Rumors

[von Streusser]

It had been nine months to the day since the end of the War of Liberation. Dobrudja was free, work was progressing on restoring Castle Izmayil, and the realm of Moldavia was gradually beginning to return to prosperous normalcy.

Maia's leg had healed fully by now, though she would probably walk with a slight limp for the rest of her days. However, more important...

"PUSH, PRINCESS-REGENT!" shouted the midwife as Maia huffed and puffed, struggling to breathe. The midwife's insistence on formality was beginning to irritate Maia, but it couldn't be helped...appearances had to be maintained.

The pregnancy had gone well, though it had forced Maia to postpone certain affairs, such as the Bujak Disturbance. She would be able to deal with them soon enough, but for now she had a tiny Vlach baby inside her that had decided it was time to enter the world...and like the baby's mother, there would be no stopping the child once the decision was made.

The delivery was fairly quick, and afterwards the mother lay in an expectant yet overjoyed pool of sweat. As the midwife washed the baby, a single thought kept running through the Princess' head. "I'm a mother...I'm a mother...I'm a mother..."

The baby cried, no, wailed with all its tiny heart, lending a great commotion to the castle. In the hallway, Conte Gilles d'Hirlau heaved a sigh of relief at hearing the child's voice, then began to nervously await news of the mother. All over Castle Iasi that day, the voice of a tiny infant could be heard. Church bells rang throughout the realm later in the day, announcing the good news to the people.

But for now, the Princess held her tiny baby in her arms, quieting it almost immediately. Gilles was ushered into the room, and the midwife opened the door to leave. "It's a boy, Princess-Regent, Conte." With her simple declaration, she left the room as Gilles and Maia looked at each other, smiled, and held their tiny new son in their arms.

"What will you name him love?" asked Gilles.

"Gabriel...Hero of God..." she said quietly, translating the name for Gilles before she handed the child to his father, then slid back into the pillows and, exhausted, fell asleep.

 

[Petrarca]

Lake Como​

To describe a location such as Lake Como as merely 'pleasant' or 'nice' would do it disservice. The famed lakes of northern Italy deserve their reputation as places of stunning natural beauty and soothing calm. The pious may describe Jerusalem or Santiago de Compostela as greater, and the greedy may think Florence or Alexandria greater, but both are blinded by their proclivities to the most beautiful site in all Christendom.

Yet those caught in dilemmas may miss entirely the awe-inspiring location whose magnificent scenery is renowned across Europe.



One hand clutched embroidered gloves, a symbol of their owner's power and position. The hand was turning deathly white from its tight grasp while its counterpart on the left trembled with anxiety. Ladislav breathed quickly and shallowly, awake in his bed. Furtive glances assured him that there was no other in the room and that indeed all appeared to be well. All but an agitated young man who had awoken with a start and a cold sweat.

"Mein gott," he murmured. "What an ungodly hour," he remarked breathlessly while looking at the inky black night. Then he saw what his right hand gripped and sighed in nervous relief. No blade glistened in the faint light, only a pair of gloves grasped from the stand next to his bed. He laughed, one of the few moments of levity he had experienced recently.

His laughs soon died, however, leaving him still wide awake, one hand shaking and the other pale from his own unyielding grip. "All is well. All is well," he repeated, trying to force calm upon himself.

But what he felt made it impossible to be calm. Too many doubts, too many fears, too many unanswerable questions filled him. Agonizing self-recriminations took hold of him: "To have overruled Ugo, to have ignored Savoy, to have given one last push against Venice-what could these things have brought us? Why did we not placate Joachim with empty words, or order some assault to entrap the Doge and the Greek on Adriatic beaches? Mein gott, it could have been different!" His hoarse rant ended with a gasping plea, but he was not yet finished. Opportunities lost had not disturbed his slumber, but rather, dangers ahead. His left hand still quavering, he stared at his right. "Was it fear of an intruder? Or something far worse that lead my hand to the stand?" Slowly, he force his hand to let the gloves fall back onto the small tabletop, still near breathless from fear. As he unclenched his hand, he laughed bitterly: "Everything from the family. Everything!" he said in a cyptic whisper. "Bohemia and Hungary are ours by our blood, blood that ties us to Emperors and a Pope. But what else does that blood give us?" The night did not respond, and so he went on. "Christopher, Friedrich, Albrecht, perpetrators of the greatest sin. They attacked their own blood." He paused. "My father's daughter and bastards in arms against him. A bishop in arms against his brother, the Emperor, and then against his own throat. The kin of my generation trying to shed their own blood in order to solve their problems. Patricide, filicide, and suicide define our blood as much our birthrights."

"God, and I dream of vicious scenes of cousin against cousin, and I or Friedrich or Albrecht laying slain by another-- or by ourselves! Are my actions in the same cast as Erich? Or as destructive as Christopher and Albrecht's?" The night gave no answer to his soliloquy. "And when I awoke I did so with gloves in hand. Did I lunge when I awoke to protect myself from an intruder, or in my sleep did I reach for a dagger to be used against myself? Gott in himmel!" Ladislav shouted, then bowed his head and lowered his trembling hands.

A knock on the door interrupted his reflection. "Does Your Majesty require anything?" came a weary chamberlain's question.

"No," he began curtly. Then he hesitated. "Yes, put out my breakfast," he said irately, angry at himself for wavering on such a simple query.

"Majesty, the hour..." the chamberlain pleaded.

Ladislav bit his lip, infuriated at the difficulty he faced in answering "One irrelevant question that we cannot decide..." He sighed in desperation. "Then breakfast at the normal hour." Distraught, he went back to sleep.

 

[Mettermrck]

German Camp, King Rene’s Army, Naples

”Sir Heinrich” sighed as his squire poured a second glass of mead. He normally did not indulge in such a pastime, but the evening was clearly such a time for baser pursuits. Outside, there were hardly any signs of conversation, merely the purposeful clinking of equipment and horses as the remaining knights of “Heinrich’s” command tended to their mounts, their armor, and their own wounds. Despite their able performance on the field, there was a general sense of anger and disappointment pervading through the camp, though most of it was clearly directed at all things Italian, particularly the lackadaisical warrior spirit of the commanders of King Rene’s so-called vaunted army, to say nothing of the absent monarch himself. “Sir Heinrich” shook his head when he thought of the Neapolitan king and his pleas for aid in the war against a schismatic usurper. What kind of foolish king begs for aid from afar and then fails to appear to lead his own troops when his capital is at bay? “Heinrich” grunted as he removed his boots, tipping them over to remove the dirt from the field at Ravello.

Ravello....now there was an example for His Majesty to follow, even if it wasn’t enough to bring victory to the Neapolitan cause.

His Germans had been based on the Amalfi peninsula south of Naples, suppressing suspected rebel activity when word came of the advance of a large rebel army northward from Paestum towards Salerno. Indeed, by the time the Neapolitan commander bothered to inform “Heinrich”, Salerno was lost and the loyalist armies in full retreat to Naples. In a series of a running battles stretching across Roman ruins at Pompeii and Herculaneum, the rebel army pressed its advantage and threatened to cut off “Sir Heinrich”’s men and other small garrisons from the capital. Sensing the threat to his exposed position on the peninsula, his small command, numbering a mere forty knights, dashed up the peninsula towards Ravello, only to find itself tangled with a force of rebels, foot and horse, numbering several hundred. No doubt aware of “Heinrich”’s reputation, the enemy’s fervor matched the Germans own.

