The year of our Lord 1200 IC

[Emilio Aguinaldo]

The IC thread for The year of out Lord 1200

OOC: viewtopic.php?f=31&t=350372

[PLESSUR]

Bergen. The city on the chilling north of the Atlantic Ocean. Inland sits the castle. The castle belongs to the Kings of Norway. This title has, for the last few decades, been thrown around from person to person, with no clear succession.

Currently, at the turn of this great century, Haakon Sverresson is king; the first to inherit the throne from his father in a long time, but he has a tough job. In the war that had engulfed the Norwegian nation a few years before, Haakon had fallen on the wrong side of the church. Determined to hold on to the church, and thus his power, King Haakon is preparing to re-engage with the Church and settle all conflict.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Volodymyr-Volynsky, Grand Principality of Galicia-Volhynia
January, 1200
2nd Year of Prince Roman Mstislavich "The Great"

Prince Roman and 4,000 horsemen rode south from Lviv towards Tartarstan. It was the first of such military raids since Roman had assumed the thrones and unified Halych and Volhynia. Galicia-Volhynia was plagued by a rampant set of raiding neighbors to the south and north. The Lithuanians were a pestilence to the north and the Tartars were a menace in the south. Roman had decided that the Tartars were an easier threat and had gathered 4,000 of his best horsemen to raid, burn, and pillage Cuman-Tartars. Following in their wake would be 8,000 men of his retainers, who would clean up the remnants of any Tartar chiefs and occupy the towns. With the Bulgars to the south, the tribal pagans would have no where to flee. Roman hoped to crush them and add them to his principality.

As things stood, Roman hoped to gain enough power to potentially reunite the Kievan Rus. After the Rus shattered a century ago, times had started to grow dark in Europe. The Bastion of Christianity in Constantinople was threatened by Muslims and the once mighty Kiev was reduced to a shadow of its former self. After defeating the tartars and adding them to his realm, he would then try to gather some of the smaller Rus into a coalition to reunify the Rus.

Roman also looked to Byzantium and the Bulgars for allies. His cousin, Roman Grozny, was the Captain of Varangian Guard in Byzantium. He was also a Baron of the Realm, endowed with the right to negotiate with the West for trade and ports. Volhynia nominally had ports. But while the steppe raiders lived, they would be hard to profit from. After this campaign, it would be safe to trade.

[G-Tech Corporation]

AD 1202, January Reckoning
Eastern Reaches, Vyazma, Principality of Smolensk

The drumming of hooves on the icy ground roused Jerik's spirits as the raiders came from out of the snowy treeline. Ahead lay Vyazma, city of wealth and prosperity, but newcomer to the game of princes the Rus' played. Nominally a vassal of faraway Smolensk, she trusted too firmly in trade and diplomacy to keep her walls safe, not the force of arms. In this Vsevolod found opportunity, potential for what could bring Vladimir to greater heights. Jerik pulled a feathered shaft from his quiver, and set it to string, but he did not draw yet. Not yet- the deep black night shrouded the passage of the horsemen, armor muffled by rags for the deed. Normally the great gate of the city would be closed, barred by feats of labor and construction with the close of the day. But here treachery, the most useful tool of men, showed her worth- it stood ajar. Jerik swung down out of his saddle in a fluid motion, fur boots crunching softly on the snow as he and six men of his squad padded through the opening. Four men waited there, rough sorts who were guards of the city, poorly paid enough to allow such an iniquity. He drew a jingling purse from inside his jerkin, and passed it to the man who stood forward, chuckling softly about fat nobles in their beds. Answering laughter, muffled to low aspirations, came from the guardsmen as they walked back into their watchhouse. This would be a bloodless coup, by all standards, though such useless princes could not be allowed to live, obviously. Into the city the cavlarymen of the Suzdali Lancers poured, flitting black ghosts with gleaming iron fangs. By dawn, a fait acompli- the removal of the boyars who would not bend the knee, some in bondage as hostages, others as corpses spirited away under cover of dark, and the Prince following them. A new lord ruled Vyazma, gateway to the Principality of Smolensk.

Hall of the Prince, Novgorod, Novgorod Republic

Sviatoslav III looked out over the boyars assembled, and the veche, gauging their moods. Not all had come, but that was expected. The people of the Republic, unlike the nobility of the other Principalities, had to work for their living. He had timed this evening announcement to allow the most to come as was possible, but paid those he knew supported his rule to come assuredly. They were in the majority, just from the faces he knew, and his men had worked to some extent to ensure even those the Prince did not know directly that were favorable would come. Eventually, when the time was right, he stepped forward onto the low wooden balcony, raising his hands to draw all attention to him. Clothed in not rich attire and the robes of his office, but the hauberk of a military man, Sviatoslav spoke as the smattering of applause drifted away.

"Friends, countrymen, citizens of Novgorod the Great, our ally the Grand Principality of Vladimir is invaded! Even now the armies of the false Prince of Smolensk march upon the city of Vyazma, she who chose of her own accord to cleave to the heart of the Rus' aside from our own fair city, to bring her by force of arms and death back to the foul embrace of Mstislav the Old, Mstislav the Lecher. We are men of our honor, men of our word. I move, as your chosen military commander, that we send our armies to aid in the defense of Vyazma the fair." Cheers surrounded his awareness as he stepped back, bowing slightly at the waist as befitted his position as elected lord of the metropolis. There would be some that would oppose the plan, but that mattered little in the short term- Novgorod had been firmly in the Vladmiri sphere for the past generation, and would march with his father's armies.

[Len Hyet]

The Year of Our Lord 1202
Rome, The Papal States
Chambers of Pope Innocent III

Pope Innocent stood at the window of his finely decorated chambers, looking out onto the Eternal City. Behind him the muttering of over a dozen appointed and inherited counselors faded into simple background noise, to be ignored in favor of the stirring strings of a hymn wafting up from below. All of them wanted something from him, and all of them would lie to his face to get it. Men of God, who would sin and condemn their eternal souls for temporal power. Squabbling children, no more. In the Pope lay the power to raise an Emperor, to cast a man's soul into eternal torment, and, the topic the outraged advisers behind him were arguing furiously about, to call for a great Crusade.

Finally the Pope turned, to face the advisers behind him, who all immediately quieted themselves. He looked around, and when he spoke his voice came in the rich tones reserved for those men who have the weight of God behind them.

"Tell me, tell me my Children what is our mission? Our holy task set forth by the Lord himself. Our mission, our reason for life on this world, is simple. We are the Shepard of Man. The Church will save their eternal souls, purify them that when they finally shuffle off this mortal coil, they may forever bask in the holy light of God on high. We do this through the guidance of the faithful, and the conversion of the heathen. Two tasks. Two, simple tasks. And yet the Church has struggled. For man's spirit is weak, and susceptible to the corruption of Satan. In the desert sands devils tempt men with promises of gold and glory. In the east men still cling to their idols and shamanistic heathen ways. Enough is enough."

The Pope took a deep breath, and it seemed the entire room held theirs. Some hoped, some feared, all knew that the next words out of the Pope's mouth could call forth thousands of loyal Christians to battle. Armies would shift at his call, and the warriors of Christ on High would embark on a holy mission. The very earth itself would shake with their passage, and all of Christendom would draw forth their sword.

"For too long the faithful Christians of the Iberian Peninsula have looked south and seen only vicious invaders. For too long they have lived in fear of the warcry of Islam. It is time once more that the scimitar should fear the broadsword. God wills a Crusade my brothers. God wills that all of Christendom should once more baptize their swords in blood, and let all the world know the Glory of Christ. Call forth all the loyal Christians. Send missives to the Crowns of Castile and Leon, to the Crown of France and the Emperor. The Army of Christ will march upon the heathens that house themselves in the Iberian Peninsula, and we will head south until we stand upon the sea. Deus Vult my brothers, and let us pray." _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ As the men all knelt to pray, the Pope smiled. He would sanctify the peninsula in blood, and cleanse it of the heathen. God willed it.

