Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
That one is very much live and kicking though!there is nothing silent about your views on dead ships.
... True, dead ships under my purview also tend to kick a lot, but that's a sign you know the Dhar is working.
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.
... True, dead ships under my purview also tend to kick a lot, but that's a sign you know the Dhar is working.
Ericwinter
Definitely not a Skaven Infiltrator
- Location
- America
Does it really count as alive when one half of the pairing is a rotting corpse though?
Sir_Travelsalot
Never wakes up tired.
- Location
- At Home
Dhar's a hell of a thing, that's for sure. 10/10 Necromancer approved, College Wizards HATE it.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
Pretty sure Anton and Asarnil are both alive and well.
... If not, well, we do have a manual to fix that.
Ericwinter
Definitely not a Skaven Infiltrator
- Location
- America
... I was actually talking about Abelhelm/Mathilde, which you're loudest about. And they're still corpses, just animate ones.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
But I didn't say that one was alive and kicking! That was specifically the one still dead and kicking!
... Okay, I do technically also have a soft spot for the even more dead and much less kicking MathildeXAlkharad, but that one ain't loud at all.
Sir_Travelsalot
Never wakes up tired.
- Location
- At Home
Wasn't Alkharad already head over heels for Ros?
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
I can't blame anyone for liking Van Hal. It's a natural reaction.
Like, if we crossed out everyone who didn't have a thing for Abel or ros from Mathilde's list we'd have to remove everyone who'd ever met either of them. And probably some of those who didn't.
... My fanboy'ism are entirely within expected and healthy levels of a man my age, I can assure you. My doctor told me so herself.
My doctor has not said anything of the sort.
Last edited:
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 21
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Oh that bloody, stubborn, glorious fool! Hubert has won dear diary, and I write this from the side of his sickbed as the his bones are straightened and his cuts sewn up. It is a good room- near enough the inner face of the mountain to receive natural light some hours of the day- but already I see the thrill of victory fading in his face and the frustration of remaining confined until he heals setting in.
My lady, I give you thanks and praise, for you have watched over me and guided me as I bend to support the quest of another, working that he might taste the sweetness that is victory under your aegis. Shelter him as he heals, that he might aid me in your service as I have aided him, and let not regret touch our eyes for the price paid; for time is passing and glory in your eyes is eternal.
Ulric, see worth in your follower, for he strives mightily to be worthy in your eyes.
I cannot tarry too long, for my duties do not pause for the injuries of a journeyman mage, much as I wish it were so. The afternoon patrol to Karag Ulric, as the men of Ulrikadrin are calling their tunnel-fort, makes ready to leave below my window, and I know I will be with them as they march out the gates, though my eyes may linger here. I am startled to find myself thinking, for once, about the risks of Death Pass, and calculating what chance may be that I never see his face again. I would not worry so much, I think, if he were hale and hearty, but confined to bed and bandages as he is? A hysterical feeling, that I cannot protect him, I cannot be sure he lives unless I am here, has seized my heart. I know this for cowardice, though not the true sin of abandoning comrades for survival, but a cousin of that; fear is.. I know something about overcoming it.
Dear diary, I leave you here to wait on my return.
----------------------------------------------
Dear diary,
The last light of the sun gleams from the snow cap of Karag Ziflin, a brief glow cast through the window onto the bed. My noble wounded wizardly wolf wheezes in his sleep as I pick you up once again by the light of a candle, his ribs weak and his consciousness fled.
There is no real news since last I wrote- the orcs do not contest the pass save for scouts, and the men of Ulrikadrin pass messages and greetings as has become custom. I am pleased with my company this last day, for you know I felt the pressure to return quickly, and I called upon them therefore to gear themselves only with helmet and breastplate, water and pike. We ran, dear diary, and walked, and ran again- I told them it was a test of our quickest possible march, and they rallied to that beyond what I could have hoped for. Word must have been passed, even, of mine own musing on the similarity between lances and pikes when first I began to use one, for every time we paused to walk I was pestered about how best to grip and aim, so as to strike from distance at a run. It has me thinking, how would such a thing best be used in battle? We are no warhorses, to throw back those we trample upon by weight of plate and flesh. Goblins, perhaps- bait them into pushing archers forward against an "immobile" pike block, then run them down? Hmmm... But the run went quickly, and the formation drills we ran through at each end showed me that the men are ready to run ten miles then fight, at need.
