The Medieval Ages (IC Main Thread)

[Kroando]

The Year - 1003 AD
Mon- Jan/Feb
Tues- Mar
Wed - Apr
Thur - May/June
Fri - July/Aug
Sat - Sept/Oct
Sun - Nov/Dec

Current Conflicts and Other Threads
-OOC - viewtopic.php?f=5&t=187554
-Factbooks - viewtopic.php?f=5&t=188592
-Kroando-Massalia War - viewtopic.php?f=5&t=189363
-The Murder of Queen Dartarion - viewtopic.php?f=5&t=190754


FULL SIZE - http://img31.imageshack.us/img31/3143/mapne.png

Kroando - Burgundy
Kyska - Green Spain
Brundus - Brown Spain
NPC Castille - Yellow in Spain
Heirlosoma - Light Blue at Constantinople
Mongol - Brown in mid east
Imperial Overlord - Red in germany
Naretion - Gold in England
Wacha - Teal in England
Nassau-Castille - Blue in Southern France
Woodfin - Light green, corsica and sardinia and italy
Khaz - Pink in South Anatolia
Virenna - Turquoise along Adriatic
NPC Toulouse - Gray Southern France
Atalia - Yellow in Far East
Crimenia - Turquoise-Green in Finalnd
Yakostan - Blue-Gray in Balkans
Nubia - Purple

All other Gray NPCs are defunct players but still exist as they were left. They can be interacted with, or taken over by new players.

------------------------------

Arthon, The White Citadel
Throne Room, Court Being Held

The King strode down the tall oaken staircase, the chill of January touching even he in his sturdy keep.

"His Grace King Mardoc of Highrock of House Dartarion, first of his name, King of the Kroandons, Lord of Arthon and All of Its Realms," shouted the fat squire to the crowded throne room, packed full of lords and ladies seeking to air their greivances. Lord of Arthon my ass... snarled the King under his breath. I took this damned rock four years ago, butchered the boy king and his mother and sisters and for what? So that I could sit on a wretched throne of gold? "I'm glad I had it melted down," he mumbled as he looked at the grusome throne he had crafted for himself - built of human skulls, sitting high above the table of councilors. Curs... he thought as he stepped upon one skull after another to make his ascent.

As the petty lord before him began his rambling, going on about a blight, or perhaps a band of brigands, Mardoc could not help but gaze at the seven shields about the throne room - each adorned with a longsword of glistening steel. Each representing one of the great houses of the Kingdom of Arthon. He had slain three of those lords - including the former king on the walls of the very castle he sat in. Mardoc the bloody... Mardoc the savage they call me. He narrowed his eyes at the names of the five great houses that still resisted him, whom he had treated with two years past after his whelp of a brother had let his army be surrounded and cut off during the seige of Greenspur - the largest of the cities - and of the castles that the Arthonians still offered against him. Sure Dalgard and Prespon had strong keeps - but it was at Greenspur that his horde had been stopped - 3,000 men dying or fleeing that day.

He snapped back into reality, looking down to his First Minister to answer the lord's request. The old man, a one handed Arthonian with the scars of a pox upon his face stood, stroking his thin white beard. "His Grace will see to your request in due time Lord Teran... the Low People are a savage one - but they owe fealty to Highrock the same as their better bread cousins. Ha... Mardoc laughed at that. The Low People were the remanents of the tribes of the southern Pyrennes that Mardoc's father had scattered in his wars. That was before Mardoc of Highrock was king - when his father was a mere Warlord of a band of barbarians. The Low People were no worse bread than the Kroandons - they were just slower. If Mardoc's dead father, Maison Dartarian had moved his horde a day later and not sacked the lands of the 'Low People' - it would be one of them on the throne of the Arthonian Kings. The old man continued. "For now, we can spare one hundred men on horse to help patrol the Westlands, and fifty carpentars and thrice the slaves to build new pallisades at the foot of the mountain... we may call the banners in time, and we expect to see the Morning Star of the Terans first amongst them."

Lord Teran gave a slight smile and knelt. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Mardoc did not trust Teran any more than he did when he had first met the man. When he first marched through the Pyrennes six years past, with is twenty thousand swords, Lord Teran held the pass to Arthon. Mardoc, in his usual blunt manner, offered to let him keep his head if he laid down his swords. Teran had a counter offer - his three thousand would join the horde for the lands of his neighbor, the Duke of Barston (now dead). Mardoc had not known that this land possessed a gold mine, bountiful fields and lush forest - but nevertheless, made the deal. Now Teran was the most powerful Arthonian lord that had pledged fealty to the new king. Mardoc hated him, but knew he would be needed to bring the other Arthonian lords into the check.

"Minister Osire... I hope you and the rest of the council can handle these small matters. I will be in the court yard practicing my sword. My brothers arrive on the 'morrow and I suspect theyll be wondering if sitting on that throne had made me too fat to weild a blade," Mardoc fastened the leather straps of his plate armor tighter, lifting his large longsword out of Kharne's uplifted hand - the blade looking a mere dagger in the gian'ts palm. Standing near seven foot and weighing over three hundred pounds, he made even the robust king look a dwarf - no wonder he was known as The Beast throughout every Arthonian hovel and Kroandon village from Arthon to the Great Sea. "Kharne... tell me again of the Moors of the south... is it true they pray five times a day to only one god?"

