The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

[Voikirium]

The Declaration of King Louis
24 AB, 1001 IC, DC 5252, CA VIII 502

Let it be known throughout every land of man, and of elf, and of dwarf, that Bretonnia signifies freedom. In accordance with this principle, any slave found on Bretonnian land, by any mean or method of learning, will be freed; that no restitution will be offered, in any manner, to any former "master"; that homes will be found, lodgings offered, and employment secured for those who are freed on Bretonnian soil. This be in accordance with the will of the Lady, long may We rule in her name, and that this divine justice and abolition of this sin will not be compromised.
--
Promulgation of King Gaston
1319 AB, 2320 IC

We reaffirm, in even stronger terms, the decree of Our Predecessor, Louis 1er. Further than merely Bretonnian soil meaning freedom, let the heraldries of Our Knights and the flags of Our Ships mean the same: any ship a vessel of the Royal Navy discovers bearing slaves will be stopped and boarded, and the slaves there freed. They will be returned to their homes, along with a restitution from the revenues of said slavers, the rest of which not used as such going to the Captain of said Bretonnian ships; then to the Admiral in Command; then, finally, to the Royal Treasury.

Further, so long as the Kingdom of Naggaroth, the Tribes of Norsca, and the Under-Empire of the Skaven practice the abominable system of Slavery; raid foreign lands for to rip their inhabitants away as slaves; and, or, purchases from foreign markets slaves in any manner, a state of war will persist until and unless such a time comes as they cease this practice.
--
Because I know some people aren't going to believe it.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 6

This...

This hurts. Pain falls on you like stars from the sky. You see purple, and red, and a whole kaleidoscope of colors besides. The world spins in strange circles, and you cannot tell whether your companions are giants or halflings-- it changes from moment to moment. They're probably speaking, but you are too busy writhing on the floor in agony to listen.

Pain isn't that new to you. That time as a squire, when that merchant slid his razor through your arm? That hurt. You've still got that scar. It sometimes twinges at night.

When your body was shattered at Aldium, and you suffocated under the press of greenflesh, crawling and scrabbling and choking, that hurt. You sometimes breathe funny during training-- not wrong, just...long.

When you rode, as your father's emissary, to the aid of Estalia against her foes and you were shot by Skaven-- that burned. That still burns, now, if you think too long about it, feel your shoulder give way under lead.

This? This is worse than any of that. This? Isn't going away.

Unless this passes, it's going to kill.

That thought brings sharpness, clarity, and your tongue starts working again well enough.

"Lady... You saved my life at Aldium. You gave me vissions, you gave me a mission. I'm not done with it. The world's still not saved. Grimgor and Maullobaude still aren't beat. And if they don't fail, a million souls will perish as slaves. The innocent, Lady, rounded up, and fed on and murdered and abused. Dishonor rampant."

You vomit up blood. At least, you're pretty sure that's what happened.

Pray To The Lady: 76/???

"Please, Shallya. Lady of my wife. Don't let me die here, in this festering winter. Let a son return to his mother, let a husband return to his wife." You grasp your shoulder, feel the the blood soaking armor. "Let a father see his child at least once. I'll pay any price you ask, mother of mercy, just please don't let me die here, and now."

Pray to Shallya: 58/???

"Ulric! Sigmar! You worthless bastard gods of a worthless bastard Empire! I've protected your name, father murder! And I'm told, False King, that you hate Chaos! Well I just slaughtered more of their servants than any ten of your priests! I showed valor and courage, and I'm told that you value that, as much as you value anything besides beer and women!"

Pray To Imperial gods: 10/???

"Myrmidia! I protected your flock at Aldium. Didn't I? Didn't I..."

Pray to Myrmidia: 10/???

You feel more red blood pour out.

You are going to die here. In this worthless hole of evil, and snow, and murder. You are going to bleed out, slowly. Your heart is going to slow, and slow, and stop.

You are going to meet Gilles much, much too soon.

Somewhere a crow's voice breaks the silence, calling you home.

It isn't fair. It isn't right. You start crying, if you weren't already. You were going to save the world, and now look at you. Dying in a puddle of your own blood to help a band of Norscans.

Pathetic.

Just like your life's been. They were not right-- but now, you'll never get to prove it.

Then before your eyes-- and you swear it is not simply the poison cutting off the oxygen to your brain-- you see mists beginning to pour in from the darkness. Water falls, and carries away the dirty snow in small streams-- gray ash is channeled, and the stone is cleansed.

From out of the mists, three women appear before you clad in pure white dresses.

