Mopman43
Mountain-Hermit of Nitpeak
- Location
- Vermont
The God Emperor is a much more horrible person compared to Sigmar.
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.
I think most people consider the Hrud to be the most Skaven-like species in WH40k.
He might mess with them, but not in a friendly way.
Though there's an idea there. One theory is that the Omnissiah is actually (or was inspired by) the Void Dragon. So why not another aspect of the GEOM that's inspired by/secretly the Deceiver (and there is also a theory that Cegorach is actually just the Deceiver).
But I treated them as different settings? And saying that they have very little in common is a bit much. Sure, those things also turn up in other settings but A) that's because 40k (and Fantasy to a lesser degree) is widely influential and B) there's so many settings that similarities are inevitable.
I mean, we don't know much about Sigmar, so he might have been a total bastard, and the emperor is more a very smart idiot, but yeah.
Maybe initially, but not in modern 40k. No betrayal, and not really a threat, just a presence.
Though they might make a decent version of the We.
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- Location
- Greece
I really only know of W40K from popcultural osmosis and tvtropes, so I want to ask why that is. I was under the impression he was a swell guy whose teachings got twisted by fanatics, a calcified system and the reality that is the warp
- Location
- In Your DNA
He was the Worst Dad, which would be fine (lots of people are and no galactic civilizations burn for it), except that he also shoved the entire welfare of galactic humanity on the backs of his sons.
HanEmpire
Delicious
The God-Emperor lost the capacity to value individual human lives ages ago, and now sees them as resources to spend. He's consequently become a very ends-justify-the-means sort of guy.
Imagine all the atrocities and excesses of totalitarian regimes in history, killing/oppressing/starving countless millions in the name of progress, and then scale that up to the size of a galactic empire.
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The best example is Angron. The Emperor approached Angorn's planet as he was leading a slave revolt, and Emps had an absolutely enormous and incredibly powerful fleet.
What does the Emperor do? Does he let things play out? Does he offer assistance to Angron? No, he forcibly teleports Angron up to his ship and lets him watch as the friends he was leading were slaughtered.
Angron later betrays the Emperor.
*surprised Pikachu face*
What does the Emperor do? Does he let things play out? Does he offer assistance to Angron? No, he forcibly teleports Angron up to his ship and lets him watch as the friends he was leading were slaughtered.
Angron later betrays the Emperor.
*surprised Pikachu face*
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This isn't a thread for debating the capabilities of the Emperor as a father and/or person.
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One, he was a really shitty father. That's a problem when your children are demigods. It's basically how the whole Horus Heresy happened. A few examples
Angron: He's trapped on a high mountain with his remaining comrades after leading a slave revolt. You just arrived and he's never met you before. Do you: A) Go down to fight at his side, turning the battle. B) Bombard the opposing side from orbit. C) Beam him up to your ship and let his men die.
Lorgar: Your son thinks you're neat. Really neat. So neat he wants everyone to worship you. You don't like religion and want him to conquer stuff faster. Do you: A) Have a reasonable discussion about your respective worldviews and priorities, B) Tell him you want to be worshipped through conquest, C) Humilliate him in front of everyone and leave him deeply bereft of spiritual guidance.
Magnus: Your son is really good at warp bullshit, but he has no idea about the corruptive influence of Chaos. Do you: A) Warn all you children about the dangers of the warp and give careful guidance B) Actually tell them them that Chaos exists, and then order them to stay the fuck away from that C) Say nothing, and then get angry when he does warp stuff you don't like and tell everyone not to use any warp stuff.
It does not stop there. Now can you imagine why these guys might've decided Chaos was a better option?
Second, he created that calcified system and those fanatics. Some of those decisions may not have been terrible (like letting the Mechanicus get away with their science religion) under all circumstances, but they turned out fatal without him.
Basically, a lot of policy decisions like Throgrim's "Die Well", understandable but bad in hindsight, plus some outright stupid interpersonal shit.
