It began with blood. It always does.

The rites of arrival were simple: a village garrotted by nightfall, its remnants strung from rafters and trees like grisly ornaments. The Slaughter Host had come. At their head walked Sarythe, the Crimson Matron, her pale skin daubed in sacred gore and her eyes shining with the fevered ecstasy known only to those who have offered hearts to Khaela Mensha Khaine. She did not speak to the humans who survived the first cull. She did not need to. The shrieks from the crimson altars whispered the law more clearly than any edict.

The Slaughter Host now rule a wedge of the Border Princes in the same way the butcher rules his block, it was with finality and the slick gleam of a fresh blade. Their court was one of cruelty and discipline, where every whispered rumor may end in sacrifice and every ritual dance ends in death. Graceful and cold, the Druchii walk the streets like ghosts of an ancient nightmare. They were terrifying in their poise to the locals. Untouchable in their wrath. To displease one is to bleed. To resist is to die.

The humans have learned their place quickly.

Blood sports were the order of each dusk. Arena pits boiled with forced combat, heretics and dissenters pitted against each other or hunted by Sarythe's priestesses wielding twin blades and wicked glee. Some mortals cheered. Most cowered. All obeyed. The Druchii's dominion was carved into flesh and fear.

Yet this is only the beginning.

Sarythe does not build temples to wait in them. Khaine's will is not stillness, but slaughter. Already the rites of preparation begin. Rituals of sharpening, of blade, of body, of soul. Shades scout beyond their borders, tongues of shadow sent to taste the winds of war. The Host drills endlessly, perfecting their sacred dance of death beneath bloodied moons. Sacrifices are doubled. Screams echo nightly. The gods are pleased.

Soon, the bloodletting shall spill over borders.

Soon, the Brides of Khaine shall march.

The Border Princes have known tyrants, bandits, and butchers.

They have not yet known the devotion of the Druchii.

The place where Morgan finds his new seat of power - such as it is - is a castle with crumbling walls, perched wretchedly on a high hill next to one of the wandering, dusty roads of the Border Princes. A village scratches out a meager existence in the shadows of its walls. The inhabitants, at least, had not fled from his coming or that of his more unorthodox servants. In fact, most of the small province - after a demonstration - seemed willing to knuckle under to his rule. And now his army - such as it was - controlled this place. The fact that mixed among his more human soldiers were members of the restless dead was a mere detail. Truly.

His by right of conquest, of course. His by right of noble birth, of noble blood. He would forge himself a new kingdom here - of that he was sure. One where he could rule and become something more. More than anything he felt that these people - now that they had offered bread and salt (and a little blood, it was true) - were under his enlightened guidance. As long as they gave him their loyalty and their taxes, he would offer his sword.

That was the point of being a knight, was it not?

Heavy curtains and shutters bar the windows of his study, blocking out the piercing light of the sun. Lamps light the room, even in the height of the morning, and his pen scratches as he bends over the parchment, a thin smile on his lips, his pale hand moving with easy grace. His train of thought was interrupted by the knock on heavy wooden door and he glanced up, his dark hair falling over his face for just a moment until he brushes it away.

"You may enter," he speaks, accent marking him as every bit the Bretonnian aristocrat. A moment of hesitation it seemed and the door creaked open, a thin, long sort of man entered. Artur Bellin. A reliable sort. A man he had named as his personal secretary and cheerfully promised great rewards for his loyalty. So far, at least, he had stayed with him - although in truth whether it was out of fear, the desire for coin, or genuine loyalty was rather up in the air.

"My lord," Artur says cautiously, "You wished to speak to me?"

"Yes," Morgan responds with a distracted nod, "We do have... our servants out and handling what can be handled in this place, do we not? We have the start of something here. A proper province. But there must be more. There must be... order."

He had a plan. A great, all encompassing vision. It would take time, but he had time. All the time in the world.

"Let us begin. Let us make this into a model of proper rule..."

He was a knight of Bretonnia. Even now. Surely they would see that. Surely they would understand...

"By the Grace of the Lady, you are Viscount of Charleroi!"

Simple words, and ones heard far too often in the Viscounty. And yet, everytime they were said, the old priestess recalled, they still cheered. At this brief moment there was hope. The Viscounty had a new ruler. One who could lead the army, motivate the peasants into proper levies to supplement the knights, dispense justice, reward the virtuous, punish the guilty. Could was always the word. The more optimistic preferred world, as though there was no chance he would do anything else. But she knew the family. She knew the mother, wise with hard-won wisdom, the sister, impatient-to-grow up and to be married to someone, anyone, and she definitely knew the Viscount. He was like all the rest, young, headstrong, convinced of his own righteousness, the strength of his sword-arm, and that of his army, barely a hundred horse with only himself having the true power a knight of Bretonnia should.

And the times were such that the usual display of knightly valor and vainglory would be riskier than most. The great errantry states of the past were gone. Those that could be called civilized were Imperial or Tilean offshoots. The only truly worthy cavalry were their own. And now, the most likely foe was not some intruder from afar but on the doorstep of the realm. One of the cast-offs of Von Carstein had marched down from the mountains. The dead had reached the borders of Charleroi. Word had already been sent to the neighboring states, one of the last acts of the Lady-Dowager before the coronation, for aid, as such could be found. If the last knights of the Borderlands fell, the civilized principalities to the east would be next.

