Born to Breed: House of the Prophets (WARNING: May contain nuts and traces of ribaldry; a few scenes NSFW in puritanical societies)

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Well, it looks like Sif really wanted some. That's an interesting tactic.
And in the situation, an effective one.

Proof positive that she was won over by Sverker's charming personality, hairy manly chest, and practical jokes, as she claimed when making up after their epic chess game, and is now deeply in love with him and can't get enough of him.

Well, it is either that, or ulterior motives.

That is a long list, though Sverker did say that the sex was one of the best parts, so...

Sverker's first entry shows that he is still a stereotypical Viking!
Considering Sverker's many fine qualities one must eventually conclude that restraint, sadly, is not one of them.

He and Viola both hold to the adage that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing to well, as well as to the heroic standard that if something is worth doing well, it is worth doing to excess.

Given the transitive property, things occasionally get out of hand, as we have seen a few times by now.

That being said, it is hard not to get the feeling that occasionally the lord doth protest too much, and that Sverker's occasional objections to Viola's Grand Plan objectives stem more from sleep deprivation and a dislike of being bossed than from carrying them out.

Sverker was the epitome of the man who returns to work to rest from his time off, until THE WITCH sent new requests. Thank you for providing news from Sverker as he tries to tumble Wilt Chamberlain 1000 women mark.
I had to look that up. :D

If he doesn't stop the escalation, he'll easily reach a thousand the way things are going, but Chamberlain's estimate of 20,000? Even with CK3's significantly enhanced male fertility increasing with age and experience (for some lifestyle choices, at least) - and I guess I really ought to work in a joke on that in the story, now that I think of it* - that would perhaps be requiring too great a suspension of disbelief on the part of the reader, since Sverker prefers the personal touch.

* Just kidding. I don't have to think of it, as I already wrote it for upcoming chapter. I just need to decide the timing.

This whole passage made me laugh way more than it should have. :D
Dare I say it?

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!

But not quite.

Teading what I wrote, it would have been better to stop that day's diary entry right after Sverker announces that he is choosing Sif, followed by the picture, and omitting entirely Sif trying to get the last word and the punning henchmen dialogue, which falls flat.

Oh, well. It seemed to work out when I wrote it, but quality is better than quantity, as the actress said to the bishop.
 
The Sverker Diaries, interlude 7
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 7 -
the world of 934

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The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Sif is not always a genius.

Sif's solution to the problem of whether Áslaug meant ascending or descending order of age, when paying my respects to her sworn enemy, the wife of the high chieftain of Waah-ooof-arrgj-hoch-und-wasserpissen, and her four daughters, left much to be desired.

“Why don't you ask her? She knows them best, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked.

A novel idea, but worth a try, I thought. So I had them rounded up, showed the wishing list, and asked. Well, the first was a waste of time as they were illiterate, and as for the second, it unfortunately turned out that while my men had frisked the women carefully before presenting them, they had somehow missed their weapons.

As I realized when all five drew knives and attacked me.

So I am now five short for Viola's target numbers and have failed at one of Áslaug's wishes, and to add spite to injury Áslaug's enemy drenched her wishing list in blood and much of it is now illegible.

I guess that means Sif has to entertain me tonight.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Last week I. Wait. Is it really a week since I updated my diary and descended into nightmare? It must be. FOCUS SVERKER!

Last week, as we were approaching the small town of Blah-aarrg-gobblegabble-on-the-river (or so it sounded to me), my dearwife Sif suggested that this would be the ideal time to satisfy Kráka's wish.

I told her that she was mad, that it was not going to happen, and I'd entertain a few comely prospects and have her for an after-dinner snack instead.

She told me sweetly that the red troll was visiting, so this was not going to happen.

So I mentioned how the red troll seemed to visit her on an irregular and most inconvenient schedule, and wasn't it just two weeks since its last visit?

In retrospect this was a mistake, I thought, as I unsteadily got to my feet.

So I agreed that upon consideration her suggestion had merit.

