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You made me start playing Mount & Blade Again
Oh, I was looking for one of those authorised book-sellers
Excellent story so far, Peter.
A very entertaining AAR. If I hadn't done so already after reading Wyvern's "Realm of the Wolf", I would buy Warband now.
Chapter the Sixth: The Poet
Thus began the period of my life in which I began to make a name for myself in the Sarranid Sultanate. At the head of a small infantry force replacing casualties from local villages, I hunted looters wherever I found them and steppe bandits when I could catch them, which was seldom.
The steppe bandits were a cavalry force and my small band of mercenaries were not, so catching them was very hard, but occasionally I succeeded or raided one of their hideouts. In my own small way, I was steadily gaining in renown and the merchants had begun greeting me with avaricious voices as they knew that my arrival presaged an influx of second-hand goods liberated from the scum of the earth.
Unfortunately, my success might be my undoing. As my lads grew more experienced at fighting they claimed higher wages and pretty soon I was paying hand over fist to maintain a band of hungry goons. Any more success of that type and I'd be losing money. I could have released some of the lads from my service, of course, but I had the beginnings of a very decent mercenary company here and stars in my eyes.
By that time I had, you see, been hearing much about the rise of such famous mercenaries as Santos the Bastard, Kragen of Dhirim, and Skalabardi Brownpants and many others besides – as well as their falls. As the land of opportunity, many were those who sought to rise to greatness and most of them failed miserably, whether they got an early death on the battlefield or ended up legally executed by one of the established powers. A few succeeded, though, and the rewards for success were great. While most of the aristocratic families could draw their family tradition back to the empire and beyond, a few, a bare handful in each splinter kingdom, could not. They were the new men and while they often intermarried with the old lines, their claims were founded on blood and iron and it was well to remember it.
All this and more I learned from the first of my companions, Nizar the poet. He was a charming scoundrel and served me well in his time.
Ah, my companions! My strong right fist! My men and women of skill, courage, and determination! Since childhood I had always known that true power could not be had without the support of others, but when I thought about it at all I thought about it in terms of the building of personal loyalties with people or the hiring of retainers rather than what, in a lesser person, might have been called friendship.
Nizar, now, Nizar was the key. I met him in my favourite tavern after an unprofitable bandit hunt. I was there looking for prospective marks to make up my financial loss for the week out of my natural resources and, as such, I was not annoyed to be hailed by a well dressed young ruffian with a couple of martial scars and sporting a rakish grin and even positively impressed when he started out ordering a glass of wine for me as a preliminary negotiation tactic.
Imagine my surprise then, when rather than coming to the point, he opened up with fulsomely praising my sapphire eyes in which he saw the sky, my ruby lips from which flowed blessings, and my diamond breasts, which were as melons.
Diamond breasts!? It is a long time ago, but I remember that one! As far as I recall, I nearly choked on my wine as I demanded an explanation of that one, pointing out reasonably that he couldn't possibly know their hue without checking... something that might be possible if not only his silver-tongue ran to precious tropes.
He pretended to be affronted by the very suggestion (the dear man). He was Nizar, the Poet, and he always told the truth or a close facsimile. He had deduced the diamond nature from their apparent unmatched hardness, which he was willing to test for the sake of argument, and a sincere professed belief (the charmer!) that women were made of precious stones above and semi-precious below of appropriate hardness, while, he illustrated with a slap on his rock-hard stomach, men had been designed the other way around, soft above and hard below, a great joke of the gods and cause of much enjoyment to mankind. Moreover, he was most certainly not trying to purchase my charms, no, he, the renowned Nizar, was going to make a song about me! Spend money on women? The very idea was preposterous, women spent money on him! Poet, soldier of fortune, and first class rascal – that was my Nizar in his youth.
We got along as a house on fire and I've burned a few houses in my time.
As Nizar explained to me, the Nords told it the best. Their nobility in Calriada was, unlike that of the other kingdoms, not one based on the old empire. They were the sea raiders and conquerors, their ancestors were those of strong mind and body, those strong enough to break the wheel of fate itself, spit death in the eye, and never, ever, give in to weakness!
My sort of people, in other words.
The sagas were clear on one detail, though one must assume a certain degree of self-serving in pointing it out – no hero, no matter how powerful, had ever succeeded without true companions. People so close to the hero as family without being family. People more trusted than a vassal without being a vassal. People so exceptional that they towered over the merely skilled. People so well rewarded that their fortunes hung upon the survival of the hero.
Be that as it may, Nizar entertained me and, I believe, I him, and as he quickly discerned my interests, I learned a lot of tales of Calriada over the next few weeks, for he attached himself to my troop and me in particular. With experience from a dozen campaigns, he showed me how to organize the men as a mercenary company in fact rather than merely in name and appointed himself, at a very reasonable starting wage, as the first of my companions.
In my cause he would be first into battle and the last to leave it and he would make me the heroine of songs and poems, a lady whose name would be known throughout the land. He really was a charmer, my Nizar.
If Nizar was the key to the next step on my road to greatness, I believe that I was the lock, which best fit his greatness. His desires were as big as mine but different enough to be compatible: wealth and power held little interest to him, but glory, renown, and scandal – those were to his artistic temperament the greatest of drugs.
In me he found a way to make his mark on the world in a lasting fashion and came to employ his silver tongue on my behalf in many new situations and places and despite being as prone to men's follies as most men, he had no objections to working under me once he had acknowledged me as his mistress.
It was upon his advice that I sold all my accumulated loot, bought a shipment of wool, and began the life of a mercenary-merchant or merchant-venturer, as they were called. Rather than hunting bandits as my primary goal or trading as my primary goal, I travelled from town to town trading goods, putting down bandits interfering with trade, accepting commissions from towns and villages, and always on a lookout for exceptional people to join me as true companions.
Matheld the Blooded One was my second companion and Rolf, brigand and lord, my third. With Nizar's backing and his silver tongue, both were willing to honour my claim to nobility as long as I honoured theirs. Nizar himself viewed any aristocracy that wasn't based on talent to be a jest of the gods and the folly of mankind but as he was extraordinarily talented and charming he got on well with the two anyhow.
Many weeks went by and I grew better at trading and leading my troops, while my wealth and renown were ever increasing. Little of notable interest occurred until, having had a bit too much to drink one night after returning to Shariz, I signed myself and my companions up for the next day's tournament. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but to be fair, so did naked morris dancing in a back alley using swords and handkerchiefs – which ended up with the three of us carving our way through a bunch of late-night robbers, who must have thought they'd been interrupting an orgy. Or at least an orgiette.
Well, what can I say? We were young and drunk and convinced of our immortality!
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Hah! Lovable ending.
