Awakening: Gretel Maurer knew something was wrong, and she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It had barely been a year since she had officially joined the efforts of Braganza’s Besiegers in building a Border Princedom that could control the Howling River and thereby grant Barak Varr dominance...
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Ruprecht Wulfhart Jr. had a thing for ambushes. It wasn't very knightly of him, he knew, but Ulric wasn't impressed by needless dying and so enemies got the axe by the safest route. This was what his father had drilled into him early. "Take care of your knights." Make sure they are fed, rested, equipped, loyal- they will fight for you like demons. And so he excused himself his gleeful whoop as the wolf between his legs he called Rimeruff lept off the top of a low cliff.
It really wasn't anything worth calling a cliff, he opined to himself in the brief moment of weightlessness at the top of his arc, since it was only about eight or ten feet high. A dry riverbed cut against a low rise, looking wonderfully innocent to the small band of orcs and goblins that Lumpin's crew had tipped them off to. But that little bit of hight was enough to obscure the approach of the wolfriders until the first orc was slammed down under a thousand pounds of canine.
Ruprecht was fourth over the cliff, possessed of a splendid view of the first kill and the dubious honor of the third. He made a mental note to give Ser Chiln a hard time for it later.
The battle did not last. The orcs recovered from their surprise before the heads and limbs of the first unfortunates hit the ground, and no one lived long underestimating a trapped goblin, but the battle did not last. Casualties were light- one in eight wounded, one in twenty wounded beyond the ability to ride. But that was the beauty of it to him, the grace of the wolf that hamstrung it's prey from the blind spot- blindspots being the sort of thing only experienced cavalry commanders knew how to look at a landscape and estimate timing for.
"Alright! Strip the corpses of metal, toss on oil and torches! You know the drill!"
He didn't want to call it unusual that he got to lead a warband these days, lest Ulric send a waaagh or something to test him, but it was a diversion from the masses of paperwork and meetings that held most of his attention these days. More than a year in, he thought to himself, and things were only now really settling down.
Watchtowers, supply depots, figuring out which patrol routes were fast and which were thorough, dealing with the interminable headache that was the locals- it added up to a Sir Ruprecht that had barely slept more than two-score hours a week. So much of it required his touch, his face- or rather, it didn't, but exactly, but he had studied the Viceroy Francisco, and how he had built up Karag Nar. Being the face, being seen to make the decisions and hand out justice- that was how you cemented control among allies. And how you made sure your own did their jobs.
Tomorrow he'd spend the night in the camp of his most credible rival, at least as he judged things- Lucas had signed with King Belegar well before the victory at Eightpeaks was compete, so he was trusted by the dwarves, and his unit has a commendable style. Of course, this wasn't high stakes, not really- he considered the man a friend and knew that they'd likely end up first and second in command, but who was going to be on top? That was the question that brought a small grin to his face.
And wasn't Gretel supposed to be there too? She was a friend of a sort, admittedly one he'd reached out to on Hubert's advice. Wizards were wizards, but Hubert was as solid as a dwarf and he'd had time enough on the expedition to learn a few things. So when he'd asked Hubert who among the Eightpeaks circle was most like the Lady Magister, he'd smirked and directed him to Gretel.
He still wasn't quite sure why, but she'd promised him a game of cards next they saw eachother. Perhaps it would be a chance to find out.
Zhao Ming the Iron Dragon had lived a very long life. With that long life comes the ability to recognise patterns, and to track when the patterns were broken. For Zhao Ming, knowing when the patterns were broken was important, because it so often led him to something new. He couldn't stand it when things were static and unchanging. Perhaps that would be alright for his sister at the Bastion, but he desired companionship, new discoveries and exploration. He had duties and obligations however, so he took what he could get. And it seemed like he would be getting something, as he looked over the horizon past Shang Yang's walls.
Caravans moving to and from Cathay were plentiful ever since those two Tilean fools bumbled their way into his lands. Few would make it through the perilous trip safe and sound. Success spelled endless fortunes, but failure was oh so prevalent. Which was why it was surprising to Zhao Ming to see not the first, or second, but the third caravan trail within the last year make it to his domain.
Zhao Ming recalled that interesting Ogre Tyrant- Greasus- and the conversation they had in the Tower of Ashshair. The japes and jabs thrown back and forth as he found a worthy conversation in an Ogre of all beings. He had drawn a trade and non-aggression pact with the Tyrant as it was to his benefit to see more trade and increase his stature at court, but he did not expect that the Ogre's interest alone was capable of producing this much success. He knew that Greasus had recently become Overtyrant, but his agents also told him that he had significant opposition in the form of the Ironskins in the Northern Mountains of Mourne and the Eyebiters of the Sentinels, neither of which would submit to the authority of a relative newcomer.
Zhao Ming's metallic claws ran through his own beard as he contemplated the situation. The Caravan was approaching his city walls, and he had told the Jade Warriors to hold off on the welcome for now. Zhao Ming could not personally welcome every caravan arriving to his city, but he could make an exception for such a large, well equipped one. Making up his mind, Zhao Ming resolved to make an impression. They had made such a long and dangerous trip, the least he could do is reward them with a story to tell their friends, children and grandchildren.
Intake of breath was an essential part of Yang practice, and Zhao Ming had quite the exceptional lung capacity. Breathing in an astonishing amount of air, Zhao let out a guttural roar that started out humanoid and gradually transitioned into a reptilian hissing roar. His skin turned into scales as his features lengthened and changed tone and shape, fur growing out of his hair into a glorious mane as his mustache lengthened into antennae. Flames and scintillating magical energy of Yang surrounded him in a sphere, followed by his draconian form breaking through the shell to rocket into the air.
Zhao Ming's white dragon form soared across the sky, performing circular loops and releasing the occasional burst of flame. He then dropped vertically down into the ground, creating a magical shockwave that he emerged out of with his hands spread out on both sides to encompass his city in the background, releasing a gout of flame from each of his hands upwards.
Looking at his audience, Zhao Ming mentally restructured his lines as he took in their Imperial complexion as opposed to the Tilean he expected:
"Welcome to Grand Cathay!" Zhao Ming exclaimed in thickly accented Reikspiel.
Zhao Ming had practiced that line in multiple languages in the mirror in preparation for a moment like this. He felt proud to release the line in the typical grandiose manner expected of him.
What he should have expected, however, was the bullet and bolt striking his chestplate and bouncing harmlessly off the enchanted metal.
Zhao Ming looked over the offenders, the two bodyguards riding the front seat of the leading coach, aiming their spent weaponry at him. They nervously holstered their weapons as they took in his form and mentally consulted their internal notes on who he might be.
"Uh, oops?"
—---------
After that frankly embarrassing ordeal was dealt with, the caravan was accepted into the city and led through the streets to the hostelries and accommodations that would take care of them. Zhao Ming, determined to leave the awkwardness behind him, asked for the leader of the Caravan to meet with him in his palace. He didn't dally much afterwards, simply turning into his dragon form to fly to his palace to sulk in his quarters.
It didn't take long for the Caravan Master to arrive for their scheduled meeting. No one makes a Dragon wait. Except for another Dragon. His mother made him wait three hours to teach him patience once. He hated it.
Anyways, Zhao Ming, now fully composed and reoriented, in his element, opened the doors to the palatial meeting room holding the seats of jade and gold that he used to impress visitors. Here he met with his quarry, a nervous twig of a man, his posture belying the cunning presented by his shrewd calculating gaze. Waving his hand for a servant to pour the tea, Zhao Ming took a seat to start the conversation.
"I should expect that you know of me, but as a matter of formality, let me introduce myself. I am Zhao Ming, the Iron Dragon, Ruler of the Western Provinces and Master Alchemist of Jinshen. I have no need of your name or title, for you will not see me for the rest of your time in Cathay. All I desire is information, and I will pay handsomely to receive it. Attempt to deceive me and I regret to inform you that you will not see the next sunrise. Am I understood?"
His words were received with a pronounced increase in nervousness and a quick succession of nods. The man's eyes looked left to right and saw no guards, only servants dressed in the finest of liveries, but he would be a fool to think himself safe in the dragon's lair.
"Good. I hope you realise that Grand Cathay can provide the most wondrous delights, but every rose has its thorns,and I can assure you that ours are most deadly indeed. Now, let us speak of business. I am aware of a recent increase in caravans moving through the Ivory Road, which is no surprise to me considering the recent changes in the rulership of the Mountains of Mourne. The success rate, however, tells me that something has changed. If you have any insights, then please feel free to share them. I'd be delighted to offer you a bouquet of roses for your troubles."
That statement inspired a babbling stream of words quite unbecoming of an individual who he held somewhat high hopes for, but Zhao Ming supposed that was the consequence of his word choice. He really should work on his Reikspiel. He didn't mean to come across so threateningly. Sometimes he wished he had his mother's gift for words.
