I very much like the idea of Errants flocking to the banner of the most badass badass around. Higher probability of getting a good scrap to earn your spurs in, whilst also being suitably heroic and totally not orc-like.
However, I'm no authority on quest mechanics, but would lowering the flat modifier from prestige, in favour of adding small bonuses (being a Grail Knight, a Duke etc.) work? The result would be the same, but it would push us towards more appropriate achievements and titles, not just prestige farming by killing stuff.
I very much like the idea of Errants flocking to the banner of the most badass badass around. Higher probability of getting a good scrap to earn your spurs in, whilst also being suitably heroic and totally not orc-like.
However, I'm no authority on quest mechanics, but would lowering the flat modifier from prestige, in favour of adding small bonuses (being a Grail Knight, a Duke etc.) work? The result would be the same, but it would push us towards more appropriate achievements and titles, not just prestige farming by killing stuff.
I mean, there is slightly more complexity to it than just flat percentage-- if nothing else, there's a hardcap for "Not important, you literally can't survive having that many knights leave with you for that long"-- probably somewhere around 70% for if someone became super famous for killing loads of shit, which would be modified by, say, being a Grail Knight, having summoned the Clerics, or maybe even Stewardship, being higher on both the low and high ends-- Low because they'll just say "fuck you, economics" and High because they'll learn to compensate for it, while in the Middle they'll have a "must not go over" number beat into their skulls by their teachers.
But at the end of the day, there are two things that leave me mostly alright with a flat bonus:
1. It does kind of make sense that Skull-Fucker McBeastman-Slayer can get together pretty big groups of Knight, even if he doesn't have stuff like a Ducal title, or if he hasn't drunk of the Grail.
2. This is a writing game, not a vidya gaem, so if someone tries to exploit the system in fuck-stupid ways I can just get out my GM Mallet and tell them to slow their rolls.
2. This is a writing game, not a vidya gaem, so if someone tries to exploit the system in fuck-stupid ways I can just get out my GM Mallet and tell them to slow their rolls.
Which is awesome. Fluffwise, they could perhaps play out differently. Bohemond would attract those similar to him in their quest of murdering the most impressive beastie possible, whilst Philip could either larger conrois of knights on a campaign, or draw upon an Air Force of doom, especially if Teclis start getting involved, no matter how small of an effort he'd make.
I dunno, I think it does serve my main purpose of incentivizing Bretonnian behavior and glory-hounding and such by concretely tying "doing cool shit" with "material improvements to your army". (There will be similar math for the other classes of Knights, too, of course)
The other way to do it would be to set a certain base of Knight Errants who will show up, and then allow the PC to "buy" more of them by spending prestige. Though actually you could do it both ways. For glorious missions, have a percentage based on total prestige. For more dubious-sounding missions, spend prestige to go, "No guys, really, I know this doesn't sound great but trust me. It's a good cause."
The other way to do it would be to set a certain base of Knight Errants who will show up, and then allow the PC to "buy" more of them by spending prestige. Though actually you could do it both ways. For glorious missions, have a percentage based on total prestige. For more dubious-sounding missions, spend prestige to go, "No guys, really, I know this doesn't sound great but trust me. It's a good cause."
Which is awesome. Fluffwise, they could perhaps play out differently. Bohemond would attract those similar to him in their quest of murdering the most impressive beastie possible, whilst Philip could either larger conrois of knights on a campaign, or draw upon an Air Force of doom, especially if Teclis start getting involved, no matter how small of an effort he'd make.
Since we are on topic of how many knights we can take on not defensive campaign we could also use how many of our Knights of the Real (be they landed or household variety) we can call away without compromising our economy and safety.
Since we are on topic of how many knights we can take on not defensive campaign we could also use how many of our Knights of the Real (be they landed or household variety) we can call away without compromising our economy and safety.
It's very similar to Knights Errant, except not as efficient.
Like, 1/2th for Household Knights (Cause on the one hand they're busy, but on the other hand they're also the people that are supposed to go represent a family in times of war) and 1/5th for Knights of the Realm (Because they're busy fighting off Orcs and shit and just generally running their fiefs, meaning running off to kill stuff is way less likely than it is for Knights Errant). The number of Grail Knights is a bit fuckier, being that Grail Knights are often not from around the area, but we'll say 50 in Montfort-- with Montfort being somewhat above-average. And prestige would be 1/10th as effective for convincing them to fight.
So, like, to return to the example of Duke SV and the Vampire Horde:
He sends out the call. There are 1000 Household Knights. 200 of those will go out and slay some shit.
There are 500 Knights of the Realm. 100 of them will come to fight. They'll have more bang for your buck, though, being that they have soldiers. As opposed to just stabbing things themselves.