Although I must think that Skalabardi Brownpants might be more famed for his blatant acts of cowardice than for his skills at leading men?
Although I must think that Skalabardi Brownpants might be more famed for his blatant acts of cowardice than for his skills at leading men?
I'm wanting for more specific remarks, but I'll give a general thumbs up for the lovely story and the flowering prose.
Chapter the Seventh: A Tournament in Shariz
So there I was, signed up to participate in brutal melee combat the very next day, and with a headache that precluded critical thought. It was in that mood that I compounded foolishness with idiocy, as I went to the arena master for some practice before the tournament. At the time I had knifed more than my fair share of men for a woman of nineteen and had seen men whack each other often enough to have gained at least a basic theoretical appreciation of the art, so surely it couldn't be all that hard.
It turned out I was right, though getting whacked with blunt objects hurt just as much as it looked and is not an experience I can recommend to the discerning reader. Something like that is best left to men, who seem to be better built for such brainless bashing, and the clever woman should keep it confined to her bedchamber, preferably in the role of basher rather than bashee, though the occasional artful bruise does have its use in the battle of the sexes.
The arena master obviously didn't want me playing rough with his boys and clearly expected me to leave in disgust when told to strip. Nothing could be further from my mind; If anything, while stripping would remove one protective layer, I had some hope that watching me in all my glory would distract my opponents. Taken somewhat aback, the arena master curtly informed me that for the sake of modesty I shouldn't strip to the flesh and that I should keep on my shoes, so as not to reveal my ankles.
Pointing out that I was wearing mail boots to an event he had claimed wouldn't feature armour didn't change his opinion one whit; He just handed my a quarter-staff (hah!) and told me to put up or shut up. Thus I entered the arena wearing the bare essentials – a chick in chain-mail armed with a phallic symbol.
You wouldn't believe the offensive shouts from the viewing stand!
Posing for the Crowd
On the positive side, several members of the nobility were present at the arena to watch the fighters. Never one to let opportunity slip from my grasp, I made myself the foremost attraction and struck up several martial poses in turn. I was truly the centre of attention until some dimwitted cretin struck me a blow from behind which laid me out straight.
While in the spectator stands recovering from the blow and cheering on my companions, I was approached by a servant of Emir Muhnir. He had much appreciated my valiant countenance, I was informed, and it was a terribly shame that a base commoner had dared strike a blow against beauty. Would I, perhaps, be interested in watching the tournament from the Emir's box? Preferably while wearing my mail boots.
Yes, that's what he said!
Editor's note: At this point the eloquent Khünbish Jalair goes into excruciating detail with regards to some of the more interesting peculiarities of male behaviour and interests than is, perhaps, suited for the general reading population. Even thinking of her example concerning the chicken, the “milk”-maid, the Emir, and the well-lubricated... but I say too much. Suffice to say that it shocked even this writer. The discerning reader can find the joke and many eye-opening details on the variety of male interests in the Collector's edition. With illustrations.
Reluctantly I had to refuse. I was signed up for the tournament myself and my honour wouldn't allow me to withdraw, even for the sake of such a gracious invitation from the exalted person of the noble Emir. Perhaps, I told the servant coyly, I could dedicate my victory to the Emir should I prove fortunate enough to win.
Such was not to be. Together with Matheld and Rolf I entered the tournament and was equipped with a bow and arrows, put on the green team, and told to do my team proud! I galloped gallantly around the arena with my golden tresses flying in the wind, the only woman apart from Matheld participating and much better looking than she – even from a distance. Standing in my stirrups and flaunting my chest, I drew the bow far back and released arrow upon arrow, a very queen of war, a heroine of legend, my body a well-honed weapon, my mighty bosom inspiring awe and envy in the women and desire in the men!
I won the greater victory, despite being eliminated in the very first round.
Matheld concentrated on fighting while I concentrated on gaining the love of the spectators, so perhaps it should come as no surprise that she went on to the third round while I gracefully and gallantly collapsed like a sack of potatoes after being body-tackled by a brute twice my size. The crowd called out shame on the surprised warrior, who had deprived them of my spectacle, to his great surprise.
Eliminated, I left the field and sought the Emir. While wearing my mail boots. We watched the remainder of the tournament together, I paying attention to his every word and his every gesture. I employed my natural bounty most unscrupulously, brushing them against him by accident, fingering his tunic when pouring him wine, leaning on his shoulder. He was falling nicely under my spell, and who can blame him when a beautiful and exotic woman paid attention to him, unselfconscious of her charms? He was perhaps 25 years old and built like a stag, so I had high hopes as he kept glancing at me shyly. Most frustratingly, however, he kept glancing at those damn mail boots, paying them more attention than me. Me, second to a pair of cheap mail boots? It was almost enough to make one cry, would that not have been counterproductive. Obsession can be a useful tool at times but gods how it is frustrating at other times.
Be that as it may, as the tournament drew to the close for the day, he asked me shyly whether I would be willing to face him in the arena, where he had seen me train in the morning.
The things I did in my youth of my own free will astonish me to this very day and if there is one lesson to be learned it is to seize opportunity when it presents itself; What can I say? I was young and needed the money.
This time the arena master chuckled evilly to himself and handed be a great honking two-handed sword, telling me to “poke the lads between the legs” before they did it to me, and sent me out in the melee. Emir Muhnir was granted a short sword and shield.
The bout started grandly with Emir Muhnir flattening four other fighters, demonstrating his prowess to me, while I was desperately flailing around defending myself from the attacks of a half-lame beggar of a man with a quarterstaff and, at the same time, attempting to move myself into position to be the Emir's next victim.
Then I heard, over the shouting of the crowd, a veritable stampede!
Taken from behind by surprise assault!
Two unshaven men rushed me from behind! The second managed to trip the first before he reached his prize, then hit my sword with a mighty whack that sent it flying. Casting his sword aside, he tackled me, threw me to the ground, and fell on me, a great unshaven beast of a man grunting lustily as he nuzzled at my breasts while fumbling at his pants and mine, eager to mount and wield his blade against a defenceless victim! This was most definitely not part of the arena program! The ignominy!
Stunned from the blow of my fall, it took me half a minute to realize that I had misread the situation. He had taken a fierce blow to his privates as he was rushing me and was, in fact, grasping at them while whimpering in pain and while his head was buried between my breasts, he wasn't nuzzling but sobbing.
Emir Muhnir, the author of the blow, rolled him off me and offered me a hand up. Weakly, I staggered into his manly embrace and allowed him to guide me from the field.
I was offered dinner at his town house and gracefully accepted. Following a delicious bath I put on one of my special red shirts, the ones that tear easily along predetermined seams, and I put on the damn mail boots as well, and had dinner.
