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Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
- Thread starter torroar
- Start date
- Mature
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- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy intrigue happens male protagonist ck2 quest belief stronk count of cannons drunken wisdom foes in the shadows graf of guns (guns) if you have a question check the front page first it begins... mountain vietnam ogres paranoia rising unseen enemies everywhere use the search function before asking waifu wars wake the bull
True. But then those ladies keep telling us to 'Stop drinking so much your damaging your liver' and blaaaaah blaaaaah blaaaaah
I kid, but yeah that makes sense. I'll adjust the numbers. I honestly forgot about her for a sec.
I feel like with that piety score, worshiping Sigmar gives us all it's problems with practically none of it's benefits. We're still not an Ulric worshiper in a primarily Ulric worshiping province that has never had a Count who wasn't an Ulric worshipper, so opeasant revolts are still ago, and if we were an Ulric worshiper, I don't see us giving a shit about guns not giving glory at piety 3.
I also imagine Freddy just never really thought about the gods in anyway. But if you pressed him I'd see his outlook as being. Everyone has a job or role, if they do that role properly then everything works out just fine. The gods also have their roles and he'll give them their due for doing their jobs but he doesn't have a real love for them. He doesn't know them personally so why should he?
Can we stop arguing about the religion already?!
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
True. But then those ladies keep telling us to 'Stop drinking so much your damaging your liver' and blaaaaah blaaaaah blaaaaah
I kid, but yeah that makes sense. I'll adjust the numbers. I honestly forgot about her for a sec.
Since we like big guys so much and we have lots of drink do we have regular contact with any nearby Dwarves?
If we do we might be able to convince them to help with our military. Or our beer making.
- Location
- The Usual Room
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Introduction
Note: After this post is when we get into the actual turns. But first....meet your PC.
"Get!"
Your hammer swings low, upending the rampaging gor. Glowing orange ash fills the air as it slams into the already weakening floorboards.
"Out!"
A backhanded swing kills the creature, while your armored boot acts as a battering ram against a charging ungor's ribs. The cat head mewls like a kitten in a most disturbing manner as solid steel and your foot finds its way into the creatures chest. Its momentum drags it forward a few more inches up your leg before stopping.
"OF!"
You stomp downwards, shaking off the creatures disgusting corpse, only for your instincts to scream out a warning as another ungor with a head that looks to have been entirely replaced by boney protrusions lets out a tinny scream as it brandishes a wicked looking axe that glows.
"MY!"
The mass of misshapen horns atop the beastman's head crack apart as you slam your hammer down onto its skull. Bone crunches wetly as the shards of its now collapsed skull tear the precious brain within into slurry. The wild spurt of blood that follows the squelch splatters across your already drenched chainmail shirt. You hadn't been able to get more than that and your greaves on before the door had caved in.
"SMITHY!"
With a wild roar, you whip your arm back and catch another creature directly in the throat. The solid weight of the hammer you have beaten out over a hundred swords with depresses the creature's neck until you can feel the faint click of the hammer head touching the spine within. The mutant falls to the ground, it's now utterly collapsed airways making a gurgling noise before you swing down again and put the blasted creature out of its misery.
"YOU DAMNED!"
To say that you are furious is an understatement. The point of Magnus the Pious having gained the assistance of the arseholes in the sky and everywhere else was that Chaos was supposed to have gotten its piss chucker whacked off. Oh sure, Praag got burnt to the ground and Kislev had rapidly shifted its frozen wasteland ratio to mostly just wasteland, but the Empire won! At least, it was supposed to have. The dwarves and elves had come in, and there had been magic and guns and everything was supposed to be dandy. Too bad the puissant hadn't thought to do much else than rebuild his precious Wissenland first.
But here you were! In Jegow, sent away because despite being the tenth son of the Elector Count, your oh so wonderful father had decided to plant you here. Because those foppish idiots who called themselves nobles had thought you too frighteningly intelligent and because you'd brought them to tears whenever you challenged their world view too harshly. Which…was all the time. But you'd adapted. You'd taken up a trade, to prove that you could and found that you loved it. Working metal over was your passion, and even if people thought it was strange that a son of the Elector Count wanted to spend his days in the smithy no one said anything because the quality of what you produced was too good to deprive themselves of.
