Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
- Location
- Germany
Some thoughts on the vote:
Replacing Lancelot is probably necessary. At least I hope so because I can't decide otherwise.
We need economic recovery. Why Need For Need, though? You Suppose They've Got Vampire Gold? has a 65% chance of 1000 gp economic recovery, while Need for Need has a 50% chance of 750 gp.
I wanted to choose Day of Broken Fang, but we would need to double down on it. A 45% chance of success for something as dangerous as hunting vampires is inacceptable. This would drive the cost up by 2000 gp, and now that our evil QM has reduced our treasury by 800 gp I find that too expensive. So I want to take Balancing the Books instead for more economic recovery.
We have already decided to keep working with Morgyan; we need to reach some kind of accord and I don't think Philip is good at cooperating with someone he distrusts. Let's face it, we can't win playing games of intrigue with Morgyan, so we need to forgive her or we would have to get rid of her. So I regard To Err is Human as necessary.
We have promised to deal with the dragon and it sounds like it will be fun, especially if Bertrand tries to befriend the dragon. Unless we die horribly, of course. Thus Mad Dragon- Bertrand.
Replacing Lancelot is probably necessary. At least I hope so because I can't decide otherwise.
We need economic recovery. Why Need For Need, though? You Suppose They've Got Vampire Gold? has a 65% chance of 1000 gp economic recovery, while Need for Need has a 50% chance of 750 gp.
I wanted to choose Day of Broken Fang, but we would need to double down on it. A 45% chance of success for something as dangerous as hunting vampires is inacceptable. This would drive the cost up by 2000 gp, and now that our evil QM has reduced our treasury by 800 gp I find that too expensive. So I want to take Balancing the Books instead for more economic recovery.
We have already decided to keep working with Morgyan; we need to reach some kind of accord and I don't think Philip is good at cooperating with someone he distrusts. Let's face it, we can't win playing games of intrigue with Morgyan, so we need to forgive her or we would have to get rid of her. So I regard To Err is Human as necessary.
We have promised to deal with the dragon and it sounds like it will be fun, especially if Bertrand tries to befriend the dragon. Unless we die horribly, of course. Thus Mad Dragon- Bertrand.
- Location
- Sweden
Need for Need I picked mostly because of the fact that it might help Bastonne recover.
Good point about Day of Broken Fang, I actually forgot that doubling down would double the cost.
Rest
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Rest
The Hinterlands of Khuresh
(1447)
There was a jungle. Dark, vast, ancient, men had worked it for generations. Families had sprung up, lived out, and died there amongst the trees that hid such secrets, terrible secrets: Of bloodshed, and war; of vast magic, chained to serpentine will; of a beating heart of evil, scarcely held within the foulness of a temple of madness.
The temple was silent. The broken remnants of stone and hastily beaten together iron formed the floor, formed eons ago when the malignant touch of Chaos first sullied paradise. Inside, a form of twisted beauty lounged above all, terrible and wonderful alike. Half-snake, half-man, his scales were all a dizzying array of colors that might burn out the eyes of a less man. Carved in jagged, horrific script, unwell to the eyes, were litanies of praise to the Prince of Pleasure, as terrible to behold as death itself; to look too long upon her was to court death. Her seat was a raised plinth, overlooking the center of the Temple. The Sword of Heroes rested near him, the trophy the Bretonnian sought him for.
In this temple, six pillars of wrought gold burst from the ground in wretched lines, spiraling like the fingers of the Prince himself, violating the air. Sigils of doom were burned into them by foul magics of centuries long past. At the top, iridescent purple flames, corrosive to the mind, crackled and moved rhythmically, almost as if they were dancing with unholy will. At the feet of these columns, six channels flowed out, filled with a noxious oil, thick as jelly and sickly-sweet scented.
Throughout the whole of the temple there were those warped by Chaos. Beastmen, ripped from the jungle; Humans, the warriors of all those foul nations who served the Prince of Pleasure; and daemons, for the walls between Warp and World were thin here, malignant.
And at the center, where those channels met, was a cage, crafted of the bones of man and monster alike. Inside, 666 people, starved, dirty, and terrified stood, chained together, huddling at the center away from the leers. The floor was covered in dents, smooth circular indentations covered in stone.
"Servant of Slaanesh! This Morathi, this elf-whore, escaped her due! For millennia did this wench take of our Prince! She swore her soul to him-- but she lied! Now it is time to rectify that! By the sacrifice of these wretches, she will be reborn-- and devoured!" The serpent nodded, and a mutant spun the switch.
The oil lit with the purple flames. Racing down, the embers filled the air with an unwholesome stink; the purple tongues leaped up, devouring any of the benighted souls out of the cage. Inside, jets of fire began to spew from the holes as their coverings slowly rolled away, controlled by the wheel and the mutant.
If one listened closely, they might the sounds of hooves in the distance.
The villagers inside began to scream prayers, hopes for forgiveness. Mothers clenched children themselves, told them to close their eyes. Fathers comforted families, and all--man, woman and child alike-- wept freely. The fires crept nearer then, as more and more holes began to open.
There was a great bang, and a moment later the small doors to the temple were thrust open, a mighty Bretonnian Warhorse-- snorting fire and filled of rage, Bohemond atop him-- galloped into the room. His shod hooves crushed skulls, shattered weapons, broke bodies. The Beastmen were shattered, filled with a great fear-- Blaze's wrath was terrible to behold.
Reclaiming his senses, the mutant began to crank the wheel. Before he could, though, a throwing knife, wicked sharp, embedded itself in his heart, and he fell to the ground. Namrata, warrior-princess, entered, mighty talwar slicing through foes with a great flourish, mighty indeed, singing its battle-song.
Dozens of villagers, led by a small man of fiery voice, burst in, too, wielding a hammer of wrought iron. Destroying the foe, they moved swiftly.
Bohemond kicked his steed into action, and the two charged the serpent, he holding his grand mace aloft to the air in a rage. Laughing, the serpent descended to ground, and moved quick as lightning, racing at the horse. Before Bohemond might even react Blaze was under attack by the Purple Snake. With a cry, the Champion broke the beast's neck, sending Bohemond flying.
Holding it, the Prince sought to feast, and his jaw unhinged. Before he might, though, he heard the sound of metal striking stone, and whipped around-- but it was too late. Bohemond grabbed the serpent, rage coursing through him, and with a mighty yell broke the Beastman's arm, shattered it like glass.
Snarling, the thing that should not be cut at the Knight with his good arm, and opened great rents in his armor. Blood began to weep like rain from his wounds, poison keeping the blood flow high; his trunk was split in great cuts. Might fading fast, Bohemond slammed his fist into the beast's chest, shattered rib and bone and punctured lung; it was weak, then, and fell back.
With but the time this gave, Bohemond raced, grabbed his mace, and swung, blindly, but with all his mighty; there was a resounding crack, and the serpent who had menaced the world for a decade lay dead, his dreams of a Princehood dead with him.
Bohemond fell, and began to vomit. But the battle was won; Chaos lost, that day.
He smiled.
Black was at his vision.
Before he might die, though, strong hands, familiar to him, gripped his head, and he began pouring a potion down his throat.
"Not today, jackass!"
"Never...never should have taught you that..."
And then he fell over.
---
Bohemond woke to a pressure on his chest. Namrata regarded him with kind eyes. "You okay?"
His only response was to get up, and check his chest. The wound was shut, already scarred over. A moment later, the door opened, and an old woman entered. In her hands she held a cloak worked of scales. "A trophy. I've been told you'd like that."
Silently, he took it and nodded his thanks. The woman took her leave then, leaving both Namrata and Bohemond alone in the room.
"Are you planning on talking today, Beast-Slayer?"
"I have traveled with you for the past two years. I don't know how well I'll adjust to not having you around." She gave him a look. "You...were planning on returning home, weren't you?"
