Heirs of Sigmar

Maugan Ra · Nov 22, 2019

The war for Stirland was, in one sense, over. Victory on the battlefield had been achieved, and with Mathilde Van Hel's surrender blades were lowered and bows unstrung at last. Wissenland's armies withdrew, their duty done and a far greater prey awaiting them to the south, while Averland pulled back across the border all save their second army, which elected to remain and oversee the 'voluntary' return of halfing-held property to its original human owners.

It did not take long, however, for new conflicts to erupt, a war of blood and steel replaced almost overnight by one of words and gold. Averland and its allies had marched to depose a Countess, after all, not to install their own pick on the throne uncontested, and as the dust settled the question of succession reared its ugly head swiftly. Perhaps Mathilde Van Hel would have had some opinion on the matter, but those who sought to consult her found the former witch hunter gone, having vanished without word or sign in the night. Some accused Averland of having her murdered, others proclaimed that she must have fled in cowardice or shame, and so new lines were drawn, new divisions laid down.

On one side was Eliana Haupt-Anderssen, wife to Francis Ludwig and niece of the Blessed Martin; a woman of soft words and iron will, a strong personality already tempered in the pursuit of controlling her husband's somewhat… erratic disposition. On the other was Horst von Wolfburg, Archduke by right of imperial title and respected by many for courage and strength of arms. Their battlefield would be the Diet, their prize the future and perhaps even existence of Stirland as a nation, and though they smiled politely at each other before the eyes of others there was no hiding the deadly seriousness with which they duelled.

The first clash was centred on the nobility, for it would be their votes in the upcoming Diet that would see the winner declared. Horst argued passionately for the importance of an independent ruler and the pride of Stirland as a nation, pride that would only be sullied in Averlander hands. As evidence he pointed to the so-called 'Slice' on their western border, where Reikland troops and Reikland merchants had carved up their supine neighbour like a pig before the feast, only to sign a treaty of peace and the division of territory with Francis Ludwig at season's end. As though the Count of Averland had the right to simply give Stirlish land away! And the nobles nodded and grumbled and said that this was not right.

Eliana, for her part, turned to more practical means of persuasion. There had been many lands ravaged by the war, many homes destroyed and land despoiled, and though she had not wished it so it was undeniable that forces sworn to her banner had been the cause. Thus she leaned upon her husband and his subjects, and saw released a great quantity of funds and supplies, all earmarked for repair and reconstruction. And if some of those nobles most generously compensated for their loss were known to be among those not yet clearly sworn to one side or another, was it wrong for a ruler to demonstrate her care for all her subjects?

The second round was fought in more secluded environs, in salons and empty fields and the steamy rooms of Wurtbad's famous baths. Here men and women traded whispered words and friendly banter, each striving to prove themselves the most elegant and civilised of the wide range upon display. Eliana had married an Averlander, after all; could she truly be trusted to think and act like a daughter of Stirland should, when steel was drawn and important matters were on the line? Such things are often impossible to confirm prior to being put to the test, but certainly the Lady Haupt-Anderssen made a spirited attempt, even taking cheerful part in a rousing game of Halfling Coursing despite her husband's stated intent to ban the practice back home.

The third and perhaps final clash was fought in the markets and bazaars, for while the merchant class of the County could not vote, it was undeniable that they held considerable influence over their noble patrons through the use or misuse of their purse. This particular battle was waged largely by proxy, as merchants and priests and nobles from all over conspired to gain the advantage and make their preferred candidate known. Victory or defeat in such a contest is hard to judge, for ultimately it all happens behind closed doors, but by the time the Diet was called there did not appear to be any clear favourite among the lower classes.

Of course, in the end there is only so much that skirmishing can achieve, and it was to this end that the nobles of Stirland headed for Wurtbad at last. There they would attend the Diet, and by majority vote confirm the next Count or Countess of their fair state. The fate of thousands would hang on their decision, and as the two sides took their places in the ancient halls reserved for such purpose (though very rarely used), it was with a solemn grandeur befitting the situation. Even Francis Ludwig, attending as an observer alone, managed to comport himself appropriately.

The first major upset occurred shortly before the assembly was called to order, as with a thunderous retort of boots on stone the Sylvanians arrived. Their cloaks billowed in the wind, their apparel bewitched with gothic splendour, and save for the handsome man at their head their skin was almost unnaturally pale. Such an entrance caused something of an uproar, with many of the more conservative or superstitious members of the Diet invoking the signs of many gods even as they demanded explanation, but all such clamour was swiftly silenced as Luciano Malasangre stepped forwards to reply.

Leaning on a skull-capped cane, his wounds still a source of considerable pain, the Count of Sylvania explained that he had come to cast his vote. After all, had not the Blessed Martin accepted the fealty of Sylvania at the end of the Third Vampire War? Were his lands not, on official maps, marked as 'Eastern Stirland'? Given such, it only made sense that the nobility of Sylvania had exactly as much of a voice and vote in who their overlord would be than any trueborn son of Stirland.

One by one, heads turned to Eliana and Horst, neither of whom seemed all that surprised by this turn of events. A brief conversation was held, scribes were summoned, and eventually the precedent was confirmed - Sylvania had its votes. Count Malasangre thanked the attended nobles, strode across the hall, and with a flamboyant gesture presented Eliana Haupt-Anderssen with a token of his esteem; the weapon of a vampire, slain in single combat the year before. Perhaps, he remarked with a certain acidic humour, it would do Stirland good to experience rule under a Countess with a… 'fresh perspective'. Such mocking remarks did little to endear him to the chamber, and nor did the laughter of the Sylvanians as they too cast their votes for the niece of Blessed Martin, but Malasangre seemed not to care in the slightest.

For his part, Horst von Wolfbach sat on his chair in stony silence, stewing in fury at being so utterly betrayed.

One by one, the votes were cast, each noble in turn moving to the centre of the chamber to announce their choice. Were the decision restricted to Stirland alone it might have proven close, but with the Sylvanian vote taken as a bloc it did not take long before the chamber's choice was clear. Eliana's supporters grew elated, Horst's either depressed or resigned by turns, and as the vote continued already conversation was starting to circulate on what the new Countess would do as her first act of office.

That was when Baron von Kessel drew a pistol.

With a great scream of wrath, the baron levelled the weapon at Eliana, at the woman he blamed for his son's death on the field. He denounced her as a heretic, condemned his soul to Sigmar, and pulled the trigger just in time to be tackled to the ground by the manic form of Horst von Wolfburg. The crack of the pistol echoed through the chamber, and without a word Eliana collapsed, her dress stained a shockingly vivid red.

Pandemonium erupted. Nobles screamed, guards burst into the chamber from all directions, and with a roar of inhuman fury Francis Ludwig vaulted clear across the first line of chairs and forced his way through to his wife's fallen form. The blazing light of a runefang lit the chamber, and the muffled curses of a would-be murdered echoed from the walls, a constant invocation of Sigmar and of the fate owed to all who would cheat the Holy Cult into supporting their twisted ends. It took being clubbed unconscious for von Kessel to finally fall silent, and then the greatswords were there, fanning out and securing the entire premises with near-frantic speed.

The days that followed were ones of fear, confusion and rumour. Within the hour all of Wurtbad knew what had happened, and within the day everyone had their own theory of why. Eliana was dead. Eliana had survived. It was the Sylvanians, it was Van Hel, it was the halflings. Averland was going to flee, Averland was going to kill them all. For days the city simmered, half a step from outright anarchy, a fact not helped by the widely repeated rumour that Baron von Kessel had been visited by a small delegation of foreign priests shortly before the Diet began. Some said they were Ulricans, other that they were Sigmarites with Reikish accents, and a few even opined that they were cultists of the dark gods out and about in full blasphemous display.

Eventually, however, some order was restored, and with it came news from the palace - Eliana Haupt-Anderssen had been badly wounded, but survived. More than that, she had regained consciousness, and in the few hours of waking life that her injuries permitted had asked to speak with her former opponent, who had with his swift actions quite possibly saved her life.

What passed between Eliana and Horst in that meeting would be the stuff of popular myth for years to come, but in the end the result was the same. Eliana Haupt-Anderssen was appointed Elector-Countess of Stirland; von Wolfbach, her Steward of the Diet. Going forwards, the Elector-Countess would require the consent of the Diet to impose any new taxes or commit forces to any foreign war, and the Diet in turn would hold sole and exclusive right to judge the crimes of any seated member short of outright heresy. Luciano Malasangre would be granted the title Count Palatine, ruling over Sylvania as a self-governing vassal (and therefore only entitled to a single vote in the Diet, as opposed to the sizeable bloc that had installed Eliana as Countess).

It was a delicate compromise, simultaneously a thing of common cause and bitter opposition, and none could truly say how well it would hold up in the face of an uncertain future. Still, for now it would suffice, and if no one was entirely happy with the arrangement at least there was no outright rebellion over it.

As news from the south began to trickle in, the children of Stirland would have cause to consider even such a limited degree of peace and security a blessing beyond all measure.

Maugan Ra · Nov 23, 2019

In the summer of 2202, with the sun high overhead and the stifling heat wrapping everyone in sultifying embrace, the War for Carroburg finally began in earnest. All knew that it was coming, from the highest of lords to the most illiterate peasant, but the knowledge did little to dispel the sheer surge of emotion as the First Reikland "Crocodilian" fleet slipped its moorings at Altdorf and set full sail at last. Mothers waved tearful goodbyes and fathers gave grim-faced nods as their children embarked on the small fleet of barges and riverboats requisitioned to take them off to war, and all of Reikland held its breadth. The sheer scale of the forces committed… a disaster on the field now would cripple the province for a generation.

Aboard his flagship, flanked by the leathery old form of his Lord High Admiral, Grand Prince Konstantin surveyed the fields of billowing sails all around him and smiled in satisfaction. For years he had been content to wile away his time in pleasure and petty distraction, indulging a newfound passion for zoology and tales from distant lands, and had the Dog of Middenheim known his place he might even have been willing to remain a man of peace. But now, with Reikish sailors swinging from nooses and Reikish merchants dragged screaming to the pyre? Oh no. Now was a time for vengeance, and perhaps a timely reminder to the rest of the Empire why exactly it was they feared to incur Reikland's wrath.

On the horizon, the Carroburg fortress loomed, its dwarf-built walls and serried ranks of catapults a looming threat that would have to be dealt with. Other men might have quailed at the sight, seeking safer landfall elsewhere, but not Konstantin. He had something special planned, after all.

-/-

On the walls of Carroburg, Henryk von Bildhofen stood in the shadow of a great glass spire and surveyed the forces at his command. The 1st Drakwald Regulars, men and women garbed for war in the colours of his own province, were a sight fit to stir the heart as they paraded through the streets, but perhaps more gratifying still were the nobility. Petty lords and barons from the length and breadth of the Drakwald had mustered at his call, answering to a loyalty he had spent years carefully cultivating, and the clatter of well-shod hooves on cobble was music to the ears.

The faint humming from the pillar at his side was, admittedly, somewhat disconcerting. The alchemists had used a great deal of flowery language when asked what it was capable of, and if even half of what they promised came to pass then they would have proven the wisdom of his investment several times over, but still… a lord had to worry. Especially given the contents of the letter in his hands, and the decision he had made the previous night. The people would stand with him, of that he was sure, but even so…

Dismissing such thoughts as unworthy of the man he sought to be, Henryk von Bildhofen turned his face to the south. His scouts had reported that Reikland was on the march, and he had given his orders appropriately. The die was cast, and now all that remained was to see his gambit through, to prove himself worthy of the sword that hung so restless at his side.

In the shadow of the fortress walls, a man long dead watched in silence, inhuman hunger glittering in the depths of his hollow eyes.

-/-

Beneath shadowed boughs, Konrad von Schild marched, the serried ranks of his soldiers at his back stretching out far beyond the bounds of sight. Shadow Hunters, White Wolves, yeomen and nobles… save for a single army, he had brought everything he had, using every scrap of influence and authority his position as Regent of Middenland allowed him to command. He should have liked to have more, but the Ar-Ulric had overruled him on the matter of the warrior priests and those damned Alchemists had apparently managed to incur a grudge from the Dawi of all things, and so he would simply have to make do.

Still, at least Marienburg had come through on their end of the deal. He didn't like their simpering lord, and he certainly didn't trust him, but the speed and power of their fleets could not be denied, and with such allies on hand it had been almost easy to rapidly relocate his forces from Delberz once it became clear that Reikland sought to strike at Carroburg directly. Marienburg wasn't willing to enter the war officially, but with their aid he would be able to strike at the assembled armies of Reikland from an unexpected angle and crush them up against Carroburg's walls. Perhaps he might even be able to take Konstantin's head in person, and demonstrate once and for all why it was that Ulric's favour lay with the men of the north and not their mewling southern cousins.

Then the trees thinned, the Middenlanders emerged onto the cleared plains around the city, and Konrad von Schild felt the world shift beneath his feet.

Ahead, the combined forces of Reikland and Carroburg awaited, drawn up in perfect formation before the shadow of the city walls. No blood had been shed, no battle fought, and even now their men stood shoulder to shoulder and their knights marched side by side, and above them all… the black eagle of Reikland billowed in the wind. They had been betrayed.

For one brief moment, the Regent considered ordering the retreat. They were outnumbered and expected, their planned advantages rendered moot before battle was even struck, so perhaps… but no. With the amount of cavalry he could see on the field, there was no way a retreat would be bloodless or easy, and no way the prestige of Middenland would survive the sight of three fourths of its armed forces turning tail and running before battle was even joined. The only choice was to advance, and trust in Ulric to smile on men who fought with the fury of a cornered wolf, or at least to give him a clear shot at the bastard who had betrayed them so totally.

Legbiter in hand, Konrad von Schild roared the advance. His cry was taken up by all those around him, faithful sons and daughters of Ulric spurred to fury by the sight of such rank treachery, by the presumption that it might be enough to save the foe from their wrath. Their roar set the ground to trembling, a challenge voiced to all who might think to stand against them… and a heartbeat later, was answered in kind.

His plate of ithilmar blazing in the summer sun, Asarnil of Caledor descended from on high, a hawk diving down upon its prey. Deathfang was his steed, an inferno clad in emerald scales, and when it opened its mouth and roared its fury the Drakwald died in a strip half a mile across. Men died and turned to ash, trees boiled and shattered in shrapnel hail, and knights were cooked alive inside their heavy armour. And still, the Middenlanders charged.

At the rear of the allied host, the Guns of Altdorf set their artillery in place and opened fire, while on the walls above the Alchemist Guild stoked their strange contraptions into life. Cannonballs turned charging men into clumps of broken meat, while mortars filled the air with plumes of flame and alien weapons spat lances of heat and light to maul at the advancing force. The ground broke, the air screamed with shell and dragonflame, and though they shrieked and died and fell worse than dead, the men of Middenland charged on.

Moved to some grim and horrified admiration by the courage of their foes, the waiting troops set their feet and braced against the charge. With the First Drakwald Regulars at their heart, they would give these wolves of Ulric the death that they had earned.

On the Reik, the First Reikland Fleet maneuvered for an enfilade assault, bringing their banks of cannon around and adopting an appropriately loose formation. Their task was to provide artillery support to the soldiers on the shore, and make sure that nothing their foes attempted could threaten to overturn the flank. It was something of a surprise, then, to find themselves not merely challenged but outright engaged when the First Middenland Fleet emerged from what seemed to be a bank of unseasonable mist. Built in near-secret at Delberz, its crews trained by Nordland marines and its ships blessed by priests of Mannan, the fleet was Regent von Schild's answer to Reikland's dominance of the waves.

The ensuring clash was brutal and close range, with officers of both sides leading desperate boarding actions and close-ranged broadsides shattered wood and flesh alike. All strategy was lost within moments, all understanding of the wider battle swiftly abandoned, and with deadly fury the First Fleet "Crocodilian" locked its jaws around the throat of the River Wolves and struggled for its life.

-/-

At the battle's heart, twin lines of battle met with thunderous clash, blood running in rivers across the sodden mud. Swords flashed and thrust, halberds swung and hacked, and in the middle of it all Konrad von Schild finally found the man he was looking for.

Dressed in the heraldic armour of the Drakwald Counts, Henryk von Bildhofen saluted his foe and stood forwards, knowing that to quail here before the eyes of his men would be the end of all his ambitious dreams. Konrad merely snarled and spat, enraged beyond words at the treachery of this man that he had given everything to, and without further pause the two of them fell into mortal combat, runefangs shining in the sun.

Only one of them would leave this field alive.

-/-

Elsewhere, the field belonged to the cavalry, as the flower of the nobility drove their steeds against one another. Swords and hammers, lances and flails, all swung and hacked and parried as the knights of the Empire wheeled and charged across the battle's outskirts. All knew that the clash of infantry grinding away in the centre of the battlefield was but a sideshow, for the victor on the battle's edge would be able to muster a decisive charge that scattered the foe's footmen beneath their hooves, and their fought with furious desperation as a result.

Amid the carnage, Adolf von Jager stood supreme, his warhammer already stained with the lifeblood of a dozen noble foes. He was Grandmaster of the White Wolves, and it would take more than some up-jumped second sons and petty nobles to best him in a feat of arms. With every life taken, every prayer growled through bloody teeth, every comrade saved and foe cast down he made himself the centre of the battlefield, rallying allies to his side and daring any to stop him before the battle swung in his favour entirely.

It was a challenge that Asarnil was only too happy to accept.

The only warning that the Grandmaster received was a faint shrieking roar, and scarcely had he turned to face the source than an impact like a thousand hammer blows lifted him clear from his horse's saddle. He looked down, coughing blood, and found himself impaled clear through the torso by a gleaming elvish lance. With a cold laugh, Asarnil lifted him high above the battlefield, and with a negligent shake sought to fling the mortally wounded knight to his death far below… but von Jager was made from stronger stuff than that.

One hand locked tight around the lance buried in his guts, keeping his sundered body in place, and the other raised his warhammer high. Asarnil's eyes widened in surprise, then closed as the knight's crude weapon rang against his helmet with the mournful sound of a funeral bell. Man and elf fell, locked together as they slipped from the saddle and plummeted to the ground far below, and Deathfang shrieked in fearful rage to see its partner struck down.

-/-

At the heart of the battle, another duel was coming to an end. Bleeding from a pair of grievous wounds, Henryk von Bildhofen crawled through the mud, struggling to reclaim the runefang knocked from his stunned fingers moments before. Behind him, the lurching form of Middenland's Regent drew ever closer, the fury in his eyes serving to keep him upright where his broken bones and wounded flesh might have failed. He would have his vengeance upon the traitor, even if it killed him, and with a savage growl raised Legbiter high to see it done.

And then… music.

Flanked by a coterie of warrior-priests, his gleaming armour providing a musical counterpoint to their sonorous chants, Grand Prince Konstantin Rannulf Engel I stepped into the regent's path. In sardonic tones he congratulated the Regent on his victory, and his endurance, but alas such a feat was all that he could be allowed. As Prince of Reikland, to stand aside while a threat yet existed to his vassals was simply impossible. Surely even a dog could understand that much?

There was no honour in what happened next. Konrad was old and weary, wounded more than once by the sword of Carroburg's duke, while Konstantin was young and fresh and blessed with every advantage in the militant arts short of genuine passion. Flanked by warriors priests of Sigmar, backed up by a full retinue of his personal greatswords, the Prince of Reikland took his foe slowly and carefully apart. Dragon Tooth tasted blood again and again, until at last von Schild fell to his knees, an old man's strength failing him at last. In rough tones, he asked for quarter, and was refused.

Men of honour were granted mercy, Konstantin explained, his eyes cold and his voice perfectly even. But rabid wolves, who clawed and snarled and thought they could steal from the master's flock without consequence? For them, another kind of mercy awaited, and with the razor edge of Dragon Tooth was it swiftly granted.

The poets would have it that the battle ended there, finished with a single swing of an elector's sword. In truth it would grind on for another hour, and see so much blood shed in the process that the fields of Carroburg would never be the same again.

Article:

A WORTHY FEAST

Graffiti on the walls of Carroburg

For reference:

Reduced: Has taken the expected losses for a campaign, will take one turn to recover
Bloodied: Has taken significant losses, will take two turns to recover
Decimated: A shell of its former self, will take three turns to recover
Destroyed: What army?

Reikland:
Grand Prince Konstantin Rannulf Engel I - Lightly Wounded
Asarnil the Dragonlord - Injured, multiple broken bones, carried from the field by his mount
Two detachments of knights - Light casualties, most are surprisingly enthusiastic
1st Fleet "Crocodilian" - Reduced
1st Army "Sigmar's Own" - Reduced
2nd Army "Guns of Altdorf" - Reduced
3rd Army "Golden Lions" - Bloodied

Carroburg:
Duke Henryk von Bildhofen - Heavily wounded, stable, likely badly scarred
1st Carroburg Army "The Elector's Own Guard" - Bloodied
Two detachments of noble knights - Serious casualties, relatively few deaths
Three armies of militia - Heavy casualties, every family in the Drakwald either mourns a loss or knows someone who is

Middenland:
Regent Konrad von Schild - Dead, slain by Grand Prince Konstantin
Grandmaster Adolf von Jager - Critically wounded, carried from the battlefield by his brothers, war hero
Three detachments of knights - Serious casualties, many taken hostage for ransom by victorious Reikland forces
Two detachments of White Wolves - Serious casualties, many taken hostage for ransom by Sigmarite warrior-priests
2nd Army "Shadow Hunters" - Bloodied
3rd Middenland Army - Bloodied
4th Middenland Army - Decimated
1st Middenland Fleet "Sea Wolves" - Bloodied

Carroburg declares itself a vassal of Reikland. Reikland recognises Henryk von Bildhofen as Duke of the Drakwald.

Maugan Ra · Nov 24, 2019

(Written by @EarthScorpion with my approval)

The Gentlewoman Detective
in
The Case of the Missing Letter

Just at the edge of the Universität there rose a peculiar household. Though a few years ago, it had been a bustling townhouse full of servants and life, the steep-fronted facade was now overgrown with ivy and wildflowers blossomed around the front. The soot of Nuln had painted the stone black, but no one had bothered to order it repainted.

It was not the sort of place one might expect Count Friedrich von Schwarzburg to make a visit to, and yet here he was, stepping over its threshold, trailing priests in many different robes. One of his greatswords banged on the door for him.

The door swung open.

"Ah, Friedrich," said the lady of the house, her eyes gleaming and a faint flush to her matronly cheeks. Her hair was covered with a deep maroon headscarf, embroidered with golden thread, and while her gown was traditionally Nulnite, the soft undergown in gold and red was not. "Is this a social call?"

"I am afraid it is not," the Count said gravely.

"Oh, thank goodness. I was getting bored. And who are all these fine sacerdotes?"

"Also clients."

Her thick brows rose in surprise. "Now you have my attention. Come in, come in."

Valeria von Bildhofen had been a scandalous marriage for the second son of the wealthy von Bildhofen family. It was unthinkable that such a noble son would elope with an Estallian - and even less with one whose blood was Maghrebi. Yet, despite the scandal their marriage had been happy and content for ten years, and had only ended when sweating sickness took Justin to Morr's garden. The rumours had died down, as polite society saw just another widow.

And perhaps the other reason polite society stopped asking so many questions was because Justin had the favour of the last Count. He did certain things down in Estallia and Tilea for Nuln, removing troublesome individuals and speaking to all sorts, and that was where he had met his wife.

Who had been the only woman to defeat him in the Great Game.

Such was Valeria von Bildhofen, then; retired from the bloodier side of her field work, uninterested in remarriage, her daughter off studying with certain 'associates' of hers and her son at the university. In short, she was bored.

And that was why she took cases for members of Nuln society. Including, but not limited to, the new Count himself.

Over teeth-achingly sweet mint tea, Friedrich explained his problem.

"Hmm, yes," she said. "I remember that case last year. Those spies in the Mannite mail service. So you have decided to reopen it?"

"In short, yes. We," he gestured to the priests and priestesses with him, "are very concerned with this matter."

"Hmm". She tapped her fingers against her tea-glass, clearly enjoying the discomforted expressions of the priests. "So here we have Chief Archivist Ana Tuss, of the Cult of Verena. Lector Albert Ulmer, from the Myrmidians - hello again, Albert, how is the wound holding up? Ah, yes, and of course, Grettel Kristner, a hound of the Order of the Silver Hammer."

The witch hunter's lips twisted into a sneer. "And you are the Senora of Nuln. Who dabbles in heresy and witchcraft."

"Ah, no, as the court showed, I am not a heretic as I have never been a follower of your Sigmar. He is a cold northern god, for cold women like yourself who are much like the hammer you wear. And despite your order's best efforts, if you would burn me for alchemy then you would also have to burn the entire Nuln Gunnery School, and I think that is a little bit more than even Friedrich will let you get away with. So perhaps…"

The count cleared his throat.

"... perhaps we will have to discuss this another time." Valeria leaned back, looking at the tallest man, with dirty blond hair streaked with grey and a roughly lined face. "I do not know the Mannanite, though he is a Marienburger, he was not born to a rich family. He drinks my mint tea more eagerly than the others, and does not shun the flavour of my little treats I put out. He is not someone who wastes food, even though he does not find the Maghrebi flavours entirely pleasant. He has a sailor's tattoos on his arms, so he came to the priesthood later in life - and if what I have heard is true, the Cult of Mannan is very distracted, so it would make sense that he is more junior.

"However, one who does not know this would think from his respectable middle years that he has more authority than he truly does. He holds that staff like a man used to wielding a boathook as a weapon, and the placement of the calluses on his hands shows he is a staff-fighter. Thus, he is the one who has been chosen to be my contact?" She smiled. "Is that what you were looking for, Friedrich?"

"You never do disappoint," the Count said, eyes twinkling behind his monocle at the signs of obvious surprise from the other senior priests. "Valeria, this is Father Robert Janssen, of the Cult of Mannan - who is the liaison they have provided for your assistance from these investigations."

