• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.

Tufto

Orientalist boondoggle
102 Badges
Oct 16, 2009
3.662
2.179
  • Europa Universalis IV: Res Publica
  • Europa Universalis IV: Conquest of Paradise
  • Hearts of Iron III
  • Hearts of Iron III: Their Finest Hour
  • Hearts of Iron III Collection
  • Heir to the Throne
  • Magicka
  • Warlock: Master of the Arcane
  • Rome: Vae Victis
  • Europa Universalis IV: Wealth of Nations
  • Victoria: Revolutions
  • Europa Universalis: Rome
  • Victoria 2: Heart of Darkness
  • Semper Fi
  • Sengoku
  • Europa Universalis IV: Mare Nostrum
  • Victoria 2: A House Divided
  • Crusader Kings II
  • Crusader Kings II: Charlemagne
  • Crusader Kings II: Legacy of Rome
  • Divine Wind
  • Europa Universalis III Complete
  • Crusader Kings II: The Old Gods
  • Crusader Kings II: Rajas of India
  • Crusader Kings II: The Republic
  • Crusader Kings II: Sons of Abraham
  • Crusader Kings II: Sunset Invasion
  • Darkest Hour
  • Crusader Kings II: Sword of Islam
  • Europa Universalis IV: Rights of Man
  • Europa Universalis IV: El Dorado
  • War of the Roses
  • 500k Club
  • Mount & Blade: With Fire and Sword
  • Magicka: Wizard Wars Founder Wizard
  • Stellaris Sign-up
  • Crusader Kings II: Way of Life
  • Pillars of Eternity
  • Europa Universalis IV: Common Sense
  • The Showdown Effect
  • Crusader Kings II: Horse Lords
  • Europa Universalis III Complete
  • Europa Universalis IV: Cossacks
  • Hearts of Iron IV: Cadet
  • Europa Universalis III Complete
  • Tyranny: Archon Edition
  • Crusader Kings II: Conclave
  • Europa Universalis IV
  • Stellaris
  • Crusader Kings II: Reapers Due
The Red Mexican​

A Spanish Narrative AAR.

Updated daily Monday-Thursday. Any comments whatsoever are always appreciated, and actively encouraged!

Contents

Prologue (below): A Newborn Child.

Book One: The Concert of Vienna.

Chapter One: The Shining Sphere
Chapter Two: Supper in the North
Chapter Three: The March to War
Chapter Four: Firebrand
Chapter Five: The Howl of the Wind
Chapter Six: Bread and Peace
Chapter Seven: Burning the Candle
Chapter Eight: A Visit to a Concert
Chapter Nine: The Folly of Youth
Chapter Ten: Images from the Spanish Empire
Chapter Eleven: Enter Marina
Chapter Twelve: Madrid under the Moon
Chapter Thirteen: Fire and Friend
Chapter Fourteen: The Cruel Sands
Chapter Fifteen: Revelations
Chapter Sixteen: Damned Liberalism
Chapter Seventeen: Like a Pious Catholic
Chapter Eighteen: New Decade, Old War
Chapter Nineteen: The Fallen Ruler
Chapter Twenty: Peace of God
Chapter Twenty One: Reform and Revolution
Chapter Twenty Two: Taza
Chapter Twenty Three: The Storm Begins to Gather
Chapter Twenty Four: Images from the City of Man
Chapter Twenty Five: Thief of Life
Chapter Twenty Six: Mercy
Chapter Twenty Seven: Last Call
Chapter Twenty Eight: The Ignoble Savage

Book Two: The Empire of Mexico.

Book Three: The Beat of Drums.

Book Four: The Curse of Xavier.

Book Five: The Sins of Man.

Book Six: The Hand that Feeds.

Epilogue


Prologue

1st January 1836. Asturias.

Captain Goya smashed his arm against the door, flinging it open. The little hut was some distance away from anywhere meaningful, and he had no wish to stay in the hamlet for any more time than he needed to.

He was a tall, dark haired man, eyes cold and gaze ruthless. He came from Navarra, but cared little for its dusty peasant soil. He cared little, in fact, for the cause which he served. Don Carlos and his reactionary supporters suited him far better than the pseudo-liberal cabinet of the Queen. But a job was a job, as far as he was concerned; the pay was decent and he was able to command a little authority. Anyhow, the Carlists weren't going to win the war.

