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Eagles of the Steppe - A Kievan Rus AAR

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Been meaning to read this for awhile but my schedule's been chaotic. It's pretty good, as I thought it would be, so I'll have to subscribe so I can keep up better!

Vseslav is hard at work I see, I wish Rurik's brood the best of luck!
 
Considering that I have you to thank for my recent award, I figured I owed it to you to take a little peek at your writing.

And boy, it turns out I've been missing out. I've read through the first several updates already and must say I'm impressed.

I hope you're able to take Polotsk to greater glory and snatch the Cap of Monomakh for yourself before too long.

Also, I just had a random thought: it might be appropriate if the lord who finally manages to take the crown of the Rus' was named Vsevolod, because that name means "Lord of Everything." :p

Great work, keep it up, and I'm excited to see where you take this.
 
Saithis; thank you, I hope you continue to enjoy the story :)

AlexanderPrimus; Vsevolod? Interesting... I like that idea.
You certainly deserved the award, by the way. But if you're so grateful, perhaps next time there's a Paradox Complete Pack up for grabs, you can gift it to me...? :D

NRDL; Let's just say that Vseslav is a little impatient and... easily angered.


In other news... I am sick. And tired (okay so staying up until 4 in the morning two nights running and sleeping first on the most uncomfortable couch-bed known to man and then on the most narrow couch known to man was perhaps not the wisest idea...). So no update today, as I was planning.
 
Vseslav’s march upon Tartu was slow, hampered firstly by fierce blizzards and then by constant rainfall and fog, a fog so deep that it was often described as “a great beast, swallowing up men and spitting out cravens”. This fog is attributed as one of the primary reasons for the desertions that occurred along the march. Travel was also hindered by ambushes, the first of which was the most deadly, with the entire pine forest that surrounded the marching column being set ablaze, and persistent raids upon their supply train by surviving bands of Pagan warriors.

Having departed in March, it took almost six months to reach the border between the Duchy and the demarcated line that officially marked the beginning of the lands of the Tartu tribes. They were then forced to rest for some days, recouping their strength and waiting for reinforcements to arrive, before pushing on into hostile territory. The exact reasons behind not waiting for Ljubomir’s troops to arrive are unknown, but it is believed to be due to a stubborn streak in Vseslav.

romanfg.jpg


Roman looked around the room with a slight air of distaste. Yaropolk had let his rooms go to foulness in his absence. Dust and cobwebs seemed to populate every surface, and there was moss growing on the roof and walls. It almost felt like there was moss growing in the air, considering how thick it was to Roman’s laboring lungs. Such a mess was the distasteful accompaniment to possessing a suite of rooms connected to so many secret passageways, in a location that was itself secret to even the servants.

In the center of the room, seated upon the only clean piece of furnishing in the entire suite, a small wooden stool that he had dragged in from another room, was Yaropolk, a thin smile spread across his lips. Such events as the one currently occurring were what he thrived upon, the sustenance that fed his devious mind. To Roman, he had never looked as spiderlike as he did now, in his room of cobwebs and dust. He was a pale, skeletal man, with a harelip that he didn’t bother trying to disguise behind a moustache, who wore nothing but black, usually silk or satin amongst the nobility and threadbare wool elsewhere. Roman wondered how anyone who didn’t know him as well as he did could trust him.
At the moment he was dressed in his festival clothes, the brightest clothing he possessed; black satin tunic and hose, trimmed with silver stitching, with a thick sable cape trimmed in white wolf’s fur. He had recommended a similar garment for Roman, but Roman had decided against it, instead deciding on a light grey garment, trimmed in blue, the colors of his future seat as Prince of Minsk, forgoing the dramatic cape in favor of a thick, well-spun wool surcoat emblazoned with the coat of arms of Polotsk.

Yaropolk’s eyes flickered across Roman’s clothing for a second, his mouth tightening slightly, but when he spoke made no comment on this slight rebellion of Roman’s, “So, are you prepared for this? This will be your first feast without your father or his confidante present, and you must be aware of the political side of things. You will be free to speak much as you wish without rebuke from Vseslav or Trifon, but you must make sure to guard your tongue and watch your words never-the-less. You will be judged on your behavior, and so must conduct yourself as worthy of a descendant of Rurik.

