Note: No decision at the end of this post, just everyone resting after such a grueling battle. Next Update will be short and involve your next move.
Nordland Campaign: The Count of Plagues, Part 5
While Gruber's servants are distracted assaulting the elves, you are busy preparing your forces. Your cannons are brought around, and mounted up on small posts so that they can fire above the heads of your soldiers. Upon your interesting request the Warrior Priests of Sigmar begin praying and waving around both incense and their hammers above both the cannons and their ammo. You don't really know if it will actually be worth anything, but you're pretty sure that it can't hurt when dealing with Chaos.
(Setting Up 84/100)
All three thousand of your handgunners set up into extremely good firing lines, overlapping and carefully managed so there is as little chance of friendly fire as possible. To their sides and slightly behind them is your multitude of archers, as well as the elves who have joined in. Even some of the halflings, those who possess little bows of their own, have them strung and ready. With the cannons prepared, the guns ready, and arrows nocked, the second half of the process is pushed forward.
All of your pikes move to the forefront, interspersed with a few lines of swordsmen, who themselves are backed up by the mighty Bull Warriors. Here and there are ogres, ready to plug any breaches possible with all the crushing strength that their species is capable of. Shields are sunken into the ground, weapons are double checked, and everyone girds themselves for the ocean of death which you are going to deliberately provoke into falling against you.
But they are ready.
(Surprise Bombardment 99/100)
Raising your arm high, you give the order. The engineers shift their cannons, carefully sighting them as best they can while checking every single minute part of machinery that they can. The whole while, priests chant louder and louder, a faint glow coming over them and the cannons themselves. Both groups take an absolutely ludicrously long time to finish their tiny and seemingly insignificant adjustments until you actually turn back to ask the if there was going to be an issue.
You were nearly blown over by the
tremendous explosion of the cannons, all four cannon balls flying forwards as straight as arrows. One of them slammed into a group of Chaos Warriors, and no matter how powerful and hardy Nurgle may have made them or perhaps even because of that chaos taint interacting with a blessed cannonball, they are slain practically immediately. The black orb bounces and skips about four times, reaping a massive toll amongst the back of the enemy.
Another slammed into a group of Plaguebearers and you swear you see some of them evaporate behind it as it crashed and bounced three times before rumbling to a stop. You'd never actually gotten to see just what cannonballs were capable of first hand, either being in the middle of a fight or on your back whenever you heard the explosive coughs that signified a shot being made. Also you might have had a concussion at the last time you heard them in a fight. In any case, they are
far louder than you remembered.
Amazingly, the remaining two cannonballs flew directly at the portal. Unlike the one at your previous fight, it was far more stable. The last looked like an open wound into reality, while this one looked like an open wound that had gained a calcified ringlet of various disturbing fluids and sheer power of the Realm of Chaos. Then one of the blessed cannonballs slammed directly into its supports, while the fourth and final one knocked down several of the cultists who were enacting some ritual or another directly in front of it before bouncing
into the portal.
For a moment, the battlefield stopped. Gruber's forces turned towards you in a great mass, the elves stopped firing their arrows and poked their heads above the battlements to stare, and you yourself said nothing. It seemed like time itself had frozen.
Then the portal began to wildly shake, energies lancing out of it in dozens of curling whips of greenish yellow lightning. The ruined framework shuddered further, while some of the daemons on the battlefield dissipated outright albeit with wild howls of fury. All those around the portal either ran as far away as they could before one of the twisting tentacles of chaos energies gone wild tapped them upon the shoulder and instantly vaporized them, or alternatively ran
towards the portal, raising their hands and attempting to perform some ritual or another to try and repair and/or calm the portal.
Abruptly the world itself seemed to shake as the plague zombies unleashed a bellow of such volume that the grass around them was pushed back and the earth itself trembled.
"You dare strike against Nurgle's realm!?! To even send a single droplet of that hammer toting fool's power into His realm?!?! Die! Rot and die HOHENZOLLERN!"
