Ask the Knight of Bretonnia

fortheoldones:

askguerardtheknight:

The grainy sand was everywhere. The chain mail armour of the knights, chased with plates held together by a mass of buckles and straps, was clearly not built for these conditions. Sir Guerard could practically feel his armour being eaten away by the thick, humid air, as the cawing and baying of innumerable mysterious and foul beasts echoed from within the shadowed forest canopy in the distance. The beach, in stark contrast, was a bustle of humanity, and dozens of ships were anchored offshore, a stream of rowboats going to and fro on the water, carrying an overabundance of supplies, labourers, arms, and armour. Masses of peasants worked at destroying the forest, steadily chipping away at the huge, leafy trees with saw and axe, constructing mighty siege engines and buildings. The light of civilization and the glory of the Lady of the Lake had come to Lustria, and Guerard smiled, knowing that this crusade would be spoken of in legends for years to come, the exploits these knights shown in tapestries from Carcasonne to L’Anguille. 

Suddenly, out of the forest, a massive scaled creature came, roaring like a tidal wave and snapping trees like arrows. Duke Theodoric of Brionne, the commander-in-chief of the crusade who had been previously riding about camp in his armour, overseeing the organization of the workers, galloped towards the beast with a great yell, spurring his household knights onwards. Hefting his great ancestral axe aloft, he hewed into the neck of the beast, while the lances of his retinue skewered his chest and face. The beast bucked and roared in anger, killing a good many knights, while Guerard gathered as many men with him as could be found, and charged the beast. 

Night fell, and Guerard woke up in a cot of green leaves, his torso heavily bandaged. He tried to get up, only to lay back down again as a jolt of pain wracked his body. A peasant healer, his old hands deftly wrapping up a worn set of knives and other metal instruments, looked over at his struggles. Muttering to himself, he fetched a nearby cup of a strange-smelling liquid, and handing it to Guerard, said, “Drink this, my lord, it’ll help you sleep and heal. Your ribs cracked in combat with the beast; I’m told you were very valiant.”

Guerard muddily thanked the man, sipping the strange tea. Funny. He didn’t remember what happened after the charge; it had all been a loud, bloody blur. He could feel the tea taking effect, and fell asleep wishing he couldn’t feel the sand grating between his teeth. 

Xoctan kept low, reptilian eyes darting around the thick brush. His troops poured in from behind him, keeping the same hunched position, even the skinks going as low to the ground as possible. A mere day beforehand, Holcach’s scouts had located a path of ruined forest, the footprints of a Stegadon clearly discernable among the wet, ruined ground of the jungle. Following it, they had sighted human encampments, and relayed this news to Xoctan. This is surely the threat that Lord Uzicti spoke of. We shall crush the humans here on this beach, lest they plunder through the rest of our sacred soil, thought the Oldblood. He raised his hand, however, ordering his retinue to cease their advance.

A lone human had wandered into the jungle. Armed with a simple bow, and armored only in tattered rags, the pitiful, young creature would be hardly a challenge for Xoctan’s mighty host. Still, a direct attack would likely alert the humans to his presence, and motioned for a skink to move forward. The diminutive servant of the Old Ones brought a blowgun to his scaly lips, and fired a small dart at the human’s neck. The pitiable creature fell to his knees and died not five minutes afterwards.

Xoctan gave the hand sign for all clear, and his soldiers marched forward. He was proud of his troops for their discipline in keeping in their pre-determined positions, even while on the move. The humans were still at camp, and they had obviously not noticed Xoctan’s warriors bearing down on them. Xoctan flashed a toothy grin, and then rose from his crouched position, and raised his sword-club to the heavens, where the Old Ones must be watching from on high. He let out a mighty roar. And his host followed suite, eager for the blood of the young races, skinks raising their javelins for the deadly barrage to follow.

