[X] Offer a compromise option to gather the corpses into a pile and then burn them with your spells.
Mercenary Mage Quest: Asur Dogs of War in Warhammer Fantasy
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[X] Offer a compromise option to gather the corpses into a pile and then burn them with your spells.
Yikes, those were some crazy rolls. Good thing Fanriel is hilariously overpowered for some rando raiders or that would have been real trouble. Hopefully our diplo roll for this vote stays true to form and we get a good result.
Yikes, those were some crazy rolls. Good thing Fanriel is hilariously overpowered for some rando raiders or that would have been real trouble. Hopefully our diplo roll for this vote stays true to form and we get a good result.
Vote closed
I mean, Elf Witch looking for excuses to do more magic is still a possible reaction.
Anyway, I'm calling it there since it's been 24 hours and the vote is overwhelmingly one-sided.
Thought I had you guys this time, but it didn't occur to me while writing that Fanriel could just burn the bodies as a compromise.
Yes, and we are butting not against a logical argument, but a cultural imperative. The bodies are being broken up so that if they revive as undead it is as disconnected broken bones instead of eyeless zombies. That's not why the locals are doing what they are doing though. They are doing it because their wisdom keepers told them "This is what you do" and they follow those instructions without question. They have not gotten read in on the whole undead bit. All they know is that you take your ax and chop up dead enemies.
We need to convince them that burning the bodies at least follows the spirit of the guidance they stake their lives on following. Fail and we have turned a two sided argument between our employer and the guides he hired where we could have played a deciding vote into a three sided argument between our employer, the guides he hired, and us, where nobody agrees with anyone.
Succeed marginally and we burn the bodies but leave everyone pissed at us because we made nobody happy.
Succeed well and we impress on everyone our wisdom.
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Blackout
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Oh it's definitely not a perfect solution, like I said it will still take some time, is not actually fulfilling the Ungol tradition, and is still a concession to the disobedient trackers.
I was more talking about the fact that I thought there would be more contention between "Spend valuable time and annoy your employer" or "Risk causing whatever the Ungol tradition is meant to avoid", but you guys immediately figured out a middle-ground option. But fair's fair, burning the bodies is something that Fanriel could do and reasonably think of, and I'm not going to restrict it just because I didn't think of it while writing the update.
I was more talking about the fact that I thought there would be more contention between "Spend valuable time and annoy your employer" or "Risk causing whatever the Ungol tradition is meant to avoid", but you guys immediately figured out a middle-ground option. But fair's fair, burning the bodies is something that Fanriel could do and reasonably think of, and I'm not going to restrict it just because I didn't think of it while writing the update.
Can't spell 'krown' without krump
And yes, I'd like to add to what TaliesinSkye said, the fight scenes were fantastic.
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Agreed, I'd say it's the best combat I've seen written for a quest so far. Then again I haven't really been part of many quests but it's still great regardless along with the rest of the writing we've had.Can't spell 'krown' without krump
And yes, I'd like to add to what TaliesinSkye said, the fight scenes were fantastic.
hey I just realized something. We killed a Chaos Champion and you could say we saved the lives of 4 innocents. This means we only have to kill 744 more champions and save 744,996 more people to say we forgive ourselves.
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Where'd you get the number from?
Well, 745 elves died because of us, so I figured that for every life lost, we'll end that of a Chaos Champion and save a thousand more lives. Here we killed Zaadirk of the Ironsworn and protected the lives of Zantilov, Gersilov, and the two trackers.
Using a weighing scale, I'd imagine. I'm pretty sure that between the White Tower of Hoeth and the Smith-Priests of Vaul, Ulthuan has enough mechanical and engineering knowledge to rig up a scale that can hold and weigh a 1,000 people at the same time.
It's not really humans in particular, that's just how many Fanriel has to save to clean the stain on her honor so it could be humans, elves, or even Dawi.
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Zaandirk wasn't a Chaos Champion, at least not in the sense that most people would use that term. He was a Champion, and follows Chaos, but he was a Marauder Champion with a Mark of Khorne, not even a Chaos Warrior. You'd get some weird looks if you went around saying you killed a Chaos Champion here.
Chaos Champion usually refers to people like this:
Rather than this:
But what if you kill a chaos troll, or a dragon, how many does that count as? You need a proper exchange rate!
Ok I'm giving ourselves a little leeway here. I meant more of people who are really up there compared to the average worshipper of Chaos. Like even just a Cult Leader I'm willing to accept as counting towards our tally.
