Under the Mirror's Eagle | IC

[Liecthenbourg]

1000 AD AH RP
Links: OOC| Map | Numbered Map and Regions
Lesser Maps: The Organisation of the Christian Religion | The Popular Religions of the World

Rules

• The obvious 'obey the Nationstates Rules'
• Be polite, respectful and most importantly don't have fun because having fun is bad.
• The start date of the RP is the 15th of March, 1000 AD. Posts are only allowed to be at a two week interval from this post, and every post after may backtrack - so long as the date is not before March 15th. i.e. post 1 is 15th of March, post 2 can be anywhere from 15th - 29th. Say they pick the 29th, post 3 can be anywhere from March 15th to April 12th.
• Date your posts.
• Make sure you are not metagaming, godmodding, numberspamming, or generally RPing in bad form.
• Have a couple of paragraphs a post and good grammar & spelling.
• If you're not in the Discord, at least post frequently in the OOC to confirm your activity.
• Please be respectful and heed the advice and requests of the OP board; at the moment Krugmar and myself.

[Krugmar]

The Flag of St. Augustine of Canterbury

House of Wessex
Kingdom of England
May 15, 1000

---

“Thought must be the harder, heart be the keener,
mind must be the greater, while our strength lessens.
Here lies our prince all hewn,
the valiant man in the dust. He may always mourn
who from this war-play thinks now to turn.
My life is old: I will not away;
but I myself beside my lord,
by so loved a man, think to lie.”

“Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre,
mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.
Her lið ure ealdor eall forheawen,
god on greote. A mæg gnornian
se ðe nu fram þis wigplegan wendan þenceð.
Ic eom frod feores; fram ic ne wille,
ac ic me be healfe minum hlaforde,
be swa leofan men, licgan þence.”

---

The morning rays entered the room as the sun began to pierce the clouded sky. He stood before the window he had just delicately opened, intending not to disturb his companion. A gentle breeze rolled in, though from his view he could see that the day was still and clear. In the distance he could see the movement of everyfolk, and stood by the river he could make out some of his guards encamped by the road. There were few people present in the area, but down the road about a tenth of a mile was a small but lively town.

"Must you be up at this time? Last I checked you were not a man of the field and it is not the season." Complained the lady, formerly asleep, occupying the bed he had arisen from several minutes prior.

"From dawn to dusk I work every field, shop, and household. My-" He replied, before being cut off with a sharp tsk.

"The man who rides ahead of his court to entertain his 'second wife' should not speak so highly of his secondary role of king. You paint such a martyr of yourself." She said, quietly and then loudly laughing at her own joke. "Perhaps Edward the Martyr should be so kind as to shut the window, lest he find my bed no longer a place for him to warm."

Edward drew the wood back in place, shutting the room from the outside world, and drew across it the fur. "Second wife, that is the place you would have for yourself? You are most modest Godgyfu." He replied earnestly.

"Not modest enough for the good priests to not make a fuss over us when I am at court." She protested, laying a hand upon Edward's as he sat upon the bed next to her.

Edward grunted dismissively, "Half of them forsake their marriage vows to the Church, and the other half wait for their betters to die so that they can do so, at least openly. If a lowly servant can take two wives, can not their king?"

Godgyfu gripped his hand more forcefully, "Petition the Patriarch for a dispensation. You married me under our law, and Aelfgifu under the Church's. The Pope will not forsake you either, he and the Empress can't spare a moment for you from the Franks nor Saracens."

"It matters not what they think. They turn a blind eye to the wives of the Frankish kings, they shall do the same for mine. As luck would have it you have only borne daughters for me and none will dispute their legitimacy. Though if you were to bear me a son-" He replied, being cut off once again.

"Then my poor boy would become a threat to your own, especially as you have not crowned Aelfgifu. Her family would have been most appreciative." She muttered, releasing his hand to push herself out of bed. She pulled some fur over her nightwear and walked to the door. Outside a commotion could be heard; the court had arrived. "Is my good sister among the court?" She asked.

