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Mercenary Mage Quest: Asur Dogs of War in Warhammer Fantasy
Kufufu
Adequate at best
- Location
- What's it to ya?
For the same reason our rolls have been hidden from us, it's a cheep ploy to build tension and make the choice seem attractive due to uncertainty.
[X] No
Thoughts of Death by deathofrats0808 [SEMI-CANON]
New
deathofrats0808
Don’t think of it as dying; just as leaving early
- Location
- Earth
I wrote a thing. Not sure how good it is, and I probably should have spent longer editing, but fuck it.
Thoughts of Death
He's dying. He can feel it, in a muted, distant way, if he turns his attention back to his body. But he's seven steps into the Twelve Steps of The Threefold Manifest Self, the meditative technique more prosaically called Hoeth's Mirror by many. This deep, his body is a distant, muted call, and instead he can step into his own past and relive any fight, every sweet triumph and bitter defeat, the thrill of victory and despair of loss. Normally, he would slip only into a light trance after such a duel, recalling every blade stroke and muscle twitch, and see where he had erred, and where his foe had been his better. A flick of a blade that could have been tighter, a half-step too slow to parry here, a thrust a hair off center there. Going over his bladework in such detail was one of the things that had elevated him to his curent rank.
This time however, he has something else on his mind, rather than the art he had dedicated his life to perfecting. Death. He had lost many to it over the years. From those he had only heard of later,
"And we commned those that fell rooting out this scourge to the care of Hoeth and Lileath..."
that handful he had witnessed himself
the Khainite witch is laughing, and he's too slow, Thaniale is screaming, and by Asuryan's fire he's never heard anything like it
And even those he had carried out himself
those, twisted mutated forms were Elves, he realised. He saw the sword sweep one of the militia's heads clean from their shoulders and recognized the bladework. That was Adyeclin. He'd joined the Swordmasters just a handful of years ahead. Bright Gods, what could have changed him so?
Now that his own was nigh, he was sanguine, he realised. He had won a victory against Chaos with his last acts, and he had few regrets, truely. That Fanriel had not listened to him more. That he had never taken the time to pass on more of his skills. But these were trifling things. In the end, he had resovled himself to his fate long ago. Death in battle had always been more likely to claim him than the long lifespan of an Elf. Perhaps when he reached the great library of Hoeth, he could be reborn and stand against the darkness again. Yes. He'd like that perhaps...
So yeah. This is supposed to be Dorial thinking about his upcoming death (or his not upcoming death, he's not actually a trained healer). The Twelve Steps are something I made up. It's effectively supposed to be a meditative technique to reflect upon your actions and learn from them (hence why it's also known as Hoeth's Mirror, it's a 'mirror' that helps you learn). There are actually 12 steps in the way I envision it, divided into four stages. Each stage takes you further into your own memories, and it can be dangerous to stay lost in say, a happy moment for too long, but that's rare. Step 7 means Dorial is feeling the emotions he felt at the time (and if this were canon, would probably be why he's crying out as he remembers those moments).
The deaths he remembers are kind of generic, the first is supposed to be the first time a Swordmaster he knew died, I envisioned on some kind of far off patrol or mission, with the memory being of a White Tower ceremony to commemorate the dead. The second is supposed to be a mission Dorial went on against a Khainite cult operating in Ulthuan. The third is supposed to be at the Siege of Holy Flame. I don't think he was working with Fanriel at the time, but I don't think it's a huge stretch to have him there either, as he was assigned/chose her shortly after. I also apologise for the names. I suck at names.
Thoughts of Death
He's dying. He can feel it, in a muted, distant way, if he turns his attention back to his body. But he's seven steps into the Twelve Steps of The Threefold Manifest Self, the meditative technique more prosaically called Hoeth's Mirror by many. This deep, his body is a distant, muted call, and instead he can step into his own past and relive any fight, every sweet triumph and bitter defeat, the thrill of victory and despair of loss. Normally, he would slip only into a light trance after such a duel, recalling every blade stroke and muscle twitch, and see where he had erred, and where his foe had been his better. A flick of a blade that could have been tighter, a half-step too slow to parry here, a thrust a hair off center there. Going over his bladework in such detail was one of the things that had elevated him to his curent rank.
