The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
I'm watching too many threads. I have like 30 alerts every morning, it's way to easy to forget about one.
This is probably true.
10/10 best mount.
I like this line. Good work.
This is probably true.
10/10 best mount.
I like this line. Good work.
Friends, I Suppose
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Friends, I Suppose
Your father, or your people?
Father or people?
Father or people?
Eventually swearing under your breath you race out, followed closely by your father and mother. In the great chamber, where many feast and drink and recount tales of great valor, normally the din could deafen The Prince Pulchritudinous (Thanks Lisanor) himself in his pearly opulence. Roaring, chewing, drinking, badly flirting-- all of that and more might normally split the air.
Instead, a low murmur fills the air. For in the chamber, met by your spearmen, many people wait, none too much like the other. One you recognize, though the others are much foreign to you.
The first is an Estalian Knight, Sir Amílcar, nephew of La Aguila Ultima, rightly the heir of Avila and of Bibali, no doubt serving as messenger for his aunt. The finest in Avilan fashion-- a bright yellow doublet and vivid red cape that falls to the small of his back-- with close-cut hair and the tan skin of the south, as well as a thick beard.
For the first time today you don't want to dig a very large hole and jump in it.
"Amil!"
"Bors!"
The two of you hug each other swiftly before he steps back, pulling a scroll from under his arm. "Sadly I have little time to socialize and much to do. There are...things in Estalia. Still, it is good to see you!"
"And you as well, friend. What brings you here?"
He unrolls the scroll to begin reading: "From the Blessed Eagle Isabella Giovanna Luccelli, Damner of Dragons, Wielder of the Righteous Spear and Daughter of the Blazing Sun: Whence forth Bohort the Blessed, ever a friend of Estalia, did by courage and valor save Viktoria, Misionera Central; and repair the Temple of the Emerald Eagle; and safeguard the Myrmidian congregation of Mortensholm; he is offered the full thanks of the clergy, and the full respect of our peoples, despite being foreign born."
Well, isn't that nice of her! Knowing Isabella, there is no doubt some hidden reason waiting in the wings besides simple graciousness for this, but all the same you do like getting a thank you every now and again. Amílcar tucks away the scroll, quite pleased with himself.
(Gained 1 Cult of Myrmidia (Estalian) Favor)
Next, you turn to your other guests. Southlanders, they wear longcoats, thick boots, and headcoverings. "And you, Sirs?"
"I am Ouati." He gives a slight tilt of the head to his party, speaking Estalian to you as he does. "I am an author and a gentleman. I suspect the story of this place and of you will be of interest to my people, for even now we wage war to reclaim our rightful lands from those selfsame orcs you slaughter by the bushel; and if not, at least we will have killed some orcs." There is a nod of grim satisfaction at that. "I am here to write, to chronicle, to record; my partners for many other purposes, a great much of it trade."
And just like that, all of your questions are answered. And as you turn away for a moment, you think you see pride on your father's face.
Your father is still here, and you're still going to have to have to risk your life on a vision quest (And then to Norsca probably right after, seriously?) But at least for today you're still alive.
--
Your party:
Viktoria and your father are coming with you on the little vision quest thing, and Runold and his band to Norsca. That said, You are allowed to bring one other person on both.
Who? (Spirit trip):
[] Edwige (She is a mighty warrior)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Amílcar (It's been four years since your embassy to Estalia-- you'd like to get reacquainted with your best friend)
[] Robert (He enjoys fighting Norscans
Who? (Norsca Expedition):
[] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Viktoria (She seems like a cool woman, from what little you know of her
[] Louen Leoncouer (The Greatest King in 15 centuries, he would be an incredibly powerful asset; further his presence would ensure that the Todbringer Psycho does not attack your party in the unlikely event the Northerners reach that far) (Must spend one Bretonnian favor- the king can't just fuck off wily nilly, after all)
[] Amílcar (Norsca's a little north for his tastes, but he'd do it if you asked)
Your father, or your people?
Father or people?
Father or people?
