GM Note: Each link in the relevant below section link back to a different, but importantly informative post. You'll know what I'm talking about when you see them.
[] Plan: Salkaten's Fist
-[] Crushed Anvil - Highest chance of causing actual damage to any Black Ark that heads for the coast, unknown casualties for Fleet forces, meant to attack Ark once it has beached itself and is forced into one place.
-[] Leave the Army of the Forest South - While they will not aid in the battles at the coast, they will be able to better protect the interior of Ostland should the Druchii make a march south, as well as any other unforseen threats.
-[] Sacrificial Fist - Should one or both Arks hit Salkalten, they will likely unleash deadly creatures and troops that could be, possibly, slowed by the presence of flagellants throwing themselves forward. Retain them for just such a purpose.
Spikes, Horns, and Stone .65
The meeting stretches on only slightly longer, long enough to make your decisions known. Waldemar is left in an ashen state and begs to retire to his quarters to spend some time with his wife and family. That you were in his castle, and in his city, yet he asked your permission for such things does not speak well to his current mental state. But then you can hardly blame the man. Greatsword he might have once been, he has spent many years now caring for Salkalten, and to know that his city is likely to be left ruined whether in victory or in loss is a painful thing to contemplate. Little you, Natasha, or Urgdug said seemed to make that much impact on him, while both elves remained distant the entire time. Natasha recognizes it a slight bit faster than you that the meeting is over, and so has already tugged her gloves and eyepatch back on.
"Well then, I'll walk the walls for a bit, I suppose," Sadrina says as the door closes behind the Prince of Salkalten. "Survey the defenses and the like. And you?"
"We might do the same, but need to see to the troops as well," you grunt as you stand, Natasha and Urgdug following you.
Kerillian doesn't even say anything and just shrugs as you all depart the castle, to the point that once you reach the milling crowds of the city outside she just disappears.
(Keeping An Eye: 69+Frederick Martial(18)=87/100)
Entirely. One moment she's within your line of sight, in her dark green cloak with molded bark and wood armor, and then she is gone. It's so shockingly total that you almost stumble as you walk, and have to mentally review your own thoughts to make sure that you aren't going briefly insane. But no, you can quite clearly remember her stepping between two men talking to one another. Neither was particularly fat, nor particularly muscled, and in fact were somewhat skinny. But somehow Kerillian managed to duck slightly between the men and then she doesn't come out the other side of them. There wasn't even an alley behind them or something like that, at least that you can see when you crane your neck around to check.
She's just gone.
"Well that's disconcerting," you mumble.
"Hmm?" Natasha blinks and turns back to you as Urgdug and your Greatswords forge a path ahead of you.
"That Asrai, Kerillian. Does she have any magic on her? You know," you point at your eyes.
Your love purses her lips, brow scrunching slightly in thought before she shrugs.
"Perhaps. The Winds do not swirl around her in any major fashion I've seen, but then again she is an elf of Athel Loren. The average amount of their kind is different from us humans."
"Well," you cluck your tongue, "Any more than the other elves you've seen?"
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a gaggle of what can only be Flagellants running across the road as a group. Everyone around them steps back, wary in the extreme, and why shouldn't they be? Half of those men and women are barely clothed. Some of them are actively bleeding from flogging themselves, and all of them bear that literally insane wild-eyed look, hefting various weapons they've scavenged or cobbled together for themselves. But then you've seen handfuls of them already since arriving at the coast. What makes this more different is the rather nervous looking pair of engineers leading them, with only a few bands of black in their white mohawks. Well that and all of the fanatics are smiling. Which is disturbing in the extreme.
"Perhaps?" Natasha looks up and to the left as she says it, tapping a gloved finger against her chin. "I was not in Athel Loren, but compared to those in Laurelorn…it is difficult to say for certain," she shrugs. "Why?"
"Just wondering – but, hold on where are they going?" You point out the engineers, making her turn. "Brother!" You thump a hand on Urgdug's thigh. "Watch 'em!"
"I see 'em. Wanna follow?"
"Yeah, when's the last time you saw Flagellants
smiling?"
"Well," he thinks as he begins walking down the street, a glacier of fat and metal forcing the seas of people to move aside, "Only when they were dying, I guess. Back in your father's day."
You don't pause as you walk, but you do find yourself glancing up to scrutinize your brother for a moment. It's easy to forget, for most, that he served in the army under your father for years before you became the Elector Count. It's taken him decades and decades of relentless, stubborn study to reach the point he has now. Sure, he sags in places, in fact almost all of them, but it is not in the same manner as others. How old do ogres get, really? Moro had her suspicions, but how could she possibly know for certain? How many even have the opportunity to reach what might be considered old age for their kind, when in the Mountains of Mourn weakness ends with you dead and eaten the vast majority of the time. Even in Ostland, those ogres that have settled here in the slightly longer term seem to end up disappearing at some point or another, wandering off again and never returning for one reason or another.
"Urgdug?" You find yourself asking as you keep moving in the street, hearing a distant booming sound.
"Yeah?" He looks down at you. "What is it?"
"Whatever happened to your parents?"
A thoughtful look crosses his face as a distant boom echoes out. Is someone testing some of the cannons on the walls? Not a bad idea, honestly. Continual battering by saltwater and storm is surely hard on them.
