Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest

[SaltyWaffles]

Wrote this, @BoneyM . Not sure if you ever accept things such as this as canon, or whatnot. If I had to give it a title...

The Heart of the Matter

It's rather surreal, you think, seeing dwarves being jolly everywhere you look. Even those whose grimness seems everpresent are clearly in high spirits, at least relatively speaking. There will be celebrations throughout Karak Eight Peaks tonight, you know. Preparations are already underway, though almost entirely by the noncombatants of the karak. Still, one dwarf has his mind on other things entirely, and you see this clearly as you walk out onto the top of the Citadel, seeing King Belegar gazing out at the Caldera.

"You called for me?" you say, walking up alongside him. Despite feeling quite satisfied and relieved, you can read his mood well enough to know that he did not summon you for a social occasion, and your tone is adjusted appropriately.

He is silent for a moment before answering. "Songs will be written for this battle. The story will be spread far and wide among the Karaz Ankor. The greatest victory my people has achieved in living memory. And yet..." He turns to look at you, emotions dancing across his features. "...I was not here. Not for much of it. And even when I was...it was your ideas and insight that proved decisive. While much credit belongs to the runelords and the warriors and the mages, the credit of command is something else entirely, and I think you're more deserving of it this time than I."

The weight of that statement floors you. For a dwarven king to outright say something like that to anyone below his station would be remarkable--for him to say it to a human subordinate is unprecedented. Perhaps noticing your shock, he laughs, but it is a light, almost sad thing. It is that, more than anything, that brings clarity to your mind. You take a minute to gather your thoughts while he looks out towards the Caldera, seemingly melancholy.

"You are my king," you say. "That means more than just loyalty and service. I'm here because of you. We're all here because of you." He turns to look at you once more. "Sure, I made good use of the hand I was dealt, but the only reason I got to play was because you had given me everything I needed to win. I had all the right people, all the right tools, all the right defenses, all the right resources, all because you inspired everyone to believe in you. And besides, I know that you know that much of command is simply delegating tasks to other, highly capable leaders. That we already had all of those capable leaders under your banner was all you."

He tilts his head slightly, gaze shifting to the side, features smoothing out, clearly considering that point of view. You say nothing, despite feeling to urge to say even more to make your case. Your faith is rewarded a minute later, when he nods decisively. "Mm. I suppose so. But you'll forgive me if I thank the Ancestors and your Ranald for fortune blessing my Expedition with you."

You can't meet his eyes after something like that, and fight down a blush. Being praised so highly by a dwarven king is something the peasant girl you once were--even the apprentice of the Grey College you once were--could never have imagined. "I feel the same way about you, you know. After...after Abelhelm died, the campaign he died for was finished with decisive success, and Roswita...dismissed me, I didn't know what to do with myself.

"I think I do best when I'm given a chance to put down roots and a clear set of goals to work with. But then I suddenly found myself with nothing--no leader, no home, no goals. Your expedition sounded like a good break from all of that, a good, simple cause to join and fight for while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. And...I began to feel like my old self again. Working towards clear goals, a new home, and a leader I greatly respect and believe in--not to mention all of the great research opportunities--it's everything I could have hoped for."

For some reason, the gentle smile he gives you in return is enough to make you bashful again.

You fall into a companionable silence for a while, gaze returning to the Caldera, lost in thought. Finally, though, he sighs. "This letter..."

He doesn't need to say anything more for you to catch on. "Any idea how you're going to respond?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Part of me wants to declare a Grudge," he admits, to your alarm. Noticing your worried glance, he quickly clarifies. "Only a part. The rest of me knows it would be petty and foolish. But letting the matter go entirely doesn't feel right either."

"I don't know how much he knew, when he wrote it," you say. "And him deciding not to send aid is one thing. But for him to just blatantly write off an entire karak like that, to write off all of the people within it, before the battle even begins...the implications are disturbing."

"Aye. I don't understand it--shouldn't the High King believe in his people more? Or be driven to change things if he doesn't? Does he see something I can't? Does he know something I don't?"

Unspoken, but no less understood, is the question of whether or not what Thorgrim may know is something so terrible that even the High King has given in to despair and almost apathy.

"You're going to ask him?"

"Of course. The question is whether or not I ask him in front of an audience. And the tone with which I ask."

And that really is the fulcrum on which all of this rests, you realize. With that letter in hand, Belegar could all but declare Thorgrim unworthy of the throne and the crown which he wears, and create a schism in the Karaz Ankor never before seen. With such a spectacular and decisive series of victories under his belt, he could challenge the status quo itself, and become an icon for change within Karaz Ankor. Or he could keep his confusion, his outrage, his doubts, his protests to himself, and demand an explanation from Thorgrim in private, passing up the opportunity. It is an enormous moment in dwarven history, one which could drastically alter the future of the dawi. That must weigh on him tremendously, in a way you can't even imagine.

Then, with a mental startle, you realize that he's asking you for your thoughts on what he should do.

...you suddenly feel very small again.

Among the Karaz Ankor, the name of Belegar Ironhammer drew an increasingly admiring awe--the dwarves, long used to disappointment and a world that seemed rigged against them, had long lost hope of reclaiming one of the Karaks of old.

Karak Eight Peaks, being a sprawling, dynamic, and rather large karak infested with enemies, made it a tough target. That it was practically next door to another enemy-held karak made reclaiming it even more daunting. That Belegar's expedition had reclaimed it even partially in such a quick and decisive campaign was practically the talk of the Karaz Ankor non-stop for years--fueled by another round of success at the recapturing of Karagril and securing of the Citadel. All of this success was at unusually low cost in terms of blood and time, and it put Belegar on a pedestal among the younger dwarves, who had yet to develop the classic dwarven cynicism. Among the older, more cautious dwarves, however, learning to truly hope again was a scary thing. Mathilde had heard from various sources--Belegar included--that many of the older dwarves were still predicting that Eight Peaks would suffer from a sudden reversal of fortune any day now, and that holding the few peaks they had would become an unwinnable, brutal war of attrition with the eventual outcome inevitable.

This victory would change all that. Five peaks reclaimed in a day. Two greenskin tribes destroyed, the contigents of three skaven clans within Eight Peaks all but annihilated, a colony of trolls wiped out, a dragon made peace with. A truly astounding victory, but many would discount it as simply luck--and it was not entirely untrue, you admit to herself. Taking advantage of numerous prime opportunities and exploiting them ruthlessly and efficiently required a great deal of skill, coordination, and cohesion, but those opportunities usually required a great deal of luck to occur in the first place.

But then...a million-strong Waaagh merely a day later? Against a Karak that was not nearly fortified enough by dwarven standards, against a defending force too small to face it in open battle, even in a chokepoint? Even if they survived, it should have meant that the greenskins would simply retake all of the karags that had been reclaimed just a day earlier, and things would be back where they had been. Instead...victory, complete and glorious. A million-strong Waaagh obliterated, with virtually no survivors, in less than a day. And what a statement that was--not only could the newly re-founded Karak Eight Peaks hold against the enemy without suffering serious attrition, not only could it decisively win offensively against the enemy with relatively light losses, it could then defend against massive invasions even when its defenses and defenders were in one of the worst states possible--stretched thin, unfortified, exhausted from a day of fighting and marching, and with mere hours to prepare. Indeed, it could defend so successfully that it made even the most fortified and established of Karaks look weak by comparison. Of course, it was more complicated than that, with plenty of reasons why the feat was not quite as unfathomably astounding as it first seemed, you know, but first impressions mattered, and the first rumors that would circulate would include none of the mitigating factors.

