That's a fair point. I didn't even look of at SB for that reason, since there's a few going back to the time of 100 threads, but I didn't consider that it happens on SV too.
Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest
- Thread starter Boney
- Start date
- Fantasy Users' Choice!
-
- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy be gay do crimes (gay) female protagonist pansexual protagonist ck2 quest divided loyalties mountain vietnam ranald is real this is a dwarf quest (dwarfs) this is maybe an elf quest this is not a vampire quest this is not an empire quest try it and find out open voting
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
- Location
- Greece
Does this include multi part quests that share continuity with spacebattles? Cuz I am pretty sure I have seen at least 1 20 part quest that started on SB (which, if I understand correctly, had a page limit) , came here for, like, 2 threads and then returned to SB. That may not count because it has been here for a very small while and then it left, but there could be others like it I guess?
Edit: ninja'd kinda,
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An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 18
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Dear diary,
I reach for you again after weeks of change and settling, that I might capture the strange wistfulness that falls upon me in the aftermath of Karagil's taking. I cannot give a short sense of it, that sense of dreamy disconnect that had been hovering over us for months- it has not broken, but instead has lost the dread that haunted it's corners. Or, rather, the unreality has moved in focus. Now it is the thousands of trolls, and tens of thousands of rats, that feel as if they might shimmer and disappear if you reached for them, a mirage as surely as an oasis in Araby. Once, we had won against all logic and impossible odds; we lived in a cherished pocket of peace preserved only by our enemies' fecklessness and division, a mummer's army playing at being civilians. I knew in my bones the grace upon which that mask depended, but I did not know how many around me feel the same, pretending that a warren of half-cleaned tunnels and a dusty valley were as a walled town within a kingdom. We played at building lives, speaking of homes and farms and the price of bread with a sword-arm free and one eye on the citadel flags. Now?
So tell me dear diary, how does one understand waking up, when one goes from the sleep of reality into a dream of victory? The mask has become real. Two years and change since boots first broke dry bones in Death Pass, almost that long since the golden days when the Lady smiled on our victories, and now it is (again, but more truely this time in a way I could not describe) as if the Karak first draws breath. The dwarves speak with satisfaction about consolidating fronts, and if my grammar is not yet strong enough to parse the sublties completely the change in attitude is clear: the Karak's future had been spoken of as mobile dirt, and now the metaphor is fixed stone. They believe we will survive, they believe what we have now won can be kept forever.
Oh my lady, was I lying to myself, or was I blind, that I had thought I knew what it was to win peace? This feeling of time, long and inevitable and for once not our enemy, it is one I must yet adjust to. Wish me luck!
--------------------------
Dear diary,
I found myself in Ulrikadrin two nights ago drinking with Hubert and my friends among the winter wolves. Our guest that evening was one of the dwarven gyrocopter pilots, traveling on business with the shipyards; we were to all return as a company to the Karak in the morning. I feel some of the more sober stories passed around the table that night deserve transcription, if only because of my admiration for their subject- despite my own growth I feel as far behind Dame Weber now as when a penniless wandering knight first laid eyes on a magister conferring with the generals of our army.
And I am now myself the General of the Undumgi, of Karag Nar reclaimed.
The pilot had recently returned from Sylvania; the Dame Magister had been gone some time to the north, where her interests and heartstrings still tie her. Little was known of her mission save that the King have her leave to hunt vampires, in support of the imperials who had come at his ask, and their liege. (I should say that I approve heartily of the Elector Countess Roswita, and feel that the loyalty Dame Weber has shown to her for the sale of her late father is one of the greatest demonstrations I've ever seen of what it means to be a loyal knight- for the easiest tests are on the hot-blood of the battlefield, but to hold onto that loyalty through personal insult and years of distance, proving herself anew... I am thankful that the Countess send to know and value what she has been given.) But the knowledge of her absence, and her status as the highest-ranked human in the Karak, left us spending time telling stories of what we knew of her previous exploits to mine for clues.