And she told me to go forth and slaughter, and that she'd have the thralls bring out the poles and chains and get everything prepared for the post-conquest line-up.

And I asked, still a bit groggy from her flying kick, how I'd know which women were virgins to be included in the line-up, since hither-ho I had performed such determination by pragmatic hands-on investigation, so to speak, and this sorting required prior knowledge.

“Why don't you ask them? They know, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked.

So we went forth and a good time was had by all as we slaughtered the defenders. Limbs flying, yards of entrails and gallons of blood spilt all over the place. The usual.

Afterwards I interrogated the surviving women of breeding age with the help of a native who spoke the language, all 341 of them, and guess what? Sif was wrong.

The tally was 17 to 324, and I thought to myself that 17 wasn't too bad. No art to it, and probably little entertainment as I wouldn't have time to devote myself to the individual acts, but the day was still young and I'd easily be done by nightfall.

No such luck.

By the second I had my suspicions, and the actions of the third absolutely confirmed them. She enjoyed herself too much, and her work was not the work of an amateur. I was in the clutches of a professional, probably a merry widow, who had taken advantage of me to satisfy her base desires, thus inflating my workload!

And if the deceitful women gave false positives, were there false negatives as well? Had any of the qualified virgins escaped Kráka's wish simply by stating they were experienced, despite being told of the importance of the experiment? Would they dare? Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised. Sif's idea of asking them was half-baked to begin with.

There was nothing to it. Some times the old ways are the best, no matter how exhausting they are. Resigned to do my duty I excused the three I had already done, and sent my men to fashion more poles. I ordered the remaining 338 sorted by name to avoid arguments about precedence and prepared to come to grips with the alphabet. This was going to take a while.

And it did. Day after day after day.

Being high king is all hard work and no play. I am never doing this again. It was a stupid idea to begin with, and I told Kráka and Sif, but did they listen? Of course not.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

Sif is a genius.

Today we approached Sneeze-cough-and-arkle-on-the-river, home to one of Áslaug's acquaintances. Countess Maria Sophia of “just south and west of my home in Prussia; She's an expatriate Irish, has haughty airs, is 16 or 17 years old, and didn't invite me to her recent wedding. You can't miss her.”

The list told me to treat her “gently, like a stupid cow”, but an explanatory paragraph had been blotted out by blood and I had no idea whether she was friend or foe as that headline could be interpreted either way.

“Why don't you ask her? She knows best whether she's a friend, after all,” answered Sif, when I asked, to my complete lack of surprise.

Áslaug's perverse personality notwithstanding, this Maria Sophia probably did know, but even if she did, would she tell me the truth if lying seemed the safer answer? Given recent experiences that seemed a fraught proposition. But third time pays for all, it is said, so I was willing to give it a try. How bad could it be compared to last week?

But first there was work to do. I bade Sif a good morning, gathered my warriors, and slaughtered the local levies. In the confusion of battle I chopped up somebody who was probably the Count as he was large and in charge, but for a smooth transition of power it is better to make sure, so I bagged his head and brought it along as we overran the palisade protecting his seat of power.


Dear Diary,

My men rounded up the three wealthiest and healthiest looking young women and presented them to me in the chieftain's hall after frisking them for weapons. The catch consisted of a plain redhead, a saucy blonde giving me a come-hither look, who appeared to have enjoyed the frisking rather more than decency called for, and an inscrutable brunette.

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“Hello, Ladies,” I greeted them. “Sorry to bother you, but would you be kind enough to help me with a matter of identification?”

There was no response. They were frozen, does caught by the wolf's stare.

“Please, Ladies,” I addressed them again, carefully enunciating each word as I emptied my bag, “is this the Count?”

They stared as the head rolled across the floor, and then the blonde answered me in bad Danish in a somewhat agitated voice, “he has his looks, but that's not him,” and I had just begun cursing my bad luck, when she continued, hysterically, “the Count is... taller”. At which point the brunette smacked her soundly, and affirmed that it was, indeed, the Count, or at least a fairly important part of him.

