[i]Hi Facepunch, I didn't really know where to post this so here it is. For those who are unfamiliar, an AAR is an After Action Report, where basically I will be playing a scenario of Medieval 2 Total War, from start to finish, and I will be posting the inner story lines as a novel-esque series.
[/i]
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1-[url]http://www.facepunch.com/showthread.php?t=1215694&p=37890056&viewfull=1#post37890056[/url]
Chapter 2-[url]http://www.facepunch.com/showthread.php?t=1215694&p=37917489&viewfull=1#post37917489[/url]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/WOLks.jpg[/img]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/PzlHv.jpg[/img]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/RM0qh.jpg[/img]
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[img]http://i.imgur.com/HNNmp.gif[/img]
The late king was brought down to the oaken pyre by a retinue of thirty-four knights, who had lifted the old man in a small longboat. The air was gray and the winds gave a slight breeze that descended on the funeral below. A shield bearer, a young squire no doubt, tripped on a small log that presided on the left side of the road. The ancestral shield of the ole’ Viking kings had nearly touched the mud. The gold wolf that was encircled by a ring of crimson however was caught, and it shined despite the cold gray. The occasion had taken place outside, within a small forest set aside near some mountains. A blue brook snaked its way through the woods as the trees swayed in the wind.
It was a grim affair for the young prince, aptly named Grim as well. He stood next to his father, the newly crowned King Charles of Denmark, who wore not a crown, but a shroud of sorrow and sadness for the departure of his own father. To the left of Grim were his brothers.
There was tall and handsome Godafrid, and while several years his younger, was muscular and strong. His brown hair flew with the wind, and he held a solemn look. Even smaller was young Niels, who looked meek and truly did look like an eleven-year-old child. Niels’s hair flew back, and tears had welted in his eyes.
Down the procession were a multitude of other people; lords and ladies of noble houses, diplomats from other lands, and many small folk who had made their way to witness the departure of their king into the new world. Grim could make out the banners of House Lokken, whose sigil of a gray owl seemed fitting for the occasion. He witnessed countless other nobles and bannermen of the late king.
The knights laid the king in his pyre, and a herald came out from small opening within the rocks above, the herald’s arms resting slightly on a priest. The priest was an old, gray man whose hair was slightly ruffled under his hat. A cross was etched into the front of the priest’s garb, and he held a golden scepter that was adorned with emeralds and rubies.
The herald cleared his voice and began the first rites of the funeral. “Today, we mourn the passing of an old king, and celebrate the rise of a new one. Hail King Knud, Lord of Arhuus and the Warden of the North. Long may he live.”
The call was returned, loud and clear, with a hundred voices chiming in.
“And now,” the herald beckoned Charles, “rise. And now we anoint thee in the name of the Lord, and christened thee as Charles, King of the Danes. Hail King Charles, the Lord of Arhuus and the Warden of the North. Long may he reign!”
And it was this time that the call was returned by a thousands knights and a hundred noble lords. And somewhere there, Yrsa was smiling at him.
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[img]http://i.imgur.com/J1o6k.gif[/img]
[i]15 years later…[/i]
“They say the only thing you can’t do to the man is make fun of his wife, or else he beat ya’ with a warhammer, cut your arse with an axe, and then give you to the dogs for a good chewing. That’s a man that’s going to be king one day, and I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem to be right.”
“Yorrik, the only thing you know is how to get pox and then how to be a good idiot.”
“When your corpse is lying there on the field, don’t expect me to be the one that picks it up, Rofghen.”
“And who’ll be picking up your corpse-”
A shadow came through the tent opening.
“IF YOU TWO DON'T WANT BOTH YOUR HEADS ON PIKES BY THE END OF THE DAY, YOU’D BEST BE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW. ‘TIS INSPECTION.”
And with that the two captains raced outside, blazing into the rising sun, helms slightly off center, their armor a bit rusty, and sweat flew down their faces. They hurried into formation as a set of knights came down the columns of spearmen and huscrals.
“What’s with the sudden inspection? I was never given a report on this,” Yorrik whispered.
“I know not but… look!”
“What is it Rofghen, I can’t see a damn thing in this helm.”
“The good lord’s son is here. You can guess which one.”
“Don’t tell me; the half wit prince?”
“Try again.”
