The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
Norscan Misery 1
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Norscan Misery 1
"We'll take the nearer route." And just like that the two of you are off from the ship and the port, for the wilderness and for your goddess.
--
Walking slowly, armor clanging as you do, you make your way through the forest. Tall fir trees rise from the ground like a giant's fingers, a great green color. Dark rain clouds that lash with lightning send sheets of water falling down for hours at a time, turning the dirt paths you walk into a soup of mud and ash. Howling winds whip past, quick and cold as ice. All animals of this benighted peninsula have fled or died under the downpour. The streams nearby are choked thick with water, overflowing their banks.
"So I tell the stranger 'no' and he's so fed up that he finally decides to enact the plan. The spell he was weaving finally fades-- his skin starts to melt off of him, his teeth enlarge and he grows claws, and he hunches over."
"You killed him while he was busy, right?"
Walking through the snow, your cloak billowing around you in the wind, the last hour's stroll has been spent speaking. "Sirrah! Should that I die for such cowardice. No, I let him finish."
"How'd you deal with him without weapons, then?"
"My bare hands, of course. The noble art of Savate."
It is at that moment that you finally see someone else. A blond-haired Imperial, wearing the golden wolf, rides to you unsteadily atop a little pony. He is swathed in leather and wool, and it hangs heavily from him.
He reaches you after a few moments, looking down on you from his no doubt sodden horse. "State your business."
"We are two weary travelers, on the route towards Ulricsborg. Know where we might find shelter?"
"The Order's castle is not far ahead. Come."
One eyebrow raised, the two of you follow.
--
The castle itself is a small thing. Walls perhaps ten feet high in a basic rectangular shape around a small keep. A small gate of oak, carved again into a basic rectangle, is the only entrance you can see. Iron bands cover the surface, giving strength to the wood.
Riding through the gates, you see about what you'd expect of a knightly order's castle. Men hunched over anvils pound weapons with a fierce wrath, while near the walls initiates thud blades over and over into wooden dummies. Archers train too, sending arrows wordlessly into bullseyes. A wooden pole, no doubt also for training, is slammed into the earth.
"Sirs." Turning around, you see the no-doubt leader of this order, whatever it might be, striding towards, clad in unadorned armor with an axe at his side. "You have arrived at a good time, for we sup soon. Or, if you have already eaten, we have beds ready for the night. Freya here can take you to them."
[] Eat. You are famished of hunger.
[] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.
"We'll take the nearer route." And just like that the two of you are off from the ship and the port, for the wilderness and for your goddess.
--
Walking slowly, armor clanging as you do, you make your way through the forest. Tall fir trees rise from the ground like a giant's fingers, a great green color. Dark rain clouds that lash with lightning send sheets of water falling down for hours at a time, turning the dirt paths you walk into a soup of mud and ash. Howling winds whip past, quick and cold as ice. All animals of this benighted peninsula have fled or died under the downpour. The streams nearby are choked thick with water, overflowing their banks.
"So I tell the stranger 'no' and he's so fed up that he finally decides to enact the plan. The spell he was weaving finally fades-- his skin starts to melt off of him, his teeth enlarge and he grows claws, and he hunches over."
"You killed him while he was busy, right?"
Walking through the snow, your cloak billowing around you in the wind, the last hour's stroll has been spent speaking. "Sirrah! Should that I die for such cowardice. No, I let him finish."
"How'd you deal with him without weapons, then?"
"My bare hands, of course. The noble art of Savate."
It is at that moment that you finally see someone else. A blond-haired Imperial, wearing the golden wolf, rides to you unsteadily atop a little pony. He is swathed in leather and wool, and it hangs heavily from him.
He reaches you after a few moments, looking down on you from his no doubt sodden horse. "State your business."
"We are two weary travelers, on the route towards Ulricsborg. Know where we might find shelter?"
"The Order's castle is not far ahead. Come."
One eyebrow raised, the two of you follow.
