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Thread: Rome AARisen - a Byzantine AAR

  1. #5761
    Blasted Conniving Roman General_BT's Avatar
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    Saithis - It does not matter who laps the most, it is who emerges victorious in the end. (Did we even set proper victory conditions? What am I being lapped in? )

    Kirsch27 - Nope, I was free, and I was out of town this weekend, so no writing was finished sadly. I'm back, however, and hopefully I'll have something ready by the end of this week (and maybe the special thing too...)

    Sostratos will be reappearing again. It's a fun character, I'm glad RGB was kind enough to let me use him.

    Taqi isn't the same cut as a bin Laden, if only because he's got a much stronger moral code regarding noncombatants. His goal is purification of hearts and minds, first and foremost. Political "purification" will follow, and he knows that slaughtering innocents doesn't purify one's cause, nor does it draw them towards you... indeed, it usually drives them away. Also Taymiyya isn't backing his own dogmatic version of faith--he's trying to look at scripture, and arguably it alone... a huge difference.

    wolfcity - It happens sometimes lol. And yeah, there is the question for Alex if he takes The City, what then? Probably attempt to forcibly reunify everything from Spain to Samarkand under one throne... Attempt likely being the key word... it's simply too much for one man, no matter how remarkable...

    vadermath - That's more me guessing as to what'll happen in EU3, considering Burgundy's closest colonial places would be North America. My prediction could be wrong, and maybe Mahan is Scottish, or Swedish, or Hamburgian. Who knows?

    And yes, Andronikos' collapse was perfect... was it a coincidence? Or was the timing arranged by someone?

    Calipah - I kind of imagine that post-fall of Mecca, Muslims would be quick to toss 'New' before Taymiyyah's form of Islam, even if its simply restorative. After such an earth-shaking event, everything before is colored by the recent catastrophe, so someone's reminder in the present of the past, clear and without the taint of defeat, is going to be perceived as something new, even if it's not...

    FlyingDutchie - I will readily admit, I did borrow some memes from Luther and Calvin, mostly because I'm far more familiar with them, and it seemed a likely reaction someone could have if their faith has been trodden on, and many of their 'religious leaders' are perceived as complicit in the trodding--don't trust the leaders, trust the scriptures. It fit in my head... I am curious as a writer how it'll work out.

    Enewald LJ appears in the thread!

    Carlstadt Boy - Which Roma could be a key question shortly...

    asd21593 - Now that'd be an interesting turn of events... Nikephoros knows his time is running out and can't wait? Manuel wants chaos to make his claim? That'd be downright evil... but is it what happened? Their planning was well timed...

    Zzzzz... - But he has a purple cloak! Bright purple! Lavender even! That's... okay, not that awesome I suppose.

    von Sachsen - Possibly, though there was no hint if Alex was the Persian leader that threatened the city... it could be someone else... or am I tossing out red herrings?

    Vesimir - If Alex and Gottfried have ganged up, Konstantinopolis is facing a one two punch coming from both directions, and Nikephoros et al's plans are down the tubes. I guess everything depends on Gottfried's loyalty... or should I say, where Gottfried can get the most? Would he think Persia or the loyalists could give him more?

    Leviathan07 - But Nikephoros doesn't randomly choke people, nor does the room explode when he yells "Nooooooo!"

    Qorten - Well, they've got plans for Gottfried, Demetrios, and the Exarch. Who could they be missing... there's always each other...

    Bagricula - Thank you for the compliments and the analysis on my writing! Part of my effort here is to learn to be a better writer... through writing! So any compliments and especially criticisms that come up are more than welcome. I will admit, I had to look up what a chiasmus was. I started writing and a modified version of the final product came out (I think tumbling was a late addition, for example), but it just felt right. Glad to know there was an analytical backing for the instinct.

    Nehekara - Well, as Sostratos was described in RGB's story (and to me by RGB as well), he would have NO idea what to do in a court situation... I tried to capture that sense of "uh um" in a group of people who are completely used to the palace and high intrigue... a common man's view. I'm glad people like it! I'm definitely bringing him back.