"Well, I dunno who my dad was," he shrugs his broad shoulders, a hillock of metal and chainmail rattling with the movement. "But my mom, Surgug, she was a bouncer in Ostland. You know," he raises a hand and clenches it together and chuckles, "Big and scary makes drunk patrons calm down real quick, most of the time."
"Huh," you murmur. "I can't believe I've never asked after all this time. I'm sorry about that."
"Agh," he laughs, waving his hand through the air, "Don't worry about it brother. She died when I was, hrm, three? Just barely old enough to understand her name, and my name."
"Died?" Natasha blinks. "How? I imagine it wasn't just in her sleep?"
"Nah," he shakes his head, shrugging again. "I don't know an ogre what's died in his sleep, ever. She got killed by a patron at the bar, they climbed up her and stabbed her eyes out with a broken bottle."
"Urgdug!" You half-shout. "By Sigmar, that's…that's horrible!"
"And you were just
three?" Natasha says, just as horrified, a hand going to her mouth.
"Somewhere around there," he waggles his hand in the air. "Got taken care of by one of the other bouncers until I was five or so, but by then," he slaps his belly to make a metallic thunderclap, "Couldn't afford to feed me. Was getting too big, already."
Another boom. It's getting closer, or rather, you seem to be.
"So I ended up wandering. Scavenged in the rivers, as best I could. Picked up a few bouncer jobs here or there. Got big quick, had to. When I wasn't big enough, near the beginning, had to be strong enough," Urgdug says it casually, no tremor in his voice or mistiness in his eyes.
Nor do you hear the resentment or anger that you might have expected.
"Then, when I was somewhere around thirteen or so, got picked up into the army," he nods, cupping his bulging fat chin. "Thirteen? Yeah. Around there."
"That's below the legal recruitment rate," you note distantly.
"Well not like they could tell, or cared," he chuckles again. "I was big enough to smash things, smart enough to know what orders meant. Well, what orders they were giving my kind back then."
"I can't believe I've never asked you about any of this," you mutter again. "I'm a shit brother."
"What? No!" He protests. "Not at all. What could you have done, huh? You were in Jegow, I was in Wulfenburg, and you," he points at Natasha as she makes to protest as well, "Were over in Kislev. Besides, I liked my life in the army. Was dim in the head, sure, but got food and drink, things to hit, so on. If anything," he grimaces, "Wish your father had taken me with him when he went to Kislev, or to Salkalten."
Another boom, this one now much closer. But you barely hear it, your mind consumed in thought.
"Well that's…I…,"
"You know, Urgdug," Natasha says quietly, "If you had, it is possible you would have just died. Everything we know about those days says that Frederick's father was ambushed, twice, and that less than a tenth of his forces survived their retreat from Kislev."
"Ah, but maybe not," he wags a finger back, but the humor has fled him. "Maybe."
This is something he's spent thought on. A lot of thought, you realize as you look at his face.
"We'll probably never know," he grunts into the ensuing silence.
"Plus, I probably would have just stayed in Jegow. Maybe joined the Bull Warriors, if they'd have let me," you say, having thought about doing just such a thing when you were younger.
Another year or two, and that was where Captain Liesedotte would have found you, not in a barely patronized smithy.
"Well-," Urgdug says before his eyes bug out as his fifteen foot height lets him see something before the rest of you do.
Another explosion ripples out, this one incredibly close, and it is enough to get your Greatswords to startle into ready positions. Natasha's hand has fallen to the slender sword at her hip, while you've got a hand on
Brain Wounder's handle. Urgdug moves, and the rest of you follow, right around the corner into a small, emptied square of some sort. You've no idea what it is normally for, whether market stalls or otherwise, and it hardly matters considering what you see going on in it now.
"As you can Gods' damned well see," Anna is saying, clear and cold without any passion despite the regular vulgarity. "Such is the result. Fucking imagine, then, what it can do for you bastards. We- ah. Father."
There is a post that has been erected. A gallows for one, it seemed. The swinging rope has been severely reduced, as one might imagine, from a danger close explosion. Meat, blood, and bone have been liberally strewn all about the ground, with a steadily growing black soot starburst. Anna stands nearby, a small wall of ice erected by her own magic to keep her from being harmed by the shrapnel, as well as a handful of other engineers who have all frozen upon seeing your party. Opposite them is a group of nearly frothing Flagellants, all of them similarly frozen as they look between you and your daughter, then towards your wife, then Urgdug, and back again. Anna is dressed like she is almost always dressed, in her armored engineer's uniform, but today she has brought out her rotating axe and is propping the bottom of the haft against her thigh while holding around mid-length, the other hand curled into a fist against her thigh.
"It is true," one whispers, a bald man who has driven nails into his own forearm to attach a blade there which replaces a missing hand. "Sigmar-blessed, he is Sigmar-blessed and he is
here, here to bless us for our sacrifice!"
"PRAISE!" Howls a woman old enough to be a grandmother, her hair thin and half of her face melted at some point by something.
She dances slightly where she stands, shaking loose dirt and twigs from the patchy sack she's stuck her arms and legs through. The rest of the Flagellants begin chanting and babbling amongst themselves. Some of them even fall to their knees, arms stretched to the sky. Others are clawing at their own faces in excitement. You don't see a single Warrior Priest among them, but you do see at least two of them that are wearing scraps of clothing that might have once been priestly vestments. One of them has a hammer, but it is heavily worn, the wood of the haft almost looks ready to shatter. The other has chained two small flails to his arms, the heads of the flails currently resting against the ground.
