GM NOTE: Been working on portions of this since Mother's Day. Finally get to post it.
Mothers of Mallus
Wulfenburg School of Gunnery and Engineering, Testing Room 3
"Go."
Anna watched her daughter as she worked her way through the cleaning process of a standard sized handgun. Gone were the tremors, the nervousness, the easy fumbling out of a lack of familiarity. Part of her knew that an average child her daughter's age should not be as skilled at such things. On the other hand, careful study had revealed that a child that could be considered a genius would have been capable of all that Natasha was doing and more. It was a ragged middle ground that her sole child occupied, one achieved through relentless work. More than once, Anna had heard other engineers who were just as involved in Natasha's emotional development as her ask if perhaps the child was being pushed too hard. That perhaps Anna was driving her beyond her capabilities, despite her bloodline and the accomplishments of the rest of her family. Such was the wholly irregular nature of the matter that she was forced to consider such things.
The crucible of instruction in war, in natural philosophies of all sorts, in letters, in languages, and more was a harsh one. The pace was relentless, the subject matters myriad in the extreme. Then there was theology, a comprehensive battery of knowledge with a foundational note that absolute worship to any specific deity was not required. But information about not only the various Gods of the Empire but those of their nation's peers as well as their foes could be useful in the long run. Compared to the more so-called 'free' lifestyle of her cousins, Natasha had little to no free time at all. Her schedule was regimented in the extreme, from the time of waking to the time of sleep. The latter was especially important, as reducing the overall lack of sleep would surely stunt her daughter's development – such was the knowledge gained by the matrons of Rhya and experiences of a great many mothers she'd interviewed within her family and beyond.
And, in the end, when it came down to it she had accepted the facts and subsequently scheduled time for decompression. An hour a day for release, to visit and speak with the more…emotionally available members of the Hohenzollerns. There should have been a twinge in her heart that Natasha had to go to her namesake sometimes when she cried, to Serhild to learn courtly dancing and to giggle over tea and sweet cakes, to even Sabine at one point while Anna was inspecting a recent batch of cannonry due for delivery elsewhere in the Empire.
But there was none.
She was simply aware that she was deficient in certain areas of motherhood, and compensated accordingly.
It was acceptable in the highest sense that she was capable of noting that said compensating was successful in the continued development of her child.
"Done!"
Anna blinked and looked down at Natasha, who had in turn carefully schooled her expression until it was just as flat and emotionless as her mother's. Curious. Despite being told multiple times that it was better for the mental state of others around her that she should emote as they did, Natasha was reluctant to do so in private settings with her. Perhaps, Anna hypothesized, this was an effort to somehow 'connect' better to her. Still, such thoughts were not pertinent to the immediate matter at hand. The task and whether it had been accomplished to standard was.
"We shall see," she stated before picking up the gun and thoroughly checking it over herself. "Hmm. Acceptable."
Incorrect. The slightest of twitch downwards of Natasha's lips was the only signal given. But it was enough to notice. She had not praised her daughter enough for her success. Despite the fact that acceptable was an entirely correct statement. No, re-contextualize the verbal output with the emotional factors at hand. Factor one, a difficult task that was miserably failed multiple times at the beginning. Discard the fact that such would be the natural result. Factor two, as mother to daughter praise held more emotional potency, creating a greater payoff than it otherwise would with regards to positives and negatives. Factor three, reports from other engineering peers state that significant practice outside of regular scheduling had been put into learning, even during the leisure hour. Conclusion, level of praise not properly effusive by reckoning of child without being unreasonable.
"You did very well, Natasha," she tried again. "Your continued improvement is exemplary."
Ah, much better. Lips quirking upwards, eyes widening slightly and eyebrows lifting at the same time. Indicative signs of pleasure and happiness. Emotions of the child managed. Of course, it was brief, and was quickly smoothed away. That was expected. What was unexpected was Natasha moving forward and wrapping her arms around her waist and squeezing tightly. The immediate reaction was confusion, but the mind rapidly reassessed and reciprocated the procedure. To do otherwise would invite confusion and childish grief, two things to be avoided at this point in time. Rewarding effort properly could cause greater progress in the future, if other factors were managed properly. On the other hand, with the demonstration concluded satisfactorily, secondary concerns could be brought to the fore.
"Now then, child," she tugged Natasha's chin upwards with one hand to ensure eye contact, "I have been informed that you have been visiting the local Temple of Myrmidia outside of your regular religious education slots within the schedule. Why is this?"
Widened eyes, dilated pupils, reddened cheeks. Anger? No. Embarrassment more likely. Other emotions possible, however.
"I…," Natasha mumbled, turning away slightly without breaking the hug.
Gently, Anna reached down to prod Natasha's face back towards her.
"You have been studying multiple languages, but there has been a recent emphasis on Classical and Tilean beyond the confines of your regular schooling parameters."
Eyes widening further. Lips pursing, fingers clenching around her sides where once they'd been open-palmed portions of the embrace. But at the same time, Anna could recognize what was happening as well. The most obvious conclusions skittered off of her mind, illogically resistant despite the most likely truth to the questions at hand. Ones that her mind had circuitously avoided fully realizing in favor of forcing the child to do so instead. It caused her pain to force herself towards it, though she was aware that it was likely only mostly a mental issue rather than a truly physical one. An ache in the chest? Something one of the Jade Wizards should look at, truly.
"You are attempting to forge a connection to your father through his religion and language."
It required considerably more effort than it should have to speak those words, something Anna noted to examine at a later time. She possibly required more sleep.
"I…,"
Natasha's attempt at a lie failed before she'd begun, and the child knew it.
"Answer truthfully, daughter, this is not the time for deception."
Groaning, the youth finally pushed off and away from her, her head turning sharply to ensure a lack of total facial visibility. A clear sign of heightened emotions if Anna had ever observed one.
"Yes, all right!" Natasha finally erupted, turning back with hands bundled into fists at her sides. "You never…you never talk about him, and-,"
"False," Anna interrupted, hands coming to fold behind her back.
For some reason - the Master Engineer could not quite figure out why - her fingers were clenching together quite tightly. Curious.
"Demonstrably so. I have indulged-,"
"You-," Natasha's first word was a shout, but at the slightly widened eyes of her mother the rest of it strangled in her throat.
Though Anna could not fully replicate the sheer weight of her own mother's patented glare, she could manage her own attempts with reasonable success. The rapid and heavy breathing stilled, the reddened cheeks turned pale. Idly, part of Anna could remember her own face likely having a similar expression when she was but a young girl herself. The emotions of that time were, as always, muted and fogged over. But while she could not feel them, she could at the very least
remember feeling them. Anna judged that the current look of her daughter to her own remembered feelings from her childhood were similar enough to move forwards in the conversation correctly.
"Continue, daughter," Anna swept one hand outwards horizontally. "Clearly, you have something you wish to say."
"When…," Natasha started again, haltingly this time. She breathed in deeply, but it was shaky. "When you talk about him, it's…," she trailed off, frustration growing on her face.
Anna placed a single finger over her daughter's lips.
"I understand."
Because she did. How could she not, by now?
"I cannot provide the proper emotional context in my retellings, and my words on him thus far are as a dry tome's, correct?"
Natasha's lips parted but closed just as quickly, the young girl shaking her head vigorously.
"Th-that's not-,"
Shock at the blunt yet correct words, an instant denial couched in emotional consideration so as not to overly distress. Admirable, but unneeded.
"Do not lie to me for comfort, child," Anna admonished as gently as she could. "If you think spending time with the Myrmidians will provide more of a connection with your father than I can offer, then do so."
Natasha blinked up at her, her surprise obvious. She was, of course, still young. All she'd thought of was how much trouble she might have been in to slip her guards and break the confines of her scheduling.
"However, we will be rewriting your schedule after this."
At that, her only child groaned…but still buried her head into Anna's midsection, nestling herself there. As was only appropriate, Anna wrapped her arms around Natasha as comfortingly as she could replicate.
"All we can do is keep trying to move forward," she murmured, gaining a muted nod against her stomach for her efforts.
"Thank you mother."
================================================
City of Kislev, Gospodarin Palace, Main Dining Hall
A hundred Kreml Guard ringed the dining hall, fully armed and armored in their black lacquered mail and plate, all utterly silent. Even more so than the other Kreml Guard that guarded others of the royal family as they went about their business, these were even better equipped. For each of their weapons, from halberd to sword to dagger, as well as every portion of their armor from boot to helm, had been hand-forged by the hand of none other than Alexandra von Hohenzollern. It was said that she could withstand the forge better than any man, or even perhaps dwarf, for where the blazing heat might exhaust and prove deleterious to others, the Hohenzollern could summon forth an icy cold into herself to continue working for far longer than other. It was also said that she had no need of quenching liquids, having become so precisely masterful of her own gifts that she could simply exhale over a blade without fear of cracking or warping it. Thus, each of the hundred Kreml Guard that filled the hall were the most exquisitely equipped in all of Kislev, their individually prodigious deadly skills making them no less than members of the Palace Guard, the most prestigious division amongst their kind throughout the land. Dotted between them were the many torch sconces upon the wall, spots of light between each blot of utter darkness.
In silence, they watched, all facing towards their charges.
All so still as to easily be mistaken for statues, if one did not know the truth.
Above them all, a massive chandelier of intricately woven glass and solid silver hung, its tiered rings and loops of candles burning.
At the center of the hall was a single table with a great many chairs attending to it, all other furniture throughout the hall had disappeared into the labyrinthine storage rooms of the palace hours ago. At its full capacity, the main dining hall of the palace could host hundreds of guests and guards alike, yet now had been almost entirely emptied. Indeed, there was a considerable gulf between where the Kreml Guard stood and where the table rested, as well as those who sat upon it. Only those of Romanov blood or those directly attached to them by marriage were present, with no others save for servants or Kreml Guard allowed to even approach them. Parents and children alike carefully, dutifully, exactingly ate of the sixth of the ten total courses prepared, no more and no less. In accordance with Kislev's high society dining etiquette, to place one's fork and knife down was to announce that one was finished with the current dish, at which point a servant dressed in black and blue livery would arrive and take it away, leaving the diner to do naught but drink until the next course arrived. Which, in turn, would only occur once everyone at the table had finished with the current course. Which, in this case, was a series of perfectly cooked cuts of steak atop a rich sauce of wine and mushrooms with some roast vegetables on the side.
