GM Note: Fuck me this was supposed to be way shorter. Gotta keep working on that brevity...
Religious Matters Interlude 2
"Several years ago, I began to deploy my forces alongside the dwarfs of the Karaz Ankor," Ortrud begins, her voice a sharp soldier's staccato, "Whilst also swearing to an oath of secrecy about the operations being undertaken."
The Emperor doesn't blink, or do much anything at all other than breathe, his face left utterly blank. Logan is much the same, though he doesn't seem nearly as able to remain completely emotionless. On the other hand, the Grand Theogonist seems to have the faintest hint of approval coming from him. Which, to be fair, matches with one of the primary tenets of the faith.
"For what purpose," Magnus asks mildly.
"The reclamation of their lost territories over the past two thousand years since the founding of the Empire," Ortrud bows her head slightly, "It began with opening talks with the Last Slayer King, Ungrim Ironfist, and proceeded from there. We began-,"
"
Last Slayer King," the Emperor interrupts, his voice still calm. "I had not heard Ungrim referred to in such a way before."
You cough, making eyes swivel to you.
"He is. Now his son, Baragor, once known as Garagrim, rules Karak Kadrin not as a slayer, but as a King unbound by the search for doom."
Eyes widen fractionally, but Magnus nods.
"I see that much has occurred indeed."
"An understatement, my Emperor," Stephan says, eyes cutting in what is vague accusation towards you and Ortrud.
He is perhaps not entirely over not being told about what his allies and friends have been doing without him. Which you will grant him, it is not a pleasant feeling more likely than not. But on the other hand, his province was the most depleted out of the entire trident, and has not yet recovered. It might not recover until you are long-dead, for all you know. It is
Ostermark which is currently the strongest in such terms, though not necessarily military-wise. You still remember the barely-living skeleton who stood against the forces of Nurgle at Luftberg.
"Hmm. Speak, then," Magnus rolls his hand at you and Ortrud to continue.
And so you do. Or rather, Ortrud does. She speaks of a long and hard campaign, for years and years, grinding against the endless greenskin hordes of the mountains. Of knights charging into orc mobs as they struggled against dwarf shieldwalls, of mines and minor holds there were town-equivalents at best. Recovered secret vaults, family homes, breweries, and so on and so forth. Fights that, on reflection, pale in comparison to Karak Ungor. Yet at the same time, such actions built her reputation amongst the dwarfs, to the point that she dined with dwarf kings and queens, princes and princesses, as they toasted each victory reclaimed. Until, of course, the greatest of the holds possible to reclaim – for the hold known as Karak Vlag was gone entirely through means unknown – remained by itself.
Karak Ungor.
"Then…Frederick managed to get involved," she offers you a wan smile, "And started gearing up for coming in himself."
"S'why I sent Urgdug into Sylvania," you let one of your hands wriggle for one of the flasks in your bandolier, "Cut the teeth of the green amongst them."
Sylvania. You never even came before now, but the Army of Ostland did, under Urgdug. It was one thing to hear the stories, and entirely another to see the place where your brother and soldiers fought.
"Then," Stephan interrupts, "I received a message. Not from the dwarfs, however. From the Wood Elves of Laurelorn."
That garners some extra attention, for the Wood Elves have ever been stupendously reclusive, save for when they are most violently not.
"They requested to meet not with me, nor Ortrud, or even you, my Emperor…but with Frederick."
You realize that everyone is staring at you, Ortrud and Stephan included. In response you take a long, long pull from one of your flasks, letting the ostka burn its way down, until the entire thing is drained. Slowly, deliberately, you put it back in its holster, and place your hands behind your back, clasping the wrist.
"It's because of when we fought against Gruber," you finally say, staring straight ahead at a point just to the left of the Emperor's head. "I met with one of their…royals, though I didn't know it exactly at the time."
"Well," Logan grunts, one eyebrow raised, "I can't wait to hear
this."
The Battle of the Bonegate is something that Ortrud was not really aware of, not fully, nor its implications. Or at least you don't think so. You rather quickly went from it to Karak Kadrin, and then to Karak Ungor. Stephan too, was not able to personally actually come in. But you tell it all. There is no room for deception here, only the unvarnished truth. About the new leader of Laurelorn, the death of the apparent progenitor of all centigor. Your encounter with the dryad. The sheer violence unleashed within that forest. And, in turn, your reward.
"Ah," Magnus says once your tale of that place is finished, "I was wondering about that. May I see?"
Nothing in you really allows you to refuse him as he comes about the table, slipping off the Light of Summer so that he can hold it in his hands. He is frustratingly inscrutable, tilting the gemstone this way and that way to glint in the light, running a thumb along its chained length. Finally, he hands it back, returning to his place at the head of the table, tilting his head as he looks at you and it. Carefully, you loop it back over your head to rest against your chest, and it takes a somewhat notable amount of effort to not fidget at the looks that both Grand Theogonist and Ar-Ulric are giving you now.
"That would likely interest quite a few of the Magic Colleges," Magnus murmurs, before straightening, "But enough of that. Continue."
