortals either dying or ascending/mutating to the point that they become less and less reliant on mundane things like logistics.
Where does the energy come from? Like, sun>plants>food for the order races, because the raw energy to make the calories needs to come from somewhere. Mushrooms need organic material and will only return a fraction of what you feed them, the same way animals give you a fraction of the calories back in meat that you feed them in grain.
So either it's somehow straight from their gods (ie, hand-waved) or there's a massive, massive amount of farming/preserving/transporting of food we don't see.
There's a reason most people are farmers in pre-industrial settings.
Oh! Side though: dwarfs are technologically advanced enough to do mass production and mechanization, what they lack is a power source. No coal/oil, limited hydropower. It actually fits with their tech spread.
Oh! Side though: dwarfs are technologically advanced enough to do mass production and mechanization, what they lack is a power source. No coal/oil, limited hydropower. It actually fits with their tech spread.
Dwarfs are culturally incapable of mass production. They make limited numbers of high-quality goods, purely by hand, and would be insulted if you suggested they needed to radically change that.
Oh! Side though: dwarfs are technologically advanced enough to do mass production and mechanization, what they lack is a power source. No coal/oil, limited hydropower. It actually fits with their tech spread.
I think Boney talked about this too. Dwarves seem very much in the 'master craftsmans workshop, jealously guarding their particular incremental advancement' stage of industry. It doesn't seem like mass production is an approach they're seeking, or even likely to adopt. The Empire would probably industrialise first, perhaps on the basis of Dwarven tech.
Hmm, wonder if maybe the Dwarves and Panoramia could whip up some sort of oil to spread over weapons as a sort of bootleg Flaming Attack? Like those fellas in Game of Thrones that worship the Lord of Light.
Would be interesting if we could pour oil through entrance and caves Skaven use to light them and the interior for arrows otherwise fanning enough smoke to cause panic infighting or smoke inhalation.
Might be less effective for the big ones but it would be interesting to see what's inside vast cavern just in case there's something even nastier lurking.
The rest is whatever but this is a must. Belegar and Kragg get no actionable intelligence from knowing what we did. What they do know is that there was a big magic problem and now there's not, with no corruption or warp-tainting involved.
Telling them we were down for feeding those energies to our god, which had a 50-50 chance of us getting turbofucked is just gonna make them question our sanity.
The rest is whatever but this is a must. Belegar and Kragg get no actionable intelligence from knowing what we did. What they do know is that there was a big magic problem and now there's not, with no corruption or warp-tainting involved.
Telling them we were down for feeding those energies to our god, which had a 50-50 chance of us getting turbofucked is just gonna make them question our sanity.
Where does the energy come from? Like, sun>plants>food for the order races, because the raw energy to make the calories needs to come from somewhere. Mushrooms need organic material and will only return a fraction of what you feed them, the same way animals give you a fraction of the calories back in meat that you feed them in grain.
So either it's somehow straight from their gods (ie, hand-waved) or there's a massive, massive amount of farming/preserving/transporting of food we don't see.
As per Panoramia's observations, orcs are likely a parasitic ecology. After a victory, everything dead feeds the fungus and it leaches the soil dry. The more Waagh the faster it happens...but the soil depletes and it tapers off for recovery unless you add new resources in the form of fresh corpses.
Which would be why you have orc warbands instead of a solid sheet of orc to the horizon.
Where does the energy come from? Like, sun>plants>food for the order races, because the raw energy to make the calories needs to come from somewhere. Mushrooms need organic material and will only return a fraction of what you feed them, the same way animals give you a fraction of the calories back in meat that you feed them in grain.
So either it's somehow straight from their gods (ie, hand-waved) or there's a massive, massive amount of farming/preserving/transporting of food we don't see.
There's a reason most people are farmers in pre-industrial settings.
Literally space magic. The orks are a magitech bioweapon made by the old ones to act as a self-contained self-maintaining army, much as they are in 40k.
fantasy orcs may or may not also be doing it wrong. the way 40k orks are degenerate versions of the kork who can do complex supply chains, but the orks are probly the faction whose lack of logistical needs is the most explained.
the rest of them, you very much have a point. skaven should not be able to feed themselves, ogres should not be able to sustain the rate of attrition they are shown to, and the dark elves should be even worse off than the normal don't murder each other 24/7 elves. I saw a QM have to sit down and more or less rework the faction from the ground up, so they made enough sense that we could meaningfully engage with them on a national level.
