I like the idea.
Would the change be acceptable Blackout? That the sword (or maybe its scabbard) is what helps him go from Ogre-Stealth to Real-Stealth?
Mercenary Mage Quest: Asur Dogs of War in Warhammer Fantasy
- Thread starter Blackout
- Start date
- Fantasy
I like the idea.
Would the change be acceptable Blackout? That the sword (or maybe its scabbard) is what helps him go from Ogre-Stealth to Real-Stealth?
deathofrats0808
Don’t think of it as dying; just as leaving early
- Location
- Earth
Malfean stealth is best stealth.
Blackout
Fed By Comments
- Location
- Who knows?
I suppose.
Middle Mountains Campaign Part 14
Blackout
Fed By Comments
- Location
- Who knows?
[47+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)-15(Witch)=62/100]
There is a very noticeable boundary dividing the section of the camp where the Northern Sons were encamped from the rest. Not in the sense that one side was drastically different from the other, the organization of the tents was no less haphazard, but rather a literal dividing line, a stretch of unused ground separating the Sigmarites from the rest.
You very much get a sense of the religious divide: the banners flapping in the wind bear twin hammers crossed beneath the Bull of Ostland, and many of the soldiers who watch you walk past openly carry hammer-talismans with almost a sense of defiance about them. A small shrine has been erected at the center, nothing too complicated that cannot be quickly packed up and moved, but you see a handful of men knelt before it in prayer.
You are directed to the tent closest to the shrine, relatively ostentatious by the standards of the camp. Inside you find all of the expected trappings of a nobleborn officer's tent: a wardrobe, a table, a full bed, and a rack holding a broadsword and a suit of plate armour.
The one you are here to meet is a man of average height and size, impeccably dressed, his black moustache immaculately waxed to a sharp point to compliment his short beard and bald head. Green, intelligent eyes assess you keenly as you take his proffered shake, engulfing his hand in your grip.
"I am Reinhardt Holsgart, Colonel of the 12th Ostland Spearmen. And you are Loremaster Fanriel of the Lightfangs."
"That is so," you nod. "You have my thanks for meeting me on such short notice."
"Oh, but only a fool would deny to meet with their commander on the eve of battle. It is not often that one finds themselves placed under the command of an elf."
"Will that be a problem?"
For a brief moment a silence descends between you. You are a wielder of the arcane, the kind of which Sigmar himself pronounced accursed and forbidden at the dawn of the Empire. By the limited understanding of the humans, it would be his religious duty to slay you where you stand.
"Not at all. You've made quite the name for yourself in Kislev, enough to carry the word down here. They say that you are a templar of your people's God of Knowledge."
Luckily for him, religious norms may be bent in service of societal norms. And societal norms may be bent in service of gold and silver. When the Seafarer first returned to Elthin Arvan, he gave the rulers of these lands a simple choice. The Sea Elves would make no business with those who would burn them on pyres as witches, so they could either consider Mages to be priests, or watch those who did fill their coffers with the fruits of trade.
"I serve Hoeth, Lord of Wisdom, but not only him. I am a servant of the Cadai, honouring each of the Pantheon of Heaven in turn."
"I see that you embody your patron's epithet," Holsgart smiles. "Indeed, I too honour Ulric, Manann, Taal, Rhya, Verena and Morr alongside Lord Sigmar. Alas, such enlightened sentiments are rare in these lands, in these times."
"Would such sentiments be why someone whose armour bears the insignia of a southern templar order can be found leading troops in the Wolf-Emperor's domain?"
You make a meaningful glance towards the armour rack, prominently featuring a laurel-wreathed skull over a bronze hammer, on a background of a dark red shield.
"You are a learned one. I am, indeed, but an adopted son of Ostland, born the third son of Baron Holsgart of Dietfurt."
It takes you a moment of cross-referencing the maps you have memorized to place the name somewhere in Averland.
"With my brothers as his heirs, my father hoped that I would earn the family name glory upon the field of battle, and encouraged me towards martial pursuits. I joined the Knights of Sigmar's Blood, eventually even rising to the rank of Preceptor."
"Quite an interesting story. But why leave that life behind?"
The Knights of Sigmar's Blood are reputed to be among the most zealous of the warriors devoted to the man-god, and fanatically loyal to the Grand Theogonist. And often serving at the front lines of the Imperial Civil War, at the side of the Reikland Emperor.
"Why?" he asks, gazing out towards nowhere in particular. "Because the Grand Theogonist is a heretic. He denies the divinity of Ulric, Sigmar's own god. He preaches that which is politically expedient, not that which is written in Deus Sigmar. He is more concerned with increasing his own power and prosecuting his enemies than the prosperity of Sigmar's domain."
"Still, why Von Hohenzollern?" you say in a level tone. "The Grand Barony of Ostland has outlawed the Cult of Sigmar."
"I can hardly fault him for banning an organization which I left in disgust," Holsgart says, shaking his head. "He accepts the divinity of Sigmar, and allows his worship, more than what can be said of most rulers in the north. He refuses to fight his fellow men unless attacked, focusing on fighting the greenskin, the mutant, and the unquiet dead. He is a man I could call Emperor."
There is genuine admiration in his voice as he speaks.
"Forgive my curiosity, for Hoeth ill abides unanswered questions, but is that not a contradiction? You say that he would make a worthy Emperor because he does not take part in the civil war, yet the only path to the throne lies in bloodshed."
"The Holy Empire of Sigmar cannot be united by conquest," Holsgart snaps. "That is what none of the so-called Emperors understand: to attempt to claim the throne by force is to forsake one's claim to it. The gods are displeased with our bickering, and Almighty Sigmar has withdrawn the sacred Warhammer, so that it may not be used to spill the blood of his own. But if Von Hohenzollern were to cast off the yoke of that dog in Middenheim, the Heldenhammer would see the righteousness and worthiness of his cause, and bestow unto him Ghal Maraz. Then, none could deny his claim to the throne."
"I… see."
Of course, if the man-god did not find the Grand Baron worthy, if Ghal Maraz was spirited away by less than divine hands… all he would accomplish is further splintering of the Haraesanurien.
But you give voice to such sentiments only in the sanctity of your own mind, for you recognize the spark of zeal in Holsgart's eyes.
-The Northern Sons have a decent opinion of you, but they are led by a Sigmarite zealot with volatile political leanings.
-----
[30+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)+10(De Jonge Bokken)+5(Westerlanders)-5(Lost Duel)=70/100]
The Westerlanders are clustered, somewhat ironically, on the eastern side of the camp. The line of division is much less clear there, despite the fact that they are foreign mercenaries from a land nominally at war with Ostland whilst the Northern Sons are Ostlanders who merely hold a different god closest to their chest.
While religion must certainly play a role, for the Westerlanders seem to worship Manaan, Ulric and Sigmar in equal measure, Ostland is also on the other side of the Wolf-Emperor's domain, and the western front of the Imperial Civil War has been relatively cold ever since the Treaty of Amity and Commerce, and the re-establishment of Sith Rionnasc.
After the armies of Reikland and Middenland were defeated by Westerlander and Asur forces in the First and Second Battles of the Grootscher Marsh some hundred years ago, the other Emperor-claimants have not been eager to push into Westerland, lest they open a vulnerability for the Ottilians to exploit. But at the same time, the Treaty does not obligate Ulthuan to support Westerland's ambitions beyond the province's borders, nor does Finubar wish to provoke the Danothalui by backing Van Der Maacht too openly.
