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DISCLAIMER: Last session was bit of tragig for the Children of Dôn...particullary for the Children. In 1083, the Scitsophrenic wife of my charcater Gwydion killed their two younger sons in one event. It was shocking setback in terms of creating this dynasty and I spat upon the devolpers of CK that the game mechanism doesen't allow justice to take place and murderers punished. Anyways, that fustrating feeling was good fuel for this bit odd writing. There would have been other things to write about, like Gwynedd's illfated reconquest of Lancaster, the subsequent pledging to France, the boyish rivaly between my heir and KoM's current heir fostered at my court...but this provoced my imagination more:



Ice age

Bronwen’s long brown hair touched nearly floor when she sat so dourly upon the apron, looking somewhere between the misty hillside and her own secret thoughts...perhaps she could almost see into the Otherside, to the evergreen lands of her grandmother.

Gwydion wouldn’t have been surprised if she did. Of all of his children, in Bronwen he saw most of his own childhood, the ageless days and magic. She could almost pass as a one of the fair folk to those who didn’t knew much of that breed and whit that Gwydion didn’t mean the oddness and secrecy, but the earthly beauty that the young lass had begun to grow upon her day by day as she approached womanhood.
Today she just remained Gwydion over how fragile and momentary childhood was. The joy of children to their parents was something that had passed way too seldom in his mind during these troubled years. Gwydion knew that in Bronwen he would have his last taste of it. The realisation of it had always been bittersweet teardrop, too salty to taste, yet too beautiful to wipe away. Few years, and she would be married to a someone important...most likely someone chosen by Mother Dôn herself, but today he was still his own little girl.

She noticed her Father standing in the shadows and gave him a faint of a smile. It was “I’m all right dad” sort of smile with faked courage and precocious that never suited well for Bronwen’s bit wanton whims but the look she gave to the heavy oaken doors perhaps justified it. Gwydion corrected his own stand accordingly. Her daughter needed all the protection and guardianship he could give when she was about to approach the evil that had slain her two brothers in one dreadful night.

“How are you doing mother?” She started with almost managing to keep her voice steady
There was no immediate answer. Bronwen looked up to her father like he would give reply in her mother’s behalf, but Gwydion’s face was like gargoyles of their distant liege’s palace. Bit too late he realised that Bronwen perhaps thought him demanding for her to go through all of this, but when he tried to bring comfort to his glaze, a shy voice behind the doors replied:
“I’m fine my love. How’s your day been?”
It was almost three years since Bronwen had last time heard the voice of her mother. She managed to only partially keep the tears in bay and her voice in control when she replied:
“Its...it has been beautiful day”
“That’s nice, really nice to hear.” The voice answered behind the doors.
“How is your brother Cynan behaving today?” Mother asked and way too soon broke the ice and let her daughter burst into child’s account of her daily life and telling her how Cynan had become a man and Count of his own little land and How she had so much wanted to go with her brother to his own castle away from his stupid cousin and his even stupider friend...
But in Gwydion’s mind, only the snide tone on his wife’s voice echoed with the subconscious fear of her wanting to kill their...his last living son too...

Listening there, his daughter’s brawling stories of the other children of the court while his wife made little, almost unnoticeable and hidden interrogations of the whereabouts of her cousin Idwall and his friend, Herman of the Greek breed with too curious notes on Browen’s shrift of the miffs and rubs of Cynan’s relationship to his cousin and that fiend son of Some Byzantine noble that parasitized Gwydion’s own patience to the edge.

But those were accounts of men and state as Both Cynan and Idwall were now on their own way out of each others close presence and both in important positions inside Gwydion’s own shaky realm. A little girl’s perspective shouldn’t raise that much of curiosity in grown ups...sane grownups at least.

Gwydion bite his teeth. He felt kinship to a three waiting the flames of the forest fire to reach its trunk. He kept remaining himself that occasional glimpse of their mother might help both Cynan and Bronwen to get on with their everyday life, but he certainly didn’t need those for himself. Less he thought about her, the better and if he could have at same time felt his little Bronwen to be old enough to face this all alone, he would have gladly found some other thing to do.

