To Shield the World (Warhammer High Elf Mage Quest)

Cytharai Worship in Ulthuan in the Time of Aethis the Poet (IE Here be Homebrew)

Being a report on the cults of my home:

Addaidoth- Fire worshipers. Wrathful, proud and raging, wielders of Aqshy in all its forms, steel clad and steel raging. They congregate around the great natural fires of Ulthuan, the volcanoes of Caledor where the dragons sleep; for that matter, the dragons themselves are sacred creatures to them as beasts of infinite fire, power, and pride. A more tolerated portion of the cult than may be considered average since they generally keep to themselves and when they don't are having it out with the enemies of Ulthuan more than they threaten the other Asur. The only exception is when the Cult of Vaul, who dislikes the competition they bring as craftsman, is on the upswing.

Anath Raema- Woodsmen, poachers, and serial killers galore. As such a melange suggests she is unpopular within Ulthuan, and in the time of Aethis the Poet (IE Now) is by and large banned; worship of her, just to keep a goddess happy is acceptable but strange but any time two or more followers of Anath Raema get together things get bad and nobody is overly fond of it. This is admittedly likely partially a result of the social pressure put on them, but on the other hand, that excuse only goes so far when you're skinning people. Lots of hunters within Yvresse pray to her, to help them hunt down the monsters that lurk in those misty place. Shockingly she wields Ghur.

Atharti- Not banned in all cases, but toeing the line more than somebody like Addaidoth for sure. The expected, of course, whisper praise to their goddess, but also literati, poets, musicians, and other artists, who take their pleasure in their creations; as well as enjoyers of sport and other leisure activities. It is not necessarily only a cult of the rich, but there is a reason so many rich debutants love it. Her lore in Ulthuan focuses on Ghyran, Chamon, and Aqshy. She is favored in Saphery, for they have a love of poetry there.

Drakira- Banned more often than not, though not, shockingly, as enforced as a ban may be against, say, Khaine. Deeply unpopular within Ulthuan, on the grounds that they regard themselves as, by and large, beyond the basal state of hate, of vengeance, of slaughter and blood-fued; leave that for the Haclad. This is not an entirely untrue statement, but nor is it entirely true, either, for in Nagarythe grudges (and not only against the Druchii) run deep and hot. Not currently being persecuted within most of the Ten Kingdoms. Her lore wields Ulgu, Shyish, and Aqshy, the shadowy treachery, the surety of vengeance, or bright hot hate. The common Shadow Warriors know her, though the Shadow Weavers are a very different story; for one, Loec tried to kill her which is not the kind of thing that makes friends.

Eldrazor- One of the more acceptable Cytharai cults. Not entirely unlike the Slayer Cult of Grimnir, in that they go into battle pretty well-unarmored (if dressed) in emulation of the oldest songs of honor duel warfare from before the incursion, where battle was between handpicked bodies of champions rather than major military forces and they seek worthy foes to fight. On the other hand, the Priests of Eldrazor are doing it to show off rather than because they feel any particular shame. As a historical curiosity the cult mostly lingers in Tiranoc, perhaps as simple a function as their chariot riding tradition making it less lethal to follow their ways. They do not like the Sisters of Slaughter and have a fierce, if professional, rivalry with the Eternity Guard. Their lore wields Hysh, Shyish, Aqshy, and Ghur.

Ellinilli- Not worshiped: Placated. Rage and death, death and rage, the broken kneel to him, hoping that in supplication they might convince him to spare them and, if they are truly lucky, turn his fathomless rage and his infinite hate against their enemies. His favor is mercurial but the results cannot be denied when they do work, if they work. Whispered prayers to turn aside are common in every home throughout Ulthuan, but his cult, such that is is, is varied, mostly on the grounds that it is hunted. He wields Shyish and Aqshy: The certainty of suffering and the sheer forces of destruction. Feared throughout Ulthuan.

Ereth Khial- Goddess of death, mistress of the Black Pit. Spurrned by Asuryan, she turned her vengeance against the elves, seeking to claim their spirits; she has found limited, but extant, success, at least among Ulthuan. Those who desire power, those who desire success, or those who fear the judgement of the Cadai run to her, promising themselves to her. In return, death follows her, Shyish leaking from them like a mist. Cults dedicated to placating her are mildly tolerated; those who would sell others to her, are burned out root and stem. Her cult is headquartered in Lothern.

