Danse Macabre

Skizbot said:

Very well written, I'll be reading.

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Thanks to you, and welcome

Lord_D said:

Burning with desire to know what'll happen

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Burning with desire to write what'll happen

Myth said:

So, jury-rigged traps. A man that gets shot and doesn't die. Except I'll assume he doesn't get shot--he just has a good vantage point, a radio of some sort with one end down on the floor somewhere or a recording device (and a good understanding of what will happen in there) and the feet belong to a well done wooden display or something. Also, perhaps to do with the purge of the SA; get rid of the unruly mob by getting them slaughtered in operations.

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All of them are interesting ideas
It's one year early for the purge of the SA

Enewald said:

Ah, looks there was a Prussian noble defending his last stand.

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Not too far from the truth

stnylan said:

Now now, from teh title I should have had an inkling.

I think I am going to enjoy this AAR immensely.

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In fact, you're about to tread a bit of familiar ground

GeneralHannibal said:

From what I've seen, this may be the first (and so far best that I've read) real narrative HOI3 AAR. I'll be following eagerly, the writing is excellent and I have no idea what's happening.

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Thanks to you!

Should I mention Cthulhu and Technique have both started excellent AARs as well?


Speaking of which...

cthulhu said:

Maybe the legions really are after him. At least on of the legionaries? Creepy post, Lordban. I liked to mood very much and the connection between the occult and the nazis never gets old it seems.

I look forward to more!

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Thanks!

The connection between the occult and the nazis never seems to get old indeed. The trouble for Faber and his crew being that they were only at the receiving end of the "occult connection".

Stuyvesant said:

Very interesting... I wonder how the 'normal' world of Speer's imprisonment meets up with this decidely paranormal pre-war world.

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You shall see in a bit Welcome on board!



Update's in the works, it should be here by tomorrow (assuming I'm not late again )

The Lady and the Soldier.




Paris; March 8th, 1933


The woman's clothes weren't the latest fashion in France, but fashion mattered little when you ventured into the poorest quarters in Paris. Both the woman and her clothes were out-of-place on the pavement she walked, that of a street lined with shabby and unfriendly-looking houses; her delicate looks contrasted sharply with the coarse appearance of the couple of workers who discussed in front of the popular café she was presently bypassing. One of the men whistled and cat-called her, but the woman ignored him and pressed on. The other man laughed rudely, and then both workers left the lamp-lit street and returned to their drinks.

The woman looked very fragile: petite and slender, she had a thinly chiselled, pearly white face, adorned by alluring blue eyes reminiscent of faceted ice-jewels; the smooth oval was surrounded by a wealth of hair of the lightest blonde. She could hardly be older than twenty. Many a man believed she could not refuse him if he really wanted her – the woman looked like easy prey for the first drunkard who’d decide she was to his taste. It would have been a poor idea: there was a lot more to her than met the eye, and the man who decided to be overly friendly with her could count himself lucky if he ended up bleeding in a sewer drain.


The woman stopped in front of what looked like the longest abandoned house in the whole street. Most of the paint on the walls had peeled away, and both brick and mortar were blackened by the soot exhaled by the nearby power plant. The windows on both floors had been boarded, but it was possible to see there were missing glass panes on the second floor through holes in the boarding. The place was avoided by most of the neighbourhood; the house was reputed to be the meeting grounds of a band of violent right-wing activists best left alone.

The woman did not knock on the door; she knew there was someone watching the street from behind one of the windows on the second floor, and she flicked her fingers in a gesture which identified her as one authorized to enter the place. Moments later the door creaked open to reveal a young man wearing black trousers and a green shirt; he had the looks and the bearing of a well-trained soldier, though the woman knew he had never received formal training. The owner of the place was the best soldier and leader of men the woman knew, and he took pride in training his retainers to high levels of fighting proficiency.

The underground office to which the woman was led did not look as shabby as the house’s exterior. The furniture was spartan but practical, and there were no ostentatious adornments; the walls were covered with maps, most of them of Paris and of its surroundings, one showing Europe, another one the world. Little notes were stuck on all the maps with colour-coded pins; actualized borders and areas of interest had been delineated by a precise pencil. The woman remarked some maps of the United States of America and of their East Coast had returned to the walls. She allowed herself a smile: last time she had come to visit, the man had taken them off. Their discussions about the United States of America usually degenerated into an argument. The presence of the maps on the wall held a message - but the woman decided to ignore it.

