Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest

[SaltyWaffles]

Excerpt from the biography of King Byrrnoth Grundadrakk of Barak Varr:

King Byrrnoth Grundadrakk, unlike most of his predecessors, was not remembered for the commissioning of a great dreadnought, those metal fortresses that challenged any and all ships upon the seas with confidence. He was not remembered for leading a skilled and determined defense against a Waaagh or Skaven incursion.

He was instead remembered for backing the Karak Eight Peaks Expedition with free convoys of supplies, food, and ammunition and continuing to supply the newly reestablished Karak with all that it needed, free of charge. A bold move that spoke of a cunning mind for opportunity and logistics. A gamble that paid off spectacularly.

The newly reestablished Karak Eight Peaks not only cut a substantial chunk off the treacherous journey to the far east, it created a new relationship with a previously undiscovered people, the We.

These giant spiders might have superficially resembled their feared counterparts from the Forest of Gloom, but beneath the appearances was a keen mind that understood and valued a peaceful relationship. Through patience, teaching, and creative thinking, a lucrative relationship was formed, and the We began a new chapter in their species' history, thriving like never before. And from them came vast volumes of silk, that most precious commodity that was sought across the world.

Not merely silk to be worn and slept on--though there was plenty of that--but silk to stop blades and deny flames. Silk to lift and carry great loads. Silk to enchant and work into even greater goods.

From Karak Eight Peaks poured a white gold, precious and plentiful, bringing interest from across the continent and even beyond. Though connected by a secure road and river route, Karak Eight Peaks was a long distance away from many of the eager customers for the newly available silk.

And that is where King Byrrnoth and Barak Varr came in.

Having forged a very strong relationship with Karak Eigth Peaks even before its refounding, the great market and trading port of Barak Varr now found convoys of goods flowing back towards it--from the far east, from Karak Azul to the south, and now Karak Eight Peaks itself--and eager buyers flooding to the most readily accessible place where the new silk could be found.

Barak Varr had been a great trading hub before, but it became a hub for the exploding silk market, now, too. From Barak Varr's patrolled and secured rivers flowed ships traveling up the newly-built canal to Zhufbar and the Empire's waterways. To the west, ships sailed from Barak Varr to Marienburg, Araby, Bretonnia, Tilea, and Estalia. It was even a poorly-kept secret that some of the armor-silk would find its way aboard ships bound for Ulthuan.

And through it all, King Byrrnoth rode the storm with a steady hand and a clever mind, grabbing at opportunity with both hands yet refusing to overextend. The expansion of the already-vast market halls to accommodate the trade of huge volumes of silk flowing to and from the karak was seen as a sign of success and prestige both. The king was careful to balance the hunger of his own hold for the silk with the ravenous demand from across the Old World for the new white gold, maintaining Barak Varr's burgeoning reputation as the place to go to find and buy silk in enough bulk to fill a trading ship.

To most dwarfholds, such wealth coming not from metals and gems would be odd, but trade of all kinds was a longstanding mainstay to Barak Varr.

Of course, with the surge in shipping to and from the port-city came an increase in piracy, thieves seeking to plunder the new white gold that was sailing the seas in bulk. To this challenge, King Byrrnoth prepared his people to face with renewed vigor, for though Sartosa remained a tough nut to crack, the pirate ships plying the seas and the docks servicing them were a much easier target to combat. It seemed the king who focused so much on trade would find his war after all...

 

[Derpmind]

God, can you imagine Egrimm's reaction to finding out Mathilde has read the original Liber Mortis front to back?

Click to shrink...

A Grim Revelation.

It was the day after Mathilde's funeral. So many words had been said over an empty casket that Egrimm had felt like all the words in the world had run out. For all that they had worked together, something had always felt unbalanced between them. Egrimm owed Mathilde, in a way he could never confess to, and now would never be able to truly repay. Mathilde had been a light in the shadows, but on dark days like this, he felt like he was a shadow hiding his true self in the light.

His dour mood was interrupted by a knock at the door. He opened it - it was nighttime now, it seemed - to find a very old and very serious dwarf ranger carrying an iron strongbox.

"Zonzhufokri Egrimm van Horstmann?" the dwarf asked.

He nodded.

"I have a delivery for you from Dawizhufokri Mathilde Weber. It was her wish that upon her death, this strongbox would be delivered into your safekeeping with absolute secrecy. Do you understand?"

Shakily, he nodded again. But this was not enough for the dwarf.

"I understand." he managed. Wordlessly, he was handed the box - nearly falling over at the weight of it - before the dwarf turned and walked away. A half dozen other rangers peeled themselves out of the shadows to follow him. And then Egrimm was alone.

Some investigation later, he found Mathilde's message hidden in the box's shadow, words that would only become visible in a shadow cast by pure Hysh light. He smiled at that. A clever enchantment that was nevertheless a bit silly. The message told him how to open the box, and one more thing: 'I've faith you'll know what to do with it.'

Any mirth he had left him when he saw what was inside: A simple and ancient leather tome that held an impossibly stable Dhar enchantment. Slowly, unable to stop himself, he opened up the cover to the title page.

The Liber Mortis.

The box slammed shut before he realized he had even moved. Summoning physical strength he didn't even know he had, he lifted the strongbox and marched it into the darkest corner of his cellar, where it was quickly buried under boxes and tarps.

