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…One by one, those snakes, they died,
Falling as the wraith did stride,
To where the vipers made their nest,
And where he’d bring their final rest.

Their blood ran thick in crimson streams,
While richer men lay in their dreams,
But all in the slums kept wide awake,
As did the wraith, his wrath did slake.

Strike, wraith…kill them all!
In the snow, their corpses fall.
Strike, wraith…bleed them dry!
And fill the darkness with their cries...

Was it worth what you snakes had done?
That killed you all and left not one,
Alive and whole in that long night,
Naught but charnel at dawn’s first light.

And so, the wraith, he disappeared,
Into the shadows that they all feared,
With fifty men behind him dead,
In graves of ice stained bloody red.

Strike, wraith…kill them all!
In the snow, their corpses fall.
Strike, wraith…bleed them dry!
And fill the darkness with their cries...

-Excerpt from “Geistlied”, a slow and solemn folksong from the slums of Karthmire. Unknown author, penned in the aftermath of the Winter Slums Massacre of 238 ACR.

>A Princess on the Cusp of Spring

Ellana Crowmond is eight years old, only a handful of weeks from turning nine, but she is not afraid of the dark.

When she opens her eyes, she sees nothing, but that is not what scares her. She knows where she is, resting inside of the royal carriage, with the curtains drawn tight across the windows. Her sister had been here recently, that much she can tell from the lingering smell of perfume. Too much perfume, it seems, but not nearly enough to stifle the rancid odor of bile.

Fighting against the urge to vomit, the youngest princess rises from her cushion, scrubbing the dust from the corner of her eyes. A yawn escapes from her mouth, scandalously wide, but Mother is neither here nor there to correct her slip-

And then she suddenly remembers. The fear that gnawed at her mind as she and her siblings lay cooped in the carriage, with the distant sounds of battle conjuring terrible images in her mind. The thought that Uncle Kieran and his knights were meat in the monster’s belly, and the last sight of the drakling bearing down upon the carriage before everything went black…

It is almost a physical blow, and the rush of memories sends Ellana stumbling to the floor. Her head smacks against the latch of the hidden table, and tears that have nothing to do with draklings or dead family well in the corners of her eyes. But she does not cry, even as she clutches her head in stifled agony.

“You are both a Crowmond and a Tarmund,” she repeats Mother’s stern words like a prayer, wincing at the throbbing pain, “ The blood of Maxvell the Great and Ragnach Gerforen flow through your veins. Princess and girl though you may be, do not disgrace their names by weeping into your sleeves like a simpering maid in full view of the smallfolk.”

(cont.)

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Even with the curtains drawn shut, with only small beams of light that pass through even smaller gaps, Ellana is not quick to ignore Mother’s instructions, in spite of the obvious presence of commoners. The pain in her head is not diminished in any significant way, but the memory does put some resolve into her will.

Sniffing away the tears, she gropes blindly, reaching for the latch of the door. There is nothing to see, but there is plenty to hear. Just outside the door, the muddy slush of the ground churns underfoot as heavily armored men move in circles around the carriage. In the distance, a dull murmur of people gather just towards what she believes to be north, by the light. And if she closes her eyes and concentrates, far behind the carriage, there is the sound of two people doing the things that men and women do but parents never speak of – the thing Ellana calls grunting and what Ser Royce and Lady Rudnick were tried for, but she has no other way of expressing it; all the other words are either forgotten or too vulgar.

She’ll have to ask Marcus to elaborate…

Marcus.

Her grip on the handle slackens, before tightening so hard that she can see white on her knuckles. That’s right. Before she had fainted, she had been speaking to her Crownguard about…and he had caught her when her mind became overwhelmed with the sight of the monster.

The door bursts open with a violence that surprises even her, but she just barely manages to avoid falling into the mess on the ground. Ellana cares not for the incredulous stares of a few dozen smallfolk, held back at bay by her Uncle’s Knights, nor for the individuals who rush forward to help her.

This is not the ferry… she thinks as she sways precariously from the doorstep. And her eyes have to adjust from the unexpected radiance of a cloudless winter sky.

Westholm is a prime example from one of the hundreds of villages in Father’s Empire. Settled along a major source of water, the sprawl of thatch-roofed cottages and other functionary buildings had been built spiraling outwards from the temple and central marketplace. The top of a palisade can be seen from across the rooftops, with what looks like a fresh coat of pitch and tar.

The fallow fields lay empty, save for tools that stand out as spots against immaculate white. When the snow melts, they will plough the fields and seed the land even before the first thawing of spring. But if the fishing nets and dories are any indication, the two hundred or so souls that live here must be primarily fishermen, and not farmers.

But its most notable feature is the absence of a manor. Perhaps the lord of the fief is close enough to his village that he might consider the structure a waste of money. Gods and spirits know that there is plenty of stone in abundance.

“Princess.” Her brother’s bodyguard, the stoic, dark-skinned archer, is the first to approach her. “You will fall if not careful.”

(cont.)

“I’m…fine…” Why is her brother’s Crownguard here and not her own? Carefully righting herself and brushing the wrinkles from her dress, she declares to the Ingulan, “See?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in wry amusement. “I do.”

Ellana’s triumph is short-lived. She glances down to the muddy ground, then to the white cotton hem of her dress with naked dismay. “…I think I will stay here for a while, if that’s alright.”

He shakes his head, pointing towards a nearby building with tile instead of thatched roofing. “Siblings are with the…alderman.” He struggles to pronounce the word, dragging out the first syllable with a heavy accent. “Come. I will take you.”
The irritation turns to confusion, then a brooding worry. Marcus is not. When last she saw him, he had been ready to fight the drakling. Unless it is of the utmost importance, he’s always there, musing to himself, teaching her, waiting silently by her side…

“Where is my Crownguard?” It comes out more desperately than she would like, and her cheeks heat from the tone of her voice. Praying that her following words properly convey worry as opposed to childish petulance, she repeats herself, “Where is Marcus Painel? Why is he not here?”

His sharp eyes flash with something unreadable as the amused expression fades away from his lips. Slowly, as if measuring the words on his tongue with a scale, he answers, “Princess…he…”

She cannot even wait for him to finish. “Is he injured? The drakling can’t have killed him! The temple…the alderman’s house…where are they treating him?”

He has no time to respond. There is a commotion in the crowd, loud enough to draw both of their attentions. One of the villagers seems to have made his way to the leader of the knights, riding atop a cart led by a pair of horses. The smallfolk gather around the cart, peeking over the side with curiosity before wincing and recoiling at some awful sight.

“I think this one’s one of yours, Ser Knight,” the villager says in a high voice. He stifles a sneeze with the crook of his elbow, sniffing before continuing, “Found him just across the ferryway, gods as my witnesses. Damn drakling roughed him pretty bad, but he’s still breathing…”

Before she even knows it, Ellana has jumped off of the carriage. Uncaring at the mud that splatters her dress and sucks at her legs, she pushes her way past Urath and the servants that try to arrest her motion. Desperation lends her strength beyond her years and, squeezing past the stinking mail and cloth of knights and villagers alike, the princess scrambles up the side of the wagon…

(cont.)

But it is not Marcus. The man’s face is bloody and bruised, but it does not prevent her from recognizing him after a few heartbeats. Berchar, son of Berthold, lies battered and injured upon a bed of straw. His limbs are twisted, broken from some horrible impact, but he shows no signs of mortal injury. Every so often, every rough motion of the cart sends pained, rattling breath from between clenched teeth.

His brow furrows at the sudden obstruction of sunlight. The solitary eye not covered in blood rotates in its socket, flicking from one side to the other before landing on her. “Princess…” he slurs past a swollen lip and what smells like alcohol coming from his breath. “…you’re safe…”

From the corner of her eye, she can see Urath shoving his way past villagers and knights alike, heading straight towards her with fixed determination. There is only a few seconds before he reaches her.

“Where is Marcus?” she whispers desperately, all the while fighting the urge not to gag. “Do you know where my Crownguard went?”

Berchar frowns. “…Marcus…yours…right?” Resisting the urge to scream, it’s all that she can do to nod vigorously and not hit the man. “…saw him…lead the drakling away from everybody…monster knocked me across the river…”

He led them away from the carriage…as bait? Alone? Ellana thought in dismay. What were the others thinking…for all of them, why was it her bodyguard that had to bear the burden of everybody’s lives?!

“…so tired…” the groom mutters, eye fluttering as he slumps back into his bed. But before he can relax, he sits right back up, a stifled scream caught just in his lips. It seems that the alcohol he was given wasn’t enough to dull the pain from her pinching the bone that juts out from his flesh. “…!”

Releasing the broken bone, the princess scrambles back to his face, just barely avoiding Urath’s long arm that takes a swipe at her. “You can’t go to sleep, not yet! Anything else…tell me, please!”

“…saw the drakling fly straight up…Painel was on its back…just stabbing away…” For the third time in her life, a paralyzing horror seizes Ellana’s body. And she is helpless as the Ingulan scoops her from the wagon and carries her away. “…and then…”

“And then what?” Ellana shouts, struggling against her captor’s arms. “Tell me, what happened after the drakling flew into the sky?!”

The villager cuts in with a cheerful smile, “Aw, don’t worry, your majesty.” Ignoring the wrong title that he used, the man continues, “You’re safe here in Westholm, nothing to fear at all. One moment, it’s flying in the air, as high as any mountain and then…”

Another villager, a plump woman in her thirties, continues, “Damn thing just has a fit midair and falls to the ground like a bag of rocks! Felt the impact from across the river, I did! Reckon there’s nothing left but a red stain in the forest-”

(cont.)

>>2888186
>pain from her pinching the bone that juts out from his flesh. “
Christ girl

>>2888186
>The villager cuts in with a cheerful smile, “Aw, don’t worry, your majesty.” Ignoring the wrong title that he used, the man continues, “You’re safe here in Westholm, nothing to fear at all. One moment, it’s flying in the air, as high as any mountain and then…”
>Another villager, a plump woman in her thirties, continues, “Damn thing just has a fit midair and falls to the ground like a bag of rocks! Felt the impact from across the river, I did! Reckon there’s nothing left but a red stain in the forest-”
Marcus is going to look like such a badass when he comes back to the convoy relatively unharmed and carrying all that extra bling.
>"Riding a drakling's back all the way to the stratosphere, ripping and tearing it's huge guts, then riding it back down to earth? No big deal, I do that shit all the time, just gotta bathe in drakling lifeblood and I'll be good as new."
>t. Marcus "The Motherfucking But Not really Because I'm Still Traumatized By My Dead Waifu" Painel, Crownguard to Ellana "I Pinch Fractured Bone Injuries" Crowmond

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>>2888186
The world fades away. The cheerful noise of the villagers, the stern words of the knights that call for order, Urath’s desperate whispers in her ear for her to stay calm and keep her breath even.

The words of the villagers come unbidden in her thoughts, even as she desperately tries not to think about any of it. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing of the horrible images that plague her mind.

Both man and horse scream in terrible agony as the monster’s jaws close around them, tearing them limb from limb into bloody chunks of meat.

Her Crownguard…sacrificing himself so that her siblings and their bodyguards might live.

A desperate battle in the sky where mortals were not meant to tread, where man and monster fight a bloody battle to the death, ending with a terrible, bloody impact…

“Ah…” Was that her voice, a fragile, trembling ugly thing? The voice of a fourth child, a second princesses…a spare, unneeded, princess with a spare, disposable Crownguard…

“Milady is too kind to someone like me.”

It’s too much for Ellana. Wrenching herself from Urath’s grasp, the youngest Crowmond just barely manages to land with both feet on the ground. It’s a miracle that she doesn’t scream, slip or fall into the mud as she starts running. All that remains of her world is the path that takes her directly to the carriage, far away from the voices of the outside world, the reality that…that…

“Princess-!”

The entrance of the carriage violently slams shut. Even with the thick materials, Ellana is dimly aware of the slow stream of Ingulan curses that come by the door. He could have very well lost some of his fingers with how hard she slammed and locked the door.

The curtains are shut, and the princess finds herself in darkness once more. Curling into herself, her eyes screwed shut, she claps her hands over her ears, pretending not to hear the frantic knocks from both sides of the wheelhouse, or the voices that call for her name.

