[X] By Charles! Father and son will be heinous to these cowards! (Also, you should probably apologize for knocking out his will-be wife. That'd be a good idea)
Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Location
- Memphis, TN
[X] By Charles! Father and son will be heinous to these cowards! (Also, you should probably apologize for knocking out his will-be wife. That'd be a good idea)
Sylvania
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Sylvania
"The Blood-Soaked land, this place of bog and bastardy and despair. The den of vampires, of evil.
And yet, it fills my dreams. Sigmar, the Hammer-Lord, calls to me-- lawlessness reins, evil walks, the Dark conquers. His Empire is threatened.
He will not find me wanting."
-Kurt Haupt-Anderssen
(Source)
A place of darkness and evil, Sylvania is a land that has ever been shrouded in darkness. The ancestral lands of the Fennone people, they are a dismal place-- wet, and cold, and near fallow. Yet that is not the worst of it-- for above all else, Sylvania is the favored land of vampires; for choked by Warpstone, it is easy to tear apart the veil between the living and the dead and raise those that should be resting eternal and send them as soldiers against the living; and it is Sylvania where the Von Carsteins first inflicted themselves, like a cancer, upon the Empire.
It is little surprise that Sylvania has a foul reputation, and its people feel much the same of the rest of the world.
But there is a dim hope, ever on the horizon.
Kurt Anderssen, one day Graf of Stirland.
He claims right of Sylvania by law, and by religion. The tiny town of Sylvburg is where he has begun constructing a great citadel to be his bastion whence he shall fall on the Vampiric filth as Ghal Maraz itself. There, many churches dedicated to every god of Stirland and Sylvania, no matter how small or how few followers, are built-- designed by his own hand, they will be fortresses themselves too, and dedicated to turning out holy warriors who might smite the darkness back by their burning faith.
Also he has already begun sending his emissaries to the towns and hamlets of Sylvania. One part tax collector, one part lawman, and protected by the knightly soldiers of his Lady-Wife Justine, they have been his hands in bringing justice and order to the land; though only the nearest villages have been at all reached, already issues have been resolved that otherwise would have been left to fester as wounds-- bandits have been killed, monsters slain, taxes collected, and law given justly and impartially.
There is a weapon in his corner that allows him to do this so freely-- the Waters of Death. Borne of sacred spring in Mousillon, they are rare still-- jealously guarded but for a slight amount by the cult of Morr, who can use them to perform miracles. Still, even the slight amount he has access to means he can arm his Untouchables with the stuff, along with a select few others. More importantly, this means that every Vampire who might otherwise try and attack his soldiers and lawmen must ask whether or not they are willing to risk true death for this. If his access were cut off, he would face...significant difficulties.
There is yet one other trick up the lawlord's sleeves. He is attempting-- unsuccessfully, so far-- to convince the Dark Lady of Nuln, Elspeth Von Draken, to come to Sylvania. There is little he might offer her beyond the Waters of Death, the Shysh heavy Winds of Magic, and Wyrdstone; but the Dark Lady is known to be both erratic and impulsive-- and to have her, for even a short time, would be a Sigmar-sent gift.
"The Blood-Soaked land, this place of bog and bastardy and despair. The den of vampires, of evil.
And yet, it fills my dreams. Sigmar, the Hammer-Lord, calls to me-- lawlessness reins, evil walks, the Dark conquers. His Empire is threatened.
He will not find me wanting."
-Kurt Haupt-Anderssen
(Source)
A place of darkness and evil, Sylvania is a land that has ever been shrouded in darkness. The ancestral lands of the Fennone people, they are a dismal place-- wet, and cold, and near fallow. Yet that is not the worst of it-- for above all else, Sylvania is the favored land of vampires; for choked by Warpstone, it is easy to tear apart the veil between the living and the dead and raise those that should be resting eternal and send them as soldiers against the living; and it is Sylvania where the Von Carsteins first inflicted themselves, like a cancer, upon the Empire.
It is little surprise that Sylvania has a foul reputation, and its people feel much the same of the rest of the world.
But there is a dim hope, ever on the horizon.
Kurt Anderssen, one day Graf of Stirland.
He claims right of Sylvania by law, and by religion. The tiny town of Sylvburg is where he has begun constructing a great citadel to be his bastion whence he shall fall on the Vampiric filth as Ghal Maraz itself. There, many churches dedicated to every god of Stirland and Sylvania, no matter how small or how few followers, are built-- designed by his own hand, they will be fortresses themselves too, and dedicated to turning out holy warriors who might smite the darkness back by their burning faith.
Also he has already begun sending his emissaries to the towns and hamlets of Sylvania. One part tax collector, one part lawman, and protected by the knightly soldiers of his Lady-Wife Justine, they have been his hands in bringing justice and order to the land; though only the nearest villages have been at all reached, already issues have been resolved that otherwise would have been left to fester as wounds-- bandits have been killed, monsters slain, taxes collected, and law given justly and impartially.
