Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
Sincere question from a drunk man who think you're fucking awesome:

Why might someone not want to frame their work as a translation, when all media is translated through each individual's lense when they experience said media?

Framing your story as an in-universe translation implies that some person in your setting eventually knew both the original story and English. This is fine if you've chosen to have your story take place in the "ancient past" of the real world, as Tolkien did, but is harder to justify if your cosmology is disconnected from Earth.
 
Why might someone not want to frame their work as a translation, when all media is translated through each individual's lense when they experience said media?
Well for one, framing your work as a translation inherently gives rise to unreliable narrators, because if you're "translating" you must be doing so from an original work someone wrote. Which means if you want a clear, precise set of events, you might wish to avoid "translation" as an explanation.
 
Well for one, framing your work as a translation inherently gives rise to unreliable narrators, because if you're "translating" you must be doing so from an original work someone wrote. Which means if you want a clear, precise set of events, you might wish to avoid "translation" as an explanation.

I think the original work is the bigger problem. It requires that your reader 'believe' that you somehow have access to original works. And in many cases that just makes the story more convoluted with actually benefiting the story. Are you accessing another realm through your dreams? That sounds like an interesting story on its own. Are you an archeologist who found the true history of the world? Why not just write that story? I have rarely found a story that benefits from the additional layer of complexity that claiming it to be a translation of some sort adds.
 
And losing her girlfriend counts as getting harmed, so Mathilde should probably try to cut down on her encounter solo'ing.

At the very least we ought to pick up a few disposeable bodies to bring along as meat shields, before the next threat inevitably tries to kick our doors down...
Thought this was someone advocating for apparition binding next turn, but then I looked at the poster:rofl:
 
I think the original work is the bigger problem. It requires that your reader 'believe' that you somehow have access to original works. And in many cases that just makes the story more convoluted with actually benefiting the story. Are you accessing another realm through your dreams? That sounds like an interesting story on its own. Are you an archeologist who found the true history of the world? Why not just write that story? I have rarely found a story that benefits from the additional layer of complexity that claiming it to be a translation of some sort adds.
It also necessarily implies that at some point an original work actually existed, which can be a very strange thing to imply if you're dealing with something like master spy Mathilde Weber's first person account of having read a book she would be immediately burned for having read.
 
I think the original work is the bigger problem. It requires that your reader 'believe' that you somehow have access to original works. And in many cases that just makes the story more convoluted with actually benefiting the story. Are you accessing another realm through your dreams? That sounds like an interesting story on its own. Are you an archeologist who found the true history of the world? Why not just write that story? I have rarely found a story that benefits from the additional layer of complexity that claiming it to be a translation of some sort adds.
IIRC, Tolkien claimed in the foreword that the Fellowship of the Ring (and all the following novels, I imagine) was translated from the Red Book that Bilbo and Frodo were working on and later passed on to Sam and his descendants. That's pretty much all he said about it; no word on how he got access to the Book or how he understood the language it was written in. I'm pretty sure he treated it as a straightforward and unimportant matter--for example, are you going to track down someone who translated The Count of Monte Cristo into English and grill him on which edition he was using, where he got it, etc., or are you going to just read the The Count of Monte Cristo in English?
 
Sincere question from a drunk man who think you're fucking awesome:

For a start, thank you.

Why might someone not want to frame their work as a translation, when all media is translated through each individual's lense when they experience said media?

In my opinion, it's because it creates an extra degree of separation between the reader and the text. Sometime you want to do this; for example, in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings and Croggon's Books of Pellinor, those are both "translations" of legends from "lost civilisations" from our world (Croggon even comments on a few of her translation choices, such as calling the magic users in her world "bards" instead of "starpeople" because it helps the average reader understand their role in society, even though "starpeople" is the more correct "translation"). Another example is Too Like the Lightning by Ada Palmer, where the events are being described by the narrator to a person living in the same time period the books are set in, not to a reader in the modern day, and often uses terminology we wouldn't understand because he's not talking to us (he's also a liar that intentionally misgenders people, it's a bit weird).

You'll note that these are all intentional choices, however, and create a very specific relationship between the reader and the text. But sometimes you want to be able to immerse the reader without that degree of separation, and instead of bringing the story to our world, bring the reader to the world of the story. Or maybe you want to present the narration as objective, and strip out any possibility of "bias", as a translated work would have. I actually dropped the Chinese epic Legend of the Condor Heroes because I strongly disagreed with many of the IRL translators decisions, despite not speaking Chinese myself. I could just feel that they had done the text "wrong", and that made it difficult to immerse myself in the narrative. A fictional translation of a fictional work could have the same issue.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter if you chose to "translate" or present the story "as is", but it is a stylistic choice that influences how the reader interacts with the book, and sometimes one fits better than the other.