And of the Grail Knights, there will be 5. That might not sound like a lot, but a single Grail Knight can turn the tide of battle-- five of them is basically a giant middle finger coated in chivalry to whatever poor bastard decided to bug them.
I should also note, again, that there are ways to modify these, whether situational-- it's not exactly hard to convince Knights to go beat the shit out Dark Elves invading the Borderlands-- or character wise, like becoming a Grail Knight or the king.
Still, this is the "You know what, I feel like kicking over a beehive" host our Hypothetical Duke, for example, could gather:
2,250 KE
200 HK
100 KotR (And attendant levies, which would fill the bulk of most forces except, basically, Montfort, thanks to urbanization letting you have what is basically a standing army)
5 Grail Knights
Écosse is a strange land. The higher north of it, the coldest parts of Albion, are a land of mountains and ice, of broken stone and shattered castles. It is here where the few Knights of Montfort have made their home, and for understandable reason-- it is a very similar place in geography.
The Lowlands, meanwhile, are a warm, wet place, struck with bogs and field and flowers. It is an altogether beautiful place, mostly settled by the Knights of Aquitaine and Lyonesse-- and of course the people of Lyonesse.
The people of Écosse are a somewhat grim and dour lot, though for understandable reasons-- fully a third of the population was slain in the Last War, whence the Firmir, the Skaven, and the Dark Elves alike descended on the Isle. The scars of that battle-- of the damage done to the North, which was left to fester by the South according to Ecossians-- can be seen anywhere one looks-- no settlement, no city, is ever more than perhaps a half-hour from the battlefields and bastions which were once slaughter-houses. The long-emptied halls of the now-extinct Firmir, the blasted remnants of the Skaven Warrens, the dark ships which carried the Druchii to the land-- all can be found in the Duchy. Indeed, less...cautious men have taken to looting the remnants of those places for treasures.
Living reminders dot the land, too-- castles, many of them, built during the war to act as strong points while William attempted to take yet more land.
While it is often said that the people of Écosse have been Bretonified, the same is at least as true in reverse-- the Knights and Ladies of Bretonnia, in order to make things easier for themselves, have learned the language, taken up the Druid Priests as Court Magi, and have a new found love of scotch. More permanently, many of the knights and ladies, free from the wise-- some might say controlling-- gaze of their parents, have caroused with the natives of the land and in many cases married the people in defiance of the usual purity favored by most of Bretonnia, aside from Montfort.
The Duchy seems well ready to hold into the future-- but that is easy enough, when the people of the land not too long ago waged war together in order to survive the depredations of evil and thus made bond of friendship and camaraderie. It will be when they are dead and gone and their children stepped forth to take the reins that the true wisdom or folly of the Duchy will be exposed.
It does not help, in any case, that Duke William has, in many ways, made himself the linchpin of the Duchy. His is the curse of many ambitious geniuses-- he has taken on duty after duty that were once fulfilled by someone else to accrue power; but now, when he is gone, there will be turmoil as the people try to relearn how to do it without him.
And certainly, he is both ambitious-- what else could you call a man who rose up from bastardhood to become a duke?-- and a genius. Starting with a few dozen knights from both Lyonesse and Aquitaine, he carved a land for himself-- and for his children. All four-- three girls, and a boy-- are by rumor being sculpted to be examples of excellence by the Duke, perhaps either as over-reaction to his own deprived childhood or perhaps merely the result of a power-hungry man attempting to ensure the realm will stay in the hands of his blood.
In either case, it seems-- to your distaste-- that Écosse will not simply fall apart, but would be sundered first.
The tunnel vision...fades. The dark that was cutting you from seeing the whole is lit up.
The melee is a chaotic mess, a field of glorious battle. Defeated men lie on the ground, stepped over-- or occasionally on-- by their fellows. The street you battle on is a wide, gray line carved into the earth; made of granite, you can imagine how it would feel to land on it, and wince again as Justine's armor finally stops vibrating.
Eagle eyes scanning, you see Melisende, quarterstaff in hand, standing against a Tilean-- clad in steel, the warrior walks for her.
Between you and she, there are a dozen Estalians, Diestros one and all.
Popping your neck you set to movement once more. One of the men sees you, and takes a defensive stance, shouting for his fellows to join him. A moment later a bristling wall of swords and shields presents itself to you.
You take you stance, holding your sword vertically within your arms.
There's an art to breaking infantry lines. Too hard, too fast-- you don't actually do enough damage before they can regroup and stick something in you. Usually sharp. Too soft, too slow, you won't penetrate-- you'll bounce off, useless energy and men.
