Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

Reader mode
MrHobbit said:
I don't think Ranald is a proscribed god. Well, he might be in Brettonnia, but certainly not the Empire. Worship of Ranald is quite common, crossing your fingers for luck invokes him. It's just that he is unpopular, because, well the Protector and the Night Prowler.


I doubt that Magnus the Pious would include a proscribed god in the Conclave of Faith.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
torroar said:
Shit, yeah, my bad Mass. He's right and I should have caught that. I apologize.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
No prob, fixed. More like its very discouraged to publically worship Ranald since it will make you viewed as untrustworthy at best and constantly have people checking their pockets around you.
 
Way I view it, is that while Ranald worship is technically legal, well......

Nothing says the Witch Hunters would start investigating you for heresy. Or that you won't start suffering mysterious attacks totally not backed by the local nobles.
 
Which is weird in my opinion since everyone thinks of Ranald firstly as a god of thieves and rogues, and we know other non-ruinous gods are illegal in Empire like Khaine and Stromfels. Ranald also encourages revolution against unfair systems like corrupt noblemen so I would assume they would push for his worship to be illegal.

But WHF world building always has been weird and contradictory in general with much worse examples than this.
 
That's because generally the other sects of the Cult besides the Crosses take very specific pains to remain hidden from the common eye. He's known for the other stuff, certainly, but much in the same way as Manann people still cross their fingers and hope for Ranald's blessings on luck and what not despite it all. It's just another religious aspect where you might not like all of the God's domain, but this being Warhammer, you can't simply ignore them in their totality. The Crosses just run gambling houses and donate to the poor, for the most part. It's not like anyone is walking around screeching about the Brotherhood or the Givers of Coin or especially not the Crooked Fingers and how much they love being a part of them.
 
Hmmm, since the Crosses are the most respectable sect of the cult of Ranald could we potentially endorse them? Make more official gambling dens and such to get both income and more donations to the poor?

I'm sure Sabine would enjoy making a traditionally underground activity into something official she can make money off of/tax. It not that different from RL casinos after all, and after bars and brothels any kind of gambling is pretty popular. We are already doing that in part with fighting league, this would just expand on that and make if more offical/safe.

What do people think? I doubt it would effect personal rep too much overall since like said its legal.
 
Last edited:
I found out something interesting, the song sung at the beginning of Total Warhammer 3's trailer is actually in reference to the Kislev sun god Dazh. Here's the full song from the realm of the Ice queen supplement, notice the last paragraph:

"The heart is as a new-strung bow
It knows not its strength 'til tested
Yet though it wound its target deep
'Tis the bowman's flesh that festers

A woman is as a new-cut axe
She needs no strength for rending
Yet though she bests at every clash
She yields at battle's ending.

A fray is as a blazing hearth
Where life and death are found
Our enemies driven back in fear
Our hearts with brothers bound

Death is like the winter chill
No door can keep it from us
And summer yet may bloom again
Though ice be all upon us."—Oblast Fireside Song
 
Last edited:
Annatar said:
Sadly no, there's so much material to work with too! Guess we'll just have to get to work writing our own...
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
I would write my own but I'm too scatterbrained to make it work. I'd probably keep going off in random directions when trying to write it. And my memory isn't really good enough to remember stuff that happened in great enough detail to write about it.
 
Marvelous Marienburg 4
  • Threadmarks
    • [] Inform Maghda of Entire Tri-Claw Compact Situation, Including Prior History Issues.
    [] Don't try to gain Maghda's support against House Rutger, regardless, to try and preserve some notion of neutrality in the matter. She might well choose to act on her own, but don't push for it.(Chance of Success: 100%)

    [] Plan: Alcohol Tasting Tour and Other Stuff
    -[] Do Something In Marienburg (Choose In Order of Priority Please, Don't Include Things You Don't Want To Do)
    --[] Speak To The Cult of Manann On Something First, Actually (Seek to establish consistent bilateral communication of intelligence on the Norscans and Druchii. General correspondence and contact between yourself and Maghda would be welcome as well. Ask for Cult assistance on Greatship design, offering to share the design to hopefully help proliferate it, and blessing/operating the Salkalten Lighthouse when it's complete. Ask how they would feel about using the Wingsuits on their ships.
    --[] Send runners for possible transport options for a return trip by sea.
    --[] Seek Out the Sword of Justice, Evangeline Hertwig. (Besides checking in on a family friend, you wouldn't mind picking the brain of another dedicated Verenan, the Sword of Justice at that, on your law reforms, the likely consequences, and dealing with them. You suspect she's likely in the Verenan temple in the temple district. But if she's not there maybe you'll find her as you go.)
    --[] Be on the lookout for gifts for our family as you tour. Perhaps look for something ideally wizardly for Adira to show our gratitude for saving our bacon and because of the consequences of it, or would that be gauche? Ask Natasha. Since Urgdug is watching Oskana, would he want some samples brought back?
    --[] Along the way through these areas also look out for artifacts, technology, flora or fauna that your wizards and engineers might be able to use to improve the lot of Ostland.
    --[] Visit Norscan Town (Alcohol sampling/trade. You're curious to find out more about the people/culture. You had your previous experiences fighting them, but you had met two Norscans that weren't like the sort you commonly knew. There could well be more. You're also looking for any possible information or rumors on why many Norscans have abandoned the coast of the Sea of Claws, and perhaps what those strange occurrences rumored might have been.)
    --[] Crafts Market (You're always on the lookout for quality steel and smithing and masters of the trade. To be inspired and learn from the methods and styles of others.)
    --[] Visit Little Moot (Alcohol sampling/trade. Interact with and learn more about halflings outside of Ostland/the Trident. Gauge the views of the Grand Kitchens.)
    --[] Visit Wine Sack (Alcohol sampling/trade. Mainly to complete the tour.)
    --[] Visit North Miragliano (Alcohol sampling/trade. Also because you're a little bit curious about the culture of Tasha's father. Keep an eye out for some piece of literature or art that she might enjoy.
    --[] Visit Remas Way (Alchol sampling/trade. Mainly to complete the tour.)
    --[] Visit Dwarf's Hold (Alcohol sampling/trade. Look for any legitimate reason to establish some kind of trade deal with the Marienburger dwarves and develop allies within the city. Share Bugman's Best liberally.)
    --[] Catch a play or other performance at the Palace District with Natasha.
    --[] Visit Elf Town (Alcohol sampling/trade (nothing that would infinge on the Treaty of Amity and Commerce, of course). You hear the occasional rumors from Sadrina, but perhaps elven traders can shed more light on the situation with the Druchii and Albion.
    --[] Visit Arabtown (Alcohol sampling/trade and interest in finding out more about the scholarly pursuits of this culture)
    --[] Dealers Market (It's on the way to the rest of the alcohol tour and the markets here are where you may make some interesting finds for gifts, artifacts, etc.)
    --[] Visit Nippon Town (Alcohol sampling/trade and looking into what other goods, novel crops, etc. these people are known for. Also information on the rumored war in the east and other events there)
    --[] Silks Market (You're interested in what Marienberg's Silks Market has to offer in regards to silks and other goods from Cathay. Including alcohol sampling/trade if it's there. Also information on the rumored war in the east and other events there.)
    --[] Visit Indic District (Alcohol sampling/trade and look for novel crops/spices. As well as the arts of that land. It is a land your daughters may have visited by now so you wish to know more of it. Also keep an ear open for any rumors of them, even if it might be unlikely.)
    --[] Visit Kislevan Way (Alcohol sampling/trade. Keep an eye/ear out for information/rumors about what is occurring in Kislev)
    -[] Leave Someone Behind At The Temple To Be Recovered Later (Oskana remaining inside with Urgdug to be kept under control until ready to leave. Adira left behind when going to Arabtown. Reduce retainer size for ease of movement (and leaving a small detachment to look after them would also be prudent). If Volgar is among that number it's just a coincidence. Yes.)

    GM NOTE: *popping sound as fingers fall off of hands after doing 23k words in less than a week*. Giving so many options at once was a mistaaaaaaake, haha. Anyway, hopefully this was the biggest one needed for this >.> See ya'll later.

    Marvelous Marienburg 4​

    It's an interesting study to watch Maghda's face as you go into it. The Tri-Claw Compact, the economy, the ships of the elves, and so on. She starts off guarded, rather obviously, but as you go on with the occasional interjections and clarifications of Natasha she slips towards completely stone-faced. You wonder what it must be like, to be her. A woman of the oceans, clearly having reached about middle aged without having stepped foot on land in her entire life, now forced into the politics and inter-conflict of the Empire. She's done her studies, so she said, but there is so much history there, good and bad. More than once, you have to go backwards and explain the context of the situation. In truth, the Cult of Manann is only tangentially related, even if High Priest Rutger is involved. There are two whole other families in the mix, after all. By that point, however, you've already gone far enough that you might as well get it all out.

    "I swear, I didn't even know that there was a member of House Rutger in the clergy, let alone a High Priest," you insist at that point.

    You've been trying to get your agents into Marienburg for years, and you've only just discovered the existence of the damn Compact. You simply hadn't had the time to investigate each and every one of their members that were placed in important positions in society.

    "Mmm," she holds up a hand, shaking her head slightly. "I believe you. Thank you for being honest with me about it."

    Her other hand is currently clenching rather tightly upon her own bicep, the cloth pinched beneath the hard points of her fingers.

    "It could be nothing," Natasha says, long having picked up on your stance in this manner. "Our issues with the Tri-Claw Compact don't need to entangle with the Cult anymore than they already have."

    That makes Maghda snort.

    "The Cults are an integral part of life, in all things. In war, in peace, in health, in sickness, in death," the Matriarch shrugs and then sneers. "And, as I am coming to find ever more in this city, in coin. I find I do not care overly much for Haendryk," she says, her name for Handrich unmistakably given over to the Westerland twist on Reikspiel. "And yet! His temple is second only to this very Cathedral in its grandness," her lips twist about as she growls beneath her breath. "No. No I'll need to investigate this on my own."

    "Wouldn't that be too much of a sign of favor to Ostland?" You point out carefully. "So swiftly?"

    "Eh," she flaps her hand, "The Order of the Albatross and Knights Mariner, the tithes being paid, much wealth pours across the waters of the world into the coffers of Manann's faithful. This is known. But this…mmngnh," she trails off before stepping away from the wall she'd been leaning on. "I will investigate." She bares her teeth, and this close you can see that they are ever so slightly pointed.

    The wonders of observation when the lighting is better and you aren't concussed and half-dead. They are not like you'd imagine what a shark's looks like, but there are plenty of other creatures in the sea with pointed teeth. That enormous reptilian creature within the waters of the temple, for instance.

    "As you wish, Matriarch," you incline your head slightly.

    "I promise nothing," she shrugs. "It may come to nothing. It may come to much. We'll see. Frankly, I've been looking for a way to crack Rutger's knuckles. He thought he was going to become Patriarch, you know," she says, shocking you for a moment.

    If Rutger had become Patriarch of the Cult of Manann…that could have been disastrous. You wouldn't have even seen it coming before he hit you.

    "What stopped him?" Natasha asks, sitting back slightly.

    "Manann favored me more," Maghda barks out a laugh. "He's being a little pissant about it, but quiet – or so he thinks."

    "…I should have paid more attention to the Cult, I think," you muse. "All these years, being Steward of the Third Fleet, the river trade…,"

    "That's how we prefer it, most of the time," Magha chuckles as she steps to the door, hand on the doorknob. "In that, we follow the ways of Manann's father Taal. Let the Hammer and Wolf and Spear bark and bray, stomping about to make themselves heard and obeyed over each other," she says dismissively before jerking a thumb towards the interior of the temple. "The storm and water will always require respect and fear. Sometimes people forget, and we let them," she sniffs. "It's not up to us to make them always remember, merely to act when they act on their ignorance or forgetfulness."

    "Uh-,"

    "You're fine, Manann favored your act with bounty," she says firmly.

    Because, in truth, it really is that simple. You are aware, obviously, that miracles can be faked. That charlatans throughout the history of the Empire have falsely claimed favor with the Gods. Some got pretty damn far with it, and just as many got nowhere. Considering that you were actually able to vaguely look around during the experience, you're relatively sure that it was genuine. It's just unfortunate that you somehow missed it.

    "Right. Well…"

    "I should get going soon," Maghda half-turns for the door.

    "Actually, I've a thought," you speak up, causing her to swivel right back around, her boots making a faint squeak.

    "Mmm?"

    "The Druchii, and the Norscans. The whole…Sea of Claws in general, actually."

    The first gets her attention, the second makes her gaze sharpen.

    "Explain yourself, Count."

    It's an idea that germinated in your mind as you were speaking earlier, in fact.

    "I think that one of the biggest disconnects up until this point is lack of major communication with the Cult of Manann and Ostland – I'm the damned Steward of a fleet and I barely spoke with the branch in Ostland."

    "That seems like something you should work out with them," Maghda points out, eyebrow raised.

    "I aim to do so going forward," you say, conceding the point. "But for all that there are branches of the Cult, you command the Albatrosses and the Knights Mariner, have Sea-Born contacts on the waters."

    "Consistent communication on such matters, purely on the Norscans and Druchii, could be beneficial, couldn't it?" Natasha joins in.

    Nearby, on the bed, Adira finally stirs, but only barely.

    "There's information that could be gained from the priests already present," Maghda replies, but it is slow, her mind clearly already working.

    "There are not enough priests for every single ship in Ostland," Natasha quickly fires back.

    That gains you a moment of silence as Maghda thinks to herself.

    "…it could work," she eventually says. "Possibly."

    "General correspondence between us could-,"

    "No," Maghda interrupts, shaking her head. "I'll already be investigating Rutger and overreach of his position. Messages directly between our offices would be too much. I need to maintain some evidence of neutrality."

    Well. It was a thought, at least.

    "Well, there's the Greatship design as well."

    "What about it. It works fine, doesn't it? Or have I been lied to in every single report involving them?"

    "Well, we could share the design, perhaps?"

    Maghda pauses and looks at you, blinking very slowly.

    "We…will be taking possession of the ships. I assure you, the Albatrosses assigned to them will be more than enough to discern what is needed to build more as necessary," she says very slowly. "Perhaps you need more time to recover?"

    Right. The ordained servants of the Lord of the Waves probably could manage that, even if it took your engineers and shipwrights a bit to create the designs in the first place.

    "No, I'm…fine."

    Natasha is also giving you a concerned look before patting you on the shoulder and turning back to Maghda.

    "We're also beginning funding on a large lighthouse, an expansion to the Temple of Manann in Salkalten. Would the Cult be amenable to blessing its creation when it is complete?"

    Now both of them are staring at you again.

    "Frederick," Natasha says, gently cupping your chin and sending a flush of razor cold through your head. "It's…being built as an expansion to the temple."

    "The priests would not accede to such a thing if they didn't intend to or had already blessed its creation," Maghda finishes, now looking at you with some concern. "They literally would not have accepted you knocking down walls and digging pits otherwise."

    Ah. Right.

    "Uh…of course," you say a bit slowly, feeling a flush of embarrassed heat coming to your face that directly combats the cold that Natasha's hand is radiating into you. "That's also the Wing-Suits…"

    "Ah, yes, I've heard of those. You had launchers installed on some of the ships, did you not?" Maghda's head has tilted now. "They seem an ingenious design, sure enough. Fear not, we'll return them to you."