[Kazhanistan]

OOC: Sorry my opening posts tend to be long, I'll keep my future posts under a few paragraphs

Central Administration Office, Antalya
Emir Baibar's Office

The scent of exotic Persian incense swirled about the Emir's desk as the cool Mediterranean breeze drifted through the open window. Working diligently on securing another shipment of cypress lumber from a petty Lebanese prince was Baibar himself. As Baibar began to stamp his official seal onto the letter his trusted advisor, Abram Ben-Abbas, peaked his head through the door.
"Still working on that order?"
"Yeah, the bastard keeps gouging me for more money"
"You've been working pretty hard lately, maybe you should take a break"
"No, if we are going to expand our fleet we are going to need more wood, we live in a desert in case you didn't notice."
"You're very irritable today, all of this stress has got to your head, here come with me, we'll take a short walk"
Emir Baibar looked down at his letter, he had been balancing budgets, collecting taxes, managing a fleet and army nonstop for the past few weeks, the fatigue of constant work was beginning to catch up with him.
"I suppose you're right" said the Emir as he stood up and put out the burning incense.
"Good, I'll have your horse ready at the front entrance" Replied Abram as motioned to a young servant.

The Emir strolled down the marble walk way of the administration building, scores of different offices lined the hallways. The Emir and his predecessors created a complicated yet efficient Bureaucratic system for managing the Anatolian economy and government budget. Finally The Emir reached the front entrance, there waiting in the court yard was Abram and a servant holding Baibar's horse. As the Emir mounted onto his horse he asked Abram:
"Where shall we be going today my trusted advisor?"
"How about a few laps around the courtyard my lord?"
displeased at his answer Baibar called back:
"I think we should venture into the city, to the market district."
A grim look came over Abrams face.
"I... I don't think that is a good idea liege"
"Nonsense, it's my city and I will go where I please."
Abram stumbled around trying to think of another excuse, but before any words could come out, the Emir had raced into the city. after chasing him for a few hundred yards they were both halted by a horrible stench. Covering his face with his Shemagh Baibar called back to Abram:
"What is that horrific smell?"
Pointing forward Abram replied:
"This, I warned you about it"

The crowded streets were lined with sewage and animal carcasses. Children covered in grime wandered about the city barefoot, homeless at every corner begged for food to put into their emaciated stomachs. A sinking feeling of despair came over Baibar, these were his people, he was supposed to care for them but he too consumed with greed to fulfill his duty as their Emir. Baibar dismounted from his horse and knelt down to an old man sitting on the side of the street.
"Why is there so much suffering here?"
The old man squinted at the Emir's face, his steely gaze was punctuated by his hollow eyes and sagging face.
"Heh heh, why you're the Emir! Why don't you tell me!"
The old man cracked a toothless smile and continued with disgust:
"It all started when your father let in all those filthy immigrants! They clogged up the streets with their numberless spawn and brought with them their heretical customs."
Abram walked over to Baibar and whispered into his ear:
"You need to wrap this up we're drawing unwanted attention!"
Ignoring Abram, Baibar asked the man:
"So what you're saying is we have too many people living here?"
The old man glanced around at the bustling crowd and then looked back at the Emir nodding his head.
"Right, thank you sir.... here for your time"
The Emir pulled out a large pouch of gold coins and handed it to him. The old man's eyes lit up at the sight of so much money.
"Why thank you my lord!"
The Emir smiled back at the man as he climbed onto his horse and rode back to the office with Abram. When they finally arrived in the courtyard Abram asked Baibar:
"What did that old fool tell you?"
"Just some advice..."
"Well I'm the only person you should be taking advice from, I would suggest not speaking with the populace for they lack the education and acumen to understand the complicated interworkings of government administration."
"Right, and I am the Emir, I have the final word on everything, when I want your advice on something I'll ask for it now go home."
Taken back by Baibar's anger Abram left the court yard.

Meanwhile the Emir was back in his office, formulating a plan to relieve Antalya's population problem.
"Hmm, expanding the city is out of the question the surrounding farmlands are too fertile to build over"
Baibar looked over the map carefully, until finally an idea struck. The emir began sifting through the budgets and drawing up plans for his new operation.

[Nassau-Castille]

Castle Vieuxpierre, Marseille
Top of Tower Keep

The wide port of Marseille and the city growing around it seemed strangely quiet as the sun dipped to the horizon. For the first time since early this morning one could here the gulls down by the docks begging for fish scraps. The din that was ever present during the day in a bustling city was finally gone. The smoke that rose from the various businesses was finally beginning to dissipate as everyone packed up to return home for the evening. None of these things were on the forefront of Prince Alain Bourbon's mind at the moment. Standing atop the keep in Castle Vieuxpierre, the prince clasped his hands behind him, adorned in fine woolen robes in an attempt to keep out the chill of January, combined with the ripping wind that battered the top of the tower. His gaze spread out over the entire city. He had been keeping a constant eye on the mouth of the port, watching the returning fishing cogs and the occasional larger trading vessel departing for exotic shores.

What had occupied his mind for the past few hours was not the gulls or the sunset, but rather the ships in the port. One of the many wealthy influentials in Massalia, Robert Jourdain, had a trade in Arab cloth. His latest shipment, a galley full to the runners with fine silks from Damascus, had been due to arrive yesterday. It had not arrived and today the man had wreaked havoc on the Prince's court, ranting that something, anything, be done. The recollection of the squat, fat man gyrating his arms and flinging his gilded robes about brought a smile to the corner of Alain's lip. The matter was serious however, as Monsieur Jourdain held alot of sway in the various gilds of Marseille. He could cause trouble if allowed to roam with his anger. The Prince had promised to send two small ships with 50 men each to search for the missing galley along its trade route as far as Corsica.

