I'llNameThisL8r
Bad at names
- Location
- Here
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Something something Salacious Signal-Locker Method.
A Champion of Gods & Rogues (Warhammer Fantasy/Exalted)
- Thread starter Slamu
- Start date
True. By the way. Time to talk about the truly scary stuff Solars have. Training charms. What will it take for us to be able to train potential mages in how to wield magic? Will the Lore Charms be sufficient?
Can we invent a charm to grant magical potential to people/bring it out of dormancy? I want armies of mages one day. Nothing could go wrong.
Cup Boils Over
The Lawgiver pens a soul-shattering missive, convicting her subject he leads a pointless existence. This Charm can only be directed at a specifc target. Roll the Exalt's ([Charisma or Manipulation] + Linguistics), rerolling 6s until 6s fail to appear. If she beats her target's Resolve, his soul falls off and sinks directly into lethe.
This Charm only targets characters who have unintelligibly abstruse Intimacies or no Intimacies at all; however, its effect depends on such an unfulflled soul's yearning for purpose and meaning—characters who are incapable of feeling (such as the soul-eaten victims of the Fair Folk) are not validtargets for this Charm.
Arc I: Nothing ever happens in Mousillon (Action and Reaction)
One thing Salvadore never understood was how thirsty killing men could be. It was something he had familiarity with by now, but simply running in armor for the same period of time would have winded him, not left him panting for breath and needing to rest like he did. It at least afforded him the opportunity to engage in one of his preferred pastimes; watching other people work, even if all he had to quench his parched throat was boiled water. The villagers were hauling the corpses of the minotaur where they could be displayed for any gor who crossed the bridge to see their ruin and lose heart while the fighters rested and drank what water was boiled. Only two of the corpses had tried to reanimate and Cob and a villager with an arm as thick as Salvadore's thigh managed to pulp them to the point where, if they were to reanimate they would do so as paste.
Baltasar sat beside him, watching the work. The older man had a bandage around his neck where a spear had nicked him. The wound had bled freely, which Sal suspected was good, but in a less desperate struggle he would be counted too wounded to fight. As it was...well, he could fight until he was killed, just like everyone else. "My boy's done alright, all considered. A shit job to do and shit tools to do it with, but by the Maiden he's shown stones." It went without saying that Alonsico wasn't anywhere near, as he was overseeing his unit and ensuring they rested properly and enforcing water discipline. Salvadore wondered if his cousin knew how much praise his father was giving him, but in the end it didn't matter. If his cousin knew it didn't need to be said, and if he didn't saying it wouldn't be the way he should learn. "I've had my worries about him, worried that he got too much book learning, not enough grit. Comes from his mother I suppose." Salvadore doubted his uncle had decided to gush all of a sudden purely out of paternal pride, so he wasn't surprised when the conversation swerved towards the obvious. "How'd you kill them beasts, boy."
Rather than choking on his water, Salvadore finished it calmly. "Steel, wits, nerve and fast reflexes. " Salvadore gestured at his dented armor laying on his lap. Hopefully there would be time to hammer the shape out before the next fight, but that wasn't now. "And more luck than a magpie."
Baltasar grunted, then drank his own water. After several seconds he responded slowly. "No. If it were two, or even three I would be astounded that you bested them with steel and stones, but I might believe. If you'd time to prepare ground I could see as many as ten before the monsters either broke you or broke ranks. Don Lamente himself might take twenty, but try as you might you are too sane for that, or a quieter madman than he."
Salvadore gave a rueful chuckle. "Perhaps I am." He wasn't sure if he meant sane, or a quieter sort of mad. "I'm no witch, if that is your fear. You can check the slain; all are dead by my steel or their own. I...don't know how to describe what happened. I was better than they were, I strode along a golden path to grasp victory." He looked at his hands, grimy and caked in drying blood but not shaking as they ought to be. "It is metaphor, uncle, but...they were not frightening beasts of stories that rend knights asunder, they were merely the worst sort of men, who revel in destruction and inflicting devastation and who needed to be stopped. They were large men, true, but not skilled at arms for all their enthusiasm. I simply...acted."
"Large men." The tone was flat and dry. "I've seen one of those monsters cleave armored horse and rider in a single blow, and you simply decided they were not frightful?" He shook his head. "That's either the most profound thing I've ever heard, or the most stupid." Salvadore knew his uncle wasn't saying it was profound, but he shrugged. It wasn't like he understood it himself and he had struggled with the question himself often enough and had yet to understand it to his own satisfaction.
Turning to less personally dangerous topics, Salvadore gestured towards the bridge. "We bested their weakest troops and looked strong doing it, so the enemy stratigos has to beat us or else look weak to his followers. I didn't suspect he had minotaur in reserve, and if I did I would expect to see them next. As it stands I'm confident we will see bestagor, either pushing another herd of their weak units to weigh down our spears before they strike, or if they have more minotaur in reserve in support of them as they make a solid fist to strike at us. I'll be fighting that, and the knights and priest." This time it was Salvadore who waited before speaking again. "I want you to stay with Alonsico and the troops. If I fall, if this defense breaks, I want you to do whatever you can to get out." Alonsico would protest this, would insist on fighting alongside Salvadore, refuse to show his back to the foe. Alonsico was a good son of Estalia, but Baltasar was an old soldier, and Salvadore saw understanding in the older man's eyes.
"And what would you have me tell my brother?"
"Tell him...I marched west to Magritta."
--
"We hold." The council of war was missing one woodsman, Renart either dead in the woods, fled or was there still and none claimed to know which though the knights certainly offered their opinions. "A host this size cannot survive without stripping the countryside bare, and optimistically they should be down to boiling their boots in three days, in which case they must either split up, likely dooming this coalition of theirs, move on to greener pastures or fall to infighting. Any of these can be counted as a victory for us, though the local lords will need to be appraised so that a proper host may be raised to finish the job."
Sir Morfran sat silently in a pose of contemplation but Sir Balin snorted and leaned back. "So which should I warn, the death-worshippers so they can grab a few more corpses, the witch-worshippers who're likely in league with this filth to begin with, or the cowards so they can flee with a head start? Every lord here's bastard-born or bastard-bred, little war-dog. These things?" He gestured out to the river and beyond. "Like piss in a cesspit, there's naught here of virtue to defend."
The black knight shifted slightly, mail clinking and harness creaking with leather. "I'll have your apology for your ill-considered words." Morfran's tone was quiet but not soft and it carried as far as it needed to go. There was a tension in the air they didn't need and Salvadore was about to do what he could to defuse the situation when Sir Balin relented.
"Your master's not as shit as the rest I suppose. The rest I wouldn't piss on if they were aflame."
Sensing that was as close to an apology as he was likely to get, Sir Morfran relaxed. Minutely. "And would that it were I that held the torch." He agreed.
Charming.
--
Sir Balin had the honor to meet the foe first. He stood at the bridge, a pair of two-handed swords held defiantly in his hands as he screamed at the marshaling bestigor. Behind him was Sir Morfran, shield and mace ready to bludgeon whatever slipped past the madman at their van, and Friedrich Baasch held their rear. As this was the wave most likely to have witches wyrding, Salvadore had ordered Baasch to intervene in the physical battle if any of the foe stepped foot off the bridge, well beyond where Salvadore and the two knights would be engaging the enemy.
Chaglyn was there as well. Salvadore had offered the Kislevite his horse, which the injured man had declined in a fashion Salvadore suspected somewhat less politely than Friedrich had translated, but the Estalian wasn't going to second guess a man's choice on where to die. Instead he was nursing what looked to be a still boiling cup of hot water while watching all the other fools being rained on. It was coming down hard enough already that Salvadore could see where the banks of the river were at their high mark and already threatened to spill over the lowest point of the bridge if this kept up. Indeed, the only thing he could make out of the far side of the river was a great number of torches milling about, as if the stars themselves had descended to this cursed earth. Distantly the voice of a bestial tongue called out something and a hundred hundred voices answered. It wouldn't be long then.
The Sigmarite laughed and Salvadore quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"
Baasch jerked a thumb to Chaglyn. "He says that if we die tonight to leave him with his bare ass to the foe so he can present his regards one last time." Despite himself, Salvadore laughed too. He could respect that kind of petty spite.
The soldiers from Mousillon didn't shout or chant, simply waiting for death to come to them patiently. Salvadore raised his halberd while facing them, and only the banner maiden responded in kind, but it would do. Perhaps their blood was too cool for such. "Sir Morfran, a word."
Unlike the maniac with two swords, Sir Morfran's mace and shield was tight enough Salvadore could work near enough to the Bretonnian to give actual support with the halberd. "What is it, Chavez?"
Salvadore grinned, though the knight couldn't see it in this rain even were he looking at the Estalian. "Your tower. Does it come with a wine cellar?"
"What?" It obviously took a second for the knight to process these words. "Is this really the conversation we should be having right now?"
Salvadore nodded sagaciously. "Of course, it will be a bit loud in a few minutes, and I think busy too. Do you have a wine cellar?"
"No, the tower is gone. Even the ruin is swept away."
Which doesn't necessarily mean the wine cellar was gone, but Salvadore just hummed. "Well, this will be an expensive victory for you. I may have promised all the survivors a drink from your reserve." He had done no such thing, but the man was too visibly steeling himself for a noble but forgotten and unlamented death, some consternation would do the man good. Probably.
The first wave wasn't ungor, it was ungor dead herded onto the bridge. Many of them shambled off into the water and weren't seen again, while those that actually stayed in a straight enough line to try attacking Sir Balin were dispatched with contemptuous ease. Salvadore was confused by the attempt though; the beastmen surely had more than enough gor to throw bodies at them and just wear them out, and judging by the fresh bite marks on some of the bodies they weren't going to be wasted, but the attempt was so anemic it was almost not worth trying.
Whatever it was meant to do became a secondary concern as the braying howls of bloodthirsty gor began stampeding across the bridge. Sir Balin met them with fury equal to any they could muster, and Salvadore saw why the man survived despite his best efforts. Sir Balin spared not a thought to defense, his every movement was spent either killing something or getting ready to kill something. The gor only had a few moments to attack before the weight of the swords crushed through leather armor, cleft limb from torso or split skulls asunder.
Some were clever though and darted past Sir Balin's whirling blades. Whether they intended to flank the knight and attack him from behind or simply bypass the lead element to engage with a man in armor Salvadore would never know, as Sir Morfran's shield blocked their charge and his mace brained the stunned gor in what could only be described as workmanlike efficiency. Once more gor slipped into the river, dead or dying or simply unable to keep their footing and soon to be lost to whatever fate the river carried them towards. But all these were simply...gor, or ungor. Same as the last wave, for all intents.
Then Baasch cried out, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, one eye an angry crimson. His hammer glowed with forge-light and he made a warding gesture once more, but whatever happened to cause it there was the sensation of a concussive force throwing him back a dozen yards.
--
Amelie watched again as the forest men came and died. She was beginning to enjoy that.
Sir Blanchman had been a good lord, her parents had said. He bled his peasants, yes, but he wasn't cruel about it, and for all that the villagers had muttered about dark things in the woods, none had bothered them for long so long as they had kept within sight of the old stone pillar near the village, listened to the old frogwives' warnings and prayed to the Grand Sow. And then the elves had come, and for all that Sir Blanchman had been a brave and noble knight like the great Landuin the elves had captured him along with everyone else in Amelie's world.
One of the elves was a woman, like a damsel. Damsels were evil, wicked things, and until that time Amelie hadn't understood what those words had meant. Then she had been forced to watch what the elves did to a good master and she hated them for it. Not as much as she feared them, but she knew what a monster was then. One day a miracle happened, and they were free. She hadn't been awake to see it herself, but she had heard that the master that had freed them also killed Sir Blanchman with a good death. She hadn't known whether to thank him or hate him then, but then he had washed her luck clean and given her the secret of courage. He had slain monsters, and had told them how to slay monsters too.
Again the forest men had come, and again they died braying and crying and screaming at the end of their spears. Forest men weren't elves, but they had killed grandfather's pig so the entire village hated them. Amelie pretended they were elves though, and envied the men with the spears. But her job was to hold the banner, and she did it with pride and probably courage too, given how afraid she was. She didn't know about honor, peasants didn't have any, but that meant she had to use as much pride and courage as she could to hide the difference. "Kill the bastards, damn you!" The old knight yelled at the men with spears. "Don't tickle them, gut them!" He said some more things then, but Amelie couldn't understand them. She agreed with him though, and helped by telling the frogwives which forest men weren't dead enough yet. Frogwives knew how to gut things.
Y̸o̸u̴ ̵c̵a̸n̸ ̷s̶u̸r̴v̶i̸v̶e̵ ̴t̵h̵i̵s̸ ̴i̴f̶ ̸y̸o̵u̴ ̸r̵u̶n̴,̷ ̵y̶o̶u̵ ̸k̴n̵o̶w̶
Amelie didn't understand why they were here, and when she asked the lord called Alonsico had said a bunch of things that didn't make sense because he didn't talk very well. Apparently Lord Salvadore had been made apprentice to his mother, the sun, to learn how to kill. It seemed very odd, but these were lords and foreigners and you couldn't expect either to be normal anyway.
