Spikes, Horns, and Stone .25
There is a tension across Ostland that has not been found since the Vampire War. It is visible in the streets. Foot traffic has not ceased, but there is a furtiveness to it now. A rush, even if just to the grocer and butcher, never knowing for sure that this won't be the last time possible. Criers have been set to their duties across the province, the wing-suits you have letting you push the instructions and messages out all the faster. Salkalten is rallying its defenses, nobility are gathering up their personal men-at-arms at their various castles and estates. The militia is drilling harder than ever, as are your state troops, the Salkalten Guard, the sailors and marines of your ships, and the warrior priests. The flagellants, on the other hand, are just sort of being corralled by the Warrior Priests of Sigmar near the coasts. Not too close, not yet. Some of those fanatics are liable to start raving about the Holders of the Shore or something if they spend a little too much time near religious icons not specifically related to Sigmar. Speaking of religious fanatics…
"Do we have any news about what Emil is doing?" You call out amidst the flurry ongoing in your office.
A steady stream of messengers is arriving and departing after speaking with you, Natasha, or Sabine. Paperwork is strewn everywhere, picked up, put down, scrawled on, and tossed aside. Wulfenburg Castle is not necessarily the prettiest locus point for command decisions to be made from, but it works well enough. Someone, you aren't even immediately sure at first but after a few seconds recognize that it is none other than Witch Hunter Captain Leisedotte, answers your question.
"He's rallying the Wolf-Kin to the Iceborne Flame compound. So far they seem to be trying to complete multiple years' worth of construction in a few months for its walls and defenses," she notes before conferring with her own little cadre.
"That blind bastard," you rub at your face and take a heavy drink of ostka. "We could
use the Wolf-Kin and others up at the damned coast!"
"Unless the Druchii send infiltrators to try and sabotage local religious and cultural focal points," Anna pipes up as she pauses by the door to your office, having been pushing an entire wheelbarrow filled with a bewildering amount of indiscernible machinery in front of her.
"It is a fair point daughter, and one your father has already noted," Natasha waves Anna off as you nod, "He is just reiterating his irritation. For the fifth time this hour," she says the last more towards you, one eyebrow raised.
Raising your hands in surrender and acknowledgement both, you look back at Anna.
"What's all that stuff, then?"
Anna, as expressionless as ever, glances down at her wheelbarrow and then back up at you.
"Nothing in particular," she answers, "Half-thought of prototypes, scrap, junk, so on and so forth. We're melting them down to make more ammo."
"Ah, carry on then."
She nods and resumes pushing her wheelbarrow along, not even bothering to dodge around the next few messengers running down the corridor and forcing them to squeeze against the walls to avoid hitting her.
"Latest report from the Prince of Salkalten, Count Hohenzollern," the first shouts as he comes to a gasping halt, face red with exertion, holding out the letter half-crushed in one hand while the other keeps him upright by pressing against his thigh.
The other two are red-faced, but at least not looking like they're liable to fall over.
"Message from Nordland-,"
"Ostermark sends-,"
"Stop!" You raise your voice, glancing amongst the three men. "One at a time. You first," you point to the man holding a letter marked with the manticore seal. "All of you get a drink, breathe," you tilt your head to the waiting table put near the door with cups and pitchers of water and ostka.
In the meantime, you take Ortrud's letter and begin reading it.
To the Count Frederick von Hohenzollern,
Army is on the way. Reinhardt is leading but I need to keep most of the Knights of the Everlasting Light back. Got a greenskin incursion coming west out of the mountains, but the character of it is all wrong. They're being pushed, not coming out of their own volition, at least based on what our scouts are saying. Not gleeful at coming west, but resentful, some of the smaller bands hitting each other. Not sure if it's because of another greenskin tribe or not, maybe those ogres attacking Karak Kadrin. Good luck. Details below.
Your Friend,
Ortrud Hertwig, Countess of Ostermark
The details in question are quite welcome. Unlike Ostland's naming conventions, Ostermark and Nordland appear to have decided on simple numbers. As such, Ostermark is sending the First Army, led by none other than Reinhardt Hertwig, friend of your son Magnus and heir to Ostermark proper. While they might not have the ogre auxiliaries of Ostland, you fought alongside many of these troops back in Karak Ungor. Or, at least, perhaps some of them. That was years ago now, but you know for a fact that Ortrud retained many of those veterans to remain as trainers for the greener boys and girls joining up after that point. They'll be bringing their own artillery compliment, and none other than Wizard Lord Wolfgang, as well as her little grouping of Jade Journeymen. It appears to be a different crop than the ones from Karak Ungor, which hopefully means that those which survived that experience went on to graduate properly. One can only hope.
