Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
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- 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
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it is most certainly deserved as I personally consider you to be one of if not the best GM I have ever heard of .
Interlude: Nightly Wonderings (2339 IC)
GM NOTE: Regular updates hopefully to resume soon, just posting things that were already close to completion in the meantime.
Nightly Wonderings (2339 IC)
Wulfenburg Castle, Nachexen of 2339
"Do you actually worship Ursun?"
"Do you actually worship Sigmar?"
Both of you raise a single eyebrow as you slowly begin to circle one another.
"Well?" you say at the same time.
With a shrug, she answers first.
"I do. Somewhat. He's a bear. Poke it and you die. Let it be and nothing bad happens to you. I like that. It fits me. As an Ice Mage the traditional fiction is that we are Priests of the Ancient Widow. Or Kislev. Or 'The Land'. As for me…eh." She shrugs nonchalantly.
"And that's as far as it goes for you?"
"Just about. I'm not about to go try and do the Bear Walking Ritual. That's ridiculous."
You have no idea what that is. She gestures for you to speak yourself.
"On paper, I do follow Sigmar."
"And not on paper?"
"I choose not to rely on any God for any reason, not even Sigmar. Ostland has been like it is for more than two thousand years. Plenty of time for godly intervention. There isn't going to be any. So I'll have to do it myself."
The moon illuminated the room with a soft glow, the rest of it cast into much darkness with the fireplace closed off and guttered. It was a far larger room than had once been inhabited, rebuilt and now properly sized for an Elector Count and Countess of an entire Imperial province. The roof had been substantially reinforced by dwarf masons, just in case, with thick locks on the windows from the inside. Metal slats could be locked into place as well to cover the windows even further. For now, however, these remained in their holding slots. A rare eastern but mild breeze carried the warmth of the Smokelands forth, as well as no small amount of smoke. Thus, the large stone balcony had been closed off along with the windows. Within, despite all attempts to the contrary by one of the two occupants, the furnishings had grown relatively rich and comfortable over time. Thick rugs covered the stone floor from end to end, well cared for and cleaned weekly. Large tapestries covered the walls, beautifully woven mosaics that also kept back the cold and damp. A large vanity crafted of solid Drakwald oak and filled with a trio of large high quality mirrors sat along one of the walls, fine dressers full of clothes next to it. A pair of drinks cabinets sat on each side of the bed, combined with nightstands covered in writing materials, books, and a dagger sheathed on both sides. Then of course was the weapon stand upon which, when it was not being carried elsewhere, the legendary Runefang known as Brain Wounder rested. Not, perhaps as some might have thought, on mantle above the enormous fireplace, but within immediate reach of those on the bed.
Said mantle itself was its own beautiful piece of art, a masterful mixture of white and black marble marked with iron and steel Imperial and Kislevite iconography both religious and secular without taking away from the natural beauty of the marble itself. A roaring ice bear forged of pure silver with incredible detail loomed on one side of the fireplace, not bothering to rear upwards while somehow retaining a feral yet regal beauty as it glared at some unknown horizon or foe. On the other side was a massive bull forged of steel, purposefully and intricately given scars and battle wounds, its horns large and dyed black. A thick ring of gold pierced its nose, drawing the eye away from the furious eyes of the bull itself. Both works had been wondrous gifts forged at the hand of Alexandra von Hohenzollern when she had taken a step away from purely martial construction, given over a year ago now and delivered at the head of a column of relief Kreml Guard – new and fresher faces to replace some of the increasingly aged members of those sworn to guard Natasha von Hohenzollern with their lives. The top of the mantle was, of course, relegated purely to the presence of various masterfully drawn portraits of the current generation of Hohenzollerns.
Frederick von Hohenzollern looked at none of it. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed and stared at the small charm in his right hand, rubbing a calloused thumb over it. The other hand had curled into a fist, propping up his chin as he contemplated a great many things. The fire was largely gone, the chill and damp common in the Empire only somewhat penetrated the castle's stonework, bits and pieces of it built by the dwarfs over time. But for all that, even dressed in nothing but his smallclothes, he was almost wholly unaffected by the cold. Part of it was simply being born in the northern provinces of the Empire, and part of it was from decades of sleeping alongside a woman who regularly channeled the icy magic of Kislev. He did not hum to himself as he examined the charm, straightening slightly only to grab for a pitcher of nearby ostka on the stand next to his side of the bed and drank a pint and a half's worth of it down. It barely burned as he put it back on the stand, curling slightly as he returned to his musings.
This late in the night, or perhaps it was early in the morning, his mostly sober mind was a lightning storm of thoughts; worries and ideas sparking into being and flashing out just as quickly, only for a rolling peal of thunder to come through afterwards as he simultaneously mulled over a half dozen different things every few minutes.
The WAAAAGH!! in the south could do the 'traditional' thing of crashing up through Black Fire Pass, as many in the Empire suspected. But Frederick could not help but wonder if the mass of greenskins might display that sometimes surprising cunning of their kind and go elsewhere. What if they assaulted the Everpeak? Or went towards the Black Mountains but somehow bypassed Black Fire Pass? Or instead headed west to slaughter their way through Tilea and then head through alternative passes? Too many in the Empire hemmed and hawed over the fight they thought was sure to come in the exact place they thought it must. For all could be said, however, the greenskins could uproot themselves and travel across the seas on a vast flotilla of transports. Or, even worse, could disappear into the Underway itself and go anywhere they liked within the depths.
The Norscans, on the other hand, had been quiet, too quiet. They had to be going somewhere, and though they raided, the historical numbers and strength they normally possessed for such things was feeble at best. That was even when factoring in the casualties they must have taken in the Great War Against Chaos. Repeated strange auroras burned across the skies over that northern creature calling itself a nation, Natasha confiding in him that those in Kislev had felt strange and unfamiliar pulls upon the Winds of Magic in just such a direction. And unlike Karak Eight Peaks, there were no dwarf ranger reports that could be accessed about Norsca, no information at all other than the fact that the Norscans were clearly thoroughly occupied with something there, and had been for several years now. It would be too much to hope there was a civil war going on, and too easy for such a thing to result in some new powerful warlord or another.
Then there was the Druchii. The danger of Black Arks was that they moved, and it was entirely possible that the time any fleet powerful enough to confront them gathered up and tried to hit one, it could escape. Of course, in the history of the Empire, never once had an Imperial Fleet matched one successfully. He'd checked. Thoroughly. Only comparatively recently had cannons been added to the fleets, before that it was ballistae and ramming. Every historical incident of facing a Black Ark that had the rare grace to be recorded by survivors, of which there were almost never any, showed that the sheer power both physical and magical the damned things possessed could let them simply run over a mass of ships if required. Not to mention the attendant sea beasts that they carried, or the droves of druchii corsairs that could board and slaughter their way through sailors with only decades of experience to the elves' hundreds or thousands.
A slight shifting on the bed behind him drew his thoughts in another direction entirely, though that first thought of warmth and passion was quickly discarded considering the time and place. Instead what took its place was a never-ending series of calculations and observations about the possibility of a civil war in Kislev. Kattarin Romanov held power more tightly in her bloodied fists than any Tzar or Tzarina in history, her brutality beginning to match those of the elder Khan-Queens more than anything else. Reports were uncertain as to how much of the common folk supported her and how much of the nobility explicitly did not. Her slaves, a definite mark against her morally, likely supported no one but themselves. Worry, hot and angry at times while slow and poisonous at others, born not just for his wife but for his daughter should the worst occur. Frustratingly, it was that same power and brutality which was regularly defeating the incursions from further north, ensuring a stronger shield than in the past which in the long run was far better for the people of the Empire.
Unless that shield tore itself apart because a Tzarina that had witnessed an Everchosen with her own eyes tearing her father apart, had found nothing but bloody scraps left behind of her husband, could not accept even the slightest lack of control or most smallest of weakness.
Some bird or another passed through the moonlight that was shining down, causing the shadows to dance along the floor and against the wall. That too caused the faintest of tensions to grow in Frederick's shoulders. Assassins were a clear worry now. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to the myriad scars across his chest, and one in particular. Where a skaven assassin had plunged their dagger straight into his heart, full of acidic poison that had melted away the vital organ even as he'd strangled and fought and killed. He'd spoken to the dwarfs, of course. He absolutely had to know his enemy. Thus he'd learned, well, of the various major clans. Of them, Eshin worried him the most. An army, he could match with his own, a war party, the same. But assassins? Not so easily. According to the dwarfs, their magic could let them sweep and press through the shadows – literally – and perform incredible deeds that bordered on the unbelievable even with the things that he had seen before. Could one be in this room, right this instant? He might not even know before the dagger was across his throat, or worse, in the heart of any of his family.
The shadows danced and drew his eye further afield, to where the black horns of his daughter's gift gleamed in the darkness.
He did not fear beastmen, at least not naturally unless they cast some sort of mind-bending ritual spell or something but even then he held some vague hope he could resist if such a thing were to occur. But he was worried enough about them. Ostland and Hochland knew better than many provinces of the true danger beastmen could provide, in the past in the form of Gorthor. The whole of the Empire still suffered regular raids, razings, and sackings from forest goblins and beastmen and mutants. But the statistics didn't lie. There were less than there used to be, from both parties. Frederick was not capable of hoping that this meant that both had somehow been massively reduced in numbers, that the endless tide since before Sigmar was alive had somehow been broken. They were up to something. He knew it. He just didn't know what, or when it would come. Would they rise up in a vast horde and assault Wulfenburg? Or would it be elsewhere that would face the brunt of their assault. Through a certain lens, it was entirely possible that they would attempt to tear down the holy places of the Empire first, the greatest insults to their blasphemous ways. In that case, Talabheim or Middenheim were far more likely initial targets, no matter how he'd infuriated the centigor. Barring the centigor somehow taking command of all beastmen in the Empire, that was. But neither Middenland nor Talabecland would likely allow entry from Ostland's armies to aid them unless it was already too late.