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- Location
- Greece
Ah, I apologise for opening this can. I was just curious, since my lore was lacking and the subject came up, but in retrospect, it was a slight derail. I am sorry.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It's fine. There should be some general 40k and even Emperor specific ones here and on SB. Search will help you a lot there.
Sinsystems
Patron Librarian
So this 40K Negaverse got me randomly thinking, how would Mathilde cope if she was just randomly teleported from Fantasy into 40K and assuming that her magic doesn't get completely screwed from the setting shift?
Like I'd imagine that once she gets over the initial issues such as not really understanding the tech I can see her fairing pretty well...if she avoids the really overzealous Inquisitors and the like.
Like I'd imagine that once she gets over the initial issues such as not really understanding the tech I can see her fairing pretty well...if she avoids the really overzealous Inquisitors and the like.
Ericwinter
Definitely not a Skaven Infiltrator
- Location
- America
She'd probably actually end up as a non-Chaos rebel, actually, given that the God-Emperor and his Empire are pretty much the definition of tyranny and corruption that the Protector fights against.
Sinsystems
Patron Librarian
Well I think it would depend on where she ends up, since one thing we need to remember is that at the end of the day the Imperium is very Feudal in how it operates with most worlds being allowed to do almost anything they want so long as their tithes come in on time. As such worlds in the Imperium can vary from oppressive hellholes to paradise worlds.
As such I think that initially Mathilde would spend a lot of her time simply trying to figure things out, because lets be honest going from Fantasy to 40K is a big leap, with her doing her Grey Wizard thing of gathering information. I'd say inevitably she'll stumble upon some kind of nasty, like a Chaos Cult, Mutant, Orks or something along those lines that she will murderize.
Would she even have magic? There's no polar gate, and so there are no winds either. You basically have to use Dhar. Human psykers get away with that by being bound to a god and advanced technology.
That said, if you assume it somehow works, she'd probably be pretty badass. I mean, Fantasy is basically a Daemon/Death World, and they've fought daemons with bits of metal and wood. Even assuming they are significantly weakened, that's the sort of thing Astartes would have to respect.
But yeah, she has good chances to just slip away and become a heroic crime boss. Or something like that.
EDIT: Actually, it might be enough for her to break out the Necromancy, and that could be a big deal. It doesn't really have any similar magic, and vampires aren't so dissimilar to space marines. Better, in quite a few ways.
Ehh, depends on your flavor of 40k. I'm mostly a Ciaphas Cain kinda guy, so most worlds are pretty ok. Not more repressive than the Empire. Of course, that's among the least grimdark depictions, so ymmv. And there are definitly worlds and practices she would be absolutely not ok with.
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Sinsystems
Patron Librarian
I'd imagine that in such a situation Mathilde would have the classic goal of somehow returning to the Empire, as at the end of the day she is rather loyal. So I can see that in that situation Mathilde would try her best to acquire the resources she needs to figure out a method of returning. As such that would necessitate her not simply fading into the background or sticking to a single planet.
- Location
- Aotearoa
Squads of Space Dwarf abhumans (on motorcycles and trikes!) goes back to the very, very earliest days of WH40K, which is good enough for me.
Leagues of Votann
"By the mysteries of the crucible are they given form and strength. By the molten fires and pounding pistons of the Forge are they armed and armoured. By the Votann and by the Fane are they given wisdom and purpose. And by the searing wrath of the Hearth are they filled with the fury to overcome...
warhammer40k.fandom.com
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
The obvious solution to 40K Mathilde's religious concerns is to make her a secret heretic that worships a minor God that's actually worth praying to.
... Yes, the enhanced scale of 40K and the nigh-monotheism means I would likely be more forgiving of that Ranald's failure.
... Yes, the enhanced scale of 40K and the nigh-monotheism means I would likely be more forgiving of that Ranald's failure.
He obviously doesn't, or 40K!Abel would still be alive.
HanEmpire
Delicious
There's none worth worshipping. In 40k any minor god who's not Chaos is either Xeno-centric or about to get eaten by daemons.
