The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

[Voikirium]

Father And Son

Face still slightly damp from Hippogryph spit, you lead the king and queen into the manor, where even now your warriors feast and drink their morning meal. They stop to cheer the king, many having served with him in Kislev during the Storm of Chaos. Your own spearmen cheer you as you walk, ignoring the slight pain to your steps. It's not enough to stop you in a fight, really, but your arm is a little tender and they know it.

Finally you enter your own room, where there is some safety and security. You can be reasonably certain no-one will hear what you say, in this place-- thick stone walls and an oak door keep it secure from outside influence to the greatest possible extent.

"Maullobaude is moving. Many dozens of his cursed knights even now are filtering to and from Estalia, meeting with the petty kings of that land, making alliances with them. We can't know what for, but it is certainly with evil intent. Further, hundreds of ships from Albion have arrived on his coast, disgorging thousands of mercenaries for unknown but surely vile purpose. And Roland--"

"Roland is inconsequential," You cut in, "Compared to the fact that a royal bastard is building a powerbase in Mousillon."

You could hear a pin drop. In another room. In a different castle.

"I-"

"One question. Just one: Who. Is. His. Mother?"

Your father's shame is written on his face as plain as day, your mother's as well.

"Abene. Granddaughter of Malory of Mousillon, daughter of Berezi of Novareno."

"And through them, half the damn peninsula-- and Mousillon." A choked noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a laugh. In idler moments, when you had been most miserable, you had thought perhaps to gather together your Estalian friends, find a worthy king, and spend the rest of your life trying to unite the damn peninsula or die trying.

Funny how brothers are similar like that.

"Hardly."

"You think they will see it like that? I have walked the streets of Estalia, your highness, in case you forget. I speak their language. They tire of petty nobles of no valor battling for petty kingdoms. The son of three royal houses-"

"Two deposed houses and a foreign king. And there are no dukes of Mousillon, either."

"Does not he perform justice? Is not his grandfather the most respected duke of that dismal land in centuries? Does not he distribute land and money to his followers? If he is not Duke, it is only because the Lady has cursed that land never to have one."

"What happened to your armor?"
Your mother's voice, to deflate the tension.

"It was destroyed. I killed a Wyvern and it's blood spilled on me."

Your mother and father, alike alarmed, begin to examine you for wounds.

"In any event-"

A grand horn blows through the meeting hall.

"Oh what Now?" It is a roar like nothing you've ever given before, but it feels...right?

[] Go and check, this might be important.
[] You need to know more about your brother's plans. Stay and keep grilling your father.

 

[Voikirium]

Friends, I Suppose

Your father, or your people?

Father or people?

Father or people?

Eventually swearing under your breath you race out, followed closely by your father and mother. In the great chamber, where many feast and drink and recount tales of great valor, normally the din could deafen The Prince Pulchritudinous (Thanks Lisanor) himself in his pearly opulence. Roaring, chewing, drinking, badly flirting-- all of that and more might normally split the air.

Instead, a low murmur fills the air. For in the chamber, met by your spearmen, many people wait, none too much like the other. One you recognize, though the others are much foreign to you.

The first is an Estalian Knight, Sir Amílcar, nephew of La Aguila Ultima, rightly the heir of Avila and of Bibali, no doubt serving as messenger for his aunt. The finest in Avilan fashion-- a bright yellow doublet and vivid red cape that falls to the small of his back-- with close-cut hair and the tan skin of the south, as well as a thick beard.

For the first time today you don't want to dig a very large hole and jump in it.

"Amil!"

"Bors!"

The two of you hug each other swiftly before he steps back, pulling a scroll from under his arm. "Sadly I have little time to socialize and much to do. There are...things in Estalia. Still, it is good to see you!"

"And you as well, friend. What brings you here?"