He stumbled back upstairs, utterly exhausted in the span of only a few minutes. But he hardly even noticed, for it was matched by the utter horror gripping his heart. Inside that box was an endless abyss of darkness. A truth he could not face.

Her missing body.

But his was the wind of truth, of revelation.

Her task left unfinished.

Try as he might, he could not ignore what had been laid before him.

The hints she'd dropped throughout the years, as if they shared a secret only she knew.

He did not want to think these thoughts. He did not want to know these poisoned truths.

Her last message. Her utter faith in me. In me.

But, truth be told, his mind was merely catching up to what the chasm in his gut had figured out long ago.

Was it all a lie? Was it all for this? From one dark master who would sell his soul, to another? Who really was Mathilde Weber? No. Who is Mathilde Weber? And where is she now?

 

[Whynot09]

No one asked for this, but it got stuck in my head and I did have fun writing it.
------
The War for the Colleges came not as an attempt by zealots not seeking to remove what they called impure, but as a result of that other most common impulse of the pious, conversion.

The opening salvos of the War began by the proclamation carried in the Tenth Sacral Bull of Kirste Maurer, 45th Custodian of the Portal, Sacerdos Maxima Cultus Morr, Sword of the Serene Repose, Keeper of the Grand Ravenry, and Mourner Most Excellent. In her declaration, the supreme priestess of the Cult of Morr had declared the establishment of the Order of the Amethyst, a monastical sub-order dedicated the exploration of the mysteries of Morr underneath the supervision of its Abbess Elspeth von Draken. This was a surprise to many including Magister Matriarch Elspeth von Draken who was quoted to have said, "That conniving bitch," after reviewing the content of the letter. It must be added that Magister Matriarch von Draken was a woman of quiet piety with a proven history of service to the Lord of Dreams and Guardian of Souls.1

Utterly incensed at the violation of the national dignity and authority of the Empire of Man and its Rightful and Beloved Suzerain, His Majesty Lupold II.2 Magister Matriarch Elspeth von Draken decided to address the situation in person, saddling her carmine dragon. She flew directly to the main campus of the Imperial College of Cessationary Thaumaturgy in Altdorf. She found her to her great shock; the campus had been invaded by Morrites. They had come armed not with blades, but decorations.

Initiates held busts of Ravens and actual ravens, tapestries of Morr in His various roles to include His rarely seen role as Lord of Artistic Inspiration.3 Pots holding bushes of black roses and so many other symbols of the Cult as well as several crates of black robes. Even members of the laity had come. Mostly, Ostermarkers mothers and babas carrying pots of soup, borscht, and other meals. Assured in their knowledge that the servants of their Lord were but skin and bones and in need of a proper meal or two. The gatekeepers of the Amythest Order unsure, but aware of the long-standing friendship between the two organizations, had allowed them entrance.

This veritable army of the faithful went to work. Tapestries went up, ravens were let loose and rose-shaped topiary went everywhere. This was seen as fine as it fit the already existing aesthetics of the College. It was the demand for the residents of the College to trade their purple robes for black that saw conflict rear its ugly head. Provost Hannah Zimmerman arrived on the scene to see Morrite Initiates forcing apprentices, Perpetuals, and other members into black robes. She demanded an answer from Temple Father Johann Blot. The High Priest of Morr in Altdorf presented a copy of the Tenth Sacral Bull and a robe to her. She reviewed the bull and then the robe, staring Father Johann in the eyes before fleeing further into the College. A band of Babas chased after her, bowls of borscht in hand, chanting cries of "eat, eat,"

While the Amythest College suffered a failing battle against decorators, wardrobe stylists, and overbearing female relatives. Her Holiness Maurer's message had gone to the other Cults who saw it as proof of one thing. The Morrites had gotten the march on them. All across the city, armies of priests and priestesses head straight for the College of their choice. One goal shared among all of them. Getting while the getting was good.

The Shallyans marched with military-like discipline. The Matriarch of Altdorf leading the main segment of the host towards the Jade Order, supported by auxiliaries of lay followers. Iterant priests have been sent out as the reconnaissance element, assisted by several wings of specially trained doves. A smaller element of the Shallyan force was detached towards the Light College headed by Matron Alessa Baurer, seniormost priestess of the Temple-Hospital of the University. Her forces augmented by small bands of theologians.

The second force was the first to encounter resistance. Not from the Light College, but by the Verenans who utilized their decentralized organization to their advantage, launching a guerilla campaign to slow down Matron Alessa's advance.4 Small cells badgered the large Shallyan contingent, exploiting the centralized and hierarchal nature of the cult. This dedicated front helped their brothers and sisters to become the first force to the Pyramid of the Light Order.

Magister Matriarch Mira was surprised to say the least when Manfred Archibald, High Priest of the Temple Library of Verena the Wise, stood outside the gates to her college. Behind him was a sizable host of his fellow Librarian-Priests and Priestess, all of whom were holding either books, scrolls, and in some cases a bunch of large sacks. A parliament of owls watching down from the nearby roofs.5

Magister Matriarch Mira inquired as to why they were there. His Holiness replied that the Goddess had sent the cult a message. The Order of Illuminatory Thaumaturgy sought to bring the light to the darkness. To parse what was true and what was false. That their own ranks were filled with some of the greatest minds in the world. Were these not the same goals as She had given to Her faithful? A question remained. What if the Light of Hysh was but a small part of the Light of Wisdom-that-is-Verena? Which meant that by all rights, the Order of Light was actually an monastical order dedicated to the same Goddess as they were.