Your smithy which, along with the rest of Jegow, was burning.
"DIRTY!"
Another beastman skull disappeared into chunky soup, even as you dodged out of the way of a haphazard sword strike from the twisted things companion. You killed, and killed, and killed. This had been your home for the past seven years, and you had grown fond of it. It was undeniably yours, and through the sweat of your brow you had made works of deadly art. All gone now, thanks to one of the innumerable beastmen tribes that lived in the Forest of Shadows which covered the vast majority of Ostland.
"BEASTMEN!"
You hadn't really connected with the people here, never saw much point in it, but you were, if nothing else, one of the nobles of Ostland. These were your people that these disgusting things that might once have been men were slaughtering. So yes, you were angry. Yet, deep within, you were resigned. This was Ostland. You lived in the Forest of Shadows. Whole tribes of beastmen or greenskin raids could swarm up out of the Forest at any time, and often did. It was little wonder that your people had come to love guns so much, despite the fact that many claimed to be practicing Ulricans.
Well.
To be fair, you were a Sigmarite. But that was literally only on paper. When asked which you worshipped you had said offhandedly that you liked the one with the hammer.
So yes, you were angry when you exited your collapsing smithy to see that the majority of Jegow was on fire or already in ruins. There were few civilians left, though the beastmen were largely in retreat for some reason. It certainly wasn't the militia, especially considering that you had just stepped your way over ones bloated corpse.
His face looked like he'd heard the worst joke in existence. Well, he lived in Ostland, so maybe he'd finally just realized the punchline.
"My lord!" an exhausted voice rings out.
You can't help but let your eyes be drawn to the speaker. Ah. So this is why the beastmen were in retreat. Unlike the scraps of the remaining militia, these fellows were far better equipped. You even saw a unit of men carrying guns with them. Which was nice, but you were also interested in the ten ogres you saw wearing only slightly ill-fitting armor with the colors of Ostland tattooed on their exposed flesh. In the lead is an exceptionally gun-covered woman, with smoke still rising up from the barrels of most of said firearms into the air.
"Lord Hohenzollern?" the woman says, a small questioning tone curling the end of the sentence.
Instead of immediately responding, you look down at yourself. A haphazardly slung on chainmail shirt with not much beneath leaving the skin rubbed raw. Two greaves which heavily crease the flaxen pants they had been shoved on top of. In one hand, blood still drips from your hammer. Well, blood drips from everywhere on you, but especially the hammer. You run a heavily calloused hand through your hair in an attempt to get rid of some of the gore, but only really succeed in making it stick up more. You look literally nothing like a Hohenzollern, but then that's the gods for you. You came out of your mother early which required extra healers and thus witnesses, so no one can deny your ancestry though some would dearly like to.
You cough, and then finally to clear your throat after all the yelling hock up a glob of dust, soot, and mucus. Then you cough again, before finally meeting the woman's appraising eyes.
"Yeah, yeah that's me. Frederick von Hohenzollern. Not that I don't appreciate the assistance but why are you here? Shouldn't the military be trying to reclaim the ports?" you ask, lightly hefting your hammer in hand.
She looks down. Hmm. Something is wrong then. Also how did she know who you were? A piece of crackling timber makes your ears twitch. Well. It might have been because the smithy held your name and they had come looking for it directly.
"They…were, my lord."
You frown. Something must be very wrong then.
"Were?"
It comes out in a rush.
"Yes, alongside your father and several of your brothers. But two days ago, we received reports that they had been surrounded. There…were so few survivors. You…are now the Elector Count."
You swallowed heavily as a massive weight seems to crunch itself upon your shoulders.
"That's…no, that's impossible. I-he…they-I'm the tenth son!" you exclaim wildly. "Lucian should have been holding down Wolfenburg, he should be Elector Count even if every single one of my fighting brothers perished in the fight. What about Gertrude? She's older than me by five years, what about her? Is she not in the capital?"
By now you have picked out the telltale sigils of the Witch Hunters on the woman's clothing, but her look of honest regret is foreign to you. People in her profession rarely showed such a thing sincerely.
"I'm sorry my Count, but the Order of the Silver Hammer has failed you."
Your eyes narrow.
"What…are you talking about?"
She does not avert her eyes this time.