He unrolls the scroll to begin reading: "From the Blessed Eagle Isabella Giovanna Luccelli, Damner of Dragons, Wielder of the Righteous Spear and Daughter of the Blazing Sun: Whence forth Bohort the Blessed, ever a friend of Estalia, did by courage and valor save Viktoria, Misionera Central; and repair the Temple of the Emerald Eagle; and safeguard the Myrmidian congregation of Mortensholm; he is offered the full thanks of the clergy, and the full respect of our peoples, despite being foreign born."

Well, isn't that nice of her! Knowing Isabella, there is no doubt some hidden reason waiting in the wings besides simple graciousness for this, but all the same you do like getting a thank you every now and again. Amílcar tucks away the scroll, quite pleased with himself.

(Gained 1 Cult of Myrmidia (Estalian) Favor)

Next, you turn to your other guests. Southlanders, they wear longcoats, thick boots, and headcoverings. "And you, Sirs?"

"I am Ouati." He gives a slight tilt of the head to his party, speaking Estalian to you as he does. "I am an author and a gentleman. I suspect the story of this place and of you will be of interest to my people, for even now we wage war to reclaim our rightful lands from those selfsame orcs you slaughter by the bushel; and if not, at least we will have killed some orcs." There is a nod of grim satisfaction at that. "I am here to write, to chronicle, to record; my partners for many other purposes, a great much of it trade."

And just like that, all of your questions are answered. And as you turn away for a moment, you think you see pride on your father's face.

Your father is still here, and you're still going to have to have to risk your life on a vision quest (And then to Norsca probably right after, seriously?) But at least for today you're still alive.
--
Your party:

Viktoria and your father are coming with you on the little vision quest thing, and Runold and his band to Norsca. That said, You are allowed to bring one other person on both.

Who? (Spirit trip):
[] Edwige (She is a mighty warrior)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Amílcar (It's been four years since your embassy to Estalia-- you'd like to get reacquainted with your best friend)
[] Robert (He enjoys fighting Norscans

Who? (Norsca Expedition):
[] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Viktoria (She seems like a cool woman, from what little you know of her
[] Louen Leoncouer (The Greatest King in 15 centuries, he would be an incredibly powerful asset; further his presence would ensure that the Todbringer Psycho does not attack your party in the unlikely event the Northerners reach that far) (Must spend one Bretonnian favor- the king can't just fuck off wily nilly, after all)
[] Amílcar (Norsca's a little north for his tastes, but he'd do it if you asked)

 

[Voikirium]

Courage

You stroke Beaquis' head, scratching at his itches. He purrs like a house-cat at your touch, thin fingers following the feather's grain. Flecks of blood from cows and sheep stain his beak, and he leans into you a bit.

Finally your own squires bring out Honor. The warhorse whinnies with a deep, shuddering voice, red hair layered on top enough muscle to stop a bullet. Layered on top of the hair and the muscle is full steel-barding, a rarity outside of Estalia. Blue cloth lightly waves in the wind as you saddle up, the first of your party ready. Ready for anything, you have your second set of armor ready-- much the same as the first, sans the aesthetic touches however, except for a fine plume made of the biggest, reddest bolt of silk you could find. Your sword is a cheap loaner from one of your knights-- hopefully this one won't end up melted.

Your father arrives second, wearing his usual armor. He mounts Beaquis-- he will be giving you air support and scaring off anything that might seek to slow your party.

Viktoria and Emma arrive together. Viktoria bears a cuirass, wielding a rapier and shield as well as several guns. You haven't spoken with her, really, since you first arrived, but she seems happier now, eager for battle too. It almost strikes you as Ulrican-- not that you'd ever say it to her face; maman raised you better than that.

Finally, Emma is here too. Unarmed, apparently. Since you're not an idiot, you feel reasonably certain that she's not, but.

In any case, you give a few swift good-byes then you are away, through the great forests and to the plains.
--
A cloud of dust is kicked up under three hooves. You ride ahead of the pack, lance at the ready for any sign of trouble. The first has gone quickly-- you've taken no breaks for comfort, and won't until night finally falls and you can eat quickly, then sleep.

