God of Our Fathers, an MP Megacampaign AAR

Greek Fire



Anthousa stared at the ceiling of her shabby, bare room.

I want to die, she thought to herself.

She could not think of many good reasons to live. She was fifty-five years old and stuck in a foreign country far from her beloved home in Constantinople. Not only was she stuck in a foreign country but the most backwards, dirty, poor country in the world. The people were strange, the weather was always scorching, and she was surrounded by strange creatures such as dog-men and foot-people who always frightened her. She was at least a queen a few months ago, but the desert sickness had taken her husband. She still had her son, however. It was too bad that demon boy inherited ahead of her son. This got her thinking. Anthousa rose from her bed and got her Byzantine talents to work…
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King Prester II was not beloved during his brief reign, for it was rumored that the devil had taken possession of his mind at the age of sixteen. Nevertheless, the realm mourned when he died on a campaign against the Monophysite separatists in August of the year 816. The details surrounding his death are mysterious. The official cause of death was a battle wound suffered from a sword blow by a random Monophysite soldier. But no one at the battle that day could recall seeing the king fighting and no one could claim to have landed the deadly blow, although many young fools who could not have possibly been there would claim victory in taverns all across the kingdom many years later.



It was commonly believed that Queen Anthousa had something to do with the death of the king. After all, she was a Byzantine princess, and the death of a childless Prester II allowed her son, Prester-Yonas, to become king.



Suspicions mounted as King Prester-Yonas married a beautiful daughter of a Greek strategos named Simonis. Even more damning, the former king Dedem was murdered in a mysterious poisoning attempt, which many believe could have only been instigated by a Byzantine woman. Prester-Yonas became known as “the Wicked” all across the kingdom.









They say God punishes those who do Him wrong. And so it was the case for King Prester-Yonas, as depraved Mohammadens rose against his rule. Outnumbered, the king was forced to accept their demands and allow two provinces to form their own Muslim state in the middle of the kingdom. A few months later, Queen Simonis died after giving Prester-Yonas a child.









Prester-Yonas grieved and decided to seek God’s forgiveness. He left on a pilgrimage for Aksum, the holy site of Miaphysitism. Sadly, Aksum was the only province left in Monophysite hands from the great rebellion against King Wededem. The city’s beauty astounded Prester-Yonas even though the Monophysites had spoiled some of the holy sites. The pilgrimage brought him closer to God but it gave Prester-Yonas a new idea: he wanted a new capital.













And so, Prester-Yonas declared war on the last Monophysite hold and quickly destroyed his armies. After a brief siege, the province was his. He moved the court to Aksum and took residence in the grand palace of Dungur.







He soon remarried to a stunning Armenian noble named Eliz, who quickly bore him a son. Life seemed to be good for King Prester-Yonas. The realm was finally at peace after many years of war, though the kingdom was divided into many different faiths. However, this tranquility would not last.







Kingdom of Prester John: A tolerant utopia, or hotbed of religious strife and extremism?

The depraved Caliph-in-Training looked south after he heard the news of the successful Muslim rebellion in the Kingdom of Prester John. There was no end to the Caliph’s greed and ambition, as he sought to rule the world under the flag of Egypt and the deranged faith of Mohammed. In July of 830 he declared war on King Prester-Yonas, seeking to take the Duchy of Afar from him.



The news hit Prester-Yonas like a rock. Everyone in the kingdom had feared the possible day the Muslims would turn their eyes south, but they had always hoped the Muslims would be too distracted with conquests up north to bother with the tiny kingdom to the south. The king rallied his pitiful levies, the Abyssinian and Nubian bands, and his Cynocephali and Blemmyae fighters. They would make the Muslims come to them in the mountains and hoped the terrain would make up for their steep numbers disadvantage. The Muslims crossed the Red Sea and torched the countryside of the eastern provinces. They massacred Children of the Earth wherever they found them, cutting the feet and ears off the Monopods and Pannotti and collecting the heads of Cynocephali as trophies. Many women were raped, children thrown into slavery, and churches desecrated. There was no end to the Mohammedan savagery.



After a few weeks of Muslim looting, the two armies met in the mountains of Tigriyana. The Christian army held their ground ferociously and inflicted many casualties upon the Muslims, driving off attack after attack of the Mohammedan cavalry from the high ground. The Cynocephali fought particularly ferocious, slaughtering hundreds of horsemen with their ferocious jaws. However, the Christian ranks eventually broke by the time the sun fell. The Muslim numbers were simply too much to hold against, even on the steep mountain passes. With his army decimated, the king saw no other option but to surrender. He ceded the Duchy of Afar to the Caliph and returned to the capital a broken man.







Prester-Yonas received more crushing news when he was informed that his mother, Queen Anthousa had died. He had always turned to his mother for advice. Now there was no one to guide him and the realm was in danger of being exterminated. King Prester-Yonas gathered a council of dukes, countes, advisors, and leading Children of the earth. He had a plan…







Egyptians buying a poor, Greek virgin

Good stuff, Kuipy. Looking forward to hearing your descriptions of me conquering you in EU4 when I impose the Norse Raj on India. Do take care to survive until then!

Divine Inspiration

Hávamál said:

Þat er þá reynt
er þú at rúnum spyrr
inum reginkunnum
þeim er gerðu ginnregin
ok fáði fimbulþulr
þá hefir hann bazt ef hann þegir

Click to expand...

Gaudiosa watched him, careful to not catch his eye. If her husband Valdemar was simply entering his dotage, that would be one thing; she had seen many she loved and respected grow old and infirm, and it was the way of things. But Valdemar remained as healthy and strong as ever, his laughter quick and gaze sharp--when all was well. But then there were the times that he would simply stare off into space, or speak with those who were not there, or talk of things that had not yet happened as though they were in the past, or things that happened in the past as if they lay in the future. His businesses did not suffer, and he maintained control of himself whenever he spoke before the þing, but the whispers were beginning to mount.

"Let us go for a walk," he said to her without turning his head. "I wish to see the serenity stone under the stars with you."

It was a cold night, and so she wrapped herself in her furs. They walked with Valdemar's hirðmen, who he then sent to guard the entrances to the grove so they could speak alone. The sky was clear, and she could see many stars twinkling above them, but her gaze always returned to Valdemar.

He put his hand upon the stone, tracing the runes. "You tell me all your worries, Gaudiosa. All your fears, anxieties; about our children, about our realm. But you tell me less and less these days. I can only assume that means you are worried about me."

She stiffened, and waited, hoping that he would continue without her having to confirm it. But after a long minute she admitted it. "You are not yourself, always. I don't know what's happening to you, and I don't know how to stop it."

He nodded. "I do know what is happening to me, and I am not sure if I should stop it." He placed his other hand on his face, doing something she could not quite see. "The Greeks, the Christians, the Muslims; they write down everything. The bishops and imams can speak with one voice from one book. We have as many tales of the gods as there are men, and if a man dies without telling his tale, or his listeners forget, it is gone forever. We must remember like they remember, and unite like they unite, if we are to last in this world."

"I turned to the writings of my father and grandfather for guidance, as they both committed much to runes that others would have left in speech. And in the writings of my grandfather I found clues that my father and brothers had missed; I pieced them together to make a seiðr-spell of great power and great risk."

She held her breath; she saw now why they had walked to the remote grove to discuss such things. They had talked about truly sensitive matters in the vault, but the thralls would notice that they had both gone there. But the discussion of a seiðr spell that was driving her husband mad did little to put her fears at rest.

"I heard the tales of Bjarð in SviÞjod, and lamented that I had never had a chance to meet him. The writings were but a piece of his mind, but they promised more; I could travel the Bifrost and speak with him in Valhalla." He was not tracing the stone with his fingers now, but gripping it with his hand. "But the Bifrost... once opened it could not be closed. I could learn the secrets Bjarð had not been willing to write down, and the things that he had learned after he left Bristol, but I could never be wholly myself again."

He breathed deeply, his chest shuddering, and then he released himself and the stone. "But I saw it like Odin's eye. Sacrifices must be made, and if they whisper about me, let them whisper. I have done what I have done to make our faith as wise as possible, so our realm may be as mighty as possible." He turned around to face his wife. "Are you with me?"

She had been unsure; he had not minimized his madness, but instead doubled down. But she saw his earnest face, the one she had grown old with, and she saw in her heart that there was no other place she could be. "Do you even have to ask?" she said, and buried her face into his chest, hugging him close in her arms.


Ingfrid, Sigrid, and Ingibjörg sat around the table, gazing warily at the stacks of paper upon it. They were the Gydjas of three of the holiest sites in the Germanic world--Tholen, Mære, and Hleiðra--and they were daughter, scholar, and mystic. Valdemar had given them years worth of scrawled notes, recorded visions, reflections on life, politics, religion, war, death, the future, the past, flowers, trees, stones, seas--on reflection, it might have been simpler to list the things not included.

For reference they had a Bible and Quran that had both been sacrilegiously translated into Norse by thralls; none of whom had any talent for poetry, but Valdemar had judged the translations as 'adequate,' or at least better than trying to teach the three of them Latin and Arabic. They were to help condense his wisdom down into a book that could be disseminated throughout the Norse lands, setting the religion on a foundation as solid as that of Christianity or Islam. They were to be the Norse Council of Nicaea, the Norse Abu Bakr; but under the watchful eye of Valdemar.

Sigrid looked at her fellows with a hint of despair. "This will take years to finish."

"Years we have," Ingfrid replied, "and it is not likely to be truly finished until Valdemar is carried to Valhalla, as who knows what prophecies he will receive after we have finished the first version."


The years passed, and on March 15th of 845, they were ready; the armies of Odin had triumphed on enough battlefields that a spirit of optimism pervaded all of the Germanic lands, unlike the defeated and shattered Catholics. The book, written in the Younger Futhark, was distributed to wise men, elders, and men of import across all of the Norse lands; most took Valdemar's wisdom to heart and adopted his reforms. Others kept to the old ways; notably, Sigrid followed her liege lord's wishes and did not adopt the reforms, despite having helped write them.


----
So, this session was plagued by OOSes and crashes and so on, likely due to the new beta patch. So there were only 8 more years, not enough even for Bjarð to come of age, and so the story of Valdemar has not quite come to a close before I have to leave it. Shame, but doesn't seem like there's anything to be done.

Valdemar's stupefyingly high piety (that's after spending the cost to reform!) means that Germanic has a MA of 100%, which beats the Sunni MA (which dropped down to 93%), but they have a child Caliph so that's somewhat to be expected. There's about a 12% chance for county conversion now with my current court chaplain, which suggests to me Britain is going to start flipping colors fairly soon. (Sadly, I don't think the atrocious Catholic MA makes the conversion any easier, just the strong Germanic MA.)

