The Last Goth

[Arnulf Floyd]

All depends on browser, I can see images from old AARs on Mozilla

 

[stnylan]

Sadly, when I went back to the Morgana AAR the pictures weren't working. I guess it it is a common fate for verably old AARs, isn't it?

Unfortunately yes - either due to incompatibility, or just link death.

 

[The Kingmaker]

@ngppgn: When I access the Morgana AAR through either Google Chrome or Safari, I can see the images, albeit with a Photobucket watermark in the corner. Photobucket switched to a paid service, so you have to pay now to remove it. If I can ever find the time, I’ll have to switch the pictures over to Imgur.

@Arnulf Floyd: Indeed. All browsers are not created equal.

@stnylan: It’s a shame most of the old image-hosting sites changed their policies on us. At least Photobucket still lets me access the images. Anything I’ve posted on ImageShack is lost to me unless and until I pay them wads of cash. I’m using Imgur for The Last Goth because it is still a free service.

@ All: Speaking of images... I have the pictures all picked out for the next chapter. I’ve just got to finish writing the text.

I’m going to tell you just a little bit about what the pictures are as a little teaser for the next chapter. I’ll leave the header image a mystery for now. The other pictures are a clergyman, a city on a hill, a worried soldier, and a pensive woman, not necessarily in that order.

Have fun speculating! I’m going to try to post the next chapter in a day or two.

 

[stnylan]

Aye if imgur goes the way of photobucket or imageshack then alot of people are going to have to find alternative solutions.

 

[Bullfilter]

Subbed and up to date! Those awards are excellent for bringing quality AARs to the attention of humble readers. I like a good cliffhanger - and Good King Aurelio certainly finds himself hanging on to a few precipices by his fingertips. Let’s hope he hauls himself up once again. Is there any kind of dynastic heir yet, or if he dies does the dynasty (and game) end with him?

 

[The Kingmaker]

@stnylan: Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

@Bullfilter: Thanks for reading! King Aurelio is from the House of Cantabria, a "cadet branch" of the House of Pelagio (presented as the separate d'Asturias dynasty in-game). Right now, the only other dynastic heir for the Cantabrian branch of the family is Aurelio's younger brother, Veremundo, Comes of Cantabria.

 

[The Kingmaker]

CHAPTER 5: AFTERMATH​

3 May 769
Near Pravia, Asturia

The fields outside Pravia seemed oddly peaceful the morning after the battle. Birds chirped again in the trees, while fresh dew soaked the raiment of the slain.

A small group of mourners had gathered to hear an impromptu funeral mass, even though the battlefield was still littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. The common folk had begun the thankless task of gathering the slain into mass graves, but several were already filled to overflowing.

“Omnipotens sempiterne Deus,” recited the Bishop, “Qui contulisti fidelibus tuis remedia vitæ post mortem…”

Bishop Witiza of Cangas hardly resembled the fat, aging clerics who perched on most episcopal thrones. Still in his thirties, he kept his hair closely cropped like a warrior’s, and even allowed himself the liberty of a short beard. The episcopal vestments hung rather loosely from his muscular frame.

Several nearby womenfolk sobbed. A smattering of monks from the bishop’s retinue looked uncomfortable, as if wondering whether comforting female mourners overmuch might violate their monastic vows.

Bishop Witiza continued his recitation unabated, the Latin words dropping from his lips almost effortlessly, like the fresh morning dew that now clung to the bodies of the dead. “Præsta, quæsumus,” he chanted, “Propitius ac placatus ut anima famuli tui illius a peccatis omnibus expiata…”

A handful of warriors joined the makeshift gathering. As their ransoms had been successfully paid, these men were now on parole. A few of the female mourners prudently backed away from them.

“...In tuæ redemptionis sorte requiescat, per Dominum Nostrum Iesum Christum. Amen,” finished the Bishop. Using a fine silver spoon, he sprinkled holy water upon the freshly dedicated grave to consecrate it.

“What a terrible tragedy for so many to die unshriven,” Bishop Witiza pronounced, “Would that we had not lived to see such evil days in our time, while the heathens mock at us and make the slaying of good Christians their sport. A curse upon them all.”

