It's quite possible literally true. Teclis is recorded to have said: 'Just as the Gods themselves are created and shaped by mortal endeavours and expectations, so are their blessings." '
Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest
- Thread starter Boney
- Start date
- Fantasy Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
It's quite possible literally true. Teclis is recorded to have said: 'Just as the Gods themselves are created and shaped by mortal endeavours and expectations, so are their blessings." '
- Location
- Aotearoa
You of course refer to Mathilde's Award To Highlight Innovation, Learning, Discovery and Excellence.
The MATHILDE Prize will be a coveted status symbol for researchers the Old World over.
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Ranald... would fucking love that.
especially if it was a secretly dedicated and blessed to him...
sorry Boat, I'm sold.
Also it's our only chance to get rumor mill without spending an action.You of course refer to Mathilde's Award To Highlight Innovation, Learning, Discovery and Excellence.
The MATHILDE Prize will be a coveted status symbol for researchers the Old World over.
- Location
- Norway
Many things are possibly true in a canon as contradictory as Warhammer's. Different sources put the agency on both gods and mortals, e.g. Tome of Salvation on the first gods:
>What is certain is that many small pantheons were in existence at a very early time, with Gods selecting tribes according to their whims, or tribes turning to deities most relevant to their daily life.
- Location
- Aotearoa
You of course refer to Mathilde's Award To Highlight Innovation, Learning, Discovery and Excellence.
The MATHILDE Prize will be a coveted status symbol for researchers the Old World over.
Awarded annually, by Weber's Experimental Bureau of Exploratory Research, K8P.
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Making a Great Library would be an amazing usage for the Boon.
So would a Nobel prize type of thing.
So would a Nobel prize type of thing.
- Location
- The Surface Of A Hostile Planet
Gotta say, I'm actually fairly sold on using the Boon on acquiring b ͝ò ͟o k
Messing with the Cult of Verena is great fun, and it'll both benefit us personally and benefit Order in general for ages to come.
Messing with the Cult of Verena is great fun, and it'll both benefit us personally and benefit Order in general for ages to come.
- Location
- somewhere over there.
- Pronouns
- They/It
Would it be too petty to put up a bust of someone going "shhh", but with their fingers crossed just enough to be noticed?
Imagine having a small shrine to Ranald in it, too. It'll drive the Verenan's crazy.
Also, the Dwarves make for a pretty good safe guardians for a Black Library style thing where the most dangerous and forbidden knowledge is kept. A properly secure Dwarf hold is all but impossible to sneak into, and sudden snatch and grab raids are equally hard.
No. It is just petty enough.
I mean, The MATHILDE Prize could be part of the Library too, if we plan to gather books, papers, reports etc anyways. would even make things easier if people start sending their work for free.
might have to have a rule that Dwarfs who enter cant declare a grudge because they didn't win tho.
- Location
- New Brunswick, NJ
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
I still favor Sanctuary, but B Ö Ö K isn't bad, and the Nobel Weber Prize is also a neat idea.
- Location
- Poland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
... Man, with that B O O K B O O N those Library traits will be pretty damn tempting.
Well, ones that focus on using and advertising the library, rather than getting even more.
Well, ones that focus on using and advertising the library, rather than getting even more.
Wouldn't need to be an explicit rule. Declaring a Grudge because you lost a contest? Shameful. Utterly shameful. Unless they somehow cheated, in which case they did not actually win.
It could, yeah. We just want to make sure we don't break the bank or anything like that.
I feel like the real trick is not to drive them crazy, but instead have every hint subtle enough that they won't actually know that they are in a shrine to Ranald.
I feel like everyone will understand that this is a marathon not a race plan.
dwarfs have time.
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You have a point. That is what would make it such a fantastic prank.
- Location
- The Surface Of A Hostile Planet
I wonder if there's a way to combine all those ends into a single means? They're obviously pretty connected.
Xryuran
I'm very hard right now... Hard boiled that is.
- Location
- I a sea egg now.
So I spent 3 or so days reading this from start to finish and it's been an insane ride. I'm both happy and sad that I got here just as this campaign was ending.
Though if anyone has TW Warhammer i think they would agree that I need ledgendary lord Matilda Weber in my life. Any moders read this?
Though if anyone has TW Warhammer i think they would agree that I need ledgendary lord Matilda Weber in my life. Any moders read this?
- Location
- Aotearoa
On another topic, I wonder if these are connected?
Did giving up his past and identity renew Gunnars, wiping his slate clean, letting him be free of those burdens, and thereby it made him as youthful as the wispiest beardling?
Nice.