The people in the chapel had to at least some inkling of everythign she knew but they cheered long and lustily all the same. The disaster was coming but it was not here now and it might yet not coming. Perhaps the Viscount would gain wisdom, perhaps from a bride, perhaps from his family, and maybe he could rule instead of riding to his doom.

For now, there was hope. An illusion but it was better than nothing. Illusion was part of life. Death had none, something she would reflect upon as she prepared yet another Viiscount for burial.

@Rincewind


@Namaroff


@Aodyssey


@Moulin630

Cuthrow quailed and sweated as he stared into the face of Death. Death wore a black robe, carried a warscythe, and looked like a square-cut block of granite shaped into a man—broad and stocky as the young prince's much-too-large throne. His unsmiling face was lit by the sacred brazier and the flickering glow of dozens of red tallow candles. Above them, the crescent Mannslieb glared down on the procession, the tip as sharp as the blade that pierced his mother's chest.

"Doom."
The word rang in his ears.

The boy clutched the head of Steerope—his mother's beloved war-mare—and a cup of goat's milk tightly to his chest. With a wordless cry of loss—more loss, always more loss, another piece of his mother he couldn't keep—he hurled the offerings into the flames, where they burned hot and stung his eyes.

Outside, celebration. The period of mourning had ended for them. They laughed and caroused, every one of them—even the meanest beggar— given a length of sausage and a bowl of ale in exchange for a promise of continued loyalty to Cuthrow Resplendent, rightful Prince of the City of Gorizia. The "Dwarf-educated" ale merchant made a killing that night.

Tonight: hot sweat from the flames, and cold sweat from the Dooming. Tonight: tears drying on his pillow. Tomorrow: ink on letters read and written, and the sinews of state. A week from now? Blood and bone dust.

"A spear is many things! It can be used as a weapon yes, but there's use for it for hunting as well. Two spears can be used to create a stretcher with a coat. With a large scarf you may turn it into a pack and even on its own it serves adequately as walking stick. In combat too it can be used to stab, to swipe, to extend ones reach or to push the enemy away. The spear is the oldest weapon of civilization, favoured by the Goddess of Strategy and imbued with her will when her miracles manifest on the battlefield."

Serafina Antonacci could see that the Templar was loosing her audience, after all a spear was nothing new or alien to any of the gathered farmers and fishers, their livelihood and the safety of their families relied on it after all. Still, their call for help had been answered – far greater than they might have expected or even hoped for, so they paid attention to the Templars tasked with training them in the ways of warfare. Of course the Templar also knew when minds were drifting and with a prayer on her lips she invoked a minor miracle, the goddess golden strands extending towards the speer held aloft by her follower with a small burst of light: nothing but a cantrip in comparison to a true 'Spear of Myrmidia', but the awed whispers of the audience showed that it had worked.

The Templar had gotten their attention and was now beginning to split them into groups, handing out blunt wooden poles and simple shields, round flimsy little things that were known to them and which would serve them as well as they could. They might know their way with a spear, but they clearly hadn't seen a shield wall in action yet and the crooked line the Templar formed them into buckled and strained under the wandering feet of its parts and the wagging tongue that could be heard from behind it. Leaning onto the fresh balustrade, smelling the natural resin, she watched the militia floundering…admirably.

As two men on the left side got the shafts of their spears all tangled up, she couldn't help but wince in sympathy as the Templar burst forward with trained speed and her own pole raised high – a quick smash, the unbalance of a shield thrown backwards and before they could gain their bearing once more their feet stumbled over the wooden shaft and fell – and as they tried to get their bearing they dragged their neighbours weight them, creating a wide and heavy hole in their buckling shield wall… this was the moment they would be dead.

The Templar didn't waste time, she jumped into the breach, the tangle of spears from the left and right getting into each other's way as she tapped the next two militia men, before puling back and ending the exercise with a small clap of her hands. Serafina didn't need to watch further to know what was coming now: lessons in cooperation, lessons in coordination and all of this under the caveat that none of them were professional soldiers – merely farmers with spears.

Still, taking the new stairs downwards to the other side of the courtyard, she watched the small smithy they had brought with them hard at work, melting what nails and remnants the locals could offer with the bits of iron and steel they had brought with them. Not much, not too hardy, but under the expert blows of a hammer the metal was shaped into wicked triangular heads. Would it be enough to stop an Ork? Most likely not, but where there was one bolt, more would follow and strong defence deters many raiders.

Leaving the clang of the hammers behind, she approached the edge of the hill she had claimed for her people, taking off her hat as she brushed her hands over the simple wooden columns. Stepping over the heavy doorstep into the half-shaded interior of the shrine, she sunk to her knees before the small basic of raw stones, the mortar glistening with countless ceramic shards worked into it. Leaning forward she cupped some of the water and brought it her lips, the natural position meaning that she was looking up to the small plinth at the back of the room…and the marble idol she had carried across the sea herself.

Touching its cloak with her fingertips, the feeling of marble and colour, she whispered her prayers once more, wishing for the success of this venture, the safety of those that had followed her – and for a good nights sleep as she sought her penance. And thus she remained, the cool shade and soft bubbling of the spring making her relax even as the youthful Goddess watched over her in nothing but cloak and spear.

Alice woke up, disoriented as she remembered falling asleep in her fath… in her office and she seems to be in her chamber, she must have been moved here by her personal maid and one of the guards. After shaking off the last vestige of sleep, grief returns.

