But just as the halfling turned toward Zeke and Rhen he felt his tiny tummy a'rumbling. He turned to look at the mountains, the seemingly best place to set up camp. Oh wouldn't it be ever so much nicer to head out on such an expedition with a fully belly, and perhaps a bit of a snack packed up and ready for the nibbling? He certainly thought so. Always thought better with a full stomach he did.
"Perhaps," he began uncertainly, "perhaps after we set up camp?"
He reached in to his shirt and pulled out his mapping book, stuffed as it was with cheap paper sticking out of it every which way, holding his treasure in his left hand, then reached in to his bag and pulled out his Chef's Knife with his right. Gesticulating with the book he explained,
"A second point of interest, our cozy little camp in the mountains, makes it easier for us to map out whatever we might find. We could use dead ahead," he pointed in the direction they'd been facing as they left the portal, "as North for now, but..." He wiggled the Chef's Knife ever so slightly, "Might'nt it be good to get a bit of a stew going in the pot a'fore we set out? Why, I've got meat and potatoes and herbs and all in my bag packed away."
He smiled at the notion of a proper halfling stew, "A party is never better formed than about a good roaring fire with bellies full they say. Could get it going a'fore we leave and put the finishing touches on her when we get back."
Maybe Pagan Elves could be in either Athel Loren (with Bretonnia to the North West and The Empire to the North East) or The Forest of Gloom (South East of The Empire)
I like the overtly sexual thing. I don't do Fantasy stuff much so I haven't been in one with a changeling before but it seems like a logical aspect of their character.
Shel will be pleased as punch to have two fellow travelers out there scouting and mapping and whatnot, if they choose to form up as Esalia suggested.
Could check trees near the tree line for moss to try to determine where the sun rises from, or just wait until sunset assuming it's a relatively Earth-like orbit. If day lasts for 72 hours the moss thing may be a better shot. Maybe coloration of bark too, if days last super long.
Shel had rather hoped that everyone would just get along swimmingly from the beginning, so much more pleasant that way really. They still seemed to be a rather good sort though. Not uncommon for such a diverse group to bump heads. He'd traveled with enough strangers to know the difference between decent folk with a rough start and just all around bad company. This was most certainly the former. No one had pulled any weapons in anger, that wasn't always the case. Heavens, there was even a dwarf!
Shel loved dwarfs he did. They were often ever so grumpy and ever so fond of beer, so they always had one thing in common right from the start. More importantly they were about the same size as him so he could talk to them face to face without craning his neck at an angle until he was afeared it would get stuck like that. What's more he had packed away a Dwarfish delicacy somewhere or other. Oh wouldn't Treekle be happy when Shel gave him a nice thick strip of Traggot, boiled wolf hide that, just a little piece would last for an awful long time it was so tough.
But Esalia seemed to be about to speak, moving about slightly she was...doubtless soon to get things moving again, which was just as well to him. He had a bit of a tendency to let his mind just wander off aimlessly on one tangent or another. Thinking about Traggot at the moment. Such a strange thing to be a delicacy really, nothing to it once you knew how to make it. An old Dwarfen souse deep into has last bottle of brew had explained it to him once as they were traveling through hill and valley to his mountain hide out. Never made it. Got sidetracked by a broken down carriage and the farmer's daughter trying to get it back together. They'd had to lend a hand. Oh, he'd lost his train of thought, that's right it was peat. Peat was the secret to good Dwarfen Traggot, what you had to do was...
"Anyone who is skilled at scouting, get to it. Anyone not able to fight, come to me. Rintor..." the Mithra addressed the veteran human, "Would you like to pick a direction?"
"Might I suggest behind us," Shel chimed in in his high voice to the pair of them, Rintor and Esalia, "it seems only natural to move thata way," he said pointing in the direction they'd come out facing, "but near as I can figure this spot isn't anywhere significant in this land. One ways as good as the other I'd suppose."
OVERVIEW: Deep beneath the nations of the world a mass of furred bodies writhe as a tumultuous sea. Dark hearts and darker minds plot meticulously. Final victory will be theirs, the children of the Great Horned Rat will one day blanket the surface, it is prophesied.