"No." Namrata was bold as she spoke, assured. "Everything in my home reminds me of what was taken from me. Everything. My brother, my mother...no, I think I cannot return yet. Perhaps I will go West; I am sure I could make a living as a mercenary."
"You could. But you don't need to." Looking under his bed, Bohemond pulled out a small box, and with a flourish opened it, revealing the Ring of Bastonne-- the wedding jewel of his Mother. "Namrata. I have fought with men who could tear apart an army. My Sir saved the world, and rules justly. My brothers each bore a cloak of wyvern scale wrenched from the bodies of beasts they killed. My godson could make even the foulest of monsters quail for his grace.
And yet you are more beautiful to me than them. More valorous in battle, more wonderful in peace, more just in counsel. I do not wish to live without you. Would you marry me?"
Her eyes wide, Namrata's only response was to nod slowly.
--
The city of Bastonne was prepared to receive. Its Prince, Bohemond, was returning from his quest, given him by damsels, to reclaim the Sword of Heroes before it was too late. The regent, Alix Marechal, and her husband alike stood at the castle in all their finery. They waited in its hall for her brother to return.
As they did, they heard the crowds cheer as they swamped the Beast-Slayer, who guided a carriage through the streets and the crowds.
Finally, the carriage stopped near the hall. Oddly, though, Bohemond did not enter the castle, but instead walked to the side of the carriage. Opening the door, he let a woman out. An Indan, the left side of her face was gravely scarred, and even under the strange dress she wore the muscle was obvious. A blade was strapped to her waist, curved steel. A strange woman, for Bastonne.
It took Alix only but a moment to discern who she was and she softly gasped. Her husband, though, did not realize until he saw the Ring of Bastonne on her finger, and realized, too, in that moment that she was pregant. There was a tense silence, as Bohemond looked to his sister, unafraid. He wore his armor, and a cloak of purple scales.
"Little Brother! You are sent to reclaim a sword, and instead return with a wife!" There was mirth in her voice, and the tension fell away.
"I decided while I was out that I might as well do two for the price of one!" And then, with a flourish, Bohemond drew the blade. It glimmered in the light, ancient magics flowing through it, and the day seemed brighter as monsters throughout the land remembered to fear. The crowd cheered and roared, loud enough that it might be heard in all the world.
Walking with his wife, Bohemond knelt before his sister, offering her the blade. Alix accepted it, studied it-- then embraced him, kissing him on his left cheek, before raising his hand to present him to the people in victory. "People of Bastonne, I offer-- Bohemond Beast-Slayer, Foe of Darkness!"
They cheered as the Duke received what was his by right-- the red-dragon on the gold-field, his Heraldry.
--
Bohemond de Bastonne claims his Dukedom! Gains title: Duke (+500 Prestige), Beast-Slayer (+500 Prestige)
+500 Prestige
Gains Virtue of Heroism and Virtue of Noble Disdain! Combines into Virtue of Heroic Animus! (+4 Martial, +4 Piety, Resistance to Ranged Attacks, Magical Resistance (3), Heroic Killing Blow, Restriction on Magical Weapons Nullified, Penalties to Ranged Options)
Married Namrata of Ind
Child Born (1447): Clovis De Bastonne
The Hinterlands of Khuresh
(1447)
There was a jungle. Dark, vast, ancient, men had worked it for generations. Families had sprung up, lived out, and died there amongst the trees that hid such secrets, terrible secrets: Of bloodshed, and war; of vast magic, chained to serpentine will; of a beating heart of evil, scarcely held within the foulness of a temple of madness.
The temple was silent. The broken remnants of stone and hastily beaten together iron formed the floor, formed eons ago when the malignant touch of Chaos first sullied paradise. Inside, a form of twisted beauty lounged above all, terrible and wonderful alike. Half-snake, half-man, his scales were all a dizzying array of colors that might burn out the eyes of a less man. Carved in jagged, horrific script, unwell to the eyes, were litanies of praise to the Prince of Pleasure, as terrible to behold as death itself; to look too long upon her was to court death. Her seat was a raised plinth, overlooking the center of the Temple. The Sword of Heroes rested near him, the trophy the Bretonnian sought him for.
In this temple, six pillars of wrought gold burst from the ground in wretched lines, spiraling like the fingers of the Prince himself, violating the air. Sigils of doom were burned into them by foul magics of centuries long past. At the top, iridescent purple flames, corrosive to the mind, crackled and moved rhythmically, almost as if they were dancing with unholy will. At the feet of these columns, six channels flowed out, filled with a noxious oil, thick as jelly and sickly-sweet scented.
Throughout the whole of the temple there were those warped by Chaos. Beastmen, ripped from the jungle; Humans, the warriors of all those foul nations who served the Prince of Pleasure; and daemons, for the walls between Warp and World were thin here, malignant.
And at the center, where those channels met, was a cage, crafted of the bones of man and monster alike. Inside, 666 people, starved, dirty, and terrified stood, chained together, huddling at the center away from the leers. The floor was covered in dents, smooth circular indentations covered in stone.
"Servant of Slaanesh! This Morathi, this elf-whore, escaped her due! For millennia did this wench take of our Prince! She swore her soul to him-- but she lied! Now it is time to rectify that! By the sacrifice of these wretches, she will be reborn-- and devoured!" The serpent nodded, and a mutant spun the switch.
The oil lit with the purple flames. Racing down, the embers filled the air with an unwholesome stink; the purple tongues leaped up, devouring any of the benighted souls out of the cage. Inside, jets of fire began to spew from the holes as their coverings slowly rolled away, controlled by the wheel and the mutant.
If one listened closely, they might the sounds of hooves in the distance.
The villagers inside began to scream prayers, hopes for forgiveness. Mothers clenched children themselves, told them to close their eyes. Fathers comforted families, and all--man, woman and child alike-- wept freely. The fires crept nearer then, as more and more holes began to open.
There was a great bang, and a moment later the small doors to the temple were thrust open, a mighty Bretonnian Warhorse-- snorting fire and filled of rage, Bohemond atop him-- galloped into the room. His shod hooves crushed skulls, shattered weapons, broke bodies. The Beastmen were shattered, filled with a great fear-- Blaze's wrath was terrible to behold.
Reclaiming his senses, the mutant began to crank the wheel. Before he could, though, a throwing knife, wicked sharp, embedded itself in his heart, and he fell to the ground. Namrata, warrior-princess, entered, mighty talwar slicing through foes with a great flourish, mighty indeed, singing its battle-song.
Dozens of villagers, led by a small man of fiery voice, burst in, too, wielding a hammer of wrought iron. Destroying the foe, they moved swiftly.
Bohemond kicked his steed into action, and the two charged the serpent, he holding his grand mace aloft to the air in a rage. Laughing, the serpent descended to ground, and moved quick as lightning, racing at the horse. Before Bohemond might even react Blaze was under attack by the Purple Snake. With a cry, the Champion broke the beast's neck, sending Bohemond flying.
Holding it, the Prince sought to feast, and his jaw unhinged. Before he might, though, he heard the sound of metal striking stone, and whipped around-- but it was too late. Bohemond grabbed the serpent, rage coursing through him, and with a mighty yell broke the Beastman's arm, shattered it like glass.
Snarling, the thing that should not be cut at the Knight with his good arm, and opened great rents in his armor. Blood began to weep like rain from his wounds, poison keeping the blood flow high; his trunk was split in great cuts. Might fading fast, Bohemond slammed his fist into the beast's chest, shattered rib and bone and punctured lung; it was weak, then, and fell back.
With but the time this gave, Bohemond raced, grabbed his mace, and swung, blindly, but with all his mighty; there was a resounding crack, and the serpent who had menaced the world for a decade lay dead, his dreams of a Princehood dead with him.
Bohemond fell, and began to vomit. But the battle was won; Chaos lost, that day.
He smiled.
Black was at his vision.
Before he might die, though, strong hands, familiar to him, gripped his head, and he began pouring a potion down his throat.
