- Location
- California
[X] Plan War Prep
The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Fantasy
[X] Plan Strengthen our Realm
Meanwhile, In Albion
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Meanwhile, In Albion
Heavy rains fell on the dark forests grand, misting the ground-- shaking the leaves of the trees as the thick fat droplets fell in waves and sheets. The muddy ground underneath was churned to a thick black foam, except for the few bits anchored by grass or trees. Even the thick leathers of the Imperial tents sagged under the downpour, despite the thick wooden props holding them up. Guns had to be waterproofed, toiled over, day in and day out. The cannons were even more labor intensive sons of a bitch, round the clock crews protecting them from even the slightest bit of rust.
Six months. Six months, Kai von Schwartzhafen-- sixth son of the baron of Schwartzhafen, General of the Empire and of Reikland in Particular, master marksman and scholar-- had been in southern Albion. In that time?
It had been sunny three days.
"Join the army, he said. You'll make something of yourself for once, boy, he said. You'll spread the Imperial glory, he said." He ran his hand through fiery red hair, letting the copper fall back in place. "I should have gone to Norsca. At least there were no Bretonnians in Norsca."
Oh Sigmar, the Bretonnians. Oh Sigmar, the Bretonnians.
He'd be fighting but winning without them here.
Instead, he was wasting men and materiel that might have gone to slaying the last of the Firmir, or removing the Dark Elves, or slaughtering the greenskins, or in irony of irony, destryoing the Norscans here instead of there-- all things which had been leveraged, in past, to gain the allegiance of these perfidious Albiona-- on wasteful, stupid assaults against the Horselords.
At night, when the beer was drunk, he might admit that the Albiona opposition was more threatening than he'd thought it would be when he'd arrived on the island six months ago, bright eyed and bushy tailed-- and so naive. They'd managed dangerous, Pyrrhic victories. Drained his morale. But they were unsustainable.
But stone-cold sober he could admit the winedrinkers might win. As they'd done when they'd reclaimed the West Province, as they'd done until Helborg's treachery, as they'd done against the Skaven and the Orcs and the Dark Elves.
There were losses for them too, against Franz, after Helborg's treachery, against the Skaven that first time with the Red Pox. But not enough. Not enough losses, here in Albion, where things had only held on by a thread after the Civil War in Nordland.
Not enough. Sigmar, wasn't that the refrain? Not enough supplies. Not enough men. Not enough money. Too much blown on an absolute vanity project in Norsca, not enough consideration for the much more worthwhile target. What was there in Norsca? Mutants? Savages? Murderers? Snow? There might be an answer, but never a good enough one.
Meanwhile, here? Tin. Saltpeter. A convertible populace. Iron. A land not howling with madness. Gold. If it was ports the Emperor considered so essential, Albion was certainly not lacking-- easily positioned to build ships-- to resupply them-- to patrol the waters of Norsca, without having to set foot on the cursed, twisted rock of evil.
But no. For the wolf-queen's vanity and northern ambition, the Jewel of the Sea of Claws-- a coarse jewel, yes, but a jewel-- was ignored. 150,000 State Troops, in grand regiment, were sent to Norsca, a third of that in native auxiliaries. 10 years of Imperial taxes from the North, donations from rich men the Old World over seeking to break the power of those raiders. Mercenaries, as well. Knightly Orders by the dozen founded and marching to the north. For frozen tundra and troll.
For a much easier deed? 40,000 State Troopers. 20,000 native auxiliaries through the isles-- not a pretty balance of power, by any means. Not even a year of taxes from Nordland nor Ostland nor Hochland, only just a few scattered donations from benefactors hoping to make a profit. Mercenaries all gone to Cathay, land-hungry idiots-- ignoring, of course, all the wholly unsettled land here. Knights refusing to battle the Bretonnians, claiming it dishonorable after standing against the Storm of Chaos. No investment in what could be the richest province the Empire might posses-- rich with iron, with tin, with lumber, with fertile land. Neuland might provide everything the Empire needed to once and for all secure itself against the Old Night, and it was underfed.
The worst part? It might have been enough, except for the Horselords. Sigmar damn them-- wasn't Bretonnia verdant enough for them? Weren't rolling hills and the clear plains sufficient? Never mind the whole Borderlands, the Bretonnian Core would be enough to outearn anything the Empire could make.
The only thing even close to goods news was the end of the War in Norsca, finally. Thousands of veterans might be freed to fight here-- if they could make it. If the Colony wasn't undone between now and then. If. If. If.
Things had been going so well when he'd first arrived.
Then the Breton had arrived. Bertrand de Grandcouer. According to rumors his parents were hippogryphs. According to rumors he had discovered the mighty blade of Landuin, a moon-white thing of war and woe. According to rumors he can shoot lightning out of his eyes. Whatever the case, rumor or no, every time reports of his band of knights entering the area arrive, within a fortnight the local bases and forts are destroyed.
All one man.
The general's brooding was disrupted by the tent flaps sliding open. His aid de camp entered, followed by one of the green pistoliers, all covered in mud and blood. "Tell the general what you told me."
"I-- we were out scouting, a regiment of Outriders and Pistoliers, when we heard a snap come our way. One of the Albiona, sir, came out of the woods. He had with him this." The pistolier pulled a small chunk of parchment from his belt and handed it to Kai. On it was a short, sweet, simple sentence:
"Meet us in the center valley."
--
Update will be up soon.
Heavy rains fell on the dark forests grand, misting the ground-- shaking the leaves of the trees as the thick fat droplets fell in waves and sheets. The muddy ground underneath was churned to a thick black foam, except for the few bits anchored by grass or trees. Even the thick leathers of the Imperial tents sagged under the downpour, despite the thick wooden props holding them up. Guns had to be waterproofed, toiled over, day in and day out. The cannons were even more labor intensive sons of a bitch, round the clock crews protecting them from even the slightest bit of rust.
Six months. Six months, Kai von Schwartzhafen-- sixth son of the baron of Schwartzhafen, General of the Empire and of Reikland in Particular, master marksman and scholar-- had been in southern Albion. In that time?
It had been sunny three days.
"Join the army, he said. You'll make something of yourself for once, boy, he said. You'll spread the Imperial glory, he said." He ran his hand through fiery red hair, letting the copper fall back in place. "I should have gone to Norsca. At least there were no Bretonnians in Norsca."
Oh Sigmar, the Bretonnians. Oh Sigmar, the Bretonnians.
He'd be fighting but winning without them here.
Instead, he was wasting men and materiel that might have gone to slaying the last of the Firmir, or removing the Dark Elves, or slaughtering the greenskins, or in irony of irony, destryoing the Norscans here instead of there-- all things which had been leveraged, in past, to gain the allegiance of these perfidious Albiona-- on wasteful, stupid assaults against the Horselords.
At night, when the beer was drunk, he might admit that the Albiona opposition was more threatening than he'd thought it would be when he'd arrived on the island six months ago, bright eyed and bushy tailed-- and so naive. They'd managed dangerous, Pyrrhic victories. Drained his morale. But they were unsustainable.
But stone-cold sober he could admit the winedrinkers might win. As they'd done when they'd reclaimed the West Province, as they'd done until Helborg's treachery, as they'd done against the Skaven and the Orcs and the Dark Elves.
There were losses for them too, against Franz, after Helborg's treachery, against the Skaven that first time with the Red Pox. But not enough. Not enough losses, here in Albion, where things had only held on by a thread after the Civil War in Nordland.
Not enough. Sigmar, wasn't that the refrain? Not enough supplies. Not enough men. Not enough money. Too much blown on an absolute vanity project in Norsca, not enough consideration for the much more worthwhile target. What was there in Norsca? Mutants? Savages? Murderers? Snow? There might be an answer, but never a good enough one.
Meanwhile, here? Tin. Saltpeter. A convertible populace. Iron. A land not howling with madness. Gold. If it was ports the Emperor considered so essential, Albion was certainly not lacking-- easily positioned to build ships-- to resupply them-- to patrol the waters of Norsca, without having to set foot on the cursed, twisted rock of evil.
