Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I mean, TBH I was thinking the Nazi Elves would be the big problem after Mousillon, but I mean, if you'd like I'm sure I can come up with something.
Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
Thebluemage
The Wall
- Location
- I wish I knew
Sounds great, actually. Maybe throw in some ornery ratmen trying to take advantage of the chaos, too.
GhostKing 666
Bringing Nightmares to life evey minute
Nazi elves are bad, but they don't really have the ability to level half the Empire like Grom's Waaagh did. For one they just plan lack the numbers to pull something like that off even if William wasn't the type to cut them off at Blackfire Pass instead of letting them pass into the Empire's heartland like Dieter IV let Grom do.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
Let's not tempt fate while the Dark Elves have the chance of churning out some sort of horrific Chaos Champion Superweapon Monster Thing....
In Foulest Mousillon
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
In Foulest Mousillon
The Imperial forces milled about the camp, readying pikes and shields, sharpening blades and pounding armor back into shape. Small tents were lain around the massive road as around them, in the foul, woody swamps and marshes, dark creatures birthed of foulest magic stirred in their ancient slumber, awoken by the will of the Witch Nicolete.
Before them, an the walls of her keep stretched high, fashioned of the fell wood of the swamp-- but guarded by men and monsters alike, impenetrable without siege equipment; non-existent siege equipment.
Godfrey was distracted, beating at wooden dummies; his blade, Imperial steel given to him by one of the knights, bit deep into the cheap ash.
Whipping around, he caught a club on the cheap shield. He laughed-- only to wheeze and fall over as an untipped arrow slammed into his back, sending a resounding thud through the clearing as the leather was struck.
Landing in the cheap mud, Godfrey felt the muck stick to his hair, and let himself deflate as a long held breath left him. He heard metal boots sliding through the filth. "Grandson. You have fallen."
Godfrey lifted his head up from the dirt and fixed the Duke with a glare. "I noticed."
"Do you know why you fell?"
"Because you had one of your men shoot me."
"No. You fell because you ignored your flank to protect your already safe front. Your sword was already blocking that club's path; on the off chance it had not been stopped, your leather could have taken-"
Before Lafayette could continue his lesson, a horn sounded in the deep, a malefic thing, a dark note roaring through the air. Creatures stirred on the road, tearing gouges in the crushed down mud that served as entrance.
"Stay here." Drawing his axe, the aged knight jogged towards where the soldiers were forming a shield wall, moving gracefully through the muck.
Rising up, Godfrey grabbed his blade and wiped some of the mud and filth off from his leather armor. His face was scrunched in concentration-- until finally the white castle of Montfort and the Stag of Gisoreux alike were cleaned of the mud. Smiling, he finally looked up-- only to see that in the bogs beyond the road, bubbles were forming as creatures stirred.
Looking, he saw that the knights, both Imperial and Bretonnian, were occupied fighting off the risen dead from the front.
Further in the camp, though, there were still squires-- sharpening blades, pounding dents from armor, and preparing tonight's meal-- hidden from the enemy view.
"Squires! To me!"
It had the effect he desired-- looking up, and seeing the rising morass, they too grabbed what live steel they could find and raced to join him, while those too young for the field or sans weapon prepared to defend the camp.
A quick headcount gave him ten squires by his side, each with their own weapons.
Just as the last flitted into view, the risen dead finally burst from the water. Bursting from the water, twenty skeletons, dripping the still waters from their forms and bony hands clutching rusty weapons, began to march for the camp, and the Knights.
Plenty of the squires around him drew back in fear, only for Godfrey's voice to ring out, "It's just like we practiced, lads, just like we practiced!" And though it wavered and cracked, perhaps in fear or perhaps from age, the comfort of familiarity gave them yet enough steel to stand.
Gripping their weapons and shields, they formed a wall, and giving silent prayers to the Lady, stepped out into the marsh, and found that it was thigh deep on them. Marching slowly, they raised their weapon high and made for the mob of skeletons.
Perhaps it was seconds, maybe minutes-- but hands shaking, and shields forward, they reached the skeletons.
The undead attacked first, rusted, foul blades and hammers. A cacophony emerged as thuds rang out, as the twenty blades rose and fell. It reached a fever pitch, a tempo like galloping horses--
Until finally one of the squires, wielding a mace, brought it down on the undead's head. The skull shattered under the force, sending bones shards flying everywhere-- and what was left of it simply dropped.