[PLESSUR]

King Haakon stayed all day in his castle near Bergen. He was miserable and lonely. The meeting with the Church had not gone well. To show his new allegiance with them, he was told, he would have to fight for Christianity on the battlefield with his army. Something of a Crusade, except Bergen was very far from both Rome and Jerusalem. It would have to be an invasion of a pagan nation. He had some consolation in the thought that, if he won, he would have a larger area to rule over. There was still an option of receiving an endorsement from the Pope, but then again, Rome was very far away.

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

The Kingdom of Scots | Rìoghachd na h-Alba

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stornoway | Steòrnabhagh
Kingdom of Mann and the Isles

The King of Scots sat at the table impatiently as his various vassals spoke around him. Peace had been achieved between the Scots and their neighbors in the Isles. After the king had issued the call to arms in August, thousands of Scottish soldiers had been raised through those loyal to him, with hundreds being contributed by the Highland clans. The War of the Isles was short, but due to its wintery nature had slowly picked away at some of the Scottish forces - particularly the fighters native to the Lowlands. Regardless, an armistice had been called and the Treay of Stornoway was about to be signed. The Archbishop of St Andrews was chosen as the arbitrator due to his divine inspiration and had just finished reading the terms of the treaty. "The King of Mann and the Isles, Gofraid III of the House of Crobán, shall henceforth become a vassal of His Grace William, King of Scots. What remains of the fleet of the Isles shall likewise be transferred to the ownership of His Grace and will be distributed throughout his realm as well. Gofraid will be stripped of his title of king, and shall hereby be known as the Lord of the Isles."

A quill's feather was placed in the hand of the soon to be former King of the Isles, who slowly signed his name at the bottom of the paper. William took the feather out of his new vassal's hand and did the same, making sure to sign his name much larger than his subject's.

"Welcome to Scotland, Gofraid." he said with a smirk.

The Archbishop continued. "As an act of kindness to signal this new era of peace and friendship between the Isles and Scotland. His Grace would like to extend the invitation to dinner at Stirling Castle to Lord Gofraid III and his children, vassals, and companions in order to celebrate the signing of this treaty with a feast."

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stirling| Sruighlea
Kingdom of Scots

Dozens had arrived at the King's residence in Stirling for the banquet he was throwing to celebrate the peace between Scotland and the Isles. Lord Gofraid had arrived with his family and vassals to enjoy the private feast with the King, his wife and sons, and the Great Officers of the Crown. Music played as those gathered had feasted and drank. William ensured plenty of wine was supplied to his guests. It had almost reached eleven o'clock at night, and the Great Offices and queen had already dismissed themselves. The King's three sons, including his heir Prince Alexander, promptly left. All that remained in the room was the King, the Lord of the Isles, and the Lord's vassals - along with various servants and bards.

The King rose up and waved his hand, and the servants quickly left the room and the doors burst open. Fifty armed soldiers were ushered into the room and the music suddenly ceased. The King walked over to the door, turned around and stared directly at the shocked Lord Gofraid.

"Welcome to Scotland." he said before shutting the door behind him. Screams filled the castle and blood splattered against the walls. What would forever be engrained in the history of Scotland as the Black Dinner had come to an end, and the King was henceforth made Lord of the Isles.

[Liecthenbourg]

January - The Year of Our Lord, 1200.
Sacred Palace, Constantinople, The Roman Empire
Footsteps echoed across the fine tiles of the Imperial Residence. Theodore Laskaris strode defiantly, where Emperors of the East would've once stood, dressed in his military garb. It was a gleaming suit of armour, a finest of the lameller kind. Beneath it he wore a great fabric of padded textiles, a kavadion of purple and red. In his hands he held his helm, one created in a style that it appeared like the gear of a Roman General of old. The general continued to stroll up towards the seat of the Emperor, Alexios III Angelos, the man whom had taken power not more than five years ago. Theodore had played the hand dealt to him with a tactical and strategic mind; Alexios had a daughter, one Anna Komnene Angelina, that needed wedding and bedding and he needed a gate into the Royal Court. The opening of the princesses' legs provided the means to all of these. Now here he stood, face to face with his father-in-law. Just as they were about to converse, Alexios held up his hand in a stopping motion.

"Halt, Son of mine. We've to wait for the Patriarch to discuss these matters; his Holy Word will grant us must needed council and wisdom." A gritting of the teeth followed next as Alexios was clearly frustrated. Theodore merely assumed the Patriarch was expected to be here a while prior - yet he could hardly blame the man, especially one of his age - to walk briskly from the Hagia Sophia to the Sacred Palace. Suddenly the Emperor stood up, his grimace turning to a light smile before a small scowl returned to his face and he gripped at the edges of his throne and tensed his palms against them.

The Holy Man was a giant figure, a tall and gaunt individual and dressed in a great black kalimifa, with its veils dropping down in a contrast of shades with his ivory white hair. As he walked across the chamber the black engolpion dragged itself across the floor and he bowed before the Emperor before the Emperor bowed before him in turn, begrudgingly having stood up from his throne.

"You're late." Alexios said, causing Theodore to blink. Whom would speak to the Holy Father like this?

"A Patriarch is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to." John replied, stroking his beard and setting down the Bible he had brought with him onto Alexios' lap. "Hold this, would you?" Alexios merely nodded, too flabbergasted at being able to even so much as say "Pardon?".

"We've much, much to discuss." Alexios finally managed to say.

"Of course we do!" Theodore said, finally getting a word in. "We've the Islamic Pigs clawing at our Empire with talons hidden behind the veils of their women, and when they're not praying to the stone in Mecca they're busy oppressing our brethren across the former Empire! Let us not even begin on the barbaric and idiotic Genoans, whom are run by the Semites with their unfair interests and trade to boot, with the more tenacious and cunning Venetians in no better view from our people!"

John X nodded approvingly. "Yes, indeed. The Islamic Jackal bites away out our underbelly, raping our women and stealing our children. The Venetian Falcon and the Genoan Pigeon too fly around our coasts, seeking for abusive deals that will destroy our nation slowly. It must be acted against. But, not with swords or fire, but with diplomacy and tact." The ageing Patriarch drew forth a document, coarse and old it was. He unfurled it carefully and gently, showing the contents to the Emperor.

"The old concessions?" Alexios spat. "What do you show me these for, I know the terms!"

John narrowed his eyebrows. "General Laskaris, read these terms will you? Find the fault within them." Theodore nodded rapidly, mumbling of course, and holding the documents to his eyes. The Patriarch tapped his foot impatiently, watching the movement of Theodore's eyes as he scanned the paper.

"Well, the Venetians never did actually send help..."

John slowly nodded, turning to the Emperor. "Now do you understand?"

Alexios' scowl turned to a grin; and he tented his hands across his lap. "Aye, I do."

January - The Year of Our Lord, 1200
Hagia Sophia, Constantinople, The Roman Empire
Two burly men, Varangians, true to the blood and bones, marched. Between them they dragged a skinny and decrepit man. He gasped for a breath, asking for water. He was rebutted by a metallic gauntlet to his jaw, an eerie crack following. The Varangians showed no quarter; especially as they dragged him up the steps towards the Hagia Sophia and laid him down upon a stone slab. One grabbed an axe, grinding it against a grind stone and the other folded his arms, watching and waiting. Justinian Kokinos, Imperial Magister of the Justices, stepped forward from beneath the cool doorway of the Hagia Sophia. He held a book, the Justinian Code and held it high.

"It seems that even the former Royals believe they can escape the laws established by our forefathers! Nay! They shall not!" The crowd cheered, their fists in the air in almost unison. The Magister moved forward, the book in the crook of his arm. A smug smile crossed his face and he held his nose up high to the royal man.

