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June 26th, 1158
A warehouse in Venice
Morning

"Twenty-three, twenty-four. All right, you're paid up for another month." Salomone nodded to his tenants, who tugged their forelocks respectfully at his dismissal. He concealed distaste for their obsequiousness; didn't they know he'd been born in the same back streets? He knew perfectly well what they said about landlords in private. It was a sordid business, renting out houses to poor families, and he wished himself out of it; but it was a steady income, a base to live on while shipping made him rich.

Speaking of which, he thought when he saw his next appointment enter; this time he rose, and held out his hand as to an equal - no sitting in lordly splendour through this meeting.

"Dandolo," he said, and the other man nodded and shook his hand. "Aiello," he returned, quite as though both their families had been wealthy in Venice for two hundred years. It still gave Salomone a shock, just how important money was; he kept expecting his business partners to finally drop their masks and look down their noses at the jumped-up backstreet boy. But if Dandolo, in his silks and velvets, felt any disdain for Salomone's linen, or for meeting in a warehouse and not a marbled palace, it didn't show on his face.

"Good news," he said instead, smiling; "our ship came in. You were right - the first harvest in Egypt failed, our grain went for a fantastic price. We filled our hold with cotton, there's another shipload coming in, and there's profits left over. This is your share." He pulled a fat purse out of his silks and handed it to Salomone, who smiled at the sweet ring of gold and the weight of it. He would look over the accounts later, of course, but in truth he did not expect Dandolo to cheat; he'd be a fool to chisel a few extra coins and spoil their partnership. Dandolo had ships and men and contacts, but Salomone had the nose for what shipments would make money; working with him had doubled Dandolo's profits. He wouldn't throw that away for the sake of what he could cheat out of one shipment.

"Good," he said, and thought. "Hmm - two shiploads? I must say I wasn't expecting quite that much cotton."

"Apparently the cotton harvest was very good," Dandolo said. "Ironic, when the grain failed, no? Bale upon bale of cotton, and nothing to eat. Except our barley, of course - and at the very best prices, too."

Salomone smiled, but only from politeness; high prices for grain meant children going hungry, and he'd done so himself often enough. Even after his stroke of luck with the shark, he'd had an empty belly on occasion, when all his capital was tied up in ships in distant ports, and he caught nothing in the Laguna. It was no laughing matter to him. But there was no use pointing that out to Dandolo; that child of privilege and wealth might agree, might apologise for his jest, might even genuinely feel bad about it, but he would not really understand, not in the stomach where it mattered. Instead Salomone turned to practical matters.

"We don't want to collapse the price," he said. "I don't think Venice can easily absorb two shiploads; what if we send the other to Marseilles?"

"Marseilles?" Dandolo blinked; it wasn't a place they did much business with. "I would have thought Tunis, or even Barcelona - but never mind," he added hastily. "Marseilles it is!"

Salomone smiled; if the truth were told, his partner gave his magic nose too much credit. Marseilles was a whim, an experiment; there was probably a market for cotton there, but it wasn't likely to be another marvel of twice the expected profit, as shipping grain to Egypt had been. His hunches worked that way at most once in ten times - but Dandolo didn't track the numbers carefully; he remembered the triumphs and forgot the humdrum expeditions that returned only the ordinary profit. That was why Salomone's capital was growing at twice the rate of Dandolo's, in spite of the other man having most of the ships. In ten years he would have his own fleet, and would no longer need their partnership - and even Salomone was not quite sure what he would do then. Was he really friends with a patrician, or was he just using the man?

For now, at any rate, the point was moot; they exchanged courtesies and Dandolo left, and Salomone turned to his money. He didn't like to admit it, but there was a sensual pleasure in counting up gold, feeling the slick weight of the pieces in his fingers, hearing their sweet ring on the table - a very different sensation from taking shaved coppers from poor tenants. Nonetheless he sternly resisted the urge to throw the money up in the air and let it rain down over his head; someone might come in, and then what would he look like? Besides, he'd lost a coin down a crack in the floorboards once, doing that, and had had to replace the whole floor to get it back. Instead he stacked up the coins neatly, fives, tens, twenties; if the stacks made a pretty pattern, well, nobody was like to call him foolish for that even if they saw.

Near the bottom of the purse he found a coin unlike the others - they were mostly Venetian ducats, with a few Arab solidi thrown in - and held his breath. There were not that many bezants still in circulation, but gold was gold. Perhaps one coin in a hundred, of the gold that passed through his hands, was a bezant; and he looked at each one carefully, just in case. A small flaw in the metal caught his eye, and his heart hammered. Yes! There it was, tiny but unmistakable; the letter aleph, for Aiello, that he had carved in his three bezants before sending them out into the world. He grinned in triumph.

"Finally!" he whispered. This was the last of the three to come back to him; after thirteen years, and passing through who knew how many hands. But there were only so many merchants, in this Europe of the twelfth century after Christ; only so many coins, and only so many men who would deal routinely in gold. It was hardly miraculous, that a particular coin should come back to him; for all he knew, the coppers he'd taken from his tenants were on their third or fourth visit to his warehouse. But Salomone cared nothing for coppers. Here was the source of his wealth, come back to him at last; and he would not send it out again. He would put it with the other two in the tiny, secret strongbox in his bedroom, the one hidden within the masonry wall, separate from all his other money. If he ever lost it all - if his ships sank, if his main strongbox was robbed, if even the emergency reserve went to some stroke of misfortune or violence - then he would still have his three bezants; and from that rock he could, at need, rebuild his kingdom. But in truth, he did not believe that would be necessary; for the three bezants were his luck, and he would not again be separated from them.

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Oh, how the money rolls in!

Even while lending money from Iberia (500 ducats to Anders's Barcelona, for mercenaries to fight the heathen) to far Altai (300 ducats to Clonefusion fighting some complex tribal war for the biggest yurt in the whole horde), enough cash has remained in Venice to enable several successful wars:

  • Punishing Serbia for its aggression during the reign of the previous Doge, I took its province of Ragusa (formerly Dubrovnik). This apparently-minor war actually saw my largest setbacks of the session: Serbia was allied with the Greek kingdom of Anatolia, which sent troops to defend Ragusa. In the mountainous Balkan terrain, these brave and tenacious soldiers were able to inflict terrible casualties on the Venetians soldier-sailors, more used to boarding actions than mountain passes. I raised new armies, but then had a second disaster: I had split my army into two stacks for faster sieging. Collecting them back together, I misclicked, and one stack attacked a fresh Anatolian army, in mountains, without support. By the time the other stack arrived, the battle was essentially over, there was a rout, and in the rout both stacks were drastically reduced. The immense financial resources of the Venetian state, however, drummed new mercenaries out of the Earth. Serbia is currently a one-province kingdom.