Estreuth- Lord of Famine, Lord of Drought. He is placated and appeased with offerings of fresh food and wine in return for the hopes that he might avert his gaze, but a real, dedicated group of worshipers mostly sounds like a band of villains in the making and so are generally swatted apart when they arise. In the colonies, where things are consideraby wilder than they are on Ulthuan proper, he has more power, especially since he has proven useful in burning out the Beastmen by making the very forests they rely on for cover wither and die. His Wind is the Wind of Shyish and Aqshy, the endless Hunger of Aqshy.

Hekarti- Goddess of Conjurations and Dark Magic; that is to say, the goddess most attached to the actual casting of spells. Dark Magic is prohibited in Ulthuan for a number of very good reasons and so that portion of her is not allowed to be worshiped; however as the goddess of Conjurations, of actually casting magic, it is not particularly surprising for even the most Hoeth-Loving Mage to offer a whispered chant to her as they desperately try to control their magic. As the goddess of Conjurations all magic is blessed to her, and so she is wise in every wind. Her wild magic fits in well in Chrace, my home, as Tethia would tell you, though this means the Sorcerreses of Ghrond who come rage even more wildly than usual.

Hukon- God of Earthquakes. Destroyer, shatterer, earthshaker. Rites to ward off evil, rites to turn aside his gaze, are beloved and so to that end, cults so dedicated are allowed, though raw worship of him is not. His is the breath of Chamon and Shyish and Ghyran, for the metal and soil of the earth that he breaks and shakes and turns into a weapon as is his rite.

Khaine- Banned. God of Murder, god of strength. One who knows only the worship of blood and power, power and blood. His cult is struck down wherever it arises, for they are a band of animals and slayers. And yet on the other hand, how many warriors of Ulthuan have offered a silent prayer to him for might in battle? How many souls, merely trying to survive, bowed to him? And how many more resisted him? As a force of raw devestation there are notes of all of the winds captured in him, king of the Cytharai by the right of blood.

Mathlann- The god of the seas. Tolerated but not loved but by the sailors who offer obedience to him. In Cothique they know him, hopin he will return their loved ones rather than slay them out of a mercurial apathy towards even his followers. His breath is the breath of Ghur, Ghyran, Azyr, and Ulgu, for he is as multi-faceted as the seas he rules.

Nethu- Keeper of the Gate of The Dead. Son of Ereth Khial. Not loved but, indeed, perhaps the most tolerated of the Cytharai. He holds the line between life and death, demarkating the boundaries between the afterlife and the mortal realm, acting as the gatekeeper of Mirai, the land of his mother, a duty he keeps to honorably enough. Bearer of Ulgu, Azyr and Shyish. Rumors suggest Druchii agents manage to plant his symbol inside Asur official homes. Rumors are deeply stupid and should be ignored.

-Vardanis of Chrace

Speaking to Annora


There are plenty of things you could be doing, that by rights perhaps you should be doing. The Haclad may be a much of insane murderers but they have less than no love lost for Chaos, unless they have changed in the past two-millennia and since the very of notion of change or adaption to the dynamic circumstances of the world as it is rather than the metal thing they desire it to be may as well be anathema as leaving their grandparent's homes, that seems unlikely, especially in such a deranged direction. Whispered rumors of affairs in the War of the Beard do not constitute sufficient evidence for such an accusation to be worth your time or the insult layered on them. Too much trouble by half, to be sure. Of course, they could have been stolen by the northmen, or unknowingly sold to them, "deep vetting" only has to fail so often for examples of such work to make their way into the hands of these humans.

Or you could be arguing to find the Sorcerer-Shaman's Sanctum. Pillar of Radiance is a miserable spell to be struck by, a burning, searing thing could melt Ithilmar given sufficient time, and Gromril given sufficient spite, but if no-one ever survived the unsurvivable most of the Blackfang estate wouldn't currently be floating as part of a fortress dedicated to misery and woe for anyone not pointy eared and wearing black. Now would be a good time to unmake him, while he is weakened and wounded, and further whatever lore, such that it is, he has may be useful in broadening your horizons. While properly unweaving it from the tangled mess of Dhar and barbarism that human sorcery consists of this far west is more the work of Loremasters than the work of an Archmage, it would at least earn you some favors. Or you could give it Ythil and her husband: whatever was inside it would be enough to fulfill your obligation, leaving you free to examine anything you found later in the journey, for instance whatever the Druchii have with them when you put them down and win. Your council would not mean nothing, in any case, as a mage, if not a full Archmage as yet.

