Woes of the Saviour [IC/AH RP/Open]

by **Krugmar** » Wed Sep 14, 2016 1:42 pm

1000 AH RP
OOC – Political Map – Religious Map

OP Board:
- OP: Krugmar
- Co-Ops: Liec, Lunas

RP Description:
The teachings of the prophesised Messiah, Jesus Christ, spread ever quickly through the known world. The death of a certain figure, who would have shaken the foundations of the Christian faith and homeland, has allowed it to expand into lands unknown. Four main strands now exist, the Chalcedonian doctrine, split between the Latin rites of the west and Greek rites of the East, Messalo-Coptism of the south, teaching that Christ was of conjoined nature, and that one can reach God through a state of perfection, and of Nestorianism of the far east, teaching that there is a distinction between Christ’s divine and human natures.

In the west, the former lands ruled by Rome have become divided between many kingdoms, each claiming the flame for themselves. The Pope struggles to exercises his divinely ordained power, as fellow Christians kill each other for material wealth and fleeting glory. In France, the various Frankish courts remain independent and bickering, while England has unified and set upon building itself an empire. To the north, Christianity has been embraced by the savage northmen.

To the east, the vast Kievan Rus’ expands further eastwards, and spreads its newly adopted Christian faith. The Byzantine Empire has collapsed into civil war, with four rival claimants eyeing the Imperial throne, while the Exarch of Africa and the Strategos of Cilicia remain neutral. Another claimant to Rome, Egypt, finds itself in a strong position, but checked by powerful opponents at every corner. The mighty Persian Empire struggles internally with Nestorians challenging its Zoroastrian leadership, and externally with the mighty Seljuq horde threatening it in the north, all the while it pushes into the fabled land of India.

All around nations war, for land, wealth or faith, arguing over the true teachings of the Messiah, or warring against his followers in their attempt to spread his message. The Millennium is upon us, the apocalypse comes, and the saviour will bring his wroth upon those who have sinned.

Posting Rules:
-No extremely short posts, several paragraphs is preferred.
-Date posts. The beginning date is the 4th January, 1000 AD
-No reserving (to be lenient, you can half finish a post if it is non-crucial information)
-Every page is around 3 months, timescale may be changed if necessary
-Don't post on here until you are accepted in the OOC

by **Krugmar** » Thu Sep 15, 2016 4:30 pm

Basileía Rhōmaíōn stin Aígypto
Roman Empire in Egypt

Vaanes Eliopoulos
Alexandria, Egypt
4th January, 1000

A cool breeze fluttered through the palace, swaying the silken robes of the most powerful man in the empire. This man was not the emperor, and truth be told, was not a man at all. Vaanes was proud of his twenty-year service, having climbed the ranks, from a lowly bureaucrat, to the Grand Eunuch. Here he now was, the master of the household of Hadrian’s Palace, once a villa dedicated to the emperor, it had now swelled into a true palace worthy of a Roman Emperor.

The complex was vast, and housed many buildings, one of which was the most important. The Old Building, as it was commonly known, housed the legions of eunuchs responsible for the administration of the empire, and the many scholars who had been brought in by the emperor’s late father. It was in this building that Vaanes had his office and residence. Yet this was not the building he was heading towards.

He was journeying to the aptly named Girl’s Quarter, where the concubines, and their young children, of the emperor resided. His lawful wife had the dignity of having her own separate apartments, and separate servants, and so she, and her children, were not penned into the luxurious jail. The building had been converted from a former barracks around a hundred and fifty years ago, when the emperors stopped taking more than one wife, due to pressure from the Pope in Alexandria, and the bad reputation being gained in the rest of Christendom. Still, the distinction between concubine and wife was only in title, and all children borne of these unions were legitimate, something which bred intrigue over the succession.

“Master Eliopoulos, it is refreshing to see you here” spoke a familiar voice. Vaanes turned to see Karani, an exquisite gem hailing from the far east, in the lands known as Tocharia. She had been forced into slavery at the age of eight, and by a series of fortunate events, ended up in Alexandria at the age of fourteen. Now she was the Chief Concubine, the Archigós Pallakída, and a rival to the empress herself.
Vaanes bowed his head, and gave her a broad smile. “My lady, if I may be so bold, you look as radiant and perfect as the Lord intended, if not more so!”

She returned the smile, and thanked him for his flattering compliment. He knew that she cared little about it, however, few trusted eunuchs. They were known to kiss up to anyone willing to give them power, and Vaanes knew, by his personal experience, that this stereotype was completely true.

They entered into a seldom used storage room, where they could talk more freely. “You promised me that my son would be the heir, why has Didyma’s son, Prince Isaacius, not be disinherited yet?” she asked, glaring at him with her startling green eyes.

“I have tried everything, my lady, but the emperor is very fond of the prince. He is both scholarly and inclined to martial practices, and the blessed emperor sees him as a true Roman, fit to rule.” Protested Vaanes.

She frowned, “Are you saying my son is not scholarly nor martial?”

“No, no! I would never think of saying such a thing. It is merely unfortunate that the emperor has not seen fit to give him as much attention.” He said quickly.

She shook her head, “It is Didyma, she has made my beloved ignore his most noble son, though she has not removed his adoration of our daughter. The prince must die, his mother has seen that this cannot be handled peacefully.”

Vaanes turned his head to the door, and thought for a second that he saw a shadow outside. Recovering himself, he resigned himself to her plan. “The Emperor will be heading north soon, to campaign against Cilicia, he intends to make the most of the Byzantine chaos. Isaacius will be here, he will be vulnerable.”

“We strike then.” Karani stated, her tongue slithering like a viper with every word spoken. As he left, Vaanes couldn’t help but sigh. He was a cautious man, and preferred not to get involved in plots such as these, but the empress detested him, and so now came the time to throw himself fully against her.

Chroniates Chaconas
Jerusalem, Judea
11th January, 1000

The streets of Jerusalem were currently filled with merchants and city-folk, going about their daily business. Stalls were selling food, clothes, and the odd goods. An array of tongues could be heard, from the soft Frankish speech, to the harsher Hebrew, to the more recognisable Greek. Chroniates, the Governor, or Proxenikos, of Jerusalem, had grown up in a fully Greek district of Alexandria, but his time in Jerusalem had led him to appreciate the diversity of peoples from around the globe. Well, perhaps except the men hailing from Italia, he had been swindled too many times by their kind.

Most stopped what they were doing as he strolled by and gave him a mark of respect, either a courteous bow, a good nod, or a form of religious salute. Even those who might not recognise him, would understand that by his clothing, jewellery, and impressive retinue, that he was a man of great importance. To become the Governor of Jerusalem, the centre of the world, one had to be of very noble birth, and of skill, and as such it was a prestigious job. One that came with many perks.

The Emperor had gifted to Chroniates a fine retinue, of fearsome dark men from the hidden depths of Africa. The captain of his guard was a burly man, named Eyasu, a slave from the lands of Zagwhe, while the rest were mainly Nubian, a few Ethiopians, and one was from the distant land of Awktar, which only the most travelled of merchants, missionaries and slave traders talked about.

The slave market was unfortunately quite a journey from his residence, and he had worked up quite the sweat making his way there hurriedly. One had to arrive early to purchase the best slaves, and he would only accept the very best. He held his nose as the foul smell of peasants gathering to watch the sales clouded the area, and made his way past them, his bodyguards shoving them aside. If he trusted his slaves more, he would have sent one of them to do this for him, but he only trusted his own eyes, especially when it was his money involved.

The bidding started with some of the cheaper slaves, as it often did, before it got to the more expensive ones. Slaves as a whole were rather expensive, the enslavement of fellow Christians being forbidden, and one was supposed to free them in the event of their conversion. A way of getting around this was to have them sign contracts, making them technically indentured servants.

Chroniates purchased a young girl hailing from the distance lands of the Rus’, a maid who claimed to be a Christian, but the slaver assured Chroniates and the crowd that she followed strange pagan gods. He also purchased a Nubian eunuch, his previous one having died, which unfortunately left his concubines unchecked, for a steal price.

It was only then that he noticed a city guard speaking to Eyasu. He beckoned his captain over, before turning his attention back to the slaver. “His Blessed Majesty will be visiting Jerusalem soon, and expects to be feasted and shown to his apartments for the night, after which he will be heading north for a campaign.” Eyasu whispered into his ear. Chroniates sighed, the emperor was a nosy sod, and always expected a perfect feast, and grand rooms. He would have to make the arrangements later, for now, he needed a new announcer. He always found that the Ethiopians had good voices, but the Persians were far better at being sycophantic. Decisions, decisions.

Iosephius Bryennios
Tripoli, Syria
16th January, 1000

“The Emperor has left Alexandria, you are sure of it?” spoke Prince Iosephius, the Military Governor of Syria, to the young noble stood before him.

“Yes my Lord, he plans to be here before the end of the month.” Replied the young noble, named Gregorias, if Iosephius remembered correctly. He had been a lot younger when Iosephius had last been in Alexandria, about six years ago, but he still had many of the same features.

Iosephius beckoned for one of the eunuchs to unfurl a map, one drawn relatively recently, onto the table. The Romans of Anatolia held Antioch, and northern Syria, while the Persians held the east. It was unlikely that the campaign was intended to fight the Persians, they were a tough opponent, and eastern Syria wouldn’t be worth the tens of thousands dead. The Anatolians, however, were divided, and the Strategos of Cilicia was completely vulnerable, with no emperor or empire to protect him.

“How many men does his Majesty bring?” Iosephius asked.

“Ten thousand of the Golden Legion, with another ten thousand levies drawn from Egypt. Supplemented with five thousand Nubian mercenaries, three thousand Berber horsemen, and a thousand Zaghwean mercenaries.” Replied Gregorias, his eyes shifted upwards, almost as if into his mind, as he recalled the numbers told to him several weeks ago.

“A decent army, I suppose he will want me to raise my militia?” Iosephius asked.

Gregorias nodded, “He wishes my Lord to raise half of your militia, along with several companies of Syrian archers. He also wishes you to seek out any Persian and Anatolian mercenaries, preferably cavalry or light infantry.”

“Ah, I take it that he wishes me to skirmish the Cilicians further north, while he besieges Antioch? Tell me, is he looking to conquer all of Cilicia, or just Antioch?”

“I do not know, my Lord, I was only given information to relay to you regarding recruitment of armies and-"

“I see. You are dismissed, young Gregorias, my servants will have prepared a room for you to stay in. I think it is best that you accompany me to the north, an aide in battle and on the march. Now, leave me.” He said, as the youg boy beamed at him, before thanking him and taking his leave.

Iosephius ran his hand across the map, stopping his finger at Antioch. If Isidoros managed to conquer it, he would have under his control three Patriarchs, and three of the most important cities in the known world. He suspected that this campaign would go further than Cilicia, however, the chaos in the Anatolian Rome was the perfect opportunity to gain an ally to the north, against the Persians.

by **New Minahasa** » Fri Sep 16, 2016 5:47 am

Empire of Trebizond.

Emperor Alexios I.
Empire of Trebizond, City of Trebizond.
4th January, 1000 AD.

The Byzantine Empire had crumbled as Basil I, the previous Emperor of Byzantine, fell in battle. The now mighty empire crumbled into civil war as claimants from across the lands rose to prominence as self-declared emperors. One of the claimants, Alexios I, had taken the opportunity to claim nearby themes under his dominion, as the new "Emperor of Byzantine". The man himself was a shrewd and ambitious leader, but known to be stubborn and cruel. He had wished to rebuild a new empire under his reign and unite Anatolia as a whole. But to his dismay, other claimants had risen up right across the border, one in Nicaea and the other in Cilicia. Emperor Alexios I was angered after his plans to conquer the whole Anatolia, once ruled by the Byzantine Empire, was undone by the rival claimants. He was very eager to launch an invasion against Nicaea, but knew it would be stupid to attack a stronger opponent than himself. He marched across the palace towards his room, flaunting his royal silken robe along the way. After reaching his room, he would take three piece of letters to write down and send to his generals. Each note contains the message:

"To the honorable Strategoi of Trebizond.

All of you are aware that I, Emperor Alexios I, am the one and only person capable of ruling the mighty Byzantine Empire, and know that I cannot allow anyone to oppose my authority. That is why I have made this verdict to all of you, my trustworthy strategoi, as for preparation against my campaign against Nicaea: each one of you are expected to expand your tagma twice its current size, either by raising levies or hiring local mercenaries; professional ones are preferred. All of you are expected to finish this task in a time span of no more than four months as I prepare my own forces. May God bless us all.

Signed,
Emperor Alexios I."

The Emperor, after completing the letters, summoned four of his emissaries. The three of them was tasked to deliver the letters, one for each, and the other to summon for his domestikos, the military officer and commander of his tagma. The men bowed and accepted their tasks, then parted ways. The domestikos hurried himself to the palace per order and eventually arrived; Rufus was his name.

"Well met, Rufus. I have a task for you, one that might prove valuable to the empire if you were to accomplish it," stated the Emperor.

"I shall accept whatever task that you would trust upon me, Your Highness, and I shall make sure that it is accomplished," asserted Rufus.

"Excellent. It is not a big deal, to be frank. I need you to reinforce my current forces, either with armed levies or mercenaries; preferrably mercenaries. I need about three thousand heavy infantry, a thousand archers, five hundred light cavalry, and five hundred cataphracts. Constructing siege equipments could be useful as well; I will need fifteen trebuchets, five battering rams, and twenty siege towers. I will need these for my campaign against Nicaea, and I expect them to be done in six months," he explained.

"It will be done, Your Highness," said Rufus boldly.

The Emperor acknowledged Rufus' statement by nodding and dismissing him. Rufus departed from the Emperor and made haste to raise the army, whilst the Emperor returns to his daily routine of managing the empire.

by **Lunas Legion** » Fri Sep 16, 2016 10:49 am

Exarchate of Africa
Karkhēdōn (Carthage), Theme of Africa
5th January

Manuel Erotikos Komnenos stared silently across the clear waters of the Mediterranean Sea. He sat on a wooden stall atop one of the towers on Byrsa Hill, the great fortress of Carthage. From here, he could see the entire city, the merchant wharves in their harbour crammed with ships, cargo and people alike, the dromons and galeas anchored in the military harbor adjacent to it, the residential areas, the smokestacks from where the smiths and tanners plied their trades. Here, he was master of all he surveyed.

His reach extended far farther than this city though. He was also Exarch of Ravenna far to the north, in Italy, and of Spania, to the west. It was a far-flung series of fortresses and cities, all tied together under him. In turn, he should've been under the emperor, but there was no emperor. Only four squabbling children who fought amongst themselves for what their betters had built for them. Basil had been ambitious, and perhaps he would've pushed the Bulgars back, but that was not to be.

He had not chosen a side as we wasn't a idiot. Africa was distant from the war; he had no need to choose a side. The creak of a door opening brought him back to reality. Manuel turned towards the new arrival, a man wearing chainmail and linen.

"Exarch." The man bowed. "The Strategos of Timgrad has sent a message stating that they were attacked by a sizable band of Berber raiders on the 30th of December. He reports the raid being repulsed with minimal losses and damages."

"Does he report which direction they attacked from?" Manuel asked.

"The west, Exarch."

"That's the 9th attack since the start of December." Manuel growled. "Summon the commanders of the Tagmata to the Great Hall, and the Strategos of the fleet as well. Tell them we're to discuss an invasion of the Berber Confederation."

