Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

[] Plan Target intel takes priority
-[] Information On Ark's Aquaculture Method of Food Production
-[] Information On Ark's Pyramid Farms
-[] Information On Ark's Gladiatory Arenas
-[] Gwendolyn's Life and Training Thus Far
-[] Information On Hultressa's Life And Deeds
-[] Information On Alyssa Voidreaper
-[] Information On Norscan Civil War

Setting aside only potentially useful information on Druchii familial politics between a dead man and his son of unknown status, you decide to focus on more immediately useful information.

"Let's talk targets," you declare, pausing after taking a bite of the incredibly savory bird-meat from the drumstick, mouth suddenly aflame without fire.

"Targets?" Gwendolyn tilts her head to the side as your silence lingers, the heat in your mouth taking you aback for a moment.

You contemplate that this might well be poison before forcing your way past it.

"I see you favor spice," you don't quite choke out before reaching for the glass and drinking what turns out to be chilled water, "But targets, yes. Voidreaper's rule over the Ark is newborn, fresh, and we need to fracture and break it if we are to get off of the Ark with our lives intact."

"We stole a spice plantation in Ind, yes! Yes, of course," she nods, face all too serious for a child just barely past her first decade of life, brow furrowing as she leans forward in her seat with elbows atop her knees and fingers interlaced.

It is a pose, you realize, she has copied from her mother. Unfortunately for Gwendolyn, she possesses neither her mother's exceptional height, even amongst elves, or her mother's general stature.

"So, to start with. Food production. I heard reference to some sort of…aquaculture…," you draw out the unfamiliar word. "I already have some thoughts as to what that might well be, but any additional information would be valuable."

Gwendolyn's furrowed brow rises as she thinks.

"Ah! The water farms, yes," she nods. "They are a major producer for food for the Ark, incredibly important, but well-guarded. In addition, they are built into the bedrock of the Ark itself."

The phrase itself is said with casualness, but it still partially boggles your mind at the sheer implications at the magics wrought in the distant past.

"Right. The Arks are torn up from Ulthuan itself, I remember," you murmur, making Gwendolyn tilt her head again, eyes widening in shock.

"You know of the Sundering?" She says in surprise.

"I was tutored in Eltharin by a Handmaiden of the Everqueen, and she felt that cultural history was simply part of learning the language itself," you shrug, watching a complicated series of expressions cross Gwendolyn's face. "But back to the…water farms. What else do you know about them?"

She screws her face up in thought before continuing, allowing you more time to eat the bird meat, whatever it is, and struggle your way past the spice she's laid upon it.

"There are three varieties," she raises three fingers to demonstrate. "Freshwater, saltwater, and brackwater. Each are kept in specially enclosed underwater basins within the depths of the Ark, producing a variety of seafood – from varieties of fish to certain crustaceans and mollusks, and in the rare case of other seaborn plants which are edible."

You have to pause at eating your eggs at the last part, an eyebrow raising.

"Really?"

Pure elven haughtiness appears before you.

"Have humans never conceived of consuming such plants?"

"Of course we have," you say immediately, "The Cult of Manann makes great use of sea-borne plants in a variety of ways. I was more surprised that elves would lower themselves to eat something called seaweed," you say the last word in Reikspiel, not knowing whatever it is the elves might call it in Eltharin.

That knocks her back a bit, and you get a childishly indignant puff of the cheeks for your efforts before she responds.

"Well if that is what humans call it, then it is a surprise that you eat it at all. Such an inelegant name," she shakes her head before clearing her throat. "Regardless, they require intensive maintenance and upkeep to ensure their productivity is consistent and constant, to the point that slaves are solely allowed to assist in harvesting and no more – many of mother's terrors are permanently stationed below the surface of the Ark to ensure that no slave enters restricted areas. The rest are kept up by the engineers and architects – all Druchii."

"All Druchii," you drink the rest of the water down before moving on to the vegetables on the plate. "Surprised that there are some willing to lower themselves to being underground constantly."

Underground but also traveling around the ocean. What a world this is.

"Oh, yes, the dark dwellers are…," Gwendolyn pauses, struggling, before shrugging. "Mother says they are all quite freakish. Some only go below temporarily in shifts, but there are some who have not seen the sun in centuries, that they like it down there. There is light, of course, for certain water farms, but those come from torches or magical sources."

Oh, good. Freakish by the standards of Druchii. A great many images come to mind as you try to imagine what it would take to be considered such, as well as what they might be like down there in the depths.

"So there's not a lot of opportunity for us to mess about with them, then," you sigh, trying to keep the shock off of your face at the freshness and flavor of the vegetables chosen for you.

