Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
Wedding Bash Pt. 32
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Wedding Bash pt. 32
A blessed knight, Sir Vrasbeltic--called Vras by his friends-- once protected the coasts of Bordeleaux from invaders, standing against Dark Elven raiders who sought to plunder the lands for flesh. With your luck, it is likely one of their foul warlocks or witches cursed him. In any event, he deserves better than to live out the rest of his days as a beast.
"We're finding Sir Vrasbeltic. More difficult or no, it is worth the doing."
Morgyan nods at that, before the great chiming of the clock tells you that it is about time to eat...
And to dragging Morgyan into speaking with her daughter, as she should have a very long time. "Come now, dear-- I am famished. Are you not?"
"A bit."
And so you two head out into the halls. In all the excitement of the past few days, you've not stopped to look at your surroundings, really, running on rage and fear as you did-- disoriented, confused, lost. Now, though, you take just a bit in.
The sounds of music are a distant thing, lilting strains. A man's voice says all that needs to be said, letting out soft sorrows for all the world to hear. The walls are soft shade of purple and black-- dark colors for what was a dark mood. Clearly, they believed your wife needed more impressing than you did.
Rude, but not entirely wrong.
In any case you make it to the mead-hall, as the inn might be more fairly described. Kind of, at least. High, vaulted ceilings of white timber gleam in the sun. Dark oaken floors seem to let out a soft light, oxymoronically (you really have spent too much time with your wife) enough. Tables of dark wood seem to be growing from the wooden floors, and the utensils?
Are made of finely polished aluminum. You knew the elven realm was rich, but...
At the center of the room is a chandelier. Carved of a single crystal hoisted on a chain of gold, it reflects light through the upper beams of the roof. Marked with the shields of noble families, they seem to burst to life as stars every time a stray ray strafes them, exposing the noble sigils.
It's a nice place. It's a shame you didn't get to enjoy it.
As you expected might be the case, your children are here-- all of them, Bellicent included. Morgyan sees her-- but before she can turn to flee your hidden daughter seems to wave, and almost like magic your wife walks to her as though powerless.
(It's not. It's...it's not. The Eye sees all, and this is not magic. Just force of personality and guilt.)
In any case, they will be...busy. Talking about things. You should probably get something productive done too.
[] Talk to Justine about the Lily Day Killer. She can probably do something about it. (90% of success, 50% chance of ???)
[] Talk to Annick about the Lily Day Killer. That oughta be good for a laugh. (90% chance for success, 60% Chance of ???)
[] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
[] Talk to Leliana about the Lily Day Killer. She'll come up with something. It will probably involve throwing him off a roof, though. (80% Chance, 20% Chance of ???)
[] Talk To Godfrey about the Lily Day Killer. On the one hand, he's probably super busy. On the other hand, he's also the one-- aside from his brother-- best able to roll with a bad situation and come out looking fresh. (40% Chance for success, 0% Chance of ???)
A blessed knight, Sir Vrasbeltic--called Vras by his friends-- once protected the coasts of Bordeleaux from invaders, standing against Dark Elven raiders who sought to plunder the lands for flesh. With your luck, it is likely one of their foul warlocks or witches cursed him. In any event, he deserves better than to live out the rest of his days as a beast.
"We're finding Sir Vrasbeltic. More difficult or no, it is worth the doing."
Morgyan nods at that, before the great chiming of the clock tells you that it is about time to eat...
And to dragging Morgyan into speaking with her daughter, as she should have a very long time. "Come now, dear-- I am famished. Are you not?"
"A bit."
And so you two head out into the halls. In all the excitement of the past few days, you've not stopped to look at your surroundings, really, running on rage and fear as you did-- disoriented, confused, lost. Now, though, you take just a bit in.
The sounds of music are a distant thing, lilting strains. A man's voice says all that needs to be said, letting out soft sorrows for all the world to hear. The walls are soft shade of purple and black-- dark colors for what was a dark mood. Clearly, they believed your wife needed more impressing than you did.
Rude, but not entirely wrong.
In any case you make it to the mead-hall, as the inn might be more fairly described. Kind of, at least. High, vaulted ceilings of white timber gleam in the sun. Dark oaken floors seem to let out a soft light, oxymoronically (you really have spent too much time with your wife) enough. Tables of dark wood seem to be growing from the wooden floors, and the utensils?
Are made of finely polished aluminum. You knew the elven realm was rich, but...
At the center of the room is a chandelier. Carved of a single crystal hoisted on a chain of gold, it reflects light through the upper beams of the roof. Marked with the shields of noble families, they seem to burst to life as stars every time a stray ray strafes them, exposing the noble sigils.
It's a nice place. It's a shame you didn't get to enjoy it.
As you expected might be the case, your children are here-- all of them, Bellicent included. Morgyan sees her-- but before she can turn to flee your hidden daughter seems to wave, and almost like magic your wife walks to her as though powerless.