"She is indeed, as is my brother, the Patriarch, and one of the Welsh princes. Actually it might be the son of one of the princes, I was not, truth be told, paying him any mind." He said, though Godgyfu ignored his ramblings. Indeed she had already left the room to make herself ready to receive the incoming guests.

"It's the brother of the prince!" He exclaimed to himself, only now realising he had been abandoned by his erstwhile companion. "Though, which prince?"

[Liecthenbourg]

---

---

Imperium Romanum
The Roman Empire



Chapter I - The Last Majorian
15 March, 1000 Anno Domini

---

---

A sketch of the Empress

The Palace of Domitian, Palatine Hill, Rome

There was a great warmth from the morning sun. It illuminated the vibrant greens of the garden, causing a cascade of linking shadows from the columns that spanned the length of this too-small-of-a-hippodrome. The chirping of birds heralded the start of the new day; a beautiful natural symphony of the world. At the two ends, small ponds and pools for the natural life; and standing proud in their stride were an assortment of these birds: flamingos galore and even a majestic peacock.

Bare-footed and free, the Empress of the Roman Empire strode around her garden. When Domitian had built this, he likely never imagined it to be swamped in creatures like the minuscule menagerie it had become.

Pleasant thoughts erupted in her mind: of a simpler time, when she and Octavia -- for young Faustina had yet been born -- would roam this little jungle of theirs; and they would pretend to be famed conquerors in an expedition most grand. "I am Caesar!", Clodia fondly remembered yelling as she playfully slapped her younger sister across the face. "And you are Pompey!"

Too harsh. Too true. And perhaps not as playfully as she was remembering.

That was how they played their games. Clodia was always the grand conqueror, the grand hero, the victor. Octavia, her dutiful sister, would be her assistant at best: or her enemy at worse. It was only when they included the little Faustina in their games that Clodia had ever felt a whiff of hesitance: "I wanna be Caesar." her youngest sister would declare. "You can't." the Empress recalled so vividly protesting. "I'm already Caesar."

They stopped playing shortly after. And then they had grown apart, the three, at least for a while. Clodia was resigned to her studies and duties under her father. Her mother would take her sisters to do the 'womanly pursuits', and it was only when they were all in the teens again that their sibling bond grew once more.

Yet here there was underlying resentment. Not from Octavia, who was quiet and dutiful too, but from Faustina. She would berate and angrily yell at the injustice of succession; the unfairness. Clodia never said otherwise, t'was only her father who yelled back until his dying day.

Sadness overwhelmed her in this state of the morning. She ran her hands over some of the beautiful columns, then onto the statues. Her hands ran over those painted togas and armours, through the fake hair of Augustus. Cold. Unfeeling. Empty. Yet their gaze was certainly, seemingly, real.

She did fear her family fracturing around her upon her ascension to the throne: yet it had not. Her sisters had come to her aid, her crutches in the fear of ruling. Her closest advisers, those whom she could be honest with. And those who affirmed her belief in imprisoning her cousin; 'for the good of the realm'. She nodded affirmatively, confirming what she already believed.

Dipping her toes in the water of the southern-most-pool, she giggled. Christ, it was cold. She was bound to undress herself and enter the water, for reasons none other than that which she wanted. Yet the smell of fresh bread, cheese, fruit and pan-fried meat distracted her for but a moment and she turned to the entrance to the gardens.

Her Lady of the Chamber. Holding a platter of food in her hand, her face basking in the warmth of the sun as it pierced up into the heavens.

"Caesarissa..." the woman of 19 began. "I was... I was going to bring you breakfast, well, I ha- have...-" she was interrupted by a short laugh and the Empress waved her off tenderly, closing the distance between the two.

"I don't bite, Avidia." There was a cough. "Just... breathe and start again."

Nodding and smiling, Avidia took a step back before stepping forward again. "Caesarissa, I was going to bring you your breakfast -- but I have news, as well. The Pontiff is here, unannounced... and we have a letter for you. The courier says it is of 'grave importance'."

---

The room was well lit and aired out, with fine purple curtains hanging across the length of the room. Mosaics hung high, too, and statues flanked the dinning hall on all sides.

