Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
Somehow I think it's going to be that simple. Or safe. It never is.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Purposeful. You've one duty, and while he may convince you to make a trade as opposed to having it verbally beaten from him, he will make that bargain and he will live up to it.
KnightDisciple
Brotherhood. Unity. Peace.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
[X] Intransigent. He will not bend you from your purpose. The red of your heraldry will be cleansed, and you will not allow him victory.
Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X] Purposeful. You've one duty, and while he may convince you to make a trade as opposed to having it verbally beaten from him, he will make that bargain and he will live up to it.
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
Gonna ask this again because I am a little confused here.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Oh hell, I missed this.
Morgyan is chained by her past and is trying to break some of those chains by paying a debt.
Also, general note to thread, coming up on Finals. Only have two, but still likely to throw me off my game. They're why I've been so sporadic. Sorry.
Had something for tonight typed up, but accidentally deleted it. So, you know, you can expect that tomorrow too, I guess.
The Tale Of Garagel And Cuidightheach
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Tale Of Garagel And Cuidightheach
Attend!
For here is the tale
Of Cuidightheach,
The Cunning-Chief.
The weather was darkest cold, the air frigid and witchery bountiful.
But unto that Island, Albion, Sanglo-Sword had built a beacon:
The hall Fyrhus.
That place was furnished with gold and gems, made of gold and oak,
And kings had met, made peace, in that hallowed ground.
Yet not all was good there, in that great place.
For Garagel, the bastard-born son of Khaine,
Walked that land, wicked deed following his every step. That Firmir friend slew sons and daughters
Senselessly, scarlet sweat staining the ground.
None could stand against the foe; dozens were consumed by Garagel's fiery maw. Ten-ten Thane fell,
And none could face him. Alfred Swordsharpner despaired.
Then his son, Cuidightheach, grandson of Algar, Great-Grandson of Acwellen, spoke in the flame-home, when all Thanes and all kings and all men drank,
Deep:
'Father-friend, Udela sister, Garagel grows. They speak of great throngs of men fallen to his gullet,
Good, decent men.'
Cuidightheach's father, the Great Chief, unsheathed his word sword:
'We grasp it, we know it, we live it. Glædwine, best of men, lies dead. He who slew the Dark Master
Lies, dead, upon the ground. Give me vengeance, Worst-Warrior, or silence.'
The Prince Cuidightheach spoke soft:
'Garagel will greet his master, this year. Its man-grinders I shall break, its hide I shall pierce. I swear so.'
The many thanes laughed at the Worst Warrior, the Cunning Chieftain.
'Who is he who knows not the battle-spear nor the war-thunder to speak of goring Gargarel?' They asked.
'His hide shall be home-blanket for the creature.'
The ring-crafter hissed in fury, before hiding it deep.
And so the ring-knower went out, and he prepared himself;
For though his battle-arm was weak, his anger ill-made,
In those lands he is most knowledgeable;
Not in the making of things,
That honor lies within the hallowed halls of Avalon;
Nor in the destruction of things,
For that one should seek Firmir;
But he knew enough to make great things, and was master of history.
So, with the travel-Thane Irana, the could-be chief set out. To Bjorn's barrow, he went,
Where the land drinks the sea.
When he reached the resting place, the Worst-Warrior put aside his cloak, took up his hand,
And spilled blood, smearing battle-sweat over the drake-head. The king's place recognized kin.
The red-gold bubbled and boiled before the head shut, and the door ground open.
Into that barrow walked that Cunning-Chief, whose will was iron-wrought, until in the treasure place he walked.
There, he found that gift most great to him: Éa, the blade of thanes, the king killer. Aegir's marks tanover it.
'This blade, made of iron,
Forged of ocean,
Shall take the red-tongues
and come the stronger.'
So Cuidightheach prepared for the great beast, Garagel.
Also, he took for himself the armor of Bjorn, the Far Ranger, who had come from so far. It was good and thick armor, a cuirass of iron scales.
There, too, was a helmet, a mask forged into the front, which bore Bjorn's story. The last of the spoils he took was a golden ring, a small thing, with the tongue of elves burnt into it.
All other treasures, he disdained.
Set to do darkest deed, the ringbearer set out to Fyrhus once more, on a prancing pony.
There, Evil's Night fell. The dark and terrible creatures of the night stirred. Witchery filled the air.
In the king-seat, Cuidightheach sat, war-claw extended.
As expected, the dark beast Garagel, lured from its home, walked among men. It sought life's blood.
