- Location
- Huezil
The problem is that we can't dig too deep there...
Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
- Thread starter torroar
- Start date
- Mature
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- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy intrigue happens male protagonist ck2 quest belief stronk count of cannons drunken wisdom foes in the shadows graf of guns (guns) if you have a question check the front page first it begins... mountain vietnam ogres paranoia rising unseen enemies everywhere use the search function before asking waifu wars wake the bull
So, random headcanon here
Engineers who pilot a vapour tank give it a shot of Bugmans for luck before battle
Engineers who pilot a vapour tank give it a shot of Bugmans for luck before battle
Serrated rotating cutter axe like Krieg from Borderlands, not powered by anything at the moment.
Gonna go ahead and say that it is highly unlikely that we'll be getting anything like straight up man-portable vapor engines/boilers for logging industry or whatever like that for such things. S'alittle too out there atm, yeah? So we can shut that one down.
It is possible that an experimental, unique, device might at some point be created, but it's just not something we'll ever be seeing proliferated, yeah? The same reason that alcoholic vapor engines can be what they are in this universe applies here as well: because at the end of the day, it's a bit of the ol' Because I Said So.
There's an old American folk song about that.
They call it that good ol Mountain Dew, Dew, Dew
Them that refuse it are few (Mighty few!)
I'll hush up my mug if you fill up my jug
with that good ol' Mountain dew.
My Uncle Hank had an old army tank
that he got back in '42
But it wouldn't even budge till he gave it a gludge
of that good ol' Mountain Dew
Sisters In Darkness and Death - Journey To The West, Part 7
GM NOTE: As a reminder, all three of the interludes took place in the past compared to Spikes, Horns, and Stone 2. How far in the past? Perhaps it is determinable, perhaps it is not. Either way, all of this came to pass already.
Sisters In Darkness and Death - Journey To The West, Part 7
"MEAT! MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!"
The ubiquitous cry of the Ogre Kingdoms rang out across the Ivory Road, as if had so often in the past and would so often in the future. Bells were ringing across the long train of wagons and carts, as were cooking pans, doors, sticks, anything at all to give warning out across the great procession. Not that it was required, honestly. Outside of a very specific subset of their kind, ogres from the Mountains of Mourne quite often preferred charging forward the moment any sort of food was available without pause. They came without the animal stealth of gorgers or sabretusks, without the low cunning of hobgoblin wolf riders, the possibility of patience of gnoblar mobs, nor the sorcerous workings of other dark powers. They came, instead, in the most typical manner possible – pounding heavy legs and slapping of gutplates as they came as a single great mob.
A thumping of feet and slapping of gutplates that was, in fact, responded to in kind with the exact same cacophony.
Near the head of the caravan, hulking at nearly thirteen feet of height and garbed in enough metal plate and chain to outfit a half dozen Bretonnian noble knights, the Tyrant Fulp Bonechewer Deathcheater Horntaker laughed out loud as he slapped a shovel hand against his heavy gutplate. He shoved a pair of fingers as thick around as a child's arm each into his mouth and let loose a disgustingly wet yet undeniably loud whistle. Immediately, the dozens of ogres strewn out across the first third of the caravan's length stood to what could pass for a crude posture of attention, glancing in his direction. Fulg reached onto his back and hauled forth an absolutely enormous club of metal and stone, waving it in a circle around his head and pointing towards the approaching dust cloud.
"Stand yer ground, boys! Meat's coming to us!"
Hooting and hollering, the ogres of the Ivorywalkers Tribe began to slap each other on the shoulder as they started huddling together. It would, by the standards of most militaries of the world, be the poorest shield wall ever seen, given that none of the ogres actually had any shields and were barely managing to stand shoulder to shoulder in clumps directly opposite the charging clumps of ogres heading right for them. For the standards of the Ivorywalkers, who had made their fame and meat escorting caravans back and forth along the Ivory Road for generations, it was a fine enough maneuver. Fulp sniffed imperiously and glanced at the brightly colored skinny in the funny little hat at the head of the biggest wagon at the very front of the entire caravan.