Manuel tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for the last of the Strategoi to take his seat. When he, did, Manuel stood, and spoke. "I have summoned you here to discuss an invasion of the tribal confederation to our west."

As some of the Strategoi raised their voices in protest, Manuel raised his hand, silencing them. "This is not a matter up for debate. Their raids have become intolerable, and therefore must be stopped." Never mind that with the rest of the Empire in civil war, this was an easy time to expand his own power base. "We are not here to discuss strategy, we are here to discuss orders."

Manuel sat, and began to outline his plan. "The Strategos of the Tagmata Africa is to assemble it in full, excluding the garrison forces, here, in Carthage, and is to raise his levies as well. The Strategos of the Tagmata Fleet is to load his fleet up with supplies, and is to sail along the coast, supporting my army as needed, and is also to send a message to the Strategos of Spania, commanding him to raise half his levies and his Tagmata, along with his fleet, to land his forces on the other side of the Pillars of Heracles and take the major settlements in that region."

"I will lead the army assembling here personally. We will march along the coast, supplied by our fleet, take any settlements that resist, and force the Berbers into submission, whilst also liberating our fellow Chanceldonians under their rule."

Karkhēdōn (Carthage), Theme of Africa
15th January

Manuel sat on the side of the dromon as he watched the preparations for his ship to set sail in silence. The army had marched earlier in the day, so as to spend the least time possible beneath the desert sun. The army, some 2,000 men of the Tagmata Africa and a further 3,000 levied men, under the command of the young Alexios Xiphias, would march along the coast at night, supplied by the fleet, and camp during midday so as to avoid the worst of the desert's heat. Arranged in battle formation pointing inland, and supplied by the fleet, it would be difficult for the Berbers to defeat them in open battle. Alexios had also been given enough gold to hire any small bands of mercenaries he might encounter on his march.

The Strategos of Spania, John Kourkouas, had raised half his Tagmata, 1,000 men, along with his levies, 2,500 men, bringing his army's size up to 3,500 men with which he would land and occupy the lands around the other side of the Pillars of Heracles, supplied by his own fleet. Manuel had meant to lead the African army himself; however, other matters had occupied him.

He did not know what the Bishop of Rome wanted with him. The wording had been vague, almost deliberately so, but he could not refuse a summons from the Church. He had left the campaign in capable hands. He could draw reinforcements from the Tagmata Ravenna and the Tagmata Magna Graecia on his return journey, and finish the campaign quicker than he expected.

His ship cast off, and began it's journey towards Rome's port.

Archbishop of Rome,

I gratefully accept your invitation, as the current state of the Empire is indeed most distressing. I will be arriving by ship at the port of Ostia three days after the arrival of this message to Rome, if God grants us good winds and currents for our journey, and look forward to our meeting.

Manuel Erotikos Komnenos, Exarch of Africa

by **New Minahasa** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 6:40 am

Kingdom of Makuria.

King Simeon.
Kingdom of Makuria, Dongola.
4th January, 1000 AD.

"My king, the preparation is complete. Your army and your generals are now fully under your control," said Viceroy Johannes as he bowed in front of the king.

"Good. We make ready for war," King Simeon responded confidently.

In the vast desert of Northeastern Africa, along the river of Nile, a kingdom stood tall and mighty. In the city of Dongola, groups of soldiers could be seen in the downtown, men from different tribes and origins united as one and under one cause. Rumbling of stomps and men cheering and shouting filled the markets. An oddly large amount of camels stormed the city streets, carrying fearsome warriors on their humpbacks. Carts transporting various supplies of food and armament constantly arrived to supply the army. Respected men from across Makuria gathered in one place. The Kingdom of Makuria had prepared for war.

King Simeon, the current ruler of Makuria, stood on the balcony of his palace as he observed his army. A quick grimace emerged momentarily on his face. The kingdom was recently subjugated by the Empire of Egypt, and the king was confident that he had exactly the right amount of men to reclaim his kingdom's independence. However, he had to remove any potential rivals that could interfere with his grand plans. He had to conquer nearby kingdoms and reinforce his army with theirs. He intended to strike them one by one, and his eyes laid onto the lands of Alodia.

With a single command, the army march for their destination. The king himself would lead the host of army while his Viceroy would take responsibility of the kingdom in his absence. The army had intended to strike directly into the heart of the enemy. They made way for the capital city of Alodia where the rival king would reside.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 8:33 am

Status Pontificus

Chapter I: Tuning the Instruments of Worldly Order

Rome, The Papal States
2nd of January, in the Year of Our Lord 1000

The Eternal City was but a small shell of what she once astounded to be. The beating heart of the world Rome once was, a grand metropolitan of marble and stone that built the bedrock of civilisation as it was known. Then she fell. Like man had before it. A great cacophony of sorrow filled the ears o' heaven upon that day and did the angels and saints weep for the city as she, in turmoil, lost her empire. Her good, Christian, empire. But no matter how small, how weakened she had become, the Bishops of Rome, those Servants of the Servants of God, had made sure that Rome would maintain her position as the heart of the world. In their hands they held the keys to civilisation and order. Alexandria, Jerusalem, Constantinople, Athens, Antioch - all could claim to have their own respective patriarchs, and Rome was to serve as one too, but with increasing autonomy from Byzantium whom left her to her own devices, Rome had become a first among equals.

Pope Augustine did not weep for Rome. Or for the Empire. Why spend time weeping over such a worldly matter? The Bishop of Hippo long ago had remarked a statement that rang true in his ears; "The Heavenly City outshines Rome beyond comparison. There, instead of victory, is truth; instead of high rank, holiness; instead of peace, felicity; instead of life, eternity." For what purpose would one weep for the material, when the spiritual was a cup of much sweeter rewards? This was not to say that the city was not maintained nor defended - on the contrary, Augustine attempted to re-cultivate the city in which the Bishops of Rome called their seat - but never would he call this city 'Eternal' for it was not. Rome was Queen of Cities, in truth, but not Eternal.

Augustine found himself influenced deeply by the Great Saint Augustine, having chosen it for his Pontifical Name. Evil was rampant in human nature. This was why the Pope had seen himself as a doctor to the illness within the church and governance - and by this point one needed to cure ahead of prevention.

He rubbed his hands intently in a damp, white-as-snow, cloth before setting it back on its little hook. Now he began his process of dressing himself from his night-attire. Donning his assortment of vestments; from his immense white cassock, to his shoes, onto the outer of his robes. They masked the lashes upon his back from his self-flagellation in his monthly processions. His hands were covered in blisters and scabs and slowly they reached for the enclosed Papal Tiara, propping it off of its podium before placing it onto his head.

Augustine's stride was a confident one. He was a veteran of his own religiosity and was, now in his fourth year of Papacy, accustomed to having glances given to him by older members of the Conclave for his brash attitude and rather unflinching position on his ideals. Flanked by some of his own personal guardsmen, the pope pushed forth the doors to the Conclave Chambers and the muttering on the inside ceased almost immediately. All stood at his entrance, bowing, yet he paid no mind and waved them off contemptuously before taking his seat at the highest pointed of the circular table. Behind him stood, with his arms behind his back, the Captain-General of the Papal Armies; Ludovico di Bologna. He was donned in a hauberk which itself was covered in an ornate and finely detailed blue cloth with the insignia of his house and that of his position. The Cardinals, sat in their cassocks and mozzettas. Some were donned in some skull caps, others wore naught.

"Let this Conclave be brought to order." Augustine declared, pressing his gaunt hands against the portion of the table he was sat at. "The matter is one most dire. The Romans are at each other's throats, with Athens, Trebizond, Nicaea, all declaring themselves Emperor in the spite of Constantinople. The Patriarchy of the Sister City is confined in his support for the Emperor of Constantinople, but we are not tied down to secular affairs of little concern to the Holy Father in Heaven. For what does this conflict have to do with the machinations of the Celestial City upon the high? Naught. Yet here we are and to ensure the continued cohesion of the east as a unified force against the Zoroastrians, in addition to pose as a front against the heretical Nestorians and those in Egypt, we must see to it that the empire stabilises."

"All well and good, Holy Father." came a collected response. His latin was accented by the tones of one from the southern German lands. Cardinal Adalbert, a decisive voice in the Conclaves and a member of advanced age. He wrung his hands together. A small rosary hung around his neck and his eyes pierced with deep conviction towards those whom he stared into. A man of deep prayer. A man of deep conviction to the Queen of Heaven. A man whom also had a breath that emitted the stench of some horrible concoction that would be a combination of grape wine and rye beer. Reclining back, he continued. "But what of the Exarchate of Africa? The Romans of Belisarius have yet to pledge allegiance to any of the claimants and have not claimed themselves as a faction themselves yet."

"Perhaps it would be wise to 'whip' the Exarch into line with our decision, your Holiness?" The call came from Cardinal Saewulf and Anglo-Saxon from the isle of Britannia added. He was often a staunch supporter of the Holy Father, owed to him through his appointment.

The response given by Augustine was a melodramatic drumming of his fingers upon the desk. "One of you, I really care not whom, pen a letter in my name at this instance - here at this table for all of us to review."

"And the contents, your holiness?" Came from seemingly nowhere, but multiple voices at once.

"An invitation to the Exarch of Africa, Manuel Erotikos Komnenos." Augustine stifled a yawn, then rested his elbows upon the table and used them to support up his head. His mouth broke into a grin, the faintest of all grins many had ever seen. His eyes betrayed an idea formulating in his mind. Tilting his head slightly, causing the Papal tiara's vast amount of ornate jewelry to jingle and jangle. "Invite him to Rome, so we may parlay."

Addressed to: Manuel Erotikos Komnenon, Exarch of Africa

Salutations, Noble and Valiant Servant of the Romans.
Rome does know of the trouble that has fermented, and currently festers, in the Empire. It brings great tragedy and ill omen to the Christian world we know. For if the bastion of the east is to fall, whence will come the state to stop the Persians? It is with this in mind that I invite you to Rome, so that we may find common cause in attempt to preserve the Empire as it is. For if we do not defend civilisation and decency, who will?

May God Bless You,
Augustine, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Servant of the servants of God

by **Caltarania** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 8:34 am

GRAND DUCHY OF SAXONY
GROẞHERZOGTUM SACHSEN
ᚷᚱᚩᛋᚻᛖᚱᛋᚩᚷᛏᚢᛗ ᛋᚪᚳᚻᛋᛖᚾ

Chapter 1 - Crown of Thorns

Theme: "Our Kingdom Will Fall"

Marklo-auf-dem-Weser, Saxony
January 4th, 1000

Thiadger fan Widukind, the Grand Duke of Saxony, sat uneasily in his chair as his most trusted advisers counseled him. The large wooden table around which they sat shook as Thiadger's Marshal, a brawny noble by the name of Adalwolf, slammed his large fist onto the table to make a point.

"If you wish to obtain a crown, my lord, we ought to march right down to Rome and lay siege to that shit-stain of a city!" he boomed, to the shock of the other advisers, most notably Court Chaplain Ermenrich.

In response, Ermenrich rose from his seat and chastised the much larger lord Adalwolf. "HERESY!" he boomed. "Only a traitorous heathen would suggest laying siege to a city as holy as Rome, and to turn our backs on God's manifestation on Earth!" he added, before turning to Thiadger. "Your majesty, we should not lay siege to the hand which feeds us. We should send tribute to the Holy See, break bread with the Papacy and beg for a crown."

Adalwolf soon objected. "Any man who bows to a robed plebian is not fit for kingship!" he blurted out, before also turning to the Grand Duke. "As your friend, adviser and vassal, I ask you not to bend the knee to this zealous wreck of a man. March to Rome and show him the strength of Saxon men!" he said in addition, before sitting once more.

Grand Duke Thiadger then looked to his Chancellor, Gerulf, and noted his lack of advice. "Chancellor?" Thiadger asked, inquisitively. "Do you have any input on this issue, what do you believe I should do... your lack of advice is troubling to me, friend." he further added.

Gerulf, an older man of a stubborn but quick nature, rose from his seat. "Why not both, my lord?" he said, as the rest of the council rose their eyebrows in suspicion and interest. "March to Rome, yes, break bread with the Pope, yes, but do it alone. It can be... some sort of pilgrimage. This Pope, in all his piety and zealousness, will appreciate it. Maybe you could walk barefoot with a whip, I'm sure he'll appreciate the extra commitment." he said, before sitting down again.

The Marshal then rose again to anger at Gerulf, before Thiadger motioned for him to sit. "I like that idea. I shall go with a small group and walk barefoot to Rome... if that does not convince the Pope to give me my rightful crown as King of the Germans, then I will have to resort to sneakier methods... but for all our sakes, let us hope that this act of piety convinces him."

Thiadger rose from his chair, as did the other councilors. "I shall begin my journey in the morrow, there is no time to waste... Gerulf, Adalwolf, Ermenrich, you shall all accompany me. Let us hope the Pope approves." he then announced, before leaving the room.

by **Trotza** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 8:43 am

The Kingdom of Sweden

Gamla Uppsala, Eastern Sweden
4th January, 1000 AD
Olaf Skötkonung

The Temple of Uppsala

Uppsala, Olof dreaded heading to this place. And yet it loomed just north of his capital and stronghold, standing and watching ominously, or at least that's how its presence agitated him. At this point in his life it only meant more controversy and danger. Whether that meant disgracing his ancestors by shunning the old ways and refusing to participate in their time honored traditions or, alternatively, participating and being guilty of blasphemy, becoming a heretic in the eye's of God and the Pope, reverting to a barbarian's rituals. The old temple here was one of the grandest tributes to the gods of the Norse ever built, and was renowned across the land. All the kings of years past had taken their time to worship here and pay tribute like any good viking. Even his father, Erik the Victorious, had quickly turned his back on Christianity, deciding it not being of as much merit as the natural Swedish faith. Now as the first of his kingdom's kings to truly be a supporter of this new religion, despite the leanings of many of his subjects, it was his choice to decide which people he would turn his back on. His own, or those that he had told he would forever be faithful to the teachings of Christ they had taught him of. And so here he found himself, his subordinates telling him it was vital to give an offering before going on his journey, to assure good fortune on his travels.

The Temple itself was extensive. Located somewhat away from the nearby village, it allowed visitors to enter lands so undisturbed it felt like one was entering the untouched wilds, and simply found this grand structure. This sense was heightened by the fact that the complex itself was built not from stone but instead intricate wooden structures layered upon one another, giving off the illusion of being higher than it actually stood, tapering off towards the top like a towering mountain. While other Swedes would consider themselves blessed just to get an opportunity to witness such a sight in the entirety of their lives, the only thing welling up in the king's chest was anticipation as him and his ceremonious band neared it. Nervous thoughts filled his head thinking of how everything that could go wrong with his reign was centered in this single symbol of the inherited beliefs of the people's culture. Another more militant ruler might be inclined toward hatred and wish to burn this paganistic monument to false idols to the ground in the name of the lord, but he was not so. Actually many had been led to believe or had decided that his peaceful disposition was one of the main reasons he had converted to these spiritual leanings that came from the preachers of the southern reaches. It was true at least that he had a disdain for war and aversion to violence, he preferred to participate in royal sports instead. This did not bode well with many, who now think his weak rule will ultimately result in harsh times for the kingdom and a decline in power. It was his task to prove them wrong.

That was largely the kind of public doubt that had brought him here in the first place. To reassure the populace that he could be relied on and would not turn his back on them. Otherwise, he’d never be able to try and unite the nation with the jarls having such an easy excuse to ignore his authority.

