Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism

Reader mode
I think all of the quests up for vote are pretty neat, honestly. I'm not going to be particularly bothered by losing to any of them. Heck, I didn't really poke DoDA in-thread for contest the first few times around because there were plenty of quests that I figured deserved it plenty more and also I was way too anxious about actually prompting anyone to vote for the quest. Also the frustrating paradoxical conflicting desires to have no one perceive my existence and also to hope people can be engaged and overall enjoy the quest as it develops on and on. Either way, they're all good, so like, not too many worries either way, yeah?

By its very design and length, there's just no way that DoDA could possibly manage the same level of sheer focused tightness and intricately done updates written for the other entrants, the smoothness of the others. Sometimes it gets a little, or a lot, jagged because of the dice. And surely, for some, just my own writing. And for better or worse, there are solid chunks of 'regular' turns that are just post in and out, with just results and what not and not too much emphatic narrative or in-depth wonder going on that you can find in every single update of other quests. I think y'all are fine folks either way, so if you don't want to vote for DoDA, you don't have to. Heck, this happens enough times, maybe I'll get a consolation 'Number One Second Place Winner' title instead, lol.

It'll be okay, no matter the result :)
 
Last edited:
Mmm, though it would require reapplying repeatedly. I don't know if it's be worth the push to keep asking for votes year after year if it comes down to it. It's all for fun, all internet points and all that, but it's still entirely possible for the animal brain to feel stung after repeated rejection from the majority to win. Especially if the reasoning is that the subject matter just isn't good or what have you, for all I would hope otherwise. I've got enough on my mental plate, know what I mean?

Ah well. What will be, will be. That's life and all that.
 
torroar said:
Mmm, though it would require reapplying repeatedly. I don't know if it's be worth the push to keep asking for votes year after year if it comes down to it. It's all for fun, all internet points and all that, but it's still entirely possible for the animal brain to feel stung after repeated rejection from the majority to win. Especially if the reasoning is that the subject matter just isn't good or what have you, for all I would hope otherwise. I've got enough on my mental plate, know what I mean?

Ah well. What will be, will be. That's life and all that.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
This is the best quest I have ever read with the only quest coming close being Sworn to Valour. Don't be down over the majority of this cites users being intimidated by the scope and length of this quest. Wear it as a badge of honor.
 
Last edited:
Dragonofelder said:
…long held rumors about the Romanov's history of witchy has not been seen in their children, although…
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Edit this. Add that the Romanov's have long held rumors of being descended from Warp Witches. The Void Born are the closest thing 40k has to nomad barbarians on a sector level. On a Hive World level there are the Ash Wastes Nomads, but you are not going for a Hive World level with this.
 
torroar said:
Thankfully, no one is absolutely stupid enough to try and try to offer a price for her, but you can see that a few were considering it before they saw you and Urgdug standing next to her.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
hello there hello.
That is odd way of saying that.

Why do I keep doing this? What Is my life even?
HOKKIS said:
Watching with your Eyes ans spots... stuff?
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
and ?
trust me , I think I may be overdoing it.
 
Last edited:
Massgamer said:
She sighed in contentment as she let herself unwind and enjoy the day just like ever other one ever since she adapted to life in Ostland after a long and overly stressful life of being... well, her.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
every ?

Massgamer said:
"I certainly could of done worse," Moro Bramblefoot said to herself as she watched a few of her grandchildren/other younger family members run around the fields playing tag, using the tall wheat and even the farmhands as obstacles to avoid one another and laughing up a storm, especially when they reached Grog Plowpuller Cowcarrier and used the ogre's large form like a big moving boulder to avoid each other.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
could have done a lot worse ?

How did i end up here? I think i missread a title and read it anyway... That or discord.
None are safe.

Edit: About the past:
Can we assume that The reason or one of them, for Emilly Toppenheimer is so good at exracting stories from people is because she has family / friends withing Silver Hammer order? I like the idea of her being proud sister of having a cool scary unkle... I'm gonna assume that for now.
 
Last edited:
Spikes, Horns, and Stone 31
  • Threadmarks
    • Spikes, Horns, and Stone 31​

    When Alexandra forged this suit of Ledstahli armor, one of her duo of masterwork creations that were Ice Magic made manifest and wondrous, she had done so with incredible care. Another could likely wear your armor, though it would require either being blessed by the Ancient Widow like yourself or some other defense against touching a solid cold which could and would freeze the blood in the veins, but none so comfortably as you. Yet she could not have known, precisely, how your strange connection with the Widow gained in the magical forest of Laurelorn would interact with it. How the left gauntlet subtly and quietly transformed to mold itself around your transformed arm. Or, more specifically, your hand. The literal iron nails, requiring an outright grindstone to shave down at times, have grown into outright claws that are emphasized all the further in your Ledstahli. Claws that extend a fair bit longer than the fingers of your right hand, claws which at this moment raise up in the air and summon forth the darkness of true winter. An act which draws the eyes and attentions of all as that sphere's outer layers dissolve away to reveal a statue of one of these meager young Witch Elves. These neophytes.

    These tools of your anger and vengeance.

    "Kerillian of Athel Loren, friend and ally," you say, each word as crisp and sharp as icicles, "Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. These…creatures…," the disdain drips from you, literally so in fragments of frost spontaneously appearing and falling down around you. "Would be your responsibility. Do you understand what that means?"

    "You cannot be serious!" Shouts an Asur, though they find further protestations lodging in their throat as Sadrina raises a hand, her eyes narrow but face otherwise studiously neutral.

    Kerillian tilts her head up, chin raising defiantly.

    "I do, Larhathalumalav," she replies, cracking her neck from side to side as the murderous blade on her shoulder maintains that sullen red glow.

    "W-what? We – how dare you," one of the bolder younglings makes to say, before Kerillian is there, moving so swiftly that you actually almost missed it, the edge of the First Draich resting against her neck.

    No, not merely resting.

    (The Bloody Shadow Cast By Ancient Groves: 62+Kerillian Diplomacy(3)+Kerillian Piety(15)+Temple Desecrated(15)+No Higher Authority(15)+Freshly Inducted(10)-Possible Heresy(15)-Druchii Arrogance(10)-Asur Present(10)+Absolute Claim Over The First Draich(30)+Shellshock(5)-Asrai Derision(5)=115/100)

    With inhuman precision, the executioner's blade has been pressed against the skin just enough that its edge has parted the skin to allow a single trickle of blood to trail down like a single bead of sweat. All the while, the other edge of the blade is seemingly also pressed against Kerillian's neck, her head and hood tilted just so. It bleeds the Witch Elf, but does not bleed its master. All of the Druchii's eyes lock onto this sight, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Contrary to your immediate expectations, Kerillian does not speak immediately and at length. Instead, she raises up one finger, the eyes of the Witch Elves snapping to that raised digit, which then glides low and slow to catch that single bead of blood from the speaker's neck to gather it. Slowly, and with care, she gathers the bead upon the tip of her finger and then very pointedly places it the covering over the lower half of her face and into her mouth. All done with a purposeful economy of movement that completes without somehow ever cutting herself with the blade against her own neck.

    "Listen, and listen well, leaflings of Khaine, and you might well survive the next few minutes," Kerillian speaks into that now enforced silence. "Your way, the way of your kind? Has failed, as it always would, and must. Look upon me now, and see who and what Khaine has accepted. His great and terrible champion which held it before me?" She motions with her free hand back towards whoever the Witch Elf who'd held the blade last lays with a contemptuous wave. "Is dead, her corpse trampled into the stone. The one before that, greater and even more terrible still? Is dead, beheaded and the skin of his skull flayed by his killer," she says with great relish, so much so that the crimson surrounding her claimed blade flares for a moment.

    Anger, on the part of Khaine, for the dismissal of his previous glorious murderer? Or approval, at denigrating one that failed the God of War and Murder for failing utterly enough to be slain by your husband?

    Hard to tell, honestly.

