The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] A red wyvern under a blue sword on a shield of white, a celebration of your defeat of the orcs.
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
Bohort is known for his skills with a shield, so we need a sword that can be used with it, so the longsword is out. Arming swords are good, but I feel the bastard sword is more versatile and will give us more of an advantage if we were to ever lose our shield or have to discard it for any reason.
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
Bohort is known for his skills with a shield, so we need a sword that can be used with it, so the longsword is out. Arming swords are good, but I feel the bastard sword is more versatile and will give us more of an advantage if we were to ever lose our shield or have to discard it for any reason.
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KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] A red wyvern under a blue sword on a shield of white, a celebration of your defeat of the orcs.
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
- Location
- California
[X] A red wyvern under a blue sword on a shield of white, a celebration of your defeat of the orcs.
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
[X] A red wyvern under a blue sword on a shield of white, a celebration of your defeat of the orcs.
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
lets be awesome and as ready for anything as we can
[X] Bastard Sword: Can be used with either one or two hands
lets be awesome and as ready for anything as we can
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
So two things, real quick:
First, in keeping with my "I change things that I don't like in Canon" deal, the map between Cathay and Brettonia has been changed in some ways, just to be clear.
Second, vote will be called when I wake up tomorrow.
First, in keeping with my "I change things that I don't like in Canon" deal, the map between Cathay and Brettonia has been changed in some ways, just to be clear.
Second, vote will be called when I wake up tomorrow.
Norscan Misery 15
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"Bastard sword, now go!"
And with that the whole manor springs into motion. Archers move onto the walls, infantry go to formation, and you walk for the boy. Heater shield in one hand and soon-to-be-replaced sword in the other, you head for the boy, whose wails have grown even louder, and his shrieks more terrible. You'd guess he's about five, if he's not a daemon in disguise.
Asger and Tim, meanwhile, have run into the temple-- and you can already hear a fire starting to roar as he sets to work.
Edwige has the men chanting, roaring, pounding the butts of their spear on the dirt. Archers chant and spearmen sing, banging the iron and the wood together. The cacophony is nearly deafening; the beat of a thousand hooves would pale in comparison, and the roar of dragons be tame. The Beast of the Orcals would wake for it, after a thousand years of slumber. The orcs would consider it an unruly bitof insult slinging.
It might just be enough of a distraction for you to not die the second you step outside to talk to the boy.
Heading out swiftly, you stab your sword into the dirt and lift him up to eye level, gazing deep into green balls. There's too much soul there for him to be a Daemon-- certainly, you saw that enough in Kislev-- so with a solemn oath you swear he'll live today or you will die trying. The distraction pays for itself-- the sheer noise throws off your attacker's aim, such that the first, purple-fletched shot goes flying overhead and into the wall. The next shot slams into your shield, skidding off and into the snow.
With a crack that sounds like a bird screeching, little bolts of blue fly out from beneath the rocks. A light so bright that you shield both the boy and yourself from it, turning away and screwing your eyes shut-- and even still, you can see blue.
A moment later, it ends and you look up to see a band of northmen, cheap marauders really, wearing chain and furs. At the center, in ornate purple-and-gold armor with a velvet black cloak tied around her neck is an elf, with a very mean looking staff in her hand. She's fiddling with the jewel in the center, and the marauders all seem too preoccupied to attack.
Which is well enough, because it gives you time to speak to the boy-- who has been silent since you grabbed him. "It'll be alright, child. I'm Bohort-- what's your name?"
"I-I-I'm," A little hiccup, "Hákon."
"Alright, now that's a strong name! Hákon, I like it. Listen, I need you to run behind those walls and find a man named Runold, he'll keep you safe, I promise. I need you to be brave just a little longer, alright?"
He nods, and then you set him down. He immediately starts sprinting for the gate, which even now hangs open.
Meanwhile, you take your sword back up-- and none too quickly. The marauders have recovered-- you can see them coming, at least a hundred strong.
Considering you have maybe forty men, most of them not soldiers by profession, it's a sobering thought. The first to come for you, you kill with a single cut, sending his body to the ground-- flowing from that strike, you stab up through another belly and send it to the ground. They draw back at that, seeing the death you unleashed.
The archers you both brought are trading death with each other, sending arrows raining down. Mostly, they're just negating each other right now. Edwige has left the fort and set out with the men, spears leveled and shields ready. They advance slowly, though together; but now is not the time for complex strategy, but instead simply to hold and to kill.
The elf has begun chanting something, which is, um.
Unfortunate.
Wordlessly, she points at leaders from among the marauders, and they group up, forming together into a wedge; and then, just as wordlessly, she points at you.
