The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 1

"We'll take the nearer route." And just like that the two of you are off from the ship and the port, for the wilderness and for your goddess.
--
Walking slowly, armor clanging as you do, you make your way through the forest. Tall fir trees rise from the ground like a giant's fingers, a great green color. Dark rain clouds that lash with lightning send sheets of water falling down for hours at a time, turning the dirt paths you walk into a soup of mud and ash. Howling winds whip past, quick and cold as ice. All animals of this benighted peninsula have fled or died under the downpour. The streams nearby are choked thick with water, overflowing their banks.

"So I tell the stranger 'no' and he's so fed up that he finally decides to enact the plan. The spell he was weaving finally fades-- his skin starts to melt off of him, his teeth enlarge and he grows claws, and he hunches over."

"You killed him while he was busy, right?"

Walking through the snow, your cloak billowing around you in the wind, the last hour's stroll has been spent speaking. "Sirrah! Should that I die for such cowardice. No, I let him finish."

"How'd you deal with him without weapons, then?"

"My bare hands, of course. The noble art of Savate."

It is at that moment that you finally see someone else. A blond-haired Imperial, wearing the golden wolf, rides to you unsteadily atop a little pony. He is swathed in leather and wool, and it hangs heavily from him.

He reaches you after a few moments, looking down on you from his no doubt sodden horse. "State your business."

"We are two weary travelers, on the route towards Ulricsborg. Know where we might find shelter?"
"The Order's castle is not far ahead. Come."

One eyebrow raised, the two of you follow.
--
The castle itself is a small thing. Walls perhaps ten feet high in a basic rectangular shape around a small keep. A small gate of oak, carved again into a basic rectangle, is the only entrance you can see. Iron bands cover the surface, giving strength to the wood.

Riding through the gates, you see about what you'd expect of a knightly order's castle. Men hunched over anvils pound weapons with a fierce wrath, while near the walls initiates thud blades over and over into wooden dummies. Archers train too, sending arrows wordlessly into bullseyes. A wooden pole, no doubt also for training, is slammed into the earth.

"Sirs." Turning around, you see the no-doubt leader of this order, whatever it might be, striding towards, clad in unadorned armor with an axe at his side. "You have arrived at a good time, for we sup soon. Or, if you have already eaten, we have beds ready for the night. Freya here can take you to them."

[] Eat. You are famished of hunger.
[] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 2

"I'd just like to sleep, sir." He nods and the two of you are sent off deeper into the fortress, following what seems to be his second-- a local woman, clad in a white dress. "So... I just realized but I don't recognize the heraldry of this order.

"They...we, are the order of the Golden Wolf. No grand brotherhood are we, perhaps three-hundred; but long have we fought for our Emperor, since the days of Sigismund and the battle of the West March."

You don't even breathe for a moment, just slowly walking. Her blue eyes widen. You slowly exhale your gathered breath.

"How does your foot taste, I wonder?"

After that things pass in silence. An Ulrican Order, first built to slaughter your countrymen. Of course. Against your own will, you tap your hand on your sword, flexing your fingers along the hilt.

The room you've been given is a small chamber, a blank square of stone with dull gray walls, a small dresser, and straw bed with cheap wool blankets and sheets. Surprisingly, there's also a small barrel of wine, apparently Mousillon vintage-- maybe, possibly, acceptable, given a certain desperation. The stone seems to leech out whatever little heat you could hope to find in Norsca, then kills it dead

Hoping to have a quick drink before you go to sleep you grab the cheap iron tankard sitting on the barrel.

Unfortunately, as you grab it, you see a fly buzzing out of it. Face turning, you toss it aside.

Sliding out of your clothes, you make your way to the bed and are out within seconds.
--

What feels like only seconds later, you wake back up again. Sweat is dropping off of you in great sheets, so great is its intensity-- and the earth is shuddering and shaking, from where you can't even tell. Also, um.

