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May 25, 2002
  • Surviving Mars: First Colony Edition
  • Surviving Mars: First Colony Edition
A Year and Two Months: The Epic of Serbia

Consisting of One Year, Two Months, Three Weeks and Three Days of unparalleled drama! excitement! epic battles! intrigue! love and betrayal!(*)

Part One.

Setting the scene, perversity, and war.

Scene: Smederevo fortress, Central Serbia.
Anno Domini MCDLIII

Đurađ Branković sat atop his throne whistling tunelessly whilst he watched his courtiers busying themselves with their courtierying or whatever it was they did. Some minstrels in the corner aimlessly strummed their instruments, although their efforts were rather pointless as the noise levels inside the hall were getting increasingly louder. Loud enough to interrupt Đurađ's aimless ponderings and a rather detailed examination of a well endowed courtier, daughter of some minor land owner or somesuch. He was annoyed.

“Silence! What is with all of this sudden noise? A Despot does need his quiet, inner reflection time you know!” He shouted, standing up. (His 'inner reflections' mostly consisted of intently examining the daughter of aforementioned local landed noble. 'Wow', would of been one word Đurađ may have used to describe her. There were plenty of other words and sentences and wild fantasies he could of used, but alas, I'm afraid that they rather transcend the boundaries of good taste. Plus his wife, Eirene Kantakouzene, would of had a headfit!)

“My most sincere apologies my most gracious lord, despot of all Rascia, most honoured Stefan, King of all Serbs, Bosnia, Dalmatia, Croatia, and the outlying Coastlands, despotes, knight of the order of the Dragon...” the messenger, prostrated before Đurađ continued his grovelling whilst a bemused crowd spectated.

“Yes, yes...” Đurađ waved his hand at the messenger, “get on with it boy!”

“Yes my most honourable and kind King!” The messenger said to Đurađ's feet. “My liege, I have rode straight from the southern borders without rest, as fast as I could to inform you that Mehmed II has completed his siege of Constantinople, the Empire is no more! And now has crossed into our lands. He is riding with his heathen host, ten thousand strong and heading towards your fine castle!”

The room went silent, well aside from the minstrels, who weren't really paying attention to begin with, but who soon realised the sudden change in atmosphere with the aid of a goblet that was flung at the head of the leader of the troupe. The goblet clanged around the stone floor making quite a racket which was a handy way to underline the nature of the seriousness of this silence.


Infact it was so silent one could of heard a mouse scampering along. (Well that is if it wasn't for Đurađ's rather severe musophobia which resulted in the mouse and rat population of the Castle, and surrounding lands being reduced quite heavily after the breeding and employment of an army of a thousand cats which did lead to certain unexpected side results such as a massive decline in the local weaving and knitting trades due to the mysterious disappearances of any balls of wool left lying around, and the smell of old cat fæces was also rather unpleasant and quite a common complaint. It tended to crop up everywhere: especially behind the sofa.)

The silence was suddenly broken by the rather shocked despot:

“Oh shit.”

Some Images for your consideration

Image the First:

Serbia, and her surrounding environs consisting of: article a) The Balkans and more importantly article b) The Ottoman Empire who is at war with; article c) Serbia, being the unfortunate protagonist of this tale.

Image the Second:

"Oh shit." Indeed.

Image the Third (bonus content)

Đurađ Branković. He'll die soon.

(*)Note: May or may not contain any of the items referred to in the above subtitle. Kurek may not be held liable for any personal injury incured whilst reading this AAR.
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I'll be following this

Because I'm suspecting this to be a short one :D
Good Luck.
Looks like you're on the other end of Chapter I of my AAR. Here's hoping your Serbia turns out better than my enemy*.

*Cities burned, women raped, babies eaten.
A Year and Two Months: The Epic of Serbia

Consisting of One Year, Two Months, Three Weeks and Three Days of unparalleled drama! excitement! epic battles! intrigue! love and betrayal!


Obscenities, Drunken foolery and cowardice.