This time however, he has something else on his mind, rather than the art he had dedicated his life to perfecting. Death. He had lost many to it over the years. From those he had only heard of later,
"And we commned those that fell rooting out this scourge to the care of Hoeth and Lileath..."
that handful he had witnessed himself
the Khainite witch is laughing, and he's too slow, Thaniale is screaming, and by Asuryan's fire he's never heard anything like it
And even those he had carried out himself
those, twisted mutated forms were Elves, he realised. He saw the sword sweep one of the militia's heads clean from their shoulders and recognized the bladework. That was Adyeclin. He'd joined the Swordmasters just a handful of years ahead. Bright Gods, what could have changed him so?
Now that his own was nigh, he was sanguine, he realised. He had won a victory against Chaos with his last acts, and he had few regrets, truely. That Fanriel had not listened to him more. That he had never taken the time to pass on more of his skills. But these were trifling things. In the end, he had resovled himself to his fate long ago. Death in battle had always been more likely to claim him than the long lifespan of an Elf. Perhaps when he reached the great library of Hoeth, he could be reborn and stand against the darkness again. Yes. He'd like that perhaps...
So yeah. This is supposed to be Dorial thinking about his upcoming death (or his not upcoming death, he's not actually a trained healer). The Twelve Steps are something I made up. It's effectively supposed to be a meditative technique to reflect upon your actions and learn from them (hence why it's also known as Hoeth's Mirror, it's a 'mirror' that helps you learn). There are actually 12 steps in the way I envision it, divided into four stages. Each stage takes you further into your own memories, and it can be dangerous to stay lost in say, a happy moment for too long, but that's rare. Step 7 means Dorial is feeling the emotions he felt at the time (and if this were canon, would probably be why he's crying out as he remembers those moments).
The deaths he remembers are kind of generic, the first is supposed to be the first time a Swordmaster he knew died, I envisioned on some kind of far off patrol or mission, with the memory being of a White Tower ceremony to commemorate the dead. The second is supposed to be a mission Dorial went on against a Khainite cult operating in Ulthuan. The third is supposed to be at the Siege of Holy Flame. I don't think he was working with Fanriel at the time, but I don't think it's a huge stretch to have him there either, as he was assigned/chose her shortly after. I also apologise for the names. I suck at names.
The Fate of Travelers by Torroar [CANON]
New
The Fate of Travelers
Tethildur hummed quietly to himself as the ship rocked upon the waves, stretching his legs as the guard rotation turned yet again. Always the majority rested with their leaders, both of them supine at the moment, but not all. Some needed to remain within the cabin proper, obviously, for the threat of attack was never zero no matter the location. But the others marched, or stalked, their way up and down the ship's length. It was a curious thing, to see jubilance and such grimness both amongst the sailors, but not entirely unexpected. They shied away from the elves now, far more than before. It was not the duel between Argentes and Fanriel, of course. That had been a grand and exciting exchange, for some at least. Nor had it been their acts of martial excellence upon the battlefield, not exactly, though Tethildur knew that sufficient skill with such could prove particularly disconcerting to some. No, that wasn't it at all. It wasn't even the fact that Fanriel's exile had become more widespread knowledge, some of the whispers of which were assuredly coaxed on by the Sea Lord's servants. It was they, the Asur, themselves that had changed. The Swordmasters had previously seemed if strange and ethereal to those of the Yellowknife, then at least understood as allies and with a modicum of being approachable. Not so anymore.
Each of them who temporarily emerged from the cabin to patrol the ship now walked as an unsheathed blade, gleaming and deadly and so very, very stark. Eyes cold and hard, grip firm upon the hilts of their blades, each stride ghostly quiet and each movement with inhuman precision as they watched for any potential threat. Far more than even before, when the servants of a certain Sea Lord seemed the greater threat.
A more than likely quite disconcerting change, for the humans.