There's somebody else in the room. Mostly human.

Except their face is located on their chest, and it's about as attractive as an Altdorf gong farmer. Where their head should be is a smooth skin, the shoulders never jutting out into a neck like the Lady intended. It's weird, and you don't like it. At all. Also, perhaps more importantly they have a knife, a big one, and are walking towards you with unwell intent-- you can tell by their un-rhythmic chuckling.

You show this by leaping up. They draw back for a moment, and in that time you-- nude and angry-- leap toward the mutant. A struggle ensues. He with his dagger, you with your bare hands. On the one hand, he has a weapon.

On the other hand, you are the son of Loen Leoncouer.

After a brief struggle, he slides the dagger into your shoulder, which hurts-- but you can tell by the hurt that it's only a minor wound. At worst, no jumping jacks for a few days.

More importantly though, he has your ponytail in his hands. It seems he sawed the blade through your platinum locks on the way through-- how the angles of that work you aren't quite sure.

Red rises up to your eyes, the blood pumps hot through your veins. The world turns bright white and thrumming red-- you've been growing and grooming and protecting your hair since you turned sixteen. What little bit of true vanity or pride you'd ever allowed yourself, destroyed in an instant.

The next you can tell, you're sitting next to their body, your formerly wonderful mane held in your hand, bitter tears running down your cheeks. You're going to need a while-- but you don't have it.

[] Something is clearly up. There are mutants, and you'd be willing to bet this order has something to do with it. Find answers.
[] Find Asger. You need him alive.

 

[Voikirium]

Bretonnian Rebuild: Hobilar

"Peace to the Warrior, truth to the Liar, cleanliness to the Plagued, and humility to the proud."
-Prayer of Albion


(Source)

Dark Elves.

Norscans.

Goblins.

Bretonnia suffers their depredations.

Bretonnia suffers...and Bretonnia learns.

For centuries, dealing with these raids and raiders has been a game of trial and error-- but messily, and sloppily, solutions have been found; but they've been lacking in various forms. Yeomen are functional, but they lack a certain vigour. Knights, of course, can slaughter these raiders-- if they can catch them. Other miscellaneous solutions have been tried and found lacking in the most important place of all.

Then, in the War Over Albion, which would be the precursor to the Storm of Chaos, Sir Percival de Gisoreux, leader of the Bretonnian Army and your father's personal representative, stumbled onto such a solution: The Hoblar. A style of war practiced by the tribes opposed to the Firmir Dominion, these horse archers, lightly armed, raided the Firmir farms and Halls, taking the loot and luring them into slaughters. By dart, saber and bow these noble proud warriors harassed and warred with the Cyclops for centuries.

Percival melded these warriors together with the well troops of Bretonnia, and the results have been well. Further, in return for continued aid to remove the invaders from the Isle, the natives have agreed to teach Bretonnians how to wage that war. Aside from being effective counters to raiders, the Hoblars themselves are also good raiders. Of course, horses are expensive...

Special

Cost:

20 points/Model

Stats: [Chevauchee] (Horse)

M: 4 [4](8)
WS: 3 [4] (3)
BS: 4 [4] (0)
S: 3 [3] (3)
T: 3 [3] (3)
I: 4 [4] (3)
A: 1 [2] (1)
LD: 8 (5)

Unit Size: 5 Models

Equipment: Handweapon, darts/shortbow

Options:

• Any unit may take light armor, +1 Point
• Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Standard Bearer, +5 Points
• Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Musician, +10 Points
• Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Chevauchee, +12 Points

Special Rules:

Forest Strider
Mounted Archer: Take no Penalty for moving and shooting
--

Note: I have never actually played the tabletop game and am far from an expert in it, so if something seems unbalanced, maybe say something. Or don't. It's your life, friend.

 

[Voikirium]

Wiping away the salty-hot lamentations and leaving the bruised body of your foe behind, you move swiftly. Sliding on chain, plate and brigandine alike, grabbing your sword from the floor and strapping on your belt, they go swift in your view. No time, nor need, for stealth-- you shall not flinch away from these cowards.