Hmm. Gruber appears to be angry.
That's…a good thing, right?
Perhaps not, you cannot help but muse as the
entire force besieging Heilidorf turns completely around and sprints towards you. You do mean that. As in
actually sprinting. Before now, the plague zombies shambled or stumbled forwards, but their eyes now burn with a feverish pus yellow light and they have all straightened as one. They shamble no longer, and charge, screaming wildly from thousands of throats as they swarm into a single ramming column and begin running towards your forces. Behind them the Warriors of Chaos do the same, while the Norscans upon the sea turn completely around and head towards you.
Such is their fury that many of your soldiery take steps back, trembling in fear. Some scream in terror but cannot move due to their fellows on each side. Panic spreads rapidly through the ranks, as does genuine fear. Up until now the plague zombies have been treated somewhat as a joke, if only because everything else you've fought so far has been so much more worse. Well, such is no longer the case.
(Hold Positions 79/100)
"Hold your ground, men of the Empire! Stand fast, men of Kislev!" you roar, unsheathing
Brain Wounder.
"You shall not falter, you shall not fail! SO HOLD. YOUR. GROUND!"
No one runs, which is good. Others take up your cry, shouting defiance at the wild and
significantly more motivated horde running towards you. The Warrior Priests raise their hammers high and bathe the front ranks in golden light, while the Middenlanders howl in savage joy and fury. Everyone readjusts their grip if they need to, and grit their teeth. The cannons fire again, directly into the oncoming group, ruining some as many as fifty zombies deep, but they can only fire four cannon balls at a time.
The archers unleash themselves, as do the gunners, taking down many of the zombies and some of the faster Chaos Warriors. They work furiously to fire a second volley, and miraculously do so, but they cannot manage a third before the battle is fully joined.
(First Clash 25/100)
You only wish they could have. The normally slow plague zombies
leap atop pikemen, tearing apart your front ranks in an absolutely terrifying display. Fel light glows within and without their bodies as they bat aside swords and shields, some lifting up your soldiers and simply ripping them apart. It is not an entirely one sided fight, but damned if it isn't close. Ogres are ripped apart by sheer volume despite taking more than a dozen each, while your gunners try their damned best to fire at parts where there is less chance of friendly fire.
A strong group of Chaos Warriors jump in, rot and disease flying off them in all directions as they charge directly for you. In an instant they have broken through your lines, stomped the Witch Hunter who had the luck to be in front of them into paste, and phlegmatically shout that you are going to rot forever at Nurgle's feet. Yet before they reached you, they must make it through your Greatswords. In an impressive set of displays, none make it through though there is little left of the first twenty five of your bodyguard who initially met them.
Then you look up, and close your eyes in resignation. For the second wave arrives before the first has even finished attacking.
(Second Clash 43/100)
Paradoxically, you somehow do better. It is as if your people realize just what danger they are in. Unable to just stand by any longer you leap into battle yourself, hacking down a handful of the empowered zombies while your Greatswords surround you like an oscillating cloud of death. Natasha is accompanied by her Kreml Guard who fight well, their long weapons catching and preventing the creatures from actually coming close to them. Most of the time anyway. Every now and then there is a burst of ice or a few flying spears of the material, which helps remind you that your wife is in fact alive.
But casualties are still heavy. You step over the surprised and bloated face of a dead Bull Warrior as you slam
Brain Wounder into the chest of a heavily armored thing of Chaos which bears the sigil of Nurgle onto his bare and organ-weeping stomach. With a rip and a twist, he falls to the ground, but only to grab at your ankles. Growling, you stab at him again and again until finally he falls limp, yet almost immediately you find yourself locked into combat with similar foe.
All around you the carefully created defensive lines have collapsed. This cannot continue. If you don't push the enemy out and reset your lines the only result possible is being overwhelmed. Thus, you raise your voice and cry out to everyone around you.
"Push! Them! BACK!"