It was here that Magister Matriarch Mira grew rather concerned at the manic speech be given. Unfortunately, it was at this same time that Matron Alessa's force broke through the Verenan defensive screening.

The air filled with the war-coos and screeches of doves and owls alike as the faithful of the Mother of Wisdom and Lady of Mercy battled each other and the utterly shocked hierophants. Magister Matriarch Mira being captured by the Verenans early on the fighting, collapsed the shoddy defense of the Light Order and both invading forces charged in, articles of faith and robes raised as they hunted down the fleeing Light Wizards.

As the Battle of the Pyramid went on, it was at the Celestial College that a surprise to the scene appeared.

Den-Father Einar Ulfarsson, head of the North Temple of Ulric, had heard the proclamation and ready his forces for battle. For those who are thinking Ulric was hostile to magic, it must be said that Middenheim, the holy city of the White Wolf, had been home to the oldest official magical institution in the Empire. 6 This had led to a neutral position among most Ulricans who saw magic as untrustworthy, but so was gunpowder and none but the most extreme would demand the removal of the cannons from Middenheim's walls.

Einar went even further. He held to a radical belief that magic was not a curse, but a gift. It had to be taught and carefully husband but was no different than a man learning his strength. He saw the magic of the Celestials as the closest to Ulric. 7 None are sure as to why, but Einar and his congregation headed out, ready to add new members to their pack.

It was this force of armed Ulricans which raised the defenses of the Celestial College, fearful of some band of zealots come to visit violence upon them. Yet, Den-Father Einar's impromptu sermon on the nature of individual difference and the strength it brought to their communities lulled them into believing that this was actually an attempt to bridge the two groups. To understand each other and further the chances of mutual cooperation. It was, of course, a trap.8 The Ulricans leaped into action. With an almost savage evangelicalism, they began to anoint and introduce several members of the Celestial College to the mysteries of Ulric. This combined with the aesthetic insult of putting up wolf-pelts was when it was understood what was happening. Reverse gentrification.

As the White Wolf laid His claim to the Astromancers, it was at the Jade College where the main force of the Shallyans arrived. Matriarch Anja Gustavson declared that by the nature of their work, all Druids skilled and proficient in the magics of regeneration, rehabilitation, and recuperation were but unofficial members of the Order of the Bleeding Heart. Thus, in the name of the Lady in White, the Jade College was to be recognized as a new Temple-Hospice.

The reaction was not unanimous rejection as the long-standing religious schism of the Druids reared its ugly head. The Shallyan segments of the Druids were fine with this. The Rhyan, Taalite, and Old Faith factions refused to accept this designation. The former supported by the arrival of Rhyan priestess led by Green Watcher Freya who declared the Jade Order to be the demesne of Mother Rhya as evidenced by the advances made in the fields of agroecology and other agricultural sciences. 9 The two religious groups prepared for violence when the doors to the Jade College opened. The Shallyans among the Order blamed the Rhyans and the Rhyans of the Order blamed the Shallyans. Whoever it was remains unknown, but what followed was a three-way battle between Rhyans, Shallyans, and Ishernosians. Further worsened by Druids aiming to aid their Cult of their choice.

The city rang with religious violence and even in the Imperial Zoo, the rapacious greed of the cults showed itself. Supreme Patriarch Dragomas was asked by Hierarch Arnold Bernhardsson if he and his fellow shamans wanted to be inducted into the Order of the Antler. Dragomas said no and they returned to their discussion on preserving the wild places of the Empire.

Only the Gold and Red Order were spared the attention of the Cults. Though a priest of a minor god of Nordland did pass along some pamphlets among both of them. The Grey Order was also rather quiet, save for the occasional cat or owl appearing out of nowhere, frightening a random apprentice before disappearing, but this was a common occurrence, so no one paid it any mind.

It was only on the seventh day when the Grand Theogonist and Supreme Patriarch stood together before the Emperor that an official declaration reaffirming the secular status of the Colleges of Magic was sent out, declaring an attempt to subsume an order as an arm of a cult a violation of the above, and subject to the removal of official cult status. Threatened with proscription, the Cults backed down and Custodian Maurer even retracted her declaration of ecclesiastical status for the Order of Amythest Wizards. Most everything returned back to normal. Though some wounds never healed and apprentices are no longer allowed to visit the Temples without chaperones for fear of being kidnapped. 10

1. This was not added due to any action on the part of Magister Matriarch Elspeth von Draken of the Imperial Order of Cessationary Thaumaturgy.

2 Any testimony that Magister Matriarch Elspeth von Draken was actually angered at being one-upped by her cards and tea partner is unverifiable and false.

3 This derived from the common refrain among many artists that their inspiration came from a dream they had. Some even believe that the Lord of Dreams created poetry to woo His Divine Wife.

4 Methods used included writing directions in Classical, the odd appearance of injured parties mysteriously healed by the single touch of a Shallyan priestess, civilian arrests, citations, and the occasional medical knowledge duel.

5 The other less-used term for a group of owl is a debate club.

6 Middenheim's Grand Guild of Wizards was established in 113 IC when the Graf at the time said, "Sure, anything that will piss off the Sigmarites,"

7 Hubert Denzel wishes it to be known he, at no point, made statements about comparing the meteorological powers of the Celestial College and certain Ulrican miracles.