"As you no doubt know," Lector Ulmer said, "the Cult of Mannan is very concerned by the spy ring which was found last year - and so are we all. Quite apart from the political impact here in Nuln if we cannot trust the mail, we consider the provision of secure communication routes to be important for those of us in the Myrmidian faith. Certain letters of ours went… missing last year too."

"However," the witch hunter interrupted, eyes narrowed, "I did not wish you bought in, and your presence here is not required. You are here to consult and provide local knowledge of Nuln, not to lead this thing."

Valeria sipped her tea. "I quite understand. No doubt you are busy, lady witch hunter. I will not stand in your way. I have a few things I must bring to a close before I can begin such a big case - perhaps we should meet again in Friedrich's palace at the start of next week, mmm? Perhaps if you have your people send me the documentation, I can familiarise myself with whatever progress you have made so far. Which," she added in a tone suspiciously innocent, "is no doubt prodigious."

The witch hunter huffed, but said nothing.

"Thank you, Valeria," said Friedrich von Schwarzburg. "I hope you will be able to bring your own… inestimable talents to this case."

That was a cue for the priests to leave, and they rose with the grace of comfortable men and women who rose chairs more than horses.

"Though, I believe I will ask that Father Janssen stay," she added, before he could step out. "I wish to talk with him a little more about this case."

Father Robert Janssen had not expected this. When his superior in the Cult had ordered that he accompany the Count of Wissenland, he had thought that it was because the count might have questions about certain things he had seen in the mail service. He had heard of the Senora of Nuln, of course, but to simply be put in her service was not something he had expected.

And her sitting room was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was clearly once a traditional structure of the Nuln aristocracy - but things he had never seen before lay over the top of the solid stone and aged oak like flesh lay over bones. There were rugs laid out, woven in intricate geometric patterns. Strange idols of foreign gods sat on a little shrine in the corner of the room, half-hidden behind a paper screen that was - if his eyes didn't deceive him - done in the style of Nippon. A great tiger rug sprawled out before the unlit fireplace, while there were scattered piles of books lying on the temples and the groaning bookcases.

He cleared his throat, feeling the joints of his hands ache in the cool weather. "Exc-"

"Shhp!" The tone was unquestionably maternal, and reached down into his hindbrain to push buttons that dated back forty years. "Hmm. Do the Sigmarites annoy you as much as they do me?"

"I… I beg your pardon?"

"The Sigmar of you Sigmish folk - I am sure he is a very fine god. Much like Myrmidia, but for colder climates. But his priests," she sucked in breath through her teeth, "ach, they are the most annoying. Perhaps it is the way they act like they should be ruling this city - and every other city with a temple of Sigmar in it. I think the lord of the priests of Sigmar would rather be a count rather than a priest. Or perhaps it is because they keep on trying to accuse me of heresy. Ah well." She rose, brushing down her gown. "Shall we proceed onto the Naked Halfling?"

He blinked. "I… what?"

She laughed at that. "I am sorry, I realise you are not used to me. It is very simple. That witch hunter, she thinks she has one up over me. She will have her people trawl through all the records of ships coming in and out of this city, and look at who came here and employ many scribes and so on and so forth." She raised one finger. "And she will put much effort into spiting me, because her people are still annoyed about the case of the Drunken Lector. I am sure she will find all the easy leads that are not worth my time to investigate, and no doubt torture many people - which is a distasteful practice."

The priest nodded. "But what was that about an… unclad halfling?"

"Ah yes, I see the misunderstanding. It is a bar just by the bridge. Make sure to bring your staff. It can get a little rough there."

Article:

"Hear one, hear all! Five men and three women, all residents of Shantytown, have been arrested by the Witch Hunters! Is this a sign of the work of the dark gods? Witnesses say that templars of Mannan, Myrmidia and Verena were also taking part in these raids! More on this story later! But first, a word from our sponsors! Harald Roundbelly's Pork Pies - made with Mootish quality! Feeling hungry? Just stop by at one of Harald's shops! They'll fill your belly! But back to the developing story…"

Gustav Plappermaul, Nuln Town Crier

The staff connected with the man's kneecap with a crunching sound. He went down, collapsing to the filthy rush-matted floor. Robert kicked him in the nuts for good measure.

The other tavern toughs flinched back, cupping their groins protectively. "Oooh, that ain't right," one of them called out. "You're a priest! You shouldn't do that to a man!"

"You shouldn't threaten a priest," he snarled back, feeling the ache in his arms.

"Yeah, but you're meant to be better than us!"

Valeria cleared her throat, looking around the Naked Halfling with her nose wrinkled. "Senor Baghill," she called out. "I do hope we can end this game. You still owe me." She shook her head. "For shame!"

A man - no, a halfling - peeked over the balcony over the top of the room. "Go away!" he hollered down. "Last time you asked for a favour, I lost a toe!"

"I did not ask for a favour," she said, in that same unusual accent. "I demanded repayment of part of your debt. And I am asking for another payment, Baghill."

"I have twenty men in here!"

She smiled up at him. "How many men do you think I have out there? But fear not, little man. I am only looking for information."

The halfling growled. "Fine. Come on up. Alone."

"Of course not. My dear companion, a priest of Mannan, is coming with me. It wouldn't be right for an honest widow to meet with a disreputable sort like yourself on her own."

"You always have to get your own way. Fine."

As they made their way up the narrow stairs, Robert leaned towards the woman in front of him. "Who is this?" he asked Valeria.

"Jobolo Baghill is the reputable owner of this stinking dive bar - and of course, a big man in the halfling mob," came the response.

"He was going to set all these thugs on you!"

"Oh, no doubt I'd have handled myself." She paused at the door, and adjusted the sit of her headscarf. "Now, just keep quiet. And don't rise to his prodding."

Article:

"I have not enjoyed the past few days. To work in the company of these priests of lesser gods is an affront, but my orders are clear. And though they are to be disdained, the priests of Myrmidia are are least talented at what they do - and the Verenans have useful connections in the Nuln judiciary, given its nature.

"Given what we found, the Mannanite river service has a suspicious number of Talabecland sailors in it. But we have found ones willing to talk, and point towards the ones they know to be suspicious. I have had them taken into custody. My custody, that is. We will see if they talk. And since I have made sure they are separated, we will see if their stories agree.

"I will show the Count that he did not need to bring that heretical woman into things. We do not need her type in the lands of Sigmar!"

Diary of Grettel Kristner

Article:

"A revelation! We have been played for fools, one and all! Under torture, the men have all said that Nordland paid them to steal knowledge of cannon. And with evidence, too! Now we knew where to look, there is much evidence of Nordland conspiracy in this area. We have found the papers of a Nordland merchant who committed the sin of suicide, and it indicates that they have been seeking to use corruption in the Mannanite boat service to transport their stolen documents from the Nuln Engineering College.

"No doubt this is all a plan of the Ulricans! Those wolf-worshipping heretics are seeking out their own goals in the south - and to have their devotees in Nordland be able to build cannon.

"We have shown Wissenland how quickly the Holy Temple of Sigmar and the Order of the Silver Hammer can bring a close to things."

Diary of Grettel Kristner

Next Angestag, Robert came once again to the melancholy, decadent house of the branch of the von Bildhofens, climbing the slope away from the stinking smoke and fumes of Nuln. He could still remember the quiet talk that the strange Estallian lady had had with the halfling mobster - and he had needed to make reports of his own on the behaviour of the lady.

This time a servant welcomed him, and led him through to a different sitting room - this one much more in a conventional style.

"Ah, dear Robert," she observed, dressed in soft - and incredibly expensive - lilac. "How have things been? I hope your fingers are not aching too badly in the wet weather."

He blinked. They were, in fact. "How did you know that?"

"You clearly broke them in the past - though even if you were not avoiding bending them too much, the fact that you were once a boatman and wield that staff like a boathook suggests that the odds were you had done it." She stretched. "I have had the servants set out tea, so at least you will be able to warm your fingers, yes?"

Her peculiar mint tea was brancingly strong, but the strange tea glasses did warm his joints.

"Have you thought anything more about what that silly halfling said?" she asked him.

"It is very strange," he admitted. "From what I have heard, everyone was suspecting Talabecland. Yet the information he had was about certain thefts and extractions that agents of Nordland had performed in Nuln. And Witch Huntress Kristner has just accused Nordland of being the true agents behind the espionage."

"Mmm. She has found these answers very quickly," she said.

"It does make sense."

She laughed, a clear, bell-like sound. "No, of course not. While of course I would not dare to impunge the honour of the witch hunters, I do impunge their investigative rigour. I have already been speaking with Archivist Tuss - the lady from the Cult of Verena, yes?"

"Mmm?"

"Well," she smiled at him, her rounded cheeks creasing up, "there had not been the evidence of such a conspiracy until recently. And so much of it comes from unreliable sources. I went to dear, stupid Senor Baghill because everyone knows I use him as a source of information. If you wanted me to believe something, you would make sure he knows to tell me what I want to know."

"So the Nordlanders are innocent?"

"When did I say that?"

Robert blinked. "You mean…" He cracked his knuckles. "The Talabeclanders have been spying. And they have thrown a separate conspiracy run by Nordland under the wheels of the Sigmarite cart to hide themselves."

"Ah, very well done. You in a few moments have realised what this foolish witch hunter has not. Now, at the moment this is just conjecture - but I feel perhaps it would be best for us to go on a little field trip to verify it. In fact, I was hoping your order might provide us with a boat."

Article:

"Word from the north! Everything I have found is true! Nordland has been building great foundries with knowledge they stole from Nuln! Ha! The count did not need to involve that wretched woman at all!"

Diary of Grettel Kristner

The wind was blowing from the north, cold and bitter - but at least it made sure the smokes of Nuln did not come towards them as they headed towards a small market town on one of the mail boats. Its blue paint was already streaked with black from its time in Wissenland.

It was a day downriver until they arrived at the small port of Flussufer - not the only place named that which Robert had encountered. He had enjoyed the boat trip, though. It was more honest than Nuln. The lady stayed in the captain's quarters he had secured for her, scribbling on slates and connecting things together with string and pins stuck into wood.

Compared to the scale of the city they had just been in, this was a town of only a thousand souls. The buildings at the edge of the river were speckled in black mould, and there were signs of a recent flood.

"We're here," he said, entering her cabin.

"Well, Robert," said Valeria. Her deep brown eyes met his, looking up from the chalk slate covered in notes. "As a poet once said, 'What wicked webs we weave/when we seek only to deceive'. Have you ever seen a case more complicated than this?"

He scratched his stubble. "No, I don't think I have. Of course, I'm more at home with the sea than with these things."

"Ah, but is this not the greatest sea there is?" She smiled. "Though the fish in Nuln have teeth of steel and golden scales."

"I thought you had this solved."

"Things are never solved," she said dismissively. "There is just evidence that suggests things one way or another. But I believe there is at least one more faction at play in this - someone who is using the money Talabecland is spreading around to move their own people into position. Well, there is also the Brotherhood of the Blue Feather, but I know them of old - and I have made sure to tell that annoyingly shrill witch hunter about them. Perhaps then she will avoid meddling in this sensitive stage."

Article:

"That awful woman's servants have told me of a cult of the followers of the dark gods. Well, at least she's good for something. I have left the others for this business - which is, after all, not my expertise - and gone after the vile heretics instead.

"Suspicious, is it not, that she would know of such things?"

Diary of Grettel Kristner

They went around the town, asking questions - very strange ones, by Robert's estimation, not at all related to the case they were working for. There were indeed many Talabeclander's here, and few of them would speak to the Estallian woman. But more than that, they acted strangely when they saw him in her company.

"Is it just me, or are they being evasive when they see me?" he whispered to her as they made their way along the thin muddy streets. His boots and her high-raised platform shoes squelched in the squalour.

"Indeed they are." She patted his overcoat. "We will make a detective of you yet, priest. See, I have been using you to see how they react. They are suspicious when they see me, because my reputation has carried this far downstream. But perhaps I am here for something else. When I send you into a place, they see nothing wrong. But, ah, when the two of us enter somewhere, and they see that I am in the company of a priest of Mannan, that is when they worry. Because that is when they know that I, la senora de Nuln, am working for the Cult of Mannan. And that scares them."

"This is not proof."

She sighed. "No, it is not - though it is no doubt enough that your northern witch-hunters would send a man to a stake for less. But that is not what we are looking for."

"We are not?"

"No, indeed we are not. Because we are seeing how they react."

"Ah." Robert's eyes widened as he picked his way through the mire, using his staff as a walking stick. "So you expect them to throw someone else into the river."

"Precisely."

Article:

"Ah, alas, I could not properly seek those followers of the dark gods. I had only just started my hunt, and now I have been reassigned. They want witch hunters to accompany Prince Konstantin's army when it marches into Middeland. Who knows what those northern wolf-idolaters and their alchemists might do!"

Diary of Grettel Kristner

Her prediction was right. Within a few days, evidence had mysteriously shown up that implicated someone else - someone that had Robert opening his eyes in shock. Then it was back to Nuln, to follow up on the clue. It lay in the Industrielplatz, where the air was thick with smog and burning furnace flames lit up the night.

Valeria stepped into this bar that stared out sullenly toward the Iron Tower, full of scarred and burned workers in the foundries. Some crossed themselves - others focussed on their drinks.

She rapped on the bar table. "Myself and my guest," she nodded to Robert, "are here to see Doublet."

"Does anyone here look like they ever seen one of 'em up close?" grunted the man.

"I am speaking of the individual, Doublet, who I have met before," she said. "Why do people do this? Does it ever work?"

"The priest stays out," the bartender said, after some thought managed to seep through his thick skull.

"Very well." She turned to Robert. "Do try to stay safe. This is, I fear, non-negotiable."

She vanished into the back of the bar, and suddenly he felt very alone. He was a priest, standing alone in a bar - and none of them wanted him here. It seemed they were scared of the Lady von Bildhofen, but one of her companions? A much easier target.

Well, as someone who had spent more than his fair share of time in bars before he'd found religion, he knew how to handle such things. There was one man in particular who was giving him the stink eye. The kind of man who was big, but not the biggest; the kind of man who always looked to rise above his station. The man who'd try to turn the bar against him so he could say he'd kicked a priest out of their drinking hole.

And since Robert hadn't forgotten everything from his drinking days, he slipped on his lead knuckles as the snaggle-toothed man got up to get in his face.

One blow later, and the foundry worker was face-down on the filthy floor. And there was a hush in the bar, the sound of many big men not making any noise.

"I didn't like his face," Robert said, letting his Marienburger accent bleed through. "Now, next round's on me!"

The backroom was only lit by a single candle in a lantern. It shed enough light to give a shape to the gloom. And to reveal the floating white face in the backroom; a mask worn by someone otherwise dressed all in black.

"You would be Doublet," Valeria said, keeping her hands up her long sleeves.

"What's in a name?"

"We haven't met before, but I knew your predecessor."

Doublet stiffened up. "You must be mistaken, my lady. Doublet never dies."

"Madam, do not treat me like a fool." Valeria shifted her weight from side to side. "Doublet is the mask, not the person wearing it. Your predecessor was male. And missing a leg. And bleeding to death, the last time I saw him. The Case of the Poisoned Halfling Pastry Chef went rather wrong for him."

"And what brings the infamous Senora of Nuln to this place?" The mask didn't move.

"Perhaps I merely wanted to seek out a temple of Ranald."

"All places where dice are played are temples to the Thieving Lord."

"But this is where you are. And so-"

Someone grabbed her arm, slamming it hard into the wall. Red-hot pain flared and silver flashed at her throat. But she twisted in the hold, bringing her other hand around and there was a soft click.

They froze in a tableau.

"We seem to be at an impasse," Doublet said. She did not wear her mask; her face was hidden under black cloth. She had a knife at Valeria's throat.

"Indeed," Valeria said, her expensive dwarf-made pepperpot pistol pressed into Doublet's gut. "I knew you weren't wearing the mask. It is hung on a dummy, yes? So others look at the white thing in the darkness. I have done the same myself."

"Ah, your tricks are infamous. What do you want, Senora?" The knife drifted slightly away from her throat.

"I'm doing you a favour." She forced herself to smile. "I expect repayment."

"I'm not sure this is a favour."

"The spies of Talabecland sold you out. You know they own the Nuln branch of the Mannan river-mail service?"

"Ah, so is that who's been contesting us?"

"Yes. And when I poked my nose into them, they told me exactly where you were - and what you were up to. You want to control the river wardens - you're spreading out of Stirland. They got worried after I kept on searching, and threw your name my way."

"Hmm." Doublet backed off. "You can put that gun away. I'll need to verify that. I don't trust you."

"Of course you don't." She retracted her pepperpot pistol back into her sleeves. "And I don't trust you. For you, deception is a religious obligation."

"Why hasn't Ranald ever called you, Senora?"

"I have my own gods, and I will not give them up for your northern ones," she said. Her wrist was aching in a dull way; Doublet was stronger than she looked. Or perhaps it was just that Valeria was getting old. "But that's all I wanted to say."

That, and to verify the leak, but both of them knew how this game was played.

Out in the bar, she raised an eyebrow at the sight of Robert downing a mug of ale against a hulking burn-scarred covered shirtless man. He slammed the mug down only a breath or two after the man.

"Ha! Nice one, priest!" boomed the worker. "No one ever out-drinks Big Wilhelm!"

"'m a priest of Mannan! 'S m'duty to drink like a fish!"

Valeria sighed. Men. "I have what I need," she told him. "Do you want to stay with your new friends?"

"He's alright for a priest!" Big Wilhelm boomed, slapping Robert on the back so hard he nearly fell over.

"I'm mingling!" Robert said, slurring faintly. "Trust me, I'm gonna out-drank-em all!" And then he winked at her.

"Well, I'll leave that to you," she said, and left into the Nuln evening.

The man was faking it. And they weren't so willing to talk with her. Well, she'd leave him to it and see if anything showed up.

"... and well, that's about it, my lord," Valeria said, swirling the mint tea in her glass. She was using her left hand, because her right was still bandaged up. "Your city is a nest of vermin. It's why it keeps me entertained."

Friedrich von Schwarzburg was rather less amused than his gentlewoman detective. "And you are certain?" he demanded.

"Of course not. Certainty is for priests. I am a humble scholar. But this is what the evidence suggests."

The man didn't slam his hand on the table, but from a twitch in his shoulder, she could tell he wanted to. "So the Mannanite mail is riddled with Talabecland spies…"

"I wouldn't use the word 'riddled'," she said mildly. "But it suggests that the duchess has been spying on us since the start.

"And those wretched Ranald cultists too?"

"Indeed."

"And those Norscans up in Nordland have been spying on us too?"

"Ah, that's actually a common misconception. They're not actually Norscans. But suffice to say, yes."

"This is serious."

"Perhaps. That is a judgment for counts, not for independent widows like myself." She rose elegantly. "Now, excuse me, but I intend to take a short leave of absence from your city. Don't worry, though. I'll be heading down south, to see my daughter."

Count Friedrich looked up at her, the oil lamp reflecting off his monocle. "You always seem to make trouble for me, Valeria. What am I meant to do with this?"

"Make trouble? What would be the fun in that." She paused at the door, dark eyes twinkling. "Other people put the effort into making the trouble. I just find it. I am sure when I am back, you will have more amusing things in Nuln for me to investigate."

Maugan Ra · Nov 24, 2019

(Written by @TenfoldShields with my approval)

What have they done to you, my dear, my darling, my child? What have you done to yourself? You are in such pain, I can see it behind your eyes, etched in the meat of your mind. But I- ah. You do not remember me do you? I cannot fault you, it must have seemed so very long ago; those first few stumbling steps beyond the safety, the surety of the firelight. That moment beneath the boughs of those ancient wealds, when you reached out your hand to the stars above, the darkness beyond and felt us waiting there, so patiently for you. There at the beginning. The start of everything. Your oldest friends, your closest kin.

Oh my sweetling! We have never abandoned you. We stand in your shadow, we follow in your wake, you have brought us into every hearth and every home and we have watched. Time is a chain. We are unbound. You have forgotten us, but we have never forgotten you.

Such scars, such anger, such agony. The world should have been kinder, we would have built it better; we could build it better yet, a gentle garden for all such as you. Ah- you recoil. I cannot profess surprise. They they have filled your skull to the brim with lies, set your thoughts squirming like so many fretful serpents- do not hide your head from me, I can see it! What have they told you, these scholars and holy men? These Grand Duchesses in their gilded palaces, these Princes of the Earth? That your suffering is in accordance with Godly will? That if you break your back but a little more you will all be lifted to peace and prosperity? That their reign is eternal, this is as all should be, the only way it could be?

Oh my precious! One day their palaces will be broken ruins home only to the cold wind and Autumn rain, their hallowed names will be dry and sterile things in dusty tomes. None will remember them but us, and we shall not care.

For we shall be free, my love, free of pain and rage and the gnawing ache of loss. Free of wretched doubt and all-creeping despair. Free of this sickness called Empire, free of this disease called Humanity. Let me tell you a secret: Hell is what you make of it my child, Heaven is too. And come either, come neither, come the end of all things: we will be here beside you. As it was at the beginning, so shall it be again, so shall it be forevermore, until the stars gutter low and the sun burns cold.

Oh my love! Dry your tears, wipe the clotted blood from your jaw and smile! Smile fearlessly! Smile with every fiber of your being! They cannot hurt you anymore and you need not ever be afraid again, you need not ever be alone. You are safe now, your suffering is at an end.

Rejoice! For your Father is here at last.

And salvation is at hand.

Nascent
Spring came early to the Grand County of Stirland. Stark white Winter skies bleeding away to shades of delicate blue and silvery-grey. The howling winds that cracked the skin and chewed the lips to tatters, finally dwindling down to gentler breezes. Rain fell for weeks in great gauzy sheets, as fine and as fragile as a noblewoman's lace, a knight's favor. Melting into mist, feeding fat tendrils of fog that wound over the bleak moors and through thatch-roofed villages, twining slowly through city streets like a lover toying with the hair of their half-awake companion. Fields became marshes of wet black loam and growing grass. Earthen roads became slick, muddy scars through the countryside. And rivers swollen with meltwater were soon thick with sails, dark hulled ships setting forth; gliding past titanic forests, splendid in their emerald green and earthen browns.

In the Moot, the halfling-homeland, life went on much as it always had; much as, some suspected, it always would. The ill-omens and foreboding of the preceding Summer fading into memory, the sharp edges of dread and uncertainty, once so clear, so keen, blurred by the passage of months. Eclipsed entirely by the Stirlish-Averlander peace and now the nasty business at the borders. The sowing season beginning with uneasy eyes cast over shoulders; homesteaders and farmers unbarring barn doors and putting herds out to pasture, readying plows and draft-oxen. Trying not to think too much about it. Unable to avoid it entirely.

The soldiers had come as soon as the roads were clear enough for travel, a great snake in red and gold and steel gleaming-wet in the mist; marching beneath the banner of a sun. Averland's Second Army, Francis Ludwig's men. Here to oversee the swift and ready return of Stirlish estates to the small host of nobles who came with the column. Petty counts and barons, the families of Stirlish knights who had fled the fighting the previous year, all who had been forced to pawn off their precious legacies in exchange for a passage to safety. Now returning in -if not glory- then with a certain vindictive pleasure. Creaking wagon trains of peasants and merchants trailing close behind, dozens strong; escorted in turn by scattered lances of the Knights of Everlasting Light.

The established order reasserted itself with a kind of crushing, tectonic force. The new halfling landlords, many who had taken up residency in their possessions for the Winter, found themselves summarily ejected from the stone keeps and fortified manors; countless planned constructions and subdivisions abruptly dashed as entire sheafs of contracts were immediately voided, by order of Grand Count Ludwig himself. Oh but the funds expended in their acquisition would be returned wouldn't they? Ludwig was a man of his word wasn't he?

Certainly. Eventually. Ludwig was an honorable man after all, something would most definitely be done, the captain assured the tobacco trader as he set his dogs on the small merchant.

So it went.

In truth there was little the halflings could do, even with generous donations made to the coffers of the Knights of Sigmar's Blood for protection of the Moot's borders, violence was sporadic if not omnipresent wherever the Second Army set up its great, sprawling camps; wherever their horsebound patrols rode and their foot soldiers followed. The Averlanders and Order of Everlasting Light had sympathy for the Stirlish, empathy for their terrible plight and use for their gratitude (and oh were the Stirlish ever grateful). They had little but cold disdain for the ambitious, dishonorable Mootlander. No one was especially surprised when word came from Wurtbad that, given their clear financial distress, the Stirlish lords would be allowed time to gather the capital needed for their compensatory payment. No one was particularly surprised when halfling burghers who, only a few months past, had been bragging and boasting of their windfall to their relatives, returned to the family burrows bloodied and bruised and half-destitute. With little but the sale of some leftover stores to the Grand Ivory Caravan as a salve.

What was surprising was the near simultaneous arrival of a pair of ships in the river-town of Saurapfel, on the border. One a sleek, knife-like thing from the far province of Westerland; its deck bustling with halfling forms and the towering-tall silhouettes of ogres. The other a hulking barge from Altdorf, its contingent a cadre of men and women in broad-brimmed hats, lead by a stick-thin priest in elaborate armor. Sallow face hidden behind a high collar, the heavy plate half-concealed beneath a billowing coat. They were met there by a full company of Averlander soldiers, the captain and his men genuflecting before the rail-slender Reiklander in the street, the gesture accepted with ritual motion, before the forces divided again after short discussion. A small contingent of the somber, silent men and women proceeding up the river Aver towards the capital of Eicheschatten. The rest mustering as a single force and vanishing, mounted, into the rolling hills of the Moot.

All who saw them wondered. All who saw them gossipped and speculated and tried to ignore the way dread, latent and half-remembered but never gone, not really, began to creep back in.

Fog settled over the countryside, banks of humid cloud slowly, sluggishly, winding through territory. A little like vines. A little like veins.

