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Milites

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Haab Til Hiertet Briister


This will be my first paradox AAR, so please, easy on the hardware ^^
I will start the game in 1670 with the coronation of Christian V as the second absolute monarch of Denmark-Norway and play as long as it takes me to complete my still unfinished storyline.
I’ll be using NA 2.2 and Merlin’s graphical overhaul mod pack.
Please enjoy, and do leave comments!

The title is a somewhat old Danish motto of the 1st National Zeeland Cavalry Regiment of 1670. It literally means: Have hope until your heart bursts. Which I'll need if I'm going to win against Sweden :eek:


danskfronthm5.png



Prologue


In the short period of time from 1658 to 1670, the twin kingdom Denmark-Norway had witnessed remarkable change and worryingly severe crisis.
The lands of Denmark had been torn asunder after the first phase of the Northern Wars. The Swedish neighbour had ripped a third of Denmark alongside its abundance of riches away.
Norway had also been hit hard by their victorious neighbours. The land of mountains and fjords lost the provinces of Bohus and Hjämtland Len. In a period also Trondheim was also occupied by the Swedes, which granted them a window to the Atlantic and possibly overseas colonisation.
Yet Karl Gustav, the king of Sweden decided to use his fine tuned killing machine to finish Denmark completely of. Only a short time after the first fatal peace deal he attacked once again.
(Which we all know would result in a -6 stability hit for breaking truce/attacking fellow Protestants).
However the following Swedish defeat gave Denmark some dignity back.
Though the Scanian question was still unresolved.

So in 1670 Christian 5th rose to the throne. He was not very bright, or very tactful but he was determined to prove his worth on the field. Preferably a Scanian field…
Our tale begins a misty morning, 1670 June 29th at the harbour of Copenhagen..

Update will follow soon.
 
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coz1

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stnylan

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Also loves AAR's about the homeland, so will be definatly be following your story. :)

And be sure to smash some swedish butt. ;)
 

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Chapter one
Choices

vbenskjoldkf9.png


The harbour, Copenhagen, Denmark.
___

All I can promise you is the prospect of glory and action. That had been it. That had been the words of his father so long ago. Not much of a promise in any case, but it was just what his young heart had wanted and as a result he didn’t think twice. He snapped the day as a dead Latin wrote once. With the morning ship he had sailed from the shores of his city. And he had seen strange things he had. With his own eyes. From the steamy hot jungles of Sumatra to the sprawling bazaars in New Amsterdam. He had been there, seen the people and learned how to act and be. He had risen with the sun and watched it rise over the sugar plantations on Haiti. The Dutch had treated him well and he was grateful because of that. Yet he had not spoken a single word of Dutch as he stood there in Rotterdam, waiting for permission to join one of East Indian Trading ships. It was remarkable chilly for a June morning and he drew his coat closer around him. From Rotterdam to London. From London to Bristol. From Bristol to New Amsterdam. From there.. on adventures no boy from home had ever witnessed before him . The others around him kept on rowing and with a sigh he turned around. There she was. The last Dutch ship he’d get to see for a long time. OR so he thought.
He slipped back into pleasant memories of far away villages bathed in a sun so gentle that it would never shine on any spot of land of the cold North.
He was a strong man, and handsome. That was no lie for he had been told that himself, by the governor of Trinidad’s daughter and rumour had it that she knew handsome men. He giggled a bit when he thought of Trinidad. He had blue eyes and a fine yellow mane with tints of orange that revealed his hot temper and passion. With a bump the seamen hoisted in their oars and manoeuvred their small vessel towards the quay where someone tall was waiting.
___

