Eh, military support would be nice, but if need be we can raise our own units, albeit slowly. The real issue for us is in manpower and population, so a few ships with refugees would actually be extremely welcome. Would let us see about either upgrading existing settlements, or founding new ones.
Graf of Sudenberg, a Warhammer CKII quest
- Thread starter Claytonimor
- Start date
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
As far as refugees, you'll be getting some soon, but not from the Empire. I don't know if I've mentioned this, but there may or may not be rumblings of something major in Tilea and Estalia that will affect all of Araby.
Beyond that, you may or may not get a visit from Finubar, who should still be travelling around the old world.
Brettonian sea power is starting to spread southward, with Lyonesse recovering from the Chaos Invasion three years prior, so you may get a few Brettonians.
Beyond that, I highly expect for Barak Varr to try and launch an expedition southwards to try and reconnect with the southern Dwarven Holds, and they may resupply at Sudenberg if it's prospering enough.
Lastly, on the subject of refugees, so long as you remain fairly out of the Arabian civil war, you will be getting influxes of Arabians periodically and to an increasing degree so long as the civil war continues.
Speaking of, I think I'm gonna go about expanding the map, soon.
Finally got more time for quests so what's the chances of getting additional military support with dogs of war in the future?
Oh Vlad is loose. No way we'll be getting any imperial support. Everyone's too busy with Vlad.
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
Well, mostly just Ostermark and Imperial Talabecland, at the moment. Averland is trying to mind its own business and maintain defenses of BFP. Imperial Reikland's probably going to take advantage of Talabecland's weakness to lay claim to the other side of the River Reik; that is, if they won't be too busy with mopping up the remains of the previous chaos incursion into Brettonia that's taken to holing up in the Grey mountains. Imperial Middenland will probably follow suit after Reikland in regards to the Talabecs if they aren't too busy with the Drakwald. Ostland will be busy with Norscans and trying to single-handedly maintain an alliance with the Kislevite state.
Which leaves Imperial Westerland mostly free. The only thing they need to worry about is if Vlad invades Stirland. With Nordland under their sway they have a goodly portion of the Imperial fleet maintaining the sea of claws and with Westerland and Marienburg they have the funds to actually want to participate and world-spanning trade.
However, once again, if you guys are looking for proper military support, I will say that events in about a year should provide ample opportunities for expansion so long as you play your cards right.
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
Hey, guys, something fun occurred, so I'm gonna need a series of at least 10 1d20's.
Only two at a time, though, please.
Only two at a time, though, please.
- Location
- Asia
ok
- Location
- Rockford, USA
- Pronouns
- They/Them
May the dice gods look favorably upon us.
EDIT: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
EDIT: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
- Location
- Asia
Somebody is having a bad day.
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
Luckily that is not what this is about.
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
I'm gonna need at least three more sets, probably more.
- Location
- Asia
okay
- Location
- Rockford, USA
- Pronouns
- They/Them
I'll do another, then.
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
This is a real nailbiter for those of me who are aware of what you're rolling for.
Another set, if you would.
Another set, if you would.
- Location
- Asia
done
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
Well done.
Mini-Action 2.7: You Have Clubs on the Ends of Your Arms
Claytonimor
WE WILL TAKE JERUSALEM
- Location
- Loudon, TN
[X] Join your Greatswords and lend your blade to the defense.
[X]"Guests? And I have not even sent wedding invitations yet! FOR SUDENBERG, FOR HASHEM, AND FOR SIGMAR!"
As the reverberations from the handguns above you died out, you force a wild grin in the face of the onrushing heathen horde and call out, clearly as you can over the chaos.
"Guests? And I have not even sent wedding invitations yet!"
You let the nearing pounding of the enemy's feet bring your voice to a crescendo.
"LET US SHOW THEM PROPER IMPERIAL HOSPITALITY! FOR SUDENBERG!"
The first few of the enemy begin to poke through the thinning gunsmoke.
"FOR HASHEM!"
Your greatswords, veterans all, heft their blades half-swordedly, ready to drive their points home in heathen flesh.
"FOR SIGMAR!"
As the enemy crashes into your lines, you receive the refrain from hundred and a half throats.
"FOR THE HELDENHAMMER!"