And that did it. Finally the squires had their opportunity. Maces, axes, and swords alike swung and fell with the rhythm of lumberjacks, cracking bone and destroying the enemy. Not every wound meant cessation-- plenty of the grinning skulls marched on despite the loss of arms and legs, still grimly hacking at the squires.
Godfrey, too, was slashing-- his blade was biting into the bones of the risen dead, splitting skulls and spines.
Finally, he was cornered by two of the unrestful dead. They stood before him, blades raised--
and in a flash they fell. The rusted blades plunged towards his neck, searching for the opening in the leather. The shining steel moved, trailing the marsh water in great, fat droplets. His shield, though, remained at his side-
a decision proven wise as an arrow flew from the battlements of Oisment, raven fetched and tipped in wrought iron. The alder-wood jerked into position, the blade caught the iron--
and with a thud the arrow sunk into the wood. Its iron head protruded out through the wood. Not a moment later, one of the glittering, steel tipped arrows of the Empire, scything through the air like some terrible hawk, punched through the archer's gorget.
As that happened and the archer plummeted to the earth, Godfrey's sword gave an ungodly screech as the ancient metal was run across it. Forced into the dirt, the skeleton blade was trapped within the deceptively soft earth.
Not a moment later the other skeleton blade struck his leather pauldron. The animal hide caught the blade and held it tight, trapped within the material.
Punching through the skeleton's skull with his blade, Godfrey dispatched one, then flourishing the sword as he pulled it free, split the spine of the other.
--
So yeah. Another goddamn hundred.
Mousillon, why are you such a disappointment?
The Imperial forces milled about the camp, readying pikes and shields, sharpening blades and pounding armor back into shape. Small tents were lain around the massive road as around them, in the foul, woody swamps and marshes, dark creatures birthed of foulest magic stirred in their ancient slumber, awoken by the will of the Witch Nicolete.
Before them, an the walls of her keep stretched high, fashioned of the fell wood of the swamp-- but guarded by men and monsters alike, impenetrable without siege equipment; non-existent siege equipment.
Godfrey was distracted, beating at wooden dummies; his blade, Imperial steel given to him by one of the knights, bit deep into the cheap ash.
Whipping around, he caught a club on the cheap shield. He laughed-- only to wheeze and fall over as an untipped arrow slammed into his back, sending a resounding thud through the clearing as the leather was struck.
Landing in the cheap mud, Godfrey felt the muck stick to his hair, and let himself deflate as a long held breath left him. He heard metal boots sliding through the filth. "Grandson. You have fallen."
Godfrey lifted his head up from the dirt and fixed the Duke with a glare. "I noticed."
"Do you know why you fell?"
"Because you had one of your men shoot me."
"No. You fell because you ignored your flank to protect your already safe front. Your sword was already blocking that club's path; on the off chance it had not been stopped, your leather could have taken-"
Before Lafayette could continue his lesson, a horn sounded in the deep, a malefic thing, a dark note roaring through the air. Creatures stirred on the road, tearing gouges in the crushed down mud that served as entrance.
"Stay here." Drawing his axe, the aged knight jogged towards where the soldiers were forming a shield wall, moving gracefully through the muck.
Rising up, Godfrey grabbed his blade and wiped some of the mud and filth off from his leather armor. His face was scrunched in concentration-- until finally the white castle of Montfort and the Stag of Gisoreux alike were cleaned of the mud. Smiling, he finally looked up-- only to see that in the bogs beyond the road, bubbles were forming as creatures stirred.
Looking, he saw that the knights, both Imperial and Bretonnian, were occupied fighting off the risen dead from the front.
Further in the camp, though, there were still squires-- sharpening blades, pounding dents from armor, and preparing tonight's meal-- hidden from the enemy view.
"Squires! To me!"
It had the effect he desired-- looking up, and seeing the rising morass, they too grabbed what live steel they could find and raced to join him, while those too young for the field or sans weapon prepared to defend the camp.
A quick headcount gave him ten squires by his side, each with their own weapons.
Just as the last flitted into view, the risen dead finally burst from the water. Bursting from the water, twenty skeletons, dripping the still waters from their forms and bony hands clutching rusty weapons, began to march for the camp, and the Knights.
