Warhammer Fantasy: Divided Loyalties - an Advisor's Quest

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Fortify here and see if anything interesting happens over the next day

With it being past noon, you're able to convince the others that it makes more sense to fortify here than to set off and have to fortify in a few short hours somewhere less defensible and thicker in Dhar. You're hoping that something you witness or discover over that time will shed light on what's happening here, or at the very least give you something to argue for more time with.

With the help of your motley group of Wizards, you set up an array of experiments at the lip of the crater to test the slowly expanding radius of sand and start scouring the edge of it for more skeletons that can be retrieved for examination without venturing too far into the sands. It's still far from being a census, but you manage to examine enough that the relative normality begins to stand out. Sure, there are Beastmen in their many forms, and you do find a few of what you assume to have been Kurgan with what would have been functional mutations, but there's no fatally chaotic alterations, nor anything resembling the skeleton of a Chaos Spawn. Perhaps the bodies would be different closer to the forest that Morghur seems to be protecting, or perhaps not.

As dusk approaches, a clamour of horns and drums in the distance has everyone scrambling for defensive positions, and from your position atop the Alriksson you peer through a telescope as to the northeast, what you presume to be a Kvellige warband lines up along the lip of the crater, shouting war-cries. An answering clamour rises from the forest, and it doesn't take long for Morghur to emerge facing them, shouting his own warbling accompaniment. As soon as he appears, a dozen or so of the warband charge forward, the hooves of their horses churning up the sand as they make their way towards the Shadowgave.

The first Kurgan to reach Morghur is swept off his horse by Morghur's staff, landing heavily on the sand and being pinned to it by Morghur's claw a moment later. The Beastman's cry of triumph becomes one of anger and frustration as arrows and javelins from the other Kurgan meet their mark in his sides and back, and at the cry from their demigod the Beastmen begin to boil out of the forest, charging at the interlopers with inhuman roars. This seems to spur the Kurgan to even greater lengths as two more close in on him, one managing to parry a swing from Morghur while the other leaps upon his back, clinging on to the spikes erupting from his back and sinking a dagger into his flesh over and over. Another cry of anger comes from Morghur, but this one is interwoven with something different, and to your Magesight Morghur begins to glow with malign energy that's as visible in the ambient Dhar as the sun amongst stars.

As the energy sinks into him the Kurgan on Morghur's back throws himself free, limping towards his horse with some difficulty as both the Beastmen and the other Kurgan close in on him, and at this distance you can't really make out much of the chaotic melee that ensues except that the Kurgan that had been on Morghur's back reaches his horse and begins to gallop to the edge of the crater, followed before long by most of the other Kurgan. Morghur roars again as the energy flowing off him throbs, and he bends down to begin to feast on the Kurgan he struck down as the Beastmen do the same to those that did not survive the melee.

At the edge of the crater, the limping Kurgan appears to be excitedly displaying his leg to the others, who crowd around until he's blocked from your view. Not long later the warband departs, horns blowing in triumph as they leave the bloodstained sands behind them. The Beastmen gather up bows and blades from the fallen and they too depart, melting back into the forest and leaving the partially-eaten bodies where they fell. Soon only Morghur remains as he goes from body to body, the snarl of Dhar in him dimming as he does so, and by the time he returns to the forest he's no longer distinct against the background energies of this place.

---

Bright and early the next morning, you and your Wizards collect data from the various objects that had been scattered about the edge of the crater. The growth of the crater supports the rough six inches per day estimate that Snorri had suggested, and apart from the skeletons that had been returned to the sand after examination, all the objects that had been placed atop the sand are now gone. But one of Johann's contributions had been a series of objects anchored to solid ground with string, and most of them - a knife, a shard of metal, an apple, and a torn tunic - are able to be retrieved from the now-taut strings from deep below the sands. Only the string that was tied to a rock from outside the crater comes up with an empty knot. The conclusion: only stone is transmuted, everything else sinks below the sands - except skeletons, that for some reason remain buoyed above the surface.

From a considerable distance back from the crater you summon your Shadowsteed and with a heavy escort of Knights you circle the crater until you're close enough to the site of yesterday's battle to examine the bodies through a telescope. You're quite sure that the hurried feasting from yesterday was nowhere near enough to skeletonize the fallen, but despite that you're completely unable to identify the bodies from yesterday from the myriad other skeletons dotting the sands. You swallow your frustration and return to the Expedition - no need to risk the Kvellige thinking you're trespassing on their side of the crater.

"The Kurgan made a clamour until Morghur appeared, then went straight for him," you begin as you address the remainders of the Council. "And they defended and escorted the only one of their number that actually touched Morghur. Either they venerate those that draw blood against the beast, or they're seeking out his mutative aura."

"Which is somehow muted until combat provokes it out of him," Sir Joerg concludes. "When all records and legends we can recall of him say that it is constant. So it would seem that it is the genuine Shadowgave, but something has been done to alter him."

"The desert is expanding by about six inches a day," you continue, "though we'd need longer-term observation to confirm whether that was constant or if it would slow as the circle grows bigger."

"Two hundred feet a year," Sir Ruprecht says. "So, what, four miles a century?"

"I'll make a note to warn Karak Vlag that a desert might knock on their door in the year thirty thousand," Snorri says wryly.

"I take it that means we're done here?" Sir Ruprecht asks.

"If that's definitely Morghur and those were definitely Beastmen, then that's all we need to know," Snorri says. "Karag Dum has fallen. Let the experts on Grudgelore argue over the exact degree."

"Lady Magister?" Sir Joerg says cautiously. "I've worked with Esbern and Seija long enough to know that mysteries like this are as attractive to Wizards as a hot dinner and a warm bed in winter, but every moment spent here is less food, more danger, and more exposure to fell energies. The Expedition has reached Karag Dum and has enough information to reach a conclusion about their fate. Our responsibility now is to return with that information."

You exhale. It seems you've run out of time. The rest of the Council are united in their desire to return to the Old World, and you don't have a strong argument against doing so to override them with. Just a long list of questions that you wish very much to answer.


Course of Action - you should vote for at least one option under this category, unless you have no preference between them.

[ ] Last minute
You will remain here long enough for a last-ditch effort to snatch a few answers, then rejoin the convoy.
[ ] Stay
You will remain here until you find answers.
[ ] Leave


Details - you may vote for as many options as you prefer under this category, even if you did not vote for the associated course of action.

[ ] LAST: Attempt to infiltrate Karag Dum
[ ] LAST: Attempt to scout the forest at the base of the Karak
[ ] LAST: Attempt to approach Morghur to see if he can be communicated with
[ ] LAST: Approach the Kul camp peacefully and attempt to discuss the Karak with them
[ ] LAST: Approach the Kvellige camp peacefully and attempt to discuss the Karak with them

[ ] STAY: Attempt to join the Kvellige camp
[ ] STAY: Attempt to join the Kul camp




- There will be a two hour moratorium.
- Staying alone is not really a viable option. This is the Chaos Wastes. Even Deathfang wouldn't come here solo, let alone set up camp here.
- If you have another course of action to put under the Last or Stay category, suggest them.
- Attempted infiltration will involve magic use, as without a fortified fall-back point the possibility of Morghur's antimagic field getting involved is still less dangerous than getting caught.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Leave

You sigh. "The Expedition has fulfilled its mission," you concede. "It's time to return home."

Some of the tension goes out of the room at your words. "I'm glad we're in accordance," Sir Joerg says. "Our attention must turn to our return trip, then." He unrolls a map and weighs down the corners with your steins.

Spoiler: Map

"Our path here worked, but we left a lot of trouble in our wake," Snorri says. "The Chaos Dwarves would have had time to collate reports about the steam-wagons and consider what it would take to set up an ambush, the Plotter-daemons are undoubtedly up to something, and the Iron Wolves would have had plenty of time to consider the wreckage we left behind and whether they consider themselves capable of taking us on, should we return. And not least of which..." He jabs a finger at the ascent between Zorn Uzkul and the Steppes. "Gotrek would have been able to give hard numbers, but my gut is telling me that we'll lose at least one steam-wagon to that corner."

"And even if we don't, the Iron Wolves would have to be imbeciles not to realize how perfect an ambush position it would be," Sir Ruprecht says, "since we have to either disembark and unload and then reembark and reload each one, or risk the crew and contents of each. I'd pit us against any Kurgan impromptu ambush with confidence, but I don't want to know what they might have come up with, with near a month to plot and plan and prepare."

"I was under the impression that the only other route was shelved for good reason," you say cautiously.

"Damn good reason, and one we can largely work around now that we know the terrain," Snorri says. "We go south to Dolgan land, load ourselves down to the gunwales with cows, then skirt the edge of the Wastes until we reach the mountains. That way we minimize time spent in the Chaos Wastes and in Kul territory, which the original route didn't."

"Okay, walk us through the entire route, then," you say.

"These mountains," he says, pointing to the northernmost spur of the World's Edge Mountains, north of Uzkulak. "We know there's navigable passes through them, and navigable by the original plans of the Expedition, before we had the fogs to ease our passage. There's also beasts that lurk them, but as far as our scouting revealed, no worse so than around the ascent."

"And the sea?" you prompt.

"The Frozen Sea, as well-named as it could possibly be. Apart from the Icebreaker-led convoys to and from Uzkulak, all there is to encounter is seals and ice crabs."

"It can hold our weight?" Sir Ruprecht asks dubiously.

"The Chaos Dwarves need to use fire sorcery and leashed daemons to weaken the ice enough that their dreadnoughts can break through it. Our steam-wagons won't even make it creak."

"Then through the Goromadny via Black Blood Pass, I take it?" Sir Joerg asks, and Snorri nods. "Controlled by the Baersonlings, but they are far from the worst of the Norscans. They send traders south as often as they do raiding parties. At the southern end of the pass is Fort Straghov, which tends to rise and fall with the seasons - it's a precarious position because it's only connected to Kislev proper by a chain of forts and Ungol villages, but it's also the first warning Kislev tends to get of invasion from the north, so they do their best to keep their grip on it. From there, Fort Kaminski and Fort Ostrosk along the Tobol, and overland via Iaryn and Dushyka to Praag."

"It's a more direct route, but one that is largely without roads," Sir Ruprecht says. "Under normal circumstances, the route we took would likely still be faster. With the fog-path, though... Dame Weber, your thoughts?"

You consider the map thoughtfully. It's the Rite of Way that could make the original route faster and possibly safer than the one the Expedition took here, and so your words here will probably tip the scales one way or the other. Known dangers versus a bevy of unknowns is an unenviable choice, but it's one that you're in a position to make.