More of depends on the surrounding people and ow big the threat is. Like people in the immediate area would count, but something like a Chaos Warband or a rampaging Dragon then I suppose you could count the surrounding towns or even a city if that was their intended target and they stood a reasonable threat of successfully destroying or severely hurting it.
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I saw something about opposed rolls vs single rolls and I would like to point out something that was missed. With a single roll, the worst thing that can happen is you roll a natural 1. With opposed rolls, the worst thing that can happen is that you roll a natural 1 and the opponent rolls a natural 100. It may overall be more stable than a single roll, but opposed rolls can spike some crazy outliers your way that I feel better encapsulate the moments of sheer wtf that the world of Mallus occasionally produces.
Priestly Bodyguarding Mission: Part 4
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You watch from the sidelines as the kislevites go at it, rapid-fire kislevarin growing less and less comprehensible as emotions run hot. When terms like 'Ungol impudence' and 'Gospodars lack respect for tradition' get thrown around, you know that you have to say something. This could turn ugly quickly, and that is something you cannot afford, not when your duty is to see everyone here to your destination safely.
Zanitlov's pride has been pricked by the trackers' blunt refusal of his orders, but you are loath to disrespect local customs, no matter how silly they may seem to you, when the whole point of your presence here is to ingratiate yourself with the kislevites.
"I could burn the bodies," you suggest. "It would be quicker, and serve the same purpose as chopping them up, no?"
In theory, a compromise option could break the deadlock, and get things moving again instead of wasting time arguing.
Presenting the Argument: (16+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)+10(Recently Saved Everyone's Lives)-10(Outsider Distrust)-15(Compromise Argument)=31/100)
Or it could cause both of them to whirl to face you in turn, faces flushed red with anger.
"The Baba say to do it with axes."
"You want to give them an honourable burial? Pyres are for men of kislev, not kyazak!"
"But it accomplishes the same purpose, does it not?" you argue. "It's not a funeral pyre if it's done with magic, and no rites are performed for them."
Recovering: (56+30+10-10-15-10(United Against you)=61/100
It still takes some time to convince the kislevites, but eventually they concede to go along with your plan. Like all good compromises, nobody is happy about it, but at least it gets everyone moving forward.
Working quickly, the Swordmasters and the kislevites pile the bodies together into a rough heap, Vaelon hefting corpses over his shoulders while the others work in pairs. It still takes longer than you would like, but it is certainly faster by far than hacking them all apart.
Burning the bodies: (84+20(Fanriel Magic)-10(Steppe Winter)=94/100)
You draw upon the small eddies of Aqshy floating around, remnants of the fire spells you'd used during the battle as well as residual passion of the kislevites' argument, shaping them into a fiery wind that sweeps over the pile of bodies. It takes a moment, but soon enough fur and leather catches fire, kicking off a self-reinforcing process that soon enough envelops the Kurgan corpses in a proper inferno.
Zanitlov is still sulking as you turn to leave, and the Ungols do not seem particularly happy either. But it is the price you have to pay, and something you can't really do anything about right now, especially as you have to focus upon casting your magics.
Kurgans simply do not move in groups so small, and you have no doubt there are more warbands of the Ironsworn lurking around spread across the steppe, which the survivors of your clash will be alerting to your presence even now.
So you summon Ghyran to yourself, laying a blessing over the group that will hide your tracks in the snow. With any luck, it will be enough to throw off any pursuers.
Avoidance: (93+20(Wilds Undisturbed)-5(Spent Time)-5(Smoke Trail)=103/100)
Several days pass in sullen silence as you trek northeast through the forest, only sparse words exchanged between you and the kislevites. No more tales are swapped over the campfire, each party quietly going about their business.
You offer prayer to Kurnous and Ladrielle that no other marauders seem to have picked up your trail, concealed as it is by your magic. Perhaps a part of it is that nobody would expect you to be travelling northward at this time of the year, but still, you count your blessings where you can.
The forest is nothing like those of Ulthuan, where even the most foreboding hinterlands of Avelorn and Chrace still thrum with life. Life that would love nothing more than to kill you, but life nonetheless. The Narorsk Forest, or so the map you've memorized called it, is a bleak, desolate place, the trees covered so thickly with snow that in places you can't see bark at all. Nothing moves or makes a sound save for your party, slowly dredging forward.
Were it not for the Winds of Magic blowing from the north it would be easy to become lost in the seemingly endless woodlands as your path weaves around the trees, and without a point of reference minute changes of direction would build up until you'd end up going in circles.