So into the swirl of rumors and speculation did this poor pilot descend.
It began innocently enough, a grumble to follow up upon a grumble, about the beer then about a crick in his neck he'd gotten one mission from holding the controls a bit to the left for hours, unbalanced cargo and the shoddy rush job of securing it and what it meant for his sore shoulders. We, seasoned sellers of secrets spilled in shabby taverns that we were, pounced.
"From where, sir dwarf, and for what cargo did you strain so hard? Surely you can speak of what one might have watched from the East valley, at least!"
And with beer and room we plied him, sure and steady as a drilled advance, one speaking up then the next, forward and fasting so no one human could be said to be rude! He had some experience with drinking away from other dwarves, but we could tell he was mostly bluster and succumbed by the fourth round.
"Aigh, gather round close then, hear?"
From what I remember, he said it was the end of a long week on high alert, right there close to one of the cursed cities that fill the tales when one heard of Sylvania, grim with narrow windows,run by vampires. This, we decided with much popular acclaim, must be what the magister had been dealing with for the Countess. Those of us who had seen her execute her now classic maneuver of walking in the front door and having the enemy fall to pieces all over themselves; we nodded and agreed that such a city was a wonderful spot for another dose of it.
This city, the dwarf tells us, had trash for walls, trash for a keep, but the whole thing was carpeted over with dead stuffed beasts, like a proud Hunter had spent a thousand years taking trophies, and the collection had spilled our of the Hall and even the castle entire, to take the place of guardsmen along the walls for lack of anywhere else to place them.
It was proposed among the company that the vampire of the city was indeed a hunter, and such was his guise amount humans: perhaps some pale youth with long hair and smouldering eyes mounted on a black steed, hounds and bow prepared? Ah! Dear diary, I blush to confess that such was my contribution, though the pilot soon came to my defense. He spoke of the way that the Countess had been attacked by dominated beasts, and it was agreed that a hunter with power over that he hunted was something a vampire could be. I wonder if perhaps he hunted with a company, or if he haunted the woods alone...
But my thoughts run away with me. The pilot, after a solid grumble at the quality of the campsite they were staging from, told us how he was called in to the top of the center keep itself by a flare, whereat the magister met them, immediately loaded them down with books until the whole gyrocopter was full, then produced an entire dragon skull! Ah, dear diary, what a trophy of the hunt that must have been! A vampire and a dragon! Two evil battling titans before whom all good folk give way, in the hopes they kill each other, or perhaps a hunter and his prey, stalked relentlessly with the endless patience of an immortal.
One of the knights, grinning, interjected here that he had seen it carried upwards through Karag Nar, fit to swallow a whole dwarf at a bite!
The pilot snorted. They'd to tie the skull on the side of the craft, and while they could counter balance it with books, the resistence of the wind kept pulling to the side. He told us that he regretted offering to take the thing an hour into the flight; he then swore us never to speak that where the magister might hear, for a good grumble was one thing but this was his pride at stake.
(As for whether the Dame Weber slew the vampire? Well, dear diary, I happened to see her just today, wandering about with its skull under her arm. I don't think I've ever seen her come closer to boasting- so let it be said that humility is also one of her virtues.)
Twas then that Hubert leaned forwards and a new round was poured, and he spoke with a twinkle in his eye.
"Did you see her at the battle of Karagil? She took us in beforehand to be blooded, left us in the ranks for the main push. We thought she was gone, and when we got bogged down in the ninth hall it was looking pretty grim. The journeywomen and I were giving good account of ourselves with spell and blade, but it was only enough to mark us a threat when a Warboss showed himself. Oh, we braced for the charge best we could all right, but just as they're about to hit us the Magister appears from literally nowhere and cuts the Warboss clean in half!"
He lowered his voice. "And I heard, though I didn't see with my own eyes, that they found two other, even bigger Warbosses in pieces when they swept the mountain."