He did not wish to be uncharitable, however. Not now of all times. But he suspected that there might have been some amongst their small cadre who themselves had been shocked by the results of the final exchange. Or at least its progression. It would have been good to say that a victory for their cause had been assured against the chieftain, but that wasn't necessarily true, was it? A champion of darkness had proven yet again that there was a reason that the existence of the Asur was defined by the contest, an exchange of blood and pain that had lasted for thousands of years, and not an eternity of pure peace and absolute plenty. Did it matter that he had come from a savage and primitive land such as Norsca? Tethildur did not think so. By the standards of some elves, all of the lands of humanity were savage and primitive lands. He had seen elves beaten before, slain before, against savage and primitive things many times. In the Isles. In the Hinterlands of Khuresh and the borders of Cathay. A sufficiently blessed amalgamation of fur and fang and fury from the Southern Chaos Wastes was powerful in its own way, just as Dorial's opponent had been.
And yet.
Had they not had victory? Had they not succeeded in their objectives, and dealt a great blow to the Dark Gods and their slaves by removing a champion from the board in a manner most definitive?
He paused mid-stride, light grey eyes flicking back to the cabin where the fruits of said victory were even now still souring, before continuing on along the ship's starboard side.
It was a kind of victory, to be sure. Better than the final failure being this day. Better than more of them being lost - if Dorial was lost, even. But it had not been flawless, had not been without pain, was not necessarily certain if it had been done without loss. There was a sort of unfortunate familiarity with such circumstances, one he knew in his bones. To suffer losses in battle was one thing. Painful, yes. Understandable, more so. But there was a difference in seeing a swathe of Asur cut down in a sorcerous firestorm and watching one, just one, lay in bed withering and dying. The former, you could perhaps combat if you had magical shields of your own, or an arrow or bolt found its mark before the spell was launched.
What do you do when one you love lays stricken, and you feel responsible for that state?
Tethildur almost let loose a sigh at his own memories before he let them continue on their way without latching onto them and began murmuring the song he had been humming before.
He had just retaken his position outside the cabin when he tilted his head to the side and then turned on his heel to face the not particularly silent approach of their current patron.
"Greetings. Is your son well?" he asked in Kislevarin, watching the man's eyebrows creep upwards slightly at the Elithisian accent in the words.
The Kislevite known as Razin was, to put it politely, quite unkempt. His furs and silks seemed sodden with sweat and grime. A father's worry, grief, and rage had consumed him quite well, and now that his son had been returned to him - alive even! - the great fire within him had been left with far less fuel. Leaving him if not necessarily hollowed, then certainly drained in demeanor and physical aspect. Not wholly, of course. These Kislevites were a doughty sort, it seemed. A wondrous discovery indeed. In turn, the man examined him right back. Sharp eyes lingered upon the tattoos which marked his face and neck, the darker hue of his skin, but only briefly as he catalogued Tethildur's own being from top to bottom. Stockier and shorter than most Asur was he, but not so short that he had to look up into the tired man's eyes.
"He...lives," Razin eventually answered back in a tired rush, a weary smile on his face. "And so do I. Many more than I even expected, perhaps."
Then he, too, glanced in the direction of Fanriel's cabin, and that smile was whisked away.
"The duel...," he started, then failed to elaborate as he grasped for the words with an exhausted mind.
"Yes, the duel," Tethildur offered him with a patient if wan smile. "I do apologize for our lack of, hmm, immediate reporting to your presence. But given the circumstances, we thought your son might benefit more from your presence than ours."
The Kislevite did not immediately respond beyond a ghost of a nod, hands going to grasp at his belt for lack of anything else.
"To see him again was...," he said, voice catching and eyes growing watery and hot. "I had prayed. I had hoped! But in my heart...," he clutched at his chest for emphasis as Tethildur nodded.
"I understand," the Elithisian said gently.
And he did.
Truly.
He had not begun life as an only son, for all that he lived the life of one now.
"But your mistress," Rizal said after he had recovered himself somewhat. "She is...,"
"She exhausted herself mightily in the fighting, weaving spell and blade with great power and skill," Tethildur said into the silence. "And now she rests to ensure the best possible chance at ensuring Dorial's survival when she awakens."
Technically, it might be seen as an admission of weakness. But anyone who sought weakness in the formation of Swordmasters guarding her would be searching long, hard, and very likely fruitlessly.
"We have chirurgeons and herbalists of our own," Razin said with an uncertain frown, "Should I...,"
"I mean no disrespect, my good man," Tethildur interjected just as gently as before, "But I doubt they have the same lifetimes of experience and expertise we possess at treating our wounds, nor the magical capabilities as Fanriel herself."