Hmm, how about a minor Imperial Saint net generally accepted by the Orthodoxy? Her opinion is that some of GEOM's servants are worthy, but the man himself is too apathetic and doesn't actually do anything worthy of prayer.
I think I really like that option.
I'm sorrry, I didn't want to give you another Abel to mourn. I assure you his death scene was very touching, and the passing of his rosarius was very moving and great ship fuel.
Maybe I should write an omake where he's alive and everything is good.
As there are no Winds, there's no way of making Dhar. I think psykers use what's basically Aethyric Vitae, energy channeled directly from the Warp that hasn't reacted with reality in a broken gateway to make the Winds.
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True. Though I imagine 40k warpstuff is significantly more volatile and corruptive than AV. So if the question is "what happens if I touch it", we should probably look to dhar and answer: You go crazy.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
Eh, better not.
It'd only be a matter of time before we think some method that could theoretically be used to punch wholes through worlds, and I would then immediately try to make us find that one reality. Likely by walking through the Warp, because that's my secondary choice for everything.
Omegahugger has enough harebrained schemes, the thread does not need to feed him more.
An excerpt from the journals of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 17
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Dear diary, is it my fate to know romance only through the arms of handsome ulricans under the mountain stars?
I could hardly complain of such, though the Lady knows how far such nights are from the confused visions of balls and gowns I dreamed of when the masculine masquerade grew too heavy on my heart. And yet, now I can scarce imagine events to have gone any other way. My praise to the Lady, whose mercy permits my grasp to reach everything I long for- how could a Brettonian girl be both Knight, and General, and lover, save by her grace?
Perhaps, dear diary, it seems I praise her overmuch and the boldness of my companion too little, but let me reassure you; twas his actions that placed her o'r my happy thoughts like a tender moon over a village festival. Not a ball, no! For it feels almost like I have outgrown such things, and see them now as empty, joyless recitals saved only by the starry-eyed few, those too blinded by the trappings to see the people. Give me the honest joy of those who need not carry airs! For the task of a knight is to protect and defend the lives of those behind her, is it not? And how else might we know that those lives are worth protecting, than to see them celebrated?
Mayhaps the frontier has grown upon me like brush upon a cleared field, as my former brother knights might say, but I prefer now to think in the manner a dwarf acquaintance of mine once suggested- Mandrig, formerly of Altdorf and now of the 3rd Huzkul Rangers, told me once that he thought this circle of peaks, my chalice of the skies, to be a crucible. He said, "I was born of the dross and raw ore that make up the clanless dwarves of the empire, but King Belegar gathered us and lit the furnace, smelted us fragments together and drew off our impurities, and has forged of us the proud bright steel of a new axe. And so I stand (not actually standing- and forgive my correction, dear diary, but at the time he was almost as drunk as I and neither of us were upright) here before you, first generation of the first new clan of the first reclaimed Karak, and my honor beyond question by any of the Karaz Ankor!"
Likewise, I find myself come through refined, my angst and self-doubt burned away in the crucible here of battles and responsibilities and command- and when I turn from the blood and dust that is ever the duty of a knight, I see those hundreds and those thousands of lives which are sheltered by my sword-arm. I see them give thanks and rejoice! How can I question my worth, or my place, when cheers follow me from fire to fire and proud approval etches itself on every face I see? They know me as 'their' knight, and they speak of me to the adventures and mercenaries with the same competitive possessiveness that Dukes in Brettonia might show over their favored champions- and I find I love it, and them for it.
Knighthood itself is a sacred bond between Lord and vassal, but both ways do these obligations flow. I thought once that the highest and best of the knights offered all they were to those above them, asking nothing, recieving nothing, and holding nothing back. But here, on the frontier, on foot among those born common, I find otherwise.
The highest and best knights are those for whom loyalty flows to as well as from, those who are fiercely loved by those they lead and who return that redoubled. Perhaps because I am closer to the origins of this thing called chivalry- here I am not made a knight by the standing of my uncle, but by the acclaim of my fellow soldiers, and by the unshakable faith of this fledgling kingdom's citizens. Like the first knights, who were not chosen and set above by the Lady to rule and spend other's lives seeking their own glory, but rather to serve and protect those they were raised above. Here, I live the truth that those who seek the Grail must know in our bones er any chance of success may be found:
Knights are given power so that others DO NOT HAVE TO BE KNIGHTS. War is a sad, bloody path, only justified for the joy of those spared it.