This was my first intimate dinner with with a member of the nobility and an opportunity too good not to seize, so I seized the good opportunity of the noble member intimately. So to speak.
As we heatedly discussed the differences between the shoes of my homeland and his in the glare of his cozy fireplace it was obvious that the fire below was finally awakening in him, so I began to perspire daintily and sagged in my knees as if fainting. A true gentleman to the core, he grabbed me to prevent my fall, at which point my shirt tore and my bosom spilled out. I hooked his ankle in the Khünbish maneuver and he fell backwards to the floor (narrowly missing the table and not by accident that, my aim has always been good) pulling me with him. As he lay there half-stunned and stuttering his apologies, he could no longer ignore the golden globes that dangled in his face from the ruination of my shirt or my accidental massaging of his loins as I rocked back and forth in shocked surprise. And that, as they say, is that.
Preparing to execute the Khünbish Maneuver
It was about as subtle as hitting him on the head with a brick and dragging him to bed but he just kept going on and on and on about shoes and I was running out of options! It was practically an act of mercy on my part, albeit a pleasant one, and he ended up feeling that he owed me for taking advantage of me, his pussy in boots. Yes, that's what he called me. His sense of humour was, if possible, worse than his sense of fashion. Needless to say, I complimented him on his wit.
When I left, I left him my mail boots as a memory and with a commission in my pocket to carry a letter to a friend of his, the middle-aged but still vigorous Emir Raddoun. He sent me on to his friend Emir Lakhem, whose sister, Lady Safiya, was rather more discerning than he and got rid of me quickly with a letter to the old goat, Emir Hamezan, Lord of Ahmerrad. Emir Hamezan endeavoured to teach me the difference between an old goat and an old stallion and enjoyed my company for a fortnight, then sent my “mercenary arse”, as he admiringly named it, to the village of Mazigh to track down and kill a murderer.
He was a ruthless old bugger, his appetites honed through decades of conflict, and he always sought the oblique approach.
Thus it happened that from an unpromising beginning and a ribald night leading to a tournament I lost, I began building my relationships with the nobility, one member at a time. I was unknown to most of the nobles, I dare say, but to a select few I was highly appreciated and handled all sorts of small tasks for even the smallest and weakest Emir (and some of them were very small, but men love flattery and even the smallest man grows in stature in my capable hands) in between trading missions and bandit hunts.
As time went by my band of acquaintances in the nobility grew as well as my influence and I began receiving greater contracts. Tax farming by extorting money from unwilling peasants and keeping my fair share, hunting down desert bandits for a thousand denars per group, eradicating bandit lairs and keeping the spoils of their raiding, carrying letters of appreciation, and attending upon the various small needs of my acquaintances – life was full to bursting and so, occasionally, were I.
It was a difficult balancing act and too often I was swept off my feet and rather than landing gently found my arse between a rock and a hard place but I learned from my mistakes and persevered!
Meanwhile I continued to gather companions to me and building my mercenary force, and when the 473rd Khergit war broke out over the loss of Emir Karaban's nose, about as petty a war as they got, Emir Hamezan deigned to introduce me to the court.
I had to wear full tack including a form-fitting breaststrap and a warhorse bridle with a vicious iron snaffle bit while playing mare to his stallion as he stallionized me repeatedly to secure that appointment. Not one of my more glorious moments, I am afraid, but it is as crystal clear in my mind as the day it happened. One of the disadvantages of perfect recall is that comfortable lies to yourself will never replace your memory of events, no matter how much you might wish it.
I kept the bridle.
I never forget.
Editor's note: At this point the great Khünbish Jalair launches into an aside on the general cruelty of using the warhorse bits of her day. Based on her great equestrian knowledge, which was practically unsurpassed in her day, she explains her clear conviction that less intrusive bits more gentle on the mouth will not, as some argue, lessen the ferocity of the warhorse – it will merely reduce the likelihood that the ferocity is directed at the rider. Spurs are to be used sparingly and riding crops are right out. The Collector's edition, available from any authorised book-seller, has a range of full-body illustrations of Khünbish Jalair demonstrating horse tack for the reader interested in equestrian lore.
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The problem with your posts is that they are too long and too packed with goody bits.
And when I say 'goody bits', I mean the literary nuggets, it goes without saying.
And when I say 'goody bits', I mean the literary nuggets, it goes without saying.
Chapter the Eighth: Mercenary Actions
After my close encounters with the members of the lower nobility, I had increased the time I spent on gymnastic exercises of all sorts to increase my agility – something that was much appreciated in a world where being slippery counted for as much as being firm. I didn't get much stronger, but it did hone the strength of my arms and legs, useful for both the playful slap and the occasional desperate entanglement. I had hoped for a significant improvement in my riding skills, but it turned out that I was too accomplished a rider for a minor exercise regimen to truly improve, though my attempts at disproving this were rather enjoyable on the whole with few of my mounts complaining at the extra exercise.
I was introduced to court by Emir Hamezan, who had signed me up as an official mercenary and thus entitled to wages from the Sultanate's coffers. As my mercenary band was growing to a considerable size, the Sultanate was obviously interested in gaining at least a slight degree of control over it and the way this was done in Calriada was to co-opt bands and, in some cases, ennobling the mercenary commanders or, as the practice was in the Sultanate, discovering hitherho unnoticed nobles in the family trees of mercenary commanders, since you obviously couldn't make a noble out of just anybody.
While I considered myself as noble as any and was hailed so in my band and amongst my companions, the nobility of the Sarranid Sultanate didn't see things that way and making an issue out of it would have served me ill, so I was not immediately averse to the idea. If it took an oath to discover the nobility of my Jalair heritage, so be it.
I bought a suit of mail, which was intended to be worn with a tabard and reserved for the nobility, in Ahmerrad, packed it in my bags, and began to make my way to Shariz with Emir Hamezan.
Level 12
Safely arrived in Shariz, I dressed in my least worn coat of brigandine armour to show my martial demeanor, climbed the thirty steps, and walked the seven halls before Emir Hamezan handed me over to the guards of the throne room itself, who took custody of my sword. Reacting to some unseen signal, they opened the doors and let me in.
My eyes widened as I stood in surprise. The room was deserted! Faint titters were heard from the depths of the room but nobody was in sight.
Deeply puzzled, I began walking through the room peering behind columns and looking under tables and ever alert to the sound of slippered feet moving in the distance, and best as I was examining a refreshment table at the far end, two muscular arms encircled me from behind and two huge hands cupped my breasts!