You've got to do it just right. Hard enough to break, but not hard enough to just go through-- ideally, depending on size, either staying stuck in to do work or wheeling back out to have another go around.
... You should maybe, probably not have your mind set on giving marital advice at the same time as you're waxing lyrical on the virtue of lance charges.
In any case you shout a wordless roar-- half the battle is won before the main event-- and race for them. They raise their swords to try and stop you, plant their feet. Ready their shields.
You'd be surprised how many State Troopers-- or, in this case, Estalians-- are too on the ball. If they'd kept their shields in one straight line, you'd have a problem.
But they haven't, and you don't.
Instead you burst through in a mighty crash of steel and stone. Estalians are thrust to the ground in great heaps even as the Tilean draws his blade, finally. Something about him is oddly familiar--something about the black eye carved into his red armor. He turns around, and seems quite surprised to see you.
In his surprise he is distracted and Melisende takes advantage to plant her fist into his back in a jackhammer blow that sends him to the ground.
You stop. "Melisende!"
"What? He's an Estalian!" She ducks a rock that came her from somewhere, and suddenly strikes the both of you that you are in the middle of the melee.
"...I- Lady above, what did your mother do to you? And by the way, Tilean." You race towards her, spin around, and a moment later you hear her fall behind you, raising up her staff.
"Taught me? Raised me? Loved me? Died for my sake? As opposed to my uncle? Also, don't care." An Imperial races towards you, and a moment later you've gripped his shoulder, slammed your hilt into his gut, then whirled him to the floor.
"I never got to know you because of your mother. And you probably should, considering who you have in your family tree." Behind you, you hear Kislevite swearing as a staff slams into a head.
"What do you want, uncle?" A rock axe comes from nowhere and, with inhuman grace you send it to the ground, before with a whallop knocking the Middenlander to the ground.
"To speak with my niece who I did not get to meet for many years because of my sister's hatred." You survey the lands, and see that the melee has devolved into little packets of violence.
"This is really the best time and place for it?" On edge when it's unneeded, the girl continues to scan the world.
"No man nor woman is ever more truthful than in battle. Besides, you've been avoiding me." To flirt with your son. Whether she likes the lad, is trying to get under your skin by taking your son from you, or something more sinister, the two have spoken more, here, than they have ever-- especially after the bar-fight.
Before this can continue, the Tilean leaps back to his feet. You and Melisende alike grip your blades, only for the knight to raise his hands. "Wait, wait! Are you the Duke Folcard?"
"Yes. And you are?"
He grins, then-- though does draw his sword again. "I am Cristiano of the Crimson Cavaliere. Mine apologies, then, for striking your niece."
Oh. Oh... Mor- news had filtered to you in Mousillon of Tileans fighting to cleanse the Forest while you were out.
"I should thank you, sir, for leaving your home to fight for mine people. And she deserved it."
"Hey!"
"Nonsense! I ought thank you, sir! The order needed that." He laughs, a slight thing. "A Chivalric Order, headed by a man not even 25 at the time? Despite deeds of valor and fame-- despite slaying beasts-- it still was not good enough for many people."
You look closer, and his words are put to truth-- indeed he looks nearer the age of your sons than the at-least twenty-seven he must be. He points to his belt buckle, which is covered by the preserved head of one of the dark things that crawled out from the Shadows. "It was hard to deny I knew what I was doing when I returned with pelts of fay and trophies of the dark."
He grips his hat from where it fell on the ground, and shakes off some of the dirt before putting it on again. "I would not strike unjustly he who had granted me such boons, unless he wished it."
[] Let the man go in peace to find another battle, continuing your current tack of paring down other competitors, and give advice to your niece
[] Have Melisende duel him. Win or lose, it should be a valuable lesson in, if nothing else, not doing cheating, backstabby treachery while a Grail Knight is watching.
[X] Have Melisende duel him. Win or lose, it should be a valuable lesson in, if nothing else, not doing cheating, backstabby treachery while a Grail Knight is watching.
[X] Have Melisende duel him. Win or lose, it should be a valuable lesson in, if nothing else, not doing cheating, backstabby treachery while a Grail Knight is watching.
Melisende seems to have a good head on her shoulders with regards to Estalians.
Merové slept in his halfling bed. The knight's child rested fitfully, and by his side were two books-- elven, by the look of them. Strangely tall, by the standards of humans.
The Godfrey spawn was open to attack; but that was not what Valana planned. The he-elf crept silently through the shadows, dark leathers cloaking him through the night even as he entered the wide room. A dozen elves, thrice that in men, dead-- enough gold to buy an army of slaves off the Dawi Zharr-- and...indignities suffered at the hands of that she-witch, Karagar; but still, the would-be lord of the Cult of Khaine would soon enough have both grand victory and servant.