As they neared he’d been trying to form some semblance of a plan in his head. Get in, please the gods, make the fanatics happy and get out. He glanced at the temple. No, that will never work, if I step foot in that place I’ll be condemning myself to burn in the pits of Hell for the rest of my days. I’ll just have to avoid it at all costs. As he went he continued to attempt concocting excuses to not enter the revered shrine. He’d already heard about the appearance of the interior from the many pilgrims that had come before him. Gold inlay lining its halls spared no expense. At the center carved statues of Odin, Thor, Tyr, and Freyr sitting proudly in their place side by side to be praised by the mortals.

Eastern Cities of the Kingdom

As they drew close to the entrance he realized he had to act quickly. He stopped in his path and turned to his entourage, addressing them with his arms spread and held in the air.

“Men, we shall have a great feast to commemorate our arrival tonight. Bring out the food and drink, so that we may revel here, in the presence of the gods.”

They cheered, and the king let out a discreet sigh of relief. Now they would have to camp outside to accommodate the many fires that would surely be set up soon.

His prediction proved correct. These uncivilized types are too predictable. Any educated man who was even slightly aware of their stereotypes could manipulate them through utilizing their own interests in attempts of persuasion with ease. And they would simply blindly follow, even to their own demise. Olaf sat there for a moment, watching the rowdy celebration that would likely go long into the night, when he realized in some way how condescending he sounded even to himself. Did he really think so poorly towards his own kind? The moment someone thinks they are more enlightened than others isn’t a cue to look down on others, he chided himself. But, he asked himself while watching some heavily drunken men get into a scuffle, is there not a certain social primitivism to be scorned when it pervades even as time passes? There must be something that has given these people a memorable name in recent ages, during the years that the Vikings roamed the seas, besides just a capacity for violence. Olaf tried to reason with his own doubts and wrestle the questions that seemed to swirl around him. I think, perhaps, if there is anything that distinguishes these men from many others it is their intrepid nature. They hail from a poor land, cold, harsh, and barren at its worse, and yet do not settle, but seek a life of adventure. Entire generations have taken to the seas, inserting themselves confidently into lands and peoples they have never encountered before, and never losing a fighting spirit. A kind of will, that while appearing simplistic to someone who considers themselves above that kind of attitude, holds a wellspring of power in the hearts of men who truly believe, in whatever that might be. As he concluded that little commentary he’d given himself, he felt a bit better.

A man came up to him with a horn of mead in each hand, holding one forward.

“Would you like a drink sir? You’ve been light on the merriment so far, just sitting there like that.”

He waved him off with a gesture of his hand and polite shake of his head.

“No, I think I’m fine, thank you.”

The man, whoever he was, looked satisfied with the answer and was content with shrugging it off, before taking both horns firmly in his grasp and walking off, presumably to continue drinking. The king, being more at peace than earlier, leaned back in his seat, and watched as the bright embers drifted up into the air, with the shadow of the looming temple contrasting the luminous glow cast off by the bonfires, and let the sounds of joyous and lively jubilation help him sink into sleep.

"The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever."

On Route in the Baltic Sea
January 9th 1000 AD
Olaf Skötkonung

Finally, they were on their way. At least for a moment, the tribulations of the world at home were behind him, and nothing but the open sea lie ahead as far as the eye could see. His maneuver back in Uppsala had succeeded, by the next morning most were too hungover and tired to carry out but a few animal sacrifices before heading out. They made a stop at Sigtuna before heading out for good. The religious measures taken to try to give them good luck on the coming trip that would include their only true king had been completed; it was out of their hands now. At least that what the sailors thought, no question they were humble and didn’t give their own sailing skills enough credit, along with downplaying their ability to build some of the north’s finest ships.

The Vital Novgorod-Ladoga Trade Route

This was no half-baked raid, they knew where there were going long ago. A diplomatic mission to the east, or at least what they would consider to be the eastern reaches of the world more familiar to them. Out there, about as far out as the sea would go, were the lands and tribes of Kievan Rus’. In particular in their case, the city of Novgorod was of the most interest. One of the many important trade routes between Sweden and the eastern reaches lie between them, and the city itself is a vital center of commerce. It was a fine place to do dealings, no doubt with its own level of influence by all accounts, and necessary for the connections between the Swedes and those as far to the southeast as the Byzantines to continue unabated.

But there’d be time for politics to begin at a later date, of course. No need to convince anyone of that certainly. For now, on the other hand, there was nothing better to do but feel the waves roll under the smooth hull of the ship and sea winds rush across the deck. Any proper Viking couldn’t be happier.

by **Of the Quendi** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 9:32 am

The Domains of Dastagird
On the River Sirwan, the Province of Asōristān
The Sassanian Empire of Ērānshahr

Shāhanshāh Khashayarsha II

January 1st the Fifth Year of the Khashayarshadi Era

Khashayarsha, Shāhanshāh of Iran and Aniran steadied his Turanian horse, Atukhan, as he gazed fearlessly into the black eyes of his rival, his sole equal, in anticipation of her next move. Flee or charge he fancied himself able to read in those deep pools of animal darkness. A savage smile crossed the Shāhanshāh’s as a tremble rolling through Atukhan alerted him that his foe had chosen the honorable path, as befitted a foe of her stature. She jumped, her colossal body coming down towards the Shāhanshāh while she roared in fury. The Shāhanshāh, courageously, thrust his lance towards the tigress while kicking a terrified Atukhan forward in a charge.

Quickly rider and beast came upon one another, Atukhan not failing his master despite its terror. The Shāhanshāh’s dark eyes glowed with an intense passion as he pointed his lance towards the heart of the beast. Of all creatures under Heaven only the Hyrcanian Tiger could threaten the true Lord of the World, but threaten him she could. A single blow by one of those paws would bring an abrupt and immediate end to the last scion of the glorious Sassanian dynasty. Yet the thrill of the hunt was an irresistible force which Khashayarsha could not resist.

With a final roar of prideful anger the tigress jumped against the Shāhanshāh who met her with his lance. A neigh of panic erupted from Atukhan as the destrier, its rider and the tigress all fell down at the massive impact of the beast. Tumbling to the ground it was not possible to tell who was alive and who was not, and more than a few of the Shāhanshāh’s friends and retainers trembled in fear. Then the Shāhanshāh moved, disentangling himself from the tigress and his panicky steed, which desperately tried to entangle itself from the tigress.

Cheers greeted the reckless Sovereign as he rose, they where no doubt more cheers of relief than triumph, but he paid them no heed. Gently caressing the skin of the still living tigress he drew his knife. ”Easy, now. It will all be over soon.” He whispered, gently caressing the skin of the dying felid with one hand while the other searched for her throat. As he found it he acted quickly slitting it with his knife and slaying the noble beast. With a lingering, mourning, gaze towards the colossal cat Khashayarsha turned towards his retainers laughing without mirth at them. ”A good hunt.” He proclaimed. ”Have her skinned and her fur tended to.” He ordered as Atukhan found his footing again. The large black destrier still seemed shocked at the impact of a 200 kilo heavy cat but the presence of its rider calmed it. Turanian warhorses was not easily cowed and Atukhan least of all.

Remounting his horse, now without the lance he had thoroughly broken, Khashayarsha looked down upon his fallen rival. That was how he viewed the beast, as a rival and an enemy, never as prey. ”Rest now Tigress, may Ahura Mazda keep you till the world's ending.” The Shāhanshāh spoke in a moments solemnity, overcome with an empty feeling of sadness, as he contemplated the brevity of life. With a sigh he turned Atukhan away from the slain beast. Aslan of Turan, grinning and hooting, rode his horse towards his friend and Sovereign. ”A good hunt my King of Kings, did I not tell you that it would be just what you needed?” He spoke, casting a glance of awe towards the tigress. The Shāhanshāh, strangely quiet after the conclusion of the hunt, merely kicked Atukhan into a canter, heading back towards Dastagird.

by **Krugmar** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 10:33 am

Basileía Rhōmaíōn stin Aígypto
Roman Empire in Egypt

Vaanes Eliopoulos
Alexandria, Egypt
17th January, 1000

Vaanes read the note carefully, it was a ragged parchment which had been written in some haste by the Governor of Nubia.

To his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty,

I have received reports that your subject, the King of Makuria, has been gathering to himself an army without leave from your most Gracious Majesty. I have been unable to ascertain as to its direction, or purpose, as I have been unable to communicate with the Viceroy in Dongola.

As such, I have raised my militia, and stand ready to defend the border. I am unable to make any advances into Makuria, for lack of men.

Signed, Menas Sarantos, Proxenikos of Nubia.

He sighed, it came at relatively bad timing. The emperor had already departed, and would not return for some time, meaning that Vaanes would now have to deal with it. The Makurians were a barbarian people, fit only for servitude, but he would attempt to deal with their king and settle any potential dispute peaceably.

It was unclear what they were gathering forces for. If a claimant was challenging his throne, he should have alerted Egypt. If attacked by another vassal, then he should have alerted Egypt. He was either planning to attack another vassal, which was mad, or attack Egypt directly, which was madder. Or he had a sufficiently good reason, one that would prevent his deposition and execution. Vaanes hoped for his sake, that it was the latter.

To his Majesty, the King of Makuria,

I have been informed that you have gathered to yourself forces, enough to make nearby governors suspicious of your activities. I must remind you that assembling your army, without permission from his Blessed and Perfect Majesty, the Emperor of Rome, is forbidden. Disband your forces at once, or there will be consequences.

We have received no word from our viceroy in Dongola, which makes me more suspicious as to your intentions. We shall be investigating.
Signed by Vaanes Eliopoulos, Chief Minister and Grand Eunuch, Servant to the Emperor, on behalf of his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty, the Emperor and King of the Romans, Pharaoh of Egypt and the Levant, Perfect of the Perfected, Isidoros Bryennios II.

It was, however, a foolish thing to wait and see how the situation turned out. Regardless of his answer, the Makurian King was likely to be deposed. Reckless actions were not tolerated by the Empire. To this effect, he sent word that five thousand of the Golden Legion were to be mobilised, as well as ten thousand levies, and a thousand Berber horsemen. The militias of Nubia and Thebais would add an extra eight thousand men. Enough to crush Makuria, should it intend to resist.

He put the matter away from his mind, and turned to darker thoughts. It was now his job to ensure that the Prince Isaacius died, but finding a way would be difficult. The Prince always had food tasters, so poison was unlikely to work, unless it was slow acting, in which case it could be countered more easily by the limitless physicians who abounded at the court. Murder would force an investigation, and he was certain that Didyma would be hellbent on destroying whoever harmed her son.

A sailing accident could work. The Prince loved to sail, and he often took short trips across the Alexandrian coast. It would not be hard to suggest a sailing trip to the prince, and ensure that any boat he was given was faulty, and would sink. It could even remove Didyma, and any other rivals Vaanes had.

The notes were written quickly, scrambled onto a small parchment. His serving boy, a young eunuch whom he trusted, he had after all saved him from use in a brothel, offered to take it for him. He smiled, and watched as he scuttled away, to take the notes to Karani.
There were none more brilliant than Vaanes, nor more intelligent. It was, after all, why God had chosen him to rule Egypt.

Chroniates Chaconas
Jerusalem, Judea
18th January, 1000

The feast Chroniates had prepared was fit for the ancient Gods of Olympus, and dare he say, the One True God. Only the finest and healthiest of animals, fruits and vegetables had been chosen, especially selected for the great guest, the emperor himself. Chroniates was bedecked in his best jewellery, as were the numerous slaves and servants buzzing about the chamber. Fearsome Nubians stood watch by the doors, men of the emperor’s personal guard.

The southern doors opened, and in the emperor came. It was as if Ra had entered the room himself, a long robe of deep purple, with streaks of fiery gold flowing throughout. Upon his head he wore a small and light crown, of both silver and gold, beautifully blended, with an onyx set in the centre. Attending him was a misshapen creature, presumably of Greek origin judging by the hair and face, and a priest with skin as black as midnight.

All at the table instantly stood, and took a long bow to him, as he made his way to the head of the table. The priest handed him a book, most likely one of the volumes of the Holy Bible, and the emperor began reciting from it. Ordinarily, the task of blessing a meal was a job for the resident chaplain, but the emperor was no ordinary man. He was one of the Perfect, pious men and women who, through extensive prayer and meditation, had expelled the demon within, and communed directly with God, and the Lord Jesus Christ. He was free of all sin, and could commit any act he wished, for he was in Gods favour.

The prayer ended, and they all took their seats. The emperor took his share of food, but ate modestly. He was not a glutton, and his slim figure made Chroniates feel ashamed of his protruding belly.

“My most gracious host, and loyal servant, Chroniates. This is a wonderful feast, how ever could I repay you?” boomed a voice. It was not a perfect voice, one of strength, nor that pleasant to listen to, but it was one filled with supreme confidence, one that sent shivers down the spine.

“Your very presence here, and the beautiful and magnificent blessing of this humble meal I could offer, is more than enough, your Blessed Majesty.” He croaked back, a piece of pork stuck inside his throat. He quickly cleared it with some wine.

The emperor raised his glass to Chroniates, and drank from it, before turning his attention back to the misshapen creature. Chroniates resumed his duel with the pork, and was just about to enjoy another mouthful when he noticed the creature standing next to him.

It hissed hot air into his ear, and he shuddered. “His Blessed and Perfect Majesty has travelled far and wide, in much discomfort. It would be best if you would offer him the services of your concubines, and wife, to bring him comfort, for the long road ahead.”

Chroniates looked at him blankly, before managing a weak smile. He nodded, and turned his head to the emperor, who was starting most intently at him. He raised his glass at the emperor, and drank to his health. The deal was done, his women for his life.

Within an hour, the feast was over, and the emperor retired to his apartments, with several of Chroniates favourite concubines. And his wife.

Tonight, Chroniates would sleep alone. He was fortunate that his apartments were on the other side of the palace. It was hell enough just imagining what was going to happen, it would be worse should he have to hear it.

Turannos Palas
Sidon, Syria
25th January, 1000

Turannos skulked around the study, bringing various maps and notes to his master. He was a hunchback, with a lame leg, and so the physical excursion took its toll on him. His master saw this, and beckoned him to sit with him.

“I know you are not a man of war, but I require someone to plan with, until we arrive in Tripoli.” Isidoros ordered, pulling Turannos’ attention to the map.

It was a delicately crafted map, one showing the relatively recent disintegration of the Anatolian Romans and their empire. Turannos could just about make out the names of the various cities and strongholds, except the one hidden under the finger of his master.

“Antioch, it is what I will take first, while Iosephius is busy harassing the Cilicians to the north. It is the key to the south. Then I will march on Tarsus, while Iosephius takes Edessa. I would expect that the Governor of Cyprus would surrender himself to me, in return for the continued existence of his position. If not, I shall send word to Vaanes, to gather the fleet, and conquer it.” He announced, his finger trailing from city to city, and finally stopping at the aforementioned island.

“I cannot find a fault with your plan, sire, though as you said, I am not a military man.” Mumbled Turannos. The emperor confided much in him, far more than he did to that perfumed woman, Vaanes, and trusted him to speak his mind.

Isidoros chuckled softly, “I am wary of being attacked by the Persians. I do not wish to be bogged down in a pointless conflict, like so many of my forebears.” Turannos guessed that he was referring to the Romans of old, who had warred endlessly with the Persians, with little lost or gained. “Write to their King, offer him my eldest daughter, Ionnia, a gift of gold, silver and slaves, and fifty Nubian warriors.”
“Who will the princess be marrying sire?” asked Turannos.