Eventually swearing under your breath you race out, followed closely by your father and mother. In the great chamber, where many feast and drink and recount tales of great valor, normally the din could deafen The Prince Pulchritudinous (Thanks Lisanor) himself in his pearly opulence. Roaring, chewing, drinking, badly flirting-- all of that and more might normally split the air.
Instead, a low murmur fills the air. For in the chamber, met by your spearmen, many people wait, none too much like the other. One you recognize, though the others are much foreign to you.
The first is an Estalian Knight, Sir Amílcar, nephew of La Aguila Ultima, rightly the heir of Avila and of Bibali, no doubt serving as messenger for his aunt. The finest in Avilan fashion-- a bright yellow doublet and vivid red cape that falls to the small of his back-- with close-cut hair and the tan skin of the south, as well as a thick beard.
For the first time today you don't want to dig a very large hole and jump in it.
"Amil!"
"Bors!"
The two of you hug each other swiftly before he steps back, pulling a scroll from under his arm. "Sadly I have little time to socialize and much to do. There are...things in Estalia. Still, it is good to see you!"
"And you as well, friend. What brings you here?"
He unrolls the scroll to begin reading: "From the Blessed Eagle Isabella Giovanna Luccelli, Damner of Dragons, Wielder of the Righteous Spear and Daughter of the Blazing Sun: Whence forth Bohort the Blessed, ever a friend of Estalia, did by courage and valor save Viktoria, Misionera Central; and repair the Temple of the Emerald Eagle; and safeguard the Myrmidian congregation of Mortensholm; he is offered the full thanks of the clergy, and the full respect of our peoples, despite being foreign born."
Well, isn't that nice of her! Knowing Isabella, there is no doubt some hidden reason waiting in the wings besides simple graciousness for this, but all the same you do like getting a thank you every now and again. Amílcar tucks away the scroll, quite pleased with himself.
(Gained 1 Cult of Myrmidia (Estalian) Favor)
Next, you turn to your other guests. Southlanders, they wear longcoats, thick boots, and headcoverings. "And you, Sirs?"
"I am Ouati." He gives a slight tilt of the head to his party, speaking Estalian to you as he does. "I am an author and a gentleman. I suspect the story of this place and of you will be of interest to my people, for even now we wage war to reclaim our rightful lands from those selfsame orcs you slaughter by the bushel; and if not, at least we will have killed some orcs." There is a nod of grim satisfaction at that. "I am here to write, to chronicle, to record; my partners for many other purposes, a great much of it trade."
And just like that, all of your questions are answered. And as you turn away for a moment, you think you see pride on your father's face.
Your father is still here, and you're still going to have to have to risk your life on a vision quest (And then to Norsca probably right after, seriously?) But at least for today you're still alive.
--
Your party:
Viktoria and your father are coming with you on the little vision quest thing, and Runold and his band to Norsca. That said, You are allowed to bring one other person on both.
Who? (Spirit trip):
[] Edwige (She is a mighty warrior)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Amílcar (It's been four years since your embassy to Estalia-- you'd like to get reacquainted with your best friend)
[] Robert (He enjoys fighting Norscans
Who? (Norsca Expedition):
[] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
[] Emma (MAGIC)
[] Viktoria (She seems like a cool woman, from what little you know of her
[] Louen Leoncouer (The Greatest King in 15 centuries, he would be an incredibly powerful asset; further his presence would ensure that the Todbringer Psycho does not attack your party in the unlikely event the Northerners reach that far) (Must spend one Bretonnian favor- the king can't just fuck off wily nilly, after all)
[] Amílcar (Norsca's a little north for his tastes, but he'd do it if you asked)
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
[X][Spirit] Emma (MAGIC)
[X][Norsca] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
[X][Norsca] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
- Location
- California
[X][Spirit] Emma (MAGIC)
[X][Norsca] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
[X][Norsca] Edwige (Killing Norscan warriors is one of the things she likes to do, yes)
Courage
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Courage
You stroke Beaquis' head, scratching at his itches. He purrs like a house-cat at your touch, thin fingers following the feather's grain. Flecks of blood from cows and sheep stain his beak, and he leans into you a bit.