This time the two knights and Lord Salvadore stood on the bridge to do the fighting. Lord Alonsico said it was to let the peasants rest, which struck Amelie as unnecessary. She looked forward to seeing how a son of the sun killed monsters, because she saw the monsters the black boar worshippers had brought back as his trophies and understood the difference between what peasants could do to forest men and what a sunchild could do to monsters.
O̴h̴ ̵w̶e̵l̸l̴,̶ ̶t̴o̷o̴ ̷l̸a̶t̶e̵.̷ ̷S̶u̶c̴k̷s̷ ̵t̵o̵ ̵b̵e̶ ̷y̶o̷u̸ ̷I̸ ̸g̶u̵e̸s̴s̸.̵
Things went wrong when the hammer-priest was hurled back against a tree. Amelie wasn't sure what he was doing but the lords thought it was very important, but then just like everyone else she could feel the presence on the other side of the river. Worse, she could taste it, a foul leaden weight that curdled the air and soured water. A beast too horrible to look at was sniffing at something, following a scent trail to the bridge, and all of a sudden Amelie knew that Lord Salvadore was going to die just like Sir Blanchman. Already she could feel the shackles around her wrists again, the sway of the ship, the smell of a knight opened before her....
W̶h̴a̸t̷'̵s̷ ̶t̷h̵i̶s̴?̵ ̴O̵h̴,̴ ̷t̸h̵i̶s̴ ̵i̸s̵ ̵g̸o̵i̵n̸g̶ ̶t̸o̴ ̸b̶e̸ ̷t̸o̶o̸ ̴g̵o̴o̷d̴
Amelie saw things now, things she didn't understand. But she didn't have to understand to work with them.
H̶e̸r̶e̵ ̴y̶o̷u̸ ̴g̶o̴ ̸k̵i̶d̷.̴ ̵F̶i̴r̶s̶t̵ ̷t̴a̶s̶t̷e̵'̵s̷ ̴f̶r̶e̷e̸.̷
There was a lingering, sickly un-green cable stretching from where the hammer-priest had stood to somewhere to the far side of the bridge. Reaching out with her hands she grasped it and did...something that caused a line of black lightning to arc across the bridge. Unsure what that meant, Amelie grasped at more of the somethings in the air and made to throw them like a stone and fire like none she had seen before flew from her fingertips.
Y̶e̵s̷,̶ ̶y̵e̵s̴,̷ ̶r̷a̵g̷e̷ ̴a̶g̷a̵i̵n̷s̵t̸ ̴t̶h̵e̶ ̵d̶y̸i̸n̶g̴ ̶o̸f̵ ̶t̵h̶e̴ ̵l̶i̶g̵h̵t̵ ̷a̴n̴d̸ ̶a̸l̸l̷ ̶t̷h̸a̸t̶.̶ ̵Y̶o̶u̵'̵v̸e̵ ̸g̴o̷t̴ ̴p̸l̶e̸n̵t̵y̷ ̷o̸f̵ ̵h̷o̷p̵e̶ ̷n̸o̵w̸,̵ ̵h̵o̸w̵ ̷a̶b̴o̷u̵t̴ ̷w̷e̴ ̷s̶e̴e̴ ̴w̴h̷a̶t̴ ̷y̶o̶u̶ ̸d̵o̵ ̸w̴i̴t̸h̸ ̵i̵t̷?̴
--
Korlovac Merkava-haine, Lord of the Shrouded Isle, Quicksilver Falcon and the Thrice-Smiling blinked, feeling a familiar distaste in unfamiliar environs. He was standing on a footbridge of some sort, a shoddily made weapon in his hand along with mortals with similarly poorly made arms. Behind him stood a gaggle of refugees bearing the most desperate, dangerous sign they could have chosen; that of the Unconquered Sun. They were armed, but were no warriors. The mortal in front of him said something, but the Lord of the Shrouded Isle couldn't make it out. What was that he spoke? It was no form of Skytongue or Forest-Tongue he knew, and it was certainly not a language of the Realm....a matter for another time. Before him, at their party's very fore was a man near bared to the chest fighting...beastmen? Why would these refugees be fighting beastmen?
Then he placed the familiar distaste; a Slythe. An enlightened forest-beast grown bloated by wyldpacts, and in its wake a pack of wyldworms. The beastmen howled and hooted as the monster advanced towards the bridge instead of falling upon them like the abominations they were, and with that the Thrice-Smiling understood. "Traitor-wardens!" he snarled. With a single stroke of his polearm a golden light flickered out like the first glint of dawn and every traitor to Creation on the bridge became a head shorter. Essence flooded to his legs and he dashed forward, collecting one of the traitors' own spears and hurling it like the harpoon he required it to be. It struck with a crack of golden thunder and the Slythe bellowed in pain as it was pinned through the neck in a small crater.
Using the polearm as an aid Korlovac vaulted towards the foemen, willing the banner of his soul to flare, and pox upon the Viziers if they find him. Instead of the hosannas he expected, however, he heard the clatter of khakkara even over the sound of mortal-wrought steel meeting pseudo-flesh of a wyldworm. Cleansing flame erupted in the wound and the already mindless Wyld thing became frantic as holy light burned at its gossamer hide. The next of the wyldworms, a writhing mass of tentacles around a set of teeth in the approximate shape of a mouth, advanced upon him with a slapping set of tentacles acting as both locomotion and attack. The Solar blocked the first two without issue, but whatever defect the weapon's least god had developed from mistreatment had caused it to splinter. Korlovac used the kinetic energy to sever the tentacle and, when the stump began to regenerate with a bouquet of screaming goat heads, it too became wreathed in holy flame burning from the inside out.
The next wyldworm cried in an unsettling human way, a nightmarish sight of an infant's head larger than a man's torso yet skittering about upon insectoid legs. It almost seemed harmless, if grotesque, until it urped some purplish mucus at the Exalt. Dodging it was as easy as making Rennava flustered, yet judging by the sizzling sound the ground made where it landed it would ruin an armored foe. A rising slash across its face made it 'bleed' insects, but the golden essence caused it to scream and burn like the rest.
A beastman wearing ritual garb emerged from the treeline, a mixture of thaumaturgical talismans and trophies adorning its horns and robe. It began an incantation in some corrupted version of the spirit's tongue Korlovac understood just enough to recognize as drawing upon the favor of a god before a cry of simple psychotic rage echoed from the far side of the river and the beastman's outstretched arm exploded in a spatter of wyld-tainted flesh and bone splinters. Not wasting an opportunity when he saw one, Korlovac threw the halberd in his arm and impaled the shaman stoutly to a tree before rounding on the Slythe.
Already the wyld-tainted beast had worried its way free of the spear, holes in its neck from where its grasping, barbed tongue had pulled it free by gouging flesh until the horror could move itself off it. Korlovac could see calculation in its maddened eyes as it contemplated the man before it surrounded by a flock of illuminated birds the same holy light as the fire tormenting its coterie of fae-wrought monsters and the wound this mere man had already inflicted upon it. Korlovac raised his arms in a mocking 'well, darest thou?' that would have loosened his jaw in any winehouse in the Red Isles and the Slythe made the smartest decision it could; it ran.
These beastmen may be traitor-wardens who turned upon Creation, but the Moonchosen from whence they ultimately came had taught the Thrice-Smiling some of their ways. An impossible step sideways and he emerged in the Slythe's path. Panicked, the creature's barbed tongue shot out to impale him and Korlovac grinned a predatory grin. Grasping the tongue firmly with both hands he pulled the mouth-worm free of the beast's maw with a single sudden yank and like that he found himself with a slimy, writhing whip. With an economy of motion the beast was too surprised to appreciate Korlovac returned the tip of the tongue to the Slythe's face and claimed an eye.
Maddened beyond fear now, the Slythe attempted to catch its tormentor with its clawed forepaws like a horrible reptilian feline, but once again Korlovac caught the attack with his hands and guided the jabbering monster to where he wanted it to go, which meant here on its back crushing the vestigial wings too small for flight with an Exalt atop the monster. A single hammering blow backed by aerate and righteous might and its chitinous underbelly formed a spiderweb of cracks. A second shattered it, and the third drove deep into its chest where its blackened heart beat. Ripping it free, Korlovac held it aloft for all to see. "Sol Invictus! Woe to the enemies of Creation!" A golden flame erupted around the heart and consumed it like the offering it was. "A new day yet dawns!"
--
Miles away a woman was relaxing in the finest bathtub in Mousillon, surrounded by perfume and beautiful things in one of the most secure chambers in the accursed fallen dukedom. The Lady Elaine of Corbenic was enjoying the rosewater after another exhausting day keeping this shithole of a city from finally imploding. Long days, tiresome company and the nauseating way the winds pooled and rotted here, it was moments like this that let her wash away the woes of Mousillon with a glass of Bordeleaux red, her copy of Duel of Lovers and a long soak.
Which is, of course, when she felt a disturbance in the winds stir with all the subtlety of a Nuln cannon foundry blowing itself up. Her head snapped to where the distant disruption was coming from, through three walls and a tower. Tossing her wine and book aside she leapt from the bath to run to the closest window, uncaring as to her nakedness as she swore quietly. "What in Sigmar's left nut is happening."
--
On a mist-shrouded isle a man reads the stars. Most men would find that a fool's errand, but the ways of the wise see without eyes and know without seeing, and tonight Aonghas Baird of the Cainteoir Fírinne seeks answers to questions his people had asked season after season since his grandfather's grandfather and before. The mist demons stirred, but they had stirred before. Strangers had landed on their shores, yet that too had happened before. As he walked in moving meditation through the henge, Baird felt a stirring in the winds. A raven alit on a nearby tree and spoke of distant tidings, to those that had the ear to hear it. One must ever be careful with the news of birds. They spoke true, to the Cainteoir Fírinne at least, but their idea of what was important could differ greatly from that of men.
Then something stirred the mists. Aonghas could feel it through the henge like waves lapping at a coracle's skins. Something far beyond Albion, but as ever the world washed upon Albion's shores.
--
Many things are said of Zlatlan, great city of the Old Ones. Few of them are accurate, for how could mere fables compare to its majesty? Behold its mighty walls, encircled by Sotek! Behold the favela of the skinks, the hundredfold industries of the city! Behold the saurus, unhumbled by ages or foe! Behold the temple-sanctums and their mighty denizens, the skink-priests who piously dart hither and fro in service to the wise Slann.
One such Slann peers into a pool of water-borne wisdom, its depths holding many secrets. It has done so for a period of many moons, its stillness and silence broken only rarely to shift or make some subvocal utterance, though the great Slann has not twitched for more than twenty solar cycles. Still its loyal skink attendants wait breathlessly for instruction, and when the Slann's tongue lashes out to lick its eye the moment is recorded on numerous gold tablets in a flurry of frantic activity and disseminated among the priesthood to see what that gesture of surprise might mean.
--
The traitors fled after that. A few bands bravely edged closer as if preparing to attack, but between the dead Slythe writhing on the bank even in death, the wyldworms sublimating into a miasma of infantile love and disdain, a carpet of dead beastmen and the Exalt in the midst of that carnage with ichor halfway up past his elbows, the light of his soul flaring bright even the bravest of the traitors could not master their fear and thus slunk away into the gloom of night.
Seeing the traitor-wardens flee made Korlovac yearn to give chase and end them, but...no, the men here fought under the banner of the Unconquered Sun, and the spear had been wetted already. Compassion must rule valor. So it was that the Lord of the Shrouded Isles returned to the refugees, the banner of his soul his herald as birds of light surrounded him and the scent of a salt breeze banished the miasma of bog stench and rotten corpses about him. The sound of the priests' staves rattling subsided somewhat, no longer a clangor to drive away bad spirits but more than what they would make as the priest walked.
The shirtless man had two arrows in him, but they missed his vitals by a gnat's grace. He was still of a warlike demeanor when Korlovac approached him, but after a long moment of thought he lowered his arms and let the Solar pass. The next man was armored but let Korlovac pass in turn as well. Last to bar his way was a brutally maimed girl holding his banner, but she turned and bowed deeply to him, her single arm hale and holding tight to the Banner of the Sun.
O̶h̸ ̴s̸h̷i̸t̸ ̵o̶f̵ ̵f̷u̵c̷k̴ ̷o̴h̸ ̸n̴o̵ ̴o̷h̸ ̸c̴r̵a̸p̷ ̵d̵o̵n̷'̸t̶ ̵l̵o̸o̴k̶ ̶t̸h̶i̷s̸ ̴w̷a̴y̸-̸
"Show yourself." An owl of light perched on his shoulder for a moment as he glanced imperiously near her.
.̶.̸.̶
Sighing, Korlovac reached out his hand and grasped at the air near the girl's ear and with an exertion of will grasped the creature firmly in his hand tight enough to threaten to crush it without actually killing it. "Show yourself, spirit. I am in no mood for games right now."