A few minor nobles approached him to receive his blessing, but Witiza politely excused himself before the common folk could seek to receive the same. There were plenty of ordinary priests in his retinue who more than capable of administering to the needs of the rabble. In the meantime, Witiza knew where the sacramental wine was stashed.

“Have you no time for one more blessing, Lord Bishop?” asked a man in a blood-stained cloak, his left arm in a sling.

“Perhaps one of the priests could see to your needs--” Witiza began, then paused and looked at the man more closely. “Veremundo! You old scoundrel! Still alive, I see!” Witiza laughed to see his old comrade, before recalling the carnage surrounding them. He did feel uncomfortable expressing levity in such surroundings. “You look terrible,” he sniffed, wrinkling his nose to make it clear that it was more than just the other man’s appearance that was foul.

“Battle will do that to a man,” said Veremundo, warmly clasping forearms with Witiza, “As if I needed to explain that to you!”

“Fair enough,” shrugged the bishop, “Come, partake of some holy libations with me.”

“Sorely needed, after a day like yesterday,” Veremundo grinned.

The two of them set off across the battlefield towards a cluster of tents where refreshments and medicine were being offered to weary and wounded warriors.

“I swear,” continued Veremundo, “I shall never understand how the likes of Witiza the Black ever managed to become a bishop of holy mother church!”

Witiza shrugged. “I suppose King Froila must have thought my loyal sword was worth a pallium.” He had been renowned as one of the last king’s greatest champions, but that seemed like a lifetime ago, even though in truth few years had passed.

“But what about you?” Witiza pressed, “Aren’t they calling you the Hammer of Pravia now?”

“Bah,” said Veremundo, “I only hammered to the anvil which my brother laid. It was nothing special.”

“It is, when it’s the heathens you've smitten,” said Witiza, his eyes widening, “God will remember what you have done this day.”

“You make it sound so grand,” said Veremundo, “It was just a small band of marauders and sellswords, easily driven off by one solid cavalry charge.”

“Is that how that happened?” asked Witiza, indicating his friend’s wounded arm.

“A stray arrow,” said Veremundo, “Struck my shoulder right as we were mopping up the last of the buggers. Looks worse than it is.”

He paused, looking down at a nearby Moorish corpse. “You know, something doesn’t sit right with me about these brutes. I wonder...”

Witiza gave a swift kick to the dead man’s head, dislodging the corpse’s helmet with ease, and revealing a matted crop of long, blond hair. “Hmph,” said the Bishop, “Gothic. Or Suebian.”

“I knew it!” said Veremundo, “These heathens won’t even sully their hands with Christian blood. They’re using our own people to fight against us.”

“This man was no thrall,” said Witiza, observing the quality of the dead man’s armor, “There’s a whole generation of Goths who've been raised without the Church’s holy sacraments whom these ‘Andalusians’ are now rallying to their cause.” He spat on the ground in disgust.

He looked to the next corpse over, a swarthy man with a javelin embedded in his throat. “Here now,” said the Bishop, “This wretched fellow looks more like one of those ‘Berber’ folk from across the sea.”

“Well, by Saint Vitus’ ankle!” exclaimed Veremundo, “Don’t you recognize him? It’s Mauregato the Half-Moor, the very man who caused all this sorry business. Looks like fate had it in for him!”

“Hardly,” said Witiza, “I see the hand of the Lord in his fate, just as the betrayer Judas himself suffered an ignominious death. Look!” He wrenched the javelin free from Mauregato’s neck bones with a sickening crunch, and pointed to something engraved upon the shaft.

“M • A • G • D • A • L • E • N • A,” Veremundo read aloud.

“You see?” said Witiza, “The Saints themselves guided this holy shaft straight to the traitor’s throat!”

“My God,” said Veremundo, “Someone did, but it surely wasn’t the Saints. Oi! Over here, lad!” He beckoned to one of the servants collecting weapons and valuables from the bodies of the slain.

“Lord?” huffed the boy.

“See that this is conveyed with care and haste to the tent of Her Grace, Queen Munia,” said Veremundo. The boy nodded, taking off with the javelin towards the royal encampment. “And with my compliments!” Veremundo called after him.

“Munia?” asked Witiza, “What’s Froila’s old mare doing here?”