Ah, I digress! But dear diary, read into the lines above the overwhelming giddiness of the last few days, and allow me to write of the Journeyman of the Celestial College who even now lays his head on my lap.
Hubert Denzel, of the Middenheim Denzels, a son of the City of the White Wolf. When first we met I scarce remembered him, flustered as I was by the company he traveled in. When next we met he lead me dancing, a young noble twirling a young woman (whom he made no secret of fancying) amidst candles and music and personages, and I could scarce think of any else in the week after.
Then, having after begged leave to presume again upon my time with a wink and a grin, he came to me and asked that I take him as a student. And this forced me for the first time to look upon him with clear eyes. As a face in a crowd, I did not need to see him; as a young knight courting at a dance I did not need to see beyond his dark eyes and broad shoulders. But as a humble student of the sword seeking improvement, ah! I could not let myself ignore weaknesses and petty concerns without doing him a disservice as a teacher. And so began four months of enforced honesty between us, lubricated by sweat and pain and the praise of small triumphs.
I wonder, sometimes, if he knows what he did when he did as he did. I could not pine for him as an ideal on a pedestal, as was my usual wont with men of his type, but nor could I set aside my own awareness of my gender as I do drilling men under my command or amidst my brother knights. Too close had I been to this man, and the remembrance of his smile and solid arms under my hands as we danced was not one I could just set aside. Our lessons slowly became excuses, for the both of us I believe, to jest and flirt and smile as we strove against each other. And so they became more and more private, the two of us finding small clearings or hidden valleys to train in, avoiding the eyes of those I would have see me as an officer and an authority. When Hubert and I were alone, I could allow myself to laugh and be laughed at, to be gay and silly and morose as the mood took me. To take comfort in the words of another who has also thought deeply about honor, faith, and the duties we owe.
It didn't take him long to begin joining me outside lessons. Even as we grew more private about the moments we spent with crossed blades, he began to appear with regularity at my left hand for the long marches of patrols. At first he claimed it was to keep his fitness up. Then it became about learning the tactics and workings of a pike company, then as he made other friends in the company it became almost as if he were one of us. I confess I find his presence reassuring, as do the others, for we have all seen what a difference well-used sorcery can make upon campaign- and with his lightening Hubert gave us a threat far beyond the range of what a pike can reach.
I write all this that you may know how he has proven himself to me, dear diary, that when I gush to you of his almost wicked tongue and thoughtful honesty you know I am not merely trying to wish these things into being, but merely recording those traits I have come to quietly treasure. But most of all, I treasure his efforts to treat me well. In public, he supports my authority. In private, he gives both my fancies and my worries thoughtful consideration and due respect. When alone, I know he seeks out those things I might like, that he can gift and share in my joy o'r them. Once, it was some rare books on the swordplay of my homeland that he went as far as seeking out the Dame Magister to borrow! But then, last night...
We met after the Battle of Karagil, when scarce long enough had passed after for blood to be scrubbed clean and myself to change (as had become my habit upon victories) into a comely dress. The feast itself was a whirl of ale and roasts, gambling and toasts; the dwarves were in as fine a mood as I had seen in months, and even the Thanes were slowly relaxing as it became clear that no counter-attack was forthcoming. But perhaps such things have become too common to me, dear diary, or perhaps ale and dark eyed intensity captured too well my thoughts last night, for it was the moment Hubert took my hand and lead me up towards the peak of our new Karag that I truly begin to remember what events transpired.
Our climb began with giggles and daring hands wandering across clothes as we danced our way free above the fires and music, but as we wound higher our passion became quieter, more solemn. Hands which had quested for ticklish spots instead steadied and held, glances and grins became quiet pauses of staring into his eyes, his hand soft upon my cheek.