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Battle of Cravat. Note Serbia's four provinces - modest, perhaps, but a player in the regional balance of power.

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Victory, if that's the word.

  • I fought two minor wars on the Greek coast of the Aegean, in support of the ambitions of my vassal resurrected!Blayne. These one-province affairs expanded Blayne's domains by 66%.
  • I conquered Ferrara upon the death of its former ruler, my tributary. Never mind this tributary nonsense, now I have a claim.
  • Most significantly, I crossed the Malta Channel and, for the first time in 700 years, planted the Cross on the shores of Tripoli. Holy War for Tripolitania! This is not yet over, but looks hopeful, with a Christian army of 13000 (including 4000 allies from the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem) facing something like 6000 howling heathens.

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The Central Mediterranean, April 1239, with recent Venetian conquests outlined in red. Note what's happened to Serbia - it's the one-province minor just north of Ragusa (Dubrovnik in the previous screenshot), dealing with a rebel army of 10000 men. Hungary has taken one province, and Zeta is independent - except for being a tributary of one of the lesser Venetian families. Moral of the story, don't mess with Venice.

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Abramo Aiello in vigorous late middle age.

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Domestic situation in Venice.

The internal politics of Venice, however, are a fly in this Ointment of Triumph (+2 to Charisma). The patricians of Morosini and Ziani are old men even by comparison with the middle-aged Abramo the Lawgiver. (Named, obviously, for his habit of laying down the law to the foreign enemies of Venice - Serbia, Sicily, Anatolia, Ferrara, Tripoli, it's a long list and the end is not yet.) Compared to the dynamic and thrusting leadership of Abramo's son Isacco, they are arthritis and sclerosis personified; dividend-drawers and rentiers, not adventuring capitalists willing to risk wealth in new enterprises. But the electorate of Venice does not see it that way, and the difference is large enough that even money, the all-purpose lubricant, is of limited use. Abramo is fifty, and might live for another ten years, might even see out his three-score and ten; but the situation remains concerning.
 
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HannibalX said:
Damn, you have quite a lot of Greece. Lovely AAR as always, KoM.

Thanks! As for Greece, that's the domain of resurrected!Blayne; human vassals are always going to go independent sooner or later, so I don't really count it as part of Venice's permanent strength.
 
  • I fought two minor wars on the Greek coast of the Aegean, in support of the ambitions of my vassal resurrected!Blayne. These one-province affairs expanded Blayne's domains by 66%.
  • I conquered Ferrara upon the death of its former ruler, my tributary. Never mind this tributary nonsense, now I have a claim.
  • Most significantly, I crossed the Malta Channel and, for the first time in 700 years, planted the Cross on the shores of Tripoli. Holy War for Tripolitania! This is not yet over, but looks hopeful, with a Christian army of 13000 (including 4000 allies from the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem) facing something like 6000 howling heathens.

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Go away, kafir. Or I won't let you trade ion Alexandria no more.
 
II – Directions
Aydhab, a dozen leagues south of the Egyptian border, 1231

In Musa’s parched throat, in his blistered feet, in his aching limbs, it felt like the day had lasted forever; and yet, somehow, dusk was coming too soon. He had been up since before dawn, commanding the attack on Aydhab, pressing everywhere, leading the second and fourth assault himself. Now the walls were mostly rubble, the city was in flames, and he had an hour or so before dark, maybe, to make it defensible again, even as the fighting went on down by the port and his men broke ranks to get on with the looting before it was late, and no one really knew what was going on.
The defenders of Aydhab, such as there was, were destroyed as a fighting force, although isolated pockets of resistance would hold on for hours, mostly in the hopeless, hungry side of town, down by the port, a maze of deep, narrow, twisting streets overlooked by a second maze of terraces and staircases (Not hours, no, it would go on for days, not that he had either to spare). But there were at least two bands of Nubians in the hills, and after nightfall they would probably try a desperate assault on the ravaged town before the Egyptians could consolidate.

“Omar! He called out, Omar.”
Omar was a grim, gnarly veteran of the battle for Tinis, who was kneeling in the dust by the southern wall, closing a fallen soldier’s eyes.
“Sir?” There was a gash on his forehead, the kind that bleeds profusely but seldom kills, and wiped his blood with a dirty sleeve.
“Take charge of that portion of the wall. Any man you see is yours to command, on my authority. Set sentries on the parapet and a small squad at every breach. Plug the bigger ones, not with stones, with tents, and fill the tents with sand. It will be quicker. We don’t need sand now that we had a city. Hurry. There is a lieutenancy in it for you.”
Musa did not know yet which of his lieutenants were dead, but there was no way they had all made it through that day alive.
“Yes, sir.”

He sent Samir to the do the same on the eastern wall, and so there was only Husain left of his escort when he rode to the southern gate. The fighting there had been long and gruesome. The ground was strewn with wounded, and the camp followers had only taken the time to finish off the black ones and pile them before tending to the Egyptians right there, haphazardly (among the men he had sent against the gate was his small contingent of Afar auxiliaries. It was unlikely Egyptians would have made a distinction between their wounded and the enemies’. That’s war for you; he could not spare more than a thought to that matter, not now). If the Nubians attacked there, through that helpless throng of wounded and dying, it would be perfect chaos in an instant.
“Ahmed. Ahmed! Ahmed!” He snapped his fingers. “What is this?”
“I’m tending to the wounded," the old sawbones said, not stopping for his commander.
“I can see that. But not here. Not in the middle of the way in and out. Evacuate them. There is a large square before the church, he remembered. Have the wounded transported there.”
“We can’t transport all of them.”
“Transport the ones you can save.”

The gates themselves had been old Ethiopian pine, reinforced with iron. Now they were broken and snapped out of their hinges. No way to put them back tonight. Carts, porters and straggling soldiers pressed to file in and more rarely out, so Husain and Musa had to whip some loiterers out of their horses’ way. One burly, bald quartermaster had taken upon himself to impose a semblance of order on the process, with commanding shouts and the occasional punch.