Finally your own squires bring out Honor. The warhorse whinnies with a deep, shuddering voice, red hair layered on top enough muscle to stop a bullet. Layered on top of the hair and the muscle is full steel-barding, a rarity outside of Estalia. Blue cloth lightly waves in the wind as you saddle up, the first of your party ready. Ready for anything, you have your second set of armor ready-- much the same as the first, sans the aesthetic touches however, except for a fine plume made of the biggest, reddest bolt of silk you could find. Your sword is a cheap loaner from one of your knights-- hopefully this one won't end up melted.
Your father arrives second, wearing his usual armor. He mounts Beaquis-- he will be giving you air support and scaring off anything that might seek to slow your party.
Viktoria and Emma arrive together. Viktoria bears a cuirass, wielding a rapier and shield as well as several guns. You haven't spoken with her, really, since you first arrived, but she seems happier now, eager for battle too. It almost strikes you as Ulrican-- not that you'd ever say it to her face; maman raised you better than that.
Finally, Emma is here too. Unarmed, apparently. Since you're not an idiot, you feel reasonably certain that she's not, but.
In any case, you give a few swift good-byes then you are away, through the great forests and to the plains.
--
A cloud of dust is kicked up under three hooves. You ride ahead of the pack, lance at the ready for any sign of trouble. The first has gone quickly-- you've taken no breaks for comfort, and won't until night finally falls and you can eat quickly, then sleep.
The landscape has transitioned from the thick, luscious forests into the blasted plains, miles and miles and miles of grass that reaches your saddled feet. A dirt path fit for perhaps four people has been cut into the lands-- originally, you think, it was one of the roads of the Kyprian Empire, or at least it was going to be.
Now it's just like that Empire-- dust and hooves.
Dark clouds hang overhead, blocking the sun and a wind buffets you. You have no idea what time it is, or where you are really-- You are still on the same road you left Mortensholm on, just...leagues down the path.
For some reason your father swoops down, landing just ahead of you. Honor snorts, and gives the hippogryph a glare. Beaquis only glares back, seemingly with jealousy. Well hell, there's your wife, Amalric, and the hippogryph-- perhaps you are more lovable than you thought?
"We need to stop soon. There is a storm coming, and it is going to be a big one."
Wordlessly you dismount, and after sharing a look Emma and Viktoria do the same. Supper will be cold rations of dried fruits and bread, the more to move swiftly, and your tents can be set in a second.
Within an hour you all are set up. There will be little socialization tonight, just hunkering down. Volunteering to guard the camp-- so you can be done before the rain falls-- you sit by Honor and Beaquis alike, alternately stroking the horse head and the hippogryph's wing, scratching sometimes as well.
Nothing much happens-- one time in the dark you think you see a lion's eyes, but shaking your head makes them go away and before you can go and check, you are called off duty to be replaced by your father.
Heading into your tent, you quickly slurp some water, eat some bread and a handful of fruit, then conk out nearly immediately-- only taking just enough time to remove your armor.
An old oak sits, weeping venom from its roots into the earth. The dirt is withered and dead, and wrapped around the base is a black snake, fangs outstretched. It pumps and pumps-- or perhaps drinks and drinks?
Looking at yourself, you have on armor like none you've ever seen before-- like a Knight fucked a Norscan and you took the result.
Walking closer to the snake and the tree, you lift it up-- and it has a human's eye, of a dark, dark shade of a color you'd swear was green-- but then a pink membrane falls over, and it bites at you-- but fails, for the armor saves you.
Waking up, you resolve to make sure the next fruit you eat is not quite as fermented.
--
It's perhaps a week's worth of travel to arrive at your general destination. And it's been...
Boring.
You expected your father to scare away plenty of the minor nuisances, sure, but you would have at least expected the orcs or something to try and attack.
Worse, when you weren't bored you were terrified. Strange dreams assaulted you, all of them in the vein of that first vision. More, in the night you heard a lion's growl-- but that wasn't what scared you.
No, what scared you is that you wanted to go join it.
Finally, finally though, you've made it mostly to your location-- well, more specifically to a crossroads.