Or you could head to Stahlheim itself. There are slaves to be freed and wrongs to be right, shrines to evil gods cast down and defaced to weaken them, and perhaps even the hope of some sort of lore gathered from some lesser shamans bound to the will of the Sorcerer? Perhaps most importantly, it will take a haven of raiders, pirates, slavers and killers off the board for a good long while, a few generations of the admittedly stubborn humans at least, until they return. Particularly if you manage to dedicate some sort of marker of Hysh in the place, and turn the whole thing into an oasis of order in this snowy pit.

All of these would be expected, considered, usual, not without preccedent in the time of your forefathers nor in the time of their forefathers.

Instead you examine Annora. She devours the soft, honeyed bread, quaffs the wine, and rips into the chicken your quartermasters have managed to find for her with a ravenous, uncivilized hunger, trying to fill a body that seems thin, reedy, undernourished (and so just this once you shall suspend judgement), all the while seated on a stump from a tree blown apart by one of Tethia's spell. She's swathed in some of Tethia's old blankets, to keep her from freezing to death in the cold, and when she isn't eating like a Gor she's looking around wide-eyed at everyone involved.

The others may not notice. Their sixth-sense may not be developed enough for it, as is the case with the common folk of your land: all of you have it to some extent, but much like eyesight, it does vary and unlike eyesight, it needs to be trained.

As for the other mages, well, they're busy.

Ythil, for all she may be an Archmage now, was trained as a Shadow Weaver and they are hungry for foriegn lore like few others except, perhaps, the Loremasters of Hoeth themselves. Admittedly, as she weaves the mist to show a Sorceress, out of more military concerns, rather than the innate curiosity of the Loremasters: The Druchii are, by and large, too stiff-necked and stubborn to really integrate foreign lore into their workings, too concerned with their own sense of superiority to even concede that there may be the nuggets of something useful in the knowledge of their so-called "inferiors". There are exceptions, of course, there always are, in particular Morathi herself has apparently taken knowledge from...well it would be easier to name who she hasn't taken knowledge from at this rate. Her library would be a treasure trove to examine indeed, if it were not for the owner.

So any knowledge you manage to integrate is knowledge the Druchii will not have, and that can be worth its weight in gold, particularly for those most inclined to fight them, to beat them, and to win.

As for her husband, Tyrial, he desires to journey to Stalheim immediately, post-haste, without even the slightest restraint in the matter. A bleeding heart, he would free the slaves and immediately setting about to offering them such aid and comfort as he is able, as well as fortifying the taken town against the return of the raiders and other menfolk. He also desires to burn the halls of Chaos to the ground with his magic, testing spells he has been devising since the last raid on Ulthuan by the dreaded beastmen and their allies. He, it seems, still has not forgiven nor forgotten their menacing his children.

Tethia, meanwhile, is mostly focused on getting to the lost city before the Druchii, and therein acquiring the staff so that Hekarti does not strike her down and devour her soul. She catches your eye and you see an understandable tinge of worry in her own blue eyes but beyond that, an Ithilmar-made will and certainty: she'll not kneel to fate itself, not to this. You nod and offer her a smile, as well as you can.

But in any case, to that end she examines the arguments of each and the lesser mages that have gathered around the wife and husband pair, their connection keeping the arguments more cordial than many other military engagements that you have heard the sordid stories of from your mother, including her own drawn out battles with your grandfather in centuries now long passed.

But that inability, or that distraction, keeps them from noticing something important.

Annora's gaze flickers from Tethia, to Ythil, to Tyrial, to the other mages--only for her to stop, iron-backed, as she catches your eyes. She looks down and gets back to eating her chicken and drinking her wine, hoping that you might brush it off as a fluke, much as you hd hoped your professors would not notice the glimmer of Ulgu you used to cloak yourself in your late night escapades with Urian as a much younger mage of the White Tower.