(Fix The Lines 50+(Personal Martial 11)+3+3=67/100)
There is a resounding wordless yell which echoes out from across your forces. It is not one single word, but the message behind it is clear. A great cry of energy and effort, and then, inexorably, Nurgle's forces are pushed back. They scream and rage, and those creatures that no longer possess weapons scratch and scrabble at your armor, leaving heavy dents and small rents, but you yourself are largely unharmed. Everyone around you fights with renewed vigor, the stern shouts of Reikland accents from the
Foot interspersed throughout the swordsmen keeping your men organized.
The Ogres bellow and smash all before them, crushing and kicking, punching, and even one raises up a heavily armored Warrior of Chaos and simply
squishes them between his hands. Then the Bull Warriors fully joined in. Having pulled back slightly to organize a single charge, they ram themselves forward, opening the way for everyone else behind them. For a few desperate moments they isolate themselves actually in
front of your lines, before after you finish reorganizing your army they come back. Up and down the line your three words are repeated again and again by Witch Hunters, Ogres, Urgdug, your wife, Kossars, the other two Ice Mages, sergeants, and Knights.
You continue to fight personally, before out of nowhere swings a full sized greatsword into
Wounder. The strength behind it nearly staggers you, before out of the chaos comes a man that could have been a member of the same group for which the blade he wielded was named. Upon his full plate armor is a faded yet recognizable piece of Nordland heraldry. It seems that Gruber had spread his plague even to those sworn personally to his service.
"You are most annoying, Count," the former greatsword growled, Gruber's voice emanating its grossly distended gullet.
(Plagued Greatsword 50+(Personal 11)=61)
"Oh, how's that?" you responded, twisting your grip to try and swipe the puppets head off with your hammer. Unfortunately it leaned back just enough that you only smashed apart its lower jaw. Yet the voice continued unhurt.
"I set up a party for you, you don't even arrive. I deliver presents, and you ensure that it goes to the wrong recipient. I am trying to help you!" he says, confused frustration entering his voice.
Growling you whip
Brain Wounder about in a lightning fast set of moves, bouncing your foes weapon back and forth and managing to lop off the left arm. Yet the thing feels no pain, and continues to wield its greatsword without any trouble whatsoever, despite the foul smelling liquids pouring from its shoulder.
"How's that?" you grunt.
"To see! To see what all of us poor bastards see! Up here, stuck in the miserable cold, and for what? They don't care about us, none of them do!"
Your hammer slams down onto the skulk, pulverizing it, yet you must raise your blade in time to catch the axe of a clearly mindless Norscan body.
"No one cares…except Nurgle!"
The sound of flies and honest laughter fills your ears suddenly, buzzing wildly. Blinking, you stumble slightly as the blasted and fully vocalized name of a Chaos God swirls about you. Gruber stops his puppet, letting you stumble backwards. Rapidly you fill your mouth with a cleansing gulp of Ostka, replacing it upon your hip in a flash. Groaning, you shake your head and set both hands onto
Wounder's handle.
Gritting your teeth, you make to advance, even as the traitor speaks once more.
"He only wants to help you, Count. Help everyone see. He is the only one who cares, in a universe that doesn't. Just take the despair inside…"
Gruber raises the puppets arm and points at you-
Fliesanddiseaseandfliesandrotanddeathdespairerotrotrotpainlaughterjoyeasysoeasygiveupfliesandlaughterandloveandpainandfreedomandloveanddespairandrotand-
(Get Out Of My Head 75/100)
-
despairanddiseaseandGETpainandloveandthebuzzingofthefliespainbloodpusandrotdiseaseandrotboneanddecayOUT-
"-OF MY HEAD!" you bellow at the top of your lungs.
A haze of
red descends over your vision as you break whatever spell it was the Gruber struck you with, and slam
Brain Wounder into his chosen puppet. But you are not done. You could
feel the corruption he tried to fill your soul with, and this
infuriates you. The Runefang of Ostland raises and falls a dozen times in as many seconds as you charge forward screaming. Every now and then you hear one of the zombies attempting to speak to you but you just don't
care.