To find it, that beast tore through its home marsh, and headed for that bejewled, golden place.
There, it burst down the doors. Cuidightheach and Irana sat, she at his side, mountain woman, travel-thane, beast foe.
Garagel undulated and slithered like a snake towards the pair, mouth dripping fire.
Its scaly hide hid its full enormity from the master of matters, green mossed, while its eyes burnt in the dark.
Its mouth was full of glossy daggers that reflected Morrislieb's malicious light. Mahogany blocked most rays of mutating light.
The two met eyes, and hate truer than any other flowed between them, a good man and wicked creature.
One would die, and one would live.
The Worst-Warrior flung himself from the King-Chair.
His armor beat the earth-flake, Irana racing with him.
Garagel thrust out, and she was air's lover-- 'til the wall she met.
The beast turned venomous gaze towards he,
Best of all men,
Cuidightheach.
The Prince ran,
But was fire's foe.
Garagel chuckled, foul laugh
That tainted soul.
His laughter, though, ceased,
As the Worst Warrior ran through the flames;
The tongues split by blessed blade.
The beast again roared, only to silenced as the battle-limb did its work and split flesh.
The blow was so mighty,
The fire so wrathful,
That Éa was shattered as it slid through flesh, leaving a great mark about the beast, a wound about its belly.
Cuidightheach, whose grip had been pen and paper, reached, and found purchase on the foul flesh of Garagel. His grip was a good man's word,
And the beast whose might was greater than a dozen-dozen men found that he could no more remove
The Prince than he could his own eye.
So the two remained.
For ten minutes too many, the beast and the Chief wrestled.
The beast flung itself about, ramming Cuidightheach into hard walls, tables, and heaven-holes.
For his part, The Sanglo refused to slacken grip or weaken hold;
His eyes were rats, running over the floor.
Finally, The Great Sanglo found that which he sought;
Reaching, he grasped true a broken bit
Of the sword, and aiming true,
Made mince of monster flesh.
A wound was made as Garagel groaned, his death breath.
The beast
Breathed
And loosed licking fire.
It flowed over Cuidightheach,
Sanglo Lord,
As water over the falls.
He marched, unstoppable,
Towards his hated foe. His cloak,
Soaked, was pointed straight, the foe;
The fire was smothered.
Finally, the Worst Warrior
Stood before the greatest monster,
Laced his fingers in the wound,
Grabbed with iron will,
And pulled.
Garagel's death rattles
Shook the Earth.
Gouges were carved in the dirt.
Fire scorched the hall.
And through it all,
Cuidightheach pulled.
Eventually, the wound,
The bleeding,
Took their toll.
Garagel died,
Cuidightheach lived,
His story passed to kin and kind alike.
And so a scholar became a soldier.
--
So is it obvious we just finished Beowulf in AP Lit?
Also, second question: Is it any good?
Attend!
For here is the tale
Of Cuidightheach,
The Cunning-Chief.
The weather was darkest cold, the air frigid and witchery bountiful.
But unto that Island, Albion, Sanglo-Sword had built a beacon:
The hall Fyrhus.
That place was furnished with gold and gems, made of gold and oak,
And kings had met, made peace, in that hallowed ground.
Yet not all was good there, in that great place.
For Garagel, the bastard-born son of Khaine,
Walked that land, wicked deed following his every step. That Firmir friend slew sons and daughters
Senselessly, scarlet sweat staining the ground.
None could stand against the foe; dozens were consumed by Garagel's fiery maw. Ten-ten Thane fell,
And none could face him. Alfred Swordsharpner despaired.
Then his son, Cuidightheach, grandson of Algar, Great-Grandson of Acwellen, spoke in the flame-home, when all Thanes and all kings and all men drank,
Deep:
'Father-friend, Udela sister, Garagel grows. They speak of great throngs of men fallen to his gullet,
Good, decent men.'
Cuidightheach's father, the Great Chief, unsheathed his word sword:
'We grasp it, we know it, we live it. Glædwine, best of men, lies dead. He who slew the Dark Master
Lies, dead, upon the ground. Give me vengeance, Worst-Warrior, or silence.'
The Prince Cuidightheach spoke soft:
'Garagel will greet his master, this year. Its man-grinders I shall break, its hide I shall pierce. I swear so.'
The many thanes laughed at the Worst Warrior, the Cunning Chieftain.
'Who is he who knows not the battle-spear nor the war-thunder to speak of goring Gargarel?' They asked.