"Alexius Angelos!" Kokinos began, his voice now serving as a booming indicator for the silence across the assembled crowds in front of the Hagia Sophia. "You are accused of being guilty of the crimes of fornication with men, debauchery, theft, conspiring with the Genoan Merchants on the further destruction of the Empire and the utilisation of Mongol, Cuman and Seljuk Forces to strike against our Queen of Cities. Your judgement, as determined in the Halls of the Justices beforehand, was determined as guilty. But now, not only does the Lord God in Heaven know of your crimes, but the people here on his Earth do as well. Let us hope God has mercy on your soul, for we will not."

As the Magister finished his words the Varagian with the axe, a Kolya Ivanov, lifted the mighty tool into the air. He swung it down, the force of the elements seemingly behind him. The sound of the blade impacting flesh and bone, as well as cleaving straight through it, was silenced by the sound of cheers from the people. From his spot in the doorway of the Hagia Sophia, John X merely smiled a brief smile before turning back within.

Addressed to Kaloyan, King of Bulgaria.

It is a great concern to us here in the Roman Empire of the troubles our people have experienced in the past. It is because of this, as well as our unity of Faith under the Patriarch of Constantinople, that I would propose an alliance between our two nations against the Islamic Forces striking to our South - not to say even the Holy Land! - and the states now occupying the former areas of the Roman Empire. It would be a great benefit to both our peoples, I am sure.
Yours, Emperor Alexios III Angelos

Addressed to Enrico Dandolo, Doge of Venice.

It is a great concern to us here in the Roman Empire that your nation never upheld her terms of the deal struck many years ago, at the treaty of 1081. It is because of this that we call you out on your false dealings and issues, and we seek to make amends by drafting a new treaty in the city of Constantinople; one that would benefit all parties equally and fairly and not be built upon the false promises of individuals. We hope you are understanding our reasoning and we hope to see you in the Queen of Cities soon.
Yours, Emperor Alexios III Angelos

[Finland SSR]

The Duchy of Lithuania, more of a confederation, though

January-February, Year 1200

An army never seen by man in these lands. A force of over 6,000 men, splintered into dozens of separare units based on their allegiance to whichever lord, but all moving towards the same goal. This campaign, led by Dangerutis and Žvelgutis, is an extraordinary one - not only was it prepared for years in advance, but it's mission was not just a raid. The northern Semigallian tribes and the Lithuanians were usually in a constantly changing position of either friendship and alliance or warfare for border territories. Now, the Duchy, forming from many loose Eastern Baltic tribes, is ready to put an end to these relations and subjugate their northern disunited neighbour. Not to mention the need to capture the Daugava Estuary, an important trade center. The plan is simple - attack fort, force surrender, subjugate, proceed to go to next fort.

At this point, Lithuania is one of the most advanced of the Baltic tribal nations, in a political sense. It is one of the most consolidated, and over all is the closest you can get to a Baltic country right now. It started in the mid 12th century, around 1150 or so. Throughout the life of the Kievan Rus, Lithuanians were often hired as mercenaries, good at forest warfare and scouting. The lands of the Balts were good targets for Viking and Slav raids. However, in the last century, things started to change. Foreign invasions ceased - Vikings and Slavs christianized, Kievan Rus splintered and started disintegrating, Poland was in constant state of dynastic warfare and breaking apart. And in Lithuania, tribal familial ownership was turning into a territorial one. Wealthy and powerful dukes rose to power, taking inspiration from outside lands in how to rule. And then the raids began. On Polotsk, fellow Batls, Galicia, Poland - Lithuanians could even reach Estonia and Novgorod. And these were no small raiding parties - but large, organized mssions with up to thousands of men ready to pillage.

Organized warfare created a similar effect on Lithuanian society as never-ending wars and conquests had on Charlemagne's Frankish society - rise of a feudal structure. Cavalry is expensive, soldiers want pay, and raids are not always successful, so the dukes were forced to cede some land to the most powerful of them in exchange for military support for raids. These landed warriors were called "gerieji žmonės" (lit. "good people") and were the ancestors to Lithuanian magnates and lords that rose to power in the 14th-15th centuries. Many of the "gerieji žmonės" grew so rich and powerful, that they started building their own fortresses and employing their own armies, also landing them for service, like their "lieges".

Meanwhile, the other classes were not left alone. With Lithuania being constantly raiding, in war or having inner conflicts, living on the field without protection is no longer safe for a peasant. Many of them flocked to the nearest duke or warlord, who offered them protection in exchange for them working for him and paying a tribute in produces. These tied peasants, proto-serfs, were called "laukininkai" ("fielders" or "field-people"). Many villages, especially those located in good defensive or trade positions, grew to become towns and even cities, like Kernavė, Vilnius and Kaunas. People stopped working on agriculture there, and instead, these cities became hubs for artisans and craftspeople, from weaponsmiths to boot producers. In order to protect quality of their crafts and control the prices, workers of similar jobs started forming guilds and gathering in the same district. Dukes and rulers often left these places alone, in exchange for a set tax.

And voila - a feudal society! While feudalism weakens the absolute power of the duke, it allows them to hold and consolidate much larger swathes of territory.

[The Holy Dominion of Inesea]

Dniester River-Odessan Country
February 1200

Roman had split his host into three groups, two of a thousand men and one of two thousand. They had spent the past two months raiding and pillaging through the country. They had wiped out several smaller bands of local militia and lordlings. Truthfully, the locals were in a wretched decadent state. The Cumans were never unified and the Vlachs had several long standing alliances with Cuman lordlings. Thus the poor Lord Otrak had lost much of his supporters. With the countryside burning and his subjects playing passive or dead, he was slowly running out of options.

The lynchpin in Roman's strategy was the longship force that came down the Dniester. Bearing several hundred raiders, they burned their way south to Odessa, where is the dark of the night, they snuck in and killed the local Cuman lordling. It was a bloodless coup. In the northern parts of the country, his eight thousand infantry took village after village. Because of the previous cavalry raids, there was no unified response. Roman was pleased with how his army had fared. For now, he took his men to reinforce Odessa. With that city in his hands, he effectively controlled the Dniester. It would also be opened up to Venetian Trade. With his ships in control of the Dniester and his troops running rampant over the countryside, it was inevitable the country would fall soon enough. After the area settled down, he would march onto Poland. Or maybe Kiev.

Zhovten

Boyar Kirill Istanovich commanded some 400 of his personal retainers, all dismounted, in the service of the Grand Prince, Roman Mystislav. He was about four hours from meeting up with Knyez Yuri Kurkov and his 2,000 men. He and his men were marching south to Odessa to occupy it when suddenly one of the outriders came wheeling back into the main train. A host of Cumani had been spotted. Some 2,000 of them, heading straight for them. Istanovich ordered his men up onto a hill that they had passed not ten minutes ago. The rider said they had about another hour before the Cumani came. Seeing as they were mounted there'd be no outrunning them. He ordered his men into a ring formation. He placed his 150 pikemen on the outside of the ring, with his 200 archers and 50 daneaxemen on the inside. Thankfully, they had enough pavises to form a literal shield wall around his troops. They had been transporting them to Odessa. They had to hold for four hours.

When the first wave of the Cumanis arrived, they began to circle the hill. Kirill held off his archers from firing. When the Cumani had fully encircled the hill in horsemen, riding in their circles as they did, he ordered his men to fire. The Cumani were taken back. Generally any enemy like this would have surrendered to intimidation by now. The Cumani fired back. Arrows rained down from both sides, the Cumani firing more, the Rus safe behind their shields and high upon the hill.

A century of Cumani lancers charged up the hill. They were pelted with arrows and rocks. They collided with the pavises, knocking them down but opening themselves to the spears of the Rus. Down they went, gored on spears or hacked by axes. Soon, the pavises were back up and the pikemen had reformed. The Cumani had taken a beating, but so too had the Rus. Many were short on arrows and broken spears and no replacements. The sheer number of arrows had taken a toll on the soldiers. The Cumani withdrew, harried by the Rus archers.