"Good," you say aloud, passing it off to Natasha first to read and then hand out as she wishes, penning your own reply in the meantime. "Here, my response," you state while stamping it and handing it to the man who immediately takes off running again. "Now, you, from Nordland?"
"I have two, actually," he says and holds them out, one in each hand.
One is standard, with the sea eagle of Nordland. The other is not on parchment at all, but rather looks to have been delivered in incredibly well-made vellum. Also importantly, it is wrapped in what is not twine but green vines and overall smells exceedingly pungently of the forest. The seal is a green wax with a golden hart's head. That one, you know as well as the manticore and the sea eagle. It is, effectively, both the personal house seal of the Glade Lord of Laurelorn, Lady Naraiel Dawnstone of the House Dawnstone, but also the Eonir and Laurelorn as a whole.
To the Count Frederick von Hohenzollern,
I've rallied my troops. Both armies and as many knights as responded to the call, while the militia are going to have to hold inland against any threats that may come from there. It's not as fast as I'd like, but evacuation of the coastline is ongoing. They'll be pulling back to the crater if I can help it. Defensive checkpoints are readied, forts are on alert, fleet is pulled in close for now. Armies are at the fore. I've got a lot of Wolf-Kin showing up, but some are making noises about heading east for the Iceborne Flame. What is going on with that Emil fellow? It sounds like he's been making noises across the northern temples about defending Ulric's new Flame. In any case, my daughter seems to have gotten a bit of her spirit back that she lost in Albion, but we'll have to see how things turn out. I sent a message to the Eonir, and Lady Naraiel has already responded back that if the Druchii try to land on the coasts of their forest they will not find a warm welcome. She's rallying her forces, I think, so that's got to be worth something. At least, one hopes. We'll make it through this. We have to.
Your Friend,
Stephan von Kessel, Count of Nordland
"Damn right we do," you murmur as you read the end of it before waggling it and speaking aloud, "And it seems that Stephan is also concerned about Emil, the man's preaching has drawn some of the Ulricans out of Nordland that should have been aiding in the defense efforts there."
"We set some observers," Captain Leisedotte says, "Just in case."
"Because I'm sure the Ulricans will love the Order of the Silver Hammer poking about," Natasha drawls, making the Captain shrug.
"If we are there on the Count's order, it may force them to accept our presence. If they act more aggressively than that, it is better to know now than later that they've utterly lost their minds," she says while placing a hand on one of pistols slung at her waist.
"I don't," you grunt while rubbing at your temples and drinking more ostka, "Want a fight breaking out between the Cults. It's the last thing we need right now."
"I will be sure to inform the Ulricans of that wish," Leisedotte nods, looking almost guileless.
Almost. You know that glint in her eye. You've seen it since you were a child, whenever a Sigmarite or an Ulrican saw an opportunity to get one over on the other Cult. Sometimes it was a snide word. Sometimes it was far, far more than that. When you were exiled to Jegow, you were transferred from the Sigmarite heart of the province out into the greater wilderness where Ulric ruled. Suddenly, the arguments that ended with an outnumbered Ulrican surrounded by Sigmarites, the opposite became regular. Of course, one would be a poor worshipper of either God if they simply backed down from a fight when said God was being besmirched, or at least that was the usual prevailing opinion.
"We'll see," you tell her before opening up the letter from the Eonir which, thankfully, is written in Reikspiel.
Frederick,
Twice, you have seen the Eonir approach ruination. Twice you have seen it off. First it may have come at the hands of the foul beastmen. Then it may have come at the hands of Ariel, or Drycha. Your wife preserved the Dawnstone Pinnacle and defeated the corrupted Coeddil. In the past, the Dark Omen poisoned our very spirits, and left us feeble and weak. Ariel's power threatened to crush us under her maddened mind, and Drycha alongside Coeddil would have slaughtered us and her both. These things that should have, would have come to pass without your intervention, did not because you did. You forgave what you did not have to. The Druchii have raided us before, but only a small handful of times in the long span of things, especially in comparison to what they have done to human-held coasts. But whether they expect it or not, they shall face the Eonir, for we shall stand with you and Stephan. Our forces are still gathering, drilling, preparing, and will be ready when the enemy arrives. We have no ships of our own, but if the Druchii wish to accomplish their goals, they will have to land. Let us shed their blood together, for they are no kin of ours.
Your Friend,
Naraiel Dawnstone, Glade Lord of Laurelorn, Lady of House Dawnstone
"Good news, I would hope," Natasha asks after sipping some wine.
