Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
- Thread starter torroar
- Start date
- Mature
-
- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy intrigue happens male protagonist ck2 quest belief stronk count of cannons drunken wisdom foes in the shadows graf of guns (guns) if you have a question check the front page first it begins... mountain vietnam ogres paranoia rising unseen enemies everywhere use the search function before asking waifu wars wake the bull
Not Roland - Jacqueline. Also not suicide, a strategic deployment which she will certainly survive. She's a hero tier, there would be few who could stand agaisnt her.
I just worry we get not much as much out of the other plan. If we want an army, we need the arenas, that arena specifically.
- Location
- Underground
Got them mixed up, but I mean it's suicide for the slaves of that arena unless all three arenas revolt at once. And while Jacqueline is more adept at subterfuge than Roland, her moral lines are similar. She wouldn't go for getting one arenas slaves to rise up in a doomed attempt for her benefit.
I think we'll need more agents that will allow us to coordinate between the arenas to start with. Low level slaves, cleaners, servants, etc. We can start looking for those with the sites that are open right now and have easier access (like the aquaculture), then we can take those recruits and have Hultressa shuffle them to other sites, including the arenas.
I'm going to keep the sabotage of the aquaculture site, because we do need to do some damage to keep the Ark from getting more stable, but I might add something about a priority being to look for more possible recruits at the aquaculture site.
Last edited:
It's risky, I have high risk tolerance, I think our people are capable of it, and it has higher reward. But i get why some people might prefer a less aggressive option.
Last edited:
[x] Plan Frozen Fish with 3 and quiet
[CANON] Cold Bones, Warm Gardens - torroar
Note: Takes place all before 2343. Wild burst of inspiration, wrote this over the course of like 2-3 hours, so...yeah.
The first time they meet, it is within hallowed ground, and they are both not even past their second decade of life.
"Oh, Gisela. I am so sorry," he murmurs, voice full of a quiet warmth.
"I...," she sputters out, unable to manage more words, her grief a razor cold thing that leaves her shuddering.
The bells are ringing, as they often are in Wulfenburg, but only one chimes for the dead at the moment. Others are announcements of time, of calls for worship in any number of the other temples. But here, in the modest Garden of Morr built within Wulfenburg's walls, there is only the one bell. It is not a particularly crowded day for the Garden, either, which most any would determine to be a good thing. Rare are those who would enter the Garden that are not of the Cult proper, at least on any sort of minor or mundane business. Not that she cares, at the time, given that she stands alone in the meagerest of funeral garb that she could scrape together from the bare amount of funds left to her now.
"It's all right," he says, simply standing there, a tall bulwark against the rest of the world that shields her from any curious stares from other entrants to the Garden, even from those others of the Cult itself. "I don't mean to cause any more harm or grief to you."
A bitter, choking laugh escapes her at his words. The consuming cold which has throttled her since she found them laying still and silent at their three-legged table (the fourth had broken long ago, and so they always kept it balanced with dishes and pots to keep it from toppling) finally fades somewhat. There is a spark, somewhere, that he has managed to find and grow with his accursed, blasted, horrible warmth and calmness, something of the fire that mother had so feared would keep her from finding a husband someday.
"Oh? And how could you?!" She finally says, the words a trembling, collapsing sort of thing. "You couldn't possibly-!"
He should be buffeted by her shuddering fury, her sudden anger, the fire he has restored even minutely to her turning upon him so suddenly. But he is not. The youth shocks her with the placidity of his face and stance, he stuns her with the finery of his clothing, he horrifies her with the unmistakable presence of the guards that stand two dozen feet behind him. It is not impossible for a mercenary or soldier to bear such heavy plate, such blades, but few in Ostland would be allowed to bear the province's heraldry on tabards without actually belonging to the Greatswords of House Hohenzollern.
Then, of course, there is the ogre that stands behind them, blinking slowly, with a cannon strapped haphazardly to their back.
"M-my lord," the commoner, the daughter of a barmaid and a tavern gambler stammers, trying to decide if she should bow or kneel or simply run after her insulting tone. "I-my sincerest-,"
"It's all right," he interrupts gently, raising a hand with palm facing towards her. "It is my mistake for approaching you so abruptly."
Grief carves its way across his face, next, so powerfully and fully that it almost shakes her apart all over again.
"But you were standing alone...and the priests say that none attended the funeral of your parents," he says, wracked by sorrow that freezes her to the spot.
She is chilled past the bone once more, bitterness rising up like gorge from her throat.
"I thought at least some might...," her head shakes slowly, a frown forming once more. "But...a shift needs taking at the bar, and the taverns never rest in Ostland after all. More than that -," she shrugs att him. "W-why would you...if you are...why would you care? We were - they were nobody. No one to you."
He takes a step forward, and she takes a step back, head forced to tilt as he looms over her like a concerned giant.
"Wrong," he tells her solemnly. "Were they good to you?"
"I...yes."
"Were they good to each other?"