The trouble with the rich of Massalia was that while their influence was useful to Alain when they were happy with him, their anger or resentment could become a more obstinate resistance to his rule then even the most stubborn of conquered lords. Alain hoped, for Jourdain's sake, his ships found the galley. The prince would not stand for obstinance, he tended to remove it swiftly and with prejudice, and Jourdain would most likely make a big fuss over this matter. Alain turned and proceeded down the black stone steps that spiraled down to the base of the circular tower. Like most keeps, the one in Castle Vieuxpierre had no doors at ground level with only a simple wooden door at the second floor, which led to the ground from the outside down a wooden staircase. This was meant to protect the keep in case it became the last line of defense. The stairs could be drawn up and the door sealed to prevent access. Even though the Bourbon family had long maintained a brilliant glistening chateau up the dirt-paved road from the castle, Alain prefered to spend his time here, among the warriors and atop the strong, ancient walls. It was more his home then the chateau he had grown up in.

His personal steward, Dominique Valette, or Dom as Alain often called him, stood by with the Prince's horse and his own. He took the reins from Dom's outstretched hand and mounted his charger quickly, "Good evening Dom, lets return to the chateau, tis already supper-time and i hate to keep that fat old cook waiting, he's quite ornery at the best of times." If there was one obstinate person that the Prince did not mind, it was the head chef at the palace, Arthur, or simply, The Old Man. Dom, who had been the late stable-hand's son and one of Alain's oldest friends, responded in his usual light-hearted manner, "Aye milord, knowing The Old Man , i wager he has already eaten your supper and mine. We'll likely see naught but scraps upon the table when we return." With a curt chuckle, Alain spurred the horse and galloped to return to the chateau. He had laughed more out of custom then mirth, the joke was an old one, told many times between the two of them since they were boys. He had even less patience for it today, Jourdain had set him in a bad mood he would not likely shake until he had drank his fill of Italian wine.

[Yakostan]

New Arthus, Greenland

Duke Octavius walked to his throne.
"God damn it, the thrones frozen again!" he exclaimed in anger, pointing out to his steward that his throne was completely covered in ice.
"Tell me sir" asked the steward, Bjorn. "Why do we live in Greenland?"
"Because" sighed the Duke. "We might as well be the head of SOMEWHERE. Even if it is this barren wasteland."
"So, what shall we do?" asked Bjorn.
"Well, we must get more land!" exclaimed the Duke triumphantly."We must increase our land northwards!"
"Northwards?!" shouted the Steward. "It's too ruddy cold! Why can't we move south!??"
"Alright" said the Duke. "We'll call on the men. I'll take 50 men north as a raiding party. You, write a letter. Call on all the major kings, and ask for some boats maybe. And some trade. And some alliances actually while you're at it.
"Yes sir!" exclaimed the steward, going straight to work.

OOC: Just saying, if anyone could reply to the letters it would be lovely. Cheers

[ImperialOverLord]

Stadholm, Oestermark

A light snow fell on the otherwise muddy grounds, blanketing structure and person alike as sound of metal striking metal echoed through the courtyard. A grunt and thud heralded the end of another practice melee, a man in heavy mail lay winded on his back, cursing the victor who stood over him. With a groan the man rose and pulled off his helm. Despite the cold he was slick with sweat, dark hair plastered to his face.
"Fuck you and your bloody blade." The man said with a grin, a smattering of blood staining his teeth. He wiped away the blood with a mailed arm and spat at the victors feet.
"My blade isn't bloody yet Grimwald, but if it were I'm afraid it would be with your blood." The voice still muffled by the closed helm held no mirth, yet Grimwald laughed all the same, stroking his bushy black beard as he did. The victor pulled off his own crested Helm, adorned with the resplendent eagle, sigil of his house. The man underneath was younger, clean shaven and brown of hair. Unremarkable to look at, his emerald eyes were the only distinguishing feature. Grimwald slapped the younger man on the shoulder and they walked back to the hastily constructed barracks of the wooden fort, nestled against a cliff in a valley covered with snow. Around them were men all in the crimson and white colours of Oestermark, hammering iron, fletching arrows, gutting pigs; the daily life of a frontiersmen. A few of them nodded towards the pair as they entered the smokey interior of the barracks. A crude map was laid out on a log table to one side but the most of the building was taken up the the rows of benches and sleeping pads. Sitting down on one of these, each man was quickly attended to by a squire, taking armour off being no easy task alone. A squire took the blunted tourney blades away and handed them clean linen to wear.
"I'm getting tired of this nonsense, when are moving against the Hill Tribesmen? Your father is taking his bloody time handing out orders." grumbled Grimwald, chewing as he spoke. The younger man just shrugged.

