Louen Leoncouer. Greatest King of Bretonnia since the time of Gilles himself. Ever valiant in battle. Ever honorable in Diplomacy, ever chivalrous in war. Ten-thousand foes has he conquered, from the undead to the unspeakable. Greenskins have fallen in droves before him, he has dueled with the Tzarina of Kislev to save his people from slavery oppression in that dark land, and the Dark Elves have seen their bodies broken by his lance.
Abroad he is respected-- a neutral arbitrator, a noble soul. Just and honest in war and peace alike.
He...is not you.
The Queen is the noblest Lady of Bretonnia. A wise woman, of honorable temperament, just act and wise counsel. It is said that only one woman of mortal breath might ever so guide the King. In these lands, she is a clarion call terrible. More than once have men out their all on the line for her. By her will, the markets of Tilea were shattered.
She...is not you.
Maullobaude. Supposed bastard son of King Louen. Duke of Mousillon. A black knight, a terrible foe. Valorous, honorable, and chivalrous; but too, wicked, cruel, and harsh. A thousand beasts has he slain as Questing Knight, and the darkness follows him like the train of a dress. Unimpeded lord of Mousillon, master of that dark place, the misery he has caused is endless.
He...is not you.
You are a Prince, a trueborn heir of King Louen:
[] Sir Bohort de Couronne (Defeault)
[] (Write-In)
Compared to the glory of your father, and of your mother, and of your brother, you have little done. No armies shattered, no princess rescued, no world saved. You struggle to leave the shadow of your elders.
But the time now is come.
For the greenskins move too greedily and too deeply. They threaten the people of the Borderlands-- and your father has heard their cries.
And so he sends unto them...you. At the head of an army of three-hundred knights, bearing his banner, you shall put the greenskins to flight-- you shall break the forces of evil-- you shall finally step out of the shadows and into the light, as is your birthright as a prince, as is your duty as a:
[] Knight Errant. Young-- only twenty-one-- and untested, your lance thirsts for war, for glory, for battle. Your father has seen the weakness of the soul of these greenskins, Grimgor especially-- and so he trusts you with this most sacred of tasks. (Easy, Gain Virtue of Confidence)
[]Knight of the Realm. Having removed the greenskins from Hivercœur, you have tested their mettle and found it wanting. Though the Orcs are not so pathetic as the goblins, they are still all-together an untested, sloppy, weak force, utterly without heart, discipline, or panache. Though they have a thirst for blood and battle, they shall still fall before you. (Medium, Gain Virtue of Discipline)
[] A Grail Knight. You fought, suffered, and in the end were reborn, blessed by the Lady. Known for your hatred of guns, poisons, and other such dishonorable weapons, if for anything at all, you also have a well known weakness for protecting the innocent-- and there are worse things to be weak for. Certainly, the innocent will need your protection here-- an army of Black Orcs, only just slightly sullied by their weaker kin, march under command of Grimgor, the thing that put Archaon himself to flight. It will be a hard war-- but you will return with the head of this thing to your father, and the world will be better for it. (Hard, Gain Virtue of Noble Disdain)
--
So yeah, sit back and watch me burn I guess. I had so many notes for Prince Quest that I kind of felt bad wasting them.
The Call to Arms
2523
It is a strange thing, to wake up now. Not at home, nor in the kingdom, nor indeed in any place you had ever traveled. Few friends, here, only just those you brought with you.
Rising up, you grab your razor and mirror and begin to shave blond hair, slowly gliding the pearl handle and the steel over softer flesh.
You remember it like yesterday. Months have you been on the road...
-- It was, despite it all, a quiet day.
It should not have been.
It would be the prelude to a war, an Errantry War-- and though war is never too far from the horizon in these dark days, it should have engendered more. The world should have stopped, a storm should have broken-- something, anything, and not simply a monotonous day of quiet, as has been the past twenty-one years of your life.
The envoy was, perhaps, not a great speaker, but they did have one thing going for them:
[] Louen Leoncouer, unlike the traitorous wretches of the Empire, is a true gentleman-- he will not let a Lady's call for aid go unanswered. (Meet Viktoria Stormcrowned)
[] Valiance in battle is well respected-- and this man, coated in blood and marred by sword, is a warrior. (Meet Lukas Stormcrowned)
[] This man speaks with a confidence unearned, a surety that is unbought. Charisma wafts off of him. (Kudi Stormcrowned)
And it all begins with a simple statement:
"The innocent are threatened, and my siblings are dead."
It is about that point when you know, you know beyond any doubt, that you father will not sit idle by. Whatever else happens, these people will have their aid. It might go on for mere moments later, or it might be hours-- but you see, by the glint in the King's eye, that even now he thirsts for to grab his sword and to go kill Orcs.
"Enough, stranger!"
It is not a full court he will make this proclamation to: Besides yourself, the only onlookers are a scattered collection of peasants looking to bring complaints before the king, everything from overly high taxes to rapine and murder,
"The Greenskins will face justice-- for what they have done, and what they have sought to do."
Oh joy, perhaps you shall get to be your father's emissary, to be hidden from the fighting, to be kept from all valors, to never know combat but against the weakest, most pathetic, most unfitting enemies of a prince.
"Prince Bohort, step forward."
You do, in the same gray daze that ever controls your days; mediocrity, decided for you. You kneel, as is right, before your king. Twenty-one years has he kept your from danger. From honor. From glory.
"I, King Louen of Bretonnia, protector of the sacred, destroyer of the unholy, do charge you to bear my banner; to take up army; to grind these greenskins under the dust; and to secure the peoples, and places, and cities of the Border Princes!"
He smiles when he sees the look on your face, and the gray fades away to nothing.
"Squires! Take diction, and let it be known throughout the land: I declare an Errantry War upon the greenskins of the Borderlands!"
And it is without even the clap of thunder that Bretonnia enters war.
--
Two months of preparation. Two months and then you left. Another month, in good order, to pass the Mondidier Pass, through the Winter's Teeth Pass, to your destination.
As you step outside your own tent, bearing-- for the first time-- your heraldry, and not your father's-- you see tents stretching as far the eye can see. Some are simple but effective leather, those of the common soldiers, or of the workers, the smithies, the fletchers-- the grinding wheels that keep the army functional in the face of campaign and of war. Smoke rises from some of them, billowing out into the cold morning-- either food or metal or simply to get warm.
The others, though? Great cloth pavilions, of silk and cloth and canvas? Those are of the knights, and they are of as many colors as you can imagine. Snow white, red and blue, green and gold, three-hundred families represented in war. From them comes flutes and carousing and joy, as nobles ready themselves for battle-- prepare lances, prepare armor, for soon you shall fight! Prayer, too, is heard. Most are Knights Errant like yourself.
Altogether, you have thirty-thousand men to break the Greenskins. You will be riding to the aid of the city of Mortensholm-- at twenty-thousand people, it is one of the larger cities of the area. They are besieged by twice your number in Goblins, though their cowardice keeps them pinned; the city groans, though, in pain and woes.
Today that changes.
You'll be breaking camp after you eat, but before you can do that you need to meet with your officers:
(PICK 3)
[] Sir Robert de Bastonne! The son of Bohemond, he is nearly ugly-- he has said as much-- but fiercely honorable and just.
