The Adventures of the Crovan Clan

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the middle years, 1154-1158











I have sent my second daughter Mor off to live with the nannies, with strict instructions that they are not to kill this one.











Here is my newest daughter Homlaug. Yes, Homlaug.











On the world news front, the Emirs of Cyrenacia, a place way off by Egypt, have launched a titanic naval invasion of England. Not only that, but they are winning handily.











Tragically, my Scotch wife – the beloved daughter of a Swedish nobleman who hates me – has perished in childbirth. I would be more upset, but really she was defective anyway. While she churned out children left and right, she had yet to produce an heir.











What with England collapsing under the might of a band of seafaring desert nomads, I have decided to take an English bride, because her claims – if she has any, I didn’t really check – may come in handy later on.











The little Bastard Gudbrand, I think he belongs to one of my cousins, has taken up residence in the castle. Mostly we just push him around and play pranks on him, since he is a Bastard, after all and a rather cowardly one at that. Today though I noticed him sitting in his corner licking a very sharp knife. He caught my gaze and pointed the knife at me while running a finger over his throat. It was all rather unsettling. What are the odds he will actually do anything though, right?











My spymistress has requested a large quantity of gold to fund criminal activities in other countries. I guess that is better than funding them here in Norway, so I’m going to go ahead and give her the cash.











Huh. So maybe it’s me. This is my newest daughter Rennveig.











Gudbrand has stopped wearing pants and bathing. Anytime he encounters someone in the halls, he dances around them hooting wildly and smacking himself in the face until they chase him away. I guess this is an improvement over threatening my murder, but nonetheless, I am seriously thinking about doing something about his behavior.











A delegation of priests arrived today and expressed concern for the souls of their flock, you know, since the whole country has been under anathema for the last 15 years. Somehow, this is just now becoming a priority for them. I sent them off to meet with Gudbrand, my new Special Delegate to the Priests of the Realm.​

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the middle years, 1159-1163











Here is my newest daughter Ingrid. At this point I’m just picking the names out of the baby book at random. I think Ingrid means "Dweller of the farmlands."











At this point some of you may be wondering why I am so concerned about producing an heir. “But Skofte,” you might be saying, “surely you have some high quality nephews out there who could really do a great job as kings.”

To these people, I say meet Uncle Aslak’s Grandson, Grim the Inbred. My current heir.











Gudbrand graduated from Court School today with a major in Scheming and a minor in Flamboyancy. I am adding the job Special Envoy to Whining Courtiers to his titles.











*sigh* And here is my newest daughter Ecfrida. I’m still working through the “Frida” section of the baby book.











On the world news front, England is totally gone. So is the Holy Roman Empire. Bohemia is holding on pretty well. None of this, of course, involves me at all.











A self-proclaimed talented warrior offers to take my nine year old daughter into the woods and make “a real man” out of her. The best part is that he wants almost 300 pounds of gold for this service.











I guess everyone has just decided that Skofte the Heretic is a total moron. Today, the Papal Nuncio popped by with an offer of reconciliation from the Pope himself. For the bargain price of 1,424 pounds of gold – the sacrament of abject soul crushing poverty – the Pope will let me back into Heaven (and will also stop inciting my subjects to violent revolution).

Since I no longer have subjects with enough power to actually accomplish anything should they rebel, I like having money, and I won’t be allowed to plant Horseheads of Shame should I rejoin the Catholic fold, I politely refuse.













My refusal to ruin the whole nation by rejoining the Catholic Church seems to have upset Trian of Uliad, a crazy vengeful murderous cruel Irish fanatical suicidal goober who for some reason has been allowed to live within the castle walls. I sent him off to speak with my Special Envoy to Whiney Courtiers. I hear he has since departed to a Swedish court.

My Horsehead of Shame (and its attendant curse) has begun to bear fruit.











Gudbrand, in his role as Special Envoy to Whiney Courtiers might have crossed a line today by tossing Maria Skenkillsdottir out of a castle window. While many did consider her “whiney” in a traditional sense, she had never really complained to me, which kind of places her outside the scope of Gudbrand’s job description.

I did thank him for taking such a proactive stance in regards to his duties.

The other courtiers seemed a little upset that I did not, say, punish Gudbrand in anyway for this murder. They shut up when I offered to let them speak individually with my Special Envoy.











