- Location
- West Michigan
He borrowed Petyr Baelish's teleporter.
Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
Blurgh. A few medium/low chance options got voted in again.
[X} DD on Any Other Motha Wanna Go?
Okay, I know this is a weird choice, but it's based on situations, really.
River God can fail, that's unfortunate but oh well. So that leaves the Intrigue choices. Yes, there's a slight edge to probability of both succeeding by DDing the other one, but failing to find the culprits still just means there's some people eating serfs. Either way it's a problem that's solvable with sufficient force without repercussions. On the other hand, I'd really rather not have internal unrest and any potential dynastic challenges crop up while we're in Regency, so I'd rather autosux that option.
[X} DD on Any Other Motha Wanna Go?
Okay, I know this is a weird choice, but it's based on situations, really.
River God can fail, that's unfortunate but oh well. So that leaves the Intrigue choices. Yes, there's a slight edge to probability of both succeeding by DDing the other one, but failing to find the culprits still just means there's some people eating serfs. Either way it's a problem that's solvable with sufficient force without repercussions. On the other hand, I'd really rather not have internal unrest and any potential dynastic challenges crop up while we're in Regency, so I'd rather autosux that option.
Last edited:
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Eh, just make him suffering from a head wound long ago.
You are aware that the overwhelming majority of the individuals enslaved by Skaven, are Skaven right? Given the environment the life expectancy of a slave is too short for a significant number of humans or Elves to build up. (Dwarves generally die before being successfully enslaved. Not sure about Orks or Goblins.) A slave revolt would be mostly leading downtrodden Skaven to freedom and or conquest.
Bah, how unambitious. You are never going to defeat chaos if you don't learn how to steal and purify their stuff.
Also aren't Beastmen people who were mutated by the evil moon? Chaos doesn't spawn them, it corrupts them.
Derek58
Rocket Punch is Best Punch
- Location
- Getter Valhalla
That doesn't happen. The only solution to something/one Chaos-corrupted is to destroy/kill them.
Beastmen are corrupted humans (often before birth), corrupted animals, beastmen born of beastmen, all deeply influenced by Dark Gods and full of their corrupting influence. They are anathema of civilization and enemies of mankind by their very nature, their soul belong to Chaos as do their bodies. You'd need incredible miracle to even hope to begin to purify them in way that isn't cleansing world from their taint by fire and steel.
You may try with cultists before they go too far, you may try cleansing those forcefully corrupted by unholy influence so long as they remain human but once they become beastmen (Skaven count as beastmen technically) it's done. There is simply a point after which only thing you can do is destroy corrupted thing, cleanse remains and area around it, then rebuild.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X} DD on Any Other Motha Wanna Go?
Turn 15 Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 15 (Turn 1 Of the Regency)
1438
You are ejected from the mists like a raven-fletched arrow, the fog trailing behind you. Landing with a harsh thud, the mare you took from the Imperials lands hard on the soft mud. The soft clip-clop of horseshoes sinking into mud rings out as it makes its way through the fields towards your secret entrance.Popping open the gate bearing the mark of Saint Riquiard, you slide in, silent.
You make your way through the castle, towards the kids' rooms.
It's...silent. There is no sound of hard wood pounding into hard leather as soldiers drill under a watchful gaze; no sound of raucous merrymaking under a good duke's gaze; just the hard, cold sounds of a city.
You pop open the doors to the kids rooms. Leliana pops her red-head out, wearing a red dress. Justine, too, opens hers, wooden blade clad in hand. Charles— poor Charles— comes racing out, sure Philip will be there.
Leliana— perceptive, perceptive Leliana, looks around worried.
"Mother? Where is Father?"
It will be a very long time until you get to sleep that night.
Martial: You are not a warrior, not truly. The nearest you have come to a sword fight is betraying your friends; the closest you have come to battle slipping in and slitting the foe's throat. In your ideal world, you would never, ever, have to fight.
Fortunately for everyone, your husband did leave behind many, many, many ideas for you.
Refounding the Order: The old home of the Musketeers is found; the texts are located; people are available. Refounding the order will not finish until you are a man old and gray, perhaps, but starting that work is very possible. Very, very possible.
- You were stabbed, shot, blown up, and thrown into a damn rock in the search for archaeological records of where, when, and how the Musketeers fought. Like hell are you letting this fall into the pit of forgotten ideas, where passing notions are discarded.
Instead, an architect— an old friend— is hired to bring the old fortress back up to snuff, while weapons crafted of good, honest Montfortian steel and armor of leather and chain is prepared. Fit for a hundred soldiers, it will be a small group, first— but they will grow into it.
While the material is made ready, the core of this new group is also searched for. The best men-at-arms and yeomen, hoary old goats with nothing left to lose and bright young men born with nothing, are searched for...that will be the hardest part, honestly; many of your best and brightest even now battle in Mousillon.
Battering Rams: There are many minor castles, forts, and motte and baileys within Mousillon. Each of them is a veritable font of evil, spitting out bandits, vampires, cultists and worse. You will have to crack them open at some point, simply so that you don't have that knife at your back. Trebuchets work for that, yes, but they are altogether pretty blasted expensive to build and slow to move. Whereas if you utilise, say, basically just a log with an iron head moved on a modified wagon, it should be pretty easy to both make enough for everyone and to transport.
- In forges scattered throughout the Dukedom, thick steel caps take shape on logs wrought from the living earth, while ropes crafted by flawless hands are secured into the roofed wagons. Given paint of black and green— your colors— and small barrels filled with ammo and weapons laced within, they are pretty impressive.
Sent down the river to join the rest of your forces, they are much help in cracking the dark fortresses of the vampires, crushing their gates and bringing down their walls.