A mere glimpse at her made him thinking whether they would ever be, Strong enough to stand there alone. Cynan had made him understand that he wished not to encounter his mother trough this way or any other ways ever again. Gwydion didn’t blame him, neither he did blame his son for the courtesy he had to not to express these feelings with words. Only a short letter telling him that he was about to go throw some pebbles to the streamside.

That was something what he had loved to do as a younger lad with his little brothers, always fooling them to throw with round stones and cunningly amazed them by using hidden flat ones himself...

If there wouldn’t have been those other matters...and Bronwen’s stubborn need to do this, Gwydion would have loved to take a pebble himself too.

Bronwen was lighting the shady room with her ablaze of young girls adore over that obnoxious Greek lad that gave Gwydion an odd relief of their family tragedy with rather everyday’s father’s chore of keeping unsuitable bachelors away from his daughter. Herman Komnenuss was not going to get even a taste at the Children of Dôn and even a though of some olive skinned bastards running around in his court made small steam rose from Gwydion’s ears.

“Perhaps it’s enough for today darling.”
“But Pa...”
“Yeas. Mother is weary and ill. She cannot take these things too heavily. We will come back someday, I promise.”

And for once Bronwen didn’t challenge him to their more casual will-wrestling that Gwydion usually lost. Delighted she might have been to hear her mother’s voice; she was not too light-hearted or indifferent of what had happened. If these things were difficult, heavy and unbearable for grown men, what could they be for little girls?

She gave her father a kiss on a cheek and went by with longing look at the heavy door...either for even a glimpse at her mother or deeper child’s need for her loving parent’s revival.
Gwydion made damn sure that she would not get either one of those. Cruel that might be, but still the best. When he was certain that her daughter had disappeared into proper distance, Gwydion took deep breath and opened the door into the dark room.

There were few candles. Not as in the wildest rumours, of satanic altar arrangement, not ones made out of grease of human flesh. The air was tuff and Gwydion had to made loud couch that served also as a point to his wife to express her whereabouts in this god forsaken room that had become living legend in all of Cymrian lands.

“Im here...” She replied with hostile haste that demanded Gwydion to accept her authority inside her little realm. Gwydion allowed her to take the control. He did not want it inside here.
“Could you...” But Gwydion’s voice betrayed his confidence. He couched more and made the remark to approach the light with his hand whether not caring did she see it or not.

And when she came, one rumour was proven standing: She was dressed into a carnival costume that of big ugly toad. Gwydion didn’t want to decide whether to laugh at this or cry when he saw her once caring and tender face painted all white with irksome green tear streams running down from her eyes...
Those eyes burned Gwydion’s soul and feed his hatred. He had thought something to say when he had pictured this encounter in his mind but nothing quite matched the reality of this so unreal situation. For long the rumours of the Witch of Gwynedd, turning into a toad and killing young children at their sleep had cherished inside the realm and while they all knew the root for the killing part, Gwydion had become obsessed to see himself what he feared was true from some more accurate accounts of his court.
“Just...” Gwydion tried to continue, but he shook his head and murmured the words to himself: “...crawl back in the darkness.”
And naturally, Ellyw ap Gwasedi followed the silent wish and let Gwydion’s eyes to witness only ponder the dim details of the old nursery, which bloody sheets had not been even taken away by anybody, despite three years had passed since Ellyw had murdered his two young sons in this very room.
Gwydion had created ways to turn these feelings aside. Cold punctuality in facts kept him sane when he had to live trough those years... Time did not heel these sorts of wounds.
He rested his mind and said to himself: All right that part is now inspected, now the last one.

“Do you...do you have a painting? Here in the nur...room?”
He didn’t care if he sounded hesitant or unconfident. He just needed to be sure about the other rumour as well.
“Do you want to see it?” There was a colourful palette of scorn, mockery and insult in Ellyws suggestion that made even the filthiest harlots sound like nuns.
“No. But I guess I just have to see it.”
“Come...come here.”
Gwydion didn’t want to. But he had to. There were things that he couldn’t do but there were still a little, a vanishingly little backdoor that allowed Gwydion to kick this witch back into the hell she had came from and that backdoor depended whether the other of the two persisting rumours had even slight detail of truth into it. And that was whether Ellyw held a living and speaking picture of the Satan himself here, inside the Gwynedd castle or not. Gwydion did not want to ponder which alternative he wanted to be true.
He approached his wife’s location slowly, first with shaky unsure steps but gradually managed to regain the stout posture of a Welsh duke dealing with scum of his lands.
And before he could ask or she would continue her poisonous innuendoes, she just took a candle in her arms and made a slow wave in front of the wall that revealed it: The painting.