Rage burns in your veins as you run into Chaos Warriors, their plate and weapons gained in a century of warfare.
Wounder cuts off their heads, stabs into their groins, and rips into precious thigh arteries. At this point you are not even vocalizing words, just screaming without pausing and stabbing and cutting. All the while there is a core of iron discipline beneath it. Men who have fallen are hauled to their feet, a wounded Ogre is preserved as you remove every zombie crawling over them with prejudice,
Eventually you are at the very front of the lines, and your people are behind you, fighting just as hard if not harder. You hear, vaguely, somewhere in the background of the red haze, people shouting 'For Ostland' and similar phrases. As for yourself, every single plague zombie in sight is one that you personally plan on destroying.
(Fix the Lines Completely 50+11+5(Rage)=66/100)
You aren't sure when it happened but at one point you find yourself standing on top of a pile of corpses. So many plague zombies have fallen at your feet, and in addition the much heavier bodies of their warrior fellows have been piled on as well. Not even half of them are totally yours, as the Greatswords accompanying you have taken their weapons to the enemy that keep trying to kill you. You've transformed to poking downwards at your foes as they try to crawl up, the blood pounding in your ears so hard that you can't hear Gruber's latest little smarmy bullshit phrases. Eventually however as you take a spare moment to glance left and right, your lines have repaired themselves, somewhat. Admittedly, it is
very patchy, but it is holding together for now.
The pikes, what remain of them, have formed up. As have the ogres, who have pushed forward to take the brunt of the enemy. Tiredly, you smile at the uniform armor they bear, which is doing quite the admirable job of protecting them. Normally they would just have the gut plates and some breeches, but no longer. Now the enemy is scrabbling to get through the mail and plate…and largely failing.
Suddenly, a great rumbling shakes the earth. You glance over towards the portal, just in time to see it stabilize. Groaning, you swallow down a bit more ostka as you finally allow yourself to drop back a bit, letting the lines form fully without you poking a big open spot in it. You had
hoped that the portal would explode or something, which would be nice. Alas, it seems that it was not to be, though you are heartened to see that many of the cultists have to remain by the portal to try and keep it steady.
But you have no time to look at that as Gruber pulls his servants back, likely setting up to smash them into your forces once more. A huge number of the plague zombies, despite however Gruber empowered them, were slain. Most of them, in fact. However, even as you watch,
more power flows into them. They begin to pull mass from nowhere, you can only assume the Realm of Chaos, their bodies twisting and twitching disgustingly as they seem to mutate into hulking and practically ogre-sized versions of themselves. Roaring, they round once more towards your lines. With them line up still more plague zombies, Warriors of Chaos, and you flinch slightly as you see the horrid forms of nurglings bouncing around their feet.
"Cannons!" you cry out, your orders being reshouted all the way back to the four weapon teams. "Destroy them!"
(Cannons, Handgunners, Archers 62/100)
A might barrage flies into the enemy before they can fully organize their charge. Yet more blessed cannon balls go flying, though you blink as one of the new hulking zombie
things catches one in the chest but remains upright despite the cannon blowing clean through to the other side. A hail of arrows, this time lit on fire by someone clever, fall upon the enemy setting many aflame. Admittedly, some of them seem remarkable unaffected, but you can take pleasure in the pained squeals of the Nurglings.
Unfortunately for the handgunners, smoke rises from the barrel but you can barely detect if any of their bullets actually hit anything. Damn. But then they are charging again, and though you shout to make yourself heard over the cacophony, you are swallowed up by the general sort of screaming which erupts from people's throats when engulfed in battle. At least this time you
begin this one in the middle of the fight, your greatswords around you and over on the left flank somewhere you see the black armor of the Kreml Guard.
