Heirs of Sigmar

[SirLagginton]

The Docks of Nuln​

The day after the conclusion of the Tournament of Striessen

"The Lord is back! The Lord is back!"

"Shallya have mercy upon us at last! Count Friedrich please save us!"

"Drag those fucking merchants to the noose Grand Count!"

Grand Count Friedrich von Schwarzburg stared from the railing of his galley as he watch the crowd visibly swell at the edge of the docks, roiling and growing like a living creature as yet more citizens rushed to join the increasing furor. While public attention wasn't exactly unusual as the Elector Count of the province, the increasingly large horde clamouring from the vast docks of Nuln was uncommon even for one of his exalted status. The mass of human bodies seemed to stretch on back as far as he could see, as if the cacophony of outrage powered the titanic foundries that made up the cities heart instead of the crimson heat that unmade steel to liquid. His Greatsword bodyguards were becoming agitated too he noted, and from the corner of his eye he watched Siegfried signal his unit into closing ranks around him. Good man that Siegfried, worth every shilling he paid towards his salary. Still, something in his head insisted he was missing something...

Wait, where were the burghers?

Friedrich scanned the crowd again, and true enough despite the way the crowd contracted and coiled with barely restrained energy there wasn't a single one in sight among the crowd. He knew it wasn't necessarily out of the question that they would want to avoid what may be a potential riot, so why did their absence bother him so much? But more than anything else, he was disconcerted at how so many looked to him with hope, as if he was a prophet set to endure a trial of the gods. An inimical dread settled on his shoulders, the specter of Anne-Marie interposed on the face of roaring crowd. She would solve this in a heartbeat, they screamed, but here we have only you.

"Make way! Make way!" Cries came out from the back of the seething mass, and the crowd shifted as ranks of silvered steel came into view, the column of State Troops at their head shoving and pushing aside the crowd aside to clear a path. At their head he spied Marshal Elise von Windisch and the head of the Nuln Trade Association Maik Hölderlin. Screams and jeers doubled and redoubled as the crowd devolved into a frenzy at the sight of the latter, forcing the State Troops to use ever more forceful methods to shove aside the crowd as rotten fruit and vegetables began came down like rain on the burgher. He could barely make out what they were saying, so overwhelming was their judgemental thunder, but he could hear the sheer hate laced in their words. They hated, and in their hate he could see the tinder set to spark that could cost him Nuln.

"Heretic!"

"Go spread those legs for Reikland some more would you?"

"Death to all who would corrupt the White Lady! Death to the Joanites!"

By the time the procession reached Friedrich the burgher had been completely drenched in a indeterminable concoction of foul-smelling juices, and more than one State Trooper was staring poisonously at Maik as well as they wiped away at their sodden plate.

"Elise," Friedrich nodded in acknowledgment as Elise stepped off a ramp, her usual stoicism looking strained and harried. He made a curt gesture to the cacophony beyond them, trying to hide the anxiety at the sight of a city set to explode. He wasn't sure he was entirely successful. "Would you care to inform me why Nuln appears to be one step away from a city-wide riot?"

"My lord," She bowed, janky and hurried from what he presumed to be the stress of keeping everything together. "It's difficult to explain, especially as details are still being made to light for me. To put it simply, while you were away the Sisters of Shallya began advertising loans in partnership with a Reiklander merchant house."

A sharp intake of breath as Friedrich looked disbelievingly at her. "Pardon me? Elise I'm not sure I heard you right. I thought I heard you say the Sisters of Shallya have abandoned the sacred duty of charity."

"It's a terrible misunderstanding my lord!" Maik chose to interject at that point, a thoroughly soiled handkerchief wiping most of the juices off his face. "The intention of the credit unions was to get the people to help themselves. To forge a city of kings instead of beggars. All that was offered was a loan at near-nonexistent rates, an opportunity to make something of themselves instead of sitting in the squalor. All we wanted to do was to help. You must convince the common folk that this was for their own good!"

"You would see the Sisters of Shallya exchange charity for coin, grace for debt, kindness for some twisted screed of prosperity!" Elise's harried composure finally broke for anger as she snapped. "How dare you suggest that charging interest is supposed to be anything but a burden for those truly in need!? That heresy is the path to the well-being of the people? I've had enough of tolerating your blasphemy!" Her hand went to the sword at her side, but Friedrich was faster.

"Does this look like what Shallya envisioned for the people?!" Friedrich snarled as he violently hauled Maik over to the side of the ship, leaving him near hanging off the railing as the crowd before them let loose a vindictive cheer. "Fear and hate, a city set to drown in its own blood? Judging by the way they reacted to you Maik, I'd say they're ready to tear you limb from limb. Surely that was Shallya's wish when you embarked on whatever fool venture that had led to this point."

The reedy man gasped in terror as he hung from Friedrich's grasp, gaping at the crowd that bayed for his blood. He swallowed as he looked back to register the somehow equal levels of cold rage that was glittering in Friedrich's eyes. "Please my lord, I only ever wanted to help. Truly, I did." He shuddered, but managed to visibly rally even as Friedrich's grip was the only thing between him and the River Reik. "Sire, I realise the depths of my transgressions now, and I am now prepared to render any aid I-I can to deliver to resolve the situation satisfactorily. I am prepared to receive whatever punishment you deem fitting. Just... Please, save Nuln. It is the home of my father. My father's father. My children. I beg you to save Nuln."

A violent motion, and Maik found himself dazedly looking back up at the sky, stunned from his sudden landing.

"Ranald is with you today Merchant, as I'm not quite at the point of executing you yet for your role in this heresy." The Grand Count left Maik gasping on the floor as he turned to Graf Elise, who had reassembled some semblance of calm in the meantime. "He'll be lucky to not join those he denigrated once I'm through with him and his like. Elise, last I recall the representative of the faith is supposed to be a Martriarch Joan. Am I right to assume that she is responsible for this heterodoxy? For this?" He swept a hand out to the docks, still roiling with the energy of a beast barely sated.

"Yes my lord. We were forced to deploy troops around the Temple of Shallya after the first attempted lynch mob, I assumed you'd wish to handle the situation personally and refrained from further action. As far as I'm aware the Matriarch still resides within the Grand Temple."

"Good." Friedrich took a deep breath, restraining further displays of his growing outrage at all of this. Not leading that baying crowd to storm the Temple of Shallya was progressively looking like the most difficult decision of his life. "Then that will be our first stop. Effective immediately, the Iconoclast Joan and her inner circle are to be arrested on charges of heresy and usury. Further charges pending once I have some time to think about what to add for nearly tearing my city apart."

---

@TenfoldShields

Article:

To Grand Prince Konstantin Rannulf Engel I of Reikland

My friend, I hope you will forgive my bluntness, but given the urgency of the situation I see little point in wasting words. I do not intend to impugn upon your character nor your competence in governance, but one of your vassals, a merchant family by the name of House Meyer has stepped far beyond its bounds into the vile depths of heresy. Through the urging of House Meyer and a now-former priestess by the name of Joan they have deceived a significant portion of the Sisters of Shallya in the worth of advertising the financial services of House Meyer. Rest assured that I fully intend to see this blasphemy destroyed by root and soil in my domain, and I only ask that you do your part in the same. If we are to rescue the good name of Shallya then House Meyer and those who would still willingly collaborate with them then they must face sanction. I trust in your piety to do the right thing.

May the grace of Shallya see us through

Grand Count Friedrich von Schwarzburg, Elector Count of Wissenland, Baron of Nuln, Warden of Echoes

---

@Maugan Ra

Article:

To Matriarch Guiselle of the Order of the Bleeding Heart

I truly wish we could be communicating in better circumstances, as no doubt a priestess of your exalted station would have much wisdom to share with a mere supplicant such as I, but circumstances unfortunately force me otherwise. I have been made aware of the regrettable events revolving around the Cult of Shallya in Nuln and am currently in the process of detaining these so-called 'Joanites' until I am satisfied that the situation is resolved. I will venture to keep the Bleeding Heart abreast of the situation as I become aware of more details. Please accept my personal apologies in my capacity as Grand Count of Wissenland. Of all the gods there are few I honour as the White Lady for her boundless depths of kindness and compassion for all, and that the epicenter of this event was in my city is a shame I must burden. I shall spare no effort in redeeming both myself and my city.

May the grace of Shallya see us through

Grand Count Friedrich von Schwarzburg, Elector Count of Wissenland, Baron of Nuln, Warden of Echoes

 

[Carol]

JOAN OF NULN
Letters to the Outside ​

---

To H.E. Oskar Meyer,
Head of House Meyer​

I see now that the path of commerce cannot alleviate the sufferings of the people. I apologize but our paths must be severed for the good of the congregation. Keep all the gold invested for I wish not to take them. May the Ever Loving forgive us for our arrogance.

IN GOOD FAITH,
JOAN​

---

To the Congregation of Shallya​

Cease all cooperation with the Fraternal Society of the Ever Loving and return to your nominal duties, beloved brothers and sisters. Help the poor, heal the sick, be just, and listen to your blessed siblings from Talabheim. Do not resist the passions of those who seek to harm you. Only pray for their forgiveness as they do not know what they are doing. That is all I ask of you.

IN GOOD FAITH,
JOAN​

---

To the Grand Temple in Talabheim
​

Beloved brothers and sisters, I know the useless of words to actions in the face of justice. Thus, I will travel, by foot, alone, to your grand congregation: reliant only upon the goodwill of the Ever Loving and Her cherished children. I give all my authority to you until such time that I may be trusted with it again. May we mend what was broken and return to the path of salvation. Should you require it, my intended pathway will be inscribed below.

IN GOOD FAITH,
JOAN​

---

To H.E. Friedrich von Schwarzburg,
Elector Count of Wissenland, Baron of Nuln, Warden of Echoes,
and the wider public of the Empire​

Good count, do not think the innocence of Shallya's children means their ignorance. You may arrest Her anointed clergy -- thereby depriving the sick of their healers and the poor of their supporters -- in peace. You may deprive Her temples of any valuables -- thereby enriching your estate -- in peace. Do so without trouble for Shallya's children will never resist you nor your justices. Below this letter is my intended pathway to Talabheim. All are welcomed to visit these places for I will help all those who request it. And, good count, you may arrest me in peace at your leisure.

IN GOOD FAITH,
JOAN​

 

[Maugan Ra]

Van Hal's Folly
(Written by @Havocfett with my approval)

Mathilde Van Hal looked to secure her rule with a grand success. Sylvania, all of it, was nominally part of her domain, and the town of Drakenhof held an enormous wealth of gold. All that stood in her way was hundreds of miles of undead-infested hills.

So she marshalled her troops, rallied the Knights, and set her plan in motion. A grand purging of the haunted hills. A crusade across Sylvania. A new road to Drakenhof. Untold wealth to further her ambitions.

And all on the backs of a single army of unexceptional troops, and whatever cavalry the Knightly orders lent her, in the depths of haunted Sylvania. Some of her own nobles protested, for Van Hal did not muster her lances for this great glory, others protested, for the idea seemed clear hubris to them, and yet more protested that money that could be enriching noble lands was being funneled into knightly orders that they did not support.

But the decision was made.

Throughout spring and summer, laborers built the Sigmar's Blood chapter house. Knights of the Blazing Sun and Sigmar's Blood reaved the hills closest to the Stirlish border, clearing away the undead while ever-more soldiers began to muster. Free lances from Stirland and Averland, mustered in the name of Morr. Devotees of Sigmar, here to scourge Sylvania once more. Knights of the Raven Order, specialists in hunting the Undead. And finally, Stirlish state troopers, gunners, archers, pikes, and blades.

The assault went well, to start. The lessons learned in the last Vampire War had been learned well. Cannons and Handgonnes reaved zombies from afar. Knights ran them down and drove them into the hills. Footholds were established, and construction started, and the army moved into the hills.

This is when things began to go wrong.