The man working at the desk stood up to greet his visitor. He wasn’t much taller than her. A thin-fingered hand rested on his stomach; the other was extended in an old, courteous gesture to motion his visitor to her seat. He had a round Latin face, weathered, etched with small lines; his complexion was pale, giving him a sickly look. He was black-haired; black were also his teeth, bearing the marks of years of poor care and bad diet.


Once they were both seated, it was she who spoke first in a quiet, clear voice:

'I have had troublesome news' she started without preamble. 'Berlin is investigating my former haven in Potsdam.'

'I did suggest you should turn the buildings over to new owners' the man replied with a mirthless smile. His voice was deep, his inflexions those of a man used to command. 'There is more, of course. You would not have come to me if there was not.'

The woman hissed. 'There is. The inquiry is about a violation of the First Tradition.'

The man raised an eyebrow. 'It sounds a little far-fetched.'

'According to my Police contacts, a SS unit ran into a member of the Family in Potsdam.'

'I also warned you not to rely on the Police to protect your Prussian holdings.'

'Stop being clever' the woman snapped. 'How was I supposed to guess law enforcement authorities would simply refuse to do their job?'

'NSDAP are the law, now' the man said with a thin smile. 'And I thought the real problem was "how come a member of the family was present in your Potsdamer haven?" '


The woman shot him a baleful glare. 'I am not here to argue the matter with you' she said, shaking with repressed fury. 'I am here to order you to suspend any and all interactions with German kine until I have been able to prove I had nothing to do with the breach which occured in Potsdam.'

The man smirked. 'You know as well as I do that I won't comply.'

'Have you become this infatuated with your pet architect?' the woman shot back.

'I do have a number of plans revolving around him, my dear' he said, and the man's smirk became a gentler, almost sympathetic smile. 'I did warn you that I would eventually pick up where I had left off.'

'Foolish nonsense' she snapped. 'Our Kindred will never let you get away with the kind of interference you are planning. All you will manage to achieve is getting yourself destroyed. You do not have my permission to proceed with your plans.'

'Then I shall proceed without your permission, my dear. Time is running short.'

'Short indeed, when half of the Kindred of Germany are going to want you dead in the permanent sense of the term.'

The man laughed softly. 'My dear Elsie, have your powerful connections with the Prussian police stopped the SS from storming your Potsdamer haven? Did they stop the SA from getting there in the first place?' He allowed himself a few seconds to enjoy the woman's growing distress, and then he went on: 'Our German Kindred have started to run into the same kind of trouble as you did in Potsdam - and this is only the beginning of their problems. Mark my words: NSDAP are the law in Germany, and there will be no other law in Germany for at least ten years.'

'They are nothing' Elsie hissed. 'I do not give that Hitler two years before he becomes a pawn of the Conservatives, and that makes him our pawn.'

'I do not give your Conservatives six months until they find themselves at Hitler's feet' the man replied sadly. 'You have had ample proof I have a better grasp of those National-Socialists than you do. A time may come when you will thank me for acting against your wishes.'

'A time may come when you regret your disobedience, childe' the woman said sharply as she rose from her seat. 'If your interference causes me any measure of trouble, I will make sure your head falls off your shoulders before mine does.'


The woman turned on her heel and stormed out of the office, fuming. Moments later, the man heard a door slam open.

He smiled.

'Give her a few minutes, then go and check whether she did lasting damage' the man said, addressing the guard who had escorted Elsie to his office. 'And fetch me Hermann when you are done. I must prepare for a journey.'







When she climbed into the car that had been waiting for her a few streets further, Elsie was still fuming. She suppressed her urge to slam the car's door with all the strength she could muster; she needed to vent her anger, but demolishing her own possessions would have accomplished nothing. It would only have brought trouble with the driver, and she certainly did not want even more attention paid to her unusual abilities. Besides, she might have to do a number of permanent things to the driver if she got on his wrong side, and she did not want to: the man's wages were high, but he was worth several times the money.

The driver said nothing upon seeing how frustrated his passenger was. In fact it made her less of a distraction than usual. Most people felt uncomfortable and were fidgety the first time they travelled in a car; this particular woman seemed not to manage to get used to it – not to mention she was positively terrified every time he needed to drive unorthodoxically to lose pursuers. She always said she was satisfied with his service afterwards, but it was visible she went through a small ordeal every time she climbed into the passenger’s seat.