“Thank you. Now, let's get down to business, I am afraid you must contain your joy, for I have bad news. Were this a raid you'd have the run of the mansion and be subject to the traditional penalty upon capture by my men as you no doubt anticipate.”

I saw recognition dawning in their eyes. They were clearly looking forwards to it, and it seemed almost a shame to disappoint them, but needs must.

“I'll admit that it is a merry game that is not without an element of skill, with the lucky winners carried off to Denmark in style as thralls or wives, and with the losers discarded after use to live out the rest of their drab and wretched lives here in the arse-end of nowhere. And believe me, under other circumstances I'd have loved to give you the traditional experience, but I am sure you see the problem.”

They remained frozen. A captive audience, but an unappreciative one. So I decided to cut to the chase.

“Since this is a war of conquest and we are here to stay, what would be the point of carrying you back to Denmark when this becomes Denmark? Seems a lot of effort to little gain for me. Thus as much as it pains me to say, I believe a more civilized approach is called for and we can engage in diplomatic intercourse to ensure a smooth transition of power. With me so far?”

The blonde and the brunette looked to the redhead, who stopped staring at the floor and answered, “I guess so?”

My heart sank. From the moment I laid my eyes on them, I'd been certain the blonde was the Countess, but apparently not.

“I believe introductions are in order. I am Sverker, High King of the North, and I believe that you,” I addressed the redhead, “are the late Count's wife, but who are your companions? They wouldn't happen to be chief's wives, would they? Ideally of baronial rank equivalent or higher? Or possibly the daughters of such stalwart rulers?

I had no such luck. The redhead was indeed the Countess, but the others were her ladies in waiting, the pick of the local villages.

So I told Toke and Thorkell to escort the ladies-in-waiting to another room and post a guard on this one, so I could discuss the diplomatic settlement and the Countess' future role in its administration in private.

“My dear wife Áslaug made a list for me of people she knew back here, with explicit suggestions on how to treat them, but unfortunately the list was damaged during my visit to the late rulers of Blah-aarrg-gobblegabble, and I can't make out whether you are considered friend or foe and the treatment I am to give you... Well, let's just say it leaves the question open.”

“Friend! I am her best friend!” said the Countess.

“That's what I expected you to say, and it says to treat you gently, which would seem to support this. But on the other hand, it also says you are a stupid cow and should be treated like one, and why would Áslaug say that about a friend? I was going to leave it to luck, but my dear wife Sif, who is campaigning with me this season, suggested I ask you rather than throw runes to decide the outcome. Talk about a novel approach! Do you have anything to show that you are Áslaug's best friend or to explain why she would want her friend treated like a cow?”

“It was a party game! Things get pretty dull out here, and posing as animals and guessing which is a great game if you are drunk enough. I am particularly proud of my cow pose, and it impressed even Áslaug, who is not easily impressed.”

That was either the truth or an impressive fabrication on short notice, but how would I know which? I must have looked sceptical, for she continued:

“I am sure that she must have described this in-joke in the damaged part of your list.”

She might have. As I contemplated the issue, a potentially amusing way of uncovering the truth suggested itself to me.

And if it hadn't been for the darned assassin, a good time would have been had by all.

But I must finish this entry now. The Countess is recovering and I have questions.
 
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In celebration of my 49th birthday I am kicking off a new sequence in the Sverker Diaries part of Born to Breed, with the short post above serving as a teaser of sorts to welcome readers back before the AAR turns to serious matters. Or as serious as it ever gets, I guess.

What is Sif up to? Does the Countess really do a great cow pose? And why are assassins such spoilsports? Sverker, no doubt, would like to know.

I expect this sequence to run throughout late May, June, and July - ideally with an entry per week, but that's rather more aspirational than likely assuming good weather this summer.
 
  • 1Like
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Reactions:
In celebration of my 49th birthday I am kicking off a new sequence in the Sverker Diaries part of Born to Breed, with the short post above serving as a teaser of sorts to welcome readers back before the AAR turns to serious matters. Or as serious as it ever gets, I guess.

What is Sif up to? Does the Countess really do a great cow pose? And why are assassins such spoilsports? Sverker, no doubt, would like to know.