The crow flies away.

You cannot see them, such is the intensity of light that comes before them. Their staffs are purpleheart, with many fine engravings exulting the Lady wrought into their body. Their eyes-- their eyes are like the very deepest depths of some languid pool found in the most beautiful forest of this or any world, for that matter. Blond hair is captured in a silken veil that falls far onto the ground itself, though it remains clean-- if only by the expedient method of melting all the snow from under it.

One of them takes a silken cloth with a lily embroidered in it, and wraps it around the wound where the poison entered. And immediately, the pain and the sweat and the very bad trip, they all end. Through the whiplash, you at least manage to communicate a very simple question:

Why?

"The Lady has asked much of you."

"She can give much in return."

You try to adjust the silk, only for the one nearest you to slap your hand-- and somehow it still hurts, even through armor.

"Do not-"

"Do not-"

"Do not-"

"Meddle with that bandage."

"It is-"

"-The Lady's very own favor-"

"-And a tourniquet choking and cleansing the poison."

"If it falls, every effect of the poison will return-"

"-If not worsened-"

"-And you will die."

Flowing, each starts then finishes sentences, one thought shared by three minds. It's oddly comforting-- kind of like what you'd expect if you had three mothers taking care of you. Not so bizarre as that sounds, but still.

"Thirty days, at least, to heal it."

"Be well-"

"-sons of Bretonnia." The first fixes Asger with a glare that could mountains.

"Betray them, north son, and the birds will feast on your carcass."

"The birds feast on every carcass one day, woman."

You really want to punch him. Raiding your people, blowing you up, and now getting into a fight with the Lady's Prophetesses.

Instead, all you do is say "thank you".

And with that they depart back into mist.
--
You've risen up from the ground where you were bleeding out, flexing your arm. The three of you are taking a moment to catch your breath, and to feel human again.

Asger has already started examining your armor, hoping to figure out how, exactly, the bone pierced it-- he is, apparently, worried that the extreme heat of the explosion weakened the metal some, or warped it when taken in combination with the rough landings you both had.

The Grail Knight has been silent.

You've been praying.

"Your name, Sir?"

The peace comes to an end.

"...I don't know." The grail knight looks to the ground, almost like he expects to see it written in the dust.

"...Pardon me, what?"

"I don't know my name. I don't know my family-- if I even have a family left. The last thing I remember is waking up in that castle, being interrogated by those men. That was a year ago.

All I know is that I am a Grail Knight, and I have to destroy this." He pulls a large, sickly yellow crystal out from under his clothes. It hurts to look at it. "I'm not sure how to destroy it, but the Lady has guided me so far. Further, I believe she has guided me to you, and for a reason at that.

I will confess, there is some chance that the beasts of Chaos seek us out for rewards from their dread master-- but she is not so terrible, and she is not so mighty, as they believe. They can be beaten, and so can that dark god. If you wish me to leave, I will-- but if not, I would like to travel with you."

[] Yeah, you'd like a Grail Knight with you.

[] You need to be inconspicuous and blend in-- not drag in every foul beasts that wants to end your life.
--
Gain Trait: Magical Poison Bandage- the Lady has gifted you with the method to not die of poison: A magical bandage. However, if it is moved-- not rattled, or shook, but moved-- the effects of the poison will return, and the stronger at that-- a potential weakness.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 7

You clasp his shoulder and hug him, close. "Sir, you have fought with me, at my side-- already you are nearer to me than my own brother. It would be my own great honor if you would join us on this quest."

And with that, the matter is settled.
--
The days pass quickly enough. You eat and drink and sleep, walking ever onward towards your goal:

Stålheim.

The workshop of the Aeslings, its great bellow which spit blue fire make keen steel and strong swords; nestled in valleys unmapped, it is one of the well-guarded secrets of that tribe. Guarded by ferocious, savage, inhuman warriors of chaos, and also Beastmen, it is a stronghold-- most of the time, it would be utterly unassailable.

Instead, now, it is simply gravely difficult to assail. For the armies that might give it security are instead drawn to the coast where the Empire is attempting its conquest-- or slaughtering each other in the wake of Archaon.

Still, you can expect harsh resistance from myriad sources.

However, as you move through the bleakly beautiful mountains, the mighty peaks, gray rhimed rocks of the deepest, most Obsidian black, with strong evergreens also cracking stone, another more immediate issue rears its ugly head:

Supplies.

You were apportioned enough for two people, and now there are three of you.

