Well, that's where you go for expertise on the thing currently ruling Egypt. The Aiello are only interesting to the Miskatonics insofar as they come into contact with the eldritch.
As far as I know it, but unfortunately it didn't.
God of Our Fathers, an MP Megacampagin AAR
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Well, that's where you go for expertise on the thing currently ruling Egypt. The Aiello are only interesting to the Miskatonics insofar as they come into contact with the eldritch.
As far as I know it, but unfortunately it didn't.
Captains Three
Extracts from the play Captains Three, or, the Comical History of the Moroccan Merchant, first performed in Venice around 1539. Translated from the Italian by John Hewegger.
Dramatis Personae
Humongous Khan, ruler of a vast nation but not of his bedchamber.
Jolly Shah, a merchant of Morocco, vassal to Humongous Khan, skilled in trade but not war.
Doctor Ba-lyne, his councillor, a scholar learned in the arts of statecraft.
Sundry mercenary Captains, rough men standing ready to do violence on any rich man's behalf.
A messenger, too unimportant to get a sardonic description; let him be grateful for being a speaking part.
Act I, Scene I
Humongous Khan: Now is the morning of my discontent; what passed in the night we shall pass over in silence, yet let this much be said: My passion is not slaked, and must needs find some outlet. Bring me my maps, my counselors, my list of vassals; someone shall suffer for this!
Act I, Scene II
Jolly Shah: It is intolerable; it shall not stand! A hundred years this city has held wide lands of the Humongite kings; a hundred years of leal service, to be repaid in this false coin? Not while I am Wallah-Emir! And Wallah-Emir I shall remain, while there are soldiers to take the field, and gold to pay them; the title is given me by God, and shall not be taken away by the false Emperor. Summon my hosts!
Doctor Ba-lyne: To resist an evil demand is a good deed; yet even the best deed must be well done. In Morocco are men of bazaar and countinghouse, skilled in trade and artisanry, suited well to piping times of peace; but if we are to fight, as fight we must, then men of war are needed.
Jolly Shah: It shall be even as thou sayest; let the summons go out to the camps, that mercenary captains may find gold at Morocco.
(Enter a dozen Captains.)
First Captain: The rumour of gold has brought me here; ten thousand men have I, all ready to kill and maim, to slay and conquer, at the word of a man who commands the yellow metal.
Second Captain: Heed him not; his ten thousand bear but spear and shield, and for want of corslets and helms perish, when seasoned warriors come near. Five thousand men have I, apparelled for war; heavy with mail and plate, they await but the sight of shining coins to swear your service.
Third Captain: His men are heavy indeed; yet I own they will do good service against an obliging foe, that attacks the place where they are mustered. Pay me, and eight thousand Berber horse shall obey your slightest command, and hunt your enemies as the falcon hunts the hare, which is to say, more swiftly than the tortoise is accustomed to hunt lettuce.
Jolly Shah: It is well; cease your quarrels, you are all hired.
Dr Ba-lyne: Wait, what?
Captains: All?
Jolly Shah: Aye, all! Do we not face the armies of Humongous Khan? We shall need every man for the struggle! Muster your bands; Morocco marches to war!
Act II, Scene I
Dr Ba-lyne: My Shah, wouldst hear good tidings, or ill?
Jolly Shah: Let us first hear the bad, that we may be cheered by the good.
Dr Ba-lyne: Good cheer will be needed, for we are broke.
Jolly Shah: Broke?
Dr Ba-lyne: So the vulgar call the condition of being out of money; of having no cash; of one's treasury echoing desolately to the call of the cricket and the bat; above all, of one's mercenaries, rashly hired in too great a number, grumbling about late pay and scanty ration, and threatening desertion and rebellion.
Jolly Shah: Let them grumble; it will give them strength in battle. And what is thy other news?
Dr Ba-lyne: We have captured a messenger, bearing the word of the Humongous Khan to those same discontented soldiers. Behold the seal of the Empire, hear the word of the Khan:
Humongous Khan (from offstage): You have seen that there is no money in Morocco; but the coffers of mine Empire do overflow with silver and gold, with jewels and silks. Alas! But little do such gauds console a man whose nights are cold; therefore do I freely promise and bestow them upon you, if you do but rise against the rebels. The fifteenth of this June I appoint as the date; on that day there shall be rebellion against revolt, and good order shall be restored to the Empire; may it spread from Morocco to my chambers.
Jolly Shah: Thy good news fails to cheer.
Dr Ba-lyne: Then let strategy serve where force has failed. Look thou, here are letters to each of our Captains, all bearing the same word, to rise in strength on the Ides of June. Now by secret arts, such as the best universities teach, I alter one, so its rebellion is summoned on the twentieth; to another Captain, let Humongous Khan seem to send word that the twenty-fifth is the date; and so throughout the pile.
Jolly Shah: I take not thy meaning.
Dr Ba-lyne: And now we send the Khan's word, not by this dog of a captive, but by a trusted man of our own, to the Captains; let each rise on the date appointed him, believing his fellows will rise likewise; and let each find himself alone, to be destroyed by the concert of the mercenaries of Europe!
Act III, Scene V
Humongous Khan (now full of good cheer): Our plans in ruin and our stratagem defeated? The mercenaries of Europe have destroyed each other like the snake that eats its own tail, and our vassal sends insolent word of peace? No matter! The nights of my discontent are turned glorious summer by my new concubine, and I am at peace with all men. Come, give me the treaty; behold I sign, with a flourish, thus! And return the land to the piping days of peace, to be governed by my council, the whiles I while away my time in the harem. I bid you all good day, for such a one I expect to have myself.
(Exit the Khan, whistling)
(Curtain)
Nothing of great interest happened to Venice this session, but we were diverted by much drama in Spain. Gollevainen, a veteran of the older megacampaigns, joined us, taking over Mark's old slot in Morocco - a vassal to Spain. Dragoon was not present, but was subbed by Khan; since Dragoon has apparently decided to become a primarily African power, he had given his sub instructions to destroy the Moroccan slot if a human tried to play it. Khan naturally started by revoking Golle's primary title, on which Golle declared war. An uneven match; but Golle, with characteristic Finnish flair, ran away with the advice he received to hire mercenaries, and hired every mercenary company in the game. He later explained that he thought they worked like mercenaries in EU, one thousand soldiers to the company. Of course, he could not maintain such an army in the field, not even with subsidies from half of Europe; so they started defecting to Khan. One by one. While standing in a 100k-strong doomstack. So Golle's shrinking doomstack fought a series of battles against single mercenary companies; in this manner he quickly accumulated 100% warscore, and enforced a white peace.
For all I know this is a well-known exploit, long banned in serious MP games, and nobody else finds it funny; but it was new to me and apparently some other players, and we laughed so hard we decided to let Golle get away with it - also because he convincingly argued that it wasn't deliberate, he just didn't realise what would happen. White peace in place of Enforce Demands also worked in his favour here. Nonetheless, there were some accusations of foul meta-play; in particular, Khan accused Blayne of having brought in Golle to play Morocco and mess up Dragoon's African empire, and Fimconte accused Blayne of having brought in Golle to end Morocco's AI protection and strengthen Dragoon's African empire. The mutual annihilation of these charges created an explosion that blew Golle into the Syrian slot, recently vacated by Oddman. The African empire, then, is still a thing.