Two caves, one to the right and one to the left. You and Emma both seem to hang to the right, while your father and Viktoria go left.
Before you can try and argue, though, an arrow flies from the mountains. A goblin cry breaks out, and you are under attack.
It's a boring fight, really, and you would not mention it to those writers from the Southlands-- it is important, however, in that your father and Viktoria both went left chasing after the goblins, who are making a disciplined retreat to their base-- they figure it is some sort of treasury for the little filth. As usual, nobody knows what Emma is doing, probably not even Emma.
And a little voice in your head is saying go right. The same little voice that was screaming to find things to kill at Aldium, that put you against the Wyvern, that led you to swear that you'd make Lisanor a queen.
It's a very dangerous voice, is what you're saying-- but listening to it is also the only time you've ever really felt alive.
[] Follow the voice, by yourself or with another-- either way you will do this YES THAT DO THAT
[] Follow the voice but try and find Emmayour stomach flips WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS MON DIEU MAN SHOW SOME SPINE
You stroke Beaquis' head, scratching at his itches. He purrs like a house-cat at your touch, thin fingers following the feather's grain. Flecks of blood from cows and sheep stain his beak, and he leans into you a bit.
Finally your own squires bring out Honor. The warhorse whinnies with a deep, shuddering voice, red hair layered on top enough muscle to stop a bullet. Layered on top of the hair and the muscle is full steel-barding, a rarity outside of Estalia. Blue cloth lightly waves in the wind as you saddle up, the first of your party ready. Ready for anything, you have your second set of armor ready-- much the same as the first, sans the aesthetic touches however, except for a fine plume made of the biggest, reddest bolt of silk you could find. Your sword is a cheap loaner from one of your knights-- hopefully this one won't end up melted.
Your father arrives second, wearing his usual armor. He mounts Beaquis-- he will be giving you air support and scaring off anything that might seek to slow your party.
Viktoria and Emma arrive together. Viktoria bears a cuirass, wielding a rapier and shield as well as several guns. You haven't spoken with her, really, since you first arrived, but she seems happier now, eager for battle too. It almost strikes you as Ulrican-- not that you'd ever say it to her face; maman raised you better than that.
Finally, Emma is here too. Unarmed, apparently. Since you're not an idiot, you feel reasonably certain that she's not, but.
In any case, you give a few swift good-byes then you are away, through the great forests and to the plains.
--
A cloud of dust is kicked up under three hooves. You ride ahead of the pack, lance at the ready for any sign of trouble. The first has gone quickly-- you've taken no breaks for comfort, and won't until night finally falls and you can eat quickly, then sleep.
The landscape has transitioned from the thick, luscious forests into the blasted plains, miles and miles and miles of grass that reaches your saddled feet. A dirt path fit for perhaps four people has been cut into the lands-- originally, you think, it was one of the roads of the Kyprian Empire, or at least it was going to be.
Now it's just like that Empire-- dust and hooves.
Dark clouds hang overhead, blocking the sun and a wind buffets you. You have no idea what time it is, or where you are really-- You are still on the same road you left Mortensholm on, just...leagues down the path.
For some reason your father swoops down, landing just ahead of you. Honor snorts, and gives the hippogryph a glare. Beaquis only glares back, seemingly with jealousy. Well hell, there's your wife, Amalric, and the hippogryph-- perhaps you are more lovable than you thought?
"We need to stop soon. There is a storm coming, and it is going to be a big one."
Wordlessly you dismount, and after sharing a look Emma and Viktoria do the same. Supper will be cold rations of dried fruits and bread, the more to move swiftly, and your tents can be set in a second.
Within an hour you all are set up. There will be little socialization tonight, just hunkering down. Volunteering to guard the camp-- so you can be done before the rain falls-- you sit by Honor and Beaquis alike, alternately stroking the horse head and the hippogryph's wing, scratching sometimes as well.
Nothing much happens-- one time in the dark you think you see a lion's eyes, but shaking your head makes them go away and before you can go and check, you are called off duty to be replaced by your father.
