Mind, Mathilde was just Mathilde till she became a knight of Stirland and required a second name for her family of one.
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.
- Location
- Earth
Er, what? 'Mathilde Weber' was part of the winning vote in part 4 of character creation.
- Location
- Czech Republic
Dawizhufokri
- Location
- New Brunswick, NJ
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Ragna Leanasdottir had spent a lot of time over the years contemplating her death. For much of it, a grobi or thaggoraki attack dire enough to call out the non-Warrior clans seemed most likely. Once, in her youth, she was part of an overland caravan to Karak Azul, and a fierce storm brought upon a terrifying mudslide that forced them to turn back. But as time marched on, and especially since celebrating reaching Longplait without death to foe or misadventure, she had begun to harbor secret hopes that she would depart for the Underearth on her own schedule, lying in a prepared tomb and surrounded by family ready for that day.
Now, waist-deep in freezing water, blood from where she'd hit her head oozing over her braids, and surrounded by hundreds of other dwarves all using up the same supply of fresh air, she was beginning to think she'd been insufficiently creative in considering her options.
She had just reached the unhappy conclusion that the other problems were unlikely to kill her before the lack of air did when there came a knock on the hatch. The small motions and noises of her kin were utterly stilled and silenced as the knock's echo rebounded through the hold, and then the front rank surged forward and began banging out a response against the hatch and bulkhead. Despite her dignity, Ragna could not stifle the groan of pain that escaped her throat; a sudden clamor made for an acutely miserable experience when already suffering from a probably-cracked skull. She felt the dwarf next to her take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly, in a shocking breach of decorum -- but, ah, that was Birger beside her, wasn't it, her great-nephew. He was a sweet lad: just into his forties, but she'd kept an eye on his talent for composing different steels, and thought he'd probably make Master the moment his beard was long enough. Under the circumstances, she'd allow it.
The response knocks faded away, though not the pounding in her head. There was a terrible tense moment, and then a new clang rang out; something had just hit the floor. Through the sudden babble of voices, Ragna heard a new voice, speaking firmly and clearly in accented Khazalid:
"I am Loremaster Weber of Karak Eight Peaks. I am here to rescue you."
A ghost-light appeared in the front of the hold. Ragna had to squint against the pain it caused in her eyes -- or eye, hrm, the left one seemed out of commission at the moment -- but sure as mineshafts, there by the hatch was the Mhornzhufi she'd seen once or twice over the three and a half years at Vala-Azril-Ungol. She looked out over the front ranks (was she always so tall? wasn't she practically a proper height? wait, of course, she was standing on the ladder), then past them to the door into the second hold, and her smile of relief was immediately replaced by a calculating frown. Loremaster Weber stepped down and conferred with the dwarves nearest her -- Ragna couldn't hear much, but caught some discussion of numbers -- and after a few minutes, straightened back up atop the ladder.
"The rest of the convoy is safe on the riverbanks. I am going now to report back and develop a plan for rescuing all of you. I will be back."
Then the ghost-light winked out, and she was gone.
---
It was foolish how long the wait for Weber's return seemed. They had already been trapped in a lightless cargo hold for hours awaiting their inevitable deaths, while the Loremaster couldn't have been gone for more than half an hour. But now a fire of hope burned within their hearts, and the assembled metalsmiths knew better than most how a fire might respond to the bellows and become something useful -- or, deprived of it, be nothing more than a waste of precious fuel.
Credit to the Guildmaster, he did not let them stand by in idleness. Once the umgi woman faded away, he began rapping out directions for the clan to form up by ranks in triage order, and sorting that out took up most of the time. Birger, that rascal, added completely useless information to her report -- so what if there was a lot of blood, scalp wounds bled out of proportion to how bad they really were, everyone knew that -- but Ragna only had energy for a few reflexive grumbles as she was directed to about the sixtieth place in line.
Then there was another clang, and another ghost-light, and Loremaster Weber was back.
"Barak Varr is still four or so hours away, and we don't know what might happen before then. I can bring you one at a time through the shadows to a chain that has been set up in the water. Then you grab on -- it might take a few tries, touching things in shadow is a learned skill -- and let yourself get pulled out of the water onto the shore. When the moonlight touches you, you will be normal again, and you can let go of the chain. You will need to hold your breath for a short period of time. Any questions?"
Before another babble could break out, the Guildmaster cleared his throat loudly, in the way that they'd all learned meant "someone near me is about to do something extremely foolish, and I am intervening." Then he replied, in respectful tones they'd only rarely heard before. "No, Loremaster. There are no questions."