You've never had mushrooms this good, if you are being honest with yourself, even with all the best efforts of the Esmeraldans.

"Hmm, there are some possibilities," Gwendolyn shakes her head insistently, "There are certain processes which require regular ritual enforcement and maintenance by magical means. Mother says that it is a regular duty of the lower ranked sorceresses of the coven. Or sometimes as punishment detail. Either way, it is supposed to be demeaning for them."

You don't even need to ask her why. You know why, even if it immediately contrasts terribly against all that you know of Jade Wizards. For all that you've made of their services for healing purposes, you have also had them work the fields. In fact, it was one of the things that they brought up when you first were negotiating for magical aid. Whatever the reason, you've seen contentment like you've rarely ever seen before when some Jade Wizards work the earth. Their connection with Ghyran, more supreme than any other Wind, surely has something to do with it. By contrast, Druchii, cruel and capricious as they are, who luxuriate in destruction and pain and unbridled power, forced to till and treat dirt with care and caution? Yes, you can see how that would utterly burn at their elven pride to use their magic for such things.

"So it'd be difficult for Hultressa to get down there and sabotage things, then," you grunt, pushing the plate away from you, "And thank you very much for the food."

"Acts of hospitality are known to our kind," she sniffs before snapping her fingers.

Instantly, one of the terrors approaches with silent gliding steps, managing to somehow pick up the tray and withdraw to the doors Gwendolyn initially emerged from despite having swords for fingers. The sheer dexterity to solely use the palms without letting any of the swords catch on anything is impressive. And you choose to focus on that, for the most part, and try not to overthink how simply Gwendolyn spoke her words despite having only a moderate level of warmth in them. In how the Druchii 'know' about acts of hospitality, but that they are perhaps not necessarily a given. That, and so much more that you've learned, staggers you at the wretched society that the Witch King has so painstakingly forced into being.

"And I am glad to hear it," you sniff before tapping your fingers, glancing about the room again.

The heat has consumed your mouth, enough that your eyes are threatening to tear up slightly, but there is no more water to be had.

"Can I have more wine, or…? The spices are quite intense."

The child blinks rapidly before a faint coloring appears on her cheeks.

"Oh, of course. My apologies, I have become accustomed to a certain – yes," she gestures somewhat pointlessly towards the same cabinet you'd already pulled from. "Partake as you will."

"My thanks," you incline your head to her as you stand and make your way over, grabbing another four bottles and returning to your seat, tearing the cork off of one with your teeth. "So," you pause at the sight of subtle shock and shadow of fascinated disgust on Gwendolyn's face which rapidly fades as you look at her. "Is it primarily magical or physical defenses?"

"Reasonably powerful wards, by my mother's reckoning, and the dark dwellers jealously keep their homes," she says slowly, watching as you drain an entire bottle of wine over the course of a single sentence. "Why?"

"Because my wife may not be the most powerful wielder of Ice Magic ever born, but she is still quite powerful," you answer, briefly warmed and warming by the brief flurry of emotions you throw through the bond.

It is not as fully suppressed as it can be, but your wife frankly has a great deal more to concentrate on than you at the moment. The plan is relatively set, but she dares not try to move all the way back towards the shattered ruins of the tower that Magdha left behind, not now. They'll need Hultressa for that part, and so instead they must all wait, with Druchii on all sides, none of which can possibly be relied upon to be as understanding and cooperative as the sorceress is attempting to be. Still, you can't help but enjoy the briefest impressions of her smile at your compliment, tinged even as it is with those melancholic undertones of frustration that it was Kattarin who was all the stronger than her. But then again, you would not trade Natasha for her sister, ever, and both of you know it now down into the very foundations of your permanently entwined souls.

"Oh, I see!" Gwendolyn, of course, not privy to your thoughts, is instead fully focused on the implications of your words. "Yes. Ice Magic, we've heard of this from Kislev. Not that many wielders have ever been taken from Kislev, only some, but we know of them."

The warmth plummets out of you with her words.

"But, if the wards could even be temporarily weakened, she could…freeze or manipulate the basins, which would eliminate them or at least reduce the populations of foodstock within," you try to start again.

The gleam in Gwendolyn's eyes is eerily reminiscent of that when Alexandra presented her first ever smithing project that she had accomplished all on her own.

"Yes…that would cause trouble. They would have to try and transplant other breeding stock from other basins, if they even could, but temporary reductions could have wide ranging starvation implications! There are only so many entrances, all of them guarded, but if she can affect the water itself at a distance, there might not need to be that great of a penetrative effort!"

She claps excitedly, practically bouncing in her seat.

"…right," you murmur, shoving the discomfort right back down the moment it tries to bubble up. "So that's an option."