The Blazing Sun and Sigmar's Blood remained in Leicheberg, deploying for short raids into the near hills. They did not join the expedition in their deeper rangings, and flat out refused to when asked and ordered. The near hills were their target, and they refused to increase their scope.

The rest of the army, Sigmarites, Ravens, Free Lances, and Van Hal's own troops had no such compunctions. They fought their way into the hills, their lifeline and supply route being constructed as they went. Even without undead, the terrain would have been hellish for construction. The hills are riven with swamps and scree and damp heaths. As much work goes into digging as goes into laying road, and each mass grave they uncover must be consecrated or burned.

Then there were the Undead, who had no intention of making things easy. The terrain was terrible for horses and excellent for ambush, especially for oes who didn't need to breathe. Knights found themselves being pulled from their horses by teams of Ghuls as they patrolled. Rushing undead swarmed unready free lances, horses breaking legs and necks in desperate attempts to maneuver. Gunners found their sightlines full of allies, the foe always closer than they were comfortable with. Crews were slaughtered in the knight, and only the Raven Order seemed truly prepared for the treachery of Sylvania. Worse, the local peasantry ranged from uncooperative to simply missing. Having burned their fields and fled well before the approaching army crossed the horizon.

So the work slowed, and dragged on, and on, and on. By autumn they were behind schedule, utterly reliant on their supply train, and stretched out over endless miles of cursed fenn.

Naturally, this is when the Undead seemed to get organized.

Every night saw new attacks. Sentries torn apart at their posts. Sections of road shredded by Ghouls. Supply trains brutalized by waves of attacks. There were dozens of miles of road, and only a few hundred knights to guard them while the army marched. Then a zombie managed to ignite the gunpowder store.

The detonation rocked the camp. Handguns and cannons were useless by dawn, their remaining ammunition spent to hold back the tide of the dead. The decision was made to hold position, to wait for more powder, more food, to arrive from Leicheberg.

It never did.

Within days food ran low and men ran ragged from days of constant fighting and raiding. Wolves ripped apart patrols, and in the distance a knight in red armor watched the camp. Faced with the prospect of being starved out or swarmed under, Mathilde made the only call available to her.

They would retreat to Leicheberg.

The undead would not make it easy. They would have to punch through screen after screen, the bodies of those who died on campaign arrayed against them as zombies. They passed the burning remains of wagons meant to resupply them, shredded work crews, and flooded roads. Wolves and ghasts and ghouls rushed from the hills in ambush, pulling formations of knights from their horses, and gunners and artillerymen were forced to pick pikes from the fallen and stab their way free.

Then the Vampire showed himself. Resplendent in red armor, flanked by fallen Lances and Knights who had died during the march. He marshalled undead the expedition had not yet seen, Varghulfs and fell bats and the great honor-guards of the dead. An arcane coach and well-appointed hordes of the dead. And he charged, and the day seemed lost.

Mathilde's bodyguard began to fall around her, and she crossed lances with the Vampire, with the Blood Dragon. The Raven Knights felled varghulfs and zombie-knights, War-priests fought valiantly through the Dragon's Grave-Guard. But the day seemed lost, they seemed liable to be overrun, and without artillery none could touch the coach.

But they were close enough to the border, and as the sun set, armored figures crested a nearby hill. Knights of Sigmar's Blood and the Blazing Sun charged into the Undead's rear. Lances tore the coach to pieces, and legions of zombies began to simply crumble under the might of the charge. The Blood Dragon was forced to flee the field, and while she had not the strength to pursue, Mathilde managed to evacuate her surviving soldiers.

And found themselves having to purchase food and supplies from waiting halfling merchants, for the harvest had come and passed, and there was little to spare for her army.

Worse, news had come from the west.

Averland had declared war.

 

[Maugan Ra]

In all the states and nations of the Empire, one would be hard pressed to find a man as respected as Martin of Stirland. When the vampires rose and the dead marched against the realms of men for the third time in as many generations, it was Martin of Stirland who broke them on the field, who held the coalition of living together, who slew the feared Mannfred von Carstein at Hel Fenn. When he perished, falling in mysterious circumstances after fifty years of wise and prosperous rules, the mourning was not confined to Stirland alone.

When Francis Ludwig of Averland proclaimed a tournament in the fallen Count's honour, it was a gesture well received the length and breadth of the land. No sooner had the proclamation gone out than knights and lords from every state were declaring their intention to participate, and when the news came that the Grand Count had petitioned the Cult of Sigmar to enshrine the fallen hero for eternity there were nods of approval all around. Oh certainly Averland had its own ambitions in this matter, for when did they not, but that hardly detracted from the honours given and deserved to their old neighbour and its fallen leader.

It was at Streissen that the Grand Count decided to hold his tournament, repurposing the rolling fields outside the scholarly town into a grand display of tents and dueling grounds that painted the world in a hundred brilliant colours. Averland had spared no expense, providing food and accommodations worthy of the small army of nobility that had arrived in response to their invitation, and as each prince and noble arrived it was to a personal greeting by the famously charismatic Grand Count himself. With sincerity he thanked them, and with a coy smile he deflected talk of the beautiful young woman on his arm, introducing her solely as Eliana and promising that all their questions would be answered in time.

Rumours swiftly spread, of course, fuelled by the fact that the Grand Count undeniably spent more time in private conversation with the nobility drawn from Stirland itself than those of other regions, but at this early stage rumours were all they could remain.

The honour of opening the Tournament was granted to the Cult of Sigmar, who rose to the occasion with a grand service recounting the loyal service and pious devotion of Count Martin, ritually confirming him before the eyes of all assembled as a Venerated Soul of Sigmar, the highest honour it was possible for the church to bestow. When Francis Ludwig rose to address the assembled nobles, there were tears in every eye, an outpouring of emotion that the charismatic Grand Count wasted no time in harnessing.

With the greatest of sincerity, Francis spoke of his admiration for the fallen Count, confiding in the assembled peers that it had often been a dream of his to somehow fight alongside the legendary hero as his ancestors had, even though the passage of time rendered such childish ambitions impossible. He expressed his deep and heartfelt regret that he would never get the chance to meet his childhood hero in person, and his dismay that the man's successor had apparently chosen to disdain this tournament in favour of her own ambitions - a comment that produced ugly murmurs throughout the crowd, though only murmurs for now.

Then, with a brilliant smile, the Grand Count introduced the woman that everyone present had already seen at his side since the first days of the tournament - Eliana Haupt-Anderssen, Blessed Martin's own niece, and now the Count of Averland's betrothed. With the beaming maiden at his side, Francis Ludwig announced his impending marriage (inviting all present to the ceremony at the end of the tournament) and his commitment to ensuring that the line of Blessed Martin never lacked for a single thing as long as it was within his power to provide. Then, amid a storm of whispers and speculative looks, the tournament began.

In honour of Blessed Martin, there would be three primary rounds to the whole affair; a grand melee, an archery contest, and then a series of individual duels. Thus would the knights of today demonstrate their commitment to the skills of their ancestors, and over the course of the week many did just that. The air was filled with the hum of arrows, the clatter of sword against sword, and the triumphant roars of men and women with victory in their hands. Many reputations would be made and lost over the course of the tournament, but only a scarce handful would immediately resound beyond the bounds of Averland itself.

In the grand melee, an unlikely pair of knights rose to dominate the competition; Heinrich von Schaffernorscht and Alessio Malasangre, neither technically invited but equally capable of pressing claims to deserving representation in this celebration of victory in the Vampire Wars. Working together, and enlisting a number of hedge knights and lesser lords from other domains, they managed to forge order out of chaos and win the melee, their joint victory permitted by Francis Ludwig with a heartfelt speech about the importance of tactical awareness that Blessed Martin had demonstrated all those years ago at Hel Fenn.

In the archery competition, a mysterious knight of secretive lineage stormed to victory in magnificent style. They (for little could be told of their appearance, beneath the cloak and well worn armour) could not be bested with bow in hand, and even when deprived of such tools in the grand melee acquitted themselves with amazing vigour and more than a little glee, shaming men from across the Empire in quick succession before ultimately conceding to the pair of young lordlings from the eastern provinces. Rumours swirled, growing stronger as the mystery knight won the archery contest with almost contemptuous ease, and rising to a fever pitch when they retired to her tent with two beautiful young ladies of the southern realms in their arms.

And then there were the individual duels, where the greatest single combatants from across the Empire strove to best each other in memory of their fallen hero. Here, it was Friedrich von Schwarzburg of Wissenland that emerged victorious, clad head to toe in a glittering suit of rune-etched plate that left many breathless simply to behold. An unmatched work of art, it was also undeniably the product of some of the greatest rune-smiths among the Dawi, for when the Grand Count's skill was not sufficient to prevent a blow landing, the aggressor inevitably found themselves flung bodily through the air to land senseless on the ground many yards away. Some protested at the evident inequality of any duel featuring such equipment, but most were content to remember the famed reticence of the Dwarfs and wonder at what great deed the Count must have performed to earn such a boon.

Eventually, the tournament came to an end, with each of the victors presented with their prizes by the smiling Grand Count of Averland - indeed, it seemed to many that Francis was particularly delighted by the victory of the masked knight in the archery, laughing with them as though in shared knowledge of some tremendous jest. Then, as promised, all present were treated to a spectacular feast and front row seats to a marriage ceremony that would have beggared a small town to host.

That was when Francis Ludwig made his move.

With passion burning in his voice, he thanked all present for their attendance, and confessed his feelings of immense gratitude that such a woman as his new wife would willingly share her life with him. He pledged with iron certainty to spend his life repaying the tremendous honour that she had done him, to honour her in word and deed every morning and evening for as long as he drew breath, and with a tender smile Eliana repeated with a commitment of her own. Together, the married couple turned to address their guest, and spoke at last of the first steps in their plan; revenge, for the murder of their uncle.

Speaking with all the fire and vigour of a priest, Francis Ludwig denounced the woman who had dared to imagine herself a successor to the legacy of Blessed Martin. Mathilde Van Hel, he proclaimed, was a traitor, an usurper, and a murderer. She was the heir to nothing more than her ancestor's legacy of necromancy and dark magic, and doubtless had disdained attendance at this ceremony for fear that the blessed hero she had murdered would reveal her iniquity to the world. Instead, she had plunged headfirst into Sylvania, doubtless there to work some great act of evil magic to solidify her reign, or else weaken the troops that had followed her out of blind loyalty in preparation for the dark days she planned to come.

Well, Francis Ludwig would not have it.

With ancestral runefang in hand, the Grand Count of Averland swore a terrible oath; he would not rest until Mathilde Van Hel was deposed, until the people of Stirland were freed from her wicked dominion, until a true heir of Blessed Martin sat on the throne with the acclaim of the true nobility of Stirland, many of whom were assembled here today.

Before the echoes of his oath had faded was the Grand Count answered, many present drawing weapons to pledge their service to this most noble of causes, especially from those who had journeyed to the tournament from Stirland itself. Even those who would not proclaim support were content to stay neutral, for it could not be argued that the Van Hel name was infamous indeed, and that through his marriage to Martin's niece the Count of Averland was bound to avenge all insults on her family's honour.

By far the most critical, however, was Friedrich von Schwarzburg, who after some careful contemplation drew his own runefang and added his voice to the pledge. Wissenland, then, would join Averland in its declaration of war, and together they would march upon Stirland and see a better dynasty placed upon the throne.

War had come at last.

 

[Terran Imperium]

(Written with @Sinsystems @Skrevski @triumph8w)

Aftermath of the Battle​

Ser Goldwasser trudges her horse slowly toward the Countess, who is thankfully unharmed. She removes her helmet, as otherwise, it would be disrespectful. Ser Goldwasser would reveal to be a woman who is hitting their thirties but one wouldn't be surprised if they were to find out she is much older than that, only her lively physical lifestyle giving the impression of youthfulness. Her face was lined with sweat and dirt after the battle but under it all, the delicate features of noble families are unmistakable. The Knight Grandmaster takes a knee at the Countess' feet, her helmet on her left hand, she speaks.