Frederick glanced up from the bull statue and towards the portraits which were left unilluminated by the moonlight and then back down again.
Too many foes, and despite his dearest wishes he could not be there to intercept every single one all at once. Would Arthur be attacked along the road when he went to minister of some Garden of Morr throughout the Northern Trident? The only notice that something was wrong would be hours or days later when he did not arrive at the appropriate time. Or would it be Magnus, venturing out in a regular provincial patrol with a detachment of the Army of Ostland or the Army of the Forest? Patrols were battered and attacked all the time, and while Magnus did his best to randomize which he deployed with a particularly lucky or ferocious warherd could overwhelm a lone patrol before it could link up with others. Frederick did the same, and could easily suffer just the same fate. Or maybe it would be Anna, called out to inspect one settlement or another's artillery and other war machines, abducted and taken into the darkness of the deep forest. Or Sabine when heading to a warehouse to inspect goods being sent out or taken in, often to Salkalten but to various other points as well. Or would an assassin simply come upon them in the night, no matter where they were. The Witch Hunters kept a hopefully close eye on cultists and such similar threats, but they were not the best possible defense against magic wielding rat-men they didn't even necessarily believe existed.
In the world they lived in, it was never certain who would die first, the parent or the child.
There were also Frederick's domestic enemies, the thought of which cut a hot knife into his placid contemplations. Too long spent focusing on outward threats, he'd ignored the inward ones in absolute ignorance. Too much wealth, too much strength, and that was not acceptable to too many people. Ostland had spent over two thousand years under the unofficial authority of Middenland, and now they weren't. Ostland had spent than two thousand years as a poor backwater, the general dislike of too much ostentatiousness as much as reality as preference, and now they weren't. Ostland had spent over two thousand years ignoring the halflings and matters of the Moot, and now they weren't. A city of Sigmarites in a sea of Ulricans, a coastline negelected and a near non-existent merchant marine, stubborn but complacent for too long. And now they weren't. For all the years he'd spent growing up in Jegow, he knew well enough the tales of the Era of Three Emperors that a great many still living had experienced first-hand.
Unfair trading practices were something that the Emperor could not intervene in other than looking disappointed at those involved. Lies could be spread that could harm reputations or lives depending on their potency. That was but one of the many underhanded things that could be done, up to and including the worst possible things that hopefully none in the Empire were entirely eager to fall back on. The moment the skullduggery reached the levels of the Era of Three Emperors was the moment that the world went insane. Not even the Emperor could demand an Elector martyr himself and his province for another's wishes, not even Magnus the Pious. It had been folly, on no one's part but his own, to assume that the north would remain inviolate to the politicking of the Empire. That damned trade proposal had blindsided him, and though he had spent many hours analyzing it, it had been Sabine who had accepted his request for aid with aplomb. Even now, she was spending many sleepless nights examining it and doing her own research, according to a slightly irritated Magnus.
"Dearest," Natasha mumbled. "What are you doing?"
"Thinking, love, that's all."
He twisted slightly so he could face her, heart catching in his throat as she was haloed by the brightness of the white moon. She sleepily rubbed at her eyes with one hand while propping herself up with the other, not bothering to tug the blankets and layers past her waist now that she'd sat up slightly. And just like that, all the worries that burned through his mind blanked away. Without any band, cord, or general headpiece her hair fell in waves around her shoulders and chest, the golden blonde of it granted a paler shade under the moon. At this angle, he could see the slight scars that were scattered distantly around her arms and shoulders, crisscrossing her stomach where the Dark Gods had tried to slay her from within. For all that she was older than him in years, she looked considerably younger. Then again, the same could be said of him, and of that he had far less certainty. Magic, he knew, had odd effects on age, he had been told as such by the Jade Wizards and others he had spoken to. And lately, Natasha had been growing stronger than she had in the past, when her reach before simply could go no further.
And he had a feeling he knew why.
"Do you remember our conversations, back close to when we first met?" He turned further, sweeping his legs beneath the covers once more while showing the charm in his hand. "About faith and the Gods."
Still blinking blearily but rapidly waking further, Natasha reached out and grabbed the charm from him to hold it up to the moonlight.
"Isn't this one of the…,"
"Yeah."
There had been a vast amount of trinkets and charms piled upon Frederick's body when he'd been struck into a coma within the depths of Karak Ungor. Roland, their ally and friend, had remarked that it was oddly close enough to the Grail Reliquae traditions of his homeland Bretonnia. As he lay in repose, worked over daily by priests and wizards and runesmiths and runepriests, the first additions had been tokens of piety given by those closest to him. A small stone slate engraved with the black rose of Morr, a twin-tailed comet of bronze and red gold, placed at his side by his own son Magnus. Then an ancient bone charm from Bretonnia given by Roland, one supposedly soaked in the waters of the Lady of the Lake. Anna von Hohenzollern had with the beginnings of her cold and emotionless pragmatism, her own soul warped by her magic, canvassed her engineers for tokens of faith that she could contribute. In time, it had grown to include contributions from those of Ostermark and the dwarfs as well. By the end of it, the faithful of almost all the Gods of the Empire had contributed. Even, it was whispered, Ranald. Though those had certainly been hidden well amongst the rest and had been taken back shortly after Frederick had unexpectedly awoken. From noble knights placing small silver scales of Verena to common soldiers providing nothing more than what they could have crudely carved themselves, the weight and pile around his body had only grown and grown.
As such, after he'd woken up with a knife in his chest, it had proved impossible to ensure that every single item of faith had been returned to every single owner properly.
"Hmm," she held the small comet up into the air, turning it back and forth.
In the end, after being temporarily transformed into a mobile shrine to all but the Dark Gods and those of the Elves, the Hohenzollerns had simply retained a great many to themselves. After their experiences they could not simply dispose of them either. And so many of them had been contributed to shrines and temples across the city. Some, however, Frederick had taken for himself. A small personalized shrine sat just on the other side of his nightstand, filled with a number of the charms and trinkets. To Sigmar, to Ulric, to Taal, to Morr, to Rhya, to Verena, to Shallya, to Manann, to Myrmidia, and beyond. The small charm given by Roland, painstakingly carved into a three dimensional fleur of the Lady of the Lake was present, as were the small statuary dedicated to the dwarf Ancestor Gods. A place of faith where once there had been none. But the one held by Natasha now was quite possibly one of the ugliest and most common pieces amongst them all.
It had, quite clearly, been some lump of bad or broken pig iron at some point before being roughly pounded down. It wasn't even completely flat or level. Then some poor fellow had taken the time to crudely but clearly etch out the shape of the twin-tailed comet into it. Whoever had placed it amongst the rest had never come forward to reclaim it. Perhaps they had died in the depths, or simply were too embarrassed that such a shoddy piece of work had been all they could contribute to his Elector Count. Little did they know that it held one of the greater places of prominence on Frederick's personal shrine. To a smith, it should have been offensively low quality, but to Frederick it was one of the most quietly powerful items that he had ever held. Simple and unvarnished faith, without the dressings of others. Earnest, painfully so.
"Remind me which conversation on faith in particular," she eventually said, handing him back the charm before shifting slightly over to her nightstand to withdraw a corked glass bottle of kvas. "We had many."
Frederick paused, mouth drying slightly as he watched the lean muscles of her back flex as she moved before shaking his head vigorously and entirely missed at putting the charm onto the bed stand. It was only his reflexes that let him catch it and then try again, feeling out the stand without actually looing away.
"Ah…right. When you asked me if I actually worshipped Sigmar, and I asked you the same about Ursun."
Natasha snorted as she pulled the cork out with her teeth, spitting it into her hand and then taking a long pull from the bottle. But there was a fond quick of her lips as she wiped them and recorked the bottle.
"Ah, right," she cleared her throat and then scooted over to him she could drape herself on top of him, head coming to rest in the crook of his neck and arms slithering through his own to wrap about his torso. "When the Articles of Magic were first announced. Well, things have certainly changed since then, haven't they?" She murmured into his ear.
He glanced past her, just as she glanced past him, to each other's shrines. Natasha's bore a few small token acknowledgements to the Gods of the Empire, chief among them Sigmar, Ulric, and Morr. But the portions that held the most prominence were bold examples of the Kislevite Pantheon. The Widow stood taller than them all, hands held protectively forward and over her children. Ursun wore a bear pelt and held the rough survivalist appearance that was becoming his most common depiction, a bear at his side and a spear in his hand. Next to him, wearing nothing but trousers and bracers, was Tor with his axe on his shoulder. Dazh was thinner, his body wreathed in flame with an imperious but kind look to his face. His attendant Kalita stood at his side, as if ready to appeal to Prince of Flames at that very moment. Salyak, unlike Shallya, was depicted as a harsh-faced matron of a healing house, though she too dressed in white. Also unlike Shallya, she had a bone saw at her side and a pouch of poultice on her belt.
Also on her shrine, unlike Frederick's was a hefty tome quite literally handwritten by the Widow's Chosen Herself. Frederick had only once glanced through the religious musings of Kattarin Romanov before handing it back to Natasha.
It was a harsh read, written by a harsh woman, for a harsh land.
Eventually however, they pulled backwards somewhat, if only so they could look into each other's eyes.
"You recall correctly," he confirmed with pursed lips. "I said I didn't want to rely on any of the Gods, remember?"
"I do," she nodded. "I remember you saying that there had been plenty of time for godly intervention, that there wasn't going to be any."