All of which, combined with the short lives of men, means that there are very few battles between the Westerland and Wolf Emperors in living memory, and consequently, significantly less bad blood than that which exists between the northern, southern and eastern parts of the Empire.
Van de Rijder serves as an easy introduction to the other mercenaries, and in fact seems to have put in a good word for you already, as it seems nearly every Westerlander you talk to seems to want to hear about your defeat of the Ungors at the edge of the forest, and how you brought back every single man that left the camp with you. Though you are quick to make it clear that a mission of destruction rather than foraging is certain to result in casualties, so as to not give them false hope that could prove disastrous to morale once proven wrong, they seem assured that you have the skill and the intention to avoid taking more casualties than you have to.
Wilbrand Helsner, the Commander of the Irongulls, is a grizzled old seadog that left the employ of the Westerland State Army for greater riches and excitement in mercenary life. He seems to be of the reliable sort, but a bit standoffish and difficult to read. Still, nobody seems to have a bad word to say about him: he has an impressive record, and a reputation for pulling through.
Axel Soch is the Commander of the Sea Wolves, though his position is apparently quite uncertain. You find out circumspectly that his tenure as the leader of the regiment is only a few weeks old after the previous commander's death by Orc axe, and he won the title by a margin of only one vote. As such, he is eager to make a name for himself and solidify his leadership, and quick to try to ingratiate himself to you.
The part of you that ruled Cairn Thel for ninety years smells an opportunity: if you give him the opportunity to shine, he will owe you a great deal. And favour from a large mercenary regiment is a valuable thing indeed.
-Westerlander morale is decent and they seem to have a positive opinion of you, but are sensitive to heavy casualties.
----
[60+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)-10(Small 'Un)-10(Slim 'Un)+10(Big for Slim 'Un)-10(Lost Duel)=70/100]
The 3rd Ostland Auxiliary Company is helmed by a massive Ogre that goes by the name of Krag, formally holding the rank of Captain but more commonly referred to by the title of Bruiser.
You find them sitting around campfires, feasting and singing loud enough that they can probably be heard for miles. Here and there a few humans have joined them, and you even spot a singular dwarf, sharing in the merriment albeit in reduced quantity.
Krag sits with his Sergeants, or Crushers, the largest and the toughest Ogres in the Company, and here the flow of food and drink is the fastest, and the singing the loudest. They give you more than a few leering looks as you join the circle, grabbing a pint from a server passing by.
"Ain't you the twiggy what got walloped by that wolf-priest so bad ya spewed yer guts everywhere?" one of them jeers, to the grunting laughter of the other Ogres.
"Perhaps," you say, taking a long sip from your drink, some kind of cheap ale brewed in bulk. "Is that a problem?"
"This place is fer the biggest, the toughest, the strongest," the same Ogre that had spoken continues. "And last I saw, twiggy, ye ain't none o' those."
You glance at Krag, who merely shrugs his shoulders.
You sigh. Very well.
"Rynthael!"
A tight stream of flame shoots out from your hand, almost like a beam, striking the Ogre in the face. It is not a very powerful spell, unlikely to even leave a permanent scar on the tough, leathery skin of an Ogre, but the instinct of any living being when unexpectedly faced with light and heat coming for their face is to close their eyes and shy away, and Ogres are no different.
The heel of your armoured boot crashing into his nose, on the other hand, is enough for him to stumble back, tripping on the log he'd been sitting on and toppling onto his back. Before he can recover, you are standing over him, Lightfang's tip at his throat.
"Would you like to face me in a real fight?"
As you speak, you call upon the wild heart of Ghur, shrouding yourself in the primeval energies of the Bestial Wind.
"No!" the Ogre hastens to speak. "By the Maw, no!"
"That is what I thought."
In more civilized company such a display of sudden violence might have been looked down upon, but in Ogre culture it is expected, even regarded favourably. Indeed, as you sit back down the Ogres look at you with newfound respect, even the one that initially disparaged you.
Besides strength Ogres love stories, and in that regard you can run circles around any of them, so long as you do not use too many sophisticated words. For the rest of the night you regale them with tales of fighting in Ind, or in the Southlands, or distant Cathay, the Ogres hanging onto your every word.
-The Ogres have a decent opinion of you, but they are still Ogres.
-----
[10+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)-10(Small 'Un)-10(Slim 'Un)+10(Big for Slim 'Un)-10(Lost Duel)=20/100]
One of Krag's Ogres leads you some distance from the camp, and though you pass a number of patrols, they very noticeably thin out before stopping altogether as you near your destination, a craggy ravine wedged between two hills. The air is thick with magic, pulsating with power. Not corrupted, but not of the natural order either.
The smell alone is nearly enough to make you gag, your eyes watering as you descend down the ravine. Corpses; beastmen, greenskins and wildlife alike hang from hooks driven into the stone by great force, while blood, grease and other fluids splash beneath your boots. Slabs of rock have been appropriated as worktables, strewn with half-butchered carcasses and bits of meat and bone.
Several Ogres armoured with metal plates crudely hammered into shape and wielding great hooked glaives stand guard, unmoving sentinels that nearly blend into the walls of the ravine, but your eyes are inexorably drawn to the quartet of Ogres labouring over the carcasses, singing and stomping their feet to the tune of a song your Grumbarth is not keen enough to fully understand, but appears to be some combination of drinking song and prayer to the Great Maw. All around them, Gnoblar attendants swarm and bring food, drink and new carcasses for the Butchers, while taking away the finished cuts- at least those that are not immediately devoured.
The first of them is covered in countless bones, some of them hanging from metal hooks or rope, others pierced through his skin. Around his thick neck hangs a length of thick chain, fastened with dozens upon dozens of skulls. You recognize humans, dwarfs, halflings, orcs, goblins, beastmen, a Fimir, and even several elves. The macabre adornment is so big it falls down his chest like a beard, rattling with each move he makes. At his belt is an assortment of massive knives, cleavers and hooks, perfect for coaxing meat off the bone without damaging the skeleton. His face is hidden behind a helmet that looks to have been fashioned from the skull of a Giant, showing only his beady red eyes watching you greedily as you approach, the song dying down.
"Oi, what's this, then?" he says, tossing his empty drinking horn for a Gnoblar to catch, before running his hand over the handles of the knives at his belt. "Hah! Look at 'er, ain't often we see bones that long 'round 'ere!"
"Bah, stop droolin', Brulk," the second Butcher says. "That's the elf the humies put in charge o' bashin' the horn-heads."
The speaker is a tremendously fat Ogre, at least for his height: relatively short for an Ogre, though still a full head taller than you are. His Reikspiel is substantially better than his comrade's, but he talks through a mouth full of food, gristle and bits of meat dropping down his chin to the ground where a handful of Gnoblars hold clay jars to catch them.
"Horn-heads, humies… don't matter to me," Brulk grunts back. "All the same in the stew, eh Grubnar? What's she want, then? Come to tell us to fight like Krag an' his dainty lot?"
The third Butcher lets out a shrill, wheezing giggle, rocking back and forth on his legs like a pendulum. "Maybe she wants to teach us, eh?" he sneers, his voice a high-pitched rasp. "Show us how to march like little humie soldiers? Hah! Not bloody likely."
He is emaciated by the standards of Ogres, though still obese by any other, with sickly greenish-tinted skin, black veins visible under it. Completely shorn of hair, he has not so much as a strand on his hair, jaw or lips, and his nails and teeth have been filed to sharp points, but most striking are his eyes. They are pitch-black, without sclera or iris, simply spheres of darkness.