"Yes," you nod, letting loose a long, relieved sigh. "Yes," you repeat while handing both letters off to her. "Nothing that needs a response other than a general acknowledgement and heartfelt thanks," you say while writing just that and handing it back to the messenger and finally look at the messenger from Salkalten. "Now you. Got your breath back?"
He looks a bit embarrassed as he nods, honestly. Then again, given the other two messengers had farther to go than he did, presumably, yet he was in such a state does not speak well to his physical conditioning.
"All right then, give me the letter. Let's see what Von Sterneck has to say…,"
Count Hohenzollern,
I have followed your orders, and I believe that within two months we will have gathered up the people of all the coastal settlements to Salkalten. I have taken the privileges afforded to me as Prince of this city to begin arming and training as many of them as I can, some are even being offered pay if they prove to be reasonably capable. Though we have not seen any Druchii just yet, we are sharing communications with the Cult of Manann and the ships over in Nordland. We do not know for certain when the High Matriarch is arriving with her reinforcements, or if the fleet out of Barak Varr even knows that they are to sail to our aid in the first place yet, winter weather being what it is. Regardless, we await your arrival to take command of the defense. May Manann and all the Gods of the Empire favor us for victory. Though I must make mention that the Flagellants rallying along the coastline make me a bit leery, and yet my wife has provided a queer and possibly cruel thought. If the Flagellants remain in the coastal villages we have evacuated, they may well convince the Druchii when they arrive that their course is yet unknown. Furthermore, rather than finding frightened peasantry, they shall find zealots willing to sell their lives dearly to punish those that would otherwise enslave them. I know that it would greatly reduce the Flagellants as a fighting force before the greater battles that might yet come, but any Druchii they manage to kill will surely aid us. But, of course, your orders shall take precedence over all others.
You Loyal Servant,
Prince Waldemar von Sterneck, Prince of Salkalten
You almost want to whistle through your teeth as you read the end of the letter. You've only met the man's wife once or twice in passing at a few events that have been held. Balls or banquets, a wedding, and so on. You hadn't quite necessarily thought of her the type to suggest such a thing. Last you'd heard, she was quite dedicated to Ulric but over the years seems to have come to favor Manann, much like her husband, so you aren't entirely sure where she got the idea from aside from her own mind. Worse, you can't entirely dismiss the idea, at least not immediately. It would certainly punch some Druchii noses in the moment they start trying to scout the coastline. But would it really be worth it when, instead, you could have a block of frothing fanatics to throw as a mass at the enemy? Or perhaps to hold a position or flank or the like. It's difficult not to think of the Flagellants in such terms, honestly, as that is traditionally all they've managed in the various battles of the Empire that they have been involved in. Sitting in one spot, selling their lives to the last while other Imperial forces maneuvered away or flanked, or otherwise charging in a single mass. Something to consider, at least, and you write in your response letter that you have not decided one way or the other before handing it back off to the man to return north with.
Then it is back to the organizing grind, at least for a short while until a heavy knock at the doorway from a hand big enough to pick up a man by the torso comes.
"Urgdug!" You greet your brother with a smile, one he shyly returns as the rest of the people in your office offer similar greetings. "How is Cherag and your son?"
"Safe, now," he says, miming wiping sweat off his forehead.
"I'm sorry, my brother," you sigh, "I know that we just got you set up at Trofurt."
"Hey," he shrugs, "Until we get some real stuff going, you and I both know it's safer for them here in Wulfenburg."
He's right, you know he's right, but you can't help but add it to the pile of things that the Druchii have done to make you angry. Trofurt is only three thousand or so citizens, and nowhere near as heavily defended as Wulfenburg is. Urgdug is quite famous indeed, especially in the Empire, and you've little doubt that the Druchii would have heard of him. And his wife and currently only child. While the Grey Wizards are working in and around the province, there are going to be a hell of a lot more of them here at the moment. Safer, you hope, from Druchii assassins. For now at least.
"Right," you nod. "Can I do something for you?"
"Just wanted to let you now that we've moved back into the castle, for now. Cherag is taking up cooking and preaching at the Grand Kitchen for now," he adds.
"Good to know, maybe we'll have a dinner before we head north," you say with a smile, one shared by many of those in the room at such a thought.
In another life, it is highly likely that Cherag would have been one of the so-called Butchers or Slaughtermasters of the Great Maw. Instead, she is a priestess of Esmeralda and one hell of a cook besides. Perhaps as good as Hagrid, though you would never say it in the man's presence. Whenever Cherag and he get together, they start arguing about who creates the better four chicken soup, and what makes for better steaks. Everything from cooking heats, times, sauces or no sauces, and a debate on something called 'reverse-searing' and regular searing that the two seem to change positions on every time.