"It has only been two months…" whispered Alice

Two months since her father was killed, two months since her last parent died, two months since she has become Duchess, a duty that she isn't ready for but she must fulfill even as she only wish that her father was still alive, that she have more time to get ready for her duty and have more time to grieve her father but she can't, it would be a betrayal of the trust her father had in her, a betrayal to her ancestors and a betrayal to herself. So she calls her personal maid Elise to prepare herself for the day and shortly after she calls, she enters the room.

"Duchess, are you ready to start your day ?" Ask Elise

"Yes, help me get ready for today, can you remind me what I have to do today ?" Responded Alice

"Yes milady, today after having your breakfast, you have …" As Elise helped her duchess and repeated the schedule of the day, Alice mentally prepared herself for her duties hoping that as time passed it would become more easy.

The town of Durbornji had stood in the border lands for the last two centuries. a poor impoverished collection of huts guarded by a thin palisade. A town which survived, like many others in the border princes, by bending the knee to which ever petty tyrant ruled the local land. That lord had now changed. The town had heard the crash of arms and fires that lit up Castle Natchhof over the past week. Now the new rulers arrived.

The town milita and hetmen stood at the open gates in a disorderly parade. battered helmates and dented brestplates seen over mail and gambesons. They were not a great army but if needed they would defend agaisnt all comers.

The clip of horses came from the darkness and figures emerged. Atop a black stallion sat a hooded rider and behind him knights in crimson red sat.

The hetmen watched, waiting to see what type of petty warlord the new rulers would seem to be.

The voice of the black rider was the voice the grave

"Bow before your masters"

The hetmen didn't. Strength would be needed to survive even if they would have to bend the knee eventually

"Who are you, Lord Dimitri is the ruler of these lands"

The voice of grave spoke again

"I am the hearld of Baron Webber, Lord of these lands. The so called Lord Dimitri ... is no longer with us."

The rider threw a sack towards the Hetmen, a quick check was all that was needed to confirm that Dimitri was gone. Though no one would shed a tear for the old tyrant.

"What do you want?"

The simple question, tinged with fear, was the next logical question. The rider was passed a scroll by one of the knights . It was with a shock that the hetmen noticed there was no flesh on the arm of the knight, meerly bleached bone under the armor.

"Every month you will provide the Baron twelve gold talons per head in the village, sixteen head of cattle, fifteen score bushels of grain, ten buttloads of pigsblood, three of human and a dozen pints of virgin blood. Furthermore your militia is now marches under the Barons banner. You will lastly give me access to your graveyards and all future dead in this town. I expect you to sign this document and send detailed inventories of your stocks & population each new moon."

With that he and his skeleton knights trotted past the guard into the town.

Great, thought the Hetmen. Vampire beuracrats, atleast the taxes were half that of Dimitri ... they'd just need to get the cooper to make more barrels.

The great hall, such as it was, had been thoroughly cleaned and prepared for an audience. It helped that some of the servants were tireless and did not need to sleep, to eat, or to otherwise rest. The living servants had, of course, done what they could as well. The stone walls had been replastered here and there and banners bearing the dark crimson and black of his heraldry adorned the walls, along with lamps and torches. A fire burned in the great hearth. Atop the dias at the end of the room, Morgan waited. Artur stood alongside him. Guards - living and dead - stood against the walls.

The living were a mix of Bretonnians, Tileans, Imperials and others - sellswords or adventurers who took his coin without worrying about who he was. The dead, of course, did not care. Although some of the living men and women who filtered into the hall now gave them nervous glances. They were a mixed lot. Village headsmen and petty rulers of crumbling forts. The local rulers who he had supplanted when he set himself up in the castle and who had decided that trying to fight the so-called Black Duke was not a winning proposition. Some of them were people who he had found along his journey and who had thrown in with him - placed in their new positions by his hand. But all of them were now his. And that was what mattered.

Morgan stood and the low mutters of conversation died away as he stepped to the edge of the raised platform, his youthful, pale features lit by the fire and lamplight.

"You have been called here to pay homage; this land, this province, has fallen under the hand of my house. There may have been... rumors regarding myself and lineage and what might be expected," He began, a smile on his lips, revealing just a flash of very white teeth, "To all of you, I say that you need not fear - this is meant to mark our mutual relationship. One bound in oaths and blood. I intend to rule this place as any proper lord might. I will see to your protection. Your people will not be troubled by bandits or orcs or other... unpleasant outsiders. This I will swear on my honor. However..."

His head tilted, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room, "This is a reciprocal one. I do not plan on meddling too deeply into the affairs of every village or minor outpost. You know your lands better than I and my concerns must lie with the greater good. I will affirm your rulership and your rights. I will support them, against rebels or outsiders, and I will provide succor at need - but in return you will provide me your loyalty in war and peace. You will provide a tithe and a tax - of coin, labor, goods and troops. Nothing onerous. Nothing that will leave you starving. But this is to be our relationship. I will be your liege - and you will be my tenants-in-chief. You will fight -or send men or bodies or both-"

There was a bit of a shiver at that, but there it was.

"-and pay our taxes and tribute and you will otherwise be allowed to live in peace under the banner of my house. If you do not find this acceptable... we will need to have a deeper conversation. And now - you will swear your oath to me and I to you."

The power of Morgan's gaze burned. He extended a hand. The men and women shifted a little. And then the first, a grim-looking man in battered mail, stepped forward. The silence deepened - and he knelt before him and lifted his hands to swear the oath.