His entire being puts you ill at ease.
"Pipe down, Morak," the last of the four speaks. "Yer giving me a 'eadache."
She is the largest of the Butchers, a massive female Ogre that exceeds even Grubnar in overall size, if not in proportion. She wears what appears to be the skull of a Great Stag over her head, beneath which her face is a sagging mass of wart-covered flesh, dominated by a crooked nose and one gleaming green eye, the other clouded and grey. Towering over the other Ogres, her shoulders are nonetheless hunched, her apron and crude robe stitched from burlap, while her brown hair is slick and shining with grease, threaded with cords and knots of sinew.
Her hands are scarred and pitted with burnmarks and boils, holding a massive iron ladle that looks sturdy enough to be used as a club, and dented enough that it might well have been. At her side, an entire team of Gnoblars labour to keep a massive iron cauldron warm, feeding wood to the fire licking the bottom of the enormous pot.
"Well, elf?" she says, her lips pulling back to reveal yellowed tusks. "D'you know who yer talkin' to?"
"You are Slaughtermaster Grisla," you say evenly. "I am Loremaster Fanriel of the Lightfangs."
Grisla grins, the expression more a baring of teeth than a smile. "Smart little twig, ain't ya? We heard o' yer comin'. Now then, what's brought ya to our shrine o' the Gulpin' God? You here to give orders? Or…" She leans forward, the shadows deepening around her hulking frame. "...you here to offer yerself for the pot?"
She gives out a small laugh, as though she found her own joke funny.
"No," you say bluntly. "If you know who I am, you know why I am here. The Grand Baron has put me in charge of dealing with the Beastmen of Nebelhauchwald, and the corrupted spirits that the forest harbours. I offer you the chance to sample new flavours the likes of which you will not find elsewhere."
"Been a while since I had me a bite o' spirit-flesh," Morak muses, a long black tongue running over his teeth.
"It's the way it works," Grubnar adds, speaking through a mouth full of the lamb leg he is devouring at an astonishing rate. "We smash their enemies, and the 'umies hand over… ingredients."
"Bah," Brulk says, the bones hanging off of him rattling. "Lapdogs, the lot o' ya. Always ready to jump when the humies start yappin'."
"Shut yer traps," Grisla's voice cuts through the arguing, as she turns to you, her yellow teeth exposed in an ugly grin. "Why don't you join us for a meal, Loremaster?"
She reaches out into a moose carcass hung from a hook, and, with a wet squelch, pulls out some kind of organ from the body. She slaps it onto a rock slab in front of her, raw and bloody.
"C'mon then," she says, her grin widening. "Sit, eat with us. Taste the bounty o' the Great Maw. Let's see if you've got the stomach to share in a real feast."
You feel every pair of Ogre eyes boring into you as Grisla steps back, her wart-covered face twisted into a grin that's both amused and expectant. The organ on the rock slab in front of you glistens wetly in the firelight, its slick, raw surface pooling blood onto the stone. The smell alone is nearly overpowering, a mix of iron, decay, and something unidentifiable but utterly foul.
"Well?" Grisla rumbles, her massive hand resting on her iron ladle like a weapon ready to strike. "Don't keep us waitin', twig. Let's see if you've got the guts to match yer big talk."
You glance down at the organ, steaming in the crips mountain air. The thought of biting into it makes your stomach churn, but the weight of their stares keeps you rooted in place. You know what's at stake here: hesitation would be seen as weakness, and weakness has no place in the company of Ogres.
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. Reaching out, you grasp the organ, its slimy surface squelching unpleasantly in your hands. The blood is warm, seeping through your fingers as you lift it.
Lifting the organ to your lips, you take another breath and bite down. The texture is rubbery, the taste overwhelmingly metallic and pungent. You fight the reflex to gag, forcing yourself to chew.
The Butchers jeer at you, before joining in as Grisla tosses out more and more pieces of the moose- you see Morak crack open the skull with a hammer before scooping out the brain, while Grubnar devours the moose's heart. Brulk sucks out the marrow from the bones, while Grisla takes the choice pick: the stomach and the guts.
You start to feel ill, as you slowly take another bite. Your stomach churns, from the smell, from the noise, from the taste, from the magic thrumming through the air. Your throat rebels against you, refusing to swallow, until you force it down with a heroic effort. Sweat beads on your forehead as the acrid taste overwhelms your senses. Your stomach twists painfully, the smell of blood and grease now unbearable.
"Picking at yer food, are ya twig?" Grisla says with fake sweetness, before the ladle lashes out to strike the stone table with such force that everything on it rattles audibly. "Eat."
You know for a fact that you cannot take another bite without vomiting. So you spare yourself the humiliation and do not attempt to.
"I have indulged you long enough," you say, putting down the half-eaten organ. "You know the merits of my argument, why I asked for you. You are in Ostland at the suffering of Elector-Count Von Hohenzollern, and now is the time to prove your worth and answer his call."
"Ye've got some nerve, twig," Grisla says, her voice low and rumbling, like distant thunder. "Comin' here, waggin' yer tongue like we're yer dogs. We don't serve no slim- not you, not the 'Count, none but the Maw."
She straightens, towering above you, her tusked grin returning.. "But… we'll fight. Not for you, though. We'll fight because the Maw calls for it, and because there's meat to be had. That's the only call we answer, twig."
The other Butchers grunt in agreement, their laughter rumbling like a small earthquake. Grisla's ladle slams into the stone again with a resounding crack, making the Gnoblars scurry away.
"Now, get to marchin' if yer so eager," Grisla says, her grin widening. "And if yer plan's as strong as yer nerves, maybe—maybe—we'll leave enough of the enemy fer the humies to clean up."
-The Ogre Butchers have a low opinion of you and are unlikely to follow orders.
-----
The next evening Scarloc returns, and you convene the leaders of the forces under your command to receive his report. Aside from Eöl and Tinuthal, the tent is crowded with Aramil, Valahuir, Holsgart, Van de Rijder, Helsner, Soch, and even Krag's enormous bulk, Ostlander command tents being made to at least somewhat accommodate Ogres, though Grisla is nowhere to be seen.
The others you have already met, but this is your first time laying eyes on Aramil in many decades. The Chracian Prince is the very picture of the stoicism his kingdom is known for, unreadable in his expression. He is tall, nearly equal to you in height, his Ithilmar plate only scarcely less fine than yours. An eagle-winged helmet sits under his arm, and a sword at his hip- the famed Whitefire Glaive most likely saddled with his Griffon, to discourage any… unwelcome attempts at repossession.
He makes no move to greet you, though that may be because you are accompanied by two Swordmasters and he is a wanted criminal, or perhaps he is offended that you have met with every other leader but he.
Whichever it is, you will just have to deal with it.
Scarloc strides into the tent in a stormy mood, ducking his antlered helm through the entrance, before tossing something onto the table between you. Black blood drips across the oaken surface from the severed neck of a Bray-Shaman, its red eyes staring into nothingness.
"The Beastmen swarm around the forest in great numbers, Ungors and Gors," the Asrai speaks in a low voice. "We slayed one of their Shamans, but there were others."
"And did you find the grove I spoke of?"
"We did," Scarloc says through gritted teeth. "An entrance to the Beast-Paths. Spirits of the forest, bound into the service of the Dark Gods with the blood of the accursed Spawn."
Someone else might make a cutting retort, a dig at his earlier disbelief in even the existence of the corrupted spirit-court.
But true superiority does not always require flaunting. It is self-evident.