And those first rumors would start when Belegar confronted Thorgrim at his throne room, in front of an audience of representatives from all major clans in Karaz Ankor.

Diplomacy was not your strong-suit, nor was it your responsibility on Belegar's council. Nonetheless, it was you Belegar had asked for, as you and Belegar stand at the top of the Citadel, looking out at what had recently been a battlefield.

Despite your fear, despite the responsibility that you feel totally unqualified to bear, you steel yourself. Your king needs you, and damn it, you'll do your best to rise to the occasion, just like you did with the Battle for Karak Eight Peaks.

Use your training, damn it! you think to yourself.

Okay, what are the key points on which this matter rests?

Does Thorgrim deserve the benefit of the doubt?

Would a schism in the Karaz Ankor be worth the potential change it could bring?

Would such a golden opportunity to create such a schism present itself again, and if not, would it be worth triggering it over potentially settling for a lesser opportunity later?

You lose track of how long you stand there, staring out into the Caldera but seeing nothing, furiously working through the problem in your mind.

Finally, though, you give your answer. "I don't know Thorgrim well enough to judge whether he's worth the benefit of the doubt. But I can say that one of the most critical things the Karaz Ankor has always had going for it is its unity. It's never had a civil war, never split into separate empires, never had any bitter rivalries develop between its parts.

"Karaz Ankor needs to change--how, exactly, I'm not sure, and I may never really know. But things can't just continue as they have been. You've been the driving force behind that change, intentionally or not, and maybe your continued success can inspire other holds without increasing tensions. Maybe leading by example will be enough."

He takes a minute to consider that. "And what about Thorgrim himself? If he rules in despair and fatalism, not challenging that when the perfect opportunity presents itself may doom us to too little change, too late."

"Or he may have just made a mistake, and your stunning success will cause him to change. Maybe he just needs someone to inspire him for once, not just with an accomplishment, but an undeniable trend."

He grunts, acknowledging the point. "Still," you add, "I would keep the letter, though. Just in case."

He glances back at you and nods.

You lapse back into companionable silence once more for a few minutes.

"...I know it's a bad time, but I have a favor to ask," you say, hesitantly.

He looks over at you, curiosity blatant in his gaze.

"Much as I would hate to pull a gyrocarriage crew away from the victory celebrations, I need to get to Altdorf as soon as possible. I don't want to be late for my seminar on Waaagh and Peace. It's my first seminar--my first lecture, even, and leaving a bad first impression would be terrible."

He stares at you, his expression shifting in a way that would be almost comical if you were in the right mood. Then, he starts chortling, and soon progresses to straight up, full-lunged laughter. You're caught between indignation and confusion--you were being serious! The academic side of the Colleges could be brutal, and you knew that first lectures could make or break one's prestige.

Finally, he manages to get his laughter and breathing under control. "Only you, Mathilde. Only you."

 

[BurnNote]

I was considering a 40k negaverse, and how you would translate the story so far. It's actually more difficult than I initially imagined, since the settings have diverged pretty strongly over the years. Here's my basic outline, followed by some thoughts on why.

Abelheim van Hel is an Inquisitor who was granted Sector Governership for his heroic deeds. This sector has long been plagued by techno heresy, specifically the use of Abomidable Inteligences, unleashed by his ancestor to defend against an incursion of xenos. The young sanctioned psyker Mathilde Weber is seconded to his retinue (not as an acolyte, but also not as a not acolyte). They have adventures together, purging corruption and doing the Emperor's work, though Abelheim becomes disillusioned with the Ecclesiarchy, since they are too busy fighting over doctrinal differences to actually help.

During the final assault on the core world of the techno heretics (supported by a force from the nearby forgeworld), Abelheim gets mortally wounded. He gives his Rosarius and greatest secret to Mathilde: A Men of Iron AI core. Mathilde goes back to Terra and is officially ordained as an Inquisitor.

Mathilde joins a force of the Mechanicus that aims to reclaim a fallen forgeworld that in it's prime would rival Ryza or even Mars itself. On the way there, the greatest Cybersmith of the Mechanicus, sent by the Fabricator General of Mars, forges her a psychic hood. The first beach head is taken with a surprising lack of casualties. There's a certain distaste for victories won so strongly thanks to both fickle emotions and the fickle warp, but none can deny the potential treasures of archeotech to be found, and really, Mathilde is about as close to proper and sensible as someone who still has all their fleshy bits can be, without even making allowances for that unfortunate pskyer thing.

The forces of a nearby forgeworld, long isolated in xenos territory, show up to make sure the link stays open. Mathilde gets a Force Greatsword. It's great. She settles in as the local psychic person and heresy purger. She builds a giant psychic orbital defense station. She goes on a quick trip to purge some techno heretics that were aiming for Abelheim's daughter, who took over the Sector Governership after her dad's death. Then Mathilde goes back home, and purges some more, but accidentally does it too hard, so she reconquers the rest of the forge world while the Fabricator General is away. But luckily he's back in time for them to burn away a huge attack by an ork waaagh. It's great, because now she can make it in time for her lecture on how to screw over the orc's psychic bullshit using psychic bullshit, which everyone is very excited for.

--------------------------
Now some discussion on why I translated stuff the way I did, and also some stuff I couldn't fit in.

First and most importantly, the dwarfs: They don't really have a natural correspondences. I was torn between the Mechanicus and Astartes (who are also secretive, stubborn, proud and hold tightly to grudges and tradition). Ultimately, I think the Mechanicus just works better. It allows a great translation of the tension between old and new holds.

Incidentally, that leaves the Astartes free to be mapped to the elves. That might seem strange, since Elf=Eldar is one of the few natural connections, but the relationship between Elves/Empire and Eldar/Imperium is just very different. It just doesn't work. On the other hand, Elf=Astartes works surprisingly well. Mathilde delivers them a Chaos Space Marine, and gets invited to a training trip of murdering more.

Also most importantly: Finding an equivalent for the Undead/Vampires is quite difficult. The closest is probably the Necron, but that doesn't make much sense for Abel's backstory, and that's more Tomb Kings than Vampires. I think Undead=Evil AI works rather well, and setting the Libre Mortis as an Iron Man Core makes for a great equivalent. Both in it's ability to be super powerful, seductive and utterly devastating if misused. It even lets Mathilde gain secret religious knowledge she's not supposed to have, in this case of the Omnissiah.

