The Thirteen Warlords
This got away a bit from me, but I was inspired by the last couple of chapters, so here's an unrealistic what if snippet of sorts.
Omake:
The Thirteen Warlords;
Or How Belegar Ironhammer Rolled A (Supernatural) Crit
Luitpold von Holswig-Schliestein, The Protector Of The Empire, Emperor Himself, Son of Emperors, The Elector-Count of Reikland and the Prince of Altdorf, slowly clenched and unclenched his fists as he strived mightily not to cave-in the hollow skulls of his yowling Elector-Counts with Ghal-Maraz, those yokels Todbringer and Gausser in particular.
A tall man and with a striking presence, ordinarily noted for his calmness and charisma, The Emperor was a natural-born diplomat with a formidable intellect, both his mind and his courtier skills honed to be as sharp as a dwarven steel-trap by both his own gruelling efforts and the various teachings of some of the greatest minds of the Old World that gold, influence, favours and duty could obtain.
And yet, he found himself nearly powerless before the stubbornness and sheer stupidity of not only his de-iure princely equals, but even the holy High Priests of the Empire's two greatest Cults, the four of them behaving as if they were some village mutts fighting over a bone, the remaining Elector-Counts doing next-to-nothing to calm them.
To his shame and growing ire, Luitpold could almost sense the disgust rolling off from the present Dwarf Prince Belegar Ironhammer, whose request for aid from the Empire in retaking his ancestral kingdom had the dubious honour of being the formal topic of this Elector-meet, before the situation had deteriorated.
The Empire was on the threshold of a civil war, and for what?
Because of a pair of valleys, a forest and a couple of villages?
It was madness, simple madness.
As the time passed, with all the sane efforts at negotiation being for naught, and with the situation rapidly approaching the point of no return, Luitpold could feel a yawning pit slowly opening beneath him.
In desperation, and to keep himself from physically expressing his discontent with some rather permanent consequences, The Emperor opened his mouth and bellowed from the bottom of his stomach:
"Let the Gods judge."
"What?" snarled the Ar-Ulric and The Grand-Theogonist, united for the first time in almost a year in their response.
Luitpold felt a chill down his spine. He finally had the room's undivided attention, and little idea what to do with it. But enough was enough, and employing all of his charisma, all of his experience and all of his training, Luitpold bullshitted like never before:
"Let the Gods judge! Since before the birth of Empire, since before the birth of Sigmar himself, when a judgement was deemed too difficult for the warriors, shamans and chiefs of a tribe to decide, a grand task was given to the injured parties, to prove their claim just before the Gods and tribe!
We have an impossible judgement. And we have such a grand task before us. The grandest and noblest task possible! Of aiding our truest and oldest allies in retaking their taken homeland.
Prove your cause just before all of us standing here today and the Gods themselves, prove your ancestral claim right by aiding Clan Angrund in their task. Let those who are in the right be judged so by the Gods with how much their efforts contribute to the retaking of Karak Eight Peaks. Thus speak I, the Emperor!"
A harsh silence settled on the meeting before suddenly chaos erupted. In the cacophony, Luitpold could hear just a few snatches of the words being spoken, none of which exactly filled him with hope.
"Are we some bloody Bretonnians, to go on a hare-brained quest?" demanded a giant of a man, clad in Nordland regalia.
"Did you just compare the arbitration of the highest matters of the state to some barbaric, ancient ritual?" sardonically asked a foreboding man with a black widow's peak, the runefang Bloodbringer strapped to his belt.
"Your Grace, you overstep your bounds. Who can say whose contribution was blessed by the divine? Gods' will is unknown to mortals, yourself included." remarked stiffly one of the Arch-Lectors present.
Even the dwarf lord, Belegar, positively boiled with repressed anger. For all that he needed aid, he seemed to not appreciate his solemn request for aid being treated as an excuse to herd the elector-cats.
Luitpold imagined he could hear a dwarf grudge coming, banging and crushing as it rolled down the mountains like a giant stone. Or maybe it was just the sound of his head-ache increasing.