Then the both of them, husband and wife, looked down at Frederick's body.
Before, when he'd been nothing more than the last child in a long line, he'd had a bit of a gut to him. He'd been but of average height, sure to grow no more, and though well-muscled from labor and weekly combat training with the militia he had also been a noble who drank even more heavily than many of the other Ostlanders around him. An angry, sullen exile more likely to fall down Narlog's hole – drinking one's self completely to death – than accomplish much in life. But that had all changed the day the beastmen attacked the village, the day the rest of his family died. Then it changed further when he took up Brain Wounder. Then he met his wife. Then…well. A great number of things had, indeed, happened since then. Anger, more consistent and vigorous training, better food, better drink. But the most obvious change was starkly visible to all who'd known him personally before Karak Ungor. He'd spent many nights wondering at the reshaping of his very body, as if he were but clay before the Heldenhammer. Some nights, he'd been impotently furious at the violation it could rightly be said to represent. Others he simply could not fathom why he had been granted the favor at all.
Now? Now, where even before he had been called 'exceptionally shaped' by his wife when she'd been particularly deep in her own cups, now that had changed to 'chiseled'. Quite literally, it seemed, but by a hand not his own.
"Well, as you said," he murmured, "Things have certainly changed."
"True," she slowly drew a cool hand across his chest and through his beard, calloused finger dancing across too many scars and pits. "Tell me your thoughts, husband."
He reached for her hand and gently raised it to his lips, kissing against the palm before pulling it away.
"Why me?" He finally said. "Why…then?"
He slowly shook his head.
"The Sigmarites don't have any answer beyond 'it was meant to be', the Ulrican's don't particularly like it, and so it goes," he groaned. "Arthur…he tries, but he also admits that he is a priest of Morr, not Sigmar."
Slowly, his chin sank down, his shoulders hunching.
"Why you…as opposed to someone else?" She eventually asked when she realized he would say nothing else.
Life seemed to surge back into him as he lifted his head, hands coming to clasp her shoulders.
"Yes! Precisely!" he shook her ever so slightly. "How many times could a better man have benefited from such a thing, maybe ended the Era of Three Emperors sooner?"
A slow, almost languid, blink was the response.
"First of all, that wouldn't have solved anything, two of the Three Emperors nominated themselves in direct defiance of the Cult of Sigmar," she said calmly. "Secondly, isn't the Emperor supposedly blessed by the Gods? You know, the one who ended the Era of Three Emperors?"
It was what was said, Frederick knew. Magnus had walked through the Flame of Ulric, and had been unburnt. He had been tied to a stake by the Grand Theogonist in Altdorf and slathered in oils, only for flame to refuse to catch. A massive stag marked with a white hammer had appeared in Talabheim, the forests louder than a storm's thunder but with the source being that of innumerable wolves. Triton himself, greatest of the blessed servants of Manann, had supposedly appeared and swam between the islands of Marienburg. A more blessed man in the Empire there could surely not be found. Yet for all of that, Frederick still struggled to comprehend the very nature and reasoning behind his own blessings. How could he not?
"I spat on the Gods, time and again," he scoffed. "I was nearly burned at the stake by Sigmar's own priests – and so was the Emperor himself. I have made friends and allies with vampires, embraced magic, and have whether I wished or not caused harm to the unity of the Empire with the formation of the Northern Trident."
He looked ready to rant further before a chilly finger placed itself quite firmly on his lips, his eyes alighting upon it and almost crossing before tracking backwards up Natasha's arm and to the affectionate smile on her face.
"Magnus the Pious not burn either."
A snort escaped him as she pulled her hand back.
"I am not Magnus the Pious."
"No?" she tilted her head in mock confusion before another smile fought its way forward, "Well, it is good to hear that – as I suspected – I am sharing my bed with my husband rather than the Emperor."
"You know what I meant."
Natasha rolled her eyes while poking him in the shoulder.
"Of course I know what you meant," she sighed. "You know, I read through the Deus Sigmar. As far as I can tell, you were still fulfilling some of the main scriptures." Natasha drew backwards slightly and raised on of her hands in a fist, knuckles forward. "You've undeniably aided the dwarfs, have you not?" She raised her index finger.
"Well-,"
The protest died a sickly death beneath the weight of Natasha's imperiously raised eyebrow.
"You bear true allegiance to the Emperor, truer than many I've seen," another finger raised up. "Frankly, sometimes even more than I think you should."
"Hey-,"
"And you've done plenty against greenskins and the myriad servants of Chaos, have you not?" she spoke over him, "And while you may accept the magic of the Colleges – and of Kislev, the elves, and the like – you do not approach of necromancer or other dark magics."
Frederick squinted in slight irritation before it melted away in bemusement, his head hanging for a second as he sucked in a deep breath.
"So, what, you're saying I should be content because I do more than half?" He let loose a short laugh at the absurdity of it.
"Better than going around all maudlin thinking that you are a bad Sigmarite," she poked him again, chuckling quietly as he lightly slapped her hand away.
"I don't even know what I would call myself," he shook his head. "I have seen the works of the other Gods, including those beyond humanity. But before I had seen none at all."
By now, he had well internalized the knowledge that they either could not or would not intervene in every single matter of every human being's life. And, if he were honest about it, he would not wish them to. Sigmar could not have possibly supported every single act that his Cult had gotten up to, and the same could be said of all religions. But one could not simply decide the Gods were useless after seeing what he had seen, after what had been done to him. At the end of the day, he felt far better about supporting Sigmar and Ulric and most of the rest more than he ever had as a child, for that young and angry man had not yet felt and witnessed the true depths of darkness that could and would be brought to bear against the Empire. The Gods had power, and that was a fact.
"Is it my position, that made me worthy? I have met many noble and good men and women, those who come from nothing and nowhere, are but the simplest of soldiers or merchants," he huffed and look towards his shrine again. "It better not be that only nobility could be granted such. If that was the case, I'd prefer it if only priests could bear such blessings and let that be the end of it. On the other hand, that would mean that anyone not a priest could spend their whole lives living in accordance with scripture and never be worthy."
Groaning, he sat his back against the headboard.
"I don't know if I'm making any sense. Faith is confusing."
"Such a statement should surely be recorded for posterity so that future philosophers might marvel at it," Natasha tittered before shifting so that her back was against the headboard as well, her shoulder touching his.
"Are you mocking me?"
Ever so slowly, she turned her head and tilted it so that it rested on her shoulder, all to lopsidedly but clearly stare him straight in the eyes without blinking.
"I would never."
The two held each other's gaze for but a handful of seconds before the twitching on Natasha's lips erupted into a smile and Frederick's choked snort turned into quiet chuckling. It subsided all too soon though, and for a time they were simply quiet. The interplay of Natasha's permanently cold skin and the furnace that was Frederick was an odd one, but one they had long grown used to. Preferred, even. The quiet worry that brimmed through Frederick's mind slowly stilled, the frantic bounce from threat to threat slowed down. All that he had required for it was to know she was there, feeling her hand lightly holding his, to hear the soft sounds of her breathing, the natural scent of her mixing with the Kislevite soaps and perfumes that lingered even now. For the first time for the entire day, his mind knew a rare and treasured peace.
"I think that you shouldn't spend so much time thinking about it," Natasha eventually murmured. "Sigmar blessed you, yes. But unless you're thinking that this makes you some kind of chosen one or particularly divine…?"
A snort.
"Gods, no," he shook his shaggy hair. "Absolutely not. I just…,"
Natasha hummed knowingly.
"Don't know if you're worthy, don't know if you can be."
Castle Wulfenburg, 2306 IC
"So that's…that's me," he finished, staggering against the bed, hand going to rub against his scrabbly beard. "A bloody no one. Tenth son. The extra to the spare of the spare," he spat to the side before grinning toothily at Natasha from where she leaned against a cabinet. "Regretting your choice?"
Perfect. Too perfect. Courtly and diplomatic in the extreme, plus that bloody magic of hers. Young Frederick had no idea what to do with her. She looked too fragile, but even now he was growing to notice just how much steel – or ice, perhaps – she had in her spine. Even now, the two of them stared at each other from across the room like duelists sizing up an opponent. It was, in truth, a natural reaction of the stark awareness of the absolutely troubling levels of sheer attraction the two had come to find in one another. For ones so used to control of themselves, whether earned or forced or learned, it had been remarkably jarring. Within his smithy, Frederick von Hohenzollern had been the sole master of his domain. An exiled noble, yes, one forced to take up a trade like a mere commoner, yes, but he still owned what he owned with naught but the sweat of his own brow considering the pittance of an allowance he'd ever gotten.
"It was hardly my choice," she replied back, her Kislevite accent incredibly thick without leaving her Reikspiel entirely incomprehensible. "My sister offered me up so she could remove me from court, where I could not be a weakness to her rule. I wasn't worth the trouble."
And the conversation circled once more. For all that she did not sway as Frederick did, it was undeniable that Natasha was more drunk than she'd ever been in her entire life. It was the heft of the cabinet, weirdly lacking in ornamentation and almost wholly utilitarian, which kept her from toppling onto the ground.
"Yet she kept you close," he slurred.
"As did your father, in Jegow," was her sodden riposte.
It was a wonder either of them could even understand one another, no one sober possibly could have managed the linguistic challenge. Things only grew less comprehensible from there. It would not be resolved that night, or the night after that. But eventually, in time, it would come to pass that the walls they'd built were slowly broken down, brick by brick.
The fear and resentment of a banished son, whose communications with his family were reduced to the rare letters.
The terror and bitterness of a second daughter, the younger sister to the superior sibling, lesser in seemingly every aspect.
A boy whose last communication with his father was a view through a carriage window, stripped of almost all privilege, cast aside with ease by a man most pious.