    "Well, no, I was thinking that the Cult could perhaps make use of them? If we offered training?"

    "That could be…interesting. I can see the value of them, and the Cult's coffers could easily cover training fees. But that," she holds up a hand, her lips firming, "Is something that can be discussed later. When you are more…recovered. I've got my own duties to see you. You may retain this room until the end of the day," she says while withdrawing out of the room.

    "Worry not," Natasha calls out to her, patting you now on the back and rubbing small circles there as you frown at the ground. "We have that handled."

    Then she turns back to you.

    "Are you unwell? We can lay you down for a bit if we need to,"

    "I'm fine," you grunt, "I'm not concussed anymore or anything."

    "Are you sure?"

    Her arch tone makes you pause in your immediate snappish response.

    "I might be a bit drunk," you grudgingly admit.

    "I'll say," Natasha notes, tapping one of her iron nails against the various flasks that have been pulled from your bandolier. "You've exhausted your entire set, and you brought the heavy stuff with you today, more than enough to knock out someone not from Ostland or Kislev."

    "And yet," you respond airily, "I do not hurt anymore. Adira and Alcohol, two A's."

    Natasha snorts.

    "I have another thought."

    "Oh, joy," Natasha says sardonically.

    "We should send runners. We've the favor of Manann, or at least his Cult, and that means we could take a ship back north. What better way to deliver the news than to sail back in at Salkalten?"

    Natasha pauses as she examines your face, turning it this way and that.

    "Huh. That is a good idea…if it works. I guess you really are just drunk," she taps you gently on the nose before standing up and sticking her head out into the hall. "Heinrich?"

    "Yes, Countess?" One of the nearest Greatsword responds.

    "Gather a group of…hmm, fifteen. You are to see if there is a ship willing to take on our party back to Salkalten. Make sure they're aware that a gryphon and several ogres would be riding with them."

    "I…I'll do my best, Countess," Heinrich says, but you can hear the doubt in his voice. "Perhaps more than one ship, I suppose."

    Right.

    Because ten ogres and a gryphon are definitely non-standard cargo, and heavy as all hell besides, not to mention their dietary requirements for sustenance. There are likely very few ships willing to carry those sorts of things on extremely short notice.

    You are drunk.

    "Natasha?"

    Your wife turns about to look at you, head tilted slightly.

    "Yes, Frederick?"

    "I've another thought."

    =========================================================​

    Exiting the Cathedral of Manann finds your party significantly reduced. Some left to try and seek out ships, while many others have remained behind with help guard over Adira and Oskana. Urgdug was especially vocal about accompanying you before you reminded him that he really was the best choice for ensuring that Oskana remained moderately docile. Docile enough to not try and kill temple goers in the meantime, at the very least, though he couldn't promise anything about her snapping and screeching at folks. Still, you aren't just walking alone with Natasha. Four Pulverizers are a considerable bulwark against the crowds, and the ten Greatswords help fill the gaps between those massive shields. As it turns out, however, you barely even need them. Your survival from the Keelhauling gets you a significant gap around you. Many of those who are clearly fishermen or sailors are busy either ducking away, naked fear or awe in their eyes, while the rest are shifted by the tide of folk thusly affected by your presence.

    It doesn't last, obviously, as by this point in the day the temple district is flooded by the faithful, but it lasts you long enough to get out of the immediate area of the Cathedral of Manann. Your pace is brisk, the walk significantly improving your mood and mind, sobering you up plenty. It was embarrassing how you hadn't noticed just how sloshed you'd managed to get while talking to the head of one of the main Cults of the Empire, but in your defense…you'd just been keelhauled. Thankfully, having a reduced retinue speeds you along now that you are no longer trying to force your way through the sea of bodies so much as slipping through it. Insomuch as Pulverizers can 'slip' through crowds, anyway. The point is that it's easier to push your way through than it was before. Of course, your passage gets quite a few looks, ogres of any stripe managing to easily do that in the crowds of humanity, your own presence and Natasha only increasing interest.

    Thankfully, though, this being the temple district means that there is far less blatant solicitation compared to elsewhere in the city. It doesn't stop people from calling out to you, but it's much easier to ignore when it goes beyond simple greetings and open acknowledgement of your identity. Nevertheless, you still sight a bewildering number of priests, acolytes, and other hangers on vital to the maintenance of the temples bustling this way and that, interwoven amongst the greater crowds of worshippers that seem to endlessly be entering or leaving the district. You also see, quite frankly, far more general businesses than you are used to in Wulfenburg, places of drink and foodstuffs that seem to rotate wholly around serving not just the priests but those who come to the district for any purpose in general. But as you head east, you start seeing more and more scholarly folk, those befitting true places of learning. Not just lawyers, but professors of a great number of subjects, many with faces permanently pinched after so many years of study by candlelight, stiffly moving about in the crowds as if afraid to be touched by too many of the 'common' folk. Some are followed by scurrying crowds of students, questions and answers being barked back and forth, while others stalk about alone.

    On the way, you also are forced – and you do mean forced – to take note of the Temple of Haendryk. Specifically Haendryk, not Handrich, going by the embossed lettering at the foot of the fifteen-foot statue of him. Or at least, you presume it is him. His hair is well groomed, his mutton chops thick and extending right into an exceedingly detailed mustache which does nothing to disguise his open jovial expression. One hand is on his hip, flaring out his cloak, the other on a scepter which terminates by his boots. He's also made of gold, and you're reasonably sure that it's solid, or at least mostly in most places. The temple proper is little better, the sheer wealth on display almost offensive in how gaudy and omni-present it is. Solid gold this, imported marble that, encrusted gemstones here, no doubt expensively made statues there. You can't not see the temple and take note of it, it's too shiny, said shine openly protected by a miniature army of temple guards who are no doubt some of the best paid in the Old World.

    The Cathedral of Manann has a quiet but bedrock solid majesty to it.

    The Temple of Haendryk is grotesquely gaudy, and yet by sheer virtue of that alone it comes dangerously close in prominence to the Cathedral of Manann somehow.

    Even as you make your way past it, you see merchants of all stripes and causes stopping in, many loudly declaring just how much money they were donating to Handrich on that day so that he'd bless some endeavor or another. Others were going in as some of the priests of Handrich continually announced that banking services were open and available for all and sundry – so long as those opening accounts were able to prove of a certain level of wealth. They also offered loans, of assuredly generous interest rates, to any who might require funds that day. Shockingly, you see even a few dwarfs and elves going in and out, though they take care not to actually be within ten feet of one another at all times. Honestly, the sheer wealth on display, having been built up for generations at this point, could probably pay for a total remodeling of a good forth of Wulfenburg. Possibly more if you melted down the golden statues.

    Luckily, you make your way past that place quickly, and soon enough find even more scholarly folk filling the crowds. By their nature alone, the rambunctious push and pull of the sea of bodies around you steadies itself, becoming smoother but no less swift in its movements this way and that. Whole gaggles of students now babble amongst themselves as they walk, pausing only to gape at the appearance of the Pulverizers and Greatswords, some of their taller fellows standing on their toes momentarily to see what lies at the center of such guards, but they prove no impediment regardless. In no time at all, you begin seeing Knights and full Priests of Verena, and soon after that you reach the Cathedral of Verena itself. It stands tall, as tall as the Temple of Haendryk, but there is a sense, to you at least, of something far purer and cleaner than the oddly dirty feeling you got from the former.

    There are few examples of Classical architecture in the north of the Empire, only the few shrines and temples of Myrmidia continue to hold to it, but there are far more and better examples elsewhere. This is one such example. The Cathedral of Verena is massive, colonnaded with white marble that is curiously shot through with what looks like genuine silver that is uniform across the entire façade. Above the towering entrance, supported by columns that you think even Urgdug might struggle to hold or move alone, is a lengthy frieze filled to the brim with an entire flock of owls that look like they might well pop off of the stone, such was the skill of their carver. Some are flying, others are staring down at the street below, while at the center is a weighty set of scales with small script scrawled onto it that you can't quite make out. From where you stand at the entrance, you can spy more than fifty templar knights, their eyes having locked onto you the moment you'd showed up, hands tight on the hilts of their swords.

    "Amazing," Natasha murmurs as she leans against you, the humidity and heat of Marienburg funnily making the act far more pleasant to suffer through than it usually is.

    "It really is," you admit calmly.

    There is a weight here, to this place. It is a sense that only grows further as you enter the Cathedral proper, which is in and of itself remarkably simple. There is not the sheer magnificence and dangerously contained power that the Cathedral of Manann possessed, nor the overbearing weight of wealth that the Temple of Haendryk had greedily gathered about itself, but rather a calm and quiet dignity that you've rarely felt in your life from any temple or shrine. In the temples of Sigmar and Ulric, the strength implied is rarely quiet, and even the small temple of Myrmidia in Ostland is full of martial bustle. Not so, the Cathedral of Verena for all that it is certainly well populated itself. The clerks, the lawyers, the scholars, the students, they pass back and forth swiftly. You spy places on the carpets and stone where pews and benches have clearly been placed before, but you see no other evidence of their presence. Rather, the entire area seems built around creating a few dozen small spots for sitting in groups, for discussions, with a handful of chairs and a small table each. Numerous other passages leave elsewhere into the temple, and you do spy one doorway that, while looking no different from the others, manages to have men and women in robes carrying handfuls of books coming in and out of it. Many more common folk are escorted in and out of the other passages, some happily, others in despair, while many more sit and mutter amongst themselves and with scholars and laymen alike.

    Your arrival has been noticed, obviously, but it has done nothing to stop or cause issue to the temple's ongoing operations. It is this awareness but lack of immediate response that lets you move all the way in and up to the head of the temple, where the main altar rests. Unlike the Cathedral of Manann, there is no evidence of blood on the stone from sacrifices, and instead the altar, again made of that pure white marble with silver veins, seems more like a massive pulpit with places clearly meant for papers to be placed in various places. Behind the main altar, however, is what truly drew your attention.

    "Wow," one of the Greatswords says quietly.

    "Big," one of the Pulverizers notes through their helm.

    Verena sits facing you upon an utterly enormous stone of white marble, this one completely pure. And it can only be Verena. The Goddess of Knowledge, Science, Law, and Justice. She is dressed as you've seen some priests dress, but her robes were carefully carved to reveal slips and bits of the armor she wears beneath, to lend credence to the strength within. An owl the size of Oskana sits on her shoulder, while the spear that she holds in one hand, pointed straight up, makes the spear of Orion look like a toothpick. She is carved of marble, yes, but unlike the pale white of everything else, she has been painted with disturbingly lifelike coloration, tones and shading clearly done by one or several masters of the arts. The proportions are completely accurate and normal. A massive tome 'sits' on her hip, hidden by the arm of the throne, while the sword with scales as a hilt rests against the throne, 'held' there by her other hand. The scales themselves do not swing freely, but they are certainly large enough for bonfires to be lit on each side of them, though for the moment there is nothing visible within. Skin, robes, armor, all of it looks realistic, merely scaled upwards to match Her. You've seen giants in the distance, before, though you've never killed one yourself. This single piece of religious masonry and forging is an equal to them in size but without the inhuman hunch and misshapen parts. All of this passes through your mind quickly, though, only for you to find yourself stuck on one feature in particular.

    Her eyes are uncovered.

    In the small shrines and in the beginnings of the new library, you've seen statues of Verena before. None have been this intricate, nor so well armed, but most had Her eyes covered but by a blindfold.

    Not this one.

    It feels like the Goddess herself is pinning you in place. Her gaze is impossibly stern, inhumanly observant, like she's peeling you apart layer by layer with those dark blue eyes down past your core. As if she might well sit up from the throne and sweep you from her temple with the butt of her spear or a single foot, as that would be all that would be needed to do so, such is the size of the Goddess.

    You feel judged…and then dismissed.

    Only then do you gulp in a breath, realizing at that moment that somehow you'd forgotten to breath. You hear similar reactions from Natasha and some of the Greatswords, but not all. An incredible weight lifts off of you that you hadn't quite realized was on top of you until that moment.

    "Rather martial, for all that this is the place of the Great Library, hmm?" A new voice speaks up, causing you to jump slightly in your skin and turn about sharply to see an elderly man with one eye gone snow-blind after a knife ran across his face.

    He also bears the robes of a priest of Verena, scrollwork running along his sleeves and chest from a central pinned point on both of his shoulders.

    "I'm sorry?" You say after a moment to catch your breath again.

    "Ah, I did not mean to startle you," the priest chuckles, "My apologies, both for interrupting your appreciation for the Goddess and for not arriving sooner. You are…Count Frederick von Hohenzollern, yes?"

    You glance about the rest of the Cathedral, noting how a few more eyes than before have turned towards you, before answering.

    "Aye, I am. And you are?"

    "A humble servant of Verena…who has been tasked to ask you if there is something we might do for you," he chuckles again. "We are not unfamiliar with heavily armed parties coming to the Cathedral, sometimes seeking to learn something, but we've also found it helps to ask them what they want rather than let them just wander around aimlessly."

    His smile is only superficially gormless. There is a core of steel, somewhere inside this priest, for all that he is shielded only by vellum and cloth.

    "…I suppose that's fair enough. I am seeking out the Sword of Justice, Evangeline Hertwig. She's a friend of the family, and I might well be able to bring her well wishes to her mother in Ostermark later this year."

    The priest's eyes widen slightly at your words, his back straightening somewhat.

    "Ah…yes. Lady Hertwig. Heh...," he trails off. "No, she isn't here. She visited when she arrived in the city to pay her respects but has since been seeing to her duties to the Emperor."

    "Oh?"

    A wry grin comes to his face, then.

    "Oh yes. One of the most prominent has created quite a furor. Almost as much as your trial by Manann, Count Hohenzollern," he says quite seriously. "Have you heard much of Baron Henryk's?"

    You exchange a puzzled glance with Natasha before turning back to him.

    "Not really, no," you answer honestly, which gets a bit of a boggled glance from the man.

    "Really? One of the premier learning institutions of the Old World? A grand university of study, through which research in medicine, law, religion, navigation and cartography?"

    Another shrug.

    "Not really, no. It appears few of their students made the time to journey to Ostland enough to crow about their place of learning," you say a bit firmly.

    Whatever he was planning on saying, he swallows quickly at the look on your face.

    "Ahem. Yes. Well," he coughs, "They are both unmatched in cartography and in navigation…save for those of the Order of the Albatross…but that is not what the Sword has been sent for."

    The priest leans in, eyes darting this way and that, motioning for you to do the same.

    "The official title is Baron Henryk's College of Navigation and Sea Magicks."

    He nods when your jaw drops.

    "I had thought that only the college in Hergig was granted official charter by the Altdorf Colleges," you say incredulously. "I think I would have heard if they'd granted a second."

    "Ah, well," the priest straightens his robes, "That is precisely the point. They did not. Baron Henryk's was founded in 1947, by the reckoning of the Imperial Calendar."

    This time, it is you who raises a hand to pause his words, your mind churning furiously.

    "But that…were they so open about it?"