A hearty booming laughter was choked short as I pirouetted on my left foot and kneed my assailant in the groin with my steel-clad knee-cap. Only his ankle-long mail-shirt protected the royal dignity from serious harm for it was, to my chagrin, the very Sultan himself. As he bent over whimpering, the tittering ladies of the court, who had been hiding behind the columns, wives and daughters of the nobility one and all, came rushing to his aid.
Sultan Hakim, looking a bit unfocused
As I shrilly demanded an accounting of just what was going on, the Sultan wheezed that some slight misunderstanding had taken place. He was awaiting a new lady in waiting and always played a little silly game with them first to scare them and then lighten them up in turn. Every lady here had been through the same and could vouch for the fact that he had the purest intentions. Indeed, he was devoted to his wife and never so much as looked at another woman, he averred, while watching the gathered houris with covetous eyes.
I asked him whether he thought I looked like a lady in waiting and, upon consideration, he agreed that my armour probably should have tipped him off but he had been focusing on my eyes, the mirrors of the soul, rather than noticing my dress.
I diplomatically forewent mentioning that focusing on my eyes from behind me was a feat unmatched by even the most skilled contortionists and brought the conversation back on track: I was a mercenary in the employ of his Sultanate, the one and only Khünbish Jalair, and I was here to be ennobled, not groped.
At this the Sultan became all business and gestured to his throne. This is the point at which I first realized that he did not, in fact, have a throne in his throne room. He had a couch.
With the ladies in waiting watching intently, I sat very primly and as unalluring as I could at one end of the couch while the Sultan sat at the other end.
He had heard of my exploits on the battlefield and was most impressed. He had gotten the impression that the renowned Khünbish Jalair was older and he was flabbergasted to meet such experience in one so young. He was overflowing with praise: He praised my exploits. He praised the valour of my men. He praised my help in ridding the realm of bandits. He praised Emir Hamezan for noticing my worth at such an early stage and bringing it to his attention. There was just one tiny issue that the good Emir had failed to mention...
I was, and there was no two ways around it, a woman. He'd be the laughingstock of his fellow monarchs and, even worse, his nobles, should he ennoble me and bestow a fief upon me as was customary. Not that he had anything against women, in fact, some of his best friends were women, but let's face it, he said, women were made for the softer work and men for the harder.
Now, good men were hard to find, so he would recognize my deeds and take me as his sworn vassal, even with this handicap. After all, if I really exerted myself I might be almost as good as a bad man. Moreover, if I should happen to take a castle all by myself, why, then the nobility would be hard pressed to disagree with him bestowing it on me. He was clearly humouring me, but I had his word.
Thinking it over, I agreed with him that a hard man was good to find, but I am afraid the distinction was lost on him. He was pretty bright for a man, but there are limits, and he was more cunning than actually intelligent. His brain processes always brought me in mind of a lion crossed with a weasel.
While always on the alert for targets of opportunity, I was clearly ill prepared for dealing with Sultan Hakim, so I decided on the spot to leave the audience as soon as possible and seek more information, still a sworn mercenary of the Sultanate but not a vassal.
As he rose to bid me goodbye, he exhibited an annoying habit of avoiding eye contact that I was to become very familiar with over the months to come. He'd start staring at my eyebrows, skip my eyes and nose, linger on my lips, then focus intently on my breasts while performing small sharp movements of his head to raise his gaze whenever it wandered further down. Having men undress me with their eyes was nothing new, but his eyes didn't so much undress as go on a camping trip with certain exciting areas clearly marked “here there be lions” or, perhaps, quicksand.
That's not eye contact....
I left the palace and roused my companions! We raised my standard and led my company north, a small army, to be sure, but an army of Mamlukes! Trained to perfection and devoted to my pay, they were my swift sure sword. Across the broad deserts of the Sarranid Sultanate we rode at speed until we reached, at the far end of the Sultanate, the castle Asugan. A strongly held position, the Sultan's Lord Marshal had bypassed it in order to play at war with the other boys in open battle rather than having to deal with the task of reducing it, but I was not so inclined.
Treasure and glory to those who fought in the taking of the castle as well as two hours of plunder in the local village, torture and everlasting ignominy to shirkers, I promised my brave band, and under the direction of my siege master, Artimenner, great siege ladders were constructed in record time.
Shouting on my Mamlukes and making playful slashes at the slowest of them with a new sword bought for the occasion (a vicious tempered military cleaver) while hiding behind the biggest shield I could reasonably lift, I commanded the assault safely from the rear as the enemies rained down arrows on my brave lads climbing the ladders to assault the defenders. I considered seeking cover near the base of the wall, but pretty soon it was raining Mamlukes and assorted Khergit bits and pieces, which made that a dubious proposition.
It was my first castle stormed and first village plundered and I cannot say that it agreed with me. The butcher's bill was high, the personal risk significant, and the widespread destruction and looting destructive of my property by right of conquest. Sure, I had guaranteed two hours of plunder as a reward, generous to a fault, but I hadn't realized just how thoroughly a bunch of men freed of inhibitions could trash a village and a castle in just two hours.
It was an instructive lesson, however, and I used it to my advantage in later wars when looting enemy villages and towns with no intention of sticking behind. I cannot say that the fate of the common people affected me overly much, for if they were stupid enough to stay in a war-zone without defending themselves, they deserved whatever they got, whether it was six inches of steel or of flesh, but the destruction of wealth generating activities – that always hurt me to see, even when inflicted on an enemy.
Be that as it may, we set forth in high spirits in order to return to Shariz with the good tidings as soon as possible. I had taken a castle as instructed and now the Sultan could ennoble me and give it to me as my fief.
Some days things wouldn't work out right if you bribed them to.
We had reached Durqurba when I was informed that the Sultan had assigned the castle to Emir Ghulassen, a 27 year old boy, who liked playing with dolls and fondling his grooms. Not that I object to the latter in principle. Indeed, I had many a merry hour as a lady in waiting down in the stables fondling grooms, but I digress.. The point is that the Sultan gave away MY castle to somebody else.
MY castle.
Rolf, ever the hothead, suggested rebelling against the Sultan but Nizar pointed out that since I wasn't a sworn vassal of the Sultan I didn't actually have a legal claim to the castle since I was employed as a mercenary by the Sultan and it would be understood that I had been acting solely as his tool in conquering it and that, besides, our happy mercenary company, this glorious warband, was seriously weakened and outnumbered by at least a hundred to one by the Sultan's noble allies.
He had a point.
He also pointed out that now that I had demonstrated that I could take a castle, the first castle to fall in the 473rd Khergit war in fact, it would quite likely be easier for the Sultan to assign me another castle and I had been complaining about how the men had carelessly broken the one in Asugan, hadn't I?
My good Nizar always knew how to make me laugh in those days.
