(I acknowledge the likelihood of errors in the Latin title. Let me know if so, and I will edit and correct it. The intent is just to invoke Gildas' doom and gloom and turn it on its head, in any case.)
It is the 8th century, the Britons are nearly outcasts in their own homeland.
Ever westward push the English kings, growing fat on stolen land and becoming a strange hybrid of the age of the world heaving its last breath and the one just now gasping its first. Over the three centuries of their occupation they may have renounced their old gods, but the divide between Celt and German remains stark.
It may be wisely said that a peaceful coexistence between peoples would be the ideal, but the burden for this falls on the aggressor. The only duty owed by the people who have called this isle home since time immemorial is its defence. But there is no Arthur in this time, no Ambrosius. In these dark days, it falls to less glorious folk to put on a brave face and, as they say, begin slitting throats.
It will be played on Ironman mode, however, as I have never attempted a single-county start before and the location is slightly less forgiving than, say, Ireland, I will be manually backing up my save file in order to avert an early game over after I spent all this prose building this thing up. If I find myself in a completely unwinnable situation, of course, that's that, and I'll probably eventually have another go starting as a petty king, or just the same place but once I've improved at the game. And if I eventually lose in a way that seems to satisfyingly conclude the story, then hey, that'll be that.
The game rules:
-A focus on historicity, quite unlike my usual wild-fun way of playing; so, unusually for me, I have turned off supernatural/absurd events, demon worshippers, Children of Destiny, and the Aztec invasion, and set gender equality to default rather than full.
-For similar reasons, later historical events--the Mongols and the Black Death and such--have been set to happen at their vague historical time periods. This AAR, success or failure, might well never reach the 1200s, of course.
-I want to allow freedom of direction for the course of history, thus options like pagan reformation and the Roman revival are switched on, even though I have no intent of doing them in this campaign. Along these lines, to avoid pushing things in any one initial direction, Charlemagne story events have been turned off.
So, without further ado...
769. The sub-Roman Britons have been pushed back to the far west of the island; what once was a connected stretch of land belonging to the 'West Welsh' has become isolated; from the Dumnonii lands to the southeast and their cousins on the continent to cut-off Strathclyde, last remnant of the Old North. The might of Mercia and Northumbria goes uncontested. The Picts and Gaels to the far north remain strong, but their violent raids were the reason that accursed tyrant Vortigern invited the Saxons in the first place.
The line of Vortigern yet lives, though, and one bearing the dubious honour of being his descendant is the thoroughly unimpressive Ffernfael of Builth.
Neither cunning, nor warlike, nor possessed of any great skill. At the very least, he is well-read, and not easily swayed once so informed.
Ffernfael sometimes dreams of a united Welsh people, but so do many rulers, and all see themselves as the one to bring this unity, which usually defeats any notion of such a thing actually happening. It would, he thinks wistfully, go some way towards penance for his the sins of his forefather, though...
The other important players at the court of Builth are three:
The countess Sybil, quicker than her husband by far and possessed of a mind capable of great wickedness. She is one of a few who do not view Ffernfael's heritage as a stain on his honour; as she has explained, "the old tyrant had the right idea! Let two enemies destroy each other, see? I only rebuke him for being too dull-witted to pull it off properly."
Mihangel, only child of the peculiar couple, who stands to inherit the county someday. Still with much growing to do, he already spends all his free evenings in his father's library, sharing the love for the precious books.
One of which was personally illuminated by...
Bride, Builth's local bishop and a highly learned man. It must be said that he is far more famous and influential than the Count, conducting personal correspondence with Rome and being said by his flock to have performed miracles.
Spurred on by the histories of the great kings and emperors of old, and advised by those much wiser than himself, in the year 769 Count Ffernfael became gripped with a great fervor to carve out a kingdom. Something greater than this little patch of British land. Something that would be read about in the histories yet to come! As if stirred out of a decade-long slumber, he began the preparations for war. Loans were taken out. Messengers were dispatched, promising adventure and reward for skilled servants of state willing to join his court. And the Count himself began to drill daily. He knew he had no talent, but as the months rolled by, he began to grasp the basics of warfare.
His troops--whose numbers were steadily increasing under the Count's new galvanised eye--even began to regard him as an inspiring presence, even if still not a particularly skilful one.
If the Count wanted a kingdom, the men reckoned, they would be willing to embark on his fool venture. He had become a sort of symbol of determination in the face of all common sense, which the inhabitants of the tiny province could relate to.
Something quite auspicious was secured as spring came towards its end:
A betrothal between the Count's teenage cousin and a descendant of another legendary figure--Caradog, famed for his resistance of the Romans so many years ago. Perhaps this line was what a Britain in the grip of another occupation needed...and what's more, any child of these two could claim ancestry of both Caradog and Vortigern.