Kuipy is a Scumbag Steve

Tyruss
Italy, It had seemed the Franks were not willing to give up Italia without a fight but that was not on his mind. Tyruss had spoke at length with the Venetian Merchants before all this. The Merchants of Venice had originally asked for Venice to be free'd as a sovereign state for their support of the Teranus Dynasty, Terms Tyruss had agreed with. Only more recently he had been contacted by House Falcone, the now ruling party in Venezia, with a change of terms, Venice wished to remain under the protection of Lombardy and thus stay under Vassalage to the Teranus Dynasty. He had gone to Venezia personally, where the Doge himself had repeated the request, the snake.

Tyruss mused himself, he was no fool his mother had told him never to trust the Merchants of Italia, they were cowards, and they would shift loyalty as easily as the winds. This betrayal had almost gone unnoticed but his contacts had informed him, Venetian Gold was going to the King of Germany. The game King that had publicly denounced his sister in law and had promised the Catholic world a return to Germanic, and Catholic rule to Italy. Now an army sat camped in Ravenna, housed and protected by the Falcone Family. The Venetians had promised funding and safe passage, but also military aid in a separate revolt, for Independence from the Lombard King and there was no doubt in his mind that the Venetians had once again changed with the wind. He had a letter wrote and carried by his own kin down though Sicily and over the Adriatic to Thessaly, to his Brother Alexander. God willing it would reach him in time.



Julius
The smell of ash covered the battlefield, his father had burned away every for miles across Ravenna. When asked he had stated "So the Germans may starve as they run home" Ever confident. They had to cancel the Pannonian Campaign when the reached Bosnia to aid his mother, and his father was furious for it. Lombardy by all means should have been able to fight this war on its own, but through his grandfathers mismanagement the kingdom had grown weak and indebted. Though not all was lost it seemed, as they traveled through the countryside Lombards and Italians alike joined their host, It had seemed his Uncle Tyruss had won over the people. There were no Greeks or Germans in this army, but Romans, Loyal to the Teranus Dynasty and willing to fight the entirety of Europe to restore the empire's glory.


The stage had been set, The German host had equal number but they had his father. Julius knew he was competent in his own right but his father had the conquerors touch. his name was feared across the Empire and now he would make good on his reputation.

"Men of Greece, Lombardy, Italy, Croatia, I hate to disappoint you!" he heard a bellow from his Father's honor guard.
"But there is No Honor to gain this day, There is no true victory, We fight fellow Christians, however misguided" then there was quiet.
"I had spoken with the King of of the Germans, he does not believe this is so!, Do we pay worship to the Arab God? Do we bow to Thunderer of the North? Apparently this is the case" then more laughter
"I say we remind him that we are no Barbarians from foreign lands, We are Romans! and this right here, This is Rome" and more quiet.
"Will you defend her!" Then there was cheering.
"Will you fight for her!" And it became louder
"Will you die for her!" and the sound could be heard for miles.
"Then send them back!, Strength and Honor!" and then the ground shook and hours later, the fields of Italia ran red with German blood.


The Lionheart's Son
Julius oversaw the aftermath, there were thousands dead, on both sides. He had thought the battle evenly matched but ever prepared his uncle Tyruss arrived just in time, leading a thousand Lombard Mercenaries from behind the German army after the battle had begun, the battle turned into a slaughter. The war was won, though it could take years to finally capture the Germans king and force terms, His father had left him, to take full charge of the Lombard armies along with his brother. His mother had taken Ill and he was expected to ride for Pavia to join the new Host. His uncle Tyruss had already returned to the Capital and would meet him there.



When he had returned to the Capital news had arrived from Germania. King Bertlin and his father had sat down in a small castle in Swabia and signed out a peace deal. Bertrlin would accept Teranus rule over Italy, repay the debt king Aldechis had accrued but would otherwise be spared. An act of mercy so rare among modern Christians Julius had thought, especially for his father, whom they now called the Lionheart for his bravery on the field of battle. He wished all of his family could have had this happiness, for his mother's illness worsened until finally she succumbed to it.

There was blatant talk of poison, of assassins in the night trying one last attempt to remove legitimacy of the Teranus Dynasty. Tyruss had assured him that these were nothing but rumors, and with his mothers passing, The Teranus Dynasty would now rule absolute over Lombardy, but even that was not enough for his meddling. Julius would be King in Italy
Tyruss
This was the end, he knew as much. Now old and weak everything he worked for, everything he strove for. Out of control and left at the mercy of fate. Tyruss had seen his mother pass, the Lombard Queen. He had seen five Emperors none of them enough to garner his respect. Only his only family could do this. Alexander had been everything his father had not and now Julius. He had entered life barely a noble and he had made his house one of the most powerful in all of Europe. There was a new threat however, one that threatened to eclipse all he had held dear. If only there was more time, but Alas it was time to let go.

Long Ships and Long Years

Clarifying note on names: My original character, Ogier, was named for the paladin who appears in the Matter of France, Ogier le Danois - a close friend of his father Roland. When I moved to Russia I Russified the name, as opposed to Frenchifying it, and he became Oleg. The original, in both cases, is the Danish Holger, as in Holger Danske, who sleeps beneath Kronborg Castle awaiting the hour of Denmark's greatest need. Since this installment deals with events in Norse-speaking regions, I use this original. Thus Holger here, Ogier from last week's narrative, and Oleg from last week's screenie are all one person.

My steppe game went rather badly. True, the session started well when I defeated the Khan's bid to take over my province of Ural, in the process capturing enough chieftains to make myself wealthy. Shortly after the peace, the Khan died, and I was poised to begin my war for the crown against his successor. First, however, I wanted to deal with the attack by the tribe of Sibir, of roughly equal strength in levies; "I'll just crush this AI Duke", I said to myself, "then it'll be the Khan's turn". Then Kodalem invaded me with 5000 men, and a holy war for Volga Bulgaria, roughly half my lands.

With my tribal army, a mercenary band, and some judicious maneuvering I was able to turn back this invasion, and send my doomstack back west to deal with Sibir. At this point my oldest son (with the high Martial skill) came back from the Varangian Guard with a slight case of the deads; Oleg was assassinated; and shortly thereafter his son Oliver was also assassinated. (In hindsight, I should probably have replaced the spymaster after the first one.) This left a 3-year-old boy in charge of my domains, and my doomstack. Which was when Kodalem brought the second wave of his invasion, this time with no more Mr Gentle Savage: 15000 men and a 30% attrition rate. Aaand I ran out of money, leaving me with no army. Naturally, both wars concluded in my disfavour in short order.

This is not necessarily irrecoverable; it is the nature of tribal domains to be easy come, easy go. (And, hey, I managed to convert Ural to Norse/Germanic!) However, with Vaniver retiring and offering me his emperor-level republic slot, not surrounded by three more powerful domains, with Reformed Germanic and the British Isles location that was my first choice - yeah, sod this for a game of Cossacks. That does mean giving up on the Rolandoviches and de Errolans, although they are not extinct and for all I know may end up ruling Khazaria; if someone wants to take them over, they'll have a friend in the Isles. So, this is probably our last narrative glimpse of the ex-Spanish dynasty, explaining how they came to go east to the Volga.


May 20th, 817
Þinghæð (Meeting Hill), near Bristol (OTL Brandon Hill)
Midday

"We sent you gold, ships, men. All gone, spent on mercenaries that deserted, scattered by storms, dead in foreign fields leaving their women to grieve. And that was when you held the mountain passes. Now you come a beggar to England, and ask for more?"

It was all true, and Holger had no answer; he would not win here by reasoned argument, any more than he had been able to convince his sisters. Instead, he drew his sword - slowly, so as not to startle any of the heavily-armed, experienced fighting men around him - and thrust it into the turf.

"This," he said softly, forcing men to lean forward to hear, "is my father's sword, and his father's before him: Roland's sword, who served that Charles whom men call the Great. It is called Durendal, the Sword That Endures. It was forged by Wayland Smith to be a terror to the enemies of God; an angel brought it to Charlemagne, and within its hilt lies a tooth of Saint Peter, so that any who falls while wielding it will infallibly enter Heaven. With this sword I have fought the Saracen on a hundred fields. I will fight on a hundred more, if that is what it takes to drive the infidel from my homeland; for like my father's sword, I endure. Wasted gold, lost ships, fallen comrades; these are all ill things. I ask you to endure them, for the sake of your Saviour that endured the Cross. Who'll come with me, to raise that cross in foreign lands, and win a place in Heaven?"

There was silence on the Meeting Hill; men looked at each other, shuffling their feet. The Christian faith was new in these lands; the elders had become men by sacrificing a dog or a horse - in a few cases, a man - to the Allfather. They had publicly taken the faith of the White Christ for the sake of peace with their neighbours; but they did not feel His sacrifice for them, as they had felt the crawling awe of the Thunderer passing overhead. But the younger men - that was where Holger placed his hopes; the ones who had been baptised as children, who had been taught all their lives of the love of God. They were the ones who might decide to return that love, the ones who believed as a child believes what his father tells him. He searched through the crowd, looking for the one trembling on the edge of decision, the one the Holy Spirit was trying to enter and, literally, inspire. There - the man with the corn-silk hair; the one whose beard was so neatly cared for that it had to have been wisps and scrags very recently. Holger picked up his sword and went down on his knees before the youth, holding out Durendal, hilt first.

"The White Christ died that you might live," he entreated. "Will you not do the same for Him?"

The young man's breath huffed out in a gasp - an evil spirit being expelled, perhaps? He gritted his teeth in a last momentary agony of indecision, then finally straightened, eyes glowing with inspiration.

"I'll fight for Him!" he exclaimed, and took Durendal, raising it into the air. For a long moment the Meeting Hill hung in balance; then shouts erupted, deep male voices crying "Fight! Fight!" Holger's heart leapt for joy.

A few minutes of chaos ensued, as men clamored to join Holger's cause. When it was over, he looked at his new followers - and was disappointed. They were fighting men, certainly; brawny, tawny-haired northerners, their beards elaborately braided - but they were all young. The fervour that had caught their imaginations had not spread to their elders. The landowners, the men with ships and gold and fighting tails, were remaining silent; and it was them he needed, to turn his enlarged warband into the nucleus of a real army. There would be no invasion of Iberia with a few score Norsemen, no matter how charged with enthusiasm for the White Christ; he needed ships, horses, supplies. He still needed his miracle.

"A good start," Valdemar observed beside him. "I did not think you would get so many to join you."

Holger's mouth twisted bitterly; Valdemar had been his sponsor, which was why a foreigner had been allowed to speak at Bristol Ting - and why not? The words, "I stand sponsor for this man," were cheap enough. Holger noticed he had not risen to pledge ships or other material support; and yet Holger was in Valdemar's debt, for if he had not been allowed to speak, he could hardly have gotten even this much. It was a clever move, parting with what cost the giver little but aided the recipient much. Clearly, Valdemar's reputation was not without cause.

"A start only," he said. "The infidel Sultan can field a thousand men without making his messengers ride more than half a day; five dozen men are not like to make him leave off buggering his harem."

