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Thread: I, Rodrigo: The Annals of the Orient

  1. #1

    I, Rodrigo: The Annals of the Orient

    My name is Issac Wolfe, but feel free to just call me Isaac. I am the author of the once-active Dictator: Gaius Julius Caesar and Brick to Marble: A Roman AAR, both of which were unfortunately cut short due to personal reasons. However, in the spirit of old saws, the third time is the charm.

    I proud to present:



    I, RODRIGO
    THE ANNALS OF THE ORIENT


    The Orient - a mysterious place of startling fertility and yet a place of terrible death. Geographically, we know this place as the Middle East, and at the center, the Fertile Crescent - the beginning of civilization. These two rivers and the sands that surround it have ran red with blood since Man has known how to fight. Empires have been founded and destroyed here. People have ventured in, believing they could have it all, to only to be swallowed up by the sands that invited them. Yet, one empire had risen high amongst them all - the Persian Empire. We know it today as Iran. Having existed at three separate times, controlling, essentially, the same amount of territory, Persia had long dominated the Orient, extending it's power and culture to such an extent that even the final conquering force - Islam - could not resist it's temptation.

    Historically, as the aforementioned acclaimed, Islam ended the last Persian Empire under the Sassanids in A.D. 651. However, those same sands call once again, and soon the Armies of God shall thrust up their tall standards, believing that the Orient can be conquered as many before thought it could. Yet, these sands call across the Mediterranean, pricking the heartstrings of the Dukes of Barcelona. What these petty Dukes and the mystery of the East have in common is anyone's guess, but destiny does not sleep, and if the sands call forth for you, you are bound to listen.







    House of Sunifred
    Ramon Berenguer the Old Life: 1023 - 1074, Reign: 1035 - 1073
    Pedro Ramon Life: 1040 - Present, Reign: 1073 - Present




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    Last edited by Issac Wolfe; 22-06-2011 at 06:57.
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  2. #2
    Topaz-Fisted Demi-God Moderator Mr. Capiatlist's Avatar
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    Huzzah! Finally, the AAR I've heard so much about! (And help mod). ^___^

    As always you have my subscription.
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  3. #3
    Quote Originally Posted by Mr. Capiatlist View Post
    Huzzah! Finally, the AAR I've heard so much about! (And help mod). ^___^

    As always you have my subscription.
    Awesome.

    You will definitely be included in the Special Thanks. :P
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  4. #4
    Major Alfredian's Avatar
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    Intriguing start. I look forward to hearing more.
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  5. #5
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    Lets see.

  6. #6
    Blasted Conniving Roman General_BT's Avatar
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    Farsi-Spaniards? This is madness...

    No, this is Persia!
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  7. #7
    Quote Originally Posted by General_BT View Post
    Farsi-Spaniards? This is madness...

    No, this is Persia!
    Stranger things have happened.

    The first update has an ETA of... today! I will be getting to it shortly.
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  8. #8
    Patron Saint of Suenik Iain Wilson's Avatar
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    Well, Mr C talked about this in the BAAR so I thought I'd swing by and check it out. Seems like I'm getting in on the ground floor too so that's nice! Can't wait for more!
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  9. #9
    Thank you all for your interest so far. Hopefully you will all enjoy.
    -------------------------------
    Prologue:
    The Wish of a Dying Man





    Valencia, Aragon
    June 6th, 1073


    “How bad is it?” a frantic Ferran Certores sputtered out.

    “It is not good, I can assure you,” Rodrigo de Vivar, Marshall of Barcelona, solemnly responded to his friend. His head hung low with grief.

    As the two generals marched across the sun blasted landscape, the sounds and screams of war echoed behind them. The hiss of arrows and the recoil of catapults drowned out the camps sorrow at the happenings of today. The Duke of Barcelona, during an attempted assault on Valencia, had been laid low by what the doctors believed to be a poisoned arrow. Apparently the old Duke’s arrival had been known by the besieged, and took the opportunity to strike him down. Now the once fanatical and successful Duke of Barcelona, Ramon Berenguer, was on his deathbed. After been feverishly hounded on the condition of the Duke, the doctors complied and believed this was his final day.