Taking only my companions with me, we rode hell for leather to Shariz, and my companions began seeking out their acquaintances to play up my victory. The goal was for my victory to be on everybody's lips: Slayer of Khergits, Victor of Asugan, the Maid with the Iron Fist, the Heroine from Beyond the Sea... the wilder the story the better!
As for me, I had a good long think and got some of my neglected businesses in order while awaiting news. I made sure to attend whenever the Sultan held an open court, staying in the background mostly and following the business of the day, but always far enough in the front that it allowed the Sultan's eyes to take a vacation from business and go camping in whichever new dress, shirt, or breastplate I had bought for the day, while letting him stew in the injustice of awarding MY castle to that cretin Ghulassen. My wardrobe increased tenfold in those days.
The Khergit war was interrupted by the 387th Rhodok war and in an early audacious move no doubt inspired by my success in Asugan, the Lord Marshal took Unuzdaq Castle. That was my cue!
I begged an audience in the palace, which was granted. When the day arrived, I had a good, long, bath and used the most expensive of oils. I dressed myself in a fine red shirt and trousers over my practically glowing body and pulled on my best leather boots, then I went to the palace. I climbed the thirty steps and walked the seven halls. In the throne room itself, in the company of the Sultan, his guards, and a half-dozen of the ladies of the court, I told the Sultan how much I respected his excellent choice of Emir Ghulassen as lord of Asugan and hoped one day to prove worthy of the same reward. I told him that the Asugan campaign had cleared my mind and opened my eyes and I was now ready to become his sworn woman and fight for his honour!
I had to say it twice since his mind was apparently happily enjoying a vacation together with his eyes and his rod of office.
Getting his mind back on business, the mighty Sultan Hakim asked me if I was really ready to be taken as a vassal, without favour or reward, to be his sworn liegewoman throughout my life, to be his chosen sword, and to loyally uphold the legitimate claims of he and his heirs? Did I truly understand the gravity of the oath or would my weak female mind, unaccustomed to such gravity, require an explanation first?
No, I answered the Sultan, I had studied well since our first meeting and fully understood the gravity of the situation: I was ready to be taken as a vassal!
I have been studying hard and you are the best, Sire!
Moved, he sent away the ladies of the court for the taking of the oath was a matter between liege and liegewoman alone and when they had all gone I astonished him by accidentally taking aim at the couch and performing the Khünbish Maneuver, at which he lost his balance both mentally and physically.
There, in accordance with the age-old principles of action and reaction and with my shirt falling to pieces all around me while our bodies obeyed the gravity of the situation and with Sultan's hungry eyes glued to my bosom, on the very couch in his throne room itself... the Sultan took me, as his vassal.
Which was, if you'll forgive my little joke, a comma he never saw coming.
I bet his guards never heard him labour so hard while speaking his part of the oath of vassalage before or quite so joyful screams from a vassal but I worked for it, so I might as well enjoy my negotiating tactics as his mightiness rose to the occasion.
Somewhat later he ordered his stone-faced guards to leave and close the door, the court was cancelled for the day.
The next day, feeble in mind and body, shaken to the core and in dire need of recuperation, the Sultan assigned me Unuzdaq Castle and the nearby village of Amashte as reward for my loyal service to the Sultanate and bade me leave for my new possessions without delay, preferably staying far away from Shariz for a long, long, time.
Editor's note: On this self-satisfied note, the perfect memory of Khünbish Jalair took over and rather than going into details about her new fief, as would have been expected, she digressed and committed in writing details of the Sultan's behaviour in different negotiation situations and policy positions, some of them still banned by several major countries and religions, bearing little relation to the story of her rise to greatness and dealing primarily with the rising of his greatness. While eye-opening and of an educational nature, they are purely of interest to the more academically minded historical reader and have therefore been omitted. Working under strict oaths of secrecy, a team of the three oldest and most experienced members of the guild of illustrators have attempted to reconstruct the policy positions from her descriptions. Their illustrations can be viewed in the Collector's edition.
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A master tactician, that lass...
I've enjoyed the entire update (as usual), but wanted to direct some specific praise to the captions. They're good stuff.
Quite excellent as always. Do the Saranids have any decent equipment compared to the rest?
Mmmm, ahhh, I am not entirely sure how Khünbish Jalair would answer that particular question given how double entendres are dangerously close to single intenders in this posting environment (though if we are really unlucky, we might find out now that you have given me the idea - shame on you!
), so allow me to answer the question you must surely have intended, namely regarding army composition.The Sarranid units suck big time in general. Their archers are decent but outshined by the archers of other factions and their infantry worse. They have exactly one redeeming feature: the feared Mamluke.
I did a breakdown of the Mamluke stats in this post where I compared them with Swadian Knights. Think of them as roughly equivalent with Swadian Knights on the battlefield (but cheaper) and better than a Nord Warrior but worse than a Nord Veteran in castle assaults (and more expensive).
Apart from Nord Veterans and Huscarls, Rhodok Sergeants are better for fortress assaults than Mamlukes but I am unsure of the stats of Swadian and Vaegir high tier infantry so I don't know if they have something equivalent. The Khergits certainly don't.
The combination of their very heavy armour, good overall defensive stats, and (especially) power strike 5 beats most other infantry I have inspected. Of course, they don't get secondary throwing weapons or anything like it... they just grind down the opposition while taking few casualties themselves.An effective all-purpose Sarranid army consists of Mamlukes only and moves very, very, quickly.
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Dear Mr.Ebbesen,
i have done my best to read and enjoy your AAR. Sadly, i have to admit, its hard for me to do (like with many good AAR´s of other games).
Please dont be discouraged by that, its surly not your fault.
English is not my native language, and it is sometimes more tiresome than entertaining for me to read long foreign language texts.
And i simply enjoy gameplay oriented AAR´s more than character & story oriented ones.
I just thought i let you know that i at least tried, and i will keep trying, reading one bit after the other
Right now i can only say, the naming of your main character is... hmm...
...takes time to get used to
At least there was thought behind why and how =)
Thank you for writing
i have done my best to read and enjoy your AAR. Sadly, i have to admit, its hard for me to do (like with many good AAR´s of other games).
Please dont be discouraged by that, its surly not your fault.
English is not my native language, and it is sometimes more tiresome than entertaining for me to read long foreign language texts.
And i simply enjoy gameplay oriented AAR´s more than character & story oriented ones.
I just thought i let you know that i at least tried, and i will keep trying, reading one bit after the other
Right now i can only say, the naming of your main character is... hmm...