The army was, to him, simply a way of getting a reputation. A war hero was always looked upon kindly by the powers that be, and his hopes of getting into high office would be far easier for the patriotic rebel-hunter than the craven liberal.

He strode into the hut, eyes darting around. There was the father, dressed in his peasant attire, a look of panic on his face. He was shielding a woman; the mother. Her expression was not one of fear but resignation; she had clearly lived a hard life, one where she accepted the inevitable. A cynic; that would be the best word to describe her, he thought. Someone who knew the worst of humanity.

Private Lopez stumbled in behind the captain. The boy was shaping up nicely; not afraid of bullets, not afraid of sabres, but fiercely loyal to the captain and not too bright. He was learning his place fast.

But the boy was worried and fed up; the whole company was. Food was low, and it had been days since their last proper meal. The men were hungry and angry with the officers, and Goya knew it. But there was little he could do.

"Why did you not open the door when we knocked?" snapped the captain.

The man in front of him opened and shut his mouth. "My wife..."

Goya looked over at the mother. Ah, yes. A tiny bundle lay in her arms, all hope and brightness. How little the child knew.

"The birth of another little peasant does not mean you should not open your door to us. We have no wish to take your food. Have you seen a small Carlist patrol, maybe forty or fifty men passing by here?"

The man nodded. "They travelled down the eastern path, after raiding the inn for beer."

Goya stroked his chin. "Thank you", he said curtly, and left the building, a sigh of relief clearly audible.

His beloved coat swishing around his legs as he closed the door behind the hapless Private, who seemed confused. "Why didn't we ask him for food, sir? The Carlists took, why don't we?"

"Because it's wrong, Lopez. Now get back in line."

A man of contradictions; that was how people talked of Goya. Ruthless, cynical, bitter and harsh, he was considered by many a despicable man. Despite only being in his mid twenties, many said that the youth had already been sucked out of him by the things he'd seen in his childhood. Others thought that a woman had broken his heart. He had no time for the idealist, no hope for his fellow man.

But he wasn't the demon many painted him to be. For despite his many faults, Goya was governed by a strict moral code which he would never break. Do not steal. Do not commit adultery. Do not murder, do not rape. Worship in church every Sabbath-day.

There were other rules, but those were the most prominent. They were how he lived. And it was partly because of those that he would be known to many, one day. A name spoken of throughout the world.

But the infant which he had glanced at would also grow up. The little boy would go to Mexico, and stir up havoc against the political groups which ruled the nation. And then he would return to Europe, and spread discordant notes throughout the Concert of Vienna until the performance was wrecked, and a new order arose from the ashes.

But for now, the child slept on, and a thousand events began to be set in motion. The imperial century had begun.

-----​


Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my second AAR! For those who read my other one, I can assure you that I am not abandoning it, though expect updates to be sparser than this one for the time being. I shall be playing a Vanilla game as Spain (EDIT: Now in AHD due to lost save when I was still writing the 1830s). Please feel free to comment, as any and all are welcome, regardless of how critical they are. Expect updates semi-regularly; probably twice or thrice a week. And beyond that, I hope you enjoy the AAR.
 
Last edited:
gll25- Thanks!

loki100- Thanks! Hopefully this will be shorter than my other one, and should be done after a few months.

Book One:

The Concert of Vienna

Chapter One.

3rd August 1836

Picture the world before you. A shining sphere of green and blue, the gold of the Sahara and the silver of the Antarctic.

Look closer, at one continent. A little piece of land on the edges of the ocean; but one with so much power and glory that the rest of the world lives in fear of it.

So many shining cities sit across this dusty land. Paris, the city of lights, the halls of splendour. Vienna, the centre of a great empire of many peoples. The palaces of Saint Petersburg, the imperial might of London.

But there is another city, to the south. Once, it was the most powerful in the world. Now, it is a faded shadow of its former self, head of a declining state of regret.

The city is Madrid. The country is Spain. And Francisco Xavier stared out of his window.

The Prime Minister was a rising star; a forward-thinking liberal favoured by the Queen Regent. He looked out over the city, watching all the little people. They needed freedom.