[ ] Road of Skulls
Stick to the same route for the return trip that you took to get here.
[ ] Frozen Sea
Return via the route the Expedition was originally planning to take.
[ ] Demur
Avoid tipping the scales one way or the other, leaving the choice in the hands of Snorri, Joerg, and Ruprecht.


- There will be a one hour moratorium.
- The Road of Skulls route took four weeks. The Frozen Sea one seems like it would take two to three.
- I won't be in the thread as frequently as usual over the next two or three weeks, so if you have a question, ask the rest of the thread first. A lot of things have already been answered and there's usually somebody who can dig it up.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] The Frozen Sea

"I do not like the idea of trying to squeeze all five steam-wagons past that corner," you say, tapping the ascent on the map. "I think it would be best to take our chances with the original route." There's a series of nods in agreement to that, as you expected there would be. One known, implacable, and unavoidable danger can be more threatening than any number of unknown ones, and it seems that the others agree with you that it would be preferable for the Expedition to take its chances with the unknown and hopefully find only dangers that can be met with cannon and crossbow, and axe and sword.

"Right," Snorri says. "First leg is the return to relative normality, rather than this barren plain of ruins and giant mushrooms. We get the cows as bargained from the Dolgan, or we steal as many as we can find if they decide not to stick to the deal, then we head west, skirting between mountains and Chaos Wastes as best we can until we reach a navigable descent from the steppe plateau."

"Do we know what beasts we might encounter in the mountains?" Sir Joerg asks.

"Scouting was entirely by gyrocopter," Snorri replies, "so it was mostly limited to confirming that there were navigable routes to find. It could be beasts from the mountains we know, or from the Mountains of Mourn, or some combination of the two. Or something entirely different."

"We'll keep on guard, either way," Sir Ruprecht says, to further nods.

---

As the Expedition's morale is likely to be somewhat shaky from Borek's abandonment of it, the apparent loss of Karag Dum, and the lack of any solid answers, you decide your time is best spent getting them out of the Chaos Wastes and back to relative normality as soon as possible. A couple of days of Rite of Way-smoothed travel later, you reach the abrupt transition from waste to steppe as you emerge from Yusak lands into Dolgan. There seems to be a watcher on every hill, and you hope that's a sign that they're eagerly looking forward to their honestly-earned silver, rather than watching for any sign of weakness. If that's what they are looking for they apparently don't find it, as the first morning out of the Chaos Wastes sees you greeted by the Ghur Shaman and a massive herd of cattle.

"I trust you will accept cows in place of tea, Shadowed Shaman of the Mountain Ring Clans," he says, and you nod to him. He's quite different to the Amber Wizards you're used to, but then the Kurgan live much closer to nature than the citizens of Altdorf, so perhaps they see little need to distance themselves from the mannerisms of their people.

"We will be happy to, Untamed Shaman of the Dolgan Tribes," you say as you climb down from the Alriksson. Behind you the Winter Wolves are doing their best to sort out the davits and hoists to unload the silver - cumbersome, but preferable to showing a crew of Dwarves to the Dolgan and raising questions about whether you're really the Norscans they've assumed you are.

"How did the Blessed Lands receive you?" he asks politely.

"Our leader was accepted by the Dum, and we last saw him entering the forest."

"Truly?" the Shaman asks, his eyebrows raised. "A great honour for his Clan, and an admirable showing in the face of hardship." You raise an eyebrow at this, and he smiles. "The Iron Wolves are crowing to all that will listen how their Old One defeated a metal titan, and that its bones will arm their tribe for generations to come."

You scowl. "Vultures pretending to be eagles. The road from the Zorn Uzkul is all that deserves credit for that kill."

"We had thought as much, especially since you have returned intact. The Iron Wolves are the type to find the meekest lamb in a herd to vent their aggression upon, boasting all the while that they pave the way for their long-absent master." He smiles as the first of the silver reaches the ground. "Slaaksho Irnik will be well pleased. Much of this silver will become ornamentation that he is confident will be pleasing to Slaaneth. Our rewards will be grand. Slaakshami, Q'tlahs'itsu'aksho consorts, Q'qha'thashi'i mounts... who knows, perhaps even a favour from a Q'tlahsi'issho'akshami?" You conceal your wince at the terrible syllables of the Dark Tongue being spoken openly, and resolve not to mention this to the Dwarves.

"Do you know anything of the mountains to the west of here?" you ask casually as the Shaman examines a bar of the silver.

"You would know more than I from your earlier travels," he says with a shrug. "The only places where one can access them on horseback are in lands that have been controlled by the Kul since the last Great Crusade."

Well, it was worth a try. As the Dolgan load up their silver onto a wagon that was almost certainly taken from a merchant travelling along the Road of Skulls, you and the other Wizards get to work seeing to the cattle, as first Sleep and then Mockery of Death is cast upon each in turn. Though the spell is one you have known for quite some time and is far from the most complicated piece of magic you know, casting it so many times in a row remains chancy. Familiarity leads to repetition, repetition leads to inattention, inattention leads to miscasts. For the rest of the trip you can space it out enough that it shouldn't be a problem, but with the Dolgan delivering the entire herd at once there's nothing for it but to grit your teeth and hope for the best.

[Constant casting: Learning, 88+28=116.]
[Rolling]

You must admit that your attention did wander, but wandering attention is preferable to zoning out completely. You'd gone back to your promotion to Lady Magister, which is certainly a pleasant memory but also your formal introduction to the pocket dimension that the Grey College is entirely ensconced within, which also provides the mechanism for some of the more esoteric spells of Ulgu. Substance of Shadow is the one you know, and somewhere along the way of trying to mentally examine the spell itself for how it might link in to that border plane, some of the syllables of that spell slipped into Mockery of Death. And instead of exploding in your face as the spell had every right to do, the result was something more unusual.

"Um, Mathilde?" Max asks, passing his hand through the solid-looking cow.

"Paper," you say, and Max only hesitates for a second before fishing a notepad out of his pockets and passing it to you with a quill. With haste you jot down the shorthand for the syllabic jumble you'd inadvertently said before it drifts from your mind completely, and take a number of notes on the part where you'd inadvertently blended two syllables together in a way that didn't really translate to letters. "Okay, I think I know what happened there. Pass me the rope." Max does so, and you're able to loop it around the beast's torso without trouble. You hand the rope to Max, and he gives it an experimental tug and it remains in place, even as his hand once more passes through the cow's torso.

"That's an interesting effect," he says diplomatically.

"Still affected by gravity," you say thoughtfully, "and not dispelled by light. So not a straightforward blend of the two spells. And it doesn't appear to be suffocating. Max, can you feel its exhalations?" He waves his hand in front of the cow's nostrils, and nods. "So it's still able to interact with the air. Odd. And not terribly useful here and now. But in the future, perhaps." You jot down a few more notes, then return to the task at hand.

[Mastery obtained - Mockery of Substance: When affected by Mockery of Death, the subject is also intangible to anything except the caster and objects under the control of the caster. They are still affected by gravity, and will still require food and water. They are still able to breathe normally. The caster can end the intangibility at a touch without interrupting the main effect of the spell.]

---

The first few days of the next week will be spent skirting along the border of the mountains and the lands of the Kul, and then the rest of the week spent amongst those mountains descending to the Frozen Sea. It's not known what type of creatures of beings might call these mountains home, but the ground is likely to be unreliable as it would be the result of gravity and time rather than deliberate artifice. This is also the most natural time for you to fulfil your side of the bargain with the Ice Witches if you want to do it with Ljiljana's assistance - though if you're willing to do so completely solo or with only the assistance of Johann and Hubert, you could do it while the Expedition is crossing the ice, as the three of you are much more able to cover ground than the others.


The four with the most votes will be chosen.

Spend time getting to know...
[ ] Head Ranger Snorri Farstrider
[ ] Preceptor Joerg von Zavstra
[ ] Sir Ruprecht Wulfhart the Younger
[ ] Asarnil the Dragonlord
[ ] Deathfang
[ ] Ice Crone Ljiljana
[ ] Magister Egrimm van Horstmann
[ ] Citharus, Barbitus, and Timpania
[ ] Magister Michel Solmann
[ ] Journeyman Cyrston von Danling
[ ] Journeywoman Alexandra Kohler

Become involved with:
[ ] Ranging far ahead of the convoy
- With the Knights of Taal's Fury
[ ] Scouting near the convoy
- With the Winter Wolves

Other:
[ ] Use Rite of Way for the worst patches of rough terrain
[ ] Use Rite of Way for the moderately difficult ground
[ ] Use Rite of Way nearly constantly
- For these, vote cumulatively. For example, if you want to use two of Mathilde's four choices on it, vote for both the 'rough terrain' and 'moderately difficult ground' options.
[ ] Attempt to make contact with the Kul
- These are the most infamous of Kurgan tribes, who gave rise to Asavar Kul. They are said to live to the west of Karag Dum.
[ ] Attempt to make contact with the Iron Wolves
[ ] Attempt to steal the Chaos artefact
[ ] Explore these mountains for any exotic animals, plants, or phenomena

If Heist wins:
[ ] [HEIST] Alone
[ ] [HEIST] Ljiljana
[ ] [HEIST] Write in
At this point, anyone can join it. If left until next week, it will only be Mathilde, Hubert, and Johann that have the mobility to do so. You can vote for who should be on the heist without voting to go on the heist.



- There will be a one hour moratorium.
- I didn't give an option for what to do for the Karag Dum - Dolgan land stretch since they decided to play nice and it would have resulted in three very short updates in a row. The action you would have gotten for that stretch is available here instead.
- The end of this set of actions will see you at the edge of the Frozen Sea.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Use Rite of Way for the worst patches of rough terrain
[*] Use Rite of Way for the moderately difficult ground
[*] Attempt to steal the Chaos artefact
[*] Journeywoman Alexandra Kohler
[*][HEIST] Ljiljana

As the steam-wagons begin to make their winding way between the Chaos Wastes and the mountains, you and Ljiljana separate from it to perform the duty she has come all this way for: the theft of what the Ice Witches call the Za-Goblet, a filled chalice that mutates those that drink from it and, when emptied, shatters and vanishes to be rediscovered intact and refilled in another place and another time. The Ice Witches hope to take this potent tool of Chaos out of circulation permanently, and in doing so leave one less tool for the followers of the next Everchosen to arrive at Kislev's doorstep.

