Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
I know that feeling.
From a Single Ember (RWBY/'After the End' CKII)
- Thread starter RedrumSprinkles
- Start date
Carrnage
Human
- Location
- New Zealand
yes everything is fine
like dust or ash.
Icipall
Don't worry, we can fanfix that!
- Location
- Cold snow fields of Finland
Iandude0
BEST RANGER
- Location
- Milwaukee
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
Easy there, Satan.And nothing of value was lost.
Bakkasama
There is always a greater fool
- Location
- Buenos Aires, Argentina
- Pronouns
- He/his
And nothing of value was lost.
I rather think that something was gained. The whole sequence made me think of this when I saw it:
Raiu
Per Aspera Ad Astra
- Location
- United States
And here's my first Omake for this quest, and it concerns something quite interesting. I don't believe the Masked Ones have had that much attention, and here's to change it.
The Yellow King
Act 1, Scene 2d:
Carmilla: You, sir, should unmask.
Stranger: Indeed?
Cassilda: Indeed, it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.
Stranger: I wear no mask.
Carmilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda) No mask? No mask!
Grimm have long infested the country. No plague has even been so fatal, or as hideous as the Grimm. They were silent, awaiting at the thresholds of man with baited breath, waiting for the time to strike. Every day, their victims were found, torn to shreds like so much stained fabric. This year the Grimm raged, and nary an hour passed without Grimm testing the walls of man for weakness.
But the Prince Prospero was happy, and dauntless, and sagacious. When his lands were half depopulated, he summoned to his person a thousand strong and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was a grand and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's eccentric but august taste. A tall and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had thick gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and great hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave no path of entry or escape to the sudden impulses of despair or madness from within. The abbey was amply provisioned, and the walls manned by men of arms. With such precautions, the courtiers might bid defiance to the great foe. The world outside would take care of itself. In the meantime it was foolish to grieve, or even to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were actors, there were ballet dances, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the Grimm.
It was towards the close of the fifth month of his seclusion, and while the plague raged furiously outside, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual grandeur.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven -an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight line, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either side, so that the view of the whole is hardly broken. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the prince's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so erratically placed that one could scarcely see but one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty eight yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That of the far east was hung, for example, in blue - and a vivid blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, as were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange --the fifth with white --the sixth with black. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in red velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But only in this room, the color of the windows failed to match the decorations. The panes here were yellow -- an aged bone color. Now in not one of the seven rooms was there any lamp or bulb, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered about or clung to the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from within the suite. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaring illuminated the room. And thus a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances appeared. But in the western or red chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the rich hangings through the bone-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its confines at all.
It was in this apartment, too, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of red. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceptionally musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra where forced to pause, for but a moment, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers ceased their dance; and there was a drief of disconcert of the whole company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if some confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once passed through the throng; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if making light of their nervousness and folly, and made whispered vows, each to another, that the next chiming of the clock would produce in them no such reaction; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which stole three thousand and and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and there were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But in spite of these, it was a gay and magnificent revelry. The tastes of the prince were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decorum of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric luster. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and though him to be sure that he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon the occasion of this great feat; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There was much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm --much of what had been since seen since. There were arabesque figures with strange limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizzare, a portion of the terrible, and no small account of what might have been excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these dreams writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music to seem as the echo of their steps. And, once more, there strikes the red clock which stands in the clotted hall. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save for the voice of the clock. The dreams stand, frozen stiff. But the echoes of the chime die away -they have endured but an instant -and a lite, half subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and write to and fro more merrily than ever, taking color from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber farthest to the west of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who would dare approach; for night in waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the consumption-colored panes; and the darkness of the glues drapery appalls; and to him whose food falls upon the glues carpet, there comes from the near clock of crimson a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more distant revelry of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went breathlessly on, until at length there began the sounding of midnight upon the crimson clock. And the music ceased, as I have said; and the revolutions of the waltzers were stopped; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had rung into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise --then finally of terror, of horror, and of despair.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lose, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the void black fur of the foe. The mask which concealed the visage was made so perfectly to resemble that of the creatures outside that the closest would have difficulty in detecting the lie. And yet, all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far at to assume the type of the Grimm. His vesture was dabbled in blood --and his mask, angler and sharp, was the color of recently cleaned bone.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if to fully sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him --"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him --that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly --for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers at his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruders, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless terror with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were none who put forth a hand to seize him. Unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person and the vast entirety of the collected nobles shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls. Then, the Grimm Masked figure spoke.
"Foolish. You sit here behind your walls, surrounded in false finery while the Grimm swarm the lands." The Masked stopped before the prince, who, despite himself, retreated. "Your people are torn apart by the day by Grimm and yet, here you stay, surrounded by idle pleasures. Perhaps you have deluded yourself that the creatures outside no longer exist." The Masked stepped forward again, and again the prince retreated, and the revelers followed suit.
"Tall walls, a thick gate, men of arms so strong as to slay the strongest Grimm. All these surround you and you believe it sufficient to stave off the stalking death that waits outside." At the threshold from the blue to the purple, the Masked stopped and turned to regard the fearful crowd. "But death claims all in the end. However," the Masked cruelly stated, "It is said that those who take the essence of others, death will pass over." Like the spark that ignites the flame, the most fearful of the courtiers fell upon one another, clutching onto the promise of salvation. Prince Prospero retreated once more, into the purple, followed by his Frightened courtiers.
In the purple, Prince Prospero called out. "Do you not know who I am?! I am a prince, a leader of men! I command thousands who fight in my name! Cease this at once!" The Masked, oblivious to the power of the man, stepped forth into the royal shaded room. "While thousands may have once followed you, they are long dead. The Grimm have torn them to shreds long ago. Your title now holds as much strength as a sieve carries water." Once again, the Masked turned towards the courtiers, their fear growing by the moment. "Those who stand here are the last remnants of this land's nobility. The lines of succession are clear, but is this what you wish? To stay in the shadows while the fools above you flaunt their rank? To be forever passed over, ignored and spat upon? Will this plague not pass and your stations resumed? It is time for you to take control of your destiny." The Masked's words rang strangely through the minds of the gathered, seeking out those whose hearts harbored ambition. The implication of rising status won the heart of one man, and the violence that won and lost men more. Recoiling from this horror, the prince and his courtiers fled from the purple to the green. The horrors repeated once more, with lies more blatant than the last. And thus it continued, from green to orange, orange to white, white to black.
In the western room, the room of red, Prospero cried out. "Are you not human?! Does a heart not beat in your chest?!" The Masked, this time, did not pause in his step, continuing onward with the power of a Ursa and the grace of a Nemea. Disturbed, Prospero drew his ancestral blade, a piece of craftsmanship extending nine generations, surviving wars and Grimm hunts far greater than any in Prospero's time. Maddened with rage and fear, the prince swung, the Blade singing as it cut through the air.
With a casual flick of one hand, the Masked shattered Prospero's Blade and snatched a shard from the air. With sudden brutality, the Masked drove the shard into the shoulder of the prince, shattering bone by the force alone. Without a break in stride, the Masked threw Prospero to the floor and approached the grand clock. A sable clad hand was raised, and the clock rang, once, twice, thrice. Thirteen times the clock rang, and on the final resounding peal, the windows shattered, the spell on the courtiers broken. The roars of Grimm resounded through the abbey walls, the strong soldiers at the wall broken like the wall they stood upon.
Death descended upon Prince Prospero and his courtiers, as it will for all men. Beware, however, the face of those who bear a mask, for often their true face is not that which lies beneath.
The Masque of Yellow
By Anonymous
Translator's Notes: A tale of an unknown land, found in multiple databanks across the Kingdoms, and banned in most nations. It is unknown why this story is so wide spread, though some believe that the story is a warning of people who, in desperation and delusion, worship the Grimm. The belief that such people can control the Grimm is both heretical, and downright idiotic. Controlling Grimm? Preposterous!By Anonymous
The Yellow King
Act 1, Scene 2d:
Carmilla: You, sir, should unmask.
Stranger: Indeed?
Cassilda: Indeed, it's time. We all have laid aside disguise but you.
Stranger: I wear no mask.
Carmilla: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda) No mask? No mask!
Grimm have long infested the country. No plague has even been so fatal, or as hideous as the Grimm. They were silent, awaiting at the thresholds of man with baited breath, waiting for the time to strike. Every day, their victims were found, torn to shreds like so much stained fabric. This year the Grimm raged, and nary an hour passed without Grimm testing the walls of man for weakness.
