Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
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- 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
"It turns out nagash wasn't dead"
Is a statement so common that it's honestly surprising anyone is shocked when he comes back in some way shape or form. Of course this is NAGASH where talking about ( which is also a weirdly common sentence) so you have a reason to be scared shitless.
Also, does anyone kind of weirdly respect Nagashs ambition? Like terrible person, but you gotta respect his grind
Is a statement so common that it's honestly surprising anyone is shocked when he comes back in some way shape or form. Of course this is NAGASH where talking about ( which is also a weirdly common sentence) so you have a reason to be scared shitless.
Also, does anyone kind of weirdly respect Nagashs ambition? Like terrible person, but you gotta respect his grind
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Spikes, Horns, and Stone 26
Spikes, Horns, and Stone 26
The final day dawns, and there will be no more bombs to make. No more materials to be gathered. None of it. Hultressa departs early, so swiftly and silently that you do not even see her leaving, or sense it. Instead, you wake up to a twitching Eldyra, muttering in her sleep again with fingers flexing in various motions in her sleep. Death Thorn is never far from her, even now, even after yesterday, but the Asur is quite aware of her current condition. Almost depressingly so, given the word she referred to herself as. You have received tutoring from a Handmaiden of the Everqueen, yes, and more on the Druchii side of things thanks to Hultressa and Gwendolyn, not to mention your interactions with the Asrai-turned-Eonir and their own various members. But the word, communicated through the especially evocative language of Eltharin, was a wretched one indeed. Perhaps, if spoken from another, by another, it would be a sound that would taste in the ears of sympathy and empathy for another. In fact, when you spoke it yourself, just murmuring it under your breath, that was what seemed to come out of you. Eldyra has taken it as a searing brand of shame for herself instead.
But, much as it tears at your heart, there simply is nothing you can do for her right now.
Hultressa might possess some kind of spell or another, some enchantment, some sort of magical creation that could help still the mind and grant it more tranquility. But there is nearly zero chance at all that Eldyra would ever accept such aid, especially in her current state, from a Druchii sorceress. She is constantly at a hairs breadth away from violence whenever the sorceress comes near, and only a few scant lengths more regarding Gwendolyn. Something both disappointing and understandable. After the last episode, in the interest of keeping Hultressa from having to do something everyone in the room would regret, the issue simply has to be tabled. If anything, you know that it is entirely likely that Hultressa is going to try and make extra sure that her daughter need not be anywhere near the Asur while you are both out of the Tor. Plus, at the most pragmatic level, it isn't necessarily worth the energy expenditure that Hultressa will surely need for the coming day, and most definitely the auction tonight.
So it is that you find yourself sitting, quietly, with Gwendolyn and Eldyra in the chambers of the Claw of Dominion's resident terror-maker. Breakfast was a surprisingly sumptuous affair, not so much spicy, but certainly savory. She breaks out some of the largest single eggs you've ever seen, apparently sourced from the lands of Khuresh, but not, she is insistent on telling you, from the actual Naga themselves. Nonetheless they remain snake eggs, but have whites and yolks bigger than five regular chicken eggs. There is pork, there are three different vegetables, there is a bowl of cut up fruit, most of which you know and some you do not. It is quite the effort, but all the same there is a nervousness throughout all of it. A kind of tense energy which you can see in the way that some of the cuts are not as mechanical and precise as they should be, the tiny differences in seasoning which spike just a bit too more than is comfortable. The ease with which Gwendolyn approaches cooking suffers under her own inner turmoil that she otherwise manages to keep hidden with a quiet and seemingly calm exterior.
Because she knows that after tonight, one way or another, everything she has ever known is going to change.
You just have to try and make sure that it is a damned good change.
Lunch, by comparison, is a lighter affair. A particularly interesting kind of soup, with an incredibly flavorful broth, with pasta. Except it isn't pasta, as you've known it, the dish which originated out of Tilea. Or Estalia. Those two countries have a great many things that they claim for themselves and deny for the other. Where Myrmidia was born. Who Myrmidia conquered. Who has the better duelists, the better steel, the better culture, the better food, the better architecture, who has the more beautiful women, and so on and so forth. So it is with pasta, with it being either a Magritta invention or a Tobaro one. Either way, these noodles are a good bit different, with some kind of cabbage and thinly sliced chicken in it, as well as some other garnishes. Though she does offer you two lacquered sticks of all things to eat it with.
"And what is this?" You ask dubiously as you try to figure out the sticks, watching Gwendolyn as she holds them.
"Ramen," she says, smile flickering into existence and then dying as she glances at Eldyra, then looking down into her soup. "It's a dish from Nippon. I could have made soba, that can be hot or cold, but ramen is generally warm. I like it, though."
"And these…," you waggle the sticks at her, making sure to hold it now in the same manner that she is.
"Hmm…if I had to translate to modern Reikspiel, hashi? Hashi, yes," she nods after thinking. "But it's the traditional eating utensil."
"Sticks," you say, nonplussed.
"She is correct," Eldyra grunts from where she is apparently expertly slurping up her own noodles, then pauses at your stare and blushes slightly. "There is a Nipponese restaurant and a Cathayan restaurant on the same street in Lothern, in the quarter opened up by the Phoenix King."
"I…see," you hum, then manage to actually get the trick of them and start eating the ramen yourself. "This is pretty good!"
"Thank you," Gwendolyn gives you a brief smile before going back to eating. "I might not get a chance to cook like this ever again," she mumbles, and you pause as she takes a much slower bite than before.
"You will," you say softly, and she glances up at you, blinking rapidly. "There are some Cathayans and Nipponese in Marienburg, at the very least. Some ingredients here and there. Might take more time to get the ingredients together, but it's not impossible."
There is a bit of hope in her eyes, but it is tempered, too tempered, by the weariness and maturity forced upon her.
"…maybe," she sighs, and goes back to eating.
The meal is quiet for a few moments longer before another decides to speak up again.
"Is that also where you learned your arts," Eldyra asks as she finishes her food, wiping her mouth with a cloth. "From some slave or another?"
Gwendolyn flushes, a bit of indignation mixing with embarrassment as she clears her throat and puts her hands into her lap.
"Only in a manner of speaking, Princess Eldyra," the child says primly. "M-much of what I do – am – is b-because of…," she trails off, and then coughs. "But no. If you must know, the instructor for much of my mobility and martial arts training comes from Deathmaster Snikkitch."
Here your eyebrows rise high, yours and Eldyra's, though her brows immediately then furrow into something ugly and suspicious.
"A skaven?" She asks, the word almost a hiss from Eldyra's lips. "You have trained with a skaven?"
"Not like how you're thinking!" Gwendolyn protests, though at this point she's looking more at your face than Eldyra's. "He's – he's not…they tried to assassinate Supreme Sorceress Screamtaker two hundred years ago!" She says quickly, waving her hands around. "Skaven leadership can live indefinitely so long as they have access to the most potent skalm mixtures, but their average maximum lifespan is only twenty years otherwise! But there were other matters, so interrogation was put to my mother instead," she says, blinking rapidly. "So she…," Gwendolyn pauses and clears her throat again. "She ripped out his soul, is all."