There is a weapon in his corner that allows him to do this so freely-- the Waters of Death. Borne of sacred spring in Mousillon, they are rare still-- jealously guarded but for a slight amount by the cult of Morr, who can use them to perform miracles. Still, even the slight amount he has access to means he can arm his Untouchables with the stuff, along with a select few others. More importantly, this means that every Vampire who might otherwise try and attack his soldiers and lawmen must ask whether or not they are willing to risk true death for this. If his access were cut off, he would face...significant difficulties.
There is yet one other trick up the lawlord's sleeves. He is attempting-- unsuccessfully, so far-- to convince the Dark Lady of Nuln, Elspeth Von Draken, to come to Sylvania. There is little he might offer her beyond the Waters of Death, the Shysh heavy Winds of Magic, and Wyrdstone; but the Dark Lady is known to be both erratic and impulsive-- and to have her, for even a short time, would be a Sigmar-sent gift.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
She's around at this time, huh.
Wedding Bash pt.15
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wedding Bash Pt.15
The men of Bretonnia line up. Charles goes to the front, so that he might face Lady Gavrilla; you are to his right, to stand as the wall betwixt the center of the lance and Kislevites. Opposite you, the Imperial-Kislevite warriors form up into a block 3 deep and 6 wide, and at the front is the Mercenary Princess of Erengard.
"Son, I should tell you now: I...knocked out your lady-love."
"I know, father. I watched. Everything."
Then that is the end of that, as the horn is blown.
Instantly you are moving, charging, baneful to the foe, swift purpose. The Knights of Bretonnia race for the Nortmen block, chants of honor and glory on your lips, borrowed arms and armor gleaming in the sun. These spiteful cowards will be held to task.
Bretonnian Lance:
The Knights (HP:810)- 685*2 (Lance Formation)= 1,178
Sir Hercule (HP:100): 54+12=66*2= 132
Duke Arthur (HP:100): 86+12=98*2=196
Sir Urien (HP:100): 42+12=54*2=108
Charles (HP:100) 59+9=68*2=136
You (HP:27): 5+15=20*2=40
North:
Block: Hp: 1500 (Rolled: 770)
Lady Gavrilla: HP 150 (Rolled: 92+10=102)
There is sound and fury and death as you strike. The Kislevite lady expected many things from your number.
What she did not expect was Charles throwing down his sword in the moments before impact and body checking her, throwing them both to the ground in violent embrace, tumbling like lovers threw the air until with the crash of steel and leather they landed, hard, on the stone. A tangle of limbs and death scrambling over each other, the two strike each other with all the fury they can muster-- the Kislevite has reach on your son, being one of the tallest people, period, you've ever seen; and soon enough she has beaten your son to submission, jamming an elbow into his knee.
But by the time she turns around, it is already too late. The Lance has struck, and planted itself-- like a knife-- into the Imperial brigade. A clash of steel and swords, the Bretonnians are more wounded than the Northmen; but you are brothers, bound in honor and glory together as sons of the Lady. Men fall like flies, many of them, but they fight as lions, each the doom of at least one Imperial or Kislevite, if not more.
You see the Lady of Erengard stalking towards the lance, and wheeling away you grip the unfamiliar sword. Even as you do one of your brothers in arms takes your place, wheeling into position with blunted mace and shield.
"Gavrilla of Erengard. You slew many innocents-- mine countrymen included-- all to put your masters back into power atop their pyramid of cruelty, villain."
"Phillip Folcard. Word of your...rhetoric...is what has spurred on the Rebels, fool."
And with that you are racing at each other, your sword raised, as is her axe.
You run past, with a slash of your blade. Her blunted steel slams into your armor, raising a bruise across the whole of your shoulder.
Your blade cracks across her jaw.
She falls over entirely.
You descend to your knee, holding yourself up on your sword.
Metal comes for you, the creaking of steel on stone.
A moment later a steel-covered glove grips you-- and Sir Hercule is lifting you up to your feet.
Behind him, the entirety of both Bretonnian and Imperial block is lying on the floor, beaten.
Heh.
Looks like you win after all.
He bows his head to you. "Thank you, Sirrah. This means more to me than you might think."
You grab your daughter from where she is yet resting on the earth. There is an infirmary in each of the inns. "I...will not hold the fell deeds of kin against the innocent."
You begin to walk away hoisting your daughter over your shoulders, Amalric watching as you go. It brings a smile to your face.
And if you can Distantly--"Otherworld distantly"-- hear yourself teaching a young man how to bear arms, then clearly you've done something right.
(+100 Prestige for winning Melee)
Now, once you get back to your room you're probably going to crash, but you can still plan for tomorrow.
What will you do tomorrow? (Day 3 of 7)
(Pick 3)
[] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[] Spend time with Justine and Kurt. Though she knows what happened, you are still curious about the elf.
[] Spend time with Leliana and Grègoire. She deserves to know, they all deserve to know.
[] Spend time with Godfrey and Annick. He deserves to know.
[] Spend time with Charles and Melisende. You must ask Charles if he ever figured this out, that the Champion who was training him was kin-- and apologize for knocking out his will-be wife.
