- Pronouns
- He/Him
I would recommend bringing it up to Torroar in a PM. I understand your feelings but I do not want to bring that up again.
-
Going forward, links to content from Twitter (now X) will no longer be embedded. Pre-existing links should not be affected.
Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
- Thread starter torroar
- Start date
- Mature
-
- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy intrigue happens male protagonist ck2 quest belief stronk count of cannons drunken wisdom foes in the shadows graf of guns (guns) if you have a question check the front page first it begins... mountain vietnam ogres paranoia rising unseen enemies everywhere use the search function before asking waifu wars wake the bull
- Location
- Somewhere
There was an explanation on how the HotSh were able to avoid the Foamborne. A massive organization when distracted will not be able to one hundred percent save the day. Even when they are focused, will not be able to always prevent a national issue. They can get 99% of all cases, but eventually your prey will get wise, create some countermeasure, or you get a little lax just once, and you get the problem on a larger scale.
As for what we gained. We gained a absolute certainty option, when there was some distrust that the Cult of Manaan could handle the problem (Note: These are my own thoughts based from my experience of the scenario, they are not meant as a reflection on others comments, or meant to be a judgment bell. An explantaion on why a majority would choose the witchunters as the winning option, is what this is meant as.).
The players gained speed and security. With the action dealt with, they did not need to spend any future intrigue actions, or whatever the related action would be under, on the problem. Resulting in less, I'm assuming, intrigue action priority issues in the future turns (by not taking a intrigue action we leave it's action chain to fester in the background, this can be good, this can be bad). Also, Holders of the Shore in Ostland were no longer a problem.
The Empire gained a new conflict ball they can resolve politically, with more depth and thought now that it is a Cult problem related to an Elector Count. Maybe something can be done to lock down the authority of the Counts, or create a more firm separation between Cult and Elector Count. Even the players could possibly get involved in this opportunity somehow at an electors meet. Prep for an electors meet instead of react when someone does something in the background, and hopefully prevent people from negatively commenting how as an individual they don't like the background event showing up in the "main" gameplay.
edit: Now, now I think my sentences make sense to someone who is not me.
Last edited:
- Location
- America
Alright, fuck this, I tried. Now I am gonna reread this entire fucking thing because I cannot remember where I stopped reading AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME. See you guys in a week.
Good luck my friend ...
@Travler66 ,@Valerian, @EVA-Saiyajin, @Marlin.
Thanks for your answers folks! Once again, sorry for bringing this back up.
Thanks for your answers folks! Once again, sorry for bringing this back up.
- Location
- SEAsia
- Pronouns
- Thou
Guys I'm a bit confused, did Kattarin and Rasputin marry before Fred and Natasha? Also, I recall that Natasha and Frederick married when Nat's mother was Tsarina, yea? And Mattrin is older than Anna or Alexandra? Did I get any of that wrong?
Ah, found the part that got me confused, from Turn 10 (before the results):
"Thanks to the sisters Veronika and Valentina accepting your request, citing a desire to spend more time with their nieces as the Tzarina has yet to produce a child as far as you know, they are receiving a much more exacting an exhausting education in Ice Magic."
So Anna and Alexandra were born before Kat's eldest? Or Fred's just lacking info about his in-laws?
Ah, found the part that got me confused, from Turn 10 (before the results):
"Thanks to the sisters Veronika and Valentina accepting your request, citing a desire to spend more time with their nieces as the Tzarina has yet to produce a child as far as you know, they are receiving a much more exacting an exhausting education in Ice Magic."
So Anna and Alexandra were born before Kat's eldest? Or Fred's just lacking info about his in-laws?
Last edited:
Elector's Meet of 2343 IC Part 4
[] Plan Religious Options
-[] Attempt To Meet With A Religious Elector About Something
--[] Speaking with the Ar-Ulric about spreading the Flame of Ulric on our High Priest's request
-[] Attempt To Meet With One Of the Imperial Cults About Something
--[] Meeting with the Cult of Myrmidia, who are still working to regain political strength in the Empire, and potentially work some sort of deal out with them
-[] Speak with Countess Toppenheimer to set up more trade between provinces.
But honestly, these frost-bitten knights with their steely gazes, their beards white and long, their scalps bald and scarred, with their black lacquered dwarf-forged armor which has seen even more battles than you by virtue of age if nothing else, don't interest you a bit.
You are far more interested in the young priest who accompanies them.
"LOGAN!" You bellow as you wrench your son upright with both arms, squeezing him so tightly that there is an audible if muffled squeal of metal and crackling of bone as his greaves waggle in the air.
It has been too long since you last saw your son, sent off to Middenland to contemplate his purpose in the world, his salvation through Ulric.
"Hnnh," Logan wheezes out.
So young, and already a fully ordained priest! Not the youngest ever, you think, but that he was taught and promoted to his position under the auspices of the Ar-Ulric is more than a little significant. In truth, however, the harsh tutelage of the priesthood of the God of War, Wolves, and Winter seems to have both agreed with and hardened your son considerably. The gangly features of adolescence are entirely gone from him, his form tall and heavy with muscle. In fact, he's already managed to grow a solid beard. Rather than looking his mere sixteen years, Logan looks to be midway through his second decade already. He has been weathered well by Middenland and his life there.
Of course, right now his face started as a puffy red and is midway through going a bit blue. A balled fist is striking your shoulder, as good a signal as any.
"Father," he gasps out as you drop him back to his feet, nearly doubling over as he keeps sucking down air. "It is good to see you again."