--
The castle itself is a small thing. Walls perhaps ten feet high in a basic rectangular shape around a small keep. A small gate of oak, carved again into a basic rectangle, is the only entrance you can see. Iron bands cover the surface, giving strength to the wood.
Riding through the gates, you see about what you'd expect of a knightly order's castle. Men hunched over anvils pound weapons with a fierce wrath, while near the walls initiates thud blades over and over into wooden dummies. Archers train too, sending arrows wordlessly into bullseyes. A wooden pole, no doubt also for training, is slammed into the earth.
"Sirs." Turning around, you see the no-doubt leader of this order, whatever it might be, striding towards, clad in unadorned armor with an axe at his side. "You have arrived at a good time, for we sup soon. Or, if you have already eaten, we have beds ready for the night. Freya here can take you to them."
[] Eat. You are famished of hunger.
[] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
[x] Eat. You are famished of hunger.
see no reason why not too
see no reason why not too
- Location
- California
[X] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.
avatar11792
Et Sic Incipit
- Location
- Planet Earth, North America
[X] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.
- Location
- Canada
[X] Sleep. Something about this place-- it isn't right.
Norscan Misery 2
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Norscan Misery 2
"I'd just like to sleep, sir." He nods and the two of you are sent off deeper into the fortress, following what seems to be his second-- a local woman, clad in a white dress. "So... I just realized but I don't recognize the heraldry of this order.
"They...we, are the order of the Golden Wolf. No grand brotherhood are we, perhaps three-hundred; but long have we fought for our Emperor, since the days of Sigismund and the battle of the West March."
You don't even breathe for a moment, just slowly walking. Her blue eyes widen. You slowly exhale your gathered breath.
"How does your foot taste, I wonder?"
After that things pass in silence. An Ulrican Order, first built to slaughter your countrymen. Of course. Against your own will, you tap your hand on your sword, flexing your fingers along the hilt.
The room you've been given is a small chamber, a blank square of stone with dull gray walls, a small dresser, and straw bed with cheap wool blankets and sheets. Surprisingly, there's also a small barrel of wine, apparently Mousillon vintage-- maybe, possibly, acceptable, given a certain desperation. The stone seems to leech out whatever little heat you could hope to find in Norsca, then kills it dead
Hoping to have a quick drink before you go to sleep you grab the cheap iron tankard sitting on the barrel.
Unfortunately, as you grab it, you see a fly buzzing out of it. Face turning, you toss it aside.
Sliding out of your clothes, you make your way to the bed and are out within seconds.
--
What feels like only seconds later, you wake back up again. Sweat is dropping off of you in great sheets, so great is its intensity-- and the earth is shuddering and shaking, from where you can't even tell. Also, um.
There's somebody else in the room. Mostly human.
Except their face is located on their chest, and it's about as attractive as an Altdorf gong farmer. Where their head should be is a smooth skin, the shoulders never jutting out into a neck like the Lady intended. It's weird, and you don't like it. At all. Also, perhaps more importantly they have a knife, a big one, and are walking towards you with unwell intent-- you can tell by their un-rhythmic chuckling.
You show this by leaping up. They draw back for a moment, and in that time you-- nude and angry-- leap toward the mutant. A struggle ensues. He with his dagger, you with your bare hands. On the one hand, he has a weapon.
On the other hand, you are the son of Loen Leoncouer.
After a brief struggle, he slides the dagger into your shoulder, which hurts-- but you can tell by the hurt that it's only a minor wound. At worst, no jumping jacks for a few days.
More importantly though, he has your ponytail in his hands. It seems he sawed the blade through your platinum locks on the way through-- how the angles of that work you aren't quite sure.
Red rises up to your eyes, the blood pumps hot through your veins. The world turns bright white and thrumming red-- you've been growing and grooming and protecting your hair since you turned sixteen. What little bit of true vanity or pride you'd ever allowed yourself, destroyed in an instant.