Small beginnings.

The wind that brought cool air from the river was just right on this hot day. All the individuals participating in the meeting were happy with their Master's spontaneous idea to take the conference table out of the catacombs and hold this meeting in the fresh air.

While their Master was immersed in drafting documents, leisurely conversations about everything and nothing flowed around.

"I heard that your grandson recently mastered his first spell... Grain prices have risen again... Adagio has changed his girlfriend again... Last time you were messing around in the ritual room for so long that the blood had time to dry completely, the servants barely washed it off, all the deadlines were missed..."

Knock... The pen hit the table with an uncharacteristic sonorous sound. A simple illusion traditionally intended to attract attention. All those present turned their gaze to the previously busy young man. Delicate facial features, paleness bordering on something unhealthy, eyes so brown, like failures in the darkest gorges of the mountains. Shadowborn is not just a pretentious title, no, this is their work, the work of the cult to create mages inclined to a certain wind. Of course, it was not they who took part in the "creation" of this frightening young man, but those mages of the Old Cult, about whom they are now bashfully silent. Tian Rem, their leader managed to develop the potential invested in him, not every "gifted" is given this, his father could not.

- "Honorables. Let's get down to today's agenda. Head of the Eyes, you have the floor." - a quiet, rustling voice with an elusive creak of door hinges, could frighten the weak-willed, but for those gathered it was a good sign. This means Rem is relaxed, doesn't see the need to control himself, trusts them.

- "Thank you, sir." - the man responsible for monitoring the neighboring lands stood up. - "Far to the west, a Black Ark was spotted heading in our direction. Beyond the river, the human lords began to actively correspond, we were unable to intercept a single messenger, I regret it. In the foothills, the undead are raising their heads; they even talk about Nehekars who have wandered far from their usual possessions. Some long-eared ones have settled to the north of us." - There was a pause so that everyone present could think about what was said.

- "So the rumors about the influx of foreigners in the last year were true. They say that among them there are many talented military leaders and especially interesting wizards. Do you know anything about them?" - The Exarch asked the question without much interest, very formally. Of course they didn't know, there were few resources under the Eyes' command.

- "Downstream, somewhere by the sea, there is a powerful Pyromancer, he is the only one who has come into our field of vision." - the speaker made an apologetic bow, as if accepting his limitations.

Tian Rem nodded, calling the Head of the Eyes to sit down, and he himself stood up and walked around the table clockwise.

- "You have all heard the words of our brother, the world is accelerating, dangers are piling up like debts from usurers. In this regard, I want to tell you one thing... I AM FURIOUS!" - an unexpected exclamation lashed out sharper than a whip, causing everyone present to lose their composure. - "Your languid inaction borders on incompetence! Peasants obey only by force, beggars and vagabonds disfigure the reputation of our settlements, reagents are wasted without measure on rituals that work every other time! Arts are taught without due zeal, and our army is smaller than the beard of a dwarven baby! This is no good. Did you hear me?"

Although many disagreed with such harsh, offensive words, no one dared to raise their eyes from the tabletop. Having frankly not the greatest abilities in Wind Management, they still felt the flow of energies. Right now, their Patron was on the border of the material world, embodied, or just preparing to be embodied, with him, unlike the demons of the Four, it was impossible to say for sure whether he was already here or not. His power pierced the necks with weightless needles, promising to close on them in case of disobedience to the Exarch.

- "So that I have your plans to fix this mess until the end of the week. Free." - the threat subsided, the beast retreated and without looking into the eyes, the advisers began to disperse. What happened was not something outrageous, they were not boys playing magicians, the power of the Young Master is what will lead them to power, that is why he was chosen. - "And I will ask you, Head of the Eyes, to stay, it will be necessary to deliver one letter to the North."

@Netos

Orwain Gavánn contemplated the landscape below the ridge.
The village by the river was sitting peacefully. He recently liberated it from roving bandits, that had set themselves up as petty tyrants. And what a night had that been, two and a half moons ago; across road and hill and treeland, those who fancied themselves the hunters had switfly become the hunted; in the end they tried to flee in the dark, pleading for a mercy that would not come.
Now it was a sunny early afternon, and the light shimmered over the river that snaked Northwards across the land.

Then he turned to speak. "I am glad to meet you today. There are new tidings from nearby lands."
"What are the news, Protector?" asked Celio, the village chief.
"You may have heard the rumours. I traveled to the edge of the neighbours' lands to verify some of them myself. To our South, a quaint cult of godlessness has sprouted. They wish to remove the land from the gaze of all the Gods: human and elven, good and indifferent and bad."
"Are they hostile? Should we prepare our arms?" said Suzanne, the wife of the village chief. She was a surprisingly good archer, for a human, and effectively had the command of the small archer force that was part of the militia.
"No" answered Orwain. "They actually seem interested in diplomatic contacts, which is very good".
The two villagers breathed a small sigh of relief, while Gotthard the Averlander was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, as humans say. He was of the few local acquaintances in search of occupation that decided to accompany Orwain to the Border Princes. They had no particular skills, but it was good to have some friendly faces.

