ulmont said:
God truely hurts the ones he loves.
Or covers them in pussinfested scabs, as the fashion seems to be these days.
Are the blues trying to take over the red yet, or is the manpools still drained?
There Will Be War - In The Balance
- Thread starter fasquardon
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God truely hurts the ones he loves.
Or covers them in pussinfested scabs, as the fashion seems to be these days.
Are the blues trying to take over the red yet, or is the manpools still drained?
Still drained, plus the pneumonic plague is following hot on the heels of the bubonic plague (at least one of my provinces actually has both right now).GrimPagan said:
ulmont said:
Even taking the last two as duties rather than powers, Brittany seems to be maintaining its usual, artificially high exchange rate on the 'two', there. That would seem to be what other realms call a 'three', or possibly a 'five'. This government intervention in the market to subsidise Breton mathematicians by maintaining an arbitrary peg causes all sorts of difficulties for Norwegian universities, and we would appreciate if it were ended.
When the Kingdom of Brittany, now combined with all the Spains plus a few other possessions, grew large enough to begin adopting the style of an "Empire" ruled by "Emperors," it also began to adopt the predecessor Empire's solutions to the perennial problems of administration (while ignoring the successor, degenerate and decaying, Eastern "Byzantium").
First, communications. Borrowing both from the histories of the Roman courier systems, and from the more recent reports of the Mongol Empire (which was rumored to still hold an effective dominion well east of the Volga, although, having been driven off several times from attempted incursions to Christian lands, the Mongols had apparently given up), Brittany expanded the Roman roads, built more roads where the Romans had inexplicably (well, perhaps explicably; the Romans had never cared overmuch for the provinces of Gallaecia or Lusitania) not seen fit to establish the system, stationed posts every 10 to 15 miles where riders could exchange their horses, with rudimentary way-stations every other post and with more elaborate stations every 4 posts, and in this way managed to construct a courier network that could propel news 200 miles in a day.* When combined with fast-ship service across the Straits of Gibraltar, from Valencia to the Baleares and from the Baleares to Constantine, and from Leon to Exeter and from Boulougne to Kent, the net result was that official news and orders could travel from Wales to Africa in under two weeks, while most news inside core Brittany could be delivered in 5 days. Crete was, as always, the odd area out, but as Crete served mostly as either an early-warning output for alert of Eastern invasion or as a staging point for Eastern invasion (the other way around), the impact was minimal.
Second, Governors. After several generations of carrying out Brittany’s policy of breaking all rebellious dukes to counts, and after reducing counts to a single province where possible, Brittany was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, the Emperor could not be everywhere at all times. On the other hand, granting any given man power over a large region was a recipe for rebellions that were difficult to put down. The Breton solution was to segment the Empire into administrative divisions that were slightly smaller than the ancient Roman provinces**, and to assign a Governor to each region. The Governors served for three years; one year to learn the area as understudy to the previous Governor, one year to rule in their own right, and one year to rule while training the next Governor. Governors were selected from noble families and rotated around the large regions of the Empire: England and Wales; Brittany, Normandy, and Champagne; Aquitaine and Toulouse; Galicia and Portugal; and Africa. New Brittany, comprising the areas from Navarra to Granada, was always administered directly by the Emperors or their delegates. Crete, as usual, was on their own as an Imperial personal desmense (ruled by a delegate of the Emperor). The Governors had but a few powers:
1) High Justice. All felonies committed by freemen or nobles were tried by the Governor’s court as the Governor made processions through the region.
2) Inter-realm disputes. Where Counts of Dukes had disputes that could not wait for the Emperor’s next procession, they could take them to the Governor for the Emperor’s Word.
3) Calling the Armies. The Governor had the power to raise the troops in their region and to send them to muster under the Emperor’s designated leader.
4) Collecting the Tax. Where the Emperor enforced scutage from the Counts and Dukes, the Governor was to collect it. Any Count or Duke could demand an Audit from the Governor, so in theory receipts and a paper trail were scrupulously maintained. In practice, somewhat less so.
5) Maintaining the Posts and Ships. The roads, posts, waystations, and harbors were maintained directly from the Emperor’s Purse and by the Emperor’s Governor.
Beyond that, each Count had all power of Low Justice, High Justice to the villeins, and taxation inside their realm. Villeins and others could petition the Governors, but the Governor could only write up reports and send them to Valencia for the Emperor’s Reports.
*This is slightly better than historical. The Roman courier network was between 50 and 150 miles per day depending on the sources you credit; the Mongols 200 to 250; and the Pony Express around 200.
**Usually 5 or 6 provinces large, generally one or two duchies together.
First, communications. Borrowing both from the histories of the Roman courier systems, and from the more recent reports of the Mongol Empire (which was rumored to still hold an effective dominion well east of the Volga, although, having been driven off several times from attempted incursions to Christian lands, the Mongols had apparently given up), Brittany expanded the Roman roads, built more roads where the Romans had inexplicably (well, perhaps explicably; the Romans had never cared overmuch for the provinces of Gallaecia or Lusitania) not seen fit to establish the system, stationed posts every 10 to 15 miles where riders could exchange their horses, with rudimentary way-stations every other post and with more elaborate stations every 4 posts, and in this way managed to construct a courier network that could propel news 200 miles in a day.* When combined with fast-ship service across the Straits of Gibraltar, from Valencia to the Baleares and from the Baleares to Constantine, and from Leon to Exeter and from Boulougne to Kent, the net result was that official news and orders could travel from Wales to Africa in under two weeks, while most news inside core Brittany could be delivered in 5 days. Crete was, as always, the odd area out, but as Crete served mostly as either an early-warning output for alert of Eastern invasion or as a staging point for Eastern invasion (the other way around), the impact was minimal.