At the head of the table were two chairs, yet only one was filled. Both were immaculate pieces of work, carved of the finest lumber of southern Kislev. Both were what should have been considered cheerfully dyed and painted. The empty chair was gold and red, its cushions sewn with silver and gold thread, all perfectly preserved and awaiting one who would never again sit in it. The other was a scintillating series of purples and blues, darkest at the bottom and almost somehow translucent at the top and sides. As a result, its occupant, Kattarin the Bloody, almost appeared to be sitting upon a half-ethereal throne of absolute darkness. Her plate was almost completely full, yet she ate little. Her fork was as spotless as it was when the course had begun, her knife only slightly wetted from where it had pierced a single cut of the steak and placed it past her full lips.
If one were to speculate, they could potentially even say that the dark blue coloration of cosmetics she sported made her lips appear almost like that of a corpse.
If one were to speculate.
There were three other clusters of Romanovs along the table's sides.
The first were the family of Mattrin Romanov, who sat closer to the head of the table than anyone else. He was joined by his wife Olesya, who the Tzarina had once personally imprisoned and tortured, yet one would not know it by the woman's presence so close to the Tzarina. Closest, of course, was the Crown Prince, he who could and likely would be Tzar on the day that Kattarin finally fell. Then as the line went down were the rest, such as Dmitry, or Mattrin the Younger, Boris, and of course Rasputin, named for the one and only husband of the Tzarina. All were, of course, finely dressed. All were, of course, eating with utmost decorum, the conversations that they held between themselves and towards the others seated at the table quiet and unremarkable.
The second was Natasha Romanov, named after the Tzarina's only sister. Though she had shown no particular talent for 'The Widow's Gift', as many were now insisting ice magic be called, she'd shown admirable skill when…lead towards…Salyak and Her practices. Salyak was not the weeping creature of the south, no matter what som might have wished or postulated. For one thing, priestesses of Salyak did not have luxury of being nonviolent when the kyazak and worse came south every year. No. They had a responsibility to raise the next generation's warriors, and to defend them if need be. A tale had been passed around since the Great War Against Chaos of when a priestess of Shallya, the frail southern White Dove, had provided no resistance when a group of kyazak fleeing after the Everchosen's death had entered a triage tent near ruined Praag and slaughtered the patients within. Not so Salyak's followers, who were both men and women alike. As it was, Salyaza Natasha was dangerously close to her mother in appearance, yet somehow managed to appear more matronly and severe, in certain lights almost looking of equal age to her own mother despite the ridiculousness of the thought. Her own children were even better behaved than Mattrin's own. Her husband moved stiffly, though that was more from old injuries than anything else.
Dazhus Andre Romanov, second of the Tzarina's sons, was the head of the third and final party, and there a light glimmered. His smiles were wide, his jokes bawdy, and by sheer force of personality alone, a bubble of joy and laughter existed about him. An island of warmth amidst an ever spreading fog of chill, for he was a priest of hospitality and fire and thus carried it within him no matter where he trod. Beyond the holy gold that draped across the man's frame, the sun itself was woven into his clothing with golden thread, and he brought its light to the meal. Decorum was still kept, obviously, for Dazh cared deeply for proper behavior, but there were continuing sparks of unrestrained laughter and good-natured shoulder bumping as they eagerly partook of the food presented. Occasionally, either Andre, his smiling wife, or one of their children would entreat one of their fellow Romanovs, drawing one or two out of their rote and rigid behavior, cold temporarily warmed.
No one mentioned the absences.
One was excusable, as Olga Romanov was expected to maintain her duties and continue to enforce the authority of the Romanovs within Praag. The city was a hotbed of Bohka sympathizers, even more so than either Erengrad or the city of Kislev. As a strong High Priestess of the Widow, Olga was in charge of a great many things, all efforts to keep the city stable and hunt down various issues, yet for too long she had been lenient. It was one thing to hold mercy, to give a chance for redemption, but another to let it fester too long. Only twice had Alexandra von Hohenzollern been sent to Praag as a trouble shooter, and after the second Olga had finally begun to crack down as her mother had initially ordered in an effort to ensure that the Hohenzollern would not be required to be sent north again. It was just unfortunate that the oddly malleable nature of the rebuild city meant that certain gutters would now simply begin gushing blood during the witching hour, just one more horrible and unexplained event amongst a bevy of others after the city was drenched in the corruptive influence of the Ruinous Powers before being reclaimed.
The other was not.
None spoke, implied, or referenced anything about Torus Ivan Romanov. The last of the Tzarina's sons, the High Priest of Tor, was not, necessarily, missing. Not legally, in any regard. But it was only the opinion and speculation of imbeciles that he would not have been unmistakably invited towards the gathering. The bonds of family were paramount, and those that disregarded them were accursed in the eyes of the Widow. Yet, at the same time, Ivan's actions were somewhat attentive to the newly theorized concepts of conduct and behavior of Tor. Boldness. Unswerving in will. The only issue was the direction of that will, the results of that boldness. But for now, none spoke of where Ivan had gone, or with whom he was likely meeting with at this very moment. Not within the city, no, but elsewhere, out in the Oblast.
This remained true throughout the entire meal, Kattarin only placing her fork and knife down after the completion of everyone else. The course was replaced, and then the next. The entire meal ended without Kattarin speaking a single word to the rest of her family beyond the initial greetings. None spoke up to her either, not even Mattrin. At the end of it, she was the first to rise, bidding each of her family members safe travels as they began to leave. To say there was any warmth in her voice would be a lie, but there was nonetheless a cold sincerity there. In return, there were bows and curtseys alike. It simply would not do for rumors to get out that the Romanovs could not even manage to sup together on occasion, even if they all had their own manse and estates elsewhere around the country. Next were the Palace Guard, as much guards and escorts as observers of the younger Romanovs, all the way out of the palace gates.
Finally, Kattarin was left utterly alone. She remained in the dining hall, a twitch of her hand sending a cold wind through to blow out each and every torch. The thousand candles of the chandelier, however, remained lit. It was, after all, one of the greatest pieces of artwork and furniture combined, a treasure commissioned by Rasputin himself as a gift. A monolithic work that was at once sturdy whilst appearing almost overly delicate. A visual trap, in effect. She glanced up at the chandelier with unblinking blue eyes, the whites having begun fading into cold cerulean as she'd begun wielding Shoika's Sapphire more often. Yet she could not bear to look for too long, and instead curtly turned her head away, only to find it resting now upon a chair that would seat only memories.
The glass of the windows became frosted, then covered entirely by solid layers of ice, a state that would soon also involve the doors. All of the world was disconnected by the cold, if only temporarily.
The faintest, almost imperceptible slump appeared, the unbending posture ever so barely bowed. A single breath rattled in, rather than smoothly enter and leave, and became a full bodied shudder on the way out. For the briefest moment, one hand rose, trembling, and from one blink of the eye to the next appeared drenched in blood before another blink banished the vision. But it did not banish the specter. Nothing did. Nothing could stop her turning her head slightly into the phantom warmth of a cupping, calloused hand. The echo of a puff of hot breath next to her face. But she dared not look. Not that. Never that. Instead, she forced her gaze upon the chair, one hand clenching so tightly that her nails pierced her own skin.
"You cannot keep going on like this, Kat."
"Yes I can," she snapped back instinctively, only to growl at herself and wish she could have bit her tongue and kept them back behind her teeth.
"Can you? You're walking a blade's edge, love, and already your feet are bleeding. How long until you slip on it all?"
There was no point in conversing. She'd thought it a curse at first, yet none else could see it. No wizard of the Empire, or priest and priestess of Kislev. Even those of Morr had found nothing, though she'd never openly asked the question. She shouldn't have needed to. If they were loyal subjects of the nation, then they would have spoken up, surely. Eventually, she'd realized that it was a quirk of her own existence, one that she could not banish despite her best efforts. It was known that to delve more fully into magic could alter one's body, one's senses, one's mind, one's soul. One only needed to look at some of the Hags of the Ungols, and the Ice Hags themselves, to know that. Investigation revealed the true ages of some of the former, and careful conversation and research had brought about knowledge on the latter that not even they would wish her to have. This was her burden to bear, like so much else.
"Ivan's already turned against you," the warmth turned spiteful. Cruel. "What will you do to him? Hmm? Family. Blood. You honor it all so much, and yet…will you do what must be done?"
Delighted, almost.
"Ivan has done nothing but talk," she gnashed her teeth, her normally indomitable will failing at preventing her from speaking just this once.
"And if he does more than that? He already tried to sabotage those artillery shipments a while back, remember? You let that half-blood off the leash again and again, all so she'll bend her talents to your use. She's getting close, you know, so very close."
This time, she saw it attempting to sidle out of the corner of her eye, and so turned her entire body to keep it behind her.
"You lie to her, tell her it is in the name of peace. But it isn't. Of course it isn't. It's all a great gamble, and our luck already ran out, or don't you remember."
The chuckle was wet, almost gurgling. Scraps of meat cobbled together and collapsing right in her ear.
"It's not just the Bohka. It's all of them. It's everyone who ever disregarded you, dissented against your authority, chafes at the leadership of the Romanovs, of the controlling Gospodars. You're out of children to sell into chains of marriage, now."
Again, it attempted to enter her view, and again she turned away.
"No more allies. Only more enemies. You think you can win, bring about a new era, but you can't. The blood on your hands will mark you forever, Kat. More than Igor the Terrible, even."
This time, Kattarin stopped moving and squeezed her eyes shut instead.
"Everything we talked about is ash and dust. They called you the Bloody because of what you did to the kyazak, but how many sons and daughters of Kislev will be dead by the end of this, because of you!? Instead of closing the slave markets and enticing foreign workers with better wages and granting them land, you opened them wider and took it all for yourself! You don't patronize the arts, you buy weapons! You drag the children from the orphanages, not to new homes of warmth and song like you promised me, but to train them to fight and die for you! "
The caress this time was wrong. Hardened, like chunks of meat frozen over in the oblast's punishing winds.
"You drown our people in foreign clumps of kyazak now rather than see to their complaints and wishes. What, do you think you are Miska come again to lead Kurgan away from the Ruinous Powers?! No, at least Miska argued personally against the Kul, cut her way through the Yusak and Dolgan and Khazag as she escaped, but you sent the half-blood into the north!"
The voice was a guttural scream now, each vocal cord flensed and wet with blood and melted snow.
"The Bohka hate you. My family hates you for letting me die. Boyars and Ungol Chieftains are coming together out of mutual hatred and mistrust. OUR! OWN! SON!"
It thundered with otherworldly anger and hatred.