---
Traveling through shadows felt very strange but did not last long, praise Valaya. When it was her turn, the Loremaster took a deep breath, held her by the hand, and then muttered a few words. Ragna had a feeling of vertigo as she was led out of the ship -- no, through the ship's hull! It felt, she reflected as she took hold of the chain and the Loremaster departed, like being pulled out of herself, like being insubstantial and unnoticed even by the laws that governed the operation of the world. She did not like it at all.
But then moonlight fell upon her, she let go of the chain and fell upon the ground, and she was back. A Fullbeard standing by -- one of the masons, she thought, though she didn't know his name -- respectfully helped her to her feet, wrapped a fire-warmed blanket around her shoulders, and led her to a tent nearby where her wounds would be examined and dry clothes provided.
"Aunt Ragna!"
She turned, saw her nephew Halvard there, and let out a relieved breath. He hadn't been in the hold with the rest of them, and she had feared the worst.
"Come here, lad. Don't worry, I look worse than I am. Your son is fine too -- he was near me in the ship, though when he gets ashore I am going to give him a piece of my mind. Little scamp, thinks that just because I dandled him on my knee he doesn't need to respect my braids, I tell you, beardlings these days, he knows his way around alloys but that'll help him none if he gets smart with a Longbeard less understanding than I..."
Halvard, bless the boy, didn't interrupt, and she got a good solid grumble out of her system while the field medics stitched her scalp back together and dressed her eye. For that consideration, she wound down in reasonable time with the ready excuse of availing herself of the mulled beer. They looked out together at the riverbank: the chain still turning at its steady pace, streaming dwarves into existence over dry ground every twenty seconds or so like clockwork. Halvard shook his head.
"I tell you, Ragna. It's not proper, having an umgi Loremaster, and I stand by that. But this Mhornzhufokrul does a good night's work."
"Mhornzhufokrul?" Ragna said softly. The mulled beer was at work warming her insides, but not nearly as much as seeing the steady march of her kinsfolk from the bank. A cheer rang out -- ah, that was the Guildmaster, safe ashore. "That's certainly her Guild-granted title. But, my nephew, for tonight's work I think she deserves to be called Dawizhufokri, for she has crafted for us a torrent of living dwarves."
---
A/N: This omake brought to you by my brain seizing on the Khazalid wordplay about a "Dawizhuf" and tying that in to the comments about how bizarre this all must look from the shore. Tried to stay as close to the canon happenings as possible.
Now, waist-deep in freezing water, blood from where she'd hit her head oozing over her braids, and surrounded by hundreds of other dwarves all using up the same supply of fresh air, she was beginning to think she'd been insufficiently creative in considering her options.
She had just reached the unhappy conclusion that the other problems were unlikely to kill her before the lack of air did when there came a knock on the hatch. The small motions and noises of her kin were utterly stilled and silenced as the knock's echo rebounded through the hold, and then the front rank surged forward and began banging out a response against the hatch and bulkhead. Despite her dignity, Ragna could not stifle the groan of pain that escaped her throat; a sudden clamor made for an acutely miserable experience when already suffering from a probably-cracked skull. She felt the dwarf next to her take her hand and squeeze it reassuringly, in a shocking breach of decorum -- but, ah, that was Birger beside her, wasn't it, her great-nephew. He was a sweet lad: just into his forties, but she'd kept an eye on his talent for composing different steels, and thought he'd probably make Master the moment his beard was long enough. Under the circumstances, she'd allow it.
The response knocks faded away, though not the pounding in her head. There was a terrible tense moment, and then a new clang rang out; something had just hit the floor. Through the sudden babble of voices, Ragna heard a new voice, speaking firmly and clearly in accented Khazalid:
"I am Loremaster Weber of Karak Eight Peaks. I am here to rescue you."
A ghost-light appeared in the front of the hold. Ragna had to squint against the pain it caused in her eyes -- or eye, hrm, the left one seemed out of commission at the moment -- but sure as mineshafts, there by the hatch was the Mhornzhufi she'd seen once or twice over the three and a half years at Vala-Azril-Ungol. She looked out over the front ranks (was she always so tall? wasn't she practically a proper height? wait, of course, she was standing on the ladder), then past them to the door into the second hold, and her smile of relief was immediately replaced by a calculating frown. Loremaster Weber stepped down and conferred with the dwarves nearest her -- Ragna couldn't hear much, but caught some discussion of numbers -- and after a few minutes, straightened back up atop the ladder.
"The rest of the convoy is safe on the riverbanks. I am going now to report back and develop a plan for rescuing all of you. I will be back."
Then the ghost-light winked out, and she was gone.
