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Eagles of the Steppe - A Kievan Rus AAR

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loki; I see what your saying, and I agree, especially with your point on how I don't need to tell everything that happened for the AAR to work. I most certainly wasn't going to do that, I've actually already skipped some of the Call to Arms I sent out to other dukes.

To anyone wondering, the Duke of Turov didn't reject my Call to Arms, he accepted but sent no troops whatsoever.

NRDL; I did some research into the matter. The feud is based in real history, some historians even described Vseslav as a dynastic outsider because of his cousin status to every other living Rurikovich and the generation gap between him and the Princes of Kiev. He would have been Prince of Kiev himself by Seniority Succession, but his claim was proclaimed invalid by a general consensus of the other members of the dynasty. Iziaslav is also mildly insane and a bit hyped-up on ambition.
 
Sorry for the late update! I know I promised one for yesterday, but I read through the 500 or so words I had written by that time and just wiped it and started over, didn't like it. So, I produced this update. We are now officially one update off where I've left the game for over a week now, so I had better play on, hey? That also means I'll be including more screenshots!


Historians are not entirely sure of the response Duke Vseslav was given by Prince Iziaslav during that visit. A great deal of speculation surrounds the visit, and several conflicting sources have been discovered. The personal journal of Captain Ljubomir, the Bulgarian Bear, seems to indicate that he and his mercenary army left the city of their own free will in the hire of Duke Vseslav and the Duchy of Polotsk. Alternatively, the surviving financial and court records of Prince Iziaslav’s court show that Captain Ljubomir was in the hire of the Prince of Kiev, who then leased the mercenary army to Vseslav “as a sign of the generosity and wisdom of the Prince of Kiev”. With large amounts of records held in the Fortress of Kiev destroyed following the sacking (see page 158), the information found in the surviving fragments can be considered shaky at best.

A majority of historians appear to have tentatively accepted Captain Ljubomir’s version of events, especially after the discovery over a badly-damaged diary, credited to Prince Iziaslav’s manservant himself, which shows a growing paranoia and fear in Prince Iziaslav. The recorded scenes show Iziaslav often raving over the injustices done to him, and a mostly-destroyed section of the diary hints towards arguments between Iziaslav and Ljubomir, and, in another section almost completely obliterated by scorch-marks, appears to be a record of a heated confrontation between Iziaslav and Vseslav.

No matter the circumstances, Vseslav left the city of Kiev a mere two days after his arrival, braving the worst of the January storms to return to Polotsk. It took him and his party nearly a month to slog through the mud, snow and wind that faced them, and the Bulgarian Band, weighed down by numbers far greater than the bare hundred that made up Vseslav’s party, arrived two months afterwards.

-from Vseslavovich: A History, written by Abram Romanovich, University of Kiev, Kiev.​

romanfg.jpg

Roman swayed slightly in his saddle, small chills crawling up his spine and gripping his brain, sending probes of ice wriggling through it, sifting through the jelly. It did feel better than it had before, though, which made Roman confident that he would, eventually, recover. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

He would much rather have remained in the wheelhouse with his mother and Yaropolk, but Yaro had insisted that he ride into Polotsk on his horse, a well-bred roan gelding bred for speed and endurance, not temperance. ”The people must see their next ruler as strong,” Yaro had said, his harelip curling in annoyance, when Roman had tried to say no, ”When you rule the Duchy, they will look back on this moment and remember. Mark my words, boy.” So that had been the end of that argument.

The portcullis loomed over them for a moment, sending a shadow over Roman’s face before he emerged once more into the over-bright cold winter sun. His father was up ahead, Gleb and Trifon at his side, as he talked to a welcoming committee of nobles. A week before their arrival Vseslav had decided to use the pigeons they had brought with them, half-frozen as they were, and had sent out riders to those lords who had not provided a pigeon. A great meeting at the city, to discuss the future of the duchy, and all invited to have a say.