But the Prince Prospero was happy, and dauntless, and sagacious. When his lands were half depopulated, he summoned to his person a thousand strong and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was a grand and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's eccentric but august taste. A tall and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had thick gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and great hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave no path of entry or escape to the sudden impulses of despair or madness from within. The abbey was amply provisioned, and the walls manned by men of arms. With such precautions, the courtiers might bid defiance to the great foe. The world outside would take care of itself. In the meantime it was foolish to grieve, or even to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were actors, there were ballet dances, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the Grimm.
It was towards the close of the fifth month of his seclusion, and while the plague raged furiously outside, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual grandeur.
It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven -an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight line, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either side, so that the view of the whole is hardly broken. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the prince's love of the bizarre. The apartments were so erratically placed that one could scarcely see but one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty eight yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That of the far east was hung, for example, in blue - and a vivid blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, as were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange --the fifth with white --the sixth with black. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in red velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But only in this room, the color of the windows failed to match the decorations. The panes here were yellow -- an aged bone color. Now in not one of the seven rooms was there any lamp or bulb, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered about or clung to the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from within the suite. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaring illuminated the room. And thus a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances appeared. But in the western or red chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the rich hangings through the bone-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its confines at all.
It was in this apartment, too, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of red. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceptionally musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra where forced to pause, for but a moment, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers ceased their dance; and there was a drief of disconcert of the whole company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if some confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once passed through the throng; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if making light of their nervousness and folly, and made whispered vows, each to another, that the next chiming of the clock would produce in them no such reaction; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which stole three thousand and and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and there were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.
But in spite of these, it was a gay and magnificent revelry. The tastes of the prince were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decorum of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric luster. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and though him to be sure that he was not.
He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon the occasion of this great feat; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There was much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm --much of what had been since seen since. There were arabesque figures with strange limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizzare, a portion of the terrible, and no small account of what might have been excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these dreams writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music to seem as the echo of their steps. And, once more, there strikes the red clock which stands in the clotted hall. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save for the voice of the clock. The dreams stand, frozen stiff. But the echoes of the chime die away -they have endured but an instant -and a lite, half subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and write to and fro more merrily than ever, taking color from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber farthest to the west of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who would dare approach; for night in waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the consumption-colored panes; and the darkness of the glues drapery appalls; and to him whose food falls upon the glues carpet, there comes from the near clock of crimson a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more distant revelry of the other apartments.
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went breathlessly on, until at length there began the sounding of midnight upon the crimson clock. And the music ceased, as I have said; and the revolutions of the waltzers were stopped; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had rung into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise --then finally of terror, of horror, and of despair.
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lose, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the void black fur of the foe. The mask which concealed the visage was made so perfectly to resemble that of the creatures outside that the closest would have difficulty in detecting the lie. And yet, all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far at to assume the type of the Grimm. His vesture was dabbled in blood --and his mask, angler and sharp, was the color of recently cleaned bone.
When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if to fully sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.
"Who dares?" he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him --"who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him --that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!"
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly --for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers at his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruders, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless terror with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were none who put forth a hand to seize him. Unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person and the vast entirety of the collected nobles shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls. Then, the Grimm Masked figure spoke.
"Foolish. You sit here behind your walls, surrounded in false finery while the Grimm swarm the lands." The Masked stopped before the prince, who, despite himself, retreated. "Your people are torn apart by the day by Grimm and yet, here you stay, surrounded by idle pleasures. Perhaps you have deluded yourself that the creatures outside no longer exist." The Masked stepped forward again, and again the prince retreated, and the revelers followed suit.
"Tall walls, a thick gate, men of arms so strong as to slay the strongest Grimm. All these surround you and you believe it sufficient to stave off the stalking death that waits outside." At the threshold from the blue to the purple, the Masked stopped and turned to regard the fearful crowd. "But death claims all in the end. However," the Masked cruelly stated, "It is said that those who take the essence of others, death will pass over." Like the spark that ignites the flame, the most fearful of the courtiers fell upon one another, clutching onto the promise of salvation. Prince Prospero retreated once more, into the purple, followed by his Frightened courtiers.
In the purple, Prince Prospero called out. "Do you not know who I am?! I am a prince, a leader of men! I command thousands who fight in my name! Cease this at once!" The Masked, oblivious to the power of the man, stepped forth into the royal shaded room. "While thousands may have once followed you, they are long dead. The Grimm have torn them to shreds long ago. Your title now holds as much strength as a sieve carries water." Once again, the Masked turned towards the courtiers, their fear growing by the moment. "Those who stand here are the last remnants of this land's nobility. The lines of succession are clear, but is this what you wish? To stay in the shadows while the fools above you flaunt their rank? To be forever passed over, ignored and spat upon? Will this plague not pass and your stations resumed? It is time for you to take control of your destiny." The Masked's words rang strangely through the minds of the gathered, seeking out those whose hearts harbored ambition. The implication of rising status won the heart of one man, and the violence that won and lost men more. Recoiling from this horror, the prince and his courtiers fled from the purple to the green. The horrors repeated once more, with lies more blatant than the last. And thus it continued, from green to orange, orange to white, white to black.
In the western room, the room of red, Prospero cried out. "Are you not human?! Does a heart not beat in your chest?!" The Masked, this time, did not pause in his step, continuing onward with the power of a Ursa and the grace of a Nemea. Disturbed, Prospero drew his ancestral blade, a piece of craftsmanship extending nine generations, surviving wars and Grimm hunts far greater than any in Prospero's time. Maddened with rage and fear, the prince swung, the Blade singing as it cut through the air.
With a casual flick of one hand, the Masked shattered Prospero's Blade and snatched a shard from the air. With sudden brutality, the Masked drove the shard into the shoulder of the prince, shattering bone by the force alone. Without a break in stride, the Masked threw Prospero to the floor and approached the grand clock. A sable clad hand was raised, and the clock rang, once, twice, thrice. Thirteen times the clock rang, and on the final resounding peal, the windows shattered, the spell on the courtiers broken. The roars of Grimm resounded through the abbey walls, the strong soldiers at the wall broken like the wall they stood upon.
Death descended upon Prince Prospero and his courtiers, as it will for all men. Beware, however, the face of those who bear a mask, for often their true face is not that which lies beneath.
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't been too communicative regarding the next update. Rest assured, it's coming. And it is a monster. It's 8,000 words, and I haven't even finished it yet!
I should have it ready for you guys Friday afternoon!
I should have it ready for you guys Friday afternoon!
Powerofmind
In Madness Fallen
- Location
- United States
you really can't stop yourself from going all-out, can you?
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
I really can't! There's something really engaging about the setting that lets me just pour words onto the page. Your guys' enthusiasm is helpful as well!
Raiu
Per Aspera Ad Astra
- Location
- United States
Turn 2 - Results
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
Turn 2 Results: With Fire and Silken Knife
Awakening, your sight is filled by a mess of lilac hair, a warm body pressed against you. "Pft," you say, trying to clear your mouth of Sable's hair. It's been three days since your marriage to the Princess, and you are still adjusting to the loss of your bachelorhood. A chill wind leaks in from the cracked window, more refreshing than frigid. With your wife pressed against you and the heavy furs you occupy, your room is a lot more stifling than you remember it.
Judging by the light spilling in, it's almost mid-day. Groaning, you try to slip out of bed, only for Sable to pull you closer, mumbling something in her sleep. Dammit. Gently, you prise yourself from the silken prison of your bed. You have an Estate to run, and spending three days with your new wife is all you can afford. It's time to return to duty.
"Mmf," Sable protests, still asleep.
"Sorry," you whisper, finally freeing yourself. She's quite beautiful, you think. You could have done worse for yourself. But what's more is that she will make an excellent Spymistress. You haven't been outside your room much in the past few days, but just by listening to the servants that stopped by occasionally, she'd already inserted herself into Thromorhold's gossip ring. More importantly, she picked your court apart within seconds of entering. You'd made your decision the night of your wedding, but today is the day you'd make it official.
Sort of.
As your wife, Sable's too valuable to hurl to the metaphorical grimm-pit. Doughta will remain your Spymaster officially, but Sable will be your true eyes and ears. Doughta will serve as a fine buffer for your wife. She is to be the mother of my children, after all.
The very idea makes your stomach weak. Perhaps some food will still its flutterings. Children - your heirs - will need to happen eventually, and better sooner than later. Your dynasty is not a large one. You'll have to talk to Sable about that soon. Smiling, you watch a small lock of lilac-black hair fly up from her lips, pushed on a gentle breath. Gently, you tuck it behind her ear.
She's alone, you realize. She left everything she'd ever known to be your wife. Friends, family, home, everything. She deserves to at least be happy. Pulling the furs up around her shoulders, you resolve to spend some time with her in the coming months. She should be more than just your wife or partner. Besides, you enjoy the banter. Her company. She should be a friend before anything else.