Central Med, 1363. Venice rules quite a reasonable fraction of mainland Italy. I expect the Kievan inheritance in the south to return to me diplomatically.
Extracts from the play Captains Three, or, the Comical History of the Moroccan Merchant, first performed in Venice around 1539. Translated from the Italian by John Hewegger.
Dramatis Personae
Humongous Khan, ruler of a vast nation but not of his bedchamber.
Jolly Shah, a merchant of Morocco, vassal to Humongous Khan, skilled in trade but not war.
Doctor Ba-lyne, his councillor, a scholar learned in the arts of statecraft.
Sundry mercenary Captains, rough men standing ready to do violence on any rich man's behalf.
A messenger, too unimportant to get a sardonic description; let him be grateful for being a speaking part.
Act I, Scene I
Humongous Khan: Now is the morning of my discontent; what passed in the night we shall pass over in silence, yet let this much be said: My passion is not slaked, and must needs find some outlet. Bring me my maps, my counselors, my list of vassals; someone shall suffer for this!
Act I, Scene II
Jolly Shah: It is intolerable; it shall not stand! A hundred years this city has held wide lands of the Humongite kings; a hundred years of leal service, to be repaid in this false coin? Not while I am Wallah-Emir! And Wallah-Emir I shall remain, while there are soldiers to take the field, and gold to pay them; the title is given me by God, and shall not be taken away by the false Emperor. Summon my hosts!
Doctor Ba-lyne: To resist an evil demand is a good deed; yet even the best deed must be well done. In Morocco are men of bazaar and countinghouse, skilled in trade and artisanry, suited well to piping times of peace; but if we are to fight, as fight we must, then men of war are needed.
Jolly Shah: It shall be even as thou sayest; let the summons go out to the camps, that mercenary captains may find gold at Morocco.
(Enter a dozen Captains.)
First Captain: The rumour of gold has brought me here; ten thousand men have I, all ready to kill and maim, to slay and conquer, at the word of a man who commands the yellow metal.
Second Captain: Heed him not; his ten thousand bear but spear and shield, and for want of corslets and helms perish, when seasoned warriors come near. Five thousand men have I, apparelled for war; heavy with mail and plate, they await but the sight of shining coins to swear your service.
Third Captain: His men are heavy indeed; yet I own they will do good service against an obliging foe, that attacks the place where they are mustered. Pay me, and eight thousand Berber horse shall obey your slightest command, and hunt your enemies as the falcon hunts the hare, which is to say, more swiftly than the tortoise is accustomed to hunt lettuce.
Jolly Shah: It is well; cease your quarrels, you are all hired.
Dr Ba-lyne: Wait, what?
Captains: All?
Jolly Shah: Aye, all! Do we not face the armies of Humongous Khan? We shall need every man for the struggle! Muster your bands; Morocco marches to war!
Act II, Scene I
Dr Ba-lyne: My Shah, wouldst hear good tidings, or ill?
Jolly Shah: Let us first hear the bad, that we may be cheered by the good.
Dr Ba-lyne: Good cheer will be needed, for we are broke.
Jolly Shah: Broke?
Dr Ba-lyne: So the vulgar call the condition of being out of money; of having no cash; of one's treasury echoing desolately to the call of the cricket and the bat; above all, of one's mercenaries, rashly hired in too great a number, grumbling about late pay and scanty ration, and threatening desertion and rebellion.
Jolly Shah: Let them grumble; it will give them strength in battle. And what is thy other news?
Dr Ba-lyne: We have captured a messenger, bearing the word of the Humongous Khan to those same discontented soldiers. Behold the seal of the Empire, hear the word of the Khan:
Humongous Khan (from offstage): You have seen that there is no money in Morocco; but the coffers of mine Empire do overflow with silver and gold, with jewels and silks. Alas! But little do such gauds console a man whose nights are cold; therefore do I freely promise and bestow them upon you, if you do but rise against the rebels. The fifteenth of this June I appoint as the date; on that day there shall be rebellion against revolt, and good order shall be restored to the Empire; may it spread from Morocco to my chambers.
Jolly Shah: Thy good news fails to cheer.
Dr Ba-lyne: Then let strategy serve where force has failed. Look thou, here are letters to each of our Captains, all bearing the same word, to rise in strength on the Ides of June. Now by secret arts, such as the best universities teach, I alter one, so its rebellion is summoned on the twentieth; to another Captain, let Humongous Khan seem to send word that the twenty-fifth is the date; and so throughout the pile.
Jolly Shah: I take not thy meaning.
Dr Ba-lyne: And now we send the Khan's word, not by this dog of a captive, but by a trusted man of our own, to the Captains; let each rise on the date appointed him, believing his fellows will rise likewise; and let each find himself alone, to be destroyed by the concert of the mercenaries of Europe!
Act III, Scene V
Humongous Khan (now full of good cheer): Our plans in ruin and our stratagem defeated? The mercenaries of Europe have destroyed each other like the snake that eats its own tail, and our vassal sends insolent word of peace? No matter! The nights of my discontent are turned glorious summer by my new concubine, and I am at peace with all men. Come, give me the treaty; behold I sign, with a flourish, thus! And return the land to the piping days of peace, to be governed by my council, the whiles I while away my time in the harem. I bid you all good day, for such a one I expect to have myself.
(Exit the Khan, whistling)
(Curtain)
Nothing of great interest happened to Venice this session, but we were diverted by much drama in Spain. Gollevainen, a veteran of the older megacampaigns, joined us, taking over Mark's old slot in Morocco - a vassal to Spain. Dragoon was not present, but was subbed by Khan; since Dragoon has apparently decided to become a primarily African power, he had given his sub instructions to destroy the Moroccan slot if a human tried to play it. Khan naturally started by revoking Golle's primary title, on which Golle declared war. An uneven match; but Golle, with characteristic Finnish flair, ran away with the advice he received to hire mercenaries, and hired every mercenary company in the game. He later explained that he thought they worked like mercenaries in EU, one thousand soldiers to the company. Of course, he could not maintain such an army in the field, not even with subsidies from half of Europe; so they started defecting to Khan. One by one. While standing in a 100k-strong doomstack. So Golle's shrinking doomstack fought a series of battles against single mercenary companies; in this manner he quickly accumulated 100% warscore, and enforced a white peace.
For all I know this is a well-known exploit, long banned in serious MP games, and nobody else finds it funny; but it was new to me and apparently some other players, and we laughed so hard we decided to let Golle get away with it - also because he convincingly argued that it wasn't deliberate, he just didn't realise what would happen. White peace in place of Enforce Demands also worked in his favour here. Nonetheless, there were some accusations of foul meta-play; in particular, Khan accused Blayne of having brought in Golle to play Morocco and mess up Dragoon's African empire, and Fimconte accused Blayne of having brought in Golle to end Morocco's AI protection and strengthen Dragoon's African empire. The mutual annihilation of these charges created an explosion that blew Golle into the Syrian slot, recently vacated by Oddman. The African empire, then, is still a thing.
Central Med, 1363. Venice rules quite a reasonable fraction of mainland Italy. I expect the Kievan inheritance in the south to return to me diplomatically.
X - Carpet Shop Boys
Alexandria, the Venitian quarter, 1362
Girolamo slipped out of the scorching heat of the street and into the darker, quiet shop, through a jingling bead curtain. He gave and received a rehearsed nod, and the shopkeeper made himself scarce. At the back of the shop there stood a big blue-eyed brute, with a scarf poorly wrapped around his head, rifling through the carpets on a low table.
