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Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)

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GhostKing 666 said:
You missed Myrmidia.
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Myrmidia was once not the goddess of soldiers and strategy, but of love and romance, passion and beauty. Many of the the people of Tilea and Estalia, and even those further afield, who grow tired of the grimness of slaughter, war, and battle have begun beseeching her once more in those terms, seeking an end to the darkness of constant battle and the fruition of happier things.

This is exemplified most in the Order of the Fiery Hearts, a Religious organization recently established in Estalia, acting as marriage councilors, match-makers, and advisors; they attempt to lighten the darkness and give some levity to lives too often spent cloaked in shadow.

But there is...tension. The more militant members of the cult look upon these changes with fear; they worry that, if their goddess' attention is divided, it might not be upon them when they most need it.

Thus, many will speak derisively of these changes, in hopes to slow them; many Tileans have denied the Order of the Fiery Hearts access to their cities; and though they have soothed their differences, right now, over their sheer fury towards the mad King's burning of the temple in Bibali, it yet festers.
 
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Rise From The Ashes
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    • Rise From The Ashes

    The air is thick with dust and the stink of the dead, shattered swords and shields and spears. The bodies of knights, good knights, carpeted the ground like leaves; and trees, more ancient than even the elves, that had been flush with life and flourished in the glory of the sun, lay dead, stripped of all life, cut down by the fell axes of the orcs, or lain to waste by the befouled poisons of the goblins. Nearer the horizon, villages and hamlets pillaged by the foul green horde smoldered.

    His sabatons' muffled clanking as they struck the ash and the dirt were the only sounds as he walked through the dead land. The sun was choked, blotted out by the ash; it was like a storm raged evermore around him, consumed him. The whole world was a gray void, empty, empty, empty. The only bits of color that at all stood were festooned stones, scrawled with orcish paint, fetid and foul were they. The scent of smoke still choked the air, days later.

    Half of Bastonne, gone...

    He walked, and he thought, perhaps for minutes, perhaps hours, perhaps days-- none could say, in the gray void. There was nothing.

    Then he fell, tripped over some some metal, born on a corpse. He, lacking anything better, began to rip through the thick piles of ash with his hands, hoping to find what it was-- perhaps a blade, or shield, or spear?

    Finally his steel clad hands gripped the wooden pole. Heavy, it was, made of mahogany. With a grunt, the boy lifted it up-- and revealed heraldry. As the red cloth was hoisted, ash and dust fell from it, the red silk itself miraculously unstained by the detritus.

    As though by a miracle, a swift breeze came, and cleared away a bit of the cloud, carrying it far, far away, letting the light shine down and strike the heraldry-- revealing the dragon of the Coat of Arms of Bastonne.

    The squire felt two wellsprings striking within him. One was of assurance, whispered in his dreams: "All will be well."

    The other was darker, fiery... Seductive: "give to me your rage, your anger, and I will give you vengeance."

    His fists tightened. He felt a dark wrath growing in him, violent, bloodthirsty, dark and terrible-- and he screamed and he screamed, loosing the torrents of wrath that burnt in him, that threatened to consume him like the great fires had consumed his home.

    Its promises grew ever more fanciful, and terrible, and Ensnaring: "I will let you heal this blighted land; I will let you cleanse these ashes; I will give you the death you desire; I will numb the pain...

    If you will but only kneel."

    But just as the darkness clawed in, and his lungs grew empty of his loathsome wrath, and the ash fell deep as he disturbed it, there came a great chiming. A bell, crafted of silver and forged of purest metal-- its clear chime woke the world up.

    Turning, the Squire saw the chapel-- and against all odds, it was yet pristine, safeguarded as a miracle.

    The squire looked up, up to the sky, catching what pure blue might be found even as the ash yet sullied the sky, and the smoke yet choked his throat, and the fire still rung in his ears.

    "Lady, give me strength."

    And then Bohemond made to leave.
     
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    • Voikirium said:
    Myrmidia was once not the goddess of soldiers and strategy, but of love and romance, passion and beauty. Many of the the people of Tilea and Estalia, and even those further afield, who grow tired of the grimness of slaughter, war, and battle have begun beseeching her once more in those terms, seeking an end to the darkness of constant battle and the fruition of happier things.

    This is exemplified most in the Order of the Fiery Hearts, a Religious organization recently established in Estalia, acting as marriage councilors, match-makers, and advisors; they attempt to lighten the darkness and give some levity to lives too often spent cloaked in shadow.