Sable mumbles in her sleep. You decide to grab something from the kitchens before you head to the Council Meeting. Maybe take a short bath as well. Pulling on a ratty nightshirt, you tiptoe to the door, bleary but pleased with your resolution.
Reaching for the door handle, you hear the swish of metal, and a dull thunk as Sable's seax slams into the wood of your door, just between your fingers.
"Going somewhere, Gerhard?" She purrs.
Goddess protect me.
"Thought I'd get ready for the meeting," you say, turning to find Sable free of the furs that you'd just tucked her in with. Even across the room, the purple of her eyes is all-consuming. With her head tucked neatly into her elbow, she's smiling. That smile. "You're awake," you note.
"They can wait, Gerhard. For another hour at least."
Perhaps… perhaps they can.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Washed, dressed in fine autumn furs, and with your bellies rumbling, you walk into your hall, arm-in-arm with Sable. They've been waiting for a while, judging by Doughta's impatient tapping, his finger rapping against the table like a woodpecker searching for its meal.
Terra visibly cows at the sight of Sable, scooting down her seat before remembering her horn of wine and scrambling to recover it. Your mother is there as well, puzzled by Terra's display, but laughing all the same. Her stomach is round with child, and she keeps an arm around it, as if someone would rob her of it.
Daff watches you pass, nodding respectfully and shooting you a brief wink as he re-braids his beard, while Popolla nurses her first afternoon bottle. Taking your seats at the head of your hall, a silence settles into the room, a stifling one.
"Finally," your mother grouses. "Three days without a single lock of ashen hair," she continues. "I feared Sable had done away with you." That earns her a brief laugh, and even Terra giggles. Doughta does his best to remain sullen.
Sable has retreated into her other 'self', laughing behind a dainty hand at your mother's jest. "Not quite, mother. I fear Gerhard is made of… sterner stuff," she says, squeezing your thigh under the table.
Ophelia rolls her eyes.
"So, S-Sir Gerhard," Terra says, leaning forward, her lips stained with red wine. "What are we to do next? The taxes are collected, and it's time to plan Thromrhold's next move."
"Quite," you reply, nodding. Holding out a horn, you let a serving girl fill it with clear spring water. Sucking at it greedily, you set it down before continuing. "It's time to get down to business." It's weird attending a Council Meeting without Burgundy around. His puffy arms and rolling stomach were a constant presence, now wholly absent.
You burned what was left of him, after all.
"First things first," you start, "I need a new Marshal." There are a few nods in agreement. "Sable," you say, turning to face your wife. "Look into finding someone talented. I trust you can find someone of sufficient skill?" She nods, smiling.
"My father kept a list of notable warriors in Mantle. I have a number of good places to start."
"Excellent," you say. "I'll supply you with a sum of Lien to sweeten the deal. I will no longer suffer fools to preside in my court," you add, letting the comment resonate with Doughta and Popolla. Only your Spymaster seems to notice the slight edge in your voice… your Head Teller's already drunk.
"Another idea," you say, addressing the drunkard. "Popolla?" She snaps up at the mention of her name, puzzled by the suddenness of its mention.
"Whazzat, Sir?" She asks, the thud of glass on wood accompanying her slurring words.
"I've recently decided to dedicate myself to the Knight of Frost." You still think most of the blatherings about the Progenitors is hogwash, but there might be something useful to glean from the endless stories. "If it's within your… considerable means, would you be able to find me a Teller well-versed in Her Rites?"
"Wha," she asks, face screwing up. "Ya mean like Thorlaug?"
"Thorlaug?" You ask, leaning forward. You're not quite sure if she said a name, or fell into a second of alcoholic mumbling.
"Tha's righ. Thorlaug. Bit of a bitch, if ya ask me, but she knows the Knight pre'y well. Damn sight better'n I do, at least!" She says, laughing and taking a swallow of what you think is Mistralan rum.
"By all means then, send word for her to join us," you say, waving your hand. Saluting drunkenly, Popolla jumps out of her seat and stumbles from the hall, away on her mission.
"Bit faster than I imagined her," Sable mutters, to the amusement of your councilors.
"And me, Sir Knight?" Terra asks, looking at you from underneath a crop of unruly brown hair. She still acts flustered around you sometimes, but she's recovering nicely enough. It's probably due to Ophelia's return to the world of the living. Smiling, you imagine the poor woman trying to explain to your mother, her friend, that she offered to marry her son.
"I think we both know what you need to do," you say. "Crack that bitch open." Laughing, Terra finishes her wine, savoring the taste with a quick dart of a pink tongue.
"Can do, Sir!" she chirps. Already, her mind is overflowing with ideas and baseless, hopeful speculation.
"Take your time, okay?" You warn. "There could be anything down there. Hostile androids, grimm, traps-"
"Treasures," she interrupts, green eyes greedy and twinkling.
"Terra…"
"I'll be careful!" She scampers off, tripping over herself in excitement.
"You've got quite the plan, Gerhard," your mother says, grinning. She's still pale, but her smile is true and honest. It's her eyes that hurt. They are focused solely upon you and Sable, wistful and wet. Six months earlier, she sat in the same place.
You nod. "I'm only doing what I think is best."
"In that case, Sir," Daff says. "Where do I fit into this plan of yours?"
Oh. Right.
"We'll speak later, Daff. After the meeting." Shrugging, he leans back, satisfied with your answer.
Now... how to handle Doughta?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After speaking with Sable and Doughta for a time, even you (something of a dullard when it comes to the subtler arts), know the balding man is completely outmatched. Sable came up with the idea to be Doughta's direct 'subordinate', which you know she'll use to turn his entire network (if it even existed) into her own personal plaything. It was almost trivial.
You explain your plan to Daff, and he accepts unconditionally, aware of the secrecy required to complete your Huntsman Training.
Once that is completed, you and Sable pen a letter to Cedar, instructing him on how he should… shift his priorities. Sable looks positively gleeful as she helps you phrase it. Now that he's inserted himself into the Logrhorn estate, the time has come for him to pursue more ambitious objectives - namely acquiring a claim to its lands.
The matter concluded, it is time to pursue your next task, the one you were forced to abandon last season. Your father's ledgers were a nightmare, but there is no reason you can't make them anew.
Letting yourself into your father's… rather, your solar, you have Terra get you some inkwells and reams upon reams of paper and ledgers. Together, you spend some time going over the taxes collected in the past season, where they came from, and how much. You work late into the night, until your eyes begin to sag and the candles burn low into sloping piles of wax. Your wrist cramps after a while, but Terra barely slows, taking to the task with all her fervor. She doesn't add any particular insights, but at least she makes the work go by faster.
Eventually, Sable knocks on the door, startling Terra but bringing a warm smile to your face. Even if you wanted to, you don't think you could spend another hour cooped up in the solar.
"You two having fun in here?" Sable asks, tucking her arms into a mink-fur coat.
"I-I-I, no Lady Knight!" Terra mutters, flushing red.
"Relax, Terra," you say, sharing a knowing smile with your wife. "She's messing with you. She should really cut that out, in fact."
"Oh," Terra says, realizing. Rubbing at her face, she sheepishly studies the half-full ledger before her. With your Steward's eyes averted, Sable sticks her tongue out at you. "I'm sorry, Lady Knight," Terra adds.
"Think nothing of it," your wife purrs, placing a hand on Terra's arm. "I didn't mean to interrupt you two, but unfortunately, my husband needs his rest," Sable says, keeping a hand clasped around her coat.
"Ah," Terra says. She brightens. "Worry not, I'll finish up in here, Gerhard."
"There's no need for that, honored Steward," Sable says, leaning forward. "You need your rest as well, after all."
Terra is very confused for a moment. Then, it strikes her, and she flees from the solar. Almost fast enough to set the tapestries aflame.
"I really wish you'd stop doing that," you say, rubbing at your temples. "She may fancy me, but she's not an idiot, and she hasn't tried anything."
"I'm not stupid either," Sable says, stepping into the solar. She seems to move at once but not at all, a rippling of fur and lithe purpose. With a bare foot, she kicks the door shut behind her. "I know that. I'm not trying to be cruel to her either. It's simply fun to tease the skittish."
Sliding onto your lap, she presses her lips to yours, and her hands begin to part her coat. You stop them.
"Sable…" you start. "Why?"
"Is 'I'm horny' not enough?" She asks, trailing a finger through the stubble under your chin. Smiling, you roll your eyes, kissing her in that spot on her neck that makes her gasp. That was a fun find on day two.
"It's not that I'm not having fun, you just seem particularly… voracious. I think I'd like to get to know you better, you know? You said you'd like to build a good marriage… maybe we should…" you lose your train of thought, and you wave your hand instead. "Talk?"
"Gerhard!" she says, running a hand through her lilac hair. "You're adorable. You really are. I guess this might look pretty manipulative," she says, pulling at the hem of her robes.