There was a flicker of outrage at the rejection of the offer, but it was a fleeting thing. A better sign of the man's character, or his exhaustion? It was uncertain.
"The offer is a kind one, of course," he added, "And an appreciated one, but nonetheless, we must see to our own in this time."
"The priestesses of Salyak might...but then again," Razin interrupted his own thoughts with a frown and rub at his chin. "Perhaps not. That," a very deep hatred bloomed in the man's eyes, almost crazed, "Monster was truly horrific."
If one of the Dragon-blooded of Cathay were here, if one of the Chosen of some very specific Deva were here, if one of the human priestesses truly could call upon the God's favor in the strength required then perhaps. But of the first two, Tethildur was quite sure they were not present, and of the latter, he could not be certain.
Certainty was what was most desired at the moment, for all that it was like the sands of the isles in one's grip.
Tethildur did not bother remarking on this to Razin, though. He rather thought that the man did not need him to. Given what little enough he had learned of the culture of the Kislevites, they were well inured to the grinding of war and the losses therein.
"Yes, he was," he said instead. "And as such, I beg of you for leniency in this time as Fanriel rests in preparation."
Razin gave him another searching look before nodding.
"Given her abilities, I am sure that this...Dorial will survive yet," he said with a gruff nod.
"Perhaps," Tethildur inclined his head, only to receive a confused and wary look in return.
"Do you...are his wounds...," Razin's eyes widened.
"I only said perhaps," Tethildur reminded him calmly. "He may live, and he may die. That is life, Razin. It is the Traveler's Journey that ends a thousand ways, and yet also ends in only one," he shrugged.
The Kislevite didn't seem to know what to make of that.
"You seem almost unconcerned with the fate of your ally and friend," he grunted.
"I am deeply concerned," Tethildur shook his head, hand now drifting over his own heart in mirror to the other man's earlier gesture. "But I can only control myself, my thoughts, my emotions. I cannot make Fanriel recover her strength faster or more fully, I cannot do more to treat Dorial's wounds. I can, however, focus on making sure that both are safe from any other threat, that Fanriel is undisturbed before she goes about her work."
He paused, mouth working before he raised a finger of one hand.
"You have storms, in Kislev, do you not? Great, blanketing, freezing things."
Razin gave a confused nod.
"Kislev is a harsh land, this is known, and winter is the land at its most fearsome."
Tethildur smiled at him.
"Indeed. In my home, back in the isles, we have great and terrible storms too. But not blizzards, never blizzards. We have monsoons."
His grey eyes grew distant as he remembered, looking past the Kislevite to his own memories.
"The rain pours down, and down, and down. For days. Weeks. Longer. It can feel as though you are crushed beneath an ocean's worth of it, the wind and rain flowing as if from Mathlann's own eyes."
Tethildur blinked and looked back to Razin.
"You can drown on land while standing up there, if your mouth is open. Now, tell me, have you seen hail crush a man's skull before?"
"Once, or twice, in the worst winters," Razin shuffled slightly away from Tethildur now, weariness and wariness mixing in his body language.
"I once saw a single strand of dried grass plunge through the side of an Asur's skull in the depth of one of those monsoons," Tethildur revealed, free hand moving from over his chest to clutch at the leviathan tooth sliver on the silver chain around his neck. "The winds were so strong that even the least of things had become deadly enough to kill an elf. "
The man's eyes had gone quite wide now.
"Tor Elithis has its walls, its spells, but the islands...," he let go of the tooth sliver, "We do not have the same breadth of Ulthuan's blessings. And as you know, from your own blizzards and storms, sometimes...," he shrugged. "One dies, despite everything. One dies, for no real reason at all. And afterwards, yes, there may be rage, there may be fury, and a reckoning besides. But that is then, and this is now."
He did not blink as he felt his grip tighten slightly on the hilt of his sword. He knew that one must pray to Mathlann when one journeys upon the seas and lives upon the isles, but of all the Cadai Tethildur had found that he must also pray to Ladrielle. It is she who was the patron of the traveler in the wilderness, and was the world outside of Tor Elithis not a wilderness of sorts? And who could not help but be considered lost, than an exile from her homeland? So he had made his prayers to Mathlann and Ladrielle and many other of the Cadai besides. What more could he do than that? Nothing more than he already was. It depending on others, not himself. He could only control how he would react and act personally to what would, or would not happen.