Then there is no more time for shouts.
A mass of half-crazed, half-terrified peasants crash into your men.
All about you, a dozen dozen men strive their hardest to slaughter one another. Above you, a light pattering of arrows attempt- and fail- to dissuade your handgunners. Their shots produce a sharp crack every time they fire, punctuating the roars of combat.
Here and there, about you, you see men a dozen years your senior brought low by a questing spearpoint. Even though, all across your line, masterfully forged blades punch through the flesh of the heathen and your men are killing nearly three for every one out them, you know not how long you will have the numbers to hold the barricade.
Then, with an almost visible flex of your men, the foemen are broken from your lines.
The multitudinous bodies of the foe's men- mixing with the occasional gleaming corpse of one of yours- have left the makeshift hill in front of your lines slick with blood. You spy the foemen hesitate for a moment to rejoin battle with your men. While the grinding of this fight will leave them likely victorious, the brutal slaughter you and your men will wreck amongst them until that points lends fear to their hearts.
Then your handgunners open up.
The first group of the enemy's men shatters.
They attempt to flee, but are met in the middle by the rest of the foeman's forces pushing behind them. Briefly, you wished your gunmen had not yet fired their weapons, as you've little doubt that the maneuver will be resolved prior to the next volley.
Alas, you are proven correct.
Again and again, the ragged spearmen fling themselves against your men. Again and again, you slaughter them.
The battle carries on, nearly monotonously, as your sword arm grows tired. So exhausted are you that you barely notice when those men you face cease to be levies given pointed sticks and told to charge. Rather, it is only after you see proper steel cut down a greatsword to your right that you realise that the enemy has finally loosed what is left of his guard.
Then, the handgunners loose another volley, and you feel a blade recoil off your pauldron.
Shunting yourself to the side as much as you can in the cramped space of your barricade, desperately not tripping over the body of a fallen greatsword, you turn towards the source of the strike.
Through the haze of your exhaustion, you duck back as you register a second blow screaming for your throat. You raise a frantic parry and slap the blade into the corpse beneath you.
In that moment between his attack and your counter, you take in your attacker.
A high plumed helmet in Brettonian style rests on more traditional- though still of high quality- Arabian layered plates.
Beneath, a clean-shaven youth with green eyes of hate glares at you while screaming what you can only assume are obscenities.
You may or may not be responding in kind as you stamp down on his blade, dragging it from his grip. And, of course, as your hearing starts to return, another volley from your handgunners returns your sense to a high ringing.
Taking the chance further, you follow your leg in, shoulder-charging the heathen back into a melee along the barricade, breaking it up. Your man uses the chance to cut down his foe, but is knocked backwards, himself, by the enraged trashings of the Arabian at his feet.
Unsure if your own footing, you let the youth come to you, having taken a thick blade from the lifeless bodies near him.
Now thoroughly prepared for him, you swiftly prove yourself the superior fighter. Well, either that, or the more lucky, though the difference is negligible.
A rough overhand slash is parried to the side, leaving him open to a cut into his thigh, carving off a chunk.
You backstep his flailing return and give his outreached arm a slice across the knuckles. As his blade drops, you step in, ready to exploit the opening, but the boy keeps going, turning his wild slash into a diving tackle.
He catches you by the stomach and your duel swiftly shifts into a brawl. Blows hammer you with reckless abandon as you both become soaked with the blood pouring from the boy's myriad wounds.
You think you might be rolling down the barricade, and that another volley of handguns loose, but such is secondary to your attempts to avoid your face being mashed into your skull.
One of his blows sets your vision swimming, and another, into your arm, leaves a crunch that you're sure you'll only really begin to feel after the fight comes to a close.
Successfully warding off another of his blows, you wrench your hips and hammer-fist his gut to flip your positions
Thus straddling him, one of your arms responds to your desires to return, tenfold, his savaging of your face, your heavy gauntlet serving passably as a mace.
At first, his frantic flailings actually pose something of a threat, being that he, too, has slabs of heavy metal on the ends of his arms. Such a threat steadily lessens as the structural integrity of his head does.
Eventually, the struggles cease fully and you look up from the ground, taking in the rest of the battlefield. Not that you can see much of it, being covered as it is the bodies of the fallen.