He always tried to ignore the peasants, “Heinrich” remembered as he sat in his tent, applying a poultice to a small wound on his leg. With their pitchforks and farming tools, the average farmer was terrified of a knight on a warhorse, no matter how much hatred burned in his heart. No, it was the rebel lord on a horse, or any man on a horse for that matter, that was the threat, and this “Heinrich” had aimed for. The sharp fight went on for over an hour and it angered him that he had lost eleven good men to enemy blades, though many more rebels were slain. As the spring afternoon wore on, the enemy at last tired and broke, and the northern rode to Naples was open. But not before “Sir Heinrich” would exact a last bit of retribution. Though he knew that the life of any Neapolitan was not worth that of a German knight, it would be some small salve that none of their wounded would live to fight another day, and he ordered his men to slay all of the enemy left on the field before riding off to the north.

They had arrived near the buried ruins of Pompeii, where they witnessed the rebel army’s continued hounding of the absentee king’s forces. His command fought hard to allow as many troops as possible to withdraw to the capital, despite a growing disdain for the fighting quality of the loyalist army. If the fools would just stand, “Heinrich” spat, after time and again, a good defensive position was simply abandoned. And where on earth was King Rene? Sipping wine in the Vatican while his men bled and good Germans waged his wars for him? And so now they were once again encamped outside the capital, only not in confident manner, but in expectation of siege and possible defeat. “Heinrich” realized that perhaps the time had come to make other plans.

 

[N Katsyev]

Mina's Study, Pskovskeey Kremlin​

​

Andrei would leave with the Zubzovtskeey Prince to Tver soon. Ekaterina was preparing to go to Porkhov over the summer to meet with Zhukov and inspect the miltia. Payvel had gone north to Gdov for hunting, Zashka was in Novgorod. Mina was nearly alone, it was quiet, the alliance with both Tver and Vladimir-Suzdal was a success, no word from Ryzan yet, but this wasn't totally surprising. In this solitary peace Mina was writing, plans for the future, reflections on the past, not least checking over the progress on the post relay system being developed where a number of buildings had already been constructed and horses requisitioned.

It was in this typical late night solitude with her work and a venetian glass of chilled kliukva, totally envelloped in the flowing script being put to fine birch paper that a simple pretty orchid was placed on the desk before her. A familiar arm, a familiar scent, a familiar presence appeared. The quill slipped from her fine fingers onto the bit of paper and like a kitten overjoyed at her master's return she nuzzled her face into Azim's outstretched arm as the orchid was placed before her. She didn't even turn to look at him, just simply closed her eyes and heard - felt his voice. Azim had been an invaluable source of comfort these past months. She was finishing these papers with the hopes to go with him for the remainder of the summer to a family estate on Lake Chudskoye, take a much deserved and needed rest that she never even gave herself after first returning to Kremlin despite her shocking condition.

Two sentences uttered from his lips and a smile began to form on her full lips. Then a third, and the world that had seconds ago seemed so nearly perfect - was shattered. Mina thought her heart had stopped. Her shoulders went rigid and her eyes opened, staring without sight at the desk before her. Rage, despair, the stomach turning feeling of impending loss, she didn't know how or which to deal with first.

Yet in typical fashion she remained silent, cold, calculating though her heart beat fiercely in her chest she listened to him. Her beautiful jaw set and her face angled slightly, not quite looking at him, but over toward the fire, her hair slipping about her shoulders with the slight movement. The flood of thoughts produced with his words almost even for her seemed too much to bear - the memories.

A young woman, almost still a girl. A young Polish noble on the stairs of the Kremlin, through the window a beautiful world outside, her world. Konstanty was his name, she may even have loved him. There was war in the south, a crusade and he was going away. He would of course return and she spun playfully into his arms, his hand pressed her breast, she touched his lips, his nose... She saw him only once more, a dark night in the corridors of the Kremlin, he had not returned for two years. Quiet words in the darkness, and he left her world forever.

That was a lover, long since vanished. But of course there were much more recent memories of the loss of war. Her brother had died in her arms, her unborn child.... his unborn child had died in her very belly. If she could not protect those whom were most dear to her in her own world. How could she ever hope to protect this man who now would leave her for a far and distant world? No, Azim, you will not return she wanted to tell him, but the words would not leave her lips - they were too terrible for her to even utter.

His hands on her shoulders, and now his lips by her ear. Suddenly she felt it almost utterly revolting. Like being whispered to by a corpse. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream at him, she wanted to be cruel to him. More than anything she wanted to seek comfort in him as she had that night... But how could she? Maybe he just simply wanted to go, she had killed his baby after all. And those last words, how dare he insult her so? Had she not told him she loved him, why on earth would she not want him back? He thought her false...

And then the outlet seemed clear. He was tired of her, resented her their lost child - the black ribbon she still wore about her wrist on her pulse, he thought her false that she never had loved him. Worst of all this alien, this foreigner, this man she loved was going to leave her and never return, despite what he thought or at least said.

Finally her muscles gave way to move and she quickly, seemingly seeing red rose from the desk, the quick violent movement sending the chair backward. She walked away from him, her small fists tightly clenched, staring at the fire. Then she turned to him over her shoulder, those passionate, beautiful grey orbs. She stared at him in silence a moment, like some petty noble she once again looked over all his features. She looked at his eyes, his every reaction. Coldly though, with only calculating interest. Something deep within her wanted to rush forward, to embrace him, to weep but that wasn't nearly malicious enough for how she felt at this moment. When she finally did speak, it wasn't with the violent rage she had tossed the chair aside from, it wasn't with the cracking voice of one ready to give in to their despair, it was with a cool, soft tone, "You are of course always welcome in this hall commander Azim. As for your proposal..." How bitterly did she feel that he would so degrade her emotions by speaking of such things at such a time but whatever could be read in her eyes, it wasn't in her voice, "Maybe this unfinished business will give you a reason to return to us, yes?" In practiced tone, posture, attitude and action she felt at ease all of the sudden.

The father of her dead child, all her will was bent upon being looked at as only another courtier. One of thousands. The man she loved, that she wanted to embrace her, that she wanted to strike was just another diplomat, one whose service was ending and like the Egyptian, her friend, would never return. Nobody returned from war, especially not those she loved, "Unless there is anything else... Its late."

 

[Blade!]

Mina's Study, Pskovskeey Kremlin​

​

​

Pushed back violently with the chair which crashed into his thighs as Mina stood, Azim stepped away from her. Only with the reflexes born out of a lifetime of warcraft did Azim avoid the most masculine of pains.

While surprised, it was not truly unexpected in Azim's mind... the fact that Mina was now across the room from him staring at him dispassionatly. Azim had thought she might let him go with love, but he also thought it was probable that would not be the case, that Mina would turn on him in anger. It was the reason Azim suspected he would not be able to return to Pskov if he left. This was a true taste of the cruel Mina people could fear, and for Azim it was a presence that brought pain to the very being of his heart and soul.

"Unless there is anything else... Its late."

As hurt as Azim was by Mina's words, he was equally made angry, despite the fact that he suspected she might react so. After all they had shared, and experienced, Mina was not ready to allow this trespass.

Azim's eyes remained calm even as his brows knit together, and he stepped forward, pushing the chair aside expressing his own rage with a force that toppled the chair.

"Damnit Mina what would you have me do? Leave my family and kinsmen to slaughter? Allow their heads to be placed on stakes, allow my nieces to be raped, allow my friend and lord to be delivered unto barbarians?"

*Azim ripped at the clasp of his cloak, and hurled it to the floor with a snarl. He took a deliberate step towards the fireplace and Mina.*

"Shirk my charges even farther than I have in the efforts I have undergone to stay by your side? Hiding in your study, or in my room awaiting your need and call?"