With a twisting of perceptions the spirit appeared in his hand. It was humanoid, though one of its limbs ended in a crab's pincer and a blueish flame burned between the horns on its head like a candle. Spectacles rested upon the lower of its four eyes. "̴O̶h̷,̵ ̷y̴o̶u̸'̷r̶e̴ ̸t̵a̵l̶k̸i̶n̴g̴ ̶t̷o̸ ̸m̷e̸!̵ ̸{̸I̴ ̸j̸u̶s̸t̴ ̶t̴h̴o̵u̴g̴h̷t̴,̴ ̶w̷h̸a̵t̴ ̴w̴i̷t̶h̸ ̷y̸o̴u̷ ̸b̸e̷i̸n̷g̸ ̴s̵o̴ ̴o̷b̷v̵i̴o̶u̷s̴l̶y̴ ̸b̸u̸s̵y̶ ̸r̸i̸g̴h̴t̶ ̸n̸o̷w̷ ̷y̵o̶u̵ ̵m̴i̶g̵h̶t̸ ̵h̵a̴v̵e̶ ̶b̴e̸e̷n̶ ̶a̴d̵d̵r̷e̶s̵s̴i̸n̸g̷ ̵s̸o̴m̵e̴o̷n̸e̸ ̶e̵l̶s̴e̵}̸ ̴a̶n̷d̸ ̵I̵'̷l̵l̴ ̶t̵e̶l̷l̵ ̷y̷o̴u̸ ̸w̷h̷a̴t̶e̷v̸e̴r̴ ̴y̵o̸u̴ ̶w̴a̵n̴t̶ ̷t̷o̷ ̷k̶n̴o̸w̶ ̸p̴l̸e̶a̷s̴e̸ ̷d̸o̷n̷'̷t̷ ̷h̶u̷r̶t̶ ̶m̴e̶.̵"̷ The spirit did its best to prostrate itself before Korlovac while largely imprisoned in his hand, which primarily meant looking as pathetic as it could.
Seeing a different, more honestly pathetic creature before him he had little patience for the whims of minor spirits. "What happened to my bannerman?"
"̵A̸h̷,̸ ̶f̷u̸n̴n̴y̷ ̸s̷t̷o̶r̵y̷.̷ ̷S̵e̸e̵,̵ ̷t̷h̷i̸s̴ ̸c̷r̴a̸z̴y̵ ̸s̴a̵c̷k̵ ̴o̸f̴ ̴f̸r̵u̵i̶t̷k̴n̶o̵b̴s̸ ̶j̶u̸s̸t̷ ̶b̶r̴o̶k̶e̶ ̴t̸h̶r̸o̸u̷g̷h̶.̴ ̷S̴h̵e̸'̴s̵ ̶s̵o̵ ̷f̴r̴e̷s̴h̷ ̷h̷e̶r̸ ̸e̴y̷e̵ ̸s̷h̷o̷u̴l̷d̶ ̶s̸t̵i̵l̶l̴ ̸b̶e̸ ̴b̷l̷i̸n̴k̴i̶n̸g̸,̷ ̶a̶n̶d̸ ̷i̴n̷s̴t̶e̸a̶d̴ ̸o̶f̴ ̷d̷o̵i̸n̵g̴ ̸t̶h̸e̵ ̶u̶s̷u̸a̵l̵ ̵t̸h̸i̷n̷g̵ ̶a̴n̶d̵ ̵f̴r̷e̵a̸k̵i̶n̵g̵ ̵o̵u̷t̶ ̵a̴ ̴l̵i̵t̶t̷l̷e̵ ̸{̸a̵n̶d̶ ̶c̵o̴m̵p̴l̷e̵t̶e̴l̸y̷ ̴o̴n̴ ̶h̵e̴r̵ ̵o̷w̷n̴}̶ ̸s̷h̸e̷ ̸j̸u̶s̸t̶ ̶s̸t̷a̷r̵t̵e̴d̵ ̶d̵o̶i̵n̸g̸ ̸c̷r̵a̶z̵y̶ ̶s̷h̸i̶t̵!̵ ̵L̴i̷k̷e̵,̷ ̷I̷ ̴g̵e̷t̴ ̵i̵t̸,̶ ̵s̵h̷e̷'̶s̴ ̴y̴o̴u̷n̵g̷ ̸a̶n̵d̴ ̸t̷h̵a̶t̷'̶s̷ ̷w̵h̷e̶n̶ ̷y̸o̴u̷ ̷e̵x̵p̶e̷r̵i̵m̴e̶n̶t̷ ̶b̸u̵t̴ ̸m̸o̴s̶t̵ ̸p̸e̶o̷p̵l̷e̸.̸.̸.̶.̵"̴ The spirit's babbling petered out under Korlovac's glare. "̸S̵h̴e̵ ̷k̶e̷p̷t̶ ̴m̵i̶s̷c̸a̶s̶t̷i̸n̶g̴,̷ ̵t̸i̶m̴e̵ ̷a̸f̵t̷e̸r̶ ̵t̶i̶m̴e̴.̵ ̶F̶i̷s̷h̸i̴n̶g̶ ̵f̵o̶r̸ ̴b̸o̷x̷c̷a̷r̷s̶,̷ ̵y̴o̴u̷ ̵k̴n̶o̶w̴?̴"̶ He didn't, nor did he notice any of the usual effects of a miscast and the idea that a girl that young might initiate into even emerald sorcery was absurd but the spirit believed what it was saying so he allowed it to continue. "̴I̸ ̵w̸a̸s̶ ̵e̶x̸p̴e̸c̴t̶i̶n̵g̷ ̴h̵e̵r̸ ̸t̸o̴ ̵g̸o̸ ̵w̴i̵t̷h̷ ̵t̸h̶e̶ ̴u̷s̴u̷a̴l̸ ̵'̷t̷h̸r̷o̵w̶i̷n̶g̸ ̴c̸o̴l̶o̶r̶f̶u̴l̴ ̴b̵a̴l̴l̸s̴ ̸o̷f̴ ̷f̷i̸r̵e̷'̶ ̵r̶o̶u̵t̶i̷n̷e̸ ̵b̶u̴t̵ ̶s̶h̶e̵ ̷p̷u̶l̵l̴e̵d̷ ̵t̴h̶e̵ ̴r̸u̶g̵ ̸o̶u̴t̴ ̸o̵f̷ ̷o̵n̵e̶ ̴o̷f̷ ̶t̵h̶e̵ ̷b̷r̵a̵y̴s̴ ̴a̷n̵d̵ ̴I̷ ̸t̶h̶i̶n̴k̴ ̷s̴h̴e̷ ̶g̶o̷t̵ ̸a̴ ̷t̴a̸s̴t̵e̵ ̶f̴o̷r̷ ̸i̴t̵ ̶b̴e̵c̶a̶u̴s̶e̷ ̶s̴h̷e̶ ̶w̶a̸s̸ ̶g̸n̴a̵w̸i̴n̵g̵ ̷a̸t̴ ̵t̶h̵e̴i̷r̸ ̶s̸t̵r̴a̸n̷d̸s̶ ̸l̷i̵k̶e̸ ̷a̴ ̷S̸k̶a̷e̵l̶i̷n̶g̸ ̴a̴t̸ ̵d̷i̵n̵n̴e̸r̸t̷i̴m̸e̶ ̴a̷n̷d̷ ̶k̸e̴p̶t̶ ̷g̵e̶t̴t̵i̷n̴g̴ ̶b̵l̶o̸w̵b̸a̴c̸k̸ ̴f̸r̷o̷m̴ ̷t̴h̷e̵i̵r̷ ̶m̵i̷s̴f̵o̴r̴t̸u̴n̶e̶s̴.̵"̶ ̵
The spirit was of Creation, yet the taint of Wyld was draped about it like slime on a snail. "And what of your role in all this?"
"̴M̶e̸?̸ ̴{̷I̶'̷m̷ ̵j̴u̶s̸t̵ ̴a̶ ̴m̵e̴s̸s̶e̵n̵g̴e̵r̷}̷,̸ ̸I̵'̷m̴ ̵j̷u̸s̴t̵ ̴s̴u̴p̵p̴o̷s̴e̶d̶ ̵t̵o̶ ̷o̴b̵s̵e̸r̵v̶e̵ ̷a̴n̴d̶ ̵r̷e̸p̶o̶r̸t̶ ̶{̵a̶n̶d̴ ̸t̸h̸a̸t̷'̴s̸ ̸a̸l̶l̷ ̸I̷ ̵d̵i̴d̸ ̵I̸ ̴p̷r̷o̶m̴i̴s̷e̶!̷}̴"̷
Korlovac's face looked thoughtful. "Well, if that's all you are, then you can carry a message for me." The spirit looked hopeful at that until Korlovac slowly started squeezing his fist, its ichor mingling with that of the dead Slythe's in his hand as he squeezed the life out of it. "Creation stands, and no prince of chaos will benefit from plaguing it. I have made the Swallowtail Princess cut her own eyes out with iron, I have seen the Ebon Echoing Black brought low, and if I have to personally serve Balor's heart on a platter to the Most High I will."
The spirit's eyes were already bulging, but as it did not truly need air in its lungs to speak it did so. "̶W̶a̸i̴t̵,̷ ̷y̴o̵u̴ ̴d̵o̵n̶'̴t̸ ̶k̷n̶o̵-̶"̸ And with that Korlovac killed the traitor spirit as well, golden flame dancing in his grasp.
Turning his attention to the girl holding the banner he took a good look at her. Her skin was covered in burns as though boiling oil, and an eye was missing as though plucked cleanly from her head. An arm ended in a crude tourniquet shortly after the shoulder, and when he placed his hand on her head to ruffle her hair a lock of hair began gnawing ineffectively at his fingers like a teething kitten. "You're a candle determined to burn bright, aren't you little one?" He asked affectionately. "Let's see if we can help with some of that." Sending essence into her crown chakras he began purging the rancid energies pooling there. It was only half done when darkness claimed him and he finally collapsed to the earth.
--
Salvadore's first thought returning to consciousness was that he'd enjoyed better hangovers. His second thought was that he didn't remember falling out of a third floor window, but surely that is what had happened for he ached from the bones out, like too much blood forced through too small veins. The third thought came when a finger pried an eye open and, bleary-eyed, he saw a bald man with a bleeding eye and missing teeth leering at him and all he could think was Maiden, not again.
"Well, he's not dead." Baasch said helpfully. "And I can feel neither the influence of the Four Brothers nor active malefectum upon him. More than that I leave to your spear priests, they may understand his soul better than I can claim."
Groaning, Salvadore waved the other man off. "If you can call this living. Ah, Maiden but that hurts. Did you decide to hit me with your hammer to test that I'd wake, or am I just that lucky?" Seeing every eye upon him as he rose in a mixture of fear and awe in varying amounts he blinked. "What?"
Alonsico made the sign of the eagle and Chaglyn was looking a bit too casual about being ready to draw and fire to be anything but feigned, but Uncle Baltasar and the Bretonnians drew close enough to talk. They all had weapons in hand but only Sir Balin looked like he wanted to attack Salvadore, and he was in the rear of the trio. Not the most hostile greeting he'd had waking up, he supposed.
"And just what in Myrmidia's downy feathers was that?" Baltasar asked in the kind of 'I'm pretending like I'm not angry and that's how you know I'm not just a little angry' tone Salvadore knew from his childhood. Idly the older man gestured to wounds on Salvadore's arm. "My nephew bled, what stands before me with his face?"
Salvadore climbed to unsteady feet, ignoring how the world swam around him. "An idiot with more mouth than manners, no brain, a head more swollen than any three mules, too clever and too stupid by half, determined to disappoint his mother and-"
His uncle's spear rose to point at Salvadore's throat. "That's enough of that." Baltasar addresses the priest without taking his eyes off Salvadore. "It knows my nephew's memories at least. I had hoped learning he was paying attention all those years would be more reassuring."
"Uncle, I-"
The spear came right up to prick his neck by the jugular, near where Baltasar's own wound was. "Maybe you're my brother's son, maybe you're a demon wearing his face. Myrmidia knows I would weep to be a kinslayer, but maybe you're not kin and you need slaying." Salvadore came to a sudden and acute desire to contemplate the wonderful mysteries of silence. "You're sure you felt no witchery in him?"
Friedrich shrugged. "Nothing that displeased the Heldenhammer, and He tends to disapprove of witching fairly clearly."
A snort from Sir Balin drew everyone's eye. "Says the man with the head injury. Can you even see straight right now?" The priest frowned at the knight who seemed to care as little for the glare he got as he did for the rain.
"Suppose it wasn't witchery then. A daemon? It spoke in tongues, and summoned the smaller one." Sir Morfran added, but Sir Balin was already shaking his head.
"No, daemons aren't very subtle. Maybe the witching hid it here, I doubt that but it might happen, but we've been with him for days without the usual signs. And if it was, to show itself here? All it had to do was stand aside and we'd have been dead."
This time it was Morfran who disagreed. "The daemon cults fight each other with the same vigor as they do everything else, he could have been possessed of a rival spirit. And we know there was at least one witch travelling with us." With that mention most of the other men spat.