(It's not. It's...it's not. The Eye sees all, and this is not magic. Just force of personality and guilt.)
In any case, they will be...busy. Talking about things. You should probably get something productive done too.
[] Talk to Justine about the Lily Day Killer. She can probably do something about it. (90% of success, 50% chance of ???)
[] Talk to Annick about the Lily Day Killer. That oughta be good for a laugh. (90% chance for success, 60% Chance of ???)
[] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
[] Talk to Leliana about the Lily Day Killer. She'll come up with something. It will probably involve throwing him off a roof, though. (80% Chance, 20% Chance of ???)
[] Talk To Godfrey about the Lily Day Killer. On the one hand, he's probably super busy. On the other hand, he's also the one-- aside from his brother-- best able to roll with a bad situation and come out looking fresh. (40% Chance for success, 0% Chance of ???)
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
No ??? for Charles, and a success gets him his spurs.
No ??? for Charles, and a success gets him his spurs.
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
[x] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
unless i see a good reason too change my mind this is my pick
unless i see a good reason too change my mind this is my pick
- Location
- Mountains of Appalachia
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
I have to agree. Plus if there is anything supernatural about the Lily Day Killer (highly probable), Charles has experience with the Fey and as a result would be prepared for magic.
I have to agree. Plus if there is anything supernatural about the Lily Day Killer (highly probable), Charles has experience with the Fey and as a result would be prepared for magic.
- Location
- USA
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
- Location
- Reno
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
- Location
- West Michigan
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
Illumatix Fahlztrik
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Illumatix Fahlztrik
"I'm fairly certain this could possibly go well."
-Illumatix
(Source)
Tullaris Dreadbringer is dead. You killed him in a surprising fit of cunning, used the magics of your sword to make him believe you were dead then opened him like a fish at market.
He has been...replaced. On the one hand, his replacement is little skilled compared to he; a bully and a coward, his sword work is not even near a match of what his predecessor wielded. However, he does have one thing going for him that his rivals never had-- no pride, at all. Thus, he worked slowly, taking on shameful duties, beneath his station, facing foes beneath him in return for...favors, and knowledge.
And when every possible other successor owed him a favor, he stepped forward and assumed command of the Executioners. They tolerate this because to do otherwise would be to be ruined forever, such is the shear breadth and width of his knowledge of their dirty secrets, hidden children and affairs and every other foolish venture. He is relatively secure, in-so-much as the cowardly Druchii could ever be. All he had to do was ruin what little good name he had left.
That said, while this little man is no match for Tullaris, "not being a match for a legend" should not, perhaps, be taken as a sign of utter deficiency. It would be unwise for anyone to presume to defeat him easily, for he will not die swiftly and without battle-- but only after a great ruckus.
"I'm fairly certain this could possibly go well."
-Illumatix
(Source)
Tullaris Dreadbringer is dead. You killed him in a surprising fit of cunning, used the magics of your sword to make him believe you were dead then opened him like a fish at market.
He has been...replaced. On the one hand, his replacement is little skilled compared to he; a bully and a coward, his sword work is not even near a match of what his predecessor wielded. However, he does have one thing going for him that his rivals never had-- no pride, at all. Thus, he worked slowly, taking on shameful duties, beneath his station, facing foes beneath him in return for...favors, and knowledge.
And when every possible other successor owed him a favor, he stepped forward and assumed command of the Executioners. They tolerate this because to do otherwise would be to be ruined forever, such is the shear breadth and width of his knowledge of their dirty secrets, hidden children and affairs and every other foolish venture. He is relatively secure, in-so-much as the cowardly Druchii could ever be. All he had to do was ruin what little good name he had left.
That said, while this little man is no match for Tullaris, "not being a match for a legend" should not, perhaps, be taken as a sign of utter deficiency. It would be unwise for anyone to presume to defeat him easily, for he will not die swiftly and without battle-- but only after a great ruckus.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Talk to Charles about the Lily Day Killer. That'd help him earn his spurs. (80% chance, success leads to gaining Spurs)
Summersfall Fort
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Summersfall Fort
"Go to sleep, or the Vilhomme will eat you soon!"
-Exhausted Carcassonian Mothers
(Source)
Two-Thousand years ago, when Bretonnia was yet disunited, there was a wizard.
Vilhomme.
Scholarly insight suggests that he was born to a middling merchant family of Carcassonne, and did little of note until, roughly, his twentieth year. While his family was not overly rich, they were wealthy enough, that with his inheritance the young man managed to travel. He made his way to Parravon, and on a hunch traveled into the Forest of Athel Loren.
He was not seen again for fifty years, but when he exited he seemed to be in the prime of his life.