But no. For the wolf-queen's vanity and northern ambition, the Jewel of the Sea of Claws-- a coarse jewel, yes, but a jewel-- was ignored. 150,000 State Troops, in grand regiment, were sent to Norsca, a third of that in native auxiliaries. 10 years of Imperial taxes from the North, donations from rich men the Old World over seeking to break the power of those raiders. Mercenaries, as well. Knightly Orders by the dozen founded and marching to the north. For frozen tundra and troll.
For a much easier deed? 40,000 State Troopers. 20,000 native auxiliaries through the isles-- not a pretty balance of power, by any means. Not even a year of taxes from Nordland nor Ostland nor Hochland, only just a few scattered donations from benefactors hoping to make a profit. Mercenaries all gone to Cathay, land-hungry idiots-- ignoring, of course, all the wholly unsettled land here. Knights refusing to battle the Bretonnians, claiming it dishonorable after standing against the Storm of Chaos. No investment in what could be the richest province the Empire might posses-- rich with iron, with tin, with lumber, with fertile land. Neuland might provide everything the Empire needed to once and for all secure itself against the Old Night, and it was underfed.
The worst part? It might have been enough, except for the Horselords. Sigmar damn them-- wasn't Bretonnia verdant enough for them? Weren't rolling hills and the clear plains sufficient? Never mind the whole Borderlands, the Bretonnian Core would be enough to outearn anything the Empire could make.
The only thing even close to goods news was the end of the War in Norsca, finally. Thousands of veterans might be freed to fight here-- if they could make it. If the Colony wasn't undone between now and then. If. If. If.
Things had been going so well when he'd first arrived.
Then the Breton had arrived. Bertrand de Grandcouer. According to rumors his parents were hippogryphs. According to rumors he had discovered the mighty blade of Landuin, a moon-white thing of war and woe. According to rumors he can shoot lightning out of his eyes. Whatever the case, rumor or no, every time reports of his band of knights entering the area arrive, within a fortnight the local bases and forts are destroyed.
All one man.
The general's brooding was disrupted by the tent flaps sliding open. His aid de camp entered, followed by one of the green pistoliers, all covered in mud and blood. "Tell the general what you told me."
"I-- we were out scouting, a regiment of Outriders and Pistoliers, when we heard a snap come our way. One of the Albiona, sir, came out of the woods. He had with him this." The pistolier pulled a small chunk of parchment from his belt and handed it to Kai. On it was a short, sweet, simple sentence:
"Meet us in the center valley."
--
Update will be up soon.
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- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
well that... something!
nice to know the update is coming.
uhm norsca winding down already? that is fast!
wait are the bretonians an the empire warring again even if its limited? that could be really bad.
still looking forward to what comes next
nice to know the update is coming.
uhm norsca winding down already? that is fast!
wait are the bretonians an the empire warring again even if its limited? that could be really bad.
still looking forward to what comes next
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Norsca was weakened by:
1. A failure of a Storm of Chaos
2. Pillaging from the other forces of Chaos
3. Being attacked when all the real warriors were out raiding
4. Internecine conflict in the form of Ulric worshipers attacking their more chaotic cousins
And even with all that, it required a once in a generation, Julius Ceasar-Esque motherfucker to get it done, at the cost of thousands of lives, in return for basically just the Southern Coast as far as real value goes.
Even then, it's certainly not calm forever.
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Turn 6: All's Well in the Eye Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 6
It is the final month of the year, the end of what has been by far the longest year of your life. The long trek through Norsca, the battles with the orcs, the great movements of men. It seems that some peace has finally come-- that order has been reestablished.
It is not, though. There can be no true peace, no end to the chaos, no end to the suffering-- until the orcs are defeated once and for all.
Until Grimgor lies dead at your feet.
He has the blood of millions directly and indirectly on his hands. Every people on the planet have gone to war against him, for good and for ill-- the Skaven, the Northmen, the civilized people, other greenskins-- all have fallen against him.
And now he turns his machinery against you. There had been a little hope, in your own mind, that the orc would seek to regather his forces by some long war to unite more of the foul greenskin under his banner. Perhaps, even, to turn against Skarsnik and try to subjugate those goblins under him-- that would have been ideal.
Instead, the Orc has called up as many tribesmen as he can-- all of the Badlands, the Southlands, the mercenaries-- they are all coming. Thousands, if not millions of them. They shall be numerous, and terrible. And led by the greatest warlord the Orcs have ever known. It is, at most, months before they come against you.
So you shall be more than terrible. You shall be a force of nature, of Order-- you shall be the Lady's right hand, a scourge, a pox, on the Orcs. And Grimgor will die, in the name of your people.
For now, though, you must unite the Borderlands.
Sir Leroche has also already paid massively.
Martial: Your army must be grown. The retinues must swell, the forces arrayed at your side be made flawless. Grimgor comes-- nothing less is acceptable.
Basilius Bashing: The deposed Basilius has gathered an army of warriors to attempt to reclaim his crown. He has sworn he will tear down the walls of the city. He accuses you of being a war-and-whore monger. He accuses you of being a foreign invader-- ignoring, of course, that he was educated in the Empire, fought in the Empire, spoke Reikspeil in his court, and all but worshiped Sigmar. He accuses you of being bewitched by Lisanor-- perhaps the closest thing to accurate among every burbling word that has come out of his mouth.
All of these you could forgive-- it is, after all, expected that lesser men should rant upon failure.
He has threatened Lisanor. By no means, with a quick death.
This, you might overlook-- for Lisanor herself has asked you to, in the name of peace.
But then...he threatened your son.
For this, he will not see the dawn.
-It is good you have finally moved against the former king. Greatly grown was his army-- 8,000 or so, you think, though with little more room to expand.
To defeat it without great losses would have been difficult, so you moved to a good stratagem, one the Grail Companions themselves made good function of.
The harsh terrain of the Hvargir forests does not well suit cavalry, being filled with thick, low lying growth. No merely mundane force of horseriders could ever hope to attack in it. And your infantry alone would not have stood well against the veteran soldiers of the Baselius-- that much, at least, you are willing to offer him.
You arrayed your infantry in the forest as though preparing once more for an expedition, a thick wooded area, and let his spies and gossips spread the news. He came, his army whole, in warlike repose, grand blocks and dull against your men, themselves in thin but sturdy lines and armed in bright livery. They were entirely unarrayed for a cavalry charge, preferring instead protection from the cold and armor more fitting for battling infantry or at most, uncharging horsemen.
Aided by the Lady, your knights pounded through the foliage, and fell upon them like death, themselves shocked and broken. The sons of Courronne accept no-one their greater as horsemasters for a reason-- any one of you, from the slightest matron to the greatest knight, can outride Ungol, Kurgan, or the Arabyans-- your horses, too, are the finest flesh in the world.
And so it was that you, leading them, simply maneuvered past or crushed the trees under hoof, slamming into soldiers entirely unprepared for the charge. They faded swiftly, the sun suddenly glinting into their eyes as your mighty horn roared death-- and dismayed, they killed only a few before breaking.
The Basileus died on the field, your sword plunged into his heart.
Reward: Removed Basileus as threat, -25 Knights
A Tight Watch: Your knights represent a potent force-- their levies form the backbones of your army, their retinues being the infantry line and more. They must be held to the highest standard possible. Edwige, bless her, knows much of this combat on foot, being most practiced from her days aboard the long ships of her father; have her see to the training of these infantrymen in battle.
-Despite having only one eye, it seems Edwige sees everything. Including where knights have fallen short in their training. When she is not busy helping to repair her own fief of Sonnetal, she travels, reprimanding those knights who need it, educating others as well. Whatever the men-at-arms bare in their varied liveries and forms, she trains them in its proper use-- having been forced into wielding those weapons herself, more than once. Spears-- Viktoria helps here-- swords, axes, hammers-- Augusta helps there-- she trains these men into a force capable of taking a charge and dishing it out, as well as generally standing against the foe.
Reward: men-at-arms trained to high standard
Diplomacy: Your wife, being ambitious, decisive, and well-known for having your ear, has, obviously, traveled in many the same circles as other ambitious, decisive individuals. This is, in fact, part of why the Tileans came to you-- it seems many of their generals were once healed in the same temple as Lisanor volunteered in, and as such they know at least a little of her...as do many other movers and shakers throughout the Old World.