Not that said cousin, Braustudd, seemed likely to be interested in the young man...
She was possessed of boundless energy, always running off somewhere...but more notably, just last week the Count had spied her locking lips with the stable-girl! Well, thought Ffernfael that night, his plodding but methodical mind working through the concept, we are all as the Lord has made us, and there was hardly such thing as a noble marriage for love in all the world anyway.
In the end, her promising competence was more important than her choice of paramour--should something happen to the current heir, it would be her county to run, after all. Well, her father, uncle to the Count, technically came first in the line of succession, but at his advanced age he was unlikely to outlast either of the children.
And so, the preparations for expansion and ambition continued. New construction was even begun on the old crumbling walls of the capital hill-fort, for the first time in centuries. But one day the momentum just...ran out.
What was he doing? Did anyone really think this tiny realm, likely only left independent by an accident of inheritance lost to the past, could be the foundation for a kingdom like Gwynedd or Powys? And that a man like Ffernfael of all people could do such a thing? No, the Welsh would never unite. The English would sweep across the island and grind them all to dust, kick over their hill-forts and cover the earth with their long-houses. A great fear took hold of him. A fear, it occurred to him, his infamous ancestor must have felt. They are strong, we are weak, we can do nothing but cry for help.
"I am not Vortigern!" he yelled, leaping from his seat and barely restraining himself from hurling the book he was holding into the wall in a fit of rage. No, there would be no paralysing fear here. If Bluith was to be known as a realm that tried and failed, better than never being known at all.
It was in this state of exhilerated fury that the Count noticed his prestigious Bishop in the doorway--wild-eyed, out of breath, clutching a letter.
"I am the favourite. If nothing changes, I...am to be the next bishop of Rome."
-
Endnote: It probably bears mentioning that the emotions around the bloodline event to potentially gain Craven were basically real! It was around that time that I was having doubts--an inland single county is about as hard as it gets! But when given the option to 'make my own fate', I, like Ffernfael, decided to persevere, and as I mentioned earlier if this absolutely doesn't work I'll try again with a more dynamic start, but I'll certainly give it my best shot.
Of course, playing like this can also be quite slow, which is why I won't post a proper update until I have something substantial to report.
It is the 8th century, the Britons are nearly outcasts in their own homeland.
Ever westward push the English kings, growing fat on stolen land and becoming a strange hybrid of the age of the world heaving its last breath and the one just now gasping its first. Over the three centuries of their occupation they may have renounced their old gods, but the divide between Celt and German remains stark.
It may be wisely said that a peaceful coexistence between peoples would be the ideal, but the burden for this falls on the aggressor. The only duty owed by the people who have called this isle home since time immemorial is its defence. But there is no Arthur in this time, no Ambrosius. In these dark days, it falls to less glorious folk to put on a brave face and, as they say, begin slitting throats.
De Consurrecto et Revivo Britanniae
Introduction
This will be an AAR starting as the lowly Count Ffernfael of Builth, with the objectives of gaining dominion over the Britons and driving the Anglo-Saxons out of the island, or at least bringing them to heel.
It will be played on Ironman mode, however, as I have never attempted a single-county start before and the location is slightly less forgiving than, say, Ireland, I will be manually backing up my save file in order to avert an early game over after I spent all this prose building this thing up. If I find myself in a completely unwinnable situation, of course, that's that, and I'll probably eventually have another go starting as a petty king, or just the same place but once I've improved at the game. And if I eventually lose in a way that seems to satisfyingly conclude the story, then hey, that'll be that.
The game rules:
-A focus on historicity, quite unlike my usual wild-fun way of playing; so, unusually for me, I have turned off supernatural/absurd events, demon worshippers, Children of Destiny, and the Aztec invasion, and set gender equality to default rather than full.
-For similar reasons, later historical events--the Mongols and the Black Death and such--have been set to happen at their vague historical time periods. This AAR, success or failure, might well never reach the 1200s, of course.
-I want to allow freedom of direction for the course of history, thus options like pagan reformation and the Roman revival are switched on, even though I have no intent of doing them in this campaign. Along these lines, to avoid pushing things in any one initial direction, Charlemagne story events have been turned off.
So, without further ado...
Chapter 1
769. The sub-Roman Britons have been pushed back to the far west of the island; what once was a connected stretch of land belonging to the 'West Welsh' has become isolated; from the Dumnonii lands to the southeast and their cousins on the continent to cut-off Strathclyde, last remnant of the Old North. The might of Mercia and Northumbria goes uncontested. The Picts and Gaels to the far north remain strong, but their violent raids were the reason that accursed tyrant Vortigern invited the Saxons in the first place.