So age for dwarves seems to at least in part psychological- perhaps a result of the accumulated personal debts, grievances, grudges and burdens that Dwarves cannot forget, and do not fade in their memories with age.
Did giving up his past and identity renew Gunnars, wiping his slate clean, letting him be free of those burdens, and thereby it made him as youthful as the wispiest beardling?
Also... is Ranald in the running to get a full Temple at K8P before any Ancestor God?
Nice.
there is someone playing with that idea as something in the omkes, but I don't thank they are actually a moder.
quest and modding isn't a natural cross community.
Huh. Can it be an alternative to slayer oath?
- Location
- Edmonton
- Pronouns
- He/Him
IDK guys, I dont wanna style on Verena too much.
Considering you know, our god sorta betrayed her daughter to achieve godhood. What next? I mean some of you *cough* Omegahugger *cough* are already tring to goof Morr, her husband.
Leave this family alone, haven't you and Ranald done enough?
Considering you know, our god sorta betrayed her daughter to achieve godhood. What next? I mean some of you *cough* Omegahugger *cough* are already tring to goof Morr, her husband.
Leave this family alone, haven't you and Ranald done enough?
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- Location
- France
Ranald IS against unnecessary death and murder, you know...
An excerpt from the journals of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 15
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Dear diary, much has happened since last I wrote upon your pages; or rather, much has been prepared for. War marches again on the horizon of my duties, and so with an eye towards death oncoming we have drilled and marched and prayed. Karagil, it is said in whispers, two months hence. We escort wagons of powder and shot again midst the food and water upon which life under the mountain depends. And every time our column greets them we turn and look out from the underway at the azril silhouette of our next undertaking.
It is strange, how fully I had fallen into the cycles of life in the east valley. There's an entire mountain full of trolls just a wall and a bowshot away and the halflings pay it no mind, 'or-turning soil and wandering about with with watering jugs of clever tinwork. How much like them I have felt! Our towns breathe and burble, our purses fill, our nights stretch long and full with merriment and good company. (Ah! Dear diary I will speak to you soon of Hubert, but it is yet too new in my chest to dare.) Even the threats we face- orc raiders for the most part, though some goblins on wolves have been sighted to the east by word of the gyrocopters- are met by marching out to meet them, through the east gate under watchful eyes and Oswald's cannon.
And now I can scarce look 'bout me without raising mine eyes past the cliff rim upon which the citadel perches. Karagil, Ziflin, Yar, Rhyn, Mhonar, and Wyr stand beyond- our walls against the world, here in our mountain chalice. Our enemies in them, inside our outer gates, and we whistle because our keep has been secured. How very close they are.
Do we take our nature in this from the dwarves, dear diary? I find that they treat a foe a mile away as one a hundred- as outside their gates. And so our most careful and thorough partners do not concern themselves with it. And so perhaps we did not?
Karagil, we whisper. Two months.
Such thoughts do not consume every moment though, dear diary, though loom they do. A month ago I went again to Ulrikadrin, the first trip made through the tunnel since seeing off the many, many, many... Many important guests of the King. Hubert, who I grow used to at my right hand in the field, was absent with Dreng for trip. This time we ventured at the request of Prince Gotri, who has laid aside his wrenches and grease can for a plumb line and level these days- and though I had laughed when told he was building a shipyard I cannot dispute the sight. He had asked for an escort to give company to the Grandmaster Wulfhart as he went to confer with the King, and I had been having concerns over a particular group (we estimated them at twenty or so) of orcs that we had been seen but had not managed to engage. A trifle, I'm sure, to the knights of Ulric, but to the world I wished for safety of our guests, and in truth I was hoping to see the threat ended by their mobility.
Ulrikadrin expands even as I write, for though it is remote for a border princedom, such places grow and fall like the leaves of trees, and many who dwell in them are restless dissatisfied souls who move easily at promise of fortune. And so a trickle of drought and blight stricken farmers, journeymen, bards and vagrants of all stripes comes with the steamships, and fields begin to grow where the stumps of trees have been pulled up. The piles of sawdust grow grey, and the trees felled for the mill's hunger slowly retreat, though the wooded valleys about the village should hold enough with for a hundred generations with care.
