Morning in one particular hamlet on the outskirts of Sonningwiese began as it always did, with the cawing of Old Man Bilder's roosters as the light began to peek over the horizon of the distant Worlds Edge Mountains. Shep Firth woke slowly, almost lazily, as he curled closer to his wife. "The newly mothered ewes need to be milked, but Marie is so warm…" he thought as he hugged her, his hand passing over her slowly rounding stomach. As Shep pressed his hand closer, he swore he felt a small kick. Reminded of his duty, he reluctantly crawled out of bed.
"The ewes certainly need to be milked, but after that, I need to start on a crib… it is about time."
Assign 2 actions for the current month.
Current Goal: Set up a crib for your future child.
[ ]- Sonningwiese had carpenters, professional ones. It would be more expensive, but they would be able to make an excellent crib.
[ ]- Mandred (not the headsman, the one with the bad leg) was a carpenter. Maybe not the greatest there was, but the patch he made to the roof was serviceable enough. He could make a crib, and would certainly cost less than a Sonningwiese carpenter.
[ ]- It's your child, surely there's none better than yourself to make a crib? What's the worst that can happen?
Other Goals-
Hut Expansion: With a little one on the way, the hut was destined to become more crowded. Better to get ahead of the issue by laying the groundwork for another room.
[ ]- Start bartering with Mandred-the-Carpenter for eventual help. You'll begin with a jug of milk-whiskey and work your way from there.
[ ]- Head out into the woods to acquire some lumber. Potentially a bit of risk, but you've crossed these hills since you were a child, you know them well.
[ ]- Start clearing the ground around the hut, to make way for where you'll put the room.
Debts Repaid: You still owe Mandred-the-Headsman for the help he gave for your wedding to Marie. Start thinking about how to pay him back.
[ ]- Ask Rolf for advice. Rolf is his son, he'd know what his old man would want in return.
[ ]- Browse in Sonningwiese. The markets there are bustling and filled with all sorts of exotic goods, from Mootish tobacco to Talabeclander whiskey. Look around for what catches the eye.
[ ]- Carve figures. You are fairly skilled at carving figures when you have the time, see if you can make something to complement his home. Something natural perhaps, or maybe the Dämmerlichtreiter on her horse?
Self-Improvement: No use to leave the world as useless as you entered it, as Da always said.
[ ]- Learn your Numbering. Rolf learned his numbers all the way in Tarshof, see if he'd be interested in tutoring you.
[ ]- Practice with your sling. There's nothing that can't be stopped by a good slingstone- at least, nothing that's likely to be seen around Sonningwiese. But, that only helps you if you can aim it right.
[ ]- Take lessons in carpentry. It'll be expensive, but enough goods or even coin would convince Mandred-the-Carpenter to share with you the arcane art of making structurally sound wooden buildings. Or at least, how to keep them structurally sound.
[ ]- Take up an instrument. You've always loved music, from your Ma's singing when you were a child to the tunes of the birds. Find an instrument that will let you create music of your own.
@BoneyM another omake I had inspiration that wouldn't leave. This one is more serious than my usual fare, and a tad ambitious. Hope it doesn't suck. Any criticisms welcome
The most important secret of the Dawi
It was hard to make a dawi nervous. Harder still to make someone like Thorgrimm nervous. But a private audience with the High King would make any dawi nervous, even the very heir of said High King. The High King was never alone, after all, except when teaching the secrets of Karaz Ankor to his heirs. And to Thorgrimm, the secrets High King Alriksson would teach him made him perhaps more nervous than his entire campaign in Norsca, for he knew well the burden of a leader's secrets, and he knew ever more than the greater the leader, the greatest the secrets.
Nevertheless, he would not falter. He was the heir. He was worthy. He would bring up the age of Vengeance and reclaim the glory of the Dawi. No secret could even stop him.
As the final retainer left the room, High King Alriksson started speaking "Thorgrimm... the way the secrets are taught is always the greatest to least. If you have any second thoughts about becoming the next High King, now is your final chance. I will warn you, once you know this, you can no longer escape the weight of the position, no matter how unbearable it becomes. Not even Slayerdom can give you reprieve, for the High King can never become a Slayer"
"My resolution shall forever be unwavering" Thorgrimm said
"I expected nothing less. I hoped nothing less. And yet, if I could remake that same choice, I would choose otherwise" were High King Alriksson's bitter words.
Thorgrimm blinked. Of everything he excepted to hear today, it was not that "My King?"
"I do not expect you to understand. It will probably take you a few decades to, even after you hear the greatest secret. I hope you never understand. Yet I expect that you will eventually"
Thorgrimm was taken aback. This was not Dawi talk, High King Alriksson was his predecessor, he should hope that he understood everything he himself knew, so that he would rule just as wisely.
"Well then... the most important secret... do you have any idea what it may be about?"
That question, too, was not very Dawilike. Most Dawi would not expect their apprentices to grasp the wisdom of ancestors just like that. But there were some eccentric teachers that used such questions as rhetoric tools "I assume it has something to do with the throne's functions? The reason it is said that as long as the High King sits on it, the Karaz Ankor will not fall? The reason the High King sits on nothing else?"
High King Alriksson looked at Thorgrimm with a piercing gaze "You are perceptive. Perceptive enough to seek deeper meaning in the Ancestor's work than tradition alone, for there is always a deeper meaning, often lost to people who only look at their action at a surface level. And yet, you are wrong, even if you are close. There truly is a great function of the throne, and it truly is a great secret. Yet it is still only the second most important secret of Karaz Ankor, not the one we'll talk about today."
"Then I have no idea what the greatest secret could be" Thorgrimm admitted.
"The greatest secret is thus: the High King is not infallible"
"That's it?" Thorgrimm couldn't help but say "Everyone knows that even the greatest runelord, the greatest warrior, the greatest miner, they all cannot mimic the glory of the ancestors."
"And yet, the High King must seem infallible, act infallible, even if it is" High King Alriksson took a deep breath "a deception" he spat the word like poison, for indeed, it was poison to the dawi "A deception to others, a deception to himself, he must just keep moving forward, never allowing his mistakes to slow him down"
Thorgrimm was rendered speechless. And so, High King Alriksson continued talking
"If the High King stops, the Karaz Ankor stops. If the High King hesitates, thousands of dawi lose their lives. If the office of the High King is doubted, the Karaz Ankor is shaken. The High King cannot turn slayer, for he cannot admit there would be a reason to, but also because his position is already a much greater weight to bear, a weight he cannot cast off without committing one of the gravest offenses the Dawi can commit. Best he can do, hen the weight feels impossible to bear, is find a good heir in order to finally be allowed to die. Even after he dies, he is judged by the Ancestors not as any other dawi, but as a high king. In some ways, their judgment is harsher, in others, lighter. They cannot well blame you for not becoming a slayer when their own rules forbid it, after all."
"Your responsibility" High King Alriksson continued "would smash you and break you like stone, until you turn into the finest gravel. And yet, even as a dawi made of the finest gravel, you must keep walking forward decisively. Your mistakes would feel like an unescapable cave in while you are mining. And yet you must keep mining forward, hoping that you can reach the other end of the mountain and escape." Thorgrimm tried to protest that dawi mines do not suffer from cave ins, but found that he had trouble saying anything "Every mistake you make may cost dawi lives. Correct decisions may cost dawi lives as well, but end up saving more in the long run, so you'll rarely know truly which is which.Doubt, regret, insecurity will forever be chipping you apart, yet you must never let them stall your steps, for that will be a greater loss for Karaz Ankor that any mistake you could make. You must live with this until you cannot, knowing it will always keep getting worse and worse, and when it becomes unbearable you must bear it some more in order to find a heir, pass every secret to your heir and then die."