As you leave sight of the steam-wagons, Ljiljana walks a zig-zagging path through the steppe, stopping here and there to sniff the air or touch a stone or have a whispered conversation with a breeze. Then, with the suddenness and intent of a loosed arrow, she takes off in a straight line slightly west of north. She'd turned down your offer of a Shadowsteed but her pace is impressive for any person, let alone one of her advanced years, and as she strides the muted heat of a northern summer begins to fade away and a chill radiates out from her. You've heard that the Ice Witches have their power muted the further they go from Kislev, but evidently nobody has told her that, and storm clouds begin to gather overhead as you nudge your Shadowsteed to a trot to keep up with her.

"This land was our land until the Widow called," she says, apparently for your benefit as she does so in Reikspiel. "It is not beyond the Widow's reach, and it still remembers the Bear and the Sun and the Sky, who will answer the call of Their sister." Despite the clouds roiling overhead, the sun still shines brightly through, and somehow the pitiless glare of the sun and the biting chill of winter do nothing to cancel each other out. "By your Wind and your God, I would label you a sneak, but your reputation speaks of sword and gun. Does that reputation speak true?"

"To an extent," you say cautiously.

"Then let us remind the Kul why they celebrated when the Gospodar departed these lands." The snow beginning to fall does not seem to impede her. If anything, she seems to accelerate as the landscape turns white. You urge your Shadowsteed to a canter and then a gallop as you do your best to keep up with her, who never seems to walk faster than a determined stride even as the carpet of snow flows beneath her. If you'd known it was going to be this sort of adventure, you might have brought others along with you, but it's too late to do anything but curse the tight lips of the Ved'ma as the rising blizzard begins to howl. You're pretty sure you must have crossed into the Chaos Wastes by now, but all you see is a blanket of white as the power of the Widow stretches out to reclaim this land. Thunder rumbles overhead and you catch glimpses of hulking ursine figures through the snow keeping pace alongside you. Ljiljana has shed her coat and scarves along the way, but though her bared arms are thin and pale, the wiry muscles underneath give no impression of weakness as strange energies crackle along her fingers.

All you can do is mutter a prayer to your own God and do your best to withstand the simultaneous heat and cold as you ride alongside this manifestation of Kislev's wrath.

---

Slaakhamshy'y Yg'a'tedaar threw his head to and fro, ignoring the suddenly-falling snow and trying to taste the strange energy to the air. He was not one of the Tzeen'ksy that could feel and twist the God-Winds, but his elongated head had unlocked new senses when Slaaneth had gifted it to him. "Azyr'ksy!" he shrieked in anger, calling upon his Shaman in the only language he could still form the words of.

"The future is clouded," said the cringing man who claimed to see fate in the sky as he approached, and Yg'a'tedaar's crab-like claw snapped at the Shaman's head in irritation, though stopping just shy of crushing him. One does not destroy a Shaman lightly.

"Azyr'iakash?" he asked, and the Shaman shook his head. "Tzeen'iakash? Hysh'iakash? Ksy'akhshami!"

"This is nothing from the Blessed Realm, Slaakhamshy'y," the Shaman said, still shaking his head. "The sudden snow, the piercing sun. This is the work of southerners, it must be."

"Mnahn'akami?" Yg'a'tedaar asked, contempt and disbelief in his tone. "Mnahn'akami syha'hagl? Naflehye!"

Perhaps if he had used that opportunity to rally his followers to his side instead of scoffing at his Shaman, he may have been able to put up a defence and survive the day, and perhaps eventually been awarded the final syllable that would mark his ascension. But instead Slaakhamshy'y Yg'a'tedaar found himself looking down at the spears of ice that had punched through his armour and into his chest, and his final thought was that his patron would not smile upon such an inglorious and uninteresting death.

---

"Vdova, cześć, Kislev!" is Ljiljana's cry as the storm she has become the center of impacts and bowls over the palisade of the Kul settlement, and you guide your Shadowsteed to jump over the shattered wood and then dismiss it, landing lightly on your feet inside the camp. You pride yourself on your adaptability, so it's time to adapt. You reach out with your magical senses to try to read the terrain around you, even as your eyes and ears insist there's nothing but the white of snow and the howl of wind.

[Magesight: Learning, 95+28+10(Windsage)+10(Avatar)=143.]
[Read the battlefield: Martial, 13+23=36.]

With the Divine energies contrasting against the Dhar that stains everything this far north, the world becomes clear in an instant. But seeing doesn't always mean understanding, if there's anything to understand of the mess of Kul warriors scrambling to get away from the onslaught of snow and spectral bears and jagged shards of ice. But Ljiljana's unspoken plan comes into focus as you gaze around the chaos and recontextualize the task once more. This is still a heist. Stealth doesn't always mean being unnoticeable, it can mean being merely less noticeable than whatever else is going on. And here and now, that covers just about everything. So you stealthily march straight across the battlefield, stealthily cutting down those unfortunate enough to get in your path. You reason that whether it's on display in a temple or protected as the treasure of a Champion, the Za-Goblet would be towards the center of the camp, so that's the way you go, pausing at the edge of the swirling snow to call down a torrent of Ulgu to shroud yourself in.

[Spot check: Learning, 96+28+10(Windsage)=134.]
[Stealth: 56+28+20(Distracted)=104.]

After a short detour to bisect a Shaman attempting to call down Azyr, you weave your way through the crowd of warriors running to or from the blizzard towards a hideous stain of Dhar that itches at your eyes and parches your throat even at this distance. You beeline towards the shockingly large silk tent that you have to squint through the Dhar-taint to even make out and, checking that your presence has still gone unnoticed, duck through the ribbons that cover the entrance, only to stop abruptly as an overpowering wall of scent overwhelms you.

As your senses struggle to make sense of the overwhelming smell, your eyes adjust to the candles inside the tent and you begin to make out a figure sprawled on the bed of pillows before you. Your Magesight immediately identifies horns and a claw and an unmistakable aura and screams Daemonette, but under your mundane eyes the figure shifts from a deeply tanned, battle-scarred, and severely underdressed maiden to a much more recognizable and equally underdressed figure, every detail exactly as you remember it.

"You've come to rescue me," breathes what your eyes insist is Panoramia.

[Bewitchment: Piety vs Intrigue, 71+26+20(Windsage)=117 vs 14+25+20(Glamour)+10(Musk)-10(Surprise)=59.]

"Impersonating a Wizard is a capital offence." The Daemonette just has time to look startled before your bullet sends Daemonic ichor splashing across the pillows, and you shake your head as your senses immediately begin to clear - except for your hearing, which will be ringing from the gunshot for a while. Perhaps a bullet was an unwise choice, but in the moment you thought it preferable to getting closer or trying to wield magic in a Daemon's presence. You head right for a pile of chests and crates and push hurriedly through them, spilling precious metals and ornamented weapons across the silk floor until you find the case that glows with malign light, and before you realize what your fingers are doing you've opened the clasps and thrown the lid open.

[Bewitchment again: Piety, 15+26+20(Windsage)-10(Again)=51.]

You stare at the deep red liquid that bubbles softly within the embrace of the chalice, suddenly thirstier than you've ever been in your life. It seems to whisper to you, speaking of the gradual transformation that began twenty-five years ago when you first channelled Ulgu into your soul, and how much it could accelerate your ascension. If your Magesight wasn't quite so potent, if your soul wasn't already claimed, you might already be drinking. As it is you stand transfixed, torn between two equally overpowering urges: to embrace and to reject the Chaos Gods from whom your magic ultimately flowed.

[Interrupt: Martial, 30+23-20(Surprise)=33 vs 35+15-20(Surprise)=30.]

You'd owe a debt of gratitude to the Kurgan that burst into the tent at that moment for breaking your fixation on the liquid if they hadn't immediately drawn blades and attempted to kill you. Thankfully Branulhune is never further than a thought away, and it appears in midair to block the first blade as the second shot from your revolver sends the other two reeling back, trying to avoid it.

[Round two: Martial, 72+23=95 vs 98+15=113.]

You take one step back, then another, as Branulhune has to flit from place to place to fend off three different blades trying to find a way into your guts. The Kurgan are shouting either warcries or calls for help as they push forward, and you're very grateful for the tumult Ljiljana's causing outside that seems to prevent anyone else from taking heed and joining the three. But three would seem to be plenty, as part of the force of a few blows slipping through makes it through your Aethyric Armour, leaving aches that are vastly preferable to stab wounds but still an unwelcome distraction when fighting for your life.

[Round three: Martial, 69+23=92 vs 15+15=30.]

One opening is all you need, and you get it when one of them slips on Daemonic ichor and clutches at a second as he fights to retain balance. For one crucial moment, the three-on-one becomes a very lopsided duel as Branulhune shatters the sword of the third Kurgan and goes on bite deep into his torso. The second takes a bullet to the chest as he tries to shrug off the grasping of his fellow, and the one who originally slipped goes sprawling as he tries to duck under Branulhune, and your downward thrust pins him to the silken floor before disappearing once more. You exhale, close the case, and shroud yourself in invisibility once more as you slip out of the tent and back into the tumult.

[Ljiljana vs everybody: Learning vs Martial, 19+???+???(Widow?)+???(Tor?)+???(Dazh?)+???(Ursun?)=??? vs 66+20=86.]

Outside the Kul have rallied, and their forces are forming up and delving into the blizzard to seek the mortal focus of the power at work here. You hesitate as you double-check the clasps on the case and secure it to your person, your eyes flicking over the hundreds of Kul and more charging to the assistance. You're not fully able to gauge the balance of power here, but it seems to be tilting against Ljiljana. She seemed quite ready to die to see the Za-Goblet denied to the forces of Chaos, so she'd likely consider it a win if you took the goblet back to the Expedition and turned it over to the other Ice Witches upon your return to Kislev. But on the other hand, perhaps that need not be how her story - and her life - ends. Given the opportunity to gird yourself with the many potent magics you know, you could be capable of tilting the battle single-handedly, routing the forces of Chaos as a second magical maelstrom is unleashed upon them. Or perhaps that is the voice of hubris, and you should make sure Ljiljana's sacrifice is meaningful by focusing on the fulfilment of her mission.

[ ] Fight
[ ] Retreat


- There will be a one hour moratorium.
- Part of this update was originally posted here.
- Dark Tongue has only a handful of canon words, so I'm using Lovecraft's Cthuvian (which it seems to be partially based on) to fill in the gaps. Kislevarin is likewise fairly scarce, so I pick words from various Slavic languages based on whatever sounds best to my monoglottic ear. In general if I don't give a translation in the text, it's because the gist of what's being said is made clear by context.
- With apologies to Sandy Mitchell.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally

[*] Fight

Scanning the battlefield, you resolve to add your own influence to it. But as your fresh bruises remind you, even if Branulhune is perpetually ready, you aren't. You reholster your revolver, draw your staff from your back scabbard, and take a moment to cast Aethyric Armour and feel the slight ache of exertion lift from your muscles. More concentration and a handful of whispered syllables sees the billowing gas of your form of Universal Confusion start to pour from you, and Dread Aspect has your shadow take form around you as a supernaturally terrifying aura. Then you interweave Smoke and Mirrors into a casting of Shadow Knives aimed at the nearest Kul, and you disappear from where you stand with a swirl of fog.