The master of the town has had cried about a new law- no foundations of stone may be constructed save those with a warrant and no land claimed as property without a stone foundation laid, but wood buildings may be built as desired- though not replaced. Curious of this, for no such laws would ever apply within Karag Nar, I made my way one afternoon to the handsome new hall overlooking what was slowly turning into a town square. Within I was told that Sir Wulfric had decided to be clever, and to try to square Ulrican teachings with the requirements of planning a new city: any would be allowed to come and build for themselves, with their own strength, but only those who built along the planned routes would be allowed the permanence of stone. I was shown a (frankly optimistic) map drawn and labeled 'gainst the wall- a tidy town square, neat grids of streets, and spaces marked off for a wall with bastions. It makes some sense to me, for those who wish to better themselves and their homes will slowly fill in the streets as marked, and those who wish more freedom and space will move out to the edges as their shacks collapse. Clever, in that only the lightest force of civil rule is applied, but in a way to concentrate and reap benefit from a well-built town of stone. We shall see if it works, or if in ten years the clean streets are yet blocked by crumbled hovels and stubborn wolf worshipers.
The main way from the docks to the underway has been named Silver street, in the hopes of what may flow along it, but of the others on the dreamy map only River Street is in fit shape to be cobbled- warehouse and tavern owners being early and enthusiastic partisans of a plan that would leave them facing the largest boulevards, and their late-comer competitors buried in the side streets. (Were not dwarves available for hire, such piecemeal rebuilding would lead to a tangled mess of alleys, but the surveyors have been deft and the occasional mass of a properly stonefooted house gestures towards straight lines for those who know to look.)
The Grandmaster cannot be found often these days in the town, however, and so after reporting to Prince Gotri (who had apparently almost developed something of a feud with the town planners over the naming of streets, and was only placated when the shipyard space was placed between a renamed Slip Street and Wright Street, rather than Horse and Bramble, but was still more than willing to grumble over it) we climbed back up towards the underway, and the Ulrican fortress slowly beginning to take shape on a peak near it.
Dear diary, slowly is perhaps unfair, spoilt as I've been by the speed and imperviousness to error with which our own Karak's masons work. T'would be rude, I thought, to share such thoughts as we overlooked the clearing and leveling, and Sir Wulfhart himself paced the outer edges muttering about sight lines and approaches. He was more than willing to accompany myself back to the Karak, perhaps frustrated by weeks of work at the pace that ground at me in minutes. Himself on Snowball, and a dozen others on wolves, along with my company of a hundred. (Twenty-five long and four deep, in standard array, ten and ten when danger may threaten from any direction, four wide and twenty-five long when in column for march.) We cleared the underway taking idly of the ideals of knighthood and it's connections to the gods, and though conversations were perhaps louder than I would have wished, allowances must be made when I may bare look over the lowest part of Snowball's back and the knight rides tall and proud in his saddle.
Dear diary, I say we spoke louder than I would have wished, for the orcs I had intended to unleash the wolves upon were waiting for us as we passed the gates of the underway and emerged into the light of Death Pass. They, too, had been reinforced: perhaps fifty in three groups, twenty to a side.
And the third group? My dear diary, I still laugh to consider it. The third group had positioned themselves above the exit of the tunnel, jumping down into the midst of our formation to begin the ambush. They were cunning, waiting for the first four ranks to pass, and leaping for where the wagons would have been should we have been escorting supplies. They were brutal, throwing themselves headlong off the thirty-foot drop that would have snapped the knees and ankles of any human that tried it.
And they landed directly on top of a formation of marching pikes, our silversteel points angled only slightly over out shoulders, wolves flanking us.
I confess I near screamed when the first orc tore my pike from my hands as he landed upon it- forcing it straight down, butt into the dirt, before sliding the ENTIRE length down as he died. But! I did not, and may the Lady again grant me the cool fervor I felt then- without breaking stride I let go of my pike as the body slid down, grabbing it again to lift the butt clear and raised it 'or my head, already shouting orders. Two ranks deep of pikes is not enough, but pressed from both sides (those foolish survivors from above we dealt with quick by knife, and traded two of ours for ten of theirs as we did) needs must. And so the wolves squirted forwards, the orcs rushed screaming in from the sides, and the thicket of dropped points was too slow and too sparse to catch the first rush. Six of mine went down, the column cut through in the center, but the discipline, oh the discipline of our response!
Shouted commands pulled our lines back and widening from the breach, pikes rising and pivoting and falling, until the gap the orcs had forced became a corridor lined with sharp points turned inwards, and the raiders found themselves reversed, pinned in turn from two sides. And then the wolves stuck, tearing into them from both behinds, bottling them between our ranks. And with that it was finished in moments- the Ulricans in high spirits over the 'bit of fun' they had all been hoping for when we had set out.
My Lady, I thank you for the steadiness of my hands and my command, for the discipline of drills carried forward into the terror of sudden ambush. I beg you watch over us and protect us, ward is against our enemies as you did that day. And unto you I commend the souls of those lost, that you may shelter them until their gods come to claim them.
