Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
He thinks it ended rather well and isn't mad about it, but at the same time some part of him does wish he'd gotten to do it like Gilles and Martrud and most other famous knights.
Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Location
- Sweden
Philip must seem like one of the Bretoni Horselords of old come again. Speaking of that, have our dashing collection of trophies we've gathered over the years affected the relations with the Ulricans in Montfort in any meaningful way?
I'd really like to go for Churches and Chapels this turn, as praise to the Lady for the victory, and the return of the Clerics, but the six year tag is rather daunting. Otherwise, holding a tournament, personally riding forth to slay nasties (especially Shamans), and refilling the ranks seems to be the most immediate choices.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yep. They're not a big enough power-block to matter, but they are rather happy with you.
- Location
- Sweden
Is there any cult currently, of the non proscribed sort, that are none to happy with us?
Godfrey must be rather jealous then, since Philip got to rescue Morgyan back in the day. Speaking of Annick, with Philip having 'met' Eleanor during his vision of Silverspire, and the return of the Clerics, are things cooling down on that front?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Blooming Rose
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Blooming Rose
The small motte and bailey was shrouded in darkness. Rain fall turned the dirt Sir Hugh walked in into filthy mud, dirtying his sabatons; and the mighty forests of the Land that surrounded him cast a shadow impenetrable to the eyes of all; and just barely sightable over the clouds were the Irrana Mountains, snow tipped and gleaming.
Baron Hugh tugged on his great mustache, deep in thought. The letter that had invited him had spoke of meetings, but there was--
The Baron heard a crack, and whipping around drew his sword. The figure before him, clad in white tabbard, was all too familiar. "Louis! I knew you were a lout, but I believed you better than ambuscade, cur!"
"How dare you speak of me so, who has drawn me for some foul trap?"
"Neither of you have damaged your honor!"
A voice, dark and feminine, burst out through the night.
And then she appeared cloaked in greens and reds. Broad, tall, and imposing she seemed to be birthed of the dark; and even as she walked towards them, the scent of roses began to gently waft on the night breeze. They withdrew as she cloaked in Lady's fury drew near-- only to realize that the gates were barred, and they could not flee. She imposed herself between the knights; and wrath was written on her face clear as the stars in the night sky.
"This is what remains of Castle Glanborielle-- look around you and see the devastation! You are standing in the remnants of what happened the last time Bretonnians were so split of each other as you would make your own lands! I know there is fire betwixt you for reasons just; but this damnable foolishness, this befouled, knife-in-the-dark Imperial Bullshit ends here! The Lady demands it unity, and she demands a duke!"
"I...yes, Lady Univers. The matter is personal, Louis."
"I am ready and willing to see it done when-so-ever thou are, you Shamed Walrus."
"A melee, at years end; find your barons, and then we settle this like men."
Then the two barons parted, each fuming and planning; and Leliana sat, rubbing her temples.
"Ughhh..."
Then she heard more steps; and a moment later Grègoire sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her side.
The sat in peaceful silence for a moment.
"I thought you might like to know, Duke Marc sent in a letter." Leliana looked up with a hopeful smile. "He agreed; Dominique should be here by the end of the month, to learn from the Shepherdesses."
"I suppose, then, that I should ready a gift of betrothal. I've got-"
"To sit, and rest, and drink this wine with me." The Trobadour pulled two glasses and a wine bottle out from his pack before pouring some for both. "Especially considering it's our anniversary, love."
"...it is, isn't it." She sighed, before smiling as the Lady's moon shone its light upon her. "I suppose things will wait until tomorrow, won't they?"
The small motte and bailey was shrouded in darkness. Rain fall turned the dirt Sir Hugh walked in into filthy mud, dirtying his sabatons; and the mighty forests of the Land that surrounded him cast a shadow impenetrable to the eyes of all; and just barely sightable over the clouds were the Irrana Mountains, snow tipped and gleaming.
Baron Hugh tugged on his great mustache, deep in thought. The letter that had invited him had spoke of meetings, but there was--
The Baron heard a crack, and whipping around drew his sword. The figure before him, clad in white tabbard, was all too familiar. "Louis! I knew you were a lout, but I believed you better than ambuscade, cur!"
"How dare you speak of me so, who has drawn me for some foul trap?"
"Neither of you have damaged your honor!"
A voice, dark and feminine, burst out through the night.
And then she appeared cloaked in greens and reds. Broad, tall, and imposing she seemed to be birthed of the dark; and even as she walked towards them, the scent of roses began to gently waft on the night breeze. They withdrew as she cloaked in Lady's fury drew near-- only to realize that the gates were barred, and they could not flee. She imposed herself between the knights; and wrath was written on her face clear as the stars in the night sky.