I expect this sequence to run throughout late May, June, and July - ideally with an entry per week, but that's rather more aspirational than likely assuming good weather this summer.

You can't fool me. This is nothing more than a pathetic attempt to get idiots and sheeple to wish you happy birthday in the comments.

...

Happy birthday.
 
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Well, Sif seems to be trying to get out of doing any hard work. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.

I'm sure that Sverker was hoping that the blonde was the countess since she was clearly the most... amenable party to having sex of that entire group. I'm sure something can be arranged...

Also, happy birthday!
 
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You can't fool me. This is nothing more than a pathetic attempt to get idiots and sheeple to wish you happy birthday in the comments.

...

Happy birthday.
Curses! My cunning plan revealed! And thanks!

Well, Sif seems to be trying to get out of doing any hard work. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.

I'm sure that Sverker was hoping that the blonde was the countess since she was clearly the most... amenable party to having sex of that entire group. I'm sure something can be arranged...

Also, happy birthday!
I'm not saying you are wrong with regards to Sif's motives, but you might be as she tends towards drama. Sverker's motives, on the other hand, tend to be rather transparent except possibly when he is fooling himself.

And thanks!
 
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You can't fool me. This is nothing more than a pathetic attempt to get idiots and sheeple to wish you happy birthday in the comments.

...

Happy birthday.
@TheButterflyComposer: Idiot or Sheeple? @Peter Ebbesen, congratulations on successfully navigating forty-nine years of life, hopefully every day will be a little bit better than the day before. Thanks for the present of an update,
 
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Happy birthday! Glad to see you bring gifts.
 
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Your scheme is far too clever. Happy late birthday!
 
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The Sverker Diaries, part twenty-two
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets

- Chapter the Twenty-sixth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty-two
the world of 934

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The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I snatch this brief moment of piece to write further on the matters of the afternoon, before the Countess rallies.

“Then strike the cow pose for me, and if it is good enough, I'll take your point as proven.” I said to her by way of encouragement.

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A look of surprise briefly took lodgings upon her face, then a more steely determination took hold as she answered in the affirmative.

“Moo!” said the Countess, and went down on her hands and knees, and Freyr help me if she wasn't the spitting image of a cow, if rather better dressed.

“I am unconvinced. How could anybody say whether that was a cow or a horse pose, or, perhaps, a badger in a dress? My wife Áslaug would never be impressed by that.”

“We played the game in summer wearing lighter clothes.”

“I'm sure you did, but you aren't now, are you? I'm afraid I'll have to put you down as a foe, but no hard feelings for trying to fool me. Shows pluck. Anyhow, being treated as Áslaug's foe isn't that bad.”

“It isn't?” she asked cautiously from the floor.

“Well, if you must know, part of it is. But not all of it, and several of those I have visited so far were positively surprised.”

“And the rest?”

“That's nothing to worry your little head about.” I answered her kindly.

She jumped to her feet and stripped faster than I would have thought possible, then resumed the pose. That was more like it!

“That is pretty good, but the shivering rather spoils the effect. Be a good cow and walk to the fireplace.”

“That's where my dead husband is!” she objected.

“Your point being?”

She crawled carefully to the fireplace avoiding his head, then called defiantly over her shoulder, “Better?”

As I had been watching her walk, it definitely had been. Not much like a cow's walk, admittedly, but it had its attractions. Had I thought her plain looking before? If so, IT disagreed, struggling to escape its confines.

“Hmm... yes, definitely better, but there is something missing,” I said, and went to collect the head.

I placed the head on a small stool facing her, and admired my work while she shrank from it in revulsion.

“Almost you convince me, Countess. Save for some rookie mistakes, that's an idyllic picture of a cow united with her bull.” I said, “But I can't help noticing your back arching upwards; That is usually a sign of discomfort. Are you uncomfortable with the situation?”

“No!” she lied, eyeing the count. “My mistake. I didn't know that. My parents bred sheep, not cows.”