"So. We shall see what we shall see."
That was life on the isles.
That was life right here, right now.
Razin swallowed.
"You should return to your son. You have both been through a lot," Tethildur reminded the man.
"I...yes. I shall. And we shall pray for your Dorial, and Fanriel as well," the man nodded and turned away, only to stop and look over his shoulder. "What was that you were singing before? It sounded...Cathayan?"
Tethildur tilted his head.
"It is a poem, yes, one I learned from a trader, it doesn't matter," he shook his head with a wistful smile. "Fēng xiāoxiāo xī yì shuǐ hán, zhuàngshì yī qù xī bù fù hái," he recited faithfully. "From one of the more disconcerting times in their history, when their borders were truly pressed and the Bastion was temporarily broken. Many were sent to hold the breach. Few returned."
"What does it mean?"
Tethildur leaned his head back slightly and looked up, past the wood and sails of a ship to the sky far above.
"The wind is blowing, the river freezes, the hero crosses, never to return."
It was only minutes after the man had retreated to his son's side once more that Tethildur tilted his head to the side again, and a frown came across his face. He moved for the door, opening it, and winced at sight and sounds within, even as he entered and closed the door behind him.
Tethildur hummed quietly to himself as the ship rocked upon the waves, stretching his legs as the guard rotation turned yet again. Always the majority rested with their leaders, both of them supine at the moment, but not all. Some needed to remain within the cabin proper, obviously, for the threat of attack was never zero no matter the location. But the others marched, or stalked, their way up and down the ship's length. It was a curious thing, to see jubilance and such grimness both amongst the sailors, but not entirely unexpected. They shied away from the elves now, far more than before. It was not the duel between Argentes and Fanriel, of course. That had been a grand and exciting exchange, for some at least. Nor had it been their acts of martial excellence upon the battlefield, not exactly, though Tethildur knew that sufficient skill with such could prove particularly disconcerting to some. No, that wasn't it at all. It wasn't even the fact that Fanriel's exile had become more widespread knowledge, some of the whispers of which were assuredly coaxed on by the Sea Lord's servants. It was they, the Asur, themselves that had changed. The Swordmasters had previously seemed if strange and ethereal to those of the Yellowknife, then at least understood as allies and with a modicum of being approachable. Not so anymore.
Each of them who temporarily emerged from the cabin to patrol the ship now walked as an unsheathed blade, gleaming and deadly and so very, very stark. Eyes cold and hard, grip firm upon the hilts of their blades, each stride ghostly quiet and each movement with inhuman precision as they watched for any potential threat. Far more than even before, when the servants of a certain Sea Lord seemed the greater threat.
A more than likely quite disconcerting change, for the humans.
He did not wish to be uncharitable, however. Not now of all times. But he suspected that there might have been some amongst their small cadre who themselves had been shocked by the results of the final exchange. Or at least its progression. It would have been good to say that a victory for their cause had been assured against the chieftain, but that wasn't necessarily true, was it? A champion of darkness had proven yet again that there was a reason that the existence of the Asur was defined by the contest, an exchange of blood and pain that had lasted for thousands of years, and not an eternity of pure peace and absolute plenty. Did it matter that he had come from a savage and primitive land such as Norsca? Tethildur did not think so. By the standards of some elves, all of the lands of humanity were savage and primitive lands. He had seen elves beaten before, slain before, against savage and primitive things many times. In the Isles. In the Hinterlands of Khuresh and the borders of Cathay. A sufficiently blessed amalgamation of fur and fang and fury from the Southern Chaos Wastes was powerful in its own way, just as Dorial's opponent had been.
And yet.
Had they not had victory? Had they not succeeded in their objectives, and dealt a great blow to the Dark Gods and their slaves by removing a champion from the board in a manner most definitive?
He paused mid-stride, light grey eyes flicking back to the cabin where the fruits of said victory were even now still souring, before continuing on along the ship's starboard side.