Plenty of the squires around him drew back in fear, only for Godfrey's voice to ring out, "It's just like we practiced, lads, just like we practiced!" And though it wavered and cracked, perhaps in fear or perhaps from age, the comfort of familiarity gave them yet enough steel to stand.
Gripping their weapons and shields, they formed a wall, and giving silent prayers to the Lady, stepped out into the marsh, and found that it was thigh deep on them. Marching slowly, they raised their weapon high and made for the mob of skeletons.
Perhaps it was seconds, maybe minutes-- but hands shaking, and shields forward, they reached the skeletons.
The undead attacked first, rusted, foul blades and hammers. A cacophony emerged as thuds rang out, as the twenty blades rose and fell. It reached a fever pitch, a tempo like galloping horses--
Until finally one of the squires, wielding a mace, brought it down on the undead's head. The skull shattered under the force, sending bones shards flying everywhere-- and what was left of it simply dropped.
And that did it. Finally the squires had their opportunity. Maces, axes, and swords alike swung and fell with the rhythm of lumberjacks, cracking bone and destroying the enemy. Not every wound meant cessation-- plenty of the grinning skulls marched on despite the loss of arms and legs, still grimly hacking at the squires.
Godfrey, too, was slashing-- his blade was biting into the bones of the risen dead, splitting skulls and spines.
Finally, he was cornered by two of the unrestful dead. They stood before him, blades raised--
and in a flash they fell. The rusted blades plunged towards his neck, searching for the opening in the leather. The shining steel moved, trailing the marsh water in great, fat droplets. His shield, though, remained at his side-
a decision proven wise as an arrow flew from the battlements of Oisment, raven fetched and tipped in wrought iron. The alder-wood jerked into position, the blade caught the iron--
and with a thud the arrow sunk into the wood. Its iron head protruded out through the wood. Not a moment later, one of the glittering, steel tipped arrows of the Empire, scything through the air like some terrible hawk, punched through the archer's gorget.
As that happened and the archer plummeted to the earth, Godfrey's sword gave an ungodly screech as the ancient metal was run across it. Forced into the dirt, the skeleton blade was trapped within the deceptively soft earth.
Not a moment later the other skeleton blade struck his leather pauldron. The animal hide caught the blade and held it tight, trapped within the material.
Punching through the skeleton's skull with his blade, Godfrey dispatched one, then flourishing the sword as he pulled it free, split the spine of the other.
--
So yeah. Another goddamn hundred.
Mousillon, why are you such a disappointment?
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The Lady is with us
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wilhelm the Second, Death of Dieter, doom of Greenskin, Defier of the Dark, blah blah, you get the idea.
He killed Dieter in a duel after that wastrel attacked a Bretonnian serving maid as the two were on business.
What calendar are we using to count time?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bretonnian.
977 Year difference between it and the Imperial Calendar.
- Location
- West Michigan
This is why we choose MAXIMUM CHIVALRY every time. It works.The Lady is with us
- Location
- Brazil
I never thought a literal white-knight quest could be this good.
Bravo.
Bravo.
Aburg7
Just another Gundam(WIng) Pilot
- Location
- A land called Honahlee
being good can sometimes pay off
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
See, the thing you gotta do, if you wanna write a good Bretonnian quest, is realize that 'White-Knighting' is just the widely adopted, edgelord originated name for "not being a shithead", and then have your protagonists go merrily down that path.
(It helps, I think, that unlike GW I do not feel the need to make literally every second of every minute of hour of every day a hellish new defeat for everyone not part of Destruction (And sometimes the Empire))
Aburg7
Just another Gundam(WIng) Pilot
- Location
- A land called Honahlee
that's a little harsh on games workshop but you are not wrong
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
If Games Workshop does not want me being harsh, then they should not unsatisfactorily wipe out my preferred faction, remove us from the game, stick our fluff with people who hate everything it should be, and make us the Empire's sidekick.
Aburg7
Just another Gundam(WIng) Pilot
- Location
- A land called Honahlee
I did say you were not wrong you know
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I know. I just wanted to get something off my chest that's been there for a while.