Reward: +10 Battering Rams
Diplomacy: You see no fit reason to intrude upon the work of the Bard Jaune. If you are a shadow, he is a fire— obvious and bright and chaotic, but untouchable. He might call himself a fool— and certainly his dress might say such, too, especially that damned mask— but there's a mind like a steel trap fucked a particularly sharp tack and the resulting love child was raised by a particularly pacifistic Shallyan underneath all that purple and gold.
The New Guys On The Block: So, there is a new Duchy in Bretonnia. Exciting stuff. There is, however, one slight problem— since the Reign of the Rash, the Massif Orcal— now Montagneterre— has been thought of as a godless, soulless, heartless land filled with terrible things. That might be okay, except it is now a part of the kingdom— and if it is to remain of the kingdom, it must be an equal part.
They must be bonded, and you can do that. A Duke's words have weight, power, prestige; you can incentivize and propagandize; you can keep a kingdom strong.
- The deed is, well, done is not quite the right word for it, but your Husband's efforts have paid dividends; even now dozens of carts bearing oars, weapons, and other raw materials flow into the Massif like sieve, and in return oodles of materials rarer in Montfort-- raw lumber, food, pelts, that sort of thing-- flow down the slopes.
Also, Duke Judoc, in gratitude for you, essentially, engineering his leap to modernize, has sent a small number of his personal Coureur de Bois to your lands, to fight in your household.
Reward: Montagneterre, land of the Massif, is tightened together with the rest of the Nation. +600 Gold from Trading, +400 Gold from increased mining, +25 Coureur de Bois
Quenelles: A land of Fae and Greenskin and war. Quenelles has been rocked in ways few other peoples have been by the Orcs; indeed, there are entire festivals dedicated to burning a greenskin, either in effigy or in uncommon cases, a flesh and blood creature (It is, perhaps, for this reason that of all Duchies Quenelles is the closest to the Dwarfs); also of note are the inhumanly beautiful Fae that infest the lands. Perhaps the most famous feature is the Grave of Cuileux, where the doomed nobles of that land made their final stand— it is holy ground, where only fools would walk unnecessarily (naturally several parties of scholars from the Empire and Tilea have trespassed those grounds). Surely there is some trade they need, some desire they wish satiated?
Needed: 15 Rolled: 65
- There is one thing you know any poor son-of-a-bitch sharing land with Titania needs, and that is weapons. Silverine weapons, to be precise. Thick, double-headed axes; long arming swords, swift enough to slice the air; hammers, with backs long enough to almost be a knife. All of these and more flow into Quenelles from your lands, arming Knights Errant desperate for some defense against unfriendly spirits.
You suspect it is little coincidence that many Quenelles merchants end up passing through your lands.
Reward: +50 Gold in Mining, +50 Gold in trade, Closer relations with Quenelles
Stewardship: Kylian and his poison tongue do not return. Instead, Sir Yvain, who has long acted as the steward for the Knights Unbound, has presented several ideas to you, the blond taking time to settle into his position over the year. As you suspected, Yvain has settled into his position nicely, and has presented many ideas to you. Also, your herd of goats has finally expanded enough for you to partition a new herd for a different purpose— or expand the herd you already have making cheese.
Oh Hey, I Can Finally Use This: You've got… a lot of wyvern parts. Just a disgusting amount. Seriously, you can not overstate how many random wyvern bones and wyvern skins and whatever else even now sits as trophies in your Dukedom. You've used them as art, proudly displaying their skulls and their skins as marks of the greatness of your men.
You've always sworn that, if you had the time, you'd make use of them by turning them into leather armor and etc. your men can use— but enough experts for that to be anything but a curiosity would be very, very expensive, and you've always needed the armor for other, better things.
Well, now you've got tons of Dark Elf money you can spend guilt free on stuff.
Build the workshops, and they will come.
- Work continues. Four long towers to carry away the stench now jut from the slight building, piercing into the blue like spears.
That's Quarrelsome: Now that the Massif isn't spitting out monsters every five seconds, you are far less loathe to move people near the slopes; and because of that, there is now an area rich in stone that can be used to produce stone. It will take time and money— certainly, they are fairly far away from the center of your domain— but it can be done.
- Prospectors, armed with the tools of their trade, head out into the mountains looking for a workable site. Certainly there is something— it's a mountain, the whole thing is rock.
Eventually, a fairly large area bursting with slate is found. Not the most beautiful of materials, or the most expensive, but certainly still good rock for when your only desire is to get something built.
Reward: +200 Gold, -1 Year to Utilitarian Projects (Does not apply to cathedrals, chapels, art centers, etc)
Piety: You and Sir Aldric have reached an...uneasy peace, over years. When you first got here, and married Philip, he watched you like a hawk— wherever you disappeared to, he would know, and he would be there within minutes. It was like he knew exactly what you were, once upon a time— and perhaps he did, knowing the Lady of the Silverspire. Still, you can work with him.
River God: One of your rafts was sunk in the deeper parts of the Grismerie. All crew members escaped— it's probably a good thing you made sure they could all swim— but it set you to thinking: is there a god of the Grismerie?
It is, after all, one of the biggest rivers in Bretonnia. Its waters flow through more miles than any you can name off the top of your head— though admittedly, that doesn't say much.
In any case, it couldn't hurt to check.
Needed:30 Rolled:16
- You are a bit busy with Stuff— chief among them correspondence with potential teacher's for Leliana— and thus very slightly forget to check.
-Failure-
Shallyan Mercy: Adherents of the Lady and the cult of Shallya have always had an awkward relationship, owing to the many times people have tried to somehow make them two parts of the same goddess— when they quiet clearly are not. You're no expert, but you feel comfortable saying Shallya wouldn't much appreciate her adherents cutting down the ratmen, for instance.
Still, you refuse to let your people suffer for bullshit stupid personal reasons, and the more temples of Shallya you have, so too the more healers to render aid to them.
