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Got land enough soon? :p Why keep expanding? BB limit near?

Mutimir agrees with you :D. Re the BB, he's just got a "tarnished reputation" (and after Sweden, it's easy to see why).

By the way, Chained Monkey (TM) Productions appeals to your civic spirit with the AARland votes, currently in the last week. Vote early, vote often. Vote and make a monkey happy. Or vote and make another AAR writer happy, if you're the kind of person that can do that to a bunch of small, furry, basically unremunerated, chained animals of uncertain age.

But don't feel pressured :D. Keep the fun flowing.
 
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So....

Who's dead?
 
Think it was the Prince of Vidin :). Some hunting friend from Mutimir's youth. Well, earlier youth. Or something.

I was tempted to make it Wamba or an anvil incident, but the monkeys refused to submit to "producer intererference in the creative process". One week without bananas for that.
 
2,876.14?! The Emperess certainly has expensive tastes. Good to see Kettu lending a helping hand in ridding the Empire of rogues, a 'circumcissor' would rather prompt me to end a life of crime too. Everything seems to be going rather well, opponents postively forcing land upon poor Mutimir.
 
Yes, Kettu is into creative law enforcement of late (the scarcity of pokers these days is to be lamented). Helps release the tensions. About the Empress, a skiing holiday for the whole court is not peanuts :).

I've played some years ahead yesterday... what a tragedy unfolds. Even the monkeys wept. There were sour parts, sweet parts, sticky spots, and distinct signs of Wamba (well I guess someone's being his/her own enemy twice over was Wamba, or else a serious bug...) despite the date. And the Empire loses the most promising heir ever seen. Sigh
 
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[Draft title: 1095-1096. Wars of religion].

[Cast:]
Nasokrator Mutimir. Needs to look serious but you can drop the sickly skin colouring.
Brother Wamba. Put some more wrinkles, add a bit of smell, all hair gone white.
Prince Berbat. Tough as nails with a scar in the forehead.
Prince Davyd Rurikovich of Beloozero. Find an actor who looks rather like Kettu, but inoffensive.
Bishop Nikodim. Twitchy, insecure, and dead-looking.
Bishop Domagoj Ptochos. Like a turtle with a tremendous Greek nose.
Bishop Soimir Arbatenos. Same haircut and nose as Ptochos, to show they're half-brothers.
Caesar Stuart. Think of Caesar after several decades of doing himself too well on the starchy foods. Now with a nervous tick.
Kettu Rurikovich. This chapter he should wear something less bondageish and more James Bondish. But keep up the eye dressing and the beauty spot.
Glande of Galindia. Just as lanky and avuncular, with a manic happiness. And glasses.
Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell. The lost count of Urgell, as himself.
Zoltán Nemanjóvic. The lost prince of Serbia, as himself. But with some more weight and a frilly court dress.
Hovhannes Senek'rim Gardman-Aghbania. The lost count of Suenik, as himself.
First Aide. Don't bother with characterisation, we just need the voice.
Second Aide. Same as above.
Livonian warrior. Same actor who played Second Squire early on. His mother is pretty insistent.
Sundry actors without lines. We'll need several dozen, mostly specialists. And a martial-arts trainer. And insurance.
Digital effects. This episode should requiere very few, besides the sound ones.


February 1095. New training grounds at Ephesos. The Imperial Architect shows the place around to some VIPs, and the crown prince trots around in his white charger.

[Prince Berbat, returning and climbing down from the horse] Very nice training place, Zoltán. I especially liked the obstacle course and the giant mowing saws.

[Zoltán Nemanjóvic, helping him down] Yes, I thought they'd make a nice touch, don't they? So when will you be returning to school, your highness?

[Prince Berbat] Not soon enough, Zoltán. I never thought I'd say this, but that place is a more of a home to me than the Palace.

[Zoltán Nemanjóvic, looking a bit hurt] Nice place?

[Prince Berbat] There's lots of kids like me, so I don't feel that different. I learn practical things, like Defence against the Black Arts, Unhealthy Potions, and Moat Fishing. And we play buzkashi all day.

[Zoltán Nemanjóvic] Buzkashi?

[Prince Berbat] It's a game where you run on horse, whacking a goat carcass around with a warhammer and trying to pitch it into a scoring circle... anyhow, it's fun. Not many people die. Best is, Wamba doesn't go to the Monastery, and these days, every time I see him the old wound in my head hurts.

[Zoltán Nemanjóvic, solicitous] You hurt your head? Where?

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June 1095. Palace of the Prince of Beloozero. Private study of the Prince. The ambassadors of the Empire have just delivered a vassalization offer to the proud Rurikovich, and it shows.

[Glande of Galindia] ... would you please reconsider, your highness?

[Prince Davyd Rurikovich of Beloozero, raging] Reconsider! I said no! You sniveling reconverted pagan, you dare ask me to reconsider?

