Nerd In the North: 3-15

3-15: Holy Lord

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

“Through darkest paths, we make our way,

No steps shall falter, no hearts betray.

The Lord’s own strength shall guide our stride,

In steadfast faith, we shall abide.”

His words carried, the cadence deliberate as he refreshed the spell again as they continued the march. Greg’s tone sharpened as he continued, his gaze flicking across the men trudging behind him.

“In holy light, your strength shall rise,

A sword of heaven, sharp and wise.

With every strike, let sin take flight,

His will your hand, His power your might.”

It wasn’t poetry, not really. 

But the chants flowed naturally as he let his mindset flow naturally with the memories of Greta Veder. Man, I owe me so much. 

He didn’t really need to say the words this loud, even though he wasn’t really being loud, at least not loud enough for all of the men to hear him over the sounds of their own footsteps and clattering armor.

Somehow though, they all did.

And it was for the best.

Greg had learned one thing over months in Westeros—people loved a promise they could hold in their heads, even if it was just words. 

Especially if it was just words.

A faint shimmer of magic coated every soldier, strung as thin as Greg could manage. The first spell kept them moving, the second lent them strength. Both drained him in trickles, tiny little pinches on the fifty burning stars inside him. 

Manageable, for now. 

They wouldn’t go out—not yet—but the strain was another itch under his ribs he couldn’t scratch.

Greg glanced at the men around him. Young volunteers and old farmers, their hands calloused and jaws tight, marched on despite the weight of exhaustion fighting against the glow of holy magic keeping them going. 

Still, what surprised him wasn’t the weariness. It was the lack of outright doubt. Even with the losses—and they were climbing up and up, double digits on the border of breaking into triple —they weren’t breaking.

“Not yet,” he muttered under his breath.

The road shifted under their boots as the dark horizon started to redden. Greg stopped abruptly, his instincts twisting into something sharp and urgent.

He turned, boots scraping against the dirt as he leapt uponto a crumbled stone outcrop. It wasn’t much—barely taller than his own shoulders—but it would do. The not-bear padded after him, his glowing red eyes scanning the crowd as Shiro walked up and down his back, the chick somehow perfectly balanced.

Greg planted his boots wide, squaring his shoulders. “Listen up!” Heads snapped up, faces pale and hollow from the march but still watching.  

“I know what you’re thinking,” he began slowly. “That this march has already cost too much. That the Dreadfort’s walls are too high, too strong, and its lord too cruel.”

A few heads nodded, their movements slight, reluctant. Some faces turned away, eyes dropping to the ground as if shame could hide them.

Greg let the silence stretch as he stared at each one of them. “Let me ask you something.” He paused, dragging his gaze over them like he could catch every flicker of doubt, every crack in their resolve. “What’s the alternative? Go home? Back to lives under the thumb of men like Roose Bolton and Greatjon Umber?”

The murmurs started low, but he pressed on, his voice rising with every word. Greg’s hand clenched at his side, the faint golden glow pulsing brighter in time with his heartbeat.

“Back to your daughters being hunted, your wives taken on their wedding nights,” he continued, his voice harder now, the edges a little bit rougher. “Your lives thrown away like you’re worth nothing?”

Words swept through the men as Ash growled low, the sound rumbling like distant thunder, pulling their attention back to Greg as he stepped forward, his boots crunching against the frost-bitten dirt.

“You think that I’m just dragging you into hell because I’m bored? That I don’t know what’s waiting behind those walls?” The murmurs died almost instantly, eyes snapping to him with wary attention. “I know. I’ve heard what they do. I’ve felt it. I’ve seen it. Roose Bolton flays men alive for a laugh. He stakes villagers to frighten those who stand against him and his son preys on your daughters.” His voice dipped lower, heavy with disgust. “And they got away with it because fear works. It keeps you small. It keeps you silent. I’m gonna tell you one fucking thing: I am not marching to the Dreadfort to die.”

His tone hardened, low and deliberate, the kind that forced people to listen. “I’m marching to end it.”

The crowd stilled, the only sound the faint crackle of a dying fire. Greg let the silence stretch, dragging their attention tighter like a bowstring drawn back.

Greg gestured broadly, first to Ash, then to Guts, standing like an immovable mountain at the edge of the group. “You have my magic. You have our strength. But most importantly, you have each other.”

His voice climbed, each word carrying like a punch to the chest. “You’ve already shown me what loyalty looks like. What bravery looks like. The Boltons don’t expect that. They think they’ve already won. They think you’re nothing but dirt under their boots. But you’re going to show them what men can do when they fight for something real. Something that matters.”

A few men shifted, their shoulders squaring, the murmurs of doubt softening into something harder, something sharper.