Much like your professors, you noticed. You march towards Annora, cloak fluttering in the wind, perfectly adequate wizard's staff digging a slight trench in the snow. You let your own windsight peer at her, looking at her spirit on the most surface level, and find something intriguing, concerning, and impressive in equal measure:

She's full of Ghur.

Absolutely, positively, sopping with it like a towel full of too much water.

Almost like she intentionally gave herself an Arcane Mark. Rumors say that the Rishis of the Land of Ind do much the same, intentionally maiming their souls so the gods they worship, Gilgadresh, Brahmir, and She'ar Khawn among a thousand others, to sew them up with the Wind they study. The ignorant tend to regard this as a sign of humanity's inferiority as mages.

The ignorant are wrong.

On the other hand, the mages of the West have not impressed half as much. Even the most able of them grab at strands of magic they aren't ready for and so end up spilling Dhar all over the place like a band of dumbasses, ignorantly furthering the destruction of everything. And the most coherent cabals of them all kneel to the gods of Chaos, nhilistic and ignorant screaming voids of thought or meaning or excellence, just rage and sorrow and ambition and depravity in the face of the evils of the world.

On the third hand, she is not dripping Dhar, which is a good sign. And there are no particular whispers of Ghur being used by the Shamans of Norsca, only a handful of rumors from the Kurgan, and some, admittedly powerful but unrefined in the Court of the Khan far to the East if the Indans are to be believed. Supposedly the humans living in the snow plains north of long-burned Athel Numiel may have some grasp of it, if whispers filtered through the long lines of history are to be believed, but that seems doubtful.

Extremely doubtful.

You should know, your treacherous granduncles wrote the damn things.

You stand before her and clear your throat. She looks up, and up, and up-- You may not be quite as tall without Wyssan's Wildform strengthening you, but you are substantially taller than her. "The others may be too blind to see or too busy to look, but my eyes, my eyes work young one. You were examining me with...windsight?"

A blank look. Ghur is a good Wind, a primal Wind, a Wind of freedom and self-reliance, there is a reason in your century of isolation you turned to it for comfort, for survival, for all those good things it could bring. But its nature does not lend itself to meetings of the mind, to scholarly debates, to academia, unless significant efforts are put into the affair. There is a reason the Beastwalkers' great hall is filled with sweat lodges and peyote, it is a thing of instinct and communion with the world.

And instinct does not develop coherent terminology. But communion with the world may.

"Sixth sense?"

Dawning comprehension blooms on her face, but mixed with the fear that she may be wrong and make a fool of herself, perhaps the most you've ever empathized with a human in your life. You must seem not entirely unlike Thanian as you struggled with Azyr to her: knowing they did not think you were a fool, knowing they thought you were capable otherwise they would not have instructed you, only made it worse.

"Witchsight?"

Her nose crinkles but she finally nods in understanding before looking down. "You're all so...vibrant. With the World Humors, I mean. The one who cast the spell on me so I even know what you're saying is the least, and even he's like particularly shiny pearl, bright and resplendent. When everything else in this pit has been so Tarred, that's a comfort in its own right. The other mages, the ones not leading, they're all like stars in the sky when I look up at night, a million-million pretty little sparks of every shade and every color without the brown sludge all around them. The woman, she's like the aurora overhead without the glare, braided together into a necklace of jewels all set in silver so fine you could weave a rope from it. The other, the red-haired one, she's eight bowls of fire, eight-colored and arrayed in as a pattern like the constellations."

You file away the use of World Humor for a second to instead ask the obvious question.

"And when you see me?"

"Like," she pauses for a second, considering the next words to come out of her mouth as carefully as she can, "like me. Brother wolf, sister serpent, and Mother Bear." She moves her hands, something you notice usually comes out when she talks. "And not at the same time. Mother Bear is part of me as surely as my own arms, and the others tell me things but you, they listen to you but you haven't burned yourself into them." She pauses. "And I swear, I can hear leathery wings overhead everytime you ask them to do your work for you. Like there's something waiting for you to grasp it, but you just won't. For one reason or another."

You pause, considering several things.

For one, that even the humans are now mocking your plodding pace in refining your magic.