Alonsico chimed in. "Not one of the spirits of the Northerners. The Chaos-sworn, I mean." All eyes turned to him, surprised he would speak up. "Señor Baasch said whatever it was, his god didn't disapprove, correct? And Sir Balin, you make a good point for why it cannot be something that lie among us for days, yes? We were in dire straits and something happened to our leader to strengthen his arm to smite the foe. Myrmidia herself has been known to aid the pure and just in their hour of need." And with that Alonsico became Salvadore's favorite cousin.
Sir Balin laughed at that. "What, we were in trouble and a god bestowed the power of a grail knight on someone just to bail us out? Wake up, boy. This is Mousillon, nothing good happens here. If you have a happy answer to this you're deluding yourself, and if you have one that churns your stomach you're probably an optimist." He spat. "The Lady isn't in Mousillon this time of year."
"The Lady of the Lake, perhaps not." Alonsico continued stubbornly. "But three of Myrmidia's faithful, bearing a relic anointed in her honor and bearing one of her symbols?" Sir Balin and Baltasar looked skeptical, though Baasch and Sir Morfran looked thoughtful. "Besides, you're looking at this wrong; it isn't a matter of either this is my cousin, or it is a spirit that needs to be killed. It could be a benign spirit that aided us in our hour of need."
"Or your cousin who needs to be killed." Sir Balin pointed out, fingering one of his swords.
Baltasar snorted. "If this is my nephew he definitely has a few welts in his future, at least."
Sir Morfran spoke. "What do you suggest, young man?"
"We each put forth a trial, here and now. If he passes them, we let him free." Alonsico pulled a carved wooden eagle on a necklace from under his shirt, as if eager to be first. "A holy symbol, and a holy vow. If you are Salvadore, swear to me that you are so."
Salvadore glanced at his uncle for permission and reluctantly the man nodded. "Take it, but slowly."
Reaching out to grasp the aquila in his hand, Salvadore spoke slowly and clearly so his voice carried rather than risk the words tumbling out of his mouth. "By the light of the sun, by the shelter of Myrmidia's wings, by my hope of reaching Morr's garden, by loving Shallya's mercy, by the grace of the sword I swear that to the best of my knowledge I am Salvadore Cristóbal Antonio Miguel Chavez y Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor." Something inside him tried to flow into his words but Salvadore held it back. He wasn't sure what it was, but usually when he had that feeling the light poured forth and he rather doubted his current company would appreciate it, jumpy as they were.
Taking his amulet back Alonsico raised an eyebrow. "To the best of your knowledge?"
"If I am not he and don't know it, how could I tell?" That seemed to satisfy the youth somewhat and he lowered his weapon.
Baasch was next, holding his hammer out for Salvadore to place his hand upon it. It burnt away the black blood on Salvadore's hand where touched the head of the weapon, but only felt warm like it had lain under the sun for an afternoon making it a welcome source of warmth in the rain. "Do you accept Sigmar as your personal lord and savior?"
Salvadore gave a snort. "No, nor do I plan to unless you saw a shirtless Imperial wandering around in a loincloth smashing beast skulls in our hour of need."
"You hardly seem to be in a position to be picky about this sort of thing." Baasch said calmly, to which Salvadore shrugged.
"If I'm to be killed, I'd hate for it to be after I lied to save my life. If I were to live it would break my father's heart to hear that I'd abandoned the faith he taught me. Answering yes to your question isn't a path to any victory I'd choose, and this isn't the trial you care about is it? You've already said it; your god didn't find anything objectionable about me, this was a low cost opportunity to score a convert."
Putting his hammer back in the mud Friedrich grinned. "Man or daemon, it's a perceptive one you are. I'd love to watch you cheat at dice sometime."
The burgeoning conversation of the merits of superior gambling skill was cut off there, as the Kislevite's trial was next. It involved a veritable wreath of good luck charms, holy talismans and amulets of assorted providence set about the Estalian's neck. After a full minute with none of them bursting into flame, rotting off his body or otherwise giving an indication that whatever Salvadore was he consorted with fell powers Chaglyn reclaimed his spiritual bricabrac so he could wander off in search of breakfast. Salvadore almost felt cheated. "That's it?"
The priest shrugged. "He comes from the Oblast. You helped him today and he did not consider you an enemy today. If you are an enemy tomorrow, that is a problem for tomorrow's Chaglyn. It isn't that he doesn't care-"
"I know I don't care." Sir Balin cut off the priest. "Go look after that head of yours, if you're not going to condemn this asshole then go make sure you're alive to disappoint me again tomorrow." He then turned to confer with Sir Morfran. "Witchcakes?"
The armored knight shook his head to the negative. "I don't see any dogs around here, and with all the witchery around the ashes are likely tainted. It could prove positive when he is in fact not possessed. Perhaps a cat?"
A derisive snort. "I left mine back a mile, did you pack one?" The injured man gave a meaningful glance at the river suspiciously free of bodies. "I wonder if he floats...."
"We'd never know." Sir Morfran admonished him. "You'd hit him over the head before he went in, wouldn't you?"
Sir Balin nodded. "He might die innocent. We'll never know."
"He might live innocent too." Alonsico inserted himself in the conversation. "He saved our lives."
"Get lost kid. You had your say and pissed it away already." Sir Balin groused. "If we could find some geese-"
Alonsico bristled at the dismissal, but his father shoved him aside with a stern admonition to keep an eye on 'the prisoner'. "Rowan, holly and birch, burn it and see how he reacts to the smoke."
Morfran shakes his head again. "Holly rots when it enters Mousillon, and rowan doesn't grow here. A Damsel could judge him."
"If we had a Damsel we wouldn't have half the problems we do and half that remain would be half the problem they are. Make him walk through fire." Balin suggested.
Baltasar disagreed. "With those golden flames of his? Fat chance. Cut him with a silver knife, see if the wound gets infected."
"The wound gets infected most of the time anyway." Morfran pointed out. "And would that really satisfy you?"
Baltasar opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. At last he said "No, I can't think of anything here to prove my nephew's face to be true or false. Perhaps if...no, my mind is dimmed and my heart confused, I cannot be a fair judge in this."
Sir Morfran accepted this. "I find myself in agreement with the Kislevite; if he is a deamon, he is tomorrow's problem. The answer to the question is not unimportant, but it is an answer I fear I must find tomorrow, not today. As for justice, it is as Sir Balin says; he may prove to be innocent. Perhaps it is as your son says, and it was a spirit of your goddess that came to Mousillon today. If that is what one can expect of your goddess I welcome its return as there is much that is evil to be scourged from these lands. As it is, Sir Balin." The other knight's head turned towards Sir Morfran. "You joined us to find a foe worthy of your steel. I know not of what other horrors the beastmen brought with them, but perhaps in harrying their flight you may find that which you seek."
"Won't find shit in this rain." The knight grumbled, but he went towards the encampment to gather what supplies he could and get the most abbreviated of medical care before chasing after the fleeing herd. As he left he gave Morfran a look of 'I see what you're doing here don't think you've pulled the wool over my eyes' before trotting off over the bridge, kicking a few of the severed heads into the water in pique as he left.
Baltasar returned to Salvadore, the older man's conflict written on his face. "A lock of your hair, and a drop of blood. I cannot prove that you are Salvadore, and I am not clever enough to say for sure. When we return to civilization I will crown myself in ash and walk to the City to pray. If...if you are my nephew, blessed of Myrmidia, it will be in thanks for her intervention." Salvadore could hear hope in that statement, shackled by discipline and cynicism. "If you have stolen his face...." Baltasar turned stormily to Morfran. "That. That shall be my trial, something not of haste and expediency but of prayer and solemn judgement."
Before Sir Morfran could interject Salvadore immediately agreed. "If that will soothe your heart, I readily agree and will pray that I see my uncle pass unharmed through the Penitent's Gate." Salvadore held out his arms. "Take whatever you wish. Shave my head and drain my veins if you desire."
Salvadore was not drained, but though he had a number of already open wounds along his arm Baltasar elected to make a small cut on the meat of his thigh, something that bled freely until it was bound, and his blood stored in an empty waterskin next to not one but three locks of his hair bound in cloth Alonsico contributed to the cause. When his uncle's knife was close to Salvadore's throat a long moment of tension stretched, but eventually the older man claimed the hair and neither of them spoke of it.
With that done silence streched, and Salvadore turned to see Morfran with his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face. Well, he presumed that was the expression on his face; a greathelm was not an expressive thing, even if one of the dents made it look like the knight was smirking in this light. After letting half a minute pass Salvadore held up his hands. "Well?"
Morfran shrugged. "If you are content to wait to be judged by a priest, we can wait for you to be judged by the Lady Elaine." Damnation. Was Morfran grinning at him? "For now, I am willing to reserve judgement and keep my eyes open. Which..." he gestures to the distance, where the rain almost shrouds a number of figures obviously keeping guard around a single figure holding a banner. "Leaves us with the other witch to deal with."
"Cut her throat and be done with it." Baltasar said immediately. "A rabid dog might save your life, but you wouldn't keep it in your kennel."
Morfran shook his head. "Such would be foolhardy. Send her into the woods, as is proper."
Chaglyn said something in his steppe language, then mimed being asleep and someone cutting a throat. Baasch did not feel the need to translate. Instead he sighed. "The girl is young, and ignorant of her taint. There exists" he almost didn't sound like he was forcing the words through his teeth "a place in Altdorf established by Magnus the Pious for those such as her."
"A thousand miles distant, hounded by an untamed witch and in defiance of the will of the Fae? There is courage Sir Baasch, and then there is madness." Morfran's voice held a frown. "Better to cut your own throat then."
"Do none of these things." Salvadore said, his voice iron. "Not for now, at least. See to her injuries as best you can. Feed her. For the Dove's sake give her what comfort you can and thank her for wounds she has taken. Whatever else is to be done she has earned that much." With that he made eye contact with each of the men present until they acknowledged his order and they began to disperse.
Alonsico lingered, however. "I do believe you are my cousin." He assured Salvadore. "But I don't believe what I saw, and I saw it myself." He glanced at Salvadore's right arm, coated near to the shoulder with the black blood of the great beast on the far side of the river. "Salvadore Blackhand, they'll call you."
"Not if I can avoid it." Salvadore responded. "Stories of divine visitation, the ones with enough credibility to matter, they draw the eye of the Inquisition and not just to me. For some time now I have sought answers, and while I have an increasing pile of questions answers I have few of, and I will need more before I face the Inquisition."
His cousin stood there silently in the rain, looking out at the river. "You gave these people freedom, Salvy. Then you gave them their lives. There's one more thing you can still give them; hope. The details will be lost in the telling, but this here" he gestured towards the village. "This is what stories are made from, and I daresay a story like that would warm hearts chilled by Mousillon and elves."
Salvadore had a flash of what it must be like to stand tied atop a pile of kindling just before the torch is set to it. That too warmed more than just hearts. "Your father's right, you have been listening to too many poets." He said it in a joking tone, to take sting out of his voice. "I'd make a terrible hero, they're all noble and chivalrous and pure of heart. I'm too much a rake and a scoundrel to make a song about."
Alonsico laughed. "For such a worldly and traveled man you're thinking rather small, don't you think? The stories won't say how you consort with Tileans or got caught stealing sweets on your dooming day, they'll say a brave man was blessed of the gods and smote foes today. And then they'll cock up the details so the hero of the story looks nothing like you. Right now the iron is soft and red. If you wish to quench the story entirely I fear it is long gone, but if you wish to mold it you may be able to craft a rough shape to it."
[ ] [WITCH] Kill her directly. It's a kindness.
- [ ] Handle this yourself. It should be you that holds the knife.
- [ ] Ask another to do it, your heart cannot bear it.
[ ] [WITCH] Kill her in her sleep, it's safer for everyone that way.
- [ ] See to it yourself. Only you need the weight of this on your conscience.
- [ ] Look the other way. Best not to know who did it.
[ ] [WITCH] Send her into the woods, let the fae deal with this.
- [ ] Send her to follow after the retreating Beastmen, when she dies she may take some of them with her
- [ ] Send her to the border, the Lady may not be in Mousillon but perhaps she can be found in Bastonne.
[ ] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [ ] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
- [ ] Set this task to another. A heavy purse, a fast ship and a few lies will see her out of Mousillon.
[ ] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
[ ] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
[ ] [REPUTATION] Let the tales take what shape they may, this isn't worth your time.
Baltasar sat beside him, watching the work. The older man had a bandage around his neck where a spear had nicked him. The wound had bled freely, which Sal suspected was good, but in a less desperate struggle he would be counted too wounded to fight. As it was...well, he could fight until he was killed, just like everyone else. "My boy's done alright, all considered. A shit job to do and shit tools to do it with, but by the Maiden he's shown stones." It went without saying that Alonsico wasn't anywhere near, as he was overseeing his unit and ensuring they rested properly and enforcing water discipline. Salvadore wondered if his cousin knew how much praise his father was giving him, but in the end it didn't matter. If his cousin knew it didn't need to be said, and if he didn't saying it wouldn't be the way he should learn. "I've had my worries about him, worried that he got too much book learning, not enough grit. Comes from his mother I suppose." Salvadore doubted his uncle had decided to gush all of a sudden purely out of paternal pride, so he wasn't surprised when the conversation swerved towards the obvious. "How'd you kill them beasts, boy."
