Time for a veekie-spaghetti review!
"There's a concoction of volcanic salammoniac and animal fat," King Belegar says beside you, his voice low enough to not carry to the crowd. "Makes the hair stiff and brittle if you leave it in long enough. Makes this ceremony a minute or two long, rather than a solid fifteen minutes of yanking hair and nicking the scalp. Many a young lad has seen sense and washed it out before they made their way to the local Temple of Grimnir." He lifts his crown and runs a thoughtful hand through his own hair. "Made it once, though I didn't get so far as to put it in, between my father's passing and my first successful raid into... well, into here."
So, Belegar once considered becoming a slayer. And apparently, that's not unusual, as it seems that many a dwarf in their youths are tempted to run away from life's hardships into the slayer path. Really unhealthy. Surprisingly cowardly, too. Becoming a slayer is basically an elaborate way of commiting suicide, and I have always considered most cases of suicide (not all, never all) to be a sign of cowardice and selfishness.
If Dawi are to escape the death spiral, they need to tone down the glorifying of slayer path, or rather, make it more difficult to become a slayer.
"What did he do?" you murmur back, watching the youth. You think you might have seen him a time or two, but even in the smallest and most important Clan in Karak Eight Peaks, you just don't have the time to put a name to every face.
"Nothing." He sighs. "Nothing, when he thinks he ought have done something. Battle of Karagril, thinks he didn't step forward fast enough and fix the shieldwall when the Dwarf in front of him fell. Battle of Karag Lhune, he kept his shield raised when he thinks he should have lowered it and swung. Battle of the Eastern Gate, he busied himself dragging to safety a Dwarf he thinks he should have known was dead." You watch the newly-shorn Dwarf embrace who you assume are his parents, accept a freshly-forged axe from a Longbeard you recognize as the Eldest of Clan Angrund, and with a frozen face he walks out of the Hall of Oaths, likely never to return. "Way the Karaz Ankor is, and has been for millennia, every Dwarf must be a warrior, even those least suited to it. He had the deftest hand with a scrimshaw knife I've ever seen, could take a Skaven's fang and engrave into it the name and lineage of the one who slew it. But because he can't face battle, or perhaps because he thinks he's not good enough at facing battle, now he's going to dye his hair orange and get the proper tattoos and when he freezes up in front of a troll, he's going to be eaten. And for all the power of the crown, the most I can do is make sure he'll have easy passage at least as far as Zhufbar."
This is tragic on so many levels. I don't think I am in the proper mind-state to unpack it all. Honestly, I am feeling a bit angry at the young dwarf. He became a slayer, hurt his family, is contributing to dwarf decay and wasted his potential, for basically nothing. For some misplaced guilt. Belegar has to bring some of the "Grudge measurers", the sooner the better. They probably aren't enough, but they are something.
"If I truly cared for the safety and future of my people, I'd have never sought the forces to accomplish this," he says quietly. "Clan Angrund, sure, Clan Angrund never allowed itself to settle down, and would have marched towards extinction if someone didn't find a way to succeed. But the others? The Norgrimlings were comfortable in Zhufbar. Helhein were celebrated in Karak Norn. The Bronzefists had their own mountain in the Vaults - not the biggest mountain, nor the richest, but it was theirs. And a dozen other clans either considering or in the process of uprooting for the home none of their ancestors for three dozen generations has seen. The Karaz Ankor is not hurting for space - the entire lot of us could fit within Karaz-a-Karak these days. So if we don't need the space, and I'm not seeking to expunge Grudges with Dwarven blood, and I'm unable to retake the home of my ancestors without abandoning their ways, what am I accomplishing?"
"Karak Azul?" you hazard.
He remains silent for a while, and then exhales. "It's true. Their reconnection to the Karaz Ankor might not be possible any other way. But I find it difficult to find satisfaction in their Karak when my own is so diminished, and will never be otherwise in my lifetime."