[] Pray. You could use...well, a whole lot of divine intervention, right now.
The men of Bretonnia line up. Charles goes to the front, so that he might face Lady Gavrilla; you are to his right, to stand as the wall betwixt the center of the lance and Kislevites. Opposite you, the Imperial-Kislevite warriors form up into a block 3 deep and 6 wide, and at the front is the Mercenary Princess of Erengard.
"Son, I should tell you now: I...knocked out your lady-love."
"I know, father. I watched. Everything."
Then that is the end of that, as the horn is blown.
Instantly you are moving, charging, baneful to the foe, swift purpose. The Knights of Bretonnia race for the Nortmen block, chants of honor and glory on your lips, borrowed arms and armor gleaming in the sun. These spiteful cowards will be held to task.
Bretonnian Lance:
The Knights (HP:810)- 685*2 (Lance Formation)= 1,178
Sir Hercule (HP:100): 54+12=66*2= 132
Duke Arthur (HP:100): 86+12=98*2=196
Sir Urien (HP:100): 42+12=54*2=108
Charles (HP:100) 59+9=68*2=136
You (HP:27): 5+15=20*2=40
North:
Block: Hp: 1500 (Rolled: 770)
Lady Gavrilla: HP 150 (Rolled: 92+10=102)
There is sound and fury and death as you strike. The Kislevite lady expected many things from your number.
What she did not expect was Charles throwing down his sword in the moments before impact and body checking her, throwing them both to the ground in violent embrace, tumbling like lovers threw the air until with the crash of steel and leather they landed, hard, on the stone. A tangle of limbs and death scrambling over each other, the two strike each other with all the fury they can muster-- the Kislevite has reach on your son, being one of the tallest people, period, you've ever seen; and soon enough she has beaten your son to submission, jamming an elbow into his knee.
But by the time she turns around, it is already too late. The Lance has struck, and planted itself-- like a knife-- into the Imperial brigade. A clash of steel and swords, the Bretonnians are more wounded than the Northmen; but you are brothers, bound in honor and glory together as sons of the Lady. Men fall like flies, many of them, but they fight as lions, each the doom of at least one Imperial or Kislevite, if not more.
You see the Lady of Erengard stalking towards the lance, and wheeling away you grip the unfamiliar sword. Even as you do one of your brothers in arms takes your place, wheeling into position with blunted mace and shield.
"Gavrilla of Erengard. You slew many innocents-- mine countrymen included-- all to put your masters back into power atop their pyramid of cruelty, villain."
"Phillip Folcard. Word of your...rhetoric...is what has spurred on the Rebels, fool."
And with that you are racing at each other, your sword raised, as is her axe.
You run past, with a slash of your blade. Her blunted steel slams into your armor, raising a bruise across the whole of your shoulder.
Your blade cracks across her jaw.
She falls over entirely.
You descend to your knee, holding yourself up on your sword.
Metal comes for you, the creaking of steel on stone.
A moment later a steel-covered glove grips you-- and Sir Hercule is lifting you up to your feet.
Behind him, the entirety of both Bretonnian and Imperial block is lying on the floor, beaten.
Heh.
Looks like you win after all.
He bows his head to you. "Thank you, Sirrah. This means more to me than you might think."
You grab your daughter from where she is yet resting on the earth. There is an infirmary in each of the inns. "I...will not hold the fell deeds of kin against the innocent."
You begin to walk away hoisting your daughter over your shoulders, Amalric watching as you go. It brings a smile to your face.
And if you can Distantly--"Otherworld distantly"-- hear yourself teaching a young man how to bear arms, then clearly you've done something right.
(+100 Prestige for winning Melee)
Now, once you get back to your room you're probably going to crash, but you can still plan for tomorrow.
What will you do tomorrow? (Day 3 of 7)
(Pick 3)
[] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[] Spend time with Justine and Kurt. Though she knows what happened, you are still curious about the elf.
[] Spend time with Leliana and Grègoire. She deserves to know, they all deserve to know.
[] Spend time with Godfrey and Annick. He deserves to know.
[] Spend time with Charles and Melisende. You must ask Charles if he ever figured this out, that the Champion who was training him was kin-- and apologize for knocking out his will-be wife.
[] Pray. You could use...well, a whole lot of divine intervention, right now.
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
- Location
- Sweden
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
Duty. Oath. Family.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
Duty. Oath. Family.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
Genesys
(Discrete Mokona)
- Location
- California
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
kelgar04
Knight Watcher
- Location
- Here and no were
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
- Location
- Germany
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
Bowmen
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bowmen
"30 Copper Chevaliers to any man or woman willing and able to take up bow with the Lord's host. Provisions provided, lodging not."
-The usual terms of employment
(Source)
There are many-fold archers in Bretonnia, for the world is a dangerous place-- bandits and orcs are ever present. More than that, it also allows for the commons to hunt to fill their bellies in times of great and terrible harvests alike.