The line of Vortigern yet lives, though, and one bearing the dubious honour of being his descendant is the thoroughly unimpressive Ffernfael of Builth.
Neither cunning, nor warlike, nor possessed of any great skill. At the very least, he is well-read, and not easily swayed once so informed.
Ffernfael sometimes dreams of a united Welsh people, but so do many rulers, and all see themselves as the one to bring this unity, which usually defeats any notion of such a thing actually happening. It would, he thinks wistfully, go some way towards penance for his the sins of his forefather, though...
The other important players at the court of Builth are three:
The countess Sybil, quicker than her husband by far and possessed of a mind capable of great wickedness. She is one of a few who do not view Ffernfael's heritage as a stain on his honour; as she has explained, "the old tyrant had the right idea! Let two enemies destroy each other, see? I only rebuke him for being too dull-witted to pull it off properly."
Mihangel, only child of the peculiar couple, who stands to inherit the county someday. Still with much growing to do, he already spends all his free evenings in his father's library, sharing the love for the precious books.
One of which was personally illuminated by...
Bride, Builth's local bishop and a highly learned man. It must be said that he is far more famous and influential than the Count, conducting personal correspondence with Rome and being said by his flock to have performed miracles.
Spurred on by the histories of the great kings and emperors of old, and advised by those much wiser than himself, in the year 769 Count Ffernfael became gripped with a great fervor to carve out a kingdom. Something greater than this little patch of British land. Something that would be read about in the histories yet to come! As if stirred out of a decade-long slumber, he began the preparations for war. Loans were taken out. Messengers were dispatched, promising adventure and reward for skilled servants of state willing to join his court. And the Count himself began to drill daily. He knew he had no talent, but as the months rolled by, he began to grasp the basics of warfare.
His troops--whose numbers were steadily increasing under the Count's new galvanised eye--even began to regard him as an inspiring presence, even if still not a particularly skilful one.
If the Count wanted a kingdom, the men reckoned, they would be willing to embark on his fool venture. He had become a sort of symbol of determination in the face of all common sense, which the inhabitants of the tiny province could relate to.
Something quite auspicious was secured as spring came towards its end:
A betrothal between the Count's teenage cousin and a descendant of another legendary figure--Caradog, famed for his resistance of the Romans so many years ago. Perhaps this line was what a Britain in the grip of another occupation needed...and what's more, any child of these two could claim ancestry of both Caradog and Vortigern.
Not that said cousin, Braustudd, seemed likely to be interested in the young man...
She was possessed of boundless energy, always running off somewhere...but more notably, just last week the Count had spied her locking lips with the stable-girl! Well, thought Ffernfael that night, his plodding but methodical mind working through the concept, we are all as the Lord has made us, and there was hardly such thing as a noble marriage for love in all the world anyway.
In the end, her promising competence was more important than her choice of paramour--should something happen to the current heir, it would be her county to run, after all. Well, her father, uncle to the Count, technically came first in the line of succession, but at his advanced age he was unlikely to outlast either of the children.
And so, the preparations for expansion and ambition continued. New construction was even begun on the old crumbling walls of the capital hill-fort, for the first time in centuries. But one day the momentum just...ran out.
What was he doing? Did anyone really think this tiny realm, likely only left independent by an accident of inheritance lost to the past, could be the foundation for a kingdom like Gwynedd or Powys? And that a man like Ffernfael of all people could do such a thing? No, the Welsh would never unite. The English would sweep across the island and grind them all to dust, kick over their hill-forts and cover the earth with their long-houses. A great fear took hold of him. A fear, it occurred to him, his infamous ancestor must have felt. They are strong, we are weak, we can do nothing but cry for help.
"I am not Vortigern!" he yelled, leaping from his seat and barely restraining himself from hurling the book he was holding into the wall in a fit of rage. No, there would be no paralysing fear here. If Bluith was to be known as a realm that tried and failed, better than never being known at all.
It was in this state of exhilerated fury that the Count noticed his prestigious Bishop in the doorway--wild-eyed, out of breath, clutching a letter.
"I am the favourite. If nothing changes, I...am to be the next bishop of Rome."
-
Endnote: It probably bears mentioning that the emotions around the bloodline event to potentially gain Craven were basically real! It was around that time that I was having doubts--an inland single county is about as hard as it gets! But when given the option to 'make my own fate', I, like Ffernfael, decided to persevere, and as I mentioned earlier if this absolutely doesn't work I'll try again with a more dynamic start, but I'll certainly give it my best shot.
Of course, playing like this can also be quite slow, which is why I won't post a proper update until I have something substantial to report.
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