Second, Governors. After several generations of carrying out Brittany’s policy of breaking all rebellious dukes to counts, and after reducing counts to a single province where possible, Brittany was faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, the Emperor could not be everywhere at all times. On the other hand, granting any given man power over a large region was a recipe for rebellions that were difficult to put down. The Breton solution was to segment the Empire into administrative divisions that were slightly smaller than the ancient Roman provinces**, and to assign a Governor to each region. The Governors served for three years; one year to learn the area as understudy to the previous Governor, one year to rule in their own right, and one year to rule while training the next Governor. Governors were selected from noble families and rotated around the large regions of the Empire: England and Wales; Brittany, Normandy, and Champagne; Aquitaine and Toulouse; Galicia and Portugal; and Africa. New Brittany, comprising the areas from Navarra to Granada, was always administered directly by the Emperors or their delegates. Crete, as usual, was on their own as an Imperial personal desmense (ruled by a delegate of the Emperor). The Governors had but a few powers:
1) High Justice. All felonies committed by freemen or nobles were tried by the Governor’s court as the Governor made processions through the region.
2) Inter-realm disputes. Where Counts of Dukes had disputes that could not wait for the Emperor’s next procession, they could take them to the Governor for the Emperor’s Word.
3) Calling the Armies. The Governor had the power to raise the troops in their region and to send them to muster under the Emperor’s designated leader.
4) Collecting the Tax. Where the Emperor enforced scutage from the Counts and Dukes, the Governor was to collect it. Any Count or Duke could demand an Audit from the Governor, so in theory receipts and a paper trail were scrupulously maintained. In practice, somewhat less so.
5) Maintaining the Posts and Ships. The roads, posts, waystations, and harbors were maintained directly from the Emperor’s Purse and by the Emperor’s Governor.
Beyond that, each Count had all power of Low Justice, High Justice to the villeins, and taxation inside their realm. Villeins and others could petition the Governors, but the Governor could only write up reports and send them to Valencia for the Emperor’s Reports.
*This is slightly better than historical. The Roman courier network was between 50 and 150 miles per day depending on the sources you credit; the Mongols 200 to 250; and the Pony Express around 200.
**Usually 5 or 6 provinces large, generally one or two duchies together.
King of Men said:
I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. The powers have always been five, and Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia.
frigidmagi said:
Yes, well, what can I say? The Ynglings are excellent soldiers, deadly with any weapon or none in personal combat, supreme small-unit tacticians and leaders, competent-to-good strategists, and splendid athletes. Conspicuously missing from that list, you'll note, is "very bright". What's more, even though the worst rough edges tend to get knocked off them by exposure to the downtime, in their inmost hearts they don't think of the downtimers as really real people. In Ask's case this was aggravated by communing with the Angel - it tends to damage minds. So you might say that the time traveler in question wasn't really thinking at all; of course he carried his own personal stash of uptime drugs and other tools, they were his, weren't they? You wouldn't take away a man's personal weapons, would you?
That applies to the uptimers; the downtimers, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea how powerful the bioweapons were. (And they are going to be implementing reforms!) They were thinking in terms of the purple assassination drug.
frigidmagi said:
This is what the Georgians are asking themselves at the moment...
fasquardon
The Bagratuniad:
Seeing Evil:
Seeing Evil:
...in view of this evidence, we can, with great certitude, say that the plague that has fallen upon us is a Dovreman weapon. Specifically the weapon of the Dovreman Ask. What we cannot say is who it was who delivered the weapon, nor who ordered the weapon to be used. Therefor, we shall not make baseless accusations.
These are the accusations that we do make:
1) That the Dovremen have brought a weapon of the Judgment Day to a time and place where no defence existed against it. (Make no mistake on the seriousness of this matter, the nature of this weapon is such that it had the first blow landed anywhere save Georgia, where a power of Parousia dwells, Christian civilisation could have been ended, along with the lives of most Christian people.)
2) That having brought this doomsday weapon to this time and place, the Dovremen either decided to use it on a longstanding friend and ally, despite the fact that usage of this weapon would backfire on Norway, or did such a poor job in securing the weapon that a third party was able to get their hands on it. Whichever it is, it makes no difference. To guard poorly such a weapon is the same as deciding to use that weapon.
The Testament of St. Agsartan tells us that there is only one evil in God's creation, and that evil is stupidity. Thus it is clear to us that the Dovremen are an evil greater than any other that lives beneath the sun. They have shown themselves to share the same basic nature as the Hashashiyyin, who are so obsessed with their wrong-headed beliefs that they prefer to seek suicide rather than pursue any constructive goal. Indeed, by the deaths they have caused, the only difference between the Dovremen and an assassin is one of scale. Thus we ask the Norwegian realm, as a signatory of the Second Poti accord to withdraw all support of the Dovremen. And we ask the Norwegian people, as a people who will soon join us in suffering from the stupidity of the Dovremen, to join us in bringing these men to justice, and in destroying the black-bottled weapons.
I see many men here today, who, like me, have the blood of the Dovremen running through their veins. And I know what we ask will not be easy. Justice within bonds of blood never is. But mark well my words, they are a threat, not only to Georgia, not only to the rest of the world, but to Norway herself.