After the traditional welcomes, during which Roman himself had been clapped on the shoulder by some of the minor Barons and Lord Mayors and wished a speedy recovery - Roman marked those who had done so as future allies and friends - Vseslav rose in his stirrups and called for a council. This caused a general stir through the crowd; Roman himself was quite surprised that Vseslav would wish to meet with the nobility so soon after their arrival. He also noted that Gleb and Trifon did not seem at all surprised, and assumed that something was being planned, though he could not quite understand what.

*******​

Roman peered through the small eyehole in the wall, seeing the council chamber from behind Vseslav’s seat; a prime position for the spymaster to observe and record the reactions of the Duke’s vassals, and for Roman, a position that made him feel slightly important, as if he were almost the one sitting in the small seat to the Duke’s left reserved for the heir to the Duchy. Gleb sat slouched in that particular chair, an air of boredom surrounding him. He appeared to be fiddling with a sheaf of parchment and a chalk board, jotting down numbers and completing equations, a thing which he was surprisingly good at. Roman couldn’t quite understand how the so often dimwitted Gleb could have suddenly developed such a good head for numbers.

It had come as a surprise to Roman when he was not officially included in the council. In fact, it had hurt that his father would do that to him. But, when you had such an intimate knowledge of the keep, things like permission didn’t matter. This peephole had been one of the first Yaropolk had shown to him, and he could have travelled from his bedroom to this part of the keep through the tunnels without eyes. It was a straight line, after all.

Yaropolk leaned over his shoulder, harelip quivering with anger at also being dismissed from the council. He was staring through a peephole set further up in the wall, which allowed an even better view than Roman’s.

Roman himself was feeling that same anger. He didn’t hate his father, but he did hate Gleb, and he knew that he was going to enjoy the day when he stepped up and drove a dagger through that dim-wits guts.

*******

vseslav.jpg

Vseslav looked down upon the small group gathered around the circular table below him. A collection of Lords Mayor and Bishops, they were all a sorry lot who controlled little but small collections of hovels and wood huts and sorry-looking stone-or-wood chapels. Polotsk was not a glorious Duchy, it was in fact regarded by the rest of the Rus’ as a backwater, it’s only purpose that of guarding the Rus’ against the Pagan.

Vseslav intended to change all that. He would make Polotsk great, and claim his birthright. There was no other option.

At his right stood Ljubomir, his hulking form casting a long shadow across the center of the table. A greatsword was slung across his back, a weapon Vseslav considered unwieldy and all but useless. When he had told Ljubomir this, the man had just grinned, and told Vseslav that the sword was a status symbol amongst his fellow mercenary captains.

Ljubomir had been reluctant to leave his mercenary band behind and accompany Vseslav to the Keep ahead of them, but Vseslav was glad he had. The man made an impact on his vassals, no denying it.

With a nod to Trifon, who sat at the closest side of the table to him, and a half-scowling look of disapproval at Gleb, who seemed deeply engrossed with the papers he held in his hand, Vseslav rose, and lifted a hand for silence.

“My lords, these are dark times we live in,” he began, putting on his best ‘mystic’ voice, “the Rus’ lies divided, the Prince of Kiev is a weakling who cowers behind his walls and mercenaries, waiting for the time to strike. His cowardice will be the death of the realm! He denied us the aid he owes us as our sovereign, and spat upon the floor I walk upon!
“Shall we allow such disrespect?!”

To this, there was a resounding cry of “No!” and “Vseslav! Vseslav, Prince of Kiev!” that Vseslav couldn’t help but smile triumphantly to.

“But, my lords, how can we hope to exact our revenge, and take the throne that is rightfully mine, while the Pagan harries our flanks? We cannot! Nor shall we! For too long we have suffered the Pagan to raid our farms and villages and wage war upon our people, while we stood meek upon our own land and looked only to defense! Latgale was only the beginning!

“I have brought with me a man, a man who possesses the strength of arms to bend the Pagan to our will. We will destroy them, eradicate them from our rightful lands! And when we are done, we shall turn our wrath upon the coward-Prince, who hides behind his walls, and believes himself invulnerable. What say you?!”