"The Beastmen are in league with the Forest Daemons?" Holsgart asks, stroking his moustache. "It is worse than I thought."
Scarloc casts him a withering look, but it seems to simply slide off the Averlander like rainwater from a stone.
"We also saw flocks of Harpies, emerging from the Beast-Path," the Wood Elf continues. "They darken the skies above the forest, killing anything that moves in the skies."
Aramil snorts, but says nothing.
Scarloc goes on to describe the terrain, much of which is already familiar to you. The Goblin Wolf-Riders remain present in the area, though they seem wary of the increased Beastmen activity. Lastly, Scarloc's band heard the roars of some manner of great beast from the direction of the Beastmen warcamp, though they were unable to get close enough to determine exactly what kind of monster the Horned Ones have brought forth from the deep forests.
-Confirmed presence of enemy Bray-Shamans, one of which has been killed.
-Confirmed presence of enemy Harpies.
-Confirmed presence of at least some kind of enemy Monstrous unit, though the Asrai were unable to confirm its exact identity.
As Scarloc finishes, all eyes turn to you. Now is your chance to outline your plan for the coming battle, what they should expect and prepare for.
It is also traditional for the commander to name his second, in case you are incapacitated or otherwise unavailable. But such choices are always subject to scrutiny, and will influence what others see in you. It is an honour, but one that could be easily used to undermine you, and those not chosen may take it as an insult.
Delicate judgement will need to be exercised.
-Decide what kind of plan Fanriel outlines for her subordinates.
-You can still react and make changes on the fly depending on the circumstances is your opportunity to tell them what to expect and what to prepare for. What you tell them now is also the plan they will most likely follow if Fanriel is incapacitated or otherwise indisposed.
Sample Plan:
[] [PLAN] Plan Default
-[] The army will march through the hill-lands, with Ogres at the head of the column, the Halberdiers behind them, and the Spearmen in last. The elves will move around the column flexibly to fend off skirmishers and ambushes.
-[] Once the forest is reached the army will form into battle formation and advance towards the Beast-Path entrance. Ogres at the center, Irongulls at center-left, De Jonge Bokken at far left, Sea Wolves at center-right and Northern Sons at far right. Scarloc's Archers scout ahead while the rest stay behind the force in reserve and to cover against being outflanked.
-[] Once the Beast-Path entrance is reached, Valahuir and the Butchers will destroy the corrupted grove with magic. Failing that, or should they be unavailable, the Ogres will attempt to destroy it with brute force. As a last resort, any available forces will attempt to start a fire with any means at their disposal and destroy the grove that way.
-Decide who to name as your second in command.
[] [2IC] Glade Lord Scarloc the Wanderer of Scarloc's Archers
-Extremely qualified
-Familiar with the enemy
-Hates you
[] [2IC] Prince Aramil Amakiir
-Extremely qualified
-Might use the authority to do his own thing
-You don't know how he feels about you
[] [2IC] Mage-Smith Valahuir Aunrith of the Fireclaws
-Highly qualified
-Used to working with humans
-Will piss off both Aramil and Scarloc
[] [2IC] Colonel Reinhardt Holsgart of the Northern Sons
-Qualified
-State Army Officer, nobody could argue against picking him
-Sigmarite zealot
-Holds sensitive political views
[] [2IC] Willem Van de Rijder of De Jonge Bokken
-Established positive relationship with you
-Questionably qualified
[] [2IC] Wilbrand Helsner of the Irongulls
-Qualified
-Safe, inoffensive choice
[] [2IC] Axel Soch of the Sea Wolves
-Qualified?
-Would owe you a favour
[] [2IC] Swordmaster Tinuthal of the Lightfangs
-Highly qualified
-Unquestionably loyal
-Will probably annoy the other candidates
[] [2IC] Captain Krag of the 3rd Ostland Auxiliary Company
-No
[] [2IC] Slaughtermaster Grisla
-Why would you do that?
-12 Hours Moratorium.
There is a very noticeable boundary dividing the section of the camp where the Northern Sons were encamped from the rest. Not in the sense that one side was drastically different from the other, the organization of the tents was no less haphazard, but rather a literal dividing line, a stretch of unused ground separating the Sigmarites from the rest.
You very much get a sense of the religious divide: the banners flapping in the wind bear twin hammers crossed beneath the Bull of Ostland, and many of the soldiers who watch you walk past openly carry hammer-talismans with almost a sense of defiance about them. A small shrine has been erected at the center, nothing too complicated that cannot be quickly packed up and moved, but you see a handful of men knelt before it in prayer.
You are directed to the tent closest to the shrine, relatively ostentatious by the standards of the camp. Inside you find all of the expected trappings of a nobleborn officer's tent: a wardrobe, a table, a full bed, and a rack holding a broadsword and a suit of plate armour.
The one you are here to meet is a man of average height and size, impeccably dressed, his black moustache immaculately waxed to a sharp point to compliment his short beard and bald head. Green, intelligent eyes assess you keenly as you take his proffered shake, engulfing his hand in your grip.
"I am Reinhardt Holsgart, Colonel of the 12th Ostland Spearmen. And you are Loremaster Fanriel of the Lightfangs."
"That is so," you nod. "You have my thanks for meeting me on such short notice."
"Oh, but only a fool would deny to meet with their commander on the eve of battle. It is not often that one finds themselves placed under the command of an elf."
"Will that be a problem?"
For a brief moment a silence descends between you. You are a wielder of the arcane, the kind of which Sigmar himself pronounced accursed and forbidden at the dawn of the Empire. By the limited understanding of the humans, it would be his religious duty to slay you where you stand.
"Not at all. You've made quite the name for yourself in Kislev, enough to carry the word down here. They say that you are a templar of your people's God of Knowledge."
Luckily for him, religious norms may be bent in service of societal norms. And societal norms may be bent in service of gold and silver. When the Seafarer first returned to Elthin Arvan, he gave the rulers of these lands a simple choice. The Sea Elves would make no business with those who would burn them on pyres as witches, so they could either consider Mages to be priests, or watch those who did fill their coffers with the fruits of trade.
"I serve Hoeth, Lord of Wisdom, but not only him. I am a servant of the Cadai, honouring each of the Pantheon of Heaven in turn."
"I see that you embody your patron's epithet," Holsgart smiles. "Indeed, I too honour Ulric, Manann, Taal, Rhya, Verena and Morr alongside Lord Sigmar. Alas, such enlightened sentiments are rare in these lands, in these times."
"Would such sentiments be why someone whose armour bears the insignia of a southern templar order can be found leading troops in the Wolf-Emperor's domain?"
You make a meaningful glance towards the armour rack, prominently featuring a laurel-wreathed skull over a bronze hammer, on a background of a dark red shield.
"You are a learned one. I am, indeed, but an adopted son of Ostland, born the third son of Baron Holsgart of Dietfurt."
It takes you a moment of cross-referencing the maps you have memorized to place the name somewhere in Averland.
"With my brothers as his heirs, my father hoped that I would earn the family name glory upon the field of battle, and encouraged me towards martial pursuits. I joined the Knights of Sigmar's Blood, eventually even rising to the rank of Preceptor."
"Quite an interesting story. But why leave that life behind?"
The Knights of Sigmar's Blood are reputed to be among the most zealous of the warriors devoted to the man-god, and fanatically loyal to the Grand Theogonist. And often serving at the front lines of the Imperial Civil War, at the side of the Reikland Emperor.