"Y-yes...,"
"Were they good to others around them, most of the time? Devout?"
"W-well sometimes they had to throw people out of the bar," she confesses, but for some reason the tight coil in her chest seems to loosen for the first time in days, "But...I would judge them kind enough. E-even though we didn't always make it in for sermons at the Temple of Sigmar...,"
He nods, cups at his chin, and then shrugs.
"So they were good folk. And they have passed. And that," the looming somehow recedes without him moving, "Brings you sorrow - and why should it not bring me sorrow as well, to know that good folk have passed?"
The noble turns slightly on his heel and gestures to a nearby unoccupied bench.
"Would you like to talk about them?"
Gisela fidgets, arms folding under her chest as she holds herself.
"I...I've been waiting to speak with the High Priest, a-about the funerary rites and...," she has to fight to get the word out of her closing throat. "The burial."
He nods, lips pursing.
"I know, I was with him when the message came from the acolyte. Two shillings for a modest burial...," he exhales sharply through his nose and gives her a wry smile. "Would you like it if they got more than the modest burial?"
"Y-you would...," she blinks at him. "Why?"
"Because they mattered in life, and they matter in death."
"Who are you?" She asks, the demand turned meek by the emotions choking her, the cold drowning her.
"Ah, my apologies," he bows - he bows!
The noble bows to her!
"I am Arthur von Hohenzollern," he tells her, and she nearly passes out then and there, but he helps her to the bench all the same.
"Thank you...," she finally says after managing to reclaim a piece of flotsam to hang onto in her mind's maelstrom.
Manners, mother taught her, manners.
"It's no trouble," he says.
Shyly, slowly, he encourages her to speak. And the cold recedes, ever so slightly, in a way it hasn't since that awful discovery those few days ago. There is no force behind it, no time requirements either. A noble shouldn't spare such hours to a commoner, and yet he does. It is his choice, and no matter what stares and looks they get from others entering or leaving the Garden, he remains until she feels like a wrung out towel and then helps her home. An empty home, an empty, empty home, without laughter or drink or smiles or warmth. The moment she passes through that horrid doorway, the warmth leaves her, and she is freezing again.
But she remembers the warmth.
For her part, she has made her way, as best she can, but is struggling.
Of course, when she requested to meet with one of the priests for aid in matters of Morr not related specifically to the dead, she had been shocked all over again when he arrived. No longer dressed as a nobleman, but in the robes of his station
"I just...," she rubs at her temples, eyes undercut by deep bags so purple they are nearly black, "I cannot sleep, Priest Hohenzollern."
"You can call me Arthur, Gisela," he says, sitting with her within the temple itself this time.
The temple itself is strange, too. Much like the two of them, it has changed. It is larger, now, the entire grounds, and the Order of the Shroud and the Augurs seem to have combined their places in an odd manner. The rectangle and rounded dome are joined, now, with the Garden itself greatly expanded.
"Arthur," she says with a wilting smile. "I cannot sleep. I keep seeing them," she admits, shuddering with that damned cold which burns at her. "I keep seeing them in my dreams. They reach for me, and I for them, but we never...actually touch," she whispers the last part, desperate to disguise the longing there.
And the anger.
They had left her, all alone! Bertham, who had supposedly been a family friend, had refused to hire her. She could not acquire employment at any of the other taverns nearby. She had grown desperate, soon enough, and yet misfortune followed her everywhere she had tried to go. It was not her fault that the books had been set aflame, it was the fault of the man taking a candle into the aisles of the store. She could not be blamed that the vegetables delivered from the fields were rotten in their crates, it was the fault of the farmers that had sent them improper goods! And how she could possibly be at fault for a dung collector's cart breaking open and shattering a man's leg?!
"And they speak - but I can't hear their words," she continued. "I...can Morr help me?"
Can you? She did not ask out loud.
"Morr is the God of the Dead as well as the God of Dreams," he tells her. "It is not impossible or even necessarily uncommon for the two to intersect. If it is a portent of the future...it is not a good one," he says honestly, frowning down at her. "It seems you have come to some misfortune yourself since we last met. Mayhaps they worry that you are in danger of joining them beyond the Portal too soon. Or perhaps that is your unconscious worry, conveyed to your thoughts by Morr."
She stares at him, the cold creeping up her throat like fingers.
"I...I have been having some trouble," she admits, grindingly. "I...have not yet been able to make rent for my old home, nor find...find a job. I have tried, I swear," she insists, "I have!"
"I believe you," he says with a sad smile. "Life is hard, at times, for many."
"My lord-,"
"Arthur."
"Arthur. It...if you could...I would be forever grateful...i-if...," she begins, but he forestalls her once more.
"I can help you. So I will."
And that should be that.
It should.
She wishes it was.
But a woman appears then, and the cold goes from a chill to ice in her veins.
"Husband," she calls, and Arthur's head turns around before a smile so bright it almost burns her appears on his face.
"Serhild!" He responds, rising, leaving her. Leaving her all alone.