The Cumani had no way of knowing that 2,000 Rus soldiers were coming. Yuri's men were mixed, half horse half archer and spear. They cavalry was modeled after the Byzantine Cataphract. Heavily armed and armored. Yuri's scours had told him of the battle going on. He split his force in two. His cavalry would ride around to the otherside of the hill, while his infantry came up the front. The Cavalry would charge the Cumani, while the infantry waited for them to break and try to maneuver to shoot at the Cataphracts. Kirill's men and Yuri's infantry would be bastions that prevented such.

As Yuri's men were moving into position, the Cumani had ended their reprieve and were back at the assault. As before, arrows flew, this time the Rus opening up at a farther range. However, the Rus had but half an hour of arrows left. The Cumani could sense this and were increasingly sallying into the lines. It was on the last of such sallies, a charge by two hundred cavalry(the hill permitted no more), that Yuri's Cataphracts appeared. The Cumani, focused on the hill, hadn't noticed. The dying light helped too. A thunderous wave of one thousand horsemen crashed into the Cumans, sending them reeling. On the other side of the hill, Yuri's infantry fanned out, spearmen and archer. The polearm line would break most fleeing cavalry while the archers let loose into the Cumani. Yuri's men took causalities from Cumani bows, but the cavalry charge had broken the impetus of the Cumani assault.

Kirill saw what was happening and ordered his pike line to contract to allow the allied horsemen to pass. As the cataphracts raced over the field, engaging the Cumani, Kirill ordered his daneaxemen to charge through the areas the cavalry passed. Facing archer fire from both sides, two deadly walls of spears, and an oncoming steel tide, many Cumani broke. The Cumani were open plains cavalry, suited for maneuver. They were butchered once constrained. When the day was out, the Cumani no longer had a coherent military force on this side of the Dniester. Yuri's spearmen had taken many losses, as had Kirill's troops. But they had won.

[Krugmar]

Second Bulgarian Empire
January, 1200 AD

The bitter sting of the cold air did little to dampen the spirits of Kaloyan, Tsar of the Bulgarians and Wallachians. He stood at the border of the river Danube, staring across at the lands of Wallachia, rightfully his by right of birth and blood. Indeed in some lands he was known as John, King of Wallachia, in others he was Ioannitsa, King of Bulgaria, though none of these truly portrayed his majesty and position. He was an Emperor, the successor of the first Bulgarian Empire and rightful ruler of all the Bulgar and Vlach peoples. He would take his lands by merit of conquest, then continue north on a righteous crusade to convince the Papacy and the Roman Empire that he was worthy of his title, worthy to be counted amongst the Caesar's of the world.

Behind him stood a vast force, fifty thousand Bulgarians ready to follow him to hell and back. The famed Cuman heavy cavalry stood with him, a force made up of mercenaries and the descendants of Cuman mercenaries who had settled in Bulgaria long ago. His own wife was a Cuman Princess, given to him to cement relations between Bulgaria and their northern cousins. An interesting bribe, but not one that Kaloyan would be swayed by. Bulgaria would rise to greatness, matching the Roman Empire in the east and the one in the west. Only Hungary presented a problem, but he was confident that he could defeat them and assert his control over Serbia. The Grand Prince had not been responding the way he wanted recently, an invasion would be necessary after his northern crusades were finished.

He watched as his heavy cavalry thundered across the land, horns blew and men scattered as the army prepared to move out. Wallachia was weak and ripe for the taking, the false prince would find himself headless and Kaloyan would make a name for himself, to be feared and respected throughout Europe.

"Your Majesty, a letter from the Romans" said one of his advisors, handing a furled scroll to him. He read the contents eagerly, relieved to learn that the Romans wanted peace. He had left an army of 15,000 standing upon his borders under the command of his cousin Boril and several nobles, though he knew that Boril was far less competent in military matters than himself.

"A quill and some paper, now" he said, dismounting and making his way to an empty table. This letter demanded his immediate attention.

-imgur is down will replace with cool coat of arms-

Addressed to Alexios III, Emperor of Rome

Heretics and Pagans assault the unity of our Christian faith every day, and grow bolder and stronger while we, the followers of Christ, have fought amongst ourselves in search of temporal power. What you propose is admirable, and done in the Lord's Grace. The Cuman Pagans in the north shall feel the wrath of the Bulgarians, while the Mohammedans will feel the wrath of the Romans. Together we can reverse the decline of the one true faith and restore order to these lands.

I shall send you my aid, fifteen thousand sons of Bulgaria led by my cousin Boril, to strike against the heathens who would threaten Constantinople. In return you shall acknowledge the full independence of Bulgaria, and our supremacy over Serbia and the northern states. Together we can conquer this world, and join Augustus and Caesar in eternal fame and bliss.

signed, Kaloyan, Emperor of Bulgaria

[PLESSUR]

The Kingdom of Scots | Rìoghachd na h-Alba

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stornoway | Steòrnabhagh
Kingdom of Mann and the Isles

The King of Scots sat at the table impatiently as his various vassals spoke around him. Peace had been achieved between the Scots and their neighbors in the Isles. After the king had issued the call to arms in August, thousands of Scottish soldiers had been raised through those loyal to him, with hundreds being contributed by the Highland clans. The War of the Isles was short, but due to its wintery nature had slowly picked away at some of the Scottish forces - particularly the fighters native to the Lowlands. Regardless, an armistice had been called and the Treay of Stornoway was about to be signed. The Archbishop of St Andrews was chosen as the arbitrator due to his divine inspiration and had just finished reading the terms of the treaty. "The King of Mann and the Isles, Gofraid III of the House of Crobán, shall henceforth become a vassal of His Grace William, King of Scots. What remains of the fleet of the Isles shall likewise be transferred to the ownership of His Grace and will be distributed throughout his realm as well. Gofraid will be stripped of his title of king, and shall hereby be known as the Lord of the Isles."

A quill's feather was placed in the hand of the soon to be former King of the Isles, who slowly signed his name at the bottom of the paper. William took the feather out of his new vassal's hand and did the same, making sure to sign his name much larger than his subject's.

"Welcome to Scotland, Gofraid." he said with a smirk.

The Archbishop continued. "As an act of kindness to signal this new era of peace and friendship between the Isles and Scotland. His Grace would like to extend the invitation to dinner at Stirling Castle to Lord Gofraid III and his children, vassals, and companions in order to celebrate the signing of this treaty with a feast."

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stirling| Sruighlea
Kingdom of Scots

Dozens had arrived at the King's residence in Stirling for the banquet he was throwing to celebrate the peace between Scotland and the Isles. Lord Gofraid had arrived with his family and vassals to enjoy the private feast with the King, his wife and sons, and the Great Officers of the Crown. Music played as those gathered had feasted and drank. William ensured plenty of wine was supplied to his guests. It had almost reached eleven o'clock at night, and the Great Offices and queen had already dismissed themselves. The King's three sons, including his heir Prince Alexander, promptly left. All that remained in the room was the King, the Lord of the Isles, and the Lord's vassals - along with various servants and bards.

The King rose up and waved his hand, and the servants quickly left the room and the doors burst open. Fifty armed soldiers were ushered into the room and the music suddenly ceased. The King walked over to the door, turned around and stared directly at the shocked Lord Gofraid.

"Welcome to Scotland." he said before shutting the door behind him. Screams filled the castle and blood splattered against the walls. What would forever be engrained in the history of Scotland as the Black Dinner had come to an end, and the King was henceforth made Lord of the Isles.

A man arrives on a horse at the castle in Stirling. He was panting and looked tired. He spotted a watchman's hut near the entrance to the castle.

"Greetings from Norway! I am here to meet the king of Scotland. Please allow me in and inform the King of my presence. I bear important tidings from Norway."

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

The Kingdom of Scots | Rìoghachd na h-Alba

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stirling| Sruighlea
Kingdom of Scots

A guard was awoken from his day dreaming by shouts from a man below the castle wall. He rolled his eyes and looked at his companion.

"The King isn't expected a Norwegian git is he?"

"No, I do not believe so." the other guard replied.