Scene: Smederevo fortress, Central Serbia. (King's Private Chambers)

“Ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit!” Exclaimed the King. (He had been repeating this phrase for neigh on five hours now, occasionally shaking uncontrollably and also a rather regrettable and unfortunate accident (which was rather un-Kinglike) that required an immediate change of undergarments.)

“Calm down my most noble King.” The Kings personal adviser soothingly murmered as he placed a comforting arm around Đurađ's shoulders (I shall not name this adviser as he shall be dead soon, plus I'm rather poor at coming up with names.) “It is not as bad as it seems my liege, we fought the Turks before, you honoured yourself at the Second Battle of Kosovo five years ago.”

Đurađ glared at his adviser “Yes I remember that battle well... We lost.”

The adviser scuffled around nervously and hopped from foot to foot. “Oh yes.” He mumbled, “erm, what about the Battle of Varna, eh? A few years before then.”

There was a look of bloody murder in Đurađ's eyes. “Do not speak of that battle.”

“Oh... yes, yes, now I recall. Didn't you stab that Hungarian in the bac...”

Đurađ was enraged. “I told you not to mention that battle! Guards!” Two guards wielding pikes snapped to attention. “Take him away!”

“But my King!”

Đurađ ignored the advisor's pleas and continued cursing. (See I told you he'd die, didn't I? Eh?)
His renewed burst of curses were interrupted by a polite cough.

“What is it?” Đurađ raged as he looked up to see who was foolish enough to bother him. His eyes fell upon the figure of a tall, dark man in quite elaborate military uniform, peaked with a rather stupendous hat which was flanked with two golden wings (although everyone suspected they were in fact made out of chalk and then painted upon with some sort of golden dye, I mean you could see where the 'gold' had flaked off on the right wing and it definitely looked like chalk there, or perhaps some sort of limestone...)

“Ah, General Mihovil Postek... What is it?”

“My King, I have come to ask for permission to recruit a roving band of mercenaries and take the battle to the Heathen scum." Came the prompt reply.

“Are you mad? Those mercenaries are mostly Turks themselves! And our own guards total no more than two thousand men? We'll be annihilated! You've lost the plot Postek! You're a few pieces of bread short of a sandwich, a whole back of marbles have been let loose in your case...” he paused for a moment as he eyed the general suspiciously. “Are you drunk, General?”

“Only a little bit, my lord.” Came the reply, “Although it wasn't...” before he could finish his sentence, Postek had tripped over a small stall, fell into a table which sent goblets full of wine, plates full of local delicacies and cutlery flying across the room. He balanced himself and very carefully pulled himself up. “As I was saying, it wasn't that much my lord. Only a bottle of Vodka, or two... yes two I think.”

“You're mad.”

“As you say, sir. Now do I have permission to lead our glorious armies into certain victory and triumph?”

“Sure. I'll be sure to send a bouquet to your grieving wife.” 'And be sure to pay her a special, private comforting visit no doubt, wow that broad has a rack!' (I must say that the last part was not actually spoken by the King, the fear of his wife curtailed his tongue in such matters.)

“As you say, sir! Now onwards to victory!” Postek swayed as he swivelled around and marched out of the room, well he marched into the wall at first causing a tapestry to be torn down and snapping off one of his helmets wings. But he found the door eventually.

Đurađ stared at the stumbling figure with disbelief. He was going to die, his country was going to be put to the sword, pillaged and raped and he will most certainly be humiliated by the Heathen Warlord! Something had to be done! He called for a scribe, some parchment and ink and dictated as such to the labouring scribe:

“Most exalted Sultan of the Ottoman Turks, may Allah (pbuh) grant you many healthy sons and a thousand wives.

It has come to my attention that you are currently invading my realms. I have no other option but to submit to you fully and completely. I beg for your graciousness and for kind treatment. I shall surrender my castle and order my guards to stand down, roll out the red carpet and welcome you and your lovely Turk soldiery in.

Your slave and servant:
Stefan Đurađ Branković, Despot of Rascia, King of Serbs et.c. et.c.”