Like everyone, everything else!
Except...not, because he turns back and the woman accompanies him?
"Gisela. This is my wife, Serhild," he introduces the woman.
The noblewoman.
Plump. Flush. Full of life. And wealth. And warmth.
"Hello," she says, feeling wretched anew. "My lady."
A smile, soft words, a soft smile, soft eyes.
More is spoken, of, and the cold recedes. Not all of the way, not as much as it did before.
But she remembers the warmth.
Life does not take wondrous, vast leaps forward for her, despite it all. They provide opportunities for her, they do, but even she can tell that they grow disquieted as the world falters around her again and again. The nightmares change, over time, but never properly cease. There are prayers enacted, acts to aid her, and yet even those performed by Arthur himself cannot stop them all forever. A few nights of relief at most, without repeated effort. Special incense from the Cult of Morr are granted to her. But then the incense runs out, or Arthur leaves for campaigning out in province alongside the troops like every other Hohenzollern.
But she spirals all the same.
The nightmares grow worse, and eventually, she stops seeing the simply while being asleep.
They start appearing in her waking hours too.
Arthur cannot help, he is busy, he is not always there, and Serhild cannot help at all. Not when the cold grows all the worse when she stares at her and then at herself.
No one can help.
No one.
Eventually she cannot even find her way to the Garden anymore, but does not wish to go there at all. The nightmares and visions, she realizes - or tells herself, she cannot remember which anymore - grow worse when she goes to the Garden. Or at least, they always return all the worse!
At least, until she finds those who can help her.
Help her away from the Gardne.
Away from the nightmares.
They tell her that they can make them stop, and they do. For the most part.
There is one vision that they just can't do anything about.
But they tell her how she can.
"Oh, Gisela. I am so sorry," he murmurs, voice full of a quiet sadness.
"I...," she sputters out, unable to manage more words, her pain a burning hot thing that leaves her shaking.
Slowly, he removes the black helm which has concealed his face, to show grey skin which gleams in the moonlight which illuminates the Garden. The black helm, the black armor, spattered and shining now with where the blood was spilled upon it. Around him are bodies, many bodies, all of them unmoving. The twisting, coiling visions of horrors are fading away again, fading away, and with it she finds herself struck dumb as the veil of it all has become so violently and suddenly stripped away. These are real. This is real. Not just the visions. Those are real bodies, real bodies he has cleaved through with that oversized sword, parting lives from the mortal coil with incredible ease.
"I'm going to ask you to drop the shovel," he tells her, and she does, grey fingers badly wrapped with dirty cloth feeling nerveless and numb. "Good. That's good."
"I...I...,"
"I'm going to ask you another question now," he begins, voice grave and calm and pained all at once. "Have you disturbed the peace of the dead before now? Have you forced them from their holy rest?"
"I...," her eyes wobble in their sockets as she tries to think.
No.
She succeeds. Because the visions are leeching away from her, and her mind feels clear.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Not...,"
Not yet.
"I just needed them to leave me alone," she tells him desperately. "To just...go away! To go to rest, l-like you said they would be!"
"...your parents," he murmurs, sighing as he plants his sword deep into the ground, grief carving itself anew into his expression. "They still plague you?"
"I was just going to ask them to stop...," she whimpers, collapsing to her knees, hands over her head. "Please. I just wanted them to stop...,"
But with her mind clear for the first time in...months? Years? She realizes what she has done. The knife's edge she stumbled her way along, cutting her feet the whole way, maddened and blind to herself.
She knows what he must do.
"...I believe you," he says quietly, and then she hears metal creak and thump as he kneels in front of her, gauntleted hands gently raising her head up. "I should have seen it," he brushes some hair out of her face. "My mistake. Not yours."
"W-what?" She whispers.
"You came within a hair's breadth from unforgivable blasphemy, Gisela," he says before letting out a shuddering sigh. "But you did not go all the way."
"Aren't you going to kill me?" She asks, confused.
She cannot be wholly certain of her memories, certainly not, but she realizes what she was just about to do. What she has already done. What she has, which she should not have.
"I-I am accursed," she whimpers again.
"Some curses can be broken, if you are truly accursed at all," he tells her, sighing again before drawing her into a hug. "But there are things we can do besides that more final solution."
For coming the other way is a rarer, if somewhat more common than most other locations in the Empire, party.
Wizards.
All eight of the Colleges have been present in Sylvania, but none so more strongly than the Amethyst College. A College that he has two of his own blood now part of. Many find them off-putting, he knows. They dress darkly, scrimshawed bone often adorns their robes, and the scythes they bear are not particularly comforting when they bring to mind either necromancers or Morr himself. And it is four of these, dressed in purples, that stalk the road going the other way at the rear of the other columns. One of whom, however, at the back, pauses just as Arthur does.