Perhaps I should capture my memories of the battle with the troll? I still feel somewhat sick thinking of it, but I know that time will dull the sequences and impressions even as it polishes the worry and doubt away. Dear diary, I return sometimes to your pages to remember how I felt joining this campaign, and those first weeks falling in with Oswald and Francesco, the worries of those first battles, and it helps me stay grounded. I hope the same will prove true of this:
It was closing in on evening when we heard word from the towers that a troll had taken one of our baits, and rather than return immediately to the tunnel it emerged from it wandered over a ridge, into a small valley. Hubert and I advanced. Our first sighting of the creature came as we ascended the dry stream bed up the valley, about seventy spans away half-hidden by boulders up to it's waist. It was a tall example of the species, and somewhat more canny than others, so we only caught a brief initial glimpse as it moved to approach us from cover. Tall but hunched and fugitive, as trolls are when daylight still kisses the sky, perhaps four spans high as it shuffled a circuitous path towards us.
Hubert handed me his pack and hat, limbered up his sword and began to turn to face the approach of the beast- I kissed him for good luck, the hair on my neck lifting off as sparks began to dance across the knuckles of his free hand and his ozone scent wrapping itself around us- but that was no time for distractions, and I retreated back; he stood in the middle of a sandy open patch, narrow, with tumbled valley-walls afore and behind necked down until all that passed through the valley was forced together.
And then we waited. One minute. Three.
The troll was clever; it must have learned what armed men could do and wished to feed, rather than to fight, academic as the distinction may be to us. So when it stepped into the open, fifteen spans from where Hubert stood, the first thing it did was vomit.
Dear diary, I pause here to underline a very important fact that is somewhat under emphasized in the tales of chase and slaughter that good young knights are raised on. Troll vomit is disgusting. Oh! but how to convey the depths of my displeasure with this foul substance? For short words alone do not do it justice, but spinning poetry would only stain the verses irretrievably. It is the foul sludge left on the floor of a room after ten thousand rats have shat there; it is the reek of blood left not to dry but to rot; it is the vicious viscosity of hot tar spattering on skin and clinging as it burns; it is the unspeakable tang of bile and pork known only to those who have fought the eaters of men.
Perhaps more? Such are the depths of my feeling here... But no. I indulge myself enough already. Why, dear diary, do my thoughts linger on such a petty thing? Because Hubert, caught at range in the open, broke from our already out-dated strategy: he cursed, dodged, and threw the lightening bolt clutched in his left fist.
The vomit exploded.
More precisely, as the troll threw itself around the last bit of cover and charged under cover of its disgusting effluvia, Hubert's bolt raked through the mass of flying liquid, boiling it to steam in an instant. At first I cheered! The troll's most dangerous attack met and neutralized singlehanded by deft use of magic. Then I frowned, as Hubert lost his recovery to a coughing fit. Then I gagged, as the wash of miasma hit me and all those nasty comparisons I have made above flew into my mouth and eyes, sank into my skin and hair. Dear diary I have literally been covered in burst open guts upon the battlefield and have felt less in need of a bath that I do now, just recounting this.
The troll, of course, was unharmed, though slightly disoriented by the crack and boom. I believe this saved Hubert's life, as it came barreling out of the caustic mist bank too quickly to match his dodge- the swinging fist caught him just as he sprang up from his roll. Had he not staggered upon standing, he would have escaped cleanly. Had he missed his footing even a little as he staggered, he would have lost his head. As it happened, the troll clipped him on the left shoulder as he twisted desperately away from it, tossing him back to the ground and wrenching the arm from its socket.