RACE AND CULTURE: The cruel treacherous Rat Men of the Under-World, the Skaven seethe below the world of men building their tunnels and plotting. A Skaven's place in society is determined at birth by their fur. White or Light Grey Skaven are taken aside to become Grey Seers, Warlock Engineers, and the like. Black Skaven are taken aside to be warriors of their tribe. Brown Skaven are slaves from birth, with but little hope to improve their standing in their short lifespans. However they are born the Skaven that survive into adulthood plague the surface world.
Power must be taken. Whether by sheer force or cunning the old must die for the new to come to power. The victor will likely consume the vanquished. Power is kept through fear, watch as the new Overlord crouches over his dying predecessor, hear his labored final breaths then never forget what comes next. If your New Warlord could do that to the Old One what chance do you have against him. Set your rivals upon each other, cloud their minds, gather support by laying claim to your victories, kill any who question you. Any threat to your power must be met ruthlessly. Remember as you rise in power that you become a bigger target. Those you have left behind will envy you and your rivals for that next position are now that much stronger. Do what you must to survive. Lie, betray, murder, betray, show the others that you are to be feared. This is how we bring about the prophecy of the Great Horned Rat, this is the road to the Great Ascendancy.
GOVERNMENT: The Council of 13, also known as the Lords of Decay, have long guided the Under-Empire on it's path to dominion. Composed of representatives from the 11 strongest Skaven clans, the greatest Grey Seer of the time, and the Great Horned Rat himself, they work together to avoid a third Civil War that might delay their ultimate conquest of the surface world.
INDUSTRY: Skaven are both very advanced and very rudimentary in much of their technology. With little regard for the safety of their littermates and no willingness to take responsibility for any accidents, much of their weaponry tends to stop development once it is anywhere near functional. This hasn't stopped them from creating marvelous and horrifying weapons of war, some near as likely to kill their operators as their targets. While Skaven are capable of being competent builders they are more likely to simply take over or sink a human or dwarf city, then section it off haphazardly to house their voluminous brood.
MAGIC: Skaven do not have access to any of the standard lores, instead they have two of their own.
Lore of Ruin - The province of the Grey Seers, the Lore of Ruin allows Skaven to harness the power of Warp energy itself. Including Howling Warpgale, Warpstorm, Death Frenzy, Scorch, Cracks Call, and potentially the Curse of the Horned Rat.
Lore of Plauge - The Lore of Plague is a foul magical technique. Specializing in matters of disease and decay this lore is repellent and thoroughly evil. Including Pestilent Breath, Bless with Filth, Weeping World Sores, Vermintide, Wither, Cloud of Corruption, and Plague
MILITARY:
The Under-Empire draws from each of it's clans, as the Great Horned Rat has decreed, to bring ruin to the realms of man and spread Skavendom across the surface world. From Clan Legere comes an ancient approach to war, From Clans Moulder and Riktus come the Stormvermin and Rat Ogre warriors, Disease and filth follow in the footsteps of the Plague Monks of Clan Pestilens, Sorcery and Science are joined with unholy ingenuity by the Warlock Engineers of Clan Skrye fielding various abominations and intricate mechanisms. Core
Skavenslaves
Whatever race Skavenslaves come in they are above all other things expendable. Captured humans do not tend to last long, but may in their short time prove some use if only as food or sacrifice. Ranks swell by the thousands due to breeding rates and interclan wars. In the Under-Empire a slave with the slightest injury will likely be detected and devoured by his own kind, on the warpath slaves are whipped to the frontlines to act as fodder. In the aftermath of a battle they may well serve as food for larger Skaven exhausted from the effort.
Clanrats
This vast verminous horde make up the bulk of the infantry of any Skaven war party. Lithe, scrawny, often little more than four to five feet tall, the clanrat is not a fearsome opponent on it's own. Often armed with little more than light armor and scavenged weapons, alone they will likely only attack when their opponent is injured or otherwise weakened. Together, driven forward by the beat of terrible drums or the simple screeching of thousands of their ilk, they will ruthlessly hurl themselves into the frey against even obviously superior forces. Lined up in ranks or surging forth as a verminous tide they attack in great blocks to overwhelm their foes with sheer numbers, then immediately feast upon the dead whether friend or foe.