Eventually the forest begins to thin out, and you pass by tree stumps clearly felled by axes, as well as trails in the snow where the trunks have been dragged away. Soon after you emerge into the steppe once more, thin trails of smoke rising over the horizon.you see a thin trail of smoke rising over the horizon.
You pause in alarm, but Zanitlov is nonplussed, raising an eyebrow at you.
"What is the matter? Is just the Ursztosk stanitsa up ahead."
You look at the kislevite in askance. "There wasn't a settlement there on any of the maps I've seen."
"Elf maps, eh?" Zanitlov gives you a strange look. "When were these maps drawn?"
"X 550? That would be 529 by your calendar."
The priest belches out a laugh, holding his belly. "You realize that is over two hundred years ago, yes?" he says with a shake of his head. "Half the stanitsas in Kislev will have been razed and replaced in that time."
You grind your teeth, but swallow your pride and let the mockery stand. You have better things to be doing.
Soon enough the stanitsa rises over the horizon, situated atop a hill. The first you see are thick wooden walls, reinforced with stone watchtowers at each corner. Battlements are lined with outward-facing spikes to deter ladders and climbers, with cover for archers to shoot down.
You pass through a loose ring of metal constructions surrounding the settlement, a little over a hundred meters away from the walls. They stand twice the height of a man, with a thick pole embedded into the frozen ground, and a bowl-like shape at the top, with a covering to protect it from snowfall.
"Are those braziers?" Dolwen asks, eyeing the strange contraptions.
"See how they're driven deep into the ground so they can't be toppled, and built too high to be easily smothered? We have something like that in Tor Elithis," Tethildur replied to the Eatainean. "The Naga like to attack under the cover of the darkness, so every dusk we'd fill the braziers with pitch. When the attack comes, the best archer from each wall section would shoot a fire arrow into the brazier, allowing the rest to see their targets."
"That sounds like a lot of moving parts," Eöl muses. "Wouldn't magic be more reliable? The walls of Lothern mount great enchanted lenses that illuminate the surrounding area."
"Aye," Tethildur agrees with a subtly-pained smile. "That would be more convenient."
"I suspect the kislevites use a rider with a torch," you note. "A human archer can't accurately hit such a small target at that distance."
As you approach the walls you can see that there is a lower wall of hard-packed snow surrounding them, and between that and the walls is a deep, stake-filled moat that looks like it's been recently shoveled free of snow.
The only way into the town is a gate preceded by a wooden bridge, composed of thick oaken planks slotted into metal grooves on either end, allowing a crew of men to disassemble it in a matter of moments.
Fires burn on the watchtowers, and you see bows being hefted by grim-faced sentinels as you approach, barrels of arrows held at the ready. No doubt a company of elves is not a common sight in these parts of the world.
Nonetheless, perhaps because of Zanitlov's presence, you are allowed to cross the bridge unmolested, before stopping in front of the great gates, sturdy wooden construction held together with metal bands.
It seems the locals have no intention of opening the gates, but as you come to a halt a rope ladder is thrown down from the battlements.
"Priest comes," a rough voice calls out. "The rest wait there."
Zanitlov mutters something inaudible under his breath, but starts to climb up, huffing and puffing all the way. The rest of you wait by the gates, eyeing one another while a storm of arrows could descend upon you at any moment.
After a few minutes of waiting you hear the sound of heavy locking bars being removed and the gates are thrown open, pushing out snow before them. A squad of burly guards armoured in scale mail keep the way open long enough for your group to get through, before pulling them shut behind you.
The walled settlement consists of a number of wooden cabins and huts, unassuming and practical in their construction. The general in you notes that the buildings are arranged in concentric rings along the slope of the hill, channelling attackers along narrow chokepoints.
As the gates are closed and the massive timber locking bar is out back into place, you come face to face with Zanitlov and an enormous, colourfully dressed bear of a man. He is as rotund as the priest but unlike him the fat is matched by muscle, his rippling arms exposed to the elements.
"This is Loremaster Fanriel, the captain of my escort and a high elf of Ulthuan," Zanitlov is explaining to the man, before turning to you. "Loremaster, I have the utmost pleasure of introducing you to the honourable Ataman Polursunov of the Ursztosk Stanitsa."
The man looks at you, then he looks up, and then up.
"Ha!" he belches out with a laugh, offering you a hand to shake. "It truly must be the end times if the wrozka are this far north. Sorry about that business at the gate, had to make sure you weren't holding the good priest here hostage."