The next you can tell, you're sitting next to their body, your formerly wonderful mane held in your hand, bitter tears running down your cheeks. You're going to need a while-- but you don't have it.
[] Something is clearly up. There are mutants, and you'd be willing to bet this order has something to do with it. Find answers.
[] Find Asger. You need him alive.
"I'd just like to sleep, sir." He nods and the two of you are sent off deeper into the fortress, following what seems to be his second-- a local woman, clad in a white dress. "So... I just realized but I don't recognize the heraldry of this order.
"They...we, are the order of the Golden Wolf. No grand brotherhood are we, perhaps three-hundred; but long have we fought for our Emperor, since the days of Sigismund and the battle of the West March."
You don't even breathe for a moment, just slowly walking. Her blue eyes widen. You slowly exhale your gathered breath.
"How does your foot taste, I wonder?"
After that things pass in silence. An Ulrican Order, first built to slaughter your countrymen. Of course. Against your own will, you tap your hand on your sword, flexing your fingers along the hilt.
The room you've been given is a small chamber, a blank square of stone with dull gray walls, a small dresser, and straw bed with cheap wool blankets and sheets. Surprisingly, there's also a small barrel of wine, apparently Mousillon vintage-- maybe, possibly, acceptable, given a certain desperation. The stone seems to leech out whatever little heat you could hope to find in Norsca, then kills it dead
Hoping to have a quick drink before you go to sleep you grab the cheap iron tankard sitting on the barrel.
Unfortunately, as you grab it, you see a fly buzzing out of it. Face turning, you toss it aside.
Sliding out of your clothes, you make your way to the bed and are out within seconds.
--
What feels like only seconds later, you wake back up again. Sweat is dropping off of you in great sheets, so great is its intensity-- and the earth is shuddering and shaking, from where you can't even tell. Also, um.
There's somebody else in the room. Mostly human.
Except their face is located on their chest, and it's about as attractive as an Altdorf gong farmer. Where their head should be is a smooth skin, the shoulders never jutting out into a neck like the Lady intended. It's weird, and you don't like it. At all. Also, perhaps more importantly they have a knife, a big one, and are walking towards you with unwell intent-- you can tell by their un-rhythmic chuckling.
You show this by leaping up. They draw back for a moment, and in that time you-- nude and angry-- leap toward the mutant. A struggle ensues. He with his dagger, you with your bare hands. On the one hand, he has a weapon.
On the other hand, you are the son of Loen Leoncouer.
After a brief struggle, he slides the dagger into your shoulder, which hurts-- but you can tell by the hurt that it's only a minor wound. At worst, no jumping jacks for a few days.
More importantly though, he has your ponytail in his hands. It seems he sawed the blade through your platinum locks on the way through-- how the angles of that work you aren't quite sure.
Red rises up to your eyes, the blood pumps hot through your veins. The world turns bright white and thrumming red-- you've been growing and grooming and protecting your hair since you turned sixteen. What little bit of true vanity or pride you'd ever allowed yourself, destroyed in an instant.
The next you can tell, you're sitting next to their body, your formerly wonderful mane held in your hand, bitter tears running down your cheeks. You're going to need a while-- but you don't have it.
[] Something is clearly up. There are mutants, and you'd be willing to bet this order has something to do with it. Find answers.
[] Find Asger. You need him alive.
Bretonnian Rebuild: Hobilar
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bretonnian Rebuild: Hobilar
"Peace to the Warrior, truth to the Liar, cleanliness to the Plagued, and humility to the proud."
-Prayer of Albion
(Source)
Dark Elves.
Norscans.
Goblins.
Bretonnia suffers their depredations.
Bretonnia suffers...and Bretonnia learns.
For centuries, dealing with these raids and raiders has been a game of trial and error-- but messily, and sloppily, solutions have been found; but they've been lacking in various forms. Yeomen are functional, but they lack a certain vigour. Knights, of course, can slaughter these raiders-- if they can catch them. Other miscellaneous solutions have been tried and found lacking in the most important place of all.