    But there is...tension. The more militant members of the cult look upon these changes with fear; they worry that, if their goddess' attention is divided, it might not be upon them when they most need it.

    Thus, many will speak derisively of these changes, in hopes to slow them; many Tileans have denied the Order of the Fiery Hearts access to their cities; and though they have soothed their differences, right now, over their sheer fury towards the mad King's burning of the temple in Bibali, it yet festers.
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    But that shouldn't be that big of an issue in Tilea and Estalia at all. It's only in the Empire that Myrmidia is worshipped solely as a Goddess of War and Strategy. Down south in Tilea and Estalia, all aspects of her are worshipped with no problems since she's such a crucial and essential part of their history and cultures.
    In Estalia and Tilea, nearly everything is influenced by her, for beloved Myrmidia is not only appealed to in times of war and injustice, but in all matters, especially those concerning revenge, honour, and art, three aspects of her mortal life that have many legends attached to them. This almost universal adoration of Myrmidia in the south is something that northern folk find very hard to understand
    She has so many different sects and orders dedicated to all her various aspects that it boggles the Imperials fragile little minds. It's one of the big reasons why Myrmidia's cult is the single largest organized cult in the Old World by far.

    The big divide in the Cult of Myrmidia is the East vs West split.
    The Cult of Myrmidia is split. To the east, there are the Tileans.
    They believe Myrmidia was born in Remas, and was therefore
    a Tilean. Importantly, they believe that Myrmidia, as a Tilean,
    conquered Estalia. However, the Estalians to the west believe
    Myrmidia was born in Magritta, and was therefore an Estalian.​
    Similarly, they believe Myrmidia, as an Estalian, conquered Tilea.

    Both nations have their own versions of Myrmidia's holy texts
    to support their beliefs, and both are convinced they are correct.
    This fundamental difference has been the cause of, or the excuse
    for, much of the hostility between the Estalian kingdoms and
    the Tilean city-states down through the centuries. Indeed, the
    cult has almost broken in two over the issue on more than one
    occasion.

    Currently, Magritta is considered to be the heart of the Myrmidian
    religion, although the high temple in Remas undermines this at every
    turn. La Aguila Ultima(or as the Tileans prefer, L'ultima Aquila)
    the Order of the Eagle's leader, is a Tilean woman; thus, the Tileans
    expected her to support Remas as the future centre of the cult.
    However, she controversially swore to accept the Estalian version of
    Myrmidia, and has moved to Magritta, where she is working hard
    to put this old division to rest.

    This causes problems for the Empire branch of the Cult. The Order
    of the Eagle is sworn to obey a High Eagle from Tilea, thus they
    use the Tilean texts. However the templars receive their orders
    from Magritta, and, by default, accept the Estalian texts. To make
    matters a little more complex, the Eagle of the North has authority
    over the Order of the Righteous Spear in the Empire, and has been
    ordered to ensure the templars follow the Tilean texts, which, of
    course, they resist.

    It is a massive divide, and one that, it seems, will inevitably tear the
    cult in two, which could plunge almost half of the Old World into​
    an acrimonious and bitter war.
    Compared to that issue, the concept of a sect devoted to some of Myrmidia's none martial aspects wouldn't even get a raised eyebrow from Estalians and Tileans, more likely it would just cause them to chuckle at the ignorant barbarian northerners who just don't get Myrmidia.
     
    GhostKing 666 said:
    But that shouldn't be that big of an issue in Tilea and Estalia at all. It's only in the Empire that Myrmidia is worshipped solely as a Goddess of War and Strategy. Down south in Tilea and Estalia, all aspects of her are worshipped with no problems since she's such a crucial and essential part of their history and cultures.
    In Estalia and Tilea, nearly everything is influenced by her, for beloved Myrmidia is not only appealed to in times of war and injustice, but in all matters, especially those concerning revenge, honour, and art, three aspects of her mortal life that have many legends attached to them. This almost universal adoration of Myrmidia in the south is something that northern folk find very hard to understand
    She has so many different sects and orders dedicated to all her various aspects that it boggles the Imperials fragile little minds. It's one of the big reasons why Myrmidia's cult is the single largest organized cult in the Old World by far.

    The big divide in the Cult of Myrmidia is the East vs West split.
    The Cult of Myrmidia is split. To the east, there are the Tileans.
    They believe Myrmidia was born in Remas, and was therefore
    a Tilean. Importantly, they believe that Myrmidia, as a Tilean,
    conquered Estalia. However, the Estalians to the west believe
    Myrmidia was born in Magritta, and was therefore an Estalian.​
    Similarly, they believe Myrmidia, as an Estalian, conquered Tilea.

