Chronicles of the Golden Cross

[Qorten]

Hmm, we haven't seen a picture of Alix yet, could she be picture 10?

[AlexanderPrimus]

Originally Posted by Qorten

Hmm, we haven't seen a picture of Alix yet, could she be picture 10?

Bingo! Number 10 (Elisha Cuthbert) is none other than Princess Alix de Lusignan. Good guess, my friend.

[Enewald]

I have no idea from the rest who could be who...
Any updates coming soon...?

[AlexanderPrimus]

Originally Posted by Enewald

I have no idea from the rest who could be who...
Any updates coming soon...?

Then it looks like some hints are in order.

3. Currently a child, he'll look like Peter O'Toole when he's all grown up.
5. A Muslim of noble birth, he'll figure in later in the story.
6. A mysterious cleric of questionable origins.
8. This man has very powerful relatives on all sides of his family.
9. Good with a sword, even better in the bedroom.

As for an update, I'm really hoping to have the next one out sometime between Monday and Wednesday. I hope you guys don't mind bearing with me a little longer, my life is totally crazy at the moment.

[AlexanderPrimus]

THE REIGN OF GUY DE LUSIGNAN (1186-1213)

Part IX: The Calm Before the Storm

(Mood Music)

“Outrageous!” shouted Guy de Lusignan, “We do their dirty work for them in stealing that Mohammedan relic and they reward us with a declaration of war?!” A blood vessel in Guy’s temple looked as if it might explode. There had been almost non-stop warfare since the Suzerainty Wars almost twenty years earlier, and both the King and the Kingdom were weary of the constant fighting.

“This is the last one!” Guy roared at no one in particular, “Do you hear? I will lead my armies against the Caliph, and I will wreak such a bloody vengeance upon him that generations yet unborn will talk of it for centuries to come! This I swear upon the True Cross, with God and all the Saints as my witnesses! And when it’s over…” Guy pointed at Conrad, “Battles will be your business and yours alone! I’ve had my fill of this! I am old and tired, and I will have my rest!”

Conrad of Montferrat murmured his approval, and the silence that always pervaded the court during the King’s choleric fits at last gave way to the usual whispered gossip and backbiting. Guy wiped the sweat off of his brow. He was getting old; his temper tantrums had not used to take quite so much out of him. For a man nearly fifty years of age, countless battles and political intrigue had at last taken their toll on the formerly rigorous king. Guy growled in frustration before rising to his feet and angrily striding out of the council chamber. The camel’s back had broken at last.

“No jousting and no ale make King Guy something something…” “Go crazy?” "Don’t mind if I do!”

***

Earlier that month a procession had arrived from Tripoli, led by overexcited pilgrims and centered on a foolish teenaged peasant girl. Screaming “Sanctus” repeatedly at the tops of their lungs, the devout mob would give no other explanation until they arrived at the Holy Sepulchre.

“What is the meaning of this madness?” Patriarch Abbas had inquired, coming out to meet them.

The young woman, known simply as Herlève, prostrated herself in front of the aged cleric and wept dramatically. “Praise be to the Saint,” she blurted, “Who has healed me of my afflictions!”

“Whatever are you talking about?” the Patriarch asked, unmoved by the woman’s theatrics.

“All my life I have been blind and dumb,” she cried, “But through the grace of the Saint, I am healed!”

The mob immediately broke out again in their intense, booming chant of “Sanctus! Sanctus!”

The Patriarch motioned for quiet, though it took the mob several moments to settle down. When he could finally make himself heard, he asked, “Saint? Which Saint do you claim has healed you?”

Herlève took a deep breath, as though she were about to reveal something amazing, before exclaiming, “Saint Raymond of Tiberias!”

Once more the mob commenced to chant, causing the already utterly astonished Patriarch Abbas to shout for quiet in a fit of befuddled emotion. “Raymond of Tiberias?!” he shouted, “The man has barely had to time to lie in his grave and you lot are already clamoring for his sainthood?”

“He is already a saint!” the girl almost screamed, “How else could he have healed me?”

“But do you have any proof?” Abbas blustered, “How do you know it was him that healed you?”

Herlève smiled. “I touched his blue cloak, the one he always wore. It was the first thing I saw! The instant I touched it, my eyes were opened and my tongue was loosed! My very first words were praises to the Saint! Is it not so, my friends?” She turned to the rabble expectantly.

Rather than answer her question, the mob simply rumbled “Sanctus” again as if it were the only word they knew.