    RGB
    1) Blank stab at what could happen in the future, though yeah, Burgundy would need a heck of a navy to get his ancestors to North America and hold it... unless he's a European in this universe...
    2)
    3) A little. Dunno where I found the rascal.
    4) Before is rather relative... a few minutes won't make much of a difference when plans are Empire wide...
    5) If Gottfried's ambitions are that wide, all of Europe is probably in trouble lol
    6) Such is CK... it claimed the troops of Byzantion had plate by 1250, and troops raised in the big cities like Alexandria and Antioch had halfplate...
    7) Really? I think he's going to be planting daisies!

    AlexanderPrimus - You, sir, are the master of one word summations. XD



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  2. #5762
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    Quote Originally Posted by General_BT View Post
    Zzzzz... - But he has a purple cloak! Bright purple! Lavender even! That's... okay, not that awesome I suppose.
    Bright and purty Tyrian purple indeed! but he is a descendant of Thomas the Madman!
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  3. #5763
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    Alex MUST capture the city I dont care if you beat him in the game he MUST. Or else... umm...uhh...yeah or else...not sure what ill do but yeah!

    And after he captures it I dont really care what you do with him.
    Colonel Quantrill in the Presidents (and Proud Founder of Adolf Hitler was an Idiot club )

  4. #5764
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    Quote Originally Posted by General_BT View Post
    Saithis - It does not matter who laps the most, it is who emerges victorious in the end. (Did we even set proper victory conditions? What am I being lapped in? )
    I'm pretty sure the victory conditions were keep up or I win, don't keep up and I victory lap, really don't keep up and I double victory lap.
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  5. #5765
    Any word on Scotland and the North? I wish to see the fall out of the Swedish invasion and how Lord Komnenos dealt with it. Also, i was reading some of the earlier chapters and saw some old faces and it got me wondering, what ever happened to the Thrakesios and Qasim families?
    Last edited by Servius Magnus; 12-03-2011 at 21:42.
    I am the King of Rome, and above grammar.

    -Emperor Sigismund I

  6. #5766
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    Quote Originally Posted by Servius Magnus View Post
    Any word on Scotland and the North? I wish to see the fall out of the Swedish invasion and how Lord Komnenos dealt with it.
    Working on it. Trying to make it as entertaining as I can.

  7. #5767
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    Looking forward to it

  8. #5768
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    “I leave my empire to the strongest” – Alexander the Great


    April 26th, 1297

    9:02 AM, Imperial Apartments, Kosmodion Palace


    “His Majesty is awake. His fever has grown higher, however.”

    “Hmm. I appears the leeches have not done their work removing the humors. What of the poultices applied to his leg?”

    “There’s no sign of movement.”

    “Hmmm. I thought willowbark would surely pull some life into the leg to allow it to regain movement. What of the putrid growths in the other? Have…”

    Andronikos Komnenos blinked slowly, wishing he could tell the doctors clustered around how much torture it was to hear them blithely talking about his agony as if it was a case from a medical text. Try as he might, however, the Emperor of the Known World could not speak—he knew what he wanted to say, but his lips, his tongue, would simply not obey. He closed his eyes, wishing he could cover his ears to stop hearing them mutter on about this bedsore or that pustule, but neither could he move his hands. So, like he had for the previous weeks, months, he sat in mental anguish as doctors droned on about how his body was slowly failing him.

    It was a far fall for a man who only three months before, had been the single most powerful monarch to grace the world. Three months before, he’d commanded legions, he’d oversaw a realm and dominions that stretched across the Christian world to the very gates of India and Cathay. An empire of his own making, molding in his own shape.

    And now…

    “Perhaps we should puncture more of them?” one of the voices asked, sounding distant and hollow. Andronikos wanted to sigh, butt he noise came out a simple gruff breath. If he could’ve told them anything, it would’ve been for them to look at his foot. For days his right foot had prickled, as if it’d been asleep. He couldn’t feel his left foot—nor could he feel his left hand, left arm, or any other part of the left side of his body.