As Zhao Ming absorbed the information he was receiving, he came across a point that needed more clarification. Raising a hand to end the ceaseless babble, he asked his question:
"This Karak Eight Peaks. I have heard of it, but never in so much detail. It is quite far away after all. Tell me more."
What followed confirmed his suspicions. The Western Dwarves have made a breakthrough, with the support of the Empire, and restored one of their lost holds, gaining a foothold in the West-East trade.
Things were changing. And Zhao Ming was in the prime position to help that process along.
A grin broke across his face, more of a baring of teeth than a natural expression of a humanoid. Coupled with the blank expanse of his white eyes, and that expression frightened his conversational partner to silence.
Cathay was a passive nation. A large part of that was their focus on defence and serving as a bulwark against Chaos. But the West were making strides and progressing forward, so Zhao Ming saw no reason for Cathay to not participate. His sister could deal with the ever expanding claws of Chaos, but he had an opportunity to exploit.
Perhaps it was time to once again show the might of the Dragon to the Ogres of the Mountain. Greasus Goldtooth was a shrewd and amiable business partner, but those who refused his rule could not afford to survive. It seemed he had to make an example of them, so the path East would truly open to the West.
From there, wealth would flow, curiosities would be acquired, and perhaps they could make a link to the West. He remembered that young man who had stood up to him so many years ago, who had managed to make his way to his Father and gained so much power and influence as a result.
He wondered how Dragomas was doing. Perhaps he could find out.
An Excerpt from the Journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 32
An Excerpt from the Journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
And so, dear diary, does my pen finally wander back to the tale I have teased to you afore. Almost. Let first us dwell on why it has taken me so long to commit pen to page, for in truth my excuses before were more hope than vow; writing of the dwarves of Everpeak did purge that anger but the roiling in my stomach remains. Telling you of the bond I am slowly building with Marshall Dreng was pleasant, but not calming.
For in truth I do not know how to feel. Or perhaps, I feel so much more intensely now than I ever have before.
I had a dream, dear diary. A Dream, for the first time, in truth, in my life. Shame and exaltation war within me for that fact.
Questing knights, the stories say, are guided by their dreams to exactly the places they are needed, the places they are tested, and the places where finally they are rewarded. You know I wandered whence I left Brettonia, seeing noble causes and seeking signs in my dreams. Dwelling on those dreams as I mediated and prayed, for if they felt different, if I could see the signs my Lady was surely sending me and was wise enough to follow them, then perhaps I could find the grail.
I thought the glory of the Damsel-Tale War was my sign. The Two Day War a second, and this chalice in the sky was our reward. I worried, then, though I told you not, that perhaps my quest had in truth ended there, noble as that would have been.
Dear diary, I was wrong. Some dream is not A Dream.
The first thing I felt upon waking was exhaltation. My Lady, she knew me and had touched me, reached out her hand and graced me! But the second was shame, for now that I knew her touch, how could I help but realize that never before had I felt it? My vows, my vigils through the night lest I sleep twice under the same moon, all now felt like a page playing at knighthood. My pretensions, pretending, posturing.
Why now? I write now to ask you what I dare not, will not ask in prayer: why now? I am a general and sit on the council of the Viceroy, and I have trained many men. Is it for that reason that my Lady now turns her face to me? Is it the dwarves, and her sudden interest now in me mirrors her land's sudden interest in these people and their king?
Shame, that it seems I am merely a tool, my sung deeds worth less than my future use.
Exhaltation, that I am a useful tool to my Lady, and so I am lifted up by her. For what knight could, should, desire any more?
My Lady, hear now this vow! I speak as I write, my trusted diary to preserve and witness- I will follow your guidance above all other things in this world. Let me think not of position nor lovers nor authority when you call, for you are Noble above all others, and I trust you with everything. By your wisdom it will all work out. This is my faith.
Ah, dear diary, but I trust she shall use me sorely, for how else might I be known worthy to her than by the tests she fashions? Too easily before I fell into arrogance, thinking that my deeds deserved some reward, that my glory meant I mattered specially to her. Yet I am joyful, for though I deserve it not, I DO matter now.
Such churn in my heart! Such difficulty in keeping food down 'pon thinking of it overmuch, for I'd call it a lingering affect of my fight if only the emotional association of it's appearance not so clear.
Thus. My long promised tale of the First Quest of Ser Soizic d'Karak.
I wrote of the dream as I woke from it, so I shall begin my tale on the next morn, when I marched out the gates of Und-Uzgar with a troupe of dwarven miners, headed north into the lesser peaks around us.
T'was a string of fifty carts about me, perhaps three times that in dwarves. I was blessed that Hubert had by fate arrived and was willing to serve as my second, though I swore him to the same oaths he extracted from me the time he fought the troll, for as that was a fight of honor for him, so now was this a matter of faith for me.
North, down to the grand crossroads where the road split- West to Karak Dhraz, East to the East Gate, North to Karag Ulric, and South, from whence we marched.
Idly I jested that I had often in damsel tales heard speak of the questing knight coming to a crossroads, guarded by a knight sans device or color, challenging all who passed by. Of course, dear diary, the punchline was that I was both guarding the crossroads AND questing onward at my Lady's bidding. Hubert merely gave me a tight grin. (He wore his nerves writ cross his face, moreso than I have ever seen even in war when our odds were at their darkest. I suppose two parts of me are pleased; that now he knows how it feels, and that he cares for me so obviously.) The miners laughed uproariously though, at a crack one of them made in khalazid- something about taking inspiration from the dwarves and working twice as hard as the humans in the stories.
East and then north we trod, leaving the main pass to head up the valley that led past the Barrows and towards the Uzkul mines, shedding our miner companions as they turned towards their work. There was some grumbling about the safety of letting the two of us wander alone in the mountains, but less than there might have been. And more than there might have been as well; for all that the humans of the Karak take pride in their closeness with the dwarves, I believe I've begun to see the dwarves grow possessive of "their" humans.
So when we crested the last ridge and I looked backwards to a view that my dream had seared into my head, it was just the two of us in an emptiness that stretched from jagged horizon to jagged horizon. Ahead, a cave. Here I bade Herbert wait, for there were no others with me in my dream, and made my final preparations. And respoke my oaths.
"I set down my lance, symbol of the duty..."
Purification is always the first step to approach holiness. With Hubert as my sentinel and his vow as a knight to not look upon me guarding my virtue, I removed my armor and gambeson, laid aside my silversteel spear and armament. With waters drawn from the Tarn by Her shrine under clean moonlight, I washed the dust from my body and anointed my hands and my brow.
Dressing again in white linen, I called for Hubert and stood, eyes ahead and prayers to the Lady on my lips, as he squired for me, strapping on my armor then stepping back without acknowledgement.
"I spurn those whom I love, I relinquish all, and take up the tools of my quest..."
My blade was a simple one, an arming sword I had carried since I left Brettonia. My shield was newly painted, my family's bridge and sword verte across a mountain in grey. My armor was full plate, newly wrought with all the metal-cunning of the dwarves, all rivets and bright silver chasing. No chain hung about me, for so cunningly articulated were even the knees and elbows that no gap went uncovered by plate steel.
"No obstacle shall stand before me..."
Forward then did I stride towards the black void that held my foe, up the slope of raw rock, where perhaps none had walked since the days of the ancestor gods of the dwarves.
"No plea for help shall find me wanting..."
Why was I there? Because, in the end, I was asked. King Belegar asked for help in reclaiming his home. Francesco asked for help, as he had no captains to guard his new city. The caravans beg for protection in their journeys, the miners ask for help with orcs and monsters.
And so the Lady had shown me where I might slay a monster for them.
"No moon will look upon me twice lest I be judged idle..."
We had set out early in the morning, but it was nearing dusk when at last I stood peering into the entrance, listening. The sun was well behind the mountain ahead of me. The moon was rising behind, my witness.
"I will give my body, heart and soul to the Lady whom I seek!"
This last line I shouted into the darkness, that it might know and fear what was to come.
Scene opens with a shot of Morrslieb hanging full in the sky, camera lingers as the sound of battle is heard. There is the distinct clash of swords, screams of dying men and the roar of Beastmen as they exalt in the kill. Until moments later there is a high pitched scream before everything goes silent.
It is then that the camera pans down to reveal a scene of carnage. Bodies scattered about the road, Human and Beastmen in equal measure, having obviously been the source of the combat earlier. Our view pans over to reveal dark robed figures, still mounted on their black steeds with their blades drawn and dripping blood. We also see the lone survivor, a halfling sporting a grey cloak who appears rather terrified as the Black riders approach.
"Where?" the leader figure asks, face beneath the hood nothing back a black void.