I know not what the discussions held with King Belegar contained, but I do know the feral grin on Sir Wulfhart's face he had as he left again back to his soon-to-be fortress. It was the same he wore as the first orc in ambush cried waaagh- anticipatory. And it wavered not whilst in sight of Karagil, the whole journey back.
Karagil, the whispers go, two months.
May the Lady grant me the strength and honor we will all surely need, and should my deeds prove worthy, may she one day grace me with the taste of her Grail. And my Lady? I pray for Hubert, for of late much have u come to care for him.
Until next fate makes the time for me to write, dear diary, I shall leave you with my prayers.
Dear diary, much has happened since last I wrote upon your pages; or rather, much has been prepared for. War marches again on the horizon of my duties, and so with an eye towards death oncoming we have drilled and marched and prayed. Karagil, it is said in whispers, two months hence. We escort wagons of powder and shot again midst the food and water upon which life under the mountain depends. And every time our column greets them we turn and look out from the underway at the azril silhouette of our next undertaking.
It is strange, how fully I had fallen into the cycles of life in the east valley. There's an entire mountain full of trolls just a wall and a bowshot away and the halflings pay it no mind, 'or-turning soil and wandering about with with watering jugs of clever tinwork. How much like them I have felt! Our towns breathe and burble, our purses fill, our nights stretch long and full with merriment and good company. (Ah! Dear diary I will speak to you soon of Hubert, but it is yet too new in my chest to dare.) Even the threats we face- orc raiders for the most part, though some goblins on wolves have been sighted to the east by word of the gyrocopters- are met by marching out to meet them, through the east gate under watchful eyes and Oswald's cannon.
And now I can scarce look 'bout me without raising mine eyes past the cliff rim upon which the citadel perches. Karagil, Ziflin, Yar, Rhyn, Mhonar, and Wyr stand beyond- our walls against the world, here in our mountain chalice. Our enemies in them, inside our outer gates, and we whistle because our keep has been secured. How very close they are.
Do we take our nature in this from the dwarves, dear diary? I find that they treat a foe a mile away as one a hundred- as outside their gates. And so our most careful and thorough partners do not concern themselves with it. And so perhaps we did not?
Karagil, we whisper. Two months.
Such thoughts do not consume every moment though, dear diary, though loom they do. A month ago I went again to Ulrikadrin, the first trip made through the tunnel since seeing off the many, many, many... Many important guests of the King. Hubert, who I grow used to at my right hand in the field, was absent with Dreng for trip. This time we ventured at the request of Prince Gotri, who has laid aside his wrenches and grease can for a plumb line and level these days- and though I had laughed when told he was building a shipyard I cannot dispute the sight. He had asked for an escort to give company to the Grandmaster Wulfhart as he went to confer with the King, and I had been having concerns over a particular group (we estimated them at twenty or so) of orcs that we had been seen but had not managed to engage. A trifle, I'm sure, to the knights of Ulric, but to the world I wished for safety of our guests, and in truth I was hoping to see the threat ended by their mobility.
Ulrikadrin expands even as I write, for though it is remote for a border princedom, such places grow and fall like the leaves of trees, and many who dwell in them are restless dissatisfied souls who move easily at promise of fortune. And so a trickle of drought and blight stricken farmers, journeymen, bards and vagrants of all stripes comes with the steamships, and fields begin to grow where the stumps of trees have been pulled up. The piles of sawdust grow grey, and the trees felled for the mill's hunger slowly retreat, though the wooded valleys about the village should hold enough with for a hundred generations with care.
The master of the town has had cried about a new law- no foundations of stone may be constructed save those with a warrant and no land claimed as property without a stone foundation laid, but wood buildings may be built as desired- though not replaced. Curious of this, for no such laws would ever apply within Karag Nar, I made my way one afternoon to the handsome new hall overlooking what was slowly turning into a town square. Within I was told that Sir Wulfric had decided to be clever, and to try to square Ulrican teachings with the requirements of planning a new city: any would be allowed to come and build for themselves, with their own strength, but only those who built along the planned routes would be allowed the permanence of stone. I was shown a (frankly optimistic) map drawn and labeled 'gainst the wall- a tidy town square, neat grids of streets, and spaces marked off for a wall with bastions. It makes some sense to me, for those who wish to better themselves and their homes will slowly fill in the streets as marked, and those who wish more freedom and space will move out to the edges as their shacks collapse. Clever, in that only the lightest force of civil rule is applied, but in a way to concentrate and reap benefit from a well-built town of stone. We shall see if it works, or if in ten years the clean streets are yet blocked by crumbled hovels and stubborn wolf worshipers.
