Ah yes, dynastic speculations, Mathias in even more power, I get it now.Fiftypence said:
The name change? Well I didn't really like people constantly mis-interpreting my old name (it was meant as minor nation), so BiB changed it for me.
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The name change? Well I didn't really like people constantly mis-interpreting my old name (it was meant as minor nation), so BiB changed it for me.
The Danish Revival
45. General Overview July 1841
For the two people actually still following this, here is an overview of the Danish-Norwegian Empire. My new copy of Vicky arrived in the post today, and I have played up to where I am up to in the story (or near enough.)
Danish lands:
Denmark and Norway
Iceland and Greenland
Danish East Africa
Danish industry:
Akerhus
Sjaelland og Fyn
Jylland
Holstein
Any questions?
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Ah, excellent, a bit of gameplay.
Did the re-playing if the game go as well as the original?
Did the re-playing if the game go as well as the original?
Do you still have Yebuti in this replay as I recall you mentioning that you built a coaling station there the first time around.
Ciçatrix: Yeah, pretty much.
GuyB: In this play I will be able to claim Yebuti in 1843.
GuyB: In this play I will be able to claim Yebuti in 1843.
excellent. please don't give up on us. others, like me, may have problems getting on the boards as well as other problems called RL!Fiftypence said:
this is an excellent AAR and i doubt that any who read it will be disappointed in any way.
Fiftypence, I am still following but RL has caught up and I promise to catch up this weekend. Just wanted to drop that line. Sorry for the lack of comments recently.
GuyB: Yes, Greenland and Iceland are states.
GhostWriter: Don't worry, I've invested too much time into this to consider quitting. I'll continue to write it as long as there is any kind of audience.
Coz1: Not a problem. You haven't missed much recently anyway.
GhostWriter: Don't worry, I've invested too much time into this to consider quitting. I'll continue to write it as long as there is any kind of audience.
Coz1: Not a problem. You haven't missed much recently anyway.
The Danish Revival
46. Fate’s Subtle Hand
Near St. Albans, Hertfordshire, England
19th September 1841
A thin haze of cigar smoke hung in the room much like the smog that filled the skies over London, the parlour of the distinguished gentleman Lord Haughton. He was a man of solid routine; he would wake every day at the same time, then go for a walk around his extensive estate, then settle down to breakfast, and so on and so forth. Today, however, he had received some unexpected visitors, who very much broke the routine.
Although now retired from public life, Haughton had once been very much a servant of the British Empire. His scarred face and knowing eyes gave the impression of a man well travelled, and his silver hair and the slender cane he used for walking gave away the fact that he was an old man. His mind, unlike his body, was still very much agile, and many an afternoon would be spent putting together a new jigsaw puzzle bought by his servants from a small shop in a back alley in St. Albans, the nearest city.
So, one can imagine Lord Haughton’s surprise when, unannounced, a face from his past came calling, indeed a face that he thought deceased. In his long and distinguished service to the crown he had been ambassador to various countries, including France and Mexico. His last post before retirement, however, had been ambassador to Denmark between 1834 and 1836, and the Jens Stemme that had now arrived at his house was almost unrecognisable to the one he remembered from Copenhagen.
Gone was the youthful innocence that had radiated from the man he knew as deputy chancellor. The man that stood before him now radiated responsibility and maturity, and there was something in his eyes that suggested he had some kind of grudge against the world. The golden mane of hair from Haughton’s memory was gone, replaced now with a shorter style.
It took Haughton several minutes to notice the two companions of Jens, who had been keeping a polite and quiet distance. The lady was Jens’ fiancé Helena, and the man was a man called Søren Kierkegaard. He invited them in, and offered them rooms for the night which were promptly accepted. As they entered the parlour Søren could not help notice that something was wrong with Lord Haughton, something in his eyes, a coldness that subtly underlaid the warm welcome Jens had received.
Haughton had offered brandy and cigars to his guests, which were taken by Søren and Jens. They sat, and their host smiled.
“Jens, I could have sworn you were dead old chap! How on earth did you end up here?” Haughton sipped his brandy, nodding and adding a comment or asking a question occasionally as Jens told him, in adequate English, all that had happened since 1836, of the imprisonment by Mathias (whose mere mention received a disdainful look from Haughton) and his subsequent escape, of his fleeing to France and then to England. The Lord raised an eyebrow when Jens made mention of the bizarre yet enchanting forays he had made into the occult but did not raise any doubts as to the truth of what he was hearing.