One thing I'm still thinking about is Skaven. There's no real equivalent, so that's something of a problem. Tyranids have the hunger, flood of meatshields, monstrosities, galactic threat and secretive subversion going, but they are also completely unified, and too alien. Something like Corrupted-Not-Quite-Chaos Tau might work, because the Greater Good could easily be twisted into something skavenlike, and unstable warp technology would be right up their alley, but they just wouldn't be the galactic threat needed for a good equivalent. The final idea I had was dark eldar, because poison, betrayal, infighting, assassination and using slaves would be right up their alley, and they are at least a galactic presence, but it leaves a lot of other things uncovered, and they're just not the kind to hold territory.

I wasn't sure when Mathilde becomes an Inquisitor (and she has to become an Inquisitor, since that's the only kind of human psyker [not counting astartes] that can go around freely and tell people what to do. It also just corresponds well with the Grey College). The authority, power and trust is more a lord magister. But it doesn't make much sense for her to go around on her own authority in that case, and there is the rank of Lord Inquisitor. Plus, that means she can inherit Abelheim's rosarius, which I just like.

Speaking of, I was torn between making him an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, an Arbite, or even just a general. Inquisitors don't really retire. But then, the Ordo Hereticus is Witch Hunters IN SPAAACE, so the hat compelled me.

Dämmerlicht is Mathildes personal ship. It's basically an engine strapped to a generator and a warp drive. She removed the navigator quarters after her warp sight got good enough and replaced them with a stealth generator, so now she can get across the Imperium with astonishing speed.

Translating Mathilde's religious believes is a bit difficult, since the Imperium is essentially Monotheistic, and her not believing in the GEOM wouldn't fit. Instead, she has a very particular and borderline heretic view. Something like "We have to make our own luck, and the emperor does not care for prayers, just action" combined with a disdain of the established system. Maybe a facet of "the emperor is weak an cannot help". It's difficult to combine her enormous piety with her disdain for Sigmar, who's the best Emperor equivalent. Haven't really found a satisfying balance there.
She probably gained a significant appreciation of the Omnissiah, and MoneyB has to endure constant questions of "Can we be a priest too?"

And finally, AlphaHugger wants to raise Abelheim in a new body of steel and return the Imperium to a new Dark Age of Technology under a new God Empress. He's actually making pretty good progress on this, because actually making a difference in 40k is pretty hard, and the place is fucked enough that it's just another apocalypse (the second concurrent robot apocolypse, and the fourth robot apocalypse overall).

 

[Glau]

An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-

Dear diary, is it my fate to know romance only through the arms of handsome ulricans under the mountain stars?

I could hardly complain of such, though the Lady knows how far such nights are from the confused visions of balls and gowns I dreamed of when the masculine masquerade grew too heavy on my heart. And yet, now I can scarce imagine events to have gone any other way. My praise to the Lady, whose mercy permits my grasp to reach everything I long for- how could a Brettonian girl be both Knight, and General, and lover, save by her grace?

Perhaps, dear diary, it seems I praise her overmuch and the boldness of my companion too little, but let me reassure you; twas his actions that placed her o'r my happy thoughts like a tender moon over a village festival. Not a ball, no! For it feels almost like I have outgrown such things, and see them now as empty, joyless recitals saved only by the starry-eyed few, those too blinded by the trappings to see the people. Give me the honest joy of those who need not carry airs! For the task of a knight is to protect and defend the lives of those behind her, is it not? And how else might we know that those lives are worth protecting, than to see them celebrated?

Mayhaps the frontier has grown upon me like brush upon a cleared field, as my former brother knights might say, but I prefer now to think in the manner a dwarf acquaintance of mine once suggested- Mandrig, formerly of Altdorf and now of the 3rd Huzkul Rangers, told me once that he thought this circle of peaks, my chalice of the skies, to be a crucible. He said, "I was born of the dross and raw ore that make up the clanless dwarves of the empire, but King Belegar gathered us and lit the furnace, smelted us fragments together and drew off our impurities, and has forged of us the proud bright steel of a new axe. And so I stand (not actually standing- and forgive my correction, dear diary, but at the time he was almost as drunk as I and neither of us were upright) here before you, first generation of the first new clan of the first reclaimed Karak, and my honor beyond question by any of the Karaz Ankor!"

Likewise, I find myself come through refined, my angst and self-doubt burned away in the crucible here of battles and responsibilities and command- and when I turn from the blood and dust that is ever the duty of a knight, I see those hundreds and those thousands of lives which are sheltered by my sword-arm. I see them give thanks and rejoice! How can I question my worth, or my place, when cheers follow me from fire to fire and proud approval etches itself on every face I see? They know me as 'their' knight, and they speak of me to the adventures and mercenaries with the same competitive possessiveness that Dukes in Brettonia might show over their favored champions- and I find I love it, and them for it.

Knighthood itself is a sacred bond between Lord and vassal, but both ways do these obligations flow. I thought once that the highest and best of the knights offered all they were to those above them, asking nothing, recieving nothing, and holding nothing back. But here, on the frontier, on foot among those born common, I find otherwise.

The highest and best knights are those for whom loyalty flows to as well as from, those who are fiercely loved by those they lead and who return that redoubled. Perhaps because I am closer to the origins of this thing called chivalry- here I am not made a knight by the standing of my uncle, but by the acclaim of my fellow soldiers, and by the unshakable faith of this fledgling kingdom's citizens. Like the first knights, who were not chosen and set above by the Lady to rule and spend other's lives seeking their own glory, but rather to serve and protect those they were raised above. Here, I live the truth that those who seek the Grail must know in our bones er any chance of success may be found:

Knights are given power so that others DO NOT HAVE TO BE KNIGHTS. War is a sad, bloody path, only justified for the joy of those spared it.

Ah, I digress! But dear diary, read into the lines above the overwhelming giddiness of the last few days, and allow me to write of the Journeyman of the Celestial College who even now lays his head on my lap.

Hubert Denzel, of the Middenheim Denzels, a son of the City of the White Wolf. When first we met I scarce remembered him, flustered as I was by the company he traveled in. When next we met he lead me dancing, a young noble twirling a young woman (whom he made no secret of fancying) amidst candles and music and personages, and I could scarce think of any else in the week after.

Then, having after begged leave to presume again upon my time with a wink and a grin, he came to me and asked that I take him as a student. And this forced me for the first time to look upon him with clear eyes. As a face in a crowd, I did not need to see him; as a young knight courting at a dance I did not need to see beyond his dark eyes and broad shoulders. But as a humble student of the sword seeking improvement, ah! I could not let myself ignore weaknesses and petty concerns without doing him a disservice as a teacher. And so began four months of enforced honesty between us, lubricated by sweat and pain and the praise of small triumphs.

I wonder, sometimes, if he knows what he did when he did as he did. I could not pine for him as an ideal on a pedestal, as was my usual wont with men of his type, but nor could I set aside my own awareness of my gender as I do drilling men under my command or amidst my brother knights. Too close had I been to this man, and the remembrance of his smile and solid arms under my hands as we danced was not one I could just set aside. Our lessons slowly became excuses, for the both of us I believe, to jest and flirt and smile as we strove against each other. And so they became more and more private, the two of us finding small clearings or hidden valleys to train in, avoiding the eyes of those I would have see me as an officer and an authority. When Hubert and I were alone, I could allow myself to laugh and be laughed at, to be gay and silly and morose as the mood took me. To take comfort in the words of another who has also thought deeply about honor, faith, and the duties we owe.