Copenhagen, king’s Privy Council.
___

The door flung up and the excellences Peder Griffenfeld and Ulrik Gyldenløve entered engaged in a literal duel on words. Both were dressed in the finest clothes available and as they sat down besides their fellow ministers, none of them were willing to give any ground.
“I tell you, sir. We need the support of the greatest nation of Europe if we are ever to regain what was ours. I stress the point sir. No one other than the honest and glorious monarch of France can guarantee that our cause succeeds.” Several of the aides rolled their eyes in mutual understanding. The same argument had been repeated again and again the past few days.
Gyldenløve raised one of his yellow eyebrows and retorted.
“Sir, what you speak of is courtesy with a catholic nation that for a very long time has supported our most hated enemy. To be frank sir, I think you’re out of your mind.”
“Be that as it may dear lord your plans of cooperation with Brandenburg and the United Provinces will lead to our ruin. Why don’t you go back and guard some Norwegian border post?”
“And why don’t you..”
Gyldenløve’s rebuttal was interrupted by the sudden appearance of his most holy majesty Christian V by god’s grace king of Denmark, Norway and the Wends. The newcomer smiled warmly and entered in a very kingly way. The councillors rose to their feet and bowed in recognition of their lord and master. The king was in a pleasant mood this morning. His courtiers had reported that some excellent game had been spotted in the royal woods outside the ramparts. He already wore hunting garments.
“Gentlemen, please do rise” And the king strode elegantly to his oaken throne. That creaked under him as he sat down on the silken cushions.

“And what have our most honourable council been up to this very morning?”

“We have” Griffenfeld responded, “Discussed the prospect of replacing the most honourable lord Gyldenløve to the Norwegian border, sire”.

The majesty responded puzzled “By god what’s he going to do there? Has the Norwegians rebelled?”
Gyldenløve sighed. “A simple joke sire. A joke.”

“Well not a very pious or funny one then.”
A few moment of awkward silence followed until Griffenfeld produced a piece of paper from his depot besides him.

“I have here the key to the salvation of our lost domains. This document contains plans for a growing relationship with the kingdom of France which in the end should result in the successful conquest of what was lost during the unfortunate rule of your father.”

“With France?”

“With France sire.”

Gyldenløve leaned back in his chair and took up the challenge once more.

“Sire the French are Catholics, and very far away. They will not interfere if we act quickly enough. Furthermore there are friendlier nations at our borders. Like Brandenburg.”

“Brandenburg is already allied with Sweden. How will you persuade them to support us instead of the enemy?” Griffenfeld said as he shook his head.
But Gyldenløve hadn’t lost his breath yet.

“Details my liege, are only for the lowborn. An alliance with the Kurfürst would also grant us a position to strike against the Swedish possessions in Northern Germany. With the south secured we can concentrate fully on retaking your majesty’s rightful property.
King Christian was a strong and well meaning man, but he was not bright or well educated and he loved flatter. Thus he started to nod and show his acceptance of Gyldenløve’s proposal.
With a sign from his hand the majesty bade Gyldenløve to return to silence and with a voice loaded with importance he announced his god given thoughts.

“I have heard enough. What is the opinion of the rest of the council?”

After a short count it seemed like half of the ministers favoured Griffenfeld’s policy while the other half favoured Gyldenløve.
The King’s face twisted into a bored grimace as he discovered that he had the final say. He had hoped that a majority of ministers would have supported Gyldenløve, who by the way was his half brother and a great warrior. Gyldenløve had made a great name for himself in 1659 at the crushing victory over the Swedish invaders in the battle of Nyborg.

The king took a deep breath and stroke his nose with his right index finger a well know habit of his.
He just said it.

“Brandenburg”

And Griffenfeld had to spend his nights writing polite letters to a prince he didn’t like the slightest.



Who is the young man returning from abroad?
Will Griffenfeld sway the royal opinion towards France?
Stay tuned to find out.
 
Last edited:

TreizeV

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Good luck in your quest against the swede! They are quite tough in this period. Perhaps a treaty of friendship can be extended to Russia? ;)
 

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To all the people who wrote: Thanks!!

Scorpi: That might happen before you know it ;)

Capibara: Great to have you aboard :D

mad general: Same to you!

TreizeV: Who knows (well I kinda do, but that's not the point), things are going to get very interesting ^^

comagoosie: Can't you feel the juicy tunes? *kicks old transistor radio* there!
 