The landscape has transitioned from the thick, luscious forests into the blasted plains, miles and miles and miles of grass that reaches your saddled feet. A dirt path fit for perhaps four people has been cut into the lands-- originally, you think, it was one of the roads of the Kyprian Empire, or at least it was going to be.

Now it's just like that Empire-- dust and hooves.

Dark clouds hang overhead, blocking the sun and a wind buffets you. You have no idea what time it is, or where you are really-- You are still on the same road you left Mortensholm on, just...leagues down the path.

For some reason your father swoops down, landing just ahead of you. Honor snorts, and gives the hippogryph a glare. Beaquis only glares back, seemingly with jealousy. Well hell, there's your wife, Amalric, and the hippogryph-- perhaps you are more lovable than you thought?

"We need to stop soon. There is a storm coming, and it is going to be a big one."

Wordlessly you dismount, and after sharing a look Emma and Viktoria do the same. Supper will be cold rations of dried fruits and bread, the more to move swiftly, and your tents can be set in a second.

Within an hour you all are set up. There will be little socialization tonight, just hunkering down. Volunteering to guard the camp-- so you can be done before the rain falls-- you sit by Honor and Beaquis alike, alternately stroking the horse head and the hippogryph's wing, scratching sometimes as well.

Nothing much happens-- one time in the dark you think you see a lion's eyes, but shaking your head makes them go away and before you can go and check, you are called off duty to be replaced by your father.

Heading into your tent, you quickly slurp some water, eat some bread and a handful of fruit, then conk out nearly immediately-- only taking just enough time to remove your armor.

An old oak sits, weeping venom from its roots into the earth. The dirt is withered and dead, and wrapped around the base is a black snake, fangs outstretched. It pumps and pumps-- or perhaps drinks and drinks?

Looking at yourself, you have on armor like none you've ever seen before-- like a Knight fucked a Norscan and you took the result.

Walking closer to the snake and the tree, you lift it up-- and it has a human's eye, of a dark, dark shade of a color you'd swear was green-- but then a pink membrane falls over, and it bites at you-- but fails, for the armor saves you.

Waking up, you resolve to make sure the next fruit you eat is not quite as fermented.
--
It's perhaps a week's worth of travel to arrive at your general destination. And it's been...

Boring.

You expected your father to scare away plenty of the minor nuisances, sure, but you would have at least expected the orcs or something to try and attack.

Worse, when you weren't bored you were terrified. Strange dreams assaulted you, all of them in the vein of that first vision. More, in the night you heard a lion's growl-- but that wasn't what scared you.

No, what scared you is that you wanted to go join it.

Finally, finally though, you've made it mostly to your location-- well, more specifically to a crossroads.

Two caves, one to the right and one to the left. You and Emma both seem to hang to the right, while your father and Viktoria go left.

Before you can try and argue, though, an arrow flies from the mountains. A goblin cry breaks out, and you are under attack.

It's a boring fight, really, and you would not mention it to those writers from the Southlands-- it is important, however, in that your father and Viktoria both went left chasing after the goblins, who are making a disciplined retreat to their base-- they figure it is some sort of treasury for the little filth. As usual, nobody knows what Emma is doing, probably not even Emma.

And a little voice in your head is saying go right. The same little voice that was screaming to find things to kill at Aldium, that put you against the Wyvern, that led you to swear that you'd make Lisanor a queen.

It's a very dangerous voice, is what you're saying-- but listening to it is also the only time you've ever really felt alive.

[] Follow the voice, by yourself or with another-- either way you will do this YES THAT DO THAT
[] Follow the voice but try and find Emma your stomach flips WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS MON DIEU MAN SHOW SOME SPINE

 

[Voikirium]

A Lion's Roar

Sword undrawn, blade unbrought, glittering armor unmarred, you enter the cave. A chill fills you, and each breath is followed by mist.

