Remove ads

The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

Reader mode
"You, witch girl!" The dark elf still chants, but her eyes flicker down to you. Small streams of energy, black as ink, have begun emanating from the staff she holds in her right hand, while below at her feet bands of purple sickness that burn your eyes have begun to appear burning around her, spouts of black flame emerging from the ground. Resting upon her blonde brow is a circlet studded with jewels; her panoply is a fine cuirasse of black metal engraved with images of the witch-king, well-wrought gauntlets of a golden hue, and a long skirt of scales which covers all below her waist in silk of purple. Belted at her waist is a thin, single handed epee. "Face me; or has the child of Slaneesh lost all valor in battle?"

She...stops. One second, she is flying and chanting, releasing foul energies from her staff-- the next, on the ground, walking towards you, blade drawn. Within seconds the two of you have clashed blades, her stabbing at your face with an impossible speed-- she is swift. Glittering sparks comes as she strikes your armor, leaving a new scratch in your helmet-- only a bare reflex saves you from bleeding out on the sands.

No reflex rises to save you from the staff knocking your feet out from under you in a sweeping blow to the knees. Tumbling, you are already raising your shield to block her.

The good news is, she's more of a witch than a warrior.

The bad news is, that still leaves a lot of room for warring. Like, enough to be better than you.

Unless you'd like to be fillet, now would be a good time for like, an actual plan of attack to deal with her.

[] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.
[] Endurance. You know pain. You can deal with pain. So deal with it-- take her shots-- then take her down.
[] Here's your plan: attack.
--
Sorry for short update, but been feeling a little sick, and a little writer's-blocked besides.
 
[X] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.
 
[X] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.
 
[X] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.
 
[X] Endurance. You know pain. You can deal with pain. So deal with it-- take her shots-- then take her down.

The way I read the update, dark elf witch girl is actually better at finessing things than Bohort. However, she might not expect some crazy human to go: Okay, you stab me in the shoulder as long as I get to stab you in the throat. Or so I hope.
 
[X] Endurance. You know pain. You can deal with pain. So deal with it-- take her shots-- then take her down.
 
Gingganz said:
The way I read the update, dark elf witch girl is actually better at finessing things than Bohort. However, she might not expect some crazy human to go: Okay, you stab me in the shoulder as long as I get to stab you in the throat. Or so I hope.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
If she was anyone but a dark elf I would agree, but those guys have a nasty habit of using poison.
 
Remove ads
Norscan Misery 17
  • Threadmarks
    • [X] Finesse-- you were trained by Louen Leoncouer. Your swordsmanship is second to none. Use it-- bring the fight to her. And stop fucking kneeling, it's embarrassing.

    Right, so just running at her? Clearly not working. You need better tactics. You need greater alacrity. You need...to stop fucking.

    You rise up.

    For the first time since Kislev you're fighting someone better than you.

    It's a thrilling thought.

    Already her staff is coming at you, though in one quick jab you knock it to the side. Your sword flies and she catches your blade on her own, muscles straining. "I should warn you, I'm not like the men of Sudòmez-- I'll kill a lady." As if to prove your point, you manage to disengage and cut her cheek, opening a scarlet worm on her face that begins to trickle red. Then comes the pain. Within moments you are using your arms, your hilt, your shield, anything within reach, block as she turns into a fucking sausage maker, hoping to grind you down. Dozens of bruises form on your thighs, and on your wrists, and you even get a pretty good black eye out of the deal. Finally she screams something.

    Her staff flashes-- and next thing you know, your arm is snapped with a thunderous boom-- just, two bones jutting out. Wordlessly, fingers loosen from the strap holding your shield. It falls. The next words out of your mouth are profanity so foul you're surprised the Lady herself doesn't smite you just for saying it.

    "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

    "Oh! You do speak..."

    And then a moment later you launch back into the assault, one handed but still determined. It's a valiant effort, really. She leaps over one attack, you spin. She dodges, you catch her riposte, kick, and you swear you feel something give-- her armor, at least.

    Unfortunately, it proves not to be enough. She catches your blade in a lock of steel and death-- and then a moment later, from your bad-side, her staff comes around. You can see it-- and if you still had your shield, or even just a working arm, you could block it. Unfortunately, you have neither-- and so you can only watch, helplessly, as it slams into your side, and sends you into the ground. You land on your back, hard, and she stands before you, sword raised, face drawn up in a snarl.
    --
    Okay so i wanted this to be longer but then you got btfo.

    Uh. So. Could someone roll a 1d100 titled "Oh fuck"?
     
  • Threadmarks
    • well... that had to hurt. I am once again glad that I do not have to duel with live weapons on any sort of regular basis.
     
    Update will be up tomorrow.

    Sorry it's taken so long, I've been busy dealing with College stuff.
     
    Norscan Misery 18
  • Threadmarks
    • Clenching your chest, sweat dripping down your forehead, bleeding but not broken yet.