8 Den-Father Einar wishes it to be known he repudiates the usage of this word. He preferred the term feint.

9 Magister Panoramia refused to give comment as to her opinion on the matter. Afterwards, the writer's team was threatened by a group of Halfing farmers, unintelligible watchmen, one wolf, several rats the size of wolves and a rather short woman in a pointy hat. Oddly enough, the last one was the most frightening.

10 Among those wounds remains the defilement of the Fung Shui of the Celestial College. The writer's team never discovered what this word meant.

 

[DragonParadox]

Wagers of the Soul ​

The tea had long since gone cold and Egrimm van Horstmann hadn't even noticed, so engrossed in his latest tome, a lapse that he had not fallen afoul of since he was an apprentice. The Order of Light was keen to discipline wandering minds as it was many other things. It wasn't even that the subject of the book, emblazoned boldly upon its cover in silver captivated him so: Aetheric Vitae. It was the implication, that subtle sting of recognition he had not even dared give name to for fear that it would set his mind wondering to places far darker that innocent woolgathering. By her own account then Journeywoman Weber had first come upon her improbable source of unearthly liquid when she trapped one of the so called All-Knowing-Serpents —urgh and to think one of his fellow light wizards was responsible for giving so grandiose a name to a minor arcane parasite— in a box made of mirrors, a freak accident.

Egrimm didn't believe that for a heartbeat, oh not the part about it being an accident that the thing ended up suspended between life and death eternally bleeding. One look at the geometry involved indicated that the serpent had to have panicked and flayed its essence against smaller and smaller 'apertures' like a man pulling a barbed arrow from his leg only to nick and artery wizard's fortune and spirit's folly perfectly aligned.

"I don't believe she was planning to kill it, there, I've said it," he whispered to the quiet room. There was no one on this floor of the house and the spells against eavesdropping had been laied long ago to standards appropriate for elvish nobles playing games of court. He had in all likelihood told no one, but in saying so aloud he had to consider the implications.

If Weber had been planning to capture the Asp, if she had some plans for it as a journeywoman... well that was the sort of thing that his own College would have found quite worrying in one of her young and untested status, all the more so when the young wizard in question was so far away from their superiors, entirely out of hand.

How close to the edge did you get... friend, that one he did not say aloud. The thought that he shared some kinship with the most unusual Grey Wizard was not a new one, but he had not before considered the implicated that she had stared into the same abyss he had. Did she know something, guess something, read it on my face? A year ago the question would have been dismissed out of hand, if Weber had even an inkling of the things he had contemplated at his worst he would have ended his days on a pyre, but there was that other thing he had found out quite by accident about her on a visit to Eight Peaks a few months back: Loremaster Weber was recognized as the patron of a particular gambling den in Karag Nar, and that word was not meant in the usual way. Given his history Egrimm had a bit of a eight sense when it came to sniffing out cults, it just so happened the one he found that day was a perfectly legal, if discreet, cult of Ranald and with a very interesting patron to boot.

So am I then a gamble? he finally asked himself, staring into the dying fire. Did she see something in me, some inkling of dissatisfaction so deep rooted that only a grand ambition could soothe it. Did she put all this on the line to save my soul? Now it had gone from unflattering to terrifying. What does one even do with that sort of suspicion? Certainly it cannot be recognized for to do so would be to recognize treachery that might have been. And yet the wizard couldn't bring himself to wholly ignore the prospect of his phantom debt

If nothing else I have gained a new appreciation for the kind of meandering intrigues Grey wizards have to live with all the time, Egrimm van Horstmann thought with an edge of self deprecation, much blunter than it used to be. Funny how one has a better chance to aknowledge one's limitations when one is not shackled from without.

He turned the page and finally got to the experimental results. It was after all a very good book.

OOC: This just showed up in my brain fully formed a few days ago when I was thinking how Egrimm would take the AV book. Hope you guys enjoy.

 

[Whynot09]

The Challenge​

---

I saw the convo on thief pope and I got an idea.

---

Heidi requested a meeting with you. You arrived at the palace to see your friend, sipping tea in the rarest room in all of the Imperial Palace. It was completely empty of people. Just Heidi by herself, not another soul around.

That was definitely the work of your mutual friend.

You sat down by her and gave her a good look.

Heidi was usually a bundle of Aqshy and Ulgu covered by a thin layer of Ranald's Divine power. The former was gone, replaced by...Ayzr of all things. What possibilities had stolen her attention?

"Do you know of the Ten Crosses?" she said so softly you barely heard it.

(Ranaldian Secrets 100: 61+26=87)

You shook your head.

"This is a story few of us know and even fewer will repeat," she said. That brought a curious tilt to your head, but you nodded.

"He was never fond of authority. Even in those early days in Father Taal and Mother Rhya's Hall, but it worsened when He started teaching. When people came to learn from Him, He taught them, gave them His strictures, and left them to their own devices. If they acted in accordance with His will, then He would help in the way He thought best. If they did not, then," she shrugged, "There was one though. One who sought more. They sought His recognition in a way none before them had ever won. Yet, they knew that He would never give it unless He knew He would be entertained and so they went on the first Pilgrimage of the Fingers,"

Heidi stopped to take a sip of tea. It made sense there had to be a first Pilgrimage, but no one ever talked about it or discussed it, so you assumed it had been forgotten. Something Heidi was most likely about to explain why.

