Warhammer Fantasy: Heir to Sticks and Stones - a Border Prince Quest

Synergy · May 28, 2023

Lurreni, home of five hundred odd souls, is the greatest city in the Border Princes. Any citizen will tell you such. The seat of the Principality of Orsini, she sits resplendent at the foot of the Black Mountains. The headwaters of the River Treblecz run through here, clear and clean as a winter morning, providing Lurreni her water and transport for the timber exports which fills the city coffers. Lurreni has no mill of her own, so whole logs are floated down to Malko, which sits on the Old Silk Road. Gold comes back up in biweekly shipments–small caravans, as Malko is only a four day journey away. Another five or six days past Malko is the Black Gulf, which the River Treblecz feeds into.

These biweekly caravans are usually celebrated with a military parade. The guards trot through the city streets in their helms and yellow gambesons, waving at cheering citizens and leering women. The standard of Orsini waves at the front of the parade. Sewn by a local seamstress, it depicts a lunging wolf flying over a golden river on a green background. The Prince says it represents the fierceness and the wealth of Lurreni, while the commoners remark that it looks very much like the wolf is pissing himself. Even so, the flag results in cheers and tossed flowers whenever it is marched through the streets. Not only because it symbolizes patriotism, but also because it means that payday has come. The shipments of gold are much the only source of income for the various woodsmen, guards, and merchants of Lurreni, whether directly or indirectly. The woodsmen are paid for their services, the guards are paid by the Prince from his cut of the profits, and the merchants are paid by the men flush on coin and willing to spend it.

The latest parade concluded, some four hours ago, with every member of the city guard and the Prince's meager military forces standing in the courtyard in front of his palace. Their walk had ended here just as the sun had set, but they expected to be standing here for another hour and a half at least, as Prince Salvatore di Orsini spoke at length about patriotism, professionalism, and good old fashioned elbow grease. The Prince liked his speeches, he thought they'd buck up the people under his command. In reality, most thought that they should be able to go home with their pay and whatever woman caught their eye during the parade as soon as it was done. This night, this warm and glorious night, it might have been better if they had.

The pine wood walls surrounding Orsini, fifteen meters tall and a meter thick, had been breached. No watchmen, no gate guards to warn of the marauders hacking through one of the logs that made up the palisade. Soon, marauders and mutants, the men and women who had fallen to the taint of devilry flooded into the streets of fair Lurreni. The forces of the Prince were still yawning, listening to him prattle on about the need to shine one's helmet, when the first Chaos Marauders broke into the courtyard with terrible grins. They laughed and giggled and cried in ecstasy as they fell on the unarmed and unprepared men with whatever weapons they had–ancient spears, stone axes, simple clubs made from the wood that fed the city. As the first guardsmen fell, the Prince finally noticed that the smoke columns of the city were thicker than usual. Thicker and growing, as district after district was sacked and set to flame. Already, half the city is ash. The rest is full of the screams of man, woman, and child. You shudder to think what is being done to them in those darkened and dismal alleys.

Luck was the source of your escape. You worked under Prince Salvatore, third of his name. Not the third ruler, just the third Salvatore. You think his father might have been a lettuce farmer. Or maybe a dung collector? Something to do with fertilizer. In any case, the last you saw, a woman drenched in blood with hair falling out in patches across her scalp was giggling as she plucked his eyes out of their sockets with a rusty paring knife. The man was a paranoid and violent narcissist, but no one deserves to go out like that. Still, his paranoia saved your life. His death too, as the marauders spent long enough torturing him that you were able to escape.

Just a year prior, he had ordered a passage built from his throne room to the fields outside of the city. It was a rough thing, raw dirt and stone held up by wooden beams. A human would have had to stoop and crouch to make it through, but you are not human. You are a halfing, a short statured and hairier race than man, altogether separate from your hulking cousins. It's part of what preserved you in Salvatore's court. He had an immense amount of suspicion for the people in his employ, always seeing knives in the dark, but even he couldn't bring himself to see one of the small-folk as a threat. It's what allowed you to rise to the rank of one of his trusted advisors–it had less to do with the fact that you were a competent administrator and more that the people above you had a habit of getting purged. In that sort of environment, the only place to go for you was up. Speaking of, you scrambled up the loose dirt that composed the exit of the Prince's secret passage and spilled out onto the banks of the Treblecz. Taking one last look at the city of your birth, and the great black plume which rose above it, you dove into the icy mountain waters.

