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Thread: Day of Glory (MP megacampaign)

  1. #181
    Field Marshal von_Rundstedt's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by oddman View Post
    I believe a 'no homo'-clause is in order.
    Scared?

  2. #182
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by von_Rundstedt View Post
    Scared?
    Of the Great Big Black Fasquardong? Fucks yes.

  3. #183
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    Marching Through Georgia

    Thus we sailed from doomed Nicaea across the wine-dark water, and came to the mountainous land whence Jason fetched the Golden Fleece; and we left our ships, and burned them lest they should fall into the hands of the Persians. Here began our true travails, and many who had complained bitterly of the hard life they had suffered on shipboard now looked back on the sea journey as a golden age of ease. Strategos Alexandros - who refused, now, to be addressed as 'Autokrator' or 'Emperor', saying that those titles had been left behind with the throne in Nicaea, and that none should bear them again until the lost City itself was recovered - decreed that neither horses nor mules were to be ridden, in the first case to save them for battle, and in the second so that they might carry provisions. An exception was made for the sick, and for women more than five months pregnant, and it is true that a child's rest on horseback was often winked at; but for the most part we marched on our own feet, the men bearing their arms, the women carrying grain and dried fruit. The smallest children rode on their parents' backs, and the jest ran that to have a young child was to have an easy life, for if the parent carried the child, they did not weigh much; and the child would carry the supplies. But those above five years walked, and grew lean and sinewy; if at first our marches were short, by the end of summer the girls of six years' age were united in contempt for anyone who did not regard a day of twelve miles as a disappointment.

    Although we were marching through a Georgian kingdom subject to the Shahanshah, we were not at first opposed, for two reasons. First, the military vassals who might have brought their fighting tails to hold the roads against us had answered the call to arms, and were even then descending towards the coastal plains west in Anatolia. Second, the ordinary people did not hold their distant overlords in great regard, and were quite prepared to wink at a host of refugee Romans - especially since we made sure to establish a market wherever we went, and pay well for our grain and meat. For before leaving, we had stripped the coastal cities, unsacked within living memory, down to the very churches; the accumulated hoards of centuries had gone aboard our ships, leaving nothing for the Persians. Indeed our chief difficulty had been to find mules enough to carry our gold and jewels. Although we owned no great estates, fine clothing, or broad acres - nothing, in short, of real wealth, except good soldiers and the horses to mount them - our mules' packs overflowed with useless, precious metals, and we left behind us a trail of villages that sparkled with riches they could not eat. This served the strategy of Alexandros in two ways: In addition to winning the good will of the people we passed, it ensured that a pursuing army would find nothing to eat. But day after day vanguard and rearguard alike reported no enemies; the Persians, it seemed, were unaware of our passing, or perhaps were content that we should escape into, as they thought, obscurity and nothingness.

    As soon as the snow began to retreat toward the peaks, however, we left off our passage up the Kolkheti lowlands, keeping the Greater Caucasus to our left, and instead turned north, avoiding the garrison at Tblisi, into the heart of the mountains. This is a wild region where the writ of Persia runs but lightly, or not at all, whatever colours the mapmakers in Baghdad might use. If the war-arrow had passed into these lands at all, it had been roundly ignored, and the wild tribesmen had all their fighting men at home, ready to resist our passing. Nor did they fail to do so; for, ignorant of both the Greek and the Persian tongues, and suspicious of anyone outside their clans, they would not hear our explanations or offers of tribute in exchange for safe passage, but closed the passes against us lest our numbers - in those mountains a thousand men is commonly thought a great host - should come too close to their settlements. Time after time Alexandros marched us around a peak to avoid an uphill battle, only to find that the next valley was likewise lined with warriors ready to fill us with arrows from the cover of a hundred stone-built sangars. Nor was he willing to spend irreplaceable fighting men to force our way through; for although any one tribe might have been overcome by a stout charge, there were hundreds of ridges between us and the steppes on the other side. Worse, the tribes were for the most part content to leave us alone once they saw that we would not try to force their pass; but to settle the issue by battle would have been to provoke a hundred blood feuds, and then they would not only have mustered to hold the ridges, but harassed our camps at night and our marches by day, and bled us to death in a thousand tiny skirmishes.