"That's not it," you say. "And believe me, I am very much tempted." You wink at her, and she gives you a roguish smirk. It fades as she shifts in your lap, turning to face you.
"For what it's worth," Sable says, placing her hands on your shoulders. "I'm touched. For real. I know we've been having fun these past couple days… guess I wanted to make the most of it before I start churning out kids."
If you were drinking something, you would have almost certainly have soaked the previous six hours of bookkeeping.
"Gerhard?" She asks, concerned. "Is something amiss?"
"No!" You blurt. "No, I just… that was brazenly put."
"Kids?" She asks. "Seriously? You can't be squeamish about that, can you?" Taking your face in her hands, she studies you for a second. "Dust, you are." You shrug. "Well you can't be," she says. "Your dynasty is too small, and without a crop of heirs behind you, the vultures will continue to circle. We're young. Too damn young if you ask me," she adds, a touch of resentment in her voice. "But it has to be done. We both know that."
"You'll still be my Spymistress, right?" You ask. She laughs her dirty laugh.
"Of course. I see where your priorities lie." Falling into your arms, she goes limp. "So callous, this barbarian from Thromrhold! Using me for my talents, ignorant to my womanly charms."
"I wouldn't say that," you say, flushing. She giggles, pulling herself upright. "And I know you'll love your job."
"Gerhard, we'll talk. Don't worry. We'll have the rest of our lives to talk." She fills her hand with your tunic, pulling you closer, closer. "But for now, let's enjoy our youth. While it lasts," she adds with a wink.
Not for the first time, you admit you are lucky, lucky man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several weeks later, you seek out your sister. You've been mulling over Sable's words to you in the solar, and the one about the Stenbergs being rather small struck a chord within you. Next year, Edelweiss becomes a legal adult. She adored your father's insistence that his children marry who they love, but as far as you are aware, no such relationship exists. It is time to have a rather frank talk with your sister, so you invite her to a walk inside the Greenhouse.
Though outside is howling with a chill wind and the beginnings of snow, the Greenhouse is sweltering. Rows upon rows of green shoots packed into loamy soil face you, tended by a small host of tenders. Beads of moisture dot the glass roof, rolling down the panes and collecting into thin pools.
"Gerhard?" Your sister asks, stepping in through the antechamber. She looks worried.
"Edelweiss," you say, gesturing her inside. "How's Wolfram?"
"He's eating better now," she says, smiling. "Now that mother's back." You nod. You don't speak of what happened a scant few weeks earlier, of the brief glimpse of togetherness you showed each other during the reveal of your mother's condition. "What do you want, Gerhard?"
"What do I want?" You ask.
"You wouldn't have asked me here if you didn't want something," she says, taking a leaf between her fingers.
"Edelweiss," you start, before sighing. "Let's take a look around." She follows you, albeit reluctantly. The sun is out, and it beats relentlessly down upon the crops. They're growing well, drinking in the light with thirsty vigor. The most successful plants are invariably a breed of hardy berries and a light grain, but they're enough to keep your people well-fed.
"Edelweiss," you say again, "you need to think about getting married." Instantly, her face turns into a rictus of anger, drawing into a furious grimace.
"Gerhard-"
"Easy there, Edelweiss. Easy!" You protest, holding your hand up. "I'm not going to marry you off or anything, calm down. Take a breath!"
Instead of fury, her face is overcome with confusion. "You're not?"
"I don't have a death wish, after all," you jest. She snorts, an approximation of laughter.
"Then what exactly did you have in mind?"
"Well, I'm offering to help you find someone. Someone you can court, who can court you in turn. I don't want to press the issue," you say, shoulders slumping. "But the Stenbergs… we're not a large family. And Edelweiss…" your voice stops her in her tracks, a chill running down her spine despite the sweltering heat.
"Gerhard?"
"We are surrounded by enemies. I sat with them, ate with them," you say, lip curling. "I fear not just for you, but our very family. I wish I had the time to let you find someone on your own, but that's just… not possible."
She puts her hand on your arm, a shocked but warm smile spreading across her lips. "I didn't know."
"You'll have to pretty soon," you say. "Your coming of age is next Spring. You won't have to make a decision just then, but it's important you start thinking about it." Digging into your sleeve, you withdraw a slim sheet of paper, one very similar to one that once held the name 'Sable von Grimmsbane'. "This is a list of potential suitors I've compiled."
Her eyes widening, she takes the ink-clad slip with trembling fingers. Slowly, a wide smile spreads across her face. "Not bad, Gerhard," she says, her voice breathy. "That's… quite a list."
"I'm good at making them, apparently," you say. "If none of these are to your taste, I can always find more, but I'd prefer it if you gave these ones a good try first." Aw shit. "That came out wrong."
Edelweiss laughs, slapping your shoulder. "Gerhard, stop! I'm almost an adult. I'm know exactly what you and Sable have been up to," she says, elbowing you.
"Before this conversation becomes completely impossible to continue," you mutter, face in your hand, "Just answer me this: is this okay? Is this what you want? I know dad… I know dad had some strong feelings on this stuff. I didn't mind marrying for different reasons, but I know you think differently about this kinda thing."
Thankfully, mercifully, she nods.
"This is actually quite exciting," she admits, a tinge of red settling into her features, one not due to the humid Greenhouse atmosphere. "Of course, I'll have to court all of them, so I know exactly which one to pick."
You groan. It's the most intelligent option of course, but that doesn't mean you wanted to hear your sister say it. "Please, for the love of the Goddess, just don't do anything stupid."
"I won't Gerhard," she says, smiling, still reading over the names. "Ooh, Mayor Ubrecht's son? If he looks anything like his father…"
You decide to tune the rest of her mumblings out, for your sanity's sake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your new Marshal arrives the next day, though he is unaware of his eminent promotion. A withered, blue-eyed man with spiky snow-white hair steps into your hall. He is an older man, his face hardened by decades of winters and war. He's experienced. Good. Though you were loathe to admit it, you had a secondary reason to call in an experienced leader - your strategic skills were sorely lacking, and while you could lead well enough on a smaller scale, the movements of armies and hosts still eluded you.
He bows, a calculated movement. "Knight Gerhard Stenberg of Thromrhold," he says. His voice is harsh and whispered, and you note a small slash that snakes down his neck. "Marble Griswalder, at your service."
That name... you recognize it!
"Marble Griswalder," you ask. "As in, the Marble Griswalder who sacked the Crown-League's lands?" He grins at that, his teeth sparkling white.
"You've heard of my work," he says.
"More than that," you say, grinning in turn. "Lightning!" You call to your Captain, summoning him to your hall. "Lightning, you miserable sod of a man, get in here at once!" Marble looks puzzled at your summons, but less so once he bursts into your hall.
"Whassa matter brat, you-" he stops once he realized he almost trampled over your new Marshal. "By the gods," he roars. "Sir Griswalder!" He says, kneeling before the much smaller man.
"You seem familiar with me, lad," Marble says. "But I'm afraid I don't know you at all."
Lightning laughs at that, slapping a fist to his broad chest. "I wouldn't expect you to, Sir! Gerhard, where'd you find him?"
"I didn't exactly go looking. Sable found him," you reply. During his tutorship of you, Lightning often told you stories about his Knight's superior, the man currently standing in front of you. "I thought you served Lady Hallfrida," you ask, leaning forward on your throne. The man's face darkens at that.
"I did, when she still drew breath," he says, his fury locked within a calm cage. "After her untimely death, the gods cursed me with her daughter, a short sighted, arrogant woman."
"Sir?" Lightning asked, standing.
"Hallfrida's daughter filled her council with yes-men and hangers-on," Marble spat. "I did not count myself among their number, so I was let go. With no holding to call my own, I lived as a mercenary for a time, aged though I am. Until I received a certain letter," He adds, nodding in your direction.
"I'm glad I caught your attention," you say, making a mental note to thank Sable later. "Truth be told, I have much to learn in the arts of war, but I need more than just a tutor. I need a leader. A new Marshal."
Though Marble straightens at this, his experience reins in his excitement, and he accepts the news stoically. "Do you mean to bestow such an honor upon me?" He asked.
"I'm afraid you won't be commanding a host quite as large as your former Lady's," you admit. "But yes, that's my intention."
Approaching you, he kneels, eyes studying the floor at your feet. "I accept," he says, voice lacking any hint of hesitation or uncertainty. "Though I am an older man, a fire still burns in my heart. Long have I waited for an opportunity to employ my skills."
Drawing Mistilteinn, you glide your thumb across its edge. "Face me, Marble Griswalder," you say. He obeys. You mark him in your blood, and you note that though it is pale and lined, his skin is as hard as leather.
"What is your bidding, Sir Knight?" He asks, placing a hand on the handle of his weapon.