It didn't take him long to begin joining me outside lessons. Even as we grew more private about the moments we spent with crossed blades, he began to appear with regularity at my left hand for the long marches of patrols. At first he claimed it was to keep his fitness up. Then it became about learning the tactics and workings of a pike company, then as he made other friends in the company it became almost as if he were one of us. I confess I find his presence reassuring, as do the others, for we have all seen what a difference well-used sorcery can make upon campaign- and with his lightening Hubert gave us a threat far beyond the range of what a pike can reach.

I write all this that you may know how he has proven himself to me, dear diary, that when I gush to you of his almost wicked tongue and thoughtful honesty you know I am not merely trying to wish these things into being, but merely recording those traits I have come to quietly treasure. But most of all, I treasure his efforts to treat me well. In public, he supports my authority. In private, he gives both my fancies and my worries thoughtful consideration and due respect. When alone, I know he seeks out those things I might like, that he can gift and share in my joy o'r them. Once, it was some rare books on the swordplay of my homeland that he went as far as seeking out the Dame Magister to borrow! But then, last night...

We met after the Battle of Karagil, when scarce long enough had passed after for blood to be scrubbed clean and myself to change (as had become my habit upon victories) into a comely dress. The feast itself was a whirl of ale and roasts, gambling and toasts; the dwarves were in as fine a mood as I had seen in months, and even the Thanes were slowly relaxing as it became clear that no counter-attack was forthcoming. But perhaps such things have become too common to me, dear diary, or perhaps ale and dark eyed intensity captured too well my thoughts last night, for it was the moment Hubert took my hand and lead me up towards the peak of our new Karag that I truly begin to remember what events transpired.

Our climb began with giggles and daring hands wandering across clothes as we danced our way free above the fires and music, but as we wound higher our passion became quieter, more solemn. Hands which had quested for ticklish spots instead steadied and held, glances and grins became quiet pauses of staring into his eyes, his hand soft upon my cheek.

But he had a destination, and, it became clear, a time for which he was planning. I did not mind, indulging him as he broke moment after small moment to continue our climb, and as luck would have it our journey concluded mere moments before... Well.

He brought me up to the shores of the Tarn of Karagil, that lake set closer to the sky than the peaks of most mountains will ever reach. He took my hands and led me to a rough alter of stone, like a tiny island just feet away from the shore, and I knew them what he had planned. For of all the Gods in this world too whom one might pray, only one makes her shrines across a stretch of water from those who would do her honor- this man, this devoute son of Ulric from the City of the White Wolf, for my sake had laid the foundations of shrine to my Goddess. For me. And it was not only the stones, he had brought a chalice of dwarf-wrought silver and a clean white cloth which he handed to me- and by his grasp of the heavens made it such that in the moment after I had spread the cloth on the stone and placed the chalice upon it, the moon crested the peak before us.

Picture this, dear diary: a knight, her hair unbound, kneeling on the shores of a lake beloved in dwarven legend. Behind her, a companion touched by magic and prophecy stands watch on her vigil. Before her, a simple shrine to her Lady gleams under the moonlight, silver and white against a looming black mountain peak.

I knelt there for hours, until the moon had well peaked and then fallen behind the heights of Karag Lhune, praying thanks for the blessings of the Lady upon me and begging her look kindly upon this new kingdom. Hubert stayed silent at my shoulder until the true dark claimed the sky again.

It was then he drew me back, and down, his chest a pillow for my head and his arms my blanket. We slept there, and spoke not a word until dawn.

I write now in that morning light, my lap presently his pillow and the scratch of my quill his lullaby. How perceptive he was, to see the depth of my faith, and how generous, to give gift of it to me. I know the Lady approves; I woke this morning to a crown of mistletoe where the chalice stood last night, the Lady of the Lake blessing these sky-kissed waters. And perhaps a hint, too: never did mortal lips touch that offered chalice, though Hubert obviously intended mine to be first- as they would have, in morning light, if it had yet remained. This is but a common ritual done by those who seek the sacred grail- to serve vigil at a lake till dawn before drinking of a virgin chalice... That I could not, did not- it was not rejection, for many such rejected questers play through the miming of their sucess with no notice from her. In this, in the chalice spirited away afore I could complete the hopeful mimicry? I hear the Lady speaking to me, saying, "Not yet."

All my wishes have been laid afore me, dear diary, and I seek only the courage to grasp them. Wish me luck.

 

[ReImagined]

Night falls upon the city of Altdorf, capital of the Empire of Man. A bustling city of nearly a hundred thousand souls, it is home to both palace and pauper, spanning the breadth of Imperial society. From the tallest towers to the lowliest of slums, the streets are deceptively quiet, giving no hint of the life changing events to come. As mothers usher their chattering children to bed and good guardsmen begin their evening patrols, a young wizardling clad in gray hurries in the chilly winter air, hoping to make it back before the College's Curfew.

It-That-Hunts prowls in the shadows, its powerful limbs covering the rocky ground in leaps and bounds. What little light that reaches it is more than sufficient to guide its path as it prepares to give chase-- chase to its target! It can taste the warm fear of its prey in the wind, a good sign of things to come. Soon, it will enjoy the warmth of a filled belly. Soon...

A squawk of indignation disturbs the night's peace. "My hat!" the wizardling cries, amber eyes wide as the pointy gray garment flies freely through the air. What is it doing in the sky? It is meant to keep her warm, and belongs on her head! She gapes at the sight. How is she meant to be a wizard if she cannot even keep hold of a hat? Has it abandoned her, as well? Is this-- No, that cannot be. It must be a test! Determined, the child gives chase to the wind.

Sounds. It can hear the skittering paws of the prey, delicious prey sounds. Chasing its own food, perhaps. A fortunate forage, or a secret cache? It matters not. The prey is quick, but unaware, and it will be no match for the sharp claws of It-That-Hunts. That it is clad in fur as gray as night is of no consequence. It stands no chance!

"Get back here, hat!" Oh, how easy it would be if she could just wave her arms and fly! But the only thing that flies is the hat, tossed to and fro by the mischievous night. It sweeps left and right, up and down, over that fish stall, behind a street corner now, then above a waste dump, and into an alleyway, all the while pursued by the wizard-to-be.

The chase is on! With a flex of extra effort, the hunter races against the prey that has begun to flee, anticipating the target's every move. As the distance shortens, indignant squeaks become louder, an extra set of senses confirming the soon-to-be kill. Over that barrier of stone, to the right side of that rotting wood, slipping through the cracks...

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the hat abandons its wandering ways. It drops onto the ground with a thump, followed by a squeak, and then a strangled growl. Cautiously, the girl approaches her quivering hat. Giving it a nudge reveals the glowing green eyes of a dark alley cat, nibbling contently on the remains of a dirty rat beneath the hat.

She stares at the scene, and then laughs.