It was a posture of a man, painted in front of autumn landscape and emblazoned with human hair and real sewn clothes, having hair of the dogs and beast embroiled all over. The figure was of an ordinary man but his shadow; closely put behind him had horns and one single eye that were red, made out of some real jewel.

It made Gwydion shiver. It had cold affect like of a winter blizzard. Yet it was not quite the satan of Gwydion’s own haunted dreams.
“Who are you?” Gwydion heard himself asking from the painting itself...and by all the looks of it, it didn’t sound silly way to do at all...
“Lo! The King of Today; The King of tomorrow and the king of yesterday!”
“It’s...” Gwydion tried to reply...
“I know.” Ellyw said and the haunted eyes showed a faint of something long gone...A split of a moment full of sorrow, contrition and self-hatred.
“It's the king of the Coldness we must resist...” Ellyw’s words were lost in her own troubled mind and Gwydion’s lack of understanding. We? As a Christian humans, or we as a husband and wife? If the previous appealing gaze had made Gwydion to feel at least something for his wife, the rapidly growing anger made sure about killing it before it could root into something of forgiveness.
The anger made Gwydion’s eyes moist. The temper rose in burst that were only vaguely controllable and his hand sought the hilt of his sword for comforting grip but instead of provocating Gwydion’s evident fury, Ellyw sung a rhyme:

Given and able,
we stand in guard in front of the ice,
Standing high as a mountain.
Everything evil
Born when winter arrives into the heart of the people


"if so, then your heart is allready at the ice age..."
Gwydion didn’t bear more attention to his wife singing. He just kept gazing at the picture...it reminded very much of that of Wilhelm Conquer.



For reward: Piety
 
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And then, those who have thus far been silent, and of whom little is therefore known. Some have posted in this thread without writing AARs; others are maintaining full radio silence. This last, I note, is pleasing neither to Allah, the Spirit of Man of the Stars, or the God of Hosts.

I thought Kazimir said he couldn't commit to being an immortal anymore, thus explaining the silence of at least one of these men.

Yeah, fasq's use of the subjunctive is pretty great. Way to imply the counter factual fasq. Use of grammar to insult ftw.

Can you dial back on the snide Carillon? So, you could read what I said as an insult to von R's lack of skill, or you could read what I said as a comment on how difficult it is to conquer the whole continent and its 11 other players.

Now I'm sorry if it wasn't clear, but did you really need to get so snarky over it?

fasquardon
 
well, as I mentioned earlier I have withdrawn from this game. I also did mention in an earlier post the regret I felt for not beeing able to use #Call me Ishamel" as an opening line for my first AAR :)

Buneres (Ishamel)
 
x6hyp.png
 
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Gyah. I'm reinstating the rule that comic-type AARs must be proofread. You have more errors per unit information than Golle does, and he's not a native speaker. Also, you clearly have not read up on the grammar of the second person singular. It is "I have, thou hast, he/she/it hath". 'Thy' is a genitive, not an object form; where you have "thy messing with", you want "thou art messing with". If you don't know the difference between a genitive and an object, don't try to use 'thou'; modern English is a simplified pidgin with effectively no inflection for a reason. In other news, purple on black is really quite hard to read; can't you make it red on black like OOTS does? Or at least make it the same bright purple you use for outlining the speech bubbles.
 

The deamon hellspawn's language is clearly a subtle literary tool used by Blayne to show the corruptive effects of chaos upon all that is good and righteously ordered.



Also, "Charge Attack!" :p
 
A minor problem with your theory: The word 'identify' occurs four times in the comic, and only in the demon's text bubble is it spelled correctly. "Charge Attack", however, is a straightforward D&D term, and honourably stolen straight from OOTS's running gag with the yelling of "Sneak Attack!" at every opportunity. Stealing I don't object to, but I demand correctness of execution!
 
