Bonjour, readers! I'm back after Good God knows how the heck long. And we're doing something very different, a Warhammer Fantasy story, possibly the first of several. Its a straightforward high adventure vehicle, inspired by the Diablo series chiefly, as well as robust handfuls of other such things, including my passion for history!
Fair warning, it's Warhammer. It's a rough, tough, bloody world that's darker than the bottom of a dwarven latrine. There will be some heavy, violent shit.
Also I'm very bad at editing and proofreading my own stuff, so by all means, call me out on my mistakes in the reviews. In fact, I'm open any kind of criticism, be it constructive or vulgar.
In the meantime, enjoy! Chapitere 1 – 'Twas Quiet for a Moment
Duchy of Quenelles
Southern Bretonnia
Early Brauziet, 2521 (Imperial Calendar)
The air was tart and heady with the stink of blight. Everywhere one turned, previously the bravest folk were convinced they could hear the breathing of dark gods near them – their stifled laughter as they watched, eager to see their misfortune or a dismal fate at the hands of its servants.
Through the sickly mist that straddled the land, Tobie Jacquard led his horse along the crossing between two patches of farmland, the chilly creekwater spilling over the outer leggings of his boots and joining his socks within. He could not see the carrion birds due to the dense fog, but could most certainly hear them. Particularly in front of him. A short report from his horse's nose and mouth made it evident that for the first time in a few hours, the black mare was nervous. It was not that Jacquard did not care, but that he felt that he could not afford to idle at any rate. There was plenty of road ahead of them, and scarce time to waste.
They emerged from the crossing, though for whatever reason Jacquard felt a clutch in his gut that told him that he should continue leading the steed, at least half a hundred paces further. Ginette, his steed, cocked her head sharply to the side in protest of the direction they were taking. Still, Jacquard urged them forth.
The trees were stricken by the early autumn, and the leaves had just begun to commute into an orange shade. If the harvest at this corner of Bretonnia was going to be any good, it was all for naught. The kingdom's numerous invaders and belligerents were sure to take or taint what the peasantry had worked so hard to sow and grow. It was a degree beyond madness. A few steps past disconcertion. And most certainly a great meloncholy was falling over much of the Old World.
The wind howled, and it was difficult to discern which sounds were real. Was it the chortling of dark gods, the screams and cries of distant commoners and countryfolk being slaughtered ? Mayhap both. Dread and anticipation of the foul lingered in the mind of the Bretonnian noble as he hiked through the murky air. He was fairly certain this was farmstead belonging to Sir Crispin, or the baron that he tithed to. But he was unsure whether or not it was still under the protection of Bretonnia's feudal knights, or had fallen to their enemies. If there was immediate resistance in the hinterlands he traveled through, he was either not spotted, or outright ignored. If his presence was made known, it was either that the sight of he and his horses' armor, barding, and trappings had deterred them, or that one person and his horse simply was not worth stalking or running down.
The sillouette of a large tree made itself apparent slightly to the right of his fore. He recognized it, and knew he was in the largest orchard in Sir Crispin's modest fiefdom. If his memory regarding the geography was still germane, he warranted a small patch of farmer's huts were immediately to its, and his north.
He snorted in a mixture of frustration and ironic jest. The fog could properly be discribed as absurd. It was beginning to irritate him at this point as he marched on, angling the reigns of his horse to the north. As the shacks crept into view, all in accordance to his memory, he kept a firm grip on the onyx hilt of his broadsword. Ginette whinnied, possibly in agitation.
"Steady there girl." Jacquard urged. The walk to the center of the orchard felt longer than he had liked, possibly for the horse, too. The wind had quieted, and the caws of the buzzards had muffled. All that was heard were the steps of foot and hoof, the heavy breathing of Ginette, the clinking of Jacquard's field plate, in addition to the creaking of the loose shutters of the huts.
He led the steed to a well and hitched his horse on the rickety wooden bucket arch. « Stay here, Gin. It's okay, I'll not stray. » He calmed his horse. He sighed after he turned. It was going to be a long journey. He prepared to search the homes and sheds for any foodstuffs or useful supplies. It was common knowledge that peasants of Bretonnia had few possessions other than essential materials for craft, labor, and comfort. He would rather not live on hard biscuits, dried fruit and sweetened wine for the entirety of the journey south.
He slowly drew his sword, the steel blade responding with a long and quiet hiss as it departed from its sheath. He placed his free hand, covered in rings of steel chain mail, and gently shoved the door open.
The hut was empty. Though everything seemed to have been missing. He crouched low in the dark area. There wasn't much to see within the interior, but there were mild signs of struggle and ransacking in an otherwise empty shack. The scratches on the floor and wall, as well as specks of blood made it abundantly clear.
He sighed and emerged, Ginette still staring at him in the fog, fanning her head and tail in an irritated manner as the rest of her body stood still.
Jacquard moseyed onto the next shack, this one also empty, save for a loose plank containing two silver candlesticks. Contraband on the part of the serfdom, punishable by flogging or worse by their liege. Life for the commonfolk in this land was scarcely a picnic, even in times of peace and tranquility. Bretonnia was a vicious, despotic feudal society, where all the power, wealth, and luxury fell to the noble tyrants from knight errant, to duke, to king.
Jacquard absconded with the finery and returned to his horse, placing the silver items into one of the saddlebags with ease, as they were not terribly bulky. He still had one shack to check, as well as the barn, which was possibly a makeshift storehouse. If the liege of the peasants who somehow got their mits on these valuables was still around, he'd hand him over to the former. If Sir Crispin or the Baron he served were not around or alive, it was his for pawning or bartering.
