Warhammer Fantasy: Honor is all, Chivalry is all (Bretonnia CK2)
- Thread starter Voikirium
- Start date
Turn 7 Results
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Turn 7
1430
You are going to have yet more children soon enough. Even now, your wife goes through the old familiar places: the same old cravings (Strawberry jam and steak? Really?), the same old mood swings (Oh, subtle but there— while she controls it well, by the twitch of her lip you could tell she wanted to bite Sir Alan's throat out when he quite simply brought up the new blue symbols on her flesh), and the same nocturnal wanderings.
That's good because everything else is different. For starters, there is the matter of the blue markings running up and down body, in a thousand-thousand symbols and lines; the most common is a triangle formed of triangles. Her eyes have also gone the greenest you've ever seen, truly a match for the emerald she bears around her neck. Most surprising is how little reaction there is to these new features— the only one to notice anything is different, or at least to bring it up, is Sir Alan.
All together strange. Uncanny, even.
You trust Morgyan with your life, but answers would be nice.
Also complicating manners, warriors from the Orgen have started arriving at Montfort proper, especially the cities and blacksmiths. (+15 Gold) While so far there has been little, if any tension— it's hard to hate people who are giving you money— eventually things are going to get fucky.
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. His perfectly suited to advise you in matters of war. "For years we sought a lord, Bretonnian or otherwise, but none deserved our service for long. You, though, little lord… Well, let us just say that, so long as the beautiful women and great adventures never stop flowing, I shall be in paradise."
Logistics: It's a fact of war— men need to eat, need to drink, to sleep, and they need to...erm, relieve themselves. Long and brutal experience has taught that that will do far more damage to your men than battle itself— foraging is risky business even in Imperial territory, never mind if you strike at the Orcs or the Dark Elves. While you cannot deal with the last few needs too quickly, it shouldn't be too hard to come up with some sort of method of having food, water and weapons ready for the trail... maybe in the form of some sort of wagon? Not the piddly little things you usually deal with, no, but big ones? Still… that is a lot of food for what is a fairly rare problem, all told.
Needed:10 Rolled:87
- Finally, you have your war wagons. A beast, containing provisions enough for a hundred men for half a year, along with ammo, weapons, and water skins. The design is fairly simple, with six wheels on the bottom; donkeys pull the thing about, tirelessly moving it with the men.
While foraging and resupplies are still likely to be necessary, having the wagons around should prove very helpful; especially considering that you will soon enough be marching on the Orcal, where leaving the group to go foraging is unlikely to go well.
Reward: War Wagons (Supply Chain more resilient), +5 to Campaign Rolls, Can go longer without resupply
Strike The Banners: You will be sending the Knights Unbound, Knights Errant, and Household Knights up to do battle with the Orcs and save the Massif and surrounding area from destruction; at this point, there is no doubt. However, the Men-At-Arms, the bowmen, the yeomanry; they will not be so quick to send. Letters will have to be sent, orders drawn up, the clarion sounded. You will have to devote actual effort for that part of the invasion.
-The call is sounded, the clarion roars. Throughout the fiefs of Montfort, Men At Arms and Bowmen and a thousand other warriors, from the grand to the slight, the petty and the good, the evil and the righteous alike marching towards the mouth of hell. The sound of leather boots cracking the dirt, of trees falling as a path is made, of hooves on the dirt as knights leave, too, fills the air.
Your personal levies, and a third of your barons' levies, march to the mountains, men on a mission. They will cleanse the Orcal of the Greenskins that sully it, the monsters that hide in it, and the evil that poisons it. And in their place, your men will sew harmony and goodness, fitting for servants of the Lady.
Also arriving are a few hundred auxiliaries from Bastonne, who arrived with the vacationing knights.
Reward: Personal Levies and levies of two Barons (One shifting out every year) deployed to Massif Orcal, few hundred Bastonnian levies
Diplomacy: The Bard Jaune is part of your retinue. Pale faced, clad in a fool's costume, and wielding both lyre and sword, he sings your praises to all that would hear them. That said, there's a steel trap beneath that gaudy purple and gold of his. You just have to let him use it. Certainly, he is wiser than his trappings would suggest.
Quenelles: A land of Fae and Greenskin and war. Quenelles has been rocked in ways few other peoples have been by the Orcs; indeed, there are entire festivals dedicated to burning a greenskin, either in effigy or in uncommon cases, a flesh and blood creature (It is, perhaps, for this reason that of all Duchies Quenelles is the closest to the Dwarfs); also of note are the inhumanly beautiful Fae that infest the lands. Perhaps the most famous feature is the Grave of Cuileux, where the doomed nobles of that land made their final stand— it is holy ground, where only fools would walk unnecessarily (naturally several parties of scholars from the Empire and Tilea have trespassed those grounds). Surely there is some trade they need, some desire they wish satiated?
Needed:15 Rolled:10
-Damnable Orcs assault the envoy you sent, slaying the whole lot. Duke Galahad sends back their remains for a proper funeral, and in his letter rants strongly against the damnable Orcs, in the kind of language acceptable only when speaking of them.
It gives you an idea.
-Failure-
Gifting the Egres: Castle Egres is the barrier between the Massif and Montfort proper. Whomever controls it will likely become wealthy on the trade between the Orgen and Montfort, and certainly will have political power. Many will surmise that you favor whoever receives the castle, and who it goes to will have an impact. Originally you had planned to simply give it to Lancelot, for the good of the kingdom and for himself, but events in the taking of it have led you to remember his own checkered past: while you, to be frank, don't give a damn, others may well; and as the events of years earlier showed, there are people who would strip the duchy from you.
Perhaps a different candidate will help soothe that tension? At the least, even if you do end up choosing Lancelot, it is very different to be seen looking through several candidates and choosing the best— even if he is your friend— then in simply giving it to him; it reeks of blanket.
Hell, perhaps you could use the gifting of the castle to intentionally make a political statement?
Rolled:2 (No "Special" Applicants)
-Applications are sent from around the Kingdom, second sons of barons and dukes, cousins of the king and men of your own land. One should be suitable for your purposes.
Reward: Castle Egres gifted
Stewardship: Kylian and his poison tongue do not return. Instead, Sir Yvain, who has long acted as the steward for the Knights Unbound, has presented several ideas to you, the blond taking time to settle into his position over the year. As you suspected, Yvain has settled into his position nicely, and has presented many ideas to you.
Proper Facilities: You've captured a few wolf pups already in your mission to deny them to the greenskins. So far, various knights have taken care of them, but soon enough you will need proper kennels and facilities to keep these creatures, instead of just having them put down. You were thinking near Montfort itself, positionally.
- As it turns out, it's not that hard to tame the wolves; given the mad abuse placed on them by the Goblins, just not being cruel is for the most part enough. An area of roughly one acre is fenced off for each wolf pup, and meat and fish is provided daily, along with water. You wrestle and roughhouse with them, when you get the opportunity; occasionally the older ones snap at you, but your flesh is strong, and their teeth not yet needles. You can deal.
Reward: Proper facilities created for wolf pups
The Blacksmith's Guild: An unfortunate accident has seen the blacksmith's guild of Bretonnia homeless: an orcish invasion ransacked and burnt the dual hall and smithy to the ground after looting the fine weapons located inside. While currently it seems likely they will retain a location in their ancestral home of Parravon, you could make a very attractive offer to them: Build them a headquarters for free on their part. This will allow you to influence the decisions guild makes very loosely; even if denied, that still puts the finest blades in Bretonnia within your Duchy, which ought do well for your coffers. Entire orders are likely to be put in.
- Four-hundred gold is set aside to build a very nice hall for the blacksmiths. Two stories tall, it is held together by oaken timber; its roof is cherry wood, imported from the New World and very, very expensive. Branching off the main square building, forge rooms are built with proper ventilation, and are much cooler than they would be held in the dark; their floors are made of cobblestone, and the walls are of brick lain atop the wood of the hall proper.