He pressed his seal onto the message and called for a rider, gave him brief instructions and sent him on his way. Whereupon he continued pacing the room and repeating his litany of "Ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit."
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Interesting start Kurek, playing a doomed country. I guess this will be the first finished full game AAR then. Still it has been nice so far, and we can always hope that you will survive to make a couple of more updates ;)
That looks to me like a desperate attempt at peace.
It seems humor is the order of the day and this one has it in spades. Well done. Funny and a little scary as it appears you may not last long. Good luck, to be certain!
Judging from what folks like MrT have said about Serbia (ie, "harder than Granada"), I expect this AAR to be ................. short :D

But the writing will make the pain of being squashed by the Ottomans quite enjoyable. I bet I know your king's favorite phrase ... :D
A Year and Two Months: The Epic of Serbia

Consisting of One Year, Two Months, Three Weeks and Three Days of unparalleled drama! excitement! epic battles! intrigue! love and betrayal!


Chauvinism, drunken tomfoolery and religious tension.

Scene: Outside of Smederevo Fortress, Military Camp.

“And then!” Roared General Postek, “I...I... the filthy wench said to me, 'Sir, I object to your drunken demeanour and sexual advances!'” He roared with laughter, which was echoed by his retainers and lesser nobles.

“Pray tell, Sir General, how did thou reply to that most uncompromising Maiden?” Chirped a young lord of some land to the north.

The General cleared his throat and poured a large quantity of potent local brew down his gaping throat, he slammed the goblet down onto the table and stood up. “Why I did what any gentleman would do in this situation, I threw up all over her!”

The large tent shook with the laughter and howls of the Serbs although the mercenary captain radiated silence and glared at the boisterous General.

“Sir General. Is this how all your countrymen act?” The captain spat.

A veil of silence settled upon the inhabitants of the tent, the General looked slyly around, grinning slightly. The silence was disturbed by some snickering and suppressed laughs. The General staggered towards the sitting Turk.

“My good soldier of fortune... “ He began, his hand reaching down for his sword. “My fellow countrymen are not as noted as I am for their... courtship rituals, but upon the grace of your almighty Allah” he practically spat the last word out “do not think any less of them!”

The Arab stared silently at the inebriated 'Man of Honour', a deafening silence filled the air. Tarhan, which was the name of the mercenary captain, stood up and stared the General in the face.
“I shall pray for your soul... General... but let us desist with these children's games and, if you shall allow it, mayhap we can discuss business.”

Postek swayed as if he was a pendulum, his eyes fixed upon the unrelenting gaze of the Arab's. “Filthy Saracen! I think...I don't like your tone!” He attempted to draw his sword but ended up pulling Sword, Scabbard, belt and half of his trousers off and up into the air. Precariously he stumbled, and owing to his rather well endowed girth, everyone ran for cover.
He crashed into tables, sending things flying in all directions, the General yelled at the top of his lungs as he felt that gravity was finally winning the battle and he fell forwards and then stopped... suspended there, his face several inches above the ground, he felt a strong, muscled arm around his rather large waist and against his throat the cold touch of a steel, curved blade.

“You listen, and you listen well, farangi!” Tarhan hissed into his ear. “All I have to do is let you go, and your neck shall fall upon my blade.” The General tried to say something but a threatening movement around his throat silenced him. “No, you do not speak, you listen! I have 2,000 mercenaries of the steppe outside who at my word shall quite happily storm your keep, sack and pillage it before handing it over to that Sultan, for which I would be quite well rewarded, but I hate him as much as you so I am here offering the services of my men, and more too, for I have sent out the word. Your pathetic realm shall be destroyed without me and my men. So you either pay, or die.” The Arab grinned threateningly.

Postek suddenly felt rather sober, nothing like a immediate death-threat to focus ones mind. “P-p-p-please, don't kill me.” He whimpered quietly. “I apologise sir, and the Kingdom of Serbia would be delighted to employ you and your men of valour. At any price!”

The blade was no longer pressing into his throat, and he was pulled upright. “I am glad we could come to an agreement General, now for our payment.” The captain reached into his cloak and pulled out an abacus, he shifted across a few beads across. “This much, yes.”