Guerard burst out of his tent, clutching his sides in pain, shocked to hear the clarion call of the war-trumpets calling the knights to action. He saw several columns of knights charging across the sandy flats of the encampment towards a host of scaled creatures, and the clash of arms and the scent of blood and fear was already pervasive throughout the camp. Throughout the tents, Guerard could see several knights getting armoured and mounted, and several groups of knights were forming around the high lords, preparing for a counter-charge into the newly arrived host. Peasants were grabbing up whatever weapons they could find and running into the fray accompanied by hunting hounds and several knights who hadn’t the time to gather their horses to them. Peasant archers were atop the embankments and on the ships, raining a flaming rain of arrows down into the enemy. From the ship of the great Duke of Brionne, the Damsel of the Lady who had accompanied the army was chanting, weaving together forces of magical energy to strengthen the hearts of the valiant combatants at the forest’s edge. 

Guerard, having been armoured by his squire, mounted his horse, who had been brought to him as quick as was possible in the chaos of the camp. On stretching his side, he winced and grunted in pain; brushing aside the worried look on his squire’s face, he looked to the encampments once, more, and saw the livery of Maldebaud amongst a gathering group of young Knights Errant. Despite the pain in his side and a mounting sense of fear, Guerard found himself strangely excited. As he closed the visor to his helm, he thought to himself, surely this is my calling in life, to weild lance and shield, and fight for the Lady. This is when I prove my worth. 

khornethebloodgod:

OH WAIT THAT IS EVERY FUCKING DAY!!!

Hey, me too! So long as it’s blood spilled chivalrously and honorably, against a worthy foe. That’d be nice. 

fortheoldones:

askguerardtheknight:

Guerard watched the morning’s breakfast of biscuits, wine, and salted pork fly off the top deck of the Chevauchéede la Mer, the greyish yellow mass dropping into the sea with a far-off splash that, for some reason, only made Guerard want to heave again. A week into the journey, and the sea still didn’t agree with his insides. 

From behind him, a peasant slapped him on the back, which made him gag once again. “Don’t worry lad, your fist time with Lady Sea is always rough. She gets better, though, trust me and wait it out.” 

Guerard glared at the peasant. He was dressed in fine clothes, rich pants tied close to his legs with leather straps, and a bright burgundy vest over his weatherbeaten chest. Jumped-up dog, thinking he was an equal to a knight, daring to address him so directly. The ship captains were always allowed more liberties than other peasants; very few lords knew anything of boats, and most required the skills of hardened seaman to maintain their navies. Of course, those captains couldn’t exist without their patronage, but some seemed to have forgotten that fact. The captain, who had walked on to check on the crew working the rigging, was lucky Guerard was too ill to harangue him properly. It would have to wait, he supposed.

Guerard stared despondently back into the sea. It was beautiful, in a way; savage stomach-turning mistress though it was. He took solace, as well, in the fact that he wasn’t the only one with a weak stomach. Across decks, he heard his fellow Knight Errant heave noisily into the roiling depths. He turned around to see Maldebaud, the son of a lord from some small village in Quenelles, bent over the rails of the deck. Maldebaud took a deep breath, and still leaning on turned back and grinned at Guerard, giving him the raising his thumb jauntily. Guerard laughed and shook his head. Some spirits couldn’t be dampened, even by the vast ocean. 

Skink Chief Holcach leaped over a sleeping Kroxigor, barely missing the great beast’s head. He finally made his way to Lord Xoctan’s tent, but found the leader missing.

Xoctan was outside, sparring with a tree. He delivered blow after blow, searing bark from the trunk. He had just turned away, satisfied with the damage done to the great tree, when he saw the diminutive priest dashing towards him.

“My lord Xoctan, my skirmishers have sighted Huatl off in the distance, we await further orders,” stated Holcach.

“I have no wish to linger near the dead city. We turn back and continue our route to Axolotl.” Xoctan replied.

A horn sounded, and the Lustrian war host again began it’s arduous march.

Xoctan observed the myriad forces under his command, smiling at the show of strength they would give to anyone watching. Perhaps this will end up as another parade route. Boring, but who am I to question the Great Plan?