It'll be expensive, but worth it.
- The temples of Shallya that take shape are simple, simple things— scarcely more than well painted stone boxes, with slits acting as permanent windows. Flowers are grown inside them and around them to try and liven the places up, but at the end of the day they're still rather simple.
They do, however, work perfectly well as temples. Many women will live who would otherwise have bled out giving birth— though you did notice something strange. As you were checking the records, you saw many fewer births of beastmen; scarcely a handful, comparatively.
Learning: Once competitors, now friends, you and Nimue have taken up much of Philip's efforts while he is...indisposed. She, his former steward, writes the letters that must be written; while you handle the rest of the actual duty of rulership. Just after taking the reins of Regency is probably not the right time to try and introduce even a tenth of what was found in the Library— though even without introducing it, you can use it to make many of your husband's ideas easier.
What Are You?: Last year you received a fairly large book from the Fairy Queen, Mab; roughly the same dimensions as your torso, on casual thumb through it looks nothing more than a story book. But things are never quite the way they seem, and if anyone knows that it is Rose. She has sworn herself to getting to the bottom of this.
- Symbols have power. Images, shapes, ideas. They are one of the few things constant in a world ever changing. Every creature desires some stability; from the hoariest old dwarf yelling at you kids to get off his lawn; to man, short lived and seeking to make a legacy; to the elves, near eternal.
The fay, it seems, are not— or at least were not— exceptions. They really, really wanted their forests to stay pristine. They wanted that enough to make deals with the Knights of Bretonnia. And so with those knights they made...treaties. Promises. Oaths.
And eventually, they swore a part of their power— their eternal nature— into symbols: the heraldries of some of your most famous knights. Many of those fae who made deals are dead, casualties of this debased age. But not all, not all.
Not the crimson lord, whose home you invaded. Nikolai the Red, Kind-Spirit, yet lives; if he were freed he could give your people his oath, as he did so long ago.
You know how to cure him. You know where he is.
You're going to have to kill a fae spirit, but you can do it.
Reward: Potential to Access the ancient oaths and craft magical items
The College of Troubadours: To be a Troubadour is to be repository, knight, and storyteller in one. It is a noble calling, to remember all the grand stories that have come before and to use them to steel the spines of wavering souls, to strengthen the hearts of those falling, to embolden those fearful. But they are a rare breed, and rarer by the hour. If you would not see them fall, then something must be done, and you are just the man to do it.
- The trobadours are a noble group. They remember, when all others forget. They remember Duc Aldric The Bold, who forced Sigesmund the Bastard to withdraw his forces back across the Grismerie; Clovis the Victorious, who sent the Dark Elves fleeing back to their wretched home in a storm of fire that rocked their blood-soaked souls to the core; or Louise of the Valley, who fell upon the Greenskins with such a fury that even ages later, they say those abominable greenskins born in Bastonne would still rather hide in the Iranna Mountains than face her come again.
But if the trobadours die, if their ways are forgotten, then so too are these heroes. And that is unacceptable.
So you have found a spot of calm and quiet, where these men and women can learn the history of this land— both before and after the Lady.
Intrigue: It's always nice to work with professionals. Geoffroi might be paranoid, but there's no-one you'd trust more to keep down the Skaven. And while Ezekiel might be low-born, he does have a virtue many nobles ought consider gaining at some point— the virtue of keeping his mouth shut and listening.
Any Other Motha Wanna Go?: You broke your sister-in-law's little collection of rebels before they could too much damage, and many— if not most— have either died on the Quest or become Grail Knights. Still, people are...forgetful creatures. You leave them sans reminder for just a little decade, and suddenly everyone wants to have a go at the shadow knife. Well alright, let 'em have a go if they think they're hard enough.
Needed:20 Rolled:83
- It seems that, at some point, a little bird left you a little gift— a message written in blood.
Oh Yann, what have you been up to?
Reward: Snippet
Are You Fuckers Eating People Again?: The Court of Shadows has long held a grudge against Montfort, and most of the reasons you can think of make your head hurt with the temporal implications. Most importantly, though, over the past two or so years, a number of peasants have disappeared in the forests. You aren't saying it's your former mistress trying to get your attention, but at the same time you wouldn't be surprised.
Needed:50 Rolled:4+20=24
- She's done it. Not It— the big ritual, the one that will let her kill Athel Loren and take control of every spirit in the world— but the little it: Titania has managed to take the forests of Montfort. Not all of them, not even close— but many. Very many.
You didn't exactly learn in the best way, either...
You knew you would have to fight her, one day, but you did not think like this. And worse, alone.
"Reward": Discovered that fucker is, in fact, eating people, Interlude
Personal: You were not meant to be the power on the throne, alone. You've got this...strange habit of scaring people. Crazy, right? It's almost like pale skin, glowing green eyes, and raven hair make people think you're a vampire, or something.
Comfort Your Kids: Children are far more resilient than many people like to think— they can take hearing terrible news with a stoic face, given the chance. But just because they can take it, doesn't mean they should. Try and, if nothing else, distract them from the fact that Philip is away.
- It might feel almost worthless, considering what happens later, but you do manage to stop their tears for a time. Then they are too busy to be sad.
Reward: Kept kids from getting sad
Leliana's Education: While it's not as universal or respected as sending young men off to learn at the feet of their elders, many young ladies are sent to different fiefs and duchies to try and teach them valuable skills for a lady, up to but not limited to how to stab a man in total silence.
If nothing else, it's a good way for young women to get out of a Toxic Environment. Seriously, if your father had just sent you away, you probably wouldn't be known as Baba Yaga in Kislev.