Stormvermin
Readily distinguished from their scrawnier clanrat littermates. One head taller and darker in color, their powerful builds and thick necks allows them to ably wield the best equipment available to the Skaven. Selection begins from infancy, ratlings starving out their weaker siblings for food sometimes turning their appetites to those siblings themselves. After battle they are awarded first choice, of weapons, of gear, and of food. Any clanrat fool enough to try to eat first may himself be eaten. Particularly effective regiments of Stormvermin may be traded to other Clans. In battle they often form up behind the Skavenslaves and Clanrats, moving to the front only when the tide is turning hard against the Skaven or when the disposable lower castes have spent their number on the battlefield.
Rat Swarm
Knowingly or not the hordes of swarming rats that heavily infest most human cities perform a service for the Skaven. As a Skaven army marches the masses of these tiny bodies will congregate in a tide beyond numbering. Swarms will burst forth from the sewers, pouring across the streets and overpowering man sized creatures. Lowly and desperate Skaven will eat them as they march, Clan Pestilens will infect them in their tousands, and soon a sea of red light will weave in and out of the cities of man, bathed in flickering light as their cities burn.
Giant Rat
Long ago Clan Moulder learned to breed, mutate and surgically alter rats. These foul and unnatural creatures are the most common and cheapest creation Clan Moulder has to offer. From a distance they may be mistaken for large dogs, but as they rapidly close distance the eyes of man will quickly make out their hairless tails and a variety of mutations. Additional heads, limbs, or tails. Bony spike-like or armor-like growths, tusks, exposed ribs, oversized incisors or claws, gruesome boils. Some even walk upright or lope wildly, their rear legs attached to crude wheeled carts their tails fused with maces. Clans Mortkin and Karrion often dye their hides and brand them with clan symbols.
Night Runners
When unfortunate armies of men engage with Skaven and suddenly find themselves surrounded it is often the work of Night Runners. A blade in each hand and only lightly armored this core unit of Clan Eshin slink around the flanks of enemy formations, hoping to lure pursuit into an ambush. They cannot stand long against heavily-armed or armored opponents, and as such often face high casualties as they work deep in enemy territory. It is not uncommon for them to utilize a Warp Grinder to burrow under enemy lines and surface as a distraction, throwing themselves into the fray their lives sacrificed en masse.
Elite
Rat Ogre w/ Packmaster
The Rat Ogre is the most infamous monstrosity of Clan Moulder. One of the largest and most fearsome of their creations these beasts are literally stitched together using Warpstone Balm. Standing as tall as any two men, they carry the speed and ferocity of the Skaven and the brawn of the Ogre, the desperate hunger of both somehow magnified. A Rat Ogre has the strength and the mindset to fight an entire company of soldiers single handed. Incapable of almost anything save killing, wholly consumed by the instinct to rip and tear, they require a Pack Master to steer them during battle and afterwards to separate and chain them. Each Rat Ogre bears countless scars, some from their creation, some from battle, and some of self-harm.
Packmasters are the specifically trained handlers of these and other foul beasts. Fierce warriors are needed to guide these ferocious half-mad creatures, packmasters must be half mad themselves to risk becoming another meal for their merciless pack. Clan Moulder thus will often sell the packmaster alongside his pack, by necessity and at great price.
Plague Monks
Zealots, utterly dedicated to the spread of corruption and decay, the Plague Monks are entirely consumed by their devotion to creating the ultimate disease. Knowing they will likely not be alive to see the ultimate glory of the Skaven, the Plague Monks shamble forward none the less under their singular banner, the Half Rotted Corpse of one of their fellow Skaven crudely mounted atop a banner pole. Filthy tattered robes display their failing bodies beneath. Covered in blisters, rotting bandages fused to their bodies by the foetid fluid of weeping sores, surrounded by the sickly sweet smell of putrefication and accompanied by a cloud of flies.
Near death as they seem they chant the Rites of Infection, their pace quickening as they near the battlefield. Finally hurling themselves into the frey amongst their verminous brethren. Eyes bulging, mouths foaming, the monks enter a fanatical frenzy. Immune to pain after years of suffering, they stab wildly with rusted words and staves encrusted with filth. Their utter devotion and decent into madness allows them to survive injuries that would kill a normal Skaven, often fighting on until wholly dismembered.