Silence reigned in the hall for a long time "I... I think I understand" said Thorgrimm finally. "I will follow the wisdom of the Ancestors"
High King Alriksson's sorrowful response felt like inhaling jagged pieces of gromril "And still, you do not yet understand the gravest, worst implication of this truth"
'What could be worse than all this?" Thorgrimm couldn't help shouting
Slowly, excruciatingly, while enunciating every word as clearly as possible, High King Alriksson dropped the words Thorgrimm could never unhear "The greatest secret of the Dawi was always so, since the first High King. There is no Ancestor the High King can truly look up to as infallible, as proper, for even Snorri Whitebeard, the first high king, wasn't"
Thorgrimm felt an emotion he couldn't describe, for he has never felt anything similar in his life.
"You see, Thorgrimm, while each and every proper dawi hopes for his heir to match himself and his Ancestors as much as he can, to be as much of a proper dawi as he is, the High King alone of all the dawi hopes with all his might for his heir to surpass him"
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Edit: Apparently, canonically, high kings can abdicate and become slayers. Well that destroys the premise. Guess I goofed badly.
Second Edit: Maybe not? Guess I sparked a lore discussion below.
Third Edit: it seems it doesn't actually hard contradict anything within the lore, so its still possible for this to be canon in the end. Phew.
The end of the day was fast approaching when Empress Heidi was finally finished working over the crowd of notable individuals she had been entertaining. The powerful had been courted, the promising had been humored, and the useless had been pacified with a few quick words so as not to burn any bridges should they be more then they appeared.
It was with the intent of relaxing after such a busy day with a nice vintage that Heidi found herself 'accidentally' grabbing two glasses instead of one. The accompanying sensation of an old companion metaphorical slipping in through the window with a pep in their step leading her to fill both, knowing that the contents of the second would vanish at some point when her attention was elsewhere.
"Well don't you feel chipper today?" She hints, before taking a sip as a small breeze found its way into the windowless chamber, flowing southeast.
"Ahh, so I take it dear Mathilde helped you out with something?" Undisguised interest seeping into her voice. "Did she get around to mugging that other orc god?"
The Divine equivalent of a teasing shrug echoed in the room.
"Oh, come now, we both know you'd not come to visit me this early if you didn't want to brag."
The fire in the corner raised to tendrils in mock surrender, as Heidi made herself ready for a good story.
Deep in the Glittering Realm a bevy of Ancestors split off a fraction of their attention, as a shadow of a Manling God they were unfortunately growing more familiar with approached.
"Hold." A scarred Force marched forwards, blocking the shadow from further Ingress. "You know this realm is not for the likes of you God of Thieves, so what grants you the courage to trespass so brazenly?"
A twing ebbed, and all present found their attention drawn to Mathilde, sitting in a room waiting for her follow Wizards to gather.
"We are aware of your follower, and of her achievements, but her Virtues are not yours to claim, and they will never be enough to allow one such as you here." With purpose and conviction that had seen one trough the Chaos Wastes, the Fearless moved once more only to be stopped as the image Mathilde shifted to her stealing looks at her Jade and Gold colleagues as they talked of their shared Ooze. A sense of indecision emitting from Follower and God both.
"You trespass over this?" Indignant fury rose though His being. "You steal your way into the Glittering Realm, to ask us which Manling she should Pursue?!" With violent intent He strode forth.
"The gold one, Obviously"
And stopped, turning to look back towards His Brother.
"I can't believe she's even still debating this." The Miner Grumbled. "I've sent all the signs, there they were, a Fullbeard and Fullbraid mining together, Sparks filling the air with every swing of the pick, their combined efforts revealing a Lodestone." A hand stopped grooming a Beard to fly forth with bewildered energy. "A lodestone! Big enough for both to have something made of it!" A second hand joined the first. "I even guided a Dwarf to tell them that the other miners would be obligated to ignore any odd sounds!" He continued, as hints of a frantic tone that only Manling Nonsense could provoke creeped into his voice. "The only way I could have been any clearer is if I had a priest deliver a bed to that shaft!"
Grimnir could only bear to look at His Brother for a few moments more before his attention fled to bastion of sanity that he had thought would surely come from Their Wife.
"You're only supporting the Gold one since he showed interest in that band of fools you adore, the ones that are obsessed with Becoming The Pick." Valaya scoffed with exaggerated disdain.
"Now there is nothing wron-"
"No, she'd be better off with that Panorama girl." A nod of self confirmation lead to Her continuation. "With how frequently she's gone she needs someone to stay home and tend the Hearth" She gestured to the Good Boy laying with his pack. "Her pet does a tolerable job compared to some I've seen, but that's compared to the Beardlings who only barely bungle their chores." Her head moved once more Dismissively. "More likely to make housework then get it done right, not that the Mathilde does any better, I'm amazed she doesn't have as much dust as she has books with how she keeps up her place."
"Ah yes, and the Manling with the dirty robes would be so much better at that." Grungni turned towards his wife, as Grimnir was left in a position of true Desperation.
Forced to Look towards the younger generation for help.
"As long as she doesn't go for that sham of engineer I won't object."
It went as well as any Elder could have predicted.
"I knew Manlings were arrogant, but to consider himself an engineer without going through a proper apprenticeship?" The Engineer's shoulders rivaling the tension found in his famed bolt throwers. "It'd be one thing if he had the decency to fail, if that were the case I'd call him a playing Beardling and forget him." A fist slammed down on a surprisingly solid metaphysical table. "But that damn magic!" With a crack the abstract concept of sturdy table proved inferior to the not so abstract concept of the fist of an angry Dwarf Ancestor God. "Lets him just cheat straight to the end! I swear if I catch him using that on good Dawi engineering instead of those abominable Skaven atrocities…"
"The fact that he hasn't done so yet shows the respect he has for your art." The Burning Flame started. "If he had no respect for the art of Engineering, then he would have trespassed in such a way already." His words continued on with the weight of inevitability behind them. "That alone makes him better suited then the one of Ghyran."
"For what reason would you defend him? Unless…" A calculating glint caught in Morgrim's eye. "Are you upset the one in Green refused your Flame?"
The absolute very beginning of a frown began to form on Gazul's otherwise stoic face. "I have safekept the souls of the dwarven dead my entire life and beyond. The idea that I cannot be trusted to tell the difference between a weed and a crop speaks volumes of how little respect she truly has; For everyone involved in the Eye. From the Manling wizards, Mathilde included, to the Runelord Kragg, and Thorek's apprentices, and even myself and my priest," His voice grew colder, a hint of His Fire taking root. "That she is so afraid of it despite that much mastery being involved. It's insulting."
"I didn't know you wanted to be Gazul of the Well-Kept Garden as well," Morgrim jabbed. "Should we have your followers start carrying around spades to go with your swords?" He mocked, as the two began to fall into debate.
Leaving poor Grimnir bereft of hope. Who with a resigned sigh, turned to the last of those present, fully expecting to be disappointed.
"I'll tell you what I think."
Only to have the last bit of hope he didn't even know he had utterly crushed, as the one he thought might keep His opinion to himself announce his intent to the opposite.
"I think she should forget all of this Romance nonsense and focus on her craft," Thungni gestured to Himself before continuing. "In my case, I had to pass on the bloodline, but Manling magic will just pop up wherever it pleases. Not to mention I had centuries of time, with how quick Manlings die, she can scarcely afford the decade or two it'd take her to get a family in order. Between her duties and her studies, she'll barely have time to even begin resembling something worthy of being called a master at this rate."