Shakily the halfling points down the road, "That way, three leagues." he says hurriedly.
Without a word the Black Riders take off down the road, weapons still drawn as they race at breakneck speed. The camera rushes ahead of them to a fortified village, a massive hole smashed through it's walls as Beastmen and monsters pour through the gap.
The Empire forces are valiantly trying to stem the tide, a line of warriors wearing animal pelts fires arrows upon an onrushing horde of twisted and mutated animals. Every shot downing a creature but they just keep coming until the warriors stop their bows and begin cutting at the horde with their bows. They seem to be holding until a large monster, a cockatrice flies over head and uses it's gaze to turning part of the line to stone.
Only for the beast to be shot out of the sky by a bolt of magic as a shirtless man with golden skin steps into the gap and casts a spell that strengthens the human warriors allowing them to hold firm even as the Golden man swats aside a twisted animal with his golden fist.
"Hahaha." a voice echoes out across the battlefield, seemingly drowning out the sounds of battle. The camera pans to a monster at the back of the enemy army, a twisted creature of mutated flesh astride an equally mutated steed. Most striking of both was the Warpstone that was seemingly grow from the creature like a twisted armor, in one hand it holds a staff of twisted bone with a skull of pure warp stone as it's head. "Mother watches me this night!"
Moonclaw, Son of Morrslieb
Raising his staff the shot pulls back to show Moonclaw in all his twisted glory, the Chaos Moon behind him framing his silhouette. As he does so the distant sound of hoof beats can be heard even as meteors streak from the sky to smash into the village and it's defenses. The defenders begin to buckle as new monsters begin to tear into their lines, camera cutting to shots of men being sent flying or are just devoured by the creatures.
From the woods behind Moonclaw the Dark Riders appear, their swords drawn as they seemingly aim to charge the breach. Only at the last moment as they pass the monster the lead rider attempts to strike down Moonclaw as a ear piercing scream erupts from them. Unfortunately Moonclaw blocks the blow with his staff even as the rest of the Riders smash into the backlines of Moonclaw's forces, the camera lingering on the giving an a shot from the Black Rider's perspective that gives a clear view of the area over Moonclaw's shoulder. The Camera pans slightly, Moonclaw's head briefly obscuring the space behind him, and when the space is visible once again a woman in grey robes and a Witch hunter's hat is standing their with her runed greatsword already moving to strike kill the monster.
Mathilde Weber, The Dämmerlichtreiter
There is a flash of flashing metal and a scream of agony. The camera cuts to an injured Moonclaw, a large gash in his body that was rapidly being sealed with warpstone growths, as it howled with fury. Magical energy courses through his form and with a final howl of rage he summons a massive monster, an incarnated avatar of the Beasts that howls to the moon above.
Camera cuts to Mathilde as the gold Wizard from earlier steps into shot to stand behind her. He is bloodied but mostly uninjured, his robes ripped to reveal the golden body beneath.
"You're late." he says, his tone casual despite the situation.
Mathilde smirk as she gathers magic in her hand, "A Wizard is never late." she says casting her spell causing her to summon her shadow steed as the Black Riders flank her. Without a word she charges Moonclaw and his monster, the Black riders at her side. Just before the two meet the scene freezes and the camera cuts to the DLC Title.
Ten years ago, it would probably have taken days or week before Boris even knew something was wrong. Border villages would have stopped sending messages and, in time, sightings of the warhost would have made it through to the capital in time. If he was lucky, the local aristocrat would have taken the matter seriously enough to send for reinforcements and from then he'd have had to get the nobility in line to coordinate a defense. By the time he was ready, much of the motherland would have been burning.
Instead, he was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of the first gyrocarriage arriving in is couryard.
He barely had the time to put on a bear pelt and head with his wife to the war room, after all, matters must be grave for such a breach of decorum by the Waystones Project representatives.
"I'm glad to see you Boris, although I would prefer it if I was bringing better news." The shadow infused woman intoned. "Nevertheless, there is work to do. We have received word from Karak Vlag through the Network. They are presently besieged and their scouts bring news of an even bigger force heading your way. Already, the output coming from the borders has started dipping. The signatories have been notified or are being notified right now. This might be a major incursion."
---
Always steadfast, Karaz Ankor were amongst the first to arrive. Dozens of metal airship carrying cannons, weapons and fast dispatch units for the signatories. Amongst the notable, Damsels and their Knights, Elven and human wizards, Runelords, Clerics and others.
Then the ships from Marienburg started arriving with supplies and armies, first a trickle, then a flood of armies and mercenaries from all over the Old World. The city was filled to the brim even though most stayed only for a few day before being directed to the front.
Boris looked at the north where he was heading to marshal Kislev's own forces. The fighting to be had would be grim, but this time they were not fighting alone.
So the talk about letter sending and pen-pals got this in my head.
But fuck me doing purple-pose on purpose is hard, and I haven't written in a while and I think Grammarly now has a grudge against me for just not just ignoring the 'too wordy sentence' comment, but using it as a good sign.
but here we are, the thoughts of a 'well-educated moron'.
Pen-Pals?
Sometime in the unclear future….
When the common Asur thinks of earth-shattering discoveries in magic, if they do think of the admittedly often less thrilling stories than the tales of Clashing steel and dragons breath; They think of the bards of Avelorn singing of the virtues of the triumphant discoverer and of great marvels of magic and might. Or possibly the shock and screaming of the debate hall and the last poems of those that fell to despair as their centuries of work turn to irrelevance at the revealing. of a single fact just found.
But the truth is that revelation among the learned in magic is most often ignored when it first takes life, belittled as it grows, and then must fight off and survive the assassinations of 'enlightened' mages as they are driven to madness to be proven fools.
It is even worse, when the revelations come from the wind-twisted-and-turned mind of a human apprentice, as those who witnessed the drama around letting the works of Kadon into the core study of Ghur and scrollwork can attest.
A drama about to be played out again in the coming years: suppose I was a betting lady.
I think they should be forgiven of any sin; if there is any to lay on them for simply revealing the truth, those diplomats sent to the king to the tribes of Sigmar.
For when they, the great mages of the Tower, were handed a curiosity sealed in bottles by Daroir of Nagarythe as a gift from the humans, they only thought to humour the pride of those learning to walk and to possible to show the high loremaster Telcis that his odd students have taken another small, but wonderful, step on the path of their betters.
They could not have possibly known that the Aethyr-Oriour or Aethyric Vitae, as named a bit crudely by its creator, was genuinely new. Even then, its true significance was largely unnoticed when the first small batch arrived in the Tower.
In privacy, I can admit to some slight fascination and fondness with following the growth of the High Loremasters odd students. Like a distant aunt occasionally watching the clan children learn and play with a smile. As long as my peers know better than to say such to my face! So while I would never do something so embarrassing and gouache as ask to be one in the high loremasters office to look through the papers and trinkets that came from distinct lands of humans, others must have noticed that I rarely fought with true spite when the task was forced upon me. So It was not wholely happenstance that I was there when the bottles of the Aethyr-Oriour was first unwrapped from its protective wrap of wool and leather, or that the name of journeywoman Weber was not wholly new to me.
It was pretty to the eye, but to the mind's eye, it was beautiful, so if I sinned in not reading the attached paper but for the title and a few words of the abstract before spinning the bottle in my hands to look at it from all angles, tipping small drops on the table to feel and sense and then to poke those drops with magic to see it burst into the winds with delight? Then it was a sin shared by my fellow readers as they crowded around the same table and bottle.
A sin shared by the growing crowd of onlookers as they walked past the opened door and noticed something afoot, always eager for new knowledge of the arcane. A sin shared by the higher-ups! Drawn through whispers faster than the wind, who were quick to bully and browbeat the, the now slightly dwindled, supply out of others hands and divide the vials up between themselves to be sent to their private labs. one bold old fool even daring to snatch some my fingers like a brute! I would have clawed his eyes out then and there for the insult if I didn't know that he once turned a Keeper inside out in his youth...
But could I truly blame the others for not thinking about the words of the discoverer? My personal interest aside, humans very rarely bring information to the table, with their understanding half-developed at its best, or what we, the greatest of the loremasters of the Asur, could not figure out ourselves more at a look?.
As seems to be typical of the human triumphs, it was only the high loremaster himself that decided to flip through the pages, just to have a sad glimpse in his eye and a disappointed frown on his face has he shaken it while putting it down and walked back to his office—obviously deciding that the writer must have come to all the wrong answers to the results of their experiments. A common outcome, but one I believe, quietly, that the humans are showing improvement with.
But unlike others, I did know the writer's name, for this was not the first of her work that found my interest. So I know her work to be of an almost, almost Asur quality! And so was not so sure that that they were as wrong as he assumed off hand.