"Every voice is turning against you, Kat! You're slipping! The damn Ice Hags, the Handmaidens of Miska Herself, have left the city because you just wouldn't bend! You think you can keep a lid on all of it, all of them, but you forget you are only mortal! Meanwhile, you cut and bleed our people to temper more steel in their blood and wrench wealth back into your coffers!"
The blood dripped on the stone of the floor, but left no stain. Ghosts bled, but left nothing behind.
"Ah…," it said with a note of eldritch affection there. "Kat. Every year, your sins and list of enemies grow. They will weigh you down until you are covered in the blood you have spilled, until you are beneath the tide, and they'll hold you there. You'll drown there, as you should. You should have joined me years ago."
Harsh, ragged breathes now washed across her face, impossibly powered by lungs that had been cracked open like boiled eggs and laid out on cooking stones like strips of pork.
And yet.
But her body trembled no longer.
Her shoulders had set themselves during the phantom's ranting, spine unbending into a straight line.
Kattarin opened her eyes, and looked upon the gruesome wreckage of a corpse that stood before her. This time, it was she who reached out, pressing her hand against that reconstructed cheek and felt the ghostly not-blood that should have soaked each finger. Though the eyelids had been peeled, and the eyes beneath cut into slivers with a knife, like this they could still be seen amongst the ravaged mass. By the time she'd come upon the site of her love's drawn out death, not even this much had been left, of course. The parts had been strewn about the camp, and more than half of the body had been irretrievable, lost to the oblast. The fully reassembled monstrosity that stood before her, eyes unblinking, bared teeth stained red with his own blood, was nothing more than a hypothetical image.
But it would torture her no longer.
"No," she said calmly to the apparition, "If even an ocean of blood sought to drown me, I would freeze that tide and clamber atop it. If you were truly the light once in my soul, you would know that."
She stepped forward, looming as the chandelier illuminated here coldly from above and behind.
The specter shambled back, shrinking as parts of it fell away into nothingness.
"My enemies utilize the trade routes that I have created, because there is no alternative. They summon mercenaries from abroad to ensure their forces are trained enough,
modern enough to match my own. They speak easily with one another thanks to the roads I rebuilt. They even work to entice priests and priestesses of the Gods to their side out of desire for righteousness to back their cause where before they denounced them. The Ungol are for once connected to one side or the other, instead of remaining aloof, and those connections not easily broken either. The salvation I offer away from the Ruinous Powers will draw those that the Kurgan tribes spit upon and call weak, and in turn make them strong."
She inhaled deeply and looked down upon the pitiful thing that cringed away from her. She wondered why she had been so afraid of it for so long. No longer, now.
"They may kill me, destroy, claim, or outright rename my works that they have already bound themselves to, taint the name of my house in the history books or scour it from them entirely," she shook her head. "But my work will continue without me. They will drag themselves upwards out of misplaced spite, if it comes to it. Kislev will survive, one way or the other."
It had but one card left to play.
"But…but what about your son?"
Kattarin paused and took another deep breath, her lips thinning into a line.
"He will make his choices, and I will make mine. If he is truly a man of Tor, or even just a man at all, he will fight for them. Or, if need be…die for them."
And just like that, even without blinking, the apparition disappeared.
It would not return.
How could it?
In the end, a conscience simply could not survive such a bleak landscape as Kattarin Romanov's soul.
=======================================================
Ostermark, Bechafen, Castle Hertwig
Ortrud Hertwig howled with laughter, or perhaps it was anger, as she chased after her grandchildren as they cackled and ran through the castle halls.
It would be quite a shock to those unfamiliar with the Hertwigs to see the infamous Iron Lady of Ostermark, warrior, general, veteran of the Great War Against Chaos, dwarf friend, running down a gaggle of young ones. Especially given the fact that her entire face was covered in cream, the result of a very well-aimed pie. Yet it was no surprise to the servants of the Hertwigs, nor their Greatswords, who did little more than stand aside despite the bellowed orders of the Elector Countess of Ostermark to aid her. She was not being wholly serious in the demands to 'string them up by the toes', after all, as there was a very recognizable difference between the Ortrud Hertwig who personally executed bandits and criminals and the Ortrud Hertwig who was dealing with the shenanigans of children.
In truth, as the woman herself had confessed, she treasured the memories in the long-run.
Even if she was after her own blood, sprinting at speeds that would startle most.
In the past, such would simply not have been the case. Ostermark had, under the previous Count, been a grim place. The Era of Three Emperors was not kind to them, with Kislev to the north, dangers descending from the World's Edge Mountains, and of course Sylvania. Their friends were few, their forces overdrawn, and their funds consistently low. Count Klaus Hertwig had remained bold, however, and led his rugged troops quite often, leaving his firstborn daughter to rule while he was gone. Her brother, and Klaus Hertwig's son, Reinhardt, had long joined the Knights of the Everlasting Light, and was up, down, and across the Old World as a result. Castle Hertwig, build over many decades after the loss of Mordheim, was without laughter or much light, only quick and harried messengers going about their business as efficiently as possible. It was a bleak place, in a bleak time, when it seemed that the Empire would simply slide ever further towards total destruction.
But then the Great War Against Chaos arrived.
Ortrud was sent south to gain the measure of this 'Magnus of Nuln', while Klaus rallied the troops of Ostermark. It was on Ortrud's word that Ostermark joined with the man who would become the Emperor, father and daughter both fighting at the Gates of Kislev. They watched, as many did, as Magnus battled the Everchosen, with the heiress close enough to feel the infernal heat that poured off of Asavar Kul's daemon-infused armaments before winking out at the very moment of his death. Shortly afterwards, Reinhardt, brave and noble Reinhardt, proved to be the last of the ill-fated Knights of the Everlasting Light who had fallen to the machinations of the Nurglite cultist Otto Gruber – then previously known only as the loyal Count of Nordland. Daemons and corruption flooded the northern province, striking fear into all save a few.
Then, fury. All of the Empire was weary after the war's end, but even so Ortrud Hertwig had stormed an ancient vampiric fastness on rumor alone of a daemon-killing sword there, then stormed west straight into Nordland in a rage to kill Gruber. There, she made an acquaintance with Frederick von Hohenzollern, with the blade
Malevolentia proving the key to putting an end to the newly ascended Daemon Prince. Vengeance was swift and glorious, yet soon afterwards Klaus Hertwig fell to the inescapable blade of time itself, leaving young Ortrud as the new Elector Countess of Ostermark.
She rallied her weary province's troops, hired mercenaries she had made friends with during the Great War Against Chaos, and then warred against beastmen, against greenskins, against the things that the rest of the Empire thought but myth and rumor for many years. She signed and helped create the Northern Trident, forged new trade compacts with Kislev, and forged a strong alliance with many of the dwarf holds of the northern World's Edge Mountains. Her implacable nature in battle was as equally well known as her indomitable presence at court – something she required due to her relative youth compared to the more venerable court of Ostermark – both of which came together to give her the title of the Iron Woman of Ostermark. Enemies and friends call her relentless, though the context of that descriptor changed depending on which one was speaking to.
Here? Now?
She leapt forwards through a doorway and grabbed both Marius Hertwig and Angelika Hertwig, scooping both up beneath one arm each, swearing vengeance on those that escaped while both of the children giggled madly as she swung them about. Each suffered under her terrible revenge as she rubbed her pie-covered face all over their cheeks, dirtying them as much as she cleaned herself.
"Now you are my servants," she declared bombastically, "The pie folk shall lay claim to this place!"
"Yes, grandmother," Marius and Anglika intoned gravely despite the pie on their faces.
"Then forward," Ortrud stamped one foot ahead and pointed dramatically. "Go! Punish our enemies for their impudence!"
It was, of course, at that point that a door to an office opened revealing the bulky figure of Fritz Hertwig, Grandmaster of the reborn Knights of the Everlasting Light. He paused, that mighty warrior and husband of Ortrud, to see the woman in question freeze along with two of her grandchildren, all with pie on their faces. Behind him was Reinhardt Hertwig, heir to the province and fellow knight of the same order as both his father and his namesake.
"…what's going on, now?" He asked slowly, looking first as his mother and then down at the children.
In response, Ortrud simply wiped a bit more pie off of her face with one finger ach and daubed both men's noses.
"You two have been conscripted for a most righteous war," she shrugged and smiled. "Pie faces against non-pied faces."
"I see," Fritz said calmly. "Shall I go get some more pie from the kitchens?"
"Of course! We need more ammo!" She cried aloud, "Forward minions, while we restock our weapons! Reinhardt, you shall be our vanguard!"
The pie war would continue for many hours yet, to the considerable distress of the castle's bakers.
======================================================
Inner Palace Courtyard, Middenplaz, Middenheim, Middenland
"Stand up straight!" Sieglinde von Bildhofen barked as she stalked back and forth, her actions mirrored by the blessed and gigantic wolf behind her.
As it was a summer day, she did not wear the heavy wool and furs that were more appropriate for winter. Instead, the Gräfin wore a sleeveless gambeson on top of leather breeches that cut off after the knee, which bared the scars that ran across her hands up to her shoulders on both arm to the world. The intertwined black and white ink wolves that danced amongst the scars remained as well defined as they had been the day they'd been tattooed onto her body thanks to yearly maintenance. Her hair remained shaved on the sides to better display her battle scars, the brand of a wolf on her right shoulder now joined by a newer one on her left. The initial white wolf tattoos that had run along her shoulders onto her throat had grown in number, for each signified one of her children.
Birthing twelve children had been hard on her body, but the Gräfin was a hardy woman. She had to be, to be the warrior that her weakling father had failed to be. Though she'd refused the offers from the Jade Wizards to see to her scars, those she was proud of, long months of arguing had eventually had her relent enough for them to see to her overall health. Though it had burned at her husband to admit that the idea had come from the infamous Hohenzollerns of Ostland. It had been pathetically easy to gain some for their service, eager as they were to maintain warm relations with the Emperor's only brother, and thus the rest of the Bildhofens. Thus, with her health assured, she had demanded Gunthar continue to impregnate her yearly, after all.
She simply could not abide the thought of her bloodline dying out thanks to her worthless father. Far better to join her strength with that of Gunthar and his brother, and then to forge children worthy of that blood.
Twelve pairs of eyes looked back up at her, some more clearly alert than others.