"Your sister Gertrude is dead. Lucian is dead. Those of your family within Wulfenburg's walls have been slain. They were found in their rooms…the symbols of Chaos drawn out in their blood upon the walls. You are the last of the Hohenzollern…my Count."
A creeping numbness begins to suffuse you.
"Most of the Order had been dispatched elsewhere in the Empire, we did not think that any would be so brazen to perform such an act so soon after the death of the Everchosen. But while the Emperor rebuilds he has focused in the south, his efforts have not fully reached us. We-,"
"Be quiet," you whisper.
The haft of the hammer creaks as your knuckles turn white from the pressure. Father, dead. The one who sent you away for your own good to a remote village in the middle of the Forest of Shadows…is dead. Gertrude, with her snorting laugh. Lucian, who always had his nose stuck in a book.
All dead. By the hands of Chaos. Magnus the Pious supposedly brought all the God's with him to strike Chaos down. Well they don't look too 'struck down' to you. Your grip tightens further, the other hand curled into such a tight fist that your blood drips from where nails have dug too deep into flesh. If the most Pious Emperor decides to ignore Ostland so be it. Where was Sigmar's blessing in Wulfenburg to protect the rest of your family, those who were never fighters? Or for those who were in the north? Or Ulrics?
"I apologize my Lord, but you are Elector Count now. Many of my Order went to their deaths retrieving the Runefang. It awaits you now in Wulfenburg…your capital," the Witch Hunter murmurs.
Your head hangs low as you squeeze your eyes shut. For a moment, the world is silent save for the flames which now consume the carcass of Jegow. Your mind runs itself in circles as the soldiers in front of you shift uneasily. But then you open your eyes, your expression hard, and you look up.
"Take me to my Runeblade then. I have a province to run."
To hell with the God's. You're a blacksmith. You'll do what you have to with your own two hands...
"Would you care for a drink, my Count?" the Witch Hunter asks, offering a metal flask.
You squint at her before relenting and grabbing it. She is an Ostlander after all. What you swig down burns your throat nicely, so you empty the entire thing to her widening eyes. The alcohol was nice enough to likely have a dwarven source. Yes.
You'll do what you have to do with your own two hands...and a lot of ale.
Introduction
"Get!"
Your hammer swings low, upending the rampaging gor. Glowing orange ash fills the air as it slams into the already weakening floorboards.
"Out!"
A backhanded swing kills the creature, while your armored boot acts as a battering ram against a charging ungor's ribs. The cat head mewls like a kitten in a most disturbing manner as solid steel and your foot finds its way into the creatures chest. Its momentum drags it forward a few more inches up your leg before stopping.
"OF!"
You stomp downwards, shaking off the creatures disgusting corpse, only for your instincts to scream out a warning as another ungor with a head that looks to have been entirely replaced by boney protrusions lets out a tinny scream as it brandishes a wicked looking axe that glows.
"MY!"
The mass of misshapen horns atop the beastman's head crack apart as you slam your hammer down onto its skull. Bone crunches wetly as the shards of its now collapsed skull tear the precious brain within into slurry. The wild spurt of blood that follows the squelch splatters across your already drenched chainmail shirt. You hadn't been able to get more than that and your greaves on before the door had caved in.
"SMITHY!"
With a wild roar, you whip your arm back and catch another creature directly in the throat. The solid weight of the hammer you have beaten out over a hundred swords with depresses the creature's neck until you can feel the faint click of the hammer head touching the spine within. The mutant falls to the ground, it's now utterly collapsed airways making a gurgling noise before you swing down again and put the blasted creature out of its misery.
"YOU DAMNED!"
To say that you are furious is an understatement. The point of Magnus the Pious having gained the assistance of the arseholes in the sky and everywhere else was that Chaos was supposed to have gotten its piss chucker whacked off. Oh sure, Praag got burnt to the ground and Kislev had rapidly shifted its frozen wasteland ratio to mostly just wasteland, but the Empire won! At least, it was supposed to have. The dwarves and elves had come in, and there had been magic and guns and everything was supposed to be dandy. Too bad the puissant hadn't thought to do much else than rebuild his precious Wissenland first.