“Truthfully?” said Veremundo, “Winning the battle for us. Her Basques tipped the scales in our favor. Aurelio probably owes her his crown, if not his very life.”

“Oh, that’s very bad indeed,” scowled Witiza, “She was never trustworthy, even when Froila was still alive. Always scheming, that one. That fair face conceals a wily mind.”

“The King will have to reward her generously for her faithful service today,” said Veremundo, “That was her javelin you just picked up, you know. She’s more than proven her loyalty on the field of battle. We are in her debt, truly.”

“Which is exactly how she planned it, I’m sure,” said Witiza, “Watch her closely. And for the love of God, don’t lie with her! I know you, Veremundo. A warm bosom and a smile is all it takes to win your affections. Watch yourself... swive her, even just the once, and she’ll own you.”

“Alright, alright,” said Veremundo, trying to mollify his old friend, “Easy, friend. It’s not like anyone’s about to charge up her drawbridge. She’s still very much a queen.”

“So was Jezebel,” grumbled the Bishop.

***​

10 May, 769
Crunia, Gallaecia

Princess Adosinda reached for another skein of yarn with all of the enthusiasm of a dead field mouse. Without paying much attention, she selected a deep forest green, the color of fresh pine needles. It was a lovely color, but Adosinda scarcely noticed. Her heart was not truly in her embroidery this morning, although it would be fair to say it seldom ever was.

She sighed, and gazed longingly out the window as the white clouds lazily drifted by. The Farum Brigantium rose from the coastline as a solitary spike of white stone against the pristine blue sky. The ancient lighthouse was an elegant building, originally built by the Romans. To Adosinda, it served as a daily reminder of what was possible -- the greatness to which humanity could aspire. She had resided in Crunia for several years now, but she had only ever managed to visit the Farum once, when her husband had been away on a long journey. Those were the times she liked best.

Although the princess had been raised in the mountains of Asturia, she found she had come to love her new home by the seaside. Unfortunately, she rarely saw much of it outside the villa, except when Lord Silo was travelling, and he did not travel often. She had known her husband to be a hard man, and that the duties of a Comitissa were many, but she had never envisioned her life would be quite like this.

Her father, King Adelfonso, had reconquered Gallaecia from the hated Moors. Her mother, Queen Ermesinda, had been the daughter of the great King Pelagio himself. No one ever told them what to do. Yet now Adosinda found herself a virtual prisoner in the very place where her parents had first entered as conquerors. What strange patterns the Fates weaved!

“I think this shade of green is too dark, don’t you think?” Adosinda held up the skein of yarn.

“My lady knows best,” one of her ladies-in-waiting said demurely.

“I think I’ll have the servants bring us another selection after our mid-day meal. I think I’d prefer a nice deep red, or maybe azure--”

The doors to her chambers burst wide open without warning, and Silo, Comes of Gallaecia, strode into the room.

“My lord…” she gasped, “You have returned so soon. I trust you are well?” Her ladies quickly began to clean up their embroidery materials.

“The fool is dead.” As usual, Silo’s face was a dour, unsmiling mask.

“So you have slain the king?” said Adosinda, startled by the finality of her own words, “Your armies were victorious?”

“No, not the king,” grunted Silo, “And no victory either. Your mongrel bastard of a brother has gotten himself killed.”

“Mauregato?” Adosinda brought a hand to her mouth in shock, “You’re sure?” Mauregato had always been impetuous; some may have even said foolhardy, but he was still her little brother.

“Of course I’m sure!” Silo snapped, “I saw it myself. He took a spear to the face, the twit. I watched him while he stepped forward and screamed at the enemy like some kind of imbecile. It was bound to happen.”

The tears came to Adosinda’s eyes suddenly and unbidden, and she found they would not stop.

“What’s this?” said Silo, “I've no patience left to deal with your blubbering! If anyone has cause to weep, it’s me. I allowed your brother to convince me that Aurelio was weak, that now was the perfect time to throw down the old dotard and seize power for ourselves! Instead, the fool went and played all his cards in one round! Now Mauregato is dead, and I’m the one who has been played for a fool.”