[] Sir Pierre de Montfort! The son of Folcard, a black-plated and cold warrior with little of his father's sense of kindness.
[] Sir Geraint de Bordeleaux! Young and hungry for glory, he is somewhat simple-minded but massively strong and with a good heart.
[] Lady Edwige de Lyonesse! Distantly related to Repanse de Lyonesse, she is the only person to ever disarm you at tourney.
[] Damsel Emma de Parravon! Duke Cassyon's somewhat older sister and wielder of magic, she appeared one day out of nowhere in Couronne and wordlessly followed when you parted.
[] Lady Adélaïde d'Aquitaine! A distrusted, cruel wolf of a woman, yet she is more skilled than a dozen lesser knights put together.
Your command tent is a simple thing, just pure red and white canvass thrown over a simple skeleton of finely worked ash. It lightly ripples in the slight winter breeze, white snow shifting a bit. You can hear "spirited debate" coming from within, as Robert the Beast argues with all ferocity against some, likely absolutely irrelevant detail.
You adjust your belt a bit, shift your trousers and your doublet and enter the tent, cape billowing behind you as you do. White flakes enter on the breeze with you, some sticking to the purple and gold silk as it shifts like the waves near the coast.
You are ignored, except for Robert rolling his eyes.
Very well then.
Viktoria, wearing the white garments of Myrmidia, glares at your friend and you immediately feel a slight twinge of anger. "The Goblins are weak! Ever have they been, and ever will they be! If your men are so weak that they cannot hold, for just a moment, until the men of Mortensholm sally out and strike their rear, then perhaps the reputation of Bretonnia was unearned."
"We are thirty-thousand! They outnumber us, two-to-one. Nevermind the battle at hand, we would be too broken to ride to the aid of Aldium, never mind to face the full bulk of Grimgor! We might wipe out the greenskins of this forest, true enough-- but we would then burn! No, we march as a single unit and scatter them-- we can hunt them at our leisure, then!"
"If we are too busy hunting them, then how are we to face Grimgor? We can shatter these goblins here, clear the forest for decades if we're lucky, then merge together our ranks! The people could be brought into service, refill the ranks, and we could make this a stronghold!" Edwige's hands are white as a sheet as she strangles her sword, vaguely pretty face split in a nasty snarl as she fights to control her temper, the Northman blood in her flaring. "Emma, speak reason to him?"
"I think, considering this is his army, that we should let the prince decide. Whatever else, we should not tarry." Her hair covered under a blue veil that falls to the floor, and a pristine white dress, you cannot see her eyes in the shade; but even so, you shudder to think what power they might contain. Her voice is soft from disuse, a black staff rests in her hands, and she gives you a feeling somewhere between your mother and the old maid who educated you until you were fit for squirehood.
"Indeed we should not, Fair Lady."
They turn to you, finally split from the arguing.
"To be clear-- what, exactly are your plans?"
Robert turns to you first. "These two want to use the soldiers as bait. They'd have the men at arms and the bowmen move first, lure the goblins away from the walls to battle them in open field-- and when they did, the Knights and yeomen would swoop in and grind them into the dust--ignoring the massive casualties we would take."
"And this fool," Edwige says, "Would have us slam into them like a wrecking ball. No finesse, no tactics, simply throw so large a number at the goblins that they rout and flee and return to attack again, except this time ready for us."
The room looks to you, their prince and one day, their king.
A weight settles on you. This is far from your first battle-- you were there, at the outskirts of the Storm; you marched with the patrols of Couronne against the Norscans; admirably stood in the defense of Jacquesburg; but this is your first command.
Best to make it count, then.
[] "We will follow Lady Viktoria's plan. Ready the infantry, and the cavalry. We'll destroy them yet." (Viktoria, Edwige Pleased; Robert annoyed; Emma ??? You have no idea, really; Goblins Removed from forests near Mortensholm)
[] "I'd rather face a future problem than a certain slaughter. Robert's plan is a good one." (Robert Pleased; Viktoria, Edwige annoyed; Emma ??? You still have no idea; Goblins routed but still around)
--
In any case, after your decision is made and you sit, eating your steak and eggs in a more companionable silence before you leave for the first battle you have ever commanded-- and one of such import, as well-- a squire arrives, carrying a letter.
(Pick 1):
[] The cloying scent of perfume hangs on it, like a mist. You are all gentle and delicate with it, for you know only one thing that would require her to send a letter to you, now. Imagine the court's shock-- a mistress might disappoint them; a baseborn peasant's girl, though? That might kill them. (Gain trait a Lion's Love)
[] You can see the smirk already, scrawled hand. Even from Reikland, he tries to mock. Your attempt to ignore it holds up about as well as the egg does to your aggressive stabs, as you punch your fork into them. A bad temper is an ungainly thing for a prince. (Gain trait Lion's Roar)
[] It is a simple correspondence from your father-- so why does your hand shake as you read it; why do you feel such fear? Not death-- failure. You know how far you can fly, even if the entire rest of the world does not; but for mountain peak, there is an ocean deep. (Gain trait The Lion's Doubt)
Gently, oh so gently, you undo the wax and unfold the parchment and see what she has written to you-- for there is only really one thing that might convince her to spend the extra copper to get it sent to you so soon:
Dear Lordly Lion,
Love and greetings from Courrone. I am told by the time you receive this, battle will be upon you, or near enough for my heart, Lionot. I know it might mean nothing coming from a serving wench, king cub, but I have sent, with this letter, a slight token of my favor. It is but a little measure of the whole esteem I hold you dearly in, but it is all I can send you in those cold lands so far from our coast-- that, and my firm desire that your thoughts, when they wander, go not to the cold around you, but to the warmth we shared in long nights.
As to the matter of which we are most afraid, I can report that the Lady smiles upon our efforts.
If it be little bother, perhaps reserve for me a trinket?
xoxo,
Lisanor
Sure enough, inside the letter there was a slip of yellow and green silk-- perhaps an old veil, or handkerchief? Whatever the case, a token of her affections. Taking your sheathed sword, you tie it around the hilt, so that it might guide your blade. As for the earlier matter, well.
You are not to be a father.
In any case you swiftly pull out a sheet of parchment yourself.
Dear Fire-Eye,
A thousand sweet kisses from these Borderlands. They are harsh, and unwell, and cold; it makes me wish for the warmth of your gaze as I head to do battle, in the name of liege and lady; and in the name of a future for us all. I shall bear your tokens, and your honor, as I fight upon the evil that brews here.
Further, you shall have more than a trinket, Fue de Mon Cœur.
xoxo,
Bohort
Warm thoughts turn, then, to strategy, and to what this means. It has long been thought that, to truly take the Border Princes would require strong alliances in blood...alliances you can no longer make; alliances of family-- Khypris, especially, that den of snakes and scoundrels will no doubt have your head on a spike to see nobility abed with "commoners" (Though to name her common is to be a damnable fool). Your heart belongs to another, and you will not suffer a loveless sham of a marriage-- the only color you ever saw was to hear her voice; the only greatness you ever knew, pushed on you by her.
