Conversation remains animated in the wake of your tale, with many of the kislevites asking for further elaboration or even a full retelling, but all of these you rebuff, for your story is told. Now it is their turn.
Perhaps it is only natural that the topic of discussion turns to their own heroes, as they attempt to match your tale. Legendary figures are thrown into the contention, such as Miska the Slaughterer, the first of the Khan-Queens and the founder of Kislev, Tzar Alexandr, a famed warrior who inspired the winged banners of Kislev's elite cavalry, and Kazivan Straghov, who held the line against a vast army of Norscans pouring forth from the Black Blood Pass in the north. A name that comes up several times is one you've already heard before: Tzarenavich Kattarin Romanoff, daughter of Tzar Alexis and the current heir apparent to the Tzardom of Kislev.
Everyone seems to have only good things to say of her, beyond the base fact that she is an Ice Witch. As you'd already learned before, she is currently in Praag, taking the fight to the enemies spilling out from the Troll Country and from the mountains in the north and the east. Rumours abound not only of her magical prowess, having supposedly frozen a mutated giant solid at the Black Blood Pass as a warning to the followers of the Dark Gods, but also of her ability to convince the disparate and factional defenders of kislev to work together. She has managed to convince the Boyars to entrust her with command of their rotas, and play peacemaker between the three most prominent knightly orders of Kislev, the Sons of Ursun, the Oath-Brothers of Tor, and the Gryphon Legion.
Apparently the Sons hate the Oath-Brothers for riding war-bears, the sacred animals of Ursun, whilst dedicating themselves to another god. At the same time, the warriors of Tor consider their counterparts stuck-up fools who rarely descend from their mountain keep while letting others fight the hard battles. And both of the templar orders hold the secular Gryphon Legion (Who, to your disappointment, do not actually ride the animals they are named after) in contempt for taking mercenary work when they are not needed in Kislev's defence.
You see the argument take place in miniature right in front of your eyes, as the kislevites take sides and draw lines. Declarations are shouted and cheeks become flushed, and things almost degenerate into a brawl until Zanitlov reminds them that you, their guests of honour, are also mercenaries, and shuts down the argument before any of them get the opportunity to call all sellswords honourless scum.
As for the Tzarenavich's father, you find that the kislevites have far less good things to say about him compared to his daughter.
"It is not," the Ataman says in a tone that implies the opposite, "that Alexis is a bad Tzar. He has built roads, raised factories and founded places of learning."
He pauses to take a deep breath.
"But, he flaunts tradition! He gives rights to the Ungols, he favours the merchants over the Atamans and the Boyars! And the profits of his great factories go straight into his own pockets!" Polursunov rages. "He has instituted a system where Stanitsas only receive the protection of his Kossars if their taxes are paid! Many of the poorer settlements have suffered!"
You follow the tirade noncommittally, neither disagreeing with your host nor giving any indication that you support criticism of Kislev's reigning monarch. This isn't your first song and dance.
Still, you do pick out important details from the Ataman's extended rant, and as the other kislevites join in a picture begins to form. Tzar Alexis seems to be a competent administrator, dedicated to the overall good of his nation. Or rather, his own vision for it, and he is not light-handed in dragging it there, something that has not made him a popular ruler: he is respected for his achievements, but no more than that.
The discussion on the Tzar's unsavoury qualities lasts for quite a while, as the kislevites seem to rile each other up, but eventually it peters out.
In this momentary lull in conversation, Cothaerion takes the opportunity to speak up.
"What of the heroes of the Ungols?" The Ellyrian's voice cuts through the hall, bringing conversation to a halt, as he addresses the two Ungol trackers, Belgutai and Javyl. ""
The two of them have spent the evening minding their own business, and the Gospodars of Ursztosk seem to have left them to it, neither breaking guestright nor making any moves to include them in the festivities. You are once again reminded of the aftermath of the battle against the Kurgans, and how bitter the division between Gospodars and Ungols could get.
And now Cothaerion has brought the issue right back to the forefront.