"Aww, kitty!" Sweeping up her discarded hat, she gives it a good few whacks to dust it off, and then plops it back onto her head. The cat continues chewing, intent on ignoring its newfound position atop this strange large beast in favor of continuing its meal. Slowly swiveling her head at the weight, she considers the situation. Well, that'll do. "Okay kitty, let's be friends! The College lets us keep pets, right? You seem to be able to get food on your own well enough anyways... Alright then! I think I'll call you Morr. Let's go home, Morr." Whether Mathilde receives a tongue lashing for coming back late with a mangy cat on her head is left up to reader interpretation.

Spoiler: Inspiration

"When abandoned and alone, Morr shalt befriend thee."

Click to shrink...

After she first arrived at the Grey College, she adopted a cat and called it Morr.

Click to shrink...

 

[Glau]

Scenes from U-K8P

"It's what tomorrow?" Lissile asked blankly, looking at Hannah, who shrugged.

"Parent's Day! Don't tell me you don't... Did they not tell you? Really? Every year they invite all the parents of the proud new freshmen to wander around and attend classes with their nibblings, see what exotic sights the foremost Karak in the world offers, and maybe pick up a runic talisman if they are rich." Darna blew a raspberry. "The locals all see it as a chance to dump apprentice-work and prospect for connections. They *really* didn't tell you?"

Hannah blushed. "They, ah, may have tried... We skipped the last few conclaves..."

"Because?" Darna prompted.

"Because we knew we'd have the room to ourselves without imposing on you," Lissile spoke over Hannah's blush. "Sorry?"

"Well, no skin off my knuckles," Darna snorted. "I appreciate the thought, even if you two are getting cute and reckless in equal measure. Really girls, you don't need to cram everything into the first year and I'd really prefer my two closest friends here not have a screaming breakup because they went too fast." She sat down, and patted the bed on either side of her.

Hannah and Lissile looked at each other, then with a small sigh and a smile sat down flanking her. Darna grabbed their hands.

"Now, I think you two are cute together, and I appreciate you trying to be thoughtful about not throwing your bedplay in my face. But sneaking about isn't the right way to do this- ask! I'll probably say yes if you ask for time alone, and it is a good habit to get in to be honest about each other and what is going on, ok? I want the best for you both. But I don't want you two to just pair up and leave me all lonely either! You are my friends, I want to be part of your lives, all of your lives. Please talk to me?"

It took Hannah about four seconds to loose her composure.

"AWWWW!!!!!" She threw herself into a sideways hug grabbing both other girls. "You are SO AMAZING I'm so luck to have met you both and I'm so glad we are all roommates!"

"Well," Darna said, a slow smile creeping across her face, "thanks. But now for the important question: you two have already moved in together, are you ready to meet eachother's parents?"

------------------

"Mom! Dad! You made it!" Hannah hadn't actually been sure they would, even after Darna had privately assured her that the Karak subsidized travel for parents in an effort to leverage the good will the University created amount it's students. Seeing them standing in the terminal of Karag Lhune, looking lost and a little awed, she felt her heart swell.

"Of course we did little matchstick! Of course we did." Her mom swept her up in a hug, and her dad laid his hand on her shoulder. "Now, how's about our bright and beautiful daughter show us around this old place, help us get settled? There are so many stories, and you've got to know it practically like a local by now!"

"Oh, you know, I pick things up pretty quick," she said with a wink, grabbing up the duffle her mom had at her side and taking her father's arm like a promenade, "and it doesn't hurt that one of my roommates is a dwarf from here."

"Oooh, really?" Her mom inquired, "I had thought that dwarves would have just stayed in their own homes, being so close. Why is she paying to be in the dorms with you?"

"They put all the freshman in dorms for at least a year, and they try and mix up backgrounds too- something about 'maintaing the ties between races that made K8P great in the new generations' or some such. Come on though! There's so much to show you! You are staying in Karag Nar, right? I haven't actually spent much time there, but Shrine Hall is nice and the Low Taverns are aw.... Present! The low Taverns most certainly exist." She nodded her head firmly, bulling onward through the skeptical eyebrow her dad raised. "But I hear the professors tend to frequent the Wizard's Horse in the upper taverns, and if you are lucky you might even get a glimpse of the Fourth Wizard coming out of his penthouse...."

Generously, her parents let her babble as they walked, pausing once they exited the great entrance hall and stood on the landing of the King's Gates.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? I hope you can see why I wanted to come here so bad even thought it is so far from you and from our home..." Hannah trailed off quietly. She'd always known, of course, that her parents were refugees from Kislev, who fled with nothing from that snowy country in the vanguard of victims and infiltrators the last Everchosen had sent spewing before him. She knew it, since the hunger that had dogged her childhood never truely left her, even as she was taken in by the colleges of magic and her parents found a small shack in the slums of Altdorf. She knew they were poor.

She just hadn't processed what it would mean to them to see their daughter here, bright and clean and well-dressed (though if her roommates ever found out how much she scrimped and scrambled to make her scholarship cover everything she'd never hear the end of it) looking over the richest city of the Border Princedoms. Like she belonged. Like this was really her place. Like... Like they had done right by her.

Her mom turned to her dad with tears in her eyes, burying her face in his chest and sobbing quietly. Her dad gently disengaged from Hannah, wrapping both arms around his wife, and stoicly pretending that he had no tears running down his own cheeks.

Hannah blushed, looking away to give them some privacy, out over the caldera. It really was gorgeous, and she began planning in her head all the sights she wanted to show them, to really make this the trip of a lifetime that they deserved.

There was the University proper in Karag Wyr, of course, the inner slopes of the mountains carved into dramatic cliffs and terraces, windows opening everywhere to welcome the sunlight deep into the heart of the mountain. The aquatic center and the Deep Lake, of course, with the running trails curling around it and threaded through the stalactites on the ceiling. The lecture halls- maybe her dad would appreciate the 'Maths for Merchants' class she had in the afternoons? It was taught by Chancellor We, like many of the intro classes, so there was that checked off the checklist... And she really wanted her mom to see the portfolio she was putting together for 'Impermenant Sculptures 102' - art using MAPPs was not widely accepted as a genre outside of the more radical dwarf holds, but it had been the first spell she'd ever shown off the first time the colleges let her visit home and she *really* wanted her mom to see how far she'd come. And then there was the bloodbowl game tomorrow against Karak Azur, she could probably get tickets right up front especially if she asked... Her mind ground to a halt. She was seriously considering taking her parents to a game where she'd be front and center on the signal squad (the cheerleaders were more recent additions to the sport, but having a few people with semaphore flags next to the coaches to allow players to be directed during the games was a old as the full-field rules, at least for the dwarven teams, and so the old name carried over here) in her flashy outfit that she really liked to wear nowadays (because Lissile liked it!), cheering for her girlfriend whose parents would also be there watching. Hannah shuddered. Maybe she could call off sick?

----------------

"Hannah, I know. I know you aren't sure. But I'd really like you to be there, and it would be a good excuse to put your parents and mine together before they know about us to see if they can get along. Please?"

It was late, most of the Karak slept, and Lissile and Hannah were in one of 'their' private spots holding hands and murmuring, moonlight and falling mist glimmering in the air.