    He opened his eyes again, and looked at the ceiling—the plaster flowed and folded into itself before his eyes. For a moment he was confused, till he remembered this happened yesterday too. He was seeing things. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember, trying to remember…

    Those reports from France he’d been reading, what’d they say again? Ah yes, Syrenios had dealt another rascal Frankish noble a nasty surprise. All those months before he’d found a suitable way to deal with their incessant infighting and complaints—he’d kick their complaints to Konstantinopolis, then order out his six tagmata force to make examples while they were unprepared. The strategy had worked well, catching the Duke of Brittany, as well as some Komes in Maine off-guard, but it only added to Andronikos’ paperwork.



    There’d been mountains, the Emperor remembered. Reports from Edessa and Galilee of couriers headed off to the east. Reports from Egypt of messengers headed west. Reports that Demetrios was drinking and gambling his way into popularity with the Skazioi and Discouroi in Italy, reports that von Franken in Istria was talking to the Italian city-states, and even his own sons Nikephoros and Manuel! A great monster was stirring—day in, day out the emperor felt its heartbeat through the parchment between his fingers, the hearsay and gossip that floated through the halls.

    “Majesty! Can you hear me?” a voice echoed dully, as if shouted through a cave. The Emperor opened his eyes—there was the damned churigeon named Toulemos or Tully or some other damned thing. The loon had that same perpetual blank look he wore every day he looked down at Andronikos. Blasted fool.

    Yes I can, you idiot!, Andronikos hissed in his mind, but all his ears heard was a sickly mutter, somewhere between a grumble and a sigh. For the hundredth time, he tried to glare, to stare at the man. Once, Andronikos’ merest look could send men tremble—now, the doctor grunted silently, then casually lifted the sheets. Andronikos tried to roll his eyes—so it was this again.

    “Still no stool,” the doctor grunted. Andronikos was sure he saw the words wobble in the air before they reached his ears, as the cascade of pinpricks finally reached his knee.

    Why did Manuel send this idiot? He wasn’t a trained medicus! Andronikos had written two treatises on medicine! He’d learned from Roger Bacon, among the best scholars in the field of nature and the body! This… imbecile… was worried about leech placement and humors from the emperor’s buttocks!

    The problem is in my head, you fool! Andronikos hissed in his mind.

    It’d all started there, those months ago. He’d had a headache for days, he could remember…or was it weeks? He wasn’t sure, as he felt pain shoot up his right leg. The Emperor had done what he’d always done when he had pain—he’d taken special drinks of Arab qahwa, mixed with ground willow bark and cinnamon. Before, the pain had eased, but this time… no, it grew. So he drank more qahwa, and redoubled his efforts. The Qahwa gave him energy—he didn’t need sleep! He couldn’t afford to sleep, not with all the documents of an empire needing his attention all hours of the day!

    That fateful morning he’d been looking at… something. Despite months left mute, with nothing better to do than reminisce, Andronikos could not remember what he’d been doing that fatal moment. There was a document, he hadn’t slept for well over a day, and his head was throbbing. He remembered drinking qahwa, then everything else was obliterated by the most terrific headache he had ever felt, almost as if some beast was tearing its way through his skull, trying to eat its way out.



    Then there was darkness.

    He’d awoken a full week later, stretched out on this bed, unable to move, unable to speak, with churigeons and doctors hustling and bustling around him to and fro. That first day he’d yelled, he’d screamed, but all his ears heard was the buzz of confused voices. All his eyes saw were tired men, the worried eyes of his sons and his wife as they filed in and out through the hazy days.

    What was happening to his empire?

    He only heard snippets, the briefest slips of information from others whispering around his bedside. Alexios sent a letter of some kind to Konstantinopolis, one that displeased Nikephoros. Demetrios sent one as well. Andronikos’ ears picked up ominous words such as Egypt and Africa spoken in equally ominous tones. Above all, he heard the constant mutter of who would be Kaisar, who would become co-Emperor on his death…

    Was it that close? Andronikos had been sure it was at first, but as the days stretched into weeks, then yawned into months, he grew convinced it was something else, some kind of special torture devised by God. Andronikos could hear everything, but he could not respond, could not speak. Gruel was shoved into his mouth, he could chew and swallow, but his lips—they could make no noise aside from a grunt or a gurgle. So here he’d hung, alive enough to be aware of what happened around him, but so close to death he could not respond.