However, the Ungols are also guests at their hearth, and so the people of Ursztosk can only glare and mutter as Belgutai takes the opportunity offered to speak up.
Baba Hyalgin is supposedly a legendary figure amongst the Hag Witches of the Ungols, one of the two major native magical traditions of the kislevites. They are a secretive bunch, rarely speaking to outsiders and so there is very little you've been able to learn about them, but what you do know is that like the Magisters of Araby, they mainly use their magical talents to bind, compel and make contracts with the various spirits of the land.
Belgutai speaks in a low tone, gesturing animatedly as he recounts the Tale of the Dragon and the Cunning Witch.
A decade ago, the Ungol tribes in northeastern Kislev had been suffering from the attentions of a ravenous dragon, descending from the World's Edge Mountains to feast upon their herds of horses. These animals are vital to the Ungols way of life, yet nothing they tried could stop the dragon, its blue scales invulnerable to harm and its crackling breath capable of annihilating even the most fearsome of warriors.
Fearing for their livelihood, the Ungol chieftains went to the Wise Women, beseeching them for aid. Yet no spirit that the Hag Witches could call upon, not even the mighty Frostfiends of the tundra, would stand up to one of the most ancient of wyrms, no matter how much they were cajoled. Just as the Ungols were about to give in to despair, the eldest of the hags stepped forward, berating her youngers for their narrow-mindedness, as if the only way to deal with an enemy was to match it with force.
To prove her words true, Baba Hyalgin set out on her own, with only the spirits to keep her company. She encountered the dragon in the ruins of its latest massacre, an entire Ungol Nomad tribe slaughtered alongside their herds. Yet, Hyalgin paid no heed to the grisly surroundings, boldly striding up to the enormous blue wyrm, and told it to leave these lands and never return.
As the tale goes, even the dragon was taken aback by her boldness, but swiftly composed itself, asking the witch who was she to demand such from a dragon, the greatest of beings, as old as the mountains and as mighty as the gods themselves? To this, Hyalgin proposed a game: she would tell the dragon of herself and her deeds over her long life, and let it judge for itself. If it found her tale boring, it could devour her whole and she would not even fight back. But if she could keep it entertained until the next sunrise, it would agree to leave Kislev alone.
It is said that a dragon's temperament matches the colour of its scales, and those who bear the azure hue of the skies are whimsical and curious by nature. Perhaps it was intrigued by Hyalgin's daring, or perhaps it was simply bored; whatever the case, it accepted the witch's challenge. After all, what was the harm? It could simply kill her once it had been amused sufficiently.
Thus did Hyalgin begin her story, telling of how she rose to prominence as a young witch, summoning a horde of spirits to drive off a warband of Orcs who threatened her tribe.
Belgutai tells of how the dragon simply laughed, its rumbling voice shaking the ground itself. If this was the best she could offer, it said, then she was already as good as dead. Why, the dragon had itself shattered an entire Orc Waaagh who thought to rob its hoard for themselves some thousand years ago, devouring their Warboss whole before slaughtering its army.
Dragons are creatures of boundless arrogance and self-importance, and as Hyalgin recounted her deeds, it could not help but take the opportunity to demonstrate its own superiority. When Hyalgin boasted of having travelled to every corner of Kislev, the dragon told her of how it had visited faraway Cathay to test its strength against its distant cousins who rule that strange realm. When she spoke of her age, many times the lifetime of ordinary men, the dragon revealed that it had already been old in a time when humans had yet to discover the secrets of fire. When she bragged of her mastery over spirits, it responded by demonstrating its power over the heavens themselves, summoning thunderstorms and cyclone winds before dismissing them as though they were nothing.
And thus, little by little, time gradually ebbed away, while the dragon was distracted with boasting of its own feats.
For a full day and a night Hyalgin matched words and wits with the dragon, until at last dawn came, and the dragon realized the witch's deception. It grew wrothful, claiming it had been tricked into using up the time and leaving Hyalgin with only half of the allotted task. The ancient witch merely pointed out that there was no rule against the dragon itself joining in, and it had been entertained until sunrise, had it not?