[] You have taken her purity. She has taken yours. You will marry her, and you will do it at once when the battle is over. You made an oath, perhaps not in words-- but in the love you shared, and in the sacrifices the two of you have made, you did swear. (Gain Trait A Pure Prince)
[] Are not you a prince? Did not you battle, and fight, and suffer? Other princes have been vain, or stupid, or even monstrous-- and all you desire is, as all men desire, to marry for love and not for power. Perhaps it is prideful to believe you can have your cake, and eat it too; but, prideful or no, it is yours. You will wed her; and she of all queens will be the most beautiful. (Gain Trait A Prince's Pride)
[] You will not dishonor Lisanor by making her nothing more than a mistress-- but marriage is a large thing. No doubt many will come to you seeking it-- and though they will not find, they will find a strong ally and good land, and so kneel anyway, and work with you to stop the Orcs. And in the end, it will be only a matter of time. (Gain Trait A Wise Prince)
--
You can put your armor on by yourself-- but it is a pain, and one you would rather not deal with if you can avoid it. That is, after all, pretty well what they invented squires for. And so you stand in a small tent, three squires-- the oldest fifteen and a distant cousin-- move your armor into place. The only other person there is Emma, who lightly prays to the Lady.
First your cape. It is a blue and red thing of finest silk, lightly whipping in the distance, with your own golden lion at center and two fleur de lys flanking. A chain of pure silverine connects it. Your head is covered by a maille coif that forces your hair down.
Your trunk is covered with a fine maille hauberk that gleams in the torchlight, covered with a blue and red brigandine that drapes all the way down to the mid-thigh; a supple belt ties it off. Small pauldrons shaped like two snarling lion's heads cover your shoulders, both of blued steel. Articulated gauntlets slide into place with a clink; what is not covered by that is covered by the leather of your brigandine.
Your legs, meanwhile, are too covered in that same articulated plate. The thickest piece, at the calves, could stop dwarf-shot, never mind a goblin blade; the piece at the knee has a lion's head carved into the center. All of it is shiny enough to blind an elf at thirty-paces-- coincidentally, about how far King Charles was from the Dark Elf that shot him in the charge. Your helm is still strapped to Honor, so you can't put it on quiet yet.
And like that, you are dressed. Your squires bow and leave, to let you speak privately with the Damsel. The tent itself has been stripped of near everything as you ready for the march, not that there was overmuch to begin with, and so there is nothing to hide you.
"Where is Sir Robert? I would have all of my officers with me, as we charged."
"He volunteered to lead the infantry. Said if they were going to risk their lives, they might as well have someone risk it with them."
"Stubborn! He'll come around, I think, but I don't see what he hopes to gain-- glory has never been his way."
"He is a knight, it is enough. Perhaps more importantly though, he is trying to prove a point. Much the same as your new subjects will no doubt try, some day. Likely some variant of 'we can protect ourselves' as proved by some no doubt ludicrous effort at some mad thing."
"They have sworn themselves, to me, so long as I can protect them." You look up, to your counsel.
"Yes, they swore themselves to you. When there were goblins at the gate, and they were hungry, and everything seemed damned. But when things are different, when the greenskins are beaten back, then there will questions."
"Am I to believe you think these men all indecent, my lady?"
"Hardly. If they were all indecent, it might be a simpler thing-- but instead you are alike, and as with magnets you will repulse each-other." She grips her staff and readies to head out. "But now is not the time for philosophy anyway."
She exits, and you follow. And you see an army ready for war, as final preparations are made and the men assemble who can.
Seven hours you have marched, and now it is finally time to split apart. The 29,000 Infantry will be going a faster route and an hour before you, to have time to engage the greenskins.
They turn to you, their lord. "Bretonnians! we face a difficult task. Thousands of monstrous goblin scum assail an innocent city. They are too entrenched to be be removed by a simple forward charge-- a more complete stratagem will suffice better. They will be exposed, then cut out, like the surgeon cuts out a tumor.
Glory, honor, and chivalry wait for you-- these vicious things, these horrendous greenskins, they have no honor, no panache, no elan. You will be like the farmer in the wheat-field, scything them down.
Further, I promise gold and glory to the family of the soldier who first makes contact with the foe, and knighthood should he live." And with that, you slide your helm on.
You felt the speech somewhat weak and by the books; but, it did the hob well-enough; the men seem to have accepted the strategy, at least, though you doubt they are truly happy about it.
It strikes you, then, that you will not see a great many of these men alive again.
--
An hour and thirty minutes later, you and the thirteen-hundred cavalry you brought burst through the forest into the clearing where the city waits.
More than that, you enter hell.
You put Honor to charge and let instinct take over.
The fighting has been harsh on your men--broken human bodies litter the field in droves, too damn many wearing Bretonnian colors. Weapons lie shattered on the ground, arrows plunged into the soft dirt. Fires rampage out of control, and even from a hundred feet away, you can feel their intensity. This clearing, hot as a forge, is the only place clear of snow you can see. The stench is like a privy, with moldy meats and too old cheese mixed with sewage and sulfur.
But, for all that Robert and your men have suffered harsh casualties, they did succeed. They have formed an L, pinning the greenskins between the wooden walls of the city and yet still leaving enough space for the charge to come rushing home. More, thousands of Goblin bodies, too, lie on the floor, even more broken than the humans-- for this was not an army, in truth, but a glorified mob, fleeing Grimgor-- a probing attack, at best. They are pinned to the south and to the west, with an army holding-- thought, of course, to the east there is an opening for you.
With Edwige at your right and Emma to your left, you slam into the masses of green flesh like a lightning bolt. They are ground underfoot, into paste, powder, and product. Bones shatter, armor gives, leather parts. Yeomen slam spears home with a deadly vengeance. Distracted by the infantry, only a few scattered arrow shots manage to make their way anywhere near you-- and you hear a few men and horses shout, but none really fall, as far as you can tell.
For the next party trick, Emma casts a spell she's been preparing all day, aided by her Damsels-- it is not one she can do often, you think, essentially a ritual she has prepared for just this occasion. She utters magic words-- and green life flows from her, most blessed damsel, to the bodies of your broken men. Wounds that had seemed mortal are healed, new life flows into what had been seemingly corpses, and cold eyes rekindle. With hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers now in the middle of their lines, chaos is rampant among the greenskins, whose morale had begun to waver.
It shatters when the soldiers of Mortensholm, kept fresh for the moment, open the gate and pour out like a waterfall. Viktoria blows her horn, and they roar, and a thousand maille clad soldiers beat into the North.
This is it-- they are pinned, fearful, broken. It becomes slaughter, really, as the greenskins try to flee-- but it is a grim duty you have set yourself to, and it one you will not fail.
Not one greenskin will return to the forest to threaten the lands bequeathed unto you.
--
Finally, finally, there is only one goblin left. A Boss, who glares defiant. He is surrounded, twenty-thousand men looking only at him. There is no mercy left, in any of you, really. Tired, wounded, and bloody, he glares at you with a venomous hate. He knows his end is come.
"Kill me, umie. Do it. Cause Grimgor's coming-- and ain't non of ya going to live past that."
He spits at your feet.
Wordlessly, your blade falls-- and so ends the Goblin siege of Mortensholm. Lifting up the head, the people cheer.