Her hair is gone, shaved after having gone too stringy and thin after repeated exposure to the darker magics of those who had taken advantage of her uncontrolled and supremely strong Witch Sight. But the bags beneath her eyes are gone. Her skin, grey and wan, is a more - relatively speaking - healthy pale shade. She pauses, as he does, and the two look at one another. One looming above, aided further by the war horse he is astride, and she below. But there is no shrinking away, no huddling, no shaking or fear. Two gazes, both that have seen beyond the veil, albeit in perhaps different paths and ways, meet each other. The wind tousles her hood, flicking it back slightly, and he has doffed his helm for the moment.
This time, they do not speak, merely exchange nods and small smiles.
And so Arthur von Hohenzollern, High Priest of Morr, goes one way.
And Gisela Sable, Journeyman Amethyst Wizard, goes another.
Both serving the Empire as best they can.
Cold Bones, Warm Gardens
The first time they meet, it is within hallowed ground, and they are both not even past their second decade of life.
"Oh, Gisela. I am so sorry," he murmurs, voice full of a quiet warmth.
"I...," she sputters out, unable to manage more words, her grief a razor cold thing that leaves her shuddering.
The bells are ringing, as they often are in Wulfenburg, but only one chimes for the dead at the moment. Others are announcements of time, of calls for worship in any number of the other temples. But here, in the modest Garden of Morr built within Wulfenburg's walls, there is only the one bell. It is not a particularly crowded day for the Garden, either, which most any would determine to be a good thing. Rare are those who would enter the Garden that are not of the Cult proper, at least on any sort of minor or mundane business. Not that she cares, at the time, given that she stands alone in the meagerest of funeral garb that she could scrape together from the bare amount of funds left to her now.
"It's all right," he says, simply standing there, a tall bulwark against the rest of the world that shields her from any curious stares from other entrants to the Garden, even from those others of the Cult itself. "I don't mean to cause any more harm or grief to you."
A bitter, choking laugh escapes her at his words. The consuming cold which has throttled her since she found them laying still and silent at their three-legged table (the fourth had broken long ago, and so they always kept it balanced with dishes and pots to keep it from toppling) finally fades somewhat. There is a spark, somewhere, that he has managed to find and grow with his accursed, blasted, horrible warmth and calmness, something of the fire that mother had so feared would keep her from finding a husband someday.
"Oh? And how could you?!" She finally says, the words a trembling, collapsing sort of thing. "You couldn't possibly-!"
He should be buffeted by her shuddering fury, her sudden anger, the fire he has restored even minutely to her turning upon him so suddenly. But he is not. The youth shocks her with the placidity of his face and stance, he stuns her with the finery of his clothing, he horrifies her with the unmistakable presence of the guards that stand two dozen feet behind him. It is not impossible for a mercenary or soldier to bear such heavy plate, such blades, but few in Ostland would be allowed to bear the province's heraldry on tabards without actually belonging to the Greatswords of House Hohenzollern.
Then, of course, there is the ogre that stands behind them, blinking slowly, with a cannon strapped haphazardly to their back.
"M-my lord," the commoner, the daughter of a barmaid and a tavern gambler stammers, trying to decide if she should bow or kneel or simply run after her insulting tone. "I-my sincerest-,"
"It's all right," he interrupts gently, raising a hand with palm facing towards her. "It is my mistake for approaching you so abruptly."
Grief carves its way across his face, next, so powerfully and fully that it almost shakes her apart all over again.
"But you were standing alone...and the priests say that none attended the funeral of your parents," he says, wracked by sorrow that freezes her to the spot.
She is chilled past the bone once more, bitterness rising up like gorge from her throat.
"I thought at least some might...," her head shakes slowly, a frown forming once more. "But...a shift needs taking at the bar, and the taverns never rest in Ostland after all. More than that -," she shrugs att him. "W-why would you...if you are...why would you care? We were - they were nobody. No one to you."
He takes a step forward, and she takes a step back, head forced to tilt as he looms over her like a concerned giant.
"Wrong," he tells her solemnly. "Were they good to you?"
"I...yes."
"Were they good to each other?"
"Y-yes...,"
"Were they good to others around them, most of the time? Devout?"
"W-well sometimes they had to throw people out of the bar," she confesses, but for some reason the tight coil in her chest seems to loosen for the first time in days, "But...I would judge them kind enough. E-even though we didn't always make it in for sermons at the Temple of Sigmar...,"
He nods, cups at his chin, and then shrugs.
"So they were good folk. And they have passed. And that," the looming somehow recedes without him moving, "Brings you sorrow - and why should it not bring me sorrow as well, to know that good folk have passed?"
The noble turns slightly on his heel and gestures to a nearby unoccupied bench.
"Would you like to talk about them?"
Gisela fidgets, arms folding under her chest as she holds herself.
"I...I've been waiting to speak with the High Priest, a-about the funerary rites and...," she has to fight to get the word out of her closing throat. "The burial."
He nods, lips pursing.
"I know, I was with him when the message came from the acolyte. Two shillings for a modest burial...," he exhales sharply through his nose and gives her a wry smile. "Would you like it if they got more than the modest burial?"