“Look!” said the young woman, reaching into her bosom to pull out a wrinkled piece of parchment, “Here is an affidavit from the Count of Tripoli confirming that what we say is true!” She had of course neglected to mention that Count Bertrand was Raymond’s firstborn son, knowing that Patriarch Abbas was already well aware of the fact.

“But these things take time!” pled the Patriarch, becoming nervous as the crowd grew restless, “We must submit his name to Rome, and they must evaluate his entire life to make certain that he is a true saint!”

“Then do it!” the girl snarled, turning mean, “Every day that his Sainthood is unrecognized is an affront to God!”

And so it was that Raymond of Tiberias was canonized by the will of the people, becoming the Patron Saint of Outremer before he was so much as beatified by Rome.

Witnesses among the Jerusalem locals noticed that many of the overzealous pilgrims in the mob were Latins recently arrived from Europe. They were a mixed bunch, including some Germans, Spaniards, and Italians, but consisting mostly of Franks, especially those from Occitania, King Guy’s home region in southern France. Immigrants had been pouring in droves to the Kingdom of Jerusalem for months, believing Outremer to be a “New World” where they could escape their hellish lives and find prosperity at last.

Whether their dreams would become a reality could not be foreseen.

***

As the Year of Our Lord 1209 commenced, Jerusalem found itself yet again in a state of turmoil. The fanatical peasants had forced Patriarch Abbas to place the Azure Mantle of Tiberias in the reliquary of the Holy Sepulchre, alongside the True Cross, the Holy Lance, and the Sword of the Lionheart. The Patriarch knew it was no good protesting, and the last thing he wanted was to have a peasants' revolt on his hands. The peasants he could probably have handled on his own, but he definitely did not want to have to explain to King Guy why more of his hard-working serfs needed slaughtering.

The royal forces had swiftly swept down the shores of the Red Sea upon Tabuk, the only Abbasid province actually bordering the Kingdom, and had sacked and burned the city. The new problem was that the Abbasids were now entirely cut off from Jerusalem by a buffer of Ayyubid territory. Neither side wished to bring a third party into the conflict against themselves, so both avoided violating Ayyubid neutrality and did everything in their power to please the usurper Sultan Nabil of Mecca. As for Mas’ud ibn Yusuf, it seemed as though everyone had forgotten about him entirely, as he sat brooding in the desert alone.

Worst of all, the al-Aqsa Palace resonated with the shrieks of angry princesses. Alix despised Anastasia for seducing her adorable little baby brother like a cheap harlot, and Anastasia thought Alix a stuffy, self-important princess who was used to getting her way. Thus, despite their differences, somehow both princesses’ grievances were completely accurate.

Alix and Anastasia: Blonde Rivals. Could things get any worse?

Godfrey always cringed when the shouting matches began. Alix was his very favorite sister; she had been like a second mother to him. But Anastasia was his wife! Why couldn’t they just get along together like a civilized, Christian family?

“Hussy!” Alix would shout.
“Windbag!” would be Anastasia’s reponse.
“Trollop!”
“Prioress!”
“Hussy!”
“Spinster!”
“Strumpet!”
“Monk!”
“Whore!”
“Bore!”

The shouting of insults became a sort of twisted game of thrust and parry as the two beauties screeched at each other like rabid harpies. The catfights were especially messy -- when the girls started clawing at each other with their fingernails and pulling each other’s hair. Luckily the servants were quick enough to pull the two crazed women away from each other before any real damage could be done.

Naturally, this made meetings of the Haute Cour of Jerusalem rather strained, as Alix was the Royal Chancellor and Anastasia was studying to be Queen Sibylla’s successor as Mistress of Spies. The Queen certainly did not trust Anastasia, and she was still upset at the girl for manipulating her only son, but Sibylla was also a realist. She understood that as the Crown Princess, Anastasia was there to stay, and that someday as Queen she would need the skills to handle the intricacies of courtly intrigue. The needs of the Kingdom always had to come before personal matters, but that didn’t mean Sibylla had to like it. The Queen wondered if sometimes she was too pragmatic for her own good. “Just one time,” she thought, “Just once, I would like to tell everybody what I really think of them!” She found her thoughts drifting to her royal husband.

The High Circus of Jerusalem.

