Faction: The Duchy of Carroburg Faction Head: Duke Henryk von Bildhofen
Family Tree:
The Late Duke of Carroburg, {Gottfried von Bildhofen, Called Gottfried the Decrepit} - Born 2102 and Died 2199 IC of a Broken Heart
Married Seven Times to Reputable Ladies from the Drakwald, Middenland, Nordland, Hochland, and Reikland
His First Wife, {Matilda Gottschall} - Born 2111 and Died 2129 IC in Childbirth
Their Estranged Son, Magnus von Bildhofen, Called Magnus the Absent- Born 2129 IC - Currently in Exile in Nuln after Marrying a Noblewoman of Nuln and Converting to the Sigmarite Faith
Married to of Brunhilde of Nuln with Issue
His Second Wife, {Elena Hebamme} - Born 2114 and Died 2144 IC of a Bad Stomach
No Issue
His Third Wife, {Petra of Nordland} - Born 2123 and Died 2147 IC of a Chill
Their Daughter, {Karin von Bildhofen} - Born 2144 and Died 2171 IC of Wounds Inflicted by Beastmen
His Fourth Wife, Theodore von Bernloch - Born 2131 IC
No Issue, Divorced Three Years After Being Married in 2156 IC
His Fifth Wife, {Katerine von Bernloch} - Born 2136 and Died 2171 IC
Their Daughter, Katerine von Bildhofen, Called Lady von Eslohe - Born 2167 IC
Their Son, {Magnus von Bildhofen, Called the Golden} - Born 2170 and Died 2198 IC in a Duel of Honour
His Sixth Wife, {Engel Seyler} - Born 2160 and Died 2173 IC in Childbirth
Their Daughter, {Matilda von Bildhofen} - Born 2173 and Died 2173 IC a Stillbirth
His Seventh and Final Wife, Eloise von Kornberg - Born 2151 IC
To: His Holiness The Custode Del Portale of the North @Dadarian
The Honorable Grandmaster of the Order of Deserved Rest @triumph8w
Your Holiness, honored Grandmaster, dark tidings come to Waldenhof.
We hear of defeat, and worse than defeat. We hear that the Elector's crusade was put to flight by one of the Lords of the Night, and the creature even now seeks to wage another War Of The Unshriven Dead.
What manner of beast stalks these lands? What bloodworm has crawled forth from the grave, what happened in those hills? I beg you, I implore you, in the name of the Father of Ravens, as he blesses his servants with foresight in their slumber I beg you to bless me with knowledge now. All that was seen, all that is known of this abomination, any guidance you can offer that might aid in the defense I must prepare, I beg of you.
Yours in faith,
Luciano Malasangre, Count of Sylvania and Lord of Drakenhopf
Carroburg and the Drakwald have ever been an unhappy battleground in the long running feud between Middenland and Reikland. When the Age of the Three Emperors began, the dispute between the Elected Emperors and the Wolf Emperors saw Drakwalder loyalty bartered over, with Runefangs and more offered to sway the former Province to one side or the other. Countless bodies lay beneath it's soil, drowned in the Mirror Moors and rooted beneath the Drakwald Forest, having met ends not at the hands of Beastmen but in the conflict between those two proud and mighty States.
The news, then, that Reikland had chosen to once more flare up tensions by seizing ships flying Middeland colours, all within sight of Carroburg itself, therefore came as no surprise to Duke Henryk von Bildhofen. Even though he had not expected Carroburg to be threatened so directly whilst away campaigning against the Beastmen - for what depraved individual would strike a blow at the bold souls doing battles with some of the Empire's most hated enemies - even he had to admit that it was ever a matter of when, not if, Middenland and Reikland came to blows once more. That it was inevitable, however, did not salve the Duke's temper at the news that his subjects had been molested by Reiklander hands nor did it soften his righteous indignation at the ignoble tactics employed by Reikland.
Returning home with what was left of his battered and tired contingent, Henryk would swiftly respond to the Reiklanders' dastardly activities, calling council with his advisors and meeting with the merchant guilds and families affected by their depredations. Promises would be made, assurances given, and riders dispatched to Middenheim and beyond as the Duke of Carroburg moved to make safe his home. Ever desperate to win the love of his subjects, to be seen as a protector and father to the Drakwald, the young Duke would strive to make every effort to be seen as working to solve the problem even if, to quite some degree, he was unsure of just what to do. Carroburg was no great naval power, it's shipwrights knew little of building ships fit for war, nor were her sailors the sort of battle hardened folk capable of battling the Reiklanders.
Yet even with that being so, Carroburg would not do nothing. In dire need of allies, missives would be sent to the Alchemists Guild, promising safe haven and friendship should they take up residence in Carroburg; word would be sent to the rest of the Drakwalder nobility in the hopes of using the Reiklander threat to bind the Drakwald together against outside foes; and perhaps most important, Leopold von Kornberg - the maternal cousin of the Duke and a man of martial inclination - would be given leave to charge of Carroburg's defenses as he saw fit. Raising high the old Drakwald banner, it would be Leopold who would first take to Carroburg's walls and begin the task of raising a new force to protect the city, to defend Drakwald, from the perfidious Reiklanders, a task to which the Duke's cousin took like a Beastman to filth.
To: His Holiness The Custode Del Portale of the North @Dadarian
The Honorable Grandmaster of the Order of Deserved Rest @triumph8w
Your Holiness, honored Grandmaster, dark tidings come to Waldenhof.
We hear of defeat, and worse than defeat. We hear that the Elector's crusade was put to flight by one of the Lords of the Night, and the creature even know seeks to wage another War Of The Unshriven Dead.
What manner of beast stalks these lands? What bloodworm has crawled forth from the grave, what happened in those hills? I beg you, I implore you, in the name of the Father of Ravens, as he blesses his servants with foresight in their slumber I beg you to bless me with knowledge now. All that was seen, all that is known of this abomination, any guidance you can offer that might aid in the defense I must prepare, I beg of you.
Yours in faith,
Luciano Malasangre, Count of Sylvania and Lord of Drakenhopf
The Vampiric scum was a Blood Dragon, Count. It drove us back across the border and the Elector-Countess crossed lances with it. Unfortunately she has not slain the beast, though she sent it running, where I do not know. Know this, while the fool's of Averland have forced the campaign to a halt with their misguided war, the men of Morr are not done with this land. I will do what I can to aid you in the protection of your land, and in the death of this damnable Blood Dragon.
May your death be easy, when it comes.
Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
"Twas an early season raid," the mud-splattered messenger says, her eyes with heavy bags. Her fur hat is singed at the fringes. "The winter was hard and long, and we reckon that the beastmen was as hungry as we was. They've been sacking villages and eating people, milady. There's scrawl of a new shaman leading them - Kraykor, they say, who summons foul spirits. I found one of the ritual sites they left. It were awful."
Astrid doesn't say anything at first. She stares out the window, two brutish bearhounds snoozing at her feet. Her maidenly white gown is only somewhat covered in dog hair. "Thank you," she says eventually. "Go see my head of household - eat, sleep. I may want to speak to you later."
The messenger leaves, and she continues to stare out the window. A cold wind picks up, blowing through the cracks. And outside, there's a flash of lightning.
"Johan! Get in here!" Astrid yells at the top of her voice.
There's a pounding of feet outside. "Your grace?" the markgraf asks, poking his head in the door nervously.
"I am irked, Johan. Nay, angry!" The draft stirs the parchments on her desk.
"... why, your grace?"
She huffs, shoulders shaking, and collapses down in her armchair. One of her big dogs approaches her and starts licking her hand. "The rumours from down south. Entire armies of men and knights being throw away in that cesspit, Sylvania. All at the behest of a van Hel. A van Hel! That's a name not to trust, especially when Sylvania is concerned!" She thumps the arm of her chair. "And here I am, in a land of... trees filled with monsters. With just a fraction of the knights that they threw into that twisted wasteland, we could have hunted down any number of beastmen or orc chieftains! What were they thinking?"
"Those fancy southern knights have never cared about the North," Johan says bitterly. "Even those Ulrican White Wolves don't head this far north." He was in full agreement with his duchess. It sickened the stomach to hear about what those southerners had so casually thrown away.
"I'm writing a letter to the Grand Theogonist!" Astrid declared out of the blue.
"Sorry, what?" After a year, he was growing used to the way his grand duchess would skip to the end of a conversation and assume that everyone else had kept up with her chain of thought.
She glared at him with those sharp blue eyes, running her fingers through the ruff of her brutish dog. "Keep up, Johan. I'm writing a letter to the Grand Theogonist to remind him that we exist! He is the father of all the children of Sigmar, not just the ones who live in the south. And you know just as well as I do that the Norscans are turning their eyes south, and they'll come raring for blood and slaves. If he'll give us warrior-priests strong enough to swing a hammer and cave a monster's head in, and faithful enough to stand against the monsters of the North, maybe we'll weather the storm that's coming."