And so you do. You speak of it all, down to every detail you can remember, which is quite a lot indeed. Of Karak Kadrin, of meeting Baragor when he was but Garagrim, of Thorgrim, of them all. The discussions, the oaths sworn, the agreements made. The marches, the fights, the journey just to get
inside of Karak Ungor. The brushes of death of your children, and more, just upon the first level. Ortrud interjects and in some occasions takes over entirely. It is just as much her story as yours, for while you were trapped in the tunnels and in the dark, she still fought alongside the rest of the throngs, and saw things that even you did not, faced foes you never did.
To encapsulate an entire year's worth of trial and blood takes a long, long time. Eventually, just to keep her dry throat from cracking, Ortrud has to accept a flask of Bretonnian wine from you. The Emperor orders in chairs to be brought from one of the other two sectors of the giant tent, simply because you and Ortrud speak for so long that hours pass. But you continue to speak. Of vast and horrifying skaven beasts, of mutated greenskins, monstrous creations from both. But you also speak of nightmares, your own, and others.
Your own near death, and that of Thorgrim Grudgebearer. You see the knuckles of the Grand Theogonist tighten at the tale of it, squeezed tightly enough to become white with pressure. But remarkably there is no incredulousness openly displayed by any of the three men before you. Ortrud's own contribution at that point, speaking towards…well, everything that happened while you were comatose. At that point, Natasha leaves and your heart seizes as she is forced to hear of the event both from you and an outside perspective, but then she returns with Magnus in tow. Your son, that is. His body is struck by an unnatural rigidness in his spine the moment he sees who is looking at him, but a solid clap to the back from you jolts him out of it.
Because then it is his turn to speak, and yours to listen.
The pain your son and daughter suffered, that your soldiers did, while you were broken and unconscious is…horrific. It tears open wounds you'd thought healed, to hear the emotion in your son's voice as he talks about the sight of your body in repose. Of the heartfelt contributions of your soldiers, talismans of the Gods, up to and including ones that were not desired at all. Things you did not hear, did not see, could not fight. Then, however, came when you woke back up. Throughout it all, no one interrupts, and the few times that you hear messengers coming from outside they are stopped by the knights. You speak, and drink. Ortrud speaks, and drinks. Magnus speaks, and drinks. On, and on, and on.
You speak of Gods, and of faith, and death. Magnus of blood and snapping bone. Ortrud of shadows and biting at a green tide with blade in hand. And more, and more. More than once, you see Magnus – the Emperor – restrain himself from asking questions. Neither of the other two men are nearly as restrained. Gottfried, no, Molatok now, you'd heard from the soldiers you'd passed, makes you stop more than two dozen times. He demands answers about Gazul, about your own self-revelation, of your interactions and sights, of the faith you display even now. Logan focuses on the fights, the foes fought, but he too is more than a little sharp with your self-professed changes, his eyes tracing your changed form with a suspicious eye. They peel apart everything, every fraction, to know even the minute details that you hadn't even thought to be relevant.
Eventually...you reach the end. You had arrived around midday, but now the moon hung high in the sky. The soldiery had almost all long-departed into heavy stone and wood structures of the camp. Though the Chaos Moon was not high in the sky on this night, chances simply could not be taken in Sylvania of all places. The knights outside were now brought in, each from their legendary orders alongside Regina Leitdorf, each remaining present for the final chapter of Karak Ungor. So you speak of Skulltaker, the very name of whom makes for many paling faces, raggedly drawn in breaths, gasps of horror. But you also speak of its defeat, barely won, and the results afterward. The exact mechanics are beyond you, as to how it occurred, but it did. As you are speaking, however, Molatok is rising from his chair, a visible nimbus of golden light surrounding him as he clutches at you, dragging you away from Ortrud and Stephan.
It…is not the most pleasant feeling, but not wholly painful either. He hisses words beneath his breath, but the sheer power flowing from him is somehow louder. It feels like your teeth are cracking in your skull, your whole very being
shaking from the strength of his faith made manifest. Eventually you are able to open your eyes, only to find yourself on your hands and knees, gasping for air. Molatok is staggering backwards, hand to his forehead, but then Logan is upon you, dragging you up to your feet by the scruff of your neck. And it begins again. There is no ceremony, no warning, and unlike Sigmar's light the razor edge of Ulric's will
burns at you, burns like the deepest winter ice placed against your flesh. You swear you hear noises behind you, of protest, of surprise. But all of it disappears as a shrieking cold wind that drowns out all else screams its way through you. Yet again you find yourself on your hands and knees, Logan stalking away, muttering to himself.
(Soul Searching: 73+Grand Theogonist(15)+Sigmar's Mein Present(5)=93/100)
(Soul Scouring: 61+Ar-Ulric(15)+Winter's Chosen Servant(10)=86/100)
This time, it is Stephan and Ortrud who help you to your feet, and only then do you see Natasha, barely restrained by your son. She holds your youngest with one arm, the other coming to clutch with worry at your shoulder. Opposite you, at the other end of the table, Magnus alternates from looking at both cult leaders and back at you, a considering look in his eye. Unbidden, one of your arms comes around Natasha's shoulder, holding her against you, and her holding you, as you wait for…something, you are not sure what. It is Molatok who finishes his own considerations first, whirling on you, not with a vengeful face about to deliver retribution but something potentially more worrying – a smile. He approaches you, hands outstretched for a moment, but then he drops them. A hint of indecision crosses his face before he finally nods and comes forward, grabbing you in a very strangely sincere hug.