What followed was not a particularly enjoyable experience.

The river runs wide here and the surface is calm, so you were not bumped along too terribly, but its cold sinked into your flesh like a dagger. As well, the need to avoid the eyes of any passing marauders meant that you spent as much of the journey as you could underwater, holding your breath and praying to every God you knew the name of that no arrow would find you the next time you resurfaced. Eventually, you dragged yourself out of the water, pulling yourself up and onto the trail that runs along the river's edge. You breathed, wet and ragged. Even calm waters are tiring to swim in for so long. Your arms were sore and your jaw hurt from where it banged into a rock in a shallow area. You couldn't lay there for long though, you had to get moving. You were already starting to shiver, and laying still in wet clothes was a death sentence at this elevation, even in the summer.

And so, now alone and mostly out of danger, you start to walk. You are far enough from the city that you shouldn't be spotted. Your tunic comes off and you tie the sleeves around your waist, letting your thinner undershirt dry faster. You roll up your pants legs as well so at least your calves could dry. Maybe it would make your shoes dry faster as well. You're sure you look a sight, a halfling with his clothes half off walking the river trail southwards. It starts sinking in now. What has happened this night. What number of tragedies has occurred, personal and distant. Without even knowing it, you start to cry. Sob really, wet and ugly things wrenching from your breast. You can't control them once they start, and it's only by the grace of the heavens that no raiders hear your pathetic mewling. Every few steps, your head turns to look over your shoulder, almost against your will. Each time, it's like a knife in your gut is twisted. Your sobs are renewed by the sight of the city burning. Friends you'd known your entire life. Ex-lovers, companions, two brothers and a younger sister, an elderly mother. All gone. If they weren't dead, they likely wished they were. Bitterly, you pray they have died quickly. And that they would forgive you for your cowardice.

Relationships with your family had been strained these last years as you rose in the Prince's confidence and in his court. They thought you should be using your position to alleviate their various struggles, but it was all you could do to stay where you were. Salvatore was a tempestuous old man, prone to seeing spies and traitors everywhere. Purges were nearly yearly things, and people who were thought to have betrayed him in one way or another were lucky to simply be let go. You think of the young maid, the niece of a family friend whose job you had secured. The Prince accused her of stealing silverware. No one could convince him that she wasn't, despite the fact that she was still training and being watched like a hawk by his majordomo. Despite the fact that she had been solely assigned to sweeping and dusting rooms on the other side of the palace. Despite your own attempts to speak on her character. None of it made a difference, as the Prince had her left hand cut off.

"Devils work through the left hand. I set you free from that temptation."

Maybe the old man did deserve what happened to him.

You walk for maybe an hour before the grassland that makes up the valley which Lurreni sits in abates. You're mostly done crying now. To your south the river continues on, cutting through the mountains as it has for millenia, long before your people settled here. The path diverges from the river zigzagging up the granite ridge until it is a hundred meters above the water below. Young men used to make games of who could throw a rock and hit the other side of the ridge. Instead of continuing on and fleeing to Malko or any of the other low lying cities you turn right, and start following the woodline. A fifteen minute walk under young and unharvestable trees, along a path more of a thought than an actuality, up a hill that makes your already tired body feel every one of its years, and you arrive at your destination.

Here, overlooking the valley, hidden by the first line of trees but known to most anyone who has plied Lurreni's trade in these forests, is the Woodsmen's Shrine. This place is sacred in the way that a church isn't. It is sacred because generations of people have said it was. Since the founding of this city, since it was called Longford by an Imperial Prince, Fluvillé by a Brettonian one, Estia by the founders, this place has been where the people who actually keep the city going have given offerings to secure their safety–against deadfalls, accidents, wild animals, against all the things in the Black Mountains which may seek to harm them. And all the people. A small clearing, ringed by lodgepole pine. A stone house five feet tall with one open wall, where candles are lit and food is left. That is all. But for all its humble nature, the air here holds not a taste of smoke, and for a moment you can imagine you are safe. You breathe in. You breathe out.

And then reality sets in, and you notice the two dozen other refugees huddled around the shrine.

"Sergios!"

Your tired head shoots up. And suddenly the night is shining and the world is good.

"Sofia!"

