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The Good Prince (Warhammer Fantasy)

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[X] Lead a Lances of Knight to charge against the flank (ACCEPTABLE)

I don't like the second option. To me it would make Bohemond look like a dumbass gloryhound.
 
Gingganz said:
[X] Lead a Lances of Knight to charge against the flank (ACCEPTABLE)

I don't like the second option. To me it would make Bohemond look like a dumbass gloryhound.
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I mean, Bohort is a Knight-- and a Bretonnian, at that.

"Glory-Hunger" is more than a little bit their thing.
 
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Personal Conversation
  • Sidestory
    • Personal Conversation
    (The Day Before You Left)

    Your chambers are silent, mostly. Carved stones of a soft gray bounce the light of a candle through the room, a plush bed where your lover rests rests, carving something or other into her staff. Blankets of soft fur cover her, and her nighty. You in your side write to the flickering light of candles, getting the final preparations ready.

    It is very late at night, or very early in the morning. Either way, you can't sleep. Just like you haven't for the past week.

    "Shouldn't you rest? You do have to go tomorrow." Lisanor, good Lisanor, looks to you from her work even as you put aside your quill to stand. "I am no soldier, but I'd still think sleep would be good." Walking to the door, still a bit ginger at the shoulder, you open it and see that your guards are gone home, to sleep presumably. Probably like you should be. "Bohort?"

    "You know, the day after Viktoria convinced my father to send someone, I went to speak with him that night. I don't remember what about-- I mean, obviously the war, but what specifically. And as I was walking through the halls, innocent, I realized I heard someone talking. 'Finally', the voice said, 'the boy's taking some initiative.' There was a gap, I noticed. 'And acting like his brother.'

    It was my father. My father, the greatest knight in fifteen centuries, was talking about how my bastard brother-- and idiot me, I had honestly thought he really wasn't a relation, despite everything-- was better than me; my bastard brother from an Estalian mother, my bastard brother the snake.

    I left without saying a word, left without being noticed, ran like a coward. Twenty years old, and I was acting more like I was still his squire.

    The worst part is, as I sat and prayed in my room, to clear my mind if nothing else, I realized something: he was right. As foul as Mallobaude is, he's doing the Lady's work. He's killing vampires, and slaughtering monsters, and reclaiming Mousillon. And we both pale in comparison to him, to our sister. I have been a background character, a bit player, in my own life. I've disappointed my mother, who used to say I'd save the world one day; I've disappointed my father, grinding my wheels and serving, instead of doing. Running about, place to place."

    Lisanor looks down, for a moment, as though searching for something to say.

    "But no longer. No more making my father wish for that rat bastard, no more I'll be the hidden shame of Bretonnia. I'll haul Grimgor's head on a spike in front of the court even if it kills me-- and no matter what, I'll no longer be the Prince Paresseux."
    With it off your chest, you find your eyelids drooping-- a combination of physical and mental exhaustion finally catching up with you. And as you drift off to sleep and to dream, for the first time in too long, you can hear Lisanor saying something under her breath, too low to hear.
    --
    A thing.
     
  • Sidestory
    • Vote will be called when I wake up tomorrow.

    Also, I realize I didn't say this at the start of the thread like I should have, but I do reward Omakes and so on.
     
    [X]Find the most dangerous thing you can, apply lance to face, and don't stop til it's dead (SO MUCH FUCKING GLORY)
     
    Vote is called, sorry I didn't do it sooner-- woke up late and had to run to class.
     
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    Battle Pt.2
  • Threadmarks
    • Battle Pt.2

    You can taste your sweat, trapped inside your helmet as Honor brays for blood. Drilled, trained, and perfect, your knights errant form a lance behind you as you thunder forward. It is a beautiful day outside-- a northwind comes from the mountains, bearing a cool breeze that even now keeps the air chill. The sun shines, though, golden orb looking down. High trees grow on these slopes, of a dark green; stones emerge from the earth, dark and gray.

    In front of you, five-thousand orcs, and ten-times that in humans.

    "Any last words, sir?" Edwige's voice breaks the silence.

    "Kill these things!" You grab the small silver grail that is threaded around your neck and silently whisper, "Lady, don't let me fail." A strange tensions comes over you.