Consider this: every 25 years, at the time when the Pontic Aurora shows the renewal of God's blessing on Georgia, the arrival of a new Dovreman seems an equal blessing on Norway. These great warriors come to champion the Yngling cause, and bring with them mighty tools and ideas to achieve their aim. Is not Norway blessed? No similar men come off mountains for the Germans, or the Bretons, or the Prussians. And while heroes once visited Russia, it was only once, not ten times like in Norway! Yet every one of these peoples is richer and more powerful than the battered people of Norway. How can this be? Surely, if these Dovremen were so great, Norway also would be great?
Or perhaps the truth of the matter is that the Dovremen are not great, and bring not strength, but weakness to Norway. The powerful ideas the Dovremen bring only enrage the peasants, and divide the people of Norway against each other, so that the Captains of the armies duel each-other more than they battle the enemies of the realm, and the people of Norway have more tongues in their small cold land than are currently spoken in all of Georgia. The vials of magic the Dovremen bring cloud well the minds of outsiders, but serve just as well against any who speak out against the Dovremen in the councils of the Norwegian realm. The skill the Dovremen bring with steel, is balanced by the liability they bring in their minds. For what use is the skill to kill 5 men alone, if by foolishness you make an enemy out of 20 men?
The code of the Dovremen abhors weakness, and teaches that success compensates for any degree of immorality, and to an extent, they are right. But do they themselves live up to their own code? Or are they merely weaklings running from defeat, and bringing their failure back to a Norway that deserves better?
Perhaps it is time that Norway remembers her sense of self-worth.
-excerpt from a speech by Gurgen Bagratuni to the Yngling Ting on August 21, 1339 AD.
fasquardon
Last edited:
King of Men said:
1) Of course, if the Dovremen were able to take responsibility for their own weapons, we wouldn't be in this mess.
2) That one man had access to such destructive power, without either the other Dovreman, Gunnar, or anyone else being able to impede him, is exactly why we believe these people to be criminally stupid.
3) Do we understand correctly that the Greater Norwegian realm is claiming responsibility for the burning of Esenguly? (And consequently the demon-infested refugees that spread the plague across the Qarakhanid region?)
4) There seems to have been a misunderstanding. We called the Dovremen assassins, not Assassins. One is a form of calumny, another is a secret society of suicide warriors. Unless the Greater Norwegian realm is trying to blame the Assassins for this disaster, in which case, that would only reinforce our point as expounded at Geirvirke last August.
fasquardon
1362 statistics.
MPOR and MPOPR is Kakhi Bagratuni of the Seljuk Turks (1220)
MPCR is Pope Cangrande von Zähringen (1219)
MPCPR is Matteo von Zähringen of Italy (797)
Power levels, graphically (huh: Cebta had not shown up as independent to me):
Culture:
Plague:
The boundaries are roughly static, although Ike in Lothian recently switched allegiance to Brittany from Norway as part of a quasi-complicated assassin deal.
On the plague front, the plague has mostly passed in the East, but is still raging in the West.
MPOR and MPOPR is Kakhi Bagratuni of the Seljuk Turks (1220)
MPCR is Pope Cangrande von Zähringen (1219)
MPCPR is Matteo von Zähringen of Italy (797)
Power levels, graphically (huh: Cebta had not shown up as independent to me):
Code:
Realm Tag 1350 1362
Brittany BRIT 557 580
Seljuk Turks SELJ 481 476
Italy ITAL 361 370
Russia RUSS 296 285
Germany GERM 258 260
Byzantium BYZA 233 234
Prussia PRUS 218 207
Norway NORW 206 184
Egypt EGYP 70 72
Lothian LOTH 21 21
Plague:
The boundaries are roughly static, although Ike in Lothian recently switched allegiance to Brittany from Norway as part of a quasi-complicated assassin deal.
On the plague front, the plague has mostly passed in the East, but is still raging in the West.
It's been a while since we've had a look at the glory of the various dynasties, so here it is, the 8 most glorious dynasties of 1362 AD:
Kind of a mixed bag for me, on the one hand, the Bagratuni are more than twice as glorious as the number twos, the deCorouailles ( ), but on the other, the Byzantine branch of the family has become the most senior ( ).
fasquardon
Kind of a mixed bag for me, on the one hand, the Bagratuni are more than twice as glorious as the number twos, the deCorouailles (
), but on the other, the Byzantine branch of the family has become the most senior ( ). fasquardon
The guards were not unfriendly, but there were three of them at all times, and they were not careless, either. They knew about uptime Ynglings; Gunnar had trained them himself. It didn't really matter. If he escaped, where would he go? Who but the Ynglings would shelter a man accused of causing the Plague? Indeed, even the Ynglings had a vocal faction in favour of not extraditing him to the Georgians, but hanging him themselves. At times Gunnar agreed with them. True, he wasn't personally to blame. He had not been the one to brag about the bottle, or whatever it was that had passed between Ask and Hassan; nor had he been the one to steal it and plan its use. But for all that he was the representative of the Secret Hird in this time. He was part of the organisation that had sent agents downtime with biological weapons intended as a final deterrent against nuclear attack. And now the fourth seal had been broken, and Death bestrode Europe like a giant, grinning hollowly as he scooped up men by the hundreds of thousands. Sometimes at night Gunnar thought he could hear the bones clacking in the Danse Macabre, or the screams of children too weak to move, burning inside houses torched for quarantine. Then he would wake, sweating, and realise that it was all true, and that even the cold light of dawn would not take away the nightmare. He had slept little, this past month.