"Alright then." he said as he looked down the wall. "His Grace is not expecting an envoy from the King of the Norwegians. You have no business here, so sod off!" he growled.

[PLESSUR]

A guard was awoken from his day dreaming by shouts from a man below the castle wall. He rolled his eyes and looked at his companion.

"The King isn't expected a Norwegian git is he?"

"No, I do not believe so." the other guard replied.

"Alright then." he said as he looked down the wall. "His Grace is not expecting an envoy from the King of the Norwegians. You have no business here, so sod off!" he growled.

The man growled his reply.

"I know this wasn't expected. The new Norwegian king, Haakon Sverresson, was unable to come himself. I bear important news for the king. Now go tell him of a message from Norway!"

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

The Kingdom of Scots | Rìoghachd na h-Alba

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stirling| Sruighlea
Kingdom of Scots

The guard rolled his eyes. "Damn Norwegians, what do they even want with His Grace?" he asked his companion.

"I do not know. I will search for him and ask if he wishes to speak with this envoy."

After a stroll through the castle he found the king. "Your Grace. There is an envoy from the Norwegian king here to speak with you."

"What does he want?" the King replied.

"He didn't say."

"Find James and have him escort the envoy inside. We will see if he can weasel any information out of him."

"Yes, sir." the guard said.

He arrived at the chambers of the Great Steward and opened the door. James was on his bed with his trousers down and a childhood friend where they should have been, clearly occupied. "By heavens what do you want?" he said.

"His Grace needs to you escort an envoy from the Norwegian king into the castle." the guard said with a shock.

"Fine. Fergus, I will return in a bit." he said as he pulled up his trousers. The pair arrived at the castle's entrance and the Great Steward walked up to the envoy.

"Greetings. The King has sent me to escort you into the castle, follow me." as the two made the journey throughout the castle's halls James began to speak. "So, why is it that you are here?"

[PLESSUR]

The emissary entered the castle, leaving his horse tied to a post near the entrance. When James asked the question, the man stayed silent for a minute looking at James intently.

"My master, King Haakon Sverresson of Norway, has important agenda with the King of Scotland. Being neighbours, we have common interests and would do well together. Among the agenda, I believe, is talk of alliance, solidarity and war. The matter is complex."

[The Kingdom of Glitter]

The Kingdom of Scots | Rìoghachd na h-Alba

January 1200 Anno Domini
Stirling| Sruighlea
Kingdom of Scots

The Steward continued walking, ignoring the response. He showed the envoy into the chamber where the King was sitting.

"Your Grace, may I present to you the Norwegian envoy." he said.

The King stood up from his chair and walked over to the envoy. "Greetings, and welcome to Scotland."

[PLESSUR]

The envoy kneeled before the king and bowed his head.

"Your Majesty, I bear important news from Norway. My master, Haakon Sverresson has become king after a long and bitter civil war. However, peace is still not in sight. He has sent me to ask you his requests."

[G-Tech Corporation]

Grand Principality of Vladimir
February, Anno Domini 1200

Suetovo, Principality of Smolensk

Through the chill woods the pikemen bearing the black and white hauberks of Vladimir trod, a thousand men under arms. Crossbows and broad shields were their weapons, and short swords and pikes for more immediate work. Viktor Nemtsov led them, Councilor of the Grand Prince in Vladimir. After securing Vyazma the horsemen had swept south and west, and reports came back somewhat regularly noted a force massed by the men of Smolensk to retake the free city for their liege. Two thousands and more, but mostly men-at-arms raised hastily from outlying holds, not a professional force like the Rus of the north or the Rus of the south. That was always the trouble of these central lords, Viktor reflected as he shifted in his saddle. No external threats to keep them tough, just trade and playing their political games. Well, now Smolensk would learn what happened when men played the game for keeps instead of amusement.

Ahead the forested land opened upon a low field, and the tall dark-haired Slav was just reflecting on his tactical deployment orders when an outrider came back bearing news of skirmishing beyond the end of the trees. Indeed, sharp ears began to pick out horn calls from the fore, and with a bellow the Councilor brought the formation up to an attack jog, the pace that could be sustained for an hour before combat to eat up ground with lightening speed. Balanced coats of plates distributed weight well across battle-hardened bodies, and his veterans faces were grim as hands gripped axes and swords close to chest, the column accelerating as inevitably as the tide. The Lord of Sobinka nudged his destrier with his knees, and the warhorse broke into a trot, keeping pace with the infantry with ease. He drew his greatsword from the heavy black scabbard, and peered forward, looking for a foe to charge.

The trees passed rapidly, and then the Rus' were out in the open. Gray sky left little light to blind men, thankfully, but the confusion ahead told the tale of the battle already. A cavalry fight between Smolenski outriders and some cavalrymen from the eastlands, it was a whirling melee, many men already dead and most sense of order lost. Viktor nodded to his standard bearers, the bloody maul riding high on his ensign, and the stout armsman gave wind to the horn. With the deep boom of the immense clarion rollicking across the field the infantry split into their companies, a hundred man in each, drawing desperately lethal weapons from their webbings. Forward the Vladimiri soldiers coursed, hounds given the scent, and the Smolenski were stricken in the vale. With a mighty swing Viktor sliced an enemy rider from shoulder to navel, before pulling his sword free with a slick sucking noise and casually backhanding a dismounted lancer with his mailed fist, sending the sod reeling away, his face a ruin. It was a good scrap, but then more horns answered the Vladimiri blasts from the north, higher notes like the cold breath of the stars descending. Hurrying along on foot came Ruriak of the Frozen Shore and a few companies of men of the Republic, falling upon the Smolenski riders. The men of the south west had turned to meet their attackers, but with their flank turned and sudden wonderment upon them at the numbers of their foes, they broke, fleeing as they could back towards the main host of foes.

A good day, a sword day.

[Das Germane imperie]

January-February 1200 AD
Dietfurt Fields, The Holy Roman Empire

Two years of war and rebellion within the Empire, and the road had taken him here. Peasants and vassals gathered together time after time to depose him. The House of Hohenstaufen's authority had been reduced significantly since the death of his father, Frederick Barbarossa. Now, the Imperial electorates could not find a majority in the election of the next Holy Roman Empire, which had ended in this dispute between Otto of York, supported by the crown of England, Bohemia and Denmark and himself, Philip of Swabia, supported by the Pope only.

Whilst Otto who's titles were directly given by the English Crown and was centered in Aquataine, he had the possibilty to stay protected in France at the same time as Philip had to fight down every single peasant rebellion that this succession crisis had started. Philip had stolen titles that were hard to control, like the Kingdom of Burgundy and the Kingdom of Italy. Otto was left with the Kingdom of Germany, the rightful title needed for the Emperor seat. He simply had to force Otto to renounce his claims as Emperor and this conflict would end. But Otto would not do that so simple. But the Pope could, and that was his goal.

The Battle of Dietfurt was one of many. A few thousand peasants against less than a thousand professional soldiers. Imperial Knights charging into unorganized peasants with their lances, swordsmen and spearmen fighting down the rest. Crossbowmen or archers were far to risky to take out to battle, as they played an important role in defending the many fortresses and towns. The peasants would flee, and most of them would be pardoned. The rest would be slayed on the spot, and put up on spikes to show examples.

Philip's way to power was a bloody one, yet it did not have to be. It was with deep concern he wrote a letter to the one man who could stop it.

Adressed to his holiness the Pope, Innocent III

Our Lord in Heaven, God, is what drives us forward. He is the benevolent ruler and creator of all. Yet the Evil of Corrupted men make this world a burning inferno full of blood and death, next only to Hell itself. Your holiness is a preserver of the Lord's peace on earth, and I know that you fulfill this duty with honor and Diligence. That is why I ask you this, to write to the Pretender Otto of York in Poitou, to renounce his titles as King of Italy and Burgundy, and to deny his claims on the Holy Roman Empire. Only then can we see peace. And I know you are a rightous man.