Guy was such a boor. Every day Sibylla contemplated whether she should have married him at all, political expediency notwithstanding. Nonetheless, the man had proved to be exceptionally virile. Though the Kingdom of Jerusalem itself was hard pressed from Guy’s constant wars, the royal Lusignan dynasty was more prosperous than ever. Between the years 1197 and 1209, the children of Guy and Sibylla had produced no less than twenty grandchildren! There were so many royal grandchildren, in fact, that Guy was forced to commission a new school expressly for the education of the delightful little brats. Located in Bethlehem, the Royal Academy was staffed with only the most somber of nuns and monks as instructors, making certain that the children would be reared properly. In twenty years’ time, the royal offspring would have matured sufficiently to be unleashed upon the world. “May God preserve Jerusalem in that day,” Sibylla prayed.

***

Joscelin of Edessa rubbed his forehead as he sat judging cases in the Edessene Court. Hearing the burghers’ petty cases was supposed to be a relatively easy task, but Joscelin felt unsettled. He had thought that the man that had come to be known simply as the Grey Eminence would have departed after his brother Guillaume’s untimely demise, but the enigmatic cleric had insisted on staying until “the heresy had been fully purged from Edessa.”

Since then, the Grey Eminence had interfered in more and more of the County’s affairs, and Joscelin was growing sick of his machinations. But what could he do? He was certain the man was an inquisitor, and that meant Joscelin had to do everything in his power to make certain the man stayed pleased with him, so that the fiery judgment of the Inquisition would be stayed.

The Venetian merchant who was currently pleading his case before the court finished his arguments. “Banish him,” the Eminence whispered in Joscelin’s ear.

“What?” Joscelin whispered back, perplexed.

“That man is exceedingly dangerous, you must banish him or risk… other dangers…”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Joscelin responded, trying to keep his voice down, “I am the Count, the final decision is mine!”

The Grey Eminence glowered. “Certainly, sire,” he said, the dulcet timbre of his voice pairing quite incongruously with his fierce expression, “The final decision is yours, of course. However, you would be wise to see that my counsel is obeyed. Should you do otherwise, I… fear… for the future of Edessa…”

Joscelin grumbled. He absolutely hated how easily that meddlesome cleric was able to manipulate him. Then he found himself on his feet, speaking in an authoritative voice, “I banish you from the County of Edessa and all its domains…”

***

The Royal Host in the mountains of Armenia.

The snow fell lightly upon the heads and shoulders of the Christian knights gathered in the foothills of Armenia on the Georgian border. As the Royal Constable and Marshal, Conrad had chosen this location as the staging area for Jerusalem’s united forces. Godfrey de Lusignan pulled his mantle closer around him. He could handle his own in a skirmish, but he never really felt at home on the battlefield the way his father seemed to.

As the nobles lined up to receive their orders from Constable Conrad, Godfrey stood next to his friend Balian the Younger, the newly appointed Count of Jaffa-Ascalon, his venerable father having passed away a few scant months before. Balian was perhaps the only nobleman present who looked more uncomfortable in his surroundings than Godfrey, though perhaps that stemmed from his inexperience ruling his own fiefdom.

“Isn’t that right, my Prince?” Conrad looked at Godfrey with an eyebrow raised. The Prince had been observing how his breath froze in the cold air, and had unfortunately not been paying the slightest attention.

“My good Marshal,” Godfrey began, trying to dig himself out, “You know I trust your judgment in all things pertaining to the art of war.”

“Truly, your Highness is the mirror of wisdom,” said Conrad, stifling a little chuckle. At least the joke was lost on some of the dimmer members of the court.

“Not all of us are as clever as good Prince Godfrey,” said Humphrey of Toron, completely oblivious to the exchange that had just taken place, “You must explain it all again, this time in layman’s terms. And be so kind as to tell me why it is that we are all assembled here in this God-forsaken place, if you please?” Despite being the Lord of Oultrejourdain, one of the largest seigneuries in the realm, Humphrey had always been a few swords short of an armory.

Conrad sighed, and began his explanation again, this time exaggeratedly slower and without too many big words. “We are gathered here in the mountains on the Georgian border because we are at war with the Caliph.” He looked Humphrey squarely in the eyes and made an effort to mouth his words deliberately. “However, we are not at war with the Sultan. Since we don’t currently border any Abbasid lands, we can’t invade them without the permission of the Ayyubids, with whom we are regrettably at peace. Nevertheless…” Conrad cocked his head to one side as Humphrey seemed to have already lost him, “Our Georgian allies are at war with the Ayyubids. So we’re going to wait for them to capture a pathway through the Sultan’s territory, and then we’ll cross through under safe conduct to surprise the Caliph from the north.”

“I still don’t get it,” the balding Humphrey sniffed.