Artur, her eldest, was bold enough to meet her gaze. Though he was twelve, she could already tell he would be a great warrior. Already he was capable of beating squires his age and a few years above, his frame showing the foundation of the height and musculature he would surely go on to develop. It descended in a line, as Sieglinde swept her gaze from left to right. Anja, her bow still slung on her back, the impromptu assemblage having drawn her away from the range. Anton and Jasper, fraternal twins, stood as straight backed as possible, but she had not missed how the smaller Jasper had been forced to elbow Anton to remain still. Kurt, for all that he was only eight years old, fiercely and proudly held himself at flawless military attention, as did the one year younger Maximilian. Of course, after that point was Gunthar, Emmanuelle, Maria, Katrina, Jakob, and Freya. Those six were just too young to perfectly manage it, and as Sieglinde's eyes fell upon them her fierce gaze softened slightly as they wobbled. On the one hand, they clearly desired to mirror their siblings, on the other, they were simply too young as to understand the greater context, baby fat and little legs both wobbling.
"I see no one is helping little Freya and Jakob stand," she tutted, glancing back along the line. "Or Maria and Katrina. Anyone?"
Her heart swelled as the line broke apart, the elder cubs rushing over to aid the younger, but she only allowed the ghost of a smile to pass her lips before she returned to a stern face.
"The pack, our pack, must support one another. It aids no one if only some of you are strong. True strength," she called out as they assembled themselves once again in a rough bundle rather than a weak line, "Is being strong enough to support others until they are able to stand on their own two feet. And, if they cannot, then being able to protect them
and take on the rest of the world."
There was the light of comprehension in some eyes, but not in all of them. Which, of course, was perfectly acceptable considering that the majority of them were not even past their first decade.
"Now then," she cleared her throat. "Now that everyone is ready, we can go," she turned and gestured towards the gate leading out of the Inner Palace.
It was a mark of honor, piety, and kinship that they were joined at those gates not just by the Greatswords but by members of the White Wolves. A detachment seconded by the order of the Ar-Ulric himself. With both knights and Greatswords accompanying them, as well as Sieglinde's own Winter Wolf partner Icetail, none could possibly mistake their group for anything other than the Bildhofens. Courtiers and commoners alike gasped and bowed before them, their path through the crushingly populated crowds of Middenheim parting before them easily, at least at first. They were even worse than usual, of course, because everyone was heading in the exact same direction, to the Square of Martials. Even as they descended the steps, their escorts had to push and shove, the sheer press now a considerable obstacle.
Within the square itself gallows had been erected, upon which a trio of men stood. Two of them had bags over their heads, their hands and legs bound with rope, while the third was none other than the Graf himself. Sieglinde felt a thrill rush through her at the sight of him as he stomped back and forth, yelling to the crowds that yelled back. At first, she had thought him a pompous nothing, a weakling from Nuln who could not possibly stand up to his brother the Emperor who she had already failed at seducing. But to her surprise, he had proven himself a dozen times over in rhetoric, in combat, and in earnest piety to Ulric. It helped that he was more than ruggedly handsome enough to cause her core to warm at the very sight of him, of course, but that was only part of it.
"-thus to all traitors of the Empire, to all heretics who blaspheme against the Gods and worship only darkness!" Gunthar roared, her heart soaring as the crowds yelled in approval.
It had shocked many when it turned out that the brothers Prensburg had been discovered to be cultists of Khaine, worshippers of the God of Murder, but the sentence remained the same. It had, however, revealed a critical weakness of the city's premium on spaces dedicated to burial. Too many murdered victims had been thrown over the Cliff of Sighs, the condition of their bodies associated with the ravages of the fall and nature feasting upon them. It had finally proved enough that the Cult of Morr had been able to make their case to dwarfs and Graf both that even paupers required a modicum of true care by their priesthood. Sieglinde had helped argue amongst the other Law Lords for the creation of protocols and permissions enough for the Gravespyre, a communal method to give physical and spiritual succor to any fallen regardless of status permanently watched over by the Black Guard of Morr and at least on senior priest at any given time. The Cliff of Sighs would also be watched by Morr's faithful to ensure that no more bodies would be treated so grotesquely again.
That the push had come under the authority of none other than Arthur von Hohenzollern was infuriating, that the backwater that Ostland was meant to be could exert any authority on anything at all in Middenland made her want to scream. Another failure of her father, of the Todbringers, but one that there was little hope in resolving unless utter disaster befell Ostland that Middenland could somehow recuse themselves from. A frustrating oxymoron, as any such disaster would therefore likely demand that Middenland aid the damned bull, especially with Magnus watching from Nuln. Still, her mood was brightened by the fact that a spot had indeed been found for her and the children.
"Watch," she ordered them, her voice managing to carry despite the bellows of the crowd. "This is the fate of all traitors and heretics. This is Ulric's will."
Most of them did not understand, even as Gunthar moved to the lever, nor when he pulled it and dropped the condemned. Some of them did. All would, in time. There, arms raised to the approving cries of the crowd, stood Gunthar. There was the strength that Sieglinde's pathetic father had lacked. He'd abdicated, the coward, content to live his life out in societal exile rather than actually die in battle like any true Middenlander would have been proud to. Leaving executions solely to the Law Lords and their agents. Hunting expeditions where never a single kill was claimed by him, but by her instead. It was enough to make her vomit a little in the back of her throat every time she spared a single thought to him. If only it had been him who had died of sickness rather than mother, who had at least gone out fighting the Plague God with every spat breath.
The Todbringers of Middenheim are gone because of you.
But I will make sure the Bildhofens of Middenheim are strong.
======================================================
(Infiltration: 78+Sabine Intrigue(13)=91/100)
(Asset Evaluation: 65+13+Extremely Successful Infiltration(15)=93/100)
(The Spiked Net: 63+13+15+Extremely Successful Asset Evaluation(15)=106/100)
Basement Of Skewered Squig Tavern, Smokelands, Wulfenburg
With the tolling of the bells, so began the midday carousing, as folk from across the strata of the Smokelands came for a drink and some mildly appetizing food. Few could stand up to the adherents of Esmeralda, but it was growing increasingly common for any establishment who truly wished to hold itself to a higher standard to hire one of those pious chefs and cooks. To be certain, such a practice had not yet trickled down into more common places of business, but it was only a matter of time, training, and ability to be accepting of the Good Cookbook's teachings. As it was, the folk of the western third of the city were not so much gourmands, though they were certainly appreciative of a good hearty meal after a long shift or two. The various establishments that catered with food, drink, and yes certain other comforts had slowly but steadily grown used to the grueling schedule. At any given time, some were working, and some were off-shift. Thus, many locations had in turn hired more staff to prepare for the simple fact that there would be a not inconsequential amount of customers at quite literally any hour of the day.
The Smokelands ever bustled, and there was always money to be made there in some fashion.
Sabine would know, as she personally owned twelve percent of all of it, albeit with partial ownership and commensurate regular returns paid back to her initial investors in her birth family of the Nassau. Some of it was based in pure luxury goods, jewelry of various sorts and measures, higher quality pottery, and especially glassware. The lattermost was particularly important, as it allowed her to stretch her business attentions into the creation of alcoholic packaging, windows, sculpture, and the like. Others were perhaps considered as more base things by some, but for these she cared little beyond carefully obscuring just who was in charge and to where the money truly flowed. The simple fact of the matter of it was that controlling the dung collectors under a singular organization brought profit, and even if it were not so grand in scale as the sale of a single painting by a famous painter, it was infinitely more reliable than an artist who might get but one commission a month or even a year, or a jewelry shop that could run into a slump. It was to her mild bemusement that she'd been warned off the bone pickers, as those were instead owned by the Count's own spymaster. Then, of course, there'd been her newest venture, formalizing the ancient and still quite present blood sports of the Empire. She'd found less investment from her parents than she'd prefer, even from her siblings, but she had faith that matters would soon prove themselves – though she was not above approaching the Count himself for a loan to move the timetable up.
Alas, those were thoughts, she knew, for a better time. A better place.
"Do you know why I dislike human trafficking so much, Herr Schultzen?" She asked softly into the relative quiet of the basement.
Down in the Skewered Squig's fighting pit, was an impressively fat man dressed in finely furnished clothing even for a wealthy merchant looking up at her with fear in his eyes. No manacles or chains bound him to his place, nor had his legs been broken or even majorly bruised. In front of him, in front of her, was a ladder of stone put into place within the pit so that the victor would always be able to rise and immediately receive his payment from the watching official. His many chins wobbled as he opened his mouth, smooth and uncalloused hands wringing together beneath her glare. Normally, the basement would be brightly lit by multiple torches and candles, with a roaring crowd either sitting at tables waiting for the next fight or right on the edge screaming down at the participants. The basement's bar was currently shuttered, and most of the torches were unlit such that even Sabine was barely illuminated. The majority of what light remained illuminated the man in the pit and the red-stained dirt beneath him.
"My…my Lady Na…," her gaze sharpening caused him to swallow deeply, "My Lady
Hohenzollern, please, I am innocent of these accusations!"
Sabine just looked down at him, uncrossing and then crossing her legs once more. Today, she was dressed wholly unlike a noblewoman of leisure, but neither like the warrior woman she'd taken on the role of in the course of her marriage. Rather than scaled mail and plates, she wore dark brigandine, and instead of the proud sword and shield she'd taken up, had utilized in battles with beastmen and greenskins alike, she had only a short sword attached to her waist. No ornament nor helmet or adorned her head, though a hood hung from her shoulders. Sabine snapped the fingers of one hand, the other remaining in her lap, and from the darkness came another gloved hand, this one holding a sheaf of documents that Sabine grasped and pulled closer to her face. She peered over it down at the man in the pit.
"Herr Schultzen, you didn't let me finish talking," she tutted, placing the papers down next to her seat.
"I…,"
Leaning forward, elbows against her thighs to prop her chin upon a single fist.
"It's a shortsighted waste of resources, Herr Schultzen," she chided, causing the man's mouth to snap shut in confusion. "The amount of wages paid to an employee versus the simple costs of room and board for a slave are, at first, an easy numerical comparison. Plus, it is invariably true that the vast majority of slave's working conditions are harmful and do a considerable job in shortening the lifespan of the slaves themselves. One only needs look just north of the border, to the Tzarina's salt mines or temples, to see the truth of that."
She then leisurely kicked the papers over the edge and into the pit where they fluttered about Schultzen.
"Do you know what those are, Herr Schultzen?"
"I-I don't-…," his excuse trailed off as he caught sight of the contents of the papers.
"You should," she hummed, "They are your bills of sale, after all."