Again lightning flashes, and thunder booms.
"It's coming," she says, softly. "I can feel it in my bones."
She is silent for a long while.
"Now, Johan, remind me - are the arrangements made for the party with the girls? I do look forwards to seeing Theo and Jana again!"
I write to you as a daughter of the faith, born into it and taught by your priests.
The beasts of Chaos are ever present in the Forest of Shadows, proof against any earthly weapon, and only faith can stand against their wicked blandishments. Kislev eclipses us, ruled by ice-witches. The dread forces of the icelands - those Norscans who worship vile and loathsome spirits and wicked demons - turn their eyes towards our green forests and humble fields, and Ostland has always been true to the cause of the Hammer. I am sure that one as wise as you is aware of such perils, of course - but I am but a young woman, and I worry about the perils of the forces of Chaos. We of the North know well the dangers of the beastman, the Norscan and of the Kislevite witch. Unfortunately, compared to the rich lands of the south, we are poor in coin, though rich in spirit and devotion to His cause.
If I might be so daring, I wish to make a humble suggestion. The men and women of Ostland will serve as the first line of defence should the North turn its attentions to our sadly ruptured lands. It has always been the guarding hand of Sigmar that safeguards our realm. Surely there are priests among your ranks who long to see battle, who wish to grasp the hammer as Sigmar once did, and march against the barbarian; the witch; the demon. Send them north to join the army of Ostland, to minister to my soldiers and stand strong with them against the forces of wickedness. Open the treasuries of the faithful, so that armoured priests might stand along the Ostland Bulls, strong and faithful. I am sure we will find that with a plentiful number of war-priests among their ranks, the Bulls might not be the best equipped army, but as Sigmar teaches us the soul that is poor in faith shatters and breaks.
As a faithful daughter of Sigmar, I will of course be most grateful for a sign that those who guard the legacy of the hammer care for their poor, Northern cousins. Should you grant us such valiant warrior-priests, strong in their faith, then I will personally ensure that a new seminary shall be built at my own expense upon the ruins of Rutberg Castle, just outside my own capital. From such a centre of the faith, they might minister to the poorly-educated and lonely peasants of the Forest of Shadows, and stay strong in their convictions away from the temptations and trespasses of certain southern cities.
Once again, your eminence, I extol you - forget not those of us who stand alone in the lonely lands of the north. Prudent investment of your righteous wealth in the strength of the North now might well reap dividends of safety for the whole Empire.
Your humble daughter of Sigmar,
Grand Duchess Astrid Hilma Nina Ortud Julia Karen von Wolfenburg, Elector-Countess of Ostland, Protector of the Eastern Reaches, Hetdam of the Udoses
My esteemed comrade, the Elected Count of Ostermark and Lord Chancellor Frederick von Schaffernorst @Bandeirante
You have my heartfelt thanks for your assistance during this winter season, and I would that I had better news to recount.
Van Hel's crusade was a disaster, and it has bred further disaster. She and her knights stormed into the Haunted Hills, died in droves, and for a finish they roused up one of the Lords of the Night and it chivvied them all the way back to Stirland like a hound driving sheep. And now they're marching off to Averland, and it prowls my lands in, I imagine, something of a temper.
I have spoken to the templar of Morr who accompanied them, and he named their nemesis as a "Blood Dragon". I will confess I have little knowledge of the breeds of bloodworms, but Myrmidia bids us to know our foe. Ostermark is famed for its hunters of the dead, is there anything you can tell me of these drake blooded corpses?
Count Luciano Malasangre, Lord of Drakenhopf
Postscript
As to that, I have no word from my sons who accompanied yours to Averland's little celebration. If you have heard anything of how they fare, anything at all, it would do my heart good if you were to share it
"Twas an early season raid," the mud-splattered messenger says, her eyes with heavy bags. Her fur hat is singed at the fringes. "The winter was hard and long, and we reckon that the beastmen was as hungry as we was. They've been sacking villages and eating people, milady. There's scrawl of a new shaman leading them - Kraykor, they say, who summons foul spirits. I found one of the ritual sites they left. It were awful."
Astrid doesn't say anything at first. She stares out the window, two brutish bearhounds snoozing at her feet. Her maidenly white gown is only somewhat covered in dog hair. "Thank you," she says eventually. "Go see my head of household - eat, sleep. I may want to speak to you later."
The messenger leaves, and she continues to stare out the window. A cold wind picks up, blowing through the cracks. And outside, there's a flash of lightning.
"Johan! Get in here!" Astrid yells at the top of her voice.
There's a pounding of feet outside. "Your grace?" the markgraf asks, poking his head in the door nervously.
"I am irked, Johan. Nay, angry!" The draft stirs the parchments on her desk.
"... why, your grace?"
She huffs, shoulders shaking, and collapses down in her armchair. One of her big dogs approaches her and starts licking her hand. "The rumours from down south. Entire armies of men and knights being throw away in that cesspit, Sylvania. All at the behest of a van Hel. A van Hel! That's a name not to trust, especially when Sylvania is concerned!" She thumps the arm of her chair. "And here I am, in a land of... trees filled with monsters. With just a fraction of the knights that they threw into that twisted wasteland, we could have hunted down any number of beastmen or orc chieftains! What were they thinking?"
"Those fancy southern knights have never cared about the North," Johan says bitterly. "Even those Ulrican White Wolves don't head this far north." He was in full agreement with his duchess. It sickened the stomach to hear about what those southerners had so casually thrown away.
"I'm writing a letter to the Grand Theogonist!" Astrid declared out of the blue.
"Sorry, what?" After a year, he was growing used to the way his grand duchess would skip to the end of a conversation and assume that everyone else had kept up with her chain of thought.
She glared at him with those sharp blue eyes, running her fingers through the ruff of her brutish dog. "Keep up, Johan. I'm writing a letter to the Grand Theogonist to remind him that we exist! He is the father of all the children of Sigmar, not just the ones who live in the south. And you know just as well as I do that the Norscans are turning their eyes south, and they'll come raring for blood and slaves. If he'll give us warrior-priests strong enough to swing a hammer and cave a monster's head in, and faithful enough to stand against the monsters of the North, maybe we'll weather the storm that's coming."
Again lightning flashes, and thunder booms.
"It's coming," she says, softly. "I can feel it in my bones."
She is silent for a long while.
"Now, Johan, remind me - are the arrangements made for the party with the girls? I do look forwards to seeing Theo and Jana again!"
I write to you as a daughter of the faith, born into it and taught by your priests.
The beasts of Chaos are ever present in the Forest of Shadows, proof against any earthly weapon, and only faith can stand against their wicked blandishments. Kislev eclipses us, ruled by ice-witches. The dread forces of the icelands - those Norscans who worship vile and loathsome spirits and wicked demons - turn their eyes towards our green forests and humble fields, and Ostland has always been true to the cause of the Hammer. I am sure that one as wise as you is aware of such perils, of course - but I am but a young woman, and I worry about the perils of the forces of Chaos. We of the North know well the dangers of the beastman, the Norscan and of the Kislevite witch. Unfortunately, compared to the rich lands of the south, we are poor in coin, though rich in spirit and devotion to His cause.
If I might be so daring, I wish to make a humble suggestion. The men and women of Ostland will serve as the first line of defence should the North turn its attentions to our sadly ruptured lands. It has always been the guarding hand of Sigmar that safeguards our realm. Surely there are priests among your ranks who long to see battle, who wish to grasp the hammer as Sigmar once did, and march against the barbarian; the witch; the demon. Send them north to join the army of Ostland, to minister to my soldiers and stand strong with them against the forces of wickedness. Open the treasuries of the faithful, so that armoured priests might stand along the Ostland Bulls, strong and faithful. I am sure we will find that with a plentiful number of war-priests among their ranks, the Bulls might not be the best equipped army, but as Sigmar teaches us the soul that is poor in faith shatters and breaks.
As a faithful daughter of Sigmar, I will of course be most grateful for a sign that those who guard the legacy of the hammer care for their poor, Northern cousins. Should you grant us such valiant warrior-priests, strong in their faith, then I will personally ensure that a new seminary shall be built at my own expense upon the ruins of Rutberg Castle, just outside my own capital. From such a centre of the faith, they might minister to the poorly-educated and lonely peasants of the Forest of Shadows, and stay strong in their convictions away from the temptations and trespasses of certain southern cities.
Once again, your eminence, I extol you - forget not those of us who stand alone in the lonely lands of the north. Prudent investment of your righteous wealth in the strength of the North now might well reap dividends of safety for the whole Empire.
Your humble daughter of Sigmar,
Grand Duchess Astrid Hilma Nina Ortud Julia Karen von Wolfenburg, Elector-Countess of Ostland, Protector of the Eastern Reaches, Hetdam of the Udoses
It is the duty of those who follow Sigmar's will to defend his people, for are we not all his children in his eyes?