*Azim's leather riding gloves were yanked off and slapped onto the nearby desk as he took another step toward her.*

"Did I abandon you to the Liths? Did I not fight with you? Have I not demonstrated all the care, respect and love that any man could give a woman, that with this single opposition to your desire... for some duty in my life... you shun me?!"

With a smooth motion Azim unbuckled his scabbard and curling his far arm around hurled sword, scabbard, belt, and all at the wall with all his might so that they crashed resoundingly off the wall and again when they hit the floor.

*CRASH*

Lunging over the final pace between Mina and his self, Azim came face to face with Mina, and he looked into her grey eyes with all seriousness; his voice grew quieter though no less passionate.

"Mina Andreyevna Polotovskaya, I love you with all my heart... but I am not your plaything. I have hurt you with my words and my intentions, and we may not always agree or be together, but that does not mean I do not wish to be here with you. Would you have a man who has no duty or honor... such a man could never be the companion of a woman such as yourself. You are strong Mina, but even the strongest blade breaks without care, and the most resiliant warrior must know when to give way to achieve victory.

Do you want to break me out of anger Mina? You are doing so. Neither your language nor mine has the words nor sanction for what there is between us."

*Azim turned away from the fire and towards the door.*

"I will go within the week, and I will return with permission to stay, or out of the service of the Zayyanids... whether I do stay will depend on whether it is the Czarina within you or the 'woman who makes me whole' within you that tries to rule me. I am no subject of the Czarina."

 

[N Katsyev]

Patrimony of St. Sophia - Holy Russian Synod

​

Each was payed his respects as the holymen filtered out of the room one by one. The Russian Patriarch silently thinking to himself while he audibly bid farewell to each man. In his mind he was rather dissapointed at the small gathering, he had hoped for me - whether he fully had expected more or not was a matter of which he himself was still not yet decided. Regardless, it only inspired him further - it pointed to the damage done by the Moscovite and how much there remained to do to begin to repair that same damage. Out of it though, the first official decree of the new Patriarchate was put forward...

Decrees of the Most Holy Orthodox Russian Church of the Synod of 1449 held in the Patrimony of St. Sophia

A: Of Matters Rulers Secular

I: The Grand Prince Yuri is recognized by the Holy Church as rightful and legitimate ruler over the Lord's flock in the Principality of Vladimir-Suzdal.

II: The Grand Prince Boris Aleksandrovich is recognized by the Holy Church as rightful and legitimate ruler over the Lord's flock in the Principality of Tver.

III: The Grand Prince Oleg Ivanovich is recognized by the Holy Church as rightful and legitimate ruler over the Lord's flock in the Principality of Pereslavl-Ryzan.

IV: The legitimacy of Grand Prince Vasili as ruler of the Lord's flock in the Principality of Moscovy is under official church investigation and is as yet neither recognized nor refuted.

V: The legitimacy of Grand Prince Dmitri as ruler of the Lord's flock in the Principality of Moscovy is under official church investigation and is as yet neither recognized nor refuted.

VI: The Sovereign Grand Princess Mina Andreyevna is recognized by the Holy Church as rightful and legitimate ruler over the Lord's flock in the Principalities of Pskov and Novgorod.

VII: The Sovereign Grand Princess Mina Andreyevna's previous denouncement of anathema is hereby forever stricken as unjust in the eyes of Our Lord God and shall be looked upon only as the corruption that so infested the previous Patriarchate in Moskva.

VIII: The Sovereign Grand Princess Mina Andreyevna's previous title "The Blessed' granted following the affairs and miracle of St. George - the discovery of the head of the slain serpent during her reign shall be used once more in conjuction with her name in church records and documents.

IX: The potential canonization of previous Grand Prince Yuri Andreyitch Polotovski following his heroic martyrdom for both motherland and faith, his dedicated service to Our Lord God in the northern wilderness is under official investigation by the Holy Church.

X: The declaration of the Grand Prince Vasili of Moskva as anathema for crimes against both the seekers of religious freedom in Lithuania and his willing and voluntary submission and oppression of so many of Our Lord God's chosen people to the ignorant and Godless steppe dwellers is under official investigation by the Holy Church.

B: Of Matters Organizational and Internal:

I: The current organization of the Holy Russian Chruch shall remain in its current state until a Synod to be held in 1551, this includes all positions appointed previously under the former patriarchate. It shall be a key issue of discussion in the Synod of 1550.

II: The Holy Russian Church shall pay tribute of no less than three thousand silver roobls in combined resources and monetary funds to the Patriarchs of Jerusalem, Antioch, Constantinople and Alexandria to see to it that church activities in these lands of weakness for the ture faith are not jeopordized in any way.

C: Of Matters External Policy:

I: The pagans of the colonies of Pskov-Novgorod shall not be under the pressure of forced conversion in any hostile effort. Such efforts shall be condemned by the Church as a crime against Our Lord God's people, misled as they may be.

II: The pagans of the colonies of Pskov-Novgorod shall have offered to them alms and education in return for their peaceful conversion to the One True Faith. In all other cases the Church is to offer only minimal aid to the ignorant, only so much as to portray the glory of the One True Faith, but so as not to award those who continue to embrace ignorance and Godlessness in undue equality with the saved and protected by Christ.

 

[N Katsyev]

Mina's Study, Pskovskeey Kremlin​

​

Azim grabbed her fist, and her first reaction was to jerk away. Would he strike her? And what would happen then? The answer was simple, and dreadful and she truly feared it coming to pass. However with sudden strength his arm came around her slender waist and pulled her to him. Mina's heart was racing as she had no clue how the next seconds would unfold.

However as he pressed his forehead to hers, through her tears as she looked into his eyes, as he spoke for a brief moment all seemed well with the world again. This would be though only the most temporary of reliefs. The truth of the matter was very well evident, he would leave and he would never return. He meant to, this was obvious, but it would not happen - it would be out of his control. However she must accept it, this woman who silently prided herself of having ultimate power over millions once more found herself without the ability to mold the world into exactly what she wanted it to be. She could force him to stay, that would be easy, it took only a word from her lips - but it could not be so. It was this feeling of helplessness that for Mina in many ways was by far the most blinding pain, the most enraging.

Her forehead slipped down to his lips as he spoke. She only vaguely heard what he said, her throat slightly sore from screaming at him, her mouth salty, but she was calming herself - taking comfort in the assurance of his strong arm about her waist, the feel of his voice. His hand slid up her back, seemingly touching every nerve along the way in the most pleasurable fashion. When her eyes met his again, they were hard, passionate, the tears still wet on her cheeks as he kissed her.

Her hands came up to his face and after allowing herself to enjoy his taste, the feel of his lips, his embrace she parted from him a moment. Her lips lightly still brushing his, her passionate grey eyes looking at his under long wet lashes, there was familiar desire in them but also an almost chilling gravity, made no more comforting by the husky tones of her voice, "You love a terrible woman Zashka. Many lives depend on you coming back, yes?" She paused a moment, watching his face held between her palms, her eyes not having lost the grave, almost threatening desirous glare. But it was only a moment before she pushed against him again seeking his lips.

The ribbon that had been pressed against his face in her palm now gently floated and flittered down to the floor. Her hand that held it now guided his hand down the curves of her body. Her neck arched back and her hair falling about her bare shoulders as she guided his face down to her neck and shoulders, her eyes closed as she delighted and surrendered herself to a most passionate and personal pleasure.

 

[SiDeath]

Erich strolled about the premises of the Holy See, wondering when his uncle would finally see him. As he finally sat after an hour or so, a servant brought him news informing him of his cousin's presence in Rome as well. He decided to write a letter to Fredrick and other von Wittelsbachs.

Cher Cousin,

I was delighted to hear that you too are in Rome! Dear old uncle Pope has been very busy, and cannot see me yet to present me with my clerical accoutrements. Perhaps you will be so good as to be present when he does? I would love to see you, and if you have time, please stop by and see me!