Signed, Philip I, Duke of Swabia and King of Germany

[Emilio Aguinaldo]

Hall of the Grand Prince, The grand city of Kiev, Grand principality of Kiev

Wearing a great fur cape with his coat covered with pieces of plate and with two men with shields going as far down at their feet this man that walked into the hall looks more like a high ranking soldier than a ruler of anything really. However, this man is no soldier officer or general, for he was the Grandest Prince of the Rus.
He sat on the throne of which the Kievian Rus was once ruled from, and with a calm voice he ordered the waiting messenger to speak.

With a bit of nervousness in his voice, the messenger began spoke of the events in the Principality of Pinsk

M-milord, our armies have already besieged their capital of Pinsk and is at the moment should be commencing an assault in order to bring them to heel quickly. Our armies have easily broken through the Principality just by having more men than they do, and they are set to come back in a week's time after the siege.

[Liecthenbourg]

February - The Year of Our Lord, 1200
Sacred Palace, Constantinople, The Roman Empire
In poured the Bulgarians. Alexios III Angelos watched from his balcony, organised lines of heavy infantry marching in splendour and pomp across the city as they made their way for the ports to be ferried to the other side of the straits. A man, one named Boril atop his white stallion, cousin of the King of Bulgaria, was to lead them. The acceptance of the alliance had been well received at court; Roman Armies could relax in the lands of Hellas and the lower Balkans. For such easy terms; the independence of Bulgaria and their dominance in the lands of the Serbs and their contemporaries. This, this was a small price to pay for the northern security of the Empire. The Patriarch had agreed; as would Theodore had the latter not already marched into Asia Minor at the head of a Roman Host. So Alexios sat, his fingers idly drumming against the stone railing of the balcony whilst his other hand swirled the goblet of wine in his hands, the red vintage moving with the flow.

The creak of the doors of the royal chamber soon sliced through the silence of the room and in stepped a figure. The Emperor of the Romans turned round, a little of the red vintage in the ornate goblet of gold and gems galore spilling out, dripping onto his hands and onto the floor. There stood the slender and sleek form of his wife, Euphrosyne Doukaina Kamatera, Empress of the Roman Empire. She came to him and he embraced her in his arms. They shared a brief moment in that position of tenderness and care, but outside blared a Bulgarian horn of war as the huge party continued to move throughout the city. The brunette woman moved the hair that now covered her vision, giggling as if she was a teen once more. Alexios chuckled as well, sitting down upon a luxurious chair.

"I was thinking, we could bui-" Alexios began, visibly happy.

Euphrosyne sighed and held up one of her hands. "No, we're not building any more palaces. We have enough with this one and its gardens. I forbid it. As does Constantine Mesopotamites, you know, the one whom has essentially consolidated your rule for you? Do as he says and maybe we wont become a footnote of history."

"Bu-"

"But nothing, Alexios. We're trying to run a state here! Not a palace construction business. I'm just happy to see we're doing something - we've been on the defensive for too long. What made you wish to strike the Sultanate?"

"Well, it was... well, John's idea." Alexios croaked, wringing his hands together. His wife merely sighed, embracing him again.

February-March, The Year of Our Lord, 1200
Nearing Rum territory, The Roman Empire
Theodore wiped his brow, having lifted his helm ever so slightly to be able to do so. His horse neighed, shaking furiously before the Byzantine man calmed it down with soothing strokes down the neck. He had been tasked with a most prestigious task; marching on the offensive against the Sultanate of Rum. His contingents were wide and plenty; infantry, archers and horsemen, with the famed cataphracts of the East among them. These knights of Orthodoxy were clad in heavy, shining armour and with a great and long history had they served as the hammer of the Empire against her foes. They were her shield, her sword and her hope. Her heavenly glow in the dark times. The saviours that would descend down from the hill tops and across the plains at Christ's command, they had said, and rarely had they failed in their magnificent charges of malice and splendour. All in all, some 22,000 men marched with General Theodore Laskaris. He had also heard that the Bulgarians, recent allies of the Byzantines, were marching on Sinop.

There was no happy chanting and singing as these men marched. There was no joyous telling of jokes, or former exploits. Little a murmur passed through the ranks. The Varangians marched in silence, the odd comment passed to the General as he rode beside them. The archers trudged behind them, not a whisper across their lines; the cavalry and the rest of the infantry too became a giant wave of silence. The only noise emitting was from a travelling group of priests and monks whom had joined them; to lift their spirits. They chanted the songs and chants of the Church and that seemed to keep the men content. Theodore had seen it; there was a silence in their very soul. Their eyes were filled with solemn dread and Laskaris could not blame them. For most of them this was a defining moment; to break or to be broken. Rum had been painted as the age-old enemy, the very demonic barbarians who wished to see the last vestige of the Roman Empire fall. He could tell his men were partly worried, Byzantium had been brought to its hind legs before. But a victory was all that was needed to reinstall the hope and glory they had in Rome. Many would give their all, he knew, for it was to fight for the Cross or succumb to the Crescent.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Grand Principality of Vladimir
April, Anno Domini 1200

Smolensk, Principality of Smolensk

Muscles strained, and with a sudden release the shaft flew from Kazarev's bow, well-loved creation of horn and composite handed down from his father. He crouched down in his saddle again, knees clicking with age, and urged his coursing mare forward again with a twitch of his knees and the shifting of his weight. His eyes, as keen as they were, did not espy the point where the arrow struck the Smolenski host. But it really mattered little- even if he had marked the kill, the Golar rider knew each man that fell might have just as easily been taken by another of the heavy horse archers. Keeping count was a matter of personal pride, but all but impossible in the slow Smolenski retreat from Krivtsky. When the Grand Prince's forces took the crossing under sudden night march, the levies thrown together by the Smolenski Prince had withdrawn in no discernible order back towards the walled city that had stood for four centuries.

Drawing another arrow, the eastern-blooded rider shot again into the host of barely-armored levies, and shook his head. He only commanded a single squad of horse, his riders favored by the nomadic traditions of blood kin, in service to the Boyar of Estroq. But these men of Smolensk still outnumbered the horsemen harassing them; a good leader of men could have stiffened their lines into spear squares and used the light bowmen he had in numbers to see of his pursuers, and maybe drive back the main host of the Rus' marching behind, or at least give battle on even terms. As it was though, the rabble of men ahead of the ravening Vladimiri and Novgorodian forces could scarcely be called an army. Kazarev already had the sword off of a fallen boyar slung across his saddle, a fine blade chased in amber and red-gold. Though the Grand Prince was strict about raiding civilians for aught but food when ranging ahead of the main host, looting the dead was an entirely different matter.

Ahead, however, his vision picked out the walls of Smolensk, and the rider hooted, momentarily startled into surprise. The gates of the city were closed, barred, and above the fortress the banner of a white field hung in the breeze. That wouldn't make the Prince happy at all from where the Vladimiri horseman saw his standard in the host of the Principality. Surrender the old stronghold had chosen, rather than stand against the notedly victorious hosts of the Grand Prince that coursed south and east. Night was falling, and the horsemen turned away at Kazarev's piercing whistle.

When dawn came, the host had all but disintegrated. It had been nearly a sleepless night, riding down boyars and military men trying to sneak away from the encirclement, but the eastern warriors would be as rich as kings once all of the captive ransoms had been paid into their salaries. There were advantages to being professionals- no bothering with personal responsibility on the matter, and the Prince Msistislav had been taken. Already boyars were lining up before the immense sable tent that marked the location of the Grand Prince to swear allegiance to their new lord, or beg mercy, depending on how Dmitri felt about their opposition to his rule and their actions in the eastern battles. The horseman couldn't really care less. Telling his second to wake him if the camp caught fire, Kazarev slipped into his bunkroll after a feast of 'liberated' beef and was soon dead to the world.