"It brings me relief to see you safe, milady." Ser Frederika Goldwasser says in a sincere tone, her eyes briefly wander off the Countess to the sight behind her and of the state of her army. It did not bring much hope nor does it really improve the morale of the Stirlanders if they were to see their Countess and her host return in such a state.

The Elector-Countess looks up at the Grandmaster, her eyes dull from exhausting. She had seen many good soldiers die that day and each one weighed heavy upon her soul, "You have my thanks, Grandmaster, if not for your timely arrival…" she leaves her words to hang as her gaze wanders to the fields of death. Ser Goldwasser stands from her respectful kneeling position.

Herman trudged over from a vargulf he had just put down, seemingly drenched in its blood. He nodded his helmeted head to both Mathilde and Frederika, his features were hidden from all, adding much to the mystery behind the nameless Grandmaster. He greets those present. "Elector-Countess, Grandmaster, it is good to see Morr has not claimed you yet."

Ser Ruprecht Rechcigl, a Knight of the Blazing Sun arrives, somewhat late due to having been seeing to the rearguard, he has quite rugged handsome features that give him a wild look. More than likely a charmer of ladies. "Forgive me, 'was helping dispatch the last that were giving chase. Grandmasters, Elector-Countess." Ser Ruprecht nods in greeting to each respectively.

Ser Goldwasser gives a polite nod to the other Grandmaster of the Raven Knights, she is still unappreciative of them rushing as they did deeper into Sylvania despite her instructions otherwise but it is a matter not for now. She returns Ser Ruprecht's greeting as well. "Milady, if you begin to regret, you'll dull your future decisions and let others make them for you. All that's left then for you is to miserably die. Nobody can foretell the outcome, each decision made holds meaning only by affecting your next one."

Taking a deep breath the Elector Countess stands to face Ser Goldwasser, her eyes once dull now blazing with a fury, "You think I don't know that! The darkness we face here is a sin my family has born for many generations, ever since Frederick Van Hal," at the mention of her ancestor's name the Elector Countess spits on the floor in disgust, "cursed this land. Do not doubt my will...but I will grieve for every soul that gives their life to fight against it."

At last, while it would initially and briefly stun Ser Goldwasser to see such ferocity in a young girl, in the end it brings a faint smile of approval to the knight's lips. "That fills my heart with much reassurance to see you stand true even faced by such odds. When people are faced by a situation they have a hard time comprehending, it is then easy for fear to take hold. It takes a lot of courage to not bend under the pressure. I respect that but courage and conviction alone are not enough milady."

The Elector Countess nods at Ser Goldwasser, "You have my thanks, now we need to prepare. This battle may be lost but it has been…. A learning experience, we will need to reevaluate our approach."

"We? Prepare? Milady." Ser Goldwasser raises an eyebrow as she says the last word with finality to it, showing her disapproval. "I have not yet declared my support to your cause, as much as I am inclined to it, it would do you much good to not rely on assumptions unless absolutely necessary to avoid much harm in the future."

"My apologies Grandmaster, I should not have assumed." she says the exhaustion once again seeping into her form, "We will have to discuss things another time, for now, I think I need some rest."

"Perhaps so." Ser Goldwasser says neutrally, as she looks over the state of the young Countess. "However, much you may be tired. There are a few things to settle before you are allowed your much deserved rest."

Ser Goldwasser takes a knee for a second time, this time, she unsheathes her sword to impale it on the ground. "I swear fealty on my faith to Sigmar that I will see your seat protected within the County of Stirland and will see justice done to the Grand Count of Averland for his treachery."

Ser Ruprecht smirks as he listens to Ser Goldwasser. "The Knights of the Blazing Sun have done our duty here as we were told. I intend to remain long enough for the army to reorganize but after that, I plan to make our leave back to our home. We did our part, we wish to go home."

"This campaign was a failure" Herman states flatly "I was convinced by your words Ser Goldwasser and I delved far too eagerly and far too quickly into this land." He pauses for a few moments as he looks upon the battlefield

"I will not be so rash a second time, I will tend to the dead, then I will take my men and leave and consult with the Custode del Portale." He turns to look at the Elector-Countess "After which you will receive my answer on Averland and their….actions."

Ser Reprecht gives a slight salute. "I thank you for your words, perhaps in the future I recommend have limited objectives and scout out where you wish to go before going all in."

"That is more than fair, Grandmaster Herman and Ser Ruprecht. Your duty started and ended with this campaign. You have no commitment to Stirland as my Order do. We will pray for safe travel on your behalf." Ser Goldwasser bows as both of the other fellow knights honourably take their leave, Grandmaster Herman notably heading toward a pile of corpses. She releases a short sigh as she turns to the Countess.

"As you are, milady. You are weak, not only politically as things stand but in physique and martial skill. If I am to see through my oath as a knight, I will have every advantage possible on my side. That includes making you into a capable warrior in the shortest amount of time possible. I am willing to take you under my apprenticeship to see if any talent you have in the martial path may be nurtured." Ser Goldwasser says in a hard tone to try to get her point through. Training under her will not be easy but it would guarantee good results. She may be one of the best fighters in all of the provinces as the Grandmaster of the Order with the most brutal and spartan training out of all.

For a moment the Elector Countess stands silent, then with a slight smile she begins to speak, "I thank you Ser Goldwasser for your oath, I will see to it that we both please Sigmar in the days to come, be it on the battlefield or training yard and for the rest, on behalf of Stirland I thank you for your service."

 

[Rincewind]

Knights of the Everlasting Light , Templars of Verena



Official Proclamation to all faithful of Verena and lovers of Justice and Order
​

The Order of the Everlasting Light condemns the wanton aggression exhibited by the Count-Electors of Averland and Wissenland ,
and disapprove of the levity they employ in matter of Justice , exposing themselves to potential offence to her mistress Verena.
The Order observe that the accusation struck against the Countess of Stirland is severely lacking in evidence and was made with passions and wrath , in the absence of the accused and without any procedure.

The Order demands , and call all cultists of Verena regardless of sects to join them in this endeavour , a neutral and official inquiry to be made by experts of the Law that are the priests of Verena , and for armies to stand down.
For Priests of the Goddess of Justice are not influenced by emotions or earthly ambitions , and hold the blessings of smiting the guilty and reveling the Truth.
To our brothers and sisters of the Cult , numerous and renowned for their discernment in Nuln , I ask particularly to petition and agitate for Peace and Arbitration.

Signed , Grandmaster Horst Kleiner
​

 

[DanBaque]

The Clean Slate
​

The "Avaricious Schism", as it was called by its enemies, was quickly a catastrophe for both of its leaders. From the good hearted aims of improving the lives of Reiklanders had risen civil unrest and a split in one of the key faiths of man. Despite the fact that Oskar Meyer's intentions had never more than a desire to aid the organization that had worked tirelessly in hopes of saving his family's lives, and to which he felt great devotion- while also wishing to raise his own name in the eyes of Reikland- he would have to act. He chose to return to his ambitions to be great, with no doubt of what would result if he tried to continue his path in Altdorf. It was as such that after receiving the apologetic letter informing him of a severance of relations from Joan of Nuln, Oskar took up a pen of his own.

​

Your Royal Highness, Grand Prince Konstantin Rannulf Engel I ( @TenfoldShields )

Long live your Royal Highness, and may your wise rule last for decades more. I shall speak of the present issues in Reikland and a good portion of our neighbours, which have been inadvertently caused by my actions. It is clear to me that this must be solved. The Most Holy Matriarch Joan of Nuln has already taken action to resolve this crisis, and I will follow her steps. Henceforth, no support of the Joanite tendency shall come from the Meyer family. Rest assured that no money shall be stolen from the Cult of Shallya or members of the Fraternal Society of the Ever Loving; all and any blasphemy shall be avoided.

I furthermore inform you that after having taken counsel, with your blessing I shall be undertaking a lengthy expedition in foreign lands. The name of Reikland and its bounty for trade shall spread through the world. I promise to return to Altdorf with a victory for the future of this Grand Principality that shall far outstrip these failings.

Ever yours, from your loyal servant,
Oskar Meyer, patriarch of House Meyer, proprietor of the Broterberer Company.

---

My Most Holy Matriarch, Joan of Nuln ( @Carol )

My most forthright apology for these events is yours, and great luck follow you in your path to Tabalecland and redemption. Rest assured no attack on your person shall come from myself or any of my own and great sanction be laid upon many that do so. The Ever Loving bless us and let us return to her graces.

With my prayers sworn to your hopes,
Oskar Meyer, devout of the Cult of Shallya.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Food For Igor?
(written by @Havocfett with my approval)

Sylvania was used to starving and deeply unused to any sort of actual improvement.

The land was cursed and blighted with warpstone, vegetables with teeth in was considered a good meal, and hunting and livestock farming was something done to, rather than by, humans.

So the first year of Count Malasangre's rule was rather surprising.

Oh, it didn't start surprising. Black-cloaked riders racing down the roads, bellowing warnings of a new scouring of Sylvania, beckoning the peasants to take what they could and hide. That was par for the course. Totally normal. The peasants grabbed malformed produce, wasted cattle, and murderous chickens, and ran for cellars, caves, and tunnels. More than a few were eaten by wolves.

It's what happened during, and after, the hiding that was really surprising. Sylvanian knights under Malasangre began to deliver food to the peasantry. Grain from afar, aid from Reikland, Ostermark, Talabecland and religious orders, would trickle in. Adventurous peasants would purchase heaping sacks of food from the Halfling merchants awaiting the results of the Stirlish Crusade. And all the while, they hid, and waited, and kept a careful eye out for angry knights and priests.

Beyond a false alarm when the Everlasting Order began their march, things went well. For the first time in a long time, barely any Sylvanian peasants had to resort to sweet pork, and while that was disappointing for some of the local foodies, the culinary delights of food without eyeballs in has proved more than ample counterbalance.

Indeed, all in all it was a rather good year to be Count Malasangre.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Ever More Tenebrous Places
(written by @TenfoldShields with my approval)

Drakwald, the Dragon-Wood. An ocean in the heart of the once-Empire, an endless sea of emerald green leaves and broad black boughs; the forest canopy heaving, crashing like white-capped waves. The broken foundations of long-abandoned keeps, the reclaimed walls of gutted towns like reefs. Encrusted with age-old growth, jagged spurs of worn stone rising above the breakers. There are depths to the Drakwald where the sun has not shown since the days of Sigmar. There is darkness to these woods as great and as terrible as the black fathoms North of Nordland and South of Norsca.

And it was into this Hell that the host of Middenheim and Middleland marched. A vast column of shining steel, its tread shaking the earth, a veritable town on wheels in its train. Talabecland sails flocking along the outer tributaries of the ancient forest, crisp banners flaring and snapping in the cold wind. Huntsmen ranging ahead like packs of wolves, fanning out across the leagues. Where the column crawled the woodland blackened and burned. Decades old growth felled, trunks shattering, heartwood rupturing as venerable giants came thundering down. The Drakwald around the gutted, skeletal ruins of nearly forgotten towns reduced to scattered copses, then sparse groves, then torn utterly asunder. The settlements themselves beyond repair to be sure, even a decade submerged was enough for the forest to reconquer nearly everything save the deepest impressions, but many of the sites were still suitable and the War-God's devout wasted no time in raising new fortifications, palisade walls and rough barracks. A constellation of defenses sprawling across the Drakwald's outermost edges, with plans already drafted for roads, potential veins of ore and fertile fields marked on maps.

A promising, if ultimately modest start. But modest gains and modest objectives were the intention; the Drakwald had swallowed a province nearly the size of the Ulrican heartland whole, it had stood for a thousand years and would stand for a thousand more. There was to be no grand reclamation here. Only an unromantic assessment of risk and reward and the might the province could leverage.