    “He needs another leech on his side,” Toulemos muttered grumpily. The Emperor felt a tingling on his side, then curling around to the base of his spine. At once, Andronikos swore he saw something dark float across the edge of his view. He tried to turn, to see what the shadow was, but his head did not respond. There! Another shadow! And another!

    Suddenly, the tingling at the base of his back grew ice cold, as if a dagger dipped in ice had been thrust into his spine.

    He knew.

    He hadn’t been reading a document when the headache struck, he’d been writing one! His succession law! He’d finished only a few words before he could no longer hold the quill!

    “Has His Majesty said anything about the succession?” a voice asked from beyond Andronikos’ view. He recognized it—it was son Manuel’s personal secretary. “His Majesty Emperor Nikephoros as well as the Archeoikos are most…”

    Leo! Andronikos tried to force his mouth to circle, his tongue to move that magic dance that turned noise into words! The sound came out flat, a half-gurgle, half grumble—dammit! He had to tell them! Somehow, some way! If no one knew…

    I can’t die! I can’t! Not without a Kaisar!

    Leo!, Andronikos screamed as the shadows crept closer and closer. The cold tingle crawled up the middle of his spine, like a hundred spiders made of ice.

    “Did he say Theodoros?” a voice asked. The darkness circled closer, the icy feeling wrapped around his side to his chest. Andronikos tried to look down, his heart thumping dimly before the iciness slowly took that too. Were there thousands of them? What… who?

    I’m about to die!

    The Emperor of the Known World tried to sit up, tried to scream at the medicus, at the churigeons, at the doctors that hovered about, blithely talking about his bowels, a fever, or attaching more leeches to draw out the ill humor.

    I’m about to die you fools! I can’t die! Andronikos screamed, shouted! He hadn’t announced his heir! No one would know! No one…

    The icy prickles finally reached his neck, then stretched up his chin. As the darkness finally closed in, the Emperor heard that rascal of a medicus complain about where another of the doctors had placed his leech. Andronikos wanted to curse, but the icy feeling spread over his mouth, then his nose, and the last of his head disappeared.

    Andronikos I Komnenos, Megas Komnenos of the greatest empire in the world, would speak no more.



    ==========*==========



    3:04 PM… Octagon Throne Room

    Manuel watched as several senior logothetes and staff winced as he briskly strode by, an array of servants and other Oikoi streaming behind. On another day they might have winced at him, but today was different—they winced at the noise, not the man who was suddenly the second most powerful person in the Empire.

    Some fifty years before, Emperor Thomas III had decided the city did not have enough bells in its churches, and all new construction, as well as existing buildings, were required to add bells, if not an outright bell tower. Manuel was used to the cacophony of noise that pealed over the city now during momentous events—many of the elderly still were not. Nonetheless the bells pealed, from the screeching barrage that came from the Kosmodion’s distant chapel, to the close, deep roar of the lone bell mounted in the Hagia Sophia, a giant monster that reportedly had the same bronze as a thousand officer’s cuirasses.



    Servants hastily pulled aside the bronze doors to the Octagon, and the crowds within quickly parted for Manuel and the battalion of people behind. All around stood men clad in the finest of silks and furs, colors brilliant to the eyes. Overhead hung the trophies of countless wars, tattered rags from the age of the Bulgarontocus, to fresh banners taken from the French and Germans only a few years before. Guards in their parade best encircled the room, as well as the dais on the far side. Flanking those carpeted steps were the ancient mechanical lions that once opened their jaws and roared—Manuel had never seen them do so his entire life. They’d long since fallen into disuse, and no Lord of Romanion in centuries had needed such cheap tricks to impress foreign dignitaries.

    In the middle of this riot of color, pageantry, and somber faces sat the masked form of Nikephoros V, now sole Emperor of the Romans, clad in white silks. Manuel briskly walked directly before his brother, bowed, then stepped halfway up the dais to the right before turning around and staring over the crowd—just as they’d practiced for the previous four months. Leo was supposed to have stood to the left as well, but they could no longer delay his sailing to Sicily to take his post as Hypatos—not with the fate of the empire in the balance.