“So you found your melee, Atef!” Atef was a quarrelsome brute, and kept petitioning for a post in the vanguard. His bad luck was being so good at shouting and punching a supply train into shape. Deceptively shrewd, too.
“Hail to you, sir! A glorious victory and a glorious clusterfuck.”
“I can see that. Have what’s left of the doors pulled away, it will make things easier.”
“That’s what I thought, but I thought, without them, in case of attack… You see?”

They all looked at the gate, pondering.
Two of our wagons will fit just right in there. Commandeer two, have shields nailed to their back, and keep two teams to roll them back into the gate at a moment’s notice. Barricade.”
“Aye, that’s good and well, but we need soldiers too. AS YOU KNOW I am not a soldier.”
“Husain. Stay here and keep with you any wounded that can stand. Shame them.”
“Sir, you’ll be going inside alone.”
“I know.”
“You can’t…”
“I’ve been doing things I couldn't all day long. What’s one more.”
“Sir!”

A rider was making for him, breathless and dirty, his small horse lathered with sweat, still twitchy for the whipping it had received. As he turned to face him he saw a plume of dust at the hills’ edge.
“No. Not yet.” He had almost carried on the day. Almost.
“Your glorious father, sir. Emir Ali is coming, Allah bless him.”
In some way it was more worrying. Musa twitched.
“Husain! Hurry everyone up. I won’t have my glorious father arrive to see that kind of hubbub.”
“I’ll sort up this shit-show, Atef said. Just give us a little time.”
Musa nodded and spurred his own horse. He could stall his glorious father for a time by offering a report. Hopefully that would be enough for Husain and Atef.

The column of riders slowed to a halt as he neared them, but Emir Ali was not on horseback. He rather stood in a two-wheeled chariot, with the bundle he never opened under his arm. Muhammad held the reins, his third son, the strongest and most beautiful of them. Scorpio, Emir Ali’s erstwhile heir-apparent, was coughing his life away in Rasid, and now Muhammad was always by his father’s side. It had always been clear, even while they were children, that Musa would not be chosen, and so his brothers tolerated him. Whichever came on top, he knew, they knew, his father knew, would kill the other. But maybe not him, if he somehow managed to prove himself both indispensable and non-threatening.

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Look at these stats !

“Father." He bowed as much as he could without dismounting. "The city is taken.”
“And our losses?”
His glorious father would know if he lied. He always did.
“Considerable. As you said, I took Aydhab without regard for the cost in lives and, it was priority to take it... Your reinforcements are very welcome.”
“These men are but the vanguard of the army we bring south from Sarqiyah. But we are not here to reinforce you. We march southwest, deeper in Nobatia.”

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The might of the Emirate marches south

We?
The emir craned his neck to look at the burning town in the distance.
“You have done well, my son. I mean for you to take Aydhab for your personal sheikdom. Rebuild and reinforce the town, to serve as our base for the conquests to come.”
That was not wholly unexpected.
“Of course, Father. I will make Aydhab inexpugnable. Walls to stop any foe, barracks to hold hundreds. Your armies will march from here.”
“Make it barracks for thousands. We have an ancient and powerful kingdom to make ours.”
“Nubia? Is Nubia so…”
He stopped suddenly. His father’s face remained stern, but Muhammad had cocked his, with a faint mocking smile.


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After years and years of waiting I finally fabricated and pushed a claim on Sariyah, on the red sea. A new county is always good news at this point in the game but this one was extra good news. Why is it extra good news? Glad you asked!

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jihad tiem
Unlike my delta domain, Sarqihya on the Red Sea puts me just in reach of the divided, Miaphysite Nubia, two seazones away. Meaning I always have a casus belli to expand as long as I have the troops to push it. Of course, it's kind of hard, and I have to micromanage mercenaries hiring, troop movement and diplomacy to snipe the kafirs who do not have the good sense to enter in a big alliance. But slowly I am pushing down there, unopposed by any human player.
 
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Kuipy said:
“I’m tending to the wounded, the old sawbones said, not stopping for his commander.”

You've got a lot of these sentences where the double-quotes include the narrative. Could you clean it up a bit? Also, at one point you say it was clear XXX would not be chosen. Probably a name fits in there. Otherwise, nice description of the aftermath of a fierce battle.
 
Chronicle 3: Dragon Slayer

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The Early Years of Richard II of Aquitaine were quiet by all Standards. The Young Navarran King had quickly won the Loyalty of his french Vassals and the Small folk. His Wife however was unloved, by everyone within the court and Whispers filled the royal court, of a Harlot commited to the corruption of the King and the Fall of the Empire. In an effort to strain relations a bitter sheikh from The Almohad caliphate arranged for her murder on Prince Peter's Name-day feast. One of his letters was intercepted but it was too late.

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Overcome with Grief Richard II turned to the forest for Solace and In the forest, He found true Terror. A Great White Beast as tall of a Farmhouse with great wings that could extend across a field, living practically outside the walls. Richard returned home, Gathered the men but nothing was found.


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Richard would not give up and hunted for the dragon relentlessly, Though soon belief began to wane. One day a local lord returned to Toulouse, His Castle had been burned and world was quickly spreading throughout the Kingdom. The King had not been simply overcome with grief that day, there really was a dragon terrorizing the kingdom.

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The Hunt Lasted for Years and the Empire held its breath when Richard sent a Report back to Westminster after having found the dragon sleeping in a cave in the Pyrenees.

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On that Day Richard II became Richard the Noble as he resisted the Dragon's foul magic and put an English arrow into the Foul Creature's throat. The Corpse was brought to rome to be Purified by the Holy Father. The Father deemed it appropriate to burn it and send it back to hell. What remained after was only tooth and bone. Richard's Long Bow and Arrow was blessed by the Pope as a Holy Relic, and Upon the end of the Ceremony, Richard the Noble returned to Aquitaine with his Bow, and the Head for his wall.

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In the Following Years Richard would join the crusades in North Africa against the Ayyubid and Almohad sultanates. While the African front had some Success the Iberian Kings quickly devolved into Infighting, forcing Richard to fufill his role as the Emperor's Right hand in the south and Enforce Peace upon the squabbling petty kings. When they all defied the Emperor's will, Richard had no choice, He seized french land belonging to Aragon and Invaded Navarra. When the Portuguese King died, Richard Intervened and put a Loyal ruler back onto the Throne. And Finally Leon was overthrown and integrated into the British Empire to serve as an example to the others.