Wielding now terrible magic, this sorcerer, with powers unnatural, called together a meeting of all the ducs of the land-- by carving a warning into the skies with his foul powers: "Come hither, or perish." Blunt and to the point, but it worked, and so all the Ducs went to Carcassonne, where he greeted them at his new tower. They would, he told them, make him king-- and in turn he would carve Bretonnia into a kingdom so terrible, the Empire would never again dare threaten its borders.
Rumors of atrocity spread, though. Tales of unnatural feats. Of inhumane suffering. Of thoughtless cruelties. Imperial scholars of the time offer records of these, though Breton records are more sparse on the matter.
In any event, this was enough, and an alliance of Imperials, Tileans, and Estalians marched on Carcassonne to kill the wizard or die trying, led by the Elector Count of Averland, Atilius.
Of the thirty-thousand who headed out from those lands, only 500 returned home. Not among them was the Elector Count.
You see, as the Imperials invaded, the Wizard prepared a most dismal spell. And when they finally reached the tower, he unleashed it. The blast could be heard for miles around, and men's bodies were turned to ash-- but the tower remained standing, the wizard gone, supposed dead or devoured by the Aethyr.
Still, as part of the peace process, a force of 500 soldiers ever remains there in a strong fort of stone to ensure no man ever again dares wield such terrible forces. But with the wizard surely dead, what fool would dare try?
"Go to sleep, or the Vilhomme will eat you soon!"
-Exhausted Carcassonian Mothers
(Source)
Two-Thousand years ago, when Bretonnia was yet disunited, there was a wizard.
Vilhomme.
Scholarly insight suggests that he was born to a middling merchant family of Carcassonne, and did little of note until, roughly, his twentieth year. While his family was not overly rich, they were wealthy enough, that with his inheritance the young man managed to travel. He made his way to Parravon, and on a hunch traveled into the Forest of Athel Loren.
He was not seen again for fifty years, but when he exited he seemed to be in the prime of his life.
Wielding now terrible magic, this sorcerer, with powers unnatural, called together a meeting of all the ducs of the land-- by carving a warning into the skies with his foul powers: "Come hither, or perish." Blunt and to the point, but it worked, and so all the Ducs went to Carcassonne, where he greeted them at his new tower. They would, he told them, make him king-- and in turn he would carve Bretonnia into a kingdom so terrible, the Empire would never again dare threaten its borders.
Rumors of atrocity spread, though. Tales of unnatural feats. Of inhumane suffering. Of thoughtless cruelties. Imperial scholars of the time offer records of these, though Breton records are more sparse on the matter.
In any event, this was enough, and an alliance of Imperials, Tileans, and Estalians marched on Carcassonne to kill the wizard or die trying, led by the Elector Count of Averland, Atilius.
Of the thirty-thousand who headed out from those lands, only 500 returned home. Not among them was the Elector Count.
You see, as the Imperials invaded, the Wizard prepared a most dismal spell. And when they finally reached the tower, he unleashed it. The blast could be heard for miles around, and men's bodies were turned to ash-- but the tower remained standing, the wizard gone, supposed dead or devoured by the Aethyr.
Still, as part of the peace process, a force of 500 soldiers ever remains there in a strong fort of stone to ensure no man ever again dares wield such terrible forces. But with the wizard surely dead, what fool would dare try?
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- Location
- USA
Oh hi there J Edgar Hoover/ Stalin, how's it going?
Bon Bertrand
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bon Bertrand
Inside the lowliest tower of the Chateau Des Fleurs, a child cried. Not the normal wailing of a child, either, but the hellish cries of a boy struck by nightmares. Fat tears rolled down his reddened cheeks, and snot ran down his face. Hair normally perfectly cared for by his father was all askew, and his blue eyes were bloodshot of the all the salt. His fists fell against the wooden crib with thunderous force, a threatening creaking noise. The hell of it was, by all accounts there was nothing for the boy to cry about. He had a thick, warm blanket. His stomach was fatted on milk and bread, even a little touch of honey. His room had a good view of the sun, his crib pointed at the thick window, dresser next to it.
To escape the hellacious racket, most creatures had fled that whole wing of the castle. All that remained was one little pup, a Golden Retriever. Somewhat chubby, the puppy seemed, indeed, to ignore the child's wailing, content to simply lay and look out the window.
There was a bang of sulfur, and with a jot something...not right walked through. A beastman, but as though formed by the hands of a concussed drunkard who had lost all feeling in all ten fingers. It held a knife that seemed to leave trailing wounds through the air, and a ring that would have assailed the mind of men. Grotesquely muscled, the thing dripped an unwholesome substance that could be described only as akin to gelatin.
The dog leaped at it, teeth barred.
With disarming ease the monster sent the dog flying, where it landed with a rough thud. Before the beast could finish its unholy task, though, from out of nowhere an arrow of stone and unworked wood lanced through the air and jammed through the eye of the thing, sending it falling to the floor.