Localized
Elder Thunderspoon Greentoe was an unhappy man, and that unhappiness filled his rambling, half-buried home like smoke from sullen coals. Black streamers of a black mood curling up under the eaves, wafting beneath doorframes, stirred by his passage as he paced and paced and paced and tried not to think of the debacle this had all become. What had once been such lofty dreams. Greentoe had read much of the world beyond the Moot's borders, of distant nations and far off kingdoms. Like so many others in the once-Empire he had sensed the change on the air, felt the earth in flux; what was once stone, immutable and forever, grinding and fracturing as it gave way. The Expedition of Oskar Meyer and the Underhill-organized Caravan; the Stirlish War of Succession and now Middenland and Reikcland clashing in the North-West: everywhere he looked history was being made. Legends being sculpted all about him. The map of what was known and unknown, of what was possible and impossible being sketched and re-sketched, drawn and redrawn. A time of profound change and…

Here was he. Here was the Moot. Charmingly rustic. Perpetually peaceful. Outside their borders nothing but a world that hated and despised them, within nothing but an unchanging farmer's paradise; peace and plenty to the exact same degree, the same measure, season after season. Year after year. Stagnantly cheerful and soul-crushingly banal. All he longed for was something else. Something more. A chance to reach out and reshape history on his own terms, if only a little. A chance to make some kind of mark on the page before the tomes were all written, bound and sealed without him, a chance to prove that this was not all they could be. And in the name of that ambition he had gambled. Gambled and-

Not lost. Not really. He had won, he had the titles, had the land, had the mercenary contracts drafted and ready before Ludwig, the wretch no different from the generations of glory-gluttons before him, found honoring them inconvenient and ordered him to reverse course. And then came Lotho Underhill with his own polite-but-oh-so-pointed parallel entreaties, and then the Cult of Sigmar with its naked demands, terse assurances, and barely veiled threats.

And then- well what could he do? It was the dreams or the man, the dreams or the Moot and one had to go; and couched like that it was really no contest wasn't it?. A few letters, a distant, grudging betrayal and just like that it was all over. What foundations he had constructed, what explorations he had made, what few prizes he had already won, gone. And now there was nothing to do but pace and soak in his own misery and watch out the rain-dappled windows as somewhere, far over the horizon, the great machinery of the state chewed it all apart. Digesting its prize.

Lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, absent any callers, Elder Greentoe entirely forgot about his guest. The hooded, robe-wreathed figure who had brought such wonderful trinkets and toys from his far-away home. The white-coated man so short and so slight, his voice high pitched and backed with a barely audible chitter but oh his stories. His teeth always gleaming beneath his shadowed cowl; too long and too sharp, bared in a jagged, perpetually amused smile at everything he saw.

And oh there was so much for him to see in this strange, foreign place wasn't there? So much that was exciting, energizing, enthralling. So much that made him happy-bordering-on-hysterics, giddy-verging-on-gleeful. And something, one thing in particular really, that he had such genuine hopes for that had turned out to so narrowly fail to meet his expectations.

Elder Greentoe was standing at the window of his study, looking out over the painted houses and lush gardens of Eicheschatten. Thinking. Dwelling. Brooding. Not quite seeing the streets a story below his feet, not quite hearing the creak of the door behind him and the softly muffled footfalls drawing nearer.

Scarlet splattered the glass.

An arterial spray painting the wall red as the Grey Seer tore out his throat. Chewing the fatty meat and gristle as the halfling fell. Indifferently swallowing, more because it was in his mouth than actual desire.

The Skaven wasn't angry no, just disappointed.

When the Witch-Hunters arrived two days later they had to get the story from a grey-faced, trembling maid. Hear secondhand of Greentoe's body found laying in a pool of clotted crimson, trunk to toe soaked in his own gore and eyes staring up, glassy and empty. Hear of the cistern-well the servants found gouged in the basement of the manor. Bored through stone and sediment. A shaft descending down into inky black, Stygian depths. Wide enough for a man, a human man, to enter and not have his shoulders touch either side.

Echoing.

Empty.

Metastatic
They carved this haven from the raw earth of the hillside, under the broken, weather-worn crown of standing stones. A layered complex of narrow tunnels and windowless rooms, descending for level after level beneath the green sod of the Mootland; opening up into larger caverns for testing, experimentation, and group study. Built with an eye, not just towards utility, but comfort. Security. Longevity. This was no desperate bolt hole, no crude second-cellar hidden beneath barrels and tarp no, this was an impossibility, a paradox, a reality: for the first time in untold generations, perhaps ever, the disparate Hedgefolk had a college. A sanctuary for their practitioners, a school for their arts. From across the provinces of the Elector Counts they had come, they had gathered, in hope and in amazement and trepidation and in trust. Old women who had been forced to leave behind sons and daughters, vanishing among the cold, wet streets of the Empire's metropoles. Young men who had fled their family's fields, a sibling embracing them tightly, whispering hoarsely in their ear to run and never return. People who had lived all their lives under the threat of hammer, of the pyre, of the specter of a swift suicide versus salvation via flame.

How many weeks had the Blessed Few spent quieting the night terrors among the youngest? How many times had Barret assured them in his kind, grandfatherly way that they were safe here? That they could not be found. That the halflings would hide them.

How many months of labor and effort invested in healing the cracked and fractured thing that was themselves only to be proven a liar? Once again. As always. As ever.

Oh it was nothing certain, nothing ironclad but Barret was an old man in an occupation where few survived their fifth year. He could feel the creeping inevitability of it, the silver sword poised overhead, lowering by slow, steady degrees. The villages in Ostermark had been purged, the Witch-Hunters dogging their trail, tracing their steps down through Stirland proper and Sylvania. And Greentoe, the boisterous, gregarious Elder who had been so taken with their proposition, who had eagerly hired the laborers who built this place, who had argued in Barret's office so passionately, so enthusiastically, for ever greater and grander projects-

Had locked himself in his manor at Eicheschatten and refused to speak to any of the messengers sent to his door.

The Hedge Wise knew what was coming. It was the same thing that was always coming for them, the same smoke-wreathed specter as ever. And they would survive it the same way they always did, they always had: by swallowing their bitter disappointment and bile, by breaking what few, fragile bonds they had built and scattering across the Empire once more. Or abandoning their homeland -however much it hated them- entirely for lands beyond.

By the time the Witch-Hunters landed in Saurapfel, Barret had gathered his students from all across the Moot. His worst suspicions confirmed as esoteric sendings and prepared signals to their oft-fairweather allies among the Empire's underworld were set and dispatched, only to return nothing. No sign of receipt. No answer. Nothing.

Just silence.

Betrayal compounded then. Betrayal or sabotage or simply a naked assault upon the Hedgefolk as a whole, a vast coordinated effort by- who? The Cult of Sigmar and its paladins? An Elector Count with a vendetta? Something else, something darker? It hardly mattered now. Their time was measured in hours, not days; the Witch-Hunters were coming with a small army, avian familiars and spirits of Wind glimpsing them from far above. Arrowing, straight and true, to the hidden facility.

Above the sky boiled black, twilight come at noon as stormclouds gathered. Thunderheads piling high atop each other, mile high ramparts of obsidian and bruised indigo. Framing the sun in tendrils of ink, golden light against the raging, lightning-lashed night. In the central chamber beneath the standing stones, surrounded by etched sigils and seals and every precious student he had managed to save over the last century and a half of labor, Barret the Blessed engaged the Hedgefolk's last great working. The project the Halflings had commissioned. A glimpse of the future they could have built, that they would one day build for if not them then who?

One day. One day. It could be done, it would be done again. But for now it would serve to save them all.

The Wyrd unfolded before him. Space itself creasing, distorting, fracturing; the walls of the room shifting, the space suddenly so much more massive. The earth itself trembling as verdant fire crawled and snaked over the domed ceiling, as lightning in every hue arced and danced and the primordial paths opened before him.

And it was then that Barret the Blessed, Hedge Wise of the Wyrd realized that he was not alone in the network. That there were things in there with him: one sharp edged and cackling mad, grinning with a rat's razor teeth, smiling with an expression like broken glass.

And something else.

Something as vast as a continent, as an ocean, as the gulf between stars; a tentacle of something greater still reaching out, reaching in.

A hungry sky come alive and bearing down upon him.

Terminal
It was born from need, from greed, from desperation and disillusionment and frantic, fevered grasping at a future they couldn't hold. The Hedgefolk had built it. Greentoe had enabled it. The haffengilde under Lotho Underhill had suspected, then dreaded, what their tangential involvement had created. The Cult of Sigmar had feared what such reckless power, what such unbound witchcraft could unleash, what feel creatures from the deep had made their homes beneath the Moot, and dispatched Arch Lector Kurt Scheinwerfer along with a small army of war priests and witch-hunters to smother this spark, this hellish ignition before the whole Empire caught ablaze; their ranks only further swelled by the Averlander company and its captain.

Hoping. Praying that there was still time enough to stop it. Time enough to save these lands, these kingdoms of tarnished saints and righteous sinners. These people, flawed and fractured and riven by their own disputes, who didn't deserve the calamity that had come to their homes. And the men and women assembled were willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of another century, another decade, another year of Sigmar's grace clawed back from oncoming oblivion.

A surge of relief as they rounded the last bend in the road and beheld the standing stones not half a mile away. Their horses ridden to near the point of breaking. Their ogre guards soaked in sweat. But there was enough time. The ritual had not yet been initiated when the hunters came within sight of the rolling hills that concealed the Hedgefolk college. The Paths had not yet been open. And though the sky swirled and seethed, the golden light slowly fading they bore a lantern of their own; the soft glow of St. Martin's fingerbones warding away the darkness. The deepening gloom as the storm closed over their heads. The first, fat raindrop fell. The wind moaned through the long grass on either side of the road, towering green stalks whispering and rustling against each other. Waves sculpted from a verdant sea.

The Halfling Shirrif who was serving as their guide frowned, slowing his mount at the head of the column.

Something was wrong.

There was rubble on the hillside and raw-earth. The hidden entrance collapsed. And in the loamy, fertile soil of the Mootland there were...tunnel mouths.

Fresh dug tunnel mouths.

For a single, frozen second Arch Lector Scheinwerfer stared at the road. And then he screamed two words. Two words in a voice risen to a near shriek, so high it all but cracked. Two words as he drew his pistol from beneath his coat, two words as the dark metal glaive exploded through the ground beneath the Shirrif's mount and speared through his pony and then his torso. The hidden, red-armored figure rising to its full hulking height as it twisted its powerful shoulders and hurled the dead man and his mount off the side of the road. Baring incisor-fangs and hiss-roaring.

"SKAVEN! AMBUSH!"

And the storm broke as the jaws of the trap closed.

They had come expecting to fight panicked, half-disorganized witches. They had come expecting to assault a castle that had already had every door laid open, every gate unbarred, every key provided. They had come expecting to attack with the supremacy of absolute surprise against a foe that could barely fight without being a danger to itself.

And now, in the rain, in the green-lit maelstrom as jade lightning flashed and forked above, they faced an entirely different threat altogether. One far beyond the scope of anything they could have prepared for. One that, until today, was only theorized to exist in steel-bound books of the Witch-Hunter's clandestine archives.

Black furred rat-men, standing head and shoulders over even a human. Skin laced with pale white scars from countless battles, limbs strung steel-cabled strength and shoulders broadened by thick, slablike muscle. Incisor fangs bared as they hissed and spat hate as these weak, feckless man-things. Clad all in spiked, crimson plate.

The supreme troops of a shattered nation who had endured even their Empire's collapse.

The armored fist of the Grey Seers, servants to the Prophets of the Horned Rat.

Stormvermin.

The column disintegrated into butchery and bloodbath. Isolated islands of control where men and women put back to back and shoulder to shoulder, holding off, however temporarily, the beasts that fell upon them. Able to do nothing for the people caught in the chaos between. War-spears shining wickedly in the half-light on every side. Up and down the ragged column the crack of gunfire, the sizzle-sputter of wet powder failing to catch. And everywhere, everywhere: screaming. Raw-throated howls of fear that failed to drown out the wind, the lashing tempest-rain, or the snarling laughter of the rats. An ogre bellowing as a glaive tore a jagged wound across his stomach. Lotho Underhill, visible for a moment in the Hell of wind and water, hair plastered to his face by the storm as he frantically reloaded only for a claw to reach out from the darkness and catch him by the collar. A Witch-Hunter staggering back, cheek laid open to shattered teeth below, spear humming as it swept around to open a red smile across his throat.

It was the Arch Lector who waved them. Step by exhaustion drunk, adrenaline shivering step. The reliquary of St. Martin upheld in one hand, bearing his sword in the other, his pistol lost somewhere in the muddy churn below. He rallied the men to him, one knot of terrified survivors, one scattered lance of wide-eyed, shaking state troops and bloodied haffengild bravos at a time. Gathering into a rough formation, a bristling circle of polearms and guns, centered around a golden sun. The stormvermin prowling the edges, breath steaming in the cold. Hissing to each other, chittering in their own tongue. Plate shining like fresh spilled blood in the storm, squinting and snarling as the light from the artifact was reflected in their eyes.

The Skaven dead on the ground were scattered, sparse. The human and halfling toll left a veritable carpet of corpses on the muddy road. A looming specimen in a half-cape stood on his hindlegs, one arm raised-

The ground lurched. He twitched.

Above the lightning was pulsing now, strobing. Heaven a pane of black glass, riven with spiderweb green cracks. Throbbing in time like some vast, obscene heartbeat. Far, far in the distance a thread of light leapt up to the sky, illuminating the clouds from within with it's own unholy glow. Shimmering, coruscating, all the colors of deep tissue damage and half-healed wounds.

The stormvermin leader snapped an order and skaven stooped, shouldering their dead with ease. Glaring balefully at the humans who hunkered beneath their walls of steel and arquebus-shot, before withdrawing in staggered ranks. Leaving the humans alone.

A half mile away the standing stones that crowned the Hedgefolk complex kindled to light. A green so deep, so pure, that it all but scorched itself in the eye. A crackling column of power, the edges shivering, shuddering with gold. Matched a second later by another column on the horizon, then another. A third. A fourth. More as the Hedgefolk network was subverted from within. As the power began to overflow, to spread beyond their ability to contain it. As the first pillar in all its opalescent shades, began to spread and thread itself through the storm. Leeching more and more of the emerald blaze into itself.

The Arch Lector dropped his gaze, gritting his teeth as he held the sacred artifact even higher aloft. Spitting out the order to retreat.

They were too late.

What was coming could not be stopped.

All they could do was save themselves.

Postmortem
The quake was felt as far away as Talabeheim and Altdorf. Chandeliers swaying, wine rippling in its cups. A sudden hot, wet wind setting the trees thrashing, branches crashing against each other before abruptly ceasing. Nearer to the point of origin the effect was magnified. Outside Averheim the River Aver briefly surged backwards, dark waters foaming white, sweeping away small jetties like so much driftwood, blowing out the windows of shore-side shops as the waves burst their banks. In Sylvania the Count Palatine's men immediately rushed to reinforce the fortifications of Waldenhof, certain that they must be under some kind of surprise assault that surely, even now, the walls were taking cannon shell and siege-engine shot.

Subsiding only when they saw the emerald glow.

For the rest of that Spring and the entire Summer, into Autumn after the Moot died the horizon would burn green over its grave. The storm that hung over it, the endless hurricane so far from any sea, would never depart. The land forever rain-lashed, shrouded in a perpetual deluge.

The refugees who stumbled out of the Moot were few and far between. A few dozen families here, half-a-hamlet there. Mothers and their children, the young and the frightful; those willing to pack up what belongings they could and trust their intuition, trust themselves to Averlanders and their dogs because it was oh, so much better than the alternative.

The stories they told the state troopers were haunted, hollow-eyed things. Stories of great chasms in the earth, so deep that the bottom was shrouded in shadow even as rivers cascaded down the walls. The quilted shape of entire farms and villages just visible in the depths. Of family members shifting, bones clicking and tendons visibly squirming as they tore out of their own steaming skin. Teeth falling like porcelain shards as new, sharper sets grew into place. Their screams turning into steam-pipe hissing. Of lush groves growing around circles of standing stones, where the petals were pale, curling tongues and the thorns were fangs. Roots like muscle, like meat, burrowing into the ancient rock; threading pulsing veins into its flanks.

Two days after the quake a half-dead column of Witch-Hunters, Averland State Troopers, and haffengilde with the odd ogre made the crossing at Saurapfel. The exhausted lot clustered around a holy relic of Simgar like it was the last fire on Earth. The elements that had gone ahead to Greentoe's manor all but curled up within their coats, the other survivors even worse. The Arch Lector grabbing the nearest sergeant by his surcoat and hoarsely half-shouting that he needed to speak to the Marshall immediately. That they were to ward the river behind them and that if anything else came out they were to kill it immediately.

It didn't matter.

Nothing else followed them out.

The Moot was no more. Murdered in a single night by hubris and ill-fortune. What was left behind was a leviathan nightmare, a behemoth of hunger and want. The borders ringed by jagged, razored crags; the ground split into fathoms deep canyons that made approach or exit all but impossible. The few crossings that remained firmly in control of the Second Averland Army. But it didn't matter. Whatever was in that harrowed, hellish place was content to wait. To patiently subsume and digest what it had gained.

In villages once known for orchards and ales armored rat-monsters dragged squeaking, shivering plump-bodied kid from the burrows and dens they had made of their old home. Mustering them in the central square for inspect, as a very, very pleased Grey Seer sat atop his palanquin and surveyed all the fruits of his...partial victory. Across rolling, idyllic hills once known for their pastoral charm and rural beauty a jungle grew. A thing of riotous color, of all the shades of deep forest growth, all the hues of a body flayed and wrenched apart. Slowly populated now by things of raw, glistening meat, bright eyes and hunger.

And in a college, that had once housed the hopes of the Wise, a thing wearing Barret's face sat at the base of a titanic tree. Staff across his knees, humming to himself as he tilted his head back. Watching as the shadowed forms that were once the Hedgefolk stirred, kicked and drifted within the embryonic cauls, the dripping spheres that grew fat from every branch like obscene fruit. The men and women within slowly changing, shifting. A glimpse of a hand, green and mottled black. A single eye slowly opening and closing, lantern-lit and yellow.

He had made them a promise hadn't he?

None of them had to hurt anymore now.

None of them ever had to be afraid again.

comradepitrovsky · Nov 24, 2019

"Run! Move!"

The little band of halflings leapt from the ditch, sprinting as fast as their short legs could take them. Bursts of green light speckled the ground around them, the ever-shifting landscape that morphed from idyllic farmland to overgrown jungle to twisted teeth laden hellscape and back, as Skaven armed with warplock jezzails hunted the survivors for sport. The halflings crossed the open plain, only losing two, one cut down by a Skaven who screamed in victory, the other consumed by the very earth. As more warpstone bullets flew by them, the dozen or so halflings dived into a ditch, taking a second to regroup.

Their leader – a fieldwarden, Max Hillstone – motioned to the group. "Stay down. Sam, Drogo, with me. Ready?"

The other two fieldwardens nodded their ascent, and in unison, they rose, shortbows raised. Max loosed his arrow, it finding a place in the hand of one of their Skaven pursuers, only to see, as he dropped to grab another arrow, the ruined bodies of his two once comrades, killed as the Skaven sharpshooters hit home.

"Sir?" One of the halflings, a milkmaid, he recognized from the last county fair, asked. "What are we going to do? What is . . . this? What's happening? I . . . I just want to go home."

Hillstone didn't know. He wasn't a fool, or naïve. He had gunned down ghouls and zombies on the Sylvanian border, pursued a cult with the Witch Hunters once, and fought his fair share of bandits. He knew, very well, of the fallen nature of this world, of its capacity for horror and terror, for utter devastation in any and every way.

He still didn't know what to do. But he couldn't very well tell the refugees, the scattered and scared survivors that his band of fieldwardens – now just him – had rallied. So he set his jaw, determined, and made something up.

"The road there leads to Eicheshatten. We follow it, head towards the town, try to lose the Skaven in the brush. The rest of the fieldwardens will be there, and it will be where Averland and Stirland and Sylvania will send their armies. You'll be safe there."

The milkmaid nodded, unsteadily.

"Now run! Follow the ditch, stay low, and break towards the forest as soon as we reach it!"

En masse, the halflings ran, doing just as he instructed. The Skaven were getting closer, only pausing to messily consume the corpses of the halflings that they had killed already. Max ran at the back of the group, stopping every so often to loose arrows towards scrabbling paws and foam-flecked jaws.

It didn't seem to matter. For every Skaven that he seemed to slow, there were two, three more, the rat-creatures seeming to make sport of hunting down the refugees. Even over the hundred yards or so to the forest, he lost three, shot down by warpstone bullets or killed by the hungry-earth, twisting and twisted into jaws.

Then, as fast as the cataclysm began, the Skaven stopped, pulling back just as soon as the halflings reached the forest edge. For a second, Max thought that they were saved, that the knights were cresting the ridge, that the army, someone, anyone's army, was here. But then, turning, he saw what really was coming. A sickly green wave of magic, sparking and twisting with bursts of lightning, the same green as the fire from the Skaven's jezzails. Max, again, didn't know what to do, would even could be done.

"Get down," he shouted, but it was too late, and the wave of magic was upon them.

Four of his band, of the seven who remained, twisted and screamed, their bodies be remade by the chaotic sorceries, bursts of three and thirteen sparks flying into the air. They screamed in pain as their hands extended into claws, as ribbons of fur climbed up their bodies and then sank into their flesh in rotted, stinking plops of pus. Whiskers sprouted from their mouths as the fur continued to spread, a tail, hairless and twitching, extended out, and their eyes twisted and turned from a bright green or blue, lively and proud, to a burning red. Even their screamed changed, from pain to rage, as rows after rows of fangs sprouted.

Then they stopped. The land around them was gouged and changed, as well, and Max took a step back, unconsciously. The things-that-were-halflings rose, a hungry look in their eyes, and leapt forwards. They gashed through the bodies of two of his band, one biting through the final one in a single smack of those horrendous, many-rowed teeth. Max couldn't think, could barely move, the sheer horror of it all overcoming him, but his hand moved on instinct. He loosed an arrow, catching the first of the half-things in the eye, and then dropped his bow, grabbing a knife as it jumped on to him.

The half-thing scrambled, trying to reach Max with its claws, with its teeth, but Max held, pushing with all his might to keep it from killing him, until he suddenly relaxed his arms. The half-thing fell, no longer pushing against anything – and impaled itself on the knife that Max still had in his hand.

He rose, unsteadily, covered in roiling blood, knife still in his hands. The other two half-things tensed, but then relaxed.

"The plaguemistress will want this fierce-brave halfling, yes-yes?"

The other half-thing nodded it's assent, and raised it's hand. Vines, thorny and hard, shot out, slamming into Max's temple.

Everything went black.

When Max Hillstone awoke again, he recognized where he was. He recognized the graceful arches of the town hall, the pole for the town's harvest festival still standing, but beyond that? With the rows of rat-men and those freakish part-rat part-halflings marching back and forth, with the bodies of his countrymen splayed everywhere, with impossible constructions of rotting flesh and plant and swamp ripped from the earth, with the Moot's land itself spiraling apart in deep canyons tracing foul symbols?

He knew where he was. He was in hell.

To be continued

Maugan Ra · Nov 25, 2019

It is often said, by those educated in the great universities of Altdorf and Nuln, that geography is destiny. Nothing influences the history of a people more than the land in which they live, and no amount of heroism or ingenuity will overcome certain material disadvantages. A land blessed with fertile farmland will achieve greater prosperity than one afflicted with barren plains, and a people with peaceful neighbours will grow stronger and happier than those surrounded by foes, and if one sought evidence of such grand and sweeping patterns across the tides of history, why, they simply had to look at a map.

Sigmar brought together a coalition of tribes and named them brothers, a council of equals united under his leadership, but it has been two thousand years since that legendary hero died, and history is not always kind. For generations the northern states have been seen as 'poor cousins' of one kind or another, compensating for their lack of wealth with a kind of stubborn pride that many compared favorably to Dwarvish fortitude, and when men speak of a new Emperor and the potential for unification few are prone to giving them much thought. Oh, perhaps Nordland might be swayed to support a particular choice with valuable loans and influence over border disputes, or the Countess of Ostland persuaded to back the candidate with the Theogonist's favour, but the idea of a Northern state championing such an initiative, much less aiming for one of their own on the throne? Pure fantasy.

But dreams are powerful things, and there are yet those who follow them.

In the fall of 2202, as the northern campaigns came to an end and word began to filter through about the sheer scale of the disaster in the Moot, four Electors arranged to meet in Wolfenburg. In Ostland's own capital, the Grand Duchess held a conference of her peers, with the rulers of Hochland, Nordland and Ostermark all making the journey to attend, accompanied by a wide range of lesser nobles, merchant factors and other people of influence from across the north. Ostensibly they were there to discuss trade tariffs and the possibility of some common policy regarding recent developments, but such a gathering of power had not been seen in several generations, and whispers soon began to spread.

The opening of the conference was heralded by the grand unveiling of Thiago Malasangre's new play, "The Tragedy of Roland Drakesblood". Over the course of the traditional three acts, the young playwright would relay the tragic story of the once-noble knight and his descent in vampirism, his attempts at reconciling his new existence with the last twinges of faith and decency left in his wretched soul, and his eventual defeat at the hands of Count Luciano and the Goddess Myrmidia. The play was well received by the Ostermark delegation, whose own Chancellor was portrayed as wise and kindly source of guidance to the Sylvanian Count, while the reaction from other parties was somewhat more mixed.

Of particular note was the decision to showcase a thinly veiled reference to the Knights of Sigmar's Blood as comedically incompetent fools, which very nearly caused a duel in the immediate aftermath between young Thiago and a knight of the order who happened to be attending the performance that night. The minor character of Ser Gunther, however, proved to be a particular favourite; the men of Ostland being well inclined to a poor yet devout Sigmarite who chose death over the vampire's twisted embrace.

With the ceremonial aspects of the meeting thus established, the four Electors retired to their quarters inside Wolfenburg castle, and over the course of several weeks put the finishing touches on the grand act of diplomacy that they had been working on remotely for so long.