“This will be your prime opportunity to gather more allies. Your mother is firmly on your side, remember this. If she attempts to guide your conversations away from a topic, trust her. Follow her hints and advice. Remember, make no promises as if you are the heir to the Duchy, this will arouse unnecessary suspicion. Be subtle. Do you understand?”

Roman nodded. This was all unnecessary details, that had been drilled into his mind years ago. Then again, he had not been in his right mind lately, so perhaps the prod to his memory was necessary. The fevers crept up on him unexpectedly at times, and he could feel the sickness worsening again. Delirium, he had discovered to his awkward dismay, was not the best state of mind for political affairs.

Standing up, Yaropolk motioned towards the secret passageway which led up to the feast hall with one hand, “After you, my lord,” he said, a sardonic smile spread across his face.

The passageway was not a long one, and they soon emerged into a narrow hallway which led to a door behind the high table. With a gallantry that Roman rarely saw from him, Yaropolk stepped forward with a flourish of his cape and pushed the door open, holding it for Roman as he stepped into a blast of warmth and noise.

510pxdormitionelgreco.jpg

A sixteenth century Icon of the Dormition of the Theotokos, the Great Feastday being celebrated.

The hall was filled with festivity, a banal exuberance that filled the air with laughter. The tables were laden with food and drink of all kinds; roasted pork and mutton, dipped in sauces and gravy, steamed and roasted potatoes and other vegetables, buttered and salted, fish, ale, wine, and all the other foods and drink commonly associated with feasting. Everywhere Roman looked there were people in bright, festive colors, and the people trying to entertain them with song, dance and foolery.

Gleb sat at the High Table, in the Duke’s seat, assuming his responsibility as heir. Obvious boredom was plastered across his face, but he at least made the effort to talk with the courtier two seats away upon his left, a man that Roman found familiar but could not quite place. There was a haggard appearance about his face, and his hair looked like it had just been cut, but poorly, as if he did not care for his personal appearance. He was clean-shaven, but in the same way as his hair was cut, with patches of bristly facial hair cropping up around his face as if he had rushed the task.

Roman set the identity of this mysterious stranger sitting at the High Table aside, and climbed up to take his spot at Gleb’s right, as second eldest child. Davyd, the third-eldest, was already in his seat beside him, but Sviatoslav and Rogvolod were nowhere in sight, and by the looks of things, with Sviatoslav’s seat taken by Captain Ljubomir, they were not likely going to be attending the Feast, a decision Roman considered for the best. They were far too young for such affairs, being only five and two, respectively, and in fact Roman considered Davyd to be too young to sit at the High Table, at the age of eight.

Ljubomir’s position at the table, now… there was something which deserved some explanation. His presence in the city at all was a constant source of disquiet in Roman’s stomach. The entire company had come down with a plague of the flux, and while none had yet been killed by it, there could be no doubt that they could not march while suffering from it. So, the Company remained, camped outside the meager mud-and-lumber palisade that represented the walls of Polotsk.
Personally, to Roman, the whole affair stunk of foul play, but he had no real idea over who would wish to sabotage the war effort of the Duchy. The bi-weekly messages, delivered by pigeon, had painted a bleak picture of Polotsk’s progress in the war without the support of the mercenaries, and Roman feared the situation was only going to get worse. Gleb refused wholeheartedly to raise more troops to reinforce Vseslav, claiming that further levies would ruin the Duchy economically in a far worse manner than the payments to the indisposed Bulgarian Company, a fact which Roman resented but could not dispute, as it was all too true. Pushing more of the serfs into service would mean more land going fallow, and with the war pushing into the first half of the year and the weather being as it was, more fallow land would mean famine, possibly starvations, and a sky-rocketing price in wheat and other farm goods.

Roman settled back and prepared to engage in the tedious pleasantries that came before the true action could begin; the subtle political byplay that these celebrations concealed. He could feel the beginnings of a headache forming, though, and dreaded what would happen if he came down with another fever in the midst of the celebration. The court physician had absolutely no idea what was wrong with him, but whatever it was, it lingered far longer than Roman liked.