I hope that makes sense, I'm a little drunk myself right now.
 
And I lied above, because even if you do go full Tolkien, Middle Earth had anachronistic umbrellas, clarinets, and waistcoats.
To be fair, Tolkein was trying to write a mythic age of pre-pre-pre-historic England that would still be recognizably resonant with English culture, not to write a historically accurate medieval period piece.
 
I personally prefer the language spoken in the fantasy world to not be literally English. That a language in a different universe just happens to have evolved into English just breaks my suspension of disbelief. The fact that you can then also just not worry about etymological trivia is nice.

There's plenty of ways a writer can make this interesting, but often it's not actually part of the story so then I think it's neater to just have a perfect 'translation'.
 
Yeah, there's a lot of problems with using existing languages for a fantasy universe that you can't really avoid without going full Tolkien. What's Johann doing with a Germanized version of a Biblical Hebrew name if there's no Bible and no Hebrews? How did the name 'Maximillian' come into existence if there's neither Maximus nor Scipio Aemilianus to mash together? Should I avoid the words 'spartan' and 'laconic' if there's no Spartans and no Laconia? Should characters be using the word 'adrenaline' if science hasn't figured out the adrenal glands yet? The amount of effort that can be poured into trying to properly anchor writing in the world and time period it's supposed to be in is endless and for very little benefit to the reader. And I lied above, because even if you do go full Tolkien, Middle Earth had anachronistic umbrellas, clarinets, and waistcoats.



It'd definitely be interesting times for those along the Roads, and Greasus is a very interesting character that would be coming to power just about now if the butterflies haven't got him.



Nobody writes fantastically the first time they take up a pen. I got started writing fanfiction of scanlated manga about fifteen years ago, none of which ever saw the outside of my hard drive, and bounced through a number of fandoms and interests before ending up here on SV. Me writing well now is a result of me writing badly a whole bunch over the years, and where you're at now is a lot better than where I was at when I started.
Those are some solid points that I've considered before. Like, I was considering writing a fantasy story at one point where the MC was a lesbian. Then I briefly got caught up in the terminology as I wondered how the word lesbian would come about if there was no sappho or Lesbos, and how even sapphic also comes from the same place so it can't be used either. I eventually decided if I would do the story at any point in my life, I'd probably use a different word, but maybe I should say screw it and just go ahead even if it doesn't make etymological sense.

In terms of the Omake, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Believe it or not, the reason I started going on the whole "informational" post journey was because I was so in love with your setting that I wanted to make a campaign book about it. Not like an actual published book or anything, but metaphorically make a "book" that someone could peruse if someone wanted to make a story or campaign in your setting. That is still my ultimate goal, but it'll be a little while before I'm done with that.
 
Greasus Goldtooth Adventures
Greasus Goldtooth Adventures

2483 IC

If a person were to ask an Ogre from the Goldtooth tribe what they thought of their Tyrant, they would probably shrug and say "He's weird, but he's strong, tough and we never go hungry, so best boss we ever had". Of course, they wouldn't be caught dead calling their boss weird, but the assumption is that they're being truthful.

It is certainly true that Greasus Goldtooth was atypical, but it was more so the case ever since his conversation with Diego de Miragliano, a trade from Tilea. Greasus spent more and more time in his tent, thinking very hard and looking over maps that his subordinates couldn't make heads or tails of. As if that wasn't enough, almost every caravan that passed through the valley they resided in had at least one trader entering the tent for a long conversation followed by a discount provided to them, which upset the members of the tribe briefly until they were brutally brought back in line by a Bruiser who reminded them that despite the discounts they were still getting far more food than they used to under Gofg. So they nodded and moved on.

The Valley of Horns had grown quite popular indeed over the last few months. As word started spreading that an odd Ogre was allowing caravans to pass through safely, even at a discount, for some information offered to him made it a stunningly attractive offer to come over there. Individuals who used to ply other trade routes began congregating to the Valley in hopes of making it through safely while spending less money.

Greasus was quite delighted, not only for the food for his stomach, but the food for his mind as well. The Tyrant had began to develop a fondness for contemplation, something truly unusual for his kind, because it made him feel superior over others. He knew things that no other Ogre could rightfully understand, and he was bigger and stronger to boot. Nothing proved his superiority more than further honing his mind alongside his body, and he found that things grew more easy for him to understand and grasp as he talked to more and more people and learned new things.