The grainy sand was everywhere. The chain mail armour of the knights, chased with plates held together by a mass of buckles and straps, was clearly not built for these conditions. Sir Guerard could practically feel his armour being eaten away by the thick, humid air, as the cawing and baying of innumerable mysterious and foul beasts echoed from within the shadowed forest canopy in the distance. The beach, in stark contrast, was a bustle of humanity, and dozens of ships were anchored offshore, a stream of rowboats going to and fro on the water, carrying an overabundance of supplies, labourers, arms, and armour. Masses of peasants worked at destroying the forest, steadily chipping away at the huge, leafy trees with saw and axe, constructing mighty siege engines and buildings. The light of civilization and the glory of the Lady of the Lake had come to Lustria, and Guerard smiled, knowing that this crusade would be spoken of in legends for years to come, the exploits these knights shown in tapestries from Carcasonne to L’Anguille. 

Suddenly, out of the forest, a massive scaled creature came, roaring like a tidal wave and snapping trees like arrows. Duke Theodoric of Brionne, the commander-in-chief of the crusade who had been previously riding about camp in his armour, overseeing the organization of the workers, galloped towards the beast with a great yell, spurring his household knights onwards. Hefting his great ancestral axe aloft, he hewed into the neck of the beast, while the lances of his retinue skewered his chest and face. The beast bucked and roared in anger, killing a good many knights, while Guerard gathered as many men with him as could be found, and charged the beast. 

Night fell, and Guerard woke up in a cot of green leaves, his torso heavily bandaged. He tried to get up, only to lay back down again as a jolt of pain wracked his body. A peasant healer, his old hands deftly wrapping up a worn set of knives and other metal instruments, looked over at his struggles. Muttering to himself, he fetched a nearby cup of a strange-smelling liquid, and handing it to Guerard, said, “Drink this, my lord, it’ll help you sleep and heal. Your ribs cracked in combat with the beast; I’m told you were very valiant.”

Guerard muddily thanked the man, sipping the strange tea. Funny. He didn’t remember what happened after the charge; it had all been a loud, bloody blur. He could feel the tea taking effect, and fell asleep wishing he couldn’t feel the sand grating between his teeth. 

fortheoldones:

askguerardtheknight:

Guerard dismounted at the docks: His horse would have to enter the ship seperately, handled by seafaring professionals, who knew just how to get a horse on a floating bit of wood. Guerard would have accompanied him; his presence would have been a great comfort to Chevalier, but he had greater, pressing matters to attend too. Such as answering a very interesting letter borne by an Imperial dove, an oddity this far west on the continent. 

((Read the letter and the response in the next post!))

An offer from a Kislevite witch hunter to join him on his adventure across the sea? The other nobles wouldn’t like having to rely on the expertise of a foreigner in this crusade (and Guerard shared their sentiment, for the most part), but the matter held that they sorely needed the skills a Witch Hunter would bring, and they were sadly lacking in their capacity to deal with the taint of Chaos. Orders would be given, marshals and lords coerced, but Guerard was sure his father’s influence would buy him this much leeway, at least. Hopefully D’arcy Drachev would arrive in time to join them at their Lustrian beachhead, before they struck out into the jungle. 

Whatever was to happen, Guerard was ready to relax for the evening; His cabin awaited him on the Chevauchée de la Mer, full of the comforts that could be expected for the son of the Duke of Bastonne. 

Hopefully the reek of the peasants below-decks wouldn’t interfere with his sleep too much. 

Xoctan and his retinue arrived at the city’s temple late in the hot Lustrian afternoon. The hulking lizard looked out over his city, the sunset casting a breathtaking orange glow across the skyline of Chipotehuac. The Oldblood smiled briefly, then headed into the Lord Uzicti’s chambers.

The interior of the Temple was dimly lit by torchlight. There, at the sacrificial altar, was Lord Uzicti upon his floating throne. Several skinks were cleaning the remains of the previous sacrifice from the table. The great Slann then turned to meet the eyes of Xoctan, who promptly bowed. “My lord, you summoned me?”