Rather than choking on his water, Salvadore finished it calmly. "Steel, wits, nerve and fast reflexes. " Salvadore gestured at his dented armor laying on his lap. Hopefully there would be time to hammer the shape out before the next fight, but that wasn't now. "And more luck than a magpie."
Baltasar grunted, then drank his own water. After several seconds he responded slowly. "No. If it were two, or even three I would be astounded that you bested them with steel and stones, but I might believe. If you'd time to prepare ground I could see as many as ten before the monsters either broke you or broke ranks. Don Lamente himself might take twenty, but try as you might you are too sane for that, or a quieter madman than he."
Salvadore gave a rueful chuckle. "Perhaps I am." He wasn't sure if he meant sane, or a quieter sort of mad. "I'm no witch, if that is your fear. You can check the slain; all are dead by my steel or their own. I...don't know how to describe what happened. I was better than they were, I strode along a golden path to grasp victory." He looked at his hands, grimy and caked in drying blood but not shaking as they ought to be. "It is metaphor, uncle, but...they were not frightening beasts of stories that rend knights asunder, they were merely the worst sort of men, who revel in destruction and inflicting devastation and who needed to be stopped. They were large men, true, but not skilled at arms for all their enthusiasm. I simply...acted."
"Large men." The tone was flat and dry. "I've seen one of those monsters cleave armored horse and rider in a single blow, and you simply decided they were not frightful?" He shook his head. "That's either the most profound thing I've ever heard, or the most stupid." Salvadore knew his uncle wasn't saying it was profound, but he shrugged. It wasn't like he understood it himself and he had struggled with the question himself often enough and had yet to understand it to his own satisfaction.
Turning to less personally dangerous topics, Salvadore gestured towards the bridge. "We bested their weakest troops and looked strong doing it, so the enemy stratigos has to beat us or else look weak to his followers. I didn't suspect he had minotaur in reserve, and if I did I would expect to see them next. As it stands I'm confident we will see bestagor, either pushing another herd of their weak units to weigh down our spears before they strike, or if they have more minotaur in reserve in support of them as they make a solid fist to strike at us. I'll be fighting that, and the knights and priest." This time it was Salvadore who waited before speaking again. "I want you to stay with Alonsico and the troops. If I fall, if this defense breaks, I want you to do whatever you can to get out." Alonsico would protest this, would insist on fighting alongside Salvadore, refuse to show his back to the foe. Alonsico was a good son of Estalia, but Baltasar was an old soldier, and Salvadore saw understanding in the older man's eyes.
"And what would you have me tell my brother?"
"Tell him...I marched west to Magritta."
--
"We hold." The council of war was missing one woodsman, Renart either dead in the woods, fled or was there still and none claimed to know which though the knights certainly offered their opinions. "A host this size cannot survive without stripping the countryside bare, and optimistically they should be down to boiling their boots in three days, in which case they must either split up, likely dooming this coalition of theirs, move on to greener pastures or fall to infighting. Any of these can be counted as a victory for us, though the local lords will need to be appraised so that a proper host may be raised to finish the job."
Sir Morfran sat silently in a pose of contemplation but Sir Balin snorted and leaned back. "So which should I warn, the death-worshippers so they can grab a few more corpses, the witch-worshippers who're likely in league with this filth to begin with, or the cowards so they can flee with a head start? Every lord here's bastard-born or bastard-bred, little war-dog. These things?" He gestured out to the river and beyond. "Like piss in a cesspit, there's naught here of virtue to defend."
The black knight shifted slightly, mail clinking and harness creaking with leather. "I'll have your apology for your ill-considered words." Morfran's tone was quiet but not soft and it carried as far as it needed to go. There was a tension in the air they didn't need and Salvadore was about to do what he could to defuse the situation when Sir Balin relented.
"Your master's not as shit as the rest I suppose. The rest I wouldn't piss on if they were aflame."
Sensing that was as close to an apology as he was likely to get, Sir Morfran relaxed. Minutely. "And would that it were I that held the torch." He agreed.
Charming.
--
Sir Balin had the honor to meet the foe first. He stood at the bridge, a pair of two-handed swords held defiantly in his hands as he screamed at the marshaling bestigor. Behind him was Sir Morfran, shield and mace ready to bludgeon whatever slipped past the madman at their van, and Friedrich Baasch held their rear. As this was the wave most likely to have witches wyrding, Salvadore had ordered Baasch to intervene in the physical battle if any of the foe stepped foot off the bridge, well beyond where Salvadore and the two knights would be engaging the enemy.
Chaglyn was there as well. Salvadore had offered the Kislevite his horse, which the injured man had declined in a fashion Salvadore suspected somewhat less politely than Friedrich had translated, but the Estalian wasn't going to second guess a man's choice on where to die. Instead he was nursing what looked to be a still boiling cup of hot water while watching all the other fools being rained on. It was coming down hard enough already that Salvadore could see where the banks of the river were at their high mark and already threatened to spill over the lowest point of the bridge if this kept up. Indeed, the only thing he could make out of the far side of the river was a great number of torches milling about, as if the stars themselves had descended to this cursed earth. Distantly the voice of a bestial tongue called out something and a hundred hundred voices answered. It wouldn't be long then.
The Sigmarite laughed and Salvadore quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"
Baasch jerked a thumb to Chaglyn. "He says that if we die tonight to leave him with his bare ass to the foe so he can present his regards one last time." Despite himself, Salvadore laughed too. He could respect that kind of petty spite.
The soldiers from Mousillon didn't shout or chant, simply waiting for death to come to them patiently. Salvadore raised his halberd while facing them, and only the banner maiden responded in kind, but it would do. Perhaps their blood was too cool for such. "Sir Morfran, a word."
Unlike the maniac with two swords, Sir Morfran's mace and shield was tight enough Salvadore could work near enough to the Bretonnian to give actual support with the halberd. "What is it, Chavez?"
Salvadore grinned, though the knight couldn't see it in this rain even were he looking at the Estalian. "Your tower. Does it come with a wine cellar?"
"What?" It obviously took a second for the knight to process these words. "Is this really the conversation we should be having right now?"
Salvadore nodded sagaciously. "Of course, it will be a bit loud in a few minutes, and I think busy too. Do you have a wine cellar?"
"No, the tower is gone. Even the ruin is swept away."
Which doesn't necessarily mean the wine cellar was gone, but Salvadore just hummed. "Well, this will be an expensive victory for you. I may have promised all the survivors a drink from your reserve." He had done no such thing, but the man was too visibly steeling himself for a noble but forgotten and unlamented death, some consternation would do the man good. Probably.
The first wave wasn't ungor, it was ungor dead herded onto the bridge. Many of them shambled off into the water and weren't seen again, while those that actually stayed in a straight enough line to try attacking Sir Balin were dispatched with contemptuous ease. Salvadore was confused by the attempt though; the beastmen surely had more than enough gor to throw bodies at them and just wear them out, and judging by the fresh bite marks on some of the bodies they weren't going to be wasted, but the attempt was so anemic it was almost not worth trying.
Whatever it was meant to do became a secondary concern as the braying howls of bloodthirsty gor began stampeding across the bridge. Sir Balin met them with fury equal to any they could muster, and Salvadore saw why the man survived despite his best efforts. Sir Balin spared not a thought to defense, his every movement was spent either killing something or getting ready to kill something. The gor only had a few moments to attack before the weight of the swords crushed through leather armor, cleft limb from torso or split skulls asunder.
Some were clever though and darted past Sir Balin's whirling blades. Whether they intended to flank the knight and attack him from behind or simply bypass the lead element to engage with a man in armor Salvadore would never know, as Sir Morfran's shield blocked their charge and his mace brained the stunned gor in what could only be described as workmanlike efficiency. Once more gor slipped into the river, dead or dying or simply unable to keep their footing and soon to be lost to whatever fate the river carried them towards. But all these were simply...gor, or ungor. Same as the last wave, for all intents.
Then Baasch cried out, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, one eye an angry crimson. His hammer glowed with forge-light and he made a warding gesture once more, but whatever happened to cause it there was the sensation of a concussive force throwing him back a dozen yards.
--
Amelie watched again as the forest men came and died. She was beginning to enjoy that.
Sir Blanchman had been a good lord, her parents had said. He bled his peasants, yes, but he wasn't cruel about it, and for all that the villagers had muttered about dark things in the woods, none had bothered them for long so long as they had kept within sight of the old stone pillar near the village, listened to the old frogwives' warnings and prayed to the Grand Sow. And then the elves had come, and for all that Sir Blanchman had been a brave and noble knight like the great Landuin the elves had captured him along with everyone else in Amelie's world.
One of the elves was a woman, like a damsel. Damsels were evil, wicked things, and until that time Amelie hadn't understood what those words had meant. Then she had been forced to watch what the elves did to a good master and she hated them for it. Not as much as she feared them, but she knew what a monster was then. One day a miracle happened, and they were free. She hadn't been awake to see it herself, but she had heard that the master that had freed them also killed Sir Blanchman with a good death. She hadn't known whether to thank him or hate him then, but then he had washed her luck clean and given her the secret of courage. He had slain monsters, and had told them how to slay monsters too.
Again the forest men had come, and again they died braying and crying and screaming at the end of their spears. Forest men weren't elves, but they had killed grandfather's pig so the entire village hated them. Amelie pretended they were elves though, and envied the men with the spears. But her job was to hold the banner, and she did it with pride and probably courage too, given how afraid she was. She didn't know about honor, peasants didn't have any, but that meant she had to use as much pride and courage as she could to hide the difference. "Kill the bastards, damn you!" The old knight yelled at the men with spears. "Don't tickle them, gut them!" He said some more things then, but Amelie couldn't understand them. She agreed with him though, and helped by telling the frogwives which forest men weren't dead enough yet. Frogwives knew how to gut things.
Y̸o̸u̴ ̵c̵a̸n̸ ̷s̶u̸r̴v̶i̸v̶e̵ ̴t̵h̵i̵s̸ ̴i̴f̶ ̸y̸o̵u̴ ̸r̵u̶n̴,̷ ̵y̶o̶u̵ ̸k̴n̵o̶w̶
Amelie didn't understand why they were here, and when she asked the lord called Alonsico had said a bunch of things that didn't make sense because he didn't talk very well. Apparently Lord Salvadore had been made apprentice to his mother, the sun, to learn how to kill. It seemed very odd, but these were lords and foreigners and you couldn't expect either to be normal anyway.
This time the two knights and Lord Salvadore stood on the bridge to do the fighting. Lord Alonsico said it was to let the peasants rest, which struck Amelie as unnecessary. She looked forward to seeing how a son of the sun killed monsters, because she saw the monsters the black boar worshippers had brought back as his trophies and understood the difference between what peasants could do to forest men and what a sunchild could do to monsters.
O̴h̴ ̵w̶e̵l̸l̴,̶ ̶t̴o̷o̴ ̷l̸a̶t̶e̵.̷ ̷S̶u̶c̴k̷s̷ ̵t̵o̵ ̵b̵e̶ ̷y̶o̷u̸ ̷I̸ ̸g̶u̵e̸s̴s̸.̵
Things went wrong when the hammer-priest was hurled back against a tree. Amelie wasn't sure what he was doing but the lords thought it was very important, but then just like everyone else she could feel the presence on the other side of the river. Worse, she could taste it, a foul leaden weight that curdled the air and soured water. A beast too horrible to look at was sniffing at something, following a scent trail to the bridge, and all of a sudden Amelie knew that Lord Salvadore was going to die just like Sir Blanchman. Already she could feel the shackles around her wrists again, the sway of the ship, the smell of a knight opened before her....
W̶h̴a̸t̷'̵s̷ ̶t̷h̵i̶s̴?̵ ̴O̵h̴,̴ ̷t̸h̵i̶s̴ ̵i̸s̵ ̵g̸o̵i̵n̸g̶ ̶t̸o̴ ̸b̶e̸ ̷t̸o̶o̸ ̴g̵o̴o̷d̴
Amelie saw things now, things she didn't understand. But she didn't have to understand to work with them.
H̶e̸r̶e̵ ̴y̶o̷u̸ ̴g̶o̴ ̸k̵i̶d̷.̴ ̵F̶i̴r̶s̶t̵ ̷t̴a̶s̶t̷e̵'̵s̷ ̴f̶r̶e̷e̸.̷
There was a lingering, sickly un-green cable stretching from where the hammer-priest had stood to somewhere to the far side of the bridge. Reaching out with her hands she grasped it and did...something that caused a line of black lightning to arc across the bridge. Unsure what that meant, Amelie grasped at more of the somethings in the air and made to throw them like a stone and fire like none she had seen before flew from her fingertips.