It was a kind of victory, to be sure. Better than the final failure being this day. Better than more of them being lost - if Dorial was lost, even. But it had not been flawless, had not been without pain, was not necessarily certain if it had been done without loss. There was a sort of unfortunate familiarity with such circumstances, one he knew in his bones. To suffer losses in battle was one thing. Painful, yes. Understandable, more so. But there was a difference in seeing a swathe of Asur cut down in a sorcerous firestorm and watching one, just one, lay in bed withering and dying. The former, you could perhaps combat if you had magical shields of your own, or an arrow or bolt found its mark before the spell was launched.
What do you do when one you love lays stricken, and you feel responsible for that state?
Tethildur almost let loose a sigh at his own memories before he let them continue on their way without latching onto them and began murmuring the song he had been humming before.
He had just retaken his position outside the cabin when he tilted his head to the side and then turned on his heel to face the not particularly silent approach of their current patron.
"Greetings. Is your son well?" he asked in Kislevarin, watching the man's eyebrows creep upwards slightly at the Elithisian accent in the words.
The Kislevite known as Razin was, to put it politely, quite unkempt. His furs and silks seemed sodden with sweat and grime. A father's worry, grief, and rage had consumed him quite well, and now that his son had been returned to him - alive even! - the great fire within him had been left with far less fuel. Leaving him if not necessarily hollowed, then certainly drained in demeanor and physical aspect. Not wholly, of course. These Kislevites were a doughty sort, it seemed. A wondrous discovery indeed. In turn, the man examined him right back. Sharp eyes lingered upon the tattoos which marked his face and neck, the darker hue of his skin, but only briefly as he catalogued Tethildur's own being from top to bottom. Stockier and shorter than most Asur was he, but not so short that he had to look up into the tired man's eyes.
"He...lives," Razin eventually answered back in a tired rush, a weary smile on his face. "And so do I. Many more than I even expected, perhaps."
Then he, too, glanced in the direction of Fanriel's cabin, and that smile was whisked away.
"The duel...," he started, then failed to elaborate as he grasped for the words with an exhausted mind.
"Yes, the duel," Tethildur offered him with a patient if wan smile. "I do apologize for our lack of, hmm, immediate reporting to your presence. But given the circumstances, we thought your son might benefit more from your presence than ours."
The Kislevite did not immediately respond beyond a ghost of a nod, hands going to grasp at his belt for lack of anything else.
"To see him again was...," he said, voice catching and eyes growing watery and hot. "I had prayed. I had hoped! But in my heart...," he clutched at his chest for emphasis as Tethildur nodded.
"I understand," the Elithisian said gently.
And he did.
Truly.
He had not begun life as an only son, for all that he lived the life of one now.
"But your mistress," Rizal said after he had recovered himself somewhat. "She is...,"
"She exhausted herself mightily in the fighting, weaving spell and blade with great power and skill," Tethildur said into the silence. "And now she rests to ensure the best possible chance at ensuring Dorial's survival when she awakens."
Technically, it might be seen as an admission of weakness. But anyone who sought weakness in the formation of Swordmasters guarding her would be searching long, hard, and very likely fruitlessly.
"We have chirurgeons and herbalists of our own," Razin said with an uncertain frown, "Should I...,"
"I mean no disrespect, my good man," Tethildur interjected just as gently as before, "But I doubt they have the same lifetimes of experience and expertise we possess at treating our wounds, nor the magical capabilities as Fanriel herself."
There was a flicker of outrage at the rejection of the offer, but it was a fleeting thing. A better sign of the man's character, or his exhaustion? It was uncertain.
"The offer is a kind one, of course," he added, "And an appreciated one, but nonetheless, we must see to our own in this time."
"The priestesses of Salyak might...but then again," Razin interrupted his own thoughts with a frown and rub at his chin. "Perhaps not. That," a very deep hatred bloomed in the man's eyes, almost crazed, "Monster was truly horrific."
If one of the Dragon-blooded of Cathay were here, if one of the Chosen of some very specific Deva were here, if one of the human priestesses truly could call upon the God's favor in the strength required then perhaps. But of the first two, Tethildur was quite sure they were not present, and of the latter, he could not be certain.
Certainty was what was most desired at the moment, for all that it was like the sands of the isles in one's grip.
Tethildur did not bother remarking on this to Razin, though. He rather thought that the man did not need him to. Given what little enough he had learned of the culture of the Kislevites, they were well inured to the grinding of war and the losses therein.
"Yes, he was," he said instead. "And as such, I beg of you for leniency in this time as Fanriel rests in preparation."
