So between the time we know this action was voted in and the time we get the results, let me tell you a story about what's going to happen.
Mathilde is going to go through the vault, chuckling to herself as she records the tallies of these ancient civilizations. Somewhere in the back, all grouped together as if to keep them isolated from the other accounts, she's going to find... something from a source she can't quite identify. They're clearly meant to be c̷o̴i̸n̵s̶, but there's something... odd about them. When you turn them enough times they start to c̸͈̲̲̰̠̓̍̄̌̿h̷̨̜̬̀̌̊ą̵̫̥͓̲̓͗ņ̴̞̗͝ğ̶̭̙̻̭e̴̮̰̋̉̓͒, to vary, in their inscriptions. Like the Ranald's four-sided coin, but not so regular or predictable. There's something... something not right about them. Yet they show no sign of magic to her senses. None at all. The record showing who they belong to is a n̶͎͎͎̙̓̅͘͝͝a̷͕̍̈́͛̂͆m̵̲͔̾é̵̺̪̼͖͋ like nothing she's ever heard... she's not even sure how to pronounce it. The location of origin (is that what it is?)? Well, it's a short word... pronunciation seems obvious, even. The thing is, Mathilde has never heard of such a nation (ruler's domain?). She consults her books, and nothing.
The rest of the sorting goes fine, great. Mathilde has added to the historical record, and maybe someday she can even share the results. That location, though, it h̷̢̧͔͔̩̙̠̞͎̞͇͙̝̲̥̖̝̘̪͉̪͎̜̠̣̄͋̄̾̌̌̈́̏̍̋͋̋̈̾͗͘͘͝ͅa̴̢̡̨̛̻͍̯̲̠̫͎͍͇̖͙͋͛͋̉͌͗͑̈́͊ͅų̵̖̳̪͓̜̂̏̇̐͊̃̀̓̌͆̊̄̑̔̿͐̓̒̚͠ń̵̨̢̻͓̹̝̫͖̤̘̥̺͋̾̐̇͆̚ͅṯ̵̡̖̻͔̻͚̺͉̉̊̈̓͑̀̓̉̇̄̊̌͋͆̓̾̇͝ş̴̢̤̝̰̩̙̬̥͓̲̟̰̥͕̗̥̊̓̉́̅̈͐͗̚̕͠͝her dreams. She looks it up in one book, then another. She says the name to Kragg, and he stares blankly before grumbling and shaking his head. Nothing, nothing... until finally, in an old dwarven text she finds faded letters that appear to have not quite been destroyed. And someone did try to destroy them, but perhaps because the passage referenced a grudge the dwarf in question couldn't quite bring themselves to do it. She remembers....
"No such thing exists, except through forgetfulness and destroyed records. But I'm now my father's only child, and if you trace back the lineage to find the next in line - and my father did - the result is a Salkalten shipwright who has never seen the mountains. Apparently I'm preferable to that. So records were destroyed and forgetfulness was induced, and everyone who knows better stays silent, and in the privacy of their own minds their respect for my father diminishes with every day he does not travel to Karak Kadrin and take the Oath." Ulthar's face is stony, disgust thick in his tone.
Yes, yes... even dwarves who remember everything will sometimes c̷̡̡̛͍͚̻̼͕͖̞̱̝̪̞͖̭͓̠̼̪̤̹̆̑͌͒͌͋̑̀̒̾̓̓̇̍̂̄̏̀̃̍͌̆͗̐̕͘̕͝ĥ̷̨̧̧̨̛̛̬̰̬̪͔̘̜̹̲͚̺̞̘̱̩̳͉͖̜͕͚̳̹̘̭͐̆̃͜͝ͅo̶̡̲͉̻͚̭̮̝͉̠̪̰̳̺̣̩̪̻̰͕̱͙̙͖̹͓̬̜͔̩̹̹̱̮͌̔́͘͜͠͠ơ̴̢̛̞̹̫̈́̈͂̐̾͒̅͑̾̃͒̈́͒̃̒̈̿͑̉̕͘̕͘͝s̸̯͖̪͍̟̮̗̪͇͇̙̆̀̌̉͘͠é̵̢̢̛̛̮̙͇͖͕͎͍̹̟̺̥̄̐̃̓͐͐̄̀͐͆́́̾̑̅͌͒͊̾͒̿̒́̕͠͝͝ͅ to forget when the cause is great enough. When the need is great enough.
Mathilde knows this is wrong, this curiosity. All her training about chaos and memetic hazards screams at her that this obsession is unnatural, that she should forget, let it go. She cannot. The grudge is the clue. Even if all else was destroyed, surely dwarves would never have destroyed the grudge record in Karaz-a-Karak. She goes to Prince Kazrik and makes a request, Next time he's there, on one of his diplomatic trips, does he might looking up a grudge for her? It's from a long time ago, but the record is surely still there. He agrees, of course he does.
Kazrik's gyrocopter returns near sunset, when the shadows of the peaks bathe the land and the shadows are at their strongest. A comfort, only partially driving away the foreboding Mathilde feels. When Kazrik stumbles out of the passenger compartment, he looks like a dwarf possessed. Eyes wild, one hand knotted in his beard, gripping it as if it's the only thing in the world still real. He looks to Mathilde and his mouth opens wide, too wide, far too wide, as he pronounces the w̶̗̱̝̬̱̮̘͔̞̍̏̿͋̓̓͒̉̀̇̚͠͠ò̵̘̬̼̪͈͕̞̫̭̗͉̑͑͑̅̏̂͂̅͛͋̆̅̕̕̚͠r̷̡̡̤̞̽̈́d̷̛̦̋͑̂̂͗͒͛̈́̆̒͒̎̊̄̓̍̚͝, the terrible w̶͕̪͙̜̪̻͓̓̆̋̋͐̄ô̷̧̧̢̫̠͎͍͇̝̄̀͆r̴̹̼̫̙̞͔͖̎̐̾̐̚d̶̲͚͇̺̳͇̮̭̖̮̹̔̽́͋̃̇̂͂͑͜͝͝.