The Black League, they would call themselves - four states, bound by treaty and mutual obligation, independent yet united by common cause. Through solemn pacts of non-aggression they would secure their shared borders, and through a series of standardised tariffs and the establishment of a mutual investment fund they would pursue a future of shared prosperity, stronger together in the face of foreign economic powers that might seek to divide them and rule what remained. No military alliance this, save in the case of aggression by the forces of darkness opposed to all mankind, but even so a powerful step towards the reunification of Sigmar's Empire, easily the most notable taken in many centuries.

The Treaty of Wolfenburg

In the name of Lord Sigmar and the other gods,

This is a treaty of peace and friendship established between our four nations which were once the tribes who followed Lord Sigmar, and who were once unified under the rule of the Emperors who followed Lord Sigmar, who are no more. From this day forth we stand as the Black League, trusting in Lord Sigmar and the other gods that it will remain permanent.

1.

We declare that all parties who have agreed to this treaty shall convey the terms of this treaty to their nation and in all good faith perform whatever actions are required to enforce it. The nations of Ostland, Ostermark, Nordland and Hochland shall be the founding members of the Black League, and have full rights as voting members.

2.

If any of the parties be at war with any nation or state whatsoever, the other parties shall not take a commission from the enemy nor fight under their colours nor send armed forces against the territory or lawful subjects of the party. We declare that in a spirit of brotherhood and sisterhood under the guidance of Lord Sigmar, that we shall not make war upon each other.

3.

If any of the parties be at war with any state or nation and take a prize belonging to that state or nation, and there shall be found on board subjects or effects belonging to any of the parties, the subjects shall be set free and the effects returned to the owners. And if any goods belonging to any state or nation with whom either of the parties shall be at war, shall be carried with the flag of one of the other parties, they shall pass free and unmolested without any attempt being made to take or detain them.

4.

Any vessels or convoys which fly the flags of the parties to this treaty are exempt from spurious examinations by the other parties. Should a convoy, by land or sea, consist of vessels or craft with the flags of many nations, then only the vessels of the parties shall be thus exempt, even if the convoy is lead by a vessel flying the flag of one of the parties.

5.

If a lawful examination does take place, no more than five individuals in service to the inspecting party may enter the ship of the party, and if any injury be done to the crew or be inflicted on the goods, the offending party shall make good all damages.

6.

No party to this treaty shall set a tariff or tax upon trade without the consent of the voting members. The rates charged for a given tariff or tax shall be the same across all parties to this treaty. Should a party to this treaty wish to vary the tariff or tax from the shared level, the written consent from all other voting members shall be required.

7.

The Black League shall, as a sign of the trust we have in one another, have a bank which does exist to promote the cause of trade between each other and improve the financial well-being of our subjects. The Bank of the Black League shall not show disproportionate favour to any nation that is a voting member of the Black League. It shall be funded in accordance with the terms agreed in Annex A to this document. Its governing body shall consist of subjects of voting members of the Black League only, and shall be structured as agreed in Annex B of this document.

8.

No party to this treaty shall engage in or sanction the Dark Arts, nor direct their worship or allow the worship of their subjects to be directed towards the Ruinous Powers nor other Evil Deity. Nor shall any party to this treaty sanction the presence of the Orc, the Goblin, the Beastman, the Daemon, the Undead, or any other being of the Forces of Evil defined in Annex C within lands they control.

9.

Should the Forces of Evil, or any state or nation led or instigated by a member of the Forces of Evil, declare war on a party to this Treaty, the Black League shall join the war against said hostile. Should the Forces of Evil, such as the Beastman or the Orc, be incapable of a declaration of war or be so perfidious as to not issue such a declaration, then the attacked party shall inform the Black League of the offence, and this shall serve as a declaration of war for the purposes of this article subject to the agreement of the voting members. Other parties within the Black League are obliged to offer assistance proportional to the threat posed to the party by the Forces of Evil. The obligations under Article 9 only extend to the maintenance of the current borders as of the signing of this treaty, unless a unanimous agreement is made by the voting members to adjust the records as described in Annex D.

10.

Upon alleged breach or violation of the terms of this treaty, a convention shall be called within one (1) year of the accusation being made. Each voting member must send a representative to a mutually agreed and neutral location, where evidence shall be presented before said representatives. Should a majority of the representatives decide that a party is in breach of the terms of this treaty, a sanction or punishment proportionate to the harm inflicted by the offence shall be agreed by a simple majority of the voting members within the terms of the authority given to the Black League.

11.

Should any party wish to withdraw from this treaty, no less than one (1) year of notification shall be given to all parties to the treaty and observers. Until this withdrawal comes into effect, all rights and privileges within this treaty remain in full effect. The withdrawing party is honour-bound to maintain them in both spirit and letter until they have withdrawn. Assets within the Bank of the Black League shall be divided on a pro rata basis, less twenty five (25) percent from the withdrawing party which shall be deducted for capital illiquidity.

12.

Should any other state which descends from the Empire of Sigmar wish to join the Black League, accession requires the consent of all voting members. Once this consent is given, the League shall welcome its new party as a voting member upon demonstration that the prospective member is in full compliance with all other articles to this treaty.

13.

Other states, nations, or non-state entities may join the Black League as non-voting members or as observers with the unanimous consent of voting members. Non-voting members are party to this treaty, but have neither the rights nor obligations of voting members, and must demonstrate compliance with the terms of this treaty. Observers have the right to be notified of meetings of the Black League only.

14.

Any other miscellaneous obligations upon the parties to this treaty are described in Annex E.

Signed at Wolfenburg,

Grand Duchess Astrid von Wolfenburg, of Ostland
Chancellor Frederick von Shaffernorscht, of Ostermark
Grand Baroness Jana von Moltke, of Nordland
Grand Baroness Theophaneia Ysmay Gloriana Hochen, of Hochland

In Ostland, the announcement of the treaty was greeted with wild jubilation, as priests and scholars alike praised the pious foresight of their Grand Duchess in taking such powerful measures towards redeeming the name and legacy of Sigmar Heldenhammer. In Ostermark, the reaction was again positive, for with the disaster in the Moot and their own near-miss with the forces of witchcraft and heresy the notion of being able to call upon allied states for defence against the forces of Evil was a pleasing one indeed.

In Hochland, the reaction was more muted, though the pact of non-aggression was certainly welcomed. The comparatively tiny state had always had cause to fear the grasp of overly ambitious neighbours, so having at least one of them sworn to peace was a sizeable boon. In Nordland, however, the topic was considerably more divisive, splitting much of the nobility down factional lines and the peasantry according to their village. Those who stood to benefit from the investment of the trade fund were broadly supportive, as were those who feared foreign aggression, but there remained a sizeable contingent that saw such a treaty as the first step towards surrendering the independence that they held so close to their hearts.

In foreign courts, the reaction was considerably more mixed. The possibility for potential admission to the League as an equal intrigued many in the Empire's own states, and the lack of a military alliance against each other served to soothe their concerns to a certain degree, but what seemed to be the sudden creation of a massive alliance in a time of such rivalry and contention was undeniably concerning. Meanwhile, the Ice Court of Kislev was clearly displeased by the economic power forming on its southern border, though it made no great statements for or against the initiative.

Perhaps most surprising, however, was a delegation that arrived from Karak Kadrin within weeks of the treaty being assigned, seeking admission under the title of 'observer' and speaking of the potential use of a forum where certain grievances could be aired and settled through negotiation.

Maugan Ra · Nov 26, 2019

(Written by @Havocfett with my approval)

Article:

I've poor news, sister, but all them manling forts won't be around to look at this winter. Lots of talk and bluster about timetables, but they's too big, and the Myrmidian one is too fancy and soft. Typical manling architecture, they're learning, slow and all, but they don't have the timescales right. They see a Hold and the wonders of the Karaz Ankor, think it goes up as quick as one of their dirt hovels, don't get that it's years or decades of good, solid work, no matter how dedicated you are.

But it'll be a site once it's done. Maybe the first manling architecture worth seeing, if they don't break it on the way. Maybe when Shori can walk and talk, you can take him down to see it.

It's the steamworks I don't like though. The manling guns have been getting useless-large for some time now, but the boilers are new. Some fancy idea for a gun that loads itself. Untested, untried, but they're gonna do it for a cannon bigger than all the others anyways. Typical, no respect for testing and good, honorable traditions. It's trouble, mark my words.

-Kurdan Wheelspite

Grudges to Settle

The Conference was an enormous affair. The Count of Wissenland had spared no expense, had sent emissaries to the farthest Karak, most isolated Imperial lord, and even Brettonia and Tilea. The conference itself was stocked with exotic fineries: Bugman's ale, Meissenan silverware, Tilean decorations, and more exotic things besides. Over the weeks Dwarven ambassadors, Tilean doges, and Brettonian knights poured into Nuln. The foundations for the Citadels, Count Friedrich's latest pet project, had begun to rise over the city walls and architects spoke eloquently of their vast visions.

They spoke of trade, and increased connectedness between man and dwarf, Imperial and Tilean. Of righting the economic damage piracy and river disruptions had done to the Wissenland economy. They were necessary talks, and productive talks, but they were not why anyone was here. They were not why Count Friedrich had spent so lavishly on the event.

For as trade talks wound down, the soldiers began to arrive in Nuln.

Cannon, lance, and blade. Holy symbols and dwarven runes. Pirate ships and Brettonian banners. Man after man arrived, sprawling camps growing like fungus, enveloping the city.

There was a speech. Friedrich spoke of Grudges and tragedy. Of the fall of Solland, the evils of Gorbad Ironclaw, and the need for unity against the Greenskin. He spoke of the good will of the Dwarves, of faith, steel, and gunpowder. Under the eyes of Imperial priests, most gods save Ulric represented, the campaign was blessed, and the Oathblades of Solland given to the commanders.

They were grand things. Dwarven rune-blades forged in the previous years, each representing an oath to take Solland. To kill the Orc-Count who desecrated its memory. Every man and woman there, in the eyes of the full Empire and all its gods, swore a dire oath to bring back the head of Gormar Herdkiller or die in the attempt.

In the end, there was but one blade left, for the Tilean mercenaries Friedrich had hoped to hire had sprung to the coin of Hobbit masters. And so the ceremonies wound down, and the men steeled themselves for the campaign to come.

And a Dwarven chant flowed from the River Reik.

A small fleet, bearing the banner of Karak Gantuk, chugged towards the proceedings. Melancholy song and great drums proceeded it. Ramps lowered and dwarves began to march onto the mustering ground. Hundreds of them, gleaming in Gromril, shields upon their back. At their back, King Vhom Hammerfist chanted a list of grudges. Every wrong inflicted upon Karak Gantuk by the Orcs, dating back before Sigmar's time. Every indignity, every murder, every loss and pointless brutality. He chanted as he marched through awestruck ranks of human soldiers. As he approached Count Friedrich, swore his oath, that they would kill Gormar Herdkiller, liberate Solland, or each and every surviving Dwarf in this Throng would take the Slayer Oath.

And when he was done, Count Friedrich gave him the last Oathblade of Solland.

A full, royal Throng had joined the crusade. A generation of fighters from Karak Gantuk, and if they died here the hold would be dealt a blow from which it would never recover.

Article:

Report of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, on the Unorthodox Tactics of Waaagh Herdkiller.

While Gormar Herdkiller is a more clever, brutal sort of orc than his fellows, he is fundamentally a Greenskin like the rest, and his tactics are those of his comrades. We have dealt with raids and skirmishers along the border, towns attacked in the night and patrols ambushed by greenskin raiders, but nothing that would indicate human intellect or sophistication.

The true thrust of the Waagh has appeared more recently. A southerly assault, hugging the foothills of the Grey Mountains. Trolls, Giants, and Black Orcs have overwhelmed the nearest forts, and now march north, bolstering their ranks with Greenskin tribes fleeing the Brettonian purges.

While the warboss himself has not yet been sighted in this offensive, a swift attack will surely bring us to him.

Article:

Master Hubert, the southern offensive is a distraction.

The plague of Black Orcs and monsters marching south is not Herdkiller's Waagh. They are rivals and unruly beasts, driven from his land to threaten your southern flank.

The warboss waits in Solland, amassing war machines and shamans and a great horde of lesser creatures. The raids have not been pointless murders, he's been taking captives. Soldiers and their families. Burgomasters and their hoards. He's been interrogating them, and spying on preparations.

This is a feint. Commit to the Black Orcs, and you'll have a Waaagh on your flank. Commit to Herdkiller, and there'll be a Waagh of the fiercest, cruelest monsters poised to strike at Nuln. Split your forces, and risk being overwhelmed on two fronts.

I trust you know how to handle this better than I.

-From Ranald the Protector

Maugan Ra · Nov 27, 2019

While perhaps not expected by the man himself, it was inevitable that once tales of Oskar Meyer's grand caravan began filtering back into the Empire that others would seek to follow in his footsteps. Dreams of adventure and far-off shores filled the minds of impressionable youths and adults who should have known better from one side of the land to the other, and more than a few began working on plans to set off before the year was out on grand adventures of their own. Most such dreams fizzled out long before completion, rendered impractical by any number of means and reasons, but one in particular endured.

In the moot, while winter's frost yet caked the ground and the earliest birds of spring still slumbered in their rest, a caravan was prepared. At first the motives were pure and simple, a lust for adventure and excitement that sometimes afflicts all halflings of any age, but as the wheels of politics turned and the grinding inevitability of the world reasserted itself, some began to take a more… pragmatic approach. Already Stirland demanded the return of land fairly purchased, and rumours spread of Averlander troops standing ready to reinforce the demands with steel. Would they be content to stop there? Would they simply enforce a return to status quo and nothing more? The wise did not think it so. Thus, preparations would need to be made.

The adventurous, the talented, the young, all were convinced by direct suggestions or circuitous remarks from an elder's lips to offer their services to the caravan, to have some kind of adventure in their lives and, perhaps, to be elsewhere when the worst case scenario transpired. Many families chose to invest their life savings in the work, or else donated entire herds of sheep and cows to the supplies for a fair price easier to hide from rapacious soldiers, while others reached out to friends and contacts across the Empire for help in preparing this final insurance plan. The haffengilde was easily the most responsive, the old dons and capos more than willing to support the endeavours of their beloved relatives, but as word spread and the story grew support poured in from the most unexpected quarters.

Marienburg opened its purse-strings and purchased anew the contracts of two full rotas of Kislevite Hussars. The Cult of Myrmidia attached its paladins, and with them a host of pious Tileans willing to risk a journey into the unknown. From Wissenland came a detachment of light cannon and other firearms, both to secure the caravan and act as wares upon arrival, and on and on it went. Funds and supplies poured in from across the Empire, until the expedition resembled more than anything else a town lifted from the ground and set to moving. When spring arrived and the expedition set off, it took days for them to negotiate every river crossing and narrow bridge along their route, and oftentimes the vanguard found itself making camp before the rearmost transports had even finished packing up.

Into Averland the caravan journeyed, with the indulgent permission of Francis Ludwig and his nobles, aiming for the infamous Black Fire Pass. Their hearts were set on Cathay and the Ivory Road, but where tradition demanded that such journeys be launched from Tilea and make for the southern passes of the World's Edge Mountains, the minds behind this grand caravan had their own plans. They would take the Silver Road, under the watchful eyes of Karaz-a-Karak, and then blaze a fresh path across the Dark Lands that none had ever thought to try before. It would be dangerous, but several members of the haffengilde had heard tale of an ogre tribe in the area that might be persuaded to serve as bodyguards. Their scouts had already made contact, and while no agreement had been reached in advance, the Eye-Biters appeared amiable to the general suggestion. To that end a considerable proportion of food and gold was set aside from the caravan's stores to act as a bargaining tool.

Such measures were, it turned out, unnecessary in the most tragic of ways.

The caravan had just crossed the Silver Road when the stories arrived. Haggard riders on sweat-stained steeds, grim-faced dwarves from the High King's throng, letters rolled tight and sealed into tubes attached to a pigeon's legs, all bore the same unbelievable story. The Moot was… gone. Consumed utterly, in some mad cataclysm of foulest magic, and with it a clear majority of the halfling race. Shaking voices and unsteady hands had tried to capture the full magnitude of the disaster, but where words failed imagination sufficed.

Morale collapsed entirely. Most of the caravan staff were halflings, and even if they had never set foot in the Moot in their lives, they still knew of the place and numerous friends and relatives living peacefully within. Nightmares afflicted many, not all of them confined to the hours of slumber, and for days it was all the caravan could do to stay in place as many among its ranks wandered around in half-conscious daze. Even the hardened mercenaries hired to guard the undertaking were unsettled, for no man can hear of the hand of the Dark Gods being manifest so clearly and remain composed, and many began to whisper if this entire journey had been nothing but a fool's errand from the start.

In the end, salvation came from a most unexpected quarter. The Ogres of the Eyebiter Tribe had a reputation for savage brutality that was well earned, but at the sight of so many halflings afflicted by grief and loss seemed to move something in their cavernous hearts all the same. In halting tones they teased out an explanation for the distress, and upon learning the answer fell into a contemplative silence. To loss a homeland to a force of cosmic destruction, to see all they knew destroyed by the whim of cruel gods and be left adrift... yes, such situations were certainly known to the Children of the Great Maw, and so after a full week of inactivity it was the tribe's Tyrant - a massive slab of fat and muscle known as Mortok Eyebiter - who gathered the leaders of each constituent part of the caravan and decided what the future would hold.

The halflings among the caravan would return to this 'Empire', to seek out what surviving friends and relatives could be found. With them would go the Eyebiter Tribe in its entirety, and with the aid of the Ogres and a substantial portion of the caravan's gold and supplies they would set about picking up the pieces of this unmitigated disaster. The mercenaries, meanwhile, would have their contracts annulled and the full payment delivered, plus an additional bonus to show no hard feelings, then make for Barak Varr and a ship back to their respective homelands. Few wished to disagree with a properly motivated Tyrant and his attendant tribe, and many among the halflings felt the clumsy gestures of reassurance offered by the ogres to be a source of some comfort and stability in a world gone mad. Thus was the decision made, and the grand assembly dissolved.

There would be objections, of course, for many merchants and noblemen had invested heavily in this caravan and would be displeased to see it fall apart before even making it halfway to their destination… but when an entire tribe of Ogres came marching up the Black Fire Pass, firmly insistent on helping to defend what few evacuees could be found and otherwise protecting their 'little brothers', none were willing to challenge them outright.

Maugan Ra · Nov 27, 2019

Most people will, if asked to assign importance to various nations and states throughout the old world, focus near-exclusively on their size and population. A few will take into account such things as military history, a technological knowledge base or the relative strengths and weaknesses of nearby rivals. Only the most knowledgeable, however, will understand the true importance that simple geography plays.

The River Reik is only truly a river by the most generous assessments of the term. In width it is often miles wide, in depth entirely uncharted, and on its back is carried the prosperity and health of nations. It has its own foibles, its own hidden secrets, its own god. And, as the 2202nd year since the formation of Sigmar's Empire came to pass, it was entirely infested with pirates.

This, it was decided, simply would not do.

Perhaps inevitably, it was Marienburg that took the lead on the offensive, the First and Third fleets slipping their moorings and setting course up the Reik. Over the course of a year's hard campaigning they would sink, capture and impound over a hundred pirate vessels, as well as a number of smugglers that had been attempting to use the chaos on the waterways for their own advantage. Against the heavy broadsides of cannon and boarding teams filled with hard-faced marines there was virtually nothing that the majority of the ships singled out for boarding could reasonably hope to do, and by the end of the year the waters from Marienburg all the way to Nuln and beyond were scoured thoroughly clean of all kinds of lawless types.

Perhaps things might have been different, had some of the feared norscan raiders remained in the area to try their luck against Marienburg's finest, but as fate would have it most had slipped away from the soft hunting grounds of the south before the slacking of winter's chill, their bellies full and their swords well-bloodied. Those that did not retreat out of prudence instead took contract with other, legitimate employers, and more than once did a lean raiding ship escape impoundment when the captain brandished a contract of patronage bearing the mark of the Grand Temple of Mannan.

Still, the effort was an undeniable success, with a great many bands of pirates and assorted ner-do-wells delivered to the ports of Reikland, Middenland and Talabecland in chains. Observers would take note of what was perhaps an excessive degree of pageantry as Marienburg went about its business, reading a pointed edge to the smiles and deliberate artifice in the cheering crowds, but with the primary arteries of trade and transport once again made safe few felt the need to look too closely at such hazy things as 'motive' and 'potential culpability'.

Of course, not every pirate was so foolish as to remain upon the Reik, where the ocean-going warships of Marienburg's fleet could harass them at leisure. Many retreated to the smaller tributaries, setting up hidden ports and anchor points in waters too shallow to permit a true blue-water fleet to engage, trusting in local concentration of force and the secrecy of their moorings to shield them from those marines and river-boats that their coastal enemy possessed. Such visionaries instead found themselves engaged by an entirely different foe.

The Grand Duchy of Talabecland had long prided itself on its mastery of the rivers and byways that criss-crossed the Empire, and it was to that pride that the Grand Duchess Brigette now turned. She had already given orders for a second fleet to be laid down in the dockyards near Talabheim, ready to secure and defend her homeland in years to come, and while the first went hunting for pirates she also took the time to speak to the many noble families and lesser scions that owed their fealty to her.

She spoke of patriotism, of the need to have secure waterways and her appreciation of those who might see such a thing done, and she spoke of adventure. A ship was no horse, it was true, but could not a captain be thought of as a knight's honoured cousin? Were there not just as many stories of heroism and derring-do committed by romantic swashbuckling captains as there were those featuring valiant knights? Was there not, in short, a certain prestige to be taken in keeping the citizens of their lands and others secure, and making them offer thanks in sincere gratitude?

The precise magnitude of such efforts were always going to be hard to judge, but by year's end there were many ships of Talabecland captained by newly-commissioned officers of noble birth, each and every one dreaming of the rich prizes and excessive prestige promised by their Grand Duchess for some measure of notable success.

Altogether, the efforts of the two states (and the secondary contributions made by Reikland and the newly-commissioned fleet of Ostermark) succeeded in pacifying most of the Empire's lakes and rivers by the time the harvest came. Such measures were well taken, for without the bounty of the Moot a great many towns and villages found themselves scrambling for alternate sources of grain, and while prices spiked in every major city the resulting civil unrest was just about manageable.

Time alone will tell if the situation could remain so stable.

Maugan Ra · Nov 27, 2019

(written by @Mina with my approval)

Article:

I am shamed and confused Matthias, for I know not why I have been recalled. It was the greatest honor I have ever been granted--to serve in the Custode del Portale's bodyguard as the blade of Morr's anointed, but no longer. New assignments, by order of the Grandmaster, and I am loathe to say but it has me troubled sore.

My dreams have been dark. There were rumors in Wurtbad, tales of senility, corruption, whispers among our own brothers! The Verenites I could understand, for few know the burden of Shroud or the diligence and devotion, but not those of the faith. The Gardens are tended. The dead are protected. I pray my nights of dreaming ruin mean little or nothing for us all. Die well if I do not see you again.

Sir Bruno Romberg, Knight of the Raven

It was unusual for there to be news about the priesthood of Morr. It was a cult best ignored until needed, and even then too much attention was unwelcome. However, the events surrounding the fall of Mathilde van Hel cast the Cult into a spotlight of growing intensity as time went on. Rumors that the Custode del Portale had inappropriately intervened and caused the woman's fall claimed many causes: corruption, dementia, that he was in the pocket of Averland, a creature given to greed and weak mindedness. This vein of ugly rumor was fanned by declarations from the Cult of Verena in Stirland, advancing the case in somewhat ambiguous terms that he and the Cult of Morr had overstepped in claiming to do justice upon the living…

The argument may have found more sympathetic ears if the very same minds had not so boldly and ineffectually presented the case that Francis Ludwig's play for his new wife's claim to the province was not just. It may have also found more purchase if the woman in question had not been accused of necromancy, and had been born into a different family. It was in the blood they said, these less than sympathetic ears, who had seen the Gardens in their towns renewed by capital and energetic priests dispatched from Wurtbad en masse by the supposedly doddering and out of touch Custode. You couldn't trust a van Hel.

Maybe you couldn't trust Verena either?

Who knew what to believe.

Article:

The dead have earned their rest.

It is for their sake that we go forth. It is for that sacred sleep that we suffer, for that suffering is fleeting my brothers and sisters. It is nothing next to the eternal respite of the righteous, protected from the depredations of the necromancer, the gnawing of the ghoul, the violation of undeath. It is the rest we all deserve.

Go forth. You are soldiers of Morr, you are saints of death, and the Black shall guard until we are all beneath the shroud, and the last Gardens are full.

Seneschal of the Tombs Ralf Reiman, "Address to the Black Guards and Wanderers at Wurtbad"

The Cult of Morr had not stirred for nobles, crusades, or entreaties in recent years. That wasn't to say they'd been stagnant. The Custode del Portale simply had no time for the living. The black tide washed out from his seat in Wurtbad, augmenting the now persistent and muscular presence in Stirland and Sylvania and going even farther abroad. Where once one or two wandering priests might go alone between outlying villages of Nordland and Ostland to bury dead frozen in the winter or hacked to bits by Norscans, now there were five, six, and guards either hired or furnished from the cult's templars to defend those giving succor to the dead. Black hooded priests watched the taverns and alehouses of Altdorf, Nuln, and Middenheim as drunks staggered out in midwinter, waiting until their breath stilled in their lungs and their eyes stared sightlessly up from the gutter. They were quicker even than the urchins with knives for rings, purses, and gold teeth nowadays. It was a quiet, weird little war the Custode del Portale had declared--and it was one he could never hope to win. But in trying, he found small victories. While other cults bent and twisted to navigate the complex political landscape between the elector counts and their overweening grasps at power, or sank down to play the very same games, the priest of Morr buried and tended the dead.

Article:

Disgusting is what it is! I've seen woodcuts of those Gardens they're putting up in Sylvania for this Gretchen tart. Ghouls, Mathilda, festooned over the damn outsides with ghouls, excuse my language. She might be a Venerated Soul to some, but those aren't the right sort if you take my meaning.

Let them put up their ghastly statues in Grenzstadt. The mountain folk are practically savages themselves, you hear the stories about them...well doing things like you just know they get up to in Sylvania when the winters are hard. I shudder to think. We won't have that nonsense in Averheim, not over my family's dead bodies. My Liebhard and his friends will put their feet down with the council. Disgusting.