He was glad, then, to have visitors, to take his mind off his thoughts. His wife Ragna, on the other hand, looked positively grim, as did Håvard. "They've decided", Ragna began without preamble. "We need the Georgian alliance. So you're being sacrificed."
Gunnar nodded, unsurprised. A war with Germany and Brittany was serious business, and not a good time to antagonise allies. "Such is life," he said. "What about their other demands?" The Georgians had 'requested' that all his successors should be handed over to them from the minute they arrived at Dovre.
"We won't refuse them, but we've decided to tell them that we'll kill our own, thanks very much. Then we'll give them bodies as proof. Not necessarily the right bodies, you understand."
"Ah so." The mission would continue, then. Gunnar wasn't as relieved as he had thought he'd be. It was hard for his mind's ear to hear the trumpets of the Secret Hird over the crackle of burning thatch and the screams. There was an awkward silence, then Ragna continued.
"I think there'll be changes, though. This with the black bottles - it's the final straw for a lot of the Council. The next Dovreman, I think, won't find himself given power and land as you and Ask were, and all of you going back to Geir Jonsson."
"Aye. Fair enough. Perhaps they shouldn't have given it to me or Ask, either."
Håvard waved his hand impatiently. "Never mind all that. The next man from Dovre can watch out for himself. The question is, how do we save you from hanging?"
Ragna nodded. "Yes. That's what we came here for. Listen. You've still got friends on the Council, and they're willing to take a bit of heat for you. Tonight the guards will be replaced with some German prisoners, and your warband will break in, kill them, and rescue you. We'll have to make it look good for the Georgians, though, so we'll need to move fast."
"And what do we do after the escape?"
"I've got your boat ready to go, it's in that inlet over towards Magnus's farm. Food for twenty people for a month, weapons, armour, everything."
"All right, very good, but where are we going?"
"That's the problem: I don't know. I hoped you might."
Gunnar leaned back for a minute, thinking. Nowhere in Europe was safe, but a good clinker-built dragon ship could get around that. But if he was to lead men into exile, he had to know that they would follow.
"All right. But first I have to know this. I am responsible - not at fault, but responsible - for unleashing the Plague on the world. Tens of millions will die because of that. Europe will become a charnel house, a boneyard. Why are you not giving me over to the Georgians, and spitting on my corpse?"
Ragna sighed, half-smiling. "Well - we've been married ten years now. I suppose I've become used to cleaning up your messes. And anyway, I said the words before God, 'for better or for worse, in sickness and in health'. This is worse, right enough, and sickness too. But I said the words."
Håvard nodded. "Aye, sir, she has the right of it. I ate your salt, and so did the lads. We'll stand by you."
Gunnar bowed his head, smiling painfully. "Ah. Honour." He paused. "There are worse bases to build a new nation on. Communism, for one. And the myth of the Yngling, for another. Between them they turned the uptime into a hell on Earth." He saw that Håvard was about to speak, and held up a hand for silence. "No, hear me out. You should know why I do this."
"This plague is not an anomaly, not a mistake. It is the only possible outcome of our premises - the premise of the entire uptime world, Yngling, Alliance, and Comintern: That power comes only from the sword. We were all opposed to each other, but we all believed this. We all believed that honour is a word to cloak the hand that holds the dagger. And in our own time we were right. That is the world that would create new diseases, and test them on rebellious villages, and label them carefully, storing them against the day that the power to kill was next needed. "
"We said then that we stood on the shoulders of giants; but we were wrong. We killed all our giants, and boiled the flesh from their bones to feed our troops. Then we fashioned the bones into clubs to beat our enemies. We stood in the midst of wealth beyond dreams, and complained that we were too poor - which was true, for we spent all our gold on weapons. That is the world we built, we and the Comintern between us. That is the world that comes when your premises have no room for honour. And that is the poison I've brought back here, half a millennium before its time."
"Well. Enough's enough. I'm finished in Europe, and so quite likely are the rest of the Secret Hird; and good riddance. But the dream of power, that lives on. The Bretons, the Germans, the Georgians - we've shown them the way, and they are quick learners. I'm heading west, over the sea; and where I land, I'll build a new country. One founded on honour, where men will keep their word, and remain true to their salt. One where the dream of power is known for the glittering poison it is. Will you follow me?"
"Aye, sir."
"Whither thou goest."
He was glad, then, to have visitors, to take his mind off his thoughts. His wife Ragna, on the other hand, looked positively grim, as did Håvard. "They've decided", Ragna began without preamble. "We need the Georgian alliance. So you're being sacrificed."
Gunnar nodded, unsurprised. A war with Germany and Brittany was serious business, and not a good time to antagonise allies. "Such is life," he said. "What about their other demands?" The Georgians had 'requested' that all his successors should be handed over to them from the minute they arrived at Dovre.
"We won't refuse them, but we've decided to tell them that we'll kill our own, thanks very much. Then we'll give them bodies as proof. Not necessarily the right bodies, you understand."
"Ah so." The mission would continue, then. Gunnar wasn't as relieved as he had thought he'd be. It was hard for his mind's ear to hear the trumpets of the Secret Hird over the crackle of burning thatch and the screams. There was an awkward silence, then Ragna continued.
"I think there'll be changes, though. This with the black bottles - it's the final straw for a lot of the Council. The next Dovreman, I think, won't find himself given power and land as you and Ask were, and all of you going back to Geir Jonsson."
"Aye. Fair enough. Perhaps they shouldn't have given it to me or Ask, either."
Håvard waved his hand impatiently. "Never mind all that. The next man from Dovre can watch out for himself. The question is, how do we save you from hanging?"