A daughter who had simply been informed of her duty, her departure. Who had been given less than a week's notice. Who knew, even then, that she could not actually muster any authority of her own before the all dominating presence that loomed above.
To be known as the lesser, the spares, had grown deep thorns into their souls. Wounds that they could not bear to show to anyone else, let alone grant anyone a single possibly hint of the pain. Pains covered in icy temperament and mulish nature, then drowned in beer and kvas and wine. They had no trusted compatriots to commiserate with, how could they? The rulers of Jegow had not dared to feast or welcome the ignoble son beyond the utmost minimum courtesies. The cold court of Kislev had not bothered with the weaker of the two living Romanovs, not when she clearly could not provide any sort of appreciable counterweight to that which was the Tzarina. What allies did a foreign princess and a formerly banished son have in a city of Sigmarites surrounded by Ulricans, a pair without any strong faith of their own?
None.
None, perhaps, but each other.
They were utterly alone in this room. No children listened at a door large and heavy enough now to block out even the most strained ear. No servant did either, for that matter. The walls were thick and solid, no secret passages existing for a spy or assassin to crawl through. No priests sat before them as if at a confessional. They were, truly, for this singular moment, alone save for each other. It was for that reason and that reason alone that the brow of Frederick von Hohenzollern unfurrowed and the slightest of tensions left his shoulders as he spoke unvarnished and utterly vulnerable truth.
"Maybe," he admitted. "Who decides who is worthy?"
"The Gods, I suppose," she answered with a shrug of a pale shoulder. "But then, we've both seen folk who, by all rights then, ought to be worthy."
"Exactly!" he threw his hands in the air in a quiet rush before letting them settle back down onto the sheets. "Exactly," he repeated, quieter this time.
"You've been thinking about this for a long time," Natasha said kindly after a long pause. "But…isn't this something you could literally talk to a priest about?"
The sour look on Frederick's face would have threatened to make her laugh were it not for the seriousness of the discussion.
"You think I haven't?" He growled. "Years. Decades of them barely tolerating me, and then all of a sudden," he then pitched his voice higher, "Why, of course Sigmar saw fit to bless you, Count Hohenzollern, for you are surely one of his greatest living servants in the Empire!" He spat to the side with his mimicry finished, lip curling in anger in time with the narrowing of his eyes.
His fists clenched before a cool hand on his chest saw them loosen once more. Sharp sapphire met the curious blue-green mixture that had replaced the bright green of before.
"There is not one among them who could look past what the Heldenhammer did to me to the man beneath," he said with muted vitriol. "Arthur has tried, yet in the end said that he could only guess, and that is fair enough considering that Morr is who he has focused his soul towards more than any other. The Ulricans…that's not an avenue worth stepping upon." He shook his head again. "So the question becomes again, why me?"
Natasha was quiet for a long time, but one of her hands found his and wrapped around it at the start of it. In silence, she studied him. The scars across his body, new and old. Some from the sparring yard were angry and red, fresh marks that his own wife and children had delivered onto him. Others were far, far older, whitening or outright beginning to disappear entirely. Some were impossible to see at all without being this close, for this long. Marks of a life interwoven with pain. Many of them were a quiet cut at her very heart to see, though oddly enough some summoned nothing more than affectionate amusement. In Kislev, it was perfectly known for husbands to go into the Oblast, to fight, to die and disappear. For many years she had struggled with her own worries, her heart definitively softer than her sister's own.
But then, stone was softer than her sister's heart these days.
"I think," she eventually said, drawing his morose eyes up to hers once more from where they'd been gazing into the middle distance. "That we may never know. That you should simply accept that it has happened, and move on from it."
Frederick gaped at her.
"Wh-," he sputtered. "Move on from my very flesh," he lifted one arm and then clapped a hand hard against the bicep of it, already bulging enough without him flexing. "Being re-sculpted by a God!?"
Natasha simply raised an eyebrow.
"Did you, or did you not get decapitated in Karak Ungor, only able to return to me with said re-sculpted flesh," she poked him in his extremely hard abs, "Because of the intervention of a Dwarf Ancestor God? Your very soul altered, by the reckoning of Arthur and other priests?"
"That's…," he visibly struggled for a second before rallying. "That is over with, and I don't have to spend every day looking at my soul! But this," he gestured at himself again. "This, I cannot ignore."
"Then don't," she said flatly. "Accept it, and move on. Otherwise I fear that attempting to divine the motivations of the Gods themselves will drive you mad. Or worse, drive me mad."
A sigh escaped him.
"Were it so easy."
"It is, and I'll show you how," she sniffed and then slipped out of the bed and began sashaying towards the drinks cabinet bereft of blanket or shift.
And, to be fair, Frederick's attentions and worries were rather quickly consumed by a powerful blooming heat. Then she turned around with two rather hefty bottles, one of koumiss, and the other of thunder-water.
"That's one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen."
Natasha rolled her eyes but could not stop the pleased smile that came to her face as she stalked forward, eyes lidded.
"Frederick von Hohenzollern, I swear that by dawn you will stop thinking yourself in circles about what Sigmar did to you, and move on. You will accept it," she continued languidly, "And will not let it plague you with doubt and uncertainty. You are better than such things. And if you think otherwise, I'll drag every living Hohenzollern here, including Alexandra, to tell you the same. I shall send messages to the rest of the Northern Trident, to the High King of the Dwarfs, to Baragor, to the Emperor himself, if I must. I care not if that would embarrass you," she continued over Frederick's protests, "If it is what must be done to banish these daemons of the mind, then I will."
"I…-,"
"I swear," she pushed him backwards slightly before placing the bottle of thunder water in his hand and uncorked the koumiss in her other hand, "If you say 'I don't deserve you', I will hurt you. Now shut up and let me love you."
"…okay."
And, in truth, she was right. It was an utter act of futility to demand the answers he sought from the Gods, or at least clear ones. What mattered is that it had happened, and he had to make the best he could of the situation. For a man who had been all but without faith, what little of it he had possessed being of a spiteful nature, his life had certainly been on a different course than he'd thought it would. Still, he would remark to his wife a few weeks later that he was quite happy with the amount of divine attention and interventions in his life, and could do without any more of it for some time. Natasha, unsurprisingly, agreed. Still, the world still moved on and their lives needed living, and in a month's time they would be journeying to Laurelorn of all places once more. In the name of peace, hopefully, but then again one never knew for absolute certain when it came to the matters of elves.
Nightly Wonderings (2339 IC)
Wulfenburg Castle, Nachexen of 2339
"Do you actually worship Ursun?"
"Do you actually worship Sigmar?"
Both of you raise a single eyebrow as you slowly begin to circle one another.
"Well?" you say at the same time.
With a shrug, she answers first.
"I do. Somewhat. He's a bear. Poke it and you die. Let it be and nothing bad happens to you. I like that. It fits me. As an Ice Mage the traditional fiction is that we are Priests of the Ancient Widow. Or Kislev. Or 'The Land'. As for me…eh." She shrugs nonchalantly.
"And that's as far as it goes for you?"
"Just about. I'm not about to go try and do the Bear Walking Ritual. That's ridiculous."
You have no idea what that is. She gestures for you to speak yourself.
"On paper, I do follow Sigmar."
"And not on paper?"
"I choose not to rely on any God for any reason, not even Sigmar. Ostland has been like it is for more than two thousand years. Plenty of time for godly intervention. There isn't going to be any. So I'll have to do it myself."
The moon illuminated the room with a soft glow, the rest of it cast into much darkness with the fireplace closed off and guttered. It was a far larger room than had once been inhabited, rebuilt and now properly sized for an Elector Count and Countess of an entire Imperial province. The roof had been substantially reinforced by dwarf masons, just in case, with thick locks on the windows from the inside. Metal slats could be locked into place as well to cover the windows even further. For now, however, these remained in their holding slots. A rare eastern but mild breeze carried the warmth of the Smokelands forth, as well as no small amount of smoke. Thus, the large stone balcony had been closed off along with the windows. Within, despite all attempts to the contrary by one of the two occupants, the furnishings had grown relatively rich and comfortable over time. Thick rugs covered the stone floor from end to end, well cared for and cleaned weekly. Large tapestries covered the walls, beautifully woven mosaics that also kept back the cold and damp. A large vanity crafted of solid Drakwald oak and filled with a trio of large high quality mirrors sat along one of the walls, fine dressers full of clothes next to it. A pair of drinks cabinets sat on each side of the bed, combined with nightstands covered in writing materials, books, and a dagger sheathed on both sides. Then of course was the weapon stand upon which, when it was not being carried elsewhere, the legendary Runefang known as Brain Wounder rested. Not, perhaps as some might have thought, on mantle above the enormous fireplace, but within immediate reach of those on the bed.
Said mantle itself was its own beautiful piece of art, a masterful mixture of white and black marble marked with iron and steel Imperial and Kislevite iconography both religious and secular without taking away from the natural beauty of the marble itself. A roaring ice bear forged of pure silver with incredible detail loomed on one side of the fireplace, not bothering to rear upwards while somehow retaining a feral yet regal beauty as it glared at some unknown horizon or foe. On the other side was a massive bull forged of steel, purposefully and intricately given scars and battle wounds, its horns large and dyed black. A thick ring of gold pierced its nose, drawing the eye away from the furious eyes of the bull itself. Both works had been wondrous gifts forged at the hand of Alexandra von Hohenzollern when she had taken a step away from purely martial construction, given over a year ago now and delivered at the head of a column of relief Kreml Guard – new and fresher faces to replace some of the increasingly aged members of those sworn to guard Natasha von Hohenzollern with their lives. The top of the mantle was, of course, relegated purely to the presence of various masterfully drawn portraits of the current generation of Hohenzollerns.