At first you put it off, hoping that you would manage to forage-- but you only just manage to find a rabbit-- which was as delicious as it was guilt inducing-- and a small bundle of assorted apples, blueberries, and mushrooms, but for three large men that's uh, not really enough.

Fortunately, perhaps a week after you leave the remains of the castle, shoulder still occasionally twinging, you come across a fork in the road.

Unfortunately, neither option seems like it will end well.

To the right, you can see campfires and hear Reikspiel. Very proper Middenland Reikspiel. The sort specifically used in the court of the Elector Count.

You could likely bargain for supplies but uh, there's also even odds you end up doing something...rash. Worse, you did just insult Ulric-- miserable wolf-fetishist might well tell her to kill you. Probably not, but.

On the other hand, to the left, you can hear Chaotic barking-- and also the sounds of a stream, likely filled with fish, and certainly you can smell much fruit and game, if only barely over the sour, bloody stink of the warband. Who you'd likely have to fight. With a wounded shoulder.

So.

Chaos or Imperials.

[] To the Left. Death to the False Four! Ruin to Chaos! Glory, no death!
[] You need supplies, not glory-- if it were just yourself, maybe, but Asger and the Grail Knight (Tim? Tim is a good provisional name) are also relying on your wisdom. To the Right.

 

[Voikirium]

O Lama Luminata

In the land of Sylvania, where all shadows dwell, there was a small house. It was not a ratty, rickety, broken old hovel, succumbed to the evil that follows that name like a curse, as one might think; rather it was cozy, and seemed to hold the mark of its master well. Flowers, broad leafed, white colored lilies rested in pots of clear water. Weathered walls were well maintained, and the signs of life-- and happiness-- were well there.

Outside, under a small wood roof, a man neither young nor old, but instead in those comfortable years where either age might be worn as a mantle, pounded on a cherry-red horseshoe laid on a black anvil. Near that, a furnace poured fire and heat.

The sun was well, and the weather was beautiful; no rain, no mists, no misery.

The blacksmith concentrated on the rhythm of his hammer on the steel. Tang-tatang-tangtangtang-tang-tatang. He concentrated on the bead of sweat that worked its way down his brow. He concentrated on the leather of his gloves around his fingers. He concentrated on the sun burning his neck, and dreadfully wished for some wine. His shaven head gave a little comfort from the heat, but not enough.

He concentrated very hard on not noticing Constantin, the mourning brother, as he approached, holding a leather wrapping in his hand.

"Catalin." That plan failed when he spoke. "I have a job for you. Fully willing to pay."

"You know I do this for free."

"This is not quite your usual wheelhouse." The man unwrapped the leather, revealing a sword. It was dull, and broken near the tip-- as though something had shattered it quite greatly. A vampire, probably.

Or a Stirlander.

Still, even despite its lamentable condition, the blade was beautiful-- a fine engraving of the Heldenhammer was wrought into the blade, though hidden by age, and the hilt seemed to weigh naught. "Yes, I think this will fetch a pretty penny in Stirland. Old." He grabbed the steel, looked at it.

"I'm not selling."

"Then what are you doing with it?"

"Keeping it."

"This is a noble's blade, Constantin. What do you need with it?"

"Why does a man usually need a sword?"

Catalin growled, a low note. "Leave my shop."

"You enjoy paying the Haupt-Anderssens, do you?"

"I enjoy not having Vampires kill me."

"And what have the Haupt-Anderssens done to deal with them? How many decades? Centuries? Have they had in which they could, justly, remove the blood-sucking menace; and instead, they, those cowards, hide in Wurtbad, sipping at shitty, fancy beers that no civilized man should drink."

"Leave. My. Shop."

"Gutentag, gentlemen!" A little roar breaks the tension. "Militia call." From the road they see a man, wearing armor and holding a blade.

Catalin put down his hammer and the horseshoe, putting them both on the anvil. "Very well! And where are we meeting the state troops at?"

"You're not. It's a minor purgation, nothing more. You have two weeks to arrive at Leichberg."

He grimaces. "Fine. But before we can do that," the blacksmith grabbed the broken blade, "first, before anything, I have to fix his sword."

And with that, he set to work. He heated, and pounded, and beat the blade; and vicious and hard were his blows, and great the artistry of that servant of Sigmar.

He bound the bits of blade together and warmed it, made it bright hot and cherry red.

Then his hammer he brought, and it was hard hot work; and for hours, he worked the steel, and brought it back together, and the blade was made whole again.

Then he finely polished it, scraped away deitrus of age and thick rust and filth; and the emblem of Sigmar shone bright on it.

