#troupe 3. dreadnought

[abelasx]

"Hm? You're too late Elris, you'll go where I go." Abelas stated matter-of-factly, it was said that roots and branches fell away with the Sundering, but there had to be plenty left, right? A tree like the Laurelin had to have roots running all over the place. He went to stand beside Elris now, nudging him with his elbow while not actively looking at him or even trying to think of him. It was nice, quaint proximity, close enough that he could smell what the other was wearing but far enough away to make it weird when Abelas took a deep inhale through his nose.

Naturally, Abelas could just tell where Ikaros was. Some people were just bound together by fate, it was all very dreamy and nice to think about the bond that the brothers shared. Abelas sighed, then he used the bracelet their father gave him to try and suss out what direction to start walking in. Naturally, his body was aligned initially to the general direction of the Silverlands and the feywilds beyond... but then he started to turn, one foot, then another, and soon Abelas was facing a different direction entirely.

"That's odd-" Abelas commented, "apparently Ikaros is somewhere... West? That doesn't make any sense though, that's the direction of the ocean." He scratched his chin then deduced that maybe, just maybe, Ikaros had opted to pursue the Kossith and those who'd been captured. "Do you think the Kossith might have taken some of the elvhen?" Araceli called Aventia home, she'd helped - or tried to help - save Icarus months prior.

Maybe holding his was a step to far, the feeling, that was one he wouldn’t like to feel again. Elris moved his hand behind his back after Abelas made some distance between. Made it so his hand couldn’t be held. Elris rolled his eyes at the mention of how Abelas always thought he was right. Why did he like this man again? Elris could recall a human telling him once that it was easier to just agree and avoid the hassle of an argument. The man had been referring to his wife in that instance. Elris didn’t understand why the man wouldn’t correct his wife but now it was all starting to fall into place. “If thats what you think.” not even Elris had the balls to say he was right all the time even when he was wrong. “I know I am right.” his face smug as the other had admitted it to.

“You want to go see the roots of Laurelin? With that? I need more convincing than just we should go to the roots.” that was a wild statement to make with no other proof that there might be a helpful reason to bring an object of dark magic that has out lasted ages to the root of Laurelin. “Where was your brother last so we can send him a letter?” Elris would assume back in avalon and maybe a letter would save them from traveling back and forth losing time. “Though the Kossith have taken folk in Aventia so a letter may taken longer than we have.”

[witchertorsten]

CLOSEDlocation: deck of the juggernaut notes: content warning for body horror forced obedience, and a suicide mention

The deck of the Kossith's dreadnought was cold beneath his boots, a slick sheen of saltwater mist lingering in the air, the metallic tang of the sea mixing with the acrid scent of Kossith alchemy. The weight of the collar around his neck pressed deeper with each breath, an invisible hand that squeezed his throat until the very thought of resistance felt like an act of suicide.

His arms hung stiff by his sides, shackles clinking with each twitch of muscle, the familiar weight of them now a constant reminder of his helplessness. The prosthesis, dormant and useless was limp and non responsive. There was no escape from the a’dam; the collar hummed in his bones, dull and constant, thrumming with the promise of pain should his will dare to defy its orders. His fingers curled and flexed, seeking out some semblance of control - any scrap of freedom he could hold onto - but found nothing. Just the overwhelming pressure that suffocated his thoughts.

"Do it," the Sul'dam's voice was barely a whisper, but it slipped past the resistance he tried to mount. "Obey." Torsten's jaw clenched, muscles tightening as the command pierced through him like a shard of ice. He fought it. Every part of him screamed to refuse, to defy, to survive, but it was futile. His body was no longer his own. The a'dam twisted in response to his defiance, a sharp pain blossoming at the base of his skull, spreading outward like a firestorm of agony. He gasped, vision blurring for a moment as the pain overwhelmed his senses.

Then, like a puppet’s strings being yanked taut, Torsten's arm shot out before him. The fingers of his hand twitched, attempting to fight against the compulsion, but it was no use. The movement was swift, brutal, unrelenting. The ray of antimagic erupted from his palm, a brilliant, sickly beam that cut through the night sky and rippled through the air. The power surged through him like liquid fire, cracking against every nerve ending, burning through his chest, spreading like ice through his blood.

“Good, strong.” the Sul'dam murmured, her tone one of eerie approval, as though she were observing some natural process. “That’s enough.” Torsten's breathing came in ragged gasps, swaying for a moment as he looked at the place in the sky where the antimagic had disappeared. "Rahaat," the Sul'dam muttered as she ushered him back into the line. "Return to your place. There's more to test."

Torsten's gaze lingered, molten coals blazing back at the horned woman. An image passed over his mind's eye of wrapping his hands around her throat, squeezing until the horns snapped backward, but he could not so much as will his body to move forward. Instead he stared, defiant, seething, but back in line.

"I am going to wring that damned woman's neck."