Y̶e̵s̷,̶ ̶y̵e̵s̴,̷ ̶r̷a̵g̷e̷ ̴a̶g̷a̵i̵n̷s̵t̸ ̴t̶h̵e̶ ̵d̶y̸i̸n̶g̴ ̶o̸f̵ ̶t̵h̶e̴ ̵l̶i̶g̵h̵t̵ ̷a̴n̴d̸ ̶a̸l̸l̷ ̶t̷h̸a̸t̶.̶ ̵Y̶o̶u̵'̵v̸e̵ ̸g̴o̷t̴ ̴p̸l̶e̸n̵t̵y̷ ̷o̸f̵ ̵h̷o̷p̵e̶ ̷n̸o̵w̸,̵ ̵h̵o̸w̵ ̷a̶b̴o̷u̵t̴ ̷w̷e̴ ̷s̶e̴e̴ ̴w̴h̷a̶t̴ ̷y̶o̶u̶ ̸d̵o̵ ̸w̴i̴t̸h̸ ̵i̵t̷?̴
--
Korlovac Merkava-haine, Lord of the Shrouded Isle, Quicksilver Falcon and the Thrice-Smiling blinked, feeling a familiar distaste in unfamiliar environs. He was standing on a footbridge of some sort, a shoddily made weapon in his hand along with mortals with similarly poorly made arms. Behind him stood a gaggle of refugees bearing the most desperate, dangerous sign they could have chosen; that of the Unconquered Sun. They were armed, but were no warriors. The mortal in front of him said something, but the Lord of the Shrouded Isle couldn't make it out. What was that he spoke? It was no form of Skytongue or Forest-Tongue he knew, and it was certainly not a language of the Realm....a matter for another time. Before him, at their party's very fore was a man near bared to the chest fighting...beastmen? Why would these refugees be fighting beastmen?
Then he placed the familiar distaste; a Slythe. An enlightened forest-beast grown bloated by wyldpacts, and in its wake a pack of wyldworms. The beastmen howled and hooted as the monster advanced towards the bridge instead of falling upon them like the abominations they were, and with that the Thrice-Smiling understood. "Traitor-wardens!" he snarled. With a single stroke of his polearm a golden light flickered out like the first glint of dawn and every traitor to Creation on the bridge became a head shorter. Essence flooded to his legs and he dashed forward, collecting one of the traitors' own spears and hurling it like the harpoon he required it to be. It struck with a crack of golden thunder and the Slythe bellowed in pain as it was pinned through the neck in a small crater.
Using the polearm as an aid Korlovac vaulted towards the foemen, willing the banner of his soul to flare, and pox upon the Viziers if they find him. Instead of the hosannas he expected, however, he heard the clatter of khakkara even over the sound of mortal-wrought steel meeting pseudo-flesh of a wyldworm. Cleansing flame erupted in the wound and the already mindless Wyld thing became frantic as holy light burned at its gossamer hide. The next of the wyldworms, a writhing mass of tentacles around a set of teeth in the approximate shape of a mouth, advanced upon him with a slapping set of tentacles acting as both locomotion and attack. The Solar blocked the first two without issue, but whatever defect the weapon's least god had developed from mistreatment had caused it to splinter. Korlovac used the kinetic energy to sever the tentacle and, when the stump began to regenerate with a bouquet of screaming goat heads, it too became wreathed in holy flame burning from the inside out.
The next wyldworm cried in an unsettling human way, a nightmarish sight of an infant's head larger than a man's torso yet skittering about upon insectoid legs. It almost seemed harmless, if grotesque, until it urped some purplish mucus at the Exalt. Dodging it was as easy as making Rennava flustered, yet judging by the sizzling sound the ground made where it landed it would ruin an armored foe. A rising slash across its face made it 'bleed' insects, but the golden essence caused it to scream and burn like the rest.
A beastman wearing ritual garb emerged from the treeline, a mixture of thaumaturgical talismans and trophies adorning its horns and robe. It began an incantation in some corrupted version of the spirit's tongue Korlovac understood just enough to recognize as drawing upon the favor of a god before a cry of simple psychotic rage echoed from the far side of the river and the beastman's outstretched arm exploded in a spatter of wyld-tainted flesh and bone splinters. Not wasting an opportunity when he saw one, Korlovac threw the halberd in his arm and impaled the shaman stoutly to a tree before rounding on the Slythe.
Already the wyld-tainted beast had worried its way free of the spear, holes in its neck from where its grasping, barbed tongue had pulled it free by gouging flesh until the horror could move itself off it. Korlovac could see calculation in its maddened eyes as it contemplated the man before it surrounded by a flock of illuminated birds the same holy light as the fire tormenting its coterie of fae-wrought monsters and the wound this mere man had already inflicted upon it. Korlovac raised his arms in a mocking 'well, darest thou?' that would have loosened his jaw in any winehouse in the Red Isles and the Slythe made the smartest decision it could; it ran.
These beastmen may be traitor-wardens who turned upon Creation, but the Moonchosen from whence they ultimately came had taught the Thrice-Smiling some of their ways. An impossible step sideways and he emerged in the Slythe's path. Panicked, the creature's barbed tongue shot out to impale him and Korlovac grinned a predatory grin. Grasping the tongue firmly with both hands he pulled the mouth-worm free of the beast's maw with a single sudden yank and like that he found himself with a slimy, writhing whip. With an economy of motion the beast was too surprised to appreciate Korlovac returned the tip of the tongue to the Slythe's face and claimed an eye.
Maddened beyond fear now, the Slythe attempted to catch its tormentor with its clawed forepaws like a horrible reptilian feline, but once again Korlovac caught the attack with his hands and guided the jabbering monster to where he wanted it to go, which meant here on its back crushing the vestigial wings too small for flight with an Exalt atop the monster. A single hammering blow backed by aerate and righteous might and its chitinous underbelly formed a spiderweb of cracks. A second shattered it, and the third drove deep into its chest where its blackened heart beat. Ripping it free, Korlovac held it aloft for all to see. "Sol Invictus! Woe to the enemies of Creation!" A golden flame erupted around the heart and consumed it like the offering it was. "A new day yet dawns!"
--
Miles away a woman was relaxing in the finest bathtub in Mousillon, surrounded by perfume and beautiful things in one of the most secure chambers in the accursed fallen dukedom. The Lady Elaine of Corbenic was enjoying the rosewater after another exhausting day keeping this shithole of a city from finally imploding. Long days, tiresome company and the nauseating way the winds pooled and rotted here, it was moments like this that let her wash away the woes of Mousillon with a glass of Bordeleaux red, her copy of Duel of Lovers and a long soak.
Which is, of course, when she felt a disturbance in the winds stir with all the subtlety of a Nuln cannon foundry blowing itself up. Her head snapped to where the distant disruption was coming from, through three walls and a tower. Tossing her wine and book aside she leapt from the bath to run to the closest window, uncaring as to her nakedness as she swore quietly. "What in Sigmar's left nut is happening."
--
On a mist-shrouded isle a man reads the stars. Most men would find that a fool's errand, but the ways of the wise see without eyes and know without seeing, and tonight Aonghas Baird of the Cainteoir Fírinne seeks answers to questions his people had asked season after season since his grandfather's grandfather and before. The mist demons stirred, but they had stirred before. Strangers had landed on their shores, yet that too had happened before. As he walked in moving meditation through the henge, Baird felt a stirring in the winds. A raven alit on a nearby tree and spoke of distant tidings, to those that had the ear to hear it. One must ever be careful with the news of birds. They spoke true, to the Cainteoir Fírinne at least, but their idea of what was important could differ greatly from that of men.
Then something stirred the mists. Aonghas could feel it through the henge like waves lapping at a coracle's skins. Something far beyond Albion, but as ever the world washed upon Albion's shores.
--
Many things are said of Zlatlan, great city of the Old Ones. Few of them are accurate, for how could mere fables compare to its majesty? Behold its mighty walls, encircled by Sotek! Behold the favela of the skinks, the hundredfold industries of the city! Behold the saurus, unhumbled by ages or foe! Behold the temple-sanctums and their mighty denizens, the skink-priests who piously dart hither and fro in service to the wise Slann.
One such Slann peers into a pool of water-borne wisdom, its depths holding many secrets. It has done so for a period of many moons, its stillness and silence broken only rarely to shift or make some subvocal utterance, though the great Slann has not twitched for more than twenty solar cycles. Still its loyal skink attendants wait breathlessly for instruction, and when the Slann's tongue lashes out to lick its eye the moment is recorded on numerous gold tablets in a flurry of frantic activity and disseminated among the priesthood to see what that gesture of surprise might mean.
--
The traitors fled after that. A few bands bravely edged closer as if preparing to attack, but between the dead Slythe writhing on the bank even in death, the wyldworms sublimating into a miasma of infantile love and disdain, a carpet of dead beastmen and the Exalt in the midst of that carnage with ichor halfway up past his elbows, the light of his soul flaring bright even the bravest of the traitors could not master their fear and thus slunk away into the gloom of night.
Seeing the traitor-wardens flee made Korlovac yearn to give chase and end them, but...no, the men here fought under the banner of the Unconquered Sun, and the spear had been wetted already. Compassion must rule valor. So it was that the Lord of the Shrouded Isles returned to the refugees, the banner of his soul his herald as birds of light surrounded him and the scent of a salt breeze banished the miasma of bog stench and rotten corpses about him. The sound of the priests' staves rattling subsided somewhat, no longer a clangor to drive away bad spirits but more than what they would make as the priest walked.
The shirtless man had two arrows in him, but they missed his vitals by a gnat's grace. He was still of a warlike demeanor when Korlovac approached him, but after a long moment of thought he lowered his arms and let the Solar pass. The next man was armored but let Korlovac pass in turn as well. Last to bar his way was a brutally maimed girl holding his banner, but she turned and bowed deeply to him, her single arm hale and holding tight to the Banner of the Sun.
O̶h̸ ̴s̸h̷i̸t̸ ̵o̶f̵ ̵f̷u̵c̷k̴ ̷o̴h̸ ̸n̴o̵ ̴o̷h̸ ̸c̴r̵a̸p̷ ̵d̵o̵n̷'̸t̶ ̵l̵o̸o̴k̶ ̶t̸h̶i̷s̸ ̴w̷a̴y̸-̸
"Show yourself." An owl of light perched on his shoulder for a moment as he glanced imperiously near her.
.̶.̸.̶
Sighing, Korlovac reached out his hand and grasped at the air near the girl's ear and with an exertion of will grasped the creature firmly in his hand tight enough to threaten to crush it without actually killing it. "Show yourself, spirit. I am in no mood for games right now."
With a twisting of perceptions the spirit appeared in his hand. It was humanoid, though one of its limbs ended in a crab's pincer and a blueish flame burned between the horns on its head like a candle. Spectacles rested upon the lower of its four eyes. "̴O̶h̷,̵ ̷y̴o̶u̸'̷r̶e̴ ̸t̵a̵l̶k̸i̶n̴g̴ ̶t̷o̸ ̸m̷e̸!̵ ̸{̸I̴ ̸j̸u̶s̸t̴ ̶t̴h̴o̵u̴g̴h̷t̴,̴ ̶w̷h̸a̵t̴ ̴w̴i̷t̶h̸ ̷y̸o̴u̷ ̸b̸e̷i̸n̷g̸ ̴s̵o̴ ̴o̷b̷v̵i̴o̶u̷s̴l̶y̴ ̸b̸u̸s̵y̶ ̸r̸i̸g̴h̴t̶ ̸n̸o̷w̷ ̷y̵o̶u̵ ̵m̴i̶g̵h̶t̸ ̵h̵a̴v̵e̶ ̶b̴e̸e̷n̶ ̶a̴d̵d̵r̷e̶s̵s̴i̸n̸g̷ ̵s̸o̴m̵e̴o̷n̸e̸ ̶e̵l̶s̴e̵}̸ ̴a̶n̷d̸ ̵I̵'̷l̵l̴ ̶t̵e̶l̷l̵ ̷y̷o̴u̸ ̸w̷h̷a̴t̶e̷v̸e̴r̴ ̴y̵o̸u̴ ̶w̴a̵n̴t̶ ̷t̷o̷ ̷k̶n̴o̸w̶ ̸p̴l̸e̶a̷s̴e̸ ̷d̸o̷n̷'̷t̷ ̷h̶u̷r̶t̶ ̶m̴e̶.̵"̷ The spirit did its best to prostrate itself before Korlovac while largely imprisoned in his hand, which primarily meant looking as pathetic as it could.
Seeing a different, more honestly pathetic creature before him he had little patience for the whims of minor spirits. "What happened to my bannerman?"