"This is what remains of Castle Glanborielle-- look around you and see the devastation! You are standing in the remnants of what happened the last time Bretonnians were so split of each other as you would make your own lands! I know there is fire betwixt you for reasons just; but this damnable foolishness, this befouled, knife-in-the-dark Imperial Bullshit ends here! The Lady demands it unity, and she demands a duke!"
"I...yes, Lady Univers. The matter is personal, Louis."
"I am ready and willing to see it done when-so-ever thou are, you Shamed Walrus."
"A melee, at years end; find your barons, and then we settle this like men."
Then the two barons parted, each fuming and planning; and Leliana sat, rubbing her temples.
"Ughhh..."
Then she heard more steps; and a moment later Grègoire sat down next to her and wrapped his arm around her side.
The sat in peaceful silence for a moment.
"I thought you might like to know, Duke Marc sent in a letter." Leliana looked up with a hopeful smile. "He agreed; Dominique should be here by the end of the month, to learn from the Shepherdesses."
"I suppose, then, that I should ready a gift of betrothal. I've got-"
"To sit, and rest, and drink this wine with me." The Trobadour pulled two glasses and a wine bottle out from his pack before pouring some for both. "Especially considering it's our anniversary, love."
"...it is, isn't it." She sighed, before smiling as the Lady's moon shone its light upon her. "I suppose things will wait until tomorrow, won't they?"
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- Location
- Australia
Rain turned the mud into mud.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- Sweden
No, it turned the mud into filthy mud.
- Location
- USA
I really like looking back on Quests and seeing how far the character has gone. And in this quest, mechanically at least, you can see it in an increase in each stat across the board
+7 to Martial
+9 to Piety
+5 to Diplomacy (once Chivalrous Sight is added to the Character Sheet)(also it's +7 whenever we talk to Bretonnians because the Grail Knight perk doubles its bonus with them)
+3 to Intrigue (also once Chivalrous Sight is added)
+7 to Learning
+1 to Stewardship
I guess murdering everything in Mousillon does a lot for your Piety and Martial, huh
+7 to Martial
+9 to Piety
+5 to Diplomacy (once Chivalrous Sight is added to the Character Sheet)(also it's +7 whenever we talk to Bretonnians because the Grail Knight perk doubles its bonus with them)
+3 to Intrigue (also once Chivalrous Sight is added)
+7 to Learning
+1 to Stewardship
I guess murdering everything in Mousillon does a lot for your Piety and Martial, huh
Carcassonnian "Shepherds"
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Carcassonnian "Shepherds"
"That man is clearly not a mercenary-- why, he is but a simple shepherd!"
"Shepherds wear plate often?"
"They do when the Orcs can come pouring down the mountains at any point."
-A Carcassonnian Knight and Brionnian Lady
(Source)
Carcassonne is a land constantly beset in war. The people of the land accept that gracefully, for the only thing a Carcassonnian loves more than battle and war is sweet music and poetry-- thus their easy friendship with Brionne, where the halls are filled with the plucking of instruments and the recitation of bards, and all is easy living.
Still, that thirst for battle and militancy does create a certain demand for soldiers-- and pastoral living or mining does not create the great boom of bodies necessary for their decade-long campaigns to dislodge the greenskins from the Iranna Mountains.
Then one Duke, early in the mists of time, looked upon his people; and he saw the shepherdesses of the land, who often fought to save their flocks from the befouling greenskins; and he had an idea as bold as the sun is bright.
He sent riders throughout the land, offering king's ransom for sheep and goats, and crafted many great flocks. Then he wrote letters to the mercenary lords of Estalia and Tilea, and to Bretonnian adventurers, and to the tribes of people native to the mountains; and soon enough, great armies of mercenaries were hired under guise of shepherd.
Of course, most shepherds don't wear armor finer than many knights. Many shepherds don't wield greatswords. Many shepherds don't encourage their sheep into the deepest fighting in order to get the bounty on dead greenskin. But it was near-enough to true that the Enchantress of the time, Magnifelle, to turn a blind eye to her country-man's...indiscretions, for to focus on more important matters.
Seeing that divine wrath fell not upon him, and that his lands were an absolute bastion against the greenskins, many nobles who had before had little interest in pastoral life suddenly found themselves the owner of small herds of sheep that, of course, needed protection-- and why waste valuable Bretonnian soldiers on it when those Tileans and Estalians are more than happy to do it?
For their part, the mercenaries consider what shame there is in working as a shepherd more than covered by the often generous pay of the Bretonnians.
Most of these mercenaries are formed by the native tribes of the mountain; after that Tilean and Estalians looking for easier work than the massive civil wars that plague those lands; and finally the actual shepherdesses of Carcassonne, looking for a change of scenery from the plains to the mountains-- famed for their prowess in battle, they often, when not serving as mercenaries, will form the backbone of the levies proper.