    El Cid could feel nothing by guilt over what had happened. If he hadn’t pushed the Duke to launch an assault, which had failed, nobody would be hovering over his bed, offering prayers to God, hoping for a miracle when none would come. Rodrigo, like his counterpart Ferran, closed his eyes ever-so slightly on the way to the Duke‘s tent. Exhaling slowly, their thoughts travelled to God, offering their renewed devotion in exchange for a final breath of life to course through the Duke’s failing husk. Reaching the tent after nearly twenty minutes of silent walking, Ferran and Rodrigo kicked the dried mud off of their boots, and entered the sanctuary, two guards saluting to their generals at the entrance

    The air stank of incense – a successful attempt in covering the stench of the Duke’s vomit. Closing in on the Duke’s bedchamber, the stench became overwhelming, catching El Cid off guard, waving his right hand about in an attempt to waft away the strong sensation burning his nostrils. Noticing their entrance, the doctor presiding over the Duke approached the pair of generals, cupping his hands just below his chin. His eyes were drooping from lack of rest, as he had been hovering over the duke for nearly two days without sleep. Just his condition saddened El Cid, as he whatever he was going to say was not good.

    “How is the Duke?” Ferran questioned his tone much more aggressive than previously.

    “His humors are unbalanced. He keeps purging yellow bile. We have tried leeches and bloodletting, but we can’t seem to rebalance him. I fear the worst,” the doctor spewed out the Duke’s condition matter-of-factly, his voice not showing any care or concern for the alternative.

    “Try harder! This is the Duke!” Ferran yelled, his massive hands reaching for the tiny doctor’s shoulders. Before he could harm the Duke’s caretaker, Rodrigo stepped in and gently pushed his hands away.

    “They are doing everything they can,” El Cid stared at Ferran, his voice reassuring, “let us just check on him ourselves,” Rodrigo nodded to his friend, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it. Looking over to the caretaker, Rodrigo smiled, “if you would excuse us, Doctor.”

    “Of course,” the doctor bowed his head, waving along his assistants and proceeding out of the tent. Taking seats across from each other, Ferran shook his head in disgust. The man they were seated around didn’t even look like the person they remembered. His face had sunken and his flesh was pale. Whatever had entered his body had viciously attacked him, and was sapping his strength at an unbelievably fast pace. He had wasted away so quickly that Rodrigo guesses the next wind storm to pass through would take the Duke away with it. A single tear slid down El Cid’s face, unsure of what to do or say.

    “I feel like I failed him, you know?” Ferran reminisced, remembering the time where he saved the Duke from the blow of a charging Muslim swordsman at Tarragona, “I feel like I could have done something.”

    “We were all too spread out. You know how he was. Always wanted to be in the thick of it. This is how he wanted to go, I wager,” Rodrigo responded, his gaze fixated on the frail man below him. He just couldn’t believe that he was almost gone. Five days ago, on the eve of the assault, his liege didn’t look anything like this gaunt figure below him.

    “Rodrigo…”

    Immediately, both men sprang to life, moving their faces closer to the Duke to hear anything he might say to them. They wanted to know anything, anything at all, the Duke said in case this was his final few minutes. Their hearts pounded deep within their chests, worry and concern gripping their respective visage.

    “Rodrigo…”

    “I am here, Your Highness,” El Cid rested a reassuring hand over the Duke’s intertwined fingers resting gently around his stomach. The old Duke eagerly grasped the warm hand, grabbing at anything that gave him even an ounce of comfort.

    “Do you…”

    “Do I what, Your Highness?” Rodrigo eagerly pressed on.

    “Remember what I told you at Cuenca?” the dying Duke asked, the words barely making it out of his dry, chapped mouth. It took a few moments for Rodrigo to remember what he had sad. He had said many things there in regards to other many things. It was difficult to remember them on how fast they came out of his mouth those days. All of which seemed like such a long time ago when looking at how different Duke Ramon looked now. Then, all of a sudden, like an apple falling on his head, it hit him.

    The Orient is a mysterious place, Rodrigo. I have only heard about its wealth and it’s influence. They say the roads are paved with gold, and everyone wears silk! Isn’t that amazing? We ought to go there one day, and take it all for ourselves. Will you promise me something?