...takes time to get used to
At least there was thought behind why and how =)
Thank you for writing
That's just how it goes. We don't all have the same interests and, indeed, it would be boring if we did. I have written many different styles of AARs over the years but for primarily gameplay oriented AARs you would have to go back to my early EU2 AARs, I am afraid, which were as much lessons in teaching people how to play the game as they were fun romps of world conquest.
Khünbish or Jalair? I would have you know that Khünbish is truly a traditional Mongolian taboo name meaning "Not A Human Being" and Jalair a mongol tribe. As such, when I adopted a non-Mongolian naming convention of given-name surname for the areas outside the steppes where my main character was born (because western readers tend to connect their familiar naming convention with civilization), the obvious choice was Khünbish Jalair.Right now i can only say, the naming of your main character is... hmm...
...takes time to get used to
When you say it takes time to get used to, is it because of the unfamiliar sounds, because you read something into the name that I have not intended, or because it takes time to get used to a human running around with a name meaning non-human, essentially?
I might have read some of those allready when i first started out in this forum, some jears ago,
your name sounds not unfamiliar to me at least =)
Khünbish Jalair as a whole, because its a uncommon name in central europe (well jeah... mongolian... i know
), and to my ears (without any judgment in that of course).
And because generally (or most often nowadays at least) the writers of media in any form, that should be consumed by others,
tend to give characters very "easy-going" names... (like John Smith, Peter Parker,... you get what i mean),
just to dont shy away any possible readers/watchers.
Khünbish Jalair is not really in that pattern, but that is not bad
Chapter the Ninth: Unuzdaq
As the newest member of the nobility I had one important duty before leaving Shariz to inspect my fiefs. Haste was essential but, fortunately, I had made my choice well in advance.
Unfortunately it turned out that my choice for my banner and personal coat of arms, an argent stallion with couched lance rampant standing in a bed of roses gules on a field sable was completely unacceptable, outrageously foreign, and dreadfully primitive or so I was informed by the Lion King of Arms of the Shariz' College of Heralds, the direct and authoritative successor to the old Calradian Imperial College of Heralds, as he primly informed me.
Would I, perhaps, prefer two roses or a cute little bunny instead? How about three horse-shoes? (Presumably to indicate that one was riding a three-legged horse? The small jokes heralds try to sneak past their customer when thinking they outwit her has got to have them slapping their legs)
We compromised on an argent horse of indeterminate gender rampant on a field mud-grey, a colour unique to Calradian heraldry and capable of passing for a dirty green or blue in a good light, which was much favoured in Calradia, though gods know why, with a few sable slashes underneath to symbolize purity, which was all the rage amongst the ladies and, upon consideration, entertained me.
I had banners made and set out for Unuzdaq castle and my village of Amashte.
The Banner of Khünbish Jalair
My castle was a dump and my village worse. While the castle was merely dirty and gloomy, the village had recently been put to the torch, its people killed and scattered, its fields trampled, and its cows eaten. A not uncommon fate in a country torn by war, but it was my village now and a burned out shell of a village just doesn't generate much in the way of taxes.
I set up court in my castle of Unuzdaq. It was a dump, certainly, but where others would merely see its broken stones and rotting wood as a vulnerability and disgrace, I saw potential. With a lot of hard work, preferably somebody else's, it would be a castle second to none, merely one more step on the golden road leading me ever towards my inescapable destiny!
The sultan would undoubtedly have preferred me to join the 387th Rhodok war, far out of sight and mind, but the casualties of the the Asugan war had to be replaced and my new fiefs defended. I left the majority of my company in Unuzdaq to repair and fortify the castle while my companions and I with only a single company of a score mamlukes rode the length and breadth of the Sultanate recruiting lads fresh off the farms to join my company. As an acknowledged noble with a castle to my name, I would no longer be limited to merely the mercenaries I could keep under my eye. As funds allowed, I could legally raise a real aristocratic army and use part of it in the field while others remained in my stronghold protecting my possessions. My recruiting mission was a slow business as it had the dual purpose of recruitment and trade, but I was not in a hurry and took my time, spending time with my fellow nobles that I met on the way and ingratiating myself with them. As the newest member of the nobility myself I was not held in high esteem, but they had all heard of the fall of Asugan and that counted for a lot.
Thus, while my fellow nobles would not bother me with the small tasks they had in the past, as those were common tasks ill suited for the dignity of the aristocracy, they were not shy of asking other favours. Would I, perhaps, blacken the name of a favourite enemy by whispering poison in the ear of the sultan, about whom it was rumoured I had cordial relations, when next I met him? Would it, perhaps, be possibly for me to train a few mamlukes as their own training was sadly lax? Would I, perhaps, capture an enemy noble to swap for a family member, who had been taken in battle? All these I did not once but several times, and I was always ready to help any noble inclined to seek my help and blacken the reputation of any noble, that wasn't already favourably inclined towards me.
The nobility of the Sultanate was deeply divided, which suited me very well indeed as it kept them from closing ranks against newcomers and, besides, Unuzdaq castle was, after all, merely the beginning.
On the last leg of my recruitment trip I finally reached Shariz and begged an audience with the Sultan and was admitted to the day's open court. The Sultan's eyes lighted up as they fell on my covered front lamps and as I said that I brought important news for his ears only, he dismissed the rest of the court to hear me in private.
My, you are looking cold. Why don't you slip into something warmer, Sire?
In secret counsel, I informed him of the treacherous plotting of the nobles whose reputations I had been asked to denigrate, pretending that I had heard it from themselves. I qualified it by noting that I was new to the nobility and might have misunderstood what I had heard, as I was just an innocent young woman unqualified for the deep intrigues of the men's world, but I had heard it in confidence and men usually confided in me.
As he was not only a paranoid, a necessary survival trait in Calradia, but also a rabid weasel, which was not, and as he was exerting all his efforts at confiding in me at the time with my uncovered lamps firmly in his grasp and lighting the way, so to speak, he merely grunted a deep assent, and I stopped parrying his vigorous thrusts and took him in.
With my train of recruits in tow, my bold companions and I set out next day for my new home, Unuzdaq castle. After half a day's riding, we were overtaken by a royal messenger. The day was bright, the sun high in the sky, and the soreness from the previous day's exercise mostly abated, so it was in a high mood that I received the message that Emir Karaban had been stripped of his possessions and exiled from the Sultanate. The way seemed clear to claim my reward from the nobles, who had begged my help, when next I met them and the future seemed bright. It was my desire to continue developing our relationships in mutually profitable ways and I saw no obstacle to my eventual success.
A few day's later as we were approaching my castle late at night, one of the possible obstacles reared its head: A small Rhodok army had invested my castle and all my best troops were caught up inside. A small army, it could easily grow larger over time if Rhodok nobles smelled the scent of blood and, what was worse, I probably could not expect any aid from the Sultanate's nobility without begging for it as most of them weren't that indebted to me, not even my boot-boy Emir Muhnir, and all of them would watch closely how I dealt with this threat to my power.