“Please allow me to correct your mistakes; It is a good pose, but why not perfect it?”

“Yes, please!”

“Then look straight ahead like a grazing cow, and I'll come adjust your position.” She couldn't be this stupid, could she?

She could. I shed my clothes in a hurry and approached her slowly from behind.

“First, allow me to depress the arch a bit,“ I said, gently pressing down on her waist until she arched downwards, with her rump strutting invitingly before me. “This is perhaps a bit too much unless you are a heifer. Are you a milk cow? Milk cows would straighten.”

“Definitely a heifer!” she said indignantly, doing her best to maintain the posture.

“I'm convinced!” I told her admiringly, “You are a happy cow, aren't you?”

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“You know, this looks so fun I want to play too! Do you mind if I join you?”

“The more the merrier,” she encouraged me as I knelt behind her.

“Then there's a new bull in town! Oh my, IT is harder than I thought,” I told her.

“Yes, keeping the balance is tricky.“

“No wonder you look unsteady on your knees. Allow me to support you while we play”, I said, taking hold of her waist as IT unerringly took aim at the target.

“Thanks! Very gallant of you.”

“My pleasure,” I said as I pulled her back, impaling her.

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“Apropros of nothing, did you know that an adult bull's penis is about three feet long? Not many people know this apart from cows and those who raise cattle. And the Minotaur's mother, what's her name, she definitely knew.”

“Stop! You're splitting me!” cried the Countess, struggling weakly. Not that her position allowed much else.

“I label you a whiner. To quote my little witch, IT is smaller than a baby's head. What goes into you is smaller than what comes out of you.”

“Oh,” said Countess thoughtfully, “I guess that makes sense.”

“Queen Pasiphae, that's it! If she could do it, you can do it!”

“That seems logical”, gasped the Countess, “but if you really want to study the cow pose, my ladies in waiting are much better at it.”

The good old shock & awe tactics were working like a charm, whatever my little witch said. The hot little bundle was obviously concerned that I was not deriving as much pleasure from the experience as she was. The old charm never fails.

I've still got it.

“You are doing fine, and anyhow Toke never had any patience, so I doubt they are waiting any longer.”

“Oh,” said the Countess, and I got down to business in earnest, jiggling all her best parts.

Things were just getting interesting when somebody kicked open the door and I heard a young male voice saying, “My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to uuurk.” followed by a crash as the speaker was tackled by one of my guards.

Some days I just can't catch a break.

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I can't say I was paying much attention, but there was something familiar about the voice – or perhaps the name? It was hard to concentrate.

“Say what?” I called over my shoulder.

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated from the floor, a decent attempt at bravado for somebody trapped by one of my champions.

“Doesn't ring a bell. Could you be more specific with your complaint? I rape so many women.”

“It is true, he does,” said the guard. Why, it was old Mateja! Fancy that.

“Representing!” shouted the Countess.

“Shush. This hardly counts. How else would a bull greet a cow? You are getting the friendly treatment because my wife Áslaug counts you a friend, and aren't you the lucky one that I am willing to play your game posing as a bull?” I asked her kindly, “You should see her plans for some of her enemies.”

“I'm a lucky cow, Mr. Bull,” she answered, getting back into the spirit of things, “Mooo!”

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated. Just the distraction I didn't need, being somewhat preoccupied.

“Will you stop saying that! Mateja, shut him up. Look, Belarmo, is it? From your name and your accent, you have clearly come a long way. Hispania, am I right? Lovely place. Great hospitality and willing women. Good times. Mateja, is he listening?”

“He's listening. Staring daggers at you, but listening.”


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“I am a reasonable man and under other circumstances I would be more than happy to hear your grudge in detail before dismissing it, but as you can see I am preoccupied satisfying this heifer.”

“Moo!” said the Countess.

“You might not have much sense, but you had the guts to attack me, and I can use men like that. So how about you join my army and forget the ploughing of yesteryear, while I concentrate on today's?” I asked him reasonably, and said to Mateja, “let him speak.”

“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated.

“There's no helping some people. Kill him.”