    At least, before she plants her sword through into your side.

    You fall, slowly at first-- then all at once, landing with a hard crash on your back. Your head spins, and your arms burn as whatever foul poisons exist in that thing burn through you. Hacking up blood, you hear screams from your men. A shadow looms tall over you, and looking up the elf has her staff raised high to kill you.

    It descends, only for a bitter-bright sword to cease its arc with a cloud of sparks. Tim, clad in shining maille, stands before her, sword ready. You feel strong arms pulling you away from the slaughter as the elf and the knight begin to circle around each, commencing their dance of death. Within moments you are propped up against one of the stones of the elf temple, looking at the anvil where the sword lies, hot and ready, burning with a blue flame.

    That done, Asger begins to beat on the steel with the sea's rhythm. Sparks fly like lightning from each hammer blow, landing and winking out as they touch the cold stone. Again and again beats the hammer, again and again roars the steel, the fire. The smoke bellows, flying from the temple in great clouds that surely must water the eyes of each foe. Finally, the blade is wrought-- though not true, not sharp.

    The smith plunges it into the water of the pool; and when it is pulled free, it is a fine, shimmering blue color, that steel. Laying it on the anvil, Asger begins filing and polishing. Smoothing, sharpening the great blade. Making it true and right, bringing it definition and speed, making the blade you have dreamed of a truth.

    Finally, seemingly satisfied, Asger plants it into the hilt-- pure white wood, shaped and carved, wrapped in leather.

    He walks to you, holding that blade. "My prince, my lord. It is the finest piece I have ever shaped; and ten-thousand blades have I made. But I know not, now, who will wield it." He places it on you, letting it rest. He grabs his own hammer and races it out.

    Blood fading quick, you manage to wrap five fingers around the sword.

    [] And it is like the storm itself roars into your veins, North-Blooded.
    [] It is the sea, son of Courronne.
    [] It is the pounding of ten-thousand hooves, Horse-Lord.

    In any case you arise, and see now your blade. It is a fearsome blue, bright and brilliant. The edges are hot and hungry for wicked blood, the blood of the dishonorable, the blood of northern men and all foes of right-- the blood of Daemons. A hot light shines from it, and it would-- could--be seen from the highest tower of Castle Courronne. A fine stallion is etched into it, powerful and muscled. The hilt of whitest wood is supple and strong, fitting perfectly in your hand. It is as if the sword was made in heaven for you-- or perhaps more fairly, you were made in heaven for the sword.

    In either case, your sword is thirsty; you will sate it, starting with that elf conjurer and working your way up to the orc lords.

    "I name you Arete; and no man who wields you will be broken."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Vote will be called tomorrow.

    I'd call it today but there's a good chance the internet's going to go out again.
     
    Vote is called.

    Update will be up after I finally finish these fuckin' papers, sorry.
     
    Norscan Misery 19
  • Threadmarks
    • Guess who's back?
    --
    It is the sea, roaring and turning! Mighty waves, pounding on the shores and on the ships! Grinding the mountains down, dulling them, ruining them! Bringer of life and death, vast and mercurial! Wonderful and terrible, ranging from the black depth of the stagnant sea of claws to the wine-blue waters of the Black Sea!

    Stepping from the safety of the shrine, immediately, death comes for you. Marauders, bandits-- scraped together from the very scum of man, servants of vile powers.

    Just as immediately you wash them away. Each strike splits heads, breaks armor, cuts bone and spills bloods.

    Your forces cheer to see you well; the foe fears your fury. The elf witch that struck you down looks surprised to see you well. "Did not I strike you already?"

    "Lady's love be much the superior over your foul crafts, Druchii. Lo, know you not Justice when you see it, witch? Have you not even the sense of mind to flee, now?"

    She raises her staff again, and chants foul words that make your ears ring-- and a moment later, a serpent of fire roars towards you, undulating green and black that stinks of brimstone and death. Your eyes ache just to see. Death is inscribed by every ember. It could devour you alive, in one bite.

    You run towards it, heedless of peril. Raising your arms, time it perfectly, and cleave the thing in twain-- though it sputters out much the more than you expected, as though the very magic that bound it to this plane was undone in a single blow. The glowing runes of Arete wink into-- and then out-- existence.

    The witch's eyes narrow she slams her staff on the stone. "Never mind-- I have what I came for." And with that she disappears in a flash of pink light, leaving you with just a handful of marauders left to fight.

    Your forces, admittedly, survived when you were dying-- but to put it simply, it's much easier to survive the valiant loss than--

    "Slaanesh-rimming, warpstone-snorting, thin-legged, pointy-eared, druchii cowardice!"

    --Yeah what she said.

    And so the battle is won, your position is secure, and you can finally leave this frozen wasteland forever.

    Thank the Lady.

    (No seriously, thank the Lady)
    --

    So uh, sorry I disappeared there for a month?

    Yeah I dunno, this just kinda dragged and...eh.

    Epilogue up soon.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top