"That man is clearly not a mercenary-- why, he is but a simple shepherd!"
"Shepherds wear plate often?"
"They do when the Orcs can come pouring down the mountains at any point."
-A Carcassonnian Knight and Brionnian Lady
(Source)
Carcassonne is a land constantly beset in war. The people of the land accept that gracefully, for the only thing a Carcassonnian loves more than battle and war is sweet music and poetry-- thus their easy friendship with Brionne, where the halls are filled with the plucking of instruments and the recitation of bards, and all is easy living.
Still, that thirst for battle and militancy does create a certain demand for soldiers-- and pastoral living or mining does not create the great boom of bodies necessary for their decade-long campaigns to dislodge the greenskins from the Iranna Mountains.
Then one Duke, early in the mists of time, looked upon his people; and he saw the shepherdesses of the land, who often fought to save their flocks from the befouling greenskins; and he had an idea as bold as the sun is bright.
He sent riders throughout the land, offering king's ransom for sheep and goats, and crafted many great flocks. Then he wrote letters to the mercenary lords of Estalia and Tilea, and to Bretonnian adventurers, and to the tribes of people native to the mountains; and soon enough, great armies of mercenaries were hired under guise of shepherd.
Of course, most shepherds don't wear armor finer than many knights. Many shepherds don't wield greatswords. Many shepherds don't encourage their sheep into the deepest fighting in order to get the bounty on dead greenskin. But it was near-enough to true that the Enchantress of the time, Magnifelle, to turn a blind eye to her country-man's...indiscretions, for to focus on more important matters.
Seeing that divine wrath fell not upon him, and that his lands were an absolute bastion against the greenskins, many nobles who had before had little interest in pastoral life suddenly found themselves the owner of small herds of sheep that, of course, needed protection-- and why waste valuable Bretonnian soldiers on it when those Tileans and Estalians are more than happy to do it?
For their part, the mercenaries consider what shame there is in working as a shepherd more than covered by the often generous pay of the Bretonnians.
Most of these mercenaries are formed by the native tribes of the mountain; after that Tilean and Estalians looking for easier work than the massive civil wars that plague those lands; and finally the actual shepherdesses of Carcassonne, looking for a change of scenery from the plains to the mountains-- famed for their prowess in battle, they often, when not serving as mercenaries, will form the backbone of the levies proper.
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King Arthur
The Once and Future King
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
Your trait/stat description in general are really strong, but I absolutely love these two in particular.
Diplomacy stands a bit stronger, but yeah, great stuff.
The Despoiled
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Despoiled
Philip, ???
You wake with needles jabbed into your arms and legs. You are strapped to a metal table, crafted of beaten, rusted metal. The scent of sickness, death, and filth fills the air.
The room you are in is made of black, cold stone. Wrought-iron chains tipped in vicious meat-hooks, jagged and sickly green, hang from the chamber ceiling.
Finally the man you were sent to kill enters the room. His skin is sickly green, and even from here you can almost see the grease on it; a wispy mustache droops over his lips; and his bald head is marred by scars. Somewhere between corpulent and mighty, he smiles yellow teeth at you.
"Hello, Sir Philip. Sleep well?"
"Oh yes indeed, sirrah. Why, what better lodgings than hanging in a serial killer's basement?"
"Sarcasm? Somewhat out-of-character for you, Bretonnian."
"How about you let me down and I show you just how-"
Pain. Acid flows through your veins, and that is not just turn of phrase. You feel things flowing through you, unwell things that flare up the Poison that set you on this task. He's fiddling with the remote again; and you can feel the pain stabilizing as he tones it down.
You really, really, fucking hate that remote.
"Let us see whether I can't fix that. The Grandfather would hate his newest grandchild to be rude, after all."
A week, a week you've waited.
He grabs a rusty scalpel, and begins to walk towards you.
His odious stench-- puss and blood and offal and a thousand other hideous stinks assail your nose, make tears well in your eyes.
He draws near.
A week.
You grip the tubes.
No longer.
You pull-- and the syringes fall from your body, as you rip the tubes from chest, your arms, your neck and your legs, and land on your feet.
Launching out with a kick, you send him to the ground; and before he can speak you've brought your fist down. You grab his helmet from the table.
It breaks long before you're satisfied, but long after you've finished.
--
You down the stolen healing waters, and grimace as you feel the poison he put in you be burnt out. Sliding on your helmet, there comes knocking at the chamber door. Best not leave them waiting.
They see you, as they enter the lobby. Three Norscans, come to make purchase from this coward. Grabbing their bare steel, they race to kill you. One of your arms isn't working quite right, and your leg drags a bit as you walk; you are dehydrated and starving from a week of no meals proper; and you've not slept for the past twenty-four hours as you finished your plans.