Isidoros looked about for a few moments, apparently searching for something, before he gave up and sighed. “Vaanes had a small book, one with information on the Persians. Do not be specific, we will know from their reply who they wish to marry her to, if they accept.”
Turannos gave his best attempt at a bow, before scurrying away to another desk. He would quickly write up a copy, before giving it to the scribes, who would produce a letter suitable for royalty.

To the Great King of Persica,

His Most Roman and Imperial Majesty hopes that this letter finds you in good health, and that you enjoy the prosperity of your magnificent empire.

War between two such noble men, and their noble empires, can come to no good, and can only destroy the prosperity that we currently enjoy. His Most Roman and Imperial Majesty wishes only friendship, and kinship, with you, Great King.

He wishes to offer his daughter, the Princess Ionnia, in marriage to your most noble house. With this, he offers a chest of gold, and of silver, and a selection of the finest slaves from the west, including a bodyguard of fifty Nubian men, fearsome eunuchs who obey any command given to them by their master.

We await your reply with great excitement.

Signed, Turannos Palas, Servant to the Emperor, on behalf of his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty, the Emperor and King of the Romans, Pharaoh of Egypt and the Levant, Perfect of the Perfected, Isidoros Bryennios II.

by **New Minahasa** » Sat Sep 17, 2016 11:52 pm

Kingdom of Makuria.

King Simeon.
Deserts of Nubia.
20th January, 1000 AD.

The army had made their move since the 7th of January. There was no more time to waste. The host of organized men and savage tribal warriors was already halfway to the borders of Alodia. They made camp on this night, surrounded by the darkness of the vast desert. Torches and campfires were the only things that lighted the camp, accompanied by a small amount of moonlight. Wild desert creatures could strike the camp at anytime, but the army had to rest. A big tent, located in the middle of the camp, was where the king and his generals would rest. But on this particular night, they didn't.

A messenger had arrived bearing a message from Egypt. It wasn't a surprise for the king. He had already predicted of this outcome. Instead, he would be astonished if Egypt would allow an invasion against their own vassal state. King Simeon was going to deal with this problem by himself, but for the kingdom's sake, he had to discuss it with his generals. He gathered all of his generals in the tent. They were outraged, and loud ramblings were heard from the tent. The soldiers were awoken, but the guards separated them from the tent from disturbing the meeting.

"This is an outrage!", one of the generals slammed his fist on the table, anger turning his black face red. "We give them tribute, and they leave us alone! They shouldn't interfere with our kingdom's actions!", he proceeded. "I say we spit on this message, and keep marching forward!"

"No!", the other general disclaimed. "We do that, and the whole Egypt will reign hell over us!", he stated. "I wager that those filths have marched their army onto our borders already!"

"Calm down, my brethren. I have predicted this situation, and it didn't come as a surprise to me that Egypt would surely interrupt our campaign. My informants in Alexandria have told me that the Emperor of Egypt had mobilized most of his army north, probably to campaign against the Byzantines which are currently in turmoil. The Egyptians are low in number, and if they were foolish enough to decide to attack us in our own lands, we will let them do so. They will fall in the hands of our dedicated archers, and when they do, they will have no more men to protect their lands. It will be our best chance to strike them then. But for now, I shall take diplomatic measures against them. See if I can talk my way out of this, and if God allows, it will." King Simeon explained quietly.

The generals were calmed after hearing the king's explanation. They were convinced after hearing the calmness in his voice in such a dire situation. King Simeon was known for his strongwill and dedication to his kingdom, and they knew he wouldn't allow his kingdom to be torn apart by the Egyptians. After the short, but noisy, meeting, the generals took rest. The king however, had to make a response to Egypt's message beforehand and another to his Viceroy in Dongola as precaution.

by **Elepis** » Sun Sep 18, 2016 9:49 am

Империята на България
The Bulgarian Empire

Chapter I - The Bones of the Hills
25th January 1000 Anno Domini

Skopje Fortress
Skopje
Bulgarian Empire

Three men sat in a small, hexagonal room in one of the towers of the Skopje fortress. Three windows were set in to the wall, each of them showing the same image, dark night and falling snowflakes. From inside it looked beautiful, like and image from a child's story, but being outside in the freezing dark, it was deadly. Luckily the three men were inside, each of them holding a bronze goblet of warmed wine. They each sat around a small table, the dim light from torches illuminating their faces. These three men were the most powerful men in the Bulgarian Empire and here, in the depths of winter they would plan the course the Bulgars would take for the next year.

The three men each looked different. The first was not even a Bulgar, not properly anyway. Leo, Patriarch of All Bulgaria, was Greek in origin, is family coming from Tarnovo where there still lived a significant Greek population. His hair was cut short in the Greek fashion and his skin was darker than the two Slavic Bulgars. He wore the robes of his office, a dark black shoal that when from his shoulder to his knees over a white tunic. On his head was placed an odd hat, with a long tail at the rear. Clasped in his hand was a large golden scepter, topped with the Cross of the Lord. The man himself was tall and thin, a fact he tried to hide with his long robes.

To the right of the priest was a man who could not look more different. Instead of a black cloak, this man wore a scale armour tunic, each steel scale expertly polished. Below the tunic he wore a number of shirts, either green or black in colour. His legs were covered in red trousers and his long grey hair flowed down past his shoulders. This man's face a round and pale where the Greek's was dark and thin. From his leather belt their hung a long, straight sword, its tip scratching the floor as it's owner moved. This man was Kavkhan Boris Bezmes, the second in command of the Tsar armies and a feared soldier and commander across the Balkans.

The character to the right of the soldier, between him and the priest, was an altogether different figure. This man was tall and stocky, we wore a purple tunic, covered by a green cape. Green stocking reached down to his feat where they were met with high leather boots. The man's face was almost triangular, with a golden beard at the chin and cheeks and a large gold and silver crown in his grey hair. The man was considered "invincible in power and unsurpassable in strength". Similar comments were made even in Constantinople, where John Kyriotes penned a poem offering a punning comparison between the Bulgarian Emperor and Halley's comet, which appeared in 989. This was the man who smashed the armies of Rome and killed its last emperor, Basil. This last man was Samuel, Tsar of Bulgaria.

The three men had been sat in silence for a number of minutes, the only sound, the murmur of the two Iron Guards, their rather descriptive name coming from the full body scale and chain mail armour they wore.

"Nicaea" said the Patriarch. The two other men looked up. "Nicaea, my lord" Leo said again. "Nicaea is the most powerful of the Byzantine successor states. She controls the most land and men, as well as great cities like Nicomedia, Sinope, Sardis and of course Nicaea itself. Trebizond and Cilicia are weak, Egypt can move beyond the Tarsus mountains and the Exarch in Africa will not be able to hold his disparate territories and invade the east at the same time. The only three options in the wars to our south are Nicaea, Constantinople and Athens. Athens and Constantinople are powerful enough, the former controls the Empire's second city and its fleet while the latter has the largest city in the world and the Theodosian Walls. However only Nicaea has the power and men to reunite what is left of the Byzantine Empire."

The Patriarch sighed "Yes, the Byzantines are our enemies, and have been for centuries, but I believe it is in our best interests to aid the Emperor in Nicaea in retaking some, not all, of the former Empire. It will happen eventually, we might as well back the winning horse."

"Bah!" shouted the Kavkhan "Why should we help them? What can they possibly do for us?"

"We should help them" said the Patriarch "too help Bulgaria". The priest took a sip of wine and continued "If we let Nicaea reforge Byzantium on its own, they will do it eventually. But not without much suffering on their and wars that will leave them bankrupt. If we help them, we will be able to extort land out of them. Say, Thessaly and Macedonia with Thessaloniki to boot. This will give us access to the Aegean and split Byzantium in two, but in the short term Nicaea will have to accept. Of course if they don't we can always take the land for ourselves."

"So..." said the Tsar, speaking for the first time "How do you plan to get this agreement, what do we offer the Greeks?"

The priest answered immediately "We will break Athens and Constantinople for them. We will invade Macedonia and defeat the armies around Thessaloniki and then move south and do the same for Athens in Thessaly. At a stroke, we will have severely weakened Nicaea's enemies, and Byzantium as a whole, and take a large portion of Greece and Thrace for ourselves."

The Tsar nodded, drinking a portion of his wine. "Boris, what do you think on the matter?".

The general laughed "You broke Basil, my lord. After almost 20 years of war, you smashed Byzantium's armies ay Tarnovo and and killed Basil, fine soldier though he was. Byzantium cannot survive without Basil for long, why not just take the land for ourselves without dealing with the shadow-Emperor in Nicaea? Send the armies south yes, but don't ask permission from some upstart soldier in Asia, just do it. Bulgaria repulsed the Empire's armies, now it is time we take the spoils of war for ourselves."

The Patriarch jumped in before the Tsar could respond, earning a withering glance from Samuel. "That is short sited, noble Kavkhan. The threat of our invasion may super the dynasts of Rome to unite against us. We need a quick war we can win with limited cost, not a long slog against a reunited Byzantium. Not after the last war."

The Tsar, still angry at the Patriarch for interrupting, placed his palm down on the table between them and responded. "Yes, I agree with your plan, Patriarch. The harvests have been brought in and the people are hungry to get their hands on the spoils of the shattered Empire. Send a letter to the Emperor in Nicaea, whatever his name may be, and offer him our aid."
He then turned, smiling to the general beside him "And if he does not accept our offer, will take it anyway. We crushed the Greeks at Tarnovo, and killed Basil, it is time we pushed our advantedge."

The Empire of Bulgaria

To Constantine Diogenes, Emperor in Nicaea

Greetings,

I know that our to countries have had an extremely rocky history, even going back two years we were at war. However, I believe we can work together. The death of your emperor, Basil, at the Siege of Tarnovo, has fractured Byzantium's empire. Trebizond, Athens, Constantinople, Cilicia, Carthage, Nicaea, you are all fighting for the throne of Constantine and Justinian. But this war can be won only with outside aid, especially if you wish to preserve a function Empire and not one riven with debts and civil strife. Thus, on behalf of my Tsar I offer you a deal.

You will declare that the lands of Macedonia, including the city of Thessaloniki, and Thessaly to be rightful Bulgarian land and under Bulgarian sovereignty and demilitarize Adrianopel once you win the war. In return Bulgaria will recognize yourself as rightful successor to the Byzantine Empire. As well as this, we will march south against the Emperor in Athens and the Emperor in Constantinople and defeat their field armies. This will remove them from the war against you and allow yourself to focus on taking control of Trebizond and Cilica. The aforementioned land will be handed over to Bulgarian sovereignty however any land occupied by Bulgaria during the war will be handed back to Byzantium. If you accept this deal, the war for Byzantium will be shortened immeasurably and the empire you are fighting for will remain stable and united. Thus I believe this deal is in both our best interests.

The Tsar also wishes you accept some other criteria as well, as a symbol of our friendship. He asks that you recognize himself, the Tsar, as an equal of the Roman Emperor and recognize the Bulgarian Orthodox Church as fully independent.

Signed,
Leo II, Patriarch of All Bulgaria, writing on behalf of
His Imperial Majesty, Samuel, In Christ the Lord Faithful Tsar and Autocrat of all Bulgarians, Romans, Greeks, Serbs and Illyrians

by **Oberstyre** » Sun Sep 18, 2016 1:08 pm

Magyar Királyság
The Kingdom of Hungary

Négy Január, Ezer abban az évben a mi urunk
The Fourth of January and One Thousand Years in the year of our Lord

Kastély Esztergom
Esztergom, Magyar
Szent István király Árpádok Magyarország

King Stephen, the Saint as he was known, was kneeling in the cathedral of his castle. All around him were benches of fine wood, cups inlaid with jewels. Stephen was generous towards the Church and their wealth reflected that. He did what he felt was necessary to get closer to god, as all men should. He was in the center of the room, kneeling beneath a large golden cross. His knees were pressed against the cold stone floor, his hands together. He was doing as he always did, praying to God. Stephen prayed for not only himself but also his people. He prayed for bountiful harvests and he prayed for their sins. Sighing, he stood up. His bare feet on the cold stone. "God give me strength." he whispered to himself before finally leaving the church.

He sighed again. Only a few days ago his title had been Grand Prince. He was a King now, ever closer to god. He was responsible for the people of Hungary and by default, the territories of Gyula and Ajtony. Stephen knew he had the righteousness of God on his side and yet he also knew that he did not want to spill any Hungarian blood by fighting Hungarians. He would if he must but he would try to avoid it first. Stephen continued walking, his guards now following him. They had been waiting outside the Church's doors. Both were grizzled Hungarians, fiercely loyal to their King. No man got near their King without Stephen allowing it, even family members.

Stephen slowly walked forward, through the courtyard of his castle. There were nobles and servants, all looking upon him. He was wearing robes of green, inlaid with white and gold. On his head was a gold band, which he used for a crown. Servants rushed ahead, opening the doors of his throne room. Stephen walked in, guards by the doors nodding at him as he walked past. In the room were nobles, all waiting to hear his decisions on things they viewed as important. Much of it would be whether or not someone owed three pigs or four instead, though this did not bother him much. Yet, today was different. He had important business to take care of and he could not allow himself to get distracted. He walked through the crowd, his guards pushing anyone too close away. Their spears kept the rest at bay. Once he reached his throne, he turned and spoke loudly and sternly. "If you are not on my council or a royal guard, please exit the throne room.". There were hushed whispers as to what was going on, yet many left anyway. The few remaining were his council members, large landholders and advisers. One of them, a man with a long graying beard and at least forty years of age spoke first. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked. Stephen sat as the man spoke, before replying to him. "As you know, I am responsible for Hungarians. Yet, Hungarians are not in my realm. This affects my ability to protect them, which bothers me. I am of course speaking of the lands of Gyula and Ajtony. Gyula is my uncle, perhaps the one we could reason with the best. Ajtony may be difficult but I think giving him less taxes and a few charters should appease the man. Any qualms to this?". No man in the room said anything, simply nodding and accepting.

"Good. We'll prepare immediately. In the meantime, you all are dismissed. Please exit the room." Stephen finished. The men all left, leaving only the King and his guards.

ROYAL MISSIVE

TO MY DEAREST UNCLE, GYULA THE THIRD OF HIS NAME

For too long has your lands been absent from the Kingdom of Hungary. I seek to rectify this. I am prepared to offer you generous terms but do note that it will be a one time offer. I do not seek war but I will do what I must to protect the Hungarian people.

Your lands will be named after you.
You will be titled Duke of Gyula.
You will receive charters and will pay less taxes for a period no shorter than twenty and five years.
If any daughters are born to my wife, one of your sons shall marry her.
You will be granted a command in my armies, leading a force of no less than five and a thousand.
You will owe fealty to the Hungarian crown.

Let us seal this pact in friendship, for I do not wish to fight family.

Defend Christendom and Hungary from all enemies...
Do not have us quarrel amongst ourselves
If you should waste your energies in altercations,
you will seal your own fate as well as dig the grave of our country

SZENT ISTVÁN KIRÁLY ÁRPÁDOK MAGYARORSZÁG

ROYAL MISSIVE

TO THE AUSPICIOUS LORD AJTONY

For too long has your lands been absent from the Kingdom of Hungary. I seek to rectify this. I am prepared to offer you generous terms but do note that it will be a one time offer. I do not seek war but I will do what I must to protect the Hungarian people.