"You skinnies stay back and keep yerselves scarce, you hear?" He said in what passed for his comprehension for a murmur – generally considered by the rest of the world as a loud yell. "We'll see 'em off, or my name ain't Fulp Bonechewer! And it is, so there!"
The skinny with the hat, the one paying for the meat, nodded so rapidly that his silly little hat almost fell off. There was some babble about the guards who had come with the caravan before they'd reached the tribe fighting as well, but the tyrant didn't really bother listening to much of it. The Cathayans would fight, or they wouldn't, but either way he wasn't stressing overmuch about their contributions. After all, it wasn't like they would be eating the bodies afterwards, like most skinnies they didn't have the guts for it. Then again, a thought managed to ram its way through his brain, the past few times the Ivorywalkers had attacked a caravan in the leaner years the Cathayans had been pretty spritely and stabby.
"Meh," Fulp grunted, immediately banishing the thought in favor of the coming fight.
Thinking over with, he immediately strode down the caravan, bellowing orders and thumping ogres into position. He snorted and shook his head as he glanced back and forth, realizing that the incoming dust clouds were pretty much just coming from the north. The enemy wasn't coming from behind, they hadn't been waiting up ahead, they weren't even bothering coming from two sides at the same time. That, more than anything, just about answered every one of the bare handful of questions he'd bothered formulating about who was attacking their meal tickets. Rolling his head back and forth, letting dull pops echo out from deep within his fatty neck, he strode to the fore squinting the whole while.
"Lemme see…yep," he grunted, shaking his head and sharing some guffaws with his Bruisers as they spied the banners waving madly in the distance. "Don't recognize that tribe, must be new."
"The stupids?" One bull snorted, scratching at his double chins.
A nearby Irongut snorted and elbowed the younger ogre.
"Aw I hate dem. Hoy, youngin, don't bother chompin' the heads, s'like eatin' actual stone, mind ya."
Another Irongust grunted and thumped his heavy maul into his hand, licking his lips.
"Nah, ain't that bad! Just gotta boil der heads out, slurp it up, leave the skull behind. Or stick it on a club."
"HAH!" A dumber bull let loose a laugh.
Fulp slapped that one on the back of the head with enough force to explode a skinny's chest.
"SHUT IT! They ain't Rockskulls, I jus' said that! Besides, it don't matter who they are. Get ready for the crash, then thump 'em good! Now we…hold on," he growled, turning slightly. "Oy! Spinemuncher, you got anything for us?"
The Slaughtermaster didn't even glance up at him, instead rooting around in the large bloody sack in front of them.
"Hold on, hold on…eh…no…no…eh, that'll do," Spinemucher grunted before hefting out a massive rhinox heart and immediately plunging it into his mouth.
"Ho ho, yeah," Fulp grinned nastily as the power of the Great Maw immediately billowed outwards to fill the Ivorywalkers with the strength of the beast. "YEAH!"
"That'll do us for…'old on now!" Spinemuncher shouted, suddenly glaring at the slobbering horde of ogres that was just about on them at that point. "Oy! What're…no you don't!"
The Slaughtermaster plunged his hands into his sack and began shoving various organs and bones into his mouth, as well as a great many other things. But by that point, it was too late, and Fulp could only watch as a familiar multicolored wave of energy exploded out of the oncoming enemy to wash over his boys. The Tyrant grit his teeth as horrifying nightmares filled his eyes and ears with sights and sounds fit enough to break more intelligent foes, his grimace widening as he heard some of his younger bulls start panicking and tearing at one another. The older Ironguts and his Bruisers were trying to restore order, but Fulp knew perfectly well how dangerous that sort of prayer could be.
"Ah, fine then! You want our meat, come and take it," he roared as the raiding tribe slammed into his own.
