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Board & Conquest 10: Preach, Brother!
🕑 Added 2025-01-02 08:00:16 +0000 UTC------
The day began so well!
Not only had no new brawls erupted since yesterday’s masterful speech, but his followers had all shown a renewed surge of purpose and energy! Enough so that Marcel’s group finally unearthed that hidden relic Wepwawet had been looking for!
“What an incredible find,” Renarde whispered in awe, the glow of her lantern showing frescos of giant wolves facing a black moon in the sky. The chamber’s stark chill—even more intense than the outside frost—didn’t bother her in the slightest. “This changes so much…”
The tomb under the mountain was a masterpiece of stonework, with chiseled columns supporting a ceiling nearly twenty feet high and walls covered in ancient carvings. Wepwawet himself had to use a Smite Miracle to blast the outer doors open once the miners unearthed it. The rectangular-shaped chamber led into a dusty throne room in which sat an ancient werewolf’s skeleton. A tarnished golden torc necklace adorned with a skull design with sapphire eyes hung around the ancient corpse’s neck.
Wepwawet had long been aware of the tomb since his Influence stretched for miles around his Idol, but he never found the time to study it closely until now. His spirit wandered around the room and he took in all the information he could gather. This chamber was at least centuries old, if not more.
While Wepwawet could understand all texts and languages, the tomb only had frescos and carved murals to tell its story. Almost all of them represented a band of werelings led by a great wolf facing one of Elphion’s moons, around which flew vague winged shapes that reminded Wepwawet of a mix between a bat and a bug. He had the suspicion that they represented an ancient war of some kind.
This guy must have been a werewolf king of some kind, Wepwawet figured as he observed the corpse, whose soul had long since returned to this world’s mana to reincarnate. Most of his attention focused on the torc around the corpse’s neck. His divine power resonated with the relic. I can bless it into an Artifact of my faith.
Wepwawet felt somewhat uncomfortable about doing that. Part of his duties back in Egypt involved guiding the souls of the dead to their rightful resting place, and both his mother and half-brothers were funerary deities who taught him to respect the deceased. Taking the goods of the departed never sat well with him.
Nonetheless, Wepwawet’s duties to his living followers outweighed those he held for the dead. He couldn’t afford to turn down any advantage he could seize.
I’ll return the torc to you once we’re done, you have my word, Lord Wepwawet promised the corpse before blessing the torc with his mana. The divine resonance immediately restored the torc’s luster back to its gleaming gilded glory. Its sapphire eyes shone with an otherworldly gleam.
Quest: Relic Hunt I, completed! You’ve earned the Torc of Grand-Loup Rank 7 Artifact Miracle!
Torc of Grand-Loup.
Rank 7 Artifact
Unique. Conjures the Torc of Grand-Loup (Quality A) at a designated spot.
This was his first unique Miracle and his highest-ranked one yet. A god could only have one copy of those, so no duplication was possible; casting the Artifact Miracle would only let him repair the object should it be damaged or destroyed. Wepwawet guessed he could always switch it out with a copy of his Sacred Weapon Miracle since Lourson would soon learn how to produce gear of a similar quality, though he would need to see the torc’s stats first. Half of the ancient relics found in ancient tombs were either cursed or haunted nowadays; and he wasn’t counting the occasional mimic in disguise.
A new notification suddenly popped up before Wepwawet’s eyes.
New Quest: Relic Hunt II
Acquire and bless a unique relic of cultural significance.
Reward: Artifact Miracle.
Interesting. The new quest was identical to the previous one, unlike the others which all increased in difficulty. Wepwawet guessed that it would renew itself each time he found a unique object to turn into an Artifact of his faith.
Wait, wait, it’s called the Torc of Grand-Loup? Wepwawet focused on the Artifact and quickly read its stats.
Torc of Grand-Loup
Type: Accessory (Necklace)
Quality: A
Weight: 1
Restriction: Only Beast-Type Champions can use this item’s powers.
Frost Resistance (two spots): Grants Resistance to Frost.