It was as Roman was in the midst of an engrossing conversation with Bishop Vseslav, the Court Chaplain, who had recently returned from attempting to convert the heretical peoples of Daugava, that something highly unusual occurred.

With a resounding crash that reverberated through the hall, the double doors at the far end flew open, and Trifon marched in, his hair and clothing soaked by rainwater, his face set in a determined grimace, but even from this distance, Roman could see the amusement dancing in his eyes. Behind him marched a double rank of guardsmen, wearing the deep burgundy cloaks and white tabards - emblazoned with the Polotsk coat of arms - of the Duchy’s soldiers.

Cold air rushed into the hall, making the candles and hearth fires flicker and pale. With an officious, straight backed walk, Trifon stalked down the hall towards the High Table as the conversation and festivity died down. Roman shot a glance towards Yaropolk, who had moments before been charming a young debutante less than half his age, but was now peering inquiringly towards Trifon with a look that struck icy disquiet into Roman’s heart, for he could see fear in it.

“I,” Trifon began, holding out a sheaf of parchment inscribed with words and bearing the official seal of Duke Vseslav, “am here to assume stewardship of the Duchy, in the name of Duke Vseslav, until his return from war.”

With those words uttered, Roman let out a sigh of relief. Surely, this was not the worst outcome?
 
I have been lurking around this AAR for far too long. This AAR is among the best in the CK2 Forums right now and I hope it keeps getting better with more frequent updates for us readers! As another motivation for more updates I am happy to announce you Best Character Writer of the Week!
Congratulations! :)

oh and subscribed ;)
 
ShiaoPi said:
I have been lurking around this AAR for far too long. This AAR is among the best in the CK2 Forums right now and I hope it keeps getting better with more frequent updates for us readers! As another motivation for more updates I am happy to announce you Best Character Writer of the Week!
Congratulations! :)

oh and subscribed ;)
Click to expand...

Wow, thank you so much! I have to admit, it's an unexpected honor :D I'll strive to update more frequently, for most of this week I was tired or busy, and my spirits were a bit down from the lack of comments on the AAR (until a friend of mine pointed out that I should look less at the replies and more at the number of views that the thread has had), but I'll try and get up to that quota four per week that I said I was going to aim for :)
 
Taiisatai64 said:
Wow, thank you so much! I have to admit, it's an unexpected honor :D I'll strive to update more frequently, for most of this week I was tired or busy, and my spirits were a bit down from the lack of comments on the AAR (until a friend of mine pointed out that I should look less at the replies and more at the number of views that the thread has had), but I'll try and get up to that quota four per week that I said I was going to aim for :)
Click to expand...

I much prefer lurking than commentating, but your desire for words has spurred me onwards to say, I like this AAR... ALOT! Remember, just because I don't comment doesn't mean I'm not there, or that I don't care.
 
Taiisatai64 said:
Wow, thank you so much! I have to admit, it's an unexpected honor :D I'll strive to update more frequently, for most of this week I was tired or busy, and my spirits were a bit down from the lack of comments on the AAR (until a friend of mine pointed out that I should look less at the replies and more at the number of views that the thread has had), but I'll try and get up to that quota four per week that I said I was going to aim for :)
Click to expand...

Don't be worried- some of us really like it, but don't always comment. I'm being quite sincere when I say I really enjoy your writing.
 
Taiisatai64 said:
Wow, thank you so much! I have to admit, it's an unexpected honor :D I'll strive to update more frequently, for most of this week I was tired or busy, and my spirits were a bit down from the lack of comments on the AAR (until a friend of mine pointed out that I should look less at the replies and more at the number of views that the thread has had), but I'll try and get up to that quota four per week that I said I was going to aim for :)
Click to expand...

I've been feeling a bit of the same with my own AAR but realised, when I read this post, that I virtually never comment on any one else's, so I believe most people simply read and enjoy the AAR's without commenting.

I very much look forward to seeing Roman's and Yaro's plot develop in the future, especially when the plotting comes to head and attention of the other characters. Nice update and congratulations on the very well deserved award!
 