"Just because the ore can be found anywhere doesn't mean this shaft should be abandoned," Jumped in the Shaper. "No, there's the potential for something decent here, I can just feel it."
"The potential for wasted potential maybe."
"Oh be quiet, even the youngest Beardling knows to at least listen to their Elder before ignoring their advice," Smednir basked in the joy of being the elder sibling for but a moment before continuing to impart his wisdom. "Both the Jade and Gold have much to offer. If you ask me it'd be a shame to waste it, I see the potential for a good alloy here," He turned to the image of the three locked in a good debate on some issue. "All three of them get along well, they've all cooperated on various projects with one another. I have no doubt that if they came together then offspring of that union would do things greater than the efforts of the three of them combined," He paused for a moment in thought. "Obviously not as good as steel. But like copper tin and coal coming together to make bronze, a shoddy metal to be sure, but a damn sight better than the separate pieces."
"I'd take a lump of coal over an ingot of Bronze almost any day."
"But a lump of coal burns out so very quickly does it not? Better to spend it making something permanent then burning it for a brief respite from the cold."
"Seems to be more accurate to call her a lump of iron being worked into steel, then a lump of coal burning out," Thungni Countered.
"We're dealing with Manlings, and a Mathilde, the metaphor doesn't need to be perfect."
"Sounds like you're running from bad logic-"
As the last of His fellow Gods dissolved into bickering over the inanest of matters, Grimnir could only stare in despair, the Trespasser long forgotten.
"Even the Manling gods have more sense than this," He muttered, slowly turning his attention away, towards anything else.
A/N: As the foreshadowing so subtly hints, I've got an part for the Empires gods outlined, that'd touch some of the less mainstream candidates. God knows if I'll ever get to it considering how hard this kicked my ass.
You sit back and think. There's so many things you could ask for, and you don't even know where to start... but that's not true, is it? You've got an entire list of things you've been considering spending your hard earned boons on. You can picture so many things; resources, secrets, arcane projects you've been dreaming of for years, and even the possibility of just asking for a pile of books must be considered. But as your thoughts race, something tugs on them. Something... annoying. The Patriarch watches you impassively as your eyes dart around the room, looking for some sign, some reason that your friend would distract you from such a brilliant windfall.
And then you see it. On the floor in a corner is a fallen book, the spine clearly readable: "The Tyranny of the Free Lunch." A thinly-veiled rebellious critique of the wealth of the merchant class, and the last thing you'd expect to see in Feldmann's library.
"Free." You say.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Feldmann asks, his golden eyes blank as what you said fails to register.
"I'm giving them to you for free, Magister Patriarch. Your service to the Empire is payment enough." And you smile innocently.
"I am, that-is-to-say, are you sure-"
"We will be watching." You warn ominously, as gravely as death itself. And then you disappear.
He bolts upright, Chamon flooding the room (but, by some strange chance, it misses one specific corner.) A few moments later he stops, tension evident in his shoulders.
"She's gone. She's gone. Shite. She can't know, right? Damn it all, how could she-." Feldmann whirls towards his desk, rips out a gilded bottle of what you assume must be some extravagant wine and chugs the entire bottle. Another tug tell you it's time to go, and as you slip out of the room you feel an ethereal headpat from your patron. You've no idea what scheme you helped Ranald with, and you're not sure what worries you more: Feldmann's reaction or the near-burning levels of smug coming off Ranald.
A/N: Silly mini-omake that I didn't quite speedily write fast enough to beat the vote opening.
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With Fresh Eyes, A Traveler's Journey from Karak Azul
Still in my re-read, had to ask: can someone do an omake of the blinged out parade through the markets this must have been? I'm not confident writing dwarves.
This leads naturally into Prince Kazrik's trip to Barak Varr, which by the sound of it has been quite a success. Karak Azul has been effectively cut off from the world for all of living memory, and though Karak Azul is both famed and named for the iron mines, gold and gemstones have been accumulating for generations. A significant fraction of that wealth has hit the unsuspecting Barak Varr like a tidal wave, and many sellers of weapons, firearms, luxury goods, exotic materials, and countless other items Karak Azul couldn't produce for itself found themselves utterly bereft of goods and awash in gold and jewels.
If you want to buy something cheap, there's Altdorf. The city stands as a nexus of two waterways and three land routes, so manling traders travel by river and road to the capital of their Empire, where they compete for the attention and coinpurses of the nobles. Ah, that'd be sommat like a thane, if yer unfamiliar with the term. There's also their imitation engineers playing around with powder, and it's hard to forget that the Zhufokri schools make the place their home too. There's no shortage of manling craft available, if you're willing to accept a little substandard fare.
And if you want to buy something expensive, there's Marienburg, where one river flows into another into another and they all meet the sea. Convenient, that. Just make sure to avoid the Elgi, there's quite a few of them there in that blasted Embassy. Sets my beard ill at ease, it does. Now where was I? Right, trade. The Empire, and Bretonnia, those are the big ones. There's also links with the Tilean and Estalian cities. Remember to get an updated political map once you reach the markets, every decade there's some doge or triumvir faffing about with some declaration or another. More importantly, there's some traffic across the ocean to Cathay and Ind, and Lustria too. There's all sorts of things that can pop up, if you've got the eye and coin for it.
But if you want to buy something good, there's no place like Barak Varr...
So much for the morning rush. Mel sighed, taking a swig of her canteen as she glumly watched the crowded marketplace. Packs of pacing peddlers, swarms of sweaty sailors, throngs of marching dwarves. Barely a dozen customers for Mudhopper's 'Mazing Mixtures. Maybe she should've stayed in the Moot, like Ma always said. Or joined a ship like Da, they were always recruiting. If she brushed up on her aim, maybe she'd find a mercenary band, they were a funny lot. She'd overheard one telling a joke just last week about discovering the place where the sun didn't—
"Excuse me!" A gruff voice called out, interrupting that flow of thought. "I seek—"
Melanie 'just-call-me-Mel' Mudhopper yelped, choked on her water, and began coughing, holding up a hand as she doubled over. Ow. That might've went down the wrong pipe. But hey, a potential customer!
Blinking as her coughs subsided, she peered up at the heavily armored dwarf sipping from what must've been an expensive glass in front of her stall. His silvery breastplate gleamed in the lanternlit plaza, drawing her attention to the numerous bulging pouches on his person. "Pardon? Could you repeat that?"
"Alright there, lass? I was directed here to seek this strange and most unfamiliar concoction. Chai, I believe it's called?" he replied, his oddly flavoured variant of Reikspiel filtering slowly into intelligibility through her ears.
"Then you've come to the right place. Mel Mudhopper of Mudhopper's 'Mazing Mixtures at your service! We do serve Cathayan tea, or Chai. Also known as hot leaf juice." She smothered another cough. "That'll be two coppers for a cup." She hopped up, dusting off her apron before rummaging through the shelf.
"That won't be necessary. My hold wishes to pursue your supply in entirety, assuming you are not bound by prior arrangements. What would you judge to be a fair price?"
"Oh. Um. The whole thing?" Mel asked, carefully not dropping the the pot she'd grabbed and shoving it back under the counter.
"Aye."