[alrikhart]

CLOSED locations: some island in the gulf of taravell notes: content warning for all the kossith violence

An island of no consequence, a sky Alrik did not recognize, a people he did not know. The open ocean around them with a port well traveled by raiders and merchants alike. Picturesque with thatched roofs and simple furnishings. This was the sort of place that Alrik used to imagine as a young boy, somewhere beyond the sea. Somewhere where a person could be anything. If this village was ever remembered, Alrik hoped it would be how it was before he and his fellow rahaat landed. 

Thatched roofs caved beneath his fists like parchment, chapel walls and the mosaic of some foreigner’s god shattered beneath his heel. 

“Vaarnok.” The command echoed down the line - sharp, exacting. There was no lash, whip, or chain, the commanding note of his sul’dam was each at once, running like fire across his nerves as Alrik’s name was invoked. Alrik’s body turned of its own accord, his dark eyes, framed by matted raven curls, turned and settled on the source of the sul’dam’s direction. 

A boy - eighteen, nineteen at most - stood defiant at the village center, arms spread, light trembling between his palms. A trickle of the power, but Alrik could feel his potential and by extension, Alrik’s sul’dam could feel his potential. With a sudden jolt, fire shot from between the boy’s hands but the runic warrior shimmered as the bolt was harmlessly redirected into the nearest wall with a gesture. 

Break. Collar. Return.

Raksha didn’t speak, but Alrik’s body felt the direction. He moved autonomously and 

With a roar that wasn't quite his own, Alrik surged forward, one massive hand outstretched. The boy shouted - brave, stupid - and flung another spell like it might save him. It landed, sizzled, but the giant of a witch didn’t register it. Looming above, he caught the boy mid-flight, slammed him to the earth, and helm in there with one arm while the other reached to the bundle at his hip and pushed the a’dam around his neck. 

Alrik took a step back and watched the metal link into place, saw with his own black eyes the horror etch across his face. He wished to tell him that this was something that he could survive, but even with agency over his tongue - Alrik didn’t bother. The village burned, the boy was dragged away, and Alrik remained to eliminate whatever stragglers lingered. No witnesses, no survivors, these rest stops were training yards for the sul’dam and the rahaat brought under their control. 

His eyes drifted now back to the dreadnought, to the prow, and to the father he never really knew suspended. Bleeding. Dying. 

“Vaarnok.” Came the bark again, farther now but just as strong. “To the elder’s house next.” There was a bark of another command as another was moved to join him, their bodies moving in tandem to the last structure standing and whoever waited within. With every step Alrik resisted, nerves frayed, body broken, it didn’t matter if he fought - if he was even still fighting - it only hurt, it didn’t matter, but he fought. 

As they walked, some agency was afforded, enough for the witch to ask, “That darkfriend on the prow, what do you make of him?”

[studentalthea]

@shewolfaurea location: Haven notes: kiss kiss

The fact that Althea couldn't bring herself to say "I told you so," when the Kossith began taking witches, the Student - and no one at the Tower - could say they were surprised. Telling the world that she was right wouldn't change the horror of their present reality, and wishing that things were different wouldn't change the road ahead. If Haven wanted the best general, they'd find one. They followed Aurea because she was one of them and if she could fight these creatures than so could they.

Naturally, Althea had been in Caer Glas Keep at the time but circumstances brought her home, brought her back to Haven. She'd taken this post as an escape, running from her own insecurities, emissary to an alpha who wanted nothing but blood. War. A small minded, but powerful fool. When Aurea challenged him the Student assumed that the young woman would be like those who'd come before her. Maybe it was that Aurea held a stubbornness that Althea had lacked back then, but she was the woman she was today because she'd watched Aurea beat Erik into the ground and took the throne for herself.

"You've toppled beasts before, we've battled the Blight and won. These cretins scratching at our walls are warmongers of the most savage kind. We will fight them because we must," a beat, "on your terms, not theirs." It wasn't quite hello, how are you? But it said a different message, one that Althea had relayed time and time again to her friend, her sister. I will never leave you.

[kalamarx]

@thegoblingenraljurgen location: Mojo Dojo Casa de Jurgen's Keep notes: Alexa play "all i want is you" by Barry Louis Polisar (it doesn't fit it's just stuck in my head)

The stench of the green-bloodeds was well one that the devil was well acclimated to, especially now, as he climbed the steps of the keep one at a time and crossed the courtyard. Those who’d survived trailed behind him, those who’d remained in the keep lined the walls even now as Kalamar approached the warlord on the throne built from the bones of the self-proclaimed kind who’d sat here previously. For a brief moment, Jurgen’s standing with the Great Lord was brought into question but his general had done what was necessary to prove his dark appetites were firmly in place. 

As of yet this Keep within the Spine was unmolested by the darkspawn incursions that ran rampant through the mountain range now, and so long as He remained pleased, Kalamar was confident that it would stay this way. 

“General,” Kalamar greeted, tipping his head toward the other, smirk prevalent as he produced the prize from the interior of his coat. The circle was simple, a collar that seemingly had no latch - innocuous and unassuming. “Many died to procure this,” those that stood before Jurgen now were the remnants of those that had been dispatched, covered in both green blood and red - Kossith and goblin alike. “But around the right throat, He would make you one of His Forsaken.”