Eldyra looks horrified and partially incensed, though given it's a skaven, perhaps not as much as she might have been if it was an elf.
"Oh. Well, if that's all then," you drawl, rubbing at your temples.
This is to live, to survive, and to get back home. Sigmar and Morr forgive you the sins of the Druchii that you must deal with else you'd die needlessly.
"You are tutored by the imprisoned soul of a skaven Deathmaster," Eldyra whispers, staring at her with a few slow shakes of her head. "A skaven!"
Gwendolyn gives the most childish huff you've ever heard out of her and crosses her arms.
"It's not like he's the…," she slows down as she sees your eyebrows beginning to climb once more, "…only one," she finishes lamely.
"It's not like your mother could bring in outside Druchii instructors, I suppose," you groan, rubbing a bit harder at your temples for a moment before taking a single calming breath. "Why not," you cluck your tongue and then turn in your chair. "I do hope your mother at least makes sure that you don't spend too long…learning…from them, correct?"
"Uh…well," she swishes her shoulders a bit as she thinks. "It's not like they're fully…conscious? She just sort of, you know," she raises her hands up and makes a motion that could be considered strangling. "Anyway," she shrugs, "They think they're teaching a student. And they are! Technically, and yes," she nods vigorously at you. "She always wants to make sure there's nothing strange that I'm learning from them."
Nothing strange she says.
"If there is an Asur soul kept in your-," Eldyra begins threateningly, but Gwendolyn shakes her head so fast her hair is flipping around as she does it.
"No! No, she wouldn't! Not, not like that," the child stutters and changes tact before she could outright say that her mother would never hurt the Asur when everyone here knows that has definitely happened. "No. No Asur. Or Asrai! Mostly just assassins," she confesses. "Some that tried to kill Screamtaker, or herself."
"There would be no shortage of those amongst the Druchii," Eldyra says, derision and disgust dripping from her voice. "And your mother has you learn much from them, I see."
"We focused mostly on stealth and remaining hidden," Gwendolyn says a bit more stiffly now. "Some combat techniques as I have grown older, yes, but the learning focused on ensuring my own survival and avoiding any attackers first."
That, at least, seems quite sensible to you. Especially given everything you now know about Druchii society.
"Perhaps," Eldyra allows before sighing and pushing herself up and away from the table. "I thank you for the meal, child," she says before she strides away to go sit in a corner away from everyone and everything she can.
"You're welcome," Gwendolyn says a bit more sharply than she might have before, and quickly begins gathering up the plates and utensils before handing it off to a terror that takes it away.
Then, very pointedly, she walks over to you, at which point you instinctively kneel down to one knee to get to eye level with her.
"She is…," she whispers very quietly to you, hands clenched into tiny fists at her sides. "She…,"
"She's traumatized. A victim of torture," you murmur softly, reaching a hand out to pat atop her head, rubbing slightly.
"I know! I know…I just…," her bottom lip trembles, a bit of watery sheen appearing in her pitch black eyes.
You reach out and gently tug her into an embrace that she tightly returns.
"Give it time," you inform her. "Give her time. If we succeed, you might both end up on Ulthuan at the same time, hmm? And as you are both young elves, you will have decades, centuries even, to make a better relationship, a better foundation, than what you have now."
"But…," she starts before falling silent and then just presses her face into your chest.
But it was supposed to be better than this, you know she wants to say. She was supposed to just leap into the arms of the waiting Asur, the thing she has been preparing for all her life, hoping for all her life. Told would happen by her mother, all her life. But she is not meeting the beneficent and kindly Everqueen. Not the gregarious and cheerful Sadrina. But it is Eldyra, squire of Tyrion, victim of Tullaris, who is the very first Asur that she has ever met. And despite Khaine, despite everything, she is a child. A child of difficult and different circumstances than any you've ever met in your life, but a child nonetheless. One who is, you think, quite possibly one of the most profoundly alone children in consideration of any other interactions than with her mother and apparently a few twisted enslaved souls.
"I know," you tell her. "I know."
She nods against your chest before stepping away, and you can see that she has successfully fought back her tears. A small smile is shared with you before she steps away, almost scampering out of sight to elsewhere in the chambers. When you rise to your feet, it impossible to miss the stare from Eldyra from her spot in the corner, huddled up on one of the chairs with her arms around her knees and chin atop them. In this posture, her blonde hair has fallen forward to shroud much of her face and eyes thanks to her bangs. Death Thorn is once more sheathed, but rests upright and leaned against the chair, and you know very well at this point how quickly she could draw the damaged ithilmar blade should the impulse strike her. For a moment, you wait for her to say something, to protest, to insult, or otherwise, but in the end she doesn't. She just watches you, staring, before slowly turning her gaze away to a middle point on the walls.
You accept the dismissal for what it is, and for the first time in a while return to the torture laboratory and entryway foyer, fully equipping yourself with all of your gear.
A few drills to run through.
A few stretches.
But after that, with all the experience of a soldier of the Empire from annual campaigns in the spring and summer throughout the forests and into the Middle Mountains, from Karak Ungor and more, you perform an ancient and time-honored activity for your kind.
You go to sleep, and rest for the battle to come.
===============================================================
(Final Pyramid Preparations: 45+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(15)+Prior Habits(10)+Pre-Party Planning(5)+One In A Crowd(10)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)-The Event of the Season(5)+Sharks Scenting Blood(5)+Prior Pyramid Work(15)-Tiring Mother(5)=85/100)
"Wake up."
Hultressa's face greets you as you crack open your eyes, a single unimpressed eyebrow raised on her face. What you see is entirely at odds from every other outfit you've seen her wear up to now. Or, put another way, this is the least amount of skin she's ever shown off before that you can recall thus far. Double fluted and sprouted shoulder pads extend outwards as gold-tipped spikes over black metal. Wicked looking spikes extend out from the forearms of gauntlets which are incredibly finely articulated to extend out claws from each fingertip, sheathed in black and gold metals that glow with magical power. Her legs are mostly covered by gold embossed dark ithilmar sheets – a mixture of dress and tasset in function – which are slit up to the hips but otherwise stretch out and conceal and protect her with dark glowing runes. The slit at the sides further reveals that she has gone far enough to wearing greaves and cuisse of glossy dark metals. An upraised helm, one that stretches high above her head more like a crown, is atop and guarding her head, framing her face perfectly while also sprouting out a quartet of metal horns to the sides which for a brief moment in your still sleepy mind reminds you of a daemon's. Which, of course, does quite well at making you wake up fully all the faster.
"Hello," you say to her as you swing yourself upright and onto the edge of the slab you were resting on. "That's…quite an outfit," you say, looking her up and down.