The conservative government despised him. The memory of Napoleon's armies still rankled in their minds.

He walked through the hall of the Palace, hands behind his back. The sky was grey. It always seemed grey these days.

The Prime Minister went to a table where a map of Europe lay. It was old and tattered, but he loved to stare at it. It made everything so very clear.

There was Spain, in the bottom-left. He stared at her for a moment. He doubted she would rise again.

He sat down, weary. He was not the man for this task. He would do his best, but no more.

And now the cabinet was talking of war, with Morocco. As if the Carlists weren't enough to deal with.

Xavier put his head in his hands. Only God could help them now...
 
Last edited:
You seem to have a clear vision of how this story needs to play out. And what fascinating hints at that story. It promises to be a good one. :)

And I apologize for my absence from your Georgian AAR. Forum time has been in short supply lately, but I promise to get back to it.
 
A very interesting start; I'm playing my own game as Spain at the moment, so I'm curious to see how you do!
 
Very, VERY well written stuff. Definitely looking forward to more updates!
 
I'm afraid there won't be many soon- this AAR is on hold until May, when exams are over. I promise a bucketload of updates then, though. Same goes for my other AAR.
 
I give up, I love writing these AARs; I'm resuming a month early.

Stuyvesant- Thanks, and don't worry, I took a four month break from it.

TKFS and Avindian- Thanks!


Book One:

The Concert of Vienna

Chapter Two.


4th August 1836

Goya lay back and stared at the ceiling.

He'd seen combat before, but not like that. It had been savage. The Carlists had come upon them and taken no prisoners, killing and slaughtering those who had surrendered.

He'd paid them back in kind, of course. He saw no reason to be merciful to such people.

He sat up, and glanced at his pocket-watch. Supper would be served soon. He'd hoped to find better lodgings in the little village than a run-down inn, but he was lucky to be alive at all in this part of Spain- it was Carlist territory, full of ignorant peasants and rebel sympathisers.

When the landlady eventually rang the bell to announce supper, he quietly got up, shrugged on his coat and walked downstairs. Each step was precise and ordered. Even some officers said that he was a little too keen on discipline. Most of them were his superiors- the ones who weren't only said so once.

He sat down at the table, the first to arrive. He stood to attention as the Colonel arrived, followed by the rest of the officers- if they could be called officers. To Goya's finely tuned mind, they were more like lazy idlers than a proper fighting force.

"At ease and be seated, captain." The Colonel was a little better- a disgraced ex-general, kicked out of the upper ranks due to his liberal sympathies. Goya was certainly no liberal, but the politics and power-mongering at the top of the chain of command disgusted him. The Colonel was a decent officer- there were few others in the division who Goya would say that of.

The others traipsed in- the drunkard, Lieutenant Gomez; the lecherous and corrupt Captain de la Cueva, who'd only got into the army because of his heritage and money; the arrogant and spiteful Captain Carlos. He despised them all, worthless and insipid maggots who could barely call themselves men.

A few were better; the elegant, sharp and cultured Captain de la Fuente, the only true friend Goya had in the company. The two agreed on many things, despite their differences in background. De la Fuente was the son of a Duque, and it always mystified Goya as to what he was doing at such a low rank. Goya, on the other hand, was a middle-class Basque, and it had been a struggle for him to get into the forces in the first place.

The meal progressed in silence. None of them had anything to say to one another. In a desperate attempt to start up a conversation, de la Cueva said "I hear that there'll be war with Morocco soon."

Of course there'll be a war with the Moroccans, you obnoxious fool, thought Goya. The speeches being made by Xavier and his cabinet pointed to no other direction. They talked of repeated incursions into Spanish territory, despicable actions at sea- all lies, of course, but it would be good to teach the Moroccans of the taste of Spanish steel.

But now the conversation had descended into lighthearted tales of valour and victory and the women de la Cueva planned to "seduce" when they got out to Africa, and Goya switched off his ears, hating, hating his fellow man, deploring the immorality of the craven men who surrounded him.
 
Last edited:
Very well-written! Glad to see this thing rolling along already!
 
Sorry for the delay, people.

loki100- Thanks, and they don't deserve much praise...

TKFS, Anjwalker, Cinéad IV- Thanks!



Book One:

The Concert of Vienna

Chapter Three.