"Rises ahead!" cried the dwarf on watch at the tip of the frontmost steam-wagon, raising a signal flag for the benefit of those not within earshot.
Mathilde thought she might have scouted them months ago on her shadowsteed. Halgrim of the Winter Wolves had scouted them yesterday. Still, the Chaos Wastes were prone to... not entirely rearranging themselves, not until you went further north, but at least deforming the geography slightly. More so when there was nobody in the vicinity. Academics said the presence of orderly minds made a marginal difference in helping to keep reality stable. Scuttlebutt said the Wastes liked to surprise you by changing when you weren't looking. Regardless, the dwarfs kept a continual lookout, squinting through the occasional fog or dust-cloud or light snowfall.
The Expedition rolled onwards. The outriders had reported no trouble, but even the gentle rolling hills ahead made for a combination of reduced visibility and poor terrain with their frosty slopes. As the steam-wagons made their way to and up the first faint incline, a die rolled down the deck, some gambler's throw assisted in its passage by the incline underfoot. Mathilde watched it go by. It slowed, stopped, and showed a six. The sixth ridge ahead? Good fortune? Or was she reading too much into petty things? She made her way to the prow of the front steam-wagon, just in case.
A humanoid figure came into view atop the fifth ridge as the steam-wagon rolled up the fourth. It was reminiscent of a man merged with a lizard, brown skin in places and green scales elsewhere, eight feet tall, half naked, with a long snakelike tail and a human's head. It opened its mouth and boomed in a loud voice: "Attention wayfarers! You are -" but whatever the beastman was saying was cut off by the sound of a grapecannon firing. The range was long enough, or the beastman lucky enough, that the monster was able to dodge aside and not take any visible wounds. "I was trying to talk!" it shouted a moment later, somehow even louder now. Mathilde quickly averted her Magesight as the beastman began doing one of those things with Dhar and Ghur that it was probably not a good idea to watch too closely, but mundane vision was enough for everyone to see the creature growing over twice its previous size.
"Should we talk to it?" one dwarf on the cannon crew asked.
The officer hesitated. On the one hand, the creature in front of them was a beastman in the Chaos Wastes, which was why he had ordered the original shot.
On the other hand, it was still talking after being shot at, which was surprisingly reasonable and diplomatic.
On the former hand, giant beastmen were probably even worse than regular beastmen, and he could see the strange Azrildrekked-Loremaster drawing a pistol. That decided it. She was the expert on bizarre magic monsters, after all.
"Fire at will."
The steam-wagons had not stopped or even slowed while the talking was happening, and the second burst of fire was a volley. Grapeshot tore into the giant lizard-man, ripping what little clothes it wore, bruising and tearing flesh. Blood and gore spattered the frozen ground. But it still stood, its massive mouth moving, though nobody could hear it over the cannonfire even if they had bothered to listen. Even as the Expedition watched, the giant brute's wounds closed with shocking speed. Then it started running, not away but alongside, ten-foot strides and thirty-foot jumps that enabled it to mostly keep pace with the steam-wagons while dodging shots.
The rest of the Expedition had first been mildly chatty upon hearing that there was a lone beastman ahead, trusting the cannon on the foremost wagon to deal with minor problems. Now commands started going out and forces were roused to deal with a problem that looked to be much bigger - also literally - than it had seemed at first. Slayers ran to the sides of the front deck, weighing the possibility of glorious giant-slaying death against likelihood of extremely inglorious death by broken neck if they jumped from a steam-wagon moving at speed. Rangers began taking pot-shots, embedding several bolts in the monster but not hitting anything vital. "Magic weapons! Use magic weapons! Um, runic weapons!?" shouted a wizard. On the rear wagon, Asarnil listened to a dwarf translate signal-flags, and pondered whether he should wake Deathfang from where the dragon lay dozing atop a custom deck.
Sir Ruprecht Wulfhart and several of the Winter Wolves came riding up beside the steamwagons to engage the giant monster, which had drawn an equally giant sword from its back and was swinging several yards of steel around in slow arcs. After sizing up the situation, Wulfhart warned the others to stay back, even as he charged in. Bards wrote a lot of tripe about the sanctity and importance of the duel that even Chaos Warriors (supposedly) honored, but from her vantage point on the steam-wagon, Mathilde saw entirely pragmatic reasons for everyone else to stay back. Chaos cultists risked being beheaded by their erstwhile ally if they got too close, while anyone on the side of Order might have gotten Wulfhart killed by getting in the way of his dodges, and pot-shots could hit either combatant or both.
The steam-wagons trundled forwards. Wulfhart and the giant beastman began to fall behind. Again there was talk of rousing Deathfang, or of calling a halt, but Wulfhart hadn't signalled for help and the Winter Wolves could catch up. Then Mathilde felt as much as saw a sickening pressure building on the deck of the steam-wagon. "Incoming!" she shouted, pointing behind herself as she ran to get out of the blast radius. But rather than a destructive spell, it was the beastman somehow teleporting aboard. Ghur shouldn't do that, not even with Dhar, thought Mathilde, seeing that Chaos was once again disregarding both physical and magical laws. Oh no, thought a lot of dwarfs, seeing the monstrosity on the wrong side of their cannon emplacements. Oh yes, thought certain other dwarfs, seeing the monstrosity in convenient charging range.