"Right. Well then, I'm off," he salutes you lazily and thumps away, castle shaking around him slightly as he does.
"Do we have
any estimates on when the Grey Wizards will be done?" Sabine asks as he leaves, "Arthur and Serhild's estates in the northeast are not done either?"
"As far as Magister Greenwich was concerned, longer than a handful of weeks," you shrug.
Magister Greenwich was not, necessarily, the superior to the various other magisters currently running around Ostland with their subordinates, but he is the one that seems to have been elected to speak with you on the other's behalf. A tall, hook-nosed wraith of a fellow, Magister Greenwich is neither overly loud, nor overly quiet, nor is he particularly formal or casual. He is, in fact, completely middling in personality with regards to seemingly everything. You have a feeling that if the man could have been born of a more average height, he would have been quite pleased indeed. If being pleased would not be considered to much of a distance from his generally middling demeanor.
"Hopefully they'll be done before the Druchii get here," you add before going back to your paperwork, Sabine busily doing the same. "We can't exactly make them go faster. It's a matter of casting the spells, carefully and correctly, and money no longer has anything to do with it. Not now that they've gotten all the materials they need."
Sabine looks, for a brief moment, absolutely aghast at the idea of enough money not being the solution to every problem, but it passes quickly. She has seen too much, killed too many enemies of mankind on the battlefield, to think otherwise. Then she sighs, nods, and gets back to work. Everyone does, for another hour or two before you can't stand it anymore and rise, cracking your back at the same time.
"Gah. I'll go for a brief walk, be back soon," you say as you head out the door.
You wander the castle, feeling the energy in the air, with no particular destination in mind. Servants, Greatswords, messengers, all moving back and forth. Life, but frantic life, compared to the normally relaxed feel of it all on most days. But then, these are not most days. After a few minutes, you even find yourself stopping in a hallway, not entirely sure why. At least, not at first. Then as a nearby porter hefts a box atop his head which momentarily blots out some of the torchlight, you remember. You remember the roof smashing in, an undead dragon, the ranting of a vampire, the thump of your wife's body as she hits the ground. For the briefest of moments, red film creeps into your vision, but it is a quick thing. Quick to arrive and quicker to pass. It's astonishing, honestly, to realize that this is exactly where Zacharias arrived. In the years since, this entire section of the castle has been rebuilt, and life lived richly and warmly and quickly enough back and forth that whatever taint it might have left behind is long gone.
A moment after that realization, another comes as you hear the plaintive wailing of three separate children. The sound of which immediately draws you to a shockingly near playroom, within which none other than Magnus is sitting down and playing with his children. Or, at least, three of your grandchildren. Karola is sulking in a huff off to the side, while her sister Ori is busy perched on a windowsill, watching the various goings on in the courtyard, as well as the smaller play pen put aside for Talgris and Arthur. So it is mostly just Magnus playing with Wolfila, Stephanie, and Freya. The two sisters are busily running around in a circle, clumsily followed by their brother Wolfila. Magnus watches it all with a smile on his face, basically forming the center around which the circle is being run. After a moment, Wolfila stumbles, and Magnus immediately reaches out a hand to catch him with utter gentleness. He doesn't let him fall, just steadies him, and by then both of Wolfila's sisters wheel about, converging on their brother from both sides to begin babbling comforting words to him. They are bigger, faster, stronger, and smarter than him, but the care and concern that Magnus has quietly and steadily shown since Wolfila's birth have utterly ingrained into the rest of his children an abiding love for the lad. Though it's never happened throughout the Hohenzollern Herd, something tells you that if anyone tried to make fun of Wolfila that his sisters would be on them like wolves. Or bulls, that seems more likely given their dual brash natures. Ori on the other hand?
Well, she's the only one in the room to have noticed you leaning against the doorframe, her eyes locking onto you for a brief moment returning their ceaseless vigil.
"You have to be careful, my young wolf," Magnus' smile widens a bit. "Remember?"
"I 'member," Wolfila sniffles, looking down. "I knows."
"I knows you nose," Magnus chuckles before temporarily 'stealing' his son's nose, making Wolfila squawk and put his hands over his face, Stephanie and Freya leaping upon their father and beating on him with tiny fists demanding he put said nose back. "Ack, I surrender, I surrender. Your nose, my lord," he says haughtily before bopping Wolfila on said nose with a finger.