A call came from one of the knights. “Both of ye, shut your mouths in the name of the honorable lord. All of ye, look up and hail your prince. Hail Prince Godafrid, the Warden of the South.”
And it was there in the midsummer day with the sun shining down, though cool enough, that Prince Godafrid had marched a company of several hundred men including a retinue of thirty knights to meet up with the forces of Captain Skaal. Godafrid had sailed from Arhuus in Denmark and arrived on the banks of Normandy. He was escorted there by a company of Englishmen, where then Godafrid had been sent on several campaigns in the Northern European conflict. It was a recent and short notice that lead Godafrid south, back to his fiefs, to assist in the defense of Bern from a triple attack led by Milan and the Holy Roman Empire.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/Wap4R.jpg[/img]
Godafrid slipped down from his horse, removing his shining helm. His brown, flowing hair danced with the wind, and his eyes darted for a moment, staring at the tents that had been erected a week prior, and then at the gaunt, tired men. A second man leaped off of his horse; a mercenary captain as noted by the gray attire that the man wore, as opposed to the brown and white patterns of the Denmark colors.
“My liege, perhaps we should retire to the main tents, and relay the news to the captains?”
“Nay Donnaden, I first speak to the men,” Godafrid turned to look at the men, his voice radiated with power and regality. “You all know who I am, the prince of Denmark, second in line to the kingship, and all titles and titles and titles. You know who I am, but I’ve come here not to tell you about how the Romans had conquered Europe long ago, nor am I here to comfort you. We ride, yes we, for I am no lord that hides in his castle. We ride to the defense of the kingdom and its glory; we ride to assist the poor and innocent; to save your wives and children, and to secure the blessings of God. I ride as a warrior like you, and we shall all die as warriors if need be.”
The mercenary captain leaned closer to the prince, barely whispering. “Twas a good speech my liege, though we should retire to the tent. We’ve rode long and there is news that must attended to.”
“Of course Donnaden,” turning to the men, he cried out, “You are dismissed. We ride in a week back north. We fight the enemy in home lands.” And with that, the prince and his retinue departed, entering a large tent in the center of the camp.
Yorrik stared at Rofghen, his eyes bulged and he scratched his beard for a moment. Then he burst out laughing.
“Twas a good speech indeed, my damn ass.”
“Yorrik, you show more respect for the prince. He’s not the half-wit prince anyway. Be glad that the crown didn’t send him to lead, less we’d all be dead. Godafrid is a good commander; he knows what he’s doing.”
“Except when it comes to women. Did you hear the story of how he-”
“Leave it Yorrik, we’ll speak of that tale later. Let’s head back to our tents and drink ourselves to sleep.”
“Aye, aye.”
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[img]http://i.imgur.com/7mLSM.jpg[/img]
“My liege,” Ingeborg nodded; “Donnaden,” he nodded again. “And who’s this, ah but Cognak, veteran of the Battle of Paris I see.”
“You were not that much older than myself back then; still not that much older now,” Cognak snarled angrily.
“Perhaps not, but it makes no difference,” Igneborg turned toward the prince. “I bring news from your father’s spies in the far east, as well as some news from the Papal States. Things are looking ever away from our favor.”
“What news do you have, assassin?” Cried out Donnaden.
The assassin handed a note to the mercenary captain. He read it out loud.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/X7i26.jpg[/img]
Prince Godafrid listened, his eyes in brimming curiosity. “It matters naught in the present state of things, and yet should these raiders come close to our shores, then we have little option but to face them on the field. However, Antioch is half a world away, and time is at our favor. The Pope shall call a crusade on these raiders soon, or at least logic would say.”
Igneborg shifted slightly uneasily. His eyes darted around the tent, and then he cleared his voice. “My liege, the Pope is dead; his favor with us now into the grave.”
“What do you mean?” Roared Cognak.
“Read this, a note from the Papal States, signed by the arch bishop.”
[img]http://i.imgur.com/Ce6O4.jpg[/img]
Prince Godafrid stared for a moment. “This is sorrowful news, and yet what of the Papal election? What has been their verdict?”
Igneborg took a few steps back. “We had but one vote within the assembly, a cardinal by the name of Leofidus who voted for our English allies. And yet… the title came down to another…”
“Who?”