"Yes, indeed, indeed," her head bobbles as she nods.

"Another option might be those…farms, I've heard you have? The ones in the pyramids?"

The child tilts her head from side to side, legs briefly straining as you think you see the aborted beginnings of carefree kicking before they still.

"The layered farms, yes. Large, very important. The higher levels are menluquulsenda," and then your mind stumbles as she says a word that you simply do not know in Eltharin, a stumbling that Gwendolyn catches. "Is there something wrong?"

"I don't know that word in Eltharin," you confess with a shrug. "Or, rather, the Reikspiel equivalent. Menlui, that's…,"

"Water, life, torrential rain and thunder in the distant mountains," she completes the definition for you. "Quul, from the Tree of Life, from regrowth, from decay. Finally, Sendai, dedication, sacrifice, or resentment. Together, it would loosely translate too…," her brow furrows again. "Water flowing for life through regrowth and decay by dedication and sacrifice?"

Flatly, you begin drinking from another bottle of wine, placing the empty one next to you.

"Exactly. I caught that part, but I still don't…explain it to me, then? The upper levels?"

Then you frown at yourself at the incredibly contrite look on Gwendolyn's face.

"Hey, it's all right, you know. I didn't know," you say, making her glance up at you. "And if I didn't know, that's on me, not you. I have a reasonable grounding in Eltharin, but after all," you offer her a crooked smile, "I've only been studying it for a short while, and I am only human."

The contrition fades before she bobbles her head up and down again.

"I…yes. That is to say…I don't know exactly how they work, nor does mother, not the precise mechanics of it, but to put it simply, they have raised and rotating…containers…of plants and such which grow despite lacking a large base of soil," she says slowly, trying to illustrate with her gestures. "Like, long, long troughs for livestock. And they raise them and move them about, catching the sun through the glass of the pyramids."

"But they're completely black on the outside, opaque. How – magic," you say, interrupting Gwendolyn as she has already begun to form the first syllable. "Right. How foolish of me to forget. I'm assuming they're especially well guarded, difficult to get to, being on the upper levels of the pyramids?"

"Indeed. Luxury crops are sown and harvested there, spices and rarer vegetables, yes," she gives a tentative smile. "If they were damaged, it wouldn't do much to the common folk, though. The more base vegetation for everyone else is below, some on expanded platforms similar to the higher levels. The lowest level is actually a full soil base, from the ancient days of Ulthuan itself," she taps her lips with a finger. "Used for major crop production, including fruit trees."

Then a light appears in her eyes.

"Oh, but there is also the Torturous Rise of Ecstasy!"

Truly, the naming conventions of Druchii are unique.

"And that is…?"

"The most, hmm, valued? Of the pyramids. The food grown there is solely for Druchii consumption, and the bottom level is actually for livestock!" She says, bouncing a little again before stilling. "It is the most heavily guarded, though, for obvious reasons. Unlike the aquaculture basins, however, all the pyramids make use of mass amounts of slaves," she nods firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "There's just no other way to till and harvest it all. The difficulty," she hums before leaning towards you, glancing back and forth despite the fact that it's just you and the terrors, "Is that no one ever leaves the pyramids. Slave-wise, I mean."

A grimace comes across your face, unbidden, as you grasp her words.

"And let me guess, those who fall get to become fertilizer for the crops," you growl loudly, making her jump slightly.

More than that, in fact, as you see her left hand disappear around the small of her back before returning just as abruptly. There was, you saw however, the briefest glint of metal before she regains control of herself.

"Um, yes," she says, clearing her throat and settling down again.

Sighing, you slowly and carefully release the tension in your white knuckled grip, just barely keeping your fingernails from digging deep enough into your hands to draw blood.

"Apologies. That was unkind of me. I simply…am not pleased, with such things happening to people."

"It is…understandable?" Her voice lilts slightly on the word, her hands folding and unfolding in her lap. "Of course, the standards of the Druchii are most monstrous by the reckoning of the other powers in the world."

The words are a recitation, memorized, but you can tell that she only sort of understands it. Hultressa has likely done her best, but the isolation you are coming to think she might well have kept her daughter in for her entire life has its pros as well as its cons. 'Of course' the Druchii are bad. She has raised her daughter to believe so, in the nearly impossible reality where she manages to somehow leave the Druchii successfully, to escape their agents, to raise her daughter for the rest of her years in another elven society altogether. But then again, you're rather forced to bank on this being genuine effort on the sorceress' part. After a thousand years submerged in Druchii society, however, trying to indoctrinate her own daughter against the Druchii most be quite the endeavor.

