Penny

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Emmaline was not best pleased with the new comer to her social circle but she controlled her irritation with practiced ease. The remainder of the small group were not so skilled. Oderick stiffened slightly and shifted his body to clear his sword arm. Some of the young court nobles glared at the man. The reaction from the women was guarded interest though they were obviously not keen for this to be remarked upon. She was familiar with the pugnacity of duelists, her friend Hannah, an infamous blade back in Altdorf, was forever leaping into situations where wiser people feared to tread. Certainly there was nothing good that could come from this sort crashing about in her schemes like the bull that bumped the beehive.

“I do not know you sir,” Eleanor responded with the chill of a slight offended aristocrat as she wracked her brain for where exactly Athel Loren might be in relationship to the county of Coucernne. A few of the hangers on tittered at the cut but unexpectedly Oderik spoke up.

“This is Kasimir Reinhardt my lady,” Oderik interjected, “he is one of the counts ba…err that is to say extended family.” A few of the courtiers snickered at Oderik’s slight hesitation but the smarter ones masked their reactions, unsure as to why Oderik would do the younger man the favor of smoothing over an awkwardness. They might be northern barbarians but at this level of society everything could be political.

“Kasimir, this is Eleanor de Aberville, Contessa Coucernne , a guest in our fair city,” Oderick went on. Emmaline smiled and extended her hand for Kasimir to kiss in the Brettonian fashion. Kasimir did so and then straightened.

“I am not truly ze Countessa,” Emmaline admitted, her eyes sparkling slight at the unexpected truth in her castle of lies, “not until my fither passes nes pa?”

“Long may that be delayed,” Oderik replied, perhaps slightly less than truthfully.

“And to your question Kasimir Coucernne is in the south east, not near Athel Loren,” Oderik continued, clearly please to be able to show off his Brettonian geography. Emmaline suppressed a sigh of relief, having been spared from having to make a split second decision on the matter.

“I ave zeen it as a trivillor only,” she amplified, forced now to invent a circumstance in which she might have viewed the famous forest.

“Of course ve did not rid into ze voods zemselves, that would be tres parilous but I saw it from afar,” she concluded. Emmaline decided that was enough detail for a polite anecdote to someone of lower station and moved on.

“You vere ze von who killed Cloose-o-vits were you not? ” Eleanor asked, her Brettonian accent struggling mightily to render the name of the dead courtier. The courtiers stiffened as she had known they would. She was using her supposed ignorance as a foreigner to put Kasimir on an awkward footing.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Like most things in the City of the White Wolf, the Grand Ball was tied to the Cult of Ulric. Apparently it celebrated Taal, the God of Forests and growth, turning over dominion to Ulric who among his other titles, was the god of Winter. There was, it was said, a meeting in the forests between a great stag and a mighty wolf that symbolized the whole celestial dance and everyone and their brother claimed to have witnessed it, or knew someone who had. Emmaline knew this deep theological lore not because she was either learned or interested in the Cult of Ulric, but because every bearded northman assumed she knew nothing about it and just couldn't wait to correct her ignorance.

"I saw the Wolf once when I was a lad," a jowly man who was some kind of a court functionary told her in a conspiratorial tone.

"Oh oui monsieur?" Emmaline replied with false enthusiasm.

"Yes quite right, I was deep in the forest on a hunting trip when I saw a great stag on a rise, naturally I crept towards it and then this great wolf stalked from the undergrowth not twenty feet away!"

Emmaline repressed a sigh with professional determination. Either this wolf really got around, or the countryside was teaming with an unmanageable number of the brutes. More likely the sightings had more to do with drunken braggadocio then lupine demographics however.

Whatever it's tenuous theological underpinnings, the ball was the social event of the season. The Great Hall was a magnificent sight. Its floor was polished stone, colder and more austere than the wooden floors that were the rage in Altdorf, but the chill was made up for by hundreds of banners which hung along its wall in shimmering silk. Supposedly every house that owed fealty to the Elector was represented in the display, and they ranged from ancient lineages to jumped up merchants who had purchased their titles in the last generation or so. Colorful glass lanterns were hung from strings tied high around the mighty pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling, glimmering down like varicolored stars. The pillars themselves had been wrapped with interwoven vines, half lush and green, half dead and withered, their symbolism obvious. Little copper emblems of stags were hung from the branches alongside small tin wolf heads. Upon arrival Eleanor had been gifted with a small golden hart pin, a symbol Rhya and apparently an indicator that she was unmarried. Other women wore similar charms, although the quality varied. The slight flicker of Charmon, the Golden Wind of Magic, betrayed which charms were real gold vs polished brass or copper to Emmaline's eyes. As always it was difficult not to stare, but there was enough jewelry around to mask her fascination.