This was no time to cut my losses or to try seeking refuge in the castle. This was a time for bold action, brave deeds, and much bloodshed, preferably while minimizing the risk to my own fair skin despite having to take significantly greater risks than usual. The main problem with this plan was, of course, that only a minority of the troops at my beck and call were anything you'd call solid. They weren't used to following commands, much less acting as a unit. My companions and my dozen mamlukes I could count on but as for the rabble? That seemed much less certain.
I took off my helmet so all could see my face and turned to face my motley band of recruits, footmen, and the small gathering of mamlukes. With my companions silently backing me up, I told those assembled that this was an evening of destiny, that they were all my chosen sword in the fight against the hated but cowardly Rhodoks, that I had never lost a battle and didn't intend to lose one now, that we were only outnumbered three to one, which was a small matter when, as all men knew, a Sarranid was worth five Rhodoks or perhaps eight, the experts differed on that point, and, smiling coyly and with laughter in my voice, that while I knew they weren't primarily in my employ for the money but for glory and honest service, there'd be double hazard pay for every survivor and a double death bonus to the relatives of any man who died this night.
As for myself, I was just a weak woman and ill suited for the front line together with the burly men but this night I would not limit myself to cutting down those who fled, as was my wont (and if the recruits wondered whether I limited myself to cutting down fleeing enemies, well, no harm done), I'd take up my lance and hit their cavalry as hard as anyone and if anybody wanted to see proof that I was fighting with the rest of them they had only to look for my golden hair as I wouldn't be wearing my helmet!
It happened that the enemy forces were nearly devoid of cavalry, knowledge that had been imparted to me by my scouts, but that in no way lessened the impact of my words on those assembled - or their desire to get to grips with the enemy before I did. Dead paymasters can be remarkably lax with promised payments.
In either case, it was a terrible risk to take given the quality of Rhodok crossbowmen, but some times you just have to take a risk if you want to win and at least the night would degrade their aim somewhat.
For Gold and Glory!
With my mamlukes taking point, I thundered in their wake down on the enemy with my companions at my side to protect me at all costs and we broke the Rhodok army. They fought valiantly enough but my men fought like lions and on that bloody field of Unuzdaq I earned the trust of the survivors forever after! When I let the Rhodok nobles we captured go free and offered employment to the Rhodok commoners from nearby Jamiche, who had fought us, the men may well have grumbled but secretly they were proud. It is from that singular episode that the legend of 'our lady of mercy' arose, an epithet that, though sadly little used these days except ironically by my enemies, proved more valuable in those early days of my inevitable rise to greatness than any ransom ever could have done.
I retired to my castle and ordered my bold companions to do what they did best: solve small problems without my supervision.
It comes to me that I have not yet described my companions as they were in those days, with the exception of the first three, who were always dearest to me.
The Nine Companions
My eight primary companions were as follows:
Nizar, a native of the Sarranid Sultanate, my first companion and my champion. A thorough scoundrel, good lover, greater poet, and my third best warrior. He greeted battle with a smile and a song on his lips and was well loved by all. While I was the brains of my company, he was definitely the heart.
Matheld, the Blooded One. My second companion, a haughty warrior-maiden of Nordland who had gone into exile in Calradia. Noble in word and deed as well as breeding, she was clearly unsuited to run anything in Calradia. Fortunately she had an earthy sense of humour and a supreme belief in the capabilities of women so we got on well enough and she backed me up loyally despite being everything that I was not. She had seen the world and nothing pleased her more than seeing a woman put men into their place, even if it took means she would herself disdain to use. She was my second best warrior and respected by all of my companions though liked by few save Nizar, whom she eventually ended up marrying years later after an astonishing chase that is a story in its own right. I wish them well.
Rolf, brigand and lord. My third companion and my best warrior. Like Matheld and myself, Rolf was a foreigner to Calraida. Rough from his years of brigandage, though he affected the manners of the noble he always claimed to be “in a well-known barony somewhere over the mountains, from whence he had left on a youthful voyage of discovery”, he never managed to shake his direct and frequently violent approach to problem-solving. I could always count on him to crack heads upon command and to keep an almost frightening cool temper in the most stressed of situations. A more complex man in truth than he appeared, though that says little, he was not entirely unlike me save for being a man and lacking my driving ambition and intelligence. He also somehow, no matter how rich he got, never found the time to return to his family's barony, where they were surely waiting for him. As said, he was not entirely unlike me. He was my strong hand dexter.
Lezalit the stern. He was the youngest son of the count of Geroia and sought to improve his prospects in the war-torn lands of Calradia. He was the very caricature of the able lieutenant and drill instructor and nothing pleased him better than enforcing order and discipline on a world that suffered much from the lack of both. So long as he had delinquent soldiers to flog he was happy as a clam. An upwardly mobile man, he had cultivated a bi-directional gaze. Gazing upwards, he saw virtue. Gazing downwards, he saw vice. He seldom saw sideways and introspection was completely beyond him. The sort of man who would never scheme against his betters but seek advancement by showing them that he stamped harder than anybody else on those beneath him. Such men can be useful. No matter how vile or underhanded an action I ordered him to perform, he would act without qualm or hesitation, unfettered by conscience. Barely tolerated by the other companions, his only friend was Old Man Ironguts. He was my strong hand sinister.
Katrin the quarter-master, a native of Swadia. The second woman of my companions, she was an old woman in her early forties, who had been a professional camp follower throughout her life. She became quarter-master in my company and acted as the reasoned conscience of my companions. In truth, she was a boring old stick, but every close gathering needs somebody to act as the conscience and she fit the bill.
Borcha, horsefriend. Possibly horselover, though try as I might I never was able to determine the truth of that slur. A lonely steppe nomad of the Khergite steppes, he didn't like men and he didn't like women – in fact, he seemed to harbour a distinct dislike of the whole human race and never understood the motivations of others, and that is a fact. He was an unmatched tracker and scout and so long as everybody left him alone he did his duty well. He was the eyes of my companions. His reason for following me was so embarrassing that, were it not known to all the world due to his later exploits after leaving my service and completely on his own account, I want to make that absolutely clear, I would hesitate to put down in writing.