"However, the diplomatic situation is complex, and evolving rapidly. To our North, the Principality of Anhalt has expanded. I expect they will wish to impose their domain and cult over the land, and won't see kindly to independent peoples, or godless ones. So will the Bretonnian knight to our North-East. Further south, I barely avoided being sniffed out by a well-equipped Skin-wolf of the Norscans, squatting in the ruins in the shadow of Barak Varr."
Orwain paused, so Gotthard interjected with his usual loquaciousness "Goodness me. Martin won't take that well, given how he went away from Nordland to avoid their Northern neighbours".
"Imagine how I took the news of my old enemies setting up an outpost on the other side of the Border Princes" the ranger answered without missing a beat. It was a deadpan tone, but anger was buried beneath.
"Wait, you mean-"
"The Druchii, yes. If they get a foothold, they will exterminate whoever resists and enslave all the rest. But they are very far away. There are other concerns closer by".
This time, all the three listened. The only noise was the periodic thud of arrows on the targets, from the weekly archery competition in the grounds below.
"Across the river, the fortress-city of Gorizia is a powerful defensive position. A knight believing to be the Emperor will surely try to conquer it, and exercise his power across this land. Further south, there is a pyromancer of uncertain allegiance and more dubious sanity. Further north, a cult of Nehekharans wants to resurrect their dead monarch, and a powerful force of skeletons. I expect they will be swarmed by everyone else before they can succeed, but I will keep an eye on the developments."

"So... a greater storm than usual all across the Border Princes, I'd take?" Celio commented, grimacing.
"Yes. There are many powers in play, many of them are too far for me to know much about them."
"We believe your vision can help us secure our well-being. We will fight if we must, for it and for ourselves" Suzanne said, the mouth firm in a thin line.
Orwain continued: "As you know, I wish for a land that welcomes all cults that are not of Chaos, and all people that are not Druchii. The usual gods and the godless and the proscribed gods, the ones from Empire and Myrmidia and all. Where a Council of local powers will handle the issues of bread and living, but the military power will not be fragmented among one hundred ambitious petty conquerors, that spend their subject's lives like pawns on a board to augment their personal power. That power will be mine. Until mayhaps one day I will sail to Ulthuan, when I see that the land stands by itself, and is solidly in good hands that will not be slaves to darkness or enemies to the Asur.
... however, there may be many roads to reach that aim, and many agreements will have to be made. I am not interested in absolute power... but I need to understand more of the aims of our neighbours. I will be writing to them, and may ask to meet some of them myself."
"Anyway, since any polity has to exist first and foremost for its people, before anything else I would speak with you. We can discuss as we walk back to the archery competition's grounds".
"Of what?" Celio said.
"Of wood, and bows, but also boats and the river. Of forests, and of Goblins..."

Prince Cecilio stood atop a wind-worn outcropping overlooking the Pavona Road, the evening sun casting long shadows over the hills east of the Apuccini Mountains. Below, the crimson banner of Vallespania fluttered defiantly, its sigil—a crow rising with talons unsheathed—planted firmly into the soil of the Border Princes. This land was harsh, lawless, and unyielding—but it was his.

Behind him, the veterans of the Order of the Eagle stood in formation, their armor bearing the faint etchings of campaigns long past. Once scorned in the courts of Estalia, now they served as his most trusted officials, generals, and administrators. Cecilio turned to them with measured purpose in his eyes. They were not just soldiers. They were his people.

The Order was a controversial force back in Estalia—seen as Tilean infiltrators by some, and dangerous idealists by others. Their doctrine emphasized clarity in war and justice in rule, values that had long been at odds with the corruption and decadence of the Estalian courts. But to Cecilio, their mistrust was irrelevant. He had known the Order all his life.

His mother, a proud Tilean noblewoman of Pavonan blood, had once been a strategist within their ranks. Her affair with the King of Cantonia had produced him—Cecilio, born out of passion and scandal, raised in the shadows of both courtly disdain and whispered legend. The Order had never turned their back on her, nor on the boy she raised with equal parts warmth and steel.

When Cecilio was legitimized but denied his birthright, he chose exile over stagnation. And when he journeyed for the Borderlands, several captains of the Order—many of them once loyal to his mother—abandoned their positions and followed him. Not for coin, not for conquest, but for belief. Belief that something better could be forged out here—far from the squabbling crowns of Estalia and the prideful oligarchies of Tilea.

Together they had seized this land east of the Apuccini range, a vital corridor that overlooked trade along the Pavona Road. From this position, the Principality of Vallespania was born—not through diplomacy or inheritance, but by sword, discipline, and will.

Cecilio stepped forward, his cloak fluttering in the wind.

"This banner will not fall," he said quietly. "Not while the Order stands, not while we stand. Let the others bicker over thrones and bloodlines. We will build something real."

And behind him, the Order of the Eagle stood taller.

---

To the Esteemed Vali Khordal, @God and the Snake

I extend to you my greetings from the Principality of Vallespania, and write to you not only as a neighbor, but as one who seeks peace, prosperity, and common purpose in these troubled lands.

Word of your strength and wisdom has long reached my court, and as our domains lie close—divided only by the river and joined by that lone bridge—I believe it is time we move from distant awareness to open accord. Thus, I propose the drafting of a peace and trade agreement between our realms, that the river may no longer be a line of division, but a lifeline of commerce and cooperation.

Beyond prosperity, there is also a matter of security. The whispers from the north grow darker by the day. The Vampires stir again, and their hunger is unceasing. Alone, we may endure for a time—but together, we might stand as a bulwark against their encroachment. Let this accord serve not only as the beginning of shared wealth, but as the seed of mutual defense.