He flopped on the ground with a grimace, not even bothering to stand afore he used the dirt to heal his dislocation, arcing his back to lever his joint together again. The troll, having forgotten about me in the flash and thunder, took a good two or three seconds to slow his charge and turn about, laying eyes on Hubert just as he rose again to his feet. He was hunched, in pain, partially blinded by putrid droplets and yet his sword was steady as he pointed it. The troll was ebullient, laughing at the prey that refused to run, and as of yet untouched by blade. This is how the true fight began.
Hubert made the first move. We had discussed many approaches those lazy afternoons when fighting a troll was merely a mental exercise, but in the end concluded that copying the polished tactics of the dwarven slayers was of greatest worth. With that in mind, he darted forwards. his blade flickering as it aimed at tendons. Dash forward, bait the roundhouse, hop back, slash at the wrist as it whistles past. Close in the wake of the punch behind the moving arm, cut at knee, spin around until back to back, stab backwards towards the spine, jump forward to avoid the counterattack, twist to let the force of the blow glance off the half-there plates of his mage armor.
He didn't quite jump far enough, and the troll's donkey kick caught him in the kidneys, tossing him away and cracking two ribs.
They squared up for a second pass. The troll, now wounded, bleeding, and angry, moved first. Hubert, his left arm almost useless and his breath hitching as he gasped, danced backwards. Always he stayed on the edge of the troll's range, always flicking cuts at the hands and forearms, punishing the troll for clumsy threats and overpowered lunges. Always, until the troll once more showed its cunning. In a move almost a mirror of Hubert's first charge, the troll wound up and threw an powerful right cross- but planted its foot and arrested its momentum half-spent, Hubert's sword missing by inches and the troll itself springing forward with a howl, biting down at his head and grabbing with it's other arm, teeth crushing through Hubert's spell in a shower of sparks.
Hubert cursed, twisted, and the troll's teeth sank into his moments-ago dislocated shoulder, black bile mixing with bright red blood. With a growl, the troll straightened and tossed it's head, lifting Hubert off his feet and shaking him like a rag doll. I gasped, heart in my throat, as the troll grabbed one of his flailing legs and pulled, stretching him between the grip on his ankle and the fangs sunk in his shoulder. Dear diary, have I ever mentioned before that I have seen a man ripped entirely in two in similar circumstances?
I had time to scream, briefly, as Hubert was flung four spans away; the flesh of his shoulder had failed before the joints of his leg. The troll was left with a mouthful of meat as it threw him by his ankle- the very image of a dissolute brute ripping a mouthful off then discarding a chicken leg.
Dear diary, I will always maintain that my scream was purely a reflection of my concern for Hubert, and could not be in any way something as base as fear for my own safety when the troll turned it's attention to me. (My Lady, forgive me for this minor deception, for I am shamed. I would be the sort of person without care or concern for her own skin when her compatriots are in danger, but I fear without your help I shall never truly be her.) It's arms were shredded, it's legs gashed, and though its healing had begun it still limped as it startled, then began to limp towards me. Hubert had apparently vanished already from it's tiny mind.
I pause here, to savor the memory. This was the darkest moment- me, moving backwards for room to maneuver, desperately pulling my sword from it's sheath as I tried to both watch my now-opponent and look past it to see how fared Hubert, be he dead or just dying. The troll stood straighter and moved faster each step, black bile and red blood steaming on its face, roaring with jagged fangs and flapping jowls and spray of saliva. All our work, all those hours practicing the blade- in that moment all seemed lost.
Then the heavens spoke, and the earth retorted. A bright flash, brilliant enough to sear the silhouette of the troll against the backs of my eyes, lit up the world. The troll was smashed to the to the ground, smoking, and then thrown down again as thunder crashed over us. When my eyes and ears cleared enough to grasp the world again, this is what I beheld:
Hubert, gasping, had dragged himself up to one knee with his sword. It's point was stabbed into the dirt, and his good hand was falling back to it as though he had not the strength to lift it longer, even as he screamed at the troll.