Apologies, I was in a hurry to go to my birthday dinner at an all you can eat restuarant that Dano visiting me can attest to, I'll make corrections today.
 
For the record, I did not even notice the spelling errors. I think some are being too pedantic here.

:nods in the direction of Mr. Super English Teacher KoM:

However, the purple spelling on black background is hideous and very hard to read... :p Also, stylistically it is a bit of an abomination to have 11th century characters speak in sentences like "identify yourself", "negative", or "You have identified yourself as ..." which sound more like Tom Clancy than like middle ages. Might be an intended effect with the demons, however for the gate guards it sounds very out of place.

"Halt, who goes there?" / "Who are you?" and "You may not enter" would be more fitting for a medieval character...
 
I was making a reference to Doctor Who with the Dalek/Cyberman scene.

The purple was used in Oots as well but by one of the Three Evil Outsiders people I think the NE or the CE one.
 
The differently coloured speech bubble should allow you to easily distinguish mortals from Evil Extraplanar Outsiders, CE and NE is 'Chaotic Evil' and 'Neutral Evil' respectively, not understanding that it was a reference to Doctor Who shouldnt however detract from your ability to follow the conversation as being otherwise simply just anachronistic with words but still passing the same meaning.
 
(I was planning on just subbing this session, so didn't really get into character or think about an RP story for Poland, but here is a summary of what happened.)

The great duke of Silesia, mighty and exalted is he, sat on his throne and pondered his next move. He was a man that knew what he wanted, power, but he didn't know how to get it. His dukedom was already a truly mighty force. He possessed a large demense with prosperous lands. He also had loyal vassals, as numerous as those of the kingdom of Poland. One could say that the kingdom of Poland was ruled by two men, of equal power and prestige. One of them being the mighty duke of Silesia with a plethora of holdings, and the other being the actual king himself.

The king of Silesia never liked the king, nor did the king like him. They resented each other's power. The king of the Pols believed that this duke possessed too much power, that he may make a move to create an independent kingdom of his own. This, however, was not the plan of the duke of Silesia, oh no. The duke of Silesia thought of himself as a ruler of all Pols, and knew it to be his God determined destiny to rule all of his cultural kin, not branch out into a sub state.

The duke, with a legitimate claim on the Polish throne, sat by and waited for a the time to strike. Surely the timid Polish king wouldn't strike first. The duke used this time to review his men, drill them personally, and prepare for battle by having dueling tournaments amongst his courtiers.

Then, one glorious morning, the Pope and all his holiness decided that a crusade needed to be cast upon the Muslim heatens of Egypt. The king of Poland, a man too pious, zealous, and blinded by faith for his own good, eagerly decided to mobilize all of his and his vassal's troops against the Egyptian. Upon hearing of the calling to arms, the duke of Silesia formatted a plan. Sure, he'd answer the call to arms, but he would stick around his castle for a little longer after the king departed for some "last minute preparations". ;)

The men were ready, the blades were sharp, and the steeds were eager. Once the king was far from the range of couriers and messengers to alarm him in any hasty amount of time, the duke striked. He mobilized his entire army, and commanded his counts to do the same. The counts, never too smart, eagerly marched behind the duke in hopes of dying gloriously against the infidel threat, but it was not to be.

The duke, his troops, and his vassal's troops invaded the demense of the king of Poland. The ungarrrisoned fortresses quickly fell. The vassals of the king also had their castles sieged. As soon as it started, it was over. The king couldn't turn back from his crusade, so he had to cede all of his possessions, including the crown. Did those bravemen who headed out to do God's will but were betrayed manage to eventually get to the Holy Land, or were their vessels set ablaze by Barbary pirates? No one knows, and frankly, the new king doesn't care.

_______________________

Having claimed the throne of Poland, the former duke ascended to a new level of power. Few mortal men manage to climb to such a level by pure force of will, and force of arms. However, not everyone was as contented as he.

The former vassals of the king, now the former duke's vassals, became very unpleased with their new liege. The remaining forces who did not go on the great crusade managed to rebel. What an incredible outrage! Surely, this is no way to welcome someone to a throne. The disloyal vassals were quickly annexed and added to the demense of the new king.