You take a step and traverse the entire clearing, just to pull her into an embrace. Your little sister, who you've spent the last hour and half mourning, is alive and well, here in this place. Here with you. You take a step back and look at her. She looks as she always has, not a mark on her familiar face. Sofia has your father's thick, curly black hair, pulled into a braid with a hundred fly aways. Her wrinkles are just starting to come in as yours did a decade ago. She's dressed in her foraging clothes, a large apron with multiple pockets and a wicker basket full of tarrabeth branches strung over her shoulder.

For a moment the two of you simply hold each other by the shoulders, reassuring yourselves that the other is real.

"Have you seen Nico–"

"Is Nicholas with you–"

You both say at the same time, immediately brought down to earth by the knowledge that your brother is still missing. Not to mention your mother, the matriarch of the Hearthpocket clan.

"Well, if he's survived, I'm sure we'll find him," you hear yourself saying. You don't know if it's to comfort her or yourself.

"What about Josia and the girls? Did you bring them with you?" She says, and suddenly the guilt is back around your shoulders like a vice.

"No. No, I'm sorry Sofia. I was in the palace when the attack happened, for the Prince's speech. I was only able to make it out because of an escape tunnel he had dug." You pause, chewing your lip. "The marauders aren't going to stay long. They'll pull out with their loot by noon tomorrow. We can go in and get them as soon as they do."

Her face crashes before she schools herself.

"We have a cellar. If they pulled the rug over it and locked themselves in like I've told them, they're probably fine," she said in a quiet tone. Sofia, despite being the youngest, has always been the rock in your family. It's just like her to mask her grief, even in a moment like this.

Always the pragmatic one. Always the rock.

This is the first time you've spoken in almost five years.

Well, nothing for it now. The Prince is dead, and you must carry on. You look around the clearing assessing who is here. Looks to be mostly woodsmen and others who had a reason to be outside of the city like Sofia. You spot a few hunters, a few shepherds. You also spot a woman you're fairly sure is a baker on Main Street. Gods only know how she escaped. There looks to be around 30 people here in total, and in the time you and Sofia were speaking another couple filtered in out of the woods. Many of them seem to be staring at you. Was your and Sofia's reunion that notable?

"Mr. Hearthpocket?" A man steps forward. He's a haggard old hunter, one eye milky white. "Is Orsini coming as well? Is he sending help?"

"Ah, no," you say, "Not as such. I mean, the Prince is dead, is what I mean. I saw them–well, I saw them kill him is all I'll say on that. The guards… some of them may have escaped the courtyard. But they–they aren't coming to help, no."

There are hushed murmurs throughout the clearing. The baker starts quietly crying in her arms. You wonder if she had a brother or a husband in the city guard. Or if she had just been holding out hope that someone would come and fix all this.

"Alright then," says the hunter. "Well. What do we do now?"

You realize then why they're all staring at you, in your ridiculous and sopping wet clothes, hugging your gruff and dirty sister. These people, they've spent the last fifteen years watching you putter around in the Prince's palace. Starting as nothing more than an administrative clerk, slowly falling up the ladder as purge after purge meant you were promoted by default, until eventually you were standing on the balcony behind Salvatore during his speeches, providing input when he held court, and giving directions to lower officials at his command. To these men and women, to these lumberjacks, hunters, herbalists, and bakers–you are as close to the center of power as anyone can get.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck, fuck.

"Will you excuse me for a moment sir," you sigh with a rictus of a smile, before pulling Sofia to the edge of the candlelight and out of earshot of any of the other refugees.

"We need to get out of here. We can wait in the woodline somewhere until daylight and then go find Nicholas and your family," you say in a hushed voice, eyeing the hunter who is patiently waiting just near the shrine for you to return. "After we grab them and go, maybe we can set up again in Malko. I know they're penny pinching sacks of rabbit dung, but you can still ply your trade and I have contacts at the mill–"

Your eyes go wide as Sofia slaps a hand over your mouth.

"Shut up, Sergios. I am going to lift my hand and you're going to explain why you want to abandon these people who need your help." She slowly lifts her hand and stares at you in expectance.

You stare back.

She pinches your arm.

"Ow!" You shout, before looking around. "Ow. Fine. These people want me to lead them, Sofia. I'm not a leader. I'm a follower and maybe a bootlicker, if you're feeling mean. I can't help them."

Sofia looks at you like you're a strange bug she's found on one of her plants. Then she says and pinches the bridge of her nose in that way that reminds you so much of Ma.