Where does the energy come from? Like, sun>plants>food for the order races, because the raw energy to make the calories needs to come from somewhere. Mushrooms need organic material and will only return a fraction of what you feed them, the same way animals give you a fraction of the calories back in meat that you feed them in grain.
So either it's somehow straight from their gods (ie, hand-waved) or there's a massive, massive amount of farming/preserving/transporting of food we don't see.
There's a reason most people are farmers in pre-industrial settings.
Oh! Side though: dwarfs are technologically advanced enough to do mass production and mechanization, what they lack is a power source. No coal/oil, limited hydropower. It actually fits with their tech spread.
That's the stat line for all trolls. And they all have Fear, Regeneration, Stupidity and Troll Vomit.
Based on how both River Trolls and Stone Trolls just get their name as a special rule, I'd guess the same would work for warpguts.
River trolls get Strider rules and -1 to hit in close combat against them, Stone Trolls get Magic Resist 2 and Scaly Skin (5+) armor save.
For reference from the Skaven: Warpstone Armor (Magic Armor) 4+ armor save, for every save inflict a S4 hit on the attacker. Or Eshins Warpstone Stars which are S5 with the multiple wounds rule(D3).
So a Warpstone Troll might be something like a regular one, but with either warpstone claws for D3 wounds on hit, or Warpstone Armor for 4+ armor save and S4 hit retaliation on save. A nastier one might have both. Or the troll might just have a Mark of Chaos, which can give stuff like frenzy, ward saves and so on. The warpstone might also give it poisoned attacks, but not sure on that one. And I think there are mutation rules somewhere, which also might be considered.
Dwarfs are culturally incapable of mass production. They make limited numbers of high-quality goods, purely by hand, and would be insulted if you suggested they needed to radically change that.
I mean, sometimes you want an artisinal gyrocopter, and sometimes you want a few hundred miles of rails and fifty thousand 3mm screws? God help the dwarf who spends a hundred years making, say, rivets.
Planets with populations in the hundreds of millions use hugely expensive, very slow (30 light years/2 weeks), very rare interstellar jumpships to import rice. Rice. Or the idea that sectorwide economies of hundreds of planets experience decades long downturns because they are producing a few dozen Battlemechs less each year.
It's like, someone looked at modern international trade and decided that planets=countries and jumpships=freighters, without considering that the relative sizes mean that the equivalent of all the trade between America and Germany would get the volume of 3-4 airline flights a month.
And then decided it didn't matter because the prices were really just to grade war machines against each other and so backfilled everything from that.
Never fear, writing has resumed. I've just finished Panoramia Pie Adventures and now Skaroki's going to show you a picture of his family and tell you he's two days from retirement so you absolutely know he's gonna bite it dramatically at the Citadel.
I wonder how Dwarves would feel about immaculately crafted mass production machinery?
I mean, I'd guess something like confused grumbling because while the stuff it produced wouldn't be quite up to their standards the machinery itself would be. And their ability to actually use field grade fortifications means that they probably wouldn't view the machinery as entirely pointless.
Then again, they might actually do mass production themselves on things rivets or ammunition. Keeping up with the demand in a siege like this using only artisanal bullets would be a bitch...
I wonder how Dwarves would feel about immaculately crafted mass production machinery?
I mean, I'd guess something like confused grumbling because while the stuff it produced wouldn't be quite up to their standards the machinery itself would be. And their ability to actually use field grade fortifications means that they probably wouldn't view the machinery as entirely pointless.
Then again, they might actually do mass production themselves on things rivets or ammunition. Keeping up with the demand in a siege like this using only artisanal bullets would be a bitch...
I think the really confusing point would be when mass produced items are better than what you could do by hand. That would seriously bug them.
Mind, before that, you have the point where it's better than human produced parts, and they'd probably consider that a sensible way to deal with human failures.
