Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
-
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Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
barenhart
Gender-sensitive. Female. Trans.
- Location
- Seattle, WA (Alki)
Yaaaay.... a few things? -sheep-
Replacements is still listed under martial.
Bring My Barons Before Me is missing under Diplomacy.
Silverine Sources is missing under Stewardship.
And the last one was already mentioned and fixed. Please, give me my Barons? I need to raise more morale, they are not all at 10/10 yet.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Fixed as well as it can be without remaking the survey.
Barons can only be done a few times.
And Silverine Sources is already locked in.
Meanwhile, In The Border Princes
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Meanwhile, In The Border Princes
Orcs and Skaven traded blows, as green light poured from the ratmen lines searing Greenskin flesh. For their part, the Orcs merrily raced unto doom, being wiped from this base earth but in turn slaying a dozen ratmen for each vile Orc that fell, never mind the countless number of Goblins and Gnoblars that ran underfoot.
Unknown to both Rat and Savage, a great mass of men, a thousand landsknecht swordsmen, half that number in Arbalesters, and a tenth that in small bronze cannons, long and thin. No cavalry marched with them, and no wizard lay in their lines. Indeed the only man not marching on his feet lay at the column's head, swaddled in cloaks.
His armor was leather, his helm a thin brimmed steel hat, and instead of sword or lance he bore a crossbow, larger than normal with wickedly barbed arrow. His face was dominated by a curling mustache and a grim look to his eyes, a weight over his shoulder. His banner was a Fleur Du Lys flanked by hammers. His name was William.
The plains were dusted with snow, the whole area a slick mess. The men's breath fogged as the army marched under grim grey skies, the sound of battle growing ever present as they moved on, the distant beat of drums the only break in grim nature.
After a week's march, the army of man finally stood where they wished to be. Thankful for a break from the monotony, each laid down their shield and planted it in the ground, forming a thick barrier from which the Arbalesters could fire, unassailable. To their fronts lay the clashing forces of Orc and Skaven, at least a thousand score in total. Dirt and logs gathered over the summer were laid down as well, to funnel both Rat and Orc to the landsknecht, who even now sharpened swords and smoked pipes, filling the air with warmth. To seal the deal, a pit was dug with only one land bridge to cross it, and was then filled with traps and stakes and fire pits.
Over a week of effort went to making these new fortifications. Finally, the last piece was set. Each culverin was laid in dirt and men set to fire them.
The time had come.
From William's great Arabyan charger he spoke. "Fellows. Soldiers. For too long, we have fought others' battles. For too long, we have been preyed upon by the orc and the rat. Constantly on the defensive, and at their mercy. It ends. Human land will be returned to human hands, and we will wage the war we wish to fight."
Their was a ragged cheer from the men, who put the tips of their swords to the dirt for the moment.
"Fire."
And with that simple command, the crude cannons belched fire and roared smoke, sending half-pound iron balls hurtling through the air before scything through the enemy ranks and splintering legs, shredding arms, and splitting heads. Both Orc and Skaven were too utterly focused on each other to notice the balls punching through their own troops. Those who did each regarded it as the work of the enemy.
"Again."
Another roar, another volley of death. More death, more blood. Now, finally, the Skaven gained an inkling of the foe attacking and planned their vengeance. Slaves were thrust into the hungry Orcish maw to keep the flank strong, thousands dying, as the landsknecht braced their swords and girded their loins. A detachment was formed from among the skaven, a new line formed, as another broke from the pack and turned towards the prince.
A great mass of Skaven, the Stormvermin, raced at the newly formed fortification, three-thousand in all. The Crossbowmen stood up, only their weapons and shining helmets seen over the thick wood or steel or stone.
The lines met. The bridge was only thick enough across for three Skaven, while the mouth of it was thick enough for six men to stand abreast. At the center of the line was William, who had dismounted at some point. The skaven, when they reached, were cut in twain lengthwise by the human soldiers, who moved efficiently, farmers cutting down wheat stalks. Though outnumbered twice over, the Skaven could not bring their numbers to bear. The swirling melee became a hell for the rat as from both North and West they were clenched between jaws; the orcs and men, each though filled with bitter hate for the other hating, more fully, the craven Ratmen.
William shed blood aplenty, bolts punching through chain and tearing apart hearts, severing veins and breezing through organs. Skaven bodies piled up, and there would be Man's undoing; for the Skaven, wicked and heartless, used the bodies of their fallen comrades to move over the pits, chattering verming swarming towards the wall, screeching in unholy voices their ecstasy in battle.