But he had a destination, and, it became clear, a time for which he was planning. I did not mind, indulging him as he broke moment after small moment to continue our climb, and as luck would have it our journey concluded mere moments before... Well.
He brought me up to the shores of the Tarn of Karagil, that lake set closer to the sky than the peaks of most mountains will ever reach. He took my hands and led me to a rough alter of stone, like a tiny island just feet away from the shore, and I knew them what he had planned. For of all the Gods in this world too whom one might pray, only one makes her shrines across a stretch of water from those who would do her honor- this man, this devoute son of Ulric from the City of the White Wolf, for my sake had laid the foundations of shrine to my Goddess. For me. And it was not only the stones, he had brought a chalice of dwarf-wrought silver and a clean white cloth which he handed to me- and by his grasp of the heavens made it such that in the moment after I had spread the cloth on the stone and placed the chalice upon it, the moon crested the peak before us.
Picture this, dear diary: a knight, her hair unbound, kneeling on the shores of a lake beloved in dwarven legend. Behind her, a companion touched by magic and prophecy stands watch on her vigil. Before her, a simple shrine to her Lady gleams under the moonlight, silver and white against a looming black mountain peak.
I knelt there for hours, until the moon had well peaked and then fallen behind the heights of Karag Lhune, praying thanks for the blessings of the Lady upon me and begging her look kindly upon this new kingdom. Hubert stayed silent at my shoulder until the true dark claimed the sky again.
It was then he drew me back, and down, his chest a pillow for my head and his arms my blanket. We slept there, and spoke not a word until dawn.
I write now in that morning light, my lap presently his pillow and the scratch of my quill his lullaby. How perceptive he was, to see the depth of my faith, and how generous, to give gift of it to me. I know the Lady approves; I woke this morning to a crown of mistletoe where the chalice stood last night, the Lady of the Lake blessing these sky-kissed waters. And perhaps a hint, too: never did mortal lips touch that offered chalice, though Hubert obviously intended mine to be first- as they would have, in morning light, if it had yet remained. This is but a common ritual done by those who seek the sacred grail- to serve vigil at a lake till dawn before drinking of a virgin chalice... That I could not, did not- it was not rejection, for many such rejected questers play through the miming of their sucess with no notice from her. In this, in the chalice spirited away afore I could complete the hopeful mimicry? I hear the Lady speaking to me, saying, "Not yet."
All my wishes have been laid afore me, dear diary, and I seek only the courage to grasp them. Wish me luck.
Dear diary, is it my fate to know romance only through the arms of handsome ulricans under the mountain stars?
I could hardly complain of such, though the Lady knows how far such nights are from the confused visions of balls and gowns I dreamed of when the masculine masquerade grew too heavy on my heart. And yet, now I can scarce imagine events to have gone any other way. My praise to the Lady, whose mercy permits my grasp to reach everything I long for- how could a Brettonian girl be both Knight, and General, and lover, save by her grace?
Perhaps, dear diary, it seems I praise her overmuch and the boldness of my companion too little, but let me reassure you; twas his actions that placed her o'r my happy thoughts like a tender moon over a village festival. Not a ball, no! For it feels almost like I have outgrown such things, and see them now as empty, joyless recitals saved only by the starry-eyed few, those too blinded by the trappings to see the people. Give me the honest joy of those who need not carry airs! For the task of a knight is to protect and defend the lives of those behind her, is it not? And how else might we know that those lives are worth protecting, than to see them celebrated?
Mayhaps the frontier has grown upon me like brush upon a cleared field, as my former brother knights might say, but I prefer now to think in the manner a dwarf acquaintance of mine once suggested- Mandrig, formerly of Altdorf and now of the 3rd Huzkul Rangers, told me once that he thought this circle of peaks, my chalice of the skies, to be a crucible. He said, "I was born of the dross and raw ore that make up the clanless dwarves of the empire, but King Belegar gathered us and lit the furnace, smelted us fragments together and drew off our impurities, and has forged of us the proud bright steel of a new axe. And so I stand (not actually standing- and forgive my correction, dear diary, but at the time he was almost as drunk as I and neither of us were upright) here before you, first generation of the first new clan of the first reclaimed Karak, and my honor beyond question by any of the Karaz Ankor!"