Seriously though. If mass production reaches the point where a human apprentice/unskilled laborer can make nearly dwarfen level of craftsmanship at a hundreth of the time and effort, things go down. That's going to be a serious cultural crises. A modern automated factory would be like a horrible nightmare where you're unaccountably aroused. Or a wet dream with your beloved wive, except something is off and you just want to vomit.
I suspect mass-production would be the Thing in Warhammer that would put Human's on equal footing to Dwarven Rune-crafting, and Elven.... everything(?) Longevity.
Honestly, I suspect mass production of staple items is apprentice work. The dwarf learns to perfect the most basic, but also vital part of larger constructions. After all, a bad rivet can completely ruin the balance of a cannon (I don't know cannon-crafting).
[*] Cook with Panoramia and Titus
[*] 'Make sure the ale hasn't gone bad' with Skaroki
[*] Gambling
[*] Hold a Ranaldan religious service
[*] Telling war stories
[*] Yes to Shenanigans
Though it has been mere days since the capture of Karag Lhune, it has already begun its transformation. When last you saw the Hall of the Moon it had been strewn with corpses and wreckage and hovels, and even the floor had been caved in to form a crude slave pit. But the hard work of hundreds of Dwarves had cleared away all signs of greenskin habitation and begun the process of rebuilding the floor, block by block. It was not quite a throne room fit for a King, but it did make a suitable place to confer privately with King Belegar and Kragg.
[Telling Belegar and Kragg: Diplomacy, 25+10=35.]
The two are fixing you with looks, one curious and one disapproving. You take a deep breath and plunge right in. "The Black Orc Priests were trying to separate Gork and Mork - Gork for Brutality, Mork for Cunning, and no crossover. Mork ended up using me to kill the Boss. In the sort of... possession or avatar kind of sense."
[Belegar's reaction: 49+15(Benefit of the doubt)=64.]
[Kragg's reaction: 20-10(Disapproval)=10.]
Kragg's reaction is instant, taking a step to the side to interpose himself between you and King Belegar, his hand moving to the hammer on his belt. You're very careful not to move, and after a long, tense moment, he un-tenses only very slightly. For his part, King Belegar remains unmoved, his gaze on you thoughtful.
"You thought I'd tell you all about it and then attack?"
"Aye. It's the sort of thing they'd do." Though he no longer seems to be on the verge of attacking, he's still very much ready to defend, and remains in place between you and King Belegar.
You consider that. "Okay, granted. But I'm not, though."
Kragg scowls, and fires off a staccato salvo of Khazalid, and King Belegar continues to stare.
"No," King Belegar says finally. "We do it here."
"He's barely into his second century-"
"I trust him." Kragg sighs and assents, and King Belegar calls out and one of the Hammerers that were standing guard outside enters. A short bark of instruction from Kragg and a nod from King Belegar sends him off again. "Okay. Continue."
You take a deep breath and plow on. "Okay. I am a worshipper of the human God Ranald, whose spheres are stealth, luck, trickery, and protecting the innocent."
Belegar frowns. "Sounds..."
[Belegar's reaction: 63+10=73.]
"Somewhat like a God of Rangers. Or a human Grombrindal, in a way," he decides.
"When I was back in control of myself, the connection was still intact. So I invoked Ranald for protection, and he took hold of that connection and pulled."
"On you?" Kragg asks, suddenly curious.
"No, on... Mork, I guess? Or his power, if the two can be distinguished before it's used."
"Debatable. Continue."
"Mork cut himself off from me fairly quickly, but Ranald still got quite a bit, and he seemed more... radiant? And the, uh, metaphor he was communicating suggested he profited a fair bit from the encounter. That is the nature of the weakening I spoke of at the meeting. I don't know how much he lost or how it will affect him, but it seems important."
"It may be." He stares at you thoughtfully, mirroring the carefully thoughtful stare King Belegar still has levelled on you, and just as the silence was getting awkward the door opened once more and another Dwarf stepped in. This one seemed little different than the thousands of other Longbeards with the Expedition, except for the two runes on his right breast: a cave and a flame. And, to your shock, with a two-handed sword strapped to his back.
"This is Gunnars," King Belegar says, "Cleric of Gazul and Hunter of the Order of Guardians. They guard the souls of the dead. And when necessary, those of the living, too."