"You have seen the light, Sigmar be praised, and he has blessed you in turn," he says loudly enough for all to hear.
This time, you elect to ignore the sudden storm of murmuring which breaks out amongst all of the knights and greatswords now present in the tent. Molatok steps back, hands still on your shoulders, and with what you swear might even be a tear in his eye.
"I can
see his hand in you, now," he says, nodding again, before stepping back. "Sigmar is truly glorious."
"Yes," Logan interrupts, stroking a hand along his massive beard, "Glory to Sigmar, greatest of
Ulric's champions."
The smile on Molatok's face fractures, and he slowly turns his head to glare at Logan, who smiles back beatifically in turn. Both of them open their mouths at the same time to speak, but Magnus slams his hand down against the table, making both half-jump as the Emperor peers at them both with open disappointment. The Pious frowns at them, shaking his head, and looks back up at you.
"This is not the time, my friends," he says, the sudden tension draining away in the same instant. "But I do take your words seriously. He is whole? Untainted?"
"He is more than that," Molatok nods, pointing at you, "Sigmar has
blessed him!"
"He is pure," Logan cuts in before the Grand Theogonist can proselytize further, "That much is true. But…there are further questions that must be asked. Is he dead? No. Is he undead? No. But he
died. That much he himself has said."
The cloth marking the tent's entrance flaps open again, to admit Arthur and the priest of Morr from before…as well as a third person, whose presence brings a quiet noise of relief and joy from Ortrud.
Reinhardt Hertwig looks haggard, but he is
conscious, and looks far healthier than the time you saw him last. He barely gets enough time to open his mouth before his mother has dragged him into her arms, her armor and his bones creaking in tandem as she squeezes him. For a moment there is nothing but that, and you share an awkward glance with Stephan who shrugs back, but it ends within a few moments and Ortrud once more takes her place. Arthur and his companion come with her, however. Arthur offers an encouraging smile, but his fellow priest eyes you with nothing less than the utmost suspicion and vaguely disgusted fascination.
"That is a matter for the priests," Magnus announces, "But for now, continue, and finish your story, my friends, and then we can see…," his eyes narrow, "What we shall see."
The tale goes on, until its last thread is spun, by all those who had been present for it that are now within the tent. The marriages. The ale. The celebrations. Ogres, greenskins, skaven, and more. The recovery of the hammer. The death of the foes in their number. The throne, and its false counterpart. Especially Rot-Toof, and the tendency of the Red Eye to use warpstone in their own horrible workings. Even the dragons too. All put together it is quite the nearly unbelievable tale, save for the fact that you are here, now, and the many witnesses you possess.
"King Baragor would vouch for me, as would the High King of the dwarfs," you finish, "As can Ortrud. The Jade Wizard Lord Wolfgang. Dwarfs from almost every major hold. And so on. It happened," you look from Molatok, to Logan, to Magnus. "And here we are, now."
Magnus studies you, looking you up and down, before thinning his lips.
"Remove your armor, I would see the scars of which you speak."
Grimacing, but unable to disobey, you strip down to your waist, to reveal the scars which are still present across your frame. Even many months of wearing the Light of Summer has not removed them. From your disemboweling, and everything else. Going by what you can hear from the other people in the room, the knights and the Leitdorf heiress, they are quite gruesome still. It is a good thing to remember that most all other people are not nearly as inured to the sight of them, not like you've become over the many years.
"By the Gods," he murmurs at the sight of you.
"Praise be to them," you answer back, a small smile on your lips.
"High Priest Arthur, High Priest Bartolomeo," Magnus nods to each of them in turn, "Thank you for coming."
"I have heard from Arthur about the state of his father," the now named Bartolomeo sniffs, stalking forward so that he can grip you by the chin and stare into your eyes.
This close, you swear you can see the slightest
strangeness in his eyes, something which rather disturbingly reminds you of a molten gaze blazing out from pure darkness. He squints at you before pushing away from you, hands on his hips as he walks back over to Arthur. You do not hear the rapid fire whispering that they exchange but when it is done Bartolomeo turns about again and rubs his chin, before finally sighing, a motion which causes the raven on his shoulder to squawk and flap over to Arthur instead. The glowering look that Bartolomeo levers at your son gains him nothing but a shrug and apologetic look from Arthur.
"He is…alive, that is true and certain," the Tilean man – going by his accent – finally says, "But there is a definite change to his…being."
"But I'm alive, it happened, and I'm…at the least not possessed or anything," you point out.
All of the priests gather together then, leaving you with your friends, Magnus, and Natasha.
"I'm sure it will be fine, father," Magnus tells you, though the way he worries at his lip betrays his anxiety.
"It will be," Natasha insists, stubbornly, holding a now sleepily awake Logan with both arms. "It
will be."
You wait another minute before they return as a group, the Emperor coming with them.
"For now, we will put aside…that business, for your son informed us that you had another matter with which to discuss," Magnus says, his voice carefully slow, "For which I will request all that are not the Electors themselves and Lady Natasha to recuse themselves to one of the secondary areas."
Regina is the first to go, twisting about so hard and abruptly on her heel that the earth beneath her feet is torn as if a spike had gone through it, soon to be followed by knights and greatswords alike. In the time it takes for your eyes to travel after them and back to the priests, the Ar-Ulric has advanced to right in front of you, his expression stern.