The Pontiff was her guest. A tall man with a stern demeanor, yet a... friend of her fathers, at least at times. Someone who would provide solid counsel, with its obvious biases. She had not an idea at what he wanted so early in the morning: around this time, she knew he knew, she had only gotten out of bed.

But he was her guest now and the two sat opposite one another, fairly close, and they conversed over their breaking of the fast. She slathered olive oil onto her warm bread, rubbing garlic into it before sprinkling on a fair amount of salt and biting it with gusto. Her hand went to the cold-cuts of pork and beef and she tucked in delightfully as well, all the while her servants came to and fro with pitchers of milk, fresh juices and wine. The Pope, in contrast, ate lightly. He kept to the cheeses and the bread, yet drenched the latter in sweet honey. "Can you... pan fry me some slices?" he would ask, proffering a plate filled with the bread to the servants.

They chatted idly, of topics far and wide. Until the eternal question was asked.

He straightened in his chair, resting his hands in a tented position on his lap. "My Empress..." he began. "Do you... have a suitable candidate for your eventual marriage. You are aware it must be done soon, if you wish to have multiple healthy children..."

Of course she was aware. Of course she knew. But... there was none. She took her time to answer and had to fight the blush coming to her face at the improper question.

"There... isn't someone, you are with now, outside of the sanctity of marriage, is there?"

Fire boiled in her, at the accusation. Had this been said to her father... it wouldn't have been said to her father. "There is none, your Holiness." She swallowed her pride, her anger... and remembered who was before her. This was not... true, either. But it was nothing important. Like all people of the Earth, the Empress had desires, had wants and had feelings. Yet she knew she could not risk the fear of illegitimate children, she could not risk the scandal of having a man at court. Her mind flashed to the servant girl, Avidia, to warmth under the bed-sheets, and to a companionship that she felt was devoid of any emotion. It was but a means to extinguish her desires.

"There is none." she reconfirmed.

The Pope looked pleased. He smiled, almost and nodded in agreement. "Excellent! So... you have no idea of any potential marriage partner?"

There was one. "Well, I do have.... I was considering Tiberius Africanus." She blushed again.

"The General?"

"The General." she confirmed. "I think it would be... politically tact to... get the army on my side." Her point was more than that, she wished to have the army loyal -- for her aspirations of command were present too.

"They are on your side: you are their Empress. I was thinking... what of the King of Hungary? Or what of a Franki-"

She interrupted the Pontiff almost instantly; her face in a scowl. "I shan't marry a Frank. I'm not going to taint the line of Majorian with Franks! I'd sooner walk into a brothel in Rome and let the most able-bodied man take me there and then!"

There was an awkward silence. For far too long. She reflected on what she had said, to whom she had said it to.

"It wouldn't be the line of Majorian." the Pontiff eventually added in but a mutter, too flabbergasted to even comprehend what was just said. And upon that remark, the Empress realised a grave error: she had not told him of her intentions, her plans and desires. She was going to tell him she had no intention of crowning her partner, that she aimed on being his superior -- and that if her children so wished it, as she would insist, they would be of House Julius.

Yet before she could ask, the courier that Avidia had mentioned to her in the garden strode in and whispered into her ear.

"Tulunids have landed in Sicily."

She turned red once more and stood up almost instantly. The Pontiff's eyes followed her as she strode around the table. "Your Holiness, we must continue this conversation later -- if you would like, come for breakfast tomorrow -- or stay for dinner, but there are grave matters at hand."

This was her time to shine, she mused. She would send the Saracen back to the sea.

[The Ik Ka Ek Akai]

“Words are dwarfs, deeds are giants.”

The Ides of March

Step by step, the young woman walked. Her shoes alone, soft-soled boots reaching only just past her ankle, were insufficient padding and far too short to offer true warmth in the dying season of winter. The blows to the bottom of her feet, the protruding pebbles and sharp stones, were dulled by her thick sheepskin leggings, offering their warmth and protection up to her thighs and tied in place with gut string around her knees. Her steps were careful, deliberate, as she passed by the vineyards of the old Roman city's perimeter. Each movement was almost a sweeping motion, clearing the way for her foot as she gently placed her toes down. The woman stopped for a brief moment, and looked up at the imposing gate to the capital. Its antiquity was dignified, wordless, the work of giants long since gone. Taking a deep breath, she entered.