This process, practically ritualistic to both of them, was interrupted by a greying old veteran accompanied by a messenger, looking harried and weary from a long, fast ride.
"Your highness, word from Reichholm." The messenger handed the young man a letter, the Royal seal clearly visible. A brief read and the man set it down.
"My father is ordering us north. Up the river Elbe, the we will be assigned a dozen Blessed Engineers as we advance."
"Our goal?" Asked Grimwald quizzically.
"The river and all it's lands. We're leaving the Hill Tribesmen for Lord Dane's men."
"Bloodly hell, three months sitting on our arses fighting this bloody rabble and now we're off to the north for land and glory. I suppose we ought to pack plenty of torches eh?"
"Not this time, we are going to hold these lands... my father has... had a vision from God. We expand and convert. Teach these barbarians what being a good christian is all about." The Prince said all of this in his usual monotone, little emotion showed. Grimwald's grin returned. And standing, still half armoured, brandished a greatsword from his pallet.
"Hahaha, that we shall do my Prince, that we shall do."

Prince Oswyn Baden's forces were on the move. North as the river runs.

[Anttola]

In heart of the northern wilderness

Two men skied slowly across dark, frozen swamp. They had left behind their home village, loving family and most important, their warm houses. Only voices of the wilderness were wind's screech and men's hard breath. Whole landscape was covered by snow and ice. Only signs of live were pine sprouts, that grew sparsely. The first of the men knew the route, he had skied this trip tens of times. He wasn't afraid of polar night, dangerous animals, cold temperatures or long way home. Both of the men were born and raised in these wild lands, they were experts of their native land. They had learned their skills from their fathers, knowledge was centuries of old. Tracking, crafting, firemaking, archery, sneaking, skinning, orientation, these two had it all.

Reason of this mad trip was clear: at midwinter, food is a luxury at north. These hunters were checking their traps to feed their families for one new week. Situation was bad: they had checked half of their 18 traps, and all were empty. Not a one grouse, rabbit or fox. Even their large wolf-pit was empty, even it had a rotten sheep head as a bait.

Men continued their way up to hill, praying gods that the next trap would be full of dead game, so their families would see one more sunrise.

[Deneager]

Empire of Dreadon, Capital of Scrace-Emperor Malarc Throne room.
Three Commisars walked into the room. "Sir. We have news from the border. we have gained 1,000 more troops." One of the Commissars aid kneeling.
"Very good. Our second arm will come soon. Prepare men. We will have to be carful as other powers are out their."
"Yes sir!" Then all of them left accept the Emperor.

[The Mongol Ilkhanate]

Jerusalem, Capital of the Caliphate

That day was a rainy day indeed, one of the rare few seen in Jerusalem. To add to the rarity, it seemed, the Caliph himself, in full regalia and followed behind with a complement of Royal Mamelukes, and ceremonially, 40 riderless horses led by the more experienced Mamelukes. Each day for the 40 days of Mameluke recruiting, celebrating the first Mameluke ever recruited into the Islamic army over 100 years ago. The Mameluke recruit chosen on the first day had a guaranteed spot among the Royal Mamelukes, and as such, every boy aspired to that spot. It was a huge honor even for your children to be considered for the position in the Caliphate. Of course, elsewhere, less ceremonial Mameluke recruiting was being done, but the process was much more flashy and ceremonial when conducted by the Caliph.

It was the talk of the town when the Caliph stopped, dismounted, and walked to a rather poor home and knocked upon the door seven times, once for each pillar of Islam. The now appreciably antsy parents basically threw the door open and allowed him in, bowing and calling their sons forth, and two came running. The Caliph's apparel was a stark contrast to the rather poor, almost shanty house he stood in.


The first child was also the eldest. After the basic medical examination by an Imam to see if he had signs of the plague or any other infirmities, it was found the child was in good enough health to be considered. The Caliph withdrew a morsel of bread, and held it high above his head, such that the child could not possibly reach it. "Get this bread, and you shall be a Mameluke" No matter how high the boy jumped, he could not reach the bread.

The second child had the same tests. Instead of jumping, he fetched a log and almost reached it, but the Caliph stepped back and shook his head, prompting the child to run to his parents for comfort.

He was about to leave, when something made him turn around. "Do you have any more sons?"

"Just one, sir, but he is only six years old, and not very strong. He can not reach the bread, and he is a very bad child. He does not respect his parents, and does not say all of his prayers."

"I will be the judge of that. Bring him forth!" The father backed out of the room still inclined in a bow, and brought forth a child, a short thing. The Imam nearly disqualified him, yet he barely met the criteria for health set by the Caliph. The Caliph held the bread over his head, and told the child to get it.

Rather than jump, or seek help, the child kicked the Caliph hard as he could in the right shin. The Caliph dropped the bread and grabbed his leg in pain, giving the child enough time to grab the bread and run as fast as he could, yet his father was quicker.

"I am so sorry, Lord Khalifa! This child, he doesn't not know how to respect servants of Allah." The father started to beat the child with an open hand, but a hand gesture from the Caliph stopped him.


"This child knows how to get along in this world. This child knows when violence is the only means. This child, is a Mameluke. Here are your five pieces of gold."

The Caliph tossed the gold to the two parents, who had stopped thinking of the child's welfare the moment the sparkle caught their eyes.

"What is his name?" When one started to answer, the Caliph silenced them. "Never mind, it does not matter who he was. Your son was a poor child, destined to die without any fame or glory. Now he is a Mameluke. Your son is dead, a Mameluke is born. As for his name? It shall be Mohammed Abdullah Bayezid, the second, after the first Mameluke who came from circumstances not unlike his and had a similar spirit. Yes, Mohammed shall be his name. "


Moments later, as the two, Caliph and Mameluke initiate emerged from the house, he raised the child's arm high into the air, inciting cheering as a burly Royal Mameluke picked up the boy and sat him upon the fine horse. The Caliph remounted his stallion, and off they went to parade for another forty days.