And so with the fortifications at their back the column crawled on. The better part of two state armies and nearly twice that number in Middleland militia. Priests of Taal and Ulric, coteries of von Hohenheim's Alchemists in their strange, feathered cloaks. And Duke Henryk of Carroburg himself at the head, wielding the Beast-Slayer, followed by his own knights, his lord's knights, and warhammer wielding members of the vaunted White Wolves.

The forest rose to meet them. Goblin bandits, hunting wyverns, and spiders the size of siege engines.

They were scythed down. Disorganized greenskins picked apart by outriders. Reptilian beasts pinned down by heavy-headed pikes and hacked bloody. The ghastly insects driven back by blade and gonne. The forest, so teeming with malignant life, gradually falling silent as gouts of flame and blasts of air split the gloom. The Ulrican dead, what comparatively few there were, vastly outnumbered by the lesser monstrosities of this place. Unfortunate but tolerable.

The column crawled on. The forest changed. The air growing colder, somehow thicker. Trunks weeping bloody red sap, wet leaves brushing against arms and legs like a woman's trailing fingers, red eyes in the dark. A raven landed on von Hohenheim's shoulder and croaked, word relayed down the line. The first beast-path found not two hours later, a filthy wound through the undergrowth. Bones long picked clean, rusting Middenheim armor, heaped on the edges like so much trash. Cracked and shattered skulls staring blindly.

A hurried conference, the Duke Carroburg eager to push on for surely, surely their foul herdstones must be near. This path was frequented, some of these bones were still shrouded in scraps of rot! If they but followed it they could catch a nascent Warherd unawares or- better yet! A beast-man village. The man only narrowly talked down by the White Wolf captain seconded to his guard and the Regent's own, deeply alarmed, liaison.

The column withdrew a mile back and circled its wagons, readying itself for nightfall.

And they came, then, in the dark. And what is there to say about that first, frenzied engagement? About that waking nightmare of slick skin and dripping fangs, the sound of raw-throated horns in the distance, the banners of tattered flesh buzzing black with flies. About the things that crawled up from underfoot, maggot-pale and bombard-thick, squirming, slithering, mewling, one tentacular beast or a dozen intertwined, the distinction impossible to make. About the hulking-huge brutes that came crashing through bramble and branch, pelts matted with filth and clotted gore, axes rusting slabs of jagged metal. About the winged not-women, lit from below by the firelight and the thing, then, at the end that was once a man. The wreckage of a knight's harness grown into a grey-white torso, something between a scab and chitin. Scuttling on stilt-long limbs, jaw hanging slack and tongues lashing. Naked ribs rippling like gills as something ticced and writhed within that caul of flesh.

Men died, terribly and in greater numbers but the lines held. Shoulder to shoulder, back to back, a ring of steel gleaming molten in the bonfire glow. Wolves tore sinews from backbent goat-legs, Alchemists cast harpies from the night sky, and the Duke Carroburg and his bodyguard fought atop a steadily growing mound of bodies against the Ruined once-knight, the ground slick with blood and mud until, with a mighty roar, a threefold blow was struck and the Henryk von Bildenhof split its sizzling, shivering heart in two.

Dawn broke. The beast-men fled, broken and braying and scattering. And for a day, for a day, all shared in the hard-won warmth of their triumph. And Duke Carroburg, who had long dreamed his own private, secret dreams, looked and saw a vision of how...how they could all be.

How great they could be.

A dream lingering, melting away with the morning mist as the sun rose. The column withdrew, resupplied, and returned in force. Dividing and as triumph faded so did camaraderie. And what is there to say, what is there to say, of the months that followed? Of the obscene shrines toppled, of the monsters put to rout, of the darkness driven back?

Of the young Alchemist, a boy von Hohenheim had trained himself, his smoking skeleton cooling on a pyre at the edges of a Middleland encampment, beautiful feather cloak so much ash around him? Of the mocking laughter that began to dog Duke Carroburg, the man who imagined himself a wolf but had to be lead about like a Reiklander spaniel- already had a leash, perhaps the braggart needed a muzzle? Of the sworn White Wolf brothers, vanished then found all but buried beneath the Minotaur-corpses that surrounded them, the murder of crows above cawing raucously, their calls sounding like hoarse chuckles?

The end of the campaign season would see the army withdraw and the militia returned to their homes and harvests, with steady gains made and the foundations firmly laid for yet more. But in the darkness and the stillness seeds began to grow, coiling roots pushing through fissure cracks. Among his followers Von Hohenheim sat, wrapped in his much beloved wings, adorned with lapis and looked at the frightened, bruised and bloodied faces, the missing spaces, among his acolytes and grew bitter. In his luxurious tent, with guards that were not his posted at every entrance, Duke Carroburg sat and drank and traced the outlines of Old Drakwald with a finger and grew bitter. And around their fires, in rough and ugly conversation the men of Middenheim and Middleland looked to these...witches, to this Southern fop, that they had been burned with and grew bitter.

And in the depths of the flame-clad forest, as the first frost began to form and the first flakes fall, dead leaves rustled, stirred by no wind, no beast, and the Dragon-wood, endless and eternal, was content.

 

[Sidheach]

From the Duke of Carroburg, Henryk von Bildhofen
To the Head of the Alchemists Guild, Philip von Hohenheim @bookwyrm
Private

I bore witness to the actions of your acolytes in the Drakwald, Hohenheim, and I saw nothing to fault. Your acolytes were possessed of fair courage and devotion to the Gods and none of fair mind could ever doubt their loyalty to the Empire. Know that for so long as I live and hold the memory of that campaign, Carroburg shall consider itself a friend to the Alchemists Guild, a place where they might rest their heads without fear of the pyre, for I am not so uncivilized as to show no gratitude to those who risked much and more for the sake of the Drakwald.

 

[Sidheach]

Carroburg
Henryk
​

"Fuck Middenland."

The exclamation came without warning, spat from the lips of a chastised noble seated at the heart of Sonden's new tower. His face was twisted in anger, his cheeks coloured from drink, and his brow furrowed in frustration. Such was the dourness of his mood that it even infected those with him, the half dozen or so men who had gathered at his proverbial feet.​

"Meddling in my affairs, them and the Ar-Ulric. What right do they have to interfere as they did? To interpose themselves into what should have been proof of my righteousness? This should have been my moment and my moment alone. Not theirss."

Letting out a long sigh, the noble slumped back in his chair, wine spilling as the cup in his hand tilted too far, letting it's contents fall to the floor.​

"Ah, but then I should have known better than to have expected it all to go my way, shouldn't have I? Where would the fun be if Middenland just gave me what I wanted? The struggle makes the victory all the sweeter, the obstacles grant meaning to the journey. Or something like that."

One of the men closest to him, a bear of a man with a thick grey beard wearing full plate, simply shrugged at the noble's words. Unlike the others, his expression was more weary than downcast and his mood was simply unreadable rather than morose.​

"And what makes you think this has been a setback, Henryk?" He asked. "It seems to me that it has been a victory for Drakwald."

"How could it have been a victory when our send off was snickers and laughter sent forth from Middenlander lips?" Henryk replied, his eyes barely rising to meet the source of the objection. "The mockery and scorn of those we bow and scrape to, who view me as no more than a yapping dog pulling at his leash."

"You are not Drakwald," came the simple explanation. "You may not have won what you wished but Drakwald did. The Beastmen have been slain in vast numbers, it's villages shored up with stout walls and sturdy towers, and a measure of peace bought in Middenlander blood."

The Duke contemplated the answer in silence for a moment, mulling the words over on a wine-stained tongue, before judging them acceptable. "I suppose you're right, Leopold. I am not Drakwald. Not yet."

"Not yet," Leopold agreed. "But soon."

Letting the cup fall from his hand, Henryk sat up in his seat. Drawing in a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair and slapped the sleep from his cheeks, reclaiming what little sense the drink had seen fit to leave him.​

"I know, cousin, I know." Gripping the arms of the chair, he looked out across the room, taking in the silent faces around him before nodding as if to affirm his words. "Drakwald will not be remade in a day, nor even a year. It will take time and work, as it always has. I cannot let this setback, this humiliation deter me from my goal. Neither their scorn nor their mockery will stop me, not when we are so close to breaking Drakwald free of Middenland's grip." Eyes narrowing, he rose to his feet, a great deal of energy being expended through the sheer act of standing steady, prompting all others in the room to rise with him. "Middenland has done us a favour, not a disservice. Middenland blood, not Drakwalder, has borne the brunt of the Beastmen's depredations. They have helped us fortify settlements such as this one, shielding them from future attacks and strengthening the Drakwald in the process. This is to our benefit, not our detriment."

"That's better, optimism suits an Elector Count."

"It does," Henryk allowed. "We will have work to do upon our return to Carroburg. Letters to send, alliances to forge, marriages to arrange. We must make full use of this breathing room that Middenland has bought us. The restoration of Drakwald begins in earnest now, good sirs, so mark it well."​

 

[Maugan Ra]

Preaching to Many Choirs

Though the children of Sigmar's Empire are divided by many things, set against one another by blood and will and ancient debt, so too are they united. They share a history, a common culture, a language. Most importantly of all, however, they share a faith. In these days most folk pay homage to a multitude of gods, bowing their heads and invoking each of the Pantheon as the flow of their lives dictate, and the will of the great Cults dedicated to one deity or another are as much an influence in their lives as the laws of the lords that rule the lands they live in. As the two hundredth year of the third millennium rolled on, those cults were every bit as active as the secular authorities around them.

In Talabecland, a grand conference is held, as the Grand Duchess Brigette uses words and wisdom to call those most faithful to the Old Ways among her subjects to a grove at the heart of the Sacred Forest. There, garbed in furs and bearing weapons of wood and sinew alone, she hosts a grand ritual in honour of Taal and Rhya both, naming them King and Queen of all the gods as they were once more widely known. Priests and Priestesses of both faiths were present in great numbers, as were wild beasts of the forest seemingly drawn to observe by some unknown impulse, and when the Duchess turns to address them they listen close. A conclave is necessary, she argues, if the Old Faith is to endure and prosper in this time, if it is to hold its ground against the ascendance of the other, younger gods. A formal hierarchy is not Taal's way, nor that of Rhya, but they are family still, and family must speak with one another if it is to be kept whole.

The resulting debates stretch on for many weeks, but in the end the faithful agree, and arrangements are made for a yearly gathering at this same spot, where news and concerns can be shared among a council of peers. They will crown no ruler or high priest, for such is not their way, but with the Grand Duchess' consent the position of Voice is created, to take the words of the Wise to the Court at Talabheim, and there be heard and acknowledged by the secular authorities of the land. In the months that follow, the faithful of Rhya are spotted travelling more and more, visiting towns and villages throughout Talabecland and there administering to the needs and injuries of the populace in the ways of old. Much of what they do in those days overlaps with the traditional dominion of the Shallyans, but with the White Dove's cult riven by discord there is no unified response to be found.

-/-

In Cursed Sylvania, efforts are made to expand and fortify the infamous Gardens of Morr, where the dead may find rest eternal instead of being enslaved to a necromancer's malignant will. Some success is made in this area, especially with the assistance of the Raven Knights to secure the grounds and Stirlander money to build the walls, but with the inglorious outcome of the attempted purge in the Haunted Hills the final result falls somewhat short of expectation. Too many of the locals are resentful of the foreign priests, who seem to care far more for them when they die than anyone ever has while they yet live, and those who are not remain too afraid of the undead to be seen siding with their ancient enemies in any practical fashion.

Of the nobility, it is only Count Malasangre and his wife that make a show of attending the services and offering tribute to the cult, but while the attempt is appreciated it is undeniable that the Lord of Sylvania just doesn't have all that much money or material to spare...