Your cousin,
Erich

 

[unmerged(5730)]

The day was cloudy all over Saxony. It had been a bit of sunlight in the early morning, but all traces of it was now gone. This was the day that the letter should reach Bremen, the letter in which the Saxon Dukes, all three of them, declared they mistrust to the Bremen Duke and demanded Braunschwieg to become a part of the Saxon Electorate. The three Dukes all had hopes on what the letter would bring, what reactions it would cause and how this wheel they had begun to spin would roll.

Duke and Prince-Elector Albrecht sat down in his lounge. He read through some papers, made some notes here and there, and spoke to his closest advisor, Hans von Eidel.

- Tell me von Eidel, this letter we sent, when do you expect us to receive an answer to that?
- Well, My Lord, He should have gotten it today, or in the days around today, then he has to think about it, and send it back. Well, a bit over a week I would suspect My Lord.
- A bit over a week? Well, well, have you heard? It will be rather interesting to see how the bastard reacts. Can you imagine such a ignorance to just take my dear uncle’s Duchy like that. He talked while he continued to read and note in his papers.
- Yes, such ignorance My Lord, von Eidel replied.
- I don’t understand those people, don’t they have any honour in their bodies?
- They certainly don’t My Lord.
- I mean, they totally destroys my brother, makes him insane. They makes my other brother take his life and then they takes my uncles lands. What next? Have they planned to get rid of our entire family?
- It certainly seems so My Lord, but, of course they can’t. You Wettins are too strong.

Albrecht looks up from his papers.

- I am not so certain Hans. It’s Karl Sigismund, I am still afraid of him. As soon as I turn around I will have a knife in my back, I know that. I just can’t trust him.
- My Lord, I am sure that you have nothing to worry about, after all he is your nephew.
- I don’t think he cares Herr von Eidel.

He looks out by the window for a while and then continues with his papers.

At the very same time is a conversation taking place in Meissen, in Duke Karl Sigsimund’s residence. It’s the Duke himself and his twin sister, Countess Eugénia, that is having a conversation in Eugénias bedroom. Karl Sigismund is looking out by the window and Eugénia is laying on her bed.

- It looks like we will get rain, begins Karl Sigsimund.
- It does?
- Yes, massive rain, he replies distanced.
- And?
- Well, it wouldn’t be good for the plants, we already had so much rain.

Eugénia laughs out loud.

- And since did you care about plants? She asks.
- Since never, replies Karl Sigismund and turns around to his sister. I just though it sounded nice to say, it sounded normal.
- You aren’t normal brother, not in any way.
- Good or Bad?
- Good that you are bad, she says with a slightly smile on her lips.

Karl Sigismund smiles back to her and leaves the window. He walks around in the room, from wall to wall, from door to door.

- I wonder if the letter has arrived in Bremen, he says.
- THE letter?
- Yes, THE letter.
- Why are you so interested in THE letter.
- Because it will lead us to greatness.
- How?
- Just like this, he says and claps his hands.

Eugénia laughs and looks at him with tender eyes.

- And then we will rule? She asks.
- Then we will rule. We will rule the land of our father, we will rule Saxony.
- You will be Duke… she says.
- …And you my Duchess, he fills in.

They become quiet and looks into each others eyes for some seconds, seconds that feels like minutes and hours. Suddenly the door opens and a servant enters the room.

- My Lord, Duke Karl Si…
- Herr Worteffel… Dear Herr Worteffel, Karl Sigismund begins calmly.
- Yes My Lord.
- What makes you think that you can disturb me without knocking?
- Well, I am awfully sorry My Lord. It won’t ha…
- It won’t happen again?
- No, exactly My Lord, I am so, so sorry.

Karl Sigismund stood up from the place on the bed beside his sister where he had been sitting, and slowly walked towards the servant, Worteffel. He took him gently around his arm and lead him to the window.

- Herr Worteffel, do you see this window?
- Yes Sir.
- Good. Now, can you imagine my hand gently throughing you out here, causing a broken neck on a certain servant of mine?

Now the servant understood that the Duke really was upset, and he begun to shake by the though of his own death.

- Ye-e-e-es Sir, bu-u-t Ple-e-ease don’t…
- Shut up! I don’t want to hear your begging. If I do I ask for it, but in this matter it won’t help you.

The poor servant didn’t know what to do. Tears fell down on the floor. Eugénia that still laid on the bed enjoyed the show she was given, and smiled a broad smile. Suddenly a sound of metal was heard, and right after that sounds of steel cutting flesh. Karl Sigismund was very good with knifes and had in the blink of an eye used the knife in his belt to cut the ear of the servant.

- Oh, have you seen, an ear there down on the floor, Karl Sigismund said and picked it up.

The servant didn’t know what to do. The cut happened so fast that the body not yet had reacted by bleeding.

- You better take it with you and try to nailed it back Herr Worteffel. Could you imagine how easy and accident could happen.

Karl Sigismund pressed the ear into Herr Worteffel’s hand, and looked him in the eyes.

- Get out of here, and knock the next time you want something.

The servant was close to a breakdown, he almost ran out of the room, and just before he had left it, blood begun to come out of the ear.

- And for God’s sake, don’t spill blood on my carpet!

When the door was closed behind the servant Karl Sigismund looked at his sister and smiles.

- Bloody Servant, he said gently.
- Certainly.

 

[Mettermrck]

A Little Mood Music (right-click and save-as)​

Tlemcen to Fez

If it were not for the presence of Hasan and some of the other trained Berbers, Tomas had little doubt that he would’ve become lost in the dunes of the Sahara desert long ago. The sand was an endless sea, brown where the waters of the Atlantic were blue, otherwise the same featureless nothingness upon these natives traveled with the same ease that Tomas’ own people sailed the waves of the oceans. It was an odd kinship that he could respect as their camels trundled along the hot desert sun on the evening of the fifth day since leaving Tlemcen late in the evening. Kadija’s words, though not an order according to her, had nevertheless prompted a hastily prepared journey out of the capital towards Fez, leaving only a note for the Amira that he was traveling westward to see to diplomatic affairs amongst the ‘junior’ states. Though technically true, he knew the mode of departure, the lack of a face to face goodbye, and Kadija’s involvement would mean some form of reckoning when he returned, something which nagged at the rear of his conscious, stored away in the file he was slowly adding to on things regarding Yasmine that were making him nervous. But this was in the future, and he had to keep in the here and now, for despite Hasan’s expertise, desert travel was still a hardy enterprise.

Working their way northwest, they skirted the edge of Oran, avoiding the port itself so as not to draw too much attention and stick close but not quite to the coastal roads, relying on Berber trails to get them through the Atlas foothills to work their way up the coast towards Fez. The journey was also an opportunity for Tomas to keep an eye on the foreign servants Hasan had procured, the red albinos. From time to time, as if to test them, Tomas would engage them in a snippet of conversation, sometimes in the little Greek he knew, occasionally using a Turkish phrase he had picked up while in Bursa, all trying to see how skilled they were in language. Other times, Tomas would hold conversations with Hasan in Greek, loud enough so that the two slaves could overhear, discussing matters of commerce and other affairs, to see if their Genoese – or Hasan said they were from north of the Cimmerian Bosporus – minds would react. He wasn’t sure how much of a impression he was making yet, however.

Finally, on the fifth night, Tomas rode his camel up next to Hasan’s. ”We should see the walls of Fez, yes? I’m not sure what affairs have been going on, but I suspect the Portuguese factor still remains. They got everything there. Salt, ivory, tons of fish. You’d better hold your nose, young Sharif. And Fez imports a huge quantity of timber from the north....from Pskov. But I’ll need to keep my distance in case I’m recognized. No, we’ll need to go to the palace first, though Her Ladyship hinted we’ll need to talk to nobles more than rulers.”