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Writing polite letters to a prince you do not like sounds to me like the very essence of renaissance diplomacy! :)
 

Milites

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Chapter Two
In the Navy

vbenskjoldkf9.png


Some months passed and Griffenfeld proved that his personal relations wouldn’t ruin the state’s foreign policies.​

brandeburgalqr4.png

___

The Offices of the Royal Navy, Copenhagen, Denmark
___

The young man stood up straight as the older man circled around him, trying to find the Achilles Heel of this living mannequin. They were the only ones in the waiting room. The staunch young man wore an elegant blue coat with white garments underneath and on his feet a pair of shining black boots protected him. By his left hand he held a broad hat with a magnificent feather fastened to its shade. His blue eyes under the yellow-red haystack that appeared to be some sort of haircut gleamed with eagerness.

“Are you done? I feel ridiculous.”
“Silence son, I won’t have you embarrass me in front of the admiral. Or anyone else, but that’s beside the point.”
“Dood van de god, you’re more rigid than any French army officer!”
“Hush, remember what this could mean to your career, and my pension. Ah look there comes the lackey! Remember to be politeness itself Magnus.”
And a young man in red robes actually entered and announced that the excellences wanted to see them now. The fact that there would be several excellences just made Magnus, for that was indeed his name, heart to beat even faster. The servant led them through a series of corridors with maps of the surrounding waters and positions of the batteries plastered on the walls to a simple door which only bore the name Adelaer.

The servant knocked twice and coarse voice bade them to enter.
The old man entered first and immediately bowed deeply before two men sitting in comfortable chairs.
“Your excellences, please allow me to introduce my son, Magnus Falkenbryst, we are most honoured to be allowed before your presence.”
“And we are pleased to have you here. Please, do sit down.”
The younger of the two gestured towards two equally pleasant chairs. The newcomers sat down quickly. A few moments passed as Magnus’ father exchanged looks with Cort Adelaer.
“I believe an introduction is in order” the man continued. “This, my young friend, is Cort Adelaer; admiral in his majesty’s navy and educated in Dutch service like you.”
Magnus nodded a silent “good day, I’m very pleased to meet you” message towards the sailor, who smiled in return.
“And I, am Peder Griffenfeld. One of the three major leaders of his majesty’s government.”
Magnus succumbed to disbelief and for a short moment he just stared at this triumvir with open mouth. As a young man who had only had few significant and powerful figures this close before (and he counted his father amongst them) it was hard to grasp that it actually was true.
“Your father speaks very highly of you Magnus. Tells my good friend the admiral of your deeds. Is it true that you sailed a Two Decker single handily from Sumatra to Goa?”
Magnus delivered a crushing look towards the old man. The sky was the limit when it came to securing the old man’s future.

“You could say sire that it would be.. a tad too spectacular. I have run the route some 4 times in the service of the VOC though.”
“Excellent, I like modest men. It’s even better if they are men of honour.”
“I am of the same perception, sir.”
“You are? Well then please do tell me Mr Falkenbryst; are you a man of honour? A man that can be trusted?”
“If I did not know that you were such a noble and important member of his majesty’s government I would have taken that as an insult, sir. With all due respect and acceptance of etiquette of course.”
Griffenfeld smiled.
“I like this man. Let us all go for a stroll along the batteries shall we?.”
___

The batteries, Copenhagen
___

“That is all I can promise you. Plenty of adventure, courting and quite possible a quite nice amount of cash.”
The wind blew through the hair Magnus’ hair as he scouted across the sea that separated Zeeland from Scania.
“Not bad, sir. Though I would like you to specify what I’m exactly am supposed to do.”
It was true. His excellence had not been eager to tell about the mission on wished to send the young man. Only that it was vital for his foreign policy to succeed.
“I want you to help me with regaining what once was ours.”
Griffenfeld himself now let his eyes wander across the horizon. He muttered words any man who has ever known the troubles of sorrow will know.
“I want you to sail with Adelaer’s Juel to Amsterdam. You are to meet his majesty’s ambassador at there and try to set up an alliance between our nation and the United Provinces. You, Juel and the ambassador all know Dutch, have socialized with them and know their habits and tricks. You will help me save the land across these waters. Furthermore and the most important fact, you are what I consider to be my friends.”
“But sire, I do not know you besides what good people tell me!”
“I know Cort.”
“I’ve never met him before either!”