The door was thrown open. The Colonel himself stood there, with eyes blazing. "Get up", he snapped. "Our scouts have just spotted five thousand Carlist troops heading for Bilbao. We have orders for the whole of the Northern army to move out to intercept them."

Goya sprang to attention, still bleary-eyed and weary. "Yes, sir", he said with his typical cold monotone.

He got dressed quickly as the Colonel briefed him further, throwing on his uniform, before running down the stairs to deal with the troops. The numerous companies were all milling around, the officers shouting and desperately trying to establish some kind of order. He saw Carlos screaming at some white-faced private. Goya felt sick. He had little respect for the lower orders but Carlos had no sense of morality at all. He would have to watch his back around him.

"Attention!" he roared when he reached his company, still running. He quickly combed his hair as the men organised themselves and snapped into position.

"Lopez, a batman's job is to attend on his superior officer. Where have you been for the last week, man?"

Lopez licked his lips nervously. "Y'see, sir, there was this game of cards, and Sanchez-"

"I don't have time for your excuses. Now get in line, and don't make the same mistake again" said Goya, with an icy glance at the insubordinate. Lopez' look of relief at the lack of further punishment was easily noticed."

"Listen up, men," commanded Goya. "The enemy has been spotted three miles to the northeast, marching in the shadow of a large mountain known as Pico Demonio. This is a battle we must not lose. They cannot reach Bilbao; they have a lot of popular support there, and it would give them a free hand to march on the Basque Country." Which is something that will not happen, he thought. A stab of fear hit him for the first time in years.

Captain Ekaitz Goya, of the Army of the North. Born on the 12th February 1812, making him 24 years old. Born to Petri and Irati Goya, of a notable merchant family in Gasteiz, known as Vitoria to the Castillians. His family were rich enough to send him to a public school in Madrid, where he regularly interacted with people from all over the country, and the political spectrum. He became a Carlist, for a time, though none of the officers in the army knew of his past affiliation. Joined the army at 18, and was made a captain a year ago.

Is this all I shall leave behind, he thought. Is this all that my life is? I could die today, bleeding in the shadow of a lonely mountain, with nobody but myself and the sins of man to blame...

He shook the thoughts from his head. Weakness was a sin, in its own way. He looked up to see his men gazing at him expectantly. He drew a deep breath, and began to brief them on the plan of action.
 
Last edited:
loki100-Thanks! And they're even worse than armed mobs given the quality of their commanding officers...


Book One:

The Concert of Vienna

Chapter Four.

California. 5th August 1836.

The Firebrand smiled.

"And so, we must fight. We must not allow this minor setback stop our righteous anger." He took a deep breath, the flames dancing behind his eyes. "The godless Yankees will soon learn the taste of Mexican steel."

The crowd before him cheered as he worked them into a frenzy. The bonfire burned across the dying sun, lighting the land far more than the distant star.

"Texas is Mexican! It is God's will that it remains in our hands, pious hands which know good from evil! The Protestant heretics will burn as Sodom and Gomorrah burnt too!"

He could see the whites of their eyes, smell their fear and hate.

"These Texans are traitors to their country! Does the sheep lie with the goat! No, I tell you" he hissed, gazing at all of them. "They have chosen to stray from the shepherd, from the Eagle and the Cross. It is our wish, nay our duty to ensure that they return to the fold!"

The screams which came from the crowd finally provoked a little smile, twitching up the corners of his mouth for a single second before dropping before the less enthusiastic noticed.

He had them now. California would soon belong to him. He'd wheedle his way here and there, gain support for his righteous cause. And then... the Republic would fall, and a new Empire would rise in its place.

He stood on a simple wooden pedestal at this little village; a testing ground for his sermon. He would preach a message of hate towards England's bastard child, before slipping away to the south; Los Angeles, Sacramento...

They could never win such a war, of course. Texas would be independent, for now. But in a few years time, when they'd had a chance to recover... when Mexico was driven by iron, blood, steel and God... that would be a different story.

The Americans would never know what had hit them. They would come as a hurricane, demolishing everything in their path. Texas, Indian territory, the cotton fields of the south... these would be the first to go. He'd free the slaves and keep them in his eternal debt.