Not long ago, I had very much toying with the idea of travelling to the old colony that is now the home of the tribes of Sigmar to give some light guidance to the locals. While I would never make, or allow without harsh rebuke, slander against the esteemed Teclis' abilities to teach. For having sat through more than one of his lectures, I can attest that it is his mind and passion that has led so many young maidens among the scholarly to his bed despite his unfortunate complexion. But much of his lessons had been focused on spells useful to the waging of war. Denying the troubled species the chance to gain much-needed enlightenment and self-betterment in the engagement of other implementations of the magical arts. I had once dreamed of compiling a grimoire of useful magics, taken from each of the eight lores and translated into their tongue, that would be safe, useful, and would have as little use on the battlefield as possible in order to help cultivate non-military advancement in magic among the humans. To become the shaper of magical artiest has Teclis was to their warriors; to bring them culture. I had even gotten as far in my plans as to get into contact with a passable speaker of Tar-Eltharin from the village of Altdorf to start completing my notes for translation.
Admittedly, My enthusiasm was dulled greatly when not only did this translater recognise the names of some (alright, many) of my chosen spells, from a friend among the local magic users, either Teclis was more thorough than I assumed or somehow, the humans had gotten their hands on the spells in the far past.
And it was dashed when I learned the stories on how the spells I wished to gift them were not quite as proofed against misuse as I had assumed.
But where was I? Oh, yes, Mathilde Weber. While I had found myself just a bit backed-tracked on how to begin my plans enlighted uplifting, I still used my placement in the office of the High Loremaster to keep track of the humans for any that might be moldable to a higher pursuit than just base violence. It was in this vigil that allowed me to come across an adorable invention of a spell called the 'Mathilde's Multidimensional Aethyric Polysevirric Projection', Free painting with magic, how wonderfully lovely! Though I wanted to spank that brat Olenus over the head for taking such an artistic idea from one of his juniors and twisting it into something so base as military maps and then claiming credit for himself. (it seems even the simple humans are not free of the military men taking more than their fair share and then some!)
But after spotting this diamond in the rough, I had gotten the office of primitive anthropology and Old-World events to have any copies of her work that was sent on to the Tower from the colleges go directly to my desk… possibly through the, um, less than authorised use of the high loremasters seal when I last acted as his attendant... but really, he is always happy to let others deal with some of his paperwork for him. As long as the important reports are on his desk, he is happy to leave the rest to those helping him. (Though I may now have a copy of a language translation of those vermin that I most definitely am not supposed to know even exists. But as far as anyone is aware, that seal was never opened… I think.)
But anyway, through a close eye on her short but interesting career, I do think I've found what I expected but am sad to see, a soul stifled by the militarism of her underdeveloped species—jumping from topic to topic in search of artistic releases! From magical cartography and the study of exotic and unseen magical species, to the unravelling of the barbaric minds and methods of the orc shaman and close observation of the behaviours of the vile undead and even dipping her hand into magical mycology. This was a surprisingly keen mind in search of inspiration, and who could see that there is more value to the beauty of the winds than just raw violence, and so should not be dismissed if she had finally found something worth bragging about.
So I, as someone humble, generous and patient enough to read the work of humans, with actualinterest at that, I sat down with a cup of wine later that day to read.
… it was fine? Liquid-like Aethyr that stayed relatively stable in this world by bypassing the process that splits the forces of the other side at the gates. Fascinating, and with many potential, if maybe not likely repeatable, experiments just begging to be tested. But with only one incredibly unlikely to be recreated, and by the sounds of it, very stretched thin, source of the substance, it was destined to be a fringe study. Disappointed, I left the topic to return to my own experiments and studies. Though happy at least one child found an area, they can actually develop the non-violent arts of magic.
It was a few days later, once again sorting through the messages from the human lands, the boring sort of letter sorting at that, as there was no primitive, modern or ancient, enactments or toys to poke at. (A task that is interesting despite what that Eataine-cow moans, those soul marks let the humans do such odd things… not truly useful compared to just using the correct wind for the job, but fun to pull apart and marvel at the workings. The fact that was not enough for her showing once again that she didn't belong in the Tower) that the High Loremaster barged in with an odd look on his face and asked for that paper again.
I was glad that it was Mage Athenfin that was asked and not myself, first because he deserved the embarrassment of being found not filing papers away properly for mocking my theory defence a few years back, the Chracean ass. And second, because I needed the time to run back to my study and back to slip it, and a few other works I did not ask to remove, back into the room.
But, after moving a few tables, I 'found' it wedged under a tea stand (honestly Athenfin, you really do deserve that dressing down if that's where you left it). With force, the high loremaster ripped open the papers and began reading through its contents… again… and again, and again. The look on his face turned to annoyance, then frustration, then worry until finally a calm and intense focus.
Then, suddenly, he shook his head and dropped the papers as if they stung him like those long-tailed bugs depicted in the tomb lands, demanded that someone write to his human students for more samples of the Aethyr-Oriour for himself, and then stormed off.
And while he was the first, over the weeks, either through their own tinkering or disturbed by the mutters of their peers behind closed doors. The other official or unofficial lords of the Tower would find their way into the room, ask for the paper and then leave after asking to send for more samples in their name and with rewards that they would give the humans for obeying. While implying that if some rivel were to do the same, to ignore them. But that part was business as usual.
No, what was odd was the looks they had, a few a nervous energy, others worry, some pale as ghosts and one practically spitting fire and denial.
It got to the point where I asked my former sponsor and master what was all the fuss about, only for her to tell me angrily to not get involved with such ridiculous drivel!
How dare she treat me as a child! Am I not a master of the High arts in my own right? She may be my former master, but she better not expect me at her garden parties for the next year!
But as any genius knows, it's often only when you let the back of your mind dwell and turn about a topic that truth that wisdom can spring forth. And so one night, the answer to the cause of the issue came to me.
The Aethyr-Oriour had a use, and not just some fringe use or token gimmick, but something fundamentally game-changing in some area of importance that could create a true gap between the haves and the haves not. That's the only thing that can explain the anger of the crowd: someone among the lords used their few drops to create something or did something without meaning to, something that now gives them an edge in some way, while everyone else used their's up playing. And as with many things with the culture of Ulthuan, someone else having something that gives them a leg up that you don't can not be allowed to go unchallenged.
I couldn't help but wonder, was it some type of power stone that works with pure Qhaysh? A staff core that increases the wielder's strength in a way greater than before? An Enchantment booster, And ingredient for rituals, Something more outlandish? Oh, how vexing to know there is a mystery but be helpless to even get a drop of the thing you wish to study!
But suppose the power brokers of the Tower are fighting to even send their letters to the sole owner of the source without sabotages. In that case, A letter from even a loremaster like myself will never make it to the boats if I were to inquire for some of the liquid.
….
Hmmm…
I have had thoughts of travelling to those lands to teach; maybe it would not be so bad to reopen those plans? And I have been eyeing this very human as a first disciple from my plans for their betterment, and if she found herself so moved by my generosity that she would let me into her own resources…
But no, even a human would not fall for such a blatant play, especially one I myself have admitted to being brighter than average. Even if there is truth to my wanting to help the poor primitives, starting with her and those like her.
… But, I have been keeping an eye on her studies and could conceivably be interested in any one of those other topics. And while a demand for the Aethyr-Oriour would likely be blocked by a more powerful rival, a letter of a different topic might be left through if only to study her reply themselves.
So, sitting at my desk, silver-tipped quill in hand, gold-dusted ick in a pot, and enchanted parchment ready, I began to write a letter detailing that I have been studying the transcripts of the Lectures she gave on Waaagh and Peace, and was hoping that she could expand on a few details, inserting a few tidbits about myself and my own studies to hopefully trap her interest for a future series of letters that might give me an excuse to visit if I just so happened to travel near her in the future. Before finally signing it with my clan seal and signature:
Sullasara Wendel, Servant of The White Tower of Hoeth, Tor Yvresse.
I had thoughts of actually doing the letter later, but honestly, it was hard enough to do what was in her head.
A Divided Loyalties Omake
End of the Road: Passing of the Torch
It was a swift, decisive movement slamming a book shut, an echoing sound that defined a moment. With withered hands Lady Magister Mathilde Weber returned the tome to it's appropriate spot, a complicated but necessary ritual, with a finality to her strides and gestures. It took her but a handful of minutes, longer than the day before, and left.
***
"Eike, there you are."
Magister Eike Hochschild turns from her students, her hand giving them a casual wave of dismissal, as she focuses on Mathilde, a bright smile on her face.
"Greetings Master, it's rare to see you come down from the tower these past couple of months, has something happened?"
The wizened wizard gives her a soft smile. "You could say that. An important matter has come up. I'd like you to come back to the tower, I have one last lesson to teach you."
