The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

[Voikirium]

With your next path decided, the three of you set out-- mostly the better for wear.

As you do, you discuss-- well, what happened to them in the camp.

Mostly Tim. He suffered manifold visions and unwelcome visitations as he meditated; the sanctity of his mind assailed by portents of doom. They were mostly not altogether useful-- visions of the snake feasting on the rooster, draining all its blood dry. Not very helpful really. But disturbing. Doing as snakes do. There are several problems with attempting to interpret it, the biggest being the part where there are at least a dozen snakes you can name off the top of your head-- though being fair, you're pretty sure those snake ladies from Khuresh will not be trying to attack you any time soon.

Pretty sure.

In other news, Asger bought a cheap copy of the map so you can actually mark where you're going! Which is neat. He has done so, and has good news-- The elf temple and his father's castle, conveniently within 100 or so yards of each other, is near-- you're half way there, and unless something distracts you then you should make it slightly early.

The next few weeks are mostly just walking and talking. Tim is a bit out of date on what has happened in Bretonnia for the last two decades-- your father's coronation is the last thing he heard about.

Asger, meanwhile, mostly just asks for your sizes-- apparently he wants to have you wear the first finished example of the harness he's working on (so much for being sorry)-- and writes, a lot, in his journal. Like, a frightening amount.

You've chewed up at least a dozen more leagues when you arrive at what seems to be a natural hotspring. Dirty, grimy, filthy, tired, and just generally feeling less than human, in no more than a moment the three of you have stripped and leaped in. The warmth is nice, compared to the freakish cold.

So very, very nice...
---

The next time you wake up, you are in your armor, hanging from your wrists by a pair of iron manacles. On the one hand, it's cold enough that you're real clad to be wearing steel and cloth. On the other hand, ew.

The room you're in is very plainly nothing more than a jail cell. Just gray stone and a ring with some chain looped through. A prison...

But not a very good one, if they think cheap bars will keep the son of Bretonnia from breaking them in half.

Which does leave you in a slight bind:
[] Snap the chains now. Two free hands is worth the risk of discovery.
[] Wait! Patience is a virtue.

 

[Voikirium]

Caution.

Patience.

There will be a reckoning for this insult later.

...But Lady above does it hurt your arms to hold them like this. You sit in prayer and private contemplation. The pain is refreshing, oddly enough-- running away from thinking about it keeps your mind focused instead on the litanies running through your mind.

You're about through The Lay of Louis when the door finally opens. Three men enter, and the good news is they don't seem to be Norscans.

Instead, they're wearing the overly-bloated garbs of Mousillon. Vivid greens the shade of venomous snakes, dirty yellows in bands up and around their arms, and deeply purple sashes tired around their waist, they wear kirtles, hoses, and cowls. Two of them have arming swords tied up at the waist, while the third has a warhammer and shield at hand-- he is also gray haired.

"You're awake? Good." The leader turns to his henchmen. "Dispose of him, and bring me his helmet. Mallobaude will want to see it." And with that he leaves, leaving you with at least one bit of information more than you would have gotten if you just leaped into action. A little victory, considering how poorly things have been shaping up thus far.

You tense up, start slowly pulling down on the chain.

"Gonna gut you real good, knight."

"Gonna send your dad your bits."

"Gonna eat well tonight."

They get close.

Close enough for you to smell the tobacco juice, swamp scum, and dried blood clinging to them like a mist.

Close enough, too, for you to bring the roof down on one with a snap of stone and iron. It falls, smashes one in the head-- and before the second can raise the alarm you bring the chain around and whip it into his face.

Within seconds you're free, know about what's going on, and have some room to maneuver. Reaching down you pull a sword out of one's sash and take a few good swings with it; it's a piece of junk, poorly balanced and poorly maintained; but it will do to deal with the knight out there.