"Let me see the boy," Logan states simply, his hands out.
Natasha is, for but a moment, frozen, before finally she swallows and hands your child into the arms of the one who might kill him. Logan looks up at, well, Logan, his eyes fully opened now. Small pudgy arms grasp upwards, though he is held at a length enough that he cannot reach the Ar-Ulric easily. More worryingly is the massive paw of Logan's hand wrapping lightly around the babe's neck, his knuckles supporting the head. He is utterly silent as he stares down into his namesake's eyes, unmoving other than his eyes, carefully looking upon every inch of your child. With a casual motion he rips the swaddling away, leaving Logan bare, the sudden exposure to the cold making him wriggle unhappily. Then, he is rolled over, so that the Ar-Ulric can place bare fingers onto the supposed birthmark along his neck – something that to you honestly looked more like a smudge than anything else.
"He will remain with me for night," Logan finally says, looking up at you, "If he is pure, I shall return him to you. If not…-,"
"We understand," Natasha interrupts, but for all the calmness in her voice, she cannot tear her eyes away, her fingers digging into your skin. "We'll go."
"With us," Arthur says, and you hear the regret in his voice. "I'm sorry mother."
Slowly, Natasha turns to him, her voice frosty.
"Excuse me?"
"Father
needs to be more closely examined, and there will never be another time when he could be…save for the next Conclave of Faith, which is not for some years yet," Arthur replies, rubbing at the back of his head. "It would be better this way."
"I'm alive, you know. And not undead," you point out.
"Perhaps only somewhat true," Bartolomeo says, eyebrow raised, "And regardless, you would not have come to here without expecting this."
Point.
"Frederick…
"I'll be fine, Natasha," you kiss her forehead.
She looks more than a little conflicted, but in the end lets herself be drawn away by Magnus, while you instead go with Arthur towards another section of the camp. One marked by silent knights in black armor and the smell of moss and incense. The odd twilight of the hour before the sun rises once more seems magnified somehow in the main camp of the Morrites, while your son's back straightens and his step seems ever more sure the further you step in. Finally, you see where he has been leading you, a small Garden of Morr, akin to the ones that were built in the Northern Trident. A great many more priests await you, some who look like the more traditional sort, but also a number of those who have the bearing of the Order of the Garden themselves.
"For what it's worth…I believe you," Arthur says as you pass through the threshold.
=============================
The cloying smoke of the incense, the chanting, all of it and more reminds you of a more horrifying time. But here, there is no Jung standing over you, no emotionless Emperors, no hot pokers or pliers stabbing into you or pulling at your flesh. Nor the torches that burned hotly so close, filling the room with light. In fact, there is almost no light at all. That, and the fact that Arthur is here, helps only slightly. It is, on the other hand, undeniable that you are more than a little resistant to the chains that they offered up to wrap you in, lacquered black and inscribed with the words of Morr. You
refuse to be bound like that again, and this alone sparks a huge argument amongst all the priests, until Arthur's voice has to rise up in a roar to shout over all of them.
"He has come
willingly," he booms, "Is that not enough proof for you?"
"There have been so-called 'free-willed' undead before," an unfamiliar priest speaks, a woman with a Tilean accent, "Wight Kings of the ancients, for instance. Or vampires…,"
You snarl, turning about in the dark until your honed senses find the one who spoke, even if you can't see very well in the shadows.
"Do I look like a vampire to you? Unless you think the Grand Theogonist not burning me to death with Sigmar's power is not enough for you?"
She shifts, slightly, though whether it's in surprise that you found her in the shadows or fear, you can't tell for certain.
"He is
not a vampire," Arthur admonishes her, his tone almost offended, "For the reasons he stated and more. Don't be foolish."
"And you are his son, and thus subject to bias, no matter how right or wrong you may in fact be," another priest speaks calmly, this one having the accent of a Stirlander unless you miss your mark.
"After all this time,
that is what you-,"
"Wouldn't it be better to-,"
"If he won't allow himself to be-,"
"The dead are dead, the living live! There is-,"
"You could be protecting him, High Priest Arthur, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. He is your father, and I'm sure that-," another priest says with a remarkably kind voice.
"If he was undead I
would have struck him down-," Arthur thunders, stabbing a finger at you.
"Good lad," you mutter.
At your feet, the chains they attempted to bind you with lay, looped about the ground. Sighing, you pull a smaller flask from your hip and pop it open, causing the angry debate around you to pause. Steadfastly ignoring all of them, you drink the thing entirely, tossing it out into the shadows where it smacks against a wall or something. Looking at your son, who is close enough to you that you can see his frustrated face, you roll your eyes and grab the chains with your hands. Only pausing for a second, he flicks his fingers and two more priest arrive, wrapping it tightly about you. They are unnaturally cold, even and especially against your own body heat, and yet continue to be so after remaining in contact with you.
"There," you glare out at them all, "Happy now?"
"The tests have yet to even begin, Count," Bartolomeo speaks, appearing in front of you, rubbing at his chin. "But this is a good start. You aren't crumbling apart, for one."
You blink and look down at the chains for a few seconds before looking back up raising an eyebrow at the elder priest.