(Third Clash 42/100)
The center does not hold. It tries, and for that they are to be commended, but these new hulks are monstrously tough. Another catches a cannonball in the stomach, and does not even grunt. Each of them runs forward and simply accepts the dozen plus pikes which squish into their flesh before lifting up all the men wielding those weapons and slaying them. They are seemingly impervious to damage, matching ogres in strength and blatantly
outclassing them in durability. With a great blast of holy light, you see one of the Warrior Priests just barely managing to fell one, and that was the one that had been initially hit with a cannonball. Over a thousand guns point directly at one and fire, and though over half of its flesh is simply shorn off by the fusillade it barely makes a grunt as it continues to rumble on through.
The Bull Warriors do their best, as does everyone else, but you wince as you see one picked up and simply swallowed. Hopefully the stomach acids of the beast are powerful enough to kill the poor fellow quickly. As for your part, you kill your fair share of the enemy, as best you can. Then there is a large amount of shouting, and your head whips around as you see what were the targets of several of the hulks.
The cannons.
A group of extremely brave Kossars try to bar the way, and only far behind them is Captain Urgdug, once more protecting the cannons with his own cadre of a hundred. The strongest, and best equipped ogres in your military stand behind their Captain, toting their massive clubs, but even so you can see that some look worried.
(Kossar Defense 10/100)
It was over in an instant. You blinked, and suddenly there was paste on the ground where the Kossar's had stood. Their famous axes and bows snapped into pieces and melting in puddles of steaming Nurglite refuse that bled out from the dozens of wounds the creatures now sported. Once again, the only thing standing between your four cannons were the brave ogres of Ostland. The hulks screamed again, some even beating their chests, while others simply charged silently.
Captain Urgdug roared something, though at this distance it was impossible to tell.
Then your instincts shrieked and you rolled out of the way of a massive fist. One of the hulks had found you.
"You vex me greatly, Hohenzollern!" Gruber proclaimed from the hulks mouth.
=========================================================
(Cannon Defense 98/100)
In another life…the ogre known as Captain Urgdug Greatbellow the Sizable would not have been born in Ostland. A fourth generation Ogre, his family and tribe had heard of the Three Emperors. Tiny folk, but often delicious and quite willing to pay as they quarreled amongst themselves. Perfect for a mercenary band to make its way for some time. But in another life, their Tyrant would refuse to go, and instead deviously took over the territory of many tribes who
had left. In turn, they would become one of the greatest and most powerful tribes around…at least for a few generations.
Eventually, in this mirror life, Urgdug would have clawed his way to the top, and beaten his father and grandfather to death and ritually eaten them. He would have become a
mighty Tyrant, ruler of his tribe. His strength would be awe-inspiring, his influence wide ranging, and his wealth and gut impressive beyond doubt. Then, in the brutal manner of Mountains of Mourn, he would die. Either torn apart by an upcoming Tyrant, killed by one of the creatures which inhabited the range, by hobgoblins, or by any other manner of things.
But he was not. His tribe migrated to the Empire, lost most of its members in a battle between all three Emperors of the year, and headed north to escape the violence. After all, one couldn't eat if they were dead. The first generation was too violent, and carried with them the culture of the land they stole from the Sky Titans. Cannibalism, worship of the Great Maw, and largely brutish strength and idiocy. The second generation spoke to the humans around them, because they knew how to get more food, through something called farming. At first many of the ogres disliked this, but the evidence was undeniable. Besides, it wasn't hard to learn. Simple, and easy, their greater strength allowing them to rip trees away and plow the land with their bare hands if necessary.
The third generation distanced itself further from the ideals of the Great Maw. They had little use for it. There was fighting aplenty against the greenskins and beastmen of the Forest of Shadows, and food to eat by farming and trading. They learned the value of gold, and the last of the first generation, the natives of the Mountains of Mourn, died. With them went the Butchers and Slaughtermasters. They grew used to their lives in Ostland, and as they grew older some began to wear the white and black.