    "Correct," the priest nods again. "Only two such institutions ever existed in the long-term, Baron Henryk's by virtue of the sheer amount of money they could use to stave off witch hunters and the like, and another facility in Middenheim which survived by dint of their usage of magic in battle and little openly elsewhere."

    The latter you vaguely remember hearing about, but up until this moment you'd frankly never even heard of this place.

    "Of course, such a blatant challenge to the edicts of the Magic Colleges went surprisingly unanswered for quite some time!" The man continues, shrugging. "The Empire was weak, the Emperor young, and we had just all come together once again. Now though," he smiles with yellowed teeth. "The Sword has come calling. Don't know why now, precisely, but she came with the heads of two of the Colleges, in fact. Patriarch Caelum of the Celestial College and Matriarch Hildegard of the Jade."

    "I'm surprised that everyone wasn't more focused on that than…," you gesture at yourself.

    "One they were allowed to view, were invited to, even," the priest says promptly, "The other is locked down, blocked off by the Knights Griffon and the Owls of the Sword of Justice," he says forebodingly. "None can enter, but all saw the many wizards enter that place, accompanied by the Sword herself."

    "Oh my," Natasha murmurs. "At this very moment?"

    "Indeed," the priest bobbles his head jerkily. "The Colleges have come calling, and none of the practitioners within may leave without their say so."

    Well.

    How about that.

    "They'll likely be going past the sun's sleep, unfortunately, if you were hoping to catch a word with any of them. Goodness knows plenty of folk tried regardless," he chuckles dryly again. "But is that all you desired, Count?"

    "It's all we needed," you tell him politely. "We'll be on our way, then."

    "Very well. May Verena guide you well, Count Hohenzollern," he bows before turning away and heading elsewhere in the temple.

    Natasha waits a moment until you are once again relatively alone to speak again.

    "Do you suppose that this is…chastisement, on the part of the Emperor?"

    "What do you mean?" You look at her.

    "He let this…Baron Henryk's continue openly teach and practice sorcery outside the bounds of the remit of the Colleges for more than three decades…and now this. So suddenly, too."

    You can see it. Things were intensely fragile after the Great War Against Chaos. It's why it is known that Westerland was able to get away with not having an Elector Count anymore. Their wealth and influence could have made trying to force such a thing on them untenable in the opening moments of the Emperor's rule. But now, all of a sudden, Evangeline is here, and one of the crown jewels of the city – admittedly one you had no idea existed until now – is under total lockdown. Now the Empire is strong indeed. But she's right. It is sudden…unless one remembers how Magnus had glowered at Kaufmann at the Elector's Meet after she'd joined in on that little package of theirs and the Moot.

    "Well. I suspect we won't be seeing Evangeline today," you say as your party emerges into the open air of the city once more. That's the last bit of official work I'd been planning on trying."

    "Oh? And what will we be doing now?"

    "Drinking!" You inform her cheerfully.

    =================================================================​

    You weren't sure what you were expecting when you hit Norscan Town. A ragged pile of tents? A group of marauders getting off their longships, torches and axes in hands ready to raid? A trophy pole fitted with the heads of a great many dead, sigils of the Ruinous Powers slathered this way and that across the place? As it turned out, it was none of that. The buildings are roughly the same Imperial design as elsewhere, with a great many colorful streamers hanging between the awnings and stretching across the streets, though you can see rougher places here and there. Stitched tarps of hide replace those of flax or linen that you might see elsewhere, but these are not overly common either.

    It is thinly populated, especially compared to the rest of the city, but it nonetheless is utterly shocking to you when you are confronted, undeniably, with the presence of hundreds of visible Norscans walking this way and that going about their daily lives. More than that, two thirds of them are dressed as regular Imperial citizens, in trousers and tunics, puffed vests and donning large hats with enormous feathers in them. You get quite a few looks as you stop and stare, but few of them seem inclined to explain themselves as to what the hell they thought they were achieving. The remaining third are far more familiar to you. Leather harnesses that bare most of their chests, minimal clothing save for boots and rough loin coverings, all of which openly displays a shocking difference in general bulk and physicality compared to the average Imperial citizen. It is these that you find yourself staring at more, as they seamlessly speak to their better dressed fellows and the odd true Imperial citizen. They bear the axes that your citizens have felt biting into their flesh on their hips, and some even push past your retinue with trussed up deer over their shoulders that they've apparently gone hunting for outside of the city. One pair of Norscan men heft an absolutely enormous four-legged reptile with scales over their shoulders between them, talking to one another brightly as they step past you and enter a shop with a large multi-tiered sign, each one featuring a different language. There is not just Reikspiel, but Bretonnian, Kislevite, what looks like elven, and even Khazalid.

    "Sigvarl's Butchery," you say slowly. "Most meats accepted – no people."

    Scribbled underneath that, again in multiple languages, is more.

    "That means no halflings, no dwarfs, no elves. Lizards okay."

    "You lost?"

    Slowly, you and every other member of your retinue turn to find a Norscan looking at you, nonplussed, one hand on his hip, his right sleeve pinned shut rather than flap about without an arm to fill it. His head is bald and scarred, and he is dressed like a moderately wealthy merchant might. A finely maintained and braided beard hangs down his chest, almost reaching his stomach, the black shot through with white here and there. His eyes, though, are narrowed and clear blue.

    "No," you answer curtly.

    "Oh, come to gawk at the Norscans then, eh? Come to see what the 'slaves of the Ruinous Powers' do in their free time, between the raping and pillaging?"

    His tone is cuttingly acerbic, enough that what might be the ancient Udose blood in you rears its head.

    "Actually," Natasha jumps in, eyebrow raised as archly as her tone, "We came to drink. You appear to be impeding that."

    That, finally, gets the Norscan's face to twist, first in surprise and then in amusement.

    "Well, in that case, you'll be looking for Bjorn's bar, the Shattered Axe," he points down the street a bit. "If you can stomach it, that is," he chortles a bit.

    "We're Ostlanders, and she is of Kislev. We'll be fine," you say before your group turns away, gaining a look of shock and surprise on his face before he is obscured by ogre bodies and Greatswords.

    No other Norscans bar your way after that point. In fact, your words spread pretty quickly, it seems, and the already sparsely populated Norscan town seems to empty even further, save for those just arriving to it anew. As promised, the Shattered Axe awaits, and it is not nearly as rundown as you would have thought at first. The paint is barely peeling, the timber is of quality and well placed, and the stone only somewhat chipped in places. One wall does have a generous portion of Norscan graffiti scrawled there, and though you cannot understand most of it there are a few helpful pictograms etched in place here and there. The only major issue is that the doorway cannot fit the Pulverizers.

    "We'll stay outside, boss," one says with a meaty thwack of a salute.

    "Sometimes I worry they're hurting themselves saluting that hard," Natasha murmurs to you as you enter, "They're hitting themselves hard enough to break rock, every single time."

    "They take it as a challenge of toughness," you tell her regretfully.

    That's as far as you let it go, though. You want Pulverizers, not the Rock Skulls that you met in the Deeps of Karak Ungor.

    "Oy! Welcome to-," the rough call drowns out swiftly when they see just who you are, the general noise of a tavern quieting almost instantly when you and Natasha step fully through the doorway, your Greatswords behind you.

    A spreading wave of silence fills the entire room. More than fifty Norscans turn slightly where they sit, some with foam on their beards, some slowly lowering the mugs in their hands. There are weapons aplenty here, but all are currently sheathed save for a pair of Norscans by the back with an oddly built lengthy booth that has a painted target at the far end. Three axes have pounded into the wood, there, and both Norscans bear more in their hands, having drawn them from a pile between them. The barman is exceedingly old, his skin sagging around what used to be undoubtably mighty sinew, his combed and braided hair white and wispy. His hand slowly lowers from where he'd raised it in greeting, his brows furrowed as he studies your party.

    "I hear you've got drink," you say into that silence, marching up to an empty spot along the bar and placing down a few crowns, Natasha at your side. "I've got coin."

    A quiet murmuring fills the room, the bar tender scrutinizing you more closely now. His eyes lock onto the Light of Summer, then to Bokdrungni, then up to your face, then over to Natasha.

    "…what tribe?" He says lowly, after a moment passed.

    "What?"

    "What tribe," he repeats, squinting.

    "I don't…I'm from Ostland-," you stop as Natasha places a hand against your arm, your words still enough to get another round of muttering through the bar.

    "Gospodar," your wife says coolly, "Before that, Kurgan."

    Another dead silence that strangles the murmuring.

    "Ah. In that case," you clear your throat, shifting your feet in case this becomes a fight, "Udose."

    Now there is more than murmuring, there is a cacophony. Hisses of dismay, of surprise, words harshly exchanged. Which, to be fair, is somewhat understandable if one knows the history between the Udose and the Norsii. No other tribe in the ancient days of the Empire exulted so much in the devastation of the Norsii than the Udose tribe, from which the majority of all modern Ostlanders are descended. It is a story still told with dark glee by those in the Northern March, something of a grim joy to be taken whenever the people of Ostland suffered at the hands of the Norscans. The survivors of the raid would gather, and to raise their spirits they would drink what they could and tell tales of past victories – the eldest of which was the great burning. In those days, there was no discrimination. Men. Women. Children. If they were Norsii, they would die. And die they did, the shore of northern Ostland set aflame and filled with the charnel dead as they'd sought to retreat on their boats.

    "Mmmph," the barman says into the ensuing noise. "Udose. Gospodar. Strong tribes. Strong peoples," he says with grudging respect. "You here looking for a fight?"

    "Not at all. Just a drink or two," you shake your head, "But if there is one…," you trail off.

    "We'll finish it," Natasha completes.

    "…fair words," the barman states with a nod. "What do you want? We've got beers, ales, wines-,"

    "Mead," you interrupt. "I've had plenty of beers, ales, wines, and so on," you say, tapping a finger on the bar. "But I've only ever heard of mead, never actually had it."

    That gets the barman's eyebrows to rise.

    "Mead can be mighty strong, you know," he says slowly.

    "So I've heard. Let's find out," you sit down at the bar alongside Natasha.

    The barman shakes his head and turns behind him to a few casks.

    "On your coin and on your head's be it, then."

    You stare at the purple drinks which are placed in front of you.

    "…is it supposed to be that color?"

    The barman bares his teeth.

    "Only the strong stuff, Ostlander."

    "Oh, good then," you smile right back.

    ======================================================================​

    "And that," Natasha snorts as she slams her glass down first, "Is that."

    "You…you…," whatever her opponent was planning on saying never actually manages to get out of his mouth before he collapses onto the ground out of his chair in an undignified heap to the cries of dismay of those remaining who were watching.

    "Damn you, Olafur! You just lost me three crowns!" A Norscan woman cries at the latest loser, getting several commiserating slaps on the back from those who had already lost money.

    "Next!" Natasha calls out, "Who is brave enough!?"

    Olafur is only the latest, of course. He is swiftly dragged by two other burly men to sleep it off next to a pile of four other Norscans who were similarly forced into unconsciousness by your wife's prowess.

    "Where is it all going?" Another man asks, his eyes so wide that they're stretching his leathery face, leaning back in his chair in naked fear of your wife as he watches.

    "Inside, obviously," you inform him before tossing the throwing axe in your hand up and down again. "Next bet?"

    "Five shillings," your latest challenger declares. "All center, three axes."

    "Done," you answer before turning and throwing the axe as hard as possible, impacting so deeply into the wall that it nearly sounds like a gunshot, causing many of the raucous Norscans to turn and flinch at the noise. "Done," you gather another axe and plant it right next to the other. "And done," you don't even look as you throw the third, this one gaining an even larger reaction than the first.

    The Norscan facing you had slowly uncrossed her arms from beneath her chest as you'd thrown, the thick braid which hangs down from the back of her head flapping as her head whipped back and forth from you and to the target. The sides of her head were shaved, and scrawled with Norscan runes and more artistic tattoos, but the rest of her hair was a dirty blonde. She is dressed in what you're coming to recognize as the 'traditional' manner, not the Imperial one, with only leather and cloth covering the most important areas while bearing her gemstone-cut musculature to the rest of the world. The surety on her face has drained out considerably by the time she reaches for the axe pile herself, and only when she makes her first throw do you realize that the third axe managed to lodge itself in backwards – as in by the haft and not by the blade. Her first two get close enough to the center, but by that point there is so little space in the middle of the target that her only hope is to both be accurate and to knock off another of the other axes in the same motion – something she unfortunately fails at.

    "Damn," she curses before offering up the shillings after tugging open the coin purse hung on her mostly bare waist.

    "Keep them," you raise a hand. "It's just friendly competition."

    She doesn't hesitate and quickly places her coinage right back where it came from.

    "Ostlanders are usually tighter and grasping about their coin," she says suspiciously.

    The dig isn't barbed or purposeful. Ostland is known for being frugal as much out of necessity than out of preference.

    "How about this. You can pay in information instead," you offer, leaning back against the bar.

    Another bevy of cheers and cries of upset go up as another Norscan hits the floor, Natasha finally wobbling slightly when she stands.

    "That…would be fair, I suppose," your conversation partner says, folding her arms up again as she leans against the wall. "Depends on the information though."

    "We can start easy," you say with a smile, one that is not returned. "First, your name. Second…why are you all here?"

    She blinks at your question, head jerking backwards slightly.

    "My name is Erika Olafsdottir, and…we are here because…our kin have lived here? For generations?" She says, the scrunch in her brow brand new as she likely tries to wonder if you're really as drunk as you should be, or even more so. "What are you talking about?"

    "I've lived in Ostland my entire life," you point out. "Never been to Marienburg before now. There isn't a 'Norscan Town' in Salkalten, or anywhere in Nordland."

    Erika snorts.

    "Of course not. No Norscan would willingly live in the vicinity of the Scorched Horizon, and as for Nordland," her expression turns a bit sardonic, "There's plenty enough of our blood woven there without need for a specific district, but I think you know that."

    You do, in fact, know that. After the devastation caused by the Great Plague, the savior of the Empire could not spare the time to answer the desperate pleas of Nordland when they sent reports of Norscans invading and outright colonizing their coastline. It's that same massive intermingling of bloodlines which has caused so much trouble for Nordland since, their character questioned due to the obvious danger of taint that resulted from such things. On the other hand, all of the Electors since then have, albeit accepting a mixing and adaptation of each other's customs, worked hard to show their people are nevertheless not nearly so questionable as their blood would suggest.

    "I suppose that must be true enough," you admit, "The people of Nordland have done an admirable job of proving the superior there."

    "Oh, is that how you see it?" Erika says, her nose flaring as she squints for a moment at you.

    "Oh, the longhouse style is prevalent, sure, but it is Manann, Ulric, Sigmar and so on that hold there," you roll your hand through the air. "Conquering through the marriage bed is not the most traditional method, sure, but, well, results are results."

    The naked suspicion on Erika's face is broken up by her guffawing at your words.

    "Hah! That is one way to put it!" She arches her head back and laughs, clapping once with it. "But no, I suppose you really wouldn't know, being from Ostland, would you…,"

    "I know Norscans trade in Erengrad, on occasion, but they've never once approached Salkalten," you say after she calms down a bit. "For fair reason, I suppose."

    "I imagine you'd blow the ships apart if they tried to dock," she says dryly, and you nod to confirm the truth of her words.