That doesn't help them.
You block a blow, sink your sword through rusty chainmail.
A second, an axe. You grab it, snap it, then pick the marauder up by his neck-- and with a toss, throw him through the dirty window to the rats.
The third you simply run through.
Looking upon your work, and seeing it well, you walk to the door, pausing only to flip the switch on the power generator.
Éclatant is there, new scars on his beak and head from facing Vikscrum 's beasts.
He nuzzles you as you run your hands over his glossy black feathers. He purrs contentedly as you pet his belly--
then you fall over, and suddenly your head is held on the soft stomach of something warm and huge.
You can't help it-- you fell asleep there, seen by the moon-lit night.
But not before you hear the sound of explosions in the distance.
Philip, ???
You wake with needles jabbed into your arms and legs. You are strapped to a metal table, crafted of beaten, rusted metal. The scent of sickness, death, and filth fills the air.
The room you are in is made of black, cold stone. Wrought-iron chains tipped in vicious meat-hooks, jagged and sickly green, hang from the chamber ceiling.
Finally the man you were sent to kill enters the room. His skin is sickly green, and even from here you can almost see the grease on it; a wispy mustache droops over his lips; and his bald head is marred by scars. Somewhere between corpulent and mighty, he smiles yellow teeth at you.
"Hello, Sir Philip. Sleep well?"
"Oh yes indeed, sirrah. Why, what better lodgings than hanging in a serial killer's basement?"
"Sarcasm? Somewhat out-of-character for you, Bretonnian."
"How about you let me down and I show you just how-"
Pain. Acid flows through your veins, and that is not just turn of phrase. You feel things flowing through you, unwell things that flare up the Poison that set you on this task. He's fiddling with the remote again; and you can feel the pain stabilizing as he tones it down.
You really, really, fucking hate that remote.
"Let us see whether I can't fix that. The Grandfather would hate his newest grandchild to be rude, after all."
A week, a week you've waited.
He grabs a rusty scalpel, and begins to walk towards you.
His odious stench-- puss and blood and offal and a thousand other hideous stinks assail your nose, make tears well in your eyes.
He draws near.
A week.
You grip the tubes.
No longer.
You pull-- and the syringes fall from your body, as you rip the tubes from chest, your arms, your neck and your legs, and land on your feet.
Launching out with a kick, you send him to the ground; and before he can speak you've brought your fist down. You grab his helmet from the table.
It breaks long before you're satisfied, but long after you've finished.
--
You down the stolen healing waters, and grimace as you feel the poison he put in you be burnt out. Sliding on your helmet, there comes knocking at the chamber door. Best not leave them waiting.
They see you, as they enter the lobby. Three Norscans, come to make purchase from this coward. Grabbing their bare steel, they race to kill you. One of your arms isn't working quite right, and your leg drags a bit as you walk; you are dehydrated and starving from a week of no meals proper; and you've not slept for the past twenty-four hours as you finished your plans.
That doesn't help them.
You block a blow, sink your sword through rusty chainmail.
A second, an axe. You grab it, snap it, then pick the marauder up by his neck-- and with a toss, throw him through the dirty window to the rats.
The third you simply run through.
Looking upon your work, and seeing it well, you walk to the door, pausing only to flip the switch on the power generator.
Éclatant is there, new scars on his beak and head from facing Vikscrum 's beasts.
He nuzzles you as you run your hands over his glossy black feathers. He purrs contentedly as you pet his belly--
then you fall over, and suddenly your head is held on the soft stomach of something warm and huge.
You can't help it-- you fell asleep there, seen by the moon-lit night.
But not before you hear the sound of explosions in the distance.
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
Noticed this error.
- Location
- West Michigan
Remote? Syringes? How does Phillip even know those words? Is Chaos spreading anachronisms again?
- Location
- Malaysia
Power Generator? What? Isn't this WHF? Have we been teleported to WH40k now?
Say what?
*is mystified*
*is mystified*
M3lk0r
H3 wh0 Ar!535 !n M!gh+
- Location
- Gondolin
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
All I'm saying is, when you spend a week hooked up to torturous medical devices by some a-hole and have nothing better to do listen than listen to him ranting, you'll probably pick up how he refers to it.
There was Nurgle bullshit happening when Philip was on the Quest.Say what?
*is mystified*
Philip put an end to said Nurgle Bullshit.
Skaven.
Why else would it blow up just from being turned on in the wrong way?
- Location
- Sweden
Chaos worshippers with advanced tech. How wonderful.
Not entirely unexpected. As I recall one of the Chaos lists had a 'magic item' that was a power fist. As in the entirely mundane yet very powerful weapon that terminators swing around.