"Get away from her, you *bitch*!"
Confused, the troll turned from me as it stood; the threat it had thought bested must have seemed more important than the human who had yet to strike a blow. Hubert lurched forward, his run a shamble at best as he closed. It was a short, ugly exchange, as Hubert no longer had the strength to either dodge or to parry- knowing this, knowing he had no choice but to trust in luck, he set to exchange blows. One from the troll, one from him, delivered at a run as the two slammed into each other one last time.
The troll punched low, a rising uppercut that caught him at the crest of the hip, cracking his pelvis and sending him airborn. Hubert stabbed high, his sword threading through the troll's eye and out the back of it's skull.
Twas not the end of it, of course. My pledge kept me rooted, honor holding me back until the duel had reached it's end. And so with bated breath and twisted hands, I watched Hubert drag himself one-armed to the slumped mass of the troll. It could heal, might have healed even then with a sword through its head, for such is the aweful vitality of the beasts. But such was not to be. Hubert pulled a dented metal flask of oil from his belt pouch, tossed it in glittering arcs over the troll from where he lay, then ignited it with a bare spark that seemed to take the last of his strength. He collapsed to his back as I went to him, and with my whisper in his ear relaxed into unconciousness.
"You have won, my wolf, and your foe lies defeated. Rest now, and dream of glory."
I ended up calling for help as I guarded his body, unwilling to move him alone. In the end, he suffered a broken collarbone, four broken ribs, a cracked pelvis, a wrenched ankle, a dislocated shoulder, and a chunk of flesh ripped from his left shoulder. I am told it will be at least six weeks before he may rise from bed, and several months after before he can hope at a return to full strength.
I hope he finds the confidence in victory that he wished for. My lady, watch over him as he heals, and help him return to me stronger than before.
Dear diary, wish us both luck.
A/N: Ok! probably my biggest pure combat scene, a little weird writing in the verb tenses of a diary. Please let me know what you think- Soizic is going to be looking at the seven faction showdown en l'espace de vingt-quatre heures next.
Oh that bloody, stubborn, glorious fool! Hubert has won dear diary, and I write this from the side of his sickbed as the his bones are straightened and his cuts sewn up. It is a good room- near enough the inner face of the mountain to receive natural light some hours of the day- but already I see the thrill of victory fading in his face and the frustration of remaining confined until he heals setting in.
My lady, I give you thanks and praise, for you have watched over me and guided me as I bend to support the quest of another, working that he might taste the sweetness that is victory under your aegis. Shelter him as he heals, that he might aid me in your service as I have aided him, and let not regret touch our eyes for the price paid; for time is passing and glory in your eyes is eternal.
Ulric, see worth in your follower, for he strives mightily to be worthy in your eyes.
I cannot tarry too long, for my duties do not pause for the injuries of a journeyman mage, much as I wish it were so. The afternoon patrol to Karag Ulric, as the men of Ulrikadrin are calling their tunnel-fort, makes ready to leave below my window, and I know I will be with them as they march out the gates, though my eyes may linger here. I am startled to find myself thinking, for once, about the risks of Death Pass, and calculating what chance may be that I never see his face again. I would not worry so much, I think, if he were hale and hearty, but confined to bed and bandages as he is? A hysterical feeling, that I cannot protect him, I cannot be sure he lives unless I am here, has seized my heart. I know this for cowardice, though not the true sin of abandoning comrades for survival, but a cousin of that; fear is.. I know something about overcoming it.
Dear diary, I leave you here to wait on my return.
----------------------------------------------
Dear diary,
The last light of the sun gleams from the snow cap of Karag Ziflin, a brief glow cast through the window onto the bed. My noble wounded wizardly wolf wheezes in his sleep as I pick you up once again by the light of a candle, his ribs weak and his consciousness fled.