The diplomat just smiled at him.
“Now that’s peculiar! See you tomorrow at the harbour my young falcon!”
And Magnus was left dazzled.
 

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Preparations are being made...
 

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The AAR will unfortunately be put on hold for some time as I'm just about to travel to Vienna. To meet a certain Harry, Harry Lime.
 

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ARISE!

Now I thought it'd be about time to resurrect this darned tale with some sort of action.. or well yes..

Anyways :D


Chapter Three
My Ally’s Ally Is My Enemy?

vbenskjoldkf9.png



The next day, Copenhagen Harbour

___

The sun was rising on the horizon heralding the arrival of 20th of October 1670.
As the busy workers and merchants of the harbour woke up, ate their breakfast and set off for work, Magnus was on his way towards his new life. He had come fresh from the service of the VOC and gone straight into the service of one of the greatest men in the twin kingdoms. Not a very bad career actually.

There she was, beautiful girl. Limbs so fine and delicate and with a body so sweet that even the driest of the driest members of Griffenfeld’s staff would send her dirty looks.
She would be his new home. He had a feeling in his gut that it was to be so.
He entered her and almost fell in love. What a mighty vessel, what a perfect way for the newest star in Northern diplomacy to arrive at the docks of Amsterdam on a fully equipped Wargalleon?

On deck he met Juel.
The young naval commander was dressed in a standard red uniform with golden buckles. His thick brown hair reached his broad shoulders and his eyes glinted in the morning sun.
“Ready to go?”
“More than ever.”
The vice-admiral nodded with satisfaction.

Magnus dumped his luggage under deck in a small cabin and returned to the side of Juel, who was already in the process of leading the vessel out of the harbour.
A mild breeze was blowing faster and faster. Soon the sails were booming with the power of the wind.

The ship left the safety of the harbour and ploughed through the dark blue waters of the Öresund. Seagulls heralded their coming as if they were heralds of the sea, and the small fishing boats duly made roam for his majesty’s wooden behemoth.

Kronborg.png

Kronborg

They passed the silent guns of Kronborg without any problems and Magnus was just pondering on how absolutely perfect it all was. Then the yelling started.
At first it came from the tall tree-like masts, then from the lieutenant standing guard.
Juel rushed to the bridge and Magnus joined him.

___

His Majesty Christian V’s Office
___

“Surely you can see the folly my dearest ambassador?”

Griffenfeld twisted his hands as a maniac while the king just stared blankly into the air.

“No I cannot. My king cannot. The Swedish people cannot. This is how it must be sire. My lord king Karl is firmly standing by his decision. It must be war; your foreign policy has driven him to launch this pre-emptive strike. You should be pleased to even receive this declaration.”

King Christian sighed deeply.

“What other messages does my dear neighbour send me?”

The ambassador smirked, bowed and began to bow backwards towards the door.

“He hopes you will fight well and better than your honoured father did.”
And then he left.

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“Christ preserve us.”
___

The Öresund
___

“Swedish ships at starboard side!” The lookout cried now clearly.
Juel put his telescope to his right eye and examined the hastily nearing vessels.

“Two wargallons. Plenty of guns and plenty of Swedes! Load the guns!”
Magnus looked puzzled at the admiral.
“But we have no idea what their intentions are! You are almost giving them an excuse….”
An earth shattering boom silenced him for a second.
“.. to fire upon us?”

Compressed balls of iron now flew towards them. The enemy ships got closer and closer.

“Seek for the protection of the fortress! Full speed away!”
The Chase was on.

Magnus went to his post at the guns. The crew was feverishly loading the cannons and preparing for the oncoming battle. Magnus didn’t worry. He had seen battle before and knew the cold sweat of fear all too well. He sternly directed the marines to their positions, unlocked his pistol and prayed.