Green moss coats the walls lightly, and the air is thick with the scent of water lilies-- but too, the scent of a clear smooth lake, fresh and flowing, fills the air. A subtle wetness, like the mists of a river's bank, coats your maille in droplets of ice cold water. The sun's rays are unseen here, within this hole. The cold is thick upon your bones.

Yet you do not freeze.

There is no light beyond the little of the entrance's sliver, a thin knife jabbed into the dark chest of night. You can see naught beyond the flittering white edge of light that shuffles in. In the darkness, anything might wait for you. Goblins, certainly, considering the battle that took place not so long ago.

Yet you still walk on sure feet.

Walking deeper into the darkness, you stride over the craggy ground and into the blackness. It feels like kind hands, maternal almost, have a hold of your shoulders, steering forward. Where you might have stumbled, they push and pull and guide with a clarity supernatural.

For moments or hours or days this goes on, until finally you run face-first into something. Reeling back, a force grabs your arms and you pick up a rod of metal. Drawing it with a grunt, there is a sound like death and thunder-- and fire, fierce and blue and glowing, but it has not heat. Now light fills the room, showing what is in front of you-- a statue, worked from gray stone. A knight wearing a lion's pelt, with a massive sword in one hand and a fine shield in the other. Wrought with skill into it is the heraldry of Couronne-- the heraldry of Carleond.

I was weak.

A voice dusty and ancient like an abandoned castle fills the air. You've heard it before, at the edge of a dream and a half-remembered vision.

Unbidden, you bend down and pick up a little of the moss.

Except it's not moss.

It's lake algae.

The scent of lilies has intensified as well, thick in your nostrils.

Turning, you follow the path further, now with no need of guidance but instead racing forward on your own. Feet trod over the plant with grace, trampling like the mighty horses of Couronne. Blue flames flickering, you continue to walk through the cave, swiftly narrowing it might be.

Finally you come upon another statue, though not a knight. Instead it is an emperor-- Sigismund the bastard, might that his bones be dust. The hammer of the Pretender in one hand, cruel Mother's Ruin in the other, he looks down with cruel face.

He was a coward.

Further you walk, deeper and deeper into the cave, through yards and yards of stone and rock and algae, until finally you enter a circular room, with a tomb in the center.

Remove your greaves -- this is sacred ground.

[]Do it.
[]Resist.

 

[Voikirium]

You take off your greaves, then the rest of your armor-- throw the metal to the ground, feel it shake and rattle. Instinct, burned in you since squirehood-- meekness, gentility, "practicality"-- they all slip away.

Good.

Water begins to flow from the ceiling, softly streaming from holes you cannot see. Despite their gentility, within moments you are ankle deep. The water is cool, chilled enough to sooth the aches of a long walk yet not so cold as to leave you shivering. As the water falls, mist begin to crawl in, slowly choking the air. The scent of lillies becomes even thicker, still sweet. The mist blinds you, even more than the dark-- all is white and black.

Despite all the water, your clothes are still dry-- even your hair, worked into its long blond braid, hangs dry. Foot-falls send water splashing about, but gently. Your instincts are still guiding you forward and so you onward go--

Until with a noise somewhere between a "glorp" and "plop" you fall forward. Tripping and falling you land hard on both arms, on hard stone.

You are not alone. A soft light fills the air, and when you look up you see a woman.

You fall to your knees in supplication, nose touching the ground. Despite being solid rock it is hot-- and there is a deep thrumming, the pounding of hooves on stone and field and the crash of blade upon shield and sword.

Seated to her right there is a figure clad in red cape and golden tabbard, who glows with a fearsome power. There is an energy to him, a fierceness-- wearing a crown, yet subservient to the woman at his left. Blond and bearded as the souls of Bastonne, he wields his blade-- and it is terrible, and of a great force.