    The Archeoikos’ eyes surveyed the crowd of silken cloaks that filled this ancient room. The day had long been coming, and Manuel’s heart sank by what he saw—many of the dynatoi themselves weren’t present. Instead, he saw their representatives—the nobility themselves had made for their estates en masse to prepare for what many assumed would be a coming storm.

    The people who were present also made Manuel’s stomach churn. Aside from Mother Church, he saw Isa ibn-Maliki, the domestikos of Valencia and emissary from Exarch Phillipos Makrinokomnenos, as well as Georgios Photios, close friend of Manuel’s brother Demetrios. Both anxiously looked around, each of their hands clutched parchments that bore heavily decorated seals—each probably demanding the same thing.

    That their master (or his charge) be recognized as co-Emperor of the Romans alongside Nikephoros, and threatening war if these ‘just claims’ were refused.

    Which they would be.

    As the thunderous peal of bells continued, Nikephoros slowly rose to his feet. All eyes looked up, watching, knowing the following moment would be remembered for all ages.

    “Do you solemnly recognize and bow before Nikephoros, Fifth of That Name, as Emperor of the Romans,” the chamberlain intoned those ancient, important words, “Lord of the Black and Mediterranean Seas, Defender of the Church, Lord of Konstantinopolis and Christ’s Vice Gerent on Earth?”

    Where normally there would be a roaring reply in the affirmative, there was a muffled, hushed noise as Photios and ibn-Maliki stepped forward, offering their parchments. Churchmen and laymen alike waited with anxious breath—who would Nikephoros choose? Surely he had to choose one or the other? Manuel, despite knowing what his brother was about to say, looked over as well. Slowly, the silken imperial hand raised.

    “I will not accept these petitions!” Nikephoros said, his voice only a dim echo of the stout roar of command Manuel had heard years before when his brother had sailed for France.

    Both representatives broke protocol, looking up in confusion. Photios soundlessly mouthed his confusion, while ibn-Maliki proffered his parchment yet again.

    “As I do not know the will of my father,” Nikephoros said again, “I will have no co-Emperor. I name Manuel Komnenos, Archeoikos, as Kaisar until a proper council of lords temporal and spiritual can ascertain what my father’s will would have been.”

    Manuel smiled thinly as both representatives’ faces darkened. Ibn-Maliki looked thunderous, unable to speak. Photios spun on his heels and stalked towards the doors.

    The plan was all Manuel’s, designed to place Alexios and Demetrios in a bind—they could acquiesce to the Council, which would take years to come to its conclusion, by which time Nikephoros could very well be dead and the entire point of a co-Emperor would be moot. Manuel would then be sole Emperor, with no need of a co-ruler. If they decided to resist, they would be the ones throwing the gauntlet, and as the Council had the blessing of Patriarch Thomas, they would be imperiling their relationship with Mother Church as well. The Patriarch had already promised anyone refusing the authority of the Council would be excommunicated for fomenting dissention amongst Christ’s flock.



    “Manuel?”

    The Archeoikos turned to his brother, a cautious smile gracing his lips as ibn-Maliki joined Photios in leaving the room. The Varangoi and Rigal guardsmen stood impassively as whispered oaths and uttered treachery made a hushed buzz in the air. Their burnished steel, gleaming helms and ferocious reputation ensured those words grew to nothing more—at least here, in the Octagon.

    “They both fell for it,” Manuel sighed quietly.

    “I’m luck you are on my side,” the sole Emperor waved his hand. The crowd began to shuffle out. “I trust you with my life, and I want to be honest with you. You are Kaisar, but I intend that to last until Leo is ready,” Nikephoros whispered as the last of the crowd filed out, and those great bronze doors closed with a thud.

    “Caretaker?” The word hitched slightly in the Archeoikos’ voice. For a moment training eased and emotion showed through—he realized it once his brother quietly set a hand on his shoulder.

    “You are gifted, and you are proven,” Nikephoros said, “but your… paternity, and the dynatoi…”

    Manuel felt his anger rising! Others had said those words, but never, ever, Nikephoros! He’d been the constant friend, the constant shield, the one that treated Manuel like he was a brother, not a pariah! The young Archeoikos felt the years of abuse he’d suffered at the hands of Alexios, Demetrios, Theodoros, and others welling towards the surface.