“Allow me to express my congratulations to you first, Xoctan, for your victory against the wretched Vampires of the tainted coast. Secondly, I have forseen a great incursion into our lands from an outside source. You are to take your host and march them along our coast, from Axolotl in the South to Huatl in the North. Keep your wits about you, Oldblood, as the visions are cloudy as to the exact location of the invasion.”

“My lord, it will be done!” Xoctan enthusiastically replied, thumping his chest with his fist in salute.

“Caxutuan guide you, young one.” Replied the sedentary priest. Xoctan then gave another bow, and exited the chamber. I would have thought we would have peace after we defeated the Vampires. Ah well, better to keep the troops’ wits about them he thought quietly to himself. He would gather his forces early the next morning.

Guerard watched the morning’s breakfast of biscuits, wine, and salted pork fly off the top deck of the Chevauchée de la Mer, the greyish yellow mass dropping into the sea with a far-off splash that, for some reason, only made Guerard want to heave again. A week into the journey, and the sea still didn’t agree with his insides. 

From behind him, a peasant slapped him on the back, which made him gag once again. “Don’t worry lad, your fist time with Lady Sea is always rough. She gets better, though, trust me and wait it out.” 

Guerard glared at the peasant. He was dressed in fine clothes, rich pants tied close to his legs with leather straps, and a bright burgundy vest over his weatherbeaten chest. Jumped-up dog, thinking he was an equal to a knight, daring to address him so directly. The ship captains were always allowed more liberties than other peasants; very few lords knew anything of boats, and most required the skills of hardened seaman to maintain their navies. Of course, those captains couldn’t exist without their patronage, but some seemed to have forgotten that fact. The captain, who had walked on to check on the crew working the rigging, was lucky Guerard was too ill to harangue him properly. It would have to wait, he supposed.

Guerard stared despondently back into the sea. It was beautiful, in a way; savage stomach-turning mistress though it was. He took solace, as well, in the fact that he wasn’t the only one with a weak stomach. Across decks, he heard his fellow Knight Errant heave noisily into the roiling depths. He turned around to see Maldebaud, the son of a lord from some small village in Quenelles, bent over the rails of the deck. Maldebaud took a deep breath, and still leaning on turned back and grinned at Guerard, giving him the raising his thumb jauntily. Guerard laughed and shook his head. Some spirits couldn’t be dampened, even by the vast ocean. 

askthewitchhunter:

Greetings once again, Monsieur de Bastonne

I was pleased to learn about the courageous journey you and your entourage are about to make. I must confess, that I do not have much knowledge about the lizardfolk. I have travelled abroad before, but that journey was to Nippon. I have from that journey though, the memory of an encounter with the lizards, and I must warn you. They are more clever than many would assume these animal subjects to be. Be aware of their poisonous darts and their hardy skin. They are not mere beastmen or the likes of those. They are cultivated in their own, strange and mysterious way.

I would much like to join you and study their ways both with eyes, sword and pen, but at the present time, I have an urgent matter that demands my presence here in the Empire for at least a little while longer. When I have seen to this matter, I would like to meet you ashore in the land of Lustria.

Thank you for your offers of cooperation, Monsieur, I will look forward to meeting you.

D’arcy Drachev

Madame Drachev,

I will bear your advice in mind, though I’m sure their darts and skin are no compare to our steel and armour. A cunning foe, of course, will be a great challenge, and I am all the more eager to meet these lizardfolk on the field. 

Good luck, madame, on your business in the Empire, however. I hope that your tasks and duties bring you to Lustria soon, and we can meet in person. 

Regards, 

Guerard de Bastonne. 

fortheoldones:

askguerardtheknight:

Sir Guerard, Knight Errant, bent before the stone altar in the Chapel of Brionne. Cool, clear water was poured over his head by a Damsel, her eyes shining with fey power. 

“When the clarion call sounds for battle…” she intoned, reciting the ancient Vow of the Knight.