A staff practically burning with Dark Magic is floating in the air next to her, this one looking like a mixture of metal and bone, all of it purely dark. A small brazier of purple-black flame burns silently at the head of it, centered around a blazing sphere set in the center of it. The huge cleaver-like sword that she wields also floats in the air, and appears to have been polished to a mirror sheen and no doubt especially well sharpened. At her waist is a curious looking duo of daggers, each of whom has a long split right down the center making them appear like tines of a fork or something, with spikey looking guards for the hilts, while glowing red gemstones are set at the pommels. There are a number of genuine golden gilded skulls on her belt as well, each of which has faintly glowing runes engraved on the foreheads. She looks you up as well in turn, dressed in Ledstahli plate, further enchanted by Alexandra, and the Runefang you bear and the gauntlet you wear.
"I didn't have much time to prepare," she informs you curtly, "So this is the best that we can do."
"What?" You say glancing at the two scrolls.
"You need not possess magic of your own, Frederick," she says, waggling the scrolls a bit. "Merely know the correct words and gestures to conjure the spells bound within. This," she holds up the left, "Is a spell of transformation. The target will take on the form of a mouse, whilst retaining their mind and faculties throughout the change. If we cannot retrieve the Handmaiden through other means, this will allow us to gather her up and try and make an escape," she says.
She goes on to raise up the scroll on the right, but pauses in thought, or perhaps because of the expression on your face.
"You could transform someone into an animal and make an escape with them," you sigh.
"It is possible, yes," she sniffs, "There are lingering signs of such things to those with the eyes to see, however," she notes, tone sharp and pointed. "In the event of attempting to gather her up, regardless of her physical condition, and running, however, it may well prove easier, yes. Or, at the very least, to remove a guard from the path. You had to know I had this capability, yes?" She draws the word out, blinking at you.
"Yeah, I knew," you grunt, folding your arms over your chest and motioning at her with your hands to continue. "Go on."
"Very well," she nods before wiggling the scroll on the right. "This scroll is one of bewilderment, a projection of Ulgu, to befuddle and confuse the mind of others before you. Enough, perhaps, to make it past them or to allow yourself or, more importantly, the Handmaiden to escape."
"Nothing like invisibility or what have you?" You can't help but ask, at which point Hultressa clucks her tongue and narrows her eyes at you.
"I did not have the time, Frederick, I have been running myself ragged for weeks now, first against the pyramid, and now elsewhere," she sneers, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair all in the same motion. "I have hardly slept! So no," she tosses the two scrolls over to you, "I did not have the time to instill the power of a greater spell let alone a ritual casting to bind. Now, have you ever used a scroll before?"
"Not a spell one, no," you admit, inclining your head to acknowledge her point before feeling the weight of them in your hands. "And speaking of, how did your last time in the pyramid go?"
"Better than I feared, worse than I had hoped," she sighs, shaking her head for a moment, hand to her forehead before she lowers her arm. "The Overseer was beyond me, I just didn't have enough time," she growls. "Paranoid bastard – but then, that is what has kept him alive all this time. No matter, what we have done will have to be enough. Now then, the scrolls."
They are vellum, you think, and fine quality at that. There is a strange sensation in your fingers simply from holding them. A curious sort of energy and heat from the Ghur scroll, not quite like fire, but more like the impression of pressing your hand to the flank of a stallion, the ghostly texture of what might be fur of some sort. On the other hand, you have to focus a small bit on the scroll in the other hand, feeling a strange ache in your fingertips that disappears even as you focus on the sensation. Said focusing also distantly leaves you with the idea of a headache without actually suffering one. The moment you stop focusing on it, simply content to leave your hands wrapped around the scrolls, the sensations fade all the further from both until they are purely on the periphery of your mind.
"Good utility, scrolls. Merely recite the incantation correctly as the scroll is unfurled to the world, and the spell within is released as intended," she says, "Now, repeat after me."
It is not that you are wholly unfamiliar with the language of magic. Not at all. One of your friends is a Bright Wizard, two of your daughters were of the Amethyst College, you've spoken with a Matriarch and other agents of the Grey College, and you've spent rather massive amounts of time listening to panicking and terrified Jade Wizards crouched over your wounded body on the stones of the Castle Wulfenburg courtyard. You might have mouthed the syllables before, but it still feels quite odd to speak the words. It feels almost like drinking from a mug of ale that is only half-full. You get the idea that something is missing, most definitely. Something that, evidently, will only come when the scrolls are opened. Part of you is not particularly happy about the idea of using magic yourself, for you have none of the training, none of the skill, none of the experience that so many others have. The horror stories aplenty from Natasha about early training in Ice Magic, what you know of the other Colleges thanks to Odelia, and so on? Makes you quite wary of 'using' magic in any measure without the sorts of protections and perceptions that those gifted with it have.
"No, not like that! Enunciate! Show me your tongue!" She says in exasperation.
"What?" You cock an eyebrow even as she advances, one hand cupping your chin while the other braces itself against your cheek. "Nghah?"
"Say the word again," she mutters into your mouth, and upon you doing so, hums in thought. "No, the tongue must curl a bit more," she then reaches in and lightly pinches your tongue between thumb and index finger, and literally tugs a bit here and there. "Like that, you understand? Try again," she says while standing back, hands going to her hips.
This time, when you speak the word, she nods in approval.
"Good. That shall activate the transformation spell upon the target, now the other word."
As it turns out, you have a bit more trouble calling out the right intonations and sounds for Ulgu.
Who would have thought?
==============================================================
When the time comes, Eldyra is warily sticking by the doors leading further into the chambers, refusing to look anywhere near the slab coffins and what they contain within. Gwendolyn, having known this environs her entire thus-far short life, runs past them without a care, leaping up to hug her mother, an embrace that Hultressa tightly shares. Incredibly tightly, actually, given that Gwendolyn gives out a tiny little squeak as her mother holds her. The two of them whisper to one another in Eltharin, but that is one conversation that you are okay not trying to understand with your grasp of the language. A private moment that you just happen to exist in, standing off to the side. In truth, it's a mite uncomfortable, but that is largely because of the shell that has been placed around you. Fine Druchii plates of armor have been carefully shaped and seamlessly connected around you with a careful application of Chamon and Aqshy by Hultressa, all of which makes you appear as a somewhat more squat and wide looking terror. You still possess Brain Wounder, and everything else, but for the moment all but the Runefang is disguised by it all.
A trophy, Hultressa has informed you, for even though it is of dwarf make any Druchii of particular intelligence is capable of recognize the sheer deadliness of this particular sword.
The shell itself is not a good enough disguise, it couldn't be, not to make you a 'true' terror properly. But that isn't what Hultressa intends. Everyone is going to know, perfectly well, who and what you are. Those with the capabilities to sense them will be able to perceive the magic wafting off of your equipment, only this time around it will be invested with Dhar and other touches that Hultressa has been preparing for a little while every day since the auction was first announced. She is going to pretend to everyone that she has torn you apart and remade you from the ground up, as she would any terror, only without any of the kind of refinement offered to those terrors made of Druchii stock. Ordinarily, such a thing would still demand a bit more scrutiny from other Druchii, but just about everyone is going to be that much more focused on the auction itself, and their other rivals, to be able to spare the kinds of absolute focus that would have prevented Hultressa from simply walking you out of the Tor of Dominance before.