Seeing this, the mustachioed man roared out with a single command: "Fire!" Thus the Arbalesters finally spoke, the thick twang of their weapon's strings slamming home followed by a cacophonous screech that seemed as unto metal being driven down stone. Fully half the shots slammed home, and as they did the Skaven were driven back once more. Men fell, yes, but were quickly replaced on the line. The Skaven detachment was soon ground to dust and ash, as the Orcs and Skaven continued their battle.
So it was there was a lull in the fighting. The dead humans were counted, and a hundred were found to be lifeless, and so were laid in the center of the earthworks as the enemy, sure in the human's death continued their grim battle. The Skaven had been reduced by a half, the Orcs a quarter; both sure the humans were dead.
That delusion was shattered with a single word: "Bombardment."
And so it was that fire roared out again, and cannon spoke, and death struck. The Orcish line buckled as suddenly the right flank seemed to disappear; without a Warboss, they were ill-disciplined. Seizing the opportunity, the Skaven punched forward with the last of their slaves, sending them forward to draw fire and in turn slay some orcs.
That was followed by the last of the clanrats racing forward, only to realize something terrible:
They were the last skaven. Cannon-fire had gored them, and orcs had savaged them. Only perhaps a quarter of the force that had set out remained. They were doomed.
And so it was that the skaven raged like a cornered rat, fighting to live. The cannon barrage continued through the day and the night, the sun falling and the moon rising, and the battle continued as the Skaven and orcs killed and killed and killed; the snow was stained red and green from the sheer number of dead.
Finally, with a pathetic squeak, the last of the Skaven died. The orcs would have begun to celebrate but for the barrage of stone that rained down on them like the wrath of an angry god, punching holes in chest and ripping apart flesh like cheap paper.
With a savage cry, the orcs ran, two-and-a-half-thousand. The landsknecht readied themselves and with the a hearty yell met the Orc. They had only enough room for two motions, then — up and down — but that was enough as with those motions orcs were split of their brains or their pelvises were cut in twain.
The battle was fierce. Men fell in droves. It was only the lack of a Warboss to lead the Orcs that saved their lives, and even then there was death, smothering the battlefield. By the end, swords were dull and strings on bows were snapped, but the orcs were dead and the skaven were wiped of the earth from William's kingdom. And so it was that the Baron William turned his eyes further afield...
-Baron Tell's Biographer Charles, on the Battle of Skiros
Orcs and Skaven traded blows, as green light poured from the ratmen lines searing Greenskin flesh. For their part, the Orcs merrily raced unto doom, being wiped from this base earth but in turn slaying a dozen ratmen for each vile Orc that fell, never mind the countless number of Goblins and Gnoblars that ran underfoot.
Unknown to both Rat and Savage, a great mass of men, a thousand landsknecht swordsmen, half that number in Arbalesters, and a tenth that in small bronze cannons, long and thin. No cavalry marched with them, and no wizard lay in their lines. Indeed the only man not marching on his feet lay at the column's head, swaddled in cloaks.
His armor was leather, his helm a thin brimmed steel hat, and instead of sword or lance he bore a crossbow, larger than normal with wickedly barbed arrow. His face was dominated by a curling mustache and a grim look to his eyes, a weight over his shoulder. His banner was a Fleur Du Lys flanked by hammers. His name was William.
The plains were dusted with snow, the whole area a slick mess. The men's breath fogged as the army marched under grim grey skies, the sound of battle growing ever present as they moved on, the distant beat of drums the only break in grim nature.
After a week's march, the army of man finally stood where they wished to be. Thankful for a break from the monotony, each laid down their shield and planted it in the ground, forming a thick barrier from which the Arbalesters could fire, unassailable. To their fronts lay the clashing forces of Orc and Skaven, at least a thousand score in total. Dirt and logs gathered over the summer were laid down as well, to funnel both Rat and Orc to the landsknecht, who even now sharpened swords and smoked pipes, filling the air with warmth. To seal the deal, a pit was dug with only one land bridge to cross it, and was then filled with traps and stakes and fire pits.
Over a week of effort went to making these new fortifications. Finally, the last piece was set. Each culverin was laid in dirt and men set to fire them.
The time had come.
From William's great Arabyan charger he spoke. "Fellows. Soldiers. For too long, we have fought others' battles. For too long, we have been preyed upon by the orc and the rat. Constantly on the defensive, and at their mercy. It ends. Human land will be returned to human hands, and we will wage the war we wish to fight."