The curiosity from Natasha burns like a beacon to the north, and so you must respond, even as you pat your son on the back and help him rise. Shades of compassion, of joy, the ones which the two of you carefully taught yourselves to learn as regarding your children over a year's worth of work. But which? Natasha turns and adds coyness to her questioning, to which you of course must throw back conjured up shivers of cold and winter, and that unique blend of bittersweet you feel every time you think about sending one of your children away. The response to that is first her nostalgia for her homeland, then the bemused irritation she feels for Middenland whenever the province simply must be discussed. Alexandra or Logan, essentially, communicated solely through emotions. Your feelings on Middenland are, perhaps, a bit more acidic, but it communicates the point. Maternal pleasure floods through the link as you behold your son as he finishes catching his breath.
"You as well, my son. Look at you!" You yell, spreading your arms wide. "A man!"
A heavy thumping and three pairs of widening eyes are all anyone gets to do before Urgdug sweeps in, yanking Logan up in one hand and clapping him to his enormous chest. Logan responds to the affection of his uncle about as well as he did you, mostly because Urgdug's hand is enough to press the entirety of Logan's torso against his armor and squish him slightly. This causes a sort of teakettle clashing against a metal plate noise, as well as another wheeze. The White Wolves, at this point, are now visibly working to contain their expressions as hard-bitten bodyguards. Alas, for them, but you can still see the faint quivering of their lips. One of them has leaned his head back slightly, transferring his energy instead to clutching at the head of his propped up double-sided warhammer.
"Uncle Urgdug, a pleasure to see you too," Logan gasps out as he slides down Urgdug's armor to land much more squarely on his feet this time, brushing his priestly robes out with his hands.
Which, of course, shows the thick dull steel plate that your son also wears. Say what you like about the fact that some of their most zealous disdain helmets and gunpowder, the priesthood of Ulric are at least somewhat practical.
"You as well, little one," Urgdug chuckles, the noise a gusty wind.
"As I was saying," Logan coughs and clears his throat, glaring mildly at you. "Before you interrupted me. Ahem," he straightens his shoulders. "I bring warm tidings from Ar-Ulric Logan Kron, and his acceptance to your request to meet. In his name, we," he gestures to himself and the two White Wolves, "Are to escort you to the temple."
Because, of course, only the Temple of Ulric in Nuln is fit for the Electoral representative of the Cult. Stilling your grin at his authoritative tone, you step back yourself and fold your hands behind your back.
"I accept the Ar-Ulric's greetings with my own. Let us proceed posthaste," you pompously wave your hand about as you bow.
That, finally, gets a snort out of one of the Teutogen Guard. At which point the other guffaws loudly and jabs him with his elbow, looking at his compatriot expectantly. The one who snorted rolls his eyes and passes a coin to the other as the two of them finally relax their shoulders somewhat.
And so you go, drinking a flask of beer on the way.
This time it is you on the end of a crushing bear hug. Logan, the older Logan, no longer has a hint of his brilliant scarlet hair remaining. At a startlingly fast pace it has become as white as snow, but without losing a hint of its shine or volume. Unlike your son, he is not wearing any armor at all, instead choosing semi-formal vestments of black and white.
"Logan, how have you been," you squeeze the man back just as hard.
The minor contest of strength seems like it could go on for quite a while before your son coughs politely into his fist, reminding you that you actually came here for a purpose.
"Well enough, well enough," the High Priest of Ulric chuckles, stroking at his chin, "Though...," his expressions darkens as his hand falls to his side. "I assume you heard about what happened in the Middle Mountains."
A grimace to match his appears on your face.
"Aye, I did."
"I know you well enough that your issues with Gunthar are not enough to make you take pleasure in it," he sighs, leading you into his office within the temple, passing more than a few priests, White Wolves, and worshippers alike.
Disgust at the very thought burns in you.
"Of course not," you spit to the side. "All those good soldiers, priests, wizards."
At the end of the day, those are Imperial troops that were killed, slaughtered, ruined. Not bandits, not cultists. They weren't being used for brinksmanship or territorial ploys, as far as you know, as has happened far too often in the past of the Empire.
"Indeed," Logan sighs heavily as the two of you reach his office. "Hafthor, Bruenor, you will remain outside."
"But-," one of the Teutogen Guard protests before a harsh glare from Logan silences him. "Yes, Ar-Ulric."
The two knights clank heavily as they take their positions on both sides of the door, exchanging looks with the Greatswords that came with you who post up against the walls themselves. Your son heads into the room first, leaving you and the highest authority of the Cult of Ulric in the land glancing up at Urgdug.
"My apologies, Sir Captain," Logan grunts, stroking his beard again. "This temple was built without any considerations for ogres."
"It's all right," Urgdug shrugs, shifting a horse's worth of heavy barding with the simplest of motions. "I'm used to it. We can wait out here."
"Mmm," Logan hums as he glances left and right, watching how travel through the corridor has completely come to a halt due to Urgdug's bulk.
Priests, messengers, and laymen alike stand awkwardly on both sides of your brother. Even though you are deep enough in the temple now that most worshippers are not allowed back here, there is still plenty of traffic.
"Perhaps...you might retire to one of the training shrines?" Logan offers, "They are intended for wide-scale sparring amongst the priests and knights."
By all rights, a mild suggestion from the Ar-Ulric himself should have most people in the Empire jumping to obey, save perhaps amongst the Sigmarites, but Urgdug still glances down at you and waits for a nod before agreeing. He waves at you over his shoulder, fingertips scraping the ceiling, as he is escorted by another of the Teutogen Guard.