[princemordecai]

@shewolfaurea location: Haven notes: here go

The circumstances that brought Leander to Haven never seemed to changed: conflict. For the Centurion, it was beginning to feel like more trouble than it was worth - some remote region buried in the cold and the dark that was uncomfortably close to Isengrim's Embrace. Maybe he'd seen too many battles, too many casualties, but as he walked through Haven's streets to the Alpha's hall, he didn't see any soldiers. They were just people: farmers, sheep herders, craftsmen - all trying to live their lives.

"Well." It was all Leander said as he stood before the Queen, the Warrior's regalia was indicative of his station. A ring on his dominant hand asserting his place among the Olympians, another bearing the seal of Lysara's prince. The Kossith had issued an ultimatum, Leander would hear Aurea's response firsthand.

[xnikandrosx]

@eivorx location: well notes: footgif.mp4

The cold of the steel wall pressed firmly at Nikandros' back as he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. There was no hum from beneath his fingertips, no magic to speak of, but it was a familiar silence. The Aetherians had used similar contraptions to negate magic, the Iskarans as well had chains with a similar function in their mines. This a'dam was different though, it negated Nikandros' magic, but allowed others to use him as a conduit. The violation was-

It was difficult for pride to abide, maybe even impossible.

Nikandros distracted himself by running his fingers along the cruel joke of metal. He felt nothing from within. The weave, once pliant, fell mute - silent as the grave. This echo was wisdom's scholarly instinct: examine the thing that breaks you until you understand the shape of your ruin.

These Kossith could have his strength, for the moment. Nikandros' mind was the sharper weapon and it was his alone - they would falter - as all jailors did. That would be their chance, for now he'd take his satisfaction in visualizing this a'dam around Anthin's slender throat. Maybe the Archon himself.

The bond was quiet now. Silence in a channel that had been open and buzzing for so long with all the things that the pair of souls didn't need to share. And yet, it harkened to only a decade prior. Nikandros had nothing to say of value, but in their silent communion both could be heard screaming.

Nikandros broke it first.

"What type of metal do you think this is?"

[alucardrakul]

@etienneulven location: Aventia notes: in which we're gonna write Etienne getting captured

The anguished screams of the darkspawn were a lot to take in, but the dhampir suffered the relentless, tortured wails of the Dark One’s army as the Kossith continued to mill about the city of Aventia below. Not too long ago, Alucard had failed miserably in his charge to try and defend the city, failed to lead an expedition in the mountains to find the root of the army’s intelligence - but fortunately Riandur had been there to pick up where the legionnaire fell short. It comforted Alucard that while he settled into silence, he did not share in his suffering alone. 

Etienne, at his side, had fought this losing battle as well. Now foreign warriors made taking back Aventia seem simple, the legion of the dead was known for taking an any means approach - but the Kossith bordered on cruelty. If it was even possible to feel sympathy for something like a darkspawn, the screams of these mindless creatures were enough to invoke something akin to pity. The dreadnought in the harbor, the lingering occupation, Alucard did not like it, but it was not the legion’s job, or place, to involve themselves in politics. 

“They made it look easy.” Was all Alucard said instead, no small amount of bitterness in his voice. Again, he thought about Veilcrest, about the innovations born from Progress Day - the weaponry that was promised couldn’t come quickly enough. The Last Battle demanded it.

[witchertorsten]

@afshinxeldar location: the brig (sad) notes: kiss kiss, can transition to eldar or wtv just sad lovey vibes

Torsten waited until the ship had groaned into a lull, its moaning steel coming like the breath of a creature dying the slowest, most painful of deaths.  like the breath of something dying slowly. Torsten should have been resting - Yhane had said as much, with the sickly sweetness of silk-wrapped daggers. But rest had become a cruelty of its own. The bunks were little more than cages lined with rot-soft dreams, and Torsten hadn’t slept since the last relic cracked like thunder in his palm.

The scent of burnt flesh still clung to his skin. Smoke that didn’t rise. Pain that didn’t scream. It was familiar, suffering, it seemed, was the most familiar. They had parted in Eterna, reunited in Aventia, but any celebration was short-lived. 

But that wasn’t true. Hadn’t been for days.

He found Afshin by the porthole slit, lying still but not asleep. The prince’s breath was too measured, too deliberate. Torsten stood there too long before speaking. Silence had become a second skin under Yhane's hand, and the habit of not saying things was hard to break. The door groaned behind him as Torsten let the metal close against metal, then crept forward and moved to wrap himself around Afshin, to sink his face into him - to forget the things he could never leave behind. 

They renamed him. Both of them - Zor’kaat the Kossith kept saying and already it was too familiar. 

Into the quiet groan of the boat, the darkness, and the misery of the dank room. Torsten whispered and a tear ran down his cheek, 

“I’m sorry.”

[alrikhart]

Dread Prompt Location: Kossith Dreadnought + Tel'aran'rhiod Notes: Content Warning for blood, violence, and minor body horror Tagging: Mentions of Prospero, Alessia, Juneau, and Fharzai

Alrik’s breath trembled with that strange vibration that hummed just beneath the surface, the static of resistance or the whisper of futility - he couldn’t tell anymore. Maybe it was the death-rattle of nerves too tired to protest or something akin to acceptance but his body felt foreign now. Alrik was a vessel walked in by pain and kept warm by rage and the soul inside pressed against the walls like it no longer fit.