You don't say a word, and just watch in silence. You may never know, exactly, how Wolfila might have turned out if he'd been taken away to the Jade College. They might well have fixed his body, but you've more doubt about the mind. But then, Magnus has never discriminated against his son for that. He simply readjusted everything around making sure that Wolfila was safe. Some amongst the servants, you knew, whispered that because of that Wolfila was not particularly loved by his father. They couldn't have been more wrong. Magnus worked hard to include Wolfila, to comfort him when he fell, when he could not keep up, and also to ensure that the rest of his children did not take offense to the extra time and care that he had to put into caring for him. That they did not resent Wolfila for preferred treatment, for being first for Magnus to pick up, to begin teaching, to return to help him work through things while the rest of the children went on. Eventually, to have them begin working to help Wolfila on their own, without Magnus needing to prompt them at all.
He doesn't need to be a great warrior, or a reputable scholar, you remember Magnus saying.
He just needs to be who he is. A good lad.
Not everyone will see him that way, had been your cautionary response.
Who cares? His brothers and sisters will protect him if need be. They love him as much as me and Sabine do. More, even. And besides…at least he's willing to pick up and swing a stick in his own defense.
That had led to an entirely different discussion, one with much less happy results. You can't help but look over at Karola as she reads her books. She's been reading a lot of them, these days, a result of refusing to partake in the long hours of training that pretty much everyone else in the family does. Part of you wonders if you might as well get it over with and see if she wants to go to a Shallyan convent or the like. Part of you hopes that she sees a bit of sense. Part of you has to acknowledge that the Shallyans are a perfectly respectable part of the Old World, and direly needed besides, even if they are pacifistic. But Magnus keeps hoping he can change her, change her mind. Unfortunately, your son seems to almost fear that it will make him a failure of a father, of a Hohenzollern, if she ends up going that route. And nothing you've been able to do has either helped in his efforts, or to convince him that it will be all right even if you both fail in that regard. For goodness' sake, it's one of the main points of having multiple children as nobility.
Still, you dare not interrupt this quiet time he spends with his children. It is a rare thing, perhaps rarer still in the coming months. In this world, it could very well be one of the last times ever. For him. For you. For both. How many sons have buried fathers, and how many fathers have buried sons? Far too many of both, most certainly. Only Ori marked your entry, and only Ori marks your leaving, the slightest of nods going your way as if she is on bodyguard duty. Or, given how she acts, maybe that is exactly how she sees it. You wander afterwards regardless, though not too long, and return to your office just in time to see Magister Thelme dump a corpse into the doorway.
"What in Morr's name!?" Sabine yelps around the time that Natasha curses in Kislevite.
Magister Thelme is the direct opposite of Magister Greenwich in personality, physicality, and purpose. He's a plump man whose manner of speaking and behavior are quite simply inextricable from the somewhat derogatory description of 'country yokel'. How he manages the plumpness when his kind are supposed to be running around the place, you're not entirely sure. But Sabine has privately theorized that he may well be one of those who pretends to be a merchant to get around, which would mean he spends less time racing in the night on horses made of shadow and more time sitting on a wagon wiling away the hours eating and drinking. But where Magister Greenwich is running about creating rituals of protection, Magister Thelme and his 'boys n' girl' are the ones specifically dedicated to protecting your family. Technically they are also supposed to be helping teach your family how to do that themselves, from a certain sort of threat, but given recent events that sort of training is not necessarily the best way to spend one's time. Which makes it all the more annoying that Magister Thistle, initially supposed to be in that position, switched off with him without so much as telling you. It was Thelme who had to do so.
"'pologies, ladies," he tips his huge wide-brimmed hat to them both, "'hwas lookin' fer – oh there 'e is! Hey there, Count!" He waves so vigorously he should by all rights fall over.
"Magister Thelme," you say gruffly as you walk up, staring at the Druchii on the ground. "Explain yourself."
"Hmm? Oh! H'right," he nudges the corpse. "This feller."
It is, undeniably, a Druchii. If it were an Asur, Eonir, or Asrai they would be in quite poor taste to be dressed like this one. Their hooded cloak is a deep black with silver highlights, but even that is extremely understated. Even in death, this one looks like they had a cruel sneer on their face. You can't even tell, exactly, how they were killed, but they are most certainly dead. Though you do spy that there are no weapons on the body. At least, not being held by them.
"Spotted this kind sort clinging upside down to a wagon that were comin' in from th' north gates o' th'city," Thelme goes on, "Oh, he was squirrely! Sneaky little feller, duckin' n' dodgin' through the shadows."
A bit of cold injects itself into your spine, while your anger grows simultaneously. A reaction you know is being shared with and by Natasha. Sabine is a bit slower on the uptake, but her shock and fear are also rapidly fading to be replaced with maternal fury.
"Where did you decide to finally take them down?" You ask, kicking the body absentmindedly.