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Note: Depicted Above: Iberian Lords accepting British Hegemony, Castille not present


While the Iberian Crusade failed, dramatically, the First half of Richard the Noble's reign was successfull. Credited for winning several battles in the Holy Land and Spain, along with Slaying a Dragon and Putting down the rebellious Iberian Kings. For all of this Richard was named Regent General of Hispania and given overlordship to the lands of Leon. However such an Act greatly Upset the French and discontent against the Empire at large was starting to Stirr. The coming years would see Britain Triumphant in the West, or a Failed state like the Frankish and Holy Roman Empires before it.

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Note: Richard the Noble's Standard of Aquitaine-Navarra with the Cross of Saint George the Dragonslayer set in the Center and the Coat of arms of Aquitaine and Navarra taking alternating Corners. The Cross of George Represents both the slain dragon and the Integration of Genoa.
 
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A tale of Bad teeth, rain and sometimes diplomacy.


Chapter 1


Bob had never much liked the kingdom of his birth never mind that he had just been elevated to its highest social order with a Ducal Tittle. It rained incessantly, the better looking Scandinavian women were too far north to bother finding and most importantly it was governed by an incompetent dolt. Often in social settings Bob would be accused of being disloyal to his roots, not truly English; perhaps it was the perfect smile he used to such devastating effect on the women at court, or his penchant for well tailored French outfits. Either way, matters had come to a head, for on a dark and dreary day languishing beside the hearth with his favourite Pyrenees after an early failed seduction attempt on the heretic Queen of England there came a knock.

At the door was the only worthwhile man in Bob's court the Chancellor Dave. Behind him were two guests attempting to look illustrious and menacing, the Count of Toulouse and another Count of some god forsaken fractured French territory. Allowing them entrance and calming the growling mastiff, Bob prepared himself for what would surely be a confrontation over someone's wife or daughter he had dallied with and already forgotten. Striding into the room the Count of Toulouse proffered his hand in greeting with a respectfully murmured 'Your Grace'. Proceeding to regale Bob with the terrible state of English possessions in France a terrible picture of John's incompetence was laid out by the two independent Counts. After evaluating the merit of the grim picture of a country in rebellion along with the whispers Bob had heard separately about revolt, Bob came to a realization. His disdain for England wasn't just because of the rain. It was disdain for himself, and his squandered potential chasing plump noblemen's wives and scullery maids. It was disdain for the abdication of responsibility towards his own people as he let John the Incompetent's grasping fingers tax them to death fighting war's for no gain. It was disdain for his father for not having reared him properly with the ambition a man of his stature required.

Facing one's own short comings can break a man, but for Bob the Seducer he felt something else switch. He desired to be known for more than simple seduction. He desired to be known as a man with a legacy, a builder of good things, a champion of the people. A king of England. Accepting the kneeling Count's fealty on the spot, the rain outside came to an abrupt end. While it would be disingenuous to say the clouds parted and for a brief moment there was sunshine in England the occasion would herald something momentous. Not since William the Conqueror would men change the face of England in such drastic fashion. While I don't claim to truly know the greatness of such men I will endavour to relate their tale accurately, without embellishment and with precision. For that night Bob had looked me in my eyes and said "Behold and remember Dave. Something stirs and finally it is more than my loins." Thus I became more than Chancellor, I became a Chronicler of other men's passion.

Dave
Official Chronicler to Augustus Bob the Seducer, The Shrewsbury Dynasty and the British Empire Circa 1207
 
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Chapter 2


Bob's vision for a golden age of English culture could be said to have brought out the worst in the Engliish. First there was the matter in which the old king John was dealt with. While unsubstantiated and unable to be said in the open for many years during the reign of Bob 1st Sole Augustus, rumour had it that he was killed intentionally. While the records are correct he died in a highway robbery, which were synonymous with his poor rule, most to this day think he was killed under the orders of the Aquitaine Duke. Many others say with the tactile approval or outright support of the future Emperor.

But the expression no good can come from bad deeds, turned out to be incorrect. Upon his ascension Bob set out to rectify past wrongs. He legitimized many of his Bastards previously ignored in poverty, and even treated their mothers like ladies. As a result a verified increase in prostitution was seen across the English countryside often accompanying the development of new holdings. After all if a Bastard was good enough to be an Emperors heir, who was to say a whoreson couldn't become a knight.

Economic development wasn't the only change on the Isles. Bob determined to travel and see more of the world he was destined to rule and set out upon a celebratory tour of the realm and other countries. First he visited his fore bearers in Norway and brought back a wife from the old Danish King. Afterwards in a separate direction he visited Brittany, The Canaries and the fabled region of Genoa on the amalfi coast. During this period his wife after giving him a legitimate child fell ill and died.

Some will say it was grief that drove Bob's next actions others his grief merely a pretext for what was to come next. Blaming all the places visited for the death of his queen Bob forced first Brittany to acknowledge his suzerainty. A daughter was taken for safekeeping. Then the Canaries being of Muslim stock refused to acknowledge Christian kings, so they were brought under direct English control. Genoa proud and rich upon refusing to pay tribute suffered the same fate. Intermixed and unnoticed during these wars the Isle of Man, Long a holdout for pirates as well as Wales and every single county in Ireland were also forced to pay tribute. Finally consoled by his new bride the Duchess of Apuilla the English fleet sailed home.

In summation the golden age of English culture saw a marked increase in violence towards the Irish, whoring and outright conquest. These aside the worst development may have been in artistic style where Gaudy Imperial trappings became the norm. Art also adapted an increased Phalic style that appealed to the warped sensibilities of Bob. The ramifications would see gargoyles on castle walls shaped like a phallus upon all imperial buildings. Bob and his bastards could often be seen laughing for hours in the rain while water launched rapidly out of the phalluses. Many a maid forced into the downpower in crude humour.

Signed and dated in the year of our lord 1215,
Felix of Cornwall
Post script. In a tragedy the Late chancellor Dave was killed while fabricating a claim in the holy land while on pilgrimage with Emperor Bob. He will be remembered for his wit, acumen and cold sores.
 
Chapter 3


Empire had been good to Britain. The kingdom of Aquitaine had been formed and amongst pomp and ceremony bestowed upon the previous Count of Tolous, now Duke of Toulous. The man certainly had earned his keep in the Empire. Rising from a lowly count, he had quickly become the right hand man of Bob after his oath of fealty. Bob's tours of debauchery in the south of France had slowed down with age and responsibility so it was clear he trusted the now King to maintain his interests in Aquitaine. But success is full of compromise, whereas the Tolousian vassal had expanded the realm and performed admirably, Count Danton of Vexin had failed to expand the empires borders. Not wanting to overtly display favoritism amongst his first vassals, a minor crown of Wales was gifted with an accompanying gift of a Welch Duchy and the newly formed Merchant Republic of Cornwall. Secure in the knowledge he was surrounded by well wishers, Bob set about cleansing the Infidel presence in Spain.