    You’re capable, but…

    You’re intelligent, but…

    But, he yelled at the world in his mind, I am the grandson of Gabriel and the son of Andronikos! I unite the bloodlines! I am more Komnenos than anyone alive!

    For a moment, that angry tirade frothed just behind the tip of his tongue, before cooler, wiser words from the past entered his mind. They soothed, they reminded, they held back the furious tide of words that threatened to explode. Despite the anger, despite the feelings of betrayal, Manuel let a sad smile cross his face.

    “I… I know,” he stammered slightly.

    “I am glad you understand,” Nikephoros touched his shoulder one last time, before starting back towards the yoke that was the imperial throne. “I received word from Acre that grain ships are being stopped to stock an army moving by.” Manuel saw his brother’s eyes narrow. “Why are the Egyptians moving north?”



    There was questioning in his eyes… maybe even fear. Nikephoros could read a map as well as anyone—if Egypt was moving north, was she siding with Persia, or Konstantinopolis? And if she sided with Persia, what would happen to the grain that fed the Queen of Cities?

    Manuel’s smile returned.

    “The Oikoi have some…doubts,” Manuel picked his words carefully, “about the loyalties of Prince Ancyrakomnenos in Galilee and Prince Komnenoedessa. There have been numerous letters and messengers running between Tiberias, Edessa, and Isfahan. I, for one,” the Archeoikos said grimly, “believe they plan to defect. So, I thought you would approve of me sending messages to Egypt and the King of Arabia to march north next spring as an added assurance. At worst, Alexandros and his stooges will have an unexpected 40,000 men sitting on their flanks if the Syriatikon and Levantikon defect. At best,” Manuel let his smile grow enormous, “We’ll have 90,000 men south of Alexandros’ advance. The Persian will be trapped in a vice...”

    The new Megas Komnenos nodded slowly, before a gloved hand gently tapped Manuel’s shoulder. “Thank you.” There was a muffled, sad laugh. “I’m glad there’s a few people here I can trust.”

    Manuel said nothing, putting his hand on his chest and bowing.

    Kaisar,” Nikephoros somberly intoned the first official orders of his reign, “I’m commissioning you then to take the Palatinoikoi, as well as the Basilikon Toxotai and Herculare tagmata of the Basilikon and move with all speed to subdue any and all rebels against our rule in the Balkans. I’ll dispense 100,000 gold solidii to reward those who are loyal. Punish those who are not without mercy.”

    Nikephoros offered his hand, the Ring of State glittering on his glove. Manuel bowed once more, kissing the ring and symbolically accepting his commission.

    “Do you still intend to lead the eastern armies in person?” Manuel let his voice drop to a whisper. The Archeoikos let the proper tone of worry slip into his voice.

    “I must,” Nikephoros sighed from under that mask. “If I am to rule, I must show I can lead from the field, that there is more to me than the curse I have been given, and the silver that hides my face.”



    Manuel nodded slowly, his face somber even as he smiled underneath. Nikephoros the Brave—if only fate had been different, he would’ve made a fine emperor. But now…

    “There are vast grain stockpiles in Mosul and Arbela,” Manuel said quietly. “Next spring, probably, and with all his might.”

    Nikephoros nodded with equal somberness.

    “What of the Dowager Empress?” the Archeoikos asked slowly.

    Nikephoros grunted. There was a dangerous issue. Empress Sbyslava had not done anything untoward, anything to cause her suspicion. She’d diligently visited her husband’s side daily, and kept her two sons, Andronikos and Heraklios, cloistered in the Blacharenae. But…

    “There have been letters,” Manuel went on, “between her and her godfather, the King of the Danes.”

    Nikephoros grunted again. “She is probably afraid, Manuel. Being the mother of an Emperor’s son after his death is dangerous business. No, do nothing,” the masked one shook his head. “Let her prove her disloyalty more than sending a letter to her godfather. But inform old Bataczes in Cherson he should be on his guard, in case the Danes move.”