“I…I am a Crowmond…and a…a Tarmund…” she trembles as she recalls Mother’s words, clinging onto them and herself as if her life depended on them. She cannot cry, must not cry, and she tastes iron in her mouth as she bites down hard on her lip. “…and…in my body is the blood of…the blood…of…”

“…nothing left but a red stain in the forest!”

Just like before that fateful meeting, the youngest child of the Imperial Royal family is left all alone in the darkness. But Ellana is not afraid of the dark. What she is scared of is its absence, and her worst nightmare, even beyond the crone's prophecy, has come to terrifying life.

In the years that would, the mere mention of Princess Ellana Crowmond would send shivers down the villagers of Westholm. No matter how much time had passed, even the most addled elder would never forget that horrible scream of despair from inside the carriage.

========

>Roll 1d100 Encounter.

Rolled 46 (1d100)

>>2888234

Rolled 79 (1d100)

>>2888234

Rolled 21 (1d100)

>>2888234

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>>2888236
>>2888238
>>2888244
>Winter 75, 238 ACR

>>You obtained the following from Feija, the Dragon Priestess:
>The Dark Grimoire: A book wrapped in dragonskin, chronicling the Age of Smoldering Ash as told by a barbarian elder. Its study may yield a permanent “+” to Knowledge among other prizes.
>The Pale Blade: A dagger forged from the tooth of a High Dragon. Eternally sharp, it will bypass and penetrate through all armor, regardless of its material.
>Vizhorek’s Ward: A charm forged from the poisonous scale of Vizhorek the Calamitous. It’s wearer gainst a +50 check to rolls made to Resist Poison.
>You are left with 1 Drakilng Gemstone.

Feija had been the first to depart. One the trade had been accomplished, five drakling gemstones for three artifacts of power, there was little left for both of you to accomplish. Further talk was unnecessary, a waste of time given how you reacted to her advances. And even without her attempts of seduction, there’s just enough culture within your body to take an automatic stance of loathing for her so-called faith.

“Another time then, Marcus,” she had said, gathering her materials and securing her mask of bone. Those eyes glittered, half-veiled orbs of gold, with an amused expression from the hollow sockets of her ornament. “Perhaps you’ll have more gemstones to trade…or you’ll have come to regret not taking what I had to offer…”

As she folded her arms beneath her breasts, you scowled, and her laughter rolled through the forest. Smoothing out the coarse and rough cloth of her skirt, she dipped, bowing just maddeningly low enough to expose a generous portion of her chest.

“May your gods walk with you, Marcus Painel,” the barbarian whispers before disappearing into the forest, “And keep you safe until our next meeting…”

You never mentioned anything about having faith. Not that she would have cared in the slightest. The gods are the gods, but as they do not trouble or otherwise exert any influence upon you, you have little desire or time to make obeisance or sacrifice in their names.

However, you are more than willing to use their names, albeit in profanities and vain. “…Pale Lady take you, Feija…all the way down to Hel.”

That had all been yesterday. Talking with Feija and making your way through the deep woods of the Köingswald. The fresh snowfall had not proved to be too much of an obstacle, but it had been enough to make a journey by foot almost an unbearable slog. By the time twilight came, and the sun began to set over the distant peaks of the Whrelzwth, you couldn’t have traveled for more than ten miles through deep and darkened wood.

(cont.)

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Perhaps it’s the lingering scent of drakling on your body? Any fresh kill lingering on your body should have drawn wild animals to you like dogs to scraps of meat. Perhaps if your prey had been a deer, an auroch or anything other than a demidragon, you might have been in danger. Perhaps that unintended “bath” had an unexpected benefit.

But even with a full day’s worth of distance between you and the crater, you’re still digging out tiny flecks of dried blood from underneath your fingernails. And you can’t even begin to imagine what the smell would be like after a few days of stewing in your own grimy armor and oily hair.

You made shelter in a mighty oak, a venerable trunk with arms as thick as barrels. It’s not nearly high enough for you to see past the tree line, but just high enough to make out the distant lights of a nearby village. Westholm, and it can’t be anything else. At least another half-day’s hike, no more than five or six miles.

Securing yourself to a sturdy branch, you recline against the trunk, watching the waning moon rise over the top of the forest. What light it shines is scant, obscured by clouds that crawl slowly across the evening sky. The silence of the night is only broken by the gentle murmurs of the wind, rocking the branches and disturbing the snow that’s settled upon the boughs.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had some thoughts and time to yourself. And you find that the solitude your circumstances have found you in is not entirely unwelcome. In the wake of both caravan attacks, there is something of worth to merely gaze up at nothing and lose yourself in thought.

Many things have happened since that night in the slums…but even the mere thought, just the reference alone brings a horrible pain in your chest. Yes, thoughts alone are fine, but you’re nowhere even near ready to even properly dwell upon your memories of her.

“…I’m still alive,” you mutter at nothing, extending a hand out towards the winter sky, “…is this what you want from me?”

The only answer the gentle breeze of cool winter air, gliding through your fingertips like gentle, delicate kisses.

>Winter 75, 238 ACR

By the time you manage to break out of the woodlands proper, the sun’s been up for at least three hours. The road leading to Westholm is little more than trodden mud and churned slush, but it is a welcome sight after two nights of deep snow, and all the things hidden underneath them. Gods know only how many times your boots caught on exposed roots and other detritus.

But before you even manage a handful of steps along the mess of the road, a commotion can be heard just further down the way. You frown, concentrating and just briefly closing your eyes to discern the cause of the rabble. At least two voices, perhaps even more, and what sounds like a draft animal ahead.

(cont.)

Goddamned hurricane internet.

Retreating back into the edge of the forest, you advance, keeping low in the thicket and brambles. With every step you take, the voices become clearer with every passing second, and instead of two, you can now make out at least four distinct voices. Now, there are three unruly and angry shouting men, whose collective voices nearly overpower the calm, disaffected tones of another man.

“I ain’t gonna ask you again. Your money or your life!”

Ah. Daylight robbery, it seems.

From behind a boulder, you can see the offending voices. A group of five men in filthy, tattered clothing have surrounded a horse-drawn wagon, filled with barrels of indeterminate stock. Holding the reins of his frightened animals, the victim in question is a bearded, fair haired and featured man in his early thirties. His traveler’s clothes give no indication as to his trade, and you cannot see any weapon in his possession save for a walking stick at his seat.

A merchant is the most obvious answer. But what would a merchant be doing without hired guard or escort, especially in the dead of winter.

“You must be truly brave warriors to prey upon a defenseless man,” the driver remarks in a humorless tone of voice, “And skulk about in the shadows like rats waiting for the first sign of a meal.”

The lead bandit, wielding a cutlass of all things, waves the edge of his blade threateningly at the driver’s face. “Say something smart again and I’ll have your tongue out along with your guts, pretty boy.”

The merchant snorts derisively. “You’re ten years too young to even think about calling me ‘boy’ when all you’re capable of is a scraggly patch of hair that even a goat would be ashamed to possess.”

He’s certainly not helping his case, you note wryly. The insult draws stifled laughter from the bandit’s friends, and their leader turns purple in a near rage. It would be folly for him to ignore the insult. He would lose face and his authority of leadership would be questioned.

“I’ll show you a goat, old man!” Waving his cutlass wildly, the bandit leader makes ready to run the merchant through.

>Intervene. Might as well play lawman while you’re here.
>Walk away. This isn’t your problem and the caravan is waiting.
>Custom option.

>>2890023
>Intervene. Might as well play lawman while you’re here.
And more importantly we can get a ride hopefully. We've been walking for two days.

>>2890023
>>Intervene. Might as well play lawman while you’re here.
The merchant is either suicidal or is so confident for a good reason. The former we might ignore, but the possibility of the latter? This is worth investing some time on.

Also, we might get a free ride out of this.

>>2890023
>other
Watch what happens and then intervene last second if it's clear the merchant isn't some crazy secret wizard or bloodmage

>>2890023
>>Intervene. Might as well play lawman while you’re here.

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>>2890034
>>2890041
>>2890053
>>2890142
The relationship you have with Imperial Law and its enforcers can be best described as “messy”. You’ve never outright killed any of the capitol guards whenever they made forays into the slums, but you’ve done plenty of other things to otherwise hinder their patrols and punitive expeditions. Stealing everything from coin purses to weapons, sabotaging their rations with nonlethal poison…the worst thing you might have done is knock someone out just a *little* too hard.

Still, while you were and still are a far away thing from a lawman or militia levy, you suppose that nothing bad would come out of helping this suicidal merchant. If nothing else, you might even get a free ride the rest of the way to Westholm. The least he can do when he’s surrounded by so much steel.

You are completely out of bombs and poisons, with only your two main weapons and a handful of throwing knives at your disposal. This is more than enough weaponry to take care of five measly bandits.

The first knife catches the leader right in the meat of his forearm. For a moment, merchant and criminal stare in surprise at the weapon before they both make their respective moves.

The bandit has no time at all to even bark out or scream an order before the merchant kicks his staff into his hands, driving the head into the leader’s sternum. What sounds like a sharp CRACK echoes across the road as the leader goes flying off of the wagon.

“I’ll keep you entertained then,” he says, quickly following the sobbing man off the front of the wagon. Kicking the cutlass underneath his vehicle, he brandishes his staff as if he would a spear. “Well, come on, then! Don’t leave me hanging here alone!”

>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.
>Nonlethal. The village of Westholm will decide their fates.
>Custom option.

>>2890154
>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.

They're bandits. all that awaits them in town is a noose.

>>2890154
>>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.
But if they start running don't chase em. We've got a charge to get back to.

>>2890154
>>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.

>>2890154
>>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.
they're just bandits, and the extra effort required for nonlethal work isn't worth the risk.

>>2890154
>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.

>>2890154
>>Lethal. Those who live by the sword must die by the sword.

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>>2890163
>>2890211
>>2890224
>>2890250
>>2890310
No one is going to miss these men, but you won’t begrudge yourself the effort of chasing down anyone who tries to flee. There’s naught else for them to go save for Westholm, where the noose and hangman wait, or the forest, where they’d find a slow death by frostbite or exposure.

Leaping off of the boulder, you throw your last set of knives, aiming for what vital points you can. One misses its mark, and another one only goes into someone’s shoulder, but at least two sink into somebody’s neck. It’s all the bastard can to do clutch his neck and rasp out a pitiful gurgle as he pitches forward into the mud.

Whatever is underneath the thick hides and furs of the merchant’s coats, it is most certainly not fat. He plies his staff like a seasoned warrior, engaging two of the bandits on the other side of the cart without pause or concern. Deflecting swords, dancing around clumsy thrusts, he parries and counters with expert maneuvers. As he catches one man’s blow with the top of his staff, the momentum brings the other end in a devastating arc towards his comrade’s hand. The bandit yowls, dropping his sword to clutch the broken fingers of his dominant hand.

It seems that you will not need to worry about him. This mysterious merchant seems more than capable of handling his foes.

Together, the two of you dispatch of the bandits with almost little difficulty. Only one has the sense to flee, the man with the broken fingers. And by the time his stumbling form disappears down the road in a flapping panic of roughshod and tattered fabric, the rest are either dead or in the process or dying.

As you collect your knives, you watch as the merchant stands over the body of the leader, who mewls pitifully at the sight of the man, slipping in the mud as he tries to get away.

“Mercy,” He whispers, “…please…”

The man seems almost offended. “…mind who you call a goat in the next life, boy.”

You do not shy your gaze as the man raises his staff before bringing it down upon the bandit’s neck. Even with its end dull from years of walking, the sheer force of his blow punches through the bone, the hollow of his throat and out the other end of his body. It is not a pleasing sight nor a quick death in the slightest.

Even as he begins to drown in his own blood, the leader thrashes wildly, gripping the staff in some vain effort to try and remove it from his neck. And for his part, the merchant watches with a bored expression as his convulsions slow, then cease utterly, and the drumming motions of his feet come to a final, silent stop.

There is a meaty noise as the man retracts his staff. He glances at the bloody meat on his weapon, clicking his tongue in annoyance. But he sets it into the ground, carefully lifting the man’s body with the same disinterest as one might haul a sack of potatoes.

At your silence, he shrugs, “Can’t leave trash lying about on the road, can I?”

(cont.)

“…I don’t suppose it’s proper,” you slowly agree.