The Hanging Garden was one of the final projects started by the renowned founder Magister Panoramia, late in her life after she'd finally found the time to turn from the utility of soil restoration and crop optimization towards the art and beauty that greenery could create. Less well-known was the rumor she'd started it as a rebuke to a prideful fullbeard declaring that no living thing could ever match interplay of stone and water in the Arch of Kings, taking three years before the dwarf in question recanted, and dedicated his life to making the stonework of the new garden equal to it's blossoms.

The magister had started with the Endless Pit, and diverted a small stream into it from the silver tarn. Years of work later, the pit had become a wonderland of soft mist and trickling waters, vines and moss and a profusion of blossoms at each level, mirrors and crystals cunningly arranged to send light from the sun and the moon down even into the lowest reaches. A path circled the outer edges of the pit, sometimes a tunnel, sometimes an open-sided gallery, sometimes leaping from one side to the other with graceful arched bridges.

In the moonlight, all the flowers were washed out, and shadows were pitch black. Expressions were hard to read in the dimness, and the nook with a bench where the two sat was more chosen for privacy than lighting.

"I don't... Lissile, I'm not even sure how I feel about my parents seeing ME tomorrow. I don't know how to be both the daughter they remember and the shiny cheerleader bright wizard artist everyone here knows me as, and it kills me to think of showing them this new me and having them realize how much I've changed and mourn the daughter they kept in their hearts! Maybe, if I'm just not there, they'll never need to?"

"Hannah. Your parents love you. I'm really not one to talk like I know anything about loving families but even I can see that in how you talk about them. And I know they are going to be proud of you. You! The most eye-catching student of our entire year! You have half the faculty eating out of your hand and most of the students treating you like a queen- I think they need to see that. And I think you need to show it to them. Let them see how far their little girl has risen." Lissile sighed and wrapped both arms around her, resting her chin on Hannah's head. "From what I saw, they want so much to be proud of you. Just like I do."

"Ok." The words were soft, almost whispered. "But you need to promise me something too. Promise me that you will tell your parents who mine are, why they matter, and make them promise to treat them nicely? I know you have a hard time with your father, and I need to know he won't be cruel because of... Stuff."

"I promise."

Hannah sighed, the tension draining out of her. Lissile leaned over to kiss her, lips soft for some moments, until an errant splash from one of the tiny waterfalls landed on her head.

"Ergh. Maybe we should go to bed, I'm getting wet. ...No! Wait! Not what I meant!"

Hannah's shocked eyes and slightly hysterical giggle chased her all the way home.


A/N: thought of the Hanging Garden idea and wanted to do a tour of future attractions, and it kinda turned into another U-K8P segment. Hannah's parents just kinda demanded to be written like that, but I like the way they came out. Enjoy!

 

[ReImagined]

My friends. My comrades. Loyal soldiers, each and every one of you. Reluctant rats, each and every one of you.

Ah, there it is. Those hiss-squeaks of outrage! No, don't give me those faces. You have borne festering wounds and technological horrors in the line of duty. You have faced ravening monsters and diminishing food stocks in the name of our cause. You have endured assassins stalking about in the night and dwarves plodding around in the day. Moreover, you're still here in spite of it all. None can doubt your measure now.

Not Beaten-Clan Moulder! Moulder, who thought us weak, and were devoured in their arrogance! Moulder, whose mindless beasts are nought but stew in our stomachs! Moulder, whose territory is ours now!

Not Foolish-Clan Skryre! Skryre, who fears our unity, and whose attacks betray their own weakness! Skryre, who blow themselves up so we don't have to! Skryre, whose catastrophic misfortune has now given us a marvelous opportunity.

Not Coward-Clan Eshin! Eshin, who attacks and runs and attacks and runs and attacks and runs! Cowardly Eshin, unable to fight a real war. They will never face us willingly on the battlefield, so today we force them to fight on our terms!

Of course, if you lot were joining that, it'd be Sleek ramping you up instead of little old me. No, while Eshin relearns why they should fear us, somebody needs to hold the line at home. That is your duty and mine today!

Not that those decadent dwarves will ever do anything serious, of course. However, losing our nests to spider-things and greenskins would be an embarrassment to my good name. More importantly, it would be a disgrace to the Clan. You are Clan Mors, and you will not fail.

That'll be the first wave of them over there, then. Clanrats! You've trained for this. You know your assignments. You know what to do.

United as One! FOR CLAN MORS! MORS! MORS!

---

"Nice-nice speech. For a Traitor-Clan." Qrech grumbled.

"Thanks-thanks!" Mathilde grinned. "I wasn't sure if I got that tone translated right."

"Close enough to their drivel. United as one, pah." he spat. "What nonsense."

 

[Neshuakadal]

Crystal clear blue skies stretched out beyond the mountain peaks and the sun shone upon freshly hewed stone. The mountains air held a frosty bite but Ulgin appreciated the cool air that filled his lungs as he kept marking the fresh stone with a charcoal stencil. This stone was destined to be fitted together for a watchpost and a small swarm of dwarfs crawled over the future watchpost. Below, a far greater swarm of dwarfs were working on Morzund's wall. This watchpost would have a commanding view and help secure the wall below from surprises. It didn't have the highest priority like the Western Gate or the Karak Drazh underway did. It was, though, high enough on the list that a couple of Clan Irkokri stonemasons had been shaken loose for the task. They guided the less confident workers in striking away what he marked.

Ulgin paused in marking stone and stretched before dusting off charcoal dust that had stuck to his hands instead of the rock. He leaned back against some of the unmarked stone and nursed his canteen. The warmth of the rock was a welcome reprieve from the chill of the mountain air. As he gazed up he noticed that the blue sky had taken a slightly deeper tone of blue. It was almost Angrund blue. The sky stretched on and on, past mountains, valleys, and the edge of the horizon. Ulgin felt his heart stir at the sight.

Open air always vexed him. As a youth it had even frightened him. He could still feel a part of his mind he often ignored gibbering away that he was too exposed. Yet this sight, this Angrund blue sky stretching off forever, made the work up in the open air almost worth it. Living without stone over your head like a ranger was madness of course, but the view was pleasant. He shook his head clear and took one last gulp of water from his canteen. He needed to focus. These stones wouldn't mark themselves.

Work continued at a breakneck pace. Ever since the 'Battle for the Caldera' the ringing of pickaxes and the steady song of moving stone could be heard at all hours from everywhere in the karak. When Ulgin finally left the new watchpost stone had been fitted together, sealed, and marked for windows and crenellations that masons could come by and follow later. Reds and violets were spreading through the sky when Ulgin finally stepped back into Karag Lhune. He gave a gruff greeting to a Chisleward guard before he continued his walk home. All around he could see flaws. Places that could be shaped subtly different to give defenders better odds. A pillar there would offer excellent cover to pressured quarrellers. These stairs were too straight and having it spiral would give an excellent hard point to defend. Ulgin rubbed the back of his neck and with force of habit let those thoughts drift away as he entered his sweet little abode. It wasn't useful to think about how to better defend the Chisleward. There were so many other places to focus on now. Ulgin smiled at the thought. Everyone had to work far faster than they wanted to, but at least it was for a good reason.