Mel frowned, calculating with her fingers. A fair price? For all of it? Bound by oath? What was a fair price? Um. Let's see... bought five crates in inventory from the last caravan. Roughly one hundred pounds of product per crate, selling at three silvers per pound, so five hundred pounds for fifteen hundred silvers. Twenty silvers per gold, so one hundred silvers for five gold, fifteen hundred silvers for seventy five gold, at cost. Add in ten percent markup, that's seven and ten, eighty two and ten, another ten percent is ninety, then add taxes... but wait. About one spoon per pot, about nine spoons per pound, nine hundred spoons per hundred pounds, forty five hundred spoons in five hundred pounds. Two coppers per, so ninety hundred, or nine thousand coppers. Divide by twelve, which is four and three. Three thousand divided by four, so fifteen hundred, seven hundred fifty... silvers... right, started with pots. Five drinks per pot, so multiply by five... by four is three thousand again, then add once, three thousand seven hundred fifty silvers. Now to convert that to gold...
The dwarf snorted. "Lass, let's not wend to fetch an abacus just yet. How about this, I have no interest in dealing with some moneychanger's fancy contraption when I could be spending that time securing more goods in the market. I will offer an even thousand for your inventory, which from what I can see is at least those crates you have stacked up. If that's insufficient, then send a petition about Bengi Beartooth of Karak Azul's purchase of chai in service of Prince Kazrik's party and we'll bring it up to market price plus a generous percentage for your trouble, you have my oath."
"A thousand silver? I don't think that's nearly enough for the whole thing, but it would be enough for maybe—"
"Silvern? What do you take me for, a petty swindler? Gorl, good, solid, Gorl. Ah, that'd be gold in your language."
A thousand gold was... "Twenty thousand silver!?"
"Aye, I reckon that's the change rate. Though if you'll permit my beardlings to carry it off immediately I can offer a bit extra right now to sweeten the deal." The obscenely wealthy dwarf reached into one of his belt-pouches. "Would this ruby be a satisfactory down payment? I'll admit it's a little on the small side, but I'm sure we can work out an arrangement."
"I'm sure we can." she agreed faintly. "Say, would your hold be interested in any other drinks? I've got some special Arabyan brews here I think you might like..."
Missed the mark on the 'parade of bling' premise by a bit, but that's just how the story unfolded. Poor Mel can't afford a location where that'd materialize more blatantly. In the aftermath, she desperately tried to contact her suppliers for more product, but they were all bought out earlier. Maybe she'll retire to Eight Peaks, she's heard good things.
Working Currency Ratio: 1gc = 20s = 240p | 1s = 12p
Mel's Inventory: 500 pounds of tea (total cost of 75gc = 1500s)
Mel's Suppliers' Markup Idea: 500 pounds of tea (sale of 75gc + 7.5gc = 82.5gc + 7.5gc = 90 gc + taxes?)
Deliberative Learning, An Apprentice's Quest - Character Creation Part 2
When the shadows called, you answered their summons. In a certain manner of thinking about it, at least. The Grey Order's looming guardians were not unaccustomed to that moniker, and when they detected your work, well. It wasn't a suggestion for you to come along. You were (Choose ONE):
()[ORIGIN] a street rat, scraping together a plan with your crew (+Martial, +Intrigue, -Learning)
()[ORIGIN] a merchant's child, reading through your father's ledgers (+Diplomacy, +Stewardship, -Martial)
()[ORIGIN] a knight's page, attending to your assigned duties (+Learning, +Piety, -Intrigue)
when the magic came, and it caused such a commotion that you were quite lucky they came when they did. You were tested and judged, and when the dust settled, you found yourself enjoying new 'accomodations' in Altdorf, far away from everybody and everything you'd ever known. Well, except for that one thing. You'd managed to keep (Choose ONE):
()[KEEPSAKE] an old whistle. A reminder of the promise you should remember. (???)
()[KEEPSAKE] a small key. Maybe one day you would find out what it unlocks. (???)
()[KEEPSAKE] an iron ring. Something steady and strong you could hold on to. (???)
When the time for lessons came, you weren't very enthusiastic. But then they brought up: (Choose TWO. Unlocks Sub-vote):
and you soaked it in like a sponge before asking for more. And then came your master, who saw and took an interest and would be taking over your instruction now that you had acquired a rudimentary grasp of the basics(Choose ONE):
()[MAGISTER] Hans Schliemann, Archaeologist (Start in Altdorf, your master has University contacts)
()[MAGISTER] Elma Engel, Imperial Envoy to Miragliano (Start in Altdorf, your master has Tilean contacts)
()[MAGISTER] Walter Walther, Spymaster of Hochland (Start in Hochland, your master has Hochlandian contacts)
(X)[MAGISTER] Mathilde Weber, Loremaster of Karak Eight Peaks (Start in Karak Eight Peaks, your master has Dwarven contacts)
()[MAGISTER] Grey, ??? (Start in Altdorf, your master has ???)
But even then, you knew you had a problem. The potential of magic was limitless... but you were not. (Choose ONE):
()[LIMIT] POWER. Could you really claim to be a wizard when you were still struggling to muster the power for Marsh Lights?
()[LIMIT] CONTROL. Magic came easily when you called. Too easily, and it wasn't long before the first miscasts...
()[LIMIT] DESIRE. You couldn't help it if your heart raced a little every time an attractive specimen walked by, or if you stayed just a little too long at the bar! What's an apprentice to do, not indulge in such fine pleasures?
()[LIMIT] LOYALTY. While some might be satisfied with the purpose the College offers, you had other objectives in mind. But did your master suspect?
()[LIMIT] REFUSE. Just kidding. You acknowledged no such limits. There was nothing you couldn't do with enough effort... right?
No matter. You could worry about that later. For now, you were an official Apprentice. It was time to start learning.
- The choices you make here will form a baseline, but your stats and traits will grow as you do. You are, after all, an apprentice.
- Voting will be by line, with approval voting allowed.
- There will be a one hour moratorium.
Alright. We've got some choices to make. Since we ended up going with a wizard apparentice, that's most of my planning out the window. Those [KEEPSAKE] options look interesting, big question marks on all of them.
The talents obviously correspond to stats. Weapons for Martial, Languages for Diplo, etc. Since we're a Grey wizard, we should get at least a bit of intrigue and diplomacy. I wonder what the subvote's going to be.
The talents obviously correspond to stats. Weapons for Martial, Languages for Diplo, etc. Since we're a Grey wizard, we should get at least a bit of intrigue and diplomacy.
Those Magisters seem like they're going to be interesting characters. Mathilde Weber is a dwarf friend. Also, Hans Schliemann, Archaeologist? I wonder how Troy's going to work in WHF.
Those Magisters seem like they're going to be interesting characters. Mathilde Weber is a dwarf friend. Also, Hans Schliemann, Archaeologist? I wonder how Troy's going to work in WHF.
Let's talk limitations. POWER's an obvious no, since we'll probably get stuck as a Perpetual Apprentice. CONTROL means miscasts, which means a whole cavalcade of bad possibilities. If we were in any College that wasn't the Grey Order, LOYALTY might be doable, but trying to con the super-spy-assassins is a bad idea. DESIRE sounds like we'd face a lot of issues in discipline and waste a lot of time. That leaves REFUSE, which doesn't sound too bad. I don't think it means no limitations, but it could be some combination of the above. Or if we take the text at face value, over-ambition?
You couldn't help it if your heart raced a little every time an attractive specimen walked by, or if you stayed just a little too long at the bar! What's an apprentice to do, not indulge in such fine pleasures?
End of the hunt
[Markus's Handmaiden avoidance roll: 12]
[Handmaiden's hunting roll: 1]
You gather the last dregs of your strength and run. You know that she is close, you've seen her pursuing you. Your Master is too far and running to your friends will only provide her with a larger meal. You enter the abandoned building and ready yourself to sell your life dearly. You may be only a Journeyman, but you are part of the Colleges of Magic and if you're destined to die here, you'll die fighting.