First Bob called upon all loyal Christian Kings and Dukes in the nearby Christian realms and set out his vision for a Spain freed from the tyranny of heathens. Surprisingly in a show of solidarity France agreed to a treaty and began marshalling her armies for participation in what would be termed the Minor Crusades for Iberia. Dukes and Kings who refused to acknowledge the legitimacy of British vision were quickly put to tribute in anticipation of the coming wars. Setting sail for Iberia Bob along with the King of Aquitaine singlehanded vanquished Muslim army after army. Not since Jerusalem had fallen to Christian hands had religious fervor been at such a pitch. Annexing the Emir of Mallorca, Tangiers and Grenada castles were constructed and old abandoned Christian fortifications brought to use. Declaring he would not leave Spain until the last heathen left it's shores, Bob was surprised to find that a rebellious Duke previously loyal to John disagreed with the policy. In a brash act of hubris the Islamic sympathizer was hung from the parapets of Westminster Castle.

Where loyal and relatively content vassals had previously been left behind in England, whispers of tyranny became widespread. Away from court Bob never fully realized the danger he had created secure in the loyalty of his friends and Vassal kings. The knife that found Bob should have ended his life. Instead he suffered in agony for weeks aboard a ship destined for his native soil. Not wanting to die in cursed lands he blamed for his impending reunion with God, Bob despaired. Recently in an attempt to circumvent his first unwanted progeny the Empire had held a great summit and Elected one of Bob's favourite children.

This was not to be. While the sins of the father should never become the burden of the son, Emperors aren't like mortal men. In a widely despised turn of events, disease claimed the lives of many Shrewsbury men while a new Emperor was crowned. Against Bob's wishes his loyal vassals overrode Bob's dying wish to disinherit Bobbi (commonly known as the daughter Bob always wished he had) and named him Augustus. Bobbi however true to Bob's fears was seen as too effeminate and made of weaker French character from his time in Brittany. Where before a stable Empire seemed triumphant the mood became grim. Before long a distant realm in Kiev previously unnoticed or heard of due its obscurity and relative insignificance would become the scourge of England. Somehow being notified of the discontent with Bobbi "the painted whore" the Duke of Kiev slipped his assassins into England. Finding immediate aid and succor amongst disgruntled nobles Bobbi was quickly slain while parading in front of court in his favourite dress.

Unbeknownst to court the favourite son of Bob, Bob II had been killed by the very same men months before. Instead of finding salvation with the death of Bobbi, the Empire fell to an untested John, not even a Shrewsberry. With the courts of Wales and Aquitaine now the only loyalist it appeared as if the Empire of England was destined to endure a similar rule to that of Galba from ancient Rome. Elected by the armies, the few loyalists in hiding prayed Bobbi inherited his grandfathers mettle for life clearly meant to test him.


Felix of Cornwall, Exile in Wales and Brittany
Signed and Date 1238
 
Chapter 4 - Epilogue

I was there from the beginning. Not many can say that, perhaps only the now King's of the realm. My motivation was nothing so grand. I was merely a priest intent on saving the soul of a man doomed to torment in this life and the next. Temporal matters are for those who believe rest is for the dead. I firmly believe our work only truly begins when we ascend, but in this life we have a duty to help any lost soul find the City of God.

My name is Einion of Northumberland, formerly a Welsh Brigand. May this serve as my opus, a final tribute for a man I adored like a son.

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Life often turns in directions unfathomable, mine changed in 1205. I confess I was a brigand formerly of Wales. My life of crime however was not limited to my home county, I had dreams. Purses filled with gold, membership in a noble brotherhood of assassins and thieves, I was determined to make a name for myself. In 1205 though it feels like ages passed I was on contract for my brother the Duke of Gwynedd. Styling himself a petty tyrant, he had run afoul of a man barely known in the lands of England Bob. Having seduced his wife, and bested him in combat, the Duke was willing to pay anyone willing or able 5 ducats for the death of Bob.

My quarry wasn't hard to find. Holed up in a dingy tavern recuperating from an especially virulent bout of lovers pox I prepared to send a man to meet his maker. Poised with my dirk the man unaware in his delirium or maybe instinctively sensing his end approaching began to toss and mumble about never knowing who his father or mother was. Truly a wretched sample of human existence, and English. Though it shamed me at the time I now know God intervened. My hands shook unable to make the final thrust that would seal my soul's fate to hell. The ducats and the man beneath my blade weren't worth my eternal salvation.

God's guiding hand had not lifted from my shoulder yet that day. Moved by at the time unknowable forces, I took the wretch under my wing. Began to nurse him with thin broth to health. Praying for his soul and recovery it began to take. When he was alert and able to form sentences after first asking for wine, he asked how I came by him. I often wondered if perhaps I was still being influenced from afar, but today as an old man I believe my conscience had developed. Petty lies lead to larger lies, so I revealed the truth of my nature and cause for his acquaintance.
Years later I was granted the most important Bishopric in England, Northumberland. This was unique not only for the fact I was a self acknowledged sinner but also a Welshman in England. The truth was Bob's star in England had begun to shine, and I was his confessor and confidant. I had counselled abeyance of his sinning, advocated finding loyal friends who would keep their feet on a true path. Most importantly I was an anomaly in England, maybe all of Christendom. God had found me, but I remained a warrior at heart. While history rightly dictates worldly glories to our Emperor, I was the tip of his spear piercing the breast of his foes.

I was already an old man for our age during the turmoil of 1229. While others blamed comets, the successive Crusades in Spain or Bob's scheming progeny, I know different. God was not done with this old sinner. He knew in my heart I had been ready to commit murder that fateful day in 1205. My entire life I thought he had spared me out of Grace or a sense of destiny. I no longer believe that, I know why my hand was stayed. My path never truly changed, I was always destined for damnation, and my stay of execution rescinded. The true heir and Grandson of Bob, Bobbi II has called upon me for advice. Remembering the martial drills I instructed upon him at an early age, he pleads with me to take up the Rod and Mace and help him quell a rebellious Kingdom.