It was an unusually windy day. The alpine funnel meshed with the closed urban streets to heighten the effect. Her auburn chestnut hair, seeming to perfectly tiptoe the line between red and brown, and even yellow if the sun was right, was thrown by the gale behind her and billowing like a banner on the field of war. She squinted her stormy eyes, dried in the wind, and her pale olive face was chilled by the same. The sleeves of her dress, not quite a bliaut but not quite not one either, gripped tightly against her arms in the face of the opposing breeze, and the calf-length skirt of the same green dress did much the same. The whole was kept in check by the wide sash of silk wrapped thrice about her waist, covering from her breast to her bum, which itself was pinned with a thick leather belt wrapped twice around.

As she ducked around a corner, the wind caught hold of her goat cape, fur turned outward. It flapped but briefly before she was out of the way of Mother Earth's bellowing. The building she was looking for was in plain sight - a tall, noble chamber crafted from marble blocks. The meeting place of the Confederation, most of the delegates might've already arrived by now. So it was, then, that Fel would have her due diligence to show up.

The matter of the meeting was never in question. It was time to elect a new leader. The elder one had passed away, though such a meeting could be called for any number of reasons. She approached the heavy wooden door and pushed through, closing it behind her. The warmth of the chamber was welcoming, the heat of its hearth well-spread over the room. Trudging in a much heavier way than before, the wooden floor creaking and her sheepskins squeaking, weight on one foot then the other, she pulled out an ashen chair and plopped herself down in it. Her seat now taken, all that remained was to wait for the remainder to arrive. Then, and only then, would talks begin.

An hour later, in the late morning, all were ready. Discussions flew across the room, old feuds materializing, old friendships dissolving. Here, a tribesman yells at the elitist urbanites who abandon tradition. There, a mayor talks about the need to replace herds with vineyards. The wine each of them drinks only makes them more prone to outbursts, and the longer the discussion goes on, the more likely a brawl to start. Fel contemplated her position among these proud lords, figuring the risks and rewards of intervention at any given time. After an hour of pointless screaming, she spoke at last. Banging her cup on the wooden table to catch attention, she rose from her chair.

"Lords," she said, voice hoarse and raspy from her years of service, "Let us drink in the memory of our fallen leader!" she called, settling her speech into something of a lilting melody. Her medium-high pitch carried itself as a song through the room, and after a brief silence and a few stares, the lords drank from their cups. "Now that we are in a more amicable position, hear me speak!"

"Why quarrel, brothers? Are we not the same people? Why, you!" she pointed to the mayor of the very city they were in, "Do you not believe your forefathers herded sheep just as my father did? Do you not believe they wore skins, and were called savages by the Romans to come? Where do you think these vineyards came from? Not the Romans!" to which the Ruguscian chieftain laughed. She turned her gaze and gave him a glare, "You! Where are we?" he stammered, "A roman town!" she cried, "Everything you see was built by the Romans, and I'll be damned if the Romans aren't still around. They beat us fair and honorably, and have lasted in unity for a thousand years! There must be something to their ways, that we should not shun those of us who choose to live a Roman life. Shame if you do."

A murmur came across the room, but Fel refused to allow it - "Talk as you want! We are a nation with no leader, but all you lot see fit to do is murder one another in a drunken stupor! Not since the Bacchantes has there been a room so full of prideful, impulsive fools, so willing to self-destruct over whether wool or wine or women!" The room fell into a quiet, the various men feeling shamed by the young lass.

One decided to respond, "You're too young! What do you know? You've not been around long enough to understand us, and you flaunt it as if you make no mistakes, as if you never will! You speak of pride, and yet you are the proudest of us all!"

She smiled, "I am but a shepherdess, My Lord. I was thrust into my position, and my job is to guide and keep my herd. I do what needs to be done, and that's my life. My sheep may disagree when I lead them somewhere new, but only because they do not know the wolf that lurks in the brush. Tell me, My Lord, do you see the wolves? I certainly do."