    A moment later, with the earth shaking, you slam into the Orc's right flank, along with three-hundred other knights. The carnage is immediate-- orcs bodies are crushed under hooves, lances shatter in orcish throats even as swords sing their battle song. The defenders lighten as they see you from the atop the wall, rally to the reinforcements, redouble their efforts-- but it is not enough. Even now, after everything, the fear still envelopes you-- you run, you run, from glory and instead do what is...acceptable. Disappointing.

    From the beginning you see knights fall in death, necks slit, heads crushed, bones broken. The sun falls on you like arrows, heating the metal of your armor from what had been chill. Honor kills, and kills, and kills-- his hooves grind orcish flesh like herbs under a pestle, send necks and heads jutting at odd angles. Your Lance is rolling through and through the ocean of green, sending their horses wheeling forward and back. This is war at its most primal, most unending-- not the brutal-cold slaughter from a league away carried out by some cockless noble with a gun, not the icy magics, not even the pikes of Tilea. Warriors, bleeding and dying. As is their duty.

    You are slowly cutting your way towards the stone walls which rise so high. It was not so terrible, even though you see so many bodies of your own lying on the floor.

    The Orcs are withdrawing from the walls and the battle there, not all but many, turning around to face your knights and the slaughter they have introduced, armored and untouchable and glorious-eternal in the shining sun like gods sent from the Lady herself. You live in it, feel your heart beat like a drum. Your can feel bruises forming as you slide your lance through Orc flesh, feel it give way under silverine and laugh in triumph as they draw away from your battle and your death. Will you risk the same?

    An orc flings himself at the wall.

    A moment later, an explosion sends you flying from Honor, sends you and everyone in your Lance to the ground, fills the air with a boom and the stink of rotten eggs and shit.

    The Orcs planned this.

    Rising up from the ground, aching but-- against all odds-- alive, you stand coated in dirt and mud-- made from the blood of orcs. Bodies surround you like a carpet. Honor, your horse, is nowhere to be seen. Your reinforcements have not arrived. There's now a hole big enough to march through. Your knights are disorganized, thrown from horses and fighting for their lives. Show me your worth!

    The Orcs planned this.

    They have begun presenting a wall to your people. Orcs are trying to stream into the town, though against all odds the soldiers are still standing. Your lance is missing. Something is dripping over your eye. SHOW ME YOUR HONOR!

    The orcs planned this.

    That hole...it favors the orcs. If they get through, thousands will die. As if the day couldn't get any worse, you hear wings beating like thunder. A shadow flies over head, serpentine. "DIDN'T THE BOSS ALREADY TELL YOU? THE EAST IS GREEN!" The Orcs scream, the Wyvern screams, and you roar as it swoops down. SHOW ME YOUR VALOR!

    It's heading for the hole. It will rip apart those soldiers like cheap dolls. It will kill the city. It will burn, and ruin, and destroy. Your horse is missing. Your lance is gone.

    [] You can't save everyone... (Give up, wait for reinforcements and try to survive until they arrive)
    [] Try Anyway. (Charge the Wyvern on foot, ???)
    --
    YOUR ROLLS, MY DUDE
     
  • Threadmarks
    • [X] Try Anyway. (Charge the Wyvern on foot, ???)

    I don't like this, but if we let the Wyvern and the Orcs into the city, we might just as well flee. By the time the reinforcements arrive, it will likely be too late to achieve anything.
     
    we win or we die standing there is no other real path in warhammer either you win the day bye heroism or fail and lose the ability to make a meaningful difference it is very literally for our character as a knight do or die.
     
    Battle pt3.
  • Threadmarks
    • Battle pt3.

    Sword in one hand, shield in the other, you make your way towards the circular walls of Aldium, and the hole there. Between you and your knights, a line of trying to keep you away before the Wyvern arrives. Now that your head is clear from the bloodrush of that first charge, you can see more than you had in the cavalry action.

    The sadistic thing riding the wyvern is soaking in the terror it's spreading. Going slow, pouring poison down without a care in the world that it's slaughtering so many, so terribly and in such a vile mean.

    Running forward, you slam face first into the Orcish flanks between you and the hole. All around you, you hear orcs and knights battling, along with the sound of militia and citizens alike manning the walls again. You are acutely aware that you are surrounded. There is every chance you are going to die today.

    Time to leave a good corpse, then.