-/-

In Reikland, the urban poor and dispossessed are treated to a grand display of charity and pious duty as Grand Prince Konstantin opens his treasury and funds a massive public gift of food and other sundries to all those in need of such things. The date is carefully chosen as one of Sigmar's holy days, the announcement tailored to reference much of Sigmar's work to provide for the people that followed him, and the resulting feat is a grand success. Konstantin's stock is raised significantly among the common people and the lay priests of Reikland, all of whom see him as a noble man generously providing for his people without thought of recompense, a thing much needed in the wake of the turmoil caused by the Joanite Tendency.

Of course, questions are inevitably raised about what the Prince or the Cult of Sigmar will do when the anniversary of this day roles around next year...

-/-

In Wurtbad, many faiths seek to spread and take root, and clashes in the streets and back alleys become uncomfortably common. The Priesthood of Morr establish their new headquarters in the city, and are almost immediately presented with a public backlash over the deaths of so many sons and daughters of Wurtbad in their poorly-conceived crusade into Sylvania. The Wise Men of Taal and Rhya start spreading in the villages and outlying districts, but their efforts to establish shrines within the city itself bring them into direct conflict with a growing divide between the urban and rural populace. And everywhere, there are whispers that Ranald's grip on the underworld tightens, though so far the resulting spike of criminal activity has yet to truly materialise as one might expect if the rumours were true...

-/-

In Averland, the Cults of Myrmidia and Verena begin to expand, the former finding fertile ground amid a populace well used to conflict with both human and inhuman foes. With war on the horizon, there are many soldiers and minor knights receptive to talk of honour and rules of engagement, but few among the Sigmarite population welcome this foreign faith into their land. The war is being waged in honour of a Sigmarite Saint, by those who guard the site of one of Sigmar's greatest deeds! What use have they for any but the Heldenhammer?

Fortunately, outright conflict between the two faiths is limited, though time will tell if it stays that way.

-/-

In the north, the Priests of Ulric begin working on an agenda simultaneously theological and political. Church coffers are opened to fund the creation of blacksmiths, mines and walls in many of the smaller settlements across Middenland and beyond, while priests of the God of War begin overseeing the training of the state's militia in preparation for any upcoming threat. Altogether such measures go a long way towards strengthening the smaller, more isolated population of Middenland, and had it stopped there then all would be well.

It is, however, in the Cult's message of unity that the true conflict is found, for while many in Middenland's heart respect the message of a North standing strong and united against the world, those in outlying regions and neighbouring states are not nearly so enthusiastic. The men and women of Nordland in particular are hostile to the attempt, and many duels are fought between priests and nobles on both sides of the border, many of whom see the effort as a means by which Middenland seeks to exert cultural hegemony over its neighbours.

 

[bookwyrm]

The Gret Chartre of the Guilde of Naturall Phylosphie and Alkimie
A History of That Body by Wilhelm Langatmiger

An Excerpt:
...No complete record of the Alchemist's Guild's founding charter actually exists. Fragmented copies all dating from different eras have been recovered by the Guildhall of Middenheim, the Great Temple of Ulric the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar, the Verenan Churches of Marienburg and Nuln, and even in the small and disorganized library of the Talabheim Kislevite Quarter. With the confusion of multiple lines of stewardship and precedence several different schools of thought have sprung up regarding the exact nature of the Guild's remit and duties. So it is the purpose of this humble work to summarize all these schools and, if it pleases the Gods, bring some small contribution to eventual elucidation of the truth behind the Alchemist's Guild.

The earliest possible dating for the Guild comes with the great trial of the Ar-Ulric against the scholar Dieter Helsnicht for the crimes of witchcraft and "the arts of Old Strygos" as necromancy was known then. Evidently, the existence of a body of lens-carvers and potion-makers was already so common knowledge as to be unremarked upon as the Graf of Middenheim simply decreed that a corporation of the free masters of those respective guilds dealing in "esoteric matters" to be drawn up that year's Mittherbst under the auspices of the Temple of Verena to act as jurists and expert witnesses to whatever malefic damage Dieter had afflicted on his city. The final proceedings of the unpersonhood of the so-called "Doom-Lord" after his failed attempt to conquer Middenheim imply indirectly the continued use of this body to purge the city of any remaining taint. However the High Middle Reikspiel used in 1247 IC structured itself quite differently from the modern tongue and lends itself to ambiguous translations, and the Graf may have been referring only to the use of holy flame and steel against the Undead horde. As well detractors point out that the actual permanence of such a body would still be in question as the continual use of their Magesight and auguries against horrors outside the banished Helsnicht would be an unproven assumption. Only the Guild themselves really continue to hold up this view, likely to aggrandize their own history and connection to Middenheim as the last remaining branch of their order still open.

A far more promising point is the response of the Graf of Middenheim to the Year of the Restless Dead in 1681 IC. Here we have a flat banishment and purge of those the Midenheimers believed violated the peace of the dead specifically named as alchemists. This is corroborated by private accounts of the privations of the 1712 Siege of Altdorf by the monstrous Gorbad Ironclaw, which detail extensively the destruction of the once prosperous neighborhoods as '...the street of the engravers fled from the inferno raging about, wane-faced and hollow-eyed. The street of the painters tried desperately to call their fire's brigade and save themselves, darting to and fro. The choking smoke and hellish heat cut off the retreating militia of the street of smiths and tinkers, who could not be heard over the war-cries of that vile green tide. And all around came milling alchemists and scholars gaping at it all, too transfixed to flee the end of their new home...'.

Logically the expulsion of at least a large portion of Middenheim's community brought many to seek refugee in the land of their bitter-most enemies under the Elected Emperors, and studies of Old Altdorf's tombs have given matches to Middenheimers named individually in the proscriptions kept by the Great Temple of Ulric. Yet strangely the then contemporary street plans of Altdorf maintained in the archives of Karaz Ankor make no mention of a Guildhall, nor of an Alchemist's quarter, nor of any kind of change to the plans before the Middenland exodus. A guild without a Guildhall can hardly enforce the guild's franchise and rights to hold internal tribunals and internal initiations so, the inference goes, they didn't. The thought is that at this point all alchemists would have been still legally classified as members of different scholastic and artisan guilds and that the lists of proscriptions named individuals who were different artisans and scholars of alchemical interest within the confines of their different fields, then dubbed unsavory by the Graf's officers. Many in Altdorf itself take to this view, liking better the thought of anything worthwhile taken and incorporated in the founding of the much more prestigious Imperial College of Engineering.

Having at least established the existence of imperial alchemists as a coherent discipline now one must reliably date the creation of a Guild proper and the rights and duties that would accrue therein. Here we turn to the oddly valuable insight given in the Fire-Temple of Dazh at the Kislevite Quarter in Talabheim. Just recently a clerk of their archive inventorying their records found a partial impression on another scroll left by a manuscript now lost. Analyzing the context of the writing we can deduce that the author was fluent in the scrivener's shorthand common in Talabheim, however it is believed that they were either a native speaker or being dictated to by a native speaker of Tzavarin Gospodarinyi as the author makes many clumsy and unintuitive formations in Reikspiel that would match with a rough translation of the idioms of that tongue. In conferring with the wise women of the present day Ungol Quarter of Talagaad scholars have definitely proven that the account is that of a "Hag" describing their experiences in the lands of the Empire. In this partial copy the Hag mostly complains of the number of male spiritualists and herbalists, apparently the still-lingering Hedgefolk of the Old Night yet to be stamped out, but also makes curious reference to "a band of their number abandoning all sense to live apart as in the manner of the fools of the silver city". The Silver City being an old byname for the city of Praag, known as a center of alchemical wonder even today, this would date the creation of an Alchemist's Guild in the lands of Talabecland to the account- written sometime in the 19th century IC.

However there appears to be no differentiation in this account between alchemists and witchlings and further references are made to figures such as "Gunther the Wise" which is a known folk hero of the back-country heathen, suggesting some strange line of ancestry between the academic study informed by the works of the Tilean sages and the barbaric rites of dark ages. Even though it is unknown if this is merely a convention of the Hag's Kislevite upbringing, a real observation, or indeed a confounding fable of a work that also bizarrely speaks of the ratmen of the Underfolk as if they were real creatures, this has been unfortunately latched upon. In the main the Sigmarite Church makes use of this to justify the hunting of alchemists as witches and the Ulricans reject it essentially because the Sigmarites don't, though they have changed positions in the past, and other Cults also raise this interpretation depending on their political position even as scholars wrestle with any truth that can be gleamed from its farcical superstitions.

Nonetheless a more complete description of the Guild's mandate and design can be found in comparison to the forms of Imperial guild charters written in the 19th century IC. Luckily in urban matters the Ottilians typically defaulted to mimicking the precedence of the Elected Emperors, apart from the occasional repudiations of specific commercial codes as southron usury. The alchemists not being financiers, the Ottilian Guild of Alchemists can only be a clone of the founding Alchemist's Guild or be that foundation itself. Thus an analysis of the surviving lines of possession claiming to hold the true Charter can be made to see which aligns the most with that language. Sadly no surviving manuscript has been allowed to be put under analysis by scholars, frankly putting to severe question the motives and legitimacy of all actors involved. Why this humble author himself was chased out of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar no less then three times! All for merely searching for the entrance-way to the Hall of Forbidden Texts. Luckily the Warrior-Priest missed...​

 

[Dovahsith]

In Addressment to the Elector Counts of Averland and Stirland
Grant Count Francis Ludwig von Ellinbach @ChineseDrone
Countess Mathilde Van Hal @Sinsystems


It is troubling to see the efforts against the darkness that resides within Slyvania stifled. Even more so to have news brought to me of darkness residing within the halls of Martin of Stirland. That this news was brought to me through rumors of war between Stirland and Averland passes beyond troubling and into the realms that send me reaching for my hammer.

It is to my understanding that accusations have been levied against one whom has served the cause of Sigmar for many a year, that the seed of darkness has grown and corrupted a soul under my care without neither her colleagues or superiors being aware. If this is true, then such a blight must be burnt out, root and stem, without mercy and with utter thoroughness.

Mathilde Van Hal, you are summoned to be put to the question. Your body and soul will be tested. Should you be found wanting, you will be found guilty of the the darkest of Heresies and will be dealt with as such. Those who have evidence to back such accusations are to deliver themselves to the Order of the Silver Hammer so that the truth will be found. For it would not do for Sigmar's faithful to be led astray by petty concerns or the lies of the self-interested when the stakes involve the lives and souls of an entire province.


You are to be thanked for bringing this to my attention and for your cooperation. For lies and corruption burn away under Sigmar's light.



May Sigmar watch over you and protect you against the dark.
May the Heldenhammer grant you the strength to smite Man's enemies.

Wenzel Kraft
Grand Theogonist of Sigmar

 

[Sinsystems]

To Grant Count Francis Ludwig von Ellinbach @ChineseDrone
Grand Theogonist Wenzel Kraft @Dovahsith

As the accused I will gladly present myself to the Cult of Sigmar so that I might be judged pure and for these accusations to be put to rest. Ask for but one thing, that until my soul is judged either pure or damned that a ceasefire be declared, for I do not wish for the blood of loyal imperials to be shed needlessly for it only serves to weaken us against those who would seek the ruin of our Empire.

May Sigmar's light shine upon you.
Elector Countess Mathilde van Hal

 

[Dovahsith]

To Grant Count Francis Ludwig von Ellinbach @ChineseDrone
Grand Theogonist Wenzel Kraft @Dovahsith

As the accused I will gladly present myself to the Cult of Sigmar so that I might be judged pure and for these accusations to be put to rest. Ask for but one thing, that until my soul is judged either pure or damned that a ceasefire be declared, for I do not wish for the blood of loyal imperials to be shed needlessly for it only serves to weaken us against those who would seek the ruin of our Empire.