The two ships approaching them made a soft turn and from two dozens of cannon ports, two dozens of cannons unleashed another volley of piercing death on them. This time though, the shots went somewhat home. The sails of the front mast were shattered and the Danish vessel lost valuable speed. It was almost catastrophic. The two hunters split, one dashed forward to cut them off while the last one prepared for another series of volleys.

Finally the ramparts of Kronborg responded to Magnus’ prayers. Smoke engulfed the castle as its pieces tore though the air, and broke wood, bone and iron of the Swedish vessel trying to cut them off. It slowed down.

A loud cheer went up from both the ramparts and their allies’ deck. The pursuer was leak! Its crew were abandoning ship like a colony of rats! Juel turned his telescope to the south and smiled.
The last enemy ship gave up and hurried away from the menacing guns on the fortress.
His smile widened as he saw what was hurrying to meet it. Five galleys flying red and white colours were racing to their rescue, and the doom of another enemy vessel.

He called for Magnus to join him, and the young man gladly took up the offer.

“A nice little fight to get the blood rolling, eh?”
Juel breathed heavily - enjoying the fresh salty sea air mixed with the trilling odour of gunpowder.

“Indeed…”
Magnus responded . For beyond their rescuers, beyond the five galleys racing for them he saw a sea engulfed in blue and yellow…


Stay tuned!

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Cursed Swedes!
 
Last edited:

Milites

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Chapter Four
A Fight for Survival

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The Norwegian border
___


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Captain Nyström led his 300 man strong company through the rocky terrain of the Norwegian mountains. The soldiers were dressed in blue coats with yellow garments and broad hats protected them from the pouring rain. It was a hard walk and an even harsher assignment they had been granted. The invaders crossed over sharp cliffs and across streaming fjords that would take any man with it, if it ever got the chance. The rain kept pouring. A storm was coming. Many of the men wondered what exactly they could use Norway for.

But then the mountaineers reached a small grove surrounded by cliffs and tall trees. The captain gave the order, and the exhausted soldiers spread out, took seats and tried to feel comfortable. An old campfire was slowly dying in the cold autumn rain. The sparks hissed and spitted whenever a watery drop smashed upon it. Abandoned tents lay on the ground. Probably a former army camp. Captain Nyström smiled as he turned to a large crowd of his men who where examining the remains of the ghost camp.
“One thing we’ll have to give those Norwegian scoundrels..”
Nyström chuckled as he spoke louder.
“They make great runners!”

From somewhere a fresh voice cried out:

“And great shooters too, dear sir!”

A loud crack and a sudden glint of fire occurred. Then Captain Nystöm lay on his back, blood running from his sunder shot neck.

Surprised troopers tried to grab their arms or tried to find cover. A small pause occurred. The blue and yellow soldiers waited, holding their breath. Had it been a single man, or a whole company? Would they survive?

In the approaching twilight more flashes erupted, followed by cracks - then the sound of bodies falling to the ground. Bullets whistled through the air and united with the screams of panic, fear and despair. The rain kept on pouring down, mixing with the scarlet liquid and mud. The Swedish troopers could only imagine where their mysterious executioners were hidden. Some saw a body, a face and then a flash. Then they saw no more. Others just fell flat on their noses and prayed until a bullet ripped them from God and sent them to hell.

Those that tried to escape made it into the woods. Their screams were so terrible that the remainders decided to stay and fight together. In desperation many of the troopers fired as if blind. One went mad and shot his own comrade.

The shooting continued in good order for at least a dozen minutes. Smoke filled the once silent grove. A Swedish trooper where sitting the mud rocking forwards then backwards, singing childhood songs with a face twisted in the terribly moment between insanity and sanity.
At that moment he was back in Småland. Back at his farm.
A lonely bullet put him out his misery.

The ghostly fog of Norwegian muskets was penetrated by the Norwegian rain. Far above, far over the tree tops a crow shrieked.

Norway was at war.