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Offline Mr. Consideration

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The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« on: August 11, 2011, 01:14:52 pm »
Riccal; September 1066.

"To fly the Raven banner above a new Jórvík! 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 Harđráđi 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 Lothbrók 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; Ćlle of Northumbria, Charles the Bald, Ćthelrćd the Unrćd, 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 Harđráđi 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 ćtheling Eadgar nowhere to be seen. Of course, Morcar Leofricson, who has stoled the earldom, had been broken at Fulford, and Jórvík 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 Öthlingr, Ţorkell Lothbrók, and Ţegn of Jórvík, was perhaps almost as close to his claim, but the whim of Haraldr the Harđráđi was as thunder. The Harđráđi stared down Tostig before speaking:

"We shall see on the morn, my Öthlingr, 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 Ţegn; perhaps as Hnef of Jórvík from Skarđaborg 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 Lothbrók, Ţegn of Jórvík 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 Níđhöggr as our world was devoured.


Skarđaborg; October 1066

On the ship, I could still envision the Harđráđi  sat on a great log-bench by the fire, talking quietly to his men, and I felt so calm. The Harđráđi 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 Harđráđi, 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 Ţegns 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
Harđráđi's oldest friends and thus the quickest to abandon his cause to the ravens that inspired it! Ćthelwyn 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.  Jórvík'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 ćtheling 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 Ţor 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 Skarđaborg, 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) Lothbrók 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.

Terms:
Anglisc - 'Angle-ish', OE
Jórvík - York, ON. The Anglian name is Eoforwic.
Harđráđi - 'Ruthless', ON.
Varangian Guard
Witengamot
Öthlingr, ćtheling - Prince, Heir, OE, ON, respectively.
Skald
Ţegn - a low-level noble, ON.
Hnef - ON for 'King'.
Skarđaborg - 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'.


« Last Edit: August 11, 2011, 01:52:15 pm by Mr. Consideration »


"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.

Offline Gnoll

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #1 on: August 15, 2011, 11:07:38 am »
OK, this is interesting!

So... where are you now?
Who are you again and why in the world would you expect anything resembling rationality or civility in youtube comments?

Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #2 on: August 15, 2011, 11:49:53 am »
I've played a fair distance ahead of this but IRL issues are keeping me from typing it up... tomorrow looks promising.
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.

Offline Josasa

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #3 on: August 15, 2011, 11:58:11 am »
It has been too long, Mr. C! Your writing, as always, make me feel inadequate. Keep it up!

Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #4 on: August 15, 2011, 01:05:07 pm »
Flattery shall get you nowhere, Mr Josasa.
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.

Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #5 on: August 15, 2011, 02:30:39 pm »
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 Ćthelwyn seemed elsewhere. It was the third day when Ćthelwyn 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 ţe Anglisce spricţ?"
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 ţec tō grētenne, Anglisc mannes."
Yes? I'm, uh, pleased to meet you, Anglish man.

Ćthelwyn 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?"
"Greek?"
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, Ćthelwyn's fears could by-pass the wolf's hearing. Eudoxia was firmer in her understanding of Ćthelwyn'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, Ćthelwyn 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. Ćthelwyn 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; Ćthelwyn 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 Lothbrók 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.
« Last Edit: August 15, 2011, 02:32:18 pm by Mr. Consideration »
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.

Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #6 on: September 08, 2011, 04:46:41 am »
Just a heads-up that I am not abandoning this, just squashing a few bugs and ironing things out before uploading the next few updates.
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #7 on: September 13, 2011, 01:18:08 pm »
Östergötland, Sweden, December 1066.

Our ship rolled against the rocks like a whale; its last gasp rolling out as the wave dragged a broken mast back into the freezing ocean. Already, men were gathering, watching, on the beaches as we dragged our shattered cargo and broken planks out of the flotsam and into the cold mood. The seagulls chattered, the beach-men chattered and only the wind blew impassively. We were a shipwreck, aye, but a well-armed shipwreck; the subtleties of the Jarl of Östergötland's lawcodes had not prepared the men for the legality of fighting with carrion.
So they waited, and we shivered. An hour passed, and we gathered on the beach with blankets and a rudimentary fire, before the townsfolk played their hand.