"Excuse me?"
"Those are some of the most blessed of Morr's tools that have ever existed, borne from the vaults in Luccini themselves," he explains, tapping them for emphasis with the haft of his scythe. "They are anathema to lesser undead."
Oh. Well. That's good to know now that you've already put them on.
"
Now the tests begin."
==============================================
(Stone Portals And Underearth: 88+Anointed of Morr(15)+Chains of the Black Rose(5)=108/100)
(Scythe N' Raven: 44+Anointed Of Morr(15)+Decades A Priest(10)+Chains of the Black Rose(5)=74/100)
Time melted away in the darkness, surrounded by Morr's chosen.
They poked and prodded, they cast their chants, some of them summoned forth the actual power of Morr himself, you know, for by now you have simply grown ever-so-slightly perceptive of the powers of the Gods. Or maybe that is the hangover and the incense talking. Likely the latter, but still. You have felt and seen the icy fury of Ulric, felt the light of Sigmar both burn and heal, and more. But Morr's touch is simply unsettling, a cloaking sensation of near numbness. It doesn't burn at you, but neither does it offer you anything positive in turn. Which, you suppose, forcibly sober as you are after who knows how long without food or water, might be because you are not dead or
undead.
The chains do not burn you down, nor do the holy powers they unleash upon you, though you cannot deny that they affect you
slightly. You do not simply collapse as dark magic is cut from strings, as a zombie or skeleton might, but the numbness that wraps around you is unsettlingly uncomfortable. Something just on the side of 'other' than you know it should be. A concern that develops more than you had thought it would. Than would be necessary. And yet you mutter your own prayers within your mind, to Sigmar, and to Morr as well, to see you through this.
It is nothing to what you suffered from the Witch Hunters. Not even close.
Eventually, it ends, the priests filtering out one after another, until you are left alone. Not even Arthur remains, though he leaves last, and you are left alone in the darkness with these odd chains wrapped about you. The bindings are loosened, at least, and you can squint at their make. You can't tell the exact metal or alloy making up the material, and in the faint light and hours spent down making your eyes adjust, you swear you can see incredibly intricate carvings of the various symbols of Morr engraved into it. At the least, they left you your clothes. And, thanks to Arthur, the Light of Summer. You had been forced to remove it so that they could actually test your ability to
bleed, as the undead do not. Down to the bone, in one case, something that would cripple one not as inured to pain as you from the sheer sensation.
Still, over the course of an hour, the Light of Summer is once more around your neck, healing you to the point that no more of the inflicted wounds from the test remains.
When the door swings open again, it is with light that makes you blink blearily. Arthur stands before you, a blazing torch in his hand, and a dwarf you do not recognize at his side. Yet you still feel almost like you know him regardless. The dwarf wears black robes, a silver single-handed hammer looped onto his belt, but his feet are bare as he approaches you. You look at Arthur in confusion, but he merely shakes his head and jerks his chin at the dwarf who comes close enough that you can read the tattoos on his bald head. The khazalid tattoos. It's a burial prayer, tattooed around the whole of his head, front to back in a ring.
"So. You are him," the dwarf says, as careful as someone approaching a madman, "Frederick von Hohenzollern."
"Aye," you say back, looking carefully at him in turn as you stand, now looming over him. "I am he."
"I had heard the tales," he returns, the faint horror in his eyes eclipsed by the awe in his voice. "But now I see the truth before me. Gazul
did touch you."
"Not exactly how I'd describe it," you mutter sourly, remembering a dusty laugh and a throat clogged with dirt and blood.
"Do you know you're speaking khazalid, here, now, at this very moment," he says sharply, and you blink.
In point of fact, you hadn't. Sometimes, in Karak Ungor, you had been aware of it, but in this instant, the transition had been so seamless that
you missed it. Looking up for an instant, you see Arthur's frown grow larger on his face, even if he knows that he doesn't understand precisely what is being said.
"I and my brethren joined in with the Emperor and others, for more than one dwarf has died in these accursed lands, and there would likely never be as good a time to lay them truly to rest," he explains, "Though your son and I became acquainted shortly afterwards."
He offers a hand thick with scars and callouses.
"Gottri Gravehelm," he says as you reach out to return the shake, "Priest of Gazul."
Immediately you feel one of your knees begin to buckle the moment he wraps his hand around yours, though you keep it from doing so by sheer will. Even so, a wave of cold and then heat washes along your arm from where he touches it, up to and through the rest of your body. His eyes are locked onto you as your frame ripples from the effect on it, until finally he lets go of your hand and you stumble backwards, for the first time since leaving Karak Ungor do you hear something you'd hoped never to hear again – the drums. They pound faintly in the distance of your ears, ever so slightly, and lighter and quieter than any other time before now. Then, as quickly as they came, they disappear. Blinking furiously, you open your mouth to snarl at him but instead of anything coherent an unintelligible mishmash of reikspiel and khazalid which not even you understand. Gravehelm weathers this admirably, though Arthur seems entirely stricken, yet neither reach for the weapons they carry.
"What…," you cough, "What in Sigmar's name was
that about?"
"Checking something. My apologies, sir," Gottri actually bows to you, his voice sincere, "I had to see if it could possibly be true, and it was."