[img]http://i.imgur.com/CZFk0.jpg[/img]
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[img]http://i.imgur.com/p9gV8.gif[/img]
Red denotes Danish territories.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/IZX9n.jpg[/img]
To the north was the capital of French-Denmark, the city of Rheims. The roads were bustling with activity, and soldiers who had been garrisoned in its walls marched around, keeping watch on its high towers and scouting out for dangers below. The common folk were up and about, selling their wares and bread on the stone cobble streets, while peddlers ran around screaming of their goods. Merchants could be seen in the local guild, discussing about the new trade lanes that had open up with Spain.*
Within the walls of the imperial castle lay a dark place. The lights were all dim, and dust littered the floors. The banners and sigils of the mighty royal crown hung up, yet desolate within the gaunt halls. Two guards were stationed within the castle, though near the doors. Their faces reflected the atmosphere of the keep; hollow and empty. Within the inner sanction sat a man whose face was hidden by a hood, and yet he wore the armor of a mighty prince. And then, he cackled, and it was apparent that he was speaking to another individual.
There in the throne room was the hooded man, and the other was but an older, gray haired man, whose face was red with tears and his knees bent in a bow. Several guards looked in at the proceedings, others remained vigilant and at guard.
“Do you know who I am?” laughed the voice of the man within the hood. “I am the only the man that holds the flimsy little rope that is your life.”
“My liege, I had no intent of-”
“Of speaking such salacious things. Oh I know,” the hooded man laughed again, his voice quivering and accenting every few words. “Now what was it that I was to do with you?”
“My lord, I-I mean-”
“Your LIEGE you damn insolent son of a whore’s whore. My father may be alive but I am the true face of nobility, the true hand of rule, and the mightiest fist of justice. Your… your… what was it? Oh it is time for my meal, I do hope you enjoy wine.”
“My liege, what do you mean?”
“Such salacious things, oh how you folk like to gossip.”
“My li-”
“Shut your damn mouth. Varrenus, bring the man some wine, and I mean lots of it.”
“Yes my king.”
“A good lad you are; you,” the hooded said again, his finger pointing at the old man. “I am Grim, surely you know that. And I do mean that is my name, though your spot is a bit grim right now.” At that, he gave another roaring laugh, his face turning into a scowl immediately afterwards.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/aZwzb.jpg[/img]
“Oh but look at that, the wine is here. You may join in my feast. Borcas, prepare the man.”
“With honor your grace.”
The guard motioned for two others to come. They approached the bawling man, and held him up. One guard took out a sword, and sliced the man’s right hand off. The other broke the man’s two legs. The old man screamed in pain and then passed out, his head smashing into the floor below.
“Oh well, more wine for me,” the prince laughed. “Guards, see yourselves out.”
The guards left the room, leaving the prince by himself for a while. A shadow approached from the door, and a slender figure emerged. Dark hair fell to the shoulders, and wide eyes came through the doorframe. The woman held her figure in a silver dress that floated like a cloud on the bottom. Her fingers reached the door and then she emerged in full toward Grim. She took a look at him, and he gazed at her, and in that moment they both laughed.
“Come Yrsa, to the chambers.”
Grim stared for a moment, spying out to see that no guards were looking. His hand reached for the woman’s hand, Yrsa was her name. They entered a small room that laid on the opposite end of the throne room. The room was tiny, cramped, and yet there was a long stairway the seemed to descend for eternity. The stairs were dimly lit, with torches that blazed distantly from one another. The pair made their climb down, into the dusty chambers below.
When they arrived at the bottom, they were greeted with a large room, with a roaring fireplace, bookshelves everywhere, carpets and great hides and banners laid strung about. Grim laid his hands on Yrsa’s hips, kissing her once, then twice again.*
“I cannot keep that façade for long, and while father commands it so that we instill fear on the populace, it is not my nature to be of that cruel animal,” Grim cried, his face gaunt and hollow, real and truthful. “And yet the look of thy face but hold my own faith in heaven, for thus it is known, and you are all I would need.”
[img]http://i.imgur.com/9hVVU.jpg[/img]
“How long has it been my knight? How long since?” Yrsa whispered, her finger stroking Grim’s face. Her face held a playful smile, and yet her pale face was cold within the light.
“Since you and I were born. How we’d long, I remember, and yet your brother, my father, would not allow,” Grim remembered, his face forming a frown.