    "Your precious temple? Ruined, swallowed up by the Serpent. Your cauldrons? No doubt equally so. Poor, pathetic little girls, are any of you even older than a century?" She asks, each question a dagger thrust into their hearts, making the nearly fearsome looking Druchii shrink more and more, her words and voice granted a crueler edge than you've ever heard from Kerillian before. "No, I doubt it," she shakes her head, "So listen well, for I shall say this once, and you shall receive no more warning than this before this blade comes for you – you may still yet serve Khaine, but never again in the way of before. Sunder your bonds, your affections, your old selves, now. You may yet be reborn in blood with new roots. Or?"

    Kerillian straightens and stands back, but the First Draich doesn't move whatsoever.

    "Die now, and save us all the trouble," she offers with a shrug that, again, doesn't even shift the blade. "Make your choice."

    The image shatters abruptly, just like that. Your rage is strong, undeniably, but does not and cannot cloud your vision so easily. The languid yet infinitely threatening posture of the Witch Elves, of true Witch Elves, is something that these ones are simply attempting to copy. They quite simply do not possess the murderous prowess and experience of true Brides of Khaine, because they haven't had the time to gain it. Odd to say, when it comes to elves, but if what everyone else has been saying is true, that rather is the point. Girls, not women, offered up to the Cult of Khaine by those desperate to curry favor, dispose of an extraneous child, or simply scooped up out of an orphanage or two, to try and replenish a force that was so completely drained by the battle at Salkalten and all its aftermath. So from one instant to the next, as Kerillian's cruelty bites deep enough to sink into marrow of their minds and souls, it sloughs off of them. You can see how they hold the blades in their hands with some modest experience, but not with the ease of control and command that a true veteran would possess. The clothes they wear, or lack thereof, are not truly ill-fitting given that it is all elven craftsmanship, but no longer do they seem to sit on their bodies like they're meant to. A painting set off by a few degrees. A flaw introduced at some point during the forging process making a blade bend and chip. A meal under-seasoned, a hunk of meat improperly seared.

    "…we submit to Khaine's will," the Witch Elf mumbles, and as one the group does not simply bow but kneels to Kerillian outright.

    "What are they doing?" One of the Bretonnian slaves speaks up in horrified wonder.

    "Being made to change their ways, one way or another," Roland says grimly, glancing at you, something unreadable passing in his eyes at your shrug.

    "Good," Kerillian says coldly, "Should you dance blades against the skin of the rest of us, I shall kill you. Or worse," she tilts her head towards Sadrina, who is now outright frowning. "She will. And I'll help. We will all help," she says while stepping back, arms splayed to encompass your entire war party. "But otherwise? We'll be killing those who've sworn themselves to the Prince of Excess, and anyone else who tries to fight us. Either way? You'll be shedding blood for Khaine," she nods.

    The Witch Elves, still kneeling, nod again before rising somewhat smoothly, all while uncertain looks pass between everyone else.

    "Well, now that that's done with, let's go already!" You call out, turning on your heel and beginning to march.

    It takes a moment or two, but soon enough you hear boots and shoes on stone behind and alongside you. Especially alongside you as Sadrina smoothly appears at your side.

    "You are playing upon a dangerous knife's edge with this act, Lady Von Hohenzollern," she says to you, voice tight and tense. "The Asur we have rescued might well attack the Druchii themselves, at this rate, no matter my words."

    "I've a feeling that Kerillian doesn't particularly care for them 'being Druchii' any longer," you mutter back, and Sadrina frowns deeply.

    "They cannot shed their very identities so easily," she hisses back.

    "Then think of it like this," you glance at her out of the corner of your crimson Widow-blessed eye. "We're using them as tools, patsies, murderous little killers with collars around their throats this time around. See if that satisfies them, hell," you snort. "Make them think like they're from that Nagarythe place you were telling my husband about."

    Sadrina squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, and exhales out of it slowly.

    "They're from Tiranoc," she says as if that explains everything.

    Which, you suppose, it does.

    "I suppose you'll have to do your best," you inform her and she sighs and nods unhappily before drifting back to the now murderously unhappy looking Asur ex-slaves.

    No sooner is she gone than you hear the heavy clanking footsteps of a giant of a man dressed in gromril.

    "This does not seem wise," Roland says plainly. "They are sworn to a Cult of Murder. Youthful for elves they might be, but they are as a blade without a hilt, I fear."

    There is judgement in his eyes, heavy and solemn, but it goes no further than that.

    "In this case, sir knight, I believe the hilt's name is Kerillian," you inform him, making Roland's lips thin. "And every other one of us. They're Druchii, they look at us like chattel vermin," you growl. "Stupid, weak, slow, and so on. But now their whole world is literally burning around them, and they've watched their God's best die again, and again, and again. They'll serve enough, for a time. The rest of yours, they hate them, no doubt, but there is something to be said about watching their former masters buckle," you bite the last word out.

    "Perhaps, though such thinking is most unchivalrous," he shakes his head.

    "Does your code compel you to kill those who have surrendered to you?" You ask, knowing that cold power blooms behind your eyes, a thin sheen of frost creeping along the edges of your helm. "To never grant a moment of succor?"

    Roland's eyes narrow.

    "It does not, and you know this well enough. Very well, my lady, but rest assured, we shall be watching them with keen gazes and keener blades."

    "I expected nothing less, d'Mousillon," you nod to him, gaining one in return as he returns to the side of his leadership.

    Jaqueline's anger is hot enough you can feel it from here, her and the other two Whitewings glaring daggers at the Witch Elves who form up behind Kerillian without more than a few furtive glances at the rest of your warband.

    It will do, for now.

    "Now let's get some more killing done!" You roar, pointing your blade down the street.

    The district is still aflame, the smoke still chokes the air, and the sound of fighting abounds.

    But you don't need to go looking for enemies when you already know where they are.

    "Come out, come out," you half-sing under your breath as you glare at the Tor of Dominance in the distance. "Come out, and die," the trill turns into an angry hiss.

    ==================================================================
    ​

    Magnus could not tell where his sweat ended and the rain began.

    They had been at this for hours, and the storm that had covered the lands around them had not let up for a single moment.

    "How is this helping!" He ended up roaring into the winds that still whipped around him and Octaine as they flew above the evacuating artillery train. "Tell me, Taal!? How!?"

    A number of the wagons had been destroyed utterly, and simply dragging cannons through the muck and banging against the stones of the road would hardly keep them intact. So instead several trees had been hacked down to become makeshift sleds, which were now what was being dragged instead. The train was moving as quickly as possible, but the Talabeclanders had been exhausted by the beastmen continually rotating out who was attacking and from where. The exhortations of the priests and their fellow man could only do so much for them, it seemed, and so many had surrendered themselves to slumber upon what wagons remained. The greater work was now being done by the knights that Magnus had with him, the light cavalry finding a number of their horses put to work to help pull them along. There was perfectly good utility to light cavalry, their speed, their ability to dance in and out of the enemy, to skirmish, to force the focus of a foe elsewhere by virtue of number alone. But they were, as a rule, not as well protected nor armed as the knights themselves, especially as the wind and rain was preventing the usage of their handguns outright.

    "We are trying to help the people of this province!" He snarled against the winds one more time before grabbing onto the saddle more solidly. "Oh forget it. Sigmar be with me," he prayed as Octaine once more dove down towards a rapidly moving mass of matted fur and crudely beaten metal that appeared out of the darkness into the light of the struggling torches of his forces.

    Just like they had been since they'd begun moving out in the first place.

    (Yet Another Harrying Beastmen Attempt: 49+Multiple Knightly Orders(20)+Gryphon Slam(5)+Significant Numerical Superiority(10)+Unsurprised(10)-Bestial Bravery(10)=84/100)

    The war party was made up of gors and ungors, with a heavier allotment of the latter, but only a fool would dismiss ungors as harmless. Even so, when Octaine struck, and Magnus with him, they landed amongst the gors, shattering and tearing and rending with all the weapons and ferocity at their disposal. It was not an easy thing to simply stopper up a charge of beastmen, but as it turned out a significant amount of monstrous and inhuman ferocity could be blunted by a gryphon slamming down right in the middle of them. Though it certainly helped that the knights had been well prepared for this, their born and bred warhorses unshaken by the braying roars of the enemy, the riders themselves already wheeling about to face those who sought to bring them down. Soon enough, heavy cavalry smashed into the momentarily disorganized beastmen, lances and hammers and longer sabers carving and stabbing deep. All while Octaine struck out with all four of his limbs and liberally with his beak, just as capable of biting through steel plate and boulder as his mother's, while Magnus wielded his hammer when he could.

