Children of the Fatherland: MP conversion game
- Thread starter King of Men
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Since he saw what assassins did to Poland, realized no vR substitute would come to save him, and lookade across the pond.
But isn't he sitting pretty?
Fear of Croatian retaliation.
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The Fatimid Caliphate: The Afzali Edict
The mighty throne room of the Fortified Lighthouse-Palace of Pharos. A strong light shines from above the throne of the Emir al-Mu'minin, casting shadows among the aged pillars that bear the ancient wonder like Atlas upon its shoulders.
Strong men stand at rigid attention along the walls holding the Great Emerald Banners of the various Guard regiments, bearing litanies, trophies and marks commemorating the various great victories of their respective histories.
The Emirs, representatives of the various Guilds, high clergy and other factions have taken their seats among divans and pillows at the feet of the massive throne, its gold and jewels reflecting upon their faces in the light.
There is murmuring and hushed discussion over the meaning of this audience, some asking if the old bugger has finally decided to descend from his mountain of gold to at last deal with the Greek menace. Others fear it is the end of their low taxes, or that he will demand costly reorganizations of the armies. The older amongst them reassure that he must intend to take action against the growing influence of the exiled Prince Sayyid of Beirut, and his dark organization's unconscionable doings amongst those who have stood against the Fatimid line.
The harsh sound of iron staff against marble floor quiets the assembled Saracen lords.
"All hail Calipha Afzal! Light of Pharos, Righteous Blood of the Prophet, Slayer of Greeks, Vanquisher of Crusades, Great Imam of the Dar al-Islam and Allah's Appointed Representative on Earth!" Bellowed the graying but ornate Rafzul Fatimid, Master of the Courts, smashing his staff into the floor thrice.
"Guide us oh light of Allah" The response echoed as the assembled dignitaries and Guardsmen bowed down, faces to the floor.
A solitary figure entered through the great bronze doors. Dressed in the resplendent golden armour of the Sayyedi Guard adorned with additional emeralds and safires, the broad cloak billowing behind him a glimmering green and a pointedly plain cavalry scimitar hanging by his side. Afzal was the very vision of a victorious ruler of a continent straddling empire. His vassals waited patiently as he slowly made his way through the packed grand hall, a bit to regally slow in the mind of the arthritic Emir of Sicily. The Calipha took his place on his throne, paused for effect, and responded.
"Arise ye faithful"
There was a rustle as the men again took their places. There was some impatience as Rafzul droned through the pleasantries and went through the motions of etiquette. After some business of rabbling he finally got to the last piece of official business.
"..blaming us for causing the death of half of the Polarian royal court." The Master of the Courts unfurled one last scroll "To the business of founding a second Academy of War in Palermo, as well as a seat for the Engineers guild in Siracusa. Approach, lord Sayaddin ibn Isa of the Seventh Branch Fatimids."
A grizzled old man clad in the Guards armour approached the throne with a second carrying a mostly plain Emerald Banner, both marching in lockstep at a pace somewhat unsuited to the hallowed halls. They stopped in well practiced sync, kneeling before the throne and lowering the banner before the Calipha.
"ibn Isa" Afzal began walking down to the commander "For your command three times at Messina, we grant you in addition to your commands the title of Master of the Western Recruits. And solemnly charge you with the preparations and doctrine for repelling the Infidels as well as the protections of all the faithful, wherever they may live." The Calipha finished, placing a simple diadem of silver upon his head. Servants scurried to him with the prepared decoration as he turned to the second "And to the Banner of Palermo we add to your glories the crown of Croatia for your repeated valorous repelling of the infidel crusaders" he said as he affixed the trophy taken from the barbarian kings head to the Banner "Let your zeal and faith never fail or falter, arise ye faithful."
"The light of Allah guide us" The two men responded, as they straightened and turned to take their place amongst the others.
As Afzal took again his place the dignitaries awaited in nervous anticipation, a new academy surely foretold the beginning of preparations for a long anticipated showdown with the archenemy.
"Emirs, lords Fatimid" The Calipha began in a low voice, forcing them to lean in "As you know Allah has put upon me the holy work of speaking his word, for the purity of my blood flowing from the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon his name. The command of his realm upon earth and the protection of his faithful could fall on no other than my line, by his command. It is a burden laid on the Fatimid line, for which he has blessed us with the wisdom and fortitude to carry out his work according to his will. Can any man deny his blessings?"