Adosinda quickly wiped at her tears, but they continued to cascade down her high cheekbones. “Surely my lord--”

“Enough, I don’t want to hear it,” growled her husband, “Sweet, miserable, blood-stained martyrs, are all our servants dead?! Did they all die of the plague during my absence? Why has no one brought me food and drink? I did not survive that wretched battle only to starve to death in my own home.”

A few of the princess’ ladies-in-waiting scurried out the door, presumably to ensure Lord Silo’s demands were met, even though it was the household servants’ responsibility, not theirs. More than likely, they were just terrified of her husband and sought an easy escape from his harsh presence.

Silo threw himself haphazardly onto a wooden bench and began kicking off his muddy boots. “I should have known it was some kind of trick,” he continued, mostly to himself. Adosinda certainly knew her own comments were not welcome. “For them to lay out their encampment just outside Pravia, my own birthplace! I know those hills and fields like the back of my hand.”

A servant hurried in with a platter of sliced meat and a goblet of wine, bowing and placing them before Silo before exiting as quickly as possible.

“Are you still here?” he said very quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

“Where else would I be?” said Adosinda, “These are our chambers, and it is not as though you ever permit me to range abroad.”

“You miserable harlot,” he growled, “You’ve always been more trouble than you’re worth. Your dowry was a pittance of what it should have been, and you continue to fail to bear me a proper son and heir. The only reason I married you was to win myself the crown, but your miserable kinfolk have managed to ruin even that!”

Although Adosinda knew their marriage had been for political reasons, Silo had never described it quite so brazenly, or so coldly. She felt a little fire of boldness stirring in her stomach. “You really thought you would inherit the throne just from marrying a princess?”

“Why not?” said Silo, “Your father inherited the throne when your uncle Fafila died, all on account of his marriage to your mother. Why Froila could not have left the throne to me, I’ll never understand. It would have been so easy.”

“It’s not as though my brother had much choice in the matter,” hissed Adosinda, “Or have you already forgotten the most foul manner of his passing?”

“Weak kings deserve to die,” said Silo, “If they are not strong enough to hold onto their crowns, they do not deserve to keep them.”

“Well, Aurelio has survived both your little poisoning scheme and your miserable battle, so clearly he’s stronger than you thought.”

“He’ll die soon enough,” said Silo, “Even if I’m not the one to slay him, someone will. Froila was a much stronger king, but it still wasn’t enough to save him in the end.”

“And what would you know of that?” said Adosinda, her eyes widening, “Unless you helped conspire against him? I should have guessed it long ago. You… you plotted to kill my brother just like you plot against my cousin now! I thought you were fighting over a legitimate succession dispute about my inheritance from my brother, but the crown... that’s all that ever mattered to you. Aurelio was right; you are a traitor!”

“How dare you!” Silo struck her across the mouth with the back of his hand. His heavy signet ring drew a trickle of blood from her lip.

He had always spoken harshly to her, and she had endured it. Sometimes he yelled and cursed, but Silo had never actually dared to hit her before. Adosinda was incensed. “You forget yourself, my lord. How dare you strike a princess of the blood royal! A man of lesser birth coarsely beating a daughter of kings like some errant serving maid! For shame!”

Silo actually seemed to quail a little at his wife’s rebuke. It was unlike her to speak her mind as vociferously as she had this day. However, the astonishment on his face quickly turned back to wrath.

“Oh, believe me, once that crown is upon my brow, you’ll be more than beaten…” The threat hung in the air for a second. Then Silo’s shoulders began to shake as his body was wracked by bitter laughter. “Hah! My army is scattered and broken, my ally is dead, and I’m… hehe, I’m sitting here arguing with a woman!”

Adosinda neither shared nor appreciated Silo’s sudden humor. His blatant disdain for her was reprehensible.

“Don’t you see?” He continued to laugh mirthlessly, tears pricking at his eyes. “The royal host will be here within a week, maybe two. Then we are sure to be besieged and will starve to death, that is, if we don’t die in the fighting first!"

He leaned forward on the bench with his head in his hands, then looked up, his eyes wide.

“Unless…”

***​

That Same Day
Asturica, Asturia

“You are finished with your bath, my lady?” Her eyes averted, the handmaiden stood attentively, holding a length of fresh linen.