As such, when the hosts of Bretonnia head to war, they go followed by thousands of these impromptu soldiers. Compared to the other most common soldiers, the Men at Arms, their pay is worse for the supposed lack of danger, their equipment shoddier thanks to the haphazard nature of their enlistment, and their morale worse thanks to the lack of respect offered to those who fight as cowards at range. These factors combine to produce what is often a mediocre soldier, scarcely better than the bandits and orcs that they trade shots with. Even the best still have a certain spark lacking in them.
Still, there are many of them in any fight-- for even the bottom most dregs of Bretonnian peasentry will know how to fire a bow at least acceptably-- and under the gaze of a knight, often an older lord who is slowing down or the son of a politically connected knight of the realm looking to preserve his get, they can aspire to acceptable feats. Over time, the Bowmen of Bretonnia have gained two advantages over their rivals in the Empire. First they, over long centuries of experimentation, have come up with a bevy of formulas to craft fire arrows of immediate utility in any battle, catching alight near instantly tabbards, flesh, and any other flammable object in moments. Secondly, being that they are often craftsmen when not on the march, they have learned to build both quickly and sturdily great stakes that can ward off attacking enemies, particularly cavalry.
Units of bowmen are also the only place where one can expect to find great numbers of women on the field for Bretonnia; for most knights believe archery is simple enough and the bowmen safe enough to allow women to join them. For their part, the peasants consider it an easy enough way to gain a bit of extra money, which can be saved up in case of emergencies; and thus there will often be an ancestral bow, handed down to the best shot of the family, whether boy or girl.
--
Daily reminder that while Honor is All!Bretonnia is an Arthurian Kingdom with a seedy underbelly as opposed to a Feudal Hellhole, it's still got a seedy underbelly.
"30 Copper Chevaliers to any man or woman willing and able to take up bow with the Lord's host. Provisions provided, lodging not."
-The usual terms of employment
(Source)
There are many-fold archers in Bretonnia, for the world is a dangerous place-- bandits and orcs are ever present. More than that, it also allows for the commons to hunt to fill their bellies in times of great and terrible harvests alike.
As such, when the hosts of Bretonnia head to war, they go followed by thousands of these impromptu soldiers. Compared to the other most common soldiers, the Men at Arms, their pay is worse for the supposed lack of danger, their equipment shoddier thanks to the haphazard nature of their enlistment, and their morale worse thanks to the lack of respect offered to those who fight as cowards at range. These factors combine to produce what is often a mediocre soldier, scarcely better than the bandits and orcs that they trade shots with. Even the best still have a certain spark lacking in them.
Still, there are many of them in any fight-- for even the bottom most dregs of Bretonnian peasentry will know how to fire a bow at least acceptably-- and under the gaze of a knight, often an older lord who is slowing down or the son of a politically connected knight of the realm looking to preserve his get, they can aspire to acceptable feats. Over time, the Bowmen of Bretonnia have gained two advantages over their rivals in the Empire. First they, over long centuries of experimentation, have come up with a bevy of formulas to craft fire arrows of immediate utility in any battle, catching alight near instantly tabbards, flesh, and any other flammable object in moments. Secondly, being that they are often craftsmen when not on the march, they have learned to build both quickly and sturdily great stakes that can ward off attacking enemies, particularly cavalry.
Units of bowmen are also the only place where one can expect to find great numbers of women on the field for Bretonnia; for most knights believe archery is simple enough and the bowmen safe enough to allow women to join them. For their part, the peasants consider it an easy enough way to gain a bit of extra money, which can be saved up in case of emergencies; and thus there will often be an ancestral bow, handed down to the best shot of the family, whether boy or girl.
--
Daily reminder that while Honor is All!Bretonnia is an Arthurian Kingdom with a seedy underbelly as opposed to a Feudal Hellhole, it's still got a seedy underbelly.
Last edited:
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
Yeomen
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yeomen
And the low-bred soldiers of Gisoreux
Clapped in iron and steel
Stood then, hoary,
And shouted their defiance to the dark.
-The Last Stand of Duc Jerome
Most Men at Arms, aside of course from those who die in battle or on the war-trail, will retire eventually. They will spend their twilight days with grandsons and granddaughters hoisted on their knees, telling old war stories until finally they pass in peace to the side of their gods.
Most... but not all.
Some become yeomen.
The light-riders of Bretonnia, they are the right hands, and eyes, and ears of their lords and ladies. It is they, and they alone, aside from the nobles and the few coachmen, who have the right to ride within the lands of the kingdom. Trusted implicitly by their lords, it is folly to strike them; for as their representatives, to harm yeomen is to harm the Knights themselves. In return for these, and other luxuries and privileges, they are expected to be exemplary soldiers and servants. At least five years service as a Man At Arms is required to become a yeomen, and those would have to be very impressive years; for it is an awesome weight thrust upon these men.
When they are called to war, yeomen march clad in at least fine maille hauberks, wielding shield and spear; it can, indeed, be hard to tell apart the scions of poorer families and the servants of richer lords. Most will fight on foot, leading the Men At Arms in battle; veterans one and all, they give spine and shape to the masses of called upon militia as some of the few professional soldiers.