For another, less sobering note, that she is not wrong about the similarities in your magic, of course. Ghur is Ghur. Cardinal, Elemental, Mystical, indeed even that which arises as the Emperor of the Heavens Commands is at its root, the same. The stuff of Beasts. Of Bestial behavior and of the control therein. The Aqshy wielders, the Chamon bearers, the students of Shyish, they are all touchy at best, precious at worst, about being compared to the western wielders of their winds among the humans and not without cause. A band of raiders coming down from the north to pillage and slaughter at worst, and at best a barely-tolerated band of bumblers tossed to the mob to be slaughtered like sheep or treacherous, ignorant priests unknowing of the fact that they are only barely spared the same fate.

But you have nothing to be precious about.

"Yes. I suppose I am like you." You sniff. "To an extent."

As you said, Ghur is Ghur. Your magic is more refined, more capable, more broadly grounded than hers but at the end of the day, you still go out into the wild woods to commune with the spirits of the land, still take on the shape of eagles to speak with crows, still run the plains with wild stallions, all the better to understand. All the better to grasp.

"But it was my understanding that your people, this far west, have no mages, no organization of magic except, well," you broadly gesture at the place where you had seared the Shaman which still lightly smokes from the heat and light, "that."

She spits in the direction of where his body, hopefully dead, probably alive, had landed. "They should be so lucky. I am a noble one, a protector of the people. I sniff out where the Enemy Wasp makes its nest and I destroy it. I take on the shape, I take on the form, and I fight them with weapons of magic, I fight them with all I am able and still yet more come. They follow the northerners." Her face takes on the ruddy red of rage as she talks about them. "Hateful creatures. Ignorant creatures. Soulless creatures."

"And they beat you to bring you here, then?"

"Hardly. Those fat-headed Estalian pigs," she sneers as she remembers, "Oskar would have been one thing, he doesn't like magic, he doesn't like wizards, and his god justifies it. But no, the damned cultists of the Menhirs," your own eyes widen and freeze as she says those words, "I saw what they did. They killed a man and spread his blood all over the damned thing to keep them functional, assuming they aren't crazy in the first place when they try and claim that nonsense at all, and for that they ambushed me in the dead of the night and sold me off to that animal." You have to grasp your head in your hands, trying not to weep.

"They aren't crazy," you say bitterly at the thought of the works of your ancestors and the Wise fallen into these hands fills you, "at least not about that."

It's her turn for her eyes to widen like saucers as she turns to look at you, examining your face like a sculpture. "You mean to tell me those menhirs actually do what they say they do?"

"Yes. They were the creation of Sky Giants in times now long since passed, who kept that land before they marched to war to aid their kin against the ogres, and never returned except as reduced as the rest of them after the Ogres did what they did. They keep magic at bay, the Windsflowing, the lands functioning, and you mean to tell me a bunch of bumbling cultists who have been reduced to human sacrifice are the only things keeping them from exploding?"

"I don't know that they only know human sacrifice and I don't know that they all do," she says at last with her own grim finality even as you distantly hear Tethia beginning to settle on a plan of whether to march for Stalheim or march for the Sanctum, "All I know is that I saw them do it once and rather than think, for even a second, about what was happening, about the fact that we are all going to die if the Norscans manage their conquest, they decided to sell me off to keep their secrets.

Rage. Shame. Sorrow. Despair.

Good magic work, fallen into the none-too-tender grasps of those who, at best, had a barely functional comprehension of the forces involved, at worst were genuinely deranged themselves, or more likely both.

It is the duty of the White Tower of Hoeth, and of every member therein to guard the world. It is the duty of an elf to embody excellence and ability in everything you do. It is the duty of every scholar of worth to spread knowledge to those who require it. Though not connected to the Network of the Great Vortex it is still, fundamentally, protecting the world to keep the Menhirs functional. More obviously, the Norscan invasion sews sorrows throughout the land.

It would be deeply unusual and, if word ever got out, you would have to explain what you're considering doing.

But.

She is a wizard. Not fallen to Dhar.

So...

So she can learn...

[] Offer a knowledge trade to Annora of Tilea, with all the possible consequences. Mad, yes, but possible, and perhaps necessary both to repel the northerners and protect the menhirs.
[] Do not offer such a trade. The humans have not proven they are worthy of such knowledge and "is not fallen to Dhar, is not fallen to Chaos, is not fallen to depravity" does not a worthy student make.
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Vote's open!