Cressida Börngen, Averheim burgher's wife

Grand Count Francis Ludwig von Ellinbach had his own quibbles with the Custode. The appearance of untoward involvement and rumors of odd behavior along with Lucciano Malasangre's glowing endorsements of Sister Quinella and her revitalization of Morrian practice in Sylvania under the auspices of Gretchen of Woe gave the man a spark of inspiration. After all, Gretchen had been an Averlander in her day. Her strength and fortitude in the face of the greenskin menace was a particularly timely moral lesson to reinforce, and if it weakened the Custode del Portale in any way all the better.

Unfortunately Gretchen was not the Venerated Soul of opposing orcish invasion, nor did the orc truly enter in to the crux of her legend for those of the Morrian persuasion. It wasn't her defiance of the orc that earned her devotion in Sylvania. The shrines and gardens raised in her honor weren't festooned with defeated legions of Waaaghing enemies or images of her bold refusal to back down before them.

It was ghouls.

Ghoulish gargoyles warded away those that would succumb to unclean habits. Iconography of Gretchen ministering to piteous figures as she had in life...with cleaver and her own flesh, was becoming popular among the sect, and above all the message: No matter what, the dead must have their rites and burial. It was a philosophy of sacrifice, privation, the sorrow and suffering and lengths one would have to go to see Morr's work done. It was obviously not very popular with people who'd never been starving, or worried about where their next meal might come from.

The Count's attempts to introduce and nurture this intensely provincial and often unsavory strain of the cult did not go well in the bustling streets of Averheim or the rich, verdant lands along the Aver and the Reik. Not many were interested in festooning their Gardens with ghoulish figures and constant reminders of the dark and sanguine places true faith might take the devout. The wandering priests with their doctrines washed clean and smoothed out on the road to the most versatile and least upsetting of Morr's traditions served fine enough.

In the lands closer to Blackfire Pass the message met with more sympathy. There were still pockets that held Gretchen in high regard already, and more that were quite willing to listen to these new, energetic priests. As always the particular topic of Gretchen's sacrifice and its...practical applications in times of need was never directly raised, but more Gardens in the mountain and hill country began to take on these Sylvanian characteristics. It was just nice to know if things took a turn, someone would care that the people remained strong enough to bury the dead.

Article:

Tisn't natural I say! All night! ALL NIGHT in that mire and not a soul. Not a splash. Where are they I ask? WHERE ARE THEY? What have you done. They're not dumping in the swamps any more, they aren't hiding in the woods, I...I didn't know what to do. I couldn't be a failure. I just couldn't. Gods damn me, I should have stayed in Nordland, chiseling corpses out of the ice. But...it's SYVLANIA. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THE BLOODY BODIES?

From the confession of Bertram the Black, accused of necromancy, desecration of corpses, possession of undead beasts of burden, and destruction of crown property. Caught attempting to drag an entire gibbet with the corpse of the murderer William of Pfaffbach out of the Waldenhof square by means of a team of zombie oxen.

The followers of Morr were enjoying something of a renaissance in Sylvania. Of course vast swathes of the province's lands remained incredibly hostile and haunted. Of course the follies of Mathilde and her knightly orders would remain the lesson of what not to emulate when approaching the dark land. Or course there were still holdouts on the edges of civilization where opinion ruled that this Malasangre lot might be fine enough for now, but when the Carsteins returned...then they'd be properly ruled.

What was happening could be described as a miracle. A new temple to Gretchen was erected in the spring, expanding upon one of the older and disused Gardens of Morr. Old stonework was scraped and renewed, stained glass imported, and the obsidian bulk of the Black Guard at the gates brought comfort rather than trepidation to those that lived near. It was a masterpiece all things considered. The skills local craftsmen had honed to help justify their graft with the Grand Waldenhof Opera House came in handy for integrating the statuary meant to encrust the outside, and local glass blowers delivered replacement panes for a few of the windows that had not survived transport from outside the province.

It was a ghoulish place, leering gargoyles in the likenesses of the living twisted and withered glaring down from each corner, and light filtered into the dark sanctum through depictions of Gretchen bringing comfort to the starving, the downtrodden, the despairing so that together they joined and in the central window raised up the symbol of Morr with bloody arms.

The Garden was in use before it was even completed. Bodies were buried with greater zeal, now that Gretchen had given a face and a feeling to the rites that resonated with the people of the land. The continued support of the greater mission from Wurtbad complemented the local sect's efforts, the two working hand in glove to continue the vast labor of undoing the damage vampiric rule had stamped into the souls of Sylvanians.

Maugan Ra · Nov 27, 2019

The Empire is a land of many gods, and has been for centuries uncounted, and most of its populace are content to give prayer and worship to each in turn. This is not, however, to say that all are held to be equal. Mannan is highly revered on the coast and all but unknown further inland, while Sigmar and Ulric fight for worshippers and influence across much of the north and south. And then, of course, there are the Cults of Taal and Rhya.

Though nominally independent gods, so tightly are the Father of the Forest and the Great Mother tied in public perception that most temples to one include at least a small shrine to the other, and what militant orders and formal priesthood they possess tend to be shared between the two cults. For many centuries they have been decentralised, undirected organisations, but with the advent of the twenty third century and the prompting of the Grand Duchess of Talabecland the Cult has undergone a distinct process of evolution. The position of Voice was just the first step in this process, and as 2202 dawned at last the full scope of the project blossomed at last.

All across the Empire, men and women devoted to the oldest of the gods began to make their presence known. They were dedicated, they were driven, and above all else they were for the first time in centuries truly organised. Though there was no rigid hierarchy to follow, no strict chain of command or detailed orders handed down from the top, the sheer scope and depth of the Cult's influence was made abundantly clear in a series of operations that seemed to have no respect for lords, laws or national borders.

In Ostermark, both Deathfriends and Torchbearers found their patrols accompanied by Taalite Templars, while those villages perhaps most afflicted by the surge of monsters and fearsome witchery from previous years were blessed by the presence of Rhyan herbalists. Many of those devoted to the Earth Mother were revealed to also hold the White Dove in their hearts, a legacy of previous year's efforts to syncretise the worship of Rhya and Shallya within Talabecland, and though the dour Ostermarkers were uncertain of the theological solidity of such teachings they were entirely willing to accept the aid of pious women freely given.

In Hochland, the local forest-wardens frequently found themselves coming into contact with small groups of druids and their templar bodyguards, aiming to help secure the forest against those beastmen displaced from the west by the now-smouldering forest fires. Several minor herdstones were torn down and the sites ritually reconsecrated, and Hochlander hospitality meant that the locals were only too pleased to invite the victorious warriors into their homes and their hearts in the aftermath. More than one strapping young lad or winsome lass found themselves charmed by the rugged nature of a Taalite longshank, and several bawdy ballads featuring such frontier romance soon became a notable favourite of many taverns.

In Nordland, small groups of rangers and their attendant priests were seen hunting in the woods just beyond the shadowed boundaries of Laurelorn Forest. Peasants and merchants alike were soon all a-flutter with gossip of meetings between the druids and their fey elven compatriots, and of certain debates of the matter of faith that were said to result. Apparently the Elves too found the worship of Taal and Rhya to be a worthy pursuit (though they were known to name them Kurunous and Isha, as is the way of such an alien people), and there was a surprising degree of cooperation in the ensuing hunts for monsters and bandits of all sorts throughout the local area.

In Wissenland, Count Friedrich had already decided to cultivate stronger ties with this most primal of deific families, and he welcomed their efforts as a result. A small forest, just a few hours travel from Nuln itself, was signed over to the Cult for use as a natural temple and sacred space of Taal, and many of the troops engaged for the war against the greenskin were more than happy to find the Demigryph Knights of Taal's Fury riding at their side. There were, perhaps inevitably, certain salacious rumours after it was observed just how attractive the Priestess of Rhya sent to negotiate with the Count happened to be, but for the most part the whispers were merely greeted with an easy laugh by the Goddess' other faithful. Rhya was a goddess of fertility, after all, so what harm would there possibly be in her faithful developing physical relationships with those that caught their eye?

Grand Prince Konstantin, by contrast, had spent every year of his life to date giving comparatively little thought to the worship of such rural deities, and the Cult by turn tended to distrust if not outright shun the more heavily developed province and its bustling urban centres. Still, he had his menagerie now, and the Cult was certainly reputed to be a good source of experts on the treatment of such beasts, so… with a certain reluctance, not entirely feigned, a small shrine was built on the outskirts of Altdorf, and the attendant priests invited for a series of long and surprisingly involved conversations on the matter of care and expected behaviour of all manner of exotic beasts.

On and on it went, until by year's end seemingly every town and village from one end of the Empire to another had heard of the ongoing effort. Ballads were sung, bawdy tales penned, starry-eyed youths convinced to apply themselves to pursuit of the forest and its craft, and the stock of the Cult raised considerably. Recent events had, after all, done a great deal to reinforce mankind's image of itself as a thousand tiny settlements cast adrift upon a wild sea of green, so perhaps it was all to the good that they had their own god and goddess to take care of such matters.

Still, not all the news was well received. Many minor lords and barons were somewhat disquieted by the efforts made by the frontier people - not because they were impious, far from it, but because the stories and rumours that such undertakings spawned always seemed to carry a dangerously… egalitarian air to them. More than one peasant was caught giving speculative looks at the wealth and power of their feudal overlords, or muttering to their neighbours about whether or not they really needed such things, and while nothing had come of it yet… well.

Men would always fear what they could not control.

Bandeirante · Nov 27, 2019

Bechafen

Chancellor Frederick sits with his back to the closed windows of his office. The pitter patter of the rain only slightly muffled by the old, worn wood. Not that he minds, one cannot live in Ostermark and mind the rain. Or a number of other things as a matter of fact. Things that those made here took as inherent facts of life.

Not that the Chancellor gives these thoughts much attention. Frederick von Schaffernorscht considers himself a practical man. His thoughts are filled with numbers and more wordly matters. Taxes to collect, prices to haggle, officials and soldiers to hire, pay or dismiss. Which loans to accept, which debtors to put pressure on and which ones to give more time.

It's boring and dull, repetitive work that he has done in one way or the other ever since he was a boy just starting to help his father in the family business. And so time went on and Frederick took over the merchant business, soon followed by election into rulership over a city and eventually the entire League.

The basics remained the same. Numbers and networking remained the pillars of his work ever since he started. The complexity grew, of course, greater duties and responsibilities. But the framework remained the same. A framework in which Frederick excelled. He was no great warrior, no legendary orator. But he had proven to be a good leader, nonetheless. Worthy of the trust his citizens had given him. That, more than anything else in the world was Frederick's pride.

And now after two decades of peaceful but unremarkable rule, Ostermark was just starting to face its greatest challenges since the Vampire Wars. The Empire bled and suffered. An overabundance of ambition and gross stupidity led provinces to ruin. Ostermark's unremarkability and isolation did little to protect it from the after effects. Van Hel's doomed Sylvanian crusade, the war between Reikland and Middenland, whatever witchcraft laid waste to the Moot. Everything eventually found its way into the League to compound its own problems. Mordheim, witchcraft, Kislev…

Ostermark weathered these storms, so far. It did more than survive, it prospered. With newfound allies, security and wealth. But the crisis, it seems, won't be over anytime soon. Famine was averted, but the people grumble about food prices. The witches were scattered and hunted down, their taint burned away. But the curse of Mordheim remains strong as ever. Sylvania remains as dangerous as ever, while the machinations of foreign potentates seem to be drawing ever closer. The creation of the Black League as likely to put them on their sights as it is to protect them.

In the end, there was nothing to do but keep going forwards. Complacency would get Frederick and the League nowhere but the shallow grave of history. And so the Chancellor returns to his leather bound ledgers and parchments. What is another sleepless night to a lifetime of tireless work?

Maugan Ra · Nov 30, 2019

Unsullied Doves

The aftershocks of the schism within the Cult of Shallya would be felt around the Empire for years, but such things had happened before (if not perhaps on the same scale) and the powers that be were more than ready to take steps in response. In the north, a grand conclave was called in Wolfenburg, Astrid of Ostland inviting priestesses from the Order of the Pure Dove to sit and discuss matters of theology and logistics alike, that all might benefit.

From another ruler, such entreaties might well have backfired entirely, as the Order was already fast acquiring infamy for its unwillingness to bow to secular or religious authority of any kind. Astrid, however, had been one of the first to publicly proclaim her support for the order, had undertaken pilgrimage to Couronne in their interests, and was well known to favour a plain, fundamentalist approach to matters of faith in general. She had credit to burn, and used much of it in not merely arranging the conclave in her capital, but in stating her own case to the gathered priestesses when they all arrived.

The ascetic behaviours and charitable intent of the Order were laudable, the Countess argued, but was it not the primary creed of Shallya the easing of suffering? How could it be in her interest, then, for priestesses to burn themselves out in ceaseless toil for the sick, or deny themselves the comfort and support of the community that they served? Even if the priestesses denied her theological concerns, surely they could see that a Countess had a duty to ensure that her people were protected, a duty not best served by allowing the sole source of healthcare available to many citizens to dwindle and fade from extreme overwork?

The ensuing arguments were long and exhaustive, often stretching many hours into the night, but in the end Astrid had her way. When the priestesses returned to their sisters, it would be with a new, slightly modified set of tenets, ones emphasising the sharing of burdens among the community and a trust in secular authority to handle such matters that the Cult itself was poorly suited to address. For her part, Astrid committed to the construction of an extensive new hospital within Wolfenburg itself, to be followed up by similar investment across her province in the years to come. Her people viewed such measures as laudable, especially when taken in combination with the opening of a new belfry to properly equip chapels and temples across Ostland.

Further south, however, concerns were taking root. The Grand Countess of Ostland ruled an impoverished land, it was true, but with each passing year she seemed to be gathering more and more popular regard… and taking a much stronger hand in matters of faith that previous Counts had been content to leave to the Cults. That she had the authority to do so was undeniable, at least where her own subjects were concerned, but the way in which so many priests and priestesses of various faiths had come to vocally support her was worrisome all the same. They praised her when she spoke of peace and reconciliation… would they cease, if such talk became sharper and more hostile? Few could readily say.

Blood Beneath Shadowed Boughs

When the Knights of Sigmar's Blood went north, rumours swirled in their wake. Most had assumed that the pious knights would lend their lances to the cause of the Solland Crusade, emulating the deeds of their god in purging the land of greenskin filth, so to see them riding in the opposite direction provoked no end of speculation. Was this done on the order of the Grand Theogonist? The result of some unspoken rivalry within the assembled coalition of allies for the crusade? A personal matter for the order's grandmaster to attend to? None could say.

No matter the motive, by the time spring was turning to summer several hundred pious knights had relocated to the province of Ostland, there to take up residence in a long chain of fortifications and temple-bastions staffed by Sigmarite priests in and around the province's borders. The appearance of so many foreign-born knights within their lands caused a certain degree of disquiet among Ostland's nobility, but their Grand Countess was swift to reassure them that this was a temporary measure; the army was committed elsewhere for the year, after all, and so she had invited the templar order to garrison themselves here as a potential check against Kislevite ambitions and the possibility of monsters drawn from the forest's depths.

Unfortunately, the Knights of Sigmar's Blood had other ideas.

Denied her crusade in the south, Fredericka Goldwasser was determined to prove the strength and merit of her order all the same. Glory could be gained in many ways, but battle with mankind's most fearsome foes was undeniably the finest, and the Forest of Shadows had a dire reputation indeed. What could be a finer accolade to add to the Order's banners than a thorough cleansing of that most blighted of lands? So it was that orders were sent and plans were laid, and as summer rolled on into autumn the knights plied their bloody work.

From her forward camp, Ser Goldwasser coordinated the campaign, growing rapidly frustrated with the utter unwillingness of the native Ostlanders to assist. She arranged patrol routes, conducted methodical purges one inch at a time, entreated with nobles and peasants alike to cut down the trees and expand the roads in the areas her knights had cleared. For weeks on end the camp was a hive of activity, and every day saw more messengers arriving from fronts deep within the Forest… until, quite suddenly, they stopped. No messengers came, not for days on end, and none of the messengers sent out to make contact returned.

Concerned, the Grandmaster called her reserves to arms, mounted up and rode for the nearest ongoing purgation. She rode out at the head of a column of knights over a hundred strong… and, like every other knight under her command, vanished without a trace.

For weeks, the Forest of Shadows was silent, its darkened boughs seeming to rustle with the sound of distant laughter. Then, on the first day of winter, the citizens of Wolfenburg awoke to find visitors at their door.

In perfect formation, the Knights of Sigmar's Blood paraded past the city's walls, their vibrant red banners flapping silently in the still morning air. In bloodstained armour they marched, born in perfect silence by the tattered remnants of their once-noble steeds, following the beat of orders no mortal ear could perceive. As one they turned, raising sword and lance in salute to the horrified form of distant witnesses, and then departed, swiftly swallowed up by the forest once again. They left only one thing behind - the shivering, half-delirious form of Ser Frederika Goldwasser, drained of all but the meagerest drop of blood and any memory of what exactly had occurred beneath those shadowed boughs. When the guards brought her in, the only thing she could say, the only explanation she could offer, was a name.

Zacharius.

Maugan Ra · Dec 1, 2019

(Written by @Revlid with my approval)

A SHOW OF FORCE

Captain Ignatio Wagner of Marienburg said:
"It's a Nordland ship?"

"Yes, sir. Well, I'd veer to call it a ship, but it's surely flying the blue-and-yellow. A fishercraft, most like. They don't look to have spotted us yet."

"Don't look to have- Helmsman, bring us around! Right alongside them. We are the masters of the sea, here. The protectors of the waves! We do not answer to petty Northerners. But what, I ask, is the point of ignoring someone if they don't notice you doing so?"

His Highness Luccinanto Yjsbraant van Hoogmans-Palutano was bothered. His city was bothered. His ships were bothered. His merchants were bothered. Even his god was bothered, and all this, in turn, bothered him further. And when His Highness Luccinanto Yjsbraant van Hoogmans-Palutano was bothered, his instinct was to make everyone very aware of that fact.

Thus, while two of Marienburg's fleets scoured the mighty Reik of pirates and ne'erdowells, the 4th Marienburg Fleet set out with all pageantry and eagerness, heralded by the proclamations of their prince and the well-wishing of mauled merchantmen. Their sails billowed with wind, one of Manann's more dutiful daughters, and their decks bustled with marines armed with bright-polished blades and equally-sharp scorn for the Nordlandish savages whose seas they would scour.

The anarchy on the Empire's waterways had drawn in a great many reavers with the promise of inland spoils, and the fleet bore down with overwhelming force upon isolated stragglers or those longships already limping for home. This little-troubled Commodore Wellenfeger, who was well aware of the operations being undertaken by their sister fleets, and anticipated a tide of cowardly Northrons put to flight out the Reiksmouth and into the Manannspoort Sea, seeking a return home or easier prey on the Imperial coast. Why go spear-fishing when you can simply lay out a sturdy net?

Yet as the fleet swung back around from the Gulf of Kislev, offering a warm greeting and full Marienburger reception to each proud Kislevite patrol they passed, the seas remained oddly quiet. Oh, certainly, there were pirates to be made an example of, an array of foolhardy Nordland vessels to be pointedly dismissed, and an unfortunate encounter with a flock of brine-wraiths, but where was the great haul they'd anticipated? Had their sister-ships faced some great calamity or treachery, or somehow obliterated the barbarians in their entirety?

Where in Rudric's name were all the Norscans?

The answer became clear when countless reavers sailed gaily past the stunned Marienburgers, waving the blue-and-yellow of Nordland, the black-and-white of Ostland, and the white-and-blue of Manann. Many captains furiously argued for engaging the Northrons regardless of their numbers or supposed allegiance, a debate that fizzled out once the sails of a Nordland fleet twice their own number crested the horizon. The true scale of this excursion was apparent, as was its bearing across the Sea of Claws, but not its purpose, and the Commodore turned his nose up at the idea of asking answers from half-Norscan mongrels. No, they would sail on, and do their duty in clearing these icy waters for good honest Marienburg merchants. The madness of the North should be left to the North.

Naturally, his sailors spoke of little else the entire season.

The Norscans had defected to Nordland! The Nordlands had defected to Norsca! The Cult of Manann had converted half the raiders on the waves, a foreign sect of Manannite heretics had fled the Empire for Skaeling lands, a Nordland admiral was escorting the Norscans home after their raiding was done, the Norscans had captured the entire Nordland fleet and manned it with their own savage crews (in Ostland uniform?), Countess von Moltke had married a Norscan King and sailed to join him with her entire fleet! In the end, the reports that reached His Highness van Hoogmans-Palutano were barely more reliable than the rumours.

QUELLING THE STORM

An unlikely friendship begins said:
"Hah! A sea monster. Ye didn't fight a sea monster, ye wailing Southie baby."

"You question my word, you blood-swilling Northern heathen? It was a troll twice the size of a man! Its skin shone like seal-pelt, its tusks curved like sabres! My own sword could scarce pierce its blubber, yet here I stand and there it fell!"

"Oh, aye, I've no doubt ye killed yerself a tide-troll. I'm just saying that's no sea monster. Now, a real sea monster–

The combined fleets sailed on, leaving the frustrated gaze (and insulting shanties) of the Westerlanders behind them. Guided by the local knowledge of veteran Norscan mercenaries, they threaded through the jagged rocks, seasonless mists, and abyssal nests of the Sea of Claws, making landfall at the swindler-port of Volpirswig, where ginger-bearded hagglers paw over rich Arabyan silks and bloodied Imperial jewels. Then they made landfall at Stormstad, deeper into the Bay of Blades, where Rozpann's tower swirls with a menagerie-harem of skydaemons. Then they made landfall further West at Urgathastad, the island fortress where blubbery trolls come ashore each night.

Norscans carved a bloody beachhead, Nordland marines secured the landing, and as new-forged Ostlander artillery bellowed overhead and warrior-priests of Manann sang shanty-admonitions against wicked gods, the proud men and women of the Ostlander 1st marched forth to break and burn. Again and again the Klaushaven Crusade – as it came to call itself – struck the Norscan coast, hitting hard and falling back once resistance became too fierce or organized. The bull-headed Ostlanders bristled at such shiftless tactics, but were reigned in by the occasional threat to leave them behind, or worse, force them to sail amongst the Norscans.

These mercenaries were given a looser reign, and took advantage of the opportunity to act upon old grudges even as their allies retreated in good order. After all, they could sail away (or not) under their own power, and few among the expedition cared much for the ultimate fate of their heathen allies. As such, none truly gave thought to how the Norscan contingent consolidated with each raid, beardless youths blooded and arrogant fools whittled away, friendships forged over victory mead as survivors were absorbed by swelling veteran crews. Even if they had noticed, what could be done? The Norscans were worth their weight in gold (as some muttered they'd been paid), be it as vanguard fighters, sea-shepherds, or simply guides to the choicest targets.

The vengeance of the North scoured the coast, leaving smouldering settlements that would spend the winter scraping to survive, not preparing for the next raiding season. And above even these practical targets were the holy havens of Stromfels the Wrecker, god of pirates, eater-fish, and all who rejoiced at blood in the water. Pale soapstone monoliths were toppled, shark-tooth priests keel-hauled into repentance, driftwood temples put to the torch. As the fleets combed further North, leaving smoke and wails in their wake, Stromfels' displeasure seemed to manifest. A boarding boat was attacked by sharks willing to bite through solid wood. One wargalley was wholly lost to a loathsome kharibdyss. Another had to be scoured with fire and knives when it ran into a bulbous shoal of migrating jellysquigs.

Yet the Priests of Manann made loud and daily offerings to the true master of the seas, while officers violently discouraged talk of divine doom. Cannier captains quietly encouraged the more gregarious Norscan guides to dismiss these threats as normal for the season, transforming superstitious dread into boasting matches between the Norscan and Ostlander beast-hunters. Some of the older sea-hands sagely noted that Stromfels could not punish them, for he was merely the angered aspect of the Sea King, Manann the Destroyer rather than Manann the Implacable. In rebuking his barbaric followers, they were simply calming Manann's bloodthirst. This notion met with relieved approval among the Norscans and Nordlandese, up until the Ostlanders objected. At this point the priesthood realized that while they all agreed the theology was clear-cut, there was dissent on what, exactly, it was clear-cut about. Then someone – no-one could quite agree on who – said the name "Mathlann" and all hell seemed about to break loose.

Fortunately, an awed shout from the captain of Loerk Dancing On The Waves averted a mid-voyage religious schism. All turned to witness the lone albatross flying overhead; a sure sign of Manann's favour (whatever that might mean), and so the squabbles were shelved. And if an empty birdcage was surreptitiously tossed over the railings of the Dancing later that night, nobody saw a thing.

KEEP THE LIGHT

A newly popular shanty said:
Manann's crown shines
On Ostland shores
To guide me 'cross the sea
Yet all the jewels
In his stormy hall
Could not compare to thee

Even as the left hand of Manann lit flames along the Norscan coast, so did his right hand set fires across the shores of the Empire. These were pyres of a more benign kind, however; almost two-dozen sea-forts crowned with shining lighthouses, strung like a glittering necklace around the vulnerable sea-bared throats of Nordland and Ostland. Arranged in four sets to reflect the five-pointed crown of Manann, these new fortifications would guard those beaches and coves most favoured by barbaric Norscan raiders, scheming Sartosan pirates, and Elves.

The Cult of the Sea King spent gold like it was water (appropriately enough) to see the towers raised before the summer's close, and though the work was not completely finished by the end of raiding season, each was at least ready enough to be staffed by Manannite priests, old sailors with an eye for storm season, and turquoise-and-white-clad templars from the Sons of Manann. On a clear Sommerzeit night, Matriarch van Moddejonge set a torch to the stacked, consecrated, and oil-soaked driftwood atop the Drosselspule Tower, sending a blazing signal out into the night-shrouded sea.