Alas, dear Gudbrand himself passed away today. The official cause of death, as listed by my official court doctor Skenkill was an acute iron allergy brought on by an attempted suicide. I am not sure how Gudbrand mananged to stab himself 43 times in the back, stomach and head with four different knives, but he was always a very industrious fellow.​

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the middle years, 1164-1168











My spymistress launched a really daring expedition into Iceland. They stormed the Cathedral of St. Franklin and stole the bones of St. Franklin of Vestisland in true Viking style, if we pretend that “true Viking style” means “stealing the bodies of dead guys” rather than “stealing lots of gold and loot.”

I don’t really know much about St. Franklin, except that he talked to birds or some such thing and he ran afoul of whoever ran Iceland when he lived.

Kissing the stump of his neck is said to cure male pattern baldness, which has made Vestisland a very popular tourist destination for middle-aged merchants and their brood.











The merchants want me to stop letting the peasants sell their obnoxious trinkets and home-made “crafts” at the city markets. I don’t want those dung-scented yokels screwing up my lucrative new tourism industry and stinking up the city anyway, so I agree.











I know this looks a little extreme, but she hasn’t produced an heir the whole time we’ve been married, she hasn’t produced any kids in the last six years, I really just can’t get myself to care about England making her Englishness not very useful, and have you met Grim? Seriously? For a whole slew of reasons I cannot let an heir of Aslak sit on the throne, but especially not that kid!

Besides my spymistress assures me that everything is going to be cool.










Oops…I guess the spymistress forgot to check for “messages implicating the King in the death of the Queen scrawled in blood” when she was covering up the crime. I think I’m just going to have to let it go though.











Heh. So, I know this is going to be a bit hard to explain to the people, you know, marrying my hot spymistress the same day my old wife died under mysterious circumstances, but so long as no one believes those silly “message saying the King did it scrawled in blood” rumors, everything is going to be cool.











Yeah. Family holidays just got a bit awkward.











Mor was really, really upset about mommy joining the angels, I can’t tell you how many times she would storm into the court screaming that me and my “whore” – her words, would burn in Hell for our crimes. Frankly, it was getting old, so I married her off to her cousin in Munster. She’d have to shout pretty loud for her voice to carry much beyond the miserable swamps of her new home.













Here is my new daughter Gjertrud. Yep. So glad I killed my wife and alienated my family, you know, cause I really needed another daughter.











Ealmund the Steward was accused by the priests of using black magic. I asked them if he was caught trying to conjuror up a decent name. They didn’t think it was as funny as I did.

I told Ealmund I’d let him go free if he’d use some of that magic to give me a son.











And now we have proof that Ealmund is not a magician.​

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the middle years, 1169-1171











You know, I’ve kind of come to terms with this. Norway, a land my father risked and nearly lost everything to claim, will be ruled by an inbred congenital idiot after I am gone.











What’s that saying about a watched pot? Now Norway will still be ruled by a congenital idiot, but at least it will be a congenital idiot from my loins.











It came as something of a surprise to me when my Bohemian allies (well, two surprises, since I wasn’t altogether aware we were allied to Bohemia in the first place) requested urgent assistance in their wars with Spanish Moors. Somehow, they’d gotten into a war with not just predictable Toledo, but also with several others with much less pronounceable names. The Saracens own England, Scotland, Ireland, parts of France, parts of Africa and all of Spain. Bohemia clearly is in a fight for their lives and the only thing a good and loyal ally could do would be to pitch in and help.


But Spain is so far away. I sent off the envoys promising to help if they should come into conflict with a more conveniently located enemy and returned to the Royal Hammock.











You know, that is why I am allied to the Bohemians, they are such an obliging folk.










The plan was pretty straightforward. I asked Caitilin if she wanted to come, but she said she had some real important spymistrissing she needed to do, which is cool because this is the first time I’ve been to war when I’m old enough to sleep with hookers. I sure do hope one catches my eye!











No hookers yet, which has been something of a letdown, but we did go ahead and pillage Werle, which was cool. Serfs do some really funny things when they’ve been set on fire.











I have to admit I am somewhat suspicious, you know, since I am several hundred miles away from her bed and all.











We seized Brandenburg today and pillaged them mercilessly as well. That’s for tricking me into your stupid alliance!