    "Most likely. But back to my second question?"

    "Ah, that," Erika rolls her eyes. "As in Nordland in Marienburg, I suppose. Generations of coming, settling, working, and so on," she waves her hand to encompass the ongoing noisiness of a bar in full swing in the afternoon. "But just because they settle, doesn't meant that they forget where and who they come from, unlike those in Nordland," she adds at the end with a dismissive huff.

    That, you seize upon.

    "Your people here still retain communications with your homeland?"

    The humor drains away.

    "Of course we do," she says guardedly. "Many of us sail from there regularly, we spend the seasons across the world as we will. Bringing news from far away, from home, of clans and families."

    A constant, consistent line of communication into the very heart of Norsca.

    "If you're looking for that sort of thing, we won't be giving it," she says a bit loudly, her tone and stance shifting the joviality of nearby other Norscans into something a bit more defensive. "We swear blood oaths of secrecy, Ostlander."

    In the hour and a half you've been here, more than enough alcohol has been consumed such that too great a swing in energy for the crowd could swiftly become a rather major issue.

    "If you think you're the first to-,"

    (Emergency Diplomacy: 56+Frederick Diplomacy(5)=61/100)

    "I'm not, and I know that," you interrupt her, mind leaping to find an avenue to divert the conversation from barreling into a point of no return. "Just wanted to know what it would take to get mead to be traded into Salkalten, or just into Ostland markets in general."

    Erika stares at you, hard, as do twelve other nearby Norscans who have formed up rather rapidly.

    "Really," she asks drolly. "Just mead?"

    "Just mead. I understand it might be a bit of an issue with the past, and possibly present," you say quickly, turning the lie into a truthful request. "But I was wondering."

    "…uh huh."

    She clearly doesn't completely believe you, but she also can't rule it out either. And you, in turn, have learned likely why others haven't succeeded at trying to make use of such an obvious line of inquiry before amongst the Norscans of Marienburg. They swear blood oaths to secrecy on such matters, which means that no matter how much a Witch Hunter might torture them, they would rather die instead.

    "I'll say this, Ostlander. You don't lack for courage," she eventually says after fractionally relaxing. "You might lack a bit of sense, however."

    "Perhaps," you shrug. "I had other questions, sure, but if you've sworn oaths against them I won't begrudge you."

    Erika casts her eyes around the room, but this time you can see the careful calculations she's making. You've got a number of Greatswords still in the bar, split between guarding you and Natasha, and the Pulverizers are unmistakably outside. She is, you can tell, weighing if the Norscans could successfully pile on and cut you to pieces. Evidently she is confident enough in their chances, though her gaze does linger on Natasha for a moment, that she feels comfortable enough with nodding at you while letting a hand fall to the haft of the axe at her waist.

    "Speak them, then."

    "Haven't had a raid in a good stretch, was wondering what was up with that," you say plainly.

    You very pointedly don't say that you're sending out ships to check the coastline of Norsca yourself.

    "…they follow the whims of the Gods," Erika eventually says, though she doesn't actually name any of said Gods.

    Smart, that. It is also clearly all you'll get out of that topic.

    "Fine. Other than that…hmm. I don't know much of your people, other than the fighting and killing bits, but if the mead is any suggestion, there is more to it than that, on occasion," you say calmly.

    "We are the greatest sailors and traders and warriors amongst all mankind," she says with utter surety, "This is true."

    "But aside from that?"

    "Speak plainly, Ostlander," she says, now a bit testy.

    "Culture, Norscan. I'd like to learn."

    Erika shares a disbelieving look with another watching Norscan before looking back to you.

    "I can pay for it too," you roll a gold crown amongst your fingers and knuckles, "Coin or blood, as the case may be."

    She pauses for a moment, mouth opening before snapping shut and she flips her palm out to accept the coin.

    "You will accept the information I give, and nothing more, Ostlander."

    "Fair enough," you raise both hands upwards, palm facing towards her.

    In the end, it's likely that you could have requested some tomes and research from the Grand Library, but you saw a chance at a first-person account and took it.

    What you learn is both fascinating and incredibly disheartening in equal measure.

    You learn of how Norscans essentially never call themselves such, the appellation being an Imperial affectation. Instead, they organize themselves along their tribal lines as their main identifiers more than any single national identity. Instead, it is the tribes that hold the most loyalty. Kin, tribe, and the Gods. The names go without saying but hearing the reverence in Erika's voice is outright infuriating and disgusting to you. For all that she never names them directly, you know exactly who and what she is talking about with religious awe whenever the topic veers too closely to them. You learn the names of many of the tribes, the greatest of them nations unto themselves, essentially, such as the Aeslings – like Valmir Aesling, one of the greatest of the Everchosen Asavar Kul's lieutenants, and others like the Vargs and Sarls and so on. Erika, personally, of the Guddurkrid Tribe, a minor one all things considered, but one she is exceedingly proud of nonetheless.

    Enough that when one of the other Norscans - barring you learning the tribal affiliations of all involved means the appellation will have to suffice – starts to voice what even begins to sound like a negative opinion about the Guddurkrid gets a fist to the nose.

    Then it moves on to the structure of a tribe, of the society of that distant harsh land. Of Kings, undeniably Lords of Chaos as you would know them, and the Jarls below them who are chieftains of individual tribes bound by oath and honor to serve the Kings they are subservient to. According to Erika, there are only a few Kings of Norsca, and only one living High King who rules over them all, but you don't even bother trying to get his name. There is zero chance she'd tell you such information. Warriors and Bondsmen, the most trusted of those who serve the Jarls and Kings, and then even further below, to the denigrated karls and thralls. It is, perhaps, darkly humorous that a common name in the Empire refers to a class of low standing in Norsca. It is the karls who oversee the fields, and the thralls that work them. Erika is swift to move on from that topic, as many raids into Ostland resulted in good Imperial citizens being forced into a life of eternal painful servitude that inevitably ended with their deaths. Religion is a topic that neither of you are eager to explore at the moment, though Erika points out repeatedly that the 'shrines of home' are forbidden in Marienburg.

    And rightly so. No matter the money, no true Imperial would be able to ignore blatant shrines openly dedicated to the worship of Chaos.

    And it is that which continually sours you further and further as time goes on.

    Erika Olafsdottir is a worshipper of Chaos.

    The barman is a worshipper of Chaos.

    Every single tribal member present in this bar with you…is a worshipper of Chaos.

    Erika only shrugs as she explains the differences between the 'northern' and 'southern' tribes, with some being even more brutal and unruly than others. It is the southern tribes that are the traders and occasional mercenaries, yes, but even then…when the Gods call, they go to war in Their service.

    "I can see the question in your eyes, Ostlander," the… Guddurkrider says with a dark chuckle. "How can we live here as we do, and not be cut down? Burnt out? Exterminated?"

    You've become dangerously close to sober during this conversation, and it shows.

    "Aye."

    "Our ships are searched from top to bottom for proscribed materials and objects upon arrival, and departure," she says calmly. "Those you call mutants are not allowed on our ships. And while those who have lived here generationally give more credence to southern Gods than they should, all that we are required to do is maintain our faiths internally for when we return home."

    And that, it seems, is enough for Marienburgers.

    Which. Frankly? Seems insane to you. How much exotic goods and mercenary work did it take to reach this point of quiet simmering acceptance? Less than it should have, no doubt, if there ever was such a number. The mead was good. Sweet. Strange. Different. But you are honestly unsure if it was worth it, at this point. Thorkell, who works with Evangeline, had to be tortured and starved by the skaven before he gave up the Ruinous Powers. The Norscan Shallyan who is part of Stephan's household also had to suffer terribly to reach that point.

    Is that what it takes? Each individual Norscan having to undergo shattering trials of the body and mind to break them of the chains they so gleefully partake in when it comes to the Dark Gods? Or some otherwise overwhelming force to convert them and save their souls that you cannot even fathom?

    "Any other questions, Ostlander?" The Chaos Worshipper says with a tilt of her head and a small smile on her lips.

    As if she wouldn't gleefully partake in pillaging Ostland if the Dark Gods ever asked her to.

    "No. That's all I've got," you say quietly.

    "Aye. Suppose we might see each other again, then," she shrugs and moves away, leaving you to stew in your thoughts.

    It's time you were going.

    "Natasha?"

    "Mmm?" Your beautiful wife looks up from her seventh defeated opponent, now clearly unsteady on her feet.

    She immediately begins sobering up at the look on your face.

    "We're going."

    There is no more conversation, no more jokes, no more laughter to be shared with the devoted of the Ruinous Powers around you. Frankly, you feel unclean. No, not just unclean. Unclean without realizing it for far too long. The Norscans know that something has changed as you hustle out of Norscan Town, but only a few realize it entirely. Those that bear the clothing of the Empire might actually have devoted themselves enough to Ulric, or Shallya, or Manann, but you don't care to know at the moment if it has proved enough for their own salvations. All you care about is getting out of there, before you have to look another smiling worshipper of ruin in the eye as they simply walk about, the price of their presence paid over and over again enough to grant them a small sanctuary within the city.

    Next year, or the year after that, or the year after that, you might be sticking Brain Wounder through Erika Olafsdottir's head after she's cut her way through a lonely homestead along the shore.

    "Frederick?"

    "I don't want to talk about it right now."

    "…all right."

    ======================================================================​

    Your path through the Crafts Market is a fast one. Your mood is dark indeed, at this point. You spy a Nipponese smith selling unique and odd blades from his homeland, curved and straight alike, the designs curious but assured to be effective. Or so the smith says. Frankly, folding steel isn't new to you, but he claims that in his homeland the spirits of the ancestors can be woven into each fold itself. It sounds dangerously close to necromancy, though he is quick to declare that it is wholly separate. As it is, the metal he's working is only regular steel, and other than the unique designs, there is little there for you. The same is said of the Arabyan and Cathayan and Indi designs, though you do not see a whip sword like Sadrina bears on the offering table. There are no elven smiths present, and those dwarf smiths are rather taciturn and focused on trying to gain any advantage over their competitors, as befitting the cutthroat economics of Marienburg. You do manage to observe the wares of a one-armed Bretonnian smith who is one of those few qualified and skilled enough to work silverine, which you've never had the good fortune to handle before. It's light, strong, and depending on heat treatment can increase its flexibility or harden it remarkably well. It's just a shame that silverine ore is so damned expensive to import.

    There are experts aplenty, and many of the people here could probably outmatch the best smiths in the Street of Steel in Wulfenburg. But there is a reason for that – they can get paid far, far better here. The prices are, on average, far higher than those in Wulfenburg, by simple virtue of the fact that they are able to get sales at said prices. Gentle inquiries by Natasha as you stand glaring in the background unfortunately do not come up with any successful catches for those who might be willing to go to Ostland. Here, in Marienburg, there is always demand and high prices, and none are willing to journey north to Wulfenburg. Those who are willing to teach have their schedules utterly filled by the apprentices sent by the guilds, by private citizens in Marienburg, and so on. Unless you seek to simply purchase a number of exotic weapons, there is not much for you in the Crafts Market with regards to blacksmithing. It is not as if it is the only thing, mind you, there are craftsmen of all sorts. Masons, sculptors, artists of all stripes and mediums, clothiers, pottery workers, and more. On and on it went. All manner of material goods were available here, with a far greater variety of materials themselves available. There are even a few toymakers, which are somewhat pleasant to look upon the wares of. A few small dolls of cloth and a few of fine articulation are purchased to be gifts for some of the younger members of the Hohenzollern Herd.

    (Oddities: 21/100)

    Little keeps you there, and you are moving on soon enough.

    =================================================​

    "Sorry, we're all full up."

    "I wish I could partake of your patronage, I truly do, but my dear mother's waiting on her eighth gentleman caller of the day and if I don't get to scrubbing the floor…,"

    "All full, talls, all full!"

    "Har! Alas, our kitchens are not grand enough to fill your sorts of bellies, you'll have to look elsewhere!"

    "We play by Quinsberry rules for this gambling house. I don't think that that is your…speed, talls."

    "Oh, I'll sell you some blackberry schnapps, but it'll cost you a lot. This is premium stuff, you know! Course, would never want to leave your belly empty of fine Mootland drink!"

    "Are you serious?"

    The last comes from the penultimate drinking establishment who squints at you and then rather pointedly looks at the low halfling height round door which leads into it. You and Natasha would have to get on your hands and knees just to get inside, and you'd have to remain in such posture if you intended to stay for any overly lengthy amount of time. The doorman is as swarthy as you've ever seen a halfling, and by the way his fingers dance over the hilts of the knives on his belt you can tell he's experienced at using them.

    "What, do your people not take coin?" You respond, rather irritated at this point from the full blast of rejection you've been getting since you stepped foot into the 'Little Moot'.

    "We do, we do," he waves his hands lazily. "Just…let me talk to the owner. See what she thinks."

    The doorman enters the halfling inn without closing the door, letting you hear the utterly bawdy bounds of halfling conversation, hearing far more intimate details about too many halflings than you ever wanted to learn in only just a few seconds. Prominently displayed over the top of the bar is the symbol of Quinsberry.

    "The symbol of the Lodge is everywhere here," Natasha murmurs to you. "I think we know how they got into contact with Miss Kaufmann so easily."

    "Seems likely," you nod slightly.

    "Are you sure we should be partaking of anything they might offer us?"

    Hmm. Would the Lodge stoop so low as to actual poison? Yes, actually, now that you know of them and interrogated Hagrid about it. On the other hand, the Sword of Justice and two of the greatest living human wizards in the Empire are currently in the city. So it is unlikely that they will go that far. On the other hand, there are a lot more poisons and toxins than just 'kill you' out there in the world. There are eyes on you throughout the Little Moot, and the sense of antagonism at the moment has somehow managed to outweigh even Norscan Town.

    "…probably not."

    The blackberry schnapps tasted dangerously too much like piss, too, and yet the little shit had the gall to charge you two crowns for it.

    =============================================================​

    "SLANDER! This is pure slander! Lies! All of it! I am a wealthy and well-connected man, and I tell you now that you have been deceived by a charlatan!"

    The greater ward was known in common parlance as the Porters Wall, and you quickly learned it was not the most well to do neighborhood in the city. Still, you'd made a plan, and you'd stuck to it, pushing right through the lower-class neighborhood without any issues. To be honest, the Wine Sack was entirely disappointing. You've actually got a bit more variety than they do, by virtue of the fact that you have a more direct line on a few Asur vineyards and Laurelorn wines. It was as you were leaving that you got a bit of excitement. A rather pompously dressed Bretonnian man is being dragged out of his establishment by a pair of rough looking elves of all people, while a few men of the watch and a priestess of Verena with an owl on her shoulder watch. Another elf comes stalking out of the sellers with a bottle of wine in his hand. If the blond haired Asur were to look any more offended, his head might well have been in danger of falling off.

    "Silence! Herr Montag, you have been falsely claiming to sell wines of Ulthuan, and in doing so with your…," the elf uncorks the bottle and nearly retches at whatever smell emerges, "Thoroughly inferior imitations, have besmirched the name of the Goldenhallow Vineyards, the Skyshear Vineyards, and the names of all elves everywhere."

    "IT'S GENUINE PRODUCT, I SWEAR!"