"Y-you would...," she blinks at him. "Why?"
"Because they mattered in life, and they matter in death."
"Who are you?" She asks, the demand turned meek by the emotions choking her, the cold drowning her.
"Ah, my apologies," he bows - he bows!
The noble bows to her!
"I am Arthur von Hohenzollern," he tells her, and she nearly passes out then and there, but he helps her to the bench all the same.
"Thank you...," she finally says after managing to reclaim a piece of flotsam to hang onto in her mind's maelstrom.
Manners, mother taught her, manners.
"It's no trouble," he says.
Shyly, slowly, he encourages her to speak. And the cold recedes, ever so slightly, in a way it hasn't since that awful discovery those few days ago. There is no force behind it, no time requirements either. A noble shouldn't spare such hours to a commoner, and yet he does. It is his choice, and no matter what stares and looks they get from others entering or leaving the Garden, he remains until she feels like a wrung out towel and then helps her home. An empty home, an empty, empty home, without laughter or drink or smiles or warmth. The moment she passes through that horrid doorway, the warmth leaves her, and she is freezing again.
But she remembers the warmth.
=============================================================
The second time they meet, the young man has become the young priest.
For her part, she has made her way, as best she can, but is struggling.
Of course, when she requested to meet with one of the priests for aid in matters of Morr not related specifically to the dead, she had been shocked all over again when he arrived. No longer dressed as a nobleman, but in the robes of his station
"I just...," she rubs at her temples, eyes undercut by deep bags so purple they are nearly black, "I cannot sleep, Priest Hohenzollern."
"You can call me Arthur, Gisela," he says, sitting with her within the temple itself this time.
The temple itself is strange, too. Much like the two of them, it has changed. It is larger, now, the entire grounds, and the Order of the Shroud and the Augurs seem to have combined their places in an odd manner. The rectangle and rounded dome are joined, now, with the Garden itself greatly expanded.
"Arthur," she says with a wilting smile. "I cannot sleep. I keep seeing them," she admits, shuddering with that damned cold which burns at her. "I keep seeing them in my dreams. They reach for me, and I for them, but we never...actually touch," she whispers the last part, desperate to disguise the longing there.
And the anger.
They had left her, all alone! Bertham, who had supposedly been a family friend, had refused to hire her. She could not acquire employment at any of the other taverns nearby. She had grown desperate, soon enough, and yet misfortune followed her everywhere she had tried to go. It was not her fault that the books had been set aflame, it was the fault of the man taking a candle into the aisles of the store. She could not be blamed that the vegetables delivered from the fields were rotten in their crates, it was the fault of the farmers that had sent them improper goods! And how she could possibly be at fault for a dung collector's cart breaking open and shattering a man's leg?!
"And they speak - but I can't hear their words," she continued. "I...can Morr help me?"
Can you? She did not ask out loud.
"Morr is the God of the Dead as well as the God of Dreams," he tells her. "It is not impossible or even necessarily uncommon for the two to intersect. If it is a portent of the future...it is not a good one," he says honestly, frowning down at her. "It seems you have come to some misfortune yourself since we last met. Mayhaps they worry that you are in danger of joining them beyond the Portal too soon. Or perhaps that is your unconscious worry, conveyed to your thoughts by Morr."
She stares at him, the cold creeping up her throat like fingers.
"I...I have been having some trouble," she admits, grindingly. "I...have not yet been able to make rent for my old home, nor find...find a job. I have tried, I swear," she insists, "I have!"
"I believe you," he says with a sad smile. "Life is hard, at times, for many."
"My lord-,"
"Arthur."
"Arthur. It...if you could...I would be forever grateful...i-if...," she begins, but he forestalls her once more.
"I can help you. So I will."
And that should be that.
It should.
She wishes it was.
But a woman appears then, and the cold goes from a chill to ice in her veins.
"Husband," she calls, and Arthur's head turns around before a smile so bright it almost burns her appears on his face.
"Serhild!" He responds, rising, leaving her. Leaving her all alone.
Like everyone, everything else!
Except...not, because he turns back and the woman accompanies him?
"Gisela. This is my wife, Serhild," he introduces the woman.
The noblewoman.
Plump. Flush. Full of life. And wealth. And warmth.
"Hello," she says, feeling wretched anew. "My lady."
A smile, soft words, a soft smile, soft eyes.
More is spoken, of, and the cold recedes. Not all of the way, not as much as it did before.
But she remembers the warmth.
===============================================================
They meet again and again, over time, as she returns to the Garden for whatever aid they can provide.
Life does not take wondrous, vast leaps forward for her, despite it all. They provide opportunities for her, they do, but even she can tell that they grow disquieted as the world falters around her again and again. The nightmares change, over time, but never properly cease. There are prayers enacted, acts to aid her, and yet even those performed by Arthur himself cannot stop them all forever. A few nights of relief at most, without repeated effort. Special incense from the Cult of Morr are granted to her. But then the incense runs out, or Arthur leaves for campaigning out in province alongside the troops like every other Hohenzollern.