“So what did you do when you got to Britain?” Jens took a sip of brandy.
“I didn’t know what to do at first, other than to head for London. I had some gold that Alphonse had given me, and used that as a payment for a coach to London. On the journey I racked my brains trying what to do, but in the end just decided to put my faith in fate. I spent my first few weeks here in a cheap hotel, spending my days exploring the streets and learning my way around. I sought out former contacts at the Foreign Office, but it seems everyone I knew was either posted in some far off place or else dead, and so after a while my existence began to feel more and more meaningless. I felt like a spectre, haunting the streets, with no reason or purpose.
But then, exactly a month after my arrival in the city, fate must have intervened, as who else should I meet, in London of all places, but Helena and Søren!” Jens paused, as his two friend murmured their confirmation of this coincidence. Jens knew better of course, and thought back to the guiding hand of Iedidiel.
“They had some more money, and so we were able to afford rooms at the Empire Hotel. It was there that I came across a man I remembered from my past, a certain Jacques Metier.” Haughton’s eyebrow raised in recognition. “Of course, he was the French ambassador to Denmark when I was deputy chancellor. Anyway, we got talking, and he mentioned your name. I had been reluctant to seek you out after the Swahili War incident, but he gave me assurances that you wouldn’t hold a grudge.” Jens said these last words slowly and deliberately, carefully gauging Haughton’s response. The old aristocrat laughed genially.
“No, no grudge, and after hearing what that brute Jonsson put you through I see that my complaint was never with you. I admit I considered you to be a supporter of Jonsson at the time.”
“What’s all this about, then?” asked Søren, with petulance creeping into his voice.
“Oh, I resigned as ambassador to Denmark as a protest against the Swahili War and the reintroduction of the slave trade, and parted with the Danish diplomatic corps on rather bad terms.”
“As I recall you called us ’murderous tyrannical bastards.’” laughed Jens. Haughton shrugged grinning, and took a deep puff of his cigar. Jens continued, “so anyway, I found out the location of your estates and set out in the hope you would be able to aid us in some way.”
“Of course. My house is yours to share for as long as you need. I wish to see Jonsson destroyed as much as you do.”
“Excellent. I propose a toast, then. To the downfall of Mathias.”
“To the downfall of Mathias!”
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coz1 raises his glass as well, "To the downfall of Mathias!"
Some excellent writing describing the journey from Paris to Britain, and helpful that Jens has his friends with him now.
And I was glad to see you were able to get your game back and running. Nice work recreating what had happened in the previous one.
Some excellent writing describing the journey from Paris to Britain, and helpful that Jens has his friends with him now.
And I was glad to see you were able to get your game back and running. Nice work recreating what had happened in the previous one.
Excellent update, Fiftypence. I wonder what aid the Lord can lend Jens in the struggle against Mathias beside lodging in England. Haughton didn't seem surprised at the fact that Jens believes in sorcery...
I wonder what aid the Lord can lend Jens in the struggle against Mathias beside lodging in England. Haughton didn't seem surprised at the fact that Jens believes in sorcery...
coz1 raises his glass as well, "To the downfall of Mathias!"Fiftypence said:
well said, coz1! ! ! GhostWriter raises a glass as well.
my guess is that your remarks are spot on! (Haughton also dabbles...)cthulhu said:
*Has invited several friends to AAR, helping carry a sign saying "GO JENS! in big letters*
To the downfall of Mathias!
And Go Jens!
To the downfall of Mathias!
And Go Jens!
Ciçatrix, Coz1: Thanks.
Cthulhu, GhostWriter: I'm not sure that Haughton dabbles, but he is certainly aware of the world beyond the veil.
the_shy_kids: You couldn't get some of these friends to post comments, could you?
As Christmas is coming, this next update will be the first of three special festive updates. You may be able to guess what they are based on without too much trouble.
Cthulhu, GhostWriter: I'm not sure that Haughton dabbles, but he is certainly aware of the world beyond the veil.
the_shy_kids: You couldn't get some of these friends to post comments, could you?
As Christmas is coming, this next update will be the first of three special festive updates.
You may be able to guess what they are based on without too much trouble.
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The Danish Revival
47. A Danish Christmas Fairytale Part I
22nd December 1841
Aalborg
Textiles was Kjeld Mortensen’s life. From the age of thirteen he had been employed in the textile mill in Aalborg, doing menial tasks for barely any pay. The wages he received was enough to look after himself, to buy cheap shelter and even cheaper food. After all, he often thought bitterly, if I were to die then they would lose my labour, and they wouldn’t want that! He often distracted himself by daydreaming of another life, somewhere far away. He did not know what anywhere else in the world looked like, so these visions were mostly of a better Denmark, one where Mr. Schruge was not there shouting and flogging him and forcing him to work harder than he could physically and mentally handle.