You do your duty well Child of the Heldenhammer, for you safeguard not only your subjects lives, but take efforts to tend to their very souls. Fear not, for long as the province of Ostland dwelled within my thoughts, the bastion that raised the Order of the Silver Hammer that to this very day defends us against evil will not be permitted to fall nor falter. You have my support and my word that those who seek to defend the innocent against the denizens of Shadow will find their battles within the Northern Provinces.
Faction Head: Chancellor Frederick von Schaffernorscht
Family Tree:
The Good Chancellor and Elected Count, Frederick von Schaffenorscht - born 2133
His wife, Margaritt von Schaffernorscht (Herringer) - born 2137
Their issue:
Ludwig von Schaffernorscht - born 2154
His wife Maria von Schaffernorscht (Hertwig) - Born 2152
With issue
Heinrich von Schaffenorscht - Born 2157
His wife Helena von Schaffernorscht (Kasparin) - Born 2158
With issue
Maria Fleissman (von Schaffernorscht)t - Born 2150
Her husband Edgar Fleissman - Born 2147
With issue
The Armies of the League
1st Ostermark Army (Deathfriends, commanded by Franz Lachinko)
Full Strength
Average Troops
2nd Ostermark Army (Bearslayers, commanded by Klaus Hertwig)
Full Strength
Average Troops
Fortenhaf. The Wailing Widow Inn
Ludwig von Schaffernorscht, like his father the Chancellor, had started his career as a merchant. Even now, well into his newest term as Burgomaster of Fortenhaf, he still divided his time between his public duties and running his own estates and business. A situation that left him doubly invested into the ever growing business between the League and Kislev. And that was a good reason as any why he had spent the morning drinking, eating and chatting away with some of his old friends from across the border. Doing what his job required of him.
"Bottoms up, Nikolai!" Ludwig shouted, to the cheers of the assembled merchants and coin counters in the private room.
The Vodka burned his throat on the way down, kicking harder than it had before. Either this new bottle was a stronger fare than what they had been served or the alcohol was finally starting to get to him. Regardless, Ludwig stood firm, or at least standing. Sure, he was kind of swaying but he refused to relent, to tumble back in his chair or even steady himself on the table.
Nikolai Vladimirovich Stepanov, seemed even less affected by the drinking. And so they stood staring at each other for a long moment, daring the other to back down and admit defeat while waiting for the cups to be refilled.
"I think we may have gotten carried away." Anton Morciwecz, another Kislevite piped up in a moment of drunken clarity before slumping back down in his chair.
"Nonsense!" Nikolai retorted. "We are very much on track, my friends! Lulu here came to talk business with us, business were talked about and now we are celebrating. To business!" He finished, raising and then downing his still empty glass. Glaring hatefully at it when it simply didnt refill itself.
"Wait, Anton is right." Ludwig half shouted, nodding vigorously as he talked quietly to himself for a moment. "I also forgot to invite you to the funeral!" He slammed the small table in triumph, rattling the bottles, plates and glasses precariously piled up. "My mother in law died yesterday. The whole city is gonna stop over the weekend for the event. I want you all there."
There was silence for a moment, or as much silence one can have when half of the room is groaning or snoring, before Nikolai finally replied: "Do...is...are we supposed to celebrate or comfort you now?"
"Doesn't matter, Nikolai, you gotta show up." Ludwig replied insistently, before turning his attention to the other Kislevites. "You all gotta show up. There will be booze, there will be food, there will be dancing and partying and lots of traders and merchants showing up."
"Business?" Nikolai inquired.
"Business." Ludwig shot back with a smile.
"BUSINESS!" The room cheered.
In the Veidt
Heinrich von Schaffernoscht found his Helena atop a lone hill, sitting under the shadow of the large solitary Rowan near the edge of their fields. Close to the fences that closed off their lands and kept their crops and herds relatively safe.
Heinrich brought his horse to a stop at the foot of the hill, dismounting with the ease of a lifetime of practice, not bothering tying down the horse. Danzig wasn't the type of animal to wander around. Besides, he was in too much of a hurry to bother.
"You're back." Was all that Helena said as she watched him run up the hill.
"Please, love. Contain your emotions." Heinrich replied sardonically as he plopped himself down by her side. Only then he noticed the knife and the pieces of wood and shaving around his wife.
"So, got it all out?" She asked curtly, resuming her whittling. "Heard you didn't make an absolute fool out of yourself. Guess that deserves some congratulations"
"And you didn't ruin the estate while I was away." He shot back. "Knew you had it in you."
"Have you seen the girls already?" Helena asked again.
"Not really, they were with the servants waiting for me at the gate. But when I didn't see you there I rode here as soon as I could."
"You inconsiderate bastard." She chuckled. "All they talked about ever since you left was about your return and now you just leave them alone. But I appreciate the gesture."
"I'm sure the gifts will keep them busy. You will like yours too, once you go around to gracing the rest of us with your presence. And the servants finish unpacking everything."
Helena didn't reply, neither did Heinrich bother extending the conversation. Preferring the comfortable silence that had settled over the couple as he watched his wife whittle down whatever she was trying to. Truth be told Helena had never been particularly good at it. But Heinrich had learned long ago to not comment on it, the exercise kept his wife's temper quiet and her emotions grounded. Far from him to try and take that away from her. Specially with what he was about to say.
"There's also something else I gotta say, dear." He started, tone serious and courage suddenly harder to find. "But I'm gonna need you to put the knife away and listen to me." That got her to stop. And grip the whittling knife tight enough to whiten her knuckles. The sharp breaths didn't help his confidence either. But it was too late to back down, Helena had a talent for often conjuring the worst case scenarios for any situation. Better press on before she convinced herself he had brought a bastard back home.
"I brought a guest with me, Helena." He said, then the words just spilled out. "I know this isn't part of the agreement we had before I left, but it was out of my control. Thiago, and I mean the youngest of the Malasangre boys needed a place to stay for a while. And since they got me into the Tourney I figured the least I could do was offer him a place to stay. You understand?"
Helena remained silent for a moment, the angry glare receding into merely slight distaste. "One of these days I'm going to stab you because of these stunts you pull." She grunted. "And why doesn't this Malasangre boy simply go back to his home? With his family?"
"It's a long story." Heinrich slumped back in the tree. "I'm gonna tell you at dinner. Along with everything else that happened at the Tourney. But for now let's just say the boy doesn't wants to be the bearer of bad news and stay in the line of fire of an angry father." He looked at his wife in the eyes. "We both know what's that like, dear. The boy just needs a few friendly shoulders to lean on for a while. You will like him too, I swear."
"I'm not playing babysitter to your friends, Hein." She replied, still cross at him. But Heinrich nevertheless perked up. That was still progress in his books.
"No need, he's a responsible and self reliant young man."
"You two better have a good excuse." She pressed on. "And you better make sure he behaves with our girls."
"He's decent lad, dear." Heinrich assured her
"And make sure the girls won't get any ideas either."
"Thiago is- what? Our girls wouldn't-" But Helena interrupted him.
"They're old enough, and bold enough. If you paid more attention to them you would know. And even If they're as half as wild as we were back then, we might as well wall them off in the basement." She laughed. "Or have you already forgot about our courtship?"
"You're blowing this out of proportion, dear." Heinrich tried to sound dismissive, but he remembered those days of furtive outings, sneaking away, midnight hunts and other far more illicit activities. He remembered them very well.
My esteemed comrade, the Elected Count of Ostermark and Lord Chancellor Frederick von Schaffernorst @Bandeirante
You have my heartfelt thanks for your assistance during this winter season, and I would that I had better news to recount.
Van Hel's crusade was a disaster, and it has bred further disaster. She and her knights stormed into the Haunted Hills, died in droves, and for a finish they roused up one of the Lords of the Night and it chivvied them all the way back to Stirland like a hound driving sheep. And now they're marching off to Averland, and it prowls my lands in, I imagine, something of a temper.
I have spoken to the templar of Morr who accompanied them, and he named their nemesis as a "Blood Dragon". I will confess I have little knowledge of the breeds of bloodworms, but Myrmidia bids us to know our foe. Ostermark is famed for its hunters of the dead, is there anything you can tell me of these drake blooded corpses?
Count Luciano Malasangre, Lord of Drakenhopf
Postscript
As to that, I have no word from my sons who accompanied yours to Averland's little celebration. If you have heard anything of how they fare, anything at all, it would do my heart good if you were to share it
My valued partner and friend, the Count of Sylvania, Lord of Drakenhopf, Luciano Malasangre
News of the fate of that utter farce of a Crusade have already reached the League. But it grieves me to learn that these tales of woe are more than exaggerated rumors. That we easily can attribute the disastrous nature of this campaign to either youthful recklessness and incompetence as we can to willing malice and premeditated cruelty matters little now. Either Averland will prove Van Hel is a creature as foul and detestable as her family name suggests, or it won't. It's a matter for the future.
Now we have to clean up the mess left by these southron fops.