“I don’t need to ask if you’re a Templar agent”
When a young man, Girolamo had thought the way landed nobility could fuck up even the simplest task was mere cluelessness, the ineptitude of men so sheltered and privileged they had lost the common touch as a breed and never had it as individuals. But now that he had reached the age of gray hair and regrets, he suspected there was more to it, a kind of peevish provocation. There was a kind of perverse effort in how bad that notional disguise was, more than it would have taken to come in plain clothes which if anything would have been less conspicuous, foreigners being a common sight in Cairo. The knight had bothered to put a disguise just to flaunt how little he could be arsed to make it a good one, and what of it? It was a knob-headed game of chicanery, like a disgruntled workman would get clumsy and wasteful on purpose when the overseer was here, like a banker would refuse a loan on the pretense that he did not have the funds required, and actually display the sum on his change table to make the lie an insult.
But workmen and merchant had nothing on knights for that. Officially the Templar Order had not taken part in the Egyptian conquest. That had not prevented its very grandmaster to take command of one entire army, “entirely in his capacity of Spanish imperial advisor on strategic matters, which post he held in addition to, and entirely independently of, that of grandmaster.
Typical Templar duplicity
“So? Is this not D.R.A.G.O. territory?”
“Even on our turf the Department keeps a low profile. You are jeopardizing it.”
Discretion, trickery and silence were the weapons of choice for the Department of Rapid Acquisition of Guildspace Oversea. Always they came to a city as mere, humble merchants in search of a place to set up a place of business. What little business they did was generally at a loss, but served as further pretext to bring in more Italian merchants, buy more real estate and keep a steady, unnoticed stream of ships in and out the harbor. They made contacts, mapped the city layout and defenses, smuggled in weapons, corrupted the mores. They manipulated prices to make bread scarce and drive away honest trade. And once entrenched, they struck, and the whole place was theirs. So the republic of Venice had smothered Italy like a hungry, loathsome octopus. So now it was in the process of annexing the African shore. Girolamo’s job.
“Let’s make this quick, then. We have come by an information we want relayed to the Papacy. Through unofficial channels.”
His Holiness was not very fond of temporal powers that occupied Rome; official Venitian ambassadors were now persona non grata at the Holy See.
“It can be arranged. What is the message?”
“The message is…”
At this instant the bead curtain jingled again.
“So worry, dear friends, the fat little shopkeeper said, jumping at the newcomers. I am closing. My poor father, he is in a bad way, someone must tend to him. Please hurry, kind sirs, please hurry, he shouted at Girolamo and the knight, make your choice. A la la, my poor father…”
The men at the door gave polite wishes and left. The shopkeeper disappeared again.
“The message is something another agent found. There is devil-worship in Egypt.”
The other gave a derisive snort. “It’s called Islam. I think the Pope knows of it.”
“No,” Girolamo said, “you fucking imbecile,” he did not say, “it is something very different. Actual… Dark magic.”
Over fifteen years Girolamo had grown familiar with Muslims and Islam, so familiar that sometimes, as all long-time agents do, he wondered about his own loyalties. By now he had probably prayed more often in a mosque than a church. But at any rate, he knew there was more to the situation in Egypt than some religious strife.
“You sound like that barmy doge of yours.”
The Lionheart was not mad. Girolamo was sure of it now, as sure as night is dark and day is light, but saying so was a sure way to be dismissed.
“Merchant-Prince Chiano had only theories. I have fact, evidence.”
“Fine, let’s hear it.”
“We have an agent in the Egyptian army, who served way down in Ethiopia. As it turned out people there are not quite so weird as the tales make them out to be, just strange of garb and strange of tongue, with brown bodies and black eyes. They are Christians too, after a fashion.”
“Like the priest John.”
“Yes, like priest John. The relevant thing is, as we were beating on Egypt, Egypt was beating on them. Which, incidentally, explains why we saw so few Egyptian soldiers during the conquest. Rather than let them die in forlorn hope defense of their homes, the Sultan took them south. Callous but smart. Down in Ethiopia our man tried his best to keep close to the Sultan, and was near him when they took the last independent Ethiopian holdfast, a kind of fortified monastery in the mountains.
the last holdout
Now, most Christian men died defending the outer wall, but when they got to the sanctuary there on the door stood the abbot, or someone of the sort. It was a gnarly old man, with a dirty beard and fierce eyes, and an appetite for martyrdom. The kind of men that rise to prominence in desperate times.
Anyway he was waving his staff, shouting insult at the soldiers they could not understand, and he had already cracked the skull of one of them. The others did not care to die in a battle they’d already won, and they would have shot him full of arrows, but there had been orders to take the abbot alive, so he could be questioned, and so nobody did anything, much, except gawk at the old black man raging.
And then the Sultan came. He stood two feet from the abbot, very calm, and he talked to him and told him, in a deeper voice than usual, to drop the staff. Only the thing is, our man heard it in Italian. And then the man dropped the staff, but not like if he was convinced, because immediately he looked surprised and went to pick it up again, but before he could touch it the sultan had punched him out cold.”
“So… they speak Italian in Ethiopia?”
“No. The point is that our man heard the sentence in Italian, but the priest heard it in Amharic.”
“Amaric?”
“Ethiopian, if you will. And our man talked with comrades afterwards, they had all heard it in Arabic. The Sultan has the gift of tongues, and I don’t think that gift is from God.”
“Then from whom? And when?”
“The devil. Or a devil. As for when… That’s the other thing. The origins of the Anubid are shrouded in mystery but we have gathered as many information as we can in the newly-conquered territory. From the first Anubid emir to the last Sultan there a ritual they have always observed a peculiar ritual. Every new ruler of the dynasty was physically present when the previous one died. No such pattern under the Ayyubid before them. And at least two of those heirs were considered near-imbeciles, but of exceptional body strength. Once crowned they displayed typical Anubid personalities, shrewd, ruthless, knowledgeable.”
The knight looked unimpressed, and not just at a small red-and-purple carpet beneath his fingers.
“If, I say if, I write to my superior in Europe about what you’ve told me and he somehow goes to see the pope himself, and I am not saying that he can, then all he will have is a fourth-hand story about how the Anubid have mastered the magic power of speaking Italian and getting wiser as they age. That’s nothing. Although, uh, it’s not that I deny Italian’s the devil’s tongue,” the knight added after a while and chuckled.
“Then oversell it. Say you have more evidence, more witnesses. Anything to draw the attention of Church and its scholars. For all their shortcomings the Orders have the esoteric knowledge to sort this through, if anyone have. Lie, but do mention what I said. Be convincing.”
“And why would I do that? Eternal D.R.A.G.O. gratitude? Even I know what it’s worth.”
“Your own self-interest. What do you think will happen when the Pope himself becomes convinced the sultanate of Egypt is fueled by black magic? More Crusading is what. And this time you Templar butchers will be here in the middle of it, to kill and plunder instead of jacking off in a Spanish garrison.”
The Templar agent rolled up a carpet and put it understand his arm.
“I can take that. You’re paying.” And he left.
The Europeans kept victimizing me, and I finally finished conquering the final bits of Ethiopia.