"Is that a common occurrence?" you ask neutrally.
"Da, the kyazak ambush a merchant and dress up as his guards. When you let them into the stanitsa, they draw weapons and throw open the gates for the rest of the warband. A favourite of the followers of the Raven."
"Do you mean Tzeen-" Orlaith begins, but she is cut off when all of the kislevites suddenly turn to glare at her.
"Do not utter their names!" Polursunov hisses.
"We Asur do not fear the Dark Gods," the Caledorian retorts defiantly.
"It is our custom," the Ataman reaffirms sternly. "While you are our guest, you will follow it."
"Do as he says," you add in Eltharin. "Don't antagonize the locals if you don't have to."
It's not the first concession you've had to make, nor will it be the last.
Orlaith does not look happy about it, but reluctantly nods in affirmation.
"Now, what are we standing around here for?" It is like a switch is suddenly flipped, as Polursunov's dire expression turns jovial once more, throwing out a hand over Zanitlov's shoulder as the other kislevites relax their demeanour. "Come, come, follow me! I will not have my guests sitting out in the cold!"
He leads you deeper into the stanitsa, up the hill. The settlement is less than even the poorest village in Ulthuan, the streets covered with frost-hardened dirt that will no doubt turn into mud come spring, and with little in the way of colour save white snow and dark wood. Men and women alike clad in practical, simple clothing hurry along in their daily lives, many of them pausing to gawk at the group of elves, but you pay them little heed.
At the top of the hill lies a large, sturdy longhouse with thick walls of timber and a great, metal-reinforced front door. Yet despite its plain appearance, you are taken aback as you are ushered inside and come face to face with what feels like an explosion of colour.
Large fires are set at the center of the great hall, casting the intricately woven rugs mounted on the walls in orange hues. You see a musclebound man depicted as wielding an axe with a haft of lightning against what are clearly stylized chaos warriors, a bear standing over a wounded kislevite warrior, a regal figure driving a chariot with wheels of yellow flame, a stern matron holding a babe under each arm, a white-maned wolf tearing out the throat of a Norscan marauder, a great stag bounding through a forest, and a young woman bearing a scale in one hand and a sword pressed to the neck of a mutant in the other.
"Bring out meat! Bring out kvass!" Polursunov calls out as you enter, spreading his arms wide "Tonight we host honoured guests! Feast!"
A few moments later you are sat down at one of the long tables that run the length of the room, next to Zanitlov who in turn sits at the Ataman's right side. Spit roasts are brought out and mounted over the fires, while entire barrels of alcohol have been uncorked, and drinks flow freely. The people of Ursztosk seem to have taken Polursunov's announcement to heart, and soon enough the sound of harps and violins fill the air, while men and women alike dance and caper around the fires.
The kislevites seem to take this all in a stride, clapping along to the rhythm of the music, but you can tell that the Swordmasters are as taken aback by the whiplash-change of the mood as you are, sitting stiff-necked and guarded. You have come to know the kislevites as dour and insular people, and so for them to suddenly erupt in revelry and celebrations is… off-putting, to say the least.
"Come, my friends, the journey from Erengrad must have been long and perilous," Polursunov says, raising a skin of koumiss. "We will give you provisions and firewood for the journey ahead, for you have far to go still, if you are to reach Noveblya."
Zanitlov waggles his eyebrows at you, before turning to face the Ataman.
"May Dazh smile upon you for your hospitality, Polursunov of Ursztosk," the priest intones. "The path was perilous indeed, for we encountered the hated Kurgan of the Ironsworn tribe."
The kislevites all shake their heads, and mutter curses under their breaths.
"The Ironsworn have been a plague upon Kislev for many winters," Polursunov says with venom in his voice. "They say some of the northern Atamans are desperate or stupid enough to pay them off, but they won't take a tribute of gold, only iron and steel."
He spits into a cup on the floor. "I hope you sent the bastards to meet their foul gods."
"Da, that we did," Zanitlov guffaws. "Though it is a good thing I was able to contract the services of Loremaster Fanriel and her droyaska, or we might have been in trouble. Not many could fight thrice their number in Kurgan horsemen, eh?"
"Then I shall raise a toast to your victory, and to the prowess of the elves," the Ataman replies genially, raising his drink before gulping down a great mouthful.
The other kislevites seem to take this as a cue to cheer and drink, and you cautiously take a sip from the mug of clear liquid that was poured for you. It is excessively strong, burning your throat all the way down, but you hold back your distaste.