All along the caravan, the Ivorywalkers challenged the oncoming ogres. There was no grand line of shields, nor some breaking wedge of cavalry. All those fighting fought on their own two feet. Thousands upon thousands of pounds of muscle, fat, and metal collided with each other. Guffaws and chuckles echoed through the air as the rival ogres broke each other down, tearing and cutting and in a great many cases biting. Flesh and skin were chewed as often as blades and mauls hacked and smashed. Terrified merchants and attendants huddled in their wagons, while frantic Cathayan guardsmen attempted to contribute with their crossbows. The difficulty, of course, was two-fold – the crossbow bolts did not seem to overly bother an ogre unless it struck them in the face, and it was almost impossible to tell which ogres were from which tribe as they smashed and wrestled with one another.
So it was that some of the attacking tribe managed to get through, licking their lips as they eagerly headed for some of the less guarded wagons. One Bruiser in particular, his gut-plate marked by a ring of rhinoxen teeth, headed for a more specific target. The bloody priest of the Great Maw had sworn that something in this direction needed destroying, and so a Bruiser had been dedicated to the effort. What it was, didn't matter. If it was meat, it would be eaten, if wasn't, it would be smashed. Or the second, then the first. Or something like that. But such thoughts came to a rather abrupt end, not that they were particularly expansive in the first place, the moment they got close enough to the large circular wagon. More of a carriage really, given its sheer size. The Bruiser had just smashed his hand through the doors, only to feel a rather odd sensation.
"Huh!"
The Bruiser stared down, confused, at his suddenly missing hand. He squinted down at the stump and tongued at his broken teeth in thought. Around him, the rest of the boys stared as well, a great many piggish eyes widened or narrower depending on which ogre you were looking at. Finally, as more blood splashed onto the ground, he blinked.
"Somethin'...is missing dere," he declared confidently.
Those were his last words as a pair of scythes decapitated him in perfect synchronicity. From within the broken wagon emerged two pale skinnies covered in way too much rug, eyes blazing purple like one of the Butchers of the tribe. The caravan's defenders were doing their best, but the tribe had been watching them hungrily for a week. In all that time, they had never seen the inhabitants of this wagon emerge. Until now, that was.
"Big-"
"-mistake."
Hands clasped, and a wave of purple energies billowed outwards upon the ogres like a sheet. The assorted ogres groaned, eyes blinking blearily, before collapsing outright as their collective life force was ripped out of their bodies. Four eyes burned with dark amethyst light as the twin women stepped forwards, their robes rippling despite the lack of even the slightest breeze. They stalked forwards, without hesitation or hurry, and as another ogre rushed for them with two clubs held high, two enormous snakes as thick as some young trees snapped out of the robes through an outstretched sleeve each. Despite being eyeless, the glittering purple serpents struck their target with perfect accuracy, fangs biting deep into the eyes and face causing even the doughty and durable ogre to scream with pain and surprise as they collapsed to the ground. In silence each twin held out their arms again, the dangling sleeves an entrance to the serpents once more who dove out of sight and coiled within the robes again.
Any ogre that approached them died. By scythe, by serpent, by spell, they died. Neither twin spoke as they moved, a terrible nimbus of power surrounding them as they went. Soon enough, the Ivorywalkers were watching as they stalked forth across the grass towards a tighter cluster of ogres. Pushing out from said mob was a particularly portly ogre, a thick leather apron splattered with viscera from uncountable sources covering the front, a dozen separate discolored cooking implements punctured through the hide for storage. One eye stared down at them, glowing with gastromantic power, the other socket emptied and then replaced by a crude sphere of stone. The Slaughtermaster bore a pair of heavy meat cleavers, one in each hand.
"Knew I smelled sumthin' tart on the wind," he grumbled before grinning widely. "Yer gonna be good in my meat pot."
Agatha and Alisa blew strands of hair out of their face before speaking in eerie unison.
"You're getting us off schedule."
Five minutes later they were gingerly moving aside the broken door into the side of their carriage. The wood and metal made a single sad squeak before collapsing off the hinges entirely. Neither bothered looking behind them as one of the caravan attendants rushed over, babbling apologies and simultaneously producing a woodworking pack to try and make some meager repairs. Despite the encounter ending largely in a victory, with only twenty crippling injuries and a baker's dozen deaths, the caravan's master had chosen to make camp for the night. The Ivorywalkers weren't complaining, they were getting to feast upon their dead enemies and own handful of fallen. Thankfully their Slaughtermaster was setting up the cookpot slightly further away from the soon-to-be-circled wagons.