I heard a snap, and then silence. Mateja was efficient as always.

I got back to business and once I erupted, the sheer force of it propelled the Countess forwards, headbutting the count's head into the fireplace.

That's when I realized Mateja hadn't left, for she broke into gales of laughter. It was good, healthy, clean laughter, the kind I hadn't heard from her since uncle Baldr's death.

“He shoots! He scores! Oh my, Sverker. You really are something!” she applauded me.

“He is,” wailed the Countess, “he is evil incarnate and I can't even turn and hit him since I'm impaled on an iron rod! It should be growing softer by now, but it is still pounding! And MOO to you, too, you depraved son of a bitch.” she continued sullenly.

“That's son of a bull to you, good cow,” I said, “and you should stop being so selfish. This isn't all about you, you know. I can't even turn to face me own dear aunt, because I've got a cow stuck on my cattle prod, but do you hear her complaining? No, you don't. Because Mateja isn't a whiner, that's why. But self-absorbed youth – you have no consideration for other people. Your problems are always greater. It makes me sick. Besides, we haven't gotten to depraved. Yet.”

“Moo,” the Countess said truculently.

“Look, Countess. I thought we had been through this. You are only in this position – bad choice of words there, perhaps – by your own choice. You could have followed your moron of a husband in death, or declared yourself Áslaug's enemy, but nooo, you wanted me to be play games, pose as a bull, and engage in diplomatic intercourse. If you had chosen death, the honourable choice, I would have respected it,” I lied, for I would have done nothing of the sort. She qualified for both my little witch's and Áslaug's lists, and that made her too good a target to pass up. And honourable? Who was I kidding? The Countess, hopefully.

“Some choice!” said the Countess.

“Bad choices are choices too. It isn't as if I want to do this, you know. I could be in bed with my dear wife Sif, who has accompanied me on campaign. It is only my duty to Áslaug that keeps me here.”

“You don't need to do this if you don't want to. Go to Sif. I won't tell.” suggested the Countess.

“Not an option. Since you are Áslaug's friend I am honour-bound to honour you as she asked me to, being extra gentle and thorough since, as the note said, you were just seventeen, newly-wed, and inexperienced. She certainly was right about that, and you give me little pleasure, but I am nothing if not a devoted husband.”

“Well, pardon me!” she said, offended.

“I don't see why I should.”

“I hate Áslaug, you know?”

“I suspected as much when I read the part about the celery. It is probably mutual.” I answered her generously.

“Celery?”

“All in due time. Now, may I suggest you look on the bright side of life and adopt a more cooperative attitude? Play along and not only will we both have a better time, it will over the sooner. Freyr knows I'd rather be bedding Sif than an obstinate novice, and since I feel IT firming up again, time is awasting.”

“Continue? Firming up AGAIN? You never stopped in the first place, only slowed down, and I never noticed your rod of iron going soft. My husband was never like that!”

“The benefits of a healthy lifestyle and lots of experience. Practice makes perfect, and my iron has been tempered for years in forges far hotter than yours.” I told her.

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“Say what?”

Nobody appreciates a good metaphor.

“As my little witch explained it, the older I get, the harder IT gets. Very patriarchal. Much to the benefit of her breeding program.”

“I am sure there's a flaw in that logic somewhere,” she moaned, “but I'm having trouble concentrating.”

“Right. To business! What'll it be? Life, power, and possibly glory to come – or death.” I asked her, calmly.

“Life!”

“And who's my cow?”

“MOOOOO!” she said eagerly, giving herself over to the entertainment.


So did I, for a few glorious minutes, before my aunt interrupted. Turns out I had forgotten to dismiss her.

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“Are you sure you don't want to marry my daughter, Sverker? She's strong for her age, and needs a real man rather than some weakling who'll break in her hands, and Viola is all for it. Dalla would be the perfect bodyguard for you, just like I used to be for dear Baldr, and by the looks of it you could make her happy indeed.”

“Dalla is thirteen, aunt Mateja, and anyhow you must know of the recent revelation. Four wives, maximum. Orders from above.”