1438
You are ejected from the mists like a raven-fletched arrow, the fog trailing behind you. Landing with a harsh thud, the mare you took from the Imperials lands hard on the soft mud. The soft clip-clop of horseshoes sinking into mud rings out as it makes its way through the fields towards your secret entrance.Popping open the gate bearing the mark of Saint Riquiard, you slide in, silent.
You make your way through the castle, towards the kids' rooms.
It's...silent. There is no sound of hard wood pounding into hard leather as soldiers drill under a watchful gaze; no sound of raucous merrymaking under a good duke's gaze; just the hard, cold sounds of a city.
You pop open the doors to the kids rooms. Leliana pops her red-head out, wearing a red dress. Justine, too, opens hers, wooden blade clad in hand. Charles— poor Charles— comes racing out, sure Philip will be there.
Leliana— perceptive, perceptive Leliana, looks around worried.
"Mother? Where is Father?"
It will be a very long time until you get to sleep that night.
Martial: You are not a warrior, not truly. The nearest you have come to a sword fight is betraying your friends; the closest you have come to battle slipping in and slitting the foe's throat. In your ideal world, you would never, ever, have to fight.
Fortunately for everyone, your husband did leave behind many, many, many ideas for you.
Refounding the Order: The old home of the Musketeers is found; the texts are located; people are available. Refounding the order will not finish until you are a man old and gray, perhaps, but starting that work is very possible. Very, very possible.
- You were stabbed, shot, blown up, and thrown into a damn rock in the search for archaeological records of where, when, and how the Musketeers fought. Like hell are you letting this fall into the pit of forgotten ideas, where passing notions are discarded.
Instead, an architect— an old friend— is hired to bring the old fortress back up to snuff, while weapons crafted of good, honest Montfortian steel and armor of leather and chain is prepared. Fit for a hundred soldiers, it will be a small group, first— but they will grow into it.
While the material is made ready, the core of this new group is also searched for. The best men-at-arms and yeomen, hoary old goats with nothing left to lose and bright young men born with nothing, are searched for...that will be the hardest part, honestly; many of your best and brightest even now battle in Mousillon.
Battering Rams: There are many minor castles, forts, and motte and baileys within Mousillon. Each of them is a veritable font of evil, spitting out bandits, vampires, cultists and worse. You will have to crack them open at some point, simply so that you don't have that knife at your back. Trebuchets work for that, yes, but they are altogether pretty blasted expensive to build and slow to move. Whereas if you utilise, say, basically just a log with an iron head moved on a modified wagon, it should be pretty easy to both make enough for everyone and to transport.
- In forges scattered throughout the Dukedom, thick steel caps take shape on logs wrought from the living earth, while ropes crafted by flawless hands are secured into the roofed wagons. Given paint of black and green— your colors— and small barrels filled with ammo and weapons laced within, they are pretty impressive.
Sent down the river to join the rest of your forces, they are much help in cracking the dark fortresses of the vampires, crushing their gates and bringing down their walls.
Reward: +10 Battering Rams
Diplomacy: You see no fit reason to intrude upon the work of the Bard Jaune. If you are a shadow, he is a fire— obvious and bright and chaotic, but untouchable. He might call himself a fool— and certainly his dress might say such, too, especially that damned mask— but there's a mind like a steel trap fucked a particularly sharp tack and the resulting love child was raised by a particularly pacifistic Shallyan underneath all that purple and gold.
The New Guys On The Block: So, there is a new Duchy in Bretonnia. Exciting stuff. There is, however, one slight problem— since the Reign of the Rash, the Massif Orcal— now Montagneterre— has been thought of as a godless, soulless, heartless land filled with terrible things. That might be okay, except it is now a part of the kingdom— and if it is to remain of the kingdom, it must be an equal part.
They must be bonded, and you can do that. A Duke's words have weight, power, prestige; you can incentivize and propagandize; you can keep a kingdom strong.
- The deed is, well, done is not quite the right word for it, but your Husband's efforts have paid dividends; even now dozens of carts bearing oars, weapons, and other raw materials flow into the Massif like sieve, and in return oodles of materials rarer in Montfort-- raw lumber, food, pelts, that sort of thing-- flow down the slopes.
Also, Duke Judoc, in gratitude for you, essentially, engineering his leap to modernize, has sent a small number of his personal Coureur de Bois to your lands, to fight in your household.
Reward: Montagneterre, land of the Massif, is tightened together with the rest of the Nation. +600 Gold from Trading, +400 Gold from increased mining, +25 Coureur de Bois
Quenelles: A land of Fae and Greenskin and war. Quenelles has been rocked in ways few other peoples have been by the Orcs; indeed, there are entire festivals dedicated to burning a greenskin, either in effigy or in uncommon cases, a flesh and blood creature (It is, perhaps, for this reason that of all Duchies Quenelles is the closest to the Dwarfs); also of note are the inhumanly beautiful Fae that infest the lands. Perhaps the most famous feature is the Grave of Cuileux, where the doomed nobles of that land made their final stand— it is holy ground, where only fools would walk unnecessarily (naturally several parties of scholars from the Empire and Tilea have trespassed those grounds). Surely there is some trade they need, some desire they wish satiated?
Needed: 15 Rolled: 65
- There is one thing you know any poor son-of-a-bitch sharing land with Titania needs, and that is weapons. Silverine weapons, to be precise. Thick, double-headed axes; long arming swords, swift enough to slice the air; hammers, with backs long enough to almost be a knife. All of these and more flow into Quenelles from your lands, arming Knights Errant desperate for some defense against unfriendly spirits.
You suspect it is little coincidence that many Quenelles merchants end up passing through your lands.
Reward: +50 Gold in Mining, +50 Gold in trade, Closer relations with Quenelles
Stewardship: Kylian and his poison tongue do not return. Instead, Sir Yvain, who has long acted as the steward for the Knights Unbound, has presented several ideas to you, the blond taking time to settle into his position over the year. As you suspected, Yvain has settled into his position nicely, and has presented many ideas to you. Also, your herd of goats has finally expanded enough for you to partition a new herd for a different purpose— or expand the herd you already have making cheese.