If it was possible Eike's smile grew wider, "Master, I think you called my last last fourteen lessons your 'Last Lesson' for me." She still sidles up next to her teacher easily, and pries. "What could be so important that you had to come down and get me yourself? You could have sent any number of messengers, you didn't have to go out of your way for me."
"Well Eike, I figured it would be good for me, to get out of that dusty tower and walk around the Karak. I even spent some time with Belegor, making sure he's been paying attention to his Master of Scouts." Mathilde gleefully pokes back before her verbal riposte, "And speaking of, are there any, hypothetical, stories you could share with an old woman?"
It's a blunt redirection of the conversation, but one Eike allows her, grumbling only a little before delving into the latest actions of Karak Eight Peaks Scout Corp, specifically the recent assassination of an Black Orc Warboss that had sent Eike and her team on a two week hunt across two mountain ranges and ended in an abandoned section of the Underway that he had claimed as his base.
It's a good story that takes up the boring trek back to Mathilde's Tower and by the end of it both Wizards are engaged with swapping stories, little moments from adventures long past.
"Noooo! Your undergarments?! Master! How scandalous. Just imagine what others would say!" The wizards share a laugh as the climb the last leg of their journey, entering Mathilde's personal library.
"Oh, the young beautiful Wizard and the rough but kind Witch Hunter, locked in a room together, it's right out of a romance novel." The wizard lord settles into her preferred reading chair, the one made out of the dragon skull she had stolen from Alkharad or Alhazred or whatever his name had been, and all but collapses into it. And as her breathing settles the mood shifts. With each breath she sits taller and straighter, the mists and shadows draw around her, and finally she opens her eyes and meets Eike's, whose already sensed the change in her master's mood and shelved the random book she had been perusing.
Wizard and wizard, master and apprentice, surrogate mother and all-but-adopted daughter. The weight of a relationship built over decades hang over the two of them and Mathilde hesitates. What she's about to do could not be undone.
"Eike, within the walls of this room lies the greatest secret I have ever kept. In all the decades I've lived, I have breathed nothing of the truth. I've skirted it, talked around it, but no one should ever, could ever, expect the truth. Not Belegor nor Algard, not Heidi or Mandred, not even Pan. It is protected by the greatest defenses I could devise and hidden to the best of my ability. And I know that you will be able to find it, I've taught you everything I know." A small smirk breaks through Mathilde's façade, "Well, I suppose not everything, but certainly every other conventional and unconventional trick and application of magic I know. Here, take this key," she holds out a plain bronze key and waits as Eike comes close to do so before resting her empty hand on Eike's shoulder, drawing her close and whispering, "the key doesn't matter, as long as you know the password: Senthoi. I have full confidence you'll know what to do with it."
Eike straightens back up, already mentally tearing the key apart to understand it's role in her master's puzzle, and casts her eyes around the library. "Right, so any other cryptic hints, perhaps on where to start Master?"
The little Damelichter walks towards a random shelf, before prompting her teacher again, "Well Master? No witty insult or obtuse lore?" Two, three, four more steps echo in an eerie silence.
"Master?" Eike turns back to her Master's chair and knows. "Master Mathilde!" The key drops from her hand as she scrambles back to what she knows but doesn't want to acknowledge, wrapping her arms around the still body. There's no heartbeat. No breathing. Just a small satisfied smile at a job well done.
***
The puzzle Mathilde had left for her was as obnoxiously long as it was complex. Having the key to open a chest or a safe or locked door was all well and good, but without knowing where the lock is, everything else is useless. But Eike was always a clever girl and her master had given her more to work with than Eike had originally thought. 'In this room'. Three simple words that kept the grey magister from having to search not only the entirety of Mathilde's Tower but also Karak-Eight-Peaks, the Colleges, or even Mathilde's Fief in Stirland, cutting the work down from an impossible feat for one person to merely impossibly stressful for one person.
With the search area secured, the next thing was to start looking. A prospect easier said than done. Lady Mathilde's personal library was incomparable to most in the world, deviating by scope, scale, subject, and organization, but to start with, her master's bibliophilia prevented her from maintaining anything approaching a small collection of books for her personal perusal and it had more in comparison with the libraries of established settlements or the wealthiest of collectors than that of a mere hobbyist. To end with, it was the work of nearly two days to reorganize and categorize her hoard with a small team of borrowed apprentices. They didn't find anything obvious, but Eike expected that. Whatever secret a Lady Magister decided was her greatest wouldn't be kept out in the open for anyone to casually stumble upon.
All the usual tricks were checked, hidden doors, false walls, pocket dimensions, the ceiling, the floorboards, the furniture, illusions, and mind tricks and found nothing outside of the expected defenses. Even the books were doublechecked. With the simplest solutions coming up empty, more to make sure there wasn't a bluff, it was time for the real work to begin. The books were returned to where they were before their efforts and Eike set her borrowed help on their way.
This would be the second roadblock. Where again was she supposed to look? The second clue, was of course the bronze key Mathilde had given her. A cursory look into it revealed that the key could extend and rotate in places by a series of grooves and locked into place by sets of pins, revealing hidden holes and precise lines that denote length and angles behind the surface. It was by a passing memory and a quick test that Eike realized the tool in her hand could be placed on a page of a book then through careful adjustments and turns would line up and display the letters underneath. A cypher key to point out hidden messages.
But she would still need to find the book her master's secret message was written in, and the answer came as Eike delved into Mathilde's favorite novels and found a copy of Miriam Webb's Hunters in the Dark, her master's attempt at writing a romance novel of her own, under a pseudonym of course. And there on page 281, and just like Matilde had said, "The key doesn't matter, as long as you know the password." It's a Witch Hunter, talking to the main love interest, a Wizard. The next line read "She leans in and and whispers her repressed feelings, 'I love you.'" A romance between a Witch Hunter and a Wizard. Subtlety never was Matilde's strongest suite.
Ignoring the sappiness of the moment Eike laid down the cryptic key and began adjusting it, starting at the most logical place; 'password. S', then e, then n, rotate the key to find the nearest t, h, o, and i, making notes on what letters line up with the holes along the way, the lengths and angles, what letters are pointed out by the key's bitings and tip, even the number of times she has to reset the key. Anything could be useful in figuring out her master's cypher and she'd rather have useless information than missing information. At the end of the day she had a mix of capitol and lowercase letters and a trove of numbers and all that was left was decrypting it all.
Two days and almost two dozen false starts later Eike strikes gold when she realizes the result of of initial decryption has two parts, capitol letters for part of one incomplete code and lowercase for another which combined with an Aethyic formulae Mathilde had penned while plugging in the angles in a reverse alphabetical order that they were obtained leads to a second Eltharian word and a page number. From there the process repeats three more times. And then it doesn't. Blank spots appear in the key, the information she needs not there and for a moment Eike had sat terrified that she had made a mistake.
But a decade of training and decades more of utilizing that training stops her; One: Don't Panic, and Two: Explore Every Other Avenue Before Restarting.
A closer examination of the page shows her exactly what the niggling feeling in her gut said would be there, invisible ink. Reworking the page a second time accounting for the new letters puts her on the right path once again. And when the cypher changes on a random page she calmly decyphers it and moving on. Again and again little problems are added to the gauntlet, different types of invisible ink on the same page, a second cypher that that needed to be solved by using the information gained from the first to reveal the true letters, and even spontaneously changing the formula are thrown at her.
And by the end of the week Eike is left with a stack of pages full of instructions. At first glance they seem to be another code. SOW, PAOS, PGODC, and FIN and more. But decades of living alongside the Head Librarian of the world's greatest library turns the next hurdle into a complete non-issue. Shadows of War, Practical Applications of Silk, Primer Guide on Dwarven Culture, and Frolicking in Nature. Book names, and ones Eike knows from personal experience are waiting on the shelves above her.
With practiced precision she goes down the list, dancing from 'Studies on Conjured Alcohol' to 'Autopsies of Deep Sea Creatures', a growing pile of books in the center of the room containing a seemingly random assortment of literature that keeps getting added to. From a pile, to stacks, to what can only be called a mountain of paper and ink that Eike begins to refer to as Mt Knowledge.
Eventually the list comes to an end and Eike casts her eyes over the ravaged racks, the shelves looking pillaged and in many places pitifully barren. Each empty space causes a twinge in Eike's heart and she can't help but take a break from the numbing effort of solving her Master's last mystery, dragging her hand across the ranks of shelves.
Her stomach lurches and her eyes grow strained for just a second. Was something there?
With a growing sense of something that she had long ago learned to trust she presses her thumb into the shelf's edge and runs it along past the book, book, book, and notes how far she's actually walked back.