Your lands will be named after you.
You will be titled Duke of Ajtony.
You will receive charters and will pay less taxes for a period no shorter than twenty and five years.
You will be granted a command in my armies, leading a force of no less than five and a thousand.
You will be granted control over the Mureș River.
You will owe fealty to the Hungarian crown.

Defend Christendom and Hungary from all enemies...
Do not have us quarrel amongst ourselves
If you should waste your energies in altercations,
you will seal your own fate as well as dig the grave of our country

SZENT ISTVÁN KIRÁLY ÁRPÁDOK MAGYARORSZÁG

by **Of the Quendi** » Mon Sep 19, 2016 5:01 am

Outside the city of Ctesiphon
On the River Tigris, the Province of Asōristān
The Sassanian Empire of Ērānshahr

Shāhanshāh Khashayarsha II

30th January the Fifth Year of the Khashayarshadi Era

The journey back from Dastagird had been uneventful. The rich prosperous farmland of the heart of Iran offered little threats for merchants and serfs, much less for the Shāhanshāh, his friends and the gyan-avspar guard, the sacrificers of their lives. On the second day of the journey the Shāhanshāh and his retainers rode rapidly for some hours during which time his friends shared much laughter and merriment while the Shāhanshāh himself sat silent in his saddle.

As quick as he was to laughter as quick was he to sullen silence. When he laughed and jested and teased Khashayarsha was as any other young man of the wuzurgan noble class, but when he had his darker moments and moods he was truly the Shāhanshāh. In those moments his eyes was lit by an inner fire as his mind was extended greedily towards those lands that did not bow before his will. In those moments he was a conqueror and no boy king. In those moments his neighbors had best beware.

Just shen the ever awe-inspiring sight of the vast city of Ctesiphon could be glimpsed ahead of them, the Shāhanshāh noted a lone rider racing north from the city at a hazardous pace, pursued by four other riders. The Shāhanshāh, noticed that the rider seemed very small for its horse. "Azilises, go see who rides there." The Shāhanshāh ordered one of his companions, an Indian from the Hindustan, the vast Delhi based vassal state of the Sassanians. The darks skinned soldier said not a word but merely bowed his head to the Shāhanshāh before kicked his horse into a fast gallop. Of all the Shāhanshāh's friends only Azilises was more prone to silence than the Shāhanshāh was when in a somber mood.

Even before Azilises reached the small riders and the men who pursued him Khashayarsha realized who the rider was. The four riders in pursuit all wore the armor of the Pushtigban, and the small rider rode a horse so exquisite that it could have only come from the imperial stables. Gone was the somber conquest hungry Shāhanshāh of Iran and Aniran, and in his place Khashayarsha laughed loudly, waving aside those of his friends and guards who had felt a need to ride close to their sovereign in case the small rider or the ones in pursuit constituted a threat.

Khashayarsha still laughed as Azilises, tried, and failed, at apprehending the small rider. Dodging the austere Indian rider, the small rider lead her horse, a large Arabian courser, straight for Khashayarsha breaking into a high pitched improvised war cry.
Shahzadi Esther brought to a halt her wild charge just a few moments before she would have crashed into her brother and Shāhanshāh. The Shahzadi made a so unusual sight that Khashayarsha broke into laughter again. The twelve year old girl was garbed in the fine silken robes of a sister of the Shāhanshāh but the attire was all but ruined by dust and dirt which covered not simply the girl's clothing but also much of her body, making it difficult to tell if her hair was brown or grey. Her horse was panting frantically, having been clearly ridden hard by the Shahzadi. That brought Khashayarsha's laughter to an end. Red Fury was one of the Shāhanshāh's favorite horses. "Have you become a horse thief in my absence sister?" The Shāhanshāh grunted as his laughter and his sister's enthusiastic war cry came to an end.

Unashamed the shahzadi shook her head smilingly. "Of course not." She declared. "Zuraq of the stables told me that Red Fury needed some exercise and so I volunteered for the task." The Shahzadi said. Khashayarsha raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose mother was fine with you working for the stor bezashk as a stablehand." He said. Esther shook her head. "No but I told mother I would write out to meet you and tell you that she has found a wife for you." The Shahzadi unabashedly declared.

Khashayarsha roared with laughter. His companions, safe for Azilises who eyed the shahzadi with solemn suspicion, who had reacted with a mixture of annoyance, amusement and confusion to the arrival of the sister of their sovereign, broke out into nervous laughter as well. The shahzadi's troubled relationship with the truth was well known at court, as was the Shāhanshāh's tolerance of it. "You are killing me sis." Khashayarsha declared wiping a tear of laughter from his eyes. "It is fortunate that you and I do not share a faith, and that you belong to the hebrew god who is more tolerant of lies than is Ahura Mazda, Lord of Truth, or I would have to punish you for that insolent tongue of yours." Khashayarsha spoke.

An insulted grimace appeared on the dirty face of the Shahzadi. "I didn't lie." She lied. Khashayarsha merely chuckled. "Oh yeah?" He said. "Well if mother sent you how come she sent for riders after you." He asked pointing to the pushtigban riders who had kept a respectful distance from their prey as she conversed with their sovereign. "That is my royal escort stupid." The shahzadi declared, causing gasps of shock to erupt from Khashayarsha's companions and retainers. The man himself was unfazed by the insult and merely waved the four pushtigban closer. "Tell me who sent you and why." The Shāhanshāh ordered.

The most senior of the soldiers, a Surena, bowed deeply before the Khashayarsha. "The Queen Mother did, illustrious sovereign." He declared. "To return Shahzadi Esther to the Shabestan."

Khashayarsha grunted and gave his little sister a smug smile. "A wife." He said shaking his head mirthfully. "A more believable ruse might have served you better sister." He declared. Pouting the shahzadi cursed at her brother with words no twelve year old should know. "That was no lie. Mother have found you a wife. Some Egyptian wench." The shahzadi insisted. "Enough Esther." Khashayarsha reprimanded his sister.

But the dirt-covered shahzadi would not be silenced. "Ask them." She exclaimed, pointing towards the Pushtigban. "Men came from Alexandria or some such place bringing words from the Egyptian king, and now mother says you shall marry one of his daughters." The shahzadi insisted. Khashayarsha, no longer amused by his sister's antics eyed her suspiciously. Then he turned towards the leader of the Pushtigban. "Well?" The Shāhanshāh demanded.

The leader of the Pushtigban bowed deeply. "Men did come out of Egypt my master." The soldier spoke. "They were richly garbed and carried the insignia of ambassadors, and they met with the Wuzurg framadar. I know not what was discussed. I know your magnificence's uncle has told the court that the Egyptian army is on the march, and I have heard rumors of an Christian princess and a marriage."

As the soldier finished speaking not even Esther spoke out, seeing a brooding look upon the face of the Shāhanshāh. After a rather long silence he spoke first to the Pushtigban. "Return to the city, inform the queen mother that Shahzadi Esther is with me. Then inform her, my uncle and the wuzurg framadar that I wish to speak with them upon my return to the palace. Azilises you ride with them." The Shāhanshāh ordered. Azilises and the pushtigban at once bowed and turned their horses riding furiously towards Ctesiphon. Khashayarsha turned towards his sister giving her a ponderous gaze. "A wife?" He asked. Esther nodded quickly. "I think so Khash." She replied. Khashayarsha grunted. The journey had turned out to be more eventful than he had cared for. He kicked Atukhan into a canter and rode towards Ctesiphon, quiet and lost in his own thoughts.

by **New Minahasa** » Mon Sep 19, 2016 5:24 am

Empire of Trebizond.

Strategos Manuel Xylaloe.
Empire of Trebizond, Borders of Trebizond.
10th January, 1000 AD.

A large camp sat in the middle of the night on a rather vast plain of grass. Inside were wildmen, a bunch of unruly bandits stacked in one place. To the north, not far off the camp laid a broad range of forests. One of the campguards heard a noise coming from them. Something similar to human speech. He set his eyes on it in attempt to spot any movements, but to no avail. The night was so dark that he could only see an object 3 meters in front of him. He shrugged the noise off, assuming it was just the night playing with his thoughts. But again, he heard another noise. This time, it sounded like a horn blowing off and it was much louder. The other guards heard the noise and gathered to north side of the camp. One of them quickly rushed to his comrades to alert them as soon as they heard hooves stomping and men shouting in the distance.

Then, from the dark, a swarm of horsemen appeared, charging at the camp. The men were bearing the banner no other than Trebizond, and the man who led them was Trebizond's finest strategos, Manuel Xylaloe. Manuel had been searching for the bandits for a while now, and he had decided to take the lead once he found their lair. The bandits had rather been a large nuisance, starting to become more of a threat, after months of escaping and raiding the borders of Trebizond. Manuel had personally thought that these were no ordinary bandits, but a group of mercenary hired by a rival kingdom to attack Trebizond's borders. He was satisfied after he burned and razed the whole camp down, finally relieved that this pest won't be bothering the empire anymore.

He and his soldiers had a great feast the day after. Manuel was known by his subordinates as honorable and respectful, one who would prize someone greatly for doing the job right, which is one of the reasons why he was Trebizond's finest strategos. He was very popular throughout the empire, indeed very popular that he made the emperor worried of it. But nonetheless, the emperor could not depose the guy, as he would still need a man such as him to do his bidding.

Manuel, on his way home, was approached by an emissary sent by the emperor to deliver his message; the message that contained his order of military expansion. Manuel took the message from the emissary, told him his thanks, and then waved him goodbye. The next day, upon his arrival to his castle, he quickly ordered his own domestikos to double the strength of his army and construction of a few ships for his army just in case the emperor would need him to fight on water later on.

Emperor Alexios I.
Empire of Trebizond, City of Trebizond.
14th January, 1000 AD.

Emperor Alexios I was busy for the past week handing out orders to his strategoi and managing the empire itself. He was just recently crowned as Emperor, but his inexperience could not block his ambitions. He once dreamt of his own empire; one that would prove to be the biggest and most powerful empire in the whole world. But he knew becoming the greatest and most powerful man on earth could not happen just by military force. He needed allies, especially when going against Nicaea, a much stronger foe, and he knew just the right man to become one. On his free time, he wrote a letter for Isidoros Bryennios II, the Emperor of Egypt himself.

by **The Ik Ka Ek Akai** » Mon Sep 19, 2016 3:04 pm

"Man daḥala ẓafari ḥammara"
When in Zafar, do as the Himyarites do

The queen of Himyar, Yifoba Arwa, daughter of Yathi, sat in a room, with a skilled painter on one side, a rabbi on another, and even still a priest of Shams on her last. The painter was almost finished with his work, depicting the queen in her current state. She stared out the window, over the metropolis of Zafar, reflecting on all she had known, all she had been seen, seeking counsel from the two religions her land knew. Seeing the beautiful scene of Zafar, with buildings of deep reddish brown bricks outlined with gleaming white borders, the mountains in the background, grass, date palms, and other tropical plants forming a literal jungle in her garden, which held a pet lion and a pet tiger, she felt proud of her kingdom. It was humbled long ago by the invasion of the Axumites, but even in such a state, she had only known prosperity. The Ma'rib dam, which held her kingdom's fertility in its bounds, was one of the greatest feats of Himyaritic architecture. She had seen it numerous times, heard the tales of its demise and rebirth, and she felt her ancestors smile upon her as she knew more and more of her people, as she grew prideful of those that came before. Taking a quick peek at the painter, out of the corner of her eye, she sighed and parted her lips to speak.

"Ra'ay ku bin ḥulm ka-walad ku ibn an min ṭib." She stated, coldly, describing a dream she had the prior night. 'I saw in a dream that I gave birth to a son of gold', the rabbi and priest both interpreted the meaning, thinking in silence. She had been in idle conversation about history, future, culture, the ways of the people, all while being painted, but now she gave at last the true reason she had summoned them both to be her captive audience. They all sat in silence, and even the painter who had previously been jovial dimmed his tone and slowed his work. In a matter of minutes, the rabbi quickly responded. "My lady, it is my belief that Raḥman, Our Merciful Lord, is granting you these dreams for a reason. He is telling you, directly in the same manner that he told Yusuf so long ago in Egypt, that you must give birth to a son, and that he, like gold, will be precious and beneficial to our kingdom. That is what your dream says, and by the will of Rahman it must be so."

The priest of Shams rose up, "My lady, it is my belief that this dream means not that you must get a son now, but that you are blessed. The gilded son in your dream was not a son of gold, but a sun of gold, glimmering in light rather than being of shining metal. By saying that you gave birth to this son is not to say your son will outshine you, but that the blessing and the will of Shams is within you and will come out to lead the kingdom. He blesses you and all of your sons with this message. That is what your dream says, and by the will of Shams it must be so."

"Gold is precious, but it is heavy." She stated, with a sigh. Her rabbi and her priest sat awkwardly in silence, before she spoke again. "Apologies. You two are dismissed." With this, the two religious leaders left the room, and the painter finished his work. He showed her, and for the first time in the day, she smiled. It was a beautiful painting, illustrated wonderfully and in a style never seen before. She thanked the man and paid him in a bag filled with silver. The enterprising young artist, almost the same age as the young queen herself, bowed and took his leave. Now alone, Yifoba was left to wonder, and to find her own meaning amidst the silence.

by **Krugmar** » Tue Sep 20, 2016 9:32 am

Basileía Rhōmaíōn stin Aígypto
Roman Empire in Egypt

Vaanes Eliopoulos
Alexandria, Egypt
27th January, 1000

Vaanes ran his eyes over the Makurian letter, his right hand busy scratching the side of his head. The Makurian King promised much, should he be allowed to take Alodia, but Vaanes was not convinced. A dog had to be kept tightly on its leash, lest it believe it was the master. He had received word that the army of 24,000, under the command of Proxenikos Anastasios Pagonis of Thebais, had almost finished assembling. Within weeks it would be in Makuria, and take Dongola.

It was hoped that without his capital, and treasury, the soldiers of King Simeon would mutiny, preventing any further bloodshed. If it came to it, they would be annihilated.

Still, Vaanes hoped to have the Makurian King caught unaware, and lay down his arms before the armies arrived.

To his Majesty, the King of Makuria,

You have taken an illegal action against another subject of the Emperor. You are to disband your forces at once, and come to Alexandria at once, to beg for the Emperor's forgiveness.

Failure to acquiesce with these requests will result in your deposition, and execution.

Signed by Vaanes Eliopoulos, Chief Minister and Grand Eunuch, Servant to the Emperor, on behalf of his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty, the Emperor and King of the Romans, Pharaoh of Egypt and the Levant, Perfect of the Perfected, Isidoros Bryennios II.

Turannos Palas
Tripoli, Syria
30th January, 1000

"I will take my army north of Antioch, and harass any force the Strategos attempts to send to relieve Antioch. If possible, I will engage his army." spoke Iosephius, manoeuvring a small blue figurine that represented his forces. A yellow figurine, that of Cilicia, was stationed in Tarsus, where they believed the Strategos was coalescing his forces. A dozen azure pieces, those of Persia, were placed in the known fortresses and key locations of their empire. A golden piece represented the Emperor, and it had been placed outside of Antioch.

"He doesn't have the military forces to defeat our armies, nor can he replenish his men like we can. He will have no aid from any of the pretenders, even if he pledges himself to them. I doubt they will want to fight us, and a civil war, at the same time. Turannos, give me that letter" the Emperor commanded, and Turannos obliged, shifting himself closer to the two men, and passing the note over.