Before you exit, you listen through the door. You can hear someone walking towards you, no doubt to check and see whether you were dead. You time their steps and what you remember of the hall, listening intently. Their boots click as they walk towards you. You think three? Certainly, all armored and armed-- no cheap assassins, but instead perhaps true soldiers. Within moments, a plan has formed.

You wait, your breathing slow. Moments pass. Their steps grow louder, more rhythmic...

click, click, click.

click, click, click

cli-

THUMP! You thrust the door open, and slam it into one foe's face. The cheap wood, locally sourced no doubt, splinters on impact-- they fall to the ground, decommissioned for a moment. The hall feels a lot smaller when you're in armor and fighting for your life-- you can't really raise your sword for thrusts that well, and the heat is oppressive with the sheer number of torches that have appeared between now and your arrival. There's a soft sound to your right you scarcely manage to hear. The enemies are all wearing heavy armor-- Imperial-style half-plate, lobster-helm and cuirass but nothing below the waist. They all have axes and swords, but no shields.

Your mistake, four, one in studded leather and a hood, with a full quiver and bow at hand. You barely dodge the shot from the one wearing the soft soles, a man of exceptional beauty-- and aim, considering he was about to put an arrow through your eye-- instead it skitters harmlessly off of armor. You move to take advantage, but instead someone grabs your cape and tugs. Taking advantage of the fall, you twist your sword arm around as you do and it plunges through the man's pelvis. He falls in shock, and you can't imagine you'll be putting up with him again. Thoughtlessly your shield moves into position to block one blow into the stone even as a second thuds helplessly off your armor. You stab up, through the knee of one, and he falls screaming.

You roar when an arrow punches through the hard leather of your armor, managing to slide through the holes between the sewn plates. It stops on the chain, just kind of hanging uselessly. A bit distracting, but you'll live. Getting back up he starts backing away and drawing arrows. Meanwhile, the man still on the floor from the door in his face is starting to stir.

You get up, cape flowing behind you in proper fashion, and raise your shield, walking slowly towards him. He starts firing, slowly, constantly, arrows whizzing quick through the air. He keeps moving, varying position-- one would have blinded you, another would have gelded you, one lamed you-- but as you settle into the rhythm you inch closer and closer-- until finally, you bring your sword down and end him with a blow to the head.

The last enemy is up, finally. An old looking man, with a black and mean sword, ruby hilted. A saber, a cutting thing. Little hope against your armor.

Still he charges. You respect his valiance if nothing else, and so you give him the quick death of a blade to the throat. The hall is yours, for now, but you do have one slight problem.

Your plan, after you won, was to just try and figure out where the harshest fighting was and go there-- no doubt, that is where your companion is.

Except, of course, that you can hear two fights from here.

One from the Courtyard. One from another room on the opposite side of where yours was. Either could be him.

Also concerning, the thudding is getting louder and the room is getting even hotter than it was-- you'll drown in your own sweat, soon. For some reason as well, you're starting to catch a distinct note of rotten food and Norscan perfume in the air.

[] To the Courtyard
[] The room

 

[Voikirium]

You take one of the torches from the wall, still blazing, and throw it on the corrupted bodies before you. There's a stench of evil about them-- no good could come of leaving them unattended.

Striding with long leg, you make your way to the room across from you.

Inside, there is a man at battle with evil-- one of the false knights, no doubt, wielding a brass axe. Even from here, he-- the man at battle, not the worshiper-- smells of rotten flesh, shed blood and horse hair. His beard is long and unkempt. It is matted with grease and blood and bile. A cut on his forehead leaks a red stream into his eyes. His armor is maille, beaten all to hell. There's a padded coat underneath stained with all matter of ungodly dross. It's stained, green, a sort of fluorescent yellow, and an eye searing purple all in splotches. A woolen cloak falls at his back, long and tattered. He grips an acorn shield. The filth of decades of wandering coats him.