Their was a ragged cheer from the men, who put the tips of their swords to the dirt for the moment.
"Fire."
And with that simple command, the crude cannons belched fire and roared smoke, sending half-pound iron balls hurtling through the air before scything through the enemy ranks and splintering legs, shredding arms, and splitting heads. Both Orc and Skaven were too utterly focused on each other to notice the balls punching through their own troops. Those who did each regarded it as the work of the enemy.
"Again."
Another roar, another volley of death. More death, more blood. Now, finally, the Skaven gained an inkling of the foe attacking and planned their vengeance. Slaves were thrust into the hungry Orcish maw to keep the flank strong, thousands dying, as the landsknecht braced their swords and girded their loins. A detachment was formed from among the skaven, a new line formed, as another broke from the pack and turned towards the prince.
A great mass of Skaven, the Stormvermin, raced at the newly formed fortification, three-thousand in all. The Crossbowmen stood up, only their weapons and shining helmets seen over the thick wood or steel or stone.
The lines met. The bridge was only thick enough across for three Skaven, while the mouth of it was thick enough for six men to stand abreast. At the center of the line was William, who had dismounted at some point. The skaven, when they reached, were cut in twain lengthwise by the human soldiers, who moved efficiently, farmers cutting down wheat stalks. Though outnumbered twice over, the Skaven could not bring their numbers to bear. The swirling melee became a hell for the rat as from both North and West they were clenched between jaws; the orcs and men, each though filled with bitter hate for the other hating, more fully, the craven Ratmen.
William shed blood aplenty, bolts punching through chain and tearing apart hearts, severing veins and breezing through organs. Skaven bodies piled up, and there would be Man's undoing; for the Skaven, wicked and heartless, used the bodies of their fallen comrades to move over the pits, chattering verming swarming towards the wall, screeching in unholy voices their ecstasy in battle.
Seeing this, the mustachioed man roared out with a single command: "Fire!" Thus the Arbalesters finally spoke, the thick twang of their weapon's strings slamming home followed by a cacophonous screech that seemed as unto metal being driven down stone. Fully half the shots slammed home, and as they did the Skaven were driven back once more. Men fell, yes, but were quickly replaced on the line. The Skaven detachment was soon ground to dust and ash, as the Orcs and Skaven continued their battle.
So it was there was a lull in the fighting. The dead humans were counted, and a hundred were found to be lifeless, and so were laid in the center of the earthworks as the enemy, sure in the human's death continued their grim battle. The Skaven had been reduced by a half, the Orcs a quarter; both sure the humans were dead.
That delusion was shattered with a single word: "Bombardment."
And so it was that fire roared out again, and cannon spoke, and death struck. The Orcish line buckled as suddenly the right flank seemed to disappear; without a Warboss, they were ill-disciplined. Seizing the opportunity, the Skaven punched forward with the last of their slaves, sending them forward to draw fire and in turn slay some orcs.
That was followed by the last of the clanrats racing forward, only to realize something terrible:
They were the last skaven. Cannon-fire had gored them, and orcs had savaged them. Only perhaps a quarter of the force that had set out remained. They were doomed.
And so it was that the skaven raged like a cornered rat, fighting to live. The cannon barrage continued through the day and the night, the sun falling and the moon rising, and the battle continued as the Skaven and orcs killed and killed and killed; the snow was stained red and green from the sheer number of dead.
Finally, with a pathetic squeak, the last of the Skaven died. The orcs would have begun to celebrate but for the barrage of stone that rained down on them like the wrath of an angry god, punching holes in chest and ripping apart flesh like cheap paper.
With a savage cry, the orcs ran, two-and-a-half-thousand. The landsknecht readied themselves and with the a hearty yell met the Orc. They had only enough room for two motions, then — up and down — but that was enough as with those motions orcs were split of their brains or their pelvises were cut in twain.
The battle was fierce. Men fell in droves. It was only the lack of a Warboss to lead the Orcs that saved their lives, and even then there was death, smothering the battlefield. By the end, swords were dull and strings on bows were snapped, but the orcs were dead and the skaven were wiped of the earth from William's kingdom. And so it was that the Baron William turned his eyes further afield...
-Baron Tell's Biographer Charles, on the Battle of Skiros
Last edited:
- Location
- Wall Gazing
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Fixed, thank you.