Within the grand hall itself, wine and mead alike flows freely, served by friendly locals. Also available are fine meats and cheeses, along with honeyed bread. Ten tables, each capable of seating fifteen, mean there is ample space for any smith and guests alike. The hall is decorated by the trophies of past hunts, and mementoes of former wonders worked by the guild: broken blades, human and orcish alike; suits of armor crafted centuries ago; and in a place of honor at the very front, your father's armor, polished and well crafted, along with his jeweled blade, all of which were crafted by the guild decades ago.
The top floor is a storage room. Within, chunks of metals and other materials are categorized, labeled, and stored until some blacksmith has need of them: iron, tin, bronze...even wyvern scale. The most important material is a sliver of starmetal from your grandfather's time, which had been gathering dust within the castle armory. Only two bars could be made from it.
And at the bottom lies an armory, where the works of ages past can be placed on wood racks until they are needed.
Naturally, the blacksmith guild's leader- a man named Joseph- accepts the gift and offer alike. Already, gold has begun to flow into your treasury as travelers come to purchase items from the single greatest quantity of quality weapons within Bretonnia. Expensive, but worth it.
Reward: 175 Gold, +25 Prestige, Blacksmith guild settle in Montfort
Piety: Sir Aldric is a Grail Knight, a hero, and a mentor. His wisdom, his guidance, has saved a thousand-thousand souls from damnation; his heroism, entire regions. Beastmen fear him, greenskin hate him, and Dark Elves want him (dead). He's been from the icy cold reaches of Norsca itself to the blazing sands of Araby and come back stronger for it; his entire body is a patchwork canvass of broken scars and healed over wounds. There is not a piece of him that has not been bled on, not a part of him that has not been injured. In short, he's been around the block.
Daughter's Wisdom: The Daughters of Rhya are a small sect of the Cult of Rhya, comprised solely of women who have given birth. Their duties are two-fold. First, they act as midwives, healers, and counsellors for mothers and the pregnant. They also advise young women in matters relating to their marriage itself— how to deal with abusive or difficult husbands, for instance. Sir Aldric's own wife was a member of the cult, once, and as such he has nothing but praise for them and their work, and has suggested making overtures of allowing them to settle in Montfort to help young women.
Needed:20 Rolled:9
- Your attention is drawn to the Orcal, and as such you forget to actually extend invitations to the Daughters.
-Failure-
Daughter's Wisdom: The Daughters of Rhya are a small sect of the Cult of Rhya, comprised solely of women who have given birth. Their duties are two-fold. First, they act as midwives, healers, and counsellors for mothers and the pregnant. They also advise young women in matters relating to their marriage itself— how to deal with abusive or difficult husbands, for instance. Sir Aldric's own wife was a member of the cult, once, and as such he has nothing but praise for them and their work, and has suggested making overtures of allowing them to settle in Montfort to help young women.
-The ovens are good, proper Bretonnian work.
Unfortunately, they are good, proper Bretonnian work on the other side of the Kingdom, so as you may well have guessed, moving them will take awhile, especially considering the deplorable state of roads within most of the Kingdom. (You really should remember to send the dwarves that wine as a thank you gift at some point)
Learning: Nimue is your tutor and knows damn near everything, from the tale of Calard to the rolling victories of Roland to Bertrand the Brigand, who reminded nobles of their duties and of their places. Drawing from those old tales, those ancient legends, will bring you strength.
Ancient Remains: When the Empire was yet young, the Bretonni not yet turned to the worship of the Lady, and the Orc not yet broken in the Kingdom, there were excursions into what is now the Wastelands by disaffected youths looking for prosperity. Many a minor treasure was crafted and lost in those dark days, quite a few from the ancestors of Montfort. Perhaps you should check and see?
Needed:25 Rolled: 83+5=88
-You make great progress locating the sword— a map has been found, pointing the way to the "Veur Gwerenner", the Great Glasscutter. The good news is, the map is actually fairly clear about where the blade is. The bad news is, it's located within a Skaven Den; altogether a small one, but a force must still be put together to assault the den and take the blade by force.
The Mighty Horn: In the year 471, in the first years of the Crusades, an Army of Bretonnians led by Duke Charles of Montfort led an attack into Estalia, where they sacked the city Pompalono, and killed many of the Sultan's warriors. However, Duke Charles was forced by circumstances— the birth of his son— to return home. As he and his army headed back, they were assailed by Estalian forces, mercenaries hired by the Jaffar. Many good Bretonnians died that day, but more would have were it not for the valor of Huon, who fought to the last and saved many lives in his guarding of the rear.
His horn, mighty and golden, was said to blow enemies from their feet, to sound with the roar of thunder and fire, to beat like the hooves of steeds upon the plains, to crack armor with its peels. While the retelling has likely inflated its power, the fact remains that it was mighty. You'd like it back.
Needed:20 Rolled: 48+5=53
-The Horn has spent centuries within the private archive of an Estalian family. They have recently fallen on difficult times, and thus are quite willing to sell the horn to you, especially for the price you are willing to offer.
The horn itself is made of bronze and ivory, shaped like a unicorn's horn. Delicate arches and whorls shaved into it are, according to Nimue, ancient proclamations of doom and request of the Lady for victory, ancient symbols of Bretonnian languages burnt into them. It's funny, they almost remind you of Dwarven runes, though softer, and as far as you can tell, ineffectual.
Still, the horn does have a mighty sound: the first time you tested it after a thorough cleaning, it could be heard throughout Montfort. Funnily enough, it didn't seem that loud from where you were; must simply have been carried on the wind.
Reward: Horn of Huon, +5 To coordination rolls, +20 Prestige, ???
Intrigue: Ezekiel, Geoffroi, and Morgyan have formed a bond, of sorts— Geoffroi is not particularly subtle, but does know well how to throw a well trained plot off course; while Ezekiel, though not paranoid, is quite capable of gathering information for you; while Morgyan is a wise woman, helping put it all together and stopping the madness before it can start. That said, the hole in your arm is reducing your already minuscule urge to sneak to almost nonexistent levels.
Wolf-Watching: Goblins ride wolves, the vicious little green bastards. Find their packs, kill the old...and maybe steal the pups? Simply because a creature was enslaved by evil does not mean it must, in turn, be evil. Otherwise many a peasant would be wicked, and that simply isn't true.
Needed:25 Rolled:83
-Special orders are given to the Villein and Yeomanry to hunt for and find wolf dens, and to bring back pups. You accompany one of these hunts, and something amazing happens.
You wrestle the alpha.
You and the party were riding ahead of the column, a band of villein. The forest in the area was dense, and the shadows were long thick. Everywhere around you, there were the sounds of rustling branches, and snapping twigs.
Despite this, the mood was cheerful as Armel, one of the yeomen, played his flute, soft, lilting tunes that rang through the forest. The party spoke, eyes peeled for trouble.
Suddenly from the tree branches above you, a wolf sprang out, barking and howling and mad, lunging at you. Your sword was undrawn, your blade still with the horse.
You moved yourself fast enough to catch the beast's jaws on your bracer, jaws slamming shut like a vice on your arm. Your injuries howled in protest, but you ignored it to strike the wolf in the head twice, open strikes with the palm. It let go, falling to the ground, but then struck at your steed, ramming into it. Your horse fell, and you with it.
To the ground you went, and on instinct you braced yourself on your knees. It's the only thing that saved your life, as you managed to grab hold of the wolf and bring it to the ground, the not insubstantial weight of you and your gear pinning it to the ground. It clawed and struck at you, but could find no purchase on the steel of your armor, and soon enough it grew tired.
Finally, the thing managed to worm its way out, and ran off, having decided that you would make a terrible meal.
Afterwards, your men reported that the wolves were far more willing to submit to them. Strange…
Reward:Wolf pairs found, +50 Prestige, ???