"True." Valdemar looked thoughtful, which Holger distrusted deeply; when Valdemar looked as though he were coming up with an off-the-cuff idea on the spur of the moment, that was when you could be sure he was laying out the next step of a plan he'd thought out the year before. "The way to gather men, of course, is to show them victory and plunder. Have you thought of becoming a sea king?"

"Yes, I have." Holger pressed his lips together, reluctant. "I have only one ship, and it is not suited for longshore work." And, he carefully did not say, it would take years to build his reputation that way; years, and an immense amount of work that oppressed him just to think about. Hundreds of longshore raids, the high-pitched screaming of women, smoke and burning and men bellowing in insupportable, life-ending pain... he was willing enough to fight, he'd proved that for a decade in the wars in Iberia, but there was a difference between an open battlefield, and the work of a pirate and raider. He had been a lord of Asturias; his grandfather had been a paladin of an empire that had covered most of Europe. To become a sea king, a man who ruled a fleet and whatever piece of land his followers happened to be standing on, and who ruled the latter only for as long as it took to plunder it... and yet, what choice did he have? No doubt he could take service with some wealthy duke or king somewhere, settle down, remarry, perhaps have another son or two to follow him as captains of guards. There would be an estate in it, for a man who could bring a hundred soldiers to settle a close rivalry; he would be a landowner again, an important man in his own right... but not a lord. And not in sun-drenched Iberia, where carpets of bluebells ran over the hills like snow and mirrored the summer sky. No; an estate in France was not for Holger. He would not long outlive his driving purpose. He sighed deeply, squaring his shoulders.

"Yes, well. No doubt you have something in mind?"

Valdemar smiled. "As it happens, I have a need for a good solid oak-built trading ship with a deep keel, to trade between Bristol and Hamburg. And I have some longships, very suitable for viking work."

"For two hundred men I will need seven longships," Holger noted. "And ten would be better. That is no fair trade for just the one deep-bottomed trader." Or, in other words, Valdemar was going to chisel something else out of him; the question was what.

"Quite so," Valdemar agreed. "A one-third share of the plunder of your first voyage is a very suitable recompense, however."

"One-third?!" Holger near-shouted, then shut his mouth as it occurred to him that his first voyage didn't, actually, have to go very far. Say, just across the sea to Ireland, hit one godforsaken stockaded village just for practice, and give Valdemar one of the three scrawny cows such a thing would net them; the other two could be eaten.

"Of course, I'd have to have some say in where the voyage went," Valdemar added. "And I have a man or two in mind to send with you, who would - hmm - be better off for some distance from Bristol, this next little while."

And who would also ensure that Valdemar wasn't cheated, or at least not too egregiously. Holger sighed. "One-tenth," he said, more or less at random, to have a starting point; to his surprise, Valdemar nodded.

"One-tenth, if you voyage as I wish you to."

Holger flinched; if Valdemar was giving up the one-third so easily, that meant he had something else in mind for his real price, and who knew where he might want his ships to go? But, again, what choice was there? He'd made his decision; all that remained was to follow it, if necessary to the ends of the Earth. Perhaps literally so, Valdemar was not a man to lightly abandon the difference between a third and a tenth; but that was as it would be. Holger tossed his head, throwing away the part of him that objected to the mere work involved; no doubt it would come back, but he didn't have to let that part make the present moment unpleasant with its laziness.

"Where do you want us to go, then?" he inquired, and now there was no bitterness or reluctance in his voice. Valdemar smiled.

"The circle of the Earth," he quoted, "on which men live, is rent by great bights, so that great seas run into the land from the out-ocean. Thus it is known that a great sea goes in at Narvesund [1] and up to the land of Jerusalem. From this same sea a long bight stretches up north-east, and is called the Black Sea, and divides Asia from Europe." He paused, and when he went on he was no longer quoting [2], but speaking as he usually did. "Conversely, on the northern side, the Baltic Sea runs in to Great Novgorod; and from Novgorod one may follow the Volga down south after an easy portage, and reach Great Svithjod. This is all known. What I do not know, what I would give much gold to know, is whether the Volga runs into the Black Sea. For if it does, then it is possible to circumnavigate Europe; and that is what I would have you do. For if it can be done, then there is enormous wealth to be made by the first few to know the route; enough wealth, even, to finance a great war."

Holger blinked. That was, actually... interesting. A project worthy of a lord of Asturias; no mere raid - although there would be raids along the way, of course - but a voyage of exploration, of discovery. For a moment, he felt as the young man he'd spoken to earlier must have done, when he finally cast aside doubt and agreed to join Holger; here was a cause to which he could give his talents, which he could serve with pride. He felt his back straighten; for the first time since he'd left Viscaya, he felt like more than a landless wanderer, uprooted from his home soil and slowly withering.

"Yes," he said. "I'll go. East, to Great Novgorod; and south, on the Volga." His head filled with visions of the distant East; of great Constantinople, and presenting his cause to the Emperor; of sailing home on the wine-dark water, and raiding the south coast of Iberia on the way to teach the Saracen to respect Christian exiles... or perhaps, by then, he would already have built his fleet of ten ships into a great army, and Valdemar could whistle for his tenth. No, better still, he would offer Valdemar a lordship in Iberia for his one-tenth of the spoils; after all he was a lord, not some chiseling merchant who would betray his sworn word for profit.

"It'll take a year," he said, "if it can be done. We'll likely have to winter somewhere in the east."

"I'll look for you with the spring," Valdemar said. He held out his hand, and Holger took it, sealing their bargain; the long years of his search were over. All that remained was the proper use of the long ships.



[1] That is, the strait of Gibraltar.
[2] Nitpickers: Valdemar is not quoting Snorre, which would be anachronistic to the tune of about 700 years. Rather, Snorre wrote down an ancient oral tradition, which is what Valdemar is quoting. So there.

King of Men said:

Good stuff, Kuipy. Looking forward to hearing your descriptions of me conquering you in EU4 when I impose the Norse Raj on India. Do take care to survive until then!

Click to expand...

Be sure to bring at least thirty-one times my numbers.

Anyways:

VI – Seeds

The Chambal valley, 846 modulo one mahayuga

Lakshmi’s leg started to hurt the day after the world ended. She must have sprained or torn or broken something in it the first night, running through the forest, stumbling on the roots and stones. Now her leg hurt with every step. As the day passed it grew darker and swollen until it was half again as big as the other one, and she knew she was going to lose it. She kept limping on.

What was a leg good for in a world without… She tried not to think of it. Maybe if she could spend enough time without thinking the past would go away. At day she avoided the burning villages on the horizon. At day she avoided the plumes of smoke. And all the time she avoided the riders. Of course they would not be actually looking for her. She did not matter. But still, if they found her…

She was running away from them, toward nothing. A limping woman on foot trying to outrace men on horses. Preposterous. There was a din in her ears that would not stop. Then one day, trying to cross a small, shiny creek, she heard a chatter of men beyond the next ridge. No, no. She fell to the ground. Water soaked her clothes. And then men were behind her too. Not even hunting her, talking and joking in calm voices. A clatter of hooves. A cry.
She tried to dart but found she could not get up. Someone had seen her and soon she was surrounded, afraid to look up. She saw boots, spurs, the tip of a saber. Then nothing.


When she woke she was naked and her leg was gone. She was lying on a straw pellet, in a cave or cellar of some sorts, lit with many torches and candles on the far wall. Among them she could see a great black four-armed idol dancing, knife in hand. Between it and her, a man sat cross-legged, his back to the lights. He had stooped, solid shoulders, a grey-white beard and an enormous, toothless mouth in the middle of his face.
She struggle to seat up; her unwhole self was weak; her missing limb felt disturbing and obsessing, an incomprehensible absence in the world. Only about half her thigh remained.
“The healers have sawn and sewn you well. You will live.”

A second smile opened in the bearded face and she shrieked in recognition. Dinesh the hyena! Dinesh the monster! Dinesh the boogeyman! He was as bad as the pale men and worse.
She jerked away, flailing here one leg, grotesquely failing to move more than a few inches at a time. It was not even just the missing feet; her balance was all wrong, her weight shifted in unusual ways. She had tried to squirm like a worm and instead flopped like a dying fish on the fisherman’s basket.
“Stop it,” Dinesh said, without changing position.
Rough rock surrounded her on every side. There was clearly no way out but past the sitting man, and she could not even crawl, much less walk. She stopped flopping and curled.
“Please do not hurt me. Not again.”
“It was not me who hurt you the first time. My man who sawed off your leg hurt you, I suppose, but he had no choice if you were to live. Truly it was not him who harmed you. Do you remember who did?”

Her first panic did not quite dissipate, but it curled up like her, left a place in her head for other thoughts. By all indications the men who found her had saved her life. If they had wanted to harm her they could have done it while she was unconscious; or just left her to die by the creek.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“We are… A brotherhood. Killers and thieves. We do the Goddess’s work.”
“Kali.”
Dinesh nodded.
“The lady of Death. Of Night. Of Change.”
For some reason, she could see he was reluctant to use the name.

“But you serve the Chandravanshas.”
“Kali has a pact with them. We serve her.”
“You reave on the border march. You burn villages and temples, you kill, you rape. Just like the pale riders. You ignored the Persians, in fact you sacked places even as their men were gone to fight them.”
“Yes.” There was no apology, no guilt, no emotion whatsoever in the tone. A mere statement of fact. “Tell me of those riders.”
“They came to our village during the harvest. Two hundred of them, maybe more. We did not stand a chance. They rounded us up, and… Sorted us. They burned the temple and the shrines, and then they started killing. I saw them kill my husband and children.” It all came pouring out, in a flat voice she barely recognized as hers. Had they drugged her? Was it why she felt no pain in the stump?
“Then they distributed the women. Me too.”

The cultist sat in conspicuous, attentive silence. She shook her head.

“There was nothing more. For me. I was one of the oldest, so they gave me to a simple soldier. He did not do anything with me. That evening he left the door of the hut open… I’ll never know if it was on purpose. I ran. I ran until my legs could no longer carry me. Then you found me. You cut my leg.”
“Your loss was a gift from and to the Goddess.”

Something in her revolted silently at that. She had lost her leg! Or, even worse, did he dare to mean… ?
“It is fair to say, he went on, that there is nothing left for you in the world. But among us you could be accepted and valued.”
“As a killer?”
“Of sorts. Words kill too. Words heard, words spoken. A one-legged beggar women can go everywhere, beneath the notice of conqueror and conquered, secretly listening and noticing, reporting to us.”
“So… serve the Chandravanshas.”
“In a way. For a time.”
“And I will get revenge on the Persians?”
“Not on the ones drawing breath now. Kill an emir, or an army, and two others come across the Indus. Quite a prolific breed. There is no killing them. There is no winning this war. But we are lucky that the Chandravanshas are a patient race. Their plots span decades. Of course, our own are longer still.”
“Centuries?”
Dinesh did not answer.