"Well, why not?" asked one of the present nobles.
Silence descended again on the gathered luminaries as they all turned to a an eccentric figure, vigorously pacing with hands behind his back, seeming to be possessed by some strange righteous fervour.
"What a marvellous idea! Yes, why not? I would be honoured to volunteer my armies for this grand venture. And my warchest. No sleepy hamlet needed as reward, even." brightly concluded the Elector-Count of Averland, his impressive moustache split into two halves down the middle, with the left half coloured a garish yellow and the right half painted a dark red.
Luitpold barely stopped himself from laughing when he saw the fish-out-of-water expressions that the Lords of Nordland and Middenland sported.
Further and completely inevitable exclaims of further outrage were stopped in their tracks when the eccentric (and some rumoured insane) Elector Count of Averland was followed by a loud proclamation from an unlikely source.
"I, too, support this task. The armies of Hochland will march to dwarven aid. I shall lead them myself!"
The Elector-Count of Hochland was known by all to be a rational, sensible man, with an excellent head for numbers and governing, prone to caution and one rarely moved by passions and emotions.
The fact that such a man was standing proudly with straightened shoulders and with his head held high, a brilliant gleam in his eye impossible to miss, had the gathering disquieted. Leitdorf was one thing, but this?
Leitpold sensed the momentum was finally on his side and pounced:
"I hope that it goes without question, that both Reikland and the Imperial Office shall support our ancient allies in this matter, with all the means at their disposal." The Prince of Altdorf silkily stated.
"Hell, I will drink to that! You will have Ostland's Swords, dwarfking!" a bearded, barrel-chested warrior in half-plate shouted, before doing good on his word and drinking heavily from a gargantuan drinking horn yellowed with age.
"And Axes of Talabecland!" roared its Elector-Count as well, his figure resembling more an ancient bear mistakenly clothed in silks than a proper aristocrat.
"And the Guns of Ostermark." grimly concluded a wiry noble representing the League of Ostermark.
With a long-suffering sigh, Elector-Count of Wissenland joined in, his customary drawl gone from his voice.
"If my people hear that I didn't support a dwarven reclamation efforts, and that you sorry lot did, I won't reach Nuln alive. The factories of Nuln and the armies of Wissenland are yours, noble dwarf. Use them well."
"It seems to me, that an army marches on its stomach. And when it comes to the matters of the stomach, I think we halflings know a thing or two. The Moot will be happy to lend its food stocks and cooks to the cause!"
With the new Elector Count of Stirland casting baleful glances at the halflings, Leitpold the First watched with satisfaction as even the stand-offish and newly ascended Elector-Count of Stirland was pressured into promising whatever support she could spare from occupation of newly conquered parts of Sylvania.
Which left just the four troublemakers. Elector-Counts of Middenland and Nordland glanced at each other, before trying to outdo each other with promises of support.
Of course, their efforts paled before the shouting match that again took off between the venerable Ar-Ulric and Grand-Theogonist, with each thundering about their holy duty against the Forces of Destruction.
All the while, Belegar Ironhammer and his bodyguards watched in dumbfounded disbelief.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All in all, Belegar was quite satisfied. For all that the manlings had behaved reprehensibly for much of the Elector-Meet, and that the method through which they came to an agreement to help him was... unorthodox to put it mildly, he couldn't argue with the results.
Not when he marched at the head of over 600 000 strong fully equipped and supplied manling army, many thousands of which were their knights, with hundreds upon hundreds of cannons and with their wizards and war-priests coming in force.
The rumours said that the High King had even spilled the precious and rare Bugman's beer on himself, such was his shock when he had heard the news, and that he had ordered the whole of Karaz Ankor to summon their throngs to the Karak Eight Peaks, lest they be shamed before the eyes of the Ancestors for not answering Clan Angrund's call when the Umgi had.
Belegar could feel his teeth spread again in a bloodthirsty grin, his sixth that morning, twice more than he had smiled in the last twenty years.