    Within a minute, the small band was broken to pieces, javelins and wicked looking axe, spears, and swords laying upon the ground.

    If they had more time, more priests, any kind of large scale crucible, and a Wizard or two, Magnus would have ordered them piled up and consecrated before having the metal melted down and put to better use.

    As it was, thanks to the rain and wind that Taal seemed stubbornly dedicated to throwing around, they couldn't even start a pyre for the bodies and instead had to leave them to rot and the weapons to be scavenged up again by who knew what.

    "Prince Hohenzollern!" Grand Master Karl called out, riding over to him upon a horse breathing so hotly that steam rose up in the cold rain.

    "Grand Master," Magnus greeted him from the saddle. "Have you taken casualties?"

    "Some, but none dead, not yet!" Was the chuffing reply, "We're stubborn bulls, we are. Nevertheless, we have ridden hard and long, and no matter what Captain Mia says, some of the knights are beginning to tire quite noticeably! Is your intention for us to try and ride the whole length back in a single night?"

    The man seemed entirely prepared to attempt just that, but unfortunately the Prince of Ostland knew that such was going to be literally impossible simply because of the distance involved, horses or no.

    "We could not possibly manage that even were we all well rested," Magnus shook his head, splattering water everywhere. "No, we shall have to make camp for the night eventually, soon more likely than not, but I want a few more miles between now and then! If some of the Gods are good, some of our reinforcements might be heading along the road towards us this very moment!"

    The much older Ostlander nodded.

    "Very good, sir! I'll marshal the men!"

    Magnus saluted to him before smacking the thick neck of Octaine.

    "Back to the skies, my friend!"

    "WAAARK!" Octaine screeched, the tone absolutely accusatory to Magnus' ears even as he laboriously began to beat his wings.

    "I'm not enjoying being soaked to the bone either, you know!" He chided as they finally achieved liftoff. "We just need to get a bit further, just a bit more!"

    ====================================================================
    ​
    (Cold Burning Vengeance: 38+Heart of Atharti(20)+Band of Heroes(35)+Fury of the Asur(20)+Bedraggled Brides(5)-Cult of Pleasure Assembly(20)-Gathering Point(10)-Fractious Fellowship(5)-Enslaved Constitutions(5)=78/100)

    You don't bother giving any warning.

    Why would you?

    Instead, you watch with deep satisfaction as all the scavenged repeating crossbows fire into the rear of the Slaaneshi forces encircling the Temple of Atharti. The curiously protective haze emanated across the consecrated grounds of the Cytharai of Pleasure and Seduction remains, as do the majority of the Goddess' followers that you saw last time you passed by. But the Slaaneshi Druchii and their daemonic allies have grown in number significantly. A number that you now reduce quite thoroughly with the aid of Asur and Druchii marksmanship. It was most amusing to you watching Kerillian berate the perhaps former Witch Elves into using the damn things, gathered up from the dead Druchii all over the place, but all the more so appreciated that they listened. Blood, you suppose, is blood, when it comes to Khaine in the strange worship that the Asrai offer to the God of Murder. It is not the way of the Witch Elves, they had protested time and again, but it had been for naught. So now they fired the damn things, you and Johanna standing between Asur and Druchii as a barrier of cold and blood. Daemonettes giggle and moan as they are struck down even as other Druchii screech and shout. A glowing gold and red guandao is flung at violent speeds and even more violent force amongst the enemy as well, a fiery explosion emanating outwards upon impact before Johanna gestures with her hand and the Cathayan masterwork is suddenly flying right back through the air to her hand. A moderate but undeniably vicious gust of ice shards flense flesh and bone equally from your desires.

    Many heads swivel, both those upon the walls of the temple and those assaulting it.

    You draw your hand up, the Winds blustering hard and strong, and the very air around you becomes a cold fog that obscures most of your body before solidifying even further to the point that solid strips of ice flow around you.

    "Deal with them, now!" You hear a shout.

    There, right there, previously hidden by the movements of their own forces, is the commander of the Cult of Pleasure forces assaulting the Temple of Atharti. This one, to your surprise and discontent, is not a sorceress. Much less valuable to kill, then. Nevertheless, the Druchii nobleman stands proud, strong, and particularly well-armed with weapons that glimmer with magical enchantments, along with an honor guard of other Druchii bodyguards dressed in a manner that almost reminds you of the Kreml Guard of your homeland. Not a Dreadlord, you don't think, this Ark wouldn't have one, they have their Supreme Sorceress instead. A Druchii Master, then, like a Captain of the Empire, perhaps. Not that it particularly matters at this point, as he is not coming after you himself, your attack strong and unexpected but not nearly so devastating as to require his direct intervention. Or, at least, you know that is likely what he thinks. You'll let him think it, and focus instead on the wheeling about daemons and Druchii who start to advance towards your position even as your own forces frantically reload their crossbows.

    "Ready?" You ask, listening to the clattering of wood and metal, remaining far more focused on a trio of enormous and improbably fast abominations of flesh and bone atop which particularly powerful looking daemonettes ride with whips cracking in the air.

    "Daemon engines, Hellflayers of Slaanesh," Sadrina called out, voice tight with concentration as she finished reloading. "If they reach us, they will tear us apart!"

    "Then we ought not let them, let loose!" You answer, and clench your fist.

    Winter comes.

    (Caltrop Ice Sheet: 53+Natasha Piety(13)+Cold Certainty(10)+Vengeance Calling(5)+Distant Distracted Dispellers(15)-Hellflayer Durability(10)-Weakened Ark Aethyric Network(15)=71/100)

    A solid sheet of ice flash-freezes into existence over the stone and gore, with further small outcroppings of ice appearing as well in the form of disruptive caltrops. The first few are simply run over and ground to powder by the Hellflayers, but not all of them, and soon enough the daemon engines are beginning to skid and slip back and forth to the point of one nearly spinning out of control entirely. The Druchii and daemonettes that try to swiftly follow behind find themselves similarly disadvantaged, and you cannot stop the dark laughter that erupts from you as you see a few of the oh so swift and dexterous elves and all their inhuman grace reduced to falling onto their asses as they try to rush across the ice. Laughter that, despite everything, starts to be echoed by the Asur and your stolen Druchii as well, a chorus of cruelty at seeing such a deadly foe reduced to almost childish antics on the ice. Not a one of them does you the favor of slipping and breaking their neck outright, unfortunately, but the spell has done its job, even with the Ark's strange power over the Winds and a distant pulling towards elsewhere on the battlefield, slowing the speed of those sent to assault you gravely.

    Just in time for everyone to have finished reloading, for Johanna's guandao to return to her hand so that the vampire and one more take up a thrower's stance, and for you to conjure up a cloud of icy shards.

    (Slipping Sliding Slaaneshi: 47+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Moderately Effective Caltrop Ice Sheet(10)=97/100)

    Harsh, barked laughter is joined with the thudding clunks of repeating crossbows emptying themselves once more into the enemy. Johanna hauls back and then throws her javelin like a bolt thrower's projectile directly into the center of one of the daemonic chariots, her wings spreading wide as she then leaps forward to outright smash bodily into a second. Eyes narrowed, ignoring the exhaustion of your body and the steady drumbeat of torturous pain in the back of your mind, you cast forth arm-length spikes of ice to slam into and through the wheels of the third and final Hellflayer, tearing its wheels asunder enough to almost halt it entirely. It's not dead, not quite, the daemonic creation, but it bleeds and squeals and shudders in place as it plaintively spins the ruins of its wheels as it lays there on its side. Meanwhile, on any other natural grounds the daemonettes might well have danced and frolicked forward to ruin and maim, you can see the consternation on some of their faces as they cannot reach their intended victims as their hooves skid and slow on the ice sheet. Slowed enough that crossbow bolts find them, them and the Druchii with them.