 

[N Katsyev]

Tlemcen to Fez - The Burning Steppe
The Tale of Boris and Vseslav - Part XIV​

​

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII
Part IX
Part X
Part XI
Part XII
Part XIII
​

There had in fact been no dragon, no serpent, no minotaur. The grotto opened out into a vast land. Into that vast land, after being reintroduced to the strange beast once more, they would soon travel.

This world around them was eerily familiar yet entirely alien. It stretched endlessly under and endless sky like the great steppe they so clearly now remembered during their journey south to Astrakhan. But where were the Cossacks? Indeed, there were cossacks here too, the "berbers" Boris had stored away in his memory. As the days passed Vseslav and himself were beginning to pick up the very basics of the tongue spoken around them.

Vseslav proved better able to read the meanings in what was said, Boris with more formal education was better able to translate and more importantly, transliterate. As had always been the case, this originally unlikely duo was working perfectly in teamwork. Their strenghts and weaknesses playing off each other in near perfect complimentary harmony. What helped even more than their own intuitive efforts were when the lighter skinned one, "Master" would speak in greek which Boris and Vseslav had learned to a working level. Not only during their servitude in Asia Minor, but as far back as their childhood in Russia in the church services which were still held mostly in greek or church slavonic.

Vseslav's hair which had been thinning before they even left Novgorod had over the previous years all but dissapeared. However here in the desert it only made the burning worse. Before they had left he had been able to convince Alladin for an extra cloth that he now wore wrapped about his skull. Boris' hair for that matter was becoming ever longer and shaggier, hanging haphhazardly about his now broad and red-tinted bronzed shoulders.

Squinting against the sun, Boris handed the reign he carried of Stubbornia to Vseslav. With a tattered bit of his old clothes he reached back and bound his hair, relieving some of the trapped heat on his shoulders. His legs were aching, and this sand was not of predictable consistency. Sometimes it would be hard and hospitable to walk on, other times loose and terribly exhausting. These latter places were the worst for another reason as well, a hot wind would blow over them from the south and whip and bite at their bodies with the grains in its all encompassing fingers.

Night fell on the fifth day and it was a most curious thing. On the very first night Boris and Vseslav had hoped for a nice relieving night. Instead they were struck with just how cold the desert could actually become. The warmth of the sand would still radiate up however and it helped to in a sense "cook" oneself by shifting position from time to time. By this time they were exhausted and just waiting to stop. Master road forward to the boy, speaking to him, both men Boris and Vseslav straining their ears to make out what was said.

And then there was a most terrible revelation. Home was missed terribly, but it was easier to bear if one did not bring it to thought, much less utterance. Neither Boris or Vseslav had done so for a long time now, "master" however, seriously crossed this taboo.

"...Pskov..."

Without a word, without a thought, without maybe for the first time smelling the breath of the camel hanging over their shoulders they exchanged a glance. "Master" had tried to speak to them a couple times yet, a few broken phrases of greek, a turkish word or two. However the lost look on his face when Boris or Vseslav would reply, gave them little confidence that they would soon be able to speak to him in anything but this new language. Boris however could not resist the great temptation this brought forth. He turned to "master" and for the first time in many years spoke russian to anyone but Vseslav, "я из пскове. - Ya eez Pskovye."

 

[unmerged(9167)]

Emperor Basil and King of Sicily took his seat on his throne, after spending several weeks inspecting the army, navy, economy and nobility in nation. Also, to strengthen his holding of Sicily. Once that done, he decreed to the court,

Let any foreigners pass through these hall and be welcomed. The Imperial Court of Sicily is now opened for Business!

 

[unmerged(8054)]

Johann-Kazimierz had envisioned his wedding very differently from this one.
For a start, he had hoped for visitors. But the only guests at this wedding were the duke Johann von Hohenzollern of Brandenburg, duke Willem of Gelre, her von Karolinger of Pfaltz, and some minor nobility of Bremen. And they were here not because they had been specially selected for the honour, but because they had happened to be in the ducal palace, by pure chance.

But in a sense, Johann-Kazimierz knew, he was lucky. at least a few of his friends was here.
Thinking this thought, the heir of Bremen looked over at his bride-to-be. Her pregnancy was visible to those who knew what to look for, even though some effort had gone into designing a dress to hide it. Even on this day, the day that should have been her proudest, Princess Rosa-Maria of Aragon was close to crying. Her hands folded over her shamefully large belly, her eyes scanned the few guests, desperately searching for a familiar face, even a nobleman dressed in the fashion of Aragon, a hint of home. Not a single representative of Aragon was at the wedding, there had been no time to wait for their arrival.

For every day the wedding was delayed, the shame became greater.

Both bride and groom threw gloomy looks at the priest. Father Andreas, confessor of the ducal family for more than 30 years, had betrayed the girls secret when they were comfessed to him, thus breaking the trust she had placed in him as representative of God. Neither of the youngsters gave much thought to the results, had their affair not been discovered, and though Father Andreas knew and understand their less than happy thoughts about him, he also knew that in revealing the father of the awaited child, he has served the house Küster and the young couple, and with time, he hoped, they would come to realize it.


The celebration after the ceremony reflected the improvised nature of the wedding. It was not the great feast a union between the royal house of Aragon and the ducal family of Bremen meritted, and the food served was barely above the normal standards of the house.

The wedding gifts were improvised as well. Horses and weapons, jewelry and dresses, purchased in haste from some of the many merchants in the town. As Johann-Kazimierz gave his thanks for yet another sword to a low-level noble, his thoughts went to another wedding, in Dijon. There, he thougt with envy, was held a feast worthy of kings, and the gifts given there was given with sincere smiles, not with half-hidden looks at the brides belly and unspoken accusations.


No, this was not a wedding of dreams, but in its own way, it was born of more sincere love than the celebration Johann-Kazimierz thought so envious of...

 

[Fireblade]

In Battle​

I remembered Sulayma when the passion​

of battle was as fierce​

as the passion of my body when we parted.​

I thought I saw, among the lances, the tall​

perfection of her body,​

and when they bent toward me I embraced them.​

-Abu-L-Hasan Ibn Al-Qabturnuh, XIIth Century

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The pipes and drums played again as King René and a relief force of soldiers from the Duchy of Bar forced their way into the city. To King René's dismay, there were only a few watching the street as he made he way to the palace at the head of his army.

Only one thing could save his Kingdom now.. a miracle. The Pope made lots of promises, but would he follow through?

A lower middle class Merchant's home, in Naples​

Niccolo degli Onesti, his wife, Maddalena, and their son and only child, Domenico, sat in silence as they ate their beans and rough bread around the table. Times were rough since the Great Rebellion began. Niccolo mainly traded in the Apulia.. and was now ruined. As his tired eyes set upon Domenico, he suddenly thought,

"I have lost my father's inheritance.. and now I shall lose my son."

Niccolo threw down his bread, and stood.

"I.. must settle some accounts that I had forgotten."

As Domenico watched his father in leave the table in silence, his thoughts turned back to earlier in the day. A French lady of high standing, Sandrine di Anjou, had sent her representatives into the city to seek out young, stout boys to augment her fighting forces. The scene flashed before his eyes. The giant French knight, wearing the finest clothing, and with a huge sword by his side, caught Domenico by his shoulder as he was walking to where his sweetheart was awaiting him.