"Anna," you say, turning so that you are capable of seeing if any of the Flagellants do something stupid. "What is going on?"
"Utilization of shitty resources to create greater fucking ones through refinement of shit practices and damn better materials."
She doesn't even blink.
"And in layman's terms?" You say after a moment.
Anna glances at the Flagellants, then at you, then at her engineers. A sharp nod, and one of them bustles away and returns dragging a struggling man in a black hood. At the same time, another group of Flagellants runs into the square, looking dangerously close to have been pursuing the engineers leading them. They stumble to a halt, however, when they see you and hear what the other Flagellants are saying. Some collapse outright, writhing on the ground in what you hope is just religious ecstasy. Anna holds up a hand when you try to speak.
"A demonstration will suffice better, I think," she says to you, then faces the new Flagellants. "Greetings! My name is Anna von Hohenzollern. You may be aware of my father," she gestures vaguely in your direction, getting more gasps of joy and awe. "What you may not be aware of," she points at them. "You are all shit."
That makes the second group sort of twitch as a whole, while the first, having already been through what you are realizing is now a well-rehearsed speech, does not seem to react even slightly.
"Look at yourselves. Your armor? Cloth and skin. Shit. Your weapons? Trash and scrap metal. Shit. Your
bodies, broken, crippled, and malnourished. Shit."
Paroxysms of joy at seeing your face now struggle with outrage and the curious twisted pride of the questioned zealot.
"The foe we prepare to fight are the fucking be-Gods' damned Druchii. Have any of you cunts ever fought before? More than scrapping over fucking garbage in an alley. Any of you?"
Natasha doesn't need to tug on your elbow to get your attention. The concern is spiking in both of you, flowing through the bond. There is a bit of curiosity on both your parts, sure, but also some fear and something that might be a distant mounting horror as your mind rapidly reaches for explanations as to what is going on. In fact, you might well have realized it outright, though you can't be entirely certain.
"I…I was a-,"
"I don't fucking care," Anna flatly cuts off the man who'd begun to speak, his one remaining eye tightening as he scratches at his arm with a hand that only has two fingers. "Could you fight like you could then? No? Then shut the fuck up."
A jerk of her chin has the engineers drag the struggling man forward, tying his arms and shoulders up to the gallows and not the neck like you had been expecting.
"Actually, no, fuck that, come here, mister 'I fought once upon a time'," she points at the Flagellant and question. "Come here and show me that you can fucking fight or refuse and know that Sigmar will forever see you for the fucking coward you are. You will die, unmourned, and unloved, and unacknowledged by the Heldenhammer. He will turn his golden goddamn face away, and-"
To the Flagellant's credit, and your alarm, he screams and runs towards her. Before any of the Greatswords can react, before Urgdug can stride over and smash him to pulp with his club, he reaches Anna. Your daughter doesn't blink and steps out of the way of his first wild punch before raising her right leg in an act of incredible flexibility past her ear and then slams it down against the back of his knees. He sprawls forward and she slams the blunt back of her axe's metal haft against the side of his head, knocking him insensate. Then, as he lays there groaning, Anna glances back at the rest of the Flagellants. It is only then that you spy that one of the Flagellants of the first group is openly bleeding from the side of his face, from a similar hit.
"Let me be crystal fucking clear, you shitty bastards!" Anna raises her voice, now, even as her tone remains that unmodulated flat. "I! Am! Not! As! Fast! As! Them! I," she thumps a fist against her chest, "Am not as dexterous! They will leap, they will
fucking dance their way through your attacks, slitting your goddamned throats and planting poisoned knives up your assholes before you can do anything more than scream out 'Sig-!'"
Then she raises a hand, and the black bag is torn from the now tied up man's head. He is disheveled, but his eyes are narrowed and furious the moment he sees Anna.
"You bitch! You fucking bitch, you can't do this!" He screams at her. "I heard what you did to my friends!"
"Quiet, bitch," Anna tells him in an aside, then swings her axe in a reverse grip to break his jaw when he looks apt to keep talking. "This! Is a convicted murderer and rapist! He was to go to the gallows, but his sentence was changed when the Prince of Salkalten was made aware of the incoming invasion!"
Said criminal gurgles out blood and broken teeth onto the ground as he hangs limply in the ropes.
"So! How do we solve the problem of you wanting to die in Sigmar's name? To prove yourselves worthy? Tell me!" She locks eyes with one of the new Flagellants so strongly that the woman is frozen into a half-crouch as she'd gotten down on her knees to pray. "Would you die for Sigmar!?"
More than thirty throats scream in barely intelligible affirmatives of all kinds. That last question is all it really takes when it comes to those who become Flagellants. No one trains for it. One simply succumbs to faith and madness both, in the name of the Heldenhammer. Or, you suppose, other Gods. Zealots are not the sole provenance of Sigmar, after all.
"Wrong!" She cuts the screams off with a single word. "That is not enough! The better thing is not will you die for Him, because you will! You must! The better choice is not merely to die, but to kill for him!"