The first thing Greasus learned, which he had instinctively already known but never considered, was that Ogres were different to the other races. It was obvious of course, in terms of physicality, but also in terms of mentality. He knew that the other races viewed Ogres as stupid and primitive backwards people, and perhaps from their perspective they were, but Greasus saw it differently. They were simply more honest about who they were, more attuned to their nature than the haughty humans, elves and dwarfs who thought they were above others for having a structured, organised society. But that didn't mean he didn't admire their culture for what it was, and take the parts that he thought would benefit Ogre society as a whole.

One thing Greasus learned, for example, was the art of "being nice". Greasus was not a nice or kind man. He had never truly considered morality as a subject and he doubted most other Ogres did, they were far too preoccupied with their next meal to think so. Ogres respected shows of strength and dominance, and they were sometimes dimwitted enough to need more than one show to really understand it. They also held no hard feelings about it, so having their Tyrant killed and eaten in front of them wasn't such a big deal.

Greasus learnt that it was very much a big deal to the other races.

"Cannibalism" as they call it is supposedly a "very barbaric practice more akin to Chaos" according to a particularly impassioned man he had spoken to. Most Tyrants wouldn't have brooked such opposition and disrespect, but Greasus was interested in what he had to say. Most people were far too scared to speak their mind in front of him, which while advantageous sometimes, also meant he couldn't get a good read on them. So he let the tirade wash over him, pulling apart the meaning of his words.

Ogre society didn't appreciate kindness. The reason Ogres weren't nice or kind was because to be so would be to show weakness, an unforgivable sin that led to your death. If you were born weak and scrawny, you would be thrown into the caves and sealed in there with a boulder, your only choices to become a Gorger or die. Three of Greasus' siblings had suffered that fate. This societal structure meant that a "feedback loop" (a neat word he learned from a particularly scholarly gentleman) would be built, ensuring that "kindness" as a concept, wouldn't exist in Ogre society. Not in any sufficient quantity in any case.

That particular trader's tirade gave Greasus an epiphany. As the Bretonnian man went on and on about the concepts of chivalry and honor and all that nonsense gooblygook those canned men enjoyed so much, he came to a conclusion. Greasus had met and spoken to many people over the past few months since Diego, and beyond learning of "trade", "economics" and "supply and demand", he learnt many other things. One such thing was that the way he spoke to his Ogres never worked well on the other races.

It would intimidate them for sure, but it would inspire hatred, not respect. They would grow to dislike you if you were "bad" to them. Presenting a firm, but understanding tone always received a more favorable response, and as he nodded his head along to the Bretonnian trader's impassioned speech, he began to understand.

Greasus didn't care about honor. He didn't care about morality. He didn't care about "right" and "wrong" and all the nonsense the man spoke about that made what he called a "functioning society". All he cared about was being able to understand. And he understood that while he didn't care about such things, other people did.

If he wanted to be the Overtyrant of not just the Mountains of Mourne, but beyond the lands he inhabited to include non-Ogres, he needed to care about what he didn't care about. That circular logic made his head hurt at first, but it coalesced into a motivation.

He would understand, and he would learn. One day, nothing would be past his grasp.

2484 IC

It was a very productive year for Greasus Goldtooth. More and more caravans moved through his valley, not an absurd amount, but enough to ensure that his tribe was one of the most comfortably well off in the Mountains of Mourne. He had expanded his territory, learned more things, and finally learned what "taxes" were.

Even Greasus was astonished at his own intellect. He was truly the greatest Ogre in all the lands, blessed by the Great Maw to devour not just the material, but the "immaterial" (another neat word he learned from a trader).

The most important thing came, however, when he learned of the Feastmaster Halflings. Greasus knew of Halflings of course, but he had never met one before. He heard tales of a race of short and rotund people with a prodigious appetite that belied their size and an astonishing skill with cooking, and his interest was piqued. Imagine his surprise when he found out that a lowlander Ogre Tribe close to his haunt, the Feastmasters, had Halflings of their own.

It was apparently the reason for their name. The great feasts held by the excellent halfling cooks they had, which replaced the incompetent Gnoblars that previously held the role. They were a relatively recent find, around four years ago, and Greasus was overjoyed to hear of it. Not only does he have an excuse to dominate more tribes to the south, but he could get better food out of it? There was no question. His tribe marched to war.

It went as expected. The lowlanders were far too soft and comfortable, used to facing the mild dangers of the south rather than the beasts of the mountains, and they fell near instantly after their Tyrant was predictably squashed by Greasus' famed "Irongrip".