The Great and Good of the city were in attendance. The phrase 'anybody who is anybody is at the Grand Ball' was repeated with almost the same monotonous regularity as the wolf and stag story, if that were possible. Ladies of all ages pranced in their fine silks, or handsomely embroidered linens, showing themselves off for all to see. Middenheim apparently lacked a formal debutant system, and the Grand Ball served the same function. Emmaline privately wondered if linking marriage with the inevitable decline into winter and death was a good idea, but it was easy to keep such speculation from her lips. The men were no less preening than the women, though they went out of their way to be a little less ostentatious about it. Cloaks of wolf skin were much in fashion, although only Knights of the White Wolf were permitted to wear the badge of their order. Half the men seemed to be dressed in military uniforms of some kind though Emmaline knew for a fact that half of them were merchants who had never been within leagues of a battle. The other half seemed to be wearing the same styles of doublet and hose which had been the fashion in Altdorf two or three years ago. The appearance of bearded northern rustics in such garment was vaguely ridiculous.

"Enjoying the ball?" Oderik asked, appearing at her side with two glasses of wine. He passed on to her and she sipped at it before smiling and letting out a little gasp.

"From Bourdeax?" she asked in delight. Oderik beamed apparently pleased that she had recognized the vintage. He would be less pleased if he knew that Emmaline couldn't tell a good wine from vinegar and that the source of her knowledge was a servant whom she had slipped a few Gelt to keep her informed as to what 'Dear Oderik' was up to under the cover of pretended jealousy.

"You like it?" he asked, smiling from ear to ear as she nodded enthuastically.

"Oui, a taste of home," she continued.

"Not to worry mademoiselle, by the spring your father shall be rescued and you will be free to return to him, though perhaps..."

Oderik was cut off by a small commotion near one of the doors. A young man was striding into the hall, the obvious displeasure of one of the older nobles who had tried to block his path. He seemed familiar and Emmaline narrowed her eyess.

"Is zat ze garcon who keeled that man earlieeer?" Emmaline asked, working her Brettonian accent for all it was worth.

"What? OH... yes Kasimir, one of the court bastards," Oderik responded, his face had a measuring almost respectful look to it.

"Not in the best odor after that little performance," the Knight continued sipping at his wine as he watched Kasimir.

"Heilwig was an ass, but a well connected one, it will cause problems for young Kasimir by the White Wolf," Oderik continued.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Eleanor de Abervillé Countess of Coucernne - Emmaline's current alias

Oderik Rothbard - Knight of the White Wolf and Emmaline's current mark

Ulf Von Hammershaldt - Councilman and minder of Kasimir

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Middenheim. It was wet, it was cold, it was uncultured and there were all together too many trees surrounding it. Plus there were a lot of beards. Scratchy and uncoth things beards. The kind of thing these Northern Barbarians wore just to spite their betters. The woman calling herself Eleanor de Abervillé presumptive heiress to the county of Coucernne lamented. The chambermaid that Oderik Rothbard, her current patron and suitor had provided her, entered with two other female servants, carrying the dress she was to wear to this evenings ball.

Eleanor stood and moved to the center of the large central room which was the hub of her street. She stripped off her clothing till she stood naked before the servants. According to her patent of nobility, a very official looking document with many seals and much gold leaf, the de Abervillé had some Imperial marriage connections a few generations back. This, perhaps, went some way to explaining why the putative Countessa de Coucernne was buxom and broad hipped far beyond the slender frames more typical of Brettonian ladies. Perhaps too, this was the source of her luxuriant golden hair, rather than the darker hues more common in the heraldic kingdom far to the south of this mountain fastness. It could not be argued that Eleanor was beautiful, with a heart shaped face, fine cheekbones and large penetrating blue eyes that seemed to shine with the innocence and purity of maidenly virtue.

The servants liked her, she tipped well and was easy to get along with if a little eccentric, that almost made up for her being a forginer in their eyes. The lead servant, a seamstress with the unlikely name of Hildberta, gave the naked woman an envious look and then set about her work. First a corset of white leather and whalebone was laced so tightly around Eleanor's waist that her eyes nearly popped when Hildberta and her assistants heaved on the laces. Then a silken shift was slid into place and carefully pinned down so as not to obstruct the slice of bosom which was to be displayed. Given Eleanor's natural resources in this area it was probably rather more than the dressmaker had imagined, but Brettonian's were a strange folk and allowed a little more leeway than a proper Imperial lady might enjoy. Next she put on her dress, a dark green velvet affair with green silk paneling of a slightly lighter shade stitched around the waist. Finally a cummerbund of fine gold chains was wrapped around her waist and pinned to the underside of her bodice with considerable difficulty. Finally her hair was teased and brushed into an elaborate crown braid which was then carefully adorned with white roses in the Brettonian fashion. The entire procedure took over three hours, the only silver lining be that Eleanor possessed a fine completion which needed nothing in terms of make up or powders that another woman might have needed.