“The maharajah boy is broken, he said. He fled all the way north, to the mountains. He is holding court in Katehar. Chandravanshas are the real power now, and their star is ascending again. We’ll forge an empire for them. A weapon for us.”
“A weapon to slash Persian throats. Some day.”
“Maybe. The Goddess sees far. The caliphate has hurt many people, and one day they will all seek revenge. Half a world away someone wrote ‘The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the cult.’ Well, it is the seed of more blood, at least. The Goddess loves that.”
“So do I. So do I now.”



Uh oh.

--*0*--

So ISIS kept conquering everything in India while I desperately scrambled to get a power base.
It got so bad the Maharajah lost all his provinces and revokes one of mine. Dude no.


--*0*--

On the next Gods of our Father :

To avoid further Muslim expansion, Anders takes Andre as a vassal:


But his satisfaction is short-lived when Blayne is allowed back in the game:

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous

“You all remember my mother?” King Prester-Yonas asked the assembled nobles at the Great Council.
“Of course,” High Priest Bukaso of the Blemmyae replied. “But why do you ask?”
“Do you remember where she was born?”
“Constantinople, in the Imperial Palace of course,” the king’s uncle, Prester-Iyasu replied.
“And so she has a claim to the imperial throne. Which was passed down to me.”

The nobles of the council looked at the king, astonished.

“You can’t be serious about this?” Prester-Iyasu asked. “This is madness.”
“Our lands are being encroached on every year by the heathen,” the king said. “Within ten years, there will be no more Abyssinia if we do nothing. Grabbing the Purple Throne is our only chance. With the power of Constantinople, we may be able to hold off the Antoun scum. The Greeks have been weak with infighting over the past decades and are led by an indolent child and a backwards regency council. Perhaps an outsider can set them straight. I have made contact with groups of Miaphysites in Anatolia and the king of Croatia who are willing to help.”





Prester-Yonas stood up and walked directly in front of his throne to face the entire council.

“Madness it may be. But it is madness we must attempt. If we fail, this will likely spell the end of the Kingdom of Prester John. But if we succeed, then we can usher in a new age of peace and prosperity. So who is with me? Who is willing to march with me all the way to Constantinople to save our kingdom?”

Every man and Child of the Earth in the council unsheathed their swords and spears and pointed them in the air and every woman saluted the king with their fists.

“Aye!” the nobles shouted in unison.

And so the Presterian War for Byzantium began.







A combined force of 6,000 Abyssinians marched from Aksum on November the 26th of the year 838. 5,000 men volunteered from the Abyssinian and Nubian bands, the elite fighting forces of Africa. The remaining 2,000 soldiers consisted of Prester-Yonas’ human levies and Cynocephali, Blemmyae, and even some brave Panotti soldiers. They marched through thousands of miles of desert in the middle of hostile Egyptian and Syrian territory. Every day their ranks thinned from thirst, exhaustion, or Mohammedan thieves that struck in the middle of the night. Egypt was a strange place with strange customs. Bearded men muttered strange prayers from their heathen temples. Greedy merchants sold filthy food in crowded and disgusting marketplaces in overcrowded cities. The Abyssinians shuddered to think that Abyssinia could soon full of such revolting scenes. Syria was a bit more civilized, calm, and much less hot, but the customs of the land were still strange.





The Great Desert March would be remembered throughout history


Finally, the army reached the mountains of northern Anatolia. They had lost 500 men in the Great Desert March and they were glad to be rid of the desert and its treacherous inhabitants. But their trials were far from over. Their march slowed as they struggled to climb over steep mountain roads and treacherous passes. Men and horses who were not careful plunged hundreds of feet to their deaths. However, the Abyssinians were used to managing mountain terrain and the army remained intact. Finally, they met the remaining imperial army. Prester-Yonas had received reports from the Croatian king that the remaining imperial forces were scattered and destroyed. If the Abyssinians could defeat this force, than the way to Constantinople was clear.



A fierce battle commenced at Claudiopolis. The Abyssinians possessed a large numerical advantage and had excellent generals, but the imperial soldiers were better armed, better trained, and held the high mountain passes. The battle lasted for three days, as each side launched attack after attack against each other. Marshals Bekele and Yacob held strong in the center and left, but Marshal Gennatios’ forces were beginning to fade on the right. Just then, a thousand strange men charged into the battle against the emperor’s soldiers. They were local Miaphysites who were willing to fight for their rightful emperor. Emboldened by the fresh influx of troops, Prester-Yonas’ forces fought back and drove the imperial army from the mountain passes. The way to the capital was now open.



For the next year, the Abyssinians besieged the mightiest city in the world. The Theodosian Walls were formidable and could not be taken by assault. But the city’s supplies were low due to years of factional war and there was no army to defend it. Prester-Yonas and his soldiers were patient and were well-supplied thanks to their Anatolian and Croatian allies.



By December of 840, it seemed like starving residents of Constantinople were ready to give way. Prester-Yonas sent messages to the Greeks, saying that he would not punish any foes, that he would unify the empire against the Muslim threat, and many other sweet words. Within a few days, Prester would become emperor.



But God laughs at the plans of man. A messenger informed the king of the worst possible news: a 20,000 strong army of Mohammedans was approaching the city! The spiteful Caliph could not stand to see the bold Prester-Yonas seize the imperial throne and unite the Greeks against their foes. The king sent a letter of surrender to the Caliph that stated he would surrender Abyssinian lands in exchange for peace in Anatolia. By the international dictates of war and honor, the Caliph should have accepted these terms. But the Muslims are not like other men and did not possess a shred of honor in those days.
Thus, the Caliph attacked the Abyssinian army, who were unprepared for battle after a year of besieging.



The battle was a complete rout. Prester-Yonas quickly retreated to nearby Heraclea and tried to regroup. But the Muslims attacked again and completely annihilated the army. The Mohammedan marshal accepted surrender at the battle’s end as thousands of Abyssinian corpses lay rotting on the ground and claimed that the earlier offer of surrender had gotten lost. And so, the dozens of survivors, including the king, marched home in shame and defeat. The imperial adventure had failed and the Muslims had gained two more duchies from Abyssinia. All was lost for the Kingdom of Prester John.



Prester-Yonas quietly returned home in six months. He gathered a small council of his most trusted advisors and his family.

“Everything is lost. There is no hope for the Kingdom of Prester John,” the king announced.
“But father, we can still make a stand. God is with us,” his son Prester, who was now a man grown, replied. He was a good-looking boy who had inherited his beauty from his mother.



“It seems God has abandoned Abyssinia for whatever reason,” King Prester-Yonas said. “But there is still hope. I made many friends in Anatolia who were willing to hear the good news of the one-natured Christ. My friends have agreed to grant you the Duchy of Nikaea if you are willing to teach them the ways of Miaphysitism. The emperor will not like it, but his reign is not long for this world if what I saw is correct. The Isaurians are weak and decadent and about to be toppled.”
“But father, that would mean I must abandon you and mother!” his son cried.
“It is for the best. I will make my last stand here with my people. That is what God wills.”
“Listen your father,” Queen Eliz said to her son. “This is the only way to save our people and our customs.”
“And you, Children of the Earth, must leave Abyssinia once the Muslims strike,” Prester-Yonas said. “You have seen what the Muslims have done to your kind. They will slaughter every last one of you and use you for meat and ornaments if you stay.”
“We shall travel deep into the desert,” High Chief Simbasa of the Cynocephali said, “and never step foot on the lands of man again until our rightful king returns. No man will set eyes upon us until the House of John reigns in Aksum again.”
“Then it is all settled. The Kingdom of Prester John only has a few years to live. Let us accept God’s plan.”


And thus ends the tale of the Kingdom of Prester John. But a new tale had begun.






The Kingdom of Prester John would enter the realm of legend. Explorers would seek it out in later centuries, only to find dirt, dust, and Muslims. The maps did have the right location, however.

Julius
It was another Heated day in the capital. Julius had been here for weeks, away from Italy to be here, for his Family. His father, Alexander was here as well. Things were so different now. His father had grown bitter and Cynical in his age. The loss of Uncle Tyruss was hard, and his Father had never accepted it as natural. Years of peace had made him uneasy and now in the Capital something, very new was about to happen.

The King, No, Khan of Pannonia had been convinced to abandon his faith and Join the Empire, For what reason he did not yet know. He and his father were assigned outside the Theodosian walls to greet him. They have been waiting for hours at this point and the heat was starting to bother the Varangians accompanying his father.

Finally, in the Distance he saw banners, The White and Red of Pannonia, alongside the crossed swords of House Borghest. The Borghests were conquerors, much like his own House, rising from obscurity and taking control of the Steppes of Carpathia within a few generations. Indeed it was the Borghests that originally swept his Grandfather's conquests in Serbia away from under his nose and now, generations later, they were here to bend the knee. Soon the Khan himself came to lead the party, a large burly man with a black beard, though he did note none of his men dares ride too close to him, out of fear or respect was something he couldn't tell.


The Feast was quite a sight. The Emperor, still a boy by Julius' own standards was bragging about his conquests over Prester John. The Emperor was by all means a fool, The Egyptians won the war long before he had even learned to ride his horde. Even as he bragged the men of Anatolia had joined the Cause of John's son. In fact his own Father had fallen sway to Prester's teachings, and only through the pressing of his own advisors used the situation to gain control Bosnia and Rashka from the Emperor rather than risk open treason declaring for John. Julius was neutral on the matter, being in Italy at the time he had other concerns, mostly the Moorish conquests in Toulouse, Which now threatened the very heart of Europe.

The Emperor, passed out that night, Drunk, likely the first wine he had had in his life. He had almost wished the Emperor had died, serve him right, The Empire, by all means was Intact becuase of the Teranus. The Teranus were the only thing keeping the Syrians out of Greece and now the Teranus were the only things Keeping the Germans out of Italy. He was being called, aside. One of the Khan's men he had thought, and he soon discovered he was right. Away he was brought to a secluded room within the Imperial Palace. His father and Khan Draugluin were standing over a table in heated discussion, Bottles of the Emptied Tuscan Red he had brought form Italy littered across the floor.


There we terms be drawn out. Julius quickly found out what. This was a plan, to overthrow the Empire itself. As his father revealed the plot to him, he found he couldn't conceal his smile, Finally.

The Khan had Joined and converted to the Faith for a Promise, The Imperial Throne itself. Julius remembered the stories about the Huns attacking the Empire in the past over such a promise, though the circumstances were different. Now it was the Avars, and this time the Empire would not deny them.

His Father had worked out Terms, The Johns in Anatolia would be given the land of their new followers so long as they put down their arms. The Remainder of Greece and Southern Italy would be given over to Teranus hands completing his families control over the Adriatic. The New Kingdom of the Joined crowns of Sicily-Italia-Croatia and Greece was named Tyria by his father, his childhood home. The Republic of Venezia was to remain under Tyria only in name under this deal, free to Leave the Kingdom whenever it wished as reward for turning on the Germans during the war of Lombard Succession.