Greasus didn't care that the tribe soon submitted themselves to him afterwards, he had his eyes on the prize. A group of halflings cowering behind the Ogres looking scared out of their minds. Greasus psyched himself up, preparing the words he'd worked out in advance to maximise his chances. He pushed the Ogres of the Feastmaster tribe out of the way, bent himself at the knees to push himself as close to eye level to the Halflings as possible; which still required them to crane their neck up quite a way; and attempted to speak to them in his "softest" voice possible.

"Hello little ones. How would you like to join the employ of someone who better appreciates your… talents?"

He did his best, even attempting a comforting smile. Unfortunately for Greasus, he didn't realise that even his "soft" voice was loud and rumbling enough to shake the bones of the Halflings he was close to. He also didn't realise that his breath stunk of unwashed meat and offal, some raw, and that his smile was crooked and full of too many teeth that could crush bone to powder.

It was fortunate enough that only one of them fainted.

A while later

It took a while for the Halflings to recover from their shock and realise that they weren't going to be cooked into stew ('they're too small for that anyway' Greasus thought). It took a while beyond that for them to respond favorably to Greasus' queries and engage him in conversation, and what he found out was enlightening.

The eight halflings were traders from the Moot, some of the first to try out the new routes to the Far East, before Karak Eight Peaks was fully reclaimed (they were quite happy to find out that it was fully reclaimed. Some of them had cousins there apparently). Their trip was fairly harrowing, but nothing was worse than their caravan being waylaid, their belongings looted, and to get abducted themselves and forced to cook for the Feastmasters on pain of death. It was apparently quite traumatising for some of them.

It was quite awkward for Greasus to hear the crying noises of the halfling woman named Martha as her husband Jeremiah comforted her. Such signs of affection and emotional display were signs of weakness for an Ogre, but Greasus was growing more used to understanding that the other races weren't as resilient as Ogres.

The Halflings grew more and more comfortable with him with time. It took them a while to warm up to him, but the fact that nobody was allowed to bother them, they had their privacy and a tent dedicated to them, and the only conversation they had was with a (comparatively) nice and understanding Ogre made them feel more at ease.

If the other Ogres and Gnoblars in the tribe were bothered by such blatant favoritism, then their protests would have surely fallen silent the instant they tasted the Halfling's cooking for the first time. It was by far the most joyous feast the Goldtooth tribe has had for years, perhaps even decades! All of them quietly nodded to themselves at the infinite wisdom of their Tyrant. He was truly chosen by the Great Maw.

As for Greasus, well, none could say they've ever seen him quite as happy. The Halflings were initially hesitant to accept his offer to remain as his cooks, as they did want to return home after their perilous journey, but they could not deny that what they had now was far more comfortable than what they used to be in. So they acquiesced, a deal sealed with a delighted handshake by the new Head Cook Lobriella Meadowsweet and the Ogre Tyrant Greasus Goldtooth.

The monotony of Ogre life was ruptured. Greasus was determined to find out more about the world, and now he had the perfect mentors to teach him. Who better to teach him of the intricacies of the world than those who understand the value of food?

AN: I have no idea why I'm so inspired, but I pumped this out after receiving some inspiration. I have a lot of fun doing this. Maybe I'll continue this omake series if people are interested. If Greasus seems OOC, then it's probably intentional as I try to reason my way into a character space that I'm interested in exploring. His character description in the Army Books leaves some leeway for exploration of how it applies, and this is a different Greasus than Canon anyway. He's more inspired/motivated to learn and explore, believing it to be a way to demonstrate his superiority over other Ogres.
 
And where do you even draw the line? Kaiser and Tzar derives from Ceaser, which is a historical person. And things like Tyrant or Dictator are originally specific political position, but mostly disconnected in todays use.

Tzar is actually pretty disconnected from the original meaning in modern Russian, too ---- it's not uncommon for foreigners to think it means Emperor (that would be ....imperator), but the modern usage is roughly for Slavic kings (and sometimes other kings, sometimes because the speaker is being kinda racistly condescending about them) --- while West European and sometimes other kings are designated Korol' with no requirement for being of Carolingian origin, ignoring the etymology..
 
I will say this. As much as I complain about the constant contradictions and the mess I have to sort through as I sift through Warhammer material, the Warhammer setting is one huge sandbox. My brain is figuratively set alight with dozens of scenarios and concepts as a result of the wide variety and diversity of options presented by the setting. It's not a perfect setting, but it does a very good job at getting me engaged.

Now, being fair, the reason I even went this far is because of DL. I doubt I would have gotten into Warhammer otherwise. Particularly considering the... other stuff going around with GW's policies nowadays. I still love the setting and I'm very interested in contributing to it in this thread.
 