Yet, the dragon cared not, for their wicked kind has no concept of honour or holding to their word. It opened its enormous jaws to devour the witch whole- only to find that it could not move.
For to know a thing is to have power over it, and all throughout the night, Hyalgin had woven the subtlest of magics upon the wyrm. In revealing its name and deeds, it had made itself vulnerable, and so she cast a binding curse upon the dragon, enthralling it to her will.
Thus was the scourge of the Ungols brought to heel, and Baba Hyalgin returned victorious. Since then, when the Ungols have been threatened by an enemy that they cannot vanquish, she has summoned the dragon back from the mountains, to do battle in her service as recompense for the losses the tribes suffered at its hands.
As Belgutai finishes his story, you keep your eyes on the Gospodars. Though none have gone so far as to interrupt his tale, unwilling to break tradition, many of them whisper amongst each other and shake their heads.
"An Ungol tall tale, nothing more," one of them scoffs. "You expect us to believe one of your hags enslaved a dragon? Pull the other one."
You are forced to agree that it sounds far-fetched. That dragons can be bound is undeniable, even if many Asur would prefer to forget that shameful chapter of the past, but typically it has historically involved specially made magical artefacts. Dragons are creatures of incredible magical power in addition to their immense physicality, and to bind one with nothing but raw magic… no, it is not something a human could accomplish.
"It is true," Belgutai insists. "My cousin saw it with his own eyes when Baba Hyalgin returned, the dragon carrying her in its claws."
"Its claws?" you ask, silencing several Gospodars who were about to heckle the Ungol. "Not its back?"
"That is what all of the stories say."
(Dragon Lore: 28+35(Fanriel Learning)=63/100)
You would not consider yourself an expert on dragons, but there is no child of Ulthuan that has not dreamed of taking flight on dragonback, and so when you were inducted into the Order of the Loremasters and the libraries of the White Tower were made open to you, you had read what you could of them.
Nonetheless the Dragon Princes of Caledor guard their secrets with zeal that you would think paranoia were you not aware of the lengths to which the Druchii are willing to go to in order to despoil them. Those rare outsiders that the dragons deign to make compact with are sworn to secrecy with binding magical oaths, and so even the scholars of the White Tower know relatively little of their deeper secrets.
Still, something about that particular detail simply does not sit well with you. Magical domination is unreliable at the best of times, and at least at the back one would have a moment to reassert control before the dragon can buck you off, but held in its talon even an instant of failed concentration could result in being dropped to your doom or crushed to death.
The Urzstoskians seem to have taken your silence for confirmation that the Ungol's story is merely an old wives' tale, and take to mocking Belgutai in earnest. Yet soon enough they move on, eager to talk more about more proper, Gospodar heroes
The name that comes up is Radev Denash, the current Grand Master of the Sons of Ursun, the templar order dedicated to the Bear-God. In Kislev, their legend and prestige is second to none, for they symbolize the nation itself, and even those who seem to prefer the Oath-Brothers or the Gryphon Legion speak of them with a certain amount of reverence and respect. They adhere to the values the kislevites most identify with, being dour and serious in temperament, contrasting against the wildness of the Oath-Brothers.
And, if so, Radev appears to be the physical embodiment of those values, to the point that it is difficult to tell what is merely boasting.
The kislevites describe him as a madman in battle, yet grim and silent outside of it- except, of course, when half a barrel deep into his kvass, at which point he becomes the life of the party. They say that he is blessed by Ursun himself, strong enough to wrestle with his own bear-mount, and uproot small trees with his bare hands, which he supposedly did to use as a club when his axe shattered from his own strength. And when a woman strikes his eye, he lets nothing stand between them- not even if it is the Tzarenavich herself.
"Or that is what they say," Polursunov is careful to add, without clarifying on what he means by 'they'. "But she has been seen with him often, more often than is proper for an unmarried woman."
You nod along, even if you don't see what the problem is.
"Tzar Alexis is furious about it. They say he had been in talks with the Grand Prince of Ostland, hoping to secure an alliance by having his second son marry Kattarin."