The response was an overwhelming roar of approval.

The levies were marshaled and ready but a week later.


 
I have here a slight side-story from the main plot. I will likely use it as a story-telling device later on.

21st of February, 1963​

There is a package on my doorstep. It is quite clearly addressed to me, but I have no idea who would be sending me a package of this size. My associates at the university talk to me, but none of them are what I would call a friend.

It is quite a large package, perhaps thirty centimeters from floor to top, fifty centimeters to the length, and twenty to the width. It was also heavy, as I discovered when I tried to lift it. After a few minutes of puffing and grunting and sweating, I managed to lever the package through the door and push it along the dusty wood planking to the tiny wood table I called the “dining table”.

Straightening up, I cast about for something to cut the cords that bound the package with. My apartment was a real mess, books and furniture strewn over the floor. I hadn’t bothered cleaning up after the last raid, knew they would be back.
Finally, my eyes settled on a dirty steel knife, still covered in crusted blood from the last time I had eaten meat. That must have been a few weeks ago.

Slicing open the cording, I pushed the lid of the box up. Beneath was a thin book, with the words “Vseslavovich: A History” printed upon them in gold-colored emboss. Picking up the book, which was of roughly the same width and length as the box, I flicked through it, revealing blank page after blank page. Beneath the novel was a thick collection of paper, old parchment and pressed bark mixed in with freshly-printed pages of paper. The newer pieces were all inked in a curling, almost incomprehensible hand, written in English and not Russian. Pulling this bundle out, I set it carefully upon the table, and turned my attention to the letter.


To Prof. Abram Romanovich,​


It has come to my attention, sir, that you have developed a deep interest in the Vseslavovich branch of the Rurikovich family. While the government may be intent upon dissuading you from your recent interests, I assure you that you must not bend to their wishes. Much of the history of this glorious Russia is hidden away from the public, and I trust that, with determination and willpower, you will ascertain the means to show the people and your colleagues the way of the old Rus’.

I have included with this letter a wide range of sources regarding the Vseslavovich’s. I trust that you know of a safe hiding place for these, as the government will no doubt disapprove of your possession of these sources, and may indeed trace them to me,


Signed, anon.​


The letter is written in the same curling, near-incomprehensible hand as the new documents. My brow creased into a frown, I began to shuffle through the letters and documents beneath.
 
NRDL said:
Pretty cool. Can you get us some actual gameplay info, like number of troops ( and mercenaries ) ruler stats, etc? Pwetty pwease?
Click to expand...

Of course. Do you want me to mask it behind a narrative - with game play details in brackets - or as a direct gameplay update. I'd probably prefer the former.
 
Continuing to enjoy the AAR! I should tell you that the Cyrillic for Vseslav is totally wrong, but you might just be reusing another picture :) What you have actually says Usyaslau Polatski :)
 
Taiisatai64 said:
That's weird, the image is a vintage Russian coin from 2000 and something...
Click to expand...

I correct myself. It's the reverse side of a 20-ruble silver commemorative coin issued in 2005 in Belarus. And yes, it's meant to say that, according to Wikipedia.
If you were expecting an update today, think again! I spent the entire day at the beach, and haven't written a single word :( Not that I regret spending my day at the beach, despite the fact that my skin is starting to bear an awful resemblance to tomato skin....
 
vseslav.jpg
Vseslav sat his saddle with the grace of a man born to ride, clad in full mail complete with thick, fur-trimmed burgundy cloak, with a thin iron crown resting upon his brow. He looked the very image of a lord.

Behind him the column was assembling, five hundred men, on foot, horse and wagon, most wearing a mismatched array of mail and plate; conscripts, with little training and poor equipment. Seeing them made Vseslav wish for an army akin to the Roman Legions of old, professionals of war one and all, but instead he had to make do.