There was some consideration around the table. Most of the winter wolves had only heard rumors of what happened inside the mountain, and Hubert had been doling out bite sized stories all evening. I believe, dear diary, that he was milking it for all it's worth. And this one was worth chewing over.
"You think she cut the vampire in half too?"
And that seemed to sum it up.
There was more to pass the time, stories of Middenheim before the exodus, stories of the border princes and the increasingly ugly tone of the rumors, as it sink in that Eightpeaks was going to steal all of their tolls and trade. I offered some stories of Francesco, Hubert told of a hilarious series of pratfalls involving Gretel, a ratpup, and a stack of halfling pies that miraculously survived the encounter, though at the expense of both dignity and three sausages.
It was a good night, of a type I've grown fond of. So close and yet so different from Brettonia...
My Lady, I pray you continue to watch over us, and bless us with strength of arms and wisdom in peace. Let our fields grow fertile and our enemies turn their faces from us. And let not evil fall on this hold of dwarves and men, for your servants dwell here and hold it fast in their hearts.
Dear diary,
I reach for you again after weeks of change and settling, that I might capture the strange wistfulness that falls upon me in the aftermath of Karagil's taking. I cannot give a short sense of it, that sense of dreamy disconnect that had been hovering over us for months- it has not broken, but instead has lost the dread that haunted it's corners. Or, rather, the unreality has moved in focus. Now it is the thousands of trolls, and tens of thousands of rats, that feel as if they might shimmer and disappear if you reached for them, a mirage as surely as an oasis in Araby. Once, we had won against all logic and impossible odds; we lived in a cherished pocket of peace preserved only by our enemies' fecklessness and division, a mummer's army playing at being civilians. I knew in my bones the grace upon which that mask depended, but I did not know how many around me feel the same, pretending that a warren of half-cleaned tunnels and a dusty valley were as a walled town within a kingdom. We played at building lives, speaking of homes and farms and the price of bread with a sword-arm free and one eye on the citadel flags. Now?
So tell me dear diary, how does one understand waking up, when one goes from the sleep of reality into a dream of victory? The mask has become real. Two years and change since boots first broke dry bones in Death Pass, almost that long since the golden days when the Lady smiled on our victories, and now it is (again, but more truely this time in a way I could not describe) as if the Karak first draws breath. The dwarves speak with satisfaction about consolidating fronts, and if my grammar is not yet strong enough to parse the sublties completely the change in attitude is clear: the Karak's future had been spoken of as mobile dirt, and now the metaphor is fixed stone. They believe we will survive, they believe what we have now won can be kept forever.
Oh my lady, was I lying to myself, or was I blind, that I had thought I knew what it was to win peace? This feeling of time, long and inevitable and for once not our enemy, it is one I must yet adjust to. Wish me luck!
--------------------------
Dear diary,
I found myself in Ulrikadrin two nights ago drinking with Hubert and my friends among the winter wolves. Our guest that evening was one of the dwarven gyrocopter pilots, traveling on business with the shipyards; we were to all return as a company to the Karak in the morning. I feel some of the more sober stories passed around the table that night deserve transcription, if only because of my admiration for their subject- despite my own growth I feel as far behind Dame Weber now as when a penniless wandering knight first laid eyes on a magister conferring with the generals of our army.
And I am now myself the General of the Undumgi, of Karag Nar reclaimed.
The pilot had recently returned from Sylvania; the Dame Magister had been gone some time to the north, where her interests and heartstrings still tie her. Little was known of her mission save that the King have her leave to hunt vampires, in support of the imperials who had come at his ask, and their liege. (I should say that I approve heartily of the Elector Countess Roswita, and feel that the loyalty Dame Weber has shown to her for the sale of her late father is one of the greatest demonstrations I've ever seen of what it means to be a loyal knight- for the easiest tests are on the hot-blood of the battlefield, but to hold onto that loyalty through personal insult and years of distance, proving herself anew... I am thankful that the Countess send to know and value what she has been given.) But the knowledge of her absence, and her status as the highest-ranked human in the Karak, left us spending time telling stories of what we knew of her previous exploits to mine for clues.