The man chuckles. “Glad to see someone who agrees with me on that point. Ah, but where are my manners…” He drops the corpse unceremoniously back into the mud, either oblivious or uncaring as to the mess it makes out of the bottom of his clothes.

Pulling his staff from the ground and thrusting his free hand towards you, he introduces himself with a flourishing bow, “The name’s Krabat. Travelling Krabat, the inns along the road call me. And it’s a pleasure to meet the young man who shares my low opinion of human debris.”

He pronounces his name strangely, almost rolling the “r” of the first syllable and enunciating as if coughing. But “Travelling” seems to be the correct nickname. This man is a long way from his southern home in the Archduchy of the Hinterlends, where the peasants roll their “r”s, never stop dancing and are by far the happiest people in the Empire.

>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”
>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”
>“Where did you learn to fight like that?”
>"You're a very long way from home, Herr Krabat."
>Custom option.

>>2890438
>>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”
>>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”

>>2890438
>>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”
>>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”

>>2890438
>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”
>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”

>>2890438
>>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”
>"You're a very long way from home, Herr Krabat."
>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”

>>2890466
This.

>>2890438
>>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”
>"You're a very long way from home, Herr Krabat."
>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”

>>2890438
>>“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Marcus.”
>>"You're a very long way from home, Herr Krabat."
>>“Could I trouble you for a ride to Westholm?”

>>2890438
I've missed this
>>2890466
Ditto

>>2890447
>>2890455
>>2890460
>>2890466
>>2890475
>>2890614
>>2891087
>>2891152
As far as introductions go, Krabat’s candor is definitely more welcome than that of Feija’s seductive overtones. His odd behavior is certainly a mark against him, but that could be reasoned with the mannerisms of Hinterlenders.

“The name’s Marcus,” you say, taking his hand in a firm grip. His fingers are coarse and rough, the digits of a seasoned warrior. “And you are a very long way from home, Herr Krabat.”

“Acht,” he spits, “None of those titles! I am but a humble miller. Krabat or Traveling Krabat will do fine. However, you are right…I am a very long way from home. It’s never this cold down south. And here I am, bundled up like some fattened seal pup, waiting to be hunted!”

“…Krabat, then. What brings you this far north?”

“Business!” He slaps the side of the wagon with a meaty fist. “You’d be surprised by how much people are willing to pay for an extra bushel or five of grain.”

How strange. Most millers would be in their villages, not traveling the continent during the worst parts of winter. But, there is an opportunity, and you’d be a fool not to take it. “And you’re going up to Westholm?”

“Aye. They’ve been buying my grain for years now. I’m actually quite late. Damn drakling was terrorizing the roads.”
It takes considerable effort for you to stem the sudden font of smugness in your heart. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a ride to the village?”

Krabat sniffs to himself, sneezing before returning to his grisly task. Lifting the bandit’s corpse with that same casual indifference, he turns towards you, gesturing to the mess around the cart. “Tell you what. Give me a hand with this, and I’ll give you that ride. Deal?”

This would not be the first time you’ve had to dispose of multiple corpses, you think wryly. And it’s not like you smell of fresh soap and lavender yourself. “Deal. So long as we don’t have to bury them.”

“What, these bastards?” He drops the corpse once more, gesturing to the bloody road around you. “They aren’t deserving of a full six feet, let alone a cremation. No, just…toss them back into the trees there. Perhaps they’ll provide the wilds more in death than they ever did in life…”

The bandits are unceremoniously dropped into a nearby ravine, denied even a simple covering of leaves or forest loam. You offer no words, and neither does Krabat. He merely shakes his head, muttering something and gesturing to ward off the evil eye before setting back towards his wagon.

(cont.)

Once you clamber into the front of the wagon, the self-proclaimed miller flicks the reins, and sets his animals at a moderate trot. The cart jerks forward, with every rotation squeaking and creaking a rough and grating melody, and the two of you are off to Westholm!

“So tell me, Marcus-who-hides-behind-boulders,” he says, “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s a young man of your stature and armament doing in the forest? You don’t like an imperial huntsman, but you’re armed to the teeth and gilded in fine armor.”

>“I am a vagabond adventurer, drifting where the winds blow.” (Lie)
>“I am the Imperial Crownguard to her highness Princess Ellana.” (Truth)
>“What is a warrior of your skill and caliber doing as a miller?” (Deflect)
>Custom option.\

>>2891251
>I'm with a caravan from the capital(Or wherever the fuck we're coming from I forgot what it's called..)and got separated.

Also Kaz just visit a few prostitutes/brothels and that whole firstborn situation will be right as rain.

>>2891251
>>Custom option.\
>I'm a merchant guardsman. Got separated during a brawls a little ways back, trying to link back up with my caravan.

>>2891268
This also works.

>>2891251
>>I'm with a caravan from the capital(Or wherever the fuck we're coming from I forgot what it's called..)and got separated.

>>2891268
>>2891279

The capital is "Karthmire".

My PC is neutral. I'm not about to father a child for the sole purpose for it to die! I'm determined to weasel my way out of this deal. But what the DM doesn't know is that I'm bound by an oath of celibacy until certain conditions are met!

>>2891251
>>Custom option.
>"Bodyguard for a caravan that I got separated from. I believe they should be in Westfold." [Half-Truth]

>>2891200
>>2891286
Going with this.

>>2888196
I will say that in some cases, falling asleep would be very bad indeed. But those are usually from head injuries.

>>2890404
>unanimous vote for lethal
hah, good old Marcus.

>>2891251
>Bodyguard, got separated after a raid on the caravan. [Half-Truth]

I do like how we all pretty much simultaneously wrote in the same type of half truth.

>>2891286
Supporting a half truth.

>>2891374
Ditto

>>2891360
mimic

>>2891200
Man, we're basically a Witcher without the white hair and cat eyes

>>2891383
Kinda, but we're more of a people hunter than a monster hunter.
>inb4 dragon
yes, but it'd have been much easier with something meatier than daggers.

>>2891395
>This pussy can't even kill a dragon with a toothpick

>>2891395
I'm more concerned about what it will take to kill blutlinge. It's simply not sustainable from a resources perspective unless we can make something lots of people can use.

Landmines(easier than throwing), anti-magic blade oils, mobile ballistae.....banning blood magic is all well and good, but equipping everyone with magic weapons doesn't seem practical.

>>2891395

t. Someone who has never played Dragon's Dogma.

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>>2891283
Kaz, now that we've killed a Silver Rathalos, when are we going to get our talking cat best buddy?

>>2891422
I had "Dragon's Dogma" heavily on the mind when writing that sequence. And I'm beyond disappointed that a lot of the elements for that game didn't get brought over into MonHun World.

>>2891418
The term "Blutlinge" is an umbrella for monsters created by Blood Magic, but most of them have a healing factor that can be delayed or outright negated by high temperatures or spells/chemicals that wither away flesh. I.E., if you hit it hard enough, it shouldn't get back up.

But then you have other Blutlinge like Niranocs (think a cavalry hybrid of a xenomorph and an XCOM Chryssalid), Sanghuls, Bloat Trolls (heavy infantry), etc. that require different methods to take them down.

>>2891426
Depends on how gung-ho or how convincing you are to make a case for Adrianna to let Ellana fight. Granted, she's slightly bigger then a Felyne, but she's still quick enough on her feet, I suppose.

Writing...

>>2891454
>>2891426
I'm not sold on that. My cat spends 99% of his time getting rekt. I don't think the princess will survive.

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>>2891454
Can we dress her up in cute/silly outfits?

>>2891454
>most of them have a healing factor that can be delayed or outright negated by high temperatures or spells/chemicals that wither away flesh
So you're saying we have to invent the flamethrower. Let's do it.

>>2891469
>invent the flamethrower
Can we call it Dr. Marcus' Happy Time Toasty Warm Projector?

>>2891454
My hunter/ Ranger had two modes either Strafe with ALL the arrows, or climb up on you like a demon howler monkey and rip and tear with his daggers.

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>>2891482
My Hunter has one mode. Pic related.

Je suis monté

>>2891268
>>2891277
>>2891279
>>2891286
>>2891336
>>2891374
>>2891377
“Bodyguard for a caravan,” you answer lightly. The best lies are the ones that have truths in them, and you are telling a truth, albeit slightly truncated. “I got separated from then when the drakling attacked and I’m hoping they’ll be at Westholm. The village is where we would have stopped for water, food, rest for the animals and men.”

Krabat hums in acknowledgement, replying, “No wonder you look so awful. But you are very lucky, you know. It’s a rare man who can walk away from a drakling without receiving a mauling.”

The wince that tightens your face is not faked in the slightest. The monster took too many lives in both attacks. You hold little sadness for the deaths of all the knights, but you suppose that you can at least cringe at the wounds that killed them. “…I know. A lot of my…well, not exactly my friends, I suppose…comrades, fellow bodyguards…they didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The miller’s sorrow sounds completely genuine. “But was it worth what you were carrying? Could you not have waited for the monster, if not the season, to pass before setting out through the Köingswald?”

Exhaling deeply, you recline against the back of the seat as the image of a frightened princesses and a vial of chemicals comes to the front of your mind. “…it was inevitable and well worth the price.”

He looks taken aback by your blunt declaration. But he doesn’t otherwise make criticisms or cast judgment, for which you welcome in silent approval. The large man merely shrugs, gently flicking the reins of his animal. “Nothing short of the Emperor as my passenger would have me take my wagon through drakling territory. And even then, he’d have to pay me a king’s ransom.”

Ellana is third in the line of succession, as the magical talent of her elder brother disqualifies him from inheriting. Gods forbid anything happen to the royal family, but Yaya’s prophecy still seems to weigh heavily on her mind. And you would be lying if you said that it had no effect on you. Still, the irony of protecting a potential empress tickles you in some morbid, humorous way.

As the daylight lengthens, the two of you make idle talk to pass the time, and you steer the conversation away from yourself as best you can. Not that the miller seems to mind. If anything, the Hinterlender is all but too happy to share some of his life with his newfound northern traveling companion.

The youngest of thirteen (thirteen!) sons, Krabat inherited the mill from his father when plague had laid low the rest of his family. He is not married (“I just haven’t found the right woman!”), but has a soft spot for the children of his village. He is illiterate, and pays a scribe eight silver crowns a day to take care of his accounts.

(cont.)

>>2887984
>That Song

Damn, that's good.

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>>2891533
It seems that with the passage of time and the deaths of the bandits, he seems to be in a better mood. Perhaps he is only angry when people are trying to rob him of his property, but the change from that proud, borderline arrogant persona to this amicable merchant-miller is…dramatic, for lack of a better word. Almost frightening.

“I thought he had been cheating me when he had become so jumpy of late,” he explains as the village comes into sight. The smoke of chimneys and charcoal pits had been spotted an hour ago, but it still took a long time for the buildings and palisade to come into actual sight. “So, I decided to stay the night in the mill to keep an eye on the lockbox. And he did return that night with company in tow, but they weren’t after my gold. That rascal thought he could bend the baker’s daughter over my grindstone in relative privacy without anyone’s notice!”

As the miller roars in laughter, the corners of your mouth twitch in sympathetic amusement. “I cannot even begin to imagine the confrontation you had.”

“Oh, I’m not nearly mean enough to embarrass him while his cock’s between his lady’s legs,” he says with a grin, “But I made a comment the following day about the unusual taste of the morning’s bread, and how sweet little Imma must have put some extra love into this batch. Poor lad turned about as white as a sheet.”

Krabat has barely any time to finish his story before the wagon and its occupants roll up to the entrance of the village. Two guards clad in chainmail and spears stand by a station at the front of the palisade, conversing with each other in low voices before you make your approach. Both straighten up and hold a hand out for the wagon to stop.

“State your names and business,” the one on the left says in a dour voice.

“Folcard!” He almost sounds offended. “It’s me, Krabat! Traveling Krabat. I’m here with this season’s shipment.”

Recognition dawns in both of their faces. Abbo, coughing into his gloves, regards the miller with a dirty look. “You’re late!”

“There was a drakling about,” he says, as if that explains everything.

Which it does. Both Folcard and the unnamed guard look to each other, shrugging before they turn back to the miller. “You, I recognize. Not the stranger.” He points to you.

