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    Real Strategy Requires Cunning

Padre Pio

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note: I wrote this AAR for two reasons: to improve my English and to pacify the frustrated writer in me. :D Along the way, I will make mistakes in portraying medieval life, more so its politics. I am a Filipino and all things medieval are as foreign to me as Martian soil. My humble apologies in advance.

WARNING: MATURE CONTENT. Reader discretion is advised.


characters appearing in the scene:



Ermengarde de Foix (b. 1051, d. 1066 - suicide)
niece and wife of Count Raymond



Raymond-Bernard Trencavel (b. 1036, d. --- )
Count of Carcassonne and Montpellier






The Curse of the Trencavels

Ermengarde de Foix
Chateau Comtal, December 1066



She will kill herself today, she has decided. She made that decision while Uncle Raymond was still spurting his foul seed inside her, his eyes closed in blissful orgasm.

With just a few more thrusts, her daily descent to hell was over. Sex with Uncle Raymond was always a speedy affair. One of the very few things in life she's still thankful for.

"You're the only woman who can make my limbs tremble with so much pleasure, my dear." Count Raymond-Bernard Trencavel, now standing beside the wooden bed and fully-clothed, smiled softly, the hint of suppressed lust still hovering over his quivering lips.

Not a woman. I am but a child, you demon!

"I. . . I live only to please, my lord." She smiled a sham yet sweet smile. But deep inside, an uncontrollable rage is boiling. A rage she had kept masterfully hidden over the years, ever since Uncle Raymond started molesting her when she was just a mere child of ten summers.

The count stooped down on the bed and started kneading her breasts with his rough and hairy hands. Her dainty little body trembled at the touch, the only visible sign of repugnance. "Uncle. I want you to call me Uncle. Specially when we are making love." The count gave her left nipple a light kiss, winked at her, then left.

It was then that her body was racked with powerful spasms. The rage had finally surfaced. For about a half hour or so, her body convulsed uncontrollably. And seeing her painfully twitching and contracting in every which way imaginable was like witnessing a person possessed by Lucifer himself. It would always be like this every time the count would use her body for his carnal pleasure. The revulsion she had first felt when the monster assaulted her the first time hasn't dimmed a bit.

And that is why, she will kill herself today. Now that the monster is officially her husband, she couldn't bear the thought of living the rest of her life forever tied to an animal---no, a demon!

She will kill herself today. And as God is her witness, she will die heaping curses to them all---to everyone who has hurt her and made her suffer in this life. Her mother, for turning ablind eye to his brother's sin; her grandmother, for orchestrating her marriage to that monster; and him. . . him who has destroyed her childhood. . . him who has taken her innocence away. . . him who has ruined her life! Curse be upon them all! And curse be upon the House of Trencavel for spawning a demon! May it be ridden with disease and madness and violence. From generation to generation, may their days be short and may they all die only the foulest deaths!

When the spasms had finally stopped, she slowly got up from the bed while still naked, walked to a corner of the bedchamber and dug out an aging libretta. She had hidden it underneath one of the loose bricks of the stone floor. The ancient little book was her most treasured possession, given to her by her beloved Nanny Helga, the one they called "The Gaelic Witch". She was the only person who had genuinely loved and taken care of her, like a mother would. But she's dead now; burned at the stake by the Inquisition.

I hope, when I die, we will be together again, Auntie Helga.

And so, Ermengarde de Foix, chanting incantations unfit for human ears, began stabbing her sex with a curved dagger until pools of blood, intermingled with the count's semen, started to form around her feet. She was already dead before her body hit the floor.

Ermengarde de Foix has just killed herself today. And a curse has just been born.



tobecontinued
 
Last edited:

unmerged(231823)

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Wow. That's ome really sad (and very interesting) way to start a AAR. I'll be sure to check this out every once in a while.
 

unmerged(129932)

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Wow... that was really dark. I don't think I have read anything quite like this here before. I would say your English is very good despite a few subject errors.

However, as a note, I would put a disclaimer or something at the top of this post. Your post isn't really suitable for any kids, really. It is very well written post, just a tad inappropriate for certain age groups.
 

General_BT

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Wow... that was powerful.. A curse needs a foul and dark origin, and this certainly fits the bill in a moving manner. I'm also wondering how the curse will express itself?
 

Alfredian

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Brilliant start. Lots of depth for one small event (in game terms) and an interesting teaser about the root of the curse.
 

unmerged(104889)

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Very captivating start. Interesting to see what this curse will cause to the Trencavel dynasty.
 

Padre Pio

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note: Thank you guys for the feedback. Greatly appreciated. This next update will have no in-game pictures because, at the moment, I'm a thousand miles away from home and, incidentally, my PC.


Raengarde Galen
Chateau Comtal, Carcassonne
February 1067



The sleepy little castle town of Carcassonne awakened early. From nearby villages came donkey carts laden with produce. In the air were sounds of wooden wheels; of bleating goats and braying donkeys trotting into market. By the time the church bells began ringing for the morning Angelus, merchants emerged like insects and commenced shouting their wares. At once, the soft hubbub of noises turned into an almost deafening cacophony of sounds. Another uneventful day in Carcassonne has begun.

Raengarde Galen, now 51 and plump as a fattened pig, pushed herself up in bed, her ears assaulted by the familiar noise. As steward of the Count of Carcassonne's domains, she is bound to be up early in the morning to supervise the collection of tithes and tolls for the count's treasury and. . . her own purse, of course. With great difficulty, she eased her obese body out of the bed and waddled slowly along the damp and somber passageway leading to the castle's kitchen.

She was hungry---she always is. Living in this 'hell-hole' for nearly six years now had done it to her. Not enough food. Not enough servants. Apartments that are humid and cold. Cracked walls and loose bricks on the stone floors. Bah! Even the stable in her previous residence was better maintained!

