1504-1507: Asta is a cold hearted snake. Look into her eyes. Uh-oh.
Well, well. We have a cliff-hanger! What will become of Hakon? Of Asta? Of the Church of Olaf Crovan? Find out on the next exciting episode of The Adventures of the Crovan Clan 2: The World Is Way Too Much!
Erik I “The Spyder” Kolbeinsson Crovan
Emperor of the Crovan Empire
In Which Hakon Suffers A Head Trauma
(28 October 1504 – 3 January 1507)
“Well then gentlemen…”
“Ahem.”
“Sorry. Gentlemen and Tramp.”
Hakon tittered until Asta shot him a withering glare.
“Hey, where is William? I commissioned a poem from him and he is late on delivery.”
“Yes, well, after that tripe he turned in for my epic, I doubt William is in a very poetic mood. Unless he has found rhymes for ‘gaol,’ ‘rats,’ and ‘the rack.’
“Right. Well, I didn’t pay him anything up front, so,” Bard shrugged, “no harm no foul right?”
“Well, I have taken the time to replace both William and Seigmund in my advisory council. Njord Larsson commanded a regiment in the St. Aslak Division during the war and General Ebsen has recommended him to help rebuild the army. He will be working with you Bard.”
Njord rose and nodded, silently and then sat down. “Tell me Bard, when did you last command in the field?”
Bard blushed. “Oh, it’s been a while. I’ve been busy here for quite some time, requisitionings supplies, horses, weapons and food. Coordinating shipments and handling recruiting. Really, our organization won the last war. Thanks to my team, we were able to outlast several very strong enemies.”
“Oh! And I am in charge of implementing any sort of organizational changes and equipment upgrades the armies might need.”
“Ah, foolish me. And all this time I have been wasting my time organizing and leading my soldiers into battle, storming into breaches and finding ways to make due when the food stops arriving, the equipment is worn out and the horses are eaten. I am certain, Bard, you will have much to teach me about order forms and quill-pen pushing.”
This was not going to be a good day. Bard held his head high, assumed a look of quite superiority and sniffed the air. “Yes, I am quite sure I do. And probably something about regular bathing as well.”
The two men regarded each other with hostility.
Erik was pleased. A little competition could only be good for the army. “More importantly, since it has become clear that I cannot expect to be immortalized in poetry, I have chosen as Assistant to the Posthumous Poet Laureate, a writer of prose and plays. Sir Alojz Praha.”
Alojz rose with a flourish. “Couplets may not be my style, but I shall make you immortal, Your Majesty!” Alojz struck a dramatic pose, rippling his cloak about, “I shall make you a Legend!”
“You’d better Alojz. Otherwise William’s cell may still be dank, rat infested and stink of human waste, but it will no longer be lonely.”
Alojz’s hand went to his throat and he visibly paled. “I shan’t fail you, my Liege.”
“Threats to poets aside, father…”
“Playwrights, madame.”
Asta, still smarting from her father’s jab rounded on the playwright.
“Shut up you or you’ll wish you were in that cell.”
Alojz sat quickly and quietly, a look of despair settled on his face. The job advertisement had not mentioned all this.
“As I was saying, father, the wars kept our armies, my spies and our other internal agents so busy that the Heretic’s were able to spread like wildfire. Close to a third of all your subjects follow a non-traditional Christianity.”
Asta smiled at Hakon. “Oh, and father, I know who the leader of the Olafites is. It is none other than…”
Hakon’s eyes went wide. He needed a distraction, and fast.
“Ow My Head!” Yelled Hakon, and then he slammed his head into the table with such force that Erik’s wine bottle tipped onto the floor. Soon after, Hakon, insensible and bloody, also tipped onto the floor.
The room was silent as everybody stared in wonder at what just happened.
Asta rolled her eyes. “As I was saying, that bloody, crumpled mess on the floor, my brother Hakon, Duke of the Western Isles, is also the leader of the Church of Olaf.”
Emperor of the Crovan Empire
In Which Hakon Suffers A Head Trauma
(28 October 1504 – 3 January 1507)
“Well then gentlemen…”
“Ahem.”
“Sorry. Gentlemen and Tramp.”
Hakon tittered until Asta shot him a withering glare.
“Hey, where is William? I commissioned a poem from him and he is late on delivery.”
“Yes, well, after that tripe he turned in for my epic, I doubt William is in a very poetic mood. Unless he has found rhymes for ‘gaol,’ ‘rats,’ and ‘the rack.’
“Right. Well, I didn’t pay him anything up front, so,” Bard shrugged, “no harm no foul right?”
“Well, I have taken the time to replace both William and Seigmund in my advisory council. Njord Larsson commanded a regiment in the St. Aslak Division during the war and General Ebsen has recommended him to help rebuild the army. He will be working with you Bard.”
Njord rose and nodded, silently and then sat down. “Tell me Bard, when did you last command in the field?”
Bard blushed. “Oh, it’s been a while. I’ve been busy here for quite some time, requisitionings supplies, horses, weapons and food. Coordinating shipments and handling recruiting. Really, our organization won the last war. Thanks to my team, we were able to outlast several very strong enemies.”
“Oh! And I am in charge of implementing any sort of organizational changes and equipment upgrades the armies might need.”
“Ah, foolish me. And all this time I have been wasting my time organizing and leading my soldiers into battle, storming into breaches and finding ways to make due when the food stops arriving, the equipment is worn out and the horses are eaten. I am certain, Bard, you will have much to teach me about order forms and quill-pen pushing.”
This was not going to be a good day. Bard held his head high, assumed a look of quite superiority and sniffed the air. “Yes, I am quite sure I do. And probably something about regular bathing as well.”
The two men regarded each other with hostility.
Erik was pleased. A little competition could only be good for the army. “More importantly, since it has become clear that I cannot expect to be immortalized in poetry, I have chosen as Assistant to the Posthumous Poet Laureate, a writer of prose and plays. Sir Alojz Praha.”
Alojz rose with a flourish. “Couplets may not be my style, but I shall make you immortal, Your Majesty!” Alojz struck a dramatic pose, rippling his cloak about, “I shall make you a Legend!”
“You’d better Alojz. Otherwise William’s cell may still be dank, rat infested and stink of human waste, but it will no longer be lonely.”
Alojz’s hand went to his throat and he visibly paled. “I shan’t fail you, my Liege.”
“Threats to poets aside, father…”
“Playwrights, madame.”
Asta, still smarting from her father’s jab rounded on the playwright.
“Shut up you or you’ll wish you were in that cell.”
Alojz sat quickly and quietly, a look of despair settled on his face. The job advertisement had not mentioned all this.
“As I was saying, father, the wars kept our armies, my spies and our other internal agents so busy that the Heretic’s were able to spread like wildfire. Close to a third of all your subjects follow a non-traditional Christianity.”
Asta smiled at Hakon. “Oh, and father, I know who the leader of the Olafites is. It is none other than…”
Hakon’s eyes went wide. He needed a distraction, and fast.
“Ow My Head!” Yelled Hakon, and then he slammed his head into the table with such force that Erik’s wine bottle tipped onto the floor. Soon after, Hakon, insensible and bloody, also tipped onto the floor.
The room was silent as everybody stared in wonder at what just happened.
Asta rolled her eyes. “As I was saying, that bloody, crumpled mess on the floor, my brother Hakon, Duke of the Western Isles, is also the leader of the Church of Olaf.”
Well, well. We have a cliff-hanger! What will become of Hakon? Of Asta? Of the Church of Olaf Crovan? Find out on the next exciting episode of The Adventures of the Crovan Clan 2: The World Is Way Too Much!
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