The charge of the Slayers proved somewhat more effective than the grapecannon. Wounds opened on the giant beastman, the deck was covered in blood, and wounds closed, but now several of them left scars rather than new flesh, and a few stayed open. A small mercy was that the giant beastman's ludicrously oversized sword still followed sensible physics: every swing it made was telegraphed far in advance. Slayers dodged under a high swing, jumped over a swing so low it scraped the deck, then lost one of their number to a half-sworded overhand strike that crushed more than it cut, leaving a mangled corpse.
Mathilde cast a Shadow Knives at the giant, as dwarfs around her opened fire with pistols and rifles, but they might as well have been wasp stings. She called Branulhune to hand, prepared herself with a Shroud of Invisibility, wove Smoke and Mirrors into another Shadow Knives, and popped to a point where her stroke should pass through the giant's sword, hand and leg in approximately that order. Kragg's runic gift met a Khorne-blessed weapon, the former was jarred out of Mathilde's hands, the latter went flying overboard, and both wielders were shocked by the amount of counterforce that had been brought to bear.
Mathilde wasted no time summoning Branulhune back to her hand again, thankful for the Rune of the Unknown. The giant beastman seemed similarly eager to recover its weapon with haste, and jumped overboard, only to experience some very painful lithobraking that left a long trail of screams and blood along the ground. Somehow it managed to grab its sword in passing and teleported again, vanishing from sight in another burst of Ghur and Dhar. Asarnil rode Deathfang aloft to search for the fleeing monster, while Borek called for a headcount and a damage estimation.
Final losses were surprisingly light for having had a giant monster on deck: three Slayers dead.
---
My main thoughts here: Other people have bullshit hax too. Posters have discussed a lot how a fight might go with Example Bloodthirster, Hypothetical Lord of Change and others, but sometimes you get a teleporting giant beastman/mutant chaos warrior instead, swinging a stupid huge sword.
Also trying to not make Slayers into cheap redshirts. Extremely speculative about what the trip might be like. Hard to keep track of so many different parts of the expedition force and do them justice. Unsatisfied with the fight dragging a bit as I tried to include multiple actors. Part 2 is already sketched out, different tone, will edit link in here when it's up.
The twisting tendrils of fog that outlined the edges of the spell spilled through the training area, distorting their view of the rocks as a side effect of their power to disrupt time itself. Despite himself, Melkoth couldn't see anything worth criticizing in them. "I've seen enough," he muttered as he sank gratefully into his chair. "We'll take a break."
They busied themselves with lunch, and for a time there was silence. A heavy sigh drew his attention to his newest student.
"Eh, Melkoth-sensei, I don't think I'm doing very well at this." Mathilde's hat dipped lower as she stared at her feet. "Training to learn battle magic is something else. I'm studying night and day, but even the basic Mystifying Miasma technique is taking all I've got."
His eyebrows twitched, and he fixed his stony gaze on a point in the distance. "Hmm! You've got a long way to go, Mathilde-chan. You should meditate on why that is while you prepare the laboratory for our next lesson. Hop to it!"
"Yes!" she replied with sudden vigor. He stared in silence as she hopped up and ran towards the door. Her monstrous wolf familiar joined her halfway there, and they bounded inside while he shook his head. He'd seen good men and women tear themselves to pieces trying to grasp the fundamentals of his Signature Technique, and she seemed downcast that she'd had to settle for fully comprehending it within a month. What a monstrous drive. It's not like he could tell her that, though. Pride never led anywhere good.
"Whatever's set you on this path, it's made your mind as fast as the rest of you, Mathilde-chan," Melkoth muttered, looking up at the sides of the mountainous caldera. "I only hope you've got something you fight for. Mastery for mastery's sake is a dark and lonely road, and the monster at the end of it looks just like yourself..."
Mathilde woke up, heart pounding.
Wolf was leaning over her, in her bed in her room in her dwarven penthouse in Karak Eight Peaks. "Just a dream?" she asked out loud. It had been so vivid. Wolf responded by licking her face. He was somewhat unclear on what kind of nightmare his human had gone through, but licking her face would probably improve matters.
After sufficient doggy reassurance that she was awake, and it had just been a nightmare, and that Wolf was looking out for her, she looked over at the books spread on her desk.
"You think I was up reading too late?"
Wolf pulsed vague agreement through the familiar bond.
"Should I stoke the fire or just go back to bed?" Bed, sent Wolf, accompanied with a mental image of himself curled up on the bed next to Mathilde receiving skritches.
Mathilde smiled and acquiesced, soon drifting off to sleep again.
-
"Rises ahead!" cried the dwarf on watch at the tip of the frontmost steam-wagon, raising a signal flag for the benefit of those not within earshot.
Mathilde thought she might have scouted them months ago on her shadowsteed. No, wait, that never happened, this was just a dream, a dream she'd had before. Now that she was aware she was dreaming, the dream's nature was a lot more obvious. The Runes on the steam-wagon were unreadable vague blobs. Most of the dwarfs around had no facial features, merely a suggestion that there was a dwarf here and it had a face, nothing she could focus on. Only the people she knew by name had precise attributes and appearances. The sky held no sun, and the steam-wagon cast no shadow. It was "day", and therefore light, by dream-logic.