"Well, that was exciting," Magistrix Draken murmured as she continued scribbling in her latest tome of notes.
"Not really," the twins responded with simultaneous shrugs.
"On the contrary, it is yet another test for those scythes," Draken jabbed her quill at the twins. "We will have work to do in order to ensure the Gold College does not attempt to abscond with them."
Four hands tightened around their weapons, joined swiftly be quietly hissing serpents.
"Hopefully the rest will be enough to placate them all," Draken gestured at the several chests in the carriage. "Something should, at least."
Neither twin did more than blink languidly and return to their seats. They did not glance towards a smaller chest in the back of the pile. They did not think of what was within, lest stray telepathy pluck it from their heads. It was not for her. It was for them, and their own purposes.
"Of course, Magistrix," they murmured together.
The Mountains of Mourne stretched ominously all around them, but the Ivorywalkers had proven their worth to the caravans which traveled the Ivory Road many times before.
They would make it home.
Sisters In Darkness and Death - Journey To The West, Part 7
"MEAT! MEAT! MEAT! MEAT!"
The ubiquitous cry of the Ogre Kingdoms rang out across the Ivory Road, as if had so often in the past and would so often in the future. Bells were ringing across the long train of wagons and carts, as were cooking pans, doors, sticks, anything at all to give warning out across the great procession. Not that it was required, honestly. Outside of a very specific subset of their kind, ogres from the Mountains of Mourne quite often preferred charging forward the moment any sort of food was available without pause. They came without the animal stealth of gorgers or sabretusks, without the low cunning of hobgoblin wolf riders, the possibility of patience of gnoblar mobs, nor the sorcerous workings of other dark powers. They came, instead, in the most typical manner possible – pounding heavy legs and slapping of gutplates as they came as a single great mob.
A thumping of feet and slapping of gutplates that was, in fact, responded to in kind with the exact same cacophony.
Near the head of the caravan, hulking at nearly thirteen feet of height and garbed in enough metal plate and chain to outfit a half dozen Bretonnian noble knights, the Tyrant Fulp Bonechewer Deathcheater Horntaker laughed out loud as he slapped a shovel hand against his heavy gutplate. He shoved a pair of fingers as thick around as a child's arm each into his mouth and let loose a disgustingly wet yet undeniably loud whistle. Immediately, the dozens of ogres strewn out across the first third of the caravan's length stood to what could pass for a crude posture of attention, glancing in his direction. Fulg reached onto his back and hauled forth an absolutely enormous club of metal and stone, waving it in a circle around his head and pointing towards the approaching dust cloud.
"Stand yer ground, boys! Meat's coming to us!"
Hooting and hollering, the ogres of the Ivorywalkers Tribe began to slap each other on the shoulder as they started huddling together. It would, by the standards of most militaries of the world, be the poorest shield wall ever seen, given that none of the ogres actually had any shields and were barely managing to stand shoulder to shoulder in clumps directly opposite the charging clumps of ogres heading right for them. For the standards of the Ivorywalkers, who had made their fame and meat escorting caravans back and forth along the Ivory Road for generations, it was a fine enough maneuver. Fulp sniffed imperiously and glanced at the brightly colored skinny in the funny little hat at the head of the biggest wagon at the very front of the entire caravan.
"You skinnies stay back and keep yerselves scarce, you hear?" He said in what passed for his comprehension for a murmur – generally considered by the rest of the world as a loud yell. "We'll see 'em off, or my name ain't Fulp Bonechewer! And it is, so there!"
The skinny with the hat, the one paying for the meat, nodded so rapidly that his silly little hat almost fell off. There was some babble about the guards who had come with the caravan before they'd reached the tribe fighting as well, but the tyrant didn't really bother listening to much of it. The Cathayans would fight, or they wouldn't, but either way he wasn't stressing overmuch about their contributions. After all, it wasn't like they would be eating the bodies afterwards, like most skinnies they didn't have the guts for it. Then again, a thought managed to ram its way through his brain, the past few times the Ivorywalkers had attacked a caravan in the leaner years the Cathayans had been pretty spritely and stabby.