[Join the melee: Martial, 70+23=93.]

You appear mid-swing next to a Kul with a single brass horn emerging from his forehead, and take his head off his shoulders before anyone has time to react. By the time the men he was rallying are able to turn their weapons on you, the murderous tendrils of your shadow and the bewildering wisps of fog emanating from you have reached them, and you're able to cut through several more before they begin to scatter. With another burst of knives into the back of the nearest, you're gone.

Another knot of resistance has formed around a shield-wall at the border of the tempest, but the central warrior being impaled by Branulhune has the others recoil first from him, then from the figure of terror doing the impaling. As Ulgu gives their greatest terrors form in your swirling silhouette, they drop their weapons and flee into the storm, and moments later a bolt of lightning obliterates them.

A Kul wielding some sort of pike that sparks and shimmers to your Magesight is jabbing at a spectral bear, interrupting its feeding upon the fallen. It gives a silent roar and flinches away, but before the pike can find purchase in flesh or magic or wind given shape or whatever it is, you're there to slice first through the haft, then through their wrists. Then you disappear again, this time with the teleportation cantrip woven into a recast of Dread Aspect.

A wooden cage contains a misshapen beast of mouths and limbs that must be a Chaos Spawn. You cut down the Kul trying to unleash it, and then cut open the cage, and then slice the Spawn into halves, then quarters, then keep cutting until it stops trying to bite you. It takes many more cuts than it should.

It takes you almost too long to spot the gathering Ulgu, as at first you mistake it for a place you'd already visited. By the time you appear next to the Shaman, there's already a wailing adding to the din of the storm as reality begins to tear open and suck the air into the space between the physical and the Aethyr. It implodes in a scatter of arcing magical energies as the Shaman is cut down, and you flinch back and swear as the spilled blood begins to boil - more by reflex than out of any real danger, as your Belt protects you from extreme heat. You take a moment to dismiss Branulhune so the blood can fall from the blade, then resummon it as you scan the chaos for the next place to intervene.

[Ljiljana vs Kul: Learning vs Martial, 74+???+???(Widow?)+???(Tor?)+???(Dazh?)+???(Ursun?)+30(Mathilde)=??? vs 99+20-10(Losses)=109.]

Despite the hummock of snow that marks the boundary of Ljiljana's storm growing higher with buried bodies, the Kurgan keep coming. Perhaps that's only to be expected, as to the most devout of the Kurgan - which, by all accounts, would be the Kul - this would be the very definition of a holy war. To allow the Gods of the Gospodar to triumph over them could lose them the favour of their Gods, and this far into the Chaos Wastes that could be just as much of a death sentence as charging into the blizzard.

[Continued intervention: Martial, 23+23=46.]

Unfortunately the Kul seem to be catching on to your methods, as each teleportation starts to be met with shouted warnings as the most strong-willed push through the aura of confusion to meet Branulhune with their own blades. You and your shadow still reap a bloody harvest but it is now a battle, rather than a slaughter. You don't like fair fights so you switch from Shadow Knives to Melkoth's Mystifying Miasma for weaving your teleportation cantrips into, making sure that wherever you appear there is also a field of jittering time, sending even the most skilled warriors off-balance as their well-trained reactions encounter the concept of time as a variable. Blades lifting to parry a swing moving a hair too fast or too slow, feet stumbling as one moves slightly faster than the other, sights and sounds taking a fraction longer to arrive and shaving just enough time from their responses to make all the difference.

You feel the change in the energy of the battlefield before what has heralded it comes into sight, as the Winds are battered backwards by an invisible and overwhelming force and magic begins to answer your call a little more hesitantly. A hulking figure barges through the crowd, his skin as brass as the spiked collar fixed to his neck, his arms lacking hands entirely, instead being fused directly to the haft of an enormous steel axe. He turns his gaze to you, hatred shimmering in his eyes, then to the blizzard. Enemy spellcasters or foreign Gods, which does a Champion of Khorne hate more?

[Rolling...]

Evidently, you.

He charges straight in your direction, barging aside any foolish enough to get in his way as you ready your blade to meet the charge. You can't run from this foe without risking the entire battle, as if he meets the storm and brings his unholy patron into direct conflict with the Gods of Kislev, that could end it all. You can't turn spells directly on him either, not with any confidence, as the collar around his neck is a physical manifestation of the Blood God's hatred for magic. But that doesn't mean you're out of options entirely. So as the Champion gathers speed, you refresh the spells surrounding you and then ready another.

[???: ???, 51+10(Making Amends)-10(Not Their Idiom)=51 vs 50+10(Hatred)-10(Split Attention)=50.]
[Mathilde vs Khornate Champion: Martial, 58+23+20(Spells)=101 vs 33+30+20(Charge)=83.]

A second before the Champion reaches you you vanish from vision, but they're either too lost to fury or too canny to think you've teleported and swing their axe in a great arc you're barely able to sidestep out of the way of. You swing Branulhune in an arc in return, and for the very first time since you received it, the blade judders in your hand as the Runically-enhanced force of the swing is arrested by the flesh it has only sunken partially into. You yank it free as the Champion roars in outrage, backpedalling from his next swing.

[???: ???, 32+10(Making Amends)+10(Upper Hand)-10(Not Their Idiom)=42 vs 69+10(Hatred)-10(Split Attention)=69.]
[Mathilde vs Khornate Champion 2: 10+23=33 vs 36+30-10(Wounded)=56.]

But not fast enough, as the Champion's muscles swell with unnatural vigour as his swing meets your invisible stomach, causing you to cough and retch as your Aethyric Amour absorbs enough to turn what would have been a bisecting into an extremely painful blow to the gut. You look to the Champion's stomach for the response from your Belt, but instead the collar glows red and blood begins to seep down the Champion's neck, the influence of Khorne somehow denying the Rune of Rancour any purchase on His Champion. You backpedal further, looking for any opening and painfully aware that the impact of the axe has turned you visible once more. The air crackles with energy you can't spare the attention to examine and you can taste blood and bile that you swallow down. You let the staff fall from your fingers, trusting it to be sturdy enough to still be intact should you survive long enough to find it, and draw a revolver from its holster. It probably won't make a dent, but it might prove enough of a distraction...

[???: 48+10(Making Amends)-10(Not Their Idiom)=48 vs 75+10(Hatred)-10(Split Attention)=75.]
[Mathilde vs Khornate Champion 3: 38+23-10(Wounded)=51 vs 64+30-10(Wounded)=84.]

Apparently not, as the Champion ignores the bullets slamming into its torso in favour of swinging his axe once more, meeting Branulhune halfway and sending an agonizing jolt through your arm as the two forces arrest each other. Is the Champion swinging with as much force as Kragg's Rune imparts on Branulhune? Surely not, or it would have cut straight through your Aethyric Armour without effort. It must be the aura of the Blood God dulling it, imposing brutal reality where strength is all that matters, not ephemeral energies and cunning artifice. And that is a battlefield that a Champion of Khorne is much more at home in than you are, as it recovers from the impact much faster than you do and swings the pommel of the axe into you, sending you sprawling.

[???: 86+10(Making Amends)-10(Not Their Idiom)=86 vs 85+10(Hatred)-10(Split Attention)=85.]
[Mathilde vs Khornate Champion 4: 77+23-20(Heavily Wounded)=80 vs 70+30-10(Wounded)=90.]

It's been quite some time since you hurt this much, but you pull yourself to your feet once more nonetheless, meeting the gaze of the Champion as he approaches. He's not going to give you time for the Seed to restore you, and you don't trust it this close to the aura of his patron either. As you see his muscles bulge for another swing and ready Branulhune to try to meet it, you feel a strange sense of serenity. All you can do is the best you can...

[Meanwhile, Ljiljana vs Kul 2: Learning vs Martial, 95+???+???(Widow?)+???(Tor?)+???(Dazh?)+???(Ursun?)+???(Ranald)=??? vs 2+20-30(Losses)=-8.]

...and hope you bought enough time.

To his credit, the Champion of Khorne is more aware than you of events outside of your duel, and whirls to meet the oncoming figure. But it is not nearly enough. The axe shatters on skin crackling with Divine energies, and a wiry arm shoots out to grasp the Champion by the collar, lifting him off his feet as tendrils of frost engulf the bronze.

"The disciple of Our kin is not yours to break," says Someone else with Ljiljana's mouth. "We are the inheritors of this world, and We will brook no interlopers." There's a creak and then a crack as the frozen metal gives way, and shards of bronze rain down as the collar shatters and the Champion falls free. In an instant the overbearing energies filling Ljiljana grow even stronger, and the Champion swings at Ljiljana with the ruined remains of his limbs as the blizzard engulfs him. When it recedes, he is frozen in place, his shattered axe and collar bearing testament to the power of Winter.

Silence falls upon the camp, and you take a moment to run your eyes over the utter ruin where an encampment once stood. Bodies litter the ground, some frozen, some mauled, some burned, and some apparently untouched but just as dead, and there's not a living Kurgan in sight. "Pizdets," Ljiljana says in her own voice, flexing her hands. "Zhizn' ebet meya, could have put a blade in, but no, had to use my fingers to break metal. Blyat, ja zaebalas." She turns her gaze to you, and to the blood dripping from your mouth. "Will you live?"

With a thought, you nudge the Seed to do its work. "I'll be fine in a moment," you say. "How about you?"

She looks down at herself, and the many rips in her clothing with unmarred flesh underneath. "Yha, did not quite reach the handle. You did well, tovaritch. Za-Nekulturny would have been bothersome." She exhales as she looks around the ruined encampment. "Downside of battle without rota, nobody to make carry the loot. Can your ghost-horse carry?"

"Just a person, and whatever they can carry."

"The cat weeps. You got Za-Goblet?" You nod, frown, check it's still there, then nod again and hand it over. "Good. Will fill pockets with silver. You should too."

You exhale again and look over the ruins, where the first of the vultures and ravens are already descending. Silver is never unwelcome, but you hope you can find something a little more exotic for your troubles.


The two with the most votes will be chosen.