"Not today, jackass!"
"Never...never should have taught you that..."
And then he fell over.
---
Bohemond woke to a pressure on his chest. Namrata regarded him with kind eyes. "You okay?"
His only response was to get up, and check his chest. The wound was shut, already scarred over. A moment later, the door opened, and an old woman entered. In her hands she held a cloak worked of scales. "A trophy. I've been told you'd like that."
Silently, he took it and nodded his thanks. The woman took her leave then, leaving both Namrata and Bohemond alone in the room.
"Are you planning on talking today, Beast-Slayer?"
"I have traveled with you for the past two years. I don't know how well I'll adjust to not having you around." She gave him a look. "You...were planning on returning home, weren't you?"
"No." Namrata was bold as she spoke, assured. "Everything in my home reminds me of what was taken from me. Everything. My brother, my mother...no, I think I cannot return yet. Perhaps I will go West; I am sure I could make a living as a mercenary."
"You could. But you don't need to." Looking under his bed, Bohemond pulled out a small box, and with a flourish opened it, revealing the Ring of Bastonne-- the wedding jewel of his Mother. "Namrata. I have fought with men who could tear apart an army. My Sir saved the world, and rules justly. My brothers each bore a cloak of wyvern scale wrenched from the bodies of beasts they killed. My godson could make even the foulest of monsters quail for his grace.
And yet you are more beautiful to me than them. More valorous in battle, more wonderful in peace, more just in counsel. I do not wish to live without you. Would you marry me?"
Her eyes wide, Namrata's only response was to nod slowly.
--
The city of Bastonne was prepared to receive. Its Prince, Bohemond, was returning from his quest, given him by damsels, to reclaim the Sword of Heroes before it was too late. The regent, Alix Marechal, and her husband alike stood at the castle in all their finery. They waited in its hall for her brother to return.
As they did, they heard the crowds cheer as they swamped the Beast-Slayer, who guided a carriage through the streets and the crowds.
Finally, the carriage stopped near the hall. Oddly, though, Bohemond did not enter the castle, but instead walked to the side of the carriage. Opening the door, he let a woman out. An Indan, the left side of her face was gravely scarred, and even under the strange dress she wore the muscle was obvious. A blade was strapped to her waist, curved steel. A strange woman, for Bastonne.
It took Alix only but a moment to discern who she was and she softly gasped. Her husband, though, did not realize until he saw the Ring of Bastonne on her finger, and realized, too, in that moment that she was pregant. There was a tense silence, as Bohemond looked to his sister, unafraid. He wore his armor, and a cloak of purple scales.
"Little Brother! You are sent to reclaim a sword, and instead return with a wife!" There was mirth in her voice, and the tension fell away.
"I decided while I was out that I might as well do two for the price of one!" And then, with a flourish, Bohemond drew the blade. It glimmered in the light, ancient magics flowing through it, and the day seemed brighter as monsters throughout the land remembered to fear. The crowd cheered and roared, loud enough that it might be heard in all the world.
Walking with his wife, Bohemond knelt before his sister, offering her the blade. Alix accepted it, studied it-- then embraced him, kissing him on his left cheek, before raising his hand to present him to the people in victory. "People of Bastonne, I offer-- Bohemond Beast-Slayer, Foe of Darkness!"
They cheered as the Duke received what was his by right-- the red-dragon on the gold-field, his Heraldry.
--
Bohemond de Bastonne claims his Dukedom! Gains title: Duke (+500 Prestige), Beast-Slayer (+500 Prestige)
+500 Prestige
Gains Virtue of Heroism and Virtue of Noble Disdain! Combines into Virtue of Heroic Animus! (+4 Martial, +4 Piety, Resistance to Ranged Attacks, Magical Resistance (3), Heroic Killing Blow, Restriction on Magical Weapons Nullified, Penalties to Ranged Options)
Married Namrata of Ind
Child Born (1447): Clovis De Bastonne
Last edited:
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Way to go man.
- Location
- Actually pretty lost
I don't think he's part of our family?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Vote will be called tomorrow.
I'd also just like to say, for the record, that I finished one of the projects that was slowing me down- a Genealogical tree of every ruling family in the Old World, from Bretonnia and all its Dukedoms to the Drakonates of Dobrungol. (The Rebel Ungol tribes) So that should help speed things up.
I'd also just like to say, for the record, that I finished one of the projects that was slowing me down- a Genealogical tree of every ruling family in the Old World, from Bretonnia and all its Dukedoms to the Drakonates of Dobrungol. (The Rebel Ungol tribes) So that should help speed things up.
M3lk0r
H3 wh0 Ar!535 !n M!gh+
- Location
- Gondolin
This is cause for celebration
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Vote is called, winners are:
Martial:
Replacing Lancelot
Diplomacy:
Strength of Steel
Need For Need
Stewardship:
Strigany Settle Down
Piety:
To Care and Cure
Intrigue:
Balancing the Books
Personal:
Mad Dragon-Bertrand
To Err is Human
--
Vote for Double Down will be called Tomorrow, hopefully.
Martial:
Replacing Lancelot
Diplomacy:
Strength of Steel
Need For Need
Stewardship:
Strigany Settle Down
Piety:
To Care and Cure
Intrigue:
Balancing the Books
Personal:
Mad Dragon-Bertrand
To Err is Human
--
Vote for Double Down will be called Tomorrow, hopefully.
Last edited:
- Location
- Sweden
What's our second Diplo action?
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Need for need, sorry about that.
[X] Mad Dragon-Bertrand
I don't want to leave this one to chance.
I don't want to leave this one to chance.
KnightDisciple
Love God. Do Right. Fear No Man.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] Mad Dragon-Bertrand
Turn 24 Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 24
1447
The first thing you feel, the first time you wake in the new year, is confusion. This is not your bed, nor your room. The wine-rack you keep by your bed has disappeared into the aether, the sheets are a gentle pink instead of the hard black. The high-vaulting windows have entirely different patterns carved into them then the heraldry of House Folcard. The floors and walls alike are wood, and not the tile and granite of the master chambers. Then you remember— and wish you hadn't.
Castle Montfort is tense. You have not slept with Morgyan— literally, that is, avoided her bed and her presence and her— the entire year, instead having colonized one of the guest rooms. Most days you barely speak but perhaps a dozen words to each other at supper. Without the pressure of Ulthuan to make you interact, there is it seems a tension there that wasn't there before; if you are to succeed in your coming quests— and you must— then you must slay it, as surely as you would any dragon.
As you get up, groaning, you wish, for once, to feel your age and the weight. Then you might be a little justified, at least, in wishing to do nothing but stay in your chambers. Twenty-eight years you have been putting your life at risk, racing into dangers bravely— dangers that took their toll.
Sixteen. That oddly garbed Orc, strangely large for one who was not a warboss. Only had your hunting leathers and a dagger for that one, and in return you got your first scar.
Seventeen, Castle Cold. The Norscan savages came, led in their hundreds. It was not your land, but it was your fight. Arm broke throttling one of the Kurgan to death; now, three decades on, it clicks a little.
On and on, a life of beating. You are tired.
But you cannot rest.
First your armor. Forged by the finest Smiths in all of Montfort, the superior to anything the Empire can bring to bear and all of it the snow that dusts the mountain— Fay steel, marked with the Heraldry of the Court Invulnerable. Breastplate polished to a mirror sheen, fluted, hard enough to stop a bullet. Rerebace, one bearing the Heraldry Folcard, the other your mother's own black dragon in profile. Vambraces and gauntlets, one after the other, making a sound like a sword into a sheathe as they slide into position. Hook the tassets, slide the greaves, put on the sabaton. The mail coif fits as well as it ever did, and the armet can scarcely be felt. Finally, then, you take the cape, fling it over your shoulders and attach, letting the wolf fur hang. Taking up Kalaibarn, you step out of the room.