May Sigmar's light shine upon you.
Elector Countess Mathilde van Hal

Click to shrink...

Until you are deemed worthy of release, whether through innocence or the fate of the guilty, it would be best that your duties be taken up by an acceptable subordinate, perhaps one unlikely to be accused with Heresy. I assume you have one worthy of some trust?

 

[Sinsystems]

Until you are deemed worthy of release, whether through innocence or the fate of the guilty, it would be best that your duties be taken up by an acceptable subordinate, perhaps one unlikely to be accused with Heresy. I assume you have one worthy of some trust?

Click to shrink...

I do, one that served my predecessor before his passing and who handled the affairs of the Capital while I was campaigning.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The Ice Queen of Kislev
(Written by @Skrevski with my approval)

The Kingdom of Kislev was the furthest realm of human civilization along the northeastern edge of the Empire making it rather important for those states that border her. It seemed that this fact was not lost on quite a few of the northern Elector-Counts and Countess who all reached out to Tsarina Mishka Romanoff, the current ruler of Kislev, in hopes of improving relations and more importantly expanding new trade opportunities within the Empire.

From Ostland, Ostermark, Nordland, and even Marienburg came traders and diplomats as they looking to establish these new relations as word spread that Kislev was experiencing a "golden" age. Some, mostly from Marienburg, took this a bit too literally thinking that gold was plentiful but would find that the Tsarina was willing to hear them out as the envoys were brought one by one to the Frozen Court within the very heart of Kislev.

There they dined, schmoozed, tossed around coin, and met with various officials as efforts were made to convince the Tsarina that it was wise to invest in greater trade within the Empire, their respective state obviously being the most important out of them all. From Nordland came boasts of expanding harbors along the north shore to allow for cargo to unloaded quicker and more efficiently, and of improved overland transport as Nordland work crews worked on repairing damaged sections of the Great Northern Road. Ostermark spoke of past relations between themselves and Kislev, how their merchants operated widely through each other's territory and while their history had a checkered past, they would rather be friends than enemies. The Marienburgers spoke of trade posts along the Kislevite coast, and even establishing a permanent embassy within the capital to foster greater fruitful relations. The Ostlanders spoke highly of improvements of their northern cities, including seeing cannons from far off Wissenland, showing that they could protect convoys from raids from the Norscans as well as using their established connections with many of Kislev's merchants to their advantage.

Throughout these talks balls were held, the elite of Kislev showing off what they had to offer as Tsarina Mishka deliberated with her court and most importantly her loving husband. And when it was all said and done? Tsarina Mishka assembled those trusted around her and made her decree.

"Trade should be expanded with our southern neighbors, as I believe they have made improvements that benefit the great people of Kislev. Let our merchants go forth to Ostland and Nordland, even off to Ostermark and further to Marienburg. Let the northern Empire see what all we have to offer, let them see what we have built and pride ourselves on. Let these southerners see."

Soon merchants of all kinds were travelling along roads and ship south to the realms of the Empire, quickly followed by official ambassadors of the Ice Queen (though you would look well not to actually call her that to her face). These ambassadors brought official word that Tsarina Mishka Romanoff had accepted their proposals for increased trade between the various states and that she would welcome ambassadors in return to make haste to Kislev.

Soon these northern states found themselves awash with foreign merchants and visitors as Kislevans made their way south. Yet many among the peasantry did not sit well with their Lords making all these overtures to a foreign power as fur-wearing merchants began to peddle their exotic goods. Throughout Ostland, Nordland, and Ostermark (the people of Marienburg not vastly phased by the merchants' arrival) whispers were abound that the Lords were selling out for foreign coin as their own peddlers and merchants seemed to be being pushed aside as more and more Kislevites arrived. And out on the Sea of Claws, many an eye made note of the increased trade taking place as rumors spread of Norscans sharpening their weapons as ships were prepared.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Word from Solland
(Written by @Havocfett with my approval)

The tragedy of Solland had never truly been avenged. Even now, much of the former-province's territory was infested with Orcs. Ruins stretched across the lands, and towns that bordered Greenskin Lands regularly had to contend with raiding. Those few humans who remained in Old Solland lived in benighted, much-harried villages, desperately trying to survive.

When the Knights arrived, representatives of the Orders of the Blazing Sun and Fiery Heart, the people rejoiced. It had been a hard summer, with wolves and boars attacking the fields, and Orcs skirmishing with the local guards, and the mere presence of armored, angry men to protect them was a welcome relief. The Knights soon found themselves at work, not just with the reconnaissance they hoped to do, but with regular combat with Greenskin raids, and counter-strikes at nearby encampments. Goblins were scattered, spider-warrens torched, and Knights found themselves winning no small amount of glory.

As Autumn approached, the Knights had found themselves winning all but a single skirmish, where a cavalry detachment set to hunt down some fleeing orcs had disappeared without word, trace, or bragging Orcs to tell of their fate. What happened to them would not be known for some time.

Information was slower and harder to gain than victories on the field, and even as word of a burgeoning crusade spread, an offensive to reclaim the Solland, many knights still found themselves trying to grapple with the nature of their foe. By and large the greenskins seemed of one or two tribes, there was less infighting then scholars and historians said they should be. And yet, no great offenses. No burgeoning Waagh. No beastmen, even, and the Sheep-men of Solland had been feared long before Ironclaw had levelled the province. They could simply confirm that there were many Greenskins, and no few walled human villages, beyond the river Solli, and that the Greenskins would speak of various bosses and lords of their kind, and the inevitable might of the Boss-slayer.

It was a chance meeting by the Westerlanders that would provide more detail. A trading ship sailed down the Soll, dodging the occasional opportunistic goblin with a siege weapon or raft, and looking for villages along the coast. To their surprise, they found some. Human villages filled with terrified people, raising Solland Sheep on small fields and speaking in hushed towns of their overlord. A Greenskin who had discovered agriculture.

Not agriculture as humans, or most other species, would understand it, but instead agriculture as the Vampires of Sylvania understood it. That as long as you only killed a few humans, you could have humans to kill forevermore.

The Westerlander ship returned with a hold full of refugees and valuable Solland Sheep. And as it stopped to resupply, it found its cargo being interrogated by Knights, curious as to the nature of their foe.

And in this chance meeting, the Blazing Sun and Fiery Heart would learn of the Crown of Solland. The self-proclaimed Elector Count Gormar Herdkiller, and his gleaming blade of dwarven steel.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The Wasteland, no more!
(written by @EarthScorpion with my approval)

Article:

Act 3, Scene 1

Enter WOLFGANG, an Middenheimer, and ULF, a priest of Ulric

WOLFGANG
Here be I.

ULF
And I be here too.

WOLFGANG takes an exaggerated step, and falls flat on his face.

WOLFGANG
What idle treachery is this? I thought to step upon a rock or perhaps a fallen tree, but there were none to be had! How can this land be so flat?

ULF
Brother, it scares me! As all new things do! I will strike it down with my axe!

ULF draws his axe, and begins to attack the floor. He also falls as he overbalances.

ULF
Brother! It has defeated me too!

Enter LEOPOLDO, an Elector Count of Marienburg and the Wasteland.

LEOPOLDO
I came looking for the delegation from distant lands
And find them already bowing before me.
Hark friends, please, while I appreciate the thought.
Spare me such humility, lest it be thought false.

WOLFGANG rises, brushing himself off.

WOLFGANG
I did not come to bow before you. Instead, I wish to trade with you! I'll sell you rocks, for that is something we have much of in Middenland. In return, we want gold.

ULF
And access to your finest dogs.

LEOPOLDO
Trade, good sir, is a thing that enriches us all.
Treat in good faith and you too shall be treated in such.
And you are not the only one who has come to my city fair.
Know you the lovely Julia, from Nordland?

WOLFGANG
I do not.

Enter JULIA, an Elector Count of Nordland. She is drunk - obviously so - and has an oversized flagon in hand.

JULIA
Ahoy hoy.

LEOPOLDO leans to the audience

LEOPOLDO
Ah, fair maiden, so loose of tongue and so unaware of the wealth of my city.
I would laugh at her, but she is a violent sort. So I hold my tongue
And keep my laughter for my friends. She brags about the new fleet she builds?
It is no match for Marienburg. Let her break her vessels upon Norscan shores.
I hold the Wasteland and our city fair. She knows nothing.

LEOPOLDO faces the other characters.

LEOPOLDO
She is a Nordlander, and as all men of sense know
They love their ships as much as you love your wolves.

JULIA
Yarrr. Give me grog and a ship, not a wolf.

WOLFGANG
It is true. Upon the scent of a handsome wolf, I am drawn to chase its tail.

ULF
Not if I get it first! In fact, I see one right now!

ULF exits right. There is a howl from offstage.

LEOPOLDO
And Middenland is well known for its accomplishments
For the wolves there run from the men, while in the rest of our lands
It is the other way around. Some call it unnatural.

LEOPOLDO turns to the audience, winks.

LEOPOLDO
But who are we to judge?

---

Excerpt from "The Comedie of the Butcher and the Dyke-Warden", a popular Marienburg play from the time

The founding of Marienger

Article:

"While it has long been claimed by the descendents of Olof Magnusson that they won the land which became Marienger in a great fight against the swamp demons of the Wasteland, in truth the history books are clear that Olof led his extended family and bondsmen to the southern shores after losing a ruinously expensive lawsuit over whose ancestor was buried in a certain cairn. Rather than pay the costs that the Thing had granted to the winning side, he instead chose to flee - taking the corpse from the cairn with him.

"The Magnusson clan settled near the mouth of the river Bakker, where they knew they could survive from fishing until next spring when they could plant crops. An added bonus was the existence of another ancient burial mound there, which had been plundered long ago and where they promptly entombed their claimed ancestor.

"Three years would pass until there is another record of the Magnusson clan. At that point, the current Count of Marienburg sought to drain the lands of the Wasteland. The river Bakker was one of the choicest parcels of land, which was swiftly bought by avaricious merchants from Talabecland who sought to build a trade port there with aims towards the local beaver population for furs. Unfortunately, when they and their guard went to take a trip to see their new lands, they ran into the Norscans who were already living there.

"There is a dispute as to what happened next, but it is widely agreed that Olof Magnusson was shot by one of the guards, turned into a vicious were-bear, and eviscerated the vast majority of the merchants. Fortunately for them, they had taken their deeds to the land on this trip - for they had not trusted to leave them in Marienburg. In exchange for their lives, the merchants agreed to accept a nominal fee in exchange for a witnessed transaction where ownership of the deeds to prime real estate passed to the Magnusson clan.

Edith Thig, "Marienger, an Abridged History"

Border Tensions With Bretonnia

Article:

Being Here a Decree that All Subjects of His Majesty who have holdings upon the border with the Wasteland of Marienburg are to be Vigilant in their pursuit of Rebellious Peasants who seek to Shuck their Duties and flee to the lands to the East. The Wicked Count of Marienburg has Sought to Lure his Majesty's Subjects away from the Land-Bonds with the Promise of Free Land and Diverse Rumours have Spread among the Peasantry. Such Rumour Mongers should be Punished with All Due Diligence.

All such Landholders are Obliged to ensure that the Peasants are not Permitted to Cross, and to Henceforth engage in Valiant Pursuit to retrieve such Miscreants. It is Not Desired to engage in Armed Conflict with the forces of the Wicked Count, but should he Test the Patience of the Flower of Nations, He will not Find us Wanting.

Decree by the Duke of Couronne, in response to complaints from his border nobles with regards to the increased rate of serfs fleeing their estates

Common View

Article:

"Truly, this country is a land of wonders! The Wasteland is so full of frogs, and the Marienburgers do not eat them! And they are giving us land - land with no lords who demand you work the mills for them. Come, papa, mama, and bring the family! I have already purchased a parcel of land and if we work together I am sure we can afford to repay my debt!"