[ ] Silver
Coins of every kind and hacksilver of unknown provenance. You should be able to carry a few hundred crowns' worth.
[ ] Jewels
Possibly more valuable than silver. Possibly just polished glass.
[ ] Magic Weapons
Some of the magical weapons do not bear the taint of Dhar, though you don't know who made them or what they do. They could be very carefully collected for future study.
[ ] Scrolls
In runes that look slightly similar to Queekish and you assume are Dark Tongue. There's no good excuse under the Articles for not throwing them in the fire immediately, but the same could be said for some of your other reading materials.
[ ] Shrine
An icon that appears to be dedicated to the moon you know as Mannslieb. The Kurgan worshipping the Chaos Gods and the Winds is easy to understand, the sun and the moons, not so much. You can feel some sort of Divine energy at work here, but can't say much more than that unless you're able to get it somewhere quiet for further study.
[ ] Silks
Definitely not the ones that the Daemonette was lounging across. Not quite spider-silk, but at least you'll beat Gretel to silk sheets.
[ ] Khorne-Brass
The metal of a Chaos God, shattered by the power of the Gods of Kislev. Even more unforgivable than the scrolls, should it be found on your person. But perhaps even more educational.


- There will be a one hour moratorium.
- Ranald vs Khorne rolls: 1st round, Ranald won and tried to use that victory to get an upper hand in future rolls. Rounds 2 and 3, Khorne won and used the opportunity to buff his champion, including the antimagic effect. Round 4, Ranald won and made sure that Ljiljana (who was on her way anyway) intervened before the Champion could finish you off.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Shrine
[*] Magic Weapons

Unfinished business:
[*] Use Rite of Way for the worst patches of rough terrain
[*] Use Rite of Way for the moderately difficult ground
[*] Journeywoman Alexandra Kohler

After a bit of thought, you collect up the magical weapons, wrapping their business ends with leather and silk to keep them from disagreeing with each other, and use some ropes to fashion the centrepiece of a shrine to the moon you know as Mannslieb into something like a very awkward backpack. As promised Ljiljana returns with her pockets bulging with precious metals, and you waste no time in summoning Shadowsteeds for the two of you and putting some distance between you and the ruined encampment. The pace of the Shadowsteed makes conversation difficult for Ljiljana and you give up on your attempts to winkle information out of her after you get nothing but Gospodarinyi expletives. It doesn't take too long for you to meet up with the Expedition once more, and without a word the two of you present a united front of aloof, mystical smugness to questions about the strange and violent storm that had dominated the horizon for much of the day.

---

There's no sign of any pursuers, so in the coming days you turn your attention to the journey ahead. The path through these unnamed mountains is a rough one, as the path taken has seen no sculptor but time and gravity. Though the Alriksson has been the head of the convoy since the beginning, that is put aside here to rotate the steam-wagons in and out of the lead position to evenly distribute the wear and tear of having to carve a path through stone and rubble, the rams at the front of each becoming dented and chipped as the days wear on. Rite of Way helps to an extent, but it's here you encounter a major limitation of the spell: it actually reduces traction when going down a severe slope, as rough surfaces become smooth and brake-locked wheels slide right over the magically-created surfaces, just as the spell was intended to do. The days become a blur of stopping and starting the spell when appropriate, and grumbling amongst the Expedition frequently returns to the idea that Gotrek would have ideas for how to better handle the terrain if he was still with the Expedition.

[Sliding down mountains: 28-10(no Gotrek)=18.]
[Rite of Way: 18.]
[Rolling for steam-wagon...]

Unfortunately, when there's one spell trying to smooth the way for five fairly spread-out steam-wagons at once, there's going to be situations where what helps most will hinder others, and that appears to be what happens about two thirds of the way through the mountains: the Kriestov, currently fourth in the convoy, loses traction and begins to slide down the slope, accelerating as it dislodges stones beneath it that join it in a growing rockslide. Thankfully this time there isn't a terrible drop to swallow it, but when it leaves the relatively smooth area scouted out by the Knights and into uneven scree and hardy mountain trees, its momentum eventually fails it as the wheels on one side roll up a hillock and the wheels on the other buckle, and it ponderously and noisily topples over, turning the trees unlucky enough to be beneath it into splinters.

Being the steam-wagon called home by the Winter Wolves, there's only Dwarves aboard during most of the day and they're hardy enough to emerge swearing and grumbling within minutes, fretting more over the steam-wagon than their own injuries. Their concerns are quickly vindicated: with axles bent, driveshafts twisted and pipes torn free, there's no hope of getting the steam-wagon mobile again in anything less than weeks, more likely months, and there's nothing for it but to transfer everything useful to the other steam-wagons, destroy everything that can't be allowed to fall into enemy hands, and keep on moving. The cows that survived the toppling fill the gaps opened up atop the other steam-wagons by the Expeditions' appetites over the past two weeks, and the ones that didn't fill the bellies of the wolves and Demigryphs.

Still preferable to facing the crevasse opened up by the Urmskaladrak, you conclude as the toppled Kriestov disappears behind you.

---

"Journeywoman Kohler," you say as you knock on the open door of her cramped cabin. "May I have a word?"

"Certainly, Lady Magister," she responds, dogearing the book she's reading from and turning to you. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," you say, sitting atop her bed, the only available flat surface. "I thought I'd check in with you after the events so far, see how you're doing with all of it."

"Much of it wasn't what I expected," she admits with a shrug. "I thought that we'd be fighting for every league, but our speed and show of strength seems to have gotten us most of the way without too much trouble from the locals. I suppose we're not giving them enough time to work up their courage."

"Came for the fight and got mysteries instead?" you ask.

She shrugs again. "Wouldn't put it that way, as it's not much of a mystery. They made a deal with forces they shouldn't have, and now they're just one more drop of Chaos in a sea of it. Still, at least now the Dwarves know. And it's not like the trip was entirely wasted, thanks to Karak Vlag."

"That is likely to be what is focused on when we get back," you say with a nod. "And it means we did get at least one proper battle out of the journey. How do you feel about your showing?" Truth be told, you'd missed whatever contribution she'd made in all that was happening, so you'd deliberately phrased the question to fit however she feels she did.

She sighs. "I think I prefer it more, well, intimate. Throwing fire from behind fortifications into a mass of enemies wasn't that much different to practicing back at the College once I shook off the whispers."

You wonder if that's a true statement of preference, or just a justification for what she might be seeing as a poor showing. "Everyone has their niche. The major battles might be what they write songs about, but there's skirmishes every day somewhere in the Empire. And your College should be able to match you up with an appropriate force if you decide to go that route, the Bright Order has good relations with most of the Empire's armies. A letter of recommendation from the Dwarves would get you in the door, and from there you could either build a relationship with a specific Division or Regiment, or go to wherever the hotspots are and lend your services as needed."

She nods. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Lady Magister."

You take a moment to consider her. More than any of the others, Alexandra Kohler might be the Wizard least affected by her journey through the Wastes, and after a few years might see this as one mediocre battle, one notable accomplishment, and a lot of dull travel. You wonder if that makes her steadfast, or lucky, or just incurious. Or it might just be that you're too different to really connect and get much of a read on her. A charcoal burner much of her life, and a Bright Wizard now - it would be difficult to think of an upbringing more different than your own.

Still, even though you're unlikely to come away from this considering her anything more than an acquaintance, you got the job done. The Bright College entrusted this Wizard to you, and unless the final stretch goes badly, you'll be returning her intact and with a new notch on her belt. That's what matters.

"Did you get a chance to offer your services to the Engineers?" you ask, pausing on your way out the door as you recall mentioning that possibility to her at your first meeting.

"With Inextinguishable Flame, yes, for a while. Head Engineer Gurnisson was studying its effects on the Urmskaladrak. But after it was lost, the other Engineers don't want to take a chance with it."

"Ah," you say, a little disappointed. "I suppose that's not unexpected. Dwarves tend to be wary about changes to their designs in general, and around magic in particular."

---

What wildlife there is that calls these mountains home seems to have no desire to approach the rumbling chorus of engines, and if it were not for a handful of reports from the Knights of Taal's Fury of wary Sabretusks deciding against conflict with packs of Demigryphs, you'd be left with the impression that there was no life in these mountains but hardy trees. Perhaps that's evidence that these mountains are more relations of the Mountains of Mourn than the World's Edge Mountains, or perhaps it's an isolated population that's made itself at home far from its native range - it's impossible to say one way or the other without a proper study. Whatever the case, they aren't making a nuisance of themselves, so for the Expedition's purposes they can be discounted entirely.

As the convoy finally reaches sea level, you relax your grip on Ulgu and run your eyes over the endless expanse of blues and whites. You'd expected something as flat as a frozen pond in a Stirland winter, but the sea here seems to have been frozen between one instant and the next in the midst of a roiling storm, with vast, smooth mountains and valleys of frozen waves giving the surface texture where you expected none. A relentless biting wind blows from the north, mirroring the Winds blowing far overhead, and the snow piling in the low points seem like they'll give the steam-wagons some traction as they weave their way through the unmoving waves. Merciless terrain to those that don't bring their heat with them, but to the Expedition, it will hopefully prove a nice, quiet interlude before the final sprint through Norsca.


The four with the most votes will be chosen.

Spend time getting to know...
[ ] Head Ranger Snorri Farstrider
[ ] Preceptor Joerg von Zavstra
[ ] Sir Ruprecht Wulfhart the Younger
[ ] Asarnil the Dragonlord
[ ] Deathfang
[ ] Ice Crone Ljiljana
[ ] Magister Egrimm van Horstmann
[ ] Citharus, Barbitus, and Timpania
[ ] Magister Michel Solmann
[ ] Journeyman Cyrston von Danling
[ ] Journeywoman Alexandra Kohler

Become involved with:
[ ] Ranging far ahead of the convoy
- With the Knights of Taal's Fury
[ ] Scouting near the convoy
- With the Winter Wolves

Other:
[ ] Be ready to use Rite of Way should it prove necessary
[ ] Attempt to make contact with the Baersonlings
- The Norscan tribe that calls the area you'll soon be travelling through home. They are known for their bravery and their golden hair.
[ ] Study the seals and ice crabs that call this ice home
- With Esbern and Seija
[ ] Attempt to locate and observe an icebreaker-led convoy from Uzkulak



- There will be a one hour moratorium.
- The end of this set of actions will see you at the edge of Baersonling territory in Norsca, with about one week remaining until you reach Kislev.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Ice Crone Ljiljana
[*] Be ready to use Rite of Way should it prove necessary
[*] Head Ranger Snorri Farstrider
[*] Magister Egrimm van Horstmann

As the steam-wagons grind their way across the frozen landscape, everyone who ventures out from the warmth radiating from the boilers is wrapped in the winter gear that has been mostly lying unneeded in the cargo holds. The only exception is Ljiljana, who has erected a hammock atop the Magnus with one end tied to the funnel and the other to the fore cannon. The display reinforces your suspicion that Wizards are Wizards wherever they come from, and an affinity to the ephemeral energies of the world comes with an overwhelming desire to show off. It may have somewhat backfired as the concerned Knights have been emerging every so often to check that she hasn't succumbed to the cold despite her insistence that she's as comfortable as they would be on a Tilean beach, but then again, perhaps she's not entirely displeased by being doted over by large young muscular woodsmen, especially since it gives her the opportunity to get them to fetch snacks and drinks for her basking.