The door opens and the Handmaiden is here. You summon your Silver Daggers and take your stance. She slowly floats to you when you notice something strange - there is a second woman in grey clothing behind the first. Another Handmaiden? But you are certain that you are only haunted by one. Is it just bad luck, to encounter a wild one when you are already fleeing from another? You may have a chance to survive against one, but two of them is a certain death.
Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted when the second woman steps closer and some sort of dark tendrils shoot out from her hand and entangle the Handmaiden. In that moment light from your daggers falls on her face and you recognize her - it's Magister Weber, whose lecture on the nature of the Waagh you attended few years ago!
She gestures with the staff in her other hand and the tendrils, now joined by parts of her shadow, start to pull the apparition closer to her and somehow sideways, perpendicular to reality as you know it. In a matter of seconds the Handmaiden vanishes, while Magister's shadow grow deeper.
"You are welcome. If you know anyone else in the same predicament, contact me".
By the time you are able to thank her she already vanished, leaving only a small business card with "Lady Magister Weber" and a picture of eight mountains embossed on it.
[Trait lost: Hunted by Handmaiden]
[Contact gained: Lady Magister Weber, Loremaster of Karak-Eight-Peaks]
AN: Due to her roll and some previous events your Handmaiden got in the crosshairs of one of the bigger fishes and, well, this happened. If you rolled higher, you wouldn't see it. If she rolled higher, you would have a potentially quest-ending fight on your hands.
She isn't from canon. We met her seven turns ago, when she gave that Waagh lecture that we failed to comprehend. MoneyB said at the time that the K8P campaign was different in this timeline.
And there was a rumor mill post some time ago that said that the research opportunities that started to pop up are the result of Feldmann (our MP) making a deal with some Grey wizard. Given that we are more-or-less sure on the meta level that he bought Skaven tech and that K8P was full of Skaven, that was probably her.
I want to know how she managed to stalk our Handmaiden - they are generally invisible. Did she use us as a bait? If so, how did she know that we were hunted?
Well, if she was the one who sold Skaven doodads to Feldmann, then she could get the list of Golds having problems with apparitions from him as a payment.
Sold us? If every time someone sells us we lose a flaw and get a potentially useful contact (she is a LM with 28 Learning, guys!), then I'm ready to be sold every turn.
My bet is that she is the endboss and this scene is foreshadowing. In twenty years she will roll out her daemon army and we would be the one who has to defeat her despite her saving our life.
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight:
Gaily now does my pen dance across your pages dear diary, for grand is the banquet laid out before us. For once I speak in plain, without metaphor, for the halflings have chosen to gift the Undumgi with a feast of sorts after our morning training was concluded. A... brunch? As they call it, a second breakfast made possible only by the recent bounty reaped from our fields; the pride with which each morsel was prepared was evident. But truly, the halflings have enshrined in their divine a truth embraced by all good races: that food tastes best without a rush to consume and move.
Eggs! Glorious eggs, from the first chickens raised in the Karak. Scrambles, poached, over easy on fresh peasant bread, in omelets with cheese, perhaps even a souffle if I can convey the recipe! Such things had been rare and precious, for no farmer was willing to let chickens run about lest they eat the very seeds that were planted for harvest in the east valley, but nor were they willing to fence and carry feed to the small valleys that separate our three peaks. Some dwarven genius, I know not who, is rumored to have asked upon being told this, 'why don't you just use the citadel? It's already got walls and it is right there, all you would have to do is keep them from leaving by the gate...' He was (almost) completely correct, as the plumage of its new inhabitants attests, but not quite: every morn I see a patrol of the youngest of those wishing to be field wardens (is such a name to be retained in the Karak? Valley-wardens seems truer to the land and the deeds done) rousting the few chicken that had escaped over the walls, chasing them down and tossing them back through the gates. They tell me that children shall take up the task in the future, both corralling the birds to protect our precious seed, and hunting down those obscured nooks and dugout dustbaths where eggs are deposited.
Sarah tells me (and dear diary, you may know much of Sarah, for she alone (besides me) had read of your pages, even if t'was only to win a bet 'gainst her smirking face. I have too eaten an octopus! Ha!) that cattle have been brought to the valley of the Ulrikadrin, and cheese is even now ripening. She is a good source for such news; for all she seeks gossip from amongst my ranks like a hound seeking a stag, she pays in the same currency.
Ah, I twitter on. This sacred repast, enforced is quite a good time for writing, I must admit, but matters of import draw my thoughts once more. For Hubert has shared with me the rumors of the rangers he has been working with these last months. (As unhappy as he has been with scouting work, my sympathies are with him. To see the enemies of our kingdom go about their days within bowshot unmolested would burn the blood of any sworn knight. I am thankful that such dwarves exist as will do this work, as a commander and a strategist, for I am honest enough with myself to know that I would not be any good at all at their role, and they bring their customary diligence to the work.)
Are our homes and fields safe? Will fire and terrible poison sweep over what we have built? It is odd, dear diary, that when I could still look at Karagil as the nearest threat I could almost put the others out if my head. Now, I look to the south and wonder what dark thing lurks in the mountain beyond the trolls, or what manner of rat might have a reputation as assassins. Or what terrors remain yet to be uncovered, for after months of caution probing and sneaking about, much is still hidden.
May the Lady protect me and shelter mine people, keep me from dishonorable death in the dark, and always guide my feet onwards to the greatest of glory---------
---the roar of a dragon is unmistakable. My Lady, I beg of you, forgive my foolish words above, for this foe is great and I fear for those who shelter under my shield.
My life for theirs, not their lives for my glory, this I swear to you.
_______________________________
We were ordered to hold the citadel.
It was perhaps the easiest fight against greenskins that I have ever heard of (for it was over afore we even set foot on the walls!), and I would here express my thankfulness for those steel gates and proud stone towers, as well the halflings and siege train that sent this group packing.
They churned out of Karag Rhyn like spoiled butter, goblins and orcs alike, and swept across the still-burnt caldera to smash against the Citadel, then broke under the rain of arrows and sling-stones. I saw only their cowardly retreat.
Foolish creatures. They came for fortifications with handaxes and elan, but who fights dwarves who does not know better? Well, dwarves who have had time to prepare... We hear the gunshots from Karagil, and see the rising clouds of powder. Leaning out from the ramparts of the gate to the caldera lets me see only as far as the endless pit, and the fighting is closer to the mountain than that.
The dragon is missing. None I speak to know anything about it, save that it climbed back inside Karag Ziflin. It was the worst of rumors from the rangers confirmed, and now fear is rippling through my ranks as the other dreadful whispers that had been laughed off were reassessed. What lurks in Mhonar, the Shadow Mountain? We watch, and worry for our compatriots.
All that is visible to us here are battles of which I cheer for both sides to lose; Karag Ziflin's gates sparkle with madness-tinged lightning while Karag Yar merely swallows all who enter, and only the sound of faint screams returns.
Dear Diary I return to your pages in a surfeit of nervous energy that I dare not show to my soldiers for a general must be steadfast in the face of uncertainty just as much as terror. More than an hour has passed since the last futile blow was struck against the gates and the last of the orcs has slunk back into their dank holes from whence they came and we wait.
And wonder.
Is this to be like the battle of Karagil, where the whole of our enemies declined to show themselves until we dug them out? Or will it be like the battles in the valley, where waves unending were broken only by magic and cannon? (Oh, we undumgi held, but without the wrath of the heavens called down t'would have been a sadly different denoument.) I look across the caldera and see nothing. I look nervously to the south, where the trolls dwell, and see nothing. I look behind me and see stalwart expressions and polished arms and trust, so very much trust, in me.