"̵A̸h̷,̸ ̶f̷u̸n̴n̴y̷ ̸s̷t̷o̶r̵y̷.̷ ̷S̵e̸e̵,̵ ̷t̷h̷i̸s̴ ̸c̷r̴a̸z̴y̵ ̸s̴a̵c̷k̵ ̴o̸f̴ ̴f̸r̵u̵i̶t̷k̴n̶o̵b̴s̸ ̶j̶u̸s̸t̷ ̶b̶r̴o̶k̶e̶ ̴t̸h̶r̸o̸u̷g̷h̶.̴ ̷S̴h̵e̸'̴s̵ ̶s̵o̵ ̷f̴r̴e̷s̴h̷ ̷h̷e̶r̸ ̸e̴y̷e̵ ̸s̷h̷o̷u̴l̷d̶ ̶s̸t̵i̵l̶l̴ ̸b̶e̸ ̴b̷l̷i̸n̴k̴i̶n̸g̸,̷ ̶a̶n̶d̸ ̷i̴n̷s̴t̶e̸a̶d̴ ̸o̶f̴ ̷d̷o̵i̸n̵g̴ ̸t̶h̸e̵ ̶u̶s̷u̸a̵l̵ ̵t̸h̸i̷n̷g̵ ̶a̴n̶d̵ ̵f̴r̷e̵a̸k̵i̶n̵g̵ ̵o̵u̷t̶ ̵a̴ ̴l̵i̵t̶t̷l̷e̵ ̸{̸a̵n̶d̶ ̶c̵o̴m̵p̴l̷e̵t̶e̴l̸y̷ ̴o̴n̴ ̶h̵e̴r̵ ̵o̷w̷n̴}̶ ̸s̷h̸e̷ ̸j̸u̶s̸t̶ ̶s̸t̷a̷r̵t̵e̴d̵ ̶d̵o̶i̵n̸g̸ ̸c̷r̵a̶z̵y̶ ̶s̷h̸i̶t̵!̵ ̵L̴i̷k̷e̵,̷ ̷I̷ ̴g̵e̷t̴ ̵i̵t̸,̶ ̵s̵h̷e̷'̶s̴ ̴y̴o̴u̷n̵g̷ ̸a̶n̵d̴ ̸t̷h̵a̶t̷'̶s̷ ̷w̵h̷e̶n̶ ̷y̸o̴u̷ ̷e̵x̵p̶e̷r̵i̵m̴e̶n̶t̷ ̶b̸u̵t̴ ̸m̸o̴s̶t̵ ̸p̸e̶o̷p̵l̷e̸.̸.̸.̶.̵"̴ The spirit's babbling petered out under Korlovac's glare. "̸S̵h̴e̵ ̷k̶e̷p̷t̶ ̴m̵i̶s̷c̸a̶s̶t̷i̸n̶g̴,̷ ̵t̸i̶m̴e̵ ̷a̸f̵t̷e̸r̶ ̵t̶i̶m̴e̴.̵ ̶F̶i̷s̷h̸i̴n̶g̶ ̵f̵o̶r̸ ̴b̸o̷x̷c̷a̷r̷s̶,̷ ̵y̴o̴u̷ ̵k̴n̶o̶w̴?̴"̶ He didn't, nor did he notice any of the usual effects of a miscast and the idea that a girl that young might initiate into even emerald sorcery was absurd but the spirit believed what it was saying so he allowed it to continue. "̴I̸ ̵w̸a̸s̶ ̵e̶x̸p̴e̸c̴t̶i̶n̵g̷ ̴h̵e̵r̸ ̸t̸o̴ ̵g̸o̸ ̵w̴i̵t̷h̷ ̵t̸h̶e̶ ̴u̷s̴u̷a̴l̸ ̵'̷t̷h̸r̷o̵w̶i̷n̶g̸ ̴c̸o̴l̶o̶r̶f̶u̴l̴ ̴b̵a̴l̴l̸s̴ ̸o̷f̴ ̷f̷i̸r̵e̷'̶ ̵r̶o̶u̵t̶i̷n̷e̸ ̵b̶u̴t̵ ̶s̶h̶e̵ ̷p̷u̶l̵l̴e̵d̷ ̵t̴h̶e̵ ̴r̸u̶g̵ ̸o̶u̴t̴ ̸o̵f̷ ̷o̵n̵e̶ ̴o̷f̷ ̶t̵h̶e̵ ̷b̷r̵a̵y̴s̴ ̴a̷n̵d̵ ̴I̷ ̸t̶h̶i̶n̴k̴ ̷s̴h̴e̷ ̶g̶o̷t̵ ̸a̴ ̷t̴a̸s̴t̵e̵ ̶f̴o̷r̷ ̸i̴t̵ ̶b̴e̵c̶a̶u̴s̶e̷ ̶s̴h̷e̶ ̶w̶a̸s̸ ̶g̸n̴a̵w̸i̴n̵g̵ ̷a̸t̴ ̵t̶h̵e̴i̷r̸ ̶s̸t̵r̴a̸n̷d̸s̶ ̸l̷i̵k̶e̸ ̷a̴ ̷S̸k̶a̷e̵l̶i̷n̶g̸ ̴a̴t̸ ̵d̷i̵n̵n̴e̸r̸t̷i̴m̸e̶ ̴a̷n̷d̷ ̶k̸e̴p̶t̶ ̷g̵e̶t̴t̵i̷n̴g̴ ̶b̵l̶o̸w̵b̸a̴c̸k̸ ̴f̸r̷o̷m̴ ̷t̴h̷e̵i̵r̷ ̶m̵i̷s̴f̵o̴r̴t̸u̴n̶e̶s̴.̵"̶ ̵
The spirit was of Creation, yet the taint of Wyld was draped about it like slime on a snail. "And what of your role in all this?"
"̴M̶e̸?̸ ̴{̷I̶'̷m̷ ̵j̴u̶s̸t̵ ̴a̶ ̴m̵e̴s̸s̶e̵n̵g̴e̵r̷}̷,̸ ̸I̵'̷m̴ ̵j̷u̸s̴t̵ ̴s̴u̴p̵p̴o̷s̴e̶d̶ ̵t̵o̶ ̷o̴b̵s̵e̸r̵v̶e̵ ̷a̴n̴d̶ ̵r̷e̸p̶o̶r̸t̶ ̶{̵a̶n̶d̴ ̸t̸h̸a̸t̷'̴s̸ ̸a̸l̶l̷ ̸I̷ ̵d̵i̴d̸ ̵I̸ ̴p̷r̷o̶m̴i̴s̷e̶!̷}̴"̷
Korlovac's face looked thoughtful. "Well, if that's all you are, then you can carry a message for me." The spirit looked hopeful at that until Korlovac slowly started squeezing his fist, its ichor mingling with that of the dead Slythe's in his hand as he squeezed the life out of it. "Creation stands, and no prince of chaos will benefit from plaguing it. I have made the Swallowtail Princess cut her own eyes out with iron, I have seen the Ebon Echoing Black brought low, and if I have to personally serve Balor's heart on a platter to the Most High I will."
The spirit's eyes were already bulging, but as it did not truly need air in its lungs to speak it did so. "̶W̶a̸i̴t̵,̷ ̷y̴o̵u̴ ̴d̵o̵n̶'̴t̸ ̶k̷n̶o̵-̶"̸ And with that Korlovac killed the traitor spirit as well, golden flame dancing in his grasp.
Turning his attention to the girl holding the banner he took a good look at her. Her skin was covered in burns as though boiling oil, and an eye was missing as though plucked cleanly from her head. An arm ended in a crude tourniquet shortly after the shoulder, and when he placed his hand on her head to ruffle her hair a lock of hair began gnawing ineffectively at his fingers like a teething kitten. "You're a candle determined to burn bright, aren't you little one?" He asked affectionately. "Let's see if we can help with some of that." Sending essence into her crown chakras he began purging the rancid energies pooling there. It was only half done when darkness claimed him and he finally collapsed to the earth.
--
Salvadore's first thought returning to consciousness was that he'd enjoyed better hangovers. His second thought was that he didn't remember falling out of a third floor window, but surely that is what had happened for he ached from the bones out, like too much blood forced through too small veins. The third thought came when a finger pried an eye open and, bleary-eyed, he saw a bald man with a bleeding eye and missing teeth leering at him and all he could think was Maiden, not again.
"Well, he's not dead." Baasch said helpfully. "And I can feel neither the influence of the Four Brothers nor active malefectum upon him. More than that I leave to your spear priests, they may understand his soul better than I can claim."
Groaning, Salvadore waved the other man off. "If you can call this living. Ah, Maiden but that hurts. Did you decide to hit me with your hammer to test that I'd wake, or am I just that lucky?" Seeing every eye upon him as he rose in a mixture of fear and awe in varying amounts he blinked. "What?"
Alonsico made the sign of the eagle and Chaglyn was looking a bit too casual about being ready to draw and fire to be anything but feigned, but Uncle Baltasar and the Bretonnians drew close enough to talk. They all had weapons in hand but only Sir Balin looked like he wanted to attack Salvadore, and he was in the rear of the trio. Not the most hostile greeting he'd had waking up, he supposed.
"And just what in Myrmidia's downy feathers was that?" Baltasar asked in the kind of 'I'm pretending like I'm not angry and that's how you know I'm not just a little angry' tone Salvadore knew from his childhood. Idly the older man gestured to wounds on Salvadore's arm. "My nephew bled, what stands before me with his face?"
Salvadore climbed to unsteady feet, ignoring how the world swam around him. "An idiot with more mouth than manners, no brain, a head more swollen than any three mules, too clever and too stupid by half, determined to disappoint his mother and-"
His uncle's spear rose to point at Salvadore's throat. "That's enough of that." Baltasar addresses the priest without taking his eyes off Salvadore. "It knows my nephew's memories at least. I had hoped learning he was paying attention all those years would be more reassuring."
"Uncle, I-"
The spear came right up to prick his neck by the jugular, near where Baltasar's own wound was. "Maybe you're my brother's son, maybe you're a demon wearing his face. Myrmidia knows I would weep to be a kinslayer, but maybe you're not kin and you need slaying." Salvadore came to a sudden and acute desire to contemplate the wonderful mysteries of silence. "You're sure you felt no witchery in him?"
Friedrich shrugged. "Nothing that displeased the Heldenhammer, and He tends to disapprove of witching fairly clearly."
A snort from Sir Balin drew everyone's eye. "Says the man with the head injury. Can you even see straight right now?" The priest frowned at the knight who seemed to care as little for the glare he got as he did for the rain.
"Suppose it wasn't witchery then. A daemon? It spoke in tongues, and summoned the smaller one." Sir Morfran added, but Sir Balin was already shaking his head.
"No, daemons aren't very subtle. Maybe the witching hid it here, I doubt that but it might happen, but we've been with him for days without the usual signs. And if it was, to show itself here? All it had to do was stand aside and we'd have been dead."
This time it was Morfran who disagreed. "The daemon cults fight each other with the same vigor as they do everything else, he could have been possessed of a rival spirit. And we know there was at least one witch travelling with us." With that mention most of the other men spat.
Alonsico chimed in. "Not one of the spirits of the Northerners. The Chaos-sworn, I mean." All eyes turned to him, surprised he would speak up. "Señor Baasch said whatever it was, his god didn't disapprove, correct? And Sir Balin, you make a good point for why it cannot be something that lie among us for days, yes? We were in dire straits and something happened to our leader to strengthen his arm to smite the foe. Myrmidia herself has been known to aid the pure and just in their hour of need." And with that Alonsico became Salvadore's favorite cousin.
Sir Balin laughed at that. "What, we were in trouble and a god bestowed the power of a grail knight on someone just to bail us out? Wake up, boy. This is Mousillon, nothing good happens here. If you have a happy answer to this you're deluding yourself, and if you have one that churns your stomach you're probably an optimist." He spat. "The Lady isn't in Mousillon this time of year."
"The Lady of the Lake, perhaps not." Alonsico continued stubbornly. "But three of Myrmidia's faithful, bearing a relic anointed in her honor and bearing one of her symbols?" Sir Balin and Baltasar looked skeptical, though Baasch and Sir Morfran looked thoughtful. "Besides, you're looking at this wrong; it isn't a matter of either this is my cousin, or it is a spirit that needs to be killed. It could be a benign spirit that aided us in our hour of need."
"Or your cousin who needs to be killed." Sir Balin pointed out, fingering one of his swords.
Baltasar snorted. "If this is my nephew he definitely has a few welts in his future, at least."
Sir Morfran spoke. "What do you suggest, young man?"
"We each put forth a trial, here and now. If he passes them, we let him free." Alonsico pulled a carved wooden eagle on a necklace from under his shirt, as if eager to be first. "A holy symbol, and a holy vow. If you are Salvadore, swear to me that you are so."
Salvadore glanced at his uncle for permission and reluctantly the man nodded. "Take it, but slowly."
Reaching out to grasp the aquila in his hand, Salvadore spoke slowly and clearly so his voice carried rather than risk the words tumbling out of his mouth. "By the light of the sun, by the shelter of Myrmidia's wings, by my hope of reaching Morr's garden, by loving Shallya's mercy, by the grace of the sword I swear that to the best of my knowledge I am Salvadore Cristóbal Antonio Miguel Chavez y Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor." Something inside him tried to flow into his words but Salvadore held it back. He wasn't sure what it was, but usually when he had that feeling the light poured forth and he rather doubted his current company would appreciate it, jumpy as they were.
Taking his amulet back Alonsico raised an eyebrow. "To the best of your knowledge?"
"If I am not he and don't know it, how could I tell?" That seemed to satisfy the youth somewhat and he lowered his weapon.