Breton-Caliphate Alliance: Widely known is your name-- the bane of Mallobaude, the doom of Orcs, the Norscan Traveler. All lands west of the Mountain of Mourn know (Of) you. Including the new Caliph of Araby, Yusuf Ibn Sabbur, bane of the Wandering Horde, Enemy of Chaos, Friend of Bretons. He wishes to expand into the Badlands, to bring the humans there under his umbrella-- but must fight the orcs.
Coincidentally, you will also have to fight the orcs. Perhaps the two of you can...work something out?
-Between your peoples, there is a river of blood. The Arabyans invaded Estalia, conquered near the whole peninsula-- brought that fine country to heel. They marched as far north as Sibourne, plundering as they did-- only the King himself, brave Louis the Righteous, did battle them, force them to stop and come to the aid of invaded Estalia. If he had failed, there would be no more the love of Lady.
Your crusaders went south. They lost the way. They slaughtered women and children, dishonored themselves in battle. Aided the Empire in its crimes. Turned against the laws of both man and faith in the name of simple lucre, like basest trader.
But Grimgor...Grimgor is larger than either of you.
Suffice to say, it is not a popular move to call upon the Arabyans for aid. No doubt the same is true for the Caliph-- a risk for one so newly empowered in state.
But essential. Elsewise all die.
These Arabyans are odd monotheists, but in their darkest, most terrible hour, they could not match the savagery of these orcs.
The alliance itself is simple enough. He desires command of the Badlands, and so an oath that you shall not claim it-- you've no thirst for it either way, so it was an easy enough deal to make.
In return, the two of you have formulated two points for the plan:
1. Coordinating raids-- you on your chevauchee do deeply plunder the lands of the orcs of what meager wealth does exist, and he on his razzia does much the same, growing in scale as you weaken the ages old foe. However, this has occasionally led to inefficiency, the two of striking already picked clean areas-- or else he expands north towards the forest of Bralagor and the Heliopolis. By sending him maps of your route and he yours, you can both do much more damage to the orcs-- as well as concentrate your efforts.
2. Mutual Aid-- If the orcs invade your lands, very swiftly an army of Arabyan soldiers will strike at him from the south, and if Grimgor should invade the lands of Araby, you will come from the north. Either Grimgor must split his force in twain to face both of you, or else present a weakened face to one or the other.
Further, this treaty represents the first formal cooperation between the Arabyans and Bretonnia in a very long time. Which may, itself, in time prove to be the best reward; it's a dangerous world, after all-- everybody needs friends.
Reward: Defense Treaty with Araby, coordinate raiding efforts
Securing the Holdouts: Cabanal and Mentreda are both native cities of the Badlands. Unfortunately, their current rulers have little love of you and of Bretonnians now, for the actions of your brother do sully all good names.
Fortunately, there is a legal challenge for the title of Arconte: Trial by Combat. You can beat them, take control, legally and above board-- and bind them to you, here and now. It's inelegant, and far from your preferred position, but it must be done.
-The lord of Cabanal was a vicious old warrior, a hoplite-- but past his glory days long ago; and youth and vigor are far the superior of age and cunning. You defeated him honestly, and he has gone to Estalia to battle the forces of Chaos there, seeking glory in death.
Mentreda was more...interesting.
A pirate was king there, lord of a mighty brown water fleet. He almost gutted you half-a-dozen times, if not more, though the Lady's grace did you guard you of harm. Eventually you cut the bastard's head off his shoulders, and that seems to have been the end of that.
Said navy has disappeared. Coincidentally, a small riverine flotilla has arrived in Estalia to fight against Chaos. Utterly unrelated, surely.
Stewardship: The cities must be repaired, and prepared, for Orcish aggression. While they must recover from the body blow you handed them, when their vengeance comes it will be...terrible.
Hon-Hon-Hound: This new armor Asger has invented is fantastic-- but he needs to teach others how; to build forges; and to ready the logistical trail necessary for large-scale production. Though the starting cost will be huge, it is worth it: imagine a whole charge of Bretonnian knights, clad in plate, bullets bouncing from both steel and mystic love. You could shred a dwarf gunline like cheap parchment, never mind crashing through orcish nonsense-- it would be a slaughtering ground of green bodies and broken stone, a feast for crows never before seen at the hands of Breton men.
And to think, all of this started because you couldn't stop getting stabbed.
-Though Breton chain can be crafted finer, and at least as, if not more protective than any plate-- capable of turning aside arrow and sword alike, and more the flexible as well. It's expensive in man hours and resources though-- as well as money, though you don't give a damn for that.
This new sort of armor, this Breton plate and hound helm, is still expensive in resources-- but compared to the fine metal threading required for the heaviest chain? It is nothing, as far as time goes. Which means more armor. Which means more knights. Which means more Chivalry.
The best damn feedback loop you've ever heard of starts here.
First, though, you have to actually train numbers of blacksmiths in how to build the stuff.
You also probably shouldn't expect it to replace all other sort of armor-- there are plenty of cases where a good set of chain is more than sufficient.
Heldegrad Repairs: So it turns out the letters you received before you left for Norsca were from Heldegrad, a small city to your west. It seems a Tong Warlord had taken overlordship of the town, old and withered enough to be afraid of a true warrior, a true challenge-- but not so old and withered that the town could defeat him without terrible losses.
However, Sir Leroche could. The damage, though, was still severe-- better, in the long run, then feeding their children to the thing, but bad. The city has pledged itself to you, taken Sir Leroche as its knight. It requires...rebuilding.
-The people of Heldegrad are distantly related to the people of Kislev, speaking a similar language.
This is important mostly because, beyond an alphabet and said language, they are also almost as stubborn about excepting aid. So this might take a while to see done. Less time and with more uniform results than if you didn't have your architect, though.
Piety: Emma no longer sees on this lowly temporal plane-- rather, her sight, now is defined by the winds of magic and the blessing of the Lady.
Shallya Protects the Sick: Lisanor and the Physician's Guild have prepared a tag-team response to help heal the sick in your lands. While normally the two bicker, here and now they see burned out warehouses and homes and have decided to fight no longer.
In this case, Lisanor would take the lead.
-Small houses of healing, staffed by members of the Physicians Guild and members of the cult of Shallya-- more commonly, the latter-- have sprouted up throughout your city, fed by the gold and charming words of your wife, whose tongue skips gold to become aether. There is actually something somewhat funny about this-- inspired by stories of the White-Dove Prince, more men are joining the cult. It is still mostly women, but now you can expect to see at least one man in these small stations, instead of only just women.
In any case, more of your people are living healthier, happier lives.
Reward: +1 Opinion, +1 Stability, +50 Gold
Breton Artifacts: When the Empire expanded, it also expanded into Bretonnia-- and much of your people's culture and artifacts were brought here, their symbols of the gods. Plenty of these artifacts made their way into the former Lichtenstein, then abandoned once the Empire retreated into the Imperial Core. While most artifacts in the core have been recovered, few Bretonnians have maintained as long lasting a grip on so much of the Borderlands.
Your father would be grave happy if you were to recover some of these artifacts. As would Emma, which is also probably a good idea.
Needed:40 Rolled:6
-You didn't find shit.
Except for a pit filled with, of all things, mutated orcs.
Which then proceeded to bleed all over you.
Putain--
Personal: Grimgor is coming. This you know, undoubtedly and without question. You, not the Generic You but You, Bohort de Courronne, son of Louen Leoncouer and foe of evil, must be ready for what is to come.
Publishing It: You made plenty of notes on how to carry out your Chevauchee-- dozens of pieces of parchment, journals, and inkwells were sacrificed, plotting out logistical trains, tropp numbers, maneuvers, and so on. The Imperial War College, Myrmidian Academy in Carcassonne, and even a collector from Nippon-- are all interested in purchasing a collated edition. It should also be considered that looking back over said notes may sharpen your grasp on war even more, as you compare what happened in the field-- where mistakes were made-- with the purest theory and sharpen that theory.
- It's not a great book by any stretch-- you're a warrior, not a writer-- but it is readable and well explains your thinking and strategy as you plotted out your great raids against the orcs. You might be concerned, but you're reasonably certain none of the greenskins can read.
In any case, the Myrmidian colleges have agreed to give you a cut of every sale.