I know the answer to this one. Beyond avenging the honor of his ancestor, slaying the Dwarf enemies and satisfying grudges, what Belegar is accomplishing is that he is leading the best damn attempt at even partial Dwarf resurgance in several
milennia. There's a
reason that Kragg is sticking around and indirectly condoning all this radical nonsense. Reconnecting Karak Azul is just a tip of the iceberg. He is in good position to create a massive positive contibution to the whole Karaz Ankor through his efforts here,
by doing the selfish thing of reconquering Karak Eight Peaks, and making it stick
but by doing it smart.
He is creating a literal symbol of hope and renaissance, something solid that Dwarfs can point at and strive for.
He should know this.
He undertook a great burden when he challenged Throgrim and the Age of Vengeance the way he did.
He
should also know this. It is a difficult and probably unfair task, being a champion of the Silver Age, and a vast journey awaits him that isn't going to become any easier.
So, Belegar, you better start pumping those Dwarfen legs!
"Trouble with the tower?" he asks distractedly, squinting at a parchment covered in numbers.
"Not at all, Lord Patriarch. I bring the best kind of good news."
A small smile twitches in the corner of his mouth. "The kind that would have been very bad news, except it ends with 'and you took care of it'?"
"Don't know where you'd get that idea." You take a seat across from him. "I speak, of course, of a full-blown Skaven civil war."
Heh. The smugness is overflowing in this one.
"Pestilens, the rest of the Brotherhood, and Mors..." he leans back and stares into space, muttering to himself. "Shame we're only hearing about it in the aftermath, but still... Mousillon, Bastonne. The current Ambassador's a good egg, I'll have a word in his ear. As for here... Ubersreik, of course. And Nuln..." He refocuses on you. "This might be worth having a poke at the Conspiracy of Silence. I'll have a little word with people who'll have a little word with people. If it all ends in disaster pray you never hear a word of it again, but if everything goes as it should this might be a nice little feather in your cap. Needless to say, if your guest spills anything else of interest I want to hear about it."
Curious that he is so certain that it's aftermath of a civil war. Yes, Mors being seriously pressured in their heart of power makes it certain that the Great Clans are currently winning, but Pestilens and its vassal clans are foes not to be underestimated. They could probably prolong the war to catastrophic casualties on both sides for
decades more.
Also, here's hoping that the Forces of Order don't get too zealous, and run into a trap.
You flip through a number of reports on attempts at adapting the MAP to other winds, and apart from the Bright College it seems that all attempts were dismal failures, seemingly because their own Winds don't have the natural inclination to flow and pool. But then you flip further and find a sparse few paragraphs in which a Bright College Lord Magister guts your spell, replaces its innards with a few simple flourishes, and sends it on its way, simplified enough for any Apprentice to cast. Following that is eight near-identical letters informing you that your spell has been added to the curricula of all eight Colleges.
Quite the contribution to wizardly posterity. Mathilde should be proud. Should we send the good Lord Magister a thank you note, and ask him if he would like to immolate some trolls and earn Dwarf favor (and gold)?
Though it goes unnoticed by the relatively undeveloped senses of those few Jade Wizards trusted enough to look her over, divine energy dances through both her and her unborn child, engaging in a constant dance that intertwines without ever quite mingling. Shallya's blessings fill them both with vitality, and Ranald's careful oversight seeks to guide them into a comfortable future like a pilot into port.
Curious that it isn't a more powerful Jade Wizard in charge of the birth.
Could we get away with calling him Ranald, do you think?"
"Probably not," you admit reluctantly. "Magnus, perhaps?"
"No, the Todbringers are kin to the original and they make enough hay out of it as it is. Wilhelm?"
You screw up your nose. "After the one that tried to purge wizards because some entirely non-magical thespian tricksters looted his treasury?"
"He did? Oh, terribly sorry, I didn't realize he'd do anything of the sort."
You narrow your eyes at her, not entirely sure if she's messing with you, but after the amount of times you've deployed that same act you can't really criticize. But you can fire back. "Dieter?"