I will do this for the Grandson of Bob, but my path no longer calls me to church. Death will be my temple and its foundation will not be built upon the shores of England. Take this Rod Bobbi and remember the Kingdom that was. Forge something new and without old sinners like me. I have laced my vambrace and oiled my old dirks. Let other's think I have passed for it is true, the work I undertake now is not fit for your knowledge, even God's eyes are dead to my path. God once entrusted me with a man's soul and my hand trembled. The men who took the life that was in my care will not see the same hesitancy. I won't see your grandfather to tell him the man you have become, for I am set to escort others to hell.

Einion's Final Speech, When an Emperor Wept.
Remembered and Painted by Jacques Mon Fayette

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Intercession

Seeing as we are now some 50 years into the game (or thereabouts) and our protagonist Bobbi literally died within the first few seconds of last session start, ruining my inspiration, I thought I would talk about Ck2 this week.

This AAR will mostly be loose thoughts and tips around the structure of the game as it pertains to our mega campaigns. So no, sadly you can't abuse the pope to print money all game long
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First and foremost CK2 is a mechanically forgiving game. You have quite a few paths towards the same outcome, all of them viable. For the discussion of this thread I am going to talk about becoming King. (all of this is highly biased and my opinion on game mechanics)

When starting a conversion game, you are presented with the opportunity to select a template character. In our case it is essentially a lvl 3 education trait of choice. The key here is to completely disregard your intended destination for education. Once you are finished with the first part of the game, as long as you switch your children within the last year of guardianship to the desired long term education choice, you will have a significant probability of getting the trait you want. This is doubly important as if you are planning on educating your children yourself (past the final year until maturity) this is suboptimal as being only a lvl 3 trait you have a significant chance of only giving them a lvl 3 trait, or even a downward move. It is always optimal to select the lvl 4 education trait from someone in your court for the final bit of rearing. While it is a fairly small time for RNG, it is still best to try and find lvl 4 traits with diligent, honest and gregarious. Avoid Zealous like the plague; those loons think god will sort out the details.

This brings me to the important topic of what education trait you should chose at start? Many seem to pick martial, or diplomacy. In my opinion these selections are inferior to intrigue early on. Early on diplomacy is a waste since you simply don't have enough vassals for it to matter. You essentially are taking it for a Hail Mary that your King will throw you some free land because he likes you. Theologian is nice for the tech bonus long term, but in my experience tech is not usually a limiting factor in capitals late game. Martial is always great, because you are really going after that .5 health bonus. Combine this with way of life choices and you can easily get rulers into their 70s. However counterproductive for what we want to do at the beginning of the game. Finally Stewardship is just always a bad choice unless you plan on staying a count.

So let's discuss intrigue. The important thing about intrigue is that with the addition of Way of Life (probably the worst Pdox expansion ever done in recent memory) you can supersize your intrigue. Through seduction focus you can add a minimum of +2 permanent boost as well as easily adding the hedonist trait for another +1 intrigue (+2 diplo while you are at it) and then through the Intrigue focus you can then add another 7 possibly more since you can take your lvl 3 education trait and bump it to lvl 4. This does not include random events that will often fire giving you other bonuses like deceitful and cynical. In general I find you can take a 15 intrigue character and bump him into the near 30s by the time you are done with your busy work. This immediately translates into probably if not always being the prime candidate for your liege to chose as spymaster. Why is this so great you should ask? Well because you are going to kill him and his entire family.

This accomplishes a few things.
1) weakens the realm for your inevitable takeover.
2) Generates situations where claims get spread out, making it easy for you to breed some of them into your next heir.
3) Is a heck of a lot of fun.

The added bonus to way of life choice of intrigue is that through becoming a master at it, you have very significant chances of either outright imprisoning your target, or killing them on the spot. Ever wondered how easy it would be to faction with your king permanently in your jail? It is delightful.

Your goal is two fold. If you don't like playing a breeding game, you will faction your county into low crown authority, and then either faction for gavelkind to elect yourself in, or put a claimant you like on the throne instead.

Once done enjoy whatever king title you desire in game. Feel free to switch to your new education focus of Diplomacy or Martial.

In future AAR intermissions, I will give some tips and tricks on how to use way of life mechanics to their maximum potential, as well as advanced claim generation guide.

My final thought for starting out in a Grand Campaign, where you start as a count, the most important thing you can do is before the game EVER starts. Look at your starting counties, make sure you can immediately form a duchy upon game start. Without it you are locked out of the most powerful tool at your early disposal; factions. By not instantly getting a ducal title, you unnecessarily nerf yourself which can have long term repercussions.
 
Baron said:
Intercession

I think you mean 'Intermission'. :D Intercession is when God comes between you and a punishment, like the Governor pardoning a criminal.
 
Had me nervous for a second, Thought you were going to start giving away the tricks we used for Stealing England and Forming an Empire in 14 years. Some Knowledge Lesser men cannot be allowed to know :p
 
No I meant intercession. religious theme and all. The idea being some of the advice contained is like a pardon as it is being published in time to still be of use. I thought I was being clever:(

Yea - I was disappointed it took us so long to get it done D. Would have been faster in some other countries/slots; 1204 is a brutal time to start in Imo.
 
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Requiem

August 24th, 1167
Campo de la Lana, Santa Croce, Venice
Afternoon

Sweat ran down Salomone's face, carrying stinging soot into his eyes and mouth, but the firebreak had worked. Several hundred ducats' worth of linen continued to burn merrily, adding radiant heat to the already unbearably-muggy steambath that was Venice in summer, but to lose five hundred ducats was not ruin. A blow, certainly; but if the other warehouses on the street had gone... Salomone shuddered to think about it. It wouldn't quite have wiped him out, he had cargoes on ships and properties in other cities; but the loss of working capital would have set him back years, or a decade even.

"Salomone! Are you all right? I came as soon as I heard there was trouble."

Salomone's head snapped around; even now, exhausted and filthy from fighting fires and humans, he had to smile a little at the sight of Niccolo Dandolo responding to an emergency. The huge chaperon hat was askew, with the liripipe blowing every which way in the fitful breeze; the tight-fitting doublet, usually carefully smoothed to show off Niccolo's slim torso, now showed every sign of having been shrugged on hastily, and bunched under the arms. Worse still, there was actual stubble on the right cheek; apparently the news had reached Niccolo halfway through his afternoon shave, and impressed him enough that he'd been willing to appear in public with half a five-o-clock shadow.