The Cleric locks eyes on you as Kragg speaks to him in Khazalid. It's an impressive look, and though you've had worse looks from scarier beings, you're still a little intimidated. This Dwarf does not tend a garden as the Morrites do, nor does he embrace the fatalism of Shyish like the Amethyst College. He is a sentry guarding the entrance to the Underearth, where the Ancestors reside. He stands ready against all those that would prevent the honoured dead from safely entering, be they wraith or daemon or necromancer.
[Cleric Gunnars: 100.]
He shakes his head firmly. "Not a possession in the conventional sense. Circumstance and affinity..." he thinks for a moment. "Like jumping from one chariot to another. Impossible, unless they're going the same way at the same speed. No long-term damage, no risk of relapse."
"You're sure?"
"Entirely. Look," he says, pointing down at your shadow, which as always was wandering freely. "Zhuf-soul. Possession is the same body, same mind, but replaces the soul. Still Zhuf-soul, still her."
With visible evidence that you weren't Morkishly possessed, King Belegar releases a small, relieved sigh. "My thanks to you and your Order."
Cleric Gunnars nods, and turns and leaves, and Kragg's gaze follows the Cleric out the door.
"Affinity," he says thoughtfully. "How did you kill the Priests?"
"A, uh, knife to the back of the neck for the first one. Sword to the throat for the next two. The fourth-"
"Escalating brutality," he interrupts.
"I suppose."
"A Temple trying to separate Cunning and Brutality. You perform an act of Cunning, sacrifice a Priest of Brutality. Then acts of both Brutality and Cunning. You accidentally performed a counter-ritual. That's what opened the way for Mork." He sighs in annoyance. "The only thing manlings are better at than finding stupid new ways to die is somehow surviving them. As long as she doesn't jump into the middle of any other godly squabbles, she'll be fine. So I fully expect her to do it again by the end of the week."
"With that established," you press on. "While it was happening, I got some spillover from Mork. I saw the original creation of the Black Orcs-" King Belegar winces, and Kragg looks like he just bit into a lemon. "You know that part?"
"We suspect," he says shortly.
"Either partly or wholly, the entire thing seems to have been steered by, uh, the plotter of the Four."
Kragg rattles off a string of Khazalid obscenities, and King Belegar closes his eyes as he absorbs it. "That," he says slowly, "may be easier to bear. Puppets, rather than willingly..." he sighs. "Though that weight will never be less than backbreaking, not while they still scheme out there."
---
As King Belegar heads off to pen a letter to the High King, you make your way back down the aggravating amount of steps to the Eastern Valley and back to the East Gate. The Dwarves have begun to move into Karag Lhune, and plans are underway for a barracks of sorts in Karag Nar for the manlings, but the Halflings are happy enough camping behind the high walls of the East Gate, at least until the Eastern Valley is properly secure and they can start building idyllic little cottages.
But what they consider good enough for temporary residence is a much lower bar than what they consider the bare minimum for proper cooking, and so a kitchen has been carved into the southern flank of Karag Nar and has been bustling with activity ever since. The morale effects of proper meals cannot be overstated, and you would not be surprised if the Halfling noncombatants have contributed more to the success of the campaign than the Fieldwardens.
For a second time, you pause and watch Panoramia's interactions with the Halflings. Even a Journeyman of the Jade College can make any nascent farming attempt into bumper crop after bumper crop, so they've got more reason than her sunny personality to try to win her over. But though you're suspicious enough to question it, you don't quite have the knack for analyzing interpersonal relationships. Titus certainly seems genuine enough, his bow put aside in favour of an apron as he carefully rakes the coals underneath a haunch of what looks like goat, and likewise Panoramia seems to be having fun as she rummages through hand-labelled jars of spices, stocked up on when the Expedition passed through Barak Varr.
When she finally notices you there, Panoramia is only slightly and momentarily terrified, but she quickly rallies with an impressive facade of happiness that slowly turns genuine as it becomes clear you're not here to traumatize her. Titus seems happy enough to see you, and you reflect that even though you haven't spoken much, you've known and fought alongside Titus for longer than anyone else on the Council of War. Titus has been sipping his fair share of the cooking wine, and it doesn't take him long to start reminiscing about former battlefields, and Panoramia makes no attempt to hide her curiosity.