'His hide shall be home-blanket for the creature.'
The ring-crafter hissed in fury, before hiding it deep.
And so the ring-knower went out, and he prepared himself;
For though his battle-arm was weak, his anger ill-made,
In those lands he is most knowledgeable;
Not in the making of things,
That honor lies within the hallowed halls of Avalon;
Nor in the destruction of things,
For that one should seek Firmir;
But he knew enough to make great things, and was master of history.
So, with the travel-Thane Irana, the could-be chief set out. To Bjorn's barrow, he went,
Where the land drinks the sea.
When he reached the resting place, the Worst-Warrior put aside his cloak, took up his hand,
And spilled blood, smearing battle-sweat over the drake-head. The king's place recognized kin.
The red-gold bubbled and boiled before the head shut, and the door ground open.
Into that barrow walked that Cunning-Chief, whose will was iron-wrought, until in the treasure place he walked.
There, he found that gift most great to him: Éa, the blade of thanes, the king killer. Aegir's marks tanover it.
'This blade, made of iron,
Forged of ocean,
Shall take the red-tongues
and come the stronger.'
So Cuidightheach prepared for the great beast, Garagel.
Also, he took for himself the armor of Bjorn, the Far Ranger, who had come from so far. It was good and thick armor, a cuirass of iron scales.
There, too, was a helmet, a mask forged into the front, which bore Bjorn's story. The last of the spoils he took was a golden ring, a small thing, with the tongue of elves burnt into it.
All other treasures, he disdained.
Set to do darkest deed, the ringbearer set out to Fyrhus once more, on a prancing pony.
There, Evil's Night fell. The dark and terrible creatures of the night stirred. Witchery filled the air.
In the king-seat, Cuidightheach sat, war-claw extended.
As expected, the dark beast Garagel, lured from its home, walked among men. It sought life's blood.
To find it, that beast tore through its home marsh, and headed for that bejewled, golden place.
There, it burst down the doors. Cuidightheach and Irana sat, she at his side, mountain woman, travel-thane, beast foe.
Garagel undulated and slithered like a snake towards the pair, mouth dripping fire.
Its scaly hide hid its full enormity from the master of matters, green mossed, while its eyes burnt in the dark.
Its mouth was full of glossy daggers that reflected Morrislieb's malicious light. Mahogany blocked most rays of mutating light.
The two met eyes, and hate truer than any other flowed between them, a good man and wicked creature.
One would die, and one would live.
The Worst-Warrior flung himself from the King-Chair.
His armor beat the earth-flake, Irana racing with him.
Garagel thrust out, and she was air's lover-- 'til the wall she met.
The beast turned venomous gaze towards he,
Best of all men,
Cuidightheach.
The Prince ran,
But was fire's foe.
Garagel chuckled, foul laugh
That tainted soul.
His laughter, though, ceased,
As the Worst Warrior ran through the flames;
The tongues split by blessed blade.
The beast again roared, only to silenced as the battle-limb did its work and split flesh.
The blow was so mighty,
The fire so wrathful,
That Éa was shattered as it slid through flesh, leaving a great mark about the beast, a wound about its belly.
Cuidightheach, whose grip had been pen and paper, reached, and found purchase on the foul flesh of Garagel. His grip was a good man's word,
And the beast whose might was greater than a dozen-dozen men found that he could no more remove
The Prince than he could his own eye.
So the two remained.
For ten minutes too many, the beast and the Chief wrestled.
The beast flung itself about, ramming Cuidightheach into hard walls, tables, and heaven-holes.
For his part, The Sanglo refused to slacken grip or weaken hold;
His eyes were rats, running over the floor.
Finally, The Great Sanglo found that which he sought;
Reaching, he grasped true a broken bit
Of the sword, and aiming true,
Made mince of monster flesh.
A wound was made as Garagel groaned, his death breath.
The beast
Breathed
And loosed licking fire.
It flowed over Cuidightheach,
Sanglo Lord,
As water over the falls.
He marched, unstoppable,
Towards his hated foe. His cloak,
Soaked, was pointed straight, the foe;
The fire was smothered.
Finally, the Worst Warrior
Stood before the greatest monster,
Laced his fingers in the wound,
Grabbed with iron will,
And pulled.
Garagel's death rattles
Shook the Earth.
Gouges were carved in the dirt.
Fire scorched the hall.
And through it all,
Cuidightheach pulled.
Eventually, the wound,
The bleeding,
Took their toll.