--
As wagons of supplies enter the city for the first time in months, followed by your soldiers, you are greeted by starved, weary, but now newly hopeful looks on the street. The city is yours now, to act as your base in this new war.
You only get one first declaration, so what will it be:
[] Administer justice. With every single member of the Upperclass dead, and with the stress of being besieged for months, no doubt laws were broken. Hold court, see what wrongs have been done, and attend to them.
[] You are a Knight of the Realm, now, no mere wandering Errant. Speak the words, hold the oath, and make the promise: You will protect this land with your life.
[] Food. The people, need food. You have really quite a lot of it. Distribute it in the most effective way you can-- a feast, a communal meal, where further you will give the people the supplies they need to see out winter.
The streets are still. Fires yet lightly burn in the fields where the greenskins had encamped-- what once had been verdant fields of fine prairie grass and neat, hoed lines fit for the harvesting were instead filled in by mud and ruin. Stones fired by archaic rock-lobbers rested in the streets, choking off travel. Empty houses that had once been home to the nobles of this city, what few there were, now housed hundreds of refugees.
You look out at your new realm, and a piece of you aches.
It is not Couronne, certainly. The roads are a hot mess, wood plastered down cheaply with iron spikes. The walls are perhaps ten or fifteen feet, enough to hold out cowardly goblins but little more. Statues to Myrmidia are carved at the oaken gate; a temple, made of silver and bronze, is at the center of the town. The detritus of war yet fills the streets; but, you have solved one problem.
Speaking of the devil, a family shuffles in. A man, his wife, and their children. By his mustache, Stirlanders-- maybe Sylvanians; not hard to see why they'd leave.
Your new quarters for the moment are...humble. Just a mansion of well-worked bricks, essentially a giant rectangle, three stories high, with four small towers. Viktoria has retaken her old room, something you would not deny her. The old lord's portrait still hangs high, an old man dead at the start of the fighting. In the center, at court itself, there is a wooden throne that looks out among three dozen tables, filled now by knights happy to be alive. Spearmen from the city itself are distributed throughout, wearing chain and blue-red tabards.
The young son, perhaps fifteen, gives you a certain sort of glare they've perfected in Sylvania.
"You come for food, yes?"
They are clearly shocked to hear you speak their tongue, though they try not to show it. You wave over two soldiers from among the Mortensholm ranks, as well as a knight. "Sir Adélard, bring these people their month's worth of supplies, will you."
"Of course, my Prince." He kneels and the three are off.
"Have a good day, you three." The stink-eye fades a little and the four part. For a moment, you have some peace. A moment to go through missives.
Loping hand from the Emperor itself is addressed. It is as tastelessly boring as usual from the Emperor, and boils down to "I need to marry my daughter, and you have impressed me enough." As appealing as the thought of taking someone who resembles Luitpold to bed is, no. That'll be a fun one to explain, though.
Next from Kislev. Much the same from the Tzarina, though she hedges her bets and also offers her son.
A dozen more letters, from Tilea and Estalia and the bloody vampires up in Sonnental-- they'll need a smiting before this is over-- offering various appendages in marriage. The Vampires and the Middenlanders have their letters burned summarily, along with whispered prayers to the Lady.
Then finally comes the report from Robert. It is not great.
15,000. Half of your forces dead or wounded too sorely to continue anytime soon-- six-months to a year. He had a point, at least.
Then you hear a bell ring, and any such dark thoughts flee from you. For there's only one reason that bell could be ringing. You are up and moving in moments, cape billowing behind you as you near-stomp your way through the streets to the gate. Now that you're outside the din of the hall, of the meal, you can hear it-- wagon wheels.
The streets are still empty, and yet a great number of people have arrived to see.
It is not often, after all, that a future queen of Bretonnia arrives in the Borderlands.
By the time you arrive, the carriage has drawn to a stop. The door is open. You merely stand, and cross your arms, letting her step down herself.
She had, after all, nearly wrenched your hand off the last time you had tried to help her down. And as always, your breath flies from you at the sight of her.
Her hair is short and black to your own long, blond locks-- unbraided and untied, they reach to your back. Her dress is a simple worker's uniform, dark blacks- the color of Shallya. Her eyes are piercing, in their own right. She is not tall, nor imposing, nor terrible of form-- but then that same unimposing form had tackled you away from the drink.
"Bohort. I thought Knights helped women from carriages?" It is an insult without venom
"And I thought you had no desire to be aided, Lisanor." It is a whine without brattish angst.
It is you, and thank the Lady it is so. There are probably other people around, but you scarcely notice.
--
After many hours of introducing her to your men, the tour of the manor is quick. There are not many living here, aside from your officers.
Your quarters are finally coming up, at least-- for what it's worth they aren't that impressive, really.
"And, finally, these are my--our--quarters." You let her see them, the simple bed , the shaven drawer, the worked mirror. Rather basic for a king-to-be, really.
But then, perhaps that is to be expected when your wife is a Shallyan.
"Before we bed, there is something I promised I would do." It is a simple thing, for a simple queen: a scepter, worked with the dove of Shallya atop it. "I swore I would do this, and I do keep my oaths."
"That you have, that you have." She traces a heart into your white tunic. "Mon joli lion."
The door closes, and your guards wisely find somewhere else to be. --
The marriage ceremony itself, tomorrow, is a quick thing indeed. You wear a white coat and golden pants, she a pure white dress and no train. Emma, representing the Lady, and the town's sole priest of Shallya alike are there to perform the rituals.
Together, as is the tradition in such times, you each pass a symbol of your goddesses to the other. She gives you a grail, carved of fine wood-- a lion is worked into the center. For her, a staff of simple oak.
Your hands are bound, the oil daubed on them. You share a kiss, and like that you are wed.
Like that, for the first time in a long time, your bed is warm.
For the first time, you are to be a father.
--
First, finally going to finish your character sheet, get your officers' properly redacted ones up, and then, get the first administration turn started.
A fierce woman of arms, distantly related to the Ducal family of Lyonesse- her grand-uncle was a third son. Northman blood flows in her, strong-- her mother was a fierce warrior from among the tribes of Norsca. Her whole life she has been torn between the two-- and the tension she ameliorates in aggression, battle and combat. She is the only person to ever disarm you on the field-- not necessarily to defeat you, you have lost plenty before, but that is an impressive.
While she is a great tactician, and a good strategist, her battle plans do tend to trade Bretonnian lives away at a somewhat alarming rate. There lies the key to defeating her.
She is rather happy with you for listening to her plan to defeat the goblins.
Likes: Killing goblins, snow, fighting, honor and ballroom dancing
Dislikes: Cowardice, treachery, greenskins, Dwarfs, her mother's side of the family
Traits:
???
Stats: Martial: 13- A good Warrior and leader. Diplomacy: 12- she speaks with a firm voice and a kind passion. Piety: 10- she is honorbound and pious. Stewardship: 7- not a great fan of numbers.
Favor: 7/10- A loyal steward, marshal and servant. She's happy you followed her suggestion.