The gobbos and the rats won't know what hit them.
Omake:
The Thirteen Warlords;
Or How Belegar Ironhammer Rolled A (Supernatural) Crit
Luitpold von Holswig-Schliestein, The Protector Of The Empire, Emperor Himself, Son of Emperors, The Elector-Count of Reikland and the Prince of Altdorf, slowly clenched and unclenched his fists as he strived mightily not to cave-in the hollow skulls of his yowling Elector-Counts with Ghal-Maraz, those yokels Todbringer and Gausser in particular.
A tall man and with a striking presence, ordinarily noted for his calmness and charisma, The Emperor was a natural-born diplomat with a formidable intellect, both his mind and his courtier skills honed to be as sharp as a dwarven steel-trap by both his own gruelling efforts and the various teachings of some of the greatest minds of the Old World that gold, influence, favours and duty could obtain.
And yet, he found himself nearly powerless before the stubbornness and sheer stupidity of not only his de-iure princely equals, but even the holy High Priests of the Empire's two greatest Cults, the four of them behaving as if they were some village mutts fighting over a bone, the remaining Elector-Counts doing next-to-nothing to calm them.
To his shame and growing ire, Luitpold could almost sense the disgust rolling off from the present Dwarf Prince Belegar Ironhammer, whose request for aid from the Empire in retaking his ancestral kingdom had the dubious honour of being the formal topic of this Elector-meet, before the situation had deteriorated.
The Empire was on the threshold of a civil war, and for what?
Because of a pair of valleys, a forest and a couple of villages?
It was madness, simple madness.
As the time passed, with all the sane efforts at negotiation being for naught, and with the situation rapidly approaching the point of no return, Luitpold could feel a yawning pit slowly opening beneath him.
In desperation, and to keep himself from physically expressing his discontent with some rather permanent consequences, The Emperor opened his mouth and bellowed from the bottom of his stomach:
"Let the Gods judge."
"What?" snarled the Ar-Ulric and The Grand-Theogonist, united for the first time in almost a year in their response.
Luitpold felt a chill down his spine. He finally had the room's undivided attention, and little idea what to do with it. But enough was enough, and employing all of his charisma, all of his experience and all of his training, Luitpold bullshitted like never before:
"Let the Gods judge! Since before the birth of Empire, since before the birth of Sigmar himself, when a judgement was deemed too difficult for the warriors, shamans and chiefs of a tribe to decide, a grand task was given to the injured parties, to prove their claim just before the Gods and tribe!
We have an impossible judgement. And we have such a grand task before us. The grandest and noblest task possible! Of aiding our truest and oldest allies in retaking their taken homeland.
Prove your cause just before all of us standing here today and the Gods themselves, prove your ancestral claim right by aiding Clan Angrund in their task. Let those who are in the right be judged so by the Gods with how much their efforts contribute to the retaking of Karak Eight Peaks. Thus speak I, the Emperor!"
A harsh silence settled on the meeting before suddenly chaos erupted. In the cacophony, Luitpold could hear just a few snatches of the words being spoken, none of which exactly filled him with hope.
"Are we some bloody Bretonnians, to go on a hare-brained quest?" demanded a giant of a man, clad in Nordland regalia.
"Did you just compare the arbitration of the highest matters of the state to some barbaric, ancient ritual?" sardonically asked a foreboding man with a black widow's peak, the runefang Bloodbringer strapped to his belt.
"Your Grace, you overstep your bounds. Who can say whose contribution was blessed by the divine? Gods' will is unknown to mortals, yourself included." remarked stiffly one of the Arch-Lectors present.
Even the dwarf lord, Belegar, positively boiled with repressed anger. For all that he needed aid, he seemed to not appreciate his solemn request for aid being treated as an excuse to herd the elector-cats.
Luitpold imagined he could hear a dwarf grudge coming, banging and crushing as it rolled down the mountains like a giant stone. Or maybe it was just the sound of his head-ache increasing.