"Grimm nip at the heels of my people, and bandits prey upon them."
Marble stands, his visage hard and unyielding, blood running down to stain his lips. "Shall I sally forth, Sir?"
"No," you say, rising from your throne. "As of a week ago, my retinue is fully replenished and ready to march. We shall sally forth."
Marble smiled, and Lighting's grin was as bright as his namesake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You ride out from Thromrhold Castle a week later, provisioned and eager to once more patrol your lands. Daff accompanies you as well, ready to teach you what he can as he helps you in your endeavors. His apprentice is there as well, a tattooed firebrand by the name of Saffron. She's a hard creature, all lean muscle and jutting, sharpened tusks.
For an old man, Marble is remarkably spry, and leaps at the chance to patrol again. Apparently, though Lady Hallfrida was a fearsome raider, her replacement was complacent and slothful. He makes fast friends with Lightning, and though they never met face-to-face before now, they can still reminisce about the glory of their raids long past.
You wish Auntie Kara and the Mayor could join you as well, but other matters keep them in their separate holdings. Your mother is now almost two months away from giving birth, and you promise to make it back before your sibling is born.
Sable's disappointed you're leaving, but is eager to set herself to the task at hand. Your court needs unravelling, and she promises to take a gleeful interest in doing so. Judging by the light in her eyes, you know she means it.
Before leaving, you decide to sweep her into your arms for one last kiss.
"Talk when I get back?" You ask.
"Go, Gerhard," she says, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same. She leans in to brush her lips against your ear. "I look forward to your return." As your horse bears you away from the castle, you think you can make her out on the ramparts, a slip of mink fur leaning against the battlements.
While you are out on patrol, you decide to inspect your lands once more. With things so chaotic and uncertain before, you didn't get a good look at Thromrhold's infrastructure. This time, you decide to give it a more thorough examination.
The patrol is not easy.
Grimm beset your every step, licking at your heels even as you crush them beneath your boot. Thankfully, they've largely ignored your serfs, sticking to weekly raids that Thromrhold's residents beat back without too many deaths. However, they seem desperate to hound you, drag you off your horse and claw at your belly.
They never get the opportunity. Marble provides you with some new ways to position your pikeriflers for maximum effect, and leads your dragoons with eager skill. The men adjust to him, though it takes them time. While he is a foreign noble, his skill and unwavering confidence keeps them in fighting shape throughout the patrol. He is popular in a matter of weeks. Not to mention, he has a pair of axe-swords that he wields with brutal efficiency. "Swords for the animals," he said. "They bleed easy. Axes for auras."
Though you are hard-pressed and often without sleep during your patrol, you manage to do your duty, stomping down any grimm that rear their plated heads. Daff and his apprentice help as well. Watching them in action is a marvelous thing, and there are many nights you seek out Daff's tutelage.
Being a hunter, it seems, is not a simple transition. Most of the lessons are spent in guided meditation exploring the depths of your soul. It's extremely difficult and often taxing, as manipulating your aura before was such a simple thing, like flicking a switch. Now it's like trying to flick a switch with a toe that's tied behind your back.
You spend the final weeks of your patrol hunting down the bandits, a task that is almost embarrassingly easy. They must have thought you weak or stupid. They thought wrong.
You and a collection of your best fighters track them to their hideout, a cave nestled in the heart of an ursa-infested woods. With a hail of arrows and a great war-cry, you fall upon them, rivers of their blood steaming upon the snowy ground. They surrender once Lightning crushes a lieutenant's head into his chest cavity, the crunching sound enough to fray their nerves.
So, triumphant and trailing fifteen new captives (bound and riding on their once-stolen horses), you return to Thormrhold Castle. Unfortunately, though you traveled the width and breadth of your realm, you could not find any means to run your realm more efficiently. Unless you invest into upgrading what you already have, it appears as though your father left things in pretty good order.
You took the time to see Auntie Kara and Lunus as well, both of which were delighted to see you. Your uncle looked a little dour, but he was always sullen. Sable mentioned your vassals were up to something, but you couldn't see anything behind the gracious smiles and warm embraces they welcomed you with.
When you arrive in the hall of Thromrhold, things are tense. Nothing is wrong, exactly, but your mother is very pregnant, and she some of the servants whisper she is overdue. Sable is pleased to see you, welcoming you back with a roast boar and some freshly-brewed mead. When she leads you back to your chambers, you're worried that the conversation is going to happen, the one where your wife tells you she's with child.
Though, not for lack of trying, Sable remains flat-stomached. That night, you rest. It is your last peaceful sleep for a long while.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You and Sable rouse yourself the next afternoon, after you enjoy one of the first nights in a real bed for months. The company's good too, though your wife doesn't have anything significant to report as of yet.
Hours after you wake, Ophelia goes into labor, and the Castle is once more a beehive of swarming servants. Her cries are loud and long, and though you try and distract yourself by holding court in your hall, her screams are impossible to ignore. She has the best healers and midwives available, you remind yourself. She will be fine.
Once the sun dips below the horizon, everything goes to shit. A muted horn-blow reaches your ears, desperate and weak. With a concerned glance, Sable squeezes your hand. Strapping on Mistilteinn, you fling yourself from your throne, boots ringing of the stone floor of your hall with haste.
The gates of the castle fly open, and riders by the score filter in. To a man, they are a soot-crusted and miserable lot, and many of them bear wounds. These are… Terra's men, you realize. Your Steward is carried in next, though... she is no longer Terra.
She is a writhing, screaming husk, her flesh blackened and sloughing. Her fingers twitch as the skin peels away from them, and you can see flecks of bone beneath. A tsunami of nausea fills your stomach, and you feel bile climb up the ladder of your throat. Were it not for her smoking horns, you would have trouble distinguishing which part of the weeping red mess of cooked flesh was her face.
You hear Sable's slippers slapping at the stone behind you, and you turn to shield her from the sight. You are too late. Her hands clap over her mouth, too late to stop the vomit from spilling forth. It leaks out from between her fingers, and it's almost enough to make you do the same. But you are Knight Gerhard Stenberg of Thromrhold, and you cannot.
Though you desperately wish to offer some comfort to your horrified wife, it takes all your effort not to lose your composure. The smell of meat and burnt hair is a cloying aroma, heady and thick. It seems to settle into your hall like a nevermore settling into its nest.
"Take her to the Chirurgeon," you bellow, waving your arm at whoever will listen. "Immediately!" They rush to obey, even though many others are wounded as well. "What happened? In the name of the Nightwing's blackened cunt, what happened?" You demand, storming forwards. A slender man approaches you, hobbled by a limp.
"N-no idea milord," he says. "We was just about to open the bunker, see," he said, his hands wringing together. "Charges weren't right," he said, his voice clouding over with horror. "Oh gods," he mumbled, tears struggling to form. "Oh gods." You try asking a few more questions, but there is nothing useful left to gain, and no one else comes forward.
Sable has recovered, wiping her mouth clean. She stumbles over to you, reaching out for support. You catch her, realizing she is not acting. Using you as a support, she tries to suck in breaths. This is the weakest you have ever seen her.
"I've seen things," she says into your chest. "I've done things." She hiccups. "But… oh Dust. Fuck," she says, burying herself again. "Nothing… Dust, nothing like... that. What the fuck happened?"
"Accident," you say. It's my fault, you think. I ordered her on this escapade, and this… this is what happens. As the stretcher-bearers carry her to the Chirurgeon, Terra's hoarse screaming fades into the castle, before it the castle doors slam shut, sealing it away.
"Mother mustn't know," you say. "No matter what happens. If she doesn't focus on the delivery, I fear for what will happen." Sable nods, and you separate. She's still shaking a bit.
A thunderous explosion shatters the moment of peace. shockwave slaps over you, an invisible fist that rolls over your aura but leaves you stunned and disoriented. On the walls above you, your soldiers shout and point.
"Sir!" One of them shouts, bellowing down from a turret. "The Greenhouse! It just went up, Sir!" He points to the southern wall, where a column of smoke lists into the orange-hued dusk. Sable is crouched next to you, her seax bared and ready to kill. She looks like a startled cat, you think blearily. The thought would be enough make you laugh if you weren't about to vomit.
"I'll investigate it," you reply, marching over to the stables. Already, your guards are streaming forth, buckling on their armor and slapping mags into their pikerifles. "Sable," you say, turning to face your wife. "Take half my guard. Keep watch over my mother and my siblings." Fear for their wellbeing coils within you. Sable nods, dashing past the guard, pulling half of them to her side.
"You heard your Knight! Dig in! Set patrols!" She orders, waving her arms. Marble bursts out of the barracks, pulling the chinstrap of his helmet tight. His face is creased with determination, ready to do his duty.
"To the Greenhouse!" You cry with a swipe of your hand. "On me!"