"Right. Get back to work, all of you!" Logan barks at everyone else, hands on his hips and nose flaring. "Ulric does not care for such aimless gawking!"
A flurry of activity erupts as he leads you into his office, shutting the heavy oak door with a sigh. Within the austere room, you come face to face with the Ar-Ulric's personal companion and Winter Wolf, the elemental blessed beast simply opening one stark blue slit eye to look you over before returning to snoozing in an enormous shallow bathtub filled with ice. Ice that the beast is assisting in generating and maintaining, given that it drools icicles through its lips. Logan, your son Logan, is already stoking a fire on the other side of the room, giving you a shallow nod as you enter and then fully bowing to the Ar-Ulric.
"I do mean it, Logan," you say as you sit, uncorking a flask of ostka and draining it. "I'd beat Gunthar into the dirt, but I'll not drink to the death of so many soldiers."
"I know that, you know that, and yet there are already whispers and...movements from those who would take advantage," Logan growls, the noise casually inhuman as he sits heavily in his own chair. "Hey, you got any Bugman's in those flasks?"
"Always keep two," you admit, pulling one free and tossing it over and withdraw the other for yourself.
The man's your friend, but you do internally wince as he viciously bites the cork and guzzles the insides. Mostly because the cork gets bit in half by his teeth.
"Ah, that's good stuff," Logan burps as he finishes it off, shaking his head for a moment to help the burning pass.
"It's Bugman's," you point out as you finish your own flask before frowning. "I daren't ask Gunthar, but I could ask you...,"
Logan wipes his lips and props an elbow on the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes are near slits now, a deep frown carved across his face.
"It was to be a grand purging," he says slowly. "One which would scour the western Middle Mountains clean of darkness entirely. Beastmen. Skaven. Mutants. Greenskins," he raises a hand and gestures as if towards the horizon. "All of them."
"I figured something like that," you muse, drinking a flask of wine empty. "Gunthar is...who he is, but I didn't think he was likely to just posture and beat his chest across the border. I even thought he might be-,"
"Seeking out the Brass Keep?" Logan snorts, "Too many armies have been lost trying just to find the damn place. No, if it were discovered, it was not to be assaulted without gathering up further support abroad. A grand undertaking amongst provinces."
A way to bind, through friendship and victory, multiple parties. Dangerously political, but one you can't entirely say that you wouldn't have contributed to. The Brass Keep is a long-standing blight within the Middle Mountains, a damning horror which has managed to persist through the ages despite more than one report of its supposed destruction. But truly, the idea that Gunthar wouldn't just rush for it directly hadn't quite occurred to you up until this moment.
"Well, it's even more unfortunate that they died," you say, pursing your lips. "Any idea as to what happened?"
"None," Logan snarls, this time the noise enough to get the Winter Wolf to open both eyes, ears flicking. "It's nothing," he says to the beast, waving a hand and getting it to huff before lying down on its bed of ice. "But no, Frederick, we know almost nothing. We scoured the peaks for months afterwards, looking for sinkholes, collapsed tunnels underground, so on and so forth, but nothing."
"Damn."
"The universe will never stop trying to invent new ways to be monstrous and dark. You can never rest on your laurels," your son recites quietly under his breath as he hurls another large log onto the fire.
"Grim and wise words, boy," Logan says to him, an eyebrow raised. "Who told you that?"
"My, ahem," your son coughs, eyes wide at realizing both of you heard him. "My father, sir."
Logan scrutinizes first your son and then you.
"Sounds about right. But you didn't come here to try and poke at Gunthar through me," he sniffs, leaning forward in his chair now.
"No, I did not," you nod.
Frankly, you'd prefer not to think much of Gunthar at all.
"It's about the flame," you start frankly.
Logan straightens in his chair, tilting his head back.
"It still burns as strong as ever, both the father and the child," he says it sternly, with absolute certainty and surety.
"Of course they are. But the question I bring to you comes from, well, not me, but a priest-,"
"Emil," Logan flatly interrupts. "Emil Beltz. Yes. And the rest of his brethren in Ostland."
You blink at the unamused and rather exasperated look on his face.
"Ah. I presume that he has-,"
"Sent dozens, literal dozens of letters, yes," Logan rubs at his face with one hand. "He has been, I presume, haranguing you about the matter."
"Haranguing is a bit strong, but..."
"I see," Logan rubs his face even more vigorously before placing both palms flat onto the table. "Frederick, I am going to tell you something that almost none know."
"...alright," you draw back slightly in your chair.
"I died, performing that ritual," he informs you, eyes looking into the middle distance. "My heart ceased to beat, my vision went dark, and I awoke standing in a blizzard far away from Ostland. And as I stood there, I bore witness to a massive pack of Winter Wolves, thundering through the ice and snow. They bore down on me, and tore into me as I could do naught but scream. Only then did I awake once more, before the Blood-Fane, Ulric's words on my lips."
You are completely still as he speaks, your eyes wide.
"It took me years to recover my strength fully from what was done there, and I know, even now, that part of it is gone forever," he pauses, coughing into his forearm for a moment before he can continue. "To challenge the Dark Gods, and perhaps even the rest of the Gods of the Empire, and bring forth such a permanent sliver of Ulric's power, is no idle work."
"But...you did come back," you point out, but your words are weak before Logan's gaze.
"Aye. But can we guarantee the same for anyone else?" He manages to loom while sitting. "We tested it before. We can manage to keep the flames burning on the war altar as it travels through the prayers and works of the priests, but nowhere save in Ostland did the child-flame remain, take true root."
Where it, apparently, quite permanently took something out of the Ar-Ulric to do it.