But before you can even speak, he wraps an arm around you -close, close, too damn close-, before explaining, “This? This is Marcus! A traveling companion I met on the road. Helped me in a tight spot, he did, when bandits came to rob me! Says he’s supposed to meet up with some people he’s lost along the way.”

It takes every single fiber in your body to not violently wrench yourself away from the genial man’s impromptu embrace. There are only a few things more loathsome to than unexpected, unwanted touches. Especially from strangers, even from close associates, no matter how friendly their intentions are.

(cont.)

>>2891619
Thanks. I spent too much time agonizing and struggling with the meter and rhyming structure. It had to be one of those songs that you could recite as poetry AND sing without it coming off as heavy handed.

>>2891675
Forgive me for bringing up WoW, but it reminded me of this trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fo7XPvwRgG8
Pretty noice stuff

>>2891675
Well, you succeeded. I wonder what Lucien would think about it.

>>2891720
I can't wait for Marcus to learn about it.

>>2891695
I swear to God, I had that song and half a dozen other songs from fantasy RPGs stuck in my head while trying to come up with the lyrics for Giestlied. Good song, but it just wouldn't stop playing over and over in my head. Unrelated: baby girl's come a long way since Warcraft 3. Haven't played in years, but I still try to keep up with the lore. Admiral Proudmoore did nothing wrong.

>>2891720
He'd be proud in a twisted sort of way.

Writing...

>>2891725
GAS THE HORDE RACE WAR NOW

>>2891454
>I'm beyond disappointed that a lot of the elements for that game didn't get brought over into MonHun World
Kaz, this is capcom we're talking about. It's jaw-dropping how many different experiments they've tried with MH already.

I don't know if they'll add anything beyond the climbing mechanics that are definitely taking some notes from DD, but flat out attacking while latched on would wreck the balance on part breaking.

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>>2891666
But as if the miller senses your discomfort and growing hostility, he quickly lets you go, using both of his hands to pantomime to the guards about the five bandits that tried to rob him. “I’m not saying that you aren’t doing your jobs, but Giso needs to commit more of his levy to protect the trade roads. I can protect myself, but I’m not sure others are able to do so.”

The unnamed guard gestures helplessly. “Don’t complain to us! We can’t control anything about what the alderman does and doesn’t do. Besides, you said it yourself! Drakling’s about. We barely had enough time to call back the patrols ‘fore somebody got eaten.”

Krabat exhales heavily, slumping in his seat. “You’re right, but damn me if I’m not irritated at the attempted robbery. And I know how long Giso takes to send patrols back out into the wilds.

“So!” the miller claps his big hands, loud enough to cause both you and the guards to jump from the abrupt CRACK in the winter air. “You’ll let us through, yes? Let me just get my coin purse…”

Folcard almost looks embarrassed as he stares at the offered silver coin. A toll, then. “Uh…toll’s now three crowns-”

“Three crowns!” the miller says in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m being robbed for the second time today!”

Folcard’s partner steps forward, and the former seems all too happy to pull back away from Krabat, his staff and his large fists. “Alderman’s orders. Drakling blasted a section of the wall trying to get at one of the fishing boats. Fire burned down half of the northern structures before we could douse the flames.”

“…oh, very well…”After forking his coins towards the guards, they wave him through and let the wagon pass. Grumbling to himself about the scandalous nature of daylight robbery, Krabat snaps the reins and drives his horses into the township proper. “…bloody taxes…”
Before he drives too far into the town, you secure your belongings and ensure all of your equipment and prizes are on your person. It’s time to rejoin the imperial family, and you can’t leave the miller soon enough.

“Leaving already? Can’t be helped, then!” As you leap off of the wagon, Krabat waves a meaty hand towards you in farewell. “Take care of yourself, lad! And stay away from bad contracts and draklings!”

Even as some of the townsfolk stare at the sight, and your ears burn with slight embarrassment, you manage to return the miller’s gesture with a wave of your own. You offer no words, but he doesn’t seem to mind. With a big smile and a final “goodbye!”, he drives his wagon further into the down, eventually disappearing when he turns into a corner.

Now, with that all taken care of…if you were the royal convoy, where would you-

“Painel…? Holy…Painel, is that you?!”

You know that voice. It’s one you’ve fought and bled alongside with…

>A barbaric knightess.
>A clever archer.
>A sullen sorcerer.

>>2891855
>A sullen sorcerer.
He needs to do not magic things

>>2891855
>A clever archer.
The less interaction with the THOTbarian the better

>>2891855
>A sullen sorcerer

it just SOUNDS like something Silverrowe would say.

Urath would use less words, and probably invoke his gods.

Bellatrix would be more crass.

>>2891855
>>A sullen sorcerer.

>>2891855
>a gar arch-
I mean
>a clever archer
so how many offers of sex has Marcus rejected already?

>>2891888
Lucien trained him in seduction, so probably VERY many over the course of the training.

>>2891888
2 definite ones (Bellatrix and Firja)

And one more depending on how serious Klara was.

>>2891850
Don't get me wrong, I'm still floored about what they did with MHW. I just feel...well, what's the word? Feels like I'm missing something else in MHW that I could only get in DD that wasn't related to story or graphics. Abilities, maybe? Granted, playing on the 3DS for God knows how many years makes the new combat look...weird with MonHun back on the console.

>>2891855
>A sullen sorcerer.

"You should duck. I'm about to turn left and I don't want to smack you with my erection."

>>2891855
>>A sullen sorcerer.

>>2891855
>>A sullen sorcerer.
If he asks us what happened, the only thing we should say is "Killed a drakling." in the most matter of fact way possible.
Like it's something we do regularly.

>>2891855
>>A sullen sorcerer.

>>2891901
Abilities? Do you mean the passives? Between Hunter Arts and Mantles/Tools, I think they've done plenty of experiments into actives.

I DO think they could have more interesting passives than "deal more damage" or "nullify thing that bothers you".

>>2891925
The Dragon's Dogma skills were fucking nerat.

On command weaposn enchants, AOE fire burns, ice walls for zoning, mystic tracing arrows, climbing a monster and knifing the shit out of it, etc.

>>2891866
Fuck it, ditto

>>2891939
>blade oils, wystones, offensive mantles
>torch pods, land mines
>psychoserum, scoutfly tracking
>mounting
I'm seeing quite a few parallels.

Granted, on-command walls would be pretty damn cool, but I understand it'd be a nightmare to balance that against mount spam. More persistent fire attacks would be neat too.

>>2891939
Don't forget:
>raining meteors from the sky
>localized earthquake
>a gorillion icicles the size of a building
>a fucking tornado
>lightning whip
>rapid fire machinegun orbs
>SETTING YOURSELF ON FIRE HOLY SHIT
>arc of obliteration

>>2891939
My personal favorite is lighting yourself on fire.

Mystic Archer is so fucking fun. A shame that you need to spend time as sorcerer to get the most out of it.

>>2891957
Oh it also had exequy, which killed most enemies in one hit if you were good with it.


>>2891960
Yup

>>2891962
Yeah I maimed Ranger. That strafe was too fun with the stun on the longbows.

>>2891972
Assassin is my personal favorite, since I prefer swords over daggers. I really wanted to like Warrior, but the 3 skill limit kills that class.

>>2891978
Yeah compared to every other class having 6 it was p bad.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKf1mL_hgPk

>>2888186
I am quite happy Berchar survived. I wonder if they'll be able to put him back together to the point he'll be functional. Maybe with magic?

>>2891855
>>A sullen sorcerer.

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>>2891866
>>2891877
>>2891884
>>2891902
>>2891910
>>2891913
>>2891922
>>2891955
>>2892101
Silverow looks almost disturbed to see you alive, as if your presence in Westholm is a grave offense against nature itself. His face is not the pale complexion of one who has seen a ghost, but that of incredulous shock…that slowly gives way to anger?

“Where the fuck have you been?!” You blink, taken aback by the intensity of his voice, and the fact that this is the first time you’ve heard the sorcerer curse. He almost stomps towards you, uncaring of the splatter every step kicks up or the frightened looks of the villagers. His fingers move and clench wildly as if he’s about to strangle somebody.

…he could try, a dark voice in the back of your mind says, but you banish it as swiftly as it comes. Clear heads must prevail. Thus, it is with no small amount of will that you do not move or resist as he grabs the hems of your cloak in a white-knuckled grip.

“Nothing could have survived that fall!” he shouts, almost spitting into your face, “The two of you were at least thousands of feet off from the ground before the monster plummeted! Unless this is some cruel joke or specter come to haunt me-”

“Killed the drakling,” you say as straightforward as you could. At his bewildered expression, you sling the sack off of your back, shaking the prizes you looted from the demidragon’s corpse. “See? I brought home some trophies-”

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be glib. What confusion on his face quickly turns to anger as he comes close to knocking your bag out of your hand. “Acht, what the hell-?”

Silverow almost glows with incandescent rage. “Do you know how worried we were?!” This time, the spit does get into your face. Without a shadow of a doubt, this is the angriest as you’ve ever seen him to be. “We sent out so many search parties, Urath hasn’t gotten any sleep…and here you come, waltzing back into town like some kind of…cavalier adventurer!”

He pauses, taking a cautionary sniff with his nose. Only now does his mind register the odor of your body, and he pulls away as if you were a leper. Gagging and spitting into the mud, he glares at you with an expression that could melt a frozen lake. “…and you smell like one too.”

You scowl as you snap back a retort, “Well excuse me for finding some joy in coming back from fighting against a drakling. And killing it as well.”

“Really?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Why don’t you go share that news to Urath when he gets back from his eight search into the woods…or the Crowmonds…better yet..." His eyes glint with a mirthless light. "...Princess Ellana.”

At the mention of her name, any sort of pretense at amusement or nonchalance leaves your body. Now, it’s your turn to play the aggressor as you grab the sorcerer by the shoulders, almost shaking him with a violent intensity. “What happened to her?! Is she alright?!”

(cont.)

>>2892148
>Urath when he gets back from his eight search into the woods
H-How long were we gone? It was only a couple of days, right?

>>2892153
It's been 16 years since Marcus vanished into the woods on the back of a Drakling.

>>2892153
Three I think. We slept off our fight where we fell then walked for two days until we got on to the wagon

>>2892148
There’s almost a sort of grim satisfaction in his face, even as you shake him so hard that he might bite his tongue off. “…you shouldn’t have taken your time to come back, Painel…”

>>Later

“She’s been in there for…well, in a few hours, it’ll be almost two days come twilight,” Ser Hagerson intones grimly. The captain of the Eagle Knights looks no more worse for the wear than he did when he set out to fight the drakling, but he looks as if he had aged an entire decade since you last saw him. “We’ve been keeping a watch, leaving food outside, asking for her to come out but…”

From the way he shakes his head, a weary helplessness on his face, the answer is clear.

Set before the alderman’s house, the carriage lays almost innocuously in the village commons. It still bears the scars from battle, some shallow gouges in the frame where the drakling gripped too tight, or how some of the paint chipped away or faded from rogue splinters and the heat of its breath. The wheelhouse is a true testament to its crafter, that it survived not only two drakling attacks, but a rebel ambush as well.

Pullman is nowhere to be seen, perhaps still recovering from his terrible injuries. His Eagle Knights remain, however, forming a protective circle around the carriage where Princess Ellana has locked herself away. And whatever she did, she did it hard enough to damage the lock that would have otherwise let anyone from the caravan into the wheelhouse.

“…where are the rest of them?” Your voice is surprisingly weak. “…the Crowmonds, her siblings…”

Silverow exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose as if struggling to remember something. “…the temple, praying for their sister under Vulpine’s watch. Maybe the gods will be more receptive to their pleas rather than their sister.”

Aghast, you turn towards the sorcerer. “And none of you could convince her to come out?”

“Aye,” the knight captain says, before Silverow could answer, “She responded to nothing. Food, clean clothes, her siblings…” Hagerson’s face contorts into an unreadable expression. “Lad, you weren’t here. She was…the princess was screaming. Something one of those fucking villagers said about the death of the drakling just caused her to just…”

It suddenly clicks into place with a heavy impact that leaves you weak in the knees. “…she thinks that I’m dead?”