I wrote a different version somewhere else with some private jokes, but this is the canon one lol.
I wr
Alexandria, the Venitian quarter, 1362
Girolamo slipped out of the scorching heat of the street and into the darker, quiet shop, through a jingling bead curtain. He gave and received a rehearsed nod, and the shopkeeper made himself scarce. At the back of the shop there stood a big blue-eyed brute, with a scarf poorly wrapped around his head, rifling through the carpets on a low table.
“I don’t need to ask if you’re a Templar agent”
When a young man, Girolamo had thought the way landed nobility could fuck up even the simplest task was mere cluelessness, the ineptitude of men so sheltered and privileged they had lost the common touch as a breed and never had it as individuals. But now that he had reached the age of gray hair and regrets, he suspected there was more to it, a kind of peevish provocation. There was a kind of perverse effort in how bad that notional disguise was, more than it would have taken to come in plain clothes which if anything would have been less conspicuous, foreigners being a common sight in Cairo. The knight had bothered to put a disguise just to flaunt how little he could be arsed to make it a good one, and what of it? It was a knob-headed game of chicanery, like a disgruntled workman would get clumsy and wasteful on purpose when the overseer was here, like a banker would refuse a loan on the pretense that he did not have the funds required, and actually display the sum on his change table to make the lie an insult.
But workmen and merchant had nothing on knights for that. Officially the Templar Order had not taken part in the Egyptian conquest. That had not prevented its very grandmaster to take command of one entire army, “entirely in his capacity of Spanish imperial advisor on strategic matters, which post he held in addition to, and entirely independently of, that of grandmaster.
Typical Templar duplicity
“So? Is this not D.R.A.G.O. territory?”
“Even on our turf the Department keeps a low profile. You are jeopardizing it.”
Discretion, trickery and silence were the weapons of choice for the Department of Rapid Acquisition of Guildspace Oversea. Always they came to a city as mere, humble merchants in search of a place to set up a place of business. What little business they did was generally at a loss, but served as further pretext to bring in more Italian merchants, buy more real estate and keep a steady, unnoticed stream of ships in and out the harbor. They made contacts, mapped the city layout and defenses, smuggled in weapons, corrupted the mores. They manipulated prices to make bread scarce and drive away honest trade. And once entrenched, they struck, and the whole place was theirs. So the republic of Venice had smothered Italy like a hungry, loathsome octopus. So now it was in the process of annexing the African shore. Girolamo’s job.
“Let’s make this quick, then. We have come by an information we want relayed to the Papacy. Through unofficial channels.”
His Holiness was not very fond of temporal powers that occupied Rome; official Venitian ambassadors were now persona non grata at the Holy See.
“It can be arranged. What is the message?”
“The message is…”
At this instant the bead curtain jingled again.
“So worry, dear friends, the fat little shopkeeper said, jumping at the newcomers. I am closing. My poor father, he is in a bad way, someone must tend to him. Please hurry, kind sirs, please hurry, he shouted at Girolamo and the knight, make your choice. A la la, my poor father…”
The men at the door gave polite wishes and left. The shopkeeper disappeared again.
“The message is something another agent found. There is devil-worship in Egypt.”
The other gave a derisive snort. “It’s called Islam. I think the Pope knows of it.”
“No,” Girolamo said, “you fucking imbecile,” he did not say, “it is something very different. Actual… Dark magic.”
Over fifteen years Girolamo had grown familiar with Muslims and Islam, so familiar that sometimes, as all long-time agents do, he wondered about his own loyalties. By now he had probably prayed more often in a mosque than a church. But at any rate, he knew there was more to the situation in Egypt than some religious strife.
“You sound like that barmy doge of yours.”
The Lionheart was not mad. Girolamo was sure of it now, as sure as night is dark and day is light, but saying so was a sure way to be dismissed.
“Merchant-Prince Chiano had only theories. I have fact, evidence.”
“Fine, let’s hear it.”
“We have an agent in the Egyptian army, who served way down in Ethiopia. As it turned out people there are not quite so weird as the tales make them out to be, just strange of garb and strange of tongue, with brown bodies and black eyes. They are Christians too, after a fashion.”
“Like the priest John.”
“Yes, like priest John. The relevant thing is, as we were beating on Egypt, Egypt was beating on them. Which, incidentally, explains why we saw so few Egyptian soldiers during the conquest. Rather than let them die in forlorn hope defense of their homes, the Sultan took them south. Callous but smart. Down in Ethiopia our man tried his best to keep close to the Sultan, and was near him when they took the last independent Ethiopian holdfast, a kind of fortified monastery in the mountains.
the last holdout
Now, most Christian men died defending the outer wall, but when they got to the sanctuary there on the door stood the abbot, or someone of the sort. It was a gnarly old man, with a dirty beard and fierce eyes, and an appetite for martyrdom. The kind of men that rise to prominence in desperate times.
Anyway he was waving his staff, shouting insult at the soldiers they could not understand, and he had already cracked the skull of one of them. The others did not care to die in a battle they’d already won, and they would have shot him full of arrows, but there had been orders to take the abbot alive, so he could be questioned, and so nobody did anything, much, except gawk at the old black man raging.
And then the Sultan came. He stood two feet from the abbot, very calm, and he talked to him and told him, in a deeper voice than usual, to drop the staff. Only the thing is, our man heard it in Italian. And then the man dropped the staff, but not like if he was convinced, because immediately he looked surprised and went to pick it up again, but before he could touch it the sultan had punched him out cold.”
“So… they speak Italian in Ethiopia?”
“No. The point is that our man heard the sentence in Italian, but the priest heard it in Amharic.”
“Amaric?”
“Ethiopian, if you will. And our man talked with comrades afterwards, they had all heard it in Arabic. The Sultan has the gift of tongues, and I don’t think that gift is from God.”
“Then from whom? And when?”
“The devil. Or a devil. As for when… That’s the other thing. The origins of the Anubid are shrouded in mystery but we have gathered as many information as we can in the newly-conquered territory. From the first Anubid emir to the last Sultan there a ritual they have always observed a peculiar ritual. Every new ruler of the dynasty was physically present when the previous one died. No such pattern under the Ayyubid before them. And at least two of those heirs were considered near-imbeciles, but of exceptional body strength. Once crowned they displayed typical Anubid personalities, shrewd, ruthless, knowledgeable.”
The knight looked unimpressed, and not just at a small red-and-purple carpet beneath his fingers.
“If, I say if, I write to my superior in Europe about what you’ve told me and he somehow goes to see the pope himself, and I am not saying that he can, then all he will have is a fourth-hand story about how the Anubid have mastered the magic power of speaking Italian and getting wiser as they age. That’s nothing. Although, uh, it’s not that I deny Italian’s the devil’s tongue,” the knight added after a while and chuckled.
“Then oversell it. Say you have more evidence, more witnesses. Anything to draw the attention of Church and its scholars. For all their shortcomings the Orders have the esoteric knowledge to sort this through, if anyone have. Lie, but do mention what I said. Be convincing.”
“And why would I do that? Eternal D.R.A.G.O. gratitude? Even I know what it’s worth.”
“Your own self-interest. What do you think will happen when the Pope himself becomes convinced the sultanate of Egypt is fueled by black magic? More Crusading is what. And this time you Templar butchers will be here in the middle of it, to kill and plunder instead of jacking off in a Spanish garrison.”