    “Very well,” Manuel bowed again.

    “Was there anything else?” Nikephoros asked. The mask might have hidden his face, but it couldn’t hide the weariness in his voice. The Emperor slowly rose from his throne, and on instinct Manuel reached out and caught his brother’s hand, helping him up even as those words rang in his mind.

    You’re gifted, but…

    “No, Majesty,” Manuel bowed his head even as his hands held his brother steady till he got his footing. A year ago, even six months ago, Nikephoros would have moved faster, more surely. Manuel let go, as Nikephoros turned and hugged him.

    “Go, and keep safe,” he whispered in Manuel’s ear. “I brother couldn’t be blessed with a sibling as loyal, skilled and trustworthy as you.”

    You should be emperor, but…

    “Thank you,” Manuel whispered in reply, before smiling. “Your trust is well placed.”

    ==========*==========



    So Andronikos’ long reign comes to an end, and the empire reaches its breaking point. Up next, hopefully several interims about the state of the world, as well as a reign summary. Thank you everyone for being patient!
    Last edited by General_BT; 16-03-2011 at 01:20.
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  9. #5769
    Colonel Alan deLane's Avatar
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    So he died before naming the Kaisar. How ... Roman. And I'm curious how long Nikephoros V will rule ... and live. And if he will die due to his lepper or ...

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    I'm quite interested by the interims that'll follow.

    And a question: how many years of gameplay before the port towards EU3?

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  10. #5770
    Slacker Extraordinaire Zzzzz...'s Avatar
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    Manuel II, anyone?
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  11. #5771
    Ah, another book comes to an end. Andronikos is dead, and the Komnenid Triumvirate is operating under what seems a very weak plan; the number of things that could (and courtesy of Murphy's Law, will) go wrong is great. And on top of all that, Nikephoros seems to be trusting Manuel completely, which is obviously a bad thing.

  12. #5772
    I foresee Epic battles.

  13. #5773
    First Lieutenant wolfcity's Avatar
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    Bravo! Good Job! Except on thing... is next update going to be the violent one... please, I want to read another battle.

    Do you know how to edit save files in CK.
    Last edited by wolfcity; 16-03-2011 at 15:28.
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  14. #5774
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    I foresee great bloodshed.
    I foresee kinslaying.

    The Empire must fall so that it can rise once again. The wheel must keep spinning.

  15. #5775
    Crazy Cat Person. Meow! Moderator Qorten's Avatar
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    Unbelievable what one ill-placed sentence can do. Now Nikephoros can't even be sure of Manuel anymore.


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  16. #5776
    So the titan Andronikos is no more. If times ahead are as dark as BT says - I wholly expect another grinding civil war and some territorial shrinkage.

    Everyone knows that ruling the Known World is boring. :P
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    Now that you've mentioned it. Yeah, Egypt was just chillin' through the 2nd golden age (aka Komnenos era) with their trade wealth and their grains! Yeah, those Egyptians and their smug faces *shakes fist*

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  18. #5778
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    "The last brilliant burst of light before shadow fell across the world." Foreboding quote but anyone can see the Empire is more divided than ever. Many nobles have gathered considerable wealth and/or manpower and intend to use it and there are more pretenders in a position of power than ever. For all his cunning Andi made the same mistakes as Basil before him.

    I guess the decision to make nobles responsible to the troops in their region saved the treasury, but might cost the Empire. Manuel and the Oikoi can become a worse risk to the Empire than the Praetorians have been too.

    Nontheless, I'm looking forward to the next updates. Civil wars are quite fun to read about.

    Nb. You've posted a list of the largest cities in the Empire once. Any chance of seeing such an update in the near future?
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  19. #5779
    Oh my god.

    I've been reading this for over a month and I've finally got to the end. It's like reading through some massive book and then find that it ends 2/3s of the way through.

    This AAR is wonderful GeneralBT.

  20. #5780
    First Lieutenant cezar87's Avatar

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    Hmm, Andi has a stroke JUST before he can write a succession law. For some obscure reason, that does not surprise me at all.

    Good to see Manuel is turning out exactly how I expected him to .

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