Frederick von Hohenzollern looked at none of it. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed and stared at the small charm in his right hand, rubbing a calloused thumb over it. The other hand had curled into a fist, propping up his chin as he contemplated a great many things. The fire was largely gone, the chill and damp common in the Empire only somewhat penetrated the castle's stonework, bits and pieces of it built by the dwarfs over time. But for all that, even dressed in nothing but his smallclothes, he was almost wholly unaffected by the cold. Part of it was simply being born in the northern provinces of the Empire, and part of it was from decades of sleeping alongside a woman who regularly channeled the icy magic of Kislev. He did not hum to himself as he examined the charm, straightening slightly only to grab for a pitcher of nearby ostka on the stand next to his side of the bed and drank a pint and a half's worth of it down. It barely burned as he put it back on the stand, curling slightly as he returned to his musings.
This late in the night, or perhaps it was early in the morning, his mostly sober mind was a lightning storm of thoughts; worries and ideas sparking into being and flashing out just as quickly, only for a rolling peal of thunder to come through afterwards as he simultaneously mulled over a half dozen different things every few minutes.
The WAAAAGH!! in the south could do the 'traditional' thing of crashing up through Black Fire Pass, as many in the Empire suspected. But Frederick could not help but wonder if the mass of greenskins might display that sometimes surprising cunning of their kind and go elsewhere. What if they assaulted the Everpeak? Or went towards the Black Mountains but somehow bypassed Black Fire Pass? Or instead headed west to slaughter their way through Tilea and then head through alternative passes? Too many in the Empire hemmed and hawed over the fight they thought was sure to come in the exact place they thought it must. For all could be said, however, the greenskins could uproot themselves and travel across the seas on a vast flotilla of transports. Or, even worse, could disappear into the Underway itself and go anywhere they liked within the depths.
The Norscans, on the other hand, had been quiet, too quiet. They had to be going somewhere, and though they raided, the historical numbers and strength they normally possessed for such things was feeble at best. That was even when factoring in the casualties they must have taken in the Great War Against Chaos. Repeated strange auroras burned across the skies over that northern creature calling itself a nation, Natasha confiding in him that those in Kislev had felt strange and unfamiliar pulls upon the Winds of Magic in just such a direction. And unlike Karak Eight Peaks, there were no dwarf ranger reports that could be accessed about Norsca, no information at all other than the fact that the Norscans were clearly thoroughly occupied with something there, and had been for several years now. It would be too much to hope there was a civil war going on, and too easy for such a thing to result in some new powerful warlord or another.
Then there was the Druchii. The danger of Black Arks was that they moved, and it was entirely possible that the time any fleet powerful enough to confront them gathered up and tried to hit one, it could escape. Of course, in the history of the Empire, never once had an Imperial Fleet matched one successfully. He'd checked. Thoroughly. Only comparatively recently had cannons been added to the fleets, before that it was ballistae and ramming. Every historical incident of facing a Black Ark that had the rare grace to be recorded by survivors, of which there were almost never any, showed that the sheer power both physical and magical the damned things possessed could let them simply run over a mass of ships if required. Not to mention the attendant sea beasts that they carried, or the droves of druchii corsairs that could board and slaughter their way through sailors with only decades of experience to the elves' hundreds or thousands.
A slight shifting on the bed behind him drew his thoughts in another direction entirely, though that first thought of warmth and passion was quickly discarded considering the time and place. Instead what took its place was a never-ending series of calculations and observations about the possibility of a civil war in Kislev. Kattarin Romanov held power more tightly in her bloodied fists than any Tzar or Tzarina in history, her brutality beginning to match those of the elder Khan-Queens more than anything else. Reports were uncertain as to how much of the common folk supported her and how much of the nobility explicitly did not. Her slaves, a definite mark against her morally, likely supported no one but themselves. Worry, hot and angry at times while slow and poisonous at others, born not just for his wife but for his daughter should the worst occur. Frustratingly, it was that same power and brutality which was regularly defeating the incursions from further north, ensuring a stronger shield than in the past which in the long run was far better for the people of the Empire.
Unless that shield tore itself apart because a Tzarina that had witnessed an Everchosen with her own eyes tearing her father apart, had found nothing but bloody scraps left behind of her husband, could not accept even the slightest lack of control or most smallest of weakness.
Some bird or another passed through the moonlight that was shining down, causing the shadows to dance along the floor and against the wall. That too caused the faintest of tensions to grow in Frederick's shoulders. Assassins were a clear worry now. Unbidden, his thoughts turned to the myriad scars across his chest, and one in particular. Where a skaven assassin had plunged their dagger straight into his heart, full of acidic poison that had melted away the vital organ even as he'd strangled and fought and killed. He'd spoken to the dwarfs, of course. He absolutely had to know his enemy. Thus he'd learned, well, of the various major clans. Of them, Eshin worried him the most. An army, he could match with his own, a war party, the same. But assassins? Not so easily. According to the dwarfs, their magic could let them sweep and press through the shadows – literally – and perform incredible deeds that bordered on the unbelievable even with the things that he had seen before. Could one be in this room, right this instant? He might not even know before the dagger was across his throat, or worse, in the heart of any of his family.
The shadows danced and drew his eye further afield, to where the black horns of his daughter's gift gleamed in the darkness.
He did not fear beastmen, at least not naturally unless they cast some sort of mind-bending ritual spell or something but even then he held some vague hope he could resist if such a thing were to occur. But he was worried enough about them. Ostland and Hochland knew better than many provinces of the true danger beastmen could provide, in the past in the form of Gorthor. The whole of the Empire still suffered regular raids, razings, and sackings from forest goblins and beastmen and mutants. But the statistics didn't lie. There were less than there used to be, from both parties. Frederick was not capable of hoping that this meant that both had somehow been massively reduced in numbers, that the endless tide since before Sigmar was alive had somehow been broken. They were up to something. He knew it. He just didn't know what, or when it would come. Would they rise up in a vast horde and assault Wulfenburg? Or would it be elsewhere that would face the brunt of their assault. Through a certain lens, it was entirely possible that they would attempt to tear down the holy places of the Empire first, the greatest insults to their blasphemous ways. In that case, Talabheim or Middenheim were far more likely initial targets, no matter how he'd infuriated the centigor. Barring the centigor somehow taking command of all beastmen in the Empire, that was. But neither Middenland nor Talabecland would likely allow entry from Ostland's armies to aid them unless it was already too late.
Frederick glanced up from the bull statue and towards the portraits which were left unilluminated by the moonlight and then back down again.
Too many foes, and despite his dearest wishes he could not be there to intercept every single one all at once. Would Arthur be attacked along the road when he went to minister of some Garden of Morr throughout the Northern Trident? The only notice that something was wrong would be hours or days later when he did not arrive at the appropriate time. Or would it be Magnus, venturing out in a regular provincial patrol with a detachment of the Army of Ostland or the Army of the Forest? Patrols were battered and attacked all the time, and while Magnus did his best to randomize which he deployed with a particularly lucky or ferocious warherd could overwhelm a lone patrol before it could link up with others. Frederick did the same, and could easily suffer just the same fate. Or maybe it would be Anna, called out to inspect one settlement or another's artillery and other war machines, abducted and taken into the darkness of the deep forest. Or Sabine when heading to a warehouse to inspect goods being sent out or taken in, often to Salkalten but to various other points as well. Or would an assassin simply come upon them in the night, no matter where they were. The Witch Hunters kept a hopefully close eye on cultists and such similar threats, but they were not the best possible defense against magic wielding rat-men they didn't even necessarily believe existed.
In the world they lived in, it was never certain who would die first, the parent or the child.
There were also Frederick's domestic enemies, the thought of which cut a hot knife into his placid contemplations. Too long spent focusing on outward threats, he'd ignored the inward ones in absolute ignorance. Too much wealth, too much strength, and that was not acceptable to too many people. Ostland had spent over two thousand years under the unofficial authority of Middenland, and now they weren't. Ostland had spent than two thousand years as a poor backwater, the general dislike of too much ostentatiousness as much as reality as preference, and now they weren't. Ostland had spent over two thousand years ignoring the halflings and matters of the Moot, and now they weren't. A city of Sigmarites in a sea of Ulricans, a coastline negelected and a near non-existent merchant marine, stubborn but complacent for too long. And now they weren't. For all the years he'd spent growing up in Jegow, he knew well enough the tales of the Era of Three Emperors that a great many still living had experienced first-hand.
Unfair trading practices were something that the Emperor could not intervene in other than looking disappointed at those involved. Lies could be spread that could harm reputations or lives depending on their potency. That was but one of the many underhanded things that could be done, up to and including the worst possible things that hopefully none in the Empire were entirely eager to fall back on. The moment the skullduggery reached the levels of the Era of Three Emperors was the moment that the world went insane. Not even the Emperor could demand an Elector martyr himself and his province for another's wishes, not even Magnus the Pious. It had been folly, on no one's part but his own, to assume that the north would remain inviolate to the politicking of the Empire. That damned trade proposal had blindsided him, and though he had spent many hours analyzing it, it had been Sabine who had accepted his request for aid with aplomb. Even now, she was spending many sleepless nights examining it and doing her own research, according to a slightly irritated Magnus.
"Dearest," Natasha mumbled. "What are you doing?"
"Thinking, love, that's all."