"Eh," Thelme doffs his hat and scratches the back of his balding head, revealing a face that looks like it was in a few too hundred many bar fights. "Beggin' pardon, Count, but I sorta wanted ter see h'where he was headed. You know, tryin' to figger out 'is target? Turned out," he jerks his thumb down the way you came. "S'tryin to go after yer son."
"What?!" Natasha growls, almost leaping over the desk in her fury.
Sabine doesn't say a word, she just stands up and silently moves towards the door, kicking the corpse again.
"Were there any others with him?" You ask, glaring at the body with even more anger now.
"Nah, solo mission I think. Hard t'tell with elves, course, but I'm thinkin' he h'was young. Iffin he did it, glory aplenty. Iffin he
failed, eh, no 'ard loss."
"Your assessment is correct, Magister Thelme," Sadrina announces herself with that statement as she walks into view, her expression as cold and remote as you've ever seen. "That is often one of the ways that the Druchii begin their invasions. Either with absolute experts and veterans sure to succeed, or with cadres of younger and more inexperienced saboteurs and assassins to gain experience."
Thelme puts his hat on and then doffs it again against his chest.
"M'lady Sadrina! I didn't almost hear nothin' of ya comin' through," he says with what you think is respect.
Well, either that or lust. Or both. It's hard to tell with a man like Thelme.
"That was intentional, Magister, given what you just found," she says, greeting you with all with a nod.
"Which is worse, then," You grunt, folding your arms across your chest.
"It depends, as ever," Sadrina sighs, kneeling down to prod at the body, checking for something. "His weapons?"
"Ah, h'right here," Thelme says quickly, pulling a trio of sheathed long daggers from seemingly just the thin air. "Had these on him," he then pulls out two hand crossbows, "N'these," and a rope, hook, and darts.
Sadrina takes them all, placing them to the side, and then unsheathes the daggers. Or at least begins to, before she sniffs and recoils, then puts the dagger back into the sheathe. After she gets the same reaction from the other two, her frown grows wider.
"What? What is it?" Sabine asks nervously, biting at a thumbnail.
"This is less good," Sadrina bobs her head to the side. "This," she taps all three daggers, "These. This poison is not for killing." She looks you square in the eye. "It is for paralysis. Total paralysis. Silences the victim utterly, tugs all muscle control out of the window. You, essentially, would be left as a limp bag of bones and meat."
The anger rises, visibly, in all three Hohenzollerns present.
"They didn't want him dead. They wanted
him," you're nearly shaking with the anger in your body.
"A quick death on the battlefield, or even a quick poisoning to leave his frothing body in bed, no," Sadrina shakes her head. "They appear to desire a more…long-term sort of result."
"Given h'what your boy and the rest did n' Albion, seems these Druchii might'a bit a bit peeved," Thelme chews on his lip.
"Well they're not going to get it," you snarl. "Thelme?"
"Yessir?"
"Get back to work. And no more 'waiting' to see what their targets are. I want them dead."
Thelme nods and puts his hat back on while doing the sloppiest salute you've ever seen.
"Yessir!"
A thought strikes you, and you look past him and towards Sadrina.
"Unless…you think you could get something out of them?"
The Handmaiden of the Everqueen shakes her head.
"I tried that once. He then subsequently died from a poison he'd somehow secreted into a piercing inside his mouth. He tugged it free with his tongue and the poison went down his throat."
"…I see," you finally say, drinking an entire flask of ostka.
"I'm going to my husband and children," Sabine states, setting her shoulders and walking past. "I'll be back later."
Neither you nor Natasha feel like stopping her.
"See if you can make sure that no one is walking around by themselves," you mutter to Natasha, who nods curtly and heads off, calling a few Greatswords to her as she goes.
By then, Thelme is gone, having walked into the shadows and dissipating. Sadrina glances down at the body and then back up at you.
"What do you want done with this?"
"Get rid of it," you wave it away, "But…leave the weapons with Anna. She might be interested in the hand crossbows."
"Very well," Sadrina nods and hauls the body up over her shoulder with ease, walking quickly on her way.
Which leaves you alone to drink some more and do some more paperwork while everyone sees to their own tasks.
=============================================================
The next day brings with it a difficult decision to be made. It's one that has become a regular debate amongst your family. More than once, the Hohenzollerns have almost died out as a dynasty because too many were killed at once. Hell, it almost happened again during the Great War Against Chaos. Father off to war, those left behind killed by Chaos cultists. You and Magnus and Anna off in Karak Ungor, Chaos trying to kill your wife without anyone else. So on and so forth it goes. The Druchii are coming, but if the worst should happen, and you should die or be captured, command would fall to Magnus. The difference being if he was back in Wulfenburg ready to rally the rest of the province, or was immediately present to also be killed or captured. With the latter looking more likely in a horrible sort of way. There are measures in place, of course. You, Natasha, Magnus, Anna, Arthur, and so on. But after a certain point, it becomes a case of last resort, of who you want in case the worst happens. And considering that you are facing two Black Arks, the worst may very well be the best you can hope for in any case.