He looks more a pilgrim than a knight.

But he's one of the most beautiful men you've ever seen. For by the fieriness of his blade, and the wrath of his blow, and the bodies lain on the floor, twitching in all manner of ways, that he is a Grail Knight. You just want to watch. You'd not take the honor of battle from him. You can follow their blows well enough, but if it were a matter of fighting you'd be a dead man already at either one of their hands. Block, slash, parry, thrust, duck, stab-- it's an intricate dance they weave, one where a single false step would end them.

Finally, though, the Grail Knight-- of course-- takes the upper hand and puts his sword through the cultist's throat, sending him crashing to the floor, dead and leaking red life-water from his neck. There is silence for several moments, the Grail Knight wiping his sword on his cloak. Finally, he breaks the silence:"And who might you be, stranger? I know those eyes, distantly, as though from a dream; but I cannot place them to a name." He bends a bit, rubbing at some sort of ache.

You draw your sword and plant it, and your feet, on the ground. "I am Bohort Le Leon du Lac, Dauphin de Bretonnia, et protecteur des Pays du Sud! Who are you?"

"I... don't-"

"Hit the deck!"

A moment later, half the castle-- including the bit you were in-- explodes. Your armor takes the brunt of it, so you manage to survive-- only to hurt real bad when you land awkward, feeling dozens of new bruises, though that's about it. Honestly, you'd say you're hurt worse when two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of blacksmith land on you, hard, though to be fair his shield at least is pointed the other way.

You're not dead, at least.

Tenderly getting up, you look around. Half the castle is just evaporated, and what's left has been flung around you, many stones sunken into now blackened snow. Bodies litter the field, burned away and broken. Red smears tell of even worse luck for some. Some fills teh air around you, and while you can see through it to an extent it's still pretty thick and distracting.

You--tenderly as you can--push Asger off of you and just...lie there for a moment, letting the hurt fall from you and into the earth. If this was hard rock-- if you weren't wearing armor--if-if-if--you'd be dead.

Instead, it might just be your companion who died. Fortunately, before you can gingerly poke him with your foot, he coughs up white fluid. The ringing of chain in the distance tells you your new friend survived, as well, and before you know he's with you, sword drawn and scanning the horizon.

"Oh, that really fucking sucked." The Norscan sits up, bleeding from about a dozen cuts on his face, some more serious than others. None of them require that much attention individually, but you should probably take a look once you're done with... well, whatever this is.

You both offer him your hands and haul him up on unsteady feet. "Is there any reason you decided to blow us up?"

There's another boom-- just a rush of wind this time, though you do brace yourself-- that clears the air of smoke. Standing at the center, hands slammed together, is an abomination. Muscles sewn on flesh in ragged strands that hang out of skin-holes, leaking fluids from mismatched eyes in at least a dozen places. Bone pierces through the muscles at a dozen mismatched places, not as a weapon-- just as more flaws. It's hands and legs are oddly jointed, like some sort of bipedal horse-- except somehow threatening instead of stupid.

Fortunately, the thing has no weapons.

Unfortunately, as it shows by sinking its teeth into a fallen body like a slavering hound stripping every bit of meat from a raw carcass.

"Yeah. That thing." He grabs his hammer from his belt. "He used to have some sort of armor growing from him, and I'm pretty sure from the bubbling that it's growing back. We should probably kill that before it can, because I don't have any more wine barrels with me, or torches for that matter."

"I still have a flint with me, can probably do something with that." The mystery knight chimes in, grabbing it from his oversized belt. "Actually, how much does it like fire?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure it will just stand there and let you light it."
"There are plenty of torches on the ground, it's like it would be that hard to light them-- it's pretty dry out, you know!"

A moment later, a new storm you had not noticed the warning signs of begins as huge, fat drops of water start falling.