“Oh, good Lord!” Conrad shouted, raising his arms in capitulation, “It doesn’t get any simpler than that!” He placed his hand on Humphrey’s shoulder and gestured in front of the man’s face to be sure that the nobleman understood, “Look,” said Conrad, “When I yell ‘Charge’ and wave my hand like this, then you and your knights charge! Got it?”

“Yes, yes,” said Humphrey, “No need to get upset. Why couldn’t you have explained it like that from the beginning?”

Conrad groaned and walked back to where King Guy waited under a makeshift bowery. “Now,” said Guy as he rose from his chair, “Let’s have Conrad take the central route with Bertrand and honorable Prince Leon; I’ll veer to the right in force with Humphrey and my brothers,” he indicated Amaury and Geoffrey who were standing nearby looking bored, “And Bohemond of Antioch…” The King paused while Conrad whispered something in his ear, “Oh, that’s right, Bohemond’s dead, Raymond of Antioch will take the left flank with Prince Isaac and Joscelin. Yes, I think that sounds good.” The vassals bowed in agreement and began to head off in all directions to carry out their orders.

“What of the two of us, my King?” asked Balian of Ibelin. “Oh, of course!” said Guy, “My good friend Balian and my dear son,” he looked at Godfrey patronizingly, “I want you to take your men and return home with all speed. The two of you will remain behind to garrison our homeland and protect it from Abbasid reprisals. You have the most important task of all. Well, if that’s everything?”

“But we already came all this way!”

“Yes, sire,” Balian answered, and Guy took his leave of the two younger men, most probably seeking a flagon of spiced wine.

“I can’t believe he made us come all this way for absolutely no reason!” said Godfrey.

“Why are you upset?” asked Balian, “I thought you didn’t like fighting battles.”

“I don’t!” said Godfrey, his brow furrowed in anxiety, “I just wanted a chance to prove myself to Father! But no, he’d rather have dolts like Humphrey of Toron by his side.”

“Honestly,” said Balian, “I think he’s assigned you this task because he really does trust you. He’s keeping Humphrey with him so he can keep an eye on him, stop him from messing things up too badly.”

Godfrey looked at Balian, surprised, “This is my father we’re talking about. If you really believe all of what you just said, I’ve got an island in the Dead Sea I’d like to sell you.”

***

Templars on Parade.

The detachment of the Knights Templar present with the King’s Host sat upright in their saddles as they were inspected by their illustrious and eccentric commander. Renaud de Vichiers was not a particularly patient man, and any display of mediocrity by the troops under his command was punished with the greatest of severity. Thus, his men generally displayed the pinnacle of discipline. On this occasion, however, he was distracted from his usually copious scrutiny of the knights by the strange letter he had received from no less than the Grand Master himself. What was especially surprising was that the body of the epistle was actually shorter than the standard formal Templar introduction and conclusion. Despite his best efforts, he could not seem to puzzle out what it meant.

The letter read thusly:

“To Renaud de Vichiers, Brother-in-Christ and Commander of Horse of the Jerusalem Chapter of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon; Greeting.

Brother, be prepared to receive further instructions once the King’s army reaches the city of Baghdad. Watch for the sign of the falcon. Do not fail.

May the bounteous blessings of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ be upon you,
Guillaume de Chartres,
Grand Master of the Order”

***

Deep in the bowels of Famagusta Keep, Isaac Komnenos paced the floor neurotically. This had been his general routine for the past several days. His private study was covered in old maps and heavy tomes, scraps of parchment scattered haphazardly across the floor. “The Latins…” he thought, “They’ll ruin everything! I’ve come too far to allow them to interfere now!” Suddenly coming to a halt, the False Emperor stared straight into the tongues of flame that seemed to flail wildly in the fireplace. He had had an idea. Racing to the table, he grabbed a quill and some parchment and began to scrawl wildly.

The False Emperor in a pensive mood.

"Christos Pantokrator… I hate Greeks. My grandfather hated them too, even before they put out his eyes. And worst of all, I am one! Did you think I’d be out here on the frontier without good reason? Yes, Romaion needs a strong frontier, and no, Romaion doesn’t need unwashed barbarians at her gates! So, that’s why I’m here, the last of the Komnenids, to bring true Roman order to these stinking Latins. Revenge? That’d be good too. These wars against the Saracens won’t last forever, and when they’re done, I’ve got plans. This is all about power, power in the Great City. Going down that road means dealing with all of my rivals: the Latins, the Greeks, those awful Turkish horse archers, and the Angelos and Doukas families too. After all, the man who controls Constantinople rules the world, and one day… I will be Emperor!"