A moment later, along the coast past Manannsheim, a second light winked into being, and the crowd cheered into the salty air. And though they could not see it, a third followed, and a fourth, and a fifth. There was some trouble around lighthouse seventeen when a late-spawning myrwyrm mistook the signal light for the glow of Mannslieb, but some quick thinking by the unfortunate (and fondly-remembered) young Kurt Vosselheim kept the relay going to its conclusion.

Four crowns of Manann glared out upon the Sea of Claws, as though bearing witness to the struggle taking place on the other side of its vicious waves.

FLAMETONGUE AFLAME

A rough translation of the final war-speech of Othaere Flametongue said:
The gods gifted me // this music, // for they knew that it was good! // Lo, they charged me // to play louder than the voices of the damned, // and I swore in blood // that I would! // These weaklings claim that we are finished, // but we know that they only lie. // The gods created my music, // and it shall never, ever die!

The ultimate quarry of the Klaushaven Crusade was not Stromfels or his heathen followers, but an even darker foe. Skald-Jarl Othaere Flametongue had carved his name into the North this last year, winning fear from his foes and fame among his fellows. None doubted that the eye of the Dark Gods was upon the bard-chief, for the survivors of his raids were reduced to stumbling, singing maniacs who responded to any approach with frenzied violence. All agreed that such a man could not be permitted to escape: Boyar Karelin, in particular, knew all too well how the power and prestige of a minor raiding chieftain could swell over the wintering months. Had not Morkar himself been born into a tribe that had fled the Empire just a generation earlier?

Nordland had brought ships and supplies. Ostland had brought men and guns. Manann had brought priests and guides. Kislev had allowed free passage through the Gulf, and the Cult of Sigmar had given its best wishes. Now, as the Mountains of Thjazi fell behind the armada and the Sea of Claws gave way to the Sea of Chaos, the hunt began in earnest.

Flametongue was known to the Norscans among the fleet, whether by the territory he'd taken from them as a jarl, or from his earlier days as a wandering skald and wife-thief. Few could mistake how eager they were to turn Imperial steel and shot against a hated rival, and the armada struck at every enclave with ties to Flametongue. Some offered fierce resistance, fortified harbours that charged the armada a rent in blood for every hour it took to confirm the Skald-Jarl's absence. Others seemed more his victims than his allies, every longhouse strung with windchimes that urged the inhabitants into a frenzied and hopeless rush at the Imperial beachhead.

Time became precious, for the end of summer was approaching. Ostlander supplies had lessened the need to live off the land, but they could not last forever, and none wanted or planned to winter in Norsca, not with the Snow King already donning his white coat to venture down from the Far North. Yet Flametongue seemed so close, a mere week ahead of them, mere days, mere nights. Each moon raised the stakes on this bloody gamble, cast the shadow of failure or famine a little darker over each captain's log. Yet as the fleet negotiated the unmelting ice floes that fell from the Hellspire Mountains, their resolve was rewarded at last.

The standard of Skald-Jarl Flametongue fluttered in the chill wind, a screaming skull spewing red fire across black cloth. His black-hulled longships cut through the frozen waters, shouting Norscans bracing for combat alongside hulking warriors clad in the living armour of Chaos. The guns of Ostland rolled forward as marines mustered on decks, the sea erupting into bursts of brine with each thundering shot and sending ships skimming around icebergs for cover. Long oars worked furiously to close the distance, hauled by earless slaves to the beat of a silent drum that sent ripples through the water.

When at last the fleets met, it was with all the elegance of two dancing drunks. Volleys of arrows clattered off shields and hulls or else found their mark in frozen flesh. Boarding hooks fared the same, binding Norscan oak and Imperial pine together with a crash and groan of wood. Screaming men and bellowing guns mingled in a cacophony across waves that foamed with Stromfels' razor-toothed children, every soul tossed overboard an offering to the Wrecker's feasting table. Flametongue's own ship darted through the chaos, the wind plucking at its lyre-rigging with icy fingers as it made straight for the lead ship of Nordland's 1st fleet. Where it passed, grunts and shouts transformed into a terrible, ululating cry, a symphony of shredded sanity that erupted from every throat.

Aboard the Berserker's Bane, Admiral van Konneth readied for impact in relative silence, the bloodshed all around him muffled by a pair of wax earplugs. As the Ostlanders muffled their own hearing, the warrior-priests of Manann began to chant shanty-hymns to the Sea King, ringing mighty copper bells to further drown out the sorcerous strains that tormented the air. Each rang in perfect time, deafened priests swinging their arms to match the swell of the waves instead of any mortal time, and as the first Northmen leapt onto the deck their rhythm continued unabated, great heavy bells crashing down on heathen skulls with a sonorous death-knell. Unprepared for real resistance, the Norscans fought on with a ferocity fuelled by fear, unwilling to so much as glance back at the black-armoured demigods clambering aboard behind them. Soon Ostlander steel met daemon-forged blades, Imperial defenders left only with the hope that another vessel saw their plight and was racing to support them, unheard by their wax-stopped ears.

None expected the longship of Yric Hlathir to slam directly into the fray, bringing all three ships swinging around toward a mighty iceberg. Chaos warriors and Ostland troops alike were flung to their knees by a crash that left only the sea-priests standing, and as freezing dark water crept up the Berserker's Bane, the conflict spilled out onto the frost-rock itself.

Blades met over the ice, proud Ostlanders holding their own on the slick ground even as spike-booted Norscans and screeching mutants clashed around them. The ship-bound cannons fell quiet, unable to risk shattering the ground on which their soldiers fought, and a strange hush took hold of the fray, as though the cold air was muffling every desperate scream and clang of metal-on-metal. Flametongue himself stepped forward, clad in black troll-leather tougher than any steel, flowing hair strung with silver rune-bells. The Skald-Jarl raised a strange axe overhead, its blade hollowed and strung with iron strings, and even from the decks of their ships every sailor would swear they saw the flash of his crystal-blue eyes.

Then his hands fell, and a chord rang out that tore reason from the world.

The final song of Othaere Flametongue melted the flesh from the faces of his audience, his fingers blistering and twisting like burning snakes as he strummed ever-faster on the red-hot strings of his bladed lyre. Phantasmal daemons cavorted and hooted in the wind, witch-fires blazing on every sword, and men screamed until their throats bled, muscles spasming to send their necks snapping back-and-forth with an audible crunch of cartilage and bone. Even waxen plugs began to dribble and melt, and the desperate bells of the Manannites steamed in the cold air as they rang from heat-seared hands. Admiral van Konneth raised his heavy pistol in one trembling arm, the other rictus-locked into the sign of Ulric, and pulled the trigger.

The shot went wide, clipping the edge of Flametongue's axe. All he'd won was a moment's freedom from the daemonsong, and a groan of despair escaped the Admiral's ice-chapped lips.

Fortunately, Yric Hlathir used that moment to fling his own axe overarm. Some claim it whistled as it tore through the air, turning Flametongue's solo into a duet before it slammed home in his handsome head. The Skald-Jarl staggered back a step, his brilliance painting the iceberg crimson under his foot, lyrics choked by shards of his own skull. His lyre-axe trilled one last, low, mournful note, unbidden by its master's fingers, and as the iceberg began to groan and tear itself apart, the killer of Klaushaven fell silent forever.

As a few battered longships fled and the Berserker's Bane was assessed by the fleet's shipwrights, the priests of Manann saw to the burning of the blasphemous ship that had borne Flametongue to godly lands, and the Imperials parted ways with their mercenary allies, each hoping to be home before the Snow King could bar their way. Where hiring these barbarians had required meeting with a dozen or more proud veterans and budding chieftains, for the closing negotiations it seemed Yric Hlathir spoke for all, an amulet of Manann joining a dozen others dangling from his neck.

Indeed, as the seasons turned, tales spread of the growing ambitions held by the newly-wealthy tribes allied to "the Godscoin", their longhouses bursting with loot, their rivals already broken and burned...

SONG OF ICE AND FIRE

Vorri Rimethorn said:
"There are no dwarfs to the East. If you hear otherwise, you've been listening to a liar. Think on this; no dwarf would work magic, nor consort with greenskins, nor scorn their ancestors. So any creature that does such things can't be a dwarf. That's logic even a manling should follow."

The return voyage was blessed (perhaps literally) without incident, the fleets welcomed into the shadow of Fort Gausch by an escort of Kislevite ships. The mustachioed crew were eager, in their own stoic way, for news of the Crusade's success, and freely shared their own gossip in turn. Admiral van Konneth remained aboard, still nursing a hand that would reflexively lock into the sign of the wolf at the oddest times, but the crew's interpretation of events reached him easily enough.

To his mind, somewhat better-attuned to political realities than the average sailor, it seemed that much of the effort spent persuading the Tsarina to allow free passage (and stay her own hand from questing South) had been wasted. Hobgoblin raids had stepped up in intensity, though not, apparently, from "the usual Khaaaghn", whatever that meant. Indeed, the Frozen Court had likely embraced the chance to focus wholly on this Eastern plague for a time without losing face.

Other tales made the rounds, of course. Great steam-shrouded battlefields where holy ice magic clashed with chained fire-spirits. Wagons of brass that scooped up whole stanitsas and bore them away to hell. Stunted dwarf-men fighting alongside goblin and ogre and orc. These were easily dismissed as exaggeration and tale-telling; perhaps a dwarf cannon had been looted by a particularly canny new warboss and frightened half the frostbitten peasants of Kislev to death.

By the time the same stories made their way into the letters of half a dozen diplomats, they would merit rather more attention.

Maugan Ra · Dec 2, 2019

DRAGON HUNT
(Written by @Wade Garrett with my approval)

This is a land of monsters.

The Old World has a death for every unwary soul, and a horror for every nightmare. Scratching things that gnaw at the roots of the world. Great beasts that tower over the treeline of black forests and shake the world when they move.

And among this bestiary, one breed reigns above all the rest. The supreme killer of heroes, the foretold ruin of kingdoms, a creature as ancient and nigh on as powerful as the gods themselves. The dragon.

A force like unto no other, a power against which the mightiest warship and the most enormous cannon fall short. A power rumored to be rising again, in the ancient Weald of Drakes. And all across the divided Empire, the same thought occurred to mind after mind after mind.

Imagine if we could control it. Think of the potential!

In Marienburg the thought was spoken. Loudly, and often, by the Staadholder-Count himself, in private conversations and at public events, at tailors where a wardrobe styled after the Dragon Lords of Caledor was sought after and over an intricately carved scale model of the Drakwald itself, where tiny carved ships and men were moved about in a lofty manner. Most meaningfully, no less than four of Marienburg's most widely circulated broadsheets were paid to devote space to the writing of an anonymous but wealthy poet working in the Kislevite style, comparing the joys of riding among the heavens on the back of a dragon to the joys of being in the presence of ones beloved in a manner that skirted the bounds of propriety.

It was the spark falling into the powder magazine. After all, it was one thing to dream idly of armies and cities that dared to oppose you dying in dragonfire, but the thought, even the possibility of Marienburg being able to unleash dragons against those who opposed it, swift and decisive action was called for, swift and decisive action was taken.

And so they came, from all corners of the Empire. Driven by religous zeal, by love of their homeland, by the sums of gold in their purses, the avaricious and ambitious descended into the Drakwald, in search of monsters from the oldest and bloodiest legends.

Konrad Schild had proclaimed that any hunt for dragons must take place under the auspices of the Twin Duchies, alas, any attempt at actually enforcing that proclamation rode south to Carroburg along with every knight and man at arms the Regent of Middenland could muster. And so it was that the Baroness Adawolfa led a band of Countess Theophenia's favorite hunting chums, hastily pardoned poachers, and a trio who fell into both categories road into the Drakwald resisted by nothing more formidable than the dusk clouds raised by peasants who wanted no part of a column of leather skinned, scar faced villains led by a bear skin wrapped woman waving a dwarven warhammer and bellowing "Has anyone seen the dragons?"

Sir Engel von Wallenstein of Nordland's riders made slower progress towards the Drakwald, but only because that decorated veteran of the campaign against the Forest of Shadows chose to "accept donations of supplies" from his fellow Ulricans at each village they passed through. As he told his retainers, it would have been sacrilegious to do otherwise. If Ulric hadn't wanted the Middenlanders sheared, he wouldn't have made them sheep.

Matters were different on Talabecland's border with Drakwald, where both a scholarly expedition from the University of Altdorf and the Red Talons, an infamous company of beast killers (and rumored devotees of Ahalt the Drinker) hired by the Count of Wissenland presented themselves to the captain of the Talabecland ships that were to bring them to the Drakwald and a large contingent of Taalite and Rhyan clerics, the Talon's leader Bernard de Nachtseer seemingly oblivious to the venomous glances thrown his way as everyone clasped hands and promised to work together in peaceful accord....although neither the Wissenland sellswords nor the Reikland academics could entirely conceal their reaction to the news that they would be accompanied by the entire Talabecland Second Army "to secure the area from poachers or beastmen, you see."

And so the three rival expeditions set off into the great forest...or what was left off it.

The flames ignited by the previous years campaign had burned themselves out, but they had left a desolation in their wake, mile upon mile of barren waste, as if Khaine had struck the earth with his sword and cut a wound into Drakwald itself. Oh, not all of the forest, not even most of it, but enough. Especially since the desolation and the small flames still smoldering at its fringes were the most sensible place to begin searching for the young dragons. They were creatures of fire, after all.

It was a miserable experience, every step crunching charred undergrowth under boot, kicking up ash into mouthes and nostrils, and no chance of foraging in the burned area itself. The one saving grace was that the flames had driven most of the monsters and beastmen that called the forest home into less scorched hunting grounds. Most, but not all.

The Talabecland soldiers encountered them first. Perhaps inevitably, given how many men in the livery of the Red Eagle had flooded into Drakwald. Less than would be leaving after their run ins with a new denizen of the forest, a great herd of raging cattle, their bodies unnaturally swollen with muscle and many bearing the marks of mutation. Mutations which, the Talabeclanders learned to their sorrow, included the ability to spew gouts of flame at anyone who tried to stand in front of their thundering charge.

The priests of Taal and Rhya, their nerves already frayed by the desecration of their deities domain all around them, laid down an ultimatum. The presence of a herd of Chaos tainted monsters was bad enough, Chaos tainted monsters who seemed to have been created solely to burn down even more of the Drakwald would not, could not be borne. The Talabecland soldiers and scouts were immediately redirected towards the extermination of "the Hellherd" (a Reikland professor attempted to make a case for capturing a few specimens alive, but was quickly silenced by his colleagues who didn't want to be tied to a charred tree trunk and left to die of thirst by angry followers of the Old Faith).

And so the mutants were hunted, with bows and crossbows from a distance, with deadfalls and pit traps, with any and every means that didn't require standing up to a flame spewing stampede head to head. And then the Red Talons swaggered back into camp, a pair of chain wrapped, scaley forms slung over the back of their ash covered rounceys. Bowing mockingly to the Hierarch of Taal, the mercenaries were only too happy to show off the fruits of their labors, two newborn dragons, somewhat bruised and battered but firmly secured, by the Red Talons and no one else, before magnanimously surrendering their prize to the attentions of the other contingents.

Elsewhere, Baroness Adawolfa cooed over a poor hurt baby, trying to coax it out from amidst a snarl of exposed tree roots and tangled branches while the other Hochlanders looked on with concern and alarm, the "baby" possessing fangs like a skinning knife, scales like chain mail, and a tendency to spray tiny jets of flame out from its hidey hole, none of which seemed to register with the Baroness as she pulled it out by the scruff of its neck and gasped in genuine concern at the shattered angle of its left foreleg. Medical supplies and a one time horse thief with some skill at doctoring his merchandise were called for, as Adawolfa ordered everyone else to begin rooting through their provisions for anything the injured dragonlet might eat.

The Hochlanders had gotten the leg splinted and figured out the answer was "anything, as long as it's charred enough" when Bernard de Nachtseer and his most trusted warriors crested the hill above them, hot on the trail of their injured quarry. Smiling calmly, the sellsword offered a sincere thanks for the care given to his dragon, along with a percentage of whatever Prince Konstantin or Count Friedrich would be willing to pay for the beast if they'd simply surrender the prize. Adawolfa suggested that his mother had kept a secret paramour, and it was most likely a diseased goat. Hands reached for weapons, and it seemed negotiations were at an end...until a black feathered crossbow quarrel struck the ground between the two groups and a Nordland accented voice proposed everyone put their arms down and surrender the dragon to him if they didn't want the hundred archers he had surrounding them all had to do something unfortunate.

De Nachtseer sneered at the Baroness and scanned the burnt forest around them. Adawolfa glowered at the sellsword and did the same. Crouching down out of sight, Sir Engil glanced at his much fewer than a hundred archers and silently beseeched Ranald as he reloaded his crossbow. The wind was howling.

The wind was howling, indeed, blowing from the east, washing over the faces of Talabecland soldiers with the heat of a furnace and a smell like a viper's den. Afterwards, no one was sure who saw it first. Some said it was the Hierarch of Taal, looking up at the evening sky, clutching his holy symbol, blood drained from his face as he whispered the word. Some said it was a Professor of Monstrous Anatomy from Kemperbad, dragging two of his colleagues by their collars with much more speed and strength than one would expect from a scholar with a sedentary life style as he screamed a warning. Whoever it was, it was too little, too late.

The flames swept over the expeditionary camp with a fury that dwarved the wildfire of the previous year. Soldiers, priests, mercenaries, they simply vanished as the beast descended upon the survivors. Some fled. Some had the bravery or stupidity to fire arrows or fling spears. But death came for them all.

Elsewhere, a smaller but no less desperately fought battle began, Talons and Hochlanders storming towards the Nordland blind as Engil ordered his retainers to fire and then retreat! Bernard De Nachtseer had other intentions, spurring his horse towards the Baroness and the injured dragon she held in one arm, sword flashing downwards...and then shattering against a dwarf made hammerhead. With a curse Bernard flung the remains of his weapon at the tiny dragon, Adawolfa instinctively turning away to shield the creature, and allowing her foe to ride past, ride at speed, screaming orders for the other Talons to ride with him.

Waving her hammer at his back, roaring aspersions about his parentage and personal habits, the Baroness didn't notice the shadow until it fell over her, the beat of great wings almost bowling her over as she turned to face the dragon, a head that could swallow a destrier in one bite descending almost level with her own as ancient eyes looked into hers. Mercenaries and Nordlanders fled as fast as legs and steeds could carry them while Hochlanders froze, helplessly brandishing useless weapons or praying to Sigmar, to Ulric or Myrmidia or any good who might listen as a massive claw descended towards Adawolfa and gently, almost tenderly, plucked the dragonlet from her grip. Massive wings beat, and then the beast was gone, rising into the sky with three tiny forms all but invisible as they snuggled together atop its back. Leaving, but not going far.

A tale came to Countess Theophenia, as she waited anxiously for word from the hunters she'd sent forth. A tale of a great winged shape seen outlined against the moon, and flames seen on the crown of the Middle Mountains.

And in Nordland, a bandage wrapped Sir Engel proudly offered his Duchess two new additions to her household. The Middenland bred milk cow was nothing special, but the calf nursing from it, the red haired, brimestone scented, eyes smoldering with inner fires bull calf, that was something altogether more inpressive.

And in Wissenland, a mercenary made quiet inquiries among the dawi engaged by Count Friedrich for his grand project, trying to ascertain the price of a mastercrafted sword.

Maugan Ra · Dec 2, 2019

Von Reichen's Glory

News that the host of Black Orcs was a mere distraction came as a fell revelation to the Solland Crusade, proof both of Gormar's strategic cunning, and the number of Orcs at his command. Without hesitation, Friedrich sent the second army west with the Grand Theogonist's retinue and Knights of the Blazing Sun to join Nuln's garrison and confront the threat.

The relief force met Nuln's garrison at Meissen, where Eleonora Von Reichen took command of the defense. Speed was of the essence, every day harried riders galloped into the city, telling of another village burned, another tribe joining the Orcish threat. The defenders had numbers and cannon, but the Orcs had monsters, more cavalry, and very possibly shamans. What time they had was purely brought by the speed of the Marienburg fleet, allowing the reinforcements and supplies to move far faster than the leanest goblin outrider.

Von Reichen opted for a straightforward strategy. The Black Orcs and their hordes of monsters were terrifying, and may well get worse as reinforcements arrived from Brettonia, but they were Orcs, and not led by Herdkiller. They would not refuse a fight, and if Von Reichen lost, she could always retreat to the walls of a city and rely on cannon and defense to hold them off.

Fortunately, the Black Orcs cooperated. Goblin scouts spotted the transport ships as they moved down the Soll, and while the army marched from Meissen, the Orcs diverted to avoid Auggen and meet them in the field, all the while under the watchful eyes of Blazing Sun outriders.

The armies met beside the Pit of Henry Magnus, an ancient Marble Quarry that had been abandoned after the Black Plague. Von Reichen got there first, anchored one flank to the vast drop of the quarry, tasking her limited cavalry to protect the other. The Grand Theogenist and most of the Sigmarite war-priests anchored the front-line, while Von Reichen stayed with the artillery.

Then the first giant crossed the horizon.

Bellows echoed across the rocky plains of western Wissenland. Light gleamed from the polished plate of a horde of black orcs. Boars roared, trolls slathered, and spiders chittered as cavalry roared across the plain. The chants and prayers of war-priests echoed across the field, bolstering the forces of men in preparation for the battle to come. Courage steeled wavering hearts and blazing light enveloped spears and hammers. The light of the sun began to fade as, slowly, the sneering, grinning face of the Bad Moon began to eclipse it.

Then, with a chorus of cannon-fire, battle was joined.

The Giants fell first. The massive, lumbering creatures were easy prey for cannon-volleys and arquebesiers, and often enough the crews kept firing at a kneeling corpse until an officer ordered them to stop. Those few that survived fled the battlefield, oft trampling smaller creatures as they ran.

Greenskin cavalry attempted to flank, to rip apart the cannons before they could do more damage, but the knights of the Blazing Sun rode out to intercept them, knocking Orcs from boars and crushing spiders underfoot before returning to the relative safety of Imperial pike-lines. One detachment of spider-riders through to use the quarry and scale the flank, but found themselves easy prey for Imperial archers as they attempted to approach. The boars, meanwhile, found themselves facing withering volleys of cannon-fire alongside their knightly foes.

The battle was going well, and for a moment Von Reichen thought that she had found an easy victory on the field.

Then the Black Orcs slammed into her front line.

Pikes shattered, shields splintered. Formations of men disintegrated, shredded by the heavy blades and tremendous bulk of the Orcs. The Grand Theogenist ordered the War Altar forward, anchoring the line through his sheer presence and the golden light of the holy artifact. War Priests surged against the Orcs, and reinforcements rushed forwards to reinforce the buckling line. Graf Mannheimer dismounted, bellowing encouragement to his men as he leapt into the frey.

It was a meat-grinder. The largest, most vicious Orcs jockeyed for position in the most brutal parts of the line. Boar cavalry forgot their plan, their need to cull the artillery, and simply dove into the fight. Trolls pulled armored men from the melee and ripped them limb from limb, feasting as they fought. Shot and missile flew, cannons dismantling spear-chuckers, Orcish arrows reaping a grim toll of unshielded gunners.

But the guns pulled through and as cannonball after cannonball ripped through their ranks, as Arquebusers exposed themselves to hails of arrows and goblin spears to fire into their flanks, the Black Orcs fled. The Knights of the Blazing Sun trampled goblin cavalry, ran rampant across archers and slammed into Trolls, blades ablaze with Sigmarite prayers.

It was a grim battle, with a brutal toll, but they had broken the Orcish ranks, thwarted the flanking maneuver, and driven the survivors into the mountains. Garrisons would have to be reinforced, watches kept to keep them from reorganizing and attacking, but such was victory in these grim times.

Unfortunately, Graf Mannheimer had been sorely wounded in the fighting, and over the coming weeks his injuries would turn septic. He would be one of the last casualties of the battle, dying in a Meissen hospital some three weeks after the fighting had ended.

Solland Reclaimed

"Humans don't run when theyze lose, humans run when they thinks theyze gonna lose. All we got to do is make that happen."

Even as the Steel Host marched north, Count Friedrich crossed the Solle. The land was overgrown and ill-treated, and every day of marching revealed another ruined town, another wrecked village, more evidence of all Solland had lost. Pasture turned to scrub, groves turned to forests, and everywhere fungal growth and signs of Orcish habitation.

The advance was slow and cautious, forests were refused as prime spot for ambush, pursuits as likely traps. For weeks, the most common conflict was aggressive skirmishing, outriders and knights ranging against wolf-riders and snotling pump-wagons, then retreating once their foe disappeared into the brush. Slayers running down a beast in the night, the survivors dragging the body back come the morning. The war-priests divined Gormar's movements, guiding the army through the movement of birds, the nature of the sun-rise, and offerings burnt in the night.

The conflict slowly pushed south, each side probing the other, until the army camped at the Shrine of Sigmar Protector. They spent the night cleansing the holy place, and in the distance, the scouts saw Gormar's camp and the lights of the captive human settlement at Geschburg. Hildrun consulted with her priests, and by midnight told Friedrich that each day they delayed battle, a third of Geshburg would die, and that a night battle would be disastrous for their cavalry.

The next morning, an Orcish army was assembled in the plains before Geschburg. A green mass of snotlings carpeting the ground, hordes of goblins and orcs, legions of wolf-riders and masses of artillery. Rock-lobbers and Doom-divers and everywhere, everywhere, the totems of shamans. The priests sacrificing men, women, and children in broad daylight. There was no rough terrain here, nowhere to hide an ambush, or bar a cannon's sightlines. Simply an invitation to battle and brutal, bloody provocation to ensure it was accepted.

As the Imperial army marched to meet them, Goblin artillery greeted them with a soft rain of decapitated heads and the slow rise of the Bad Moon on the horizon.

Cannon and infantry anchored themselves in place, each side slowly rolling towards the other. Friedrich took his position among his men, his presence, the simple fact that he could not flee on horse, the presence of Myrmidian war-priests, all bolstering their morale. The dwarves stood behind their mannish counterparts, ready to reinforce their lines and slam into the foe once battle was joined.