    You cannot see the expression on the Druchii Master, but his gestures and bellowing are quite angry, even if you can't quite make the words out from here amidst the shouting and shifting of a great many more troops.

    "Come on…come on…," you mutter, as more and more of the temple's attackers form up and wheel on you.

    "They have a priestess with them, now," Sadrina calls out, pointing, to assorted curses, growls, and hisses from the elves with you.

    Khaine or Slaanesh or Atharti besides, it seems that Druchii enjoy baring themselves completely and utterly to the world. Druchii such as the Priestess of Slaanesh that struts on sinfully long legs with hips that roll so much they might as well be a ship on the seas themselves. Unlike even the Brides of Khaine, she is absolutely naked save for several glowing sigils of Chaos carved into her body that glow in bright pink-purple, forcibly drawing the eye at the same time that it would make them burn from the sheer sensation of that looking. An unwholesome heat attempts to spread itself into you simply by looking at her, but that same unwholesome heat finds itself completely inadequate before the sheer frigid cold of your soul, let alone from your armor. An entirely too fleshy staff is held in one hand, the head of said staff wriggling with a few outward appendages that drool strange multi-colored fluids onto the ground. With her, too, there are a great many more daemonettes, these ones different from the others you've seen so far. Instead of great claws on their arms, they have razor sharp blades, the very daemonettes themselves quite literally visibly more dangerous to your Witch Sight.

    "We pull back! But slowly," you growl, and as one the warband stars to do just that, even as they start reloading once more. "Remember the plan!"

    They are beginning to run low on ammo, you realize, and at this point are unlikely to manage more than another volley or two beyond this point before needing to scavenge more. If such is even possible anymore. There are plenty of Druchii strewn about the streets right now, but how long that will remain the case is uncertain. Especially because as you crisscrossed the district, passing through the burnt down ruins of multiple brothels and other assorted pleasure houses, you passed by areas you had already been through before only to find that some of the bodies were now gone. Of course, there are a variety of reasons for bodies to be scooped up in times like this. Disease prevention. Closer scavenging for any scraps you didn't gather yourself. Or, perhaps, even simply use them as food. After all you've seen, you know for a fact that cannibalism is not beyond the bounds of Druchii depravity.

    Not least of which is because you passed through a Druchii pleasure house which had a damned menu, serving different meats of only the most 'premium' sources. Amongst the scattered cutlery, overturned tables and bloody cloths, there had been a number of shattered porcelain dishes with cuts of meat long grown cold with blood and fat drying and coagulating. If you weren't so damned angry, you think the horror of a fallen plate with a half dozen human hearts half again as large as your fists could have overwhelmed you. It certainly did with the Bretonnians, many of whom vomited despite mostly empty stomachs when the full scope of the establishment's intended purpose dawned on them. You didn't take a damned thing from that place other than its barrels of clean water to hydrate your forces, shattering the barrels of other scoured fluids as you left and setting the building aflame for good measure.

    Cytharai of Pleasure indeed.

    The only difference you can see is that at the moment it is Slaanesh's devotees that have the bulk of your hatred, but every minute spent in this place grows your revulsion for Atharti that much higher.

    "Oh my, leaving so soon? That won't do!" The Priestess calls out huskily across the battlefield, "Come now, we have such delights to show you!"

    "Shit," you mutter as she begins waving her staff about, summoning forth magic that is already beginning to take shape just in front of your troops, a disturbing amount of allure in those forming shapes that you have to almost wrench your head to keep from looking at.

    At least you can see the leeching of the damned Ark's Aethyric network affecting her casting as much as it's been frustrating yours.

    (Dispelling Delusions: 66+13+NonNovitiate Masteries(10)+Warding of Isha(5)+Cast Aside All But Blood(5)+Angry Atharti(5)-Priestess of Slaanesh(15)=89/100)

    Witch Sight reveals many things.

    In this case, it reveals the horrid beauty of a servant of a Chaos God in full bloom, exulting in the glories of their God, the Winds twisting about and formulating into the beginnings of illusions. But it also shows your own cold grasp reaching out and crashing like a gargantuan hailstone through the web of sight and sound before it can fully develop. As the heavy pressure of Johanna's will contests the working as well, Aqshy brightening in the vampire's eyes until rings of soot begin to form around them. As Sadrina raises up a hand, her countenance becoming something cold and steadfast, a subtle pulse of something that feels of spring in full bloom throwing itself in as well. An angrier, much angrier thing of murder and bloodshed rips into the spell as it reaches out to try and ensnare those who belong to it. But more than that, more than any of it, you notice as something reaches out a few slender fingers from the Temple of Atharti, and with a few sharpened nails digs deep into the casting. All of it, put together, takes the spell and its gossamer tendrils and shreds it outright before it can do more than make a few Asur get a tad slack jawed.

    "Banish such thoughts from your minds, Asur, do not give her the satisfaction!" Sadrina cries out, and with that those few almost ensnared snap out of it entirely, firming their grips on their weapons all the more in outrage.

    "Come on, then!" You cry out, and though she is Druchii and you but human, you are quite certain that the rude gesture you throw up comes across in the spirit intended.

    Given you can see the bitch's scowl from here, yes, quite certain indeed.

    "Argh, get rid of them already!" The Master of the Temple attacker's roars out in annoyance.

    That ought to do it, just about you think.

    "For the glory of the Prince of Chaos!" She cries out and the newest detachment begins to lope forwards, leaving the perimeter of the Temple of Atharti behind.

    "That's right, come on," you growl beneath your breath as your warband pulls backwards, letting the buildings block off and flank you. "Come on…,"

    (Last Salvo: 24+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5=64/100)
    (Drawing In: 70-Experienced Leadership(10)-Druchii Paranoia(10)+Previously Winning(5)+Slaaneshi Intoxication(10)+On Orders(10)+Denial Play(5)+Asur Targets(5)+Made You Bleed(5)=90/100)

    The final salvo is not as effective as you might have hoped. The bolts fly, and fly, the repeating crossbows thumping out several bolts at high speed. Unfortunately, the priestess whips her staff back and forth as she runs, and a half-sphere of magical protection bursts into being which catches a great many of the bolts. Some of those, the earliest, still hit their marks amongst the enemy, but not nearly enough of them are as fatal as you would wish. Nevertheless, that any of them hit at all enrages them all. The gleeful grins turn to vicious threatening full-toothed snarls on the faces of the daemonettes, while the Druchii's hatred and anger flare bright enough that you can literally see wisps of Aqshy whirl as dissipating flutters in your Witch Sight. They charge, they roar, they cry out, and they throw themselves forwards at you at a rapid pace. The sheet of caltrops and ice that you had previously created was already beginning to fade without continual reinforcement, and dissolves now entirely as the sorceress throws her magic and power against it.

    About as planned, then.

    Because as you finally pull out into the connecting street, they charge forward between the walls of buildings that formed the greater perimeter around the Temple of Atharti, and emerge into a four-way intersection. Three of which ways hold enemies for them, something they realize as soon as the Bretonnians charge in and pincer them from the sides, one side led by Roland, and the other by the Whitewings. Your own portion of the warband reverses and breaks into a counter charge, throwing emptied repeating crossbows aside in exchange for Druchii blades and axes and shields picked up from the dead. Johanna's wings explode out of her body as she launches herself upwards and through the air, entirely over the charging band, the priestess looking ready to try and defend herself only to find Johanna reaching the other side to land between them and the rest of the forces they'd just left behind.

    "KILL THEM ALL!" Jaqueline roars.

    "FOR THE LADY!" Roland booms.

    "In the name of Asuryan!" Sadrina cries out, clear as a bell.

    "BLEED FOR US!" Kerillian cackles.