That a Knight of Morr speaks of a Blood Dragon is a terrible portent. More than the average vampire, a Blood Dragon is a terror on the battlefield. A fighter and commander of skill and prowess that can hardly be matched by mortals. The Blood Dragons live for battle, always seeking to throw themselves into the clash of arms, to test their mettle against anyone foolish or daring enough to challenge them and sate their dark and twisted code of honor.
I will provide what help the League can spare. Priests of Morr, vampire hunters and other specialists in the fight against these abominations
Elected Count of Ostermark and Lord Chancellor Frederick von Schaffernorst
Postscript
My son Heinrich has returned recently from the Tourney, with you youngest, Thiago in tow. They tell me that your eldest Alessio, has eloped with Teophania, the Countess of Hochland.
Thiago, meanwhile, has apparently decided to spend more time in the company of my son Heinrich. No doubt he hopes to weather away this situation by maintaining his distance.
Once shuffled to a side hall from the places of justice for people the Graf was not embarrassed to be associated with the commercial and civil courts of the burgher's guilds have slowly expanded to meet their ever increasing demand and importance. Finally catching a finger-hold on the main boulevards of the palace district, the complex has twisted around itself into a labyrinth of faintly panicked clerks and centuries old suits never removed from the docket and endless, endless, hordes of petty petitioners. Thus all well established guildsmen of Middenheim know to first casually talk with the Alderman at their home over cordials and small cakes, and happen to coincidentally bring their casework with them, so that everything is already worked out for a quick pro forma official session of the crowded court. This form of arbitration is so ingrained that it has even led to architectural differences, as you can always tell if a notable believes they will get chain the office when they've added an atrium or courtyard to their mansions. The Alchemist's Guild plays by these rules most of the time as well... but for the most ancient duties of their obligations the Guild Master of the Alchemists must go through the never relenting inquisition of the High Temple of Verena in the Ulricsmund. Under the shadow of the great snarling beast of the Great Temple of Ulric that bristles around all the other temples, Doktor Hohenheim and his coterie must leave the Aldermen and enter the marble-laid path of the Goddess of Justice and prepare for the debriefing.
"Do you so swear in the presence of Lady Verena that you are in fact Herr Doktor Phillip von Hohenheim and no other?"
"I so swear."
"Do you Herr Doktor so swear in the presence of Lady Verena that you are named Guildmaster of the Guild of Alchemists and charged with the responsibility over all its functions?"
"I so swear"
"Are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'the Abjurators', that falsely contends that the soul of the Daemon-touched may be anything other then an empty vessel for the Ruinous Powers?"
"No."
"Are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'the Accursed Cabal', that falsely contends that all knowledge is but lesser spheres of the madness of the Ruinous Powers?
"No."
"Are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'the Acolytes of the Great Eagle', that falsely contends that the maid Myrmidia is a daemonic face of the Ruinous Powers?"
"Are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'Daugnir's Servants', that falsely contends that the idolatrous appeasement of draconic beings is the only hope against the Ruinous Powers?"
"Are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'the Khemrians', that falsely contends that the mimicry of the restless dead and adopted of their dead language would hide mankind from the Ruinous Powers?"
"And lastly, are you a member of, or have you ever knowingly consorted with, the heretical cult known as 'the Umgikoni', that falsely contends that the oaths of Sigmar have broken and that any depredation or theft against the wonders of Karaz Ankor would not be a service to the Ruinous Powers?"
"Gods above, of course not! Now can we-."
"Having concluded the examination of membership to formal heretical organizations, we can now move to the index of heretical practices."
Herman was furious and disappointed in himself, after the utter rout from Sylvannia and only barely managing not to be destroyed by the vampire thanks to the timely arrival of the Knights of the Blazing sun and Sigmar's Blood. He knew this land well, he had spent most of his life fighting it, he should have know better, should have counseled the Elector-Countess that even with the powers that such a station would bring her, they would not be able to quell the dread land of Sylvannia easily.
But he was caught up in the rush, the possibilities, and the assembling of a force not quite unlike what the previous Elector-Count of Stirland, Martian, brought upon this dread land. And so, caught up in the excitement, and swayed by the young Ser Goldwasser's words. Herman forgot himself, and followed the young and the bold into the cursed land long before any of them were ready.
Foolish.
Stupid.
Idiotic.
Not for the first time in the dark days after the finish of the crusade Herman wonders if he is indeed the right man to lead the order, perhaps he should step down, let someone with a mind less clouded than his step up to the mantle of Grandmaster. One more deserving than he. Then he got the letter from the last truly human ruler of Sylvannia, and while he feels as he is truly a massive fool, he knows his duty still. Letters will have to written, supplies readied, men prepared, and more cautious plans drawn up.
This old Knight might truly be a fool, but even a fool knows his duty to the dead.
I have consulted with the Custode del Portale, and have come to my own conclusions in this matter. The land of Sylvannia cannot go untended, especially with a Blood Dragon running about. As such you will not have my assistance in your war with Averland. What I say next may have little meaning, but as I have campaigned with you in that dread land, I know you are no necromancer or Vampire. For if you were one indeed then the crusade would not have lasted as long as it did. And I would not be writing this letter. I...am sorry...that I let the crusade run head first into that dread land when I knew full well what awaited us inside. You, and the others are young, you do not know the amount of time and effort it truly takes to subdue even an acre of that dread land. I however do, I know that in order to bypass that you would need a truly monumental force, like that your predecessor brought upon Sylvannia. I though we had something close enough to achieve the equivalent amount of success. We did not, and we paid for it. For this, I am sorry.
May Sigmar guide your blade well, in the fights to come. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
@Bandeirante
Hail, Chancellor Frederick Von Schaffernorst,
I will be arriving in Ostermark soon with a force of my knights in order to bolster the numbers of my men already present in your land, and to increase the chances of success in aiding Count Malasangre. My part in the foolishness of the crusade has helped stir a foul beast out of its slumber, a Blood Dragon, and I Intend to see this rectified.
I will not leave you nor the good Count on your own to deal with my mistakes.
May your death be easy, when it comes. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
I am writing this letter to apologize, I knew full well what awaited us in cursed Sylvannia, and of the time and preparation required to capture and subdue even an acre of that dread land. I had thought with the force we had assembled that we could bypass that not unlike the Elector-Countess Van Hels predecessor did. That with sheer might we could simply crush the foe into submission. But to truly bring this land into submission would require intense preparation, and the might of a united Empire. We had neither, and we suffered for it.
May your death be easy, when it comes. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
I will be departing soon for Ostermark, to Count Malasangre's land in Sylvannia in order to put down a Blood Dragon the failed crusade stirred up, and secure it further against undead encroachment. Given the strength and elusiveness of such beasts I will be gone for quite some time, and indeed may not survive my trip. But I must go there, in order to atone for my failures in the crusade, and because of my duty.
May ravens alight upon you. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
I have consulted with the Custode del Portale, and have come to my own conclusions in this matter. The land of Sylvannia cannot go untended, especially with a Blood Dragon running about. As such you will not have my assistance in your war with Averland. What I say next may have little meaning, but as I have campaigned with you in that dread land, I know you are no necromancer or Vampire. For if you were one indeed then the crusade would not have lasted as long as it did. And I would not be writing this letter. I...am sorry...that I let the crusade run head first into that dread land when I knew full well what awaited us inside. You, and the others are young, you do not know the amount of time and effort it truly takes to subdue even an acre of that dread land. I however do, I know that in order to bypass that you would need a truly monumental force, like that your predecessor brought upon Sylvannia. I though we had something close enough to achieve the equivalent amount of success. We did not, and we paid for it. For this, I am sorry.
May Sigmar guide your blade well, in the fights to come. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
I understand, it is my fault in the end that lead to our defeat in Sylvannia. In my inexperienced zeal I lead our forces recklessly into the waiting jaws of the undead, all those who died are my sin to bear. I will pray for you in your efforts and hope that when next we meet it will be in happier times. But if we do not and I am slain before our paths cross again then I would go through Morr's gates comforted in knowing that one such as you continues to fight against the darkness.
May Sigmar's light shield you from the darkness.
Mathilde Van Hal, Elector Countess of Stirland.
Waldenhopf Castle, this the Two Thousand, Two Hundred and First Year of the Imperial Calendar
Luciano Malasangre was a thoughtful man, not prone to acting rashly. And so when he picked the handcarved wooden stool up off the floor, he hefted it carefully, testing its weight and balance, adjusting his grip with a thoughtful "Mhmm" and then and only then did he smash it against the stone wall hard enough to reduce most of the unfortunate piece of furniture to fragments.
"WHERE IN ALL OF KHAINE'S BLACK HELLS IS HOCHLAND?"
The one time mercenary hurled a stool leg across the room and stabbed a finger down at the map of the Provinces, all but snarling at the two guards unfortunate enough to be stationed in the campaigning room.