You notice many of the locals not-so-subtly watching you as you drink, and seeing you hold it down, redouble their cheers. You find it a crude drink, substituting flavour for sheer alcoholic content, but you are well aware of its role in kislevite culture.
"I must admit to my curiosity, for none of us have ever seen an elf, only heard the stories coming from Erengrad," Polursunov says, wiping foam off his long, drooping moustache. "You are a Lore-keeper, are you not? Would you regale us with tales of homeland and your people?"
"I've heard about this!" Tinuthal pipes up with excitement, leaning closer to whisper to you in Eltharin. "It is a kislevite custom that in exchange for hospitality, the guests should entertain the host with stories. Others are then invited to share their own tales, and it brings great honour and esteem upon the guest if nobody can match them in storytelling."
-What tales does Fanriel tell of her former life?
-Two highest voted options will be picked.
-Write-ins subject to approval. Must be something appropriate for storytelling.
[] [TELLING] Of the splendour of Ulthuan's cities.
[] [TELLING] Of the grim beauty of Yvresse.
[] [TELLING] Of the White Tower and the wonders of magic.
[] [TELLING] Of the beauty and wisdom of the Everqueen.
[] [TELLING] Of the time she fought alongside the noble Dragons of Caledor, ancient allies of elvenkind.
[] [TELLING] Of the Wailing Fen, and her triumph over the Daemons.
[] [TELLING] Of the Ind campaigns, and the wars against the beastmen who dwell there.
[] [TELLING] Of the time she led the defence of her domain against monsters ranging down from the Annulii mountains.
[] [TELLING] Of her first battle, fighting against marauding norsemen on the great ocean.
[] [TELLING] Of the defence of the human city of Marienburg against a greenskin siege.
[] [TELLING] Write-in.
-What tales do the kislevites tell in an attempt to match her?
-Two highest voted options will be picked.
-Write-ins subject to approval. Must be something appropriate for storytelling.
[] [HEARING] Of the might of Kislev's armies.
[] [HEARING] Of the power of Kislev's great gods.
[] [HEARING] Of the dangerous beasts that roam the land.
[] [HEARING] Of the strange magics of the witches.
[] [HEARING] Of the terrifying spirits of Kislev.
[] [HEARING] Of the enduring will of the Kislevite people.
[] [HEARING] Of the hated enemies that plague Kislev.
[] [HEARING] Of the heroes of Kislev, who guide her people in dark times.
[] [HEARING] Write-in.
-Four hours Moratorium in place.
Zanitlov's pride has been pricked by the trackers' blunt refusal of his orders, but you are loath to disrespect local customs, no matter how silly they may seem to you, when the whole point of your presence here is to ingratiate yourself with the kislevites.
"I could burn the bodies," you suggest. "It would be quicker, and serve the same purpose as chopping them up, no?"
In theory, a compromise option could break the deadlock, and get things moving again instead of wasting time arguing.
Presenting the Argument: (16+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)+10(Recently Saved Everyone's Lives)-10(Outsider Distrust)-15(Compromise Argument)=31/100)
Or it could cause both of them to whirl to face you in turn, faces flushed red with anger.
"The Baba say to do it with axes."
"You want to give them an honourable burial? Pyres are for men of kislev, not kyazak!"
"But it accomplishes the same purpose, does it not?" you argue. "It's not a funeral pyre if it's done with magic, and no rites are performed for them."
Recovering: (56+30+10-10-15-10(United Against you)=61/100
It still takes some time to convince the kislevites, but eventually they concede to go along with your plan. Like all good compromises, nobody is happy about it, but at least it gets everyone moving forward.
Working quickly, the Swordmasters and the kislevites pile the bodies together into a rough heap, Vaelon hefting corpses over his shoulders while the others work in pairs. It still takes longer than you would like, but it is certainly faster by far than hacking them all apart.
Burning the bodies: (84+20(Fanriel Magic)-10(Steppe Winter)=94/100)
You draw upon the small eddies of Aqshy floating around, remnants of the fire spells you'd used during the battle as well as residual passion of the kislevites' argument, shaping them into a fiery wind that sweeps over the pile of bodies. It takes a moment, but soon enough fur and leather catches fire, kicking off a self-reinforcing process that soon enough envelops the Kurgan corpses in a proper inferno.
Zanitlov is still sulking as you turn to leave, and the Ungols do not seem particularly happy either. But it is the price you have to pay, and something you can't really do anything about right now, especially as you have to focus upon casting your magics.