You rush out the room, seeing your friends tied to chairs around a wooden table. You are inside a large cave, and aside from the door leading to your prison, all you can see is a central area-- a giant iron pot hangs over a fire, and there's a small bookshelf. Next to that, a not-so-small man wearing a set of green armor, leafing through a small journal. His heraldry is that of the House of Rais.

"Ah, good. You escaped." He puts the book down and pulls your sword and a shield off of the top of the bookshelf. He stabs your sword into the earth, then tosses you your shield. "You can have that back when you've won.

I imagine you're wondering why I let you escape so easily. My lord, the true king of Bretonnia, of Estalia and all lands he conquers, wished me to kill you. He wanted it done in your sleep. It lacked...honor. So I give you this chance, Bohort: slay me, claim your life, and save your friends."

Honestly, kind of wishing you'd got the armor made then.

He puts on his helm, raises his sword in respect.

You do much the same.

[] Let him come to you. Your sword is trash, but your shield has survived wyverns, cannons, orcs and worse.
[] Confidence is key! Put him on the backfoot, then put your sword in him.

 

[Voikirium]

Estalia.

Tilea.

Bretonnia.

All burn if you die here.

So, time for caution. You salute your foe, raise up your shield, and swift as lightning, he attacks.

He's good. Very good, even. Strong, swift, blows. They rattle your arm, sending sparks flying as they strike steel. A cloud rolls over the sun, blocking all light; and so the sole source of light becomes the sparks. Only the whistle of blades tells you when to move, and when to react-- a parry here, a feint there, shield strokes when you can. Only your father's constant drilling, beaten into you from the age of fourteen, give you the reflexes to react-- but reacting is all you do.

Then, one blow manages to cut through your guard-- and the straps on your shield. It clatters to the ground, and a kick disorients you, knocks your blade aside.

"Your whole life you have sat stagnant, serving others. Wasting whatever meager potential. Reactionary! Showing no verve, no elan, no strength. My king-- the true king-- will make Bretonnia great as Gilles once did!"

He raises his sword-- but before he can bring it down you launch yourself from the ground and grip his wrist with a hand made of iron. Youth and vigor over age, it seems. "Seems I reacted well enough."

Before he can do more, you snap his wrist and send him to the floor, taking his sword for yourself. A second blow to the head knocks him out cold, and you are left alone with only the sound of breathing and rustling of chains.

You could kill him. Maybe, even, you should...

[] More than his armor, his steed, or his sword-- it is honor that defines a knight. You've been forgetting that... no longer. Let him crawl back to his master-- you'll not slaughter an unarmed, wounded man. (Gain loads of prestige and opinion from everyone who matters,???)
[] He is a traitor and fiend. He gave his right to life up a very long time ago. (Very important Maullobaude general slain)
--
So uh, this was gonna be longer.

But then you went all "I'm Bohort" and beat the dice until they gave you a good roll.

 

[Voikirium]

The Breton Crown

It is not the politicking of lesser men which decides he who has the Golden Crown placed on his brow. It is not blood that decides who holds the mantle of kingship in the land of chivalry.

It is the Lady alone who might decide who rules the land. It was she who blessed Gilles with the kiss upon his brow that turned his destiny to unite the dukes and to become the first Roi des Bretons, uniting and driving out the Greenskins and the Northmen and the Imperials alike.

It was she who whispered in Louis' ear, and guided him to become the first of the Questing Knights. it is she who guides those who seek it now. It was she who guided Baudoin the Bon to claim his destiny. Peasants, bastards, the maimed and the blind-- all have been chosen; all have served. For it is not privilege but duty, to guide the kingdom through dark times and dark places. To duel with a band of psychopaths, beasts, monsters and Imperials. To know that your death will not come peacefully, in your sleep surrounded by your kin-- but violently, at the hands of your foe. To know for all of this, the only reward you might have is the chance of a better tomorrow you will never get to see...

Well, ain't that a bitch?

 

[Voikirium]

You cut your allies' bonds, freeing them and taking the journal that was promised you from the table.