(+10 Gold)
Lead More Raids: Slaughter more orcs. Drive deep into the Badlands, save as many as you can, burn and liberate. Much loot, much glory, and much renown awaits you and your body of handpicked men there! You have already stung his ugly face-- it's not as if he can become much more wrathful. Hell to him-- you're going to fight him, weaken him, more, here and now.
Needed: 10 Rolled: 10
-The orcs are getting better. They actually had patrols near the river to stop you from crossing, positioned such that charging from horseback would be impossible, a thin break in the rock-wall the only entrance there.
Unfortunately, they did not consider that your bowmen would flank them from atop the rocks and rain death until they resembled hedgehogs more than anything. To be fair, they had a pretty god reason for that-- it was only by luck you had bowmen peti enough to have enough space to get enough power to pierce their armor. You maybe really probably should look into Arbalests at some point.
But, you did make it in, and you did slaughter yet more orcs as well as rescuing more slaves. You also destroyed a monument to Gork and Mork that came alive by the foul Waaagh! energies harnessed within.
Suffice to say, it was pretty kickass.
(+100 Gold from loot, +400 Prestige)
It is the final month of the year, the end of what has been by far the longest year of your life. The long trek through Norsca, the battles with the orcs, the great movements of men. It seems that some peace has finally come-- that order has been reestablished.
It is not, though. There can be no true peace, no end to the chaos, no end to the suffering-- until the orcs are defeated once and for all.
Until Grimgor lies dead at your feet.
He has the blood of millions directly and indirectly on his hands. Every people on the planet have gone to war against him, for good and for ill-- the Skaven, the Northmen, the civilized people, other greenskins-- all have fallen against him.
And now he turns his machinery against you. There had been a little hope, in your own mind, that the orc would seek to regather his forces by some long war to unite more of the foul greenskin under his banner. Perhaps, even, to turn against Skarsnik and try to subjugate those goblins under him-- that would have been ideal.
Instead, the Orc has called up as many tribesmen as he can-- all of the Badlands, the Southlands, the mercenaries-- they are all coming. Thousands, if not millions of them. They shall be numerous, and terrible. And led by the greatest warlord the Orcs have ever known. It is, at most, months before they come against you.
So you shall be more than terrible. You shall be a force of nature, of Order-- you shall be the Lady's right hand, a scourge, a pox, on the Orcs. And Grimgor will die, in the name of your people.
For now, though, you must unite the Borderlands.
Sir Leroche has also already paid massively.
Martial: Your army must be grown. The retinues must swell, the forces arrayed at your side be made flawless. Grimgor comes-- nothing less is acceptable.
Basilius Bashing: The deposed Basilius has gathered an army of warriors to attempt to reclaim his crown. He has sworn he will tear down the walls of the city. He accuses you of being a war-and-whore monger. He accuses you of being a foreign invader-- ignoring, of course, that he was educated in the Empire, fought in the Empire, spoke Reikspeil in his court, and all but worshiped Sigmar. He accuses you of being bewitched by Lisanor-- perhaps the closest thing to accurate among every burbling word that has come out of his mouth.
All of these you could forgive-- it is, after all, expected that lesser men should rant upon failure.
He has threatened Lisanor. By no means, with a quick death.
This, you might overlook-- for Lisanor herself has asked you to, in the name of peace.
But then...he threatened your son.
For this, he will not see the dawn.
-It is good you have finally moved against the former king. Greatly grown was his army-- 8,000 or so, you think, though with little more room to expand.
To defeat it without great losses would have been difficult, so you moved to a good stratagem, one the Grail Companions themselves made good function of.
The harsh terrain of the Hvargir forests does not well suit cavalry, being filled with thick, low lying growth. No merely mundane force of horseriders could ever hope to attack in it. And your infantry alone would not have stood well against the veteran soldiers of the Baselius-- that much, at least, you are willing to offer him.
You arrayed your infantry in the forest as though preparing once more for an expedition, a thick wooded area, and let his spies and gossips spread the news. He came, his army whole, in warlike repose, grand blocks and dull against your men, themselves in thin but sturdy lines and armed in bright livery. They were entirely unarrayed for a cavalry charge, preferring instead protection from the cold and armor more fitting for battling infantry or at most, uncharging horsemen.
Aided by the Lady, your knights pounded through the foliage, and fell upon them like death, themselves shocked and broken. The sons of Courronne accept no-one their greater as horsemasters for a reason-- any one of you, from the slightest matron to the greatest knight, can outride Ungol, Kurgan, or the Arabyans-- your horses, too, are the finest flesh in the world.
And so it was that you, leading them, simply maneuvered past or crushed the trees under hoof, slamming into soldiers entirely unprepared for the charge. They faded swiftly, the sun suddenly glinting into their eyes as your mighty horn roared death-- and dismayed, they killed only a few before breaking.
The Basileus died on the field, your sword plunged into his heart.
Reward: Removed Basileus as threat, -25 Knights
A Tight Watch: Your knights represent a potent force-- their levies form the backbones of your army, their retinues being the infantry line and more. They must be held to the highest standard possible. Edwige, bless her, knows much of this combat on foot, being most practiced from her days aboard the long ships of her father; have her see to the training of these infantrymen in battle.
-Despite having only one eye, it seems Edwige sees everything. Including where knights have fallen short in their training. When she is not busy helping to repair her own fief of Sonnetal, she travels, reprimanding those knights who need it, educating others as well. Whatever the men-at-arms bare in their varied liveries and forms, she trains them in its proper use-- having been forced into wielding those weapons herself, more than once. Spears-- Viktoria helps here-- swords, axes, hammers-- Augusta helps there-- she trains these men into a force capable of taking a charge and dishing it out, as well as generally standing against the foe.
Reward: men-at-arms trained to high standard
Diplomacy: Your wife, being ambitious, decisive, and well-known for having your ear, has, obviously, traveled in many the same circles as other ambitious, decisive individuals. This is, in fact, part of why the Tileans came to you-- it seems many of their generals were once healed in the same temple as Lisanor volunteered in, and as such they know at least a little of her...as do many other movers and shakers throughout the Old World.
Breton-Caliphate Alliance: Widely known is your name-- the bane of Mallobaude, the doom of Orcs, the Norscan Traveler. All lands west of the Mountain of Mourn know (Of) you. Including the new Caliph of Araby, Yusuf Ibn Sabbur, bane of the Wandering Horde, Enemy of Chaos, Friend of Bretons. He wishes to expand into the Badlands, to bring the humans there under his umbrella-- but must fight the orcs.
Coincidentally, you will also have to fight the orcs. Perhaps the two of you can...work something out?
-Between your peoples, there is a river of blood. The Arabyans invaded Estalia, conquered near the whole peninsula-- brought that fine country to heel. They marched as far north as Sibourne, plundering as they did-- only the King himself, brave Louis the Righteous, did battle them, force them to stop and come to the aid of invaded Estalia. If he had failed, there would be no more the love of Lady.
Your crusaders went south. They lost the way. They slaughtered women and children, dishonored themselves in battle. Aided the Empire in its crimes. Turned against the laws of both man and faith in the name of simple lucre, like basest trader.
But Grimgor...Grimgor is larger than either of you.
Suffice to say, it is not a popular move to call upon the Arabyans for aid. No doubt the same is true for the Caliph-- a risk for one so newly empowered in state.
But essential. Elsewise all die.
These Arabyans are odd monotheists, but in their darkest, most terrible hour, they could not match the savagery of these orcs.
The alliance itself is simple enough. He desires command of the Badlands, and so an oath that you shall not claim it-- you've no thirst for it either way, so it was an easy enough deal to make.
In return, the two of you have formulated two points for the plan:
1. Coordinating raids-- you on your chevauchee do deeply plunder the lands of the orcs of what meager wealth does exist, and he on his razzia does much the same, growing in scale as you weaken the ages old foe. However, this has occasionally led to inefficiency, the two of striking already picked clean areas-- or else he expands north towards the forest of Bralagor and the Heliopolis. By sending him maps of your route and he yours, you can both do much more damage to the orcs-- as well as concentrate your efforts.
2. Mutual Aid-- If the orcs invade your lands, very swiftly an army of Arabyan soldiers will strike at him from the south, and if Grimgor should invade the lands of Araby, you will come from the north. Either Grimgor must split his force in twain to face both of you, or else present a weakened face to one or the other.
