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Pretty nice, so far. I've never played EU3, but I've read a lot of the stories, and read about the guide to playing the Knights on the wiki. It seems really cool, good luck, may the Knights of St. John rise to great heights once more.
Ah, Crusader Kings is distracting me! Sorry, I will get back to this, I promise!
It's alright if you get distracted with Crusader Kings...
[Smiles Evilly]
As long as you do a Crusader Kings AAR sometime in the future.
Filibertus watched with pride as the great warship rolled off the slipway into the deep waters off the coast of Rhodes, its white sails billowing outwards in the wind and four masts standing elegant and tall.
Filibertus had dubbed it the Gilbert of Syria, named after the seventh Grandmaster of Order, one of their greatest stewards, because of the great wealth he knew would be produced by having this ship patrolling the Mediteranean and ensuring the safe return of taxes from Tangiers. Sleek and beautiful, with a graceful curve to her hull that made her glide through the water, the Gilbert was quite possibly the finest ship Filibertus had ever laid eyes upon. The shipmaster had not boasted idly, it would seem.
Fore and aft castles housed ballista, that could be fired upon any ship that they were pursuing... or being pursued by... while atop the castles were twin catapults, designed to throw rocks or oil in any direction. The hull, he was assured, was capable of withstanding significant punishment from a ballista or catapult, although he had been personally urged to keep the ship out of close combat, as a galley ram would have no trouble in shattering the hull and possibly even ripping the ship in two. It was, however, fast enough to evade punishment on the open seas... that is, unless the wind slacked. Filibertus sincerely hoped such poor luck would not occur on her maiden voyage.
Tomorrow, I will write up a summary of what has happened so far. But right now I have a multiplayer game of EU3.
Filibertus had dubbed it the Gilbert of Syria, named after the seventh Grandmaster of Order, one of their greatest stewards, because of the great wealth he knew would be produced by having this ship patrolling the Mediteranean and ensuring the safe return of taxes from Tangiers. Sleek and beautiful, with a graceful curve to her hull that made her glide through the water, the Gilbert was quite possibly the finest ship Filibertus had ever laid eyes upon. The shipmaster had not boasted idly, it would seem.
Fore and aft castles housed ballista, that could be fired upon any ship that they were pursuing... or being pursued by... while atop the castles were twin catapults, designed to throw rocks or oil in any direction. The hull, he was assured, was capable of withstanding significant punishment from a ballista or catapult, although he had been personally urged to keep the ship out of close combat, as a galley ram would have no trouble in shattering the hull and possibly even ripping the ship in two. It was, however, fast enough to evade punishment on the open seas... that is, unless the wind slacked. Filibertus sincerely hoped such poor luck would not occur on her maiden voyage.
Tomorrow, I will write up a summary of what has happened so far. But right now I have a multiplayer game of EU3.
Filibertus frowned in frustration. He had believed that this war was to be a simple one... and what a mistake that had been.
The great mountains and hills of Karaman were his for the taking, he had believed. The savage infidels who infested the lands could not possible stand before him. What a mistake that belief had been.
The soldiers and discipline of the Castillian crusaders would stand beside him, and aid him in his conquest. What a mistake that trust had been.
God would guide his blade and aid him in his command. What a mistake his faith had been.
It was so cruel. So unbelievably cruel. Just when the Order had been raised up to the pinnacle, chance conspired to throw it down once more upon the rocks below. Tears of shame welling in his eyes, Filibertus looked down at the logbook that sat upon his aged knees, shadows flickering across its pages in the firelight. His eyes swept across the records, searching through sentences such as "Advanced through the rocky terrain of the province of Karaman" and "Encountered the Spanish forces outside the city of Karaman", until he found the beginning point of his folly.
"Declared war upon the Karamani nation, alongside the Spanish kingdom of Castille, in a Papal-supported Crusade. Our ambassadors in the courts of the infidel report that the Osmanli and the Mamelukes have joined the Karamani and combined their forces against us..."
Filibertus raised a hand and ran it through his thick brown hair, now filled with more grey than brown and more lank with oil and travel-dust than it was thick or luxurious. The last time Filibertus had cared to look at himself in a mirror, his face had been well-lined with the stress of his position. He thought that his face probably now looked more akin to a spider-web than anything else.
Losing that battle had been the final straw, he believed. In the mountains of the province of Konya they had met, in a clash of steel and blood and fury, his four thousand armored and disciplined men-at-arms firmly entrenched on the mountainside with the six thousand Karamani rabble below. For ten days the battle had raged, until finally Filibertus saw no option other than to retreat. He had not recorded that in the logbook. No man should have his shame written down on paper like that.