The first group are cheering again, for all that the newer Flagellants look somewhat confused but eager. Extremely so, her words almost seeming to entrance them for all the yelling and insults. Even the one by her foot has recovered slightly, turning on his back so he can look up at her with a devoted look on his face.
"But how can you kill the Druchii, if they are so much faster, so much stronger, and as I mentioned faster?" Anna continues. "I!" she points a thumb at herself, "Know how!"
"Teach us!"
"Tell us!"
"Sigmar praise you, tell us please!"
Bond-thought, now, rushes back and forth. Emotion and memories carefully curated and controlled to be sent back and forth. Curiosity, worry, concern. Should you stop this, essentially. On the one hand, you have no proof of the man's guilt, but you know that Anna would not simply drag someone off the street. It is entirely likely that she wrote to Sterneck before you reached his city, a separate message by wing-suit messenger. It is brutal beyond measure to use a prisoner for this, but if the man's crimes are true, he was destined for the block or the noose.
"I will!" Anna calls, leaning her axe on the ground against her and snapping her fingers.
One engineer approaches her, holding a handgun in one hand, and a bomb from a grenadier's backpack in the other. Another engineer approaches the condemned instead.
"This is a goddamned handgun! But I cannot spare them for you fucks," she shakes it and tosses it back. "This," she now hefts the sphere, tossing it up and down in her hand. "Is a bomb! But I cannot trust that you bitches could light it and time the bastard correctly! The operation of both of these," she tosses the bomb back to the engineer who has just put down the handgun. "Is beyond you! For fuck's sake, look at your hands, could you even hold them correctly?"
Many of the Flagellants now look down at themselves, seeing the painful truth of her words written in their injuries new and old. Joy and religious fervor are now tempered with the most naked self-loathing you've ever seen. Because, obviously, they can't use such tools in Sigmar's name. But you wince as you realize your suspicions were exactly correct as you spy the criminal. Natasha's eyes stray that way as well, and her mouth opens slightly before frowning.
"But there is another way! This!" She points at the criminal.
Or rather, at the familiar thick but incredibly squat cylinder which has been strapped to the man's chest with four cloth bands tied to the corners.
"Is a boomdisc! Another invention of mine! You do not need to know how to fix it! You do not need to use your hands – if you've even got the things – to use it!"
Only now does Anna walk back to behind her ice wall, the other engineers scurrying to do the same.
"All you must do!"
She raises a hand and a single, long, curved piece of ice forms in her hand that goes around the shield and towards the man.
"Is to reach! Your! Enemy!"
Then she jiggles the stick, it presses against the boomdisc's top which is now facing outwards from the man's chest, and it detonates. The boom shocks and startles some of the Flagellants, but not a single one of them looks away or blinks. Whoever the man had been, he is no longer. Everything above the thigh is gone, spread out across the area or destroyed outright. His smoking legs collapse to the ground, and the rope is now broken and singed again. It will require replacement, no doubt. Anna just looks amongst the Flagellants, who stand enraptured from the display.
"I ask again! Will you simply, pathetically,
uselessly die for Sigmar? Or will you fucking
kill for him?"
The Flagellants, as one, fall down to their knees and outright begin praying towards her. Screams of yes fill the air, as do prayers to Sigmar. Those who hobbled, were down a leg or a foot, those who were crippled outright in body rather than just in mind like the others, weep openly as they see salvation arrive in the dead eyes and unfeeling mind of your daughter.
"If you would take on this task, speak to some of my engineers," she gestures to the group of mohawk'd engineers next to her before walking over to you.
By now, the Greatswords have somewhat relaxed. In that their swords are leaned against shoulders rather than ready to strike, though the difference between those two postures is incredibly miniscule.
"Anna. What in…
why…," you splutter quietly, while Natasha just reaches a hand out and draws one of Anna's hands into her own.
"Daughter. You have to know that this is incredibly disturbing."
"Yes, their fanaticism is more pronounced than any loyal Imperial I've ever met in my life," Anna says, blinking slowly at the looks on your faces. "Ah. A moment."
It's almost fascinating to watch Anna mentally flick back through her memories to try and approximate emotional context for her to go off of. Almost. You, personally, can't help but see the precocious child of before, the young brave woman who went into Karak Ungor and never left it. You know the change is permanent, and you've accepted that. She is still your daughter, only altered, and not in a manner accursed by the Dark Gods. But you will never forget that little girl, either.
"You are disturbed at me, not them," she realizes. "I see. My apologies. I have used only convicted criminals for the demonstrations-,"
"That's not the part that bothers me, though it might bother Arthur a bit," you shake your head. "It is the…convincing them to strap on
boomdiscs to their chests and run at the enemy."
"They desire to die for Sigmar. This will ensure it, as well as ensure actual casualties amongst the enemy," is her immediate response. "To become a martyr in Sigmar's name is what they want."
"In battle, yes," you tell her.
"In every group so far, they speak of it as becoming one with Sigmar's holy fire," she says, looking you in the eye, then Natasha. "If you wish me to stop, and therefore reduce their effectiveness in battle, inform me and I shall do so."
"Flagellants have killed on battlefields before, historically in fact, without any such measures. I've read the same reports and old stories as you on that matter."
Anna doesn't narrow her eyes at you, she is beyond such displays of emotion when not trying to act them out for her daughter Tasha's benefit, but you do get the sense you might have somehow offended the emotionless intelligence beneath that massive mohawk of hers.