But she spirals all the same.
The nightmares grow worse, and eventually, she stops seeing the simply while being asleep.
They start appearing in her waking hours too.
Arthur cannot help, he is busy, he is not always there, and Serhild cannot help at all. Not when the cold grows all the worse when she stares at her and then at herself.
No one can help.
No one.
Eventually she cannot even find her way to the Garden anymore, but does not wish to go there at all. The nightmares and visions, she realizes - or tells herself, she cannot remember which anymore - grow worse when she goes to the Garden. Or at least, they always return all the worse!
At least, until she finds those who can help her.
Help her away from the Gardne.
Away from the nightmares.
They tell her that they can make them stop, and they do. For the most part.
There is one vision that they just can't do anything about.
But they tell her how she can.
====================================================================
The next time they meet, they are more similar than they ever were before.
"Oh, Gisela. I am so sorry," he murmurs, voice full of a quiet sadness.
"I...," she sputters out, unable to manage more words, her pain a burning hot thing that leaves her shaking.
Slowly, he removes the black helm which has concealed his face, to show grey skin which gleams in the moonlight which illuminates the Garden. The black helm, the black armor, spattered and shining now with where the blood was spilled upon it. Around him are bodies, many bodies, all of them unmoving. The twisting, coiling visions of horrors are fading away again, fading away, and with it she finds herself struck dumb as the veil of it all has become so violently and suddenly stripped away. These are real. This is real. Not just the visions. Those are real bodies, real bodies he has cleaved through with that oversized sword, parting lives from the mortal coil with incredible ease.
"I'm going to ask you to drop the shovel," he tells her, and she does, grey fingers badly wrapped with dirty cloth feeling nerveless and numb. "Good. That's good."
"I...I...,"
"I'm going to ask you another question now," he begins, voice grave and calm and pained all at once. "Have you disturbed the peace of the dead before now? Have you forced them from their holy rest?"
"I...," her eyes wobble in their sockets as she tries to think.
No.
She succeeds. Because the visions are leeching away from her, and her mind feels clear.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Not...,"
Not yet.
"I just needed them to leave me alone," she tells him desperately. "To just...go away! To go to rest, l-like you said they would be!"
"...your parents," he murmurs, sighing as he plants his sword deep into the ground, grief carving itself anew into his expression. "They still plague you?"
"I was just going to ask them to stop...," she whimpers, collapsing to her knees, hands over her head. "Please. I just wanted them to stop...,"
But with her mind clear for the first time in...months? Years? She realizes what she has done. The knife's edge she stumbled her way along, cutting her feet the whole way, maddened and blind to herself.
She knows what he must do.
"...I believe you," he says quietly, and then she hears metal creak and thump as he kneels in front of her, gauntleted hands gently raising her head up. "I should have seen it," he brushes some hair out of her face. "My mistake. Not yours."
"W-what?" She whispers.
"You came within a hair's breadth from unforgivable blasphemy, Gisela," he says before letting out a shuddering sigh. "But you did not go all the way."
"Aren't you going to kill me?" She asks, confused.
She cannot be wholly certain of her memories, certainly not, but she realizes what she was just about to do. What she has already done. What she has, which she should not have.
"I-I am accursed," she whimpers again.
"Some curses can be broken, if you are truly accursed at all," he tells her, sighing again before drawing her into a hug. "But there are things we can do besides that more final solution."
==============================================================
The last time they meet, it is much later indeed.
High Priest Arthur von Hohenzollern, founder of the potentially heretical Order of the Garden, rides along the roads of Sylvania. He is accompanied by an entire dozen of Black Guard, on his way to further patrol and purify reclaimed townships and zones throughout the recently reclaimed province. Many horrors has he seen. Many horrors has he slain. Vampires and undead abominations aplenty. Accursed cultists of the Dark Gods and daemons alike. It is not the first time he has ventured to Sylvania as a High Priest of Morr rather than a Hohenzollern, and it will not be the last. In fact, he suspects that the Cult will be making regular militant pilgrimages and consecrating efforts in Sylvania for longer than he will remain alive. Yet as he travels along, passing columns of soldiers bracketed by priests of a great many Gods but with Morr always strongly represented, he comes to a pause.For coming the other way is a rarer, if somewhat more common than most other locations in the Empire, party.
Wizards.
All eight of the Colleges have been present in Sylvania, but none so more strongly than the Amethyst College. A College that he has two of his own blood now part of. Many find them off-putting, he knows. They dress darkly, scrimshawed bone often adorns their robes, and the scythes they bear are not particularly comforting when they bring to mind either necromancers or Morr himself. And it is four of these, dressed in purples, that stalk the road going the other way at the rear of the other columns. One of whom, however, at the back, pauses just as Arthur does.