"Show me on this map! Oh, that's right, you can't, because it's not even a real place, it's the sound a dog makes when it vomits on itself, and my idiot son...!"
Luciano Malasangre
"Luciano, master yourself, you're frightening the poor boys." Countess Bianca placed one hand on her husband's shoulder and waved the other in a shooing motion, indicating that the boys in question should be elsewhere, a gesture both guards were only too happy to act on. "Deep breaths, deep breaths, my dear husband."
Leaving one hand on his shoulder she reached out and slowly turned the map right side up, letting her own finger slide carefully across its surface until it touched a particular set of borders.
"This is Hochland. Here, in the center."
Luciano looked at his wife. Bianca looked back at her husband with an expression of completely straight faced innocence, and the Count slowly smiled.
"Oh. There in the center. I see." He folded his arms across his chest and considered the territory with the same care he'd used on selecting a piece of furniture to break. "Well, it's not Reikland but it isn't, a Countess ruling that isn't a beggar."
"A very nice inheritance for a grandchild of ours, yes." Bianca agreed.
Countess Bianca Malasangre
"I have been exploring the background of this 'Theopenia'," she stumbled slightly over the Northern name, "and do you know, they say she had her brother and twenty half brothers killed to take the title?"
"Twenty?"
"Well, the Burgomaster of Nachthopf's wife said her own brother, twenty two half brothers, and a dwarf lord, all by her own hand with an axe, but then, you have met her, yes?"
"Mhm. This Countess sounds almost Tilean." The Count of Sylvania said approvingly. "Still. It's an insult to us, to you, not to even meet with the two of us before..."
"She wouldn't be the first sensible woman to lose her head over some foolish young Malasangre's charms." The Countess replied, laying her head on his shoulder. "Or a foolish old one."
Luciano took a deep breath.
"Bianca, I..."
"You call Alessio an idiot, and all the while you concoct this madman's scheme! You have an army! The Chancellor has offered the assistance of his Hunters of the Dead! And you decide, you mean to challenge this striga alone!"
"I have an army, yes. Of old men and boys, with sickles and hay forks. And most of them, their fathers and father's fathers served these creatures. How many will be loyal, if this Drake-Blooded comes down from those Hills with an army of its own? An army with the best arms Stirland and those knightly dolts could field."
"Then let the Hunters of the Dead do it! Let this knight of Il Morte challenge the beast, do not..."
"I am the Count." He took her into his arms, then. Looked deeply into her eyes. "I am the Count of Sylvania. Our daughter will be Countess after me, and her children after her. But not if I cower behind Ostermark, or Morr's templars, or any other. I do that, all I am, all our family is, we're pawns and puppets. I won't have that, Bianca. Not for you, not for our children."
"And you think that matters more than their father being here for them, being here and not in Il Morte's Garden? You think that matters to them, matters to me?"
He didn't have an answer to that. Didn't have anything except taking her into his arms and holding her close, his thoughts far away, on blasted hillside near Drakenhopf.
Theophaneia stood at one of the tower windows, watching the glitter off the new mill's waterwheel and the tight, geometric lines of the machine hall. Pretty thing, maybe not a set of rune-scribed armor, but it'd serve more use. The dwarves knew their business.
"Ladyship, this was not so unwise as others might think. I for one approve wholeheartedly."
Master Sigismund Fröhlich, Spymaster
She sighed, pointedly keeping her back to him, the room, his approval. The song and dance about to come was one all too familiar, and it never ceased to annoy when the otherwise competent man parroted her mother's old screeds.
"My concerns are more with Alessio than anything, and his parents, his family. Mine is not at issue here."
Sigismund cleared his throat. "The stories of your...exuberant consummation of the union on your way home, which I have suppressed, make me think the man has come well around, and his folk will do the same. They are at best Tilean-emigres with a weak-blooded claim to a haunted and vampire stalked land. Removing their second-born to relative wealth and security in the Empire's heartland is a match they couldn't have possibly hoped to make, and for nothing more than the cost of whatever wine you sloshed together."
That made her round on him, eyes flashing. The spymaster's head dropped.
"Apologies. I hope your Ladyship remembers how often she has been glad of my frank assessments."
"Oh, I do," Theo growled, "But this strays close to what I will not countenance. You're not half so clever as you think Siggy."
The nickname had the appropriate effect, and the man's face curdled. "The priestess seemed sure: Mother Rhya has seen fit to bless you and his lordship, and put an end to the uncertainty of your succession...save three small wrinkles. It was truly good and charitable of you..."
Theo's eyes flashed. "You won't call them wrinkles."
She advanced on Sigismund, jaw clenched, fist burying itself in the collar of his coat.
"It was good, and it was right, and it continues to be. You and mother can creep and complain all you like--but they are my brothers, and they are fine boys."
"And when your childr--"
"And when my children grow up they will have themselves the best and most loyal of by-blow uncles. I won't hear any different."
Lord Luciano Malasangre, Count of Sylvania and Lord of Drakenhopfa thousand pardons, and for Lady Bianca Malasangre, Countess of Sylvania and Lady of Drakenhopf my most heartfelt apologies,
It was a thing of passion that drew your Alessio and me together. Victors in combat, the heat and excitement of the mad, mad end to Averland's tourney, and that doesn't excuse our, my actions, but I hope it starts to explain them. The bond we shared didn't have to become deeper, but through Sigmar's providence it has, and my only regret is that I didn't court him proper with your blessings.
Rest assured, I'll see to his comfort and keeping, and this year I intend to make pilgrimage to Gruyden so that all the gods will bless this marriage and your grandchildren. When next I can travel out of Hochland I hope I can call on you and yours in Sylvania, and if you need anything I might offer in the meantime I will consider it payment to your family for the match and my boorish behavior in this thing.
Your apologetic but overjoyed daughter-in-law
Elector Countess Theophaneia Ysmay Gloriana Hochen, Grand Baroness of Hochland, Marshal of the Talabec Reach, Defender of the Shrines, Baroness of Hergig
Missive nailed to a Malasangre banner thrust into the ground by a party of Sylvanian outriders a short distance down the "Fool's Road"
This message is for the Red Knight of the Haunted Hills.
I am told you are unlike the beasts who suckle bone marrow from corpses in the catacombs of Tobaro. That your kind have some understanding of honor, and oaths. Therefore, permit me to introduce myself.
My name is Luciano Malasangre. I have fought in five wars and seventeen smaller campaigns across Tilea, Estalia, and Lustria. I have led thousands into battle in the service of the princes of Miragliano, Remas, Tobaro, and Luccini. I have won and lost a dozen fortunes, and killed men and beasts. By my blood I am rightful Count of Sylvania and true Lord of Drakenhopf.
As such I charge you with raising an army in my lands without my permission, with holding a fortress rightfully mine, and with numerous actions of banditry and brigandage against travelers seeking to journey to Drakenhopf.
If you be indeed a man of honor and no blood mad beast, I grant you the right to answer these charges by trial of arms and appoint myself Champion of the Accuser. You and I, with no interference by living man or corpse, and may the gods of war and fate decide the outcome.
I shall await your response through the appropriate channels. @Maugan Ra
Eldrood's soup had gone cold. A halfling meal had many courses – no dinner was complete without at least eight, as even the youngest halfling knows – but the debate across his kitchen table had lasted so long that his soup had gone cold. He couldn't even imagine what it must have done to the pastries for desert – and the turkey must be dry, practically inedible by now. His fools of children had all but ruined the meal. He couldn't help but shake his head, disapprovingly. The halflings had long since gotten rid of the useless titles and nonsense that the Big Folk were so proud of – with them always on about their 'bloodlines' and 'honor' and 'not stealing' and 'diets' – but even a race as advanced as the halflings of the Moot couldn't get rid of windbags. And, as much as he loved his son, Mungo Greentoe sure was a windbag.
"Father, please, you know I'm right about this! The Empire is in shambles, and all you do is sit on your stupid chair and chat about the weather and the latest breed of pipeweed. We're a race apart, yes, but we still have responsibilities, to Sigmar and to our fellow Imperials—"
"I won't have any of that Sigmar foolishness," Eldrood said. "Not in this house."
"See, this is my whole point, Father. I've left the Moot, unlike you. Seen Nuln and Altdorf and Marienburg, seen greenskins and beastmen, seen the whole world that you refuse to recognize beyond the figures on your books. We can't just pretend that there's nothing out there."
Mungo Greentoe was young, only out of his tweens in his early thirties, and perhaps naïve and idealistic. But the sandy-blond hair covered a head that was full of cunning and bravery, uncommonly so, of the latter, for a halfling. He continued on, passionately.
"Set aside this . . . provincialism, father! We could change the world, make the Empire better. You just need to do . . . well, anything. And I'm not the only halfling who feels this way. Pearl, Bella, and Angelica, they do too. There are many others who think so, as well. Your generation just doesn't know how the world is turning."