Julius had noticed however the King of Georgia was left out of this Deal, something that had worried him. If the Johns weren't camping outside of Nikea then ideally Anatolia could be given to Georgia and everyone would be Happy. Ideally there would need to be some Compromise to get Georgia's support. Then of course there was the Syrians, and Egyptians who could attack at any moment. It was his father's plan however, and he would follow his father's lead in this.

The Pact was signed and everything was agree'd upon. Though after they had parted ways, Julius had brought himself to a window for fresh air. The feast was done by now he had thought, and there was nothing but quiet in the palace, something that was very rare. He soaked it in, a rest, a calm before the storm he thought, and as he turned to return to his family he saw him, a man all in black, with graying blond hair. Before he could react he was in the air, and the ground was rushing towards him.


It was like a Dream, Actually he was quite sure it was. He was clearly in a different place. Where he was however he wasn't quite sure.

A dark cave he thought. What he did not expect whas the Boatman.

Julius panicked, he knew of the Boatman, the Greek Myths, He was in Hades, he was dead, but nobody brought him here.

Then he saw them, A line of Emperors waiting in a row, Penniless, waiting for the Boatman. he recognized these men they were Eastern roman emperors, Christian Roman emperors.

When the boatman reached him he only stared, silent as death. Then he pointed, to the exit, as if he did not belong here. He was dead, clearly, he opened his mouth to speak but it was as if the Boatman could not understand him.

"Hic natus est tibi" wheezed from the Boatman's mouth.

Latin Julius immediately thought. He did not know Latin but he could assume what it meant. He was not dead, He could leave. Which he did.

He reached the Mouth of the Cave, and stepped into the light.

Then he saw it, The fall, Constantinople in Flames. Screaming of Foreign Tongues He recognized each one Farsi, Egyptian, Arabic. The flames reached to the sky and he could only watch, in horror. He did not even notice the man approach beside him. An old man with a flowing blue and yellow robe, a white bushy beard. He spoke, and Julius broke his trance "You can stop it". Julius noticed the man's Vibrant, almost glowing eyes.

Julius answered, perhaps against his best interest but he was not afraid of this stranger, he was dreaming after all "How?"

A simple gesture from the man, and Julius noticed the Hagia Sophia catching aflame in the distance.

"Your God, We have fallen from your path" Julius uttered, half a question.

"I am not God, I am a god"

Julius could not speak

"You have been Chosen, Namesake of Caesar and Alexander, The Hordes of Sand Gather, and the Eagle of the north looks hungrily upon Olympus. Always remember, who your True gods are"

Julius continued his silence, and the Man laided his hands upon him, and with a crack of thunder he was awake, Alive! in Pavia.

Both his children were around his bed but what truly drew his attention was the single bolt of lightning he saw through the window.


Edit: Tacked on Here because of the It was too small to make a full chapter


Julius

It was a bloody civil war, one of the worst in the Empire's History. Julius had learned what his father, and his grandfather had learned. That the Empire lives or dies by the Teranus Dynasty. The Major battles of the war, all fought on Teranus soil in Northern Illyria. They had won however. The John's had taken the City of Men's desire and with the fall of Constantinople to the Black Greek's had won the Empire, even if the Emperor's troops had not been fully defeated.

Now he stood among the Great lords in Constantinople. Prester John, the First of his name was there, on the Emperor's throne, on his head the old Byzantine Crown, with a great feathery abomination set upon the front. However this time the lords of the Empire would not abide another Tyrant. Julius had given his Terms, The Empire would be Divided into four Parts, Pannonnia in the North, Tyria in the West,, Georgia in the East, and Finally Constantinople and Anatolia for the Emperor. The Four Great powers would form a High Council of Lords, under them the Various Strategos of the Empire.

Emperors would be Elected from among the Dynasties of the High Council and the Four Great lords. With each Noble getting a vote in the Great Election. The Twin Senate system that Julius himself had suggested at the council of Split. The Emperor Agreed, and the first time in Hundreds of years the Empire was not only stable, but the most powerful entity in the world yet again.


The Following days were spent putting the Empire into order.


Until Finally the Final Borders of the Empire were hammered out, and the Final Borders of a Teranus State were Realized. In the Great Lordship of Tyria (named after the aforementioned town of birth of House Teranus). Wardens of the Western Empire. Protectors of the Italian Republics, Defenders of Rome And all Roman Peoples south of the Danube, and West of the Bosporus.

You've included too much of northern Italy into Venice on that map.

Gameplay 849-862

New playing position, new name for the AAR: The Matter of Spain is at an end, The Dominion of the Dreki begins. I have been here - that is, Northern Europe, bordering the North Sea - before; the Ynglings of the Great Game and the MacRaghnalls of God Will Know His Own were both North Sea powers, and the Ynglings of There Will Be War spent most of their EU3 time fighting over England. So the playing style, if I survive, will be familiar; I admit to some concern that the AARs may also, um, have a certain ring of familiarity to them. There's a reason I wrote, in the first post of Children of the Fatherland, "It is a thrice-told tale", and moved myself south to Rome. It didn't work out that well for game success, but at least the AAR was fresh! Also, why I wanted to play Spain in the first place; or Russia. C'est le jeu; I will make the best of it.

That said: I had ideas for how to write a Crusading kingdom in Iberia; I had ideas for how to write a Cossack-ish Norse tribal based in the Urals; but this week I find myself a bit short on narrative. So for the time being, my plan is to do gameplay reports until I have a feeling for this new dynasty, and inspiration for writing them.

Casting your minds back to the distant depths of December 2014, before our catastrophic save-bloat problems were fixed by the leet Python skillz of Oddman, you may recall that Vaniver left me with rather a nice position: Doge, Fylkir, quite a bit of cash, trading posts and vassals from Denmark to Ireland. Also, my heir was the expected winner of the election; that was the part that didn't work out. The RNG giveth, the RNG taketh away; the infrequent second-guy-wins roll happened and I was left as Fylkir and ruler of two counties, plus my family palace and trade posts.

The new AI ruler of Denmark, naturally, instantly got into a disastrous series of wars:

• Fraticelli Revolt: Fought in southern England and Ireland. Eventually crushed by my very expensive mercenaries holding them off long enough for the AI to get its act, and troops, together.
• Denmark Revolt: Most of England-south-of-Thames. Not actually a problem, since they were hostile to the Fraticelli; it was just a question of sieging their provinces back. Didn't do our levies any good, though. Additionally, my Genius character who was first in line to inherit the Dogeship died in a battle against them.
• Powys: Another thing about being an AI with massive revolt issues, every jumped-up Welsh tribelet with more than two cousins to call on thinks they can take advantage and get their de-jure stuff back. My retinue was enough to show these guys what-for.
• Essex: Tried for Kent. Allied to most of the other petty English kingdoms.
• Norway: Wanted Agder back. Once I had dealt with the Fraticelli for it, the AI shipped its army across to Scandinavia to deal with this one-county challenge, plus the Second Danish Revolt in Skåne. Five thousand troops trying to fight in Norway in winter, three winters in a row. Now, admittedly they did finally convince the stubborn Norse to give up their claim. However, they left England, much wealthier, essentially defenseless against raiders, and also against:
• Second Fraticell Revolt: Which was successful, and created a Catholic kingdom covering most of England-south-of-Thames, including Bristol. In fact it's probably the most powerful feudal entity in the Isles.

Well! At least this should be a most salutary lesson for the idiot Danish electorate. As the saying goes, they got the government they deserved, and they got it good and hard. Naturally, the one thing grand prince Ofeig proved adept at was detecting assassination plots, hence my little stint in jail. But he saw my point of view, to wit, "can't blame a man for trying", and also he needed the ransom money to pay his armies. It could also be that he felt a bit odd, imprisoning the one vassal who was actually doing something effective about the dang Fraticelli.


My agenda for the eight-sixties, then, is firstly to win the dang election, and let's hope it is not long delayed; since I'm about thirty, and my competition is north of sixty, that 2x term in (x+1)^2 is hitting my campaign score with 70 points a year. Second, once the right family is in charge of this place, to recover England-south-of-Thames, show the Essexians who is boss, and demonstrate to the Norwegians that raiding does not pay.

VI – Jeweled crown on an untroubled brow

Delhi, 850 modulo one mahayuga

"Who gave you this?" Mother asked, holding the dagger in her spotted hand. His dagger.
"I found it under a bench," Vasudev said. It was not even a lie, but she still saw through it.
"And you know who dropped it there. You remember that we talked about it, don't you? You are too young for real weapons."
'They had talked about it', as if anything could happen but what she wanted. He hung his head, powerless. The dagger, he knew, he would never see again. But maybe the Monkey-Ghost could bring him an other one?

"I will find out. And I will punish you harder." He remained silent. "But punishment must wait. You remember, too, why today is an important day?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
He grudgingly went through his lesson.
"The Persian legates are coming to Delhi for the first time. But it proves nothing. Their Empire is much more powerful than our raj, so we must entreat them to leave us in peace."
"How so?"
"By treating the other legates respectfully, and insisting we are a peaceful state."
"What other legates will there be?"
"Those of the Taghlib Sultan. And those of the Ayudha kingdom."
"How do we placate them?"
"By insisting we are peaceful, and implying we have no link to the raiders of lord Dinesh."
"Is it true?"
No. Yes. A trick question.
"Asking that is an insult, and we do not answer insults. We are a peaceful and forgiving people."
"How do we placate Ayudha specifically ?"
"By insisting we respect their titular maharaj of Delhi, even though we hold most of the land and Delhi proper independently."
"How do we placate the Taghlib?"
"By denying any gold stolen by Dinesh found its way to Delhi."
"And the Persians?"
"By promising assistance in retrieving the emiralds..."
"Emeralds."
"The emerals stolen in the sanctuary at Sanganer."
"Good."
SHe looked at him with frightened eyes.
"You are young still. I'd wish to keep that from you. To keep all the dangers of the world from you. But you must know that today is very, very important. It's the kingdom, it's our lives, we are trying to save. Your life, my life, the lives of our brothers."
"Yes, mother."
"The servants will come and bathe you."

She left, with his cherished dagger. Bitch.

Then the Monkey-Ghost was here, emerging silently from the curtains, a finger on his two mouths. They hugged quickly. In that gilded prison of a palace, the Monkey-Ghost was his one, true, secret friend. He told him of the world outside, of foreign lands, of war and travel. He took him through the cobwebbed galleries that wormed through the palace like wounds, all the way to the forest outside or the dark, red-lit idols. He taught him real fight, dirty and merciless, not stupid boring fencing. Once he carried him on his back across the roofs of the city, to spy on people. He would leap and tumble and swing as easily as a monkey that night, but they could not do it often, he had told him. Six weeks had gone, anyway, since he had gone off, to harvest.