"How's your foot taste?"

"Quiet-- you'll give him the respect he deserves, smith." The two of them stop instantly, though Asger glares at you a little. "We need a strategy, not blaming."

You do have a few ideas.

[] Write-in
--

 

[Voikirium]

Bretonnian Rebuild: Battle Pilgrims/Grail Reliquae



(Battle Pilgrim with Spoils of War)

0-1

It's a common thing to joke about the common levies and soldiers of Bretonnia within the Empire. From Reikland to Middenland, the Men-Ar-Arms and the Bowmen are mocked.

Joke's on the Imperials, though-- they're the dipshits who can't tell the difference between a writhing mass of zealots and your actual soldiers.

These are the writhing zealots. Usually unarmored to any great extent, unless in their former life they were merchants, these commoners-cum-warriors wander the lands of Bretonnia under the guidance of would-be hermits. They look for things to kill that (they believe) anger the Lady-- beastmen, orcs, statues of Sigmar-- and die in droves to see them ruined. These zealots are not, particularly, dangerous on their own. They are at best vexatious annoyances to any of the real threats.

But...sometimes, they stumble on something terrible.

The body of a Grail Knight.

Anointing their body in oils, gilding their armor in finery, and placing the knight on a false horse, the pilgrims go on an unyielding rampage. Their sword arm strengthened, their will made terrible, these vagrant soldiers now become a ball of steel to any who would oppose them. These reliquae led mad-men will join Bretonnian hosts, and the death they deal is an unwell one. Not necessarily more skilled at war, nevertheless it becomes nearly impossible to dislodge them-- men with bellies bleeding into the air, skulls shattered, arms hewn clean, standing and fighting and dying in a zealous rage, pushed on by their masters

The hermits themselves say the Lady speaks to them. However, considering their connection to the world is tinged at best, shaky most of the time, and absolutely tilted at worst, this can usually be ignored.

...Usually.

Still, whether or not they truly are blessed by the Lady, they are certainly dangerous under the eyes of their reliquaes. So dangerous, in fact, that the noble Sir Guillaume L'Angevin and his allies among the higher nobility are seeking to yoke these bands together before "his" invasion of Mousillon. Or at least, that is the rumor.

Special

Unit Size: 1 Grail Reliquae and six Pilgrims; up to 24 extra pilgrims may be added for 9 points each.
Cost: 180
Stats (Grail Reliquae):
M:4 (4)
WS:2 (2)
BS:2 (2)
S:3 (3)
T:3 (3)
W:1 (6)
A:1 (4)
LD:8 (8)

Special Rules:

The Peasant's Duty, Hatred, Stubborn, Grail Reliquae (As Written)

Zealot's Prayers: During your army's shooting or magic phase, any Grail Reliquae unit may pray for improved S, T, W, or A and then roll 2d6. On a 4or less all Pilgrims grow too enraptured with the reliquae and are useless in the coming Close Combat turn. On a 5-11, they feel invigorated by the Lady and so fight with improvement, gaining +1 in the prayed for stat. On a 12, they are truly blessed and gain +2 in the prayed for stat.

Only one stat may be improved in this way.

Angevin Footsoldiers: if Guillaume L'Angevin is your General, you may add an extra Unit of Grail Reliquae and Pilgrims.
--
I dunno, I feel like this is maybe overpowered? But again, I'm no expert.

 

[Voikirium]

The Sonance and the Still

A body that had laughed, and sang, and wept, and smiled, and bled, was lowered into the dirt. The rain fell soft on they all, the mourners-- only a few though, only a few. All were clad in black and red, colors fit to mourn. A body, once filled with life, now drained, now pale; long dark hair fell in ringlets around still shoulders. It seemed as if the body should rise up.

The chest should fill.

The heart should beat.

The eldest son of the exiled Lucases, born of Murod-- not Templehof, never Templehof, not even if the stars themselves should ever come down and scream it-- Flaviu should still be alive.