The three Greentoe daughters were all away from home, one visiting a friend on the other side of the Moot, the other two merely away for the evening. Their absence was sorely felt.
Eldrood sighed. "Are you finished, boy?"
"I'm not even begun to—"
"You're finished, aye." He took a moment to deliberately take a spoonful of soup. "Do you want to know the truth about the Big Folk?" He paused, letting the moment rest. "They will always hate us. Always. They resent our existence, our talents, that we lack the coping mechanisms they need. They blame us for their plagues, their wars, all their problems. Whenever something wrong happens to them, they turn around and point towards a halfling. They hunt us, like animals. They even say that we use the blood of human children for our bread! Blood would ruin a bread, ruin the taste."
"I don't—"
"Quiet, child. We have everything we need here. The water is clean, the land is fertile, and, most of the time, the threats to the rest of the Empire ignore us." He put down his soup spoon, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second. "Honestly, if I could, I'd just move the whole Moot somewhere else, away from all this nonsense the Big Folk insist on getting up to around us. Maybe to that island that the Elves live in. But fight? Sneak? Why would I? We have everything we want."
Mungo snorted. "Everything you want, maybe. This isn't Sigmar's day. We live in the most advanced, prosperous time the world has ever seen, father! It's the modern age! The thinkers of Altdorf, the machines of Nuln, the songs of Marienburg, even further afield, the chivalry of Brettonia, the honor of Estalia – the world is changing, and changing for the better. I want to – my friends want to – change with it. To take the Moot out of the past, and into the future, to fulfill the responsibilities that you have as an Elector Count, the responsibilities that you refuse to fulfill."
"Aye, you'll take the Moot forwards. And when Boris von Carstein or whatever the latest villain of the age calls himself marches south out of Sylvania, it won't be the Big Folk who pay the price. It will be you and your fellow 'reformers.'"
"You're a coward, father."
"And?" Eldrood shrugged. "So what? I don't want to fight; I'll admit that freely. I rule a land where everyone is happy, where no one is hungry and few are poor, where the menaces that threaten the outside world stay away. The problems of the Big Folk do not find purchase in the Moot."
"And the merchants you send out?"
"Necessary sacrifices to our peace."
"To Morr with your peace!" Mungo stood up, hurling his bowl of soup to the floor. "Fine, so be it. You'll sit at home and let moss grow over you. I'll do what has to be done. By myself, if I have to."
"Don't be absurd, child!" Eldrood's voice had just as much force. "Don't think like one of them! This is the Moot, not Reikland. We don't have hereditary titles. You're no more important then any other halfling in the land."
Mungo turned to leave. "Any halfling can do as much as any of the Big Folk."
Sister – my discussion with father went as poorly as we expected. He seems happy to wile away the years doing nothing, letting the Moot fade into obscurity. How can one such as him have made ones such as us? But we both know what we have to do next.
I hate being apart from you, sister. I don't want to do this.
But . . . we agreed, right? We don't have the time to do anything else. If we are to save the Moot, we need to do something. And we unfortunately do more apart then we do together.
So this is it, then? By Esemerelda and Myrmidia both, I dreaded this finally coming to pass. I knew it probably would, but leaving hearth and home, probably never to return? I know we vowed to do it, and do it we must, but . . . brother, I confess I am afraid. Our father, our sisters, will hate us, even if history will vindicate us.
But still, we do what we must. I head east, past the world's edge, and then north. You head south, a shorter journey, but a far more dangerous one. But if we succeed – if we win – then it will all be worth it.
Brother, I will offer blessings to our own gods, the Halfling Gods, and to those of Man, Verena and Ranald and Ulric and Sigmar, Morr and Taal and Rhya and Maanan, for your safety and success. Please do the same for me.
Yours Forever,
Angelica Greentoe
After sending this post, a dozen halflings, armed and with food for weeks, left the Moot heading east. Days later, a similar group took passage on a ship down the Aver, heading for Nuln.
------------------- Balbas,
You were right. The children never will understand. The drastic measures you suggest – the risk is incredible. But the more I think about it, I can't help but believe that if you're successful, it would solve everything.
To: Mathilde van Hel, Elector Countess of Stirland @Sinsystems
My Lady
Please forgive the delay in this missive, but given the content of my findings I thought it best to be absolutely certain before committing quill to parchment. My investigation into the demise of your predecessor has born strange fruit, and I can only trust that you know what to do with such information better than I.
Multiple accounts have confirmed, with all usual verification and cross-references, that one day before the Count's disappearance a rider in a black cloak appeared on the hills surrounding Wurtbad. Each account seems to differ significantly on details such as the rider's appearance, mannerisms and the content of the message it bade a passing patrol deliver to the Count, but all agree that upon hearing the message the Count set aside his runefang, dressed in warm clothes and rode out to meet them. Words were apparently exchanged, though no witness was close enough to overhear the details, and then the two rode off in each other's company to parts unknown.
Shortly thereafter, all present in the castle became assured that the Count had died, though despite my efforts I have not been able to identify the source of this news or why it was so readily believed. It seems that each person to hear the news invented their own explanations for how it had happened, which seems to have contributed greatly to the rumours surrounding the event and the unwillingness of many direct relations to claim any right of succession. The rest, you know.
The Fair and Impartial Judgement of Countess Malthilde Van Hal of Stirland by the Arch Lector Kurt "Burn them all" Scheinwerfer
Kurt Scheinwerfer was not a tall man, a fact obvious despite the height afforded to him from his position upon horseback, most likely due to the comparison to his companions. A mixture of Warrior Priests, Witch Hunters and Knights of various Orders sworn in service to the Cult of Sigmar, one pointy hat amongst many hardly offered any unique appearance to stand out. Yet still, he did.
Perhaps it was the aura of menace emanating from the pale, severe looking man, skin corpse white from too many nights chasing beings that feared the sun. Perhaps it was the marginally better quality of his leathers, too new to indicate much usage, too expensive looking to indicate anything other than deep pockets despite how plain and unadorned they were, save for the insignia of the Twin-Tailed comet. After all, he was an Arch Lector of the Cult of Sigmar after all. Appearances apparently mattered to some people.
"Countess Van Hal." He stated, in a voice that did not offer the words as a greeting, nor a question. It was a voice that belonged more to a bureaucrat, droning on about facts and figures, driving underlings to contemplate either murder or suicide to escape the tedium of life serving that voice.
Mathilde Van Hal gazed back at Scheinwerfer, her eyes blazing with a conviction matched by many in the room, some of whom she knew by name from her career among them. She did not flinch under the gaze of so many, for her faith was strong and she was confident that Sigmar will judge her pure.
"Arch Lector," she said with the appropriate amount of humility one, even an elector count, should show to someone of his station within the Cult, "I present myself to you and all those gathered here so that I can be judged, may Sigmar's light prove whether my soul is pure or corrupt."
"You are accused of Heresy and Witchcraft." Scheinwerfer's expression curdled, as though spitting out something foul, his lips pursed as though the aftertaste still remained to torment his taste buds. "Of practising Necromancy. Of the crimes of your tainted bloodline that still ever grasps at the souls of those who hold your name. Whether you present yourself willingly or are forced is inconsequential. You will be questioned, you will be judged. Should you wish to confess your sins now, I will permit you a swift death. Should you insist on claiming innocence, then you will be tested and if found wanting, cast into fire. Do you understand?"
"Completely, if my Soul is truly tainted then I would throw myself into the flames." Mathilde's eyes blazed with holy conviction, she had lived with the specter of her ancestor's sins her whole life and she would sooner die that walk that path.
"Then let us begin." The Arch Lector continued in a bored drone, as though to him, her answer truly did not matter, that the questioning of an Elector of the Empire was but one of his many, equally monotonous duties. Shortly afterwards, someone put a bag over her head, handling her firmly, if politely to places unknown.
After what felt like days of utter darkness, the bag was removed as the Countess was sat into a strong wooden chair, manacles chaining her limbs to the construction as behind her, just out of direct sight, the yellow and orange glow of a fire being stoked began to cast light upon the wall, leaving her surroundings wreathed in her own shadow.
"You are familiar with our ways are you not?" Someone asked from behind her.
It was an almost nostalgic experience for Mathilde as it reminded her of the days when she was but a single Witch Hunter, although she had been on the opposite side of the table.
"I am, I have conducted similar interrogations myself." she said simply to the nameless Witch Hunter, her voice calm and even as she mentally readied herself for what was to come.
"Then you must understand our dilemma." The voice continued as it cheerfully stoked the fire, the heat rising to a level that felt uncomfortable on the back of Mathilde's neck.