"Why would that now be impossible?" you ask aloud. "So long as they put it aside once the match is finalized."
"It is simply not done." Zanitlov looks at you oddly. "I suppose it is different for elves."
"It is about perception," Polursunov adds. "The value of the alliance for the Grand Prince is that the future Tzar or Tzarina will have Ostlander blood. If people think they might be someone else's child, what is the point, eh?"
"You cannot determine a child's parentage?"
"You can?"
One awkward explanation about how Priests of Isha use magic to determine a child's parentage at delivery later, talk turns to the gods of the kislevites in turn.
Ursun, of course, is the God of Bears and Strength, and the patron god of Kislev. He is not enmeshed within the ruling stratum of Kislev the way Asuryan is to that of Ulthuan, or even the man-god Sigmar is in the Empire to the south. Rather, he represents the essence of Kislev, the spirit of the nation and its people, the values that they strive towards. He is strong, he is tough, and he doesn't care about messing around when he could be getting down to business. He is brutal when wronged but always fair in his dealings with humans, and rewards those who stay true to their hearts.
However, despite his influence and esteem, the Cult of Ursun seems to lack much in the way of political power, owing to its disorganized and fractious nature. His priests are everywhere, but they appear to have no formal hierarchy or formalized doctrine, content to resolve disputes with a bout of wrestling to determine who is in the right.
Tor is the God of Thunder, Storms and Battle, represented by a muscular man wielding an axe with a shaft of lightning. He is the patron of warriors, which makes him omnipresent in kislevite life, emperilled as they are by their proximity to the Chaos Wastes, but that seems to be all there is to him. Tor has no formalised cult beyond wandering priests each train their own replacements, no strictures or commandments beyond to be courageous and to kill one's enemies. He cares nothing for anything that is not battle, and neither do his followers. The Oath-Brothers of Tor are less an order of knights and more of a fraternity of like-minded warriors who follow the clarion call of warfare to the deadliest of battlefields. They pay little mind to coordinating with other forces or formulating a plan, charging headlong into the thickest combat with the last one to wet their blade paying for the drinks after.
Dazh you have already learned much of from Zanitlov, for it is the Cult of the God of the Sun, Fire and Hospitality that hired you to guard him. He is seen as a regal and princely figure, as is to be expected of Asuryan, the Emperor of Heavens, as viewed by humans. The kislevites believe that it was he who taught their ancestors the secrets of fire, and that the movement of the sun across the skies is in fact Dazh riding his flaming chariot. As such, he plays a vital role in warding off the cold and the snow, and bringing about the new spring at the end of the long winter. Curiously, through his affiliation with the fires of the hearth, Dazh is heavily associated with the customs of hospitality, as evidenced by your treatment as the guards of one of his priests.
"The Hearth-Fire Blades of Dazh are the finest warriors in all of Kislev," Zanitlov explains enthusiastically. "They escort Dazh's most holy in their duties, and defend his temples, ready to hurl back any who would desecrate them."
"Yeah, so long as the enemy obliges to come to them," somebody scoffs in the crowd. "At least the Gryphon Legion seeks out the enemies of Kislev."
This time it is Polursunov who has to stop Zanitlov from leaping into the crowd to batter whoever made the comment.
You get the feeling this is a regular occurrence in kislevite gatherings.
Salyak, the Goddess of Healing and Comfort, is an interesting figure. Like Shallya from the southern human nations, she is a human interpretation of Lileath, though the kislevites hearken closer to the original by abandoning the pacifistic doctrine of her counterpart. The priests of Salyak are combat medics in every sense of the word, using their skills of mending and healing to break and poison when called upon. She is also the only one of the native gods of Kislev that seems to have both priests and priestesses, at least in appreciable numbers. In a strange dichotomy, while it is forbidden for men to practice magic in Kislev, women in turn seem to be largely sidelined when it comes to religion.