And finally, after a day, the deed was done; the blade was repaired, made whole once more.

Finally Constantin gripped it. The hilt was made of fine leather and hard wood, well made, and fit in one of his hands. Inlaid in the pommel was a red stone, bright and clear. The sword now was silvery-white, and its edge was cold and keen. The very image of Sigmar was worked into it, and his hammer; and it was bright and war-like and terrible, and burned with fury.

Whatever its name in ages long past, now it became known as Credinta; and bearing it, a peasant went off to war.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery 8

"I think we can all agree that at this point, fighting any more is not something we want to do." A quick shake of the head tells you both exactly what you need to hear-- that no, they don't.

If this were Bretonnia, or the Empire, or Estalia, or...well, a lot of places, starving and tired and injured, you'd still have to take up your posse and go kill those things. Even here, in Norsca, a land so choked in Chaos that you only have to throw a rock to find a Beastman, plenty would suggest that it is still your duty to go and kill those things, no matter.

Well if they want it done so badly, they can come over here and do it themselves.

And so you, Tim, and Asger head off to the right, trying to find an Imperial Camp.
--
The lands of Norsca are harsh. Snow blankets the ground up to your elbow-- and you are no short man, in fact on the Norscan it seems to reach nearly to his thighs, a bit under at in some places. Whipping winds cut at you like a dozen knives every moment, working through your armor, finding a every conceivable hole in your armor just to move through it. The sky is stormy, and might at any moment release the wrath of every god of this land.

It is also beautiful, in its own right. Scrabbling and struggling for life, trees burst from the earth like a giant's spear thrust down into soft earth, until at their tips they burst into green and gold and red fury, a punch of color framed by the white mountains. Lightning sometimes plays from the clouds, illuminating the earth for brief spells. Red fruits-- no doubt poisonous-- hang low, tempting to the touch, and to stomachs that roar like dragons with hunger, for you've not eaten since you parted to save supplies.

It is a shame, then, the Imperial base ruins it. A squat collection of tents, banners and lean-tos of the worst sort protrude out the small clearing, so surrounded by trees that an ambush would have no lack of cover-- it might be a problem, if you did not see wolves kept in cages-- and, too, plenty of cages that are empty. It lies around a clear spring, which the path also splits around.

A novel way to keep the forest clear.

Too, even more fearfully, there is a great bear chained at the center of camp, near one of the Kislevite mercenary's shelters. There are, you hope, elk in his enclosure.

He growls when you look at him.

You wisely decide that you'll not be going near the beast when you finally see a soldier, in Hochland heraldry, start walking towards your party, presumably drawn by the clanging of maille. You are at the front, Asger at your left and Tim at your right, making a 'V' formation.

When you get near enough, the soldier points his pike-head at you. "Halt! What brings you to these parts, strangers?"

"We are merely wandering warriors, sent here by our gods in search of a greater objective. We need supplies, and were hoping there might be extra that could be purchased here."

"Aye, there's some." He relaxes a little. "Be peaceful, draw no steel, and leave freely."

"You have my word."

And with that, the three of you enter the camp.

A plan is wordlessly formulated as Asger goes to negotiate with the Norscan merchants, Tim heads off to a small tent shrine and you head for the largest shelter here-- you can hear the fire crackling from there.

Immediately inside, all speech stops. They turn to look at you, this strange Bretonnian, ragged and cut and broken.

At the head table, still coated in blood and slime and gore, as though returned from some noble work and not the great slaughter this whole farce of a war is, the queen witch herself. Her runefang is clasped in one hand, as the other holds a flagon of beer-- cheap beer, from the smell of it. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Her armor is all white, but for a prominently burned in symbol of Ulric, deeply reddened. She has also a red cape around her to protect from the chill. For a moment you believe she might recognize you, realize your heraldry.

She slowly rises from her rickety old chair, looking down at your from above.

"Bretonnian!"

She's drunk. The slaughterer of Norsca, killer of the innocent, invader of the North, is drunk as a skunk.

"There's beer, if you've stomach enough for it!" Then she toasts and sits down.

"I'll outdrink anyone who wishes to test me."

The tent goes dead silent, for a minute. Then they all turn to one of her bodyguards, a woman clad in many dozens of furs, only to realize that she's asleep, her head on the table and at least fifteen mugs littered around her.

After that they all turn away, muttering of Bretonnian arrogance. Fine-- you are not here to make friends with murderers, rather instead to gather intelligence.

Specifically, to gather your bearings on some of what has happened while your party has been gone from civilized lands.