Charles d'Marque, runaway peasant

Article:

"Yah, I saw the The Comedie of the Butcher and the Dyke-Warden. I damn near widdled myself when it talked about Middenlanders and wolves. Wholesome entertainment for all the family, I say! But I felt the political jokes went a bit far. My sister's from Nordland. Why do playwrights keep on putting politics in entertainment?"

Corina Jansen, Ratcatcher

Article:

"Interesting, yes-yes. Man-things are using pipe-things to drain the marshes. The swamp-things won't like that, no-no."

Mysterious Cloaked Figure, Name Unknown

Elite Opinions

Article:

"I do not think - though you didn't hear it from me - that the count thought this through properly. This is our taxes he's spending on that sodden ground, and look what's happening? He thought he could sell the land to merchants from down south, but instead the Wasteland is lousy with frog-eating peasants and fur-wearing savages from the north. And on top of that, the land is still soggy and wet! I bet they'll bring plague. Say, how will the Shallyans deal with that? I heard that Joan of Nuln has some good ideas for getting the peasants to shape up."

Irma van der Waals, Marienburg merchant

Article:

"The plays might mock them for it, but we cannot take the shipbuilding of Nordland lightly. We should build more vessels, with larger cannon - else, the Nordlanders can close the trading routes to Kislev at a whim. Big ships with big cannons are the only language they understand."

Mattias Krochner, Shipwright's Guild

Article:

"My lord, a member of the Talabecland delegation has made contact with one of your spies. Our agent reports that he's been spreading money around, trying to find out what tariffs you'll be setting next year. Those foolish Southern provincials really don't know how to play the game, do they?"

William de Ruyter, On The Count's Secret Service

Spoiler: GM summary

- Marienburg begins draining the wetlands and turning the unprofitable swamps into prime real estate, with a variety of consequences

 

[Maugan Ra]

A Plot for Every Season
(Written by @Mina with my approval)

Spring, when plans start

Altdorf was a hive of activity when the Reik and Talabec ran frothy and brown with meltwater. The year held nothing but promise of wondrous labor and booming construction, for the Prince had a wish and the gelt to make it reality. He dreamed of a menagerie the likes of which no other prince could lay claim to, full of animals, birds, creatures, monsters, beasts, maybe even fish if they were interesting and pretty enough. It would require land, labor, and the perfect location, no easy feat in a city already building up to escape the crush of its narrow streets and carved up lots.

Fortunately the poor never much cared for property, or they'd have owned more of it. Oh, the landlords were compensated when the hard-eyed engineers declared that a wide swath of the working-class neighborhoods built at the tip of where Talabec and Reik converged would need to go. The buildings came down quite prettily with only a few deaths from falling debris and mis-timed explosions, and the urchins were better for the dust baths they received around the work site. The deeper areas of the East End just grew more densely populated, but living nine or ten to a room was just the sort of thing those people enjoyed.

There were whispers though. Before the first walls had even gone up, when the foundations were still setting and barges full of lumber from the north, stone from the mountains, ironwork from Nuln bumped up to Altdorf's docks and a flood of strangers spread out into the dark and twisting streets, people talked. Some of the neighborhoods around the Menagerie had sunk. Not much, but in houses built to within inches of the other and knitted together with knocked through walls and patches a new step didn't go unnoticed. Strange bubbles had been spotted rising from beneath the rivers, bodies appearing out of nowhere on the shore. No word from the palace. Sometimes compensation for a family or a landlord. The residences beyond the bounds of the construction emptied slowly as the disquiet grew, with a few weird souls staying on and watching things like it was their job.

Summer, with heat

Fire, bane of cities built with very little oversight or attention to fire safety, needs kindling. Paper served in most cases, and a series of inflammatory letters arrived at both the Palace and the Temple of Sigmar warning of a plot against the city. Secretive forces were recruiting for some perfidious aim and the author had been approached by two such factions, but she knew the truth. She saw the danger.

Wheels went in to motion. The walls of the Prince's Menagerie were rising, the Shallyan controversy was beginning to bloom, Stirland in Sylvania going to the dogs, madness swirling in the Empire around Reikland, and in Altdorf it exploded. Witch Hunters raided a residence only for the building to go up in a shower of colored sparks and flames, proof of their righteousness to the slum-dwelling neighbors, evidence of illegal fireworks manufacture to those that didn't eat filth in the gutter. A meeting of what turned out to be Sigmarite pilgrims suffered minor inconvenience when their cellar space was flooded with men and women, masked and muffled, dressed in a mish-mash of clothing themed around 'leather' and 'dark', their only real uniform the stylish black and yellow doublets they all wore. The same force struck other locations across the city--again turning up very confused pilgrims, a small gathering of brewers, and tangled with one filth covered individual who escaped across the Konigsplatz and in to the sewers screaming about man-sized rats with fire for eyes.

The populace nicknamed the door-kickers the Yellow Jacks, and rumor filled in the rest as arrests were overturned with angry Sigmarites filtering back to the Temple to complain. Some new cult, schismatics, Marienburg slavers. Answers were demanded, the Temple would not stand such unrest.

Word from the palace, it was the Kaiserjaeger.

The Prince had reinstated that old order, and their zeal was the equal of Sigmar's followers in the pursuit of wickedness. Their half-uniformed state spoke to the speed with which they were already moving, and perhaps the sheer numbers that Konstantin was recruiting. It wasn't the most comforting conclusion, but it was a conclusion. With the new information and consultation pieces fell into place in both camps, and tensions abated as the weather cooled.

Fall, when it all comes apart

More letters found their way to the Palace and Temple, a few hinting about dire occurences in the city and that wheels were in motion to stymie them if the powers that be would not move against the shadow-stalkers, but most were about the logistics of importing and quarantining exotic animals, and if said animals were in fact animals or a form of demon.

The menagerie was completed before the first snowfall, the last of the glasswork laid in and the lead fumes allowed to dissipate into the surrounding homes and shops before the Prince made his review of the still empty space. At Konstantin's insistence some modifications were made, chief among them enlarging the wine cellar and ensuring that his private observation room had more space for lounging carelessly, but the work was deemed a resounding success. It had space for all manner of monstrosities, and was heated to allow for the cultivation of plants throughout the year so smaller creatures might roost and flutter in an appropriately pleasant and natural way.

With a date for the opening set the docks thronged with traders from as far as Cathay, Ind, and Bilad at-Tihom bringing just a taste of what the prince might have in his jeweled box of wildlife. Rabbits with twisting horns, birds that roared like lions, orange hairy little old men with arms like stevedores and teeth like a donkey (Sigmar's priests ascertained they were not in fact Men, and therefore not slaves), and large rainbow skinned lizards which did very little even with aggressive poking. The place of pride for the event would belong to a crew of ragged nobles from Ostland, some still grotesquely swollen, who brought with them a genuine spider of the giant variety, and eggs of the same.

It was a gala, the event of the year, and the perfect way to take people's minds off the mad summer and rumblings between Stirland and Averland.The nobility turned out in droves and the exhibits of birds and oddities met with resounding acclaim.

When it came time to reveal the Beast of Fritzburg however, disaster struck. A man, it was never quite clear who he was, or what his intent, shouting something about shadows behind the throne and where the gold comes from struck the mechanism barring the vast spider cage from the main floor. The Prince had been nearby, conversing with a well-built doctor from Bilad at-Tihom about the advantages of the medicines from decadent Araby over those brewed up in the Empire's filthy hovels by toothless old women and drunken men, when the spider emerged.

Eight furry legs tipped with death. Pedipalps, oozing death. Eyes radiating...intense discomfort. In the cold, dark forests of Ostland the spider knew its place. It knew trees, rocks, frigid streams, and the hush its presence brought. It was now in a large, boomingly echoing space full of strange hisses and gushes, uncomfortable warmth, brightness, and as it stumbled forward its legs tangled.

The spider fell, tripping over its own feet.

Despite the less than brutally terrifying introduction to Altdorf's high society, it was still at least a ton of suddenly toppling spider. The Prince was knocked clear by his guest--carried some said, noting the breadth of the young doctor's shoulders, the shine of his moustache, the glint of what could only be an entire set of his natural teeth. The man who freed the arachnid was crushed by the petrified monster, along with several Kaiserjaeger who had rushed him from somewhere.

The crowd was cleared, with the Prince and physician retiring to ensure no lasting damage had been done. The Ostlanders wrangled the spider, still curled up in a ball, back in to the enclosure. The bodies were removed to somewhere.

It was agreed that the night had been an excellent success.

Winter, the end

"So why, Gustav?" Captain Wilfred Holweck was an unhappy man. Not even a year he'd served, and their grasp on affairs in Altdorf was...confused.

"Sir...he...it seems he was trying to save the Prince?" Sub-lieutenant Gustav Raedler vibrated in sympathy with his superior's unhappiness. It was an organizational mood.

"Save him. By releasing a spider."

"No...that was a mistake, the levers for the feeding system and the gate are...maybe too close together."

The captain leaned back in his chair, frowning. "So he's trying to kill a spider. Why?"

"We don't know. We think it has something to do with the letter-lady."

"Letter-lady...letter-lady...Ida Kesselmen?" Wilfred crashed forward and shuffled his papers, the hastily scrawled notes the Palace kept receiving like clockwork spreading out from their thick sheaf. "There was nothing there. She doesn't know anything."

"We...we think our side…" Gustav wished the roof would collapse. He prayed the earth would swallow him. "We think we might have recruited her. By mistake. There were dead drops, and the new system...and the Sigmarites...we think she's thought she was working for...both?"

"So this spider...fellow...she recruited him?"

Gustav nodded anxiously. "She's made contact again, talking about going dark, and some coded things...I'm not sure it's even a real code sir."

"Do we have an address?"

"Yes, sir, one of the girls from Markolf's section is following her."

Wilfred sighed with relief. "Alright. Shoot her, dump her in the river. Wait...yes. Weighted. We don't want the other side finding her. Don't know why they would though."

"Shoot her, yes sir. Then...there's just the bomb-maker, the hobbyist sir? The one the Sigmarites tried taking in." It'd all be over soon Gustav prayed. Morr would let it all end.

"The firework lunatic? The one a neighbor reported? Wasn't he gone?" The relief was draining from Wilfred's face, the pinched anger returning. The chase across the Kongisplatz had been an embarrassment.

"We picked him up at the docks sir, he was trying to get on a boat for Marienburg."

Wilfred looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed, "So let him. Put him on the next boat to Marienburg. Damned if that shit-covered maniac's our problem any more. Fuck 'em."

Finally Gustav felt the weight lifted. It was all tied up.

"Yes sir. Hail the Kaiserjaeger, sir."

"Shut up and get me a drink Gustav."

 

[Maugan Ra]

Wolves At The Door
(Written by @Wade Garrett with my approval)

In the city of Carroburg, along the shores of the River Reik, from the lowliest dockside hovels to the Baron's palace on its lofty hilltop dreams were dreaned

Old men and scholars dreamed of times past, when their fair city and its surroundings were the seat of an independent Province, the birthplace of a line of Emperors, not a mere appendage waved hither and yon by the wolf worshippers of Middenheim. Wives and mothers dreamed of their husbands and so, far away in a dark forest. And Bruno von Warendrop of the Honorable Altdorf Guild of Mercer's dreamed of gold.

The Mercers Guild knew better than many what a shambles the Empire had become. Of a patchwork quilt of laws and regulations that varied from province to province, of the dozens of competing town assemblies, noble lords, excise guilds, all answering to this or that Elector and all dipping a greedy ladle into the great streams of commerce that ran up and down the Reik. And so they began their work, the steady exchange of favors given and favors owed, a law amended here, a tariff reworded there, all in the service of a better future, a future where a man could set out from Altdorf and sail up the Reik without having to allot a third of his cargo hold to carry coin for official fees and unofficial bribe money. It wasn't as if the Baron's men would mind, they were all looking inland, busy fortifying the outer villages of their lords domain and awaiting word on von Bildenhof's foray into the dark forest.