"Mother found my dagger. Did you you bring me another one?"
"I brought you something better."
He unwrapped it from some dirty rags and the young raja gasped. It was a beautiful crown of solid gold, with swords and masked dancers mixed in an intricate patterns. Small blue gems covered every space, and four immense green stones dominated it, polished enough that he could see himself in them."
"They used to be gods'eyes in the South. Weak gods'."
"It is beautiful."
"A proper headgear for the maharaja of Delhi."
Vasudev pondered it.

"But Mother will never let me wear it."
"Keep in your sleeve until you sit on the throne, around you arm like an armband. And when the visitors are there, put it on. She cannot make you take it off in front of the ambassadors, can she?"
"I suppose not." The crown was truly a thing of wonder.
"Today your reign begins, maharaja. And thanks to me. Remember it."


My kingdom's smaller than a pop-up

--*0*--
Child-king! Did not do do much except raid raid raid and usurp the kingdom of Delhi. Which might not even be a very good play in the long run. Well at least it felt like doing something at the time.

Gold please.
--*0*--

On the next Gods of our Father :

To bring order to his new conquests, Fivoin tries to multi-task and perform the offices of bumtrap, shah and flogger at the same time. The world's first


(the M.D. stand for Muhammedan Despot)

Gameplay 862-874

The path of the righteous is strewn with thorns, and their portion is care and toil; but the unrighteous prosper in the fallen world. Consequently, you can easily tell from this session's events who is righteous among the players - to wit, me - and who isn't - basically everyone else, with the possible exception of Sebokan (playing Austergotland).

In 862 I was, I admit, somewhat impatient for m'liege, the esteemed Grand Prince Ofeig, to die so I could take over and show the world how to run a pagan trade republic; I had therefore picked the Intrigue focus for the Spy On perma-plot. That didn't work out; the Grand Prince learned about my spying and flung me in the dungeon, where I promptly picked up a case of the crazies - but no matter, that turned out the least of my troubles. A merchant prince worthy of the title, of course, always keeps an emergency fund on hand for these little contretemps that spice up the life of truck and barter, so I just headed over to the Diplo screen to ransom myself. That's when I learned that my uncle, Starkad, was

a) my Regent and
b) my Rival.


Also that the Regent is given veto power over ransoms, including your own ransom. I opine that this would not pass a twentyfirst-century conflict-of-interests review; in fact it doesn't even pass tenth-century conflict-of-interests review, in that one of the acknowledged duties of vassals was to contribute to their liege's ransom. Although in fairness I should note that Starkad is not actually my vassal, merely my kinsman and a partner in the family business. In any case, this difficulty held up my plans for some time, until I realised that Starkad, being an AI, was both smart enough to be bribed and stupid enough to be bribed into freeing someone whose imprisonment he had deliberately lengthened. One gift, one honorary title, and one appointment as Seer later, I was free, and pissed. (Also mad in the literal-ish sense of having the Lunatic trait.) Nonetheless, the thought of that 40-opinion tyranny penalty gave me pause. I decided to get my revenge more obliquely: I cut Starkad out of my will by making my son the Designated Heir. This had the additional desirable consequence of bypassing a pretty average-type human and putting in a Genius instead; eugenics for the win. It was, nonetheless, a somewhat risky play, in that my son was four years old and not eligible for the Dogeship if I died. But pff, I was only 35 myself; what are the odds, right?


While I'd been in prison, the AI had surprised me by actually doing something useful: It waged Holy Wars for Vestlandet and Småland, winning both. This incidentally brought Denmark into conflict with Sebokan, playing the two-province petty kingdom of Austergotland. Pitched battles were naturally out of the question, although I did briefly entertain the notion of giving Sebokan enough money to hire a large mercenary army that might have managed to kill Ofeig. Turns out the Regent has veto power over gifts, too, and apparently Starkad's bad traits included some primitive notion of loyalty to the polity over the family. The upshot of which is, Sebokan, if I see you raiding my provinces again I'll make an absolute point of parking my army on top of your capital. Asymmetric warfare only works if your target has political constraints on his retaliation; I don't have a bunch of liberals preventing me from reinstating the good old custom of inscribing the Blood Eagle on the offender's body, family, cattle, pets, relatives out to the fifth degree of consanguinity, and random visitors.


Ofeig did eventually die of natural causes, and I was duly elected Grand Prince. A momentary paralysis delayed what should have been my immediate attack on a preselected enemy: There were just so many possible targets! Hwicce, and retake Bristol? But Hwicce was in the throes of rebellion, and Bristol was occupied by them; who knows what the game mechanics would do. Essex, and a rematch for London? But Essex is allied to half of England. Powys, and wipe out the festering sore of resistance in the Welsh mountains? Then again, who needs a bunch of unruly sheep-shaggers for subjects? I finally settled on Northumbria, with wealthy York as my target; but the AI was faster. (The Singularity, incidentally, is near.) Essex declared war for Kent; crushing them and their allies took me two years. While this was going on I got the Chtulhu event chain and acquired the Godslayer trait, and began to think about ascending into godhood myself.


I contented myself, however, with declaring war on Northumbria, and was halfway through the required siege of York when the RNG, jealous of all possible rivals, cut me down in the prime of life. Leaving my 10-year-old son, unelectable to the Grand Princedom, as head of House Dreki... and his great-uncle Starkad as Regent. At least this time we are not rivals, and Starkad seems to have mellowed in his old age; he actually approved my suggestions for educating the Dreki children. But I face another lengthy wait before I command resources beyond those of the Dreki family. The path of the righteous...

Be sure to check out the new chapter of "Merchants of Venice" over at Ederon.net: forums.ederon DOT net/default.aspx?g=posts&t=3925&find=unread

Exelcior, True Believers!

Gameplay 874-889

It turns out that the elections of the Grand Principality of Denmark are not honest ones, in the following sense: They don't stay bought.

Obviously, I made it a bit of a priority to get elected; the blobs are coalescing all over Europe, and we shall not see them splintered again in this game. All over Europe, that is, except in the Isles and Scandinavia - partly because these areas are poor, and partly (I assume) because of a slight reluctance to enter another player's clear sphere of interest, and thus create an enemy. But such forbearance is not to be relied upon for any long run. Sooner or later someone will decide that they have a use for these poverty-stricken tribal provinces, even if I don't. Indeed, zilcho (subbing Finland) tried it on even this session, with a Holy War for Trøndelag; the AI surprised us both by handling him rather roughly. Still, the omen is clear for those with the wisdom to read it.


I therefore delayed my conquest of York. At the beginning of the session I was 12 and Grand Prince Refil was 62. So, if I got lucky for the four years I needed to become electable, Refil would be 66 and could keel over any day; I needed to have a good reserve for a huge campaign fund, to overcome the 2000-point disadvantage of being 16 in a republic full of fifty-year-old patricians. No money, therefore, for the mercenaries I'd need to take York. Instead I amused myself with chasing tiny AI armies, losers in the five minor wars m'liege got himself into, across England-south-of-Thames. I also looked about for participants in my eugenics program; there seems to be a great lack of Genius, Germanic women of a reasonable age. My plan for this generation is just to pump out kids from whatever half-acceptable women I can, so to speak, lay hands on; one of them ought to be a Genius who can be designated heir. The rest will form the basis of a Norse-Germanic population explosion, drastically increasing the pool of candidates for back-breeding in the next two generations; the more women, the more likely that randomness will operate in my favour. Also, when we are sufficiently many and hungry, we will have a moral right to take away others' lands to feed our children; and we will then be possessed of a very large and hungry army.


Eugenics aside, then, I did basically nothing for four years; but once I reached my majority, I sprang into action! To wit, I Ctrl-clicked the "add to campaign fund" button no less than four times! Which wasn't sufficient; at this point the leading candidate had Respect of over three thousand. So I unclicked it - no prizes for second best, and therefore no point in buying the election until I could actually win - and picked Intrigue as my focus. This did at least give me the opportunity to repeatedly click the "No, I'm sure he's up to something" option - action at last! This excitement aside, though, it remained the case that my full treasury wouldn't suffice to win. And while Refil had lived to be 78 (!) in a single-player test game, still, the RNG had to be sharpening its scythe for him.


Increasingly desperate, I appealed for loans, and Khan, very kindly, sent me a gift, a favour which shall not be forgotten. With this money I could bring up my campaign fund north of 600 ducats, and become expected successor. Just in the nick of time, too; Refil died mere months after I finally had the money. Aaaand the second-highest Respect was elected. Again.

I admit to finding this a bit annoying. Since the electorate had disappointed me, I decided to dissolve it and appoint a new one, by making the Midlands a personal Dreki fief, starting with York. This went well: Little bits of kingdoms cannot stand against enough money to hire mercenaries. This, at least, worked; I now hold York and Derby, and Lincoln will fall shortly. Added bonus: Handing out the baronies to the adult-male Dreki drastically cut my expenses.


I enter the next session, then, embittered but hopeful: I have what seems like a commanding lead in the next election, I have a Genius son by a concubine, and my Genius wife is pregnant. And, between me and the AI, the little kingdoms of England are looking pretty tattered and moth-eaten; if the Grand Prince would just do me the favour of dying at a reasonable age, it's not entirely unreasonable to hope for English unification before the century is out.

VIII – Prison breaks

Kanyakubja, 874 modulo one mahayuga

This is how most people live; surrounded by strong, violent men who absolutely do not fear them. Even as a girl, when the guards caught Prabhavati in some mischief and dragged her to her father Vasudev, the guards would always treat her cautiously, their hands and voices soft with affection, reverence and, above all, fear. She was a pretty high-caste girl, maharaja Vasudev’s treasured daughter, the maharani to come after him. They weighed with anguish what every action toward her might cost them, now, soon, or later. They were never so happy as when they were relieved of the responsibility to handle the headstrong princess.

But now she was captive, and the guards were not hers, or her late father’s. They only fear that she impossibly escapes, and so they hold her roughly, and do not speak as they drag her through the dark halls of Kanyakubja.
It is terrifying even before they tear her clothes off. She shrieks, resists, close her eyes. Hope. She has worth. A rani’s ransom! A rani’s ransom! Dinesh can come up with it, and maharaja Narendra will want that. So he cannot let excessive harm come to her.