He twisted slightly so he could face her, heart catching in his throat as she was haloed by the brightness of the white moon. She sleepily rubbed at her eyes with one hand while propping herself up with the other, not bothering to tug the blankets and layers past her waist now that she'd sat up slightly. And just like that, all the worries that burned through his mind blanked away. Without any band, cord, or general headpiece her hair fell in waves around her shoulders and chest, the golden blonde of it granted a paler shade under the moon. At this angle, he could see the slight scars that were scattered distantly around her arms and shoulders, crisscrossing her stomach where the Dark Gods had tried to slay her from within. For all that she was older than him in years, she looked considerably younger. Then again, the same could be said of him, and of that he had far less certainty. Magic, he knew, had odd effects on age, he had been told as such by the Jade Wizards and others he had spoken to. And lately, Natasha had been growing stronger than she had in the past, when her reach before simply could go no further.
And he had a feeling he knew why.
"Do you remember our conversations, back close to when we first met?" He turned further, sweeping his legs beneath the covers once more while showing the charm in his hand. "About faith and the Gods."
Still blinking blearily but rapidly waking further, Natasha reached out and grabbed the charm from him to hold it up to the moonlight.
"Isn't this one of the…,"
"Yeah."
There had been a vast amount of trinkets and charms piled upon Frederick's body when he'd been struck into a coma within the depths of Karak Ungor. Roland, their ally and friend, had remarked that it was oddly close enough to the Grail Reliquae traditions of his homeland Bretonnia. As he lay in repose, worked over daily by priests and wizards and runesmiths and runepriests, the first additions had been tokens of piety given by those closest to him. A small stone slate engraved with the black rose of Morr, a twin-tailed comet of bronze and red gold, placed at his side by his own son Magnus. Then an ancient bone charm from Bretonnia given by Roland, one supposedly soaked in the waters of the Lady of the Lake. Anna von Hohenzollern had with the beginnings of her cold and emotionless pragmatism, her own soul warped by her magic, canvassed her engineers for tokens of faith that she could contribute. In time, it had grown to include contributions from those of Ostermark and the dwarfs as well. By the end of it, the faithful of almost all the Gods of the Empire had contributed. Even, it was whispered, Ranald. Though those had certainly been hidden well amongst the rest and had been taken back shortly after Frederick had unexpectedly awoken. From noble knights placing small silver scales of Verena to common soldiers providing nothing more than what they could have crudely carved themselves, the weight and pile around his body had only grown and grown.
As such, after he'd woken up with a knife in his chest, it had proved impossible to ensure that every single item of faith had been returned to every single owner properly.
"Hmm," she held the small comet up into the air, turning it back and forth.
In the end, after being temporarily transformed into a mobile shrine to all but the Dark Gods and those of the Elves, the Hohenzollerns had simply retained a great many to themselves. After their experiences they could not simply dispose of them either. And so many of them had been contributed to shrines and temples across the city. Some, however, Frederick had taken for himself. A small personalized shrine sat just on the other side of his nightstand, filled with a number of the charms and trinkets. To Sigmar, to Ulric, to Taal, to Morr, to Rhya, to Verena, to Shallya, to Manann, to Myrmidia, and beyond. The small charm given by Roland, painstakingly carved into a three dimensional fleur of the Lady of the Lake was present, as were the small statuary dedicated to the dwarf Ancestor Gods. A place of faith where once there had been none. But the one held by Natasha now was quite possibly one of the ugliest and most common pieces amongst them all.
It had, quite clearly, been some lump of bad or broken pig iron at some point before being roughly pounded down. It wasn't even completely flat or level. Then some poor fellow had taken the time to crudely but clearly etch out the shape of the twin-tailed comet into it. Whoever had placed it amongst the rest had never come forward to reclaim it. Perhaps they had died in the depths, or simply were too embarrassed that such a shoddy piece of work had been all they could contribute to his Elector Count. Little did they know that it held one of the greater places of prominence on Frederick's personal shrine. To a smith, it should have been offensively low quality, but to Frederick it was one of the most quietly powerful items that he had ever held. Simple and unvarnished faith, without the dressings of others. Earnest, painfully so.
"Remind me which conversation on faith in particular," she eventually said, handing him back the charm before shifting slightly over to her nightstand to withdraw a corked glass bottle of kvas. "We had many."
Frederick paused, mouth drying slightly as he watched the lean muscles of her back flex as she moved before shaking his head vigorously and entirely missed at putting the charm onto the bed stand. It was only his reflexes that let him catch it and then try again, feeling out the stand without actually looing away.
"Ah…right. When you asked me if I actually worshipped Sigmar, and I asked you the same about Ursun."
Natasha snorted as she pulled the cork out with her teeth, spitting it into her hand and then taking a long pull from the bottle. But there was a fond quick of her lips as she wiped them and recorked the bottle.
"Ah, right," she cleared her throat and then scooted over to him she could drape herself on top of him, head coming to rest in the crook of his neck and arms slithering through his own to wrap about his torso. "When the Articles of Magic were first announced. Well, things have certainly changed since then, haven't they?" She murmured into his ear.
He glanced past her, just as she glanced past him, to each other's shrines. Natasha's bore a few small token acknowledgements to the Gods of the Empire, chief among them Sigmar, Ulric, and Morr. But the portions that held the most prominence were bold examples of the Kislevite Pantheon. The Widow stood taller than them all, hands held protectively forward and over her children. Ursun wore a bear pelt and held the rough survivalist appearance that was becoming his most common depiction, a bear at his side and a spear in his hand. Next to him, wearing nothing but trousers and bracers, was Tor with his axe on his shoulder. Dazh was thinner, his body wreathed in flame with an imperious but kind look to his face. His attendant Kalita stood at his side, as if ready to appeal to Prince of Flames at that very moment. Salyak, unlike Shallya, was depicted as a harsh-faced matron of a healing house, though she too dressed in white. Also unlike Shallya, she had a bone saw at her side and a pouch of poultice on her belt.
Also on her shrine, unlike Frederick's was a hefty tome quite literally handwritten by the Widow's Chosen Herself. Frederick had only once glanced through the religious musings of Kattarin Romanov before handing it back to Natasha.
It was a harsh read, written by a harsh woman, for a harsh land.
Eventually however, they pulled backwards somewhat, if only so they could look into each other's eyes.
"You recall correctly," he confirmed with pursed lips. "I said I didn't want to rely on any of the Gods, remember?"
"I do," she nodded. "I remember you saying that there had been plenty of time for godly intervention, that there wasn't going to be any."
Then the both of them, husband and wife, looked down at Frederick's body.
Before, when he'd been nothing more than the last child in a long line, he'd had a bit of a gut to him. He'd been but of average height, sure to grow no more, and though well-muscled from labor and weekly combat training with the militia he had also been a noble who drank even more heavily than many of the other Ostlanders around him. An angry, sullen exile more likely to fall down Narlog's hole – drinking one's self completely to death – than accomplish much in life. But that had all changed the day the beastmen attacked the village, the day the rest of his family died. Then it changed further when he took up Brain Wounder. Then he met his wife. Then…well. A great number of things had, indeed, happened since then. Anger, more consistent and vigorous training, better food, better drink. But the most obvious change was starkly visible to all who'd known him personally before Karak Ungor. He'd spent many nights wondering at the reshaping of his very body, as if he were but clay before the Heldenhammer. Some nights, he'd been impotently furious at the violation it could rightly be said to represent. Others he simply could not fathom why he had been granted the favor at all.
Now? Now, where even before he had been called 'exceptionally shaped' by his wife when she'd been particularly deep in her own cups, now that had changed to 'chiseled'. Quite literally, it seemed, but by a hand not his own.
"Well, as you said," he murmured, "Things have certainly changed."
"True," she slowly drew a cool hand across his chest and through his beard, calloused finger dancing across too many scars and pits. "Tell me your thoughts, husband."
He reached for her hand and gently raised it to his lips, kissing against the palm before pulling it away.
"Why me?" He finally said. "Why…then?"
He slowly shook his head.
"The Sigmarites don't have any answer beyond 'it was meant to be', the Ulrican's don't particularly like it, and so it goes," he groaned. "Arthur…he tries, but he also admits that he is a priest of Morr, not Sigmar."
Slowly, his chin sank down, his shoulders hunching.
"Why you…as opposed to someone else?" She eventually asked when she realized he would say nothing else.
Life seemed to surge back into him as he lifted his head, hands coming to clasp her shoulders.
"Yes! Precisely!" he shook her ever so slightly. "How many times could a better man have benefited from such a thing, maybe ended the Era of Three Emperors sooner?"
A slow, almost languid, blink was the response.
"First of all, that wouldn't have solved anything, two of the Three Emperors nominated themselves in direct defiance of the Cult of Sigmar," she said calmly. "Secondly, isn't the Emperor supposedly blessed by the Gods? You know, the one who ended the Era of Three Emperors?"
It was what was said, Frederick knew. Magnus had walked through the Flame of Ulric, and had been unburnt. He had been tied to a stake by the Grand Theogonist in Altdorf and slathered in oils, only for flame to refuse to catch. A massive stag marked with a white hammer had appeared in Talabheim, the forests louder than a storm's thunder but with the source being that of innumerable wolves. Triton himself, greatest of the blessed servants of Manann, had supposedly appeared and swam between the islands of Marienburg. A more blessed man in the Empire there could surely not be found. Yet for all of that, Frederick still struggled to comprehend the very nature and reasoning behind his own blessings. How could he not?
"I spat on the Gods, time and again," he scoffed. "I was nearly burned at the stake by Sigmar's own priests – and so was the Emperor himself. I have made friends and allies with vampires, embraced magic, and have whether I wished or not caused harm to the unity of the Empire with the formation of the Northern Trident."
He looked ready to rant further before a chilly finger placed itself quite firmly on his lips, his eyes alighting upon it and almost crossing before tracking backwards up Natasha's arm and to the affectionate smile on her face.
"Magnus the Pious not burn either."