Orc Fortress: The orcs have a multitude of camps, dens, and places of power within the Massif Orcal, where their will is law and their power undeniable. Undeniable, at least, to the people of the mountain, who lack your advanced technologies and the map your father made of the orcish stronghold in the mountains.
Your plan is simple: The Orgen will lead parties of the Bastonnian tourists and Villien to burn Orcish strongholds to the ground when they are weak.
Needed:40 Rolled:77+20=97
- Your father kept records obsessively, even, some (Carole) would say, anal retentively. Not a scrap of parchment that could be useful was thrown away, nor lists, and nor, it seems, maps. For in his journals your father kept a map not just of the Orc fortresses and their relation to the Masif, but detailed maps of the fortresses themselves.
You use that very well. The dens of monsters near the orcs are disturbed and the enraged beasts pointed at the enemy; attacks in the middle of the night strike them as they are most disorganized; your wife, after she gives birth, sneaks in many a times opens the gates, allowing a charge of Bretonnian Knights to come in and put the whole wretched pit to the sword; or sneak in beer and other, less mundane, accelerants and has your soldiers simply burn the filthy mud hovels to the ground with torches and burning arrows.
All in all, good work for so little effort.
Reward: Orc Fortress burnt, Bonus to Orcal Campaign
Personal: Morgyan is...lighter. Happier. She's been more honest with you than she has with anyone for a very long time. It seems you cannot look upon her without seeing a smile, not see her face, gorgeous in the moonlight, lit with happiness. There is no greater feeling.
Check The Journals: It seems your father had plans for you. He wished you to be the Orcal Breaker, the Massif Master, and as such he prepared plans such that you can conceive of to do it. The last journal talked of the men of the Massif— Who could he speak of now?
-The last two journal spoke of the intelligent (for a given value of the term) foes one might face in the Orcal. This one, though, speaks of the mindless, but perhaps greatest, foe one might face in the Masif Orcal: Monsters.
Hydras, giant wolves, griffons: if it exists in the mountains, your father has listed it, its habitat, and its behavior, its weakness and strengths. Sketches, detailed diagrams of the monsters.
However, the beast he most feared he never did get to see closely:
Hippogryphs. Solitary, angry, vicious, loyal, fierce, proud, these creatures predominately live within the Grey Mountains. However, your father saw in the Orcal signs— mating marks, territorial marks, and cries through the night— that suggest that at least a few of the beasts live within the Orcal, too.
If, as I suspect, his letter reads, the mountains are home to Hippogryphs, then be wary, for they are not so noble as the Pegasi. Their temperament is the temperament of a born hunter, their rage the pure rage of the greatest killers, their hunger the hunger of a lord. They will little accept your impositions upon their territory, never mind what they may do if you should unwittingly stumble upon their dens.
Be cautious of the beasts, for they will bring pain if ignored.
Love in Death,
Abraham Folcard
P.S. In case you can't tell, the sketched out circles in the maps I included are dens of the lesser beasts. Use that how you will.
Reward: Warned of Hippogryphs, knowledge of beast dens, finished first three journals (+1 Learning)
What The Hell?: Okay, so, uh, your wife is painted with blue symbols, her eyes have an actual green glow now, and for some reason nobody else seems to have deigned to notice. What. You've got questions. That said, you will have to ask...tactfully. Best remember that.
Needed:??? Rolled:66+15=81
- Your strategy is very simple: you corner Morgyan in her study, and ask her point blank "What is going on?"
"Pardon?"
"With the blue paint, and the eyes that are glowing brighter than ever, and the fact that no-one else seems to have noticed?"
She straightens up, before sighing. She puts the stopper in the inkwell and places her quill to side, turning her attention from her parchment. "Yes...yes, I suppose I should tell you, shouldn't I?"
"I can scarcely be your conscience if you will not tell me what's happening."
"True enough. Very well: mere weeks after the battle against Apollyon, I was...contacted by someone, an old friend: Merlin, the Autumn King. Fae, yes, but before you stoke your wrath, he is very, very different from Titania; he has never tormented a man to death for the joy of it, or chained fellow fae into his service, or spread misery. Indeed, he has even been a friend to humans.
He offered a very simple deal: in return for my bearing a child willing to protect the forest, one devoted to it, he would arrest the efforts of Titania. And so I accepted the deal, the blue instantly marking me, as did my eyes. As for why none except Alan noticed, I cannot be sure, but at a guess I would say it is a defense laid down by Merlin himself to protect those who have taken his deal, so that Titania could not slay them."
——
Alright. So. More Fae.
Just what you wanted.
Reward:Knowledge, truth, etc.
-
I will get your newest child's birth up today, along with the first Campaign Post (Shouldn't be many, three at most). Castle Egres decision and Old World news will probably be up tomorrow.
1430
You are going to have yet more children soon enough. Even now, your wife goes through the old familiar places: the same old cravings (Strawberry jam and steak? Really?), the same old mood swings (Oh, subtle but there— while she controls it well, by the twitch of her lip you could tell she wanted to bite Sir Alan's throat out when he quite simply brought up the new blue symbols on her flesh), and the same nocturnal wanderings.
That's good because everything else is different. For starters, there is the matter of the blue markings running up and down body, in a thousand-thousand symbols and lines; the most common is a triangle formed of triangles. Her eyes have also gone the greenest you've ever seen, truly a match for the emerald she bears around her neck. Most surprising is how little reaction there is to these new features— the only one to notice anything is different, or at least to bring it up, is Sir Alan.
All together strange. Uncanny, even.
You trust Morgyan with your life, but answers would be nice.
Also complicating manners, warriors from the Orgen have started arriving at Montfort proper, especially the cities and blacksmiths. (+15 Gold) While so far there has been little, if any tension— it's hard to hate people who are giving you money— eventually things are going to get fucky.
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. His perfectly suited to advise you in matters of war. "For years we sought a lord, Bretonnian or otherwise, but none deserved our service for long. You, though, little lord… Well, let us just say that, so long as the beautiful women and great adventures never stop flowing, I shall be in paradise."
Logistics: It's a fact of war— men need to eat, need to drink, to sleep, and they need to...erm, relieve themselves. Long and brutal experience has taught that that will do far more damage to your men than battle itself— foraging is risky business even in Imperial territory, never mind if you strike at the Orcs or the Dark Elves. While you cannot deal with the last few needs too quickly, it shouldn't be too hard to come up with some sort of method of having food, water and weapons ready for the trail... maybe in the form of some sort of wagon? Not the piddly little things you usually deal with, no, but big ones? Still… that is a lot of food for what is a fairly rare problem, all told.
Needed:10 Rolled:87
- Finally, you have your war wagons. A beast, containing provisions enough for a hundred men for half a year, along with ammo, weapons, and water skins. The design is fairly simple, with six wheels on the bottom; donkeys pull the thing about, tirelessly moving it with the men.
While foraging and resupplies are still likely to be necessary, having the wagons around should prove very helpful; especially considering that you will soon enough be marching on the Orcal, where leaving the group to go foraging is unlikely to go well.
Reward: War Wagons (Supply Chain more resilient), +5 to Campaign Rolls, Can go longer without resupply
Strike The Banners: You will be sending the Knights Unbound, Knights Errant, and Household Knights up to do battle with the Orcs and save the Massif and surrounding area from destruction; at this point, there is no doubt. However, the Men-At-Arms, the bowmen, the yeomanry; they will not be so quick to send. Letters will have to be sent, orders drawn up, the clarion sounded. You will have to devote actual effort for that part of the invasion.
-The call is sounded, the clarion roars. Throughout the fiefs of Montfort, Men At Arms and Bowmen and a thousand other warriors, from the grand to the slight, the petty and the good, the evil and the righteous alike marching towards the mouth of hell. The sound of leather boots cracking the dirt, of trees falling as a path is made, of hooves on the dirt as knights leave, too, fills the air.