    A flare of light blooms from the priestess of Verena, a cold and angry white light that burns from her open eyes and obscures them in the same instant due to the sheer brightness.

    "Liar."

    Immediately, 'Herr Montag' screams in pain as you smell the faintest scent of charred flesh begin emanating from somewhere on his person. The light fades away, turning the priestess once more into a 'mundane' servant of Verena, but it appears to be enough to get the man to shut up.

    "We take falsifying of records and product quite seriously, don't we Nobs?" One of the watchmen says to a shorter compatriot.

    You can't…you can't quite tell if they're a dwarf, a short man, or even a particularly grimy halfling.

    "We do, sarge, we do. Lotsa paperwork for someone who lies on their paperwork. Fines, too!" The short…person…says.

    Events wrap up quickly after that. A public declaration is made as to the man's unscrupulous nature, the falsehoods of his supposed premium wines, and things like that. One person brings up possibilities of renumeration, only to be sternly told by the investigating Asur that if they couldn't tell that the product wasn't true elven wine, then that wasn't the elves fault now was it? The entire stock within is tested, and more than half of it is promptly poured out into the canals once it is revealed that most of it is just extremely watered-down rotgut with bits of fruit. Some of the wine is genuine and is simply given out for free in a swiftly put together lottery, infuriating the bad salesman even further as even his 'good stuff' is given away without money changing hands.

    =====================================================​

    'North Miragliano' is born of Imperial design aesthetics melded with Classical, which creates quite an interesting overall look to it. Just as with Norscan Town and the Little Moot, it is also populated in its vast majority by those for whom it is named. In this case, Tileans from the city of Miragliano. At first, you would have thought that it would be more sensible to have just a singular 'Tilea Town' or what have you, but that was only a passing thought. Tileans are notoriously competitive and dedicated to their cities or at least home territories of origin. A Tilean is a Tilean, except for when he is a Miraglianoian or a Reman first, and so it goes. Thankfully, unlike the last few places you've unfortunately visited, North Miragliano is a cheerful place, and incredibly welcoming to all potential customers. A little too much if you're being honest. The moment you stepped foot there, you had calls from dozens of barkers trying to gain your patronage to all a manner of things. The smiths are one thing, but the glassblowers are interesting as well. Such is the skill, it is said, of Miragliano's glass blowers, that their expertise can create goblets and cups that will shatter whenever poison is placed within them – a miraculous advance in glass creation that was surely funded by the Merchant Princes specifically because of the intrigues of Tilea. It works every time, or so they say.

    Maybe if you'd had a Miragliano glass tumbler, you would have felt more comfortable accepting a drink in the Little Moot.

    You also cannot help but notice how, despite the overall exuberance of the expatriates, there is a bit of manic desperation to their calls. It tinges their eagerness to sell you small statues of Myrmidia, wax recreations of figures of legend, of blades and knives, of Tilean clothing, and more, tipping it into something ever so slightly sad. They wear their finest clothes, as befitting their various occupations, but the threads are faintly worn here and there. There is a gauntness to their cheeks that you didn't quite expect. You see, and hear, the shifting movements of those in the alleyways, retreating ahead of you as they see the strength of your retinue. If you had been completely alone, they might have tried something, but as it is, the toughs and footpads apparently driven to desperation choose discretion instead.

    Also, the busts of Myrmidia near the entrances of North Miragliano have been repeatedly defaced and repeatedly repaired. There are a few plates of stone and metal in certain places where you can see the hacked off feet of what must have once been proud eagle statues. Graffiti denouncing Myrmidia is crudely scrawled on the outer buildings, and there are patches on other walls further in that show clear scrubbing to the point that it is obvious what was once there. Even in Norscan Town and the Little Moot there were a number of travelers and folk from elsewhere in the city and the Old World. Tourists, adventurers, bawds, merchants, and so on. North Miragliano, by foreboding contrast, is little traveled by any but the Tileans themselves. Oh, to be sure, you see a few, a handful here and there, but many of those who are not obviously Tilean are priests and acolytes of Myrmidia herself.

    Even now, the echoes of what the Knights of Margritta did obviously still affects the reputation of Tileans in the Empire. It will likely fade in time, hopefully at least, but the upset of the Cult of Myrmidia uprooting so much wealth and manpower from within the Empire is unmistakable.

    "It will be worse by Remas Way," a wizened Tilean man admits to you as you drink some remarkably sweet Tilean wine at his roadside stall.

    "Oh?"

    "Very much so," he nods. "Remas is the heart of the Cult, no matter what those Margritta idiots say," he growls stubbornly, his Tilean accent stretching and bouncing his words oddly. "And those Remans hold tightly to Her now, even more than before. This has, you might imagine, not engendered too much kindness towards them," he grunts before taking your empty cup and refilling it. "Course, I beseech Myrmidia just as much as them. It was in Miragliano that She was to be crowned, you know, before The Treachery," he spits to the side after saying it.

    "Ah, so you were born there, then?" Natasha asks, swirling her glass of wine around.

    "Born and raised!" The old man says, thumping his hand meatily against his chest. "I came up to Marienburg…eh…twenty years ago, following the winds of fortune, ended up marrying, never left," he shrugs.

    "I don't actually know that much about Miragliano, to be honest," you admit. "My daughter married one, though."

    "Oh?"

    "He died shortly afterwards," you say, sipping from your wine. "Assassins."

    "Ach," he sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head. "I love my home, but the treacheries of Tilea are not something I'll miss. Here, in the Empire, most of the time things are more open and honest." He pauses for a moment, then, and more carefully scrutinizes you and Natasha.

    The gromril gauntlet and necklace you bear, along with the many scars. Natasha's eyepatch and arm length black gloves, the faint coating of frost on the glass she holds, having to crunch the wine after it passes her lips and freezes slightly.

    "…skaven, or men?"

    You pause, the glass of wine not yet to your lips, and scrutinize the man.

    "…skaven."

    "Ach," he shakes his head again and fills your glass and Natasha's to the brim without requiring more coin. "Damn shame. Bloody ratmen."

    "You speak of them openly?" You can't help but ask, surprised. "Few in the Empire are willing to do so."

    "Hah! Tilea knows the skaven well," he snorts. "Miragliano has fought them since before Myrmidia descended, and we still do to this day. Furry bastards skulk and creep about below. I get it, though," he sniffs and sits down on his stool. "The Empire, it has so many more enemies, yes? Greenskins, beastmen, Chaos…another foe, festering and chittering underground beneath your greatest cities? Yes, much panic, there," he sighs.

    You go still, as does Natasha.

    "Are they…,"

    "Of course they are here," he snorts, "Sewer jacks and rat catchers are well paid in this district, and in the Reman Way. Dwarfs take pleasure in hunting them and killing them below, after all. Not everyone knows, of course, but those who need to know, who can do things about it, they know," he nods confidently.

    There are skaven. Just…around. Below the city. Hunted, thankfully, but still. On the one hand, you know that the skaven were attempting to do just that with Wulfenburg, and you only just barely kept them out. On the other, you hate the damn ratmen quite a bit. There are skaven, and there are Norscans, and this city makes you twitch, damn it all.

    "Back to Miragliano," you grit out, trying to not think too much about it.

    "Eh, okay," he shrugs. "What about it?"

    "My daughter married a man there, and she rather understandably doesn't talk about it much. But I'd like to know more about the city."

    "Oh, there is much to tell!" The old man says cheerfully.

    And tell he does. The first thing he brings up are, surprisingly, the defenses. An enormous moat surrounds the entire city, and it has specially designed walls to give as much advantage as possible to the artillery that they have covering them. Specially designed by none other than the genius Leonardo himself, before the man came to the Empire and helped invent the Steam Tank. Layered canal gates with huge iron portcullises ready to slam down help ensure that the many water paths into the city are as well guarded as possible without blocking them off entirely. While the countryside around them is remarkably marshy, the city stands as a fortress, if one that is broken up amongst the hundreds of islands that make up the actual body proper. Barges and boats for the rich and the poor alike make their way through the canals, but there are many sturdy bridges that are built to allow one to walk from one side of the city to the other without touching water if so desired. As for water, local sellers must make journeys to rivers and streams miles to the north of the city before returning to ply the canals and offload their barrels of the precious liquid. Enormous towers dot the islands as well, tiered just so that cannons and catapults and even the occasional Bretonnian trebuchet can be placed upon them. They lean, yes, but the genius engineering of Leonardo and those who came after him ensure that they are never in danger of falling due to said leaning.

    It is science, and learning, which are prized there, he says proudly, and quickly names not just Leonardo da Miragliano quite a few Tileans that you've never heard of. The way he describes it, it almost seems a bit like a city sized version of the frenzied works of the engineers in Wulfenburg. They are endlessly trying to revise better building designs, make their towers lean further, and so on. New variations on black powder, and so on. There are even some who have tried creating 'flying suits' like old Leonardo once speculated on, after hearing stories of some drunken Imperials figuring it out in the east. This has, he tells you, resulted in not a few injuries and deaths from those flinging themselves off of towers in Miragliano. Others work for ever better mixtures of black powder, or new instruments and musical implements. While some things, like lenses for the eyes and magnifier glasses, were created by the dwarfs long ago thanks to their utter dedication to the finest of detailing when it comes to their creations, that has not stopped humanity from being fascinated with such things. Why, it was Miragliano which invented the aquatic thermo-counter, and many other such mysteries of glassworks. The people of Miragliano, the old man tells you, are the most vigorous of all Tileans – though you could likely hear such things from other Tileans from different cities. Vigorous enough to be explorers and traders without parallel – again, surely an unbiased statement. It was why, then, you could find traders of Miragliano in Erengrad and Margritta and Araby and beyond. Explorers, inventors, and warriors without compare, such is Miragliano.

    By the end, you're rather sure that he's mostly just having you on, the man likely intelligent enough to be self-aware of the context of what he's saying and just where he currently sits.

    It was something interesting to learn, at least.

    (Something of Miragliano: 50/100)

    Before you leave, however, you do find a small but well carved statuette, specifically of a Miragliano gondolier, complete with boat and uniform. It is not much, but perhaps Tasha might like it. She has asked, on occasion, of Tilea, seeing as it is half of her blood, but she never presses very much after seeing how much pain it seems to bring her mother. It is not the fabled Notebooks of Leonardo, or anything, though false copies are certainly offered to you, but it is something. The original notebooks, as far as you know, are a meandering set of journals that only vaguely and occasionally reference anything actually that a more pragmatic individual would consider 'valuable', but it is something of her father's home.

    Just as you'd heard, though, Reman Way is not in the best possible state. They are working to keep their hopes up, but this far in the north Myrmidia was much more prevalent than she was in the south of the Empire. Thus, when the Knights of Margritta acted at their supposed 'chosen time' of fabled wonderment, their actions caused far greater issues here than at home. The Remans, then, holding extremely tightly to her, have suffered discrimination both casual and targeted. They are proud, though, holding their chins high regardless. There is business being done here, but you can tell that it is a bit more anemic than normal, and several of the storefronts have closed down entirely. You also hear quite a few unkind words about the current ruling Prince of Remas, the dragon riding elf known as Asarnil. It isn't entirely unexpected. They feel that the elf's command of the city is pushing out its 'rightful' rulers and people, though there are not swathes of elven colonists showing up to 'reclaim' the place, as far as you know.

    The wine of Tilea is fine enough, you suppose, with a considerable variety. But they don't really have anything different than what you've got at home, only with different prices.

    =============================================================​

    Your reception in Dwarf's Hold is exuberant and pleasant. You are recognized within the first minute, and find yourself whisked away and below to the private drinking area of one of the major taverns within the district. The upper floor is for usual customers, but you quickly realize that you and Natasha are the only humans in the basement portion whatsoever. Again, the Pulverizers had to remain upstairs, but thankfully they are being compensated with free drinks and some hearty foodstuffs. Dwarfs aplenty there outright demand tales of Karak Ungor, and of elsewhere, and so on, discussing grudges struck out and so on. Some of them speak slyly, or what they think of as slyly, of you perhaps introducing them and their own small merchant families to the various Kings and Queens you are connected to now but considering that you wouldn't even know where to begin to try and negotiate that sort of thing, those attempts thankfully end quite swiftly.

    Second only to Karak Ungor, of course, and the various deeds therein, is your managing to get Bugman brewing again.

    "In the short-term, it hurts profits, certainly," one dwarf says as he flicks the froth of the beer from his beard, "But in the long run…there's more of the brew to be had! Each barrel drunk empty made the next keg go up in price. I'll take a thousand more years of Bugmans being made rather than a few centuries of kegs worth king's ransoms!"

    "Hear hear!" Is the cry of the crowd.

    (Trade Opportunities: 10/100)

    There is not, unfortunately, any real specific trade that you could think of managing, despite musing on it the entire way up until this point. At the end of the day, Dwarf's Hold, and in fact most other dwarf enclaves throughout the Empire, worked out deals with Bugman personally by messenger long, long ago. You can't negotiate on Bugmans' behalf, and you wouldn't even want to. Most of the dwarfs here are generally just those making their living in the city, with only a few being actual journeying merchants, more akin to Gurni and his own independent ventures. Your old friend's last message put him in Karaz-a-Karak, and you worry that he might well take up axe and shield in its defense given the grimness of his last messages. The few sailing dwarfs here are natives of Barak Varr, naturally, and are largely just here waiting for the next ironclad to come steaming in for them to depart once more for home. Those that are of a more mercenary nature are already contracted and are mostly just a gaggle of distinct individuals at best, rather than any single mercenary unit.

    "Still, with Karak Ungor and many of the other holds…," your current conversation partner leans in, "I do apologize, Count Hohenzollern, but Dwarf's Hold is emptying out, I'm sure you would have received a better reception beforehand."

    "What do you mean?" You ask curiously. "This place looks full of dawi, to me."

    "It's a tavern, with flowing ale," he says dryly, "Of course it's full. But the other places..," he waves his hand about. "Many of the Imperial Dwarfs ended up that way because their families had to go somewhere after their holds fell, and staying within the Karaz Ankor was too shameful. But with so many reclaimed, and so quickly…many are heading back to the mountains in permanence," he runs a hand through his large brown beard. "Or at least sending a few sons and daughters, the elders too. It's quite a situation!"

    "I won't be apologizing for helping reclaim what was the Karaz Ankor's, you know," you gesture towards the bar with your mug before draining it.

    "Oh, no, no, of course not," he protests quickly. "I'm just…mentioning of how odd it is. Change comes swift, these past few decades, I'll say that much. Your Emperor, the new High King…," the dwarf looks plainly bewildered as he shakes his head, his eyes wide. "It's all just…so fast."

    "Thirty and some years is enough time for a man to start a family, get his children grown, and marry them off," you point out. "A generation, for many people in the Empire, even if it isn't like that at all for the dawi."

    "I suppose you're right, Count Hohenzollern. My family used to come from the north, you know, just south of Karak Vlag," he says thoughtfully. "Vlag is gone, but there are some halls and smaller places that might be left…"

    You aren't entirely sure how to feel about the dwarfs of the Empire uprooting themselves and resettling amongst the mountains. On the one hand, it will deplete the Empire of some of its finest crafters and workers, as well as warriors. On the other, there is a genuine sense of hope that is guiding said potential depletion, and it isn't one that you could wholly justify trying to stopper. In the end, there is little you can do about it within a single day, and try your best to put it out of your mind and just enjoy the various brews for a bit before going on to the next bit.