    (Three-Way Ambush: 58+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Ambushing Crush(10)+Vengeance of Mousillon(10)-Exalted Leadership(10)=108/100)

    Johanna's roar is audible across the slamming of bodies and blades and flesh crashing together.

    You can't see exactly what she does, plunged into the fight as you are, your sword deflecting one daemonette's blade arm before you punch the daemon right in the chest with a gauntlet covered in ice spikes. But you can certainly see the results as a cascading and terribly bright wall of Aqshy flame bursts into existence on the far side, completely blocking them off from the temple grounds and the rest of their reinforcements. Kerillian is a red, black, and silver blur as she utilizes her procured weapon to its fullest. The three Whitewings are hacking and slashing, the Asur doing the same, impacting and tearing at the enemy that has abused so many for so long. The twisted abominations that do not even belong in this world in the first place. All of them, all of them become conduits for all your anger and hate and stress and bereavement, and suffer mightily for it. All of them.

    Then there is a muted boom and fiery eruption that announces Johanna's arrival in the rear of the enemy formation.

    The carnage is spectacular, frenzied, devastating upon the enemy who try to fight their way free only to realize that there is no way out.

    The irony does not escape you, but neither does it distract you as you keep fighting, letting your daughter's masterful creation accept blows that you could not spare the time or provide the speed to deflect or defend against yourself. Daemons, Druchii, it matters not. You reach out with your iron clawed hand and rake freezing gouges into the bodies of your enemies, frost spreading and crackling apart more and more skin and flesh. Your blade skewers, slashes, and disembowels. Asur and Druchii both yell and shriek and snarl as they clash in close combat, so vicious in the act of fighting that thanks to almost all the gear present being of Druchii make that at some points you literally cannot tell who was born on Ulthuan and who on Naggaroth.

    "WAIT!" The priestess of Slaanesh cries out, piteously, as of all people it appears to be Roland who has reached her despite everyone else's attempts to get at her first. "Look upon me, mortal, do you not realize what you do? What you deny yourself by striking at me?"

    She reaches up a hand and runs it down her body, Roland's blade raised high but unmoving.

    "I can see it within you. Decades….," she trails off in horror and fascination in equal measure. "You have denied yourself so much, cut away so much! How can you stand such an existence?"

    "STRIKE HER DOWN!" Jaqueline shouts as she savagely hacks a Druchii to death with her pilfered sword before being tackled by a daemonette that bowls her over.

    "I can help you with that," the priestess whispers, her smile going from heartfelt, to seductive, to something else altogether as he remains frozen while she approaches him, the giggling daemonettes of her honor guard stepping back to allow her forward. "I can give you all you desire…,"

    Roland, to your shock, reaches out slowly as well.

    "Roland!?" You shout out, rage starting to color your vision all the more.

    (Forceful Entrancement: 65+Roland Piety(19)+Blessings of the Lady[Might of Purity](15)-Empowered Slaaneshi Sorceress(15)+Oathkeeper(10)+Resistant Arms and Armor(10)+Ambush Shock(10)-Aura of Slaanesh(10)=104/100)

    Then his enormous bear paw of a hand clenches around the priestess' wrist, right as her hand just began to place itself against chest.

    "Apologies, madam, but I am spoken for by one now long lost, and I likely shan't find another. And I find your existence and faith deplorable," he informs her gently.

    "Wha-," is as far as she gets before Roland rears back and then slams the pommel of his gigantic gromril greatsword directly into her unarmored head, the loud crack of bone breaking muffled only by the outraged shrieks of the daemonettes around him.

    Then he ducks low, gathering up Durandal, and swirls it about him in a deadly figure eight as the daemonettes attack him on all sides.

    (Throttling: 44+20+35+20+5-20-10-5-5+Intense Crushing(15)+10-Depleting Daemonettes(5)-Desperation(10)=94/100)

    Much to your amazement, the priestess isn't outright dead after a blow like that. You'd almost wish to be, were you in her shoes. Or naked feet, perhaps. The left temple of her head, practically the entire left half, is a bloody crater at this point, with cracked fissures of white bone colored not just by white meat but brain fluids trickling upwards like magma. She screams from where she lays on the ground, letting go of her staff as she clutches at her half-shattered cranium and writhes on the ground like the worm she is, the disturbing light of her glowing Slaaneshi tattoos and warding about them starting to wink in and out at random intervals. Without her focus and attention, her faltering lifeforce, the entire Cult of Pleasure formation breaks down beyond repair. Druchii and daemonettes alike are attacked from all sides, the Bretonnians ganging up three or even four to one with their spears that let them remain at a distance from foes that could prove much more dangerous up close. The Asur fight side by side, watching over each other, keeping each other safe. Kerillian carves a path of such brutal bloodletting that the neophyte Khaine worshippers that follow behind her are spending most of their time killing the already dying or stabbing knives and blades into the backs of the distracted. On the far side, bodies are literally tossed upwards and away, burnt and whole or charred and in pieces, as the burning head of Johanna's guandao dances about like a fiery windstorm.

    As for yourself?

    None of them can bar your way. Not as you chill the movements of your enemies, slowing them from elven dexterity and inhuman speed to something you can appreciable attack. Not as you stride alongside allies and tools both. By the time you reach Roland, his armor is covered in daemonic gore that is already starting to dissipate, the last of the Exalted Daemonettes impaled through the chest and even then still trying to claw forwards along it to get at him. It hisses, a barbed tongue two and a half feet long whipping out of its mouth and flailing uselessly against his gromril armor, the ancient workings of the dwarfs of Karak Ungor rebuffing it absolutely. The daemonette's drool and spittle is acidic, etching the stone around it where it splatters, but cannot mar Roland. But you only see this out of the corner of your eye as you approach the priestess. Ruined as she is, she still lives. But not for long. Screaming, unable to do anything more than that, you plant your blade in her stomach, right through that brightly glowing emblem of Slaanesh engraved into her skin and flesh above her womb, all to pin her in place.

    Her screams rise even higher as she arches her back like a bow, practically to the breaking point.

    "I thought your kind loved pain just as much," you murmur. "Oh well."

    Then you grab her by the right side of the head with your left hand, and drag her partially up the length of your sword while grabbing her flailing right limb and freezing it solid to the ground.

    "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" She howls to the uncaring before your thumb crosses her mouth and seals it shut with ice.

    You can't look away from her. Part of the enchantment of her tattoos, you recognize that now. What kind of insanity would be required to enchant your enemies to focus so greatly upon you? What sort of grossly distended pride and vanity would make such necessary?

    Alas for the priestess, that you don't wish to bother looking away.

    "You said you had something to show me?" You say aloud, making sure that you aren't covering her now bloodshot but functional remaining eye, forcing the eyelids open with a thin sheen of ice. "I have something to show you too."

    The Visage of the Widow, that terrifying effigy that Alexandria faithfully carved into the Ledstahli of your breastplate, has become a truly monstrous thing now, and you make her look straight at it.

    (Fear In Death: 37+Broken Balance(10)+Destroyed Honor Guard(10)+Fatal Wound(20)+Visage of the Widow(20)-Empowering Tattoos(10)-Druchii Veteran(15)=72/100)

    "Nnn…no…no…noo…!" She moans in your grip, frostbite steadily starting to spread over her head where you hold it.

    She doesn't break outright, even as her eye whirls about in the socket with fear and terror and desperation.

    But on some level, you like that.

    You like that she is not granted the sweet oblivion of a truly shattered mind brought about by terror.

    "Here's a fun new experience for your damned God to learn," you growl at her before reaching out with your other hand to grab both sides of her head. "THE FURY OF MYSELF AND MY GODDESS!"

    And you slam her face-first into your breastplate, straight into the Visage of the Widow.

    Again and again and again.

    By the time you are holding chips of ice made up of frozen blood, brain, hair, and skin, the rest of the Druchii force is dead and your warband is forming up once more. The Bretonnians are exhausted, it is plain to see. So much time without sunlight, adequate food, or even modest sleeping arrangements compared to the horrors of the aquafarms has not done them favors. Their fervor can only do so much. The Asur are better off, but you can see the trembling in their limbs, hear the rawness of their throats as they breathe hard. The rage of the Whitewings has taken them far, but they are starting to shake from exhaustion simply while standing. The former brides seem all right, but perhaps that is no surprise that devotees to the God of Murder would only ever be invigorated after a slaughter such as what you've crafted. You are ready to do more, eager to do more!