"You're a fine, strong lad.. unlike most of the Neapolitan boys. You'll do fine." The Knight had grinned a little, and cuffed him on the shoulder as he left to find some more men to recruit. As Domenico had watched the Knight leave in silence, Domenico's heart seemed to leap and sink at the same time. Unlike many of the Neapolitans of late, Domenico idolized the King. He seemed to represent everything chivalrous, good, noble, and true, the very ideal of a King. Domencio was happy to serve him.. but then his thoughts turned to Lisa, his girlfriend. His father and her father were business associates and friends, from way back. They had grown up together.. and now they loved each other. They were only fourteen, young and vigorous. And, unlike most young love, their parents approved of it.. secretly, of course. After all, they had planned to marry Lisa off to Domenico anyway, and it was even better if they loved each other, right?

"I wish I didn't have to serve.." Domenico muttered at the now empty dinner table, his mother consoling his despondant father in their bedroom, leaving Domenico alone with his thoughts, some cold beans, and stale bread.

One week later​

The gates opened, and a glorious array of soldiers emerged from the walls. At the head of the army rode Sandrine of Anjou, daughter of Giovanna the Second, and like her mother, a master tactician. She had only lost in the south because the rebels were five to her one, and even then, her soldiers only broke and ran when she gave the order. The senior nobles and the King all agreed - if the siege were to be broken, she had the best chance to break it, even if Sandrine were a woman.

But, at the moment, that didn't matter. Domenico marched, carrying his pike with the rest of the soldiers. Far above the heads of the common soldiers, small banners fluttered. Not the banners of René, or Sandrine, or any other noble, but mere rags from their wives, girlfriends, and in some cases, mistresses. Domenico quickly looked up. A small lace handkerchief, the only one Lisa owned, flew above his head. To Domenico's mind, it was the most important banner flying that day, even richer and rarer than the banners of Sicily and Aragon.

Suddenly, shouts came from ahead.

"FORM RANKS! FORM RANKS!"

The men quickly complied, rushing into the positions they had spent all week rehearsing for. Domenico stood in the very front, and knelt on the ground, and braced his pike. Because he was the only son of a merchant, his father was able to afford a little armor for him.. small consolation.

"Here they came.. steady boys!" Shouted a German behind him. Suddenly, Domenico felt fear.. real fear. As the ranks of well-trained Greek and Spanish soldiers marched toward the thin line of his company, numerous as locusts, his eyes flooded with tears.

*THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD*. The ground shook with the boot steps of thousands of soldiers. One by one, the men in the back of the pikemen lost their heart, dropped their lance, and fled. More and more followed. As the Spaniards and Greeks got ever closer, the pikemen, despite the best efforts of Duchesse Sandrine and her leutenants, ever increasingly became as a screaming mob of children.

Domenico's knees quivered.. his eyes became to go dark.. the Greeks and Spaniards, smelling blood, broke formation and began charging towards the few remaining pikemen.

Then, a miracle happened. The sunlight burst through the clouds, and shined directly on Domenico's face. He looked up.. and saw his banner bathed in light. For a moment, he thought he saw Lisa's face in the sky, just beside his banner. Standing up, he cried out, a wordless cry, lowered his pike, and charged towards the leader of the Aragonese soldiers.

He hoped Lisa would remember him.

 

[Mettermrck]

Riga​

The prospect of the righteous is joy, but the hopes of the wicked come to nothing. – Prov. 10:28​

The only time he had stopped was the one night in Wurzburg so that he could hand over the reins of power and from then on, only to change horses. He had had hardly an ounce of sleep on his journey to the Latvian capital, nor a full meal since leaving the Eternal City. Yet Leopold was just as energetic as he was when he had left Rome. The thousands of miles did not deter him, weather did not discomfort him, and mountains did not slow him. For he knew he was on the Lord’s mission and tasked to do the Lord’s work amongst the holiest of his warriors. Leopold rode into Riga purposefully, ignoring the curious stares from the populace and some of the guards as well. But his eyes caught much. The garrison was bored and lazy. Why had he not been challenged yet? Where was the officer on watch? Why were all these peasants clogging the road? There were too many flammable goods near that postern gate. His mind had caught a hundred things wrong even before he crossed the outer wall and entered the city proper. Oh, there would be changes indeed, he swore to himself.

His frustration grew as he rode through the city – his city now. This was a city of the Lord’s army? It was dirty, unkempt. What was that woman doing over there? By God, he wanted to pull out his sword and slay them on the spot! Where were the provosts? Why were there no guards on patrol? And why had he not been challenged yet? His teeth was gritting by the time he was approaching the Daugava River, which separated the outer city from the inner military portion. He could see the main Teutonic fortress across it which, if well-designed and imposing, would not doubt be full of lackadaisical discipline. He had just reached the bridge when someone addressed him. He turned, furious. It was a guard, a young man gripping his spear, but more out of curiosity than accosting.

”C-can I help you, sir? Are you lost?”

By God! Leopold did not even hesitate. He pulled out his sword, and, screaming a fierce cry, brought the sword down, stopping inches away from the young man’s neck. To the man’s shame, he dropped his spear in surprise, before remembering himself and picking it back up. Compounding the disaster, a horrible smell was coming from below the young man. The stench of fear. Leopold was livid. ”God’s eyes! Are these the warriors of the Lord! I found better soldiers in the back streets of Naples! What trickery is this! Pick up that damned spear and be lucky you don’t poke yourself with it. And find someone with an ounce of brains and tell him the new Grandmaster is here!” But even that tirade didn’t satisfy him. His blood was up, and he earnestly wished he had brought the sword all the way down. At least it would have made him feel better.

Without waiting for the young man, he turned Granicus and galloped towards the bridge, almost trampling the young guard. With a cry, he raced across the bridge, where at last there appeared guards with some discipline. A solid wall blocked his approach and with a hint of mirth, he stopped and reared Granicus. ”At last I meet some Knights. But can someone tell me why I am finding you here, on the far side of the Daugava? And not there, beyond the walls of Riga! No wonder Europe holds us in contempt. If you hold yourselves such...now get out of my way. I look forward to meeting the officers of such an elite garrison...”, Leopold said, scowling as he said ‘elite’. He trotted forward, barely looking as the guards hurried to get out of his way, the sheer force of his commands making them defer.

Ahead, he saw the outer gate where he spotted two well-dressed nobles awaiting him, surrounded by retinues of soldiers and advisors. One was bearded and dressed almost to the point of royalty, ostentatiously. The other was more soldierly and he at least looked matter-of-fact, Leopold thought, though he looked displeased to see him. They approached and nodded, waiting for Leopold to dismount. The soldier nodded again and spoke. ”Meine Hochmeister, I am Siegfried von Schwarzenadler, your Preceptor and current presiding officer of the General Chapter. This is Prinz Dietrich von Stadion, your Ordensmarschal and also on the General Chapter. We were not expecting you for several days, Hochmeister. The Chapter is only now assembling, and several members are absent. The Trappier is in Polotsk securing stores and the Tressler is returning tomorrow from upriver.”[/orange]

Leopold supposed he could’ve been more diplomatic, but he was tired from the journey and the poor impression left by the Order thus far was weighing on them. ”Well, I can’t wait, Preceptor. I’ve ridden across Europe to take up my holy mantle and I am not going to let two tardy individuals hold up the beginning of my mission. This sorry excuse for a garrison has already left me a sour taste in my mouth, Preceptor. Now your news is simply adding to it. Let’s go meet your Chapter and see what could possibly be worse?”

Ignoring them both, he walked right past them and into the castle. Falling into step behind them, both scowling, Schwarzenadler and von Stadion followed.