You storm forth from Thromrhold, making the short journey around the (mercifully intact) walls to your Greenhouse. Or, rather, what is left of your Greenhouse.
Where the crowning achievement of your father's investments and careful planning once stood is a smoldering crater. It is utter chaos. Flames and black smoke billow out from a gaping pit, and the scorched earth around it is a minefield of limbs and shattered bodies. None are whole. The place reeks of ozone and burning flesh.
You can do little else but stare. Stare at the chaos, the flames, the bits of loyal serfs that gave every working hour to feed the people of Thromrhold. Your father's legacy, the project he spent a decade on… wiped from the face of Remnant.
There are no survivors, no scrap of crop left to salvage.
The only thing you can do is keep the fire from spreading to the village. It is a task you undertake with efficiency. With demanding energy. You shout yourself hoarse, sucking in lungfuls of charred air as you order buckets of water to the nearby houses. You order crystals of blue Dust to be brought forth from your stores, ready to burst into a wave of soothing water.
Dusk turns into night. Night turns into dawn. It is a very near thing, but thanks to the efforts of the tear-stained villagers and your retinue, you keep the fire contained. It claims a few hovels, but does not roil into a great inferno.
Grimm, drawn by the despair, stream into Thromrhold. You eviscerate them. Beowolves, Ursa, a Deathstalker. All of them break and wither in the face of your cold fury. The sun crests the horizon, gazing upon the charnel grounds you have created.
Everything hurts. You ache, and the restful night upon your return is forgotten, no more than faint lilac dream pulled under the ceaseless waves of grimm-ichor. Mistilteinn drags behind you, carving a thin furrow into the earth. Nothing feels real anymore. Everyone is exhausted, and your aura is spent. Without it, there are several times you would have been consumed by flames.
Somehow, things return to a semblance of peace. The villagers shuffle home. You find yourself sitting in your hall, unsure of how you got there.
"Gerhard?" A voice asks, husky and weary. Sable. Your wife. Bags sit under her eyes, just as dark as the ends of her bright, messy hair.
"Mom," you ask.
"She's fine," Sable said. "I had to take care of something, but I left Lightning in charge. Everyone's okay. Edelweiss is sleeping, and so is Wolfram." She's so tired, she looks like a parody of a person. Her feet are rocking and unsure.
"What… what happened?" You ask. She shakes her head.
"Later. We'll…" she seems to choke, sobs threatening to overtake her. "We'll talk later. Let's go to bed, okay?"
You're too tired to argue. Though exhausted, Sable is still better off than you, and leaves bits of mud-and-blood coated armor scattered throughout the halls, helping you along. You lean on her, mumbling thanks into her ear.
Once you make it to your chambers, you almost collapse into bed. The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is the locking of an iron bolt, and the hiss of a seax slipping from its sheath.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You awake sometime later. Your furs smell like smoke, and your head is pounding. Your lips are split and chapped, your throat as dry as a desert.
"Sable," you say, bolting upright. She's not in bed with you. Rather, she's sitting by the door. Her head is slumped against the wall, her seax clenched in her fist, ready to kill. She had propped another chair against the door, bracing it against any attackers. Judging by your uninterrupted sleep, there were none.
She's snoring.
"Sable," you say again. You feel like you should let her rest. A selfish part of you stifles the thought. You need to talk to her, talk to another person, just to confirm everything that happened wasn't a nightmare. That you were still sane. "Sable," you hiss, voice dry and cracked. She stirs, eyes blinking.
"Gerhard," she says, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "You're awake."
"So are you," you say. She huffs a short laugh. "What were you planning to do over there?"
"Don't joke like that, ass," she says. "Dust… after yesterday… Terra, the Greenhouse, the Grimm…" She tries to stand, but wobbles. "I was worried," she admits. "Didn't know if there was anyone coming for you, so I… so I took precautions." You limp over to her, still sore from exertion. You collide together. "Nameless One Below," she hisses into your chest.
"Mother," you say. "She's okay?" You ask. You remember Sable confirming it last night, but you need to hear it again. Your wife nods.
"Your mother has no pain tolerance," she says, an arm reaching up for your shoulder. "I helped my Third Mother give birth twice, and she didn't scream half so loud. Other than the noise, she's fine. The baby's fine."
Relief courses into you. "Thank the Goddess," you mumble.
"I'm sorry, Gerhard," Sable says, holding you tighter. "I'm so sorry," she repeats, head tilting lower. You separate.
"What? Why?"
"This," she says, waving her arm vaguely. "I could have stopped all of it. B-but, I was too slow, I didn't think he'd move so fast, I thought I had time, I-"
"What? Who? Who's h-"
The realization slams into you like a hammer-strike.
Cobalt.
Cobalt.
COBALT.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sable is not a weak woman, but even she struggles to stop your advance.
"I'll murder him!" You roar, stumbling down the hall towards your dungeon. "I'll rip his fucking limbs off and feed them to the grimm!" Your bellows send the serving staff scattering, desperate to avoid your wroth. "I'll make him watch! I'll make him fucking watch!"
The weight pulling at your arm finally gives up her struggle. Instead, a flash of lilac darts in front of you, a pair of purple eyes like a wall of colored glass. You want to shove it out of the way, but when your hands reach up to do so, they meet a much smaller, much smoother pair of hands. Their will to push evaporates.
"Gerhard!" Sable cries. "Get ahold of yourself! Yes, I managed to capture him, but…"
"But what?" You demand, fury smoldering in your heart. "What could you possibly say that will stop me from killing him right gods-damned now?"
"If you're going to kill him," she says, pointing. "You'd better do it with some pants on."
"I-"
You stop. You are completely nude, covered in dried blood and soot, holding hands with your wife in the middle of the hallway.
"Good Goddess," you mumble. "O-oh Goddess," you say again, your face meeting a hand. You feel sick. Cobalt pissed on your father's grave. Worse than that, he fucking blew it up then smeared what remained in fox-shit. Once your Mother learns what happened to Terra, the Greenhouse.... "Yeah… yeah, let's go back. Real quick."
She gives you a small, centering kiss. "Then dismemberment," she promises.
"Then dismemberment," you agree. You head back to your room to get dressed.
Once your belt is fastened, you give Sable another look. She's still tired, but she's putting on a brave face.
"You okay?" You ask, slipping into a t-shirt.
"I wasn't storming down the halls in the buff," she argues, eyebrow arched.
"Sable," you warn. You haven't spent too much time together, but you realize when she's avoiding a question. She doesn't say anything. "Please."
"...Fine," She says, exasperation letting loose all at once. "Don't give me those puppy-eyes Gerhard. Shit's fucking cruel, and you know it."
You shrug.
"So, I captured him, okay?" Sable says, exasperation melting away. There's something else there, and you're not sure you like it. "I found things. Bad things. He was trying to run back to Logrhorn, you know," she added.
"What did you find?"
She reaches into her robes, drawing out a roll of thin parchment. "This," she says. "Considering what happened earlier this season, I'd say it's ironic. Part of me wants to laugh, you know?"
You unfurl the paper. The mere title nearly makes you snap, fall back into the hazy rage that had consumed you moments before. It is a claim to Thromrhold. A solid claim, you note disgustedly. The paper is thin and the ink is fresh, but it looks valid. It would work. You scan the names, tracing the connecting lines with a shaking finger. "That bastard," you whisper. "That rat bastard." The Knight of Logrhorn had Cobalt fabricate a claim on your lands.
Sable's right. Part of you wants to laugh. After all, did you not send Cedar to do the exact same thing? Oh, but it doesn't matter. You ball it up in your fists. Sable rests her hand on yours.
"Easy," she says. "It's dangerous, but it's proof. We can't destroy it just yet," she says, uncurling your fingers.
Damn her for making me see reason. The… thing you hold in your hands is like having someone spit in your family's eye. Repeatedly.
"Cobalt," you hiss. "You bastard."
"Gerhard," Sable says. "I… I did something."
Her tone gives you pause. "What did you do, Sable?" Her fist balls up in your shirt.
"I… made him talk," she says. "You might want to speak with him yourself."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clad in a hooded sweatshirt and clasping a burning torch, you descend into your dungeons. It is a dank place and sorely used, but no castle is complete without one. Your father preferred to ignore its existence, as most criminals were subjected to public punishments.
If he let them live.
Now, it is crowded with bandits, who cower at the sight of Sable. Held in individual sliding-door cells, they back themselves into the farthest corner, away from the bobbing torches you carry.
Past them lies a more secure cell, a door standing out from the mountain rock, two inches of thick rolled steel. Sable's free hand clasps around your arm, centering you once more. You feel your anger swelling just by knowing what's beyond the door. Your fingers curl around the torch, white-knuckled and rigid.