Isidoros' eyes scanned it across, before he handed it to his brother, who also read it intently. Iosephius' face lit up. "The Pontic Prince is offering you half of Nicaea's land, which in effect, as he claims, is his rightful land. He must be very desperate." he said, chuckling lightly as he deliberately knocked over a purple figurine in Trebizond.

A small smile appeared on Isidoros' face, "Offensively he is in a weak position, his only advantage is defence, and that does not win wars. It is a good offer, but not one I shall accept yet. I do not wish to force Nicaea to come to Cilicia's aid. I will be patient, before intervening in this Anatolian war. I am curious as to what the Persians will do."

"You believe they will intervene?" Iosephius asked.

"Turannos believes they will, he thinks they will invade Georgia, and make its king their subject, but not me. I think they will take over Trebizond, and Northern Anatolia, giving them access to the Black Sea. I'm sure that the Great King hopes that one day he will reclaim the lands once ruled by his ancestors. For now, I would assume he would be happy with a small victory over his ancient enemies." replied Isidoros.

"One hears rumours that he is beset by demons from the north, vicious people born from horses, servants of Gog and Magog, who have broken through the wall erected by heroic Alexander." posited Iosephius.

Isidoros nodded, "I hope that such demons will make the Great King anxious to ally himself to me, despite our longstanding grievances, and ancestral hate. And should his empire fall to such barbarians, then I shall finish the work of Trajan." he said, chuckling at the thought. Iosephius joined him, and Turannos exited the room to gather some refreshments for the both of them.

Other Events
The Prince Ajtony rejects Hungarian annexation, and has raised four thousand men.
The Prince Gyula accepts Hungarian annexation under the terms provided.
The Layak Tribe, within the Seljuq Khanate, a Nestorian people, are being expelled from their lands, and are now on the move. It will soon be known whether they head west, or south.

by **Tracian Empire** » Tue Sep 20, 2016 12:16 pm

The Empire of Nicaea
Αυτοκρατορία της Νίκαιας
The Roman Empire
Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων

Ah, Nicaea. One of the largest and richest cities of the Roman Empire, and one of the best known cities of Christianity. With its strategic position in the heart of the Empire, long history with Christianity and its Ecumenical Councils, even if it couldn't match the capitals of the great empires, or the most beautiful city in the world, Constantinople, Nicaea still remained one of the most important cities of the Romans. And now, it was the greatest hope for a reunited Empire.

Constantine Diogenes, the Emperor of Nicaea as the other pretenders called him, was standing on one of the walls of the city, looking in the distance, and thinking. As a general. he had been pretty close to the late Emperor, but he had never imagined that things would turn out this way. The death of the Emperor took everyone by surprise, and the Empire fell into anarchy and civil war. As the Strategos of Opsikion, the people and the military proclaimed him as the new Emperor, just as other pretenders appeared anyway... and now, among the pretenders, he controlled the most territory... the Empire of Nicaea was the fittest to take over the legacy of the Empire. But many dangers lied ahead.

The other pretenders, firstly. Athens and Constantinople were his main objectives, but now, due to the proposal of the Bulgarians, he had a good chance against them. He didn't like that he had to give up Macedonia and Thessaly.. but desperate times called for desperate measures. For even greater dangers existed in the east. Trebizond... was the closest, and the most aggressive. The pretender over there, Alexios, was already preparing to invade Nicaea.. ignoring the obvious disadvantage he was in. He had to be punished for that insolence.. With the Bulgarian help, he could consider his back secured from Constantinople and Athens. Trebizond will be the first target.. but then, the other two Empires had to be taken into consideration... Egypt, which had just attacked the neutral Theme of Clicia... and Persia, the old Roman enemy. If he wanted to have any chance to reunite the empire, something had to be done about them.

Admiring the city one last time, the Emperor started to walk, heading for the palace, to meet with his advisers, the Strategos of Anatholikon, and the Bishop of Nicaea. He had to send an answer to Bulgaria, and messages to Persia and Egypt.. and the troops had to be mobilized. He was going to leave garrisons near the borders with Constantinople and Athens' territory, and of course, next to Clicia.. but he was going to lead his main force to meet Trebizond, if they would dare to attack. Alexios was the first on his list... and Constantine knew, that God was on his side..

The Empire of Nicaea
Αυτοκρατορία της Νίκαιας
The Roman Empire
Βασιλεία τῶν Ῥωμαίων

To Leo II, Patriarch of All Bulgaria, and
His Imperial Majesty, Samuel, In Christ the Lord Faithful Tsar and Autocrat of all Bulgarians, Romans, Greeks, Serbs and Illyrians

Greetings!

My sovereign has been delighted to receive the offer of His Imperial Majesty, the Tsar of the Bulgarians. Truly saddening is the current fate of the once mighty and glorious Roman Empire. We are glad to know, that his Majesty the Tsar knows, that despite the bloody common history of the Empire of the Romans and of the Empire of the Bulgarians, a united Roman Empire is the best for both peoples. And out of all the pretenders to the Imperial mantle, the people of the Roman Empire know that the one that can and will save the Empire is our Emperor, Constantine. Like his namesake, Constantine the Great, has once united the dissipated remains of the Roman Empire, bringing it into a new golden age of glory, so will the true Emperor, with God on his side. Out of all the successor states pretending the Imperial throne, Nicaea is the largest, the richest, and the most powerful. May God smile on us and our fate.

But you are right. Not even with the help of God would we be able to reunite all the remains of the Empire, and survive. It has been a tough choice.. but his Imperial Majesty has agreed to all your demands. In exchange for military help, and recognizing his Highness as the true Emperor of the Romans, we will recognize the lands of Macedonia and of Thessaly to be Bulgarian, and we will demilitarize Adrianopole once its returns to our control, all in the hope of a better and more friendly relation between our people, in the future. We will also recognize the great Tsar as the equal of the Roman Emperor, and award Bulgaria with an independent Bulgarian Church. Together, we will this war.

May God help Bulgaria, and the Roman Empire!

Signed by,
Fedor Petralias, Strategos of the Theme of Anatolikon, in the name of
His Imperial Majesty, Constantine Diogenes, Emperor and Autocrat of the Romans,

by **Of the Quendi** » Wed Sep 21, 2016 3:45 am

The City of Ctesiphon
On the River Tigris, the Province of Asōristān
The Sassanian Empire of Ērānshahr

Shāhanshāh Khashayarsha II

30th January the Fifth Year of the Khashayarshadi Era

Standing at a great window in his luxurious chambers in the White Palace of the House of Sasan, Khashayarsha gazed absentmindedly westwards. It was not the sight of his vast capital, a city of which merchants who had seen both of them said that it was twice as large as Rome, glorious as it was, that had captivated the gaze of the king of kings. His eyes passed just as idly by the magnificent Nestorian basilica in Veh-Ardashir as it did the great barracks of Valashabad housing the imperial armies or the ancient Hellenistic structures of Seleucia beyond his great city.

The gaze of the king of kings, with hunger in his eyes, looked further west towards the lands of Aigyptus the Greek Empire beyond his reach. Lands over which his most mighty ancestors had once ruled. Lands which his descendants could one day rule could he bring them under his dominion. On a small table beside the Shāhanshāh lay two missives, two different futures. One from the king of the Egyptians, who did indeed offer a marriage, Esther had not been wrong about that, and one from the most powerful of the Greek pretender emperors, the one in Nicaea offering ... Well not much safe for some sort of friendship.

As the Shāhanshāh contemplated which letter he ought give a positive response to, for already the king of kings knew that he could, and would, not befriend both states. War was coming to the west and Ērānshahr inaction was no option. That lead only to stagnation. "In summary; if we chose war I believe we can beat either of them." Declared Khashayarsha's uncle and Erān Spahbed, finishing an argument to which Khashayarsha had payed only little attention. "The Egyptians decision to move their armies north, most likely with the intention of attacking Cilicia or supporting one or another of the pretender Greek lords, leaves them vulnerable. With regards to Nicaea it may have got the better parts of Basil II's empire but it is still but a rump state still struggling to find its footing so soon after the emperor's death." Said Shahzada Ardashir. "Of the two options I favored war with Nicaea and alliance with Aegyptus the most. This Egyptian king offers you a fine enough match it seems to me. With the friendship of the Greeks of Egypt we could war against the Greeks of Nicaea with little fear of retaliation. Take what land we desire from them and support a Basileus of our liking on the Constantinopolitan throne." The Erān Spahbed suggested.

A snarl escaped the Queen Mother, her usually so fair countenance twisted by the cold callous fury she displayed to those unfortunate enough to be regarded as her foes. "A very modest proposal, Spahbod, one more befitting some savage tribe or ignominious city-state than the greatest empire of the earth. These Egyptian heathens and apostate's ought receive nought but death from us. Leave the Greek Empire to its devices and conquer this Egyptian kingdom." She coldly stated. A slight blush lit up on the cheeks of the Erān Spahbed but naturally he could not speak out against the Queen Mother herself. But Khashayarsha could. "I too am a heathen mother." That was his calm response. Politely spoken it was also filled with the cold superiority of one bred for power beyond that of any mortal.

The Queen Mother paled. "Then you have made up your mind, my son. You will meddle in the sordid affairs of the Greeks and their scheming politics rather than liberate Yerushalaim and retake the lands, and honor, of your ancestors." She said, shocked at the thought. The accusatory, and very maternal tone, annoyed the Shāhanshāh greatly. "I do not recall you had any objections when my father "meddled" as you call it, in the affairs of the Lakhmids and Oman." He responded, both more politely and more coldly than before. "They where Khosrau's subjects and owed allegiance to his dynasty, the Greeks does not." The Queen Mother insisted. "All peoples owe me allegiance." The Shāhanshāh snapped at his mother.

An awkward silence settled in the room for a moment. Then Khashayarsha sighed; mothers. "Forgive me my insolence towards you mother." He apologized, warming somewhat. "There is nothing to forgive my lord." The Queen Mother replied in a tone that contradicted her words. Ignoring the falsity of his mother's statement Khashayarsha turned to the last person in the room. Nārsesh. "My Wuzurg Framadar, what is your opinion on this matter? Shall we fight the Greeks of Romania or the ones in Aegyptus?" The Shāhanshāh asked.

For a moment the bureaucrat said nothing. Then he spoke softly, presenting a plan that surpassed that of the Erān Spahbed in both cunning and treachery. "Wise is the man who will strike at an enemy when an opportune moment presents itself, yet wiser still is the man who will strike his enemy in the chest while his friend strikes at the back." The Wuzurg Farmadar proclaimed. Khashayarsha sneered, immediately annoyed at the dishonorable mention of backstabbing. "Spare me your riddles and speak plainly my lord or I may have no further need of your counsel." The Shāhanshāh gnarled.

The Wuzurg Framadar nodded pliantly. "The four so called "emperors" feud with one another and there are rumors of war between Nicaea and Trebizond. Align with one to strike at another." The bureaucrat said. Khashayarsha raised an eyebrow, but it was Ardashir who responded with a brief laugh. "I would be surprised if Trebizond can stand for three months against the might of Nicaea." The Erān Spahbed spoke. "The Nicenes are too strong to offer to divide the spoils of Trebizond's conquest with us, and the Trapezuntine are too weak to be of any assistance." He dismissed the idea. The Wuzurg Framadar shrugged. "Perhaps, or perhaps not. Why would the Nicenes offer friendship if they do not fear our involvement. Besides if Trebizond proves too weak there are other so-called empires further west which may aid us. All of them must fear the power of Nicaea." The vizier insisted.

The Erān Spahbed scratched his beard ponderously for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I suppose you may have a point." He slowly conceded. "With enough cunning, enough strength and an alliance with the Egyptians we could undo once and for all the threat of the Greeks." The brother of the late Shāhanshāh Khosrau VI declared.

Casting a glance towards his mother Khashayarsha was shocked to see in the eyes of the haughty queen mother a sentiment that in a meeker woman might have been called humility as she shook her head pleadingly. Khashayarsha sighed. Egypt or Nicaea. Decisions, decisions. A few years ago he would have instantly, albeit for different reasons, have concurred with his mother. But then the Greek empire had been united under the rule of a powerful Basileus. Now the disunity of the Greeks presented a unique opportunity. But even if Khashayarsha tended more towards an attack on Nicaea he was not unmoved by his mother's desire to liberate the holy city of her faith either. Syria would make a magnificent contribution to his empire. The king of kings looked down upon the table where the two letters, the one from Nicaea and the other from Aegyptus, awaited his decision. Strangely enough Trebizond, the nation that had both the most to fear and gain from relations with Ērānshahr, had sent no missive. He sighed again. Then he reached a decision. "The Egyptian advances northwards disturbs me." He declared. "If they move against Cilicia they may, deliberately or inadvertently, compromise our position in the region. This is something I shall not allow." Said the Shāhanshāh. "Whatever else one may say of the Nicenes thus far they pose no threat to us or our interest. The Egyptians might."

He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. Then he continued. "Inform the Egyptians that I regard all lands east of the Euphrates as part of my empire and that attempts to take such places in Osroene that I lay claim to shall not go unanswered." He ordered. "Elsewise show them all due curtesy and respect and refuse not this marriage plan." Neither Khashayarsha's mother, uncle or chief minister seemed entirely pleased nor entirely displeased by his orders. That convinced him he was right. "And the Nicene's." Nārsesh insisted.

Khashayarsha pondered that for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Send them a letter as void of real content as the one they have sent us. Offer them niceties and nought of substance. For the nonce I shall keep my options open." The Shāhanshāh ordered, waving away his ministers with a haughty gesture. He had done quite enough of scheming and conspiring for one day.

But as the Wuzurg Framadar and the Erān Spahbed retreated from his chambers bowing and scrapping Khashayarsha found his mother remained. If there was a way to dismiss her when she had no desire to be dismissed Khashayarsha had not learned of it yet. And it was difficult to use authority against the woman who had the whole responsibility for the fact that Khashayarsha sat his throne in the first place. "I have made my decision mother." Khashayarsha warned, not interested in discussing the matter further.

The Queen Mother grunted. "As you say my son." She grudgingly declared. "But you are too great a king and too great a man to contend yourself with interfering in the Greek affair. Your fate has always been to claim the lands of Judea for your empire." Khashayarsha shrugged. To hide his agreement with his mother's dreams he changed the subject. "I was sure you wanted me to marry this Greek girl." He said. "Esther seemed certain you wanted me to marry an Egyptian."

A cold grimace marred the Queen Mother's face at the mention of her youngest. "That willful child, her insolence shall not go unpunished." She hissed, causing Khashayarsha to wince. "No you can do better. You will do better." The Queen Mother declared. Khashayarsha, who was not particularly keen on the idea of marriage, had nothing to say to that and for a moment mother and son remained quiet. They had nothing more to say to one another.

In the Name of Ahura Mazda, Creator of Life and Light,

I, Khashayarsha II Sassanid, Shah of Shahs, Padishah of Iran and Aniran, Shah of many Kingdoms, Lord of the World, Shāhanshāh of Ērānshahr, offer to my friend Constantine, Lord of Nicaea, most cordial greetings. I know well of the fall of my most worthy brother the great king of the Romans, Basil and the collapse of his empire. As a good neighbor ought, I lament the passing of such a great man and the chaos plaguing his lands. Aryans are warm, hospitable, forgiving and decent people and everywhere they have went, they have spread seeds of friendship, love, knowledge and truth; therefore, I have no desire to dwell on past hostilities or enmity but shall gladly seek with my neighbors in Nicaea friendship for as long as it is returned in equal measure to me and mine.