"So to arms, men of Mexico! Make your country proud! We defeated the Spanish less than twenty years ago, and we can defeat these heathens here, now, tonight!"

The responding roar shook the earth. As the frenzy and bloodlust took the villagers over, the Firebrand slipped from the pedestal and out into the night. The south beckoned, with its riches and gold...
 
Last edited:
Very interesting. Now we wait for it all to come together, haha!
 
I am getting really bad at this whole "regular updates" thing. However, if you will forgive how shocking my punctuality is, here is another side-splitting and fun-filled episode of everyone's favourite comedy AAR!

loki100- Well half the time I have no idea myself what I'm doing in Darkness so that's understandable :p. But these AARs share the common fact that they're both holistic and interconnected, and Goya may well have something to do with Mexico's problems in the near future...

TKFS: Thanks, and that may be a while yet...

Book One:

The Concert of Vienna

Chapter Five.

The howl shook the mountain. The wolf staggered on.

If followed a winding path along the steeping slopes, limping at the bullet in its side. Night reigned overhead, the stars spinning around the sky like little diamonds- though the wolf had no idea what one of those was.

Finally, it collapsed; and Goya smiled, standing and waving to Privates Lopez and Guardiola, who ran to him instantly, sweat pouring down their faces in spite of the cold.

The winter winds blew harshly around them. Goya, who could see nothing through the blizzard, cursed his luck. He, of all people, was the one picked to scout out the northern face of the mountain, where the enemy headquarters were supposed to be located.

It was the perfect place; well defended, hidden away from prying eyes, and bloody impossible to reach.

Goya was angry, cold and armed. He was not a man to be crossed today.

"Lopez, tell the men to get up here. It was only a wolf after all. Make sure they stay low, though; I don't want any Carlists to see a single movement in the breeze. Guardiola, you're with me.

The young Catalan swallowed. Goya was a notoriously tough captain, and he didn't want to get on his bad side. He was new, after all; a Barcelona boy, still wet behind the ears like the dozen other soldiers in Goya's company.

They trudged through the snow, until they reached a little ridge. A single light shone in the distance, a fuzzy yellow haze swimming through the snow.

"Now, Lopez tells me you're a good shot with one of these rifles; the best, in fact. That true?" Goya's face was unusually kind, but his eyes were cold. This kid was nervous, and needed encouragement. And besides, it was true; he was the best shot in the company.

"Yes, sir," came the nervous response. Goya smiled. "Good. Now, you see that little light? Think you could hit it from here?"

"Um.. probably, sir, but it might not be so accurate-"

"That's fine, don't worry. They'll be distracted, which is enough. Now, I'll send Lopez with the message when I want you to start shooting. Think you can do that?"

He was having to roar into the young Catalan's ear, what with the wind and snow. But he saw him nod, so he squeezed his shoulder, and then marched away to find out where in hell Lopez had got to.

When he came upon the men, he found they were split into two parts; the majority were in the mouth of the little cave they'd been using for shelter, with Lopez, but a small band of detractors behind Corporal Formosa, standing on the edge of the mountain path. The red face man was in his early thirties, and was not the best soldier in Goya's little force.

Lopez was shouting at the Corporal; his superior officer, though Goya had been considering Lopez' promotion for some time now. "What is the meaning of this?" snapped the captain at his batman, glaring at Formosa.

Lopez looked staunchly at his commanding officer. "Sir, these men are deserters! They are trying to convince the company to run away!"

Goya turned to face Formosa fully. "Is this true?"

"Yeah, and so what if it is? You and your little club of general's sons have lead us on some fools expedition into this place! We aren't going to make it out alive, so we're leaving, and anyone with any sense in their head will come wi-"

The gunshot rang out in the valley, as Formosa spluttered and stumbled backwards, gazing at the ballooning red mark on his chest. He was then grabbed by Goya, and thrown, screaming, off the edge of the cliff, into the snow below.

The soldiers stared on, too shocked for mere words. Their faces were white, white as the snow surrounding them.

"Now we move on," came Goya's calm voice above the wind. "Quick march, gentlemen. Lead them up, Corporal Lopez," he said, ignoring the surprised gasp from his batman. It was going to be a long night.
 
Last edited:
Goya reminds me of a more hard-nosed version of Capt Sharpe, haha