“Aye, took you long enough,” the sorcerer grouses irritably, kicking away a stray stone in a fit of pique, “Gods above, Lord Commander Palme never trained us on how to handle these kinds of situations…”

What plans you had for a joyous, triumphant reunion quickly fall apart as a terrible guilt crashes heavily on your shoulders. This…this wasn’t supposed to…she’s…

…an eight year old girl. A mere child who fainted at the sight of a monster, and woke to find one of the closest people in her life gone without a trace.

(cont.)

>>2892193
....man, it's kinda weird not having super jaded mature children who can knife a dude faster than you can blink.

>>2892193
Silverow is…could you have saved time by not looting the drakling? What about meeting and bartering with Feija? The treks in the woods, fighting bandits alongside Krabat…time, time, time, all that time that you could have spent to return as quickly as you could to Ellana’s side…

And for a terrible moment, you’re not in Westholm. You’re back there, in the slums of Karthmire, returning to a ransacked home and a dead sorceress. And all the while as you slowly went insane, screaming challenges at opponents that had long since departed, those questions of time, always time, eat away at your psyche like flame devouring paper.

Both sorcerer and knight captain flinch violently as you draw your dagger, stabbing yourself in the meat of your hand. With the pain comes the return to reality, and ahe vision melts away. No more images of a broken girl with hair the color of flaxen wheat, no more shattered dreams of a future that will never be, no more questions about time…

The wound is just deep to cause horrendous pain, but not nearly enough to punch through the bone of your hand. You ignore the cries and noise of dozens of people as you withdraw the knife, sheathing it in your belt as you tear a strip of cloth from your cloak. Bandaging the wound as best you can, securing the knot with a hard and fierce bite, you turn towards Hagerson and Silverow.

“…let me talk to her,” you quietly whisper, “…just…stand back and…I’ll fix this.”

They do not give verbal assent for you to step forward, but they make no effort to stop you. And with the stares of sorcerer, captain, knights and villagers alike on the small of your back, you advance past the circle and towards the carriage.

“…go…away…” It is barely audible, the voice that comes muffled through the door. The mud, you realize. She can hear your footsteps. But to your worry, you can’t tell if her voice is weak from hunger and thirst, or just…that mournful and lifeless. “…leave me…alone…”

>>Tread very carefully.
>>This is a pivotal moment of Princess Ellana’s life, and your actions will have a permanent and significant influence on her outlook, for good or for ill.

>How will you approach Ellana?
>Write-in.

Hitting the hay. Will resume after Mass tomorrow.

>>2892202
We can't have all of our young waifs in fiction be Arya Stark. And she was 9, not 8. :P

>>2892215
>It's me your majesty, Marcus
>I'd like you to have trust in my skills, I am your protecter after all
Completely deadpan, we survived it's no biggie

>>2892215
Don't know what exactly we can say to her but we need to emphasize that this self-destructive behay cannot be tolerated.

"I will die one day. That is the truth. All I can do is make sure that when that day comes, you won't need me anymore."

>>2892215
Shit, how do we approach a traumatized little girl exactly?

Although I support this >>2892221.

Don't say anything like >>2892217, it's basically a promise of I won't die. Think about what will she do if we actually die for real.

>>2892215
We need to be gentle, comforting, she needs comforting right now. To be told things are OK. We can have a harsh lesson about mortality later.

>>2892215
>Everything is alright, Ellana. Though there may come a day when true tragedy strikes, today is not that day. The life you saved will not fall so easily, and it is that very way we touch people's lives that can overturn anything.

>>2892215
Maybe something like
>"There will be a day I die, but it's not today. Still, you can't lock yourself away and wither. We're all destined to die someday and I'd want to know my death meant you kept on living and fighting instead of wasting away in mourning."

>>2892215
>It's me Your Majesty, Marcus. I apologize for my tardiness. May I enter?
> Princess, I am truly honored that someone could worry so much for me, but I can't bear to see you so broken. You are of royal blood, there might be a time where you're called to make difficult choices or witness unpleasant events - and so, you can't let fear destroy what you are. Fear can be a fine counselor, but it should never rule over a person lest it swallows her whole. I don't wish such a future for you, Your Majesty.

My two cents on the matter.

>>2892280
Backing.

Also maybe a joke like:
"Your also 2 days of lessons late"

>>2892215
>"It's Marcus your majesty. I apologise for my tardiness. It took longer than expected to find my way back to you after the fight.

I know you've been worried and worse since you've heard the events of my attempt to divert the drakling, but I'm a bit tougher than I look and would do everything in my power to stay by your side once more. I don't plan on dying anytime soon.

That said, there may be a day I do fall and the last thing I want to see from the afterlife is you wasting away like this out of despair. Grieve, mourn, but make sure you *live* your life afterwards. Can you promise me that Princess Ellana?"

>>2892193
>“…you shouldn’t have taken your time to come back, Painel…”
>Silverow is…could you have saved time by not looting the drakling?

Looting the dragon and talking to Feija combined took like two hours. Bathing in dragons blood kept the wildlife away from us potentially saving more time. Fighting 5 minutes got us wheels that saved time. Are you really trying to guilt trip us for pennies in the dollar?

>you draw your dagger, stabbing yourself in the meat of your hand.
Autism, but I guess this is Marcus

>>2892355
I think we could have saved 1 day tops, but it wouldn't have been worth it.

>>2892357
I feel we could only have shaved off one day (if that) if we didn't rest right after the fight and immediately worked our way back while fatigued. Which could have led to a different set of problems.

>>2892367
i mean, that's exactly what I said.

>>2892217
>>2892286
>>2892355
She's a princess her proper title is Highness.

Majesty is for kings and queens.

>>2892215
It's Marcus your highness. I am sorry it took me so long to return, but I made the best speed I could.

While I am flattered you mourn me, I wish you would not break down at my loss. Everyone dies eventually, but I am sworn to your service to protect you at any means possible, even if it costs me my life.

>>2892215
...she's too attached to us. We're just a fancy bodyguard, our supposed death shouldn't hit her this hard. If nothing else, it makes us a weak point in the royalty.

>>2892221
I'll back this, as long as it's not what we open with. Initial contract should be gentle.

>>2892445
The second part feels too formal.

>>2892215
"Your highness, it's me, Marcus. May I enter?"

After she throws the door open and tackle hugs us, give her a gentle hug and rub her back.

"I'm sorry Ellana. I never meant to make you cry."

After she's calmed down and gotten some food and water in her do a combo of >>2892221 >>2892280 >>2892286
>>2892355 and finish off with >>2892351 when she's feeling a bit better.

>>2892280
Baaaackiiiiing

add:
>"One should not feel guilt for mourning, one should not deny those feelings and one should respect their intensity and live them out fully.

>In days like these we can't let ourselves be consumed with sorrow, however. We must grieve by acting in honor of those who died that we may live another day.

Getting caught up after sleeping, but I'm kind of annoyed that Kaz went with the 'killed a drakling, lol' response, which only one anon suggested, because now we look like a massive asshole who took their sweet time getting back.

>>2892806
I’m with this Anon, seemed a little...eh.

>>2892806
>>2892823
Logged and noted. And truth be told, rereading it now, definitely something I shouldn't have done. I think in my tired, working-at-2-AM brain, it looked good, but now...I can see where a point of contention might arise. I'll be careful not to incorporate hanger-ons like this in the future.

Writing...

>>2887984
Aight dude. This was something quite well done. Imma catch up the thread now but this alone is impressive.

>>2892878
Write.

Faster.

>>2892878
Also point out that if you die protecting her, your worst fear is her not carrying on. To live happy the way you wish her too, not to throw away the sacrifices made in her name.

>>2893751
Calm your tits bro. He's got a headache.

>>2892806
>>2892823
To be fair, I can see where you're coming from, but Silverow and everyone else is being unreasonable too.

We expected a "Good Job, Marcus. Glad you came back alive." not a "You took three days to come back after killing a Drakling and falling from the sky. This is all your fault, how fucking dare you!"
The optimal thing would have been to tell him we killed the drakling, then in his moment of confusion moved him out of the way and went straight to Ellana.
If anything Marcus was far too nice when Silverow was giving him shit about this.

>>2892878
I like it when you do hanger-ons though, it gives more of a feeling we're actually contributing then just reading a story you write based on one of three or four options.

>>2894307
No, the optimal thing would have been to immediately ask where Ellana is, not seemingly brag about killing a monster that took down countless knights and showing off our loot.

>>2894307
>The optimal thing would have been to tell him we killed the drakling, then in his moment of confusion moved him out of the way and went straight to Ellana.
The first part, yes, but markus had no reason to know ellana would have a literal panic attack. that sort of meta knowledge is why I don't like perspective switches. This hostility is completely uncalled for. "I survived!" "What the fuck is wrong with you!?"

>>2894318
Man, we killed a fucking drakling. We're allowed to brag, it's a huge achievement and we trusted the other crownsguard to take care of Ellana until we returned. Instead, she's become so attached to us she has a breakdown and instead of cutting us off and telling us about it immediately, we're given shit and told we didn't come back fast enough even though we walked from deep forest to town in the middle of snowfall, after falling from the sky and hitting the ground.

As well, we need to try and get Ellana off this tight of a dependancy on us and asking "Where's Ellana? Why isn't Ellana on screen?" whenever she's not in view is counterproductive.

>>2894362
>get Ellana off this tight of a dependency on us
This.
Anyone got any ideas for starting to wean her off us without being cold or harsh?

>>2894362
I agree with you about them giving us uncalled for shit for not getting back to the convoy faster, and I'm all for making her less dependent on us, but our job is to make sure our charge is safe. Hell, just asking if she was okay or not would have been preferable to going "Killed the Drakling, and here are his testicles in a bag" to the first person we see.

>>2894409
Killing the Drakling ties into making sure our charge is safe. We didn't run off to hunt some random monster, we did it to kill the thing that killed half our knights and wouldn't leave us alone.
Going "killed the drakling, here are his testicles in a bag." tells we accomplished what we set out to do. We killed the thing threatening our charge and we have proof of it.

>>2893882
I know. I've just been drinking and I don't care for people bitching.

The vote and the writing were in line with Marcus, who is given to understated honesty anyways.

Like >>2894362 said, we DID kill a Drakling.

And our reaction regarding Elana is on point too. We assumed she would be safe with everyone else, but ironically it's very in line for Marcus to not realize how big of an impact him dying would leave.

Marcus expects to die in her service at some point after all.

>>2892878
Hey Kaz, are you still writing or are you out of it entirely?

>>2895386
I think I have one or two more in me before I give out completely for the rest of the night.

Writing...

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>>2892217
>>2892221
>>2892233
>>2892237
>>2892245
>>2892280
>>2892286
>>2892351
>>2892355
>>2892445
>>2892522
>>2892569
This cannot continue, and damn Ellana’s wishes to be left in solitude. And you would make a poor bodyguard if you could not even save your charge from her own self-destruction. Because it seems that for all the maturity of the princess in her studiousness and wit, the mortality and frailty of man are subjects she has little to no knowledge of.

Any other child of eight years might be familiar with death. War, famine, plague, monsters are all but constants that many of the disparate peoples of the continent have to suffer. And at her age, you had been a student of its art for a long time, killing men and women as Lucien ordered. But you could hardly fault her for the circumstances of her birth.

Of course, there is a question of whether or not this would have happened had you not been so close to her. Close enough that your alleged death would cause her to react in such a poor way. It is a point of contention that you find yourself surprisingly…loathe to approach. But is it guilt that keeps you from thinking too keenly on it? Or a morbid comparison to your own self-loathing?

These are questions and thoughts that you will have to face one day. But before any of that…

Resting your head against the door, you intone in a low, somber whisper: “…your highness, it’s…it’s Marcus. I’ve fulfilled my…no. Your highness, I’m so sorry for taking so long to return to you…”

Someone had left foodstuffs on the steps leading into the carriage. At one point, they might have been edible, but even the cold air of winter had not prevented spoilage. As poor as your own modest rations of salt pork and hardtack are, even a starving man might find them preferable to the congealed, frozen mess of whatever had been left.