For a while neither driver nor passenger said anything. Outside the car, the little houses had been replaced by trees and bushes; they were headed for a small property not very far from Paris.

After a moment the woman spoke, no longer angry but visibly lost in thought: 'Should one wish so often that they had never made a decision, so many years later?' she asked, half for him and half for herself.

The man was a little puzzled by the question. 'You are a little young to have really old regrets' he finally said, sounding amused.

'This would be a matter of perspective' she replied, sounding just as amused as the man was.

'Bah.' The driver sighed. 'Regrets are a waste of time anyway. Especially for a woman your age' he added.


Elsie allowed herself a thin smile. How could a mere human have ever guessed she regretted a choice she had made a hundred and fifteen years earlier?

Myth said:

Ahh, a secret organization whose members are or may have unnaturally long lives. Or aren't even human. Always a good way to begin the intrigue. She must've once hobnobbed with Bismarck and Louis Napoleon.

But a hundred and fifteen years earlier? Places it at 1818. I can't think of any major historical event from that year...

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Ahhh, the wonders of the butterfly effect

cthulhu said:

I know this setting quite well. Your writing is very descriptive and the mood in the area in Paris was excellent. Elsie, will soon learn how true the words that enraged her were.

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Coming from a writer like you, I take this as high praise

Kurt_Steiner said:

The Kindred against the kine?

And Winston thought that Churchill was evil...

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It's a little more twisted than that

Enewald said:

But also with the God of War, Napoleon the First.

Ah, so Hitler is to fall within 10 years?
Haven't they heard of the Tausendjährige Reich?

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Maybe they haven't read 'Mein Kampf'

Funny you should mention Napoleon the First

Aelendil said:

I know where that rose on green background comes from !

There's a Mascarade going on

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Shhh. These people do not exist


Everyone, a number of people have caught the hints about the setting. For the others, worry not; the truth shall soon be unraveled

Gaspard Gourgaud's Dismissal




St Helena island; November 9th, 1817


According to Napoléon's standards, promenades at St Helena were by no means an entertaining affair. For a man who had travelled to all parts of Europe, not being allowed to travel farther than four miles away from the walls of his residence at Longwood was yet another torture. Where almost every day had meant a change of scenery and the discovery of new landscapes, there were now only the exotic yet sadly familiar vegetation of a small valley, and the equally sad Longwood plateau where only a few rubber trees and one single resilient oak tree had managed to survive the never-abetting winds. It had taken the former Emperor only a few weeks to become familiar with every nook and cranny of the small expanse of land he was allowed to travel; now the hours spent on horseback were hardly less boring than those spent within the walls of Longwood manor; the latter actually had the advantage of not exposing one to the unpredictable showers of rain which regularly spoiled a day's ride.

And even during these promenades it was hard to escape the small indignities constantly inflicted on him by his British jailors. Another example presented itself today: a couple of soldiers watching the Emperor from their vantage point on the ridge of one of the hills surrounding the valley were training their muskets in the Emperor's direction, and were evidently deriving great pleasure from their prank.

They are behaving like children the Emperor thought as he heaved a sigh. But it is not their fault they are made to perform a boring and senseless duty by their leaders. Only a bird could escape this place. What point is there putting so many sentries on the hills? With the coast securely guarded, there is no need for them...


Napoléon focused his thoughts away from the soldiers, and on their commander: Hudson Lowe, governor of the island of St Helena, whose coming he had actually been looking forward to when admiral Cockburn had announced he was leaving for Cape Town. Lowe had started his military career in the artillery, a beginning similar to Napoléon's own career. The Frenchman had been looking forward to challenging conversations on the finer points of warfare with the new Governor; he had been quite disappointed to meet a petty and vain man with little understanding of military matters, and absolutely no desire to debate with a man acknowledged as Europe's greatest military genius, whom he somehow managed to regard as inferior. Lowe had made Napoléon's sojourn at St Helena even more miserable than it had been when Cockburn was in charge of the Emperor's custody, and seemed to derive enjoyment from causing his prisoner misery.

I would rather have been sequestered in the Tower of London than on this wretched island Napoléon mused sombrely. How sadly fortunate that I will not survive it much longer.

And then he shook his head.