Forcing herself to maintain her calm, Eike focuses her eyes on the three books section of the wall as she stumbles backward, blindly grasping for the discarded list of books before returning to her place. Marking her place with a solid grip on the edge of the mysterious space she tears through the pages, cursing the lack of foresight in not creating an additional list where the books were organized in any manner other than the seemingly randomized manner revealed by her master's puzzle. But experienced librarian's eyes accurately rips through the list nonetheless, every book from this shelf standing out among the rest, one, two, three...fifty-six books from the section and fourteen from this row in particular.
She turns to the mountain of literature, before quickly deciding to trust her gut over diving into madness trying to find fourteen specific books out of nearly five hundred stacked high. 'Maybe,' she wonders, 'I shouldn't have rushed to get everything off the shelves...' before dismissing the thought. Organizing the books was obviously going to be her next step, she just either got sidetracked or jumped ahead. Whichever it was depended on what happened next.
Drawing on memories of helping Mathilde work on Defensive Memes: Weaponized Clichés for the Purpose of Tricking the Mentally Unwary and How to Circumvent Them, Eike focuses on the feelings of her windsight and and gut feelings, trusting in all of her training, and reaches out towards the three books . And it's only then she feels the subtle magic woven between the shelves, like a clear piece of glass in water, hidden unless you knew exactly what to look for.
The mentally trickery is simple, as it should be, as she probes it out. Too complicated a mental suggestion and it sticks out as odd, too basic and it might not work, or even work too well. She had vague memories of a rotten apple both she and Mathilde had forgotten about in a test chamber for several months until a passing dwarf commented on the rotten fruity smell the two of them had known about but could never truly pinpoint.
Probing the spell requires a great deal of focus, but the numerous techniques and tests Eike was equipped with had solved the mystery of more than one exotic magic. In the case of this enchantment it simply filled in the gaps, so to say. On a full shelf wandering eyes would simply skip over the patch, seeing it as merely more books, and when the shelves were empty it would look empty as well. That was why it was so noticeable now, the magic was caught in the extreme between the two states, half-empty and half-full, making it stand out against close inspection. A cold sweat trails down Eike's neck at the thought. Strained to the degree that it was and it was at worst noticeable to a trained Magister-grade Grey Wizard upon a literal up-close examination.
'Just what are you hiding Master?'
With a series of careful 'tugs' she gains enough 'slack' to take a full look at the 'weave' of the spell and identifies the crucial aspect. With a 'pinch' and a 'pull' she draws the 'slack' 'tight' once more and hesitates...admiring the masterpiece of mental trickery her master had devised, before letting out a sigh. With a 'cut' she severs the borders of the magic and like water it spills out of the space it had been sealed to.
She does not hesitate in approaching the shelf a final time, taking in the hidden books before her:
A Full and Accurate Census of All Varieties of Undead within the Hunter's Hills, 2476, By M. Mathilde Weber (Grey), E.C. Abelhelm Van Hal (Templar) (S·T·T·L), J. Maximilian de Gaynesford (Gold)
The Neglected Front: Economic Warfare against the Vampiric Bloodlines, by E.C. Roswita Van Hal (Templar), E.C. Abelhelm Van Hal (Templar) (S·T·T·L), M. Mathilde Weber (Grey), Chaplain Kasmir Heinz (Stirland), Steward Rodebrecht Brennen (Stirland)
The Premier Primer on Dhar and Those that Use It, by L.M. Mathilde Weber (Grey)
Her own sharp breath in disbelief draws Eike from her stunned discovery. Mathilde's most controversial book had only eight copies that she had known about, one each for the colleges in Altdorf, plus possibly one in the possession of the Ice Witches of Kislev and even less likely one shipped off to the White Tower on Ulthuan itself. It shouldn't have been a surprise to see her master had kept a version of it for herself, but it still was.
Which was why it was baffling why one of the rarest books in the world would be in the same spot as two of the most mundane papers she could think of.
With trepidation Eike pulls the books off the shelf one by one, left to right. She opens them up and skims them cover to cover but finds nothing that stands out in them. If the cypher continues through the mountain of books behind her into these three she's in for months of difficult work, so she holds out for a hope she's simply missing something, and so it's only barely by chance that as she tucks the three books under her arms that she looks straight-on at the mysterious shelf space and notices the slight discoloration of the natural rock wall. A minute detail only picked out by her years living in Karak-8-Peaks alongside the Dwarves.
Drawing her closer in curiosity the discoloration seems to glow...because it was! As her finger probes the mark, tracing it, the slightest of light reflecting off of the digit grows brighter, though it fades as her hand flinches back. Then a second time with more confidence and the glow returns. She finally stands back from her spot, amazed and shocked at the same time. A dwarven rune.
With sudden clarity Eike scrambles to every spot she had pulled books from and notes how each shelf section also have runes carved onto the walls as well. Grabbing a set of parchment she gets to work copying the runes down, listing them in the order they would have been revealed going down the decrypted list of books, searching out a pattern.
Just how much work had her master put into this challenge? Surely she couldn't be far off from finishing it? There's dozens of phrases that could be used, Branulhune or Unseen but not Unfelt, it could be something personal and private to Mathilde for security or something so mundane and generic it could be anything else.
Eike stands on the precipice of the latest obstacle for what feels like days, hands massaging tired eyes, her mind analyzing and working over every idea and thought. Had she by coincidence managed to skip ahead of her master's laid out challenge and now found herself needing knowledge hidden along the path she skipped? Or was there some other riddle at play? Did she risk wasting months doublechecking everything so far, or risk wasting an unknowable amount of time searching for a path forward blindly? Would there be a punishment for failing this section of the puzzle, whatever secret destroyed rather than be risked?
Thoughts war in her mind, every memory of Mathilde playing through like a hundred theater plays running at the same time, searching for some clue. From her earliest meetings with her before discovering magic to the years of her apprenticeship to the life they made in Karak-8-Peaks. And inevitably, their final moments play out, as she stares at the dragonchair. The desire to just collapse into it pulls her close enough brush her hands across bone and silk cushions.
"The key doesn't matter, as long as you know the password."
It's not a burst of energy that revitalizes her, but it's enough to get her moving again. Translating Eltharin into Dwarven Runes isn't easy, but by this point she had faced far harder challenges in this final test so it's almost a trivial issue, more a matter of time before she makes her way to each sequential rune and pressing it in the correct order. Senthoi, the elven word for unity, loyalty, and broken promise.
The final rune is pressed, but nothing happens until, with a fatigued sigh, Eike returns to the mysterious shelf space and presses the rune there as well.
In an unceremonious motion the rock wall behind the last rune swings open like it's on a hinge and she nearly cries as she realizes how literal "within the walls of the room" her master's last words were.
But all fatigue and frustration flee with a fearful rush of adrenaline as she recognizes the book Mathilde had built this entire test around. Plain, battered leather, unadorned by filigree or illustrations, it nonetheless possesses a pull to it that churns in Eike's gut. With hesitant hands she draws it into the fading light of dusk and candles, marveling and terrified at how stable the magic contained is. She opens the cover to the title page and finds what she already knew.
The Liber Mortis. The original Liber Mortis. Written in the hand of the man that saved and doomed Sylvania, Baron Frederick Van Hal.
In a decisive movement she slams the book shut, the echoing noise ringing out defining the moment, and throws it back into the safe.
"Oh Master! What have you done?! You'll know what to do? With that?" Does she? Is she supposed to keep it safe, like Mathilde herself did? Or, the dark thought swirls, was she to use it? The lessons taught to her, by Mathilde herself, of Grand Theoginist Kurt III and his use of a mere copy of the book before her to stop the Third Vampire War rise unbidden. "Or...," as the sun sets behind the ring of mountains, the image of Mathilde's body comes to her. No one would think anything of her visiting the catacombs where her adopted mother lay preserved, still awaiting the rites and ceremony for her funeral. Still in near perfect condition...
Eike, stricken and paralyzed by the surge of competing emotions gathers enough of her wits and asks herself, what will she do?
End of the Road Part One (?) End
I had a vision of an omake. One that's been kicking around in my head for a while now. This is not that omake. This is like the second or third idea I had that spawned from the first. I thought this would be a fairly short work, but I kept thinking up more ways to add to the central challenge, and while I am proud of it, it grew wildly from what I envisioned. It didn't help that I lost progress at one point and had to redo a chunk it, making that section twice as long in the process. And just in general I'm not the happiest with the whole thing. But...
I did enjoy going through and rereading a bunch of early bits of the quest, looking for info to flesh this out. There's a bunch of references to things from all over the story, and even some direct parallels to certain events. I also had a blast expanding and extrapolating a potential future for Mathilde and Eike, and even the world a little bit.