    Your sword rises and falls, cutting through this trash like nothing more than a mistake. Roaring like a lion, you are death itself, chopping your way into the orc line with ferocity. One scream in your face, and you stab it through the mouth, chopping its brain in half. It falls, another takes its place slowing you. This one you cripple with a blow to the spine that shatters it in half, sending it to the ground. Three gang on you at the same time, only just you cut arteries in a spinning dance, wading ever onward.

    Blood mingles with sweat and pours into your mouth, a foul concoction-- your wretch it up on the ground, still moving, still chopping like a lumberjack. Your arms go numb, your legs burn. Salt from your exertions pours into your cuts, and they sting like a fire stuck in your body.

    Just as you are about to make your way out, though, an orc knocks you to the ground with a backhanded blow. As you fall, ten more orcs fall on top of you, pin you down. You can smell the blood they're caked in. Feel your limbs grow cold and slow and sluggish. Your ribs strain and you feel something in your wrist pop. They're choking you, cutting off air and life and breath. You would scream more, but there's nothing left. No air. No blood. No hope.

    Everyone is going to die.

    You are going to die. Grimgor is going to come through, and kill everyone. Your father will be a wreck; he'll weep behind closed doors for months. Your mother will do much the same.

    No.

    The earth carries the vibrations as the Wyvern lands.

    No, this is not the end. You did not traipse out of your gray life, out of monotony, to die under a stinking pile of Orc flesh. You did not gather thirty-thousand men to fail. You did not swear to Lisanor you would save her home, only to give up.

    An odd presence, one you've never felt before, fills your limbs. It is like lightning and thunder, a lion's roar and a shadow's hate. Power flows into you, and you manage to draw your knife.

    And you start stabbing.

    And pushing, and stabbing, and pushing, until it feels your whole life is just moving your hand, and pushing, and stabbing, shifting green bodies as air, sweet like Old Matilde's honey-cakes, fills your mouth and your screaming lungs, as you take great gasping breaths of it and feel life filling your limbs again, as your cuts scream vengeance and ruin and your wounds grow dim and cold.

    And finally, finally, they are all dead and you are on the other side.

    The wyvern is advancing, slowly-- mercifully, it seems that the thing thought you dead.

    Taking an orc spear in your hand for a moment, you lob the stone-headed thing with every-ounce of your not inconsiderable strength. It flies, slowly, spinning all the while; the air whistles as it does, the cheap wood and flaky black stone dull. The wyvern rears back to charge the men, perhaps twenty-to-thirty militia, shakily holding spears and pikes and knives and hammers and anything else to keep the thing back.

    A moment later, the spear slams home and punches through the thing's tail, where the most vulnerable, most sensitive and painful spots are.

    The scream it gives as it looks to you is rather impressive. You run towards it, shield in front of you, sword in a vice. It gathers its venom, its poison, for you. Its scream grows dull as it does, the orc on top of it trying to urge it back around-- but the pea-brained beast wants vengeance more than it fears the orc atop.

    The thing leaps, entirely against the will of the orc atop it. Your sword flashes true in the sun's rays.

    It screams.

    You roar.

    With one mighty blow, you sever an artery. Acidic blood pours out through the air, spills on your arm and melts through steel and wood to flesh-- and yet it does not burn, despite it all. In its final throws, the Wyvern knocks the orc to the ground-- he shudders once, then lies dead on the dirt. Your sword, lightly steaming, is melting slowly-- you drop it to the ground.

    As the beast dies slow, pumping bubbling, frothing blood and screaming, arrows begin to come from the direction of Mortensholm. Glinting in the sun, the wood thuds into the fungoids, cuts veins in twain. Men-at-arms with shields and spears slam into the orcs, and they die under a beating sun.

    Aldium is safe.
    Well done, mon lionet.
    There are several things you need to do, before the adrenaline that is keeping you up falls away.

    [] Pray to the Lady, thank her for this victory-- and for saving your life.
    [] See if everyone is alright.
    [] A retinue of the town's lords, most of them from Marienburg, are coming. A brief conversation to assuage their fears.
    [] The town will soon enough be changing hands-- this is your instinct. See whose.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • [X] Pray to the Lady, thank her for this victory-- and for saving your life.
    praise the lady deus vult
     
    So I've not been including the Rolls-- though I have made them-- but to quickly sum up what they were last update:

    ORCS: Haha, nothing can stop us now!
    BOHORT: Ha, my mom used to call me nothing.
     
    Last edited:
    [X] Pray to the Lady, thank her for this victory-- and for saving your life.

    Always show gratitude and give credit
     
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