"Niccolo," he said, and was briefly amazed that in these circumstances he could still take a minor pleasure in being on first-name terms with a patrician, an aristocrat who could trace his lineage to the first merchant traders who had sent ships out of the Laguna. "I'm all right, the fire is under control. The Contarini swine are still skulking about the Case Nuove, though." He gestured down an alley between his warehouses, too narrow to have a formal name, to indicate where the mob of tenantry was still licking its wounds. The Contarini hadn't quite dared to stiffen their cat's-paws with any of their liveried house gentlemen; even the Doge's family had to retain a certain amount of plausible deniability around arson. That was why Salomone had been able to drive them off in short order, even outnumbered and having to split his men between fighting fires and fighting humans. The Contarini tenants were willing enough to throw some torches and crack some heads at their patron's behest, in accordance with tradition stretching back to before Caesar, but serious fighting against people with actual swords was something else again; and the Aiello tenants had been spitting mad, not just "willing enough".

Niccolo's lips formed a thin smile, and he nodded understanding. "Perhaps we'd better drive them off, then," he said. "They might get enough brains together to throw some more torches, and really now, mobs in the street? I knew Andrea was annoyed we got those spices into Amsterdam before he did, but this is like something out of the tenth century. We can't get the man himself; but a hard lesson or two among the renters should do some good."

"Right," Salomone agreed, setting his jaw. He had a certain amount of sympathy for the Contarini tenants, who'd been given the choice of mobbing his warehouse or being thrown out on the street; but what could you do? If he made it clear, once and for all, that being out on the street was actually the better choice, the threat would no longer be effective - and then the Contarini wouldn't make it, so everyone would be better off. He looked over the men Niccolo had brought; only a dozen, but well armed, and huge - the one on the left was six feet if he was an inch. "It shouldn't be too difficult. Just a good straight charge down the alleys, lay into them, crack open some heads, send them home crying for their mamas." An organised military force would have been holding the alleys and would make such a maneuver impossible - but the tenant militia on the other side were anything but organised, and by now most of them would be thinking that they'd made enough of a show that they'd keep their rooms.

Niccolo shook his head. "You're right, it's not difficult, but we can do better than just chasing them off. We'll go down this one, drive them up towards Bergamaschi. You wait half a minute, then take your men down the next one, hit them just as they're getting good and panicked. Send your renters up to Sechera, tell them to gang up on anyone who comes running and beat them senseless - that's far enough out that they won't be a mob anymore, just singles and pairs."

"A real massacre," Salomone said grimly, but nodded. Better to have a single massacre, and convince the tenants that they wanted no part of street fights, than to have people thinking they could revive the old custom of riots as a tool of competition between the Houses. He noted, for future reference, the difference between his own simple plan, and what Niccolo had come up with on the spur of the moment; evidently there was something in the formal education the Houses gave their scions.

"Give me a minute to get organised," he said, and turned to find Benedetto - who was, in fact, standing right behind him; Salomone hid his startled jump as well as he could, but he could see on his cousin's face that he hadn't been too successful.

"You heard?" he asked once he had himself together, and Benedetto nodded. He'd been in charge of Salomone's hired muscle for as long as Salomone had had hired muscle - at one point that had meant he was in charge of himself - and now he moved both his own men and the tenants with the same efficiency Salomone had in moving ships and cargoes. In short order they were ready, and Niccolo's men pounded down their chosen alley; a little after that Benedetto shouted "Charge!" and the Aiello guards followed him. Salomone brought up the rear, on the grounds that he wasn't a trained fighting man but still wanted to bash some heads in to make up for his five hundred ducats.

He emerged into the Corte Case Nuove to find he wasn't going to get a chance; the only Contarini tenants in sight were the ones who had been trampled in the rush, and they weren't moving. The Aiello and Dandolo house-gentlemen were chasing the remainder up the street; Benedetto and Niccolo had stopped. Leading a charge into resistance was one thing, but just chasing down fleeing renters was beneath a patrician's dignity; and Benedetto would want to stay close to the leaders, to hear their plans. Salomone stopped to talk to them, wracking his brain to figure out what that next step was; that was when the flat thwacking sound came from a warehouse on the other side of the street, and Benedetto spun and crumpled like a sand castle undercut by the incoming tide.

Salomone stood frozen in shock for a long moment; Niccolo, however, moved, catching Benedetto before he could fall all the way to the ground and starting to drag him back towards the alley. "Crossbow!" he shouted, and Salomone finally moved himself, picking up Benedetto's feet where they dragged in the mud; with two men carrying, they quickly reached the alley, and the cover of some barrels. "That was meant for one of us," Niccolo panted. "Probably you. That was the plan all along - the warehouses were just to get you out in the open, where they'd have a shot - plausible deniability, middle of a riot, very sad but what can you do?"

"You're right," Salomone said grimly, feeling his flesh creep with conviction; rioting and head-bashing were one thing, he'd take his chances on that, but this deliberate ambush for him specifically was something else again. An assassin who didn't know his face too well, evening falling, soot and smoke making him and his cousin look much alike - that was all that had saved him. Had the price of peppers in Amsterdam really mattered that much to the Doge? "Filthy fucking weapon," he said, bending to examine Benedetto.

"Banned for good reason," Niccolo agreed; the Pope's ban on crossbows "except against the heathen" was perhaps the most widely-ignored religious doctrine in history, even more so than the injunction against fornication. That was because they were just too damned - Salomone chose his word precisely - useful; the bolt had gone into Benedetto's ribcage, he saw, and driven fragments of bone along with the bolt itself deep into his lung. Few other weapons inflicted such killing wounds with such ease; Benedetto had a minute, at most, to live.

He knew it, too, Salomone could see; there was desperation and terror in his eyes, and his mouth worked, but only a repeated "Sh - sh" came out, along with a trickle of blood. He reached out a hand to Salomone, appealing for something, but there was no help to give - then Salomone realised what Benedetto was asking for. No help on this Earth; and with a shattered lung he couldn't form the words. For an anguished moment Salomone balanced the secret they'd kept for two generations against the wish of a dying man - but the man was his cousin Benedetto, as close as a brother; who'd taken him fishing in the Laguna when they were poor and hungry, who had never showed an ounce of envy over the three bezants, who had stood by him for fifteen years. Only one thing to be done for him now, and only Salomone to do it; he took a deep breath and spoke in a clear, carrying voice, to cut through the fog in a dying man's head.

"Sh'ma, Yisrael. Shema Eloheinu; Shema Ehad." The words of praise and faith, the last thing to be heard before death; and Benedetto heard, and nodded, very slightly, in gratitude, before he slumped and the tension went out of his torso. Even then Salomone could be shocked by the difference between a man mortally wounded and dying, and a man dead; unmistakable and dreadful - but there was no time. Fearfully, he looked at Niccolo; and all his fears came true.