"Thank you, Prince."

Silently you let the matter rest, engrossed in your new reading material. It seems, then, that your brother has put a great much thought in how, exactly, he was going to bring Magritta to heel-- and half the peninsula with it. Actual strategies might not be written out here, but ledgers with every ship to be hired, every mercenary contracted, every dock hand and noble bribed are written plain as day. A lesser strategist might face problems attempting to figure what he's doing, but you have a pretty good idea:

He's going to land a smaller force in Jávea, let the kings of Magritta and Obregon come to him, then arrive with a force to encircle-- basic, but effective. Particularly considering he's hiring vampires, ogres, and Albion mercenaries. The vampires alone would shatter the basic armies of Estalia, never mind the ogres as well.

See, you know it would work because it's about what you would do. Not with mercenaries and for the sake of your allies instead of your own self-advancement and sans the bribery, but if you had to bring Magritta to kneel that would be about how you'd do it.

You need to get this information to Amilcar-- he can...well, you're not sure exactly what he can do, but to be frank you are already swamped with the Orcs and the Borderlands; someone else can take the lead on this one, because you're about out of steam for any more nonsense.

Finally Sir Vortigern wakes, and it seems that while you were using your great big Breton brain the sun dipped under the horizon. Your companions have been eating, apparently willing to recover with food-- and after that, burying your foe's henchmen."

"No, no, no, no!"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes. You lost. Return to my brother, and tell him if he wishes to kill me he come down and do it himself for I will be waiting."

And with that he parts, shamed.

That out of the way you get up. "Well! I am about ready to get back on the road; how about you two?"

They nod, and you part from that place of death.
--
A moment after, looking at the map, something becomes obvious. You are only about a day's journey from the old elven temple, and the fort Balbro-- your final destination. So with little talking the three of you start making headway. The weather is actually nice, for Norsca-- the moon is out, and you aren't so cold that your breath fogs. The roads are surprisingly clear, too, and road-roads as well-- dirt paths, maybe, but well enough for this mountainous country!

And what country it is. Green-trees thrust through the earth, like giant's fingers; snow dusts the earth, a white blanket. Black rocks poke through the white, exposing themselves; and a gentle wind sometimes stirs the snows into frozen figures, intricate loops and whirls. You see a snake or two, but by and large the wildlife you see most often is just birds. Ravens and crows, that sort of thing. Disconcerting, especially here; but honestly, how likely is it to actually mean anything?

In any case, before the next sunrise you've reached the temple. It is but a little thing, really-- just a small circle of stones that break the wind, an anvil, a forge, a hammer, and a pool of standing water to quench any metal. This all lies on a circle of stones, laid together-- perhaps once cemented-- that have symbols etched into them in gold. You read only Fay-Eltharin, the tongue of the Asrai, so by and large this ancient dialect is useless to you-- but for the symbol of Vaul.

Through the cracks in the stones, you can see this is a very deep pit. Out of curiosity, you take a rock from the ground and drop it through.

"So, do you believe this will be enough for you to make the sword?"

Asger takes out the ingot of divine Silverine, and looks around for a moment-- before he smiles. "Aye. This...this will be the work of a lifetime."

"It will be, but you might wish to do it quick." Tim tosses a knife to the ground-- and the blade cuts through a snake's head. "I like not the cut of this place."

"Bohort!" You turn and see Edwige, eyepatch now laced with gold walking towards you. "What took you so long, Sir?"

"We were waylaid...and found new friends."

"Alright! The jarl managed to convince a few men to help us move everything, and he says we can start whenever you're ready."

You turn to your smith. "I can be set up in the hour-- but it will take at least a day for me to finish the blade."

"Haste would be good, I think."

[] Yes! There may be horrors in the night-- but they have never faced you, Bohort. Besides, waiting only gives them time to prepare.
[] Tomorrow. Something ill may be lurking; and the darkness serves them much more than it serves you. The light will be your ally.