But here you were! In Jegow, sent away because despite being the tenth son of the Elector Count, your oh so wonderful father had decided to plant you here. Because those foppish idiots who called themselves nobles had thought you too frighteningly intelligent and because you'd brought them to tears whenever you challenged their world view too harshly. Which…was all the time. But you'd adapted. You'd taken up a trade, to prove that you could and found that you loved it. Working metal over was your passion, and even if people thought it was strange that a son of the Elector Count wanted to spend his days in the smithy no one said anything because the quality of what you produced was too good to deprive themselves of.
Your smithy which, along with the rest of Jegow, was burning.
"DIRTY!"
Another beastman skull disappeared into chunky soup, even as you dodged out of the way of a haphazard sword strike from the twisted things companion. You killed, and killed, and killed. This had been your home for the past seven years, and you had grown fond of it. It was undeniably yours, and through the sweat of your brow you had made works of deadly art. All gone now, thanks to one of the innumerable beastmen tribes that lived in the Forest of Shadows which covered the vast majority of Ostland.
"BEASTMEN!"
You hadn't really connected with the people here, never saw much point in it, but you were, if nothing else, one of the nobles of Ostland. These were your people that these disgusting things that might once have been men were slaughtering. So yes, you were angry. Yet, deep within, you were resigned. This was Ostland. You lived in the Forest of Shadows. Whole tribes of beastmen or greenskin raids could swarm up out of the Forest at any time, and often did. It was little wonder that your people had come to love guns so much, despite the fact that many claimed to be practicing Ulricans.
Well.
To be fair, you were a Sigmarite. But that was literally only on paper. When asked which you worshipped you had said offhandedly that you liked the one with the hammer.
So yes, you were angry when you exited your collapsing smithy to see that the majority of Jegow was on fire or already in ruins. There were few civilians left, though the beastmen were largely in retreat for some reason. It certainly wasn't the militia, especially considering that you had just stepped your way over ones bloated corpse.
His face looked like he'd heard the worst joke in existence. Well, he lived in Ostland, so maybe he'd finally just realized the punchline.
"My lord!" an exhausted voice rings out.
You can't help but let your eyes be drawn to the speaker. Ah. So this is why the beastmen were in retreat. Unlike the scraps of the remaining militia, these fellows were far better equipped. You even saw a unit of men carrying guns with them. Which was nice, but you were also interested in the ten ogres you saw wearing only slightly ill-fitting armor with the colors of Ostland tattooed on their exposed flesh. In the lead is an exceptionally gun-covered woman, with smoke still rising up from the barrels of most of said firearms into the air.
"Lord Hohenzollern?" the woman says, a small questioning tone curling the end of the sentence.
Instead of immediately responding, you look down at yourself. A haphazardly slung on chainmail shirt with not much beneath leaving the skin rubbed raw. Two greaves which heavily crease the flaxen pants they had been shoved on top of. In one hand, blood still drips from your hammer. Well, blood drips from everywhere on you, but especially the hammer. You run a heavily calloused hand through your hair in an attempt to get rid of some of the gore, but only really succeed in making it stick up more. You look literally nothing like a Hohenzollern, but then that's the gods for you. You came out of your mother early which required extra healers and thus witnesses, so no one can deny your ancestry though some would dearly like to.
You cough, and then finally to clear your throat after all the yelling hock up a glob of dust, soot, and mucus. Then you cough again, before finally meeting the woman's appraising eyes.
"Yeah, yeah that's me. Frederick von Hohenzollern. Not that I don't appreciate the assistance but why are you here? Shouldn't the military be trying to reclaim the ports?" you ask, lightly hefting your hammer in hand.
She looks down. Hmm. Something is wrong then. Also how did she know who you were? A piece of crackling timber makes your ears twitch. Well. It might have been because the smithy held your name and they had come looking for it directly.
"They…were, my lord."
You frown. Something must be very wrong then.
"Were?"
It comes out in a rush.
"Yes, alongside your father and several of your brothers. But two days ago, we received reports that they had been surrounded. There…were so few survivors. You…are now the Elector Count."
You swallowed heavily as a massive weight seems to crunch itself upon your shoulders.
"That's…no, that's impossible. I-he…they-I'm the tenth son!" you exclaim wildly. "Lucian should have been holding down Wolfenburg, he should be Elector Count even if every single one of my fighting brothers perished in the fight. What about Gertrude? She's older than me by five years, what about her? Is she not in the capital?"