"It could have been any of them," Titus says, lost in memory. "At first we thought it was just fresh zombies, but no, they went straight from normal human upright and talking to horrible murderous corpse like the snap of your fingers."
"They burned out quick and then were basically normal zombies, but during that first burst of energy they were vicious," you remember. "I was interrogating one of the castle staff at Wurtbad and caught him in a lie, and next thing he was going for my face. Barely managed to get my greatsword in the way."
"I was curious," Panoramia says. "Why do you use a greatsword?"
You reach back and pat the comforting weight of it on your back. "Swords are the symbol of the Grey College, but honestly it was opportunity. I was at Eagle Castle, they were at Eagle Castle, so I went up and asked them to teach me. My teacher ended up being Sir Markus, the Champion of Stirland." You smile at the memory. "Ended up going into business with him and Wilhelmina, the steward, and we founded the EIC."
"What are you doing?" Panoramia asks suddenly, knocking you from your reminiscence just as you start to veer into sadder memories.
You look down at the bundle of twigs you'd been fiddling with, which was tied at one end and in the middle. "I have no idea. What is this?"
"Haven't you seen a whisk before?" You give her a blank look. "Oh, come on. Even the Grey Order needs to eat."
"I went straight from the College to Eagle Castle." You rotate the whisk in your hand, considering it. "Never had to learn. Is it some kind of pestle?"
"No!" Panoramia stops, and considers. "Well, I guess actually yes, sort of." She takes it from you and focuses on it. "You can use birch if you just want to have a permanent utensil, but fresh fruit tree twigs can add some extra flavour. Peach is nice, or apple. Of course there's none of those around here, but if we cheat a little..." She concentrates, and you can see the slightest stirring of Ghyran within her, and the twigs lighten slightly in colour as the wood forgets it no longer has a tree to provide sap. "There! Perfect for a lovely pie."
Titus almost overbalances as he suddenly tears himself away from his still-roasting haunch. "We're making pie?"
---
You now know that a good pie is supposed to cook for at least an hour, but as you've just discovered, if you cover the pie in cooking brandy and set it alight after a mere thirty minutes... you get a soggy brandy pie half-cooked on the inside and burned on the outside. You'd still eaten your share, and been very sternly cautioned not to follow it up with anything strenuous. You had very gravely informed Titus that it was your solemn duty to check that the ale was still good, and with equal solemnity he had informed you that the task was grave enough that an exception would have to be made.
You expected to find Skaroki surrounded by Longbeards, each taking it in turn to expound on how the ale wasn't anywhere like as good as the ale you used to get. Instead he's about a third of the way through a very close inspection of a barrel of Goat-Kicker Ale, easily recognizable by the silhouette of its namesake stamped on the barrel, with two compatriots with beards barely long enough to cover their necks. "Mhornokrul!" he calls in greeting, and you haul yourself atop the wagon he and his companions have colonized. "Pull up a plank. These are my lads, Thorgrim and Thorek. Twins, and enduring proof that fortune still sometimes smiles on our people. These callow striplings are a mere two-and-thirty, and they had to swear many solemn oaths to stay well back before I even let them on a battlefield with a crossbow." You turn your eye to the 'youths', who stare back at you with unabashed curiosity. Three years your elder and still coddled. A Dwarf wasn't considered an adult until thirty, you've heard. Did they mature slower than humans? Are they taught slower? Do they set a higher bar for maturity? You barely manage to suppress your curiosity.
"Wandar, hazkal?" you ask, and are gratified to see twin looks of outrage.
Skaroki chuckles and ruffles the hair of the nearest lad. "Never underestimate them. If you want something done right, get a Dwarf, but there's none for getting it done fast like the manlings. That goes treble for this'n. Go get the lass a tankard, there's a lad." Thorek (you think) scoots off and Skaroki takes a pull from his own tankard. "As my choice of names for these lads demonstrates, I've believed in the Age of Vengeance since the High King rediscovered our Norscan cousins, but it's almost unbelievable actually seeing it happen. Not just spending lives to shed Grobi blood, but actually recapturing the Karags!" Thorek (maybe?) returns with a tankard, and without hesitation you pry up the lid and dunk it in. The ale seems at first quaff to still be good, but you'll need to perform a more detailed study to be sure. "It never occurred to me to ask, but what brought you to the Expedition?"