There are eleven tables. Her party sits at the center, she and her personal retinue. Arrayed in front of her are all the other tables. Besides a fire burning in the center, there is no decoration.

At one table, at the very top right, people are chained down at the legs and at the hands, given just enough slack to eat. They are tribesmen, you can see that, and from the Eastern Steppe as well-- the part just over the World's Edge Mountains. None of them look older than your sister, and many of them disturbingly younger than her. Boys and girls are among them, and they are clearly afraid of something.

At a different table, a boy who looks much like the Countess eats alone. He wears a Sigmarite cross however, which likely makes him few enough friends-- and certainly explains why he is alone.

You decide to sit down at that table.

And surprisingly he does not leave. Instead, he stays even as your roasted meat and ale is brought to you. The two of you feast in silence for a long time, until your drink and your meat is done, even as you listen to many, many rumors and stories passed along, one of which involves, of all people, your wife.

And then curiosity compels you to ask a simple question:

"What is with the chained warriors?"

He replies, simply, monotonously, in a resigned tone no-one should ever give: "They were the attendants-- squires, in a sense-- of the Hung, captured after we broke one of the raiding forces they sent here. They face trial by combat, tomorrow. The Countess is to be their foe; they don't have a chance. No-one has been brave enough or stupid enough or both to stand as their champion, so in a farce of justice she is going to kill them all, and have it stand as a reminder to those who stand in her way."

The resigned sigh he gives is deep and dark.

[] You are not scared. You will fight for them, who do not deserve yet to die; too young, and this is too unjust-- it should not stand.
[] You can not follow the Imperials, can not punish them for this; but the boy can. He needs only the faith.
[] There is little justice in it; but your wound is grave, and your duty is too heavy to risk now. But then why is your stomach so hollow; and why do you see a dark, dark cloud?
--
Okay, so noting that while the vote is ongoing, the first rumors/news post is going up.

 

[Voikirium]

Rumors And News

Invaders of the East: The Dragon Emperor stretches his claws, and all the world shudders in response.

The Grand Empire of Cathay, Masters of the East, the Middle Kingdom, etc. etc., have moved to invade the Eastern Steppe, that endless stretch of land dominated by the Hobgoblins-- both to further expand their already mighty realm, seeking to take the vast mineral wealth which there is. And so too forces rises to meet the Emperor-- the horrific Hobgoblin Khan marches with an army that fills the horizon east to west, and sight north to south.

Many of the local human tribes also run from the war, seeking a new home free from the slaughter. More fearfully, though, an army under a dreadful Kurgan warrior, Atil, a coalition of many tribes, pushes west not to settle-- but to slaughter, and to conquer, and to destroy. Moving through the northernmost pass between the Steppe and the Mountains of Mourn, he first looks to conquer the Chaos Dwarfs and their vast riches, within the Darklands. From there, you have doubts that the scions of Chaos would ever stop pushing-- until they were stopped.

Hope is not dead yet, though. The newest Sultan of All Araby, Yusuf Ibn Sabbur descended of Suliman of Medes who once battled by the side of Odo d'Outremere, having united the land by a most fortuitous marriage, has sent invitations to the lands most directly threatened by this great army: Estalia, Tilea, Kislev, and Bretonnia. Princes of every land, greatly distinguished scions of them all-- the King of Aquilas from Tilea, the Lord of Novareno of Estalia, the Great Pulk of Kislev, and the Earl Robert Le Magnifique, honoring the friendship his own ancestor Odo made so many centuries ago to the kin of Suliman.

And so a force 70,000 strong prepares for the doom that is to come.

The Shallyan War: Akakios the Vexed, Archonte of Khypris, has been disposed by his people following several months of intense sermons from the preachr Lisanor as well as the Shallyan clergy; the people did it bloodlessly, by shutting the gates on him and his party when they were returning from a trip to the Empire. The people have placed that beggar's daughter on the throne.

He has already begun hiring mercenaries to attempt to reclaim the city; however, Lisanor has the 800 pound gorilla that is the Armee Errant of Bretonnia on her side. The city will not be reclaimed so easily. Particularly not considering her husband's noted tendency for riding in from nowhere just in the nick of time.

 

[Voikirium]

The Sultanate of Araby



There are people who believe the lands of Araby are an empty, blasted desert with nothing and no-one of any real importance.

These people are not particularly bright.

Are not they the keepers of the Library of Haaldyrium, long abandoned by the elves but still yet full of their knowledge? Indeed, as you have learned at the feet of Asrai they have been taught by the Asur.