Further, this treaty represents the first formal cooperation between the Arabyans and Bretonnia in a very long time. Which may, itself, in time prove to be the best reward; it's a dangerous world, after all-- everybody needs friends.
Reward: Defense Treaty with Araby, coordinate raiding efforts
Securing the Holdouts: Cabanal and Mentreda are both native cities of the Badlands. Unfortunately, their current rulers have little love of you and of Bretonnians now, for the actions of your brother do sully all good names.
Fortunately, there is a legal challenge for the title of Arconte: Trial by Combat. You can beat them, take control, legally and above board-- and bind them to you, here and now. It's inelegant, and far from your preferred position, but it must be done.
-The lord of Cabanal was a vicious old warrior, a hoplite-- but past his glory days long ago; and youth and vigor are far the superior of age and cunning. You defeated him honestly, and he has gone to Estalia to battle the forces of Chaos there, seeking glory in death.
Mentreda was more...interesting.
A pirate was king there, lord of a mighty brown water fleet. He almost gutted you half-a-dozen times, if not more, though the Lady's grace did you guard you of harm. Eventually you cut the bastard's head off his shoulders, and that seems to have been the end of that.
Said navy has disappeared. Coincidentally, a small riverine flotilla has arrived in Estalia to fight against Chaos. Utterly unrelated, surely.
Stewardship: The cities must be repaired, and prepared, for Orcish aggression. While they must recover from the body blow you handed them, when their vengeance comes it will be...terrible.
Hon-Hon-Hound: This new armor Asger has invented is fantastic-- but he needs to teach others how; to build forges; and to ready the logistical trail necessary for large-scale production. Though the starting cost will be huge, it is worth it: imagine a whole charge of Bretonnian knights, clad in plate, bullets bouncing from both steel and mystic love. You could shred a dwarf gunline like cheap parchment, never mind crashing through orcish nonsense-- it would be a slaughtering ground of green bodies and broken stone, a feast for crows never before seen at the hands of Breton men.
And to think, all of this started because you couldn't stop getting stabbed.
-Though Breton chain can be crafted finer, and at least as, if not more protective than any plate-- capable of turning aside arrow and sword alike, and more the flexible as well. It's expensive in man hours and resources though-- as well as money, though you don't give a damn for that.
This new sort of armor, this Breton plate and hound helm, is still expensive in resources-- but compared to the fine metal threading required for the heaviest chain? It is nothing, as far as time goes. Which means more armor. Which means more knights. Which means more Chivalry.
The best damn feedback loop you've ever heard of starts here.
First, though, you have to actually train numbers of blacksmiths in how to build the stuff.
You also probably shouldn't expect it to replace all other sort of armor-- there are plenty of cases where a good set of chain is more than sufficient.
Heldegrad Repairs: So it turns out the letters you received before you left for Norsca were from Heldegrad, a small city to your west. It seems a Tong Warlord had taken overlordship of the town, old and withered enough to be afraid of a true warrior, a true challenge-- but not so old and withered that the town could defeat him without terrible losses.
However, Sir Leroche could. The damage, though, was still severe-- better, in the long run, then feeding their children to the thing, but bad. The city has pledged itself to you, taken Sir Leroche as its knight. It requires...rebuilding.
-The people of Heldegrad are distantly related to the people of Kislev, speaking a similar language.
This is important mostly because, beyond an alphabet and said language, they are also almost as stubborn about excepting aid. So this might take a while to see done. Less time and with more uniform results than if you didn't have your architect, though.
Piety: Emma no longer sees on this lowly temporal plane-- rather, her sight, now is defined by the winds of magic and the blessing of the Lady.
Shallya Protects the Sick: Lisanor and the Physician's Guild have prepared a tag-team response to help heal the sick in your lands. While normally the two bicker, here and now they see burned out warehouses and homes and have decided to fight no longer.
In this case, Lisanor would take the lead.
-Small houses of healing, staffed by members of the Physicians Guild and members of the cult of Shallya-- more commonly, the latter-- have sprouted up throughout your city, fed by the gold and charming words of your wife, whose tongue skips gold to become aether. There is actually something somewhat funny about this-- inspired by stories of the White-Dove Prince, more men are joining the cult. It is still mostly women, but now you can expect to see at least one man in these small stations, instead of only just women.
In any case, more of your people are living healthier, happier lives.
Reward: +1 Opinion, +1 Stability, +50 Gold
Breton Artifacts: When the Empire expanded, it also expanded into Bretonnia-- and much of your people's culture and artifacts were brought here, their symbols of the gods. Plenty of these artifacts made their way into the former Lichtenstein, then abandoned once the Empire retreated into the Imperial Core. While most artifacts in the core have been recovered, few Bretonnians have maintained as long lasting a grip on so much of the Borderlands.
Your father would be grave happy if you were to recover some of these artifacts. As would Emma, which is also probably a good idea.
Needed:40 Rolled:6
-You didn't find shit.
Except for a pit filled with, of all things, mutated orcs.
Which then proceeded to bleed all over you.
Putain--
Personal: Grimgor is coming. This you know, undoubtedly and without question. You, not the Generic You but You, Bohort de Courronne, son of Louen Leoncouer and foe of evil, must be ready for what is to come.
Publishing It: You made plenty of notes on how to carry out your Chevauchee-- dozens of pieces of parchment, journals, and inkwells were sacrificed, plotting out logistical trains, tropp numbers, maneuvers, and so on. The Imperial War College, Myrmidian Academy in Carcassonne, and even a collector from Nippon-- are all interested in purchasing a collated edition. It should also be considered that looking back over said notes may sharpen your grasp on war even more, as you compare what happened in the field-- where mistakes were made-- with the purest theory and sharpen that theory.
- It's not a great book by any stretch-- you're a warrior, not a writer-- but it is readable and well explains your thinking and strategy as you plotted out your great raids against the orcs. You might be concerned, but you're reasonably certain none of the greenskins can read.
In any case, the Myrmidian colleges have agreed to give you a cut of every sale.
(+10 Gold)
Lead More Raids: Slaughter more orcs. Drive deep into the Badlands, save as many as you can, burn and liberate. Much loot, much glory, and much renown awaits you and your body of handpicked men there! You have already stung his ugly face-- it's not as if he can become much more wrathful. Hell to him-- you're going to fight him, weaken him, more, here and now.
Needed: 10 Rolled: 10
-The orcs are getting better. They actually had patrols near the river to stop you from crossing, positioned such that charging from horseback would be impossible, a thin break in the rock-wall the only entrance there.
Unfortunately, they did not consider that your bowmen would flank them from atop the rocks and rain death until they resembled hedgehogs more than anything. To be fair, they had a pretty god reason for that-- it was only by luck you had bowmen peti enough to have enough space to get enough power to pierce their armor. You maybe really probably should look into Arbalests at some point.
But, you did make it in, and you did slaughter yet more orcs as well as rescuing more slaves. You also destroyed a monument to Gork and Mork that came alive by the foul Waaagh! energies harnessed within.
Suffice to say, it was pretty kickass.
(+100 Gold from loot, +400 Prestige)
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
bit less kick ass then one would hope for but at least it mostly went well.
so where can i find an up to date status screen? and or char sheet?
so where can i find an up to date status screen? and or char sheet?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Front page under OP is now up to date up to turn 5 except for a Magali character sheet.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
thanks.
we really need to find some way to up our income because we are losing a lot of money.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Magali Plantagenet
Born: 2491
Physical description: Tall and strong, with short, black hair and a distinctly olive complexion-- think Salty Dornish--though with wholly Breton eyes, born of Sir Sagremor's line-- the distinctive golden eyes of the Sudòmez (Southmen, think Occitan with the Norman disposition towards expansion). Unscarred, and not for lack of experience but for surfeit of skill.
In armor:
The Duchess of Marsiarno and your vassal, she is a warrior and strategist par excellence, as well as excellent chivalrous.
Traits:
Honorable: Decent in conduct, the people of Marsianoro are known to take to honor ten times as much as Bretons of the main-- and she is ten times more honorable than that.