“You want how much?!” Roared the general. Tarhan merely smiled and nodded, “Remember General, that ravaging 'horde' led by the Sultan...”

“I see your point.” Sighed Postek, “I can't offer the money now, for I must speak to my King...”
“Yes, you go weasel that out of him General, if you are as talented with speaking to the Nobility as you are with the women I imagine that you shall have no problems at all.” Smirked the Arab, “Now General, I must return to my men.” He turned and made for the tent exit. “Giraybay, Ibriham, come!” He shouted and two other lesser captains followed him out of the tent leaving General Postek sitting on a bench and staring hopelessly at the floor.

“Are you okay General? I could send some men to arrest those ignorant heathens sir, I'll have Marko and some men go and...”

“No!” The general interrupted the young Serbian captain. “Let them go. They may be worthless heathens but they are correct, we need them and their men... just how on Gods good Earth am I supposed to get this money? The King will have my head...”

A bowl that once contained fruit but which was unsettled during the General's drunken stumble and as such had lost it's fine content, rolled across the floor and span around helplessly before clattering to a halt. (For no other reason but as a failed attempt to be funny. I offer my most sincere apologies.)
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Thankyou, thankyou for your comments. A writAAR feeds from praise like some sort of writing vampire.

Sleepyhead: Short and Quick, just like ... erm I'll stop that right here. And I'm a soiler and a spoiler baby.

bluelotus: ROCKOSSACK! Thanks for dropping by.

HannibalBarca: I shall burn the Ottoman babies, eat the women and rape the cities!

Steacy: Death comes to everyone sooner or later. Oh and thanks a lot for proof-reading my last chapter, I know my spelling, grammar and everything else sucks.

Lord E: Are you suggesting that I am uncapable of finishing an AAR Herr E?... Well I guess I see your point, I'll try to finish this one soon! I mean I've already finished playing the game in question. :D Thanks for dropping by. :)

stnylan: Thanks for dropping by old chum! It was more of a desperate plea to save his life, bugger bringing peace to his realm, Ðurad cares for #1!

coz1: Humour? How dare you accuse me of peddling humour! Oh wait that was my intention all along. Glad you find it amusing as I know my sense of humour is a little odd.

Hajji Giray I: May the Serbian Kingdom live for a thousand years! Oh crap, think I just jinxed it. I admit that I stole that particular catchphrase from one of my favourite characters in the Discworld series of books, well it just stuck in my head after I wrote that final line of the first part.

I didn't actually intend to write this AAR. I was playing as Serbia earlier in the day to grab a few screenshots for a friend who does not have the game but wished to see how the Provinces and whatnot were set up (then he lectured me for about an hour about how it should of been done.) and 48 screenshots later (of which I only sent about 4) I decided that I should flex the old writing muscles again. No promises but I'll try and complete this one (anyone who mentions anything relating to Wales and/or Abandoned AAR will be strangled). And finally I do apologise for my odd sense of humour.

That general sure seems to be having a hard time. Well after throwing up all over that woman I can’t say I am surprised that the mercenaries didn’t think too much of him. Well I guess you need a loan then, a loan and some mercenaries and maybe you will stand a small chance of inflicting some casualties upon the Ottomans…

I actually find your sense of humour entertaining Kurek so please keep it up ;)
This is entertaining indeed.
Today Serbia!
Tomorrow Exile!
This is a great AAR. :D
Lord E said:
That general sure seems to be having a hard time. Well after throwing up all over that woman I can’t say I am surprised that the mercenaries didn’t think too much of him. Well I guess you need a loan then, a loan and some mercenaries and maybe you will stand a small chance of inflicting some casualties upon the Ottomans…

I actually find your sense of humour entertaining Kurek so please keep it up ;)

Yeah. :mad: As a woman I was disgusted!
Hm. A doomed AAR! Why not? Desperate struggles are far more fun to read about than easy wins.
A Year and Two Months: The Epic of Serbia

Consisting of One Year, Two Months, Three Weeks and Three Days of unparalleled drama! excitement! epic battles! intrigue! love and betrayal!