Cutting through the halls like a ghost, you make your way to the center, and to your seat. You sit gently, surrounded by the thousands that make up your court. They have waited for you.
Here, you have power.
Here there is truth.
"Speak. Your duke listens."
Even if you have to kill someone for it.
Martial: Sir Lancelot is, without a doubt, the finest Knight you know, capable of turning aside blade after blade and assault after assault on his person, and being a peerless strategist as well. He is perfectly suited to advise you in matters of war. His strategies are bold, precise, experimental— perfect for facing these resurgent greenskin filth. You clasped him in arms the day you met him, and you clasp him again now, as your brother and friend. He hopes to leave for the Quest, soon.
Needed:50 Rolled: 98+20=118
- You took a bet, and it paid off.
Normally, as you lead these campaigns, these marches, to slaughter the Shamans, you took as few soldiers as possible. This year, though, you wielded a different plan. Every knight you could call up, you sent personal envoys to. Letters, promises of glory and fury and revenge for those slaughtered by the greenskins.
They came to your side: You, who killed Gnittla in a single blow- by aid of Eclatant, of course; you, who won the battle of willbrook and put the Orcs to flight there; you, who are spattered in the blood of a thousand greenskin, earned in those years you were gone to Quest. You have been a bane to the Greenskin. And as you lead them, now, on this final campaign to rid Montfort of Shamans, there was more than just the usual Goblin riff-raff.
One Nazgob, servant of the foul Orcs of the Southlands— how he made it into Montfort was something of a mystery— was there, too, sent by his gods. He, and a coven of Goblin and Orc shamans— the last in Montfort— waited for your forces in a ramshackle fortress, guarded by a few hundred Orcs and goblins.
You waded through them, cut them down, slaughtered them. Then you entered a chamber, where the Shamans waited— and your violence was swift, uncompromising, unfading. Where your sword failed, you used your hands, your feet, your mass— whatever was required as you cut through them, magic flowing off of them, attacking your soldiers.
Finally, you reached Nazgob himself. Small for an orc, you lifted him with one hand, and snapped his neck— but before he died, the Orc cast one last spell. The sun dimmed, the light faltered, and you felt yourself burning— then a moment later it subsided to just a tingling on your hand. Looking down you saw it, a green skull, a brand left by magic. A symbol of the enmity between you and Greenskin.
It was not just you, either. Your children, and grandchildren, too, spoke of it. It seems, now, that the Greenskins hate you near a tenth as much as you hate them. All manner of men favor you for it, a symbol of what your Family has done.
Further, the host you called followed you to Estalia, and to the war there.
Reward: Shamans removed from Montfort, Gain trait: Arch-Nemesis to the Greenskins
Replacing Lancelot: Lancelot plans to begin the quest soon, as in "this year"; after the assault on the Valmont Estate if you follow through with that. You will need a temporary replacement, probably from among your Household Knights. Or maybe your nephew?
Thoughts for later.
- Medrawt, leader of your wolf knights, takes up position as master of arms easily enough.
And so it is that Lancelot leaves on his Quest, wielding the Great-Mace that marks his Quenellesian heritage.
Reward: Replaced Lancelot
Diplomacy: The damage the Orcs have done to your people is… astounding. It will take years to fully recover, in terms of gold alone. But, and this is fortunate, you don't have to do it alone; you have help— help Sir Uter will see delivered.
Need For Need: You have raw building materials, stone and steel and lumber, that can do nothing for anyone unless it is used. Bastonne has gold, stored in great vaults of now dead families, that has passed to the Regent and can not feed their people, nor put house over head or warm them in the nights.
The only problem is that Marienburg is courting them quite steadily— and the only advantage you've got over them is the entirely sentimental— but not insurmountable— is that you are a right proper knight of Bretonnia, as opposed to a… how did Bohemond put it?
Ah yes, "Filthy shuckster Marienburg Merchant looking to rip gold from the hands of dead men." There are times you are glad that not all of Bretonnia is quite so tolerant as Montfort.
Needed: 50 Rolled:70
- Before you start giving heaping gobs of aid, you first begin by making a deal. Ores torn from the earth, stone hewn of mountains, lumber taken from the glens that once held Beastmen; in return, great trundling wagons of Bastonnian gold come through, protected by a scarce few yeomen; the rest, it seems, are busy.
In any case, soon enough you hear stories of new homes and building and castles coming to be in the scarred Bastonnian countryside.
Reward: +750 Gold in Economic Recovery, +1 Bastonne Opinion
Strength of Steel: To celebrate their new golden age, the Dwarf Kingdoms are all coming together in a tournament— not of arms, but of steel. Honest metal.
In their pride, the dwarfs have invited everyone to compete.
Likely, they expect they will win, and not without reason. Most of the time, they would.
But Fay Steel? That oughta be enough to at least shock them, to compete. Even if you don't win, people that hear about how human craft (Kind of) competed with dwarf work will almost surely be interested-- which means more people buying from you. Which is good.
Needed: 50 Rolled: 83
- Cocksure, and eager, the Dwarfs are shocked to see your envoy. Lady Belle and Nimue alike wield rapiers of fine Fay Steel— light, hard, and sharp, purified in the purple flame, and marked with the winter heraldry, her buckler marked with the strength of earth.
The first test is between your tutor, and her sword, and one thane Goldfist, a warrior, watched by a great many people of a great many nations. His sword was worked for five years by a smith who has done this for longer than you've been alive, a Runesmith as well; his shield a family heirloom, faintly shining, and marked by runes.
Nimue's sword, meanwhile, was created in a month, by a woman who only learned to forge perhaps less than a decade ago when forced to by circumastance, her buckler much the same.
They clash, there is a bang of fire and smoke and frost— and when the audience opens their eyes, they see a rapier jammed into wood and a buckler holding well.
And that is enough for the humans involved to desire it, even as the dwarfs bluster about how you cheated with your magic. Cooler heads prevail, but Nimue might want to stay out of Karak Kadrin for the next little while. Shouldn't be hard.
Reward: +3,000 Gold in Economic Recovery from interested buyers, +1000 Gold a turn from selling to Bretonnians
Stewardship: Yvain's office is a whirlwind of activity, a flurry of parchment and paper and meetings and a thousand other things. Two barons dead, 20,000+ men slain on the field of battle, farmland destroyed… the Goblins have earned his bureaucratic ire.
More Mines: You need your people working, producing, crafting and otherwise building. Find men to lead expeditions into the mountains, as far as they can according to your treaty with the Court Invulnerable, and start mining. Expansive mines, at that— tin and iron and potash and whatever can be found, for as long as you can.
- An old copper mine is cleared of goblins and put back to work producing new wealth. Feels good.
Reward: +200 Gold in Economic Recovery
Strigany Settle Down: The Strigany of the Old World seem...agitated. A great number are heading north, for who knows what purpose? Not all, of course, probably not even most, but a lot.
Not that that has much to do with you, but it has got you thinking. Jaelle and her people have been here for the better part of a decade, meaning no doubt a great number have gained connections throughout the land, have grown attached, might even want to stay in one place. Perhaps enough that noticeable communities could settle down in ravaged villages, to help raise numbers? It would not be so simple of course, the sheer misfortune of the Strigany means it is likely that you will have to stretch your powers of persuasion to deal with (a completely rational, but I digress) mistrust of outside authority, but perhaps worth the effort? Certainly, at least, you could declare that any Strigany who wants to settle in Monfort is more than welcome— you could use the man-power.
Needed:50 Rolled: 34, Reroll: 39
- You get a few stragglers, but by and large the Strigany are both too justifiably concerned about what outsiders will do and too fond of being nomadic to settle.
-FAILURE-
Piety: Nimue has disappeared. In her office, there was only a note: be back soon, Lady gave me a vision. Gonna piss off the Jaegers and Franz like hell.
Left instructions to just listen to you.