There is no real news since last I wrote- the orcs do not contest the pass save for scouts, and the men of Ulrikadrin pass messages and greetings as has become custom. I am pleased with my company this last day, for you know I felt the pressure to return quickly, and I called upon them therefore to gear themselves only with helmet and breastplate, water and pike. We ran, dear diary, and walked, and ran again- I told them it was a test of our quickest possible march, and they rallied to that beyond what I could have hoped for. Word must have been passed, even, of mine own musing on the similarity between lances and pikes when first I began to use one, for every time we paused to walk I was pestered about how best to grip and aim, so as to strike from distance at a run. It has me thinking, how would such a thing best be used in battle? We are no warhorses, to throw back those we trample upon by weight of plate and flesh. Goblins, perhaps- bait them into pushing archers forward against an "immobile" pike block, then run them down? Hmmm... But the run went quickly, and the formation drills we ran through at each end showed me that the men are ready to run ten miles then fight, at need.
Perhaps I should capture my memories of the battle with the troll? I still feel somewhat sick thinking of it, but I know that time will dull the sequences and impressions even as it polishes the worry and doubt away. Dear diary, I return sometimes to your pages to remember how I felt joining this campaign, and those first weeks falling in with Oswald and Francesco, the worries of those first battles, and it helps me stay grounded. I hope the same will prove true of this:
It was closing in on evening when we heard word from the towers that a troll had taken one of our baits, and rather than return immediately to the tunnel it emerged from it wandered over a ridge, into a small valley. Hubert and I advanced. Our first sighting of the creature came as we ascended the dry stream bed up the valley, about seventy spans away half-hidden by boulders up to it's waist. It was a tall example of the species, and somewhat more canny than others, so we only caught a brief initial glimpse as it moved to approach us from cover. Tall but hunched and fugitive, as trolls are when daylight still kisses the sky, perhaps four spans high as it shuffled a circuitous path towards us.
Hubert handed me his pack and hat, limbered up his sword and began to turn to face the approach of the beast- I kissed him for good luck, the hair on my neck lifting off as sparks began to dance across the knuckles of his free hand and his ozone scent wrapping itself around us- but that was no time for distractions, and I retreated back; he stood in the middle of a sandy open patch, narrow, with tumbled valley-walls afore and behind necked down until all that passed through the valley was forced together.
And then we waited. One minute. Three.
The troll was clever; it must have learned what armed men could do and wished to feed, rather than to fight, academic as the distinction may be to us. So when it stepped into the open, fifteen spans from where Hubert stood, the first thing it did was vomit.
Dear diary, I pause here to underline a very important fact that is somewhat under emphasized in the tales of chase and slaughter that good young knights are raised on. Troll vomit is disgusting. Oh! but how to convey the depths of my displeasure with this foul substance? For short words alone do not do it justice, but spinning poetry would only stain the verses irretrievably. It is the foul sludge left on the floor of a room after ten thousand rats have shat there; it is the reek of blood left not to dry but to rot; it is the vicious viscosity of hot tar spattering on skin and clinging as it burns; it is the unspeakable tang of bile and pork known only to those who have fought the eaters of men.
Perhaps more? Such are the depths of my feeling here... But no. I indulge myself enough already. Why, dear diary, do my thoughts linger on such a petty thing? Because Hubert, caught at range in the open, broke from our already out-dated strategy: he cursed, dodged, and threw the lightening bolt clutched in his left fist.
The vomit exploded.
More precisely, as the troll threw itself around the last bit of cover and charged under cover of its disgusting effluvia, Hubert's bolt raked through the mass of flying liquid, boiling it to steam in an instant. At first I cheered! The troll's most dangerous attack met and neutralized singlehanded by deft use of magic. Then I frowned, as Hubert lost his recovery to a coughing fit. Then I gagged, as the wash of miasma hit me and all those nasty comparisons I have made above flew into my mouth and eyes, sank into my skin and hair. Dear diary I have literally been covered in burst open guts upon the battlefield and have felt less in need of a bath that I do now, just recounting this.