Razin gave him another searching look before nodding.
"Given her abilities, I am sure that this...Dorial will survive yet," he said with a gruff nod.
"Perhaps," Tethildur inclined his head, only to receive a confused and wary look in return.
"Do you...are his wounds...," Razin's eyes widened.
"I only said perhaps," Tethildur reminded him calmly. "He may live, and he may die. That is life, Razin. It is the Traveler's Journey that ends a thousand ways, and yet also ends in only one," he shrugged.
The Kislevite didn't seem to know what to make of that.
"You seem almost unconcerned with the fate of your ally and friend," he grunted.
"I am deeply concerned," Tethildur shook his head, hand now drifting over his own heart in mirror to the other man's earlier gesture. "But I can only control myself, my thoughts, my emotions. I cannot make Fanriel recover her strength faster or more fully, I cannot do more to treat Dorial's wounds. I can, however, focus on making sure that both are safe from any other threat, that Fanriel is undisturbed before she goes about her work."
He paused, mouth working before he raised a finger of one hand.
"You have storms, in Kislev, do you not? Great, blanketing, freezing things."
Razin gave a confused nod.
"Kislev is a harsh land, this is known, and winter is the land at its most fearsome."
Tethildur smiled at him.
"Indeed. In my home, back in the isles, we have great and terrible storms too. But not blizzards, never blizzards. We have monsoons."
His grey eyes grew distant as he remembered, looking past the Kislevite to his own memories.
"The rain pours down, and down, and down. For days. Weeks. Longer. It can feel as though you are crushed beneath an ocean's worth of it, the wind and rain flowing as if from Mathlann's own eyes."
Tethildur blinked and looked back to Razin.
"You can drown on land while standing up there, if your mouth is open. Now, tell me, have you seen hail crush a man's skull before?"
"Once, or twice, in the worst winters," Razin shuffled slightly away from Tethildur now, weariness and wariness mixing in his body language.
"I once saw a single strand of dried grass plunge through the side of an Asur's skull in the depth of one of those monsoons," Tethildur revealed, free hand moving from over his chest to clutch at the leviathan tooth sliver on the silver chain around his neck. "The winds were so strong that even the least of things had become deadly enough to kill an elf. "
The man's eyes had gone quite wide now.
"Tor Elithis has its walls, its spells, but the islands...," he let go of the tooth sliver, "We do not have the same breadth of Ulthuan's blessings. And as you know, from your own blizzards and storms, sometimes...," he shrugged. "One dies, despite everything. One dies, for no real reason at all. And afterwards, yes, there may be rage, there may be fury, and a reckoning besides. But that is then, and this is now."
He did not blink as he felt his grip tighten slightly on the hilt of his sword. He knew that one must pray to Mathlann when one journeys upon the seas and lives upon the isles, but of all the Cadai Tethildur had found that he must also pray to Ladrielle. It is she who was the patron of the traveler in the wilderness, and was the world outside of Tor Elithis not a wilderness of sorts? And who could not help but be considered lost, than an exile from her homeland? So he had made his prayers to Mathlann and Ladrielle and many other of the Cadai besides. What more could he do than that? Nothing more than he already was. It depending on others, not himself. He could only control how he would react and act personally to what would, or would not happen.
"So. We shall see what we shall see."
That was life on the isles.
That was life right here, right now.
Razin swallowed.
"You should return to your son. You have both been through a lot," Tethildur reminded the man.
"I...yes. I shall. And we shall pray for your Dorial, and Fanriel as well," the man nodded and turned away, only to stop and look over his shoulder. "What was that you were singing before? It sounded...Cathayan?"
Tethildur tilted his head.
"It is a poem, yes, one I learned from a trader, it doesn't matter," he shook his head with a wistful smile. "Fēng xiāoxiāo xī yì shuǐ hán, zhuàngshì yī qù xī bù fù hái," he recited faithfully. "From one of the more disconcerting times in their history, when their borders were truly pressed and the Bastion was temporarily broken. Many were sent to hold the breach. Few returned."
"What does it mean?"
Tethildur leaned his head back slightly and looked up, past the wood and sails of a ship to the sky far above.
"The wind is blowing, the river freezes, the hero crosses, never to return."