Her hair is gone, shaved after having gone too stringy and thin after repeated exposure to the darker magics of those who had taken advantage of her uncontrolled and supremely strong Witch Sight. But the bags beneath her eyes are gone. Her skin, grey and wan, is a more - relatively speaking - healthy pale shade. She pauses, as he does, and the two look at one another. One looming above, aided further by the war horse he is astride, and she below. But there is no shrinking away, no huddling, no shaking or fear. Two gazes, both that have seen beyond the veil, albeit in perhaps different paths and ways, meet each other. The wind tousles her hood, flicking it back slightly, and he has doffed his helm for the moment.
This time, they do not speak, merely exchange nods and small smiles.
And so Arthur von Hohenzollern, High Priest of Morr, goes one way.
And Gisela Sable, Journeyman Amethyst Wizard, goes another.
Both serving the Empire as best they can.
Last edited:
Damn, investment into Morr continues to be one of the best decisions made in this quest.
Genon
Baron Awesomesauce the Magnificent
- Location
- Neptune
Honestly? Even from a purely practical standpoint, Ostland was one of the most undead-plagued provinces short of Stirland and Sylvania, with the Forest of Shadows being there and all. I'm shocked GW didn't make Ostland a Morr-leaning province in canon, given that Ostland is so deeply fucked by undead and beastmen that your average Ostlander is always ready and prepared to fight to the death at a moment's notice. The god that protects the dead and shepherds them to the embrace of all the other gods seems like one you'd want to make damn sure you've got on your good side when the alternative is mindless undeath or being claimed by the Chaos Gods.
Given where we live, Morr fits us like a glove. And investing in him was the best decision we ever made.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wow, that was haunting. In a good way.
MrRobot
In doubt there's always the Sun!
Investment in most gods kinda is important.
Mor is really as big for Ostoland specifically.
But so did organizing the cult of Esmeralda, id created a major session in the Halfling population, some double down on the goblin ways while the rest that got out of the moot developing a lot of true pride
Mor is really as big for Ostoland specifically.
But so did organizing the cult of Esmeralda, id created a major session in the Halfling population, some double down on the goblin ways while the rest that got out of the moot developing a lot of true pride
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
Morr protects, and Arthur keeps serving him well.
So glad we encouraged him to follow his heart and join the cult, and now he works to aid as many people as he can, be them living or dead.
Few would have given Gisela the chance he did, and cause of it the Empire has another protector.
So glad we encouraged him to follow his heart and join the cult, and now he works to aid as many people as he can, be them living or dead.
Few would have given Gisela the chance he did, and cause of it the Empire has another protector.
Morrites need a pamphlet for these cases.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Might not help, literacy in the Empire is a bit iffy.
- Location
- Underground
Ugh, been busy all day with work, putting together a new bed for the toddler, and general baby wrangling....but I have some time now.
Looked the vote over again, the place to add looking for possible recruits would probably be just after 'run assaults'
" ...They take the time to learn the layout and operation so they can do maximum damage." and add, "...while also keeping an eye out for signs of dissension or reluctant workers, looking for possible needed recruits. They will need more agents to gather more intelligence, target more sites, and plot a wider revolt going forward...."
I might also add "If the opportunity for sabotage presents itself..." as a prior qualifier for Nat going ice queen.
[] Plan Frozen Fish with 3 and quiet
-[] Target a single aquaculture site, preferably a fresh water one.
-[] Target should be understaffed and with ruined/empty buildings near the entrance for someone to lurk - good conditions for infiltration and especially escape are more important than water type.
-[] Natasha, Jaqueline, and Roland infiltrate disguised as slaves assigned from elsewhere arranged by Hultressa with whatever forgeries or cutouts are needed to obscure her involvement. Disguises should be different from their day to day slave disguises and if Hultressa can implicate some other player all the better.
-[] They take the time to learn the layout and operation so they can do maximum damage. This is important not only for this attack but future raids on other sites where they'll need to strike for maximum effect in the limited time window of hit and run assaults. They also keep an eye out for signs of dissension or reluctant workers, looking for possible needed recruits. They will need more agents to gather more intelligence, target more sites, and plot a wider revolt going forward. If the opportunity for sabotage presents itself, Nat concentrates on destruction of both fish stocks and plumbing with ice magic. Sh'ell try to do so subtly but if things get loud Jaq and Roland will handle the violence against people to protect her and killing essential personnel if they can.
-[] Whenever possible, Hultressa can look into bomb making supplies.
-[] But her priority will be to help provide a way out for the others when they need it.
It's a difference, but I don't think that big a one that makes it a different plan, really, y'know? But putting it out there before actually making the change.
Looked the vote over again, the place to add looking for possible recruits would probably be just after 'run assaults'
" ...They take the time to learn the layout and operation so they can do maximum damage." and add, "...while also keeping an eye out for signs of dissension or reluctant workers, looking for possible needed recruits. They will need more agents to gather more intelligence, target more sites, and plot a wider revolt going forward...."
I might also add "If the opportunity for sabotage presents itself..." as a prior qualifier for Nat going ice queen.
[] Plan Frozen Fish with 3 and quiet
-[] Target a single aquaculture site, preferably a fresh water one.