Mathilde pinched herself, feeling no pain. Her meditative exercises had no effect either, but then, it was hard to tell if she was performing them or merely imagining that she was performing them. As the steam-wagons made their way to and up the first faint incline, a die rolled down the deck, some gambler's throw assisted in its passage by the incline underfoot. Mathilde watched it go by. It slowed, stopped, and showed a six. 6, the number of the Excessive, or was that perhaps an upside-down 9, the number of the Plotter, and she had merely assumed it was a six because it was on a die? Not enough evidence. Mathilde dismissed that line of inquiry and made her way to the prow of the front steam-wagon, in case events would continue to repeat themselves.
Once again the giant lizard-beast-man came into sight, and the cannon fired to little effect. Mathilde shouted for them to hold fire, summoned Branulhune, and this time Smoke and Mirrors put her in a position to chop through the brute's knee without its sword getting in the way. It screamed and fell over with a very satisfying series of close thumps against the ground. Mathilde kicked the bloody half-leg away, and went for the other knee. The giant teleported away before she could finish her swing. Not onto the deck of the steam-wagon this time, thankfully. Rather than try casting in the close aftermath of a Dark spell in the Chaos Wastes in order to pursue, Mathilde busied herself chopping apart the leg stump and scattering the bits to prevent any regeneration.
-
Mathilde woke up, heart pounding.
Wolf was leaning over her, in her bed in her room in her dwarven penthouse in Karak Eight Peaks. "That was definitely not just a dream." she said firmly to her familiar. He whined softly in sympathy for what his human was going through.
Mathilde strode rapidly towards her library for a booklet she'd acquired during anti-Chaos training. She was fairly certain she'd memorized it, but that same memory told her the booklet had been quite clear on doing things by the book in cases such as this where she suspected the Plotter's influence, which slipped in more easily through slight misrememberings and subtly altered phrasings.
'The Plotter can nudge at small vagaries and petty decisions that are casually called chance, such as what seat to take in an inn, or which of several friends to speak to first, but is greatly weakened if not entirely powerless in matters of true chance, such as the roll of a die. Therefore, acquire and keep nearby a die of good enough quality that you have seen it roll every number, and only a single die, so that the Plotter cannot influence the selection of a more or less weighted one.'
Mathilde had gotten approval to bend the rules slightly on that particular point. She had a single reserved die for use with the book, and several other dice stored elsewhere, of visibly different color and size, for use in games and with Ranald. Right now she got out the reserved die.
'Should you suspect the Plotter's hand behind information you have gained, prepare a flat surface where the die will not fall to the floor nor lodge in cracks or otherwise risk uncertainty of interpretation, roll the die once and once only, turning then to the appropriate section ahead indicated by the number, following the guidelines there. Should those guidelines prove irrelevant or impossible, turn to the next section (from 6, turn to 1) rather than rolling again. You are advised to not attempt to formulate a response on the spot unless you have exhausted all six sections by this method.'
She rolled a 3.
'Consult with most senior knowledgeable and authorized person in the vicinity, sharing both information and your suspicions.' read the first line of section three.
Mathilde's heart sank. There was only one reasonable way to interpret that, and she could already imagine Kragg's disapproval at hearing Mathilde talk about her dreams.
I don't know if Tzeentch is canonically limited that way, but it seems a reasonable inference from the facts that Ranald is legitimate, and even where Ranald is shunned, it's mostly for being the god of thieves and peasant uprisings, rather than a conduit for Tzeentch. And if Tzeentch can nudge decisions and interpretations more easily than dice, then I figure the Grey College might write up six different reasonable protocols for dealing with potentially tainted information and have you roll to see which one to use. This avoids both the failure modes of a single rigid procedure, and of thinking about it and deciding for yourself which protocol to use.
I haven't thought of all six, but in addition to 'tell most senior everything' I figure there might be 'tell immediate superior everything' and 'warn immediate superior but do not give specifics unless requested' and 'write down for anonymous delivery'.
Bonus content: Reasonable Chaos Champion Quest Vote (This is a bit silly and not even canon to these apocryphae but @consequences and @chocolote12 inspired me. )
"Your deeds have pleased the Dark Gods. They have decided to arm you better. Choose a boon for your sword."
[] Tzeentch - Mutability of Matter and Form
Your blade can freely switch between any size from dagger to greatsword, and change shape to shamshir and other curved or hooked swords. It can also turn into any metal on command. (No, SV, not antimatter.) Ironically, this is probably the best direct combat buff, both for the unexpected strikes and the material weaknesses you can take advantage of.
[*] Khorne - Unyielding, Untiring, Unrelenting
Your blade will never dull, crack, or rust. It will be immune to hostile magic such as Drop or Law of Gold, and any caster of such suffers an immediate miscast. It will be highly resilient to mundane destruction by shattering or melting. If disarmed, lost or stolen, it will find its way back to you except in the unlikely case that the new owner has greater favor with Khorne.
[] Slaanesh - Legendary Fame
Your blade shall be known in story and song. Anyone who sees it will recognize it and you. Word automatically spreads about any killing you perform with it. Even if no witnesses were present, people will make up rumors that just happen to correspond to your deeds. They will make up rumors that do not correspond to your deeds, too. Other Chaos Champions will be prone to jealousy of your sword, even if they have objectively better weapons.
[] Nurgle - Touch of Decay
Your blade gains the ability to wear away and grind down any substance. Think of it as a low-powered lightsaber, able to cut through solid rock like a knife through hard stale cheese. It will also be better able to sunder enemy weapons and armor, but quietly slicing through walls is really the main power here.