 

[Voikirium]

"We'll rest for the night. I'd rather face Sigvald under the sun than a daemon in the darkness."

And so the three of you leave for the main fort. Spatters of blood, dimmed with age, stain the snow; a plot of bare dirt has been cut, perhaps ten feet wide and long. A heap of weapons, spears and axes mostly, lay atop it, along with a runestone.

The fortress itself is a jutting thing of stone and wood-- a gate crafted of oak, and a circular wall, around a huge wood manor that rises at least thirty feet into the air, and is at least twice that in length, though only half in width. Painted a dark red with a roof of thick thatch and a chimney stack shaped like a raven cawing, there is a shield over the front door.

It grinds open-- and you see thralls in thick coats moving to and fro, preparing bows and spears and axes and shields. Some of them speak Bretonnian, some Albien, some Tilean, some Norscan.

The one thing they all do is look at you and start murmuring. Thick and quick, little bursts of fog after every syllable, a little more speed in their moves. Axes thud with more quiet intensity, taking apart logs to be made into stakes. Arrows thud into cheap strawmen a little more accurately, finding purchase in gaps of chain and leather. Spears bristle as they move together, practicing formations-- shield-walls, that sort of thing.

Walking through the door, you enter the entrance chamber where red walls climb. The manor itself seems to be divided into three floors, if you had to guess-- you see one up top, through bannisters, and would guess there's a basement as well.

Finally entering properly, you see Runold the Proud. No longer in the cheap rags he wore as he fled to your lands-- rather, instead, in Norscan plate, with a mighty, glimmering axe that burns blue at the edges and eye-searing white at the center, bright and as steady as the North Star. His visor is up and he drinks, deeply and surely, from a drinking horn laced with gold and ivory. There is a cape of black thread, dyed in ink, draped around his shoulders, on a chain of steel.

And so finally the three of you meet your erstwhile allies. After...what, twelve weeks of travel (You lost track after that little kidnapping), you've finally made it back together.

"Hello, Prince! I got my axe back!" He cheers and raises it, and the two of you laugh a little! "And I see you found a friend as well! Asger, I know you're lonely but now really ain't the time for that!" He giggles a bit in his drink, all red cheeks and sly looks."Have fun?"

"Aye-- but I'll have more fun returning to Micklegarth!" Another cheer for that, before he raises his hand. "Oi, prince! We got this for you too!" A surcoat-- but not one with your father's heraldry, as you now wear, but instead your own (if not chosen by you):

[] A red wyvern under a blue sword on a shield of white, a celebration of your defeat of the orcs.
[] The white dove, representing your nearness to that cult.
[] The Coq Gallique, to represent bringing the Kadarcae of Aldium to the Breton fold.

Also there is a cape of pure white and blue with your wife's new coat of arms:

The crowned dove.

Shrugging off your brigandine and exposing the haubergine underneath, you slip the tabard on and throw the cape overhead. It feels...right.

Things quiet down a little, enough for you to go speak with the Jarl. "Kind of shocked me, you know. When I saw those men readying to fight. Might have figured they'd want to run before things came to a head-- Lady only knows what's about to crawl down from the mountains."

"Oh aye, they were scared. Terrified, even. But then I told them the Wyvern slayer was coming; and they weren't so ready to run, then. Especially not when I told them he'd take them in."

"Yes. He can do that."

There is much feasting and celebration, and in the end you sleep well. Dreamless, but well.

Your good mood takes a quick dive, though, when you wake up to see a little boy outside the walls, crying. He is in plain view of gods and man alike-- the instant someone went out to speak with him, they would be exposed for the whole world to see.

"This stinks of a trap."

"I mean, we were all thinking it, but it's nice of you to say it."

"Quiet. My lord, what are we to do?"