Garagel died,
Cuidightheach lived,
His story passed to kin and kind alike.
And so a scholar became a soldier.
--
So is it obvious we just finished Beowulf in AP Lit?
Also, second question: Is it any good?
Khepri14
Thus kindly I scatter...
- Location
- Following the wind
Yes.
Pretty good if I understood it right...
A Deal To Make
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A Deal To Make
Your will becomes stone, your heart iron. And on that iron, the venomous blade of terror can find no purchase and strike no wound. It slides off, as Apollyon, darkest of lords, seems to recognize you. 'Darkest child. Why hath thou wrought such witchery, brought me here?'
"I would live up to my oath, hell-wrought creature. I would the manacles of shadow broken from my wrist. I would see the bridle of tyranny cast from my back." Behind you, you hear the sounds of steel striking the Earth as Philip races towards the river, sword drawn and gleaming in the moon's glory. There's the sound of dirt being ripped asunder as Alkavan, the Whispering Willow, draws to unholy life. Its vile venom already spits forth, as roots split the soil and drag your husband back to the fight.
His sword sings its death-song, cutting deep into the wood and leaving thick sap running down from mighty blows. Good; he ought not hear the words that shall be said between this heartless foe and yourself.
'My aid is not so easily taken, mortal. Mere wicked word will not ruin thy will. You Owe me, and the Queen who rules me. That shall not be forgotten.'
"You will let me go, Fae-father. No more shall my knife sing your praises, no more shall the shadows sate themselves on the foes I fight. No longer. I am not your servant. I am not your slaughterer, any longer. Your mark must fade."
The unholy whispers that follow the foul creature intensify, the black tongue of the court of Ulgu. Shadow and mist curls up from the black cloak, unholy vapor. 'You...you are my Queen's favored. I can no more let you free than I could let free all the black shadows. It would bring ruination to us both. No.'
"You stubborn spirit, you foul fae!" Behind you, you hear Apollyon's second breathe its deep as the bright blade Philip wields slakes its war-thirst in the fiery venom that courses through Alkavan's withered form, makes its mark. Should the beast lose, he will need to be reformed. Leverage. "Let me free, or I swear the form of Alkavan the fae will be denied to you when that good knight claims victory, and so, too, your second shall be set free!"
'If.'
The sounds of battle behind intensify, though not for the better. There is the sound of breaking steel as the Lord's armor is breached by a branch, punching out through his shoulder. He curses, before snapping the branch off. He will feel that, later.
"Philip will win. And when he does, you will be bereft a second unless you listen to me, unholy creature of the dark!"
'For centuries that spirit-man has fought by my side in battle. Your servant can no more slay him than gnat crush a giant.'
"For the Kingdom, for my Duchess! For victory!" Philip whips his sword twice, and it slices through the bark like a torch through ice. The broken form of the Tree-Man falls to the Earth, life bleeds from it as the good man falls to his knees, spitting up blood. You will tend his wounds, later, cleanse the rot that undoubtedly burns within already.
The gem that was buried within, the black pearl, pushes its way to the surface, glides out with unholy creak as the form he had borne for seventy years dies, rot that should have taken root over a lifetime making the tree fall to pieces in moments. Showing unexpected, though not unwanted, cunning, his steel-fist clenches round the pearl, grip strong over the soul-chalice. He looks, with deadly intensity, to the Shadow-Spirit.
'Let him be, forest defiler! Let him be, or I shall slay you with all the wrath you have earned.'
"No you won't." Your own voice is black ice as you look Philip, and then Apollyon, straight in the eye. "Because if you do, the last action he will take will be to clench his fist, and then that gem you seek so highly shall be shattered to dust, and the soul slave you believe your second will be free to return to his gods."
'A deal, then, wicked witch and knave knight. The red blood on your heraldry, destroyed, shadow manacles of your soul faded, or the black bridle on your flesh cleansed in wholesome waters. In return, the stone.'
"After you play your part, prince of shadows. After, and only after." For so long, he and his queen have haunted your mind. For so long, what they connived to make you do, what they took from you, has haunted you. It's intoxicating, like the best drink you've ever had, to see him so.
Best make the deal now, before foolish pride ruins everything once more.
[] "Pearl for freedom. No longer will Titania use those shadow manacles to bind my hand."
[] "Remove the red, prince of hate. My spirit is my Lady's, not that thing's.
[] "Break the bridle. Her voice will no longer command me, and her will will no longer dominate."
---
So that happened. Fortune favors fools, indeed.