A missive to the Prince of Syria

"Prince of Syria," the letter began, "it has come to the attention of his eminence and supremacy, the Caliph, that you are a noble, hardworking man. The Caliph would like such a man to become an Ayatollah in the Ummah. Your people are diligent as well, and the Caliph would like them to join him as he expands the reach of the great Caliphate and unites the Ummah."

[Zemvoray]

(From the personal missives of the High Kardinal and Divinely Ordained Autokrator, Aleksandr Grigor'evich Kadnikov, known also as Aleksandr I. The text has been translated from the original Muscovite language that the document was written in.)

Even for the hardy peoples of Moskva, the winter is bitter and harsh. Thick snow completely covers the lands governed by this nation, and for many leagues beyond. There have been reports of deaths, mainly those afflicted by the snow blackening their limbs, which poses a threat to the harvest of next year. It is not a problem of mine, however, for they believe that it is the LORD's plan that some may join Him in Heaven. I, however, am not so sure. My position of power relies entirely on my piety and dedication to Him, but I fear that my faith is faltering. I have regularly attended all the prayer sessions required for those in the Holy Quarter - more than most, as the four of us are believed to be closest to Him - and more; yet, I feel a cold distance creep round my heart. I have not been able to successfully converse with Him for fourteen nights; this confuses and frightens me. Perhaps it is an omen; that things are about to change for the worse.

(end missive)

--------------------

(From the personal missives of the Kardinal Andrei Moskvin, a close friend of Aleksandr I, one of the four members of the Holy Quarter, and most likely candidate for the title of High Kardinal and Divinely Ordained Autokrator, should Aleksandr I expire.)

The Autokrator has grown more drawn and pale in the last few months. The winter has taken its toll on him, I can tell. I fear he may not live to see the next Great Banquet. He has become such a frail man, that he has difficulty attending his daily duties; myself and the other Kardinals have offered our assistance to the running of the nation, but he has declined, claiming that it is merely a passing complaint. Nevertheless, myself and the other Kardinals show great concern, for he was a highly capable ruler, and a good man.

(end missive)

--------------------

The light drifted weakly through the thick window, painting the two men in a mottled green and yellow light. Many specks of dust drifted idly through the frigid air, and fog came out of the couple's mouths as they spoke in low tones. The room they were in was filled wall to wall with various texts of religious significance, adeptly transcribed by patient monks long ago. The two men appeared to be in some disagreement over a matter; occasionally one would raise his voice, and remembering his place, quieten again.

"Bogomil, I cannot comprehend what you are suggesting. To do such a thing..."

"But Viktor, he is an elderly and ill man. He has lived two lifetimes already, and is not fit to run the Holy Library, not to speak of the entire nation."

"I cannot agree to this. What you are proposing, it is the worst of all crimes against Him."

"Is it not the LORD's teaching that one must help those in pain? He is dying anyway, and it would ensure a minimum of suffering for him."

"But-- What you speak of, Bogomil, is murder. I refuse to aid you in any way, but for the sake of your life, I shall not divulge to anyone the nature of this conversation. Now please vacate my study."

The man named Bogomil saluted his peer, turned curtly and left the room. The door creaked loudly as it was shifted, and thudded at its closure. Viktor sighed, troubled as he was by his associate's plan. He faced the window, knelt, and began to pray.

Bogomil, however, had not completed his duties, and so set to the observatory, thoughts chasing each other in his mind.

[Bei Song]

Chewo, Northern Sahara Desert
January 1, 1000 A.D.

Chewo was lit brilliantly with thousands of fires, torches, and lamps. Though it was nighttime, children played and adults talked as if it were midday. This was because tonight was Seh-lo, the night of new beginnings. Every four years the High Priest of the Raheli would carry out Ritual of Stones, where he would cast stones into the fire and determine the Raheli's future. The city of Chewo (though it would be more accurate to call Chewo a large gathering of nomads, as there were no permanent buildings aside from the Burning Temple) was packed with almost the entire Raheli tribe, eagerly waiting for the Ritual of Stones to begin.

"People of the Raheli Tribe!" shouted High Priest Razeda. "May your inner flames shine brightly and last many more years!" The amassed crowd of tens of thousands of people cheered. Razeda was standing atop the Burning Temple, facing an enormous crackling fire, along with three fire sages, God-King Xanu and his son, Prince Suzo. "Now, we begin the Ritual of Stones, and the great Gods will show us what our future holds!"

He lifted a shining blue stone the size of an apple above his head. "The stone of peace!" he cried. "The stone of war!" he cried, hefting a stone equal in size and shape, though it was a bitter red. "Your honors," he murmured, handing the red stone to Xanu and blue one to Suzo. Xanu and Suzo then both threw their stone into the fire. Xanu stared at the flames impatiently, watching as stone of war turned cherry red, and even the stone of peace began to glow red. For twelve long years now the Raheli have had peace, sitting around and growing fat. For eleven of those years Xanu had ruled as God-King, watching his men fight petty squabbles with each other instead of great wars to conquer an empire.