A few, the best, will instead ride to war. Carried upon the backs of hybrids betwixt Imperial Warhorses and Bretonnian farm beasts, this horseflesh-- though not to the standards of the Knights of Bretonnia-- are still fearsome beasts, fit for war. Carrying a cavalry sidearm along with spear, these men will act as light cavalry in war, harassing and assailing the enemy along with the youngest Knights Errant if they can be spared, carting messages, and escorting VIPs of other nations and ladies. It is rare-- though not very rare-- to see them called to the fiercest battles; most lords instead prefer to preserve them, to be a bane to the enemy's supply trains.
In recent years, it has become something of a fad to try and "improve" the yeomen by various means: bow-training, thrown spears for the charge, and a dozen other methods. Nowhere is this truer than the foreign reformists, who would like to transform the Yeomen into Gendarmerie-- a hypothetical "medium" cavalry, capable of both charging and harassment; though outside of the Foreign Reformists, the idea is not popular, seen as a potential threat to social order.
And the low-bred soldiers of Gisoreux
Clapped in iron and steel
Stood then, hoary,
And shouted their defiance to the dark.
-The Last Stand of Duc Jerome
Most Men at Arms, aside of course from those who die in battle or on the war-trail, will retire eventually. They will spend their twilight days with grandsons and granddaughters hoisted on their knees, telling old war stories until finally they pass in peace to the side of their gods.
Most... but not all.
Some become yeomen.
The light-riders of Bretonnia, they are the right hands, and eyes, and ears of their lords and ladies. It is they, and they alone, aside from the nobles and the few coachmen, who have the right to ride within the lands of the kingdom. Trusted implicitly by their lords, it is folly to strike them; for as their representatives, to harm yeomen is to harm the Knights themselves. In return for these, and other luxuries and privileges, they are expected to be exemplary soldiers and servants. At least five years service as a Man At Arms is required to become a yeomen, and those would have to be very impressive years; for it is an awesome weight thrust upon these men.
When they are called to war, yeomen march clad in at least fine maille hauberks, wielding shield and spear; it can, indeed, be hard to tell apart the scions of poorer families and the servants of richer lords. Most will fight on foot, leading the Men At Arms in battle; veterans one and all, they give spine and shape to the masses of called upon militia as some of the few professional soldiers.
A few, the best, will instead ride to war. Carried upon the backs of hybrids betwixt Imperial Warhorses and Bretonnian farm beasts, this horseflesh-- though not to the standards of the Knights of Bretonnia-- are still fearsome beasts, fit for war. Carrying a cavalry sidearm along with spear, these men will act as light cavalry in war, harassing and assailing the enemy along with the youngest Knights Errant if they can be spared, carting messages, and escorting VIPs of other nations and ladies. It is rare-- though not very rare-- to see them called to the fiercest battles; most lords instead prefer to preserve them, to be a bane to the enemy's supply trains.
In recent years, it has become something of a fad to try and "improve" the yeomen by various means: bow-training, thrown spears for the charge, and a dozen other methods. Nowhere is this truer than the foreign reformists, who would like to transform the Yeomen into Gendarmerie-- a hypothetical "medium" cavalry, capable of both charging and harassment; though outside of the Foreign Reformists, the idea is not popular, seen as a potential threat to social order.
Last edited:
- Location
- USA
[X] Seek out the king, to warn him of your vision. That's pretty important.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
[X] Introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters. She has been bereft of family for all of her life. Never again.
[X] Go to the Merchants Quarters. You made a promise to your grandchildren that you would spend some time with them, and you are many things-- a damn fool included for thinking you could trust Morgyan le Fay-- but you are no oath-breaker.
The Wild Hunt
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Wild Hunt
"Stay inside, bar your doors, and pray to the Lady."
-Damsel Rose D'Agincourt
(Source)
The Elves of Athel Loren and Ulthuan are very, very different. The Elves of Athel Loren, with essentially the sole exception of Araloth and now his daughter Lady Talsyn are isolationists bordering on xenophobes at the best, caring little for the world outside of their forest. Meanwhile, even the most arrogant and proud of the scions of Ulthuan will fight, to the knife's edge and beyond, to save the world-- despite, indeed, despising many of its inhabitants. There is one way in which the Asur and the Asrai are quite similiar, though: and that is the Wild Hunt and the Long March.
Oh, they do not seem so similar. The Wood Elves head on their march to slay beasts both foul and fair, whilst the High Elves deploy soldiers to ensure that no harm has come to the Wardstones that keep the planet from falling to Chaos.
But that is not the whole story. The Wild Hunt, the broiling host that falls forth from the realms of the Wood Elves led by Orion, does not usually hunt men. That is not to say, of course, that there is no conflict between the Wild Hunt and the realms it is unleashed; but it is more likely to come about a farmer is rightly angered after elves butcher his herd than it is them specifically seeking to kill the realms of man-- with the exception of those who harm the forest or wound the elves.