Her mind drifted once again to the day she first arrived here. She was shocked when she was informed that she wouldn't have a lady-in-waiting. It of course meant that from then on, she would be taking her own bath and wiping her own ass; a far cry from the comfort and luxury she had known in her son-in-law's splendid court at Foix, her prior abode before the Count of Foix expelled her from the court. If only the count hadn't discovered. . .

Oh, well. No use thinking about such things now. Besides, if things go according to plan, she would be in a position far far superior than that of the count himself. Matter of fact, she'd even be in a position to dispossess him of his lands. On a mere whim. She smiled, relishing the thought.

When she landed in Carcassonne six years ago, she had thought that she was finished. She had been disgraced, stripped of a powerful position in a glittering court and worst, publicly humiliated. She had readily accepted her fate and resigned to spend the last days of her life in peace and quiet. She was just thankful she had come out of it alive.

But then Ermengarde killed herself, the silly fool. To many, including the Count Raymond, it was a great tragedy. She, however, had instantly smelled a great opportunity. Her Machiavellian mind rose to the occasion and a plan was born; a plan so audacious in nature that if it succeeds, the otherwise obscure house of Trencavel would be catapulted to the highest echelons of power in the kingdom. And she, of course, would be amongst those catapulted to the top. She would not wield the sword of power though; her grandson Raymond would do that for her. She would merely guide the hand that holds the sword, so to speak, making sure that its tip is pointing at the right enemies. Her enemies.

She had reached the kitchen at last. She started attacking all the pots and pans at once, leaving nothing undisturbed until she found something edible. She settled on a chicken's thigh part, a leftover from last night's meal. And it was while she was busy demolishing the poor chicken's thigh that she came up with a decision: Today is a good day to act out the next part of her plans. Her perverted grandson has grieved enough.

Raengarde took another cursory glance at her surroundings. Like the rest of the castle, the kitchen was a run-down affair. "Chateau my ass." She spat on the floor. "If anyone calls this hell-hole a chateau, then call me Cleopatra." Raengarde Galen laughed so hard at her own joke that spittles---and bits of chicken---flew from her mouth.


tobecontinued
 

Kroisistan

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This is visceral. And beautiful.
 

Kurt_Steiner

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Indeed. That's a very different kind of AAR. We shall see what comes next.
 

Alfredian

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Another excellent character. Will you be revealing what caused Raengarde's disgrace?
 

Padre Pio

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.


The Man Without a Face
Montpellier
April 1067



The man without a face couldn't find the right word. And it made him uglier. His withered face, remnant of a once handsome face ravaged by the plague, was twisted into concentration.

Querabin?

He couldn't find the right word that he knew succinctly described the beautiful creature frolicking naked by the river. Those infernal priests and their Latin! He cursed. The creature was a boy child of about eight summers or so. The boy was breathtakingly beautiful. Golden locks which were naturally curled on their ends. Skin almost as pure as snow. And the eyes. They were the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

Serubin?

An hour ago, he had paid two hundred florins for this child. The boy's father, a destitute mercenary soldier who got his legs chopped off in battle while fighting the moors of Iberia, would not go for a hundred, the usual amount he would pay for little boys. The man insisted on two hundred, take it or leave it, thank you very much. He did not like the man's attitude and how he would look at his face intently and then sneer at him. He had a mind to plunge into the man's throat the stiletto he was fingering inside his monk habit. Curiosity got the better of him however. Any man would sell his child for fifty florins these days and would even throw in the proverbial wife just to seal the deal. And yet, this man refused his offer of a hundred. He decided he would kill the man later. He took out the leather purse from inside his robes and counted two hundred florins, the man greedily snatching every coin as they settled into the table. Only after the last coin left his palm did the man reveal the child's location. The child was playing by the river, the man had said, without so much as a glance at him.

Seraphin?

The child was truly a creature of heaven. The fat lady would be very pleased. 'Bring me a handsome little boy,' she had said, like she was just buying a cow. 'I'll give you three hundred for it. Five hundred if the child is very handsome and will pass as a noble child.' He was a bit surprised when he first met her. He wasn't expecting his latest client to be a woman. And a hideously fat woman at that. Normally, he would have bishops, abbots, men of the nobility, rich merchants and priests. Sometimes a monk or two. But never a lady. Well, to each his own pleasure. He smiled at the thought. As long as they pay, of course. He stifled a laugh.

Cherubim?

He had found the right word at last. The boy really looked like one of those painted cherubs in the chapel ceiling of the monastery where he used to live as a child. And he had bought him at a bargain.

Cherubim.

He wondered why he had forgotten the word. When he was still a boy of about thirteen and he was almost as beautiful as this child in the river, Brother Marino would visit him every night and call him 'my own cherub' while he fondled him. He used to be his favorite boy, until he caught the plague that ate his once handsome face away. After which he was unceremoniously thrown into the pit where plague-ridden bodies were deposited. They thought he was dead. He survived, however, and went back to the monastery and killed Brother Marino by inserting a barbed arrow into his backside.

Cherubim.

The man without a face stood up from behind the shrubberies where he was silently watching and walked towards the child. Without even a word, he grabbed the surprised child from behind and punched him lightly on the side of his belly. The child went limp immediately. He carried him towards his horse, as one would carry a livestock, and deposited him unceremoniously on top of his horse. He then went back to the soldier's shack. An ear-splitting scream was heard from inside the house followed by a gurgling sound, like a man choking on his own blood. The gurgling sound could still be heard when the man stepped out of the house.

Cherubim.

The man without a face was taking the cherubim to Carcassonne.



to be continued