The Templar agent rolled up a carpet and put it understand his arm.
“I can take that. You’re paying.” And he left.
The Europeans kept victimizing me, and I finally finished conquering the final bits of Ethiopia.
I wrote a different version somewhere else with some private jokes, but this is the canon one lol.
I wr
Heralds Errant
Inspiration does not strike this week, so I'm back to the noble science of heraldry. This time, however, I'm looking at the equivalent of the Journal of Irreproducible Results: If these coats of arms were scientific papers, they would have dodgy p-values, doubtful statistical techniques, and great difficulty reproducing. And if they were people you would pray for them to have difficulty reproducing.
We'll start with my eastern neighbors, the Lazuli, currently ruling Byzantium:
Gules a wyvern segreant sinister so-far-so-good azure. Azure! I ask you! Can you put azure on gules? You cannot. What can you put azure on? Azure is a colour, so it goes on metals; either white or gold, in other words. Probably gold would look best. Presumably the red represents the ocean of heralds' blood that was shed before the Lazuli found one cowardly or incompetent enough to sign off on this, and the blue represents whatever-it-is that gives the family its name.
Next up, the Czar of half the Russias:
What is this, I don't even...? Ok, you can divide the field per pale, sure; and you can even do so with two colours, because neither is considered to lie atop the other. Fine. But who the devil divides a charge? A few books do consider it possible, but I'm damned if I can find one that gives an example. And even if I did, what's with the colour on colour? So the blazon would be something like "per pale sable and azure a tree eradicated divided per pale azure and sable", which I guess is ok up to the point where it puts black on blue and vice-versa. I mean, never mind heraldry, this is bad graphic design; nothing pops. Presumably the bruised colours represent the initiation ritual of the Zombie Cossacks, or something. My esteemed overlord doesn't have any such excuse:
"Sable a tree eradicated azure". Yeah, yeah, colour on colour, it's an old story by now. What initially causes shock and horror becomes an accustomed sight, and then you learn to like the stuff; and one day you find yourself looking at an achievement that puts purple on orange, or polka dots on a field vair, and not flinching. And then you go home and make sure to cut lengthwise, not crosswise, because seriously, what have I become?
Little that was exciting happened in Venice this week; but there was great drama over in Hungary, where Khan (subbing for my esteemed overlord) went on an assassination spree to cause Poland to inherit the country. (Poland is played by the Quietest Player Ever, "king cruel", and is currently a vassal of Germany. Also, not yet dead.) There were accusations of collusion in this plan on the part of Yami, playing Hungary; it's not that easy to lose your main title by inheritance. Our GM found these accusations credible, and intends to roll back Poland's gains in accordance with the rule against throwing your nation to another player. Hungary is now looking for a player. Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here unifying Italy.
The central Med, 1372. With the kingdom of Italy to give me de-jure claims, unification of the north proceeds rapidly. Otherwise my gains have been diplomatic.
Inspiration does not strike this week, so I'm back to the noble science of heraldry. This time, however, I'm looking at the equivalent of the Journal of Irreproducible Results: If these coats of arms were scientific papers, they would have dodgy p-values, doubtful statistical techniques, and great difficulty reproducing. And if they were people you would pray for them to have difficulty reproducing.
We'll start with my eastern neighbors, the Lazuli, currently ruling Byzantium:
Gules a wyvern segreant sinister so-far-so-good azure. Azure! I ask you! Can you put azure on gules? You cannot. What can you put azure on? Azure is a colour, so it goes on metals; either white or gold, in other words. Probably gold would look best. Presumably the red represents the ocean of heralds' blood that was shed before the Lazuli found one cowardly or incompetent enough to sign off on this, and the blue represents whatever-it-is that gives the family its name.
Next up, the Czar of half the Russias:
What is this, I don't even...? Ok, you can divide the field per pale, sure; and you can even do so with two colours, because neither is considered to lie atop the other. Fine. But who the devil divides a charge? A few books do consider it possible, but I'm damned if I can find one that gives an example. And even if I did, what's with the colour on colour? So the blazon would be something like "per pale sable and azure a tree eradicated divided per pale azure and sable", which I guess is ok up to the point where it puts black on blue and vice-versa. I mean, never mind heraldry, this is bad graphic design; nothing pops. Presumably the bruised colours represent the initiation ritual of the Zombie Cossacks, or something. My esteemed overlord doesn't have any such excuse:
"Sable a tree eradicated azure". Yeah, yeah, colour on colour, it's an old story by now. What initially causes shock and horror becomes an accustomed sight, and then you learn to like the stuff; and one day you find yourself looking at an achievement that puts purple on orange, or polka dots on a field vair, and not flinching. And then you go home and make sure to cut lengthwise, not crosswise, because seriously, what have I become?
Little that was exciting happened in Venice this week; but there was great drama over in Hungary, where Khan (subbing for my esteemed overlord) went on an assassination spree to cause Poland to inherit the country. (Poland is played by the Quietest Player Ever, "king cruel", and is currently a vassal of Germany. Also, not yet dead.) There were accusations of collusion in this plan on the part of Yami, playing Hungary; it's not that easy to lose your main title by inheritance. Our GM found these accusations credible, and intends to roll back Poland's gains in accordance with the rule against throwing your nation to another player. Hungary is now looking for a player. Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here unifying Italy.
The central Med, 1372. With the kingdom of Italy to give me de-jure claims, unification of the north proceeds rapidly. Otherwise my gains have been diplomatic.
Is Britannia no longer involved in North Africa? I thought they had been the heavy lifters on the recent trouncing of the Egyptian sultan.
Oh and as for the heraldry: yeah CK2's auto assigned coas are horrible.
Or, do you mean to say that the players picked those by themselves?
Oh and as for the heraldry: yeah CK2's auto assigned coas are horrible.
Or, do you mean to say that the players picked those by themselves?
I am not Britannia, we had a disagreement in regards to the kids (Blayne and Mark) So we've gone our separate ways. Also since Foel is no longer playing Russia taking map updates has fallen to me.
Anglo-Spain(Me) had sold southern France in exchange for All of Afrika to the British(Baron) And Renamed themselves Regnum Africanus.
Germany(Jacob) continues to prop up Poland(King Cruel) abd trying to get CB's on greater Denmark (Fivoin)
Syria(now Gollevain) has converted to Catholic
Greece(Britain) after being propped up the entire game can now claim to be one of the big boys, Britain is so proud.
Egypt (Kuipi) continues to annex Ethiopia despite losing Cairo and Alexandria/
The Mongols(Clone) and the Persian Caliphate(fim) once friends are now mortal enemies with Kievan Rus(Zilcho) Helping the Mongols along with most of the western world.
Anglo-Spain(Me) had sold southern France in exchange for All of Afrika to the British(Baron) And Renamed themselves Regnum Africanus.
Germany(Jacob) continues to prop up Poland(King Cruel) abd trying to get CB's on greater Denmark (Fivoin)
Syria(now Gollevain) has converted to Catholic
Greece(Britain) after being propped up the entire game can now claim to be one of the big boys, Britain is so proud.
Egypt (Kuipi) continues to annex Ethiopia despite losing Cairo and Alexandria/
The Mongols(Clone) and the Persian Caliphate(fim) once friends are now mortal enemies with Kievan Rus(Zilcho) Helping the Mongols along with most of the western world.