Plague Monk Censer Bearers
The most insanely devoted of the Plague Monks march amongst their verminous horde bearing this, a hollow spiked metal ball attached to a length chain. Within the cavity is a large shard of warpstone, as the Plague Censer Bearer nears the front lines he pours the vile contagions of Clan Pestilens upon the warpstone shard, releasing foul green noxious fumes. Contact with the flesh of their victims causes the skin to erupt with sores and weeping blisters. Rhythmically swinging their censer, never faltering nor retreating they are fearless in combat, continuing on their rampage until they are all cut down. As their flesh screams in ruin their ecstatic minds are focused only on the duty at hand.
Gutter Runners
The best of the Night Runners become Gutter Runners. Eschewing even the Light Armor of the Night Runners they sacrifice any ability to survive enemy blows in favor of absurd speed and acrobatics, allowing them to bring more death more quickly to the enemies of the Skaven. Gutter Runners are often used to assassinate enemy commanders or destroy key enemy artillery pieces. Elite skirmishers and scouts their attacks are quick and effective, frustrating their enemies by quickly appearing, striking, and then dissolving into the darkness once more. Working on behalf of the Council of 13 these masters of stealth are responsible for many suspicious deaths and acts of espionage throughout the realms of man and occasionally even amidst Skaven society. They bear some large portion of the responsibility for the destruction of the Empire's history of Skaven attacks.
Could make for a pretty cool character arc though and it's a pretty logical situation.
Young cat lady fresh out of Guardian school eager to make her bones, full of what she learned in the academy but inexperienced in the field.
Slightly older elf trained in swordsmanship and blacksmithing, not happy to be being issued orders by someone younger than her.
Significantly older human, experienced as the leader of a guerilla army and a war hero, also not happy to be being issued orders by someone much younger than him.
What can Esalia learn from Rintor? What can she teach him? Is the 5 years between Cinnia and Esalia enough to keep them from being friends? What's for dinner?
Anyway only two characters seemed to have any issue and both ended up repeating points she'd made. They need to find a place to set up, but not here because it's susceptible to flooding, and they should make some quick introductions.
Preparing for the journey ahead Shel had begun to reflect on the many steps behind. He'd adventured about with other parties before, he thought as he carefully packed foodstuffs about his pot, but when he thought back he always ended up focusing on his youth. It seemed so long ago now; he missed them sometimes, his family, but there was nothing like the unknown to get your blood a-pumping.
He'd set out to join the party and no sooner had he arrived then they were departing with a few jolly words, "All set! We wish you the best of luck, travelers! May naught but good fortune await you."
Following behind his new, much larger, companions he got only a rather brief look at the portal as it pulsed, or swirled, or something along those lines and then they were all through and the portal was closing. Verdant plains, a bright orange sunset except the sun wasn't setting, clouds racing across the sky yet no discernible breeze. A new world.
The changeling, having taken an aspect Shel found rather charming, was speaking softly nearby having noticed the same things. This place was familiar at first but quite different upon further examination. Shel pulled out his book and a sheet of cheap paper, scribbling a small circular gate in it's center. Absorbed in his work he hardly heard the half-elf say something about settling down for the night though he certainly heard the befreckled redhead (for the moment) responding.
"She's right you know," he replied, "the sky is orange like our sunset but the Sun, well this Sun, it's still way up there....hmmmmm," he'd have to think about that more later, perhaps over a nice baked potato. Right now a lot was happening all at once.
The Mithra of the group, Esalia as he would soon learn, was setting things in motion; getting them organized starting with introductions. She seemed to have a good head on her shoulders so he happily bounced to the center of the group beside her and pulled out his pot and pan.
"Hey everyone, I'm Shel, Shel Applewood, Adventurer, though I guess we're all that. I'm a damn good cook," he said pulling on his belt and rocking forward on his feet, "and a map maker. Pretty good at avoiding notice when I want to. That's about it. That's me."
His introduction complete he smiled, nodded, and sat down cross legged to begin rearranging his bag, looking up to the sky intermittently. Wherever the sun went down, he supposed, that would be West at least for now.
POOPHEAD189
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