No, Orion seeks a true challenge-- and that is not found in the beating heart of the Old World, usually. No, the Wild Hunt strikes against Beastmen. It strikes against Skaven. It strikes against monsters and horrors and things better left to die; which are, of course, not usually human or dwarf or the other peaceful people.
Still, that does not make wise the idea of man making himself known when the Wild Hunt is come. Humans traveling would be well advised to steer clear of the fay army, and if they should fight near a town it is custom to set out food and wines to appease the Elves and the Fae-- for when the battlelust falls upon them, the Wood Elves might make even the Druchii appear peaceable, as they howl for war and hunt and blood. Only the mad, the foolish, or the desperate might ever be so ignoble as to attempt to speak with the Asrai when they have recently partaken of the Hunt; more-so than usual, at that.
Yet it is hard for the Elves of Ulthuan to look upon this and not see similarity. Of course the Wood Elves claim this is merely so that the fights they face are truly a challenge, as opposed to the slow Dwarfs and damn-fool Humans. But there are those among the Immortal who look upon this, and wonder whether the spark of nobility buried in the hearts of every Elf is not flickering and returning to flames once more.
"Stay inside, bar your doors, and pray to the Lady."
-Damsel Rose D'Agincourt
(Source)
The Elves of Athel Loren and Ulthuan are very, very different. The Elves of Athel Loren, with essentially the sole exception of Araloth and now his daughter Lady Talsyn are isolationists bordering on xenophobes at the best, caring little for the world outside of their forest. Meanwhile, even the most arrogant and proud of the scions of Ulthuan will fight, to the knife's edge and beyond, to save the world-- despite, indeed, despising many of its inhabitants. There is one way in which the Asur and the Asrai are quite similiar, though: and that is the Wild Hunt and the Long March.
Oh, they do not seem so similar. The Wood Elves head on their march to slay beasts both foul and fair, whilst the High Elves deploy soldiers to ensure that no harm has come to the Wardstones that keep the planet from falling to Chaos.
But that is not the whole story. The Wild Hunt, the broiling host that falls forth from the realms of the Wood Elves led by Orion, does not usually hunt men. That is not to say, of course, that there is no conflict between the Wild Hunt and the realms it is unleashed; but it is more likely to come about a farmer is rightly angered after elves butcher his herd than it is them specifically seeking to kill the realms of man-- with the exception of those who harm the forest or wound the elves.
No, Orion seeks a true challenge-- and that is not found in the beating heart of the Old World, usually. No, the Wild Hunt strikes against Beastmen. It strikes against Skaven. It strikes against monsters and horrors and things better left to die; which are, of course, not usually human or dwarf or the other peaceful people.
Still, that does not make wise the idea of man making himself known when the Wild Hunt is come. Humans traveling would be well advised to steer clear of the fay army, and if they should fight near a town it is custom to set out food and wines to appease the Elves and the Fae-- for when the battlelust falls upon them, the Wood Elves might make even the Druchii appear peaceable, as they howl for war and hunt and blood. Only the mad, the foolish, or the desperate might ever be so ignoble as to attempt to speak with the Asrai when they have recently partaken of the Hunt; more-so than usual, at that.
Yet it is hard for the Elves of Ulthuan to look upon this and not see similarity. Of course the Wood Elves claim this is merely so that the fights they face are truly a challenge, as opposed to the slow Dwarfs and damn-fool Humans. But there are those among the Immortal who look upon this, and wonder whether the spark of nobility buried in the hearts of every Elf is not flickering and returning to flames once more.
Wedding Bash pt. 16
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wedding Bash Pt. 16
You awake on the morrow feeling...good's not the right word for it; you haven't felt good since you found Belicent.
But you feel ready. Your mind is clear, your senses sharp, your will untempered for the first time in decades.
Three deeds you must do.
Speak with the king, introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters, and spend time with your grandchildren.
Easiest first. You throw your dark tresses into order, splash your face with water, then throw on your embroidered doublet.
--
The King was not hard to find. After all, he's the only ruler here that the Elves are universally happy to see. Ever a friend to the Elves of Ulthuan, he has stood with them against the Dark Elves, the Tomb Kings, the Ogres, and a dozen foes beside, and has grown rich for it; of all the ports of Bretonnia, the Arsur concentrate their trade in L'Anguille. Now that he is on Ulthuan, the Elves are hosting him in the guest chambers of Finubar himself, whence he hosts the princes of the Elven Jewel. They have a dozen guards by his door, too, in order that the Druchii not strike their guest.
As you enter the palace and head for the King's Chambers, a Knight oddly familiar to you steps forward; and it is then that you recognize the Prince.
With long blond hair falling to his shoulders, eyes the shade of the sea, and a long beard that reaches to his the bottom of his stomach, the Prince looks more akin to a Norscan raider than his ancestors-- famed for their fiery, cropped locks and shaved faces.
"Be about your business, or begone."
He certainly has their manners, though. Perhaps the influence of his wife? Or maybe the elves?
"I am here," And it is then that you flash the Heraldry Folcard, "On matters of great import, Highness. I would speak with my king of them."