[] Fight them by yourself! You are BOHORT DE COURONNE! You've fought more-- worse-- Norscans than these in your backyard! Besides, if they're fighting you how can they lead their men? (X2; Hatred of Norscans/Virtue of Courage
[] Join up with Edwige and the infantry. Strength in numbers...You wannabe Montfortian. (x.5)
-
Yeah so, I'm trying out vote weighing a little.
And with that the whole manor springs into motion. Archers move onto the walls, infantry go to formation, and you walk for the boy. Heater shield in one hand and soon-to-be-replaced sword in the other, you head for the boy, whose wails have grown even louder, and his shrieks more terrible. You'd guess he's about five, if he's not a daemon in disguise.
Asger and Tim, meanwhile, have run into the temple-- and you can already hear a fire starting to roar as he sets to work.
Edwige has the men chanting, roaring, pounding the butts of their spear on the dirt. Archers chant and spearmen sing, banging the iron and the wood together. The cacophony is nearly deafening; the beat of a thousand hooves would pale in comparison, and the roar of dragons be tame. The Beast of the Orcals would wake for it, after a thousand years of slumber. The orcs would consider it an unruly bitof insult slinging.
It might just be enough of a distraction for you to not die the second you step outside to talk to the boy.
Heading out swiftly, you stab your sword into the dirt and lift him up to eye level, gazing deep into green balls. There's too much soul there for him to be a Daemon-- certainly, you saw that enough in Kislev-- so with a solemn oath you swear he'll live today or you will die trying. The distraction pays for itself-- the sheer noise throws off your attacker's aim, such that the first, purple-fletched shot goes flying overhead and into the wall. The next shot slams into your shield, skidding off and into the snow.
With a crack that sounds like a bird screeching, little bolts of blue fly out from beneath the rocks. A light so bright that you shield both the boy and yourself from it, turning away and screwing your eyes shut-- and even still, you can see blue.
A moment later, it ends and you look up to see a band of northmen, cheap marauders really, wearing chain and furs. At the center, in ornate purple-and-gold armor with a velvet black cloak tied around her neck is an elf, with a very mean looking staff in her hand. She's fiddling with the jewel in the center, and the marauders all seem too preoccupied to attack.
Which is well enough, because it gives you time to speak to the boy-- who has been silent since you grabbed him. "It'll be alright, child. I'm Bohort-- what's your name?"
"I-I-I'm," A little hiccup, "Hákon."
"Alright, now that's a strong name! Hákon, I like it. Listen, I need you to run behind those walls and find a man named Runold, he'll keep you safe, I promise. I need you to be brave just a little longer, alright?"
He nods, and then you set him down. He immediately starts sprinting for the gate, which even now hangs open.
Meanwhile, you take your sword back up-- and none too quickly. The marauders have recovered-- you can see them coming, at least a hundred strong.
Considering you have maybe forty men, most of them not soldiers by profession, it's a sobering thought. The first to come for you, you kill with a single cut, sending his body to the ground-- flowing from that strike, you stab up through another belly and send it to the ground. They draw back at that, seeing the death you unleashed.
The archers you both brought are trading death with each other, sending arrows raining down. Mostly, they're just negating each other right now. Edwige has left the fort and set out with the men, spears leveled and shields ready. They advance slowly, though together; but now is not the time for complex strategy, but instead simply to hold and to kill.
The elf has begun chanting something, which is, um.
Unfortunate.
Wordlessly, she points at leaders from among the marauders, and they group up, forming together into a wedge; and then, just as wordlessly, she points at you.
[] Fight them by yourself! You are BOHORT DE COURONNE! You've fought more-- worse-- Norscans than these in your backyard! Besides, if they're fighting you how can they lead their men? (X2; Hatred of Norscans/Virtue of Courage
[] Join up with Edwige and the infantry. Strength in numbers...You wannabe Montfortian. (x.5)
-
Yeah so, I'm trying out vote weighing a little.
- Location
- California
[X] Fight them by yourself! You are BOHORT DE COURONNE! You've fought more-- worse-- Norscans than these in your backyard! Besides, if they're fighting you how can they lead their men? (X2; Hatred of Norscans/Virtue of Courage
Let's try and keep them away from our men.
Let's try and keep them away from our men.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Fight them by yourself! You are BOHORT DE COURONNE! You've fought more-- worse-- Norscans than these in your backyard! Besides, if they're fighting you how can they lead their men? (X2; Hatred of Norscans/Virtue of Courage
Taking them out should help relieve some pressure on Edwige as well.
Taking them out should help relieve some pressure on Edwige as well.
Norscan Misery 16
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Arrows fly overhead, scything down marauders where they stand, punching through thin jerkins. The scent of blood and mud begins to mingle as men die, throwing you back to a youth spent battling the Norscans on the shores. Shields crash and spears stab, as desperate men fight for the right to live-- dying where they stand, pressed in blocks, guided by your screaming vassal. The elf is chanting, throwing you back to the other misspent part of your youth. The one spent scanning the coast for black ships, and dark souls, and screaming daemons.