With a roar of rage, Filibertus picked up the logbook and hurled it into the fire, his vision wavering as if he were seeing the room through a film of oil as exhaustion and sorrow conspired to overwhelm him, forcing him back into his seat. He watched in silence as the logbook curled up and withered in the flames, turning black and fading into ash. It reminded him, faintly, of a time decades ago, when he had watched his ship, the Red Spear, burn off the shores of Rhodes as he sat, exhausted and sodden, upon the shore. He had learnt then that piracy never pays, and he had believed that his survival was owed to God, for surely only God could have contrived such a miracle... the waves that washed over the deck in a perfectly calm sea, forcing him into the sea, washing him ashore... that was why he had joined the Order, and he had believed with zealous conviction that nothing, nothing could shake his faith in God. But to be so soundly defeated by the infidel... that had shaken his faith. Shaken it to the core.
Blood, and the thunder of steel ringing against steel. It surrounded Filibertus, noisier than any church bell tolling the hour. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood and death. He had lost most of the Christguard in the havok, but Geralt still rode at his side, immense waraxe in hand, and a half-dozen of the Christguard was still in sight, lances red with blood and gore where they had lances, others holding scimitars so coated with blood that sun and fire had no effect on the steel's surface. Their faces were stoic and emotionless, but Filibertus knew that beneath the facade was a growing sense of desperation, the same desperation that he had been holding inside him for over a month of running before the Karamani.
He stood in his stirrups, greatsword in hand, and looked over the melee that twisted sinously around him. The battle was surely lost, he knew, his meager forces could not hope to stand before the hordes of unwashed infidels who were assailing them. But they could inflict as many losses as possible before retreating into the waiting arms of ten thousand Castillian troops.
A whooping shout drew him back down into the saddle and twisted his head towards the sound. A dozen infidels, foot soldiers armed with spears and scimitars, came rushing towards him, howling with bloodlust and fury. Spitting curses, Geralt pushed his destrier into a charge and hurtled into the band, spilling them in all directions with the force of the charge. Holding his greatsword in hand, Filibertus rode after him, armor flashing in the sunlight and greatsword raised in fury. The first infidel he saw fell, headless, with one sweep of his greatsword, and he continued to cut his way through as they surrounded Geralt. He saw the man dragged from his saddle, a spear stuck through his leg and shoulder, and redoubled his assault. Seeing the Grandmaster in peril, some of the Christguard joined the fray, and in a matter of seconds the small band of infidels was slaughtered. The Christguard who had joined the fray rode on after quickly checking over the Grandmaster, but Geralt... Geralt was not so lucky.
With a burst of energy unlike any he had felt since his youth, Filibertus leapt from the saddle, burying his cumbersome greatsword in the soil with a single strike, and knelt by Geralt's side as the giant attempted to rise. A half-hundred cuts seemed to cover the man, and someone had thrust a spear through his thigh into the ground below, pinning him to the ground. Fury roiled across Geralt's face and emanated from his eyes as he discovered this; the man seemed to feel no pain whatsoever.
So died a barbarian hero.
Have I made up for my half a week of silence?
The great mountains and hills of Karaman were his for the taking, he had believed. The savage infidels who infested the lands could not possible stand before him. What a mistake that belief had been.
The soldiers and discipline of the Castillian crusaders would stand beside him, and aid him in his conquest. What a mistake that trust had been.
God would guide his blade and aid him in his command. What a mistake his faith had been.
It was so cruel. So unbelievably cruel. Just when the Order had been raised up to the pinnacle, chance conspired to throw it down once more upon the rocks below. Tears of shame welling in his eyes, Filibertus looked down at the logbook that sat upon his aged knees, shadows flickering across its pages in the firelight. His eyes swept across the records, searching through sentences such as "Advanced through the rocky terrain of the province of Karaman" and "Encountered the Spanish forces outside the city of Karaman", until he found the beginning point of his folly.
"Declared war upon the Karamani nation, alongside the Spanish kingdom of Castille, in a Papal-supported Crusade. Our ambassadors in the courts of the infidel report that the Osmanli and the Mamelukes have joined the Karamani and combined their forces against us..."
Filibertus raised a hand and ran it through his thick brown hair, now filled with more grey than brown and more lank with oil and travel-dust than it was thick or luxurious. The last time Filibertus had cared to look at himself in a mirror, his face had been well-lined with the stress of his position. He thought that his face probably now looked more akin to a spider-web than anything else.
Losing that battle had been the final straw, he believed. In the mountains of the province of Konya they had met, in a clash of steel and blood and fury, his four thousand armored and disciplined men-at-arms firmly entrenched on the mountainside with the six thousand Karamani rabble below. For ten days the battle had raged, until finally Filibertus saw no option other than to retreat. He had not recorded that in the logbook. No man should have his shame written down on paper like that.
With a roar of rage, Filibertus picked up the logbook and hurled it into the fire, his vision wavering as if he were seeing the room through a film of oil as exhaustion and sorrow conspired to overwhelm him, forcing him back into his seat. He watched in silence as the logbook curled up and withered in the flames, turning black and fading into ash. It reminded him, faintly, of a time decades ago, when he had watched his ship, the Red Spear, burn off the shores of Rhodes as he sat, exhausted and sodden, upon the shore. He had learnt then that piracy never pays, and he had believed that his survival was owed to God, for surely only God could have contrived such a miracle... the waves that washed over the deck in a perfectly calm sea, forcing him into the sea, washing him ashore... that was why he had joined the Order, and he had believed with zealous conviction that nothing, nothing could shake his faith in God. But to be so soundly defeated by the infidel... that had shaken his faith. Shaken it to the core.