    Here was the first great difficulty of our Long March, and there was considerable grumbling in the ranks; we could no longer rely on markets to bring in fresh fruit and meat, and subsisted instead on our stores of oatmeal, which holds body and soul together but is a miserable meal after a days' hard march on mountain trails. Many blamed Alexandros for his decision to land at Ureki, instead of going further north and avoiding the Greater Caucasus altogether; but as he pointed out, that would have meant forcing our way through the domains of the Czar, who (bribed to neutrality by promises of the return of the trans-Volga) had not called out ban and arriere-ban, and could have easily mustered a real army to stop us, if he or his governors chose to take exception to a foreign host within his realm. Still, as day followed unsuccessful day and we were no further north, but drifted ever westward, discontent grew. At last, when Shota Rustaveli was well behind our left shoulders and yet another tribe had passed the flaming axe against us, Alexandros decided that the mountains could not be forced, and that there was no choice but to go through the Jvris Ugheltekhili, keeping Gora Dzhimara on our left.

    Such a course meant confronting the Persian garrisons we had been hoping to avoid; although the lowlands had been stripped of fighting men, the Shahanshah was not going to weaken the forts enforcing his control over the single military road to his trans-Caucasian domains. Still, patrols against marauding tribesmen and bandits are one thing, and enough troops to stop a determined Roman army quite another. We were twenty thousand in all, five thousand regular soldiers of the kataphrakts - the last remnant of the thematic armies that had ground themselves to dust trying to stop the Persians in the Anatolian highlands - and another seven thousand men of fighting age, who could at least carry a spear. And we did not need to take the forts, as in a conventional military campaign; for we had no lines of supply or retreat to be cut. The risk was, rather, that an enterprising commander might mobilise all the garrisons and meet us in some defensible spot; or, still worse, call out the veterans of the military colonies on either side of the pass, which the Shahanshah had planted there for precisely such events. Speed, therefore, was essential. We needed to be halfway through the pass before the Persians could collect themselves to resist us; and if there was confusion and dissent among their leaders, so much the better. But there were limits to our ability to force our march; children of five, no matter how tough and strong for their age - and after all we had only been on the road two months - can go only so fast. Nor could we very well put them on horseback, when our cavalry had to be held ready for battle.

    Alexandros decided, therefore, that if neither simple speed nor iron weaponry would serve us, golden arrows might. It is an ancient truism that of ten Persians, eight will sell you their sister, the ninth will prefer to rent her out, and the tenth will cry because his father has already taken another offer; and in truth, when garrisoning such an empire as the Shahanshah rules, it is not easy to find rigidly honest men for every little backwater fort, even among the proud Aryans. Even better for our cause, we did not need to bribe men into abandoning their posts, an impaling offense which the most greedy and dishonest men might yet balk at from simple self-preservation. No, all we wanted was that they should be slow in mobilising to meet us in the field, that none among them should be able to take the initiative, establish command over his brother officers, and climb to a better posting on a pyramid of Roman skulls. We asked for no treason, but merely a stiff-necked refusal to take orders from officers of the same rank, a great concern over abandoning the fort that was one's sacred charge from the Shahanshah himself, and a quarrelsome attitude; and, to speak truthfully, when dealing with Aryan nobles this happy outcome did not require a great deal of gold.

    In this manner the important fortresses of Gognauri and Sioni were neutralised, their garrisons manning the walls but not opposing our passage; better still, although the military colonies of the southern end of the pass were raised, the call to muster did not go out in time and a strong force was left to straggle up the pass many days behind us. Even so, this would have been a disaster if anything had delayed us; we might have been trapped between two armies in the narrow pass, and forced at best to scatter into the mountains and abandon our baggage train, at worst to actual surrender and slavery on Persian estates. Knowing this, every one of us pushed our limbs to the limit, gasping and struggling in the thin air. Many, especially among the women and the young, fell by the wayside; but none were left behind. I saw men bent almost double under the weight of three children; but they kept going, onward and upward.

    On the fifth day we reached the summit and began to descend more often than we climbed; but now, at last, the Persians came to meet us. The fortress commander of Daryalskoye had proved more susceptible to dreams of glory than to our bribes; although he had been unable to convince his brother officers to take the field in his support, he had mustered a considerable force from his own garrison and from the military colony of the northern end of the pass, perhaps eight thousand men in all. Although it is true that we outnumbered them, it must be remembered that the Persians were all trained veterans in formed units, while many of our men were new to soldiering. Moreover, for us delay would be catastrophic, while the Persians needed only to take position on a ridge and dare us to attack.