    "Ugh, those three," a different dwarf say, this one a merchant by trade. "It's like a nest of grobi, sometimes, us included, all squabbling for market share and competitive pricing. But you do speak truth. Weiss, Rutger, and Geisen are bothersome indeed. 'The Premier Merchants of the North,' they call themselves."

    "Well, maybe not forever," you say calmy, sipping at your mug as he turns to look at you.

    "Is that so?" He says, just as casually.

    "Might be some gaps coming up in market share for the transportation industry in the north of the Empire soon," you reply, shrugging without looking directly at him. "You know how it is. Beastmen. Greenskins. Bandits. Sometimes, there's even a wild animal that might feel like it's territory is being infringed upon."

    "I've heard of that," he nods. "A manticore, some big mountain cats, things like that."

    "Maybe even a prize bull, escaped from his pen in the fields."

    He pauses in his drinking and slowly puts his foaming mug down.

    "Something to look into, then," he says before drinking.

    Something indeed.

    Overall, you might not have gotten what you initially planned on, but you can't deny that you wouldn't be entirely upset if some dwarf-owned and run groups managed to get a bit of House Rutger's market share in the north. Sure, the prices might go up, but the quality would remain a high priority at all times.

    ==================================================================​

    As you quickly learn, the Palace District is the heart of Marienburg's governance, and here money for years has been poured in just as much as any other pride of place in the city. The buildings for various sections of the government are no mere offices, but palaces in their own right that could befit many nobles of Marienburg without question. But instead of noble families, they are clerks, they are officials dealing with not just trade, but with deeds, licensing, and so on, negotiating amongst themselves and with the rest of the city endlessly throughout the day. Here are the official embassies of the city, artifacts from its time of independence before being taken by Sigismund the Conqueror, one of the greatest Emperors in the history of the Empire. The High Court, you see as you pass by, is attended by just about everyone, the rule of law practically turned into its own spectacle for lawyers, the claimants and defendants, and the families of those involved.

    On your way through last time, you had thought that the place was more befitting a noble's district, and now you know why. Because they spent enough money to make it look that way. The Old Money Ward, replicated and supposedly improved upon to show the sheer importance and power of the leaders of the city. The former home of the Elector of Westerland is within this place, but is now known as the palace under the ownership of one Miss Luise Kaufmann. You, rather understandably, are not inclined to try and directly visit the Staadtholder herself at the moment.

    And, as befitting such an opulent place, those who exhaust themselves in governance must find ways to relax. The transformation from the relative poverty of Porters Wall and its small districts, as well as the swift commerce of the South Dock, Dwarf's Hold, and the Little Moot, is stark. Especially compared to the quiet bustle of the Palace District. Every few street corners, you catch a few performers here and there, reciting poetry or putting on a small performance. A few discreet inquiries turns out to inform you that if you really wanted to see a true play, at one of the major theaters, you'd want to head over to the Goudberg. Or, as it is known by the common folk, 'the Gold Mound'. Rather crude, but certainly evocative.

    Just your own ignorance of the city, in the end. You had been moving so quickly you hadn't quite known what you were seeing, at least in this district.

    What small monologues and poetry you hear is nice enough, you suppose, but you do not have the same ear for the arts that you do for metal, for instance. Natasha enjoys herself well enough, however, and that means that it was time certainly well spent.

    =======================================================================​

    "Halt and state your business, human," the silver helmed watch-elf says calmly as you begin your approach, having made it through Guilderfield.

    Guilderfield is new, compared to the southern portions of the city, and they were proud of it. You'd barely had to ask before they'd regaled you with the tale of the coming of the elves, and the lands that they were granted in perpetuity. The businesses there tended to be aimed towards the wealthier folk, with mercantile concern offices, well to do artists, gem cutters, and goldsmiths. Only then did you realize that the markets of the southern half of the city were certainly well populated, they were not, in fact, the true upper crust of what could be offered in the city. The goldsmiths and jewelry you see on offer alone outshines the best efforts of many of those in the Craft's Market. Unlike Porter's Wall and South Dock, as well, the streets and canals are completely clean. A hard task, one without breaks, but one performed nonetheless, by those employed by the residents of the district. Or ward, as it was described to you by a local bawd.

    "Er…was just visiting?" You say after a moment.

    Five elves guard the way into Elf Town, or 'Elfsgemeente' to use the so-called official term. Each of them is dressed as you might expect a watchman to be, with spears and breastplates with helms, but their leader's helm is a bit more ornate than the others.

    "We are not taking solicitations, 'business propositions', or otherwise," he says, eyes narrowing as he sees the blatant dwarf runes on Bokdrungni before widening again in puzzlement as he spies the clear elf-work on your neck. "We've had enough of that. I will tell you this: the Treaty of Amity and Commerce is now, as it has ever been, sacrosanct to Ulthuan. We have no intentions of changing its terms, or breaching its limits. We never have. We never will."

    He speaks with a bored but firm drone, the voice of someone who has been forced to say those words time and again to the point that he's built up some earnest irritation with those who have required him to do so.

    "Well, fancy that, I don't either," you shrug. "I just wanted to drink."

    "There are plenty of merchants who could aid you in that elsewhere," he says, pursing his lips.

    "Ah, but who would know true Sapheran wine, and not just something from Ellyrion like most?"

    At that, he pauses, eyes narrowing again.

    "Saphery does not produce much wine. Their vineyards and what they produce are only for the elite. You could not have possibly tasted of them before."

    "Wrong," you shake your head and grin, "I have had a bottle or five of wine from the vineyards of House Alleria, private stock, not meant or made for commercial selling."

    "House-!" he cuts himself off, his fellow guards whispering to each other. "Oh. No. You're him. You're Frederick von Hohenzollern."

    He doesn't sound particularly pleased to see you.

    "I am, yes. My wife, Natasha," you gesture to your wife who waves politely while smiling herself at the elf's clear discomfort. "You've heard of me?"

    "All but the most distant Asur have," he says stiffly, back straightening as he does so. "Her Serenity regaled the entire Phoenix Court with the tale of Laurelorn and Athel Loren, of her communion with Isha and the Mage-Queen. And none would dare gainsay Squire Eldyra's words, not with the Everqueen and Sir Tyrion as her guarantors. There are already songs and ballads being composed in the traveling minstrel courts of Avelorn."

    "Oh. Uh. Well…," you hadn't really thought about that being a possibility.

    For Sigmar's sake, you really hope that Eldyra didn't tell the apparent entire Phoenix Court everything that happened in detail. There are definitely some bits that probably aren't relevant. You don't even know what said court encompasses, but it isn't hard to extrapolate when there's the bloody Phoenix King of the Asur running around.

    "Good things, I hope," you eventually say into the silence.

    He just blinks excruciatingly slowly at you before stepping aside and gesturing into Elf Town.

    "You may go in. But…please…," he says with quiet desperation, "Try not to cause any trouble. You are stepping onto sovereign soil of Ulthuan, owned by right. This is not Marienburg."

    "I never try to cause any trouble," you tell him mostly honestly as you pass by. "I'm just here to drink!"

    Just as the guard said, this is not Marienburg. Oh, sure, it is a geographically right next to the city, but the enclave itself is populated solely by elves. A lot of elves. The most elves you've ever seen in one place, at least of the Asur variety, save for the compound in Ostland. And even then, they outnumber those guards and aids to Aurelion. The main avenues are broader canals, and there are dim lamps of silver flame that seem to require no fuel whatsoever to remain lit. The canals themselves are spotless, even more so than the others that you've passed that had work put into them, the waters clear and pure. You spy more than a few watchmen in the canals, pushing themselves along swiftly with poles through the water.

    "This place is flush with magic," Natasha informs you as you walk through the well populated boulevards. "I've never seen the like before."

    "Me neither, and I can't even see magic," you tell her as you continue moving. "But…oh. Wow."

    There are shops showing off glittering and likely incredibly expensive elven trinkets and craftwork are immediately past the gate, and there are also a surprising number of bistros, but none of them caught your eye like this.

    "It's amazing," Natasha says breathlessly.

    A massive circular canal sits before you that surrounds a large and simply beautiful park filled with trees and flowers, nature somehow perfectly captured in all its magnificence upon an island. Numerous bridges lead into the park, and there you find quite a few humans, the first you've seen since entering. They are all practically glued to each other's sides as they wander, sit, or simply stare into one another's eyes. There are even some elves wandering around doing the same, though they are actually outnumbered by the humans. It looks like the perfect romantic spot, and you even see some trees you've never seen before in bloom, flowers of pink petals scattering along the wind as it breezes past, intermingling with the golden flowers on the ground in the sea of vibrant green.

    "Hey, hey! I was just looking! You don't have to be so rough!"

    The spell is broken by the yelling of an elegantly dressed man with a rapier on his hip being bodily dragged down one of the bridges that lead onto the other islands within Elf Town, a black eye already worsening on his face. The elf dragging him along is not a guard, she is in fact dressed in black robes lined with gold of such fine make that she has to be a noblewoman of her kind. For all that, however, she is managing to manhandle the interloper quite easily and by herself, despite the two furtive looking soldiers behind her that are equipped to what you suppose might be Greatsword equivalent standards. He is cast to the ground past the bridge by the noblewoman elf to land in a heap only a few feet away from where you stand.

    "The Grand Circle Canal and its environs are the limits to which any non-residents may venture within Sith Rionnasc'namishathir," the elf says sternly. "There are signs in every language known to humanity warning of that effect," she says before pointing at the exceptionally large sign posted right in front of the bridge.

    The text is large enough for you to read from here. There is literally no way for him to have missed it. Even then, there are four more elf guards barring the bridge, meaning that he deliberately had to somehow try to slip past them.

    "I'm…illiterate?" He tries with a cough.

    "You were literate enough to try and sail a dinghy to House Goldenhallow's mansion with a forged letter of introduction so that you could attempt to make a business proposition to try and sell your goods in Ellyrion while bypassing Lothern," the elf woman sneers. "I have told you twice now to never try and darken the doorway of my home. This has been your final warning, Herr Derkon. If you attempt this again, I get to take your hand. After that, your head."

    At that, 'Herr Derkon' pops up indignantly.

    "You damn elves are so arrogant! There is so much we could have accomplished together, we could have enriched-," his words are cut off as the elf thumps him over the head with a simple mailed fist, making him crumple to the ground.

    "Humans," she sneers again. "Always so sure that what they have to offer is worth the dirt's time, let alone the Asur."

    Then she looks up, seeing how the general romantic air of the park has been utterly shattered, and rolls her eyes.

    "What are you all looking at! Go back to…whatever you were doing," she waves her hands.

    Honestly, she looks like she could be the same age of Eldyra.

    "Lady Goldenhallow, please. There was no need for you to do that personally," one of the guards murmurs to her, but not quietly enough that you can't hear.

    "A hundred and ninety-two years of this!" Lady Goldenhallow nearly explodes back, her words a harsh hiss. "I nearly drowned in the rivers of blood we carved out of the Druchii under Tethlis, and I thought to myself, ah, well, you've been fighting for two thousand years, maybe you can spend some time winding down. But this," she gestures at the unconscious man, "It almost makes me yearn for those days again. Get him out of here!" She snaps and then begins stalking back across the bridge.

    "Verena damn me but I am shit at figuring out elf ages," you mutter, aggrieved, as you try to reconcile someone looking like Eldyra apparently being a two or three thousand year old veteran who tried to settle down into a more peaceful life.

    "That's elves for you," Natasha says with a shrug.

    As it turns out, that's the most interesting thing to happen for the rest of your time within Elf Town. You can't venture out onto the docks, only the Asur are allowed to go there. You can't try and hit up their barracks, as only the elves are allowed there. You cannot cross any of the bridges to any of the other islands to where the mansions of the Eight Houses are represented. You can literally only partake of the canals, the park, the general beauty of the place, as well as the shops and bistros. It is the latter that you find yourself in, partaking of a light late afternoon snack or two. The elves here gossip, sure, everyone does, but you quickly realize that you don't understand a single word that they are saying. You had, in fact, given it up for an interesting but mostly meaningless excursion before someone raps a knuckle against your table you and Natasha sit at – the Pulverizers and Greatswords outside due to the rules of the establishment.

    (Information Seeking: 91/100)

    "Frederick and Natasha von Hohenzollern?"

    The speaker is an elven woman, one impeccably dressed to the same extent as the apparent Lady Goldenhallow herself, bedecked in jewelry. It looks like the stars themselves have been strung along pure silver wire around her neck and chest, while golden bracelets encrusted with emeralds sit on her wrists. Her hair, a rich shiny black, falls voluminously down past her lower back while a thin ornate headdress sits atop her head. It is not quite a crown, not quite a tiara, but it is unmistakably expensive without being offensively gaudy.

    "Yes? And you are?" You reply.

    "Ah, excellent, just checking," she says with a smile. "My name is Nathalia. I'm a…friend of Sadrina's?"

    A friend of Sadrina. The Handmaiden of the Everqueen currently roaming the north of the Empire as one of the Everqueen's eyes and ears away from Ulthuan.

    "Of course," you say after a moment and a shared look with Natasha. "Can we help you?"

    "Oh, no, this isn't like that," she waves her hands.

    Unlike the rough and tumble Sadrina, who is usually dressed as someone who has just gotten in from the road or is about to leave again, this one is dressed in soft clothes and shoes meant for comfort as much as for vanity. Far closer to what one might consider the 'stereotypical' upper class elf.

    "Then…"

    "Just a simple check in. You are no doubt aware of the…ripples, your connection with House Alleria has caused," she says after sitting down, folding her hands in her lap.

    "Oh, yes. Viscerally," you say with a sigh.

    "Of course, of course. Your presence was spread throughout the city before you ever reached the Cathedral – a good display of piety to your God of the oceans, by the way," she says calmly.

    "Uh…thanks?"

    "Piety displayed through sacrifice is a powerful thing," she pats your hand lightly before folding her hands in her lap once more, "Let no one tell you otherwise. But I'm not here to discuss that. What, precisely, are your intentions here in Elf Town?"

    You cannot help but pause for a moment at the sheer openness of the question.

    "Ah, I'm sorry," she says into that following silence, "Sadrina and Squire Eldyra mentioned your preference for…directness, in their tales?"

    "No, I do, I'm just…," you trail off for a moment before refocusing. "I'm just not normally used to it from elves."

    "Ah," she says with a light of realization in her eyes before tittering behind her hand again. "I understand. Would you prefer I use double-speak, and take an hour to come around to the actual question?"

    "Absolutely not," you say quickly, getting an amused snort from Natasha as she nibbles on cheese and fruit.

    "Very well then," Nathalia smiles broadly. "So, my question?"

    "Just visiting, I swear," you say before thinking for a moment. "Possibly looking for information…?"

    "Oh?" She leans back in her chair.

    "We gave information on the presence of the Black Arks in Albion some time ago," you say, reaching over to place your hand atop Natasha's, "And we never really…heard much else about it other than the Asur checking and not finding them."