Ulric, the God of Winter, Wolves and War is a relative newcomer to Kislev, his faith hailing from his holy city of Middenheim in the Empire to the south. As you have already seen, his relationship with the Kislevite pantheon is a contentious one: he opposes Dazh by claiming dominion over the elements his flames grant protection from, he competes with Tor for the worship of warriors and soldiers, and he clashes with Ursun by raising another animal higher than the bear, one commonly associated with Khorne no less.
Yet despite this, he is as beloved and influential in Kislev as any of the gods native to this land. Winter is an ever-present threat, and men are keen to attempt to appease that which they cannot fight. In contrast to Tor's unruliness and lack of care for anything but having an enemy before you, Ulric's priests at least espouse the values of military discipline and obeying one's betters, a fact that makes them appealing to many military commanders. And there is much the kislevites find worth admiration in his values of self-sufficiency and straight-forwardness. Thus, it has become common for kislevites to claim that Ulric is Ursun's younger brother: not as strong and not as wise, but worthy of admiration.
Much of his rise in prominence seems to be owed to his holy warriors, the Knights of the White Wolf. They were already known to you, perhaps the largest single formation of knights in the known world. Where the forces sworn to other gods are fractious and often follow their own agenda or whims, the White Wolves are always found where they are needed. They have established Chapterhouses across Kislev, and countless are the Stanitsas that have been saved from annihilation by the charge of these black-armoured warriors. That they follow a central authority in Middenheim, beyond the borders of Kislev, does not sit well with the locals, but at the same time such unity and organization gives them access to resources and coordination that no local cult can match.
Three other southern gods hold sway in Kislev: Taal, Verena and Manann, the human counterparts to Kurnous, Hoeth and Mathlann. Hunting is a major source of food in many Stanitsas, and so Taal is a welcome addition to the pantheon, relatively inoffensive to their sensibilities for favouring no animal above the others. All the same, he has failed to find the same measure of enthusiasm from the kislevites as Ulric, lacking the same level of broad appeal.
Verena (for whatever reason considered by the humans to be female) and Manann have also found niches that no local god manages to fulfill, the former concerned with the business of justice and lawmaking and the latter claiming dominion over the sea trade. Still, the kislevites seem to mainly value Verena for her priests' ability to compel the truth and so root out chaos cultists, rather than any particular passion for the ideals she stands for. Likewise the kislevites are not particularly enthusiastic sailors and lack a proper navy, meaning that Manann's worship is limited only to Erengrad.
"I had heard that there was another god worshipped in these lands," you note as the conversation starts to wind down, and women begin to take away the empty plates and tankards. "The one called the Ancient Widow."
At that, the kislevites go silent and glanced at each other, until eventually Zanitlov replies.
"You are mistaken. The Widow is not a god, but a spirit. We fear and respect her, but only the Witches treat with her. She is no god of ours."
Any further enquiries are politely yet firmly rebuffed as the kislevites start to prepare the great hall for sleeping, the time well past midnight. Before they settle in for the night, however, Polursunov turns towards Zanitlov, speaking in a formal tone.
"Would you bless this humble hearth against the terrors of the night, honoured of Dazh?"
The priest nods, as though expecting just such a request. "Let it be so."
He steps towards the firepit burning at the center of the room, holding his hand over the flames, yet he shows now discomfort at the heat.
"O Dazh, mighty lord of fire and sun. We come before you with humble hearts, in awe of your power and radiance. We ask that you bless us with your warmth and light, and guide us with your flames of passion and strength. May your fire purify us of our doubts and fears, and may your sun bring us hope and renewal. We offer you our gratitude and praise, for all the gifts you bestow upon us. May we honour you always, and may your light shine upon us forevermore. Hail Dazh, Prince of Heavens, we give thanks to you."
While the kislevites follow the prayer solemnly, you hold your peace and watch Zanitlov. It is a fascinating display to your Magesight, at once alike and entire different to how you cast your spells. The priest relinquishes himself completely to his deity, acting as little more than a conduit for his power, taking no active part in the spell being formed. You embody Lileath, Hoeth and many others with every action you take, but the prospect of being little more than a middleman, a passenger in your own soul, is disquieting to you.