After scribbling the last word, “Basileios,” Isaac took a moment to look over the document, his eyes scanning the text for any imperfections or mistakes. Satisfied, he then carefully crumpled the paper into a little wad and threw it in the fire. As the flames destroyed all evidence of his secret confession, Isaac Komnenos laughed hysterically.

***

Though she hated to admit it, Sibylla, Queen of Jerusalem, was afraid. Her husband the King was off leading his army on yet another holy war while the carefully established balance at home crumbled into ruin. Her only son, Godfrey, languished in garrison duty at the fortress of Tiberias. And her daughter-in-law and apprentice, Anastasia, had returned home to Lesser Armenia.

Ostensibly her purpose in going was to help care for her newly born baby brother. The child’s mother, Prince Leon’s second wife, had died in childbirth, and with her father gone in the wars, there was no one to look after the welfare of the child. This excuse did not sit right with Sibylla; surely there were plenty of nurses and maids who were more than capable of tending to the child? Nevertheless, she had let it slide. How could she have explained her reasoning if she had protested anyway?

Sibylla worries about Jerusalem's future.

She knew the girl hated her; that was not a surprise. The shock came once Sibylla began to suspect that Godfrey’s beloved Anastasia hated him. She did not treat him with the natural affection that spouses were wont to share, rather she bossed him around contemptuously as though he were her slave. That was an exceptionally bad precedent to set for a future king. But Godfrey persisted in lavishing Anastasia with every token of his devotion that could be imagined, completely consumed by his adoration for her. Why then had the girl seduced him in the first place? Obviously it was for the power the young prince would someday wield -- Sibylla had suspected that since the beginning. The real question was whether Anastasia had been put up to it, and by whom? Poor Godfrey, to be used so poorly by the one who should love him the most!

Sibylla hated the thought of her son pining away from loneliness in some dank castle keep, but perhaps that option was better than allowing him to be manipulated by that scheming princess. Unfortunately, with no real proof of anything, there was nothing that she could do except watch… and wait.

***

Frederica von Hohenstaufen shifted her gown again. It was a bit too tight, but that was exactly the way she preferred her gowns. At any rate, it was better to make sure her garb was on properly while she was still in her chambers. Not that she would have especially minded the occasional mishap, but her subjects could only handle so much scandal at any given time.

Henri caught her eye. “I thay, Freddie,” he lisped, “You’re not at it again are you? That thing lookth perfectly fine the way it ith!”

“So says you!” Frederica scoffed, “Your only sense of style is to make your clothes as gaudy as possible! And take off that hat, it looks ridiculous!”

“Thith ith my lucky holy hat!” Henri protested, “I wore it the day I killed thothe two Arab chapth in the grand cruthade!” He brushed away the maid that was attempting to fluff his ruffled cuffs.

“It still looks stupid,” said Frederica. “Anyway,” she continued, trying to ignore the ridiculous hat while the servants did her hair, “I have decided that you will lead the army out on maneuvers to Cyrenaica next week, to scout out the Saracen emplacements along our borders.”

“But Freddie!” Henri moaned, “I do loathe Thyrenaica! It’th tho awfully hot and duthty out there, and the thmell of the hortheth maketh me thneeze!”

“Oh grow up!” she responded, “We live in a desert! It’s hot and dusty and covered with sand everywhere!” Frederica was beginning to regret her marital vows, not that she actually kept them or anything.

“The Nile’th not duthty,” Henri whimpered.

Frederica rolled her eyes. “Never mind!” she said, exasperated.

“Oh, um, my Queen?” Henri asked gingerly.

“What?” Frederica groaned.

“What will you be doing while I’m out on maneuverth?”

The sultry redhead actually smiled at her foppish French husband’s question before articulating her response. “I’m going to go on the grandest, most opulent pilgrimage to Jerusalem since the arrival of the Queen of Sheba!” She sucked casually on a long fingernail while Henri furrowed his brow in bewilderment.

“I’m going to show my true devotions,” she said nonchalantly, as her maids finished with her hair at last.

***

How will King Guy fare in the war against the Abbasids? What are the various nobles plotting? Will Frederica be able to keep her clothes on?
Find out in Guy de Lusignan Episode X: Signum Falconis, coming soon!

[General_BT]

For some reason, Frederica in this update sounded in my head alot like Atia from Rome.

Alix had best watch out - never upset someone with high intrigue. I forsee a 'Murder in the Court!' even in the near future...