"Furthermore...," Logan trails off for a moment before scrutinizing you. "More than once, Frederick, the servants of the Dark Gods have sought to use the Flame of Ulric against the Wolf God."
"Wh-," you start to exclaim before your mind works over the statement.
Of course they would. The Dark Gods and their slaves exult in the desecration and destruction of temples and shrines to the Gods, both to harm and terrorize the populace but also as part of their eternal conflict with them as well.
"It is not something we speak of to outsiders of the Cult often," Logan continues. "But many centuries ago, during the beginning of the Era of Three Emperors, just after the Cult had been dispatched from Middenheim in its majority, there was...," he glowers at the wall. "Something we know as the Darkening."
"That doesn't sound good," you say as you drink another flask of ostka.
"It was not. Servants of the Changer of Ways stole into the temple and began working some sort of ritual there. Our hidden wolves left behind in the city stopped them, but before they could, the Flame of Ulric...flickered," he's practically biting out each word as he speaks them. "And across the Empire, we have many accounts not just of priests, but of regular worshippers crying out in pain, writing of horror and confusion, of the Wolf God's favor leaving them."
"Well that's...horrifying to know."
"The Flame, Frederick, is a direct conduit to Ulric," Logan insists, his words cold and serious. "For good and for ill. The same is true, I fear, of the Iceborne Flame. I could be wrong. I hope to Ulric I am."
"But if it is...,"
"It is both strength and weakness in turn. Such is the way of things and places that are holy," Logan shakes his head, sighing. "Ulric is a God of War, another battlefield for Him to take against the Dark Powers is not necessarily something He would disdain. But even if I were to give Emil my blessing, what would be the reaction of the people should he - or another - die in the attempt to bring forth another aspect of Ulric's realm into ours?"
"You can't tell me that there are not zealous enough members of the Cult that would be willing to die for such a thing," you find your mouth saying before the rest of your mind can catch up. "Not that I am suggesting such a thing at all," you quickly add on, your eyes wide.
Logan opens his mouth and then closes it, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples.
"I choose to take that as an acknowledgement of the strength of faith in Ulric that many good folk of the Empire possess, rather than anything...untoward," he says slowly.
You take a moment to consider how many flasks you've drunk, and which ones. No, that's not nearly enough to get you drunk.
"It was," you insist. "Honestly, have you told Emil about this? The man seems fervent enough to try it regardless."
"I haven't, no," Logan scoffs. "Frederick," he folds his hands in front of his face, a full glare on his face now, "I don't need to tell you just how such a thing could be thought of by the rest of the Cults, let alone the Empire."
Potentially requiring, or at the least ending up with, the death of a priest just to make the flames manifest in permanence? It sounds, without the context of it being a Flame of Ulric, far too dangerously close to something akin to the rituals of the Dark Gods. Or, if one is being particularly asinine, the ancient stories of how the Gods used to be worshipped. Entrails spread amongst Taal's holy boughs is the one everyone thinks of, but Natasha informed you that some who worship Dazh in certain corners of Kislev still may or may not do live sacrifices of the bipedal sort to his flames. It is not for nothing that burning someone at the stake, on pyres, was not a uniquely Sigmarite invention, rather it was Ulric's, representative of taking warmth in the coldest winters from the bodies of your enemies as fuel.
"Of course," you raise an eyebrow as you drink another flask of ostka, "We are too civilized for such things these days."
And if you try, very, very hard, you can almost ignore the memory yourself strapped to the stake when you look into the blazing fireplace that your son sits near, a holy book to Ulric open in his lap.
Logan just grunts.
"It could bolster the Cult, or bring it great harm," he eventually says. "We're already going to be having a hell of a time during the Conclave. The Witch Hunters have seen fit to challenge the other Cults before on their rites and most sacred rituals. It's one of the only things I've seen the Taalites and Rhyans get truly furious about."
"Ah, yes, the Conclave," you wince. "I've heard that recent events might have made things more...volatile."
"That's one word for it," Logan agrees. "Nothing that hasn't been festering for a long time though. Especially now that that new Matriarch of Manann is making waves," Logan chuckles deeply, "Now there's a hell of a woman."
"You've talked to her?" You ask, surprised.
"Of course. It behooves the head of a Cult to be in personal contact with the heads of the others, or at least to attempt to do so," Logan lectures, rolling his hand through the air.
He pauses and glances at you, a wolfish grin on his face.
"You've put the Grand Theogonist into quite a curious position, you know. Support through the Witch Hunters, on the surface of it, but now with...well," he huffs another breath, "Everything else, we get to talk about certain...privileges and such. Of course," he looks thoughtful, eyes going to the ceiling, "They can build their temples, their shrines, but Sigmar - God or otherwise - didn't really leave...fonts of...I don't know, hammers?" He shrugs.
He has his worries, his thoughts, but the man is clearly conflicted on whether or not to give Emil his blessing to try and spread the fires of Ulric further.
Choose:
Voting Moratorium 1 Hour.
[] Try To Convince Logan To Bless Spreading The Power of Ulric: It could be dangerous, but the prestige and power it could bring to the Cult and to possibly Ulric - for all you know - as well as a potent beacon against the Dark Gods is worth it. Of course, there are no guarantees. One can only have faith. Chance of Success: 50%
OR
[] Let The Flame Issue Lie, Message To Emil To Tell Him To Drop It: The dangers are too much, to the Cult, to the man himself potentially. It's better to simply let the matter lie for now. Perhaps it might change in the future, but such things are uncertain. Chance of Success: 100% For Logan, For Emil ??%
-[] Attempt To Meet With A Religious Elector About Something
--[] Speaking with the Ar-Ulric about spreading the Flame of Ulric on our High Priest's request
-[] Attempt To Meet With One Of the Imperial Cults About Something
--[] Meeting with the Cult of Myrmidia, who are still working to regain political strength in the Empire, and potentially work some sort of deal out with them
-[] Speak with Countess Toppenheimer to set up more trade between provinces.