She fakes a gag. "Perish the thought. But I'm liking the theme. Leopold's out, not giving the Unfähigers a foothold. Probably be a bit too on-the-nose to go with Sigmar, wouldn't it?"
"I'd say so." You smile as a thought occurs to you. "How about Mandred?"
Shouldn't the father also have some say? In any case, a good name.
Though aren't the Todbringers descended from Manndred as well?
The child stirs slightly as his tiny shirt is unbuttoned, and you prick a forefinger with a shadowchisel and draw a cross in blood above his heart. "Ranald greets you, Mandred. May this world bring you joy, and may you bring joy to this world."
My inner Verenan is deeply displeased with this turn of events.
"I must also applaud Prince Kazrik for providing such prolonged assistance to you."
"Yes," she says. "Assistance. We were-"
"Grungen? Developing bokkul? Adgalazgandit?" Though Khazalid doesn't have Reikspiel's breadth of creative euphemisms, it does have a lot of abusable mining terminology, and Edda blushes deeply. And that only worsens as you exercise your grasp of the language.
Mathilde's most likely been waiting for this moment for
months.
It's not a matter of any sort of dislike, as far as you can tell - you and her get on fine, and you're not just a human but a wizard. It's just that as an administrator, she's used to Dwarves, who can almost always be predicted and when something goes wrong, it's usually in a fairly predictable way. You imagine it must be something like a champion sheepdog being expected to run herd on a cat farm.
Normally it would never be a problem for a Dwarven Princess, but Karak Izor's gambit to put her within marrying range of King Belegar had put her in control of a sizeable and growing human population. Troubling. You tuck away your newly-won insights and move on.
The most worthwhile solution would probably be to convince Edda to enable a creation of a formal Undumgi organization with Mathilde's help, and then to propose to Belegar that he transfer the responsibility over Undumgi to Kazrik.
But would Edda be willing to admit her failing before Belegar is questionable.
"They're like cats!" Roswita shouts, waving her arms out the window of the briefing room in the general direction of the battlefields of Sylvania. "Every day, someone with fire instead of hair or surrounded by birds or a skull instead of a face wanders in and drops off a Vampire skull or the head of some forest mutant or a cartload of bones and I say thank you and they act like I've thrown a party and named my firstborn after them, and they go off to find something even worse to drag back! Look what they did to my table!"
You consider the small sapling protruding from the wood of the table, its small green leaves stretching towards the window. "I see."
"One of them walked off with my wall sconce stuck to her, I had to send a footman after her to get it back! She didn't even notice! Another made all the candles flare up, and one set fire to the curtains! One of them I had to tell only visit in the morning, because if he comes too late in the evening all the staff start nodding off!"
Poor Roswita. She expected deranged destructive murder-machines; and got quirky, lonely, eager for positive feedback murder-machines instead.
"So Tempelhof is sorted?"
She subsides and scowls before admitting it. "Yes, and their Primar came all the way here and said if we keep away the Vampires and the wizards, they'll pay taxes and accept whatever authority I put over them. Still got Strigoi and Lahmians to deal with, and it's a stalemate on both fronts so far, but so far there's been nothing unexpected."
So, the Blood Dragons have been dealt with, but the greater threats of a capable Lahmian and the Strigoi remain. Matters not. A step at a time, and with suprisingly little collateral is just fine.
"So everyone's magic is remaining cooperative?"
She shrugs. "Magister Patriarch Feldmann says that Sylvania puts everyone on edge, so they're double-checking everything. He's at least sensible, and we've been working together to sort out proper deployments to keep everyone useful and intact.
Worry not, Rosie, we'll make an advocate for wizarding rights out of you yet!
Conclusion: I must say, it was quite an emotional roller-coaster, this update.
EDIT: From the Belegar scene that faintly tasted like ash and the spite-fuelled righteous fervor it brought in me as a reaction, to Roswita's frankly endearing confusion and outrage regarding the Battle Wizards.
Also, I am firmly of the opinion that Battle Wizards need and deserve hugs, a lot of hugs.
The Duckling bit was addressed, so I removed it.