Strategist: A leader and thinker, innovating the art of war as you, the Bretons understand it-- particularly in less armored conditions.
Duelist: A favored one of her strategies is to slaughter the leader of the opposing force by herself, thereby ruing their cohesion.
Mother: She has a daughter.
Sudòmez: They speak an odd dialect, worship the Lady strangely, enjoy conquest entirely too much and have spread from Bretonnia proper to much of the Southlands near Araby. The Sudòmez are considered a subculture for a reason.
Stats:
???
Unknown.
Born: 2491
Physical description: Tall and strong, with short, black hair and a distinctly olive complexion-- think Salty Dornish--though with wholly Breton eyes, born of Sir Sagremor's line-- the distinctive golden eyes of the Sudòmez (Southmen, think Occitan with the Norman disposition towards expansion). Unscarred, and not for lack of experience but for surfeit of skill.
In armor:
The Duchess of Marsiarno and your vassal, she is a warrior and strategist par excellence, as well as excellent chivalrous.
Traits:
Honorable: Decent in conduct, the people of Marsianoro are known to take to honor ten times as much as Bretons of the main-- and she is ten times more honorable than that.
Strategist: A leader and thinker, innovating the art of war as you, the Bretons understand it-- particularly in less armored conditions.
Duelist: A favored one of her strategies is to slaughter the leader of the opposing force by herself, thereby ruing their cohesion.
Mother: She has a daughter.
Sudòmez: They speak an odd dialect, worship the Lady strangely, enjoy conquest entirely too much and have spread from Bretonnia proper to much of the Southlands near Araby. The Sudòmez are considered a subculture for a reason.
Stats:
???
Unknown.
Old World News Turn 6
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Old World News Turn 6
Bretonnia
The Knights March Off to War: March they, the lords of Bordeleaux, to the boughs and the dark places of the Forest of Chalons. March they, the warriors called, under Lady's banner, to bring that place to peace. To force it into light. There is a much different energy over that force, which refuses to bend or to break. As though there is something there, something strange and terrible-- or sacred and profound.
In any case, they have already slaughtered manifold number of Beast and undead alike.
The End of the War: Your sister is stable. Not healed, but there is nothing left to aid her but time-- and her condition is much improved from the sorry state it was in after the Marienburgers finished their work.
And so Louen Leoncouer, the greatest knight and king your land has seen in centuries, fell on the Marienburgers like the hippogryphs he rides. Never mind the Lord Cassyon or Folcard or Roland-- he alone might have brought the Marienburgers to heel.
It was, despite all things, actually a tense battle. They fought well, the Marienburgers, as well as might be expected when a band of mercenaries against the most dangerous force the Old World has yet produced.
But they still lost. Pushed back over the River Reik into solely Marienburg the wastelands over the river. Trundling trebuchet, mighty Damsel and fearsome Grail Knight alike-- in numbers unseen since the days of the Crusade-- did make their way into the wastes, thousands strong, under the command of some of the greatest knights you have ever known (and Roland).
By the end of the month, the Emperor was hosting peace talks as Marienburg fortress after fortress fell, and an assault was made ready on the city itself. Before it could come to that, though, a peace was made, a quick, decisive one.
All Marienburg lands west of the Reik now belong to Bretonnia. And all it took was the death of thousands. And the maiming of your sister.
To hell with Roland. To hell with his ambitions.
On the Backfoot: A notable number of knights and soldiers of Bretonnia have been aiding the resistance forces on Albion against Imperial aggression and colonization-- not aided by the king, but neither condemned. They have proven one of the larger pains for the Imperial forces therein, turning what should have been an easy battle to a stalemate-- perhaps even a slow, grinding defeat.
However, with the transition of Norscan efforts from a manpower intensive, grand battle situation to a more long term occupation utilizing far more Norscan auxiliaries from the Ulricans, thousands of Northern Imperials have made the journey to Albion seeking their own land there.
While a truce has been established between the Human forces on the Island, in order that they can both focus on removing the Dark Elves and Orcs, this is not a long-term position favorable to your kin. Particularly when more will die in the fight.
The Empire
Blood-Stained Sands: Luitpold and his new bride have finally begun their assault on the layer of Grashnak, well armed and well provisioned. They have begun by attempting to take the Entrance, a filth littered hole leading into the center of the layer. While not the largest Goblin hole, it is far from the smallest-- it will require caution.
Northern Up Risings: And now the other shoe falls. The Norscans are, whatever other lower qualities they have, not a bunch well suited to being broken. Supply trains are disappearing, soldiers are never making it to their posts, and collaborators are disappearing in the woods. While it's not much compared to the earlier stages of the war, it will almost certainly prove to be a constant drain to Middenland-- exactly the sort of situation the Grafin must not have.
Suffice to say, all is not well.
Imperial Maneuvering: Despite their current alliance to deal with the Norscan situation, the Von Raukovs of Ostland have longly plotted to escape the shadows of Middenland.
Because of the current power of Middenland, Reikland does seek to acquire more, dependable, aid.
The entire Empire aside from the merchants of Averland desire to have that Gordian Knot cut.
And so a deal was struck. Members of the House of Franz and Von Raukov, also distantly related to the Averland nobility, were found-- the Emperor's nephew Joseph by his sister and her husband, a member of the house of Alpstraum; and Ravenna von Raukov, his third daughter. They were married by the grand theogenist's hands, in full view of man and gods.
And then they marched to Averland at the head of an army 30,000 strong, and were crowned as Count and Countess von Alpstraum, lord and lady of Averland.
What is wrong with the Empire?
Sylvania Revolts: A rebellion has broken out in the land of Sylvania-- not one of Vampires, but of man. Led by Constantin, a low-born rebel, he has decreed Independence from Stirland and taken the title of Hospodar, the traditional ruler therein-- though his messengers have assured the Emperor he desires to remain within "Sigmar's blest Empire, great uniter of man," all of the usual Imperial pompery.
As nobody likes the lords of Stirland, the Empire is already manpower-hungry, and this is not an uprising of vampires, the Count Haupt-Anderssen has been forced to fight this battle alone-- perhaps easier said than done.
Estalia
A King Falls: The king of Bibali is dead, rather like you predicted. Your brother killed him with his bare hands at the height of battle, driving his lance through the Estalian plate. So passes the King of Portigelle and Bibali-- already his lands drift into anarchy.
Consolidation: Maullobaude has slowed his pace down, inching ever onward towards his next conquered village, falling on the defenders like a plague. Sans the king to rally and unify them, the nobles are breaking down.
Skaven Killer: Your brother is not that great at sharing, apparently: Every time he has stumbled on the few Skaven burrows in the country-- recently made in the anarchy of his arrival, usually the Skaven can have no foothold on either southern peninsula- he has entered with his vampiric entourage and slain every last one of the filthy rats.
Evil hates competition, I suppose.
Tilea
Quiet. Too Quiet: Nothing is happening, and that's never a great sign on the most chaotic area in the Old World. Something stupid is certainly brewing.
Kislev
Pushing Onward: Never again will the forces of Chaos be fed by the foundries of the Chaos Dwarfs. The Tzarina's army moves towards that empire, grinding down the enemy power day in and day out, mighty Kislevite cannons pounding on the walls of the dark city.
An Imperial Marriage: Tzarina Katarin Bokha has, in the desire to gain an heir and continue her work in the name of Kislev, married-- of all people, a member of the minor Imperial House Von Hapsburg.
Gunnery School: Maurits van Zwart, a minor nobleman and mercenary in Marienburg, has fled to Kislev and opened a gunnery school in the Tzarina's service, which shall hopefully much improve their skill at war.
Wood Elves
Beastmen Slaughtered: Those few Wood Elves who speak with outsiders say that the Beastmen, though vicious this year and much trained in Norscan battles, have been roundly repelled from the forests and glades.
Skirmishing With the Dwarfs: Scouts report Wood Elf and Dwarf conflict as the Dwarfs of the Gray Mountains attempted to intrude upon Athel Loren-- or a smaller forest, but still near and dear to the Asrai, the report isn't quite clear-- for lumber and were, bloodily and costily, repelled.
Reclaimed Treasure: The Wood Elves reclaimed a number of magical weapons from the beastmen they fought, whether originally elfen and stolen by those beasts or beastman and simply turned to nobler purpose.