Battlerage (two spots): Once per day, a wereling can tap into the torc’s power to enter a battlerage. They gain the benefits of the [Berserk] ailment for five minutes, but retain their senses and do not attack their allies.
A hero’s last legacy and a fraudster’s worst nightmare. Its true power dwells deeper still, waiting for the return of its ancient enemies to be awakened.
Wepwawet’s heart would have skipped a beat in his chest, if he had either in his spirit-form. Pieces of the puzzle soon fell into place once he stared at the ancient skeleton.
Here sat the actual Grand-Loup.
He hadn’t been a god or even a spirit, just a mortal chieftain whose life’s tales had probably been greatly exaggerated after his demise. Nonetheless, the term ‘hero’ on the item’s description attested to his true character. His people clearly respected him a lot for building such a magnificent tomb to house his bones.
That’s why I was summoned to this mountain, Wepwawet realized. Of course an ancient werewolf hero’s tomb would serve as a place of power for a deity of military reconnaissance, canines, and post-mortem journeys! I knew there was a reason why I appeared in the middle of nowhere!
Besides the fact that discovering Grand-Loup’s remains might cause doubts to spread among his faithful, the torc’s warning of the return of an ‘ancient enemy’ bothered Wepwawet greatly. It couldn’t mean the titans—no mortal could hope to fend them off without a god’s help—but the magmorians never invaded Verglane in the far past either.
He had the nagging feeling he wouldn’t like this mystery’s answer.
“Who is this, Your Divinity?” Renarde asked Wepwawet’s spirit, startling him. “A former Champion of yours?”
“That’s, uh…” Wepwawet quickly tried to think of a lie that would both let him save face and honor Grand-Loup’s memory, before deciding to play along with Renarde’s assumptions. “Yes, he was! My very first Champion, who took up my name to strike fear in his enemies’ hearts!”
“Fascinating.” Renarde stroked her chin and studied the corpse, much to Wepwawet’s relief. The archeological discovery fascinated the werefox too much for her to question his story. “How long has he been buried here?”
“Since centuries past,” Wepwawet replied. His classes always stressed the importance of staying vague about time in general to better awe mortals. “This is his resting place, and this torc a treasure left behind to guide future generations of chosen in the fight to come. We shall return this gift to him and seal back up the tomb once peace returns to this land.”
Now he just had to find the right Champion to wield his new relic...
—-----
Lourson studied his new work with great satisfaction.
The heater-shaped iron shield felt so lightweight in his hand that he could easily carry dozens of them. It was larger than a buckler, but not too cumbersome either. He had even taken a moment to carve Lord Wepwawet’s face on its surface so that incoming foes would see the wolf god’s glaring at them in battle.
Lourson’s smithing had greatly improved since Lord Wepwawet blessed him and Alpine with a ‘masterworker’s inspiration.’ He had an easier time shaping metal, his intuition had sharpened tenfold, and new forms simply came to mind on their own. Lourson used to be limited to bucklers and simple weapons beforehand, but he had successfully experimented with more complex designs; including an iron crossbow he was particularly proud of.
His improved productivity also let him finally take an apprentice under his wing, something he had been looking forward to for a while. His new werebull assistant Larmure, a white calf half his size, hammered down a spearhead in the back of the forge. The lad learned quickly.
Maybe I should think of adopting a cub of my own, Lourson thought as he handed the shield to his current customer, a weregoat adventurer eager to supplement his mace. The werebear had no particular interest in romance, but Larmure’s presence awoke paternal feelings that gnawed at him. I’ve been putting it off for far too long.
“Here you go,” Lourson told his customer. “Is it to your liking?”
“It’s perfect!” The adventurer grabbed the shield with ease. Their hardy kind always looked weaker than they truly were. “It’s nice to deal with a werebear who won’t eat me.”
“That was how we ran things in Narc even before you all showed up,” Lourson replied with a shrug. He always favored fish anyway, so their god’s dietary decree didn’t impact him much. “T’was a place founded by adventurers, exiles, and tribal castaways.”