---
It was foolish how long the wait for Weber's return seemed. They had already been trapped in a lightless cargo hold for hours awaiting their inevitable deaths, while the Loremaster couldn't have been gone for more than half an hour. But now a fire of hope burned within their hearts, and the assembled metalsmiths knew better than most how a fire might respond to the bellows and become something useful -- or, deprived of it, be nothing more than a waste of precious fuel.
Credit to the Guildmaster, he did not let them stand by in idleness. Once the umgi woman faded away, he began rapping out directions for the clan to form up by ranks in triage order, and sorting that out took up most of the time. Birger, that rascal, added completely useless information to her report -- so what if there was a lot of blood, scalp wounds bled out of proportion to how bad they really were, everyone knew that -- but Ragna only had energy for a few reflexive grumbles as she was directed to about the sixtieth place in line.
Then there was another clang, and another ghost-light, and Loremaster Weber was back.
"Barak Varr is still four or so hours away, and we don't know what might happen before then. I can bring you one at a time through the shadows to a chain that has been set up in the water. Then you grab on -- it might take a few tries, touching things in shadow is a learned skill -- and let yourself get pulled out of the water onto the shore. When the moonlight touches you, you will be normal again, and you can let go of the chain. You will need to hold your breath for a short period of time. Any questions?"
Before another babble could break out, the Guildmaster cleared his throat loudly, in the way that they'd all learned meant "someone near me is about to do something extremely foolish, and I am intervening." Then he replied, in respectful tones they'd only rarely heard before. "No, Loremaster. There are no questions."
---
Traveling through shadows felt very strange but did not last long, praise Valaya. When it was her turn, the Loremaster took a deep breath, held her by the hand, and then muttered a few words. Ragna had a feeling of vertigo as she was led out of the ship -- no, through the ship's hull! It felt, she reflected as she took hold of the chain and the Loremaster departed, like being pulled out of herself, like being insubstantial and unnoticed even by the laws that governed the operation of the world. She did not like it at all.
But then moonlight fell upon her, she let go of the chain and fell upon the ground, and she was back. A Fullbeard standing by -- one of the masons, she thought, though she didn't know his name -- respectfully helped her to her feet, wrapped a fire-warmed blanket around her shoulders, and led her to a tent nearby where her wounds would be examined and dry clothes provided.
"Aunt Ragna!"
She turned, saw her nephew Halvard there, and let out a relieved breath. He hadn't been in the hold with the rest of them, and she had feared the worst.
"Come here, lad. Don't worry, I look worse than I am. Your son is fine too -- he was near me in the ship, though when he gets ashore I am going to give him a piece of my mind. Little scamp, thinks that just because I dandled him on my knee he doesn't need to respect my braids, I tell you, beardlings these days, he knows his way around alloys but that'll help him none if he gets smart with a Longbeard less understanding than I..."
Halvard, bless the boy, didn't interrupt, and she got a good solid grumble out of her system while the field medics stitched her scalp back together and dressed her eye. For that consideration, she wound down in reasonable time with the ready excuse of availing herself of the mulled beer. They looked out together at the riverbank: the chain still turning at its steady pace, streaming dwarves into existence over dry ground every twenty seconds or so like clockwork. Halvard shook his head.
"I tell you, Ragna. It's not proper, having an umgi Loremaster, and I stand by that. But this Mhornzhufokrul does a good night's work."
"Mhornzhufokrul?" Ragna said softly. The mulled beer was at work warming her insides, but not nearly as much as seeing the steady march of her kinsfolk from the bank. A cheer rang out -- ah, that was the Guildmaster, safe ashore. "That's certainly her Guild-granted title. But, my nephew, for tonight's work I think she deserves to be called Dawizhufokri, for she has crafted for us a torrent of living dwarves."
---
A/N: This omake brought to you by my brain seizing on the Khazalid wordplay about a "Dawizhuf" and tying that in to the comments about how bizarre this all must look from the shore. Tried to stay as close to the canon happenings as possible.
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- Location
- Norway
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- Location
- Utrecht
Stop what?
- Location
- Space
There have been nine of the "who was responsible" ones since the first one 1300 pages ago, and the others haven't been much more common. You can feel free to not like them and to say so, but they're clearly not being spammed.
- Location
- Greece
I really like this omake, but I do wonder, considering how emotional Dawi are, if such displays breach Dawi decorum even towards an elder. I mean, they have a lot of secrets and perfectionism in them, but that stems from the fact that they are, unlike most fantasy dwarfs, very emotional. I imagine a society that so often displays overexpression of emotion would not consider it disrespectful or anything like that, especially since it only became a thing in rl after one of the world wars (can't remember which) glorified PTSD induced stoicism in men ... I imagine the Dawi would be not so shy about expressing emotion.