Six thousand under the watchtower banner, ranged on the walls in half-plate and pike, a standardization months in the making and the pride of the quartermaster corps. Five thousand halflings behind us, the only victors yet known this morning.
The tunnels below are quiet.
Hark! The rangers return. I go now to council. Dear diary, wish us luck.
A moment's pause, finally, as the last trolls between our chokepoints burn on the floor. I write by their light.
My Lady, thank you for your foresight and providence, that you sent me months of learning how best to fight trolls before today was given unto us.
The war council was interesting- apparently Dame Weber has been accepted as overall commander while the King is out of the hold? I suppose a Thane title for her would not carry the same oaths and obligations as it would for Franceso, as she does not seem interested in a House and heirs, but to see it in practice was truely inspiring, a human ordering dwarves about and almost having them smile for it. (Or terrifying? The Ranaldite knight has stolen a kingdom in this crisis and sends it to war, for us all to smile and march at her words. It would be grating were it not such obviously good sense? And so by her honor I cannot truely bring myself to suspicion, even with the god I know to be at her side.) All these years of careful reticence? All those threats lurking about us that we chiseled at carefully, one measured stroke and or defensive shift at a time?
Done. Now we strike. Broader in scope, and harder than any stroke let fall since the first days of reclamation: our enemies are at war with one another, and their bellies are bared in ignorance of our strength. Three thrusts we make into the dark, a lightning war from a dragon's roar.
(But where is the dragon?)
Angrund, Izor, and Brazanga's men were to dive straight down, charging past the spiders into the rats, and with luck securing the labyrinth as far as the Underways. Azul, Huzkul, and the lately-come mercenaries from the border so-called Princedoms are to fall upon the rats below Karagil, purging and fortifying. And we Undumgi were commanded to take Kvinn-Wyr, and hold as much of it as we could. Alone. In that, it more than made up for the hit to our pride that being relegated to what was, in the suddenly larger picture of things, guarding the flank of the advance.
Glorious, to be so trusted, for in this I have no doubts. The Undumgi will prevail! This sapphire shall return to the crown by human hands.
Allow me to sketch out the situation as we found it upon entry- behind us the ballista were being stripped from the towers and sent in part with us and in part to other battles, in front of us was the entrance to the main through-fare of the Karag, gaping empty. Rangers told us that the middle levels were cleared as of a recent mass migration of trolls to the east, though numbers of them remained at the peak and in the aquifer. (Dear diary, please spare a moment of reflection on the difficulties of fighting something that will not die unless it is burned, while swimming.)
From the bottom then- the aquifer is not a single chamber, as one versed in castles might expect. Rather, it is a catchment for an underground river that flows from south to north: it plunges underground in a box canyon surrounded by glaciers a few miles south as old legend would have it, then north through Kvinn-Wyr and on through the formation known as the King's Arch, that the dwarves should even now be painting with the blood of the skaven. There it plunges to the depths and is lost. Here, about seven levels below as the dwarves ken things, there are five main chambers. Lakes where the water pools broad enough to not visibly flow, linked by a network of tunnels, these dug by the river as it slipped deeper beneath the surface with each ancient millennium. At their highest point the oldest and largest of these river-tunnels intersects the main avenue, and the carve'd tunnel road becomes a bridge arching over a void, from which comes the sound of running water. And bellows in the deep. All filtered through a worm's nest of dry creeks and sudden boreholes. On each side the bridge is flanked by broad stairs descending perpendicular to the avenue, wide enough for ten to march abreast. Here is where we have chosen to stand against the river trolls, where the broad spaces and clear sightlines allow best use of our pike.
Above those, in the middle of the mountain (to the best of my knowledge, for t'would take more than an average dwarf to give me an elevation inside the mountain with reference to the outside) is the main avenue, whose name in dwarfish is lost upon me. Here is a sprawl of rooms and tunnels largely arranged such that a cart may roll from one to the next, broader and denser in their construction towards the east valley. Whatever was once in these rooms has long since fed the idle curiosity of trollish hunger, and I may only guess from their arrangement that barracks and armories were not least among them.
Dozens of hidden exits and firing platforms were found overlooking the bridge and approach to the east gate, a terrible shock to those of us who marched under them without care or notice these last months. What a fortress this must have been in its noontime! But trolls know not the use of such things and even to make one stand sentry is far beyond any mortal.
Above, the construction becomes more traditional with many stairs and chambers cut without reference to each other, our human sense of 'levels' confused that these were not built upon the flat ground. We found vast empty storehouses, mighty mechanisms rusted beyond identification, and over and over the chisel-marks that show dwarfish haste in expansion and re-purposing. Most of these stairs wound their way upwards to a temple, perhaps of Valaya (if I read the remains correctly). It is this once-holy space we have chosen as our front line against the twisted beasts of warpstone and stupidity that lurk above.
Perhaps two thirds of the Karak by volume is held, though only a third of the trolls who had remained have been slain. Siege weapons now dominate the approaches to the bridge and the former temple, and the secondary tunnels have been collapsed to limit ambushes. Something that we learned to do after painful experience, with few tunnel-fighters amidst our numbers, and hungry trolls surging up through the maze below us.
Oh my Lady, grant peace to those who have fallen, and let not their glory go unsung on this of all days, for the sacrifice of honest warriors deserves praise even in the shadow of greater deeds.
Have I mentioned, dear diary, the exquisite agony it is to fight a troll soaking wet, whilst out of formation?
Entering the Karak we moved as lightning, sweeping through the rooms and tunnels that make up the main level with hardly a pause, all the way to the far side of the peak, where the underway once more dives down on its way to Karag Mhonar. Trolls, such as there were, were isolated and easy prey to groups of pikemen; we scattered from our massed blocks and ran circles around them, two-dozen pikes pinning into them from every angle until not even their terrible strength could so much as turn their heads. Then we burned them, and exulted in their diminishing bellows.
Those same bellows called to the deep, however, and though we massed in response, it was not the push up the stairs that hurt us. It was the lack of experience, MY lack of experience, that allowed dozens to sneak up through small passages and fall upon us from behind.
The first moments of their counterattack were bloody, vomit covering our back ranks before we noticed the threat, and perhaps a hundred or more lay dying, screaming as their flesh melted from their bone a'fore orders to disperse made it through. Back ranks were to disperse and lure the trolls away from the main formation, separating them enough to surround them and bring them down as wolves do, while the front ranks were to hold and let the trolls below try their luck against an unmoving wall of silversteel until they lost interest.
The light by which I write grows dim, and the twitches of the corpses have long since ceased. I go now to check the wounded and strengthen our front lines, to keep my mind from the gambles even now playing out on the larger stages to our north. Dear diary, wish us ALL luck.
Altdorf! City of Bridges! City of Magic!
Who can boast a town more grand, more marvelous?
For the Empire holds sway, superior in every way.
Here stands Sigmar's Great Cathedral,
And there sits the Imperial Palace.
Her visitors range from far and wide,
And they come by foot and by horse and by noble river's ride.
Who can claim any city more vast, more prosperous?
Cities stank.
There were just so many things going on at once, and it was too loud, and did that mule just poop where you were about to step? Then add the smoke of a thousand burning fireplaces, the refuse and garbage of ten thousand households, the daily activities of a hundred thousand souls. These unfortunate circumstances, and many more besides (You buy your food from a store?), were natural barriers to any newcomers who might hope to find a place for themselves in a city. Doubly so for the streets of Altdorf, where you might turn right four full times and not end up where you had started. If you wanted to make it, you had to rely on the right connections...