    Although, as a general, our Strategos had won a great reputation through avoiding frontal assaults, it was now a question of breaking through or perishing; the Persians had us in precisely that dilemma a good officer strives to inflict on his foes. The enemy had no vulnerable flanks, he did not lack for time or for supplies; and we had a desperate need to take his position. In the wars in the Levant, Alexandros had destroyed three separate Caliphate armies through precisely such a maneuver; now, with no good options, he grimly ordered readiness for a general assault.

    Our care to keep the horses ready for battle proved to be a waste, for the enemy commander - whose name was Arsalan; that means 'Lion', and his parents had made no empty boast - had chosen his position well. The Persians stood on a barren ridge, the slope lightly scattered with loose gravel; even the mules would have to step carefully, and a mounted charge into the Persian line was out of the question. It would be an infantry struggle, then; and with this decided, Alexandros wasted no time. The youngest children and old women were told off to hold the horses. A screen of skirmishers armed with light crossbows went forward to harass the Persian lines, consisting of those who wanted to fight but did not have the muscle needed to stand against men grown in the line of battle; beardless boys and a surprisingly large number of the adult women. Later I asked my wife what she had been thinking, to go into battle as though she were a man. She replied rather sharply - and to my shame, I did not discipline her - that if we had lost, she would rather have had the mercy that victors give to fighting men, not to helpless women. There were many who felt the same, and such was our desperation that few among the men objected, and those were soon silenced by their fellows. In the narrow passage there is neither brother nor friend, and we were come to a narrow pass indeed, with eight thousand armoured Persians between us and freedom, and only death and disgrace behind. In such a strait it was well, at least, to have a wife with a stout crossbow.

    While the skirmishers exchanged shots with the Persians, the kataphrakts formed up in a tight wedge, with our remaining fighting men behind them to follow up and lend weight to their punch. As though he were a hero out of legend, Alexandros himself stood at the head of the formation, with his chief officers and the eagle banner. The nine horsetails below the golden Eagle flew bravely in the eternal wind that blows through the pass; and though in my heart I knew that if Alexandros fell we were all lost, still I felt heartened by his gesture. Nor do I think I was the only one who felt thus.

    Soon the cornicens blew, and we went forward at a steady pace, no hurried run but the slow, measured tread that fills the heart with determination and makes the earth shake. As we came into range Persian arrows began to fall on us; but now at last the heavy armour of the kataphrakts, a dreadful burden on our journey, came into its own, and not many fell. As we walked we unconsciously fell into step, and the sound of our boots hitting the ground all together was like the world ending. I had never felt anything like it; it felt as though my own footfalls were making the earth tremble, as though I were invincible, unstoppable. In response the Persians began to beat their shields with their swords; but this backfired, for their rhythm in doing so soon matched ours, and thus they merely added to the thunder of our advance. If you have never been in an army of many thousands of men, marching shoulder to shoulder towards victory or death, you cannot be told what it is like. Even among those who have, the memory of exaltation slips and slides; like the moment of orgasm, it cannot be held in the mind. But I would share my last crust of bread with any man who marched with me at Jvris Ugheltekhili.

    Because of the slope, Alexandros made no attempt to pick up the pace as the two lines drew close; the kataphrakts kept their measured, hieratic tread to the very moment of impact. And in that phrase lay our victory; for it is rare that lines of fighting men actually collide. Usually one side or the other will stop, a short distance away from their foes, and attempt to thrust their spears into the enemy ranks, or to use their swords. To deliberately step into arms' range of a grown man wielding edged steel takes unusual courage, even among trained soldiers; few officers can force their men to it. But we were desperate; we had no line of retreat, nowhere to go but forward. And Alexandros was leading us. The kataphrakts attempted no swordplay. They raised their shields and plowed forward.

    I believe the Persians were surprised; they were experienced soldiers, who had stood in a line of battle before, and perhaps that was weakness, for there is no surprise so deadly as the one that comes when a man thinks he knows what to expect. But surprised or not they were no cowards, and no fools; they knew that whoever gave way was lost. They stood their ground, and shoved back. They were well fed, and numerous, and stood on higher ground; they had not marched fifty miles uphill in five days; they were ranked shoulder to shoulder with comrades who depended on them for their lives, and would see their courage or their shame. And yet, in the end, they were fighting for king and country, and we were fighting for our lives.