Upon noticing me in a tavern in Suno, when he was deep in his cups (a detail, I might add, that his followers deny to this day), he had a vision and saw me as the physical incarnation of a goddess venerated by steppe people everywhere, the mare of plenty. Yes, I was the very horse goddess of fertility and growth, strangely taking human shape for my own inscrutable reasons. Though I have never been the most religious of people, this was the blackest of blasphemy as well as being deeply ironic due to my barren womb, his devotion a jest of the evil spirits of whose malice towards me and my father he knew nothing and neither did anybody else. I was too good for him to touch, but closeness to divinity was the closest he ever got to human interaction, and after that it was always “Yes, my lady!” or “As you command, o' Mare of Plenty!” in a clear ringing voice... Deeply embarrassing to me, and I have never been easily embarrassed, and my other companions made much fun of him when I was not around.
Marnid, the joker. A merchant of Geroia, he ventured over the mountains intending to make a killing in the markets of war-torn Calradia. Always with a smile on his face and a joke on his lips, the joke was on him as he was a poor liar and a worse merchant. Always claiming to be a lover rather than a fighter, he was neither. He did claim some rudimentary knowledge of healing when I found him in a tavern in Suno on a trading mission early in my Calradian career, having lost all his trade goods in a game of cards, and I took him on as physician since my mercenaries were in desperate need of first aid and proper treatment of their wounds. This turned out to be an inspired choice as, given plentiful of subjects to practice on and for once being treated as a worthy comrade (nobody with the sense they were born with offends the healers in a mercenary company!) he became quietly competent over time. His jokes did not improve significantly over time and more's the pity, but much is forgiven the one who keeps you alive, so he became a companion liked and respected by all in the end. Much later he was the first of my companions to die and on occasion, when the world is drab and rainy, I miss him and raise a glass in his honour. He was loyal and overcame most of his shortcomings in my service and isn't that, in the end, as much as can be demanded of any man?
Artimenner Artimenner, Old Man Ironguts. Tough as nails and twice as ugly, Artimenner Artimenner was so tough they named him twice though he usually discouraged people from using his full name. One Artimenner was enough for this world, he said, and all who got to know him closer agreed. Already old when he sought my employ, he only grew meaner and tougher with age. His love was that of discovering the workings of the world. There was nothing so complex it could not be understood by breaking it into its constituent parts and reassembling them again with improvements. Whether it was the construction of elaborate machines or the functioning of the human body he had no equal and he naturally assumed the position of my chief engineer and wound surgeon, while remaining disturbingly efficient at dismantling enemies in battle – something he found considerably less interesting than the construction of siege engines but saw the occasional need for. He was a practical man dedicated to the betterment of mankind in general but not individual members of it in specific and, as such, was a hard man to like and he seemed to prefer it that way. On the positive side, he was utterly reliable so long as I paid him on time and presented him with interesting challenges.
My ninth companion was something entirely different, sharing few of the interests of my other companions.
Ymira, a peasant from the back end of nowhere who had run away from home over a disagreement concerning the circumference of a circle, which is about as weird an excuse for abandoning a peasant life as any of which I have ever heard and would be totally unbelievable until you got to know her better at which point it seemed positively mild. She had a body made for sin, the mind of an logician, the warm nature of a shark, a complete lack of ambition, and she was naive, good gods how she was naïve. She went through life nearly oblivious to the events around her except insofar as they were countable or measurable or had interesting mathematical properties. I rescued her from a familiar situation in a tavern in Barriye to which her sheltered life had not prepared her and, upon killing her three assailants and pulling them off her where she lay calmly and stiff like a board while measuring time, length, and size while correlating her measurements with weight and thrust, discovered that I had somewhat misunderstood the situation.
She had been engaged in a comparative study of anatomical measurement and reasoned that since monkey-see, monkey-do was a universal constant and since she was terribly shy in approaching strangers, the logical way to get other people to divest themselves of their clothes was to do so herself, so she had walked naked through the tavern, ordered a room, gone to it, and left the door open as she sat waiting inside with a measuring rod.
Her theory was validated when she received plenty of visitors ready to be measured, though she wondered why they were all men since there had been a one to two point three four seven proportion of women to men in the tavern. Could there, perhaps, be something she had overlooked and besides, did I know why had they all insisted on measuring length in such a peculiar way?
She was obviously one of those particular geniuses, the idiot servants, that I'd been hearing about from Artimenner.
She needed help and she needed it badly and out of the kindness of my heart I offered it. I had my companions give her a crash course on life while writing down a booklet of nine simple rules to obey for a serving lady, the foremost of which was complete obedience to the wishes of her superiors and the ninth and least which was not to let foreign objects enter her body save for sustenance or medical reasons only. In retrospect, I wish I had formulated that one differently.
I put her into my service on a future retainer, paying her one month in advance every month. She very logically considered this to put her in my debt on a monthly basis and, having learned my nine rules by heart, obeyed my orders to attend the courses on economy and domain management in the university of Shariz on my account. She never, ever, lifted a hand in anger, nor did she ever strike down an enemy with her own hand in her life, yet in the end she became in her own way one of my most valuable of companions. Certainly the most dedicated, as her logical mind did not permit her to leave my service once she had entered it and I had given her a set of rules to follow. It is the closest to self-enslavement that I have ever seen.
Editor's note: The lives and fates of Khünbish Jalair's famous nine companions are worthy of studies of their own beyond their understandably brief mentions in her own autobiography. Azadun the younger's famous study, “Nive lives: The Jalair Paladins in Love and War”, which was the work of a lifetime and published a mere century after her death, remains even today the seminal work on the subject. The treatises “Thoughts on the Anatomy of the Male Form” and “Ymira's Elements”, which launched the considerable scholarly career of Ymira Khünbishservant, surely require no introduction to the educated reader. For a considerably more detailed though perhaps less candid appraisal of Borcha the Grand Hierarch, temple records should be consulted.
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As self-appointed conscience...and high priest of the Most High God. I declare that the illustrated version of this manuscript to be anathema. It is infested with all manner of evilness and vile descriptions of human hypocrisy. It's author has undoubtedly consorted with imps or demons...and possibly with that evil Lord of Hell himself, though we cannot with certainty know his dealings. I henceforth demand that any and all booksellers turn over their copies of this heinous and blasphemous work to the members of the Most Holy Church. Where they will be consigned to the fire...which is the place most deserving for them to go.
Sincerely,
TheExecuter
P.S. Loving the story and style. Keep it up!
Sincerely,
TheExecuter
P.S. Loving the story and style. Keep it up!
I suppose Matheld is actually warrior #2 in skill and greatness?
Also: As Grand Theogenician I hereby order that the works be turned over to our great order for studies, so we might learn how they allure the weak mind and use that knowledge for the betterment of good. Uh-huh
Also: As Grand Theogenician I hereby order that the works be turned over to our great order for studies, so we might learn how they allure the weak mind and use that knowledge for the betterment of good. Uh-huh