"So, then, who goes and who stays?"
Debate begins immediately, and furiously. Arthur believes that the Druchii are as apt to desecreate the corpses of the dead and prevent them from reaching Morr's Realm as much as many enemies of the living. Magnus demands that he be there so he can directly respond to the Druchii's hatred of him by way of his hammer, and also to personally express his fury that they would send an assassin after him. Anna does not seem to care one way or the other, but then that seems to be her way. Natasha would prefer to fight alongside you, because you have plenty of family who can stay behind and she's spent more than enough time doing just that, thank you. Urgdug refuses to let you fight without him and doesn't seem likely to be swayed. But then you get the surprises. Young Frederick wishes to volunteer to fight. He's joined with some of the regular patrols, and his first kill was a gor, and so far he's shown himself relatively competent. This will certainly be his first great campaign, however, if he is allowed to join. It is, in fact, a debate that is ongoing even when you are momentarily called away, leaving your family to argue in the main dining room amidst a meal prepared by Cherag.
"What's this all about?" You ask the man when you step out of the room.
"Ah, well, sir," he clears his throat. "It's…there's an elf."
You sigh and close your eyes for a moment, counting in your head.
"Yes. Her name is Sadrina. She's been around the province for more than a year now."
"Ah, yes sir. But this is…a different elf."
That makes you blink and widen your eyes.
"Pardon?"
A different elf indeed, it turns out. When you arrive in the courtyard, it is to find Oskana trilling quietly as a dark green cloaked woman stretches out a hand towards her, a bulge in the cloak on her back giving the faint outline of a longbow.
"I'd be careful. Those are the sounds she makes before she bites," you say, making the elf flinch and turn, and then flinch and leap away as Oskana does just what you warned about.
You'd swear the gryphon is laughing as she chirps, a bit of green cloak in her beak that she pushes out with her tongue.
"Hah! She's…a fierce one, aye," the elf says, whipping her cloak about in one hand to investigate the now small torn portion with a bemused look on her face.
Well, you think it's bemused. She's got on quite a concealing hood and a thick green veil which masks just about everything below the eyes, though. Now that she's looking in your direction, you can see that her armor is in fact wooden, or at least portions of it. It looks like bark and vines have been perfectly molded to her boots, her gauntlets, and her thighs. You can also confirm that it's a bow on her back beneath the cloak, though it is surprisingly plain for a piece of elven work. At her sides she has a pair of sheathed elven daggers. More important than any of that, however, is that you recognize her voice, and those strange utterly black eyes.
"I remember you. From Athel Loren. The Waywatcher that Eldyra yelled at."
Though you are quite sure that Eldyra would prefer if that wasn't one of the main memories of that entire incident, you can't help but remember it quite strongly. The Waywatcher doesn't quite wince, but she does freeze in place for a second before clearing her throat and putting her hands on her hips.
"Aye. Suppose that would be the main way you remember me," she mutters.
"You also called me a glaikit mayfly, if I recall correctly."
"I'm aware of how disturbingly good your memory is while intoxicated," she says acerbically before freezing again and sighing. "Shouldn't have said that."
"Why? It's true," you shrug. "Now, I know you're Asrai, not Eonir, so why
are you here? If you're a representative of Ariel, I'll hear her words."
The Waywatcher is silent for a moment, long enough that you open your mouth again to speak when she finally sighs.
"I'm not…," she starts before falling silent again. "I'm not here on the Queen's orders, no."
"Then…," you roll your hand in the air.
"I'm here on my own," she sighs, "
Araloth said that it would be better if I…announced myself. To you."
"Announced yourself to me," you repeat.
"I know you can hear perfectly well," she says, somehow audibly scowling.
"Definitely not the sort that would be sent as a diplomat," you snort, for some reason making some of the tension leech out of her frame.
"No. Absolutely not. If it were up to me, you wouldn't even have seen me at all," she crosses her arms.
"Doubt it. I've got Grey Guardians crawling around the place and a Handmaiden of the Everqueen prowling around, specifically looking for any unfamiliar elves," you fire back, getting a full body jerk of shock out of her.
"Mayfly wizards are one thing, but I thought she was just a rumor!" She says, sounding mystified. "A true Handmaiden?"