"Step back your honors," murmured Razeda. Each stone was a blazing hot red now, indistinguishable from the other. Each was about the explode. Suzo walked back to the edge of temple, along with the sages and Razeda himself; Xanu, however, stood at the edge of the fire, unblinking. "Your honor, the stones will explode into sharp, burning fragments!" called Razeda. "No." answered Xanu, eyes staring into the fire.

Suddenly, one of the stones burst in thousands of pieces, spraying the temple floor with shrapnel. Xanu stood there, unflinching, as several fragments flew into his legs. He pulled out a larger one from his skin. The stone was still scorching, and it burned into the flesh on his fingers. As it cooled, color began to return. Xanu smiled. He raised the red rock high into the air. "We will have war!" he shouted. The High Priest stood motionless for several seconds, stunned. He bowed to Xanu. "So the Gods have decreed!"

Chewo was filled with the shouts and cheering; the Raheli, like their king, longed for war.

Xanu turned to face Suzo, his legs bloody yet his eyes filled with fire. "We will conquer a glorious empire in the name of Rahn, my son. All will bow down to his power, or die."

[Naretion]

(The whole training session was roleplayed, but due to it all getting erased the moment i finished it I'll just take from where I left off. X_X)
Nathanael, after a vigorous training session got up off his sparring opponent, whom he had pinned to the ground with his own sword to his neck. He helped his opponent up and shook his hand respectfully. "Nice spar." He said, his partner bowing with respect and proceeded to leave the room.

His friend, a royal servant who visited all the regions of Naretion regularly to help manage and create more efficient economies by helping the local governors with their policy, grinned at the display. His name was Michal Szymanski, a great military strategist as well as internal affairs expert. "Interesting display." He said with a laugh. "You've really taking to learning the ways of your own Attentäter forces haven't you?" Michal asked, walking over to Nathanael.

Nathanael smirked, stretching an arm in which he had sprained a little during the training session. "What makes a leader worthy of following if he does not set an example of what to follow?" He asked.

"A leader who can lead his people to prosperity." Michal said, "And it seems you're quite capable at doing both by the looks of it."

Nathanael grinned, putting his weapons back in their sheaths and on the racks. "What brings you here anyway?" He asked.

"I came to inform you that all regions across your lands are prospering, and your newest added region you claimed not too long ago has caught up with the others and is beyond stabilization; and now that this has occurred I can only imagine you plan on taking another region into your control soon?" Michal said with a chuckle. "Seeing as there are still many small principalities around us all waited to be tricked again by your greatness."

Nathanael left the training room with Michal, proceeding to the dining room for dinner. "No, not yet. Lets give the nation another month or so of prosperity why don't we?" He said with a smile. "Life isn't all about claiming territories, but if you'd do me the favor, get the Attentäter Master and tell him to insert some Attentäters into a couple of the surrounding principalities, look for tensions, and to report to me when they've reached a high. We'll set them upon each other just like all my predecessors constantly do."

"Very well Emperor." Michal said with a bow, leaving on his way to deliver the message.

"Michal, as your Emperor, I demand you refer to me as Nathanael, and nothing but." Nathanael said with a humorous grin.

Michal turned around a bit and smiled. "Yes, Nathanael." He said with a laugh, leaving to deliver the message to the Attentäter Master.

[Jormengand]

(OOC: Naretion has requested the presence of my guys in his nation by TG, so don't complain about me being in the wrong place.)

The high priest walked slowly around the room, chanting in Latin. He read from the book called the Testament of Fear, which was one of the twelve books used by the Libra cults.

Pedro tolerated this ceremony, and all the others which they performed. The Libra cults were too useful to him to kick them out, indeed he wished their services soon...

La Torre de Libra was essentially a stone tower, which had originally been built by some lord who wanted his own castle, but wasn't going to splash out on a real one. Now, it served as a base and quasi-church for the Ordo. Fortunately, the cultists were clever enough to realise that if they made this religion public knowledge, they would probably all die. So, they kept holding secret ceremonies in the tower basement.

Pedro watched the celebrations finish, and the cultists scatter. He caught the high priest of the cult before he left, and pressed a scroll into the cultist's hand. "Tell the emperor or his guards that I seek his audience."

The high priest bowed, and then scampered off, the Libra symbol in greyscale upon his robe, which was itself a 50% grey colour. He jumped onto his horse, an item which few cultists owned, and rode to meet the emperor. He dismounted before the guards, and stated, "Lord-Captain Ignacio, High exemplar of the Ordo Libra, seeks the emperor's audience, and will be here shortly. If the emperor could be informed?" He left the question as it was, for it was not really a question, and it needed no more explanation.

[Naretion]

The Castle guard nodded at this request. "The Emperor is just finishing dining at the moment. I'll make sure when he is done to proceed to the throne room to grant you the audience you seek. Feel free to wait in the throne room until the man you spoke of arrives, or out here if you wish." He said, proceeding to whisper something to a nearby guard before making his way into the castle to deliver the message to the Emperor.

He arrived in the dining hall and bowed on one knee. "My lord, the leader of a 'Ordo Libra' will be here shortly seeking audience." He said, "Will you be able to grant this request?"

Nathanael took a sip of the finest wine available in all of Naretion and wiped his mouth before looking towards the guard. "Ordo Libra? I have heard of such an order. Fierce warriors, renowned for their skill in the mainland. Very elite, even worshiped I've heard." He said, taking another sip of wine as he stood from his seat at the table.