Those are some solid points that I've considered before. Like, I was considering writing a fantasy story at one point where the MC was a lesbian. Then I briefly got caught up in the terminology as I wondered how the word lesbian would come about if there was no sappho or Lesbos, and how even sapphic also comes from the same place so it can't be used either. I eventually decided if I would do the story at any point in my life, I'd probably use a different word, but maybe I should say screw it and just go ahead even if it doesn't make etymological sense.

Yeah, I think words that are very emotionally/politically loaded (for better or worse) have a higher risk of taking people out of immersion. One very positive example in that regard is A Practical Guide to Evil, I think, which keeps finding descriptions for its queer characters that feel like they fit the world very naturally. But sometimes I feel like it's easiest to simply forgo the labels and show that your character is a lesbian by just describing who they are attracted to.
 
I just finished the Orcs and Goblins Army Book. First I want to groan in agony at the fact that "Giant Spider" and "Gigantic Spider" are different to each other, with one being ridden by Forest Goblins Spider Riders and the other being a Hero/Lord mount. Lovely terminology going on here.

Secondly, a particular description in the book grabbed my attention. The book says that a Night Goblin Shaman who eats too much Magic Mushrooms turns into a giant Shamanshroom, a "magic saturated fungal shoot", and that these shrooms are highly coveted for their magical enhancements.

I don't think the Waaghshrooms being produced right now are dead Shamans, but the original strain might have been made from one. That's... unfortunate.

And finally, I never heard of Snagla Grobspit and Gitilla da Hunter before I read the book. I'm particularly interested in Gitilla, who is a Hero unit from Da Howlaz tribe, which we've come across in quest. He's described as an exceptionally cunning and skilled Wolf Rider, who pursued the Wolf he desired up and down the mountains for three days and nights until he finally exhausted her. Ah damn, now I'm tempted to write an omake from his perspective too.
 
Mathilde the Everchosen
Mathilde the Everchosen​

It's finally here. Years of preparation. Years of work. Every sacrifice, every cost, every deal, leading to this moment.

You watch as Thorek and Johann approach the Waystone, the rest of project team behind you. Elves, humans and dwarves, working together for a brighter future.

Johann raises the pair of tongs in his hand, pressing the the white hot rune against the waystone. You remember how you delved into the dark, monster infested depths of Karaz Ghumzul to claim the knowledge needed to forge that rune. You remember the countless treaties and negotiations to acquire the materials, the support, necessary for this singular moment.

Thorek raises his hammer, slowly, methodically, to strike the rune.

[Runesmithing: 1]

Thorek is petrified instantly as a wave of dhar blasts forth from the waystone. Your vision is clogged by the roiling, disgusting cloud, and all around you are screams of horror and pain, and the rune of Valaya's Vengeance burns brightly, and your vision turns to flames as the dhar is consumed by Kraggs runes—but against the never ending tide of darkness, even that masterwork fails, the runes shattering, and the dhar envelops you.

[Windherding: Learning 30+20 (dhar insight)+10 (windsage)+67=127]

Thinking quickly, you grab a strand of rebel ulgu fleeing the waystone and craft a shield of shadow around you, repelling the dhar, shielding your body and mind from the corrupting influence. You can only hope you were fast enough.

You look for your friends and companions. Where Johann was standing is nothing more than a puddle of molten gold. You glance at Max and Egrimm, but quickly avert your eyes, your stomach churning.

But even that, you regret, as you see the dhar billowing out, guided by a malevolent will towards the fair city of Tor Lithanel, descending upon the unwary innocents who live there.

Reality buckles and twists under the weight of the dhar, and with an agonising scream, it tears open, and the first demons step forth.

In the coming years, this day will be known to the few survivors as "Mathilde's Doom".

---

"The college has to be somewhere," Algard repeats with a mocking smirk. "A logical assumption." He steps through the wall and you follow him, into the endless grey void. Severn chairs in a circle, each seated by a lord or lady magister of the Grey Order.

You look for your chair, but it isn't there. You spin in a circle, surrounded by the judging glares of your peers, so fast their expressions blur into a single image of hate and rage.

"I'm sorry, Mathilde," Algard says. "But you pushed too far into secrets you were not meant to know." Your arms are bound behind your back, kindling piled at your feet. There's a crowd surrounding you, jeering, hateful faces you recognise, each holding a lit torch. Your master, Regimand. Your friend, Anton. Your King, Belegar.

Your parents.

Your screams are swallowed by the flames.


[Trait gained: Treacherous Nightmares]

---

You've been on the run now for months. There's no safety, no haven. When you broke the waystone—stupid, foolish girl—you broke the articles. You know the punishment. They'll be hunting you now. They could be anywhere. The shadows you once trusted could conceal a magister. The faces on the street could be an assassin in disguise. No one can be trusted, nowhere is safe.