 

[Mettermrck]

The Great Census​

The signs appeared overnight in the major cities of Livland and within weeks had arrived in the rest of Kurland and Latvia, up into Estonia and out into Polotsk. Riders traveled the many dirt trails and tiny roads of the Order lands, posting notices in each village or settlement of note. Immediately there was murmuring amongst the population as to what the announcement meant, though few could say.

Be It Known

In The Year of Our Lord One Thousand Four Hundred and Forty Eight

That all persons residing in the territory of the Sacred Order of the Teutonic Knights will themselves be counted and recorded in their Ballei and Komturei during the period following the fall harvest. All persons residing in Order territory are required to register. Failure to comply is punishable by fines, imprisonment, and harsher penalties.

- The General Chapter​

​

 

[unmerged(6324)]

In Venice...

Funeral March to Venice

The Venetian Republic knew of the many thousands of innocence not yet laid to rest in the ashes that was Venice. The spirits of the dead in purgatory as many corpses were not found, or not found in tact...The Republic of Venice held a funeral procession from Padua to what was Venice, Cardinal Francesco Solarno was there leading the way. Their destination was the sanctified grounds of old San Marco Cathedral...

Cardinal Francesco Solarno arrived just in time for the procession. He led the way dressed in the saintly garbs of San Marco. From Padua to Venice, Cardinal Francesco Solarno led the way barefoot, as humbling the mourning and deceased. Behind him were the monks carrying the sacred relics of Venice and San Marco, chanting the whole way the prayers for the deceased and dying. For the most part the Cardinal held his head low, clutching the Holy Bible tightly, leading the way through daylight, and nightfall...silent...Many knew why he was bothered...it was the horror of massacre...returning to the site of his birth to see his brethren covered in rats and flies now...

When the procession arrived at Venice, silence had befallen all...overcome with fear perhaps, or just pure anxiety. It was night time, and the cold silvery fog covered the ground...the stench of death filled the air, and there was no light...no moon nor sun...covered by clouds...The reconstruction crews have told tales of screaming women and children in the night...but no body in sight. They told of ships coming to dock in the mist of night, only to vanish before their very eyes...perhaps they were just tales told while they were drinking too much, or perhaps it was really the restless dead of Venice...refusing to die still...

As they reached the reconstruction site of San Marco Cathedral, the monks assisted Cardinal Francesco Solarno to the single and very simply rushed alter to conduct the funeral. The reconstruction crews have buried the dead around the site already, and have brought forth more in coffins to attend the funeral, before burial. It was an unbearble site to see for the faint hearted...as there were hundreds of dead attending...more so than living...After clearing his old throat, he began mass. As mass dragged on he gave a quote from the Holy Bible:

I, John, saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

'See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.'

And the one who was seated on the throne said, 'See, I am making all things new.' Also he said, 'Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.' Then he said to me, 'It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life. Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children.'

Revelation 21.1-7

This particular part of the mass seemed to have been the pinacle, as nearly everyone seemed to regain a loss piety in God, and a sliver of moonlight shone threw...if only for a few seconds...

The mass dragged on...and anxieties grew and grew...The burials took days...and when it was all over...no one seemed to be the same...especially the Old Cardinal himself...

 

[unmerged(11294)]

King João's Speech on the Boulder​

João Garza I, now king, wiped the sweat off his forehead after the coup to remove King Reginald, Prince of Portugal, was finally over. He took his seat of rest on a small boulder outside the castle. He waved Duke Fernado over for a small chat about the glory of God and how He delivered him the day.​

"God hath given his servants what they prayeth for night and day. I am glad you joined my duty and pledged thou heart to thy Lord's cause. Let us now be guided by our Lord to runneth this nation over with milk and honey."​

Now, you would expect such holy speech from a clergyman, but King João I was not one to break his promise with God and let God down by not giving him thanks for what, he believed, could not of happened weren't it for the Lord's hand helping him. King João I stood on the boulder and spoke to the people, his army and the Archbishop of Lisboa, Luis Montais.​

"For I hath taken a throne with thy sword, it be not my own will, but thy Lord's will. For I have travelled from my home in Barcelona to free thee of thy hindering of riches and joyful living. Doth thou not heareth my murs murs all the day long? Did thou not shut thy ears to it and prayed in thy private moments that I would deliver thee from the prince of Jerusalem? Do tell me my countrymen if thou hast seen malice in my ways this day that would reflect the days of my kingship, speak now! For if it be thy Lord's doing I shall recieve my crown this day and sit on thee throne and pay the debts that my predecessor hast long overdue unto thee. For today much blood hast been spilled, but I do not come to ravage and kill the blessed, but to rid of the wicked! Oh ye men of Portugal, live thy days as thou liveth in thy last days. Oh ye men of Portugal, let thy work reflect in thee economy. Oh ye men of Portugal, do not ye be quick to forget thy king in thy prayers. Oh ye men of Portugal, sail the seas with no fear for the Lord is near, embark not oft into thee hills with dread for the Lord is thy friend. Now my brethren, countrymen, and nobles alike I fetch thee a meeting in my quarters that ye may appoint my bloodline kings of thy children and thy ownself."​

A crowd flock to the courtyard where representatives of noble families, representatives of serf familes and clergymen gathered to enthrone their new king. Nothing like this had ever been seen before, it was a new beginning for Portugal and the beginning would not be a short lap.​

 

[unmerged(11294)]

Part I: A Royal Whore and Dirty Thieves​

Joao, Count d'Guarda and Lord Beira Alta, enters into the entrance courtyard of Mina Andreyevna Polotovskaya, Grand Princess of Pskov-Novgorod. He prepares himself before he speaks to "the blessed". He goes over what he is going to say as he paces back and forth the courtyard.​

"Hello Grand princesss...no..no..I wish a word with thee Czarina, the blessed...agh as if she deserves that much honor..czarina of the snow--HAH!" Joao laughed alone in the courtyard, then cleared his throat and continued his practice. "...I come on my own behalf, my lady Czarina Mina Andreyevna Polotovskaya, Grand Princess of Pskov-Novgorod...aye, thats too much to say...hmm let me think..." He was abruptly interrupted by a guard that asked his business.​

"I--I--I'm here to speak with Mina..er..I mean Czarina Mina Andreyevna Polotovkaya, Grand Princes of Pskov-Novgorod."​

Joao, was led to where the Czarina was.​

"Hail, Czarina Mina Adreyevna Polotovskaya, Grand Princess of Pskov-Novgorod, the blessed one! I am Joao Duarte, Count of d'Guarda and Lord Beira Alta. I come to say I must leave my homestead here in Pskov and return back to Portugal for word has come in that a new king has taken seat at the throne. I must see if my father be in harm. I must defend my father's name and my own honor and claim my respected lands if he hath been slain. I ask for thy permission to leave thee soveriegn nation of Pskov-Novgorod. What say ye?"​

-----------------------
(OOC: Read Mina's reply on Pskov court thread)
-----------------------

"Well, my lady, there is a new king and I wish to know if everything is all well down there. That is all." Joao took small steps toward the exit, he wished to not be there long. Mina was suductive and had played games with his heart many times before. His unusual introducition was only to throw her off from the usual introductions.​

"My lady I will take my wife and move back home for twenty days and return back to conduct business as usual. I am on a tight schedule and wish that thou excuse me. Thank ye for thy permission."​

Joao took her hand and kissed it lightly and raised his eyes at her, then proceeded towards the exit.​

As he walked out he spoke to himself in soft voice. "I hate these encounters, she is a whore queen. I must pack my things up and move to Portugal for a while and see how my father is handling things, the poor meek bastard."​