There was a murmur of approval from most the assembled, who had indeed been blessed with much riches since the days of Ala'i's reconquests. Amongst some of the older and wiser emirs however a sense of foreboding chilled the spine.
"It is therefore that I now reveal yet another step in Allah's most blessed intent and will for his people to prosper; That the consecrated line of the Prophet shall rule in all the lands of the dar al-Islam! Henceforth no man who is not of the Fatimid line shall hold the title of Emir, and no man who is not Fatimid or the son or sons son of a Fatimid shall hold command of a Banner. Such is the will of Allah, his light be upon us!" Afzal lowered his arms and awaited the expected response, which was not late in coming.
"You strip us of our lands and titles, in one fell swoop you mean to revoke the positions and privileges of thirteen Emirs?" the gray old Raymond al-Auteville, who had believed his realm would be protected from Fatimid usurpation by his proven merit of command at Messina, bellowed in typical Normand outrage "You mean to tell us the kings of the two Romes, or the Franks are more rightful in commanding the faithful than I, because their father got a Fatimid wench in some diplomatic deal? And you expect us to quietly sit here and accept this as the word of Allah"
"I do" The Calipha answered and flicked his finger
A man clad in plain robes stood up, walked over to the Emir of Sicily, and unceremoniously cut his head in twain.
The assembled lords and retinues gaped aghast first at the slain Emir, then at Afzal himself.
"No one has ever accused us of being subtle" Quoth the Calipha.
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Damn its AAR's like these that really make me wish absolutely everything you wrote happened in game.
To avoid confusion: Michael the Elder died of old age in his fifties; Michael the Younger, my God-King, died of a wound he got from an assassination event, not from a player sending an assassin. (Being a God-King, he had Intrigue of 17 and was well protected from that. But the RNG goes whither it wills, and no lock nor bar hinders its coming.) However, for AAR and roleplaying purposes, someone had to send that assassin, and retrospectively the death of the elder Thomas looks suspicious too.
Man proposes, God disposes. The elder Michael dreamed of glory, of an act of conquest that would fix his name in the firmament among his illustrious ancestors; to that purpose he built armies, fortified important passes, created military colonies in abandoned lands, and obsessively collected maps and city plans. He died, ingloriously, in his bed. There was no warning sickness, no cough that refused to die. Just - a man no longer youthful, not even middle-aged, but seemingly healthy enough for all that; going to bed one night and never waking. A tragedy, a disaster; a commonplace, not worth remarking on. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away; praised be the name of the Lord.
Man proposes; yet when his plans are disposed twice in a row, the wise man thinks, not of God, but of enemy action. The younger Michael, Michael the Blessed, with all the God-given gifts the elder had been denied, wished - as a monument to his father; as a thing worth doing in itself; who can say? - to use his father's preparations, to expand the Empire's boundaries and leave to his sons a greater realm than he had himself inherited. In his case the assassins were less subtle. A disloyal servant, a knife glinting in a darkened chamber, a struggle, a wound that festered and turned mortal. The killer did not live to confess, but he hardly needed to. Cui, after all, bono? The Roman people invented that adage, and the intrigues of the Byzantine court have made its application a high art. Who benefits, when a warrior Emperor of the highest possible gifts died, and a child took the purple? Who is known for interfering in the affairs of other realms with the use of highly-deniable assassinations? Who, indeed, has adjusted the Cypriot Succession in their own favour not once, but three times, each time more openly?
The Emperor Basileios, Imperator, thrice-anointed chosen of the Senate and the People of Rome... is a child of six. Until he is grown, power rests in the hands of the court, and with so many strong and capable personalities without an acknowledged leader to give them direction, the Empire is, in effect, incapable of concentrating on anything but domestic matters. The courtiers are not disloyal, and they know their politics. They go out of their way to demonstrate that they do not threaten each other; they understand that the first time any one of them feels forced to shore up his position in self-defense, the avalanche will be unstoppable, and none of them wishes to be the snowflake. Yet by the same token, they all know that every one of them is subtle and clever: Any movement that is unambiguously against internal dissent could be the opening move of a long campaign to discredit this one, or to put another in an unassailable position as vanquisher of an external enemy. Thus the court is paralysed, not by suspicion, but by the loyal desire of the court not to cause such suspicion. The effect is much the same: Rome cannot act.
But it can remember.