"Be safe, daughter, savior of my soul and heart," you hear Hultressa whisper in Eltharin a bit louder before planting a gentle kiss on Gwendolyn's forehead as she lowers her child to the ground.
Gwendolyn's lip wobbles again before she stills it in an act of willpower and nods.
"Break and kill them all, mother," Gwendolyn replies back in Eltharin just as softly, "And come back alive. Please?" She pleads with all the earnestness of a youth and the desperation of a dying woman.
Hultressa can only give her a sad smile at that.
"I promise you freedom and salvation, my child," she says instead of anything else, and Gwendolyn bows her head as she hears those words.
Unable to refute or refuse them, but desiring to so much that it is almost breaking her heart to not demand otherwise. So instead, Gwendolyn comes to you and places a hand against the ithilmar armor on your leg.
"You will keep her safe?" She asks you plaintively as you kneel down awkwardly in the new armor on top of your armor.
"I'll do my best," you murmur, and pat her on the head one last time. "I can promise you that."
Gwendolyn sniffles a little bit before nodding, and then without another word turns and runs for the doors, bursting through them before you can actually hear the first sob. Eldyra then stands alone, and with a shaking, shuddering breath, makes her own approach. Each movement is uneven, the stride uncertain and unbalanced, teetering this way and that. Coming this close to Hultressa in the closest thing you can imagine as war regalia has clearly set something in her off, enough that she is having to grip Death Thorn in its sheathe incredible hard to the point you can see the muscles twitching in her forearm as she holds it. Nevertheless, she manages to get closer, and manages even to look in the middle distance between you and Hultressa. A slow, stuttering breath precedes a slower inhale and exhale.
"If you do this," she starts, blinks hard, and then begins again after clearing her throat. "If you do this, then you will surely have the thanks of the Everqueen," she says. "And my own. I only…I only regret that I am in no condition to aid you all myself," she declares before swiveling on her heel and looking you in the eyes, then flinching at the sight of the Druchii armor all about you. "Good luck, Frederick. May Asuryan guide you."
"I'll settle for just about any of the Cadai, frankly," you shrug back, which makes her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile before she forces herself to look at an unamused Hultressa.
"You. Sorceress. May your endeavors find success," she grits out.
"I shall do my best," Hultressa says drily as Eldyra then turns on her heel again and begins to shakily march herself out and away.
Then it is just the two of you.
Well, and the ten terrors that have been standing motionless a short distance away.
"You are a husk, you understand?" Hultressa tells you as she looks you up and down one last time. "I have captured your soul, it is within my possession. I am puppeteering the corpse as a trophy, yes? The signature of your soul is but afterimages, echoes, remaining within the husk."
"I know, I know," you sigh.
"You must not react to provocation without undue cause or orders from me. Frederick," she insists as you look at her, "There will be things done there that may enrage you. You must not let it."
"I understand," you say, reaching up, the posture a bit awkward, to pat her on the shoulder. "We've been going over this for hours now."
Hultressa looks about ready to hiss that it has to go right, but she's already done that enough times and she knows it. Instead, the sorceress just works to get her breathing back under control.
"We break her power here well enough, no one will be able to stop us from stealing a ship," you recite, "We even manage to kill her and get away, the same in the resulting total anarchy, right?"
If you fail to do so, then…well.
Best not to even think about it.
You have to succeed here.
"…speaking of anarchy, I wasn't expecting the outfit," you say, switching topic to try and keep the thousand year old woman from spiraling into frantic frustrations. "I thought – I saw, actually – that most all sorceresses wear barely anything at all."
"It is a statement to the world entire, and the Gods above and below," she says with a dismissive sigh. "Our wards, our glamours, should be enough, and that we can be as such in any environment further exemplifies our mastery of magic in ensuring our own comfort no matter what. So say the lessons of the Witch Queen herself."
"So what does coming out dressed like you are imply?" You ask as you look her over one last time, spying the case of scrolls attached to the small of her back by some magical measure or another.
"That I aim to succeed, without care of my stature or state by the end of it. It is not a matter of confidence, but of will," she says grimly before turning about and facing the doors and taking one more deep breath. "Prepare yourself."
"I've been ready for this for a long time," you mutter, even as she clasps one hand around the haft of her staff and the other on the hilt of her blade, resting the flat of it against her shoulder.
Then she exhales once and walks forward, and this time you follow after her as the doors silently slide open and then closed. For a brief paranoid second, the warding barrier which has kept you from seeing out and from anyone outside seeing in while the doors are open, a small part of you wonders and waits for treachery. Instead, on the other side, you see an enormous hallway with other doors interspersed throughout it at vast lengths from one another. Entrances to other small complexes of rooms and chambers just like Hultressa has, no doubt. Everything around you is pure Druchii in its blacks and purples, the very walls and ceilings spiked and jagged, smooth curving architecture of dark stone with metal reinforcement throughout. It is elegant. It is fearsome. It is deadly. Torches lit by purple flames burning from no visible mundane source are across all the walls, while larger blazing braziers rest at different points to further illuminate the surroundings. Unmoving Druchii guards with halberds and swords and axes guard different passages and doorways, and none of them turn their gazes to look at Hultressa. Her entrance is guarded instead by two enormous terrors, creatures who you must imagine to have once been ogres at some point in life. A thought that is not particularly pleasant to imagine. Meanwhile, the stone beneath you is glossy and smooth, without any hint of cobblestone breakages, or even tiles, though there are thick and long carpets stretching to the left and right. All of which, you realize after another second, is ever so slightly tilted. The reason for which becomes obvious as you silently follow Hultressa as she stalks her way to the right, exuding an aura of cold menace about her at all times.
You then see the first slave, and realize that Eldyra absolutely could not have been allowed out and about in her current state.
It is an elf, that is undeniable. The nature of elves makes it difficult to tell the age, as well, which only makes it worse that you can't tell if they are closer to Eldyra or Hultressa's age. Or which of those two fates would be worse either. This man, compared to the pristine state that the sorceress kept Eldyra in, is absolutely and thoroughly ruined. The luxurious locks endemic to elves of all kinds are gone, sheared away, painfully, his scalp scraped and scarred so badly that no hair will ever grow there again. His ears have been docked, like certain kinds of dogs, and something terrible has been done to his spine so that he can never, ever stand upright and tall again in his life. But it is more than that as well. For the briefest moment, you think you see a warrior standing in front of you. Wounded, perhaps, but a warrior all the same. But then that moment passes, and you realize that it is all an illusion. A mockery. Shimmering silks crafted in such a precise way to grant shading and depth to make it look like he is wearing ithilmar armor and chain beneath, but the chains are too tight, and the gorget is a thick collar attached to a child's bib, there to catch the dribbling bloody drool that comes from his split open mouth, hooks and spikes placed across the jaw and face so that he can never close his mouth and constantly maintains an expression of dumbfounded childish stupidity. There is even a sheathe at his side, or at least the facsimile of one, attached to a belt which loops around to a metallic diaper with small spikes inside that are constantly pressing against his nether regions enough to draw tiny drops of blood. The transference is obscene, from what almost looks like armor and becomes instead a mixture of a courtesan's entrancing outfit and something fit for a newborn. Or, perhaps, the inhabitant of an asylum. The broom he sweeps is also gleaming metal, or at least an outer fragmented shell of it, and even as you walk up and past you can see that the metal there once used to be the pieces of a sword. A fine leather hilt has been installed in the midsection of the broom.