"As for the pyramid farms, the processes keeping them hydrated with freshwater are magical, but could possibly be manipulated by your wife's magic," she continues. "If a sufficient enough flame could be set within by a slave inserted, but…," she shrugs, "There are tales of slaves attempting that, but never too successfully, and always with painful retaliation."

"Yeah, well," you say with a shrug of your own, pulling the cork off another bottle and guzzling a bit more wine. "Looks like we'll have to do better. I've already got some ideas, too."

"Oh?"

"Sure," your grin exposes all your teeth as you look at Gwendolyn. "We keep talking about magical defenses for this and that, because of course there would be a lot of reliance on that. And there'll be physical guardians and defenses as well. But let me ask you this, child. How much sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal do you think your mother would be able to acquire for me?"

"Why?"

"I'm trained as a Master Engineer of Ostland. Magical defenses and wards are a large thing on this Ark. How are they about detecting black powder bombs?"

A series of rapid blinks answers you.

"I…," a look of dawning shock appears on her face. "I don't know…? I don't know what that…is?"

For a moment you're struck silent, dumbfounded that something so baked into the society of much of the Old World whether human or dwarf has so little relevance to her. But only a moment, as you consider what a child like her would know, raised in this tower by the mother she has.

"You don't know about black powder? Explosive stuff, fine grains, black, used for guns and cannons. Dwarfs and the Empire have been using it for quite some time," you say leadingly, eyebrow raised.

Only to be disappointed as Gwendolyn's face scrunches again.

"I…I know of the armaments of the Dawi-Zharr, but only because we have had dealings with them," she murmurs, "Mother has only offhandedly referred to the inferior armaments of the dwarfs…?"

You nearly spit out your wine.

"The Druchii deal with Chaos Dwarfs?" You say, shocked yourself now.

"Rather to say, that the Dawi-Zharr deal with anyone willing to pay," she shrugs back, that blissful childish ignorance coming to the fore once more. "They are degenerates who grasp at Chaos with great gusto, but mother says that they've had minor dealings with some of them – for dealings relating to daemonic…things," she trails off at the end, watching you warily as your hands clench and unclench.

The drums, quieted for the most part, erupt in your heart and soul again. It takes you a solid moment, even having Natasha reach out in concern, for you to quiet them down again. How monstrous can the Druchii be? You may only know a little about the Chaos Dwarfs, but all you know is acidic and poisonous knowledge, that which burns and curdles at the mind to even be aware of. There is outrage, there is buried grief not your own, and there is fury. Burning, painful fury. Not least of which is because of what they did to you, did to others, planned to do even more in Karak Ungor. So of course they would work with the Druchii, ironically having cast aside the causes and beliefs of their western cousins so utterly that they likely hold no care at all about whether or not elves trade with them directly.

"Either way, we have not made use of their daemon-machines," she adds at the end, "At least, none that mother knows of. And she knows almost everything, so we probably won't have to be dealing with any of them. The Covens prefer to use their own methods of binding and utilization for daemons, after all."

Again, again, again the casual reference and comments on something which ought to be forbidden and destroyed. It pains you, deep inside, as this child shrugs off the implications that would set a warrior priest of Sigmar alight in righteous fury.

"Well that's…all well and good," you say wearily, "But black powder itself is not inherently magical nor daemonic. I'm sure that an Ark this old must have clashed with the dwarf fleet of Barak Varr at one point or another, but given that it is still here…?"

"I think we might have, once or twice, but at full emergency speeds they could never do more than fire impotently at our backs," Gwendolyn replies before pausing and then speaking again. "That is to say, emergency speeds is…there's a more regal term for it, but mother just huffed and rolled her eyes when explaining it."

"I can imagine the idea well enough," you offer her a smile as you lean back in your chair, eyes questing over to find a still slumbering Eldyra, a sight which makes your chest tighten even as some of the tension leaves you as her chest continues to rise and fall steadily. "Some sort of dumping of ballast or adding further fuel to the engines, but a magical equivalent. A temporary, possibly dangerous, but undeniably effective boost to speeds."

"Oh, you understand! Yes!" Gwendolyn chirps, a strange noise you only barely recognize as a giggle almost making its way out of her mouth before she manages to choke it off.

Unfortunately, your reaction is not nearly so hidden, and so she flushes with embarrassment.

"Surprised that the dumb young human can think of such things?" You give a small laugh, which makes the flush grow more.

"I apologize, it is difficult, I have not," she struggles with her thoughts for a second, "I do not speak to many others. For most of my life, it has been my mother, the terrors, and certain others bound to her."

"It's all right," you say, but pause as you see her head lower and tiny fists clenching. "Gwendolyn. It is all right. Really."