Instead his neck, he beautiful made, was broken. Soldiers of Stirland. Or vampires. Or brigands.

Not important.

What was important was that the son of a father lay dead.

The party broke for just a moment, mother and father still yet weeping as they laid their son, their child, in the dirt, to never hear his good tones once more, nor indeed to see his face flushed red with ruddy life.

Pitch-black soil devoured Constantin's brother, never again to walk the earth.

The forests that lent Sylvania its name would soon enough devour him, their roots choking. The small stone plinth would be all to mark that ever he, the son of peasants, had lived and laughed and loved. Fingers that had taught the bow fell still. Gunner's hands went cold. A spear's moves fell away.

Constantin the middle walked away, into the dark forests that cruelly loomed over the horizon. His dark vest, lined of crimson wolf fur, moved little in the still air. Muddy breeches and boots moved carefully and softly. The conical fur hat he wore, amazingly and surprisingly, rested well upon his brow, rather than falling in the winds that seemed to gather as he parted.

His parents would leave soon enough, following the same path.

Constantin looked not aristocratic nor soldierly. He had a thin face, ruddy tanned skin, and long black ringlets that fell past his shoulders. His eyes were an average brown that might, perhaps, speak of a somewhat greater than average wit. Clean shaven as his ancestors, he did not him seem great nor grave nor terrible.

As he walked through the forest, the Constantin saw the roiling clouds finally split-- and water began to fall. At the same time, a tree fell-- and with the last little bits of sun, amazingly clean bronze, unblemished despite its age, revealed to him a temple. Standing at the door, wonderful and terrible, was a statue of Sigmar standing proud, replica of Ghal Maraz in his hand. A crown of iron rested on his brow, too, and he was clad in fine armor that statue.

Uncloaked and uncoated, looking for shelter, he fled to that temple. Opening it, he saw manifold pews, long and wide, all arrayed before a sword-- supposedly the weapon of Helstrum. It was small, that sword.

Constantin looked to the sky. "Where were you, then?"

As if in reply, the earth began to shake and tremble and buck like a wild mustang, thrust upon by an unwanted rider. The ground split as if it was struck by a mighty hammer. It seemed as if the earth itself was to split in two, to devour the temple and its inhabitant in mere moments. Fire in wrath poured, and was then killed by rain falling. Endless fury.

It stopped, and Constantin stood still.

Then came the lightning. It fell in great wrath to the earth, and burned away the grass and the water. The rain stopped, and lightning still came in sheets, burning and destroying the earth, choking it in fire and death. The cacophony might have woken the dead, for all its fury; great and mighty was the anger of each blow, and horrendous and terrible to behold. Almighty wrath.

It ceased, and still Constantin stood.

Meteors streaked across the sky. Twin tailed, majestic, they lit the sky and horrendous wonder. Thousand-fold paths cut through the inky blackness, foretelling a thousand-fold war. The sky became all chaos, and confusion, and power; the lights were bright and terrible, and their power was vast and grave. Supernal power.

Still Constatin stood.

Then, and only then, he heard a voice. And he fell, and huddled and wept for the beauty.

For a slight somber voice had spoke to him, then. Divine words.

For hours he huddled, and was blessed and afraid and sure and confused and strong. Only when he heard his parents coming did he finally rise up from the floor, new life upon him, and leave.

He took the sword with him.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 5

"Light the torches. We'll wield those to overwhelm it. Lord Grail Knight! Keep back, take watch and when you can smite the beast-- for your blessed arm will stab surer and stronger than either of us."

You take off your cloak and hold it over the torches. Asger fiddles with the flint, striking the two pieces together, getting the little water on them off. The Grail Knight holds the torches-- essentially wooden clubs with oil soaked rags wrapped around them-- as he fiddles with the strike and fuel.

Sparks fly, land on the rags. They glow hot orange and red, bright for a little moment. Smoke begins to slowly rise, and you cheer-- only for it to die in your throat with the little embers.