I do hope the whole challenge gauntlet of mystery Mathilde set up makes sense, there is a lot more I could have done to show things like, Mathilde purposefully put the hidden section at Eike's eye level, Eike did in fact skip at least one or two steps to actually be pointed in the direction of 'look at all these half-empty shelves', and that by the end Eike was really burning the candle at both ends for awhile trying to solve the puzzle as fast as possible, even though that one was a fairly late idea added because of my own fatigue, but I needed to finish this. I even planned out this whole section that showed Mathilde's body was still being preserved because the Belegor was going to throw this massive funeral for her and invited people from all over the Old World, but just never fit.
In the end though, I am satisfied.
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An Excerpt from the Journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 33
An Excerpt from the Journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
An eye opened in the darkness.
First vertically, like a maw yawning open, then horizontally, like a forge door sliding back. Burning with malice and orange light, Iarge enough and close enough that I could see myself like a ghost in the vertical black slit of it's pupil.
But the Lady was with me, I feared no darkness. Her light shone upon me, and by her grace I saw.
I moved forwards even as the eye recoiled back and up, rearing a dozen feet above me. The cave, inky black a moment ago, now filled as if from dim torchlight by the serpent's burning gaze and the touch of the Lady upon me. Dear diary, I shone! Glowing, actually glowing, for the silver light of the pure moon shown on me no matter in what darkness I stood.
But in that light, I beheld the serpent of my Dream, and Dear Diary, I must at least give it it's due. It was a worthy monster.
Teeth the size of my hand filled in the jaws of a head halfway between a snake and a horse- t'was an armspan from eye to eye as it faced me. Scales so dark green as to be black in most lights, coarse like stone worn away by currents. A long neck that swelled slightly into a body, sinuously curving to a pair of clawed legs and a tail curling to a sharp stinger. A Lyndwyrm, as my people would name it, with only the hind legs of a true dragon to set it above crawling on it's belly like a snake. Head of a horse, teeth of a shark, body of a snake, legs of a lion, stinger of a scorpion, and scaled all over. Lo, though, did I perceive: this vast and darkly magnificent beast was not hatched a Lyndwyrm but rather a Wyvern! Upon it's shoulders stood lumps of gnarled scars, as if some beast even more powerful than it had eaten its wings whilst it still lived. For years it must have brooded and nursed it's wounds hiding in this cave, a grave threat awaiting a careless human or preoccupied dwarf to awaken it to a rampage.
I leapt forwards, down the slope from the cave's mouth, planting my feet on flats by grace alone, the pure steel about me ringing like a bell with each jolt. The Lyndwyrm flashed forward, claws tearing into rock with a terrible ripping sound, jaws opened for my head.
I kicked forward and dropped, sliding forward, striking sparks from my tassets. The wyrm must have noticed despite the angle, for it bent it's neck down to follow me at the last moment, catching my rising shield on the chin and deflecting up again- though a thousand pounds of force hammered me into the ground, breaking my planned swipe at it's vulnerable throat like a piece of cheap pottery and nearly taking my collarbones down the same path.
Ah, for those afternoons spent with Hubert dreaming of monsters and how to fight them... Dear Diary I must say that the opener he had vouched for against beasts that led with their mouths would have worked, were it not for my own failure in its execution.
Above me the wyrm committed to it's rush, two pounding footsteps closing as I performed the remise of my attack. With torque from my right knee on the ground twisting out to a whipcrack of a cut against it's abdomen, (which also flipped me from flat on my back to resting on my left side) i dodged the taloned claw that slammed into the ground just vacated by my hip.
I continued my twist into a roll facedown to my left, mind already on the stinger in the tail- but the wyrm broke stride with a stutter kick, missing it's footing and curling into a sort of a shoulder roll, but also scraping a claw down the outside of my thigh where it caught on the plating of the knee, and ripped it off with a shriek of tearing metal.
I stood. The wyrm as well, it's head pointed straight at me even as it's gnawed-upon shoulder made contact with the earth, eyes eeriely motionless as it's body from the neck down twisted and writhed until it's legs were underneath it again. We regarded each other.
My cut had broken through it's hide, though not deeply, and a handspan of liver hung out. It's claw had destroyed the armor on my left knee, though by the Lady's grace I still had mobility in the joint.
It had shown itself crafty, wise to my ploy and willing to move in a way it could not have before it's injury. I knew I could hurt it, but even the Lady's blessing would not save me from any errors I made trying.
It again led the tempo, sweeping forward in a great S from left to right to left again, angling in to threaten my shielded side with darting snaps. I saw what it was doing, the movement and feints to pull my attention (and were I foolish, retaliation) as it's stinger floated to my right before snapping at my kidneys. I could not turn my shield from the wyrm's teeth and so parried with my blade, batting it out and away, even as I stepped forward and to the right, into the curve of the wyrm's body, trying to get inside and behind it's snapping head.
Again, it almost worked. This time though, the price for 'almost' was steep indeed.
I had forgotten the stinger. Foolishly, I can only say in my defense that I imagined it to be following a trajectory like a javelin knocked away- but the wyrm had wrenched it's hips out from the circle it had been forming even as it let it's trail drop.
The snap back of the stinger missed impaling me, though perhaps it would have been better if it had; instead even as I pivoted to bring my sword down behind the jaw, the tail wrapped about my legs, then unwrapped like the string wrapped about a child's top.
I was jerked two paces back and spun, my cut suddenly aimed down the throat of the wyrm even as the world jerked and tilted and it's jaws slammed shut.
Dear Diary, I confess I screamed when the teeth crunched through my vambrace and shattered my sword. My body, already half- spun into the air, was pulled horizontal as I faced the ceiling.
I embraced it. That is to say, I saw the smouldering eye off above my right shoulder, then I made a motion as if hugging, whence I drove the corner of my shield into that bastard's eye with every ounce of strength I had.
The shield sank into the slit pupil, slammed sideways a moment later by the inner lid with a noise like pulling a boot from mud; I felt it hit something harder just before the outer eyelids shut and expelled the intrusion.
I had hoped the wyrm would release my swordarm, instead it jerked it's head right straight through where my body was, pinning me against the cave wall. Ichor from the burst eye splattered next to me, and on me. Then as the wyrm hissed with a deep growling note rumbling from it's chest, I realized that my earlier mistake had compounded itself.
When first I had glimpsed the teeth lining the wyrm's mouth, I had noted that there were no prominent fangs as one would see in a venomous snake, so I had assumed the beast carried poison only in it's tail. I was mistaken. And as I gasped for breath against wall and tugged my arm against the teeth peircing it I realized: there were no fangs because the teeth were ALL fangs.
Poison flooded into me as noxious fluids dripped and drooled onto the floor a span beneath my kicking feet. With few other options and no leverage to punch, instead I brought my left arm over my head and back down in an exaggerated wave, aiming the bottom kite point of my shield again into it's eye at the seam of the eyelids. This time the wyrm did release me, jerking it's head away and tossing me a half dozen paces onto the rock.
Again we regarded each other. This time it's cyclopian visage did not evidence malice, but anger. Ask me not how I could tell the difference, for I could not tell you, such only was my instinct.
As for myself, I was covered in blood and ichor, my blade was snapped a half-foot from the hilt and rested twenty feet away besides, and burning poison wept from the half-dozen punctures disabling my right arm.
But moonlight still shone upon me.
Even in that moment, especially in that moment, I could feel The Lady's touch. The burning in my blood redoubled as I staggered to my feet, but pain did not follow: instead my injured arm began to smoke as if the armor were red-hot, and the Lyndwym's poison burned from it.
Praise the Lady, for no poison will she suffer to strike me down, not while I fight in her name!
Little time was I given in the moment, for no sooner had I realized this than the beast again rushed upon me. Weaponless, I broke for it's blindside, baiting it to lash out with a claw. It did, blindly swiping as I danced back, so when it missed and planted itself on the ground I leapt forward upon it. With all my might I brought down my shield like an axe-blade on the haft of my arm, and struck those delicate bones between claw and ankle a crushing blow.
Too crushing, I suppose, for the beast yanked back it's foot, falling and rolling as if to crush me as well but I had the measure of it- I dove to my right, under it's body as it fell, and rolled to my feet already running back at it even as it's head oriented on me and struck.
(Have I told you before, dear diary, of the laughter that Hubert and I had shared in our discussions of monsters? Usually at our own foolishness, as we jested and proposed increasingly outlandish ways to attack and cause injury to our imagined opponents. Though even the most outrageous... I have it on good authority that at least one skaven died of having it's own tail fed down it's nose in the reclaimation, so truth still remains stranger than my fantasies. I bring this up because what I did next was something that we had discussed before, in that context. I had laughed at the very idea.)