To her left, there is again a woman. A lady of Lyonesse, with her hair cut brutal short and a set of maille born on her. Clasped in her hand is a fiery red sword-- mighty Durendal, though it be now in the hands of the Marechal of Couronne in the material.

At the center there is the Lady herself. Clad in a simple golden and white dress, she has...a bar of raw metal.

"You have waited, and we have waited, too long. We alike have sat stone still and watched the world tumble and fall like a stone. We have watched, you and I, Bohort. And you and I alike owe the world an apology. I have watched, with all divine powers, and waited, and plotted-- and in truth done nothing as my people, who I swore to protect, were slaughtered. I watched the orcs grow day by day, and did not bring down my vengeance.

You, who knows war and faith, did not live to yourself. You, who had such potential, did nothing, but hide. In melancholy and in ennui, you stagnated. You served---but you did not excel-- and in the growing darkness, all are called to excellence. A lion should not hide from the wolves. We together owe the world an apology. Shall you help me make it?"

"I swear it."

"Good." A moment later, blinding light begins to flow from her seat, and in her hands now there is a bar of white metal, doppled through with wavey patterns, the sign of silverine-- but alloyed with something strange.

"What is that?"

The Lady smiles fondly, as though remembering better days. "At the beginning of time, when even the gods were all young and things were not so miserable yet, an evil came- a harbinger of Chaos to come. A godling, a fledgling power-- little compared to the barbarians that were to come.

He was malevolent, this thing-- a being of ennui, anarchy, and malice. I met him in my home, and we battled-- dark and light, goodness and evil, righteous and unwell. And in the end, I killed that nameless god-- cast him down, broke his neck, and I rested in my weariness, and I slept the deep sleep. Eons unfathomable came and went, and I slept and I slept-- and in the end, I woke to a cry for aid. I awoke to Gilles, and to his knights, and to his quest. I saw the people I protected assailed, and I grew wrathful, and came to him, and I granted him my greatest of aid. I healed him, blessed him, and it was not enough.

So I went to the body of a dead god, and pulled out his bones, and with the aid of my spirits, I crafted for my King a blade. The Dolores blade. It was mighty and terrible. But the body of a dead god exacts a heavy toll-- and he was struck by it, will return with it.

I was sad, but the kingdom was thriving. And the blade was inherited, and the people were safe, and the king was good. A thousand years passed, and all was well-- but then came the norsemen. They burned, and destroyed. So I readied again the blade, and the bladewielder. But I learned. Failure was a teacher-- this time, in the blade I did alloy it with Silverine, that greatest and purest of all metals-- and it was mighty, too, but less terrible.

In the end, the blade passes to an unworthy wielder. And at the end of days, I and Roland shall have words.

And now...Now we face no less a task. The very champion of Gork and Mork comes. If he is not stopped, decisively, now, he will burn the world to cinders, and ash, and even the darkness of Chaos will be repulsed by the nothing. A blade must be forged-- but so too a wielder.

There is a furnace, in the north, where it is aready for this metal-- for I cannot work it, in home.

But before that, before anything, the metal must be purged in our failures, and ever made. It must be made pure, for to face the mindlessness of the Orcish foe.

I know mine, Bohort. What of you?"

[] "I shall shed the blood here that I have not shed elsewhere."
[] "The hair, symbol of vanity."
[] "The broken sword, symbol of youth."
[] Something else (Write-In)
--
Just to be clear and up-front about it, what you sacrifice will change the nature of the sword to come.

 

[Voikirium]

"I shall shed the blood here that I have not shed elsewhere."

Your voice shakes, but yet the Lady smiles; a little, but still one. It is hard to look at her, to see her face-- it burns, but in the good way, like wine washing through you.

She holds out the bar and you pull out your knife. There's an odd scent to the metal and bone, almost like the air after thunder and lightning. You draw it across your palm, and let crimson drops pour.

It starts as a sprinkle of red rain, but within moments you are a red waterfall pouring out your life for your goddess and this steel. It burns, it burns and it burns as it has never burned before.