Assembled, the two armies ground forwards, infantry marching grimly towards a hideous end. Cannon-fire traded with Orcish siege weapons, diving goblins smashing into Friedrich's halberdiers and light cavalry forces, while Nuln's guns swiftly disabled Orcish catapults. Handgunners found their firing lanes clogged with massive screens of snotlings, while cavalry skirmishes soon turned into desperate fights to the death as goblin shamans turned pathetic skirmishers into grappling monsters with an unerring ability to slide a knife into a Knight's visor.

The lines clashed, snotlings breaking against pike-blocks like a wave, throwing their bodies onto speartips that more of the creatures could get closer, each cheering the others on, demanding the recognition of the Orcs at their back. They died in droves, but occupied soldiers and pinned speartips in a wall of tiny bodies. Goblin magic clouded the field in pools of shadow and hurled bolts of burning energy into Imperial lines, opening holes that the eager, stupid snotlings eagerly exploited. War-Priests of Myrmidia counter-attacked, quelling magic as it cast, bolstering the morale of their men, their banners inspiring supernatural terror in the greenskins and causing Snotlings to suddenly turn on each other as they flee. The chaos and confusion and terror of war turned into cold precision and just-in-time orders.

Then the first head exploded, showering the soldiers around her in gore and bits of brain. A scream rang across the lines as another war-priest called upon his magic, only for Orcish casters to single him out, spectral impacts knocking him to the ground, breaking arms and ribs as goblins threatened to overrun his now disheartened command. Parts of the line were near to routing, but as they buckled longbeards and slayers rushed into place, grumbling their old oaths, recounting grudges unavenged as they set to slaughter.

The Friedrich and his honor guard took the field. One runefang, one hundred greatswords, the pikes and blades of dismounted Knights and the best minds of the Myrmidian cult. They scythed through Orcs like wheat and lesser creatures simply fled from them. Squigs piled waist deep, and goblin shaman after goblin shaman fell to Blood Bringer as the tide slowly, surely turned.

Meanwhile, Francis Ludwig and Grand Master Hubert led the cavalry, skirmishing with pump wagons and wolf-riders as they looked to burst through the greenskin flank. The Brettonians had spotted Gormar Herdkiller immediately, the massive orc wreathed in stolen finery, the crown of Solland sitting on his skull and a great sword, larger than any runeblade, waiting patiently at his hip.

Hubert saw the opportunity. A place in the line where the Orcs had drained away to attack the front lines, and the goblins were thick and easy to panic. He lead his knights in a charge, and soon every cavalryman the crusade had was following him. Goblins broke and fled before him, squigs were spitted on lances, and soon they had broken through, nothing between them and the thick knot of shamans and bodyguards that surrounded Gormar but empty field. Hubert was thrown from his horse by an Orcish spell, a wave of concussive force that rattled his helm and threw him twenty feet, but the charge continued regardless.

Then, with a mighty warcry, Gormar and much of his host vanished into thin air, leaving the Knights charging at a few confused, Orc nobles and a dozen angry Mangler Squigs.

In the artillery park, where the assembled guns of Nuln, Wissenland, and Karak Gantuk rained hell on Orcish lines, Gormar Herdkiller and two hundred of his biggest, burliest Orcs were flung into the artillerymen by the ever-cunning Hand of Gork.

Moments later, Nulnish cannon opened fire on the Imperial ranks.

Confusion was immediate. Where moments ago Friedrich had been hunting down goblin shamans, shattering Orcish ranks along his honor guard, now men were dying and screaming around him, his ranks routing as they came under fire from behind. Men bellowed of friendly fire, of betrayal, of Averland turning on Nuln, Nuln turning on Averland, and the treachery of mercenary soldiers. Everywhere confusion, everywhere terror, and the line turned to dust in the wind. The Dwarves saved them, as did the steadfast resolve of the Grudge Settlers, and the Slayers who had joined them sold their lives dearly in a delaying assault on the Orcish lines.

The battle would have been lost, were it not for the sight of the Myrmidian war-priests. They saw the Orcs, divined what had happened, and informed Count Friedrich and King Hammerfist. The dwarves, ever in reserve, were closer and Hammerfist and his best men sprung to the defense, eager to kill Gormar, desperate to buy time for a more organized response.

Captured cannon took a terrible toll in Dwarven lines, even as the Knights silenced the Greenskin artillery. Orcish blades ended lives centuries in the telling, reaping grim tolls for every cannon destroyed, every inch of ground retaken. Herdkiller drew his blade, and it was revealed as not a Runefang, but a fell thing that reeked with dark magics. Wounds exploded into rot and gore, limbs putrifying in instants, and every death drawn into Gormar's titanic bulk.

King Hammerfist reached him first, bolstered by runic armor and gromril blades. They dueled, and though Vhonn was more skilled, Gormar was bolstered by the magic of his Shamans. Vhonn lost his blade, then a hand, and then sacrificed his crippled arm to rip Gormar's blade from his hands, throwing it away from the scrum. Gormar pulled a cannon from its harness, raising it to crush the Dwarf, only for his shamans to call his attention away. In that moment of distraction, Vhonn Hammerfist's honor-guard grabbed him, pulling him away from the battle as a half-dozen slayers threw themselves at Gormar to slow him down.

Friedrich, Hildrun, Yjsbraant, and their honor guard arrived just as Gormar began to overwhelm the Dwarven counter-attack. The Foot of Mork descended, wreaking ruinous casualties among Friedrich's Greatswords, but the spell, as Orcish magics are wont, went awry. It rampaged through their lines and back into the Orcish ones, crushing the Shaman that cast it and opening a gap that the Elector Count exploited. They punched through, and soon Friedrich was face to face with Gormar Herdkiller.

Their battle was short, their battle was brutal, and in moments Friedrich had been bludgeoned half to death with a cannon.

Naturally, this was when Yjsbraant shot Gormar through the back of the head, coating a brutalized Friedrich in the canny brains of Elector Count Gormar Herdkiller.

With the Count dead, the Waaagh broke. Greenskins fled for the hills, pursued by victorious cavalry in places, but the infantry was in no state to follow them. Every Slayer who had arrived had died a warrior's death. The formations were in ruined, artillery park destroyed, gunpowder stores burned, hand-cannon corps decimated. Friedrich had won, saved Solland, recovered its Crown, opened it for resettlement, and recovered the Nurglish blade Blightbringer for imprisonment or destruction.

But the cost had been ruinous, and he would carry that cost in his scars for the rest of his life.

Von Reichen's Campaign
2nd Army of Wissenland, "Steel Host" - Bloodied, Graf Mannheimer KIA
3rd Army of Wissenland, "Skyfall Emissaries" - Reduced
War-Priests - Reduced
Knights of the Blazing Sun - Many wounded, few dead.
Leadership - Graf Mannheimer killed, Grand Master Adalius lightly wounded.

Battle of Solland

1st Army of Wissenland, "Dawn-Bringers" - Reduced, Artillery largely destroyed
4th Army of Wissenland, "Grudge-Settlers" - Bloodied, Blackpowder Contingent destroyed.
3rd Averland State Army - Reduced, Artillery largely destroyed
Karak Gantuk Throng - Bloodied
Wissenlander Knights - Light casualties, disproportionately dead
Brettonian Knights - Bloodied
Slayers - Destroyed
Cult of Myrmidia - Templars reduced, War-Priests Decimated
Knights of Taal's Fury - Light casualties, all casualties killed.
Knights of the Blazing Sun - Extremely heavy casualties, many wounded
Knights of the Fiery Heart - Moderate casualties
Leadership - King Hammerfist permanently crippled, Count Friedrich permanently maimed, both pulled from the field by Knights of the Blazing Sun and Dwarf Throng, Ser Hubert lightly wounded, Count Yjsbraant lightly injured.

EarthScorpion · Dec 3, 2019

Wolfenburg

The late autumn wind howled over the fortress in the mountains. There were flurries of snow on the wind, carried from the north. Astrid von Wolfenburg stared out the window, resting her right arm in its cast on the table. There were paw prints on the white bandages, from the big dogs that snoozed around her. She wondered what the white flakes had seen in their trip over Norsca. What evils had they witnessed?

Well, if they were going to fall on the Forest of Shadows, they would likely see greater evils than in much of Norsca. Damn those knightly fools – and they were likely damned indeed. She should have stopped them, but she was so distracted with the negotiations over the Black League and then she had been over in Salkalten, guiding the militia and inspiring her people while wandering how the First was doing in the north.

To think that southern idiots would provoke the forest in such a manner!

And speaking of knightly idiots, she returned to working on her letter.

Article:

My dear Charles,

I write this now as the snows fall on Ostland. By the time you get this, conveyed by a priest of Mannan who assures me they will see delivery, it will have been snowed under for weeks – perhaps even months! How nice it must be to live in a land where snow is a brief thing seen in the coldest few months, and where the hills are rolling and the woods are peaceful.

Forgive me. Dark thoughts trouble me, and fools have bought trouble to poor Ostland. A goodly number of Templars of the order of Sigmar's Blood thought to take it on themselves to try to purge the ancient and malevolent Forest of Shadows that covers most of my land, and now they have been slain very nearly to the man. And were that not tragedy enough, they fell under the sway of a vile vampire who now commands them. I fear what horrors this may produce in forthcoming years.

Do not worry, ~~dear one~~. We are hardy here in Ostland. We shall endure, as we have for generations before. But the loss of so many brave – if foolish – knights to a great evil will no doubt bring a dreadful reckoning. And alas, if I had known what they planned, perhaps things might have gone differently.

Enough! I can send so few letters to you, so I should not weigh them down with unrighteous misfortune and fell tidings. I hear so many of them – for the tragedy here in Ostland is nothing compared to the horrors I have heard from the south, from the nation which was the Moot. Were it not for the actions of those knights, I would be telling you how well we have fared compared to this fell year.

My brave men have worked with Jana's – the Countless of Nordland – ships and the priests of Mannan to raid the Norscan coast this year. And that is wonderful news, not just because we have paid them back for the atrocities they inflicted on us last year, but we have slain a wicked and mighty servant of the Dark Gods. Othaere Flametongue, they called him, and if you can believe it his malicious gods had granted this troubadour frightful power over the minds of men with his music. But Ostland steel and faith and our hardy allies smashed his fleet, and the Flametongue has sung his last!

On top of that, perhaps word has even reached you in far off Couronne, but my work to bring some remnants of Sigmar's empire back together has seen success! Oh this unhappy land, now divided, must unite! Just as your own brave Bretonnia binds all who follow your Lady together, so too should those of us who follow Sigmar march under the same banner. It is only little steps, ~~my dear Charles~~, but I have done more for my god than any man or woman in centuries!

I do understand that if you find this news of mixed blessings, for a unified Empire is perhaps not what the Royarch would wish to hear. But I am far enough from such a goal that I doubt even your king has anything to worry about. The Black League is made of the poor northern states, which must band together in the face of Kislev and the wicked orcs and beastmen that live in the harsh woods of our lands.

Of a note, Charles, perhaps you might wish to convey a little of my intent to the Royarch. Should he wish to open diplomatic relations with the Black League – and perhaps even send an ambassador – I can assure you that we would look most sympathetically on his presence and if requested, I do not doubt that Bretonnia would be offered the status of observer. It is better that the nobility speak with each other with jonour, yes?

And of course, if such diplomatic ties existed, I am sure that you would be able to join such a delegation to visit me in Wolfenburg. It is quite beautiful in the summer months, short though they are.

In more personal news, if you can believe it, I have broken my arm in a training accident. It is quite uncomfortable even now, and I must swear, when I came off the horse it was like some fell force had taken the bones of my arm and replaced them with red hot pokers. Fortunately, it was my right arm so I can write to you now – it is an advantage sometimes to favour the left! Until then, my trainer had been saying I had a natural talent for the lance. I am glad that someone thought so, because I found it a most complicated weapon – and the harness of lead weights to get me used to moving in armour seems to get heavier every day. I am wearing it over my nightgown even now!

I am not sure if I will be able to write to you again this year, but I swear that you will be in my thoughts. I think often of our time together, and wish with all my heart to see you again. Life as lady of Ostland is often a cold and lonely state of affairs, and though it was wonderful to see Jana and Theodosia again this year, none of them make me feel alive in the same way you did. It is like there is a freezing storm inside my heart, my love, and only you can thaw the cold within me.

I long to see you again. It is all I can do to not throw away my duties and take the next ship down the long and twisting rivers to Marienburg and from there to your lands. But duty is the harshest of all mistresses, who binds us and beats us with obligation and honour, and we must smile and say we love her treatment of us lest we shame ourselves.

I miss you and I love you,

With all my loving heart,

I love you,

With all due respect ~~and love~~,

Astrid

She stared down at her latest draft, and drew a second line through anything that used the forbidden word 'love'. Better. But she really wasn't happy with the description of the training accident. Bretonnians were so strange about such things, and noblewomen weren't meant to use the lance there. Would he think she was unfeminine? Maybe even shun her? But then again, he had said she was interesting and had enjoyed how she could almost keep up with him on horse.

Some of the Bretonnian nobles who had seen her hunting had called her a "garcon manqué". But no one would explain what that meant – because truly the literal meaning made no sense. And on top of that, the term hadn't been entirely positive, but it also hadn't been entirely condemnation.

Why were they so confusing?

And why had she written that whole expanse at the end. It just… it was so embarrassing! She got to work crossing it out some more, and scribbled 'Draft – DO NOT SEND' over the top just to make sure she didn't accidentally risk him reading such expressions of her red-hot feelings.

Astrid sighed. Look at her, moping over a man like a lovelorn maiden. A few years ago, she would have been very disappointed in herself to be seen acting like this. And maybe it was all futile dreams and shadows. Her advisors were being such bores about the succession and her duty to ensure it. As if that was all she was good for! She had done things no one had done in centuries. The Black League was the closest thing the lands of Sigmar had come to unity in more time than anyone could remember. And she was the one who had negotiated it, drawn up the treaties, and forged this tenuous alliance!

But no. Everyone said she had to look for a husband.

How had Theodosia done it? How could one just go to a party and emerge from it married to the eldest son of the count of cursed Sylvania? That just… the loss of control involved! It was very Theodosia, of course, but still!

Enough. If mishap or the forces of evil claimed her life, her aunt Angela was next in line – and she, at least, had children. In fact, her eldest had served with honour in the crusade against Norsca. She could put off marriage for a little bit, because she was too busy. And until then, she could at least dream of Charles.

She pinned her latest draft to the board, and sighed, looking up at all her previous attempts. To include the mention of the lance or not?

"What do you think, Hans?" she asked the bear hound dozing by her feet.

Lazily, the black-and-white dog raised his head and huffed.

"… alas. You're a good boy, but you know nothing of the affairs of the heart. And-" Whatever she had been about to say was lost in giggles as he started licking her ink-stained hand.

Why was this harder than drawing up the first draft of the Articles of the Black League?

Maugan Ra · Dec 3, 2019

(Written by @Mina with my approval)

Article:

The Malasangre woman asks too much. First these Fen-Stalkers of hers, now ogres? The men and women of Sylvania have suffered much, and her family has done great deeds to rectify this but by Morr there are limits. De Metzgerhunden fought valiantly alongside us this past year and I would call them my brothers, for they are all undoubtedly human and clean of the taint, so do not confuse my grievance now for gross prejudice and disregard.

One of them has bat ears, Grandmaster. It cannot stand. I will not stand for it. I have not had a good night's sleep in weeks, and I can only think it a sign of her actions. It must be dealt with.

Ser Diederich Forsman of the Knights of the Raven (eaten)

Riding high on her successful pacification campaign and with only the most outlying and recalcitrant of settlements facing much more than the occasional wandering gaggle of zombies or the odd skeleton violently unearthed, Carlotta Malasangre took to her father's newest plan with energy, and her brother Thiago's eager assistance. It was two years since the ill-omened Stirlish expedition for the legendary gold of Drakenhof, and Sylvania was more settled than it had been in decades despite that chaotic flaring of tensions. It was time for the Malasangres to retake their full inheritance. Sylvania would march for Castle Drakenhof.

The treasury was thrown open for Carlotta to reinforce the still questionable forces of the Sylvanian State army. While Thiago joined and organized the light horse ofht army, she spread money around the forests, the fens, the dark untravelled places of the country-side, summoning up the souls that dared travel them. Master them. Hunters (of what they were loathe to say), trackers, woodsmen, many more wary of the knights the lady rode with than the undead they fought. They were not civilized, but then civility meant nothing to the dead.

It did, however, matter to those that claimed to defend the dead. Many of the Knights of the Raven balked at these new units, nicknaming them Fen-Stalkers, and worse. Nerves frayed, especially after a band of mercenary ogres arrived on Carlotta's order and 'accidentally' ate one of the order's destriers. The locals kept their heads, their own understanding of the rights of might falling neatly in line with the iron grip the Lady Carlotta did her best to maintain over the disparate horde.

It spoke volumes to the respect she managed to command among the brutish, the downtrodden, the disregarded when with a tilt of her masked face a Raven Knight who had persisted in sedition and wilfully forgotten his place was smashed to pulp by an ogre warrior. The act bound the Sylvanian natives to her even tighter, and won much acclaim from the ogres who took Ser Diederich for their cookpot. It was clear for all to see who ruled in Sylvania, and who followed. For the Knights of the Raven it was the end. Honor obliged them to service here, but there was little love left between the order and the lady.

Article:

The land and air were bad...But the thinling suns were shiny...
Undead things stood in the way...Some were weak and others very big…
We smashed them all...Broke rotting bones to splinters...
But the bad blood thinling...she was strong as a tyrant...

"The Lay of the Dark Lands," as transmitted by Morgouz Maneater

The unpleasantness of the muster still lingering, the combined forces of Sylvania set out. This was not the same conservative purge of more tamed, populated areas. As Mathilde van Hel had found, the road to Drakenhof was a haunted and unfriendly one. The past glories, the armies, the magics of the Carsteins had gone to seed along the route and the land was wild and ravenous.

The Fen-Stalkers gave the best warning they could, but a deserted tomb by day might be a banshee's hunting ground at night and no man could track better than a varghulf stalked. It was the saving grace of Carlotta's march that there was no design to her opposition. There was no subtlety in the pack of vargheists that savaged her guards in the night and set the camp into a frenzy of half armored, half armed men hacking at mad beasts more interested in the rush of hot blood and flesh than any strategy.

She formed lines in the field, shielding archers with her pikemen in the best Myrmidian fashion, sending ogres and Raven Knights out to break concentrations of foes her State army would shatter against, but the opposition had nothing but mindless hostility and sheer numbers in their favor. Her brother Thiago distinguished himself with boldness and zeal that saw more than a few of the Raven Knights leaning on their Grandmaster to speak through the boy to the harsh little harridan that led them all. The youngest Malasangre was not such a political animal, and was happiest running down zombies and improving upon the material for his next opera.

The column advanced, deployed, and advanced again, and again, and again, creeping down the road to Drakenhof, slowed only by Morrian insistence upon proper consecration and burial of the dead. They would leave this damned route better than they had found it.

Article:

When the host took Drakenhof town they found it a city of ghouls and crawling evil. The impure were put to the sword, the banners of Sigmar raised in place of their fleshy tapestries of human torment over the battlements, and the screams from the pyres echoed forth across the haunted hills of Sylvania. Never was there a more righteous and hard fought homecoming than the Malasangrian reclamation of their seat.

"The Official History of the Cleansing March"

When the host took Drakenhof town they found it a city of empty homes and dark skies. They had not seen the sun since they set out at Waldenhof, but as they neared the damned castle the skies boiled over with dark clouds. Under the greenish haze the bloodied army marched through the open, unguarded gates. Garlands of huge black roses festooned the rotten stonework, and the denizens turned out to greet them, a pale but healthy looking crowd led by a smiling elder. His plump cheeks stretched in a wide, welcoming smile, and he offered up food, drink, and lodging for every last one of the Sylvanians, no matter how mean their station. There was ample room for all at Drakenhof.

It was unnerving in its pleasantness. There were only a few dozen townsfolk, all absolutely alive and more respectable (and human) looking than the average Metzgerhunden soldier or Fen-Stalker. The ogres supped on the fat, robust pigs the Drakenhoffers provided and barrel upon barrel of dark brown beer was rolled up from chilly cellars. The earlier strains on Carlotta's accord with the Raven Knights made restraint difficult, and the knights alone did not enjoy themselves in the grim but welcoming town.

There was one final act. With a guide provided by the Elder, Carlotta approached the castle proper. It loomed over the town, rising up upon a promontory of savage black rock. The road from the center of the town sloped up, doubling back over itself in such a way that each turn revealed some new facet of the hulk, a new nook, some hidden line of fire, a half-ruined tower that commanded a punishing view of the approach. The edifice itself seemed carved from the living rock like the masons of old had peeled back the flesh of the earth to reveal its hard, martial bone, or perhaps forced it to burst and grow the spindles, blocks, spikes, and foaming cornices that dominated the facade.

She rode up into the shadows of this dire fortress, led by the pale, hardy native boy, and accompanied by her most trusted lieutenants, her brother, and a guard of armored ogres. Carolotta had won her way here with the force she'd built, but now seeing the ancestral seat of the Draks it was clear they would have never taken this place with the strength of arms.

There was no need for arms. As they reached the black oak doors of Castle Drakenhof, its hinges wrought as claws from dark iron sunk deep into the ancient wood, the clouds broke and the light of waxing Morrslieb bathed the spires and ramparts with baleful emerald light. There was a shiver as Carlotta dismounted, a great, satisfied exhalation, and the doors swung open. Not a creak, not a groan, just well oiled obedience as the castle welcomed the Malasangres home.

Maugan Ra · Dec 3, 2019

Hochland Hospitality

Small, heavily forested, bereft of any great mineral wealth or strategic relevance, the Grand Barony of Hochland survives by the careful application of strategic alliances and a generally unthreatening attitude. No one who could take the place stands to gain enough from the conquest to make it worthwhile, and no one willing to make the attempt can rightly claim to be able to endure the vindictive warfare of a smiling forester hidden beneath the shadowed boughs. For generations such measures had been judged sufficient, yet as the twenty third century rolled on, Grand Baroness Theophania looked at her land and knew it needed more.

War, pestilence, civil unrest… the lands that had once been the Empire were consumed by all of these and more, and while tragedy had yet to touch Hochland's heartland only a fool would gamble on that remaining the case in the year to come. Theophania needed allies, strong and dependable, and while the Black League was an unquestionably good start she had never been the sort of person to stop while a job remained half-done.

Just ask her brothers.

The Dawi, then, would complete the set, for they alone could be relied upon to remain steady when all the realms of men fell into anarchy and discordance. Previous seasons had seen Dwarven carpenters drawn to the province in considerable number, working to complete the construction of a large number of sawmills by which manlings could better exploit the lumber that constituted one of their only real resources, while deals of supply and demand had been struck with many of the smaller shrines and settlements scattered throughout the Middle Mountains. There were few to be found, it was true, for large swathes of the range were regarded by the Dawi as accursed for some reason that they would not lightly say, but those that remained found the children of Hochland reasonable partners all the same.

With her foundation thus established, and the turmoil stirred up by the Alchemist Guild doing much to poison the Dawi on her western neighbour, Theophania took the necessary steps to expand and strengthen those connections in turn. Land-lease contracts were drawn up, long-term commissions arranged and promised, and in the town of Esk the full support and service of the Baroness Adalwolfa placed at the disposal of incoming Dawi merchants. The intent had been for the province to attract trade and investment from further afield than ever before, but with the potential transport routes still threatened by destabilising events to the south few of those manifested.

Instead, success came in another form, as the Goldenbark Clan out of Karak Hirn made the rather daring decision to relocate in their entirety. An armoured convoy travelled north, festooned with goods and guarded by an extensive complement of Dwarven warriors, and soon the famed carpenters and architects were settling into the lands of Western Hochland with a great deal of satisfied grumbling. They had a seemingly endless appetite for worked goods and fresh foodstuffs that the rest of Hochland could provide, and moreover seemed perfectly willing to act as intermediaries in any dealings the manlings might wish to have with those among their relatives whose markets were otherwise not open for human business.

As far as the Grand Baroness was concerned, this was nothing but a success… if one perhaps soured by letters of concern that came her way from local nobles and petty lords concerning the affairs of Esk. Her adopted sister had, it seemed, been acting… well, as Adalwolfa was prone to do, swiftly and without much thought to greater political consequence. In this case she had apparently divested herself of most of her property and household, reduced her staff to a single maidservant and appointed a committee of local merchants and craftsmen to run the affairs of Esk on a day-to-day basis.

On its own such a development might not have been unreasonable, but in combination with certain rumours swirling around the Cult of Taal and Rhya it took on a more troublesome tone. Peasants across all of Western Hochland were holding the Baroness up as a woman of vision and worth, and agitating for their local aristocrats to follow suit and give over much of their wealth and authority to the nebulous defined 'People'.

Of Merchants and Mercenaries

Prior to the war for Carroburg, the charter-town of Kemperbad was notable for being the only vassal and holding of the Grand Principality of Reikland that did not have the voluminous expanse of the River Reik between it and any of its potential foes. It was an enclave, a salient all of its own, and as war wracked the land the merchant elite of the self-governing town took a good look at their history books and the fate that tended to befall such positions. Then they took measures of their own.

The coffers of Kemperbad were opened, and by the time that campaigning season began the streets and fields of the town were vigorously garrisoned and patrolled by a full army of veteran mercenaries, many of them displaced from their homes and families in Stirland by the recent developments there. Such soldiers would return as winter fell with full purses and minds full of glorious prosperity and the near-independence of their employer, ideas that they would pass on to many in Stirland and Talabecland alike. Would it not be better, all too many heard, if they too could be ruled in such a kind and distant fashion that Grand Prince Konstantin applied to his own subjects?

Such soldiers of fortune were not the only measure that Kemperbad took during the year against the vicissitudes of fate. The city walls were thickened and expanded, while a network of forts and other defensive earthworks were sponsored up and down the rivers that brought the place so much of its trade. Such projects were undertaken solely in the interests of self-defense, so the merchant council proclaimed, and yet there were many among Talabecland's nobility that noted with a certain unease just how effective a foothold Kemperbad would make if Reikland thought to bring war to them in years to come.