"Meh," Fulp grunted, immediately banishing the thought in favor of the coming fight.
Thinking over with, he immediately strode down the caravan, bellowing orders and thumping ogres into position. He snorted and shook his head as he glanced back and forth, realizing that the incoming dust clouds were pretty much just coming from the north. The enemy wasn't coming from behind, they hadn't been waiting up ahead, they weren't even bothering coming from two sides at the same time. That, more than anything, just about answered every one of the bare handful of questions he'd bothered formulating about who was attacking their meal tickets. Rolling his head back and forth, letting dull pops echo out from deep within his fatty neck, he strode to the fore squinting the whole while.
"Lemme see…yep," he grunted, shaking his head and sharing some guffaws with his Bruisers as they spied the banners waving madly in the distance. "Don't recognize that tribe, must be new."
"The stupids?" One bull snorted, scratching at his double chins.
A nearby Irongut snorted and elbowed the younger ogre.
"Aw I hate dem. Hoy, youngin, don't bother chompin' the heads, s'like eatin' actual stone, mind ya."
Another Irongust grunted and thumped his heavy maul into his hand, licking his lips.
"Nah, ain't that bad! Just gotta boil der heads out, slurp it up, leave the skull behind. Or stick it on a club."
"HAH!" A dumber bull let loose a laugh.
Fulp slapped that one on the back of the head with enough force to explode a skinny's chest.
"SHUT IT! They ain't Rockskulls, I jus' said that! Besides, it don't matter who they are. Get ready for the crash, then thump 'em good! Now we…hold on," he growled, turning slightly. "Oy! Spinemuncher, you got anything for us?"
The Slaughtermaster didn't even glance up at him, instead rooting around in the large bloody sack in front of them.
"Hold on, hold on…eh…no…no…eh, that'll do," Spinemucher grunted before hefting out a massive rhinox heart and immediately plunging it into his mouth.
"Ho ho, yeah," Fulp grinned nastily as the power of the Great Maw immediately billowed outwards to fill the Ivorywalkers with the strength of the beast. "YEAH!"
"That'll do us for…'old on now!" Spinemuncher shouted, suddenly glaring at the slobbering horde of ogres that was just about on them at that point. "Oy! What're…no you don't!"
The Slaughtermaster plunged his hands into his sack and began shoving various organs and bones into his mouth, as well as a great many other things. But by that point, it was too late, and Fulp could only watch as a familiar multicolored wave of energy exploded out of the oncoming enemy to wash over his boys. The Tyrant grit his teeth as horrifying nightmares filled his eyes and ears with sights and sounds fit enough to break more intelligent foes, his grimace widening as he heard some of his younger bulls start panicking and tearing at one another. The older Ironguts and his Bruisers were trying to restore order, but Fulp knew perfectly well how dangerous that sort of prayer could be.
"Ah, fine then! You want our meat, come and take it," he roared as the raiding tribe slammed into his own.
All along the caravan, the Ivorywalkers challenged the oncoming ogres. There was no grand line of shields, nor some breaking wedge of cavalry. All those fighting fought on their own two feet. Thousands upon thousands of pounds of muscle, fat, and metal collided with each other. Guffaws and chuckles echoed through the air as the rival ogres broke each other down, tearing and cutting and in a great many cases biting. Flesh and skin were chewed as often as blades and mauls hacked and smashed. Terrified merchants and attendants huddled in their wagons, while frantic Cathayan guardsmen attempted to contribute with their crossbows. The difficulty, of course, was two-fold – the crossbow bolts did not seem to overly bother an ogre unless it struck them in the face, and it was almost impossible to tell which ogres were from which tribe as they smashed and wrestled with one another.