His mind had cracked long before all of this - down in the mines, where light couldn’t reach him, and language had degraded into muttered prayers and toothless curses. Where his own name sounded like a lie whispered through the teeth and gray matter he broke out of those who’d tried to break him first.

Pain was the only thing that tethered him to his body. The ache in his limbs reminded him that this was still his skin, though it clung to him like borrowed cloth. Above him, alien stars hung like old gods, and he thought of an old tale that spoke of Nótt and the hero who wrenched the stars from the sky to alter his lover’s fate. 

Fharzai. He had fallen fast, bent into service by the Kossith’s whims, his strength turned inward like a blade. Alrik was all that remained now - scar tissue and stubbornness. What strength must it take, to pull down the heavens? What must he become to rip fate out by its throat? He asked himself these questions, to the night sky, and wondered - without hope - if anyone was truly listening. 

Prospero.

Prospero.

Prospero.

Alrik used to think rage was a fire that propelled him forward but now it was a dying ember, smothered and sluggish - tired. Prospero had left him too little room to breathe, let alone burn. Rage was habitual now, muscle memory. They had suffered so much already that if Alrik still believed in mercy, he might have asked how much agony was enough - but mercy was for others.

He shifted, body aching as he sat up slow and deliberate, only to freeze when he saw it.

Perched near the edge of his a’dam was a creature no larger than a coin. Ethereal, half-light, half-breath, its wings beat with a silent rhythm. Its glow pulsed faintly like a dying heartbeat, and in that moment, Alrik saw himself in it in the same way a mirror could be cruel: not by lying, but by showing too much. The creature moved and the world seemed to blink in response because suddenly the dreadnought was gone and in its place sprawled a twisting valley cloaked in a strange, whispering mist.

He stood now at a crossroads with three paths ahead of him, each one wrapped in fog that breathed words rather than wind:

Alrik.

Vaarnok.

Secret.

Witch.

Arnbjorn.

This wasn’t the first time that dreams, mist, or tel’aran’rhiod had brought him down a path and he didn’t know if this was fate or madness, but either way he began. The air down his first path stank of wet hay, rusted iron, and old blood. With cach step Alrik was made smaller, his shoulders narrowed, his gait shrank. He kept walking until he was only a boy again, curls damp with smoke and eyes dark as ravenstone. Before him: a village burning.

A cage encircled him - familiar, cruel, intimate. And beyond it stood Asbjorn. He was watchful, distant, and far younger than Alrik ever remembered him but he had those same eyes - icy and wounded, full of righteous failure. 

Alrik wanted to speak, to say it wasn’t his father’s fault - that the Harts had always been cursed - but his throat was ash amid the blaze. Instead, Asbjorn reached through the bars, his hand warm and calloused, and pressed a small stone into Alrik’s palm. The boy-witch turned it over. It was simple, worn. Asbjorn’s voice came low, familiar:

“You don’t have to be what they make you.”

Warrior. Witch. Assassin. Hero. Alrik had been broken and rebuilt so many times that choice itself felt like a luxury, a ghost of a thing. Adapt or die, that was the rule. And neither he nor Alessia had ever been good at dying.

Alrik looked once more at the stone, then hurled it with all the strength in his child-body. It vanished into the blaze behind Asbjorn before the audible smash of a window echoed back to them. Alrik looked steadfast into his father’s eyes and spoke:

“I am still my father’s son.”

The flames surged and heat roared. Asbjorn, the cage, the village - everything vanished in fire.

What remained was a temple with its walls built from blood, the floor a pool of memories that shimmered and twisted with each step. The stained-glass windows cast kaleidoscopic visions of Alrik’s life: the mines, the witch-hunter’s death, his time as a Hidden One, the coin-blood oaths, the long crawl from Iskaldrik’s ruin. His victories ever since.

But it wasn’t the glass that held Alrik’s attention, it was the boy in the middle of the room. The one he had collared, the one with enough spark to be deemed a rahaat. Innocence still lingered in the boy’s eyes, fragile and flickering like a candle in a windstorm. The a’dam was snug around his neck, a grotesque mirror to the one that Alrik had worn but seemed to be apart from as he wandered this place of dreams and memories.

The boy tried to speak, but instead of words, a butterfly flitted from his lips, graceful and silent save for the sound of slapping wings. Alrik wanted to lie to the boy and to say he’d make it, that this didn’t have to be the end for him. But there wasn’t a lie left in Alrik that would hold - too many had died already.

Alrik thought about Juneau, had she been born-

Had she had the chance. 

He didn’t let his mind wander to the girl of untapped potential, the one that might have been, or could have been, or should have been. Life dealt her a cruel hand and from that point never let up, she was free now - as free as any of them could hope to be. Her fate would not be this boy’s.