    Anything, your Highness.

    I am an old man now, and I will probably never see the Orient. However, if I do not go – I want you to go for me. Take me to the shores of the Levant, Rodrigo. I long to be there no matter what the cost. Can you do that for me?

    Of course, Your Highness.


    “You want to go to the Levant,” Rodrigo sputtered out unconsciously as the memory poured out of him. The Duke, in his weakness, only gave an approving smile. Rodrigo and Ferran exchanged a quick glance. They felt the Duke’s life waning. It was only a matter of time now.

    “Never forget that, Rodrigo. You are a good man and you deserve to go there yourself,” the Duke wheezed, his body jerking upward in a violent cough. The Duke wanted to vomit, but even that would cost him too much energy when he had none to spare.

    “Always pay the soldiers well…”

    “I will, Your Highness.”

    “Take care of my country…”

    “I will, Your Highness.”

    “And… and…” the Duke attempted to speak one last time, but could not. Instead he rested calmly, the world tuning out before his eyes. All was white, then gray, then black. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as Rodrigo felt the Duke’s final breath against the bare skin of his cheek. His body seemed to lose all support, and flattened out against the bed. A quick nudge from Ferran produced no results, and both generals shared a gaze once more. The Duke was done.

    El Cid gritted his teeth. “Go fetch a runner. Send a message to Barcelona that the Duke has died. And say… say… nothing else. Just go do that for me.”

    “I will,” Ferran nodded, standing up immediately and storming out of the tent.
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  10. #10
    Last edited by Issac Wolfe; 04-05-2011 at 07:22.
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  11. #11
    A Vivar Eranshahr? Interesting. If and when you get there, will you go Muslim, Orthodox or stay Catholic?

    Is this a megacampaign?

  12. #12
    Topaz-Fisted Demi-God Moderator Mr. Capiatlist's Avatar
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    Holy shit, that is one if the best things I have read... ever...
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  13. #13
    Quote Originally Posted by Hannibal X View Post
    A Vivar Eranshahr? Interesting. If and when you get there, will you go Muslim, Orthodox or stay Catholic?

    Is this a megacampaign?
    To the first one, you shall see.

    To the second one, possibly. It depends if I can scrounge up enough money to buy a better computer/upgrade my computer because EU3 doesn't work very well.
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  14. #14
    Quote Originally Posted by Mr. Capiatlist View Post
    Holy shit, that is one if the best things I have read... ever...
    Thank you, sir.
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  15. #15
    Wow, this story has vast amounts of potential plot-wise, here - not to mention you're a good writer!
    I'm definately keeping an eye on this.

  16. #16
    Quote Originally Posted by Rollofthedice View Post
    Wow, this story has vast amounts of potential plot-wise, here - not to mention you're a good writer!
    I'm definately keeping an eye on this.
    Thank you. I am glad you like it. Welcome aboard!
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  17. #17
    Chapter One:
    The Marriage Contract




    Barcelona, Aragon
    January 14th, 1067


    Duke Ramon Berenguer de Barcelona sank deep into his uncomfortable, tattered throne, unable to correct his severe humoral imbalance - the dreaded phlegm. He knew he would rue the day he fired his maidservants, and the interior of his castle suffered because of it. The meals were lackluster, everything was covered in grim and dust, and all of the linens were in disrepair and in desperate need of mending. As his aging back ached from the slouched position he retreated too, he questioned whether arming a few more soldiers was worth lacking basic home comforts.

    At forty-two years of age, the Duke had seen many things. He had violently defend his home from Muslim invasion, he saw the look of happiness in his wife's eye as she gave birth to his five children, and even survived the near gut-busting, disapproving looks his steward Adelaida de Borja gave him when he suggested going to the creditors for funding. But he had never seen the look of elation plastered over the face of his chancellor, Bernat de Baslu, as he hurried from the atrium to the throne room, his son Pedro Ramon in tow. The Duke slowly rose from his chair, his back cracking in several places, as the approached.

    "Why so happy?" the Duke eagerly inquired, a grin emerging from his sickly, congested visage.