The lady Creusa leisurely extended her arm from the warm water and observed the wrinkles on her fingertips.

“Hmmm… yes,” she murmured, “I think so.” As she rose to her feet, her handmaidens sprang into action with an efficiency born through years of careful experience. As the first maid meticulously toweled her dry with the fresh linen, the second gently massaged Creusa’s skin with oils and perfumes. Even before they had completed their tasks, a second pair of servant girls were anxiously waiting to clothe their lady with a fresh gown and a selection of jewelry.

Once dressed, Creusa casually sauntered over to her chaise, where the first two handmaidens stood waiting with hair pins, whalebone combs, and a goblet of her favorite berry juice.

She murmured appreciatively while one girl fastidiously combed her hair and the other groomed her fingernails. Only the most skilled of her handmaidens were allowed to touch her hair. Some said her long auburn tresses were her best feature. Of course, Creusa knew that to be so much folly. Every feature was her best feature.

That was why she was the Comitissa of Asturica, and these others were merely her serving maidens. She had not forgotten her days as a young courtesan. Despite her famous beauty, she had fought long and hard with every tooth and elegantly manicured nail to claw her way up to her current standing.

Creusa suffered no delusions about how rare and fortunate her rise to power had been. It had taken considerable effort to beguile the intemperate Comes of Asturica sufficiently for him to dare to wed a courtesan, his illegitimacy notwithstanding. It had been the crowning achievement of her career. That was partly why Creusa made sure she savored every minute of the pampering available to noble ladies of her rank.

“My lady?” one of her maidens asked timidly. Creusa’s eyes flashed at the disruption of her requiescence. The poor girl immediately blanched.

“...Yes?” asked Creusa, infusing the word with only the tiniest hint of bother, once it became clear the girl couldn’t manage to spit out whatever it was she had come to say.

“It’s just… begging my lady’s pardon...” The girl’s pale cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “The d-dwarf has returned.”

“...And?” Creusa prompted.

“A-and?” the girl stammered in confusion, “Ohhh... a-and he is requesting an aud...aud…”

“An audience,” Creusa finished for the girl, carefully ensuring her impatience did not translate through to her voice. She closed her eyes again and spoke as softly and sweetly as she could. “Very well, admit him to my chambers and his request shall be granted.”

“B-but, my lady--” The serving girl had turned a darker shade of crimson, doubtless at the thought of such an impropriety.

“--is already freshly bathed, perfumed and dressed, thanks to the tireless ministrations of you and your sisters,” added Creusa, her voice rising ever so slightly in annoyance. She immediately bridled her emotions. Anger was a blade, and it was sharpest only if it was unsheathed most sparingly. “What’s your name, girl?” she asked gently.

“H-Halis,” said the girl, choking back tears.

Creusa put on her most disarming smile, the one she saved for the most pig-headed noblemen.

“Halis, my dear, my sweet,” cooed Creusa, “My most loyal handmaiden…” Halis gasped, clamping her eyes shut as Creusa gently stroked her cheek. “I shall be quite safe,” she said reassuringly, “Bring in the dwarf.”

Halis nodded obediently and rushed over to whisper to the guards waiting outside the doors. Creusa would need to ensure the servants left the girl a special reward by her bedside that night. A sweet pastry, perhaps, or one of her least favorite combs. With just a little more prompting and encouragement, that girl would soon do anything to please her mistress.

After some more whispering between Halis and the door wardens, the heavy doors to Creusa’s chambers were heaved open, and a short, sprightly figure clothed in black entered.

“A thousand greetings, Domina!” The dwarf swept his cloak into a low bow, which was made all the lower by his diminutive stature.

“Elazar,” Creusa said nonchalantly, deliberately not looking up from her chaise.

“I, ah, trust your Ladyship is faring well this fine evening?” asked Elazar, giving a hopeful smile.

“Quite well, thank you,” answered Creusa, still refraining from making eye contact with the dwarf. She didn’t want to encourage him. The poor fool was clearly in love with her, but it wasn’t really his fault. Everyone was besotted with the Lady Creusa.

“I’m afraid my husband is absent,” she added with a hint of warning, “He and his friends are off playing at war again. Boys will be boys.”