Then the priest turns towards your son, and beckons him closer.
"Your suspicions were correct."
"What suspicions," you growl, eyeing both of them. "What is this?"
Arthur tries to smile at you, but it gutters out as you glare at him, making him look away while smoothing at his robes and armor. He has corralled entire congregations of priests, and fought against the horror of Sylvania itself, but even now he is still your son, and cowed by your fury. Something you and your wife share when it comes to your children. After a few more seconds he clears his throat and looks at Gottri, who nods firmly.
"Well, the good news is that you are not undead. Your soul is truly here, in your body, and Morr has not claimed it. Because…," he looks somewhat uncomfortable, "If he
had, then the rituals should have returned it to him, regardless."
"What if he had, but I was alive anyway," you ask, hands on your hips. "'Truly alive', and not undead?"
"Then…the soul should have returned to him," he answers, breathing deeply, "And then we would have dealt with the body."
Natasha has already slain three of her children, is willing to kill the fourth should it prove corrupted, and might even have killed a fifth, you realize in a flash of insight.
"But we didn't," he adds in a rush, perhaps seeing your thoughts on your face, "Because we didn't have to. But…so close…I…there were
dreams I had during the rest."
For almost anyone else, you would dismiss that. But Morr is also the God of Dreams, you know that much. And considering everything else you've experienced in the last year alone, you can't rule
anything out in regards to this. Tapping your foot, you cross your arms as you look at your son and a thoughtful look on Gottri's face.
"A bull," Arthur says, eyes clouding over as he speaks, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. "I saw a bull, broken, butchered, torn open. But then, the earth broke open, and a stone came out. Black bedrock, veined with gold and silver."
Arthur's voice almost seems to echo, but that surely can't be true, the acoustics don't work for that.
"The bedrock was broken, churned, but it flowed like blood into the bull's belly. Then the bull stood up, the meat left behind, already rotten upon the grass."
From one split second to the next, the torch he holds burns low for no discernable reason, and his eyes literally cloud over with a single sheen of black. A sheen that disappears immediately afterwards, so fast that you realize you could have just imagined it.
"Stone and flesh, mixed, forever," Arthur finishes, and he blinks furiously, shaking his head from side to side.
"Arthur?"
"Ah…right," he shakes his head once more. "I dreamed, and…with Gottri's help…I think I know what it means."
You look between the two, back and forth, but neither seem willing to actually apparently tell you.
"…well?"
"Your soul isn't…human," Arthur finishes lamely, his voice trailing off. "Not…like it should be."
You stare at him. A spike of fear tears through your spine.
"What?"
"It's-,"
"What's wrong with my
soul," you interrupt, grabbing your son by the shoulders. "Am I-,"
"There's more in there than there used to be," Gravehelm speaks up. "But not…in a bad way," his voice is still tinged with disgust, more audible now, but even still it remains overshadowed by his awe. "There's just…more."
"There…," Arthur starts, stops, and starts and stops again before finally sighing, hands going to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "How do I explain this."
At that, the dwarf snorts, and shakes his head.
"Gazul did something to your soul, Frederick von Hohenzollern. You let him in, in the depths of a hold steeped in some of the greatest deaths the dwarfs ever suffered, the start of the Goblin Wars."
Your glare should have skewered him, but unfortunately did not.
"He…," finally, Gottri stops, and stabs a finger at one of your son's flasks. "Give me that. Is that that ostka you Ostlander's keep railing about?"
Arthur, unashamed, removes the flask and hands it to the dwarf. Gottri immediately uncorks it and pours half of it out. He shakes it, ensuring all of you can hear the now audible sloshing inside now that much of it is gone onto the floor. Then, slowly, almost insultingly so, he pulls out another flask and uncorks it, only this one is one of his own. The pungent scent of dwarf ale reaches your nose, and that of Arthur. Gottri holds both up to you, and then carefully pours from one to the other, ale filling up the empty space left behind by the ostka splattered on to the floor. He does not speak a word throughout, but then again, perhaps he does not need to. Carefully, he tops off Arthur's ostka flask entirely, now a mixture of dwarf bitter and Ostlander ostka. Only once that was done does he close it, and shake it extremely vigorously, before offering it to you, the top removed once more.
"There," the priest says, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Something we can all understand."
You hold the mixed flask in your hand, eyes wide, at the somewhat primitive metaphor he's just handed you.
"You can't be serious," you mutter, then you repeat it louder, more incredulously, "You can't be serious!"
"As serious as the grave," Gottri tells you, his voice reflecting it, the smile wiped from his lips. "I don't pretend to know what Gazul intended, or why he did what he did, but he
did, and I can't question
that."
"You can't mix souls," you say, though the words strangle in your throat. "You can't…"
"Sigmar changed you," Arthur interrupts your failure of a rant, "Did he not?"
"That was-,"
"A God, changing you. Just as I changed through my own service to Morr," your son pinches at his greyed skin with a lopsided smile.
A sputter escapes your lips before you stop, drinking from the mixed flask in front of you for a moment to gather your thoughts and fortify yourself. Angrily, you look away from them, pretending to study the darkened room about you, but that can only last for so long before the flask is empty and the conversation must continue.
"But I'm still me," you eventually say, looking them, "Aren't I?"