Your personal levies, and a third of your barons' levies, march to the mountains, men on a mission. They will cleanse the Orcal of the Greenskins that sully it, the monsters that hide in it, and the evil that poisons it. And in their place, your men will sew harmony and goodness, fitting for servants of the Lady.
Also arriving are a few hundred auxiliaries from Bastonne, who arrived with the vacationing knights.
Reward: Personal Levies and levies of two Barons (One shifting out every year) deployed to Massif Orcal, few hundred Bastonnian levies
Diplomacy: The Bard Jaune is part of your retinue. Pale faced, clad in a fool's costume, and wielding both lyre and sword, he sings your praises to all that would hear them. That said, there's a steel trap beneath that gaudy purple and gold of his. You just have to let him use it. Certainly, he is wiser than his trappings would suggest.
Quenelles: A land of Fae and Greenskin and war. Quenelles has been rocked in ways few other peoples have been by the Orcs; indeed, there are entire festivals dedicated to burning a greenskin, either in effigy or in uncommon cases, a flesh and blood creature (It is, perhaps, for this reason that of all Duchies Quenelles is the closest to the Dwarfs); also of note are the inhumanly beautiful Fae that infest the lands. Perhaps the most famous feature is the Grave of Cuileux, where the doomed nobles of that land made their final stand— it is holy ground, where only fools would walk unnecessarily (naturally several parties of scholars from the Empire and Tilea have trespassed those grounds). Surely there is some trade they need, some desire they wish satiated?
Needed:15 Rolled:10
-Damnable Orcs assault the envoy you sent, slaying the whole lot. Duke Galahad sends back their remains for a proper funeral, and in his letter rants strongly against the damnable Orcs, in the kind of language acceptable only when speaking of them.
It gives you an idea.
-Failure-
Gifting the Egres: Castle Egres is the barrier between the Massif and Montfort proper. Whomever controls it will likely become wealthy on the trade between the Orgen and Montfort, and certainly will have political power. Many will surmise that you favor whoever receives the castle, and who it goes to will have an impact. Originally you had planned to simply give it to Lancelot, for the good of the kingdom and for himself, but events in the taking of it have led you to remember his own checkered past: while you, to be frank, don't give a damn, others may well; and as the events of years earlier showed, there are people who would strip the duchy from you.
Perhaps a different candidate will help soothe that tension? At the least, even if you do end up choosing Lancelot, it is very different to be seen looking through several candidates and choosing the best— even if he is your friend— then in simply giving it to him; it reeks of blanket.
Hell, perhaps you could use the gifting of the castle to intentionally make a political statement?
Rolled:2 (No "Special" Applicants)
-Applications are sent from around the Kingdom, second sons of barons and dukes, cousins of the king and men of your own land. One should be suitable for your purposes.
Reward: Castle Egres gifted
Stewardship: Kylian and his poison tongue do not return. Instead, Sir Yvain, who has long acted as the steward for the Knights Unbound, has presented several ideas to you, the blond taking time to settle into his position over the year. As you suspected, Yvain has settled into his position nicely, and has presented many ideas to you.
Proper Facilities: You've captured a few wolf pups already in your mission to deny them to the greenskins. So far, various knights have taken care of them, but soon enough you will need proper kennels and facilities to keep these creatures, instead of just having them put down. You were thinking near Montfort itself, positionally.
- As it turns out, it's not that hard to tame the wolves; given the mad abuse placed on them by the Goblins, just not being cruel is for the most part enough. An area of roughly one acre is fenced off for each wolf pup, and meat and fish is provided daily, along with water. You wrestle and roughhouse with them, when you get the opportunity; occasionally the older ones snap at you, but your flesh is strong, and their teeth not yet needles. You can deal.
Reward: Proper facilities created for wolf pups
The Blacksmith's Guild: An unfortunate accident has seen the blacksmith's guild of Bretonnia homeless: an orcish invasion ransacked and burnt the dual hall and smithy to the ground after looting the fine weapons located inside. While currently it seems likely they will retain a location in their ancestral home of Parravon, you could make a very attractive offer to them: Build them a headquarters for free on their part. This will allow you to influence the decisions guild makes very loosely; even if denied, that still puts the finest blades in Bretonnia within your Duchy, which ought do well for your coffers. Entire orders are likely to be put in.
- Four-hundred gold is set aside to build a very nice hall for the blacksmiths. Two stories tall, it is held together by oaken timber; its roof is cherry wood, imported from the New World and very, very expensive. Branching off the main square building, forge rooms are built with proper ventilation, and are much cooler than they would be held in the dark; their floors are made of cobblestone, and the walls are of brick lain atop the wood of the hall proper.
Within the grand hall itself, wine and mead alike flows freely, served by friendly locals. Also available are fine meats and cheeses, along with honeyed bread. Ten tables, each capable of seating fifteen, mean there is ample space for any smith and guests alike. The hall is decorated by the trophies of past hunts, and mementoes of former wonders worked by the guild: broken blades, human and orcish alike; suits of armor crafted centuries ago; and in a place of honor at the very front, your father's armor, polished and well crafted, along with his jeweled blade, all of which were crafted by the guild decades ago.
The top floor is a storage room. Within, chunks of metals and other materials are categorized, labeled, and stored until some blacksmith has need of them: iron, tin, bronze...even wyvern scale. The most important material is a sliver of starmetal from your grandfather's time, which had been gathering dust within the castle armory. Only two bars could be made from it.
And at the bottom lies an armory, where the works of ages past can be placed on wood racks until they are needed.
Naturally, the blacksmith guild's leader- a man named Joseph- accepts the gift and offer alike. Already, gold has begun to flow into your treasury as travelers come to purchase items from the single greatest quantity of quality weapons within Bretonnia. Expensive, but worth it.
Reward: 175 Gold, +25 Prestige, Blacksmith guild settle in Montfort
Piety: Sir Aldric is a Grail Knight, a hero, and a mentor. His wisdom, his guidance, has saved a thousand-thousand souls from damnation; his heroism, entire regions. Beastmen fear him, greenskin hate him, and Dark Elves want him (dead). He's been from the icy cold reaches of Norsca itself to the blazing sands of Araby and come back stronger for it; his entire body is a patchwork canvass of broken scars and healed over wounds. There is not a piece of him that has not been bled on, not a part of him that has not been injured. In short, he's been around the block.
Daughter's Wisdom: The Daughters of Rhya are a small sect of the Cult of Rhya, comprised solely of women who have given birth. Their duties are two-fold. First, they act as midwives, healers, and counsellors for mothers and the pregnant. They also advise young women in matters relating to their marriage itself— how to deal with abusive or difficult husbands, for instance. Sir Aldric's own wife was a member of the cult, once, and as such he has nothing but praise for them and their work, and has suggested making overtures of allowing them to settle in Montfort to help young women.
Needed:20 Rolled:9
- Your attention is drawn to the Orcal, and as such you forget to actually extend invitations to the Daughters.
-Failure-
Daughter's Wisdom: The Daughters of Rhya are a small sect of the Cult of Rhya, comprised solely of women who have given birth. Their duties are two-fold. First, they act as midwives, healers, and counsellors for mothers and the pregnant. They also advise young women in matters relating to their marriage itself— how to deal with abusive or difficult husbands, for instance. Sir Aldric's own wife was a member of the cult, once, and as such he has nothing but praise for them and their work, and has suggested making overtures of allowing them to settle in Montfort to help young women.
-The ovens are good, proper Bretonnian work.
Unfortunately, they are good, proper Bretonnian work on the other side of the Kingdom, so as you may well have guessed, moving them will take awhile, especially considering the deplorable state of roads within most of the Kingdom. (You really should remember to send the dwarves that wine as a thank you gift at some point)
Learning: Nimue is your tutor and knows damn near everything, from the tale of Calard to the rolling victories of Roland to Bertrand the Brigand, who reminded nobles of their duties and of their places. Drawing from those old tales, those ancient legends, will bring you strength.