It seems then, that the torches will have to dry a little.

You dare a glance behind you. The beast is moving-- slowly, but ever gaining speed-- towards you.

Someone has to distract this beast. You need at least two people to light the torches that will allow you to cauterize this thing's wounds, make them stick.

You hand the cloak over to the Grail Knight.

"Keep these dry. Light them."

Then your grip your blade and turn, water falling off your shoulders. With the little soft sound of steel on leather you pull your sword, a good-enough replacement from the baggage trains your army brought, and charge. Littered stones are lit by lightning as you race past them, sword in one hand, shield in the other. The soft turf yields easily enough.

At the last moment you leap hoping for some extra momentum to stab the thing, bite through the bone. But it slams its elbow into you instead, sending you careening through the air like a cannonball until you slam into one of those left over stone blocks. It doesn't hurt that bad-- adrenaline racing through you dulls it, and your armor kept the worst damage at bay. You fall from it, landing on your hands and knees.

Behind you the stone block falls, landing with a great thump on its side.

Past the beast, the ruined remnants of the castle hang precipitously-- how, exactly, considering half the castle was just blown away, is a question. Looking now, you think you're about 100 feet away from the castle, so that's nice to know.

Right. Forward charges are great against Orcs.

Less so against abominations.

You're going to need to be smart about this.

Instincts you've been honing since you were twelve scream in your ear and you roll to the side. A moment later, the thing's arm slams into the soft ground knuckle first. Your roll was graceless-- but it worked well enough.

The beast rips its arm from the ground-- great globules of mud slide off of it, up to the elbow. It races at you, again, but you duck and let its claws fly overhead. They're slower, now, than they were, and all of a sudden you have an idea.

Slashing up, you cut into the thing's leg. It screams and punches you, again. Letting yourself be hit in the shield, you slide back a bit.

A kick follows, and this time you dodge again. The leg ends up knee deep in the soft mud, and the beast pulls it back up and races after you-- again, slower now than it was. Both its legs should be weak for at least a little while.

The rain is still lightly pinging off your helm, but at least you've gotten some work done now. The thing roars, again, and tries to punch you-- but now that you can actually see the wind up, knocking them off course with your shield is possible.

You continue like this, trading blows, ducking and dodging and taking what you have to, not wounding the beast but remaining unwounded in turn. Compared to the Diestros, this thing isn't that hard.

But then it pulls some bullshit. A hard piece of black bone cracks from its arm, putrescent and disgusting as this thing has ever been. With its good arm, it manages to grab you, hold you-- and then jam the thing into your shoulder.

You drop your sword and the thing grabs you. Holding you by the neck in one hand and the leg in the other it starts pulling. You feel a stretch, and a burning in your shoulder.

Before it can kill you, though, the Grail Knight stabs at it with a lit torch. Distracted, it can't stop you from pulling your dagger out its sheathe then stabbing down.

You punch through the thing's skull, the brain, and the jaw. It tilts over and falls-- it might get back up, if the Grail Knight didn't toss the torch on it, as well as your cloak to keep it from the rain.

Unfortunately, you have bigger problems.

Like, say. The poison currently coursing through you. It burns, it burns and burns and burns. What little of your arm you can see is turning green-- which is not a great sign.

[] Pray
[] Pass out
[] Oh no

 

[Voikirium]

Bowmen



(Source)

Bretonnia is strong in many ways. Your knights are the envy of the Old World, as far south as Araby and as far north as Kislev; your Damsels are counted at least equal to the Wizards of the Empire, and certainly to their priests; and no force among the civilized peoples is as deadly as a Grail Knight.