"Well, why not?" asked one of the present nobles.
Silence descended again on the gathered luminaries as they all turned to a an eccentric figure, vigorously pacing with hands behind his back, seeming to be possessed by some strange righteous fervour.
"What a marvellous idea! Yes, why not? I would be honoured to volunteer my armies for this grand venture. And my warchest. No sleepy hamlet needed as reward, even." brightly concluded the Elector-Count of Averland, his impressive moustache split into two halves down the middle, with the left half coloured a garish yellow and the right half painted a dark red.
Luitpold barely stopped himself from laughing when he saw the fish-out-of-water expressions that the Lords of Nordland and Middenland sported.
Further and completely inevitable exclaims of further outrage were stopped in their tracks when the eccentric (and some rumoured insane) Elector Count of Averland was followed by a loud proclamation from an unlikely source.
"I, too, support this task. The armies of Hochland will march to dwarven aid. I shall lead them myself!"
The Elector-Count of Hochland was known by all to be a rational, sensible man, with an excellent head for numbers and governing, prone to caution and one rarely moved by passions and emotions.
The fact that such a man was standing proudly with straightened shoulders and with his head held high, a brilliant gleam in his eye impossible to miss, had the gathering disquieted. Leitdorf was one thing, but this?
Leitpold sensed the momentum was finally on his side and pounced:
"I hope that it goes without question, that both Reikland and the Imperial Office shall support our ancient allies in this matter, with all the means at their disposal." The Prince of Altdorf silkily stated.
"Hell, I will drink to that! You will have Ostland's Swords, dwarfking!" a bearded, barrel-chested warrior in half-plate shouted, before doing good on his word and drinking heavily from a gargantuan drinking horn yellowed with age.
"And Axes of Talabecland!" roared its Elector-Count as well, his figure resembling more an ancient bear mistakenly clothed in silks than a proper aristocrat.
"And the Guns of Ostermark." grimly concluded a wiry noble representing the League of Ostermark.
With a long-suffering sigh, Elector-Count of Wissenland joined in, his customary drawl gone from his voice.
"If my people hear that I didn't support a dwarven reclamation efforts, and that you sorry lot did, I won't reach Nuln alive. The factories of Nuln and the armies of Wissenland are yours, noble dwarf. Use them well."
"It seems to me, that an army marches on its stomach. And when it comes to the matters of the stomach, I think we halflings know a thing or two. The Moot will be happy to lend its food stocks and cooks to the cause!"
With the new Elector Count of Stirland casting baleful glances at the halflings, Leitpold the First watched with satisfaction as even the stand-offish and newly ascended Elector-Count of Stirland was pressured into promising whatever support she could spare from occupation of newly conquered parts of Sylvania.
Which left just the four troublemakers. Elector-Counts of Middenland and Nordland glanced at each other, before trying to outdo each other with promises of support.
Of course, their efforts paled before the shouting match that again took off between the venerable Ar-Ulric and Grand-Theogonist, with each thundering about their holy duty against the Forces of Destruction.
All the while, Belegar Ironhammer and his bodyguards watched in dumbfounded disbelief.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All in all, Belegar was quite satisfied. For all that the manlings had behaved reprehensibly for much of the Elector-Meet, and that the method through which they came to an agreement to help him was... unorthodox to put it mildly, he couldn't argue with the results.
Not when he marched at the head of over 600 000 strong fully equipped and supplied manling army, many thousands of which were their knights, with hundreds upon hundreds of cannons and with their wizards and war-priests coming in force.
The rumours said that the High King had even spilled the precious and rare Bugman's beer on himself, such was his shock when he had heard the news, and that he had ordered the whole of Karaz Ankor to summon their throngs to the Karak Eight Peaks, lest they be shamed before the eyes of the Ancestors for not answering Clan Angrund's call when the Umgi had.
Belegar could feel his teeth spread again in a bloodthirsty grin, his sixth that morning, twice more than he had smiled in the last twenty years.
The gobbos and the rats won't know what hit them.
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