Then, in the War Over Albion, which would be the precursor to the Storm of Chaos, Sir Percival de Gisoreux, leader of the Bretonnian Army and your father's personal representative, stumbled onto such a solution: The Hoblar. A style of war practiced by the tribes opposed to the Firmir Dominion, these horse archers, lightly armed, raided the Firmir farms and Halls, taking the loot and luring them into slaughters. By dart, saber and bow these noble proud warriors harassed and warred with the Cyclops for centuries.
Percival melded these warriors together with the well troops of Bretonnia, and the results have been well. Further, in return for continued aid to remove the invaders from the Isle, the natives have agreed to teach Bretonnians how to wage that war. Aside from being effective counters to raiders, the Hoblars themselves are also good raiders. Of course, horses are expensive...
Special
Cost:
20 points/Model
Stats: [Chevauchee] (Horse)
M: 4 [4](8)
WS: 3 [4] (3)
BS: 4 [4] (0)
S: 3 [3] (3)
T: 3 [3] (3)
I: 4 [4] (3)
A: 1 [2] (1)
LD: 8 (5)
Unit Size: 5 Models
Equipment: Handweapon, darts/shortbow
Options:
Forest Strider
Mounted Archer: Take no Penalty for moving and shooting
--
Note: I have never actually played the tabletop game and am far from an expert in it, so if something seems unbalanced, maybe say something. Or don't. It's your life, friend.
"Peace to the Warrior, truth to the Liar, cleanliness to the Plagued, and humility to the proud."
-Prayer of Albion
(Source)
Dark Elves.
Norscans.
Goblins.
Bretonnia suffers their depredations.
Bretonnia suffers...and Bretonnia learns.
For centuries, dealing with these raids and raiders has been a game of trial and error-- but messily, and sloppily, solutions have been found; but they've been lacking in various forms. Yeomen are functional, but they lack a certain vigour. Knights, of course, can slaughter these raiders-- if they can catch them. Other miscellaneous solutions have been tried and found lacking in the most important place of all.
Then, in the War Over Albion, which would be the precursor to the Storm of Chaos, Sir Percival de Gisoreux, leader of the Bretonnian Army and your father's personal representative, stumbled onto such a solution: The Hoblar. A style of war practiced by the tribes opposed to the Firmir Dominion, these horse archers, lightly armed, raided the Firmir farms and Halls, taking the loot and luring them into slaughters. By dart, saber and bow these noble proud warriors harassed and warred with the Cyclops for centuries.
Percival melded these warriors together with the well troops of Bretonnia, and the results have been well. Further, in return for continued aid to remove the invaders from the Isle, the natives have agreed to teach Bretonnians how to wage that war. Aside from being effective counters to raiders, the Hoblars themselves are also good raiders. Of course, horses are expensive...
Special
Cost:
20 points/Model
Stats: [Chevauchee] (Horse)
M: 4 [4](8)
WS: 3 [4] (3)
BS: 4 [4] (0)
S: 3 [3] (3)
T: 3 [3] (3)
I: 4 [4] (3)
A: 1 [2] (1)
LD: 8 (5)
Unit Size: 5 Models
Equipment: Handweapon, darts/shortbow
Options:
- Any unit may take light armor, +1 Point
- Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Standard Bearer, +5 Points
- Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Musician, +10 Points
- Upgrade 1 Hoblar to Chevauchee, +12 Points
Forest Strider
Mounted Archer: Take no Penalty for moving and shooting
--
Note: I have never actually played the tabletop game and am far from an expert in it, so if something seems unbalanced, maybe say something. Or don't. It's your life, friend.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Find Asger. You need him alive
- Location
- California
[x] Find Asger. You need him alive
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
horse archers with no or light armor.....
could be useful at some point
could be useful at some point