Looking around, he spied Trifon waddling towards him, his legs eating ground far faster than legs of that size had an honest right to. With a sigh, he shifted his mount towards him. He had wanted to avoid this.

“Vseslav, please,” Trifon began, an urgent note in his voice, “we must wait!”

“We have been over this a dozen times, Trifon. We have no time. Every day we delay is another day that the chief of Tartu has a chance to gather more of their own men and allies to their banner,” Vseslav replied, his voice bitter with choked anger.

“No, Vseslav! Every day you delay is another day that more of your own troops gather to yourbanner!” spat Trifon, “what you have here is just a fraction of your full strength! If you would just wait… it will take only a month for Ljubomir’s troops to arrive, and we will have enough men to wipe out the pagans, no matter how many they muster! Fifteen-hundred men, combined with our own troops…”

But Vseslav had heard enough. His face twisted into an angry grimace, he signaled towards his cavalry escort to ride onwards, and advanced at a canter.

apollinaryvasnetsovthet.jpg


An 11th century painting of the Muster at Polotsk. In the background we can see the Cathedral of Holy Wisdom, which was completed merely a year before the war.
*******

romanfg.jpg

Roman leant forward, shadows from the candlelight flickering across his cruel, angular face. Across from him was Yaropolk, a thin smile on his face, and between them was the chessboard. Each piece was individually crafted by Roman himself, one of the first activities assigned him by Yaropolk (’To teach character’), and each was in the shape of a member of the court. Several were faceless and unformed, with only the barest suggestion of shape to denote their status, but most were complete carvings. The black pieces all represented Gleb and his supporters, while the white represented Roman’s, with the Kings wearing their respective faces.

This was one of their favorite games, a game which Yaropolk called “preparation” for the future struggle over the throne. Yaropolk would spend the entire game pantomiming Gleb and playing poorly, all the while spouting nonsense about justice, honesty and mathematics.

Today was slightly different. It was as if Yaropolk had seen something different in Gleb lately, seen the same thing Roman had. His elder brother had seemed to acquire a focus - stewardship and money – and he did these things well. Almost too well, in fact, if Polotsk had been a peaceful duchy, and not on the edge of the Rus, in constant conflict with the pagans, Roman probably would have thought he would make a fine ruler.

So, Yaropolk had finally observed this, and for some reason had decided to test him by playing well. This was likely the first of many tests, but Roman knew that if he wanted Yaropolk’s support in the future – which he did – he would have to pass this test and any others to come. It had always been the way of things.

Frowning, Roman leant forward further and moved a bishop, his face carved to resemble the Court Chaplain, Vseslav of Maladzyechna, to take one of Yaropolk’s one bishops, a small, round figure with the plump cheeks, small eyes and bulbous nose of Trifon himself.

This was when Yaropolk spoke up; “You know, Roman,” he muttered, shifting a faceless pawn forwards to threaten the bishop, “that your brother will soon come of age.”

Roman nodded, his eyes seemingly fixed upon the board but his ears listening intently to every word.

“This of course means that he will marry… we will have to ensure that he chooses the right bride,” Yaropolk continued, “if he takes a bride with power and influence in her own right, or by extension through her father or brother, our future coup d’état will be in dire peril.

“I believe I have found the perfect wife for your brother, and I think your father will agree, once I have stressed the positives of such a marriage. The legitimized bastard daughter of the old King of Denmark, a part of the succession, in fact, but utterly worthless in all other respects… widowed, with children; one of which already holds power as a Count, and the other will remain at court when she departs, so no bothersome children to get underfoot. The King despises her, and wants her married off and gone as soon as possible. He’s made it quite clear that he will not recognize any alliance agreements that come from the marriage…”

Roman let a sly smile slide onto his face as he moved his castle, a hulking boy who resembled a certain blacksmith’s son, into checkmate.

******​

The first document I picked up was a slightly stained piece of notepad, covered in the same curling scrawl as the letter. Scanning through it, I realized that it was an apology for the lack of data found in the notes below (and at this, I couldn’t resist looking at the impressive stack of paper below me in disbelief) and that it seemed to indicate I would receive more, “At earliest convenience” were its precise words.

