The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Location
- California
[X] Yeah, you'd like a Grail Knight with you.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] Yeah, you'd like a Grail Knight with you.
Also, why not put more bandages over the special bandage? Keep it steady and all that.
Also, why not put more bandages over the special bandage? Keep it steady and all that.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Magic stuff.
Norscan Misery 7
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] 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.
Feel like we should avoid fighting for as long as possible. At least with the imperials we can attempt to blend in, and maybe warn them of the warband not so far away.
Feel like we should avoid fighting for as long as possible. At least with the imperials we can attempt to blend in, and maybe warn them of the warband not so far away.
- Location
- California
[X] 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.
O Lama Luminata
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Out of curiosity, which would you like to know more about:
The war against Chaos in Albion,
in the Far East,
in Araby,
or in Kislev?
Because I'm cooking up the first bit of news and figured I'd put a little more attention on those than on elsewhere.
(You're obviously going to see plenty about Norsca)
The war against Chaos in Albion,
in the Far East,
in Araby,
or in Kislev?
Because I'm cooking up the first bit of news and figured I'd put a little more attention on those than on elsewhere.
(You're obviously going to see plenty about Norsca)
- Location
- California
Araby I think. It's the area closest to our kingdom.
- Pronouns
- Male
[X] 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.
- Location
- California
It looks like there are five votes.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Sweet, vote will be called at 1 PM CST Tomorrow then.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] 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.