-- Robert de Bastonne
There is an interesting contrast between Robert and his father, the famous Bohemond Beastslayer. His father is a handsome, even almost beautiful man; Robert is plain, bordering ugly. His father wields a massive mace carved from the bone of a dragon and a head wrought of meteor-iron by the dwarfs of the Gray Mountains; Robert wields a fauchard made by Guilliaume no last name. His father is a mighty warrior, but has little patience for administration; Robert, on the other hand, adores numbers like the bastard children he does not allow himself, but prefers a more clinical, even Imperial approach to war-- which is ironic in a sense.
Formerly the Major Domo of his father's house, ruling in his stead, the two of you grew to know each other as he spoke for his Dukedom in your father's city. A committed Bretonnian patriot, he saw the Viscount d'Alembençon betrayed by the supposed "Most honorable man in the Empire" and shot down like a dog. As he was the man's son-in-law, it left its mark.
His identifying mark as a commander is a strong support the common soldiers-- the men at arms, the bowmen and so on. On the one hand, a good core is, tautologically, a good thing. On the other hand, it does leave the knightly wing of his armies weak; if you do not see the problem there, then you might not know so much about Bretonnia.
He is unhappy that you did not follow his suggestions. He is not offended on his own behalf, really, but for the sake of the wounded and the dead.
Likes: Honor, math, Bretonnia, his father, peasants
Dislikes: Kurt Hellborg, the Empire, The North, Risking others' lives, his father's vassals
Stats:
???
Traits:
???
Favor: 5/10- He's not real happy with you right now.
-- Emma de Parravon
Nobody quite knows her deal, really. She is an enigmatic woman, prone to shadows and magic. Respected and beloved almost as much as she is feared, she is the elder sister of Duke Cassyon de Parravon.
As you said, none quite knows her deal, but you do get the sense she is, at least, on the same side as you.
Likes: Being all enigmatic
Dislikes: Giving a straight answer
Stats:
???
Traits:
???
-- Lisanor de Courrone
Your wife, pregnant with your child. She is not pretty nor stunning, though none have ever been more beautiful in your eyes. A favored follower of Shallya, you two met when she tackled you-- she thought you were going to do something...very stupid at the docks (You weren't).
Though neither you nor she would admit it at first, over two years the two of you became lovers. She brought a passion to your life, and you a kind ear and benefactor. By her direction, you finally found a purpose-- dozens of hospices, alms-houses, and orphanages now run because she directed you to their plight. It was a war not your father-- bless him, but he was a warrior, not a healer-- nor your mother-- kind and gentle, but focused on her old home of Bastonne-- nor Maullobaude-- a Great Man, perhaps, but not a good one--would ever in a million years fight-- a war on poverty, on illness, on suffering.
A native of the Borderlands who had to flee owing to the constant war, she has spent long hours lamenting the disunity, kin strife, and suffering.
A woman with a keen understanding of how to best help people help themselves, a love of charity and knots, and a keen mind, she is perhaps the most intriguing woman you have ever met.
Likes: You, helping people, Shallya, handcuffs, peace, the Borderlands
Dislikes: Suffering, the Border Princes' status quo, Orcs, Civil War, Most mid-nobles
Stats: Martial: 1- Shallyans are sworn to pacifism in the main-- while the layfolk are not as sworn, actively going to war would be a sin for her. Diplomacy: 12- The kind queen Lisanor, there are those who mock her low birth. They generally give against her wit. Piety: 14- She is faithful to her goddess. Stewardship: 10- She's pretty good with money.
Traits: Altruist: She aids people, it's what she does. (+2 Diplomacy, +2 Piety) Wise: Sometimes suffering is just suffering, good for nothing-- but for other times it is a (hated) teacher. (+2 Diplomacy, +1 Piety) Peasant Born: She is lowborn. (-2 Diplomacy) Stern: She is made of stern stuff and enjoys control. (+2 Piety) Pacifist: She will not join battle. (Martial set at 1, permanently)
-- Bohort de Courrone
Prince of Bretonnia, Lord of Mortensholm, protector of the people, The Pure Prince
Prestige: 100
Relations (Foreign):
Kin:
Bretonnia (+++): Your kingdom, your people, your home. Though you are sometimes called melancholic, sad, or ennuyé, by and large it is fondly-- you are, after all, skilled in battle and prone to strength.
Friends: Alliance (++):
Estalia: After marching to the Crusades to free Estalia from the grip of the mad Sultan Jaffur, battling together against the Mountain Tribes, and with shared blood between many of the nobles of Eastern Bretonnia and Western Estalia, it should be little surprise that the nations of Estalia and Bretonnia are friends-- that they are near as honorbound as you helps. You could, conceivably, find support there for your Errantry War-- supplies, certainly. Benign (+):
Tilea: Shared battles in the Crusades, as well as a certain amount of shared cultural concepts, has resulted in a certain amount of friendship, though there are sore-spots thanks to recent treacheries. Rivals (-):
Southern Empire: After Prince Luitpold's entourage left a dozen bastards in the court of Couronne on low-born and noble alike, you've harbored something of a personal distaste for them. 'Tis dishonorable, and beneath a prince. Foes (--):
Kislev: They dare to proclaim their superiority in the saddle, the superiority of the goddess of their lands, and mistake your mercies for weakness. They grate at you, and at the people of Bretonnia. Enemies (---):
Norsca: They raid your lands, slaughter your people, and assail your Lady. By and large, you would not care one wit if a giant, whirling vortex appeared in the middle of the ocean Northern Empire: Of course, whatever the flaws might be of the South, the North is the worst of it. Choking under the cruel tyrannies of Gräfin Eathward the White Wolf, who by an iron fist and terrible wrath has brought together all the provinces from Middenland to the Ostermark in her White Will Treaty. A cruel woman, the plans she has for Norsca...well. You might have little love for that land, but they do not deserve the cruelty she has planned. --
Traits:
A Lion's Love: You love Lisanor. It is a fiery love, a passionate love, a love you did not admit for a time; but you do, you do with all your heart and mind and soul. Let them mock the prince who married a pauper-- you would rather face a thousand cruel words than live without her. You so love her you have set out to make her a queen and to sew this wound she has warned you of (-3 Diplomacy, -500 Prestige)
A Pure Prince: Unlike certain bastard spawning Imperial heirs, you have carried yourself as a prince should. Your love remains pure-- and you remain strong for it. (+2 Health, +1 Stability, +2 Opinion, +3 Piety)
A Lovely Lion: Blond haired, green eyed, tall and strong, you are a figure of song and beauty. When trobadours speak of lovely men, the image that comes to mind is usually you.(+2 Martial, +1 Diplomacy, +10% Fertility)
Prince: Your father wanted you ready to rule. You made your mistakes, but you can live with them-- and learn you did, whatever else might be wrong with you. (+2 Stewardship, 1 Random State chosen as Enemy)
Lord: You are a lord, a Prince, of Bretonnia, with all that Implies. Now with your own fief, at that. (+3 Martial, +100 Prestige, +3 Piety)
Dislikes the Southern Empire: They blew up the Viscount, impregnated your friends and left them with bastards, and have absolutely no sense of Elan. (-2 Diplomacy with Southern Imperials, -2 Sigmarite Opinion)
Hates the Northern Empire: Very, very primitive civilization starts at the Stir. Everything further north is a land of Barbarians. Idiotic (How in the Realm can you have the most Norscan attacks when you don't have a fucking coast), Barbarous (It takes a certain sort of stupid to not wear a helmet, as a religious matter-- it's another thing if your head is harder than metal, but), and worst of all dismissive of wine in favor that horse piss they call beer, you pointblank refuse to pass into the realm of Eathward. Fuck Middenland, fuck Nordland, fuck Ostland, fuck Hochland, fuck Ostermark, and fuck Talabecland. Get rid of the genocidal idiot who has you by the short hairs, then you can say something. (-4 Diplomacy with Northern Imperials, -4 Ulrican opinion)
Ally to Estalia: Say what you will, but the Estalians have never blown up knights in the midst of a duel. Further, there is a great much entangling of blood near the Irranan mountains. Estalia has had your back, and so you will have Estalia's back. (+2 Diplomacy with Estalia, +2 Opinion with Myrmidians)
Courtly Training: You have received the proper training for a member of the Royal Family of Bretonnia. (+1 Opinion)
Friend of the People: You heal the sick, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked. Not as popular with nobles a justice, nor the merchants and law-- but they adore it, and the common people have a strength all their own. (+3 Opinion, +1 Stability)
Honorbound: You swore an oath that you would make Lisanor a queen, and end the wars of her home. You keep your promises.