"Sergios, I love you, but you need to get over this complex of yours. You are more competent than you know."

"I'm really not."

"You are. And even if you hid behind the Prince more than you should have these past few years, I never considered you a bootlicker. Now, you are the closest thing we have to a governing authority, so go out there and govern."

With that she gives you a gentle push, pulling your sodden tunic off your waist as she does. You glare back at her before slowly walking back into the candlelight. The shrine's hollow faces outwards towards the forest, away from the city, so the candles placed within should not alert the enemy. You gaze around the clearing. The gathering has acquired another straggler, a young woman who is awkwardly patting the baker while whispering in hushed tones. Around you the faces of the people of Lurreni, cast in flickering oranges and dancing shadows, wait for you to speak. Some are masks of stoicism, hard life breeding hard countenances. Some, like the baker, are openly weeping for the people whose blood even now floods the streets of their home. And some have shut down entirely, the life in their eyes gone as they stare at the forest floor or at the cloudless summer night sky.

"Most of you have probably," you swallow the saliva that has built up in your mouth, "probably seen me at one of the Prince's speeches, or in his halls. But you may not all know my name. I am Sergios Hearthpocket, second to the Prince, and I witnessed his death just hours ago. I also know that most of the guards were, if not killed, at least seriously injured. We were caught with our pants down tonight. This happened because we didn't have anyone manning the walls, because the Prince demanded that all armed forces march in the parade and be present for his speech. He failed to protect Lurenni. I failed to convince him to. For that, I can't apologize enough. We all have lost much tonight."

You gaze around the clearing. There's only two other halflings present besides you and your sister, so most of these people stand at almost twice your height. You can feel the weight of their gazes. Of their disapproval.

"This isn't the first time Lurenni has been raided, or that her walls have been breached. I've read in the court records of how it usually goes." And wasn't that light reading. "They loot what they can, kill who they can catch, and leave the next day. They've got a hold somewhere high up in the mountains where they can send down war parties both here and into the Empire. That being said, until we're certain the threat has passed, no one should travel alone. Parties of at least five, preferably all armed. Tomorrow, in the noon day sun, we will go and take back our city and salvage what can be salvaged. Save what can be saved. And find those members of our families who can be saved."

"Once again, I'm so sorry I've failed you all. I'm even more sorry to those whose lives were lost for my failure. May the hells take me," you whisper the last words as more murmuring breaks out. You can't tell what the reception is, though you wouldn't be too surprised if some of them are suggesting throwing you back in the river. Or worse.

"Mr. Hearthpocket, that's all very well and good about staying armed, but most of us don't have weapons!" Someone finally speaks up. It's the young girl who was comforting the baker. She is done crying it looks like, now her eyes are blank as she looks at you with an indiscernible expression. The girl is standing beside her, with one hand on her hip. Looking at her more closely, one sleeve of her dress has been ripped off, and there are several scratches along her forearm. Like she had to wrench arm out of someone's grasp.

"Well, I might have an answer to that my friends," comes a shout from outside the circle. Instantly, everyone is on guard. Some hunters raise their bows and nock arrows as a mule drawn wagon pulls into the clearing. The wagon is laden with six or seven refugees of all ages and appearances. The only thing similar about them is that they're all armed with the kind of spears the guards kept. Between them are several large and obviously very full barrels. Sitting atop it is a man. A tall, overly muscled, boisterous man with the most outrageous mustache you've ever seen.

"It can't be," you mutter.

The man jumps down off the cart. The hunters let their bows down as the cart's passengers start clambering off the sides and it's made obvious that they're just more refugees. The man has a spear of his own which he leans against as he gazes down at you with a friendly, slightly strained, smile. On his belt is a well cared for blunderbuss, the only black powder weapon you've ever seen.

"If it isn't Hearthpocket! The gods look well on us tonight!" He shouts as walks over and lifts you up into a back breaking hug.

"It's good to see you too Maximo," you laugh as he sets you back down. "What are you doing here? I thought you were on a job near Matorca?"

"Ah, the scholar's funding fell through when his patron got his head cut off. No funding, no expedition, no need for Maximo Diamandis, sellsword extraordinaire!" One of his giant hands claps you on the shoulder and nearly sends you sprawling. "I figured I'd come back and spend a few weeks acquainting myself with the dice halls."

"Well, you picked a poor time to return my friend," you say, readjusting yourself.