Lourson had been one of the mountain’s original settlers back when they first discovered iron ore veins here over thirty years ago. The werebear had been forced to self-teach himself smithing to build and repair the miners’ tools; a post he had come to take pride in. Many people had come and gone since, but Lourson always remained.
“This must be why Lord Wepwawet blessed this place ahead of all others,” the adventurer replied. “I pray your shield will protect me when I bring the light of the true faith to my tribe.”
“You’re going home to preach?” It didn’t surprise Lourson much. Lord Wepwawet’s message of unifying all of Verglane’s people into one pack of equals had found a particular resonance among the weaker herbivore werelings, who were used to being preyed upon. Many messengers had already left to spread the god’s word across the land.
The weregoat nodded with enthusiasm. “What Lord Wepwawet said: only together will we be prosperous. It’s conditional.”
“Seems obvious to me.” Lourson didn’t particularly find Lord Wepwawet’s speech all that inspiring personally, but it clearly struck a chord with many. The idea that all tribes could coexist together and have their individual valor recognized by a god appealed to Verglane’s splintered people.
“This nation will only prosper once we’re all one pack, one flock!” the weregoat shouted so loudly that a startled Larmure nearly hammered his fingers by accident. “We’ve got to spread the true faith to all werelings tribes across the land and convert the nonbelievers!”
“I’m not sure that’s what Lord Wepwawet meant,” Lourson replied with skepticism. The werebear didn’t consider himself an expert on faith matters, but he was almost certain Lord Wepwawet mostly wished to put an end to the constant tensions in their growing community. “I don’t recall an order to go convert everyone.”
“That’s because it’s expected of us,” the weregoat insisted. “We’ll spread the faith all the way to Roynimalia and beyond!”
A terrible feeling washed over Lourson. “With a mace?”
“Only to defend ourselves from nonbelievers and barbarians who would deny the truth,” the adventurer insisted. “Our peaceful words will be backed with steel!”
“If you go around treating people like barbarians, then they’ll act barbarous to you,” Lourson insisted. He had to calm down the fool’s ardors before he picked a fight he couldn’t win. “All you’ll do is get yourself killed and sully Lord Wepwawet’s good name.”
“Uh? Really?” The adventurer scratched the back of his horns. “Surely Lord Wepwawet will protect his faithful from harm!”
“He won’t protect you from yourself,” Lourson replied. Having witnessed Lord Wepwawet’s wonders since the first day, he was acutely aware that their god, while powerful, was neither omniscient nor omnipotent. “If you insist on preaching, go meet Mistouffe. She’s due to start a new conversion tour soon and she has a way with words. You’ll learn a lot from her.”
“True… and blessed Mistouffe would certainly welcome a bodyguard during her dangerous trip!” The weregoat thankfully took Lourson’s advice. “Wish me luck, Brother Bear.”
“Sure,” Lourson replied with laconism. He watched the adventurer leave the forge, only for Victoire and Filou to walk in right after. “Morning.”
“Greetings, my friend,” Victoire said. “Was that another would-be preacher on their way out?”
“Yes,” Lourson confirmed. From the frown on his colleague’s face, she didn’t have a high opinion of those. “Trouble?”
“I can’t tell.” Victoire let out a sigh. “On one hand, we’ve had no more troublemakers causing issues for a while, but on the other hand… I have the feeling that they’ll just start trouble elsewhere instead.”
“T’was inevitable,” Lourson said with a shrug. He had seen that pattern repeat many times during his many years spent on this frozen earth. “You can speak one word, but a hundred ears will hear it a different way; doubly so when they only listen to what they want to hear.”
“I thought Lord Wepwawet’s speech was loud and clear,” Filou argued, his fist tightening with the enthusiasm that only an impressionable youth could muster. “It was a message of love, peace, and duty! My ears are still tingling from it!”
“The speech was… fine,” Victoire replied with an embarrassed tone that implied otherwise. Her eyes darted away in a desperate search for another subject to talk about, and thankfully spotted Larmure forging at the back. “If you don’t mind me asking, who’s this young werebull? So many new faces to keep track of nowadays.”