The main way from the docks to the underway has been named Silver street, in the hopes of what may flow along it, but of the others on the dreamy map only River Street is in fit shape to be cobbled- warehouse and tavern owners being early and enthusiastic partisans of a plan that would leave them facing the largest boulevards, and their late-comer competitors buried in the side streets. (Were not dwarves available for hire, such piecemeal rebuilding would lead to a tangled mess of alleys, but the surveyors have been deft and the occasional mass of a properly stonefooted house gestures towards straight lines for those who know to look.)
The Grandmaster cannot be found often these days in the town, however, and so after reporting to Prince Gotri (who had apparently almost developed something of a feud with the town planners over the naming of streets, and was only placated when the shipyard space was placed between a renamed Slip Street and Wright Street, rather than Horse and Bramble, but was still more than willing to grumble over it) we climbed back up towards the underway, and the Ulrican fortress slowly beginning to take shape on a peak near it.
Dear diary, slowly is perhaps unfair, spoilt as I've been by the speed and imperviousness to error with which our own Karak's masons work. T'would be rude, I thought, to share such thoughts as we overlooked the clearing and leveling, and Sir Wulfhart himself paced the outer edges muttering about sight lines and approaches. He was more than willing to accompany myself back to the Karak, perhaps frustrated by weeks of work at the pace that ground at me in minutes. Himself on Snowball, and a dozen others on wolves, along with my company of a hundred. (Twenty-five long and four deep, in standard array, ten and ten when danger may threaten from any direction, four wide and twenty-five long when in column for march.) We cleared the underway taking idly of the ideals of knighthood and it's connections to the gods, and though conversations were perhaps louder than I would have wished, allowances must be made when I may bare look over the lowest part of Snowball's back and the knight rides tall and proud in his saddle.
Dear diary, I say we spoke louder than I would have wished, for the orcs I had intended to unleash the wolves upon were waiting for us as we passed the gates of the underway and emerged into the light of Death Pass. They, too, had been reinforced: perhaps fifty in three groups, twenty to a side.
And the third group? My dear diary, I still laugh to consider it. The third group had positioned themselves above the exit of the tunnel, jumping down into the midst of our formation to begin the ambush. They were cunning, waiting for the first four ranks to pass, and leaping for where the wagons would have been should we have been escorting supplies. They were brutal, throwing themselves headlong off the thirty-foot drop that would have snapped the knees and ankles of any human that tried it.
And they landed directly on top of a formation of marching pikes, our silversteel points angled only slightly over out shoulders, wolves flanking us.
I confess I near screamed when the first orc tore my pike from my hands as he landed upon it- forcing it straight down, butt into the dirt, before sliding the ENTIRE length down as he died. But! I did not, and may the Lady again grant me the cool fervor I felt then- without breaking stride I let go of my pike as the body slid down, grabbing it again to lift the butt clear and raised it 'or my head, already shouting orders. Two ranks deep of pikes is not enough, but pressed from both sides (those foolish survivors from above we dealt with quick by knife, and traded two of ours for ten of theirs as we did) needs must. And so the wolves squirted forwards, the orcs rushed screaming in from the sides, and the thicket of dropped points was too slow and too sparse to catch the first rush. Six of mine went down, the column cut through in the center, but the discipline, oh the discipline of our response!
Shouted commands pulled our lines back and widening from the breach, pikes rising and pivoting and falling, until the gap the orcs had forced became a corridor lined with sharp points turned inwards, and the raiders found themselves reversed, pinned in turn from two sides. And then the wolves stuck, tearing into them from both behinds, bottling them between our ranks. And with that it was finished in moments- the Ulricans in high spirits over the 'bit of fun' they had all been hoping for when we had set out.
My Lady, I thank you for the steadiness of my hands and my command, for the discipline of drills carried forward into the terror of sudden ambush. I beg you watch over us and protect us, ward is against our enemies as you did that day. And unto you I commend the souls of those lost, that you may shelter them until their gods come to claim them.
I know not what the discussions held with King Belegar contained, but I do know the feral grin on Sir Wulfhart's face he had as he left again back to his soon-to-be fortress. It was the same he wore as the first orc in ambush cried waaagh- anticipatory. And it wavered not whilst in sight of Karagil, the whole journey back.
Karagil, the whispers go, two months.
May the Lady grant me the strength and honor we will all surely need, and should my deeds prove worthy, may she one day grace me with the taste of her Grail. And my Lady? I pray for Hubert, for of late much have u come to care for him.
Until next fate makes the time for me to write, dear diary, I shall leave you with my prayers.
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