"You look quite stunning mademoiselle," Oderick said from the the doorway. Eleanor turned to smile at him. He was a handsome if slightly older man and a Knight Bachelor of the White Wolves, something declared by both his irritating beard and the impressive cloak of wolf fur he wore even over the doublet and hose more appropriate to the evenings festivities. In Reikland he would have been judged a boor for such crass references to his social station, but here everyone wanted to scrape acquaintance with Ulric somehow.

"Thank you mousier," Eleanor replied in accented Reikspiel standing up as her servants scattered around her to curtsey to their lord. She crossed to Oderick and lay a hand fondly on his arm.

"No jewelry? I assure you all you have to do is ask..." Oderik trailed off as Eleanor squeezed his arm.

"No cherrie, I have vowed I shall not wear such finery until my dear papa is released from his awful prison," she told him. When Eleanor de Abervillé had appeared in Middenheim in the spring, she had told the tale of how her father, and elderly knight and current Count of Coucerne, had been captured by a rival and held for either ransom, or Eleanor's hand in marriage. She had fled Brettonnia to escape her fathers knights, who might think marrying her off was cheaper for them then paying the ransom and had been trying to raise money abroad ever since. Several noble families in Middenheim had quietly contributed gold to her cause, usually in exchange for a quite assurance that trade rights or a marriage alliance might be forth coming when her father was freed and able to confirm her his sole heiress. The revenues from a distant and prosperous Brettonian Fief were very attractive to the younger sons of a had scrabble land such as this, and Eleanor had been happy to quietly entertain offers from both great and small. Oderik was definitely among the great in that respect, and had showered her with hospitality and money in an attempt to help her win her fathers freedom.

"No word from his captors yet?" Oderik asked sympathetically.

"Non," Eleanor replied, "and vith ze vinter coming... I fear it will be spring before letters are able to get through." Oderik nodded trying to appear glum but clearly not too broken up about the prospect of several more months of the company of a beautiful woman, perhaps with a chance to claim a county in Brettonia when it was all done.

"Well my dear, we shall keep you comfortable and safe until then, never fear," he declared, taking her arm and turning towards the door. When there was no chance anyone could see it, Emmaline von Morganstern, child of a potter from the Altdorf Cheapside, grinned.

City of Thieves

With the aid of the magical unguent the grate came away. They dropped into he shaft below where Galt paused for a moment to wipe away the fluid. Instantly the heavy grate was frozen in place once more. No one who lived he life of a thief was a strange to sewers and their stinks but even so Kashvi pulled her scarf up over her face. Fortunately Joe Shipwreck seemed to have a destination in mind, and they moved up hill until the flow of waste water slowed to a trickle and then stopped. Joe paused and placed his hand on a nondescript stone and a section of the wall slid back with a grind of stone on stone. The passed through and Joe repeated the motion, sealing the false wall as though it had never been.

“I love what you have done with the place,” Galt quipped facetiously. They were in an ancient burial vault. Row after row of coffins stretched along a wall of ancient masonry. Despite its grim purpose the space was oddly homey. Niche which had once held grinning skulls had been filled with wine bottles filled with glow sand. Wooden planks had been laid across the top of sarcophagi t create make shift beds and work benches. A half dozen thieves, mostly looking tired and worse for wear, watched the door with weapons in hand.

“Your alive then, and you brought some strays,” a handsome man with a knife scar across his lower jaw observed. Captain Sharp as he was called was the writman of the guild. The thief responsible for writing the name of a victim on a pottery shard before the order to kill him was enforceable. Either the other guilds had broken a lot of pots, or the sanctity of his office had deceased considerably.

“There might be more at the other bolt holes Sharp,” Joe said wearily. “but its messy enough out there and that’s the gods truth.”

“Every guild in the city is out for blood it seems,” Sharp agreed.

“But now we got some people maybe we should start figuring some stuff out,” Joe said, taking a seat and accepting a mug of what smelled like ale.

“Im sure my fine young friends here can be of assistance,” Joe declared. Kashvi folded her arms.

“Maybe not,” she replied causing Joe and sharps eyebrows to raise in curiously identical expressions.

“Seems to me the Seven Ravens might be finished,” she replied, hooking her thumbs around he knives in her belt. Joe Shipwreck rumbled a good natured laugh.

“And you think, seein’ you owe us a bunch of coin, this might be a good time to explore your options? Kind of get out on the ground floor? That about the size of it?” the Nightmaster asked.