The fortresses that Michael built are still there; the military colonies still exist. The affairs of the State may wait for a decade, while the boy Emperor grows into a man capable of avenging his father. It is no matter; the State is millennia old. It can afford to wait. Rome is patient.
Man proposes, God disposes. The elder Michael dreamed of glory, of an act of conquest that would fix his name in the firmament among his illustrious ancestors; to that purpose he built armies, fortified important passes, created military colonies in abandoned lands, and obsessively collected maps and city plans. He died, ingloriously, in his bed. There was no warning sickness, no cough that refused to die. Just - a man no longer youthful, not even middle-aged, but seemingly healthy enough for all that; going to bed one night and never waking. A tragedy, a disaster; a commonplace, not worth remarking on. The Lord gives, the Lord takes away; praised be the name of the Lord.
Man proposes; yet when his plans are disposed twice in a row, the wise man thinks, not of God, but of enemy action. The younger Michael, Michael the Blessed, with all the God-given gifts the elder had been denied, wished - as a monument to his father; as a thing worth doing in itself; who can say? - to use his father's preparations, to expand the Empire's boundaries and leave to his sons a greater realm than he had himself inherited. In his case the assassins were less subtle. A disloyal servant, a knife glinting in a darkened chamber, a struggle, a wound that festered and turned mortal. The killer did not live to confess, but he hardly needed to. Cui, after all, bono? The Roman people invented that adage, and the intrigues of the Byzantine court have made its application a high art. Who benefits, when a warrior Emperor of the highest possible gifts died, and a child took the purple? Who is known for interfering in the affairs of other realms with the use of highly-deniable assassinations? Who, indeed, has adjusted the Cypriot Succession in their own favour not once, but three times, each time more openly?
The Emperor Basileios, Imperator, thrice-anointed chosen of the Senate and the People of Rome... is a child of six. Until he is grown, power rests in the hands of the court, and with so many strong and capable personalities without an acknowledged leader to give them direction, the Empire is, in effect, incapable of concentrating on anything but domestic matters. The courtiers are not disloyal, and they know their politics. They go out of their way to demonstrate that they do not threaten each other; they understand that the first time any one of them feels forced to shore up his position in self-defense, the avalanche will be unstoppable, and none of them wishes to be the snowflake. Yet by the same token, they all know that every one of them is subtle and clever: Any movement that is unambiguously against internal dissent could be the opening move of a long campaign to discredit this one, or to put another in an unassailable position as vanquisher of an external enemy. Thus the court is paralysed, not by suspicion, but by the loyal desire of the court not to cause such suspicion. The effect is much the same: Rome cannot act.
But it can remember.
The fortresses that Michael built are still there; the military colonies still exist. The affairs of the State may wait for a decade, while the boy Emperor grows into a man capable of avenging his father. It is no matter; the State is millennia old. It can afford to wait. Rome is patient.
Thank you.
As for the stuff happening in game, well, most of it did. This past session I built an academy of war in Palermo, revoked all the duke titles not held by my dynasty (a dozen or so), beat back an AI Croatian crusade led by their king for the third time in 2 sessions, had the emir of Sicily assassinated since the rebellious bugger insisted on getting loyalty-loss events every two weeks, and noticed the mothers of the rulers of east Rome and Loire as well as the paternal grand mother of the king of west Rome are all Fatimids. (and I believe the maternal grandmother of the Croatian king also)
The aar is simply interpretations of the Game
BACCHUS
“One of those mornings eh?”
“Oh shut…”
“I peg my pardon, but your highness did feel right last night? At least you were observed to have fun times.”
“Who had? Who…ohh…mm…”
“Quite right your highness, you need anything special? Water perhaps… We have these springs here.
“Bacchus!”’
“Your highness but my amusement is just sincere reflect of my love and tenderness towards my lady! If my concern over you overwhelms my …”
“…”
“…and naturally I’m deeply sorry if I somehow interrupted you…”
“Bacchus, please…”
“My lady…”
“Would you… at least turn back the curtains…the sunlight…and BACCHUS!”
“But my lady”
“Not now, my hair is not in any condition for you to admire…”
“My lady, my deep… My lady?”
“Yeas?”
“Should we…you, arrange those …sheets?”
“Oh you dirty little…!”
****
“Bacchus!”
“My lady and sunlight! in your service…”
“springs.”
“mmm…yeas?”
“Indeed yeas.”
“mmm….summers?”