Baasch was next, holding his hammer out for Salvadore to place his hand upon it. It burnt away the black blood on Salvadore's hand where touched the head of the weapon, but only felt warm like it had lain under the sun for an afternoon making it a welcome source of warmth in the rain. "Do you accept Sigmar as your personal lord and savior?"
Salvadore gave a snort. "No, nor do I plan to unless you saw a shirtless Imperial wandering around in a loincloth smashing beast skulls in our hour of need."
"You hardly seem to be in a position to be picky about this sort of thing." Baasch said calmly, to which Salvadore shrugged.
"If I'm to be killed, I'd hate for it to be after I lied to save my life. If I were to live it would break my father's heart to hear that I'd abandoned the faith he taught me. Answering yes to your question isn't a path to any victory I'd choose, and this isn't the trial you care about is it? You've already said it; your god didn't find anything objectionable about me, this was a low cost opportunity to score a convert."
Putting his hammer back in the mud Friedrich grinned. "Man or daemon, it's a perceptive one you are. I'd love to watch you cheat at dice sometime."
The burgeoning conversation of the merits of superior gambling skill was cut off there, as the Kislevite's trial was next. It involved a veritable wreath of good luck charms, holy talismans and amulets of assorted providence set about the Estalian's neck. After a full minute with none of them bursting into flame, rotting off his body or otherwise giving an indication that whatever Salvadore was he consorted with fell powers Chaglyn reclaimed his spiritual bricabrac so he could wander off in search of breakfast. Salvadore almost felt cheated. "That's it?"
The priest shrugged. "He comes from the Oblast. You helped him today and he did not consider you an enemy today. If you are an enemy tomorrow, that is a problem for tomorrow's Chaglyn. It isn't that he doesn't care-"
"I know I don't care." Sir Balin cut off the priest. "Go look after that head of yours, if you're not going to condemn this asshole then go make sure you're alive to disappoint me again tomorrow." He then turned to confer with Sir Morfran. "Witchcakes?"
The armored knight shook his head to the negative. "I don't see any dogs around here, and with all the witchery around the ashes are likely tainted. It could prove positive when he is in fact not possessed. Perhaps a cat?"
A derisive snort. "I left mine back a mile, did you pack one?" The injured man gave a meaningful glance at the river suspiciously free of bodies. "I wonder if he floats...."
"We'd never know." Sir Morfran admonished him. "You'd hit him over the head before he went in, wouldn't you?"
Sir Balin nodded. "He might die innocent. We'll never know."
"He might live innocent too." Alonsico inserted himself in the conversation. "He saved our lives."
"Get lost kid. You had your say and pissed it away already." Sir Balin groused. "If we could find some geese-"
Alonsico bristled at the dismissal, but his father shoved him aside with a stern admonition to keep an eye on 'the prisoner'. "Rowan, holly and birch, burn it and see how he reacts to the smoke."
Morfran shakes his head again. "Holly rots when it enters Mousillon, and rowan doesn't grow here. A Damsel could judge him."
"If we had a Damsel we wouldn't have half the problems we do and half that remain would be half the problem they are. Make him walk through fire." Balin suggested.
Baltasar disagreed. "With those golden flames of his? Fat chance. Cut him with a silver knife, see if the wound gets infected."
"The wound gets infected most of the time anyway." Morfran pointed out. "And would that really satisfy you?"
Baltasar opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. At last he said "No, I can't think of anything here to prove my nephew's face to be true or false. Perhaps if...no, my mind is dimmed and my heart confused, I cannot be a fair judge in this."
Sir Morfran accepted this. "I find myself in agreement with the Kislevite; if he is a deamon, he is tomorrow's problem. The answer to the question is not unimportant, but it is an answer I fear I must find tomorrow, not today. As for justice, it is as Sir Balin says; he may prove to be innocent. Perhaps it is as your son says, and it was a spirit of your goddess that came to Mousillon today. If that is what one can expect of your goddess I welcome its return as there is much that is evil to be scourged from these lands. As it is, Sir Balin." The other knight's head turned towards Sir Morfran. "You joined us to find a foe worthy of your steel. I know not of what other horrors the beastmen brought with them, but perhaps in harrying their flight you may find that which you seek."
"Won't find shit in this rain." The knight grumbled, but he went towards the encampment to gather what supplies he could and get the most abbreviated of medical care before chasing after the fleeing herd. As he left he gave Morfran a look of 'I see what you're doing here don't think you've pulled the wool over my eyes' before trotting off over the bridge, kicking a few of the severed heads into the water in pique as he left.
Baltasar returned to Salvadore, the older man's conflict written on his face. "A lock of your hair, and a drop of blood. I cannot prove that you are Salvadore, and I am not clever enough to say for sure. When we return to civilization I will crown myself in ash and walk to the City to pray. If...if you are my nephew, blessed of Myrmidia, it will be in thanks for her intervention." Salvadore could hear hope in that statement, shackled by discipline and cynicism. "If you have stolen his face...." Baltasar turned stormily to Morfran. "That. That shall be my trial, something not of haste and expediency but of prayer and solemn judgement."
Before Sir Morfran could interject Salvadore immediately agreed. "If that will soothe your heart, I readily agree and will pray that I see my uncle pass unharmed through the Penitent's Gate." Salvadore held out his arms. "Take whatever you wish. Shave my head and drain my veins if you desire."
Salvadore was not drained, but though he had a number of already open wounds along his arm Baltasar elected to make a small cut on the meat of his thigh, something that bled freely until it was bound, and his blood stored in an empty waterskin next to not one but three locks of his hair bound in cloth Alonsico contributed to the cause. When his uncle's knife was close to Salvadore's throat a long moment of tension stretched, but eventually the older man claimed the hair and neither of them spoke of it.
With that done silence streched, and Salvadore turned to see Morfran with his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face. Well, he presumed that was the expression on his face; a greathelm was not an expressive thing, even if one of the dents made it look like the knight was smirking in this light. After letting half a minute pass Salvadore held up his hands. "Well?"
Morfran shrugged. "If you are content to wait to be judged by a priest, we can wait for you to be judged by the Lady Elaine." Damnation. Was Morfran grinning at him? "For now, I am willing to reserve judgement and keep my eyes open. Which..." he gestures to the distance, where the rain almost shrouds a number of figures obviously keeping guard around a single figure holding a banner. "Leaves us with the other witch to deal with."
"Cut her throat and be done with it." Baltasar said immediately. "A rabid dog might save your life, but you wouldn't keep it in your kennel."
Morfran shook his head. "Such would be foolhardy. Send her into the woods, as is proper."
Chaglyn said something in his steppe language, then mimed being asleep and someone cutting a throat. Baasch did not feel the need to translate. Instead he sighed. "The girl is young, and ignorant of her taint. There exists" he almost didn't sound like he was forcing the words through his teeth "a place in Altdorf established by Magnus the Pious for those such as her."
"A thousand miles distant, hounded by an untamed witch and in defiance of the will of the Fae? There is courage Sir Baasch, and then there is madness." Morfran's voice held a frown. "Better to cut your own throat then."
"Do none of these things." Salvadore said, his voice iron. "Not for now, at least. See to her injuries as best you can. Feed her. For the Dove's sake give her what comfort you can and thank her for wounds she has taken. Whatever else is to be done she has earned that much." With that he made eye contact with each of the men present until they acknowledged his order and they began to disperse.
Alonsico lingered, however. "I do believe you are my cousin." He assured Salvadore. "But I don't believe what I saw, and I saw it myself." He glanced at Salvadore's right arm, coated near to the shoulder with the black blood of the great beast on the far side of the river. "Salvadore Blackhand, they'll call you."
"Not if I can avoid it." Salvadore responded. "Stories of divine visitation, the ones with enough credibility to matter, they draw the eye of the Inquisition and not just to me. For some time now I have sought answers, and while I have an increasing pile of questions answers I have few of, and I will need more before I face the Inquisition."
His cousin stood there silently in the rain, looking out at the river. "You gave these people freedom, Salvy. Then you gave them their lives. There's one more thing you can still give them; hope. The details will be lost in the telling, but this here" he gestured towards the village. "This is what stories are made from, and I daresay a story like that would warm hearts chilled by Mousillon and elves."
Salvadore had a flash of what it must be like to stand tied atop a pile of kindling just before the torch is set to it. That too warmed more than just hearts. "Your father's right, you have been listening to too many poets." He said it in a joking tone, to take sting out of his voice. "I'd make a terrible hero, they're all noble and chivalrous and pure of heart. I'm too much a rake and a scoundrel to make a song about."
Alonsico laughed. "For such a worldly and traveled man you're thinking rather small, don't you think? The stories won't say how you consort with Tileans or got caught stealing sweets on your dooming day, they'll say a brave man was blessed of the gods and smote foes today. And then they'll cock up the details so the hero of the story looks nothing like you. Right now the iron is soft and red. If you wish to quench the story entirely I fear it is long gone, but if you wish to mold it you may be able to craft a rough shape to it."
[ ] [WITCH] Kill her directly. It's a kindness.
- [ ] Handle this yourself. It should be you that holds the knife.
- [ ] Ask another to do it, your heart cannot bear it.
[ ] [WITCH] Kill her in her sleep, it's safer for everyone that way.
- [ ] See to it yourself. Only you need the weight of this on your conscience.
- [ ] Look the other way. Best not to know who did it.
[ ] [WITCH] Send her into the woods, let the fae deal with this.
- [ ] Send her to follow after the retreating Beastmen, when she dies she may take some of them with her
- [ ] Send her to the border, the Lady may not be in Mousillon but perhaps she can be found in Bastonne.
[ ] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [ ] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
- [ ] Set this task to another. A heavy purse, a fast ship and a few lies will see her out of Mousillon.
[ ] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
[ ] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
[ ] [REPUTATION] Let the tales take what shape they may, this isn't worth your time.
- Location
- United States
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
[X] [WITCH] Send her into the woods, let the fae deal with this.
- [X] Send her to the border, the Lady may not be in Mousillon but perhaps she can be found in Bastonne.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
I don't see anything good coming of sending her to Altdorf. She's a penniless, foreign orphan, shuttled in by another foreigner with suspicions of daemonic possession floating about his head. At best she'll suffer through crushing loans and be taken advantage of by whatever College snatches her. Better to send her to the elves, where she can become a Damsel and do some good in her homeland.
- [X] Send her to the border, the Lady may not be in Mousillon but perhaps she can be found in Bastonne.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
I don't see anything good coming of sending her to Altdorf. She's a penniless, foreign orphan, shuttled in by another foreigner with suspicions of daemonic possession floating about his head. At best she'll suffer through crushing loans and be taken advantage of by whatever College snatches her. Better to send her to the elves, where she can become a Damsel and do some good in her homeland.
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Great update
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
She hates the Lady and elves.
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
That will vanish when they look at our soul and go "Oh dear gods, look at all that Hysh!". Presuming we trust some wizards to examine us, at least.
bookwyrm
Doom of Public Libraries
- Location
- Wichita, Kansas
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- Location
- Europe
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
Easily one of your best and funniest updates yet, loved every moment of it.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
Easily one of your best and funniest updates yet, loved every moment of it.
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- Location
- Wherever I feel like being
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Muddy the waters and shift the credit around so little lands on you. Safer for those you care about, and you can think of some that would appreciate the laurels
Solar recognized it as a small god tainted by the Wyld, which is probably reasonably accurate. Don't think it was so much possessing her as whispering in her ear, metaphorically? Think place spirits, etc. Abilities are generally all over the place, usually related to whatever it is they're the small god of. Normally nonphysical and very hard to permanently kill, but Exalt. Killing things that can't or shouldn't be killed is the core of what they do.
Local Warhammer types called it a demon, and I'm not prepared to call them wrong, but if so it was a pretty minor one. Mostly limited to corruption rather than being capable of attacking mortals directly, at least effectively. Looks to have had affiliation with at least two of the four, though I wasn't reading that closely.
Probably wanted her to start a cult for it; that's something both Exalted's gods and Warhammer demons get up to.
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
Yeah, no crueler fate.
DocMatoi
Theoretical Lover of Girls
- Location
- within 2 hours of the White House
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Or maybe she'll put her monster killing lessons to use and become the next supreme matriarch
See? I can give extreme edge case scenarios too
Taking dangerous hedge mages and making clean wizards is what the colleges do
[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
Plus, it gets us out of fucking Bretonnia
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[X] [WITCH] Send her to Altdorf, let the Sigmarites handle this.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
- [X] Take her yourself, the Foam Dancer is her best chance.
[X] [REPUTATION] Attempt to shape the narrative, if only in broad strokes. A reputation can be a sharp, swift sword after all.
If she gets sent off with support or if we take her ourselves they shouldn't have any way of knowing about any rumors of demonic possession. I mean our crew isn't going to tell them and the type of people who would take money to deliver her to the colleges aren't going to talk about how they might be working for a demon possessed human out of greed.
As for being a penniless orphan that's how the colleges get most of their recruits so I'm not seeing how that's at all special except in that most people who live far away don't live long enough to make it to the colleges.
Being taken advantage of and getting crushing loans well ok those might be problems but said problems are something that she can solve because the colleges aren't designed to destroy their recruits.