Now, on this bleak, snowy day, in came Mr. Schruge, the man in charge of this small section of the factory. He removed his black top hat, brushed off the ice that had accumulated, and threw it into his office. He glared at where Kjeld knelt with an icy glare and stumped into his office, slamming the door. He sat down, and lit up a cigar. Just as he was putting his feet up on the table in relaxation there was a timid knock on the door.
“Uh, Mr. Schruge…?” Kjeld opened the door, cowering. Schruge, with his cold pinpoint eyes, motioned for him to come in without a word. Kjeld crept in, and regarded the seated man. He wore sombre blacks, and his hair was receding, leaving just a fluff of hair on the crown of his head. The hair at the back was straggly and greyish black. He glared at Kjeld with disdain.
“What do you want?” The words were barked without pity. Kjeld stared, and could see no warmth or empathy in his expression, only grumpy bitterness and heartlessness.
“Please, sir,” Kjeld mumbled, a feeling of sickness rising in his stomach at the thought of what he was about to say. “Please, may I have Christmas Day off? You see, I have-” he spoke quickly in an attempt to get it all in, but was interrupted before he could.
“Christmas Day?! You little worm, how dare you come in here and ask for time off! As far as the Aalborg Textile Mill is concerned there is no such thing as Christmas, and that is by order of Mr. Sandlund himself. And I agree with him!”
“But Mr. Schruge, sir, it is my mother, she’s sick-” At this Mr. Schruge flew into a rage, and threw a file in the general direction of Kjeld. He scampered out, leaving Schruge in his office. A few minutes later the old man had come out and had had Kjeld flogged, and he was reminded poignantly of how his life and his home were only his through the generosity of the Aalborg Textiles Mill, and that such insolence was no way to thank the company for it’s kindness and benevolence. The irony seemed to have been lost on Schruge, but it was not on Kjeld, and as he walked back to his hovel he reflected on this.
It was only three days to Christmas, and he knew that this would be the last one his mother would ever see. She had been ill for quite a while, but over the last few months it had only got worse. The doctor had been able to do nothing for her, only giving some herb to relieve the pain.
The sharp, searing pain of his back forced him to stop, and he slumped to the floor. The snow was not melting, and under the streetlamps Kjeld cast a pathetic figure, shivering and destitute. It was late, and the streets were empty, and as he lay in the snow he thought about how unfair life was. He remembered back to his childhood, how magical Christmas had seemed. It shocked him that anyone could fail to be moved by the season of goodwill to all men, and knew that it was a time to be spent with the family, not on some factory floor working for a pittance. This was the last chance he had of spending Christmas with the little family he had, and it was an opportunity that would pass by the wayside.
Kjeld got back to his feet, and kicked the gathering snow in frustration. Just as he was thinking how insignificant his life was, how things would be no different if he had never been born a voice rang out in the cold air a beautiful, melodic voice that filled Kjeld with a strange sense of awe,
“Kjeld Mortensen.”
He stopped dead still, not daring to move. There was the sound of approaching footsteps. Not turning around, he called out,
“Who are you, what do you want?”
“I have come to help you.” The voice was so calm, so warm and friendly that Kjeld could not help but turn. Not far, several yards away, there was a figure, shrouded in light. He squinted, trying to see the face, but it was obscured by the brightness of the light. He could just about make out it’s outline, but something seemed…odd. There seemed to be…
“It can’t be,” he muttered, wiping his eyes. The light dimmed, and he saw it clearly. It had a kind, elegant face, apparently male, it seemingly composed not of matter but of some majestic ether. What was most striking were the grand wings, which were swaying gently.
“Greetings, Kjeld Mortensen. I am the angel Eosphorus, the bringer of light to dark places.”
Then, without warning, Kjeld fainted, landing heavily on the cold, hard ground
22nd December 1841
Aalborg
Textiles was Kjeld Mortensen’s life. From the age of thirteen he had been employed in the textile mill in Aalborg, doing menial tasks for barely any pay. The wages he received was enough to look after himself, to buy cheap shelter and even cheaper food. After all, he often thought bitterly, if I were to die then they would lose my labour, and they wouldn’t want that! He often distracted himself by daydreaming of another life, somewhere far away. He did not know what anywhere else in the world looked like, so these visions were mostly of a better Denmark, one where Mr. Schruge was not there shouting and flogging him and forcing him to work harder than he could physically and mentally handle.