"No one quite knows what it was or who they stole from. Some say it was from the greatest of the tribal chieftains. Others say it was from the great lords of Myrmidia's Empire. A few say they stole from distant Ulthuan or even the Dwarf Empire. One said they stole from the Gods. All that is known is eight marks sat on the Pilgrim's fingers. Eight crosses for eight great deeds. Two for the Gambler, two for the Prowler, two for the Deceiver, and two for the Protector. He had taken notice and so had His other friends who began to do their own Pilgrimages. Unhappy at being copied, the Pilgrim sought to separate themselves. To stand permanently in the attention of Ranald. Two last deeds. Two deeds which is said permanently won them His notice. On that day, The Pilgrim gained their final two crosses. On that day, their need and His need were the same. They became the living embodiment of Ranald's will on earth,"

"Heidi, did something happen?" you asked, not entirely sure where she was going with this.

"Four separate people have gained seven of the ten. They are coming to Altdorf to gain their eighth and if they should survive, begin the quest to gain their ninth and tenth," she said.

"How? Wouldn't we have heard about that? Wouldn't He let you know?"

"He did. Today. They are coming to me in two months and Mathilde, you have to be my challenge,"

"Wait, what?"

"Mathilde, this has to be the most dangerous challenge. I needed someone who fit that description. I can think of no one better than the woman who killed a million orcs, stole the power of another God, reclaimed two whole Karaks, destroyed Castle Drakenhof and won back Sylvania, and then decided to recreate the greatest feat of the Elder Folk. If one of them is to bear all ten crosses, then they have to beat you,"

"What do they have to do?"

"Steal the gift He gave you without you noticing,"

"What can I do to them?"

"Anything. There's a reason no one has gotten more than four let alone eight crosses since Jack o' the Sea. If they can't survive you, then they're not worthy,"

What do you say?

[]-Accept the role and become the test. Accepting means facing off against the four most skilled thieves, con-men, revolutionaries, and liars in the Old World and whatever they decided to bring with them.

[]-Refuse the role and tell Heidi to choose someone or something else.

 

[Lonkas]

Annals of the High King

Reign of Thorgrimm Grudgebearer KA 6990 - 7010

6994 - 6999: Pacification of Sylvania
The new Elector Count Van-Hel launched a campaign of pacification against Sylvanias haunted hills, which in conjunction with a force of vengeance emerging out of Zhufbar, spiralled into an assault on castle Drakenhoff itself. Though the elector count himself died in the assault of Drakenhoff town, one of his underlings was able to rally the combined forces, and see to the destruction of the so-called rulers of Sylvania with their ancient lair. In the proceeding years the new elector countess has continued to pacify the region, allowing for the area to now be considered relatively safe to trade and transit for Zhufbar into the empire proper, no longer an active threat to the lesser holds that look to the engineering hold for protection

- Four thousand Dawi lost over the course of the campaign
- Zhufbar is now connected to the wider empires Trading Network
- As a pacified province, no further invasions can occur from Sylvanias direction absent war with the Empire

7001 - 7005: Reconquest of the silver depths
Belegar Ironhammer, the latest heir to the throne of Karak eight peaks assembled a mighty force of both Dawi and Umgi in an attempt to reconquer the ancestral kingdom of Clan Angrund. given passive support from High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer, the reconquest achieved great success in reconquering two of the eight peaks before all seemed lost as the general combat attracted an enormous wagghh which hurtled through the devastated west gate. Fortunately, an Umgi magical superweapon had managed to be constructed in time to be used on the nascent waaggghhh birdmuncha, and saw the entire force reduced to ash. Lingering resentment remains however between the newly ensconced King of the eight peaks and the High King over Thorgrims failure to provide direct assistance against the wagghh and his lack of belief that it is more than a temporary reconquest.

- Karak 8 Peaks restored to the Ankor
- DC for construction projects in the 8 peaks until the High King and clan Angrund are reconciled increased by 2


7005: The Klaxons fall silent
With the reconquest of the 8 peaks, the haemorrhaging of Runic power the Ankor has gone through for generations now has ceased. The great Waystone Nexii providing enough energy for the Rune of Azamar and more besides ensuring no longer a slow death of Dawi kind. For the first time in his long reign, the crown of the Ankor rests but a bit lighter upon Thorgrims brow

- Quest end via lack of runic power has been postponed


7005: Queekish
The Umgi have been busy in their work against the Thaggoriki, and during the conquest of the eight peaks managed to get enough information to construct a full translation of at least the basics of the Skaven's language. Sharing this only with trusted Thanes as well as Kings, the accumulated information about skaven and their activities will go far both in conducting the war against them and anticipating the blows that fall our way

- Reduced Attrition attrition from skaven assaults on your holds
- Receive occasional updates on skaven affairs
- Receive updates on skaven alertness


7008: The Dum expedition and Vlag restored
An expedition to visit the eternally embattled sealed hold of Dum has been attempted with several great landships based on the designs from Barak Varr. Ultimately, it does seem that Dum is lost to the Ankor, as it seems to have welcomed the beastman spirit of Kor-Dum to be their protector, a sign of incomprehensible corruption or madness. However, en route to Dum, the expedition has uncovered the fate of lost Karak Vlag and restored it to reality after spending nearly two centuries lost in the aether. Several years of coaxing having gone into the effort, the lost Dawi now seem to believe that they have indeed returned to the mortal world, though the loss of their Runesmith guild and extreme measures taken while sheltering means their return to the Ankor has not been frictionless... The act itself has indisputably been accomplished by Mathilde Weber a manling great wizard who also lent her assistance to the Sylvanian and Eight Peaks campaigns, as well as the chief mind behind the translation of Queekish.