"You have questions," she says as you approach. "Tch. Imperinyi zabloudit-ved'ma always have questions. Lost as children in a blizzard."

"'Nothing in this life or the next is free,'" you quote, "'and whilst I am willing to trust in my own abilities and limitations, and accept any errors I make while weaving my spells, I do not wish to trust the continued benevolence of a deity whose need for my faith and dedication might far outweigh my own need for His or Her aid.'"

"Pretty words," she says after a moment of thought. "Your Volans, yha?"

"Yes."

She opens her eyes and looks at you. "But you do not follow his advice, do you? Was not just you staring down Karneth, was it? If child in blizzard emerges with a new friend, they are one to watch. Even if yours is not quite so respectable as a bear or wolf or owl."

"Do you think Gods are necessary partners for wielding magic?"

She snorts. "Pointless to go without. A bachór feeding from a boyar's garbage is just as bound as those sworn to his service."

"I suppose that makes sense, if that's how you see the Winds. You think they won't always be a constant?"

"I think it is foolish to assume they will be. If our Gods abandon us, we will know why. If your Winds stop blowing, will you?"

You consider that. "I'd like to think we could figure it out," you eventually say, "but I'll grant you they might not be considerate enough to give warnings."

"Yha. The source of our power is never shy with anger, and then can be, shtuka, przebłagać... honoured and made pleased again. Can the Winds? Can Ulgu?"

You nod, silently conceding the point. It's a similar point to the comparison Cython had made between Gods and Winds, but approached from the other direction. However similar the two might be, as far as you know there's no way to propitiate a Wind. Does that make Gods preferable?

Then again, Winds are remarkably free of baggage, too. "You said that Ranald had wronged the Widow in some way," you probe.

"And now he seems to be making amends. You do not know the tale?" You shake your head. "The short of it is that the Widow and Her siblings were once much more than four, before Salyak had your Ranald interfere." She sighs, and closes her eyes again. "The details are ugly, and not to be shared with those outside Their service. In the aftermath They found us, the Gospodar. So perhaps it was for the best. But amends are still required."

You frown, considering that. "I thought Salyak was quite well established in Kislev."

"Salyak is easier to forgive," she says with a snort.

You make several mental notes with the intention to cross-reference this with everything you can get your hands on later, and by the time you're done with that, Ljiljana has begun to snore. You smile and shake your head before retreating from the chill of the northern winds.

---

You find Snorri in his quarters, poring over an assortment of maps. "Loremaster," he says, not looking up.

"Any insight on our route to be found there?"

"Not any time soon," he says with a snort. "Who'd map this? Land cartographers just draw the outline of the sea and call it a day, and the ocean-going ones can't exactly sail or steam their way here. No, I'm looking at the last leg of our route before we hit Kislev."

You sit alongside him and study the map. "Where are we coming ashore?"

He points at an inlet. "Here, this fjord will take us straight into Black Blood Pass. There's apparently a Baersonling village there, but there's no going around them - it's thick woods on one side and a river on the other. Southwest through the pass, past..." he squints at the map, "I'm pretty sure that says 'sausage lake', and then to Fort Straghov at the other end of the Pass."

"Any interesting landmarks nearby?"

He points at an unmarked patch of mountains. "I've heard that the source of one of the feeder rivers to this Sausage Lake is at a Norse Dwarf settlement, Kraka Ravnvake. Couldn't tell you which one. There's been a few Expeditions to try to find it, and none have found anything but collapsed tunnels. There's a major Skaven stronghold nearby too, though I can't recommend giving it a visit. Apart from that, just mountains and Norscans as far as the eye can see."

You nod. "And after Black Blood Pass?"

"Two weeks to Praag, which should be uneventful, as we'd be traveling alongside the Tobol which marks the edge of Troll Country and Kislev built a chain of forts along it after the Great War - used to be the furthest settlement north was Zioshenk, which is another week south of Fort Straghov. East from Fort Ostrosk to the North Lynsk, then follow it south to Praag, and from there the Expedition dissolves. Knights travel back to Talabecland, Winter Wolves to Ulrikadrin, steam-wagons to Karak Kadrin, and my Rangers back home to High Pass. Get to work on trying to convince Karak Vlag they're back in reality, I suppose. Make sure nothing tries to move into the upper levels before they retake them."

"You think Clan Redbeard will join Karak Vlag?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps, in time. Our fate will be interwoven with theirs for the foreseeable future either way. Even if we remain part of Karak Kadrin, our task at High Pass won't be properly completed until guarding it can be turned over to Karak Vlag once more."

You nod, making a mental note. Gotri had mentioned the possibility of recruiting Snorri for Clan Huzkul, but it looks like he's not going any further south than Praag for the foreseeable future, as he considers himself dutybound to Karak Vlag one way or the other. "So we're almost done," you say.

He nods firmly. "I'll be glad to put this behind me and get my legs under me again. Karak Vlag might have made it all worthwhile, but everything after that was a disaster. The best we can say is that now we don't need to wonder any more, and now there'll be no more Borek trying to convince anyone that will listen to spend lives on discovering the fate of Karag Dum."

You nod, and let silence take over for a while as you try to think of the best way to phrase the next question. "Will Karak Kadrin take responsibility for contacting Gotrek's widow?" you finally say.

"They should," Snorri says darkly, "but I wouldn't trust them to do the job properly. I'll be sending a few letters with the Expedition, I know a few Dwarves there I trust to deliver the news suitably, and offer support to them."

"Karak Eight Peaks was going to try to recruit Gotrek after the Expedition," you say after a moment's thought. "The offer still stands for his widow and daughter, if they'd like."

Snorri looks surprised, then thoughtful. "The new Engineers Clan?" he asks, and you nod. "I was going to offer the same from Clan Redbeard after I badgered the Elders into letting me. I'll give her both offers, though I've a feeling she'll continue to go her own way. She has an independent streak a mile wide, same as Gotrek."

---

You stare out at the seemingly endless ice, trying to remember to keep your eyes slitted to keep from going snowblind. So far the steam-wagons seem to be handling the snow-covered ice as well as could be hoped, thanks to the route the Knights determine at the end of each day that will take the Expedition through the smoothest gullies and keep it from bare ice exposed to the constant wind. You've lent magical assistance here and there, but so far it doesn't feel like you've made significant difference in the Expedition's speed, just shaved off a few minutes on the rougher patches.

"Lady Magister," Egrimm says as he comes alongside you, arms hugged to his torso against the chill of the air. "You wanted to talk to me?"

You glance around the deck, which has been bereft of other souls for hours. "Now is probably the best time," you say. "I wanted to check in with you about your Light Wizards."

He nods. "I thought you might. Barbitus specifically, right?"

"He seemed normal enough to me when we studied the Windfall, but..."

"But since then we've ventured into the Chaos Wastes, where Dhar lies thick on the ground and we all come out a bit more tainted than when we entered," he says with a nod. "I'm going to write a very strongly worded refutation to the 'Chaos Wastes is a relative term' theory as soon as I get back to Altdorf. It couldn't have been any more clearly demarcated if it had a checkpoint." He shakes his head and rubs his arms. "Barbitus. He's sleeping and eating better, but it's hard to say with any certainty if that's necessarily a good thing. He might be more at peace because he's thrown off the influence of Chaos..."

"Or he might be more at peace because he's accepted it," you finish, and Egrimm nods grimly. "How do you want to handle it?"

"I'm still torn," he admits. "If he's tainted, he should be executed - for his own good, as if the tendrils are not yet too deep, he might still go on to a peaceful rest. If he's not, he should be allowed to continue with his Journeying and some day become our peer. But I can't say for sure one way or the other, not with any confidence, and there's no way to get hard answers without tainting his future career if he is innocent. Demotion to Apprentice or handing him over to the Magisters Vigilant might prevent a future Black Magister, but it's also very likely to prevent a future Light Magister, too."

You nod. "I'll give the matter some thought," you say, and let the rumbling of the engines fill the air for a while. "Any thoughts on what we encountered at Karag Dum?"

"I've been trying to get it straight in my mind," he says, "but what we saw doesn't make any sense once you look past the surface. It's easy to say 'they're guarded by a Chaos thing, ergo they fell to Chaos, job done, off we go'. But I've read of the Shadowgave before, and though it shares several properties with Daemons, the way it acts is entirely different to them. As far back as is known, it acts according to whim and chance, reacting to whatever stimuli it encounters. The closest thing it has to any sort of motivation beyond killing and eating and twisting is its tendency to wander in the direction of Athel Loren."

"And yet it is acting like a Daemon either bound or summoned by Karag Dum," you finish.

"I could hazard some guesses as to how that would be possible, but it would require much greater insight into whatever the Shadowgave actually is for them to be any more than guesses. Maybe they've convinced it that the woods that have sprung up around the base of Karag Dum are Athel Loren, or replaced whatever fascination it has with Athel Loren with an obsession with their mountain, or some other means of manipulation, but whatever theory you apply, it requires an understanding of Beastmen that Karag Dum has no reason to have. Beastmen don't exist in the Chaos Wastes - they're the antithesis of civilization and cannot exist without it. Animalistic mutants back there are simply accepted by their tribe instead of being cast out to form a separate society."

"All of that makes sense," you say after some thought. "But what conclusion does that lead to?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Egrimm admits. "But I think the answer lies in the nature of the Shadowgave. It doesn't fit neatly into any known category - it's not fully a Beastman, not truly a Daemon, definitely not a Sorcerer. I think if you can figure out what category it is in, you can start to ask actually meaningful questions - like how the Dwarves know enough of whatever that nature is to manipulate it."

You sigh. "So much of these past few months would make such amazing papers if I had just a few less questions and a few more answers."

He chuckles. "That's the nature of the job. The Light College's basements are practically exploding with bits and pieces we've never been able to figure out."

"Any idea what you're going to do after all this?"

