Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)

The Clerics

"Hark and hasten to the North, for our sons are returned! Our families are revived! Our prayers are answered!"
-A maddened Crier


(Source)

The Clerics of Bretonnia do not seem to be sorcerers. Magic does not flow from these men as one might expect; they can walk down the street and seem just a man.

Then a beast attacks, and they draw from the wellspring of magic- and slay it by some magical incantation.

Many believed the boys of Bretonnia born burdened by magic were killed, or slain, or placed into suffering-- but faith has been rewarded. Instead, the Fay Enchantress and the Green Knight alike have taught them; she, the works of magic; and he to be the best of knights, the most honorable and fearsome to the foe, clad in glory.

Wielding their magic, they came at the call of Duke Phillip Folcard, who faced an onslaught-- sent by the now-dead Morghlum--of hobgoblins. His sister and two barons dead, his defenses were much weakened, and many thousands died in the battle, but before the foe might succeed in razing Montfort itself, the soldiers of the land placed themselves, a wall, before it, meeting the riding horde; and as they did, the Duke prayed-- and the Lady, herself clad in rage for the razing of so much of Bastonne, responded by unleashing her ancient army.

They came, they saw, and they killed.

First they put to flight what remained of the Hobgoblins after Gtilla's death.

Then they raced outward, a holy host. The encroaching, crushing vines of Morghlum were killed in the dozens, tribes slaughtered to the last foul greenskins that made them up. There are even those who doubt the stories, and that they have returned at all-- for how could this host be at Parravon one day, then Mousillon the next? It does not help that, being few in number-- though great in scope-- the Great Host has traveled together as one band, fearsome and deadly but with limited touch at any point and no roots laid down at any locations.

There is a matter of some curiosity to Grail Knights and those educated in the history of the Grail-- despite being, universally, Grail Knights, these Clerics somehow have children, in some cases. While most Grail Knights are past the point of desiring more children to secure their lines, it does seem to make more plausible the stories that certain Grail Knights, beyond the ever-faithful Companions, have had heirs despite having drunk of the Grail. There are even certain men, among them former advisor to the king Richelieu, who desire to make use of this knowledge for the sake of the Kingdom.

Wedding Bash Pt.24

You walk towards your wife, boots clacking on the stone. Elves, men and dwarf alike walk around you as stalk toward her.

She sees you, obviously, loud and large as you are-- six feet and seventeen stone don't exactly make for a quiet man. Her face flies through grief and she readies to leave, to run, to hide. To go back in the shadows.

"Wait."

It is not the voice of a knight that radiates authority from you, as light radiates from the sun. It is not the voice of a duke who is more kin to the Bretonni barbarians of old than to his own countrymen. It is not the voice of nobility, that hold privilege and power in equal measure.

She turns to you, fear and trepidation written on her.

"Would you like to go find a dress for your granddaughter?"

It is the voice of a husband who has missed his wife, had spent long nights hoping she would return.

First comes shock, as though she cannot believe, no-- refuses to believe that you are not quarrelsome, that you do not rage. Then fear, though that flies from her swift as the hippogryph from its perch. Finally hope, swiftly smothered but ever there.

"I...yes. Yes, I would like that, very much."

The two of you entwine fingers and set to walking. And for the first time in days, the dark doesn't seem so shallow.

Details you had ignored flow to you. The soft scent of perfume on the wind, carried by the elves. Distant sound of steel worked. The cries of city-living. Streets become...concrete again.

"A question, dark lady: who did you stab?"

"A druchii, an assassin. Here to try and kill one of the dwarfs, or one of the elves. I couldn't truly tell-- his ranting was unceasing. A question, white knight: are you not struck by fury? By anger? I had thought to betray you so terribly might make you detest me."

"I am...furious. At the fay. At myself. At you."

Her face falls.

"But I will never detest you." A short smile, something you haven't given in days. "Besides, there aren't likely to be many maidens who want to marry a sterile forty-three year old."

She laughs a little, a cold thing. "I don't know. I can think of a few Prophetesses, lonely and angry, who would take that offer from you."

And so it is that the two of you walk hand in hand, silent-- but the good silence of care. You walk the cleansed streets of Lothern, retracing your steps back to the Merchants Quarter. Thrumming life, vibrant colors, meet you-- silken cloth hanging from windows, painted verandas, red rubies and vibrant jewels, all the splendor of an empire.

And then you enter the dress shop itself.

Words might not do it justice. Curtains of fine silk hang over windows the better part of twenty feet tall, half that in width. The floor is carved of fine, almost golden marble the color of the sun. Polished banisters of mahogany line staircases of hardwood that reach three stories. Great braziers and stands cast light, and warmth, into the place.

Fine garments of every color and style line the walls, rest on mannequins, shine in the lights. Most are suited for the thinner, faster, taller frames of elves-- but enough of the mannequins are quite clearly meant to be human that you feel comfortable saying she'll probably have something.

Or, rather, make something.

For, of course, it's really rather hard to know what will and will not fit an infant a decade in the future. It would be fair, or at least not unjust, to call this more a downpayment rather than leaving with something. Instead the tailor will work on having a design ready, and around the time Eleanor reaches her age of maturity she will come in for a time and have it finished.

Speaking of the tailor...

The lights turn off. The fires die.

Clacking fills the air, the sound of glass clinking as it rests on the marble.

A moment later they burst to blue life and she is standing there, cast in eerie glow-- Madame Dahfur, an elf seamstress and tailor. Old-- no, older than old and yet somehow still spry by her age. Her hair is cast in fine silver, a beauty mark sits under her right eye, and even for an elf she is damned tall. One of Ecalzrus' people, for certain.

"Ah, Bretonnian. I must confess it has been sometime since one of you sought my wares, but I am in a good mood, and it is well to see that you have the guts for bringing your wife with you-- not many men do, these days, too afraid of what they will say of their hobby." She lifts up your head into the light, shining the flames into your one remaining orb. "Still, it will be nice to have a challenge-- I must confess it has been sometime since I have attempted to work an eyepatch into one of my designs."

"It is not for me, fair lady, but for my granddaughter. I would like to place an order, payment now, for her maturity-- a dress."

"Oh, well-- that is shame. I might have made you beautiful, human."

"Thank you, but no."

"Oh, very well. No fun at all, you humans-- least Vercy knew how to have fun..."

Soon enough, you have come to a veritable wellspring of options:

In What Style Shall the Dress Be Tailored?
[] The Old Ways: It shall be as an unto the ancient dresses of the Bretonni Horse Lords, more an ancient thing than courtly garb.
[] Le Cœur de Bretonnia: The style of the now, of the healer, of the maiden.
[] The Dame's Dress: A warlike thing, akin to the dresses the Lady of War wore when forced into them.
[] Eleanor's Choice: She will be a Damsel-- she can make her own choices.

And To What Quality?
[] Simple: Cloth and silk and fabric, with no effect beyond aesthetic boon. (250 Gold, Dress will have only diplomatic effect)
[] Fine: A well cut thing, with magic potentially weaved into it. (750 Gold, Dress will have effect equal to a piece of Magic Armor (Generic) worth 25 or less points)
[] Opulent: It will be worked with magery, and have power woven into it. (1500 Gold, Dress will have an effect equivalent to a piece of Magical Armor (Generic, Bretonnian, or High Elven) worth at least 50 points)
--
Turns out, making friends with the resident hyper-power is a good thing, who knew?