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- Location
- Australia
I am interested in hearing a full history lesson from you on this subject.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The fluff was reduced from "actually decent human beings who like, aren't total pieces of shit and even have court wizards and stuff" to consistently being, essentially "lol honor, lol Dark Ages, Lol savages, lol the Empire is so much smarter and more pragmatical"-- when the Empire can kill a goddamn Grail Knight by shooting him in the back in the middle of a duel and face no repercussions, that's some wanky goddamn bullshit. (I will freely admit to taking that set-up for Pierre, but, you know, the Empire apologized by sending a small fortune in griffin eggs and weapons to the Duke of Gisoreux-- and even then relations were very, very frosty until Philip beat the ever-loving man shit out of the General who gave the order)
Then in End Times you've got the fuckery where The Lady of the Lake is Lileath (Yes I know that idea came up earlier, but simply because it came up earlier doesn't make it any less stupid) because "lol stupid knights", or Mallobaude and most of the nobility becoming vampires and somehow managing to defeat Louen (AKA the Charlemagne to Gilles' Arthur) which was just the culmination of a series of Bretonnian characters getting shit on for the plot, or Bretonnia getting taken out by a plague instead of something, you know, badass? No grand final march against the forces of Darkness, no Cavalry charges so large even the Bastards of Chaos are hard-pressed to fend it off, no falling upon evil like the mailled fist of justice-- just "cough cough, now your entire country's basically dead except the part that ran off to the Empire because of fucking-course-they-did". And this is after they didn't update the damn army books for two fucking editions.
And then, in
Age Of Sigmar (AKA how can we fap the Empire even goddamn more), instead of doing something cool and new and having Bretonnia returning to its roots under the command of Gilles and the Lady, they have instead...disappeared. (Headcanon that Gilles is basically roaming throughout the realms in this new, damnable world, trying to find new Companions and rebuild the Kingdom That Was)Obviously this is not even close to a full history of Bretonnia, but it is, I feel, a pretty good if non-exhaustive list of reasons why Bretonnia fans should basically just ignore literally everything written about the kingdom after Sixth Edition.
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GhostKing 666
Bringing Nightmares to life evey minute
At least they did something to Bretonnia. Estalia, Tilea and Araby all got killed off offscreen. And while Cathay managed to survive like badassess we still haven't heard anything about them, not that we knew all that much anyway since GW never did anything with them. Hell did End Times ever say how Ind, Nippon and Khuresh died? Or even mention them at all?The fluff was reduced from "actually decent human beings who like, aren't total pieces of shit and even have court wizards and stuff" to consistently being, essentially "lol honor, lol Dark Ages, Lol savages, lol the Empire is so much smarter and more pragmatical"-- when the Empire can kill a goddamn Grail Knight by shooting him in the back in the middle of a duel and face no repercussions, that's some wanky goddamn bullshit. (I will freely admit to taking that set-up for Pierre, but, you know, the Empire apologized by sending a small fortune in griffin eggs and weapons to the Duke of Giseroux-- and even then relations were very, very frosty until Philip beat the ever-loving man shit out of the General who gave the order)
Then in End Times you've got the fuckery where The Lady of the Lake is Lileath (Yes I know that idea came up earlier, but simply because it came up earlier doesn't make it any less stupid) because "lol stupid knights", or Mallobaude and most of the nobility becoming vampires and somehow managing to defeat Louen (AKA the Charlemagne to Gilles' Arthur) which was just the culmination of a series of Bretonnian characters getting shit on for the plot, or Bretonnia getting taken out by a plague instead of something, you know, badass? No grand final march against the forces of Darkness, no Cavalry charges so large even the Bastards of Chaos are hard-pressed to fend it off, no falling upon evil like the mailled fist of justice-- just "cough cough, now your entire country's basically dead except the part that ran off to the Empire because of fucking-course-they-did". And this is after they didn't update the damn army books for two fucking editions.
And then, in
Obviously this is not even close to a full history of Bretonnia, but it is, I feel, a pretty good if non-exhaustive list of reasons why Bretonnia fans should basically just ignore literally everything written about the kingdom after Sixth Edition.
- Location
- Pennsylvania
The skaven ate most of warhammer Asia if I remember correctly.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I feel no problem complaining about stupid bullshit, even if someone else got even more fucked.
Like, that's the best they could come up with? Essentially going out like a goddamn sidekick?
- Location
- Brazil
While those are certainly valuable anywhere, I had meant to ask: How does bretonian arms and armour compare to the rest of the setting's?
Is their metallurgy and technique advanced enough that plate can shrug off bullets, much like arrows?
And is it possible to commission Runed gear from the dwarves?