There is no vocal response from the carriage. But before you try again, you can hear a faint noise from within, like somebody stirring, shifting themselves from where they lay against the door. Encouraged by these sounds, you continue, “…your highness, please…if you will not come out…will you not let me in? Everyone is worried, and you’ve not had anything to eat or drink…”

It is almost imperceptible, the soft clicking of a lock’s tumblers and pins coming to rest. Even harder to hear, competing with the whispers of the wind and the quiet roar of the village, is the whisper that shortly follows:

“…it’s cold outside…close the door behind you…”

At the expectant looks of both Silverow and Hagerson, you merely hold up your hand, a silent order to wait. Without any further words, you open the door, just wide enough to let you slip in and leave the sanctity of the wheelhouse undisturbed by the curious eyes of bored peasants. Then, as quick as you enter, you shut the door behind you and take special care to lock it once more.

(cont.)

>>2895596
and then they fugged. The End.

-wait, no, wrong script.

I wonder how the other princess is doing.

>>2895729
>Now that Marcus is gone, who'll be my lowborn love interest

is 4chan x shitting the bed for anyone else?

Sure is a long awkward silence between Ellana and Marcus here.

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>>2895596
The compartment appears unchanged and undisturbed, no different than when you had last been inside. The curtains are drawn shut, and what paltry light shines through the faded glass barely illuminates more than a handful of feet before you. But you are no stranger to working in dim lighting, even in starless nights as black as boiling pitch.

Suddenly, there is a noise, the soft whisper of heavy cascading onto the ground, and from what you assumed to be a pile of blankets and cushions emerges Ellana Crowmond.

The youngest princess of Aderveth has seen better days. Her eyes are swollen and her nose is the hue of an angry red, sniffing every few seconds. And what once was once an immaculate dress has become thoroughly wrinkled, stained with mud, with just the barest hints of an unwashed odor.

Both of your eyes meet, puffy golden-browns to your weary blues, holding for just a few quiet breaths. And then it is broken just as quickly. Ellana tosses her cushions and blankets, pushing off towards you with the speed only a young child might have. But you are still faster, catching her at the last moment before her head might have crashed into your armor.

“Easy, your highness,” you murmur, gently settling yourselves down against the door. Her wrists are so small, delicate things no more than about six inches in circumference. “I’m still in full-”

A dull thud to your chest cuts you off. It is not painful as much as it is a surprise. Looking down at the source reveals the same puffy eyes, a fresh set of tears, and a very, very, very upset princess hovering above your lap.

“Stupid!” Every single word is punctuated with a blow. Fearful as you are that she might injure herself, the better part of valor dictates you lay there and take the full brunt of the princess’ ire. And her strikes lack the force for her to even bruise her fists, at the worst. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Ansell would be dismayed. For all those lessons in the tower, it seems that she can only find one word to describe you in her pique. But she remains verbose enough to keep her voice steady, screaming, “Stupid Marcus! Fighting the monster all by yourself…when all the Eagle Knights could barely wound it…” She shakes her head, glaring at you with an intense anger. “…it’s nothing but stupid!”

You slowly nod. “I know.”

“And yet you…you…” She pauses in her blows, gesturing wildly with her hands, before pointing at some distant, unseen thing beyond the confines of the carriage. “…you ran out to be bait! ALONE!”

“I did.”

Her fist comes higher than your chest, and you think that she might strike your face. But that promise of violence never comes. The anger seems to evacuate from her body, dissipating like steam on a hot surface. The fierce scowl that creases her brow comes undone, and her tears flow free. And the strength leaves her legs as she collapses against your body.

(cont.)

>>2895914
>assassin for a bodyguard
>unearthly wails
>smells like dead dragon
Ellana is building up quite a reputation here

>>2895916
Imagine when we start to get a reputation for counter assassination

>>2895955
We don't need anymore reputation. Marcus already has stories and songs being written about him.

>>2895958
Honestly it's better for us to remain at a certain level of obscurity.

>>2895914
And so it begins: another 24+ hours between continued posts, again

>>2896396
I just avoid reading Kaz's posts until I see voting options.

It is unusual how he posts as he writes, instead of the more common writing of the entire section, then posting it all at once.

>>2896396
Eh. The quality level is high. Kaz could legitimately write a book and I'd want it.

>>2895914
Ellana weeps, uncaring at the unsightly display that she might have made for herself. And this time, her voice is no longer even. Her words are punctuated with shortness of breath and hoarse sobs. “…I thought…I thought you had died…and you left me all alone…”

Raising your good hand, you pull her into an embrace, which she returns as tight as she can. The bulk of your armor keeps her from completing her hug, prevents you from feeling anything beyond a slight pressure. But you don’t care. Just her mere presence is enough to ease the weight of the mountain-sized chip upon your shoulders.

Exhaling slowly so as not to disturb or shift her position, you softly whisper: “…I’m sorry, your highness…for causing you to worry.”

“…as you…you should be…”

The ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of your lips. “I thought you would have more faith in me. This is not the first time I’ve gone out to fight for your sake.”

“Draklings are…different…” she hiccups, frowning at you with a childish petulance, “…different from barbarians…and…and Blutlinge…”

“…not so different. In the end, they were all equals in perishing at the hands of the Crownguard of Princess Ellana Crowmond. Who has most definitely come back and survived worse misadventures and mishaps.”

Her small mouth twists into a thin, disapproving line. “…if you think that…that you can just…simply jape away…”

Ellana squirms as you bring your hand up, tousling her hair with gentle pats and caresses. There is no reason for her to resist, you think. It was already a mess before you began. This is what he would have done to calm her down or mend a point of contention in those earlier years. It seldom failed to yield a positive result.

“Frowns do not suit you, your highness,” you say patiently, meeting her sulking glare with a small smile, “And I mean what said. If a drakling cannot fell me, then you can rest assured that your Crownguard does not go down that easily. And I am...I am touched that you would shed tears for me.”

She sniffs, wiping the tears and snot from her face with the back of her sleeve. A most unladylike gesture if you ever saw one. “Of course I would…stupid Marcus. I made you a promise, remember?”

“I don’t know the details,” she says, placing one of her small hands atop your own, “But I sometimes catch you when you’re doing something, and you’re eyes…they’re distant, as if you’re daydreaming. Marcus, whatever haunts you…you don’t have to worry anymore. You’re with me now, and you’ve a new home among us and the rest of the Crownguard. You’re not alone anymore. I promise.”

“That’s right,” you answer, even as the memory of that day on the Midbridge summons a lump in your throat. “You did.”

(cont.)

>>2896451
This wasn't a criticism, by the way. Most QMs I know of post entire sections all at once so they can edit things before commiting.

When Queen will find out what happened Marcus is so fucked, so fucked...

>>2897097
She has bigger things to worry about. There is a spy informing the enemies of the crown the whereabouts of her children.

>>2896950
“That promise goes both ways,” she says, and her lower lip trembles with emotion, “...so that neither of us are…are...you need to stay alive, have to remain alive! Because…I…I don’t know what I would do if…”

…and here lies the crux of the problem.

“…it’s natural to mourn, your highness,” you intone, “Perfectly human to do so. But you cannot just…lock yourself away and wither in the darkness.”

“I thought you had died, stupid…” she counters, sniffing.

“True, but…you haven’t had anything to eat in almost two days.” At the questioning look, you gesture towards the window. “Ser Hagerson and Silverow…your siblings, and even your uncle if he were conscious! They are all worried about you.”

“But not of you,” she mutters, a low and broiling anger in her voice, “…they just assumed that you were dead…”

“I was told that Urath went looking for me since your arrival to the village.”

“For a body…something to bury…maybe one of your trinkets to get me to come out.”

This is going nowhere. Sighing, you ask, “Princess…do you know what I am?”

“An idiot,” she declares, and you are taken aback by her bluntness. Continuing in a voice that slowly takes on a sharp and biting edge, she mutters, “But you are my idiot, my Crownguard. Not my father’s, not my mother’s…not my sister’s or my brothers’.” Ellana’s eyes are dark, smoldering with anger. “…and I fail to see why you alone had to sacrifice yourself when their own Crownguard also could have helped.”

…ah. Now it suddenly makes sense. It is not your alleged death that has kept her locked away, refusing contact with the rest of the caravan. The princess, it seems, has a grievance about your life being supposedly thrown away first. Her rationale is not completely devoid of understanding or sympathy.

But that is a separate issue for another time. “You said it yourself, princess. I am your Crownguard. Do you not know what my duty is?”

She frowns, confused by your question. “It is to protect me, and stay by my side-”

“And if needed be,” you interject, “To lay down my life for yours should the worst come to happen.”

Even as she opens her mouth to give a vehement denial, she closes it just as quickly, unable to look you in the eye. “That’s…I don’t…”

You have no desire to give a lesson on mortality, but you will touch upon the subject lightly, for her sake as well as yours. “I’m not going to throw that life which you saved so foolishly or carelessly. But one day…you must accept the fact that I might no longer be by your side.”

“I don’t want to hear this!” She claps her hands around her ears, shaking her head violently. “I don’t want to hear it!”

(cont.)

>Please vote on the poll below.
>https://twitter.com/TaskForceKaz/status/1041777444255145984

>>2897288
I don't have a twitter so I'll just say here that you should update as you write

>>2897288
I also don't have a twitter but I think you should update when it's finished. Yes it's slower paced, but I do enjoy reading the larger updates and I feel it's of higher quality in general. Up to you in the end, but I do enjoy your content.

>>2897306
>>2897298
Honestly, like this guy said, do whatever you feel gives you the best product in the end.

>>2897359
>Honestly, like this guy said, do whatever you feel gives you the best product in the end.
+

>>2897359
>>2897366
These

>>2897288
Gently taking hold of both of her hands, you slowly pull them away, cradling them as you stare at her with what you hope is a sympathetic gaze. “I know. I’m not asking you to accept it right away, but…at least let me take comfort that you will not just…become bereaved should I suffer a terrible injury or mortal blow. And touched as I am by your tears, I would loathe myself if you were to just simply hide and waste away in mourning.”

“…you can’t just…say that so easily. I don’t want you die!”

“And I as well,” you counter, “For you, your family, my comrades, and the allies of the House of Crowmond. You must be strong, your highness. Mourn and cry as you need to, but do not let yourself be consumed by sorrow.”

There’s something hypocritical about you of all people saying that, when you perfectly content to die in the snow that night. Now the tables have turned, although your savior not nearly as suicidal as you had been. Merely the first of what you expect to me many losses in her life.

Ellana chews on her lip, deep in thought. Then, she says: “…you are not wrong. I can see that clearly, but…it hurt so much, Marcus. I’ve felt fear from that assassin…worry about the bandits and my uncle, but…I’m not…”

“You still have plenty of time to get used to it,” you reassure her, patting her hands, “…you still have many years of your youth left to enjoy. Do not spend them moping or otherwise stewing in your own sorrow. The darkness does not do your complexion well at all.”

She laughs at that, just as much a hiccup as a giggle, before her lips curve into a forlorn smile. “I only wish these years could last forever…”

But before either of you can say anything further, a sudden noise erupt from her midsection. A low, rumbling, keening whine of a stomach bereft of food for two entire days. And it seems that this final indignity is the one that restores some semblance of noble airs to the princess. Even in the darkness, you can see the way she turns a deep red, quickly shying away from your gaze once more.

“It’s quite nice in here, actually,” you muse, slowly rising up from your seat, “Definitely not as cold outside, and those blankets are certainly thick enough. But come, your highness-”

“Ellana,” she says, still blushing, “…just 'Ellana' when it’s only the two of us.”

>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”
>“That would be too improper, your highness.”
>Custom option.

>>2897510
>>“That would be too improper, your highness.”

>>2897510
>>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”

>>2897510
>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”
>"Though when Princess Adrianna somehow accidentally overhears, this was all your idea." (Joking)

>>2897510
>Alright, Princess Ellana

>>2897510
>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”

>>2897510
>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”
>>"Though when Princess Adrianna somehow accidentally overhears, this was all your idea." (Joking)

>>2897556
Yeah that's OK.

I have a distinct feeling that Ellana has a crush on Marcus.

>>2897669
Nah.


Her sister does though.

>>2897510
>Princess Ellana. And I'll not call you otherwise until.....well I'll figure out a condition some other time.

>>2897510
>>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”

>>2897510
>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”

>>2897510
>>“If that is what you wish for…Ellana.”
Only when it's the two of us though.

>>2897669
I think it's more that Ellana sees us as a mentor figure, as well as a protector. She might see us like an additional parental figure like an elder sibling.