    Both nations have their own versions of Myrmidia's holy texts
    to support their beliefs, and both are convinced they are correct.
    This fundamental difference has been the cause of, or the excuse
    for, much of the hostility between the Estalian kingdoms and
    the Tilean city-states down through the centuries. Indeed, the
    cult has almost broken in two over the issue on more than one
    occasion.

    Currently, Magritta is considered to be the heart of the Myrmidian
    religion, although the high temple in Remas undermines this at every
    turn. La Aguila Ultima(or as the Tileans prefer, L'ultima Aquila)
    the Order of the Eagle's leader, is a Tilean woman; thus, the Tileans
    expected her to support Remas as the future centre of the cult.
    However, she controversially swore to accept the Estalian version of
    Myrmidia, and has moved to Magritta, where she is working hard
    to put this old division to rest.

    This causes problems for the Empire branch of the Cult. The Order
    of the Eagle is sworn to obey a High Eagle from Tilea, thus they
    use the Tilean texts. However the templars receive their orders
    from Magritta, and, by default, accept the Estalian texts. To make
    matters a little more complex, the Eagle of the North has authority
    over the Order of the Righteous Spear in the Empire, and has been
    ordered to ensure the templars follow the Tilean texts, which, of
    course, they resist.

    It is a massive divide, and one that, it seems, will inevitably tear the
    cult in two, which could plunge almost half of the Old World into​
    an acrimonious and bitter war.
    Compared to that issue, the concept of a sect devoted to some of Myrmidia's none martial aspects wouldn't even get a raised eyebrow from Estalians and Tileans, more likely it would just cause them to chuckle at the ignorant barbarian northerners who just don't get Myrmidia.
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    There is significantly more to it than that, but to condense it down:
    Voikirium said:
    This is exemplified most in the Order of the Fiery Hearts, a Religious organization recently established in Estalia
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    Voikirium said:
    many Tileans have denied the Order of the Fiery Hearts access to their cities
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    The peaceful Vs. War-Like is just the philosophical cloak the Tilean Vs. Estalian rivalry has cloaked itself in for right now, acting as an obvious rallying point for both sides: "We are the manly warriors, much better than those effete wine-drinkers" vs. "We are civilized poets, lovers, and artists, far superior to those honorless barbarians". (Remind you of anyone?)

    In another few decades it will probably have changed again, but for right now that's what it looks like.
     
    Well Hell, It's About Time
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    • Well Hell, It's About Time
    Mera was a hell of a ship, and I'll say that to any man, woman, or dwarf who challenges that. A galleon, two-hundred feet of good oak, and 124 gleaming guns; the crew, professional and resilient, for humans, drilled day in and day out; the pinnacle of modern human engineering.

    Yes indeed, the Bretonnians were proud of their craft-- and I'll give it to the manlings, even our craggiest, stingiest engineers would accept the design after about, oh, a revision, just for the principle of the thing. Oh, aye, a floating contradiction of everything the Bretons claimed to believe; but compared to some of the things the beardless wonders got up to, very unimportant.

    Finally, one of the crewmen, a beardless boy, met with me on the deck. "Sir Arthur's ready to meet you, Master Dwarf. I should warn you, he can be a bit... intense. Some might say outrageous."

    "Pfft. Intense is your hundred-fifty year-old Runelord of an uncle grilling you where, exactly, you stuck his hammer. Some young manling doesn't much phase me."

    The boy just walked off, muttering under his breathe. "Why do they never believe me?"

    Just as I turned around, I heard a great, booming voice crack the silence, "Old chums!"

    Then a giant of a man burst out into the sun. He easily towered over even the pointy-ears I've seen, and he was just as muscled as a dwarf-- but where it should be grotesque, it seemed to be fitting, for him, the only frame that might hold a voice that booming.

    He smiled, too, his bright orange scale armor less bright than it; and in his hand he held, lazily, a trident, that glowed with magics. His face grew greatly concerned as he saw me. "Oh mon dieu, Vrag, you've shrunk! Tell me what fell sorcerer has done this to you, and we will go right away! We'll call it 'The Tale of the Arthur's Rescue of the Runelord!'" after that he rambled, great torrents of noise.

    What.

    Slowly I lifted my mask, showing my face. "I am not Vrag, manling."

    The human's blabbering stilled. "...Oh."