A horseman approached bedecked in a fine red tunic with a rough cloak to protect against the wind, trimmed with fox fur and lace. He demanded we be dragged before the Jarl's justice as raiders and pirates. What could we do? Face the townsfolk and their warriors or be dragged to the hall of some muttering, scheming Jarl to be robbed and clapped in irons? The prospect of Irish slavery looked rosier by themoment, but I acquiesced, and walked the long, cold, grey walk in the sand towards the town. Of course, I left the greater body of the men to guard our stolen wealth and cavorted myself as a legitimate captain replete with lunking bodyguards in the shape of Ćthelwyn and Modi and concubine in the more pleasing shape of Eudoxia.

The hall of the Jarl of Östergötland was warm and bright, filled with song and dance - yet there was little movement among the retinue, the followers and the lead on the benches seemed stiff and fearful of any merriment. Only one creature in this hall laughed: a child sat high on the Jarl's bench. His laughter was high-pitched and shrill, and around him the rough
men, mercaneries, sell-swords and hangers-on seemed tangibly embarrassed. Gone, it seemed, was the greatness of Beowulf's lands. Before the child, a Frankish fooling group danced and juggled and laughed, themselves concious and afeart. Our horseman blew his war-horn before this child, and then his own horn in ugly speech:



"My lord of Östergötland, these are the creatures who were wrecked on the shores of our realm. The common-folk wish to sieze them, though there any many survivors. It gives me great pleasure to advise my mighty liege - that these men are pirates, vikings and bandits; common filth of all the lands of Christendom, and it would be prudent for my most Christian majesty to bring the King's justice to them."
I needed, now, to intervene, and briskly impersonated my would-be executioner, adopting his officious tone;
"My great Jarl of the Geats, master of Budvarr's demense and warrior-king of the Northmen, I am allowed to speak my case, am I not? Or should I be thrown in the sea without thought of justice, and robbed as this devil demands of you?" The child looked on, with evident glee at the attention.
"I am a captain, a legitimate captain - and I have pirated and raided and burned and pillaged and fought drty - as any true Viking should! Ours is a blood not taken to cowardice and snivelling, despite what some examples might have you believes. Ours, is conquest. Ours, is adventure. Ours, is greatness. Have you heard the Budvarrsaga of your own ancestors? Of the battles with dragons, monsters and demons?" The boy's eyes were visibly alighted at the prospect, and the whole-hall-eye had turned to Guthrum, as I launched into an old saga I had drank up in the City of the World's Desire - a saga now flown home to roost in his own hall. "Hwćt! We gardena...."

The hall grew with the pupils in the young Jarl's eyes as the saga spilled out; ćţelingas and eorlas, wildeor and hronrade. A magical moment of the power of words; the all-Father Odinn would be grinning in Asgard seeing the Lackloop's wit on this day. This flattery-dagger had pricked him. Song and saga reigned that night, whilst I usurped the advisors of the Jarl, growing closer; promising to teach him to fight as the Varangian guard, to sail like a Viking raider, to rule like a hero-king of legend. My ship was to be restored. My crew, my men, were truly mine now, as I was a vassal of the Jarl, a trusted friend, my limited wealth had been parcelled as a gift to the lad, sparing some for new arms and armour for my retinue.

For days, I was the closest friend of the young Jarl, whispering war in his ear. His other advisors, kin and kith to his father and with his best interests firmly at heart spoke of caution, of growing in his demense before any such struggle, but such mutterings would never pierce the Jarl's new opinion of himself as warrior-king. So he urged action; bit by bit, and the tension was tangible. Eudoxia urged us not to be drawn into the fantasy. Modi and Ćthelwyn just drank, ate and whored.  And the future of the realm tottered on the word of the last Lothbrók.

But my inaction was pressing. Despite my power, I was dependent on this child, and everyday I did not commit was a day I shrunk in his eyes and became less the warrior-poet and more the parasite. All I could do, was urge war, and gather the troops to save myself from exile. This ugly responsibility hung on me like a shroud, everyday, as I mustered the second-sons, sell-swords and low-born chancers who were to be our raiding party. From across Sweden came those with little else, anxious to earn a place in this world with the last Lothbrók's raiding army. I suppose there was a precedent. The King of all Sweden had given his consent, and we sailed East as the new year broke, to raid the pagan peoples of the Baltic coast.



The battles were short and empty, shattering unprepared warriors with the most over-fed and over-armed men-at-arms in Sweden, taking plunder and slaves and burning and killing across the coast. The boy was sickly, the boy was scared, and his spirits dragged behind the ships; intimidated by the drunken older men, increasingly he clug to me, and increasingly his leal and loyal men grew to hate me, and thickly they surrounded him at all times.

