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

The Ungolian Rebellion

"Our sons slain. Our daughters kidnapped. Our cities invaded. Our lands taken. Our treasures stolen.

Enough is enough."
-The Delegation of Ten


(Source)

It started with a bang that was birthed by a whimper. An altogether minor increase on taxes levied on private hunters, an attempt to muzzle the Boyar of Chebokov. It became the incendiary that would birth a new rebellion. It became the rallying cry of the Ungols as they went to Kislev city to demand recompense. It became the first spark that led them to think again on the many indignities laid on them by the Godospar. Every crime laid true before light of day.

It became the spark that led a collection of Ungols to storm the prison of Praag, to release Mieszko in fire and thrust him up as King of the Ungol. He took first that place, the city which has ever been the beating heart of the Ungol people. He had cannons acquired from Estalia and Tilea placed upon the walls, men and women to march them, soldiers to garrison. The Ungol is outnumbered many times over, but the walls are unbreakable and more and more Ungol race to join him-- a million souls swear fealty to the North-King and to his Rebellion.

In order to shore up the weaknesses of his new kingdom the King has asked for aid from the Empire and Bretonnia, for the Tzar will not accept a new kingdom sprouting up in Kislev and dividing the country. Though Bretonnia has not heeded the call, distracted by the foul Orcs that slew so many in Bastonne and elsewhere, the Elector Counts of the North-- Nordland, Middenland, Ostland, and Ostermark- have sent soldiers and supplies to the embattled king. Middenland especially so, related as they are to that Northern people. The Emperor himself has elected not to entangle himself in the matter, but what has happened has already strained tensions. It also does not help that many of the Kislevite wizards of the Empire, have returned at the call of this king, eager for vengeance against the hags who have so set the Northlands against them.

Peace seems unlikely, for though the Tzar's forces are larger and more terrible, Praag is a horrendous place to attempt and conquer. It is, however, said that the elves plot; and where the elves plot, things seemingly impossible happen with frustrating regularity.

Wedding Bash 25

A flurry of words seal the negotiations. A slip of parchment bearing your heraldry and the signature of the elf alike claim for your granddaughter a dress crafted by some magic hands whence she returns home from the Otherworld, trained as she will be by the Enchantress herself.

Then Morgyan pulls out a mantle-clasp of sorts, a pure black gem that glows with an inner fire. A thing of darkness, it has not luster but seems to devout the light, feasting on it and exuding nothing but terror. Just looking into it, you can feel madness licking at the edge of your mind, gnawing on it like flaws on a carcass. Screams echo from it, born of blood and pain, a thing crafted of shadows. It might not burn so bad if 'twere not for your blessed sight; but your sight is blessed, and it does not like, in the slightest, what it sees.

And Morgyan has just been...handling it. Like it's nothing.

Your wife is a scary lady.

"Madame, I am need of repair work. I am afraid this jewel was ripped of my cloak in a... hunting accident which also destroyed said cloak, and unfortunately none of the tailors of Montfort can do the work to a satisfactory standard. Surely an elf can?"

You'd like to shoot a statement but are slightly preoccupied by looking in mute horror at that shiny fucking rock.

"Ah. Challenge my ego to try and make me overlook the fact that we both know that thing is an abomination-- and I don't just mean stylistically. Very Bretonnian. Very effective." The elf holds out a hand and in return Morgyan pulls out a sack of coins thick as her arms and long as her legs. The elf lets out a long, low whistle.

"Vanity and greed. Truly you strike at all of my sins, Lady Folcard."

The two of them begin to walk to a sort of sewing parlor, even as your eye twitches.

Right. Two possible paths, here:
[] Lie down. Try not to cry. Cry a lot. Recover from the mental damage of that rock.
[] Go and ask Morgyan what the hell that is, and why she has something so foul.

Barbarians of the Borderlands
"I'd take their claims of civilization more seriously if they had heard of, you know. Shirts."
-Lord Ueli

(Source)

Beyond the cast-offs of the great nations, the Borderlands are peopled by a great many tribes, pushed out in elder days by the Bretonni and the Imperial tribes. Forming independent communes, these peoples have long lived in the Borderlands, ever warring against the Orcs and Goblins and other greenskins. Poor, but proud, defiant, and perennially warring, these men and women worked the lands between the Howling and Blood rivers, herding and farming. Though communities near the river traded with the Dwarfs and Men alike, these the descendants of victims were never very close to their conquerors or their allies.

Druchii, however, have a strange way of changing everything when they invade.

They came like a knife in the night, killing and enslaving entire tribes in a tide of blood and death, fifty-thousand men killed. The ever canny Guglielm saw this as his change, and led a force to contest the Dark Elven presence. They destroyed the massive slave camp the foul elves had constructed, burning it to the ground-- one of the earliest victories the allied forces had over the forces of evil. After that, no Druchii presence ever did cross the Howling River. After this the Barbarians formed armies and poured over into the rest of the Borderlands, killing Dark Elves, all under the symbol of the Golden Sun-- the same symbol which covers their cloaks and other effects.

In thanks for saving their lives, the Tribes swore themselves to the House of Tell, and to the King. They serve as protectors of the family-- five-hundred represent the honor guard of the king, while half that number protect his children, though the Queen and Prince of Khypris alike are instead protected by Cataphracts. Eschewing armors as a sign of strength and to help maintain a fearsome speed, the most fearless of these tribesmen will fight barechested. All follow the Rule of Rollo: "It cannot kill if it is killed." Wielding hammers, axes, swords, maces, and any other generally painful weapon, they fight with fury, killing all in their path.

That said, despite their strength there are two, obvious weaknesses to the barbarian style-- ranged fire scythes them down especially well owing to a lack of armor, and a strong enough defense can simply outlast them. It would be unwise in the extreme, though, to assume that either are an instant victory. There are plenty of stories of the Barbarians ignoring arrows, bullets, knives, and other projectiles to race for slaughter, and the Barbarians are trained-- and well-- to strike through armor.

In recent years a surprising amount of iron has garbed and armed the barbarians, despite their having few, if any, mines. Experts wonder where the material comes from.