"Bah, I figure I got here just in time. Gods know these sorry saps wouldn't be here without me!" The last he shouts in the direction of the refugees he brought in who are mingling with the wider group. One of them makes a rude gesture and he bursts out laughing.

"Anyways, you should see this Sergios. Might help."

The two of you walk around the back of the cart. Maximo easily pulls off one of the heavy looking barrels, stamped with the inscription of a local brewery, and reveals the true treasure trove. A giant pile of spears, short-swords, and gambesons. Your jaw drops as you gaze at it all. Then your eyes narrow as connections start being made. You turn around towards Maximo, leap up, and grab him by the ear lobe. He yelps as you pull him down to eye level and stare him down.

"Maximo. My dear friend. Did you loot the city on the way out of it?"

"Sergios!" He whines. "The armory was empty and we needed weapons to make it out!"

You let go of his ear and he rears up, glaring at you.

"And the alcohol?"

A guilty smile splits his face as he rubs the side of his face.

"It was on the way out of town?"

You glare at him for a minute more before it becomes too much. Then you both burst out laughing, to the point that tears are streaming out of your eyes.
"Well come on," you say eventually, "Sofia will want to say hello."

"Sofia's here? God's be praised! And the rest of your family my friend?" Maximo asks, and your face falls.

"We don't know yet. Hopefully safe in hiding. If not that, hopefully dead."

Your friend nods solemnly. You both know the stories of what happens to those taken by marauder war parties. Sometimes, it's better not to survive.

"Mr. Hearthpocket!" As you come back from around the wagon, another familiar face greets you. It takes you just a moment to remember their name. Ah, Nea. She was a new clerk who'd just come into the Prince's employ beneath you. "You survived! I was worried when I saw how many of those bastards were heading for the palace. I just got here, but is there anything I can do to help."

"Sergios, who is your young friend?" Maximo asks as he reaches out for a handshake.

"Oh, yes, this is one of my assistants, she helps me with…"

[ ] "... my duties as court chaplain." You are–were?–the spiritual guide to Salvatore di Orsini's court. That could mean that you were a priest of one of the Classical Gods or their Northern compatriots. You could worship any nation's god, from the Lady of the Lake, to Sigmar, to Ursun. You could even be a follower of a more localized figure, a minor deity specific to the Principality of Orsini. There are thousands of gods in the Old World and the Border Princes play host to people from all throughout it, so really any god is up for grabs. Anyway you go, this is your opportunity to turn a large portion of the survivors towards your god. Not choosing this means that Sergios takes a more typical halfling view of divinity: "No god has ever buttered a biscuit."

[ ] "... my duties as seneschal." The Prince trusted you to run the vast majority of his finances. You played with more money than most people in Lurreni saw in their entire lives. Of course, none of it was yours, all wrapped up in contracts with local merchants, the mill in Malko, or the payroll of the city guard and Salvatore's atrophic military force. You had contacts with the taxmen who visited the minor villages throughout the Principality, hamlets of less than a hundred scattered across the mountains, and kept tabs on each and every one of them. In a very real way, you know the Principality of Orsini better than Salvatore di Orsini did. Now may be the time for you to finally put in place all the business ideas the old Prince never wanted to endorse. Not choosing this option means that Sergios takes a more typical halfling view of commerce: "Coins are meant to be spent."

[ ] "... my duties as royal architect." The escape tunnel under Salvatore's throne really was a good idea, you're glad you were able to convince him to let you install it. It was one of just a number of projects you worked on throughout Lurreni, from retiling the grand courtyard outside the palace to routing the irrigation ditches of the lettuce farms that ringed the city walls. If there was a construction site in all of the Principality, you had at least signed off on it–if not visited the site and had a hand in the design. Now that the Prince is gone, you may finally have the chance to put in place some of your more out their plans. Not choosing this option meant that Sergios takes a more typical halfling view of city planning: "Just dig a hole in that hill and call it good."

Alectai · May 28, 2023

[X] "... my duties as seneschal."

What an interesting premise!

avatar11792 · May 28, 2023

[x] "... my duties as royal architect."

Clearly we'll need to build a better town... starting with thicker and taller walls.

Looks interesting, would love to see a Border Princes quest get off the ground.

NuclearConsensus · May 28, 2023

[X] "... my duties as court chaplain."

StarkDemise · May 28, 2023