"I am being discourteous to a guest," she grits out. "That is wrong of me."

"And the guest takes no offense, therefore no harm is done," you reply calmly. "Let's move on to a different topic then, all right? Let's discuss the arenas. I think I saw three of them flying over the Ark?"

You can see her desire to recriminate herself more warring about, but thankfully she does manage to wrench herself in a more productive direction.

"Yes. Three main arenas, but there are smaller fighter pits, some noble manors have personal smaller arenas for private gatherings, but the three arenas are the Crimson Thorn, the Ring of Gore, and the Path of Glory," she recites, eyes flicking up and to the left as she does. "Each can seat around seventy thousand spectators, with enough ground for a great many combatants on the ground with conditions made to vary with extensive engineering techniques or magical effort."

Well, that just puts all of poor Sabine's efforts to naught.

"Can you expand on that last part?"

"Raised earthworks in a variety of ways, temporarily created fortresses, methods to replicate different battlegrounds and conditions. Drier, wetter, hotter, colder, with rains overhead or snows or ice. And of course there are often a variety of beasts unleashed, but the majority of the fighting is done by the gladiators. Against the beasts, each other, or by the Druchii. Although, with none of the Sisters of Slaughter having survived, I imagine…hmm," she looks contemplative. "I'm not sure how the fights will be run, now."

"How many gladiators per arena?"

"It depends," she shrugs. "They all rest in the pits below the arenas, not even mother knows the precise specifics of many there are beneath, that is the knowledge of the Arena Masters. That is, the noble families who own and run the arenas," she adds quickly at the end. "Direblaze, Spitethorn, and Cruelbarb, each owning the arenas I mentioned before respectively."

The first name actually sparks something for you.

"Direblaze. I know that name. Some Lord Direblaze was one of the first up the tower…and one of the first to kneel to Alyssa as Supreme Sorceress and Arkmaster."

"Indeed. All three Houses prefer stability on the Ark, but also readily partake in raids to secure more products for entertainment, whether that be on two legs or otherwise," she then raises up three fingers. "I do know what the biggest spectacles each of the three have, at the moment at least. Direblaze maintains a bevy of monstrous beasts sourced from Lustria itself, including a group of Lizardmen that have been manipulated enough to become bloodthirsty thralls in battle," she lowers the first finger. "House Spitethorn has the largest fights, relying on the spectacle of so many dying to make their coin, even if it means dragging in elderly and children, or otherwise rejected slaves, then filling them with fury from potion, spell, or otherwise then throwing them in," she lowers the second finger, "Cruelbarb…,"

"I have to admit, I am not particularly encouraged by them managing to slow you where the first two didn't," you say grimly.

"House Cruelbarb does not...they do not quite set up exhibition matches like House Direblaze or glorified massacres like House Spitethorn. They set up…events," she mumbles. "'Questions of Pain', as they put it, for certain events. How long for a single Sister of Thorn to cut her way through a hundred bound slaves with the same knife? How many bodies can a bolt thrower crew shoot through with their own customized bolt thrower and bolt? If a human man is filled with the right poisons and potions, how long can he stop himself from tearing his wife and children apart with his bare hands and teeth? How much of a man can a Death Hag cut off before he dies, while making sure to stop his bleeding after every cut?"

And now you're having to stop yourself from doing more than just clenching your fists enough to spill your own blood again. Not that Gwendolyn notices, looking down into her own lap as she is at the moment.

"If I had to guess, Spitethorn would have the most slaves in their pits, Direblaze the most variety whether beasts or 'exceptional' individuals, but Cruelbarb…I cannot begin to guess. When the arenas are not active, they are not terribly well guarded, but the pits themselves are constantly so. Some of mother's own terrors are stationed there as they do not require sleep."

"Forgive me, Gwendolyn, but I find myself driven to drink once more," you sigh, and upon realizing you've leaned forward in what could be described as a menacing manner fall backwards into the cushions of the chair.

"It is understandable," she says after a slight cough. "The depravity of the Druchii is terrible to contemplate, indeed. We also have to consider the priests and their own blessings," she says with far too much seriousness than should be possible to be conveyed by her tinier frame.

"And what do they have to do with it?" You ask, tired at this point from the relentless barrage of horror this youngling has been filling you with at your own request.

"Ever since the Druchii spurned the, er," she frowns for a moment, "The Cadai, whom they claim are mostly all worthless and weak, they no longer rely on blessings of, say, Isha, to ensure the fertility and goodness of the harvest. Instead, we – they -," she growls at herself, "Have turned to Khaine to…bless…the foods grown."