You first try for your secret palace in Wurtbad, but the city is crawling with Witch Hunters, all looking for you, all strengthened by their faith in their worthless god. Your teeth grind as you remember how Sigmar, mighty, powerful, arrogant Sigmar, failed you—failed Abel!—in your time of need.

Moving carefully, you approach your hideout, but are forced to dive into the shadows—twisted, traitorous things they are—as movement catches your vision.

Someone is entering your palace!

You look closely at the man, dressed like a cross between a vagabond and a priest, and a name floats across your mind.

Heideck, priest of Ranald.

Why would he be here? Unless he was sent, waiting for you.

An ambush?

You recall, on that dark day that Abel died, there was a second god present. Another god who failed you. One who also did nothing.

"So even you have turned on me, my oldest friend?" you say with resignation. Slowly, you remove the traitors coin from around your neck and drop it into the muck.

And then you leave Wurtbad, never to return.

---

Karak Eight Peaks hasn't changed much since you were last here, except maybe a few more patrols, a few more guards out looking for those who would infiltrate the hold.

You sneak past them anyway, and quickly reach your penthouse.

Wolf is waiting for you, of course. He's the only one who knows, the only one who understands.

The only one you can trust.

You slip inside, the numerous defences causing you no hindrance. Behind your back, the dwarves called you paranoid for the excessive security measures you insisted upon, but as you creep past each defence, you wonder if you weren't paranoid enough.

You begin to gather you vital belongings—a few books and tools, some robes, when suddenly—

"Mathlide?" A voice startles you, and you twirl on the spot, shadow knife in your hands. "Oh Mathilde, we've been so worried! When we heard—"

Panoramia stands in the doorway, face streaked with tears. She looks like she wants to run to you, but you still have your shadow dagger pointed at her.

"We heard it failed, that the waystone exploded. We feared that you were—were," she chokes up, unable to finish.

"It was ugly," you say. "I think I'm the only one who got out." You relax slightly, and dismiss the shadow dagger. This is Pan, you're safe—

She charges at you—is that a knife? Branulhune is in your hands, its tip puncturing her chest. Blood bubbles from her mouth, her eyes full of shock.

"What! No, why!?" You're in shock, this can't be happening? Why did she come at you with a—wait, where's the knife? No, it was her sickle, on her belt, blade blunted from years of work. It was never in her hand. You stare in horror. Why did you think there was a knife you stupid girl?

You banish your sword, but that just makes the blood poor faster from the wound. You push your hands on it, trying to stem the flow.

The seed! Of course, you can fix this. You raise your hand, trying to remember the nonsense words that activate it.

[Seed of Regrowth: Learning 30-10 (grief)-30 (chaos corruption)+16= 6]

The seed goes to work—but to your growing horror, it doesn't heal. Instead, thick, rotten roots burst from your hand and begin to burrow into Pan's lifeless body, draining away what little vitality she had left. Soon, all that's left of her is her bloodstained robes; not even a body to bury. The seed has consumed her completely.

Wolf pushes his cold nose into your neck, and together you howl with grief.

A few hours later you leave Karak Eight Peaks on the back of your shadowhorse, Wolf loping along beside you. In the end, you couldn't bring much with you—a few books and artefacts, the most important of which include the Liber Mortis and the Mirrorcatch box.

But where can you go now? Both the Empire and the Karaz Ankor would be closed to a murderous black magister.

Dum, the wind whispers to you. You laugh. It's so obvious. You're life has been nothing but a series of failures, one after another. Why not return to yet another black mark on your record?

You turn your shadowsteed north.

This time, you resolve, you won't fail.

---

"Blood or tea, stranger?" asks the Dolgan shaman. It is the same man you met before, the servant of the Untamed who traded you food for silver. That feels like a lifetime ago.

You look at the man, and wonder how much he can be trusted. You consider answering blood, but there is a weariness in your bones, and you still have a long journey to go.

"Today, tea." You and the shaman repeat the ritual you once performed together many years ago, drinking the fermented horse milk he offers you.

"You journey to Dum once more, Shaman of the Mountain Ring clans?" he asks.

You shake your head. "I am a shaman of nowhere, but yes, I seek to test myself against Dum, as my chieftain once did many years ago." Borek wasn't really your chieftain, but he was in command of the expedition, which was close enough to the same thing.

The Shaman looks thoughtfully at you. "There is much movement along the road to Dum. Many champions seek to test themselves. The gods have called them there, I think."

You absorb the information without a flicker of emotion. "Then I will test myself against them as well."