The fourth had the first members to join the Ostland military, though they were not the first of ogres in general. Another tribe held that distinction. But it was Urgdug who grew fastest, and strongest, and soon he became a natural leader amongst the ogres. For all the cultural changes and meldings, the biggest and loudest ogre was still instinctively looked to as a leader. Thus, Captain Urgdug, promoted by the previous Count Hohenzollern in a move which cemented the loyalty of an entire tribe. After all, their Captain was their leader, and he was well fed, and incredibly strong.
Not a Tyrant. A Captain instead. One would be dead before Count Frederick Hohenzollern would even learn of his families death. The other? Fate was less certain.
"Get away from the boom tubes!" Urgdug roared.
His club, a deadly solid block of iron and stone, pounded into the flesh of a zombie hulk, twisted and spewing bile and rot from its wounds. With a single set swing, he sent it flying over twenty feet backwards, its diseased spine snapping instantly from the wound. Roaring, he repeated this feat several times over, each strike obliterating one of the hulks. The rest of his soldiers followed suit, doing their best to imitate their leader. Crushing, mashing, stomping, and bellowing all the while.
Then, suddenly, they were done. Only pulverized bone dust and meat that had been squashed beyond paste.
"Empire only," the Captain said with a nod.
==============================================================
"I will break you, Count. But fear not! When your body lies shattered and you feel the fever and rot flowing inside of you, then you shall see. Just. Like. Me."
With that, the creature finally fell apart. Gasping for breath, you nearly fell, only held up by a nearby Greatsword. The man said nothing, only warily watching the rest of the battlefield. For the fight still continued. After a moment of heavy breathing and a downed swallow of Ostka, you managed to straighten. Your eyes flicked back and forth across the battlefield, where what remained of your forces killed the rest of their foes. Already they bodies were being pushed aside and set aflame, if only to remove them from blocking everyone from moving about.
Then the front gates of Heilidorf opened.
No longer pressed by the forces of Chaos, almost the entirety of Gruber's present servants concentrated upon you, the elves had apparently rallied. Blinking, you could only feel slightly dismayed at the size of their host. You had been expected enormous swathes of expert elves, each of them a master of combat after centuries of training and knowledge. Instead you got a single swath. Your own forces would dwarf them several times over. For a moment, you wondered if it was all worth it.
Then their leader, bearing an even more impressive staff and headdress than the first elf you saw at the gates, raised a single hand and summoned a great confluence of power about them. For the first time in your life, you saw what the elves termed High Magic in action. Instead of a single weave of the Eight Winds as you knew the Wizards of the College's would use, they wove all of them together to devastating effect.
Others in the retinue raised their own hands, and added their power to the spell, whatever it was, seamlessly.
The enemy portal, or gate, or whatever it was, disappeared. Not with a titanic explosion, but with a quiet cough. One moment it was there, the next, it was simple
unmade. You watched as a Nurglite Sorcerer, the one who had been controlling the portal, lift his hands and unleash two more gates. They unleashed a single rank of daemons who were thusly filled with elvish arrows. Then the gates disappeared. One Sorcerer facing an elvish Archmage and her acolytes.
It wasn't even a contest.
Moments later saw the host turning towards you, and rapidly coming closer. Immediately the twenty elves from who had slipped away from Heilidorf to find you removed themselves from your ranks and joined the woman who you could only assume to be Archmage Aurelion. She was dressed in resplendent robes, though they were slightly torn and bloodied. Her staff gleamed with power, and as she dismounted the pure white stallion which she rode up to you, you could feel her eyes raking over you curiously and…almost as if you were an interesting insect. Before her your ranks parted, letting in the small stream of elves into your defensive perimeter.
Natasha soon appeared, standing shoulder to shoulder with you, and shared a look with you before the elf actually finished arriving. For a moment, no one said anything. Imperiously, the elf raised an eyebrow at you, while you and Natasha did the same, your hand on
Brain Wounder and your wife's on a rapier made of ice. Much later, when the elf was not in ear shot, Natasha would tell you that the strange expression on the elves face was not contempt, but frustration.