"Because his blessings would be so wholesome for food," you scoff, though your mind already has a few unkind ideas. "I'm assuming they rely on brute force with magic to make up the difference, but then bring in the Cytharai to alter the food further?"

Gwendolyn chooses to adopt a grim expression now.

"Indeed. We," her expression darkens at her mistake and she restarts, "They – the Druchii – are dyed and bathed in darkness and cruelty and bitterness and pain from birth to death. It is the way that the Witch King has devised the whole of their reality and existence, and he is only aided further in it by the Cytharai's priesthoods," she hops off of her seat and begins striding back and forth. "The Hag Queens daub the fields and plant troughs in sprinkles of the boiling vitae from the Cauldrons of Blood in their temples, granting our people cruelty and fury and hatred. And the rituals used on the farms to ensure their productivity are specifically based from Hekarti's works, and the same goes for the water purifiers which transform that of the sea into liquid fit for consumption. They – they," she sputters, arms windmilling for a moment as all the vitriol and hatred that Hultressa has for the Druchii manifests itself in the child she has raised, "They poison themselves! Constantly! Forever! In every way! The Witch King, the First of the Hag Queens, Hellbron, all the Cytharai, crushing down on them from above, while they ensure that the water they drink, the food they eat, the air they breathe, the thoughts they think, the dreams they dream, it's all…!" She pauses, hands strangling some invisible foe, and then falls back into her seat like a puppet with its strings cut, both you and Gwendolyn glancing over to see that Eldyra has yet to awaken despite the noise.

"Lot of anger, there," you say quietly, after another moment passes.

"If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be like this," Gwendolyn says more into the middle distance than towards you. "Cursed, I mean. If it weren't for them, we would be in Tiranoc, where my mother was born, and I would be learning how to ride a chariot, or hiking in the mountains. Or maybe Saphery, if her magical talent was great enough to be noticed by the White Tower. Not having to stay here, avoiding braziers filled with smoke and incense to quietly enrage and frustrate on every street corner. Or avoid shrines and temples with their blazing wards and eyes of the Cytharai piercing the souls of those who walk past. Or…or any of it," she finishes so softly you barely hear it even when you strain.

"What do you mean, cursed?" You ask slowly.

Gwendolyn doesn't look at you, just at the back and then the front of her own hands.

(Asking The Painful Questions: 71+Frederick Diplomacy(5)+Frederick Intrigue(7)+Dynasty Patriarch(25)-Gwendolyn Diplomacy(11)-Gwendolyn Intrigue(15)+One Is The Loneliest Number(10)-The Shame(10)=82/100)

It takes her a long while to answer you, but answer she does, each word sounding as if she's having to drag it out with chains.

"I should be smaller. Slower. Weaker, but…normal, for one just birthed. Young enough I don't remember anything before the…the pain…," she hisses the word, fists clenching tight enough that she manages to bleed herself with her nails. "I remember screaming, wailing, burning inside and out like they'd set a fire inside the very marrow of my bones. My first sight that I can remember was the boiling blood of the Cauldron, my first sound that of the bubbling of the liquid and the screams of the sacrificed."

Somehow, you're standing again, you just don't know when that came about.

"Hultressa never said-,"

"Of course she didn't say!" Gwendolyn growls, the normally tinny and girlish voice is suddenly gone, echoing and wavering in the air with a pressure that simply should not be there despite being no louder than a normal speaking voice. "She doesn't talk about how I should have killed her, exploding out of her stomach from within like a monster," she hisses, "How I hear the…the…," she gestures frantically at her own ears and then huffs in exasperation. "She told you I was born on a Death Night, didn't she? Didn't she!?"

You take a step forward, the motion seemingly unnoticed.

"She did, yes. A time and night enshrouded by Khaine, affecting all and sundry," you say as calmly as you can, taking another step forward.

"It was more than that," she shakes her head so violently you worry she might hurt her neck. "We were docked, you understand? Docked! In Naggaroth. At Har Ganeth. On Death Night! My mother came back to herself at the foot of the Vermillion Gate itself. Khaine's own domain, inches away, an Asur breeding slave cutting Khaine's runes across his flesh with his own fingernails until he died."

She freezes, next, going still as she realizes you've still been approaching her.

"I am accursed, Frederick von Hohenzollern," she says, the sound a pained wheeze. "I remember the Cauldron, not the womb. My dreams are of the realms of the Cytharai, and no one or no thing else. I…I grow so angry, sometimes, and I cannot do anything to stop it except shed blood. Stop," she suddenly commands as you get closer still. "Stop! I shouldn't have let you touch – earlier – I have to kill things," she interjects upon herself. "You understand? If I don't kill, kill regularly, I – the urges grow worse. I started peeling off my own skin with a knife, once, just to shed the blood, when mother was away too long, and-,"

And your arms are around her still body, one knee on the ground, as you embrace her gently.