Ragna nodded. "Yes. That's what we came here for. Listen. You've still got friends on the Council, and they're willing to take a bit of heat for you. Tonight the guards will be replaced with some German prisoners, and your warband will break in, kill them, and rescue you. We'll have to make it look good for the Georgians, though, so we'll need to move fast."
"And what do we do after the escape?"
"I've got your boat ready to go, it's in that inlet over towards Magnus's farm. Food for twenty people for a month, weapons, armour, everything."
"All right, very good, but where are we going?"
"That's the problem: I don't know. I hoped you might."
Gunnar leaned back for a minute, thinking. Nowhere in Europe was safe, but a good clinker-built dragon ship could get around that. But if he was to lead men into exile, he had to know that they would follow.
"All right. But first I have to know this. I am responsible - not at fault, but responsible - for unleashing the Plague on the world. Tens of millions will die because of that. Europe will become a charnel house, a boneyard. Why are you not giving me over to the Georgians, and spitting on my corpse?"
Ragna sighed, half-smiling. "Well - we've been married ten years now. I suppose I've become used to cleaning up your messes. And anyway, I said the words before God, 'for better or for worse, in sickness and in health'. This is worse, right enough, and sickness too. But I said the words."
Håvard nodded. "Aye, sir, she has the right of it. I ate your salt, and so did the lads. We'll stand by you."
Gunnar bowed his head, smiling painfully. "Ah. Honour." He paused. "There are worse bases to build a new nation on. Communism, for one. And the myth of the Yngling, for another. Between them they turned the uptime into a hell on Earth." He saw that Håvard was about to speak, and held up a hand for silence. "No, hear me out. You should know why I do this."
"This plague is not an anomaly, not a mistake. It is the only possible outcome of our premises - the premise of the entire uptime world, Yngling, Alliance, and Comintern: That power comes only from the sword. We were all opposed to each other, but we all believed this. We all believed that honour is a word to cloak the hand that holds the dagger. And in our own time we were right. That is the world that would create new diseases, and test them on rebellious villages, and label them carefully, storing them against the day that the power to kill was next needed. "
"We said then that we stood on the shoulders of giants; but we were wrong. We killed all our giants, and boiled the flesh from their bones to feed our troops. Then we fashioned the bones into clubs to beat our enemies. We stood in the midst of wealth beyond dreams, and complained that we were too poor - which was true, for we spent all our gold on weapons. That is the world we built, we and the Comintern between us. That is the world that comes when your premises have no room for honour. And that is the poison I've brought back here, half a millennium before its time."
"Well. Enough's enough. I'm finished in Europe, and so quite likely are the rest of the Secret Hird; and good riddance. But the dream of power, that lives on. The Bretons, the Germans, the Georgians - we've shown them the way, and they are quick learners. I'm heading west, over the sea; and where I land, I'll build a new country. One founded on honour, where men will keep their word, and remain true to their salt. One where the dream of power is known for the glittering poison it is. Will you follow me?"
"Aye, sir."
"Whither thou goest."
The_Carbonater said:
Indeed, are we going to create Vinland in EU3 so that Ike can play there?
fasquardon
Continued from Part 1 and Part 2
That very night, the Assassin snuck down the valley with his four companions, and using the secret ways that should have been known only to the Prophetei, obtained entrance to the monastery. So late at night, and with all of the most observant monks patrolling the walls, rather than the forgotten catacombs, the Assassin easily guided his party through the empty places of the vast complex. Leading them deeper and deeper, until they moved through halls that had been carved by no human hand.
In time they came to a vast and un-natural cavern, in which lay a thousand wondrous things, each stranger than the last. And the Assassin went unto one of these wondrous things, and said: "See around you the playthings of an Angel. Each one more precious and wonderful than any thing that has been wrought by the hands of man. See this, the spyglass of beginnings, most precious and wonderful of them all, and now delivered into our hands by God. Truly, are we not the recipients of special favour from heaven?"
And then the Assassin set about guiding his men in how to move the "spyglass", for it handled in a manner unlike anything on God's Earth. Nor did it look like anything on God's Earth. It was about the size of a man, and twisted upon itself like some enormous devilish snake. Its skin glistened like steel under their torchlight, and it was as hard to move as an ox-cart filled with bricks. Yet upon being lifted (at great effort), it floated in the air with nary a perturbation. The Assassin's companions were quite unnerved, and it was only the calm of their strange guide that kept them near the unearthly thing.
Puffing and heaving, the four strong men and the Assassin strained to move the "spyglass" as fast as they could. Yet as soon as they got it up to a decent speed, they would have to strain themselves again to slow it down to take the next corner. The only convenience about the way it moved was that it floated a keph off the ground as happily as a boat would float on a calm lake. Where it had taken minutes to infiltrate the monastery, it took many hours to push, pull and heave the strange item out, so that when the five men reached their point of entry, they could see the first fingers of daylight coming through the cracks around the secret door. Knowing that it would be now or never, the Assassin commanded them to make all haste. So the four strong men pushed and they pushed, racing with the dawn, faster and faster until their burden was floating as fast as a fat man might run.
And then the Assassin threw open the portal, and all five men and their strange burden burst into a pre-dawn fog.
Now, as the Assassin hid the traces of the portal's usage, the four men handling the "spyglass" tried to bring it down, that they might fade into the mist filled woods on the valley floor. Yet the "spyglass" resolutely continued at the same level, and soon the ground fell away beneath the feet of its four handlers, leaving them clinging to its side like so many embarrassed barnacles.