The man's heavy jowls wobbled as he worked his jaw.
"Personally," she said casually, "I find it interesting that you chose to use the euphemisms you did. Cows and bulls, all under the guise of you being the head of a cattle trading group." Sher clapped politely. "How quaint. But now then, back to why I dislike human trafficking," she huffed, leaning back in her chair. "You see, I am of the opinion that a well-motivated employee in as best possible health is capable of performing far better in pursuit of their occupation compared to average slave conditions and mentality."
Then she paused, a finger coming to tap against her lip.
"Though I suppose certain allowances must be made for some methods, goodness knows the horror stories of the Druchii mean that they must have ways beyond us simple humans…or they simply don't care," she shrugged, eyes temporarily casting themselves up to the darkened ceiling, at the swinging shape of an unlit chandelier. "But again, I digress. Another issue I have with it is the simple fact that you are often removing a customer."
Herr Schultzen's head turned this way and that as he sought a way out other than the ladder that lead directly up to the makeshift throne that Sabine was sat upon. His eyes flicked away from the shapes and silhouettes behind her, to the rest of the chamber. But to his misfortune, the basement had been kept deliberately dark, leaving the only illumination to cast itself upon the noblewoman.
"When you remove someone wholly from their local economy, it means that they are not spending their wages," she continued to lecture, fingers tapping out a steady beat against the arm of her chair. "When they do not spend their wages, the income that others in the area might gain from such expenditure is lessened. The herbalist's sales are lowered, the clothier's sales are lowered, and so on. When one removes more, the more the rest of the economy suffers."
Once more, the wobbling chins of the merchant waggled further, sweat practically pouring off of him.
"I am innocent! I swear upon the Gods!"
Sabine shook her head, clucking her tongue as she did, tapping fingers curling into a fist that creaked the leather before she slammed said fist down upon the arms of her chair.
"LIAR!" She suddenly shouted, standing so violently that the chair was knocked over behind her.
Schultzen fell over backwards despite himself as she glared down at him. Slowly, Sabine got her breathing back under control, her saccharine voice returning.
"The Gods would not have one such as you," she said. "Save perhaps Morr, if only because it is his choice. No, Herr Schultzen, you will have no divine intervention here."
Silence came after, and slowly the face of the merchant began to redden, as fear warred with anger on his face.
"You…you have no right to do this," he stammered, "I am a valued member of the community, and a well-connected man!" A faint mania bloomed in him alongside his growing confidence. "You – you think I am a stranger to such strong arming, such intimidation tactics?! I deserve to plead my case before a judge, not this…this…ludicrousness!"
Sabine simply cocked an eyebrow and remained silent.
"You nobles, you think you're so grand, even as you're all poorer than I, than my kind! You're…you're jealous of us, us up-jumped commoners! That's all this is, you oppressing those who you think should be beneath you!"
"Is that what you truly think?" She seemed somehow amused.
By now, he'd reached his feet, shaking now with a façade of righteous fury. Sabine tilted her head and then snapped her fingers, and one of the darkened silhouettes drew closer and handed her a document. She examined it briefly and then nodded before casting it down into the fighting pit. The merchant stared in confusion as it fluttered to the ground in front of him.
"Wh-what-,"
"Read it," Sabine pushed.
"I…more slander will not-,"
"Read it," she repeated, only this time there was a very large crossbow in her hands.
The threat of violence forced itself through the angry man's skull, enough at least that he leaned down to do so, huffing with the physical exertion before he grabbed the document. But even before he could do more than pick it up than did his face pale, his entire corpulent body somehow looking as if it were deflating somehow as he straightened with a wobble. For he had seen the impossible to ignore the signature at the bottom. Whether it was to gain more time to think, the crossbow, or even some inexorable power in the parchment itself, he read it. As he did so, with each line, his face grew paler, until his head appeared practically bloodless. The trembling of his body increased, the anger and seized upon faux-righteousness gone entirely. Eventually, nerveless fingers let it fall from flabby hands that were no longer covered in jewels and rings of impressive value. Piggish eyes stared forward into the middle distance, disbelieving.
"Your time in court has come and gone, Herr Schultzen," Sabine said conversationally, placing the crossbow against the chair. "The evidence has been compiled, to an extreme extent, and brought before the highest authority in Ostland."
The notice continued to flutter before it hit the ground, before the signature of none other than the Steel Bull himself was illuminated by the dim light at the bottom.
"I…-,"
"Most notable amongst that evidence…were the witness statements," Sabine continued with a distant note of anger in her voice.
At that, the slaver's head whipped up at her with shock clear on his face.
"Wit…witn….no," he shook his head, "I am innocent," he said again, though this time there was no heat behind it, only a dumb statement without any weight.
Sabine, in response, splayed her arms wide. At the signal, all around the fighting pit, ringing it in fact, new lanterns were lit. Suddenly, more than a dozen faces were brought into sharp relief. All of them cloaked, to better hide themselves in the shadows, before at Sabine's nod they tugged them down.
At the sight of them, Schultzen's jaw dropped.
"Don't you recognize them?" Sabine asked archly. "Because they
certainly remember you."
She held up the elbow of her left arm with her right hand, gesturing towards the newly revealed individuals with a dangerous casualness.
"Herr Autlermann?" She pointed towards a weathered looking man, a deep scar running across his left eye, leaving it milky white. "No? How about Frau Julia? A fine young Bretonnian woman, out to see the world," her pointing finger rested upon a furious looking woman, deep scars crisscrossing her face. "Ludwig? Henry? Hans? None of them?"
The false calm cracked as she pointed to the figure directly opposite her across the pit.
"How about her? Do you recognize her?"
Schultzen began to shake his head.
"I…I swear I do not-,"
"LOOK AT HER!" Sabine roared at a volume more befitting the battlefields she'd accompanied her husband to than the basement.
It was an odd thing, to watch a man do something he clearly, dearly, wished not to do. His entire body shook with the contrasting efforts, to turn and to not, and yet it was the former which proved the stronger. When he finally finished his turn, his eyes falling upon that dimly lit face by the lantern she held in her hands, he collapsed to his knees as a puppet would if its strings were cut. The woman who looked down on him was once beautiful, it was clear to all with eyes to see, but that beauty had become a terribly worn thing. Not a scar was on her face, but there was an awful haggardness to the stretch and pull of it, as if starved and beaten before being plumped up in a horrific cycle too many times. Eyes that were once smoky and inviting had become hardened things, sparkling green replaced by chipped and dull emerald.
"Her name," Sabine ground out, "Is Annalise. Do you, perhaps, recognize her? You should. She was the most requested woman at the Velvet Rose by many men…including yourself."
For once, there was no response, not verbally at least. Instead, still on his hands and knees, Schultzen turned about, hands clasping together in silent plea.
"Here's a fun little fact," she bit off each word, "I am the landowner of that property. I am business associates with its madam. And Annalise…is my
friend."
"…please," Schultzen bowed his head and pressed his forehead against the ground. "I beg of you…mercy my lady…,"
"It was quite frustrating trying to find her. Myself and another of the Count's close associates worked very hard, and yet the tracks were almost impossible to find, let alone follow."
Sabine's laugh was a harsh thing in the dark of the basement, a darkness that only grew as the lantern-wielders snuffed their flames to leave themselves once more enveloped in shadow.
"Imagine my surprise when little Evangeline Hertwig showed up with them all in a carriage…though I suppose she can't be considered quite so little anymore, now that she's the Sword of Justice," she trailed off before her eyes narrowed down at him. "Of course, she only got a fraction of those taken, didn't she? Because there weren't any more survivors," she growled. "Which is often what
happens when hard labor is forced upon those without proper training or conditioning, especially when little to no concern is taken for their health, only the maximization of profits in the short-term!"
She waited, then, as the words continued to try and form out of the slaver's mouth, only to fail once they escaped his lips.
"No more excuses? Good. The crimes are murder, bribery, enslavement, and a myriad of others amongst which includes improper tax reporting based on the profits your endeavors have gained you," she nodded before tugging on her gloves slightly, examining the fingers. "The sentence, as rightfully declared by his lordship the Grand Prince and Elector Count of Ostland Frederick von Hohenzollern, is death."
With one step, she brought herself to the edge of the ladder leading into the pit.
"However…," she deliberately trailed off, just long enough that the faintest spark of hope could appear in the man's eyes. "There is a way out for you, Herr Schultz."
Her fingers spread out as she rolled her hand towards the ladder.
"All you must do is leave the pit, and you will be pardoned, and allowed to leave Ostland."
Schultzen's small eyes widened and with all the haste of a man filled with terror and hope he scrambled to the ladder, yet before he could get more than a few rungs up he found Sabine's feet smashing directly into his face, toppling him over into the pit. When his ringing head had just barely begun to clear, his vision swimming, he rolled himself over to see the young woman in the pit now with him, her head tilted to the side. She wore no blade, her crossbow left abandoned. It was only her. She adopted a look of confused innocence, even as blood dribbled down from the slaver's shattered nose.
"Herr Schultzen, as I said, all you need to do is climb the ladder to achieve safety and freedom," she pointed back to the ladder. "There is certainly enough lighting left to see it. I ensured that much."
Warily, head still ringing, he stood. Sabine did not even block the ladder, she stood clearly to the side of it. Yet the moment he took a step forward, her fist slammed into the side of his head, sending him to the ground. This time, he could not even begin to bring himself to rise again, only look up at her concerned expression on her face.
"Why…?" He gasped out.
Her expression smoothed into placidity.
"Because you do not deserve the spectacle of a noose, nor the headman's block," she told him calmly. "Yet, as you were so insistent upon, you are an important man. A powerful man. A wealthy man. You…
deserve…so much more than a simple execution. You deserve…a chance," she gestured to the ladder once more. "I am offering it. Will you take it or not? Are you not a man with survival instincts?"
Despite it all, her words struck a chord in him, and his blubbery face took on an ugly cast as he forced himself to his feet with gritted teeth.
"You bitch," he finally spat out, though it did not appear to affect Sabine enough to more than making her raise her eyebrow. "You…you dare…,"
He took one lumbering step towards her and this time saw the punch coming. Unfortunately, too many decades of feasting and sitting about at his desk rather than on a wagon had taken their terrible toll. Ponderously, old half-remembered instincts of brawls as a youth coming to life for the first time in a long time, he attempted to block with one fat arm. In return, Sabine ducked underneath that arm and shot her arm upwards in an uppercut that sent all many hundred pounds of man onto his back once more. This time, however, she did not stop, and continued punching him as he fell, continued after he'd landed. He grasped weakly up at her, shock and concussion turning what had the potential to be a danger on sheer mass, let alone the muscles that moved that mass, all while she continued to pound his face in.