So it was that some of the attacking tribe managed to get through, licking their lips as they eagerly headed for some of the less guarded wagons. One Bruiser in particular, his gut-plate marked by a ring of rhinoxen teeth, headed for a more specific target. The bloody priest of the Great Maw had sworn that something in this direction needed destroying, and so a Bruiser had been dedicated to the effort. What it was, didn't matter. If it was meat, it would be eaten, if wasn't, it would be smashed. Or the second, then the first. Or something like that. But such thoughts came to a rather abrupt end, not that they were particularly expansive in the first place, the moment they got close enough to the large circular wagon. More of a carriage really, given its sheer size. The Bruiser had just smashed his hand through the doors, only to feel a rather odd sensation.
"Huh!"
The Bruiser stared down, confused, at his suddenly missing hand. He squinted down at the stump and tongued at his broken teeth in thought. Around him, the rest of the boys stared as well, a great many piggish eyes widened or narrower depending on which ogre you were looking at. Finally, as more blood splashed onto the ground, he blinked.
"Somethin'...is missing dere," he declared confidently.
Those were his last words as a pair of scythes decapitated him in perfect synchronicity. From within the broken wagon emerged two pale skinnies covered in way too much rug, eyes blazing purple like one of the Butchers of the tribe. The caravan's defenders were doing their best, but the tribe had been watching them hungrily for a week. In all that time, they had never seen the inhabitants of this wagon emerge. Until now, that was.
"Big-"
"-mistake."
Hands clasped, and a wave of purple energies billowed outwards upon the ogres like a sheet. The assorted ogres groaned, eyes blinking blearily, before collapsing outright as their collective life force was ripped out of their bodies. Four eyes burned with dark amethyst light as the twin women stepped forwards, their robes rippling despite the lack of even the slightest breeze. They stalked forwards, without hesitation or hurry, and as another ogre rushed for them with two clubs held high, two enormous snakes as thick as some young trees snapped out of the robes through an outstretched sleeve each. Despite being eyeless, the glittering purple serpents struck their target with perfect accuracy, fangs biting deep into the eyes and face causing even the doughty and durable ogre to scream with pain and surprise as they collapsed to the ground. In silence each twin held out their arms again, the dangling sleeves an entrance to the serpents once more who dove out of sight and coiled within the robes again.
Any ogre that approached them died. By scythe, by serpent, by spell, they died. Neither twin spoke as they moved, a terrible nimbus of power surrounding them as they went. Soon enough, the Ivorywalkers were watching as they stalked forth across the grass towards a tighter cluster of ogres. Pushing out from said mob was a particularly portly ogre, a thick leather apron splattered with viscera from uncountable sources covering the front, a dozen separate discolored cooking implements punctured through the hide for storage. One eye stared down at them, glowing with gastromantic power, the other socket emptied and then replaced by a crude sphere of stone. The Slaughtermaster bore a pair of heavy meat cleavers, one in each hand.
"Knew I smelled sumthin' tart on the wind," he grumbled before grinning widely. "Yer gonna be good in my meat pot."
Agatha and Alisa blew strands of hair out of their face before speaking in eerie unison.
"You're getting us off schedule."
Five minutes later they were gingerly moving aside the broken door into the side of their carriage. The wood and metal made a single sad squeak before collapsing off the hinges entirely. Neither bothered looking behind them as one of the caravan attendants rushed over, babbling apologies and simultaneously producing a woodworking pack to try and make some meager repairs. Despite the encounter ending largely in a victory, with only twenty crippling injuries and a baker's dozen deaths, the caravan's master had chosen to make camp for the night. The Ivorywalkers weren't complaining, they were getting to feast upon their dead enemies and own handful of fallen. Thankfully their Slaughtermaster was setting up the cookpot slightly further away from the soon-to-be-circled wagons.
"Well, that was exciting," Magistrix Draken murmured as she continued scribbling in her latest tome of notes.
"Not really," the twins responded with simultaneous shrugs.
"On the contrary, it is yet another test for those scythes," Draken jabbed her quill at the twins. "We will have work to do in order to ensure the Gold College does not attempt to abscond with them."
Four hands tightened around their weapons, joined swiftly be quietly hissing serpents.
"Hopefully the rest will be enough to placate them all," Draken gestured at the several chests in the carriage. "Something should, at least."