But you cannot turn your head to stare. You should be incapable of that, given what Hultressa is pretending to the world that you are. So you can only stare ahead, and keep moving. The elf does not cringe away, he does not fall to his knees. But as Hultressa approaches, he shambles to the side, bloody drool falling down onto his bib. It is for that briefest of seconds that you can meet his eyes without actually turning your head. What you see is absolutely nothing at all. There are technically blue irises. There are technically clear whites there surrounding the sclera. They are, at the most fundamental level, eyes, it is true. But there is absolutely, positively, nothing behind them. Nothing at all. Not pain, not grief, not fear, not even something hopeless and broken. There is just nothing there whatsoever. It is not even like seeing candlelight burning in the window of a home that is uninhabited, but rather like just seeing a house with no lights at all. The enslaved elf simply shuffles aside at the presence of Hultressa, not raising or lowering his gaze, simply staring off into the middle distance while momentarily pausing his sweeping.
"Behold, toy," Hultressa declares in sickly sweet Druhir, contempt and glee drenching each syllable, "The fate if Lothiul had taken you for herself," she gestures blandly at the elf, who does not react at all. "My work upon you was far more merciful," she titters huskily, though you notice she is not looking so much at you as down towards one of the skulls on her belt.
Presumably where she is telling others your soul is kept at the moment.
You continue on your way from there in silence, passing by other slaves and other guards, the former running the gamut as wholly mutilated as the past elf and almost disturbingly untouched. One of the Asur is a woman of indeterminable age who is humming happily to herself as she scrubs at a spot on the black stone that is a bit clouded with blood, down on her hands and knees. She wears a fine enough looking dress that looks somewhat similar to the sorts of casual outfits that Sadrina once wore as she was wandering Wulfenburg. She glances up at Hultressa's passage and them slams her head down onto the stone floor with a heavy crack, simpering in mindless mush-mouth babbling to the sorceress as she walks by. Even as Hultressa gives no reaction, the Asur raises her head back up, and you can see now that she has had her eyes replaced with gleaming rose-colored quartz stones that twinkle. This close to her, you can even hear the mumbled thanks being given to the…to the Everqueen, and to Isha, for gracing her with their presence. As you pass by, you can hear her starting to hum to herself again as you keep subtly and slowly descending the winding tower. Though, eventually, you do stop as you come to a different kind of doorway, one not like the manor-entrances put aside for separate quarters of the various members of the Coven of the Ark.
These two doors are attended to by two more Druchii guards, who bow their heads deeply at Hultressa's approach, and then silently open them in unison.
On the other side is an enclosed chamber which, at first glance, is surprisingly unadorned. A circular thing, enough to fit perhaps two dozen Druchii comfortably, awaits you. There are ten grooves all stretching up into the ceiling, while glowing sigils of magic are engraved into the walls and even the floor. But none of that really catches your eye so much as the hideous feeling you get when you first enter, and as the doors slide shut without any other Druchii following after, you allow yourself a slight shudder within your armor. Not enough to be outwardly visible, you hope, but one that your autonomous reactions simply demand of you. Hultressa doesn't appear affected, nor her terrors, as she walks up to one of the walls and places her hand against it. Instantly, a rotating circle of different symbols flicker past faster than you can read them before the rotation ends and the circle starts to fade away from sight. Without a mechanical clank, without a grinding of gears, what you realize is an elevator silently begins to move.
"If you look up, you can even see the crystallized Dhar lodestone used to power it," Hultressa murmurs softly, still not looking at you. "That is what you are feeling, Frederick."
"Not pleasant."
"Truly?" She cocks her head and smirks, the expression weirdly crueler than you think it should be. "I find it rather…invigorating."
A disturbingly short time later, the elevator comes to a stop, and this time, when the terrors shove the doors open, you are struck by a wall of sound. Druhir, spoken from hundreds of different mouths, strikes you in the ears even as you shamble out after Hultressa amidst the other terrors. Immediately, a good bit of the conversation ceases, as Druchii nobility, servants, soldiers, and slaves alike turn to witness one of the Ark's more reclusive and powerful sorceresses. You can feel the weight of their gazes as they fall on you, especially, and then just as quickly more murmuring starts up, hands covering mouths and others falling back farther away to be able to speak with each other more subtly. You are surrounded by Druchii on all sides. Knights in armor, and in the distance there is the hissing of cold ones and thumping of hooves on stone, as well as other kinds of screeches and sounds. It is a vibrant riot of dark colors, if such a thing could be believed, with different hues of reds, purples, blacks, silvers, and golds. Every single Druchii, no matter their station, is armed in some measure. You've found yourself in some kind of hall with multiple such elevator entrances to them, you realize, six in total, with the doors opening and closing regularly as more elves depart and join in the surging crowd. All of whom part before a sorceress and her retinue, however, letting you step onto the carpet, onto the stone, and then you have to work especially hard not to react as the open sky is above you for the first time in more than a month and a half. It is night, as expected, and yet there are torches, braziers, bonfires, lights aplenty which grants the skyline of the Claw of Dominion a foreboding aspect. The shadows created by the lights and the stars shining down on a cloudless night makes each of the stretching tors and lesser buildings more akin to claws and nails sprouting towards the sky. It is a completely different experience than flying above it all, that is for certain. Like this, you can truly understand the sheer damning threat of the Druchii to the world that they can raise entire city-states like this and use them to sail and dominate the seas. Not all Black Arks are like this, you know, the Claw is one of the most ancient and powerful and most prestigious, and for goodness sake the other Ark was smaller by a good measure, but you could fit Wulfenburg on this damned thing, if you piled a few of the buildings on top of each other like the skyscraping tors of the elves.
Or had things like the statue of Khaine which towers high enough to be seen even from here, sprouting above all the other buildings with a head in one hand and a blade in the other, lit from below by pure blood red lighting to contrast the other hues of purple and yellow from magical and mundane sources everywhere else around. But it is the temple to which you now go, as does practically every other important Druchii who does business or outright lives in the Tor of Dominance it seems. One of whom approaches even now, going by the actual carriage being hauled by horses with gleaming red eyes and shining black hair which begins to push its way through, lining itself up just out of range of a swipe from some of the outlying terrors under Hultressa's control. There is a sigil, a crest, on the shields there on the sides of the carriage, while the Druchii driver does not even glance away from what is front of them. The two guards, on the other hand, with enormous repeating crossbows in their hands, are much more open in scanning for threats. The window then lowers from one of the doors, and an imperious looking Druchii man with snow white hair glances across you all – lingering for just a second longer on you – before turning to Hultressa, who turns her head barely a single degree towards him.
"Lady Hultressa," he greets politely, not raising his voice and yet remaining perfectly understandable despite the hubbub of all the crowds. "Might I offer you a less…pedestrian method of reaching the temple, this night?"