"Yes," Arthur says, nodding rapidly, "Of course. There's just…more than there was. You are still yourself, you are still my father."
"I do not know what Gazul did, precisely. In the past, the greatest tales of his lore say that he was able to enflame the souls of the dead, return them from the Underearth, for a task or to defend a place," Gottri murmurs. "But this is something new entirely…at least based on the knowledge I have."
"Your frame has been touched by Sigmar, your soul by Gazul, both altered by them, though we know not the precise reasons why, or the how," Arthur says, coming closer, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "But you are still
you, despite everything. And…I'm sorry for not trusting in that."
Then he wraps his arms around you, a tight hug, heavy with relief and tinged with exhaustion.
"I had thought the stories exaggeration, tall tales of longbeards," Gottri spits to the side. "Shows me what
I know. I must return to my fellows, Arthur. They will wish to hear of this."
Oh. Great.
==========================================
It took the entire night, and yet as day shines upon you, you cannot feel anything other than trepidation as a cold stone in your gut as your wife rejoins you, shooting an angry glare at Arthur as she does. Your son weathers it with admirable stoicism, now that his fears have been laid to rest, a remarkable steadfastness has come over him. His worries were unfounded, now he walks without a pinch to his features, a burden off of his back that only came about because of his own faith. Magnus is nowhere to be seen, nor is Urgdug, but Natasha explains the moment she sees you looking about for them.
"Magnus is off touring the camp, while Urgdug was dragged away by veterans to be re-introduced to everyone," she tells you, arm looped with yours, the very picture of a dignified noblewoman as if a dirty war camp and scrabbled settlement was not all about her, "Many still remember him breaking the walls of Castle Drakenhof personally."
"Good for him," you smile weakly, "He deserves those accolades."
You are happy for your brother. Of course you are. But you can't really focus on that, instead on the imposing camp of the Middenlanders where you are now traveling. They are a brutal, hard lot, and it is not hard to see why. The Wolf Crusade practically broke itself, leaving naught but a ballooned but wearied order of White Wolves. Then came the actual troops of Middenheim itself, but they were led by none other than the younger brother of the Emperor. They are a rough looking lot. If anything, they remind of you the Army of Ostland exiting Karak Ungor. The looks in their eyes, the way they carry themselves…it is an eerie mirror you look into now. Said eyes narrow in suspicion as you approach the part of the camp that was divided into their own, sentries bearing enormous axes and shaved heads step forward to bar your way, all of which ends when five Priests of Ulric appear from further in, shoving their men aside bodily.
"Count Hohenzollern…and lady Hohenzollern," the one in the lead calls out, and you can
hear the lowercase in your wife's title, one that Natasha notices as well. "The Ar-Ulric is waiting for you. If you would follow us?"
Logan Kron was once, you know, a member of the White Wolves themselves. Perhaps even outright Teutogen Guard. But he was changed after the Vampire War, and found himself named as Ar-Ulric, leaping up the ranks of his priesthood as if by divine providence. Perhaps it was. And, once upon a time, you fought against Zacharias together, and were victorious. But it has been many years since then, and you were never in fact friends. He respects your accomplishments, your deeds as a warrior, a leader, and so on, but it is easy to see how and why the rest of the Cult and Middenland are not nearly as welcoming of you – and that his own tolerance can only stretch so far. Unlike Arthur, Logan does not have a small temple built for him. Instead, there is only a great brazier, a wall of heavy logged stakes separating the carved area out for him.
An affection of the everburning Flame of Ulric, you are sure.
He awaits you, then, your own Greatswords not permitted to pass into the small divided away area, your child still hefted in his arms. Logan, the younger you suppose, is entirely naked, but unlike before he does not wriggle in the morning chill of a winter's day. The Ar-Ulric is bare chested, only a heavy wolf's pelt atop his head and cloaking his back. A bevy of scars that impresses even you covers his chest and stomach, some of them looking quite fresh indeed. He looks at you, and then to Natasha, before down at the child in his arms. But he is silent, and is silent for long enough that you feel Natasha fidget at your side, the sight of her child like that demanding action that she is only just suppressing. There are none of his guard here, though two Teutogen Guard stand at the 'entrance' to this secluded area.
"I have prayed to Ulric for guidance on this," he finally speaks. "I have prayed long and hard, all night, for what might be done with this child."
"And," Natasha says, her voice quiet, "Have Ulric told you?"
(Winter's Wishes: 14+Anointed of Ulric(15)+Chosen of Ulric(10)+Wolfmark(5)=44/100)
"I saw naught but white flame, and howling," Logan admits, and turns slightly to look at the massive fire behind him, an action which makes Natasha take a worried step forward, her arm pulling on you to do the same.
"White fire…," she repeats in but a whisper. "And
howling?"
The Ar-Ulric nods, his brow furrowed as he glares down at the boy in his arms.
"I have tested this child, and yet for all my power, and all Ulric's fury, he lived," he turns about to look at you both, "He is, on all appearances, but a boy, one touched by tragedy and winter in equal turns."
"You don't sound convinced."
Your heart sinks with the words, even as you speak them.