However, traditionally speaking, the ranged battles favor your foes. For most of the Kingdom's existence, there was no archer like equivalent to the Men At Arms; instead, in return for taking up a bow, gambeson and helm, peasants might be excused from paying taxes, receive loot from the field of battle, and extra wages are certain to be paid. There is certainly no lack of number-- nearly every peasant of Bretonnia hunts to supplement their diet or to sell at market-- nor of skill-- they are well-enough synchronized, and good shots-- but of discipline.

In comparison to the professional warriors and soldiers that take the field, these bowmen are often psychologically and spiritually ill-equipped for the battlefield. But they do have numbers-- and under the gaze of villeins, the wealthy huntsmen of their lord who often organize the recruitment of these bowmen, they can be a good force for the ranged combat, sending volleys flying well into the foe.

Still, there is a reason why among the Estalian/Tilean influenced Knights of Carcassonne, the arbalest is making gains.

Core

Unit Size: 10+

Cost: 6 points a model

Stats: (Villein)

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

Equipment: Hand Weapon, Longbow and Defensive Stakes

Options:

• Any Unit may take light armor (1pt/model)
• Any Unit may replace its defensive stakes with the ability to Skirmish (1pt/model)
• Any Unit may be equipped with braziers (all arrows count as flaming attacks) for +5 pts/unit.
• Upgrade one bowman to to a musician for 5 pts.
• Upgrade one bowman to a standard bearer for +10 pts.
• Upgrade one bowman to villein for +5 pts.

Special Rules:
The Peasant's Duty, Defensive Stakes

 

[Voikirium]

Bretonnian Rebuild: Arbalest



Source

Crossbows are not a new technology-- they've been used by various peoples since the time of Nehekara, even-- as shown by the many tapestries and diagrams hanging on the wall of the University of Parravon. Various individuals have used them as long as Bretonnia has existed, folk heroes and so on.

However, there is a difference between people at all using them and there taking a place in armies of the Kingdom. Crossbow production within Bretonnia has always produced a somewhat inferior product, too finicky and unreliable to be worth the shame of having them at arms for any lord worth his salt. Further, you can't trust the dwarfs for aid, the elves are either insane or too preoccupied to teach you, and the Empire...no. So in various civilian applications, they were seen-- but never as part of a proper lord's retinue or force.

However, in 2400 IC, the famed scholar Alain Beaumont took his famous pilgrimage to Tilea and Estalia. There he learned at the feet of some of the wisest, most dedicated and fearsome inventors in the entire Old World. Taking the expertise he was surrounded with, he designed, sketched, smithed out and sold his first batch of what he called Arbalest to Lord Bonfils of Carcassonne.

For a variety of reasons, including simple unpopularity of the weapon, particularly with the lords of Aquitaine, who claim that Lord Fredemund would never have tolerated such Imperial Nonsense for his vassals, bowman are much, much more numerous within the kingdom's armies. There is also the simple matter of having to train Arbalests, whereas to find dozens of bowmen you need only walk into the inn of any moderately sized village within Bretonnia.

Still, among the lords of Montfort and Carcassone who need a way to conquer the monstrous beasts of their greenskins foes when they themselves can't, if only for lack of hands, the Arbalest is gaining favor.

Rare

Unit Size: 10+

Cost: 10 Points/model

Stats:
M:4
WS:2
BS:4
S:3
T:3
W:1
I:3
A:1
LD:7

Equipment: Hand Weapon, Arbalest and light armor

Options:

• Upgrade 1 Arbalest to Musician, 5 pts
• Upgrade 1 Arbalest to Standard Bearer, 10 points

Special Rules:

The Peasants Duty

Arbalest: The Crossbows of Bretonnia are mighty, dangerous contraptions, powerfully propelled-- certainly superior to the Imperial examples. All shooting attacks are Armor Piercing.

The Pragmatic Sanction: The crossbow is, in many ways, the antithesis of knightly valor and as such, there is a storm of controversy over its head. No units of Arbalests may be taken in army where the general has the Virtue of Noble Disdain. Armies in which the general has the Virtue of Stoicism or Empathy Arbalests may be taken as Core.