I wonder what shenanigans shall go on during the Prince's absence. Roman and Yaropolk are certainly an interesting pair!

Congrats on the AwAARd!
 
I check this AAR everyday, well every day I'm at work anyway ;). Great job, I appreciate it.

The other day I started a new game and went to check on your characters. Gleb had inherited. Both he and Roman ended up as Scholarly Theologians. I thought, "Vseslav must have been bummed."
 
Are you sure some of these family members didn't marry a certain person of the surname Komnenos? ;)

I have to say, this is a very captivating tale--plots and intrigues amongst the children and their supporters, and gifted warlord father who is trying to expand his realm, and a superbly written battle scene. I have high hopes for this... how long will you keep the story narrative? 1453, we can hope? :)
 
Layafette; Thank you, I hope you continue to enjoy it :)

Apelstav; I guess you're right, it does seem that most people tend to just read without commenting.

Sematory; I'll try to keep that promise :D Unfortunately, whenever I decide to undertake some grand undertaking, my normally extremely quiet and uneventful life tends to make me just slightly busy enough to take my mind off it :(

Saithis; They certainly are, though I don't think their partnership is going to turn out to be a very stable one. We'll see... Thank you for the congratulations :)

BaronVonHarry; Haha, that doesn't even make sense :D They both start as guardians of Ivan (the court steward), I don't see how they could even get the Scholarly Theologian trait :p

General_BT; Thank you for taking the time to check this out, I really appreciate it! Rome AARisen was one of my main inspirations for this AAR. In fact, if I hadn't stumbled across it while prowling through the Crusader Kings forum while anxiously awaiting the release of CK2, I doubt I would have begun such an ambitious AAR at all.

The story will most certainly remain narrative up to 1453, if I can keep myself writing for that long. I just hope that I don't break the save somehow and lose everything, or something similar. I have grand designs of converting the game into an EU3 game and continuing the AAR after the CK2 part has finished... but I think I should focus on what I've got, for now.

Now then, to post the update. This is the last update before I started taking in-game screenshots, so I'll be including those in the next updates. There are very few pictures in this one, but, well, I'm sure you guys can handle it :)
 
romanfg.jpg

“How dare he?!” Roman roared, throwing the door open with enraged ferocity and stalking into the room, “how da-“

“Silence, you idiot,” hissed Yaropolk, interrupting his rant, “shut up!”

Roman shot a look of shock at him, but lapsed into silence, a quizzical expression spreading across his face.

“That bloody dwarf thinks himself too smart for his own good,” muttered Yaropolk, then frowned slightly at the look of confusion on Roman’s face, as if Roman should have been able to figure it out, “he has been sending men throughout the castle, trying to find ’hidden rooms and passageways’. He knows far more than he has any right to. With all these spies crawling over the castle, I’ve had no chance to clean up this place, for fear they’d hear the noise and discover this room. I have too many important documents hidden here for its location to become known by anyone I don’t trust, especially the Cherub,” with a sigh, he returned to shuffling through the sheaf of parchment he had been inspecting when Roman entered the room.

It was true that he had not had time to clean his chambers since his return, but this was mainly owing the fact that he had left almost as soon as he last arrived, on business unknown, and had only returned two weeks ago.

“So, that’s another thing the bastard’s been keeping from me,” Roman muttered, “did you know that my father has finally laid siege to Fellin?”

Yaropolk’s eyebrows shot upwards, “In truth, no, I had not heard. Though… it comes as no surprise that he finally has reached the castle, I suppose. The message arrived today?”

“No!” Roman yelled, and then quickly lowered his voice at Yaropolk’s startled look, “No. It arrived a week ago. Trifon has been hiding it from me and the rest of the castle, though God knows why. The only other person who knew was Gleb, and a few keep servants! I had to find it out by rumor, and then discover that it was truth when I went to speak to Trifon. Apparently he thought that since I had already heard, it would be no trouble to verify it, though I can’t say he seemed glad. Trifon has been here for not two months, and already he is meddling in affairs that he should not.”

Yaropolk frowned and leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand, “This is deeply concerning, I admit. Trifon seems to have taken this opportunity to try and thwart our plans… but this begs the question; does he know what we are planning, or does he merely suspect?”