-Love, Rose
Wealth of Affairiche: The Lord of Good Trade and just dealings, the priests of Affairiche tend to be wealthy, as might be expected of the followers of the king of business. However, there are very few of them, again as might be expected of the Lord of Trade in Bretonnia.
The Priests of Affairiche have come to you with an offer— in return for noble backing on various minor projects, they will begin spreading their churches further afield. To make a very long story short, this will allow more of your people to begin working as experts in various professional fields, by loaning and interest and…
Well it all really rather went over your head, but Yvain agreed with their assessment, and he generally knows what he's talking about. Certainly he does so far as money goes.
- Montfortian merchants in Albion are given funds and backing by the priests, and in return money starts funneling into the Dukedom, particularly by virtue of the Westerlanders who moved in.
(+300 Gold in Economic Recovery)
To Care and Cure: There are a great many new villages and towns springing up in Montfort as a result of your rush to build more mines. Just last year, Augustville, Valroche, and Blancstain were founded in the mountains, a dozen more hovels besides. A manor, a few dozen homes, and a granary to store food. In case the problem isn't clear: There are no churches, whether it be to the Lady, Shallya, Affairiche— even Sigmar might be acceptable at that point.
This cannot stand. Somebody has to do something.
Fortunately, you are a somebody, and you can do something. Specifically, you can start having clergy go with these builders and construct churches. Especially Shallyan.
- In your campaign in the mountains you destroyed a great many fortresses, ramshackle though they were; gathered a great many trophies, gotten in battle and justly; reclaimed much land, free for the taking.
The trophies take up positions of pride in small temples to Ulric, gathered by common soldiers, gathered on altars though full construction will take much time. Fortresses, conquered, are surveyed by Shallyans and found functional, with enough space— but in need of a deep cleansing, and much reinforcement. Taalites, those few that remain in the land instead of in the crusade at least, help consecrate valleys and forests, though it will be some time.
Learning: Nimue has been busy while you were out with a variety projects; and now that there are no hobgoblins beating at your door, she'd like to begin even more projects; though first she must finish with the construction of the Bath-House.
Bath Houses: In the time of Giles, when Knights were Knights, Damsels were Damsels, and Peasants were peasants, hygiene was maintained not by using rivers, or simply not caring, but by bath houses: stone buildings, squat and low to the ground, where waters are heated using a complex array of of mirrors channeling the sun into a central holding area, where water is heated to relax and cleanse.
After her visit to the Grand Library, and no longer plagued by wolf-howls in the night, Nimue would like to build one of these bath houses within Montfort, to help fight off some of the terrible stench that (apparently) permeates.
- The first bathhouse is complete! Steaming water, heated by strange, positioned mirrors begins to service Montfort, the city. Divided into three floors— the first for peasants, the second for nobles, and the highest for your own family— the outside is covered with images of the Lady, Gilles, Shallya and Martrud fighting the pestilential forces of Nurgle!
Really, there's only one problem: the rest of the world smells like shit.
A problem for Godfrey to solve, then.
Reward: Bath-House in Montfort, city's denizens cleaner, +1000 Gold in Economic recovery for not being sick, population increases, other nobles beg for help building their own
Sunstones: The halls of the Court Invulnerable are fonts of life as much as any other, filled to the brim with flowers and trees and all other colorful, blooming things. The Light for these is supplied by the sunstones— great jewels of immense power. You are, of course, in favor of beautiful things in general; but you are even more in favor of things that would allow your people to turn even the mountains hollows into fecund farms.
Needed: 35 Rolled: 38+5=43
- Now hanging on great coils of steel worked by the Blacksmith's guild, Nimue continues to pick away and carve into the surface of the stone. Slow work, but important.
Intrigue: It is in the brewing shadows that the fell things will gather. The foul things, birthed of darkness, they will not slow, nor yield, nor rest until your family lies broken. Unfortunately, given you patently cannot trust Morgyan, things might be awkward for the next while.
Sabotage The Orcs: Morgyan has done some preliminary scouting out of the Orcish positions within Montfort— not all, but enough that she could make their day horrible, with just a bit of luck and some men. Attacks on weak convoys, burning their camps, destroying the boar pens they keep their foul mounts in— it would be an apocalypse of steel.
It would also be both more effective and easier with more men.
Needed:40 Rolled:72+20=92
- Morgyan, under guise of blackest traitor, gifts the Orcs weapons and armor, riles them up. Moves the strongest tribes to attack, to ruin, to destroy. The three largest tribes of Orcs are moved towards violence, towards savagery, by the sheer anger she fills them with; the Hobgoblins that remain, too. Thirty-thousand orcs begin the march to Montfort on the twenty-fifth of the month, camping in a small pass that they utterly dominate.
On the twenty-sixth, an avalanche of obscene proportions rocks that part of the mountains. Casualties are light, consider— only a sixth or so of the Orcs die.
The bigger problem is that they are all sure that they were betrayed— by the Goblins and the Hobgoblins. And so the three fight, and fight, and fight some more, killing each other until there are only a few scattered thousand, huddled around a sad coven, swept away by Chivalry. Why, the number of Greenskins in Montfort really is falling— your men of letters estimate perhaps 3 Greenskins to 1 man, which is perhaps the lowest it's been since the time of Martrud.
Reward: Great slaughter and culling of Orcs in specific, and Greenskins in General
Balancing the Books: You are 100% sure there are people not paying the full portion of their taxes to you; merchants, certainly, at the least. You don't care that much, usually— but now is not a usual time. Now is a time that your people needs funds to get back to work, and living life, instead of suffering.
Send Morgyan to investigate. Compared to her usual missions, it should be a breeze.
- Surprise, surprise, the merchants lied. Needed grain, gold, and some other g word to finish that rhyme flow out of the corpulent, grasping hands of those lizards and into the hands of people who need them, namely the people starving on the side of the road.
(+500 Economic Recovery)
Personal: Your dreams are unwholesome, as of late. Half of the time, they are of titanic, earth-shattering figures striding the earth, walking the mountains, and casting down Ogres both weak and grand; other times, it is of a spirit of the earth waiting for you in a small cave in the mountains. You have several questions.
Mad Dragon- Bertrand: You swore you would lead Lady Talsyn to the cave where her Dragon friend, driven mad, waits. You are a man of your word.
Wild beasts seem to adore Bertrand. The most ferocious and terrible beasts in Montfort seem to adore him, the wolves follow where he toddles, and there are birds of the most beautiful assortment by him wherever he goes. Perhaps, just perhaps, he can help to calm the Dragon?
Needed:??? Rolled: 35+20 (Double Down)+8 (Bertrand Piety)=63
- Bertrand clings to you, hanging on like a cape, clearly frightened but trying not to show it. Talsyn is unarmed, defenseless and trying to be a peacemaker. You… are not.
Stalactites and stalagmites line the floor and the ceiling, water dripping down into puddles. Mildew and mould grow in patches, and if it weren't for the Lady whispering in your ear you might have thought bring Bertrand here was a bad idea.
Talsyn is by your side instead of covering your back, refusing to hide, in her own words.
There is a breeze.
"Should the wind be moving here, human?"
"You are very green!" Bertrand, and with a start you whip around, eyes dilating as you see Ilyaroi holding Bertrand in his claws, staring him down.
The dragon could eat ten of you with one gulp, wings pressed down to its sides. His claws could pierce through even gromril, and his teeth, faintly seen, could fillet you. He certainly is very green, too.
That's not what scares you, though.
"TALSYN. WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE KIN OF MY ENEMY INTO MY LAIR."
"The human could guide me, and help me explain!" Wait, what? "The toddler was his idea."
"HE WAS RIGHT. THE CHILD IS ALL THAT KEPT ME FROM FEASTING ON HIM."
"Don't hurt my grandson, please. Kill me if you have to, but don't hurt him."
"PERHAPS."