The Shaman grins. "A worthy answer. Come join us, for we make the pilgrimage also. Mighty Slaaksho thinks he is worthy of Dum's blessing."

You consider his words. You think you can protect yourself, should they betray you—and by the tone of his voice, the shaman does not seem to agree with his chieftains beliefs about his worthiness. A potential chink in the tribe you can use for your advantage?

"I accept," you say.

---

Dum is as you left it; the mountain and the beastman both. Perhaps the desert is a little larger than before, the trees taller and darker. Cor-Dum bellows a war cry, and the warriors of the Dolgan—your warriors, after you left Slaaksho's lifeless body in a ditch—bellow back.

"Do we charge?" asks the Shaman of the Untamed. The warriors look to you, their eyes seeking weakness. You bested their champion in a duel, but this would be the real test, where they learn to respect you—or fear you.

You look at the desert—or rather, the bones of those who failed Dum's test.

You will not join them.

"I have a better idea," you reply. You reach up to the winds above, but instead of familiar ulgu, you pull on the purple wind of Shyish, sending it into the sands below. The Ulgu in your body rebels against the foreign wind, generating dhar, but you simply grab that cursed power and channel it into your spell, leaving yourself unharmed and unchanged.

The thrill of two different magics coursing through you, and the power of dhar itself, makes you giddy. You could conquer the world with this power, you could surpass the great Nagash, surpass even the gods themselves.

You can't remember why you resisted this power for so long.

The first of your undead warriors rise, and you laugh, long and hard, finally free.

Soon, Dum will break; the mountain and beastman both. And then the secrets of the Runemasters will be yours.

---

You've been stalking the apparition for weeks, travelling further north into lands where the border between reality and unreality is as ephemeral as a shadow. You had to break Aqshy several times just to summon it, grabbing the red wind with a gauntlet of dhar, but now the red rider is in your sight.

It flees, some primitive intelligence warning it of your strength, but it is no match for your shadowsteed.

Catching it is almost effortless as you throw a web of Ulgu over it, ensnaring it, corrupting it, trapping it.

Soon it will rest in your soul, another apparition for your collection.

Above you, four sets of eyes look on with amusement at the mortal who would dare to enslave demons.

---

Your sword flickers in and out of existence, its runes—once forged by the greatest of Runelords—glowing with eldritch energies after the enhancements you made to it. Between the secrets of the Runemasters and your supply of Aqua Vitae, there is little you don't know about enchantment, and none have stood against your blade—until now.

Archeon, the man who would be Everchosen, charges at you once more, fury in his eyes. His blows fail to penetrate your Dum-hide cloak, even as your own shadow flails uselessly against his own armour.

Parry, riposte, chop. The Slayer of Kings and Branulhune, the two greatest swords of the age, clash against each other, equally matched. Neither one can give way to the other, the combatants equal in skill and blessing both.

But you don't fight alone.

Wolf, loyal, faithful Wolf, leaps at the pretender, casting him to the ground. He's grown in the years since you came north, now the size of a bear and three times as dangerous.

Archeon pushes your familiar way, and rises to his knees—but no further. Branulhune takes his head in a single swing. It's over. A mass of roots shoot from your palm, devouring the corpse, leaving nothing behind and your wounds are healed.

High above you, four gods come together, and for the first time in two centuries reach an accord.

A new champion is crowned. A new Everchosen is born.

And the world will burn.

---

Altdorf. How long has it been since you were here last? You barely remember. You turn your eyes away from the twisted streets and look over your army. Never has such a host been brought together—the living, the dead and demonkind, all united under one banner. Norscans and Kurgans and Hung, Chaos Dwarfs and Beastmen and Skaven, skeletons and ghosts and wrights, greater demons and apparitions and demon princes.

All bound to your will, all devoted to their dark mistress of shadows and sorcery.

Your eyes turn across the field, to your opposition, to the mighty host of order. Imperial regiments, Bretonian knights, dwaven throngs—are those the banners of the Eonir? So some did survive.

You smile. Their numbers are few, and their ranks in disarray. Last night, your Misty Maidens reaped a harvest of blood among the officers and commanders, and now they are barely prepared for battle. Yesterday there were hundreds of shining souls, wizards of the eight collages you once called home.

Today, they number only a few dozen.

But they are not broken, not yet.

At the head of the army, is the Champion of Order himself—Emperor Mandred, the Twice Blessed. He holds Ghal Maraz, that cursed artefact of a weak and snivelling god, above his head, as he gives a rousing speech. You can not hear the words, but they are irrelevant.

After all, he and his army will be dead by the time the sun sets.

---

You exult in the battle, riding atop ever loyal Wolf, your sword sweeping through the ranks of your foe, even as his twin heads rend and tear.