This is absolutely a trap. The area you're in is, essentially, a bowl-- a valley with the fort and the temple, and all around it slopes with only rocks for cover. The only real question is what will happen when you spring it. Will the boy turn out to be a daemon? Will portals crack the sky and pour out monsters? Will marauders attack from behind the rocks?

All of the above?

"Five coins it's daemons."

"Shut it and take this seriously."
"Edwige, rally the men. Make it distracting and keep them focused on you. Asger, Sir Grail Knight, go to the forge, get to work making the sword. Jarl, get ready for battle.

I am going to go spring the trap."

"Okay but before you do, a question:
Which kind of sword do you want Asger to make you?
[] Longsword: A two-handed blade, smaller and more agile than the Imperial Greatsword but still fairly impressive by any reasonable measure
[] Arming Sword: A one handed blade for use with shield
[] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands

 

[Voikirium]

"Bastard sword, now go!"
And with that the whole manor springs into motion. Archers move onto the walls, infantry go to formation, and you walk for the boy. Heater shield in one hand and soon-to-be-replaced sword in the other, you head for the boy, whose wails have grown even louder, and his shrieks more terrible. You'd guess he's about five, if he's not a daemon in disguise.

Asger and Tim, meanwhile, have run into the temple-- and you can already hear a fire starting to roar as he sets to work.

Edwige has the men chanting, roaring, pounding the butts of their spear on the dirt. Archers chant and spearmen sing, banging the iron and the wood together. The cacophony is nearly deafening; the beat of a thousand hooves would pale in comparison, and the roar of dragons be tame. The Beast of the Orcals would wake for it, after a thousand years of slumber. The orcs would consider it an unruly bitof insult slinging.

It might just be enough of a distraction for you to not die the second you step outside to talk to the boy.

Heading out swiftly, you stab your sword into the dirt and lift him up to eye level, gazing deep into green balls. There's too much soul there for him to be a Daemon-- certainly, you saw that enough in Kislev-- so with a solemn oath you swear he'll live today or you will die trying. The distraction pays for itself-- the sheer noise throws off your attacker's aim, such that the first, purple-fletched shot goes flying overhead and into the wall. The next shot slams into your shield, skidding off and into the snow.

With a crack that sounds like a bird screeching, little bolts of blue fly out from beneath the rocks. A light so bright that you shield both the boy and yourself from it, turning away and screwing your eyes shut-- and even still, you can see blue.

A moment later, it ends and you look up to see a band of northmen, cheap marauders really, wearing chain and furs. At the center, in ornate purple-and-gold armor with a velvet black cloak tied around her neck is an elf, with a very mean looking staff in her hand. She's fiddling with the jewel in the center, and the marauders all seem too preoccupied to attack.

Which is well enough, because it gives you time to speak to the boy-- who has been silent since you grabbed him. "It'll be alright, child. I'm Bohort-- what's your name?"

"I-I-I'm," A little hiccup, "Hákon."

"Alright, now that's a strong name! Hákon, I like it. Listen, I need you to run behind those walls and find a man named Runold, he'll keep you safe, I promise. I need you to be brave just a little longer, alright?"
He nods, and then you set him down. He immediately starts sprinting for the gate, which even now hangs open.

Meanwhile, you take your sword back up-- and none too quickly. The marauders have recovered-- you can see them coming, at least a hundred strong.

Considering you have maybe forty men, most of them not soldiers by profession, it's a sobering thought. The first to come for you, you kill with a single cut, sending his body to the ground-- flowing from that strike, you stab up through another belly and send it to the ground. They draw back at that, seeing the death you unleashed.

The archers you both brought are trading death with each other, sending arrows raining down. Mostly, they're just negating each other right now. Edwige has left the fort and set out with the men, spears leveled and shields ready. They advance slowly, though together; but now is not the time for complex strategy, but instead simply to hold and to kill.

The elf has begun chanting something, which is, um.

Unfortunate.