Bertrand, ever stubborn, ever proud, comprehends and boops the dragon on the snout. The Cave is deathly silent as he begins to shout— "Don't hurt my grandpa, I'll hold my breath, I'll poo on your hand" — until the dragon moves the boy up, and stares him straight in the eye.
Then he begins to laugh, chortling and shaking, a deep bellied thing. "THE MIND OF YOUTH IS A STRANGE THING INDEED. I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO RAISE ONE MYSELF." The dragon stops suddenly and strikes you with a venomous glare. "I NEVER WILL, NOW, FOR YOUR WIFE SLAUGHTERED MY MATE, THREE YEARS AGO TODAY."
Ah. Ahhhh.
"No, she did not. Three years ago today, Morgyan was in the room as this one and his siblings were being born."
The dragon freezes up. He looks rather like a man attempting to do some strange math, or who has been caught on a train of thought he would like to leave.
He puts Bertrand down, gently.
Then, with a scream of "MOONCLAW" the Dragon was off.
A strange day, but one that might sew sweet fruit. Whirling around to Talsyn, you see she has already disappeared. Not even a thank you.
Damn Elves.
Reward: Destruction belayed, learned a little of how Bertrand's Blessing works
To Err is Human: But to forgive is divine. You've fought with her, you've killed for her, but now you have to do something...difficult.
Speak with Morgyan. And forgive. And let go.
- The castle is deadly silent. Dark, and dreary, and alone. Too large, by half, but that ends now. The kitchen is empty but for your mother and father, as you watch them, listening only just a little.
"...I won't forget, Morgyan. But I can do one better— I can forgive."
It is reconciliation, and it is good. And as you, Belicent, grip your cloak and part, having given your family a chance, you feel… relieved.
Reward: Made up with Morgyan
Prestige Actions: Slayer of Orcs, bane of Dark Elves, ruiner of Vampires. The foes that have fallen to your fists, and your wrath, and your sword are many; your deeds, valorous. It seems that enough has come that you might truly attempt some change.
The Great Monument: Let the names of all those lost fighting the Druchii— every knight, every peasant, every lord and lady, every damsel— be remembered, eternally. Let it be carved into the mountains, beneath the gaze of your Lady, ever marked: "These men died, that we might live."
- They've begun working on the armoring details! Should be neat.
Ballista Bashing: Technically, bolt throwers are not against the laws of chivalry. "And no person shall wield in the lands of the Kingdom profane devices with which they shall be capable of easily, through mechanical means, and from shadows like a coward, killing a knight." Ballista fail on that last count. They would also have been very useful for your barons in killing the giants that attacked their lands, and that killed your sister.
You don't like it, and they probably won't either, but you could, in fact, use Ballistas in your army.
- As you watch, one of the machines sends a bolt the length of your arm and the thickness of your lance through a chunk of granite at high speeds. It's a pretty nice thought.
-
Alright, battle in Estalia, Saving the Kids, then Old World News
(No voting will be required, to be clear. I just gotta write it)
1447
The first thing you feel, the first time you wake in the new year, is confusion. This is not your bed, nor your room. The wine-rack you keep by your bed has disappeared into the aether, the sheets are a gentle pink instead of the hard black. The high-vaulting windows have entirely different patterns carved into them then the heraldry of House Folcard. The floors and walls alike are wood, and not the tile and granite of the master chambers. Then you remember— and wish you hadn't.
Castle Montfort is tense. You have not slept with Morgyan— literally, that is, avoided her bed and her presence and her— the entire year, instead having colonized one of the guest rooms. Most days you barely speak but perhaps a dozen words to each other at supper. Without the pressure of Ulthuan to make you interact, there is it seems a tension there that wasn't there before; if you are to succeed in your coming quests— and you must— then you must slay it, as surely as you would any dragon.
As you get up, groaning, you wish, for once, to feel your age and the weight. Then you might be a little justified, at least, in wishing to do nothing but stay in your chambers. Twenty-eight years you have been putting your life at risk, racing into dangers bravely— dangers that took their toll.
Sixteen. That oddly garbed Orc, strangely large for one who was not a warboss. Only had your hunting leathers and a dagger for that one, and in return you got your first scar.
Seventeen, Castle Cold. The Norscan savages came, led in their hundreds. It was not your land, but it was your fight. Arm broke throttling one of the Kurgan to death; now, three decades on, it clicks a little.
On and on, a life of beating. You are tired.
But you cannot rest.
First your armor. Forged by the finest Smiths in all of Montfort, the superior to anything the Empire can bring to bear and all of it the snow that dusts the mountain— Fay steel, marked with the Heraldry of the Court Invulnerable. Breastplate polished to a mirror sheen, fluted, hard enough to stop a bullet. Rerebace, one bearing the Heraldry Folcard, the other your mother's own black dragon in profile. Vambraces and gauntlets, one after the other, making a sound like a sword into a sheathe as they slide into position. Hook the tassets, slide the greaves, put on the sabaton. The mail coif fits as well as it ever did, and the armet can scarcely be felt. Finally, then, you take the cape, fling it over your shoulders and attach, letting the wolf fur hang. Taking up Kalaibarn, you step out of the room.
Cutting through the halls like a ghost, you make your way to the center, and to your seat. You sit gently, surrounded by the thousands that make up your court. They have waited for you.
Here, you have power.
Here there is truth.
"Speak. Your duke listens."
Even if you have to kill someone for it.
Martial: Sir Lancelot is, without a doubt, the finest Knight you know, capable of turning aside blade after blade and assault after assault on his person, and being a peerless strategist as well. He is perfectly suited to advise you in matters of war. His strategies are bold, precise, experimental— perfect for facing these resurgent greenskin filth. You clasped him in arms the day you met him, and you clasp him again now, as your brother and friend. He hopes to leave for the Quest, soon.
Needed:50 Rolled: 98+20=118
- You took a bet, and it paid off.
Normally, as you lead these campaigns, these marches, to slaughter the Shamans, you took as few soldiers as possible. This year, though, you wielded a different plan. Every knight you could call up, you sent personal envoys to. Letters, promises of glory and fury and revenge for those slaughtered by the greenskins.
They came to your side: You, who killed Gnittla in a single blow- by aid of Eclatant, of course; you, who won the battle of willbrook and put the Orcs to flight there; you, who are spattered in the blood of a thousand greenskin, earned in those years you were gone to Quest. You have been a bane to the Greenskin. And as you lead them, now, on this final campaign to rid Montfort of Shamans, there was more than just the usual Goblin riff-raff.
One Nazgob, servant of the foul Orcs of the Southlands— how he made it into Montfort was something of a mystery— was there, too, sent by his gods. He, and a coven of Goblin and Orc shamans— the last in Montfort— waited for your forces in a ramshackle fortress, guarded by a few hundred Orcs and goblins.
You waded through them, cut them down, slaughtered them. Then you entered a chamber, where the Shamans waited— and your violence was swift, uncompromising, unfading. Where your sword failed, you used your hands, your feet, your mass— whatever was required as you cut through them, magic flowing off of them, attacking your soldiers.
Finally, you reached Nazgob himself. Small for an orc, you lifted him with one hand, and snapped his neck— but before he died, the Orc cast one last spell. The sun dimmed, the light faltered, and you felt yourself burning— then a moment later it subsided to just a tingling on your hand. Looking down you saw it, a green skull, a brand left by magic. A symbol of the enmity between you and Greenskin.
It was not just you, either. Your children, and grandchildren, too, spoke of it. It seems, now, that the Greenskins hate you near a tenth as much as you hate them. All manner of men favor you for it, a symbol of what your Family has done.
Further, the host you called followed you to Estalia, and to the war there.
Reward: Shamans removed from Montfort, Gain trait: Arch-Nemesis to the Greenskins
Replacing Lancelot: Lancelot plans to begin the quest soon, as in "this year"; after the assault on the Valmont Estate if you follow through with that. You will need a temporary replacement, probably from among your Household Knights. Or maybe your nephew?
Thoughts for later.