Producing the keys (when did she get the keys?), Sable pries the cell door open. It screeches open, like it was in agony. It hasn't seen much use after all. And there, in the dark, sits Cobalt Callovar. He's been chained to the wall, iron links shackling him at his ankles. At the sight of you, they rattle and shake.
"I didn't do anything!" Cobalt says, already trying to worm away from Sable and closer to you. "S-she made me say things! All lies!" He begs. "I'm innocent!"
"You're a fool, Cobalt," Sable says. "I caught you red-handed, horse saddled and bound for Logrhorn. Be a man and don't try and weasel out of it now."
His ears fold back against his head, quivering at the sound of your wife's voice. "I beg you, Sir Knight," he says, going prostrate before you. When he spreads his hands out on the cold stone floor, you notice one hand is red and stained in blood. The fingernails in his right hand have been removed.
You resist the urge to grind them under your heel. "Sable," you ask, eyes flicking at the hand. "This is what you did?" She nods.
"He was reluctant to talk," she reminds you. Her eyes go dark at the words, and a flicker of disgust crosses her face. "I changed that."
"She's a monster," Cobalt blubbers, grasping at the hem of your pants. You kick him away.
"Don't you fucking say that word," you growl. "Not with what what you've done."
He bows his head at that, folding his hands together. "Please, Sir," he said. "Have mercy." Snarling, you hold out the claim, and he blanches. "I-I had no choice, Sir Lichtra, he's a c-cruel man, he made me," he babbles.
"And the Greenhouse," you say, digging your fingers into his collar. "He made you do that as well?"
"Yes," he whines. "I didn't want to, but one must obey their lord after all." He falls silent, still pleading. Sable chuckles, a low and mirthless sound.
"Hm, well, if you were so reluctant to do it, you could have spared yourself the trouble and sought Gerhard out," she says, stepping forward. Cobalt shrinks away from you, skittering like a rat. "My husband is a kind and understanding man," she says, crouching down. "It is doubtful he would have been wroth with you if you came forward with your Lord's plans. No," she says shaking her head. "You wanted to. The moment I laid eyes upon you, I saw the contempt. The sneering, knowing smile."
Sable grabbed at his chin, forcing him to face you. You are shaking with rage. Now that she lays it out, it all comes flooding back. Cobalt's smiles were always slimy. The way he looked at your father was contemptuous and arrogant, and the gazes he sent Edelweiss' way were too lingering by half.
"You were singing quite a different tune last night," she says to Cobalt. "Now, tell Gerhard what you told me." He remains silent. "Say it," Sable growls, fingernails digging into his neck. "Say it."
Caught in his poor attempt to save himself, he spits instead, a glob of saliva hitting her in the eye.
"Ooh, bad choice," Sable croons. She wrenches his arm free, splaying it out on the dungeon floor. Plucking a finger up in her fist, she twists. Cobalt shrieks, his chains rattling as his legs kick uselessly. You wipe at your wife's face, and she thanks you with a brief nod. "Tell him!" She demands, wrapping her hand around his thumb.
"F-fine!" he says, shaking with pain. "I did it! I blew it up! I forged the claim, I did it, I did it, I did it!" Taking in a snarling breath, he manages to make eye contact with you once more. "I just wish I could have killed your cunt mother as well."
Another snap, and shriek of pain.
"You are not very smart," Sable says. "That's my mother-in-law you're talking about. She's a nice lady." She glances at you, and does not like what she sees. Biting her lip, she releases Cobalt's wrist, and you watch small trails of blood leak down to his broken fingers. "Let's leave him for now," she says, tugging at your arm. "Gerhard?"
You want to drive the toe of your boot into his ribs, over and over again. Feel them break. Something restrains you. I am not an animal. It'd be more effective to let Sable work him over, you realize. More painful. You don't know where she gained the knowledge (or the stomach) to do such a task, but today, it came in handy.
You turn on your heel, following Sable out of the room.
"My Knight will make short work of you," Cobalt says, before you can shut the door. "He will not suffer this insult. You are b-but a boy, Gerhard, licking at your father's heels. Brynus will crush you."
You smile at Cobalt. "Perhaps," you allow. "But Logrhorn will burn before that happens. All you know will wither and die." The door slams shut, and you realize you're about to be sick.
Once you're free of the dungeon, Sable sucks in a long breath. "I'm sorry," she says. "I should have told you."
"Told me what?" You ask. She points at her fingernails.
"Mother taught me. Diagrams and writings and whatnot. I've only done it once before." She shudders. "It's an unpleasant business." True, but a vindictive part of you wishes she had gone farther.
"Still, but thank you for finding out what you did. Capturing him."
"Of course. Though I fear Cobalt will not be the last of it. The claim, the sabotage," she says. "Lichtra's planning for war."
You grunt in agreement. "As are we, it seems," you say.
"What's more," Sable says, speaking as though she is treading dangerous ground. "I believe he might know more. Done more. It's very likely he had something to do with Terra's accident. If word of the Bunker got around, he would be a fool to let you just have it."
The very notion is almost enough to turn you around and send you stomping back into the dungeon, but Sable's arm stops you.
"But I don't know for sure," she reminds you. "With a little more time and effort, he'll give up his secrets."
Maybe that will be for the best. "What will Lichtra do once he finds out Cobalt's been imprisoned?"
At that, Sable grinned. "Nothing. I've stopped all his birds and seized all his letters. With some practice and… convincing, I'll be able to replicate his Lord's letters. The only people who know he's imprisoned is you, myself, and the guards that helped capture him. And the bandits, I suppose."
"You are very good at what you do," you say, unable to stop a relieved smile from crossing your face. "Remind me to never piss you off."
"Don't give me a reason," she says, pecking you on your cheek. "Now, don't you want to go meet the newest Stenberg?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You knock on your mother's door. It's a familiar gesture, and apprehension still clenches in your gut, but for a different reason entirely. This time, you know the door will open, but you don't know what's beyond it. Behind you, Sable clutches at your hand.
A nurse opens the door, and offers you a quick curtsy before waving you onwards.
"Gerhard," your mother says. Her voice is hoarse and weary. Next to her is Edelweiss, holding her mother's hand. They both look tired, but seem relieved. "Come meet your new sister."
You step forward, almost choking on the lump in your throat. Pressed against your mother's chest is your sister, her tufted hair night-black like her mother's. She's sleeping, drawing in slow breaths as her fingers slowly clench at nothing.
"Her name is Aurleg," your mother says. You smile, pressing a small kiss to your sister's forehead. She's warm to the touch, and very soft. "What's wrong with her?" Ophelia hisses, drawing you and your wife closer. "The nurses are all on edge, and they won't look at me."
Sighing, you give her a small, pained smile.
"It's not the baby," you say. "I promise you, mother."
Soon, she will have to learn what happened to Terra. To the Greenhouse. It is not a day you are looking forward to. Today, it's enough to relish in family, surrounded by the warmth of kith and kin.
"I promise."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The winter months are extremely busy. Most of the time is swallowed up by dealing with the fallout from the Greenhouse destruction. Grimm activity steps up again, preying on the worries of your people. You sally out on patrol once more, doing what you can to put them back down. Thankfully, though it is tough going, there are no issues. Under Marble, your retinue performs admirably, sustaining no further losses. And though the sabotage could have crippled Thromrhold's morale, your quick response is a great relief to the serfs.
You also spend a lot of time drawing up some financial reports, something that's even more important now that Thromrhold's main source of food has been destroyed. It's surprisingly easy once the taxes start rolling in, and you're able to obtain a broader grasp on your realm.
You notice that your serf population is increasing, and that thanks to some side-investments on your father's part, there's more tradesmen and merchants in Thromrhold than ever before. It is apparent Auric Stenberg laid the groundwork for some serious economic growth, though it will have to wait until you find a solution to your impending food situation.
That being done, you find that your time was in extremely high demand these past seasons. You wanted to assess Siggy al Saltzpyre and see if she had any skills to offer, but you weren't able to discover anything significant.
Most unfortunately, though you do feel closer to Sable, you didn't find an opportunity to sit down with her and just talk. Having her around still feels weird, even though she is now fully invested in the fate of Thromrhold. At least you were able to talk about children. With any luck, she'll soon be with child.
You pray that you will be up to the challenge of fatherhood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Councilor Reports:
(Chancellor) Fabricate Claim on [Estate of Logrhorn]:
Finally, after the calamitous sabotage of your lands at the hands of Cobalt, good news arrives in the form of Cedar Blackthorne. He arrives in your hall mere days after the explosion, but even though he must have ridden past the black-scorched earth where the proud translucent walls of your Greenhouse once stood, his mood remains undimmed.
"Cedar," you nod, welcoming him back. "Why have you returned? Did I not have a duty for you to complete?"
He laughs, brilliant white teeth shining out between the oaken fibers of a well-groomed beard.