"Why?" he asks, gazing out towards nowhere in particular. "Because the Grand Theogonist is a heretic. He denies the divinity of Ulric, Sigmar's own god. He preaches that which is politically expedient, not that which is written in Deus Sigmar. He is more concerned with increasing his own power and prosecuting his enemies than the prosperity of Sigmar's domain."
"Still, why Von Hohenzollern?" you say in a level tone. "The Grand Barony of Ostland has outlawed the Cult of Sigmar."
"I can hardly fault him for banning an organization which I left in disgust," Holsgart says, shaking his head. "He accepts the divinity of Sigmar, and allows his worship, more than what can be said of most rulers in the north. He refuses to fight his fellow men unless attacked, focusing on fighting the greenskin, the mutant, and the unquiet dead. He is a man I could call Emperor."
There is genuine admiration in his voice as he speaks.
"Forgive my curiosity, for Hoeth ill abides unanswered questions, but is that not a contradiction? You say that he would make a worthy Emperor because he does not take part in the civil war, yet the only path to the throne lies in bloodshed."
"The Holy Empire of Sigmar cannot be united by conquest," Holsgart snaps. "That is what none of the so-called Emperors understand: to attempt to claim the throne by force is to forsake one's claim to it. The gods are displeased with our bickering, and Almighty Sigmar has withdrawn the sacred Warhammer, so that it may not be used to spill the blood of his own. But if Von Hohenzollern were to cast off the yoke of that dog in Middenheim, the Heldenhammer would see the righteousness and worthiness of his cause, and bestow unto him Ghal Maraz. Then, none could deny his claim to the throne."
"I… see."
Of course, if the man-god did not find the Grand Baron worthy, if Ghal Maraz was spirited away by less than divine hands… all he would accomplish is further splintering of the Haraesanurien.
But you give voice to such sentiments only in the sanctity of your own mind, for you recognize the spark of zeal in Holsgart's eyes.
-The Northern Sons have a decent opinion of you, but they are led by a Sigmarite zealot with volatile political leanings.
-----
[30+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)+10(De Jonge Bokken)+5(Westerlanders)-5(Lost Duel)=70/100]
The Westerlanders are clustered, somewhat ironically, on the eastern side of the camp. The line of division is much less clear there, despite the fact that they are foreign mercenaries from a land nominally at war with Ostland whilst the Northern Sons are Ostlanders who merely hold a different god closest to their chest.
While religion must certainly play a role, for the Westerlanders seem to worship Manaan, Ulric and Sigmar in equal measure, Ostland is also on the other side of the Wolf-Emperor's domain, and the western front of the Imperial Civil War has been relatively cold ever since the Treaty of Amity and Commerce, and the re-establishment of Sith Rionnasc.
After the armies of Reikland and Middenland were defeated by Westerlander and Asur forces in the First and Second Battles of the Grootscher Marsh some hundred years ago, the other Emperor-claimants have not been eager to push into Westerland, lest they open a vulnerability for the Ottilians to exploit. But at the same time, the Treaty does not obligate Ulthuan to support Westerland's ambitions beyond the province's borders, nor does Finubar wish to provoke the Danothalui by backing Van Der Maacht too openly.
All of which, combined with the short lives of men, means that there are very few battles between the Westerland and Wolf Emperors in living memory, and consequently, significantly less bad blood than that which exists between the northern, southern and eastern parts of the Empire.
Van de Rijder serves as an easy introduction to the other mercenaries, and in fact seems to have put in a good word for you already, as it seems nearly every Westerlander you talk to seems to want to hear about your defeat of the Ungors at the edge of the forest, and how you brought back every single man that left the camp with you. Though you are quick to make it clear that a mission of destruction rather than foraging is certain to result in casualties, so as to not give them false hope that could prove disastrous to morale once proven wrong, they seem assured that you have the skill and the intention to avoid taking more casualties than you have to.
Wilbrand Helsner, the Commander of the Irongulls, is a grizzled old seadog that left the employ of the Westerland State Army for greater riches and excitement in mercenary life. He seems to be of the reliable sort, but a bit standoffish and difficult to read. Still, nobody seems to have a bad word to say about him: he has an impressive record, and a reputation for pulling through.
Axel Soch is the Commander of the Sea Wolves, though his position is apparently quite uncertain. You find out circumspectly that his tenure as the leader of the regiment is only a few weeks old after the previous commander's death by Orc axe, and he won the title by a margin of only one vote. As such, he is eager to make a name for himself and solidify his leadership, and quick to try to ingratiate himself to you.
The part of you that ruled Cairn Thel for ninety years smells an opportunity: if you give him the opportunity to shine, he will owe you a great deal. And favour from a large mercenary regiment is a valuable thing indeed.
-Westerlander morale is decent and they seem to have a positive opinion of you, but are sensitive to heavy casualties.
----
[60+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)-10(Small 'Un)-10(Slim 'Un)+10(Big for Slim 'Un)-10(Lost Duel)=70/100]
The 3rd Ostland Auxiliary Company is helmed by a massive Ogre that goes by the name of Krag, formally holding the rank of Captain but more commonly referred to by the title of Bruiser.
You find them sitting around campfires, feasting and singing loud enough that they can probably be heard for miles. Here and there a few humans have joined them, and you even spot a singular dwarf, sharing in the merriment albeit in reduced quantity.
Krag sits with his Sergeants, or Crushers, the largest and the toughest Ogres in the Company, and here the flow of food and drink is the fastest, and the singing the loudest. They give you more than a few leering looks as you join the circle, grabbing a pint from a server passing by.
"Ain't you the twiggy what got walloped by that wolf-priest so bad ya spewed yer guts everywhere?" one of them jeers, to the grunting laughter of the other Ogres.
"Perhaps," you say, taking a long sip from your drink, some kind of cheap ale brewed in bulk. "Is that a problem?"
"This place is fer the biggest, the toughest, the strongest," the same Ogre that had spoken continues. "And last I saw, twiggy, ye ain't none o' those."
You glance at Krag, who merely shrugs his shoulders.
You sigh. Very well.
"Rynthael!"
A tight stream of flame shoots out from your hand, almost like a beam, striking the Ogre in the face. It is not a very powerful spell, unlikely to even leave a permanent scar on the tough, leathery skin of an Ogre, but the instinct of any living being when unexpectedly faced with light and heat coming for their face is to close their eyes and shy away, and Ogres are no different.
The heel of your armoured boot crashing into his nose, on the other hand, is enough for him to stumble back, tripping on the log he'd been sitting on and toppling onto his back. Before he can recover, you are standing over him, Lightfang's tip at his throat.
"Would you like to face me in a real fight?"
As you speak, you call upon the wild heart of Ghur, shrouding yourself in the primeval energies of the Bestial Wind.
"No!" the Ogre hastens to speak. "By the Maw, no!"
"That is what I thought."
In more civilized company such a display of sudden violence might have been looked down upon, but in Ogre culture it is expected, even regarded favourably. Indeed, as you sit back down the Ogres look at you with newfound respect, even the one that initially disparaged you.
Besides strength Ogres love stories, and in that regard you can run circles around any of them, so long as you do not use too many sophisticated words. For the rest of the night you regale them with tales of fighting in Ind, or in the Southlands, or distant Cathay, the Ogres hanging onto your every word.
-The Ogres have a decent opinion of you, but they are still Ogres.
-----
[10+30(Fanriel Diplomacy)-10(Small 'Un)-10(Slim 'Un)+10(Big for Slim 'Un)-10(Lost Duel)=20/100]
One of Krag's Ogres leads you some distance from the camp, and though you pass a number of patrols, they very noticeably thin out before stopping altogether as you near your destination, a craggy ravine wedged between two hills. The air is thick with magic, pulsating with power. Not corrupted, but not of the natural order either.