Wolves and Winter

The wind that blew throughout Middenheim rang with the tolling of bells, a sonorous sound that echoed throughout the land in accompaniment to the sounds of quiet weeping. Indeed, it seemed the entire province wept. Everyone had lost relatives in the war against Reikland; everyone had faces that would not be returning home again. Grief flowed like a river, and its waters seemed to bubble up unending from the depths of the soul to drown the world in darkness.

Perhaps even worse was the uncertainty. The Regent of Middenland, Konrad von Schild, was dead. Vultures circled the bleeding, wounded body of Middenland, eager to carve off pieces of flesh to devour at their leisure and leave naught but bones for those who remained to pick through the ruins. Grim days were ahead, and everyone knew it.

Where, then, was the Cult of Ulric?

Much had been made in the past of the close bonds between the Cult and the Dukes of Middenland, a bond so close that it had at times impeded relationships with Ulricans in other provinces, but of late something seemed to have changed. The armies of Middenland marched south to confront invaders backed by the Cult of Sigmar, and they had done so alone, with not a single priest of Wolf and Winter to watch their backs and bring the fury of the storm down upon the foe.

Ar-Ulric Kriestov, High Priest of Ulric and Warden of the White Flame, had forbidden it. Every available priest was needed, he had claimed, in their shrines and fanes and sacred places, not on the battlefield. He did not explain why, nor grant audience to the increasingly desperate dispatches from the office of the Regent, nor permit access to the Flame of Ulric for any save his innermost circle for months on end. Pilgrims were turned away, priests commanded to offer prayer in support of their master, and all day and night the central temple echoed with the sound of chanting and the clash of metal upon metal.

And now, this. A regent slain, the children of Middenland dead by the thousand, an entire swathe of the heartland carved away by Reikish blades, and that without even thought for the dire news carried on the southern wind. Chaos had taken the Moot, greenskins had run rampant across Wissenland, the forces of two provinces had sailed against Norsca, and all of it was done without blessing or acknowledgement of the Cult of Ulric. Abandoned and distraught, it seemed that half of Middenheim was consumed with grief, and as the depths of winter settled over the land the cold stones echoed with the sounds of sorrow.

Karena Mikkel was not weeping. Her face lined with decades of war and struggle, her red hair graying at the temples, she had already shed her fair share of tears. No, her face was carefully set. Lips tightly pursed, her eyes narrowed, all one would see on her face was focus and discipline.

Unless they looked down at her hands, which were gripped so tightly the leather of her gloves creaked and threatened to crack. Her entourage did not comment on this, nor did any of the priests observing her as she walked down the halls in full armor with her axe at her hip. It was not an uncommon sight, after all, to see Ulric's faithful prepared at any moment for combat.

But there was something in her bearing, in the set of Karena's shoulders that drew attention. Almost despite themselves priests and laymen found themselves following after the tall, broad-shouldered woman. So it was that by the time she reached her destination she had perhaps a fourth of the temple trailing in her wake, curious as to what this old woman intended. And then, as they beheld the great doors to the central fane hanging open and unattended, stirring with alarm and the first pangs of outrage.

Inside, there was death.

Backlit by the silvery gleam of the ever-burning flame, Adolf von Jager stood alone. His face was bruised and twisted, his left arm strapped tight against his chest, his armour replaced by soft robes that would not aggravate his multitude of injuries. A contemplative expression adorned his face, and in his one working hand he carried an ornate sword, stained with blood.

The corpse of Ar-Ulric Kriestov lay broken at his feet.

"Adolf…" Karena's hushed voice broke the quiet, the gathered crowd shocked still and silent at her back, "What have you done?"

"Karena?" The Grandmaster of the White Wolves looked up, starting slightly, as though surprised to have witnesses at all. "Ah, I see… yes, of course you would be here. It is only right. I have done what was necessary."

Slowly, hesitantly, the priestess stepped forwards. One hand fell to the axe at her side. The Grandmaster was a hero, and a personal friend beside, but if he had truly gone mad… "Adolf, put down the sword."

"Hah. No, not yet," the injured man grunted, spitting blood from between his broken lips as he looked down at the weapon in his hand. "It's what he was working on, you know? The whole year, locked away in here, a hundred miles away. This sword. He said something about making a steel fang for the wolf, that it might better protect the pack, and while he prayed and forged and knelt in silence my brothers and sisters died screaming!"

For a moment there was silence, broken solely by the harsh rasp of Adolf's unsteady breath.

Straightening his shoulders, the old warrior looked at Karena once more, taking in her stance and the quietly focused look in her eyes. She had come here to do much the same as he, it seemed, and there were certainly enough witnesses…

"I, Adolf von Jager, hereby resign my position as Grandmaster of the White Wolves," he said, emotion filling his throat with gravel, "with my last order, I appoint Karena Mikkel my successor. May Ulric judge us all as we deserve."

With that, he turned and walked into the fire.

The reaction was instantaneous. With a shrieking howl, the White Flame of Ulric enveloped its injured son, a column of blazing silver flame erupting to scorch the stone blocks of the ceiling high overhead. The doors to the temple slammed open, thrown wide by an icy wind, and for miles around people looked to the suddenly storm-wracked sky in terrified awe.

Five heartbeats later, Ar-Ulric Adolf von Jager stepped out of the flame. His body made whole, his heart pulsing with new strength, and a sword of living fire clenched tightly in one hand. He raised it high in salute to the kneeling congregation, and for miles in every direction the winter storm echoed with the howling cries of a thousand hungry wolves.

Maugan Ra · Dec 3, 2019

It is now 2203 IC
Turn Four has begun

Sidheach · Dec 3, 2019

The Nuln von Bildhofens
Upon the Eve of Reunion

Magnus the Absent

---

Exile. Mercenary. Father. Son. All of these words and more may be used to describe the long estranged son of Gottfried the Decrepit, Magnus von Bildhofen. Once the beloved son of the late Duke, Magnus' decision to marry Brunhilde of Nuln – a plain girl from a failing family he had met whilst studying in Altdorf – set the young son of Carroburg on a long and winding path. Exiled for his insolence, and decision to take to the worship of Sigmar to satisfy his new wife, Magnus has done many a thing in his many a year of exile.

At first, he served as a mercenary; helping to restore his wife's family to their former status by lending his sword to any who could pay his price. He fought in Wissenland and Nordland, the Border Princes and Tilea, all in order to pay off a multitude of debts he had taken upon himself. When his heart grew heavier as his family expanded in size, his lengthy absences taking their toll upon his spirit, Magnus gave up the mercenary life and set down roots in Nuln. Ensconced in his wife's manse, he took up the role of teacher, instructing Southern fops in the finer points of sword-fighting in exchange for a princely sum.

Ever a son of Carroburg, despite the many years he had spent away from it, Magnus nevertheless never sat easily in Nuln. In spite of his love for his wife and children, who multiplied and split as children are want to do, he would ever keep an eye to the north, towards his home, and the father who had banished him.

And when Gottfried finally breathed his last, Magnus held his own in the hopes that he might now, at long last, be permitted to return home.

Alas, the ascension of Henryk von Bildhofen to the ducal throne seemed fit to end his hopes entirely, for his youngest brother proved far too ambitious to entertain a reconciliation. So dismayed, Magnus seemed ready to give up on his home; putting his affairs in order, he retired from public life, preferring instead to spend his days tending his garden and doting on his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Yet when word spread of Carroburg's betrayal of Middenland and it's submission to Reikland, the Absent Son allowed himself a moment of hope. Hope that Reikland might prove enough to gain him passage home and force the reconciliation he so deeply desired.

A hope that would, ultimately, prove well founded.

---

Magnus von Bildhofen, Called Magnus the Absent – Born 2129 I.C.

Married to Brunhilde of Nuln – Born 2128 I.C.

Their Eldest Son, Johann von Bildhofen – Born 2148 I.C.

Married to Emmanuelle of Nuln - Born 2151 I.C.

Their Son, Magnus von Bildhofen- Born 2182 I.C.
Their Daughter, Magna von Bildhofen - Born 2182 I.C.

Their Second Child, Hildegard von Bildhofen - 2151 I.C.

Married into a Nulner Family of Some Repute

Their Third Child, Matilda von Bildhofen, Called Captain Gwin - Born 2153 I.C., Presumed Dead 2175 I.C.

Given the Blood Curse by Fredrik von Carstein in 2175 I.C.

Three "Sons" of Varying Ages

Their Fourth Child, Gisela von Bildhofen - 2154 I.C.

Thrice Married Without Issue

Their Fifth Child, Theodric von Bildhofen - 2157 I.C. - A Mercenary of Some Renown

At Least One Bastard in Bretonnia and One Bastard in Norsca

Their Sixth Child, Conrad von Bildhofen - 2156 I.C.

Widower of a Noblewoman of Nuln (With Issue)

Their Seventh Child, Magnus von Bildhofen, Called Little Magnus - 2159 I.C. - A Vampire Hunter and Priest of Morr

Their Eighth Child, Dietrich von Bildhofen - 2160 I.C.

Married a Noblewoman of the Border Princes With Isssue

Their Ninth Child, Siegfried von Bildhofen - 2162 I.C. - A Knight of the Order of the Gold Lion

Their Tenth Child, Hedwig von Bildhofen - 2163 I.C.

Married into an Averlander Family of Good Stature

Their Eleventh Child, Grimoald von Bildhofen - 2165 I.C., Died in 2202 I.C. in Solland

Widowed a Noblewoman of Nuln (With Issue)

Their Twelfth Child, Reimar von Bildhofen - 2168 I.C.

Married to a Noblewoman of Reikish Birth With Issue

Their Thirteenth Child, Hermine von Bildhofen – Born 2171 I.C. - A Spinster by Choice

bookwyrm · Dec 4, 2019

To the Most Gracious Longbearded Elders of the Stout Folk And All Others It May Concern
@Maugan Ra

This missive bears the sign and seal of Herr Doktor PHILLIP VON HOHENHEIM, Guildenmiester of the Alchemistengilde, Doktor of the Mechanishe Künste of the Verenan Tempelschule of Middenheim, and subject of these proceedings as the source of a possible accounting of Dwarf-Grudge, hereafter to be referred to as the accused.

The accused apologizes deeply for the unorthodox manner of this address but wishes to impart whatever his testimony could add to the deliberations of this venerable Conclave so assembled as quickly and informatively possible so as to not hinder in any way the path of justice, as both the general principle holds that prompt resolution is always superior to the prolonged distraction from honorable craft and industrious work, and the specific that the continued suffering of Middenheim without the Dwarf Engineers' Guild and the Chapel of Grungni to tend to it on account of the proscription of the accused should be remedied as soon as justice and prudence may make such an allowance.

The accused realizes of course that testimony imparted on paper and away from the eyes of one's judges does not provide the strongest of evidence, but, if the esteemable Conclave may forgive this comparison, has found in his own experience in the persecution of breakers of Alchemist guild law and practitioners of black magic that though a suspected villain may given a many untruths and falsehoods in the course of the investigation the nature of what deceptions they employ may expose many valuable insights into the very secrets they wish to keep hidden. If the accused's actions must now be weighed and measured he is not so vain as to believe that his character is so saintly as to be free of such artifices nor for that behavior to hope to succeed in masking his true character from one of the mightiest pillars of Karaz Ankor.

Therefore, seeking to readily establish his innocence, or at least the true noble intentions behind any inadvertent criminality, the accused thereby hopes to profit from the opening of his soul before the keen judgement of this sagacious Conclave in such a manner. If this account proves insufficient to such a purpose and the august body of this Conclave wishes for further direct interrogation of the accused, the accused avows to his gladness at such a summons and obedience to it, expressing his own wish to have communicated the contents of this missive in person but his abstinence in light of his ignorance of Dwarfish legal courtesy and the presumption inherent in entering the threshold of a sacred Dawi Conclave unsummoned and without explicit pardon to do so.

Without further ado, the accused would begin his testimony on rigorous explanation of the instance of accusation itself, namely the construction of the Phillip's Periapt of Portent. With this missive should be a cross-section of examples of such devices, verifiable by the presence of appropriate serial numbers, maker's marks, and secret Alchemist sigils. Self-evident with the examination of the Periapt is the fact that it holds none of the wonders humanity has been granted the privilege to see of noble Runecraft and as far as the accused can conclude from his limited facilities in such matters, holds none of the sacred mysteries of the ancient order of this Conclave. The greater runes imparted by true Runecraft would undoubtedly be repulsed by the human construction and dishonorable cohabitation with other parts of the Periapt and even if the accused somehow could have so nefariously stolen the runes and fetter in some manner to the Periapt the resulting reaction would have left the accused astoundingly lucky to merely never grow his hair again.

At this point the accused would humbly suggest that all parties are in agreement that the Phillip's Periapt of Portent is in no way, shape, or form an actual human pillaging of Runecraft the art proper, and the "runes" within would be the known alchemical practice of carving sigils made of human dialect Low Khazalid and of academic High Reikspeil transcribed into a Khazalid runic alphabet. The principal matter seems to be to the accused then if and in what ways did he attempt to falsely present something that was not clearly Dwarfish Runecraft as in fact so. Bluntly, the conclusion of this stalwart Conclave will be forced by all logic and sensibility to say yes the accused did so. The accused fashioned his device out of artificially recreated Lodestone, magnetically and etherically charged iron in replication of the commonly found magic material used by many a Dwarf master, and besotted it with broken and grammatically poor Khazalid along with more exotic symbols of the dead lands of Nehekhara and the distant isles of elvendom.

Even if the accused proved to the satisfaction of the Conclave that his presentation of the Periapts was in highlighting a likeness and kinship only and not a direct claim of reproduction, as a human alewife highlighting the use of a superior dwarvish additive in her still human beer, recognition would still have to follow that many humans would lack the competence to differentiate the clearly inferior human work from Dwarf products most especially in the creation of wondrous artifacts and crude alchemical devices. The most dangerous and pernicious harm is done not by the braziers and crucibles that are obviously defective and cannot hold flame, but by the ones that are almost correct and fail only when they tasks are of the most import and necessity. Likewise something that even to the smallest degree blurs the line between good dwarvish Runecraft and itself and would fail the user only when called upon to do something only Runecraft may do is a far more dangerous and pernicious harm to the honor of the Runesmiths then any conman's bog iron rubbish.

However.
The accused believes that he could no more stop himself from this action then prevent himself from breathing.

How could he not incorporate even the slightest degree of Dwarvish insight and spotless Dwarvish illumination into his works, knowing in the deepest parts of his soul that would make each work less than all it could be? The accused knows that even if he had the potential talent and aptitude and even if the masters of Runecraft so impossibly honored him beyond what he could ever deserve and brought him in as a pupil, he would expire and die long before he could ever get even close to a real apprenticeship. It is his fate, and the fate of all humans, to know there are heights they could never reach under any circumstances. As a race we are all doomed like the Beardling who has sickened and will die prematurely- doomed to know that we will never be able to display the beauty our mentors and guardians so seemingly effortlessly display. Doomed to watch in awestruck wonder at a legacy we could never ourselves inherit. But as we are doomed, we can yet be blessed with aspiration anyway.

Can not that dying Beardling yet take solace in the aspirations of new improvements with each of his remaining days, not in comparison to the real masters, but to his past self? Is not even the lowliest of the low still entitled to the pride in making of themselves the best of all their possibilities as the lowliest, even if objectively they never escaped nor could escape those boundaries? To take away the barest iota of dwarfish perfection that may touch these Periapts, even though they themselves are imperfect human things unworthy of even that iota, would make them all the lesser for it. Would make of them less the maximum the accused's humble and pathetic skills could produce. Asking the accused to turn from solid Lodestone to some enchanted flipperanty when the accused could in fact acquire Lodestone (and likewise turning from a Khazalid turn of phrase to some muddled Tilean) would be asking the accused to forgo what little pride and honor a human can possess.

Since even before Sigmar Heldenhammer forged the empire we have all of us been the bastard children of the Karaks. You give us steel and we make perverse abominations of steel more fit for a Greenskin then a civilization. You give us gunpowder and still we do the same, for humanity can never reach the mastery and glory of the dwarfs. And yet, prodigal though we are, if we cannot hope to mimic our race's nurturers and guardians, if we cannot hope to besmirch and degrade the true crafts of the world with our own childish trifles- what hope do we have?

The accused Guildenmiester Phillip von Hohenheim sincerely apologies to this Conclave for any interruption of its judicious proceedings and hopes that whatever small contribution this testimony has provided may aid in its speedy resolution and the return of such an august body of masters to their undisturbed practice and industry.

May Verena's light shine clarity upon us all and Thrungni's tests find all our efforts ring true

Being of sound body and mind the accused Herr Doktor PHILLIP VON HOHENHEIM so swears and affixes by seal this to be his solemn testimony of affidavit. Prepared and dictated in the presence of Masters GUTERMUTH and HERTZ of the Worshipful Guild of Legalists and Mutter AUGENLOS, Notary-Priestess of Verena. Witnessed by the selfsame and the Kanzlerin of the Alchemistgilde Frau Doktorin SOPHIA BRAHE.

Winged Knight · Dec 4, 2019

The Wolf Time

Karena Mikkel was quiet as she donned her riding leathers, most of her armor carefully packed away. There was a long journey ahead of her, and she would need to make haste if she was going to be in time to recover some of the Cult of Ulric's honor. The Solland campaign had settled without their involvement, a grand war against enemies of her god and all mankind that had proceeded without her Ulric's blessing. It was almost as galling as what had happening with the Reikland invasion, but there was still time to mitigate at least some of the damage.

That seemed to be the game they were playing, if matters of such serious import could be considered games. She knew there were some who did. Those people were fools, of course, and they weren't just located in the south.

Answers had to be given. Answers had been given, if not perhaps entirely to her liking. But, regardless, the Cult of Ulric seemed to finally be turning itself around. At the very least they were no longer cloistered within Middenheim, kept away from the goings on of the world.

And, as Karena was finding out as she settled her wolf-skin cloak around her shoulders, walking out into the cold air, with answers came change.

"Grandmaster," a fresh-faced young man, Ranulf, said with a sharp salute as she approached the rest of the order by their horses. "We are ready to depart as soon as you give the word."

"Good," she said, distracted as she looked over the assembled knights, these faithful to Ulric who had done so much in his name. "Very good. We will ride hard, Ranulf, and to battle. But be warned, these early days will not bring glory. There will only be… necessity, if the Cult is to survive."

Ranulf grinned. "We've glory enough for now, Grandmaster. We can afford to do some shit work until our time comes again."

"It is good you understand," Karena said. "Go, then. Tell the others we will be heading out."

Karena observed Ranulf as he walked away. He was young enough to be her son, and yet veteran of so many battles. It was much the same all across the Knights of White Wolf. They were an order worthy of praise, and in most circumstances Karena would have been honored to be leading them. As it stood, she was filled with unease. Warring emotions clashed within the pit of her stomach, making her feel vaguely ill.

She had not earned this position, but it had still been given to her. That by itself brought doubts that clawed at the edges of her thoughts, and Karena could not shake the feeling she might be better served elsewhere. Even more, she could not escape the feeling she might better serve Ulric elsewhere.

It was not a wholly unfamiliar sensation. She had felt it for months, locked away and forbidden from entering into the conflict with Reikland. Karena rubbed at her wrists as she checked over her horse's saddle, remembering the bite of manacles set upon her for trying to leave Middenheim. That she would be held back while Middenland burned had broken what faith she held left in the previous Ar-Ulric, had led her to confront him before the Sacred Flame.

Reikland would have to pay for that. One day, there would be judgement. One day, she would march at the head of an army and see blood paid for blood, life for life, and none would besmirch divine Ulric or his faithful ever again.

That was for later, though. For now she would have to leave Reikland to Adolf, who no doubt had plans already in motion to that effect even if he had not voiced them. And if she had conflicting feelings over the heading this knightly order, they were tenfold as strong when it came to her old friend. Adolf was a good, faithful man and a fine warrior, but…

But if I had been just a little faster, it would have been me who had done what was necessary.

Not to mention the sword. Adolf should not have kept it, such a testament to Kriestov's vanity that he had wasted so much time with such a trifle. Karena had planned so shatter the blade, break that wretched thing in twain and then melt its remnants down to slag as a message to the rest of the Cult and to the world that Ulric's chosen would not be taken in by something so meager.

Later. It would have to be dealt with later, for there was too much to do. She mounted her horse and waved a hand to these young pups under her command, to direct as she saw fit.

And she would, because now was an age of reckoning. This was the wolf time, and the Empire needed to be reminded of what that meant.

I will show them, Karena thought as she set out, her knights close behind. I will show them all.

Maugan Ra · Dec 4, 2019

@bookwyrm

Article:

The CONCLAVE OF LONGBEARDS has finished its deliberations and rendered judgement.

Let it be known that the ALCHEMIST'S GUILD of the manlings did testify and confirm their intent to continue the production of POORLY MADE DERIVATIVES of true Dawi work, and that therefore the GRUDGE against them can only be satisfied with blood.

The CLAN OF THUNGRI hereby announces the following measures:
- The Guild of Alchemists is hereby declared SWORN ENEMY of all members of the Karaz Ankor Runesmith's Guild. All initial embargos and boycotts are hereby extended indefinitely.
- The Karaz Ankor Runesmith Guild will pay a bounty of [1 capital] for the severed head of any graduate, serving member of the Alchemist Guild, to be delivered to the Guild or a respectable intermediary.
- The Karaz Ankor Runesmith Guild will pay a bounty of [10 capital] to the individual who brings them the severed head of Philip von Hohenheim. Additionally, the individual responsible for the slaying of Philip von Hohenheim is entitled to commission a single work of runecraft from a verified Master Craftsman of the aforementioned guild.

Let it be known that MASTER RUNESMITH GARL OAKENSHIELD shall represent the Clan's interests in this matter, and will be travelling with an appropriate escort to see to the swift resolution of this Grudge.

- Letter delivered by courier to every guildmaster, noble and burgher in Middenland, Drakwald and Reikland

Skippy · Dec 4, 2019

Article:

To the esteemed (@Maugan Ra):
Bowman "Kestrel" Brandywine
Master-Elect of House Underhill
Stadtholder-Elect of Marienburg
Chief-Elect of the Haffengilde in all the Imperial States

If you are reading this, then I have passed into Morr's realm whilst trying to save the Moot from grave peril. I have chosen you as my heir. You will have very little time and much to do, so let us get straight to the point.

Those in our position rarely have the opportunity to choose their successors, and you will be wondering why I have chosen you. In fact, I imagine that for some years now you have been pondering why I brought you into my household. After your attempt on my life, this must have been surprising. (A good attempt, but the Merriweather brothers were never reliable catspaws. Remember as you go forward the Dwarfish saying that no craftsmen is better than his tools.) The reason I spared your life is that I felt responsible.

You see, your family's deaths were not an accident. They died by my hand, when I was younger than you are now. That mistake has haunted me, for they had committed no crime by our laws. It was an evil act, and I offer no explanation or justification. Thus you may imagine my shock when Boffo and Bungo brought you before me that night and I saw your face. My old sin had come to revisit me after all those years. By the laws of our people, it was all I could do to bring you into my home and care for you. This has remained between us even as you have risen in my service and courted my daughter. I have long suspected that you knew, but I have never had the courage to ask. This letter must serve as my confession.

The reason I chose you as my heir is that you reminded me of myself.

Unlike most of the other gilde captains, you were not born to a famous clan of burglars and bakers. My crime saw to that. You grew up on the streets with no family to comfort you, the most wretched state of being for any halfling, one which I too have known. You rose on your own merits, because you were clever and ruthless, with the hard-won strength which comes from having had nothing to lose. But unlike many who have dared everything to climb the ladder, you have not forgotten responsibility and tradition. The struggle has made you hard, but you have not forgotten kindness. You were bold enough to try and kill a boss at three-and-twenty, but you have never been careless. It is for these reasons that I am entrusting all of my worldly power to you.

Indeed, in the fullness of time, I had hoped that you might marry Marigold, and that I would formally recognise you as my son. Sadly, you have not come to inherit under the circumstances I had wished for.

If you are reading this, it is because I gambled in an attempt to save our homeland, and lost. I cannot know the precise circumstances of my demise or what calamity has befallen the Moot, but my worst fears are very dark indeed. Even as I pen this, we are making preparations to depart, and the shadows seem to grow deeper by the hour. You asked to sail with me, and I refused you. I hope that now you appreciate why, and what your responsibility must be. The only guidance I can offer you is this. The Moot is a people, not a place.

So long as there are halflings somewhere in the world who laugh and bake bread and brew cider, there is still hope for our people. The Dwarves say that they endure like the mountain, but we may outlast them yet, because we have the power to change. The Moot has moved before, in the dark times out of myth when our people came across the mountains. It can do so again. Our people are the greatest survivors in the world. This may be the last chapter in our story, or simply a new chapter. It is up to you.

All of the secrets which should not die with me have been entrusted to my secretary Ludmilla, who gave you this letter, as well as the books of House Underhill. She has been my only confidant for many years, and she will know what to do now. Speak to her first, before anyone. I have made expensive arrangements to ensure that House Underhill's seat in the Stadtsraad will transfer to my designate. Do not be surprised when the other stadtholders mount a challenge as soon as they are sure that my death is not a trick. The fate of the electoral vote of the Moot is uncertain, but it is an asset and a shield for our people which was won at great cost. Do not give it up if you can help it.

The captains will have received instructions. Underboss Bungo has given me his vow that he will obey you loyally. It is almost certain they will try to move against you within the next few days, and you must strike first. Whoever approaches you first asking for a meeting is a traitor, but probably only the least cunning of the bunch. It may be time for some fresh faces in our upper ranks. Greaser Manchewer the ogre captain is trustworthy, as is Baron Yjsbraant, despite his eccentricities. Other than them and Ludmilla, trust nothing and no one but your own instincts.

Save our people.

Your Boss,

Lotho Longshanks

Heirs of Sigmar

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