Is not it they who control the trade routes of the Southlands, who act as middleman between the empires of that continent and the Old World?

Do not your scholars study at their universities, and vice-versa?

Are not their armies vast? Mighty are the spirits they call to battle, their Djinn-- great the Faris, their knights-- terrible their archers, whose volleys are a great death.

After the fall of Jaffar, the land of Araby fell into disorder and Chaos and much was ruination and death, for he brought about the end of the Idrisid Caliphate and precipitated centuries of intercine conflict between the inhabitants of that country, much as the Empire once fell for a thousand years. Now, however, the lands of Araby are united under one Sultan-- Yusuf Ibn Sabbur, who has united them under one banner at last by the aid of his sword brothers: to stand against the coming Hung Horde, with the aid of all who would see an end to the slaughter they bring. An army 70,000 strong marches with him, whether to victory or death. Only the Empire has sent none, too preoccupied with the conquest of Norsca.

If he succeeds, he may name himself the first Caliph in centuries.

 

[Voikirium]

Estalian Meeting
5 years ago

The horse, Arabyan bred, moved silently through the starless Estalian night. The barding it wore was fine silk, colored in bright gold and trimmed in scarlet hues. At the beast's side heraldry was emblazoned- a golden eagle, wings unfurled, with a sword in its talons. It was a grassy hill he was on, trudging away from death.

The rider was weary. Dark skinned, clad from head to toe in fine plate, his beard was unkempt- his hair was a tangled mess, sloppily thrust into a ponytail; there were bags under his eyes.

He heard it, again. A horn, breaking the deep silence- shattering the still and the cold alike.

He finally made a choice- and Amilcar of Novareno turned about.

He saw the Bretonnian trudging too up the hill on his larger, black horse. The knight wore blue and red atop his armor, fine chainmaille.

Finally the Bretonnian took off his helmet. He was- well, not handsome. Pretty, if anything, with long hair that fell to his shoulders in waves but for where there was a knot up top. His eyes were a gemlike green, and he was cleanshaven in the manner of his people- though the long chase had led to stubble popping up.

"Where are my uncle's men?"

"I sent them back. I wanted this to be honorable." There was a jingle of chain as he dismounted his horse. Finally the knight drew his sword- a well-wrought piece of steel and hide by the standards of anyone not Bretonnian.

Amilcar hoisted his lance onto his shoulders. "You know I could run you through?"

"Doesn't really seem in your character."

"It's not. I do have a question though- how'd you catch up when I left earlier, and on a faster horse?"

"The Arabyans are faster- maybe even better for a charge- but they've less than no business hauling around a knight. They've not got the gumption for it. Whereas Couer here can just keep going, and going, and going...", the knight trailed off. "Do you want to rest before we begin? Because I'm feeling a bit peckish myself."

"Not particularly."

The Breton drew his sword, then. "Very well. Know that I, Prince Bohort, will speak for you at trial- or else return your body with all honors."

The Estalian dismounted, drawing his thinner, sharper sword. "Know that there will be no trial because I, Prince Amilcar, do not plan on getting caught even by you."

Before the two could battle, though, they felt a sting then fell unconscious.

 

[Voikirium]

Norscan Misery

"You know," the boy peaks up as he hears you speak, "I am a prince. And as part of my studies, I had to study the gods of our neighboring realms. Myrmidia-- noble, proud, brave. Verena-- wise, studious, just. The Lady-- the highest ideals.

Sigmar-- A big barbaric bastard."

The boy's eyes shrink to dots of light in the dim, dingy, smoke filled tent.

"But as much of a worthless, barbaric bastard as he is-- I don't really think watching an absurd miscarriage of trial by combat because you're afraid of the tyrant doing it is really in his wheelehouse, boy."

"My name is Behrtag, Bretonnian." There is silence. Dim, slight, silence-- the silence that can only by being alone in a crowd. You only just suffer through bland (Really wish you'd brought that spice pack with you), burned beef; cheap, watered down beer; and singing that kind of makes you want to put on your helmet just to keep it out. Hoping to break the monotony, you finally decide to ask a question that's been on your mind for a while.

"You know, I do kind of have one question. How? How is it that not even a year, really, after the Storm of Chaos she's managed to shit an army out? I was there, you know. I rode with my father. I saw the burned villages, turned to ash-- the bodies, piled thigh high and burned for days. The North was all ashes and trod ground. Seems like it would be pretty hard for her to find an army to even try and pull this off."