The grocer's shop was in a small and cozy corner of the Market District, well positioned to lure clients and suppliers alike. A large table with samples and placards sat in the front, from which customers could make their selections if they didn't already have an order in mind for the frowning shopkeep manning the counter.
"So, can I get you something?" he drawled, eyeing the lass who'd been nervously hovering over the labels for the past five minutes. The flickering lantern-light revealed a short woman dressed in a dusty peasant's garb, topped by a slightly too large straw hat periodically sliding over her eyes. There was a noticeable bulk to her arms, likely from days spent working in the fields. "With the way you've been gawking over my wares, you must be new to the city, eh?"
"Well," she began. "I was hoping for— I mean, I suppose could use some assistance, yes." she responded.
"Oho! You're from Stirland! You must be! By the gods, it's good to hear a proper Stirlandian accent again. Not a lot of us in these parts. Whereabouts do you come from? Julbach? Tarshof?"
"Biderhof, actually." she replied. "I take it you're the same?"
"Not far, not far at all! I'm from Wurtbad myself, before Da decided that at least one of his sons would make a living outside the province if it was the last thing he did. Bloody odd things happening in Eagle Castle. So there I was..." he boasted, not noticing the other customers groan and exit the shop. "He'll be at it for a while, dear." one of them whispered. "Best of luck."
"...and ten years later and I have my own shop in the market!"
"Smart man, your Da." she agreed.
"So what're you in for? Oh, where did my manners go? The name's Gilfred Grossmann."
"Alys Schmidt. I'm afraid you were right, I'm newly arrived. I'm to meet my Aunt Julia next week, you see, but the boat came early on account of fair weather and she must still be away on one of her business trips. I don't suppose you've got or know of a spare room available for a few days? I should have enough coin left for a few days' rations..."
"Hmph. I'd be happy to help a fellow Stirlander out— remind me to figure out our family relation later— but livable rooms, no. I'm not an innkeeper, and from the look of it you can't afford one. Living in this city's expensive! Space costs more here, unless you want to test your luck in the less savoury parts of town. Wouldn't recommend it. I suppose you could take one of the hay bales I've got in the storeroom, if you don't mind it being a tad uncomfortable. That said, I'm not keen on taking your coin if you've got so little. Say, you've got your letters? "
"I was reading your labels, yes. Auntie insisted I learn. You have a remarkable variety of flour."
"That I do. Anyways, that's a damn rare sight for us folk. Help me sort out my inventory books, maybe man the counter for a bit, and you can have the storeroom for as long as you need it. A few days, you said? I can throw in four shillings as well. What do you think?"
"Four shillings in less than a week? That's an awful high wage! You're sure?"
"Back in your Biderhof, maybe. In Wurtbad, less so, and certainly not in Altdorf. If you'd like, consider it a 'Welcome to Altdorf' present."
You're given a five minute head start and told to hide before three of the Proctors start hunting you; four days later the town criers start broadcasting a request that you report to the College, and you say goodbye to the grocer you had been working for as Alys Schmidt and report smugly back.
It could've been your classic 'farmhand moves to the big city' story, but the peasant is actually a ten year native Grey Wizard pretending to be a peasant for her exams! What a twist.
I'm not sure I like how the second part turned out, but I've been stuck for a while and figured I might as well post what I have and move on.
While you and the Shadow Warriors with you were preoccupied with cleaning up the last remnants from the raiding band of Druchii, half a dozen or so of the mounted ones had fled into the mists, their captives with them. They'd likely gotten far enough, and mustn't get any farther. Dispatching of the Druchii caught in your shadow's iron grasp, you look around for Daroir. You don't have to look long, spotting the elf putting an end to the last of his opponents with a vicious stomp to the throat.
"Daroir!" you call out.
The elf turns to you, casually parrying a spear thrust from a charging warrior with one blade, then just as casually decapitating the elf with the other. "Weber!" he shouts back, his voice still clear over the continued clash of steel.
"I'm going after the runners! They have the captives with them!" you respond, calling up your Shadowhorse as you do so.
Daroir's face darkens for a moment, his eyes sweeping through the valley where your ambush of the raiders had taken place. His expression darkens further as he reaches the same conclusion you already have: there were still enough druchii remaining that only a few of Daroir's elves could be spared to chase after the fleeing raiders. He turns to you. "Go!"
Without taking the time to reply you spur your Shadowhorse forward into a gallop, racing down the valley, barely slowed down by the knots of fighting and dying elves. As you clear the valley mouth and enter the mists, two riders join you, placing themselves to your left and right. Taking a quick glance, you recognize Palatar and Allando, the two brothers who'd been your sparring partners for the past couple of weeks now. With them at your side, the odds have evened somewhat, though you would still be outnumbered by the druchii you were chasing two to one. Of course, there was a rather obvious solution to that problem, one you put into motion by thrusting a hand out to the side, palm open to the passing fog. You can't help but smile as you feel a familiar horn form in your hand, reminded of the last magical horn you'd made, years ago on the road to Karak Eight Peaks. Your mirth hasn't quite faded as you put the horn too your lips and blow...
And turns into excited glee as you feel more than see your Riders appear, answering your horn call with blasts of their own hunting horns. Three surge ahead of you to track down your quarry while the rest fan out behind your trio. You take the risk to glance behind at your companions and find Palatar's determined gaze hiding bewilderment beneath while Allando stares with undisguised curiosity at the quintet of black-mantled riders fanned out behind you. Smoke billows out of their empty hoods, while their gauntleted hands grasp cruelly shaped greatswords. Beneath the riders are their mounts, crimson-eyed horses armored in iron, their pants unlike any you've ever heard a horse make, filled with rage and hunger.
Both brothers spur their horses forward to keep pace with yours, away from the Riders you've summoned. Palatar keeps his gaze forward, shifting ever so slightly at all times to keep your other companions out of sight. Allatar, meanwhile turns to you with an excited grin. "A variation of Gehenna's trick, I see," he says.
You keep your surprise at his accurate assessment out of your face, replying only with a nod, to the elf's delight. "I look forward to seeing what they can do," he replies, before spurring his horse forward to greater speed, his brother soon following suit. You look up to see what has excited them so, only to hear the horn calls of your Riders ahead. Your quarry had been found, it seems. The time for conversation was up. Now, it was time to hunt.
At your mental command, the Riders behind you surge forth, joining their brethren and your elf companions in harassing the fleeing raiders. Already some have found their mark, you find, as your Shadowhorse leaps above the corpses of a druchii and their horse, cloven in two. As you ride closer to the group, the sound of twanging bows and clashing steel rings out. The results are evident, as you pass by the bodies of two more of the raiders, one missing a head, the other clutching at an arrow in his throat.
You summon Branulhune as you draw even closer, close enough to see the last three raiders contending with your allies, the unconscious (you hope) bodies of their two captives lashed to the backs of their horses. It was time to end this, before the druchii got too close to wherever their ship was. The clamor the combat had raised would hopefully draw other bands of Shadow Warriors towards you, but that would be for naught if your foes managed to bring the fight under the shadow of their ship's weapons. You command a group of your Riders to ride ahead of the raiders and pincer them in.
Adomiel Darkstar seethed.
So close, so close to sweet victory, and now it was all falling apart before her eyes. She had led her band deep into the heart of her people's ancestral and rightful homeland, seized two prizes her father would surely be delighted with, and escaped with ease. Or so she had thought, up until arrows were burying themselves into her soldiers before anyone in her band could react. Now she was being forced to flee with her tail between her legs, hunted down like animals. This wasn't the way of things! They were supposed to be the hunters not the prey! Oh the tortures she would inflict upon her foes once she turned things around...