Kurgans simply do not move in groups so small, and you have no doubt there are more warbands of the Ironsworn lurking around spread across the steppe, which the survivors of your clash will be alerting to your presence even now.
So you summon Ghyran to yourself, laying a blessing over the group that will hide your tracks in the snow. With any luck, it will be enough to throw off any pursuers.
Avoidance: (93+20(Wilds Undisturbed)-5(Spent Time)-5(Smoke Trail)=103/100)
Several days pass in sullen silence as you trek northeast through the forest, only sparse words exchanged between you and the kislevites. No more tales are swapped over the campfire, each party quietly going about their business.
You offer prayer to Kurnous and Ladrielle that no other marauders seem to have picked up your trail, concealed as it is by your magic. Perhaps a part of it is that nobody would expect you to be travelling northward at this time of the year, but still, you count your blessings where you can.
The forest is nothing like those of Ulthuan, where even the most foreboding hinterlands of Avelorn and Chrace still thrum with life. Life that would love nothing more than to kill you, but life nonetheless. The Narorsk Forest, or so the map you've memorized called it, is a bleak, desolate place, the trees covered so thickly with snow that in places you can't see bark at all. Nothing moves or makes a sound save for your party, slowly dredging forward.
Were it not for the Winds of Magic blowing from the north it would be easy to become lost in the seemingly endless woodlands as your path weaves around the trees, and without a point of reference minute changes of direction would build up until you'd end up going in circles.
Eventually the forest begins to thin out, and you pass by tree stumps clearly felled by axes, as well as trails in the snow where the trunks have been dragged away. Soon after you emerge into the steppe once more, thin trails of smoke rising over the horizon.you see a thin trail of smoke rising over the horizon.
You pause in alarm, but Zanitlov is nonplussed, raising an eyebrow at you.
"What is the matter? Is just the Ursztosk stanitsa up ahead."
You look at the kislevite in askance. "There wasn't a settlement there on any of the maps I've seen."
"Elf maps, eh?" Zanitlov gives you a strange look. "When were these maps drawn?"
"X 550? That would be 529 by your calendar."
The priest belches out a laugh, holding his belly. "You realize that is over two hundred years ago, yes?" he says with a shake of his head. "Half the stanitsas in Kislev will have been razed and replaced in that time."
You grind your teeth, but swallow your pride and let the mockery stand. You have better things to be doing.
Soon enough the stanitsa rises over the horizon, situated atop a hill. The first you see are thick wooden walls, reinforced with stone watchtowers at each corner. Battlements are lined with outward-facing spikes to deter ladders and climbers, with cover for archers to shoot down.
You pass through a loose ring of metal constructions surrounding the settlement, a little over a hundred meters away from the walls. They stand twice the height of a man, with a thick pole embedded into the frozen ground, and a bowl-like shape at the top, with a covering to protect it from snowfall.
"Are those braziers?" Dolwen asks, eyeing the strange contraptions.
"See how they're driven deep into the ground so they can't be toppled, and built too high to be easily smothered? We have something like that in Tor Elithis," Tethildur replied to the Eatainean. "The Naga like to attack under the cover of the darkness, so every dusk we'd fill the braziers with pitch. When the attack comes, the best archer from each wall section would shoot a fire arrow into the brazier, allowing the rest to see their targets."
"That sounds like a lot of moving parts," Eöl muses. "Wouldn't magic be more reliable? The walls of Lothern mount great enchanted lenses that illuminate the surrounding area."
"Aye," Tethildur agrees with a subtly-pained smile. "That would be more convenient."
"I suspect the kislevites use a rider with a torch," you note. "A human archer can't accurately hit such a small target at that distance."
As you approach the walls you can see that there is a lower wall of hard-packed snow surrounding them, and between that and the walls is a deep, stake-filled moat that looks like it's been recently shoveled free of snow.
The only way into the town is a gate preceded by a wooden bridge, composed of thick oaken planks slotted into metal grooves on either end, allowing a crew of men to disassemble it in a matter of moments.
Fires burn on the watchtowers, and you see bows being hefted by grim-faced sentinels as you approach, barrels of arrows held at the ready. No doubt a company of elves is not a common sight in these parts of the world.
Nonetheless, perhaps because of Zanitlov's presence, you are allowed to cross the bridge unmolested, before stopping in front of the great gates, sturdy wooden construction held together with metal bands.
It seems the locals have no intention of opening the gates, but as you come to a halt a rope ladder is thrown down from the battlements.