He gave a quick greeting to Zefre as she puttered about in the kitchen before closing the door to his study. A quick glance to his desk brought a smile as a small plate of his favorite mushrooms sat on top of a pile of papers. He sat down in the sturdy wooden chair, pulled himself closer to the stone desk, and ate one of the mushrooms before looking over the fortification proposals. That needed a change. This should be smoothed out. That wall needed to be redone. New designs and changes to old ones spun in his head as the lamp on his desk merrily burned away.

Hours passed before a soft knock drew Ulgin from his ruminations. The door opened as Alom, his son with only a wisp of a beard, carried in a plate of sliced meats and a bowl of steaming soup.

"Sorry papa." Alom said as he tried to avoid spilling anything. "I know you don't like interruptions while you work but mama finished dinner and I thought you might want some before it all went cold."

"Thank you." Ulgin said while clearing a spot on the paper strewn desk. "Could you put it here?"

"Yes."

Stone and pottery clattered as the plate and bowl settled on the desk.

"Papa?"

"Hmm…? Yes Alom?"

"I know you are busy but would it be alright if I watched you work?"

"It would be a bit boring just to watch me work, but what about this?" Ulgin stood up and stretched before motioning Alom to take the seat. "You can help me."

Like a lightning bolt Alom sat in the chair, which was just a bit too big for him. "How can I help papa!?"

The sound of grinding rock filled the room as Ulgin laughed. He sorted through papers before spreading several before Alom. "Alright. So Zilfin Dum is concerning us. We don't know what the skaven did to it and we don't have the dwarfs to plumb it yet, so we will fortify this chokepoint for now. Of course that means we need to decide how to fortify. Here are some ideas of how to do that. What do you think?"

Alom mulled over the drawings and notations set before him. Several drafts had been proposed and marked and remarked. The ones sitting on the table were fairly close to a final draft, but some more work was going to be put into them. He took a look at the papers before pointing one out.

"This one is the best."

"Why is that?"

"It has the biggest walls and the most space for cannons."

Ulgin barked out a short laugh. "Good eye son. Good eye! But!" Ulgin put a heavy hand on Alom's shoulder. "Time is of the essence. We don't know when an attack will come. This wall is indeed a strong wall and is likely what the finished fort will look like. However, we don't have the time to build it." Ulgin turned that draft over. "Of these other designs which one is the best given time is a priority?"

Alom stared at the papers in front of him with renewed vigor. Minutes dragged on and Alom tapped different parts of the designs trying to figure out which one to pick. Finally he gave a defeated sigh and said, "I don't know father. I am sorry."

Ulgin mussed up Alom's hair. "Nothing to be sorry about. If you like we can talk through the designs together and figure out which one is best."

Alom's face, which had taken a somber tone over the minutes, lit up and he quickly agreed. Over the next hour Ulgin guided Alom through the designs. Where they were strong. Where they were weak. How fast they could be built. He was just wrapping up his points on why the pillars were to be rounded instead of square when Alom's snore interrupted him. With a half hearted grumble he lifted the lad up and carried him out of his study.

After tucking Alom into bed he walked into the kitchen and sat down next to his wife who had set aside a mug of ale for him while she nursed her own.

"Thank you for humoring him." Zefre said. "I know how busy everything has become, but I am sure he enjoyed helping you."

Ulgin grumbled into his mug. "Alom is learning quickly. He will be a fine dwarf one day." He paused and fiddled with his mug. "Do you have anything that needs done tomorrow morning dear?"

Zefre glanced up. "No. You know I like to keep mornings free. Why?"

"I requested a half day off and it was approved. Is there anything you would like to do?"

She gave a bright smile before tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm… Alom and I haven't gotten a chance to visit The Arch of Kings. It might be tricky to get enough people to go though."

Ulgin smiled. "I thought you might want to get out. I talked with some friends. They also got half days off and would be willing to escort us."

Zefre rested her head on Ulgin's shoulder. "That's very thoughtful of you. But what if I was busy?"

Ulgin very carefully did not shrug. "You like to keep mornings free."

"Yes. But I could have been busy. What then?"

"Well, then I would have broken out some of the fine ale and had a good grumbling with everyone."

Zefre smiled up from her resting spot. "It might be hard to find things to grumble about now."

Ulgin could only grumble into his ale at that.

That was how Alom found them the next morning. Zefre resting her head on Ulgin's shoulder, smiles on both their faces and both still holding onto half finished mugs.

A.N
Omake for the omake throne. For this one I decided to try a slice of life from a dwarf view after the Battle for the Caldera. I am not very lore wise so I am sure I messed up a dwarf home life but I still enjoyed writing it. Feel free to critique as those help me become a better writer!

 

[ReImagined]

There exists in the mountains far to the south a most peculiar thing. This may not have been the oddest of oddities, for there are a great many things that can be said about the abnormalities in that general region, and an anomalous existence being found amongst other such anomalies makes it rather less of one. Especially on that continent. Even so, of all the strange occurrences found in that region, not least of which being the fact that a group of mountains could be found clustered in a ring, one is decidedly curiouser than the rest.

Examining some of its competition for that descriptor, this may be hard to believe. After all, one does not usually encounter men with the countenance of grumbling beardlings on one's stroll, nor large arachnids diligently patrolling dwarf-marked roads. The ancient ice dragon sleeping a few kilometers above them is almost mundane in comparison. The debris strewn remnants of a half-mountain sized forge, certainly so. The two runelords bickering over an earth elemental could qualify, but upon further reflection probably don't. A golden man, reclining on a bed with elven silk, can be given some consideration. The cluster of halflings running about with buckets and shovels are a cut below the rest. The flustered woman clad in green chasing after them, slightly above. The dwarf who claims rule over all this, punching tables and promoting distinctly undwarfly tactics, is a contender... but it's not him.

A restless ratchief, reading in a stone cell. A wonderful wolf, sleeping in a dragon's skull. A terrible tome, lying innocently in a hidden alcove. A structure of steel, radiating ominously in a mountain. The woman behind it all, scheming and dreaming and writing and fighting and riding and hiding and casting and lambasting and gambling and rambling and well, one gets the idea of a very busy wizardly official. But it's also not her.

Unfortunately, the path to discovery for the oddment of oddments, the abnormality of abnormalities, the daemon of the deeps, has been thwarted by a creature of rather humbler means.

"Snuggles! I know you like the big cat, but we've got a mission! Come on, let's get going!"

 

[ReImagined]

Karak Eight Peaks was home to some of the finest wizards of the next generation, each a bright young soul full of potential that was only beginning to be tapped. Soon, there would come a day when these journeymanlings would produce new marvels of the mind, befitting of the title Magisterial Masterpiece.

"What do you mean, you're out of gravitas?"

It was becoming increasingly clear that today was not that day.

"Yes, exactly! Wait, no. I meant, we. We're out of gravitas. Do you see the problem now?" Hubert pleaded, beseeching his fellow Journeywizard with a desperate look.