The troll, of course, was unharmed, though slightly disoriented by the crack and boom. I believe this saved Hubert's life, as it came barreling out of the caustic mist bank too quickly to match his dodge- the swinging fist caught him just as he sprang up from his roll. Had he not staggered upon standing, he would have escaped cleanly. Had he missed his footing even a little as he staggered, he would have lost his head. As it happened, the troll clipped him on the left shoulder as he twisted desperately away from it, tossing him back to the ground and wrenching the arm from its socket.
He flopped on the ground with a grimace, not even bothering to stand afore he used the dirt to heal his dislocation, arcing his back to lever his joint together again. The troll, having forgotten about me in the flash and thunder, took a good two or three seconds to slow his charge and turn about, laying eyes on Hubert just as he rose again to his feet. He was hunched, in pain, partially blinded by putrid droplets and yet his sword was steady as he pointed it. The troll was ebullient, laughing at the prey that refused to run, and as of yet untouched by blade. This is how the true fight began.
Hubert made the first move. We had discussed many approaches those lazy afternoons when fighting a troll was merely a mental exercise, but in the end concluded that copying the polished tactics of the dwarven slayers was of greatest worth. With that in mind, he darted forwards. his blade flickering as it aimed at tendons. Dash forward, bait the roundhouse, hop back, slash at the wrist as it whistles past. Close in the wake of the punch behind the moving arm, cut at knee, spin around until back to back, stab backwards towards the spine, jump forward to avoid the counterattack, twist to let the force of the blow glance off the half-there plates of his mage armor.
He didn't quite jump far enough, and the troll's donkey kick caught him in the kidneys, tossing him away and cracking two ribs.
They squared up for a second pass. The troll, now wounded, bleeding, and angry, moved first. Hubert, his left arm almost useless and his breath hitching as he gasped, danced backwards. Always he stayed on the edge of the troll's range, always flicking cuts at the hands and forearms, punishing the troll for clumsy threats and overpowered lunges. Always, until the troll once more showed its cunning. In a move almost a mirror of Hubert's first charge, the troll wound up and threw an powerful right cross- but planted its foot and arrested its momentum half-spent, Hubert's sword missing by inches and the troll itself springing forward with a howl, biting down at his head and grabbing with it's other arm, teeth crushing through Hubert's spell in a shower of sparks.
Hubert cursed, twisted, and the troll's teeth sank into his moments-ago dislocated shoulder, black bile mixing with bright red blood. With a growl, the troll straightened and tossed it's head, lifting Hubert off his feet and shaking him like a rag doll. I gasped, heart in my throat, as the troll grabbed one of his flailing legs and pulled, stretching him between the grip on his ankle and the fangs sunk in his shoulder. Dear diary, have I ever mentioned before that I have seen a man ripped entirely in two in similar circumstances?
I had time to scream, briefly, as Hubert was flung four spans away; the flesh of his shoulder had failed before the joints of his leg. The troll was left with a mouthful of meat as it threw him by his ankle- the very image of a dissolute brute ripping a mouthful off then discarding a chicken leg.
Dear diary, I will always maintain that my scream was purely a reflection of my concern for Hubert, and could not be in any way something as base as fear for my own safety when the troll turned it's attention to me. (My Lady, forgive me for this minor deception, for I am shamed. I would be the sort of person without care or concern for her own skin when her compatriots are in danger, but I fear without your help I shall never truly be her.) It's arms were shredded, it's legs gashed, and though its healing had begun it still limped as it startled, then began to limp towards me. Hubert had apparently vanished already from it's tiny mind.