With only a moment to act, I braced my shield against my shoulder and hopped right. The wyrm must have expected me to go once again for it's blind spot, and in the midst of it's lunge could not correct fast enough- there was a flash of teeth right by my face and then I swayed left, ramming the point of my shield between the wyrm's teeth, as deep towards it's cheek as I could, then let my arm slip from the springy piece of tempered metal as the beast's momentum carried it forward.
I paid a price- my shield, and a scarred lump of a massive shoulder catching me like an iron plow turning the earth- but the wyrm paid greater: deep in it's back teeth was wedged my shield and it could not close it's mouth! When it bit down my shield flexed like a spring, and when it roared the gouges it's teeth had made on the edges held it in place.
Not even three minutes into the battle, and we were both on the edge. My sword was broken, my shield sacrificed, my right hand bitten and useless and the armor torn from my knee. Three times I'd been struck with a force like a battering ram and though nothing broke, I could feel bone-deep bruises flushing hot all over my body.
My opponent, my challenge, still stood half again as high as I, and stretched four times as long. It still had it's tail stinger, and it's left claw as weapons, and it looked haler than I for all it had spilled more of its blood than I had in the whole of me. It's right eye was burst, it favored it's right claw, and my shield turned it's mouth from a weapon to a vulnerability. It had a cut on it's abdomen, just below the ribcage.
It was then, dear diary, that I knew how I was going to win.
I ran for the broken fragments of my sword. The wyrm hesitated- whether I suprised it, it was distracted by the shield, or beginning to fear me I shall never know- but rushed upon me when it realized I sought my weapon, though too late. I snatched up the hilt in my left hand and pivoted to charge the wyrm in turn, three steps into my sprint ere we crossed.
Once again I kicked forward into a slide even as the beast rutted for me with it's lower jaw, but this time I knew it's cunning and sought no blow upon it's neck. Thus lower did I bend, even my back to the ground, cleanly under it until once again I repeated my first blow.
There was no sword in my limp and bloody hand, no chance of injuring the beast. But when I snapped my punch through the slit in it's scales and up to my elbow in it's liver, t'was merely holding on that was my intent.
Prepared as I thought I was, my inexperience still shown: even as I secured my anchor the sheer weight and momentum of the beast did not stop, and when my direction was reversed it was with a shuddering POP! in my elbow and blinding pain.
Then the beast slammed it's chest to the ground and I did truly know the attention of the prince of pleasure.
Unable to see, for my helmet was smashed between wyrm and rock; barely able to think, for the screaming pain in my limb; I knew I had to complete my plan or I would die.
So on feel and instinct I stuck my left arm into the slit on the wyrm's belly right next to my right- and though my right was twisted down toward the wyrm's tail with my left I sawed towards it's throat, the bare inches of blade in my hand restrained from their motion by-
Again it slammed me into the ground. Foolish beast. I had been blinded and in pain with almost no leverage, and here it did me the favor of forcing my questing blade straight through it's diaphragm. Letting go of the hilt, letting the beast scrape me off it's belly and retreat, that was perhaps the easiest part of the entire fight.
The stabbing blow from the stinger I had forgotten about, threading between my tassets and my breastplate to deliver it's load of poison into my abdomen, was less welcome.
Dear Diary, I couldn't help it. I started laughing.
For the Lady protects. And even as I shook off my lethargy and pushed myself up to view my enemy, my wound began to smoke, spitting out poison mixed with blood as if a clog were being driven from a steam pipe as the dwarves use.
My enemy was in worse shape. It had retreated to let it's poison finish me off, wary of tricks as I lay still a moment. But by the time I pulled off my helmet and flopped around enough to see, it must have realized it had taken a mortal wound.
I lay and watched it twist and turn, a step towards me as if to finish me off, then three steps away in retreat as if to try and save itself, figeting before it's legs gave out. I watched it's gaping jaws and nostrils flare for air, barely getting any as it's chest wound hissed and sucked. I watched it try to breath out and choke, it's eye bulging as no air came from it's mouth, but blood and viscera sprayed under pressure out it's gut.
It took longer to watch it die choking than the whole battle before, but when it was finally at rest, I drew myself up. My armor I had slowly discarded on the floor about me; burst strapping and bent plates made it impossible to move in after the adrenaline of battle subsided. My white linens, clean not even an hour ago, were now torn and soaked in blood, both from the battle and from my own efforts to crudely bind my wounds. Much of my skin was bare. I cared not. I had won.
But what of Hubert?
Limping quietly, I made my way back up and out the cave, pausing at the mouth. A two dozen yards away, Hubert knelt, back resolutely towards the cave, praying. I was touched, dear diary, for his trust that I would not fall and leave an enemy to come for his back. That he trusted me to win more than he trusted himself to watch and not interfere. I walked towards him, quiet as a ghost without armored boots, even as I noted distantly that blood loss had made the world dreamy.
"...call upon the wolf of battles, to see her and reward her strength with victory. Let her come back to me. Father of winter, preserve for me the fire of my heart, for your strength reaches where mine cannot. Lord Ulric, hear my faith..."
He chanted softly to himself. A pewter wolf's head rested in his hands, I saw as I drew closer, and then softly laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Hi..." was all I could manage.
But his gasp, the feel of tension just draining out of his shoulder, the way he melted into me instead of jumping in surprise?
Dear Diary, I love him.
But the tension draining from him drained it from me too, and I wavered, then began to collapse. The last I remember is being caught up in his arms as great wings of light opened behind him, and him whispering softly to me.
I hope you are doing well back at home and I do miss you and uncle Anton.
I don't know if I like the Grey college very much. I like it a little, I think, but I'm not sure if I like it a lot.
Somedays it's nice, it is fun solving the different puzzles and there is a lot of reading of hard books, I don't think I like reading the hard books, but thanks to your training I'm very good at it, and being good at it is nice.
And magic is exciting, but also scary. In sone ways more then when I didn't know anything about it. Like how [redacted] but some of the teachers are very silly in how they act. Was Lady Magister Mathilde one of the silly wizards or the scary ones? I hope she won't be one of the scary ones.
The other girls in the dorm are alright, but I think they don't like me very much. They act like they like me but it doesn't feel right. Most of [redacted] I think they know that I'm not going to be like them in how I will be doing the grey wizard thing. Like with the EIC and how Lady Weber is going to be my master, I think they think I have a gold spoon, at least I think that they think that.
I don't like [redacted] I think the priestess would be unhappy with those lessons, but I think I understand why the Grey colleges say that it's important. Does that make me a bad Shallyan?
But I really like exploring the college itself, there is so many things to find [I'm sorry madam, but there was just no way to selvage any of this part without breaking security, the little lady was explaining how she really enjoyed how much of a labyrinth the college is.]
I do kind of like how I'm allowed to do thinks in my own way, but it's kind of scary too. It was hard, but easy to just do what everyone wanted me to do before, mom, you, the EIC. If that makes sense, but the college and Lady Weber want me to make my own choices, and that's hard, but really really nice. But scary.
I hope that I will get to see you when a become Lady Weber's student. I don't want to have to wait for my journey.
The doves blessing to you
Eike
(I wanted to capture that while it's not all bad, the colleges are really not a nice or fun place a lot of the time. Mathy being very biased from her poor background and traumatic joining. I don't think Eike, with her more comfortable background and more loving family would take to the setting as well, at lest at the beginning.)
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The Lady Sigillite 1: I'm Helping Conquer The Galaxy?
Hovering above a iron column, held in place by a stasis-field, is a copy of The Lady Sigillite 1: I'm Helping Conquer The Galaxy? The blurb reads;
LADY MAGDA WESSEN, WIZARD-KNIGHT, led an assault on an INSIDIOUS CULT'S LAIR, but in the fighting was thrown into a DARK PORTAL, leading into the maddening alter-world of the TWIST! Defying the RUINOUS GODS, she fought her way out, but found herself FAR FROM HOME....
Now, she is MARY VON GREY-WEST, LADY SIGILLITE, one of the highest positions in the DOMINION OF HUMANITY. Her lord, THE GOD-KING HELDENSTAR, is beginning his COSMIC CONQUEST, to bring all the STARS under the control of MANKIND! At his side are the ARCH-LORDS, his sons and generals in this great war. But while he is busy with matters of GREAT IMPORTANCE, managing these UNIQUE and FORCEFUL personalities falls to MARY!
Some, such as the CHARISMATIC and DUTIFUL GULLIAN SAIL welcome MARY's sound advice, while others such as the WILD and BARBARIC RUFF ULRUN show her only disdain. But MARY will have to use all her CUNNING and WILES to HARNESS these ROUGH warlords, as the galaxy is infested with FOUL ALIENS and REBELLIOUS COLONIES! Can she help GUIDE HUMANITY in a new GOLDEN ERA? Can she find her way home to her LOVED ONES, or will the ALLURE and WONDER of this STRANGE FUTURE convince her to stay FOREVER?
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