"Wait." Before the boy can embarrass himself, a high-but-dignified voice stops him. "I recognize that voice, boy. Send him in." He nods, puts aside his sword, and then stand by the door, to the side of its frame.
You walk in to see the king clad still in armor, despite the peace he has enforced. Clad in maille, crown resting upon his brow, he looks the part of king. Despite having entered his fifties he still looks more the part of a man decades younger, with the same flowing tresses as his son but far sunnier disposition on his face and no beard to speak of.
You bow before the Royarch, as is right and just. Even if he seems more the part of Emperor or Prince himself-- his quarters plush and luxurious, if not quite unseemly so.
"Duke Phillip Folcard, heir to Martrud's blood and conqueror of the Massif. But that all my Vassals were of such vigor."
"My lord. You do me more credit than I have earned."
"Rise. Why then do you come before me?"
"I have had grim dreams of late, my King. Those of war, and death, and destruction. A warning from the fae allies of the Lady herself, given me by the Court of Stone. Malekith, Witch-King, seeks vengeance; to do this he has captured an army of Ogres and other slaves to unleash on the kingdom. Worse, he will have the aid of one who ought be better. A traitor."
The king grips a flagon of, ugh, ale, then turns back to you. "Tell me everything."
What follows is an hour ofrather boring exposition giving the King the knowledge he yet needs.
He clasps your shoulder then. "I thank you, Cleric Caller. There are men I have fought with before-- but never in my life did I think they might betray me. My thanks to you, Sir." He turns, then, back to his window. "There are six places with the shores necessary to land invaders. Six might-be traitor dukes. Arthur, Gwilherm, Dragofil, Hugh, Marc, and Kai. Much land to cover, and all of five years to do it." He shakes his head, suddenly seeming very tired. "I cannot demand this of you, but I ask that you aid me in discovering which of these is so base."
Before you can respond in any way, a few dozen Princes of Ulthuan enter the slight chamber and you are-- pushed is too impolite-- dismissed.
Very well then.
A few last deeds to do today.
--
The walk back to the Inn is fast, the paved marble of the city fading behind you fast as you thrust open the door to your room. Belicent is clad once more in trouser and tunic, orange and green.
"Father." She gives a swift, slight bow to you. "I was just leaving."
"Not yet you're not. There are people you need to meet first."
Her eyes go wide, color floods to her cheeks, and a bead of sweat falls from her forehead.
Ah.
It's nice to know that at least one of your children takes more after you and your fears than they do Morgyan's overwhelming confidence.
She grips your hand, a source of comfort, and you do much the same.
The walk to the inns where your children are staying, as are your grandchildren, is swift, you whispering words of encouragement to your daughter as is a father's duty. Soon enough you enter the quarters.
Justine and Annick are arm-wrestling while their husbands cheer from the sides, Melisende glares at you with Charles, and Leliana and Gregoire are writing sonnets.
They all look up when you enter, surprised to see your hand entwined with a woman aside from their mother. "Father? Why-"
Before they can ask question, you state simply and calmly, "This is your sister, and your mother has been hiding her since her birth."
Then you flee as they're bumrushed by that to where your grandchildren are resting. They blearily blink as the light enters. "Grandpa...?"
"I promised we'd be spending time together, didn't I?" The eldest are here, young but still good kids.
Abraham, come late with Rose as punishment for breaking his father's vase; Merové, who has a small picture book; and Robert, meddling with some toy blocks.
You scoop them up and head out to the commons, whence the news appears to finally have struck them fully. "I'll be heading out with the kids like we agreed before we went unless you need something nope okay bye!"
"Wai-"
Then the door slams shut again and you are out, sprinting through the streets.
They need this-- time to digest what, exactly, their mother's done without you peering over their shoulder.
For your part, you'd like to spend some time with your grandsons.
"If you see your mother coming, yell for me, then make sure you come to my funeral."
"Grandpa, we can walk."
At some point you, in blind panic, managed to enter the Merchant's District.
Soon enough, the three make clear their opinion:
[] Robert would like to go to a small shop staffed by Cathayans, filled with silks and quills and building blocks.
[] Merové would like to head to a small bookstore staffed by elves.
[] Abraham would like to go to a blacksmith's shop, where training weapons and armor line the walls.
You awake on the morrow feeling...good's not the right word for it; you haven't felt good since you found Belicent.
But you feel ready. Your mind is clear, your senses sharp, your will untempered for the first time in decades.
Three deeds you must do.
Speak with the king, introduce Belicent to her brothers and sisters, and spend time with your grandchildren.
Easiest first. You throw your dark tresses into order, splash your face with water, then throw on your embroidered doublet.
--
The King was not hard to find. After all, he's the only ruler here that the Elves are universally happy to see. Ever a friend to the Elves of Ulthuan, he has stood with them against the Dark Elves, the Tomb Kings, the Ogres, and a dozen foes beside, and has grown rich for it; of all the ports of Bretonnia, the Arsur concentrate their trade in L'Anguille. Now that he is on Ulthuan, the Elves are hosting him in the guest chambers of Finubar himself, whence he hosts the princes of the Elven Jewel. They have a dozen guards by his door, too, in order that the Druchii not strike their guest.