Before you, ten of the champions of this ragged lot have come together. They seek your head on a pike.
They will not get it.
Forming a shield wall, you stand and let them bowl up around you. Your avenues of escape are cut off. You are pinned in, with spear wielding masters of evil. There now is no way out but through.
You can't miss.
Slowly they edge, ever so slowly, prodding at you. A blow touches your maille at the shoulder, another at the hip. A third lunges at your helm-- moving like a snake you pull it out from his hand and toss it away.
This is perhaps the most on-the-face-of-it dangerous situation you've ever been in. Ten men, attacking at the same time. With longer reach, this should be easy for them. Admittedly, the chain is a pain-- but still, there's enough holes to kill you.
No, the bigger issue is that for all they speak of being bloodthirsty champions of evil, paladins of despair, blackguards without equal...
the marauders are cowards, afraid to fight anyone that isn't a cowering mess on the floor.
The next blow skids off your shield-- and with that, you decide to end this farce. You charge at the weakest looking guard, sword and shield raised. The first blow your way you knock aside, slow and stiff-- slower and stiffer than usual, even?-- the next glances off your helmet doing nothing but ringing, and the other few thud helplessly into your armor, sliding off.
Shoulder checking one man, he falls to the ground. The next moment your sword has split his throat in two, hot blood spilling out and mixing with mud. Grabbing his knife, you fling it at a man racing at you. It glides off his cheap helm, leaving a scratch and disorienting him-- and giving you enough time to pull your sword out. Spinning around you knock the next champion down, and scrambling up you slam your boot down on his nose. A spear comes your way, but glides over well wrought steel-- and within moments you've opened him like a cheap wine bottle.
Three men, ten seconds. The next to blunder at you takes your hilt to the ribs and falls with a noise like a stuck ball. The next is broken with a punch to the jaw, your knife, your fist, on and on do they bring you to this.
Finally, unscrewing the pommel off your sword you toss it at one man's helm, sending him to the ground.
Finally, you've broken the champions.
The marauders must be down to thirty or so after that display of brutality, but the elf has begun chanting even more quickly-- and there's now a magical thrum in the air-- though it's dueling with a magical thrum coming from the temple, where metal even now is being shaped.
[] Fight the Elf
[] Take control of your soldiers
Before you, ten of the champions of this ragged lot have come together. They seek your head on a pike.
They will not get it.
Forming a shield wall, you stand and let them bowl up around you. Your avenues of escape are cut off. You are pinned in, with spear wielding masters of evil. There now is no way out but through.
You can't miss.
Slowly they edge, ever so slowly, prodding at you. A blow touches your maille at the shoulder, another at the hip. A third lunges at your helm-- moving like a snake you pull it out from his hand and toss it away.
This is perhaps the most on-the-face-of-it dangerous situation you've ever been in. Ten men, attacking at the same time. With longer reach, this should be easy for them. Admittedly, the chain is a pain-- but still, there's enough holes to kill you.
No, the bigger issue is that for all they speak of being bloodthirsty champions of evil, paladins of despair, blackguards without equal...
the marauders are cowards, afraid to fight anyone that isn't a cowering mess on the floor.
The next blow skids off your shield-- and with that, you decide to end this farce. You charge at the weakest looking guard, sword and shield raised. The first blow your way you knock aside, slow and stiff-- slower and stiffer than usual, even?-- the next glances off your helmet doing nothing but ringing, and the other few thud helplessly into your armor, sliding off.
Shoulder checking one man, he falls to the ground. The next moment your sword has split his throat in two, hot blood spilling out and mixing with mud. Grabbing his knife, you fling it at a man racing at you. It glides off his cheap helm, leaving a scratch and disorienting him-- and giving you enough time to pull your sword out. Spinning around you knock the next champion down, and scrambling up you slam your boot down on his nose. A spear comes your way, but glides over well wrought steel-- and within moments you've opened him like a cheap wine bottle.
Three men, ten seconds. The next to blunder at you takes your hilt to the ribs and falls with a noise like a stuck ball. The next is broken with a punch to the jaw, your knife, your fist, on and on do they bring you to this.
Finally, unscrewing the pommel off your sword you toss it at one man's helm, sending him to the ground.
Finally, you've broken the champions.
The marauders must be down to thirty or so after that display of brutality, but the elf has begun chanting even more quickly-- and there's now a magical thrum in the air-- though it's dueling with a magical thrum coming from the temple, where metal even now is being shaped.
[] Fight the Elf
[] Take control of your soldiers
- Location
- California
[X] Fight the Elf