Leaning back into the chair, he quietly contemplated this for a few moments, and then spoke up again.

“I will get to the bottom of this predicament. He has been thwarting me in other areas as well, but as soon as Vseslav returns from war, he will be swept aside and returned to the role of ineffectual advisor.

“Do you remember when I mentioned that Danish princess, Ragnhild Yngling the legitimized bastard of King Svend II, king of Denmark? I said that I was considering her as a possible bride for Gleb, when he comes of age? Well, I believe it is time we began to set such plans in motion.

“I have organized here an extensive profile on her, listing everything from the excellent traits she exhibited as a wife to the good qualities exemplified by her children, and the ease with which she gave birth,” Yaropolk tapped the sheaf of parchment he held with one finger, “Gleb comes of age in just over a year. Your father shall be seeking a wife for him before then, and so, I will be more than prepared to show him the advantages of having Gleb marry this woman. Likely, he will not approve, but he will approve just enough to allow Gleb to court her, if he wishes… which he will, as she is, as I understand it, a vision of beauty, a thing which Gleb has an eye for.

“Finally, she is possibly the most eligible unmarried woman in the north-east. I have secured promises from Svend that she will not marry until Gleb has been considered as a suitor, an arrangement which was surprisingly easy to make. As a recently widowed woman, it would not be proper for her to marry soon, but in just over a year? The timing will be perfect.”

Roman frowned, and then nodded slowly in agreement. There were definite advantages to marrying Gleb to this woman; first of all, it was hardly a prestigious marriage, with her status as a legitimized bastard and a widow; secondly, that it was tempting enough to allow his father to consider it, which was all the opening Yaropolk really needed to make it occur; thirdly, Yaropolk had procured promises from Svend’s own spymaster that Svend would make no promises of alliance with Gleb or his father, no matter the relation. Therefore, it made no difference that Gleb’s bride had powerful blood ties, and the marriage would not prevent any future coup attempts by Roman. Lastly, Ragnhild would be twenty-six years old when she married with Gleb, meaning that Gleb would not be able to father many sons and so would be less of a threat when Roman seized the throne.

Yaropolk cleared his throat and continued, “Well, I called you here today not just to discuss Gleb’s future bride, but also some… other matters.

”I am afraid I have neglected your education lately. Events have been… rather hectic and unpredictable, and my position has called me away from the castle. Perhaps, when you are older, I will take you…

“Ah, well, while I was away, it came to my attention that Trifon has established a network of his own informants, his own eyes-and-ears, mainly to keep an eye on my operations. This begs the question of just how much he knows about my recent activities, there are some events that I would not wish him to have knowledge of, but as he has said and done nothing, I will assume his network is not as extensive as he himself believes.

“But this has raised the point, at least in my mind, that Gleb has supporters who are willing to go above and beyond the call of duty to ensure that he makes it to the throne. Why they support that simpleton, I will never understand…

“This is where you come in, Roman. I need you to gather some information on several key supporters of Gleb, information my spies cannot access. Those we cannot bribe, we must cajole and blackmail. We have to make sure that he ascends to the ducal throne as friendless and alone as we can possibly make him. Do you think you can complete this task, Roman?”

Roman nodded excitedly, a vicious grin spreading across his face. Finally, he had been given a task worthy of his skill, a chance to prove to Yaropolk that he was not just a pawn – a favorite pawn by a pawn never-the-less – in whatever greater game Yaropolk thought he was playing.

They continued their discussion through the day and late into the night, with Yaropolk giving him details which would prove helpful in his investigation, and teaching him a few lessons which he had withheld up till then.
Yaropolk watched Roman leave with a grim smile fixed on his face. As soon as he was sure the boy was well on his way, he turned back to examining another bundle of papers, one of the many which rested on his desk. He doubted the lad had noticed that these were in fact the papers he had been poring over when Roman entered the room, and not the documents concerning Gleb’s future bride, and he hoped that he had not noticed this. He didn’t want Roman to get curious about this particular report, and sneak a look through it as he had done for many other reports and papers that had grabbed his curiosity over the years.