"We cannot merely threaten you with pain, nor attempt to question you with words. You are in short too well trained!" The voice delivered a short chuckle as the flames flared brighter with intensity. "So all we can do is make some token attempts to see how well you respond to pain and instead, to focus our questions towards how you have benefitted the enemies of man. After all, your actions against them mean nothing, for they compete with one another like predators fight over a kill, yet the damage one of their pawns can achieve as the Countess of an entire Province…"
"Could be ruinous and lead to a second Sylvania, I know." she replied to the unasked question, after all it was Vlad von Carstein who seized the throne of Sylvania and caused the Vampire Wars that almost plunged the Empire into darkness, "Words mean little and my actions at the Haunted Hills are more damning than not. They were done out of righteous zeal more than wisdom, but that could be a ruse to hide darker motivation."
Mathilde could almost chuckle at the irony, in her drive to cleanse the darkness she had forgotten how truly powerful it was and acted without caution. Now what was originally done out of faith looks like a scheme of dark design.
"You acted motivated by ambition in your zeal did you not?" The voice asked. "After all, how many lives could be saved with a purge of Sylvania? How many future foes could be put down before they became a threat. And all you had to do was muster the strength of an entire province of the Empire behind you, finally purging the legacy of Van Hal in a single holy war. A task left unfinished by successive Counts of Stirland, completed by you."
The voice seemed to pause at that, as though considering a new thought. "Which was why you made your first pact with darkness of course. You could never wield such power whilst the previous Count lived.Is that why you usurped the line of Venerated Martin?"
"I made no such pact," Mathilde growled, obviously despising the very thought of making such a bargain, "To resort to darkness in order to rid the world of my ancestor's sin would defeat the purpose ...but I will not lie and say that the circumstances of my ascension are suspicious. I have been conducting my own investigations into the matter, which have shown some initial results."
"The words of innocence from the lips of the guilty." The voice remarked, sounding almost amused. "How very quaint. And here I thought cliches existed only for fools and theater. And what are these results of yours?"
"I tasked an agent of mine to investigate my Predecessor's death soon after I arrived in Wurtbad. According to their report exactly one day before the Count's supposed death a Black Cloaked figure appeared within the hills around Wurtbad and sent a message to the Count. Upon receiving the message the Count put aside the Runefang, dressed for travel, met with the rider and road off with them." Drawing in a breath Mathilde continued, "Alone that would be suspicious enough, but the following day every resident within the Castle became certain that the Count had died despite not knowing how or where they had heard it from. Naturally I am assuming sorcery at work with the possibility that the Count may still be alive ...although the implications of that speak for themselves. "
"And you expect me to believe that tripe?" Asked the voice as somewhere a door creaked open, releasing a gust of cold air that brushed the back of Mathilde's neck before slamming shut. Boots on the stone floor echoed as they approached closer and closer till suddenly, Mathilde felt someone grab the back of her chair and pull.
Next thing she knew, she was on her back, still strapped into the chair as the manacles bit, facing the dark glow of a shadowed cell roof, the Arch Lector looking down upon her, disgust obvious upon his face.
"Not only do you fail your duties to Stirland and Sigmar, you bring with you the seeds of heresy and darkness then offer this… insult made of lies as an excuse of an investigation? Truly you expect us to believe you stepped into a dead man's shoes without even making sure there was a body?"
He grimaced. "I should kill you and have you buried in an unmarked grave, tended to only by the Morrites to make sure you not rise again to trouble Sigmar's Empire. Yet examples must be made…" He said, reaching for the fire to produce a hammer, heated till it glowed almost white with heat.
Mathilde's eyes met the Arch Lector's, the light of the flames reflected in them, "Believe me or not, that is the report I received from my agent. You will find it in the inner left pocket of my overcoat, cipher 10 with the key being the 10th line of the Battle of Blackfire pass within the Book of Sigmar." she said calmly, her mind reading itself for the bite of the hammer, "However I do agree that not checking for the body was a lapse in my judgement, one that I cannot explain nor will excuse."
The Arch Lector paused for but a moment, before bringing the hammer down. With a sound of rending metal, the manacles chaining Mathilde were shattered into shards of iron scattering across the room, Scheinwerfer casually placing his tool back into the edge of the brazier.
"Truth be told, this matter would be far simpler and perhaps better for all if you truly were a soul fallen to evil. Yet Sigmar does test us not with easy burdens." He muttered, mainly to himself. "You are either innocent or a far better liar than most. Not that it makes matters any less complex." He stated, voice almost chiding her for being in such a position that doubts could be uttered.
Mathilde slumped slightly in her chair, a brief moment of exhaustion showing itself as the tension that had been building up since her summons finally released, "I know Arch Lector, truth be told I wish things were simple. But when politics and dark powers are involved they rarely are…"
A proclamation by the Arch Lector Kurt Scheinwerfer, Representative of his Holiness, The Grand Theologinist Wenzel Kraft, in service to the everlasting glory of the Heldenhammer upon the judgement of Mathilde Van Hal.
It is after much deliberation, questioning of both body and mind, of soul and flesh that the servant of the Heldenhammer known as Mathilde Van Hal is found lacking in signs of the corruption of the ruinous powers, of the stench of necromancy, free of mutation and untainted of mind. Though on the matter of Stirland the Cult would not deem it wise for it's intervention in such secular matters without askance, it advice those involved in this inheritance issue to act with care and wisdom, for rash and bloody action only weakens Sigmar's servants to the benefit of mankind's many foes. The Cult does however state that should it be required to act against those who seek to use the legacy of the Van Hal's to their own ends, whether through dark practices or speakies darker lies into the ear's of the zealous faithful, it will consider the matter an attack not upon Stirland, but the very souls of those under the Cult's protection, for could turning those who serve the Heldenhammer's will against one another for greed's sake be anything less than Heresy most foul?
Signed Arch Lector Kurt Scheinwerfer Grandmaster of the Order of the Silver Hammer
The Honeymoon Pilgrimage The assembly at Gruyden
Grand Baroness Theophaneia Ysmay Gloriana Hochen was a woman ruled by simple desires, drives, and pleasures. Despite the complicated (some would say salacious) nature of her marriage to her consort Alessio Malasangre, that the pair fell in to genial companionship and she showed signs of blessed pregnancy before long served to add a wild, romantic flair to the tale. However, she knew this state of affairs was fragile and prone to exploitation. Too much schism and darkness in the southern provinces threatened to boil over and if and when it reached Hochland her idyllic lands must be armored in faith and unified unquestionably beneath her banner.
With this in mind she declared her intent to make a pilgrimage to Gruyden with her family and those nobles of the land that wished to reaffirm the particular nature of Hochland's place in the wider fabric of Imperial religion. By her own words the Auberbachs, ancestral stewards of the shrines, would enjoy her fullest support and honor as she toured the holy places and the surrounding lands, blending worship with hunting and hawking as any true Hochlander ought to. The dramatic goings on in Altdorf, Nuln, Stirland and Averland would have no place in the serene river valleys, dark forests and windswept highlands of her province. Hochland was a quiet land: friendly, open, and more than capable of assimilating the new and strange from elsewhere by making it fit in to the indefatigable spirit of the people. It was that spirit she meant to forge in to steel.
To the cults represented with temples and shrines in Gruyden (all of them), she reached out as well. The spirit of Shallya in the north still held with charity free of usury and profit, and if others would add their support and blessings to her mission and the holy township they were welcome. The pilgrim routes were always in need of improvement, the inns along the way expansion and security, the shrines themselves gifts of coin and reliquaries to further benefit their visitors and the blessing of the place.
Missive nailed to a Malasangre banner thrust into the ground by a party of Sylvanian outsiders a short distance down the "Fool's Road"
This message is for the Red Knight of the Haunted Hills.
I am told you are unlike the beasts who suckle bone marrow from corpses in the catacombs of Tobaro. That your kind have some understanding of honor, and oaths. Therefore, permit me to introduce myself.
My name is Luciano Malasangre. I have fought in five wars and seventeen smaller campaigns across Tilea, Estalia, and Lustria. I have led thousands into battle in the service of the princes of Miragliano, Remas, Tobaro, and Luccini. I have won and lost a dozen fortunes, and killed men and beasts. By my blood I am rightful Count of Sylvania and true Lord of Drakenhopf.
As such I charge you with raising an army in my lands without my permission, with holding a fortress rightfully mine, and with numerous actions of banditry and brigandage against travelers seeking to journey to Drakenhopf.
If you be indeed a man of honor and no blood mad beast, I grant you the right to answer these charges by trial of arms and appoint myself Champion of the Accuser. You and I, with no interference by living man or corpse, and may the gods of war and fate decide the outcome.
I shall await your response through the appropriate channels. @Maugan Ra
A monstrous bat, with a wingspan two dozen paces wide, flutters to a landing in the courtyard. Attached to its forearm is a small leather tube, within which can be found a sheathe of parchment.
For the attention of Luciano Malasangre
Many have laid claim to the title of Count Sylvania, but you are the first mortal in two hundred years to dare as much, and the only one to knowingly challenge me in such a fashion. Very well!
I, Roland d'Mousillon, Scion of the Dragon's Blood, accept your challenge. As challenged, I name the grounds - there is a clearing five miles to the north of Drakenhof, called the Killing Field. Any local peasant will know the place. There we duel, in single combat, till the foe can move no longer.