BoSPaladin
The Paladin
It just me or is the survey is missing Bring my Barons before me?
barenhart
Gender-sensitive. Female. Trans.
- Location
- Seattle, WA (Alki)
What I parsed from that response is that Bring My Barons was not intended to be in the voting options listed in the turn post.
First Victim
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
First Victim
Explosions rip through the dark stone, green fire tearing apart the sky. Pip swore as his escort, Sir Gargery, readied his lance, while Pip grabbed his sword and shield. The sky spat lightning and rain came down in sheets as the adventurer drove his spurs into his horses side, the little mare racing forward towards where the mercenaries waited outside the small stone castle.
His steed leaped, made it over the trenches and landed on the other side. Immediately his sword sang its deep, hearty thrum, slicing through the thick leather armors of the Chaos fiends. Two, three, four men fell in quick succession, with split skulls and broken ribs and lopped off limbs.
There was the sound of the Earth shattering as the fort that had served as their temple was shattered by the greatly changed wings of a wyvern. With a roar like death, the beast raced up to the sky and spat poison.
So distracted were both Pip and his handler that the adventurer did not react as the pike punched through his horse's neck, sending it to the ground, dead. Immediately he was leaped on by the marauders, who beat at him with club and spear and knife. His armor repelled most of the attacks, but a new wound appeared every second: A cut that leaked above the eyes, blinding him; a bruise, large than his fist, on his arm; a deep slash through the leg. Each stung with unholy hurt, and leaked dreadful pus.
Roaring, Pip flung the whole of the crowd away and sliced at flesh that was parted just as surely as the cheap leathers and brittle chain. Men fell by fives and tens and twenties as with roaring rage the mercenary finally dealt with the cultists.
He roared in victory, and with no shame...
And then roared no more as the blood red wyvern landed behind him and swallowed him whole.
Explosions rip through the dark stone, green fire tearing apart the sky. Pip swore as his escort, Sir Gargery, readied his lance, while Pip grabbed his sword and shield. The sky spat lightning and rain came down in sheets as the adventurer drove his spurs into his horses side, the little mare racing forward towards where the mercenaries waited outside the small stone castle.
His steed leaped, made it over the trenches and landed on the other side. Immediately his sword sang its deep, hearty thrum, slicing through the thick leather armors of the Chaos fiends. Two, three, four men fell in quick succession, with split skulls and broken ribs and lopped off limbs.
There was the sound of the Earth shattering as the fort that had served as their temple was shattered by the greatly changed wings of a wyvern. With a roar like death, the beast raced up to the sky and spat poison.
So distracted were both Pip and his handler that the adventurer did not react as the pike punched through his horse's neck, sending it to the ground, dead. Immediately he was leaped on by the marauders, who beat at him with club and spear and knife. His armor repelled most of the attacks, but a new wound appeared every second: A cut that leaked above the eyes, blinding him; a bruise, large than his fist, on his arm; a deep slash through the leg. Each stung with unholy hurt, and leaked dreadful pus.
Roaring, Pip flung the whole of the crowd away and sliced at flesh that was parted just as surely as the cheap leathers and brittle chain. Men fell by fives and tens and twenties as with roaring rage the mercenary finally dealt with the cultists.
He roared in victory, and with no shame...
And then roared no more as the blood red wyvern landed behind him and swallowed him whole.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It wasn't supposed to be an option, mostly so you guys couldn't just spam it.
Give me a second and I'll get it out of the turn.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Vote is called, winners are:
Martial:
Logistics
Musicians
Diplomacy:
Tourney
Giseroux
Stewardship:
Herd
Piety:
Check It
Intrigue:
Info
Personal:
Tutoring
Check The Journals
---
Vote for Double Down will be called in six and a half hours.
Martial:
Logistics
Musicians
Diplomacy:
Tourney
Giseroux
Stewardship:
Herd
Piety:
Check It
Intrigue:
Info
Personal:
Tutoring
Check The Journals
---
Vote for Double Down will be called in six and a half hours.
[X] DD: Check It
- Location
- Virginia
[X] DD on Check It
Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X] DD on Check It
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
[x] DD on Check It
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] DD on Check It
- Location
- Germany
[X] DD: Check It
Strunkriidiisk
THE LEGEND
- Location
- Canada
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[x] DD on Check It
[X] DD: Check It
It's integral that the Castle not be corrupted, as a time-saving measure if nothing else.
It's integral that the Castle not be corrupted, as a time-saving measure if nothing else.