I must not entertain such thoughts he chided himself. St Helena is already hard enough on my companions; allowing myself to wallow in self-pity is only going to make it harder on them.


Boring though they may have been, it was in the Emperor's best interests to keep going out on his promenades. Longwood manor's air was impossibly damp; it ruined the painting and the tapestries, and made it imperative to iron clothes every day to delay the inevitable point where they'd start getting mouldy. That air was heated every evening by chimney fires and many candles which tried to dispel the coldness and gloom of the place; they never completely succeeded.

Doctor O'Meara was convinced that Napoléon stood to gain more by risking being rained on than he did by staying indoors, and his patient was inclined to trust the Irishman's judgement. Napoléon was firmly convinced that staying secluded at Longwood was the surest way to let his health degrade, and the former Emperor wasn't quite keen on allowing that to happen. Even if he could not avoid the occasional shower, at least he exercised his body and pushed a little farther the beginning of its final decay.


Today the Emperor was riding with a companion, one Gaspard Gourgaud. A young and intelligent officer, Gourgaud had been one of Napoléon's younger generals and his aide-de-camp since Waterloo; he had had the dubious honour of giving the order to fire the French batteries' last salvo on the dreary plain, in an attempt to buy time for the retreating Frenchmen and spare them from facing the wrathful steel of Blücher's Prussians. This final order had convinced Gourgaud he had always been serving the right man, and that the Bourbons were wrong: for the young general, the Emperor had always cared for his men, and had never quite been the tyrant Europe's governments were trying to make him pass for.

Unfortunately for him, Gaspard Gourgaud's life had almost entirely been spent on various battlefields; he had been serving in the army since leaving military school in 1804 as a lieutenant, and had never settled down long enough to find a wife. Unlike the other noblemen who had accompanied Napoléon in his exile, Gourgaud had every reason to find his existence to be despairingly lonely.

In fact, Gourgaud had been making sure the wives of the two other married gentlemen at Longwood knew he was feeling lonely. This wasn't really a problem where Henri Bertrand was concerned - the marshal's wife Fanny was quite faithful, and had just given him a fourth child. On the other hand, Albine Hélène, the wife of general-count Monthaulon, was a pretty and flirtatious woman, and Monthaulon himself was the jealous type. Gourgaud had not hidden his longing for Albine de Monthaulon, and this had lead to a dispute between the two men, into which Henri Bertrand was drawn by Gourgaud. So far the results were the dissolution of what little social life remained at Napoléon's home, and the Bertrands intent on having a separate house built for them on the Longwood plateau.

The reason why the Emperor had asked his aide-de-camp to ride with him was to prevent further damage. He was not, however, going to be obvious about it. Not now that he felt there was a much better way to broach the subject.

'Have you seen the two redcoats on the ridge, Gourgaud?' Napoléon asked nonchalantly, not even bothering to look in their direction.

'I have, Sire' Gourgaud replied with a similar tone. 'It takes very little to amuse them, doesn't it?'

'There was a time when I would have been quite disappointed at this lack of reaction from one of my men when I was in the enemy's line of fire' Napoléon made with a small chuckle.

'I'm keeping an eye on them, but I think we should deny them the pleasure of diving into the underbrush like panicked rabbits' Gourgaud made, still sounding unworried. 'They're simple men. It takes little to entertain them.'

'Simple men...' Napoléon muttered.

The Emperor pulled softly on his horse's reins, stopping it; his companion was startled, and a few seconds passed before he too stopped.

'Sire?'

Napoléon did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the two sentries on the ridge, who were now engaged in animated discussion.

'Is anything wrong, Sire?' Gourgaud asked, moving a little closer to the Emperor.

Napoléon stayed silent for another few seconds, still observing the men above him intently. And then he spoke in a strangely detached voice: 'Tell me, Gourgaud, what is a simple man?'

The young general was completely caught off balance by the question. 'Well... They are... I mean-' he sputtered.

'They are men who live for the present moment and indulge in their immediate desires.' The Emperor made a gesture in the direction of the two sentries, whose discussion seemed to degenerate into a dispute. 'Look at them. They were making fun of us moments ago, but now one of them has decided he wants to do something, and the other one disagrees. They are not going to think about the possible consequences of achieving what they hearts tell them they crave.'