Part cetiri

Making haste, horses and moneylenders.

Scene: Smederevo fortress, Central Serbia. (King's Private Chambers)

Ðurad was rushing hither and thither, stuffing valuables and documents into a sack, shouting at servants who were likewise hastily packing the Kings items away. He had a team of horses waiting for him in the courtyard and a small guard of loyal Knights. A messenger rushed in and knelt before his Lord.

“My liege, Mehmed's host is approaching, they are only a single days march from here. We must make haste!”

“Yes yes! I know I know!” sighed the King whilst trying to force a ceremonial crown into the sack. He gave up and propped it onto his head. “Where is that drunken General? Is he dead yet?” he enquired hopefully.

“No lord, actually he is outside and requesting an audience with you.” The King frowned at the messenger's reply.

“Tell him to bugger off! I'm busy”

“Yes my lord.”

The messenger hurried off. Ðurad mumbled 'ohshit' a few times under his breath then stood up straight. “Right, it seems everything is packed and ready. Let us depart.” He made for the door. It burst open. General Postek barged in head first. (thus knocking off his other 'wing', he now looked immensely silly.)

“My lord.” said he, kneeling before the King. “I require immediate funds for the hiring of the mercenaries”

“Yes, yes sure, will erm, 10 ducats do?” Asked the King of all Serbs.

“No sir, they are requesting a lot more.”

“How much exactly?”

Postek told him. The King slapped him. “You're taking the piss General, we havn't had that much since the glorious days of our Empire! Sod off and don't disturb me again!”

The General sighed and made a few sucking noises, he sighed once more. “Well sir... in that case do I have permission to raise funds on behalf of the Kingdom?”

“Pray tell, Postek, where will you find such a stupendous sum?”


(Fancy movie flash fade type effect thing)

Scene: Moneylenders Guild.

A rather large and splendid building, decked out in all of the essential 15th century fashion accessories and whatnot. Two gentlemen are conversing. One is old with a white beard and a funny hat. He is the Guildmaster. The other is younger with a more fuller and less grey beard and, also, wearing a funny hat.

“Guildmaster, I sense that money making opportunities are afoot!” The younger of the two predicted.

“You are correct. I smell it in the air.” Said the Guildmaster, with shifty eyes no doubt.

“To the Castle!” They both exclaimed as one.


(One of those spinning screens which fades into the next scene)

Scene: Smederevo fortress, Central Serbia. (King's Private Chambers)

The King and Postek were arguing. A knock on the door interrupted them half way through a 'insult thy mother' slagging match.

“What is it!?” Roared the King.

“Apologies for disrupting you my lord. The Guildmaster of the Moneylenders Guild wishes to speak to you.”

Postek's eyes widened, “Aha! We can ask them for money most wise and gracious King!”.

'Hmmm why not' Ðurad mused to himself. 'I'll be safely away in Bavaria by the end of the week, this Kingdom shall no longer exist and there'll be no debt to pay. Perfect!'

“Yes, I agree. Postek you handle this. I have important matters of state to attend to.”

“Such as?” the General enquired.

“Such as: mind your own business! Don't you have a war to fight or something? I'm off.” The King left the room.

Postek faced the moneylenders. “Well I guess I'll be the one seeing you, Guildmaster.”

“Hmmmmm yes, so it would seem, heh.” purred the old Guildmaster. He tapped his fingers together and then swung his arm around the General. “We have a most excellent deal going right now General, interest free for a whole month...” The Grandmaster rolled off a entire list of APR's, AER's, gross P.A's, percentiles, and other 'special' deals. Also he offered to include a free pen and radio clock, plus a £10 gift voucher for the local Market.

“I understood none of that, Guildmaster, but you seem like a trust worthy man so I'll sign up!”

A wide grin creeped across the Guildmasters face:



Moneylender: note the funny hat.

Horse: I know a joke involving a horse but I'd get banned if I told it.
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