The smell alone is nearly enough to make you gag, your eyes watering as you descend down the ravine. Corpses; beastmen, greenskins and wildlife alike hang from hooks driven into the stone by great force, while blood, grease and other fluids splash beneath your boots. Slabs of rock have been appropriated as worktables, strewn with half-butchered carcasses and bits of meat and bone.
Several Ogres armoured with metal plates crudely hammered into shape and wielding great hooked glaives stand guard, unmoving sentinels that nearly blend into the walls of the ravine, but your eyes are inexorably drawn to the quartet of Ogres labouring over the carcasses, singing and stomping their feet to the tune of a song your Grumbarth is not keen enough to fully understand, but appears to be some combination of drinking song and prayer to the Great Maw. All around them, Gnoblar attendants swarm and bring food, drink and new carcasses for the Butchers, while taking away the finished cuts- at least those that are not immediately devoured.
The first of them is covered in countless bones, some of them hanging from metal hooks or rope, others pierced through his skin. Around his thick neck hangs a length of thick chain, fastened with dozens upon dozens of skulls. You recognize humans, dwarfs, halflings, orcs, goblins, beastmen, a Fimir, and even several elves. The macabre adornment is so big it falls down his chest like a beard, rattling with each move he makes. At his belt is an assortment of massive knives, cleavers and hooks, perfect for coaxing meat off the bone without damaging the skeleton. His face is hidden behind a helmet that looks to have been fashioned from the skull of a Giant, showing only his beady red eyes watching you greedily as you approach, the song dying down.
"Oi, what's this, then?" he says, tossing his empty drinking horn for a Gnoblar to catch, before running his hand over the handles of the knives at his belt. "Hah! Look at 'er, ain't often we see bones that long 'round 'ere!"
"Bah, stop droolin', Brulk," the second Butcher says. "That's the elf the humies put in charge o' bashin' the horn-heads."
The speaker is a tremendously fat Ogre, at least for his height: relatively short for an Ogre, though still a full head taller than you are. His Reikspiel is substantially better than his comrade's, but he talks through a mouth full of food, gristle and bits of meat dropping down his chin to the ground where a handful of Gnoblars hold clay jars to catch them.
"Horn-heads, humies… don't matter to me," Brulk grunts back. "All the same in the stew, eh Grubnar? What's she want, then? Come to tell us to fight like Krag an' his dainty lot?"
The third Butcher lets out a shrill, wheezing giggle, rocking back and forth on his legs like a pendulum. "Maybe she wants to teach us, eh?" he sneers, his voice a high-pitched rasp. "Show us how to march like little humie soldiers? Hah! Not bloody likely."
He is emaciated by the standards of Ogres, though still obese by any other, with sickly greenish-tinted skin, black veins visible under it. Completely shorn of hair, he has not so much as a strand on his hair, jaw or lips, and his nails and teeth have been filed to sharp points, but most striking are his eyes. They are pitch-black, without sclera or iris, simply spheres of darkness.
His entire being puts you ill at ease.
"Pipe down, Morak," the last of the four speaks. "Yer giving me a 'eadache."
She is the largest of the Butchers, a massive female Ogre that exceeds even Grubnar in overall size, if not in proportion. She wears what appears to be the skull of a Great Stag over her head, beneath which her face is a sagging mass of wart-covered flesh, dominated by a crooked nose and one gleaming green eye, the other clouded and grey. Towering over the other Ogres, her shoulders are nonetheless hunched, her apron and crude robe stitched from burlap, while her brown hair is slick and shining with grease, threaded with cords and knots of sinew.
Her hands are scarred and pitted with burnmarks and boils, holding a massive iron ladle that looks sturdy enough to be used as a club, and dented enough that it might well have been. At her side, an entire team of Gnoblars labour to keep a massive iron cauldron warm, feeding wood to the fire licking the bottom of the enormous pot.
"Well, elf?" she says, her lips pulling back to reveal yellowed tusks. "D'you know who yer talkin' to?"
"You are Slaughtermaster Grisla," you say evenly. "I am Loremaster Fanriel of the Lightfangs."
Grisla grins, the expression more a baring of teeth than a smile. "Smart little twig, ain't ya? We heard o' yer comin'. Now then, what's brought ya to our shrine o' the Gulpin' God? You here to give orders? Or…" She leans forward, the shadows deepening around her hulking frame. "...you here to offer yerself for the pot?"
She gives out a small laugh, as though she found her own joke funny.
"No," you say bluntly. "If you know who I am, you know why I am here. The Grand Baron has put me in charge of dealing with the Beastmen of Nebelhauchwald, and the corrupted spirits that the forest harbours. I offer you the chance to sample new flavours the likes of which you will not find elsewhere."
"Been a while since I had me a bite o' spirit-flesh," Morak muses, a long black tongue running over his teeth.
"It's the way it works," Grubnar adds, speaking through a mouth full of the lamb leg he is devouring at an astonishing rate. "We smash their enemies, and the 'umies hand over… ingredients."
"Bah," Brulk says, the bones hanging off of him rattling. "Lapdogs, the lot o' ya. Always ready to jump when the humies start yappin'."
"Shut yer traps," Grisla's voice cuts through the arguing, as she turns to you, her yellow teeth exposed in an ugly grin. "Why don't you join us for a meal, Loremaster?"
She reaches out into a moose carcass hung from a hook, and, with a wet squelch, pulls out some kind of organ from the body. She slaps it onto a rock slab in front of her, raw and bloody.
"C'mon then," she says, her grin widening. "Sit, eat with us. Taste the bounty o' the Great Maw. Let's see if you've got the stomach to share in a real feast."
You feel every pair of Ogre eyes boring into you as Grisla steps back, her wart-covered face twisted into a grin that's both amused and expectant. The organ on the rock slab in front of you glistens wetly in the firelight, its slick, raw surface pooling blood onto the stone. The smell alone is nearly overpowering, a mix of iron, decay, and something unidentifiable but utterly foul.
"Well?" Grisla rumbles, her massive hand resting on her iron ladle like a weapon ready to strike. "Don't keep us waitin', twig. Let's see if you've got the guts to match yer big talk."
You glance down at the organ, steaming in the crips mountain air. The thought of biting into it makes your stomach churn, but the weight of their stares keeps you rooted in place. You know what's at stake here: hesitation would be seen as weakness, and weakness has no place in the company of Ogres.
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. Reaching out, you grasp the organ, its slimy surface squelching unpleasantly in your hands. The blood is warm, seeping through your fingers as you lift it.
Lifting the organ to your lips, you take another breath and bite down. The texture is rubbery, the taste overwhelmingly metallic and pungent. You fight the reflex to gag, forcing yourself to chew.
The Butchers jeer at you, before joining in as Grisla tosses out more and more pieces of the moose- you see Morak crack open the skull with a hammer before scooping out the brain, while Grubnar devours the moose's heart. Brulk sucks out the marrow from the bones, while Grisla takes the choice pick: the stomach and the guts.
You start to feel ill, as you slowly take another bite. Your stomach churns, from the smell, from the noise, from the taste, from the magic thrumming through the air. Your throat rebels against you, refusing to swallow, until you force it down with a heroic effort. Sweat beads on your forehead as the acrid taste overwhelms your senses. Your stomach twists painfully, the smell of blood and grease now unbearable.