Stats:
Martial: 12+3+2=17- There are better- you hear tell that the Emperor's daughter could chew you up and spit you out, and you might even believe it-- but for your current duty, you are more than sufficient. Diplomacy: 8-3=5- You married a peasant, and that about describes your usual regard for diplomatic niceties, too. Whatever else you are, a diplomat you are not. Piety: 11+3+3=17- The Lady be praised! Shallya is also pretty neat, but she has never bounced a bullet off your abs. Stewardship: 10+2=12- You are, at least, good enough that when people speak, you are broadly aware more often than not of what they mean.
Favors: 1- The king would not be above helping his son a little.
Available Forces:
Errantry Force: 300 Knights (2KE:1KotR)
6,000 Men At Arms
7,800 Bowmen
500 Villein
700 Mounted Yeomen
Wounded:
1000 Men At Arms (6 Months to Heal)
Mortensholm (Your Personal Demesne):
2,000 Spearmen (Better than the average soldier of the Borderlands, though still not up to their Bretonnian equivalent, the Spearmen of Mortensholm are lightly armored in maille, along with fine circle shields. As Mortensholm worships Myrmidia, by and large, they are more alright with war than the average rusty militia.) (Cost: 20 Gold)
??? Archers (In times of war, much as in Bretonnia, hunters, sportsmen, and others will join up with the hosts armed with bows of various quality, as well as a good bow. Numbers vary, but considering you just finished a siege, you can expect few to rush to war again swiftly.)
MORTENSHOLM:
Status:
SAVAGED: The greenskins besieged the city for quiet some time. Food stores are still dangerously, if somewhat less, low. The walls are pitted. The people are tense. There is a wrath to the air.
Stability:
6/10- There is a tension to the city. Be cautious of it, or it will ruin you.
Opinions of the People:
Nobles: N/A, They kind of all died distracting the Greenskins as far from the walls as they could, or else ran.
Middle Class: 5/10- Hm.
Commoner: 7/10- Married to a peasant with ties to the Borderlands, there is potential here for good.
Knightly Opinion: 6/10- on the one hand, you were never super impressive as a prince and "marrying a random peasant girl" has not changed that. On the other hand, you just killed so many Greenskins it's kind of ridiculous
Economy:
10 Gold a turn in income (Mostly forced labor of one sort or another)
500 Gold in Treasury (Your father sent you with wages sufficient for everyone for an extended time, but you will no doubt spend it quick. Fortunately, the Bretonnian army is payed by their own knights and not from your pocket)
--
Before you ask, some knights did die, but they were made up for by peasants rising up the ranks.
As far as foreign relations go, basically, for certain options you will be specifying exactly which nation you plan on going to to ask. Some will be better at doing certain things than others, but the more they dislike you, the more likely they are to either say no or even to sabotage it.
For advisers, you want to keep them happy. The happier they are, the less corrupt they are inclined to be (Basically). Further, if they get too mad they might either leave, meaning you have a hole in your line, or even worse, set off as their own errant force with several thousand of your dudes who you need. The best way to make them happy is to, well, follow the options they present to you specifically, instead of forcing some on them.
(It's late and I'm tired, but if you need more I can explain more in the morning)
Turn 1: From the Ashes
2523
The city stretches out before you. Rubble still fills the streets, and a greenskin camp still hangs outside, emptied and dead but present, and yet still you feel... alive. Fantastic. Your wife at hand, your lance ready, your squires prepared and a city at your call, you will do what none have before and unite the Borderlands, and so save them.
The clouds part, and a ray of light falls on your head, and all is well.
Martial: The city is still in ruins, but certainly you have no lack of veterans and soldiers to turn to the matter of war. Still, before anything too large you should probably get to work repairing the city and the walls-- though they held admirable against the Greenskins, you should not expect such good fortune to come often.
(Pick 1)
[] Aldium is an essential part of the whole barony of Mortensholm. Further it is the closest thing to a trading center in the Borderlands, certainly this far north. Edwige has suggested that you lead your men to liberate it now, instead of waiting-- your forces are still called up, and there is a certain expectation that you will keep moving, of course, being an Errantry War. Still, not reconnoitering before you head out is...not stupid, but definitely a choice. One that says something about you.
[] Caution in all things. You can't do anything if you're too busy dying to actually fight. Before you head out and lift the siege at Aldium, you need to perform reconnaissance. Robert has volunteered to lead the force, such is his desire to ensure that no more men "die needless deaths", in his own words.
[] You can suggest something else, though they might not like it:
(Write in, -Opinion, Gold decided on later)
Special:
You need an advisor, a Marshal to lead your forces, to drill the men, and so on and so forth. Fortunately, you have two bloody excellent warriors with you-- or at least, excellent marshalls.
[] Robert shall be your marshal. He will drill your men like lions. (Bonus to Robert Opinion, malus to Edwige)
[] Edwige shall lead your forces en la guerre de la foudre, bringing death to your enemies and ruin to evil. (Bonus to Robert, malus to Edwige)
Diplomacy: Your wife is friendly, cunning, and decent to all peoples; you know few who could be cruel to her. On the other hand, Emma has also volunteered to be your emissary to the other people of the Borderlands; she would be quite the power move, at least.
(Pick 1)
[] A very simple look see has shown a very important problem: The demographics in Mortensholm have been ruined by the siege. A great many of the youth were slaughtered in the siege-- you'd estimate their numbers fell by a whole two-thirds. They will need spouses, as will a great many of your knights. Fortunately, you know for there are people you can ask to come, looking for war or adventure or anything else. Either from Bretonnia or elsewhere.
(Costs: 20 Gold, Optional: [] Write in Nation to ask, cannot be Imperial or Kislevite, Default Bretonnia)
[] Emma has pushed you to press your claim to the city by sending emissaries to the Courts of all the great cities, and of all the great countries. She would lead parties to them. (Robert is also in favor of this)
(Costs: 50 Prestige)
[] Your wife has also noticed your population problem, but has a different solution than your own. Rather than inviting middle class and nobles, she would throw the gates open to refugees from the Borderlands themselves. While it would somewhat press your foodstores unlike your own plan and thus force you to import more food, it would be a kind thing to do...