I await your reply with interest and optimism.

By my hand,
Prince Cecilio de Valor y Destreza
Crimson Prince of Vallespania

---

To the Esteemed Prince Sergio Hearthpocket, @Synergy

Warm greetings from the Principality of Vallespania.

Though I must admit surprise at finding halfling folk in these unforgiving lands, I send this missive not in jest, but with sincere respect and well wishes. Your people's resilience is well known, and I commend your boldness in carving out a realm here in the Border Princes.

Permit me to be forthright. I have recently sent a proposal of peace and trade accord with our Asur neighbor to the east, and in the same spirit, I wish to propose a similar agreement with you. Our lands may be small in size, but by linking them through bonds of trust and mutual interest, we might build something far greater.

Moreover, there is a matter graver still: the threat of the undead. As you may already know, no less than two vampire lords have claimed dominion just north of our borders. Should we remain divided, we risk being overwhelmed by their ambitions. But if we stand united—halfling, elf, and man—we may weather the darkness together.

Let trade and peace be our first step, and perhaps alliance our next.

I await your reply with open arms and an open table.

By my hand,
Prince Cecilio de Valor y Destreza
Crimson Prince of Vallespania

Duchess Alice walks in circle in her office, having just received the last "surprise" of the day as she finished the last judgement of the day, a messenger of "Emperor" Sigismund having a message for her and in an act of arrogance and stupidity started reading it outloud to her and her court, if the content of the message was already bad, the failure to remember (or the butchering) of her own name was an insult that was enough to leave herself and her court speechless. After regaining her speech, she immediately adjourned the court and asked the messenger to wait outside as she wrote a response at the height of the honor that the "Emperor" has given to us.

Now she waits for her captain of the guard, military tutor and her military advisor, her Grand-Uncle Charles Suffren, a veteran of many battles and skirmishes and who has served her father and her grandfather before her. Finally he knocked on the door before entering the room.

"Hello niece, this "emperor" got us in a real mess. The courtiers are in an uproar and it will soon be the talk of the town and the duchy. If we do nothing we will seem weak and weak people do not survive long in the Borderlands." Say Charles

"I know… We really didn't need that between my recent ascension as duchess and this we will have to show our might to ensure that none of our neighbors don't have any stupid ideas. but first i will write an … adequate response to the "Emperor". Any ideas ?" answer Alice

"Oh, it's not the ideas I lack, but the way to write them," Charles replies, laughing as he thinks about it.

They finish writing the message for the "Emperor" before handing it to the messenger who will return to his "Emperor" ignoring the numerous orders that will be sent shortly after his departure to the rest of the Duchy.

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@Weygand

The Dark Tongue is the language of Chaos and sorcery as spoken and written by its followers and the practitioners of magic. It has undoubtedly earned its colloquial name because it is uttered in shadows by those clad in robes of darkness.

The Dark Tongue is a ritual language and the only manner in which the mysteries of Chaos can truly be expressed. It is the language of daemons and Chaos creatures which have the power of speech. Daemon names and the secret daemonic names of Chaos champions can only be spoken in the Dark Tongue, and the servants of Chaos learn to speak and write it for the conjuration of Chaos entities and to converse with daemons when they are summoned.

The many tribes that live under the shadow of Chaos have their own languages and dialects, just as the nations of the Old World do. Many of these languages incorporate elements of the Dark Tongue, particularly in holy rituals and important ceremonies. When bastardised in this fashion, the Dark Tongue loses much of its potency, but still the little knowledge that these barbaric peoples have is sufficient to make their sacrifices dangerous affairs.

The core of the Dark Tongue is a collection of root words, heavily endowed with meaning. The root word is altered by the addition of prefixes and suffixes to bring out the various potential meanings held within the root. Yet more meanings are yielded by mutation of the root itself.

Although there are relatively few root words compared to other languages, such as Elven, there are innumerable potential root distortions within the Dark Tongue. Few human cultists will ever learn them all, but as a servant's command of the language increases, so too does his command of the forces of Chaos themselves. Included below are the few root words, plus some of the suffixes and prefixes used to shape them into different meanings.

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Root Words:

Basic concepts, aspects of chaos, the domains of the chaos gods

The Aethyr, the winds of magic, aspects of magic

Additional Roots based in magic

Additional miscellaneous Roots

Example of root mutation, fusion and the wide range of possible interpretations:

• Tzeen'neth | Tzeentch - Lord of Change, Weaver of Fate, Changer of Ways, Lord of Entropy, Great Conspirator, Weaver of Destinies, Architect of Fate, Lord of Change.
• Nurgh'leth | Nurgle - Lord of Decay, Great Corruptor, Plaguefather, (Grand)Father Nurgle, Lord of Pestilence, God of Rebirth, Master of Certitude, Plague Lord, Lord of Flies.
• Khar'neth | Khorne - Blood God, Bloodfather, Brass Lord, Lord of Murder, Lord of Skulls, Lord of Rage, Lord of Blood.
• Slaa'neth | Slaanesh - Lord of Excess, Master of Excess in All Things, Prince(ss) of Chaos, Prince(ss) of Pleasure, God of Obsession, Dark Prince(ss).
• Mala'leth | Malal - Lord of Vengeance, Hierarch of Anarchy and Terror, The Outcast God, The Lost God, The Renegade God

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Pronouns and Affixes:

Pronouns:

• Makh: Universal inward pronoun (I, we, us)
• Trakh: Universal outward pronoun (you, you, they)

Possessive Suffix:

• 'ak: Indicates possession
  • Example: Makh'ak = I own/have something

Plural Suffix:

• 'ar: Indicates plural
  • Example: Makh'ar = We/us

Tense Suffixes:

• 'azh: Past tense
  • Example: Makh'ar'azh = We were something
• 'resh: Future tense
  • Example: Trakh'ak'resh = You (singular) will own something

Additional affixes and modificators:

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These are just a few of the hundreds of possible prefixes and suffixes. More complex concepts, descriptions and names can also be created in combinations of root words and multiple mutation words. For example, Kha'dhar'phak can mean nightfall, Neth Kha'dhar'phak then means Lord of Nightfall, which might be translated as Nightbringer.

Additional Notes and Guidelines:

• Affixes can be used as Pre- or suffixes, depending on context and phoenetic viability
  • Eg. "Phak'Aqsh'ash" and "Aqsh'ash'phak" are both viable
• In its proper, written form, the Dark Tongue seperates all elements of a compound with " ' ". This ensures less confusion and misinterpretation. Eg. "Khar'neth" instead of "Kharneth"
• Most affixes can be used as standalone words if they can not be assigned to one single word or compound within a sentence.
• Compounds in sentences may be split to represent individual words and avoid becoming unpronouncable. Eg. Makh'ak Phaos'ae'ar (I own Daemons), Makh'ar'azh'ak Lak'Sho Am'Phaos'ae (We where searching (attempting) to bind a Daemon
• Basic Syntax: The structure should remain fluid and flexible, depending on context, but mainly remain S-V-O to avoid confusion.
• When word compounds contain multiple affixes, the sequence of affixes can be flexible, depending on contextual hierarchy and phoenetic usability
• Vrash can be used before the verb to indicate negation:
  • Eg. "Makh Vrash'ak Eth'Phaos'ae" = I do not possess a strong will / My soul is weak
• When constructing words or sentences in the Dark Tongue, it is often paramount to use the names of the winds of magic in multiple context with a broad spectrum of possible meanings. Therefore it is important to reinforce magical or interpretive meaning based on the desired outcome.
  • Example:
    • "Makh'azh'ak Eth'Dhar'ush, Ksy Am'phag Dhaos'ae" Could be interpreted as "I possessed the forbidden knowledge (interpretive meaning of Dhar), the key to bind a Daemon."
    • "Makh'azh'ak Eth'Aqshy'thy'phak, Ksy Ush'Hysh'phak Dhaos'ae" Could be interpreted as "I used ('phak) mighy fire magic (eth'Aqshy'tyr), the key to banish (interpretive meaning of Hysh) the Daemon."

- - - - -

Seeker, Humble Lore. "R/WARHAMMERFANTASYRPG on Reddit: My Attempt for a Translation Manual: English to Dark Tongue." My Attempt for a Translation Manual: English to Dark Tongue Homebrew, www.reddit.com/r/warhammerfantasyrpg/comments/1ddaxu3/my_attempt_for_a_translation_manual_english_to/. Accessed 24 Apr. 2025.

To the Honoured Prince Cecilio de Valor y Destreza, @Mino

I write to you from a place of high esteem. In this land I have met all manner of tyrants; Those that would bind the will of men and put chains around the necks of children. I have seen thieves who call themselves emperors and emperors who are little more then cutthroats. But in your words I see the countenance of an honest man.

A commodity all to rare in this wasteland.

A delegation of my retainers shall attend upon your court within a fortnight of the arrival of this letter. They shall bear my writ and speak with my will. Let us be as be speakers of peace and bringers of order.

By my word and deed,
Prince ali Kordal
Warden of the River Skiros

Khaz Modan - I

The explosion echoed across the fishing village, followed by the pitter-patter of debris over the bay and a spectacular string of Khazalid curses as Commodore Khaz Modan's latest attempt at a seagoing steamship failed in dramatic fashion.

The now-destroyed Zhufbar was the Commodore's latest attempt at a seagoing ship, borne out of the majority of the Marauder's painstakingly accumulated war chest and a decent bit of materials taken from the three towns Modan had recently placed under his "protection". Now, all of that investment was vaporized or sinking, dashing Modan's hopes along with it.

The only good news was the rowboat with the 3 dwarfs and five umgi picking up a rather bedraggled dwarf, the crew of the Zhufbar having seemingly detected the explosion ahead of time and saved their own hides.

Nonetheless, Modan didn't have enough resources to build another Zhufbar, and as he turned around, the fascination in the spectating umgi rapidly turned to irritation as they realized all their hard-earned taxes and tithes had been vaporized in the fireworks show. Even the land-bound dwarfs looked uneasy at how much had been lost, and although the Marauders had formed deep bonds of camaraderie over the past decade working together, not all were totally onboard with Modan's ambitions yet.

Modan sighed. He now needed money and more labor for a new ship, as well as figuring out how to finagle another boiler. That meant more attention turned landwards, away from shipbuilding to the painstakingly mundane task of running the small fief the former mercenary had amassed, on top of figuring out what went wrong with this most recent attempt.

A quick meeting with the ruling nobles and the Marauders soon followed, with reassurances that Modan would focus on ruling and recover the lost resources invested into the Zhufbar, and the exhausted dwarf trudged to his quarters to retire. As was the case for the past half-century, Modan would find no respite in his sleep, instead dreaming of a wall of bones amidst a foreign jungle yet again.