Oh Hey, I Can Finally Use This: You've got… a lot of wyvern parts. Just a disgusting amount. Seriously, you can not overstate how many random wyvern bones and wyvern skins and whatever else even now sits as trophies in your Dukedom. You've used them as art, proudly displaying their skulls and their skins as marks of the greatness of your men.
You've always sworn that, if you had the time, you'd make use of them by turning them into leather armor and etc. your men can use— but enough experts for that to be anything but a curiosity would be very, very expensive, and you've always needed the armor for other, better things.
Well, now you've got tons of Dark Elf money you can spend guilt free on stuff.
Build the workshops, and they will come.
- Work continues. Four long towers to carry away the stench now jut from the slight building, piercing into the blue like spears.
That's Quarrelsome: Now that the Massif isn't spitting out monsters every five seconds, you are far less loathe to move people near the slopes; and because of that, there is now an area rich in stone that can be used to produce stone. It will take time and money— certainly, they are fairly far away from the center of your domain— but it can be done.
- Prospectors, armed with the tools of their trade, head out into the mountains looking for a workable site. Certainly there is something— it's a mountain, the whole thing is rock.
Eventually, a fairly large area bursting with slate is found. Not the most beautiful of materials, or the most expensive, but certainly still good rock for when your only desire is to get something built.
Reward: +200 Gold, -1 Year to Utilitarian Projects (Does not apply to cathedrals, chapels, art centers, etc)
Piety: You and Sir Aldric have reached an...uneasy peace, over years. When you first got here, and married Philip, he watched you like a hawk— wherever you disappeared to, he would know, and he would be there within minutes. It was like he knew exactly what you were, once upon a time— and perhaps he did, knowing the Lady of the Silverspire. Still, you can work with him.
River God: One of your rafts was sunk in the deeper parts of the Grismerie. All crew members escaped— it's probably a good thing you made sure they could all swim— but it set you to thinking: is there a god of the Grismerie?
It is, after all, one of the biggest rivers in Bretonnia. Its waters flow through more miles than any you can name off the top of your head— though admittedly, that doesn't say much.
In any case, it couldn't hurt to check.
Needed:30 Rolled:16
- You are a bit busy with Stuff— chief among them correspondence with potential teacher's for Leliana— and thus very slightly forget to check.
-Failure-
Shallyan Mercy: Adherents of the Lady and the cult of Shallya have always had an awkward relationship, owing to the many times people have tried to somehow make them two parts of the same goddess— when they quiet clearly are not. You're no expert, but you feel comfortable saying Shallya wouldn't much appreciate her adherents cutting down the ratmen, for instance.
Still, you refuse to let your people suffer for bullshit stupid personal reasons, and the more temples of Shallya you have, so too the more healers to render aid to them.
It'll be expensive, but worth it.
- The temples of Shallya that take shape are simple, simple things— scarcely more than well painted stone boxes, with slits acting as permanent windows. Flowers are grown inside them and around them to try and liven the places up, but at the end of the day they're still rather simple.
They do, however, work perfectly well as temples. Many women will live who would otherwise have bled out giving birth— though you did notice something strange. As you were checking the records, you saw many fewer births of beastmen; scarcely a handful, comparatively.
Learning: Once competitors, now friends, you and Nimue have taken up much of Philip's efforts while he is...indisposed. She, his former steward, writes the letters that must be written; while you handle the rest of the actual duty of rulership. Just after taking the reins of Regency is probably not the right time to try and introduce even a tenth of what was found in the Library— though even without introducing it, you can use it to make many of your husband's ideas easier.
What Are You?: Last year you received a fairly large book from the Fairy Queen, Mab; roughly the same dimensions as your torso, on casual thumb through it looks nothing more than a story book. But things are never quite the way they seem, and if anyone knows that it is Rose. She has sworn herself to getting to the bottom of this.
- Symbols have power. Images, shapes, ideas. They are one of the few things constant in a world ever changing. Every creature desires some stability; from the hoariest old dwarf yelling at you kids to get off his lawn; to man, short lived and seeking to make a legacy; to the elves, near eternal.
The fay, it seems, are not— or at least were not— exceptions. They really, really wanted their forests to stay pristine. They wanted that enough to make deals with the Knights of Bretonnia. And so with those knights they made...treaties. Promises. Oaths.
And eventually, they swore a part of their power— their eternal nature— into symbols: the heraldries of some of your most famous knights. Many of those fae who made deals are dead, casualties of this debased age. But not all, not all.
Not the crimson lord, whose home you invaded. Nikolai the Red, Kind-Spirit, yet lives; if he were freed he could give your people his oath, as he did so long ago.
You know how to cure him. You know where he is.
You're going to have to kill a fae spirit, but you can do it.
Reward: Potential to Access the ancient oaths and craft magical items
The College of Troubadours: To be a Troubadour is to be repository, knight, and storyteller in one. It is a noble calling, to remember all the grand stories that have come before and to use them to steel the spines of wavering souls, to strengthen the hearts of those falling, to embolden those fearful. But they are a rare breed, and rarer by the hour. If you would not see them fall, then something must be done, and you are just the man to do it.
- The trobadours are a noble group. They remember, when all others forget. They remember Duc Aldric The Bold, who forced Sigesmund the Bastard to withdraw his forces back across the Grismerie; Clovis the Victorious, who sent the Dark Elves fleeing back to their wretched home in a storm of fire that rocked their blood-soaked souls to the core; or Louise of the Valley, who fell upon the Greenskins with such a fury that even ages later, they say those abominable greenskins born in Bastonne would still rather hide in the Iranna Mountains than face her come again.