"Thank you for the offer, Lord Cruelbarb, but I wish to stretch the legs of my newest work," she says with a sliver-thin nod in his direction before gesturing at you. "Your offer shall be remembered."
"Very good, my Lady," he nods again, and without another word, the carriage moves on.
You would think that such crowds of people would smell. Sweat. Grime. Maybe even a bit of blood. Perhaps that would be true for mere commoners, even amongst the Druchii, but amongst the nobility? Not at all. Hultressa herself is something of sandalwood, cinnamon, and something esoterically smoky, and even the grotesque terrors just smell vaguely metallic like metal out of a hot forge before being quenched. Nothing truly detestable. As you walk along the streets, an aura of protection exuded by the outer terrors that no other Druchii dares impede, you are struck many times over by other scents. Some of them are particularly florid and complex, while others are simpler yet powerful, or even a bit judiciously understated. It's a level of aesthetic beautification that would embarrass the most expert ladies of the courts of the Empire, no matter the makeup and perfumes they wished to wear. It is unlike the Eonir and Asrai who can be covered with the dirt of their homes, yet retain an ethereal beauty nonetheless like the nature that they commune so strongly with. It is also unlike the Asur, who retain an aura of cleanliness and purity at all times, no matter the situation, exuding nobility and passionate pride. But here, not in the middle of a battle or the immediate aftermath, the Druchii are like chiseled marble and freshly driven snow, stark and beautiful, at all times exuding some measure of danger. Any softness in them is purely in the body of some of the women, who proudly strut and stalk on high heels, yet even they are well cloaked in dresses and armor depending on who they are. There are a handful of other sorceresses you see as well, though none are dressed like Hultressa. On the other hand, they are also atop winged Dark Pegasi, or in other cases, riding on palanquins carried by slaves.
But either way, no one impedes your progress overmuch, though there are more than a few nobles calling out to Hultressa here and there as you go. For the most part, she shuts them down as easily as she did Lord Cruelbarb. There are other Druchii, as well, the shape of their armor, the stances they bear, all just a fraction different than everyone else, and many of them mostly purely military in aspect, that lends credence to your silent positing that they are from the other Ark. Evacuees turned loyalists to Alyssa Voidreaper after being cut off from their Ark. An Ark nominally conquered out of Druchii hands, even. Not something particularly prestigious for them to bear, and it shows in how clumped up those groups are, protective and wary at all times. All of them wish to simply greet her, though others go father and offer aid in reaching the temple, or in a few cases make simple polite requests as towards purchasing a terror for later use. It is, rather unsurprisingly, the Druchii foreigners to the Claw who seem most eager to shore up their forces and power in any way possible. You see many hosts of guards as well, all of them surrounding their charges. Some of them are on steady horses, others on cold ones, while others simply walk, clearing the spaces around either their also striding masters or those in carriages. There are bleakswords, dreadspears, knights aplenty, as well as a few cadres of Druchii dressed in blood-soaked furs, with huge spears in hand and bows on their back. But none of the barely clad so-called Sisters of Slaughter. Eventually, though, can start to feel it in the air. A kind of heat. A familiar sort. The thudding of your heart in your chest starts to get louder, harder, faster. Not by too much, but noticeably. Something that seems to be shared by all the other Druchii around you, and their slaves. A bit more flushing in the cheeks. A bit more rapidity in the movement.
The smell of dried blood mixing with fresh hits your nose next.
The chattering of Druhir growing more excited, to each other, and then growing quieter once more as they get closer still.
All the while, the statue of Khaine looms above you all, eyes on the distant southern horizon.
A certain kind of weight feels like it is starting to, ever so lightly, press down onto your shoulders all the same.
Then Hultressa holds up a fist, and the terrors all stop in unison around you with you following suit. The flow of Druchii around you all continues regardless, though many of them slow and there are heads from further afield craning to take a look. She raises the fist higher, then opens it, and snaps her fingers once. It is a sharp cracking sound, the sound for some reason that of a large bone snapping rather than metal or leather rasping against one another. This causes others to look, and just in time to see a swirling mass of writhing shadows to come soaring out of the night sky to land within the perimeter established by the terrors. The smoke and shadows rapidly retreat, and on the other side you see someone dressed in form fitting Druchii armor which completely obscures their head, and hair, in a hood. Whoever they are, they are enormous, bulky and wide, standing taller than you even, something that becomes all the more evident as they smoothly stand from where they had begun on one knee. The figure stands, and then inclines their head towards Hultressa, who nods back, and then turns and scans before the eyes dip lower to find you. You cannot see the face of the figure, beyond the mask they wear which obscures all below the eyes, as the shadows cast by the hood seem to be enhanced somehow to further obscure the remaining features. On their back is a weapon you've never seen before in your life, but it does look somewhat like some kind of halberd or another, though any other features seem obscured and deliberately covered by dark leather wrappings put all around it. Even the head is somewhat indistinct, caused by an enchantment of Ulgu perhaps. But you are not an idiot.
She cannot say it, cannot suggest it, cannot even imply it.
But this, surely, is none other than Johanna Fuerbach in disguise.
"Thanalunluidai," Hultressa greets respectfully, inclining her head, and instantly, everyone around you skirts backwards a step.
Which, given what you can muddle out, makes sense.
A nod is given in turn, and then Johanna moves just behind Hultressa silently…and then you are just on your way again. The greater temple complex has high walls, and high towers, and a very big gate, which at the moment is completely open to allow the Druchii to enter. It is there that you finally see, for the first time, the so-called Brides of Khaine. They are, all ten of them, completely covered in blood. Five are on the left side of the door, five on the right, and each stands over a bubbling cauldron of blood. A small pile of bodies is nearby, completely exsanguinated, and the Witch Elves cackle and beseech and call out to Khaine, offering his glory and favor to any and all who accept his bloody benediction. But you can hear it, ever so faintly. The strain. The hoarseness. It is barely there, so much so that it might as well not be, except that you can. And if you can, the other Druchii can as well. The Cult of Khaine is striving to show its power, its dominance, the favor of its God, and it shows. Not so much that some of the incoming Druchii do not happily offer up some of their slaves brought for just such a purpose to be horrifically torn apart, flayed alive, and drained of blood in front of everyone, but the point remains. On the other side is a large complex indeed, practically multiple small manors connected to one another, all centering around a massive plaza which can fit a great many Druchii while the gargantuan statue of Khaine stands above you all.
"Praise him! Praise the Bloody-Handed God, the God of Murder, your God!" You can hear some of the Witch Elves preach.
Slowly you approach, closer and closer, all at the sedate pace that Hultressa has set. This close, the sensations are growing worse, however. You can feel a discordant excitement bubbling up inside of you with no discernable source. Your heart rate increasing, the blood in your veins feeling just a tiny bit hotter. Thankfully you are wearing Ledstahli around you within the outer shell of armor that Hultressa has placed upon you. But other Druchii are less restrained, their laughter starting to grow louder, their voices growing more excitable and eager after they pass the threshold. Though you do see some grow quiet just as they hit it, only to seem relieved on the other sides of the doors. Then there are those most obviously dedicated to other Cytharai, who stalk through with curt nods to the devotees of Khaine, and are watched and sneered at in turn, especially those Druchii who are quite clearly cultists of the Savage Huntress. Here, the press of bodies is so great that even the terrors can only present so much of a perimeter defense formation, having to tighten in ever so slightly. Enough so that the new arrival ends up a tiny bit closer to you.
