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Messages - Mr. Consideration

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Everything Else / Re: 2012 Elections
« on: August 16, 2011, 02:24:53 pm »
Real is something that exists in the realm of reality.

Economics, as far as I'm aware, is imaginary numbers that only matter to the extremely wealthy and those affected by the extremely wealthy's reactions to it.

Does a currency need a tangible, physical prescence to be used as a means of exchange when all value is subjective anyway?

If you think of money of an abstraction of labour-time or products it doesn't really matter if its existence is purely on computer-record. And arguably, things on computer-record have a physical existence as well...

Everything Else / Re: 2012 Elections
« on: August 16, 2011, 02:13:33 pm »
Define 'real'.

Everything Else / Re: Gripe Thread
« on: August 16, 2011, 02:13:07 pm »
I left my bag in a taxi, complete with MP3 player, house keys and clothes for work. The taxi driver hasn't handed it in to the wherever it is meant to be handed to, the council are no help at all, and it looks like its gone.

Everything Else / Re: 2012 Elections
« on: August 16, 2011, 01:55:14 pm »
I was using an anti-Royal 'we' which contains millions of people who are not myself; such as everyone who lives in the United States of America who is registered to vote.

The North Sea, November 1066.

The ship was a broad, low and brutish old sea-beast, with no figurehead on the prow and no joy in her crew, slinking through the salt and sea like an old wolf in long grass.This wolf's belly was full, of salted pig-meat, jet and amber, fox-furs, Irish slaves and Anglisc sows, silver sceatta and cochrie shells, disturbed and distributed at random by the whim of the sea in a fenced area by the ship's rear. The merchant-captain, a Dane, looking furtively at his wares with every wave, hand resting on the pommel of my father's sword. Most were from the Rus and Eastern lands, unsold, but some had been the meagre goods available in the port-towns of Northumbria amidst the chaos of our invasion. Hrolf did not care for us, though we rowed and sat as his own men did, and would not break bread or trade words with our group, preferring to tend to the wolf's belly. Fear had gripped him; fear of lost profit, of blood-soaked opportunities, of upheaval in the isles of Albion would could see his wares rot in port.

Days passed, almost timelessly. Apart from the rigours of land-life, the sea offers escape. For days, there were no wars or struggles, no claims sinking beneath the waves or kingdoms and peoples rising like foam before crashing into the undertow. What Northman would love the land-struggle over the sea-kiss? Only Hrolf and thelwyn seemed elsewhere. It was the third day when thelwyn set events in motion which had escaped me in the ceaseless rowing and men-talk, with the most simple question an Angle could ask;

"Is hēr ǣnig e Anglisce spric?"
Is there anyone here who speaks Anglisc?
Most of the Danes murmured their misgivings, though a single one , Hrolf's right-hand man, Grim, grinned and replied in kind:
"Gēse? Mē līcode ec tō grētenne, Anglisc mannes."
Yes? I'm, uh, pleased to meet you, Anglish man.

thelwyn lapsed in thought. staring at the sky with a wracked expression. He did not lack the Northman-tongue, if a foreign brood born in Northumbria and Byzantium, and it was unlikely many of these merchants would bother with Anglisc for trade; one need only shout loud enough in Norske at the Anglisc and soon they would understand. The thought drifted from my mind and a day of oar-thudding soon drowned in the still-distant East, before he spoke once more:

"επίθ. ρωμαίος, ρωμαϊκό?"
With a wry grin at my understanding and then lack of it, he declared:
"Άγιος που δε θαυματουργεί, μηδέ δοξολογιέται."
"A holy man with no miracles is not loved."

In Greek, thelwyn's fears could by-pass the wolf's hearing. Eudoxia was firmer in her understanding of thelwyn's warnings, as my Greek was limited to the basic orders given a Varangian, and those broken words necessary to survive. We were travelling North. Too far to the North, and too quickly; like the Kings of the Bible, thelwyn had followed the star, and noted our heading. There was only one possible destination for such a journey, around Orkney and Shetland before striking south to Dubh Lihn, the largest slave-market in Eireland and in all Britain. The slaves a-board were a motley collection, three broken men sold in Dubh Lihn a few months before to some minor Northumbrian trader, it was clear there was no wisdom in returning to Dubh Lihn with them, and once more risking the British conflagration. No, Hrolf intended to sell us all to make up his losses. But what could two men and one whore do against thirty adrift in the sea? Modi did not even know what we discussed, and my sword, my father's sword, hung from a strap stretched around Hrolf's engorged stomach, leaving me a labourer's weapons: an old seax, amusingly enough a clear symbol that a man was free - and my francesca and shield, battered and bent at Stamford Bridge.