- Karak Vlag restored to the Ankor
- For one turn any interactions with Karak Vlag have their DC increased by 1


7008: The Mathilde question
Mathildes great successes in assisting the Dawi called for a great conclave of longbeards to determine how an Umgi could accomplish so much for the Dawi. They have announced to the consternation of many elders that the wizard is a returned dwarf soul, stolen from Dawi kind by her patron god Ranald.


7010 The Eyes of Grungi Open
With the reconnection of both Vlag and Eight Peaks to the Runic network, sufficient power could be spared to reactivate the eyes of Grungi that watch over the realm in real time, for all the mountains within view of the High King. With such knowledge, the Urk and Grobi that dare show their faces in rightful Dawi mountains will be kulled before they get a chance to trouble the Everpeak further. A brief actrivation of the gas forges of Morgrim some years afterward mending the rift with King Belegar as he becomes more convinced of THorgrim acting in the Ankors rather than hs own interests.

- Massively reduced invasion size and threat for Karak A Karak
- Mild reduction in attriction
- Raproachment with Clan Angrund achieved


7012 Silver road wars 2, with a Vengeance
With the passes secure and a stronger Ankor than has been present in generations. Thorgrim begins marshalling his forces for a reconquest of the Silver road beneath Karak a Karak with the ultimate aim of at last liberating Mount silverspear from the clutches of the Urk.


7016: Waystone reinvention
A new method of waystone construction has been pineered by Mathilde Weber in conjunction with the Elgi of Laurelorn. Using some measure of Dawi ingenuity it provides a new method to contruct lesser waystones and reduce aetheric concentrations around our holds at a relatively marginal cost

- Waystones will now automatically be constructed to plug gaps in the network surrounding our holds.
- Waystone Nexus locations discovered, allowing us to further rebuild our fallen network
- Runic experience increased by 1

 

[Whynot09]

Finished the rough draft of an update and didn't wanna edit it just yet, so I'm bored and procrastinating.

---

It is the 28th Century. This is a bright age, an age of technology and sorcery. It is an age of peace and growth, and of the world's prosperity. Amidst all of the growth, invention and transformation it is a time, too, of villains, of foul deeds and terrible plots.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests, and vast cities. And from Wurbad reigns the Chancellor Abelheim II, scion of the famed Van Hal dynasty.

But in these civilised times, across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the Knight Republic of Bretonnia to ice-bound Norse Confederacy in the far north fester the insidious plots of Chaos. Nurglite Pathogens work to make and release the newest pandemic while Khornate Mechanists design the perfect killing machine. Slaaneshi Ecstatics produce more addictive and powerful drugs. Tzeentchian Ultimates seek the greatest achievement of all: control over reality itself.

To combat them are not armies, but dedicated groups of covert operators. In the city of Sjkold, this duty is taken upon by the Order of the Grey, priests and priestesses of the Liberator, but the death of an Imperial diplomat sees a newcomer come to their shores.

Enter one Florin Albu. A veteran of the Shadow Wars. She has fought Khornate automatons. Diffused Nurglite dirty bombs. Dismantled Slaaneshi drug cartels and even assassinated a Tzeentchian Combat Ontologist. She has sacrificed much to keep the Empire safe. All she wants in return is to be able to go home to Drakenhof. Duty and vengeance have come a calling however as a friend is found dead in the city of Skjold.

Partnered to a young Matthildur Veber, she must traverse a foreign land of spy-priests, mist-wizards, and scholar-rats. Can she survive and figure out who killed her friend or has her time finally come calling? Find out in

The Undiscovered Country​

 

[Bot105]

Great Grey Wolf Wolf​

(Moon Moon ass name)​

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It is morning, mountain-sun cutting through mountain-air to shine through the tower windows. Mathilde, still sleep-ridden and hair disarrayed, enters her quarters to see something surprising!

A dragons skull!

No wait. That's not surprising. It's just her 'flex' chair. It's what is in that seat that is surprising.

A wolf!

No wait. That's just her familiar. What is surprising is what is in Wolf's mouth.

Branithune! Her practise weapon—a greatsword of Gromnil, with only the Rune of the Unknown.

"Wolf," Mathilde began. "Why do you have my sword?"

Wolf looked shifty, sword handle gnawed between his teeth. It shifted slightly as he shifted slightly.

Before we speak further on this tale, I must digress to explain the difference between a wolf and a dog. For it is undeniable that Wolf is, in fact, not a dog.

His fur is thicker, sleeker. His eyes gleam in the dark with sharp reflections. To the matter of the tail; it does not wag, and it sits straight down, between the hind legs, instead of sticking out. In addition, there is a dark spot, dark fur, halfway down the tail. Where the scent-marking glands secrete. His legs, too, sit close together; thin and lithe. He does not really pant, with tongue lolling out so dumbly. In fact, he does not make a great many sounds—barking, at his most excited. A sort of grumbling growl otherwise. He, however, enjoys greatly showing his affections with kisses. Kisses—tongue in mouth—of a Bretonnian fare. It is how wolves show affection, and say hello.

"Wolf," Mathilde sighed. She stuck her hand out. Palm up, fingers stretched.