Awkwardly, as if she could not believe she was doing it, the elf bowed her head to you. Only slightly, but bow it she did.
"I…am….
thankful, for the rescue, human. Our powers are mighty but the stamina of Nurgle's servants is endless. We had begun to flag before you arrived. We…
I…owe you my life," she said in an odd voice. Like she was straining.
"Yeah, no problem," you replied blandly.
You could feel Natasha's eyes burning into the side of your skull, but for the life of you, you could not understand why. The elf, for her part, simply widened her eyes and appeared to be struggling to come up with a response.
"You Archmage Aurelion?" you ask, wriggling
Wounder in its scabbard and looking down at it. Hmm, seems a bit loose.
"…yes. I am Archmage Aurelion of Saphery," she says slowly.
You look up, and only sort of really notice that there is a dark look in her eyes. Then you dismiss it.
"Oh good. So how much do you know about what's been going on in this province?" you ask, pulling out your flask.
At this, she finally seems to regain regular speaking skills.
"Much. We have been here, trapped, for months now," she says gritting her teeth.
"Why?" Natasha speaks up suddenly, just as you were opening your mouth. Shrugging at her look, you take a welcome drink of Ostka, an actual long pull of it.
For a moment Aurelion looks reluctant to speak, then she sighs and her shoulders slump about half an inch.
"A prophecy," she bites out, making you look up in interest.
"A prophecy?" Natasha says with interest.
Aurelion nods, then she begins to speak in a haunting tone.
"One born from blood and ash…shall rise to swallow the lands of Young and Old. The Shade will Guide, the Disease will Provide, and upon the backs of
Rats shall he Ride. He shall be denied his first prize, for it was purposefully Lost, but the Second will He Find. The Crown shall grant him the fires to burn all."
You swallow, then drink the rest of your Ostka.
"Gruber is…the Disease?" Natasha says carefully.
"Yes. But we were too late," Aurelion says bitterly, "Prince Khalanos delayed us, the pompous
ass.
In a wild flash of insight, you chose…to say nothing.
"He has learned of the location of his true prize, while we know
nothing."
"What was the First one, if you don't mind me asking?" Natasha asks.
The Archmage rolled her hand dismissively.
"Asavar Kul's body."
Many firsts occurred today. Seeing a zombie become directly fueled by foul chaos powers. Seeing real High Magic, and speaking to an Archmage. Also, this is the first time in your life that you've ever choked on a drink of literally any kind.
"W-what?!" you shout, coughing heavily and thumping at your chest.
"We destroyed it, obviously, in a
very dangerous ritual with the aid of Loremaster Teclis. Otherwise it was just laying around. We suspect that the Prophesized One would have used it to empower himself so greatly that he would Ascend into a Daemon Prince."
Well. Well good. It's destroyed and no one can
use it to do this terrifying thing you did not know could happen.
"As for the second? We cannot know. There are many 'Crowns' laying around. In one ancient text it is said that one of the greatest evils the world ever knew, from when Nehekhara yet still lived, inhabits a crown ready to steal and replace the mind of anyone foolish to put it on."
You shudder. Even in Ostland you've heard of the…
Tomb Kings. It's enough to make you take another drink.
"What are your own plans?" she suddenly says sharply, pointedly looking at you.
"Rescue von Kessel and kill Gruber," you reply just as quickly. Instead of looking impressed, you get the vague idea that if she were human her jaw would be hanging open.
"Just…just like that. March south, over fifty miles, with your army, through enemy territory controlled by one of the most powerful mortal servants of Chaos I have seen in two centuries disregarding the Everchosen and his personal lieutenants.
Then even further to his
stronghold, where he has been building power for almost two decades.
After he has likely sacrificed almost all the humans of this land, as well as the orcs?"
You cock your head, and take another drink of Ostka. Aurelion wrinkles her nose.