Alrik’s hands were scarred, blunt, and brutal, but they reached out just the same and grabbed the boy’s collar. He tore. Weeks of failure, of fighting his own bondage, and now - now - Arlik pulled. Alrik remembered the rune that Fharzai had carved into his hand and that dreams were doors, he thought that no one could walk so long in the shadow that they forgot the sight of the light. He pulled because he had to, because to cease resistance was to enable death and because this boy was innocent up until the moment he crossed Alrik’s path. Alrik pulled harder, the boy’s a’dam screamed, and Alrik’s skin burned.

And the a’dam snapped free, though it sought the boy again - sought completion - so Alrik snapped it to his own throat and felt the collar coil around him once more. 

A beat passed, then the boy surged forward and wrapped his thin arms around Alrik’s hulking frame. That small weight was nearly enough to undo him, a touch without pain was- foreign now. 

A simple hug, a genuine thank you, a moment of sincerity, then Alrik’s command:

“Run.” “Hide.” “Don’t come back.”

The boy was gone then, the temple collapsed, the boy vanished, and now Alrik stood in a chamber of bones, mirrors, and chains.

In front of him, Raksha sat on a throne made of the broken, their limbs twisted and their eyes vacant. Her face was ash-painted, and she hummed a lullaby from his childhood - his father’s voice in her mouth. A story about the stars and about a man who defied fate. Behind her was a flaming door that pulsed like a heartbeat, hungry and wanting. It was Alrik that it wanted, his flesh, his sin, his soul - it dared him to run, to try and promised the consequences. 

“Say your name, Vaarnok,” Raksha said. “Say your name, and I’ll release you.”

Vaarnok. The name they gave him, paraded like a chained beast. It wasn’t freedom, it was fiction - a mask they’d nailed to his face. He didn’t believe in their version of freedom because if they wanted him dead, they’d do it. If they wanted him free, they’d do it. This was no choice, the cards were permanently in their hands - and even if they weren’t - Alrik would not give an inch, would not bend. 

He'd told Beowulf once: when he returned to Iskaldrik, it would be in flames, not for peace. From the ruin of their past, he intended to build a future.

A thousand years from now songs would be sung about the Last Battle and the skalds would spin their tale, but when Alrik was through there’d be nothing left of the Kossith and when the Wheel next turned, no one would ever remember they were here. He would not give them their choice, he’d choose violence.

Alrik stepped forward, gathered as much spit and phlegm as he could across the tarmac of his tongue, then horked at Raksha’s feet. 

Silence.

[kalamarx]

@aegeanxcalla location: Mojo Dojo Casa de Kalamar's place in the Cisterns notes: worried dad stayed up late waiting for his daughter to come home from her expedition in the desert.

"You stink of sand and blood," Kalamar addressed, voice smooth but neatly edges as he appraised the Olympian from outside the ritual chamber. His arms were crossed, one shoulder propped against the dark stone wall as Calla stepped back into his sphere. "At least that means you weren’t taken."

His gaze trailed over her and took inventory: no visible limp, no obvious injuries, and no a'dam. Relief followed, though the only evidence was in the slight sack that came from his shoulders - relaxing, only just.

"You were reckless," he added, not cruelly - just true. "But you came back." He pushed off the wall and approached Calla to scrutinize the witch a bit further. "Well, what did you find?"

[diarmad]

Diarmad’s last conversation with his brother had been playing on a loop, the genath’asir had been just outside of Aventia at the time, but Deimos - 

Somewhere within or across the tides, his brother was held to the whims of these beasts that proclaimed themselves the end all, be all of the Blight. 

In the Dark Age the Old Gods and the Forsaken who served them fought one another just as frequently as they fought the forces of the Light. Diarmad likely hadn’t been asked, but he’d been spying and Hakon’s question - either addressed elsewhere or spoken out loud - spurred the dúnedain’s manifestation. “Fanatics that serve without question, absent leadership they’ll fall apart.” The Arishok remained in Aventia, with apparent plans to march North if rumors were to be believed.

"He's still here, their Arishok." Diarmad's eyes drifted closed a moment, watching as the Arishok sat on the self-made throne: eyes shifted as if to lock onto Diarmad's from his purview, then his own eyes opened once more to look back at Hakon.

open to first 3 Location: Just outside of Aventia Notes: Open to other nightingales or legionnaires

The black robe and darkness spell settled around them. The woods were silent in the darkness of the morning, the birds nearly waking, but even they didn't have a song to sing. The Kossith had overtaken the city itself, constant patrols as they decided they would do this their way and control the region as they saw fit. Ships had sailed out of the port, and with the Kossith being just a stone's throw from the border, from the Aetherian's prismatic barrier, Hakon had simply been watching. "The legion only has so much history on the region of Itzcoatal. Most is buried in Amon-Sûl." He was a man of few words, but he had a point to make. "I would assume they have a natural immunity, or resistance, to the Blight. What it did to Iztcoatal remains to be seen. Have you noticed any patterns?"