A snort escaped him as she pulled her hand back.
"I am not Magnus the Pious."
"No?" she tilted her head in mock confusion before another smile fought its way forward, "Well, it is good to hear that – as I suspected – I am sharing my bed with my husband rather than the Emperor."
"You know what I meant."
Natasha rolled her eyes while poking him in the shoulder.
"Of course I know what you meant," she sighed. "You know, I read through the Deus Sigmar. As far as I can tell, you were still fulfilling some of the main scriptures." Natasha drew backwards slightly and raised on of her hands in a fist, knuckles forward. "You've undeniably aided the dwarfs, have you not?" She raised her index finger.
"Well-,"
The protest died a sickly death beneath the weight of Natasha's imperiously raised eyebrow.
"You bear true allegiance to the Emperor, truer than many I've seen," another finger raised up. "Frankly, sometimes even more than I think you should."
"Hey-,"
"And you've done plenty against greenskins and the myriad servants of Chaos, have you not?" she spoke over him, "And while you may accept the magic of the Colleges – and of Kislev, the elves, and the like – you do not approach of necromancer or other dark magics."
Frederick squinted in slight irritation before it melted away in bemusement, his head hanging for a second as he sucked in a deep breath.
"So, what, you're saying I should be content because I do more than half?" He let loose a short laugh at the absurdity of it.
"Better than going around all maudlin thinking that you are a bad Sigmarite," she poked him again, chuckling quietly as he lightly slapped her hand away.
"I don't even know what I would call myself," he shook his head. "I have seen the works of the other Gods, including those beyond humanity. But before I had seen none at all."
By now, he had well internalized the knowledge that they either could not or would not intervene in every single matter of every human being's life. And, if he were honest about it, he would not wish them to. Sigmar could not have possibly supported every single act that his Cult had gotten up to, and the same could be said of all religions. But one could not simply decide the Gods were useless after seeing what he had seen, after what had been done to him. At the end of the day, he felt far better about supporting Sigmar and Ulric and most of the rest more than he ever had as a child, for that young and angry man had not yet felt and witnessed the true depths of darkness that could and would be brought to bear against the Empire. The Gods had power, and that was a fact.
"Is it my position, that made me worthy? I have met many noble and good men and women, those who come from nothing and nowhere, are but the simplest of soldiers or merchants," he huffed and look towards his shrine again. "It better not be that only nobility could be granted such. If that was the case, I'd prefer it if only priests could bear such blessings and let that be the end of it. On the other hand, that would mean that anyone not a priest could spend their whole lives living in accordance with scripture and never be worthy."
Groaning, he sat his back against the headboard.
"I don't know if I'm making any sense. Faith is confusing."
"Such a statement should surely be recorded for posterity so that future philosophers might marvel at it," Natasha tittered before shifting so that her back was against the headboard as well, her shoulder touching his.
"Are you mocking me?"
Ever so slowly, she turned her head and tilted it so that it rested on her shoulder, all to lopsidedly but clearly stare him straight in the eyes without blinking.
"I would never."
The two held each other's gaze for but a handful of seconds before the twitching on Natasha's lips erupted into a smile and Frederick's choked snort turned into quiet chuckling. It subsided all too soon though, and for a time they were simply quiet. The interplay of Natasha's permanently cold skin and the furnace that was Frederick was an odd one, but one they had long grown used to. Preferred, even. The quiet worry that brimmed through Frederick's mind slowly stilled, the frantic bounce from threat to threat slowed down. All that he had required for it was to know she was there, feeling her hand lightly holding his, to hear the soft sounds of her breathing, the natural scent of her mixing with the Kislevite soaps and perfumes that lingered even now. For the first time for the entire day, his mind knew a rare and treasured peace.
"I think that you shouldn't spend so much time thinking about it," Natasha eventually murmured. "Sigmar blessed you, yes. But unless you're thinking that this makes you some kind of chosen one or particularly divine…?"
A snort.
"Gods, no," he shook his shaggy hair. "Absolutely not. I just…,"
Natasha hummed knowingly.
"Don't know if you're worthy, don't know if you can be."
====================================================
Castle Wulfenburg, 2306 IC
"So that's…that's me," he finished, staggering against the bed, hand going to rub against his scrabbly beard. "A bloody no one. Tenth son. The extra to the spare of the spare," he spat to the side before grinning toothily at Natasha from where she leaned against a cabinet. "Regretting your choice?"
Perfect. Too perfect. Courtly and diplomatic in the extreme, plus that bloody magic of hers. Young Frederick had no idea what to do with her. She looked too fragile, but even now he was growing to notice just how much steel – or ice, perhaps – she had in her spine. Even now, the two of them stared at each other from across the room like duelists sizing up an opponent. It was, in truth, a natural reaction of the stark awareness of the absolutely troubling levels of sheer attraction the two had come to find in one another. For ones so used to control of themselves, whether earned or forced or learned, it had been remarkably jarring. Within his smithy, Frederick von Hohenzollern had been the sole master of his domain. An exiled noble, yes, one forced to take up a trade like a mere commoner, yes, but he still owned what he owned with naught but the sweat of his own brow considering the pittance of an allowance he'd ever gotten.
"It was hardly my choice," she replied back, her Kislevite accent incredibly thick without leaving her Reikspiel entirely incomprehensible. "My sister offered me up so she could remove me from court, where I could not be a weakness to her rule. I wasn't worth the trouble."
And the conversation circled once more. For all that she did not sway as Frederick did, it was undeniable that Natasha was more drunk than she'd ever been in her entire life. It was the heft of the cabinet, weirdly lacking in ornamentation and almost wholly utilitarian, which kept her from toppling onto the ground.
"Yet she kept you close," he slurred.
"As did your father, in Jegow," was her sodden riposte.
It was a wonder either of them could even understand one another, no one sober possibly could have managed the linguistic challenge. Things only grew less comprehensible from there. It would not be resolved that night, or the night after that. But eventually, in time, it would come to pass that the walls they'd built were slowly broken down, brick by brick.
The fear and resentment of a banished son, whose communications with his family were reduced to the rare letters.
The terror and bitterness of a second daughter, the younger sister to the superior sibling, lesser in seemingly every aspect.
A boy whose last communication with his father was a view through a carriage window, stripped of almost all privilege, cast aside with ease by a man most pious.
A daughter who had simply been informed of her duty, her departure. Who had been given less than a week's notice. Who knew, even then, that she could not actually muster any authority of her own before the all dominating presence that loomed above.
To be known as the lesser, the spares, had grown deep thorns into their souls. Wounds that they could not bear to show to anyone else, let alone grant anyone a single possibly hint of the pain. Pains covered in icy temperament and mulish nature, then drowned in beer and kvas and wine. They had no trusted compatriots to commiserate with, how could they? The rulers of Jegow had not dared to feast or welcome the ignoble son beyond the utmost minimum courtesies. The cold court of Kislev had not bothered with the weaker of the two living Romanovs, not when she clearly could not provide any sort of appreciable counterweight to that which was the Tzarina. What allies did a foreign princess and a formerly banished son have in a city of Sigmarites surrounded by Ulricans, a pair without any strong faith of their own?
None.
None, perhaps, but each other.
=================================
They were utterly alone in this room. No children listened at a door large and heavy enough now to block out even the most strained ear. No servant did either, for that matter. The walls were thick and solid, no secret passages existing for a spy or assassin to crawl through. No priests sat before them as if at a confessional. They were, truly, for this singular moment, alone save for each other. It was for that reason and that reason alone that the brow of Frederick von Hohenzollern unfurrowed and the slightest of tensions left his shoulders as he spoke unvarnished and utterly vulnerable truth.
"Maybe," he admitted. "Who decides who is worthy?"
"The Gods, I suppose," she answered with a shrug of a pale shoulder. "But then, we've both seen folk who, by all rights then, ought to be worthy."
"Exactly!" he threw his hands in the air in a quiet rush before letting them settle back down onto the sheets. "Exactly," he repeated, quieter this time.
"You've been thinking about this for a long time," Natasha said kindly after a long pause. "But…isn't this something you could literally talk to a priest about?"
The sour look on Frederick's face would have threatened to make her laugh were it not for the seriousness of the discussion.
"You think I haven't?" He growled. "Years. Decades of them barely tolerating me, and then all of a sudden," he then pitched his voice higher, "Why, of course Sigmar saw fit to bless you, Count Hohenzollern, for you are surely one of his greatest living servants in the Empire!" He spat to the side with his mimicry finished, lip curling in anger in time with the narrowing of his eyes.
His fists clenched before a cool hand on his chest saw them loosen once more. Sharp sapphire met the curious blue-green mixture that had replaced the bright green of before.
"There is not one among them who could look past what the Heldenhammer did to me to the man beneath," he said with muted vitriol. "Arthur has tried, yet in the end said that he could only guess, and that is fair enough considering that Morr is who he has focused his soul towards more than any other. The Ulricans…that's not an avenue worth stepping upon." He shook his head again. "So the question becomes again, why me?"
Natasha was quiet for a long time, but one of her hands found his and wrapped around it at the start of it. In silence, she studied him. The scars across his body, new and old. Some from the sparring yard were angry and red, fresh marks that his own wife and children had delivered onto him. Others were far, far older, whitening or outright beginning to disappear entirely. Some were impossible to see at all without being this close, for this long. Marks of a life interwoven with pain. Many of them were a quiet cut at her very heart to see, though oddly enough some summoned nothing more than affectionate amusement. In Kislev, it was perfectly known for husbands to go into the Oblast, to fight, to die and disappear. For many years she had struggled with her own worries, her heart definitively softer than her sister's own.
But then, stone was softer than her sister's heart these days.