Dwarfs
Skaven Winning: For long years has the force of Dwarfs at Karak Eightpeaks battled with Skaven and Goblin alike, seeking to reclaim that ancient hold from their old enemies, the Goblins and the Ratmen.
Well, the good news is there are no more goblins in Karak Eightpeaks. The bad news is, it's because a nearly limitless number of Skaven boiled up from the depths, led by their most fearsome warrior: Queek Headtaker, who ate Skarsnik still kicking. It seems the Ratmen are feeling...pressured, and so lashing out as rats do. They fed that thing a heady brew of darkest magic and foul warpstone, and now it strides the lands a behemoth-- it will die soon, this Queek, but until it does, it might be, short of the Green Knight, the deadliest thing on the planet.
(You'd go fight it, but the Orcs have your full attention)
The dwarfs are settling in for a long, unhappy siege.
Reinforcements Coming: An army of Knights Errant led by Einhard, joined by a force from the Empire led by Kurt Helborg, and even of High Elves led by Tyrion, is making its way to aid the dwarfs against their ancestral enemy.
The Way is Shut: The Skaven, wielding blackest magic, have lashed shut the paths between the Dwarf realms and those of men, causing terrible avalanches and so on which do bind shut the mountain passes. Though the magic can be undone, it will take time-- time the dwarfs do not have.
High Elves
Reclaiming Treasure: The Phoenix King himself, proud Finubar, led a small fleet in a raid against the Druchii, attacking the city of Karond Kar as its master was out on campaign against the Northmen. Manifold slaves were freed, the docks were burnt to the ground after being looted of everything of worth, and nobles estates too had their all taken-- many magical artifacts lost since the Sundering were reclaimed that day in fire and blood-- though they seem oddly drawn to a bizarre, dragon shaped bauble, found in the home of some unknown witch.
Tyrion and Teclis March: Though the Elves and Dwarfs do detest each other, they both detest the Skaven at least a bit more-- and so that noblest elf prince and prickliest elf sorcerer do ride to the aid of the Dawi against the Ratmen.
Reprisal: In an effort to punish the Asur for their victory, the Druchii have begun raiding even more fervently, forcing the king to turn more ships to protecting the sea-lanes.
--
I am a machine
Bretonnia
The Knights March Off to War: March they, the lords of Bordeleaux, to the boughs and the dark places of the Forest of Chalons. March they, the warriors called, under Lady's banner, to bring that place to peace. To force it into light. There is a much different energy over that force, which refuses to bend or to break. As though there is something there, something strange and terrible-- or sacred and profound.
In any case, they have already slaughtered manifold number of Beast and undead alike.
The End of the War: Your sister is stable. Not healed, but there is nothing left to aid her but time-- and her condition is much improved from the sorry state it was in after the Marienburgers finished their work.
And so Louen Leoncouer, the greatest knight and king your land has seen in centuries, fell on the Marienburgers like the hippogryphs he rides. Never mind the Lord Cassyon or Folcard or Roland-- he alone might have brought the Marienburgers to heel.
It was, despite all things, actually a tense battle. They fought well, the Marienburgers, as well as might be expected when a band of mercenaries against the most dangerous force the Old World has yet produced.
But they still lost. Pushed back over the River Reik into solely Marienburg the wastelands over the river. Trundling trebuchet, mighty Damsel and fearsome Grail Knight alike-- in numbers unseen since the days of the Crusade-- did make their way into the wastes, thousands strong, under the command of some of the greatest knights you have ever known (and Roland).
By the end of the month, the Emperor was hosting peace talks as Marienburg fortress after fortress fell, and an assault was made ready on the city itself. Before it could come to that, though, a peace was made, a quick, decisive one.
All Marienburg lands west of the Reik now belong to Bretonnia. And all it took was the death of thousands. And the maiming of your sister.
To hell with Roland. To hell with his ambitions.
On the Backfoot: A notable number of knights and soldiers of Bretonnia have been aiding the resistance forces on Albion against Imperial aggression and colonization-- not aided by the king, but neither condemned. They have proven one of the larger pains for the Imperial forces therein, turning what should have been an easy battle to a stalemate-- perhaps even a slow, grinding defeat.
However, with the transition of Norscan efforts from a manpower intensive, grand battle situation to a more long term occupation utilizing far more Norscan auxiliaries from the Ulricans, thousands of Northern Imperials have made the journey to Albion seeking their own land there.
While a truce has been established between the Human forces on the Island, in order that they can both focus on removing the Dark Elves and Orcs, this is not a long-term position favorable to your kin. Particularly when more will die in the fight.
The Empire
Blood-Stained Sands: Luitpold and his new bride have finally begun their assault on the layer of Grashnak, well armed and well provisioned. They have begun by attempting to take the Entrance, a filth littered hole leading into the center of the layer. While not the largest Goblin hole, it is far from the smallest-- it will require caution.
Northern Up Risings: And now the other shoe falls. The Norscans are, whatever other lower qualities they have, not a bunch well suited to being broken. Supply trains are disappearing, soldiers are never making it to their posts, and collaborators are disappearing in the woods. While it's not much compared to the earlier stages of the war, it will almost certainly prove to be a constant drain to Middenland-- exactly the sort of situation the Grafin must not have.
Suffice to say, all is not well.
Imperial Maneuvering: Despite their current alliance to deal with the Norscan situation, the Von Raukovs of Ostland have longly plotted to escape the shadows of Middenland.
Because of the current power of Middenland, Reikland does seek to acquire more, dependable, aid.
The entire Empire aside from the merchants of Averland desire to have that Gordian Knot cut.
And so a deal was struck. Members of the House of Franz and Von Raukov, also distantly related to the Averland nobility, were found-- the Emperor's nephew Joseph by his sister and her husband, a member of the house of Alpstraum; and Ravenna von Raukov, his third daughter. They were married by the grand theogenist's hands, in full view of man and gods.
And then they marched to Averland at the head of an army 30,000 strong, and were crowned as Count and Countess von Alpstraum, lord and lady of Averland.
What is wrong with the Empire?
Sylvania Revolts: A rebellion has broken out in the land of Sylvania-- not one of Vampires, but of man. Led by Constantin, a low-born rebel, he has decreed Independence from Stirland and taken the title of Hospodar, the traditional ruler therein-- though his messengers have assured the Emperor he desires to remain within "Sigmar's blest Empire, great uniter of man," all of the usual Imperial pompery.
As nobody likes the lords of Stirland, the Empire is already manpower-hungry, and this is not an uprising of vampires, the Count Haupt-Anderssen has been forced to fight this battle alone-- perhaps easier said than done.
Estalia
A King Falls: The king of Bibali is dead, rather like you predicted. Your brother killed him with his bare hands at the height of battle, driving his lance through the Estalian plate. So passes the King of Portigelle and Bibali-- already his lands drift into anarchy.
Consolidation: Maullobaude has slowed his pace down, inching ever onward towards his next conquered village, falling on the defenders like a plague. Sans the king to rally and unify them, the nobles are breaking down.
Skaven Killer: Your brother is not that great at sharing, apparently: Every time he has stumbled on the few Skaven burrows in the country-- recently made in the anarchy of his arrival, usually the Skaven can have no foothold on either southern peninsula- he has entered with his vampiric entourage and slain every last one of the filthy rats.
Evil hates competition, I suppose.
Tilea
Quiet. Too Quiet: Nothing is happening, and that's never a great sign on the most chaotic area in the Old World. Something stupid is certainly brewing.
Kislev
Pushing Onward: Never again will the forces of Chaos be fed by the foundries of the Chaos Dwarfs. The Tzarina's army moves towards that empire, grinding down the enemy power day in and day out, mighty Kislevite cannons pounding on the walls of the dark city.
An Imperial Marriage: Tzarina Katarin Bokha has, in the desire to gain an heir and continue her work in the name of Kislev, married-- of all people, a member of the minor Imperial House Von Hapsburg.
Gunnery School: Maurits van Zwart, a minor nobleman and mercenary in Marienburg, has fled to Kislev and opened a gunnery school in the Tzarina's service, which shall hopefully much improve their skill at war.