He's a bit tipsy at this point, so it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Yes, villages were burned. After they were evacuated. Of course, better to be alive than dead-- but with homes burnt they ran to the city. Ran where she could count them, entice them-- and with no better options, of course plenty signed up. Not like it's that hard to hold a stick and walk forward, after all. Doubled the army. Plenty of blacksmiths, carpenters, stone-workers unemployed as well-- help build the forts, and the castles, and everything else."

"And how does she plan on feeding everyone?"
"It's not like Reikland got touched, really-- nor Averland, nor Stirland, nor the Moot, nor Talabecland. Plenty of surplus. At least enough until we can start establishing fisheries of our own."

You take another drink, hoping this one will finally kill your tastebuds.

Unfortunately, it doesn't.

"Smart. Still, sounds like the kind of thing you can't really throw together in an afternoon-- looks a lot more like my strategy for invading the Badlands."

"...Not to be rude but it feels a bit convenient that you're being this hard on her for invading Norsca when you're doing the same thing down south."

"Fair question. But ask yourself: how many villages have I burned, how many people displaced, how many forced into labor? One day, I imagine, scholars will look back and name me hypocrite. But it's different enough for me, here, now."

And with that the two of you finish drinking.

He gets up, going one way-- and you the other. At some point, amazingly, the Grafin disappeared into the crowd.

So you walk out-- only for a someone to grab you and turn you, over strong. Standing there is Eathward, eyes much brighter-- cheeks red, yes, but not nearly as drunk as she should be-- unless she learned a secret technique to burn through beer faster than mortals.

Meaning she was acting. All of it.

"Bretonnian. Bohort. I recognized your accent, your heraldry, from the moment I entered. Out of respect for the battle we both fought in Kislev, I did not assault you. But I know how you feel about this. Everyone, from Reikland to Remas, knows how you feel about this. And if you're here to try and stop it...don't."

"You, and everyone from Reikland to Remas, can not even begin to understand how I feel. Because I promise you: I hate the Norscans. I hate their ships cresting the waves, bringing death. I hate the slaughter, the ruin, they've introduced to both our lands. I hate the number of times I've ridden out to defend a village, only to come to smoking timbers and broken bodies. I hate that I have kind up and down the coast of the kingdom that I will never get to know because they died or were taken as slaves.

But those hates will never justify the bodies you've left in your wake."

"Easy to say, living in rolling plains-- where there's wealth enough that even a thousand Norscans couldn't take it all."

"You and I both know that no-one gets this--," you take off your glove, exposing the two scars in your arm where a Norscan spear punched through your hand and came out your bicep-- if it weren't for Emma, you'd be dead, "from rolling plains. I was at Lyonesse-- don't condescend to me about how I just don't understand how awful they are. Do you have any idea how many Borhorts and Bohortas there are in Lyonesse, now, because mothers want to remember when I came-- even though I came too late? Even though I failed?"

She withdraws a bit, and the worst part is...she's no longer fuming, as she was; nor red, fired by anger; nor even, it seems, annoyed.

Instead, she pities-- and you really, really want to fight her for that.

"I'll send you the body."

"What?"

"We're invading Styrbjorn land, not long from now. When I kill the Jarl, I'll send you his head."

"Don't."

"But--"

"The Jarl is Callard's. Rollo is mine."

And with that you leave to go back to your tent-- and all that is left between you is cold and snow.
--
Your dreams are...well.

More pleasant, at least.

Dreams of past lovers-- Marc, Aline, Jordan. All knights themselves, who longly fought battles with you until they finally received their own feifs.

You should speak with them again, at some point.

You get dressed and exit the tent and see...

well, about what you hoped to see.

Behrtag is wearing his armor, and as you watch, he receives a kiss from one of the fellow Sigmarites-- man or woman, you can't tell-- before lowering his visor.

Eathward, wearing her own armor and with a blunt blade stands at the center of the camp.

All around them are fellow knights-- and it's an honestly disconcerting sight.

When all the knights in a Bretonnian camp are called together, it is like a sea of color. Bright yellows, vivid reds, shocking greens, bright blues. All in different styles, as well-- hither a kettle helm, thither face-mask; one man chain, another scaille. Some swords, some some axes, some maces and some spears. Some so proud of their saddle-- mostly from Couronne-- that their sole weapon is their lance, made out of steel such that it will not break. Some poor, wearing beaten, rusted old armor; others rich, clad in the finest workmanship-- more wonderful, even, then the soulless work of the dwarfs.