“I shall ride out, and fight for Lord, Liege, Land and Lady,” replied Guerard, kneeling and speaking reverently to the stone floor. 

“And whilst you draw breath…”

“The lands entrusted to my care shall suffer no evil, and remain sacrosanct and pure, unto the end of my days.”

“Honour is all.”

“Chivalry is all.”

With that, the Damsel gently alighted her staff, bedecked with ancient scrolls of power, on Guerard’s shoulders. With a smile, she said softly, “Rise, brave knight, and bring honour and glory to fair Bretonnia.”

Guerard rose to his feet, gave a slight bow before her with his genuine thanks, and made his way to the oaken doors of the chapel, allowing the next knight in waiting to enter and receive the Lady’s blessing. Shielding his eyes, accustomed to the gloomy light of the chapel, from the glaring sun, he walked out into the coastal village-turned-war-camp, the brisk seaward wind, bearing the stink of fish and dried seaweed, assaulting his face. He opened his eyes again, as his senses became accustomed to the bright midday sun, and looked over the bustling town.

Knights on armoured destriers rode through the village in groups, on some charge or other for their lord. Peasants ran about, bearing armour and sacks of dried foodstuffs, preparing for the long voyage across the sea. In the distance, Guerard could make out the high masts of the Brionne navy, bedecked with bright sails and pennants fluttering in the breeze. Taking a deep breath, he turned to his peasant assistant, who had been waiting with his horse. Mounting up, he rode to the docks, where his father’s ship was waiting for him, ready to the massive combined arms of three of Bretonnia’s greatest duchies across the sea, to adventure. To Lustria. 

Xoctan walked through the streets of Chipotehuac, confidently striding amidst his retinue of Temple Guard. He came to the market district, where skinks and even a few saurus haggled over various commodities. Xoctan nodded, as this was how it had always been.

He then came to a site of construction. A great temple to Sotek was commissioned to celebrate the recent victory over the tainted Vampires of Luthor Harkon. Xoctan’s own host had recovered artifacts lost to the fiends from the ruined city of Axlotl. A kroxigor, Zil, that had served with Xoctan during that campaign, waved at him, carrying a massive stone slab in one arm. Xoctan gave a toothy smile, and waved back. Zil was a good Kroxigor. He did what he was told, be it building a monument, or charging into a horde of the undead, and he did it without question. That was the way it had always been, and that was the way it should be.

A skink priest, Zumach, dashed in front of the path of the Old-blood. “Forgive the intrusion, honored Xoctan, but Lord Uzicti requests your presence in his chambers.”

Xoctan raised his scaly brow. It was unusual to be summoned by the Slann, the voice of the Old Ones, but he would go without delay. He nodded, and proceeded to the grand palace that housed the Lord of the city of Chipotehuac.

Guerard dismounted at the docks: His horse would have to enter the ship seperately, handled by seafaring professionals, who knew just how to get a horse on a floating bit of wood. Guerard would have accompanied him; his presence would have been a great comfort to Chevalier, but he had greater, pressing matters to attend too. Such as answering a very interesting letter borne by an Imperial dove, an oddity this far west on the continent. 

((Read the letter and the response in the next post!))

An offer from a Kislevite witch hunter to join him on his adventure across the sea? The other nobles wouldn’t like having to rely on the expertise of a foreigner in this crusade (and Guerard shared their sentiment, for the most part), but the matter held that they sorely needed the skills a Witch Hunter would bring, and they were sadly lacking in their capacity to deal with the taint of Chaos. Orders would be given, marshals and lords coerced, but Guerard was sure his father’s influence would buy him this much leeway, at least. Hopefully D’arcy Drachev would arrive in time to join them at their Lustrian beachhead, before they struck out into the jungle. 

Whatever was to happen, Guerard was ready to relax for the evening; His cabin awaited him on the Chevauchée de la Mer, full of the comforts that could be expected for the son of the Duke of Bastonne. 

Hopefully the reek of the peasants below-decks wouldn’t interfere with his sleep too much.