[theportaraceli]

who? Open to Members of Troupe 3 (Max 4 people) where? Dreadnought Hold notes: mentions of forced obedience and mind suggestions

Araceli’s cheeks are sticky from blood, and her head aches something fierce as she and others step further into the bowels of the ship. Behind, they leave the pale sun that shines over them but warms none who have been collared, and beyond is the same dank cells that had greeted them all once they had woken up. It means that the Kossith will not test them further for the day, and as cold as this comfort is, it’s one she cherishes at this time. Where a witches’ ability to use magic can be used as a blunt tool at times, her mental suggestion is a weapon of subtlety, of subterfuge. 

Not exactly what the Kossith are looking for, she thinks. Her ability cannot be used by itself, there always needs to be a victim and a goal. It had taken their captors some time to figure out, to understand that her Sul’dam would need to pair her with another Rahaat to truly understand how to use her as the tool they now believed she was. The realization had led to hours of practice with an unwilling target, over and over, as she fought the forced obedience and breathed through the pain, unwilling to break, but forced to bend when it all had become too hard to fight. That she fought the command didn’t make a difference, in the end, and there is a heavy weight on the pit of her gut as she glances at the individual going down the stairs. 

“I am sorry.” Her Sul’dam has yet to discover she can cause mental harm to her victims, and she is thankful for that, but it is only a matter of time. That, and subjected to forced obedience as they are, her Mental Suggestion only adds insult to the injury. Just another reminder of how trapped they are. 

She had been so careful on what she did with her ability, so careful not to cross the boundaries she had set on herself. And now it was all for nothing, her boundaries destroyed just as her city had been. 

[xnikandrosx]

OPEN to the first two + Freydis location: Deck of the Dreadnought notes: post Juneau's death, please no repeats if I have a thread with your character already.

The dead girl was found in her kennel that morning, a knife wound in her ribs and a pool of blood beneath her. Juneau was a vuldak, she shouldn't have died, shouldn't have-

There were many things that never should have come to pass, and yet, they'd all transpired just the same.

Nikandros stood on the deck of the ship and watched the withered darkfriend upon his crucifix at the prow, spirits were sensitive to the emotions of others and Zaknafein was bound to concepts. Pride had little power when he was practically consumed by the eroding ego of those he sat with.

She wasn't the first death upon this ship, but Nikandros remembered the roguish young girl from the road they'd traveled from Iskaldrik to Lysara. It was bitter to consider that she'd survived this long only to die so close to home. Then again, the Wheel did not care for fairness, if people were young and afraid.

Kael’zirra stood where Nikandros once was, prone to acclimation, the spirit couldn't help but become what the Kossith wanted him to be. Still, he pitied the wretch - however she'd found death, it had to be better than what awaited her in Itzcoatal.

Without thought, the rahaat's lips stirred: "Ghilani ma'aravas. Ir elgar. Ma din'an na halam. Ma vallasdareth na uth. Ghilani atisha la dareth." As he spoke, he placed his hand over his heart, then extended it slowly outward, turning his palm upward as he did.

Guide my journey. I am spirit. My death is the end. My grave is eternal. Guide me to peace and safety.

[rafpark]

Les Devil’s Pig Games ont sorti leur nouveau jeu sous la licence “Heroes of Normandie” . Après avoir réinventé le wargame de la WWII, après avoir traqué le culte Cthulhu, les cochons ludiques (pas lubriques) nous gratifient d’une version Warhammer 40K pour le plus grand plaisir de tous.

Open the box du “mini kit”, une avant première du jeu qui va permettre de vous faire une idée.

Sans refaire tout l’historique, les devil pig ont réussi un beau coup avec leur Heroes of Normandie. Souvenez c’est un KS lancé il y a presque 5 ans et depuis beaucoup de chemin a été parcourut. Le nombre d’extension est juste affolant, les possibilités monstrueuses et même si les règles n’ont pas toujours été bien rédigées, le compendium a tout corrigé de main de maître. Jusqu’à aller au système de rangement pour retrouver facilement tous ses petits pions. Et quand l’été dernier ils annoncent leur jeu sous la licence de 40K, on peut se dire qu’à la limite c’est une sacré consécration.

  Cette fois-ci le jeu n’est pas passé par KS, mais en précommande via leur site de l’éditeur.  La livraison à été faites pour ceux qui avaient précommandé le jeu durant l’été dernier, pour les autres cela va arriver courant mars, un peu de patience donc. Des kits ayant été déjà envoyé aux boutiques pour montrer ce que le jeu à dans le ventre. Au passage je remercie donc la boutique Sortilège de la Roche-sur-Yon (mon dealer) de m’avoir prêté ce kit pour faire cet article.

Le contenu vous permet de jouer quelques parties , d’appréhender les règles et de savoir si le jeu est fait pour vous. Je préviens direct, ceux qui ont déjà joué à Heroes of Normandie ou consort, passez votre chemin sauf si vous êtes un grand fan de la licence.

La boîte contient donc :

livret (contenant les règles et 1 scénario)

1 poster de champ de bataille

Unités Ultramarines

Brother Malcian

1 équipe tactique (Solinus) avec son rhino

1 Dreadnought (Agnathio)

Options d’armements et de modification d’unités

Unités d’Orks

Goff Boyz avec leur Nobz

1 Killa Kan

Options d’armements et de modification d’unités

Au niveau du contenu ça tient dans un format livre, mais une fois dépunché vous allez être “emmerdé” pour le rangement 😀

Le livre de règles

Les tuiles de jeux

Le poster et les cartes

Alors histoire de vous résumer comment ça se joue, deux modes de jeux en fait : -scénarisé où tout est indiqué : quelles troupes prendre, les cartes, le plateau etc -le mode “libre” : vous allez déterminer avec votre adversaire d’une valeur d’armée et c’est parti pour se mettre joyeusement sur la goule.