Here and there, one of your handgunners patrols with his blade barred, occasionally stopping and driving it into a still-twitching foeman.
It seems that, at some point, your men won.
Another of the handgunners, seeing your task to be complete, helps you to your feet.
You think he is speaking, but the ringing in your ears isn't going down any, precluding and attempts at communication.
Pantomiming, you get that general idea across. Thanking Ranald, you motion to your arm, the one yet still not responding, and pray for further fortune.
The handgunner, seeming to understand your secondary predicament, motions about himself to indicate the general vicinity before shaking his head in the negative. He waves vaguely towards the Emira's keep and gives a hopeful gesture, but retains the doubtfulness of his posture.
Damn.
Gained trait: Wounded: -1 Action of your choice until cured: Shallyan priestesses are the only good part of being hurt.
What do you do:
[ ] Join your men in hunting down the last remnants of the foe
[ ] Aid the Emira to prepare a banquet for your parting
[ ] Personally oversee the transportation of your fallen
[ ] Write-in
-------------------------
(A/N: A couple of things. First, on the update. These last three things will happen regardless of your personal involvement, this just tells me how to do the last miniturn bit. Second, also on the update. This would have been out sooner, for real this time, but my laptop crapped out on me. Therefore, most of this was written on my phone. I'd appreciate if you guys can find the multitudinous mistakes I'm sure I made.)
[X]"Guests? And I have not even sent wedding invitations yet! FOR SUDENBERG, FOR HASHEM, AND FOR SIGMAR!"
As the reverberations from the handguns above you died out, you force a wild grin in the face of the onrushing heathen horde and call out, clearly as you can over the chaos.
"Guests? And I have not even sent wedding invitations yet!"
You let the nearing pounding of the enemy's feet bring your voice to a crescendo.
"LET US SHOW THEM PROPER IMPERIAL HOSPITALITY! FOR SUDENBERG!"
The first few of the enemy begin to poke through the thinning gunsmoke.
"FOR HASHEM!"
Your greatswords, veterans all, heft their blades half-swordedly, ready to drive their points home in heathen flesh.
"FOR SIGMAR!"
As the enemy crashes into your lines, you receive the refrain from hundred and a half throats.
"FOR THE HELDENHAMMER!"
Then there is no more time for shouts.
A mass of half-crazed, half-terrified peasants crash into your men.
All about you, a dozen dozen men strive their hardest to slaughter one another. Above you, a light pattering of arrows attempt- and fail- to dissuade your handgunners. Their shots produce a sharp crack every time they fire, punctuating the roars of combat.
Here and there, about you, you see men a dozen years your senior brought low by a questing spearpoint. Even though, all across your line, masterfully forged blades punch through the flesh of the heathen and your men are killing nearly three for every one out them, you know not how long you will have the numbers to hold the barricade.
Then, with an almost visible flex of your men, the foemen are broken from your lines.
The multitudinous bodies of the foe's men- mixing with the occasional gleaming corpse of one of yours- have left the makeshift hill in front of your lines slick with blood. You spy the foemen hesitate for a moment to rejoin battle with your men. While the grinding of this fight will leave them likely victorious, the brutal slaughter you and your men will wreck amongst them until that points lends fear to their hearts.
Then your handgunners open up.
The first group of the enemy's men shatters.
They attempt to flee, but are met in the middle by the rest of the foeman's forces pushing behind them. Briefly, you wished your gunmen had not yet fired their weapons, as you've little doubt that the maneuver will be resolved prior to the next volley.
Alas, you are proven correct.
Again and again, the ragged spearmen fling themselves against your men. Again and again, you slaughter them.
The battle carries on, nearly monotonously, as your sword arm grows tired. So exhausted are you that you barely notice when those men you face cease to be levies given pointed sticks and told to charge. Rather, it is only after you see proper steel cut down a greatsword to your right that you realise that the enemy has finally loosed what is left of his guard.
Then, the handgunners loose another volley, and you feel a blade recoil off your pauldron.
Shunting yourself to the side as much as you can in the cramped space of your barricade, desperately not tripping over the body of a fallen greatsword, you turn towards the source of the strike.