Nevertheless, though the methods are different, the results are surprisingly familiar. Magical power seeps into the fire, infusing it with a dull glow that banishes doubt and fear. It is not quite Aqshy, but it is also not quite not the Red Wind.
+5 Inspiration to the next roll for creating an Aqshy-based spell.
-----
In the morning, you leave Ursztosk behind, your bellies filled and your packs refilled with travel rations and firewood. Polursunov wishes you safe travels as you pass through the gatehouse and resume your trek into the endless expanse of whiteness.
The journey north is long and tedious, days blending into one another in the seemingly featureless landscape of the oblast. The only breaks in the monotony are the times you stop at another Stanitsa or Tirsa, Zanitlov's status as a priest guaranteeing a relatively warm welcome and an opportunity to restock your supplies.
Thankfully you encounter no more Marauders, but evidence of their presence is all around you. The further north you go, the more you see scars of recent fighting in the walls and palisades of the settlements you pass by, and more than once you come across the aftermath of a battle, wreckage and bodies half-buried in the snowfall.
Several times you run into patrols of Winged Lancers, alarmed by the party of strange, inhuman warriors, but Zanitlov's presence quickly resolves any potential conflict. You pass on what you have seen, and in return the horsemen advise you on what areas to avoid before carrying on their patrol. Once, you are forced to make a detour because the Tirsa you had been planning on staying at had been sacked by Kurgans, and were in no position to receive visitors.
Still, in time all things come to an end, and so does your journey. Noveblya's walls loom before you, sturdy wooden palisades lined with stakes.
Your reception here is far less welcoming than in Ursztosk, ushered inside by fur-swaddled and grim-faced guards. No Ataman comes to greet you and throw a feast in your honour, once your credentials have been established you are unceremoniously pointed towards where you will be staying. It seems like you were expected.
"Ah, it is good to finally be here," Zanitlov says, stretching his arms as you walk down the main street. "Now, I can get to work."
Noveblya is not a large settlement, even smaller than Ursztosk, just a collection of wooden huts surrounded by a thick wooden wall. The people shy away from you, women bearing children inside once they catch sight of you, while men are coldly indifferent. You cannot be certain, but based on the way they talk and dress, and comparing it to Belgutai and Javyl…
"This is an Ungol village, is it not?"
"Indeed, what of it?" Zanitlov asks lightly. "The light of Dazh knows no bounds."
"That's right," Gavrilov adds quietly. The apprentice is so small you almost forget she is there, scarcely coming up to your waist. "It was the Ungols who first-"
Whatever she was about to say is cut short when Zanitlov cuts her off, speaking over the young girl.
"In anycase, I've arranged for you to be quartered at a local inn, if it can be called that. I'm sure it's not to the standards of the elves, but it beats sleeping in a tent, eh? All expenses are covered, as per the contract."
"As you say," you reply neutrally, watching Gavrilov shrink in on herself out of the corner of your eye. "Will you not be needing our services?"
"Not until the return trip to Erengrad," he says, shaking his head. "It should be no more than a few days, and then we can leave."
You raise an eyebrow at that.
"Like I said, the resident priest of Dazh in Noveblya passed away unexpectedly," he shrugs his shoulders. "I must attend to his post, and ensure that his successor is properly prepared for the role, eh?"
Without waiting for a response he pulls ahead, leading the way down the street. The dismissal could not be clearer.
Yet, the questions continue to gnaw at you. Why send a Gospodar priest to an Ungol village? Why send one all the way from Erengrad in the southwest, when Praag is far closer? Why hire outside guards, if the Cult of Dazh has its own military force in the Hearth-Blades? Why make the trek in winter, rather than wait for the spring when travel is far easier?
There is more to this than meets the eye- you are certain of it.
-Decide on what to do about it.
-Moratorium of four hours.
[] Continue to press Zanitlov and attempt to get the truth out of him.
[] Take matters into your own hands and take a look around the Stanitsa under the cover of the night.
[] Leave it be, better not to push your luck when developing a good reputation with the Cult was the whole point of taking this contract.