Likewise, I find myself come through refined, my angst and self-doubt burned away in the crucible here of battles and responsibilities and command- and when I turn from the blood and dust that is ever the duty of a knight, I see those hundreds and those thousands of lives which are sheltered by my sword-arm. I see them give thanks and rejoice! How can I question my worth, or my place, when cheers follow me from fire to fire and proud approval etches itself on every face I see? They know me as 'their' knight, and they speak of me to the adventures and mercenaries with the same competitive possessiveness that Dukes in Brettonia might show over their favored champions- and I find I love it, and them for it.
Knighthood itself is a sacred bond between Lord and vassal, but both ways do these obligations flow. I thought once that the highest and best of the knights offered all they were to those above them, asking nothing, recieving nothing, and holding nothing back. But here, on the frontier, on foot among those born common, I find otherwise.
The highest and best knights are those for whom loyalty flows to as well as from, those who are fiercely loved by those they lead and who return that redoubled. Perhaps because I am closer to the origins of this thing called chivalry- here I am not made a knight by the standing of my uncle, but by the acclaim of my fellow soldiers, and by the unshakable faith of this fledgling kingdom's citizens. Like the first knights, who were not chosen and set above by the Lady to rule and spend other's lives seeking their own glory, but rather to serve and protect those they were raised above. Here, I live the truth that those who seek the Grail must know in our bones er any chance of success may be found:
Knights are given power so that others DO NOT HAVE TO BE KNIGHTS. War is a sad, bloody path, only justified for the joy of those spared it.
Ah, I digress! But dear diary, read into the lines above the overwhelming giddiness of the last few days, and allow me to write of the Journeyman of the Celestial College who even now lays his head on my lap.
Hubert Denzel, of the Middenheim Denzels, a son of the City of the White Wolf. When first we met I scarce remembered him, flustered as I was by the company he traveled in. When next we met he lead me dancing, a young noble twirling a young woman (whom he made no secret of fancying) amidst candles and music and personages, and I could scarce think of any else in the week after.
Then, having after begged leave to presume again upon my time with a wink and a grin, he came to me and asked that I take him as a student. And this forced me for the first time to look upon him with clear eyes. As a face in a crowd, I did not need to see him; as a young knight courting at a dance I did not need to see beyond his dark eyes and broad shoulders. But as a humble student of the sword seeking improvement, ah! I could not let myself ignore weaknesses and petty concerns without doing him a disservice as a teacher. And so began four months of enforced honesty between us, lubricated by sweat and pain and the praise of small triumphs.
I wonder, sometimes, if he knows what he did when he did as he did. I could not pine for him as an ideal on a pedestal, as was my usual wont with men of his type, but nor could I set aside my own awareness of my gender as I do drilling men under my command or amidst my brother knights. Too close had I been to this man, and the remembrance of his smile and solid arms under my hands as we danced was not one I could just set aside. Our lessons slowly became excuses, for the both of us I believe, to jest and flirt and smile as we strove against each other. And so they became more and more private, the two of us finding small clearings or hidden valleys to train in, avoiding the eyes of those I would have see me as an officer and an authority. When Hubert and I were alone, I could allow myself to laugh and be laughed at, to be gay and silly and morose as the mood took me. To take comfort in the words of another who has also thought deeply about honor, faith, and the duties we owe.
It didn't take him long to begin joining me outside lessons. Even as we grew more private about the moments we spent with crossed blades, he began to appear with regularity at my left hand for the long marches of patrols. At first he claimed it was to keep his fitness up. Then it became about learning the tactics and workings of a pike company, then as he made other friends in the company it became almost as if he were one of us. I confess I find his presence reassuring, as do the others, for we have all seen what a difference well-used sorcery can make upon campaign- and with his lightening Hubert gave us a threat far beyond the range of what a pike can reach.