Neither twin did more than blink languidly and return to their seats. They did not glance towards a smaller chest in the back of the pile. They did not think of what was within, lest stray telepathy pluck it from their heads. It was not for her. It was for them, and their own purposes.
"Of course, Magistrix," they murmured together.
The Mountains of Mourne stretched ominously all around them, but the Ivorywalkers had proven their worth to the caravans which traveled the Ivory Road many times before.
They would make it home.
Last edited:
- Location
- barking
well seems the twins are on their way home
The girls are headed this way! I hope they make it in time! Just have to cross Kislev.
Huh. Maybe they'll meet up with Alexandra!
Huh. Maybe they'll meet up with Alexandra!
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Personally, the only thing I ever imagined outcompeting the glorious madness of alcohol engines was another form of glorious Ostlander magic:
Ogres sitting there turning bicycle pedals.
Is it more efficient to distill the booze and feed it to an engine? Or to leave it undistilled and let ogres drink it by the barrel to fuel their pedaling?
Now that is an Ostland-style industrial engineering question!
The Dusk Scythes [Artifact Battle Scythe-Staves]
The Dusk Scythes
[Artifact Battle Scythe-Staves]
[Artifact Battle Scythe-Staves]
It is one of the fundamental concepts of the Purple Wind – known as Shyish – that all things must end. It is the certainty of time's passing, and the utter inevitability of death. What lives, dies. What dies, rots. What rots, eventually too fades away. Those of the Amethyst College, formed by the legendary elf mage Teclis of Ulthuan by the request of Emperor Magnus the Pious, know this to be true. It blows strongest where death and endings come, pooling about battlefields current and past, settling amongst silent graveyards and execution gibbets alike. When dawn comes, the night ends. When dusk comes, so too does the day end. In this, Shyish grows strong at this points of obvious and inevitable transition. The Dusk Scythes, twin creations for twin masters, were built with such symbology clearly in mind.
The cores of the two scythes are made of two separate sets of ossuary alloys. The first of ancient bronze, the second of something known in Cathay as celestial dragon-steel. The former was made from the remains of a fearsome and powerful yet noble self-possessed Wight King. The bronze, from the Wight King's own weapons, armor, and burial gear, divided equally. The bone ash, gathered carefully from the Wight King's own purified skeleton. Both were ritually cleansed and consecrated by both Amethyst Wizards and a High Priest of Morr, aethyrically shedding all but Shyish from them before the forging process began. The resulting blocks were then cooled in pools of ritually prepared blood drawn from the twins themselves, carefully but strongly infused with intense amounts of the Purple Wind. These blocks, in turn, were combined with reagents and materials gathered from the Far East. Another set of ossuary alloyed blocks were made, this time from the assorted vertebrae of a so-called Slaughtermaster of the Great Maw from the Ogre Kingdoms, a hulking brute who had wielded Shyish with tempestuous control yet undeniable titanic power, and metals touched and manipulated by the Empress Huang herself long ago – celestial dragon-steel, made with pure and unquestionable dominion over Chamon and the burning flames of a dragon.
Thus were the alloys themselves further alloyed together into the cores of the weapon shafts. A potentially volatile combination, impeccably crafted by the hands of the Crown Princess of Cathay, assisted by the wielders of the scythes themselves.
The result – the Dusk Scythes.
Twinned weapons of dully shining black ossuary alloy, somewhat similar to the battle scythes wielded by those of the Amethyst College. It is only when they are wielded by those meant to do so, however, that the truth is revealed. The runes of Shyish blaze to the fore along the entire haft, drenching the wielders in eldritch purple glow. Furthermore, even being near the weapons at all brings a great sense of discomfort to most, for to come close is to be inundated with all that Shyish is: the certainty of death, the inevitable passage of time, the ending of all things. Not enough to harm, not truly, but for many it more than enough to describe the weapons as 'hideous things' to be shuddered at and kept away from. As for the blades themselves, curved and deadly, they are made of no known metal. Rather, they are a deep purple crystalline material that seamlessly melds with the rest of the haft, yet possesses a frighteningly powerful cutting edge. Those that wield them do so with considerable strength, beyond that which even their frames should manage, which only further endangers any foe who stands against them, yet it hardly seems necessary as even the lightest touch to the blades seems to tear life itself from the enemy.