    "Highness, do you remember that certain proposal we submitted to King Sancho of Castille?" de Baslu reminded the Duke, barely able to hold himself together, "he accepted!"

    "Excellent!" the Duke exclaimed, turning to his eldest son, gripping Pedro's shoulders with his large hands, "you, my son, are getting married!"

    "Married?" Pedro questioned, raising an eyebrow as if he didn't know what the word meant. Pedro, over his time reaching manhood, had taken a many women into his bedchamber. His days usually consisted of sleeping well past noon, recovering from the previous night's debauchery and womanizing. Hangovers were finally cast into oblivion by evening swordplay after 'breakfast,' in which gave him the burst of energy to repeat the cycle one again. While marriage need not end that cycle, Pedro knew his father wasn't about to let ruin the pristine image that his family projected unto Barcelona.

    "Yes, marriage," the Duke emphasized his point, staring his son down from the thoughts he knew were coursing through his conscious, "King Sancho has allowed you to wed his beloved daughter, Urraca." As well with a handsome dowry, the Duke quietly thought to himself, pondering the notion of employing servants once more.

    "There is more, Highness," de Baslu bowed his head in respect, having forgotten to do so upon his abrupt entry, "King Sancho assures us with his daughter in our care that Barcelona shall receive any help that is necessary in it's wars against the heathens."

    The Duke nodded off the comment, breaking out into a pace around the stony enclosure that was his throne room. With a deathly silence hovering in the air, every click of the Duke's boots resonated throughout the area, reminding his guests to not disrupt the thought processes there were zipping through his mind like a herd of galloping horses. While Pedro didn't nearly understand the significance of this, his father did. They had guaranteed military support from one of the stronger realms amongst the Spains.

    "This is an interesting development," the Duke ended his thought, his booming voice dispelling the shade of silence that had cast it's eerie shadow over the throne room, "this opens up a lot of opportunities for us. Can you be sure this is legitimate?"

    "I would put my life on it, Your Highness. It is even marked with his seal," de Baslu nodded quickly, assuring the Duke that he was correct in his thinking.

    This was what the Duke had been waiting for. This was more than wanting to crush Muslims in the name of God, this was about his childhood dream. His memory fought to remember, only grabbing at hints of things he had one done. Staring off into nothing, he felt a cool breeze roll off the Mediterranean, hitting him against his bare cheek. He could see a strange looking galley pull into the harbor of Barcelona; everyone in town gathered at the docks to just get a glimpse of who had arrived. His grandfather welcomed the traders, who claimed to be from a far away land...

    "Father?" Pedro interrupted the Duke's day-dream, washing away pleasant memories from happier times.

    "Yes? Ah, yes, the matter of Castille," the Duke recalled the discussion at hand, "we need to maximize the potential of this marriage, Pedro. If your wife's father will march to war with us, then why not take advantage? The Sheik of Albarracin has always been an annoyance. Harassing our merchants and the like. Perhaps it is time to really deal with this."

    "I will fetch Adelaida," Pedro smirked, his father instantly connecting the dots on his true intentions.

    "Perhaps we should contact some of our vassals, Your Highness?" de Baslu suggested, the Duke nodding in agreement.

    Barcelona, a relatively small duchy, had only three vassals that paid homage to House de Barcelona. Ponç de Empuries, a friend of the de Barcelona's, and Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell - a distantly related branch of the ruling family. These vassals also possessed the most troops. While it would be economical to rely on Castille, they needed to save face and focus on raising levies on at home first. While loyal, neither family had been spoken to for many years. It was time to cement those relationships for the coming days. And those days were coming.

    "Yes," the Duke's visage brightened, "invite them for a hunt! It has been far too long."
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  18. #18
    Topaz-Fisted Demi-God Moderator Mr. Capiatlist's Avatar
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    And so the stage is being set, war is upon the Taifa!
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  19. #19
    Patron Saint of Suenik Iain Wilson's Avatar
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    Two very well-written and entertaining updates! You've done a grand job of telling your core story while weaving in the everyday events that CK throws up.

    I look forward to your next update!
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  20. #20
    Enewald Enewald's Avatar
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    Invading because one can. The old bad reason.

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