(Noticing The Human: 74+20+15+10+5+10-20-10-5+5-5+Mysterious Stranger(10)-Cult Seeks Young Child(10)=99/100)
"Hultressa!" One of the Witch Elves calls out, stopping you all just as you prepare to cross the threshold, eyes glittering and pale skin flush with the blood splattering it. "So you have come!"
"Of course," Hultressa puffs out her chest, staff and sword freezing in the air as she puts her hands on her hips. "There is much material I could gain here."
"Of course, of course!" The Bride says, her eager expression starting to darken. "But…where is the Khaine-Blessed, sorceress? Where is your daughter?"
All nine of the other Witch Elves turn their heads as one, unblinking.
"Not. Here," Hultressa bites out, a bit of Dhar flaring out of her eye sockets as she says it. "It is something to be discussed with the Death Hag."
The speaking Witch Elf hisses slightly, and then rolls her head around on her neck, eyes narrowing.
"You have said so before, sorceress," she doesn't quite spit.
"It will happen when it happens," Hultressa says back, unyielding, and after a moment the Witch Elf hisses again and angrily grabs up one of the passing Druchii who bears only a single sword and no retinue and tears his throat open with her teeth.
Showing a surprising amount of strength, she goes so far as to pick him up bodily above her shoulders and holds him there so that his blood can splash down on her like a waterfall.
"…quite," Hultressa scoffs, and then motions forward.
KILL
You stutter in your stepping through as a flash of pure red wrath and ruin completely subsumes your senses, aided along by a gentle press of a hand on the small of your back so swift that you can't even be sure it was there. Hultressa and the terrors and even the new arrival appear entirely unaffected. Other Druchii also passing through seem to shake themselves like wet dogs, but happily, and show gleaming white smiles and eager looks. Others shiver slightly, but in a pleasured way. If there are any amongst the Druchii stepping onto grounds consecrated in honor of the God of Murder that are uncomfortable with it, there are none that you can see with your limited opportunities to turn your head while pretending to appear as a husk who are like you. The closest equivalent are those clearly sworn to other Gods of the elves, who grit their teeth or otherwise just keep their heads high and chins taller while clearly working to show zero affect at all whether positive or negative. Khaine is supreme amongst the Druchii, you understand that quite well, but that does not mean that the other Cytharai do not have their pride. They are, after all, elven Gods. Aside from the Druchii, however, are the slaves. Most of them are human, a scattershot of origins from around the world it seems, with no small amount of Imperials, but you see men and women and even some children from all over the Old World – and beyond. There are Indish , Cathayans, and Nipponese slaves, though you might not yet be the most perfect judge of the differences between the latter two. All of whom wail, weep, flinch, or sag as they pass through, only to be whipped or struck to get upright and moving once more. Some are attendants, others appear to simply be there as entertainment, going by how you can see one Druchii woman laughing as she explains to a bemused peer how she killed the Indish man's wife.
On the other side of it all, are all of the most powerful Druchii – that are still alive – between two different Black Arks. Nobles, and their houses. Military leaders, that fought their way up from blood soaked streets and orphanages or common homes. The wealthiest, those who might not have the greatest power by blade or blood, but by deals and the blades and blood that can be bought. But for the most part, those three groups can look quite similar, given how intertwined bloodshed, money, and power all is amongst the Druchii. Standing apart from them all, however, are the distinct branches of those dedicated to the Cytharai aside from Khaine. In a few cases, they are but handfuls, but the sheer elaborate nature and the dread power which emanates from their vestments are unmistakable. You grew up in the Empire, for the sake of the Gods, you know damn well what a priest looks like regardless of species.
Then the sound cuts out as Hultressa snaps her fingers again and turns towards Johanna.
"Don't look at him, vampire," she says, "Or at least not that much."
"We're all right to speak?" A familiar voice murmurs out from behind the mask, though the tone is deeper and huskier than you remember.
The Talabeclander accent remains, however, if a bit less prominent.
"For a short time. Others are obscuring their conversations with their servants this very moment," Hultressa nods. "All jockeying for connection, for power."
"Oh, and uh, nice to see you again," Johanna says without actually looking at you.
"Likewise, in a manner of speaking. Wish it was under better circumstances."
"Me too," she chuckles deeply.
"So," Hultressa clears her throat. "We have a short time before the auction. The Handmaiden will come last, and will be the best guarded until that point. Before that will be the chattel slaves taken from the northern islanders, then the pegasus riders from Frederick's previous forces, then the Asrai."
"I was almost expecting them to be held in cages out here for everyone to gawk at," you mutter, but Hultressa shakes her head.
"No, too easy for the product to be spoiled by someone attempting to sample before the right time."
"So what's the plan, then?" Johanna asks, tilting her head.
"Alyssa can avoid running the first of the auctioning while one of her subordinates takes up the duty, at least until the better prizes, but I doubt it," Hultressa clucks her tongue. "She must take center stage, to show her strength, her presence."
"So not with the prisoners," Johanna hums. "But there will be guards anyhow, right?"
"Correct," Hultressa nods. "I do not know which building – and that must be discerned and quickly."
Which make sense. You can't do a prison break without knowing where the cells are, after all. Or try and save someone as they're being led to the auction block without knowing the entrance that they'll be coming from at the very least.
"Who might know? Aside from the Cult?"
"One of the rest of the Coven," Hultressa grimaces. "Some of whom will be present there, for certain."
"Could we try and stir up trouble with the Cult of Atharti?" You posit, and Hultressa waggles her head from side to side.
"Maybe. Probably not, not immediately. No, first we need information," she shakes her head. "To know which building, at the very least."
"The bombs in the pyramid, how about that?" You ask quickly.
"That will come soon enough, but not immediately. It must happen during the auction proper, to force her to either abandon the event entirely or to try and keep going regardless," Hultressa insists. "Either weakens her in different ways.
"So. Information first. Coven or Cult?" Johanna asks, voice growing softer as she does it.
"There are risks with both. Brides of Khaine and my Coven sisters might discern something wrong with both of you," she gestures at you and Johanna in a single movement.
"You could send us away as you do it, or have us stand aside…no, terrors are your guards, that would look even more suspicious," you groan.
"I can move more independently, but the whole profile you built was of a quiet killer, so I can't exactly ask questions to loudly," Johanna also adds.
"I am aware," Hultressa sighs, cupping at her chin. "But few would be able to contest your dedication to silence if you did go out and about...though they might discover your nature regardless."
"Dhar and power is Dhar and power," Johanna notes, which gains a considering look from Hultressa.