Heading into your tent, you quickly slurp some water, eat some bread and a handful of fruit, then conk out nearly immediately-- only taking just enough time to remove your armor.
An old oak sits, weeping venom from its roots into the earth. The dirt is withered and dead, and wrapped around the base is a black snake, fangs outstretched. It pumps and pumps-- or perhaps drinks and drinks?
Looking at yourself, you have on armor like none you've ever seen before-- like a Knight fucked a Norscan and you took the result.
Walking closer to the snake and the tree, you lift it up-- and it has a human's eye, of a dark, dark shade of a color you'd swear was green-- but then a pink membrane falls over, and it bites at you-- but fails, for the armor saves you.
Waking up, you resolve to make sure the next fruit you eat is not quite as fermented.
--
It's perhaps a week's worth of travel to arrive at your general destination. And it's been...
Boring.
You expected your father to scare away plenty of the minor nuisances, sure, but you would have at least expected the orcs or something to try and attack.
Worse, when you weren't bored you were terrified. Strange dreams assaulted you, all of them in the vein of that first vision. More, in the night you heard a lion's growl-- but that wasn't what scared you.
No, what scared you is that you wanted to go join it.
Finally, finally though, you've made it mostly to your location-- well, more specifically to a crossroads.
Two caves, one to the right and one to the left. You and Emma both seem to hang to the right, while your father and Viktoria go left.
Before you can try and argue, though, an arrow flies from the mountains. A goblin cry breaks out, and you are under attack.
It's a boring fight, really, and you would not mention it to those writers from the Southlands-- it is important, however, in that your father and Viktoria both went left chasing after the goblins, who are making a disciplined retreat to their base-- they figure it is some sort of treasury for the little filth. As usual, nobody knows what Emma is doing, probably not even Emma.
And a little voice in your head is saying go right. The same little voice that was screaming to find things to kill at Aldium, that put you against the Wyvern, that led you to swear that you'd make Lisanor a queen.
It's a very dangerous voice, is what you're saying-- but listening to it is also the only time you've ever really felt alive.
[] Follow the voice, by yourself or with another-- either way you will do this YES THAT DO THAT
[] Follow the voice but try and find Emma
Kanata.EXE
Programmer
- Location
- Indonesia
[X] Follow the voice, by yourself or with another-- either way you will do this YES THAT DO THAT
- Location
- California
[X] Follow the voice, by yourself or with another-- either way you will do this YES THAT DO THAT
The invisitext for the second option is kinda hilarious.
The invisitext for the second option is kinda hilarious.
Why do I have a bad feeling that the voice is Khorne, and not who we think the voice is?
[X] Follow the voice but try and find Emmayour stomach flips WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS MON DIEU MAN SHOW SOME SPINE
[X] Follow the voice but try and find Emma
A Lion's Roar
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A Lion's Roar
Sword undrawn, blade unbrought, glittering armor unmarred, you enter the cave. A chill fills you, and each breath is followed by mist.
Green moss coats the walls lightly, and the air is thick with the scent of water lilies-- but too, the scent of a clear smooth lake, fresh and flowing, fills the air. A subtle wetness, like the mists of a river's bank, coats your maille in droplets of ice cold water. The sun's rays are unseen here, within this hole. The cold is thick upon your bones.
Yet you do not freeze.
There is no light beyond the little of the entrance's sliver, a thin knife jabbed into the dark chest of night. You can see naught beyond the flittering white edge of light that shuffles in. In the darkness, anything might wait for you. Goblins, certainly, considering the battle that took place not so long ago.
Yet you still walk on sure feet.
Walking deeper into the darkness, you stride over the craggy ground and into the blackness. It feels like kind hands, maternal almost, have a hold of your shoulders, steering forward. Where you might have stumbled, they push and pull and guide with a clarity supernatural.
For moments or hours or days this goes on, until finally you run face-first into something. Reeling back, a force grabs your arms and you pick up a rod of metal. Drawing it with a grunt, there is a sound like death and thunder-- and fire, fierce and blue and glowing, but it has not heat. Now light fills the room, showing what is in front of you-- a statue, worked from gray stone. A knight wearing a lion's pelt, with a massive sword in one hand and a fine shield in the other. Wrought with skill into it is the heraldry of Couronne-- the heraldry of Carleond.