Night fell. Some Danes slept at their oars, others manned the them, keeping a slow and steady pace up the coast. Eudoxia whispered in ears. Eudoxia wandered the decks. Eudoxia giggled and Eudoxia japed, Eudoxia listened and Eudoxia spoke. Always, she watched, eager to sow division between the stronger men, to slow our pace. Hrolf scowled among the pigs and furs, in envy and in rage, as the waves steadily beat our boat with the rhythm of a drum.

It took him three days to do some whispering of his own, in the ear of the grinning Grim, demanding Eudoxia be beaten and thrown in the belly as she was no use among the men. For a second, all the world was thrown up on the crest of a wave, and noone could tell where it would fall and who would drown; until a voice piped up among the men, and then another, and another and another. Hrolf stared in his quiet, insidious way, before rapsing over the wounded innocence: "Pirates, vikings, and heathens might protest such, and their skin shall be nailed to the door of any good Churche of our Lord as said King Svend; I think I might sell your skins instead, is there much want for moonfur? Stand with me, men, I am your master."

Iron clashed with iron in the scrum that followed, and our advantage: having our weapons to hand, gave us momentum in this struggle. With seax and shield I gouged at Grim, let down by the lacking reach of my knife blade, pressuring him to prevent him using his great axe by bludgeoning him with my shield and swinging and stabbing with my seax under, viciously, pressing him back whilst his nose and eyes bled before the repeated blows of my shield. thelwyn and Modi too got to grips with Hrolf's most loyal men in the struggle, whislt most flinched and watched. Modi's great Dane-Axe had most of the crew scrambling and ducking as its great swings knocked and hacked men down in an instant; thelwyn was outmatched by his opponent, focusing on his sheild and only feinting with his hand-axe as the faster, stronger Dane struck again and again with scramaseax and fist. The ship retched and heaved in the tumult, and the Danes flittered and gasped in the chaos as Modi smashed men bodily from the boat and into the depths. Hrolf too, had joined the fray, ineffectually waving and stabbing with my father's spathae before his face was cleaved in two by Modi's mad swinging; his scalp and brains and blood fluttering like doves in their nest across the ship, whilst his body, like a great whale leapt and sank beneath the waves in celebratory clouds of crimson, dragging my father's sword into the depths as a monster of the sea.

As Grim fell back, blooded and exhausted, I stayed my hand - I am a Lothbrk and born for adventure and majesty, not the gutting of sell-swords. I gave orders, to take the mast, to gather our resources, and tell them that I was their master now. And once more, we were vikings, warriors and northmen. We would sail to the East with adventure in our hearts, now, and as captain of a ship with two-dozen fighting men, not as beggars in chains.

Next update, the game can begin properly.

Flattery shall get you nowhere, Mr Josasa.

I've played a fair distance ahead of this but IRL issues are keeping me from typing it up... tomorrow looks promising.

Everything Else / Re: 2012 Elections
« on: August 15, 2011, 11:38:36 am »
I think we should vote for that nice black man who turned out to not be as nice a black man as he promised but was probably nicer than gun lady and the wrinkly one.

yup. I'ts kinda silly that it's still stickied.

Nonsense, our galaxy was waaaaay coooler.

Everything Else / Re: "Bye, I'm leaving forever" thread
« on: August 11, 2011, 01:59:54 pm »
In my opinion, if you care enough about us all to make a goodbye post, then we havn't seen the last of you.

I agree.  ;)

Riccal; September 1066.

"To fly the Raven banner above a new Jrvk! To better the Bloodaxe! To defend the conquests of Ivar the Boneless!"

There was a cheer, of course, half-serious and half-mocking, by those watching such debasement around the fire, hudding there for warmth whilst the September Wind made its own speech which chilled the whole encampment there at Riccal. The Harri had seemed a bitter name, viewing the mild amusement on King Haraldr's face. A playing about his lips as he watched the bravado of my father - knowing it, of course, to be pleading in truth. The situation was so subject to the cold, Haraldr's face so weathered and stony it was hard to imagine King Haraldr as a young man; guarding the Emperor of Rome, drinking wine, eating grapes, keeping mistresses and entertaining a skald or two; and perhaps taking my father more seriously then. Such vitality was bereft, now, and with it the camaderie. When one is a foreigner, blonde-haired and carrying a Dane-Axe and drinking-horn, conciously barbaric in the Queen of Cities, it was easy to take the same boasts seriously. To believe that the penniless skald fondling his seax and singing of Dubh Lihn's riches, of his ancestor's valour and tenacity, was the descendent of Ragnar Hairy-Breeches; or Ivar the Boneless; or the noble lineage of the Lothbrk family, who had sailed to Paris and saw the greatness of the Carolingians broken by their will; who had shattered their enemies and seen their broken lung-wings bear them to Hel; lle of Northumbria, Charles the Bald, thelrd the Unrd, Edmund Ironside; all men who could smell the salt on their lips feared the Vikings. And of course, in the Queen of Cities ambition and audacity could breed with Roman excess; from Constantinople could flow the gold to make one a King; The Harri had made himself King of Norway, and soon could be King of the Anglisc aswell; such tenacity could make a man a god.