Wolf leaned back, away from the demanding hand. He leaned away further, as she jabbed forwards.

"Give—c'mon."

Wolf did not give. In fact, he ducked down and off of the chair—running low and under Mathilde's side. The sword scraped thunk, thunk, thunk against the dragon's teeth as Wolf sidestepped around her.

"Hey!" Mathilde turned, and saw that instead of running downstairs, Wolf stood in the centre of the room—where the light beams cast down. He brandished the Branithune—practising Branulhune, precocious beardling past their bedtime—threateningly.

And then Wolf sneezed. The most basic wolf-signal for play.

Mathilde crossed her arms and harrumphed. Inside her soul, where it bridged Wolf's, she received Play! Joy! She sent back Unamused, irritated. "Wolf—I have things planned today."

Wolf gave that the dignity he should, and with movements swift and agile, threw his head back and stomped most petulantly.

Master has worked too much. Forgotten how to play she has! He said without teeth.

Mathilde sighs. "We'll play later, okay?" she bargained. "It's just, with the Waystones moving nicely—it's the best time to reach out to the others. To ensnare—to convince them into another initiative."

FORGOTTEN! Wolf all but howls. His paws went tippy tap in sharp motions. Claws clacking on the stone.

"Oh—just give me the sword." Steps over the stone and bone, Mathilde approaches. Her hand reaches towards the blade—blunt. Wolf jerks his head aside.

"For—" Mathilde reaches to the side, Wolf scrunches his head back, entire shoulder block leaning away until his chin touched his chest, and his neck scrunched up with fluff.

"C'mon!" Mathilde jukes her hand right, then left, then lunges fully.

Wolf—reading her intent through soulways, jumps up. Uppies most acrobatic. He sproings over her, landing on dull claws as she stumbles past.

Mathilde hisses. Her shadow writhes in confusion—foe? But is familiar! Obstacle? But is dog! "Wolf—listen. Give. Me. The. Blade." She exhaled, "You know I have a busy schedule, especially in the morn—"

How do you surprise someone linked to your soul?

"—Yah!" Mathilde lunged forwards. So without warning that even her shadow lagged.

You bend your perception into knots, into a great big gaping hole around an idea. And then you fill that in with something else. Near impossible for any normal man. But for a Gray Magister Lady—who thinks of twelve impossible things every morning, as she brushes her hair—it is a small issue. Her hands clamp around the metal—at the hilt, where slobber runs down. And above the cross-guard, very cold to the touch. And lightly wet with breath. With fingers wrapped around solidly, Mathilde has but one thought in her head.

Victory is assured!

"Let—go—already!" But Wolf does not go quietly! He wrenches the blade back and forth, eager tug of war.

"Wolf!" Mathilde admonishes, she pulls with full-hearted force, before an idea hits. She still tugs with full-hearted force, just as a faint.

Quick as a flash—in between the pulse of pulling—her hand darts out, not towards Wolf's eyes, nor to his throat. But to his nose, just over the nose-hairs, and jittering. Mathilde waggles her hand over his sensitive hairs.

Wolf sneezes. And in that moment, jaw slack and cheeks loose, Mathilde tugs. Branitune comes with her. It disappears away, into the nowhere space the Unknown Rune connects too.

The sword is hers. And both know it. Wolf's time is over—he cries out in horror. A wavering snarl.

Mathilde huffs, laughs, turns away. "Show's over." She hides her smile, then scowls at her clothes. In the battle they were rumpled and ruffled—bunched up ungainly.

She swore to herself as she set about smoothing the fabric—and Wolf disappeared, padding away.

By the time Mathilde has set her clothes right again, Wolf returned. He bore with him his dog bed—pillowy and plush. And he slams it down in front of Mathilde and flumps into it with this most pathetic whine.

Wolf's eyes close, he cries himself to sleep. Then he opens them to see if Mathilde was watching.

She is.

Mathilde chuckles as she turns away, hair chucked back and head held tall. Spirits high and heart-light.

She pauses, realising just how light her heart is.

"Well..." Mathilde looks back.

Wolf's ears perks up. He lifts up from the pillow an inch.

"I can make the time."

---

Bork!​

---

AN:
Rampant mischaracterisation, go!

The next scene was going to be about Wolf and Mathilde learning how sword fighting as a dog works. Ending with Wolf surprising Mathilde and managing to disarm her training blade by using Branithune's Unknown Rune for the first time. After that, things would have gone to Wolf's head, to the point that he was terrifying the Undumgi in the training yard until Sir Sozic managed to disarm dismuzzle him. I would have linked Bladewolf's I'm My Own Master Now and it would have been sick as fuck and extremely cracky.

But as I was finishing the first part I realised I was running out of steam. So you get just this. One playful morning between Mathilde and her dog.

 

[hugo239111]

AN: This was inspired by the description of what would happen with the placement of the first Waystone in Praag. Comments and critiques are welcome.

Few nights had been peaceful in Praag since the witches came and put that stone in the river. Tonight was going to be no different according to the Z'ra's magical advisor.

"Keep together and those points down." Came the growling voice over Ruprecht's shoulder, his Kovnik had answered the Tzar's call for volunteers amongst the guard, to go to Praag and fight the Za.

The bridge of Death would earn its name once more, only this time it would be the mutants doing the bleeding. The cry came from the archers atop the wagons behind them, their shots streaming out into the mass of mutants charging their line. Dozens fell with arrows sticking from their forms, too horrible to think about, even as dozens of cultists bearing the marks of their dark gods followed, screaming battlecries and promising death to the defenders.