Greg stepped forward, closing the space between himself and the crowd. “They expect you to break,” he said, his voice steady, relentless. “They expect you to scatter like frightened deer the second you see their banners. But you won’t, will you?”

He paused, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

“Will you?!” Greg barked, his tone snapping like a whip.

“No!” a voice shouted, hesitant but firm, and then another joined it.

“No!”

Greg felt the heat rise in his chest as he raised his fist high, the golden glow flaring brighter than the sun yet to rise this time, unintentional but unmistakable, casting his face in light. “We march to take back what’s yours! To show them you are men of the North, not slaves of the East!!”

The men stirred now, their murmurs growing into something louder, fiercer.

“You march,” Greg shouted, his voice carrying over the growing roar, “You march because you can! Because you will! Because you have the strength to stand, to fight, to win!”

He paused, letting the words hang like smoke.

Then…

“So what are you gonna do?” Greg shouted, his fist shooting into the air. “Let him win? Let him keep his leash around your neck? Or are you gonna break it?”

The crowd erupted, the roar breaking loose like a dam shattered. Ash barked, his growl rumbling like thunder. Men stomped their feet, banged their shields, raised their spears high into the air. The chant started low but built quickly, spreading like wildfire.

“Lord Veder! Lord Veder!”

His golden-lit fist stayed raised, the fire of their voices wrapping around him like a storm. If they needed a figurehead to rally behind, then fine.

He’d give them that.

“Rest!” he commanded, his voice cutting through their chant as flashes of life as a crusader bled into his own, hard training and harder experiences shifting his words. “Eat, drink, sharpen your blades, and be ready. Because today…”

His fist dropped, and his gaze shifted toward the looming Dreadfort, its jagged walls cutting into the sunrise past the trees like broken teeth. His voice dropped to a low, angry growl.

“…we end this.”

The chant began, raw and unplanned, swelling from the back of the crowd until it consumed them all.

“Lord Veder! Lord Veder!”

Greg’s chest tightened, his throat dry, but he didn’t drop his fist as he felt a sudden pull in his soul, the holy light in his fist brightening to a new height.

“Rest up,” he called, his voice still ringing with the fire he’d summoned, “because at dawn, we march!”

The men cheered louder, their voices echoing against the trees, defiance given form. As they began to disperse, the weight of their trust settled back on Greg’s shoulders like a stone.

He turned, stepping down from the outcrop, his hand brushing against Ash’s thick fur. The not-bear huffed, his red eyes flicking toward the horizon.

Greg followed his gaze, and his chest tightened further as they broke the treeline, a massive black wall rising higher than any tree around them and taking up their vision.

He clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. No turning back now.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Mass Blessing (200 GP)

People’s Voice (100 GP)

Failed Roll: Dimension Lord  [DC Occult] (1000) {Domain} – “You are the proud owner of a magical dimension. Whether you inherited it from your parent, usurped it from their control, or gained it in some other way entirely, this is a world all your own. It can be something associated with your parent, such as a section of Hell or a slice of Faerie, or it can be a dimension all its own. Whatever the case, within this dimension, your power is increased significantly as you gain dominion over all of the magical power that exists within the dimension. The world can be reshaped to your will, allowing you to change the environment as you wish or control the weather on a whim.

By default, this dimension is roughly 20,000 square miles in size and you may choose to have it be inhabited by residents that are fitting to it. This could be anything from humans to elementals, fae to golems, or a variety mix. Whatever the case, these residents are absolutely loyal to you and can number anywhere from none to several million. Even outside of this dimension, you may draw on its power, though not nearly so much as while within and it is possible to block your attempts to do so. Drawing on its power outside of it does not increase your power, it simply allows you to recover your pool of magical energy much faster. You may also summon the residents outside of your dimension to serve you. You may also import another dimension you have to gain these effects. Each new jump you may choose if the dimension remains the same, is a copy of one of your previous dimensions, or if it is in a separate locale based on your desired settings, such as jungle, ocean, mountain top castle, hellscape etc. 

Roll: “Miracles” [Dark Souls 3] (300) {Benevolence} – Holy sacraments, the gift of the gods, the art of Miracles. Miracles are the fruit of divine tales that the faithful draw power from the use of holy chimes or talismans and deep prayer, each Miracle empowered by the caster’s belief. You have studied some of these blessed stories with religious fervor, allowing you to heal yourself and those around you of minor wounds or common ailments, or speed up natural healing for a while. While still ignorant of many of the feats of the gods, a holy pilgrimage through these churning lands will surely enlighten you. Purchasing this perk has also aided your ability to trust and believe in others or vaguely defined concepts, for Faith is what fuels Miracles. Your Faith also wards you from the dark somewhat, and this ward can grow more powerful with regular prayer. (Sidenote: This perk also teaches you how to read braille.)

Grimoire Points: 400