As you enter the palace and head for the King's Chambers, a Knight oddly familiar to you steps forward; and it is then that you recognize the Prince.
With long blond hair falling to his shoulders, eyes the shade of the sea, and a long beard that reaches to his the bottom of his stomach, the Prince looks more akin to a Norscan raider than his ancestors-- famed for their fiery, cropped locks and shaved faces.
"Be about your business, or begone."
He certainly has their manners, though. Perhaps the influence of his wife? Or maybe the elves?
"I am here," And it is then that you flash the Heraldry Folcard, "On matters of great import, Highness. I would speak with my king of them."
"Wait." Before the boy can embarrass himself, a high-but-dignified voice stops him. "I recognize that voice, boy. Send him in." He nods, puts aside his sword, and then stand by the door, to the side of its frame.
You walk in to see the king clad still in armor, despite the peace he has enforced. Clad in maille, crown resting upon his brow, he looks the part of king. Despite having entered his fifties he still looks more the part of a man decades younger, with the same flowing tresses as his son but far sunnier disposition on his face and no beard to speak of.
You bow before the Royarch, as is right and just. Even if he seems more the part of Emperor or Prince himself-- his quarters plush and luxurious, if not quite unseemly so.
"Duke Phillip Folcard, heir to Martrud's blood and conqueror of the Massif. But that all my Vassals were of such vigor."
"My lord. You do me more credit than I have earned."
"Rise. Why then do you come before me?"
"I have had grim dreams of late, my King. Those of war, and death, and destruction. A warning from the fae allies of the Lady herself, given me by the Court of Stone. Malekith, Witch-King, seeks vengeance; to do this he has captured an army of Ogres and other slaves to unleash on the kingdom. Worse, he will have the aid of one who ought be better. A traitor."
The king grips a flagon of, ugh, ale, then turns back to you. "Tell me everything."
What follows is an hour of
He clasps your shoulder then. "I thank you, Cleric Caller. There are men I have fought with before-- but never in my life did I think they might betray me. My thanks to you, Sir." He turns, then, back to his window. "There are six places with the shores necessary to land invaders. Six might-be traitor dukes. Arthur, Gwilherm, Dragofil, Hugh, Marc, and Kai. Much land to cover, and all of five years to do it." He shakes his head, suddenly seeming very tired. "I cannot demand this of you, but I ask that you aid me in discovering which of these is so base."
Before you can respond in any way, a few dozen Princes of Ulthuan enter the slight chamber and you are-- pushed is too impolite-- dismissed.
Very well then.
A few last deeds to do today.
--
The walk back to the Inn is fast, the paved marble of the city fading behind you fast as you thrust open the door to your room. Belicent is clad once more in trouser and tunic, orange and green.
"Father." She gives a swift, slight bow to you. "I was just leaving."
"Not yet you're not. There are people you need to meet first."
Her eyes go wide, color floods to her cheeks, and a bead of sweat falls from her forehead.
Ah.
It's nice to know that at least one of your children takes more after you and your fears than they do Morgyan's overwhelming confidence.
She grips your hand, a source of comfort, and you do much the same.
The walk to the inns where your children are staying, as are your grandchildren, is swift, you whispering words of encouragement to your daughter as is a father's duty. Soon enough you enter the quarters.
Justine and Annick are arm-wrestling while their husbands cheer from the sides, Melisende glares at you with Charles, and Leliana and Gregoire are writing sonnets.
They all look up when you enter, surprised to see your hand entwined with a woman aside from their mother. "Father? Why-"
Before they can ask question, you state simply and calmly, "This is your sister, and your mother has been hiding her since her birth."
Then you flee as they're bumrushed by that to where your grandchildren are resting. They blearily blink as the light enters. "Grandpa...?"
"I promised we'd be spending time together, didn't I?" The eldest are here, young but still good kids.
Abraham, come late with Rose as punishment for breaking his father's vase; Merové, who has a small picture book; and Robert, meddling with some toy blocks.
You scoop them up and head out to the commons, whence the news appears to finally have struck them fully. "I'll be heading out with the kids like we agreed before we went unless you need something nope okay bye!"
"Wai-"
Then the door slams shut again and you are out, sprinting through the streets.
They need this-- time to digest what, exactly, their mother's done without you peering over their shoulder.
For your part, you'd like to spend some time with your grandsons.
"If you see your mother coming, yell for me, then make sure you come to my funeral."
"Grandpa, we can walk."
At some point you, in blind panic, managed to enter the Merchant's District.
Soon enough, the three make clear their opinion:
[] Robert would like to go to a small shop staffed by Cathayans, filled with silks and quills and building blocks.
[] Merové would like to head to a small bookstore staffed by elves.
[] Abraham would like to go to a blacksmith's shop, where training weapons and armor line the walls.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Merové would like to head to a small bookstore staffed by elves.