So into the swirl of rumors and speculation did this poor pilot descend.
It began innocently enough, a grumble to follow up upon a grumble, about the beer then about a crick in his neck he'd gotten one mission from holding the controls a bit to the left for hours, unbalanced cargo and the shoddy rush job of securing it and what it meant for his sore shoulders. We, seasoned sellers of secrets spilled in shabby taverns that we were, pounced.
"From where, sir dwarf, and for what cargo did you strain so hard? Surely you can speak of what one might have watched from the East valley, at least!"
And with beer and room we plied him, sure and steady as a drilled advance, one speaking up then the next, forward and fasting so no one human could be said to be rude! He had some experience with drinking away from other dwarves, but we could tell he was mostly bluster and succumbed by the fourth round.
"Aigh, gather round close then, hear?"
From what I remember, he said it was the end of a long week on high alert, right there close to one of the cursed cities that fill the tales when one heard of Sylvania, grim with narrow windows,run by vampires. This, we decided with much popular acclaim, must be what the magister had been dealing with for the Countess. Those of us who had seen her execute her now classic maneuver of walking in the front door and having the enemy fall to pieces all over themselves; we nodded and agreed that such a city was a wonderful spot for another dose of it.
This city, the dwarf tells us, had trash for walls, trash for a keep, but the whole thing was carpeted over with dead stuffed beasts, like a proud Hunter had spent a thousand years taking trophies, and the collection had spilled our of the Hall and even the castle entire, to take the place of guardsmen along the walls for lack of anywhere else to place them.
It was proposed among the company that the vampire of the city was indeed a hunter, and such was his guise amount humans: perhaps some pale youth with long hair and smouldering eyes mounted on a black steed, hounds and bow prepared? Ah! Dear diary, I blush to confess that such was my contribution, though the pilot soon came to my defense. He spoke of the way that the Countess had been attacked by dominated beasts, and it was agreed that a hunter with power over that he hunted was something a vampire could be. I wonder if perhaps he hunted with a company, or if he haunted the woods alone...
But my thoughts run away with me. The pilot, after a solid grumble at the quality of the campsite they were staging from, told us how he was called in to the top of the center keep itself by a flare, whereat the magister met them, immediately loaded them down with books until the whole gyrocopter was full, then produced an entire dragon skull! Ah, dear diary, what a trophy of the hunt that must have been! A vampire and a dragon! Two evil battling titans before whom all good folk give way, in the hopes they kill each other, or perhaps a hunter and his prey, stalked relentlessly with the endless patience of an immortal.
One of the knights, grinning, interjected here that he had seen it carried upwards through Karag Nar, fit to swallow a whole dwarf at a bite!
The pilot snorted. They'd to tie the skull on the side of the craft, and while they could counter balance it with books, the resistence of the wind kept pulling to the side. He told us that he regretted offering to take the thing an hour into the flight; he then swore us never to speak that where the magister might hear, for a good grumble was one thing but this was his pride at stake.
(As for whether the Dame Weber slew the vampire? Well, dear diary, I happened to see her just today, wandering about with its skull under her arm. I don't think I've ever seen her come closer to boasting- so let it be said that humility is also one of her virtues.)
Twas then that Hubert leaned forwards and a new round was poured, and he spoke with a twinkle in his eye.
"Did you see her at the battle of Karagil? She took us in beforehand to be blooded, left us in the ranks for the main push. We thought she was gone, and when we got bogged down in the ninth hall it was looking pretty grim. The journeywomen and I were giving good account of ourselves with spell and blade, but it was only enough to mark us a threat when a Warboss showed himself. Oh, we braced for the charge best we could all right, but just as they're about to hit us the Magister appears from literally nowhere and cuts the Warboss clean in half!"
He lowered his voice. "And I heard, though I didn't see with my own eyes, that they found two other, even bigger Warbosses in pieces when they swept the mountain."