"I dare…I dare?!" She shouted down at him as she continued to punch down at him. "It is
you who dared to enslave not just the citizens of Ostland, but of Talabecland! Of Hochland! You who dared to steal out good men and women of Wulfenburg, of travelers and immigrants from far off lands! Offering them as laborers and worse! I have fought beastmen and greenskins, ghouls and chaos spawn, yet there are but few things I hold more contempt for than creatures like
you!"
And so Sabine beat him to death, only stopping once her fist was striking the ground with chips of bone rather than anything resembling a head. Only then did she rear backwards, standing up and away from the corpse she'd straddled, flicking her hands against her sides to get the bits of brain and bone off of the leather. Only then did she climb out of the pit, dusting herself off as she did so. In the meantime, some of her companions here had begun lighting the basement once more. The fire pit roared to life, a heavy lever being pulled to open the metal grating above that would allow smoke to join into the chimney a floor above. Torches and candles were lit as well, transforming the darkness of the cavern into a brightly lit place of blood sport.
"Satisfied?" She asked, running a hand through her hair to sweep the stray strands out of her eyes.
"I could ask you the same," Evangeline Hertwig responded neutrally. "The Emperor and the priests of Verena concluded that justice needed to be done, and by the law of this land and the consent of his victims, you have provided it. Furthermore, you gave him a chance to fight for his life rather than execute him, which might be considered even more than he deserved."
Sabine squinted at the Sword of Justice, for that was who Evangeline Hertwig was now, but saw no deception there. If anything, she doubted that the Verenan was even actually capable of doing it. Verenans did have such an attachment to the truth, after all.
"Very well. I suppose we're done then. My people can clean this up before the fighting opens up tonight."
Evangeline nodded and the two of them executed through the secure basement stairwell that lead to the back alleys above. None would know, or need to know, what had happened beneath their feet while they celebrated. Above waited the carriage that would ferry the two of them back to Castle Wulfenburg. The knights of Verena had not participated in this, their loud and shiny armor would not have been conducive to moving about quietly, nor in secret. Instead, there were only a few beady eyed halflings and a man who looked almost too nondescript to believe that was dressed in a commercial carriage driver's clothes.
"What will you do if someone asks what happened here today?"
"The truth. Justice."
Sabine had faced bestigors in combat, and could even claim a minotaur slain to her same, two facts that she quite simply would not have believed only a few years ago. She had come far from the soft and fearful creature she had been when first living amongst the rest of the Hohenzollerns. That was not to say that she had not abandoned her birth family, not even slightly, the vast majority of her owned properties in Wulfenburg were under the Nassau name in various companies and guilds. Bi-weekly correspondence with her mother and father ensured that she kept a close handle on the business proceedings of both families. She'd had to wave her father off of a bevy of recent choices in assassins and toughs, while also contesting mother's choice in luxury good factors from Marienburg. Already the scant bits of information out of Marienburg were proving their worth, enough to know that the factors put up for perusal were indirectly connected with those family opposed to the Hohenzollerns and likely thus the Nassau by way of connection. All while trying to create an entire organization for her fighting league, which involved facing men and women who brutalized others for a living.
But the look in Evangeline Hertwig's too-wide and expressive eyes disturbed her.
It was just…too earnest for Sabine to be comfortable with.
"Right," Sabine shuddered. "Let's get back. I'm sure that Count Hohenzollern will be eager to hear of it."
==================================
Altdorf, Bright College, Chamber of Cinders, Isolation Ward 2
Magical fires bloomed and tore through the air in blasts of smoke and heat. Blades that were so hot that they were white with it, beyond even the more regular cherry red that mundane smiths employed, smashed against one another. Yet despite the heat within them and the force behind them, neither shattered. A shockwave rippled outwards from the impact, throwing both fighters back several feet. One rolled to their feet faster than the other, but it hardly seemed to matter when the slower suddenly rippled out of sight. Hazy red-orange lines that could have scalded flesh from bone if touched briefly flared into existence, the only sign that something had passed by at all. Then, in an explosion of charring flame they returned to visibility in an overhead strike that could have cleaved through the other fighter had they not formed a wall of magical flame in the way. It would have been enough, shortly had a burning flail's head not flung itself around the wall's edges to crack into a shoulder, blackening flesh and snapping the bone and joint beneath the impact sight. A scream ripped out, but a blade nonetheless punched through the flame into the arm that held the flail, piercing through and cauterizing the meat within in the same instant even as it emerged on the other side.
"
ENOUGH!"
A heavy metal sabaton slammed down in the doorway, almost cracking the enchanted stone, and all the fires that filled the large chamber almost seemed to freeze in midair for a brief second. Then it all began to flow in a single direction, to a single point, to a single hand. Such a conflagration could have scorched an acre of land but nevertheless was swallowed up into a single incandescent orb that rested above the open palm of another. Then that hand clenched, the orb dissipating and the Wind of Aqshy blasting its way back outwards of the chamber and into specially built channels that drew it up and outwards. High above the fires that burned atop the towers of the Bright College briefly grew stronger, the energies split between each of them so that there was no single terrifying plume of flame to scare the citizens of Altdorf. Both of the Bright Wizards were left upon the ground, clutching at themselves as their very own magic, that which was woven into their souls, was drawn upon into that merciless quenching of the aethyr.
Friedrich von Tarnus, Patriarch of the Bright College and former Carroburg Greatsword, scowled as he took another step into the room, his enchanted armor clanking heavily. His enormous curling mustache smoked at the edges, his hair from head to toe long having turned a brilliant fiery crimson. The flamberge resting on his shoulder glowed an eternal cherry red, and continued to do so as it left his grip when he slammed it tip-first into the stone, stomping forward past it to loom over the two combatants. His arms folded across his broad chest as he glared at the two. Both ducked their heads beneath that literally fiery gaze. The dark red robes that he wore atop his armor swished slightly as smoke and wind slowly blew this way and that from various vents in the chamber.
"I have never been so disappointed by a student," he said calmly, voice a rasping forge's bellows. "Much less two."
First, he looked to the elder, yet paradoxically weaker.
"Odelia."
The tear-stricken face of one of his first students glared back up at him.
"He is a man grown."
"He is a man who has consigned himself to
death!"
"He," Draken von Kessel spat globs of sizzling hot blood, "Is right here,
mother. It is my choice!"
Odelia made a noise of guttural, aching pain, but it was nothing physically wrought. It was, however, a noise that Von Tarnus had grown painfully familiar with in his time as a Greatsword. The muted howl of a mother knowing her son was dead.
"A choice to throw yourself only into battle, now and forever?" She shook her head. "No. Draken. Please. There must be more to life-,"
"Wrong!" Draken yelled back, coughing slightly as he got to his knees, sword and flail left on the ground to slowly cool. "This is
my life, and it's all it will ever be because of
you!"
If Odelia had been gutted by a spear she could not have looked more hurt.
"Odelia," Von Tarnus said more softly as he knelt, "To be a Battle Wizard is to court death, yes, but no Battle Wizard has ever fought in vain. They take the risks that must be taken against the darkness."
Yet as he reached out, Odelia slapped his hand aside, slowly shaking her head.
"Why do you hate us so much," she whispered, eyes locked solely on her son.
"You made me," Draken growled at her, flames reigniting along his body. "You
made me this way, and let me live a lie to think I wasn't," he stumbled upright, scooping his weapons up as he went. "And then you tore it all away!"
"We didn't
know," she moaned, an endless repeat of earnest truth that Draken had ever denied.
"LIAR!" He roared, continuing to shuffle backwards to his individual chamber, but paused as a bit of mist came to his eyes. "I loved her…and the next time she saw me…she
screamed," he growled. "I'll do my duty to the Empire, and then I'll be
done. Better to die than to live like
you," he looked her over with derision.
Odelia swooned, her wounds physical and mental overtaking her. It was long enough for Draken to retreat, to magically seal the stone doors of his quarters and tend to himself. Thus, she was left with only Von Tarnus above her.
"I cannot believe you've let him do this," she eventually said as she came back to herself, her master not having left her side.
"And yet, to do otherwise would be to ensure his death, only in a less honorable manner."
Odelia did a double take, staring at her teacher with incredulousness that swiftly turned to naked fear.
"What…no, he wouldn't," she shook her head.
"Not swiftly, no. Not at all," he said gently, but firmly. "But he regards his very existence as a curse. How long could he live under such a weight before the flame within would turn foul?"
"He
wouldn't," she repeated with all the stubbornness a mother could possess towards her children.
"He won't," Von Tarnus corrected. "His own self-loathing empowers him, but it is a finite fuel before it curdles."
He stood, gesturing towards the half-dozen inner chambers that remained closed, gates sealed with blazing circles of magic.
"Thus, he joins their ranks."
Odelia let out a sob, she could not hold it back.
"He is my son," she whispered. "How could you do this to me?"
"I know," Von Tarnus sighed as he stood. "And yet, it must be done," he intoned regretfully. "Can you see another way?"
The sound of a heart breaking was inaudible, but easily visible as everything that made up Odelia Flamestar crumpled slightly before his eyes.
It was answer enough.
=======================================================
Karaz-a-Karak, Royal Chambers
Sigrun Ironhammer had known, of course, that it would be her responsibility to bear at least three children. There had ever been the split between men and women, representative rather annoyingly of the relationship between the three eldest of the Ancestor Gods. Grungni, Grimnir, and Valaya. For every two dawi that were born with something dangling between their legs, there was one that was born without. As a member of Clan Angrund, wandering back and forth as it did, it had ever been the responsibility of Angrund women to bear three children, if only to keep their numbers up for the inevitable day that they returned to Karak Eight Peaks. This, she had known. To be married to the High King could only aid the Clan, for with Everpeak behind them with a tight and recent binding of marriage there would surely be a great amount of support for reclamation when the time was right.
Not right now, of course, not with that ugly mass of skaven and greenskins boiling down there, but she would be happy if even her children's children were the ones aiding the Angrund Clan should she go to the ancestors before it could happen.