    "Ah," Nathalia nod before biting her bottom lip. "Yes. The fleets are still being cautious, but they obviously cannot leave the coasts of Ulthuan undefended for long stretches of time, especially not long enough to consistently patrol and hunt the whole of the Sea of Claws and beyond. I am sorry to say that we have yet to find either of the Arks, let alone identify them."

    You can, in fact, easily understand that. Gods know that the Druchii would love to hit their coastline if their fleet was bumbling around Albion.

    "Identify them?" Natasha asks, having finished her cheese.

    "Oh yes. We know almost every single Black Ark in existence," Nathalia answers mildly, "The first generation are those that were split off from Nagarythe in the Sundering."

    A gasp goes up from another table, and all three of you turn around to see a scandalized looking Asur of who-the-hell-knows age looking utterly embarrassed now that you are looking straight at them.

    "Can I help you?" Nathalia says.

    "To speak of it so openly? With humans?" The man sputters.

    "This," Nathalia points at you without looking away from him, "Is Frederick von Hohenzollern. From the Harathasevirianathel Ballads, the ones based out of the tales of Eldyra of Tiranoc and Her Serenity herself?"

    Your head nearly swivels off of your neck at the words coming out of Nathalia's mouth. The other elf pales considerably, as do quite a few other elves in the bistro who hadn't openly shown that they were listening.

    Right.

    Because of course the elves would be able to listen in from further away than human listeners might.

    Damn it.

    "As for the rest of you…," Nathalia says with a gusty sigh before waving her hand.

    A shimmering wall slides into place around your table before fading from view. What also fades is the sounds of just about everything else, turned into a mishmash slurry that is completely incomprehensible.

    "I apologize, I should have done that the beginning," Nathalia apologizes while ducking your head.

    "It's fine," you shrug. "Are any of them going to try and turn around and use that information to drag me to a trial on Ulthuan for having broken some rule or another that I could not possibly have been aware of at the time?"

    Finally, something breaks the easy-going serenity of what you are entirely sure is a Handmaiden of the Everqueen.

    "No that…is not going to happen."

    "I know for a fact that I haven't committed any blasphemies against the Elven Gods-,"

    "Well," Natasha starts with a waggling hand in the air.

    "Orion was corrupted by Anath Raema, that doesn't…fine, are any worshippers of Kurnous on Ulthuan planning on, I don't know, hunting me down and skinning me?" You say tiredly.

    Nathalia blinks rapidly.

    "Not…as far as I am aware. In point of fact, a close look was made of the shrines and worshippers of the Savage Huntress after the events in Athel Loren, especially within Ellyrion and Chrace," she says slowly. "But those who would think of such things…likely would do everything they could to not advertise it."

    "…yeah," you sigh. "That tracks. Anyway," you struggle to turn the ship of conversation in a new direction. "The Druchii? Albion?"

    "As far as I last heard, the scryers of Saphery have been trying to track their possible movements…but they are doing that for all of the Black Arks, spread throughout the world. I am…sorry to tell you this," she does look genuinely saddened, "But only two is…not going to garner the total focus and attentions of all of Ulthuan. There are some raiding Ind. There are some we suspect to be taking advantage of the massive war between Cathay and Nippon, some have been sighted near Khuresh, and many others have been staying close to Naggaroth for disturbingly long periods of time, not even darkening the shores of Lustria."

    It stings. Of course it does. But it also makes an unfortunate sense.

    "Is that out of character for them?" Natasha asks as you brood.

    "Oh yes," Nathalia nods rapidly. "You do not know it, but Black Arks are…ravenous things," her expression twists into an ugly anger. "They are either raiding or selling what they have raided off into the slave markets…or on their way to do one or the other. We have no idea why the Witch King would willingly strangle his coffers by keeping so many close to home."

    "And you have no idea what he's doing with them?" You ask, trying to keep your nightmarish speculations to a minimum.

    "None," Nathalia shakes her head. "It can be nothing good for the free peoples of the world, that is for certain. It could be a loyalty purge, it could be a revision of the crews, it could be anything. For all we know, the two Arks you sighted at Albion could have been summoned back to Naggaroth for whatever purpose."

    "Well…shit."

    "There was one particularly brash captain, Aislinn, I think his name is, who wanted to continue the search, but while the fleet was away a few Druchii ships slipped onto the northwestern coast, helping resupply some of our erstwhile cousins in Nagarythe – which, in turn, is what led to the Everqueen…ah," Nathalia waves the topic away, "That is neither here nor there. Your question was after Albion and the Druchii, and it has been answered, though I apologize that it was not more heartening news."

    "It's more than we had before. Thank you, Nathalia," Natasha tells her.

    "It was no trouble, though I regret that I must leave your hearts heavier than I found them," Nathalia ducks her head again. "Though if I may make a request?" She says, looking between the two of you.,

    "Yes?"

    "If your time in Elf Town is done, leave swiftly?"

    This time, you are faster getting over your shock of an elf being so straightforward.

    "Is this because of the whole Treaty thing?"

    "Yes," Nathalia nods, "The Ten Families have been getting more and more agitated with every elven ship that passes into Salkalten. There is nothing they can do about Tilea, or at least, not nearly as much as they might in the Empire," she says with a shrug. "I believe that, in the long run, it would be better to not agitate them more than necessary until the matter is dealt with in a more complete manner."

    You've had your drinks, and your food, and your information. There really isn't any difficulty with going along with her request.

    "Fine by me. Natasha?"

    Your beloved smiles at you before making to stand.

    "The park might have been nice to visit…but yes, we should get going."

    ===================================================================​

    Arabtown is loud, but in a pleasant way. Their streets are fastidiously clean, men and women with dusky skin going about their day. This being Marienburg, barkers are baying for your attention the moment you walk past the boundary, eager to sell you whatever they can. There are oils and candles that can grant serenity and peace, incense to enlighten and brighten your mind, and more. One man solely sells artisanal hand-carved abacuses, of all things, swearing after their sheer durability. Oddly, to you at least, very few of the people here actually look entirely like Adira. Well, it's hard to tell that much, considering the all-covering robes and unique headdress she bears, but no one here seems to have the exact darker skin that she herself possesses. But, you realize after a moment's thought, that only makes sense. Adira was formerly a nomad of the desert, a life she might never have left if she hadn't been enslaved and taken into the cities. All of the men and women present here are those who would have had the means and reasons to sail the seas or make the far more arduous journey overland to get here, and the sorts that Adira came from likely are not included in that group. Willingly, at least. Some of the men are bare chested save for darkly colored vests with white turbans swaddling their heads, but not all. Some of the women are covered from head to toe in a style similar to Adira, but just as many are not. There are colors, scents, laughter, and movement this way and that, their wealth displayed openly but not overly ostentatiously. It is in the sturdiness and well-maintained states of the buildings, the jewelry on their hands and necks and ankles, the finery of their clothes.

    (Something New: 71/100)

    You also discover, in your quest for new interesting – and nonfatal – things to drink, something absolutely awful.

    "Aggh," you cough and struggle not to spit. "What the hells is this?"

    Natasha laughs as she sips her sweet Arabyan wine.

    "Coffee," the proprietor says, "Just like you ordered."

    "I assumed it would be alcoholic," you cough again, "Since this is a bar."

    "It can be mixed with such things," he chuckles, stroking his enormous black mustache, "But generally, it is to help wake you up, not make you sleepy like the drink can do," he shrugs.

    "Help…agh," you smack your lips, "How, exactly?"

    "Was discovered many, many years ago, when Nehekhara still lived. The ancient kings discovered a plant within the eastern jungles of the Southlands that helped their slaves work longer when chewed," he nods, tapping a finger to his chin. "But when Nehekhara died, the people of Araby continued to cultivate them in small patches here and there. Easier to grow in the jungles…," he chuckles at that, "But there are greenskins and Lizardmen and so on," he waves his hand through the air. "So it is rare yet."

    Despite your disgust at the bitter taste, you do feel the faintest tingling in your blood by this point.

    "But helps by waking people up?"

    "Is energy!" He says proudly, raising his arms up in the same motion. "Not the same as sleep," he waggles a finger, "Some try to pretend it can replace it, but it cannot, not entirely…but can help with late nights or early mornings."

    "…huh," you mutter.

    There are some engineers who might welcome that sort of thing, the ones who work fourth or first shift. But before you can speak more on that, you hear a burbling click and ding, making you and Natasha look up alongside the proprietor towards an odd-looking device which sits above the bar. It looks like a clock, but like none you've ever seen. For one thing, water seems to be slowly dribbling through some interlocked tubing, and you don't see or hear any of the usual intricate mechanisms of clockwork.

    "What is that?" You find yourself asking.

    "Mmm? Ah. Is water-clock. Special device from home," he says proudly. "Copher is greatest city of learning in all of Araby."

    "How does it work?" You say, fascinated as you look up at it.

    "Ah…," he looks a little embarrassed as he rubs at the back of his head. "I don't know all the bits. They are called Al-Maqata, named after the first one was called that. The clock runs on water. All you must do is make sure it is not wobbled too much, and the water continually slowly flows," he shrugs, "I do not wobble it too much, and it continues to function."

    "I must admit, I've never seen something like that before, not amongst the dwarfs or the elves."

    "Well of course!" He chuckles. "Dwarfs, they live in mountains and can tell time as the sun spans the mountains or with sand, and elves are too smart to need something like a water clock," shrugs. "Water is luxury in the desert, yes, but so is knowing the time to keep your mind going, yes?"

    He has a bit of a point, you suppose.

    "Is not for sale, though," he warns. "You want one, you gotta go to Copher, because this one stays with me."

    "Of course, of course," you chuckle, raising your hands in surrender.

    ===============================================================​

    "With Baron Henryk's, I'd almost thought to find wizardly things somewhere in this place," you can't help but remark as you pick your way more slowly through the Dealers Market.

    "With Evangeline and the Magic Colleges in the city, anything not officially sanctioned by the Colleges likely disappeared off the tables immediately," Natasha says as she examines the general wares set upon a table within the ocean of stalls and small single floor buildings.

    It's just general knick-knacks, keepsakes and the like. Neither you nor your wife are particularly interested in people claiming to be selling genuine religious artifacts – there is certainly a reason that they are doing so on the opposite side of the city to the Temple District. Plus, there are more knuckle bones of Sigmar being offered than there are bones in the human body, as well as locks of pressed hair of at least six different hues that are proclaimed to have come from Verena or Myrmidia or Rhya's head, and that's just the more polite things on offer. You're rather sure that a Witch Hunter from Ostland might outright die of apoplexy if they were offered a jarred and pickled member that supposedly came from the Grand Theogonist that slew Vlad von Carstein.

    (Interesting Oddities: 44/100)

    "And likely the more generally interesting things as well," you grouse, "More than a couple of these stalls are completely empty, and that's despite having a premium place."

    On the one hand, Evangeline's presence in the city means that, overall, chances of treachery being directed at you have gone down. On the other hand, a prominent and powerful Verenan serving directly under the Emperor himself has reduced quite a lot of other things as well. Visibly, at least. You just don't have the connections yet to even try for more risky things, not that you necessarily would. Nothing really sticks out at you in the Dealers Market, for all that it is even more bustling and rich in its offerings compared to the rest of the city.

    ==========================================================​

    You get about ten seconds into Nippon Town before you have to stop people from trying to kill one another right in front of you. You don't quite understand the languages being spoken, on either side, but then again, you don't need to. The swords flashing is more than enough. A single syllable and twitch of your fingers in a common battlefield sign gets a nod from Natasha as she raises a hand, and then you are rushing forward at blistering speed.

    "Woah, woah, woah!" You bark out as you slide in between the two men, blocking the Nipponese blade with Bokdrungni while a shield of ice swiftly formed on your right arm traps the Cathayan sword. "Back off!" You roar before shoving both men back with one arm each.

    The Nipponese man babbles something at you, pointing at you with his now chipped single-edged and slightly curved blade, while the Cathayan man says something else, neither of them actually speaking in Reikspiel. Neither sound particularly complimentary. Your Greatswords, meanwhile, after swearing as you'd run forward, intersperse themselves between you and the two men. Both seem still willing to be belligerent before the Pulverizers stomp up and slam their shields down. Only after that point do both men sheathe their swords and stalk off in other directions, muttering to themselves.

    "What is going on with these people?" You mutter.

    It's just like when you were first arriving in the city, but that was with knives, and it ended in both men dead. This time, at least, it was different.

    (Information: 65/100)

    "Ma, ma, you are fast and brave, Imperial man," a new arrival says as he slips out of an alleyway, tilting his head from side to side. "But you maybe jump too easily into a fight, uh?"

    His hair is a shock of white, his skin weathered and spotted, his eyes distinctly given over to a more almond shape than you're used to seeing. Well, actually, no, that's not true. Sabine still employs that one Cathayan butler of hers, but he rather purposefully remains out of sight most of the time.

    "Then again," the eastern man says, looking at the rest of your retinue. "Maybe easy with guards and magic, heh?"

    "Have you got a name, or a point?" You raise your eyebrows as she speaks.

    "Meng Tan," he bows with his hands clasped together in front of him. "No real point, Imperial man, just observing. You are?"

    "Frederick von Hohenzollern," you nod before gesturing to Natasha. "My wife, Natasha von Hohenzollern."

    At that, Meng Tan's eyes go quite wide.

    "Ooooh, the crazy bull," he nods slowly. "Everybody in the city heard about what you did."

    "So I've come to learn," you sigh. "Look, do you know what was going on with those men? It's not the first time I've seen it happen."

    At that, Meng Tan waggles his head.

    "You been drinking up a storm, they say, wandering around the city. If you pay for some food and drinks, maybe I tell you things, uh?"

    Natasha shrugs when you look at her, while Meng Tan smiles wide with a partially toothless grin.

    "…eh, fine."

    Soon enough you pass your way through strange cloth barriers into a small restaurant called the Stuck White Boar, though you are assured by Meng Tan that it loses something in translation.

    "Uh…," you stare down at the little bowl in front of you. "What is this?"

    "Wheat noodle bowl, careful," he says clacking some weird little sticks at you, "It is spicy!"

    He isn't lying about that, at least, but if he was hoping to get some sort of wild reaction out of you, the noodles would have to be a hell of a lot spicier to hurt you more than getting keelhauled. You do, unfortunately, struggle slightly with the damn sticks.

    "Look, you said you had information, right?" You say after putting the only half-empty bowl down in frustration.

    "Ah, yeah," Meng Tan says. "The war, of course."

    "The war?"

    "Oh yeah," he nods, "Many years back, Nippon invaded Cathay. Big war. Huge. Still going on, last we heard. Doesn't matter the reasons, really. Oh, also, here's a big secret," he leans in and waits until you do the same, "This place is not 'Nippon Town'. It's just where we all ended up going," he says before leaning back.

    "Wait…what?" Natasha asks, having simply upended her bowl and slurped them down without any issue at all.

    The noodles would have had to actually been on physical fire to cause her much issue, really.

    "You Imperials, you can't tell us apart. Cathayan, Nipponese…," he gestures at himself. "You look at me, can you tell?"

    You study him, scrutinize him, and finally shrug.

    "Not really, no. I've never met too many Cathayans or Nipponese."