'I - I see.' Gourgaud's voice was shaking. 'Sire, we should-'

'That bullet is going to hit the rubber tree next to us' - and before his companion had the time to say or do something there was the unmistakable crack of a musket being fired, and the bark of the tree exploded in a shower of splinters hardly two metres from Napoléon.

The Emperor's horse reared, but its rider stayed in his saddle and managed to regain control of it; then it broke into a gallop, urged by its rider, and the panicked Gourgaud's mount followed suit.







Both riders stopped their mounts a couple of hundred metres farther, under the cover of a small bush of more exotic trees. The Emperor looked as if nothing had happened; Gourgaud, for his part, was struggling hard to regain his composure.

'What the hell was that about?' he swore. 'Has Lowe been giving orders to get rid of you?'

'He certainly has not' Napoléon calmly replied. 'I would not put it past him to order in advance a coffin so that he is prepared when I finally die - such a display of bad taste would suit his character - but he certainly would not want to have to explain to his government just why he gave the French population an excellent reason to overthrow Louis XVIII and call the Bonapartes back. They have been at war with France for over twenty years to put an end to our revolutions. Lowe may be incompetent and foolish, but he is not going to give his superiors such a good reason to separate his head from his shoulders.'

'You should still have a word with him about his sentries shooting you! If they're doing this, he's not made it clear enough that nobody's supposed to harm you!'

'Of course he has made it clear' Napoléon replied with a little smile. 'But we simple men do not think about the consequences our brash actions may have on the people around us.'

'They sure-'


But Gourgaud stopped right in the middle of his sentence. His face blanched as he turned to face his Emperor; when next he spoke, his voice was shaking: 'Who do you mean by "us, simple men?" '

'Sire' Napoléon prompted. Even though he wasn't reigning over much of a domain these days, the Emperor made a point to remind those who had accompanied him in exile that he was still their liege, and that they would never have lacked him respect when he was still ruling his Empire.

It is a testament to Gourgaud's loyalty that he didn't feel slighted by Napoléon's words. And it is a testament to his wit that he understood the reasons behind the Emperor's unexpected reprimand.

'I know I shouldn't have aggravated Monthaulon' the young man said with a heavy voice, 'but whenever I look at his wife I get the impression she would rather be sleeping in my arms than in his.'

'You have no proof that she would' replied Napoléon soothingly - though a little dishonestly. They were, after all, talking about a woman who had insisted for four months to be allowed in Napoléon's own bathroom, and who had been thoroughly disappointed to discover he wouldn't give in to her desires even when they were alone in such a private place. Still, it was no reason to give Gourgaud more reason to hope; count Monthaulon was the jealous type, and had already forgotten that Napoléon was his Emperor when discussing the liberties granted to his wife.

'My friend' Napoléon said, 'you really do not know. You might merely be getting ideas, and I cannot afford seeing what little court the English agreed to leave me tear themselves apart because their earthly desires are not mutually compatible.'

'I know' Gourgaud said bitterly. 'But every time she leans close to me, I can't help but imagine how pleasurable it'd be to spend a few hours alone with her.'

'Then you should rein in your imagination, Gourgaud' the Emperor replied. 'You will go mad if you do not.'

'I'm not sure I can rein it in.'

'Then perhaps you should leave.'

'Sire!'


Gourgaud looked horrified, and Napoléon had to quickly reassure him: 'I am not telling you I do not want you by my side any longer; what I am trying to tell you is that you are a clever and handsome man, and that it would be much better for you to go back to France and find a good woman there, marry her and start your life anew.'

'You never suggested that the others should leave you, Sire' Gourgaud said bitterly.

'Their families are here. Their life is here. On the other hand, I am the only reason why you are here. I am grateful for your presence, but I cannot let you destroy yourself just for the pleasure of your company.'

Napoléon didn't wait for a reply; he knew Gourgaud would need some time to get used to the idea of leaving St Helena without him, but the fact Napoléon's suggestion didn't scandalize him enough for them to have a full-blown argument made him sure his younger friend would eventually realize going his own way was the right thing to do.

Of course, there was no way for Napoléon to know this decision would come back to haunt him...







Gourgaud kept stubbornly silent during the rest of the journey back to Longwood manor, but Napoléon didn't really mind. Talking about other people's families had brought back the painful memory that he himself would never be seeing his wife and six-year-old son again - not in this life, anyway.

One person living a lonely life is enough for such a small island he mused.

In Napoléon's mind, there was no doubt as to whom that person should have been.