And as his precious cargo and slightly less precious assistants sailed into the open air, one can only imagine what the Assassin must have thought. For the fate of his entire mission was now dependant on when the fog lifted.
[To Be Continued]
fasquardon
The Bagratuniad:
The Assassin Wars:
An Interlude on the Gizeldon:
Part 3
The Assassin Wars:
An Interlude on the Gizeldon:
Part 3
That very night, the Assassin snuck down the valley with his four companions, and using the secret ways that should have been known only to the Prophetei, obtained entrance to the monastery. So late at night, and with all of the most observant monks patrolling the walls, rather than the forgotten catacombs, the Assassin easily guided his party through the empty places of the vast complex. Leading them deeper and deeper, until they moved through halls that had been carved by no human hand.
In time they came to a vast and un-natural cavern, in which lay a thousand wondrous things, each stranger than the last. And the Assassin went unto one of these wondrous things, and said: "See around you the playthings of an Angel. Each one more precious and wonderful than any thing that has been wrought by the hands of man. See this, the spyglass of beginnings, most precious and wonderful of them all, and now delivered into our hands by God. Truly, are we not the recipients of special favour from heaven?"
And then the Assassin set about guiding his men in how to move the "spyglass", for it handled in a manner unlike anything on God's Earth. Nor did it look like anything on God's Earth. It was about the size of a man, and twisted upon itself like some enormous devilish snake. Its skin glistened like steel under their torchlight, and it was as hard to move as an ox-cart filled with bricks. Yet upon being lifted (at great effort), it floated in the air with nary a perturbation. The Assassin's companions were quite unnerved, and it was only the calm of their strange guide that kept them near the unearthly thing.
Puffing and heaving, the four strong men and the Assassin strained to move the "spyglass" as fast as they could. Yet as soon as they got it up to a decent speed, they would have to strain themselves again to slow it down to take the next corner. The only convenience about the way it moved was that it floated a keph off the ground as happily as a boat would float on a calm lake. Where it had taken minutes to infiltrate the monastery, it took many hours to push, pull and heave the strange item out, so that when the five men reached their point of entry, they could see the first fingers of daylight coming through the cracks around the secret door. Knowing that it would be now or never, the Assassin commanded them to make all haste. So the four strong men pushed and they pushed, racing with the dawn, faster and faster until their burden was floating as fast as a fat man might run.
And then the Assassin threw open the portal, and all five men and their strange burden burst into a pre-dawn fog.
Now, as the Assassin hid the traces of the portal's usage, the four men handling the "spyglass" tried to bring it down, that they might fade into the mist filled woods on the valley floor. Yet the "spyglass" resolutely continued at the same level, and soon the ground fell away beneath the feet of its four handlers, leaving them clinging to its side like so many embarrassed barnacles.
And as his precious cargo and slightly less precious assistants sailed into the open air, one can only imagine what the Assassin must have thought. For the fate of his entire mission was now dependant on when the fog lifted.
[To Be Continued]
fasquardon
1372 Stats.
MPOR and MPOPR is Kakhi Bagratuni of the Seljuk Turks (1487).
MPCR is Cenek Dabrowa of Kärnten (1420).
MPCPR is Matteo von Zähringen of Italy (1051).
Ownership map:
Power Levels textually:
For the first time in a while, we have an AI realm in the list (fasq's pet Mongol, the Count of El-Arish).
Culture map:
Plague map:
This will be the last plague map, as most of Europe has recovered.
MPOR and MPOPR is Kakhi Bagratuni of the Seljuk Turks (1487).
MPCR is Cenek Dabrowa of Kärnten (1420).
MPCPR is Matteo von Zähringen of Italy (1051).
Ownership map:
Power Levels textually:
Code:
Realm Tag 1344 1350 1362 1372
Brittany BRIT 545 557 580 581
Seljuk Turks SELJ 492 481 476 493
Italy ITAL 365 361 370 369
Russia RUSS 286 296 285 290
Germany GERM 255 258 260 261
Byzantium BYZA 215 233 234 234
Prussia PRUS 219 218 207 208
Norway NORW 210 206 184 195
El-Arish C787 1 18 102 154
Egypt EGYP 72 70 72 70
Lothian LOTH 15 21 21 21Culture map:
Plague map:
This will be the last plague map, as most of Europe has recovered.
27th December, 1341
Dovre mountain, Norway
The hum of machinery ceased, and Ingvar stood in the darkness and cold of Norwegian midwinter. He shook his head to clear the sparks from his eyes - but no, he was really seeing the lights. Campfires? If so, a large army was camped out on Dovre mountain in this winter of 1341; surely no easy feat, logistically, even if his comrades had been showing the downtimers how to do it. And what enemy could possibly be nearby, anyway?
He thought for a moment. It didn't absolutely have to be a Norwegian army he was seeing. Caution, then, until he knew what was going on. And also - he rummaged in his pack. The red was strictly for emergencies, but then again, he didn't know that this wasn't one. Always prepared, as the Yngling motto went. He stuck the little bottle in his belt, next to the sword, for quick access.
Now - was there any chance of sneaking out of this unobserved? The initial experiments uptime had shown that the emergence was accompanied by a spectacular light-show, so no doubt soldiers would be converging on this position right away. Nor could he hide his tracks in this snow. Still, his skis were certainly better than any piece of wood smeared with goat-fat; if he could avoid head-on encounters, he'd be faster in the long haul. He bent down to strap them on, but was interrupted by a shout.
"You there, Yngling! Stand still, hands where I can see them!"