    "I come bearing the riches of Barak Varr, by Prince Vrag's request; he would have some aid in putting to the sword the Druchii who yet foul the oceans." I pointed to the ten weapon boxes, bearing runed weapons-- a treasure little surpassed, even amongst the Dawi, never mind the manlings.

    "Pish-posh, and outrageous!"

    What.

    "I'll do it for free! I'll call it 'the Tale of How I Crushed the Ten-Thousand Seabeasts of Naggaroth!...story.'"

    "...It's a handful of corsairs."

    I could feel myself almost vibrating with glee to escape the mad human, only for a messenger to appear, bearing a letter for me.

    I opened it with trembling hands, fearful of what it might say; and it broke my heart to read it out-

    "Owing to the time you have spent among the Umgi of Courrone, I have decided to place you as my liasion within the ship of my friend Sir Arthur, Ramrod."

    Dwarfs never cry.

    But I came damnably close as I read the letters, even as the human began to speak.

    "Great, new chum! I can already see the stories of adventure and heroism on the horizon."
    --
    Yeah. I went there.

    (Also, before anyone asks, I am not the one who came up with the Bretonnian Navy using gunpowder. That's canon.)
     
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    • KnightDisciple said:
    That seems a little....outrageous.
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    But it's true tho
    Voikirium said:
    Arthur de Courrone

    The son and heir of Duke Gorlois, he is, by all accounts, a bright, happy child. He currently resides not with his father, but in the new harbor.

    Traits:
    Haughty: He fears no evil; why, he finds the very notion outrageous! (+3 Martial)
    Strong: The blood is true in him. (+3 Martial, +1 Diplomacy, All male children with full Bretonnian parentage receive this trait, else 75% chance, +10% Fertility)
    Adorable: He's a handsome, well proportioned youth. (+1 Diplomacy)
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    Are there any dwarfs in the general vecinity that would like a shot at Wurrzag? Just what sort of coalition can be expected when facing a Whaaag! this big?
     
    Grim Avgrundsson said:
    Are there any dwarfs in the general vecinity that would like a shot at Wurrzag? Just what sort of coalition can be expected when facing a Whaaag! this big?
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    A lot of Dwarfs.

    They've been waiting to put him down for a real long time.

    Probably also some Imperials (Thanks, Stirland) and Bretonnians looking for revenge.
     
    A Match Made In Fell Forests
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    • A Match Made In Fell Forests

    The short, stout horse pounded over the bogs, echoing as its iron hooves struck the stone roads. Mounted on the good creature was Arzhur, king of the Geriden and a dozen other tribes; his armor, crafted of thick Gromril, jingled as he rode. The scars of battle and stress alike marked him; though he had not yet seen fortieth year under Verena's sight, still seemed ages older.

    Written on his face was a struggle. Merlyn, Aelida, and the Stoneson alike, all agreeing on a course of action.

    His ride stopped as he heard a scream from the woods to his side, and without a second he spurred on his shaggy steed.

    Not far into the forest, he saw a sight that set his blood boiling. A woman was tied upon an altar of brass, marked with the fell runes of Chaos and surrounded by the Warriors of Chaos. Mighty were they, tall and clad in armor red as the blood they shed, that seemed to flow even as he looked upon it.

    Still, Arzhur Justice's Champion felt no fear as he galloped hard into the clearing; his lance punched through the helm of one, sending the warrior to the ground even as he wheeled back around drawing Excalibur, its keen, silvery edge glowing in the day sun.

    Still yet seven warriors stood.

    One, greater than the others, bearing brass armor black as pitch and riding one of the foul beasts of Chaos, rode forward, standing opposite the king. "I am Arbaal the Undefeated, Destroyer and Champion. I can drink a river of blood for forty days and forty nights and have not my belly burst; I can rest on the ice of home for a hundred years and not freeze; can swim the black currents of the Oceans and not drown. Flee, Southling, or perish."

    The King gave a loathsome glare to the foul Khornate, wrathful was he at this intruder. "I am Arzhur, Lord of the South. The Knights of a dozen Tribes heed my call; a thousand Dark Elves have I sent to their Dark Gods; and I alone sent your Master the whole of his twisted spawn, the Firmir. Turn aside, leave Albion, or become Arbaal the Once-Beaten."

    The Destroyer's only response was to grip his weapon and spur his dark steed hard.

    Arzhur South-King, gripping his own mighty blade, did much the same.

    Sweat dripped down his face as gave a mighty glare to the fell-hearted fiend before him, blade crackling with power.