"I have ordered to have a few of your elite Attentäter to watch the messenger they have sent from afar. Shall I order to have more hidden in the throne room? Just in case?" The guard asked.

"There is no need. They have requested a meeting not a stand off." Nathanael said, finishing down what wine he had left. "I shall be on my throne to meet their leader when they arrive." He said, making his way into the throne room and onto his seat.

[Jormengand]

Pedro entered the throne room as instructed, dismissing the high priest before doing so. He noted the spies, as any warrior in his position surely would, but what of them? They were clearly imperial, and had the emperor wanted to assassinate Pedro, he would surely have made such an attempt previously.

Pedro was accompanied by nine other knights, all fully armed and armoured, but he did not expect a battle. It was merely custom. The knights stood in chilling silence. Pedro finally spoke, in a voice that was said to slay many who died purely of fear. This may have been indirectly true.

"Imperator. It has come to my attention that you appear to be seeking military aid, and I wish to offer my services."

[Deneager]

Emperor Malarc prepared an invasion of a region to the west. It was time for his troops to be tested. He went to the war room and looked at the map. He looked and saw the enemy defensive postions on the map. "Split 1st regiment into two groups and have them circle the flank and have second regiment attack the defensive postion directly." Moving the peices around on the map. "That is great idea sir." said a Commisar.
"Launch the Attack March."
"Yes sir."

[Naretion]

Nathanael nodded with a friendly smile. Nathanael was wearing the same double pair of gloves he wore in training, he was wearing an assortment of clothing he had personally designed, which was all black with trims of crimson on it, and upon his head sat a fancy decorative crown made of pure gold with black jewels lining it.

"Yes that is true, I am constantly looking to expand my network of soldiers. But I have always had a keen interest for mercenaries. Soldiers, battle-ready and elite that come from elsewhere, have no negative effects and only require money. I have heard stories of your order, you are said to be very skilled, and now that I am facing you, I must say I am impressed. You carry a very strong feel that would be a great addition to my army. If needed I can grant you free living space here in my Capital and would be glad to pay you a far wage per mercenary if that is fine with you. If you have any specific requests just let me know, but then I also have a question." Nathanael asked.

[Velgast]

Imperial Palace, Hemelsestad
King's Throne Room

King Octavius II sat upon his throne, the very same throne that King Caezar Carduun I had built, made of the thrones of the Old Kings. The Cold Crown sat upon his head, a crown made for Caezar I, made of the finest steel in all Germania and Scandinavia. The King's sword was made of the same steel. King Octavius was growing weary. He had sat on the throne for 23 years now, and he had still not fully acclimated himself to kingship. He was not much like his father. He never wanted all the power and responsibility that came with being a King. In his youth he remembered having all the wealth of a king, with none of the work. He missed those days dearly. As Octavius reminisced, the head of the royal guard, Jarran Estros, came into the room, "Your Highness, the High Priest is in the courtyard. The people wait for their king to begin the Festival of the Frost." Octavius lazily stood up and took his cane in hand, aiding him in his walk to the courtyard, where he joined High Priest Galmar, who was also the Grand Master of the Knights of Winter. A crowd of thousands stood before the King and cheered him on. He smiled to himself. Although he did not much care for being King, Octavius always did like to be popular. Even now as a man of 64, he still held the mentality of a 20 year old. High Priest Galmar bowed his head to the King, then turned and faced the crowds,
"Brothers and sisters! Children of Carduun, and of Malor! Today marks the beginning of the Festival of the Frost! A time of the year where we celebrate the coldest of winds, and go forth on the Hunt!"
The crowd cheered. The Hunt was always a crowd favorite. Tales were told of the Hunt far and wide. The Knights of winter would go into the far North, beyond the borders of Carduun, and walk across the Frozen Sea, from where it is said that Malor first sent men. When the Hunt was over, the Knights returned with meat enough to last all through the winter. For the Knights though, this was a very different ritual. The roots of the Festival of the Frost, or Vorstenfar in the old tongue, go back long before Carduun, or the founding of their Order. Vorstenfar dates back hundreds of years, when men, seeking to prove their strength, would fashion themselves thick coats made of wolf skin, the sacred animal of Malor, and went, dressed as wolves, into the domain of Malor, where it was always winter. There they would spend a month searching for the sacred white wolf. If a man was lucky enough to stumble upon a white wolf, it was said he was blessed by Malor, and was to live the life of a wolf for their time in the north, hunting for prey, and surviving off their instincts until the winter was over and they returned home. The current hunt bore the same importance to the Kinghts of Winter, but for the common people, the emphasis was put on bringing home food for the remainder of the winter. The King did not care much for the Festival of the Frost, as in Lihiria, they worshiped different gods, but his father was too enticed with his mother's religion and her people, and made the Cardonian culture flourish. After the ceremony, the streets were filled with celebration. The common people drank and ate all week, celebrating the Festival, along with the rest of the Northern Provinces, as the South and the East continued about their lives.

[Jormengand]

"Ask it." Pedro had little time for talk, less for idle chatter. He liked to make his responses short, and he did so now. The other knights stood around him, silent as the grave.