So far we haven’t seen a single Brandenburgian soldier, which either means they are so foolish that they marched into Bohemia without thinking about the Norwegian hordes at their back or that they are so clever that they have hidden their entire army away in some secret hideout, lulling me into a false sense of security before they launch their brilliant counter-strike.

I’m kind of working on the assumption they are ninnies.











Today we met our first real opposition when, while pillaging Altmark, we were stopped by the local Count, Erich vonStarchshirt. When I say real opposition, what I really meant was “this time we are slaughtering people who have weapons.”











And then we go back to slaughtering unarmed people and their livestock. I remember hating this stuff when I was a kid, but this war thing is actually kind of fun!​

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the later years, 1171-1173











Plauen decides that the whole “pillaged back to the stone age” thing isn’t for them, instead offering to provide me plunder in convenient boxes. The Count also offered to give up some rather preposterous claims he’d made in those heady, early days of the war before the Brandenburgians remembered they had no armies.











Having forced the Duke of Brandenburg to the peace table by slaughtering all of his subjects, I’ve decided not to take any land from him. But I do want to embarrass him, so I demand his Ducal title.











I guess I hadn’t really thought this through. As the rightful Duke of Brandenburg, now the ex-duke is my vassal. And so are his two cronies. This probably won’t end well.











And Caitilin gives birth to a second son, Hakon. I’m just going to pretend I’m the father, because he’s actually a decent heir.










Don’t worry Harald, the bogeyman only eats the brains of strong and clever children. You’ll be quite safe.











Werle betrayed me today – kind of like every vassal I’ve ever had, including dear old mom. At least this guy had the common courtesy to just rebel right away rather than dragging out his plotting over a series of years.











And now his crony in Plauen joins the rebellion. God, I hate vassals.











I guess the Plunder-Fest ’72 Concert series just added dates in Paris and Aachen!











And the jerk who started the whole thing begs for mercy. Of course, I accept because now I’m battling two super-powers rather than just the usual assortment of degenerate traitors, and that may require more of my attention.











Altmark decides to join in the war. Oh no, Erich vonStarchshirt and his 200 immortals. Whatever shall I do.​

Skofte Ossorsson Crovan

King of Norway, The Heretic King


Grumblings about the later years, 1173-1174











We liberate Plauen from their despicable traitorous ruler and then we liberate the trade-goods, livestock, gold, crops, small household pets, silver, personal effects, rocking chairs, costume jewelry, and any other portable goods from the despicable citizenry. Then we burn the not-so portable goods.

Hey, we are Vikings, after all.











My arch-nemesis the filth-encrusted King of Sweden declared war on me today, a decision I am tentatively hopeful he will come to regret, you know, since me and 10,000 of my closest heavily armed friends are currently pillaging Pfalz, which is rather far away from Sweden.










I force marched the Viken Regiment all the way back to Norway, leaving my good friend the Marshal in charge of operations in Burgundy. So far, he is doing a great job pillaging more of Pfalz. His mission is to pillage the Franks and Burgundites into white peaces.











He gets off to a pretty quick start, pillaging Andernach and all.










I got off to a slightly less auspicious start at the Battle of Viken, in which I lost almost all of my troops while King Bror the Vile of Sweden only lost half of his troops.

Do you like the part where I credited God with my heroism? *sigh* If only I could be known as Skofte the Sarcastic.











Viken quickly fell after the battle, and so did Mainz, but that is the Marshal’s problem, not mine.











Bergenshus was quickly overrun and permanently added to my demesnes, giving me a much needed victory against hated King Bror.











The Croatian Smasher Company traveled all the way to my war camp to offer their services in my Swedish War. It was obvious they were complete fools. First, “Smasher Company?” What kind of name is that? Second, they traveled all the way from Croatia to Norway on the off chance I might be in the market for Mercenaries?

Whatever. They are brave and foolish and we always need that sort in the front lines, so I hired them.











Caitilin provided a valuable service today, dispatching her finest spies through the Akershus sewers with a message: “turn over the city and citadel to me and you will get enough money to move away from this frigid wasteland and retire on sunny beaches where the chicks don’t need seal-level fat layers to survive the winters.”











The Akershusians trample themselves trying to be the first to turn over the city to me. More importantly, someone mentioned seeing the Marshal milling about with the Vestfold Regiment, which hopefully means the war with Burgundy and France is over, because otherwise he is getting a stern talking to.​