Ancient Remains: When the Empire was yet young, the Bretonni not yet turned to the worship of the Lady, and the Orc not yet broken in the Kingdom, there were excursions into what is now the Wastelands by disaffected youths looking for prosperity. Many a minor treasure was crafted and lost in those dark days, quite a few from the ancestors of Montfort. Perhaps you should check and see?
Needed:25 Rolled: 83+5=88
-You make great progress locating the sword— a map has been found, pointing the way to the "Veur Gwerenner", the Great Glasscutter. The good news is, the map is actually fairly clear about where the blade is. The bad news is, it's located within a Skaven Den; altogether a small one, but a force must still be put together to assault the den and take the blade by force.
The Mighty Horn: In the year 471, in the first years of the Crusades, an Army of Bretonnians led by Duke Charles of Montfort led an attack into Estalia, where they sacked the city Pompalono, and killed many of the Sultan's warriors. However, Duke Charles was forced by circumstances— the birth of his son— to return home. As he and his army headed back, they were assailed by Estalian forces, mercenaries hired by the Jaffar. Many good Bretonnians died that day, but more would have were it not for the valor of Huon, who fought to the last and saved many lives in his guarding of the rear.
His horn, mighty and golden, was said to blow enemies from their feet, to sound with the roar of thunder and fire, to beat like the hooves of steeds upon the plains, to crack armor with its peels. While the retelling has likely inflated its power, the fact remains that it was mighty. You'd like it back.
Needed:20 Rolled: 48+5=53
-The Horn has spent centuries within the private archive of an Estalian family. They have recently fallen on difficult times, and thus are quite willing to sell the horn to you, especially for the price you are willing to offer.
The horn itself is made of bronze and ivory, shaped like a unicorn's horn. Delicate arches and whorls shaved into it are, according to Nimue, ancient proclamations of doom and request of the Lady for victory, ancient symbols of Bretonnian languages burnt into them. It's funny, they almost remind you of Dwarven runes, though softer, and as far as you can tell, ineffectual.
Still, the horn does have a mighty sound: the first time you tested it after a thorough cleaning, it could be heard throughout Montfort. Funnily enough, it didn't seem that loud from where you were; must simply have been carried on the wind.
Reward: Horn of Huon, +5 To coordination rolls, +20 Prestige, ???
Intrigue: Ezekiel, Geoffroi, and Morgyan have formed a bond, of sorts— Geoffroi is not particularly subtle, but does know well how to throw a well trained plot off course; while Ezekiel, though not paranoid, is quite capable of gathering information for you; while Morgyan is a wise woman, helping put it all together and stopping the madness before it can start. That said, the hole in your arm is reducing your already minuscule urge to sneak to almost nonexistent levels.
Wolf-Watching: Goblins ride wolves, the vicious little green bastards. Find their packs, kill the old...and maybe steal the pups? Simply because a creature was enslaved by evil does not mean it must, in turn, be evil. Otherwise many a peasant would be wicked, and that simply isn't true.
Needed:25 Rolled:83
-Special orders are given to the Villein and Yeomanry to hunt for and find wolf dens, and to bring back pups. You accompany one of these hunts, and something amazing happens.
You wrestle the alpha.
You and the party were riding ahead of the column, a band of villein. The forest in the area was dense, and the shadows were long thick. Everywhere around you, there were the sounds of rustling branches, and snapping twigs.
Despite this, the mood was cheerful as Armel, one of the yeomen, played his flute, soft, lilting tunes that rang through the forest. The party spoke, eyes peeled for trouble.
Suddenly from the tree branches above you, a wolf sprang out, barking and howling and mad, lunging at you. Your sword was undrawn, your blade still with the horse.
You moved yourself fast enough to catch the beast's jaws on your bracer, jaws slamming shut like a vice on your arm. Your injuries howled in protest, but you ignored it to strike the wolf in the head twice, open strikes with the palm. It let go, falling to the ground, but then struck at your steed, ramming into it. Your horse fell, and you with it.
To the ground you went, and on instinct you braced yourself on your knees. It's the only thing that saved your life, as you managed to grab hold of the wolf and bring it to the ground, the not insubstantial weight of you and your gear pinning it to the ground. It clawed and struck at you, but could find no purchase on the steel of your armor, and soon enough it grew tired.
Finally, the thing managed to worm its way out, and ran off, having decided that you would make a terrible meal.
Afterwards, your men reported that the wolves were far more willing to submit to them. Strange…
Reward:Wolf pairs found, +50 Prestige, ???
Orc Fortress: The orcs have a multitude of camps, dens, and places of power within the Massif Orcal, where their will is law and their power undeniable. Undeniable, at least, to the people of the mountain, who lack your advanced technologies and the map your father made of the orcish stronghold in the mountains.
Your plan is simple: The Orgen will lead parties of the Bastonnian tourists and Villien to burn Orcish strongholds to the ground when they are weak.
Needed:40 Rolled:77+20=97
- Your father kept records obsessively, even, some (Carole) would say, anal retentively. Not a scrap of parchment that could be useful was thrown away, nor lists, and nor, it seems, maps. For in his journals your father kept a map not just of the Orc fortresses and their relation to the Masif, but detailed maps of the fortresses themselves.
You use that very well. The dens of monsters near the orcs are disturbed and the enraged beasts pointed at the enemy; attacks in the middle of the night strike them as they are most disorganized; your wife, after she gives birth, sneaks in many a times opens the gates, allowing a charge of Bretonnian Knights to come in and put the whole wretched pit to the sword; or sneak in beer and other, less mundane, accelerants and has your soldiers simply burn the filthy mud hovels to the ground with torches and burning arrows.
All in all, good work for so little effort.
Reward: Orc Fortress burnt, Bonus to Orcal Campaign
Personal: Morgyan is...lighter. Happier. She's been more honest with you than she has with anyone for a very long time. It seems you cannot look upon her without seeing a smile, not see her face, gorgeous in the moonlight, lit with happiness. There is no greater feeling.
Check The Journals: It seems your father had plans for you. He wished you to be the Orcal Breaker, the Massif Master, and as such he prepared plans such that you can conceive of to do it. The last journal talked of the men of the Massif— Who could he speak of now?
-The last two journal spoke of the intelligent (for a given value of the term) foes one might face in the Orcal. This one, though, speaks of the mindless, but perhaps greatest, foe one might face in the Masif Orcal: Monsters.
Hydras, giant wolves, griffons: if it exists in the mountains, your father has listed it, its habitat, and its behavior, its weakness and strengths. Sketches, detailed diagrams of the monsters.
However, the beast he most feared he never did get to see closely:
Hippogryphs. Solitary, angry, vicious, loyal, fierce, proud, these creatures predominately live within the Grey Mountains. However, your father saw in the Orcal signs— mating marks, territorial marks, and cries through the night— that suggest that at least a few of the beasts live within the Orcal, too.
If, as I suspect, his letter reads, the mountains are home to Hippogryphs, then be wary, for they are not so noble as the Pegasi. Their temperament is the temperament of a born hunter, their rage the pure rage of the greatest killers, their hunger the hunger of a lord. They will little accept your impositions upon their territory, never mind what they may do if you should unwittingly stumble upon their dens.
Be cautious of the beasts, for they will bring pain if ignored.
Love in Death,
Abraham Folcard
P.S. In case you can't tell, the sketched out circles in the maps I included are dens of the lesser beasts. Use that how you will.
Reward: Warned of Hippogryphs, knowledge of beast dens, finished first three journals (+1 Learning)
What The Hell?: Okay, so, uh, your wife is painted with blue symbols, her eyes have an actual green glow now, and for some reason nobody else seems to have deigned to notice. What. You've got questions. That said, you will have to ask...tactfully. Best remember that.