“His name’s Larmure,” Lourson replied. “A good lad. His parents are both smiths, but are too busy building their new house to train him themselves.”
The young calf nodded shyly at their visitors. “M’ning, m’lady, m’lord.”
“No need for such courtesies with us,” Victoire replied with a warm smile. “I hope Lourson doesn’t work you too hard.”
“I’m easier on my apprentice than you are with yours,” Lourson mused. He could see the bruises on Filou’s face. “How’s training going, lad?”
“Milady does not go easy on me for sure, but I’m improving by leaps and bounds,” Filou boasted. He unsheathed the burning scimitar, with young Larmure gasping upon seeing the sword catch fire on its own. The wererabbit miraculously managed to swing it without stumbling. “See?!”
“Mmm.” Lourson crossed his arms and studied the sheath. “I wonder why the flames quell themselves once the blade slides inside a sheath. That is… neat.”
“I would avoid showing that weapon to Renarde if I were you, Filou, lest she take it off your hands to find out,” Victoire said. Her gaze lingered on the crossbow prototype Lourson crafted earlier. “Impressive work.”
“I’m still experimenting with the quarrels’ shape,” Lourson warned her. “I wouldn’t use it in the field yet.”
“Take your time,” Victoire reassured him. “Bows are cheaper and quicker to produce, but crossbows trump them in range, power, and accuracy. Forming a group of crossbowmen would help bolster our defenses.”
Lourson’s head perked slightly. A werebear’s nose was the strongest of all werelings, so he had no issues picking up on Goreville’s musk. Sure enough, the werewolf soon walked into the forge with his sword in hand. His eyes squinted at Victoire’s silver spear and Filou’s flaming scimitar; his own weapon looked rather feeble when compared to these magical wonders.
“Greetings,” the werewolf said politely. “I was looking for you, Victoire.”
“I could tell,” Victoire replied. Much like Lourson, she likely had a good idea of what the werewolf was about to ask of her. “Do you need something from me?”
“Lord Grand-Loup said that we shouldn’t fight or wage war on one another, and that we should settle our differences with reason,” Goreville said. “Nonetheless, we’re still allowed to spar.”
“Yes, we are.” Victoire tensed up, her silver spear gleaming in her hand. “You wish to challenge me to a friendly duel?”
Goreville nodded sharply. “Grand-Loup said he’ll value people’s abilities and merits over their race. That silver spear you wield is proof of his favor and that he put you in charge. I know I should take my god at his word–”
“But you want to test my strength yourself.” Victoire pondered his offer for a moment before nodding in agreement. “I accept on one condition.”
Goreville raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“I’ve heard that you werewolves grow stronger under the moon, so we’ll spar at night.”
Goreville remained silent for a moment as his mind processed what his ears told him, then exploded into a howling laughter. “You want to fight me at my best?!”
“I want to beat you at your best,” Victoire replied with a thin smile. “Meet at the training ground at nightfall."
“I like your spirit!” Goreville smirked, his smile sharper than any blade. “Don’t come crying once you lose!”
The werewolf left the forge with much enthusiasm immediately after. Lourson guessed he was already off to prepare himself for tonight’s duel.
He’s got potential and something to prove, the werebear thought. He had the intuition that Goreville's heart was in the right place beneath all his bravado. He’ll go far once he learns humility… one way or another.
“A-Are you certain, milady?” Filou asked, his voice wavering. “Fighting a werewolf chieftain at night is… ill-advised.”
“I’ve faced worse,” Victoire replied with confidence. “Besides, it’s the only way he and his followers will understand how to live with others: if we beat them by their own rules.”
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Comments
Publius Decius Mus
I see! So the faithful shall cleanse Verglane from the unbelievers in a holy war, in accordance with the tenets of Grand-Loup. Great is his wisdom but his mercy is even greater - he will bring salvation to those who have ears to hear, and he shall end the misery of those, who close their hearing to his Message. Wepy vult!