"I think," she eventually said, drawing his morose eyes up to hers once more from where they'd been gazing into the middle distance. "That we may never know. That you should simply accept that it has happened, and move on from it."
Frederick gaped at her.
"Wh-," he sputtered. "Move on from my very flesh," he lifted one arm and then clapped a hand hard against the bicep of it, already bulging enough without him flexing. "Being re-sculpted by a God!?"
Natasha simply raised an eyebrow.
"Did you, or did you not get decapitated in Karak Ungor, only able to return to me with said re-sculpted flesh," she poked him in his extremely hard abs, "Because of the intervention of a Dwarf Ancestor God? Your very soul altered, by the reckoning of Arthur and other priests?"
"That's…," he visibly struggled for a second before rallying. "That is over with, and I don't have to spend every day looking at my soul! But this," he gestured at himself again. "This, I cannot ignore."
"Then don't," she said flatly. "Accept it, and move on. Otherwise I fear that attempting to divine the motivations of the Gods themselves will drive you mad. Or worse, drive me mad."
A sigh escaped him.
"Were it so easy."
"It is, and I'll show you how," she sniffed and then slipped out of the bed and began sashaying towards the drinks cabinet bereft of blanket or shift.
And, to be fair, Frederick's attentions and worries were rather quickly consumed by a powerful blooming heat. Then she turned around with two rather hefty bottles, one of koumiss, and the other of thunder-water.
"That's one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen."
Natasha rolled her eyes but could not stop the pleased smile that came to her face as she stalked forward, eyes lidded.
"Frederick von Hohenzollern, I swear that by dawn you will stop thinking yourself in circles about what Sigmar did to you, and move on. You will accept it," she continued languidly, "And will not let it plague you with doubt and uncertainty. You are better than such things. And if you think otherwise, I'll drag every living Hohenzollern here, including Alexandra, to tell you the same. I shall send messages to the rest of the Northern Trident, to the High King of the Dwarfs, to Baragor, to the Emperor himself, if I must. I care not if that would embarrass you," she continued over Frederick's protests, "If it is what must be done to banish these daemons of the mind, then I will."
"I…-,"
"I swear," she pushed him backwards slightly before placing the bottle of thunder water in his hand and uncorked the koumiss in her other hand, "If you say 'I don't deserve you', I will hurt you. Now shut up and let me love you."
"…okay."
And, in truth, she was right. It was an utter act of futility to demand the answers he sought from the Gods, or at least clear ones. What mattered is that it had happened, and he had to make the best he could of the situation. For a man who had been all but without faith, what little of it he had possessed being of a spiteful nature, his life had certainly been on a different course than he'd thought it would. Still, he would remark to his wife a few weeks later that he was quite happy with the amount of divine attention and interventions in his life, and could do without any more of it for some time. Natasha, unsurprisingly, agreed. Still, the world still moved on and their lives needed living, and in a month's time they would be journeying to Laurelorn of all places once more. In the name of peace, hopefully, but then again one never knew for absolute certain when it came to the matters of elves.
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- Location
- The internet
Wait really? I thought the Dwarves were still in contact with their Norse cousins. Some of them showed up during the Karak Ungor siege briefly in parts 13 and 14.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That was then, this is then. Things change.
ConfusedCanuck
Where did it all go wrong?
- Location
- Neverland
That was very heartwarming well done Torroar!
- Location
- Pennsylvania
Speaking of Ursun, Kislev is apparently getting Bear cavalry when GW reboots the old world in the future:
https://www.warhammer-community.com/2020/05/11/old-world-update-bearsgw-homepage-post-4/
...weird how GW basically just handwaved away Kislev's destruction during End Times a few years back only to turn around and give it all this attention now.
https://www.warhammer-community.com/2020/05/11/old-world-update-bearsgw-homepage-post-4/
...weird how GW basically just handwaved away Kislev's destruction during End Times a few years back only to turn around and give it all this attention now.
- Location
- Somewhere
Not in frequent enough contact for the Karaz Ankor rumor mill to add the events from the Norscan dwarves Rumor Mill. Have you never wondered why the dwarf rumor mill doesn't have any Norscan dwarf rumor mill events? Too far and infrequent contact.
There are some things that might be going on with the Noscans, and the Norscan dwarves, all we really got is guesswork. The Norscans might be in the middle of a civil religious war between following the chaos gods and the gods of the empire. The norscan dwarfs and the Norscans might be fighting a war against each other, or the Norscan dwarfs are surrounded and cut off from aid, or just beefing up their rune wards. Guesswork.
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Mopman43
Mountain-Hermit of Nitpeak
- Location
- Vermont
That was posted a couple pages ago.
- Location
- Pennsylvania
Apologies, did not know. Haven't been on this thread in a while.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
I love these little Freddy and Nat moments.
Also, I can get where Freddy is coming from worrying about the near countless threats towards his home all the time and questioning why he is made so important by the powers that be, it's overwhelming. All that one can reasonably do is their best and not go mad trying to figure a uncaring world out I think, especially WHF world.
Also, I can get where Freddy is coming from worrying about the near countless threats towards his home all the time and questioning why he is made so important by the powers that be, it's overwhelming. All that one can reasonably do is their best and not go mad trying to figure a uncaring world out I think, especially WHF world.
RecurringExtra
Designated Background Character
- Location
- Out of Focus
GW as a company has changed dramatically since The End Times was released. Since Kevin Rountree became CEO in 2015, the direction the company has gone has been... better is how I'd put it. It's not too surprising that they're revisiting the Old World now, since the popularity of the setting has increased substantially with the release and success of Total War Warhammer. The fact that they're focusing on minor factions is, while surprising, very much appreciated however.
- Location
- Germany
You know, with two of these interludes and flashbacks now I'm starting to worry that something in Laurelorn went horrible for either Freddy or Nat. Especially after that last heartwarming interlude.
It may be my inner pessimist talking but from my experience, when in a possibly dangerous situation we are reminded of better, happier times, something horrible is about to happen 😅
It may be my inner pessimist talking but from my experience, when in a possibly dangerous situation we are reminded of better, happier times, something horrible is about to happen 😅
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Zedman7054
Eternally 3rd
- Location
- United States
I'm glad somebody else said it. You're not alone friend. Like, it sounds like this should be the last part of this interlude campaign, and we really shouldn't be in that much danger, compared to the time where Coedill and the (greater?) deamon of Nurgle where stomping around, but it reminds me of anime where a character gets a bunch of flashbacks and cuts to their (grand)children leading up to the episode where they die.
NCRTrooper
Wishing For A Nuclear Winter
- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Has Tor even started work on the update yet? Also, several interludes like this were posted during Karak Ungor, and both Freddy and Natasha survived, just saying.
I would've read too much into it IMO.
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Zedman7054
Eternally 3rd
- Location
- United States
I'm aware it's just the anticipation and pessimism talking. I wasn't even going to say anything about it originally, it's just nice to have another person share the same gnawing sense of dread born from narrative coincidence.
But if something bad does happen to Natasha and/or Frederick I reserve rights to say I told you so as we all cry.
Falzyker
2020! What will you try now?
- Location
- Somewhere with Bad Internet.
I hate this name, they should have called it Total Warhammer and be done with it, at least the game is good.
Also Nat and Freddy were so sweet they were going to give me diabetes, that's how you do an old couple, not them fighting or anything, them supporting each other in a tender moment.
SneakyWalrus
Is the Water Free?
You know, Freddy should write a book about all this. Something for retirement I suppose.
The new Warhammer Fantasy setting for 'The Old World' is supposedly set during the Age of Three Emperors, so at least 2 centuries prior to the previous Warhammer Fantasy timeline. Hence, Kislev would still be intact around then.
Yeah, and? Any writing from Torroar is good, and if further character studies and reviews of how his characters have changed over the course of this quest is what he wants to do in order to keep his interest in the quest, then that's totally fine considering that it's his quest in the first place. Ultimately, it's Torroar's prerogative to write as he wishes in regards to this quest, and none of us have any right to say otherwise, especially since this quest has been running for more than literally half a decade.
The new Warhammer Fantasy setting for 'The Old World' is supposedly set during the Age of Three Emperors, so at least 2 centuries prior to the previous Warhammer Fantasy timeline. Hence, Kislev would still be intact around then.
Yeah, and? Any writing from Torroar is good, and if further character studies and reviews of how his characters have changed over the course of this quest is what he wants to do in order to keep his interest in the quest, then that's totally fine considering that it's his quest in the first place. Ultimately, it's Torroar's prerogative to write as he wishes in regards to this quest, and none of us have any right to say otherwise, especially since this quest has been running for more than literally half a decade.
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- Location
- The World
Yeah, Frederick and Natasha are probably dead.
pucflek
Verified simpleton
- Location
- Czech Republic
I was pretty clearly responding to the posts above thinking the last two updates were raising death flags. Read the thread before you start harping at someone out of context.
- Location
- Pennsylvania
...so I'm probably gonna get lynched for pointing this out...but I feel it needs to be asked.
I finally got around to listening to an audiobook version of the book Drachenfels and something occurred to me.
How could Genevieve have channeled Sigmar to help Freddy in this quest if she didn't get blessed by hammer boy until the reign of Karl Franz? Aka 200 years after Magnus the Pius reign? I understand the book is very non canon due to when it was published...but the timeline issue seems pretty obvious all the same.
I finally got around to listening to an audiobook version of the book Drachenfels and something occurred to me.
How could Genevieve have channeled Sigmar to help Freddy in this quest if she didn't get blessed by hammer boy until the reign of Karl Franz? Aka 200 years after Magnus the Pius reign? I understand the book is very non canon due to when it was published...but the timeline issue seems pretty obvious all the same.
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