“A shame. I must say that, having decided to ravage Baldr's brood, rogering his daughters left and right, it feels a bit unfair that you chose two of Praxida's and one of Leontia's but none of mine when you could have had one of each. If you don't mind me asking, what have they got that mine don't?”

“Brains.”

“Hard to argue with that, though were I smarter, I am sure I could. But I guess that's the point. At least you only took one while he was alive, and wisely so. Had he known of your plans to fertilize the younger generation, he'd have put you to death.”

He would too! It wasn't MY plan, though, it was my little witch's, but I could hardly tell aunt Mateja that. I could soothe her, though.

“Rest assured, aunt Mateja, that had it not been for Odin's revelation I would have made Dalla my wife two or three years from now when I was sure she was sturdy enough to breed. But I don't mess with the gods' commands.”

“Speaking of breeding, your cow seems to have collapsed while we were talking. No stamina.”

“Oh, did I leave IT in autonomous mode? My bad. Her mind probably shut down due to sensory overload. It happens.”

“Your uncle did the same occasionally, It was really annoying. Though... tell me...”

“Yes?”

“Is that how you broke the Ice Maiden? We were shocked when you claimed her for wife, but Leontia and Praxida and I were sure that Sif would outlast your attempts to break her, for she was ever as wilful as she was delusional. We expected her to be miserable and vengeful after you bedded her, but within a week she was demurely following your lead and hanging on your every word. It was unnatural!”

Within a week? Was THAT how it had looked outside the household? It had taken the better part of a year before she succumbed to my charm!

“Would you believe me if I said she fell for my charm and winsome nature?”

“No.”

“Then I guess your explanation is as good as any, aunt Mateja.”

“Ha, I guess I deserved that. And as your cow is stirring again, I guess I really should get going and take the corpse with me. But if you'll pardon me for staring at your arse, what is the scar on your cheek?”

“Left or right?”

“Left”

“Sheepdog. Ireland, 917. I crushed its skull with a single blow.”

“And the smaller one on your right”

“Shepherdess. Ireland, 917. Half a minute later. She really liked that dog.” I said, awaiting the follow up question I knew would come. It always does.

“But... how?”

“She was a contortionist. Being stuck on the business end of things did not inhibit her flexibility to the degree it does the Countess. I learned an important lesson that day.” I smirked.

“I recognize that smirk, Sverker. Baldr used to despair of you, whenever you were in that mood during his lessons. Now give!”

“I learned that even the smallest problem left unattended could come back to bite me in the arse.” I delivered the punchline with glee, as I had so many times before.

“You are a bad, bad, man, Sverker.” she congratulated me.

“I do my best, aunt Mateja.”



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I am dead on my feet.

Drained.

Tired to the bone.

I finally exhausted the merry widow and in a daze I staggered from her chamber, down the hallway, and to my room, where I greeted Sif as she rose to greet the dawn.

zRGL6y.jpg



“What took you so long, Sverker?” she asked, curiously.

“I am out of celery”, I answered, and crashed on the bed, dead to the world.



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

I have escaped the Countess of Sneeze-cough-and-arkle-on-the-river much the worse for wear. With my teachings she'll probably do well. She might have been a stupid cow, but she sure was an energetic one. Sif says the Countess wasn't that stupid, but what would she know?



The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32

Dear Diary,

As dusk falls on the battlefield of Nopleasenoarrgggh, to give it its local name, we celebrate a battle worthy of the sagas!

The Skalds are getting ready for the victory feast, and I would love to join them, but as king I must think of posterity. When one of them thinks to ask me my impressions of the battle, as surely one will, I must spontaneously produce a poem or the perfect boast to be remembered by. But I'm no poet.

And don't have a good one-liner either.

In my desperation, I went so far as to ask Sif for help.

She looked approvingly at the battlefield, then gazed lovingly into my eyes, and intoned, “Say one thing for Sverker the King, say 'No Raven Went Hungry'.”

vMbbcI.jpg



I should have known better. Sometimes Sif is no help at all.