"Yes, but not necessarily by killing a proportional amount of the enemy. Perhaps they drag the enemy down by weight of numbers. Perhaps. But my method ensures that at least the first ranks of them will collide with the target and deal significant damage," she says the words quickly, barely breathing enough to have the air to do so. "Many Flagellants are incapable of standing in a shieldwall, of wielding standard weaponry, and we do not have a pre-prepared amount of armor for all of them."
Because of course, the brutality of it, the coldness of it, the near monstrous treatment of citizens of Ostland are not a weight on her shoulders. They literally can't be. These are volunteers, at the end of the day, those whose goal and purpose is in fact to fight, kill, and die in the name of Sigmar. Such is the way of the Flagellant, that last resort of the shattered mind of so many throughout the history of the Empire. To Anna, if they are going to be on the battlefield, they might well be used to be as effective as possible in the disposal and defeat of the enemy. She cannot feel disgust, or self-loathing, any longer. You and Natasha, on the other hand, cannot say the same. Even Urgdug, who has been standing in pensive silence the whole time, looks a bit disturbed by what your daughter has wrought.
"We yet have time. I shall call my students back, and we will cease recruitment efforts for the day. Those we have already approached seem unlikely to be pleased if we remove the possibility to die as holy martyrs in such a fashion," Anna says into the silence. "Tell me if we may restart tomorrow."
Then she turns about and leaves, the Flagellants chivvied out of the way by following the engineers set to teach them how to commit explosive suicide.
"Well…," Natasha says after a moment, revulsion pulsing through the bond.
Revulsion, as well as a cold sort of admittance. For Natasha could see the potential behind it, just as well as you.
"Well," you parrot before pulling out some flasks to start drinking them all down.
========================================================================
It is a well-known fact of life that Ostlanders drink. Your people drink when they are happy, when they are sad, when they are angry, and when they are afraid. Any emotion is fair game, really. Nothing quite helps like when you're feeling disgusted or ecstatic than a nice beer or five. If you're tired, you can drink to feel better. If you're feeling good and awake, nothing better than a beer to keep it going. On and on it goes, for any number of reasons. The differences are, of course, when you act on those feelings. Feelings such as anger and desperation, irritation at suddenly being in a new place, outrage at being called away from your home, and fear that the Druchii are coming to kill and mutilate you and everyone you know. That is why you are utterly unsurprised to hear more than one bar fight breaking out as you make your way through the Salkalten streets back towards the army camp just outside the city. After all, every single settlement along the coast has fled here, and while Salkalten is a city, such a massive rapid influx would strain any city in the Old World, Wulfenburg included.
So you pass by the first seven taverns with relative ease.
There are arguments, old ones, coming up from rival fishing villages who have found themselves crushed into the same buildings. Men who left one place and settled down in another being found by the fathers and uncle they left. A woman who apparently, going by the screaming, faked her own death in the tide before running away to Salkalten to join the Salkalten Guard. Strangers and friends, family and enemies, they've all come and mixed together in that quintessentially Ostlander place and manner – wherever the most amount of drink can be found. And so do those who have come to live in Ostland. A handful of ogres, here and there, pushing in and out of the small doorways, or guarding them as bouncers. A gaggle of hard-bitten halflings with blue bandanas on their foreheads and large Esmeraldan and Manannite tattoos, who still half-bow to you as they see you and your wife. There are Kisleivte and Estalian expatriates, even, their uniquely accented Reikspiel ringing in the air.
You do find yourself pausing, however, when a voice you didn't expect echoes out.
"The good woman said no."
That word, delivered in weary Bretonnian-accented Reikspiel, precedes the heavy launching of a pot-bellied man out of the doorway of the next bar. You, Natasha, Urgdug, and the Greatswords all pause as the incredibly drunk man flails like a fat turtle on his back in the mud for a moment. In the doorway, having to stoop slightly because of his own natural height, is a huge man dressed in a threadbare hooded cloak. So threadbare that it cannot, in fact, hide the subtle gleam of gromril plate and chain visible through the gaps, nor the hilt of the humongous flamberge that is on his back. A stray gust of wind blows the hood back slightly, just enough, but you don't need even that much. You know that voice, that stature. The only thing that might have thrown you off was the long white beard.
"Roland? Roland d'Mousillon?"
The aged Questing Knight pauses, eyes flitting your way before a small smile crosses his lantern jaw.
"Frederick!" He calls, lifting his chin before glancing back at the fat man who has finally managed to get to his feet.
"Thass…my…wife!" The drunk slurs, his charge forward ending with him slipping forward and nearly cracking his head on the steps up into the bar.
Save for the fact that Roland leans down and catches him by the forehead, gently easing him to the side as the drunk passes out entirely.
"It was not his wife," Roland informs you politely. "It was the third of a set of triplet barmaids, who are the daughters of the man and woman running this establishment."
The name of which, going by the sign, is the Snowy Pig. Though the painted image itself has faded, the white pig on a white ground is still more than visible enough for a drunken Ostlander to find.
"He was married to the mother, once upon a time, and thought her daughters to be her," he continues, shaking his head as he looks at the man. "A shameful display for a husband, divorced or not."
"It is, yes," you nod, a feeling of agreement flowing from Natasha through the bond.
Urgdug clucks his tongue.