As for the battle plan - quite interesting idea, though I hope Guy won't come to regret sending two capable units home...

[canonized]

Haha , you have an excellent ensemble cast , AP ! Very varied and almost funny in a casual and fun-reading way . You should totally do a Kingdom of Jerusalem sitcom haha .

[AlexanderPrimus]

@ General_BT: I haven't actually seen Rome, so I'll have to take your word for it. My father gave me Season 2 as a gift, but it's worthless to me without, um, Season 1.

Yes, I think you might see a high profile murder or two in future. I wouldn't underestimate Alix the Fair, though. She's one genius chick.

As for the battle plan, chalk that all up to Conrad. Guy doesn't have the strategic smarts. Though it was Guy's idea to keep Godfrey at home. I wonder what his motivation is.

@ canonized: Haha, thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying the cast. I had hoped to make the characters more three-dimensional, so I'm glad it's working. As for a sitcom, maybe once the AAR reaches the 20th Century...

[Kurt_Steiner]

Originally Posted by General_BT

I forsee a 'Murder in the Court!' even in the near future...

I do forsee a murder too, well, two, actually. Alàs, I'm afraid that poor gentle Anastasia may vanish for good, along with that charming silly Henri... Freddie and Godfrey...

I bet that queen Sibylla would kill me just at the suggestion

I wonder which is going on on the Templars backside... and the faux basileion going crazier than usual... interesting... Guy is not going to have time to get bored...

[Qorten]

Another magnificent update AP! The intrigues are really starting to take shape now, aren't they? Personally I'm most intrigued by the Templar plot. Really wondering what all that fuss was about.

I very much like the humor you throw in so easily, not interfering or taking over the serious storyline.

[AlexanderPrimus]

@ Kurt_Steiner: Yes, Sibylla probably would freak out at such a suggestion. In her eyes, I think Frederica would be even more unsuitable than Anastasia.

As for the murders, well, we'll have to see who (if anyone) gets bumped off, won't we?

Hehe, and the Templars and Isaac are up to two completely different things, both of which will ultimately have a huge impact on the Kingdom.

@ Qorten: Thank you very much! Yes, the intrigues are indeed beginning to take shape. There's so much going on behind the scenes, and well, Guy is as oblivious as ever. We'll see who rises to the occasion at the end of it all.

As for the Templars, you'll see what that's all about in the next couple of updates as the Grand Master's plan comes to fruition.

[Enewald]

Somehow I just love the stories about ck more than the game.

[AlexanderPrimus]

Originally Posted by Enewald

Somehow I just love the stories about ck more than the game.

@ Enewald: Haha, I tend to agree, actually. I'm having loads more fun turning the gameplay into a narrative/history-book AAR than I would just playing the game on my own.

Also, to all the lurkers out there, feel free to post your comments and suggestions. I'd love to hear from you.

[Murmurandus]

Excellent update indeed. Love your cast indeed, especially the ladies...

[stnylan]

Those girls sound like they have read too many of the insulting contests that take place in an Aristophanes play.

This AAR continues very strong.

[Kurt_Steiner]

Originally Posted by AlexanderPrimus

@ Kurt_Steiner: Yes, Sibylla probably would freak out at such a suggestion. In her eyes, I think Frederica would be even more unsuitable than Anastasia.

If my lady Sibylla freaks at my suggestion, I just drop my suggestion. However, just for a moment, just imagine...

a quarrel Alix-Anastasia-Freddie...

[Kurt_Steiner]

I miss my lady Sibylla...


...and Freddie too


update, please!

[Enewald]

The inhabitants of the Duchy of CK-Aarland demand an update.
If we don't receive one, the we shall throw the nobles out from the windows and establish the Peoples Republic of Ck-Aarland

[AlexanderPrimus]

@ Murmurandus: Thanks again for your continued patronage. I'm glad my characters are turning into a "cast" -- I want them to be interesting.

@ stnylan: Thank you, good sir. I have read a bit of Aristophanes, though I like to think my writing is a bit cleaner than his. I had to read Lysistrata in high school. Absolutely scandalous!

@ Kurt_Steiner: I'm glad you like my lovely ladies. Don't worry, I think all of your suggestions may yet be implemented...

@ Enewald: Fear not! An update cometh! And I'm going to try really hard to get it done today.

[stnylan]

I was particularly thinking of The Knights and The Archanians with my Aristophanes comment. Not sure if you are familiar with those, but they both involve very entertaining - and expletive-filled - slagging matches.