"Yes."
"I had heard humans to be foolish, but I chose to believe the High Loremaster when he said that was not true of all of your kind.
Clearly he only mean the bare handful he met!" she says with exasperation.
Well, that is kind of rude.
"Yes. And you're coming with."
If she whipped her head around any faster she would have snapped her neck.
"What."
You nod sagely.
"You said you, and all of your people there, owe me your life. Well, I'm cashing in my favor, right now. Accompany us to rescue Kessel and Gruber."
She goggles. Or, what you are realizing is the elf-to-human equivalent. So her eyes widen slightly and her lips part just a little bit.
"I never said anything about favors!"
"Ah but you said you
owed me your life. Well, after this, you won't anymore!" you say cheerfully.
If looks could kill, you would spontaneously combust right at this moment.
"You are, by far, the
worst diplomat I have ever had the displeasure to negotiate with," she declares archly.
You shrug and raise up your right hand, fingers splayed outwards.
"Well, here's the thing. Your ships were destroyed," you say and tick off one finger.
"The docks of Heilidorf are pretty ravaged and I don't see any other ships there," another fingers goes.
"The longboats that the Norscans used are covered in rot and disease, and also there aren't enough to carry all of you."
Finger down.
"Your people are sworn enemies of Chaos, and Gruber has been doing his level best to
obliterate you for the past six months."
The penultimate finger closes down into a nearly formed fist.
"If you help with this, I'll help with this…Prophesized One or whatever he ends up truly being called."
The elf narrows her eyes at you.
"What, you would just…hold, who
are you?" she asks.
"I," you say pointing towards yourself, "am Count Frederick Hohenzollern of Ostland. This is my wife Natasha."
Natasha does a very shallow curtsey.
"An
Elector Count," the Archmage half whispers.
"Correct. I bring with me representatives of Talabecland, Middenland, and the honorable Moot. We have come to this land to bring Gruber to justice, and battle the forces of Chaos."
Then you step closer to the somewhat slimmer elf woman.
"So say what you must, judge me as you must, but know that I stand
against the same powers that you do."
Aurelion is silent for a moment before she turns away.
"…very well. We shall aid you in this
foolish endeavor."
You beam.
"Excellent. Once we have counted and burned the dead, we shall set up camp. I invite you to partake with us! Safety in numbers after all."
Aurelion wrinkles her nose, then inhales
deeply when a halfling passes by handing out post battle rations. Not quite a meal, by Halfling standards, but good for refueling after grueling combat. They had been holed up in Heilidorf for months. No matter how sophisticated their culture,
no ones long term rations tasted good. Thank goodness you had halfling
meals instead.
"…Perhaps we shall."
Army Of Ostland:
4005 Swordsmen
3,000 Archers
300 Light Cavalry
200 Pike
1,200 Ogre
500 Greatswords
750 Bull Warriors
1000 Kreml Guard
3000 Kossars
14 Knights Griffon
1750 Imperial Foot
1000 Imperial Foot Handgunners
4 Veteran Warrior Priests of Sigmar
Four Cannons
Allied Forces:
Kislev
2 Master Ice Mages [Veronika/Valentina]
1000 Kreml Guard
5,000 Kossars
2,000 Winged Lancers,
1,000 Ungol Horse Archers.
Middenland
4,200 Halberdiers
2,000 Pike
3,000 Swordsmen
580 Knights of the White Wolf
1 Priest of Ulric.
Talabecland
18,000 Flagellants
5,000 Swordsmen
3000 Archers
1000 Handgunners
400 Knights of the Broken Sword
Johanna Fuerbach – Hero Unit.
The Moot
1 Cookery Regiment
Soup Tank Kathleen.
Aurelion's Task Force
500 High Elven Spearmen
1000 High Elven Archers
450 High Elven Silver Helms
45 Swordsmasters of Hoeth
4 High Elven Mages
Archmage Aurelion – Hero Unit