Joao mounted his horse and went on his way back home to Lizaveta to tell her the Czarina's decision. He knew she would be pleased. The day was beginning to darken as he rode home on a merchant route road that led to his home on the outskirts of Pskov. He knew it was dangerous to travel at these hours, so he got off his horse and removed the banner underneath the sattle that beared the Portugese coat of arms. He knew it would be a sure sign he was conducting economic business if any thieves would cross his path. He tucked the banner under the saddle to not be seen and continued on his way back home.​

As he approached a thickly wooded path a man's silhouette was seen in the distance. He was holding a torch that was clearly notable from a distance in the fog. Joao fastened himself and reached for the dagger his father had given him as a gift upon his marriage with Lizaveta. He approached the man cautiously.​

"Get off the road, man." Joao's demand was stern and steady.​

"I am just looking for some bread and water. Have ye any?" The sickly looking man waved his torch as to signal someone. Joao instantly knew it was a set up. Joao fastened himself and rode over the man and sped all his way out of the thick forest. The night set upon him, but he was already in the plains and hills and the moon was fat that night. He stopped for a rest near a stream and washed face and wiped the dirt on his pants off. It was only about a thirty minute ride home, put the ride had left him short of breath. His home was in Kusva, the port city of Pskov on the Pskov lake. To make his way back to Portugal he had to cross the lake and cross over Teutonic territory and cast off into the Finnish sea and through the Baltic and resupply in Bremen and cast off again until he reached Brest in Brittany, then he would cast off to Porto. His journey was but a long one and it had already begun with some pace. He heard several horse's footsteps coming along toward where he was. His heart sank to his belly in uncertainty. He wondered who it could be. The horsemen approached him, the sickly looking man was on one horse and made his way to the front of the crowd.​

"Ye could of helped me." The sickly man began to laugh and spit on Joao's face.​

"What do you want? I have no time to stand my ground and be brave for you pigs...take my money." Joao handed them a small sack that carried a few gold coins. He had his other money sack underneath the saddle bundled next to the banner. The small sack he handed them made the theives smile.​

"Give us yer horse too." Another man spoke out. Joao pulled out his dagger and stabbed the sickly man, pulled the small sack from his hand, mounted his horse and rode to Kusva in fast pace again. The horsemen were not quick enough to react and could not catch up to Joao once his ride was far off.​

Joao finally reached Kusva and prepared his things to leave as soon as possible. He told noone of his mugging for he was unscathed and had all his belongings intact. He would soon return to the court of Portugal to seek out his father's health and to speak to the new king about his affairs in Pskov.​

 

[Blade!]

Throws of Passion​

Zayyanid Caliphate, Almohad Empire, Algerian Province, Al-Jazir District, The Citadel Tlemscen, Amira's Wing


*CRASH*

Crockery flew past Kajol's head and shattered against the wall, edged shards scattering across the floor, where the women of the Amira's Purdah habitually trod barefoot. Kajol quickly reversed her direction on her heel and left through the portal she had just entered. 'If she is throwing crockery at me, then this must be bad indeed, I will need help...' Kajol had only ever seen Yasmine so 'out of sorts' once prior.

Back in the room she had just departed, the common room leading to most of the Amira's handmaidens' sleeping champers, Yasmine Mohammed lay sprawled across fine rugs and pillows, dressed only in a purple dressing gown. If one were to glance at her, from some secret alcove, at just that moment, one might think she lay in ultimate relaxation and calm. In truth, however, this was but a brief respite, and beneath the exterior percieved, her mind roiled with a great rage. Around the room, lay bent copper serving trays, broken crockery, and a rug smoldering with the spillage of hot coals dispatched from a shattered hookah. Several younger girls rushed in to try to smother the embers on the rug, and the Amira's eyes snapped open and she sat upright, with an intense look upon her face.

She spoke at the girls, who looked up, already frightened. She spoke 'at' them, but it certainly felt to the girls as if the Amira was looking right through them. The Amira spoke calmly.

"Did you see the man? Have you seen the trespasses that have come...?"

Her voice began to rise slightly.

"Arab, Iberian, and Barbarian all.... all seeking... all conspiring.. from the east to the west."

Yasmine began to advance on the young girls, who quickly started walking backwards trying to drag the heavy carpet with them. Her voice begining to become louder, and her hands clenching at her sides.

"Death and plague ride, and where are our friends... where is Allah... WHERE IS MY BROTHER!?"

Yasmine screamed her last line and rushed upon the girls, who froze with fright. Yasmine lifted one up by the waist and drew her into a tight hug, speaking to her in a whisper.

"...and where is he?"

She set the girl down, and began to roll the carpet up herself. She continued to speak, motherly now, with joy in her voice.

"Let us wrap Shaitan up in this rug girls, come... yes, like this. No, not too loosely, don't want the great man to escape... thinks so greatly of himself with all his land... wants me for a queen he does.... no thank you... filthy pagan. There we go, all rolled up! Pick it up now... yes like that... now..."

She shouted with a sudden ferocity.

"RUN! Run, and take the carpet, higher and higher, all the way to the Wind Chamber, and throw it from the highest spire!"

The girls ran. Yasmine began to laugh, but her laughter quickly turned to sobs as she collapsed again among the pillows.

"Why? Why has he left me? Why have they all departed, scattered to the winds... Akbe my brother, where arst thou? Azim, Rebekka, Kadija, Azim, Jamilla.... Am I but a single flame in the darkness, expiring under the many rolls of a carpet... embraced by Shaitan, to be alone, or married off to men who smell like horses and pigs."

Her body was wracked with a great sob.

"Oh... for the greatest fires of the Djinn might seer my very skin with the pain I feel, such pain borne from anger which no creature made from dust and clay should know... WHere is mine Champion, to throw rugs out of spires for me.... to embrace my lips and make heat on my hips."

"Be still my cousin, for all things pass and fade."

Lady Kajol had reappeared in the doorway, behind her several of the Amira's long time companions and trusted servants lined the yellow hallway.

Yasmine stood to face her cousin.

"You bring an army to stop me."

"It has worked before."

"I will destroy you... I could have the guards cut off your heads... No, no... I could never harm you my beloved cousin, or my beloved friends..."

Kajol began to smile with relief, for last time such methods were neccesary to calm the Amira, Yasmine had broken the nose of one of her very good friends, and was in a melancholy for weeks afterwards. Kajol prefered least of all when the Amira wanted to 'fight.'

"..but... You will all shall not best me in combat."

A grin spread over Yasmines's face, even as any hints of pleasure fell off of the faces of the rest of the assembled women. They did outnumber her, and most had training in some form of unarmed defense, but she was their Amira, and friend... and she was not in her normal mind. Yasmine charged the doorway and leapt into a flying kick at Kajol's midsection.

Kajol was not a fighter, and had no interest whatsoever in coming into contact with the Amira's heel, and so flung herself backwards and spoke quickly.

"Cousin, your brother is home!"

This did in fact give the Amira pause, and rather then landing her kick, she landed among the ladies, who immediately pounced on her sensing her distraction. Piling on her was no east task as she fought with great strength, though weakening as she dwelled upon the fact that Kajol had told her. She stopped resisting.

"Really?"

"Yes, Yasmine."

*Kajol crawled over to the Amira, and stroked her face.*

"And, he has brought some cousin of ours, one whom I have never met, a younger cousin Jasmine, now a Reverend Sister... must be a silly girl, styles herself Jasmin-i-Tlemscen, and has been living in Drobudja or some such barbarian land."

"Oh.

...

...but WHERE iS HE? Where is my Champion!? Who will protect me from being sent east... and of his own kinsmen who kill mine!?"

Yasmine sat upright throwing off the weight of the ladies, and Kajol scurried backwards... And so the fight began again, as her friends had relaxed their grip as they thought she had calmed. The Purdah saw many bruises tended to that night.