>>2897786
Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she had a crush on Marcus.
I mean, he swore a life debt to her, then saved her from assassins and is always nice to her and teaches her stuff but is super badass.

>>2897820
I mean it's not impossible, but I think it's more likely that to her, we're like a cool older brother.

>>2897820
She hasn't hit puberty yet, I dunno if she has a differentiation between crush and idolization at this point. I wouldn't' be surprised if that changed in a couple of years though.

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>>2894307
>>2894409
>>2894438
>here are his testicles in a bag

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>>2898226
Don't tell me you didn't know what Rathalos 'Rubies' actually were.

>>2898226
they don't call them "family jewels" for nothing

Is anyone else having a problem with 4chan not autoupdating threads? I had to reload the whole thread in order to get caught back up

>>2898290
Been fine for me

>>2898290
I'm having the same problem. Not sure what it is.

>>2898290
yea, but only on my laptop. desktop has been fine.

>>2898290
I've been having some issues myself. One out of every four or five posts, I keep getting the "Connection Error" red bar pop up on my reply box, on top of the captcha just sperging out in general.

Writing...

>>2898439
>Writing
I don't believe you.

>>2898849
Anon, did mommy not give you enough hugs? Is that why you're a dick?

>>2898857
Pretty sure we found the reason why you can't take a joke, through the wonder of projection.

Right now the other quest I'm reading is Valen Quest, so it's not like I'm unused to waiting a long time either so don't bother with projecting on to me either.

Or H&D where the QM is literally That Slow Typing Guy.

But yes. I too am on tenterhooks for the next update.

>>2898857
I call it tough love cunt.

>>2898860
You guys still fighting Neerans in H&D? I'm way, way behind.

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>>2897512
>>2897521
>>2897524
>>2897526
>>2897543
>>2897556
>>2897571
>>2897689
>>2897694
>>2897709
>>2897777
“…if that is what you wish for…Ellana. But if your sister overhears and raises a fuss about it, I am laying the blame at your feet.” She pouts at that, but her eyes convey the acknowledgement of your jape and the simple happiness of you stumbling over her name.

>Ellana sharply approves.
>Ellana will remember that.

>The princess has learned something about life, death and the nature of your relationship.
>However, she will need some time to think about this lesson before coming to a final conclusion.
>Whether or not it will stick is another matter, but we can only hope for the best outcome.

Holding out a hand, you say, “Come. Let’s see if we can’t get the peasants to disperse and go away. And then we can see to getting you a fresh change of clothes and something better than salted pork.”

>>Later

The alderman of Westholm is a portly man by the name of Giso, just as Krabat had said earlier. He bears the sign of his office well enough: a signet ring squeezed uncomfortably tight on a finger as thick as a sausage, and a domicile as best as his salary would allow.

That meant a house of granite stone, at least two stories tall, and clay tiles as opposed to thatch and flax atop the roof. Tooth-like battlements, more for decorative than military purposes, crown the house and an adjourning building that could have been a tithe barn. It even has its own stable, just big enough for four horses, and an even smaller domicile for perhaps three servants. And it all fit into a space of just slightly over an acre of land.

It is a far cry from what a count or baron might inherit by virtue of blood or deed of land, but still a great deal bigger than what a knighted man would receive.

At the sight of Ellana, bundled in your cloak and hustling out of the cold, Giso had been all too happy to offer his hospitalities. Bowing so low that his bulbous nose might touch the steps of his house, it is almost impossible to discern the motivation of his behavior. Is his role that of a dutiful servant of the royal family, or a sycophantic leech hoping to curry favor with the imperial court via its youngest scion?

“Neither,” Silverow notes humorlessly, inspecting the soup that one of the servants had poured, “The man simply wishes to see all of us out of his village as quickly as possible so that his…comfortable life can go on in uninterrupted peace. All the while playing the magnanimous host and giving little reason for his graff to revoke his title.”

“Do you think von Roie would do that?” you ask, quietly tucking into your salted pork. As tempting as the food is, and how eagerly Ellana devours her meal, you have yet to become accustomed to food this rich. Three months of sharing food with the nobility will not so easily overcome a lifetime of scavenging what you could from the slum markets and smuggler's carts.

(cont.)

HE LIVES!

>>2898930

“At the barest minimum, a direct insult to the Crowmonds or Pullman might be cause for a tribunal. But as the von Roies are known for their eccentricities, their fairness is known across the continent, not just the empire. Both the current lord and even his late father would not have revoked the title for something that petty.”

Unusual indeed. Taking a sip of water, you say, “And how soon until he reaches Westholm?”

“Tomorrow or in a few days at the latest.”

"Could they have been waylaid on the road?"

"Doubtful. Not even the most reckless rebel would dare to challenge an army from Mont Gormaic, especially one led by Landgraf Alistair von Roie. Do you know what they call him? 'The Gambling Graf' from how aggressive he leads his men."

“Then sooner they come, the better…for both our sakes and our host’s.”

A silence settles between the two of you, interrupted only by the noise of silverware the crackling hum of a nearby fire. One of Giso’s servants stokes the flames with an iron poker, doing her best to ignore the two Crownguard and princess at her master’s table. As well she should.

Silverow inspects his spoon, staring at the floating chunks of meat as if they have the secrets of the universe. Alas, they offer nothing but steam and a heady aroma of lintels and beef. The alderman would have had to slaughter nothing less than his finest heifer to feed the Crowmonds their dinner.

Ellana is too busy eating to notice the tense air between yourself and the sorcerer. The words he threw in your face are not so easily forgotten, justified as they may or may not have been. But for the sake of civility before the alderman and Ser Hagenson’s knights, you kept your mouths shut and avoided prolonged eye contact.

But now, that seems to have changed. As soon as the servant leaves, departing from the room fast enough to bring the hems of her skirt to her knees, the only ones left are the three of you. And one too busy with rectifying her imposed starvation to care beyond the contents of her plate.

To your surprise (and relief), he is the one to broach the subject: “…earlier today, I had said some things towards you, Painel…”

“Aye, that you did,” you answer placidly.

His brow twitches, and he coughs before slowly resuming, “…things that I might not have said if both of us had cooler heads. But the point that I’m trying to make is that everybody’s emotions had long since spiraled out of control. With the princess and her brother worrying, and the Crownguard scattered about…perhaps I acted too much in haste upon your arrival…”

>“Damn right you better be sorry.”
>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
>“You have nothing to apologize for.”
>Custom option.

>>2898942
>“You have nothing to apologize for.”

>>2898942
>“You have nothing to apologize for.”
But...
>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

>So let's do this again, so I killed a drakling, and his testicles are in the bag, how about you?
Do or do not actually do this.

>“You have nothing to apologize for.”

>>2898942
>“You have nothing to apologize for, but do try to have more confidence in your fellow Crownguard next time."

Because Silverow needs to learn he's not the only one who does things right around here.

>>2898942
>“You have nothing to apologize for.”

>>2898942
>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
>"Saying that there is something we might need to investigate."

Not like he has much to say being sick in bed for depleating his mana last time. Also we need to investigate that drowed lady or whatever were the barbarian would go to report about the sucess of his mission.

>>2898942
>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
can we just go with
>I was hoping to lighten the mood, but it failed spectacularly
?

and never speak of this again? We REALLY have more important things to worry about, like dragon worshippers.

>>2898967
The dragon worshippers seemed fairly friendly.

>>2898967
I would worry more about the fucking blood mage that is able to change faces and now there is enough knight corpses that the guy could pass as anyone he wants to.

>>2898942
>“You have nothing to apologize for.”
>"Nonetheless I would have favor to ask of you... "(ask him to check as for magic if we were not fuck with by that gulish guy)

>>2898866
They're almost beat. We're probably going up against Terrans in smaller scale operations real life and the end of the quest next.

>>2898942
>Custom option.
"Next time put a trigger warning on your words so I don't have to autistically stab my hand to get out of my self imposed nightmare world."

In all seriousness
>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

>>2899143
>the end of the quest next.
No way. H&D is eternal!

>>2898951
>>2898942
This, including the spoilers.

Like damn dude. We were kind of mentally and physically worn out too.

Now we have to investigate both the Merchant we met on the road, and this suspiciously rich Alderman.

>>2898965
>>2898942
I'll second this investigation write in too.

>>2899152
I'm 50% certain the merchant is the one that supplied the bat guano explosives for the bridge

>>2899152
>>2899156
What makes him so suspicious to you guys?

>>2899164
>
How strange. Most millers would be in their villages, not traveling the continent during the worst parts of winter. But, there is an opportunity, and you’d be a fool not to take it.

Also the tool seems more like a bribe to not inspect his cargo.Also there is the fact that there was a demi-dragon around a couple of days ago

Reminder we need to check the plot hook that was in the letter.

>>2899177
The drakling has been around here for awhile. Long enough that the locals knew how to avoid it and knew it's territory so I don't think he had anything to do with that.

He definitely seems more than meets the eye, but nothing screams malicious at me. Can't say with any confidence he is completely innocent either.

I dunno, I guess it can't hurt to check him out but it might be waste of time.

>>2898942
>>“I shouldn’t have acted like that.”
It was a failed attempt to lighten the mood.

>>2899192
>>2899164
Dude was successfully avoiding the Drakling. Could just be useful to know more about him, he could be a potential ally equally as much as a threat

>>2899192
I mean it has being a couple of days and i recall a entry from the rebels journal informing about the delivery of the bat guano bombs.

But that could have being provided by the mage that infiltrated the alchemist guild.

>>2898942
>>“You have nothing to apologize for.”

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>>2898950
>>2898951
>>2898955
>>2898956
>>2898958
>>2898958
>>2898965
>>2898967
>>2898980
>>2899144
>>2899152
>>2899154
>>2899194
>>2899393

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you say, “I understand why you might have been angry. And I suppose my glib attitude certainly didn’t help things at all.”
The sorcerer’s mouth curls in a small, wry amusement. “No, I don’t believe it did, Painel.”

You shrug. “An old habit. The…ah…legacy of a misspent youth. Given the choice to cope with horrific events with either laughter or tears, I will always choose humor as my remedy.”

He snorts. “Misspent youth? You’re no older than I am! We’re still both young.”

“Not with my aches and pains, I don’t. I’ve bruised myself like a fruit in that battle.”

“Better to have bruises than bloody gouges and wicked tears,” Silverow remarks. He glances towards door, where the Eagle Knights had set up camp just away from the commons of the village. “Although I don’t envy you or the wounded in the slightest. They were lucky to make it out alive, you especially with that madman’s gambit.”

“I should say the same to you.” At his questioning glance, you elaborate, “It was not too long ago when you were confined to a bed for nearly killing yourself with magic. You had to weave wind and shield the carriage.”

“A risk I had to take,” he replies stiffly, but not with any sort of malice, “But a drakling’s wild flames are easier to counter than the concentrated magic of a rogue sorcerer. Especially one that’s received Tower training. A daunting challenge? Yes, but not one that would nearly tax my body as did the Battle of Silverstone.”

“We thought that you were a foot into the grave when you came back to Alnerwich.”

“And we thought that you were dead,” he smoothly counters, his smile almost feline in its self-assuredness. “So, perhaps we can be glad in both of our shortcoming estimates of each other.”

Between the lines, you can almost see an offer to wipe the slate clean between the two of you. Huh. And just before you were about to broach the subject yourself. You would be a fool not to take it.

“I will. Perhaps we can celebrate our ability to withstand fatal encounters.” You lift your mug. He had always said that there was no better to way to mend or soothe a strained relationship than with a drink. Or more, depending on the severity of the grievance. “A toast. To cooler heads prevailing, the foolish arrogance of our youth, and the hope that we will survive it.”

Silverow looks almost taken aback before offering a wry grin. “I’ll drink to that. Would that we had better vintage than whatever the hell the alderman keeps on the tap. Damn shame, that...”

>Silverow sharply approves.
>You have prevented your relationship with the Silverow from deteriorating.

(cont.)

Now time to deal with a princess a Barbarian and a Ingulan archer.

But maybe we should take a bath first?We are still covered in guts.

>>2900337
“Prosit,” you both declare, quietly tapping your mugs so as not to disturb Ellana. The sorcerer is right, however. Just the mere smell of the stuff proves either impoverished times, contentment with mediocrity, or a serious problem with the olfactory senses of the villagers. A man would be hard-pressed to find a worse brew than this one.