Sign,
Khashayarsha II Sasanid

In the Name of Ahura Mazda, Creator of Life and Light,

Khashayarsha II Sassanid, Shah of Shahs, Padishah of Iran and Aniran, Shah of many Kingdoms, Lord of the World, Shāhanshāh of Ērānshahr, to Isidoros Bryennios and his servant, Turannos Palas offer most cordial greetings.

Though the words of His Most Roman and Imperial Majesty are as sweet as nectar and honey and his offer worthy and fitting from so prudent and illustrious a king as him, words are easy and I shall not so easily heed them. Alas if it is peace between great empires that my imperial brother seeks then why has he seen fit to march his armies north from the fair fertile lands of the Nile towards the harsh unforgiving deserts of Syria Coele over which he does not rule?

If peace is his desire then must the most worthy lord of Aegyptus and Syria acknowledge that the border of his realm can never extend beyond the river Euphrates into lands such as Osroene, nor can he rule over such places on the Euphrates as Callinicum, or Sura, or Apamea, and even less over places such as Edessa, or Carrhae, which are called by some as Hellenopolis, or Batnae, or Constantina which lies beyond the river.

For over all of these places, and all other lands east of the river Euphrates in Osroene it has been since time immemorial ordained that my ancestors has held the right to rule and I shall not abandon my rightful claim to them. If His Most Roman and Imperial Majesty, my dear brother, will confirm that he has marched his armies north, not to challenge these rightful claims, or in any other way seek to threaten the interests of my kingdom I shall gladly receive his friendship and his daughter's hand in marriage. But if he will not I shall defend my rights and privileges as I deem best.

Sign,
Khashayarsha II Sasanid

by **New Minahasa** » Wed Sep 21, 2016 5:43 am

Empire of Trebizond.

Emperor Alexios I.
Empire of Trebizond, City of Trebizond.
4th February, 1000 AD.

Alexios stood on his balcony, staring directly at his majestic city. Ships arrived from across the Black Sea, carrying with them fine silks and jewels. Noble men roamed the busy streets of Trebizond, and rich merchants found themselves in the markets. "A city such as this must not be lost," Alexios sighed. It had been a few weeks now, Egypt hadn't responded. "Those heretics must've spat at my generous offer and burned it with fire," he thought. His mind had gone towards riskier actions. He looked east towards the lands of the Sassanids. "Could two great realms neglect their ancient rivalry and work together?," Alexios pondered, his eyes still fixated at the east. He snapped himself out of it, and summoned for his advisor.

Theophilos, Alexios' personal advisor, walked with a slow and careful pace as he entered the balcony.

"It's been a while since I've sent the letter to Egypt. I've received no response from them. None. And yet, the forces of Nicaea are still at our door. Tell me, Theophilos, what would you propose to me at this point?," Alexios asked with a curious tone.

"Well, your Highness, as you already know, military might itself would not subdue the forces of our enemies," Theophilos thought for a brief moment. "The Georgians might be of aid."

"Yes, true, I could use the aid from our only friend. But the Georgians are small, and I imagine that they have their own problems as well. They could probably send a few of their men over at us, but that's it. I shall need stronger allies if I were to defeat Nicaea," Alexios explained.

Theophilos took his words into consideration, before handing out another proposal in a nervous tone. "Your Highness, if I may suggest... Why don't we forget our bitter rivalry with previous enemies, and forge them into powerful allies instead? The Sassanians would be more than perfect to be the candidates."

Alexios looked down and pondered for a minute. He then looked up and heaved a heavy sigh. "Everything must be done for the goodness of Trebizond," he stated. "Then so be it. I shall write two letters, one for the Georgians and the other for the Sassanians. I shall remind the Georgians of our healthy relationship, and tell them we're in need of their aid immediately. As for the Sassanians... We offer them lands if they were to be so kind to aid us against our enemies in Nicaea, and lend them aid against the other Byzantine pretenders and their rivals. Full alliance," Alexios stated.

"Whatever it is you wish, your Highness," Theophilos bowed before his emperor, and left.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Sep 21, 2016 9:47 am

The Kievan Rus'

Passages of the Lower Dnieper, Cherkasy, Kievan Rus'
The Eighth of February, anno Domini One Thousand

Along the dirt tracks of the winding meadows the host passed, thousands strong of men and beast, a glittering river of armaments and warriors. From the north Varangians came, marching along the Dnieper and her tributaries with great store of goods and supplies borne on the waves of the murky green-gray water still swollen by winter snows. It was not yet spring in the lands of the Rus', and the ground was stiff with frost and ice, a fair ground over which men in mail could tread in iron-shod feet. And that was for the best, for the early campaign of the Grand Prince, Vladimir Sviatoslavich, relied much upon that ground being firm.

The man himself rode near the van, his commanders and other princes forming part of the procession gathered about him on their war-horses. Some were barded and armored after the fashion of the Poles and the Goths, while others bore overlapping scales and thick lamellar much like the style of the southern men of Iran and the Khazars so recently condemned to the ashes of history. It was a fair reflection of his overall force, in the eyes of the Grand Prince; from the west and east they had come at his command, marshaling their sworn swords and levies to sweep down on the Pechenegs as the barbarous brutes deserved with the bare end of winter.

That was what the Grand Prince and the Patriarch of Kiev had stated, at least. Truth be told, the loose confederation of horse-tribes and wandering hordes that barred the passages of the lower Dnieper were a barrier to trade, and the Rus' people; rich soils languished under their pastoralist mismanagement, and the tariffs charged at Cherson were too high to be borne. With the Romans looking elsewhere, and their political will to support the scattered peoples of the Pecheneg race sapped by the conversion of the Grand Prince, now was the time to strike.

After three days of marching, the host of the Rus' came up against their first real foe; a tent-city of the wandering nomads, spied by the outriders at the close of day, now brought to battle. The nervous tension of the green warriors freshly raised was palpable, but the calm complacency of the hardened house guards of the assembled Princes was enough to keep them steady. Against the lightly armed and armored riders of the Pechenegs the Grand Prince deployed his hardened horse archers, soldiers who fought after the manner of the steppes, bearing great bows that could spit a man as a feast-day boars and thick leather armor faced in cool iron to let them war against even footmen with their own singing projectiles thrown by horn and bone.

Swiftly the skirmish began to pass in the favor of the assembled host of Rus'; the Varangians had made their fortunes driving back wild folk of the steppes, and carved their homeland from even such an enemy. While his heavy horse archers harassed the enemy flanks, forcing them to adopt a shorter formation, the Grand Prince deployed his foot-archers and the men of the crossbow against their main host, longspears and armored boyars only a brief march behind. With the bray of trumpets and the harsh cries of the wounded and dying the sun passed upwards from its morning climb, the battle dragging forward. This was not combat as men of the west would call it, or even a battle as the vast hosts of Byzantium and Persia might deem such, but it left the land scattered with lifeless corpses all the same. Each crossbowman and bowman was deployed in a scattered line with trained shieldsmen in their pairs, and their volley fire left the nomadic warriors little ground to call their own- feathered shafts sprouted from bodies hither and thither, light armor of hide and leather no match for the mechanical force of Roman innovation now placed in Russian hands.

Eventually, as the heat of noon touched the brows of the assembled hosts, wild horns called defiantly from the battle-lines of the Pechenegs, and thence came a ragged charge, as the council of Rus' princes knew it must. From his seat upon a nearby hill the Grand Prince watched, his dark brow furrowed, even as the air carried the prayers of the priests that served his army. With flash of silver fire his infantrymen advanced, their rhythms drilled in to them by a fortnight of lodging near Kiev. It was not a thing of beauty, a fact which Vladimir cursed; properly trained men would have made the maneuver so effortless it would break citizen-soldiers merely by its intimidation. But these were not his men, so it would have to serve.

Placed spears met the oncoming cavalrymen, resolute steel and shield meeting soft flesh and blood. Though the Pecheneg lancers bravely threw themselves against the shield-wall, their numbers were already depleted- the charge across the open ground of the steppes had served many targets that skilled marksmen of Kiev and Chernigov had thankfully seen to, and the grass behind the barbarian mounted line was thick with the feathered corpses of many men who had once been fair nomads, free under field and sky. The spears knew no mercy, nor the hands that held them. Though in places the shield-wall was beaten back by the sheer weight of horseflesh and desperate men, it held, and against a line with no yield, mounted warriors could not prevail.

They broke, and with the winding of a great clarion the rumble of hooves echoed over the golden plains of the lands between the Dnieper and Black Sea. From the north came the Grand Prince's cavalrymen, boyars in cold gleaming steel, ornate hauberks inlaid with prayers to the Almighty, lances shining as if their points were chill winter stars. The nomadic horsemen, fleeing already, broke before them as a tree is snapped by the tempest, and the lances soon lost their glittering cleanliness as crimson became their new aspect.

In to the tent city and yurts the warriors assembled under the Rus' passed with the death of the Pecheneg defenders, and bitter were the cries of many that day. Heathens deserved naught the luxuries afforded them by trade, and the infantrymen took much that could be carried, food, gold, linens and all plunder. In great wains it would head north, to be distributed amongst the lands of the princes as their share in the spring campaign, and in barges poled against the current by teams of swarthy Slavic men stripped to the waist also passed the riches of the land. With them went a great number of women, children, and men taken captive in the battle; slaves to be sold in the markets of Kiev and the north, perhaps even on to the far lands of the Varangians and their ancestors. Such was the common practice of the time, though perhaps in his heart the Grand Prince looked ill upon the practice.

And so the Rus' host passed on southwards, putting to the sword those who would not yield, even unto the walls of the Pecheneg settlement of Dnipro.

Palace of the Khagans, Bolghar, Volga Bulgaria
The Tenth of February, anno Domini One Thousand

With creak of oiled hinges just barely protesting their movement, Yaroslav entered the court of the Bulgar Khagans with his entourage, and a courtly smile flickered over his visage. At the sides of the one men called Wise, though two and twenty winters to his name, strode tall warriors, soldiers of Veliky in Novgorod, the Great. Their mien was dour and weapons on their belts, but no men dared oppose them; without the walls of the city of the Bolghars was encamped a host of warriors and stout soldiers hailing from the home of the Grand Prince, the gleaming pearl of the northern seas.

Yaroslav passed the courtiers and syncophants of the Khagan's court with scarce a glance aside, his tawny beard a signifier of his Norse heritage even as one hand gripped firmly a crescent-moon axe. Before the son of the Grand Prince the Bolghar Khagan sat on his wooden chair, what these Bulgars called a throne. A man rose from a seat next to it, and padded forward, his opulent robes marking him out as a favored son of the court. With plaintive tones the vizier spoke.

"Men of Rus' bid you we welcome to the courts of his Majesty, Khagan of all the Volga and the Bolghars. Peace be upon you, but his Majesty is wroth, for you bear openly arms in to his palace and before his Eminence, and this is forbidden all men. Depart at once, before your lives are as nothing."

Yaroslav sneered, chill eyes meeting the dark gaze of the bearded lord of horses that sat on his wooden chair even as he answered the courtier's warning.

"Tell your master, voiced worm, that his insolence is remembered by the lords of the Rus'. My father, Vladimir the First of his name, has sent me here to give to your master a warning. And that warning comes with steel, whether he forbid it or not."

At those words some of the pagan guards about the chamber stepped forward from their places, uncertain eyes knowing they may be needed, but fearing what would happen if they drew their curved swords. Lazy warriors sent here by dint of family ties and a desire to avoid battle with brigands and outlaws- Yaroslav accounted them no second thought.

"My father's warning is this- the fate of the Khazars, and all their kin. Of old they had your allegiance, and you paid tribute to them yearly to the toll of three barges of gold and three barges of silver. The Khazars are no more; my grandfather, Sviatoslav of Kiev, scattered their people like sheep without a shepherd, and ravaged their lands as a wolf. Their shields are broken, their cities laid waste, and their men, their women, their children, their elders borne off to captivity. Twenty years ago now, when I was still a child, my father slew your forefather in battle before the walls of this very city, and tore down those walls."

The court was very silent now, and almost the breathing of the Khagan could be heard.

"You have now raised those walls anew, and my father will not stand for it. My host is prepared for war, and your soldiers are scattered. If I must, I will burn this city to the ground, and water the lands for twenty leagues about it with the blood of your people. Or you will bow the knee here and now, and acknowledge the overlordship of the Rus'. You will be allow to go in to exile, you and yours, with such manner of comfort as you can carry with you. This city will be spared."

In to the now-white face of the lord of the Bolghars Yaroslav stared, no give in his gaze, only naked steel. Upon either side his soldiers gripped their weapons tight, bodies drawn like bowstrings ready to be loosed.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Thu Sep 22, 2016 4:20 pm

The Theme of Cilicia
Antioch

The palace of Antioch was older than Rome. It's ancient foundations were overwhelmingly ancient, dark and sandy monoliths each in their own right. Columns of sandstone and the deep orange stone of the Taurus mountains, with the palace complex rising up into the sky, verging onto the mighty Orontes as it flowed with the slow warmth of a city's heart. The massive circuit walls of the city were visible from atop the towers of the city, along with the steady stream of traders pouring in and out of the city. Up above it all, the city seemed tranquil, it's ancient majesty, which had been the cradle of Christianity, the pride of the Seleucids, and the second city in Rome before the rise of Konstantinoupolis. The lower down you went, the faster the lie faded. Antioch was a a glorious, teeming mess, towering tenement houses collapsing every week or so, the streets matted in dirt despite the best efforts of every man of sense that had ever seen it.

A thousand wells could not have scoured the sands of the dirt, left by the boots of Nicator and all that would follow him, and the men of Cilicia had learned that it was better simply to steer this tragic mess of a metropolis as best they could than to change it. The people had the natural insolence of people who had grown up surrounded by walls and palaces so glorious as Antioch's. Herakles reflected on this for the one moment of pause he had been granted on the day of the twelfth of February 1000, in the year of our lord. Scribes bustled around him, and he took a long, deep breath before rising to his feet to dictate his letters, his voice falling naturally into command.

The first issue, and the most pressing, was the Egyptian advance along the levant. This was perhaps the worst possible scenario for the theme asides that of a Persian invasion, and it was not a large difference. The main issue was to be found in Antioch. The city made for a brilliant defensive bulwark, it's walls massive and supply of fresh water, along with a solid bulwark of trained men would be able to hold the city for months, if not years, but what of Cilicia? He could not abandon Antioch, but he could not leave the mountain passes open for invasion. Through the passes, all it would take would be a determined march and an army could reach the capital. Which was more important, and which was more defensible.

His men could likely hold a defensive position against the Egyptians indefinitely with the right supplies, but not two at once, and he was not willing to risk open battle against such a formidable foe. He sighed and made his decision. The order went out to every community in the Theme, to raise every man on the rolls of the theme to active services. Every militiaman north of the Taurus' would man the passes along with the dedicated cavalrymen, who's disciplined skill would allow the recruits to be trained to an acceptable level. Every other soldier, every recruit south of the mountains, every dedicated soldier, every mercenary that could be afforded, would be gathered to Antioch. Then, every farmer within the range of Antioch, was asked to harvest their grain early and to gather all of the foods available to the city, to hold out in the event of a siege. Cyprus was to be mobilised, and the merchant fleet rolled into the militant navy to ferry supplies from the north to the city harbour.