It wasn't that she disliked Thorgrim, the opposite in fact. As a close friend of Buregar, her brother and the former head of the Angrund Clan, the two of them had encountered each other more than once. He was a handsome sort, and she was without boasting one of the fairest women living. But the idea of them coming to a romance had been a shock, but one she'd accepted. Only a fool would refuse a proposal from the High King, especially after such a grand series of victories as Karak Ungor! For years afterwards, even with the knowledge of what was happening in the Bonelands and the ransacking of her ancestral home within the Eight Peaks, there as an undefinable lightness in her. To everyone, it felt like. A lightness that had rather luridly led to other things.
Still, she was not entirely unhappy with the results.
Any of the them, in fact.
"And done," the priestess of Valaya said quietly, tugging the child completely free and bathing them in a specially crafted brew to clean the young one from head to toe.
"A healthy baby boy," another priestess said.
As if to add his voice to theirs, the child quickly began to cry, which in turn meant he had to be handed right back to Sigrun so that he could latch himself to her.
"He looks strong," Thorgrim grunted with grit teeth.
Sigrun blinked slowly at him and then opened her mouth slightly in an 'ah', quickly releasing the bone-crushing grip she'd had on his hand. Immediately Thorgrim let out a sigh of relief, waving his hand back and forth to get some blood flowing back into it.
"Yes, he does," she said with a smile, "If you're lucky, he'll be as strong as me."
Thorgrim chuffed.
"A father can hope. He'll be crushing skulls with ease, if so," he chuckled, looking from son to mother and back again, still feeling at his hand.
The two priestesses cleansed their hands with soap and water before one pulled out a small cask, setting it next to the table where Sigrun lay. Both Thorgrim and Sigrun recognized it, of course, for they'd seen it every time that the sister of Buregar had given birth. A secret beer, the recipe passed down from Valaya herself, for nursing mothers to drink. It would, in turn, ensure that the milk they gave to their children was chock full of fortifying nutrition, ensuring that the child would grow hale and hearty. It was only a shame that Valaya's faithful could only brew so much. Sigrun and Thorgrim had long agreed that if only it were possible, they would have it given out to all expectant mothers to ensure the health of their children as well. Alas, even before the aftermath of Karak Ungor the priestesses could only produce a few casks a year.
"What shall we name him?" She asked, looking over at Thorgrim.
"Daled," he said with a smile before looking at her. "That is, of course, unless you have a better name in mind?"
"Daled is just fine," Sigrun nodded. "Hello then, Prince Daled."
The newly named babe simply continued to nurse, as was his right as a newborn. All was quiet, for a time, as all four adults in the room simply luxuriated in the blessed sights and sounds of a newborn of their race.
"I've had a thought," Sigrun eventually spoke up, "It is nice to hear more tales of life than of death, for once."
"I agree," Thorgrim said seriously, their hands once more intertwined without the crushing pressure of before. "Too long have the dawi simply…maintained. This…this is better. Tell me, Priestess Kruna, what was it you were saying before the labor started?"
The elder of the priestesses glanced up at him, her snowy white braids rustling.
"We have conferred with our counterparts across the Karaz Ankor, oh High King," she bowed at the waist, the tips of her braids brushing against the floor. "And it is confirmed. There have been more births in these past few years than there have been in the sum of five centuries."
Sigrun blinked in shock.
"I'd known that there were more than usual," she said breathlessly, "I…I myself have had seven with Daled here, but…,"
"There seems to be no one main cause for this," Kruna shrugged.
"I know it," Thorgrim stated boldly, looking into the middle distance.
Kruna, more than five centuries old, looked at the centuries younger High King with a gimlet eye.
"Oh? And what is it that we of Valaya have missed, young one?" She asked waspishly.
Thorgrim turned to her, and despite not moving a muscle somehow seemed to grow in stature enough to make the priestess jerk back slightly.
"Hope," he stated calmly. "Karak Ungor was slated to take more than a decade, and yet…it did not. We reclaimed Grungni's own hammer, and struck out one of the Lords of Decay from the Book of Grudges! Not alone, no, but with great allies."
Sigrun huffed and rolled her eyes slightly in worn exasperation as he continued on. She had already listened to years of him talking about the umgi Frederick von Hohenzollern and Roland, as well as the ogre Urgdug. She rather suspected she would be hearing about them long after the umgi had died. Of course, by deed alone all three had more than proven themselves. If the White Dwarf was satisfied with them, then she would be an idiot to think too unkindly about them. Especially with the Hohenzollern being apparently blessed by Gazul.
"- and it is more than that. For the first time in a long time…we are not content to simply hold the line, no!" Thorgrim was now fully engaged, as were the priestesses. "If there is one thing that I learned listening to, speaking to, fighting alongside those dawongr, then it was stubborn survival is not enough! No, we must overcome, and-,"
"Husband," Sigrun interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder before he started raising his hands towards the ceiling again. "I think they understand."
"…right," Thorgrim coughed.
"To speak somewhat less grandiosely," Sigrun continued with a smile, "I agree with my husband. For too long, the future was a downward slope, a mine with ever fewer seams of ore left in it. But…even despite everything else…it feels like…we might have struck some gromril."
Or, to summarize it even more succinctly, Sigrun thought with another huffing laugh, hope.
===========================================================
Laurelorn Forest, Capital Canopy City of Yn Edryl Ladrithilin, High Canopy Council Auditorium
The uproar stretched from Yn Edryl Ladrithilin's highest canopy assemblies to its woven root pathways and earthen chambers. It stretched further outwards, to Ladrithilin's sister canopy cities, to every kindred distant and far. The news that a new alliance was being offered, more in depth and more involved than ever before, had been shocking. Not that it might be offered, not after the recent events of war and loss that the forest had suffered, for Naraiel had spoken truthfully when she stated that the pride of Laurelorn's elves had been so thoroughly beaten and ground into the earth, but that it had been so nakedly stated. Highborn from every kindred had swarmed the capital, for Laurelocraobh was meant solely for the Highborn of the Dawnstone Kindred. The capital, on the other hand, was large enough to host them all. All of them. And all their Eternal Guard. Which, to borrow a human term, created a powder keg in Naraiel's city. One that she was now spending several hours every day continually diffusing.
"Have I made my point clear, Lord Goldthorn?" Naraiel asked, her spear resting tip-first on the man's throat.
If he even dared gulp he might end up causing its enchanted razor tip to pierce into his throat.
"Is this enough, then?" She asked the rest of the watching Highborn. "Is it? Logic and facts are not enough for you, hmm? Ask the spellsingers, ask the dryads,
know and
hear the fallen we have lost," she spat, gesturing with her free hand towards those waiting along the side. "I offer a different way, yes! Different from the past! But I have felt the will and power of Isha, and those that would call me a liar may face me now!"
None did.
Not now.
She hadn't had to kill anyone, just yet, but it was a narrow thing at this point.
"I am tired of burying more of our kin every year than welcoming newborns to the forest!" She cried aloud, eyes burning with passion. "Are you so satisfied, so calcified, that you forget that when the wolf seeks out new prey, the deer follows the water?! Even the sunflower turns itself when it must!"
She saw it in their eyes. Shame. Anger. Frustration. But more importantly, she saw that some saw sense in her words, even if they did not show it very openly. A few more than yesterday, and that was all she asked. If the fates were kind, she would have time enough to convince them all. Her eyes then caught upon the one that she had been worried about most, her own son. Kyrian stared down at Lord Goldthorn in shock, the last and latest of the Highborn who Kyrian had been certain could change his mother's mind. Perhaps now the boy would realize that she really was being entirely serious about all of it. Enough to fight, to duel, to offer the chance of dying outright for her newfound beliefs. The cloud of it all may well have been a sapling for how newly born it was, but oh did she have thorns aplenty to defend it.
"And it is on that note," she continued, "In the vein of ensuring the latter more than the former, I am announcing that I am once more seeking out a husband, one capable of granting me children."
And just like that, the crowd's demeanor changed. Kyrian, of course, looked mightily horrified at her simply announcing it like that.
"I would-,"
"Lady Dawnstone, my support would be yours if-,"
"Our children would-,"
Naraiel weathered it all, picking and choosing those she immediately found unworthy or unworkable and discarding them mentally. A small tapping on the wooden ground, the branch they were all standing upon large enough to house three human castles side by side in any direction, brought Naraiel's gaze down to where Lord Goldthorn still lay. She pulled her spear upwards and to the side, letting the man suck in a deep breath.
"Might," he coughed, "Might I offer my hand in courtship?"
The Glade Lord of Laurelorn sniffed.
"You may
try."
The chance to marry the ruler of the forest, to join any kindred at all with the strongest in the form of the Dawnstone Kindred? Even those that did not fully agree with her might accede to her wishes for the chances of
that. And, hopefully, she would feel less inclined to injure her fellow elves this way.
Hopefully.
==============================================================
Norsca, Valley of the Blind
War cries filled the air from thousands of throats through the blizzard. On one side, they screamed and howled in a single oncoming mass. Branded and tattooed with the symbols of Chaos, Nosrcan marauders bunched together and charged, some with axes and shields, some with two-handed weapons, and some others who were sufficiently mutated enough able to wield their own mutations in battle. Spiked tentacles and hardened maces of bone were common. Here and there were interspersed formations of Chaos Warriors, their dark daemonically forged armor crunching into the snow and over the bodies of the dead. Up above clouds of furies swooped this way and that, the minor daemons eagerly taking the role of carrion for the battle in an environment where natural creatures could not. It was a force fit to strike fear into the weakling southerners, to shatter their minds as the army marched and fought, and yet they fought no southerners on this day.
No.
For on this day, as had occurred daily since time immemorial, Norscans fought Norscans.
"COME! FACE US! FACE US AND DIE!"
"Stand strong, dawi, stand strong!"
And not just Norscans.
A seven-foot tall woman slammed her two-handed axe into the chest of not just the marauder charging her, but the marauder behind him as well. Such was her height and reach that she could manage to do so while standing directly behind the dwarf shieldwall, but then such was the stature of many Norscans who fought alongside the dwarfs. She howled with her killing, hooting and chanting beneath her breath as many of the other Norscans did. By now, the dawi of the north had grown used to their peculiar ways, and enough blood had been spilled alongside and in defense with the dwarfs for them to ignore it.
"Come, Aeslings! FEEL THE WRATH OF THE UXMAEGR!" The woman howled with glee, the snow leopard cloak which hung on her flapping back and forth, the beast's maw having been cracked open enough that her head emerged from within it, its glassy eyes atop her own.
One of the dwarfs raised an eyebrow as she grandstanded before hacking down another incoming marauder, looking at his thane with wide eyes.