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I don't think that's particularly true in this game. This session we had clashes between Germany and England over the Vistula, and a civil war in Germany when KC tried to Intrigue-Focus himself into the empire. (Presumably. He got revoked before he could succeed.)
Dreaming of the Desert
Last night I dreamed again of Egypt. The same dream, of a silent desert lit by stars. There was no moon, yet I could see everything, dune upon dune, with my footprints leading back to the horizon in a perfectly straight line. A line pointing to the temple, not yet visible, where the Hound sleeps its thousand-year sleep and howls in its dreams... in its dreams, and mine.
I dreamed and knew myself dreaming, yet in spite of a sourceless horror I could not wake myself nor stop myself walking towards the - temple, did I say? Yes, it was built as ancient Egypt built houses for its gods, and their prayers were written on every surface; though I could not yet see the cyclopean walls, I knew this, in my dream, in the same way I knew that the eerie light I saw by did not come from the unblinking stars. But for all that it was no temple. The Egyptians had built as well as they knew, and covered stone and mortar with incantations, not to honour the Presence within the walls, but to contain it. Not temple nor church nor fane, but prison.
I woke, as I have woken before, slick with cold sweat, with my pulse pounding in my forehead near to making it burst. But my usual desperate relief - this night, again, I had not seen the Hound's prison - was threaded through with despair. A week without the dream, and I had thought myself free of it. A week of vicious hangovers; a week of Elisabetta's increasingly unsubtle hints. Tiny, tiny prices, for nights of dreamless sleep. But now even the wine has failed me.
Tonight, I will walk the desert again, silent except for the soft hiss of the sand. I will walk, unwilling, towards the place where the Hound lies imprisoned. And some night - not tonight; God of my fathers, let it not be tonight - but some night I will crest the final dune, and the silver light that does not come from the stars will show me the walls of the Hound's resting place. And I will walk forward, and enter it, and... and I know not what; but I would much rather die, than find out. It's said - though I do not know how it is known - that the pain is only momentary, if you lie in a hot bath and cut lengthwise, not crosswise.
That is sin, and will doom me to Hell; and yet it is still true, that I would rather be tormented by all Satan's legions for all eternity, than enter the place where the Hound lies sleeping. For I might find that it sleeps but lightly.
Yet I am an Aiello, and one of God's chosen people; I will make one more throw of the dice, before I give up the game, and my soul, for lost. I will go to Egypt, and not alone; I will bring men, learned men and hard men both. They will think me mad, but what of that? The ducats of madmen spend as well as any. I will find the desert, where the high singing silence hisses in the eternal moonless night... and I will see it in daylight, under the hot scorching sun of Egypt that drives away dreams. I will walk into the desert, not alone and screaming in unvoiced horror, but with a hundred loyal men at my back. And when I find the Hound's prison - after all, the men of Egypt drove it into the walls, and bound it there with chants and sacrifice. And they had no gunpowder.
From the journal of Gabriele Aiello, one of the last entries before his death. The calling of the sensitives was the first near-open blow struck by the Hound in the Long War, and one of the shrewdest. For two centuries it bled us of the talent we needed to fight it; by the time we realised we were at war, only the thinnest scraps remained, and on the spiritual front we were outmatched from the beginning. Gabriele should not have put his faith in gunpowder, however impressive the new invention seemed to him. A man sensitive enough to hear the Hound's call across three hundred miles of ocean could have driven it back to sleep in a day, if only he'd known the chants and sacrifices the Egyptians used. What we could not have done with such a Talent as that, when it finally came to open war! But Gabriele was a man of the fourteenth century, and trusted in rational things and in technology. He was neither the first nor the last to make that mistake.
Gabriele Aiello, some time after the Hound began working on him, but before the bolts of his mind came fully loose.
The minor powers are being shaken out of eastern Europe; last week it was Hungary, and now it is Poland. King Cruel had been happy with his title of Quietest Player Ever up to the point where he briefly inherited Hungary; the inheritance was against the rules and was rolled back, but it gave him a taste of power, and he wanted... more. More of everything. And so he reached for the Forbidden Arts, the one thing our good and generous liege had forbidden to his vassals: He took the Intrigue Focus.
Was he, perhaps, under the influence of the Hound, at the time? It is hard to say; one would think that even that powerful Entity would have difficulty reaching so far, across the Med and hundreds of miles of hostile land, so early in the game. Of course, it is known to desire the crumbling and internal strife of the civilisations it regards as its enemies; but then, it should rather strengthen Poland, the better to use it as a dog's-paw in a future conflict. No, most likely we deal here with simple human greed and ambition; if the truth were told, the Hound's work is not that difficult, for humans do not really need the hostile influence of Other entities to store up trouble for themselves.
The Intrigue Focus in the hands of a human vassal is vastly dangerous for a liege; it is not forbidden in Germany by an arbitrary whim of the Kaisers. Jacob immediately revoked the Kingdom of Poland, provoking a civil war, which of course Poland could not possibly win. There is no longer a kingdom on the Vistula, nor a player slot.
Eastern and central Med, 1383. Don't be fooled by the western colonisation of bits of Egypt, that just allows the Hound to do its work on the administrators and garrison officers sent there to rule the province; they will return home as plague vectors, empty-shelled parodies of humans that will undermine and demoralise their metropolitan societies. By the time open warfare breaks out, the Western world will be half-lost in dreams of decadence, unable to muster its strength even for a deadly threat.
Last night I dreamed again of Egypt. The same dream, of a silent desert lit by stars. There was no moon, yet I could see everything, dune upon dune, with my footprints leading back to the horizon in a perfectly straight line. A line pointing to the temple, not yet visible, where the Hound sleeps its thousand-year sleep and howls in its dreams... in its dreams, and mine.
I dreamed and knew myself dreaming, yet in spite of a sourceless horror I could not wake myself nor stop myself walking towards the - temple, did I say? Yes, it was built as ancient Egypt built houses for its gods, and their prayers were written on every surface; though I could not yet see the cyclopean walls, I knew this, in my dream, in the same way I knew that the eerie light I saw by did not come from the unblinking stars. But for all that it was no temple. The Egyptians had built as well as they knew, and covered stone and mortar with incantations, not to honour the Presence within the walls, but to contain it. Not temple nor church nor fane, but prison.
I woke, as I have woken before, slick with cold sweat, with my pulse pounding in my forehead near to making it burst. But my usual desperate relief - this night, again, I had not seen the Hound's prison - was threaded through with despair. A week without the dream, and I had thought myself free of it. A week of vicious hangovers; a week of Elisabetta's increasingly unsubtle hints. Tiny, tiny prices, for nights of dreamless sleep. But now even the wine has failed me.
Tonight, I will walk the desert again, silent except for the soft hiss of the sand. I will walk, unwilling, towards the place where the Hound lies imprisoned. And some night - not tonight; God of my fathers, let it not be tonight - but some night I will crest the final dune, and the silver light that does not come from the stars will show me the walls of the Hound's resting place. And I will walk forward, and enter it, and... and I know not what; but I would much rather die, than find out. It's said - though I do not know how it is known - that the pain is only momentary, if you lie in a hot bath and cut lengthwise, not crosswise.
That is sin, and will doom me to Hell; and yet it is still true, that I would rather be tormented by all Satan's legions for all eternity, than enter the place where the Hound lies sleeping. For I might find that it sleeps but lightly.