It was only minutes after the man had retreated to his son's side once more that Tethildur tilted his head to the side again, and a frown came across his face. He moved for the door, opening it, and winced at sight and sounds within, even as he entered and closed the door behind him.
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Mopman43
Mountain-Hermit of Nitpeak
- Location
- Vermont
Quite enjoyed the story, but felt I should point out, that 'disconcerting time' is the present- canon-wise, the civil war won't end until the Monkey King seizes power and the Dragon Emperor returns in roughly 80 years.
Oops. Fixed to reference another thing instead.
- Location
- Seattle
[X] Yes
This exile is a out taking responsibility and doing our best for the world while being away from home. Dorial made the choice to follow us. And if he dies now he died bringing down a chaos champion and breaking a major threat in the north for generations.
But I don't want him to die. And I think her choice isn't about power, I think it's about responsibility.
This exile is a out taking responsibility and doing our best for the world while being away from home. Dorial made the choice to follow us. And if he dies now he died bringing down a chaos champion and breaking a major threat in the north for generations.
But I don't want him to die. And I think her choice isn't about power, I think it's about responsibility.
- Location
- MSC
[X] No
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ThatGuyWithIdeas
Treize died for our sins
- Location
- Romania
[X] No
- Location
- Your pantry
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Yes
Because this is much more interesting, good or bad. Fuck the fear of corruption, if it happens it happens, but I don't want to lose Dorial. He was interesting, and I want to see more of him.
Because this is much more interesting, good or bad. Fuck the fear of corruption, if it happens it happens, but I don't want to lose Dorial. He was interesting, and I want to see more of him.
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
[X] Yes
- Location
- USA
[x] Yes
Yeah... not be be a downer but I'm afraid there are unknowable numbers of Chaos Champions in the Wastes and Asavar Kul is coming. No one is even going to notice one more dead champion when the invasion comes. Which is fair mind Ulthuan isn't going to notice one dead swordsmaster that much either.
Also when it comes to pacting with Chaos it does not matter what your intentions are, the result is always the same.
This is an extremely hard choice for me.
On one hand, i don't want to see Fanriel corrupted and further spiral into insanity.
On the other hand, i am really curious abaout what will happen next and i love forbidden lore and magic.
[X] Yes
Well, let's see if our Dark Curiosity will be useful.
On one hand, i don't want to see Fanriel corrupted and further spiral into insanity.
On the other hand, i am really curious abaout what will happen next and i love forbidden lore and magic.
[X] Yes
Well, let's see if our Dark Curiosity will be useful.
Fanriel: "Are you that Ashley Kol?"
Asavar: "I am Asavar Kul, the Everchosen of Chaos, yes."
Fanriel: "Awesome! Imma deck you in the schnoz!"
We are at 36 No and 18 Yes.
Unless i am really bad at counting, but the thread format makes it quite hard.
Unless i am really bad at counting, but the thread format makes it quite hard.
K von Carstein
Likes to go for a walk
- Location
- Belgium
- Pronouns
- He
Well, I don't and that's bothering me.
[X] No
Absolutely not. I already had to drop one quest I liked because bad rolls changed the character into a bloodthirsty monster, I'll be damned if I don't do all I can to prevent player reaction to cause the same to another.
Our luck really is the worst, that's getting tiring.
Unless the number of voters suddenly doubles, i think the No has pretty much won.
Let's hope Dorial survives.
If you're talking about Rags to Ithilmar, Luthien wasn't that bad. Yeah, she did pretty much become a chosen of Khaine and killed a handful of people she probably shouldn't have, but overall she's been doing some pretty good work in Norsca and still is a good-intentioned person who wants to help people.
Besides, this is the opposite of bloodthirsty; we want the blood to very much stay inside Dorial, thank you very much.
Wiadi
Uncompromising Radical Leftist
- Location
- Something Clever
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Making us operate on limited information when our viewpoint character is also operating on limited information is not a "cheap ploy," come on now.
And also, knowing the typical SV voter base, I'm pretty sure giving more info about the choice would be actively beneficial to Yes's chances if Blackout was actually trying to put a thumb on the scale. Because nothing that could plausibly happen, however dire, will be worse than what players can and will catastrophize up.
There's an automated tally tool, you know. Top right of the thread.