"Still, it is good to see you. It's been so long!" You laugh, walking up to and sharing a crushing embrace against him. "I see you've invested in a good beard!"
It truly is large, stretching down towards his stomach, but you are struck as you step back to look him up and down more closely how much more weathered he looks.
"But by the gods, it really has been years, hasn't it," you can't help but say.
"And yet," Roland quirks his lips, one eyebrow raising, "You barely look as if you've aged at all since I saw you last."
"Good ale," you shrug.
Natasha scoffs.
"And literal daily checkups and healing from Jade Wizards, Priestesses of Shallya capable of wielding the Dove's divine favor, and more mundane physicians," she adds in, bumping her shoulder against yours.
It's all couched in warm affection and love, of course, despite the bite of her words.
"Plus drinking all that super magic berry wine in Athel Loren," Urgdug speaks up, ticking off his fingers, "Drinking an Ancestor God's brew. Wearing the
Light of Summer almost all the time whether awake or asleep. Drinking the most fortifying dwarf brews daily. Going through the World-Roots that one time. Plus the-," he starts pointing between you and Natasha before you thump him in the thigh hard enough to crack a human's skull. "Oh, right."
Meanwhile, Roland's eyebrows have done their best to climb to the roof of his head.
"It seems you have been up to a lot since we last saw one another."
"I suppose you could say that," you shrug, rubbing at the back of your head, then pausing as a realization comes to you. "Hold on. Where's…,"
You glance about, looking harder, and then frown. There are many posts outside these buildings, and while you see plenty of horses in a variety of states, you don't see the one that should be here. Natasha, picking up your confusion and shock, joins in on the looking only to fare no better than you.
"I don't see Landuin anywhere," you say, glancing back at Roland. "Did you set him somewhere else or…,"
You trail off as you see Roland's face fall.
"Oh. Oh no."
"It is a long, sad story," he sighs, leaning against and simultaneously utterly filling up the doorway of the Snow Pig.
"Ah, shit," Urgdug grunts as he realizes what you and Natasha have. "I'm sorry, Roland."
Roland just shrugs.
"Tell you what, come have a drink with us. We'll catch up, and toast better times," you slap a hand on his shoulder.
He places a hand atop yours and pats it before looking at you gratefully.
"I would not be opposed to such things, for all the charms of the Snow Pig," he steps down into the street and glances back into the bar. "I bid you all adieu, Master Lonbrook, Mistress Lonbrook!"
A trio of identical young halfling women come to the doorway and wave at him, blowing kisses as you all begin walking away. It takes a few steps before your mind catches up.
"Didn't you say that man was a husband to-,"
"Yes," Roland says as you walk.
"But weren't they-," Natasha starts to say, mystified.
"Indeed."
The silence lasts a moment before Urgdug speaks up.
"Well good for him. Knows the value of a nice gut."
Thank goodness for the bond. You and Natasha can collectively gag together without changing your expressions.
===================================================
Roland was not lying. You'd gotten back to your war camp outside the city, laid out some barrels and cups, and collected your close family together. Then your old Bretonnian friend had begun to tell his sorry tale, of what he had been through since you'd left his side.
"Ah,
shit," you grunt, leaning back in your command tent.
"That…truly was not the greatest of
stories," Natasha murmurs in agreement.
"My consolations likely mean little, but
you have them regardless," Arthur says gently.
"Your son fucking
sucks," Anna sniffs.
She doesn't flinch as you, Natasha, Arthur, and Urgdug all collectively turn and glare lightly at her. Roland simply sighs and ducks his head for a moment before drinking a bit more of the Bretonnian wine you'd brought with you. It isn't your preferred drink, but at the end of the day, it must be nice for Roland to have the taste of home. Of Bretonnia, at least. These are Bordeleaux wines, not Mousillon ones, not that you know if Mousillon even made any that could be bought anymore. But your old friend seems to treasure it nonetheless, sipping and savoring every single one. Honestly, you wish Mousillon did because he could damn well use the comfort. It was shocking to hear about Charlemagne, his sole son. The death of his wife from disease was tragic, but what his son had done was outright damning.
Murder. Theft. Banditry. A string of bastard children throughout the Border Princes, of women seduced and abandoned. Then, falling to Chaos outright? Roland might not have spoken the name specifically, but you don't need him to considering the symbols involved. But the crimes only grew worse from there, as much as the earlier ones repeated themselves. You shuddered to imagine the darkness that had been hiding in Tilea and Estalia, for lands that seemed so untouched by Chaos for much of their history, it appeared that the Dark Gods were no longer ignoring them like they used to. But it was the last of that journey which had disturbed you the most. You weren't entirely sure at first, but something was familiar about the description that Roland had given.
Then it struck you like a bolt of tainted lightning, something you desperately hoped was untrue but you knew was likely if only because the universe enjoyed causing pain on occasion.
"Krell," you say the old name into the silent air.
Arthur is on his feet immediately, while the rest of your family react in their own ways. Urgdug furrows his brow, Anna reacts not at all. Natasha takes a scant moment longer than the rest of you, but not longer than that. Kislev might not have suffered the touch of the undead much compared to the Empire, but she had Arthur for a son. That, plus the Vampire War, meant that a born scholar such as her was more than willing to read up on potential enemies. Roland gapes at you, then blinks rapidly as a mounting horror comes across his face.