It was Tostig who laughed first. Hearty and hale; yet hollow - the laugh of the creeping tyrant thrown from his Earldom by rivals and his brother, Harold Godwinson, who now sat as King of the Anglisc-elect, bound by the fealty of his former rivals and the will of Witengamot, with the theling Eadgar nowhere to be seen. Of course, Morcar Leofricson, who has stoled the earldom, had been broken at Fulford, and Jrvk was theirs; Tostig was almost Earl of all Northumbria with only his brother, Harold, King of the Anglisc, to be brushed aside.  The man took to wound-words even whilst he was still a beggar himself. My father, calling himself, to the amusement of all, the thlingr, orkell Lothbrk, and egn of Jrvk, was perhaps almost as close to his claim, but the whim of Haraldr the Harri was as thunder. The Harri stared down Tostig before speaking:

"We shall see on the morn, my thlingr, if I can find a use for you. When the pretender Godwineson is dead, when Guilliam the Bastard is broken and Normandie is a-flame, when the Anglisc submit, perhaps I shall listen to your claim and install you as egn; perhaps as Hnef of Jrvk from Skaraborg to the Marches! But as my vassal, cousin. But when the bear wanders we do not wear his pelt; for now, be as my friend, cousin and sworn man, be merely Hundolf the Varangian and join me in battle against Godwineson tomorrow. And your son, the Lackloop, Guthrum, shall attend to me as squire in the manner of cynght of Anglisc or milite of France. My arms tire from victory."

My father, Hundolf Lothbrk, egn of Jrvk and niggardley beggar, reddened and departed with a curt nod. As his winingas untangled, and dragged in the mood, and his threadbare cape fought against his departure with the support of the wind; he did not look a mighty Varangian, Viking warchief, or even a Norseman. When we rose the Raven banner from our camp, the wind made it seem eager to flutter away to the East, to slink back to Norseheim and nest. When the sun rose to echo it, our scouts reported King Harold would give the field in a few days time, and one could smell the breath of the Nhggr as our world was devoured.

Skaraborg; October 1066

On the ship, I could still envision the Harri  sat on a great log-bench by the fire, talking quietly to his men, and I felt so calm. The Harri had given battle in distant Trincaria, Anatoila, the Rus; had crushed Turks and Saracens and willed himself King of Norway. What could the Anglisc King bring to bear against such raw fury, audacity, tenacity?

But they were all dead now; Godwin's bitter brood, the Harri, my father; and with them the Churchmen whispered the audacity and ferocity of the Vikings had died also. Every day, we heard more of the Bastard's steady march northwards, or the building of great and terrible castles, and all the earls in their world-fear had sworn themselves to the Bastard's tyranny. Everywhere in the North, the whisper was the Anglisc were to bleed, to labour and to die at the whim of their new overlords; the jumped-up sell-swords and hedge cnyghts sworn to any petty Frankish princeling were to be awarded estates to rival that of the greatest egns of the Danelaw, the mightiest earldormen of the Vesseax, and most vicious Princes of Kymru. And we fled, through village and village, ever East and North, until we could find the sea, and from there we could make a new life. What other survivors had there been? The
Harri's oldest friends and thus the quickest to abandon his cause to the ravens that inspired it! thelwyn the Mad Angle Priest; who converted more often than he washed. Eudoxia; the haughty Greek temptress who always asserted she was noble once, despite being the favourite camp-follower of lustful men from Jerusalem to here on the very edge of the world. And Modi, more jotun than man, whose sheer ferocity had spared him from the cynghts and huskarls of Harold. A smattering of washer-women who I knew by name - the reason for mine own - Guthrum 'Lackloop'; the man who could ne'er learn the skills of weaving, sewing, braiding - in truth, the man who never had a mother to tell him. Regardless, it has earned me contacts among the camp-followers and a great deal of knowledge about other matters!