"Picking at yer food, are ya twig?" Grisla says with fake sweetness, before the ladle lashes out to strike the stone table with such force that everything on it rattles audibly. "Eat."
You know for a fact that you cannot take another bite without vomiting. So you spare yourself the humiliation and do not attempt to.
"I have indulged you long enough," you say, putting down the half-eaten organ. "You know the merits of my argument, why I asked for you. You are in Ostland at the suffering of Elector-Count Von Hohenzollern, and now is the time to prove your worth and answer his call."
"Ye've got some nerve, twig," Grisla says, her voice low and rumbling, like distant thunder. "Comin' here, waggin' yer tongue like we're yer dogs. We don't serve no slim- not you, not the 'Count, none but the Maw."
She straightens, towering above you, her tusked grin returning.. "But… we'll fight. Not for you, though. We'll fight because the Maw calls for it, and because there's meat to be had. That's the only call we answer, twig."
The other Butchers grunt in agreement, their laughter rumbling like a small earthquake. Grisla's ladle slams into the stone again with a resounding crack, making the Gnoblars scurry away.
"Now, get to marchin' if yer so eager," Grisla says, her grin widening. "And if yer plan's as strong as yer nerves, maybe—maybe—we'll leave enough of the enemy fer the humies to clean up."
-The Ogre Butchers have a low opinion of you and are unlikely to follow orders.
-----
The next evening Scarloc returns, and you convene the leaders of the forces under your command to receive his report. Aside from Eöl and Tinuthal, the tent is crowded with Aramil, Valahuir, Holsgart, Van de Rijder, Helsner, Soch, and even Krag's enormous bulk, Ostlander command tents being made to at least somewhat accommodate Ogres, though Grisla is nowhere to be seen.
The others you have already met, but this is your first time laying eyes on Aramil in many decades. The Chracian Prince is the very picture of the stoicism his kingdom is known for, unreadable in his expression. He is tall, nearly equal to you in height, his Ithilmar plate only scarcely less fine than yours. An eagle-winged helmet sits under his arm, and a sword at his hip- the famed Whitefire Glaive most likely saddled with his Griffon, to discourage any… unwelcome attempts at repossession.
He makes no move to greet you, though that may be because you are accompanied by two Swordmasters and he is a wanted criminal, or perhaps he is offended that you have met with every other leader but he.
Whichever it is, you will just have to deal with it.
Scarloc strides into the tent in a stormy mood, ducking his antlered helm through the entrance, before tossing something onto the table between you. Black blood drips across the oaken surface from the severed neck of a Bray-Shaman, its red eyes staring into nothingness.
"The Beastmen swarm around the forest in great numbers, Ungors and Gors," the Asrai speaks in a low voice. "We slayed one of their Shamans, but there were others."
"And did you find the grove I spoke of?"
"We did," Scarloc says through gritted teeth. "An entrance to the Beast-Paths. Spirits of the forest, bound into the service of the Dark Gods with the blood of the accursed Spawn."
Someone else might make a cutting retort, a dig at his earlier disbelief in even the existence of the corrupted spirit-court.
But true superiority does not always require flaunting. It is self-evident.
"The Beastmen are in league with the Forest Daemons?" Holsgart asks, stroking his moustache. "It is worse than I thought."
Scarloc casts him a withering look, but it seems to simply slide off the Averlander like rainwater from a stone.
"We also saw flocks of Harpies, emerging from the Beast-Path," the Wood Elf continues. "They darken the skies above the forest, killing anything that moves in the skies."
Aramil snorts, but says nothing.
Scarloc goes on to describe the terrain, much of which is already familiar to you. The Goblin Wolf-Riders remain present in the area, though they seem wary of the increased Beastmen activity. Lastly, Scarloc's band heard the roars of some manner of great beast from the direction of the Beastmen warcamp, though they were unable to get close enough to determine exactly what kind of monster the Horned Ones have brought forth from the deep forests.
-Confirmed presence of enemy Bray-Shamans, one of which has been killed.
-Confirmed presence of enemy Harpies.
-Confirmed presence of at least some kind of enemy Monstrous unit, though the Asrai were unable to confirm its exact identity.
As Scarloc finishes, all eyes turn to you. Now is your chance to outline your plan for the coming battle, what they should expect and prepare for.
It is also traditional for the commander to name his second, in case you are incapacitated or otherwise unavailable. But such choices are always subject to scrutiny, and will influence what others see in you. It is an honour, but one that could be easily used to undermine you, and those not chosen may take it as an insult.
Delicate judgement will need to be exercised.
-Decide what kind of plan Fanriel outlines for her subordinates.
-You can still react and make changes on the fly depending on the circumstances is your opportunity to tell them what to expect and what to prepare for. What you tell them now is also the plan they will most likely follow if Fanriel is incapacitated or otherwise indisposed.
Sample Plan:
[] [PLAN] Plan Default
-[] The army will march through the hill-lands, with Ogres at the head of the column, the Halberdiers behind them, and the Spearmen in last. The elves will move around the column flexibly to fend off skirmishers and ambushes.
-[] Once the forest is reached the army will form into battle formation and advance towards the Beast-Path entrance. Ogres at the center, Irongulls at center-left, De Jonge Bokken at far left, Sea Wolves at center-right and Northern Sons at far right. Scarloc's Archers scout ahead while the rest stay behind the force in reserve and to cover against being outflanked.
-[] Once the Beast-Path entrance is reached, Valahuir and the Butchers will destroy the corrupted grove with magic. Failing that, or should they be unavailable, the Ogres will attempt to destroy it with brute force. As a last resort, any available forces will attempt to start a fire with any means at their disposal and destroy the grove that way.
-Decide who to name as your second in command.
[] [2IC] Glade Lord Scarloc the Wanderer of Scarloc's Archers
-Extremely qualified
-Familiar with the enemy
-Hates you
[] [2IC] Prince Aramil Amakiir
-Extremely qualified
-Might use the authority to do his own thing
-You don't know how he feels about you
[] [2IC] Mage-Smith Valahuir Aunrith of the Fireclaws
-Highly qualified
-Used to working with humans
-Will piss off both Aramil and Scarloc
[] [2IC] Colonel Reinhardt Holsgart of the Northern Sons
-Qualified
-State Army Officer, nobody could argue against picking him
-Sigmarite zealot
-Holds sensitive political views
[] [2IC] Willem Van de Rijder of De Jonge Bokken
-Established positive relationship with you
-Questionably qualified
[] [2IC] Wilbrand Helsner of the Irongulls
-Qualified
-Safe, inoffensive choice
[] [2IC] Axel Soch of the Sea Wolves
-Qualified?
-Would owe you a favour
[] [2IC] Swordmaster Tinuthal of the Lightfangs
-Highly qualified
-Unquestionably loyal
-Will probably annoy the other candidates
-No
-Why would you do that?
-12 Hours Moratorium.