But it is sort of catchy. Perhaps if the Skalds are drunk enough it will pass muster if I can't think of anything.
 
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So, that plan about posting every week during summer? Failed!

Fell ill and got caught playing Stellaris/Paragons DLC which I got for my birthday, then enjoyed my summer vacation. And never got around to doing the necessary editing to post the next chapter, while writing a bit every now and then. So I have a substantial backlog by now.

But first? I need to write a response post to being nominated again for best character writer of the week. I think I'll let Viola take the lead on that.

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Also, if anybody knows a bbcode usable on this forum that does not expand a picture to fit the available space, I would be grateful. The default image tag does awful things when I want to show a closeup, such as Giant Thinking Mateja above.
 
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“My name is Belarmo Leodegundiez, you raped my mother, prepare to die.” the man repeated. Just the distraction I didn't need, being somewhat preoccupied.

“Will you stop saying that! Mateja, shut him up. Look, Belarmo, is it? From your name and your accent, you have clearly come a long way. Hispania, am I right? Lovely place.
Thank goodness someone else noticed Belarmo's! Thought I was going insane!

the battlefield of Nopleasenoarrgggh
NO! STOP! I'm laughing so hard it hurts! :D
 
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Hahaha!

Sverker will take a lot of concubines, I suspect. This "four wives" thing won't deter that in the slightest. Maybe he could take Mateja's daughter as one of those?
 
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Finally caught up with this AAR, after it was recommended by many folks. Hilarious! Of course, I'm a sucker for stories with Norse influences. Love the comedy and cultural references. Also, very much appreciate how it pushes the boundaries. Giving me a good example of what is possible and acceptable in the forum. Thank you for this @Peter Ebbesen .
 
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Finally caught up with this AAR, after it was recommended by many folks. Hilarious! Of course, I'm a sucker for stories with Norse influences. Love the comedy and cultural references. Also, very much appreciate how it pushes the boundaries. Giving me a good example of what is possible and acceptable in the forum. Thank you for this @Peter Ebbesen .
  1. Thank you for the kind words
  2. Also thanks for reminding me it is time for me to complete the next chapter to see if I can squeeze it in before the Christmas special
  3. Don't try anything like this outside the AAR forums
  4. Don't try anything like this inside other AAR forums than those devoted to Crusader Kings
  5. Don't try anything like this without making it very explicit in the title that the whole story is NSFW (as opposed to isolated incidents) what is going on, even if you are going mostly for humour rather than tittilation or outright erotica
  6. If in doubt, additionally spoiler any images that might be NSWF in Saudi Arabia; I haven't received any complaints, and I made certain to spoiler any images that might be borderline the first many pages, but it is entirely possible that some of my unspoilered images in the later parts of the AAR really should be spoilered to be in strict accordance with the rules (not in my own country of Denmark - everything I've posted is quite SFW here, but we're more liberal than many) - and the moment anybody asks, they will be
 
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  1. Thank you for the kind words
  2. Also thanks for reminding me it is time for me to complete the next chapter to see if I can squeeze it in before the Christmas special
  3. Don't try anything like this outside the AAR forums
  4. Don't try anything like this inside other AAR forums than those devoted to Crusader Kings
  5. Don't try anything like this without making it very explicit in the title that the whole story is NSFW (as opposed to isolated incidents) what is going on, even if you are going mostly for humour rather than tittilation or outright erotica
  6. If in doubt, additionally spoiler any images that might be NSWF in Saudi Arabia; I haven't received any complaints, and I made certain to spoiler any images that might be borderline the first many pages, but it is entirely possible that some of my unspoilered images in the later parts of the AAR really should be spoilered to be in strict accordance with the rules (not in my own country of Denmark - everything I've posted is quite SFW here, but we're more liberal than many) - and the moment anybody asks, they will be
Looking forward to the next chapter. However, sometimes the muse strikes inconsistently. (Not to mention, the inconsistent nature of the availability of time to write.)

Good advice. Doubtful I'd ever attempt anything this grand but your guidance on adhering to the Saudi standards is understood.
 
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