Elector's Meet of 2343 IC Part 4
This time, it takes over an hour and a half for your messenger to return. He does not return alone, to your immeasurable delight. It is, in fact, one of the most wondrous things you hadn't dared to imagine, and you know that for a fact because your heart blazes so brightly that Natasha's responding alarm and curiosity is almost as sharp all the way in Ostland. Your messenger came back to the Manse not just with an agreement to meet from the Ar-Ulric, but with two veteran members of the Teutogen Guard, the most elite of the White Wolves. Which is, itself, quite a prestigious and exceedingly visible display of trust and friendship between you and the Ar-Ulric.
But honestly, these frost-bitten knights with their steely gazes, their beards white and long, their scalps bald and scarred, with their black lacquered dwarf-forged armor which has seen even more battles than you by virtue of age if nothing else, don't interest you a bit.
You are far more interested in the young priest who accompanies them.
"LOGAN!" You bellow as you wrench your son upright with both arms, squeezing him so tightly that there is an audible if muffled squeal of metal and crackling of bone as his greaves waggle in the air.
It has been too long since you last saw your son, sent off to Middenland to contemplate his purpose in the world, his salvation through Ulric.
"Hnnh," Logan wheezes out.
So young, and already a fully ordained priest! Not the youngest ever, you think, but that he was taught and promoted to his position under the auspices of the Ar-Ulric is more than a little significant. In truth, however, the harsh tutelage of the priesthood of the God of War, Wolves, and Winter seems to have both agreed with and hardened your son considerably. The gangly features of adolescence are entirely gone from him, his form tall and heavy with muscle. In fact, he's already managed to grow a solid beard. Rather than looking his mere sixteen years, Logan looks to be midway through his second decade already. He has been weathered well by Middenland and his life there.
Of course, right now his face started as a puffy red and is midway through going a bit blue. A balled fist is striking your shoulder, as good a signal as any.
"Father," he gasps out as you drop him back to his feet, nearly doubling over as he keeps sucking down air. "It is good to see you again."
The curiosity from Natasha burns like a beacon to the north, and so you must respond, even as you pat your son on the back and help him rise. Shades of compassion, of joy, the ones which the two of you carefully taught yourselves to learn as regarding your children over a year's worth of work. But which? Natasha turns and adds coyness to her questioning, to which you of course must throw back conjured up shivers of cold and winter, and that unique blend of bittersweet you feel every time you think about sending one of your children away. The response to that is first her nostalgia for her homeland, then the bemused irritation she feels for Middenland whenever the province simply must be discussed. Alexandra or Logan, essentially, communicated solely through emotions. Your feelings on Middenland are, perhaps, a bit more acidic, but it communicates the point. Maternal pleasure floods through the link as you behold your son as he finishes catching his breath.
"You as well, my son. Look at you!" You yell, spreading your arms wide. "A man!"
A heavy thumping and three pairs of widening eyes are all anyone gets to do before Urgdug sweeps in, yanking Logan up in one hand and clapping him to his enormous chest. Logan responds to the affection of his uncle about as well as he did you, mostly because Urgdug's hand is enough to press the entirety of Logan's torso against his armor and squish him slightly. This causes a sort of teakettle clashing against a metal plate noise, as well as another wheeze. The White Wolves, at this point, are now visibly working to contain their expressions as hard-bitten bodyguards. Alas, for them, but you can still see the faint quivering of their lips. One of them has leaned his head back slightly, transferring his energy instead to clutching at the head of his propped up double-sided warhammer.
"Uncle Urgdug, a pleasure to see you too," Logan gasps out as he slides down Urgdug's armor to land much more squarely on his feet this time, brushing his priestly robes out with his hands.
Which, of course, shows the thick dull steel plate that your son also wears. Say what you like about the fact that some of their most zealous disdain helmets and gunpowder, the priesthood of Ulric are at least somewhat practical.
"You as well, little one," Urgdug chuckles, the noise a gusty wind.
"As I was saying," Logan coughs and clears his throat, glaring mildly at you. "Before you interrupted me. Ahem," he straightens his shoulders. "I bring warm tidings from Ar-Ulric Logan Kron, and his acceptance to your request to meet. In his name, we," he gestures to himself and the two White Wolves, "Are to escort you to the temple."
Because, of course, only the Temple of Ulric in Nuln is fit for the Electoral representative of the Cult. Stilling your grin at his authoritative tone, you step back yourself and fold your hands behind your back.
"I accept the Ar-Ulric's greetings with my own. Let us proceed posthaste," you pompously wave your hand about as you bow.
That, finally, gets a snort out of one of the Teutogen Guard. At which point the other guffaws loudly and jabs him with his elbow, looking at his compatriot expectantly. The one who snorted rolls his eyes and passes a coin to the other as the two of them finally relax their shoulders somewhat.
And so you go, drinking a flask of beer on the way.
=========================================================
"Frederick! My friend!"
This time it is you on the end of a crushing bear hug. Logan, the older Logan, no longer has a hint of his brilliant scarlet hair remaining. At a startlingly fast pace it has become as white as snow, but without losing a hint of its shine or volume. Unlike your son, he is not wearing any armor at all, instead choosing semi-formal vestments of black and white.