"No, can't say I do. Pass me that vial." Adela replied, fiddling distractedly with her latest experiment, which one could attempt to describe as a series of interconnected lightly smoking pipes. Attempt being the operative word. On a nearby table, an assortment of strangely shaped glassware sat above a small pile of schematics, filled by various fluids he didn't understand the labels of. It all looked like water, but it was best not to assume such things. An odd odor wafted through the room, not quite mitigated by the ventilation provided by an open window.

"The one on the right?"

A grunt of affirmation was the response, and the Ulrican obliged. It was warm to the touch.

"Look, you know how they treat us!" Hubert withdrew his arms from the handover and began gesturing, narrowly missing the contents of the table.

"Mm?" Done! Next step... just a bit of this solution, and some adjustment of that tube, and...

"The thread! The thrice bedamned thread! It's always 'oh, look at the cute little ducklings' or 'Nah, let's go look at that more interesting one dimensional dwarf side character instead' or—" Adela tuned him out, concentrating on the next stage of the delicate process at hand. She could deal with whatever he was raving about after the multiphasic measurement stage was complete.

"It's madness, is what it is, and—"

"A-ha! There you are!" A cheerful voice called out, interrupting the swordsman's speech. "What did I say about wandering off in the middle of things, Hubert Denzel?" Grabbing the rambling wizard by the sleeve, Panoramia took command of the situation. "Oh! Sorry if he's been bothering you, dear. It seems there was a bit of a side-effect in mixing my new special herbal blend with that beer. Or maybe it was the mushrooms. Mushroom beer? Anyways." Giving the wide-eyed swordsman a jab, she continued. "This one may need to lie down for a bit."

"I demand representation and— *hic*" he attempted.

"I said, may need to lie down for a bit." the Jade Wizard repeated, smiling pleasantly at the unfortunate Celestial.

"Y-yes ma'am! But—"

"Shush!"

With that matter settled, the new arrival turned from her previous victim, wait— no, that wasn't quite the right word. Experiment... ah, test subject... yes, that was a proper term... to her next target.

"Adela Burgstaller!"

"Present! Wha- oh, you startled me. Hang on for just a moment." Jotting down the results of her last measurement, the aspiring engineer turned to meet her new guest. "What can I do for you, Journeywoman?"

"That, my dear, is entirely the wrong question. The matter at hand is what I can do for you."

"Oh? You have my interest."

"Well, it's commonly known that the dwarves can endure combat conditions for much longer than humans and halflings. So I thought to myself, what can I do to help with that? And with trade picking up, there are all sorts of new ingredients and herbs to play with, so I asked around and whipped up a couple of these!"

Panoramia reached into her satchel and uncorked a bottle of dark liquid, holding it out for inspection. Adela cautiously sniffed the air, laden with a mix of fresh mountain breeze, warm experimental fumes, and now an evaporating bitter beverage.

"I call it Panoramia's Pungent Potion of Packing a Punch!"

"I see. Is that what you gave to poor Hubert?" Adela asked flatly.

"No! Well, not entirely. I skipped out on the mushrooms this time, and used boiled water as the base instead of beer."

"I'm not sure I fancy ending up like him..." she pointed to the prone groaning man, having found his way to a bench.

"Don't do it, it's a trap option..." he mumbled.

"I'll invite you to the next pie eating contest at the end of the week if you take it and let me record the results for the next two hours."

"Done!" She snatched the bottle and guzzled it down. "Blech! That tasted awful. You weren't kidding about that packing a punch!"

"Wait! Oh no... you were supposed to take that in sips!" Panoramia cried out in dismay.

Adela let out a belch of victory.

"Perhaps you are in need of my brand of assistance?" Gretel chortled at the doorway.

"They're not dying!"

"I feel fine."

"Avenge me!"

"I meant fetching a Magister, of course. What did you think I meant?"

 

[QuietlyObserving]

... Note to self: After convincing the thread to utilise necromancy and reviving Van Hal, make a visit to the Golden college.

The Legion of the Golden Dead shall walk once more, and it shall be fabulous!

Click to shrink...

...Ranald damn it, now this won't leave my head.

-----
Altdorf feared.

While it might seem odd to ascribe such emotions to a city, even the casual glance down one of its many avenues would bear the observation out. Folk, whether richly dressed or clad in rags, hurried along the streets, bunched tightly together like sheep fearing a wolf. A closer look would have revealed nervous, darting eyes, and a tendency for the knots of humanity to give wide berth to any particularly shadowed alleyways. The chapels swelled with fearful refugees, and the city's worthies tittered uneasily in their mansions. The same news was on every corner, in every grimy pub, and on every tongue.

Dame Mathilde Weber, the Dämmerlichtreiter, had gone mad. Not two weeks ago, she had arrived at the gates of Wurtbad in a swirl of shadows and mist, and swept through to the tomb of the beloved Abelhelm Van Hal. There, through most blasphemous ritual, she had resurrected the great Elector Count, amidst mad declarations that "Our work is not yet done, Abelhelm" and "Roswita just needs you to convince her".

Of the Revenant Count's daughter, there had been no word or sign since the Mad Magister and the Count entered Eagle Castle. But a pall of unnatural shadows and grey mists had fallen on Stirland and Sylvania, and the few refugees that escaped the borders of the newly-accursed land were only those far enough from Wurtbad that the dire news reached them before the entire land was ensorcelled.

At the gates of Altdorf, the guards clenched white-knuckled hands around pikes, around pistols, around swords. Every new refugee at the gate was given an inspection that seemed an odd mix of paranoid scrutiny and fear of looking too hard.

But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. As night fell on Altdorf, a dim shadow flitted over the wall in the bare few seconds before the nearest guards turned back on their patrol. The small grey shape slipped through the streets as if they were empty, rather than patrolled by grim-faced men bearing torches and arms, until it arrived at the fuming, smoking labyrinth of the Gold College. Slipping through doors and down staircases, the interloper delved deep beneath the College, past laboratories still lit and working long after the sun had set, past great alchemical furnaces, past vaults filled with carefully preserved reagents, until at last it reached a dully gleaming door at the utmost depths of the lowest basement.

Here the cloaked figure paused a moment, bent over an almost imperceptible indent in the door. Then there was a click, a series of low thunks, and the door swung outwards on silent hinges. The figure darted inward, and paused to light a single torch by the door. The dim glow fell on hundreds upon hundreds of golden figures, stretching back into the darkness of the vault. Men and women entirely of gold, posed in various positions of life, whether speaking, or gesturing with held weapons, or miming the casting of spells. All of them members of the Gold Order, long since departed from the world.

A stampede of feet from behind made the figure whirl back toward the entrance. A Gold Magister and several apprentices burst into the vault, stopping dead at what they saw.

"Magister Weber!"

The Grey Wizard smiled madly at the new arrivals. "You've come too late! I've already discovered how to do it! An indestructible army of golden warriors!"

She raised her arms above her head, index fingers touching the cheeks of the figures that towered above her on either side. A torrent of Dhar swept through the room, and even the Gold Magister recoiled from the sight.

Mathilde's smile widened. "Weber! AWAKEN, MY MAGISTERS!"

And then the gold statues, the carefully guarded corpses of the Golden College's greatest Wizards...

Began to move...