We were more thorough in Ösel, where the native people were more prepared for raids, and went to the effort of capturing many villages and demanding hostages during our stay, hiring some of the more pragmatic Saaremaa as brothers in our reaving the mighty tribes of Kurs and Lettigallia, taking grain and gold and bear and wives and establishing ourselves. Our overall commander, a brother of the King, had decided to capture Ösel fully and wholly with a Ţegn to collect taxes and manage the ports as both a trading centre for Eastern goods and a position from which to raid the Baltic more easily. But who? It was Eudoxia who explained the mess to me, as day upon day Ösel buzzed with ships returning fat and lean ships setting sail for Lettigallia to delve further into inland beyond the captured coastal villages, battling with the Lettigallian barbarians and the hall buzzed with posturing and politicking. The brother wished to pass Ösel into the royal demense, to bolster his family in the endless struggle of Swedish politics - the other great Jarls, and their representatives and greater vassals, opposed the opposibility of allowing the throne too much power. Sweden's monarchy was elective, and the great Jarls chose those they thought would be too weak to interfere with their plans; those who would be strong enought to protect them from greater Jarls; those who would not be strong enough to hold the throne which would drag their dynasty down with it - anything but a King who could rule them. Thus, electioneering dominated the Hall, as Ösel would be conferred by a witan of great Jarls.

My name has been thrown around. Some, honestly; to see one of the organisers of the raids rewarded, and the last scion of a a great dynasty riased from the dirt and from dependence. Most, to prevent any powerful rival holding Ösel and whatever was left of Lettigallia to rule. It was a sure thing, of course, once the buzz has picked it up, I was an ideal candidate. With much aplomb the weight of Ösel was tied around my neck and I was thrown into the sea, a thousand miles across Europe from my true possessions.

I am now the supreme overlord of a frozen island of pagan barbarians and the burnt coastal villages of the Lettigallians, mightiest of the Baltic tribes, whose villages I have spent months raiding. My friendship of a mighty Jarl has amounted to this.



I am invested by a letter I can't read, and must form some modicum of a government. Of course, these Swedes are a nest of vipers and traitors, so I name my old comrades and true born Vćringjar to the high seats of my council; taking Eudoxia, a Byzantine concubine, as my the Steward of my household as cover for her espionage and Modi, a dimwitted bull, as the Marshal of my Armies. I have sent word to the Papacy asserting my investiture of Ćthelwyn, known heretic and notorious sinner, as Bishop of the new Christian diocese of Ösel-Lettigallia.

As overseer and tax-collector, a local pragmatist and merchant, Numesis, was named as Steward of the Realm, and the office of Chancellor was given to the old Chief, Vesteke, to aid interactions with the natives of Saaremaa. Vesteke, assured of a continuation of power and no undue conflicts with his traditional culture, was quick to pursue reconciliation as a contrast to the endless struggle he had waged against Viking raider and the power of the other Baltic tribes, particularaly his old enemies in Lettigallia.



With this motley government of heretics, pagan barbarians, whores and half-wits, I am given the task of completing the conquest of the Lettigallians, protecting my fledgling realms from the barbarian tribes, the Princes of the Rus, the machinations of the Swedish Jarls, the Papacy's disapproval and establishing my dynasty to reclaim my true lands. Numesis is quick to report that Lettigallia will contribrute nothing to the treasury for some time; those areas we control being pillaged, the rest openly defiant. Though the King's brother had achieved a Treaty with the Chief of Lettigalli cedeing the province and investing me with it, the majority of Lettigallians were in open revolt. Ösel had been brought to heel easily; many of the raiders who had settled had settled there, and the island was small enough to oversee. From here, our armies and taxes would have to be raised for now.

With a letter, came another change. The Prince of Epieros had sent word; he desired Eudoxia's hand in marriage, as she had recently inherited some northern lands in his demense, and that marriage would cement them to the ownership of the Prince The Prince, bizarrely, genuinely did propose this marriage, prompting the in-game marriage. The screeshot died in a roll-back - hence some of the messy dates in these updates, some of the shots are actually ret-conned.. I refused, and took Eudoxia as my own bride, confident in the long simmering of our relationship, and this was proof of her nobility. From the Prince, I demanded only a payment of gold to cede our Greek lands to him. This money would fund the early growth of Ösel-Lettigallia, and encouraging more of our raiders to remain as my subjects, as bit by bit they slunk home with their wealth.