Stopping himself, he lowered his head and fell back into his seat. The chieftain of the Venonnetes, amused, rose to speak. "It would seem she's the only thing keeping us together!" and laughed as he fell back down. Discussion only continued for a few minutes later before the council came to a decision, and Fel was voted in as the new leader. Her journey was far from over, and she need be on her watch. This trial period of her leadership might not last if caution was thrown to the wind.

---

Now that all was said and done, only one thing remained: travel to Rome, to present as the new leader of the Confederation to the empress, and to get a proper coronation. Gathering a retinue of axemen and pikemen, and bringing along a few of her sheep, they set to travel to the Eternal City. Now, it was only a matter of time.

[Liecthenbourg]

---

---

Imperium Romanum
The Roman Empire



Chapter II - Acta Non Verba
15 March - 25 March, 1000 Anno Domini

---

---

Caesar betrayed,
Ides of March, 44 BC

The Palace of Domitian, Palatine Hill, Rome

She had strode out of the dining hall where she was breaking her fast with the Pope. Her gait was impressive, imposing and commanding; a stride most potent. The guards at every door saluted, quickly opening the doors for her as she continued her charge. Behind her, attempting to keep up with her relatively fresh state, was the courier who had delivered the message in the first place.

The date was foreboding. It always was, ever since that fateful day. Caesar betrayed; and she a Caesarissa. Yet she clung to the vague hope of her situation. Caesar was caught unaware by his so-called friends, mercilessly butchered in the senate floor. She did not have such a situation: her foe was before her, baying their blades and notching their arrows on the coast of Sicily.

The final set of doors were opened and before her was a dimly lit room, with a large circular table made of wood. Countless figures stood huddled around, clearly aware of and here before the Empress was informed. A slight against her; she was their ruler.

Casks of wine were littered across the table and platters of smoke fish and other pieces of food were present. The men, of course, were at work. Work caused unquenchable thirst and a ravenous hunger.

She took her seat with little but a "Hello" and immediately ceased the conversation between Consul Lucius and Prefect Canus. The two sheepishly looked up at their empress, with the latter turning red like a beet before uttering out an "I'm sorry."

They stood at attention, these men of state and men of military fashion. These men who knew better, even if some were younger than she. Some were giggling boys when she had reached womanhood; and others still sought for her hand to bed her and make her theirs. Never. Not to these pompous fools who thought they knew better.

"The matter at hand is Sicily." she stated. The six or so men nodded in agreement, with Lucius reaching forth to continue to speak. Yet his attempt was short-lived, for Justinia raised her hand to tell him to keep quiet. "I want to command our forces, the proper standing army, our Legions, to repulse the foe from the island."

There were murmurs and mutterings, looks of concern and embarrassment and fright. "B-B-but..." one of these elder gentlemen, she believed he was Spurius: a noble of some sort, of some patrician family.

"But?" she repeated. Her nails dug into her chair.

Spurius wrung his hands together and looked up with a face as pale as the marble columns that dotted her garden. "But... what if... what if you die?"

She smiled at that. "You trust not the Roman Army?" There, she had him. Easily caught in a simple paradoxical notion any answer incorrect to his agenda. Yet Spurius was old and in his ways, a bitter-man who said it how it was when pushed to the brink. When cornered.

"I trust not your capability to lead effectively, my liege. You are a young leader, with little combat experience who happens..."

Her teeth clenched, her jewelry rattled violently. "Who happens to be a female. Spurius, get out. But prepare yourself, you will be coming with me on campaign."

"My Empress, please." Canus interrupted. "You are the Last Majorian; you have no direct heir. Your lineage means the world to the citizens of this city. We cannot have our Empress set out of Rome on the Ides of March; we will be seen as the senators to you, Caesarissa!"

Her anger turned to a tender, almost mothering smile. However in the back of her mind all she could think of was how Canus wanted her: he had told her, so... naively, drunk on wine and passion. This heir she lacked, she mused, is what he wished to rectify. "I shall march to Sicily, to cast the Tulunid into the sea. Have faith in the Legions of Rome, Canus. Prepare the men for dawn we march."