But if the trobadours die, if their ways are forgotten, then so too are these heroes. And that is unacceptable.
So you have found a spot of calm and quiet, where these men and women can learn the history of this land— both before and after the Lady.
Intrigue: It's always nice to work with professionals. Geoffroi might be paranoid, but there's no-one you'd trust more to keep down the Skaven. And while Ezekiel might be low-born, he does have a virtue many nobles ought consider gaining at some point— the virtue of keeping his mouth shut and listening.
Any Other Motha Wanna Go?: You broke your sister-in-law's little collection of rebels before they could too much damage, and many— if not most— have either died on the Quest or become Grail Knights. Still, people are...forgetful creatures. You leave them sans reminder for just a little decade, and suddenly everyone wants to have a go at the shadow knife. Well alright, let 'em have a go if they think they're hard enough.
Needed:20 Rolled:83
- It seems that, at some point, a little bird left you a little gift— a message written in blood.
Oh Yann, what have you been up to?
Reward: Snippet
Are You Fuckers Eating People Again?: The Court of Shadows has long held a grudge against Montfort, and most of the reasons you can think of make your head hurt with the temporal implications. Most importantly, though, over the past two or so years, a number of peasants have disappeared in the forests. You aren't saying it's your former mistress trying to get your attention, but at the same time you wouldn't be surprised.
Needed:50 Rolled:4+20=24
- She's done it. Not It— the big ritual, the one that will let her kill Athel Loren and take control of every spirit in the world— but the little it: Titania has managed to take the forests of Montfort. Not all of them, not even close— but many. Very many.
You didn't exactly learn in the best way, either...
You knew you would have to fight her, one day, but you did not think like this. And worse, alone.
"Reward": Discovered that fucker is, in fact, eating people, Interlude
Personal: You were not meant to be the power on the throne, alone. You've got this...strange habit of scaring people. Crazy, right? It's almost like pale skin, glowing green eyes, and raven hair make people think you're a vampire, or something.
Comfort Your Kids: Children are far more resilient than many people like to think— they can take hearing terrible news with a stoic face, given the chance. But just because they can take it, doesn't mean they should. Try and, if nothing else, distract them from the fact that Philip is away.
- It might feel almost worthless, considering what happens later, but you do manage to stop their tears for a time. Then they are too busy to be sad.
Reward: Kept kids from getting sad
Leliana's Education: While it's not as universal or respected as sending young men off to learn at the feet of their elders, many young ladies are sent to different fiefs and duchies to try and teach them valuable skills for a lady, up to but not limited to how to stab a man in total silence.
If nothing else, it's a good way for young women to get out of a Toxic Environment. Seriously, if your father had just sent you away, you probably wouldn't be known as Baba Yaga in Kislev.
- Three ladies of proper standing and good taste open their doors to you in the early spring, volunteering to finish Leliana's education— and getting her out of Montfort for the Winter.
--
First The Thing, then Leliana's Fosters
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Hoo boy, that's not good. Though at least it wasn't a crit fail, and we might be able to stop her with what we know now.
Also, I might be wrong, but shouldn't The New Guys On The Block be finished? It was 4 turns long and we started it Turn 12 so I think it should have been completed this turn.
Also, I might be wrong, but shouldn't The New Guys On The Block be finished? It was 4 turns long and we started it Turn 12 so I think it should have been completed this turn.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I've said it before, I'll say it again.
Fecking Fae.
Fecking Fae.
The Foe
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Foe
Your armor shuffles as you walk, chainmail jingling. Your thick cloak runs against the marble floor, manticore skin surprisingly soft after the dwarfs treated it.
You brood as you walk through the halls; your protege's children sleep soundly, safe. The woman of shadows, the Fae Killer, the Winter Betrayer, rests uneasy, hearing the drums of war; her blood stained hands clench her knives, hoping to arrest the disaster.
It is not often you are called away from the Monastery, these days; you have seen those walls more than you have seen your mother. But a deep, deep fire in your belly, the Lady's warning to you, burns as a bonfire; something wicked this way comes.
Dark spirits-- not just those of the Vampires, may they fall to the warp, or Chaos, may its death come swift. Something new, and foul, burns in the air; the Lady's land is tainted, assaulted, by befouled things.
You hear a creak and are instantly on guard. Your fist wraps around your hilt-- and then something moves when it shouldn't have.
Bringing the mace down, you crush the thing with a single move. It rustles as it dies, power burning out under the blessed gromril of your weapon; the Lady's might plucks it away.
Lifting up your weapon, you see it was an incarnate spirit best described as a spider, except at least as long as your arm and with the eyes of a man.
Brushing it off, you prepare to call for the Damsel Rose in order that you might put this thing down; but before you can you hear a girl's scream. Plans are discarded as you run through the hall, headed for the door, ignoring skittering things that race under foot.
Seeing the door you bash it open with a single blow of your mace, crushing it to splinter; and there, standing above Justine with the tail of a stinger lies a flying beast that looks a bat, but bearing the legs of a man from the...waist?...down.
Leaping, you crash into the spirit, and using its body break through the stained glass window. You hang suspended in the air like two mighty birds, and the whole world slows down; the glimmering glass, twinkling like tears in the Lady's moon, arcs with you.
Then you begin to fall, cool air flowing past you like streams of water. Grabbing your dagger, you stab the beast once, twice, thrice, again and again filleting into its head.
Then you crash, hitting the dwarf made roads with a crunch. It takes much the worse fall-- three hundred pounds of Grail Knight crashing into you, backed by a road carved from the stuff of mountains-- but you hit hard too. One arm shatters, cracking with an ungodly sound; your armor breaks, and you shrug it off; and you can't feel one whole side of your ribs.