Ruminating on those enjoyable thoughts, Adomiel turned and twisted on her horse, Ironfoot. Avoiding a handful of arrows from the Shadow Warriors behind her, deflecting a sword strike from one those cloaked summons with her own blade, and bringing her repeater handbow to bear on her opponents in a series of smooth motions was child's play. Just as she let loose a storm of bolts on her prey, she noticed a change. Two Shadow Warriors, now joined by a grey-clad woman, a quickling it looked to be, and five of the billowing riders. Where were the other three?
[Dusk Riders strike vs Druchii reaction...]
It was only her instincts, honed through decades of raiding and warfare, that saved her, as ahead of her the missing riders charged, blades poised for killing blows. Adomiel managed to leap clear of her horse, dragging her captive with her. A mistake, she soon found out, as the rider's blade cut into her side, slick with Ironfoot's blood. She twisted in the air, aiming to land on top of her captive to break her fall, glimpsing her beloved steed fall to the ground, side carved open by the rider's sword.
The landing was rough, even with the weakling elf maid to cushion her, but Adomiel still managed to rise mostly unharmed. Her soldiers had not been so lucky. Both had now been engaged by the Shadow Warriors, one of them missing an arm, the other favoring a leg. There was no sign of the riders, but somehow Adomiel could tell that they were still close, circling the combatants in the thick of the mist.
Between her and the other captive, stood the quickling woman. Now that they were both standing on the same ground, Adomiel could take a good look at her opponent... and smirked, at the poor, little, quickling woman she was about to slaughter. Short, and so obviously weak. Adomiel could smell the blood on her, dripping from a leg she favored. The mage, for such she obviously was, looked exhausted, no doubt from the exertion of the summons she'd brought forth, barely able to lift the greatsword she held inexpertly in one hand. As if sensing Adomiel's impending victory, the quickling mage lifted a shaking hand, slowly forming another greatsword from the mists around them. A weapon of last resort, no doubt. Adomiel's smirk grew into a full grin. Just what she needed, a toy to take her frustrations out on. Without warning, she charged, dropping her handbow for a second blade in the blink of an eye. The quickling mage wanted to play at swords? Adomiel would be glad to instruct her, thoroughly.
When you'd first arrived at Naggarythe, you'd been confident in your own sword style, sure that the teleporting bladework that Branulhune and Shadow Sword allowed would be enough to win the day.
Palatar and Allando had quickly disabused you of that notion. In the face of the advantages that the likes of elves possessed, swordplay alone would not be enough. You had to stack the deck in your favor, and your sword style was merely one ace out of many. The second would be deception. Lies, deceit, the incorporation of your wind into your martial art. It was deception that led you to face the elf raider as you are now. A small cut, enough to draw blood, on a leg you pretend to favor. Faked heaves of exhaustion, a hand sagging at weight Branulhune did not have, a Shadow Sword in the other hand to draw attention away from the other blade... deceptions all. Your foe, meanwhile, was an open book. Angry and frustrated enough to overlook what small discrepancies your deceptions had, those that were not cloaked by the Ulgu all around you at any rate. The moment she charged, foregoing her ranged advantage to exhaust her rage at you in melee, you had felt it. It wasn't certain yet, but you knew even before your blades clashed and your foe was lost in the shifting dance of shadow and silver blades, you knew. It became more certain when she reeled back in shock at the force of Branulhune, when she reeled at the Shadow Sword's bite, when her leg was pierced by your shadow. You had won. Victory.
A victory that resulted in the druchii raider falling to her knees in front of you, arms broken by Branulhune's might, barely conscious from the blood lost from her wounds. Of course, despite the surety of your victory, you aren't entirely unscathed yourself, as evidenced by Allando having to catch you and seat you on the ground while you gave the Seed time to do its work.
As you rested, the brothers went to work. Palatar bent over your fallen foe, disarming her and searching for identifying marks, while Allando took care of the captives, one of whom had been rather injured in the clash. Neither gave notice to the two other druchii gasping their last breaths.
You must have dozed off for quite a bit, because the next thing you knew was being shaken awake, not by one of the brothers, but by Daroir. Once satisfied that you are awake and coherent, he sits down in front of you.
"I am thankful," he says, after a moment's thought, "for the success you have brought today. If it were not for your efforts, these traitors would have accomplished their task. We would have failed" He inclines his head to you, so minutely you almost miss it. "I am in your debt."
You create and discard a number of replies in your head before settling for a nod in return. Daroir looks pleased for a moment at your act, before settling into grimness again. You've interacted with him enough to know what that means.
"We have problems?"
"Two, yes," he replies. "The first is to do with your foe. She yet lives, but barely. It is up to you to decide whether she lives or dies, as the one who bested her."
"I'm guessing that's the first problem?" You struggle to find a reason for the dilemma, before latching onto Palatar rifling through the druchii's effects. "Something to do with her identity?"
Daroir nods. "Her father is Varauth Illrend. A dangerous foe, especially for you."
The name sparks some memory of studying the most frequent druchii raiders of the Empire's coast. Varauth is one of the fiercest, most sadistic such visitor, which is saying something.
"He will not look kindly at your besting his daughter." Daroir continues. "If she lives, he will send men to retrieve her, if only to kill her himself. If you slay her, his wrath will know no bounds." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "However, taking her prisoner could yield valuable information, though that invites another conundrum: who shall she be prisoner of?"
[] Kill the druchii Varauth will be enraged, no further benefits
[] Take her prisoner Varauth will be angry, will attempt rescue
-[] For the Grey College Daroir will be somewhat unhappy, Grey College will be happy
-[] For yourself Daroir will be neither happy or unhappy
-[] For Naggarythe Daroir will be pleased, ???
Daroir mulls your answer before nodding gravely. "So be it." He glances at his warriors, who move to carry out your decision. "Now, for the second problem... the credit."
"The credit? Were those captives important?"
The elf blinks at your words. "You were not told? The two are renowned mages of the White Tower. Their mother, Eleniath Silversong, is an Archmage, and is deep in the circles there."
Now it's your turn to blink. This... this could be the chance that you've been looking for, to gain access to the White Tower of Hoeth and its knowledge.
"I see you now understand the gravity of the situation. Yes, their mother's gratitude would open the doors of the White Tower to you, but it would also be a boon to Naggarythe." He looks at you gravely. "Should you decide to cede the credit to us, you will not find our gratitude wanting."
[] Claim credit for the rescue Gratitude of Eleniath Silversong of the White Tower will be gained
[] Cede the credit to Daroir and Naggarythe Gratitude from Daroir and Naggarythe, ???
- There will be a four hour moratorium.
- If you choose to send Andomiel to the Grey College, Naggarythe will take care of the transport.
- If you choose to keep her, there will be a vote on whether to interrogate her in Naggarythe or to send her to Eight Peaks first.
Well, here it is, what may well be the longest thing I've ever written. The last part is rather rough, which I attribute to the late hour and the tiredness. I should have been writing Mathilde and friends instead, but the Nazgul hype got to me hard. This would have been out already, in a limited form, days ago but I wasn't satisfied with it until this afternoon when Inspiration struck. I could barely do anything but pace excitedly while this was still in my brain, so I'm glad it's out now. I hope you enjoy my take on the elfcation and the Nazgul, and feel free to ask me anything about the stuff in here! Some comments on improvements would also be appreciated.
] Name your price: Free