Yet I am an Aiello, and one of God's chosen people; I will make one more throw of the dice, before I give up the game, and my soul, for lost. I will go to Egypt, and not alone; I will bring men, learned men and hard men both. They will think me mad, but what of that? The ducats of madmen spend as well as any. I will find the desert, where the high singing silence hisses in the eternal moonless night... and I will see it in daylight, under the hot scorching sun of Egypt that drives away dreams. I will walk into the desert, not alone and screaming in unvoiced horror, but with a hundred loyal men at my back. And when I find the Hound's prison - after all, the men of Egypt drove it into the walls, and bound it there with chants and sacrifice. And they had no gunpowder.
From the journal of Gabriele Aiello, one of the last entries before his death. The calling of the sensitives was the first near-open blow struck by the Hound in the Long War, and one of the shrewdest. For two centuries it bled us of the talent we needed to fight it; by the time we realised we were at war, only the thinnest scraps remained, and on the spiritual front we were outmatched from the beginning. Gabriele should not have put his faith in gunpowder, however impressive the new invention seemed to him. A man sensitive enough to hear the Hound's call across three hundred miles of ocean could have driven it back to sleep in a day, if only he'd known the chants and sacrifices the Egyptians used. What we could not have done with such a Talent as that, when it finally came to open war! But Gabriele was a man of the fourteenth century, and trusted in rational things and in technology. He was neither the first nor the last to make that mistake.
Gabriele Aiello, some time after the Hound began working on him, but before the bolts of his mind came fully loose.
The minor powers are being shaken out of eastern Europe; last week it was Hungary, and now it is Poland. King Cruel had been happy with his title of Quietest Player Ever up to the point where he briefly inherited Hungary; the inheritance was against the rules and was rolled back, but it gave him a taste of power, and he wanted... more. More of everything. And so he reached for the Forbidden Arts, the one thing our good and generous liege had forbidden to his vassals: He took the Intrigue Focus.
Was he, perhaps, under the influence of the Hound, at the time? It is hard to say; one would think that even that powerful Entity would have difficulty reaching so far, across the Med and hundreds of miles of hostile land, so early in the game. Of course, it is known to desire the crumbling and internal strife of the civilisations it regards as its enemies; but then, it should rather strengthen Poland, the better to use it as a dog's-paw in a future conflict. No, most likely we deal here with simple human greed and ambition; if the truth were told, the Hound's work is not that difficult, for humans do not really need the hostile influence of Other entities to store up trouble for themselves.
The Intrigue Focus in the hands of a human vassal is vastly dangerous for a liege; it is not forbidden in Germany by an arbitrary whim of the Kaisers. Jacob immediately revoked the Kingdom of Poland, provoking a civil war, which of course Poland could not possibly win. There is no longer a kingdom on the Vistula, nor a player slot.
Eastern and central Med, 1383. Don't be fooled by the western colonisation of bits of Egypt, that just allows the Hound to do its work on the administrators and garrison officers sent there to rule the province; they will return home as plague vectors, empty-shelled parodies of humans that will undermine and demoralise their metropolitan societies. By the time open warfare breaks out, the Western world will be half-lost in dreams of decadence, unable to muster its strength even for a deadly threat.
You know, I would actually love to see an Egyptian resurgence fueled by black magic and demon hosts.
So would I. That's why I picked Kuipy as my target for the Lovecraft thing; you know he's going to deliver. No pressure, right Kuipy?
Oh King, do you not expect your certain doom to come from the far stronger and more professionally played powers to your north? (As usual in these megacampaigns? )
)
Oh King, do you not expect your certain doom to come from the far stronger and more professionally played powers to your north? (As usual in these megacampaigns?
Well, that's another good reason to pick Kuipy as my AAR nemesis.
We have a small custom mod that pretty much equalises the religions, removes kingdom-level holy wars, and introduces a scaling penalty for size as an antiblobbing measure.
Special Thanksgiving Edition
This week: A geopolitical survey of what the player slots of Europe are thankful for.
World map, 1392, including player vassals.
The Aiello of Venice are thankful for ducats, shekels, benjamins, florins, shillings, guineas, guilders, thalers, and bezants. If it weren't for the invention of coinage, what would we burrow through like porpoises? What would we dig through like moles? What would we throw up in the air and allow to rain down on our heads? And what, not to put too fine a point on it, would we bathe in? Seriously, you don't want to live in a world where the Aiello can't bathe in money; not after they've taken up the habit of garlic sausages from their neighbours.
The Lazuli of Greece are, of course, grateful for garlic; not only does it make their sausages taste great, it also makes their enemies keep their distance. But they don't bother saying that sort of thing at Thanksgiving, it would be like saying you were grateful for breathing. Which, ok, yes, the Lazuli actually are grateful for breathing, lots of times it looked like they weren't going to, but it makes you sound like a smartass who is not taking this stuff seriously. Anyway! Back on point, the Lazuli are grateful for the existence of logic; obviously it was pure logic that convinced the English to give them their current empire. Because, if you just think about it logically, there wasn't anything better that could have been done with those provinces, was there? The Lazuli are not grateful to the English, mind you. The English were just doing what logically ought to have been done by anyone who could think about it for a few minutes.
The Kruel dynasty of Poland are grateful for the sweet, sweet peace of the grave. Nobody bothering them, nobody demanding that they inherit Hungary or not inherit Hungary, no Intrigue Focuses to avoid or overlords to keep satisfied... peace at last! That Thucydides, he knew what he was talking about. Most people just don't realise he was actually a pacifist.
The Dantons of Germany are grateful for the German language, especially its consonants. Kaiserrreichhhh, they say to themselves, rolling the r and hitting the 'ch' sound with relish. Rrrr! Chhhh! Just the language to make yourself feel better about having to punish a rebellious vassal. Really, it's sad when you have to put them down, but he had one job, and what can you do? Just repeat "Kaiserrreichhh" and try to think about something else.
The Rushids of Syria are grateful for the mercy of Christ, and for not being infidel swine like some people they could mention. People who are currently, you'll notice, getting hit by multiple Holy Wars, and quite deservedly too. That's the sort of thing that doesn't happen to good Christian dynasties; not even if they converted only a generation ago. Christ is very merciful that way, and the Rushids are very thankful for that.
The Anubids of Egypt do not experience the human emotion of 'gratitude', per se. Or, indeed, any human emotions at all - at least, not in the Inner Circle, the individuals who have interacted directly with the Entity and who are, as a result, not precisely human anymore. And the head of the dynasty, of course, is not human in any sense whatever, except the purely biological one of possessing - the word is carefully chosen - a human body. Still, like any conscious beings, they have internal states that they experience when external events are in their favour, and other internal states that correspond to unfavourable externals. At the moment, then, they may be said to be pleased that things are going according to the Plan.
The Davion dynasty of Persia is not participating in this stupid custom. They are not grateful and they're not going to pretend they are for the sake of some anachronistic infidel tradition. Just pass them some Turkey and shut up, ok? They're just going to take some food back to their room and not bother anyone, and they would be gratef - that is, they would appreci - it would be nice if nobody bothered them either.
The Gyldenstierne of Denmark are grateful that there will always be an England. Especially since, apparently, they're also going to have to put up with a pretty eternal-looking Germany. Excuse them, Kaiserrreichhh.