“And yet here we stand, in union, together, and by God’s grace-”
“By God’s grace, you and I would be thrown to the rivers and drowned for our sins. And yet, God’s light and justice has not touched us. Come, sit by the fire.”
Grim led Yrsa to the fire, both of them sitting down on a bearskin. Grim’s hands played with Yrsa’s dark hair, as she stared into the fire.
“My father wishes to send me to assist Godafrid. I would have to journey west you know,” Grim announced quietly.
“And at the same time, your father would have you play the act of a madman,” Yrsa replied just as silently.
“If anyone is the madman, it is Niels. The doctors say that his consumption of toads and some poultice of mushrooms, beetle juice, and the ear of some unlucky French lad have made Niels warped into some state of mind.”
They both laughed, and for a moment the world did not exist, instead it was two, alone, within the enclosure of their own embrace. It was in that fire that they remembered a time long ago, when their love was, and still was forbidden. Yrsa, the youngest sister of King Charles, and yet the lover of his son Prince Grim, the cruelest irony, for both Grim and Yrsa were the same age, only months apart, and yet she was his aunt, he her nephew.*
And yet within that secret room of theirs, all was forgotten: the facades, the lies, the sins and the likes were all forgotten, and instead what reigned within the fireplace was the embrace they shared that night.
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Alright so yeah, that is the AAR for now. It hasn't been that far into the game, and I'll be constantly updating, and if you liked this please comment. I'm not an author, I'm just writing for fun and because I thought this was interesting idea. Hope you guys enjoyed it.
TWCenter style. Great job mate! We should have more. But seeing as subforums isn't on the table, it gets difficult.
[editline]4th October 2012[/editline]
Please rebuild the Kalmar union and kill off the brits. if it wasn't for them meddling children, Danish would be the international tongue by now.
Added a new map; hopefully an update tomorrow.
[url]http://i.imgur.com/RM0qh.jpg[/url]
Ah, much better then the usual poorly written dreck that TWC dregs up. One thing, I'd add more screenshots and the like, or at least crop the minimap from campaign instead of the map you use now. And try and make it more clear when you expand, apparently it skips straight from Danish funeral to half of Western Europe wearing horned helmets and having impossible to pronounce names.
[QUOTE=DaysBefore;37915120]Ah, much better then the usual poorly written dreck that TWC dregs up. One thing, I'd add more screenshots and the like, or at least crop the minimap from campaign instead of the map you use now. And try and make it more clear when you expand, apparently it skips straight from Danish funeral to half of Western Europe wearing horned helmets and having impossible to pronounce names.[/QUOTE]
Yeah from now and forward, I'll start each chapter with where the main characters have moved, and I'll be adding a lot more screenshots. Thanks for the input!
[img]http://i.imgur.com/p9gV8.gif[/img]
[img]http://i.imgur.com/IZX9n.jpg[/img]
To the north was the capital of French-Denmark, the city of Rheims. The roads were bustling with activity, and soldiers who had been garrisoned in its walls marched around, keeping watch on its high towers and scouting out for dangers below. The common folk were up and about, selling their wares and bread on the stone cobble streets, while peddlers ran around screaming of their goods. Merchants could be seen in the local guild, discussing about the new trade lanes that had open up with Spain.
Within the walls of the imperial castle lay a dark place. The lights were all dim, and dust littered the floors. The banners and sigils of the mighty royal crown hung up, yet desolate within the gaunt halls. Two guards were stationed within the castle, though near the doors. Their faces reflected the atmosphere of the keep; hollow and empty. Within the inner sanction sat a man whose face was hidden by a hood, and yet he wore the armor of a mighty prince. And then, he cackled, and it was apparent that he was speaking to another individual.
There in the throne room was the hooded man, and the other was but an older, gray haired man, whose face was red with tears and his knees bent in a bow. Several guards looked in at the proceedings, others remained vigilant and at guard.
“Do you know who I am?” laughed the voice of the man within the hood. “I am the only the man that holds the flimsy little rope that is your life.”
“My liege, I had no intent of-”
“Of speaking such salacious things. Oh I know,” the hooded man laughed again, his voice quivering and accenting every few words. “Now what was it that I was to do with you?”