[These weapons produce an effective aura similar to the Doom and Darkness spell around them on a constant basis which affects enemies, successful contact with the enemy automatically triggers Steal Life, possessing an effective strength increase effect akin to Iyrtu's Embrace, and overall improving the ability of the wielder to channel and cast Shyish.]
Current Wielders: Agatha/Alisa von Hohenzollern
Thanatos757
Captain of the Four Knights
A pair of relic scythes and...something in a small chest that they don't want Von Draken to know about. Something from Genevieve perhaps? They were much more curious and accepting of her than their teacher.
- Location
- Texas
Wait, are they going to meet up with Karak Kadrin? Since they're hitting the ogres rearlines?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Oh wow, thank you so much Torroar!!
On the one hand, I want to reread the eastern adventures now.
On the other hand, the eastern adventures are long and awesome and I have so much to dooooo
On the one hand, I want to reread the eastern adventures now.
On the other hand, the eastern adventures are long and awesome and I have so much to dooooo
Did I miss something, because I'm not sure why they have to worry about the Gold College taking the Scythes when they're the personal creations of two magisters from a separate college. Or why the Gold's need placating at all, honestly.
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Presumably because they're that special as far as metallurgy. And looking at the description I can see it…
Also, look at who made them. The Golds could probably advance their knowledge by decades studying them.
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the double A's weren't around when Freddy and Nat grew their magic tree and bonded, so I'm interested in their reaction to that (and the growth of the whole family overall). Perhaps they'll say something about the gray wizards skulking about.
Undoubtedly they would love to poke around the Druuchi magical artifacts and stuff but theres a lot in their way currently.
Undoubtedly they would love to poke around the Druuchi magical artifacts and stuff but theres a lot in their way currently.
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Whew, Fulg has the Deathcheater big name. That's an Ogre that's survived something truly, mortally dangerous…for Ogres. Consider what we've seen Ogres endure, especially the stronger ones.
And this guy survived something awful even for them.
And this guy survived something awful even for them.
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The twins ending up hitting the ogre problem in the back and freeing up Karak Kadrin would be pretty amazing, though I don't know if they are so powerful that they could singlehandedly ensure a swift resolution to a problem that is tying up the Slayer Hold. Besides that, would the Karak Kadrin Throng march to Karaz-a-Karak or Salkalten?
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- Somewhere
No, they're taking the "Ivory Road", not the "High Pass", or the "Peak Pass" route.
The twins should be aiming for the Mad Dog Pass Route, but the leader of the caravan might want to try "safety" with the Karaz-a-Karak pass, which would take longer, but be viable to him as a more secure passage through potential greenskin infested lands, but he has three powerful wizards in his caravan, so might take the faster route into the Empire of Man through Mad Dog Pass anyways, which ironically might be one of the safest route through the World's Edge Mountains right now.
Is that Gromril / Meteoric Iron / Star Metal / Silverstone / Silversteel / Hammernought Armour? Refined with the prowess of a Celestial Dragon that favored chamon? Or is this some kind of divergent form of the metal that turned into something altogether different under the hands of the Celestial Empress?
Um, do Agatha and Alisa still carry swords, or have they switched completely over to only carrying their Dusk Scythes?
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And in dragonfire, which is no ordinary fire, not just in terms of temperature.
Simple. They wanted to crush everything at once. Salkaten had a dwarf wall so they decided that it needed extra omph. Biggest target. Biggest prize. Biggest raiding opportunity. Toughest nut.
First Ostland then kill the rest of the demoralized less valuable headless chickens.
Raider mentality combined with an ultra superiority complex. Smash and grab.
Lastly. They knew the rest of the Empire and Dawi were busy with the Orcs. And they sent their ships and raiders to harass the other Trident members.
No reinforcements.
It made sense since they weren't underestimating us. Just the rest of the Trident.
1. It's a mystery~
2. They have the swords, but they didn't really take the time to buckle 'em on when they just got violently woken up from their nap.