    It was a contest of endurance. Nobody who has not experienced the awful draining terror of close combat can know what it is like. In the maelstrom of shouting, glaring faces and edged metal, time disappears. The heart beats faster then than at any other time; the limbs fill with strength, but you know that it will not last. With every second you can feel the draining of that precious, temporary power, and the urgent need for the struggle to end - one way or another - fills your mind to the brim. There is perhaps no primal instinct more powerful than the urge to end a dominance contest that is not going well. That ancient terror fought in our minds with the intellectual knowledge that this was no struggle for position within a tribe, that surrender here did not mean accepting lower status and trying again in a year.

    But if we were terrified, what of the Persians? They, too, were initiates in the mystery of death. They, too, stood at the narrow passage. But they were not fighting for the lives of their children and wives. Glory, comradeship, the gaze of an officer, the feel of the cloth - these are powerful motivators. But they were not enough, when facing men who could not retreat. My mouth was dry with fear and I could not find air; but I thought of my wife lying in a ditch with her throat slit, or worse, and I dug my feet in and pushed forward, and around me ten thousand of my comrades did the same. And, grudgingly, the Persian line gave way - and then shattered with the suddenness of a dam bursting.

    We yelled! We shouted with the triumph and the glory as we pounded forward in pursuit; the Persian line unravelled on either side of the breach, men throwing away their shields and spears to run faster. We screamed our victory at their backs, and for a mile we cut them down from behind, until our arms were weary with slaughter and we could run no more; but the Persians kept going, sobbing their fear and despair. If not for the awful terrain that kept us from having a cavalry reserve, not a man would have escaped. As it was, during the next days there were many Persian soldiers in the pass, enough to have troubled us greatly; but there was no Persian army, and we marched freely.

    On the third day after the battle, we crossed a last ridge and saw before us the unbroken steppe. Someone, meaning it perhaps for a jest, shouted "Thalassa! Thalassa!", and we all took it up; for if this was not the wine-dark water that carries Greeks in foreign lands home, still it was deliverance. On the steppe, as trackless as the sea, we could disappear. Neither Shahanshah nor Czar would pursue us into the wastes where no man's writ runs. And one day, we would come back; or our sons, or our sons' sons. And the Eagle would fly again over the City of Men's Desire.
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  4. #184
    Colonel Kuipy's Avatar
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    Well that rocked.

  5. #185
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    The Basetax Is Right

    So, I've got a little sweepstakes idea. The prize? You get to name a Caribbean island.

    I've been looking at the game's cultures and base taxes. The object of this little guessing game is to guess which culture represents the most base tax in our game (in the year 1443)! Those of you who have been following the game since CK should have a pretty good idea of which cultures are dominant.

    It works thusly: I am going to list a number of cultures. Your task is to sort them from highest to lowest base tax. The one who deviates least from the actual order gets the prize!

    There are two categories: Peanuts and Players. Everyone who has ever played DoG counts as a player. Checking the save game is frowned upon >.

    So, without further ado, the contestants (a.k.a. the cultures):
    In the puke-yellow corner, we have Andalusian! Hailing from the hot but fertile lands of Southern Iberia, it is the first European culture to have spread to South America! Will this give them the edge? Will it compensate for being small for such a long time during EU3?

    In the Green, the large, the mighty, the cold: the Russian! Will being a superpower throughout CK have helped? The provinces are big, but is their base tax, as well?

    The Purple, the Outcast, the Fallen, the Greek! They may not have a country any more, but KoM converted quite a few provinces in his CK days! Where will it put them on the list?

    In the middle, the Germans, Bavarian chief among them, have been said to have benefited from the Conversion. Will it help the Bavarians? Or is the Rhinelander so big it costs the Bavarians dearly? Your call!

    Once mere barbarians, now the rulers of the richest Empire of Europe: the Croatian! Has OY managed to propel his humble peoples beyond their original beginnings? Can they surpass the big boys? Can you tell?

    Some cultures have all the luck. Maghribi Arabic is one such culture, with not one, but two champions in the Caliphates! How did it fracture? Will two previous superpowers be enough to propel it to the top?