"No," he shakes his head. "It can't be."
"It sounds like the old descriptions, from the old texts of the days when Nagash fought Sigmar," you insist, anger and panic punching through the comfortable drunken haze you'd been building up until that point.
"I'd heard a few stories, here and there," Roland said quickly, "Nagash's legions focused upon the Empire, not the old tribes in Bretonnia…,"
"Probably why you didn't recognize it immediately. Hell, I might not have, honestly. Krell's been gone for more than two thousand years."
"And it sounds like your son is running around in his armor, and with his axe," Anna pipes up, drinking loudly from her tankard of beer.
Roland just places his head into his hands.
Arthur is almost quivering in place, zeal blazing in his eyes. That, on the other hand, is perfectly expected. Whatever Krell might have been in life, in undeath he was much, much worse. Mostly by dint of having so much more time to perform evil deeds in the name of Nagash. A site of necromantic power capable of animating its defenders without any specific necromancer nearby was not something to be toyed with or dismissed. You almost hear his words before he even opens his mouth to speak them.
"I realize this may be difficult, given the time since the encounter and the subject matter itself," Arthur says as he places a hand on Roland's shoulder, "But do you think it would at all be possible for you to show me on a map generally where you found this place?"
"I…I can try," Roland murmurs as he looks up at your son's face. "I cannot promise total accuracy."
"A general location is better than none," Arthur shakes his head, "The Cult of Morr based near the Vaults can see to the matter better, but the chance of this…you…," he looks around at the bemused expressions of everyone else at the table. "If that truly was Glacier Lake, then that site was Krell's last stand alongside the remains of the Doomed Legion, the most powerful of the undead warriors of Nagash that retained animus despite the necromancer's defeat all those years ago."
That certainly explains your son's urgency. The Doomed Legion cut a massive swathe through the southern Empire in their rampage after Sigmar's victory.
"It doesn't sound like they were the same as they used to be," Natasha points out with a frown.
"Probably cause of time," Urgdug offers, scratching at his chin. "It's been more'n two thousand years like my brother said, and they still got up and were enough to fight off daemons and nearly kill that witch on their lonesome. No leader. No wight king. No necromancer."
Arthur nods at that, looking around at each of you before refocusing on Roland.
"If a true necromancer was able to discover the remains of the Doomed Legion and was able to
properly restore them to unlife, they would be a monstrous foe to face for anyone."
Roland's mouth closes, firms into a line, and he nods.
"I will do my best to guide the Cult of Morr, I assure you."
Arthur pats him on the shoulder and steps towards the door.
"I will return with a cartographer as fast as I can. My thanks, Sir Roland."
Then he is out and gone, likely sprinting as fast as he can. Which is quite a bit, all things considered. Leaving Roland to wearily sigh again and slump in his chair. He doesn't even touch the rest of his wine.
"Well, I suppose I understand all of that, or some of it at least," you say, offering him another pat on the shoulder. "But that doesn't explain why you're here, of all times."
"Charlemagne, paradoxically, learned subtlety after our last encounter," he snorts. "I have found no sign of his presence in the greater world, save in my dreams."
You frown at that. He's spoken of his so-called visions of the Grail before, but he clings quite tightly to them. Then again, your son is a High Priest of Morr, who often sends portents through dreams himself, so who are you to decide that the Lady of the Lake cannot do similar? For that matter, people have since time began claimed that the Gods have sent them visions, and while most of the time they're just mad, sometimes they're just right. Even if they don't quite understand how at the time, and the historians afterwards have to piece it together.
"If he's here in Ostland," Natasha says, the cold fury meeting your realization through the bond.
"He is not, no," Roland shakes his head. "He is further north. Alas, the border to Kislev is currently closed, and I dared not attempt to make an illegal crossing."
He looks at you and Natasha gravely.
"I witnessed some attempt just that. They were not treated gently, and I could not tell to which house those border guards were sworn."
"He's in
Kislev?" Natasha doesn't quite screech, her cheeks flushed with anger. "I must...I must write my sister!"
"Will the letter even get through?" You ask her, making your wife's anger and concern flare all the brighter through the bond.
"I don't know," she says as she bites her thumbnail. "But I must look into it. If he is as dangerous as Roland says, especially so!"
"I do not know if it is Kislev, or further north still," Roland cautions, making you and your wife turn to stare at him.
"If he's not in...you'd go to Norsca?
Alone?" You draw your head back as you look him from head to toe.
Roland still retains much of his bulk, but the grasping hand of time and so very many hard years cling tightly to his frame. Though his head is as bald as ever, as covered in scars as ever, the large white beard which now hangs from him is undeniable proof of time clutching at him.
"Or...or further north still?" Natasha sounds scandalized and frightened for Roland both.
The Questing Knight bows his head slightly and shrugs, looking up at you with an almost helpless smile.
"If that is where the Quest takes me, I will follow."
"If it takes you into the bloody Chaos Wastes the damn Quest is over," you retort, drinking your next tankard of ale all the harder.
Roland weathers the outrage on his behalf with ease, and just smiles softly.
"I had hoped to charter a ship to set me to shore in Norsca, and only myself," he informs you both, and then glances up at Urgdug who just looks down at him with a sad look on his face. "I apologize for causing any distress."