(Costs: 30 Gold, +5 Upkeep)
[] You can suggest something else, though they might not like it:
(Write in, -Opinion, Gold decided on later)
Special: You need a diplomat, someone to guide you and to carry your will-- to tell Luitpold to fuck himself, to maintain cordial relations with your new neighbors, and so on and so forth.
[] Emma is a damsel. They tend to be pretty good at this whole "talking to people" thing, which, meanwhile, is a skill you are somewhat lacking in.
[] Lisanor is a Shallyan through and through-- she adores peace, love, joy, and good tidings-- all things beloved by all people (Except the Northerners, but they don't count).
Stewardship: The city is a mess that needs cleaning, and you know a few people who can do it.
(Pick 1)
[] Robert suggests clearing the fields to start producing your own food. With that most basic resource secured, you can expect things to feel a lot less tense than they do right now, at least. It won't take too much time, but it is rather a lot of labor all things considered, to remove the Greenskin encampments.
(Costs: 20 Gold)
[] Your wife has suggested clearing the streets. This won't help with your food problems, but it will make, in general, life just that little bit easier for everyone, not having to leap over rocks and such when they're just trying to walk.
(Cost: 20 Gold)
[] Edwige has suggested repairing the walls. The most difficult-- but also most helpful-- task, you can expect it will be a good symbol of your strength, though it will take more time than most.
(Cost: 30 Gold, 2 Months)
[] You can suggest something else, though they might not like it:
(Write in, -Opinion, Gold decided on later)
Special: You need a Major Domo, someone to run your house and to maintain your accounts and so on and so forth.
[] Robert, obviously, has suggested himself. He would be good, though more focused on Justice than healing, really.
[] Lisanor has also suggested herself to you. It is not unknown for wives to do such, after all, and she has the mind for it certainly.
[] Edwige, surprisingly. You can expect little civic development, but plenty of walls-upon-walls-upon-walls.
Piety: Your new land is of a different faith than your original, though fortunately there has ever been peace between your cults. It helps that one of the Aquila Academies is in Bretonnia.
(Pick 1)
[] Viktoria has suggested repairing the temple of Myrmidia of its minor damages, to show the people your respect for her and them.
(Cost: 20 Gold)
[] Emma has suggested building a small chapel on the site of your victory over the Greenskins, and the first real such glory you have ever had. It would be cheap wood and iron, but it would be good, still.
(Cost: 20 Gold)
[] Lisanor has suggested opening a temple of Shallya. Shallya is generally pretty popular, for obvious reasons, so you have that going for you.
(Cost: 20 Gold)
[] You can suggest something else, though they might not like it:
(Write in, -Opinion, Gold decided on later)
Special: You need a Chaplain, someone for to see to your soul. Obviously, Emma would be a good choice, but there are others.
[] Emma is a Damsel of the Lady. You are a knight. This makes sense.
[] Viktoria is a High Priestess of Myrmidia. She would also suffice.
[] Lisanor is Pious and beloved in her own right, not part of the cult but certainly a preacher.
Personal: A Prince is always busy, you suppose.
(Pick 1)
[] See to Justice. Hold court, hear complaints, and bring lawbreakers to justice.
[] Go out among the people, hear their complaints, and do what you can to help them.
[] Spend time with: (Write In)
--
Pretty basic right now, I know, but I wanted to ease everybody in.
(And no, you don't get to have your cake and eat it too with the write-ins. I am watching)
The city stretches out before you. Rubble still fills the streets, and a greenskin camp still hangs outside, emptied and dead but present, and yet still you feel... alive. Fantastic. Your wife at hand, your lance ready, your squires prepared and a city at your call, you will do what none have before and unite the Borderlands, and so save them.
The clouds part, and a ray of light falls on your head, and all is well.
Martial: Edwige has accepted the office of Marshal, serving as your right hand in leading your people to war.
-Caution in all things. It would be a little embarrassing if you got even more people killed just for your own readiness to race ahead carelessly, would it not? Perhaps a moment after you give Edwige her mark of office, Robert heads off. It will be sometime before he returns, you'd estimate a fortnight, though it will not be fun.
He's also mostly fine with your not choosing him, especially since you did still follow his advice. It evens out, in his mind. And so he sets out to scout out the enemy. He has his records kept and so on, and he'll keep them so, but he doesn't plan on sharing them until you actually attack.
Diplomacy: Lisanor is ecstatic that you've trusted her with this. Your new chancellor is not slow to write letters inviting all sorts of refugees into your land, though she is a bit less quick to send letters to your new neighbors.
- Your wife's solution to the population problem makes her happy, and so you as well. That it's also more humane is a bonus. In any event, you certainly do throw the gates wide open.
(Refugee rolls: Hidden)
Obviously, many of the refugees from Bretonnian descended cities come to you looking for protection and they will have it. Flowing mostly from Brovska, further to the east, many are either political outcasts flung from the tyrannical grip of the current ruler or were from homesteads in Orc territory proper. About two-thousand of them come.
A couple hundred Tileans make the trip, as well, fleeing from a thousand different inequities. Surprisingly, a good number of Imperials-- about five-hundred. Twenty-five-hundred Borderlanders-- those who share nothing in common with any of the major powers-- also make the trip.
But then there was a group that shocked you. A band of Norscans, about a hundred and fifty, who claim they worship Myrmidia (It's a very long story), backed by Viktoria in that statement, and so were cast out of the lands they have claimed from the Orcs, have arrived as well, apparently believing that you were so desperate for swords that you'd turn to those who have killed your people to gain them.
In any case, with huge shipments of food now coming in, you've certainly at least somewhat resolved the oncoming demographic crunch.
Reward: 2500 Borderlander Peasants, 2000 Bretonnian Peasants, 500 Southern Imperials, 200 Tileans, and 150 Norscan refugees, mostly women and children, +5 Upkeep
Stewardship: Robert was formerly the Major Domo of Bastonne. In comparison to that mess, Mortensholm is nothing-- if nothing else, there are no Chasm Spawn or Skaven near here; just a devastated populace.
-Food is good. Who doesn't like food? Probably the same sort of weirdos who think guns were a good invention, that's who.
And so Robert, before he leads your scouting expedition, has your subjects begin clearing the field of greenskin tents. Cheap shit, they go down with only just a little more than any effort, but there is a lot of them, and the only universal feature is that they are all terribly constructed. Still, with the fields cleared-- and fertilized with ashes of Greenskins-- there will likely be a harvest within the year, though certainly later than usual. That, plus the constant shipments of food means you have little fear.
Reward: +50 Gold a turn, +1 Stability
Piety: Emma is the obvious choice for Chaplain, and so she is the choice you make. You'd swear you heard her giggle-- you think the Four might be wiggling around in your head.
- While Emma is, understandably, somewhat snippy that you have chosen to rebuild the temple of a foreign goddess rather than your own, Viktoria is incredibly grateful-- she's lost much, her entire family included; losing that, too, might have destroyed her. She's moved out of the manor and taken up residence within the temple, and has taken to drilling the soldiers and helping the Tilean refugees take up their new lives, as well as the Norscans-- she was willing to vouch for them, at least.