Wordlessly, she points at leaders from among the marauders, and they group up, forming together into a wedge; and then, just as wordlessly, she points at you.

[] Fight them by yourself! You are BOHORT DE COURONNE! You've fought more-- worse-- Norscans than these in your backyard! Besides, if they're fighting you how can they lead their men? (X2; Hatred of Norscans/Virtue of Courage
[] Join up with Edwige and the infantry. Strength in numbers...You wannabe Montfortian. (x.5)
-
Yeah so, I'm trying out vote weighing a little.

 

[Voikirium]

Arrows fly overhead, scything down marauders where they stand, punching through thin jerkins. The scent of blood and mud begins to mingle as men die, throwing you back to a youth spent battling the Norscans on the shores. Shields crash and spears stab, as desperate men fight for the right to live-- dying where they stand, pressed in blocks, guided by your screaming vassal. The elf is chanting, throwing you back to the other misspent part of your youth. The one spent scanning the coast for black ships, and dark souls, and screaming daemons.

Before you, ten of the champions of this ragged lot have come together. They seek your head on a pike.

They will not get it.

Forming a shield wall, you stand and let them bowl up around you. Your avenues of escape are cut off. You are pinned in, with spear wielding masters of evil. There now is no way out but through.

You can't miss.

Slowly they edge, ever so slowly, prodding at you. A blow touches your maille at the shoulder, another at the hip. A third lunges at your helm-- moving like a snake you pull it out from his hand and toss it away.

This is perhaps the most on-the-face-of-it dangerous situation you've ever been in. Ten men, attacking at the same time. With longer reach, this should be easy for them. Admittedly, the chain is a pain-- but still, there's enough holes to kill you.

No, the bigger issue is that for all they speak of being bloodthirsty champions of evil, paladins of despair, blackguards without equal...

the marauders are cowards, afraid to fight anyone that isn't a cowering mess on the floor.

The next blow skids off your shield-- and with that, you decide to end this farce. You charge at the weakest looking guard, sword and shield raised. The first blow your way you knock aside, slow and stiff-- slower and stiffer than usual, even?-- the next glances off your helmet doing nothing but ringing, and the other few thud helplessly into your armor, sliding off.

Shoulder checking one man, he falls to the ground. The next moment your sword has split his throat in two, hot blood spilling out and mixing with mud. Grabbing his knife, you fling it at a man racing at you. It glides off his cheap helm, leaving a scratch and disorienting him-- and giving you enough time to pull your sword out. Spinning around you knock the next champion down, and scrambling up you slam your boot down on his nose. A spear comes your way, but glides over well wrought steel-- and within moments you've opened him like a cheap wine bottle.

Three men, ten seconds. The next to blunder at you takes your hilt to the ribs and falls with a noise like a stuck ball. The next is broken with a punch to the jaw, your knife, your fist, on and on do they bring you to this.

Finally, unscrewing the pommel off your sword you toss it at one man's helm, sending him to the ground.

Finally, you've broken the champions.

The marauders must be down to thirty or so after that display of brutality, but the elf has begun chanting even more quickly-- and there's now a magical thrum in the air-- though it's dueling with a magical thrum coming from the temple, where metal even now is being shaped.

[] Fight the Elf
[] Take control of your soldiers

 

[Voikirium]

[X] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.

Right, so just running at her? Clearly not working. You need better tactics. You need greater alacrity. You need...to stop fucking.

You rise up.

For the first time since Kislev you're fighting someone better than you.

It's a thrilling thought.

Already her staff is coming at you, though in one quick jab you knock it to the side. Your sword flies and she catches your blade on her own, muscles straining. "I should warn you, I'm not like the men of Sudòmez-- I'll kill a lady." As if to prove your point, you manage to disengage and cut her cheek, opening a scarlet worm on her face that begins to trickle red. Then comes the pain. Within moments you are using your arms, your hilt, your shield, anything within reach, block as she turns into a fucking sausage maker, hoping to grind you down. Dozens of bruises form on your thighs, and on your wrists, and you even get a pretty good black eye out of the deal. Finally she screams something.