By now you have picked out the telltale sigils of the Witch Hunters on the woman's clothing, but her look of honest regret is foreign to you. People in her profession rarely showed such a thing sincerely.
"I'm sorry my Count, but the Order of the Silver Hammer has failed you."
Your eyes narrow.
"What…are you talking about?"
She does not avert her eyes this time.
"Your sister Gertrude is dead. Lucian is dead. Those of your family within Wulfenburg's walls have been slain. They were found in their rooms…the symbols of Chaos drawn out in their blood upon the walls. You are the last of the Hohenzollern…my Count."
A creeping numbness begins to suffuse you.
"Most of the Order had been dispatched elsewhere in the Empire, we did not think that any would be so brazen to perform such an act so soon after the death of the Everchosen. But while the Emperor rebuilds he has focused in the south, his efforts have not fully reached us. We-,"
"Be quiet," you whisper.
The haft of the hammer creaks as your knuckles turn white from the pressure. Father, dead. The one who sent you away for your own good to a remote village in the middle of the Forest of Shadows…is dead. Gertrude, with her snorting laugh. Lucian, who always had his nose stuck in a book.
All dead. By the hands of Chaos. Magnus the Pious supposedly brought all the God's with him to strike Chaos down. Well they don't look too 'struck down' to you. Your grip tightens further, the other hand curled into such a tight fist that your blood drips from where nails have dug too deep into flesh. If the most Pious Emperor decides to ignore Ostland so be it. Where was Sigmar's blessing in Wulfenburg to protect the rest of your family, those who were never fighters? Or for those who were in the north? Or Ulrics?
"I apologize my Lord, but you are Elector Count now. Many of my Order went to their deaths retrieving the Runefang. It awaits you now in Wulfenburg…your capital," the Witch Hunter murmurs.
Your head hangs low as you squeeze your eyes shut. For a moment, the world is silent save for the flames which now consume the carcass of Jegow. Your mind runs itself in circles as the soldiers in front of you shift uneasily. But then you open your eyes, your expression hard, and you look up.
"Take me to my Runeblade then. I have a province to run."
To hell with the God's. You're a blacksmith. You'll do what you have to with your own two hands...
"Would you care for a drink, my Count?" the Witch Hunter asks, offering a metal flask.
You squint at her before relenting and grabbing it. She is an Ostlander after all. What you swig down burns your throat nicely, so you empty the entire thing to her widening eyes. The alcohol was nice enough to likely have a dwarven source. Yes.
You'll do what you have to do with your own two hands...and a lot of ale.
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That's because Duncan has TERRIBLE luck and managed to piss off some really high ranked assholes.
So really, all we have to do is NOT become a godling and acquire the eternal enmity of a Daemon Prince. I know it's gonna be hard for us, expecially the "not becoming a God" thing, but I'm sure that with some effort we won't get to that point that fast, right ?
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Dutch
Bored Spearman of the Wind
- Location
- CET
Is that a map for ants?Here is a map of ostland.
I will post this on the front page.
Tiny map is tiny...
Imperious
Without the sun of my life
Looks big on my screen. Hmm.
Better?
http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net.../latest/scale-to-width/1000?cb=20130622031928
Yes much better.
Actually he nearly did when the Skaven hit Nuln. Gaius mentioned that if he had just spent one or two more turns in that state he'd have converted to Chaos without ever realizing it in his insane revenge upon the Skaven.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
.....
Right, new plan:
Burn the fucking woods down.
Right, new plan:
Burn the fucking woods down.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Yeah, I hope all of the traits we get just increase our Martial, Intrigue, Diplomacy and Stewardship. Especially the latter, really.
Let's keep Piety as is!
Let's keep Piety as is!
Better hope Magnus can come and talk to this Elector Count - we need him to put his massive charisma to use to comfort our character.
Check how much Piety he got in the end.
Also, remember what could've happened to Helgana if we hadn't saved her husband?
Having low Piety is a horrible thing in this world.
A few points?
Check how much Piety he got in the end.
Also, remember what could've happened to Helgana if we hadn't saved her husband?
Having low Piety is a horrible thing in this world.