-[] Target should be understaffed and with ruined/empty buildings near the entrance for someone to lurk - good conditions for infiltration and especially escape are more important than water type.
-[] Natasha, Jaqueline, and Roland infiltrate disguised as slaves assigned from elsewhere arranged by Hultressa with whatever forgeries or cutouts are needed to obscure her involvement. Disguises should be different from their day to day slave disguises and if Hultressa can implicate some other player all the better.
-[] They take the time to learn the layout and operation so they can do maximum damage. This is important not only for this attack but future raids on other sites where they'll need to strike for maximum effect in the limited time window of hit and run assaults. They also keep an eye out for signs of dissension or reluctant workers, looking for possible needed recruits. They will need more agents to gather more intelligence, target more sites, and plot a wider revolt going forward. If the opportunity for sabotage presents itself, Nat concentrates on destruction of both fish stocks and plumbing with ice magic. Sh'ell try to do so subtly but if things get loud Jaq and Roland will handle the violence against people to protect her and killing essential personnel if they can.
-[] Whenever possible, Hultressa can look into bomb making supplies.
-[] But her priority will be to help provide a way out for the others when they need it.
It's a difference, but I don't think that big a one that makes it a different plan, really, y'know? But putting it out there before actually making the change.
Empiren priests as a rule are literate.
ContemplateLife
Philosopher Thesaurus
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] Plan Frozen Fish with 3 and quiet
- Location
- Somewhere
That should be Stirland or Sylvania, not Ostland. Mostly because Ostland does not have a Ametyst College presence in Ostland that's been commented on. And if we did have a strong Amethyst College presence, then Ostland should have had a Amethyst wizard at the recent fight in Salkalten, or be there at Wulfenburg right now.
Last edited:
Corrected, thanks!
Considering how many undead we had to fight during the Vampire War of 2315 I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out they're were more undead then they're were people in ostland before the war started.
Doesn't have to be one that uses words. Could use pictures. Someone sleeping, having nightmares, goes to the priest, nightmares stay, goes back to the priest, priest takes them to the wizards, no more nightmares.
It's not really so simple. Gisela had a spontaneous activation of a massively overdeveloped Witch Sight that she couldn't control, to the point that she was literally using Witch Sight when her eyes were closed and trying to sleep, being forcibly exposed to such otherworldly stimuli even when asleep/eyes closed/unconscious. And other senses as well. Some people' Witch Sight can develop as actually hearing different music, smelling different scents, etc as well. Gisela was mightily unfortunate.
She literally went a bit crazy and got taken advantage of a small Necromancer coven that found her after she stumbled her way out of Wulfenburg.
Just having horrible nightmares and visions doesn't necessarily equal wizardry. Some people just go crazy on Mallus. Exposed to a bit too much of the green moon's light, literally actually cursed with madness, lead exposure, etc.
The 'more' usual thing someone like that would get us an asylum at a Temple of Shallya or elsewhere. But a lot of people generally don't want to get locked up for being crazy. Even if Shallyans are reasonably quite good and genuinely compassionate compared to the awful stuff some asylums and mental institutions got up to/into IRL and in the Old World.
Or, because this is Mallus and the Empire, burned at the stake, stoned, hanged, driven away with spears, etc. because babbling madness equals evil and horrible and bad and Dark Gods and so on. Her skin had gotten that pallid grey that just wasn't a good look. She's better now, sure, but she was on the cusp. She's rather - again - unfortunately what one might call a 'natural necromancer', a real prodigal natural born talent at it. She didn't actually raise the dead yet, which is why Arthur spared her, but she definitely talked to spirits. Or had spirits talk to her, without her able to stop listening.
She literally went a bit crazy and got taken advantage of a small Necromancer coven that found her after she stumbled her way out of Wulfenburg.
Just having horrible nightmares and visions doesn't necessarily equal wizardry. Some people just go crazy on Mallus. Exposed to a bit too much of the green moon's light, literally actually cursed with madness, lead exposure, etc.
The 'more' usual thing someone like that would get us an asylum at a Temple of Shallya or elsewhere. But a lot of people generally don't want to get locked up for being crazy. Even if Shallyans are reasonably quite good and genuinely compassionate compared to the awful stuff some asylums and mental institutions got up to/into IRL and in the Old World.
Or, because this is Mallus and the Empire, burned at the stake, stoned, hanged, driven away with spears, etc. because babbling madness equals evil and horrible and bad and Dark Gods and so on. Her skin had gotten that pallid grey that just wasn't a good look. She's better now, sure, but she was on the cusp. She's rather - again - unfortunately what one might call a 'natural necromancer', a real prodigal natural born talent at it. She didn't actually raise the dead yet, which is why Arthur spared her, but she definitely talked to spirits. Or had spirits talk to her, without her able to stop listening.
Last edited:
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Priests, yes. The common folk? Less likely.
To be fair, if the booze is talking to her, she's got bigger issues then that.