- Medrawt, leader of your wolf knights, takes up position as master of arms easily enough.
And so it is that Lancelot leaves on his Quest, wielding the Great-Mace that marks his Quenellesian heritage.
Reward: Replaced Lancelot
Diplomacy: The damage the Orcs have done to your people is… astounding. It will take years to fully recover, in terms of gold alone. But, and this is fortunate, you don't have to do it alone; you have help— help Sir Uter will see delivered.
Need For Need: You have raw building materials, stone and steel and lumber, that can do nothing for anyone unless it is used. Bastonne has gold, stored in great vaults of now dead families, that has passed to the Regent and can not feed their people, nor put house over head or warm them in the nights.
The only problem is that Marienburg is courting them quite steadily— and the only advantage you've got over them is the entirely sentimental— but not insurmountable— is that you are a right proper knight of Bretonnia, as opposed to a… how did Bohemond put it?
Ah yes, "Filthy shuckster Marienburg Merchant looking to rip gold from the hands of dead men." There are times you are glad that not all of Bretonnia is quite so tolerant as Montfort.
Needed: 50 Rolled:70
- Before you start giving heaping gobs of aid, you first begin by making a deal. Ores torn from the earth, stone hewn of mountains, lumber taken from the glens that once held Beastmen; in return, great trundling wagons of Bastonnian gold come through, protected by a scarce few yeomen; the rest, it seems, are busy.
In any case, soon enough you hear stories of new homes and building and castles coming to be in the scarred Bastonnian countryside.
Reward: +750 Gold in Economic Recovery, +1 Bastonne Opinion
Strength of Steel: To celebrate their new golden age, the Dwarf Kingdoms are all coming together in a tournament— not of arms, but of steel. Honest metal.
In their pride, the dwarfs have invited everyone to compete.
Likely, they expect they will win, and not without reason. Most of the time, they would.
But Fay Steel? That oughta be enough to at least shock them, to compete. Even if you don't win, people that hear about how human craft (Kind of) competed with dwarf work will almost surely be interested-- which means more people buying from you. Which is good.
Needed: 50 Rolled: 83
- Cocksure, and eager, the Dwarfs are shocked to see your envoy. Lady Belle and Nimue alike wield rapiers of fine Fay Steel— light, hard, and sharp, purified in the purple flame, and marked with the winter heraldry, her buckler marked with the strength of earth.
The first test is between your tutor, and her sword, and one thane Goldfist, a warrior, watched by a great many people of a great many nations. His sword was worked for five years by a smith who has done this for longer than you've been alive, a Runesmith as well; his shield a family heirloom, faintly shining, and marked by runes.
Nimue's sword, meanwhile, was created in a month, by a woman who only learned to forge perhaps less than a decade ago when forced to by circumastance, her buckler much the same.
They clash, there is a bang of fire and smoke and frost— and when the audience opens their eyes, they see a rapier jammed into wood and a buckler holding well.
And that is enough for the humans involved to desire it, even as the dwarfs bluster about how you cheated with your magic. Cooler heads prevail, but Nimue might want to stay out of Karak Kadrin for the next little while. Shouldn't be hard.
Reward: +3,000 Gold in Economic Recovery from interested buyers, +1000 Gold a turn from selling to Bretonnians
Stewardship: Yvain's office is a whirlwind of activity, a flurry of parchment and paper and meetings and a thousand other things. Two barons dead, 20,000+ men slain on the field of battle, farmland destroyed… the Goblins have earned his bureaucratic ire.
More Mines: You need your people working, producing, crafting and otherwise building. Find men to lead expeditions into the mountains, as far as they can according to your treaty with the Court Invulnerable, and start mining. Expansive mines, at that— tin and iron and potash and whatever can be found, for as long as you can.
- An old copper mine is cleared of goblins and put back to work producing new wealth. Feels good.
Reward: +200 Gold in Economic Recovery
Strigany Settle Down: The Strigany of the Old World seem...agitated. A great number are heading north, for who knows what purpose? Not all, of course, probably not even most, but a lot.
Not that that has much to do with you, but it has got you thinking. Jaelle and her people have been here for the better part of a decade, meaning no doubt a great number have gained connections throughout the land, have grown attached, might even want to stay in one place. Perhaps enough that noticeable communities could settle down in ravaged villages, to help raise numbers? It would not be so simple of course, the sheer misfortune of the Strigany means it is likely that you will have to stretch your powers of persuasion to deal with (a completely rational, but I digress) mistrust of outside authority, but perhaps worth the effort? Certainly, at least, you could declare that any Strigany who wants to settle in Monfort is more than welcome— you could use the man-power.
Needed:50 Rolled: 34, Reroll: 39
- You get a few stragglers, but by and large the Strigany are both too justifiably concerned about what outsiders will do and too fond of being nomadic to settle.
-FAILURE-
Piety: Nimue has disappeared. In her office, there was only a note: be back soon, Lady gave me a vision. Gonna piss off the Jaegers and Franz like hell.
Left instructions to just listen to you.
-Love, Rose
Wealth of Affairiche: The Lord of Good Trade and just dealings, the priests of Affairiche tend to be wealthy, as might be expected of the followers of the king of business. However, there are very few of them, again as might be expected of the Lord of Trade in Bretonnia.
The Priests of Affairiche have come to you with an offer— in return for noble backing on various minor projects, they will begin spreading their churches further afield. To make a very long story short, this will allow more of your people to begin working as experts in various professional fields, by loaning and interest and…
Well it all really rather went over your head, but Yvain agreed with their assessment, and he generally knows what he's talking about. Certainly he does so far as money goes.
- Montfortian merchants in Albion are given funds and backing by the priests, and in return money starts funneling into the Dukedom, particularly by virtue of the Westerlanders who moved in.
(+300 Gold in Economic Recovery)
To Care and Cure: There are a great many new villages and towns springing up in Montfort as a result of your rush to build more mines. Just last year, Augustville, Valroche, and Blancstain were founded in the mountains, a dozen more hovels besides. A manor, a few dozen homes, and a granary to store food. In case the problem isn't clear: There are no churches, whether it be to the Lady, Shallya, Affairiche— even Sigmar might be acceptable at that point.
This cannot stand. Somebody has to do something.
Fortunately, you are a somebody, and you can do something. Specifically, you can start having clergy go with these builders and construct churches. Especially Shallyan.
- In your campaign in the mountains you destroyed a great many fortresses, ramshackle though they were; gathered a great many trophies, gotten in battle and justly; reclaimed much land, free for the taking.
The trophies take up positions of pride in small temples to Ulric, gathered by common soldiers, gathered on altars though full construction will take much time. Fortresses, conquered, are surveyed by Shallyans and found functional, with enough space— but in need of a deep cleansing, and much reinforcement. Taalites, those few that remain in the land instead of in the crusade at least, help consecrate valleys and forests, though it will be some time.
Learning: Nimue has been busy while you were out with a variety projects; and now that there are no hobgoblins beating at your door, she'd like to begin even more projects; though first she must finish with the construction of the Bath-House.
Bath Houses: In the time of Giles, when Knights were Knights, Damsels were Damsels, and Peasants were peasants, hygiene was maintained not by using rivers, or simply not caring, but by bath houses: stone buildings, squat and low to the ground, where waters are heated using a complex array of of mirrors channeling the sun into a central holding area, where water is heated to relax and cleanse.
After her visit to the Grand Library, and no longer plagued by wolf-howls in the night, Nimue would like to build one of these bath houses within Montfort, to help fight off some of the terrible stench that (apparently) permeates.
- The first bathhouse is complete! Steaming water, heated by strange, positioned mirrors begins to service Montfort, the city. Divided into three floors— the first for peasants, the second for nobles, and the highest for your own family— the outside is covered with images of the Lady, Gilles, Shallya and Martrud fighting the pestilential forces of Nurgle!
Really, there's only one problem: the rest of the world smells like shit.