I pause here, to savor the memory. This was the darkest moment- me, moving backwards for room to maneuver, desperately pulling my sword from it's sheath as I tried to both watch my now-opponent and look past it to see how fared Hubert, be he dead or just dying. The troll stood straighter and moved faster each step, black bile and red blood steaming on its face, roaring with jagged fangs and flapping jowls and spray of saliva. All our work, all those hours practicing the blade- in that moment all seemed lost.
Then the heavens spoke, and the earth retorted. A bright flash, brilliant enough to sear the silhouette of the troll against the backs of my eyes, lit up the world. The troll was smashed to the to the ground, smoking, and then thrown down again as thunder crashed over us. When my eyes and ears cleared enough to grasp the world again, this is what I beheld:
Hubert, gasping, had dragged himself up to one knee with his sword. It's point was stabbed into the dirt, and his good hand was falling back to it as though he had not the strength to lift it longer, even as he screamed at the troll.
"Get away from her, you *bitch*!"
Confused, the troll turned from me as it stood; the threat it had thought bested must have seemed more important than the human who had yet to strike a blow. Hubert lurched forward, his run a shamble at best as he closed. It was a short, ugly exchange, as Hubert no longer had the strength to either dodge or to parry- knowing this, knowing he had no choice but to trust in luck, he set to exchange blows. One from the troll, one from him, delivered at a run as the two slammed into each other one last time.
The troll punched low, a rising uppercut that caught him at the crest of the hip, cracking his pelvis and sending him airborn. Hubert stabbed high, his sword threading through the troll's eye and out the back of it's skull.
Twas not the end of it, of course. My pledge kept me rooted, honor holding me back until the duel had reached it's end. And so with bated breath and twisted hands, I watched Hubert drag himself one-armed to the slumped mass of the troll. It could heal, might have healed even then with a sword through its head, for such is the aweful vitality of the beasts. But such was not to be. Hubert pulled a dented metal flask of oil from his belt pouch, tossed it in glittering arcs over the troll from where he lay, then ignited it with a bare spark that seemed to take the last of his strength. He collapsed to his back as I went to him, and with my whisper in his ear relaxed into unconciousness.
"You have won, my wolf, and your foe lies defeated. Rest now, and dream of glory."
I ended up calling for help as I guarded his body, unwilling to move him alone. In the end, he suffered a broken collarbone, four broken ribs, a cracked pelvis, a wrenched ankle, a dislocated shoulder, and a chunk of flesh ripped from his left shoulder. I am told it will be at least six weeks before he may rise from bed, and several months after before he can hope at a return to full strength.
I hope he finds the confidence in victory that he wished for. My lady, watch over him as he heals, and help him return to me stronger than before.
Dear diary, wish us both luck.
A/N: Ok! probably my biggest pure combat scene, a little weird writing in the verb tenses of a diary. Please let me know what you think- Soizic is going to be looking at the seven faction showdown en l'espace de vingt-quatre heures next.
Last edited:
Ericwinter
Definitely not a Skaven Infiltrator
- Location
- America
If she doesn't come to the conclusion that it was all planned by Mathilde, I'm rioting.
I do wonder when they are going to buy a few horses for breeding? like, if patrolling (and taxing) the path is going to be the Undumgi main job, a 'fast response group' is going to be needed.
not even getting into that cavalry is the big thing that humans can bring to a dwarfs-human mixed army.
Last edited:
Asheram
Not quite altogether
- Location
- Δ Hidden Forbidden Holy Ground
Dawi cavalry would be a sight... I'm not sure it'd work though. Dawi generally fight Orks, and Ye Old Cavalry Charge works poorly against something that approaches the weight of a horse itself.
I did entertain the idea of Dawi Mounted Archery, but that hits a snag with that Dawi prefer crossbows to bows, and attempting to crank a crossbow atop a horse is a fools errand.
Mounted handgunners and riflemen could be a thing though.
Edit: Though considering the perfectionist mindset of the Dawi, the degree of perfection and obedience they'd require of their mounts in order to deem them battleworthy, I don't think it'd work in the end.