Picking up one of the manila folders, now burning with curiosity, I flicked it open. The first page was a header, with ”Polotskian Income and Expenses Records” scrawled across it in a slightly larger size of script. Flicking to the next page, I found a surprisingly worn looking document, obviously a copy from a far older sheaf of paper, covered with numbers and lettering in archaic Cyrillic. Collections of letters and numbers jumped out at him, like ”Collected 24 coins from the county of Daugava this month” and ”Issued 15 coins of compensation to the Bishop of Braslaw and Erle”, but he carefully closed the folder and placed it on the table, returning his attention to the rest of the documents.

*******

vseslav.jpg

The tent was dim, the only light that of a flickering candle that played shadows across the map laid out before him and dappled on his hands and face. The scout who had just entered the tent was kneeling beside the map, pointing at a spot near the river while his mouth moved, making sounds that Vseslav disregarded.

He had already given him all the information he required, and it was enough to send a chill through his bones.

The man had seen the enemy himself, he claimed. He had been a mere three days ride from the river at the time, a hundred miles over the county border into Daugava, meaning that the pagans would now be a day from hitting the holding force he had positioned across the ford. Two hundred men against a thousand, those were not odds Vseslav would wager on, even if he had been a gambling man.

He had taken the army across the Dvina immediately. The light infantry had even been able to cross the river itself, the late thaw keeping the river frozen solid, though he’d never have trusted a horse or wagon to that. For a week they had been marching in a steadily north-westerly direction, through thinly-scattered pine forest and icy tundra, moving to reinforce the Daugavian levies before they could be struck by the pagan. Unfortunately, the pagans had moved far faster than he could have believed possible, and the Daugavians had beat a hasty retreat before impossible odds, establishing a defensive position on the far side of the Dvina, joining with the light infantry and cavalry Vseslav had sent.

This recent news meant that he had only one choice. He would have to wheel the army southwards and rush the fastest elements of the army, the light infantry and cavalry, forwards for a surprise attack upon the enemy rear, leaving behind the supply train and most of the professional troops. They would not be enough, however. Vseslav just hoped that he could distract the pagan forces long enough for the rest of his levies, some four hundred from the south and two hundred from the north, could meet up with his main force in order to break the pagan foe.

Not for the last time, Vseslav wished he had waited for Ljubomir’s mercenaries to arrive.


Well, it would appear I have recovered from my writer's block. I would just like to say thank you for the sixteen votes on the AAR contest, I'm quite happy with that considering that I'm a relatively unknown writer on these forums who doesn't have many established readers, unlike the winners. Maybe next time I'll have generated enough interest to win :)

As always, enjoy, and I'll get to writing up and posting the Battle of the Dvina as soon as possible!
 
Ah, this showdown with the pagans is cool. Normally, I like machiavellian, scheming characters, but Roman seems like a massive jerk, a pawn used by his mentor.

And of course, Trifon and his common sense for the win.
 
NRDL said:
Ah, this showdown with the pagans is cool. Normally, I like machiavellian, scheming characters, but Roman seems like a massive jerk, a pawn used by his mentor.

And of course, Trifon and his common sense for the win.
Click to expand...

You have to remember that Roman is only thirteen. But you're right, he's a bit of a jerk, and Yaropolk is far more sneaky. But I suspect Roman will turn the tables... ;)
 
I was thinking the same thing about Roman after this update. Prior, I had considered him the protagonist but he is clearly a shade of grey. With the spymaster around, that might be a very dark shade. I am glad to see that. Im also glad that Gleb is showing other skills. He first comes across as the "dumb jock" type. One dimensional characters normally don't add anything to a story.

That widowed-Danish-bastard might be a hard sell. If my heir was turning 16, the last think I would want for his first wife is someone that sounds like they are entering the twilight of their child bearing years.
 
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