"Stop."
A voice of power. A voice of command.
A voice too damned familiar.
The Druchii turned about, crossbow yet in hand-- but that would not be enough.
Telathayne stood there. Sword in one hand, staff in the other, the room seemed to lighten in the presence of the Archmage of Ellyrion. This was beyond simply her white-gold robes, too; but power, power itself burnt in her. Age walked with her, the lady of a hundred battles; to face her at a time and a place of his choosing would have been a risk. Cornered by her, wearing not his armors or his weapons beyond the crossbow that would have lain the child to sleep?
Doom.
"Valana. Have you not shamed what was once a noble name enough?"
She pointed her staff, tipped by a golden eagle ripped from the ships of Druchii, and even without saying a word the would-be ruler of the dark understood.
"We could rule them, you know." The Druchii's mouth opened without his command, but with all his approval. "Malekith would not leave his people. He would send vassals to do it, to take what we can. You would have statues in your glory, the jewels of the mountains would be yours, the quickling might be taken for you. All would love you-"
"And despair." The She-Elf looked tired, then, more tired than she had in a very, very long time. "Love taken is no true love, glories ripped are those soon fallen, and jewels earned by blood are those that never will shine. Understand this, Druchii-- Godfrey Folcard and those of his blood are under the protection of the Lord of Ellyrion and the Lady of Light." She drew her sword, the Once-Broken Blade, as though to punctuate her point. "Strike him, and we alike will strike back. Now flee to your master."
There was a crack-- and a moment later the Dark Elf was gone, ascended through the shadows.
The Borderlands have for the first time in centuries been forged into a singular kingdom!
Not everyone is happy about that.
It all started a long time ago, in the year 1420. A man named Guglielm Tell-- better known in Breton as Guillaume Tell-- set out with a small band of soldiers from one of the innumerable duchies that rise and fall. At the beginning, the mercenary band Guglielm had with him was a few dozen men armed with spears and bows, with glorified plow horses; hardly an indestructible force.
It was enough, though, for the Crimson Crossbows-- as they were known in those days-- to slay the cruel lord Mauroi of Fatanbad. Challenging the man to a contest of marksmanship, the would-be king shot an apple out of the air as it was falling from the tallest building-- then whipped about, and shot him. As the lord fell over, his own men were stopped-- slain, in some cases-- by William's soldiers. He was crowned on the spot by the people of Fatanbad.
Ever the ambitious one, Guglielm set out to forge a nation-- a task he succeeded at with gusto. Acquiring guns, and making cannons, and with his mind-- ever his most valuable asset-- over many years, decades even, the King would bind together many of the minor villages of the Borderlands, forming a kingdom.
His true break would only come, though, with the Druchii invasion. Seeking slaves and raw materials for their war against the High Elves, the Dark Elves would come, led by the scion of House Black-Crag at first, they would kill and reap for four years. Morathi herself would descend by the end of it, taking command over from Arathon. Standing against them were the forces of the Borderlands, the Long March of the High Elves, led by a prince of Caledor, the Karaz Ankor, and a small number of Wood Elves.
Wielding the Fang of Khaine, in the end this campaign would see fully a quarter the men of the Borderlands-- 600,000 souls, if not more-- slain or taken as slaves by the Druchii. More than that, the most prosperous of the City-States of the Borderlands: Argalis, Thessos, Kasos, and Achaes; were conquered, their treasuries ripped bare. It will be...generations, if not more, until that damage is fully healed.
More importantly, however, this left the techno-fetishists of Khypris the dominant power of the Borderlands, whose sole rival was William; and so gagging as they did, they knelt to the mercenary lord Guglielm, ironically enough, the Prince-Consort of Khypris, the black-crowned lord.
Thus it was that the Kingdoms of the Borderlands were forged into one.
And even now, so quickly, it is threatened. Not by succession; but by blood relations. For in his younger days William caroused with gusto; and so, beyond his four children with the Empress, there are four bastard, bred of four different Cities-- Brovska, whose ruling family has blood-ties with Bretonnia; Hinrikness, who are blood to the savage Norscan Skaelings; Matorea, bred of Tileans; and Somjek, of the Empire.
There is likely to be blood betwixt the four true-born of William-- his three sons and daughter by his wife-- and the bastards, two boys and two girls, who are likely to receive support from their mother nations in return for more favorable trade relations with the Borderlands; or perhaps, even, to conquer it.
And though Guglielm tries, and hard-so at that, to defuse the situation by giving his children both true-born and otherwise lands and titles as bribes; but it is not hard to fear that his ambition might have bred true in, at least, one...