"Logan, how have you been," you squeeze the man back just as hard.
The minor contest of strength seems like it could go on for quite a while before your son coughs politely into his fist, reminding you that you actually came here for a purpose.
"Well enough, well enough," the High Priest of Ulric chuckles, stroking at his chin, "Though...," his expressions darkens as his hand falls to his side. "I assume you heard about what happened in the Middle Mountains."
A grimace to match his appears on your face.
"Aye, I did."
"I know you well enough that your issues with Gunthar are not enough to make you take pleasure in it," he sighs, leading you into his office within the temple, passing more than a few priests, White Wolves, and worshippers alike.
Disgust at the very thought burns in you.
"Of course not," you spit to the side. "All those good soldiers, priests, wizards."
At the end of the day, those are Imperial troops that were killed, slaughtered, ruined. Not bandits, not cultists. They weren't being used for brinksmanship or territorial ploys, as far as you know, as has happened far too often in the past of the Empire.
"Indeed," Logan sighs heavily as the two of you reach his office. "Hafthor, Bruenor, you will remain outside."
"But-," one of the Teutogen Guard protests before a harsh glare from Logan silences him. "Yes, Ar-Ulric."
The two knights clank heavily as they take their positions on both sides of the door, exchanging looks with the Greatswords that came with you who post up against the walls themselves. Your son heads into the room first, leaving you and the highest authority of the Cult of Ulric in the land glancing up at Urgdug.
"My apologies, Sir Captain," Logan grunts, stroking his beard again. "This temple was built without any considerations for ogres."
"It's all right," Urgdug shrugs, shifting a horse's worth of heavy barding with the simplest of motions. "I'm used to it. We can wait out here."
"Mmm," Logan hums as he glances left and right, watching how travel through the corridor has completely come to a halt due to Urgdug's bulk.
Priests, messengers, and laymen alike stand awkwardly on both sides of your brother. Even though you are deep enough in the temple now that most worshippers are not allowed back here, there is still plenty of traffic.
"Perhaps...you might retire to one of the training shrines?" Logan offers, "They are intended for wide-scale sparring amongst the priests and knights."
By all rights, a mild suggestion from the Ar-Ulric himself should have most people in the Empire jumping to obey, save perhaps amongst the Sigmarites, but Urgdug still glances down at you and waits for a nod before agreeing. He waves at you over his shoulder, fingertips scraping the ceiling, as he is escorted by another of the Teutogen Guard.
"Right. Get back to work, all of you!" Logan barks at everyone else, hands on his hips and nose flaring. "Ulric does not care for such aimless gawking!"
A flurry of activity erupts as he leads you into his office, shutting the heavy oak door with a sigh. Within the austere room, you come face to face with the Ar-Ulric's personal companion and Winter Wolf, the elemental blessed beast simply opening one stark blue slit eye to look you over before returning to snoozing in an enormous shallow bathtub filled with ice. Ice that the beast is assisting in generating and maintaining, given that it drools icicles through its lips. Logan, your son Logan, is already stoking a fire on the other side of the room, giving you a shallow nod as you enter and then fully bowing to the Ar-Ulric.
"I do mean it, Logan," you say as you sit, uncorking a flask of ostka and draining it. "I'd beat Gunthar into the dirt, but I'll not drink to the death of so many soldiers."
"I know that, you know that, and yet there are already whispers and...movements from those who would take advantage," Logan growls, the noise casually inhuman as he sits heavily in his own chair. "Hey, you got any Bugman's in those flasks?"
"Always keep two," you admit, pulling one free and tossing it over and withdraw the other for yourself.
The man's your friend, but you do internally wince as he viciously bites the cork and guzzles the insides. Mostly because the cork gets bit in half by his teeth.
"Ah, that's good stuff," Logan burps as he finishes it off, shaking his head for a moment to help the burning pass.
"It's Bugman's," you point out as you finish your own flask before frowning. "I daren't ask Gunthar, but I could ask you...,"
Logan wipes his lips and props an elbow on the table, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes are near slits now, a deep frown carved across his face.
"It was to be a grand purging," he says slowly. "One which would scour the western Middle Mountains clean of darkness entirely. Beastmen. Skaven. Mutants. Greenskins," he raises a hand and gestures as if towards the horizon. "All of them."
"I figured something like that," you muse, drinking a flask of wine empty. "Gunthar is...who he is, but I didn't think he was likely to just posture and beat his chest across the border. I even thought he might be-,"
"Seeking out the Brass Keep?" Logan snorts, "Too many armies have been lost trying just to find the damn place. No, if it were discovered, it was not to be assaulted without gathering up further support abroad. A grand undertaking amongst provinces."
A way to bind, through friendship and victory, multiple parties. Dangerously political, but one you can't entirely say that you wouldn't have contributed to. The Brass Keep is a long-standing blight within the Middle Mountains, a damning horror which has managed to persist through the ages despite more than one report of its supposed destruction. But truly, the idea that Gunthar wouldn't just rush for it directly hadn't quite occurred to you up until this moment.
"Well, it's even more unfortunate that they died," you say, pursing your lips. "Any idea as to what happened?"
"None," Logan snarls, this time the noise enough to get the Winter Wolf to open both eyes, ears flicking. "It's nothing," he says to the beast, waving a hand and getting it to huff before lying down on its bed of ice. "But no, Frederick, we know almost nothing. We scoured the peaks for months afterwards, looking for sinkholes, collapsed tunnels underground, so on and so forth, but nothing."
"Damn."