"Priest comes," a rough voice calls out. "The rest wait there."
Zanitlov mutters something inaudible under his breath, but starts to climb up, huffing and puffing all the way. The rest of you wait by the gates, eyeing one another while a storm of arrows could descend upon you at any moment.
After a few minutes of waiting you hear the sound of heavy locking bars being removed and the gates are thrown open, pushing out snow before them. A squad of burly guards armoured in scale mail keep the way open long enough for your group to get through, before pulling them shut behind you.
The walled settlement consists of a number of wooden cabins and huts, unassuming and practical in their construction. The general in you notes that the buildings are arranged in concentric rings along the slope of the hill, channelling attackers along narrow chokepoints.
As the gates are closed and the massive timber locking bar is out back into place, you come face to face with Zanitlov and an enormous, colourfully dressed bear of a man. He is as rotund as the priest but unlike him the fat is matched by muscle, his rippling arms exposed to the elements.
"This is Loremaster Fanriel, the captain of my escort and a high elf of Ulthuan," Zanitlov is explaining to the man, before turning to you. "Loremaster, I have the utmost pleasure of introducing you to the honourable Ataman Polursunov of the Ursztosk Stanitsa."
The man looks at you, then he looks up, and then up.
"Ha!" he belches out with a laugh, offering you a hand to shake. "It truly must be the end times if the wrozka are this far north. Sorry about that business at the gate, had to make sure you weren't holding the good priest here hostage."
"Is that a common occurrence?" you ask neutrally.
"Da, the kyazak ambush a merchant and dress up as his guards. When you let them into the stanitsa, they draw weapons and throw open the gates for the rest of the warband. A favourite of the followers of the Raven."
"Do you mean Tzeen-" Orlaith begins, but she is cut off when all of the kislevites suddenly turn to glare at her.
"Do not utter their names!" Polursunov hisses.
"We Asur do not fear the Dark Gods," the Caledorian retorts defiantly.
"It is our custom," the Ataman reaffirms sternly. "While you are our guest, you will follow it."
"Do as he says," you add in Eltharin. "Don't antagonize the locals if you don't have to."
It's not the first concession you've had to make, nor will it be the last.
Orlaith does not look happy about it, but reluctantly nods in affirmation.
"Now, what are we standing around here for?" It is like a switch is suddenly flipped, as Polursunov's dire expression turns jovial once more, throwing out a hand over Zanitlov's shoulder as the other kislevites relax their demeanour. "Come, come, follow me! I will not have my guests sitting out in the cold!"
He leads you deeper into the stanitsa, up the hill. The settlement is less than even the poorest village in Ulthuan, the streets covered with frost-hardened dirt that will no doubt turn into mud come spring, and with little in the way of colour save white snow and dark wood. Men and women alike clad in practical, simple clothing hurry along in their daily lives, many of them pausing to gawk at the group of elves, but you pay them little heed.
At the top of the hill lies a large, sturdy longhouse with thick walls of timber and a great, metal-reinforced front door. Yet despite its plain appearance, you are taken aback as you are ushered inside and come face to face with what feels like an explosion of colour.
Large fires are set at the center of the great hall, casting the intricately woven rugs mounted on the walls in orange hues. You see a musclebound man depicted as wielding an axe with a haft of lightning against what are clearly stylized chaos warriors, a bear standing over a wounded kislevite warrior, a regal figure driving a chariot with wheels of yellow flame, a stern matron holding a babe under each arm, a white-maned wolf tearing out the throat of a Norscan marauder, a great stag bounding through a forest, and a young woman bearing a scale in one hand and a sword pressed to the neck of a mutant in the other.
"Bring out meat! Bring out kvass!" Polursunov calls out as you enter, spreading his arms wide "Tonight we host honoured guests! Feast!"
A few moments later you are sat down at one of the long tables that run the length of the room, next to Zanitlov who in turn sits at the Ataman's right side. Spit roasts are brought out and mounted over the fires, while entire barrels of alcohol have been uncorked, and drinks flow freely. The people of Ursztosk seem to have taken Polursunov's announcement to heart, and soon enough the sound of harps and violins fill the air, while men and women alike dance and caper around the fires.
The kislevites seem to take this all in a stride, clapping along to the rhythm of the music, but you can tell that the Swordmasters are as taken aback by the whiplash-change of the mood as you are, sitting stiff-necked and guarded. You have come to know the kislevites as dour and insular people, and so for them to suddenly erupt in revelry and celebrations is… off-putting, to say the least.