The sorcerer grimaces halfway into swallowing his first serving. “By the gods…”

“Tastes about as good as I feel,” you remark dryly, reaching for a nearby pitcher of water.

“That taste could wake up a dead man. Bah, there’s something fouling up the waters here.”

“I agree entirely.” From your robes, you pull out the writ you looted from Augvarr. At his curious expression, you pass it to him, keeping a close eye on both Ellana and the entrance to the kitchen. “There is definitely something rotten in the area, but it isn’t their beer.”

Unfurling the parchment, he squints at its contents, asking, “What’s this?”

“Orders from that barbarian that attacked us at the bridge,” you explain, “That bastard Augvarr who was leading the Vascieli.”

His lips move without making a noise, but you can read them well enough to see the words of the letter. “‘The Gargoyle will supply…eliminate the Crowmond children…find our messenger…’”
When he finishes, Silverow muses, “And you think this ‘Drowned Lady’ is here, in the village?”

“I don’t see any other nearby settlement for him to report to, and Alnerwich would be too risky. Certainly, when you were in bed, the three of us made our way around town. None of us saw mention of any drowned ladies on the signs of taverns, inns and bordellos alike.”

“Indeed?” The sorcerer folds the parchment, passing it into your hands underneath the table. “Then I suppose we will have to make some inquiries. Discreetly, of course. We wouldn’t want to upset our most generous host, the alderman.”

“Aye. Although…” you gesture towards the opulence of his house, “His estate does strike a question of how he can afford to maintain something like this on an alderman’s wages.”

“Petty graft or theft,” he answers, “Maybe even legitimate business means, but we won’t know for sure until we find out.”

“There’s also another I wish to investigate.”

“Who?”

>You explain your encounter with Traveling Krabat.

“All the way from the Hinterlends?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Madness to travel in the middle of winter.”

“I know. Which is why I wish to ensure that he had nothing to do with any of these Vascieli plots. For all we know, his ‘grain’ could have been bat guano or any other chemicals stolen from Alnerwich’s Alchemists’ Guild. It would explain the barrels that blew up that bridge.”

(cont.)

“I see…well, we certainly have our work cut out for us, don’t we? But first…” He gestures to you with a wide and open hand, pinching his nose with his other. “I can’t take the stench anymore. What the hell did you go rolling into?”

“Drakling’s blood,” you answer candidly. “For the sake of looting what I could from its broken corpse.”

“…fancy yourself the second coming of the Dragonsbane?”

“No, my hair is not nearly blonde enough for that…and being able to talk to and understand animals would be more pain than it's worth. Hopefully I can find a bathhouse to bucket to clean myself with. But you wish to participate in this as well?”

He nods, folding his hands together. “Of course. Intrigue would be a nice break away from the dreary and exhausting combat we’ve had for the last few weeks.”

“And you can be discrete?”

“Painel…” he says, feigning offence, “One of the first things I was taught in the Tower was how to be discrete. Magic-users, by our very nature, are the most secretive of individuals you will ever meet…”

>It is unknown for when Landgraff von Roie will come to rendezvous with the royal convoy.
>However, you have more than enough time to conduct an investigation.

>>Choose an option:
>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.
>You will investigate Alderman Giso’s finances, Silverow will look into Krabat’s activities.
>You will look into Krabat’s activities, Silverow will inquire about the Alderman’s finances.
>Custom option.

>>2900400
>>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.
This is a more solid lead. Krabat is nothing more than speculation at this point.

>>2900400
>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

I'd rather have us hunt down this before it goes cold. Who knows how long we have before the tracks are coveered because of our success

>>2900400
>Custom option:"Take a fucking bath by the nine hells!"

Then

>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

i know we are a pretty good lone wolf but the mage might have more then what he can chew.

>>2900400
>>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

Also don't we have a dragon stone to give to a princess? We should have gifted it to her already.

>>2900400
>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

>>2900423
I think we were gifting her the poison resist necklace. For obvious reasons.

>>2900424
Because she is doing alchemy and she will need the protection against the fumes. And it will help her against someone poisoning her drink.

>>2900435
Mostly the latter but yeah pretty much.

>>2900400
>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

>>2900423
It's a scale.

>>2900400
>Both of you will first search for information regarding any “Drowned Ladies” and the Vascieli contact.

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>>2900407
>>2900419
>>2900421
>>2900424
>>2900489
>>2900619
Ellana had only just finished dinner when her sibling comes into the alderman’s house. Adrianna’s face is one of anger, so much like her mother’s in promising a stern lecture or scolding. But one look at her sister, frozen mid-bite and with bits of food still clinging to the corners of her mouth, causes her temper to abate.

“You are dismissed,” she addresses to the servant, who seems too eager to flee away from the princess. As soon as the last of her footsteps recede into the background, she swiftly makes her way towards her sister. You meet her gaze from out of the corner of her eyes, but it is fleeting, a brief interlude and distraction from her main focus. “Oh, my dear, sweet, foolish little sister…”

Your princess has the decency to look somewhat mollified. “…I’m sorry…”

As the two of them carry on in low and hushed voices, the familiar form of the knightess languidly approaches. Still dressed head to toe in her silvery armor, Bellatrix Lupine does not seem at all surprised by your appearance. If anything, she is very pleased.

“Ah knew deep my gut that you weren’t dead, Painel,” she says, grinning as you regard her with a guarded apprehension. Your little spar in the forest is not something you will soon forget, and apparently, she won’t as well. “I tried to tell them that you’d be back, but…guess I have the last laugh.”

Silverow cuts in before you could say anything rash, though you have doubts as to whether he could sense your unease. “Where is the prince?”

She jerks her head towards the door, and the motion causes the light of the fire to catch off of hair as red as a smithy’s forge. “Urath just came back. The two of them are just…well, the little prince wants to go look around town. Explore a little.”

“I can’t imagine what he could possibly want to see. What is there to even look at?”

“There’s a dock, small as it is, a cesspool in the forest where everybody dumps their shit and piss...who knows? I’m sure that our little prince will find something to keep his mind occupied until sundown in a few hours. And don’t worry, Silverow. He’ll be safe. The big guy hasn’t failed.”

“All I wish to know,” he answers neutrally.

Bellatrix inclines her head politely before shifting the brunt of her attention at your way. “That was quite a fall you had. And look at you! Walking about as if you just simply went to the market and came back.”

You offer her a wan, tight smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time I survived from something that nearly killed me.”

“Good. Because you can’t die. Not until we have ourselves another match.” She almost looks amused. “It’d be a damn shame to not at least try to even the score.”

“…yes, it would damn shame. I’m moved to tears at your relief,” you reply sarcastically.

(cont.)

>>2900797
>Not until we have ourselves another match.”
After the way the last one devolved, she's not getting another one without a very good reason.

....so. How soon until Bellatrix accidentally talks about banging Marcus to Adrianna?

>>2900824
When it comes to Adrianna she almost becomes a different person with how composed and dutiful she gets.

But maybe they have girl talk when they are alone? Dunno.

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>>2900797
“Ah truly am happy to see you in one piece. And not just for settling that other matter.” She gestures towards Adrianna and Ellana, still deep in their conversation. “My princess was upset that yours had locked herself away. So it’s a bit of a relief to see her not fretting and worrying about whether or not yours was eating properly.”

When you offer no reply, she sighs irritably, affixing you with an annoyed glare. “Think what you want of me, disagree with mah outlook and attitude, but don’t you fucking dare question my duty to mah princess.”

…you suppose that’s true enough. What was it that she had said? Something about having to finish the fight quickly so that she could return to Adrianna. For all her bloodlust and maniac desire to fight, she seems dedicated enough to her, at the very least.

Still, you’d be very hard-pressed to rid yourself of the image of a tattooed warrior standing naked in the forest while howling for battle underneath the pale moonlight. There have been enough problems with barbarians for you in the last few days, thank you very much.

“Fair enough,” you acquiesce, if not with the smallest hint of acerbity, “Keep an eye on them, will you?”

Bellatrix frowns. “Where the hell are you going? You only just got here-”

“Gods above and below, the man needs a bath!” Silverow cuts in, exasperated, “Can’t you see…well, smell that for yourself?”

She leans in close, almost too close, and your entire body stills as she takes a cautious whiff of your shoulder. Pulling back, she shrugs. “Smells like an old battle. Nothing wrong with that.”

>>Later

There is no formal bathhouse in Westholm, not one either hiding its nature as a whorehouse or one of legitimate sanitation. However, the solitary inn of the village, just down the street from the alderman’s estate, claims to offer such services. And as content you might have been to plunge into the icy waters of the nearby rivers and streams, frostbite is not something you’d be willing to risk.

“Welcome,” a comely wench greets you from the entrance to the building, “To the River’s Rest.” She takes a moment to size you up, gauging your worth as a paying customer. You make no attempt to hide your armor, or refrain from keeping your weapons out of sight. “How might we help you, traveler?”

From the glint in her eye when she spotted your coin purse, and the way she dips just low enough to see more than a generous view of her breasts, it seems that this inn offers more than just food, beer, and baths.

Perhaps it is only a natural thing for them. The village can’t get much business come the winter, so they would have to try to make money from what opportunities present themselves to them. Even if they aren’t beset by famine or otherwise pressed for money, every copper counts.

You reply, “I was told that you offer baths.”

(cont.)

>>2900829
So Given her Last name is LUPINE
Her title is the wolf
She's an outright battle maniac that seems to get more bloodthirsty and bestial at night
and her eyes outright shifted when we sparred that first time
That Bellatrix is a werewolf?

>>2900829
>but don’t you fucking dare question my duty to mah princess.”
Didn't she literally abandon her princess to trick us into that fight?

Has she always talked like this, or is it just me?

>>2900840
usually she only get that drawl when annoyed, angry or otherwise more emotional than normal.


But like a country girl accent popping out of a "Normal" girl.

>>2900840
She did mention making it quick so that she could go back to Adrianna.

>>2900839
That came up a while back, somewhere around our first spar maybe. I don't remember the particulars, but I think she being a werewolf was rejected for some reason.

>>2900843
Sure, that's what she said, after luring us into a time wasting fight after luring us a long ways away from her charge, in order to offer something that would waste even more time. Going all the way out there had been a calculated risk on our part in the first place.

File: The Tavern Wench.jpg (620 KB, 758x916)

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>>2900829
“Of course!” She grins, coaxing you to come inside. If she finds offense at your malignant odor of dried blood, she makes no hint of it otherwise. “You’ll not find a better place than the River’s Rest.”

No, because this is the only place that does offer baths, you think to yourself as you follow her into the inn.

A wave of light, noise and the smell of roasted chicken hits you full in the face. It engulfs, washes over you, driving away the chill gathering at the edge of your toes and fingers, your nose and ears. For a moment, you think that you have stepped into another world, one where it is never winter and the concept of cold could not exist. But as quick as it comes, it vanishes as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the small inn.

The River’s Rest must not be the primary tavern for the village. As a result, most of the tables are empty, save for the odd villager or two that nurse bottles or otherwise keep amongst themselves. There could be no more than at least six people – a single server, three guests and now yourself and the woman that let you in.

The villagers remain in their discussion, only giving you a passing glance before turning back towards their fellows. The other woman, a raven-haired beauty in the middle of her second decade, goes about cleaning the tables and serving the trio. Towards the bar proper, you can see the chicken that gave off such a wonderful aroma, impaled on a spit and roasting slowly over a bed of coals. The bartender is nowhere to be found, however, presumably gone to fetch more food.

“A bath you want, then it’s a bath you will have,” the woman declares, “But before I have Hennek warming the water, what else would you like? Maybe dinner perhaps, a fine half-chicken to fill your stomach after traveling, or a tankard of mead to set your fingers all warm, or…” Her smile becomes sultry, and her eyes flutter with almost genuine affection, “…perhaps a bath for two?”

…nobody said anything about trying to inquire while getting yourself clean, did they? Although drawing intelligence about any Drowned Ladies from her would be worlds apart from your approach to Claudia and the Alchemists' Guild.

>The bath for one, you have no time for funny business.
>The bath for two, but only so you might question her.
>Custom option.