Drachevo, Grand Principality of Vladimir

Men in the dun red tunics of Ryazan marched north, and a horse ran before them, fast as the wind and white as a pale sea ghost. It bore a young boy, barely twelve winters, a rider from the garrison at Drachevo. The accursed Riazani hadn't learned their lesson after Dmitri burned their capital not even half a generation ago; with Cumani sellswords and fire they came north, burning rick, cot, and vale. At the small outpost Gregor Klastavich strapped on his thick leather armor, and called for his sword. The aging lord had watched over Drachevo for a lifetime, and would not see the town destroyed by brigands from the southlands, pathetic milk-drinkers who had not even earned the right to be called warriors. Gathering his bannermen about him, the white-bearded soldier tucked his immense spilling swathe of hair into his belt, and growled at his lady wife who shed tears at his leaving. He should have left her years ago, but she did have her redeeming qualities. Drawing a great axe from a scabbard on either side of stamping stallion, Gregor roared out at the two hundred horsemen that were given to his lordship, brandish each axe overhead in a heavily muscled fist, crossed before the full moon.

"Alright lads, those mewling quims have come north to try and have their fill of rapine before we put an axe through their skulls like we did last time. I humbly propose that we kill them all first, and let the dogs have their way with the corpses. Aye!" The answering fierce bellows showed the Varangian blood that still flowed in the veins of the hardest Rus', a berserk fury tempered by generations of civilization, yet was pure in the hearts of the hardest men. The old lord touched an axe to the brazier next to him, and the tar on it kindled in an instant, the heat barely touching his hands through his toughened gloves and mail. Out the soldiers rode like a hurricane wind, the sigil of the burning axes flying above their heads even as Gregor the Fell rode south to kill some Ryazani bastards, lurid torchlight and starlight the only illumination of the charge of the two hundreds.

Confluence of the Volga and Oka Rivers, Wild Lands

Far away from the wars in the south and south-west, wagons rumbled along the hard northern roads near the Volga, still thawing from winter's frozen grip. It was warm enough to make long journeys easily, but thankfully still cold enough the spring rains had not turned roads into pure mud and glue for any wheel or foot to be entrapped by. The burgeoning population of Vladimir and her holdings had encouraged the Grand Prince to issue a proclamation that all land east of Sudzal unclaimed by bound men or held by the forces of the Bulgar Khan would be accorded on the Register of Lands to whoever could settle it and till the soil for a year and a day then send word to the White Palace. Here, at the meeting of the two great rivers, a portion of men from the veche of Sudzal had seen fit to settle, and a small township was rising amidst logging camps and small farmholds.

[The Jonathanian States]

Serenìsima Repùblica de Venesia

---

Enrico Dandolo, Doxe de Venexia - 7th of Xenaro, 1200 Anno Domini

---

Palazzo Ducale, Venesia, La Republica
Enrico stood on the first floor of his palace, hands rested on the railing from which he would be able to look out at Giudecca, at Saint George the Great, and on the great azure lagoon beyond. Sometimes he thought he still remembered that splendorous view. The many ships sailing in and out of the great metropolis. Many called Constantinople the Queen of cities. He himself had been there, many years back, and had taken in its grandeur, even if his eyes had seen just as much as they do now. But the city of Constantine was a state's capital about half a millennium before a Doge ever ruled in San Marco and ancient Byzantion itself was founded even earlier by many centuries. No, Constantinople was the current Queen of cities, but one day the Pearl of the Adria, hidden inside its sea would rise, that he knew deep in his heart.
And as he stood there, the wind blowing in his face and the smell of the sea that every venetian was accustomed to around him, he sighed and thought of days past and to come.

He heard a movement to his side, and intuitively asked his guard for that day, "Piero?". Piero, clad in light armour, a long spear in one hand and a short sword holstered at his side, looked at the new arrival. Looking over the young man who had now arrived, as if searching for a threat, until he finally confirmed to the Doge, "A knave, My Lord Doge, seeming to be in employ of your palace. I am sure he carries word of great importance if he were to disturb you here and now.".
The old doge took a deep breath, and then without any further movement, his face still turned south and at the sea, he slowly spoke, "What is it, boy, that I am required? Are the all nobili calling? Or are it the forty who wish my presence?".
"Neither, My Lord the Doge, an emissary has arrived from the Basileia. He delivers a letter to you, supposedly of great importance."

The doge's clear eyes flew wide open, and he stared into the darkness. It was not everyday that the 'Rhomaions' sent the Republic their regards, and never was it without importance. "Guide me, Piero", commanded the first Venetian, "Help me to my office." After turning around from the sea and before starting to walk he then speaks, "Knave, deliver the Greek to my office, I shall meet him there."

A great robe of fine silks in red and gold covered him and the corno ducale of ermine and linen on his head, few men might look more regal after 93 years of life and maybe 30 years of service to the republic.
Scepter in hand, he sat on the great seat, a throne and yet not one, and behind the layer of calmness his face also showed pride and strength. A man like from iron, living on through sheer willpower in the name of the republic. Or at least so the after-world would know the Doge.

A servant opened the door and in stepped the messenger, two Venetian Guardsmen stepping aside to grant him passage, and two more stepping through behind the Greek. At last, the emissary came to a halt before performing a short bow, and behind him the guardsmen halted too, standing still like sculptures. The Greek spoke first, "Most Serene Prince, I deliver to you a message from his Imperial Majesty, the Basileus himself. He instructs me to deliver it to you and to inform you of its importance." Having waited for a few seconds to make sure that the delegate finished, the old man responded, his words streaming in a calm fashion that would make it seem as if he were discussing the weather with his rather than international diplomacy, "I understand. Step forward then, good Sir, and hand me this note from the ruler of the Rhomaion.". The man, seeming accustomed to such scenarios, made a quick three steps forward, held out the sealed letter, and then stepped back. "If it please you, Most Serene Prince, but this was all I was sent for, and my journey home is not a too short one.". A small smile came up on the Venetian's face, but he waved the hand holding the sceptre and the door was opened once more, the second set of guards stepped aside, and so the small procession left as it had come. Guillermo Morosini, a councilor of the six immediately stepped towards the ruler, moved his hand towards the letter and asked "If you would allow, I shall read it aloud, your serenity."
Enrico only nodded and handed him the letter. It was read aloud by Morosini, after which Dandolo spoke once more.
"Calling us out on a debt long paid. Cursed they be. Renegotiation, they say. I shall bring it to the Great council, my head is something I wish to keep. But it is within my prerogative to answer these Bastardi.
Guillermo, I wish you to start writing:"
And quickly a letter was dictated. On the same evening still a courier left San Marco on a Galley under the flag of San Marco, with a missive ton Rhomaion.

---

Serenìsima Repùblica de Venesia
Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia

From the Office of his Serenity, the Doge of Venice, Enrico Dandolo

Greetings.

We, the Doge and Council of Six of Venice, are most appaled by your accusations laid upon the Republic.

The Republic of Venice under the wise guidance of Doge Domenico Selvo agreed to intervene on the behalf of the Basileia for the protection of Durazzo, and has since fully ensured the cities safety. Beyond that, in the fights for the protection of that city Venice lost nine great galleys and many more of its sons, brothers, and fathers to the Norman invaders. And even eleven further years after the loss of all these did Venice fight against the Normans. Fleet after Fleet did the Venetians bring to the ground of the Adria and beyond in obligation to the Emperors. Was it not a mere one-hundred and one years ago that a Venetian fleet under Contarini and Giovanni fought off the fleet of the vile Turk allowing for the reconquest of your land of Rhodes by your illustrious Ioannes Doukas. Did we not, a mere 52 years ago, against the will of many a noble and with even the Bishop of Rome placing a ban upon us, stand by our allies of Konstantinoupolis against the Normans who operated jointly with rebellious Peleponnesians and most swiftly defeated all their ships that came upon our sights?
Tell me, did we not remain your loyal allies until a mere 29 years ago an other man who sat on your very throne accused us of having destroyed a quarter of the rivaling Genovese, had all Venetians placed behind bars and their properties taken?
And did all that not happen after the position of Latin Republics other than Venice were raised while Venice lost priviliges, and yet silently accepted the Emperor's decision?
Even then was it the Emperor's fleet that had remained outside of Chios through the winter, when a truce had been accepted by the Republic, until it had to face the great plague and sail home, almost completely killed?