    The North is a confusing place. Finnish, Irish, English, Swedes - they have all had their players at some point or another. Then there are those that did not get help - Norwegians, Sami, Danes - but to keep to the main route, I will give away that the English are the biggest. I'm sure Golle will make 'em even bigger, but how do they rank now?

    Across the ocean, across the seas, we have two cultures: Incan and Mayan. They have been buffed, they have been beefed, they have colonized! Will they be able to stand up to the European powers of consolidation? Which one of the two is more powerful? Is there a European in between, even? Your call, gentle contestant, your call!

    Africa has its contestants as well. Ethiopian is an ancient culture, stretching back thousands of years! Will age tell? Or is the cannibalistic ability of Kongo better? Is one more powerful than the other? One thing is for certain: Kongo is no longer Pagan, and can thus culture-convert the other Africans. Is it enough? Who knows!

    Asia is an even more confusing place than Northern Europa. In India, there are large cultures three: Tamil, Gujarati and Bengal - in China, four: Tibetan, Shan, Chihan, Mongol; in the seas, Japanese and Malayan. Each has a champion (except Shan), and they were engineered to have the same ballpark base tax figure, so I will ask you to rank the biggest and the smallest: Japanese and Tibetan.

    Now, gentle contestants, put them in the correct order:
    (it is much appreciated if you copy-paste this list and order it)
    'andalucian'
    'russian'
    'greek'
    'bavarian'
    'rheinlaender'
    'croatian'
    'maghreb_arabic'
    'english'
    'inca'
    'mayan'
    'ethiopian'
    'kongolese'
    'japanese'
    'tibetan'

    Good luck! The deadline has been extended to 2011-6-8.


    PS
    Nice work, Khan of Men.
    Last edited by oddman; 06-06-2011 at 19:01.

  6. #186
    Easy!

    'japanese'
    'bavarian'
    'croatian'
    'andalucian'
    'russian'
    'greek'
    'maghreb_arabic'
    'tibetan'
    'english'
    'ethiopian'
    'kongolese'
    'inca'
    'rheinlaender'
    'mayan'

  7. #187
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Chogquir View Post
    Easy!

    'japanese'
    'bavarian'
    'croatian'
    'andalucian'
    'russian'
    'greek'
    'maghreb_arabic'
    'tibetan'
    'english'
    'ethiopian'
    'kongolese'
    'inca'
    'rheinlaender'
    'mayan'
    Good to see you're massively optimistic about your own culture

  8. #188
    Field Marshal von_Rundstedt's Avatar
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    Russian is obviously the superior culture.

    That said, who would want an island in the Caribbean?

  9. #189
    Lt. General BlitzMartinDK's Avatar
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    well, doesn't matter since you don't get the Island.. You only win the right to NAME it...

  10. #190
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by BlitzMartinDK View Post
    well, doesn't matter since you don't get the Island.. You only win the right to NAME it...
    And everlasting fame, of course. Never forget the estimation of your peers!

  11. #191
    Resident Opportunist King of Men's Avatar
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    How do you define the difference in the rank orderings? It seems to me that there is more than one reasonable possibility. Anyway, here is my attempt:

    'bavarian'
    'maghreb_arabic'
    'japanese'
    'greek'
    'andalucian'
    'russian'
    'rheinlaender'
    'croatian'
    'english'
    'tibetan'
    'inca'
    'ethiopian'
    'kongolese'
    'mayan'
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  12. #192
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Thank you for playing!

    Quote Originally Posted by King of Men View Post
    How do you define the difference in the rank orderings? It seems to me that there is more than one reasonable possibility.
    I compare the basetax values associated with your ordering with the basetax values of the correct answer and calculate the deviance.

    EDIT: Example
    Correct answer:
    1 = Bantu, 20 bt
    2 = Sapmi, 15 bt
    3 = Polynesian, 10 bt
    4 = Tamil, 5 bt

    A Player's Answer:
    1 = Sapmi, 15 bt
    2 = Polynesian, 10 bt
    3 = Tamil, 5 bt
    4 = Bantu, 20 bt

    Score:
    1) (20 - 15)^2 +
    2) (15-10)^2 +
    3) (10-5)^2 +
    4) (5-20)^2
    Last edited by oddman; 26-05-2011 at 22:07.

  13. #193
    Do uncolonized provinces count? I reserve the right to change if so, as I recall there are some uncolonized Incan, Kongolese, Huron etc provinces floating around.