“My lord, I-I mean-”
“Your LIEGE you damn insolent son of a whore’s whore. My father may be alive but I am the true face of nobility, the true hand of rule, and the mightiest fist of justice. Your… your… what was it? Oh it is time for my meal, I do hope you enjoy wine.”
“My liege, what do you mean?”
“Such salacious things, oh how you folk like to gossip.”
“My li-”
“Shut your damn mouth. Varrenus, bring the man some wine, and I mean lots of it.”
“Yes my king.”
“A good lad you are; you,” the hooded said again, his finger pointing at the old man. “I am Grim, surely you know that. And I do mean that is my name, though your spot is a bit grim right now.” At that, he gave another roaring laugh, his face turning into a scowl immediately afterwards.
[img]http://i.imgur.com/aZwzb.jpg[/img]
“Oh but look at that, the wine is here. You may join in my feast. Borcas, prepare the man.”
“With honor your grace.”
The guard motioned for two others to come. They approached the bawling man, and held him up. One guard took out a sword, and sliced the man’s right hand off. The other broke the man’s two legs. The old man screamed in pain and then passed out, his head smashing into the floor below.
“Oh well, more wine for me,” the prince laughed. “Guards, see yourselves out.”
The guards left the room, leaving the prince by himself for a while. A shadow approached from the door, and a slender figure emerged. Dark hair fell to the shoulders, and wide eyes came through the doorframe. The woman held her figure in a silver dress that floated like a cloud on the bottom. Her fingers reached the door and then she emerged in full toward Grim. She took a look at him, and he gazed at her, and in that moment they both laughed.
“Come Yrsa, to the chambers.”
Grim stared for a moment, spying out to see that no guards were looking. His hand reached for the woman’s hand, Yrsa was her name. They entered a small room that laid on the opposite end of the throne room. The room was tiny, cramped, and yet there was a long stairway the seemed to descend for eternity. The stairs were dimly lit, with torches that blazed distantly from one another. The pair made their climb down, into the dusty chambers below.
When they arrived at the bottom, they were greeted with a large room, with a roaring fireplace, bookshelves everywhere, carpets and great hides and banners laid strung about. Grim laid his hands on Yrsa’s hips, kissing her once, then twice again.
“I cannot keep that façade for long, and while father commands it so that we instill fear on the populace, it is not my nature to be of that cruel animal,” Grim cried, his face gaunt and hollow, real and truthful. “And yet the look of thy face but hold my own faith in heaven, for thus it is known, and you are all I would need.”
[img]http://i.imgur.com/9hVVU.jpg[/img]
“How long has it been my knight? How long since?” Yrsa whispered, her finger stroking Grim’s face. Her face held a playful smile, and yet her pale face was cold within the light.
“Since you and I were born. How we’d long, I remember, and yet your brother, my father, would not allow,” Grim remembered, his face forming a frown.
“And yet here we stand, in union, together, and by God’s grace-”
“By God’s grace, you and I would be thrown to the rivers and drowned for our sins. And yet, God’s light and justice has not touched us. Come, sit by the fire.”
Grim led Yrsa to the fire, both of them sitting down on a bearskin. Grim’s hands played with Yrsa’s dark hair, as she stared into the fire.
“My father wishes to send me to assist Godafrid. I would have to journey west you know,” Grim announced quietly.
“And at the same time, your father would have you play the act of a madman,” Yrsa replied just as silently.
“If anyone is the madman, it is Niels. The doctors say that his consumption of toads and some poultice of mushrooms, beetle juice, and the ear of some unlucky French lad have made Niels warped into some state of mind.”
They both laughed, and for a moment the world did not exist, instead it was two, alone, within the enclosure of their own embrace. It was in that fire that they remembered a time long ago, when their love was, and still was forbidden. Yrsa, the youngest sister of King Charles, and yet the lover of his son Prince Grim, the cruelest irony, for both Grim and Yrsa were the same age, only months apart, and yet she was his aunt, he her nephew.
And yet within that secret room of theirs, all was forgotten: the facades, the lies, the sins and the likes were all forgotten, and instead what reigned within the fireplace was the embrace they shared that night.
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(Not a lot of screenshots, just some character building and revealing. It will get more action packed and filled with fighting soon, and I don't have a lot of time so sorry. I will add this to the OP too if anyone likes long text files)
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