"You're fucking Jews," Niccolo whispered, his face screwed up in disgust. "And I worked with you - helped you - my God, for years. Christ, have mercy on my soul!" Faintly, Salomone realised that this last wasn't a conventional expression; Niccolo thought himself ritually unclean, and was genuinely praying for forgiveness.

In a way, it was everything Salomone had been expecting, for years; all the disdain that a patrician might feel for a nouveau-riche backstreet family, that Niccolo had never showed a hint of, was out in the open now, in the contempt of Christian for Jew. Still, it grieved him. They had been friends, not only business partners, for years. Niccolo had invited him to parties at his mansion, had even come to the baptism of Benedetto's son - which was irony; they had actually been celebrating his circumcision, but of course it was necessary to fake the Christian ritual as well. For two eternal seconds Salomone hesitated. Niccolo was an educated man, and had been known to have an original thought on occasion; and he genuinely liked Salomone. Could he, possibly, be convinced to keep the secret, even to continue their friendship, once the first shock had worn off? His immediate disgust, in response to a sudden revelation, while his blood was up from fighting a battle, wasn't necessarily the way he was going to react when he had time to think. But no - Salomone could not take that chance. If the Aiello were revealed as secret Jews, living outside the restrictions on their faith, they would have to flee Venice; the House militias would unite to burn them out, and their own tenants would lead the charge just to avoid being caught up in the pogrom. There would be deaths; the warehouses would be lost as surely if they'd burned to the ground; every business partnership with a Christian would be in doubt - Salomone could not risk all that, on the possibility that a Christian patrician might remember that they had been friends.

In the midst of sudden violence Niccolo had reacted like lightning; but now, when the crisis was trust broken and secrets revealed, he was still trying to process what had happened for a whole second after Salomone's gutting knife was out of its sheath. The knife had once opened a shark, though blade and handle were new since that time; it had no difficulty at all with Niccolo's silks, or with the soft flesh of his stomach.

"Sh'ma, Yisrael," Salomone repeated; who knew, perhaps it would do his friend some good to hear the words of praise and faith before he died. "Hear, O Israel. The Name is our God; the Name is One."

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And now you know the source of the names for my starting characters. Before anyone starts to quibble about the words of the Shema Yisrael, observe that the Aiello are not only secret Jews, but secret Samaritans - a closely related faith, but one which never underwent the Babylonian Exile and whose rituals are very slightly different. The Samaritans themselves claim that they have the original Jewish faith, uncorrupted by Persian ideas picked up in Babylon; the upshot is that the Aiello are doubly isolated - from Christians because they are Jews; from Jews because they are Samaritans.

Backstory aside, this session brought my first player conflict of the game, against Oddman in Syria. I had completed my crusade (which term is now a bit ironic, but for public purposes the Aiello find it useful to be more Catholic than the Pope) for Tripolitania, and found an opportunity to seize Cyrenaica when its Emir rebelled. Oddman, feeling Cyrenaica to be well within the sphere of influence of the two Muslim players who are currently vassals of the Ayyubids, objected, at first diplomatically. However, he tried to convince me that I should limit myself to Tunis (!) and points west; this is not on for an Italian power, Libya is basically my back yard, so we went to war over the issue. It was somewhat back-and-forth; I initially thought I was in a minor border skirmish against an obscure Emir, so I had only sent a small army. Oddman landed with 9000 men and easily crushed this force; his character personally led these troops, albeit from behind, to keep the men in order. I raised two mercenary regiments and shipped them across; when the Moslems ran, he was in the van, and first across the border.

Oddman had apparently misunderestimated my reserves, and thought that his 9000 plus his liege's 10000 would be sufficient; and to be fair, against that number of men I would certainly have known I'd been in a fight, and might have dropped the project as too expensive. (Mercenaries cost money, after all.) However, the Kingdom of Jerusalem very helpfully joined the war, and raised enough Holy Orders that the Ayyubid Sultan's men never showed up in Libya at all, being busy on the Holy Land Front. I had occasion, then, to point out to oddman that my Venetian forces included no HOs; "our camp followers are all women of virtue".

After this war I fought some minor skirmishes in Italy; I took the city of Ravenna (and a patrician very helpfully followed up by taking the province) and also grabbed the city Pescara from Sicily. I can see that uniting Italy with these salami-slice CBs is going to be a long process; at least there are now a lot of polities around the Adriatic, so I shouldn't be too hampered by truces. I also declared Crusade for Tunis, which looks promising although the Almohads sent 12000 men to interfere; happily these marched around in the desert for a while, doing nothing in particular, and are now down to 8000 without a blow exchanged.

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A surprise victory against the odds during the campaign for Pescara. I was so sure I was going to lose this battle that by the time of the screenshot, the replacement mercenaries have already been hired. Then I had to find a use for them, hence the crusade for Tunis.

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Central Med, 1253. Recent conquests picked out in red (excepting Blayne's domains in Greece). Note the Almohad army besieging Djerba.​

The internal affairs of Venice, meanwhile, continue to be a vexation. My good-ish eldest son, Isacco, was killed in someone's plot; his replacement Pietro is useless, and I cannot designate anyone else as my heir because I granted ex-Moslem counties to all the grown Aiello males, and they are now under the Lowborn duke who inherited Isacco's titles. To win the election for Pietro requires bribes on the order of a thousand ducats; in an effort to keep this number down I have been assassinating patricians left, right, and center, but every time I kill one with respect 7000, another with respect 5000 takes his place. My count stands at 7, and the eighth is currently in my dungeon; one of my first acts in Sunday's session will be to execute him, in the hope of saving a couple of hundred on bribes. Next week's narrative will be related to these events; stay tuned.

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Venetian domestic situation, 1247. Not keeping exact count, but I think the Dandolo candidate is about to be the fourth, possibly fifth, victim of my election campaign. Morosini and Ziani candidates preceded him.​
 
I must say this thread is captivating! It would be awesome if we could have a point of view of the global evolution of the other human player. However I know it takes time, so I'm not really complaining, rather suggesting :) Keep up with the good work guys!
 
You've got a lot of these sentences where the double-quotes include the narrative. Could you clean it up a bit? Also, at one point you say it was clear XXX would not be chosen. Probably a name fits in there. Otherwise, nice description of the aftermath of a fierce battle.

I corrected it but English typography still makes no sense.