Dans le livret ils vous proposent donc

On met en place la map (dans ce cas un poster sinon des maps et des éléments de décors en carton),  chaque joueur présente ses unités sur son bord de table comme indiqué sur le scénario proposé. On détermine le premier joueur (il est alterné d’un tour à l’autre) et ce dernier place ses unités en premier, puis le second joueur. On démarre avec X cartes en mains (indiqué par le scénario) et on met son deck à porté. Vous voilà prêt à jouer, le jeu se déroule en 3 phases :

Phase d’Ordre : Pendant la Phase d’Ordre, les joueurs assignent des Pions Ordre à leurs Unités. Seules les Unités se voyant attribuer un Pion Ordre seront en mesure de se déplacer et d’attaquer pendant la Phase d’Activation (les autres auront une chance d’agir lors de la Phase de Réserve).

Phase d’Activation : Pendant la Phase d’Activation, les joueurs activent leurs Unités et réalisent des actions chacun à leur tour. En temps normal, seules les Unités ayant reçu un Pion Ordre Numéroté ou Ordre Spécial peuvent être activées pendant cette phase, mais certaines Cartes Action ou Capacités Spéciales peuvent permettre à une Unité d’agir malgré tout.

Phase de Réserve : Durant cette dernière phase de jeu, les Unités qui n’ont pas reçu de Pion Ordre (autre qu’un Pion Ordre Bluff) et qui n’ont pas de Marqueur Activated peuvent effectuer une Action de Mouvement. Certaines Capacités Spéciales ou autres effets permettent d’autres actions particulières. Puis les joueurs sont prêts à passer au tour suivant.

Franchement, ils ont bien réussi cette version, on retrouve toujours ce look graphique “comics” qui fonctionne super bien, le jeu reste simple à prendre main, super tactique quand on pousse un peu, le principe de création d’armée est toujours aussi facile et varié. Bref si vous n’avez pas encore essayé un de leur jeu et que vous êtes fan de la licence il n’y a pas à hésiter.

Le livre vous propose un scénario d’introduction et vous aide même sur les premiers tours de jeu en pas à pas tel un compte rendu de bataille afin de vous aider à mieux comprendre comment ça fonctionne. Evidemment rien ne vous empêche de jouer autrement, ce “compte rendu” est vraiment un didacticiel qui est là pour vous aider à prendre le jeu en main.

Le second type de jeu est le mode libre sans scénario où chacun va constituer une armée de valeur équivalente. En fait on prend un ou des tuile(s) de recrutement et on complète avec des tuiles de soutient.

Les Spaces Marines peuvent se constituer une armée de 285 points. On prend l’escouade de base + Frère Malcian + 3 tuiles options de recrutement (heavy weapon , rhino et des grenades). Pour résumer les SM seront en sous nombre mais leur forte valeur d’armure et leur précision assez élevée leur permettra de faire mouche assez souvent.

Les orks prônent clairement le surnombre (on s’en doutais ^^)  et surtout propose plus de variété au niveau de la compo pour la même valeur car même en remplissant tous les “slots” il reste des options. Et surtout si on place les 3 tuiles de recrutements fournies (voir photo) on arrive directement à 195 points. Ce qui, si on veut égaler les points des Spaces Marines, nous laisse 90 points d’options à choisir parmi 7 options de recrutements. A l’inverse des SM, les Orks sont certes en sous-nombre mais ont une précision et une armure moindre. Résultat il ne faut pas s’offusquer de perdre des unités facilement car vous allez jouer sur la quantité. en effet qu’un Ork perde une unité n’est pas “si grave” en soit là où on le ressent vraiment avec les SM.

Si vous voulez en savoir plus sur la mécanique du jeu je vous invite à aller voir les quelques vidéos faites (même si c’est en anglais ça reste très compréhensible !)

Ou sinon, sachant qu’il y a quand même quelques variantes, l’article sur HoN que j’avais fait il y a quelques années en cliquant ici.

Ce kit n”est qu’une prémisse de ce qui va sortir :

Je vous invite à aller voir le contenu sur leur site directement pour les plus curieux.

Après on peut se demander l’utilité d’acheter ce kit à 25€ quand même alors que la boite de jeu va arriver elle aux alentours de 65€ avec quand même plus de matériel et plus de possibilité, notamment au niveau des terrains qui ont une plus grand modularité. Bah je dirais que dans un premier temps le kit ne fait pas doublon avec la boite de base, donc les unités présentent pourront servir dans le jeu de base. Ensuite le kit reste pratique pour ceux qui veulent s’y mettre sans trop investir et voir si ça leur plaît.

