The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
Norscan Misery 12
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] 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,???)
We are a knight, which is more than he can say. Let him return to our brother(?) and tell him we yet live. This failure will probably see him lose his head there anyways.
We are a knight, which is more than he can say. Let him return to our brother(?) and tell him we yet live. This failure will probably see him lose his head there anyways.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yeah, Maullobaude's your brother.
- Location
- Pennsylvania
[X] 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,???)
Assuming he's like most villains our brother will probably kill his ass for failure.
Assuming he's like most villains our brother will probably kill his ass for failure.
Modus_Tollens
SCREAMING AT THE APOCALYPSE
- Location
- ALSO SCREAMING.
[X] 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,???)
There will always be another enemy. Always. Eventually one will be the death of you but if you have to join them in the gutter then it doesn't really matter who wins, does it now? A traitor he may be but it is a rare day that a traitor goes out of his way to stab you in your front.
So good for him.
There will always be another enemy. Always. Eventually one will be the death of you but if you have to join them in the gutter then it doesn't really matter who wins, does it now? A traitor he may be but it is a rare day that a traitor goes out of his way to stab you in your front.
So good for him.
The Breton Crown
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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?
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?
- Location
- Southampton, Great Britain
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] 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,???)
[X] 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,???)
- Location
- California
[X] 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,???)
- Location
- Germany
[X] 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,???)
Honor is all, Chivalry is all... oops, wrong quest.
Honor is all, Chivalry is all... oops, wrong quest.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] 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,???)
Norscan Misery 13
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
"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.
- Location
- California
[X] Tomorrow. Something ill may be lurking; and the darkness serves them much more than it serves you. The light will be your ally.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] Tomorrow. Something ill may be lurking; and the darkness serves them much more than it serves you. The light will be your ally.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Lisanor de Courrone
Your wife, pregnant with your child. She is not famed for beauty, though none have ever been more beautiful in your eyes. A favored follower of Shallya, you two met when she tackled you-- she thought you were going to do something...very stupid at the docks (You weren't).
Though neither you nor she would admit it at first, over two years the two of you became lovers. She brought a passion to your life, and you a kind ear and benefactor. By her direction, you finally found a purpose-- dozens of hospices, alms-houses, and orphanages now run because she directed you to their plight. It was a war not your father-- bless him, but he was a warrior, not a healer-- nor your mother-- kind and gentle, but focused on her old home of Bastonne-- nor Maullobaude-- a Great Man, perhaps, but not a good one--would ever in a million years fight-- a war on poverty, on illness, on suffering.
A native of the Borderlands who had to flee owing to the constant war, she has spent long hours lamenting the disunity, kin strife, and suffering.
A woman with a keen understanding of how to best help people help themselves, a love of charity and knots, and a keen mind, she is perhaps the most intriguing woman you have ever met.
Likes: You, helping people, Shallya, handcuffs, peace, the Borderlands
Dislikes: Suffering, the Border Princes' status quo, Orcs, Civil War, Most mid-nobles
Description: With hair the black color of coal, skin the tan of the south, and eyes the color of salt, she is as stereotypically Khyprian as you can get. Eschewing fine silks and fanciful jewels, she prefers a simple, sky-blue wool dress and and a white veil. Her sole fine item is a golden arm band with a dove carved into it in fine workmanship, a gift from her late father. The smells of honey and sage follow her around, the binding of her elixirs and its most common ingredient.
Stats:
Martial: 1- Shallyans are sworn to pacifism in the main-- while the layfolk are not as sworn, actively going to war would be a sin for her.
Diplomacy: 12- The kind queen Lisanor, there are those who mock her low birth. They generally give against her wit.
Piety: 14- She is faithful to her goddess.
Stewardship: 10- She's pretty good with money.
Traits:
Altruist: She aids people, it's what she does. (+2 Diplomacy, +2 Piety)
Wise: Sometimes suffering is just suffering, good for nothing-- but for other times it is a (hated) teacher. (+2 Diplomacy, +1 Piety)
Peasant Born: She is lowborn. (-2 Diplomacy)
Stern: She is made of stern stuff and enjoys control. (+2 Piety)
Pacifist: She will not join battle. (Martial set at 1, permanently)
--
Added in a fuller description.
Your wife, pregnant with your child. She is not famed for beauty, though none have ever been more beautiful in your eyes. A favored follower of Shallya, you two met when she tackled you-- she thought you were going to do something...very stupid at the docks (You weren't).
Though neither you nor she would admit it at first, over two years the two of you became lovers. She brought a passion to your life, and you a kind ear and benefactor. By her direction, you finally found a purpose-- dozens of hospices, alms-houses, and orphanages now run because she directed you to their plight. It was a war not your father-- bless him, but he was a warrior, not a healer-- nor your mother-- kind and gentle, but focused on her old home of Bastonne-- nor Maullobaude-- a Great Man, perhaps, but not a good one--would ever in a million years fight-- a war on poverty, on illness, on suffering.
A native of the Borderlands who had to flee owing to the constant war, she has spent long hours lamenting the disunity, kin strife, and suffering.
A woman with a keen understanding of how to best help people help themselves, a love of charity and knots, and a keen mind, she is perhaps the most intriguing woman you have ever met.
Likes: You, helping people, Shallya, handcuffs, peace, the Borderlands
Dislikes: Suffering, the Border Princes' status quo, Orcs, Civil War, Most mid-nobles
Description: With hair the black color of coal, skin the tan of the south, and eyes the color of salt, she is as stereotypically Khyprian as you can get. Eschewing fine silks and fanciful jewels, she prefers a simple, sky-blue wool dress and and a white veil. Her sole fine item is a golden arm band with a dove carved into it in fine workmanship, a gift from her late father. The smells of honey and sage follow her around, the binding of her elixirs and its most common ingredient.
Stats:
Martial: 1- Shallyans are sworn to pacifism in the main-- while the layfolk are not as sworn, actively going to war would be a sin for her.
Diplomacy: 12- The kind queen Lisanor, there are those who mock her low birth. They generally give against her wit.
Piety: 14- She is faithful to her goddess.
Stewardship: 10- She's pretty good with money.
Traits:
Altruist: She aids people, it's what she does. (+2 Diplomacy, +2 Piety)
Wise: Sometimes suffering is just suffering, good for nothing-- but for other times it is a (hated) teacher. (+2 Diplomacy, +1 Piety)
Peasant Born: She is lowborn. (-2 Diplomacy)
Stern: She is made of stern stuff and enjoys control. (+2 Piety)
Pacifist: She will not join battle. (Martial set at 1, permanently)
--
Added in a fuller description.
Last edited:
Norscan Misery 14
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"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
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