[] Undivided - Bigger Pluses
Your blade will be slightly sharper, stronger, and lighter, but not artifact-grade. This bonus is weaker than any of the others, but limits the influence the Dark Gods get over you.
Another day, another ambitious new scheme from Hergig as rumours abound of the Elector Count consorting with exotic foreigners! And we're not even talking about Nordlanders or Reiklanders this time. No, these guests were tall and graceful, with pointed ears! What business could elves have in our fair corner of the Empire? The timing is awfully suspicious. Could this be related to the large unidentified shipments seen headed towards the College of Sorcery last month? Will we experience another oddity like the Great Cabbage Roll Incident of '73? Or perhaps this merely portends the commission of a new artifact, or advice for an adventurous trade policy. Whatever the case may be, be sure to send us a letter if you have any information on the matter.
The University of Altdorf claims to be the premier institution of learning in the Empire. This is not an unfounded view, for she can boast the largest campus, the most students, the oldest traditions, the widest fields of study, the most influential alumni, and much more besides. It's hard to argue against the facts, so this contention goes largely uncontested beyond the grumbling of a few die-hard loyalists. But for those seeking to be more productive in their judgements, this leads to a natural follow-up question— who is second best? Why, the Grey College, of course. Any other answer would just be plain silly. Diplomats and spies, or soldiers and craftsmen? It's no contest. Third best, however, is up for grabs.
Here, the theorists are split: the Golds own the largest facilities, the Lights recruit the most people, the Celestials ply the most influence, the Brights wield the greatest firepower, the Jades follow the most ancient traditions, the Amethysts undertake the most secretive ones. All valid lines of thought, but none is particularly convincing over the rest. Speaking of which, the Ambers don't care all that much, so they're not in the running. The Imperial Engineers School, of course, does not bear mentioning. They're more likely to blow up a good book than publish one. (And if the same is perhaps more true for the Colleges of Magic, well... given the odds of it to occur whilst one is in the same room, certain allowances can be made for the sake of preserving knowledge).
Surely, one might ask, the institution that produces a better academic is the superior one?
The Greys certainly seem to think so, and what better way to show it than in discourse and debate? Perhaps there's a reason they're in number two.
Today, that tradition of intellectual rigor continues as you fidget in the near-empty classroom with your three fellows, each of you looking over the collated documents and references you'll need to make your cases, whatever they may be. Your roles aren't actually determined yet; before you lies the information for all of the possible viewpoints you'll be arguing for. A nervous flutter begins to tingle in your stomach before you ruthlessly suppress the feeling. This is what you've trained for. You can do this. You have done this several times already, in fact. You're ready.
Well, not quite ready, when a line of wizards begin to reveal themselves in dramatic fashion, nearly startling you into knocking your pointy grey hat off onto your neighbor's papers. Nearly, as you snatch it back before it makes landfall. When you turn to offer an apology, she quirks an eyebrow and waves you off before both your attentions return to the flickering and dimming room, as if the air itself seems to grow pale and murky before the three robed proctors fade into their designated seats.
The lead wizard claps once. "And that's the end of your prep time. I trust that you are familiar with the format by now, students. Today's resolution: The Hochland College of Sorcery in Hergig deserves recognition as an institution of learning.
"Your roles have been assigned to you now on your desks. Please do not Dispel the Illusion."
You look down at your assignment. [Indirect premise negation]
Well, then. Negate a premise of the resolution. Simple enough, in theory. Every statement has a number of background details that are naturally assumed for it to make sense. But which premise to attack? A direct refutation would be that the Hochland College of Sorcery in Hergig wasn't deserving of recognition as an institution of learning. A less direct way of putting it could be that the College of Sorcery wasn't actually a college, and therefore not an institution of learning. That would still leave a number of counter points open, though. What if the College didn't exist? Workable, but... ah. What if Hochland didn't exist?
As the first affirmative speaker begins, you begin to adjust your arguments. You wish you had Cloak Activity to make it seem like you were paying full attention, but you can still mask it with your notetaking. Their speech is formulaic and logical, and references the material often. You take your notes and offer points of information as required while multitasking, and soon enough, it's your turn.
"Weber, you're up."
"Thank you, Magister Adjudicator. I will begin by addressing the fatal flaw of this resolution, that 'the Hochland College of Sorcery in Hergig deserves recognition as an institution of learning.' As wonderful as the achievements my opponents have brought up are, the fact of the matter is that the fictional Imperial Province of Hochland does not exist, and we do not give accolades to fictitious organizations.
"As we can see here by the ridiculous claims made in the Hochland Herald... "
The tests move away from magical ability and senses and into more esoteric parts of being a Grey Wizard. You're made to debate a number of different topics, some of them topical and some of them nonsensical; some days you're talking about geopolitical relations with Bretonnia and the situation with Marienburg, and others you're championing the argument that Hochland doesn't actually exist. Your lack of finesse with wordplay is made up for by your ability to grasp the salient details of whatever the situation at hand is, and you feel you manage to conceal the fact that diplomacy is among the least of your strengths.
The ranking list of academic institutions in the Empire may have been a previous debate topic.
I tried writing out the full debate, but it wasn't clicking.
Article:
36. Until the matter brought forth before the Diet is declared to be settled, the session will not end. All parties must remain in the premises for the entire duration of the debate.