The Imperials, though? All dull gray plate, in the over-intricate, over-weighty style from the east. They all wear the white and red heraldry of their order-- which exact one, you don't know. Every single one has an axe and a lance. The more highly ranked are slightly more intricate-- but not by much. A thousand clones, who steal your title-- but have no understanding of the true soul of it.

Chained together and watching are the prisoners, fearfully looking on.

The ground is mud and filth and snow, not very good footing at all.

"I'm going to ask you one last time-- give in."

"No."

And like that the duel begins--

and within moments, it ends with a simple coup de grace which puts the boy down on his back in an instant-- but only after smacking his head so hard you hear straps break.

She's fast-- very fast. Faster than you, though being fair you'd likely stay up--

"Who said... I was done?"

The boy gets back up.

He goes down again in an instant.

His arm breaks, and he screams like the devil and he does not deserve it-- and he gets back up anyway.

"Stay down."

"No."

Again, the boy tumbles. You see blood pour from his nose-- and realize that no, maybe the boy is better at staying up.

The next blow...well, it can't hurt as bad as those last two.

He brings his sword around and catches it on her shield. "I'm...just getting started."

She snarls-- head butts him so hard his helmet breaks-- and he tumbles down.

"So was I."

Right.

You probably should have done that yourself.
--
You are leaving camp. Which path you're taking, at this point, is pretty set in stone but pace is not so certain.

More specifically, Asger has asked to stop at an abandoned blacksmith's shop. Apparently he both feels bad for blowing you up and has been inspired by the Imperial armor he saw, and so would like to say sorry by making you some new armor.

However, Tim the Grail Knight has urged speed-- apparently, he saw poor portents in his prayer.

[] Stop at the blacksmith's
[] Haste, haste, haste! The blade that shall be forged is far the more important than any merely mortal armor
--
New Title: Le Royal Rude

Trait uncovered-

Lady Touched: Since you saw the Lady, you have felt...Different. Strange. The full effects will only be seen with time, but you have certainly noticed a greater ability to speak, at least-- and of course, she has been nearer to mind.

 

[Voikirium]

Khypris

The City of the Celestial Crown



Tyrants have slaughtered for it.

Kings have bankrupted themselves to have it.

A goddess herself walked its streets.

The city of Khypris was once simply a small village situated near a river. That changed though, when in the time of Myrmidia she, the goddess of war, came upon the city as her empire-- the Empire-- would take control of the Borderlands. The city became the capital of the Provinciae Orientis, the home of a great prince in its own right.

Then Myrmidia was slaughtered, cut down in her prime by the Skaven, who feared her Empire-- which stretched, at its greatest, from the lands of Estalia entire, to the Marshes of Madness.

The empire fell, split apart by jealous, conniving servants-- torn apart by the Diodaque, who formed a thousand petty kingdoms throughout the Empire. The provinces were split, the lands suffered, and death was ever rampant.

Khypris thrived. A symbol of Imperial authority, of ancient culture and learning, this city was a symbol of a potent time for the Borderlands-- when they were united, and strong, under one ruler-- ever did the Three-headed Eagle, representing that Imperial dignity, fly as the coat of arms for that city.

Centuries after the fall of Myrmidia, a new Imperial Ruler-- ruling from Khypris, and once more flying the Three-Headed eagle-- named Ioannes Megalos would reunite the lands of the Province Orientis under one ruler, and so become known as Anatoliko Basileus, recognized by the head of the Cult of Myrmidia as lord of those lands-- and implicitly given command to reunite the whole of her empire.

Before it could come to pass, however, he was slain by ratmen-- or "ratmen", as many old scholars would put it. But the power, and authority he commanded were indeed so great that even now, they name emperors Ioannos. While other mighty kingdoms situated on the city would rise, the kings would become too rote-- too attached to the past-- to truly reclaim the Imperial glory.

The city itself is the doorway between the east and the west-- a perfect harbor, situated where the river feeds the seas-- or the other way around. A great ring of fine marble walls protects it at both sea and at land, and a well trained body of infantry, descended from the Myrmidian legions, protects the lands. Its navy is quite strong, and its coffers filled by taxing trade between the Southlands and the Old World.

There is much knowledge in the city-- its libraries stuffed with knowledge forgotten in the rest of the Old World, its university bedecked in forgotten lore. The mountains, though, split the city from the rest of the world-- and so ancient knowledge is kept from your kingdoms.

However, things are going to change, soon. Your wife, Lisanor, has taken the Imperial crown for herself from the brow of an unworthy king; and she is married to you (obviously)-- and so the City of Starry Desire will be reconnected with the rest of the Old World.

Unless you die in Norsca. Then you might have a problem.