"Mead me, gorgeous!" He bellows, gesturing to a serving girl, who scuttles away to obey his command. "Indeed you did, Sir Gerhard," he says, sitting down on one of your benches with a wide grin and relieved sigh. The serving girl returned with a horn overflowing with honeyed drink, almost stumbling in her blushing haste.
"I trust you've seen the devastation," you say. Briefly, his mood sours, his face turning as black as the Greenhouses' gutted remains.
"I have," he says, before taking a long pull at his mead. When the horn returns to the table, he is smiling again. "I've also seen that in my absence, you've acquired an incredibly beautiful wife."
Sable's mouth widens into an honest smile. She's been studying your Chancellor since he entered your hall, her eyes like purple lances.
"It's a shame I missed the wedding!" He says, raising his horn.
"It was most assuredly a night to remember," Sable replies warmly, stroking your thigh under the bench. "Gerhard speaks often of your talents. Judging by your mood, I suspect his words were true and honest."
"Ah," Cedar says, winking at you. "You've married a sharp one, I see."
"Well," you ask gesturing before you. "What do you have to report?"
Grinning, he reaches inside his riding coat, bringing forth a set of musty scrolls. "Be a dear and hand these to our Knight, would you?" He asks, handing them to the serving girl. She nods, biting her lip with nervous energy. "Thank you," he says, leaning back on the bench. "I had a long ride back, and I'm simply spent."
Once the scrolls are delivered, you open them. It is uncomfortably similar to when you opened Cobalt's forged claim. However, this time, you grin.
Cedar did excellent work. He forged it in record time, and it is a substantial, extensive document. With some clever investigations, not only did he make it appear as though you are the rightful Knight of Logrhorn, but that the Lichtras stole it from you hundreds of years ago.
Even Sable is slack jawed at the document before you. Grinning from ear to ear, you peck her on the cheek. She doesn't even notice.
"Cedar, I don't know what to say," You start, handing the document to your wife.
"Eh, just 'thanks' should be enough," he says, grinning. "Though I should be thanking you. The gods blessed your father with many things, but ambition was not among them. You gave me the chance to stretch my legs a bit."
You nod dumbly. "I'm happy to hear it Cedar. You have my utmost thanks."
"I live to serve, Gerhard," he says. "And yes, that little clause at the end means that old Jollerkalt shouldn't get too pissy should you decide to press it. Even that bastard in Kallberg can't deny that Logrhorn belongs to you."
Your hands parse the Claim once more, fingers running over the paper. It feels old, and it appears as though Cedar either dug up some ancient paper, or aged it expertly.
"Cheers, sir," Cedar says, raising his horn of mead. "To the rightful Knight of Logrhorn!" You and your wife raise your cups as well.
"To the rightful Knight of Logrhorn!"
(Marshal) Patrol Lands:
The Marble Griswalder you grew up hearing about has come to serve Thromrhold! He was happy to accept his new position, as he felt that his fortunes in the Kingdom of Vinderhof were on the wane. He's not the best fighter (and he's getting on in years), but he possesses a sharp tactical intelligence, backed up by years of experience planning for and executing lucrative raids. He's very thankful for the opportunity to flex his muscles once more. He proved himself to be an excellent companion on the road, and an effective grimm-hunter. Together, you were able to push the grimm back, and keep your serfs from wasting away under their assaults.
(Steward) Organize Reclamation Party:
Terra's disastrous expedition to open up the Bunker has spread throughout Thromrhold. You visited her when you could, though it was difficult to look upon the mass of red bandages in the Chirurgeon's hut. Thanks to his efforts and some talented healers, they were able to save her life, but were unable to wake her from the coma that set in shortly after her stabilization. By the first day of Spring, she's been sleeping for three months.
(Spymistress) Spy (Internal):
Though Sable moved too late to stop Cobalt's sabotage, she managed to prevent him from escaping, causing further damage, or reporting to Knight Lichtra of his successes. Thanks to her efforts, Cobalt has been imprisoned, the claim he spent years forging is in your hands, and you hold the initiative in this game of shadows.
(Head Teller) Keep at Hand:
For once, Popolla managed to be useful. Though she's been having some trouble in actually finding her, she has convinced a learned Teller by the name of Thorlaug to come join your court. She's apparently a sour type, but knows the Knight of Frost's Rites better than anyone else in the Keep of Hvitr. No doubt you'll be able to find a place for her in Thormrhold.
(Huntsman Superior) Teach Me, Daff!:
The training is long and difficult, but you make some decent progress. Daff says the mediation you've been doing is always rough on those who haven't trained to be a Huntsman from an early age. He says your progression is normal, even though you haven't learned to apply the teachings just yet. Thankfully, you were able to keep your pseudo-apprenticeship under wraps for the duration of the Fall and Winter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Results in Summary
Results Finished!
Aurleg Stenberg: Your mother has given birth to the last child of Auric Stenberg - little Aurleg. She's healthy by all accounts, and possesses a strong set of lungs. She has her mother's hair, but your father's glacier-melt eyes.
None.
Marble Griswalder: Little did you know that the commander and Marshal you heard so much about growing up would eventually come to serve you!
+7 Lien! (Income)
+2 Lien (Recovered Good Horses)
-5 Lien (Gather Information)
-35 Lien (Hire Strategic Tutor)
-10 Lien (Replenish Retinue)
+1.5 Units Dust (Mine Dust)
+0 Units of Food (Adequate Harvest, Greenhouse Destroyed)
Morale: Now - Uneasy (Trending Slowly Downward)
-5 Prestige (Hire Teller)
-2 Piety (Poor Learning Stat)
-10 Piety (Hire Teller)
+2 Lien (Recovered Good Horses)
-5 Lien (Gather Information)
-35 Lien (Hire Strategic Tutor)
-10 Lien (Replenish Retinue)
+1.5 Units Dust (Mine Dust)
+0 Units of Food (Adequate Harvest, Greenhouse Destroyed)
Morale: Now - Uneasy (Trending Slowly Downward)
-5 Prestige (Hire Teller)
-2 Piety (Poor Learning Stat)
-10 Piety (Hire Teller)
Knight of Logrhorn: It is now a surity that Knight Brynus Lichtra plots against you. Little does he know, however, that his attempts to obtain a claim on your lands has backfired spectacularly.
Wroth
+1 Martial (Wroth). Life has dealt you a tough hand, and you responded with a red fury.
-1 Diplomacy (Wroth). Life has dealt you a tough hand, and you responded with a red fury.
-1 Diplomacy (Wroth). Life has dealt you a tough hand, and you responded with a red fury.
Covered in next post.
None.
Results Finished!
Last edited:
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
Turn 3 Decisions should be up sometime this weekend. I need a break, so I'm going to kill the filthy xenos in XCOM 2. I made a huge 54-person character pool for RWBY if you play the game as well.
Hope you enjoyed the update!
Edit: Will modify character sheet before Turn 3.
Hope you enjoyed the update!
Edit: Will modify character sheet before Turn 3.
Last edited:
Powerofmind
In Madness Fallen
- Location
- United States
11k...
I bow in deference.
I bow in deference.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Well shit. I'm guessing Terra is beyond help?
I used that, and I love it. I once got a scientist I didn't need because I couldn't imagine leaving Nora and Ren separate.Turn 3 Decisions should be up sometime this weekend. I need a break, so I'm going to kill the filthy xenos in XCOM 2. I made a huge 54-person character pool for RWBY if you play the game as well.
Hope you enjoyed the update!
KleverKil'Vanya
Ortillery Operator
What the ever loving fucking shit was that?!
Fucking fiat losses. No way to stop from losing an almost irreparable building on the 2nd fucking turn.
Fucking fiat losses. No way to stop from losing an almost irreparable building on the 2nd fucking turn.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Probably background rolls. We can't make reactions to stuff like that in a CK2 format. The cost of a big picture is that the little stuff isn't handled by us.
RedrumSprinkles
The Fun Inquisitor
Pretty much this. Cobalt got crazy good target/sabotage rolls, and Sable rolled too shittily to stop him.
Them's the breaks.
Powerofmind
In Madness Fallen
- Location
- United States
And now I've fully read the turn. I can say with some degree of levity that I have another idea for some Sable, @RedrumSprinkles.
Don't bitch without realizing the issue. We rolled poorly against Cobalt for the sabotage attempts, and the only way to display that without making Sable look like an ignoramus is to make it seem 'she wasn't prepared to move on him yet'. We did, however, roll well to capture him, exceedingly so, and likely crit-successed the fabricate attempt. Given the evidence we can bring to bear by using the imprisonment of Cobalt, the forgery of the claim, and bringing up an almost impossible to detect forgery on the other's estate, we should be able to get our Lord to forcibly abdicate the Knight, and if he chooses not to step down, crush him underfoot with war.