"SLAVA KISLEV!" Came the roaring response from the twenty members of the Kreml Guard behind the line of spearmen, charging from the kossar's cover that gave the damned the courage to try for the bridge once more. Axes and swords lashed out as Ruprecht shoulder checked a mutant so hard his body burst like a maggot, his axe swinging to bite deeply into the side of a heavily tattooed woman who's empty eye sockets blazed with a cursed fire. No member of the mob bore weapons heavy enough to truly pierce their armor and each swing promised death to them. Soon they were pushing forward as the cultists and mutants saw only death in front of them and each arrow fired into their ranks sapped what little spirit they had left. Behind them came Praag's warriors wielding flame and spear; they took care of each body making sure the tainted bodies were purged from Kislev's soil.

The cultists who maintained some level of sanity quickly melted back to the cursed and damned streets beyond their range, hurried along as arrows struck down any who remained in sight. At least one hundred bodies lay strewn across the area considered safe, luckily no Kislevite had died although several of Ruprecht's battle brothers bore wounds, none looked serious enough to leave their post.

"That should be it for the night, sentries twenty paces out, medium readiness along the line. Guard withdraw." Kovnik Karl stood unbloodied atop the war wagons, his sharp eyes and drooping mustache marked him of Ungol heritage. "A good fight." He nodded as his men streamed back over the wagons and barricade, placed at the entrance to Newtown.

Many citizens still muttered at their presence, yet the Z'ra himself had asked the Tzar to send them and each strike against the Za saw the mutters grow quieter. The Kreml Guard served Kislev, all of Kislev and they were here to prove it.

Ruprecht didn't regret his decision saying yes to the Tsarevich after the battle of Shirokij. A humble woodcutter becoming a member of the Kreml Guard? How could he say no? But he certainly didn't expect to be in Praag actually pushing the Za back. Even less expected was the fact that this turn of fortune was from the Grey witch he saw there. He had asked around and she was said to have been the push that saw this great opportunity blessing Kislev.

He, like many of his brothers in the Guard, believed in Tzar Boris's dream of a united Kislev and would do whatever he asked to make it reality. Each day saw progress from the stone that the witches had put in the river. The wall's closest to the bridge no longer spilled pus, the symbols scrawled in blood that had once hurt their eyes to look at were washed off and stayed off. The bodies who had lain on the streets since the Great War no longer released clouds of insects and instead decayed before their eyes. One body at a time, one street at a time, one cobblestone at a time it did not matter to Rupercht. The Za was being pushed back, Kislev would be cleansed of Chaos's taint.

One of the kossars of Praag came over to the Guard's fire, "Your Kovnik, where is he from?" His voice betrayed a quiet nervousness, understandable considering the history between the rulers of Kislev and the primarily Ungol city.

"One of the Southern Oblasts." Rupercht shrugged, few talked about their past outside the guard and he certainly wasn't going to spill the dumplings on his Kovnik to a stranger.

The man visibly steadied himself and let the silence stretch for a moment, broken only by the crackling fires that consumed the bodies beyond the barricade and the muttered conversations of their comrades along the line. "The Guard… Open to anyone?"

Ruprecht turned fully away from the fire to face the man, his battle brothers turning their heads to observe. His face was scarred by battle, likely full Ungol blood based on his features. "You want to join?"

He nodded, fingering an amulet of Dazh hanging from his neck. "The Tzar." His voice was steady. "He calls for united Kislev, aids my home in one of his first acts, fights the Za. I would serve if he would have me."

Rupercht stared for a moment, remembering his own recruitment standing amongst trees that had come to life as the Tsarevich praised their actions and offered them the chance to fight for Kislev. A glance at the Kovnik saw his nod, good enough for him. He extended his scarred and callused hand towards the man. "Slava Kislev." He spoke quietly even as his voice lost none of its intensity.

The Ungol man nodded, his own hand missing his little finger from frostbite reached forward and clasped it firmly. "Slava Kislev." His voice was equally intense. A new brother, ready to spill blood for Kislev, Old allegiances didn't matter in these times. Kislev called them to Glory and Battle.

 

[Bucolic]

Another Day

For the first dawn in three thousand years, an airship is docked at Karag Eight Peaks.

It is a strange thing, a zhuf thing, if there is anything in this world that it is, and that should cause grumbling. And it would, if it was not the ship of a thane and loremaster, gifted to her in recognition that she could make some sense of out of all their nonsense.

So as a good and proper gyrocopter (or a newfangled deathtrap) briefly flashes by as it crosses before the sun, hidden here and there, there are quick and satisfied smiles. Something wrong has been made right.

For some this is bittersweet, for it means a friend, a lover, a confidant is leaving. Not forever, but for now. For some this is right, this is their wizard doing her thing, arriving in places unexpected. Should they begrudge others that happy (though sometimes smug) surprise? Another heart is soothed to see competence rewarded, to know that for the Colleges the reward for hard work is not always more work.

If you were to watch the 'copter carefully, you would see it make a lazy circuit. You'd see it circle the fields, cross by the wizard's tower, zip past the library, and linger by the Tree until finally, finally touching down before a small group of waiting figures. One person disembarks, two pistols on hip, a large hat on head.

"So" Mathilde says, smiling, "ready to go on an adventure?"