Our presumptuous union displeased the All-Father greatly, it seemed:



But soon beautiful Eudoxia bloomed in pregnancy again. Her state did not prevent her energy in other matters; gathering informers among the new maids raised from the Saaremaa mud and their flirtations with our warrior guests; giving us an impression of the world at large. Sweden was already in a state of civil-war, and we refused the King's demand we send our paltry forces to die suppressing the Jarl of Uppsala's revolt. In our state of dependency, I was content to be a leech if I could not be a Lothbrók.  Northumbria, in England, has revolted for a Saxon claimant and been defeated, being added to the royal demense of the Bastard, with Westmorland being lost to the King of Scotland. My old realm slips further into the mist with every merchant that arrives in Ösel with tight pockets and a loose tongue.



As one friendship grew deeper, another crumbled. Dissatisfied with his lot, Modi demanded gold to fund his own raids. Anxious not to antagonise the hostile Baltic tribes any further, I refused. Modi raged that I was no Viking and no brother of his. Within a few days, he had left looking for more affluent realms in which he could sell his muscles and rage. A traitorous, scheming Lettigallin turncoat, exiled by the Chief for his attempts at usurption, had come to offer his skills and eagerness for vengeance.  A bitter wreck and murderer without foibles, he was a man after my own heart and I rose him to Marshal immediately, eager to see how he'd perform against his own rival. He and Ćthelwyn were tasked with discussing a fyrd along Anglisc lines, preparing an army for our defence.



Of course, Lettigallia remained a problem. One cannot question the Pagan's grasp of logic at this moment....





Edit: Bug-squashing done, and 'Vćringjar' culture has been added (combining Latin, Greek, Saxon and Norse cultures), as has a creatable Kingdom of the Öster-Vćringjar. Intrigue should be just around the corner for our hero, should he be able to contend with the more powerful Lettigallian menace!





« Last Edit: September 13, 2011, 01:26:12 pm by Mr. Consideration »
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

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Offline Plank of Wood

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #8 on: September 13, 2011, 02:30:56 pm »
Suddenly, the AI herps and the Holy Roman Empire DoWs.

Calling it right now.
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Offline Gnoll

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #9 on: September 13, 2011, 04:33:09 pm »
Suddenly, the AI herps and Castille DoWs.

Calling it right now.


Fixed?
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Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #10 on: September 15, 2011, 12:18:17 am »
In one of the play-tests for this game the Duchy of Aquitaine was inherited by the Principality of Polotsk..
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #11 on: September 15, 2011, 01:24:19 pm »
In one of the play-tests for this game the Duchy of Aquitaine was inherited by the Principality of Polotsk..

I don't... how does that... what?
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Offline Doctor Z

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #12 on: September 15, 2011, 07:39:25 pm »
Russian duke marries Agnes, duke of Aquitaine kicks it, woo French/Russian dukedom.

Offline Mr. Consideration

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #13 on: September 16, 2011, 01:10:48 am »
It's a really common occurence, actually, and the Aquitanian inheritance is basically the most powerful realm in France - far superior to the French royal demense. In real life, most of the Western French Dukedoms (Aquitaine, Anjou, Poitou, Gascony) were inherited by the Angevin Kings of England from Henry II onwards. Luckily for the French Kings, they were constantly fighting civil wars and rebelling for the throne (John Angevin, The Young King) and going on crusade and being captured by Austrians (Richard the Lionheart) allowing powerful French monarchs like Phillip Augustus and Louis IX to capture alot of these territories (particularaly the Vexin between Rouen, capital of Normandy, and Paris - and the great castle of Richard the Lionheart, Château Gaillard) and defeat their other rivals such as the heretical Dukes of Toulouse, the Kingdom of Aragon and the Counts of Flandres, giving them the freedom to fight with England for a hundred years.

The next update should be up today but then again the Paradox sale has prompted me to buy Senguko...

EDIT: The last play session contains 163 screenshots, so it make be a veeery-long or multiple-post update.
« Last Edit: September 16, 2011, 02:13:59 am by Mr. Consideration »
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #14 on: September 17, 2011, 06:51:30 am »
Prepare for 162 pictures of Mr. C adjusting tax sliders and bastard son events.
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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #15 on: September 17, 2011, 09:36:57 am »
Not to mention EVERYONE HE HASN'T MET YET DECLARING WAR ON EACH OTHER.

It's happening.
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Re: The Legacy of the Loins of Lothbrók - A Crusader Kings AAR
« Reply #16 on: September 17, 2011, 12:48:15 pm »
Yeah, most of them are me informing you about children's education. It seemed noteworthy at the time, but I think we can give it a miss!
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." - Oscar Wilde

Yes, I am aware of the irony.