Now, a tyrant and oppressor, at least in the eyes of the region, the new king faced more problems. His once loyal to the end vassals didn't agree with his ascension, nor did they like having their troops lead on a coup while they believed they were going on a glorious crusade! They also decided to rebel, and, like the others, were quickly put to the sword, and their land annexed and added to the already vast holdings of the new king.

Now, controlling all of Poland directly, all 16 provinces under his direct rule, the king decided it was best to simmer down and wait out his bad reputation, while of course putting time to good use by improving his realm's economy and infrastructure. Buildings were built around the land, and a road network connected every one of the king's holdings.

However, the king couldn't stay stationary forever. It was not in his nature. He decided that a certain Prussian Baltic state needed to be added to his realm, so, like many times before, he made his will become reality. The Prussian coutn became a vassal of the glorious king.

The former Prussian count, now under the flag of Poland. was not alone in his war. Another Baltic entity, a pagan tribe, decided it was best to interfere with the annexation of the Prussian. Despite being a small state, the pagans raised numerous men. They swiftly invaded the battle fatigued lands of Poland, and began sieging.

The king of Poland faced his first invasion of his realm. It was now time to prove to the people that he was not only divinely entitled to be king of the lands, but that he was a capable king, worthy of the people's trust. Now is the time to protect the throne. Kings do not just become, they are forged in the heat of battle, and now is the time for his soul to be tempered in the fires of battle in defense of his claim...
 
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Introduction of Thomas de Trastamara

The floorboards over his head were creaking, almost collapsing from the heavy thud of solider boots. Dust was falling down in the dusk of the cellar and Thomas had to avert his eyes.
Why had he come here in the first place? Jerusalem, ancient city of his people, had proven to be the wrong choice for a Spaniard. He had, after all, escaped from Iberia in order to avoid struggle and war, in short, to avoid getting himself killed. And now he sat in a smudgy cellar, stuck between a rock and a hard place, not knowing if the Egyptians or the Christians or the Arabs would take control over the city. It didn’t mattered, whoever won would round up everyone and single out the denomination they hated the most, killing them or maiming them or merely robbing them and sending them out in the desert. No, it cannot continue like this! The thought burned in his head, we had to live together somehow. Jahvé hadn’t meant for man to slaughter his kin.

His thoughts was interrupted by a solider slamming the door to splinters, running into the small compartment in the process. Quick as a fox, Thomas was on his feet, pointing past the armed solider as he screamed and made a hideous face, rolling his eyes in the process. As the solider turned to watch the supposedly horrible infidel behind his back, Thomas grabbed his dagger, took two quick steps forward and slashed him. A quick thrust in his bowels followed by a cut to the throat killed him. Thomas stepped away, hid his weapon again and eased his breathing. He looked at the man in front of him, lying in his own widening pool of blood, kneeled down, emptied the mans purse and checked if he had any jewellery, not more than a pair of rings. He took them aswell and then just sat there. After a while he rose and walked out the door into the sunlight, whispering under his breath, ‘my friend, although I didn’t knew you, your sacrifice shall not been made in vain.’

He knew where to go and what to do. The Christians of his homeland would kill him for what he was; they would not be allowed to take control over Gibraltar, the towers of Seville nor the plains of La Mancha. Yes, he would make his way back to Iberia, back to al-Andalus and put himself in the service of al-Akbarzib.

He walked hastily through the city, avoiding people when he could, praying under his breath.

In the Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
Praise be to God, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds,
The most Gracious, Most Merciful,
Master of the Day of Judgement.
Thee do we worship, and Thine aid we seek.
Show us the straight way.
The way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace, those whose (portion) is not wrath, and who go not astray.


I find you, Lord, in all things and in all
my fellow creatures, pulsing with your life;
as a tiny seed you sleep in what is small
and in the vast you vastly yield yourself.

O Give thanks unto the Lord;
for he is good:
because his mercy endureth for ever.


If betraying his own religion was what was needed, he would do it and the Children of God would never need to die in the hands of one another again.

AAR reward given to Varyar, please correct all my inconsistencies.
 
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