    But you are perhaps one of the only ones in such a state of mind.

    Johanna nods to you in acknowledgement as she lets a dead Druchii fall to the ground, throat torn out and blood splattering her mouth with her wall of fire still burning behind her.

    Roland is stoic, and has knelt down momentarily to pray to the Lady of the Lake going by what you can hear.

    Sadrina is busy counseling the Asur, while Kerillian quietly lectures her followers.

    All while you are still so…damned…angry!

    "Damn it," you sigh, a cold mist spreading out from your breath. "All right. We'll scavenge for food, water, and retreat back into the tunnels."

    Many a head whips up to look at you.

    It is not hard to see the relief in too many pairs of eyes, though some of them can't help but take note of the ice which has steadily crept outwards from your boots several feet in all directions along the ground.

    "What about them?" Johanna asks, her guandao now resting on her shoulder, jerking a thumb past her wall of fire. "Thought we were going to try and break their siege."

    "We just took two nice bites out of them, including a priestess," you point out, making her shrug. "Maybe we'll come back after getting some rest. Maybe we'll go somewhere else. Don't want to become too predictable now."

    "Fair enough," Johanna shrugs and begins to march forward across the bodies herself.

    "If they want to come after us before then? I welcome them to try," you growl as you turn and begin to walk away. "Let's see what we can scrounge up before night falls!"

    Then comes pain.

    (Waves of Pain: 72+Frederick Trait[The Undaunted](25)+Natasha Trait[Unyielding](15)+Frederick Trait[Sigmar's Mein](10)+Natasha Trait[Tri-Scarred](15)+Frederick Trait[Robust Soul(20)+Natasha Trait[ By The Widow's Cruel But Motherly Embrace](15)+Deepest Soulbond(10)-Inhuman Expertise(15)-The Heights of Ecstatic Pain(35)-Endless Excruciation(15)=117/100)

    "…Natasha?" Roland ventures quietly.

    "…I'm…," you rasp out, slamming your fist against your chest over your heart to make sure it's still beating, or maybe to restart it entirely.

    It beats. You know it does.

    But you know that for a moment, your husband's did not.

    "Fine," you wheeze, cold spittle dribbling out from between your clenched teeth before shaking your head and sucking in a hard breath. "Fine. Just fine."

    Love.

    Love.

    Love.

    Love.

    It burns like the hearth in the center of Dazh's palace in the sun itself, as unassailable as the heart of the greatest glacier, as eternal as the Widow herself, and flows back and forth through the bond so strong and fast that for a brief and glorious moment it is like you are there. Right there, a hand to his face, his hand to yours, your lips touching even though Frederick is covered in his own blood. It doesn't matter that he has been peeled open like a fruit, white and red exposed to the world and set with daemonic acid and magical flame. It doesn't matter that you should be dead on your feet, that your body keeps trying to shake itself apart from the pain and the fear and the anger or simply come to a halt. You will not let it. You freeze the weakness before it can begin, let yourself be as cold and unending as the Oblast winds. You let all of the pain, worse than anything, worse than anything the either of you has ever felt, flow into you, and freeze it as well. Freeze it, crush it, grind it underfoot, and let it blow away in the breath of the Widow herself. You press your lips to your love's, and murmur to his soul unheard by even the Gods themselves what you've done.

    And you feel it, like magma bursting forth from the depths of the world, a volcano's eruption.

    You feel Frederick von Hohenzollern laugh.

    It is no doubt a wet, miniscule thing in the physical realm.

    But through the bond, it is an uproarious guffaw that ought to shake this entire Black Ark down to its foundations.

    You also, through the bond, hear it.

    A keening sound of disbelief and outrage and anger that is beyond scream, yell, or shriek.

    "That's right, my love," you whisper to yourself before straightening. "That's right. Just a little longer, I swear."

    "Frederick," Roland says, as much an answer to an unspoken question as anything else. "He still resists, then."

    "Of course," you scoff, "Who the hell do you think my husband is?"

    ================================================================
    ​
    (Camp Set-Up: 25+20+Talabeclander Familiarity(20)+Shallyan Priestesses(10)-Exhaustion(10)-Damned Weather(10)=55/100)

    "Prince Hohenzollern!"

    Magnus' eyes snapped open and he sprang upwards, a blearily blinking Octaine squawking in annoyance as he emerged from beneath the guarding wing he'd slumbered under. All around him, the meager camp that they'd barely managed to slap together amidst the storm was full of far more upright bodies than it should have been, given the shifts and rotations they'd put together. The tarp and poles set up over the gryphon had just begun to offer something akin to dryness, or at least a reprieve from constantly being rained on. The irrepressible Captain Mia of the White Wolves bared her teeth in a wide grin at him, ivory flashing in the darkness of the night, even as she saluted him. She was dressed fully in her armor still, the long cavalry hammer that was her preferred weapon resting head-first upon the ground, the hilt leaning against her hip.

    "Captain Mia," Magnus grunted. "What is it? Beastmen?"

    "Aye, my Prince," she said, smile not flickering in the slightest, though she did have to take a moment to sweep her black locks out of her face. "A bit more unusual than the past few times, I think."

    "How's that," he asked, even as he started limbering up as best he could in his armor.

    "They sent an ungor, one that could manage to speak human," she sneered at the thought. "Said that something about angering the true Gods with our defiance, that his chosen would feast upon our entrails," she slowly circled her hand in the air while rolling her eyes. "That 'Orthrak' would destroy us in the name of his Beastlord."

    Magnus squinted.

    "He said that? Why? Why…even tell us?"

    It made no tactical or strategic sense to just give that away.

    "I don't know. Perhaps to force us to keep more on guard, get less sleep, attack when we're tired and weary?" She offered up, brow furrowed.

    "Perhaps," Magnus nodded.

    Both started slightly at the sound of horns, and the stamping of hooves.

    "ORTHRAK!" Many bestial throats roared.

    "Or not," Magnus grunted, cracking his neck from side to side as Octaine fully roused himself. "Let's go."

    As they moved through the camp, Magnus couldn't help but grimace. They'd pushed as far as he'd felt comfortable, maybe even a bit more than that, and there just weren't too many adequate camp sights for them to find for themselves. They hadn't had any supply wagons coming out with them for this, only what extra supplies could be placed upon some of the light cavalry. As such the camp that they'd ended up building lacked any significant natural defenses from the landscape, and they hadn't had any particularly favorable positioning otherwise. They'd camped on the road itself, for lack of a better option, but far better than simply squatting in the depths of the woods and basically throw themselves into the maw of the beastmen. Some sharpened stakes and the remaining wagons were the best that they had. Firing a cannon was a risky endeavor, and unlikely to fire in the first place with the wind and rain. And the Talabeclanders did not have nearly as many crossbows as Magnus would prefer in the moment to have.

    "ORTHRAK!"

    There, at the edge of the forest, the beastmen had emerged. Gors and ungors aplenty, but this time, led by one larger and better armed. A crown of curling uneven horns sprouted upwards from the wargor's head, and both of his shoulders were covered in heavy slabs of metal beaten into the shape of pauldrons. Leather belts with smaller rusty metal hunks were strung across a huge, furred body, half again the size of a normal man. In one hand was a vicious looking maul who's head could have been half of an anvil at one point, while in the other was a huge sword that looked like three greatswords stacked against each other in size. Two poles sprouted upwards from the back, and between them was strung a banner made of skin that bore the baleful symbol of Chaos. For all of that, though, Magnus had seen even more dangerous wargors before, during patrols in Ostland to cut down on beastmen numbers. Seen a handful of Beastlords as well, each of which would have dwarfed this wargor in particular. But wargors were war leaders, captains of individual warherds where Beastlords commanded many put together.