Her staff flashes-- and next thing you know, your arm is snapped with a thunderous boom-- just, two bones jutting out. Wordlessly, fingers loosen from the strap holding your shield. It falls. The next words out of your mouth are profanity so foul you're surprised the Lady herself doesn't smite you just for saying it.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Oh! You do speak..."

And then a moment later you launch back into the assault, one handed but still determined. It's a valiant effort, really. She leaps over one attack, you spin. She dodges, you catch her riposte, kick, and you swear you feel something give-- her armor, at least.

Unfortunately, it proves not to be enough. She catches your blade in a lock of steel and death-- and then a moment later, from your bad-side, her staff comes around. You can see it-- and if you still had your shield, or even just a working arm, you could block it. Unfortunately, you have neither-- and so you can only watch, helplessly, as it slams into your side, and sends you into the ground. You land on your back, hard, and she stands before you, sword raised, face drawn up in a snarl.
--
Okay so i wanted this to be longer but then you got btfo.

Uh. So. Could someone roll a 1d100 titled "Oh fuck"?

 

[Voikirium]

Clenching your chest, sweat dripping down your forehead, bleeding but not broken yet.

At least, before she plants her sword through into your side.

You fall, slowly at first-- then all at once, landing with a hard crash on your back. Your head spins, and your arms burn as whatever foul poisons exist in that thing burn through you. Hacking up blood, you hear screams from your men. A shadow looms tall over you, and looking up the elf has her staff raised high to kill you.

It descends, only for a bitter-bright sword to cease its arc with a cloud of sparks. Tim, clad in shining maille, stands before her, sword ready. You feel strong arms pulling you away from the slaughter as the elf and the knight begin to circle around each, commencing their dance of death. Within moments you are propped up against one of the stones of the elf temple, looking at the anvil where the sword lies, hot and ready, burning with a blue flame.

That done, Asger begins to beat on the steel with the sea's rhythm. Sparks fly like lightning from each hammer blow, landing and winking out as they touch the cold stone. Again and again beats the hammer, again and again roars the steel, the fire. The smoke bellows, flying from the temple in great clouds that surely must water the eyes of each foe. Finally, the blade is wrought-- though not true, not sharp.

The smith plunges it into the water of the pool; and when it is pulled free, it is a fine, shimmering blue color, that steel. Laying it on the anvil, Asger begins filing and polishing. Smoothing, sharpening the great blade. Making it true and right, bringing it definition and speed, making the blade you have dreamed of a truth.

Finally, seemingly satisfied, Asger plants it into the hilt-- pure white wood, shaped and carved, wrapped in leather.

He walks to you, holding that blade. "My prince, my lord. It is the finest piece I have ever shaped; and ten-thousand blades have I made. But I know not, now, who will wield it." He places it on you, letting it rest. He grabs his own hammer and races it out.

Blood fading quick, you manage to wrap five fingers around the sword.

[] And it is like the storm itself roars into your veins, North-Blooded.
[] It is the sea, son of Courronne.
[] It is the pounding of ten-thousand hooves, Horse-Lord.

In any case you arise, and see now your blade. It is a fearsome blue, bright and brilliant. The edges are hot and hungry for wicked blood, the blood of the dishonorable, the blood of northern men and all foes of right-- the blood of Daemons. A hot light shines from it, and it would-- could--be seen from the highest tower of Castle Courronne. A fine stallion is etched into it, powerful and muscled. The hilt of whitest wood is supple and strong, fitting perfectly in your hand. It is as if the sword was made in heaven for you-- or perhaps more fairly, you were made in heaven for the sword.

In either case, your sword is thirsty; you will sate it, starting with that elf conjurer and working your way up to the orc lords.

"I name you Arete; and no man who wields you will be broken."