"Her name's Sadrina," you nod. "But, back to Araloth?"
The last time you saw the Glade Lord of Talsyn, he'd just about nearly been killed by the nearest representatives of one of his Gods, as well as his King, then fought against Drycha's last gasp while you went and killed the bitch herself. But from the extremely short amount of time you encountered him he seemed a reasonable sort. For an Asrai. Though it might have been your associates or the circumstances throwing him off.
"He said I should tell you," she shrugs, folding her arms back over her chest. "That you deserved to be told outright."
"Well…that, I suppose, I do appreciate," you admit. "Are you planning on anything untoward for the people of my province?"
"W-no! Not at all!" She straightens up, arms now clenching at her sides. "You-,"
"So every story out of Bretonnia and the Empire about Wood Elves attacking out of nowhere are lies?" You cut her off, making her outrage sputter to a halt.
"That's…,"
"Look," you hold up a finger and drink some more ostka. "If you don't, great. If you do," you cap the flask and put it back in your bandolier. "Well, just don't, hmm?"
She glances down at
Brain Wounder on your waist, then back up at your utterly serious face.
"Aye."
"Great!" You smile, "If you want some of the best food in the Empire, seek out the Grand Kitchen or one of the Great Kitchens across the province. Every Festag they serve free meals to those without money, big ones, but they serve leftovers and scraps on the regular daily to those who can't pay for full meals."
Then you begin heading back into the castle as she sputters again.
"W-that's it? Just like that?"
"Why?" You half-turn to see her again. "If you're not planning on making trouble, and you don't, and you're not here as a greater representative for Athel Loren, why in Sigmar's name should I give a shit? I mean," you fully turn, "If you
do end up causing trouble, it won't go well. I guarantee you that. But you said it won't, so it won't…right?"
If she truly did see you fight in Athel Loren, at the Oak of Ages, then she knows perfectly well that
Brain Wounder tasted both regular elven blood as well as that of her King in the Woods.
"Right," she says quickly. "Right."
"Oh," you snap your fingers, "Name? And don't play around like you did before."
She fidgets for a moment.
"Kerillian."
It sounds like it's being dragged out of her.
"Hope you're telling the truth about that," you shrug and wave while walking away. "Stay safe, Kerillian! Druchii are coming to attack the province, I'd be careful if you don't want to get caught up in it."
"What?! You – gah!"
"I was wondering why I was hearing yelling," Sadrina's voice echoes out, and again you find yourself glancing back out into the courtyard.
The newly named Kerillian looks to have jumped at the Handmaiden's quiet arrival, based on her new positioning and hands on the hilts of her daggers.
"And who are you, young one?"
"Says her name's Kerillian, from Athel Loren. Decided to announce herself to me, presumably before I got news of some random wandering Wood Elf," you call out, hands cupped together to boost the sound.
"Oh! Interesting," Sadrina says while circling the wary Kerillian. "So tell me, young Asrai,
why Ostland of all places?" She then leans in as Kerillian murmurs something. "Oh! Now that, I understand."
"Why is she here?" You ask at a distance, turning your head to listen.
"Curiosity!"
It is difficult to tell, but you think that Kerillian might be either blushing out of embarrassment or anger.
"Good for her!"
But you have more important things to deal with than one curious Asrai who decided to range out of Athel Loren. When you return to the dining room, the argument has not particularly gone much of anywhere. At least, other than Arthur finally declaring that he'd be willing to sit it out if necessary.
"What was that about, father?" Magnus asks as you enter the room again.
"Curious Asrai apparently decided to come poking around, but specifically said she wasn't going to cause any trouble."
"Oh. Well, I am coming north with you, right?"
"Now hold on there...,"
A dire time has come. Druchii are coming for the provinces of Nordland and Ostland. Already, at least one assassin came for Magnus, prepared with poisons to facilitate his capture and removal while alive. In the coming months, for the coming battle, it is utterly foolish to dedicate the whole of the Hohenzollern Dynasty to battle if it is not direly necessary. At least some must stay behind to see to the younger members of the family, and should the worst occur, to act as regent. This is often a task that Natasha has taken, but by now your family has grown in size and age considerably. She no longer desires such a fate, and would greatly prefer fighting alongside her husband. Urgdug is similarly dedicated to being a close bodyguard and ally in battle. What other Hohenzollerns will journey to the coast to battle the Black Arks, and who will remain behind? Magnus and Sabine, Arthur and Serhild, Arthur's Son Frederick, and Anna have yet to have their positions decided.
Choose Hohenzollerns To The Coast:
[] Write In Which Hohenzollerns Are Heading North, And Which Will Remain Behind
3 hour moratorium