He didn’t think the boy would understand the necessity of some of what he was doing.

*******

vseslav.jpg

Fellin Castle.

At last, they had reached their objective, and oh, what a long journey it had been.

Vseslav sat hunched over the reins of his garron, a heavy fur cloak slung over his shoulders, and his body weighed down by a thick suit of chainmail. The rain pattered down upon him, soaking his hair and beard, which had grown out during the campaign into a lanky, oily affair that always tangled and was constantly messy. His old warhorse, Gavriil, a horse which had served him faithfully for nearly eight years, had died in one of the last ambushes, and there had been no replacement available for him among the remounts, his shaving razor had been lost along with the rest of his non-vital possessions in two separate incidents; firstly a mudslide which had carried away a quarter of the baggage train and a good half-dozen of his men; secondly an ambush upon the supply train, when several of the wagons had dropped behind the main column.

Vseslav was not a man to complain, however, not when his men were suffering far worse than he. He was the kind of commander his men looked up to and respected, the kind of commander who ruled by example, not direction.

Now, they had finally reached Fellin. The castle was an impressive work of pagan architecture, designed to withstand the worst of sieges, and Vseslav could see immediately from his vantage point that he did not have enough men to take the castle.

The castle itself resided atop a naturally occurring, steep mound of hard-packed dirt, gravel and stone, with the only way up to it being a narrow dirt road that wound its way up the hillside in what appeared to be the most roundabout possible way. Constructed of hard stone, probably quarried from the very hill upon which it sat, the actual castle was fairly unimpressive; squat, single-walled and with only four short towers, but its strategic position ensured that it would be very hard to take.

It was also obvious that the pagans had been hard at work while Vseslav was delayed on his march. The thick pine forest that used to surround the castle had been cleared, leaving a field of bare stumps protruding through the grey-white snow, and the lumber had been used to create an immense wooden fortress that encircled the castle in a wide oval. The rain splattered upon the dark brown fortifications, running off the spikes that dotted their base, and soaked the defenders who stood upon its battlements through to the skin.

“How many?” growled Vseslav to Iziaslav, who had made it his duty to remain by Vseslav’s side since the first ambush.

“To take the castle? We could encircle it with one thousand and two hundred, maybe one thousand three hundred. Try to starve them out. But it would be vulnerable to sallies… to storm the castle, we’d need three thousand or more, and we both know the Duchy can’t raise those sort of numbers,” he replied, a hint of dejection in his tone.

“Three thousand? There must be, oh, one thousand pagan soldiers in there. I’d say we’d need four thousand or more to storm those walls, including the losses we’d take trying to scale that cliff they call a motte,” replied Vseslav, angry disappointment showing through in his speech. Mainly it was anger at himself, for pushing so far ahead of the mercenaries. Sofia was right, he should try and keep a check on his temper… not that she could talk when it came to tempers, the cold-hearted…

“Send a company of riders back into the duchy, as fast as possible,” he continued, “let us see how far behind Ljubomir and his men are. Surely no more than a week or two…”

They continued to look out over the wooden fortifications below, where hundreds of campfires burnt away, defying the drizzle and taunting them both with their sheer numbers. And back in the city of Polotsk, Ljubomir’s men had finally recovered from the flux which had plagued them, after it had been discovered that someone had been spreading the disease through poison in the soldier’s meals, and were just now preparing to march, months behind schedule.

motte1.jpg


An example of the type of fortifications used by the pagans at Fellin. In the case of Fellin, the outer fortifications were much larger, and encircled most of the motte except for the insurmountable rear, and were of much sturdier construction. The castle or keep atop the motte was also of stonework construction, rather than timber.


End of Prologue​

 
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I had a fun weekend, but didn't have time to do any writing. And now I bought Deus Ex: Human Revolution, so I'm going to play that tonight :p I'll write tomorrow! I really need to start updating more, or we'll never get to the fun part!
 
A great update that I somehow missed in the spam of subscriptions!

The plotting of Roman and Yaropolk is fun stuff, while Vseslav seems to be obliviously focused on sieging the pagans. I wonder how the Siege of Fellin will go.
 
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