The people, too, are understandably happy to have their temple repaired.
Reward: +1 Stability
Personal: You're a busy man, but not that busy.
- Things were mad during the siege. Anarchy, ruin, death-- all of them were as abundant as breath in the lungs. Laws were broken.
Justice was denied.
You set about to righting it. As neutral observer and outside force, the people are willing to agree to your terms and your decisions fairly easily all told-- they just want some normalcy back after a month of hell. it's mostly fines in various forms to pay for somewhat serious crimes, with less serious accusations let off with a warning and implied "or else".
Still, the people like you for it.
(+2 Opinion)
Event: Monthly Decision: You are somewhat more hands on than the usual Border Prince, and so can choose a few expeditions or something of the nature to go on.
[] Lisanor has apparently been having problems with the leader of the Norscan refugees, a blond giant named Ogier. While, as far as Norscan problems go, they are rather small, it is kind of your job to keep your people from killing each other.
[] Viktoria has apparently found a book with a map that has a weird, circled off section. You can go look for it with a few of the knights, at least?
[] You are owed a favor from your father. Go speak with him about. Maybe a shiny sword? Or a hippogryph egg? Or magic armor? Whatever the case, your father would be willing to give you some kind of...well, reward for finally becoming a Knight of the Realm.
The city is alive with the sounds of...well. Life. Rubble removed from streets, tents being torn down, fields being cleansed. Crowds of them, thickened with workers, flow over the grounds moving the stone and the arrows and so on. Thousands are in the fields, helping to retill.
And yet, they all avoid this one spot. For about a hundred feet, there is nobody else around you.
This is Norscan territory, after all.
A cheap set of poles marks the demarcation between them, subtly. Trophies, ripped from bloody hands, are stuck to the walls with cheap nails.
Inside, three or four tents made of thick fur that you can't quite place ripple in the wind like waves. Cheap brown and green, they have little color.
Inside, several dozen citizens of Mortensholm have disappeared and their parents and family are, understandably, worried. The people have been too afraid to send anyone in after them, and Viktoria wanted backup.
You and Lisanor stand outside the hole that is functioning as the gate, temporarily. You are clad in all your armor, hoping to impress these northmen savages, while Lisanor's hair is tied with a blue ribbon and a simple dress adorns her. She has no jewelry, besides her wedding ring.
You both have swords tied to your belt, and unfortunately you'll only be leaving with one. Which is unfortunate, because that's a very nice sword she has. An oval tassel attached to a black mahogany hilt, with a bronze crossguard and steel blade about the length of your arm, she paid good money for it.
"I still don't see why we're giving him a gift. What has he done, besides kidnap citizens?"
"Because if we are hospitable, he'll be hospitable in turn." And with that, the two of you enter the compound.
The biggest tent, with the chief-- jarl, you believe-- is raucous. Even from here, you can hear a celebration of one sort or another. The walk is brief, there are no guards, and if you had a handful of good knights you could tear the whole place down within an hour.
You are not going to, but it's a nice thought.
Finally, the two of you enter the tent. Much carousing and drinking has already ensued, several men and women are sitting on laps, and with a start, you realize that least a sixth of your knights are here already, most of them unarmored and drinking deep of the honey sweet mead. They freeze as they see you look at them, eyes wide. Many are chatting, comparing scars with warriors and flirting heavily-- not very well, at that, and if you can see it then it's a bit embarrassing.
Then Lisanor is tugging on your leash-- metaphorically, this time-- and you get moving until finally, you stand before the chief.
He is a very large, very heavy man with fiery red hair. It is very long-- it would, you suspect, reach his stomach if it was unbound-- and braided such that it reaches a ponytail at the center of the back of his head, which goes down to between his shoulder-braids, and it is amazingly shiny and well-kept. You are-- despite yourself--jealous and impressed; nobody who maintains their hair that well can be entirely savage.
"Prince."
"Jarl." Lisanor hands the sword over at your cew, with it still wrapped in its leather scabbard.
Alas, Curtana, we hardly knew ye!
And with that, the two start to speak, leaving you with several options.
[] What can only be the Jarl's daughter is giving your wife a glare. You do not like this. Invesitgate.
[] One of the Jarl's many sons is also there, giving you an odd look. Investigate.
[] Speak with the Jarl and back up your wife explicitly, instead of through the man's family.
"Diplomacy is a game of subtlety." Your tutor, a smooth talking old Estalian named Miguel, had made that much, at least, clear. One should never be direct when they can be subtle; never speak plain, when they can use implication; never obvious, when they can be obfuscated. A subtle game of maneuvering and pawns. Veiled threats hidden in backhanded compliments cloaked in cheap words.
Walking up, sitting down as quickly as you can in the one seat not taken up by the many people-- all wearing or wielding some of the finest armor you've ever seen--that surround this man, glaring him full in the face is none of that.
Lisanor is too busy to give you more than a passing glance, but her eyes almost bug out of her skull.
"Why are you giving me the death-glare, friend?"
Fortunately, the din of conversation and of utensils scraping on wooden plates covers your conversation.
The man is fat-- or at least, he would be if he wasn't covered with muscles, as well. Long haired and of blackest locks, he has the burn marks of a blacksmith.
Fortunately, it seems he takes little umbrage from your question.
"Your armor...it is strange. I recognize it-- but never before have I faced a Breton on the field." He rubs his chin a bit, then grips your arm, holding it up to look at the insignia. "Hm! Curious." You snatch your hand back, glaring at him even more.
"Who gave you permission--"
"Wait a second. Tell me, were you at Agatdob?"
"I did my duty, yes."
"Ah, the white lion! You killed my kinsman."
"Uh..."
"Oh, I'm not mad. I should thank you, actually. I told that daft meathead Surturson I needed to thicken his gauntlets, and what do I find after he runs off-- without paying? Your lance went right through his damn arms, out through his wrist. Tell me-- was it easy?"
"A little, I suppose, but then it's not really that hard to put ten feet of oak and steel through anything." Someone thrusts a drinking horn in your face and you, in the spirit of camaraderie, take a swig.
It tastes like piss scraped from the gnarliest trough, but it is, at least, cold.
"Hah! No, my friend, I think you would not have managed it, had I had the time to finish the piece."
"Oh really?"
"Yes really. Certainly none of you knights managed to pierce Arnborg's gambeson at Gillesville."
"Hah! I slew that woman myself."
"And how? Not by gambeson-- I know that for certainty."
"Her neck was vulnerable."
"Aha! I told that bastard Syrta he should at least extend a bit more the leather, but no! He told me it was too expensive." He takes a sip of mead. "Probably would have been less expensive than being Blood Eagled by her son."
"Prince!"
You rise, and see the Jarl has, too. Your wife is shaking his hand.
"There was a...misunderstanding. The 'missing' persons have simply...grown attached, and a few have been engaged. The honeymoon-- it lasts a while, you know? If the land-dwellers wish to see them, they might enter under hospitality."
"He has a proposition." Your wife's voice, heavily accented and in Estalian, is too silent to be heard. "For you, and you alone. Take the gift and we can leave, or talk to him I guess."