The Lightfangs
Loremaster Fanriel
10 Swordmasters of Hoeth
20 Lothern Sea Guard
Scarloc's Archers
Glade Lord Scarloc the Wanderer
50 Asrai Waywatchers
The Fireclaws of Vaul
Mage-Smith Valahuir Aunrith
2 Asur Sharpshooters
20 Asur Marksmen
50 Human Spearmen
Prince Aramil Amakiir
1 Ulthuani Griffon
The Cult of the Great Maw
Slaughtermaster Grisla
Butcher Brulk
Butcher Grubnar
Butcher Morak
20 Mawguard
3rd Ostland Auxiliary Company
1 'Captain' Krag
150 Ostland Ogres
The Seawolves
250 Westerlander Halberdiers
100 Westerlander Handgunners
125 Westerlander Swordsmen
The Irongulls
300 Westerlander Halberdiers
80 Westerlander Handgunners
90 Westerlander Swordsmen
De Jonge Bokken
200 Westerlander Goedendag Spearmen
100 Westerlander Crossbowmen
12th Ostland Spearmen 'The Northern Sons'
500 Ostland Sigmarite Spearmen
60 Ostland Sigmarite Archers
60 Ostland Sigmarite Archers
Loremaster Fanriel
10 Swordmasters of Hoeth
20 Lothern Sea Guard
Scarloc's Archers
Glade Lord Scarloc the Wanderer
50 Asrai Waywatchers
The Fireclaws of Vaul
Mage-Smith Valahuir Aunrith
2 Asur Sharpshooters
20 Asur Marksmen
50 Human Spearmen
Prince Aramil Amakiir
1 Ulthuani Griffon
The Cult of the Great Maw
Slaughtermaster Grisla
Butcher Brulk
Butcher Grubnar
Butcher Morak
20 Mawguard
3rd Ostland Auxiliary Company
1 'Captain' Krag
150 Ostland Ogres
The Seawolves
250 Westerlander Halberdiers
100 Westerlander Handgunners
125 Westerlander Swordsmen
The Irongulls
300 Westerlander Halberdiers
80 Westerlander Handgunners
90 Westerlander Swordsmen
De Jonge Bokken
200 Westerlander Goedendag Spearmen
100 Westerlander Crossbowmen
12th Ostland Spearmen 'The Northern Sons'
500 Ostland Sigmarite Spearmen
60 Ostland Sigmarite Archers
60 Ostland Sigmarite Archers
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Imperious
Without the sun of my life
I'm inclined to vote Aramil as our second. He's one of the two highest qualified candidates, and while we may have reason to be concerned about his intentions, he also seems like he has the sort of personality that would make him appreciate being appointed as second the most, which seems like it should be a good thing for his opinion of us.
If not Aramil, my next choice would be Wilbrand as a qualified and uncontroversial choice.
Anyway good on Scarloc for doing some good work on his way back by killing that Bray Shaman.
If not Aramil, my next choice would be Wilbrand as a qualified and uncontroversial choice.
Anyway good on Scarloc for doing some good work on his way back by killing that Bray Shaman.
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Sertorius
Rebellious Legate
- Location
- Roma Invicta
Aramil, without a doubt.
He is Asur. He is a Prince. He can kick the ass of anyone in this tent. The best warrior in the army and probably the second best general, after Fanriel.
Besides that, I highly doubt he would listen to orders (to any meaningful extent) from anyone, but another Prince like himself and that's Fanriel. Barring her, nobody can even claim be be close to him in terms of social status.
He is Asur. He is a Prince. He can kick the ass of anyone in this tent. The best warrior in the army and probably the second best general, after Fanriel.
Besides that, I highly doubt he would listen to orders (to any meaningful extent) from anyone, but another Prince like himself and that's Fanriel. Barring her, nobody can even claim be be close to him in terms of social status.
Imperious
Without the sun of my life
The ironic thing is that of course Holsgart is completely right. The Empire ends up being united without a conquest by a man worthy enough that Sigmar bestows Ghal Maraz upon him. He just ends up being wrong about who that destined emperor is.
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I am afraid we "have to" pick Aramil.
He is the deadliest combatant, he is very much qualified (hell, him being as qualified as Scarloc speaks volumes), he is unlikely to listen to commands of other people and he is probably already somewhat slighted which picking him as our second would likely alleviate and make him easier to cooperate with.
The drawback of course being that Fanriel is picking a known criminal which will not be popular with other Asur and that he is unlikely to work well with humans.
He is the deadliest combatant, he is very much qualified (hell, him being as qualified as Scarloc speaks volumes), he is unlikely to listen to commands of other people and he is probably already somewhat slighted which picking him as our second would likely alleviate and make him easier to cooperate with.
The drawback of course being that Fanriel is picking a known criminal which will not be popular with other Asur and that he is unlikely to work well with humans.
Thank you, as ever, for the post, Blackout! Good to know that the rank and file is up to the task; shame about the Butchers but still useful to be aware of now rather than in the heat of battle.
Another advantage to the Aramil pick - he is given a degree of responsibility for the soldiers and, in turn, the soldiers come to know him as an authority figure. That should give him an incentive to perform in the role that we want him to, personally intervening and rallying the troops where the fighting is hardest, and make them more likely to actually rally.
Edit: That said... I don't like that drawback. If it only means he goes to hunt down enemy champions and the like without orders, that's probably okay. On the other hand, if he starts peeling off sections of the army and causing contradictions with Fanriel's own commands, that could spiral quickly in the chaos and limited awareness of a forest battle.
Another advantage to the Aramil pick - he is given a degree of responsibility for the soldiers and, in turn, the soldiers come to know him as an authority figure. That should give him an incentive to perform in the role that we want him to, personally intervening and rallying the troops where the fighting is hardest, and make them more likely to actually rally.
Edit: That said... I don't like that drawback. If it only means he goes to hunt down enemy champions and the like without orders, that's probably okay. On the other hand, if he starts peeling off sections of the army and causing contradictions with Fanriel's own commands, that could spiral quickly in the chaos and limited awareness of a forest battle.
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Imperious
Without the sun of my life
I mean the other Asur are the Lightfangs and the Fireclaws, and I doubt the Lightfangs will give us any flack for choosing Aramil. Discounting both the Lightfangs and Aramil himself, there's not that much else in the way of Asur in our forces.
I would not be so sure. Lightfangs won't break orders or anything imho, but will definitely not like it.
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deathofrats0808
Don’t think of it as dying; just as leaving early
- Location
- Earth
What does this mean again?
Blackout
Fed By Comments
- Location
- Who knows?
I edited it in after posting because I have a bad habit of forgetting to put in the abbreviations, but Haraesanurien means "Children of the River Reik", which is the Tar-Eltharin word for the Empire.
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Imperious
Without the sun of my life
Eh. At the end of the day, while Aramil is a wanted criminal, he's also just a thief. It's hard to imagine someone willing to follow us balking that much at Aramil, giving the far greater damage our own crimes have caused, even if we aren't a wanted criminal like him, not unless they're someone really, really into legalisms like a priest of Asuryan.
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Imperious
Without the sun of my life
That may be, but consider the "extremely qualified" attribute. If he's leading a part of our forces to somewhere else, it may well because that would be a good place for them to be at. There have been wars that were won by maverick commanders seizing upon an opportunity their superiors did not notice, and as one of the two most qualified candidates for the job if anyone of our options could manage something like that it would probably be him.
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True enough - and he's also got the aerial perspective to be able to spot such opportunities.
- Location
- Washington
My inclination is honestly Holsgart. His volatile politics are mostly Other People's Problem[tm] and it's hardly a bad thing to raise the star of someone within the actual ostland chain of command who actually approve of us.
("Won't let me command any Ulricans? I'll just give all the glory to a sigmarite" is not actually part of my reasons but IS kind of funny.)
("Won't let me command any Ulricans? I'll just give all the glory to a sigmarite" is not actually part of my reasons but IS kind of funny.)
Imperious
Without the sun of my life
....You raise a good point.
Plus he's also noted to be qualified. I guess I'll throw an approval vote his way along with Aramil.
'Any one of you would do just as poorly without me, so I will be naming my horse as second in command'
- Most delicate high elf diplomacy