Then again, it could be something like a Vulcan thing, where their overemotion has to be forcibly kept in check in order for society to not collapse and so they overcompensate, or it could be that the forever war has given the Dawi a ptsd glorifying mentality. I am musing here, not criticizing the omake, because emotional etiquete on Dawi sounds interesting, but I have never had cause to think about it until now.
Over 1,000 messages since the last chapter came out...this thread moves waaaaay too fast for me. I...wanted to make this the first vote I made in this thread, but. Like, what's the state of the vote? There's no way this level of activity is normal, just how heated did things get? Is the vote still open? Is there any real point to voting, like is it contested at all?
You can always feel free to ask. That said its pretty onesided.
Also this level of activity is normal, if we aren't discussing the vote its some blue sky plans and if its not that we're going insane. Again.
- Location
- Greece
This quest is insanely popular, the current level of activity is actually on what I would describe low end.
- Location
- New Brunswick, NJ
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
I am glad you liked it! The social norms I was thinking of was:
- Ragna groaning in pain, which she feels to be beneath her because she doesn't consider herself very badly injured and there are worse casualties in the hold with her, and I assume dwarves hold "responding to your wounds in proportion and enduring what can be endured" as a virtue (cf Edda's wound during Waaagh Birdmuncha).
- Birger taking her by the hand, which is inappropriate because they are in a job-context (returning from laboring at K8P) and not a family-context where displays of affection are appropriate. Think about the difference between being affectionate with a family member at home vs. affectionate with them when you're both at work at the same job -- I assume in dwarf culture this would be more OK if the elder initiated it, since age directly corresponds with "right to set norms." But Birger is relatively close kin (since Clan = job, she's related to every dwarf here, but Birger is a great-nephew, practically immediate family), and they're all under trying circumstances, so she's cutting him slack.
- Location
- Earth
Welcome to the thread! In simpler votes with more stakes, i.e during conflict, it'll go faster, but even a regular turn vote with planned voting will see around 100 votes. You can view the state of the vote by going to thread tools on the top right and selecting 'Vote Tally.' The vote is still open, and will last for a minimum of 24 hours. The current vote is a bit of a landslide, but they can get very close. In the past, things have been decided by single digit margins.
Imo, you should vote anyways to express your opinion. Even if your preference loses, it helps to build up a case for future votes, and to make it known that a certain option has support.
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This is lovely, I'd really like to see dawizhufokri added to her list of titles.
I agree, with have a lot of titles about things we killed, one about lives saved would not go amiss if @BoneyM does not object.
- Location
- New Brunswick, NJ
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
This is extremely flattering, y'all, but let's wait until we know we've all survived the night before bugging Boney to canonize my Khazalid wordplay. If thousands of Okral get mulched by greenskins in the near future, it's going to matter much less that Mathilde personally rescued 300.
(I imagine whether or not we activate Protector this coming turn will matter to the question as well.)
(I imagine whether or not we activate Protector this coming turn will matter to the question as well.)
Even if we all die here as long as there is one survivor to tell of it the deed will be remembered and honored. That is just how dwarfs are. For all I focus on their flaws often that is one of the best parts about them.
- Location
- Florida
Yeah they did. If we pick Protector the dwarves we saved will intuitively know we risked life and limb in the process even if they don't know exactly why.
- Location
- The Surface Of A Hostile Planet
The turn where we the voters pick what facet of the Coin to use didn't start yet, but in-character this event happens after the point in time where Mathilde would have picked what face of the Coin she wanted to have active for the Karag Dum expedition, and so if a face that would have been applicable here like the Protector is picked, Boney will allow it to apply.
(I imagine that this is allowed largely because the thread consensus was already very much in favor of using The Protector for the Karag Dum trip.)
I do not think this is a matter of personal debt, we did something impressive for KaK and dwarfs as a whole, it looks like straight dwarf favor to me.
- Location
- Argentina
Yeah, probably. He is not actually someone that important to the KaK as a whole.
- Location
- Finland
I'd like to pass any debt of gratitude for Belegar.
We are working for him, he gave us the priority list we followed, it is because of Belegar that we were here.
I mean we can't do a full transfer i guess, but if possible, i would like to provide pr boost to Belegar moreso than us.
Plus, y'know, finally actually using the Protector. Gambler is the good-old default, Night Prowler had its time to shine killing the college, and Deceiver was used on Qretch, though it doesn't feel like that has quite lived up to it's potential yet.
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