What few cavalrymen remained with the Strategos were sent south to scout, to find the Egyptian army and to make sure every village on the way had sent it's resources north before the enemy arrived. Then, the Strategos began to dictate messages.

To the August One in Egypt, Adversary and Invader.

May Christ have brought you a fine year. I understand you are to be my adversary, I also understand that you wish to claim the land that has been entrusted to my care. You must understand, though it pains me to kill fellow Romans, to see us lain so low even while the Persians still loom, I would prefer to fight with some honour before abandoning my duty. I only hope that we may be civil, that we may be good Romans and decent children of christ. Our people are Roman, Pious Augustus, mine and yours, and neither of us fight to see them killed, their homes looted and their children taken as slaves as if they were barbarians. I beg your clemency on the people of Cilicia, and I wish you luck in our coming conflict.

Your Fellow Citizen, Herakles of Ionia, Strategos of Cicillia, Loyal Roman

To the August Ones who quarrel over the Empire of Rome, or "The Emperors",

You are men of ambition. I understand this. I understand too, that all of you would go to great lengths to claim the purple, but I must beg of you all to remember that you are all Romans, and that it is madness to let our Empire wither and die purely because you have each decides to let it. The citizenry will only suffer by this ambition. Do none of you see what it is you do? Do you not see the army of Egypt that marches on Antioch this very day? May Christ cure your eyes if you cannot see the madness of your actions. I beg of you, all of you, as your servant, do not squabble like young shepherds over a flock as it is devoured by wolves, until you each are left with only the leg of a lamb. Make your peaces, send your men to the Cilician Gates, repulse the Egyptians.

I appeal to you as a Roman, As a Christian I beg of you.

Your Servant, Herakles of Ionia.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Sep 23, 2016 9:46 am

The Kievan Rus'

Mouths of the Volga, Lands of the Seljuqs
18th of February, 1000 AD

The cry of the gulls was a welcome sign, and a smile cracked Petyor's weathered face as the Varangian brigand stared out at the Caspian. As far as the eye could see to the south she stretched, a bountiful blue horizon. Not that the assembled longships cared much for the life that teemed in these waves; Petyor's stepped down from his war-knaar's prow and immediately the signs of men preparing for battle inundated him anew. Here and there is warband sharpened axes, tightened leather straps, and checked over their equipment. It had been a month and more of sailing from the source of Mother Volga far away in the uplands of the Rus', but the nearly three dozen ships and their hundreds of ravagers and river-pirates had had a fairly uneventful trip of dodging ice floes and the detritus of the spring melts.

It helped that the Bolghars were no longer a threat to honest Rus' men. The flotilla had passed Bolghar herself the week before last, if Petyor was any judge of time, and the red-bearded Varangian's heart had been warmed to see the black and white ensign of the Grand Prince and the dual bears of Novgorod the Great flying above those barbarous spires. Trade had been good when the ships had stopped for a few days to resupply; though the dour Yaroslav had forced a promise of a fifth of the spoils from the warleader's lips, that was less than half of what the Bolghars used to charge, and the spirits had flowed properly in the mead-hall hastily erected within the walls of the once-great city.

But that was long ago now. Though the salt-fish and venison in the barrels on either side of the raiding craft were a testament to that past, the Rus' now had to look to the future. Petyor stomped over to the port side of his ship, the largest one in the fleet, and called down to Svar, the other raiding captain of note that had gathered together this band of northmen.

"West, or east do you think? The Khazars might still be teeming along the western shores, and we won't have to deal with those sarden Seljuks."

In the longship a few feet below the waterline of the larger knaar, men in fur robes looked up at the shouted words of their leader, and the dark-haired brute of Svar was one of them. The bearded brigand had been sharpening his axe, and gave it a few practice swings as he contemplated the answer. The eastern shores were also lands of the Persians, a border shared with the Seljuks; those two hostile powers were prone to clashes, and chaos ever favored the raider. Plus the civilized women and folk of the Persians would fetch better prices in the slave markets of the north, more exotic and trained than the humble remnants of the Khazar state- that entity had been picked over a hundred times in the thirty years since Sviatoslav had burned her to the ground and smashed her armies.

But, on the other hand, the western route was better mapped, and sheltered from any late winter storms. You could still get to Persia going that way, and the Georgians were good friends if the warband ran in to more trouble than it looked for.

"West, methinks. Let's see what Jewry we can find about these months."

With a nod, Petyor acknowledged the other captain's decision, as it aligned with his own. With barked orders to his helmsman and the riggers the knaar turned towards the falling sun, the longships of the raiding fleet turning with her.

by **Krugmar** » Fri Sep 23, 2016 4:53 pm

Basileía Rhōmaíōn stin Aígypto
Roman Empire in Egypt

Turannos Palas
Near Antioch, Syria
20th February, 1000

The Emperor was dressed in a resplendent set of golden armour, with a purple toga swirling around it, and a fresh laurel wreath wrested upon his head. If he was attempting to emulate the imperators of old, he had certainly succeeded. His sand blonde beard, beset with flecks of gold, was set in the latest fashion, while his hair was cut relatively short, in the Latin way. Black and gold paint adorned his eyes, with the right bearing the mark of Horus, an old Egyptian god. Truly Isidoros was the only rightful claimant to the Roman throne, a fusion of all the great peoples who considered themselves Roman.

"Stop staring at me Turannos, and grab the damned quill." he barked, and Turannos snapped out of his faze and gathered the requested equipment. "Tell me, what exactly does Shah mean, the Barbarian of Babylon mentions it several times in his letter, and Karani used to call me a Shah. I assumed it meant beloved."

"It means something similar to Pharaoh, lord, or King."

"And this, Shahanshah, I suppose that means Pharaoh of Pharaohs, so to speak?"

Turannos nodded, "It means that he is higher than most kings, he claims a higher sovereignty. Much like you, my lord, as the Emperor of Rome."

"Write back to him, tell him I only seek to reclaim Antioch to protect the good Christians whom are, by divine law, my rightful subjects to protect, and that I have no intention of personally ruling past the Euphrates, unless he should persecute Christians, whom I am sworn to protect. Emphasise that, the part where I am protecting. If he is happy with that answer, then he may have my daughter." Isidoros said, pacing about the tent as he did.

"Do you wish to write to the Cilicians, or to Nicaea?" asked Turannos.

"Forget Nicaea for now. Write to the Cilician. Tell him that, should he surrender Cyprus and Antioch to me, and submit to me, I will create him King of Cilicia, as my sworn subject. He'll have the liberties of a military governor, and a good amount of autonomy, more than he would under a blasted Anatolian wretch. If he proves loyal, I may even allow him, or his children, to marry into my family."

"Excellent, but what about the Shah's threat, about ruling past the Euphrates?"

"I will not be ruling past the Euphrates, nor marching any army past it. He need only know that the King of Cilicia is a sworn ally of mine, not a subject, and that my rule does not extend anywhere past Antioch." replied the Emperor, before he swiftly exited the tent.

To the Great King of Persica,

His Most Roman and Imperial Majesty prays heartily for your health, and thanks you for your swift reply. His Majesty understands that words are as quick as the desert winds, which is why he has offered you his daughter, and many other precious jewels, in good faith. He swears, both to the Almighty Lord, and to your Great Person, that he has marched north only to protect the good Christian people of Antioch, who call out to him to rule them, and guide them, as war overtakes the Anatolian Empire.

He has heeded your advice, and shall make sure not to pass the mighty Euphrates, acknowledging all that belongs there, and to the east, to be the domain of the Lord of Persica. He is not interested in ruling land that is not his, and shall not cross the river uninvited. In good faith, he swears this to you, and offers you a marriage into his family, to unite our mighty empires in peace and prosperity.

He undertakes this pilgrimage only in the protection of good Christians, and has sworn to protect them all, no matter where they live, no matter where the cost, and prays that you protect the Christians living within your mighty lands.

May God grant you long life, and prosperity,
Signed, Turannos Palas, Servant to the Emperor, on behalf of his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty, the Emperor and King of the Romans, Pharaoh of Egypt and Syria, Perfect of the Perfected, Isidoros Bryennios II.

To the Strategos of Cilicia, Herakles of Ionia,

His Most Imperial and Roman Majesty, Isidoros II, notes that you are a loyal Roman, and a good Christian. In your letter you have shown great courage, but also mercy, towards your people, and it has touched his heart, the heart of a passionate servant of the Lord, and the saviour Christ. His Most Imperial and Roman Majesty has a proposition for you, one that he believes you will find most agreeable, and hopes with all his heart that you will accept.

You shall disband your current forces, and lay down arms, surrendering to his Majesty. You shall give to him the city of Antioch, and the island of Cyprus, as a token of your sincerity. In return, his Majesty will see fit to create you the Despot of Cilicia, and grant you the full liberties of client king and military governor, with a great degree of autonomy, should you agree to protect your lands as thoroughly as you plan to now. You shall also be given a bodyguard of twenty of the finest Nubian warriors, as a personal gift, and be given the freedom to pursue your religious beliefs as you choose. That right shall also be afforded to the citizens of your lands, and that of Cyprus and Antioch.

Should you prove yourself to be loyal, then marriage into the Imperial family should become available, for your or your children. I need not say what an honour this is, to marry into such a noble Roman family.

I personally implore you, Noble Herakles, to make the right choice, for you and your people. No death need come to your land, only wealth, trade, and long life.

May God grant you long life, and prosperity,
Signed, Turannos Palas, Servant to the Emperor, on behalf of his most Blessed and Perfect Imperial Majesty, the Emperor and King of the Romans, Pharaoh of Egypt and Syria, Perfect of the Perfected, Isidoros Bryennios II.

Georgia

To the Noble Lord of Trebizond,

It brings me pain to say that I am unable to aid you at this time, your hour of need. The barbarians to the north relentlessly raid into my lands, and every able man is needed for the protection of my realm. I fear God would punish me if I opened war upon another front, and brought further death upon my people.

God be with you.

signed, the King of Georgia.

by **Liecthenbourg** » Sat Sep 24, 2016 3:14 am

Status Pontificus

Chapter II: The Beggars Amass

Rome, The Papal States
19 of February, in the Year of Our Lord 1000

"They come snapping at my heels as if I work miracles. They sniff and squint in suspicion, as if the Bread and Blood of Our Lord were not enough to satisfy their humility. Nay, they come to me, the Shepard of the Flock, with their demands and the requests and how they feel 'O, this would be in the interests of the lord, your Holiness'. What meek things we humans are." The several guardsmen surrounding the Pope stiffened at that, clutching their pikes as if he were staring at them through eyes in the back of his head. Truth be told he stood, arms behind his back, atop a large flight of steps looking out over one of the central roads through Rome. He stood solemnly in falda, stole and mantum. Heavy pieces of clothing, ornate and white in beauty, purity made vestment. Much like always, the Papal Tiara adorned his head, its immense lappets fluttering in the wind as he picked up a goblet of wine, wet his lips and continued his reflection. "I could destroy states with a piece of parchment, but these Kings and Princes play a great game of power. I don't like power, I don't like people who treat these states as a game for profit or for amusement. Such people do not understand how futile and mortal we truly are."

A low rumbling horn of battle came from the streets beneath. A great host had approached. A pilgrimage from the north; led by the Grand Duke of Saxony, some Thiadger fan Widukind. Augustine had noted that the man wore no shoes and clutched a whip in his hands; an impressive feet for someone on a show of piety and faith. Several noblemen, several of the peasantry, too came on behind him as they descended down that road.

The Pope's sense of humour was drenched in ample quantities of sarcasm and excessive-ness. Once he had been made aware of this apparently Holy Pilgrimage of proof of piety, His Holy Father had made himself perched upon this high step to make them walk up it. Even the Servant of the Servants of God had an ego about him. A particularly large one, at that. And if the rumours of this trip were true, Augustine's intentions would simply serve to let him humour himself even further before he most likely coincided his actions with that the head of state wanted.

The Grand Duke approached those immense marble steps and began to climb them. As he reached near the top, a slap of fabric upon stone was met as the Pope threw him a pair of sandals. It was accompanied by a suppressed laugh, then, a remark. "I doubt you intend on going on pilgrimage back to Saxony."

If the man scowled, he was particularly good at hiding it. "No, your Holiness, I do not. For there is naught in Saxony that could I pilgrim to on a scale such as this." He continued to ascend the steps, before being but one or two from the top. He knelt, knelt a great deal, actually, before facing up to the Holy Father once more.

"Your Holiness, my pilgrimage is but a show of my piety; yet I arrive with more than just my piousness to Rome. I come with a request to His Holy Father, to continue the mission of the Christianification of the rest of Europa. I wish to be crowned, 'King of the Germans'."

Augustine scrunched his nose. "And what would this do, but add another layer of ego upon your head?"

Thiadger replied immediately, without a second thought. "Unity, your Holiness. It would bring unity to a war-torn Christendom."

A tilt of the head came next, and the sun shone on the layers of the tiara with immense clarity and brightness. "A war-torn Christendom? And you, Grand Duke, will ride from your northern bosom to aid the sons of Rome in the east? Or perhaps to siege the towns of the Nestorians, perhaps torch the Nile Valley to show Aegyptus that communion with Rome is key?"

The Saxon man allowed a hint of a smile to grace his face. "If that is what Our Lord and your Holiness commands, and after I have ended the pointless bickering between this and that count in Germania." Thiadger presented an Edelweiss flower - that appeared to bloom as he revealed it - to the Pope. "A flower is beautiful, but not if it is plucked before it gets the chance to bloom. Allow me to bloom, and I will be the beauty that strikes down your enemies and holds up your allies."

Augustine sat on the chair that had been brought for him and he plucked away at the petals of the flower after having taken it. "You wish for me to legitimise your conflicts with the fellow states of Germania. You ask too much. You speak of a disunited Christendom, how am I to commend this action when the church splits at its seams in the east? Am I to allow conflict to flourish unity? And what if you fail? What becomes of my actions, what becomes of this idea? How am I to know you speak truth, noble Grand Duke, that you are to submit yourself to be an instrument in the arsenal of the Pope in Rome?"

Thiadger paused for a moment, but just a moment, before replying. "My faith is my shield, your Holiness. I know no vestige of God on Earth that is not yourself. Should I fail, then I suspect another will attempt to do what I could not, but with more bloodshed. Your Holiness, do you not see? In order to mend the seem that runs between east and west, you must first make sure that the west stands united under you... and in order to accomplish that, you need a man to keep them in line and in good faith. Grant me this title, your Holiness, and that man can be me."

A fire grew in the eyes of the Holy Father and he tented his hands ever so slightly. "You are plagued, mayhaps in a... positive way, by vaulting ambition." A sniff came from the Pope and he grabbed his crosier. "You may well could be the man for a united state to counterbalance the Roman Empire at the command of the Patriarch. You... may well be."

A courier approached from the right, bowing before whispering in the ears of the Holy Father. A small smile crossed his face, for now, the Exarch had arrived in Rome's port too. The spider spun her web more closely now, it seemed.

"Grand Duke, tomorrow, upon the morrow, you shall be crowned this 'King of the Germans'. For now? Feel free to rest." He prodded the man's stomach with the butt end of the crosier and smiled. "A man whom walks and whips is sure to be hungry."

Woes of the Saviour [IC/AH RP/Open]

Woes of the Saviour [IC/AH RP/Open]

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