But everything changed when the First Reikland Fleet set sail upriver.

Lord High Admiral Matthias Schieffen-Kassel of Altdorf had dreams of his own. Dreams of the crash of waves and the smell of sea salt, of leading grand flotillas out on the open waves, and keel hauling every Marienlander who had dared to impose navigation fees on seamen of the Imperial Fleet. Of not being laughed at by smartly dressed youngsters who didn't know the first thing about the importance of war on the waters.

And so when Grand Prince Konstantin mentioned in passing that it was a dreadful thing that so many river pirates and smugglers flying Middenland flags to cover for their dark deeds, the Lord High Admiral acted.

River galleys stationed themselves just outside the range of Carroburg's defenses and offered passing vessels a choice: heave to and be boarded or have your decks raked by cannone and ballista, then be boarded. Ships with home ports in Marienburg or Wiessenland were regretfully permitted to go on their way, Reikland captains and crews dreaming of the prize money a legally captured prize ship could bring.

Vessels belonging to Middenland had no such good fortune. Whether it was a well outfitted trading ship or merely a fishing boat, something would inevitably be found aboard indicating a sideline in piracy or smuggling, and then it was off to the Reiksport Auction Dock for the ship and a far worse fate for her crew.

Carroburg was outraged, merchants and nobles seeing their coffers shrink, ordinary people watching ships swarmed by perfumed pirates in sight of the city walls, ouriders were dispatched to the Baron and when emissaries from Regent Schild and the Ar-Ulric sought audiences with the local nobility they found themselves all but besieged with demands to do something about this outright brigandry, this assault on Drakwald's rights.

In this environment, messages of northern unity and the strength of the wolf pack feel on willing ears, with vows that Baron Henryk would return home and set matters to right soon joined by declarations that the strutting dandies of Reikland would pay for their bloody minded buccaneering, and at least one instance of an scarecrow made up as the Grand Theogonist thrown into the flames during the weekly burning of Prince Konstantin in effigy.

Meanwhile, the Mercer's Guild factor in Carroburg made a modest donation to the captain of a Reikland ship of the line and set out for home, bearing news of a rather unfortunate setback to the guild's plans for peaceful mercantile cooperation for the mutual benefit of all.

 

[Maugan Ra]

The Old Ally
(Written by @Scia with my approval)

Sigmar's Realm and the Karaz Ankor have always had strong ties, stretching back to the days when the Dawi gave the humans the gift of steel and Sigmar his famous hammer. So it is no wonder then, that 2201 years since the Battle of Blackfire Pass , the secrets of the Dawi continue to be a light that draws in the mayflies of humanity.

In Hochland, Lady Theophania well knew of how a lack of riches had hindered her people thus far, and while she could not export any great rarity she nevertheless had things that others wanted. If she wanted gold, it was just a question to find the right person that wanted what Hochland proud and stout had to offer. A chance encounter on a hunt with some dawi lead to a talk, for they were traders that had come down from their small communities in the Middle Mountains to pursue goods.

After all, while the mountains where rare in metal and thus inferior to the the fabled riches of a true Karak, the smaller communities still had needs. A safe road to a dwarven temple in the mountains, beer and iron and wood for its caretakers... and so over a talk held over the axe-ruined bodies of several beastmen, the Lady set up a plan. Hochland would aid the temple in meeting its material needs, and in turn the pious Dwarves of the temple would reach out to their cousins in guilds and holds further afield in search of certain kinds of expertise.

-/-


Elsewhere, matters were not quite so happy for the cult of Ulric, who had reached out to the dawi that claimed the same wilderness as them. In these stout-hearted folk the Cult saw a natural ally, one fighting the same war against the dark as they, and while there were some initial troubles based in simple misunderstanding (casting themselves as rangers did not suggest an honourable temperament to most kinds of Dwarf, who as a rule regard their surface-walking brethren as a bit odd in the head) there was a general sense of optimism that such troubles would be inevitably short lived.

Until, that was, a delegation was sent to Karak Vlag.

Dispatched by the Ar-Ulric, the assembled priests and diplomats had been sent to visit those fabled smiths and arrange for a number of them to accept certain outstanding contracts in and around Middenheim. Unfortunately, one of the smiths spotted a trophy that Father Karl Ergutson was wielding, and promptly exploded in a tirade of cursing and abusive language. After several tense, delicate minutes it was discovered that Ergutson's axe was of Dwarf make, having been forged by the smith in question for his brother's wedding and then lost to a greenskin raiding party before it could arrive. Naturally, the smith demanded the weapon be returned.

Karl Ergutson, however, refused. In his eyes, the axe was a family heirloom, one of the few things that Ergut Greyhair had passed down to his son and heir. Yes, the old man had taken the weapon from a greenskin, having slain the beast in the course of his duties at great personal risk to himself, but that hardly changed things. He owed no debt to this dwarf, and he most assuredly did not owe him one of the last mementos he still had of his father.

Neither side would relent, and ultimately negotiations broke down entirely. The Dawi of Karak Vlag insist that the axe be returned, the local Ulricans insist that the axe is theirs by right of blood and conquest.

-/-


The bounds between Sigmar and the Dawi were as old as stone and stronger than the mightiest blade. The church of Sigmar, blessed be his name in these dark times, were well aware of this truth. They recalled the old debts and how they and the people of the stone once stood side by side against the green tide.

And so it came to pass that messengers were sent out to Karaz-a-Karak, bearing offers of shared glory and the promise of trade. Such things were well received, and at their coming the Old King sent for the Great Book of Grudges in search of a worthy way for the children of Sigmar to honour their oaths. In the end, the decision was made to send them to the aid of Karak Ganthor, for the hold in the black mountains was, while not yet under siege, perilously close to having its doors forced closed by the gathering threat.

Beastmen and Grobi were the cause, having attacked the underways and choked off almost all means by which their fellow Dawi could offer food and supplies. Thus, trade delivered by umgi hands would be needed to supply it, and blood from human veins would be needed to secure the Karak against the things that lived in the mountains, for an Ice Giant had come with others of its ilk drawn around himself together with a wyrm of ice and snow. Known as Iceflinger, the beast was noted to have a particular cunning unlike others of its ilk, and whenever it went dawi would be found pulped and broken, their bones cracked open for marrow and their possessions stolen by shrieking hordes of feral harpies.

And so before the winter came the Sons of Sigmar dispatched the first carvarans to the hold , laden with well-preserved food and escorted by mercenaries and those of the Faith that could climb a icy mountain before winter blocked the passes entirely. Of their glory and faith whole sagas could be told, but for now it is enough to know that enough of the food deliveries made it through for the Karak to survive the winter, hidden beneath the glacier. Others vanished without a trace or were frozen by unnatural winds into statues of ice, while Trolls did battle with the faithful as they returned and harpies dared the wrath of flint-eyed bowmen. Of the Giant called Iceflinger, however, little could be found, for there were none that crossed the beast's faith that lived to tell the tale.

-/-

Article:

Oh my Lady Pesca , Rose of the dawn, whose blond locks make me long for the fire of your touch as the flower longs for the sun.

I send you this letter from the Imperial town of Nuln , which despite the rumours is entirely lacking in wolves , even if the stench of the inhabitants could lead one to believe otherwise. My hopes of impressing your uncle, the mighty Prince Tartarugha, seem to be going well; my services to the delegation have drawn much praise, and I hope that I can thus impress him enough to allow me choice of travelling companion and more in future. Only then, I think, might I dare ask for your hand without being dismissed on reflex.

But let me share with you word of my travels, that your imprisonment be made the slightest bit more tolerable.

Nuln is a city of contrasts , for while the local Tilean population has ensured the University and Ironworks are well staffed places of beauty and industry, beyond the walls there is nought but a teeming hovel of the most wretched kinds of people. The wars between Sigmar's folk are long and barbarous, creating a seemingly endless tide of the desperate and dispossessed; so unlike the civilised one between Condottieri.

I hope that under the guiding hand of a man of the Faith, the culture of Nuln will flourish appropriately. Certainly this Grand Count has listened well to the more defensive lessons imparted by our Lady of Victory, for the defenders are well armed indeed and even now the walls are being expanded in a most peculiar manner. I have enclosed certain sketches of the work in progress, which I hope will convey what my words alone cannot.

As part of our delegation, I was able to gain access to the halls of those of power and wealth (is there any difference between the two?), and found them full of grandees possessed by a most powerful interest in Lady Myrmidia and our fair homeland. Even those sworn to their hammer swinging deity offered some interesting questions, though alas much of their understanding of our Lady's faith is tainted by the Estalian heresy. A pox upon them, and a great many more words that I should not put down on paper for your eyes to see or ears to hear.

Even the stout folk of the mountain seem to have found some common cause with our foreign brothers, both the native sons of Nul and the Tileans that are already living there. It is a shame that their ale was a bit too strong and unrefined for my poor brother Morettio, but I was able to smooth over the minor diplomatic incident that resulted with only a modicum of difficulty. We had to sell some of the examples of our craftsmanship otherwise intended as a gift in order to pay the debt, but coin is by far the gentlest solution to a Dwarf who feels insulted by your kinsman's words.

Fortunately, the Dwarves were much taken by the map - you remember the one, dearest, how could you not after all that happened during our expedition to the Southlands. I warned them in good conscience that our own endeavours had been thwarted by beastmen of a reptilian disposition, but they did not seem to care. I do hope you made a copy; perhaps in time we might once more try our luck at recovering the lost treasures of Karak Zorn.

Ah, to hear your voice again, so lovely as you sang from beneath the waterfall. Much more lovely then the cantors of the Sigmarites that we had been forced to attend, so inferior to a proper opera. Still, it was at least interesting to watch the local priest thank the Lord of Wissenland for his donation that had enabled their worship. I wonder if it hurt him, to offer gratitude to one that embraces a foreign god? Who can say, dearest, who can say.

Still, our business is largely finished here, with many deals struck and times for future negotiations set. I feel that this may be the herald of a new age of cooperation and mutual prosperity between our people and the northerners, and even if it does not, at least I am bound to soon return to your incomparable embrace.

Yours in eternal love and Servitude
Antonio Luicien Nintendino

 

[Maugan Ra]

It is now 2201 IC
Turn Two has begun​

 

[Mina]

The River Aver
(Below Streissen)


Elector Countess Theopaneia Ysmay Gloriana Hochen​

Theo woke to the gently slap of water and the rocking of a riverboat. It was nice. The taste in her mouth and the pounding in her head were less pleasant, but that was just the price of a great time.

The last night of the tournament was a murky blur. She remembered girls at some point, soft southern types that melted for calloused hands and strong shoulders. There'd been singing, dancing, Averland's little scheme… She had the vaguest outlines of something in the grim darkness at the end of the night when the booze had truly started flowing.

She started to sit up but it was nothing but aches, and her elbow seemed looped under another person. Wriggling, she struggled to sit up. There was another weight over her legs. That was right, two girls. They couldn't have come along…

It was coming back. The girls had left. She'd gone out. There'd been that...pretty one with the lips and the eyebrows. Where had she seen him…the melee maybe? Ugh. Definitely poetry, and more drinking, and wrestling, and something about Wissenland sucking dwarf cock for armor? Why did she get an image of her old tutor Brother Conrad smacking her with a hammer for that.

Gingerly she touched a finger to the bump on her head, blinking hard to clear the grit from her eyes. There was someone across her legs. It was in fact Brother Conrad. Her fingers drifted higher and a shower of petals drifted down. Why did she have flowers woven in to her hair?

The person next to her stirred and she recognized the lips, the eyebrows, the Sylvanian from the melee...with a bump on his head and a ring on his finger.

She looked down at the cheap band jammed on her hand.

"Rhya's tits."

Her husband in Sigmar's bleary light, Alessio Malasangre​