148. Do not linger overly long upon livestock and fowl brought in for the purpose of demonstration. Trust in your fellow Magisters to determine the relevance of their presence. If need be, lodge a complaint with the Chief Adjudicator.
8. Interference with preparatory materials and evidence is strictly prohibited. The sanctity of the argument must be preserved.
- This includes Flashcook.
Article:
- Four factions will be represented in each resolution, to be determined at random amongst the debaters.
- The participants shall be given no less than 90 (NINETY) minutes to peruse reference materials provided for the upcoming debate.
-
2.
... does not display the same properties when exposed to magic that has a divine component. When exposed to mixed energies, such as the Waaagh, we see that...
You've followed Weber's career for some time now - her name came up during the deliberations surrounding your appointment, tied as she was to your predecessor's retirement, and she solidified your interest with her dissertation about the magics of the Brother Gods. Since then, she's made several contributions to the combined Lores of the Colleges, and received some renown with her uncharacteristically swift promotion among the Shadowmancers. And so, when she called for assistance in investigating a peculiar substance she had obtained, not quite of the winds and not quite of the warp, your interest was piqued.
Still, that alone would not have been sufficient to send you on this journey to the far reaches of the Old World - rather, that would be the several unlikely coincidences in a row causing your schedule to become uncharacteristically empty. You've killed a god before, but there were significant mitigating circumstances - you doubt you'd be so lucky against the God of Chance. And so, you, Magister Matriarch Elspeth Von Draken, have sighed, packed your bags, and decided to end this swiftly.
The weather throughout the flight was calm and clear, which unfortunately has left Lavrai plenty of time to pester you, her thoughts smoothly sliding across yours. << It was known that this fledgling had some skill with the shadows, but to attract the Dancers attention is more rare. I am curious how her intersection with your path shall terminate. >>
You sigh. << I'm not going to kill her. >>
Lavrai snorts and dips in the air, making her thoughts clear. << As I recall, you have said these words before, and yet what followed was not in concordance. >>
You make to retort, but cut yourself off as you sense something in the distance. It's not quite the same as the other great battlefields you've visited - you can feel the Waystones pushing the Winds towards harmony, obscuring it - but the behavior of Shyish would make it clear even if the divine echoes didn't. You approach a place of tremendous death, a place where hundreds of thousands of lives were snuffed in an instant. The journey is nearly concluded.
Article:
...deeply aggravating to translate - so much is reminiscent of the proper Draconic Tongue, and yet the glyphs have been mangled and the grammar mutilated. Note: Hire dedicated Cathayan translator, divest self of said duty...
You gaze up at the ceiling of the massive hall, still somewhat basking in the glory of the Library. Your library. It's still more dream than reality, at this point, riddled with empty spaces not yet filled with books, still awaiting negotiations and translations and any number of bits of minutiae. That said, this hall won't ever be filled to the brim with books. This part of Karak Kron is, after all, the Dragon hall, and having a secure place for a dragon to enter rather requires a lot of empty space.
You pause in your reminiscence as Cython stirs, your comfortable position sitting back against him turning stiff as tension runs through his muscles, kaleidoscopes of light cascading across the ground as he moves. "What's happening?"
He exhales deeply, a foggy plume as the air around him condenses, ruffling the library paperwork in front of him. "Another dragon approaches. A greeting will be required."
You start. "She's already here? Right, right." You've been filled in on the particulars already, of course - Dragons are intensely proud and territorial creatures. For one to encroach on anothers territory... even with forewarning, even without any real threat or danger, certain norms simply need to be observed. Really, it's not that different from the delicate social dance when one academic intrudes on anothers hallowed domain.
You approach the locking mechanism, and feed it Ulgu in the appropriate patterns to start the mechanism, feeling the counterpart Hysh structure respond to your changes. With shocking smoothness, the runic defenses release, and the entire back wall opens outward, revealing a view of the Caldera beyond - and a purplish-black speck in the distance.
Cython lopes forward to the newly revealed opening, and perches on it. For a moment, he simply gazes out, and then he stretches his wings outward, and roars.
The last time you heard a dragon's cry, it was from the opposite side of the Karak. Now, you're right at the epicenter. It's an impossibly deep noise - the mountain itself reverberates with it, and you can feel the rattling in your bones. And yet, thanks to a shimmering web of Hysh that deftly folded into existence around you, you're entirely untouched, instead of permanently deafened from mere proximity.
Cython turns back to you once more, the air buffeting you as his wing descends right beside you. "Come. I will need to show all my treasures."
You smile, and jump aboard.
If you enjoyed this omake, please consider donating! The "cute dragon" foundation can continue operating thanks to the generous Cython romance votes from users like you!
Have a look at some options Melkoth may have had this turn
Branched Agenda - A Melkoth Quest
{ } Do The Job
-{ } Continue teaching your Battle Mages
-{ } Magister Weber is throwing favors around again: Travel to Karak Eight Peaks and teach her your signature spell
-{ } Magister Weber is throwing favors around again: Help her out while she is creating her own spell
-{ } Those Bandits on the Aver look suspicious. See if you can find proof of Marienburg being responsible.
-{ } Those Bandits on the Aver are a nuisance. Get rid of them while you travel.
{ } Socialize: Perhaps there is someone worth talking to up there.
-{ } Dame Mathilde Weber: She is rising fast, get a better feel for her to see if she might be suitable as a Lady Magister.
-{ } Maximilian de Gaynesford, Journeyman of the Gold Order: Maximilian helps write many of Magister Weber's papers, let's see what he's about.