Norwegian, or at any rate Old Norse. Not a foreign army, then, but they didn't sound very friendly. Ingvar kept his hands at waist level, obeying the letter of the command without giving up the option of his sword. Ten men, chainmail under furs. Three with crossbows moving to the flanks so the seven advancing towards him wouldn't block their line of fire. Professionals, cautious even at ten-to-one odds, and apparently expecting trouble. Bad, very bad.
"I am Ingvar Torkelson," he began, but the man who'd spoken before interrupted him.
"Fine. You're under arrest. Take your sword out slowly and drop it."
"Arrest? On what charge?"
"We should need a charge? Is there a law in the land, then, where you come from?"
There wasn't, as such, but what was this damn downtime stril doing taunting him with the fact? And anyway, even uptime he would have the right to know what charge his accuser had brought to the Ting.
"Is there a law here?"
That brought the man up short, but not for long.
"Yes. There is. And under King Bjørn's law, confirmed by Eidsivating, Gulating, Frostating, Allting, Norselaw Assembly, Götating, and Uppsalating, all uptime Ynglings are to become wards of the state, surrendering their Satan-wrought weapons and teachings, and serving at the pleasure of the King. That is the charge. Now drop the fucking sword!"
Ingvar had no need to hear more; from the sound of it, one of his predecessors had screwed the pooch in a truly massive fashion, not to mention letting slip the secret of Dovre. Perhaps there was some difference between "ward of the State" and "stril", but he wasn't about to explore it if he could avoid it. He gave a placating smile, playing for time.
"Why, certainly." He moved his hands slowly down to his sword's hilt, watching for the minute relaxation in the soldiers' eyes as they saw him apparently surrendering. "I will take my sword out slowly and drop it." He was halfway through the sentence when he stopped moving slowly; for a crucial half-second, the soldiers were still paying attention to his pacific words and not the blur of his hands. His left whipped out a knife towards one of the crossbowmen while his right made the sword describe an arc through the spokesman's throat; the knife went slightly astray, hitting the cheek instead of the eye he'd aimed for, but he took no moment to curse. Instead he grabbed the red bottle with the left hand while recovering the sword. His first victim had just begun to fall as the liquid fire burned down his throat - only a sip, a large dose would kill, even a small one was deadly dangerous. Meanwhile he had been stepping forward, bringing the sword around again in a precise thrust at a kneecap. Swift crippling blows, that was always the way, fighting as a wolf does. Two down, and the enemy were beginning to react, excellent speed for those not trained to the duel from five years of age. A crossbow bolt shirred by, unpleasantly close, but he was in among their friends now. Whip the sword out to the right - a shield blocked it - spin to maintain momentum, come at it from another direction - his foot slipped in the snow, and the sword that had been perfectly placed to parry was suddenly two inches low - a surprised grunt as he hit a stomach, armour had saved another life but he would be a minute catching his breath. They were circling out to surround him, fast and smooth, used to working together; but the red combat drug was beginning to cut in. He thrust forward, hard; a shield was raised to block, but slow, slow, as though moving through molasses. The sword went over and between the eyes with a crunch of bone breaking. A glimpse of movement to his left, an axe coming at his knee - oh, they were well trained, he could almost see Gunnar instructing them, but the red drug gave him speed beyond human belief. He danced out of the way, turning counterclockwise to bring his sword over to that side so he could slam it down on the axeman's wrist.
Seven men had come forward to take the Yngling into custody. Ten seconds later two were dead, two crippled, and one out of the fight. The remaining two had had enough; they retreated carefully, shoulder to shoulder, shields front and swords high. Ingvar let them go, they would do him no harm now. He bent down to collect his skis - he'd have to run and put them on later - and then a crossbow bolt slammed into his knee.
The red drug blocked most of the pain - part of its danger was that the user's overstraining muscles could rip his tendons out without him noticing - but no amount of berserkergang would make a joint work with two inches of steel jammed between the bones. Ingvar dropped his sword, grasping the protruding part of the bolt and tugging; even through the red haze of the combat drug he felt the agony, distant but strong. The leverage was awkward; he had plenty of strength for the task, but his grip kept slipping. The soldier whose breath he had knocked out was on his feet again, shouting at his retreating comrades, who were running back towards the fight, grinning. Ingvar might be able to take them down, he didn't need his leg to throw knives, but there was no point - he could fight but not run. He held his hands up high.
"I surrender!"
They hesitated a long moment, disinclined perhaps to let the man who had slaughtered two of their own surrender so easily, but then slowed down and approached cautiously. One of them held his sword to Ingvar's throat, apparently unaware that even then Ingvar could have ripped it from his grasp before he could react. "All right. Hands front, Geir will bind them."
Ingvar did as he was bid, grimly. His knee was beginning to throb as he came down from the combat high. "Ward of the state, you say? What does that mean?"
"Damned if I know. But if I have my way you'll be digging ditches for plague victims. Little enough compensation for the damage you've done."
Dovre mountain, Norway
The hum of machinery ceased, and Ingvar stood in the darkness and cold of Norwegian midwinter. He shook his head to clear the sparks from his eyes - but no, he was really seeing the lights. Campfires? If so, a large army was camped out on Dovre mountain in this winter of 1341; surely no easy feat, logistically, even if his comrades had been showing the downtimers how to do it. And what enemy could possibly be nearby, anyway?
He thought for a moment. It didn't absolutely have to be a Norwegian army he was seeing. Caution, then, until he knew what was going on. And also - he rummaged in his pack. The red was strictly for emergencies, but then again, he didn't know that this wasn't one. Always prepared, as the Yngling motto went. He stuck the little bottle in his belt, next to the sword, for quick access.