The last home was empty, save for the center table having a clay plate with a slice of cheese. It looked old and sweaty, but quite edible. He picked it up, biting into it and chewing it. Good enough for him. "Ah, mm. Savoureux."
He emerged, having eaten over half of the thin wedge. The first thing that should have caught his intention was the swaying movement and whinnying of his horse. Either that or those who flanked him, a dozen on each side.
He froze, lifting his head and silently cursing his carelessness. "Bonjour..." He heard a female voice to his left say. "...you foppish shiteater."
A quartet of plated knuckles collided hard with his cheek, and he fell down with a metallic thud. Returning to his feet in plate armor was going to be a little more than difficult, but he was going to try anyway as he once again unsheathed his broadsword.
A man in front of him stood. Bald with a goatee and a hand axe, wearing trousers made of a hybrid of beast fur and quilting, as well as heavy boots. His left arm, and much of corresponding shoulder was heavily tattooed with imagry and dark text. His left nipple had been pierced with a ringe attatched to a very thin chain of small brass rings, that hung and loosely tied around a strap on an iron shoulder pad on his right, the only other thing his trunk was clad in. He brought his hand axe around and swung at the Bretonnian's side.
The axehead collided with the plated cuirass, knocking the wind slowly out of him with each strike. The armor was too strong, but would give way if repeated. He felt the presence of his other attackers close in, and he had to act fast. He brought his broadsword out of the scabbard finally, getting to his knees bringing the blade over his head and lurching his arm, as well as what body weight he could muster. Before the next axe blow could land, the arm that held it had been seperated by steel just above the elbow and fell into the browning grass.
He turn turned and parried a blow from a shortsword, rising to his feet and instinctively lunging to the nearest target, running one of the assailants through the upper abdomen just shy of the hilt. He lugged the blade out, the mohawked muscleman who attempted to attack him dropping a rusty broadsword and staggered in short zig zag intervals as he coughed and held his wound, before collapsing onto the ground.
He looked around, seeing the attackers were now in a state of caution, keeping distance as the majority held a guarded stance. « You see, knight ? » The woman from before told him, a pale woman with raven black hair and pale skin began. « This is what we're hoping to avoid. »
« Bien. » He piped, scouring his flanks as the other attackers were clearly sidestepping and trying to find a flank, making eye contact briefly with each of them. « We'll be here all day if this continues, putain. »
"Your stubbly Bretonnian mouth better not be making promises your pillowy ass can't keep." She spoke. She had less tattoos than the rest of the warriors, a purple garish mark on her shoulder, resembling a sphere with a jagged line where a hook rest at the end. He was not formerly educated in the field, but he had a strong feeling it was a mark of one of the dark gods. On the rest of her person, was a sleeveless scale mail tunic, fingerless leather gloves, a pair of short cloth pants that bared her legs above the knees, and short lengthed boots with jagged spikes crafted into the toes. She carry a javelin at her side, her offhand brandishing an impressively crafted, though troublingly sinister looking war axe.
It did not take a scholar to know these were marauders from the frozen north. The invasion from the northern tribes had confederated and were ravaging the south and destroying anything in their path. Bretonnia was not safe either. He scoured around, not answering the woman who led the band. The man who attacked him with an axe earlier was still locked on him, though keeping his distance as he clasped the stump where his severed forearm used to socket. He occasionally brought his fingers up to taste his own blood, like the maniac he and the rest of the northerners were.
Ginette was neighing and bucking in a fury, the wooden well arch jiggling from the warhorses attempts to get free. « It was so quiet and peaceful until you lot showed up. » He lamented. "What did you do with the peasants here ? What of the lord ?"
"Gierj. Shut him up." The warband leader ordered, lifting her javelin slightly and looking to be in a more active state of combat. One of the mauraders tried to charge into him with his sword, which looked to have been stolen from a Bretonnian knight judging by the craftsmanship. He parried a few blows before bringing his own broadsword up, the tip of the blade cutting a very shallow, but lengthy laceration into the side of his head, from under his jaw just past the bridge of his nose. The northman whom's arm Jacquard severed used his remaining arm to choke him from behind, in an attempt to immobilize him. It only took one blow from his elbow to knock him off and onto his rump, where he made a horizontal slash and carved a large fissure into his throat, which quickly spurting with blood.
As he fell, he turned and parried more blows, his armor absorbing a large amount of the damage, but one blow from a sword left a shallow cut along his knee. He brought his sword over his head and bashed a growling bearded northman over the scalp with his hilt, then turned and attempted to attack the leader of the group. She chucked the javelin toward him, and it collided with his chest. Before it fell to the ground it had pierced the plate, but the chain mail under it had absorbed the rest of the blow. The weight of the javelin had almost knocked him down again, the Bretonnian trying to regain his balance. All it took was a swift blow from a two handed hammer along his back to knock him over entirely.
The muscle and flesh over his left kidney was most certainly bruising as he fell flat on his face, and his broadsword had left his hand. Attempting to get back up, his gauntleted hand reached for his hunting knife at his belt, but the bare knuckles of the large man he cut across the face from before struck him in the temple, and his vision fuzzed and greyed as he fell flat on his stomach.
There was nothing he could do now, as his stamina had seemingly left him. « Spare the horse ! We can use him ! » The woman shouted.
"Strip that knight ! I want the steel he's clad in !" A male maurader shouted, the voices and sights all dimming.
At this point, he was not sure if the journey was going to be even longer, or much shorter.