Needed:??? Rolled:66+15=81
- Your strategy is very simple: you corner Morgyan in her study, and ask her point blank "What is going on?"
"Pardon?"
"With the blue paint, and the eyes that are glowing brighter than ever, and the fact that no-one else seems to have noticed?"
She straightens up, before sighing. She puts the stopper in the inkwell and places her quill to side, turning her attention from her parchment. "Yes...yes, I suppose I should tell you, shouldn't I?"
"I can scarcely be your conscience if you will not tell me what's happening."
"True enough. Very well: mere weeks after the battle against Apollyon, I was...contacted by someone, an old friend: Merlin, the Autumn King. Fae, yes, but before you stoke your wrath, he is very, very different from Titania; he has never tormented a man to death for the joy of it, or chained fellow fae into his service, or spread misery. Indeed, he has even been a friend to humans.
He offered a very simple deal: in return for my bearing a child willing to protect the forest, one devoted to it, he would arrest the efforts of Titania. And so I accepted the deal, the blue instantly marking me, as did my eyes. As for why none except Alan noticed, I cannot be sure, but at a guess I would say it is a defense laid down by Merlin himself to protect those who have taken his deal, so that Titania could not slay them."
——
Alright. So. More Fae.
Just what you wanted.
Reward:Knowledge, truth, etc.
-
I will get your newest child's birth up today, along with the first Campaign Post (Shouldn't be many, three at most). Castle Egres decision and Old World news will probably be up tomorrow.
Welcome Charles
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Welcome, Charles
The day has arrived, and you are preparing as you usually do: in the inn, drinking cheap wine and good stew. Rabbit, if you aren't mistaken. A ratty cloak promises poverty, while the plain armor you bear and the sword on your back show your birth.
Behind you, a serving maid shouts as some low life gets too close; your hand instantly flies out and grabs him by the wrist. "Shouldn't you be finishing your drink, there, friend?" He gets the idea and backs away slowly. You nod to the maid, who smiles gratefully before handing you a glass of one of the finer wines; an Alazne 2300, if you had to guess. Your tastes run a bit less bitter, but not bad, by any means.
All of a sudden, a messenger, from the Shallyans if you had to guess, bursts through the door. In a den like this, he stands out all the more: half the people are eying him with greed of one sort or the other, while the other half looks about ready to bolt for fear of him. "I'm looking for a Philip August?"
You rise up, towering over the inhabitants of the room. "Yes?"
"Your wife has asked for you."
Oh boy. Time to get your hand broken. You instantly down what remains of the wine before flipping a gold piece to the maid, who looks at it with wide eyes before turning to you. "For lessons."
And with that you are off, heading through the streets and back to the castle. You run through back alleys you've known for decades, running past desperate merchants and angry young men.
As you run, though, a hand reaches out and snatches your cloak. You are pulled into an alley without warning, a knife pointed at your jugular. "Give me that purse, knight, or you'll not be seeing the night."
"Nice one, boss!"
"Yeah, nice!"
You look around the dank alley. Five men, one with a hatchet, the knife wielder, the rest with arming swords. Their clothes stink of the Parravonese Ponce, his ill-gotten gains feeding them; except for the youngest one, who wears a cheap, threadbare tunic and whose ribs can be counted, and whose sword is held in feeble grip. Must think you're easy pickings. "Not with that cheap piece of scrap, you won't."
Then you become a blur of motion. Your foot snaps out and strikes the upper leg of the knife wielder, sending him to the ground. You move to the man nearest you and spin kick, sending him reeling to the ground, bleeding from his nose; he groans once. The mugger with the hatchet comes at you with an overhead strike, you catch it and strike his ribs twice, sending him reeling and making him grab for the air. Another man with a sword runs at you, but you simply catch the blade on your hand; the cheap metal cannot even scratch your gauntlet. You grab it by the blade and twisting it around, slam him in the ribs with the pommel; he falls to the ground, weezing.
"Don't... don't move!" A cracking voice rings out, as you feel a blade move toward the back of your head.
You whip around, and stick your foot out to the side; it catches the boy by the leg. He falls on his back. "You don't seem the mugger type."
"'m not. It's just... I'm so lost, you know? Maybe father was right, after all..."
"I know. Believe me, you are not the first angry young man to walk these streets." You grab his hand and hoist him up. "First thing's first: that stance was dismal. A stiff wind could've knocked you over." You enter the stance Aldric taught you, one designed for cities and streets. Left leg back, left arm as well; right and strongest side presented, like a wall. The boy imitates it, stiffly, but it works. "There. Now when the world tries to knock you down, you might stand."
The boy looks proud, for just moments. You take out a small bottle of wine, made steel- strong, socializing stuff- and pour out two glasses. "Now, wanna talk about it?"
--
"You really believe I can become an artist?"
"Oh yes, varied life experiences are often what gives an artist their inspiration; the Damsel Arnaud would never have crafted such words of stirring sorrow if she had not lived impoverished herself."
The boy smiles, the wine in his glass almost gone. "You know, I think that's the first time someone's not laughed at me for not wanting to be a farmer or a soldier in... a very long time. Feels better than I thought it would."
"Faith in the self is all well and good, but the simple kindness of a stranger in both word and deed ought not be underestimated. Speaking of which, here." You grab one of the coin pouches from your belt and hand it to the boy, who looks at it like one might their mother. "Enough for food and a place to sleep for the night." And the night after that, and the night after that, considering there's enough gold in that thing to buy a house in an okay neighborhood.
Your conversation is interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing though the streets. It is a very important bell, one that could ring for only one occasion: your wife is in labor. Instantly your eyes widen and you stand, as the boy looks up, confused. "I have to go. Listen, when you leave, could you tell the guard that these guys are here?"
"Uh, sure?"
"Thanks!"
And then you take off like a well aimed arrow, straight for the castle.
---
You barge through the door, into the chambers where your wife lays on many pillows, priests of Shallya, Damsels, and healers running through the room as they keep her alive.
"I am so sorry I'm late-"
Her hand reaches out, and on instinct you grab it. Instantly, the fingers tighten over your palm, so much that your hand swiftly goes pale as it is denied blood; soon enough, it is asleep. "Give you-FUCKING GAHHH- hell later- WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?- busy right now!"
Time goes by fast as you are embroiled in a world as far above your comprehension as speech is to the insects; your world becomes vague supportive noises, winces as your hand is crushed under one it dwarfs, and a thousand realizations that women are stronger than some knights will ever admit.
Soon enough, though, a boy arrives in the world, screaming and tiny, and loud and small, and adorable and yours and safe as long as you draw. Morgyan looks on him with tired but happy eyes, tickling his chin and cooing as you look over both of them.
"Your turn to name them, Dearest."
Oh. Oh no.
You hadn't thought this far ahead; you thought it was still Morgyan's turn.
You think for seconds, before a thought enters your head: "Charles."
Morgyan looks on you with wide, incredulous eyes. "She tried to kill me, Philip."
"She is not who I'm naming him after. My mother's name was Carole, too; it deserves to be borne by someone better than a murderous plotter of treason."
Morgyan looks at you with suddenly tired eyes. "Alright, alright. But if she tries to contact him, I'm going to have words with her."
"Believe me, if she tries to contact to him I shall make what I did at Orleans seem minor." You hoist your son up and look him in the tiny, adorable eyes. "Welcome, Charles, to the world. It shall be your oyster."
Charles Folcard born into the world in decent health in 1430 in Bretonnia.
--
I may have been watching Avatar when I wrote this.
The day has arrived, and you are preparing as you usually do: in the inn, drinking cheap wine and good stew. Rabbit, if you aren't mistaken. A ratty cloak promises poverty, while the plain armor you bear and the sword on your back show your birth.