Now, on this bleak, snowy day, in came Mr. Schruge, the man in charge of this small section of the factory. He removed his black top hat, brushed off the ice that had accumulated, and threw it into his office. He glared at where Kjeld knelt with an icy glare and stumped into his office, slamming the door. He sat down, and lit up a cigar. Just as he was putting his feet up on the table in relaxation there was a timid knock on the door.
“Uh, Mr. Schruge…?” Kjeld opened the door, cowering. Schruge, with his cold pinpoint eyes, motioned for him to come in without a word. Kjeld crept in, and regarded the seated man. He wore sombre blacks, and his hair was receding, leaving just a fluff of hair on the crown of his head. The hair at the back was straggly and greyish black. He glared at Kjeld with disdain.
“What do you want?” The words were barked without pity. Kjeld stared, and could see no warmth or empathy in his expression, only grumpy bitterness and heartlessness.
“Please, sir,” Kjeld mumbled, a feeling of sickness rising in his stomach at the thought of what he was about to say. “Please, may I have Christmas Day off? You see, I have-” he spoke quickly in an attempt to get it all in, but was interrupted before he could.
“Christmas Day?! You little worm, how dare you come in here and ask for time off! As far as the Aalborg Textile Mill is concerned there is no such thing as Christmas, and that is by order of Mr. Sandlund himself. And I agree with him!”
“But Mr. Schruge, sir, it is my mother, she’s sick-” At this Mr. Schruge flew into a rage, and threw a file in the general direction of Kjeld. He scampered out, leaving Schruge in his office. A few minutes later the old man had come out and had had Kjeld flogged, and he was reminded poignantly of how his life and his home were only his through the generosity of the Aalborg Textiles Mill, and that such insolence was no way to thank the company for it’s kindness and benevolence. The irony seemed to have been lost on Schruge, but it was not on Kjeld, and as he walked back to his hovel he reflected on this.
It was only three days to Christmas, and he knew that this would be the last one his mother would ever see. She had been ill for quite a while, but over the last few months it had only got worse. The doctor had been able to do nothing for her, only giving some herb to relieve the pain.
The sharp, searing pain of his back forced him to stop, and he slumped to the floor. The snow was not melting, and under the streetlamps Kjeld cast a pathetic figure, shivering and destitute. It was late, and the streets were empty, and as he lay in the snow he thought about how unfair life was. He remembered back to his childhood, how magical Christmas had seemed. It shocked him that anyone could fail to be moved by the season of goodwill to all men, and knew that it was a time to be spent with the family, not on some factory floor working for a pittance. This was the last chance he had of spending Christmas with the little family he had, and it was an opportunity that would pass by the wayside.
Kjeld got back to his feet, and kicked the gathering snow in frustration. Just as he was thinking how insignificant his life was, how things would be no different if he had never been born a voice rang out in the cold air a beautiful, melodic voice that filled Kjeld with a strange sense of awe,
“Kjeld Mortensen.”
He stopped dead still, not daring to move. There was the sound of approaching footsteps. Not turning around, he called out,
“Who are you, what do you want?”
“I have come to help you.” The voice was so calm, so warm and friendly that Kjeld could not help but turn. Not far, several yards away, there was a figure, shrouded in light. He squinted, trying to see the face, but it was obscured by the brightness of the light. He could just about make out it’s outline, but something seemed…odd. There seemed to be…
“It can’t be,” he muttered, wiping his eyes. The light dimmed, and he saw it clearly. It had a kind, elegant face, apparently male, it seemingly composed not of matter but of some majestic ether. What was most striking were the grand wings, which were swaying gently.
“Greetings, Kjeld Mortensen. I am the angel Eosphorus, the bringer of light to dark places.”
Then, without warning, Kjeld fainted, landing heavily on the cold, hard ground
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Still reading every now and then 50 p, Mathias going down is very exciting.
Oh last update, you wouldnt accidentally be inspired by the Christmas story of all times now would you? Mr. Scruge
Oh last update, you wouldnt accidentally be inspired by the Christmas story of all times now would you? Mr. Scruge
Mr. Schruge? :rofl: This is a very cool idea, Fiftypence! I also like that Mr. Sandlund is involved, although indirectly (so far at least).
I also like that Mr. Sandlund is involved, although indirectly (so far at least).