I write all this that you may know how he has proven himself to me, dear diary, that when I gush to you of his almost wicked tongue and thoughtful honesty you know I am not merely trying to wish these things into being, but merely recording those traits I have come to quietly treasure. But most of all, I treasure his efforts to treat me well. In public, he supports my authority. In private, he gives both my fancies and my worries thoughtful consideration and due respect. When alone, I know he seeks out those things I might like, that he can gift and share in my joy o'r them. Once, it was some rare books on the swordplay of my homeland that he went as far as seeking out the Dame Magister to borrow! But then, last night...
We met after the Battle of Karagil, when scarce long enough had passed after for blood to be scrubbed clean and myself to change (as had become my habit upon victories) into a comely dress. The feast itself was a whirl of ale and roasts, gambling and toasts; the dwarves were in as fine a mood as I had seen in months, and even the Thanes were slowly relaxing as it became clear that no counter-attack was forthcoming. But perhaps such things have become too common to me, dear diary, or perhaps ale and dark eyed intensity captured too well my thoughts last night, for it was the moment Hubert took my hand and lead me up towards the peak of our new Karag that I truly begin to remember what events transpired.
Our climb began with giggles and daring hands wandering across clothes as we danced our way free above the fires and music, but as we wound higher our passion became quieter, more solemn. Hands which had quested for ticklish spots instead steadied and held, glances and grins became quiet pauses of staring into his eyes, his hand soft upon my cheek.
But he had a destination, and, it became clear, a time for which he was planning. I did not mind, indulging him as he broke moment after small moment to continue our climb, and as luck would have it our journey concluded mere moments before... Well.
He brought me up to the shores of the Tarn of Karagil, that lake set closer to the sky than the peaks of most mountains will ever reach. He took my hands and led me to a rough alter of stone, like a tiny island just feet away from the shore, and I knew them what he had planned. For of all the Gods in this world too whom one might pray, only one makes her shrines across a stretch of water from those who would do her honor- this man, this devoute son of Ulric from the City of the White Wolf, for my sake had laid the foundations of shrine to my Goddess. For me. And it was not only the stones, he had brought a chalice of dwarf-wrought silver and a clean white cloth which he handed to me- and by his grasp of the heavens made it such that in the moment after I had spread the cloth on the stone and placed the chalice upon it, the moon crested the peak before us.
Picture this, dear diary: a knight, her hair unbound, kneeling on the shores of a lake beloved in dwarven legend. Behind her, a companion touched by magic and prophecy stands watch on her vigil. Before her, a simple shrine to her Lady gleams under the moonlight, silver and white against a looming black mountain peak.
I knelt there for hours, until the moon had well peaked and then fallen behind the heights of Karag Lhune, praying thanks for the blessings of the Lady upon me and begging her look kindly upon this new kingdom. Hubert stayed silent at my shoulder until the true dark claimed the sky again.
It was then he drew me back, and down, his chest a pillow for my head and his arms my blanket. We slept there, and spoke not a word until dawn.
I write now in that morning light, my lap presently his pillow and the scratch of my quill his lullaby. How perceptive he was, to see the depth of my faith, and how generous, to give gift of it to me. I know the Lady approves; I woke this morning to a crown of mistletoe where the chalice stood last night, the Lady of the Lake blessing these sky-kissed waters. And perhaps a hint, too: never did mortal lips touch that offered chalice, though Hubert obviously intended mine to be first- as they would have, in morning light, if it had yet remained. This is but a common ritual done by those who seek the sacred grail- to serve vigil at a lake till dawn before drinking of a virgin chalice... That I could not, did not- it was not rejection, for many such rejected questers play through the miming of their sucess with no notice from her. In this, in the chalice spirited away afore I could complete the hopeful mimicry? I hear the Lady speaking to me, saying, "Not yet."
All my wishes have been laid afore me, dear diary, and I seek only the courage to grasp them. Wish me luck.
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A few corrections:
lit
drunk
I think this should be Karaz?
competitive