Defeated, Canus turned to his associates at the table. He expected resistance, some attempt to dissuade the empress from marching head first into her problems.

When Lucius motioned to speak the Praetorian Prefect earned a smidgen of hope until it was dashed by his words: "I shall alert the Athenians; the Tulunid navy may have split itself. Perhaps now is a time to strike."

"And inform General Tiberius Africanus to push, push, push." the Empress added.

---

"Your Holiness." she bowed as she eventually ventured back through into the section of the palace that she would call her home. He wasn't in the dinning hall, but indeed the hour was later than she had intended.

No, she found him sat on a marble bench in her garden. In his hands he held a translated copy of Marcus Aurelius' 'Meditations' under the shade of an olive tree. A glass of wine was placed next to him with a small platter of cheese. "My Empress." he replied, turning the page before he looked up to see her. "Your... Lady of the Chamber is most welcoming; she brought me some of 'your' wine and 'your' cheese, she admitted." He smiled at that and sipped from the glass. "We had some lovely talks about faith, but unfortunately she left before I got to whack her over the head with my views on the eschaton and 'The Book of Revelation'."

The Empress gave an uneasy smile, her eyes darting from the wine and cheese to the Pontiff, whilst her mind raced on what precisely Avidia might have told him. "I've always preferred the 'Epistles to the Romans', they're quite... empowering. It makes me feel good." She saw the smile that continued to sprawl across the Pontiff's face. "And it isn't because I'm a Roman and its self ego-boosting."

"I appreciate the clarification."

She picked moved over to the Pope's right side, where the wine glass and cheese platter did not occupy the bench. "And what has Aurelius said, anything provocative?"

The Pontiff gave an appreciative look and coughed, putting on a voice of booming authority: "Do not act as if thou were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over thee. While thou livest, while it is in thy power, be good. And I believe it. In the Christian sense. We must be good, charitable, temperate, chaste, kind... and so on." He grabbed a second glass and poured some of the red vintage into it for the Empress, handing it to her with a bemused look. "And live a modest life."

They clinked the glasses.

"To a modest life." she echoed, beginning to sip from the glass. "Yet, I have important news."

The Pope closed the book, setting it aside. But she interrupted any of his statements. "Not about a husband. I'm going on campaign." At this the Pope got up and paced about the garden.

"Is this the matter? Where are we being invaded from? Must the faithful be called? And why are you going on campaign?"

She inhaled, but kept her cool. "Because I'm the Empress."

---

March 25th
Porta Pinciana, The Eternal City

Banners were held on the high as two guardsmen loomed over their crenellations. Before them, a mighty retinue of pikemen with their pikes glistening in the sun. After them, less impressive, rustic, rural and unshaven - a horde of axemen. A host of what appeared to be nobility too, with banners from the Roman Principality of Rhaetia. And sheep. A fair amount of sheep. Their incessant 'baa-ing' could be heard from atop the Aurelian walls.

"Hail!" one of the guardsmen yelled, resting -- and hiding -- his crossbow behind one of the crenellations. "I recognise the banner of Rhaetia, and we were informed by a messenger from one of the Alpine checkpoints of your arrival. The Empress will see you and your host at the Palace of Domitian." He shuffled atop the wall, peering over the other side to the guardsmen waiting within. "The Rhaetians are here, prepare yourself for your escorting duty."

The gate, already open, was clear for them to enter. Traffic at this hour was little, but the hustle and bustle of the Eternal City was evident before them. Pedestrians about, countless motion and movement, the baying of animals and the yelling of the citizens. The ringing of church-bells in the distance, joyous laughter of children. And imposing all, the Seven Hills of Rome, with the Palatine looming over all.

To the Rhaetians, a troop was presented of a core of the guardsmen. Some forty imperial guardsmen, draped in purple, holding onto standards of the Imperial Guard and their own Eagles. A trumpet was blown and in almost machine-like-unison, all forty turned on their heels and faced the door. One, however, their commander, greeted the Rhaetians with a kneel and bow.