"More worried about you than anything else," Urgdug tells him. "You're our friend. And," your brother glances about for a moment. "What about the kids?"
Roland's steady acceptance of what is likely his impending death falters slightly as he blinks in confusion before realization settles in.
"You mean the unfortunate children that Charlemagne begat," he frowns, looking down into his lap. "I do not know. It may well be true that our bloodline truly is tainted."
"Bullshit," you say immediately, "Sure, bloodline curses can exist, but you're fine, aren't you?"
He looks pained, a grimace crossing his face.
"I? Perhaps. Maldred, my older brother? No. Charlemagne? No. The knights of Mousillon I set to watch over him, guide him? No," he shakes his head with each denial. "I hope that those born in the Border Princes might not suffer from their blood, I truly do. They do not deserve it."
A thought, a bundle of emotions, bounces back and forth through the bond.
"Do you want us...," you glance at Natasha.
"We could...," she trails off.
Roland blinks at you both.
"I could not ask that of you, let alone that they might not react well to agents of Ostland descending the length of the Empire to call upon them," he says, though his grimace now has to fight with a shy smile at the gesture.
"Maybe not take them away, but look after them," Natasha suggests.
"I...perhaps," he sighs. "They deserve what kindness they can get, given the unfortunate circumstances revolving around their births.
There is a brief silence after that.
"Something to look into after the Druchii. We might not be in any position to do anything," you say, drinking from a new tankard.
"I had heard something of the Druchii's coming," Roland nods, a grim look on his face. "Mousillon never tasted their whips in my time, but they have ravaged Bretonnia's shores before. Seeing as your ships are rather dedicated to their duty, and none remain that could ferry me, I'd offer
Durandal to help you fight them off."
Your immediate response was to answer in the affirmative, as even now you know he is likely to be one of the best possible combatants around. But you pause instead and spend a moment looking him up and down. His gromril armor is scuffed and battered, tremendously so, but has clearly been repaired by dwarf smiths at some point in the intervening years after his son retrieved Krell's wargear. He does not tremble, even slightly, and yet for all that unshakeable bedrock of faith you can see in his eyes, you do worry for him. Would he die here, simply for aiding you? Could he allow his aid to be refused, when you know that he holds so strongly to his oaths to defend the weak and helpless? No, he would not. But you would be lying if you hadn't somehow hoped, somewhere, that you would find something that would let you send an old friend to safety.
But that isn't the sort of world you live in.
"We don't know precisely when they're coming, and with your whole dedication to being in a different place every night," you begin to say, but Roland chuckles and raises a hand to stop you.
"I can sleep in different rooms, different parts of the castle, on the walls, in stables," he rolls his hand in the air. "Worry not, old friend."
"Are you sure," Natasha asks him carefully. "Knowing what we face?"
Roland's smile slips and is replaced by thinned lips and a firmed square jaw.
"There are children in this city. Of course I will defend them."
And that, it seems, is that.
"Speaking of knights, we should see about putting the call out," Urgdug mentions. "It's been a month, another and they won't be here in time if the estimates are on the worse side."
Two or three months. You pray for three, but know two is more likely. Your brother is right. Yet another decision to be made.
Choices To Be Made:
Cold Considerations
[] Allow Anna: Anna believes that she can transform the potentially useless flailing of some of the more physically disadvantaged Flagellants – not all, merely those who will potentially be of far less use in combat than their fellows – into explosive destruction. Holy martyrdom, with the help of some black powder and their endless fervor. It is a brutal thing to consider, but purely logically, may well have some merit. Allow her to continue her recruitment efforts, and it may prove of some use during the battle.
[] Refuse Anna: The Druchii are monsters. That does not, necessarily, mean you must become one yourself. Utilization of Flagellants is a time-proven tactic of the Empire, but they are still men and women of the Empire. Broken in mind, yes, and often in body, but Flagellants are still capable of contributing without having explosives strapped to them. This is unneeded, surely. It's not like Anna is capable of getting angry about it.
Ally Aid Assumptions
[] Yes: Someone, you aren't sure who, has begun floating the idea of sending some of your vitally important troops away from Salkalten and towards Nordland in case they need help. Despite the fact that there are potentially two Black Arks heading towards you, and that the Eonir are likely to be far more readily available to help them, you've heard whispers of perhaps sending one of the Vapor Tanks west instead of remaining to fight the Druchii in Ostland. Or more. On the one hand, it could be a strong emphasis on the allied nature of the Northern Trident. On the other, it could remove vital forces from Ostland. (If Chosen, Write-In How Many, If Any, Ostland Forces West)
[] No: You need every single one of your troops here. You do not wish to denigrate Stephan, but it is entirely possible that the harder fight will indeed be here in Ostland. Stephan is not sending troops to you, and you are not sending troops to him. Ostermark is the one splitting her forces between the two of you.
Knight Positioning
[] Call North: There are multiple Knightly Orders in Ostland that can be called upon precisely for such events as this. Call upon them, and by their oaths they must answer. For glory, for honor, for simple preservation. You'll need them, even if only for their heavy armor while on foot. (Write-In Which Knightly Orders, See Front Page, To Call To Salkalten.)
Any not called will form up near Jegow, as it is the greatest Knightly Bastion in Ostland. [All Manannite Orders are automatically coming to Salkalten. White Wolf movements...uncertain]
4 Hour Moratorium