Your will becomes stone, your heart iron. And on that iron, the venomous blade of terror can find no purchase and strike no wound. It slides off, as Apollyon, darkest of lords, seems to recognize you. 'Darkest child. Why hath thou wrought such witchery, brought me here?'
"I would live up to my oath, hell-wrought creature. I would the manacles of shadow broken from my wrist. I would see the bridle of tyranny cast from my back." Behind you, you hear the sounds of steel striking the Earth as Philip races towards the river, sword drawn and gleaming in the moon's glory. There's the sound of dirt being ripped asunder as Alkavan, the Whispering Willow, draws to unholy life. Its vile venom already spits forth, as roots split the soil and drag your husband back to the fight.
His sword sings its death-song, cutting deep into the wood and leaving thick sap running down from mighty blows. Good; he ought not hear the words that shall be said between this heartless foe and yourself.
'My aid is not so easily taken, mortal. Mere wicked word will not ruin thy will. You Owe me, and the Queen who rules me. That shall not be forgotten.'
"You will let me go, Fae-father. No more shall my knife sing your praises, no more shall the shadows sate themselves on the foes I fight. No longer. I am not your servant. I am not your slaughterer, any longer. Your mark must fade."
The unholy whispers that follow the foul creature intensify, the black tongue of the court of Ulgu. Shadow and mist curls up from the black cloak, unholy vapor. 'You...you are my Queen's favored. I can no more let you free than I could let free all the black shadows. It would bring ruination to us both. No.'
"You stubborn spirit, you foul fae!" Behind you, you hear Apollyon's second breathe its deep as the bright blade Philip wields slakes its war-thirst in the fiery venom that courses through Alkavan's withered form, makes its mark. Should the beast lose, he will need to be reformed. Leverage. "Let me free, or I swear the form of Alkavan the fae will be denied to you when that good knight claims victory, and so, too, your second shall be set free!"
'If.'
The sounds of battle behind intensify, though not for the better. There is the sound of breaking steel as the Lord's armor is breached by a branch, punching out through his shoulder. He curses, before snapping the branch off. He will feel that, later.
"Philip will win. And when he does, you will be bereft a second unless you listen to me, unholy creature of the dark!"
'For centuries that spirit-man has fought by my side in battle. Your servant can no more slay him than gnat crush a giant.'
"For the Kingdom, for my Duchess! For victory!" Philip whips his sword twice, and it slices through the bark like a torch through ice. The broken form of the Tree-Man falls to the Earth, life bleeds from it as the good man falls to his knees, spitting up blood. You will tend his wounds, later, cleanse the rot that undoubtedly burns within already.
The gem that was buried within, the black pearl, pushes its way to the surface, glides out with unholy creak as the form he had borne for seventy years dies, rot that should have taken root over a lifetime making the tree fall to pieces in moments. Showing unexpected, though not unwanted, cunning, his steel-fist clenches round the pearl, grip strong over the soul-chalice. He looks, with deadly intensity, to the Shadow-Spirit.
'Let him be, forest defiler! Let him be, or I shall slay you with all the wrath you have earned.'
"No you won't." Your own voice is black ice as you look Philip, and then Apollyon, straight in the eye. "Because if you do, the last action he will take will be to clench his fist, and then that gem you seek so highly shall be shattered to dust, and the soul slave you believe your second will be free to return to his gods."
'A deal, then, wicked witch and knave knight. The red blood on your heraldry, destroyed, shadow manacles of your soul faded, or the black bridle on your flesh cleansed in wholesome waters. In return, the stone.'
"After you play your part, prince of shadows. After, and only after." For so long, he and his queen have haunted your mind. For so long, what they connived to make you do, what they took from you, has haunted you. It's intoxicating, like the best drink you've ever had, to see him so.
Best make the deal now, before foolish pride ruins everything once more.
[] "Pearl for freedom. No longer will Titania use those shadow manacles to bind my hand."
[] "Remove the red, prince of hate. My spirit is my Lady's, not that thing's.
[] "Break the bridle. Her voice will no longer command me, and her will will no longer dominate."
---
So that happened. Fortune favors fools, indeed.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Remove the red, prince of hate. My spirit is my Lady's, not that thing's.
- Location
- the Netherworld Dood
[X] "Remove the red, prince of hate. My spirit is my Lady's, not that thing's.
- Location
- Someplace USA
[X] "Remove the red, prince of hate. My spirit is my Lady's, not that thing's.