At the same time as your blood bonds with the metal and bone, it changes too. It bubbles, and the white layer flakes off in big chunks that fall hard to the crusted ground, disrupting the soft bed. Revealed is a blue bar of bone and metal that shines with an ethereal light. It softly twinkles in the cave, never mind how it will be in the light of day.

Then all at once the bleeding stops, and the cut heals, and you are whole once more. With gentle hand, the Lady gives you the ingot precious. A moment later, hard boots pound across the stone. Carried by fay spirits, eternal squires clad in fine gold tunics, your armor shines brighter than it ever has.

With gentle hands, they place on your chain, your gauntlets, the vambraces, finally your ailetts. Then, finally, the eldest looking comes out holding your helmet-- except it's not. The plume has been changed into a bright golden feather, native to no creature you know-- but, perhaps, the elves might.

"In any case, now it is time for you to take your leave. We both have our battles to fight."

And so the mists begin to pour in and you part, leaving behind the Lady and the spirits for another day, and another hour. None would believe you.

Five minutes later you finally exit from the caves. Beaquis is waiting for you, by your father who sits at his side. The beast shoots up and a moment later you are scratching his head. The earth vibrates as its mighty hooves fall again and again, leaving great grooves where they do.

Your father stands, stiff as a statue. His face is red and his eyes are bloodshot, very probably because he's spent the last however-long-you-were-in-there fighting goblins. Probably tired. "Where have you been?"

[] "Really? That's what you start with after you saw me wander off into a cave in middle of nowhere?"
[] "Did you know Roland is planning something wicked?"
--
Okay so I've been thinking something over:

I am dissatisfied with the current Bretonnian armybook. In the vein of Imrix before me with his Druchii project, I've been thinking about how to redesign and refill it to resolve some of my problems with it. Would that interest anyone, or no?

 

[Voikirium]

Bretonnian Rebuild: Men At Arms

"We're the men at arms, not the damned 'men who flail around then die worthlessly'!"



The most basic duty of a knight is to protect their fief. That cannot be done, however, on their own, and as such within each household will be maintained some number of men at arms from among the commons. Make no mistake-- they are soldiers, warriors in their own right-- many times, the favored heirs of knights without children. Many are worshipers of Myrmidia, part of why despite their martial natures they still are not knights.

However, there is one weakness faced by their very nature as a personalized force of each fief. Out of insecurity, some knights, consciously or no, will intentionally leave their training incomplete and flawed. This is obviously something of a problem, particularly when compared to the Empire's ability to vomit out State Troopers-- who, better or worse, are consistent, taught as they are by unbiased marshalls. The average knight can afford to outfit perhaps ten of these soldiers, which, when taken together with the knight's own skill, is usually enough to fight off the average threats of bandits and so on. They are often led by the Yeomen Wardens, whom dismount for battle.

During Errantry Wars, they will often lead armies themselves to gain land-- for many knights are too busy attempting to secure their positions at home.

Cost: 6 Points/Model

Stats (Yeomen warden):
M:4 (4)
WS:3 (4)
BS:3 (3)
S:3 (4)
T:3 (4)
W:1 (2)
I:3 (4)
A:1 (2)
LD:6 (7)

Unit Size: 10+
Equipment: Light Armor, Hand Weapon, Shield & Pole-Arm

Options:

• Any unit may replace its pole-arms with spears for no cost
• Any Unit may upgrade to heavy armor, take helmet or both for +1/+2 points
• Upgrade one man at arms to Standard Bearer for +5 Points
• Upgrade one man at arms to Standard Bearer for +10 Points
• Upgrade one man at arms to Yeoman Warden for +12 Points

Special Rule:
The Peasant's Duty

 

[Voikirium]

The Good Soldier

"Did you know Roland is planning something awful?"

Father's expression is twisted, like he's having a bad visit to the garderobe.