-{ } The Hochlander: Perhaps learning a few things about Magister Weber before meeting her is in order.
{ } Surreptitious Interventions
-{ } Dame Mathilde Weber. She is rising fast, perhaps too fast. Make use of your access to her Penthouse to have a look around.
-{ } Black Magister Gormann. See if this lead pans out or if you've been given the slip again.
{ } Personal: You can hardly spend every waking moment consumed with work.
-{ } Make sure no one figures out your age by adjusting the magic, some damn Apprentice got too close for your liking.
Freshly returned from the Karag Dum expedition, and ecstatic over the progress on her requested library, Loremaster Weber has some new suggestions for you, including one in particular that she shared privately away from the council.
[ ] Mapping - Loremaster Weber believes she can create an self-updating zhuf map of the Karak, with the possibility of tying it into further magic or runes down the line to create a detection system for any large underground movements. Cost: ~5 Magic Colleges Favor, ~5 Runesmith Favor, 5000 Silver, 1 Year
[ ] Waystones - With the Okral finally gone, and with the search for Grudges in KaK having come up clean, now may finally be the time to begin investigation into the Waystone nexus that is your home, potentially severing Thorgrimm's theft of your holds power. Cost: ??? Magic Colleges Favor, ??? Runesmith Favor, -??? Old Hold Reputation (Working With Elves), Having To Work With Elves
[ ] Assassination - The situation in Karak Hirn is becoming increasingly concerning, and Loremaster Weber is one of the greatest assassins in the world. It would be trivial for her to infiltrate Hirn, discover the exact details of Alrik's misdeeds, and arrange a death by natural causes. Cost: Yet Another Chip In Your Honour
[ ] Dragon - The Serpent of Karag Zilfin, "Cython", apparently quite enjoys his occasional trips to your Loremaster's peak to discuss zhuf and read books. Mathilde believes that she can use this to gain buy-in from the dragon into the upcoming Library project, and potentially leverage for any future negotiations. Cost: Dragon likely gains some influence over the Library, 5000+ Silver, 4+ Barak Varr Favor (To Be Spent Largely On Additional Books)
It was a few days after their afternoon at the lake, and the glow had worn off just enough for Mathilde to begin to worry again. After all, it had been such fun in the moment, letting go of some of her taboos both swimming and modesty related, but now, given time to properly think, she may have been too forward. ...but then, wasn't Panoramia the one persuading her then? No! She shook her head firmly in the darkness of her chair, the curtain across the eyeholes drawn shut and the jaw firmly closed. She had asked Panoramia on the date, she was the one who... She couldn't blame Panoramia for misreading her intentions as it seemed that the traditions she was raised in we different and her eyes had sparkled just like the sun off the water.
Wolf, picking up her mood, swung between restless pacing and exasperated huffing standing with is paws on the teeth of the dragon skull.
There was a knock on the door. Wolf, having nothing better to do, opened it to reveal a halfling messenger runner, staring up somewhat apprehensively at the canine looming over him. The halfling gulped. It was one thing to play football against such a beast, quite another to come upon it at the gateway to it's master's sanctuary. More quickly than he would have wished, he stuttered out his message.
"Th-the jade journeywoman would like to ex-extend her best wishes and invite the esteemed magister to an evening of pie and humble dancing?"
Wolf tilted his head. A moment later there was a clatter deeper in, as Mathilde startled and fumbled and opened her chair. Quickly, she rushed to the front door, approaching from the side where the messenger would not see her haste, and pressing him to repeat his message gave a reply in the affirmative before closing the door and sinking down against it.
"Wolf, what am supposed to think about this?" Mathilde fretted, "She emphasized our ranks and the difference in them in my favor but she also asks me to a date this time? Is she... I wonder, is this like Under Branches of Oak and Ivy? Where the dashing young traveler begins to court the elven maiden? He was bold in the asking and they both knew it... mmmhmmmhm, I hope tonight is like that feast." She smiled briefly, somewhat dreamily, then suddenly frowned.
"I know there's nothing wrong with robes, but I wonder..."
_____________________________________
Panoramia was delighted. On the inside. On the inside, Panoramia was screaming; the far too cool and pretty for her own good soon to be Lady Magister accepted her invitation to a date after ASKING HER ON THE FIRST DATE! (Internal Panoramia had to swoon here, briefly. That had been a fantasy for a very, very long time. Sometimes innocent and idealized, sometimes earthy and almost shameful, but she had been interested since before she had even met the woman in person- though after so long of knowing her, her hopes of it actually happening had almost disappeared.)
On the outside, Panoramia was merely smiling as Mathilde materialized at the edge of the firelight, her hat higher and further back than normal, and her collar open. She smiled, and it was hesitant, and nervous, and utterly unfair. With her hat tilted as it was her face seemed more open, and with her collarbones exposed Panoramia was suddenly conscious of how small the magister really was. (She was small enough that she could stand close to her bend down and tilt up her chin with her hand and-! FOCUS!)
"Welcome! Thanks for coming, I know that the halflings do this pretty regularly but I still thought it might be a treat, since I hadn't seen you here for them very much at all?"
Mathilde's smile became easier, a touch more confident. "I haven't, there's always so much to do and even with a shadowhorse it isn't quick to run down the mountain. I'm grateful for your invitation, and your forbearance- I remember what happened last time you and I had an evening with pies."
Panoramia laughed delightedly. "You set fire to them because you couldn't wait, stole away my chef before any were properly done, and followed up by throwing the most raucous party the Karak had seen in a hundred years?"