"The universe will never stop trying to invent new ways to be monstrous and dark. You can never rest on your laurels," your son recites quietly under his breath as he hurls another large log onto the fire.
"Grim and wise words, boy," Logan says to him, an eyebrow raised. "Who told you that?"
"My, ahem," your son coughs, eyes wide at realizing both of you heard him. "My father, sir."
Logan scrutinizes first your son and then you.
"Sounds about right. But you didn't come here to try and poke at Gunthar through me," he sniffs, leaning forward in his chair now.
"No, I did not," you nod.
Frankly, you'd prefer not to think much of Gunthar at all.
"It's about the flame," you start frankly.
Logan straightens in his chair, tilting his head back.
"It still burns as strong as ever, both the father and the child," he says it sternly, with absolute certainty and surety.
"Of course they are. But the question I bring to you comes from, well, not me, but a priest-,"
"Emil," Logan flatly interrupts. "Emil Beltz. Yes. And the rest of his brethren in Ostland."
You blink at the unamused and rather exasperated look on his face.
"Ah. I presume that he has-,"
"Sent dozens, literal dozens of letters, yes," Logan rubs at his face with one hand. "He has been, I presume, haranguing you about the matter."
"Haranguing is a bit strong, but..."
"I see," Logan rubs his face even more vigorously before placing both palms flat onto the table. "Frederick, I am going to tell you something that almost none know."
"...alright," you draw back slightly in your chair.
"I died, performing that ritual," he informs you, eyes looking into the middle distance. "My heart ceased to beat, my vision went dark, and I awoke standing in a blizzard far away from Ostland. And as I stood there, I bore witness to a massive pack of Winter Wolves, thundering through the ice and snow. They bore down on me, and tore into me as I could do naught but scream. Only then did I awake once more, before the Blood-Fane, Ulric's words on my lips."
You are completely still as he speaks, your eyes wide.
"It took me years to recover my strength fully from what was done there, and I know, even now, that part of it is gone forever," he pauses, coughing into his forearm for a moment before he can continue. "To challenge the Dark Gods, and perhaps even the rest of the Gods of the Empire, and bring forth such a permanent sliver of Ulric's power, is no idle work."
"But...you did come back," you point out, but your words are weak before Logan's gaze.
"Aye. But can we guarantee the same for anyone else?" He manages to loom while sitting. "We tested it before. We can manage to keep the flames burning on the war altar as it travels through the prayers and works of the priests, but nowhere save in Ostland did the child-flame remain, take true root."
Where it, apparently, quite permanently took something out of the Ar-Ulric to do it.
"Furthermore...," Logan trails off for a moment before scrutinizing you. "More than once, Frederick, the servants of the Dark Gods have sought to use the Flame of Ulric against the Wolf God."
"Wh-," you start to exclaim before your mind works over the statement.
Of course they would. The Dark Gods and their slaves exult in the desecration and destruction of temples and shrines to the Gods, both to harm and terrorize the populace but also as part of their eternal conflict with them as well.
"It is not something we speak of to outsiders of the Cult often," Logan continues. "But many centuries ago, during the beginning of the Era of Three Emperors, just after the Cult had been dispatched from Middenheim in its majority, there was...," he glowers at the wall. "Something we know as the Darkening."
"That doesn't sound good," you say as you drink another flask of ostka.
"It was not. Servants of the Changer of Ways stole into the temple and began working some sort of ritual there. Our hidden wolves left behind in the city stopped them, but before they could, the Flame of Ulric...flickered," he's practically biting out each word as he speaks them. "And across the Empire, we have many accounts not just of priests, but of regular worshippers crying out in pain, writing of horror and confusion, of the Wolf God's favor leaving them."
"Well that's...horrifying to know."
"The Flame, Frederick, is a direct conduit to Ulric," Logan insists, his words cold and serious. "For good and for ill. The same is true, I fear, of the Iceborne Flame. I could be wrong. I hope to Ulric I am."
"But if it is...,"
"It is both strength and weakness in turn. Such is the way of things and places that are holy," Logan shakes his head, sighing. "Ulric is a God of War, another battlefield for Him to take against the Dark Powers is not necessarily something He would disdain. But even if I were to give Emil my blessing, what would be the reaction of the people should he - or another - die in the attempt to bring forth another aspect of Ulric's realm into ours?"
"You can't tell me that there are not zealous enough members of the Cult that would be willing to die for such a thing," you find your mouth saying before the rest of your mind can catch up. "Not that I am suggesting such a thing at all," you quickly add on, your eyes wide.
Logan opens his mouth and then closes it, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his temples.
"I choose to take that as an acknowledgement of the strength of faith in Ulric that many good folk of the Empire possess, rather than anything...untoward," he says slowly.
You take a moment to consider how many flasks you've drunk, and which ones. No, that's not nearly enough to get you drunk.
"It was," you insist. "Honestly, have you told Emil about this? The man seems fervent enough to try it regardless."
"I haven't, no," Logan scoffs. "Frederick," he folds his hands in front of his face, a full glare on his face now, "I don't need to tell you just how such a thing could be thought of by the rest of the Cults, let alone the Empire."
Potentially requiring, or at the least ending up with, the death of a priest just to make the flames manifest in permanence? It sounds, without the context of it being a Flame of Ulric, far too dangerously close to something akin to the rituals of the Dark Gods. Or, if one is being particularly asinine, the ancient stories of how the Gods used to be worshipped. Entrails spread amongst Taal's holy boughs is the one everyone thinks of, but Natasha informed you that some who worship Dazh in certain corners of Kislev still may or may not do live sacrifices of the bipedal sort to his flames. It is not for nothing that burning someone at the stake, on pyres, was not a uniquely Sigmarite invention, rather it was Ulric's, representative of taking warmth in the coldest winters from the bodies of your enemies as fuel.