"And we are going to take you away from this, and away from Khaine, as best we can," you murmur, feeling her begin to shudder in your arms. "That's your mother's main wish, and I'll slot it in right alongside with wanting to get off the Ark with my wife and as many of my companions as I can as well."

"I am accursed," she mumbles, a little girl speaking the most terrible truth she knows and believes into your shoulder.

She can't see it, but perhaps can feel some of it from your beard as you shake your head.

"And curses can be broken sometimes. And, though I may not worship Her, all I've heard about Isha tells me she is a kind and forgiving Goddess."

This is a child. Eleven years old as of a few moons ago, by Hultressa's reckoning. Tormented by a world and circumstances by Gods beyond her, with none quite able to aid her in turn save in the leanest means. Unlike some of those in the asylums of the Empire, you've little doubt that she may well truly be wracked by visions and nightmares by the Cytharai, by the horrid circumstances of her birth. Shaking in your arms, until you feel the slightest tentative movements followed by a sudden latching onto you. Unfamiliar in a way that makes you question just how she's been raised at all, not in anger, but in pity for Hultressa as well as Gwendolyn. Even now, the child is trying to choke back and force down all noise and reaction demanded by the torrent of emotions running through her, warring with all the too-old discipline and the image of what and how she should be inside her.

(Some Comfort: 68+Frederick Diplomacy(5)+Genuine Contact(10)+Dynasty Patriarch(25)-Gwendolyn Diplomacy(11)-The Discipline Required(15)+One Is The Loneliest Number(10)-The Shame(10)=77/100)

The cry of Gwendolyn, child of Hultressa, accursed by the Cytharai, born of the Death Night and the Vermillion Gate of Har Ganeth, is a wheezing inexperienced one. It is not that she cannot cry, she disproves that now, but rather that she does not quite know how to. Or at the least, has put inhuman effort into preventing herself from doing so long enough that everything she has and is has grown unused to it. The act of embracing you back, of letting most of her weight hang not on her own two feet but in your arms, of letting the lungs pump and work and sob, is quite clearly foreign to her in a way that silences the drums outright. And it is there she remains, even now, tipped over the edge in the thinnest of margins into letting it out.

There will be no more questions for her, you think, not now, not about the Druchii and their world she has been almost irreparably affixed into yet remains disconnected from all the same.

You are Natasha von Hohenzollern, formerly Natasha Romanov, only sibling to Kattarin the Bloody and youngest daughter of the Tzar Alexis Romanov. Wife to Frederick von Hohenzollern, and mother and grandmother to an absolute herd of descendants. You are all of these things and more. Killer. Fighter. You have felt the touch of the Ancient Widow, whom you once never even properly believed in beyond some form of animistic ancestral myth. You may not ever be the most powerful wielder of the Widow's Grace, formerly known as simply Ice Magic, but then again your sister is and she's the most powerful anyone's seen in generations. That you are somewhat lesser to her in that regard doesn't matter for most purposes.

It might well do so now.

For here you are, sitting inside of a warehouse filled with hanging carcasses of meat, only some of which you recognize as coming from four legged beasts, chilly and cold as the Oblast itself. Nearby is an exhausted and hungry gryphon matron, a stoic but pained Bretonnian with broken ribs who has dragged himself along with you in your hurried mad dash across a monument to evil and monstrosity masquerading as a sea-borne city, and a another stoic but pained Bretonnian with a broken leg who has hobbled her way at your side with her pegasus at her side. The Widow has granted you much, even if she has also taken, but none of her gifts do much for you in the methods of healing. She is not, after all, Salyak, nor are you one of Her priestesses.

And facing you, chin upraised, is one of the most starkly beautiful and hideously powerful things you have ever had the misfortune of looking upon.

"He was telling the truth," come the audible, murmured words in glass-cut clean Kislevite, as if taught by the best possible tutors. "Remarkable."

Frederick could not possibly understand what he was looking at, bereft of the curse of Witch Sight. He has some sensitivity to the matter at this point, by sheer repeated exposure if nothing else, but every time your husband speaks of it he refers to itches and tingles for the most part. Skin-crawlings and deep shudders and chills down the spine for particularly egregious examples. But he cannot see what you can, looking upon what may well be your doom or salvation upon the Black Ark you so eagerly charged onto. See the thickly layered spells woven into the very lattice of this creature's being. Into the marrow, the bone, the muscle, the flesh, the skin. Dhar has sunk in over the course of so many centuries that it's practically formed its own locus, even with there being thick veins of Qhaysh and Hysh that have been wormed through it. A way of maintaining one's sanity and personality? It is impossible to tell. That is only what you can tell when you strain hard enough to make you bleed from your eyes, nose, and ears, peering with greater effort and focus than you've ever done so before. The only greater time when was it wasn't even you doing it, though it had somewhat been your body.