    'bavarian'
    'maghreb_arabic'
    'russian'
    'andalucian'
    'japanese'
    'greek'
    'ethiopian'
    'english'
    'mayan'
    'kongolese'
    'croatian'
    'rheinlaender'
    'inca'
    'tibetan'
    Emperor of Ethiopia, High King of Ceylon, Sultan of Arabia, Prince of Antioch and Damascus, Lord Protector of the Tamil Coast, Maharaja of Gujarat, Lord Protector of Java and Sumatra, Archduke of Australia, Autocrat from Carthage to the Cape, Sea Lord of the East Pacific, Caliph of Baghdad, and Defender of the Ark of the Covenant in Tyranny's Bloody Banner.

  14. #194
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Yup, uncolonized counts.

  15. #195
    Comrade Uzkiye Bryuki Emperor Ike's Avatar
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    Prince of Africa
    Bad Dates



    Long had the Fatimid Caliphate ruled Egypt and Northern Africa as well as parts of the Holy Land and it seemed that there was not going to be any change in that but the times were changing. The realm had fallen in to despair after Abdul Fatimid had succeeded his father as the Caliph of Egypt and Africa, his incompetence had driven some of the Emirs to plot treason against the Caliphate. Some of those were even loyal to the brother of Abdul, Jawhar Fatimid the Prince of Egypt. Jawhar was not like his brother who enjoyed isolation in the castle in Alexandria, no Jawhar was more close to the subjects of his brother. While his brother remained in the castle locked away from horrors of civil war, Jawhar led his brothers armies against the rebels and was often victorious. Even Jawhar had beaten many of the rebel armies they still refused to give up their effort to over throw the Caliphates current Caliph. So a plan was forged to meet their demands and still to keep a Fatimid ruler on the throne. They knew that Abdul never left the comfort of his palace and it was hard to get even near him, so their only option was to poison the favorite food of Abdul, dates. So the plotters bribed the servants of Abdul to poison the dates and serve them to him in his throne room. So they did as they were told and served the dates. To make sure that everything would go smoothly Jawhar had asked audience from his brother and thus ensured that he was present when Abdul would eat the poisoned dates.

    -Abdul about to eat the dates

    So Abdul ate the dates and as planned he died of poison. Jawhar quickly seized the throne by claiming that this had been an attack from the rebels and that the servants were working with them, so he ordered the execution of the servants in order to gain the support of those who had been loyal to his brother. Jawhar held an grand funeral to his brother in Alexandria and buried his body in to the Valley of Kings as they had buried all their Caliphs. So Jawhar had seized the throne and was expecting the realm to be unified once again but some of the rebels refused to pledge loyalty to the new Caliph. So once again Jawhar had to raise his armies and marched against the rebels. Battle after battle the Egyptian armies were victorious but the rebels kept on retreating to their lairs and refused to accept the new Caliph as their lord. Finally after years of fighting Jawhar managed to lure the rebel forces in to attacking his armies in Aswan. There the huge armies of Egypt crushed the rebels once and for all and restored peace to the Caliphate.

    -Rebels about to be mashed.

    Now that peace had been returned to the realm Jawhar needed to work on his foreign relations. In the east they were bordered by the might Persian Empire, in south the Ethiopians roamed free and over the Mediterranean sea was Croatia, Bavaria and Al-Andalus. The Eastern border was a mess due to the civil war and many of the Emirs had joined Persia. Jawhar knew that to keep his relations with his fellow Muslims in the East he needed to make an compromise. So Egypt traded Holy Land and Sinai for Greece that Persia had conquered after they had defeated the puny Byzantium Empire. So a border was drawn in Sinai and an eternal alliance was renewed between the Egyptians and Persians once again. Now that Greece was in the Egyptian hands they were an target for an attack. But Jawhar wasn't going to wait for an someone to attack them and he offered Greece to the Croatians in exchange of alliances and free trade. The Croatians happily accepted this and peace was secured between the great nations. So Jawhar had secured Egypt and the relations with his allies it was time to turn the attention on building the great African Empire.

    -Jawhar glancing to the future


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  16. #196
    Heart Of Darkness:

    Election:


    The blow made António's teeth rattle. The man on the other end of the club, who had seemed so mild mannered when they all entered the ring, gave him a savage grin as he pressed in. Clearly trying to corner the young bureaucrat. António sent back his own grin. Blood staining his teeth from the bite he'd given the man mere moments ago. Letting the diplomat know his defiance, even as his feet slipped in the sand of the ring. Forced back another pace. And another.