    "ORTHRAK!"

    "What shall we do, my prince?" Grand Master Kaiser asked of him, the other knightly leadership assembling with him as the beastmen did the same around their monstrous superior.

    "We could brace for them, use the wagons, the stakes, try and hold them off and cut them down," the High Guardian of Morr muttered. "Let them break themselves upon us. We would have to descend from our horse to do it proper, though."

    "And cede the initiative to them? Absurd," the High Seeker the Raven scoffed. "Let us mount up, drive into them, and scatter the beasts outright, shatter them and let us rest in peace!"

    "And if we are caught out of turn?" The High Guardian rounds on his counterpart under the gaze of Morr. "If they surround us and cut us down?"

    "And if we let them overrun us, surround us, and cede the speed and power of our horse?" The High Seeker fires back.

    "I say I kill him," Mia juts her chin towards Orthrak, who bellows and roars to his warherd, who roar and bellow back, slamming weapons together and growing rowdier. "Break them that way, let them run and fight amongst themselves for who commands next. Challenge and kill, easy as that."

    A number of the other knights glance at the White Wolf, who has crossed her arms and is nodding approvingly to herself.

    "Wouldn't they just cut you down before you can get there? Kill you for the temerity?" You hear one of the Black Guard of Morr that accompanied their leader ask.

    The White Wolves start laughing.

    "They could try, living dead boy," Mia chortled before glancing over at Magnus. "The Prince knows. Pride. Prominence. Prestige. Sure, there's a chance they might, but they do so love to try and slaughter the champions of our people, try and inflict upon us the exact same kind of despair."

    She's not wrong.

    Magnus had seen his father challenge wargors in just such a way, dueling them to death and scattering their warherd as the rest of their forces charged in. He'd done it yourself, even. Beastmen, greenskins, and though it made him a bit ill to think it, humans as well. There was something to the sacred nature of a duel that the Prince of Ostland had seen upheld by creatures without any honor or sense besides. Though on that grounds, it might well be simply because such inhuman creatures simply wished to ensure that their leader truly is actually capable, and if not, be aware so that others might challenge for the position. He also happened to know that, for all her ferocity, Captain Mia was a mortal woman with purely mundane arms and armor, called down blessings of Ulric notwithstanding. She had a sister, he'd learned in passing conversation, who was a member of the Order of the Howling Wolf, and it had not escaped his notice that the Captain was perhaps more capable of actively and literally calling upon Ulric's power than other White Wolves. But she did not have a weapon such as his, and though he'd attempt to say it as kindly as possible, she was not necessarily as skilled in combat as himself. Exceptional, certainly, but Magnus had in fact seen better amongst his family and others, but only amongst a few of the latter.

    "My Prince?" Kaiser asks, and all looked to Magnus as the beastmen roared in the light of guttering torches.

    Magnus Choice:
    [] Mausoleum Walls: The camp's defenses are meager, not even close to what Magnus would prefer. But it's better than nothing at all. It does cede some of the crushing power of a charge of heavy cavalry, but knights on foot are no easy target either. Ahorse or not, they are some of the most elite and most heavily armored troops possible.
    [] A Feast For Ravens: The beastmen are posturing. Threatening. Bellowing. They know they've got the troops where they want them, run ragged and denied rest. But this wargor has never met knights of Ostland before, clearly. It is time to show him the difference.
    [] Locking Horns: A challenge is being made. A challenge that can be returned. It is time to show the beastmen that humanity is not so weak as they believe. They may well offer treachery, but monstrous pride might well keep them from it as well. Either way, a true champion must be called forth, either to slay the enemy's leader in an offer difficult to refuse, or survive cowardice long enough for the knights to charge in at full bore.
    -[] Magnus as Champion
    -[] Captain Mia of the White Wolves as Champion
    -[] Grand Master Kaiser as Champion


    ==========================================================
    ​
    "They're back!"

    "Look, look!"

    "They came back…?"

    "They're…they're bringing masters with them…!"

    The slaves whisper and mutter as your warband returns from the surface and enters the tunnels. There are many more of them than you saw before, or at least many more of them remaining in this central tunnel nexus, but then perhaps you weren't looking too closely before. Then again, it could also be that too many of them were busy running back and forth in some kind of futile search for safety. As it is now, you've got a bevy of humans from the Old World and beyond, a small smattering of dwarfs, and to your surprise more elves. All of whom immediately recoil upon seeing the still gore-strewn Druchii, but there is clear confusion and surprise amidst the fear as they see the bowed heads as they follow behind Kerillian. But more importantly, they see the many, many heads that you've collected upon your way, each of them stuck upon pikes of ice carried over the shoulders of Bretonnian peasants and Asur warriors.

    Terror. Disgust. Despair. Denial.

    Abject confusion.

    All of them Druchii heads.

    "My name!" You call out, and with a gesture, all those heads are thrown down the steps before you.

    Ice shatters and heads bounce.

    "Is Natasha von Hohenzollern!"

    Step, by step, by step, you descend until you are on the same level as them, flanked by your allies.

    "I've seen you run and huddle. I'm sure you're used to leadership changes over the Ark being rather bloody at times, given who runs it?"

    There are quite a few uncertain, jerky nods.

    "This isn't like that. Screamtaker?" Flinches from the crowds, "Is dead. Her daughter Voidreaper is in charge, and her first decision was to blow a hole into the Temple of Khaine, and start dragging daemons of Chaos through."

    Horror and fear spread together, along with denial on a few stubborn faces, and it is those you will have to definitely keep an eye on. There are a number of things that you disagree with your sister Kattarin on, her intensification of the slave trade in Kislev by an order of magnitudes being one of them, but that does not mean you are unfamiliar with the trade entirely. You have seen slaves before in Kislev City, labor for certain wealthy nobles and merchants, others utilized for a variety of other purposes. And though it rankled then, the knowledge serves now – there are those amongst the slaves around you this very moment that are too broken to save. Who have sworn themselves in their own ways to their masters. Have married themselves to their chains, down into their very souls.

    "The Ark is aflame. The old masters are fighting back, but they're already on the back foot. There. Will. Never. Be. A. Better. Time."

    You gesture at your companions.

    "You don't have to believe me. Speak to them, learn from them, even venture upstairs if you want a look at what we've done, and what we plan to keep doing. It doesn't matter how old you are, how long you've been in chains," you raise and clench your fist. "It's time to break them. Permanently."

    It is uncertain how receptive they'll all be, but the vaster majority of them at least stick around once the last of the Bretonnians coming down the stairs do so carrying a few wheelbarrows of supplies ransacked from the district up above. Though you end up being the one to have to drag the Druchii corpses over to Oskana to eat, the sight of the gryphon devouring the ones who have abused them so harshly for so long seems oddly appreciated by a goodly number of the slaves. More important than that, to you at least, is that while you've shown yourself a cold and imperious figure, they are still quite willing to approach the others. Especially once it becomes known to the other elven slaves who and what Sadrina is, while the pinnacle of knighthood that is Roland gathers many of the Old World slaves to his side. Those from beyond the Old World end up speaking to Johanna, one of the only ones who actually speaks their languages at all, all while Kerillian keeps her little coterie separated and off to the side. In the meantime, you find yourself an empty box, flip it around, and finally sit down for the first time since this morning. Or last morning, it's difficult to say. Almost immediately a wave of exhaustion sweeps through you, your elbows propped upon your knees and hands cupping your face as you lower the faceplate of your helm to breathe air openly for the first time in hours.

    It's hard to say how long it's been, how long you've been fighting, and killing.

    It frustrates you nonetheless that your mind and body are demanding you sleep, that you rest.

    You do not want to!

    You want to transform this entire place into a floating glacier and then dash it to pieces against the shores of Salkalten once more!

    You want to tear Alyssa Voidreaper to shreds with your own hands, until she is nothing but strips of red and fragments of white!

    You want to freeze and shatter every single fucking Druchii, every single daemon, all of them, all of them!

    You want…!

    "Larhathalumalav," Kerillian murmurs quietly, and you do not even jerk in surprise at your total lack of knowledge of her approach, nor raise your head.