You hear a batting of wings, and looking up you see a cavalcade of terrifying things crawled out of the nightmares of everyone or everything that ever lived. Shadows in the shape of wyrms, spiders ridden by spirits of fire, undulating masses that can no more decide a shape than you can to breathe, and more beside stand before you, blood-thirsty, mindless.
Before you can react, something raises an arm and a piece of glass shaped like a spear fires. It punches through your ribs, and out your back, sliding through the ruined armor.
The world freezes. There is one of you, and at least the better part of a hundred foes in front of you. If you stay still, the Damsel might be capable of saving you; the damage would not be so bad. They have all the powers of their Dark Mistress, incarnated on this the base earth.
Behind you are two kids sans protectors.
You stand, slowly. Every move is agony as you shift the glass around in you, and it slows you, drastically; it's very hard to move with a chunk of anything stuck in you.
So, gripping it in your good hand, you pull, slowly. It comes out with the sound of meat being chopped, and your vision goes dark at the corners as something is pulled out with it.
You breathe once, then heft your mace. "I have no chance. My life is forfeit; I go to my Lady, glad." You take a step forward, grinning madly under your now ruined helmet. "Let me go carrying her name on my lips, won't you?"
Then you launch into battle by smacking away a saber that hisses like a snake before smacking a head. Whipping around you swat away one of the lesser spirits contemptuously, sending it flying into an armory; seeing his chance, one of the men-at-arms stabs it dead.
The pulse of blood quickens in your heart; you become steel and death and fire. The curse of Bjorn the Betrayer flows through you like lightning; but you do not deny it, or fear it, this time.
This time your world becomes the crashing of steel and the jingle of mail, the shattering of lances on rocky hide and the spilling of blood in snow-tipped mountains. It is the moon lighting your way--
The stink of death becomes the odor of battle,
The call of the wounded becomes the fears of the weak.
You rip into them with savagery, and force, and terror. You think your mace breaks at one point, so you switch to your hand; claws rip and tear into you, poison courses through you, and you feel arteries open.
You welcome them with laughter, righteous things flowing from your lips like grace from the Lady. You leave behind the fear of death and take on the wrath of the dying.
You only really properly come to your senses when the last of your foes stands before you, limbs broken. You bring your mace down on his head, then fall, the blackness consumes your vision, and the last thing you hear as Aldric the Norseborn, Herder of Strays, is a voice like lightning and thunder flowing through your ear, telling you peace.
Then everything becomes...Green.
--
Aldric the Norseborn, Grail Knight, Champion of Montfort, and Second Father, dies in battle.
-1 Opinion from all quarters for Morgyan's Regency, must locate new Piety Advisor
Your armor shuffles as you walk, chainmail jingling. Your thick cloak runs against the marble floor, manticore skin surprisingly soft after the dwarfs treated it.
You brood as you walk through the halls; your protege's children sleep soundly, safe. The woman of shadows, the Fae Killer, the Winter Betrayer, rests uneasy, hearing the drums of war; her blood stained hands clench her knives, hoping to arrest the disaster.
It is not often you are called away from the Monastery, these days; you have seen those walls more than you have seen your mother. But a deep, deep fire in your belly, the Lady's warning to you, burns as a bonfire; something wicked this way comes.
Dark spirits-- not just those of the Vampires, may they fall to the warp, or Chaos, may its death come swift. Something new, and foul, burns in the air; the Lady's land is tainted, assaulted, by befouled things.
You hear a creak and are instantly on guard. Your fist wraps around your hilt-- and then something moves when it shouldn't have.
Bringing the mace down, you crush the thing with a single move. It rustles as it dies, power burning out under the blessed gromril of your weapon; the Lady's might plucks it away.
Lifting up your weapon, you see it was an incarnate spirit best described as a spider, except at least as long as your arm and with the eyes of a man.
Brushing it off, you prepare to call for the Damsel Rose in order that you might put this thing down; but before you can you hear a girl's scream. Plans are discarded as you run through the hall, headed for the door, ignoring skittering things that race under foot.
Seeing the door you bash it open with a single blow of your mace, crushing it to splinter; and there, standing above Justine with the tail of a stinger lies a flying beast that looks a bat, but bearing the legs of a man from the...waist?...down.
Leaping, you crash into the spirit, and using its body break through the stained glass window. You hang suspended in the air like two mighty birds, and the whole world slows down; the glimmering glass, twinkling like tears in the Lady's moon, arcs with you.
Then you begin to fall, cool air flowing past you like streams of water. Grabbing your dagger, you stab the beast once, twice, thrice, again and again filleting into its head.
Then you crash, hitting the dwarf made roads with a crunch. It takes much the worse fall-- three hundred pounds of Grail Knight crashing into you, backed by a road carved from the stuff of mountains-- but you hit hard too. One arm shatters, cracking with an ungodly sound; your armor breaks, and you shrug it off; and you can't feel one whole side of your ribs.
You hear a batting of wings, and looking up you see a cavalcade of terrifying things crawled out of the nightmares of everyone or everything that ever lived. Shadows in the shape of wyrms, spiders ridden by spirits of fire, undulating masses that can no more decide a shape than you can to breathe, and more beside stand before you, blood-thirsty, mindless.
Before you can react, something raises an arm and a piece of glass shaped like a spear fires. It punches through your ribs, and out your back, sliding through the ruined armor.
The world freezes. There is one of you, and at least the better part of a hundred foes in front of you. If you stay still, the Damsel might be capable of saving you; the damage would not be so bad. They have all the powers of their Dark Mistress, incarnated on this the base earth.
Behind you are two kids sans protectors.
You stand, slowly. Every move is agony as you shift the glass around in you, and it slows you, drastically; it's very hard to move with a chunk of anything stuck in you.
So, gripping it in your good hand, you pull, slowly. It comes out with the sound of meat being chopped, and your vision goes dark at the corners as something is pulled out with it.