    Finally the two passed, blades striking hard-- their was a bang as the blade of Albion struck the will of Khorne given form.

    Arzhur swayed. His shield splintered into pieces. A great cut was rent in his armor, opening a dark, scarlet soaked wound that wept blood.

    The champion was stock still. His mount hissed and roared, wrathful; his grip remained tight. There was a clang.

    Then his weapon fell to the earth, followed a second later by both arm and helmet. The brass plated body toppled to the earth, armor cracking and shattering as the form held within was much warped by the wrath of Khorne and the Chaotic energies released by the Champion's death.

    Even as the Chaotic Warriors looked upon the death of their Champion, they drew their own weapons in wrath; but before they could advance on the much-wounded king, they heard ropes snapping.

    Turning about, they saw their victim, gripping her walking stick already-- and with a crashing blow she brought it down.

    Great fissures opened in the dirt, as grasping, grabbing hands grasped firm the form of Warriors and brought them down into the swampy earth.

    The witch looked with satisfaction on what she had wrought- only to whirl about when she heard the crash of Gromril in one of the bogs.
    --

    Arzhur woke with a gasp. His arm ached, his ribs felt like dust, and he hurt everywhere. He saw a brown cloaked woman standing over him, laying poultice upon the wounds.

    He curled up, rising a bit-- only to hiss as if knives had cut through him. "Easy, sire, easy! The pain will pass, but only with rest and time."

    "Who are you, dame?"

    "I am Orcades of the Vorcaeden."
    --
    Now there's a name you don't see every day.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Can someone help me out a bit here? I don't recognize the lady's name, though I recognize Albion!Arthur (as opposed to Bretonnia!Arthur).
     
    KnightDisciple said:
    Can someone help me out a bit here? I don't recognize the lady's name, though I recognize Albion!Arthur (as opposed to Bretonnia!Arthur).
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    Wikipedia said:
    The earliest known form of Morgause's name is Orcades, given in the First Continuation of Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval (the former of which was once attributed to Wauchier de Denain and dated c. 1200), in which she is the mother of Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth and Mordred and daughters Clarissant and Soredamor. As Morcades she also appears in Les Enfances Gauvain (early 13th century) and again in Heinrich von dem Türlin's Diu Crône (c. 1230). It appears her name was originally a place name, as "Orcades" coincides with the Latin name for the Orkney Islands, the land traditionally ruled by Gawain's parents. Medievalist Roger Sherman Loomis suggests that the toponym was corrupted into "Morcades" (or Morchades, Morcads) and finally "Morgause" due to the influence of the name "Morgan" (le Fay).[7]​
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    Visions And Warnings
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    • Visions And Warnings

    The City burnt. Fires raged, consuming wooden walls and destroying ancient shrines, consumed in the fires. The warriors who waded ashore were terrible, clad in mighty armor of ungodly patrons, marked with runes unholy that granted them strength. Their fearsome mounts rampaged through the armies that met them in battle, running rampant through the streets.

    The Bretonnians were much enraged. Their monsters-- the Pegasi, Griffons, and Hippogryffs-- lashed out from the sky, even as their fell priestesses wielded terrible magics, cowardly but potent, to lash the shores.

    Finally, the leader came. He was tall, clad in armor blackened by wyvern venom. In one thick hand he clasped an axe, forged with the blood of beasts; in the other, a shield, mighty, made of Dwarfen craft, and of thick gromril. On his right shoulder, there was the Heraldry of the Castle.

    One of the Chosen of Slaanesh, the Prince of Pleasure, strode to battle, rapier in hand. He shouted noble challenge to the brutish Bretonnian, even as the Knight shattered one of the shrines, turning over the skulls placed in holy symbols and crushing the brass.

    The two traded blow after bloody blow, great bleeding strikes to each other's armor and flesh, ripping and tearing and breaking. The two shouted praise to their respective gods; but even as they did, both answered; fey light shone around the Knight, turning aside blows that ought have split his head from his shoulders, his arms from elbows, and feet from his legs.

    Then, finally, the strange, ungodly axe punched through the Champion's gauntlet, and ripped his hand from his arm; and then with another swift motion, split his head from his shoulders. And even as he did, cannons ripped through stone and earth and dirt, and his warriors rampaged, and the ancient place was smote.
    --
    The shaman woke, and she swore, and she raged.

    And Freya Silkchains, in her deepest heart, feared.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • I should note, that was a vision, and a warning, as the name might suggest. No-one's actually shed the blood of Skaeling-Man yet- but they will.

    The hint is in the Heraldry.
     
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