    Oh, why had he ever let the Averronians ever baptize him? If he'd resisted the temptations of the strange spirits the Portuguese fishermen had brought to Kongo, he would have never gone to school. If he'd avoided school, he'd never have known his talent with numbers, never risen through the ranks of the civil service. Never come here. To the election arena.

    Behind the diplomat, a high pitched squeal, like a pig being slaughtered, told him that the First Eater had finished with the military candidate. Soon that monster from the jungle would be coming for them.

    The diplomat's club fell again. Was blocked again. The impact jarring António's bones as the shock traveled through him. His knee buckled. Why couldn't the election be fought with the written word and arithmetic, like managing a village's tax receipts? A knee slammed into his solar plexus, sending him sprawling to the sand, winded. Words sent skittering from his mind, his body squeezing more adrenalin out in a desperate attempt to gather itself together to continue the fight. Running was not an option. Not in the election arena. A shadow fell across his face, and he realized it was from the club rising above him. António knew the death-blow would come soon.

    More adrenaline. A desperate roll. The head of the club kicking up a small cloud of dust as it plowed into the sand where his head had been a moment before. He kept rolling. Away. Away. Away! Had to get space. Had to get his breath back. He clambered to his feet. Lungs pumping furiously. The diplomat!

    Ah...

    It was just him and the First Eater now. The monster from the dark jungle crouched on the diplomat, gnawing on the dead man's meat already. Its foul hungers unable to wait.

    Why couldn't that creature just pass on power to his sisters' sons like an ordinary chief?

    But it didn't. And now it was going to eat António too. He'd just be another good man consumed to make a spectacle for the peasants. Just a means of showing the First Eater's domination of its government. He gritted his teeth. Well. That twisted thing would have to work for António's meat. The bureaucrat looked around. His club was gone. Dropped a mere arms-length from the First Eater. Trying to retrieve it would be sure death. The diplomat's club was even closer. Deader and deader. So where was the military candidate? Where was the man's club? His eyes slid across the arena, breath fast and deep, his throat raw with the force of it.

    There.

    António ran. His muscles burning. The burning unheeded. The First Eater would be on him soon. Against fear of its teeth and talons, the aches of mere exertion were of vanishing lightness.

    His fingers wrapped around the club. His foot hit an obstacle. He was falling. Twisting. His back slamming into the sand. Club up. Savage teeth closing around the wood. Splinters flying. But the hard wood held. His eyes met those of the monster.

    "Not me you don't!" He screamed. The defiance feeling good, even if it wasted precious breath. Of its own bidding his knee rose up. Forcefully connecting with the crotch of the monster above him. Oh yes. The beast had enough humanity in it to still feel that.

    António rolled again. He was on top. Knee plunging into the monster's guts. Causing it to curl in pain. The monster was old now. Its recovery not quite fast enough to bring it to readiness to defend against the next blow, or the next, or the next.

    The jaws slackened.

    The club was ripped free.

    António stood tall. The club swung down again and again. The cries of the monster continuing longer for humanly possible. But in time even monster flesh yielded. And there were no more noises save the wet "thuck" of his club hitting dead meat.

    António Boussombo had become the Second Eater.

    The meat of the First Eater was stringy. Like lion. Old lion. But by the time he finished eating the last of it, he didn't care.

    He was stronger than he had ever been before.

    It was a shame he'd have to wait four years for another election.

    fasquardon
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  17. #197
    Resident Opportunist King of Men's Avatar
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    Best election process ever. I think you may have disproved Arrow's Theorem.
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  18. #198
    Mostly Harmless oddman's Avatar
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    Averronian Catalunya is pleased with the new Kongolese government and its wise and obviously just ruler, António Boussombo.

  19. #199
    Mushroom Korps Field Marshal OrangeYoshi's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by King of Men View Post
    Best election process ever. I think you may have disproved Arrow's Theorem.
    Who's what?
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  20. #200
    Colonel Kuipy's Avatar
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    From what I understand of a cursory wikipedia reading it's a ripp-off of Condorcet's paradox with more sciency-schmancy jargon slapped on top of it.

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