[Glande of Galindia, unblinking as spittle showers against his glasses] His imperial majesty is very eager to welcome...

[Prince Davyd Rurikovich of Beloozero, stomping] I'm not joining this so-called Empire! I'm not becoming a vassal of that nosey, blundering convert and his fake Patriarch!

[Kettu Rurikovich, rising from his chair with a frown] Glande... please go downstairs to see if you can find me, while I explain the facts of life to my kinsman.

[Glande of Galindia, brightly] Right away, my dear. Do you think you may be in the kitchen or in the...?

[Kettu Rurikovich, looking fixedly at the suddenly very nervous Prince] Just look around, will you, Glande? And close the door after you.

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February 1096. Palace of the Nasokrator in Ephesos. Imperial gymnasium. Mutimir is working on the rowing machine while the Patriarch, in full apparel, pleads for a favour.

[Nasokrator Mutimir] A bishop? Here?

[Patriarch Wamba] He's a good man, friend of mine, will be hardly any trouble about the house...

[Nasokrator Mutimir] Smooth single men cooped up in close contact with too many ladies? Bishops are trouble always, Wamba. And I'm having enough trouble with the Empress as it is.

[Patriarch Wamba] It will only be for a few weeks, your majesty...

[Nasokrator Mutimir] Yes, and after that he'll get gloomy and go play with Zoltán's homicidal training field, like poor uncle Nikodim. Hmph! Oh, all right. He can come. But make sure you find him some other place as fast as possible.

[Patriarch Wamba, bowing] I'll do whatever it takes to follow your instructions, your majesty.

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June 1096. Swampy battleground near the Baltic coast. Warriors up to the knees in mud hammer each other without making much progress. Some stop for a breather and a cup of ale, some plug at it like pros, and some do both.

[Hovhannes Senek'rim Gardman-Aghbania, sidestepping an enemy sword and slashing in turn] All I say is, if you want to fight the heathen, we could do it in a nice sunny place like Egypt. I mean, what's the use of this frozen waste? No offence meant, sir.

[Livonian warrior, parrying and charging with his shield] None taken, sir.

[Ermengol de Barcelona-Urgell, cleaving an enemy with a seven-point combo move] Egypt? Because of the Pope? What's it with the pointy-hat and the Crusades? Much better to reconquer Aragón. Mutimir has a claim, you know, from his mother. Watch your left.

[Hovhannes Senek'rim Gardman-Aghbania, thrusting at the legs of his opponent, who jumps nimbly in spite of the mud and catches an arrow with the forehead] You mean an actual, honest inherited claim? Wow!

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August 1096. Gulf of León. Darkness pierced by sun rays coming through cracks in the wood of the ceiling. Background noise of waves and rowing and someone cursing bitterly. Smell of sweat.

[First Aide, with strained voice] Poor Sir Ermengol, Nobby. It hurts my heart, it really does.

[Second Aide, panting] Why, Fred?

[First Aide] He's spent a year convincing the Emperor to attack Aragón, finding funds, shaping the fleet, building an army, and now he's actually in the middle of the sea...

[Galley master, bellowing from somewhere in the dark] You two at the back! Shut up and push the rows! We need to arrive in Genoa before they Germans gobble it back. One, two, one, two, one...

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October 1096. French royal camp in the Lévant. In the royal tent, the local expert briefs the King an his officers on the strategy for the upcoming months while methodically demolishing a pile of sweets.

[Caesar Stuart, unwrapping a chocolate] ... and with a firm foothold in the Lévant, we can raise my friends, the faithful Byzantines, agains the Dioclean usurper... and maybe even some oppressed Turks. Besides, this Mutimir has bled them dry in all sorts of wars in the North, there can't be very many armies left in the area.

[Nameless French Officer] Are you sure those Byzantines are really ready to welcome us?

[Caesar Stuart, looking shocked] Of course I am! Even his wife is said to be considering leaving him. Besides, we'll test the waters before doing anything. What could go wrong?

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November 1096. Palace of the Nasokrator in Ephesos. Hall of Lost Steps. Wamba has intercepted the Emperor as he passes with his secretaries on the way to some meeting. Mutimir is not pleased.

[Nasokrator Mutimir] Another bishop? And just what will you be invading now to give the poor man a home? No, forget I asked. Suir yourself, I have got things to do.

[Patriarch Wamba, left looking at the back of the retreating Emperor] Er... ?

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Good to see that Mutimir is such a man of the faith, aiding Wamba's poor friends as he is. I'm sure that gaining extra land from the creation of these new Bishoprics is merely an incidental reason for his doing this. Very good to see Ceasar Stuart offering sage advice also. Well, he's offering advice anyway!
 
Aha!

The monkeys must have taken the bishop money!

Am I right?
 
This AAR was also abandoned due to lack of time... sorry.