His smile vanishes. "None," he says with a sigh. "Alric likes to use me as a troubleshooter, so until I make Lord Magister or Mira takes over again, I'm stuck cleaning up his messes - and that's if he's not outright preventing me from advancing so I have to keep doing so. So no doubt I'll have at most a few weeks to potter about in Altdorf until he sends me off on some new errand." He grimaces, then forces himself to relax. "And you?"

"Back to Karak Eight Peaks, I suppose," you say.

"Of course. First non-Dwarven Loremaster of a Karak in recorded history, and all that."

"Mm, that might be the problem. It was all well and good when we were a foothold facing..." you frown, and take a moment to count, "eight different enemy factions, but now that the Karak is reconquered and secured and getting more so every week, there's not really bizarre and potentially dangerous oddities that need poking on a regular basis. The job's probably mine for as long as I want it, and it might just be my imagination, but it's seeming like Belegar's finding work for me, rather than me being the answer the Karak needs. A more traditional Loremaster, one that knows the laws and the traditions and the Clans and the Guilds inside and out, might be a better fit for the problems the Karak has now."

"Or it might be that now there's not eight factions to stare down, you're getting itchy feet," Egrimm says shrewdly. "Did King Belegar send you on this Expedition?"

"No," you admit. "Just asked that I assist in its preparations."

"When Loremaster Weber saw the breadth of her domain, she wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer," Egrimm says, and grins at the look you shoot him. "Most Wizards would be ecstatic with that sort of sinecure. But most Wizards would have more sense than to be trundling in a wheeled boat over a frozen sea. Just leaves more fun for the likes of us, right?" He smiles, then shivers. "I'm going to head back to the Volans before parts start dropping off. Let me know if you come up with any input for the Barbitus situation."

As he leaves sight, you allow yourself the shiver you've been holding in ever since he'd arrived and seriously consider ducking back below to visit the kettle perched atop the boiler, but not before turning your eyes back to the ice ahead. Very soon the ice will give way to land, and right after that the Baersonling-dominated Black Blood Pass. As Snorri said, one more week of travel should see you through to civilization in the form of Fort Straghov, and from there you can part ways with it with a clean conscience, as the remainder of the journey will be through firmly Kislevite territory - though you might stick with it until at least Praag, you haven't decided yet.




Do you have a recommendation for how Egrimm should handle the question of Barbitus?

[ ] [BARBITUS] Execution
A sudden death, and transportation to a Garden of Morr to be interred.
[ ] [BARBITUS] Demotion
Reduced to Apprentice and returned to the rigid routine of the Light College for long-term observation.
[ ] [BARBITUS] Scrutiny
Turned over to the Magisters Vigilant for testing, which is likely to be painful but at least should be quick.
[ ] [BARBITUS] Interrogation
Intervene personally, and spend several days interrogating and studying him to see if you can determine if he has succumbed or thrown off the influence of the Chaos Gods. Will take up an action.
[ ] [BARBITUS] Nothing
- Allow Barbitus to continue his Journeying unimpeded, with nothing more than a note in his file for an eye to be kept on him in the future.
[ ] [BARBITUS] No recommendation
- Leave the matter in Egrimm's hands.
[ ] [BARBITUS] Other (write in)


Will you leave the Expedition in a week's time when you reach Fort Straghov, or stick with it for another two weeks until Praag?

[ ] [DEPART] Part ways at Fort Straghov
[ ] [DEPART] Remain with the Expedition until Praag


The four with the most votes will be chosen - or three, if Interrogation wins the Barbitus vote.

Spend time getting to know...
[ ] Head Ranger Snorri Farstrider
[ ] Preceptor Joerg von Zavstra
[ ] Sir Ruprecht Wulfhart the Younger
[ ] Asarnil the Dragonlord
[ ] Deathfang
[ ] Ice Crone Ljiljana
[ ] Magister Egrimm van Horstmann
[ ] Citharus, Barbitus, and Timpania
[ ] Magister Michel Solmann
[ ] Journeyman Cyrston von Danling
[ ] Journeywoman Alexandra Kohler

Become involved with:
[ ] Ranging far ahead of the convoy
- With the Knights of Taal's Fury
[ ] Scouting near the convoy
- With the Winter Wolves

Other:
[ ] Be ready to use Rite of Way should it prove necessary
[ ] Attempt to make contact with the Baersonlings
- The Norscan tribe that calls the area you'll soon be travelling through home. They are known for their bravery and their golden hair.
[ ] Attempt to scout the Skaven stronghold of Hell Pit
[ ] Attempt to find the Norse Dwarf outpost of Kraka Ravnvake



- There will be a two hour moratorium.
- The decision as to whether Mathilde leaves the Expedition at Fort Straghov is entirely one about whether you want two more turns of Expedition or to wrap it up after this coming turn. From that point on it will be in friendly territory and will be able to get everyone home safe, whether Mathilde is there or not.

 

[Boney]

Dozens of eyes peer suspiciously through the darkness at the pool of light that was the latest arrival amongst the many beings claiming to be Dwarves that now swarmed the upper levels of Karak Vlag. Their every word and movement rang true, but so it had innumerable times before, and every previous time it had ended the same way. Eventually these new interlopers stopped trying, and seemed to be waiting for some new plot to hatch. At long last what they had been waiting for is carried into the chamber that is the border between safety and danger, held atop the shoulders of four sturdy Dwarves, Runelight glinting off the steel and gromril that covers them, and placed in the center of that chamber.

The many illusions and glamours of the Daemons had often included a High King, usually come to laud them for their steadfastness. Sometimes the Throne of Power had been brought along too, the twinkling of the counterfeit Rune of Eternity filling their hearts with false pride and the seductive promise that the Karaz Ankor had not forgotten them. But this time, it was different. This time, the High King was not Alriksson. This time, the Rune of Eternity did not reach out to them but instead stood unmoving, a stark light in the darkness that was somehow realer than the stone that surrounded it. This time the High King bore something that the Daemonettes had never even tried to seduce them with: the Dammaz Kron.

"'In the year 6824, contact was lost with Karak Vlag as the forces of the Everchosen Asavar Kul made their way through High Pass,'" Thorgrim Grudgebearer reads, his voice carrying through the darkness. "'Extensive scouting in their wake revealed that Karak Vlag had been made to disappear, appearing to most scrutinies as though it was never founded.' It was decided that until new information came to light, the Grudge would be levelled against the Chaos Gods collectively, and against all that follow them." A slight squeaking echoes as an inkwell is unstoppered, and the nib of a quill is dipped into the royal blood within. "This is insufficient. The Karaz Ankor must know the being or beings responsible for the disappearance of Karak Vlag." The High King's gaze seems to penetrate the defences that the Dwarves of Karak Vlag were huddled behind, and afterwards each would swear that they were looked directly in the eye. "It is our duty."

All the Dwarves that stood between the Daemons and the Karak were those Longbeards old enough to remember another world, but the first Dwarf to emerge is an Elder even amongst these, who would likely be somewhere in his fourth century if the passage of time could still be known with any confidence. Perhaps his wisdom allows him to recognize the truth, or perhaps he is willing to surrender his life to the Daemons in the hope that this time, at long last, it was not a trick. In any case he approaches the Throne of Power, and when no evil springs from the darkness to carry him away, he begins to speak of the many evils inflicted upon the Dwarves of Karak Vlag in the lifetimes they had been trapped in the Warp.

---

By the time the recitation of evils is done, many pages have been filled and a second inkwell has been unstoppered and subsequently drained. The breath goes out of the Dwarves as the final dot marks the end of the final sentence, for by now they have emerged, one by one, to add their own wrongs to the tally. To have the crimes against them recorded does not bring them pride or comfort, but the weight of the Grudges within them now had a sense of rightness to them. They would still do everything in their power to set matters right, but should they fail or fall the Karaz Ankor would remember, and the Karaz Ankor would avenge. Even if it took until the end of time and the last drop of Dwarven blood to make it so.

"Now," Thorgrim says, running his eyes over the Longbeards before him, "tell me which of these Grudges have already been avenged, which Daemons you know to have fallen after performing the deeds I have recorded."

Silence fills the air, as glances go back and forth amongst the Longbeards as they roll the question around in their minds. They could tell of Daemons who had been slain, or at least wounded until they stopped moving and their essence melted away into the background matter of the Chaos realm. But all of that was lost in the long, timeless chaos of more years than could be counted straining to see movement in the darkness before it could steal away another Dwarf to be bewitched. More prominent, so much more prominent than any of those battles was the knowledge that each of them somehow held, and knew in their souls to be true: the intervention of the strange Zhufokrul, the severing of the flow of magic, the shattering of the imprisonment spell, and the battle where Slayer had cut down Slayer, and Dwarf and man and beast and Wizard and Dragon and even an Elf had inflicted vengeance upon each and every one of the Slaaneshi Daemons, scattering their essence across the mountain stone far from their native realm. They knew of the dangers she had risked in doing so, not just against the claws and blades of the Daemons, but also the many terrible fates that could befall someone who bends the energies of magic to their will. And they knew that she did so for no other reason than because it was the right thing to do. It was a strange and troubling tale, one that they could not explain their ability to tell, but every one of them knew it was true.

The Elder takes a breath, and tells High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer of the Wizard that each of the twenty thousand remaining Dwarves of Karak Vlag know to be their saviour.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] [BARBITUS] Interrogation
[*] [DEPART] Remain with the Expedition until Praag
[*] Attempt to make contact with the Baersonlings
[*] Magister Egrimm van Horstmann
[*] Attempt to find the Norse Dwarf outpost of Kraka Ravnvake
-[*] With Johann

In the Steppes, the Expedition avoided most conflicts by speed and bluff. Neither will serve you with the Baersonlings. The Norscans are much more likely to be able to identify an Imperial by sight and accent, and here they occupy a chokepoint between a river and a forest on the entrance to Black Blood Pass. Taking them by surprise seems more likely to lead to an unwanted conflict than it is to avoid it, so you organize a suitably impressive escort of Winter Wolves - enough to cause them to think before they act, not so much that they take it as a raiding party - and ride for the Baersonling settlement the day before the steam-wagons are due to arrive there.

It's easy to assume that Black Blood Pass is named for the general role that Norsca plays in Kislev's history, but it's actually named for Black Blood River. Water trickling in from volcanic springs stirs the deep and ancient mud on the bed of the lake Snorri labelled 'Sausage Lake', and it flows out again blackened and sluggish and steaming. When it reaches the Frozen Sea it forms an oasis of life as the heat of the water holds back the ice and the minerals in it cause a flourishing of ocean life. It's a natural place for a settlement, and as it comes into sight it becomes clear that the Baersonlings weren't the first to take advantage of it. At the centre of a sprawling cluster of wooden Norscan structures are stone buildings laid out with geometric precision around stone roads, with long, sturdy wharves allowing access to every inch of liquid water.