"I'll take it from your expression you did. Tell me, what was it? What was so awful that it's turned you, most noble soul of a country, into a silent wreck. Perhaps he's finally going to march against Baron Thegan? No wait, that's where his son's learning isn't it. Besides, he doesn't control any of those routes or woods, does he-- no, any army leaving from his lands would have to go by Couronne-- not happening-- or-"

Father's face twists even more, like he's been stabbed.

Your eyes go wide as saucers. "He's invading the Wastelands." Pins could drop. You're not much of a conqueror. More a liberator. However, you do know strategy pretty well-- mostly against the Greenskins, but the basics-- the basics still apply. "He'll have, he'll need, allies. The barons of Couronne, at least. And I bet marrying his daughter to Cassyon was him trying that, right? Has her twisting him."

"Yes. He got Folcard."

"I know him. How?"

"Wouldn't be hard to convince him to attack any city that hires Orc mercenaries. Add to that the merchant depravities and it's not hard to understand why. It is still just a very bad idea."

"Roland's not an idiot. Surely he must know the Empire will never tolerate Bretonnia taking their rightful clay."

"He knows, he just doesn't care."

Another thought. "That's why you've been so weird the past week. You wanted to marry me off to his daughter, didn't you?"

"Squire his son to you, actually, but near enough. He'll not accept his son learning from a man married to a foreign peasant."

"What can we-"

"I will stop him."

The two of you are silent in your clearing, you idly stroking Beaquis feathers, shining them a little. "Father. I'd say I was sorry...but I am not. Through a very dark time, Lisanor was a light."

He smiles. "Perhaps there is more lion to you than I thought. I think I would have liked to meet her." He pauses, for just a second. "Oh, and Bohort? Your sister wanted to come."

And so the two of you return to camp, and to the city, of good will with each-other for the first time since you turned twenty.

(Improved Father's opinion of you)
--
The ship is all ready. The crew is set, as is your party-- fifteen Norscan warriors, you, and your compatriots. It will be a very long time to travel, and you need to do something on the boat (Look, it floats, it's a boat) that isn't vaguely muttering to yourself and glaring at all the stolen Bretonnian wealth.

What will you do mostly? (Pick 1)

[] Finally read and respond to that letter Luitpold sent you. If nothing else, vomiting earlier should help you get over your seasickness.
[] You have a Kislevite letter you should probably read soon.
Socialize with:
[] Edwige, your marshall. She's important, and having important people happy with you is generally a good idea.
[] Asger, the Blacksmith. He'll be forging your new sword, so it would probably be a good idea to have him also on board.
[] Jarl Runold. He's never shied away from admitting that he attacked Bretonnia in the past, but perhaps if you speak with him you can learn where, exactly, and make restitution.

 

[Voikirium]

A Cry For Help

Your face is green. You thought that was a joke, a visual gag, something of the sort.

Nope.

Your face is literally green.

Every time the ship hits some patch of rough water, things you ate the last time you visited Estalia are vomited up. You haven't slept in hours, you nearly bit off Edwige's head when she tried to get you to spar. Every second of every day, the crew, the rations and the deck have been hammered with sheets of rain that never, ever stop coming, Each drop is about as big as a grape, and not one of the little ones either; too, they are all freezing cold. Lightning constantly assaults the area, meaning in the last two weeks since you left the South-- always a bad idea-- you've received maybe 48 hours of sleep. The food has been awful-- Norscan cuisine comes down to "burn, serve, suffer", with absolutely no spices, further confirming that food east of Montfort was a mistake. There is no wine and no brandy, either, only mead and beer-- you'd rather have Orc grog; at least then you might feel it.

That is about your mood when you open the letter from Luitpold.

It gets worse when the opening line is "Hello, Sir Stick-In-The-Mud". You make a concentrated effort to light it on fire with your brain, before you realize something a little weird further down.