“SPRINGS, of water! You bragged with your springs so now gather up your plumy buttocks and bring me some water.”
“Offcourse my lady and…”
“What more? Just be on with it…”
“My lady. In which spring particularly?”
“For I care the one that tastes most wet to my dry mouth”
“But your highness, these springs, they…”
“What Bacchus? Bring me eternal youth? Makes me immortal? Bacchus, you forget who I am do you?”
“Absolutely not my highness, Queen of the Elfland…it is just that…”
“What?”
“Well…there are other kinds of springs…ones whose water taste like sulfur and burn your mouth but with one drip you could ride for two nights a row without even feeling tired. Then there are those springs whom taste is like god pissing on your…I peg my pardon your highness, but the taste is like molten gold atop of strawberry cake…and one drip of it makes you sleep for twelve months and a day…”
“I won’t…wouldn’t mind sleeping a twelve month at this point, but Bacchus, I trust your insight, Just bring me water.”
“Do you?”
“…”
“…really?”
“Oh for my own sake! Bacchus! Do not act like a spoiled brat. Keep that sycophant act together. This is entirely your fault! And that wine of yours…”
“But my lady…”
“Be gone now!”
****
“Your highness?”
“Come in.”
“feeling any better…? Right…well here is water…from two springs actually, as I didn’t know how to make the difference.”
“Just pour it into my cup.”
“Well off course my lady. This first spring…it has nasty side effects when bathing in it, but I haven’t heard of it affecting drinking…though I don’t drink water do I?”
“What side effects…”
“Well I once knew a boy who swim there… and he…well she rose up there a girl.”
“…”
“But I haven’t heard of the opposite! Despite…”
“Despite what?”
“You would make a handsome King of the Elfland…”
“…”
“Rigth. Yeas, the other pond…this is bit tricky. Its powers seem to depend on the strength …mental strength of the one who drinks from it…”
“Oh Bacchus, just spoonful of water, and nothing more. No powers. No magic. Not this time.”
“Oh but my Dear Dôn, where are all the playfulness? Queen of fairies who don’t want to tease a mortal to gamble whit his own fate…”
“Bacchus! You are a god.”
“Yeas…but.”
“Just fill my cup will you?”
“Quite right. I’ll fill both of them and you decide yourself whether you want to become a man or tell…”
“Tell what?”
“…tell me a truthful answer my first question.”
“You little…”
****
“My lady?”
“Just hit it and be gone forever…”
“Well now when you say so…”
“Just tell me one thing before that.”
“Very well sure.”
“Who…who had observed me having merry time last night? What are they speaking there when I’m still slowly dying?”
“Well your highness hardly wants to hear about those things. Those were merry feast, everybody enjoyed themselves, and no one got hurt… much. Let’s just pass onwards shall we?”
“Bacchus!...oh never mind. Just ask me if you want to know which cup I drank…”
“You did…you choose…My lady? My lord?”
“Hah, I love the look of amazement in your face, it doesn’t suite you at all!”
Filthy, sneaking Arabs! I can not wait for those desert bandits to be hurled back into the tractless wastes from which they came.
They squat amidst the pillaged remains of Roman greatness, of Hellenic genius, and call themselves an Empire. They stand on the shoulders of giants who would revile them!
Such a perch is not a stable one. How long before the iniquities they have wrought come tumbling down?
They squat amidst the pillaged remains of Roman greatness, of Hellenic genius, and call themselves an Empire. They stand on the shoulders of giants who would revile them!
Such a perch is not a stable one. How long before the iniquities they have wrought come tumbling down?
KoM has a 9 year old ruler in realm duress!
There are no Komnenus heirs!
After threats from Normandie to release Rome to the Pope or die, KoM buyes time with a lie that he's dealing with popups!
HOWEVER!
KoM switches to elective and hands out titles to get a Komnenus in the line of succession!
HOWEVER!
A few months later a Palaigoes is first in line, and Normandie takes the chance to quickly assassinate the Komnenus and now the Komnenus are no longer the emperors of Bulgaria!
There are no Komnenus heirs!
After threats from Normandie to release Rome to the Pope or die, KoM buyes time with a lie that he's dealing with popups!
HOWEVER!
KoM switches to elective and hands out titles to get a Komnenus in the line of succession!
HOWEVER!
A few months later a Palaigoes is first in line, and Normandie takes the chance to quickly assassinate the Komnenus and now the Komnenus are no longer the emperors of Bulgaria!