Wood Elves
Beastmen Slaughtered: Those few Wood Elves who speak with outsiders say that the Beastmen, though vicious this year and much trained in Norscan battles, have been roundly repelled from the forests and glades.
Skirmishing With the Dwarfs: Scouts report Wood Elf and Dwarf conflict as the Dwarfs of the Gray Mountains attempted to intrude upon Athel Loren-- or a smaller forest, but still near and dear to the Asrai, the report isn't quite clear-- for lumber and were, bloodily and costily, repelled.
Reclaimed Treasure: The Wood Elves reclaimed a number of magical weapons from the beastmen they fought, whether originally elfen and stolen by those beasts or beastman and simply turned to nobler purpose.
Dwarfs
Skaven Winning: For long years has the force of Dwarfs at Karak Eightpeaks battled with Skaven and Goblin alike, seeking to reclaim that ancient hold from their old enemies, the Goblins and the Ratmen.
Well, the good news is there are no more goblins in Karak Eightpeaks. The bad news is, it's because a nearly limitless number of Skaven boiled up from the depths, led by their most fearsome warrior: Queek Headtaker, who ate Skarsnik still kicking. It seems the Ratmen are feeling...pressured, and so lashing out as rats do. They fed that thing a heady brew of darkest magic and foul warpstone, and now it strides the lands a behemoth-- it will die soon, this Queek, but until it does, it might be, short of the Green Knight, the deadliest thing on the planet.
(You'd go fight it, but the Orcs have your full attention)
The dwarfs are settling in for a long, unhappy siege.
Reinforcements Coming: An army of Knights Errant led by Einhard, joined by a force from the Empire led by Kurt Helborg, and even of High Elves led by Tyrion, is making its way to aid the dwarfs against their ancestral enemy.
The Way is Shut: The Skaven, wielding blackest magic, have lashed shut the paths between the Dwarf realms and those of men, causing terrible avalanches and so on which do bind shut the mountain passes. Though the magic can be undone, it will take time-- time the dwarfs do not have.
High Elves
Reclaiming Treasure: The Phoenix King himself, proud Finubar, led a small fleet in a raid against the Druchii, attacking the city of Karond Kar as its master was out on campaign against the Northmen. Manifold slaves were freed, the docks were burnt to the ground after being looted of everything of worth, and nobles estates too had their all taken-- many magical artifacts lost since the Sundering were reclaimed that day in fire and blood-- though they seem oddly drawn to a bizarre, dragon shaped bauble, found in the home of some unknown witch.
Tyrion and Teclis March: Though the Elves and Dwarfs do detest each other, they both detest the Skaven at least a bit more-- and so that noblest elf prince and prickliest elf sorcerer do ride to the aid of the Dawi against the Ratmen.
Reprisal: In an effort to punish the Asur for their victory, the Druchii have begun raiding even more fervently, forcing the king to turn more ships to protecting the sea-lanes.
--
I am a machine
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
nice to know things are going well with sister.
not so nice to know that brother is doing well. still he is killing a lot of scaven and vampires so plus there.
empire seems to somewhat of a mess not that there much change of that changing.
kislev seem to be doing well for it self. not so great for us but well for it self.
and the elfs poke mr. edgelord himself.
thank for that. freed slaves are nice more raids are not.
still asur trade next turn is a must have want some more income please.
not so nice to know that brother is doing well. still he is killing a lot of scaven and vampires so plus there.
empire seems to somewhat of a mess not that there much change of that changing.
kislev seem to be doing well for it self. not so great for us but well for it self.
and the elfs poke mr. edgelord himself.
thank for that. freed slaves are nice more raids are not.
still asur trade next turn is a must have want some more income please.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Mallobaude is a vampire, or at the very least trained as one of their blood knights, so he's not killing any vampires. It'd be preferable if the Skaven could hold out a little better against him, if only to slow him down and drain his resources.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
lots of dead rats V some maybe blood dragon vampire gaining more undead.
ether are bad not sure what one is worse?
if he has to have a succes somewhere him killing of ratman is an over all win i say.
ether are bad not sure what one is worse?
if he has to have a succes somewhere him killing of ratman is an over all win i say.
The Westmark
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Westmark
The Empire was not always as ossified, archaic and outmoded as it was before the Franzian Renaissance. For the first few centuries of its existence, it was a mighty, expansionist power- and near the top of their list were the wealthy, disunited Bretonni lands to the west- especially the Pegasi and Hippogryphs of the mountains.
So, from the very beginning of the fourth century to near the end of the ninth the Westmark was established. It was never the largest Province- at its greatest extent, barely reaching into what is now Quenelles, though that was for barely two decades- but the heartland of Montfort and Parravon was to a great extent Imperialized.
In 878, however things changed- for one of the mightier Orc warlords of the era swept down from the mountains. The Empire abandoned the Westmark then, for a time, leaving them to fight- and die- on their own. Duke Charles of Montfort and Duke Jacques of Parravon, the fathers of Martrud and Agilgar, rallied the defenses and, in the end, won.
When the Empire attempted to return and reclaim the Westmark, they went to war for their freedom, calling on their men-at-arms, smaller in number but much the more veteran. Jacques fought valianly, Jacques fought nobly, Jacques fought honorably. And Jacques won.
Charles, on the other hand? A vicious bastard, hippogryph mounted and blood thirsty for the Imperials- why, none can say. Nevertheless he so etched himself as a figure of terror and blood that to this day the Imperials refuse to ride the same mount as he. His son was so disgusted that he himself dueled him for the duchy, and set them to the path they now follow.
This has had two repercussions in the modern era. Firstly, despite this somewhat acrimonious history the former Westmark remains the friendliest part of Bretonnia to the Empire, as well as the only part with a significant Imperial minority- indeed many in that country speak the Reikspiel as their mother tongue.
Secondly, on occasion someone claiming descent of the last Duke of Westmark will arise in the Empire- there are even rumors of such in the court of Middenland as a potential weapon to dissuade you from more fully showing your anger with their brutal stupidity and stupid brutality. You know not the truth, but it is would not be great should those rumors prove true.
--
Just wanted to put something down for tonight.
The Empire was not always as ossified, archaic and outmoded as it was before the Franzian Renaissance. For the first few centuries of its existence, it was a mighty, expansionist power- and near the top of their list were the wealthy, disunited Bretonni lands to the west- especially the Pegasi and Hippogryphs of the mountains.
So, from the very beginning of the fourth century to near the end of the ninth the Westmark was established. It was never the largest Province- at its greatest extent, barely reaching into what is now Quenelles, though that was for barely two decades- but the heartland of Montfort and Parravon was to a great extent Imperialized.
In 878, however things changed- for one of the mightier Orc warlords of the era swept down from the mountains. The Empire abandoned the Westmark then, for a time, leaving them to fight- and die- on their own. Duke Charles of Montfort and Duke Jacques of Parravon, the fathers of Martrud and Agilgar, rallied the defenses and, in the end, won.
When the Empire attempted to return and reclaim the Westmark, they went to war for their freedom, calling on their men-at-arms, smaller in number but much the more veteran. Jacques fought valianly, Jacques fought nobly, Jacques fought honorably. And Jacques won.
Charles, on the other hand? A vicious bastard, hippogryph mounted and blood thirsty for the Imperials- why, none can say. Nevertheless he so etched himself as a figure of terror and blood that to this day the Imperials refuse to ride the same mount as he. His son was so disgusted that he himself dueled him for the duchy, and set them to the path they now follow.
This has had two repercussions in the modern era. Firstly, despite this somewhat acrimonious history the former Westmark remains the friendliest part of Bretonnia to the Empire, as well as the only part with a significant Imperial minority- indeed many in that country speak the Reikspiel as their mother tongue.
Secondly, on occasion someone claiming descent of the last Duke of Westmark will arise in the Empire- there are even rumors of such in the court of Middenland as a potential weapon to dissuade you from more fully showing your anger with their brutal stupidity and stupid brutality. You know not the truth, but it is would not be great should those rumors prove true.
--
Just wanted to put something down for tonight.
Last edited:
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
TY for the update.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
yay? no need to do fast update if quality goes down.
having said that looking forward to the upcoming update.
having said that looking forward to the upcoming update.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
how did lizardman get into this.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Because I was rolling for stuff.
And things happened. Lizard-y things.