We found a ship, eventually. Seperated from the bulk of the fleeing who had escaped upon the best of the 300 ships that had brought us from Norway, we were forced to purchase passage with merchants.  Jrvk's river-wharfs were empty save for broken men and women picking river-oysters from the mudded water, mumbling and begging in Anglisc, broken Norske. A monk, stood on the remnants of a shattered market-stall, played at eschatology; preaching the end of times and that the Bastard was the Anti-Christ and asking all men to raise arms for the true theling Eadgar and break the Bastard-Tyrant in the field. Few men paid him heed, but the atmosphere was as before a storm. They knew, somehow, that even though or had brought great thunder at Stamford Bridge and Hastings, that the slow, steady chill-fall was about to begin.  No merchant with their own ship stayed in a sacked city on the brink of civil war,  and so we travelled on foot to Skaraborg, and there booked passage for a hefty sum: 6 penningr and my sword to ensure our passage to the Rus, and from where we would creep back to the Empire and perform what services we could, our dreams in the Northeim ended forever, wandering as Odin in peasant guise, with the world unaware of our majesty, our audacity and our loss.

Britain as our heroes depart. Most of this is minor Norman lordlings, with the North is divided neatly between Morcar and Edwin Leofricson, sworn as vassals to the Bastard.

This is a Crusader Kings Deus Vult AAR with a story focus, playing as a probably illegitimate branch of the (my addition to the game) Lothbrk dynasty. Cheating will happen for story-purposes but it is solely in the realm of adding those things CK can't deliver; not to ease gameplay. I intend to retain a fair bit of Medieval player, and gameplay is secondary to role-playing, largely based on character-traits. If we are Arbitrary and Vengeful, this will not simply alter our stats: we shall be arbitrary and vengeful! Don't worry, once we actually get into the game proper there will be screenshots to detract from my cheese-y writing.

Anglisc - 'Angle-ish', OE
Jrvk - York, ON. The Anglian name is Eoforwic.
Harri - 'Ruthless', ON.
Varangian Guard
thlingr, theling - Prince, Heir, OE, ON, respectively.
egn - a low-level noble, ON.
Hnef - ON for 'King'.
Skaraborg - Scarborough
Cynght, Milite - 'Knight'.
Huskarl - House-Guard, OE.
Winingas - Leg-wrappings.
Kennings - a metaphor from Old Norse and Old English poetry such a 'bone-house' (skeleton) or 'battle-ice' refering to a sword.
Seax - a long, machete-esque knife. Root of the word 'Saxon'.

PC Games / Re: Paradox Games
« on: January 30, 2011, 08:13:17 am »
I just picked up Victoria 2; anyone fancy some MP?

I have EU3 too, but only IN, I'm afraid.

Everything Else / Re: Nexus War: Gaming Steve Faction
« on: January 05, 2011, 01:29:22 am »
For those daunted by the difficulty of levelling and abundant high-level characters: there has been a wipe and every character is reduced to level one, giving ample prey!

(in the new Nexus this is going to happen periodically as each 'breath' ends - ballsy move for the creator, no?)

Everything Else / Re: Wikileaks -> Good or Bad?
« on: December 24, 2010, 04:05:09 am »
Generally good - we have a right to know if torture is on-going, or why wars were truly declared. The diplomatic cables were a bit of a joke, though.

My criticism is in Wikileak's organisation; it is not an organisation free from bias. It has an agenda. Many on the radical Left have embraced Assange as the latest subject of their puerile hero-worship when he retains a tremendous amount of heirarchal control over both the organisation itself and the information leaked - his politics are on record in the Forbes interview as Minimalism or Marketism. Wikileaks is part of 'the media' and subject to many of the same constraints and flaws.

Having said that, I do consider Assange to be a trustworthy, if tremendously narcissistic, human being.

Everything Else / Re: The Official "Who Would Win This Fight" Thread
« on: December 24, 2010, 03:48:23 am »
This is, of course, a matter of contextualising the fight.

Of course, who gets to pick the locale of such a duel? Churchill should probably not be trusted with this duty, as he has a tendency to become confused and irate when forced to decide:

'We shall fight them on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence in the air....we shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing ground, on the fields and in the streets, we shall fight them in the hills...'
Churchill, June 1940

Evidently, Winston Churchill's great indecisiveness would allow Roosevelt to choose the locale of the combat. Judging by his desire to pack the Supreme Court, it can be presumed that he would not 'fight fair', and would choose a location suited to his particular fighting-style.

Say, the top of a large ramp, with Winnie at the other, end. The fight would be over in seconds as the steel wheel of the New Deal crushed Churchill's bloated baby head. Thus, Franklin Delano Roosevelt would win in a fight between FDR and Churchill.

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