'Neath the tall oaks of the Kharnos Forest, deep in its shadows, far north of Zvorak and civilization, stood the Round Goat Inn. Once it were a place of rest for weary trackers and farmhands from throughout the area. Once too it sported a fine festival called the Goat Race, and many came to watch the spectacle of proud and ornery goats flitter about the track. Many came to drink and laugh and rest, many had made friends and found lovers and made sweet, sweet memories 'neath the painted visage of that old, fat goat and in the main hall of that bright-blue painted tavern.

But things were different nowadays. The trackers long feared the deep woods, and those that still ranged had taken to banditry to provide for themselves and their families. The farmhands dwindled too, for their farms had burned or been abandoned or been cowed by outlaws so that they were afeared to go out past their fences. Even the old goat course had been taken by weeds and creeping roots, left abandoned and untrod in many years so much so that it had been reclaimed by the woods. The Round Goat now sat, hunched and faded and grey, choked on all sides by the Kharnos oaks.

But it were not wholly abandoned.

While the trackers and farmhands and good souls had left, the outlaws of the woods still needed entertainment. Gangs came and went, some split and formed even within the Round Goat. But the bandit chief of late had been a broad-shouldered, raven-nosed, booming man named Georg - and it was he who was questioning the young boy that were crying and soot-covered in the main hall, surrounded by wide-eyed bandits.

"Out with it, boy! Need we cut the story from your belly?"

Georg shot a sharp glance at his gang of delinquents, for he always expected laughter and praise and now received none. And none he received, for concern and fear bested his men's cruelty that day. He would, Georg thought, remember this betrayal. But first, the boy needed to be resolved. Procuring a small skinning knife, Georg jabbed it menacingly towards the boy, cracking a wicked, near-toothless smile as at last the frightened child stammered his tale.

And this is what the boy said, the whole lot of it:

"W-we was coming from the brook, to look at the fishes. We was coming back and that's when we saw the fire. All the fire and smoke. Papa was scared and ran and made me run with him. And the closer we got to the village, the bigger and badder the fire and smoke looked. It was everything, everything was on fire."

The boy sniffled and shook, but Georg bid him on.

"Bad men was there, at home." Another stifled sniff. "Really bad. They were covered in blood and Papa told me to hide, pushed me into the bush. And the bad men, they...took Papa. And they cut him. They cut him again and again and he was yelling and screaming and praying. And they kept cutting. And Mama came out the house and then they, they...please don't make me see it anymore!"

Rough, rowdy men all, the outlaws couldn't help but allow themselves to soften their hearts at the dread tale. Except for one.

"I've enough of the whelp!" barked Georg. He took a single stride closer to the child.

Before Georg could again bluster or worse, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder. Big Otto glared into Georg's eyes and for a moment each man sized up the other. Georg moved first, flicking his knife. But Big Otto was, after all, a big man. His whole hand snapped over Georg's face, twisted, and didn't let up until the man stopped howling. Limply, Georg floundered to the ground, speaking nor living no longer.

And then Big Otto knelt before the lad and spoke with a gentleness none had ever heard before.

"You're safe enough lad, with us Clubbers. We'll keep you safe from bad men."

But the boy looked at with eyes that had seen worse than mere men, and the boy said as much:

"They were not just men, but monsters too! Monsters! Monsters! Tall as an oak, big as a bear, he had three arms!"

The boy worked himself into hysteria and it spread infectiously to all the men, and they shivered like the boy, feeling the truth of terror in his words.

"Tall as an oak," he repeated. "With three arms! He stomped Papa, he stomped him and broke him and turned him to mash. Mash! He's going to mash us too and he's going to laugh that evil laugh of his, I swear! I swear he's real!"

And then the boy fainted and all the men looked at one another with relief and fear and uncertainty. Some up and decided that moment that they'd turn tail and run, others were too scared to even consider leaving.

That night seemed awfully dark, there at the Round Goat Inn.

Adrift across abyssal arcs, Alv'alav'v'nala alighted atop adamantine aspidochelone, an Arch-Ark adrift, atramentous and appalling. Ambient alarum abated; analeptic aether aglow, albescent alabaster adorning all-around.

Amidst atriums adorned anciently, Alv'alav'v'nala, alabandine-arrayed, abided. Ankle-length amaranthine attire about alabaster ankles; araknean armaments atavistically arrayed around armature. Amber apertures appraising aerial aethers, absently abjuring archaic animosity.

Alerions aloft, airily ascending azure airwaves. Aqualine abysses all-abidingly around, amorphous arcs afloat. Agog aspirants approached; abased acolytes attending.

Alv'alav'v'nala, aloof, articulated astral axioms:
"Anarchic ascendancy arrives anon; annihilation and apotheosis amalgamate accordingly."

Abyssal anthems arose, astringent and alluring. Anxious atraphaxes ambulated, aegis-armed. Alv'alav'v'nala, ascendant architect, abandoned ancillary anxieties, attuned all aetheric altitudes anew.

All about, alabastrine archways arced above, aortal amethysts afloat, articulating alchemical adages. Averted avarice animadverted—Alv'alav'v'nalaalone aggrieved ambition appropriately.

Anhedonic, ardent, adumbral—
Alv'alav'v'nala abides.