Par contre pour ceux qui connaissent la mécanique et qui ne sont pas complétistes, je vous invite a attendre la boîte de base qui vous permettra une expérience de jeu plus complète. A vous ensuite de savoir si vous voulez investir dans ce kit histoire de compléter vos troupes et avoir plus de variantes de jeux au niveau du format libre.

Je fini par une autre news qui est arrivée avec Cannes, pour ceux qui préfèrent l’historique la bonne nouvelle est que Heroes of Stalingrad va arriver .. oui oui le front de l’Est 😀

Il ne manque plus que le front du Pacifique et ça sera parfait en fait 😉

@+ et bon jeu !!

Heroes of Black Reach “Drop Zone” Les Devil's Pig Games ont sorti leur nouveau jeu sous la licence "Heroes of Normandie" . Après avoir réinventé le wargame de la WWII, après avoir traqué le culte Cthulhu, les cochons ludiques (pas lubriques) nous gratifient d'une version Warhammer 40K pour le plus grand plaisir de tous.

[alrikhart]

Alder’s words still resounded in the back of Alrik’s mind, stubborn and steady through the fog of bruised thoughts: “In your tales, make sure to tell them I was but a man with a dream of peace, so to inspire others to step forward with their convictions and become the new legends of the distant future.” It hadn’t made sense to him at the time, why Alder was so fixated on the idea of memory, of the stories that would survive them. Alrik's name wasn’t for songs. He’d said as much, and half-meant it - but Alder had conferred something else entirely. That the songs weren’t the point and that it was the people the songs reached, the ones who might hear them and rise in their place. That they could reach them at all.

Alrik’s head tilted slightly as Juneau tore a strip from her battered shirt. His lips pressed into a tight line. He waited a long breath, motionless, only watching her from the deep-set dark of his eyes - half-wild, half-wary. The hand she reached toward was hardly a hand anymore: scarred, cracked, fingers stiff with old breaks that never healed right. A body more battlefield than man at this rate, but one that still clung to its pride like battered armor. Pride was stubborn among the Iskarans and Alrik was no exception - too foolish to know when he’d been beaten past salvation.

"Alder said the same, you know," he muttered, the words almost casual in their exhaustion. "Said he never felt like a hero, or that he even liked to be called one." He shifted slightly, allowing Juneau to wind the strip around his torn knuckles, though he didn't meet her gaze at first. His eyes drifted somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the confines of the collar biting into his neck. "I didn’t know him as well as you," Alrik added, his voice softer now, more careful. "But all any hero ever was, was someone who did what needed doing... at the time they were needed."

A twitch of a smile, a memory passing over him like a colder wind, crossed his face. He exhaled slow, as if forcing out the ghosts that still permeated his past - he chose to believe that cool breeze was Asbjorn, some aspect from the world beyond to remind him that this life was a temporary one.

"There was this drunk in Hrafntun," he said. "I’d see him in the street when my father took me down to the docks. No one ever paid him much mind and my father always told me to stay away from him. He died of smoke inhalation," Alrik continued, voice turning distant. "After a fire spread to an orphanage. He kept going back in to make sure all the children were out." His gaze flickered up as a pair of dark, obsidian orbs found Juneau’s through the dim of the brig. 

"He was a hero," Alrik said simply. "And I don’t even know his name. We don’t know where we’ll be when the flames are highest," he finished, his voice low and steady. Maybe he had changed, but she had too - whether she wished to see it or not. "But I’ll go in as many times as it takes. If that means pulling at this thing until it turns me inside out, so be it: the pain means I’m still fighting, still here."

Each time Juneau’s eyes shifted to some other detail or feature of Alrik’s brutalized body, some other torment made itself apparent. She had been studying the impacts of the a’dam on others, rarely testing the waters herself. One one hand, she supposed that made her a coward. She just thought under the current circumstances it was smart. If Alrik had been someone she liked less, she might have let her usual vinegary disposition take the helm and mocked him for his hubris in trying to fight his fate. Instead, it just felt painful to look at him. 

“You’re going to kill yourseif if you don’t stop,” she warned quietly, although she wouldn’t be altogether foreign to the concept of that being the point. When undeath had granted her a second chance, she would have slapped it’s decrepit, boney hand away if given the option. Being a vuldak certainly wasn’t her favorite, but this? This was a considerable several steps down. Her own shirt was in poor condition, but it was better off than the blood and dirt soaked tatters around Alrik’s bloodied knuckles. She tore a strip from the bottom and approached with the clear intention of attempting to patch him together–a meager and pathetic attempt with all of his injuries, but she had little to offer.

Dark green eyes met his own darkened ones and her fear of their reality was apparent. “I don’t feel much like a hero,” she admitted, a brow raised as if asking if he felt like one. Then again, if they cared to live, each would have to figure out how to be a champion in their own right. But she choked on her own unworthiness and the rot within her bloodstream. She had wanted for so long to merely be okay, to do no more harm in the world than her neutral or good deeds–that felt impossible. Heroics? A Kossith might as well slay her where she stood. “I think maybe you need to choose to stop breaking your body down fighting that thing,” she suggested, but she made herself small and flinched away from him, expecting her opinion was less than welcome.