Behind you, a serving maid shouts as some low life gets too close; your hand instantly flies out and grabs him by the wrist. "Shouldn't you be finishing your drink, there, friend?" He gets the idea and backs away slowly. You nod to the maid, who smiles gratefully before handing you a glass of one of the finer wines; an Alazne 2300, if you had to guess. Your tastes run a bit less bitter, but not bad, by any means.
All of a sudden, a messenger, from the Shallyans if you had to guess, bursts through the door. In a den like this, he stands out all the more: half the people are eying him with greed of one sort or the other, while the other half looks about ready to bolt for fear of him. "I'm looking for a Philip August?"
You rise up, towering over the inhabitants of the room. "Yes?"
"Your wife has asked for you."
Oh boy. Time to get your hand broken. You instantly down what remains of the wine before flipping a gold piece to the maid, who looks at it with wide eyes before turning to you. "For lessons."
And with that you are off, heading through the streets and back to the castle. You run through back alleys you've known for decades, running past desperate merchants and angry young men.
As you run, though, a hand reaches out and snatches your cloak. You are pulled into an alley without warning, a knife pointed at your jugular. "Give me that purse, knight, or you'll not be seeing the night."
"Nice one, boss!"
"Yeah, nice!"
You look around the dank alley. Five men, one with a hatchet, the knife wielder, the rest with arming swords. Their clothes stink of the Parravonese Ponce, his ill-gotten gains feeding them; except for the youngest one, who wears a cheap, threadbare tunic and whose ribs can be counted, and whose sword is held in feeble grip. Must think you're easy pickings. "Not with that cheap piece of scrap, you won't."
Then you become a blur of motion. Your foot snaps out and strikes the upper leg of the knife wielder, sending him to the ground. You move to the man nearest you and spin kick, sending him reeling to the ground, bleeding from his nose; he groans once. The mugger with the hatchet comes at you with an overhead strike, you catch it and strike his ribs twice, sending him reeling and making him grab for the air. Another man with a sword runs at you, but you simply catch the blade on your hand; the cheap metal cannot even scratch your gauntlet. You grab it by the blade and twisting it around, slam him in the ribs with the pommel; he falls to the ground, weezing.
"Don't... don't move!" A cracking voice rings out, as you feel a blade move toward the back of your head.
You whip around, and stick your foot out to the side; it catches the boy by the leg. He falls on his back. "You don't seem the mugger type."
"'m not. It's just... I'm so lost, you know? Maybe father was right, after all..."
"I know. Believe me, you are not the first angry young man to walk these streets." You grab his hand and hoist him up. "First thing's first: that stance was dismal. A stiff wind could've knocked you over." You enter the stance Aldric taught you, one designed for cities and streets. Left leg back, left arm as well; right and strongest side presented, like a wall. The boy imitates it, stiffly, but it works. "There. Now when the world tries to knock you down, you might stand."
The boy looks proud, for just moments. You take out a small bottle of wine, made steel- strong, socializing stuff- and pour out two glasses. "Now, wanna talk about it?"
--
"You really believe I can become an artist?"
"Oh yes, varied life experiences are often what gives an artist their inspiration; the Damsel Arnaud would never have crafted such words of stirring sorrow if she had not lived impoverished herself."
The boy smiles, the wine in his glass almost gone. "You know, I think that's the first time someone's not laughed at me for not wanting to be a farmer or a soldier in... a very long time. Feels better than I thought it would."
"Faith in the self is all well and good, but the simple kindness of a stranger in both word and deed ought not be underestimated. Speaking of which, here." You grab one of the coin pouches from your belt and hand it to the boy, who looks at it like one might their mother. "Enough for food and a place to sleep for the night." And the night after that, and the night after that, considering there's enough gold in that thing to buy a house in an okay neighborhood.
Your conversation is interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing though the streets. It is a very important bell, one that could ring for only one occasion: your wife is in labor. Instantly your eyes widen and you stand, as the boy looks up, confused. "I have to go. Listen, when you leave, could you tell the guard that these guys are here?"
"Uh, sure?"
"Thanks!"
And then you take off like a well aimed arrow, straight for the castle.
---
You barge through the door, into the chambers where your wife lays on many pillows, priests of Shallya, Damsels, and healers running through the room as they keep her alive.
"I am so sorry I'm late-"
Her hand reaches out, and on instinct you grab it. Instantly, the fingers tighten over your palm, so much that your hand swiftly goes pale as it is denied blood; soon enough, it is asleep. "Give you-FUCKING GAHHH- hell later- WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?- busy right now!"
Time goes by fast as you are embroiled in a world as far above your comprehension as speech is to the insects; your world becomes vague supportive noises, winces as your hand is crushed under one it dwarfs, and a thousand realizations that women are stronger than some knights will ever admit.
Soon enough, though, a boy arrives in the world, screaming and tiny, and loud and small, and adorable and yours and safe as long as you draw. Morgyan looks on him with tired but happy eyes, tickling his chin and cooing as you look over both of them.
"Your turn to name them, Dearest."
Oh. Oh no.
You hadn't thought this far ahead; you thought it was still Morgyan's turn.
You think for seconds, before a thought enters your head: "Charles."
Morgyan looks on you with wide, incredulous eyes. "She tried to kill me, Philip."
"She is not who I'm naming him after. My mother's name was Carole, too; it deserves to be borne by someone better than a murderous plotter of treason."
Morgyan looks at you with suddenly tired eyes. "Alright, alright. But if she tries to contact him, I'm going to have words with her."
"Believe me, if she tries to contact to him I shall make what I did at Orleans seem minor." You hoist your son up and look him in the tiny, adorable eyes. "Welcome, Charles, to the world. It shall be your oyster."
Charles Folcard born into the world in decent health in 1430 in Bretonnia.
--
I may have been watching Avatar when I wrote this.
- Location
- Australia
It was a good episode, that one.
Marching On The Orcal, Part 1
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Marching On The Orcal
(Part 1)
On morn of the first day of the tenth month you awake to the rooster with a heavy heart. You kiss your wife goodbye, and tell your children that you will be back. Godfrey you charge to be an example to his siblings, Leliana you tell to finally admit that she did in fact steal those sweet rolls, and Justine and Charles are a bit too young to be charged with anything, though you do promise to bring something back.
Then the horn calls, and you must depart.
You saddle up your steed and so leave Montfort, heading into the Dragon's Maw with 4,000 men.
First, though, you must stop by Castle Egres for provisions and to check on renovations.
---
A week you spend on the road, riding and marching alike. Finally, though, you reach the Egres.
Positioned on the snowy hill overlooking the road into the Orcal, its high, sheer walls have repelled invasion after invasion, stared down more terrible foes than you can name. It took a force of Orcs 20,000 strong and emboldened by their warboss a month to break its walls and strike at the center, and by the end they were so weakened that the Warboss attacked alone, but for his lieutenant. The people of the Egres died valiantly.
As you ride towards it, you hear a horn blow from the village connected to it. A few hundred peasants have already moved to the area and await their lord, and to find who shall be their liege; they are tidying the place up in preparation.
You'll spending the night here.
As you watch, the column of soldiers breaks for the village, while you continue instead to the castle itself. There will be much merrymaking, no doubt of that.
Your ruminations are interrupted by arriving at the castle gates, finally. The door stand unbarred in preparation for you.
You open the great studded doors with much effort, both hands working against the weight of them. Finally someone actually helps you open them, as gauntlet clad hands grab it from the other side and pull.
Finally, you stand in the hall of Egres. Four people greet you: the Damsel Rose, dark clad as always; Sir Dumas, whose rapier stands prominent at his side; Sir Javert, who looks over a bounty flier; Sir Arouet, who mutters in Reikspiel; and Sir Reynard, who is sketching out some plans on a map- just the man you were looking for.
"How goes it, Fox of the Knights?"