Now - was there any chance of sneaking out of this unobserved? The initial experiments uptime had shown that the emergence was accompanied by a spectacular light-show, so no doubt soldiers would be converging on this position right away. Nor could he hide his tracks in this snow. Still, his skis were certainly better than any piece of wood smeared with goat-fat; if he could avoid head-on encounters, he'd be faster in the long haul. He bent down to strap them on, but was interrupted by a shout.
"You there, Yngling! Stand still, hands where I can see them!"
Norwegian, or at any rate Old Norse. Not a foreign army, then, but they didn't sound very friendly. Ingvar kept his hands at waist level, obeying the letter of the command without giving up the option of his sword. Ten men, chainmail under furs. Three with crossbows moving to the flanks so the seven advancing towards him wouldn't block their line of fire. Professionals, cautious even at ten-to-one odds, and apparently expecting trouble. Bad, very bad.
"I am Ingvar Torkelson," he began, but the man who'd spoken before interrupted him.
"Fine. You're under arrest. Take your sword out slowly and drop it."
"Arrest? On what charge?"
"We should need a charge? Is there a law in the land, then, where you come from?"
There wasn't, as such, but what was this damn downtime stril doing taunting him with the fact? And anyway, even uptime he would have the right to know what charge his accuser had brought to the Ting.
"Is there a law here?"
That brought the man up short, but not for long.
"Yes. There is. And under King Bjørn's law, confirmed by Eidsivating, Gulating, Frostating, Allting, Norselaw Assembly, Götating, and Uppsalating, all uptime Ynglings are to become wards of the state, surrendering their Satan-wrought weapons and teachings, and serving at the pleasure of the King. That is the charge. Now drop the fucking sword!"
Ingvar had no need to hear more; from the sound of it, one of his predecessors had screwed the pooch in a truly massive fashion, not to mention letting slip the secret of Dovre. Perhaps there was some difference between "ward of the State" and "stril", but he wasn't about to explore it if he could avoid it. He gave a placating smile, playing for time.
"Why, certainly." He moved his hands slowly down to his sword's hilt, watching for the minute relaxation in the soldiers' eyes as they saw him apparently surrendering. "I will take my sword out slowly and drop it." He was halfway through the sentence when he stopped moving slowly; for a crucial half-second, the soldiers were still paying attention to his pacific words and not the blur of his hands. His left whipped out a knife towards one of the crossbowmen while his right made the sword describe an arc through the spokesman's throat; the knife went slightly astray, hitting the cheek instead of the eye he'd aimed for, but he took no moment to curse. Instead he grabbed the red bottle with the left hand while recovering the sword. His first victim had just begun to fall as the liquid fire burned down his throat - only a sip, a large dose would kill, even a small one was deadly dangerous. Meanwhile he had been stepping forward, bringing the sword around again in a precise thrust at a kneecap. Swift crippling blows, that was always the way, fighting as a wolf does. Two down, and the enemy were beginning to react, excellent speed for those not trained to the duel from five years of age. A crossbow bolt shirred by, unpleasantly close, but he was in among their friends now. Whip the sword out to the right - a shield blocked it - spin to maintain momentum, come at it from another direction - his foot slipped in the snow, and the sword that had been perfectly placed to parry was suddenly two inches low - a surprised grunt as he hit a stomach, armour had saved another life but he would be a minute catching his breath. They were circling out to surround him, fast and smooth, used to working together; but the red combat drug was beginning to cut in. He thrust forward, hard; a shield was raised to block, but slow, slow, as though moving through molasses. The sword went over and between the eyes with a crunch of bone breaking. A glimpse of movement to his left, an axe coming at his knee - oh, they were well trained, he could almost see Gunnar instructing them, but the red drug gave him speed beyond human belief. He danced out of the way, turning counterclockwise to bring his sword over to that side so he could slam it down on the axeman's wrist.
Seven men had come forward to take the Yngling into custody. Ten seconds later two were dead, two crippled, and one out of the fight. The remaining two had had enough; they retreated carefully, shoulder to shoulder, shields front and swords high. Ingvar let them go, they would do him no harm now. He bent down to collect his skis - he'd have to run and put them on later - and then a crossbow bolt slammed into his knee.
The red drug blocked most of the pain - part of its danger was that the user's overstraining muscles could rip his tendons out without him noticing - but no amount of berserkergang would make a joint work with two inches of steel jammed between the bones. Ingvar dropped his sword, grasping the protruding part of the bolt and tugging; even through the red haze of the combat drug he felt the agony, distant but strong. The leverage was awkward; he had plenty of strength for the task, but his grip kept slipping. The soldier whose breath he had knocked out was on his feet again, shouting at his retreating comrades, who were running back towards the fight, grinning. Ingvar might be able to take them down, he didn't need his leg to throw knives, but there was no point - he could fight but not run. He held his hands up high.
"I surrender!"
They hesitated a long moment, disinclined perhaps to let the man who had slaughtered two of their own surrender so easily, but then slowed down and approached cautiously. One of them held his sword to Ingvar's throat, apparently unaware that even then Ingvar could have ripped it from his grasp before he could react. "All right. Hands front, Geir will bind them."
Ingvar did as he was bid, grimly. His knee was beginning to throb as he came down from the combat high. "Ward of the state, you say? What does that mean?"
"Damned if I know. But if I have my way you'll be digging ditches for plague victims. Little enough compensation for the damage you've done."