Tell me, oh great Basileus, Emperor in Constantinople, Ruler of the city of the World's desire, does this like to you like a lack of support? Like a deal made and then immediately betrayed? False Dealings, your imperial majesty?
Tell me, oh great Basileus, once you have reached that decision.

But as far as your request goes, it is beyond my own authority to do so, for in the Republic none have unlimited power. I have informed the Nobili of the Great Council of your decision and they shall make their choices.

Sincerely,
Most Serene Doge of Venice, duke of Istria and Dalmatia, etc, etc, - Enrico Dandolo

---

Enrico Dandolo, Doxe de Venexia - 13th of Xenaro, 1200 Anno Domini

---

Palazzo Ducale, Venesia, La Republica
There was a constant murmur of small yet important discussions in the great hall of the Doge's Palace. This grand room, part of the beating heart of the Serene Republic, would soon once more be home to a great decision that would affect all of the republic and maybe even many beyond.
"Honorable Gentlemen, Nobili of Gold, Men of the Great Council, Silence! We are on the discussion of the Greek Request for Re-negotiation of the Golden Bull of 1082. First words by Leonardo Contarini".
As the speaker of the council moved away to take a seat, as the Patrician Leonardo Contarini, famed for his hawkish stance rose to the speaker's podium.
"Brothers, Patriarchs and Patricians, Venice is and always was a free city. We are a free city not by the grace of some Emperor but solely by our own will and action. Would the Republic have been created had we not toppled the despots that ruled it? Would it have risen to glory had we not chosen to defeat the pirates terrorizing the Venetian Gulf? Had we defeated the Musulman corsairs who lived so close to our home and restored order to this sea if we had not relied only on ourselves and our own ability? Many aeons ago this city owed fealty to Constantinople. But since then we have taken destiny in our own hands, my friends, we are not the Venetians of old, slaves to foreign masters. We are the freemen of today, Rulers of a Realm in our own right, and we shall act like such. Thrice damned be those who betray us, but damned once more be those who accuse us of betraying them, for a Venetian's word is above all!"
Obvious murmurs of agreement came from most of the Councillors. Raising the issue to one of honor, to one of a good word, something it was hard to disagree with if it was your own.
"So tell me, good Councilors, this far-away Emperor, successor to the Great Butcher Manuel, damned be his name thrice, dares call us false dealers with false promises, and now wishes to take from us privileges once more? Was that not how an emperor not to decades ago started his acts? And if the Emperor would most kindly ask you, Nobili of the Free and Great Republic of Venice, the most Serene, to enter his palace and become his servants, nay slaves in his galleys, shall Venice accept?
Nay! Nay, I say! Venice bows to none, and it shall stand defiantly against all threats. And I promise you even more, there shall be no second Chios, no! I wish not for war, for we all know it is bad for trade. But Venice shall not flee, and if fight it must, then fight it shall, I say!".

Many members of the council stood up, and great applaud was given. It seemed that with the Greek letter Leonardo had finally been given the chance he wished for. And yet now, Enrico noticed from his far seat, distanced from the council proper, rose one of the Contarini's greatest contrahents, Marco Tiepolo, known as a proponent for closer ties with Constantinople. This would be interesting, Enrico thought to himself as one man returned to his seat and the second stepped to the podium.

[Elepis]

Palazzo Vecchio, Florence, Tuscany
20th of April, 1200 Anno Domini

Oh, Queen of cities The Gonfaloniere of Florence looked out over the red terracotta roofs and white, brown and yellow brick houses of Florence from the roof of his palace. The mid-day Tuscan sun beat down on them from the cloudless sky up above, slowly baking the bricks of the houses, cathedrals, guildhalls and workshops of the rapidly growing, thriving city."You may not be as large or as grand as Constantinople, Baghdad, Venice or Cordoba. You may not be as powerful as London, Pisa and Naples, but one day, one day soon..." the Gonfaloiere said to himself, smiling as he saw a troops of Tuscan Guards march past below the red brick walls of the Palazzo Vecchio, their chainmail and feather crested sallet helmets glittering in the sun which reflected off their steel tipped spears.

"Excellency" said a voice behind him. The Gonfaloniere turned, his scarlet robes flowing around him like a dancer's dress as he did. The man standing in front of him wore the green tunic of a messenger. "Yes?" he said. "Your writing materials are ready as you requested" said the messenger, looking down at his feet under the grey eyed stare of the ruler of Florence. "Thank you" the Gonfaloniere responded as he left the roof, his robes and cloak flowing behind him as he marched down the stairs of the Palazzo towards the his chambers, his two Tuscan Guards marching a couple of steps behind him, their armour clanking as they did so.

The Tuscan Guard were Florence's only standing military force. Men-at-arms who usually fought dismounted with heavy spears and broad-swords, the Guard was recruited from families across Tuscany with their equipment and training paid for by the rich Florentine state. Their main role was as a sort of city watch. They provided protection for the Gonfaloniere and Signoria and were used to suppress mass criminal acts such as riots and treasonable conspiracies. They were also used a soldiers, their training and equipment meaning they could hold their own in the line of battle. However their small size of just over one thousand meant they would have to be supplement by mercenaries or levies in a large war to fight for the Republic.

Florence called itself a Republic, but it was not really. It was closer to the Oligarchical Roman Republic than any classical Greek democracy like Athens. Every two months, the Guild members elected the Gonfaloniere, the head of state of the Republic, who then appointed the Signoria, the ruling council. The Signoria made most of the decisions but the Gonfaloniere still had considerable influence over the Signoria as he could dismess and appoint its members. To be elected Gonfaloniere or be appointed to the Signoria you had to be a member of the Tuscan upper class and preferably from an old Florentine family. Thus Florence was not true Republic, the ordinary workers of the city had no official voice, however they could express their views in other ways.

There were two main factions in Florentine politics, or all Italian politics for that matter, the Guelphs; who supported the Pope in Rome and conservative Ghibellines; who supported the Holy Roman Empire. Both factions fought across Italia to gain influence over the rich and poor alike. If the Guelphs had the most influence over the poor but the Signoria were Ghibellines, there would be riots. This had happened a lot in Florence's past and would surely happen again in the future. However, luckily for the current regime, both the Signoria and the populace in general supported the Guelphs faction. The current Guelph control of Florence had strengthened relations with other like mined cities and communes in Northern Italy such as Ancona and Bologna, but had lead to a crumbling of relations with the Ghibelline controlled areas, including Assisi, Mantua and, most importantly, the powerful, rich, Tuscan maritime city state, the Republic of Pisa.

Pisa, the third most powerful Italian state after the southern Kingdom of Sicily and the northerly Republic of Venice controlled Florence's access to the sea, meaning that large sections Florentine economy depended on the good will of Pisa, and, now that Florence had sided with the Guelphs, that good will was deteriorating. That was why, for the survival of the Republic, Pisa had to be eliminated as an Italian power. Brining down Pisa would also give Florence hegemony of Tuscany and central Italy.

However, even though Florence was probably strong enough to annex Pisa, at least it Italian holding, such a war would leave Florence broke and down on men, meaning another city, such as Lucca or Bologna could take Florentine land without much of a challenge. Thus, even though it would hurt the pride of the Republic, Florence would have to seek other allies in the war to come, preferably the regional super-power of Venice and the rising might of Genoa.

Thus, when the Gonfaloniere reached his reception room and sat at his large, polished oak desk he began writing letters, the replies to which would make or break Florentine power for decades to come.

To: Most Serene Republic of Genoa, Most Serene Republic of Venice
From: The Republic of Florence

wip

Signed, Leonardo Bonsignori, Gonfaloniere of the Republic of Florence