Your courage impresses me, Tilean. Have you the skill to back it up?
To: His Holiness The Custode Del Portale of the North @Dadarian
The Honorable Grandmaster of the Order of Deserved Rest @triumph8w
Your Holiness, honored Grandmaster, dark tidings come to Waldenhof.
We hear of defeat, and worse than defeat. We hear that the Elector's crusade was put to flight by one of the Lords of the Night, and the creature even now seeks to wage another War Of The Unshriven Dead.
What manner of beast stalks these lands? What bloodworm has crawled forth from the grave, what happened in those hills? I beg you, I implore you, in the name of the Father of Ravens, as he blesses his servants with foresight in their slumber I beg you to bless me with knowledge now. All that was seen, all that is known of this abomination, any guidance you can offer that might aid in the defense I must prepare, I beg of you.
Yours in faith,
Luciano Malasangre, Count of Sylvania and Lord of Drakenhopf
Undeath haunts us all, you especially. Your death will come, but Morr will ensure your soul is protected from the blight of chaos or the undead. I have no knowledge of the horrors that plague your door in particular, however I will dispatch a scribe with general information available. May your passing be peaceful,
I will be departing soon for Ostermark, to Count Malasangre's land in Sylvannia in order to put down a Blood Dragon the failed crusade stirred up, and secure it further against undead encroachment. Given the strength and elusiveness of such beasts I will be gone for quite some time, and indeed may not survive my trip. But I must go there, in order to atone for my failures in the crusade, and because of my duty.
May ravens alight upon you. Grandmaster Herman of the order of High and Chivalric Order of Deserved Rest
The Honeymoon Pilgrimage The assembly at Gruyden
Grand Baroness Theophaneia Ysmay Gloriana Hochen was a woman ruled by simple desires, drives, and pleasures. Despite the complicated (some would say salacious) nature of her marriage to her consort Alessio Malasangre, that the pair fell in to genial companionship and she showed signs of blessed pregnancy before long served to add a wild, romantic flair to the tale. However, she knew this state of affairs was fragile and prone to exploitation. Too much schism and darkness in the southern provinces threatened to boil over and if and when it reached Hochland her idyllic lands must be armored in faith and unified unquestionably beneath her banner.
With this in mind she declared her intent to make a pilgrimage to Gruyden with her family and those nobles of the land that wished to reaffirm the particular nature of Hochland's place in the wider fabric of Imperial religion. By her own words the Auberbachs, ancestral stewards of the shrines, would enjoy her fullest support and honor as she toured the holy places and the surrounding lands, blending worship with hunting and hawking as any true Hochlander ought to. The dramatic goings on in Altdorf, Nuln, Stirland and Averland would have no place in the serene river valleys, dark forests and windswept highlands of her province. Hochland was a quiet land: friendly, open, and more than capable of assimilating the new and strange from elsewhere by making it fit in to the indefatigable spirit of the people. It was that spirit she meant to forge in to steel.
To the cults represented with temples and shrines in Gruyden (all of them), she reached out as well. The spirit of Shallya in the north still held with charity free of usury and profit, and if others would add their support and blessings to her mission and the holy township they were welcome. The pilgrim routes were always in need of improvement, the inns along the way expansion and security, the shrines themselves gifts of coin and reliquaries to further benefit their visitors and the blessing of the place.
The Cult of Morr, uncaring of the actions and reactions of petty politics, will ensure all dead are safely interned in the Gardens of Morr. All battles will be overseen by members of the Cult, for none wish the curse of undeath to rise in these poxed lands.
News has arrived from fair Bretonnia, carried by merchants across the mountain passes into Reikland and then spreading out through the various states and powers of Sigmar's former Empire - the Royarch has declared a new Errantry War!
King Louen, called the Orc-Slayer for his valorous deeds against the greenskin threat, has commanded his vassals to eliminate every orc, goblin and associated menace from one end of Bretonnia to the other. Tens of thousands of knights have mustered, supported by war-hosts of yeomanry of at least equal number, and already the purge has begun. The Massif Orcal has been invaded, and greenskin forts that have stood for decades or more unchallenged have already been cut down.
Tensions rise on the borders, as knights threaten to stray across the mountain passes into the Westerlands and Reikland in search of any unslain foe. Moreover, the Dawi of several holds have made thoughtful murmurs of approval at such a display of zeal, and seem like they may be inclined to form new bonds with Bretonnia should such a crusade continue...
Wooden Ships and Frozen Men
From the great sea-port of Erengrad, the Kislevite Navy patrols the Sea of Claws, guarding its merchant shipping and acting as a powerful line of defence against any Norscan threat. And yet Erengrad is ice-locked during the cold winter months, it's fleets locked safely away behind frozen walls as the Sea of Claws grows more hostile for their absence.
Rumours have spread, of late, that the Tzarina is looking for a solution to this problem, though what such a measure would entail varies wildly depending on the speaker. Some speculate that she will attempt a great working of her nation's fearsome ice magic to clear the way, while others suggest that the coasts of Nordland and Ostland offer much in the way of potential for future bases for the fleet...
As I've informed you in my previous report, we have attempted the second casting of the new cannon at two hours past noon three days past. Fortunately, we were able to pour the molten bronze into the mold in faster intervals now thanks to the specialised crane developed for this purpose, and I am glad to report that in this iteration I have been able to detect no major fissures threatening the structure of the barrel. Less fortunately, when I finally inspected the cooled barrel today I noticed irregularities in the thickness of the cannon barrel that I am forced to attribute to flaws in the mold. As of present I am halting all work on casting the cannon to be put to a temporary halt until the new foundry is complete. The specifications put forward by the clients are, excuse my bluntness, ambitious nearly beyond the point of sanity and continuing without the new equipment will just result in inefficiencies.
In other news, one of the engineers have started to call the project "Titan", after the mythical giant lords of the east. The explanation given was "it'd take one of those big buggers to haul this bitch's fat ass around". The entire engineering team has taken to informally calling it "Titan", and I admit the habit has caught on with me as well. You are of course the final determiner of whatever we call it in the end, but should future reports reference Titan it'll be referring to the cannon.
Finally one of my engineers, a enthusiastic Tilean by the name of Leonardo, has proposed a further modification to the cannon, the details of which I will let him explain for himself in the proposal attached. I am not yet in a position yet to comment on its feasibility, outside of the observation that this certainly is the year for ambition.
Sigmar light our way,
Korzhev Zhenka Denisovich, Master Founder of the Imperial Gunnery School
OOC: This for the cannons commissioned from me this turn. @Maugan Ra
Once more, an old man sat down to enjoy the sunrise. Sitting atop one of the many scattered trees that littered the swamp, Barret once more contemplated the time he was blessed to see.
It was still saddening to see conflict brewing across the land. Word of wars, schisms, and other conflicts had reached his ears, and it weighed heavily on the old man's heart that so many would suffer for the egos and grudges of a past they played no part in. But it was a weight he had carried for a long, long time, and thankfully, he need not carry it alone. He and his kind would do what they always did, and lighten that burden, however they could.
It was a dangerous task of course, but that was nothing new. Indeed, Barret had hope that his kind might indeed be safer than they ever had been before. Their strength was never their magics, as dangerous and as crude as he sight could see it to be. No, such a thing could never be the strength of humans.
Their deepest secret, that which kept them alive since the dawn of man, was a simple thing.
"We do not stand alone."
Five simple words, passed down to him when he had been little more than a boy, struggling to create a single Marsh Light. Yet while magic had ringed his soul outwards, had defined his life and his goals, it was those five words which saw him to his old age. And with hope, and luck, perhaps it may yet see others to his age as well.
But that was enough reminiscing. There was much to be done. Firstly, he needed to have a chat with some of his peers in the deep woods about some interesting developments to be had. And afterwards, he would need to conduct some interviews.
Once more the old man sat up, jumped down, and melded into the depths of the swamp.
To: Count Luciano Malasangre, of Sylvania @Wade Garrett
My dear Count Luciano. If I may speak frankly, what in Morr's hell are you doing? You, if the rumors coming south are true, and I dearly hope that they are not, are intending to fight a Blood Dragon in single combat? There is only a single result that can come of that, and it is simply death. We in the Moot value the peace and security of Sylvania highly - a stable Sylvania means that there is no host of skeletons marching south to descend on us. You have done much to make that stable Sylvania - but all that will be undone if you should heedlessly die and the land fall into chaos again. For the sake of my people and yours, do not do this.
Yours in friendship,
Eldrood Greentoe
To: Grand Count Francis Ludwig von Ellinbach @ChineseDrone
Grand Count. I hear tell of your movements north, and I would, if time and luck allow it, speak to you before your armies depart, on an issue of great import. I have sent a factor with this letter to Averheim - a trusted agent of the Moot, who speaks on my behalf. I ask that you speak with her before you leave.