A problem for Godfrey to solve, then.
Reward: Bath-House in Montfort, city's denizens cleaner, +1000 Gold in Economic recovery for not being sick, population increases, other nobles beg for help building their own
Sunstones: The halls of the Court Invulnerable are fonts of life as much as any other, filled to the brim with flowers and trees and all other colorful, blooming things. The Light for these is supplied by the sunstones— great jewels of immense power. You are, of course, in favor of beautiful things in general; but you are even more in favor of things that would allow your people to turn even the mountains hollows into fecund farms.
Needed: 35 Rolled: 38+5=43
- Now hanging on great coils of steel worked by the Blacksmith's guild, Nimue continues to pick away and carve into the surface of the stone. Slow work, but important.
Intrigue: It is in the brewing shadows that the fell things will gather. The foul things, birthed of darkness, they will not slow, nor yield, nor rest until your family lies broken. Unfortunately, given you patently cannot trust Morgyan, things might be awkward for the next while.
Sabotage The Orcs: Morgyan has done some preliminary scouting out of the Orcish positions within Montfort— not all, but enough that she could make their day horrible, with just a bit of luck and some men. Attacks on weak convoys, burning their camps, destroying the boar pens they keep their foul mounts in— it would be an apocalypse of steel.
It would also be both more effective and easier with more men.
Needed:40 Rolled:72+20=92
- Morgyan, under guise of blackest traitor, gifts the Orcs weapons and armor, riles them up. Moves the strongest tribes to attack, to ruin, to destroy. The three largest tribes of Orcs are moved towards violence, towards savagery, by the sheer anger she fills them with; the Hobgoblins that remain, too. Thirty-thousand orcs begin the march to Montfort on the twenty-fifth of the month, camping in a small pass that they utterly dominate.
On the twenty-sixth, an avalanche of obscene proportions rocks that part of the mountains. Casualties are light, consider— only a sixth or so of the Orcs die.
The bigger problem is that they are all sure that they were betrayed— by the Goblins and the Hobgoblins. And so the three fight, and fight, and fight some more, killing each other until there are only a few scattered thousand, huddled around a sad coven, swept away by Chivalry. Why, the number of Greenskins in Montfort really is falling— your men of letters estimate perhaps 3 Greenskins to 1 man, which is perhaps the lowest it's been since the time of Martrud.
Reward: Great slaughter and culling of Orcs in specific, and Greenskins in General
Balancing the Books: You are 100% sure there are people not paying the full portion of their taxes to you; merchants, certainly, at the least. You don't care that much, usually— but now is not a usual time. Now is a time that your people needs funds to get back to work, and living life, instead of suffering.
Send Morgyan to investigate. Compared to her usual missions, it should be a breeze.
- Surprise, surprise, the merchants lied. Needed grain, gold, and some other g word to finish that rhyme flow out of the corpulent, grasping hands of those lizards and into the hands of people who need them, namely the people starving on the side of the road.
(+500 Economic Recovery)
Personal: Your dreams are unwholesome, as of late. Half of the time, they are of titanic, earth-shattering figures striding the earth, walking the mountains, and casting down Ogres both weak and grand; other times, it is of a spirit of the earth waiting for you in a small cave in the mountains. You have several questions.
Mad Dragon- Bertrand: You swore you would lead Lady Talsyn to the cave where her Dragon friend, driven mad, waits. You are a man of your word.
Wild beasts seem to adore Bertrand. The most ferocious and terrible beasts in Montfort seem to adore him, the wolves follow where he toddles, and there are birds of the most beautiful assortment by him wherever he goes. Perhaps, just perhaps, he can help to calm the Dragon?
Needed:??? Rolled: 35+20 (Double Down)+8 (Bertrand Piety)=63
- Bertrand clings to you, hanging on like a cape, clearly frightened but trying not to show it. Talsyn is unarmed, defenseless and trying to be a peacemaker. You… are not.
Stalactites and stalagmites line the floor and the ceiling, water dripping down into puddles. Mildew and mould grow in patches, and if it weren't for the Lady whispering in your ear you might have thought bring Bertrand here was a bad idea.
Talsyn is by your side instead of covering your back, refusing to hide, in her own words.
There is a breeze.
"Should the wind be moving here, human?"
"You are very green!" Bertrand, and with a start you whip around, eyes dilating as you see Ilyaroi holding Bertrand in his claws, staring him down.
The dragon could eat ten of you with one gulp, wings pressed down to its sides. His claws could pierce through even gromril, and his teeth, faintly seen, could fillet you. He certainly is very green, too.
That's not what scares you, though.
"TALSYN. WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE KIN OF MY ENEMY INTO MY LAIR."
"The human could guide me, and help me explain!" Wait, what? "The toddler was his idea."
"HE WAS RIGHT. THE CHILD IS ALL THAT KEPT ME FROM FEASTING ON HIM."
"Don't hurt my grandson, please. Kill me if you have to, but don't hurt him."
"PERHAPS."
Bertrand, ever stubborn, ever proud, comprehends and boops the dragon on the snout. The Cave is deathly silent as he begins to shout— "Don't hurt my grandpa, I'll hold my breath, I'll poo on your hand" — until the dragon moves the boy up, and stares him straight in the eye.
Then he begins to laugh, chortling and shaking, a deep bellied thing. "THE MIND OF YOUTH IS A STRANGE THING INDEED. I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO RAISE ONE MYSELF." The dragon stops suddenly and strikes you with a venomous glare. "I NEVER WILL, NOW, FOR YOUR WIFE SLAUGHTERED MY MATE, THREE YEARS AGO TODAY."
Ah. Ahhhh.
"No, she did not. Three years ago today, Morgyan was in the room as this one and his siblings were being born."
The dragon freezes up. He looks rather like a man attempting to do some strange math, or who has been caught on a train of thought he would like to leave.
He puts Bertrand down, gently.
Then, with a scream of "MOONCLAW" the Dragon was off.
A strange day, but one that might sew sweet fruit. Whirling around to Talsyn, you see she has already disappeared. Not even a thank you.
Damn Elves.
Reward: Destruction belayed, learned a little of how Bertrand's Blessing works
To Err is Human: But to forgive is divine. You've fought with her, you've killed for her, but now you have to do something...difficult.
Speak with Morgyan. And forgive. And let go.
- The castle is deadly silent. Dark, and dreary, and alone. Too large, by half, but that ends now. The kitchen is empty but for your mother and father, as you watch them, listening only just a little.
"...I won't forget, Morgyan. But I can do one better— I can forgive."
It is reconciliation, and it is good. And as you, Belicent, grip your cloak and part, having given your family a chance, you feel… relieved.
Reward: Made up with Morgyan
Prestige Actions: Slayer of Orcs, bane of Dark Elves, ruiner of Vampires. The foes that have fallen to your fists, and your wrath, and your sword are many; your deeds, valorous. It seems that enough has come that you might truly attempt some change.
The Great Monument: Let the names of all those lost fighting the Druchii— every knight, every peasant, every lord and lady, every damsel— be remembered, eternally. Let it be carved into the mountains, beneath the gaze of your Lady, ever marked: "These men died, that we might live."
- They've begun working on the armoring details! Should be neat.
Ballista Bashing: Technically, bolt throwers are not against the laws of chivalry. "And no person shall wield in the lands of the Kingdom profane devices with which they shall be capable of easily, through mechanical means, and from shadows like a coward, killing a knight." Ballista fail on that last count. They would also have been very useful for your barons in killing the giants that attacked their lands, and that killed your sister.
You don't like it, and they probably won't either, but you could, in fact, use Ballistas in your army.
- As you watch, one of the machines sends a bolt the length of your arm and the thickness of your lance through a chunk of granite at high speeds. It's a pretty nice thought.
-
Alright, battle in Estalia, Saving the Kids, then Old World News
(No voting will be required, to be clear. I just gotta write it)
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