You turn to cheer your warriors on, but they are not there. Where are they? Did the charge fail?

Dark memories of a dark night in a dark Sylvanian alley come unbidden. You strangle the emotions in rage.

Again and again, you have been failed by worthless incompetents. You will survive, and then you will hunt the traitors who disobeyed you.

"Godmother, it is good to see you again." You spin to face the boy—no, no longer a boy, but a man, a man with hard eyes. Behind him, unseen to most, stands a second man, one whose eyes are full of regret—regret, but no forgiveness.

"Mandred, it's been so long!" you coo. "How is you mother? Is she well?" You teleport off Wolf's back, your sword swinging through the air, but he blocks it with his hammer.

"Well enough. I think she misses you." As does his counterblow, your body turning to mist at the moment of impact. "The old you, not this monster you've become."

"Monster? Monster?" You are incandescent with rage. "If I am a monster, it is only because I was hunted—hunted for a mistake I didn't make! You were all out to get me from the start! I was sabotaged, betrayed! This is all on your heads! It was all your fault!"

Mandred simply looks at you with a sad expression, but doesn't reply. Instead he marches forward, hammer swinging at you time and time again.

You block, parry and dodge, counterattacking with steel and sorcery. He cleaves through your dusk riders, and breaks your shadow with a blow of his hammer, but you cut and wound a dozen times over, bleeding him inch by inch. He may have the support of two gods, but you have four. Your victory is assured.

Finally, he makes a mistake—blood drips in his eyes, and he stumbles in the mud. Your blade flashes forwards—

And cuts empty air. A feint. Where is he?

To your left. A glint of gold from the hammer high in the air. A glint of silver from the coin hanging from his neck.

Your last thoughts are of a green dress, stained with blood, and the laughing of cruel and wicked gods.

===

So, there you have it—the rather convoluted and tragic chain of events that could lead to an Everchosen Mathilde.

It's not my best work, it's very rough, but I've been writing this for about four hours now, so here, enjoy.
 
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You know on the subject of Ogres I wonder what their magic would look like to study for Web-Mat? I do not think we can really justify looking when it is not likely to have much of a connection to the Project, but if nothing else getting an Ogre Butcher to cooperate should be refreshingly easy, you just pay them gold.
 
You know on the subject of Ogres I wonder what their magic would look like to study for Web-Mat? I do not think we can really justify looking when it is not likely to have much of a connection to the Project, but if nothing else getting an Ogre Butcher to cooperate should be refreshingly easy, you just pay them gold.
Finding a Butcher west of the MoM would be a struggle, though.

Boney's said before that he's going with large numbers of Ogres in the Old World not being a thing before Golgfag became famous for his exploits.
 
Just noticed something on re-reading:
Dwarves [...]... well, maybe the idea wasn't completely unthinkable, but from what you've heard they don't even have, well, urges, it was entirely a matter of duty and clan instead of drives and entertainment.
Ah, Mathilde, so young, so naive! :V Just fresh from Karak Eight Peaks expedition success and haven't lived among dwarfs yet. Now she knows better of course, thanks to Edda & Kazrik, Grungni's mining festivals and Karak Vlag survivors.
 
I had a general idea of what to expect before reading the Dark Elves book, but I was not prepared. I was not prepared for how much my SOD would be stretched by the sheer self destructiveness of that society and wondering how the hell it could be in any way a reasonable threat that grows more powerful and hasn't destroyed itself yet.

It's like the Skaven's society made only slightly better, but they don't have the excuse of insane reproductive rates, their gods aren't nearly as interventionist as the Horned Rat, and they don't use the bullshit abilities of Warpstone nearly as much. At every point this society seems determined to cripple itself and cull its citizens in such a manner that I wonder how the hell they ever make up for all these losses. I can't wrap my head around this.
 
I had a general idea of what to expect before reading the Dark Elves book, but I was not prepared. I was not prepared for how much my SOD would be stretched by the sheer self destructiveness of that society and wondering how the hell it could be in any way a reasonable threat that grows more powerful and hasn't destroyed itself yet.

It's like the Skaven's society made only slightly better, but they don't have the excuse of insane reproductive rates, their gods aren't nearly as interventionist as the Horned Rat, and they don't use the bullshit abilities of Warpstone nearly as much. At every point this society seems determined to cripple itself and cull its citizens in such a manner that I wonder how the hell they ever make up for all these losses. I can't wrap my head around this.
I've got a few head-canons that I think make them work somewhat better, but they are definitely one of those factions which is buoyed by being cool and not by being reasonable. Which I respect, reasonability being overrated and all, but I can kind of see the problem.
 
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