"Come, my friends, the journey from Erengrad must have been long and perilous," Polursunov says, raising a skin of koumiss. "We will give you provisions and firewood for the journey ahead, for you have far to go still, if you are to reach Noveblya."
Zanitlov waggles his eyebrows at you, before turning to face the Ataman.
"May Dazh smile upon you for your hospitality, Polursunov of Ursztosk," the priest intones. "The path was perilous indeed, for we encountered the hated Kurgan of the Ironsworn tribe."
The kislevites all shake their heads, and mutter curses under their breaths.
"The Ironsworn have been a plague upon Kislev for many winters," Polursunov says with venom in his voice. "They say some of the northern Atamans are desperate or stupid enough to pay them off, but they won't take a tribute of gold, only iron and steel."
He spits into a cup on the floor. "I hope you sent the bastards to meet their foul gods."
"Da, that we did," Zanitlov guffaws. "Though it is a good thing I was able to contract the services of Loremaster Fanriel and her droyaska, or we might have been in trouble. Not many could fight thrice their number in Kurgan horsemen, eh?"
"Then I shall raise a toast to your victory, and to the prowess of the elves," the Ataman replies genially, raising his drink before gulping down a great mouthful.
The other kislevites seem to take this as a cue to cheer and drink, and you cautiously take a sip from the mug of clear liquid that was poured for you. It is excessively strong, burning your throat all the way down, but you hold back your distaste.
You notice many of the locals not-so-subtly watching you as you drink, and seeing you hold it down, redouble their cheers. You find it a crude drink, substituting flavour for sheer alcoholic content, but you are well aware of its role in kislevite culture.
"I must admit to my curiosity, for none of us have ever seen an elf, only heard the stories coming from Erengrad," Polursunov says, wiping foam off his long, drooping moustache. "You are a Lore-keeper, are you not? Would you regale us with tales of homeland and your people?"
"I've heard about this!" Tinuthal pipes up with excitement, leaning closer to whisper to you in Eltharin. "It is a kislevite custom that in exchange for hospitality, the guests should entertain the host with stories. Others are then invited to share their own tales, and it brings great honour and esteem upon the guest if nobody can match them in storytelling."
-What tales does Fanriel tell of her former life?
-Two highest voted options will be picked.
-Write-ins subject to approval. Must be something appropriate for storytelling.
[] [TELLING] Of the splendour of Ulthuan's cities.
[] [TELLING] Of the grim beauty of Yvresse.
[] [TELLING] Of the White Tower and the wonders of magic.
[] [TELLING] Of the beauty and wisdom of the Everqueen.
[] [TELLING] Of the time she fought alongside the noble Dragons of Caledor, ancient allies of elvenkind.
[] [TELLING] Of the Wailing Fen, and her triumph over the Daemons.
[] [TELLING] Of the Ind campaigns, and the wars against the beastmen who dwell there.
[] [TELLING] Of the time she led the defence of her domain against monsters ranging down from the Annulii mountains.
[] [TELLING] Of her first battle, fighting against marauding norsemen on the great ocean.
[] [TELLING] Of the defence of the human city of Marienburg against a greenskin siege.
[] [TELLING] Write-in.
-What tales do the kislevites tell in an attempt to match her?
-Two highest voted options will be picked.
-Write-ins subject to approval. Must be something appropriate for storytelling.
[] [HEARING] Of the might of Kislev's armies.
[] [HEARING] Of the power of Kislev's great gods.
[] [HEARING] Of the dangerous beasts that roam the land.
[] [HEARING] Of the strange magics of the witches.
[] [HEARING] Of the terrifying spirits of Kislev.
[] [HEARING] Of the enduring will of the Kislevite people.
[] [HEARING] Of the hated enemies that plague Kislev.
[] [HEARING] Of the heroes of Kislev, who guide her people in dark times.
[] [HEARING] Write-in.
-Four hours Moratorium in place.
Hm, maybe we should tell the tale of Aenarion the Defender, First of the Phoenix Kings, and the Curse of the Widowmaker. Might get some fun character moments out of it given that Fanriel is of his bloodline and has arguably fallen afoul of the Swords curse.
And the Kislevites would probably find hearing about the fight against the first great chaos incursion interesting - though they might think the elves arrogant for claiming to have saved the world from Chaos.
And the Kislevites would probably find hearing about the fight against the first great chaos incursion interesting - though they might think the elves arrogant for claiming to have saved the world from Chaos.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Is that even something they advertise, the Widowmaker and the Curse of Khaine?