There was the rustling of fabric, and a moment later two if the mysterious elves of Athel Loren stood in the room. One was a man, of tall form; red haired, his armor was shaped as the leaves, with a cloak of golden material clasped upon his shoulder with a stolen arrowhead. Thin, near lanky, he flicked his wrist and a moment later the pup rose fresh as the day, seemingly healthier than before the strike. Quickly, he awayed to the child, gripping him and raising him and holding him near, the sobs falling away to mere sniffles.
The other was a woman, in armor of elf. Her hair was bound up in a high bun, and in her hand was the bow, her face scrunched up as she looked upon the child and the man.
"I know you have little love for the elder Philip-"
"He burnt my favor cloak to cinders, destroyed my library, and broke my foot."
"-But I would think you would be above holding a petty grudge towards his blood."
"I...hold no-"
"Do not lie, girl. I would rather you earnestly protest than falsely follow, though neither are best. In any case, this little human bears a weight already." The elf smiled, then, before tickling the boy's belly, finally fully ending his crying. "Besides, it would be base to let a child die."
"Very well, you have me. My upbringing has predisposed me. Still, have we not better things to do than help these people, but instead our own?"
"Once you reach my age, I daresay you might recognize that in helping one, we help the world." Putting the boy back in the crib, the elf fished through his bags, before finally finding what it was he was looking for: a cloak clasp. Placing it on the boy, he gripped his hood and lifted it up, followed moments later by his protege.
--
Insomnia's a bitch and I miss my dog. So...
Inside the lowliest tower of the Chateau Des Fleurs, a child cried. Not the normal wailing of a child, either, but the hellish cries of a boy struck by nightmares. Fat tears rolled down his reddened cheeks, and snot ran down his face. Hair normally perfectly cared for by his father was all askew, and his blue eyes were bloodshot of the all the salt. His fists fell against the wooden crib with thunderous force, a threatening creaking noise. The hell of it was, by all accounts there was nothing for the boy to cry about. He had a thick, warm blanket. His stomach was fatted on milk and bread, even a little touch of honey. His room had a good view of the sun, his crib pointed at the thick window, dresser next to it.
To escape the hellacious racket, most creatures had fled that whole wing of the castle. All that remained was one little pup, a Golden Retriever. Somewhat chubby, the puppy seemed, indeed, to ignore the child's wailing, content to simply lay and look out the window.
There was a bang of sulfur, and with a jot something...not right walked through. A beastman, but as though formed by the hands of a concussed drunkard who had lost all feeling in all ten fingers. It held a knife that seemed to leave trailing wounds through the air, and a ring that would have assailed the mind of men. Grotesquely muscled, the thing dripped an unwholesome substance that could be described only as akin to gelatin.
The dog leaped at it, teeth barred.
With disarming ease the monster sent the dog flying, where it landed with a rough thud. Before the beast could finish its unholy task, though, from out of nowhere an arrow of stone and unworked wood lanced through the air and jammed through the eye of the thing, sending it falling to the floor.
There was the rustling of fabric, and a moment later two if the mysterious elves of Athel Loren stood in the room. One was a man, of tall form; red haired, his armor was shaped as the leaves, with a cloak of golden material clasped upon his shoulder with a stolen arrowhead. Thin, near lanky, he flicked his wrist and a moment later the pup rose fresh as the day, seemingly healthier than before the strike. Quickly, he awayed to the child, gripping him and raising him and holding him near, the sobs falling away to mere sniffles.
The other was a woman, in armor of elf. Her hair was bound up in a high bun, and in her hand was the bow, her face scrunched up as she looked upon the child and the man.
"I know you have little love for the elder Philip-"
"He burnt my favor cloak to cinders, destroyed my library, and broke my foot."
"-But I would think you would be above holding a petty grudge towards his blood."
"I...hold no-"
"Do not lie, girl. I would rather you earnestly protest than falsely follow, though neither are best. In any case, this little human bears a weight already." The elf smiled, then, before tickling the boy's belly, finally fully ending his crying. "Besides, it would be base to let a child die."
"Very well, you have me. My upbringing has predisposed me. Still, have we not better things to do than help these people, but instead our own?"
"Once you reach my age, I daresay you might recognize that in helping one, we help the world." Putting the boy back in the crib, the elf fished through his bags, before finally finding what it was he was looking for: a cloak clasp. Placing it on the boy, he gripped his hood and lifted it up, followed moments later by his protege.
--
Insomnia's a bitch and I miss my dog. So...
Last edited:
- Location
- alphen aan den rijn
random story being random
still nice story even if i do not know anyone in it
still nice story even if i do not know anyone in it
- Location
- Germany
Well, Philip is us and Bertrand is our grandchild. I have no idea who the elf with a grudge against Philip is, though.