“Please, she finds the strength to ask. I want to talk to the maharaja.”
He just wants to frighten her. So that she do not revolt again. So that she serve him as an absolute sovereign. He wants to frighten and humiliate her, and he has succeeded. She will obey. He will surely see that.
“Bring me to him. Please.”
Instead they push her in a cell and close the door. She huddles against the wall and looks around. The room is narrow, high-ceilinged, and as bare as her. There is a straw mattress on the ground, a wooden jug of water by the mattress, a bucket on the opposite side. There is a small window too high for her to reach. There is the heavy door through which she was pushed in. There is nothing else.
Frightened and humiliated. How the maharaja will enjoy her pleading! She sobs quietly, thinks her words through. She needs to be beyond humble, beyond meek. It occurs to her they might parade her nude before the whole court, the better to shame her. Would he take pleasure watching her bare and supplicant at the foot of his throne, the dirty old man? She ponders, weighs the risks and the odds. Whatever happens, she tells herself again and again, she is worth a rani’s ransom. They cannot let excessive harm come to her. Narendra is a dirty old weasel, but he is smart. He will value her ransom beyond her torment. He must.

Then hours pass.

She is still scared and ashamed, but perforce she has calmed down. She sits cross-legged, counts the bricks in the wall, and ponders her situation. Did she deserve her humiliation? She has to wonder.
She will have to sleep here, hence the mattress. The maharaja, she has come to expect, will not see her immediately. He will enjoy his victory later, in great pump; for now it brings him a multitude of problems to deal with, of affairs to arrange. That is the problem with victory, so much work, it’s barely worth it. She has the better deal in defeat; she gets to laze about in a very fine cell. She forces herself to laugh. It comes out shrill and deranged.
Then days pass.

They bring her water and food every day rather before noon, or so it seems. Rice and bread, in a wooden bowl. Not up to her usual standards. She forces herself not to despair as she begs, again and again, to see the maharaja. With nothing else to do she learns to tell the gaolers apart. Some leer insolently at her, some sneer and taunt, some remain stone-faced and silent, but no one gives her a helpful answer. Maharaja Narendra will not see her.

Then moons pass.

She counts the days; every paksha she gets a pail of tepid water to clean herself. She counts the days again, scratches notches on the familiar walls not to lose to count, then starts doubting the notches. Did she skip or repeat one?
It only takes two days for a good rider to go from Kanyakubja to Delhi, but maybe Narendra did not send a rider at once. And maybe it took her kin some time to assemble the ransom. The maharaja can name his price; if he was greedy it will take Dinesh several raids in Muhammedan territory to gather it. Dinesh always liked her, and there is no better raider; maybe he will be done soon.
Or maybe Dinesh, who was already old when she was a child, is dead and buried. Maybe her husband and her uncle enjoy having free hands with the raj. Maybe they will never send her ransom. She tries not to think of it.
She does not ask quite so often for an audience she knows she will not get.

Then years pass.

She prays a lot, every god, several times a day, but especially Kali, the grim protectress of her bloodlines. Would that the goddess gave her the strength to rip this walls apart, to escape. She would pay the price. And then a terrible thought crawls down her spine. What if this is the price?
Her torment repeats across mahayugas, an eternity of bondage and solitude. She has a guard carry a letter outside, folded a dozen times. She pays his price. There is no answer.

She goes weeks without talking, then days without shutting up, screaming for someone to hear her out, to let her out. She will pay any price, do anything they want. Maharaja Kanyakubja can lay with her any way he wants, he can whip her in public, he can even kill her. Anything to get out of the cell.

Maybe Dinesh could come and rescue her with his raiders. She does not know the lay of the castle, but the dreams and imagines daring prison breaks, walls climbed at nights, sentinels strangled.
One day she tries to punch her way past the guard. They soon grapple her down, shove her back through the door and leave laughing. One night she punches the door until her knuckles bleed. Nobody comes.

Then a decade pass.

She watches herself being old, using the water in the pail as a mirror. She tells herself she is just older, but the truth is she is old, faded hair and sagging, desperate face, limbs fat and soft for lack of activity. She no longer talks. She does not even think she can still do it.
But at night, and increasingly at day, she whimpers for anyone to come, for anyone to let her out, out of the cell…
Please. Please. Please.


My kingdom's smaller than a pop-up

--*0*--
So, female ruler. OK. Regency. Whatever. The damn Ayudha come for my kingdom. It is starting to be annoying. Then I come of age and revolt, get crushed and imprisoned. Sigh. And my husband won’t ransom me because he likes being regent. So there I sit and watch the screen.

It’s been a session and a half. Sometimes I build something. I read a book. I check my facebook on the second screen. I troll amazon on the second screen. I watch a DVD on the second screen. I do push-ups. Good game.
--*0*--

On the next Gods of our Father :


With his girl still imprisoned, Kuipy subs for King of Men.

But his investment choices leaves him baffled.

Gameplay 889-898

The path of the righteous continues to be strewn with thorns. In particular, the RNG seems to have it in for me with respect to lifespans: My good Genius character died in prison, while m'liege - an idiot in all respects except for his damnable Intrigue score, which incidentally is completely unrelated to why I was in prison - goes on and on like the damn Duracell rabbit. (Perhaps I date myself; do CK players still catch that reference? If you don't, just substitute "like a thing that goes on for a very long time", and then get off my lawn.) He outlasted my next head of household as well, not that this was a great loss, and looks like he's settling in to reach his eightieth birthday. Or perhaps he'll keel over just the day after my current head dies, leaving me bereft of the Respect I need to get elected and without time to pump up the election fund.


That is as the RNG wills; I have, actually, larger problems. As I prophecied last session, the powers of Europe have begun to take an interest in this strategically located island with the many good harbours. Little bits of kingdoms - in this case, the petty-kingdoms of England-south-of-Thames, namely Essex, East Anglia, and Hwicce - cannot stand against their foes; unfortunately I wasn't the foe in question. The Mussulman is at the gates! No doubt Fimconte plans to dominate the entire western seaboard of Europe, taking the entire colonisation game for himself. True, he'll have to subdue a powerful Frisia to take the French coast, but he's got four hundred years of CK to do so; why not pick up England while it's cheap?

The evolution was rapid. Here is England in 889; all is quiet except for the usual state of quasi-civil war. (That is to say, I'm very polite about picking up Lincoln; everyone else behaves like football hooligans. Not a civil war in the sense of being internal to a polity.)


891, and the green blight is far inland: Fimconte's doomstack of 5000 (a vast host, by island standards) has hammered East Anglia and Hwicce into submission, though Hwicce survives by dint of having more than one Duchy available. The invasion continues into the Welsh mountains; my stack of a little more than 4k is about to intervene.


894. My intervention did not go well. Fimconte pulled another 3k warriors out of nowhere (he'd moved his capital to England in the interim; perhaps they were mercenaries), his liege the Caliph sent another doomstack of 8k, and I suspect that with even numbers I'd still have lost, just not as badly - Spain being more technologically advanced than England. There was nothing for it but to end the war and watch Fimconte absorb his gains.


896. Oddman has decided to absorb those bits of England that Fimconte didn't get to, to keep them out of Muslim hands. Yay for the balance of power. It's more amusing when someone else is the apple of contention. Note also the colour change; Fimconte, getting wind of a Christian coalition forming to invade Iberia, strategically switched his allegiance to another player, over in Egypt. Taking on the AI Umayyads is one thing, even if they have a powerful human vassal (in fact, Fimconte was about 80% of Spain by this point); taking on a human Egypt is something else entirely. The coalition dissolved. "To defeat your enemy without combat is the acme of skill."


898, and England is neatly divided into three parts: Norse pagan, Frisian Christian, and Iberian Moslem.


I did manage to expand a bit, using take-county CBs on my neighbouring Christians. This does lead to quickly hitting my demesne limits; I was handing out baronies like candy, and getting so desperate for adult courtiers that at one point I gave one to an Yngling. As Fivoin pointed out, not giving land to that dynasty is Scandinavian Governance 101; but needs must when the devil drives. In any case I got a fair return, for he taught wisdom to the Fylkir Kjartan, and now all the Dreki know an ancient rune-song, handed down from Frey, the ancestor of the Yngling line. It does not translate well into the vernacular, losing all its magic power for calling vengeance-spirits down onto the heads of those who have wronged you; this is just as well, since why should I give away secrets of power? But the sense of it, without magic, is clear enough: It is intolerable. It shall not stand.

I'm beginning to think I should have suggested "England's on the Anvil" for the naming theme of this game, rather than "Recessional". Kipling's telling phrase, "little bits of kingdoms cannot stand against their foes", keeps recurring to me as I write these AARs; a splendid description of the blobbing phase of a megacampaign, in which those players not lucky or skilled enough to grow big are ground out of existence. Unfortunately it applies just as much to republics.

England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into one; but not by me. Rather, I'm the iron clanging from the Severn to the Tyne. However, before getting into that, a recap of relevant geopolitical events on the Continent. Oddman, playing Frisia, had more-or-less united Charlemagne's empire, from the Oder to the Bay of Biscay, with bits missing in the south where Fimconte as Iberia had taken a bite. He had two fairly powerful player vassals in Synario and Alexei, Bavaria and Aquitaine respectively. He had several times fought against Fimconte, attempting to contain Muslim Spain south of the Pyrenees. Now, however, he turned this longstanding foreign policy on a dime. (Well, perhaps not on a dime - no doubt there were lengthy negotiations of spheres of influence.) When Fimconte DOWed for some land that belonged to Alexei, Oddman promptly surrendered; he then vassalised Fimconte, revoked Alexei's capital, imprisoned Synario, and handily won the resulting revolt. Where there had been two polities with four players, there was now a single united empire stretching from Gibraltar to the aforementioned Oder, with two players in it. Fimconte then went independent again, taking the south of France with him. Then both of them (and separately an AI vassal of oddman's) declared holy wars on me.

There wasn't any question of fighting two humans that individually outnumbered me two to one; I surrendered promptly so as to retain my army for the fight against that vassal. But it's clear that this is a stopgap measure at best; truce timers end, and oddman's character could keel over any moment. (Indeed, I feel confident that the RNG will cause him to die at the worst possible time for the English Resistance; why should the lifespans suddenly become convenient now?) Unless, then, a diplomatic revolution occurs, it appears that I will be taking the Dreki back to Scandinavia whence they came. Admittedly, going into exile and plotting revenge for the next millennium is kind of my thing in these games, but I was hoping to avoid a second iteration. Besides, Scandinavia is full of snow and Ynglings, and dignobbit, I've played that position already. Three times. But needs must when the Dutchman drives; with our house rules, it would be very difficult for anyone else to come to my aid. Without a good claim, the best that could be done by any of oddman's neighbours - who in any case have their own problems - would be to declare holy war for a duchy; and quite apart from his possible ability to just fight on two fronts, oddman could simply surrender, beat me senseless, and return to the Continent later on.

It seems that Kipling will have all sorts of applications in this game; but then, history is long, and empires rise and fall. This week it is "The Dutch in the Medway". Next month, who knows? Perhaps "Cities and Thrones and Powers" will be the poem of the day.

If wars were won by feasting,
Or victory by song,
Or safety found in sleeping sound,
How England would be strong!
But honour and dominion
Are not maintained so.
They're only got by sword and shot.
And this the Dutchmen know.