"You get used to it," Thane Icebeard grunted, "All the umgi of Norsca are like that. The Uxmaegr just happen to be on our side. Now get back to it, beardling, we shan't let them close to the remaining holds!"
So the fighting continued. The Uxmaegr battled alongside the dwarfs of Norsca, the hordes of Aeslings, Vargs, and Sarls all charging forward. Under withering crossbow volleys on the hands of the dawi, their unflinching axes, and the rather more energetic weaponry of the Uxmaegr, the hordes left piles of dead behind. All the while, true Warriors of Chaos pushed forward, their armor and shields blocking bolt and axe strike alike. It was up to the thanes and their longbeards bearing runic weaponry and armor to battle them, or the Uxmaegr with their own fierce manner. In those times, when those who bore runed weapons were elsewhere, the dwarfs split their lines enough to let the Uxmaegr through, to shed their own blood in their defense.
"BLASPHEMERS!" Boomed an unnaturally warped voice, a Champion of Chaos coming to the fore. "I had not thought to see it true, but heretics stand before me!"
Immediately, the woman responded, head whipping about to focus on their approach.
"Blasphemers?" She cackled in the mad way that only a Norscan could, "BLAPSHEMERS!?" She cackled louder. "It is all of you who are blasphemers, fools that you are! Worshippers of lies, of usurpers, of cowards!"
"Indeed!"
Another woman's voice cut through the blizzard's gale, advancing out of the whirling snows dragging an enormous flattened club of stone behind her in a one-handed grip, its edges spiked further. This one's body was even bulkier with muscle than the first, though their clear familial relation was obvious to anyone with a mind and eyes to see it. This one exemplified the terrifying physique exhibited by the warriors of Norsca, ones who could charge south and wear little but leather loin coverings and boots yet still tear through the armored warriors of Imperial armies. In truth, she wore the same, upper body past the waist utterly naked save for tight chest bindings. A glittering and enormous sigil had been tattooed into her torso, splashed from stomach to throat.
"Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch, Slaanesh!" The new arrival called, a curt nod given to the younger warrior that was returned along with a muttered 'mother'. "All of them pale before the power of the Old Ones!"
The Champion of Chaos stared.
"The Old Ones are gone, fools, they are but a myth now!"
"
WRONG!" Both women roared back, but it was the elder who continued. "The Uxmaegr have seen the truth, for Their Prophet came to us, and revealed the Dark Gods for the thieves that they are, to steal our souls and our worship from those who truly deserved it for too long, for too many generations!"
"Praise Lord Ulha'up, Praise the Voyager in the Rain Drops of Eternity," the daughter yelled, arms raised to the sky! "Praise Their Prophet, who revealed to us the truth of the Old Ones!"
Both arched their heads back and let loose a guttural and inhuman sound of rasping hisses and howls, a prayer in the alien language known as Saurian emerging into the air, all the while their eyes remained open, remained insanely wide. When they looked back down, they bared their teeth to the shock of the centuries old servant of Chaos.
"You are mad, pathetic creatures," the Champion declared. "Unworthy of life, but I may yet present your skull to Khorne!"
"Come then, fool! I am Freya Blazeheart, wife of Ivar, servant of the of the Old Ones!" The woman cried, pushing her daughter to the side. "I will sacrifice you to Chotec that you might fuel the burning of the sun, let Tepok pick your soul over for its secrets, give your meat to Sotek that He might feast!"
They ran at one another, religious zealotry in levels that would shock even the Grand Theogonist of Sigmar himself burning in their bodies. Daemonic steel clashed against Obsinite, and yet it was the Obsinite that won. Spinning about, Freya slammed its spikes deep into the chaos plate, puncturing into flesh that had not been touched by pain in decades, drawing forth a yowl of anger and pain. The Champion reared back before pressing the assault once more, only to find that their blade skated across only obsinite again and again, the enormous mace both shield and weapon both. In turn, Freya cracked her weapon against and through the armor of her foe, crumpling it against joints and tearing shreds free whenever she pulled the spikes of her mace backwards. It was an incredibly violent clash, one that would have done any duelist of the south proud for surviving but a handful of seconds in. Yet it continued. One minute. Then two. But on the third, the servant of Chaos, well on their way to becoming a Lord of Chaos in service to the Ruinous Powers, of Khorne, found to their shock and disbelief that they were disemboweled, the mace swinging back around again and decapitating them before they could get anything else out than 'Impo-,' as Freya stood up straight again, thumping her weapon against the ground to clear it of the blood before it froze on her weapon.
Before her, the hordes of Norscans…shrank back, horns shakily going up to announce the death of a champion.
"Don't any of you get it!?" She howled, arms spread wide while maintaining her grip on her weapon in one of them. "The Ruinous Powers are but pretenders to the thrones of the Old Ones! Put down your weapons, see the truth, let us show you Their strength! Let the words of the Toad Prophet wash over you, cleanse you,
redeem you!"
Further and further they shrank back as horns called in return.
"The Old Ones are powerful, powerful enough to give you the keys to save yourselves, your souls, to give them succor that you would never find in hands of the Ruinous Powers!" Again she stepped forward, the shieldwall now well behind her as the dwarfs watched warily.
Then Freya sensed it. Or rather, she heard it. Everyone could. Everyone in Norsca and beyond knew what that iconic screaming shriek of damned souls and daemonic essence churned together was. But other than a slight cocking of her head and a too-wide smile, she remained where she stood.
"I have heard your kind ask us before, 'How could you have abandoned our Gods, our Gods who have been with us for thousands of years?'," she bellowed. "Faith! True Faith, to True Gods, Gods who helped shape the world, not Gods who have ravaged it!"
She set her feet, wide, her arms still wide as she thumped the head of her obsinite mace against the ground and let it rest there.
"I have faith that some of you may see the truth as my Ivar did, as he helped me see, so that our daughter might never be fooled into worshipping false idols! I have faith that you will learn that the Old Ones deserve our worship like the Ruinous Powers never have! I have FAITH!" She shouted even louder.
The screaming grew louder and louder, the projectiles surely getting closer. With every repetition of the word 'faith', it was repeated by the rest of the dozens of Uxmaegr who could hear her speak. Dozens more who heard those Uxmaegr began to repeat it as well, the word propagating outwards into the thousands of tribesman present on the battlefield.
"That Chotec can warm our bones! That Tlanxla will guide our riders and chariots, that Potec will protect us against the darkness that would warp us, change us! In all the Old Ones! I have faith!"
She slammed a fist against her chest, or rather, against her tattoo which seemed to be glittering brighter and brighter.
"That a true warrior, such as myself, might be protected from the foe on the battlefield!"
Finally, Freya looked up, eyes unblinking as she stared at the incoming comets of bleched death fired from the distant hellcannons, three of them falling directly towards her. Who were these poor unfortunate souls, their bodies tossed into the dire-furance of the hellcannon, their souls churned by the dameon-engine's dire-furnace into bolts of energy? None might ever know, not all of them. Yet for all that, as they screamed down through the blizzard's winds, Freya Blazeheart did not move. Instead, she spread her arms wide again. Behind, the rest of the Uxmaegr began to stamp their feet and chant the word 'faith' again and again, louder and louder, all the while the dwarfs shifted uneasily.
"FAITH!" She cried aloud before all three crashed down upon her, her tattoo now outright glowing.
As had been learned by many of the fighters during the Great War Against Chaos, a single bolt fired from a hellcannon shook the earth. The land became briefly as water, shattering legs and bodies alike with sheer physical force. The infernal flames could roast the skin and flesh from blackened bone within seconds, as many had discovered to their misfortune. Three bolts cracked the icy ground and cratered it, the explosion so bright as to demand a hand or arm to cover the eyes, for eyelids alone would provide no protection whatsoever.
And yet.
"AND FAITH!"
Freya Blazeheart walked out of the crater, utterly unharmed. The faintest outline of a gargantuan shimmering reptilian and clawed hand slowly lifted up out of sight from where it had cupped itself over her. She grinned with wide teeth that had been purposefully filed into sharp points. The tattooed glyph of Quetzl the Protector continued to burn brightly before it slowly dimmed back to the unnatural glittering of before.
"Is all I need," she concluded before whipping her mace forward. "UXMAEGR! GAR!" She screamed the word for 'attack' in Saurian.
Her tribesman screamed assent and charged forward towards the bewildered horde that had assembled against them. Freya, on the other hand, turned slightly and walked through the onrushing tide without bumping any of them too harshly towards Thane Icebeard. Her wide grin stilled into thinned lips.
"They keep coming, Icebeard, the High King isn't giving up."
Icebeard grunted.
"Neither of them are, yours or mine."
Freya's eyes flashed.
"Valmir Aesling is no High King of
mine," she hissed, causing Icebeard to raise his hands to ward her off. "Besides which, I thought that Silverbeard was calling himself just the 'Great King' since you all discovered there still was a High King."
Icebeard shrugged.
"Eh. Still, you are right though," he rubbed at his chin.
Both ignored the slaughter going on behind them.
"I heard that Valmir is trying to get the Skaelings to follow him now, the Crow Tribe too," she shook her head. "Engra Deathsword is resisting him, as is Sven Bloody-Hand. Asavar Kul's lieutenants are loathe to surrender their authority to anyone else again."
"If he really wants to make a push for Kraka Drak, let him come. We'll bury him," Icebeard growled. "It's already enough of a problem that he's kept our messengers from pushing south."
"He's broken every other hold west of this valley," Freya grunted, "Shattered some of the ones east of it now, too. The only ones left are Drak, Sjoktraken, Dorden, Onsmotek, and Ravnvake. Will it be enough?"
"It'll have to be," Icebeard shook his head again. "We don't have the strength to push past to the south to call for aid
and defend our holds. Not anymore."
He looked especially sour at the next that that came to his mind.
"Any…any chance of that prophet of yours-,"
"We do
not command the Prophet," she snarled at him, eyes burning zealously, "He does as the Old Ones will. He remains in seclusion, guarded by his remaining attendants, and will remain in such as long as the Old Ones wish it."
Icebeard just sighed.
"Fair enough, zakumgi."
"Now then," Freya tossed her head, her waist-length braids of brown hair whipping about. "I have bodies to pile before Queztl's totem tonight for his grace in preserving me against their hellish weaponry."
With that, she stomped away, eager to throw herself into battle once more. Thane Icebeard was still leery of the alliance that King Silverbeard had made, but so far the Uxmaegr were happy enough to take shelter in their valleys before fighting to kill or 'hopefully convert' more of their fellow Norscans.
They were still zakumgi though.