"It was the first party worth mentioning in far more than a hundred years in this place," Mathilde retorted, then with a wink, "And I did say I was grateful for the second chance. I can't promise that things will stay in hand though, halfling pie can be inspirational, or so I hear."
"Indeed." Panoramia replied with throaty tone that stole Mathilde's smirk and replaced it with a blush, at least until she realized she was being teased. "I believe the lingdenberry and meringue is the rumored favorite to win the grand prize this evening, although with a new palate in the mix perhaps a dark horse will claim victory?"
Smiling again, a touch ruefully, Mathilde caught up Panoramia's hand and pulled her in towards the crowd of small folk that were gathering about the rough tables.
"Introduce me? These are more your folk than mine, even as long as I've fought with their field wardens, and tonight I'm not the Dame Thane Loremaster Magister- tonight, I'm just Mathilde, and I would love some pie."
Dame Magister Thane Loremaster Mathilde Weber of the Grey College was, of course, the sort of public figure that made most quake in their boots. Even if they were unaware of her startling advances in magical super-weaponry, or her enormous runesword that she could pull quite literally from thin air, they would be aware of her grey robes and writhing shadow, and rightly fear that it would wrap itself around all of their limbs and squeeze.
Panoramia looked thoughtfully at the flickering tentacles, and the slightest bit of a blush rose to her cheeks. Mathilde looked over with a raised eyebrow, as perceptive as ever, and Pan shook her head and slapped her cheeks lightly, muttering "no, not asking before the third date" to herself under her breath.
Yes, the Dame Magister Thane Loremaster, King Belegar's Dark Left Hand, she was indeed an impressive and scary figure.
Mathile Webber, former Stirland peasant and Judge #6 of the Fifty-Fourth All-Karak Best Pie Competitive Bakeoff, was not.
"Ohhh Gods," She moaned as the blueberry juice ran over her lips and she brought her free hand up to her chin to catch it, "what did you even put in this one?"
Mathilde and Panoramia were seated at a table sized for the large folk, in front of a bonfire and an attentive audience of halflings, flanked by the other judges on high stools. Around the fascimalie of a village green were several free-standing ovens, built in the days when the demands of feeding armies were more pressing. The former outdoor kitchen had since become the focal point of the budding community in the East Valley, both a reminder of their contributions to the Triumph, and as a practical place to hold important events. Such as this one.
"Well yer wizardship, I can't be goin' and given' all my secrets away, but if'n you'll have another bite, you might be tastin' a bit 'o the mountain juniper an' lizard-egg glaze across the top 'o the crust."
The Halfling was smug in his best vest and trousers. He'd been saving that one- any trick revealed at a Pie Competition would be copied a dozen times over before you could so much as spit, so deciding when to play one of the carefully tested and hoarded secrets was as much a part of any competition as the baking itself. He was lucky; his aunt's cousin's adopted son had been the one to run the message, so when he'd gotten word that one of the council was to be a judge tonight, he had not hesitated to commit.
"Ohhhhhh" gushed Mathilde as she took the next bite, "you are right, that little sharpness to offset the sweetness of the berries and the crunch that the glaze adds... mhhmhmmm."
Panoramia's blush returned as her grey admirer revealed a side of herself that she had not guessed existed- almost as if she were setting aside the habits of years for the night and reveling in the sheer physical pleasure of taste and texture, letting herself enjoy the echoes of a girlhood cut brutally short. It was intoxicating, almost- that Mathilde would do that for her, that she got to see her both this public and this unguarded.
It was not to last. With a last, languid swallow, the burning intensity re-awoke within her eyes, and that smiling face that revealed nothing settled back onto her mien. Enjoying the pie was one thing, right and proper to show the breathless crowd and proud chef her appreciation, but now she bent forward to fill out her evaluation and the halfling in front of her started to sweat.
With a start, Panoramia realized that she had been caught up in staring, and bent to her own slice. It was, as expected delicious, and the hint of juniper in the crackle of the crust was delightful. However, the berry blend used for the filling had been ever-so-slightly sub-par, and the chef had given into fear in pulling the pie a mite too early, accepting a softness near the center to avoid the risk of over-cooking. It was, Panoramia decided, perhaps a second or third place pie, but then, she had much experience with such things and was a bit jaded.
Mathilde had finished with her notes by the time Pan raised her head again, and was looking around bright-eyed for the final competitor. Around the outer edges of the crowd musicians were assembling for the dancing after, but most were on edge. This was one of the closest competitions in recent memory, the rumored presence of the Loremaster pushing everyone to take daring risks, and the smart money said that the current winner was a caramel pecan that had almost caused the Magister's eyes to roll back in her head with the first bite. But then.
"Cherry? Is that a cherry pie?" Mathilde gasped with innocent excitement, and it was all Panoramia could do to keep from squeezing her at that moment. "Where would they even get cherries this far south?"
This chef, a woman in a gingham apron, smiled mysteriously and winked at Mathilde, and both wizards laughed.
"Fine, keep your secrets!" the grey wizard chortled with a hint of glee,"now let's see how this effort stacks up."
Turning to Panoramia as the first cut was made, she confided, "Cherries were always my favorite when I could get them as a girl, though it's been a while since I've had the chance to have any. Food never seems to be on my mind when I head north, but I really should indulge myself more often..."
Two pieces were placed before them, and for an instant when Mathilde turned to her, Panoramia swore that she was channeling Wolf at his most deviously woeful in begging for food. She stifled her smile, and swapped the plates.
"Oh, here, you should really have the bigger slice."
)