Some maps:

Claudius

The King was Dead, Peasants and Nobles alike had gathered from across the Empire to pay thier respects to the Great Man that was Julius the First. Much like his namesake he would come to rule the Empire in all but name. Should things have gone to Crisis Claudius was sure Julius would be the man the country would look too to lead them, just as Caesar himself. However in the later years Julius had grown quiet, content and restless. The Commonfolk spoke of the Roman blood that flowed in the Teranus Veins, a Desire for conquest, glory and power, something Julius had spent his entire life to control no doubt.

He had retreated into his own chambers, First he dismissed the Servants, then his personal guard and then Finally all but his Heir. Ioseph stayed until he heard his fathers final words, and it was Ioseph that had come to tell Claudius of the King's Passing. What the Final words between the two were, Claudius did not know. He did retain one final duty to the King, even after his passing, Claudius would seek out the best Tutors for Ioseph, He would need to be prepared to meet expectations when he came of Age, and Great Men of the Empire, and the world beyond would see that he would.

'Joseph'

Joseph stood in a trance looking back, Six years of his life since he became King. He had studied the great merchants in Venice, The Muslim Lords of Spain, The Black Greeks in Constantinople. Five Languages he could recall at an instant, and yet He still knew nothing, and could remember almost nothing of it.

It was Turbulent time, that was for Sure. The Greeks had violently rose up against him in that time. Claiming him all manner of things that Suited him, A bastard, a puppet of the Johns in Constantinople. His uncle, the Duke of Susa, and the Doge of Venice had seen to their undoing. At Larissa he was only twelve and commanded a Thousand to thier deaths, a thousand lives, just like his own extinguished to defend his families birthright, something he didn't quite understand even now.


Afterwards he went Abroad, to Spain. Meeting with the Great Sultan of Marrakesh, learning the ways of their god Allah, and the Visigoths, The very men who in days past destroyed Rome. In Constantinople he ventured as well. He had commissioned a Bard to write a Poem for the Emperor, in gratitude for his support in the Greek Uprising. He didn't much like Bards, or their craft, Poems and songs often deformed the true events for drama or other reasons. Something that had always bothered him.


He was a strange case however, foreign educated, and Royal blooded through and through, and yet the Nobility despised him. After the reign of his father they might have expected a weaker ruler, and under the Regent Claudius they found this would not be the case. Assassins from all backgrounds and alignment had come for him at one point or another. Yet the most oppressed, the Common folk found reason to love him. In Thessaloniki they had weeped for days at the passing of his father, and yet when he was presented as the new Monarch they had cheered so loud the ground shook. In Venice the merchants offered him Gold, Spices as the three kings did Jesus on his own birth.


Now he realized why however, The empire was under intense religious and Cultural Strain, and yet his family almost seemed to stand above it. Uniting peoples from across the Western Empire, Italians, Greeks, Slavs and Germanics under one State, and One dynasty. Protected from the Inquisitors of Prester John and Raids of the Muslim, Frisian and Pannonian Hordes. He was their protector now, Not as just the head of a Unified Kingdom, but as the Great Lord in Tyria, and now, he was the most powerful man in the Empire.


Claudius
Iospeh had come of Age. His work was finally done. For Six years the Kingdom shifted and strained amoung itself. Within a Ioseph had solved the Issue. The official titles, Sicily, Greece, Serbia and Illyria were dissolved into Italy. A new state, Tyria. The Old Kingdoms were changed into Administrative Districts for the kingdom by the King's decree and overnight what was once a collection of Squabbling lesser lords was organized by region and law. The plan was for Governors to eventually rule over these Regions as in Roman times but only time would allow their authority to grow.


Managing Ioseph's, other needs however was his new task. While Tyria no longer needed a regent, It required someone to keep the Teranus Family clean. Ioseph had learned in Venice in his younger age that Women can fall into a Royal lap quite easily, and his lowborn mentor had encouraged the Behavior.


Unfortunately, Ioseph had become obsessed with producing an heir, whether as an excuse to sate his appetite or because of his own experience trying to survive assassination attempts and rebellion during the regency. This would have been fine, for a lesser lord, and one with more belief in his own faith. The Idea of Marriage however seemed to be a political institution and nothing else to the boy.


He had begun to gather a harem, Claudius had tried to keep such a thing in Secret but soon the King had found out about this and Openly revealed to the entire court, outing his would-be-concubines by name and challenging anyone to speak out against him, Nobody did. That was all the boy needed and soon he began to go after more, controversial women. Nobody in the Empire dared stop him, and when the Church denounced the boy, threatening to cut him off from the Faith, The commoners revolted, killing priests throughout the empire, making the already unstable situation in the empire all the more worse. Though Ioseph continued, and set a dangerous precedent for the future.


Claudius had remembered a Dream he and Ioseph spoke of. Of times both Ancient and Immaterial. Of Lands where dragons ruled over the world, and others where fire fell from the sky in great metal beasts. He had become inspired, Defying both his Vassals and the Faith. Ioseph had a plan, and though it pained him, He kept it secret, and close to his chest. What that Plan might be only the heavens knew.

IX- I have two mouths and I must hush

With Rani Prabhavati a prisoner in Kanyakubja, her uncle and husband shared regency over the raj. It was a time of misrule and confusion. Both regents were uniterested in the raj or its people, caring only for wealth and pleasures. Under them the poor folk suffer and long for a return of the tormented queen, their lady of tears.

Delhi, 907 modulo one mahayuga

The uncle ! The weaker, smaller, older one. Old raja Tivala had unsatioable appetites; Vachhal was his son by a muhammedan captive he had taken as concubine, and therefore a casteless scion, barred from succession, a regent by default after the death of his brothers. How he raged against that for years ! How he refused to relinquish power once he at last got it ! But no perforce he must ! He reclines painfully in his bed, a gouty, frail old, man.

"But... But, Dinesh, do we have the gold?" he asks
"We have had it for years. The blood on this bounty is long since cold."
"My little niece... I remember her, a capricious girl. Her father's... Her father was unkind to me, but he was my bother." Regrets, remorse, rancor. Old men are always a simmering stew of conflicted emotions. Except me!
"Blood is blood." Several meanings, the better to strangle him with!
"How will she have lived it... I mean, what will happen to me if she ransomed? After all these years."
"I am sure she will understand your motives." Several meanings again! I cackle inside.

He wavers, but in the end guilt prevails. Pain and dotage have softened his heart.
"Do it, then. Bring the Ayudhas ransom for my brother's little girl."

When I make to leave he stops me feebly.
"Dinesh, wait."
The question trembles on his lips.
"How old are you?"
Maybe thinking of the queen as a little girl made him think of himself as a little boy, and the grizzled knave with two mouths that served his dynasty yet. And now he is an old man with painful toes and brittle bones, and he thinks, how is it possible? what is the secret? And he hopes.
"We are all an infinity of mahayugas old. Our lives have been lived identically, countless times before, so many that each one hardly counts. Any crime, any suffering..."
He winces. He knows which ones I mean!
"... is infinitely heavy in summation over the repeating epochs. And so it will remain."

Unless.


the uncle

Reni, 907 modulo one mahayuga

The husband ! Taller, stronger, younger. Even with a bruised face Jayasimha is handsome. Even with a leg in a splint he looks solid and powerful. Easy enough to see what a young, beleaguered queen would want with him. A strong, pretty warrior to defend her and keep more overbearing suitors at bay, but not powerful enough to dominate her on his own; until she was taken prisoner. Until she became the Lady of Tears.

"Thakur Jayasimha", I say softly.
He flinches and almost call out, but my eyes stop him, even as he cannot see them in the shade. He feels my gaze like a grip around his neck. I tighten it.
"You are a thakur now. Thakur of Reni. What would your wife think of that ?"
"I gave the title in her name."
"To yourself. Convenient. Still, what will she say of that? What will she say of your whores, your finery, your feasts?"
"I have not given my approval for her ransom."
"I cam to get it."

Jayasimha tries to stare me down. He's scared but he's brave, for all his faults. Brave enough not to go down without a fight, even scared, even wounded, even without a chance.

"You are only a single killer, Dinesh. A glorified mercenary risen above your station."
"Takes one to see one. But you owe me, Thakur. I saved your life."
"My life? From whom?"
"From myself."

Now he's really scared.

"I fell from my horse during practice," he tries to protest
"Yes. Had it happened before? Did you look at how cleanly the strap broke? I could have rigged the stirrup differently, and then the horse would have dragged you longer. Too long."
"And so, ransoming my wife, it is your price for my life?"

This one is too brutish for his partner's emotions. Only the hammer of fear will do!

"No! Your life is the price for not ransoming your wife. Do not try to negotiate with me, thakur. Do not try to negotiate with the Goddess."
He stares. He consents. I win.


the husband

Kanyakubja, 907 modulo one mahayuga
Dayitavarman looks at me, doubtful, at the splendid riches servants are spreading before him. He looks at the soldiers around him. He's scared of the man with two mouth.
"No", he finally answers. "Surely you know why."
"It is in your interest to keep our Lady captive."
"I suppose. Rani Prabhavati was no end of trouble for my father. Her regents are easier to deal with, and her presence here is a guarantee."

I can hear his blood pounding under the flimsy cover of skin. I can see the one guard who hold his spear a little too low. One slash, and he's dead, and I'm past the line, half-way to the throne before the others even react, jumping, striking. The king falls dead. I blink.

"Your majesty, I was send here to secure my rani's freedom. I cannot return until it is done."
He looks unimpressed.
"You can stay in Kanyakubja as long as you want, at your expense. My answer will remain the same."
"I will, I say. I will stay, and hopefully, secure my rani's freedom."
The rest will have to happen in silence.


the captor

--*--

I slid discombobulated through the narrow slit, like a rat or a gust of wind, fall to the brick floor. There she is.

The lady of tears is a sorry spectacle. Both thin and fat, lying in a rough robe on her mattress. Without the strength or wit to rise. She turns two dim eyes at me and she recognizes Dinesh! Faitful old Dinesh!

"Please... Pleaaase."

I kneel next to her, without a useless word. An instant I think of explaining she can not climb to the window, or fold her body through it like I can. But she has understood. She understands was she is asking for.

I take out my knife, to give the Goddess and the Queen what gift I can. Lady of Tears, Lady of Blood. Altogether a rather bad day.


the end

--*0*--
Not only won't my regent pay the ransom. Not only will he not pay my ransom when I give him a gift. Not only will my second regent not pay ransom when I put the first one away by giving him a fief. Not only will my second regent still not pay the ransom when I give him a gift. When he dies and my first regent comes back and I give hima gift and he FINALLY will ransom me, my captor won't accept it.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

33 years. 33 goddamn years. Anyway I died and the kingdom went to some distant cousin.
--*0*--

On the next Gods of our Father :

King of Men refuses Oddman's diplomatic overtures.


But his attempt at conquering the Frisian mainland are unsuccessful.