You breathe once, then heft your mace. "I have no chance. My life is forfeit; I go to my Lady, glad." You take a step forward, grinning madly under your now ruined helmet. "Let me go carrying her name on my lips, won't you?"
Then you launch into battle by smacking away a saber that hisses like a snake before smacking a head. Whipping around you swat away one of the lesser spirits contemptuously, sending it flying into an armory; seeing his chance, one of the men-at-arms stabs it dead.
The pulse of blood quickens in your heart; you become steel and death and fire. The curse of Bjorn the Betrayer flows through you like lightning; but you do not deny it, or fear it, this time.
This time your world becomes the crashing of steel and the jingle of mail, the shattering of lances on rocky hide and the spilling of blood in snow-tipped mountains. It is the moon lighting your way--
The stink of death becomes the odor of battle,
The call of the wounded becomes the fears of the weak.
You rip into them with savagery, and force, and terror. You think your mace breaks at one point, so you switch to your hand; claws rip and tear into you, poison courses through you, and you feel arteries open.
You welcome them with laughter, righteous things flowing from your lips like grace from the Lady. You leave behind the fear of death and take on the wrath of the dying.
You only really properly come to your senses when the last of your foes stands before you, limbs broken. You bring your mace down on his head, then fall, the blackness consumes your vision, and the last thing you hear as Aldric the Norseborn, Herder of Strays, is a voice like lightning and thunder flowing through your ear, telling you peace.
Then everything becomes...Green.
--
Aldric the Norseborn, Grail Knight, Champion of Montfort, and Second Father, dies in battle.
-1 Opinion from all quarters for Morgyan's Regency, must locate new Piety Advisor
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A Tilean? Just what we needed, more tensions.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Fuuuuck. That's annoying.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
If nothing else, he died in combat, he would've wanted that.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Potential Educators
Leliana goes off into the great unknown, seeking to learn at the feet of those more learned than her. While, yes, the vast majority of traits are more important than the few, some times the oddest things can rub off.
Anatole Of Aquitane
Wife of Duke Gorlois, not much has changed in the years since she offered hand to Philip besides training under the Mademoiselles, having a few kids and, oh yeah, ending a war.
Traits:
Kind: She's quite nice. (+2 Diplomacy, -2 Intrigue)
Trusting: She puts her faith in others. (+2 Diplomacy, -2 Intrigue)
Charitable: Gives unto other as she wishes to be given unto. (+3 Diplomacy)
Attractive: Even older than you, she can still turn heads. (+1 Diplomacy)
Mademoiselle: One of those rare members of the Sisterhoods, she has sworn to be in all ways lady-like: humble, of good-cheer, and fearless. (+3 Piety, +3 Learning)
Léontine D'Agincourt
The sister of Rose the Damsel and wife of the Baron Blanc, she has earned a reputation as a scholar and artist, working to create some beauty in these mountains.
Traits:
Artist: A classically trained artist, her body of work is mostly concerned with happier subjects-- life over death, Lady over evil, that sort of thing. (+3 Learning, +2 Stewardship, +1 Diplomacy)
Scholar: She studies many matters, from math, to science, to history, to theology. (+3 Learning)
Architect: She has crafted many works in the mountains-- many of them nothing less than austere pillars striking the sky. (+3 Stewardship)
Poet: She has composed several tales describing the history of Montfort's heroes. (+1 Diplomacy)
Allix de Carcassone
A spy, mistress of shadows, and scout, she has been instrumental in providing actionable intelligence to the Crusade; it's not often vampires are the ones caught with their pants down (Metaphorically) but it's easier with Silverine. Speaking as one professional of another, she's very good. Not as good as you, but good.
I Know People: She has her fingers in more than a few pies. (+3 Intrigue)
Schemer: Does it still count as scheming if she's doing it for good?
Diligent: There is no replacement for good, honest work. (+1 All Stats)
Temperate: Professionals have standards, damn it. (+2 Stewardship)
Leliana goes off into the great unknown, seeking to learn at the feet of those more learned than her. While, yes, the vast majority of traits are more important than the few, some times the oddest things can rub off.
Anatole Of Aquitane
Traits:
Kind: She's quite nice. (+2 Diplomacy, -2 Intrigue)
Trusting: She puts her faith in others. (+2 Diplomacy, -2 Intrigue)
Charitable: Gives unto other as she wishes to be given unto. (+3 Diplomacy)
Attractive: Even older than you, she can still turn heads. (+1 Diplomacy)
Mademoiselle: One of those rare members of the Sisterhoods, she has sworn to be in all ways lady-like: humble, of good-cheer, and fearless. (+3 Piety, +3 Learning)
Léontine D'Agincourt
The sister of Rose the Damsel and wife of the Baron Blanc, she has earned a reputation as a scholar and artist, working to create some beauty in these mountains.
Traits:
Artist: A classically trained artist, her body of work is mostly concerned with happier subjects-- life over death, Lady over evil, that sort of thing. (+3 Learning, +2 Stewardship, +1 Diplomacy)
Scholar: She studies many matters, from math, to science, to history, to theology. (+3 Learning)
Architect: She has crafted many works in the mountains-- many of them nothing less than austere pillars striking the sky. (+3 Stewardship)
Poet: She has composed several tales describing the history of Montfort's heroes. (+1 Diplomacy)
Allix de Carcassone
I Know People: She has her fingers in more than a few pies. (+3 Intrigue)
Schemer: Does it still count as scheming if she's doing it for good?
Diligent: There is no replacement for good, honest work. (+1 All Stats)
Temperate: Professionals have standards, damn it. (+2 Stewardship)
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Aburg7
Just another Gundam(WIng) Pilot
- Location
- A land called Honahlee
what are you opinions on the other two?