But it is enough for you to see the Whispering Darkness which fruitlessly attempts to invade those pointed ears. You know of it only as an old wife's tale amongst half-remembered stories from forgotten myths, barely told by anyone yet indelible in the memory once mentioned. It has many titles, this apparition of evil which comes upon those who touch Dark Magic with too great frequency yet visible only to those with Witch Sight. The Whispering Darkness, the Creeping Darkness, the Insane Night, the Soul Eater, amongst others. The bubbling fog of airborne oil surrounds it, clinging to it, and even though its sole target is ever the one who brought it forth inadvertendly, you can hear the faintest portion of the thousand, thousand voices it brings with it. Crying, laughing, shouting, screaming, all of them just inaudible enough to you that you cannot comprehend them.

"So you do possess some power," it speaks again, boldly stepping into the warehouse, head tilting to the side as if simply dealing with an eldritch nightmare was a matter of course. "Excellent."

Was this a mistake? To send out those cold airs in response to the signal? Even now, Roland and Jaques – or Jaqueline as she eventually admitted – grow tense despite their wounds. The exhausted Oskana begins to try to get to a standing position despite her exhaustion and the cold. The question grows louder in your mind as she raises a hand, and, with a gesture, banishes one of the greatest secret nightmares known only and solely to the wielders of magic in the Old World. The apparition gives one last mournful scream, the sound ringing in your ears but not in any of your companions, though you do hear Oskana inhale sharply from behind you. Especially given that this time you could understand the scream, somewhat. It is a condemnation, a proclamation of doom, of impending death and failure.

"Rejoice," it raises its hands, and a smile crosses its black painted lips, staff hefted and held to the side almost lazily. "For we are allies of the direst of circumstances. I…am to be your salvation. And you…are to be mine. I am Hultressa. You are Natasha von Hohenzollern, wife of Frederick von Hohenzollern. Currently my only guest. Behind you is his noble gryphon Oskana," the word 'noble' seems to almost curdle in the air when she says it in your mother tongue. "And your companions…?"

Roland, brave and possibly foolish man that he is, straightens fully.

"I am Roland d'Mousillon. Questing-,"

And thus you see the slightest crack in the monster's composure, its widened eyes and lips parting as it hisses ever so slightly.

"Roland d'Mousillon. You are known to us. You defied a major hunting party in the Dragon Isles. Lord Pavlor was most looking forward to capturing that Dread Saurian. He had made such promises back in Naggaroth, his humiliation and death took a month," it says with a sort of arch fascination. "And," it nods, tapping a finger so daubed in spilled blood in the past that you can see the stains dribbling across its whole hand from here in ethereal fashion. "A friend to Frederick von Hohenzollern. Most interesting. But you?" It glances at Jaqueline. "I do not know you."

"A simple knight of Bretonnia," the technical potential heir to the Dukedom of Parravon had she been born a man, "Jaqueline. And Swiftwing, my companion and mount."

"Some utility, better than none," Hultressa nods firmly. "Now then. I shall garb us in spells of cloaking and invisibility, and shall work to shroud the minds of those who will be near us as we go. We must be swift, you understand? The wards are prepared, but need more time to be improved and strengthened. But even as they are, I would prefer you under them than not. Do you have all you need?"

"The Bretonnians are wounded," you finally say, hopping off of the ice block you'd formed, dismissing the blades and shards you'd half-summoned into being to try and mask an escape attempt. "They-,"

The sheer outpouring of Ghyran nearly stuns and does temporarily blind you, even as it forces a yelp of surprise from both Roland and Jaqueline. From here, you can hear bones snapping back into place and then groaning as they are rapidly and rather forcibly healed. There is none of the gentleness of Carlotta or the rest of the Jade Wizards, only pure force and focus with mechanical unfeeling precision. Another wave strikes Oskana, the tired grypon yowling quietly as exhaustion is abruptly forced from her. Then a beam strikes you, and a frankly uncomfortable amount of energy begins thrumming through you.

"There, sorted. Let's move."

Question Time With Gwendolyn Is Temporarily Over, So We'll Switch Views For A Moment: Choose One
No Moratorium. All of these are temporally at the same moment as where we are IC, so it's all going on simultaneously.
[] The Battle of Karaz-a-Karak
[] The Shores of Salkalten
[] The Middle Mountains