    Neither of you mention the frozen tears that have formed a small pile at your feet.

    "Kerillian, what is it?" You ask, voice so flat it could almost be your daughter Anna's as you look down at them.

    "An idea, little more," she says, shifting her weight slightly out of the corner of your eye. "I was…I am a Waywatcher of Athel Loren, have been for centuries. I am used to working alone, for long periods of time, hunting and killing and pursuing deep into the night."

    The coldest and angriest part of you begins to burn in your chest almost immediately at her words.

    "If you leave," you say immediately, "Who guarantees the behavior of your killers?"

    "Who? Why, the rest of you, of course," she says with a bemused snort. "The gryphon as well, I think she has gained quite a taste for Druchii flesh at this point. They'll not be a problem. If they are, kill them," she says with easy scorn.

    "Your plan?"

    "Kill," she replies calmly. "Maybe a bit of burning. A bit of looting, finding more supplies for those who join us."

    "You think we're going to have that many more recruits?" You finally do glance up at her, to lock your mismatched eyes with her once pure-black ones, a faint crimson light just barely visible in the center of them.

    In reply, she quirks an eyebrow and looks back out onto the crowds.

    (A Handmaiden, A Handmaiden!: 56+Absolute Chaos(10)-Abuses of the Druchii(10)+Handmaiden of the Everqueen(25)+Sadrina Diplomacy(15)-Tortures And Deaths(10)=86/100)

    There was not a surplus of elven slaves to try and join you, you knew that. No doubt the abuses of the Druchii mean that there might be plenty more locked up in the noble estates of the more powerful and wealthy Druchii families. Others have no doubt surely died, either in the fighting already, or because their masters grew bored enough of them to do it. Or use them up in some horrid ritual or another. Nevertheless, there are still some Asur here, though by their bearings all of them have been here longer than the Tiranoci arrivals who came with Eldyra's ill-fated aiding fleet. All of whom, it seems, prepared themselves to finally fight for their freedom now that there is more than a candle's chance in the Widow's palm. Some of them even look like they actually were fighters, once upon a time. In particular a grouping of surprisingly muscular looking Asur who are still for the moment deferring to Sadrina. They look upon her like she is some great savior, which, by all rights, she is.

    (A Shining Knight: 68+10-10+Roland Diplomacy(14)+Jagged Jaqueline Diplomacy(5)+Questing Knight(15)-10-Tight Collars(10)+A Bevy of Heads(10)=92/100)

    Many of the slaves that came from the Old World have flocked to Roland and the Whitewings, and unsurprisingly a number of them are Bretonnian. That nation really needs to do something about the weakness of their navy, they've clearly been prime pickings for the Druchii for some time. Either way, the presence of the Questing Knight and the other pseudo-knights is clearly quite welcome, and you see fire and brimstone rising up in the eyes of many of those who speak to them. To your surprise, almost all of the slaves talking to them look like fighters, men and women both, who despite their tortures and abuses have managed to keep almost all their fingers and not lost too much of their strength. Numbers and some experience, going by some of the boasting and swinging of procured weapons you can see.

    (Far Away Flocking: 20+Johanna Diplomacy(12)+The Sounds of Home(10)-10-10+10=32/100)

    Unfortunately, you do not see too many of the people from beyond the Old World remaining behind. Some of them clearly think they are better off on their own, and scatter into the slave tunnels to head elsewhere. Johanna recruits at best a miniscule crop of Indan and Cathayan men, evidently giving up the Nipponese who looked ready to scrap with the Cathayans instead of work together. It is a small force she has gathered up, a fraction compared to the others speaking to Roland and the Whitewings, or even the elves, but it is again better than nothing. At the least, Johanna's capacity to speak their tongues at all is valuable in that regard. Your warband grows steadily, and with it, what you can actually do with it. You might well get other recruits who wander in during the night, but that still means you need to think on the night and the morrow both.

    "…fair enough on that front, still," you cluck your tongue. "You'd be out there, alone."

    "The vampire has expressed an interest in coming with," she notes, "Something about putting some of her training to use. A monster she may be, I am interested in knowing if she dances in the shadows with Loec as she so clearly rages with all the fires of Addaioth."

    "And if you both are caught out of place, captured, killed?" You quirk an eyebrow at her, to which Kerillian nods.

    "Aye, a risk. But one I offer to you, Larhathalumalav," she notes with the barest hint of a strange sort of hunger in her voice.

    "Hmm," you mutter while rubbing at your temples.

    "Assuming we live and return, or we stay the night, where are we heading next, anyway?" She asks, tilting her head.

    "Still thinking about it," you admit, fists clenching and unclenching.

    Natasha Choices:
    Moratorium For All Voting 3 Hours

    Kerillian's Offer
    [] Keep The Blood Flowing – Going out and remaining unseen, and killing many, is literally what Kerillian has spent centuries doing, and if you return to the mainland, is liable to do for centuries more. Johanna speaks of some kind of odd training in Nippon and Cathay, of a Shadow Under Heaven, and while she admits her sire is the far greater in usage of Ulgu and the like, she is not incapable. She managed to stalk around the Ark on her lonesome already, after all. It would put both at risk, however, for all that they might well be able to keep frustrating the efforts of the Cult of Pleasure. Khaine despises Slaanesh, all the more so right now, it seems, and in that twisted regard you are almost in agreement on that front.

    OR

    [] Staunch The Blood, For Now – The offer is a terribly tempting one, but one you are allowed to refuse. In this case, you will. Besides, you want Kerillian actively present the entire time so that your stolen Witch Elves don't start to get any strange ideas about ever going back to the way things were. Besides which, you aren't sure if letting her indulge in every bloody whim she's had since picking up the sword is the best possible thing.

    Tomorrow's Target [Choose One]
    [] Strike the Siege: The Temple of Atharti is one of the greatest known resistance points against the Cult of Pleasure, seeing as Atharti is literally a rival Cytharai to much of what Slaanesh is. The longer it lasts, the more focus it will require from the Cult of Pleasure. It follows that killing the Druchii and banishing the daemonettes assaulting it will, in turn, harm the Cult of Pleasure all the more.
    [] Attack An Arena: The Arenas are full of slaves literally trained and built and fed properly to be satisfactory combatants. You have a much larger warband now, but why not swell it all the further? Traverse the slave tunnels, emerge, and shatter more cages, break more chains, and become an even greater threat to the machinations of Alyssa. Hells, maybe you'll even get her to come out of the tower that way all the quicker.
    [] Fire and Food: There are other food production sites, silos, storage. It's time that some of them cease to exist. Ransack them to feed your own warband, and deny their contents and production to the enemy. The daemons might not need food or water, but the Druchii damned well do, and without the latter, they cannot sustain the presence of the former.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • You are on fire @torroar and I love you for it!

    Blood and slaughter!!

    (I'm rather interested in Flesh Eater Courts for literature and Khorne for TWWH so this blood and gore is good for the soul)

    For the Lady and the Widow!

    For two unmarried god-women!
     
    And yes, now that the warband has swelled more, I do intend for the next section to be somewhat less immediately zoomed in, a bit wider in scope, hopefully. The only issue with flipping between Magnus and Natasha is that it's easier for her to run around on the Ark than it is for him to cross an entire freaking province to his own objectives, so we'll see how it all shakes out.

    TheGrape said:
    , with her piety and bloodshed and 'diplomacy'.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Let's be fair here, a good bit of the heavy lifting was done by trauma, their world basically ending as they knew it, total loss of senior leadership, and also - this is very important - Kerillian had the big glowy murder sword that glowed with Khaine energies that actively seemed to connect with her visibly. The murder sword connecting with her with a natural 100 was very important to the browbeating process.
     
    Mmm…if we didn't have the Khainite defectors, I'd be much more for sending her off because that's what she does, operate alone and hidden. But since there are other factions distracting the Slaaneshi and she probably will provide a mild bonus to them by dint of what she now is, I'd say keep her around. But feel free to argue otherwise.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Back
    Top