"Of course," you raise an eyebrow as you drink another flask of ostka, "We are too civilized for such things these days."
And if you try, very, very hard, you can almost ignore the memory yourself strapped to the stake when you look into the blazing fireplace that your son sits near, a holy book to Ulric open in his lap.
Logan just grunts.
"It could bolster the Cult, or bring it great harm," he eventually says. "We're already going to be having a hell of a time during the Conclave. The Witch Hunters have seen fit to challenge the other Cults before on their rites and most sacred rituals. It's one of the only things I've seen the Taalites and Rhyans get truly furious about."
"Ah, yes, the Conclave," you wince. "I've heard that recent events might have made things more...volatile."
"That's one word for it," Logan agrees. "Nothing that hasn't been festering for a long time though. Especially now that that new Matriarch of Manann is making waves," Logan chuckles deeply, "Now there's a hell of a woman."
"You've talked to her?" You ask, surprised.
"Of course. It behooves the head of a Cult to be in personal contact with the heads of the others, or at least to attempt to do so," Logan lectures, rolling his hand through the air.
He pauses and glances at you, a wolfish grin on his face.
"You've put the Grand Theogonist into quite a curious position, you know. Support through the Witch Hunters, on the surface of it, but now with...well," he huffs another breath, "Everything else, we get to talk about certain...privileges and such. Of course," he looks thoughtful, eyes going to the ceiling, "They can build their temples, their shrines, but Sigmar - God or otherwise - didn't really leave...fonts of...I don't know, hammers?" He shrugs.
He has his worries, his thoughts, but the man is clearly conflicted on whether or not to give Emil his blessing to try and spread the fires of Ulric further.
Choose:
Voting Moratorium 1 Hour.
[] Try To Convince Logan To Bless Spreading The Power of Ulric: It could be dangerous, but the prestige and power it could bring to the Cult and to possibly Ulric - for all you know - as well as a potent beacon against the Dark Gods is worth it. Of course, there are no guarantees. One can only have faith. Chance of Success: 50%
OR
[] Let The Flame Issue Lie, Message To Emil To Tell Him To Drop It: The dangers are too much, to the Cult, to the man himself potentially. It's better to simply let the matter lie for now. Perhaps it might change in the future, but such things are uncertain. Chance of Success: 100% For Logan, For Emil ??%
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I am, honestly not inclined to it after learning this.
Like holy fuck.
Like holy fuck.
Man on the one head we may need the extra power in case that particular beastmen comes to assault Wolfenburg and to get more members of Ulric's cult.
But on the other hand, the Dark God's could tell Malagor about this and make Ostland the focal point for a massive attack.
Maybe it's best to let it lie for now.
Any ideas we could ask Logan for other then that? Like say more of Ulric's warriors in Ostland?
But on the other hand, the Dark God's could tell Malagor about this and make Ostland the focal point for a massive attack.
Maybe it's best to let it lie for now.
Any ideas we could ask Logan for other then that? Like say more of Ulric's warriors in Ostland?
Last edited:
ConfusedCanuck
Where did it all go wrong?
- Location
- Neverland
Logan is the expert here when it comes to this Flame if he says it's best to leave the issue then I'll take his word for it and let the issue lye and tell Emil to can it.
And that's not getting into the cost it requires so yeah no on me for that.
And that's not getting into the cost it requires so yeah no on me for that.
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Or it could just not work or fail catastrophically.
taovkool
Forever Gone
- Location
- The Library, Department of General Works
[] Let The Flame Issue Lie, Message To Emil To Tell Him To Drop It: The dangers are too much, to the Cult, to the man himself potentially. It's better to simply let the matter lie for now. Perhaps it might change in the future, but such things are uncertain. Chance of Success: 100% For Logan, For Emil ??%
Yeah, better not. Sounds risky as hell and the hellgods are always watching.
I'll edit the post after moratorium.
Yeah, better not. Sounds risky as hell and the hellgods are always watching.
I'll edit the post after moratorium.
XelianEmperor
Fragile. Handle with care
I feel the reward outweighs the risk ill be voting for spreading
XelianEmperor
Fragile. Handle with care
IC Ulrican: We didn't get here by being cautious LET THE HOLY FLAME SPREAD
OOC: I agree too but this world has risks and we didn't get here by not taking some risks
Guys don't forget about the fact that this comes in the context of visions. This is something Ulric wants. He wants another flame in Ostland.
- Location
- Space between realms
- Pronouns
- He
Maybe years in the future we could spread it but before the second flame is secure enough nooo no no no no
Freedy alive is harder. The flame itself would be in our most populous and protected city and not move. Freddy for all his heroism is till a squishy human that could be caught at the wrong time and die, the flame is not. This flame isn't going to be in a middle of nowhere area like the first, if it works it'll be in the heart of our capitol and we've fortified the crap out of it Already even before it got here.
Evaunit02mark1
S-s-smell the Prey, S-s-start the Hunt.
Looks like it's a double edged sword with the flames. Great power, but at the same time an avenue for direct attack.
Smart play would be to "keep it simple stupid" and reduce chances of failure by keeping the number small or the areas of such blessings more armored than a Runelord's codpiece.
Smart play would be to "keep it simple stupid" and reduce chances of failure by keeping the number small or the areas of such blessings more armored than a Runelord's codpiece.