There was some consideration around the table. Most of the winter wolves had only heard rumors of what happened inside the mountain, and Hubert had been doling out bite sized stories all evening. I believe, dear diary, that he was milking it for all it's worth. And this one was worth chewing over.
"You think she cut the vampire in half too?"
And that seemed to sum it up.
There was more to pass the time, stories of Middenheim before the exodus, stories of the border princes and the increasingly ugly tone of the rumors, as it sink in that Eightpeaks was going to steal all of their tolls and trade. I offered some stories of Francesco, Hubert told of a hilarious series of pratfalls involving Gretel, a ratpup, and a stack of halfling pies that miraculously survived the encounter, though at the expense of both dignity and three sausages.
It was a good night, of a type I've grown fond of. So close and yet so different from Brettonia...
My Lady, I pray you continue to watch over us, and bless us with strength of arms and wisdom in peace. Let our fields grow fertile and our enemies turn their faces from us. And let not evil fall on this hold of dwarves and men, for your servants dwell here and hold it fast in their hearts.
Thebigpieman
I've got this, I think.
- Location
- United States
Back during the days of terrible server hosting, SB limited all threads to roughly 100 pages in length before a new one had to posted.
I cannot wait for her reaction to Mt Doomshadow.
Objection! Mathilde rarely walks in the front door when assaulting places.
Ericwinter
Definitely not a Skaven Infiltrator
- Location
- America
Yeah, typically she walks over or under it instead.
5000 Pages
- Location
- The Surface Of A Hostile Planet
A little late, but have a celebration picture.
NSMS
Probably evil, unfortunately.
- Location
- A rapidly widening tear in the fabric of reality
It was actually down to 20 pages at one point.
Aranfan
Team Plasma Grunt
Ah, I remember those days.
Aranfan
Team Plasma Grunt
A bunch of the fanfic idea generator threads still bear the signs of those dark days as well.
NSMS
Probably evil, unfortunately.
- Location
- A rapidly widening tear in the fabric of reality
Give it oooh, maybe another month?
Thebigpieman
I've got this, I think.
- Location
- United States
Depends on how many contentious votes Boney can drum up.Give it oooh, maybe another month?
- Location
- Aotearoa
Another Waifu/husbando/career decision?
Deadly forum combat between Panthilde shippers versus Anthilde versus Mathwitas versus GildedGreys versus Belthildes versus hardline AbelXMatty4Eva vs Jobthildes...
(This is all /jk and not something I actually advocate.)
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- Pronouns
- It/They
boney its time to force waifugeddon
- Pronouns
- They/It
Time for Johann to just miss being voted into Romance Office so that Mathilde is canonically crushing on him, ala the Van Hal vote near miss, and then for him to die 2 minutes later with a case of boilbrain from his next golden eye attempt.
All new levels of pathos for us to wallow in! This wasn't even a tragic death on the battlefield. It was totally preventable and we did nothing because wizard hubris!
Horologer
Incertae sedis
- Location
- a risen sea
That would require every poster that has ever posted in this thread to post about four posts a day for the duration of the month.Give it oooh, maybe another month?
So what I'm saying is: it's possible.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
Contrary to popular belief, joining the Necromancy Faction does not require you to ship MathildeXAbel.
Boilbrain is a cureable disease, if you're just willing to get your hands dirty...
- Pronouns
- It/They
Right, i ship MathildeXUnlimited cosmic power(XabelXranaldXshallyaXanton) and i'm a fervent supporter of the Mortality disinclined.
This post is brought to you by necrogang.
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[Excited Omegahugger Noises]
- Location
- Australia
Scholars in the Empire identify a Goddess that the Eonir worship as being an aspect of Taal, because that's what Imperial High culture considers all nature gods to be. That's not at all the same thing. The Eonir probably think that Taal is an aspect/human mangled understanding of Kurnous, amd consider Torothal to be a quite different entity.
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