The dwarf giggled to himself impishly for some reason. Creusa was caught off guard by this odd reaction, but did her best not to show it.

“I did not come seeking the Lord Mauregato,” he said at last, pulling a tiny roll of parchment from his sleeve, “I come bearing an important missive for your ladyship!”

“Then if you’d be so kind as to read it to me?” asked Creusa.

“I shall do you one better, and recite it for you!” said Elazar.

This was their usual ritual. The dwarf frequently brought her messages of a sensitive nature, but as neither of them could actually read, Elazar always made a show of handing over the parchment, only to then recite its contents from memory.

“Ahem,” Elazar loudly cleared his throat and grinned. “Ask, and ye shall receive. Seek, and ye shall find. From M.”

Creusa felt cold. Her body grew suddenly tense at the dwarf’s message. She knew exactly what it meant. Although not unexpected, this was still… quite soon.

“You had better burn that now, lest it fall into the wrong hands,” chided the dwarf. Creusa deftly uncurled the note, revealing it to be nothing but a blank scrap of parchment. Her lip curled slightly in annoyance, Creusa passed the parchment through the flames of a nearby candle before dropping it to the floor, where the blazing scrap blew out onto the portico.

“That will be all,” she said lazily.

“If I could be of further service to your ladyship--” the dwarf began.

“That will be all,” Creusa repeated, a little more forcefully than she’d intended. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught one of her maidens flinching.

The dwarf’s effervescent grin fled his face. “I’m supposed to convey that response back again, am I? Very well, if you insist.” He turned abruptly on his heel and showed himself out without so much as a farewell.

The Lady Creusa paid no mind to Elazar’s rudeness. She knew the dwarf could be temperamental. Rising to her feet, she glided out onto the portico and looked thoughtfully off into the horizon. She carelessly played with one of her amber locks as she considered the gravity of the message she had just received.

Everything had changed. One thing was for certain, however.

Her ambitions were unfettered once again, and there was no limit to how high she might climb now.

 

[Arnulf Floyd]

Another good and interesting chapter

 

[Bullfilter]

The fallout from the battle continues to ripple out. But the war is not over - what cunning ploy does the detestable Silo have up his sleeve?

 

[stnylan]

I have to admire the gallows nature of Silo's humour here.

 

[guillec87]

Gothic against Gothic....

 

[tpmcinty]

The king may not be as weak as Silo assumes. The king seems to have his loyal followers to at least keep Silo for becoming king.

 

[Emissary of the Prophets]

Enjoyable as always. I appreciated the KotOR2 reference.

 

[Viden]

Awesome as always.

Just a quick note: "Berber" comes from Arabic. Its Latin synonim is "Mauri" or "Moor".

 

[Kylia Quilor]

So much Scheming. Fascinating storytelling,

 

[Idhrendur]

Another wonderful update.

 

[The Kingmaker]

@Arnulf Floyd: Thank you!

@Bullfilter: We'll have to wait and see. Silo is pretty detestable.

@stnylan: Humor is pretty uncharacteristic for Silo, so it makes sense that his would be pretty dark.

@guillec87: That sounds awfully familiar. Reminds of something... maybe this?

@tpmcinty: I think Aurelio has more than proved his mettle. We'll have to see if Silo's last ditch effort pays off.

@Emissary of the Prophets: Thanks. Had to improvise a little bit, of course. I don't expect there are many loading ramps among the Goths.

@Viden: Thank you. Up until this update, I think I've used "Moor" more or less exclusively. Just trying to vary the vocab a little bit. I put "Berber" in quotes to show that Witiza the Black was using what he considered to be an unusual term.

@Kylia Quilor: Thank you very much. It seems the Visigoths aren't strangers to dynastic intrigue. Glad to have you aboard!

@Idhrendur: Thank you!

 

[Arnulf Floyd]

This AAR reminds me of opening cut-scenes from Attila the Hun campaign from old AOE2 which I've played in 2009, I heard narrator's voice when read all chapters I like so much story and intrigue which inspires my semi-fantasy medieval novel

 

[Nikolai]

Quite an interesting update, as always. Those two women both seem to be trouble, especially the latter.

 

[iain_a_wilson]

Another fantastic update. I'm thoroughly enjoying all of the scheming!