The Nestor of the Chagatai Khanate are grateful for crushing their enemies, for seeing them fall at their feet; for taking their horses and goods and hearing the lamentations of their women - wait, isn't that what we were doing? Well then they don't know. That's what they had prepared. They're not going to think up something new extemporaneously, what are they, some kind of thinking-up-things-on-the-spot machine? Crushing enemies, grateful, take it or leave it.
The D'Mertagne of the African Republic were going to do the money one, but the Aiello got there first which is so typical, why couldn't we get to talk first for a change? Anyway now they don't know. Oh wait, they're grateful they have their trade zones all in a row, not scattered all across the Med like some people they know.
The Følsgaard of Russia are grateful they are not the designated black-magic guys this time around. In fact they are very happy they don't know nothing about any kind of necromancy, no sir! Only white magic for Russia. Er, no magic, just mundane, um, non-magic things. Like, um, swords. Yes, swords; Russia is very grateful for swords. Oh dear, that came out kind of wrong, didn't it? Er, well, the Følsgaard will sit down now. Um. Can they be grateful for chairs? And not swords or magic or any kind of unfriendly-sounding things at all.
The Shrewsburys of England are glad they are number one, because it's good to be number one! Ha-ha, just kidding guys, of course we're all equally valuable and some of you have armies almost as big and good as ours. No, seriously, they're grateful we can all get together like this and have a peaceful and cheerful dinner together, with nobody sulking - well, almost nobody - and nobody bringing up any recent unpleasantness, and just being one big happy family without any squabbles or holy wars. Right? Cheers! Let's eat!
I noticed the Great Powers fighting some Holy Wars this session, but did not stick around long enough to see who won; I kept my head down and crushed the last Italian holdouts. Also I built universities.
Central Med, 1392. Last Italian holdouts unified. Now what shall I do?
This week: A geopolitical survey of what the player slots of Europe are thankful for.
World map, 1392, including player vassals.
The Aiello of Venice are thankful for ducats, shekels, benjamins, florins, shillings, guineas, guilders, thalers, and bezants. If it weren't for the invention of coinage, what would we burrow through like porpoises? What would we dig through like moles? What would we throw up in the air and allow to rain down on our heads? And what, not to put too fine a point on it, would we bathe in? Seriously, you don't want to live in a world where the Aiello can't bathe in money; not after they've taken up the habit of garlic sausages from their neighbours.
The Lazuli of Greece are, of course, grateful for garlic; not only does it make their sausages taste great, it also makes their enemies keep their distance. But they don't bother saying that sort of thing at Thanksgiving, it would be like saying you were grateful for breathing. Which, ok, yes, the Lazuli actually are grateful for breathing, lots of times it looked like they weren't going to, but it makes you sound like a smartass who is not taking this stuff seriously. Anyway! Back on point, the Lazuli are grateful for the existence of logic; obviously it was pure logic that convinced the English to give them their current empire. Because, if you just think about it logically, there wasn't anything better that could have been done with those provinces, was there? The Lazuli are not grateful to the English, mind you. The English were just doing what logically ought to have been done by anyone who could think about it for a few minutes.
The Kruel dynasty of Poland are grateful for the sweet, sweet peace of the grave. Nobody bothering them, nobody demanding that they inherit Hungary or not inherit Hungary, no Intrigue Focuses to avoid or overlords to keep satisfied... peace at last! That Thucydides, he knew what he was talking about. Most people just don't realise he was actually a pacifist.
The Dantons of Germany are grateful for the German language, especially its consonants. Kaiserrreichhhh, they say to themselves, rolling the r and hitting the 'ch' sound with relish. Rrrr! Chhhh! Just the language to make yourself feel better about having to punish a rebellious vassal. Really, it's sad when you have to put them down, but he had one job, and what can you do? Just repeat "Kaiserrreichhh" and try to think about something else.
The Rushids of Syria are grateful for the mercy of Christ, and for not being infidel swine like some people they could mention. People who are currently, you'll notice, getting hit by multiple Holy Wars, and quite deservedly too. That's the sort of thing that doesn't happen to good Christian dynasties; not even if they converted only a generation ago. Christ is very merciful that way, and the Rushids are very thankful for that.
The Anubids of Egypt do not experience the human emotion of 'gratitude', per se. Or, indeed, any human emotions at all - at least, not in the Inner Circle, the individuals who have interacted directly with the Entity and who are, as a result, not precisely human anymore. And the head of the dynasty, of course, is not human in any sense whatever, except the purely biological one of possessing - the word is carefully chosen - a human body. Still, like any conscious beings, they have internal states that they experience when external events are in their favour, and other internal states that correspond to unfavourable externals. At the moment, then, they may be said to be pleased that things are going according to the Plan.
The Davion dynasty of Persia is not participating in this stupid custom. They are not grateful and they're not going to pretend they are for the sake of some anachronistic infidel tradition. Just pass them some Turkey and shut up, ok? They're just going to take some food back to their room and not bother anyone, and they would be gratef - that is, they would appreci - it would be nice if nobody bothered them either.
The Gyldenstierne of Denmark are grateful that there will always be an England. Especially since, apparently, they're also going to have to put up with a pretty eternal-looking Germany. Excuse them, Kaiserrreichhh.
The Nestor of the Chagatai Khanate are grateful for crushing their enemies, for seeing them fall at their feet; for taking their horses and goods and hearing the lamentations of their women - wait, isn't that what we were doing? Well then they don't know. That's what they had prepared. They're not going to think up something new extemporaneously, what are they, some kind of thinking-up-things-on-the-spot machine? Crushing enemies, grateful, take it or leave it.
The D'Mertagne of the African Republic were going to do the money one, but the Aiello got there first which is so typical, why couldn't we get to talk first for a change? Anyway now they don't know. Oh wait, they're grateful they have their trade zones all in a row, not scattered all across the Med like some people they know.
The Følsgaard of Russia are grateful they are not the designated black-magic guys this time around. In fact they are very happy they don't know nothing about any kind of necromancy, no sir! Only white magic for Russia. Er, no magic, just mundane, um, non-magic things. Like, um, swords. Yes, swords; Russia is very grateful for swords. Oh dear, that came out kind of wrong, didn't it? Er, well, the Følsgaard will sit down now. Um. Can they be grateful for chairs? And not swords or magic or any kind of unfriendly-sounding things at all.
The Shrewsburys of England are glad they are number one, because it's good to be number one! Ha-ha, just kidding guys, of course we're all equally valuable and some of you have armies almost as big and good as ours. No, seriously, they're grateful we can all get together like this and have a peaceful and cheerful dinner together, with nobody sulking - well, almost nobody - and nobody bringing up any recent unpleasantness, and just being one big happy family without any squabbles or holy wars. Right? Cheers! Let's eat!
I noticed the Great Powers fighting some Holy Wars this session, but did not stick around long enough to see who won; I kept my head down and crushed the last Italian holdouts. Also I built universities.
Central Med, 1392. Last Italian holdouts unified. Now what shall I do?
Two player republics?? Craziness!!
And are at least the Rushids still Muslim? Why aren't they making more muslims out of the other players! Think of all the sweet CBs - subjugation, jihad - and not having to obey a pope.
And are at least the Rushids still Muslim? Why aren't they making more muslims out of the other players! Think of all the sweet CBs - subjugation, jihad - and not having to obey a pope.