******
Blood, and the thunder of steel ringing against steel. It surrounded Filibertus, noisier than any church bell tolling the hour. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood and death. He had lost most of the Christguard in the havok, but Geralt still rode at his side, immense waraxe in hand, and a half-dozen of the Christguard was still in sight, lances red with blood and gore where they had lances, others holding scimitars so coated with blood that sun and fire had no effect on the steel's surface. Their faces were stoic and emotionless, but Filibertus knew that beneath the facade was a growing sense of desperation, the same desperation that he had been holding inside him for over a month of running before the Karamani.
He stood in his stirrups, greatsword in hand, and looked over the melee that twisted sinously around him. The battle was surely lost, he knew, his meager forces could not hope to stand before the hordes of unwashed infidels who were assailing them. But they could inflict as many losses as possible before retreating into the waiting arms of ten thousand Castillian troops.
A whooping shout drew him back down into the saddle and twisted his head towards the sound. A dozen infidels, foot soldiers armed with spears and scimitars, came rushing towards him, howling with bloodlust and fury. Spitting curses, Geralt pushed his destrier into a charge and hurtled into the band, spilling them in all directions with the force of the charge. Holding his greatsword in hand, Filibertus rode after him, armor flashing in the sunlight and greatsword raised in fury. The first infidel he saw fell, headless, with one sweep of his greatsword, and he continued to cut his way through as they surrounded Geralt. He saw the man dragged from his saddle, a spear stuck through his leg and shoulder, and redoubled his assault. Seeing the Grandmaster in peril, some of the Christguard joined the fray, and in a matter of seconds the small band of infidels was slaughtered. The Christguard who had joined the fray rode on after quickly checking over the Grandmaster, but Geralt... Geralt was not so lucky.
With a burst of energy unlike any he had felt since his youth, Filibertus leapt from the saddle, burying his cumbersome greatsword in the soil with a single strike, and knelt by Geralt's side as the giant attempted to rise. A half-hundred cuts seemed to cover the man, and someone had thrust a spear through his thigh into the ground below, pinning him to the ground. Fury roiled across Geralt's face and emanated from his eyes as he discovered this; the man seemed to feel no pain whatsoever.
So died a barbarian hero.
Have I made up for my half a week of silence?
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To answer your last question, Taiisatai, yes, yes you have.
It would be so funny of this blow to their faith drove the knights into hiding, and renounced their christian ways, becoming sort of like the Illuminati. Hiding in the shadows, plotting rebellions, assassinations, invasions, the like.
I'm just being hopeful here.
It would be so funny of this blow to their faith drove the knights into hiding, and renounced their christian ways, becoming sort of like the Illuminati. Hiding in the shadows, plotting rebellions, assassinations, invasions, the like.
I'm just being hopeful here.
Cool
Hehe, for that I would need money, which I, unfortunately, completely lack. I've been pushing my Free Trade slider to the right as fast as I can so I can start trading, but until then...
I'm also afraid of what this war is going to do to me. There is no way I can stop them getting across the straits into Rhodes, and while they can't annex me, they can take practically everything else and I will be helpless to stop them. I haven't even loaded up the save because I'm afraid of what will happen
I'm also considering putting this AAR on hold and turning my focus on a Crusader Kings 2 AAR; the character-driven atmosphere and the way the game supports a continous narrative over a disjointed one suits my writing style much more comfortably. But if people don't want that, I'll of course continue this one through to the end, or as close as I can get.
Indeed, defeat is simply the way that it plays out sometimes.
After you put your fist through the monitor that is.
But I would say...load the save, you never know what might happen. I did that once after getting dogpiled playing Poland and nothing really bad happened. One part of the chain of calamity did occur but without the other couple of factors, it was very survivable.
Yeah, really, no problem if you switch to CK 2 AAR.
[Smiles evilly]
As long as you leave a link in this thread.
Great job so far, I can see the Knights are a tough challenge, I think I would like to play as them when I get EU3. Thanks for the entertaining and educational run!
...That is, assuming that you're actually going to quit. I may be saying goodbye a little bit too soon.
[Smiles evilly]
As long as you leave a link in this thread.
Great job so far, I can see the Knights are a tough challenge, I think I would like to play as them when I get EU3. Thanks for the entertaining and educational run!
...That is, assuming that you're actually going to quit. I may be saying goodbye a little bit too soon.
I'll persist, but updates will be irregular.
For the CK2 AAR, I was thinking a Polotsk to Kievan Rus or G.D. Of Lithuania game... or maybe a Reconquista AAR. Or anything else, really. Reader's choice!
For the CK2 AAR, I was thinking a Polotsk to Kievan Rus or G.D. Of Lithuania game... or maybe a Reconquista AAR. Or anything else, really. Reader's choice!
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