Choose One Path Forward:
3 Hour Moratorium
[] Seek out the Cult of Khaine: They will surely know where the prisoners are being kept. As this is a Druchii affair, they will definitely be fielding such probing questions from various other Druchii jockeying for an advantage. But Hultressa has an ace, if one that she will despise using, in the potential faux-offering of her daughter. If things go wrong, it might lead to even worse consequences for Gwendolyn, but it will also surely work and make the Cult focus entirely on Hultressa rather then potentially discerning that you are not a soulless husk and that Johanna is a vampire and not a...whatever it was that serves the Elven Goddess of Vengeance.
[] Seek out a Sorceress of the Coven: Hultressa is still a member of the Coven. She is just a usually distant one. Some of the Coven sisters might perceive weakness in her after her further disconnect when she had her daughter, or might desire conversation with a peer. Or, more likely, a potential threat. They will be more discerning and perceptive thanks to their magical abilities, but might know more of Alyssa's intentions and schedule for the evening. Yet Hultressa does not have the same in with them as she does with the others, especially given that they serve her sister, who killed their adoptive mother in Screamtaker. Blood has no superiority here, only allegiance and power, at least amongst the Coven on the Claw.
[] Send Johanna Alone: You don't know her exact capabilities anymore after spending decades in the Far East. But they are powerful indeed, at the very least. Given the profile that Hultressa built for her, moving about surreptitiously seems part of the job description. It might be a bit more awkward if she is detected in the wrong place, at the very least, but it would also allow Hultressa to not appear too eager or be caught off guard by someone approaching out of the blue. You don't need to, necessarily, even get into the place where the prisoners are being held at the moment. You just need to know where it is. That is, after all, the first step.
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I really hope that Frederick will be right about the state of affairs for the girls
- Location
- Israel
I think there is a missing 9 here?
also interesting developments .
- Location
- Australia
I'm inclined to send Johanna alone.
Myes I appear to have imagined myself pressing the 9 key twice, and in fact only hit it once. My bad >.>
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wow. This is, you really capture the evil infiltration atmosphere.
View: https://youtu.be/3eXEZDF3G5E?si=-o7F3PznNPBsxQDd
sorry couldn't resist saw the first words and had to do it
is something missing here?
By the way:
This, to me, was one of the most poignant, subtle representations of Druchii culture.
God damn. This is tense. Terrifying.
Noroboro
Consistency is key and I’m consistently tired :)
- Location
- Canada
Seems to cut off here?
[] Seek out the Cult of Khaine
[] Send Johanna Alone
One of these two, since the objective of the plan is to rescue, escape, and kill anyone who gets in the way. A large part of the plan depends on them not finding out the truth of Freddy and Johanna before it's time. Plus, it sounds like the chances of Hultressa getting dragged into a fight, and thus wasting a fair portion of our prep time, is highest with the sorceress option.
Given how desperate the Cult is, I think Hultressa has the leverage to make a promise and maybe a low-level show to prop up their social power as enough of an "in" to get them to give us the info we need. Below a certain threshold, we can make offers we ordinarily wouldn't since we plan to escape or die trying.
Johanna alone is the low risk low reward option, and is a decent choice for if we plan to preserve our assets until a later point.
[] Send Johanna Alone
One of these two, since the objective of the plan is to rescue, escape, and kill anyone who gets in the way. A large part of the plan depends on them not finding out the truth of Freddy and Johanna before it's time. Plus, it sounds like the chances of Hultressa getting dragged into a fight, and thus wasting a fair portion of our prep time, is highest with the sorceress option.
Given how desperate the Cult is, I think Hultressa has the leverage to make a promise and maybe a low-level show to prop up their social power as enough of an "in" to get them to give us the info we need. Below a certain threshold, we can make offers we ordinarily wouldn't since we plan to escape or die trying.
Johanna alone is the low risk low reward option, and is a decent choice for if we plan to preserve our assets until a later point.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
Its happening! We must succeed no matter what!
And make sure Gwen, her mother, and our friends and loved ones survive.
And make sure Gwen, her mother, and our friends and loved ones survive.
I think this is the way to go, since we have every intention of never letting these fuckers new Gwen so we can happily lie to them.
This is last option, I think, since we don't want to tip hand and other sorceresses are most likely to figure us out.
This is my second option, since while not as sneaky as her sire I'm sure that Johanna can get around since she has been sneaking around this Ark on her own for awhile killing dark elves.
Each day of focusing purely on the pyramid would have granted an additional +5 Bonus.
If you'd spent every day doing it thus far, you would have gotten him.
But you wouldn't have gotten Johanna able to get inside either, so...yeah.
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Also, will be making corrections ya'll, thanks!
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We're nearing the final stretch of this involuntary voyage! It's been fun so far.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
To be fair, he became less important once the auction was moved up.
Original plan was to cause lots of chaos over a longer period of time, but auction was moved up so Hul's sister could gain power sooner. If she hadn't we could have focused on pyramid more.
As it is, however, it will still work as a wonderful distraction if nothing else, or maybe more if rolls go our way. Either way it will help making an escape easier, which is the main point.
TOR'S SHOWING US THE WORKS BY DROPPING 11K WORD COUNT.
Flex those arm muscles, cause your speed has bumped up considerably these last three updates- And that's not counting the interludes in between damn. 💪
Meanwhile in Delicious Druichii, We got giant Snek Eggos!
A pork dish with vegetables or pork dish and vegetable salad?
Bowl of fruit!
Linguistics, but Freddy; pasta in soup isn't pasta
It's…
Noodles! CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP!
Ramen, damn now I'm hankering for one too. 🤤
I can imagine Freddy struggling to get the damn noodles in between the sticks before just picking up the damn bowl and go ham.
BELIEVE IT YO, EVEN THE ELVES BOW BEFORE FISHCAKES MAC'SWIRLS! 🤯
The Grandkitchen's newest prodigy man, I can almost see… and taste it too!
YES-YES, KILL-KILL MURDER SQUEEK!
Elgi plaitlings trying to grumble, it would be cute if it ain't so heretical.
Sigmar! Grant this man the Saint of Dads boon already!
Maybe Freddy needs to give some fatherly love to some beardling too!?
You know this would be a pointed problem once Gwen does get to Ulthuan or whichever Asrai faction: Being Khaine's Child isn't going away pretty easily and even with the Everqueen's help- I doubt they'd be completely removed from her being so bound from her birth. One among which the elves can easily pick up being so aetherically attuned- social wise I could see this problem coming for Gwen trying to connect with the other Elf kids.
SAINT. OF. DADS.
I reckon would be the defining moment roll for the hypothetical bring your daughter to work scenario.
But for Freddy? His hands should metaphysically outweigh whatever figment of Khaine that was.
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One day, in decades or centuries, Eldyra and Gwendolyn, full elven heroes in their own right, will visit Ostland, and walk in the wake of Frederick's legacy. It will be tragic. I wonder if his descendents will be typical shitheads who Frederick would disapprove of as much as Mikael Ludenhof would disapprove of his current scion. Or if the blood will run strong enough to carry. I can imagine a child bearing his image bringing waves of the pain of loss to the two of them.
We joke about daughteru, but Gwendolyn has literally never met another male. We'll be the ghost in her deepest childhood memories.