You try not to let your smile fade. "Adbarazi strollendreken." I fulfilled my oath and now I wander to find a purpose.
He nods solemnly. "Ah. Heard something of that. The zangunaz?" Vampire.
"Uzkulokrit." Petty necromancer. "Our charge succeeded, but everyone else's failed. By the time the Dwarves of Zhufbar reached us..." You sigh, and drink deeply. "So I killed Castle Drakenhof."
"Definitely heard of that. They say the Elders of Zhufbar combed the history books for a month to confirm it as the greatest concentration of cannon in history."
You drink and chat and let the refreshed pain fade away into the background once more, and before long Skaroki is prodding his sons into telling their War Stories, which so far is only War Story, in halting Reikspiel. "We stood upon the stairs of Karag Lhune and shot bolts at the greenskins when they tried to flee in our direction," says one of them. "I got two, Thorgrim got one."
"You got two Goblins. I got an Orc."
You smile at their half-hearted squabbling. They're obviously disgruntled by the lack of glory, and you think back to your first 'battle'. "First time I saw combat, I had just been made Journeyman. I was exploring my Count's-" you see the confusion on their faces, and translate. "My Thane's castle, to ensure that the previous Thane had left it secure." They nod at that. "What I didn't expect was that there was a zombie- Uzkularit?" You look to Skaroki.
"That's skeleton. Uzkulikar."
"It had been trapped for a long time, so it was slow enough that I was able to dodge it. I had never trained with a weapon, but I used magic to make armour for myself - Mhornzhufklad. And while it was trying to scratch through that, I stabbed it in the face with a dagger." You're pleased to get twin chuckles from your audience. "After that, I learned how to use a sword. Next battle was proper Uzkulari... Wights?" You look to Skaroki again.
"Kalanuzkular."
"And a few years after that, I was fighting a zangunaz called the Singing King, whose skull I've still got back home. And now here I am at Vala-Azril-Ungol, with two Urk Warbosses to my tally. Start slowly, like an avalanche."
---
With the assistance of Skaroki and his sons, you are able to finally determine that the barrel of Goat-Kicker Ale was indeed still good, and you can allow your fellow warriors to drink the remaining quarter of its contents with a clean conscience. With the rock-solid self control of a Magister you do not stagger or sway. Every movement is carefully calculated, and you're quite convinced that nobody would be able to tell how hard the ale has hit you, and quite fortunately too, because you have a plan.
Between your actions back in Stirland and your confession to Belegar and Kragg, there seems to be no remaining reason to conceal your faith, and with a battle tomorrow these men could use some godly favour. The Ulricans, of course, have Ulric, and Codrin's archers have Taal and probably, unfortunately, Sigmar. But those who received an Orc charge and made them regret it have only just developed a sense of unity, and they remain a patchwork of superstition and half-remembered prayers. You can provide better than that, and hopefully bring them a little luck when they need it most. And it just so happened that the sacrament they could offer is something they'd like to do anyway. The only problem is that the type of man who uproots everything to travel on an all-or-nothing Expedition like this very typically has no money to gamble with.
Titus had to be dragged away from some loud and enthusiastic dance involving a lot of going around in circles and stamping his feet and making eyes at the Halfling ladies, but memories of pie are fresh enough that he agrees without hesitating. Ulthar came back from his hunt with only a pair of game birds, and has been drinking away his shame, and is likewise in no state to resist your machinations. With him standing by you with an exaggerated scowl to add a veneer of legitimacy, you announce that every man could sign away up to half his pending payment for an amount of coins, and then in the morning they could trade the coins back and the new distribution of payment due would be duly recorded, witnessed by Ulthar, guaranteed by the Grey Order, and may luck desert anyone that tries to bilk their brothers; you hold up a pair of crossed fingers and wink and most understand instantly, and there's a hushed murmur as they explain it to their slower-minded friends.