"Must have been a Norse Dwarf harbour," you say to Sir Ruprecht beside you. "The Dwarves aren't going to like this."

"I already don't like this," he says, nodding towards the trees visible over the roofs of the settlement. At first you think that the nearest are swaying in the breeze, but then you realize that the movements are much too violent for that, and a series of cracks echo like gunshots as the trunk of a great tree surrenders to the grip of the mammoth that is assaulting it. It bellows in triumph as the tree falls, reaching out with its trunk to tear off branches and shovel them into its maw, and the rhythmic thuds of axes begin to sound as the Norscans get to work on the tree their mammoth has felled.

Well, that complicates matters. But the Norscans aren't going to get any less in your way just because the situation just got uglier. So you take a deep breath and lead the way over the ice towards the settlement, keeping your pace relaxed even as a horn blows somewhere amongst the buildings and an armed, watchful, and mostly blond crowd gathers on the shore, watching your approach. You've no intention of alarming them and prompting a hasty reaction. The Norscans are renowned for martial valour but they're dab hands at archery too, possibly due to cultural cross-pollination from their coreligionists of the Steppe.

"Heill ok sæll," you say as you approach, hoping you have the pronunciation correct. Happy and healthy is a cheerful enough greeting until you realize that it serves dual purpose as a threat: ready to fight and glad for the opportunity to. "I am here to speak to your leader." Beside you, a Nordlander of the Winter Wolves translates into the Norscan tongue.

"I am Vindslaktare, Chieftain of Sjoktraken," comes the translation of the reply of the man who steps forward, a short and wiry man of advanced years with a sword of shimmering black stone and a short, greying beard. "Why are Southerners approaching from the north?"

"Our fleet seeks to travel to the lands of the Gospodar."

"In service to the Wolf-God?" he asks, running his eye over the Winter Wolves.

"Our service was fulfilled in the lands of the Kurgan. Now we return with the favour of our Gods."

There's some chatter amongst the crowd at that, a few stepping forward to mutter to the Chieftain while a few shouted suggestions that you probably don't need translated. "You wish to avoid spilling blood?" Vindslaktare says after listening. "Then pay the blood price for passage."

"What they call 'weregild'," the Nordlander explains. "200 silver coins for a free-man, ten times that for their equivalent of a Knight."

"Over ten thousand crowns," you say after a moment's thought. "Exorbitant. And with your mounts, they're unlikely to believe that you're 'just' free-men." And if you try to negotiate, you'd have to mention the numbers of your Expedition to have a figure to negotiate, and your low numbers might convince them that they're in a position to press an attack and win. "Do we have any other options?"

"Apart from just bulling through? We could challenge them," the Nordlander says. "Champion against Champion, or Vitki against Vitki - that would be a Wizard against their Shaman or Sorcerer. Our victory would mean the Gods intend for us to pass unhindered. Or we could gift them our excess cows in exchange for being invited to a feast, which would leave us covered under their hospitality traditions, which would also allow us to pass - though the feast would be dedicated to their Gods."

"Your call," Sir Ruprecht says, "but I think I could take him. And I definitely think Joerg could."

You consider the options as you return the gaze of the Norscan Chieftain, who seems filled with grim anticipation. As the Nordlander mentioned, the other option would be simply smashing your way through the Baersonling settlement, which the steam-wagons should be fully capable of doing - either by full light of day or by surprise at night. But that mammoth of theirs, which is already shaking the earth as it wanders over to see what's going on, could complicate matters.


[ ] Martial Challenge
-[ ] Joerg
-[ ] Ruprecht
-[ ] Snorri
-[ ] Asarnil

[ ] Magical Challenge
-[ ] Yourself
-[ ] Johann
-[ ] Maximillian
-[ ] Egrimm
-[ ] Michel
-[ ] Ljiljana

[ ] Feast
[ ] Day Assault
[ ] Night Assault
[ ] Negotiate passage fee
[ ] Other (write in)


- There will be a two hour moratorium.
- As the Expedition is so close, there's no time to go back and confer with the rest of the Expedition's leadership. You and Ruprecht have enough authority between you to make the decision without upsetting Snorri and Joerg.
- You can vote for a candidate for either of the Challenges without voting for the Challenge itself. Simply vote for '-[ ] Whoever' without voting for the '[ ] Challenge', and that way if the Challenge wins you will have a say in who will be fighting in it.
- The other options chosen for this 'turn' will take place after you gain access to Black Blood Pass.
- You are only a week away from Kislev, so there should be no supply problems from gifting cows to the Baersonlings.
- If you challenge and lose, then you're back to square one with the challenge option off the table. The challenge is to the death, with the loser considered a sacrifice to the God of the winner.

 

[Boney]

Spoiler: Voting results

Tally
[*] Martial Challenge
-[*] Asarnil

"Tell the Chieftain that we'll challenge them for passage," you say to the Nordlander as you make up your mind. "I just have to head back to the Expedition to fetch our Champion."

"Joerg, then?" Sir Ruprecht asks.

"No," you say, smiling as you turn your Shadowsteed.

---

By the time you return, much of the Norscan town has gathered around a small island in the frozen sea where the challenge will take place. You've read that the tradition exists so that nobody can interfere with the battle and there's no chance of escape for anyone that tries to flee, and it seems that the Baersonlings maintain that tradition despite the very different sea. It does have the advantage that spectating is simply a matter of walking over instead of having to anchor a longship offshore.

Those Norscans hoping for a good show are immediately rewarded by your arrival, as instead of having a rider alongside you, you ride in the shadow of Deathfang as he lazily drifts through the air, moving much slower than he is capable of to give onlookers a proper chance to register the majestic being that has deigned to grace them with his presence. He swoops low over the island as the Norscans duck and Asarnil hops lightly off at the nadir of the arc, allowing his momentum to drive the Dragon banner of Caledor into the stone and running an amused eye over the would-be spectators.

"Ah, Norscans," he says as you arrive and dismount next to him. "Nobody quite like them for reliably delivering an invigorating fight. We've spilled an ocean of blood keeping them hemmed into the Sea of Chaos, and yet they never stop trying. There are parts of Cothique and Yvresse that have seen more Norscan invaders than Druchii over the years."

"Ready to add another gallon to that ocean?" you ask.

"Always, and then much more if that doesn't get the point across." He smiles in anticipation as he runs his eyes over the crowd. "Which unfortunate will taste my blade today?"

You nod towards Vindslaktare, who's gazing thoughtfully back at the two of you. "That's their Chieftain, but he might not be the Champion they put forward."

Asarnil's grin widens. "I hope it's him. Old men in a profession where men usually die young are always the most interesting."

The Nordlander joins the two of you as you walk across the island to the Chieftain, whose eyes are locked on Asarnil and who barks a question as you approach.

"He wants to know if Asarnil is a Ljósálfar or a Dökkálfar," the Nordlander translates. "Er, he means-"

"Oh, I know what he means," Asarnil interrupts, his smile growing strained. "Tell him that I am a Fjallvættr of Álfheimr, and that at the slightest provocation I might decide it is my duty to wear the guise of Víðarr on behalf of the Dvergr."

"I got most of that from context, but who's Víðarr?" you ask as the Nordlander translates.

"Drakira," he says distractedly, watching the expression of the Chieftain as he listens to the threat, and to the Chieftain's response.

"He says it would be ungracious for him to take the glory of what promises to be a battle for the sagas," the Nordlander says, and Asarnil sighs in disappointment. "He grants the honour to his nephew Völundr Jólling."

The crowd turns almost as one, and you follow their eyes to a bear of a man as muscled as he is fat, his beard adorned with steel rings and with a short-hafted hammer on his belt. Völundr steps forward, smacking a meaty fist against his chest and bellowing a challenge, one word of which you wince at.

"He says he'll earn the favour of the Blood God with the skull of a Ljósálfar," the Nordlander says.

"I suppose the natural response would be to dedicate the kill to Khaine," Asarnil says with artful casualness, "but we Caledorians have our differences with the Bloody-Handed God." He draws his blade, which would seem precariously thin if you didn't know it was made of Ithilmar, and examines the tip of it. "Instead, I shall dedicate this victory to Vaul."

---

There's a short delay as Völundr's armour is fetched from his smithy, which gives an opportunity for more of the Winter Wolves to arrive, trailing behind the pace set by you and Deathfang. You don't think the Norscans will go against a duel they believe to be adjudicated by the Gods, but you'd rather have the forces on hand to press the matter if you turn out to be wrong. The wait isn't as uncomfortable as it could have been as the fjord shields the ice here from the bitter northern wind, but you're still suppressing a shiver here and there by the time Asarnil and Völundr stand alone in the middle of the island.

[Asarnil vs Völundr, round 1: 26 vs 29.]

The clash of Norscan steel against Caledorian Ithilmar begins immediately, with Asarnil parrying the first swing of the Norscan to obliterate the patch of ground he had been standing on a moment before, which causes you to raise your eyebrows and concentrate your Magesight as you realize there's more to the hammer than steel or more to Völundr than baseline human muscle. But at this distance you can't make out any flash of energies from the hammer amongst the eddying ambient Winds, so you give up and return your focus entirely to your mundane senses as the two warriors dance around each other, seemingly evenly matched.

Seemingly.

"I thought the Old World's dearest mercenary would have a bit more flash to him," Sir Ruprecht says beside you, and you remember that his attention was elsewhere when Asarnil went blade-to-claw with a higher Daemon of the Tempter and came away unscathed.

"What do you know of Vaul?" you ask as you watch.

"Vaul?" he says distractedly. "Vaul. You mean Vallich? Nordlander God of Shipwrights? Not much, really."

"They do get around a bit, don't they? I must admit, I don't know a whole lot about Elven Gods. What I do know is that Vaul is the God of Smiths and the patron God of Caledor. And most notably..."

[Asarnil vs Völundr, round 2: 97 vs 7.]

You wince as Asarnil's blade flicks out twice, faster than the eye can see, and a scream of pain rises from the Norscan as he clutches at his face. "Most notably," you continue, "he was blinded..." Asarnil circles his foe, and you wince again as the Elf's greaved leg lashes out with a crack of shattering bone. "And crippled by Khaine," you finish, almost drowned out by the second crack.

"Ah," Sir Ruprecht says as Asarnil's blade slips between Völundr's ribs to skewer his heart.

"'Victory is a foregone conclusion,'" you say, echoing Asarnil's promise to any who are able to afford his prices.


To be continued.