He looks up an arches an eyebrow, before yawning and looking down at the map. On it he has circled four locations. "You wished to have a place for recuperation for your soldiers? I have found four that may well work."
He gestures to the North-most village, nearest the border to Montfort. Rhumelite is written above. "Here is near sacred soil, but it is bitter cold, and choked with Greenskin. Not much farming potential, and most of the water is recaptured snow and ice, or rain, and I saw many Orc had moved there when last I scouted it out. Still, it is Montfortian; none could be in anyway angered by your transforming it into this base, and we have roads heading there; moving men for further deployment should be simple."
Next, he moves his hands East, towards the Parravonese border with the Orcal. Written in bright red letters is Mélopeine. "You could set up here, I suppose, but there were strange journals found in the homes I entered: tales of children snatched up without warning, stories of strange calls in the night. Also, this was Parravonese territory; they will want concession of one sort or another for it, especially after your move with the Blacksmiths. Still, there are granaries yet full of food there, and not many orcs; no roads, but perhaps worth the cost to know you will not be struck down."
To the West, and Bordelaux. Written above in black ink is Sainthermique. "An agreeable climate, and roads connect it to the rest of the mountain; but the Ratmen are near, and they are hungry. You will have to slay them to take the village. There is also arable land nested within, if that should be something you care about."
Finally, to the South and Quenelles, where written above is Equihomme. "A worker's paradise, or say those who once visited the commune say. Crafted by a yeoman who left behind Bretonnia, it one day ceased all communication; none no what happened to it. I could not even enter, for every time I tired, I was assailed by beasts who struck from the path. If it is to be even entered, it must be by force."
Which village do you march for?
[] Rhumelite
[] Mélopeine
[] Sainthermique
[] Equihomme
---
This will be the epicenter of your campaign in the Orcal, and where the commander you leave behind in charge will lead the whole thing once you leave.
(Part 1)
On morn of the first day of the tenth month you awake to the rooster with a heavy heart. You kiss your wife goodbye, and tell your children that you will be back. Godfrey you charge to be an example to his siblings, Leliana you tell to finally admit that she did in fact steal those sweet rolls, and Justine and Charles are a bit too young to be charged with anything, though you do promise to bring something back.
Then the horn calls, and you must depart.
You saddle up your steed and so leave Montfort, heading into the Dragon's Maw with 4,000 men.
First, though, you must stop by Castle Egres for provisions and to check on renovations.
---
A week you spend on the road, riding and marching alike. Finally, though, you reach the Egres.
Positioned on the snowy hill overlooking the road into the Orcal, its high, sheer walls have repelled invasion after invasion, stared down more terrible foes than you can name. It took a force of Orcs 20,000 strong and emboldened by their warboss a month to break its walls and strike at the center, and by the end they were so weakened that the Warboss attacked alone, but for his lieutenant. The people of the Egres died valiantly.
As you ride towards it, you hear a horn blow from the village connected to it. A few hundred peasants have already moved to the area and await their lord, and to find who shall be their liege; they are tidying the place up in preparation.
You'll spending the night here.
As you watch, the column of soldiers breaks for the village, while you continue instead to the castle itself. There will be much merrymaking, no doubt of that.
Your ruminations are interrupted by arriving at the castle gates, finally. The door stand unbarred in preparation for you.
You open the great studded doors with much effort, both hands working against the weight of them. Finally someone actually helps you open them, as gauntlet clad hands grab it from the other side and pull.
Finally, you stand in the hall of Egres. Four people greet you: the Damsel Rose, dark clad as always; Sir Dumas, whose rapier stands prominent at his side; Sir Javert, who looks over a bounty flier; Sir Arouet, who mutters in Reikspiel; and Sir Reynard, who is sketching out some plans on a map- just the man you were looking for.
"How goes it, Fox of the Knights?"
He looks up an arches an eyebrow, before yawning and looking down at the map. On it he has circled four locations. "You wished to have a place for recuperation for your soldiers? I have found four that may well work."
He gestures to the North-most village, nearest the border to Montfort. Rhumelite is written above. "Here is near sacred soil, but it is bitter cold, and choked with Greenskin. Not much farming potential, and most of the water is recaptured snow and ice, or rain, and I saw many Orc had moved there when last I scouted it out. Still, it is Montfortian; none could be in anyway angered by your transforming it into this base, and we have roads heading there; moving men for further deployment should be simple."
Next, he moves his hands East, towards the Parravonese border with the Orcal. Written in bright red letters is Mélopeine. "You could set up here, I suppose, but there were strange journals found in the homes I entered: tales of children snatched up without warning, stories of strange calls in the night. Also, this was Parravonese territory; they will want concession of one sort or another for it, especially after your move with the Blacksmiths. Still, there are granaries yet full of food there, and not many orcs; no roads, but perhaps worth the cost to know you will not be struck down."
To the West, and Bordelaux. Written above in black ink is Sainthermique. "An agreeable climate, and roads connect it to the rest of the mountain; but the Ratmen are near, and they are hungry. You will have to slay them to take the village. There is also arable land nested within, if that should be something you care about."
Finally, to the South and Quenelles, where written above is Equihomme. "A worker's paradise, or say those who once visited the commune say. Crafted by a yeoman who left behind Bretonnia, it one day ceased all communication; none no what happened to it. I could not even enter, for every time I tired, I was assailed by beasts who struck from the path. If it is to be even entered, it must be by force."
Which village do you march for?
[] Rhumelite
[] Mélopeine
[] Sainthermique
[] Equihomme
---
This will be the epicenter of your campaign in the Orcal, and where the commander you leave behind in charge will lead the whole thing once you leave.
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Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Either Wood Elves or Tileans are afoot.
Well, that's totally not worrisome, no siree.
- Location
- Australia
I believe the language is called Reikspiel.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- West Michigan
Isn't Parravon east of the Orcal and Bordeleaux to the west? Isn't Bastonne between Montfort and Bordeleaux?
[X] Sainthermique
[X] Sainthermique
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Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Fixed, my bad.
avatar11792
Et Sic Incipit
- Location
- Planet Earth, North America
[X] Sainthermique
Fucking Skaven.
Fucking Skaven.
King Arthur
The Once and Future King
[X] Horace Le Chêne
The fact that he has a paragraph and a half written for him while the other two have 2 sentences makes me think he might be the best choices.
[X] Rhumelite
The fact that he has a paragraph and a half written for him while the other two have 2 sentences makes me think he might be the best choices.
Hrmmmmmmm, the biggest probably is the farming ... which isn't really a problem, cause we just provide them with food ourself. It's cold, but we can deal with that, and the Orc's aren't a problem as we have to kill them anyway. Plus, it has good roads, which is sort of the most important thing here.
[X] Rhumelite
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Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X] Sainthermique
The only good Skaven is a dead Skaven!
The only good Skaven is a dead Skaven!
- Location
- Germany
[X] Rhumelite
I would prefer to stay close to our territory, so we can easily move in supplies and new troops. While killing Skaven is always good, our main target are the orcs. We shouldn't get sidetracked. And finally, we don't have good relations with the Duke of Bordelaux, he may well take exception to us moving an army close to his territory.
I would prefer to stay close to our territory, so we can easily move in supplies and new troops. While killing Skaven is always good, our main target are the orcs. We shouldn't get sidetracked. And finally, we don't have good relations with the Duke of Bordelaux, he may well take exception to us moving an army close to his territory.
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Eh, this is the Masif Orcal, man. Having somebody suppressing the monsters and other terrible things in it, even somebody you don't particularly like, can only do good things.
Only reason Parravon's likely to raise a fuss is cause that's a Ducal rivalry, as opposed to just two knights duking (I'm punny) it out. His opinion would have to be lower for him to be willing to put in the effort of fucking with you as you proceed to help make sure monsters and orcs and shit don't kill yet more people.