The coins are the silver currency of the Moot, which you feel reasonably certain there won't be enough of in circulation here to meaningfully harm the system. They are stamped with the Moot's symbol of a... large male chicken, which delights the men and immediately leads to the most predictable set of bawdy jokes as they line up to make their mark and collect their tokens. Dice and cards had been common enough at the start of the Expedition, but after the personal effects of the fallen had been inherited by the survivors there's more than enough to go around, and any shortfall is quickly corrected when the men realize that if they bet a Karak Norn Dwarf a tankard of ale they could carve a set of dice from wood faster than them, they'd very quickly have a very well made set of dice and all you had to do to pay is walk to the nearest barrel. As the sun touches the peak of Karag Yar, the games begin.
Codrin has a proper roll, but he was still off on his hunt and he may not have felt like cooperating. The scheme would have fallen apart before it even started if you hadn't remembered your contact amongst the women of Karak Izor: a formidably organized eligible bachelorette by the name of Edda, with one eye on King Belegar and the other on the massive literature swap network that had grown to encompass the Halflings as well. Despite only being a third of the way through it, you surrender the greatly in demand copy of Night Falls On The Slayer Keep and thus purchase Edda's assistance. There's some arguing from her family when they hear she'll be spending time amongst all those manling men, but she browbeats them into merely demanding she be accompanied by several of her surliest kinfolk, which only added to how official it all seemed. Nothing says 'stick to the deal' like the glare of a deeply suspicious Longbeard. All names were properly recorded, all marks solemnly made, and disaster averted by your remembrance of the magic of delegation.
So the men took their coins and started to bet, first on dice and cards and then on drinking competitions and then an interlude for the feast, which is a splendid success. A series of toasts are made, and half the Dwarves making them don't speak Reikspiel but each gets a hearty cheer anyway, and everyone watches as Belegar carefully returns the second sapphire to its proper socket in his crown. The symbolism is clear enough that even the most enthusiastic drinkers get it, and there's cheering all around. The hunt had been middling, but game birds and wild goats add a smell of roasting meat to the air even when most only get a few slices and have to fill the rest of their belly with fresh-baked bread, beer jam, and carefully rehydrated salt pork.
Once all have eaten their full there's a lull as they pause to digest, and then the games begin again in earnest. Every so often there's a round of accusations of cheating, but you need only show up and glare at them until someone backs down. Without the usual melee that would usually end a night of gambling, there's excess energy to burn off so a sparring ring is marked out with rope, and all watch and nod solemnly as you draw a cross in it. Merely to mark the centre of the ring, of course. And blood is spilled on the holy symbol of Ranald and you smile.
Heavy ales take their toll as Mannslieb reaches its apex overhead, and men stagger off to bed. Some have become quite wealthy and others are left with no coins at all, but even the least fortunate man still has half of a generous share in Dwarven treasure to look forward to. In the morning they nurse hangovers and stagger into line to cash in their coins once more, and each entry is scrupulously recorded. When you finish, you collect half a dozen signatures from Edda's protectors, each with impeccable personal honour, and carefully seal it away until the time comes for the mercenaries to be paid.
And how did your own gambling go?
[Gambling: Intrigue, 93+17=110.]
Splendidly, of course. You were the house, and the house's typical win/loss ratio is quite well known.
The secret isn't a secret at all, it's obvious. Six thousand gamblers, free ale, insufficient lighting. It occurs to some to scour the area the next morning, either remembering dropping a coin or figuring others would have, but hours before dawn your final accomplice had beat them to it, the night's darkness meaningless for one attuned to the Wind of Metal, for whom every silver coin shines like a beacon. A great many coins signed for by the adventurers had returned to you by Maximilian. Gambling, theft, deceit... three out of four, you decide, will do. You can do some protecting tomorrow.
It's only the next morning as your sluggish brain follows through on the plans your ale-fuelled self had made that you realize that tithing this is going to raise quite a few eyebrows at the Bursary.