    "Hah! Trick question," Meng Tan laughs. "I am both. Which means for many, I am neither. Big shame, oh well," he shrugs it off, but there is a worn and bitter edge to his words. "But the war…yes. We have no Cathayan warrior monks here, no Nipponese High Samurai with ghost swords, uh? We are exiles, failures, runaways, the ones kicked off the boats," he flaps his hand about him. "Small district. Very tiny. Not enough Cathayans, not enough Nipponese, not to get a district like the others," he shrugs.

    "I…see," you say as he continues to gesticulate.

    "No, you don't," he says, the joviality transforming into utter seriousness for a moment. "Nipponese, too much shame, could earn honorable death one way or another," he raises one hand with its yellowed nails. "Cathayans, their own methods too. But us? We are the cowards, or the children of cowards," he looks down into his bowl, lips pursing this way and that. "Our paragons are where they should be, in our homelands. But we don't have anything else, uh? Except where we come from. So the war there," he waves in a vaguely eastern direction, "Is a war here. Pride, slivers, eh. Ah! Next course!"

    This time, it looks like small white grains with fish on top.

    "Is that…raw fish?"

    "Is sushi," Meng Tan says with a smile. "Very safe, I promise."

    You rather dubiously dab it in the small sauce provided, only to be surprised at just how flavorful it is on your tongue.

    "Rice and fish. Simple things. Good things, uh?"

    It is, but you can't help but come back to his words. They're angry, fighting, killing each other, despite being practically a world away from their homelands. Possibly without any reason or ability to return. It manages to cast a pall upon the rest of the meal, and occupies your thoughts even as you leave Not-Nippon Town, straight towards the Silks Market before a thought strikes you.

    "Meng Tan!" You call out to the man as he ambles back into the district. "Who owned that restaurant? We only saw you and the server!"

    "Oh! Easy question, Imperial man! It was mine!" He cackles before continuing on.

    "What a weird man."

    At the very least, you now know what sake and Cathayan yellow wine tastes like.

    ==========================================================​

    The Silks Market is aptly named. Literally, upon entering, you see several signs posted around the entrances declaring that the selling of linen, wool, rough spun, leather, and more were all banned within the entire district. The only clothing sold in the Silks Market is made from silk, from slippers to belts to vests to shirts to hats and just about everything else. They seem extremely serious about silk. They also loudly inform you the moment you start asking about origins that the secrets of silk production are a guild secret, and that only by proving oneself as a clothier or weaver for at least a decade under the auspices of the controlling Guild could you begin to be indoctrinated into the secrets of the 'best cloth in the world'. Everything not being silk obviously being the lesser.

    (Oddities And Information: 37/100)

    It is also insanely expensive. All of it. They only sell things that can be made with silk there, and silk is expensive. It's less expensive than in Ostland, but only by a little, if you're being honest. It's a fine thing to wear, sure, but you just aren't so dedicated to the stuff that you'd be willing to splurge on it.

    "I could hire a thousand mercenaries for the cost of that one dress," you mutter as you swiftly exit the district.

    "It was beautiful though," Natasha muses. "But…yes. A bit too pricey for my tastes."

    ==============================================================​

    The Indic District is oddly quiet, at least at first. It lasts until you are past the entrances, and then you start hearing the music, and the chanting as well. You have to halt and stare at the dozens and dozens of statues and shrines that are set up all over the place. In the alleyways, along the entrances into the distract, by the doorways into the places of business and so on. Men and women walk this way and that, speaking to one another not just in one language, but what sounds like multiple dialects all at once. The pungent smell of spices intermingles with the scent of what feels like a vast quantity of incense set in various lit holders. There are pipes and other strange instruments being played just out of sight, within buildings and places of privacy. The people are generally friendly, thankfully, and you receive many offers to come and sit and drink tea, that eldritch fluid known as coffee, and other alcohols.

    (Oddities: 83/100)

    You don't get much interesting information from the Far East, but you do get an absolute bevy of information about certain people's families and their ongoing lives there. You learn the names of many cities that you cannot pronounce easily, much less spell, and things only get worse from there as you inquire as to just what the 'Deva' are that they keep mentioning every few sentences. That leads you down a rabbit hole of immense proportions as they start preaching to you about what sounds like Gods for anything and everything. Which, in turn, gets others to start debating about the superiority of other 'Deva' than others.

    "The Deva of our home here, is, of course, Indrashta," one man says to you as two men who got particularly heated have stripped down to their pants and begun wrestling in a nearby sand pit.

    "You have a God for the Indic District, Rahul?"

    "Of course!" He says cheerfully. "How could we not! We are few, of course, and so he is not as the greatest of the Deva, but it is a tradition of home we may hold to ourselves."

    "Huh. And those two men…?" You gesture at the men now brutally wrestling one another in the sand pit.

    "Mmm, that one was born in the domain of the Iron Dancer, and the other beneath the Golden Lion. Rival kingdoms, rival Deva, yes?"

    You don't quite understand the native intricacies, but you at least understand inter-Cult combat very well. If it were an Ulrican and a Sigmarite wrestling, no one in the Empire would give a second glance.

    "Are there any Deva that…everyone calls on?"

    "Mmm, a few," he nods. "Yemaraja is one," he immediately makes a complex series of gestures, as do several of the nearby folk who can hear him. "Deva of Death. The Last Judge, the Final Arbitrator. Protector and judge of the dead. Another…Kelinda, yes. Life, Sun, and Dusk. Few like that, though."

    "Interesting…," you pause as you witness two children kicking a small bouncy sphere down the street.

    Rahul sees where your eyes have gone and chuckles.

    "Ah, yes. Not many of those here in your lands, huh?"

    "I know what a ball is, Rahul," you roll your eyes. "Just never seen them like that before."

    "It's rubber," he helpfully supplies. "Has to be grown and processed in Ind, though. Not seen any plants here in this land, though," he says thoughtfully before shrugging. "Oh well, eh?"

    You don't immediately respond, just watching as a child kicks the ball and causes it to fly upwards and ricochet off the wall and strike another child directly in the head. Within seconds a swarm of mothers breaks up the gaggle of children, simultaneous stern talking-tos being given in the languages of Ind.

    =========================================================​

    You realize that something is wrong the moment you enter Kislevan Way. It is in how the people shrink back, shrink away. Many of them look upon Natasha and scatter outright. For the first time since you entered the city, she is the one that the people appear to take the most umbrage with. Only a few dare walk the streets within moments after your arrival, and those that do bear arm bands painted in the traditional black and blue colors of House Romanov. Those that fled, you could not help but note, bore arm bands or headbands that were colored in the deep crimson and black of the Bohka. It is a quiet, rapidly abandoned street that you walk down in your search for a good bar, and your retinue immediately picks up on the tension, backs straightening and grips tightening as they circle around you and Natasha tighter than usual.

    Eventually, you run into a bar that is still open, a defiant blue and black shield placed above the doorframe, though you can't help but notice it is scuffed and scratched, as if someone has tried to take it.

    Or someone has had to use it in its original purpose, and recently.

    "Princess Romanov," the barman bows and says the moment you and Natasha enter in Kislevite, either not knowing or not caring that you are completely fluent in your wife's mother tongue. "Welcome to my establishment, but…I do not know if it is safe for you to be here."

    Natasha shifts as you look at her.

    In an instant, she has draped herself with the familiar cloak of aloof coldness as befitting an Ice Witch or Priestess of the Widow, her chin raised and the faintest rime of frost gathering on her cloak as if she'd just come in from a blizzard rather than carrying it in with her.

    "I do not fear the Bohka or their supporters," she says in a chilly voice. "It is they who should fear me."

    The one cup of coffee you drank has nothing to do with your current blood flow.

    "…as you say, Princess. And your Consort?"

    "Hey," you interject, your Kislevite completely accent-less after so many years of speaking it with Natasha. "Husband."

    He jumps a little when you speak to him in his own language, but simply ducks his head again. You end up not needing to pay for any of your drinks as Natasha takes the lead in the interrogation as to just what exactly has been happening here.

    "Agents of the Bohka came through years ago, speaking lies and twisting things around," the barman grunts. "Looking for aid, connections, eh," he waves his hand towards the world. "They say that you can find anything in Erengrad and Marienburg, but they couldn't go to the former, eh? They knew better."

    "So they came here," Natasha says, slowly running her iron nail along the top of the completely frozen wine in her glass. "What did they find?"

    He shrugs and shakes his head.

    "I do not know. They come, they go…they stopped, though, when the arrests started."

    "The arrests?" Natasha repeats archly.

    The barman gulps.

    "Ah…Princess…"

    "I understand that my sister might wish to keep me safe through distance. But she is not here. I am," Natasha punctuates her words by stabbing her iron nails through the cold wine and lifting it upright.

    Like that, the dark red almost looks like a shriveled frozen heart impaled on her finger.

    He crumbles after that. Rumors were coming out of Kislev for some time, apparently the cold glares were growing more heated after years of stasis. The complete lack of raids from the Kurgan, the Norscans, the Tong, from any of the tribes of Chaos, has allowed much irritation to fester. Even the most recent incursion from the Dolgan was dealt with swiftly, and the allowed immigration onto the best lands in the nation – owned directly by Kattarin, obviously, only engendered greater anger. The Ungols are actually divided, for once, whereas normally they are satisfied with a general blanket sort of tribalistic shrug towards the issues of the Gospodars. But apparently a few too many priestesses were disappearing along the Erengrad-Praag road, some not coming back from the Oblasts. Others were associating openly with the Bohka. But that was not the most shocking news.

    "I don't believe it," Natasha said, her eye outright flashing. "I refuse to."

    "I only know the rumors," the man yelps, shrinking back from her.

    "No, I don't believe it either," you shake your head. "Kattarin falling in with a new man? It's just not…no. I don't believe it."

    "I've never heard of this Nicholas Zhevskenko," Natasha goes on, still frowning. "Not in the courts of Kislev."

    "He is from Praag, it is said! But, even then, their romance did not last," the barman is speaking rapidly now, seemingly afraid of stopping. "It lasted less than a year, but afterwards the arrests began. The borders began closing, merchants stopped flowing, I – I haven't had a new shipment of kvas or koumiss in months!"

    "Who, precisely, is she arresting?" You ask slowly.

    "It varies. Nobles. Commoners. Merchants. Ungol, Gospodar, Roppsmen, even Dolgan," he shudders as you and Natasha loom over him.

    Huh. You hadn't even noticed you were both standing before now.

    "And this Nicholas?"

    "No one has seen him either. But, I-I swear to you, Princess, I am loyal to the Romanov, please!"

    Only then does the room start to lighten, the darkness that had fallen over it in the last few moments dissipating, matched to Natasha slowly breathing and forcing the tension to leave her body.

    "These are just rumors. Hearsay. Lies of the Bohka," she says curtly.

    "Yes! Yes of course!"

    Then you are being dragged out of the bar by your wife, her hand on your collar. You're halfway out of Kislevan Way before she stops.

    "You don't believe she'd do that, right?" She says, turning to look at you, a pained look in her eye.

    "Natasha…," you reach up and tuck some of her hair back behind her ear. "Your sister is…capable of many things. This, in particular? I think it would have to depend on the reason."

    "She changed so much with Rasputin, and then even more when he died," she shakes her head. "I can't imagine…no, I can, I just don't want to. My sister with an enflamed heart is even more dangerous when it hasn't turned to stone."

    "It's likely the Bohka just spreading rumors, you know," you try to reassure her, hugging her close. "Making it seem like she isn't still holding his memory close to her heart, that she can't hold that memory and that dedication. Or…something like that."

    "…yes, yes that's probably it," she sighs against you. "Frederick?"

    "Yes?"

    "I think I'd like the day to be over with."

    That seems more than fair, you think.

    "Of course," you kiss the top of her head before resting your chin there, letting her burrow into your embrace a bit further. "Don't worry. I sent word ahead through our agents. They've reserved a series of rooms for us."

    It is wearily that you make your way back to the Cathedral of Manann to recollect everyone. Also waiting for you are some of your Greatswords who declare that they were able to find a small fleet of transport vessels heralded by House Rutger offering to transport you north. You declined that one rather immediately. By that point night has fallen, and you really should be heading to some bed, somewhere. You can try and see if there are any ships willing to make the journey tomorrow, maybe then things will be different.

    Rewards: Information On Many Things...

    You Made Sure To Prepare Ahead Of Time In Case You Needed To Stay Longer In the City, So Now Retroactively Choose Your Place Of Lodgings:
    Moratorium 12 Hours

    [] The Prince's Rest: Located in the Gold Mound and the most elite inn in the entire city that could have bulk rooms booked ahead of time, the Prince's Rest is famous for its high grade accomodations, including a specialized coachyard and stable for those fellows who might be eccentric enough to have non-standard mounts up to and including gryphons, pegasi, and in one notable instance a camel of Araby. (Cost: 100 Gold Crowns A Night For Entire Retinue)
    [] The Splintered Hull: Located in the South Dock, this inn is notable largely for its sheer size and ability to host the entire crew of the larger ships that come into dock. The accommodations are acceptable for short stays waiting for the ship maintenance and reloading to be done, and for enough money - this being Marienburg - the stables could be completely cleared out and become the temporary but sole domain of a single gryphon. (Cost: 50 Gold Crowns A Night For Entire Retinue)
    [] Mama Ganna's Bucket: This one was not particularly recommended. In fact, it was warned against. Located in the Dead Canal, essentially a dead district of the city populated solely by the desperate as all of the trade and merchants and 'good life' left for other parts of the city. It is a place of murderous toughs, and those still trying to claw out of such dire circumstances through their shops and meager inns. The grimy and desperate are concentrated in this place like nowhere else. And yet, Mama Ganna, a Westerland woman born in the swamps, claims that so long as your people sleep in shifts, there would be no danger if you gave some patronage to the downtrodden and stayed in her inn for a time. (Cost: 25 Gold Crowns A Night For Entire Retinue)

    AND

    [] Plan To Do Something Tomorrow: (Write-In) [EX: Revisit a district with a specific purpose, journey to a different district, try to once again speak with Evangeline or even perhaps just the Matriarch/Patriarch in the city of the Magic Colleges, speak with Maghda again)

    OR

    [] Gather Your Retinue, And Set Out For Home. You've had quite enough of this city for now, you think. (Begin Journey Home)
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Pity on some of those rolls, we got some nice information but little in the way of anything else. Still, that was a nice chunk of words to chew through.

    Seems like Alexandra is pretty busy these days.
     
    torroar said:
    "We take falsifying of records and product quite seriously, don't we Nobs?" One of the watchmen says to a shorter compatriot.

    You can't…you can't quite tell if they're a dwarf, a short man, or even a particularly grimy halfling.

    "We do, sarge, we do. Lotsa paperwork for someone who lies on their paperwork. Fines, too!" The short…person…says.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs? Looks like every world has them.
     
    MrHobbit said:
    They're Norscans.

    They can't tolerate halflings dwarfs and elves but they're fine with Lizardmen. You know, the single most anti-chaos faction on the planet?

    Norscans are insane yo'.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    I understood him to be saying that halflings, dwarves, and elves count as people for purposes of what he'll accept as meat, but that he didn't consider lizardfolk to be people for such purposes.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Back
    Top