[Deneager]

Deadron Requreinted a two percent that consisted of two regiments-
total number-9,000
2,000Spearmen
1,000 Pike Men
1,500 Swordsmen
500 Karskin Honor Gaurd
2,000 Archers
400 Light Calvary
300 Meduim Calvary
200 Heavy Calvary
25 Small Balisticas(8 men each.)
6 Commisars

[Naretion]

Seeing that there was no changes that Pedro was going to make to what he had offered, Nathanael gave himself a nod, happy he had had a deal come down. "My question is short and simple. All I would like to know is. What are your plans? Surely all you want cannot be to take on mercenary work for pay and that's it. Do you have anything else in store for the future? I do not require an answer, it is just a friendly question out of curiosity. As I may be able to help with whatever your plans for the future are." Nathanael said, making his friendly, conversational side easy to see.

"Also as for the living space I have offered should you choose to use it frequently-" Nathanael took a map he had of the city from the side of his throne and circled three spots in the city. A few buildings in a quiet, scenic area in the city with a very few buildings but plenty of open space. A couple of barracks in a more militarized district filled with things such as barracks and many other soldiers; and a large building within the main district of the town where much of the population lived and the merchants went to trade. He approached Pedro and handed the map out to him. "You can pick from any of these spots." He said before sitting back down on his throne.

[The Mongol Ilkhanate]

Response

The Prince of Syria recognized it was a little bit of a threat. By refusing to join the Ummah, he risked alienating his people and making them question how loyal he was to the Sunni cause. In places where a caliphate was closer, this would not work so well, but this region preferred the Holy Caliphate. Besides, the Prince knew he could not fight the armies of the Caliphate particularly well either. Therefore, his response was curt.

"To his Eminence and Supremacy, the Great Caliph of the Ummah,

I recognize and accept your offer."

The Caliph, upon reception, was overjoyed, and when the prince came, they went through all the rites and traditions of Islamic Investiture, culminating in the Prince being made Ayatollah.

OOC: Add some regions of Syria.

However, the prince of Antioch refused the offer. So the forces of Syria and the Caliphate, except for garrisons, were marshalled together, and like a heavily armored, glittering fist, they began to march towards the city of Antioch to lay siege.

They were the sword of Islam.

[Jormengand]

Pedro answered the question simply. "I have plans that the order may eventually claim its own lands. Of course, I would not wish to do so in conflict with you. As for living, most of my followers own living spaces, but the Ordo itself does not. Perhaps this area." He pointed to his chosen location, far from most of the busy streets, but close enough to any stores that the Ordo would need.

[Naretion]

Nathanael looked at the map once more and nodded. "Very well, that area shall be cleaned and ready for your men by tomorrow." He said. "I assume you will be on your way now but if I may offer. Stay with me for awhile, help me as my mercenaries, and I may be able to grant that wish of yours to gain your own land." Nathanael said with another friendly smile.

[Kazhanistan]

Off the Eastern Coast of Crete
The Emir's Armada

It had been two weeks since the Emir had sent off the fleet toward Crete, it's Admiral, Mubaktr Salah, a Zanji, was anxious to land. The calmness and serenity of the open sea was shattered by the cry:
"Land in sight!"
Mubaktr looked up at the young mariner sitting in the Dhow's crow's nest, he was pointing westward. Mubaktr shouted at the signalman:
"Steer the fleet 20 degrees west!"

After landing the armada Mubaktr ordered the 3,000 migrants to unload the supplies and begin construction. Meanwhile an emissary and merchant were sent into the interior of the island to establish relations and trade with the indigenous islanders. The Emir had given very strict and precise orders to not engage in any hostile actions against the Cretans unless absolutely necessary.

The Central Administration Building, Antalya
The Emir's Office

The Emir had mixed feelings on the recent annexation of Syria, on one hand the prince was a liar and cheapskate who had tried on several occasions to rip off the Emir's merchants and the Anatolian government itself, but he was a small ruler who could be cowed with threats of violence and sanctions. This could not be done with the large Caliphate that had swallowed his domain. Hoping to kindle a relationship with the Caliph the Emir penned a letter to him:

To: The Beneficent Caliph of The Holy Caliphate
From: Emir Baibar of Anatolia

I would first like to congratulate you on your recent seizure of land, I too am expanding my borders so my people can grow and prosper. I am writing you to ask if my merchants and I can continue to conduct trade in your new domain as they have always been for they hold the valuable Cypress tree, a much needed ingredient in the construction of our ships.

Signed Emir Baibar Bayyubid

Summary:
Colony established in Eastern Crete:
Population: 3,000
Garrison: 200 Uzbek Swordsman, 50 Kurdish Archers, and two War Galleys docked

[The Mongol Ilkhanate]

Caliph's Palace

What came across the writing surface of the Caliph was a request by the Shiites of the North to continue trade. The Caliph hated Shiites. In his mind, they were barely Muslims. They doubted his supreme authority and for that they had to be punished, but, they could be punished later. For now, the Caliph was about money, so he figured, "Why not?", and wrote the following response.

To the Emir of Anatolia

That is agreeable provided I am permitted to levy upon them the Jizya for residency rights in this Caliphate.

Signed, the Caliph and Rightful Successor of Muhammad, sallallaahu 'alayhe wa sallam,

That remark about the Jizya was supposed to be a jab. The Jizya was levied on non-muslims so they could have residency in a Muslim country. He figured it an appropriate slap in the face for the Emir.

Antioch

By this time, the armies of the Caliph and the Ayatollah of Syria, numbering at 14,000 men, surrounded the city, and began to sit and wait for surrender of starvation. Or both.


OOC: I know, I'm being REAALLLY lazy now.