I did entertain the idea of Dawi Mounted Archery, but that hits a snag with that Dawi prefer crossbows to bows, and attempting to crank a crossbow atop a horse is a fools errand.
Mounted handgunners and riflemen could be a thing though.
Edit: Though considering the perfectionist mindset of the Dawi, the degree of perfection and obedience they'd require of their mounts in order to deem them battleworthy, I don't think it'd work in the end.
Last edited:
that's why I said its the thing that humans can bring to the fight, as humans are big enough to ride the really powerful warehouses that the empire use against orks.
Asheram
Not quite altogether
- Location
- Δ Hidden Forbidden Holy Ground
Ah, yes. I got lost there in my own thoughts for a bit. My apologies.
And yes, Human cav would definitely make up for the fatal weakness of the Dawi, they're so darn slow. Humans would be the hammer, and the Dawi would be the anvil.
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
Honestly, it'll probably be quite a while before they get horse for more than mounted scouts. The kind of space, expertise, feed, and breeding stock needed to get an actual Warhorse and not just a horse you can ride near a battle is pretty large, and a low priority for the dwarves at the moment. I'm personally hoping for Mathilde to enchant and/or commission a hundred or so bridles that summon shadow-horses, and put together an elite company of magical heavy cavalry; it's about the same investment, I think.
Thebigpieman
I've got this, I think.
- Location
- United States
Dawi steam cycle cavalry sounds like a more thematic option I think.
- Location
- Right Behind You.
That sounds like Skaven Techno-heresy to me
Ganurath
Literal Enthusiast
- Location
- A Valid Location
- Pronouns
- He/Him
No, that would be warpstone-powered motorbikes with war plows strapped to the front being used to pull a slave-driven chariot from which a Skryre Warplock unleashes weapons fire and spellcraft upon the enemies of the Under Empire.
A vehicle with only two wheels would be too imbalanced for Dawi tastes, though. They'd probably prefer to just point Mathilde or a Gyrocopter at a problem if they needed fast scouting.
Sir_Travelsalot
Never wakes up tired.
- Location
- At Home
So what you're saying is it should be a Dawi steam half-track chariot detachment of self-propelled guns? I'm okay with this.
Ganurath
Literal Enthusiast
- Location
- A Valid Location
- Pronouns
- He/Him
No, I'm saying that it takes a lot more than an engine to make something Skaven tech, and that it'd be better to steer the discussion to something more relevant to the Quest, such as how publication of the Queekish dictionaries might endanger whatever romantic partner Mathilde might pursue.
Something that occurred to me, given the Dwarven tendency towards defensive warfare, precision craftsmanship, and that they already have the Organ Gun, is that the next step might be a mitrailleuse. (As something less technically complicated and having fewer moving parts than the clattergun on gyrocopters.)
(Short version: multi-barrel gun which loads a bullet into each barrel from a plate or block placed in the breech, but each barrel fires individually. Once all are fired, it is reloaded by replacing the breech-plate.)
Just in case Gotri or some other radical Engineer comes up with an innovation, but Boney isn't sure what it should be.
(Short version: multi-barrel gun which loads a bullet into each barrel from a plate or block placed in the breech, but each barrel fires individually. Once all are fired, it is reloaded by replacing the breech-plate.)
Just in case Gotri or some other radical Engineer comes up with an innovation, but Boney isn't sure what it should be.
You sure thats a human and not a Giant?
What I could see as dwarf vehicular cavalry would probably be based off a steamroller.
But for Eight Peaks its much more likely that they leave the cavalry work to the humans and halflings. Eight Peaks is less "You can be anything" and more "You do your thing, theres somebody else for the things you can't or won't do"
TimEd
Meteor maker
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
ᕦ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ᕤ
Hubert and Soizic is still my favorite side story of this fic, even though its not canon.
Though Soizic herself never really gets a chance to do a 1v1 against bosses due to her command position.