Through the haze of your exhaustion, you duck back as you register a second blow screaming for your throat. You raise a frantic parry and slap the blade into the corpse beneath you.
In that moment between his attack and your counter, you take in your attacker.
A high plumed helmet in Brettonian style rests on more traditional- though still of high quality- Arabian layered plates.
Beneath, a clean-shaven youth with green eyes of hate glares at you while screaming what you can only assume are obscenities.
You may or may not be responding in kind as you stamp down on his blade, dragging it from his grip. And, of course, as your hearing starts to return, another volley from your handgunners returns your sense to a high ringing.
Taking the chance further, you follow your leg in, shoulder-charging the heathen back into a melee along the barricade, breaking it up. Your man uses the chance to cut down his foe, but is knocked backwards, himself, by the enraged trashings of the Arabian at his feet.
Unsure if your own footing, you let the youth come to you, having taken a thick blade from the lifeless bodies near him.
Now thoroughly prepared for him, you swiftly prove yourself the superior fighter. Well, either that, or the more lucky, though the difference is negligible.
A rough overhand slash is parried to the side, leaving him open to a cut into his thigh, carving off a chunk.
You backstep his flailing return and give his outreached arm a slice across the knuckles. As his blade drops, you step in, ready to exploit the opening, but the boy keeps going, turning his wild slash into a diving tackle.
He catches you by the stomach and your duel swiftly shifts into a brawl. Blows hammer you with reckless abandon as you both become soaked with the blood pouring from the boy's myriad wounds.
You think you might be rolling down the barricade, and that another volley of handguns loose, but such is secondary to your attempts to avoid your face being mashed into your skull.
One of his blows sets your vision swimming, and another, into your arm, leaves a crunch that you're sure you'll only really begin to feel after the fight comes to a close.
Successfully warding off another of his blows, you wrench your hips and hammer-fist his gut to flip your positions
Thus straddling him, one of your arms responds to your desires to return, tenfold, his savaging of your face, your heavy gauntlet serving passably as a mace.
At first, his frantic flailings actually pose something of a threat, being that he, too, has slabs of heavy metal on the ends of his arms. Such a threat steadily lessens as the structural integrity of his head does.
Eventually, the struggles cease fully and you look up from the ground, taking in the rest of the battlefield. Not that you can see much of it, being covered as it is the bodies of the fallen.
Here and there, one of your handgunners patrols with his blade barred, occasionally stopping and driving it into a still-twitching foeman.
It seems that, at some point, your men won.
Another of the handgunners, seeing your task to be complete, helps you to your feet.
You think he is speaking, but the ringing in your ears isn't going down any, precluding and attempts at communication.
Pantomiming, you get that general idea across. Thanking Ranald, you motion to your arm, the one yet still not responding, and pray for further fortune.
The handgunner, seeming to understand your secondary predicament, motions about himself to indicate the general vicinity before shaking his head in the negative. He waves vaguely towards the Emira's keep and gives a hopeful gesture, but retains the doubtfulness of his posture.
Damn.
Gained trait: Wounded: -1 Action of your choice until cured: Shallyan priestesses are the only good part of being hurt.
What do you do:
[ ] Join your men in hunting down the last remnants of the foe
[ ] Aid the Emira to prepare a banquet for your parting
[ ] Personally oversee the transportation of your fallen
[ ] Write-in
-------------------------
(A/N: A couple of things. First, on the update. These last three things will happen regardless of your personal involvement, this just tells me how to do the last miniturn bit. Second, also on the update. This would have been out sooner, for real this time, but my laptop crapped out on me. Therefore, most of this was written on my phone. I'd appreciate if you guys can find the multitudinous mistakes I'm sure I made.)
Cybandeath
Lord Darkness, and Representative of Mad Science
- Location
- The United States of America
[x] Personally oversee the transportation of your fallen
- Location
- Asia
[x] Personally oversee the transportation of your fallen
- Location
- Rockford, USA
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[x] Personally oversee the transportation of your fallen
Hunting them down sounds nice but isn't strictly necessary since others will handle it. This pays dividends with our troops, and is only right.
Hunting them down sounds nice but isn't strictly necessary since others will handle it. This pays dividends with our troops, and is only right.