He starts using Fan-Eltharin, the tongue of the Asrai. You know it pretty well, all things considered, for someone's who's spoken to them all of once to reaffirm the treaty when your father couldn't make it.

Well okay, it's not really Fan-Eltharin, more Louis Bretonnization system, but even that's actually pretty impressive.

Moving the letter to get a better view, you start to read:

"Sorry. I'm pretty sure Augusta is reading my letters, and I needed to throw her off the scent of what I was writing. I plan to be brief:

My sister wants to join the Northern War. More fairly, I suppose, she wants to prove herself to father, and for that she wishes to war.

Despite it all, I think my sister is still good person. If she goes north, and joins that butcher, she'll never be one again.

If I'm wrong, even the Norscan won't deserve what she'll do to them. If she goes. If she were in the Borderlands, though, fighting Orcs? She might not fall. Or at least, not drag so many in the falling.

You hate me.

I hate you.

But I will eat nothing but cambebert and baguettes and drink nothing but brandy and wine if it means saving my sister. I'm asking you now: invite her. Please.

From one brother to another.

You take out a quill, a piece of parchment, and...

[] Say yes. You understand wanting to impress your father perhaps more than anyone else.

[] Say no. She's a psychopath, a murderer dressed up as a knight. She dishonors the very title. Further, there's pretty good odds that this is, in fact, some sort of plan from the perfidious invaders.

 

[Voikirium]

The Plan

The letter is written and sent by carrier, and you try to get some sleep.
--

You wake up the next day feeling rather worn out. A bit like that time you stole your mother's absinthe as a squire. That had been a good day.

Rising from the scratchy sheets, throwing some water in your face and tying your hair back in the traditional style, then a silken tunic and some trousers, you're off to the deck. You will, after all, finally be making landfall.

Outside, the sky is gray with smoke and ash. On the shore, you can see Imperial Soldiers fortifying a conquered city with cannons and gunpoweder stores. Laborers under the new lord are flocking towards the hill at the center, no doubt to build a new keep or manor. Mixed in with the Imperials are locals, many of them clapped in chains. Ash still covers many of the streets, and nearby fires rage yet. The stink of gunpowder, the distinctive sour note, upsets you stomach too much and you vomit quickly over the side of the boat, though it passes as quickly as it came.

Heaped up in the center of the town, or displayed on wooden walls, or whatever else needed to show it as well as it can be, is a giant pile of loot that the Raiders had taken, given the blood spatters sometimes ripped straight from their victims. Besides the giant heap of gold and jewels, there are suits of armor, shields, children's clothing, books and art. Some of it, you know, is Bretonnian. Further, also near the center, former thralls are reunited with family brought from the Empire, and Bretonnia, and Estalia, and Tilea, and a thousand nations besides. As you watch, a man of the Far East speaks with a translator only for a woman who looks a lot like him to race from out of nowhere and grab him.

Before you can get too much more melancholic, someone tugs your sleeve. Turning, Edwige is standing there in her armor, her helm open.

"I have a request, Sire. I'd...I'd like to journey with you and Asger. If I have to keep putting up with-"

[] cu

"With what? The Norscans? We made a plan, Edwige, and they need a translator. You'll live."

She...accedes, well enough. Duty bound, you suppose. Just a quiet huff then she's off.

In any case, you do need to go meet with the Jarl.

Heading for his cabin, you find he and his second looking at a map with the three routes inscribed. One is by river, moving the boat. That one...isn't really going to happen for you. "Welcome to Klenbekk. Formerly the largest port of Norsca."

So, there's two others-- first is the string of villages, castles and so on the various Brotherhoods, Orders, and Fraternities have conquered nearer to the border. You'll be more anonymous there, so safer.

Then there's the cities and so on further in to the conquered territory, where actual nobles from the Empire are ruling directly. They might actually recognize you from heraldry, but on the other hand there are something resembling roads, so faster.

Which do you follow?

[] The Near Territories.
[] The far area.