---
As noon approaches, you're feeling somewhat functional once more and turn your attention to the matter at hand: the Citadel. The preliminary scouting Ulthar's rangers performed before they joined the celebrations was successful beyond all expectation, and they had pinpointed the locations where the greenskins had piled bows and arrows and javelins and rocks to help fight off any attacker. A single carefully-aimed volley of cannonfire will remove the capacity for those inside to defend at range, and from there it was simply a matter of assaulting and expelling the severely weakened garrison.
The trouble, of course, is the caldera. Between the recent religious disagreements and the rapid changes in leadership, the greenskins have fragmented into a dozen or more separate groups, and those that held the Citadel will allow none of the others to approach. That can not be counted on to continue when battle begins, so to prevent the battle turning to a meat grinder, something must be done to prevent reinforcements from the caldera. With your achievements so far, every head turns to you to suggest a way to accomplish this.
[ ] Fire
Set as much of the buildings in the caldera on fire as possible, hopefully driving the greenskins away from the Citadel. The downside will be that there will be time between the start of ignition and a properly raging fire that the greenskins may use to reach the Citadel.
[ ] Shadow
Use Burning Shadows on the Citadel itself to prevent the greenskins in the caldera from reaching the Citadel. However, this would require delaying the battle until tomorrow morning, when the currently sky-high morale of the human mercenaries may have faded somewhat.
[ ] Thorns
Have Panoramia use a channelled Father of Thorns to fill the entrance to the Citadel with a large, thorned plant capable of defending itself. This will be a fairly onerous task for a relatively inexperienced Journeywoman.
[ ] Explosives
Infiltrate the Citadel with a Dwarven expert to set gunpowder charges to destroy the entrance to the Citadel. This does rely on your own infiltration going smoothly, and if caught you risk alerting the greenskins.
[ ] Projectiles
After the ranged weapons caches are destroyed, have archers and crossbowmen rush to line the edge of the caldera and fire on the approach to the Citadel, supplemented by caltrops launched from catapults.
[ ] Other (write-in)
The approach to the Citadel from the caldera is an avenue about as wide as three men standing shoulder to shoulder, with greenskin buildings to either side.
The terrain on top is flat open terrain. The caldera extends to the top and bottom of the picture for a few hundred meters before hitting Karag Lhune on one side and Kvinn-Wyr on the other.
Positioning artillery on the top of the caldera to bombard the approach below is viable for grudge throwers and bolt throwers.
Nearest greenskin groups: There's one about sixty meters from the Citadel entrance. The next two are about a couple hundred meters further than that.
Those in the caldera won't see any assault on the Citadel, but they are very likely to hear it.
Gunpowder charges are simple enough to rig up and the Engineer can make it mostly safe, but without being able to examine the structure they can't give you better than two in three odds of it working to cave in the entrance.
Approaches to the Citadel from Grobitown are above-ground. Underground is a complete unknown.
Caltrops can easily be made
Hinges, and therefore reinforced Dwarven doors, have almost universally failed to survive the greenskin occupation.
Each visible group has hundreds visible, probably thousands within earshot that would join in if anything started happening.
All groups are in the caldera itself. Nothing inside the hostile Karags is visible.
The caldera is mostly covered in greenskin buildings. A lot of it seems to be uninhabited and in disrepair, though it's difficult to tell.
If ritual cast, Father of Thorns could reach the doorway from the caldera lip and be maintained, assuming Panoramia can handle it.
Map posted below.
- Alas, the way events unfolded did not allow for Dwarven Shenanigans.
- This ended up significantly longer than I expected, even without said Shenanigans. I'm pretty much tapped and am having trouble sticking to a consistent tense, let alone generating a varied list of battle plans, so instead of making you all wait for me to wake up again, this will be a Write In Only vote. Consider it an experiment. After seeing the results of an unstructured vote while the QM was asleep, I've made the leading plans into voting options and restarted the vote.
- Your solution can be a Mathilde-goes-in-and-takes-care-of-it plan or it can be a battle strategy.
- Your total haul is the equivalent of the shares of 350 men. Before it is collected, there will be an opportunity to decide what to do with it, if 'actually have a pile of treasure to sleep on like a dragon' seems insufficient.
Oh, and hopefully needless to say, but if anyone is tempted to I-told-you-so one way or the other, please instead don't. Things are a tad raw right now.