I was weak.
A voice dusty and ancient like an abandoned castle fills the air. You've heard it before, at the edge of a dream and a half-remembered vision.
Unbidden, you bend down and pick up a little of the moss.
Except it's not moss.
It's lake algae.
The scent of lilies has intensified as well, thick in your nostrils.
Turning, you follow the path further, now with no need of guidance but instead racing forward on your own. Feet trod over the plant with grace, trampling like the mighty horses of Couronne. Blue flames flickering, you continue to walk through the cave, swiftly narrowing it might be.
Finally you come upon another statue, though not a knight. Instead it is an emperor-- Sigismund the bastard, might that his bones be dust. The hammer of the Pretender in one hand, cruel Mother's Ruin in the other, he looks down with cruel face.
He was a coward.
Further you walk, deeper and deeper into the cave, through yards and yards of stone and rock and algae, until finally you enter a circular room, with a tomb in the center.
Remove your greaves -- this is sacred ground.
[]Do it.
[]Resist.
Sword undrawn, blade unbrought, glittering armor unmarred, you enter the cave. A chill fills you, and each breath is followed by mist.
Green moss coats the walls lightly, and the air is thick with the scent of water lilies-- but too, the scent of a clear smooth lake, fresh and flowing, fills the air. A subtle wetness, like the mists of a river's bank, coats your maille in droplets of ice cold water. The sun's rays are unseen here, within this hole. The cold is thick upon your bones.
Yet you do not freeze.
There is no light beyond the little of the entrance's sliver, a thin knife jabbed into the dark chest of night. You can see naught beyond the flittering white edge of light that shuffles in. In the darkness, anything might wait for you. Goblins, certainly, considering the battle that took place not so long ago.
Yet you still walk on sure feet.
Walking deeper into the darkness, you stride over the craggy ground and into the blackness. It feels like kind hands, maternal almost, have a hold of your shoulders, steering forward. Where you might have stumbled, they push and pull and guide with a clarity supernatural.
For moments or hours or days this goes on, until finally you run face-first into something. Reeling back, a force grabs your arms and you pick up a rod of metal. Drawing it with a grunt, there is a sound like death and thunder-- and fire, fierce and blue and glowing, but it has not heat. Now light fills the room, showing what is in front of you-- a statue, worked from gray stone. A knight wearing a lion's pelt, with a massive sword in one hand and a fine shield in the other. Wrought with skill into it is the heraldry of Couronne-- the heraldry of Carleond.
I was weak.
A voice dusty and ancient like an abandoned castle fills the air. You've heard it before, at the edge of a dream and a half-remembered vision.
Unbidden, you bend down and pick up a little of the moss.
Except it's not moss.
It's lake algae.
The scent of lilies has intensified as well, thick in your nostrils.
Turning, you follow the path further, now with no need of guidance but instead racing forward on your own. Feet trod over the plant with grace, trampling like the mighty horses of Couronne. Blue flames flickering, you continue to walk through the cave, swiftly narrowing it might be.
Finally you come upon another statue, though not a knight. Instead it is an emperor-- Sigismund the bastard, might that his bones be dust. The hammer of the Pretender in one hand, cruel Mother's Ruin in the other, he looks down with cruel face.
He was a coward.
Further you walk, deeper and deeper into the cave, through yards and yards of stone and rock and algae, until finally you enter a circular room, with a tomb in the center.
Remove your greaves -- this is sacred ground.
[]Do it.
[]Resist.
- Location
- California
[X]Do it.
Maternal touches, lake algae, and remembering visions? I'm nearly positive that this is the Lady of the Lake in some form and even if it isn't, greaves aren't exactly critical for combat.
Maternal touches, lake algae, and remembering visions? I'm nearly positive that this is the Lady of the Lake in some form and even if it isn't, greaves aren't exactly critical for combat.
- Location
- singapore
[X]Do it.