“That’s exactly the size of it,” Kashvi replied. Sharp had moved slightly to the side of Joe, ready to draw down should he situation require.

“Well you can rest assured that however planned this took the Bakery first, so whoever ends up on top here will come looking for the money eventually, and if it is us… well wed have to take it personally. Besides where are you going to go?”

“Back to Kush, you’d never find me there,” Kashvi declared defiantly.

“Show me a Kushite who cant be bough for the price of a tup’ny shit and I’ll faint dead away, and besides you’d be strangled with a golden cord within a week through the passes. What’s say you do the right thing and Old Joe will see to it that when this is over we do something about your debt eh?”

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

“These old things?” Jocasta asked tapping one ear ring with a fingernail. It twisted slightly on the brass swivel and Beren swore he saw the insect blink at him. Jocasta’s lips turned up in a mischievous grin made all the more exaggerated by the fact that one of the glow worms chose that moment to peak from beneath her tunic and illuminate her from below.

“Oh just some muscle bound fool,” she replied with deliberate offhandedness. She tapped her lip as though considering.

“Handsome too now that I think of it,” she admitted with a further twitch of her lip.

“A bit on the stubborn side though,” she teased, “kind of like a dwarf in that respect.”

“Reminds me a bit of a golem I once made,” Jocasta snickered, remembering the false Beren she had conjured to lead the mercenary wizards away.

“Sounds like quite the guy,” Beren replied lifting both eyebrows with a grin.

“So long as he doesn’t get himself killed getting into damn fool battles on behalf of his companions,” Jocasta stuck in, unable to quite let it go.

“That was…”

“That was a matter of honor,” Jocasta said in a credible imitation of Beren’s voice, though necessarily higher in pitch and timbre. She thrust a finger into his still sore chest.

“If your sense of honor gets you killed, I swear I will kill you myself,” she promised, only half joking.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

It takes years of training to really master Sororitas power armor. They start them off in the scholam, making them wear it everyday while they eat, while they sleep, while they pray. After a few hours I managed not to crash into anyone as we rushed after Vorn. I was greatly aided in this by the natural reaction of the pilgrims, which was to fling themselves as far out of the way of a charging Battle Sister as they could manage. I mostly managed to account for my momentum as we rounded the corner and half ran, half flew down a broad flight of stairs into a massive cloister. Enormous stone effigies of the sons who stood faced down equally massive stone representations of the traitor Primarchs with an enormous stylized galaxy between them in tessellated tiles the size of my finger nail.

Vorn stood by a statue of Vulkan calling something into a communicator. He lifted a bolt pistol and cracked off three rounds as we dived for cover. Pieces of the ornamental foliage that wrapped the edge of the cloister exploded in all directions as the bolts detonated. I swung my own bolter, more or less in the direction of Vorn, and let off a long ripping burst that did considerable damage to the elaborate glaive held by Magnus the red but missed the renegade inquisitor entirely. I scrambled behind a plinth a moment ahead of a rain of cracking detonations. Overhead I could hear the scream of shuttle engines beginning to build. My mind balked at the idea, but I realized the cloister might be big enough for small shuttle to land.

“He has a ship coming!” I yelled to Hadrian and popped out. Something hammered my breastplate and knocked me on my ass. I cursed and scrambled back into cover, fumbling with a replacement magazine for the unfamiliar weapon.

At The Edge of The World

I gave a gracious nod and accepted a mug of white might have been spiced cider. I took a seat at one of the table to allow Beren some privacy to catch up with his friend with whom he seemed to be conducting some kind of clandestine exchange. I was too tired from the long march to feel a lot of interest, trusting that whatever Beren was up to would have no ill effects for me. Some of the clientele were glancing at me sideways, a normal reaction to strangers than any untoward interest I thought, but it didn’t do my nascent paranoia any good.

I was about to open my mouth to ask if there was a bath house when it suddenly struck me that not only did I not need a bath, but I was as clean as I had ever been since arriving on the continent. I peered down at my apparently perfectly manicured fingernails in suspicion, pretty sure I had broken at least one of them in the frantic flight through the muddy jungle, but it was whole and perfect. In fact, there wasn’t a spec of dirt on me. I touched my hair experimentally and found it clean and smooth to the touch. A sparrow landed on my table and cocked its head at me. I cocked my head at it. The little bird hopped forward and began to peck at a few stray sesame seeds that a previous patron had spilled onto the table top. I watched it suspiciously. The bird looked up at me and winked. I opened my mouth to say I knew not what, but before I could do so the tiny avian spread its wings and flapped away, apparently satisfied with the confusion it had wrought.

Could this be something to do with the diamond I had found in the jungle? I resolved to keep my sudden and unexpected cleanliness to myself until I figured it out.

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