"No, I am not," he admits, nodding gruffly. "One of the greatest threats of Chaos comes not from without, but from within. Corruption, temptation, mutation," he shakes Logan in his arms, drawing a small cry from the child and another jerk from Natasha. "These are some of their greatest weapons, and by your own account, Lady Natasha, the other three spawn which leapt from within you were quickened by the Dark Powers."
"But is Logan different," she asks, her question plaintive and angry and grief-stricken all at once. "Is he?!"
"I do not know. Perhaps it is something hidden, deep within him, that will only grow to fruition if left alone. Perhaps he
is pure. But is the mark upon his neck a warning, or a sign of something else," Logan snarls like an animal, snapping his teeth as he jerks his head to the side, "I do not
know!"
Growling, he looks at you with hooded eyes.
"I was not a priest, but a warrior alone," he says softly, "But when I returned to Middenheim, it was the priests who thrust me through the Flame, and swore that Ulric had spoken to them in the howling of the wolves, in their dreams, in the icy winds which blanketed the city."
You find yourself swallowing with a suddenly dry throat.
"So…what now," you finally ask, eyes locked on the pale boy before you.
"I was due to return to Middenheim regardless, to oversee certain matters of the Cult in person. The Graf is preparing more troops, freshly trained, to return to Sylvania and continue the fight alongside his brother," Logan speaks tersely, before glancing up at the cloudy sky then back down at you. "I would take this child with me when I do, and test him in the surest manner known to me."
Natasha cannot stand it any longer, and almost runs forward, but pauses just before Logan as he draws himself up, staring her down. She looks back at him, unafraid, and unmoving.
"Is it the only way?"
Logan studies her before slowly shaking his head.
"No. But it is, as I said, the surest."
"You would take but one child," you scoff, "And cast him through the Flame of Ulric itself? Why?"
"For many reasons," Logan fires back, eyebrow raised. "The mark of a wolf's maw on his neck. The blood within him, from you
and her," he jerks his chin down at Natasha, "My dreams, and the whispers I hear in the cold winds which blow even now. I am returning to Middenheim regardless."
Those same winds he named blow now, enough to ruffle the fur of the wolf Logan wears and almost gutter the massive flame behind him, casting him into an almost fel light as he stands there.
"You would not do this, if it were but a peasant boy," you point out, apropos of nothing.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he shrugs, "But you are a Count of the Empire, bearer of a Runefang, touched by Ulric's greatest champion, Sigmar. And besides," he readjusts Logan in his arms for a moment before slowly lowering them into Natasha's waiting ones, "The White Wolves have taught many well, that even those of unlikely origin might wreak proper carnage in Ulric's name. Let Him be the judge, not I."
Then, slowly, he lets his hand rest on a large knife at his hip, one almost fully obscured by the wolf pelt.
"If he would not pass into the Flame of Ulric, then I would not determine him to be truly untainted by Dark Powers, as he has surely been touched by them," he says calmly, but with deathly certainty. "Yet, should you not allow for this, I know well enough that you are strong enough to do the deed yourself then, my Lady."
Slowly, he withdraws the knife, and presents it, handle first, to your wife. But by then you are there, and clasping your hand over it before Natasha can, though even still her fingertips dance around your wrist before pausing in shock at the speed you moved at. She nestles herself against you, staring at your child, who giggles slightly with eyes that just
maybe might be pure looking back up.
"I swore you would not, not if I could instead," you murmur in her ear. "I would spare you of that."
"It should be my decision," she murmurs back, wrapping her hand delicately around your own, turning it slightly until she too can rest her hand against the handle of it. "Should it not?"
"Chaos has taken on the form of innocence before," Logan cautions, though he takes a half-step back as both you and Natasha whip your head's upwards to glare at him in unison. To his credit, he bows his head slightly in recompense. "I shall speak no more, not to a mother who has been as tested as you."
"It should be my choice," Natasha whispers, fingers gripping the blade's hilt.
Ulric Did Not Reveal Enough To Decide For Certain, Or So the Ar-Ulric Has Decided Himself! Choose:
[] Natasha's Choice: Your wife believes it should be her choice to make, for good or ill. It was she who suffered while you were away, she who did the deed thrice. She is willing to do it a fourth time, her heart hardened by what was done to her, and what she did in turn. [
NATASHA DECIDES]
OR
[] Do It Yourself: You are stronger than her, physically. Take the knife, and cast aside doubt and horror, for these are the tools of the Dark Gods. It will be torturous to you, and perhaps that is the very point, to force you to do this. You
cannot let Natasha do this again!
OR
[] To The Flame: If the Ar-Ulric is already traveling there, then why not go with him? It would truly put to rest any confusion, and would surely reveal the truth. But should the boy be tainted, he shall burn, and the sight and smell of that would be a memory you nor Natasha would ever be free from. Ortrud and Stephan would remain here, while you would travel surrounded by the Teutogen Guard themselves and a healthy number of White Wolves to Middenheim.
Robust Soul Trait Clarified: Something of the incredible solidness of the Underearth and its God have seeped into the soul of one who willingly took it in. Later somewhat revealed to be that Gazul infused Frederick's weakened and reduced soul with that of portions of those who had long-passed into the Underearth. It was this influence which granted an unintended fluency with written and spoken Khazalid, with other effects still unknown. (+2 Piety, Other Effects ???)
Note: Logan botched his roll. So...we're doing it this way, now, I guess. 
